Page 4- The Michigan Daily --Weekend etc.-February 4, 1993 On the road to Agee's Knoxville by Michelle Weger "I just want to go somewhere I don't have to wear a coat and gloves every time I go outside," I whined long-dis- tance, "My goal is 50*" This amused my mother to no end. "So much for, 'Oh, the cold doesn't really bother me,"' she said, forcing me to feast on words I had uttered just weeks before. But I did get her to agree that the best birthday present she could send me would be a little extra cash - enough to get me to Knoxville, anyway. Why did I want to go to Knoxville, Tennessee, for spring break? I have no family there, no close friends there. It's true that one of my favorite authors, James Agee, was born there, and wrote about the city in the amazing novel "A Death in the Family." What I really wanted was to get toas mild a climate as I could as cheaply and quickly as I could. Since a flight home to Southern California violated the first of those conditions, and driving there ruled out both, I decided to plan a road trip that would take me as far south as I could get in aday's drive. Knoxville lay just about due south of Ann Arbor, and I could get there in about nine hours. So, early on a Sunday morning, I cleaned out my car -no small feat,just ask anyone who'sridden in it-pumped in some unleaded-plus and pointed myself south. With Springsteen blaring on the stereo, I was hell on wheels, a chick on a mission., While the sun didn't magically ap- pear as I crossed that north-south divid- ing line known as the Ohio-Kentucky border, I found that a certain stereotypi- cal, Ilefflin-esque "charm" did. When I stopped for gas just outside Cinci, the bearded flannel shirt behind the glass looked atmy California driver's license and lilted, "You sure are a long way from home, young lady!" I think I man- aged a girlish blush and giggle as he gave me a patronizing wink on my way out the door. Although I had envisioned this trip as a born-to-be-wild lark, I had, of course, paid the obligatory visit to the AAA travel office for those all-impor- tant "Southern Region" maps and Travelbooks. I took the news that they didn't have an area map for Knoxville as adare. I mean, did I really need a map for a dinky burg like Knoxville? Couldn't some helpful soul on the street point me to the Campus Inn (where I'd already made reservations) next to U- T? As it turned out, Knoxville is not so dinky, and the desk clerk at the Campus Inn had a rough time trying to give me directions from a gas station on the outskirts of the city. "Now, where are you again?" he tried helpfully, "And could you speak up?" Where I was, was at an outdoor pay phone, trying to shout down a very noisy downpour. "Uh ... I'm across from the big Methodist church with the HUGE lighted cross on top of it." By the time he was able to tell me which expressway to get back onto and which exit to take, I was soaked to the skin; but, dammit, it was at least 650. Ten minutes later, I trailed into the mo- tel lobby, wringing out my t-shirt. My only real goal in Knoxville was to find Agee's birthplace. Although the autobiographical "A Death in the Fam- ily" didn't name his street, Agee did describe in some detail the route from Market Square to his home. My ama- teur detective skills were not needed, though. Strolling down Cumberland next to U-T, a memorial sign told me all I needed to know: "Knoxville's fore- most author, James Agee, born at 1505 highland Ave ..." When I found it, my stomach churned; an apartment complex had taken over not only the former Agee property, but the house next door as well. Still, I sat on the curb for a few minutes, sadly savoring his words, "People go by, things go by, a horse drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt. A loud auto, a quiet auto ... The image upon them of lovers and horsemen; squared with clowns in hueless amber..." Late that afternoon, I headed south out of Knoxville, and into the Great Smoky Mountains. Because the good weather seemed to be holding up, as I drove through, I made a mental note of the hiking areas that I wanted to check out the next day. This turned out to be quite a waste of cerebral storage space, because I awoke to a light but persistent rain showering the entire Tennessee Valley. Only slightly daunted, I decided to start the trip north a day early, taking back-roads and scenic routes. After breakfast in a diner which housed more bagged-and-stuffed fauna than I had seen in my entire life, I motored con- tentedly along highway 127, figuring that sometime around darkfall, I'd find someplace to stay for the night. But at some point, passing a slow-trolling Dodge, both the brake light and the oil light came on simultaneously. Next stop, I checked my oil level, which was fine, and Iobviously couldn't have been doing 65 with my emergency brake on. So, I did the only devil-may- care thing I could think of. I ignored it, and happily so, until it started to get dark. Was it my imagination, or had my headlights gotten dimmer? Was my ra- dio reception bad because I was in the middle of nowhere, or because there wasn't enough electricity to power it? Yes, you know what I was thinking as the sun sank below that Kentucky blue grass horizon. Oh, Shit. And sure enough, just as I came to the cross-roads, my trusty Toyota bit the dust, or rather, the mud. Luckily, across the highway was a friendly glowing light coming from the Kountry Kitchen diner, where the incredibly astute pro- prietor had been watching my predica- ment. "Have some car trouble didja?" he asked. With as much dignity as I could, I asked to use the phone to call AAA. The only tow-truck in town belonged to the local Ford dealer, who tried in vain to jump-start the car. But his shop was just up the road, so he decided to "bump" me over there, where he could charge the battery enough to get me to the next town, which had two important things that this one didn't: a motel, and some- one who knew something about Japa- nese cars. Bud, the man who charged my bat- tery, was interested in the fact that I was from Southern California. He had al- ways wanted to go there, he said, and was extremely envious of the fact that his cousin lived just a few minutes away from the Crystal Cathedral, TV-preacher Robert Schuller's obscene monument to the "glory" of God. "The wife and I never miss old Schuller," he beamed. And that's when the humility set in. I made it safely to Danville, where I spent six hours of the next day in a CitGo station while my alternator was repaired. By the time I left Kentucky, a late winter storm was bringing blustery winds and rain to the South, so in a strange way, I was already acclimated to Michigan weather when I returned. I spent the rest of spring break in Ann Arbor, wondering if I would ever see the sun again. Robbins Jumping Off 'Player' Bandwagon In the world of film criticism there is a unique phenomenon known as critical bandwagon. This situation occurs when several critics around the country, usu- ally following the lead of some influen- tial critic from New York or Los Ange- les, decide collectively to confer the mantle of greatness on a decent, but not great film, usually directed by some auteur like Martin Scorsese. The bandwagon effect was most re- cently on view in the New York Film II. Altman's Technical Devices Most of the critical lauding of the film has centered around two main de- vices: A) Altman's extended tracking shot at the beginning of the film. though the shot is a fine technical achievement, it really doesn't work in* the context of the film. The shot is meant to be a comic, fast-paced intro- duction to the hectic world of Holly- wood. But for all of the effort Altman exerts, the scene has a sluggish pace that elicits as many laughs as a visit to the morgue. Howard Hawks, in "His Girl Friday," managed to capture the simi- larly cut-throat, manic world ofjournal- ism atagrease-lightning pace thatserves* to heighten the genuinely funny screw- ball comedy. B) Altman's use of star cameos. The barrage of stars that attend the film never actually weave themselves into the fabric of the film, but stand out like sore thumbs to be identified and pointed out. Some may argue, that's the point, to make fun of the way we gawk at celebrities, but if this is indeed Altman's intention, it seems like he sacrifices continuity and viewer inter- est for very little in profundity. Also, the fact that appearing in this film became such a status symbol in Hollywood, invalidates the use of cameos as a cri- tique of Hollywood status symbols. III. The Film Overall In terns of performances, if there was one star turn more wooden than Michael Keaton's in "Batman Returns' (which was supposed to be wooden, by the way), it had to be Tim Robbins in this film. It's okay for him to convey the blandness of his character, but it seems there ought to be some sort of charisma about the man that a) has allowed him to climb the corporate ladder b) that, in terns of the film, can hold the darn thing together. The audience ought to feel that. something is at stake here when Robbin* gets into trouble. Furthermore, when Robbins is supposed to show genuine terror, he frowns or throws a little snit, similar to Andie MadIowall's perfor- mance in "Green Card." Otherquibbles: GretaScacchi'schar- acter is pure weirdness, without I pur- pose. The plot of the film, which sup- posedly puts current hit thrillers to shame, is unimaginative and drags on. for light years. Finally, Altman hasmade a cold film, lacking in genuine emotion that is meant to appeal to the head, rather than the heart. Too bad it is so deeply lacking in intelligence. Critics' Circle Awards, in which the clear winner was Robert Altman for "The Player," which was lucky enough to find itself the object of critical lioniz- ing. Folks, it's time for a wake-up call. Let's dissect the criticism, and the film, piece by piece. I. Theme Critics who like this garbage gener- ally agree that "The Player" is a "biting satire" on the superficiality of the film industry and the callousness with which Hollywood treats originality and true talent, in favor of big bucks. "The Player" fails to live up to such overblown praise. As a piece of satire, it fails, since "The Player" brings upnoth- ing about Hollywood that hasn't al- ready been said before. Yes, we know the studio heads are a bunch of greedy bastards. Big deal, we've seen this kind of whining before, from "The Bad and the Beautiful" and "The Barefoot Contessa" back in the fifties, to the recent, and oddly enough, similarly empty, "Barton Fink." Travel in Style on yourw SprngBreak Michigan clothing and souveniers, Travel supplies,+ and snacks! Everything you ,' need to get *" where you're.. going. I I MICHIGAN UNION BOOKSTORE Ground floor of the Michigan Union Open 7 Days a Week e 995-8877 fISA. MASTERCARD. AMERICAN EXIRESS. and EWTREE PLWS My memories from spring breaks past by Liz Shaw Can you believe that Spring Break is here again? It seems like just last week that I was dreading the last one and here it is, time for another. My excitement bubbles over. I don't mean to be a cynic, but ... yes, I do. I can't help it, just the term "Spring Break"bringsbackmemo- ries of years past, and believe me when I say they aren't good memories. I have yet to go on a Spring Break that I found enjoyable. (Ok, so I'm exaggerating but I've never been more than mildly amused.) Let me settle back on the couch and tell you all about it. It all started my junior year of high school, my first vacation without my parents that was to last for more than two days. A friend of mine and I were going to Toronto for five day adventure. We were going by train and staying at a youth hostel. We were going to relax in the lap of luxury and shop 'till we dropped. Have you guessed yet that it didn't turn out that way? Now if you're thinking of going to Toronto on a limited budget and you're not planning on spending much time at your place of lodging, a youth hostel is a good idea. It was about $6 a night to stay there. Granted you're living dorm style in a room with eight other people (same sex, of course) and 2-stall show- ers. It's an experience you won't soon forget. Believe me. (Travel tip: if you Ut plan on staying at a hostel, you have to become a member of the organization. It's not expensive so you will still keep your budget down.) Now, one thing you must consider is that Toronto is further north - so if you think Ann Arbor is hell in February, Toronto is not the place for you, as it was not for me. We came home two days early. Surprisingly enough, we returned to Toronto for Spring Break senior year. This time, however, we stayed in a friend's posh, high-rise apartment. It was much closer to the experience I wanted to have. We shopped a lot - Eaton Center was just a ways down the street. We did a lot of walking. Got a lot of blisters. You see, this was high school where the most walking you did was from your car in the parking lot to your locker on the first floor - we didn't know what walking was then. Still, even the cold didn't seem as bad, so I decided that perhaps it took two tries to get Toronto right. My vacations weren't doomed after all. Then I got to college. "Let's go to New Orleans," my roommates-to-be said. "Mardi Gras will be great," they all said. "Louisiana will be warm," said someone who obviously really knew me. I was sold. We looked forward to New Orleans for weeks. My dad even got us reason- ably priced tickets and offered to drive us to the airport (think he was trying to get rid of me?). Sure, Alison got sick on the plane ride down and it was pouring rain when we landed in Baton Rouge, but we were going to have fun, dammit. It was prob- ably right about then that my mood soured. I will never budge from my stand that it was not my fault. One cannot be held accountable for where or when* depression strikes. Still, I suppose that week I wasn't exactly the most pleasant person to be spending time with. My friends referred to me as "the bitch" that week and for many weeks afterward (I think Bethany still does, though she tries to pass it off as a term of endear- ment). It was this trip that made us decide not to live together. The curse lived on. We're going back this year. Are you slapping your forehead and asking if I'm crazy? I'm not. I figure so far the second trip to the same place has been pretty good. Besides, this year we're taking the guys with us; I figure they're pretty good to blame stuff on (it's always worked before). We're also driving instead of flying, which I'm sure makes Alison happy, and we've already decided that we're not living together next year (which I'm sure makes all of us happy). I'm not worried about it at all, there's no way it could be worse than last year, right? 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