I think this is just rip-snortingly funny. And yes, I will be buying the inevitable CD. (The ringtone is already available!)

I’m rewatching Season One of Rome, this time with elder son Lex, to bring him up to date so that we can watch the second season together. We’d both rather still be watching The Wire, but we’ll have to wait another year for new episodes.

The second episode of “Rome” tonight got me thinking about focus — because in one scene I couldn’t help noticing where it wasn’t.

Legionnaire Lucius Vorenus has just returned from eight years of serving Caesar in an endless war in Gaul. He has barely reacquainted himself with his wife, Niobe (pictured above), when he has to sit in adjudication over a young herder petitioning to marry his 13-year-old daughter. Camera shots ricochet between the beleaguered young man and the unhappy father, who isn’t pleased by the notion of his daughter marrying a drover whose family lives in a house formed from cattle dung. Ultimately, though, he agrees.

And then comes what’s missing: A reaction shot from the daughter, who so ardently wants this man. So why don’t we have it? And why, instead, do we have a reaction shot of a clearly thrilled Niobe?

Because, as this storyline develops, the daughter and her intended aren’t that important. This scene is part of a story being developed about Vorenus and Niobe, which ends the season in a tragic twist. We’re in on the secret; Vorenus is not. Judging by the end product, I take it on faith that the editor (as well as, clearly, the writer and director) knows that Niobe is the point and not her daughter, and that’s why Niobe gets the reaction shot.

My chosen medium is the theatre. While we don’t have a camera, the issue of focus is always important. Good stage movement (blocking) does more than just get actors to where they have to be; good stage movement is also motivated by characters’ desires, and doesn’t steal focus from the principle figure in the scene.

It’s the same with writing the scene. If too many characters come in all at once, or too many different topics are raised, or inappropriate stage business pulls the eye, there’s no way to focus the audience’s attention. Chaos erupts. The human brain demands focus so that it can make sense of all the information flooding it. Without that focusing process, the unfiltered data would overwhelm us. That’s called confusion.

If as an audience member you pay attention to what you’re supposed to, you should be able to follow the story. If you stop to think about what you’re not supposed to be focusing on, you can see the man holding the puppet’s strings. Lex wondered how I saw the twist ending of “The Prestige” coming. It’s because I wondered why, when the one magician’s accomplice was a major character, we were never formally introduced to the other magician’s collaborator even though he was shown in many scenes — and once I asked that question, I knew the answer: Because we weren’t supposed to be.

Directors direct the actors. Writers use focus to direct the audience.

And while I’m on the topic — Churchill never would’ve stood for this:

From MSNBC.com:

Scottish soldiers forced to share kilts for now

Shortage means 1 for every 15 soldiers due to contract snafu

At least each of the Italians gets a uniform to himself.

The other day on my return flight I caught myself looking at my watch and thinking for a moment about the British Empire. (Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was a variation on “Are we there yet?”)

What got me thinking was how freakin’ huge this watch is. As one online listing says, this “stunning, high quality men’s Fishbone watch is SERIOUSLY CHUNKY!” and has “a mega large round dial (case diamter approx 42mm wide / 12mm thick).”

I know, I know — you don’t want to see the new Rocky movie either.

But you have to give Sylvester Stallone credit for honesty in this interview in Entertainment Weekly. Sure, we know he’s a has-been; what’s refreshing is that he knows it, too, and freely admits it.

This is so rare in Hollywood it would be enough to turn Diogenes into an optimist.

I’ve been seeing this print campaign for Citibank for months now and I can’t decide if this is a strange gay couple, a bizarre father and son, or a master and slave. Maybe all three.

More recently, I’ve decided that this ambiguity is on purpose. We don’t need to know who they are. We don’t need to know the full details of the lad’s suffering. We just need to know that because the depraved squire has a Citi PremierPass credit card, he can do any damn thing he likes.

As a foe of colonialism and slavery, I won’t be getting a Citi PremierPass credit card.

This news bit, which ran in the LA Times, was sent in by my longtime friend Darrell, a fellow thespian and fisherman.

LOS ANGELES — A pedestrian died and at least two other people suffered apparent minor injuries Wednesday in a collision that occurred when a motorist ran a red light, police said.
The accident involving a black pickup truck and another vehicle occurred on westbound Santa Monica Boulevard at Cotner Avenue at 2:35 p.m., said Brian Ballton of the city fire department.
The pedestrian, a 40-year-old man, died at the scene.
Police said the accident was caused when a driver ran a red light and smashed into another vehicle, which spun out of control and hit the pedestrian.
The Department of Water and Power was called because live wires were down, police said.

The pedestrian who died was his friend and fishing buddy Brett. As Darrell says, “It was, apparently, a day in the life of Los Angeles.” Out for a walk one minute, dead the next, leaving behind a wife and small children.

This is a reminder that death lurks around the corner for all of us. Some of us get to see it coming; some of us don’t. But it’s always there.

Be grateful for what you’ve got while you’ve got it.

Sure, I pretend to be cultured now, but here’s who I really am. This is me out in the wild, so to speak.

I’ve known these guys for 20 years or more. Thank God they haven’t changed one bit.

The Black Cat Inn has, though, for good and ill. As Paul (in the middle, in the yellow shirt) immediately pointed out as we pulled into the parking lot, “Oh my God, they cleaned up the Black Cat!” For one thing, it was now paved. No more transmission-challenging foot-deep gravel ruts, and in a way that was a shame. Moreover, you can’t smoke a cigar in the joint anymore! Well, blame the State for that.

After decades as a gloomy dungeon, the Cat has been transformed into a brightly lit amusement pit with too many flatscreen TV’s and way too much mismatched bric-a-brac. Note the odd assembly of replica sports trophies, toy cars, vintage etched glass, and Hollywood press photos. Huh? And, naturally, the wine card offering wine in “any flavor.” The Waldorf Astoria it isn’t. It seems perfect that I wore my Orlando’s Joint t-shirt, because while it’s stylish, it also doesn’t fit in.

Something else that’s changed: Rolling Rock, our college beer of choice. Ski (guy on the left) noted that you had to specifically order a “Latrobe, PA” Rolling Rock or you ran the risk of getting one of the new Anheuser Busch-brewed models — and trust us, you don’t want that. (I guess now they’ll have to switch their tagline from “Same as it ever was.” And now more than ever the Talking Heads song is a period piece.)

Closing thought. On the left is Rich, a mail carrier, and on the right is Joe, a mortician. In other words, these are the sort of “responsible authority figures” you find in these parts.

Guys like this remind me that given my druthers I’d be up in the woods right now in a pickup truck and with a cigar and an imminent poker game. And with a Latrobe Rolling Rock. Same as it ever was.

…of the cultural locus that is my home town of Galloway Township, New Jersey, whence I just returned:

Exhibit A, the wine listing from the Black Cat Inn, my old crowd’s favorite hangout and locally renowned “old man bar.” Look closely and you’ll see that next to various labels, such as Sutter Home and Kendall Jackson, they list the classes of wine available as “any flavor.”

You just can’t make these things up.

A tip of the wineglass to Paul Crist for pointing this out over lunch.

The “newshole” is the space in a newspaper that editorial fits into. There must be less and less at the LA Times, given the space devoted to corrections. (Please note, before you click that link:  Fix yourself a sandwich first. You’ll be reading for a while.)