OLD MOVIE THRILLERS Conspiracy Theories
In the 70's, war was raging with old guard leaders insisting the same old canard; "we need to prolong an unwinnable war, if we just had more troops, a deeper resolve, and a continuation of current policies against a threat of worldwide domination by a foe then named communism, so we can honor our fallen troops and not be labeled "losers", we could go on warring forever!"; our presidents were lying to us and occasionally getting caught at it, the economy was faltering, and a young demographic was skeptical and paranoid of an older generation not willing to cede power after an open and raucus 60's. A means justifies the ends philosophy didn't sit well with a younger electorate, who would, arguably, someday succumb to the same generational ossification themselves.
In the meantime, at the time, they were disatisfied with the government, and paranoid of it's intentions.
So reflected was the art of the period.
Three excellent movies immediately come to mind.
It's no accident they share a thematic purpose from that period, and besides, they are immensely fun to watch.
The Manchurian Candidate
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056218/
The Parrallax View
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071970/
Three Days of the Condor
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073802/
Every one of these films is at least outstanding in it's direction and production values, not to mention content. Great acting throughout too. Watch Sinatra, Harvey and Landsbury go at it in Candidate. And Lou Frissell, the bombastic character actor.
Comparatively speaking on the subject, do movies requiring us to re think our values and norms, seem to be out of vogue in today's computer driven graphics environment, where scintillation and immediacy take precedent over content and thought, and in that way perhaps reflect exactly our current bifurcated society where discussion and thought have given way to bluster and the efficiency of partisanship in a frenetically driven unbalanced capitalistic society?
Have we traded paranoia for vacuousness?
A comparison of the art form may indeed indicate such.
Watch these movies, and you decide.
By no means and end to the genre, additional viewing would include Dustin Hoffman and Roy Scheider in Marathon Man (this tilts a bit towards nazi paranoia, another endless genre), and a more current updating of the genre, an often overlooked (and YOU have to overlook his beliefs and behavior) Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts in the eponymous Conspiracy Theory. (great credits and an incredible soundtrack highlight this out of character Gibson thriller with Marathon Man overtones)
Finally, this discussion would be incomplete without two other "conspiracy" movies from long ago, both by "the master", who symbolizes the very embodiment of paranoia, Hitchcock's English 39 Steps, and the wartime Foreign Correspondent. I could go on forever on Hitchcock and his movies, suffice to say his overarching themes of innocent man drawn into nefarious settings with sexual overtones (North by Northwest) could arguably make ANY Hitchcock movie a study in paranoia, but we are limiting ouselves to GOVERNMENT paranoia for this discussion. (It's no accident he's paranoid, in my opinion, since he grew up catholic)
So watch away, and feel free to comment!
A running blog by Ed Knapp
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
St. George Marathon 2010
St. George Marathon, Utah, 10/2/2010
It’s 5 am, dark out and I’m bleary eyed. Despite having been up for 2 ½ hours, I’m still in a fog, dumbed from getting up in the middle of the night. An early bedtime has seemingly no effect. This violates the laws of circadia and civility. Three of us, worn from the wake up and nervous chatter that lasted an hour in the car, have braved the new day for a goal set upon long ago back in early spring. Winnowed in a lottery for this popular marathon of over 7,000, the casual observer might wonder how so many every day people of all stripes would fight to run over 26 miles on such an unusually warm morning. Despite punishing temperatures well into the mid 80’s at the finish, over 80% of the field will accomplish the feat.
We’ve snaked our way up from mesquite through the spectacular Virgin River Gorge, via I 15, towards St. George. This scenic gash through the mountains connects the northeastern edge of the Mojave Desert to the southwestern rim of the Colorado Plateau, visually indexing a millennium of geographic history. Northbound, travelers come upon red stained cliffs of St. George, the beginning of some of the most prime outdoor real estate on the planet. Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, and the southwest convergence of Nevada, Arizona and Utah made famous by Zane Grey in his over 60 novels await the explorations of anyone brave enough to change their view of their own relationship with eternity. No wonder this was the fastest growing area in the US during the boom years of the mid 2000’s.
But our task is still at hand. There’s less traffic than expected as we work our way off at Bluff Street, towards Worthen Park. A general bias against Mormanism has undervalued the historic significance of this little town, 4 hours south of it’s metropolitan mothership, Salt Lake City. Yet that’s how the pioneers who radiated out from north viewed their mission to tame the southwest. The world was now based in Salt Lake, and in all directions, especially south and west, it was their honor and privilege, and duty, to spread the word of salvation as they saw fit. Our duty this morning remains in front of us. After working past a few stop signs, we park across from the Temple. Amazingly, there’s plenty of spots in this residential neighborhood overpowered by the church architecture. But it all fits in, like a medieval town.
It’s all business now. A final check to make sure we have our gear bags. There’s no need to review them, we fastidiously spent last night preparing for endless scenarios. Bibs rate most important, pins to attach, then shoes, socks and running clothes, all laid out in fashion. Next comes the food sources. We’ll need to carry and ingest about 500 to 1000 calories during the race, as our pre packed glycogen stores, bolstered by days of overeating and endless fluids, will only carry us about 20 miles, ergo the dreaded wall. To stave it off, we try and sneak in extra calories, hopefully finishing before the bonk takes effect, a virtual stake in the heart that could end our dreams in situ on the course. The current form of these energy sources are comprised of goo’s, gels and blocks of high calorie glucose that can be ingested and converted very rapidly. None of this matters if you don’t properly ingest fluids during the race, or worse yet, throw up. Dehydration and the bonk become inevitable if you barf. All runners are trying to avoid this scenario; the less experienced, and the overly optimistic will litter the course later today with their “marathon shuffle”,as testimony to their miscalculations. Garbage bags for shelter from cold and wind, vaseline and chapstick for chafing and dryness. Cell phones, cameras and clothes for the post race recovery all go into a bag volunteers transport from the start to the finish line for our benefit. As we hand it over for transport, every runner secretly wishes he could crawl inside the drop bag and reappear, medaled, at the finish, refreshed and smiling.
We walk together, quickened in step, every second counting, searching for the temporary respite the yellow buses, hundreds of them lined up in the darkness, will provide us as we embark on the ride to the start. Our stomachs started churning at the off ramp in the car. The antacid tablets don’t completely counteract the nausea each of us are feeling, and we all commiserate in the shared experience. “Don’t look out the window”, I bark, “It will depress you”. I would rather meet my fate as it comes, not ahead of time. The bus loads, and it’s like the womb. Safety in numbers and purpose. How can it be so bad when all these others are following the same path. The young, the old, the injured, the experienced. We all become friends, nervously sharing stories that remind me of scenes of soldiers in trench warfare before a big push. But that perspective refreshes me. I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan, or Vietnam or Normandy Beach. This is just a marathon, and my mood begins to change. I’m in the injured and experienced category, so there’ll be no pr, personal record, today, or at my age, ever again. Relaxed, my new focus is on those around me who may not be as acclimated. Casual talk, words of encouragement, advice if asked, all help the miles drift by as the bus clangs gears up and down the grades of the course, lurching us forward and back in our seats. It’s fun if you’ve the presence of mind.
The groan of first gear and bright lights ahead herald the embarcation zone. With precision, the wonderful people of St. George orchestrate busloads of runners towards the corrals and firepits. It’s the beehive state. They’re organized here. It’s a new world too, with heavy winds, smoke in the air, a glow in the night, and good old fashion rock and roll music blaring in front of the main staging area. This is great. They love us and care for us. Hot coffee, endless supplies of metallic security blankets, water, vaseline, and the warmth of fires up and down the line. Lines of flags are stiff in the wind. Ask for it, they will try and provide it. Runners criss cross in every direction, and the crinkle of the space blankets seem unworldly. Experienced, we immediately head for the toilet lines. It’s one of the tenets of running. Always stand in the toilet line, you never know when the feeling will hit you.
With the 20 minute warning comes the aerial launch of drop bags at the poor souls in the rental trucks whose job it is to find an alternate way to beat us to the finish. Then on to your assigned crib; the bibs numbers are based on finishing times. For me, this is the worst time, panic and self doubt try to re emerge as I check my laces for the fourth time, and I begin to shed throwaway gear. Then quickly, it’s the anthem, reminding each and every one of us how lucky we are to live in a society where we can vehemently disagree about politics, and then become best friends running a seemingly absurd footrace in the middle of nowhere, towards a small town founded by Mormon pioneers a hundred and fifty years ago. America!
The gun goes off, and the rest is history, well documented in recounted tales of bravery and suffering, and with exquisitely photographed hero shots of our efforts. Each of us comes home with a unique experience, a feeling of invincibility for a day or two, and a deeper satisfaction that we have pushed at the envelope of our own self imposed limitations; that perhaps there are other whole worlds surrounding us if only we look to explore them. Tomorrow, with #14 at St. George under my belt, I will check the race calendar for my next event, and it will start all over again. And I’ll smile as I do it.
It’s 5 am, dark out and I’m bleary eyed. Despite having been up for 2 ½ hours, I’m still in a fog, dumbed from getting up in the middle of the night. An early bedtime has seemingly no effect. This violates the laws of circadia and civility. Three of us, worn from the wake up and nervous chatter that lasted an hour in the car, have braved the new day for a goal set upon long ago back in early spring. Winnowed in a lottery for this popular marathon of over 7,000, the casual observer might wonder how so many every day people of all stripes would fight to run over 26 miles on such an unusually warm morning. Despite punishing temperatures well into the mid 80’s at the finish, over 80% of the field will accomplish the feat.
We’ve snaked our way up from mesquite through the spectacular Virgin River Gorge, via I 15, towards St. George. This scenic gash through the mountains connects the northeastern edge of the Mojave Desert to the southwestern rim of the Colorado Plateau, visually indexing a millennium of geographic history. Northbound, travelers come upon red stained cliffs of St. George, the beginning of some of the most prime outdoor real estate on the planet. Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, and the southwest convergence of Nevada, Arizona and Utah made famous by Zane Grey in his over 60 novels await the explorations of anyone brave enough to change their view of their own relationship with eternity. No wonder this was the fastest growing area in the US during the boom years of the mid 2000’s.
But our task is still at hand. There’s less traffic than expected as we work our way off at Bluff Street, towards Worthen Park. A general bias against Mormanism has undervalued the historic significance of this little town, 4 hours south of it’s metropolitan mothership, Salt Lake City. Yet that’s how the pioneers who radiated out from north viewed their mission to tame the southwest. The world was now based in Salt Lake, and in all directions, especially south and west, it was their honor and privilege, and duty, to spread the word of salvation as they saw fit. Our duty this morning remains in front of us. After working past a few stop signs, we park across from the Temple. Amazingly, there’s plenty of spots in this residential neighborhood overpowered by the church architecture. But it all fits in, like a medieval town.
It’s all business now. A final check to make sure we have our gear bags. There’s no need to review them, we fastidiously spent last night preparing for endless scenarios. Bibs rate most important, pins to attach, then shoes, socks and running clothes, all laid out in fashion. Next comes the food sources. We’ll need to carry and ingest about 500 to 1000 calories during the race, as our pre packed glycogen stores, bolstered by days of overeating and endless fluids, will only carry us about 20 miles, ergo the dreaded wall. To stave it off, we try and sneak in extra calories, hopefully finishing before the bonk takes effect, a virtual stake in the heart that could end our dreams in situ on the course. The current form of these energy sources are comprised of goo’s, gels and blocks of high calorie glucose that can be ingested and converted very rapidly. None of this matters if you don’t properly ingest fluids during the race, or worse yet, throw up. Dehydration and the bonk become inevitable if you barf. All runners are trying to avoid this scenario; the less experienced, and the overly optimistic will litter the course later today with their “marathon shuffle”,as testimony to their miscalculations. Garbage bags for shelter from cold and wind, vaseline and chapstick for chafing and dryness. Cell phones, cameras and clothes for the post race recovery all go into a bag volunteers transport from the start to the finish line for our benefit. As we hand it over for transport, every runner secretly wishes he could crawl inside the drop bag and reappear, medaled, at the finish, refreshed and smiling.
We walk together, quickened in step, every second counting, searching for the temporary respite the yellow buses, hundreds of them lined up in the darkness, will provide us as we embark on the ride to the start. Our stomachs started churning at the off ramp in the car. The antacid tablets don’t completely counteract the nausea each of us are feeling, and we all commiserate in the shared experience. “Don’t look out the window”, I bark, “It will depress you”. I would rather meet my fate as it comes, not ahead of time. The bus loads, and it’s like the womb. Safety in numbers and purpose. How can it be so bad when all these others are following the same path. The young, the old, the injured, the experienced. We all become friends, nervously sharing stories that remind me of scenes of soldiers in trench warfare before a big push. But that perspective refreshes me. I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan, or Vietnam or Normandy Beach. This is just a marathon, and my mood begins to change. I’m in the injured and experienced category, so there’ll be no pr, personal record, today, or at my age, ever again. Relaxed, my new focus is on those around me who may not be as acclimated. Casual talk, words of encouragement, advice if asked, all help the miles drift by as the bus clangs gears up and down the grades of the course, lurching us forward and back in our seats. It’s fun if you’ve the presence of mind.
The groan of first gear and bright lights ahead herald the embarcation zone. With precision, the wonderful people of St. George orchestrate busloads of runners towards the corrals and firepits. It’s the beehive state. They’re organized here. It’s a new world too, with heavy winds, smoke in the air, a glow in the night, and good old fashion rock and roll music blaring in front of the main staging area. This is great. They love us and care for us. Hot coffee, endless supplies of metallic security blankets, water, vaseline, and the warmth of fires up and down the line. Lines of flags are stiff in the wind. Ask for it, they will try and provide it. Runners criss cross in every direction, and the crinkle of the space blankets seem unworldly. Experienced, we immediately head for the toilet lines. It’s one of the tenets of running. Always stand in the toilet line, you never know when the feeling will hit you.
With the 20 minute warning comes the aerial launch of drop bags at the poor souls in the rental trucks whose job it is to find an alternate way to beat us to the finish. Then on to your assigned crib; the bibs numbers are based on finishing times. For me, this is the worst time, panic and self doubt try to re emerge as I check my laces for the fourth time, and I begin to shed throwaway gear. Then quickly, it’s the anthem, reminding each and every one of us how lucky we are to live in a society where we can vehemently disagree about politics, and then become best friends running a seemingly absurd footrace in the middle of nowhere, towards a small town founded by Mormon pioneers a hundred and fifty years ago. America!
The gun goes off, and the rest is history, well documented in recounted tales of bravery and suffering, and with exquisitely photographed hero shots of our efforts. Each of us comes home with a unique experience, a feeling of invincibility for a day or two, and a deeper satisfaction that we have pushed at the envelope of our own self imposed limitations; that perhaps there are other whole worlds surrounding us if only we look to explore them. Tomorrow, with #14 at St. George under my belt, I will check the race calendar for my next event, and it will start all over again. And I’ll smile as I do it.
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