So who among us, upon the release of The Princess Bride, could ever imagine the type of actress Robin Wright (Penn) would become? She was beautiful and tan and not particularly notable for being anything other than beautiful and tan. And now? All hooked up with Sean Penn, El Senor Hollywood Political Rabblerouser? And she's no longer so beautiful-- attractive in a brittle, fury-filled sort of way, sure, but certainly no longer the translucent and glittery princess.
And now, she makes movies like Sorry Haters. I saw a couple of previews for this movie on some other DVDs I'd rented recently but otherwise, I'd never heard of it. And why it hasn't gotten more attention is beyond me. Truly, this is what movie-making should aspire to. It's provocative and tough and mysterious... and it's Robin Wright Penn all the way down to her grown-out roots!
I can't even begin to offer a plot summary here as this is a movie that can only reveal itself as it's being told. But I can say that it touches on some momentous cultural hotpoints-- and is therefore, a delicious compliment to Paradise Now, which I also watched this past weekend. At its heart, Sorry Haters is a movie about the psychological repercussions of two women who were once friends but can no longer be so once they find themselves in different socio-economic strata. But that's not what makes this movie provocative and tough and mysterious. This movie is also about nostalgia for 9/11.
The idea that there are those among us who pine for the camaraderie, the victimhood, the nationalistic fervor that followed the terrorist attacks of that day is an idea so fucked up that it pushes me to the verge of vomiting, I swear. Regardless, this is a sentiment that I know exists. We liberals find it hard to believe but in the weeks following 9/11, President Bush had an approval rating of over 90%. That means that a ginormous portion of left-leaning Americans thought Bush's "We're gonna smoke 'im out" mentality was on the right track. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my TV, in a little shithole apartment in Tucson where the ghetto-birds (surveillance helicopters, for those not familiar with Tucson law enforcement) scanned my backyard nightly, sobbing and asking my then-girlfriend why no one was stopping to ask why these folks, half a world away, were so fucking pissed at us Americans, with our SUVs and our functional plumbing and our cheap $1.50/gal gas and our "democracy is right" moral superiority. I am NOT nostalgic. I am disgusted and ashamed that nary a single fucking American politician paused; took a moment to empathize with these angry men; thought, for even a split-second, whether their anger was justified--even a little. And so, this character that Robin Wright Penn plays? Man, do I hate her. I hate her for her extreme self-involvement. I hate her for her myopia. I hate her because she is every bit the self-satisfied, smug American that I am. I hate that she hates herself for all the wrong reasons. And most especially, I hate her because the evil which she perpetrates over the course of the story could so easily be discounted as psychosis-- as everyday, pedestrian insanity.
I maintain that there is something wrong with us--wrong with this country--if we've managed to cast ourselves in the role of "victim" here without ever being held truly accountable for all the evil we perpetrate out there-- out there around this globe-- because I know that someone out there will relate to this woman and cheer her on. And that someone won't be the *only* someone.
And so, quite simply, I cannot offer any sort of rational analysis of this movie. I can only imagine that Robin Wright Penn chose this role because she knew this movie would inspire impassioned responses-- from WHOEVER sees it-- fashioned from an incredibly broad spectrum of opinions. And therefore, this role might be the biggest risk she's taken to date-- and that's only in part because the movie doesn't even begin to take sides. In fact, it doesn't even offer clear-cut "sides!" What I mean is, if you sat 15 people in front of a screen and played this movie, they'd have 15 different arguments that they could make and support based on the content here alone.
And so, dear readers, I implore you: rent Sorry Haters. This story is an important square in the patchwork of the post-9/11 American thought process. It's meaningful in this way few pieces of American cinema can live up to. And no one's ever heard of this movie-- when it should be on the tip of EVERYONE'S tongue. In the end, it's the sort of film that gives me hope that artistic endeavor DOES still have SOME FUCKING RELEVANCE! C'mon, guys-- my paltry few-- don't let me down... see this thing!
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
And now for a cigarette
Occasionaly, even I need a break from kinky movies about sexual politics.
I wasn't sure I wanted to see Paradise Now when I first began seeing trailers in the theatres last spring. This sort of movie, in which Middle Eastern Muslims are protagonists, generally get me as stirred up as left-leaning documentaries. And now that I've seen it, I feel that this movie should be required viewing for all Americans-- just like I said about Who Killed the Electric Car?.
This is a movie about two guys who are Palenstinian would-be suicide bombers. If a movie like this can engender even the slightest sense of empathy in an American audience, we might be able to turn this country in another direction... a direction that points away from this retarded succubus of a war that we've got on our hands right now.
If you think all the suicide bombers must be lunatics, must be irrational religious zealots, must not give two shits for their families or those of whom they take down with them, must not have brains in their heads...well, then this movie will provide the perspective adjustment that you need. They are not going out with bombs strapped to their bellies in a vaccuum...or for no reason... or just to be mean. There is a cultural contexts that creates these guys.
But that said, there's not much analysis I can offer of a movie like this because, frankly, I'm too invested. Rent it. Seriously. Like I said, it should be required.
I wasn't sure I wanted to see Paradise Now when I first began seeing trailers in the theatres last spring. This sort of movie, in which Middle Eastern Muslims are protagonists, generally get me as stirred up as left-leaning documentaries. And now that I've seen it, I feel that this movie should be required viewing for all Americans-- just like I said about Who Killed the Electric Car?.
This is a movie about two guys who are Palenstinian would-be suicide bombers. If a movie like this can engender even the slightest sense of empathy in an American audience, we might be able to turn this country in another direction... a direction that points away from this retarded succubus of a war that we've got on our hands right now.
If you think all the suicide bombers must be lunatics, must be irrational religious zealots, must not give two shits for their families or those of whom they take down with them, must not have brains in their heads...well, then this movie will provide the perspective adjustment that you need. They are not going out with bombs strapped to their bellies in a vaccuum...or for no reason... or just to be mean. There is a cultural contexts that creates these guys.
But that said, there's not much analysis I can offer of a movie like this because, frankly, I'm too invested. Rent it. Seriously. Like I said, it should be required.
more complicated than butterscotch, spicier than cinnamon discs
And then there's Hard Candy. I watched this movie on Friday night and have spent all weekend trying to wrap my head around how I feel about it. Part of my reluctance to have an opinion comes out of the feeling that I got from this movie that the filmmakers were very invested in having the audience take sides. To explain that, I have to offer a little summary: basically, this man and a 14-year-old girl are chatting on the internet and decide to meet up for coffee... they wind up at his place and just when he thinks he's gonna get her drunk and fuck her, or take pictures of her, or whatever...she drugs him and unleashes several hours of vigilante-style torture on his ass. Now, I spent a long post rambling on about how I'm filled with dismay at the fear-mongering regarding internet predators that's been going on within the cultural discourse (in particular, as it pertains to Dateline). And, of course, before I go too deep, I feel the need to disavow any notion that I might be condoning molestation of children-- but dammit, 14-year-olds have more agency than 8-year-olds. 14-year-olds are mid- or post-pubescent people with sexual identities that younger kids lack. And yeah, 14-year-olds generally lack judgement and experience, but this insistence that they're still completely child-like is preposterous. This is part of why the whole Mark Foley business just pisses me off. I mean, here's a grand opportunity to begin a discussion about what's amiss in a culture which posits heavily sexualized teenagers in every media venue imaginable and then relishes in smearing a guy who, after a lifetime of being exposed to this sort of pervasive message, thinks, well, yeah, 16-year-old guys ARE sexy. But no, it's easier--and more politically advantageous for Democrats, since Foley happens to be Republican, to reduce to his actions as symptomatic of a Republican-centric "culture of corruption" instead of a nation-wide one. Or maybe we're not all corrupted, but we are certainly conflicted about teenage sexuality. I mean,does it exist? (um, yeah, of course it does) Why, then, are we creeped out by the idea of a 30 year-old-guy and a 16-year-old girl having sex? (I don't rightly know...) Is it wrong to promote that teenage sexuality in a capitalist, consumerist forum (hmmm.. maybe... would take more intelectual discourse than is acceptable in a political arena to find an answer, probably) Is it the fault of the media that adults are sexually attracted to people who are arbitrarily deemed "minors?" ( hmmm...maybe... this might venture dangerously close to the discussion about whether or not the media is as fault for perpetuating eating disorders and negative body images, so it's best if we leave that alone too.)But this is a huge digression. I really do want to talk about some other issues in this movie.
I could also launch into a train of thought that begins with Little Red Ridinghood, wanders through Lolita, makes a detour into Freeway, and then winds up somewhere in this movie but instead, I think I'll go somewhere else.
So, back on track: Ellen Page, the actress playing "Hayley," our antihero, certainly has an on-screen sexual presence. This is undeniable. She has a near-perfectly symmetrical little elfin face with a swollen mouth and enormous liquidy eyes. Her body is lithe and muscular, and even though she's tiny, she's anything but delicate. Her hair is cropped very short-- but I can't imagine that longer hair would do anything to disguise the fact that she has a noteable "butch-ness" about her. And Patrick Wilson, the guy playing the anti-villain, is an awfully cute guy as well. And so, there is a very complicated sexual chemistry between these two. On one hand she's playing coquettish gender-bender... she compliments his body, she flirts, she is consummately provocative... and yet, I can't help but think she's exactly the sort of girl I've always been attracted to... the ones that made guys uncomfortable because they don't even attempt to put on the Feminity Show. And then, the matter of his also being so good-looking also messes with the collective head of the audience, in that, he's so much the type that fills your average teenage girl's head when she's practicing kissing her pillow (do I mean "kissing her pillow" to be code for "masturbating?" Probably.) So, basically, here we have two folks matched up in an adversarial context, who get through life propelled by the sexuality they each wear on their respective sleeves. In the "special features," there was some discussion about the casting of Ellen Page in this role. Apparently, she won the part because she reads as both intelligent and vulnerable on screen-- and she does. But it's like all these men-- the director, the producer, the writer-- didn't want to talk about the fact that they cast her because she's 14-- and she LOOKS 14-- and she's also sexy as hell. They did talk about how they wanted Patrick Wilson to be sympathetic, not a monster (a la Humbert Humbert?)... but they failed to mention that they'd cast an actress who was anything but innocent. And so, these two vibrate off of each other in this completely unnerving way.
Now, as I mentioned before, I think this movie would be easier to watch if you were more willing to take sides. If, perhaps, you think men lusting after teenage girls is tantamount to rape, perhaps you'd let Hayley's anger fuel your own. If, perhaps, you think having a little brat castrate a man and drive him to suicide (oops, spoiler)is spot too extreme, you'll land on the side of Jeff. But I don't want to take sides. I don't think I can figure out a psychologically plausible explanation for Hayley's actions in any real-world scenario. Maybe that's because those actions were written by a man-- I find it to be a real stretch to imagine this girl as anything other than an incarnation of a twisted psycho-sexual revenge fantasy, a limited figment of a male imagination. And Jeff is really just another Humbert Humbert who is sympathetic only because he's so crippled by his own desires that he can't admit to himself that he's a predator. And who doesn't love a sexy self-deluded sad sack, really? Just for the sake of argument, I'd really love to see this sort of subject matter in the hands of women writers and directors. I'd hate to see Hayley and Jeff fall into a more predictable victim/violator relationship but I can't take sides between two characters who never really develop themselves beyond two flipsides of male fantasies. Hayley is the worst fear and the biggest S&M-driven wet dream of plenty of guys. Jeff is the predator rendered human by someone who is reticent to indict all men with the fell swoop of one such character. They, in the end, are just so many more chess pieces in the sexual politics game. And ones that fall short of realism, I think.
I could also launch into a train of thought that begins with Little Red Ridinghood, wanders through Lolita, makes a detour into Freeway, and then winds up somewhere in this movie but instead, I think I'll go somewhere else.
So, back on track: Ellen Page, the actress playing "Hayley," our antihero, certainly has an on-screen sexual presence. This is undeniable. She has a near-perfectly symmetrical little elfin face with a swollen mouth and enormous liquidy eyes. Her body is lithe and muscular, and even though she's tiny, she's anything but delicate. Her hair is cropped very short-- but I can't imagine that longer hair would do anything to disguise the fact that she has a noteable "butch-ness" about her. And Patrick Wilson, the guy playing the anti-villain, is an awfully cute guy as well. And so, there is a very complicated sexual chemistry between these two. On one hand she's playing coquettish gender-bender... she compliments his body, she flirts, she is consummately provocative... and yet, I can't help but think she's exactly the sort of girl I've always been attracted to... the ones that made guys uncomfortable because they don't even attempt to put on the Feminity Show. And then, the matter of his also being so good-looking also messes with the collective head of the audience, in that, he's so much the type that fills your average teenage girl's head when she's practicing kissing her pillow (do I mean "kissing her pillow" to be code for "masturbating?" Probably.) So, basically, here we have two folks matched up in an adversarial context, who get through life propelled by the sexuality they each wear on their respective sleeves. In the "special features," there was some discussion about the casting of Ellen Page in this role. Apparently, she won the part because she reads as both intelligent and vulnerable on screen-- and she does. But it's like all these men-- the director, the producer, the writer-- didn't want to talk about the fact that they cast her because she's 14-- and she LOOKS 14-- and she's also sexy as hell. They did talk about how they wanted Patrick Wilson to be sympathetic, not a monster (a la Humbert Humbert?)... but they failed to mention that they'd cast an actress who was anything but innocent. And so, these two vibrate off of each other in this completely unnerving way.
Now, as I mentioned before, I think this movie would be easier to watch if you were more willing to take sides. If, perhaps, you think men lusting after teenage girls is tantamount to rape, perhaps you'd let Hayley's anger fuel your own. If, perhaps, you think having a little brat castrate a man and drive him to suicide (oops, spoiler)is spot too extreme, you'll land on the side of Jeff. But I don't want to take sides. I don't think I can figure out a psychologically plausible explanation for Hayley's actions in any real-world scenario. Maybe that's because those actions were written by a man-- I find it to be a real stretch to imagine this girl as anything other than an incarnation of a twisted psycho-sexual revenge fantasy, a limited figment of a male imagination. And Jeff is really just another Humbert Humbert who is sympathetic only because he's so crippled by his own desires that he can't admit to himself that he's a predator. And who doesn't love a sexy self-deluded sad sack, really? Just for the sake of argument, I'd really love to see this sort of subject matter in the hands of women writers and directors. I'd hate to see Hayley and Jeff fall into a more predictable victim/violator relationship but I can't take sides between two characters who never really develop themselves beyond two flipsides of male fantasies. Hayley is the worst fear and the biggest S&M-driven wet dream of plenty of guys. Jeff is the predator rendered human by someone who is reticent to indict all men with the fell swoop of one such character. They, in the end, are just so many more chess pieces in the sexual politics game. And ones that fall short of realism, I think.
It's either this or shopping
I've never been one to make friends all that quickly. Despite a fairly contrived bravado, I'm both very shy and a devoted loner. The close friends that I do have are basically people who have not been put off by the fact that, once I've targeted them as having friendship potential, I want to know all their most intimate details... and likewise, dump all of mine upon them--in rapid succession. And then I incorporate, like so much flour into the batter, that little handful of people into my life-long menagerie. If one happens to get away for some reason or other, I mourn them terribly. From what I understand, the enneagram essays on the internet all tell me this is pretty much textbook behavior for 5s with a sexual variant. That said, it means that developing a circle in a new city is slow-going. And, really, I can't say I terribly mind having some time every weekend to not having other people's voices barging into my head space.
But all of that is just to say that, I've been trying very hard to head off the enormous temptation to drive into Georgetown and wear myself out shopping up and down M Street. The shoes...the clothes...the cosmetics...the spas...the houseware stores... I'm not really all that discriminating, am I? And so, I've rented more movies than I can really properly process.
First up is Between Your Legs (Entre Las Piernas), starring the very handsome Javier Bardem and Victoria Abril (the same chick who was in Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, the movie with which I attempted to torture the most freakish of all my college roommates (alas, she did not leave)). This is basically a stylish little thriller and some of the characters are incidentally sex addicts. The back cover threatened far more sex than was actually in this movie-- and I think whoever wrote it for American release got a little confused because it attributes some actions to one guy... when, in actuality, a completely incidental character in the movie acted out those moments. An easy mistake perhaps, as there are several men in this movie who all have the most typically Spanish--handsome--faces. In other words, everyone looks so much alike, it's easy to mix people up. All in all, the compulsive behavior of the characters-- which is a rich mine to plumb, generally-- is kinda neglected as subject matter from the halfway point on. And up until that halfway point, I wasn't aware that there was a murder mystery patiently awaiting to be addressed! All in all, the look was interesting. The actors were sexy in their European imperfections. Bardem's shirts were beautifully colored, beautifully tailored and beautifully worn. And stylistically, the director (Manuel Gomex Pereira) gave it the college try, but the script was so Swiss-cheesy that it didn't really stand a chance.
'Tis going to be a very long post if I talk about all the movies I've been watching lately so I'm going to split it up a little. Perhaps shorter posts won't overwhelm the readers that exist in my little blogofantasy.
But all of that is just to say that, I've been trying very hard to head off the enormous temptation to drive into Georgetown and wear myself out shopping up and down M Street. The shoes...the clothes...the cosmetics...the spas...the houseware stores... I'm not really all that discriminating, am I? And so, I've rented more movies than I can really properly process.
First up is Between Your Legs (Entre Las Piernas), starring the very handsome Javier Bardem and Victoria Abril (the same chick who was in Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, the movie with which I attempted to torture the most freakish of all my college roommates (alas, she did not leave)). This is basically a stylish little thriller and some of the characters are incidentally sex addicts. The back cover threatened far more sex than was actually in this movie-- and I think whoever wrote it for American release got a little confused because it attributes some actions to one guy... when, in actuality, a completely incidental character in the movie acted out those moments. An easy mistake perhaps, as there are several men in this movie who all have the most typically Spanish--handsome--faces. In other words, everyone looks so much alike, it's easy to mix people up. All in all, the compulsive behavior of the characters-- which is a rich mine to plumb, generally-- is kinda neglected as subject matter from the halfway point on. And up until that halfway point, I wasn't aware that there was a murder mystery patiently awaiting to be addressed! All in all, the look was interesting. The actors were sexy in their European imperfections. Bardem's shirts were beautifully colored, beautifully tailored and beautifully worn. And stylistically, the director (Manuel Gomex Pereira) gave it the college try, but the script was so Swiss-cheesy that it didn't really stand a chance.
'Tis going to be a very long post if I talk about all the movies I've been watching lately so I'm going to split it up a little. Perhaps shorter posts won't overwhelm the readers that exist in my little blogofantasy.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Justice for our "Rabbi Punkmann"
On this, the morning after the Project Runway finale, I'm pleased to note that justice has been served. For all of us who were once Michael fans, do we not all feel a little let down with this collection that walked right out of the Bebe store window? And Laura-- as I see her (and posted on Damon's blog--but I think I'm so clever that I'll repeat it here), she's just Ann-Taylor-Goes-to-Vegas-but-Keeps-Her-Knickers-On. She had a couple cute pieces, but overall? *yawn* And! A redhead should know to never dress a redhead model in head-to-toe camel. That little turtleneck dress wasn't awful but it sure looked like it was on that pale, knobby-kneed little girl! Uli's venturing away from the loud chiffon halter dress were actually pretty successful. Her foray into sportswear was pretty great... except I wasn't crazy about the silver/gold conservative color palate there. Still, shapes and structure were an improvement.
Oh, but Jeffrey! Obviously, he's the best craftsman in the bunch-- despite the very contrived editing of the second-to-last show which had Laura questioning it. And hooray for a designer who sees clothes, not as functional garments but as a venue for his artistic expression. His line was beautifully made and ingenious... but loony and silly and cute and twisted and sexy and complicated. True, I wouldn't wear much of it-- but I sure like to watch other people do so! I maintain that Jeffrey, Michael and Alison were the best designers of the bunch. I think Jeffrey's line was just in another echelon from Michael's. And it's really just a shame that the producers decided to keep Vincent around past the expiration date on his Paxil simply so he could kavetch and get artistic erections for another couple of episodes. I would really have liked to have seen just what Alison could do. Perhaps she could have given Jeffrey the run for his money that the other three in the top 4 failed to do. Because, in the end, there was no contest.
Oh, but Jeffrey! Obviously, he's the best craftsman in the bunch-- despite the very contrived editing of the second-to-last show which had Laura questioning it. And hooray for a designer who sees clothes, not as functional garments but as a venue for his artistic expression. His line was beautifully made and ingenious... but loony and silly and cute and twisted and sexy and complicated. True, I wouldn't wear much of it-- but I sure like to watch other people do so! I maintain that Jeffrey, Michael and Alison were the best designers of the bunch. I think Jeffrey's line was just in another echelon from Michael's. And it's really just a shame that the producers decided to keep Vincent around past the expiration date on his Paxil simply so he could kavetch and get artistic erections for another couple of episodes. I would really have liked to have seen just what Alison could do. Perhaps she could have given Jeffrey the run for his money that the other three in the top 4 failed to do. Because, in the end, there was no contest.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Love Song for Noah
Noah was my first Valentine from Michelle. We'd just moved in together and I was missing my parents' Springer Boudreaux somethin' feirce. We saw the ad in the paper. We said decided we shouldn't get a puppy. We decided we should visit the Springer breeder "just to look." We decided we wanted a liver-and-white female. I picked up the prettiest pup in the box (a black-and-white male) and it was a done deal. He was all fat and bloated b/c the breeder was feeding him crappy Wal-Mart food and he farted the whole way home. We thought he had a wad of food glued into the fur on the top of his head, but upon his innaugural bath, we discovered that, no, the hair just grew in the wrong direction-- he had a dorsal fin. We registered his name with the AKC as "Noah's Little Orca."
Since then, that dog and I have been obsessed with each other night and day. He is my lap blanket who smells like corn chips, the best damn dog I could ever have asked for, my love and my constant.
When Michelle and I split up, we had an agreement that anything that was a gift belonged the reciever, not the giver. But Noah wasn't really part of that deal-- he was always my dog, no matter what.
However.
I now have a job that requires me to be away from home an average of 11 hours a day.
However.
Noah has never been completely alone-- there was always another dog or Michelle or me or one of my retired parents around to keep him company. As a result, as I discovered when my dad drove him here to DC last weekend, he emits a non-stop stream of high-pitched, panicked barking when left alone for longer than 15 minutes. I learned this second-hand from my neighbors (who were, understandably, on the verge of creating a lynchmob or calling the cops on his neurotic ass) on the one night Fred and I went out to dinner.
However.
My new schmancy job requires me to go to Hawaii for a week (a week that, coincidentally coinicides (ha! redundant!) with my 30th birthday) in December, and, upon study of the going rates for dog boarding around here, I discovered that I would fork over nearly twice my (already quite pricey) rent in order to keep him someplace safe in my absense.
And so.
I've sent my drooly-mouthed, sheddin' bastard, floppy, spazzy, mush-face of a schmog back home to stay with my parents-- who dote on him with ridiculous frequency, who have a dog of there own who lives to wrassle-- so that he can be safe and happy.
I can't help but feel I'm letting him down. I can't help but feel terribly lonely here in this city of strangers. I can't help but feel guilty no matter what choice I'd made.
This is the crappiest week I've had since I moved here. So far.
(Oh, I miss you so, my Peanutio P.!)
Since then, that dog and I have been obsessed with each other night and day. He is my lap blanket who smells like corn chips, the best damn dog I could ever have asked for, my love and my constant.
When Michelle and I split up, we had an agreement that anything that was a gift belonged the reciever, not the giver. But Noah wasn't really part of that deal-- he was always my dog, no matter what.
However.
I now have a job that requires me to be away from home an average of 11 hours a day.
However.
Noah has never been completely alone-- there was always another dog or Michelle or me or one of my retired parents around to keep him company. As a result, as I discovered when my dad drove him here to DC last weekend, he emits a non-stop stream of high-pitched, panicked barking when left alone for longer than 15 minutes. I learned this second-hand from my neighbors (who were, understandably, on the verge of creating a lynchmob or calling the cops on his neurotic ass) on the one night Fred and I went out to dinner.
However.
My new schmancy job requires me to go to Hawaii for a week (a week that, coincidentally coinicides (ha! redundant!) with my 30th birthday) in December, and, upon study of the going rates for dog boarding around here, I discovered that I would fork over nearly twice my (already quite pricey) rent in order to keep him someplace safe in my absense.
And so.
I've sent my drooly-mouthed, sheddin' bastard, floppy, spazzy, mush-face of a schmog back home to stay with my parents-- who dote on him with ridiculous frequency, who have a dog of there own who lives to wrassle-- so that he can be safe and happy.
I can't help but feel I'm letting him down. I can't help but feel terribly lonely here in this city of strangers. I can't help but feel guilty no matter what choice I'd made.
This is the crappiest week I've had since I moved here. So far.
(Oh, I miss you so, my Peanutio P.!)
What's intended to be quick thoughts (we'll see how it pans out)
Barack Obama for President:
Over the past week, I've been hearing his name more and more (finally someone other than the junior senator from New York who may as well get a target tattooed on her forehead)and, really, what's holding this guy back? His reputation is spotless. From all accounts, he--so far-- purports to be an ACTUAL liberal. He's a dynamic speaker. He's handsome. He's genuine. He's got a charming folksy background story. Someone, please, find a fault! Or no, wait, don't. Let him stay perfect. If he and Jon Stewart were to have a baby, I think I'd marry it (given that it had Jon Stewart's hair-- the African American hair genes would not mix well with my Crazy Jew Hair genes, I'm very sorry to say).
Except that I'd hate to see him become a target like Hillary. And I'd hate to see him compromise his "liberal-ness" towards that pansy-ass notion of "The Moderate." I don't want a moderate in office, dammit! I want an actual goddamn liberal who will refuse to alienate his core constituency by cow-towing to the retarded--uh, religious--right!
Ford/Corker
Hey, what do you know? The Tennessee senate race is getting plenty o' press here in DC! Now, as anyone reading Jon's blog knows, I ain't no huge Ford fan... But man-o-man, if they can stir up enough publicity, he's sure a better bet than Bob "I'm More Republican-y Than You" Corker! However, Green Party, you are a tempting mistress indeed.
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Is this show too good to be true? I mean, here's a show, on a major network station, that is consistently-- and accurately--critical of its very own network? It's smart, sexy, literate, and full of heart--not to mention, pointedly self-reflective. I mean, I don't get HBO. If I wanna get hooked on Deadwood, I'd have to fork over another $30 towards my already exorbitant cable bill... or rent it at Blockbuster. I'm not eager to do either, really. So, this is just to say, thank you, Aaron Sorkin, thank you NBC honchos-- for appreciating that not every member of your audience wants to watch "molesters" be badgered by a dickhead "news reporter" (see post re: Dateline: To Catch a Predator).
Over the past week, I've been hearing his name more and more (finally someone other than the junior senator from New York who may as well get a target tattooed on her forehead)and, really, what's holding this guy back? His reputation is spotless. From all accounts, he--so far-- purports to be an ACTUAL liberal. He's a dynamic speaker. He's handsome. He's genuine. He's got a charming folksy background story. Someone, please, find a fault! Or no, wait, don't. Let him stay perfect. If he and Jon Stewart were to have a baby, I think I'd marry it (given that it had Jon Stewart's hair-- the African American hair genes would not mix well with my Crazy Jew Hair genes, I'm very sorry to say).
Except that I'd hate to see him become a target like Hillary. And I'd hate to see him compromise his "liberal-ness" towards that pansy-ass notion of "The Moderate." I don't want a moderate in office, dammit! I want an actual goddamn liberal who will refuse to alienate his core constituency by cow-towing to the retarded--uh, religious--right!
Ford/Corker
Hey, what do you know? The Tennessee senate race is getting plenty o' press here in DC! Now, as anyone reading Jon's blog knows, I ain't no huge Ford fan... But man-o-man, if they can stir up enough publicity, he's sure a better bet than Bob "I'm More Republican-y Than You" Corker! However, Green Party, you are a tempting mistress indeed.
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Is this show too good to be true? I mean, here's a show, on a major network station, that is consistently-- and accurately--critical of its very own network? It's smart, sexy, literate, and full of heart--not to mention, pointedly self-reflective. I mean, I don't get HBO. If I wanna get hooked on Deadwood, I'd have to fork over another $30 towards my already exorbitant cable bill... or rent it at Blockbuster. I'm not eager to do either, really. So, this is just to say, thank you, Aaron Sorkin, thank you NBC honchos-- for appreciating that not every member of your audience wants to watch "molesters" be badgered by a dickhead "news reporter" (see post re: Dateline: To Catch a Predator).
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I hate women?
A couple of years ago, I flinched all through Lars Von Trier's Dogville, the opening item in his would-be trilogy which also includes the more recent Manderlay. Last I read, there were no plans to make the third movie. I'm not sure if it even got written. But anyway, I had really no inclination to put myself through a viewing of Manderlay because Dogville was so uncomfortable. In theory, these movies are interesting, with their minimalist style-- the set it basically a black stage with taped-off lines that delineate various buildings and structures. But Von Trier has this thing about putting a woman, the best intentioned, most innocent, good-hearted sort of woman, in a situation in which she is bludgeoned psychologically and physically, in which she is raped, beaten, abused, demoralized-- until the very end, that is, when she is given an opportunity to exact her revenge. And she takes it. With a great show of pyrotechnics and gleeful cruelty. And so, I rented Dancer in the Dark hoping it wouldn't be so much of the same scenario, hoping to avoid when I knew awaited me in Manderlay. Now, I know this movie is old news, in many ways-- but,I mean, it's a musical with a hanging in it? A musical starring Bjork? But, true enough, it's been out already for 6 years already.
But, really, I think it's just like Dogville without the revenge sequence at the end. I mean, Bjork plays this woman who is just about the sweetest, most cherubic, most sympathetic woman ever written-- she's an immigrant factory worker who is going blind and trying to save money for her son to have an operation that will prevent him from going blind too. And she occupies Bjork's little body, in all her subversively cute glory. And she sings and dances to the rhythm of the factory machines... but then Von Trier decides he needs to destroy her so he has her landlord steal all her savings, accuse her of stealing from him, and then frame her for his own suicide. She is sentenced to death, but is still singing away when the floor drops out from under her.
Now, I know part of what Von Trier is getting at in this movie as well as Dogville and Manderlay is that he's issuing forth an indictment on American greed and the way America treats innocents and "the good." In Dogville, a woman who desires to flagellate herself for leading a sexually,um, shall we say, exploratory life gets her wish-- and then some. I gather from reviews that Manderlay regards a white woman who is trying to break down the only remaining American town in which blacks are still enslaved-- but winds up being enslaved herself-- and here's Dancer in the Dark in which an immigrant woman gets beaten down, and her image of -- what?-- the American Dream? gets shot down and trampled upon in a distinctly unpleasant manner. So, I get that part-- all the American idealism gets corrupted by puritanicalism, by greed and revenge, by simple hubris... and everyone loves a scapegoat. I got it. All very interesting swampy stuff in which I could muck around for some time.
However, I think there's something else that bothers me about the stories Von Trier insists on telling-- or, rather, the aspects of the story on which he insists upon dwelling. The larger portion of Dogville is spent explicating and relishing a very long, drawn-out drawing-and-quartering and ritualistic raping of Nicole Kidman (who Jen tells me she saw in Wild Oats buying sushi yesterday afternoon, by the way). And, yeah, I sat through the whole thing-- though barely-- with a deepening furrow in my brow. I couldn't help but feel like Von Trier was exacting a queer sadistic joy from watching-- and, in fact, being the one calling the shots-- while this beautiful woman was, at long length, sent to her ruin. And...I couldn't help but feel that me, the viewer, was meant to partake in this kinky voyeuristic joy. In reality, I got bored first and then, as it dragged on and out, I got depressed. And yet I kept watching? I mean, I suppose sticking it out 'til the end has its payoff in that I was glad when Kidman's character obliterated the entire population of the town of Dogville-- or at least I was in theory. Were it less stylized and allegorical, I'm pretty sure I would have been horrified at such an ending. But does the fact that I didn't turn this DVD off make me feel complicit in Von Trier's obsessions and games? You bet! And I don't much care for that feeling, in this context.
And, I think Dancer in the Dark pulls a lot of the same tricks. I mean, how deep are the depths to which we'll follow this complete victim of a woman until we lose sympathy for her? Is that, perhaps, what Von Trier is attempting to test? And why can't I get it out of my head that, in this instance too, he's getting some off-kilter thrill out of setting up situations in which he gets to torture some chick? And then that he brushes off the fact that that's what he's doing by positing his audience's sympathies WITH her-- by making her so infallibly angelic?
What's most interesting to me the implications of the gut reactions I'm having with regard to his treatment of these girls is that his choices really undermine all that more obvious symbology that I talked about in the paragraph before the last one. I mean, if he's going to offer a critique of American culture in which he portrays all the wrongs perpetrated unto victims, why take such glee in showing us those very anti-Geneva-Convention maneuverings?
Oh, delicious, delicious, messes of the subconscious, perhaps? Something more calculated? I just don't know.
But, really, I think it's just like Dogville without the revenge sequence at the end. I mean, Bjork plays this woman who is just about the sweetest, most cherubic, most sympathetic woman ever written-- she's an immigrant factory worker who is going blind and trying to save money for her son to have an operation that will prevent him from going blind too. And she occupies Bjork's little body, in all her subversively cute glory. And she sings and dances to the rhythm of the factory machines... but then Von Trier decides he needs to destroy her so he has her landlord steal all her savings, accuse her of stealing from him, and then frame her for his own suicide. She is sentenced to death, but is still singing away when the floor drops out from under her.
Now, I know part of what Von Trier is getting at in this movie as well as Dogville and Manderlay is that he's issuing forth an indictment on American greed and the way America treats innocents and "the good." In Dogville, a woman who desires to flagellate herself for leading a sexually,um, shall we say, exploratory life gets her wish-- and then some. I gather from reviews that Manderlay regards a white woman who is trying to break down the only remaining American town in which blacks are still enslaved-- but winds up being enslaved herself-- and here's Dancer in the Dark in which an immigrant woman gets beaten down, and her image of -- what?-- the American Dream? gets shot down and trampled upon in a distinctly unpleasant manner. So, I get that part-- all the American idealism gets corrupted by puritanicalism, by greed and revenge, by simple hubris... and everyone loves a scapegoat. I got it. All very interesting swampy stuff in which I could muck around for some time.
However, I think there's something else that bothers me about the stories Von Trier insists on telling-- or, rather, the aspects of the story on which he insists upon dwelling. The larger portion of Dogville is spent explicating and relishing a very long, drawn-out drawing-and-quartering and ritualistic raping of Nicole Kidman (who Jen tells me she saw in Wild Oats buying sushi yesterday afternoon, by the way). And, yeah, I sat through the whole thing-- though barely-- with a deepening furrow in my brow. I couldn't help but feel like Von Trier was exacting a queer sadistic joy from watching-- and, in fact, being the one calling the shots-- while this beautiful woman was, at long length, sent to her ruin. And...I couldn't help but feel that me, the viewer, was meant to partake in this kinky voyeuristic joy. In reality, I got bored first and then, as it dragged on and out, I got depressed. And yet I kept watching? I mean, I suppose sticking it out 'til the end has its payoff in that I was glad when Kidman's character obliterated the entire population of the town of Dogville-- or at least I was in theory. Were it less stylized and allegorical, I'm pretty sure I would have been horrified at such an ending. But does the fact that I didn't turn this DVD off make me feel complicit in Von Trier's obsessions and games? You bet! And I don't much care for that feeling, in this context.
And, I think Dancer in the Dark pulls a lot of the same tricks. I mean, how deep are the depths to which we'll follow this complete victim of a woman until we lose sympathy for her? Is that, perhaps, what Von Trier is attempting to test? And why can't I get it out of my head that, in this instance too, he's getting some off-kilter thrill out of setting up situations in which he gets to torture some chick? And then that he brushes off the fact that that's what he's doing by positing his audience's sympathies WITH her-- by making her so infallibly angelic?
What's most interesting to me the implications of the gut reactions I'm having with regard to his treatment of these girls is that his choices really undermine all that more obvious symbology that I talked about in the paragraph before the last one. I mean, if he's going to offer a critique of American culture in which he portrays all the wrongs perpetrated unto victims, why take such glee in showing us those very anti-Geneva-Convention maneuverings?
Oh, delicious, delicious, messes of the subconscious, perhaps? Something more calculated? I just don't know.
Wednesday, October 4, 2006
workplace ethics... already?
I took a big corporate job with a non-profit research organization. I did this, after taking 3 years to complete an MFA in creative writing, instead of pursuing my writing, teaching, publishing as is the frequent (though, certainly not required) trajectory of your average MFA grad. I did this because, by the end of my three years torturing myself for 3-10 hours a day in front of my laptop screen, trying to conjure or wrench free or elucidate or surgically remove poetic things from my little brain, because I had no intention of really trying to write seriously for publication again. "Writer's Block" is a pretty amorphous and dubious affliction. I never wanted to claim it as my own-- but, it's the most convenient term for the rampant demoralization, the miserable boredom-at-myself, the complete crippling of my artistic confidence that I felt while trying to compose what turned out to be a puny 25-page little manuscript.
Now, I don't think my manuscript totally sucks. There are moments when I approached my aspirations-- and there are moments that I think failed to get so close-- but, all in all, it's not the worst piece of junk out there... But the extreme discomfort I felt during my writing process-- the paralyzing fear of failing, of stepping into some political blindspot or other, of not being able to live up to various previous teachers' praises-- well, you might have gathered by this point in this post that writing had stopped being any fun for me at all. And so, I took this job, assuming that no one would ever ask me to write anything that wasn't informative or essayistic (I mean, I can write a mean research memo... and blogging doesn't count as I just plain don't edit this stuff) again.
But here I am, a month in, and my boss tells me that the state for which I'm working right now (which I won't mention b/c I don't know how deep our confidentiality goes around here yet) wants to commission "us" to write a 3rd-grade-reading-level piece of fiction for their assessment. First off, I've never been able to write fiction. I read a ton of fiction and I love it but constructing a character? A linear plot? I'm pretty sure my brain doesn't operate in that fashion. Even if my blockage weren't part of the picture, I just don't think in those terms. I can't get past the tearing apart of meaning, the breakdown of basic sentence structure, the minutia of poetry-writing. A bigger context? Even on a 3rd grade level, well, I just plain don't know how to do that. But my boss says, "Hey, you've got a writing degree... surely you can come up with something!"
And then she adds that, to fulfill the state's requests for diversity, that it should be about an African American child from the state in question. Now, this is where my real ethical quandary begins. Now, a good chunk of my manuscript is about coming to terms with being a white girl from the American South. I've thought long and hard about what that means and have found absolutely no alternative to owning that that's part of my identity. Acknowledging and attempting to understand my racial and socio-economic privalege has been an important part of my learning-to-be-grown-up process, and my writing process, too-- and NOT appropriating the story or diction or perspective of another race is pretty fundamental to my being able to sleep at night.
Now, in recent posts, I've talked about how interesting I find debates about authorial authenticity. I'm beyond reluctant to condemn or even question, really, anyone who attempts to step out of the bounds of his or her own narrow indentity and frame of reference in his or her writing--but I am loathe to do so myself. Partly, this is because I lack the chops. But, I feel this way, also in part, because I'm just not comfortable skirting this particular moral boundary. I've talked a lot about my fascination with transgressors of all stripes in this blog-- and I see writers like J.T. LeRoy-- or Laura Albert, his likely alterego-- as just so many more envelope-pushers. And, oh, I suppose they make me prickle to a degree-- but I also applaud their ability to break the rules and get famous for it. But I am not so audacious. Far from it.
So when put in a position in my workplace in which I'm asked to transgress my own ethical delineations, well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Likely, I'm going to attempt to sidestep this issue as politely as possible. I'm not aiming to ruffle feathers just yet as I'm still very new around here. But I selling my soul just ain't where it's at, either. Ugh. This is what they get for hiring the artistic sort, right? So then, am I saying my conviction here is more important than my paycheck? Oh, god, how scared am I?
Now, I don't think my manuscript totally sucks. There are moments when I approached my aspirations-- and there are moments that I think failed to get so close-- but, all in all, it's not the worst piece of junk out there... But the extreme discomfort I felt during my writing process-- the paralyzing fear of failing, of stepping into some political blindspot or other, of not being able to live up to various previous teachers' praises-- well, you might have gathered by this point in this post that writing had stopped being any fun for me at all. And so, I took this job, assuming that no one would ever ask me to write anything that wasn't informative or essayistic (I mean, I can write a mean research memo... and blogging doesn't count as I just plain don't edit this stuff) again.
But here I am, a month in, and my boss tells me that the state for which I'm working right now (which I won't mention b/c I don't know how deep our confidentiality goes around here yet) wants to commission "us" to write a 3rd-grade-reading-level piece of fiction for their assessment. First off, I've never been able to write fiction. I read a ton of fiction and I love it but constructing a character? A linear plot? I'm pretty sure my brain doesn't operate in that fashion. Even if my blockage weren't part of the picture, I just don't think in those terms. I can't get past the tearing apart of meaning, the breakdown of basic sentence structure, the minutia of poetry-writing. A bigger context? Even on a 3rd grade level, well, I just plain don't know how to do that. But my boss says, "Hey, you've got a writing degree... surely you can come up with something!"
And then she adds that, to fulfill the state's requests for diversity, that it should be about an African American child from the state in question. Now, this is where my real ethical quandary begins. Now, a good chunk of my manuscript is about coming to terms with being a white girl from the American South. I've thought long and hard about what that means and have found absolutely no alternative to owning that that's part of my identity. Acknowledging and attempting to understand my racial and socio-economic privalege has been an important part of my learning-to-be-grown-up process, and my writing process, too-- and NOT appropriating the story or diction or perspective of another race is pretty fundamental to my being able to sleep at night.
Now, in recent posts, I've talked about how interesting I find debates about authorial authenticity. I'm beyond reluctant to condemn or even question, really, anyone who attempts to step out of the bounds of his or her own narrow indentity and frame of reference in his or her writing--but I am loathe to do so myself. Partly, this is because I lack the chops. But, I feel this way, also in part, because I'm just not comfortable skirting this particular moral boundary. I've talked a lot about my fascination with transgressors of all stripes in this blog-- and I see writers like J.T. LeRoy-- or Laura Albert, his likely alterego-- as just so many more envelope-pushers. And, oh, I suppose they make me prickle to a degree-- but I also applaud their ability to break the rules and get famous for it. But I am not so audacious. Far from it.
So when put in a position in my workplace in which I'm asked to transgress my own ethical delineations, well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Likely, I'm going to attempt to sidestep this issue as politely as possible. I'm not aiming to ruffle feathers just yet as I'm still very new around here. But I selling my soul just ain't where it's at, either. Ugh. This is what they get for hiring the artistic sort, right? So then, am I saying my conviction here is more important than my paycheck? Oh, god, how scared am I?
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
30
As of yesterday, I have two months left of my 20s.
30. I will be 30. 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30.
I lack the tools to comprehend this in full.
30.
jesus christ.
30. I will be 30. 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30.
I lack the tools to comprehend this in full.
30.
jesus christ.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
A weekend of sexual transgressions (something new and different)
Sadly, despite my doubtlessly compelling title for this post, I've been up to no such things. Would that I weren't so single, so new in town... So, yeah, pretty much, I spent all weekend watching movies with titles that the big lesbian check-out girl at the video store didn't want to read aloud.
First up, I Am A Sex Addict. I didn't know anything about this movie when I picked it up but I'm hopelessly in love with it. It's autobiographical-- and about the director/star's life story. He's this scrawny, rodent-y looking little guy-- totally unassuming and soft-spoken-- who composed this piece, ostensibly part of step 12, about his fetish for getting blowjobs from prostitutes. I found this movie funny and touching and wrenching and relatable in ways I don't want to talk about too much on a blog (dammit, we all have vices that border on addiction, right? Right?)... So, um, I'm just gonna say that it's well worth the rental and move on.
I also rented Lonesome Jim, Steve Buscemi's directorial debut. I'd wanted to see this one for a while, mostly because Steve Buscemi is a weird little bug-eyed Hollywood anomaly, now, isn't he? But, then, well, I had a week of new job ennui/typical insomnia, and I fell asleep about 20 minutes from the end. Yeah, I was bored through most of what I saw. Garden State did it better. The Moonlight Mile did it better--I definitely think Ellen Pompeo is sexier than Liv Tyler. And a million other comedies about loser guys who return home to have nervous breakdowns have done just as well if not better. I say that, mind you, without having gone to the trouble of rewinding to see what I missed at the end-- but like I said, I was bored. Why re-bore myself? Oh, and, it's one more movie in which I question the taste of a female character. Casey Affleck is a dork and a loser and is totally boring when he isn't being spiteful. Liv Tyler's character is at least cute and sweet-- and she keeps insisting that she thinks he's "great??!!!" What's wrong with her? Oh, yeah, that's right! She was written by some guy who is not likely to see such fantasies come to life unless he writes them and hires an Elf Queen to act it out. It's old, old, old. And tired! Don't make me bring up all the reasons I hated Sideways...
Then, The Libertine. What's to say? This movie got bad reviews. It's not THAT bad. But it's not particularly memorable, either. The woman who plays Johnny Depp's wife is great. Oh, and this: I've arrived, because of this movie, at the conclusion that both Freddie Kruger and Anya (in demon guise) from the Buffy TV show, had syphilis. I have deduced this because whoever did Johnny's make-up during the nose-rotting-away scenes must've modeled the look on those two. Who knew? Hmmm... I've never sat thru one of those Freddie Kruger movies, but I imagine it might cast a new light on his character if we suddenly all understood that he's nothing but a misunderstood STD carrier.
And now I come to Mysterious Skin, in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who I've praised (though not enough) in my post about Brick back in August, takes his blouse off a lot (as my friend Jason put it). I would like to throw this one up on a wall in comparison to The Heart is deceitful Above all Things. Here's movie in which a couple of kids are raped and fondled when they're eight years old and the course of their entire lives are determined by those events. One becomes completely asexual and is, like, scared to death of his own dick. The other, the blouseless JG-L, becomes a gay prostitute. JG-L is magnetic and lusty. One character (the bloomingly beautiful Michelle Trachtenburg (two Buffy references in one post?)) says something to the effect that "where most people have a heart Neil (JG-L) has a big black hole that will suck you in." I would argue that this isn't entirely accurate, as he proves himself to be remarkably sensitive-- and the only person with even the slightest power to heal the other boy. But he is a person with a gravitational pull all his own. He is called a "planet" at another point. How interesting that a character should be so frequently described in the vocabulary of the celestial sphere that even I should fall into such diction!
But, as I was going to say, I think this story shows a logical progression of events and consequences that makes sense to me in the way that the endless stream of equally-weighted atrocities that befall the kid in The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things begins to ring false. I mean, it makes sense to me that a kid who is sexually transgressed against-- by a man on whom he has a crush, by the way-- by a man who makes him feel singled out and elevated-- would go on to lead a life in which he seeks out replications of such feelings again and again. But a story in which a kid is simply an object upon whom tragedy is exacted with great frequency by an assortment of delinquent adults? Well, at what point does he begin to grow up and acquire some agency-- some ability to continue or resist the pattern? I mean, I wouldn't care which way he went-- whether he attempted to transcend or sought out further destructive behaviors, as does the character in Mysterious Skin, but to posit a child as nothing but a punching bag, varying only the angle to the punch? What's compelling about that?
And also, I don't want to feel uptight about stuff like this but some part of the filming of a movie like The Heart is Deceitful is real and that means that a real little kid actor had to watch all the stuff going on around him. I mean, I've seen some movies in which the treatment of the kid actors is a little troubling lately-- I mean, in a movie like Lovely and Amazing, the other characters talk about how the child is ugly and whatnot. And Little Miss Sunshine did some of the same things. But when an adult actress berates and insults a little kid on screen, well, doesn't he actually have to be hearing it in real life? Not to mention his watching her shoot up and have sex with an assortment of unpleasant fellows... And, I suppose, this is something else that Mysterious Skin does right. In all of the scenes wherein sexual acts are transpiring between kids and grown-ups, it's all done w/ tight shots on the characters' faces-- in other words, you know that no kids were present when the molesting baseball coach was the making faces that would accompany his ostensibly being fisted by two eight-year-olds. What I'm saying is that it's just as easy to effectively convey the information necessary w/o having to subject kids to subject matter that they lack the tools to process fully... hence the message of the movie, anyway, right?
I think I've been having so much fun not having to consult with anyone else at the video store that I haven't been reading anything--unless you count things that do not exceed a 6th grade reading level-- and I miss books. Perhaps that's how I'll spend next weekend? I do not anticipate any more rapturous sorts of company... *sigh*.
First up, I Am A Sex Addict. I didn't know anything about this movie when I picked it up but I'm hopelessly in love with it. It's autobiographical-- and about the director/star's life story. He's this scrawny, rodent-y looking little guy-- totally unassuming and soft-spoken-- who composed this piece, ostensibly part of step 12, about his fetish for getting blowjobs from prostitutes. I found this movie funny and touching and wrenching and relatable in ways I don't want to talk about too much on a blog (dammit, we all have vices that border on addiction, right? Right?)... So, um, I'm just gonna say that it's well worth the rental and move on.
I also rented Lonesome Jim, Steve Buscemi's directorial debut. I'd wanted to see this one for a while, mostly because Steve Buscemi is a weird little bug-eyed Hollywood anomaly, now, isn't he? But, then, well, I had a week of new job ennui/typical insomnia, and I fell asleep about 20 minutes from the end. Yeah, I was bored through most of what I saw. Garden State did it better. The Moonlight Mile did it better--I definitely think Ellen Pompeo is sexier than Liv Tyler. And a million other comedies about loser guys who return home to have nervous breakdowns have done just as well if not better. I say that, mind you, without having gone to the trouble of rewinding to see what I missed at the end-- but like I said, I was bored. Why re-bore myself? Oh, and, it's one more movie in which I question the taste of a female character. Casey Affleck is a dork and a loser and is totally boring when he isn't being spiteful. Liv Tyler's character is at least cute and sweet-- and she keeps insisting that she thinks he's "great??!!!" What's wrong with her? Oh, yeah, that's right! She was written by some guy who is not likely to see such fantasies come to life unless he writes them and hires an Elf Queen to act it out. It's old, old, old. And tired! Don't make me bring up all the reasons I hated Sideways...
Then, The Libertine. What's to say? This movie got bad reviews. It's not THAT bad. But it's not particularly memorable, either. The woman who plays Johnny Depp's wife is great. Oh, and this: I've arrived, because of this movie, at the conclusion that both Freddie Kruger and Anya (in demon guise) from the Buffy TV show, had syphilis. I have deduced this because whoever did Johnny's make-up during the nose-rotting-away scenes must've modeled the look on those two. Who knew? Hmmm... I've never sat thru one of those Freddie Kruger movies, but I imagine it might cast a new light on his character if we suddenly all understood that he's nothing but a misunderstood STD carrier.
And now I come to Mysterious Skin, in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who I've praised (though not enough) in my post about Brick back in August, takes his blouse off a lot (as my friend Jason put it). I would like to throw this one up on a wall in comparison to The Heart is deceitful Above all Things. Here's movie in which a couple of kids are raped and fondled when they're eight years old and the course of their entire lives are determined by those events. One becomes completely asexual and is, like, scared to death of his own dick. The other, the blouseless JG-L, becomes a gay prostitute. JG-L is magnetic and lusty. One character (the bloomingly beautiful Michelle Trachtenburg (two Buffy references in one post?)) says something to the effect that "where most people have a heart Neil (JG-L) has a big black hole that will suck you in." I would argue that this isn't entirely accurate, as he proves himself to be remarkably sensitive-- and the only person with even the slightest power to heal the other boy. But he is a person with a gravitational pull all his own. He is called a "planet" at another point. How interesting that a character should be so frequently described in the vocabulary of the celestial sphere that even I should fall into such diction!
But, as I was going to say, I think this story shows a logical progression of events and consequences that makes sense to me in the way that the endless stream of equally-weighted atrocities that befall the kid in The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things begins to ring false. I mean, it makes sense to me that a kid who is sexually transgressed against-- by a man on whom he has a crush, by the way-- by a man who makes him feel singled out and elevated-- would go on to lead a life in which he seeks out replications of such feelings again and again. But a story in which a kid is simply an object upon whom tragedy is exacted with great frequency by an assortment of delinquent adults? Well, at what point does he begin to grow up and acquire some agency-- some ability to continue or resist the pattern? I mean, I wouldn't care which way he went-- whether he attempted to transcend or sought out further destructive behaviors, as does the character in Mysterious Skin, but to posit a child as nothing but a punching bag, varying only the angle to the punch? What's compelling about that?
And also, I don't want to feel uptight about stuff like this but some part of the filming of a movie like The Heart is Deceitful is real and that means that a real little kid actor had to watch all the stuff going on around him. I mean, I've seen some movies in which the treatment of the kid actors is a little troubling lately-- I mean, in a movie like Lovely and Amazing, the other characters talk about how the child is ugly and whatnot. And Little Miss Sunshine did some of the same things. But when an adult actress berates and insults a little kid on screen, well, doesn't he actually have to be hearing it in real life? Not to mention his watching her shoot up and have sex with an assortment of unpleasant fellows... And, I suppose, this is something else that Mysterious Skin does right. In all of the scenes wherein sexual acts are transpiring between kids and grown-ups, it's all done w/ tight shots on the characters' faces-- in other words, you know that no kids were present when the molesting baseball coach was the making faces that would accompany his ostensibly being fisted by two eight-year-olds. What I'm saying is that it's just as easy to effectively convey the information necessary w/o having to subject kids to subject matter that they lack the tools to process fully... hence the message of the movie, anyway, right?
I think I've been having so much fun not having to consult with anyone else at the video store that I haven't been reading anything--unless you count things that do not exceed a 6th grade reading level-- and I miss books. Perhaps that's how I'll spend next weekend? I do not anticipate any more rapturous sorts of company... *sigh*.
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