Tropic Thunder

No, this isn’t one of the storms that hit Louisiana and Mississippi last weekend. It is one of the latest comedies my sister and I saw on my birthday. She was a bit skeptical when I said I needed some laughs, but she went along with me like the trooper she is and waited in the dark theatre while I reviewed the plot. We are sticklers for a good plot, creative dialogue, good directors, and excellent photography. So you can imagine that she felt inwardly that I had chosen a poor movie.

Ben Stiller sometimes makes me laugh, sometimes not. But in this picture, in which he starred, directed, and produced with help, he creates his comedic antics which are more exaggerated than funny. But when you combine four other actors playing roles almost out of their genre, you have laughter bubbling into the empty seats in front of you. (We go to the first showing.)

First, you have to sit through two ridiculous advertisements, actually a part of the movie we learn later, wondering how far off you’ve been in new sodas and music, then the movie begins unexpectedly. Here are five guys--Stiller, Robert Downey, Jr, Brandon T. Jackson, Jack Black and Jay Baruschel who play their characters to a T. Special notice goes to Robert Downey, Jr. in an Academy-award class perfection who unbelievably plays a black soldier (complete with a dye job on his skin) and speaking in an unfamiliar voice. He doesn’t seem to know much about the common expressions of black people, of which Jackson, a true black, reminds him constantly, but he slings out lines of black characters from TV shows and movies he’s seen(like lines from "The Jeffersons").

The premise is that these five are to play soldiers fighting a battle in Viet Nam, the story of which has been taken from a book written by a former ‘Nam vet, Nick Nolte. To save his skin, the director takes the author’s suggestions to give credence to the actors in a real setting and dumps the actors in the wild jungles of ‘Nam with a script and directions to the locations of the scenes. Unknown to them hidden cameras are placed high in trees.

Although there are a lot of explosions and gunfire, at least there aren’t any wrecking automobiles, buses and trains, so I was able to sit through this part of the action. Sometime laughing uncontrollably by the dialogue, I released all frustrations of having been in bed for two weeks with an infected sciatic nerve. Surprisingly one character, whom I shall not name, is totally disguised and plays a character unlike any he’s done before. If you don’t guess him early in the movie, he’s last in the roll call of characters at the end of the show. Even though my sister said early “Isn’t that ???” I replied “Noo way!” only to find out how right she was. (Just don't read the list of characters before you go so you can enjoy the surprise.)

For an entertaining couple of hours, see Tropic Thunder, especially if it’s raining outside--you get enough mud and rain and thunder-like noise sitting through this movie.

Those Christmases Long Ago

In the worst of times during World War II with rationing of gas and food, my family joined others in the United States by inviting a serviceman to lunch on December 25. For each of three Christmases we gave a soldier a few hours of attention and a home-cooked meal.

In preparation for the lunch in December, we saved a teaspoon of sugar in a special jar throughout the year. This was for two desserts. Each month Mother bought one food item. The menu never changed: turkey(sometimes a chicken), dressing, cranberry sauce, English peas, candied sweet potatoes, and pickled peaches. Dessert was Mother’s coconut cake and a chocolate pie -— made from scratch, of course.

Beginning in 1943 my grade-school sister and I, a gangly 13-year-old, planned and executed the room and table decorations: old Christmas cards dangling off a string hung above the doorways, a fresh cedar wreath on the front door, a small pine tree covered with silver balls and ringlets of construction paper (tinsel was needed for the war effort). Mother’s only white tablecloth, starched for the occasion, displayed her best dishes.

Thirty minutes before noon Dad left for the train depot, a mere 15-minute walk.Trains passed through our city to and from Memphis and New Orleans and crowds of service personnel choked the one-story building standing at the west end of downtown.

Dad’s responsibility was to select our guest. After entering the stuffy waiting room filled with cigarette smoke and the din of voices, he’d lean against a large column where he had full view. His eyes scanned each GI. He told us later how difficult it was to pick one serviceman from the hundreds milling around.

“They looked so vulnerable, so young,” he said later. “I hated that we couldn’t offer food to all of them.” He told us he searched for the young man who looked the most scared and lonely.

“You in town for awhile?” he’d ask the stranger. “There’s a hot meal waiting at my house. Want to join me and the family?” He and the hungry GI walked slowly back to our house chatting. This was Dad’s son for the day.

At the doorway we sisters rushed to embrace the soldier like he was a returning brother, pressing a small gift into his hands. At the table he could hardly swallow a bite of food, as we peppered him with questions about his life,his family, his state. After dessert and coffee we said our goodbyes reluctantly and Dad returned to the depot with a contented soldier, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a package of food for his supper in his hand.

Whether these young men completed their tours of duty, or died on some lonely spot of foreign soil, we never knew. However, they're a part of our memories of that time.


We sisters 10 years later