Slow week on the work front, although I did receive some bound galleys of THE BIG BANG, the second Mike Hammer novel I’ve completed from an unfinished Spillane manuscript. After the battles over the cover, the package looks very strong, and I admit a thrill seeing my name sharing the cover of a Mike Hammer book with Mickey.

Over this Thanksgiving holiday, I saw several movies. In one case, I saw the first 50 minutes or so of a movie, because I walked out. Barb, Nate and I took my 84 year-old mother to OLD DOGS, and we would have exited sooner if we’d known my mother was hating it as much as we did. I usually don’t bad-mouth films, because I’m a filmmaker. But this is disgraceful.

It’s a supposed comedy that is atrociously made — frenetic editing attempting to disguise nothing happening, a musical score that “Mickey Mouses” everything (fitting, in a way, since it’s a Disney film), a stupid, disjointed, even racist script that lurches from one contrived unfunny situation to the next, and a bunch of talented actors wasted in unfunny cameos (Justin Long, Rita Wilson, Amy Sedaris, Luis Guzman). The three leads make an interesting study — John Travolta (who I admit has never impressed me) is stunningly bad as an overage womanizer (to a moderately attractive waitress: “Well, hellllloooo!”) (Andy Brown did it better on AMOS ‘N’ ANDY sixty years ago); and Robin Williams as an advertising exec seems embarrassed, and plays under the subpar material. Any movie that has Robin Williams as its most understated performer is in a lot of trouble. Also, any movie that cannot find a way to give Seth Green something funny to do should have its master print cut into little pieces and distributed as guitar picks.

Every now and then I see a movie so wretched, so cynical and devoid of energy and care, that it makes me doubt that movies themselves are worthwhile. It’s just a momentary thing — I love film — but a really bad movie can make you question your own interest in the medium at all.

So, to cleanse the cinematic palate, we went home and put on the Blu-Ray of the classic 1947 MIRACLE ON 34th STREET, which ties with Alastair Sim’s A CHRISTMAS CAROL for my favorite Christmas film. Like OLD DOGS, it attempts to tell a story that works on both kids and adults, but 34th STREET manages that small miracle without patronizing either group. It’s a reminder of a Hollywood that still knew how to tell a story. Everything is in its place — it is close to perfect (one camera shadow is about it for flaws). Even the most minor character is memorable and fleshed out. Scenes of humor and drama alternate seamlessly, the premise flirts with fantasy without overstepping, the script sets up a dozen things that it pays off, and the tone remains comic but not broad, with memorable, heart-felt performances from Edmund Gwenn, Natalie Wood, Maureen O’Hara and John Payne. Standout among many wonderful sidebar stories is the amusing conflict between judge Gene Lockhart and political fixer William Frawley, faced with the career killer for a judge who puts Santa Claus in the nuthouse. Director George Seaton and writer Valentine Davies made a classic, all right, but they did so in the kind of routinely professional fashion that characterizes so much studio product of the ‘30s and ‘40s. That today’s Hollywood, rife with talent, refuses to find good stories and tell them well, and instead panders after audiences — from explosion fests like TRANSFORMERS II to dumb pandering comedies like OLD DOGS — is shameful.

I can only say so much here without making the wrong/right people mad. After all, I make a certain part of my living from writing movie and TV tie-in novels. While I’ve done novels of SAVING PRIVATE RYAN and AMERICAN GANGSTER, I’ve also novelized G.I. JOE and all of the MUMMY movies, and have enjoyed doing so. I can usually find a path in a film script to a book I wouldn’t mind writing. Some people say my novelizations are superior to the films themselves, which is generous (if sometimes accurate).

I simply wish the biggest movers and shakers in the film industry could find something better to do than dangle digital car keys over our collective crib.

Another case in point: so much of British dramatic television is superior to our stateside fare. Barb and I are watching a series called TRIAL AND RETRIBUTION on DVD, and are about half-way through the show’s run so far. The basic premise is LAW AND ORDER — follow a crime through arrests and trial — but the difference is in the execution. The series is gritty and adult, detailed and in depth, and stylishly shot (with signature use of split screen), with flawed detectives, scary but human perpetrators, and lawyers who too often are just playing a game. It’s a beautifully directed show, and so far every episode (each over three hours in length) I would consider better than all but a handful of American theatrical releases I’ve seen this year. And I see a lot, being a glutton for punishment.

Other current British shows with this high standard include ASHES TO ASHES (the LIFE ON MARS follow-up), HUSTLE (inspiration for LEVERAGE, one of the best American shows), SPOOKS (known as M1-5 over here) and LEWIS (sequel to the classic MORSE). Less ambitious but enormously entertaining is the blackly comic MIDSOMER MURDERS.

If you’re wondering about my own filmmaking efforts, I can report that ROAD TO PURGATORY seems to be moving forward — not a “go” yet but seemingly close. And if you’re looking for a stocking stuffer, might I suggest CAVEMAN: V.T. HAMLIN & ALLEY OOP (), ELIOT NESS: AN UNTOUCHABLE LIFE (), or THE LAST LULLABY. Indies all.

M.A.C.