Category: Article

  • No Way Home

    The dorm house where Khan Moek works is on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. It is run by the Returnee Integration Support Program (RISP), a venture supported by the Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation. The program offers a number of support services to help Cambodian felons who are deported from the U.S. learn to live in a country where they are nominal citizens, but utter foreigners in every other way.

     

    The house is a dusty fifteen-minute ride on the back of a motor scooter. I wrap a scarf around my nose and mouth as my motor-scooter driver weaves through heavy traffic, heading from the Independence Monument in the city center to a lesser-developed neighborhood. There are no traffic lanes and few stop lights, but everyone drives courteously. From the paved street the driver turns onto a narrow dirt road, barnacled with rocks, leading to the RISP house. Chickens loiter inside the concrete-walled yard and Toby, a pet monkey given to one of the staff members, swings about in his cramped cage, excited to see new people on the premises.

    The two parts of the city are worlds, and seemingly decades, apart. Near the urbane square, you can pay U.S. prices for an iced latte in a café run by a Westerner and patronized by expats, or check email at any of a handful of internet cafés. Meanwhile, in the neighborhood where the RISP house is located, many homes lack indoor plumbing.

    Moek greets me as I pay my driver what amounts to about one U.S. dollar. Warm and soft-spoken, with a fit, slim build, Moek is obviously proud of the condition of the home and its grounds—he is in charge of managing this place. He invites me to sit beneath a banana tree at a chunky wooden picnic table. The heat and humidity is indescribable. “Oppressive” and “stifling” mean nothing, even though I scribble these words on my notepad. I’ve only been in Phnom Penh a couple of days, and when I breathe, it’s with the same heaviness as if I were in a sauna. Sweat drips, clothes stick. You forget about even attempting to look as cool or composed as the Cambodians seem to be. Moek looks at me and smiles. He knows what it’s like to be dropped into this climate from Minnesota’s cooler temperatures.

    “It’s not easy to acclimate,” I say, rolling up my pant legs. “I know,” he replies. A resident at the dorm house brings us shade-cooled bottles of water (ice is out of the question). Like the others, he was deported from the U.S. for committing a felony. I’m curious to know what he was convicted for, but I don’t ask—due to the recent tightening of immigration laws, it could have been anything from rape to theft.

    Moek, however, wants to tell me his story. As he begins talking, he sounds sincere and, well, honest. “I’ll tell you the truth because you can find it out anyway,” he says. He bounces back and forth between the past and present with unease and trepidation. Moek, who is twenty-four, says he has two big regrets: joining a gang and not encouraging his parents to become U.S. citizens. If they had, citizenship would also have been conferred upon their children under the age of eighteen. By the time Moek was eligible to take the test for himself, his trouble with the law disqualified him from pursuing citizenship. He didn’t know it at the time, but those choices sealed his fate: not only to be convicted of a crime, but also to be banished from the only country he knew.

    Moek was three-and-a-half years old when he—along with two younger sisters, Savan and San—arrived in the U.S. with their parents. It was 1984, and the family had been living in a Thai refugee camp since 1977, when Moek’s parents fled the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Their story is not unusual. The conditions of life in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge are well-known. Eighty-five percent of the population was subjected to brainwashing and forced labor, and suffered lack of food, water, shelter, and medical care. Thirty-six percent of the people reported torture; seventeen percent reported rape or sexual abuse; and fifty-four percent experienced the murder of a family member or friend. In all, an estimated two million of Cambodia’s eight million citizens perished from disease, starvation, overwork, or outright execution during one of the world’s most notorious genocides. Meanwhile, those who made it to refugee camps suffered from depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a host of other psychological ailments.

    With the help of U.S.-sanctioned policies and programs, Cambodian refugees began arriving on our shores in the mid-seventies. However, critics say poor preparation, as well as a lack of resources and other support, laid the groundwork for an immigrant community that would remain at risk for all kinds of problems associated with poverty and racism—including drug use, gangs, and crime. Even those Cambodians who came here as toddlers or were born here would suffer.

    Moek’s parents had two more children, his brothers Sokhen and Sohkom, after arriving in the U.S. They were U.S. citizens from birth, while the rest of the family lived here as permanent residents. It’s a common scenario. “My mother and father never became citizens because they couldn’t pass the language requirements,” Khan tells me. “I never even thought about citizenship for myself—honestly, I didn’t think I needed it.”

    As a teenager, Moek was a good son, said his mother, Sath Soa. “Family was important to him,” she told me, while sitting cross-legged on the floor in her living room in St. Paul, cradling a newborn grandchild. “He helped take care of the younger children and was good in school.” Moek worked at the United Cambodia Association of Minnesota translating letters and organizing events for Cambodian youth, she said. He scored A’s and B’s at Guadalupe Alternative Programs, an alternative school in West St. Paul. Jody Nelson, the principal, remembers Moek well. “He was a leader—that was clear early on,” she told me. She cannot seem to say enough glowing things about him as a student. “He was respectful to his peers and teachers and was very involved in extracurricular activities, including the student government board.” Nelson and other staff members at the school were saddened by the “mistake,” as she called it, that lead to his arrest. “But that didn’t make a difference to me.”

    Nor, apparently, did Moek’s involvement in the Red Cambodian Bloods gang. “It’s an urban reality,” Nelson said. “Many of our students are gang members, but I wouldn’t categorize them as serious gangsters. Many of them belong out of safety or the need to belong to something. But what I see is that most of the kids eventually grow out of the gang activity when they are ready to graduate, have kids, or find girlfriends.” She saw that in Moek. “He was close to his girlfriend, they seemed to have a good relationship, and he was really involved in their baby’s life.”

    Unlike Sath Soa and Jody Nelson, Moek readily admits that he wasn’t a perfect teenager. But he echoes Nelson in explaining why he joined the Bloods. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not in a gang,” Moek says. “Members of other gangs figured I was and targeted me anyway, just because I was Cambodian. I guess I joined the RCB so I’d have some power and they’d know to leave me alone.”

    Nelson said that Guadalupe Alternative Programs only admits students whom teachers and other staff members believe they can invest in. “[Moek] was one of those students,” she said. “He was someone who had a lot of potential to make a difference in the world.”

    Before he could do that, however, Moek was one of seven men indicted on charges stemming from five bank robberies that took place in the St. Paul area in 1998 and 1999. Between December 1998 and March 1999, authorities tracked guns, body armor, ammunition, and cars that they believed were used to carry out the robberies. One gun was linked to Moek. He was arrested in July 1999 and charged with conspiracy to commit robbery, for supplying one of the weapons.

    “I had it, but it wasn’t mine,” Moek says of the gun. He doesn’t offer any further explanation, but does note that “it was my first charge as an adult.” He had faced previous offenses as a juvenile—and spent time one summer in a correctional program that involved living and working on a family farm—though again, he won’t elaborate. “I never hurt anyone,” he insists.

    Moek was eventually let out of jail pending trial. In 2001, he was convicted on the conspiracy charge and sentenced to three years in the Allenwood Federal Correctional Institution in Union Country, Pennsylvania. Only after serving those three years did he find out that his lifelong sentence had just begun. Upon his release from Allenwood in 2004, he was immediately transferred to a nearby county jail. That’s when U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement stepped in to begin what is called the “removal process.”

    The U.S. removes, or deports, any non-citizen of any status who is convicted of an aggravated felony, following an administrative procedure to find the person removable on that basis. This includes people who are convicted on misdemeanor charges that are then elevated to the status of an aggravated felony. That elevation became possible with legislation passed by a Republican congress during the height of anti-immigrant sentiment in 1996. The Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRAIRA) greatly expanded the number of crimes that are considered an aggravated felony for immigration purposes, including non-violent misdemeanors like shoplifting and possession of marijuana. Conspiracy charges are also considered an “aggravated felony” under the act. What’s more, the law is retroactive—which means that officials have leeway to target, round up, and banish untold thousands of non-citizens years after they had done time for a misdemeanor. By cementing relationships among local law enforcement, the Justice Department, and immigration officials, the act has ensured that increasing numbers of immigrants caught up in local judicial systems will also find themselves facing the feds. In the four years after the act passed, the number of defendants in federal courts facing immigration charges more than doubled, from 6,605 in 1996 to 15,613 in 2000.

    According to the most recent statistics, in fiscal year 2005, a total of 204,193 people were deported—usually back to their country of citizenship. Most were categorized simply as non-criminal removals, but 87,256 of those people had been convicted of crimes and so were categorized as criminal removals.

    Moek is one of 145 Cambodians convicted of crimes in the U.S. who have been removed by the U.S. government in the last four years. They also include a man in his eighties and a woman who left her children behind in the U.S. with relatives. According to the Southeast Asian Action Center in Washington, D.C., twelve Cambodians were sent to Phnom Penh this February, and an estimated 1,500 more are caught in the removal process, perhaps to be deported. Removals to Cambodia began only in 2002, after the country signed a repatriation agreement with the U.S. in March of that year—just months after Moek went to prison in Pennsylvania. The terms of the agreement were hashed out in secret talks that determined Cambodia would receive its citizens who had been convicted of crimes and had completed their jail or prison sentences in the U.S. The U.S. would pay the Cambodian government two hundred dollars per person, money intended to help the person get settled.

    Before 2002, the U.S. didn’t deport anyone—refugees, permanent residents, or convicts—to communist countries. After all, it was held, these people (or their parents) had fled persecution; what’s more, U.S. diplomatic ties with such countries weren’t particularly strong. Now, the U.S. is negotiating agreements with Vietnam and Laos that are similar to its deal with Cambodia; however, Cuba is not on the list. Given how the U.S. government portrays Fidel Castro, forcing Cubans on our soil to go back there would be politically explosive—remember Elian Gonzalez? Cambodia and Laos, however, don’t carry the same political and diplomatic stigmas, and have even become legal tourist destinations. Deporting Cambodians to that country—despite the fact it is foreign to them—doesn’t seem so harsh when more and more Americans are traveling there to see Angkor Wat, or reading about Angelina Jolie adopting a child from one of its orphanages.

    By far, Mexicans make up the largest number of deportees in both criminal and non-criminal cases. Some Asian, African, and Central American countries represent most of the rest of the removals from the U.S. But unlike those countries, Cambodia suffered an intensive U.S.-led conflict—at least one that’s in the history books. Between 1969 and 1973, American planes dropped 540,000 tons of bombs on Cambodia in a campaign aimed at wiping out the Vietcong. The bombings, secretly ordered by President Nixon without congressional approval, killed as many as 150,000 civilians and displaced hundreds of thousands more, eventually destabilizing the country enough for the Khmer Rouge rebels to take over.

  • The Lost City

    Andy Garcia was five years old when his family moved from Cuba to Florida, but the memories of his birthplace left an indelible impression on the actor, who makes his directorial debut with this film. Equal parts love song to Cuban culture and critique of the political events that ended Havana’s brief reign as the “Paris of the Caribbean,” The Lost City captures the last days of an elegant nightclub that is deemed “incompatible with revolutionary ideals.” Garcia, who is also an accomplished musician, hand selected nearly forty songs for the film’s amazing soundtrack. 3911 50th St. W., Edina, 651-649-4416; www.landmarktheatres.com

  • Best of India

    Clock-watchers in the St. Louis Park area can’t wait to get over to Best of India’s stellar lunch buffet. There’s a palpable feeling of escape, as diners sample a spread that encompasses more than twenty items. The non-buffet menu is also stacked with winners, including nine different kinds of buttery tandoori breads. The beef vindaloo and lamb biryani are perfectly spiced, and the chicken palak, with fresh herbs and spinach, is simply vibrant. In the expanding local Indian restaurant scene, Best of India is a veteran: Its owners already have many fans with their Chapati restaurant in Northfield, and Best of India brings that same fine cooking to the Twin Cities. 8120 Minnetonka Blvd. (TexaTonka Mall); St. Louis Park; 952-935-2320; www.bestofindiausa.com

  • Plastination: The Populist Approach

    Dr. Gunther von Hagens’ plastinates have taken over the Science Museum
    of Minnesota; The Rake proposes taking them into the streets. What
    better way to raise awareness–and spur body donations for von Hagens–than
    to “plastinatize” some of the glorified lawn ornaments that masquerade as
    public art in the Twin Cities?

  • Sea Salt Eatery

    Pondering the beauty of Minnehaha Falls is so much sweeter when munching on a fish taco. Before Sea Salt Eatery set up shop in the park, a trip to the falls was like, “OK, pretty. Let’s go.” Now, with a crab cake sandwich or oyster po’ boy in hand, visitors can slow down to appreciate the scenery. And, just as the Minnehaha Falls is more than a mere waterfall, the Sea Salt is no run-of-the-mill concession stand; it’s a cool, modern eatery that kicks out freshly prepared seafood dishes, ranging from crispy fried clams to calamari, during a season when the Falls flow freely. Plus, there’s beer! 4825 Minnehaha Ave., Minneapolis; 612-721-8990; www.seasalteatery.com

  • SHE Captains

    She’s extracted feminist themes from Wagner babes and Grand Ole Opry theatrics; and now Shawn McConneloug enters the world of peg legs, planks, and swashbucklers, injecting some of her own pistol-slinging flair. In 2003, this ultra-modern local choreographer immortalized Tammy Wynette in Stand On Your Man, a yodel-heavy piece incorporating dance, music, film, and rhinestone cowgirls. Now she’s reviving the tale of Grace O’Malley, the legendary sixteenth-century Irish pirate queen, in another multimedia piece set to Irish music—from traditional Celtic fare to the Pogues and Flogging Molly. Thorpe Building 1620 Central Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-340-1725; www.southerntheater.org

  • One River Mississippi

    Summertime is getting to be synonymous with outdoor, site-specific performance pieces—and we’re not talking music in the park here. Last August we witnessed the monumental LANDMARK: 24 Hours at the Stone Arch Bridge, which rolled music, dance, theater, and literature together into one colossal, daylong experience that nudged onlookers to remember how beautiful that historic structure really is. This year, it’s “One River Mississippi,” a dance piece inspired by the river waters. The brainchild of local choreographer Marylee Hardenbergh, “One River” is actually seven different performances, scattered along the length of the Mississippi River, from its source at Itasca State Park all the way down to Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. Of the other five pieces, one is right here in downtown Minneapolis, at the Stone Arch Bridge—a favorite site of Hardenbergh’s. From there, through audio-visual hookups, you’ll get a prime view of—and become a part of—the goings-on at all the other sites. www.onerivermississippi.org

  • I Am My Own Wife

    I Am My Own Wife, a one-actor show fresh off its 2004 Broadway debut, concerns itself with Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a real-life German transvestite who survived both fascists and communists. Most exciting of all is this production’s star: veteran stage actor and baritone Bradley Greenwald. Best known for the musical stunt-piloting he does over at Theatre de la Jeune Lune, Greenwald now leaps to the Jungle stage. Notably, Greenwald was also seen at the Jungle in its 2001 production of Torch Song Trilogy, in which he played, with gusto, a depressive drag-queen. 2951 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-7063; www.jungletheater.com

  • Pippi Longstocking

    According to many fairy tales, Disney films, and children’s adventure stories, the secret to a fantastic childhood is the eradication of meddling parental units, especially mothers. Stronger than Popeye, wilder than Peter Pan, way more fun than Orphan Annie (although both boast badly styled red hair), Pippi Longstocking is completely unfettered—her mother died when she was a baby and dad was lost at sea. That gives her full license to live with animals, dress as weirdly as she pleases, and wow the neighbor kids with unsupervised adventures. Swede Astrid Lindgren published her first Pippi stories in the 1940s, making her nine-year-old heroine one of the first and most personable female superheroes. This production, a fast-paced and frenetic musical comedy with dark undertones, has become a favorite at the Children’s Theater Company. 2400 3rd Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-874-0400; www.childrenstheatre.org

  • Perspiration versus Inspiration

    This month, the American Film Institute will count down the one hundred most inspirational movies in American history. Unfortunately, our family wasn’t consulted, because one of our more inspirational movies was inexplicably left off the list of three hundred nominees. That movie is Evel Knievel, a B-picture from 1971 starring George Hamilton as the daredevil motorcyclist. My brother saw it upon its release at the Boulevard Theater on 53rd and Lyndale (now a Hollywood Video), and, although only eleven at the time, he immediately set to work. He grabbed a wooden play refrigerator of my sister’s and laid it on the sidewalk in front of our house; then he found a sturdy two-by-four and laid it on the refrigerator for his ramp; then he climbed onto his banana-seat bicycle.

    Initially it was enough to catch air, but this high wore off quickly and he began to look for things to jump. He found them: stuffed animals (too boring), then real animals (too disobedient), then real people—the kids in the neighborhood (just right). It amazed me how many kids would lie down for him. At one point I think he jumped seven kids—all huddled together, scared and thrilled and giggling. This practice promptly stopped when one mother glanced out her window and saw her youngest child last in line, inches from my brother’s landing gear.

    So, yes, Evel Knievel was inspirational, just not the kind of inspiration AFI has in mind. Of the four criteria AFI asks its jurors to consider, Evel Knievel hits only two: “Feature Length Fiction Film” and “American Film.” It misses “Legacy” (I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t exactly echoed across a century of American cinema) and “Cheers.” And since the list is called “100 Years…100 Cheers,” this last criterion is probably the most important. Here’s how it’s described on the institute’s website:

    Movies that inspire with characters of vision and conviction who face adversity and often make a personal sacrifice for the greater good.

    Robert Craig Knievel certainly had vision and conviction, and he faced adversity and made personal sacrifices (breaking nearly every bone in his body), but unless “greater good” involves pure white-trash entertainment, this is where he craps out. On the other hand, many of AFI’s nominees don’t fit the bill either. What was George M. Cohan’s personal sacrifice in Yankee Doodle Dandy—getting rich from writing patriotic songs and plays? Where’s the greater good in the Tom Hanks vehicle Cast Away or in the feminist snuff film Thelma & Louise? How is Tom Cruise in Top Gun a character of vision? He just has a need for speed.

    I’ll agree, though, that all of the aforementioned movies are vaguely inspirational, and vagueness is what the institute is after. Established in 1967, and charged with preserving and promoting film as part of our shared cultural heritage, the American Film Institute has compiled its annual lists since 1998, and as list-makers go they ain’t bad. Greatest movie: Citizen Kane. Greatest star: Humphrey Bogart. Greatest hero/villain: Atticus Finch/Hannibal Lecter. Not much to disagree with.

    This year’s theme seems intended to counteract the frequent claims that Hollywood doesn’t represent American values anymore. A quick look at the nominees, though, is like looking at the culture wars in microcosm. There are World War II-era war films (Guadalcanal Diary) and Vietnam War-era anti-war films (Coming Home). There is the Hollywood hokum of The Babe Ruth Story versus the anti-establishment misfits of The Bad News Bears. There is the pious Jesus of King of Kings, the hippie-esque Jesus of Jesus Christ Superstar, the human-sized Jesus of The Last Temptation of Christ, and the revenge-flick Jesus of The Passion of the Christ.

    It will be interesting to see which path the institute follows in narrowing down its nominees. What’s more inspirational—following authority or combating it? Do we prefer to revere a saintly leader (Young Mr. Lincoln) or bring down a corrupt one (All the President’s Men)?

    All in all, though, the vagueness of the inspiration is key. Like any profit-oriented art form, Hollywood has always been leery of acknowledging any way their product may inspire others to possibly litigious actions—whether it’s my brother jumping over neighborhood kids after seeing Evel Knievel or John Hinkley attempting to assassinate President Reagan for the love of Jodie Foster. Taxi Driver may have inspired, but it’s not inspirational and so isn’t among the nominees. Neither is The Candidate, inspiration for Dan Quayle. The Birth of a Nation? It inspired William J. Simmons to revitalize the Ku Klux Klan in 1915, and thus may have affected American history more than any movie ever made. But its greater good—protecting white southern womanhood from rapacious darkies—isn’t the kind of thing we consider inspirational anymore, and so it, too, failed to make the cut. Ah, for the days when Hollywood represented American values.

    Other art forms have their own versions of Taxi Driver—“Helter Skelter” is the most obvious example—but movies, as traditionally watched, are tailor-made for inspiration. What happens in a movie theater? First it gets dark, then you disappear. Then characters appear, larger than life, and you follow their story. You become them. For the most part, they are idealized versions of you—better-looking, better-dressed, stronger, and braver. You’re dazed when the lights go up. Who am I again? Where am I? What am I supposed to do now?

    Woody Allen captured this feeling perfectly in Play it Again, Sam. His upper lip curled under his teeth in classic Bogart fashion as he watched the final moments of Casablanca; then the lights went up and he turned into plain old Allan Felix again. We laugh at his predicament because we recognize ourselves in it. Drama is who we want to be; comedy is who we are.

    In the early 1970s, my brother and I saw a re-release of Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid. When it was over and we were walking out of the theater, swaggering slightly, I was convinced, convinced, that the gaggle of girls a couple of rows back were looking at us, and were amazed, amazed, by our resemblance to Paul Newman (my brother) and Robert Redford (me). What were we really? A skinny, freckled twelve-year-old and a blond-banged ten-year-old schlub. This is close to dementia. It took me years to realize that not only was I not Robert Redford, I was Allan Felix.

    Did you see The Incredibles? All the little boys running around afterward like Dash. The parents think it’s cute, and it is, but at the same time, Dash is the ultimate wish-fulfillment for a four-year-old. Their whole lives, whenever they’ve run toward something interesting, someone picks them up and brings them back to a place that isn’t so interesting. A kid running like Dash is basically saying, “You will never effin’ catch me again.”

    I ran after a movie, too. Mine was Rocky, which is on the list of nominees, and will probably make the top three. When I left the theater it was evening and, feeling the need for speed, I began running down Lyndale Avenue. I ran all the way home. In high school I wound up on the cross-country team.

    I biked after a movie, too. Mine was Breaking Away, which is also on the list of nominees and might make the top one hundred. At one point in the film, Dave Stoller rides his bike on the freeway. He’s behind a truck, and every time he appears in the truck’s side mirror, the driver indicates how fast they’re going by sticking fingers out the window: four for forty … five for fifty … and then the triumph: six for sixty! Afterward I scoffed, “How can someone possibly ride a bike sixty miles an hour?” My brother told me, “No no no, he was backdrafting. He was being pulled along by the truck.” “Oh,” I said. Biking around one weekend, I came upon a freeway entrance, thought I should try that backdraft thing, and pedaled furiously onto the 77 North on-ramp. A minute later the freeway—thank God!—drained into the south Lake Nokomis area. There was no proper shoulder, so I had been riding on the freeway, with cars honking and whizzing by me, backdrafting nothing. Afterward, I was like a cat that had scurried across a busy street and found itself safe on the sidewalk again, wide-eyed and freaked but trying to maintain its dignity. Both of us probably with the same thought: “Well, that didn’t work.”

    In the end I wouldn’t be surprised if the institute’s number one movie turns out to be It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s the kind of vague, feel-good inspiration (with angels) that Hollywood loves to celebrate. But did it really inspire any of us? Did it make any of us think “the world is better because I’m in it”? Or did we only think that Bedford Falls is better for having George Bailey in it? Hell, the line I quote most often is spoken by the young, adventurous George: “I’m shakin’ the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I’m gonna see the world!” That’s inspiration that matters to me. The world is big and I want to be in it. It’s a Wonderful Life is a good movie, but it’s basically telling us we matter even if we live our entire lives in a little town. Where’s the inspiration in even if?

    My most inspirational film, in fact, may be Annie Hall (another unnominated film). I first saw it as an impressionable fourteen-year-old and, upon watching it again twenty years later, I suddenly realized that the loves of my life have tended to be like the title character: sweet, pretty, slightly daffy girls with long, straight hair who are fun to be with. Maybe my heart would’ve gone in this direction anyway, but the fact that I don’t know is exactly the point. Woody Allen once said “The heart wants what it wants,” but does my heart want what Woody’s wants? Where do I end and the movies begin? How deep does it cut? The lone man standing up for what’s right in the face of cowards and fools—how many times have we seen that in the movies? How many times did George W. Bush? Twice in April, 1970, President Nixon screened the movie Patton; at the end of the month, he ordered the invasion of Cambodia. Was he inspired? The American Film Institute will seem to be cheerleading for the industry with its latest list, but it’s actually shortchanging the industry considerably. Movies are not something separate from us; we are intertwined.

    For this article I did something I hadn’t done in more than thirty years: I watched Evel Knievel again. Disappointing. It obviously had no budget, and Evel’s career is glossed over in favor of, yes, how he won the love of his life, probably because that’s cheaper to dramatize. Yet there’s this kick-ass song, “I Do What I Please” (a fine anthem for any kid), and the footage of the real Evel jumping cars is still cool after all these years. So many cinematic moments of inspiration involve superhuman qualities—running like Dash, trying to bike sixty miles an hour, the Lone Ranger-esque Klan of The Birth of a Nation—and Evel fits right in. When he jumps, it’s like he’s flying. It says something about movies that even with this stinky low-budget story, I sat there, a forty-three-year-old critic with notepad out and analytical abilities working, and man if I didn’t want to be that guy.