#robert helpmann

[margotfonteyns]

Vivien Leigh and Robert Helpmann in costume as Titania and Oberon for the Old Vic production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, which opened on Boxing Day, December 27, 1937

"On 12 January, 1938 Queen Elizabeth fulfilled a promise to the late Lilian Baylis that her daughters should see their first Shakespeare at the Old Vic. After the performance the stars were presented. Helpmann and Vivien bowed and curtsied simultaneously and their elaborate headdresses became inextricably entwined. They had to retreat backwards from the room like two stags locked in combat." — Hugo Vickers

[singoffoolsandafoolwillcome]

Robert Helpmann

[cinemagal]

THE TALES OF HOFFMANN (1951) dir. Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger

[camyfilms]

CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG 1968

Well, maybe my children like running wild in the street. Did that ever occur to you?

[chaptertwo-thepacnw]

the child catcher

[lobbycards]

The Red Shoes, Italian lobby card (fotobusta). Italian theatrical release 1949

[erstwhile-punk-guerito]

[lovelyballetandmore]

Robert Helpmann in costume as Albrecht from 'Giselle'. Photo by Roger Wood taken beneath the stage of the Royal Opera House, c. 1949.

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

Given that Roald Dahl adapted the screenplay for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and given some of Dahl's, uh, Opinions that would later surface, does the Child Catcher's visual design seem a bit more sus to anyone else? I mean they literally made actor Robert Helpmann's nose bigger for the role, come on here people.

* From the wildly different book by Ian Fleming, who was apparently friends with Dahl because they worked together in British military intelligence during WW2

[sloshed-cinema]

The Tales of Hoffmann (1951)

Powell and Pressburger love theatrical performance almost to a fault.  Their absolute masterpiece The Red Shoes delves behind the curtain into the catty, cutthroat world of the ballet, and here they put to film an entire opera.  And this is most definitely an opera.  There are moments of absolute musical bliss scattered in between sequences which drag on almost interminably, and characters take for-fucking-ever to accomplish anything.  Lyrics are kinda goofily literal if you think about them for longer than three seconds.  Hell, they even managed to squeeze in the endless rounds of applause which conclude any performance—good job all, but Jesus Christ I’d love to go home sometime this week, I have to pee.  So it’s opera, love it or leave it.  But it’s opera filmed by auteurs who clearly love the medium, which makes it a much more rewarding experience.  Regular repertory players pop up here and there, helmed by Robert Helpmann as the incarnation of evil in each tale and Moira Shearer as Hoffmann’s object of desire Stella and first love, Olympia.  Helpmann is diabolical down to his very bones, all wild stares and even wilder makeup.  Shearer is eminently watchable whenever she dances and here she mixes grace with technical skill and control as the automaton Olympia.  She always has such poise and control in her performances.  How much her eyes must have been watering after some of those takes, the doll not even blinking once or diverting from its glassy stare.  Léonide Massine and Ludmilla Tchérina drop by too for tantalizing dance roles as secondary antagonists.  It’s a night at the opera in a decidedly different sense.

The absolute selling point of this film has to be its production design.  Nobody does color quite like Powell and Pressburger, every frame painterly in its vibrant handling of Hoffman’s fantastical world.  The film leans into an intentionally stagey aesthetic, no attempts made to make sets not seem painted or two-dimensional at points.  Puppets and human actors intermingle freely, creating a world where nothing can quite be believed as true—Hoffmann is quite the showman in his recounting of past conquests.  They don’t make many attempts to hide their tricks, Dapertutto’s jewel-conjuring simple sleight of hand or edits, for instance.  But at points they do take advantage of their medium’s potential, layering images over one another much as they did in The Red Shoes and elsewhere to create ‘magical’ effects.  The end result feels like a product plucked out of time, a small but glistening Technicolor gem.

THE RULES

SIP

Two images are overlaid.

Lindorf or his equivalent in a story makes crazy eyes.

Money changes hands.

Applause.

BIG DRINK

The beginning of a tale.

Olympia gets wound up.

Puppet/human or statue/human swap.

[byneddiedingo]

Robert Helpmann and Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1948) Cast: Anton Walbrook, Moira Shearer, Marius Goring, Robert Helpmann, Léonide Massine, Ludmilla Tchérina, Esmond Knight, Albert Bassermann, Austin Trevor, Irene Browne. Screenplay: Emeric Pressburger, Keith Winter, Michael Powell, based on a story by Hans Christian Andersen. Cinematography: Jack Cardiff. Production design: Hein Heckroth. Film editing: Reginald Mills. Music: Brian Easdale. Costume design: Hein Heckroth. In its digital restoration, The Red Shoes almost certainly looks better than it ever did even in the most optimal theatrical showing, its colors brighter and sharper, its darks deeper and more detailed. But is that necessarily a good thing? I'm not like one of those audiophiles who insist that old vinyl LPs sound better than CDs or any digital audio process -- I like being able to hear things without surface pops and skips. But I do think that in the case of a film like The Red Shoes, where suspension of disbelief is essential, something has been lost. The great red snood of Moira Shearer's hair is revealed to be a thing of individual strands that might have benefited from a quick brushing before her closeups. The special-effects moments, like Vicky's (Shearer) leap into the red shoes or Boleslawsky's (Robert Helpmann) transformation into the newspaper man, are more glaringly just rudimentary jump cuts. There's a loss of glamour and magic that hasn't been compensated for, even though we can now see Jack Cardiff's photography of Hein Heckroth's designs with greater clarity. I will also admit that I have never been in the front ranks of the fans of The Red Shoes. While I admire the storytelling ability of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, I have to question the moral of the story, which seems to be that a woman can't have both a great career and a successful private life, or in a larger sense, that art is impossible without a loss of self. Granted, the story comes from the realm of fairytale, which is never without an element of cruelty, but is Vicky's suicide a necessary follow-through, or just a submission on the part of the screenwriters to the demands of some kind of closure, given that they've never made the character more than a stereotype: the woman torn between the demands of two men? Ravishing to the eye, The Red Shoes doesn't satisfy the mind or the heart.

[letterboxd-loggd]

The Red Shoes (1948) Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

December 11th 2022

[ulrichgebert]

Obwohl uns das Ansinnen der Chorus-Line-Mädel, wegen dieses Films (und weil dort alles so schön war) zum Ballett zu wollen, nie recht eingeleuchtet hat (es kommt einem ja doch auch ziemlich anstrengend und emotional fordend vor) ist The Red Shoes natürlich so wundervoll, daß man ihn wieder und wieder anschauen möchte. Dafür schauen wir es eigentlich gar nicht so oft an.

[igot-the-juice]

‘Serenity’ Chapter 3

Masterlist

Summary - Vulgaria was a remote country, held its own beauty quite unlike others. Everything about it was peculiar. The village, the castle, the people. In the village sat a rather famed tailor shop, and the recluse that was its head seamstress unknowingly caught the eye of a notorious henchman of the barbaric Baron Bomburst. Accepting a tempting offer, what was supposed to be a simple project began to meddle with her already disorganized family, and little did she know her sanity would soon follow.

-

Mary stared at the ceiling of the rather minuscule bedroom. She hardly slept that night, restless. Rapidly thinking about what the following day would bring. Or rather what the Child Catcher would bring.

No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on something else, whether it’d be new ideas or just ways to organize the shop, she couldn’t bring herself to stop wandering off to him. Question after question. Wondering.

He said the others at the castle lacked creativity, but that only left room for more questions instead of answers. Was the castle really that bland? Was it that lifeless?

The morning went by at a leisurely pace, and the afternoon even more so. It was as if the world was mocking her. It made her lose her focus. Made her more sluggish. Though it didn’t make her work any less remarkable. She would strive for nothing less than perfection, after all. But it all just so happened to be on possibly one of the busiest days she had in quite some time.

She began to question if there was a special occasion she and her parents were missing out on, or a festival perhaps? A birthday? The possibilities were endless in such a village. But just being a busy day would have to suffice for the time being.

She quickly patched up a pair of lederhosen with some difficulty, which she would never openly admit. The leather was tough to sew especially without the proper equipment. It was already irritating to work with even if she had all of the correct tools. But to compensate for the extra work and material, she charged more than she would for a simple fix. Which the men always had their own opinions on.

After trading with the man she slid her sketchbook in front of her on the stand, readying her pencil over the faded paper. Maybe coming up with some ideas for him beforehand would put her mind at ease? Unless he already had a specific one in mind, then her sketching would be pointless. But it wouldn’t hurt to try.

A candy man, he said? She doubted he would be willing to change his entire fit, rather than something to just throw over. A gentle smile graced her lips, the thought of him wearing such a flamboyant suit amusing her.

At last the pencil began to move across the paper, scurrying and scratching as ideas began to flood. Almost too many to keep up with. It didn’t take long for the first design to be completed with customers stopping by for a quick fix every other minute. She labeled what colors went where and what the fabric would be for each piece. All in great detail.

She repeated the same process for a few others, and thankfully it helped the day go by quicker. The sky was a deep gradient of orange and purple by the time Mary closed up the shop. She closed the double doors, turning to tidy the rest of the room in preparation for the day after. The old wood creaked beneath her feet to fill the airy silence, and it was peaceful. A breath of fresh air after the tiring day.

Once finished she trudged up the stairs to see the dining room empty which was a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. The stove was cold, pots and pans left the way it was that morning. Her father’s cup wasn’t even on the table or in the sink. That was what made her stomach churn.

A cough sounded from her parents’ bedroom through the closed door, growing more violent the longer it continued. The sound of it struck a fear in her that left her paralyzed. She listened. Waited. A minute later it came to a stop.

And the silence that followed frightened her.

Her breathing soft, she strained her ears to listen for even the smallest sound. Anything to ease her frantic mind. Then she heard her mother’s muffled voice.

Mary let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and at last began to prepare everything for dinner. She washed the vegetables and set out the cutting board and knives, chopping them up when she heard a door open. Feet shuffled across the floor, a pair landing beside her.

Her mother placed a larger pot inside the sink and turned it on, moving to light the stove.

“Ma,” Mary whispered softly when she heard a sniff, her own eyes glazing over. “Please stop.”

“Liebling.” Her mother’s voice held a mixed tone. Stern, yet trembled. Mary let it be, a tear escaping down her cheek.

Once they ate and the dishes were washed the older woman waved Mary over into her bedroom, her father still sitting at the table. She sat on the edge, Mary sitting almost directly behind her with a brush. She began to carefully remove the bun from her mother’s hair and combed her fingers through it in an attempt to undo any knots or tangled hairs.

“What did he want?” She asked Mary when she began to brush. She halted her movements for a second before continuing, caught off guard by the blunt question. “And don’t lie to me.” Her daughter hesitated, then huffed.

“You must swear not to tell a single soul.” Her mother let out a heartfelt chuckle.

“Who would I tell, dear?” After a minute or so of brushing she answered.

“He wants me to make an outfit for one of his characters.” A short moment passed and Mary honestly couldn’t tell what her mother was thinking. She didn’t still, didn’t sigh, didn’t gasp. Mary even convinced herself that she didn’t hear her, that is until her mother spoke.

“Will you?” Mary sighed.

“I will. I had a feeling it wouldn’t end well no matter the decision. It was either decline and insult the Baron’s henchman, or accept and face the wrath of the people when they find out.”

“When they find out?”

“It’s only a matter of time.” Mary stood up once finished and put away the brush. “Those intrusive bastards.” She mumbled to herself and her mother just smiled.

“Well, what does he want? Do you know?” Her questions surprised Mary, taking everything better than she thought she would. Just two days ago she was scared to death of him when he first entered the shop and now there they were having a casual conversation about what his next lure would be as if it were common gossip.

“All he said was a candy man. I sketched out a few ideas I had today. Whatever it turns out to be, I just hope he likes it.”

“Only a fool would find your work distasteful. But it is interesting how he is giving you so much free reign for something so seemingly important to him.”

Mary felt guilty for not telling her the whole truth. She trusted her mother more than anything. Not because of familial relation, but because of how much they had been through together. What they still went through together. She meant well, and it wasn’t as if she was lying. She just didn’t want her to worry more than she already did.

By the time her parents finished getting ready for bed and settled down Mary was downstairs collecting all she needed. She put her sketchbook and pencil in a simple tattered shoulder bag along with her favorite measuring tape. She then checked upstairs to make sure her parents had finally fallen asleep before heading to the front of the shop.

She peaked out the window of one of the doors, making sure no one was still wandering the plaza. When the coast was clear she carefully left the shop, turning the knob as she closed it to prevent any unnecessary noise.

Her hands nervously twisted the strap of the satchel as she turned to face the wide open space. She rarely ever ventured out in the dark, let alone to meet with someone. She supposed she was a bit of a hypocrite since she considered herself to be a reclusive person herself. Now, she wasn’t heavily introverted, but enough to call herself one.

Mary took a few steps into the plaza, looking around for any sign of the man. Would he be hiding? Or was he confident enough to just wander in? Perhaps she was too early? She chewed on her lip with blooming panic as the questions began to swirl, but was put at ease when she saw him step out from a nearby street.

Never would she have thought she would be relieved to see the Child Catcher, but alas she sighed at the sight of him. The relief gradually diminished, however, with every step she took closer to him.

Being in his presence would strike fear into even the toughest man in the village. To say he had a reputation would be an understatement. To the others in the village he was a sadist, taking great pleasure in capturing the children and watching them cry and suffer. Same with the adults he had executed for having them in the first place. Mary, on the other hand, didn’t know what to think of the man. As far as she was concerned, he was just doing his job. Maybe he had a bit of too much fun doing it, but it was a job nonetheless.

When she reached him he leaned his head in the direction he came, turning to walk back down the street with Mary in tow. When she turned the corner she saw a horse standing in the middle of it, patiently waiting. She felt intimidated as she stood beside it, being short enough as it was. She turned to the catcher who held a hand out, offering his help.

“Where are we going?” Mary asked warily.

“The bridge.” His bluntness surprisingly made her trust the man more, made him seem like he had nothing to hide which was ironic given the situation.

After a moment’s hesitation she took his hand and collected her skirt with the other, placing her foot in the stirrup to push herself up onto the horse. She gasped when she felt him lift her up with a startling amount of strength, yet was still careful in his movements. It was rather deceiving compared to his more scrawny appearance.

As he hopped on behind her she began to welcome the height difference, it even put the hint of a smile on her face. His arms reaching around her to grab the reins soon brought her back to the reality of the situation. After he kicked and the horse began to move she quickly gripped onto the saddle in front of her, never having ridden a horse before as it took on a graceful walk, and once she grew used to it her smile returned.

“Enjoying yourself?” The man behind her piped up in subtle amusement.

“Very much.” Was her simple response. She looked up to the sky, the stars beaming down brightly. Not a single cloud was in sight. “Imagine the view from the castle.” Mary mumbled, losing herself in the many new sensations the night already brought her.

“It’s better than the one down here, no doubt.”

“Well, do you ever look at them?” She questioned, her eyes never leaving the sky. She couldn’t understand why, but she felt more comfortable talking to him as they were. It was refreshing for her to talk to someone new. Someone who was willing to listen, or rather seemed like they were willing. Whether he was doing it out of politeness or because he was her customer, she couldn’t tell. But she appreciated it either way.

“I see no reason to.”

The rest of the ride was silent, yet peaceful. And Mary hated to admit it, but it made her sleepy. She wasn’t used to staying up later at night. Perhaps that was why she always woke up so early. Or was it the other way around?

When they reached the arch of the stone bridge he jumped off, then once again helped Mary. She had been far less graceful and nearly face planted the gravel were it not for the catcher…well, catching her. He tied the horse to a nearby post and turned to Mary expectedly, only to see her already taking a seat beneath the bridge. He followed suit and sat next to her, keeping a good distance so as to not make her feel uncomfortable, which she made a mental note of.

“If you don’t mind,” she began as she pulled out her book and pencil. “I already had a few ideas sketched out during the day if you wanted to take a look at them?” She looked over at him, shrinking with beady eyes at his unreadable expression. “Unless you already had one in mind?” She quickly added. He glanced down at her sketchbook.

“Let’s see yours first.” With a closed smile, she opened it and flipped to find the page.

“Given your line of work, I thought maybe a larger cloak of some sort. It would be a simple change and I think it would flow more gracefully if it has the right flare.” She finally landed on her first drawing. “Since you said ‘candy man’, I thought it would be best to stick to more intense colors, or bright. I was thinking purple for the base color and tried adding in other designs, but the color just didn’t really stick out to me.” Mary flipped to the next page and he watched her enthusiasm begin to show.

As she continued to explain her ideas, the catcher watched on in bewilderment. He knew she had to be at least somewhat skilled to create what she had in the shop, but her range of thought and creativity was far beyond what he had originally thought. Not only was she good at sewing, but he noticed how she tailored to the customer as well.

For the first time in years he was stunned. He greatly underestimated her, and so did the rest of Vulgaria. It was a shame no one took advantage of her work and how much she enjoyed doing it. He could tell she held so much passion, so much love for what she did and yet no one seemed to notice or appreciate it.

It reminded him of himself.

“This one is my personal favorite.” He perked at her words, eager to see why it was indeed her favorite. He leaned closer and carefully looked over the detailed design. It was consistent with her previous cloak designs, however it was the largest of the bunch. Enough to cover the majority of his suit.

The base was a vibrant yellow, orange and white trimming and geometric designs tactically placed to make it stand out more. Flowers of blues and yellows lined the coat along the edges and sleeves, rich green leaves sprouting from them. But it was a patch of red with black zig-zags along the upper back that struck his fancy the most. It seemed out of place compared to the rest, yet somehow she made it work. It wouldn’t be the same without it.

“That one.” The catcher drawled out. Mary snapped her head over to him, mouth agape.

“But, I haven’t -“ She stopped herself when his eyes flicked over to meet her in an intense gaze. She quickly looked away and stuttered. “Of course. This one it is.” She then turned and started digging through her bag to pull out her tape measure and stood up.

Her eyes followed him as he did the same, just over a head taller than her. Her eyes glanced between his own, fiddling with the tape in her hands absentmindedly. Then she suddenly realized why she had it in the first place.

“Right.” She chirped quickly and began to take his measurements, starting with his arms and jotting down the numbers along the way. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your name exactly? I find it rude not to know the names of my customers.” Mary asked softly to break the awkward silence, mostly out of her own curiosity. Her hands lightly shook out of nerves.

“Reuben.” He caught the faintest smile reaching her lips.

“Reuben…?”

“Reuben Herrmann.” It took everything in him not to cringe at the name. It had been quite a while since he heard or even said it after being called The Child Catcher for so many years. Very few people knew his real name, and he preferred to keep it that way. The only reason he even told Mary in the first place was because he was aware of how little she spoke to other villagers, if at all. He had a feeling she wouldn’t even tell her own mother without his expressed permission.

Mary reached around his front to measure his torso and it wasn’t until then that he realized how close they were. He could tell she was trying to avoid it from happening, but given she was taking measurements it was only a matter of time. And now it was his turn to feel flustered, mainly from hearing her repeat his own name back to him.

“I think it fits you.” Mary hummed, then she began to giggle and decided to try and break through his closed-off demeanor. “You know, the people gossip about what they think your name is?”

“They do?” She nodded and continued with her giggle fit. “And what have they said?”

“Well, nothing even remotely close to Reuben. Your name is that of a saint compared to what they’ve come up with. But I think my favorite is Archie.” Mary’s giggling turned into laughter when the catcher’s face twisted into disgust.

“Archie? Well, I’d say we’re blessed that they can’t have children.” By the time her laughter died down she was finished and put away the tape measure, hooking the bag over her shoulder.

“Well lucky for you, Mister Herrmann, you won’t be catching any Archies.” The two of them made their way back over to the horse, untying and mounting it once more to begin their journey back to the village.

Mary let out a gentle yawn, covering it as best she could. The sound of the horse’s hooves tapping against the ground, the movement of it alone practically rocking her to sleep. She struggled to keep her eyes open as the crickets seemed to grow more faint, everything around her meddling together. Subconsciously she leaned back against Reuben, her head rested off to the side on one of his shoulders. But by the time she realized she was falling asleep it was too late.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Pernice Brothers Interview: Writing to Live

Joe Pernice; Photo by Colleen Nicholson

BY JORDAN MAINZER

The album cover for Who Will You Believe (New West), the first album in 5 years from Pernice Brothers, features a close-up photo of a man who doesn't "care about being seen." That man, of course, is Joe Pernice, who formed Pernice Brothers over 25 years ago after the breakup of his beloved alt country institution Scud Mountain Boys. But while Pernice may be indifferent-to-averse to the idea of celebrity or even public persona, he's not trying to remain hidden, per se. The photo that graces the cover doesn't attempt to be flattering, nor a clean-cut design: It asymmetrically cuts off the brim and top of his hat, his right glasses lens frame, the bottom of his chin, and the back of his head. (Of course, the band name and album title is superimposed on his face.) It makes you pay more attention to Pernice than you otherwise would. What is he looking at? Why? In a way, it really fits Who Will You Believe, a record that exists on a separate plane from today's singer-songwriter albums that tend to be straight diary entries combined with biography or filled with Easter eggs and callbacks. Instead, Pernice, an accomplished writer in many different mediums, shows that he can write about almost anything. The possibilities are infinite.

When I spoke to Pernice over the phone earlier this month, he let me know that he was in the middle of a particularly fruitful period. "I've been writing more songs than I ever have in my life," he said. "I go through these periods where I have a manic blast." Indeed, whether or not Who Will You Believe was born from one of these spurts, the album gives you a sense for how he works. Neko Case duet "I Don't Need That Anymore" started with an off-hand remark his mom made about having a good figure when she "needed it;" Pernice took the line and turned it into a devastating country track about a dying love, replete with twangy, chiming guitars, string swells and steady mallet percussion. He processes the deaths of three important people--his cousin, Rhino executive Gary Stewart, and David Berman--in stunning strummer "The Purple Rain", referencing the last one not with cutesy lyrical winks and nods but ones that even casual Silver Jews/Purple Mountains listeners will pick up, respectfully showing his intentions to pay tribute. Of course, Pernice still finds room for ambiguity, clever wordplay, and fun atop it all, a true songwriter's songwriter. His penchant for cultural allusions remains strong, even in conversation. Referring to a recent day where he wrote 5 songs in a day, 3 of them keepers, Pernice said, " I felt like Sylvia Plath at the end of her life when he was in a manic state of making shit," before clarifying, deadpan, "That was before she put her head in the oven."

Sure, there are some tracks on Who Will You Believe that are purely sad or strange. Pernice croons on the slow "What We Had", atop acoustic guitars, tremolo electric plucking, and tambourine, "It's a comedy of errors, but it's sad / I think of what we had / It's hard to watch good love go bad." Instrumental waltz "A Song for Sir Robert Helpmann", meanwhile, juxtaposes strings, keys, drum rolls, and wordless vocalization, creepy and lurking. Its mood is inspired by Pernice's fear of Helpmann's role as The Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. "That movie scared the shit out of me when I was a kid," he said. "[Helpmann's] absolutely terrifying." Though these tunes occupy a singular mood, though, for the most part, Who Will You Believe is a fun album, Pernice's brightest and loosest sounding in years. "I always play with people who are good people. I've never made a record with an asshole," Pernice said. "When you get really good players who aren't just phoning it in, it's really cool." Past collaborators pervade the album, such as Joe's brother Bob and wife Laura Stein (formerly of Halifax indie pop band Jale). Toronto-based choral group Choir! Choir! Choir! help Pernice give his eulogies on "The Purple Rain", ending the album on an uplifting note. And his pop sensibilities, Beatles, Bowie, and Bacharach influences shine on "Not This Pig" and "A Man of Means", songs with baroque breakdowns and bouncy drum fills.

Ultimately, Pernice is one of those songwriters who views music as a satisfying puzzle. Though he writes all of his songs on acoustic guitar, theoretically making them easy to play solo live, the tunes undoubtedly shapeshift as he records them. He describes a song like "Hey, Guitar" as "a balls-out, heavy tune"--it's got massive electric licks layered atop jangly strumming and shiny keys, and ripping distorted squalling between verses, fading in and out at the end like an AM radio hit. "I don't think [it] will translate [live]," he said. "[But] you don't know whether [it's gonna be a train wreck] until you do it. Every song was a new song the first time." You can bet he's looking forward to figuring it out, one of the most thrilling parts of music to him. After all, it's only now he's just beginning to dive into an almost 20-year-old song, "Say Goodnight to the Lady" from 2005's Discover A Lovelier You. "I've been working on it lately, and it's started to feel like my song."

Pernice; Photo by Colleen Nicholson

I knew that Pernice had written at least "The Purple Rain" as part of a mourning process, but reading about the context behind Who Will You Believe, I tried to see if I could construct something more broad. Before writing the record, his son retired from playing high-level youth baseball, which Pernice coached, and Pernice went from being on a baseball diamond most of the week for over half of the year, to not being on one at all. As such, I asked him whether songwriting is a way for him to generally process any sort of life change. As it turns out, it's much more. "I write songs so I can manage to function," he said. "It's just a necessary thing for my well-being. It could be anything. The act of doing it is the thing that makes me feel good and not crazy. A lot of times, the subject might not even be all that important in that regard." And so I thought back about the album cover, wondering what Pernice was gazing at during the photoshoot, realizing that, too, doesn't matter. What he feels about songwriting is the way I feel about listening. Both of us--all of us--are just trying to take in the world as best as we can.

[cultfaction]

Preview- Patrick (Limited Edition 4K UHD Bluray)

From director Richard Franklin (Roadgames) comes Patrick, a terrifying fusion of science fiction and Hitchcockian thriller, starring Susan Penhaligon (House of Mortal Sin), Robert Helpmann (The Red Shoes), and Robert Thompson (Thirst). Murderer Patrick (Thompson) is kept in a comatose state between life and death, under the watchful eye of the eccentric Dr Roget (Helpmann). When he is assigned a…