mrneoluddite/entertainment

From the page: "The Spark
Learn about stuff you never knew you wanted to know about in The Spark. Yahoo!'s Search Editors dig through the Web and blog about its hidden gems, celebrity birthdays, and bizzare and little-known holidays. Come on in and see what sparks your interest."

From the page:
"The Black and White Truth: Colorization Sucks
By Dave Sikula
Thu, September 11, 2008

Ted Turner doesn't like black and white movies. Drunk on technology that allowed computers to "improve" old films by troweling layers of color over them, he threatened to colorize "Citizen Kane" -- generally considered the greatest movie ever made, largely due to Gregg Toland's superb black and white cinematography. Welles' response? "Keep Ted Turner and his damned Crayolas away from my movie."

Fortunately, Welles' 1941 contract prevented Turner from defacing "Kane," but the search for color is as old as movies themselves. Pioneer filmmakers applied watercolors directly onto film to provide viewers with some realism, and most silent features used tinting and toning (blue for night scenes, amber for outdoors) to provide atmosphere. In 1908, George Smith's Kinemacolor system gave moviegoers a taste of the real world, and in 1917, Herbert Kalmus devised the Technicolor system, which photographed red and green light onto two strips of film running through a camera. Unfortunately, the resulting images were orangey-pink or greenish-blue. The real breakthrough came in 1932, when Kalmus developed a three-strip process that gave a depth and richness to color film that hadn't been seen before.

That was the status quo for the next 50 years, as moviemakers alternated between color and black and white as subject matter (and budgets) dictated. In the '80s, though, technology enabled film owners to go through their libraries and spruce up movies that younger viewers -- not used to black and white -- found unwatchable. In most cases, the results were awful, as a limited color palate washed out details and replaced crisp images with a muddy mess. The public was unimpressed, and the fad was soon over.

In recent years, though, technology has improved, and while the results may be brighter, they still leave a lot to be desired. As for ourselves, while we like our movies in color, the silvery images captured by such artists as Toland, Arthur C. Miller, and William Daniels are priceless treasures that shouldn't be mucked with."

Board games? Yes, board games, because it is national board game week. So turn off the interweb and pull out the ol' Scrabble board. Somethings are best played on the table top, not the desktop.

From the page: Pops' Music
By Dave Sikula

Mon, August 4, 2008

While it's always dangerous to indulge in hyperbole, we feel pretty secure in saying that if Louis Armstrong had never been born, American music today would be completely different.

Armstrong (also known as "Pops" or "Satchmo") was born on August 4th, 1901 into the humblest of circumstances -- out of wedlock in one of the roughest neighborhoods of New Orleans. As a child, he found himself drawn to Storyville, the city's red-light district, where brothels and dance halls abounded -- and where a new form of music, jazz (or "jass" as it was called then) was evolving from ragtime. One of the town's top musicians, cornetist Joe "King" Oliver, took a shine to him, and taught him how to play the cornet, and eventually hired him for his band.

By 1922, Armstrong had moved to America's new jazz center, Chicago, where he began his prolific recording career. He turned out dozens of sides, including 1928's "West End Blues," which featured his poetic horn solo and scat singing -- an art form he is usually credited with inventing. The record set a standard for virtually every jazz and pop musician and vocalist who followed.

Although musical tastes changed over his lifetime, he was able to knock the Beatles off the top of the charts with his 1964 recording of "Hello, Dolly!" And in 1954, his statements condemning President Eisenhower as having "no guts" and being "two-faced" during the Little Rock desegregation crisis were crucial to the Civil Rights Movement -- coming as they did from such a beloved entertainer.

And speaking of movements, there were two topics Pops never tired of talking of: his daily use of "reefer" and Swiss Kriss laxative, samples of which he gleefully handed out to anyone he met -- up to and including the British Royal Family."

From the page: "The Crooner and The Clown Cry "Ciao!"
By Helene Labriet-Gross
Thu, July 24, 2008

Before there was a Rat Pack, a "Rio Bravo," or an "Everybody Loves Somebody," Dean Martin was known to America as Jerry Lewis' partner and straight man in a series of hilarious duets, movies, and television shows.

For exactly a decade -- starting on July 24, 1946 and ending on the same date in 1956 -- the pair was America's favorite entertainers. The team-up began when the two were booked at Atlantic City's 500 Club. The audience was ice cold, so instead of sticking to the prepared material, Lewis pretended to be a waiter, noisily interrupting Martin's act. The singer improvised back, and the crowd was soon in hysterics. The act became the hottest in show business, and the duo never looked back. Their recipe for success never failed: Dino would sing -- or try to -- while Lewis would embellish the crooner's act by making faces, interrupting the songs with his awful nasal, twangy voice, and use all the tricks of vaudeville and slapstick.

Their peak may have come in the early '50s, when 75,000 people turned out to see them appear at New York's Paramount Theatre. But after 16 movies, bored by being seen as nothing but a foil for Lewis, Martin decided to go solo. His last performance with Lewis took place at 2:30 a.m. at the Copacabana in New York. They played three shows that night, taking the audience from laughter to tears.

The pair reunited briefly in 1960 -- for 15 minutes. But in 1976, Frank Sinatra arranged for Martin to surprise Lewis on his telethon, an appearance which ended the team's feud. Lewis also appeared at Martin's 72nd birthday, presenting him with a cake and joking, "Why we broke up, I'll never know." Neither do we, but we're glad for their time together."

From the page: ""I'll Take Shakespeare for $1600, Alex"
By Dave Sikula
Tue, July 22, 2008

Alex Trebek turns 68 today -- looks good, doesn't he? Nice guy; does charity work, never a scandal. But I'm still a little mad at him -- though I have no one to blame but myself.

Let me explain. Like millions of folks, I love Jeopardy! -- going back to the original version with Art Fleming. I also have a knack for memorizing useless facts -- to the point where people were always saying, "You should be on Jeopardy!" (like I had any say in it). In May, 2006, I finally got the call, asking me come in for an interview. Well, I played well enough and was sufficiently personable that they told me I'd be in the pool for a year, and if I didn't hear from them to try again. That year passed and I wrote it off -- until November of 2007, when the magical call came from Culver City. They wanted me!

I went to L.A., and after a morning of instructions, was called on to play -- for real. Thanks to a lucky group of categories -- and a Final Jeopardy that I didn't know, but made an educated guess at -- I was an honest-to-goodness Jeopardy! champion. Then my second game came. I was slow on the buzzer, but the final blow was a Daily Double about Shakespeare. In spite of my background in theatre history -- and Alex trying to help -- I blanked, and it was all downhill from there. I rallied, but it was too late, and after a reign of one day, I was a Former Jeopardy! Champion. I exited the studio with a feeling of "what just happened?" but feeling proud that I'd actually done it.

I can never go back on the show, but if you do, give Alex my best. And watch out for those Shakespeare categories...."

From the page: "Willie Nelson's 75 Years on the Road
By Michelle Heimburger
Wed, April 30, 2008, 12:01 am PDT

In his 75 creative, prolific years, Willie Nelson has released hundreds of albums and recorded thousands of songs, delivered with a simplicity and sincerity that few artists can achieve. He's logged countless miles on the road, yet he still finds time to campaign for family farms and biofuel, and speak out for causes he holds dear, like peace, pot, and politics. He writes books, hawks his own brand of bourbon, and makes acting appearances -- all without taking himself too seriously. It's hard to imagine an artist who better epitomizes American music, or America itself: idealistic, hard-working, sincere, scarred, and uniquely beautiful.

At the risk of belaboring a sappy metaphor, Willie's music does have a certain melting-pot quality. From his country roots in Abbott, Texas, Willie's sound has evolved to include blues, pop standards, reggae, jazz, and rock. He's covered dozens of artists' songs, from Elvis to Dave Matthews to Cyndi Lauper to The Muppets.

But it's Willie's many, many duets that delight us the most. He's worked with countless country greats, from Waylon Jennings to Kris Kristofferson to Johnny Cash -- including moments of divine cheesiness with Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers -- and younger stars like Shania Twain and Toby Keith. He's crooned with Sinatra, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, and Sinead O'Connor, and gotten bluesy with Ray Charles and Eric Clapton. He embraced his folk side with Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, and Paul Simon, and felt some Latin love with Julio Iglesias. And he's rocked out with Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow, Steven Tyler, ZZ Top, Keith Richards, and Bon Jovi.

Just last week, Willie appeared with his latest genre-bending collaborator: Snoop Dogg (in Amsterdam, naturally). We can't wait to see what Willie will do next."

From the page: "What a Glorious Feeling!
By Dave Sikula
Wed, March 26, 2008

Writer Ray Bradbury once described "Singin' in the Rain" as a science-fiction movie, because it tells the story of people trying to deal with a new technology -- movies with sound.

While that's an interesting interpretation, we're pretty sure that all writers Betty Comden and Adolph Green had in mind was using the song catalog of Arthur Freed (who produced the movie) and Nacio Herb Brown to poke fun at Hollywood conventions and the panic that Tinseltown found itself in in 1927, when it realized that actors suddenly had to talk."