Gaseous Giant: A Movie Review

Written and directed by the Wachowski siblings who used to be the Wachowski brothers until one of them became a girl, Jupiter Ascending ascended onto the Multiplexes on Friday just as the planet Jupiter reaches its closest approximation to Earth. One is a gas giant; the other is just gaseous.  

The story – hard to find a plot amidst the explosions and special effects – centers around Jupiter Jones (don’t ask) a young toilet cleaner (please don’t ask) who lives in Chicago. “Jupe” as she refers to herself once, is played by Mila Kunis, an actress who shows some comic flair in a couple of scenes, but mostly is a big-eyed, homely girl in a pony tail who is called upon to scream, fall through space and dress in outlandish costumes (one of which has her wearing what looks like a New Age Christmas tree atop her head). That's when she isn’t hanging onto Channing Tatum while he skateboards through the air in a pair of anti-gravity boots which leave silver streaks as a wake. 

When Jupe signs up for big bucks to have her eggs harvested at a fertility clinic, little does she realize the doctors and nurses are really creatures who look like they escaped from the Independence Day space ship. Or that they aren't there to harvest her eggs but rather to rub her out.  

Before the ETs can do in our heroine, hero, Channing Tatum, shows up and wipes them out instead. Channing is a “splice” a human with human and wolf genes as evidenced by pointy, elf ears, and a third, unidentified species. Channing’s character once had wings, but was de-winged (by whom and why is not clear) because he once lost control of himself and tore out someone's throat. Spoiler: Channing gets his wings back at the end and he and Jupe (who inherited his gravity defying boots) go flying, skate-boarding across the Chicago skyline. No word on whether NSA picked them up. Or NASA for that matter. 

The usually excellent Eddie Redmayne is one of three nefarious sibling villains whose deceased mother, like a distaff King Lear, divided up her kingdom (the universe) between cachectic Eddie, his sneaky but handsome brother and their 14,000 year old sister. Mama was 90,000 years old when she died. She might have lived longer had she not been murdered. (Spoiler: Eddie did it). In the only significant and/or memorable line in the two hour film (it felt more like four), a character explains time is the only wealth worth having. It turns out these ageless miscreants achieve eternal life by harvesting fresh DNA from the planets they "mine". Earth is Eddie's and he is not about to give it up.

After saving Jupe from the malignant ET's, Channing takes her to his friend, Stinger, played by Sean Bean, whereupon Stinger's bees identify Jupe as royalty. It turns out bees are genetically capable of identifying royals which is why Jupe has never been stung. Whether this applies to all bees or just Stinger's bees is not clear.

After a few more attacks and explosions and a trip to Jupiter (the planet, not the character) on a space ship that looks like a metal wasp, the totally confused audience learns that Jupiter (the character) is really Eddie Redmayne's mother. Yep, she's a "Recurrent" which means Mommy Dearest has been reincarnated, rejuvenated and now that she's back, Earth and the rest of the universe belongs to her again which leaves her three bratty kids out of luck.

Most of the dialogue, like the film itself, is silly and superficial, but like all good Hollywood propagandists, the Wachowskis manage to slip in The Liberal Tell. For those who don’t know what The Liberal Tell is, it is a phrase coined by John Nolte who points out that Hollywood somehow manages to slip leftist propaganda (The Liberal Tell) into most movies: Capitalism is bad, socialism is good, business is corrupt--as Yul Brynner's King would say "et cetera, et cetera, et cetera". Naturally, the nefarious trio in "Jupiter Ascending" are capitalists, who, unlike Hollywood's limousine liberals, are out only for a profit. 

An American Woman in the Middle East

Michelle Obama who sometimes is sartorially challenged made America proud when she accompanied the President on his trip to Saudi Arabia to condole with the Kingdom on the death of its King.

Mrs. Obama emerged from Air Force One conservatively and tastefully dressed in long pants and a flowing, long-sleeved jacket, but without the headscarf which made past first ladies like Laura Bush and politicians like Condoleeza Rich, Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi look like sycophants to the Muslim Moonbats who seem to have something against women in general and women's hair in particular. America does not ask Muslim women remove their babuskas when in our country; therefore, it is only reasonable that American women wear our traditional dress when visiting or living in theirs. Of all the women mentioned above, only Michelle Obama has had the courage to be an American woman in the Middle East.

For those who don't keep up with Seventh Century news and fads, Saudi Arabia practices an especially severe form of Islam which in spite of beheadings, shootings, bombings and floggings, politicians as disparate as George Bush and Barack Obama refer to as the "Religion of Peace".

Democrats who berate Republicans for conducting a War on Women because the latter don't think companies who oppose abortion ought to be required to hand out abortion pills to employees, are silent about Saudi females being denied certain operations unless given permission by a male relative. Democrats who savaged Mitt Romney for asking for a binder of females who might be candidates for executive positions never seem to point out Saudi females cannot travel without a male relative's permission. That, friends, is a war on women!

President Obama harangues the United States about slavery which ended in 1865 and racial segregation which ended a hundred years after that apparently has no problem with the Religion of Peace segregating by gender which usually ends up with women being subservient to and dependent upon males. He and Attorney General Holder howl about American police stopping African-Americans for "driving while black", but don't remind Americans that females of any race or nationality cannot drive at all in Saudi Arabia.

So the First Lady's quiet, subtle, tasteful attire on her visit to Saudi Arabia showed a courage no American male or female of either party has shown before
No doubt she will reap criticism from America's Islam appeasers for not covering her hair, but this American is quite proud of her.

Giving Thanks

 By Holiday Hope

Last night, I had a couple of bites of steak, leftovers from Papa’s plate. I would have liked to have had the whole steak, but even a couple of bites for dessert after a big dinner is a long way from starving in Mississippi.

Last November, I was seven months old, weighed 28 pounds and had mange. I was so ugly when my photograph was sent to the Southeast German Shepherd Rescue coordinator, she wondered why anyone would send her a picture of a possum. But she accepted me into rescue anyway.

Southeast German Shepherd Rescue named me Holiday Hope and hoped I’d make it through the holidays. I survived, got my shots and had my mange treated. Gradually I regained my strength, my hair grew back, and I was able to go outside. Not that I was all that interested in going outside. Once a dog has been a stray, the great outdoors isn’t all that inviting.

Some good people whose names I do not know volunteered to drive me on various legs of a journey that took me from Mississippi to North Carolina where my foster mom lived. In late January, 2014, I was adopted into my forever home, and I moved to Virginia.

This coming Thursday is the day humans reserve for giving thanks, but such a wonderful idea should not be reserved for only those who walk upright. Dogs can be thankful, too. I know I am. I’m thankful for the good people of Southeast German Shepherd Rescue who saved me. For Pat who took care of me when I was sick. For the relay drivers who drove me from Mississippi to North Carolina. For Jan who fostered me. For a warm house, a soft bed, for nutritious food, a daily walk, trips to the dog park with my friend, Shiloh. But most of all, I’m thankful for the love my two humans lavish on me.  

There’s a lot wrong in the world today, but as my story proves, there’s a lot that’s right.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and thanks to Growltiger for letting me tell my story.

Four Horsemen Squared

The silent version of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is in the opinion of the cool cat the best anti-war film ever made. Anti-war films generally are too preachy, a sin a silent film cannot commit.

Based upon Ibanez's novel of the same name, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shows  in the microcosm of a single family the devastation war wreaks on nations. Madariaga, the richest man in Argentina, has two daughters. One is married to a German national;; the other to Frenchman, Marcel Desnoyers. When Madariaga dies, he does not leave his estate and vast fortune to his favored grandson, Julio Desnoyers, as promised, but rather to his two daughters. The product of Madariaga's lifetime of work, is sold. Now incredibly wealthy, both families return to the respective countries of the daughters' husbands, the German and his wife and three sons to Germany; the Desnoyers to France. One wonders why Madariaga never realized his sons-in-law were not committed to Argentina.

When World War I erupts, the German cousins join the German Army. Julio, a libertine like his grandfather, remains neutral like Argentina. But soon Paris isn't so gay anymore and the horrors of war infringe. His lover's husband is blinded in the fighting and her conscience demands that she return to him to take care of him. Julio enlists in the French Army, and in the end, he and his German cousin kill each other in the trenches, his other two cousins having already predeceased them. Madariaga's family is devastated as are their respective nations.

The silent film made Rudolph Valentino a superstar, and after seeing the 1962 remake starring Glenn Ford, there is no question why. Casting is everything, and Valentino was perfectly cast as Julio Desnoyers. In the cabaret scenes, he looked like he definitely belonged there. Ford looked as out of place as a visiting preacher. He was too old for the part and never was quite believable as a playboy whose only goal in life was the pursuit of personal pleasure and sexual conquest.

The remake moved the time to the Second World War, and though it followed the general plot of the silent film, fell into the trap of making the Nazis the focus and not war itself. In the end, all of Madariaga's grandchildren are dead, but the tragedy is lost because the movie became an anti-Nazi film not an anti-war film. Even the four horsemen don't seem so bad when compared to  Hitler's Third Reich.

The modern film had the advantage of dialogue, filming on location, improved camera techniques and incredible special effects, but unlike the silent version, lacked soul and vision. And, of course, Rudolph Valentino.

The More Things Change...

The Growltiger was a cool cat back in the early sixties, and one of her favorite groups was the Kingston Trio. Below are the lyrics to The Merry Minuet written by Sheldon Harnick and performed by the Trio.

They're rioting in Africa, they're starving in Spain,

There's hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain.

The whole world is festering with unhappy souls,

The French hate the Germans, the Germans hate the Poles.

Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch;

And I don't like anybody very much.

But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud,

For man's been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud.

And we know for certain that one happy day,

Someone will set the spark off and we will all be blown away.

They're rioting in Africa, there's strife in Iran.

What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man.

In the early Sixties, Leftist worry warts were terrified of the nuclear threat. They were sure the United States would start a war with their beloved Soviet Union, and "we would all be blown away". Since the fall of the Soviet Union, however, their hysteria has been focused on Global Cooling, Acid Rain,  Nuclear Winter, Killer Salt, the Population bomb, Global Warming and now Man Made Climate Change  (as if the climate requires man to change)--all of which is also the fault of the United States. What they don't seem to worry about these days is Communist North Korea's nukes or Theocratic Iran's pursuit of them. As the adage says, the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

Silents Are Golden

Until The Artist (Best Picture 2011) Growltiger had given up on most cinema as boring and predictable. The Artist, a French, Romantic-Comedy-Drama filmed in black and white and written and directed by Michel Hazanavicius stars Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo. And did the meower mention it's a Silent film?

In a Hollywood of clones--be honest; can you really tell Tobey Maguire from Jake Gyllenhaal from Elija Wood?--the leads in The Artist are as refreshing as a week's rain in the Sahara. Ms. Bejo lights up the screen the way Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly once did. Mr. Dujardin is not George Clooney, which, in itself, is an accomplishment. (The Growler wasn't aware the Academy awarded Oscars to films that didn't have some connection to openly Democratic, pro-Obama Clooney). Add in scene-stealer "Uggie", a Jack Russell terrier, and you have a film worth watching twice. Which I did.

By the way, Uggie sometimes gets a half page ad in the Wall Street Journal advocating rescue dogs since Uggie himself was a rescue. See The Artist if only to see Uggie.

Because The Artist showed and explained in such a delightful way the reason the actors in Silents mugged, gestured and eye-popped--they didn't have dialogue only intertitles--when The Sheik came on Turner Classic Movies a few weeks later, Growltiger watched. It was difficult getting past Valentino's leering, eye-popping and broad gestures and Agnes Ayers stereotypical female silliness, but the kitty watched from beginning to end. Unlike The Artist, The Sheik was not a good movie, but like The Artist, it lacked left-wing propaganda and that made it eminently watchable and enjoyable. No sitting on the edge of the seat waiting for the sucker-punch (Republicans/Conservatives/Libertarians are evil, Democrats/Socialists/Marxists are inherently pure and good). Or, as John Nolte terms it, enduring "the Liberal Tell" (Socialism/Communism/Marxism are Utopian-isms). Two Movies, No Propaganda. Batting a thousand here. The Growltiger was hooked. The DVR was set to record Turner's Silent Sundays.

Unlike Talkies, Silents have no discernible formula. One cannot be sure the writers won't knock off the hero; one can't even be sure who the hero is sometimes. Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921) is the best anti-war movie the Growltiger has ever seen. Sure it is dated and stilted and the special effects aren't special or even effects, but the message is there and clear--War Ain't Beanbag. The Phantom of the Opera (1925) is the only Phantom of the Opera where the Phantom is a creepy villain who deserves to get it in the end. Sunrise (1927) had an unbelievable plot and a resolution that seemed impossible after the husband tried to murder his wife and Sea Hawk (1924) was good enough that the Growler ordered the book for her Kindle -- it was free thanks to a group dedicated to preserving old books in digital form. (The Tiger does not recommend modern readers read the century old novel unless, like the Growltiger, one likes century old novels which will sometimes use "quoth s/he" for "said").

Silents entertain and amuse but most of all aren't politically correct and so surprise. (Richard Barthelmess as an Asian in Broken Blossoms -1919).  Silents don't cast like a cooking class: One real Asian, one Hispanic, two African-Americans-- one of whom is a computer genius--one 105 lb female (any color or race) who beats up 210 lb white, grubby, nasty guys without breaking a sweat (or a bone), one dumb white guy who is rescued by the African-Americans or the macho chick, one Christian or Southern bigot/Big Business CEO/Nazi/Serbian/doctor villain, one George Clooney before or behind the cameras and as often as possible one Sean Penn thrown in in a small role so he can make a living because half the population avoid his films because of his politics. And, by the way, all presidents, judges and wise men are Morgan Freeman or Morgan Freeman types.

Silents aren't for everyone, but for those who like Growltiger enjoy cinema and are fed up with being propagandized, instructed, insulted and/or lectured to, they are, as cited above, like a week's rain in the Sahara desert.

Argo

The spouse and I saw "Argo" last weekend. It's an excellent film, well acted, well directed and worth seeing. But throughout the flick, the Growler kept wondering -- has Ben Affleck lost his mind? (Affleck, like most Hollywoodenheads is an ardent supporter of President Obama and is doing everything he can to get him reelected).  

So why would Affleck make--and the studio release--a month before the election -- a film that shows that nothing much has changed in Middle East in the 33 years since the "students" stormed the American embassy and took 52 Americans hostage for 444 days except that the Muslims have ratcheted up the violence and now instead of taking the Ambassador hostage (in Libya), they murdered him and three others and burned the place down.  

Did Mr. Affleck watch the movie before he released it? Did he really think it would benefit his and Ho'wood's cause to remind Americans three weeks before a tight election of the harm done when we have a feckless and naive Democrat  in the White House? 

"Argo" begins with the usual Hollywood disclaimer that the Iranian Revolution was really America's fault. Apparently, the Ayatollah Khoumeini was just standing there when the shi'ites hit the fan. According to Wikipedia, the Brits and the US, more specifically Churchill and dear old Ike, orchestrated a coup d'etat on August 19, 1953, threw out the democratically elected Iranian president, Mohammed Mosaddegh, and installed the Shah. Mr. Affleck's prologue didn't comment on why it took the Iranians 26 years to react to this insult to their national sovereignty or, for that matter, why the British Embassy wasn't stormed, too, but hey, let's not quibble about a quarter of a century.

Once Mr. Affleck got through with the obligatory America-bashing, he set out to tell a very good story and make a very good movie. He didn't sugar coat the violence done to the Americans and Iranians who had supported the Shah--including a very graphic scene of a man who'd been hanged in the street and left there. History relates that the CIA with the help of Canada got six people out, so the ending was known before the film began. That Mr. Affleck was able to keep the suspense so tight is a tribute to his talent as a director. But still, what was he thinking? Shouldn't he have waited until after the election to remind us what happens when Americans elect an apologist and appeaser in chief?

At War With Myself

It recently occurred to me that I am in serious danger of catching the psychiatric disorder known as Multiple Personality Disorder.

While I have never had any difficulty getting along with myself in the past, close examination of my genetic heritage exposes areas of discord dangerous to my ongoing congenial relationship with me. Eventually I could even end up locked in mortal combat with myself because of past injustices perpetrated upon some of my genetic heritage by other of my genetic heritage.

The cause of this potential turmoil is my paternal grandfather who emigrated from Denmark to the Virgin Islands where he met and married a woman of Spanish-Scottish descent. This produced my father who, so far as I know, got along with himself pretty well. But that was because his generation was unaware of the potential of professional victimhood. They were too busy fighting World War II.

My father emigrated to the United States where he married my mother, a woman of English and Irish heritage. This resulted in my mishmash of genes, chromosomes and DNA that are expected to coexist in a time when victimhood has become a cottage industry. (Since my Spanish great-grandfather originated in Spain, not South America, he is considered European which means his genes don’t qualify as being Hispanic.)

I am, in short, a European-American, a WASP in the vernacular, and, as such, am responsible for much of the misfortune in the world.

For example: My fondness for red meat has resulted in the deforestation of the rainforest, nee Jungle, in South America, a continent I have never visited. I’m also greedy for wanting to hang on to my earnings and not fork over what I earn to the Feds so they can give it to someone who deserves it more than I. According to someone named Bono, who earns more in a day than most people do in a year, we Euro-Americans (I shortened it) are responsible for poverty in Africa, another continent I’ve never been to. Why the Africans aren’t responsible for their own poverty, Bono didn’t explain.

Among our Euro-American panoply of sins is a connection, albeit tenuous, to Christopher Columbus who, by bringing Europeans to the new world (apparently it wasn’t built at the same time as the old one) destroyed a thriving civilization. (Why this thriving civilization didn’t discover Spain is beyond me.)

But all that pales when you consider that we Westerners wantonly assaulted the South Pole with hair spray, breath freshener, Freon and underarm deodorant, resulting in the fryanization of Planet Earth. Never mind that the globe got a lot hotter during the Medieval warming period, that this warming period also coincides with increased solar activity or that Mars is heating up, too. It’s us. We did it with automobiles and central heating.

This is heavy stuff. Just ask Bono.

But those are not the reasons my genes are in an uproar. The reason I’m not getting along with myself  is that parts of my genetic code have determined that I should make full restitution to other parts of my genetic code for ills perpetrated in the past.

Here’s how it goes: In the 8th and 9th centuries, my Viking ancestors sallied out of the frozen fjords in fearsome-looking dragon ships and wreaked havoc on whatever country they happened across. Unfortunately for my British ancestors, that’d be Britain, although one particularly inept navigator (Lief Ericsson) overshot Scotland, Britain and Ireland entirely and blundered into North America where people he called skraelings sent him packing.

The Vikings were an unsavory lot similar to Klingons on the old Star Trek series.Rather than just taking in the sights, they spent their time ashore raping, maiming, murdering, plundering and pillaging. Those they didn’t maim, rape, murder, plunder or pillage, they enslaved.

To rub salt in the wound, they also colonized parts of Britain and forced those they didn’t rape, maim, murder, plunder or pillage to pay protection money called Danegeld. And that’s the rub. My British genes want the money back. My Viking genes claim they don’t have the foggiest idea how many Dangelds are in a dollar. Frankly, it’s a dilemma.

My other European forebears cut up a little, too, but those particular genes generally have forgiven each other. My Spanish ancestors went so far as to send an armada against my British ancestors, but my British genes don’t hold that against them. Probably because they didn’t make them cough up Spaingeld. And despite the fact my British ancestors cut the head off the Scots’ queen, my self insists these altercations come out pretty much a draw. Except for that little Inquisition thing. But then again, none of me is Jewish or Moorish and Protestants hadn’t been invented then.

If only these double helices were as open-minded when it comes to the Vikings. The English, Irish and Scottish chromosomes remain incensed. Probably because of the slavery thing. Apparently raping, maiming, murdering, plundering and pillaging is small potatoes when compared to slavery. Never mind that every group has either enslaved or been enslaved since the first apes climbed down from the trees. The Viking genes further claim that no Dane living today took part in any of the Vikings’ bad behavior, that what happened centuries ago can’t possibly be pertinent today. But the British and Scottish genes aren’t buying it. They demand payment.

To make matters even more complicated, I married someone of French-English descent, and if our son should happen to elope with a Russian, one can only imagine the conflict in their children’s cells owing to that Imperialistic little dwarf, Napoleon Bonaparte.

But on the bright side, it could be worse. I could have Macedonian genes and owe reparations to the descendants of the entire known world in the time of Alexander.

Beam Me Up, Scottie

By now, readers of Growltiger's Litterbox get that this cat is a tennis fan. Mee-oow! 

Right now, even though Growltiger pays for cable and has The Tennis Channel, TTC isn't televising the Western and Southern Tournament in Cincinnati. That's because ESPN bought the rights to televise the tournament, but in its infinite wisdom, elected instead to televise Little League Baseball. You read that right. Little League Baseball. Not major league baseball, not even minor league baseball. Little League Baseball. Little kids.

To ESPN's credit, it does have a crawl informing those who might think they want to watch professional tennis go to their computer instead and watch on ESPN III. 

Beam me up, Scottie; I've landed on Planet Moron!

How is it possible that in the 21st century, with cable and Fios and direct satellite TV, the rules and regulations of broadcast do not allow broadcasters to compete? Oh, damn. Scrub that. I forgot about lobbyists. I forgot about crony capitalism. I forgot about how we the people, have little or no say in our lives anymore.  

Mission Accomplished

To: Fellow Tennis Gods

From: Tennis God in charge of Draws

Date: August 18, 2012

Subject: Mission Accomplished

Our boy, Roger, is playing his fellow Swissard, Stan Wawrinka, in the semis of the Western and Southern Open today, so unless he breaks a leg he's in the finals. His record against Stan is pretty good: 10 wins to 1 loss.

I thought for sure I'd get caught this time, putting 4th seeded Ferrer (0-13 against Roger), Berdych (4-10) who's having a bad year, Monaco (0-4) and, of course, Mardy Fish who just had a heart ablation procedure a few months ago in Roger's half of the draw, but nobody seemed to notice save for some cat named Growltiger. Tennis fans, sports reporters and tennis commentators are not going to get a call from NASA any time soon, are they?

Meanwhile, I put stacked Djokovic's half with a very hot Del Potro (6) and Murray (3) (both of whom just beat him at the Olympics) along with Tipsarevic (7), his friend and countryman, and Seppi (who nearly took him out of Roland Garros). Naturally, I saw to it that Julien Bennateau was in Djokovic's half, also. Though it was a fluke, the Frenchman nearly beat Roger at Wimbledon. As I said, tennis reporters, commentators and fans are not going to be calculating the trajectory for the next Mars landing, are they? 

So on to the U. S. Open. With Rafa out of the mix, I'll make sure to stick Murray and Del Potro in Djokovic's half maximizing our boy's chances. Don't worry about the fans, commentators and reporters catching on. They're clueless. But if you need brain surgery, better not call any of them. The tumor would have to be growing out your ear before they'd notice. 

Back on Course

Whew. Now that our Roger is back on top of the tennis pile and seeded number one at Cincinnati, we tennis gods don't have to screw with the draw like we did after that Serbian upstart, Djokovic, clawed his way to number 1.

Four majors have been played since Djokovic got the top spot, and, knowing our Roger has a tougher time with Rafael Nadal than he does with Djokovic, we've had to be contortionists to keep Fed in the Djoker's half of the draw. Like at the 2011 U. S. Open when for the first time since 2007, we put 1 and 3 in the same half. It was only pure coincidence that Djokovic was number 1 and our Roger number 3.  In the 3 years prior to that, 2 and 3 were in the same half, but had we done that in 2011, Roger and Nadal would have met in the semifinals and thus only one could have made it to the finals. Didn't want that.

We goofed at the 2012 Australian and sure enough our Roger and Nadal met in the semis. Djokovic and Nadal gave the fans a 6 hour tennis final of superb tennis, but it just didn't suit us not to have our Roger there. So we fixed it at the French Open. In 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011, we put 1 and 4 in the same half of the draw. Had we done that in 2012, our Roger would have been in Rafael's half. No way, Jose. Nobody noticed that we put Roger back in Novak's half where he belonged except some troublemaker blogger named Growltiger.

It was no problem putting Roger and Novak in the same half at Wimbledon. Wimbledon has traditions and one of the traditions is that Federer and Djokovic are in the same half of the draw no matter where they are ranked. For example: 2008 when Roger was 1 and Novak 3; 2009 when Roger was 2 and Novak 4; 2010 when Roger was 2 and Novak 3; 2011 when Novak was 2 and Roger 3. So in 2012 with Novak ranked 1 and our Roger the third seed, nobody questioned us except that cat Growltiger. 

As we hoped, Roger defeated the upstart Serb in the semis and went on to win the tournament and reclaim his rightful place on the tennis throne. 

With Nadal injured, he no longer is in Federer's way. (Even if he weren't hurt, he'd be ranked third, so we'd stick him in Novak's half. Watch for it in the U. S. Open). 

Unfortunately, Djokovic is ranked number 2, so it just isn't possible to put him and Roger in the same half at Cincinnati. Even the dullest tennis fans and stupidest commentators would notice if we went that far. So we did the next best thing we could. We made sure Murray (3) and Del Potro (6) wouldn't take him out before the finals. Yep, there they are over in Novak's half where they belong. Are we slick or not?