When I heard Peter Jackson was filming The Hobbit, I wondered why.
Well, I knew why. It is a charming book that English-readers throughout the world know almost by heart. The book that leads directly to Tolkein's major work -- Lord of the Rings. And, of course,it was bound to earn a dwarf-ransom in revenue.
But there are certain problems. First, the order of production. The Hobbit is introductory. It introduces us to characters and concepts that were eventually spun out by Tolkien in his larger work.
What should be a prequel runs the risk of seeming simultaneously derivative and smaller than the first three films.
Second, the story is smaller in scope. Filming it as a mere introduction would diminish the very charm of the tale.
On both scores, Jackson has scored a hit. The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey -- the first of a three-part tale -- is now in theaters. That means it is at the multiplex in Manzanillo.
The piece is a visual wonder. Just as you would expect from the director who gave us Lord of the Rings.
But it s more that that. The look. The sound. The music. The story. All come together to tell a tale a lot broader than Tolkein's little book.
To make a proper prequel, the screenwriters mined other Tolkein works to weave a back story every bit as broad as Lord of the Rings. This is a moral tale of man's struggle with good and evil.
It is not a perfect film. The narrative drags a bit. That is probably inevitable with all of the threads that are mixed together with the book's original simple tale.
Christopher Nolan managed to make the exposition in Inception interesting. I would mark it as one of the most successful I have ever seen in a film. The screenwriters here settled for talking heads backed up with action shots. A bit like a Power Point presentation in a board room.
And the manner in which the film was shot (I will spare you the technical details) makes all of the stuff we know was generated by a computer (but we want to believe was not) look like stuff we know was generated by a computer (and we cannot avoid realizing it is merely a special effect).
But both of those are mere quibbles when compared with the visual grandeur Jackson has created. New Zealand welcomes us back to a very real landscape where the forces of good and evil can do battle with one another in one of our favorite stories.
It is good to have you back, Peter. I am looking forward to the 2013 and 2014 releases.
I hate mosquitoes.
The feeling apparently is not mutual. My body is a mosquito Hometown Buffet. For some reason, mosquitoes relish sating their palates with plenty of Steve-oglobin.
That is one of the costs of my life in the tropics. The occasional welt and itch.
This return to Melaque has been no different. Well, a bit different.
In addition to the usual bites on my ankles and feet (the favorite feeding spot for our local mosquitoes), I had bites on my stomach and in areas where mosquitoes usually don't have access. Let's call it my hips.
On Thursday I stopped to see my doctor. Not for medical business. But to set up a time for her to conduct a presentation at the church. On her work with immigrant worker families.
While I was there, I bared some of the whiter areas of my skin to show her my welts. She immediately pronounced the mosquitoes not guilty. And, after looking at the welts through her handy-dandy microscope camera, she declared my body a condominium for parasitic worms.
That is another joy of the tropics. The opportunity to try new medications.
So, off I went to my local pharmacy to pick up my prescription. And to experience another of my adventures that could only happen in Mexico.
My doctor wanted me to take the medication twice a day for six days. Therefore, I needed 12 pills.
The young woman at the pharmacy, looked at the prescription and brought me three boxes -- each with two pills. Six pills, in all. I told her I needed three more boxes.
She looked at the prescription and told me I only needed pills for six days. Three boxes were sufficient.
I tried a little arithmetic with her. But that was a dead end.
I bought the three boxes and decided to try getting the other three at other pharmacies. I eventually returned the next day and bought three more from the original pharmacy -- after striking out at five other pharmacies in three towns.
The lack of stock is not unusual in Mexico. But I thought it was odd that the medication was not more readily available. Decaris is a bit expensive for a Mexican drug. About $3 (US) per pill. But it is a standard Mexican medication for parasites.
But not in The States. It turns out that the active ingredient (Levamisole) was withdrawn from United States shelves in 2000. And is now used as a dewormer only by veterinarians.
The reason? Risk of serious side effects.
That piqued my interest. Like what?
Well, like difficulty breathing, for instance. Closing of the
throat. Swelling of the lips, tongue, or face. Hives. Lowering of white blood cell count. Decreased bone marrow function. Extreme fatigue.
Confusion or loss of
consciousness. Memory loss. Muscle weakness, numbness, or tingling. Seizure. Speech disturbances.
That list made me wonder if I wouldn't be better off with the worms. But I am now in my third day of treatment without suffering any bouts of anaphylactic shock. Of course, the welts just keep coming.
There is one interesting side note about my medication. Even though it was withdrawn as a human medication twelve years ago in The States, it is the most common cutting agent for cocaine.
Taking these little tablets is as close as I am ever going to get to using nose candy.
It would really be nice to get back to dealing solely with mosquito bites. At least I can see that enemy.
Two years ago, Melaque decided it was time for our village to have its own festival. After all, why should those Mexican highlanders in San Miguel de Allende and Morelia have all the fun?
And all of the tourist money.
The thinking was simple. How can the area draw more tourists to Melaque before the Christmas season kicks in. The same problem faced by every tourist destination from Las Vegas to Disneyland. Feet on the ground in early December are rare.
Thus was born the Festival del Mar. With its debut in 2010.
You may recall I gave it a good review in sands stand still. Most of the entertainment was superb. Along with all of the diversions you could expect at the beach.
I missed the 2011 festival. I was in The States kowtowing to the Red Chinese Consul to get a visa. But I heard the festival was a success.
On Thursday, the 2012 edition kicked off with a dance team who obviously had spent more time on their costumes than on their choreography. But they were cute. And that was why they were there.
To keep this lot interested.
I had not expected to see a dance team. Though they were a pleasant surprise.
The purpose for this rare venture to the beach was to see the sand sculpture contest. If you click on the 2010 link, you will see what I was expecting. The type of sand sculptures that populate the Puerto Vallarta beaches. Where an artist takes on a monumental task in the hopes that a few pesos will come his way.
Well, that was not what was on offer on the Melaque beach. To be kind, most of the entries were in the "I put the u in amateur" category.
Such as this pick up. I give points for the clever recycling of water bottles for side mirrors. But its artistic skills scream "I have a shovel and a pail, but not much more."
And the Maya should be glad the contractors of this piece did not get the contract for Chichen Itza.
But some pieces were wittily-conceived and well-executed. Such as this piece. You can almost hear the trio reciting: "Double, double, toil and trouble."
Or this classic moon-sun icon -- with its eerie Jackie Kennedy touches. Probably best viewed as if it was part of Peruvian Nazca Lines.
How about this rendition of a Volkswagen Beetle? Air freshener included. No additional charge.
But, for personal reasons, this was my favorite. Put it down to my Simpsons fandom. Shovelfuls of sand. A bucket of wit. And just a dash of irony. Homer at the beach.
I do not know who won the contest. But it certainly put me into a good state of mind to enjoy what will be coming during the next week.
And I will gladly share it with you.
We have a new spectator sport in Melaque.
Well, not so new. It all started last winter when Banamex installed two new ATMs -- the only ones in town.
For some reason, the winter tourist crowd from Up North had a terrible time last year getting pesos out of the machines. The culprit appeared to be those new-fangled cards with embedded chips.
Most Americans had the old-fashion easy-to-use cards where the banks eat fraudulent charges and then feed them back to the consumer. But most Canadian cards had been Europeanized with a chip that is supposed to provide additional security.
Apparently, security so effective that the cash cannot be retrieved -- even by the cardholder.
But there were -- and still are -- other issues.
On Monday, I withdrew money from my American checking account using my debit card. As I stood in line (a long, slow-moving line, mind you), I noticed the machines were not treating northerners very well.
And it was easy to see why. Many of them simply were not following the directions. And their cards were rightfully rejected.
Now, I could have stepped up to help, but two things held me back.
First, we know that you are not to take assistance from anyone other than a bank employee when using an ATM. And, if I am anything, I am a lickspittle when it comes to regulations. (Just go with me on this one.)
The second reason? Well, I will let you guess. The day had not been amusing up to that point.
When it was my turn, I stepped up to the machine, whipped out my debit card, and punched through the steps with hare-like alacrity. I pinned the bank machine. And left with peso-festooned fists.
On Wednesday, I needed more pesos to settle some debts that arose in my absence -- and to prepay some bills for my upcoming trip north. So, I returned to an ATM line just as long. And just as mistake-ridden.
Out came my card. In went the data. And -- my card was rejected. Throwing caution to the wind, I tried three more times. Same result. No cash.
When I got back to the house, I had both a telephone call and an email waiting. From my bank. Not the debit card bank. But my credit card bank. An entirely different establishment.
They were notifying me that my card was suspended for suspicious activity. If I had any questions, I was to call. I did. And I did.
What bothered me is that I never use my credit card in Mexico. No local businesses accept credit cards. And the last time I used it was in Los Angeles -- on Sunday.
A young woman with a honey-suckle Tennessee accent took my call. Asked me a few security questions. And offered her assistance.
My credit card had been used in -- she spelled my village name -- for an amount of $471.29. I told her that was impossible. I had not used the card since Sunday. But the amount sounded as if it was an ATM withdrawal of 6,000 pesos.
It hit me just as she said it. I had grabbed my credit card, which was still in my wallet from my trip north, instead of my debit card. The credit card usually rests in a safe place at the house. I didn't even notice that it was black instead of silver.
All appears to be well. I went to the ATM on Thursday afternoon. With humble pie dripping from the corners of my mouth. This particular dessert was thick with crow. And my debit card worked.
The question is now whether my credit card will work when I get back to The States. If it doesn't, I should have sufficient time to have a new one mailed to me.
Once again, I discover that hubris is simply a cul-de-sac on karma drive.
Some film images stick with us forever.
Yesterday a scene from a film I had seen recently (Flight) kept playing over and over in my head.
Early on in the film, the central character, a pilot, almost miraculously manages to crash land a completely disabled airliner. But the plane still crashes. There are a handful of dead. Many more injured.
As the pilot regains consciousness, he is being dragged from the plane. We see white-robed rescuers pulling other passengers from the wreckage. They look like angels.
And I have no doubt that is exactly what the filmmakers intended. The rescuers were from a Pentecostal church near the crash.
They had rushed to provide service while still wearing their baptismal gowns. Black and white. Men and women. They were there to serve. To rescue the perishing.
It was a powerful image. The film presented a rare positive picture of Christian faith in action. Fundamentalist faith. Doing what Christians should do best. Offer relief for a world in distress.
I know why that image was there. All day I have been praying for our blogger pal, Laurie of Honduras Gumbo.
Laurie is a missionary in Honduras. Her work emphasizes child welfare. But she is a friend to all in her community. Her posts are filled with the dire circumstances in which Hondurans live. And how she is making a difference. One life at a time.
Yesterday she informed us in Honduras: Coups, Chaos, and Curfews that things can get worse. And have. Please take a look at her post. She says it better than I can.
And then remember her in prayer.
There is a line from the musical Book of Mormon that is one of the few not ensconced in irony.
I must trust that my Lord is mightier
And always has my back
Laurie is one of those angels that walks amongst us. The work she does on behalf of her God -- my God -- is the very essence of the faith taught by Jesus.
I pray his protection is with her.
Mexico does not do things by halves.
Well, there is the question of construction. But let's set that aside for the moment and talk about what Mexico does best. Celebrations.
I regularly eat at The Red Lobster in Villa Obregon. Not the cheesy chain of chewy seafood that blights The States. This is a family-run place.
And it is always a pleasure to eat there. The food is consistently good. But it is the family that makes the place a joy to share my custom.
On Monday, I was invited to attend the sixth birthday of Jennifer. The daughter of my favorite waitress.
I felt my stomach knot up. Children's birthday parties are on my list of "things to do when I have been drugged and hog-tied." But it was not an honor I could decline.
My first difficulty was finding a gift. For boys, I can buy. For girls, I am at a loss. But a very nice store clerk convinced me that I should give him 220 pesos and he gave me, in exchange, a boxed doll with enough ball gown changes to broaden Dame Edna's smile.
Jennifer loved it. And I loved the party. It was not a children's birthday party. It was a birthday party for a child with only adults present. My idea of a perfect get-together.
Just as we were gathering, the nightly parade for Our Lady of Guadalupe passed by. Jennifer was enthralled that the event had come to her on her birthday.
One gift Mexico has given me is a broader view of faith. My Protestant upbringing caused me to look at such celebrations as the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe with a bit of skepticism. As if the worshipers were somehow directing their worship to an object rather than to God.
My blogger pal Joanna over at Writing in Merida has written about the emotional impact the celebration has had on her. "It is very moving to witness the affirmation of their devotion and the basic faith that sustains them through many hardships."
She then noted: "[A]ny belief that comforts and consoles is a very positive and good thing."
I am not certain I would have agreed with her four years ago. I do now. Both Mexico and my friends, the Moodies, have helped open my eyes to what is going on around me.
Jesus taught us two great commandments. To love God with all our heart,
soul, and mind. And to love our neighbor as our self.
I now see the love and devotion accorded to Our Lady of Guadalupe as another way of showing
God our absolute love. Just as Jesus taught.
For too long, I failed to see that connection. And it was getting in my way of loving my neighbors’ faithfulness.
Mexico has many lessons for all of us. This has been a very important
one for me.
Even when it comes in the guise of a six year old girl's birthday party.
"Don't look for a happy ending. It's not an American story. It's an Irish one."
So says Brad Pitt's character to Harrison Ford's in The Devil's Own. A real stinker of a movie.
Mexico has a lot of tales. And not all of them have happy endings. In fact, there are studies that indicate bathos, and not sentimentality, is the foundation of most Mexican mythology.
This tale is not grounded in bathos. But it is sad. Don't say I did not give you fair warning.
The first place I went when I returned to Melaque on Monday was the laguna. I was positive the water cabbage had had its way. And I was correct.
My neighbor had created a patch of clear water around his viewing platform. And that was an incentive for me to get busy.
But there was something else. What looked like a black and white balloon. Almost as if a small Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon had floated south for repose.
It was obviously a body of some sort. Perhaps a small calf.
Closer inspection revealed the truth. It was a dead dog. A large dog. Blown up with decomposition gases. It turns out it had been in the water for two days.
Now and then I think of myself as "Ducky" -- the chief medical examiner in the television series NCIS. And this was one of those times.
How did the dog end up in the laguna? Old age? Did it violate my aunt's "no eating within two hours of swimming" rule? Could it be the victim of some dogland killing?
Or the more obvious answer. Another notch on some crocodile's tail. It certainly is possible. A last drink at The Dead Wildebeest Oasis.
Sunday night the small crocodile was hanging around the carcass. Perhaps waiting for it to rot enough to twirl off a few kebab pieces for dinner.
On Monday the bloating decreased, the sweet odor of mortality past increased, and waves of flies took up residence. That was enough for my neighbor.
He decided that a Viking funeral was a fitting end for the deceased. He pulled the remains closer to shore. Piled up wood and grass recently cut from the edge of the pond. And set it afire. I almost expected Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas to show up in their Vintage Dane gear.
There is probably a moral buried somewhere in the tale. About the ramifications of death. Or the anthropomorphisation of animals in general.
But that is for another day.
For today, I will simply be a bit more careful around the edge of the laguna -- and I will certainly be far more polite to gangland dogs.
