Hell Upside-Down

Dee-lighted by the news that one of my favorite movies, The Poseidon Adventure (1972), is coming to Blu-ray, albeit for now as a Wal-Mart exclusive. (There are none in Japan, happily.)

How much do I like this movie? Well, you can read my thoughts about it here.

More Megalon

People have been writing, to my surprise, concerned about whether I was able to find a way to deposit Media Blasters’ check and if it cleared if I did. The answer to both questions would seem to be yes. Besides perhaps intentionally hoping I wouldn’t be able to deposit it at all, Media Blasters ended up paying me only the original contracted rate, and neither apologized nor included the very reasonable late fee I included in my final offer letter to John Sirabella.

Originally, my plan was to still hold them to that, to put the rest of the money in escrow until they coughed up a late fee and/or letter of apology or threaten an injunction against its release. However, in the end I decided to let the matter drop and leave it at that. While I’d be within my rights, Steve and I would still like to see this commentary track and the disc itself released, if at all possible. There are conflicting reports about whether the disc has actually been replicated and, if so, how many units have been pressed, but it appears that the authoring at least has been finalized, and I’d hate to have my dispute with Media Blasters be the only thing standing in the way of its release.

Of course, Media Blasters still has to a) have everything approved by Toho; and b) come up with the dough to release it, either of which may be insurmountable at this point, and which could still drag on for another 6-12 months regardless. I’d still say the odds of this ever coming out at all are no better than 50%, though the fact that at long last I’ve been paid would seem to hint at a desire on their part to move forward.

怪獣ゴルゴ

Fans of giant monster movies may be interested in news of a yet another DVD incarnation of Gorgo (1961) the third and best monster-on-the-loose extravaganza helmed by art director/special effects supervisor Eugène Lourié. It’s a very colorful, visually spectacular movie deserving of a pristine high-def transfer and a blu-ray release, but all that seems to exist anywhere in the world are lackluster DVD versions derived from second-hand film elements.

This new Japanese DVD isn’t perfect, but it’s in 16:9 enhanced and slightly better-looking than any other release I’ve come across. The Japanese subtitles are removable, and it’s cheap, around $15 at the current exchange rate.

Almost every night, Sadie and I watch two one-reel cartoons. Recently, this 1935 Silly Symphony, The Cookie Carnival, has become her favorite, and I’ve sat through it with her so many times I nearly know it shot-for-shot.

It’s been a blast watching and in some cases rediscovering old cartoons with her. So far we’ve gone through Mickey Mouse’s early color period, the first volume of Tom & Jerry shorts on Blu-ray, and most of the pre-1940 Popeyes, as well as a smattering of Looney Toons, Merry Melodies, Norman McLarens, Betty Boops, Caspers and Supermans.

The best part is she cares not one iota if it’s in color or black & white, and the 70-year-old topical references (and occasional political incorrectness) fly right past her unnoticed, just as they did for me 40 years ago.

Another recent favorite, A Date to Skate (1938):

It’s a Long Way to Neyagawa

Had an adventure yesterday. My pal Jeff Flugel generously invited me over to his place in Neyagawa, in Osaka, for lunch plus our usual lively chat about and exchange of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. (Which always causes our respective wives to roll their respective eyeballs in exasperation.) Jeff’s apartment is approximately 110 kilometers (66 miles) round-trip from my home in Kyoto. I could have taken a series of trains to get there, about 90 minutes door-to-door, but instead opted to take my Honda Little Cub, braving the dreaded Keihan National Highway Route 1 most of the way.

Kyoto is one of the most beautiful cities on the planet, but the flat expanse south of Kyoto Station, everything between Kyoto and Osaka, is indescribably ugly, despite a few famous temples and shrines along the way. Route 1 is a lot like the industrial sections of Los Angeles: utilitarian factories, massive discount shops, humungous electronics stores, expansive adult video stores, pachinko parlors, and super-sized ramen and yakisoba restaurants.

I’d forgotten that once south of the Meishin Expressway, the speed limit along the 1 goes up to 60kph, unusually high for a surface street in Kansai. Legally, on my 50cc Little Cub, the maximum speed limit is 30kph, but if I did that I’d be flattened by a cement mixer inside two minutes. Most of the scooters and other smaller motorcycles like mine settled on 40 or 41kph, and traffic was so heavy on the 1 that it seemed a reasonable compromise: cars and trucks generally drove between 40 and 50.

I made it there and back (each way took about 100 minutes) but I think I’ll avoid roads like this in the future. Unlike central Kyoto, Route 1 chokes with oversized dump trucks, car carriers, and other recklessly-driven construction vehicles that frequently came within about 12 inches — no kidding — of brushing against my right hand. For most of the trip, slower bikes, even smaller motorcycles like mine, apparently are expected drive on the shoulder most of the time. That’s not a problem when the shoulder is three or four feet wide, but at times it was so narrow, maybe just a foot wide, I thought it better to take my chances with the irritable motorists on the other side of the white line, i.e., the main road.

It's great riding past landmarks like Toji, Japan's tallest pagoda, near the beginning of Route 1

I’m glad to have done it, and it’s a great feeling to be on a motorcycle riding past Japanese castles an the like, but it was a pretty nerve-wracking experience, requiring intense concentration most of the way. When I finally got back into Kyoto and took Horikawa-dori most of the way back home, that atypically wide and always-busy street was by comparison a breeze to navigate. Ie ga ichiban. Home is best.

Time Changes Everything

My review of the Blu-ray is here.

Driving in Japan, Part 1

Visitors to Japan often ask me whether it’s difficult learning to drive a car (or, now, riding a motorcycle) here in Kyoto.

Like most things, one gradually gets used to the myriad differences. Most assume it’s a big deal to adjust from driving on the right-hand side of the road to the left, but that was never a problem for me. I was more worried when I returned to the States for a month back in 2008, wondering whether I’d be able to switch back. (My trick was to remember the song from the musical 1776: “To the right, ever to the right, never to the left, forever to the right!”) However, for months I often found myself turning on my windshield wipers when I meant to signal a left turn, and vice versa. Those had been switched, too. Most drivers unconsciously know where to look when making left and right turns, and backing up. With everything reversed the angles are all slightly different, but one adjusts quickly to that, too.

The biggest differences are, for starters, that Japan’s roads, especially side streets, are much narrower. People actually buy Hummers here, which is totally insane considering owning one means having zero access to about 20% of the streets and 90% of the parking spaces in all of Japan.  Secondly, the hazards are for the most part, totally different. More than other cars, one has to be on the lookout for other forms of transportation, particularly people on scooters and bicycles, taxis, buses, and delivery vehicles.

Without fail, the most dangerous drivers are owners of BMWs and Mercedes Benzes. Their I-bought-this-expensive-car-which-entitles-me-to-do-whatever-I-want attitude seems a worldwide phenomenon, however. More Japan-centric are cabbies that suddenly change lanes without signaling, and who straddle two lanes while trolling for fares; people on scooters who recklessly weave between buses and cars; teenagers and salarymen on bicycles who want all of the advantages of the road while ignoring all of its rules; garbage truck and construction vehicle drivers, who think nothing of barreling down avenues 30kph over the speed limit, daring anyone to get in their way; and elderly pedestrians, who seem to enjoy stepping right out in front of oncoming traffic to cross the street, usually from a blind alley, even when there’s a crosswalk 20 paces down the road.

And yet, amazingly, in eight-plus years I’ve probably seen the aftereffects of less than four or five car accidents. When I lived in Los Angeles, driving back and forth from home to MGM, I’d usually see (at least) one car accident on my way to work, one on the way home, more if it was the beginning of a holiday weekend.

That’s because Japan’s speed limits are so incredibly low. On surface streets, the maximum posted speed limit is 50kph: 30mph. Of course, many push it to around 60kph, but that’s still only 36mph, but on these narrow streets full of scooters, bicycles, and buses, it seems much faster than it is. At these speeds it’s pretty hard to get into a serious accident because, usually, there’s plenty of time to stop. A big difference from Olympic Blvd. in L.A., where it was not uncommon to see drivers pushing 65mph.

However, another difference — and this is a big problem with Japan as far as I’m concerned — patrol cars stopping motorists for egregious moving violations is practically non-existent. I’m certain this is because Japanese cops are basically wimps, terrified the person they pull over might be a yakuza, a powerful shacho or politician or, here in Kyoto especially, burakumin. One is more likely to see Mothra strolling down Kawaramachi-dori than a policeman pulling over a Mercedes or BMW or Grand Saloon for running a red light.

Instead, what Japanese police do is set up speed traps, always in the same spot, always at the same time every month, usually a strategy akin to Shock and Awe. How many Japanese policemen does it take to issue a speeding ticket? I’ve seen as many as 20 officers at a single location, though usually it’s five or six.

Because of this, drivers get away with the most outrageous behavior. Technically, it’s against the law to use a cellphone while driving (or riding a bicycle), but that stops no one. Texting and yammering while driving is rampant. I once saw a man on a bicycle smoking a cigarette, while chatting on his cellphone…and holding an umbrella. Another time I saw a guy riding a bicycle while tying his shoes.

My favorite example though is the cabbie who drove his taxi while reading the newspaper, full-open, balanced on the steering wheel, which was completely obscured by newsprint While he did this he puffed away on a cigarette, its ash precariously long and looking ready to drop onto the flammable paper at any moment.

Why You Shouldn’t Become a Writer, Part 1

People often ask me for advice about writing, specifically how to become one.

They’re usually disappointed by my response: don’t.

That’s because professional writing is a cruel business. The money is pathetic, few appreciate the time and effort that goes into it, and those that can’t are all too quick to criticize your efforts for the wrong reasons. (I value useful criticism, but that’s another post.) There’s a lot of truth to the old joke about the blonde starlet that was so dumb she screwed the writer.

One of my strengths as a writer is that I’m very honest in assessing both the quality and commercial value of my work. I know what my strengths and weaknesses are, generally, but I’m also not at all reluctant to ask for and expect to be paid what my work is worth. I know several writers out there far more talented than I who’ve enjoyed much less success because they’re so thin-skinned. A single rejection letter will send them spiraling into a months-long black cloud of depression.

More importantly, these writers tend to only want to write, and when it comes to negotiating a fee they’re completely lost. I have a simple formula: I divide the proposed fee by the number of hours I think it’s going to take, taking into account  research costs. If it’s not a decent wage, I walk away.

You’d be amazed how little publishers will offer writers for massive amounts of work. About ten years ago I pitched a book that would have entailed about two years of full-time work and about $5,000 in research costs. My agent at the time came back with an initial offer of  $2,000. (This would have been my advance. That’s against royalties of usually 10-12% of gross sales, but smart writers never count on seeing any of that money.) “Two thousand bucks? You’re kidding, right?” I asked. She was sympathetic.

However, about two months later another offer came in, this time for $10,000. Again I turned it down. Both she and the publisher were aghast. How could I refuse such a generous offer they’d worked so hard to get for me? I tried to explain that this generous offer came out to around 40 cents/hour, but that didn’t stop her from dropping me as a client for being so incredibly selfish.

My first agent got me the best deal I ever had, for Faber’s The Emperor and the Wolf, for which I received a far bigger advance that all my other books combined. (He negotiated a good deal, but in fairness I also brought him a salable, desirable project several publishers wanted.) And even that wasn’t enough to live on for any length of time. My agent got 15% off the top, I had about $6,000 in research costs, and the book took two years, start to finish. Looking at it from an hourly wage basis, it’s not an exaggeration to suggest the janitor at Faber was better compensated.

The luck I had with that first agent was more than counterbalanced by the terrible luck with agents I’ve had ever since. A few examples:

After The Emperor and the Wolf was written but before it was published, I wanted to get the jump on my next book. I really wanted to write about about Japanese film comedy, or maybe a biography of Mikio Naruse. When I mentioned these to my editor at Faber, she expressed surprise. “You mean you want to write these after your book about Scorsese and De Niro?” My agent, apparently, had been pitching a project by me that I knew nothing about.

(Incidentally, when to this same agent I expressed interested in a book about Japanese film comedy, he thought about it for a moment, then exclaimed, “Yes! I know just exactly how we can sell it: Jackie Chan!”)

Fast-forward a few years. A friend recommends an agent based in London. I send her a few proposals, we talk and she’s confident that she can sell them in no time. Months go by, then a year, and not a word. Later I discovered that she was battling cancer and unable to work at all, but rather than lose any clients she simply kept all of them in the dark, telling no one, doing nothing. For all I know my stuff’s still there, under a massive pile of dust.

Last year I tried selling two projects: a biography of a Charles Bronson, and a book about Elvis’s Hollywood career. My agent on the Kurosawa book, and the agent at this same company I eventually worked with, both insisted no one knew who Charles Bronson was anymore, and that there was no market at all for books about Elvis Presley. What?

Bronson I could understand — though I’d argue there’s enough of a mainstream market to support a well-writtten biography, even now — but Elvis? There’s something like a dozen Elvis-themed cookbooks in print (e.g., Are You Hungry Tonight?). Beyond the standard proposal, outline, etc., I provided this agent with lots of statistics supporting my claim that the market for an Elvis book was about as sure a bet as presently exists in the publishing industry. She wasn’t convinced.

So, on my own, I approached Denise Oswald, my terrific editor at Faber on Emperor and the Wolf, who is now editor-in-chief at It Books, an exciting new imprint that seemed like a good fit for this project. Approaching someone in her position directly was a risky move, but based on our past working relationship I took a chance.

As I expected, she was interested, though wanted the formal proposal submitted through the usual channels, i.e., an agent. I then went back to this agent and said, in essence, “See? There is interest. And from a major publisher.” I gave her everything she needed, a ready-made project with an editor already at least moderately curious to see it. Months go by. “Any word from Denise?” I ask. “No, nothing,” says the agent.

Six months pass. “Gee,” I say, “this is really unusual. I was sure we would have heard back from Denise by now.”

“Oh,” says the agent. “Was I supposed to send something to her?”

To Be Continued …

Since It Wasn’t Serious…

The first day I had my Honda Little Cub I took a minor but painful spill, the main injury of which was to my left ankle, which turned purple and scraped a lot of skin off that’s still healing, four weeks later. Recently, when I wear a sock on that foot, the elastic leaves an impression on my ankle as if I were wearing a vice-grip instead of a 200-yen sock.

Concerned that I might be experiencing something like an edema, I went to my local doctor for an examination. I explained about the accident, and having deliberately put on one of those vice-gripping socks, showed him what I was all concerned about. After looking at it for several minutes, he said I need not worry, that my foot was still healing and that all I had to do to expedite my recovery is to avoid tight-fitting socks for a few more weeks and then I should be fine.

Back in the waiting room, the nurse/receptionist said thanks and odaijini (“please take care of your health”). But wait, I said, What about the bill?

“The doctor said since it wasn’t anything serious there would be no charge for today.”

Japan.

I think if I’d gone through all this in America, the bill would be at least a hundred bucks, even with minimum health insurance.

Socialized medicine? You bet. And it’s a godsend. In America, whenever I got sick I fretted and developed an ulcer every time I needed to go see the doctor, worried what it might cost me. Years ago, when my ex-wife’s mother was discovered home alone, dangerously ill with pneumonia, I called to request an ambulance. “Will this be cash or charge?” they asked. In Japan, an ambulance ride is free. The last time we called for one, when Sadie had a choking accident, it was here in less than three minutes.

My pal Sergei and I needed root canals at about the same time. My bill came to around $40, his was $2,000.

Suffering from acid reflux, I take a daily medication that costs around $400/month in America, $30 in Japan.

When I developed chicken pox months before my 40th birthday, and had to be rushed to hospital with a temperature of 104.6, again by ambulance (Yukiyo was in China at the time), I got emergency room care, a private room, an IV drip, various medication, three square meals a day that I didn’t eat, a color TV with DVD access, and after four days and three nights the bill came to … about $180.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m gloating here. Indeed, what’s going on in America right now with health care, even with so-called health care reform, is a disgrace. I feel enormous empathy toward friends and family having to deal with financially ruinous medical bills for simple procedures.

What’s the solution? Damned if I know.

Stop the Presses!

Just received an email from Steve Ryfle, and it appears that a check was FedEx’d and did arrive late Monday evening, based on his email I’m guessing that it must have been delivered around 7:30pm local time.

Stupidly, and despite our repeated explicit instructions, the check is made out to me rather than Steve. I haven’t had a U.S. bank account since moving to Japan in 2003, and U.S. checks can’t be deposited in Japanese banks, something pretty obvious, you’d think, for a company releasing nothing but Japanese movies and Japanese anime licensed from Japanese companies based in Japan.

However, there may be another way to deposit these funds, assuming they’re actually there. I’m counting no chickens until their check actually clears, but the end may be in sight. And maybe John Sirabella did man up and is being responsible, though in my book Carl is still a habitual liar whose word means nothing. Let’s see what happens.