The Triplets of Belleville had been on my List of Fun Things to See for years-- ever since it got nominated for Feature-Length Animated Film. And, last night, I finally got around to seeing it. And it really is just SO great. It's humor is in its details and, despite the highly-stylized look of its animation, in its realism. It's a beautiful peace, full of charm and pathos. And that dog... I'm pretty sure my dog, Noah, modeled for it. For instance: Noah likes to run, full-tilt, down the stairs and then skid into the wall at the bottom. The animated "Bruno" did that. Noah sometimes gets confused when there are more than one thing at which he'd like to bark in his immediate feild of vision. Bruno did that. Noah has a habit of walking up to a seated person and gently draping his (considerable) jowls over said person's knee. Bruno did that, too. Ok, fine, so, I'm a sucker for animated dogs. So be it. I couldn't tell if Bruno smelled like corn chips or not, but if this movie were shot in Smell-O-Vision, I'm sure he would-- just like Noah.
But, for a million reasons that have nothing to do with how homesick I am for my dog, The Triplets of Belleville is a great movie. I don't often give unmitigated recommendations (without much analysis whatsoever) but I'm doing so here. If you're in the mood for something that'll just make you happy, this is it.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Sheepish Admittances
I like pretty dresses. I even, on occasion, like to watch celebrities, with remarkable bodies and perfect hair, wear pretty dresses. I also like to watch celebrities, wearing pretty dresses, give and receive statues of little gold men.
Yep, that's right folks. Verified movie snob though I may be, I still get a kick out of watching the Oscars. And, I know, I know-- I do, indeed, feel sheepish that I'm not scoffing at the whole ritzy ritual and rigmarole because it's so self-congratulatory and because it's nothing but Hollywood trying desperately to affirm its tenuous grasp on artistic credibility and because, really, it's a venue in which ridiculous big-budget hackjobs (did someone say Titanic?) get to win prizes just because they plundered bajillions of dollars out of the pockets of underinformed moviegoers--underinformed in terms of the theatrical options available to them. Yes, I do realize I'm throwing my credibility into question here when I say that I still think this red-carpet paparazzi-fest serves a purpose other than keeping Kathy Griffin and Joan Rivers employed.
Part of this purpose is to elevate the visibility of certain little films that are a little outside mainstream tastes. For example, last year, Amy Adams got nominated for Junebug, which was a real little gem. I'd been lucky enough to see this movie in a theatre well before nominations came out and could smugly declare that, indeed, the film was worthy of the nod while everyone else was asking "June-what?" See? I'm a really film-snob after all. But my point is, it's a damn good movie and, without the notice of The Academy, surely my talking it up would have done very little to increase its viewership.
And then there's the fact that sometimes The Academy really does get it right-- and they manage to recognize the right people for real artistic accomplishment. Last year, there were no finer performances than Philip Seymour Hoffman's Truman Capote. Truly. In my opinion, that movie should have won best picture-- it was better than the slightly maudlin Brokeback Mountain and it was sure as hell better than the beat-you-over-the-head-with-its-message Crash. But that's neither here nor there when Hoffman's fearless and vulnerable performance got it just desserts. And that's nice, you know? It's just nice when talented people get recognized.
But this year, with the ink on the new crop of nominations still wet, well, I'm afraid I might, at long last, be losing faith in the tradition. While a few nods were dead on, I'm just a little baffled by some of the others.
So, first, let me start with what I think is good: Unfortunately, I haven't been able to see as many of the nominees this year as I was last (I miss you, Jon), but I hear that Ryan Gosling is pretty fantastic in Half Nelson, a little indie with minimal buzz so far, but he'll never win. He's Amy Adams all over again. A couple of years ago,he was also pretty great in The Believer , another good movie of which no one's ever heard, so I think this kid's got some real potential. And it doesn't hurt that he looks a little like Christian Bale. But Forrest Whitaker's Idi Amin from Last King of Scotland has a real shot. I am DYING to see this movie and I'm glad it's getting notice because, from what I know about it, it looks Important (capitol I). And then there's Little Children, which has put a contender into each the Best Actress and the Best Supporting Actor categories. And it looks like Pan's Labyrinth, a little Mexican fantasy, is getting some notice as well. This doesn't make up for the fact that, last year, The Academy overlooked the German/Turkish Head-On (Gagan Die Wand), a film that's made it into the pantheon of Marjorie's Top Five. But it's a start.
And then there are some seriously questionable decisions that The Academy seems to have made. Little Miss Sunshine for best picture? WHAT? This movie is kinda cute and all... but it's certainly NOT one of the 5 best films of the year. All I can say is, at least Dreamgirls didn't get a nod here. I can only deal with so many Broadway musicals-cum-big-buzz-movies getting so much hype. A la (yawn-fest) Chicago. But I think Babel is likely to win this category, anyway-- I haven't seen it; it got mixed reviews; I'm gonna withhold my opinion until it comes out on video. But, then, Will Smith in the Pursuit of Happyness? Really? This movie looks like such a sappy schmaltzy puddle of high-fructose corn syrup that I can't figure out why anyone would take it seriously. Oh, and Ms. Meryl getting her obligatory annual nomination for--whatthefuckever--The Devil Wears Prada. Yeah, ok, so, she's still Meryl Streep and all but how could there possibly be anything challenging enough in a comedic-bitchy bad boss role to merit such congratulations as an Oscar? With any luck Penelope Cruz (Volver)or Judi Dench (Notes on a Scandal)will win in this category, but I think the smart money's on Helen Mirren in The Queen--a movie that strikes me as having as little real-world relevance as its subject matter. But Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine? Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine? I'm not sure either of these actors was actually ACTING in these parts. And just because I think Dreamgirls looks like a piece of crap to begin with, I do not think Jennifer Hudson and Eddie Murphy are exactly deserving of their nominations either-- but that has more to do with my feelings about that movie than it does with their performances.
There just seem to be so many more suspect nominations this year than last. I find this terribly disheartening because, frankly, I don't want to be just another cynical Oscar dissenter. I miss the bedazzlement I felt watching the show when I was a kid. Ok, to be perfectly honest, I've felt a little distrustful of the whole event ever since the year Titanic, which I consider to be pretty much the worst, sappiest, most manipulative, politically problematic hunk o' gar-BAHHGE ever, swept. Yes, I hate the movie Titanic. A lot. But still, I WANT to believe in the institution of The Academy Awards. And so, come early March, you'll find me, glass of red wine in one hand, bucket of Trader Joe's cookies in the other, spread out on my sofa, hoping for the best. C'mon Forrest. I'm countin' on you, man!
Yep, that's right folks. Verified movie snob though I may be, I still get a kick out of watching the Oscars. And, I know, I know-- I do, indeed, feel sheepish that I'm not scoffing at the whole ritzy ritual and rigmarole because it's so self-congratulatory and because it's nothing but Hollywood trying desperately to affirm its tenuous grasp on artistic credibility and because, really, it's a venue in which ridiculous big-budget hackjobs (did someone say Titanic?) get to win prizes just because they plundered bajillions of dollars out of the pockets of underinformed moviegoers--underinformed in terms of the theatrical options available to them. Yes, I do realize I'm throwing my credibility into question here when I say that I still think this red-carpet paparazzi-fest serves a purpose other than keeping Kathy Griffin and Joan Rivers employed.
Part of this purpose is to elevate the visibility of certain little films that are a little outside mainstream tastes. For example, last year, Amy Adams got nominated for Junebug, which was a real little gem. I'd been lucky enough to see this movie in a theatre well before nominations came out and could smugly declare that, indeed, the film was worthy of the nod while everyone else was asking "June-what?" See? I'm a really film-snob after all. But my point is, it's a damn good movie and, without the notice of The Academy, surely my talking it up would have done very little to increase its viewership.
And then there's the fact that sometimes The Academy really does get it right-- and they manage to recognize the right people for real artistic accomplishment. Last year, there were no finer performances than Philip Seymour Hoffman's Truman Capote. Truly. In my opinion, that movie should have won best picture-- it was better than the slightly maudlin Brokeback Mountain and it was sure as hell better than the beat-you-over-the-head-with-its-message Crash. But that's neither here nor there when Hoffman's fearless and vulnerable performance got it just desserts. And that's nice, you know? It's just nice when talented people get recognized.
But this year, with the ink on the new crop of nominations still wet, well, I'm afraid I might, at long last, be losing faith in the tradition. While a few nods were dead on, I'm just a little baffled by some of the others.
So, first, let me start with what I think is good: Unfortunately, I haven't been able to see as many of the nominees this year as I was last (I miss you, Jon), but I hear that Ryan Gosling is pretty fantastic in Half Nelson, a little indie with minimal buzz so far, but he'll never win. He's Amy Adams all over again. A couple of years ago,he was also pretty great in The Believer , another good movie of which no one's ever heard, so I think this kid's got some real potential. And it doesn't hurt that he looks a little like Christian Bale. But Forrest Whitaker's Idi Amin from Last King of Scotland has a real shot. I am DYING to see this movie and I'm glad it's getting notice because, from what I know about it, it looks Important (capitol I). And then there's Little Children, which has put a contender into each the Best Actress and the Best Supporting Actor categories. And it looks like Pan's Labyrinth, a little Mexican fantasy, is getting some notice as well. This doesn't make up for the fact that, last year, The Academy overlooked the German/Turkish Head-On (Gagan Die Wand), a film that's made it into the pantheon of Marjorie's Top Five. But it's a start.
And then there are some seriously questionable decisions that The Academy seems to have made. Little Miss Sunshine for best picture? WHAT? This movie is kinda cute and all... but it's certainly NOT one of the 5 best films of the year. All I can say is, at least Dreamgirls didn't get a nod here. I can only deal with so many Broadway musicals-cum-big-buzz-movies getting so much hype. A la (yawn-fest) Chicago. But I think Babel is likely to win this category, anyway-- I haven't seen it; it got mixed reviews; I'm gonna withhold my opinion until it comes out on video. But, then, Will Smith in the Pursuit of Happyness? Really? This movie looks like such a sappy schmaltzy puddle of high-fructose corn syrup that I can't figure out why anyone would take it seriously. Oh, and Ms. Meryl getting her obligatory annual nomination for--whatthefuckever--The Devil Wears Prada. Yeah, ok, so, she's still Meryl Streep and all but how could there possibly be anything challenging enough in a comedic-bitchy bad boss role to merit such congratulations as an Oscar? With any luck Penelope Cruz (Volver)or Judi Dench (Notes on a Scandal)will win in this category, but I think the smart money's on Helen Mirren in The Queen--a movie that strikes me as having as little real-world relevance as its subject matter. But Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine? Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine? I'm not sure either of these actors was actually ACTING in these parts. And just because I think Dreamgirls looks like a piece of crap to begin with, I do not think Jennifer Hudson and Eddie Murphy are exactly deserving of their nominations either-- but that has more to do with my feelings about that movie than it does with their performances.
There just seem to be so many more suspect nominations this year than last. I find this terribly disheartening because, frankly, I don't want to be just another cynical Oscar dissenter. I miss the bedazzlement I felt watching the show when I was a kid. Ok, to be perfectly honest, I've felt a little distrustful of the whole event ever since the year Titanic, which I consider to be pretty much the worst, sappiest, most manipulative, politically problematic hunk o' gar-BAHHGE ever, swept. Yes, I hate the movie Titanic. A lot. But still, I WANT to believe in the institution of The Academy Awards. And so, come early March, you'll find me, glass of red wine in one hand, bucket of Trader Joe's cookies in the other, spread out on my sofa, hoping for the best. C'mon Forrest. I'm countin' on you, man!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Tizzy, effectively induced
I seem to be becoming more and more aware of a certain brand of humor that is more invested in making its audience squirm than it is in entertaining them. I don't suppose this is a new tactic-- I mean, sure, there are shows like The Office that have become hugely popular lately... but then, isn't this also a little of what Andy Kaufman was doing back in the '70s? And I'm sure he wasn't the first... but, truth be told, my frame of reference here is full of holes. I haven't made any sort of historical study into who invented cringe-inducing comedy... all I did was watch Sarah Silverman's Jesus Is Magic, and this thing certainly fits the bill.
After having felt like SS stole the show in The Aristocrats, I imagined that her feature-length stand-up/musical/pseudo-documentary would be worth watching. But here's the thing: I can't, for the life of me, figure out who she's making fun of!
If you make a lotta jokes that make you seem racist, are you a) making fun of racists, or b) making fun of your PC audience members who are likely to be made uncomfortable by such jokes? Probably both, right? So, really, then, I don't know quite how to feel about that -- other than feeling, somehow, implicated in some sort of social mis-step just because I'm pretty likely to find myself smack in the middle of the latter group. And because Sarah Silverman's act is simultaneously navel-gazing and lacking self-awareness, it's as though her curious arrangement of assorted self-involvements are then indicative of larger, more general social ills. Her personal and political issues are so conflated with each other that they begin,likewise, to conflate with MY issues!
My experience of watching it then becomes one in which I'm doing nothing but parsing out the parts of it that I think are funny from the parts just make my skin crawl... and then trying to figure out why I'm having all these confusing reactions to it. And I can't simply laugh at it because, really, my bleeding heart doesn't think it's all that funny. And I'm loathe to condemn it as un-funny because I think she's provocative in this way that's making me question all my bleeding-heart-related biases. And then I think I'm totally self-involved for thinking that this is a movie about me. And then I think that SHE'S totally self-involved for writing a movie that's all about her personal hang-ups... And then I come back to feeling like I'm totally self-involved for writing a blog that's not really about this movie but, rather, about me watching the movie. And I can't figure out who's to blame for my discomfort in watching it... Me? Her? American Culture? Me? Women? Men? Black people? Jews? Me? The KKK? Nazis? Anne Frank? ...me? Who, dammit!? Who???
Ok, so that's an exaggeration of my great big tizzy. But there was, indeed, a little tizzy going on in my head.
And she doesn't just deal with issues of race... she touches on so many stigmatized groups that I can't even remember them all. And she talks about buttholes and vaginas a lot. She's a fan of orifices. Well, and boy parts, too. And, as one might ascertain from previous blogs, I'm interested in these things as well.
But do I enjoy sitting through this sort of thing? No, not so much. Does that make it a bad movie? No, not so much. After all, we've got Epic Movie on our theatrical horizon, and I doubt there's much out there that could overtake that thing, that very puddle that Tinsel Town puked up, which is enjoying its sovereignty over Bad Moviedom, no doubt.
After having felt like SS stole the show in The Aristocrats, I imagined that her feature-length stand-up/musical/pseudo-documentary would be worth watching. But here's the thing: I can't, for the life of me, figure out who she's making fun of!
If you make a lotta jokes that make you seem racist, are you a) making fun of racists, or b) making fun of your PC audience members who are likely to be made uncomfortable by such jokes? Probably both, right? So, really, then, I don't know quite how to feel about that -- other than feeling, somehow, implicated in some sort of social mis-step just because I'm pretty likely to find myself smack in the middle of the latter group. And because Sarah Silverman's act is simultaneously navel-gazing and lacking self-awareness, it's as though her curious arrangement of assorted self-involvements are then indicative of larger, more general social ills. Her personal and political issues are so conflated with each other that they begin,likewise, to conflate with MY issues!
My experience of watching it then becomes one in which I'm doing nothing but parsing out the parts of it that I think are funny from the parts just make my skin crawl... and then trying to figure out why I'm having all these confusing reactions to it. And I can't simply laugh at it because, really, my bleeding heart doesn't think it's all that funny. And I'm loathe to condemn it as un-funny because I think she's provocative in this way that's making me question all my bleeding-heart-related biases. And then I think I'm totally self-involved for thinking that this is a movie about me. And then I think that SHE'S totally self-involved for writing a movie that's all about her personal hang-ups... And then I come back to feeling like I'm totally self-involved for writing a blog that's not really about this movie but, rather, about me watching the movie. And I can't figure out who's to blame for my discomfort in watching it... Me? Her? American Culture? Me? Women? Men? Black people? Jews? Me? The KKK? Nazis? Anne Frank? ...me? Who, dammit!? Who???
Ok, so that's an exaggeration of my great big tizzy. But there was, indeed, a little tizzy going on in my head.
And she doesn't just deal with issues of race... she touches on so many stigmatized groups that I can't even remember them all. And she talks about buttholes and vaginas a lot. She's a fan of orifices. Well, and boy parts, too. And, as one might ascertain from previous blogs, I'm interested in these things as well.
But do I enjoy sitting through this sort of thing? No, not so much. Does that make it a bad movie? No, not so much. After all, we've got Epic Movie on our theatrical horizon, and I doubt there's much out there that could overtake that thing, that very puddle that Tinsel Town puked up, which is enjoying its sovereignty over Bad Moviedom, no doubt.
On Misnomers
The American Heritage Dictionary defines the word "epic" thusly:
ep·ic (ěp'ĭk)
n.
An extended narrative poem in elevated or dignified language, celebrating the feats of a legendary or traditional hero.
A literary or dramatic composition that resembles an extended narrative poem celebrating heroic feats.
A series of events considered appropriate to an epic: the epic of the Old West.
adj.
Of, constituting, having to do with, or suggestive of a literary epic: an epic poem.
Surpassing the usual or ordinary, particularly in scope or size: "A vast musical panorama . . . it requires an epic musical understanding to do it justice" (Tim Page).
Heroic and impressive in quality: "Here in the courtroom . . . there was more of that epic atmosphere, the extra amperage of a special moment" (Scott Turow).
And yet, somehow, I've been seeing ads all over TV for a movie called Epic Movie that (poorly, in a completely un-funny manner) parodies the likes of Legally Blonde, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the greatest non-epic of them all, Nacho Libre. Now, I'm aware that this movie is simply the most recent in a series of vapidly parodic peices of big-studio schlock (a series that includes the genius of the Scary Movie franchise and the astonishingly incisive Date Movie franchise), but you'd think (or, rather, I'd think) that some fresh-outta-high-school studio drone in charge of fact-checking would have looked up the word "epic" before putting it in the title of a movie that lamely makes fun of Motherfucking Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane.
Seriously, folks! The English language: it's fun for all ages! How's about we all learn to speak it?
And by "how's about we all learn to speak it," I didn't mean to imply that I support any of those goofy "English is the official language of racism" propositions. I simply mean that, for those of us for whom English is our purported mother tongue, we seem to be able to communicate more effectively if we, for general conversational purposes, use the right word at the right time. I propose, as a more apt title for this movie, "Big-Budget, Hollywood, Mindless, Piece-of-Poo, Waste-of-My-Time-and-$8 Movie." Any objections?
ep·ic (ěp'ĭk)
n.
An extended narrative poem in elevated or dignified language, celebrating the feats of a legendary or traditional hero.
A literary or dramatic composition that resembles an extended narrative poem celebrating heroic feats.
A series of events considered appropriate to an epic: the epic of the Old West.
adj.
Of, constituting, having to do with, or suggestive of a literary epic: an epic poem.
Surpassing the usual or ordinary, particularly in scope or size: "A vast musical panorama . . . it requires an epic musical understanding to do it justice" (Tim Page).
Heroic and impressive in quality: "Here in the courtroom . . . there was more of that epic atmosphere, the extra amperage of a special moment" (Scott Turow).
And yet, somehow, I've been seeing ads all over TV for a movie called Epic Movie that (poorly, in a completely un-funny manner) parodies the likes of Legally Blonde, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the greatest non-epic of them all, Nacho Libre. Now, I'm aware that this movie is simply the most recent in a series of vapidly parodic peices of big-studio schlock (a series that includes the genius of the Scary Movie franchise and the astonishingly incisive Date Movie franchise), but you'd think (or, rather, I'd think) that some fresh-outta-high-school studio drone in charge of fact-checking would have looked up the word "epic" before putting it in the title of a movie that lamely makes fun of Motherfucking Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane.
Seriously, folks! The English language: it's fun for all ages! How's about we all learn to speak it?
And by "how's about we all learn to speak it," I didn't mean to imply that I support any of those goofy "English is the official language of racism" propositions. I simply mean that, for those of us for whom English is our purported mother tongue, we seem to be able to communicate more effectively if we, for general conversational purposes, use the right word at the right time. I propose, as a more apt title for this movie, "Big-Budget, Hollywood, Mindless, Piece-of-Poo, Waste-of-My-Time-and-$8 Movie." Any objections?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Zach Braff, please Google your own name.
I titled this post in the way that I did in hopes of giving myself the opportunity to suggest to Mr. Braff that he ditch the person with whom he is currently hooked, and entertain the notion that I'd make a decent wife. So, if you're interested, ZB, please allow me present my argument. Though, I do feel that my reasons should be kept between the two of us, so forgive me for refraining in this particular forum. See? I can be discrete...!
In any event, last weekend, I watched Last Kiss. This movie didn't stir me up in the way that some of my more socio-politically charged choices do, and, as a result, I've been feeling unsure about how to write about it. I went on a hunt to track down the Italian version on which it's based (L'Ultimo Bacio/Last Kiss), secretly hoping that the original would be somehow greater and more enthralling than its American knock-off. But there's something in the tone of the Italian version that I found off-putting. And, true to form, Mr. Braff, with all his big goofy soul, left me seduced. And Rachel Bilson... It's just so hard not to fall in love with this girl! She is cute and irreverent and bladelike all at once.
But let me start with the bigger picture here: The Italian movie is about guys resisting adulthood, about making mistakes and goofing off, and about narrowly avoiding consequences. None of the female characters ever seem to have the full story and therefore feel less fleshed-out, as though their decisions are never quite logical. And this is a movie about cheating. The American version is about making a conscious decision to be an adult, about being a human and dealing with the inherent repercussions, and, in the end, it's about fair-handed, earned, forgiveness.
Now, I want to take a closer look at the respective soundtracks. ZB's hand is clearly all over that of Last Kiss. He's a fan of bands on that fringe between mainstream and indie and they're all over the place here. Notably present, as in Garden State, is an appearance by Cary Brothers, a pretty great LA-based artist who I fondly remember adoring when he was the imported boy in several of my (all-girls') high-school plays. He would've been a senior when I was a lowly 8th-grader, I believe. Apparently, they're friends. If I actually knew Cary Brothers personally, I'd TOTALLY play that card. Alas... But anyway, there is a particular appropriateness to the music that wasn't part of the Italian version. For instance, during the scene in which Michael (the ZB character) and Kim (the Rachel Bilson character) have sex, it's moody and desperate, but in the other movie, the equivalent scene was accompanied by big, jazzy stripper music. The music says that Carlo (Michael's Italian alter-ego) is so taken with the moment that he doesn't even try to feel guilty for the fact that he's cheating on his pregnant girlfriend, whereas Michael's music speaks to his pointed choice in favor of the sexual encounter, half of his brain still angry from his fight with Jenna (the girlfriend)and the other half already regretting what he's doing.
And then there's the matter that Carlo lies in the end when Michael comes clean. Guilia, the Italian Jenna, quickly gives in while Jenna is given all the information she needs to make an educated choice. And Jenna makes Michael sit on their front doorstep, in the rain, for days on end. And the fact that Francesca is a kid... a kid with big boobs, but a kid. And Kim is young and funny and impish, but capable of real grown-up romantic yearnings. And all of Michael's friends are coping, with humor and pathos, with crises of their own, whereas Carlo's all seem to be aching to shirk all their responsibilities and to be unable to answer for their extended adolescences. I guess it boils down to the simple fact that Tony Goldwyn (yep, the evil dude from Ghost), the director of the American version, has somehow managed to add both layered depth and an affectionate, wry sense of humor to what was initially a pretty straightforward, Euro-bland romantic drama.
And then, please indulge me while I come back to Zach Braff one more time. What is it about this actor? His body is sorta boneless and filleted and affords him a peculiar liquid variety of movement that he uses sometimes towards a more slapstick end, but, more often that not, seems simultaneously slightly out-of-control and very relaxed. His face: well, let's face it: the boy has no chin (sorry, baby) but he's got a big expressive mouth and eyes that ache and surge and plunder and twinkle and chuckle and deviate all at the same time. While he could never be overtly sexy, and that sitcom-ish Dr. John Dorian face still surfaces on occasion, I never doubted for a second that Michael, the man the created in this movie, was worthy of the respective loves of Jenna and Kim. Hence my desire to marry him myself!
Now, really, this movie isn't groundbreaking in any way, but it IS a grown-up look at being a grown-up. A grown-up human. And at the need to forgive each other for being human, despite our grown-up-ed-ness. If I wanted to, I could pull out a million flaws in it, too, I'm sure. But for once, I just wanted to like this movie because it was populated with likeable people and because all those likeable people get their just desserts in the end. Is that so bad? Has my lack of snarkiness here let you down, my loyal readers? Or can you forgive me and call it my own crisis-at-being-30?
In any event, last weekend, I watched Last Kiss. This movie didn't stir me up in the way that some of my more socio-politically charged choices do, and, as a result, I've been feeling unsure about how to write about it. I went on a hunt to track down the Italian version on which it's based (L'Ultimo Bacio/Last Kiss), secretly hoping that the original would be somehow greater and more enthralling than its American knock-off. But there's something in the tone of the Italian version that I found off-putting. And, true to form, Mr. Braff, with all his big goofy soul, left me seduced. And Rachel Bilson... It's just so hard not to fall in love with this girl! She is cute and irreverent and bladelike all at once.
But let me start with the bigger picture here: The Italian movie is about guys resisting adulthood, about making mistakes and goofing off, and about narrowly avoiding consequences. None of the female characters ever seem to have the full story and therefore feel less fleshed-out, as though their decisions are never quite logical. And this is a movie about cheating. The American version is about making a conscious decision to be an adult, about being a human and dealing with the inherent repercussions, and, in the end, it's about fair-handed, earned, forgiveness.
Now, I want to take a closer look at the respective soundtracks. ZB's hand is clearly all over that of Last Kiss. He's a fan of bands on that fringe between mainstream and indie and they're all over the place here. Notably present, as in Garden State, is an appearance by Cary Brothers, a pretty great LA-based artist who I fondly remember adoring when he was the imported boy in several of my (all-girls') high-school plays. He would've been a senior when I was a lowly 8th-grader, I believe. Apparently, they're friends. If I actually knew Cary Brothers personally, I'd TOTALLY play that card. Alas... But anyway, there is a particular appropriateness to the music that wasn't part of the Italian version. For instance, during the scene in which Michael (the ZB character) and Kim (the Rachel Bilson character) have sex, it's moody and desperate, but in the other movie, the equivalent scene was accompanied by big, jazzy stripper music. The music says that Carlo (Michael's Italian alter-ego) is so taken with the moment that he doesn't even try to feel guilty for the fact that he's cheating on his pregnant girlfriend, whereas Michael's music speaks to his pointed choice in favor of the sexual encounter, half of his brain still angry from his fight with Jenna (the girlfriend)and the other half already regretting what he's doing.
And then there's the matter that Carlo lies in the end when Michael comes clean. Guilia, the Italian Jenna, quickly gives in while Jenna is given all the information she needs to make an educated choice. And Jenna makes Michael sit on their front doorstep, in the rain, for days on end. And the fact that Francesca is a kid... a kid with big boobs, but a kid. And Kim is young and funny and impish, but capable of real grown-up romantic yearnings. And all of Michael's friends are coping, with humor and pathos, with crises of their own, whereas Carlo's all seem to be aching to shirk all their responsibilities and to be unable to answer for their extended adolescences. I guess it boils down to the simple fact that Tony Goldwyn (yep, the evil dude from Ghost), the director of the American version, has somehow managed to add both layered depth and an affectionate, wry sense of humor to what was initially a pretty straightforward, Euro-bland romantic drama.
And then, please indulge me while I come back to Zach Braff one more time. What is it about this actor? His body is sorta boneless and filleted and affords him a peculiar liquid variety of movement that he uses sometimes towards a more slapstick end, but, more often that not, seems simultaneously slightly out-of-control and very relaxed. His face: well, let's face it: the boy has no chin (sorry, baby) but he's got a big expressive mouth and eyes that ache and surge and plunder and twinkle and chuckle and deviate all at the same time. While he could never be overtly sexy, and that sitcom-ish Dr. John Dorian face still surfaces on occasion, I never doubted for a second that Michael, the man the created in this movie, was worthy of the respective loves of Jenna and Kim. Hence my desire to marry him myself!
Now, really, this movie isn't groundbreaking in any way, but it IS a grown-up look at being a grown-up. A grown-up human. And at the need to forgive each other for being human, despite our grown-up-ed-ness. If I wanted to, I could pull out a million flaws in it, too, I'm sure. But for once, I just wanted to like this movie because it was populated with likeable people and because all those likeable people get their just desserts in the end. Is that so bad? Has my lack of snarkiness here let you down, my loyal readers? Or can you forgive me and call it my own crisis-at-being-30?
My New Thralls
Please note two new links I've added to the bottom of my list over there at the right.
For Christmas, my mom gave me the book, Killing the Buddha: The Heretic's Bible, which I just started reading yesterday. I had just finished John Berger's new-ish quasi-fiction piece Here is Where We Meet, which is a soft reverie, a reminiscence about the way the dead remain in our lives. And it's also an interesting cognitive lead-in to this curious hybrid of a book that riffs on and off the state of American spirituality. This link is to the online magazine--fascinating work, all! And, for the record, I had a hard time wrenching this book out of my mom's hands. And so, Mom, I recommend you buy your own copy and then buy one for Rosemary. It's a whole new Good Word, well deserving of being spread.
And Plenty is a real paper magazine about practical environmental activism. It totally jumped into my shopping basket during a recent excursion to Whole Foods because of the current cover article. This cover features a cartoon of a woman ordering a "double-shot, fair-trade, organic soy latte" and then poses the question, "Is this activism?" Yes! Of course it's activism! If they added "shade-grown" to that order, I'd throw that cartoon girl a hero's parade! Well, not quite, but this is just to say that it's important to me to be conscious about the companies that I support as a consumer. I'm an American and I can't get around being a consumer in the first place, so the very very very least I can do is put my money towards companies that have chosen, often against the best interest of their own bottom lines, to fight the good fight, whether it be socially or environmentally. And so, I supported this magazine by paying full cover price. And now I invite any and all readers to go visit their website. That's also the least I can do.
For Christmas, my mom gave me the book, Killing the Buddha: The Heretic's Bible, which I just started reading yesterday. I had just finished John Berger's new-ish quasi-fiction piece Here is Where We Meet, which is a soft reverie, a reminiscence about the way the dead remain in our lives. And it's also an interesting cognitive lead-in to this curious hybrid of a book that riffs on and off the state of American spirituality. This link is to the online magazine--fascinating work, all! And, for the record, I had a hard time wrenching this book out of my mom's hands. And so, Mom, I recommend you buy your own copy and then buy one for Rosemary. It's a whole new Good Word, well deserving of being spread.
And Plenty is a real paper magazine about practical environmental activism. It totally jumped into my shopping basket during a recent excursion to Whole Foods because of the current cover article. This cover features a cartoon of a woman ordering a "double-shot, fair-trade, organic soy latte" and then poses the question, "Is this activism?" Yes! Of course it's activism! If they added "shade-grown" to that order, I'd throw that cartoon girl a hero's parade! Well, not quite, but this is just to say that it's important to me to be conscious about the companies that I support as a consumer. I'm an American and I can't get around being a consumer in the first place, so the very very very least I can do is put my money towards companies that have chosen, often against the best interest of their own bottom lines, to fight the good fight, whether it be socially or environmentally. And so, I supported this magazine by paying full cover price. And now I invite any and all readers to go visit their website. That's also the least I can do.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Are substance abuse movies really all that interesting if they aren't rotoscoped?
This past weekend, I made the mistake of renting the straight-to-video Factotum. It told me on the back that it was based on a Charles Bukowski novel--a poet who I find somewhat suspect to begin with--but it was a poet movie, so I figured I should support itwith my $4.29. Plus it has Lili Taylor and Marisa Tomei in it. (OK, I have to interrupt this post just to say that I'm currently eating a bowl of mushroom soup that has, quite possibly, the largest hunk of mushroom ever known to man. It looks like a stingray in my bowl. Even MY mouth isn't that big! Carrying on...)I've generally found these actresses, particularly Taylor, enjoyable and engaging to watch. And they do their best here, but I can only stomach just so much of the aren't-we-pitiable-yet-deeply-romantic-drunks act. And that's at the heart of what I don't get about Bukowski's appeal. He's supposed to be this down-n-out, gritty, blue-collar, pickled sort of poet, but, really, his high-falutin', Romantic diction just undermines that whole persona. And he's such a sentimentalist! So what if he spouts off lines like "Jan was a good fuck. She had a tight pussy. And she took it like it was a knife stabbing her to death." Oh, I am so SHOCKED! A flippant use of the word "pussy!" I'm all aflutter. And that pseudo-shocking language doesn't make me feel that there actually IS the visceral reality in his writing that he would like there to be. And it's certainly not present in Factotum.
Okay, so maybe I'm terribly far removed. I have, quite possibly, the least addictive personality ever. I'm far far too aware of the consequences down the line to subject my body and mind and the bodies and minds of those I care about to the detriments of abuse of any vice...even food, which I love...even sex, which, well, let's face it, I seem to be wrasslin' with in my own head these days way more than I am excuting an act thereof. I'm the first to admit that I don't really understand addictive behavior because I've never experienced anything that could even come close. So, yes, it would be natural that I'd be bored by a dramatization of it. And, likewise, it would stand to reason that I'd have little sympathy for a story-teller that wants to act, all victimized-like, like he's some sort of working-class hero because he spends grand segments of time hittin' the sauce. All this I'll concede: I'm not the best audience here. But then, glamorizing alcoholism in movie form is probably never going to win me over, in the first place.
Would this movie be any good if I weren't pre-disposed not to like it? Well, the 15-year-old kid working at Blockbuster warned me that I'd hate it. He said that it moved too slow and that Matt Dillon was a lousy actor. I don't know that either of those things are really the movie's deepest flaws but I do know that this guy renders himself as unsympathetic as possible. And maybe that, in the end, is Bukowski's allure? That bravado that he just doesn't give a shit what an audience thinks? Like that's supposed to make him earn my respect as a writer? After all, he says as much in the first scene in which he's sitting, sloshed, in front of a notebook. And maybe it would if I thought he had something interesting to say-- if I thought the writing were all that engaging to begin with...
But I don't. So, I was bored.
And then I put in A Scanner Darkly. I'm aware that, like Bukowski, Phillip K. Dick has a cult following. In certain circles, he is beloved. But frankly, this story IS more interesting than that of "Hank Chinaski" in Factotum. This movie has layers of both surveillance paranoia and drug abuse that, quite simply, make it a deeper story.
However, with regard to the surveillance issues, well, this is a topic that's beginning to feel dated to me. I mean, being watched is part of the post-modern condition, right? And aren't we done being post-moder yet? I had a professor in grad school who proclaimed the Post-Modern Era over and thus dubbed all of us "the Post-Ironic generation." Well, ok, I don't know about that either but I kinda feel like I hashed through all the Big Brother, I'm Being Watched Literature 10 years ago when I was an undergrad. And it's no coincidence that this novel was written in the late 70s. It's not that this issue isn't still relevant-- it's probably moreso-- it's that I've become so innured to the notion that I'm on camera for some ridiculous percentage of my day. It's old news. Jesus. My nonchalance here suddenly feels ominious, eh?
Anyway, it's also a movie about addictions. And never have two more naturally tweak-ish actors than Robert Downey Jr. and Rory Cochrane been selected. Both have such particularized bodily rhythms that you kinda figure they're strung out most of the time anyway. And the funny thing is, it makes me like them more! What's up with that? I can't stand Matt Dillon's jerk-off drunk up there but you put a slightly off-kilter actor in a roll in which he gets to let loose with all his bodily tics and I love him? No, I don't get it either. And really, this is the genius of rotoscoping. This sort of animation that maps real filmed acting into small, flat planes of moving colors has a curious manner in which it exalts and exacerbates the ways bodies move. I mean, I'd know the way Keanu Reeves walks and moves his hands whether or not he looks like himself. And so, all the Cochrane-isms and all the Downey-isms suddenly become this amazing sculptural choreography of strung-out-edness that wouldn't be nearly so dramatic were this film not doctored up with the rotoscope.
And that begs the question with which I titled this post: would I care about the demons these folks incur were it not for the visuality (is that a word?) at play in this movie? So dazzled am I by the animation--by the way it seems to make actors even more situated in their own bodies than ever before--that I really can't tell you. Though I can say this: there is something genuinely tragic about a man who regrets the direction his life has taken because of his addictions--particularly when his addiction was unethically shoved upon him by the dictations of his job. And the sadness that pervades a story like A Scanner Darkly, despite its humor, is notably absent from Factotum, in which the so-called protagonist vehemently and defiantly, if metaphorically, thrusts his middle finger at every the more reasonable option within every choice that comes his way.
And so a verdict: Rotoscoping-->interesting, though slightly distracting. Drug movies-->jury's still out.
Okay, so maybe I'm terribly far removed. I have, quite possibly, the least addictive personality ever. I'm far far too aware of the consequences down the line to subject my body and mind and the bodies and minds of those I care about to the detriments of abuse of any vice...even food, which I love...even sex, which, well, let's face it, I seem to be wrasslin' with in my own head these days way more than I am excuting an act thereof. I'm the first to admit that I don't really understand addictive behavior because I've never experienced anything that could even come close. So, yes, it would be natural that I'd be bored by a dramatization of it. And, likewise, it would stand to reason that I'd have little sympathy for a story-teller that wants to act, all victimized-like, like he's some sort of working-class hero because he spends grand segments of time hittin' the sauce. All this I'll concede: I'm not the best audience here. But then, glamorizing alcoholism in movie form is probably never going to win me over, in the first place.
Would this movie be any good if I weren't pre-disposed not to like it? Well, the 15-year-old kid working at Blockbuster warned me that I'd hate it. He said that it moved too slow and that Matt Dillon was a lousy actor. I don't know that either of those things are really the movie's deepest flaws but I do know that this guy renders himself as unsympathetic as possible. And maybe that, in the end, is Bukowski's allure? That bravado that he just doesn't give a shit what an audience thinks? Like that's supposed to make him earn my respect as a writer? After all, he says as much in the first scene in which he's sitting, sloshed, in front of a notebook. And maybe it would if I thought he had something interesting to say-- if I thought the writing were all that engaging to begin with...
But I don't. So, I was bored.
And then I put in A Scanner Darkly. I'm aware that, like Bukowski, Phillip K. Dick has a cult following. In certain circles, he is beloved. But frankly, this story IS more interesting than that of "Hank Chinaski" in Factotum. This movie has layers of both surveillance paranoia and drug abuse that, quite simply, make it a deeper story.
However, with regard to the surveillance issues, well, this is a topic that's beginning to feel dated to me. I mean, being watched is part of the post-modern condition, right? And aren't we done being post-moder yet? I had a professor in grad school who proclaimed the Post-Modern Era over and thus dubbed all of us "the Post-Ironic generation." Well, ok, I don't know about that either but I kinda feel like I hashed through all the Big Brother, I'm Being Watched Literature 10 years ago when I was an undergrad. And it's no coincidence that this novel was written in the late 70s. It's not that this issue isn't still relevant-- it's probably moreso-- it's that I've become so innured to the notion that I'm on camera for some ridiculous percentage of my day. It's old news. Jesus. My nonchalance here suddenly feels ominious, eh?
Anyway, it's also a movie about addictions. And never have two more naturally tweak-ish actors than Robert Downey Jr. and Rory Cochrane been selected. Both have such particularized bodily rhythms that you kinda figure they're strung out most of the time anyway. And the funny thing is, it makes me like them more! What's up with that? I can't stand Matt Dillon's jerk-off drunk up there but you put a slightly off-kilter actor in a roll in which he gets to let loose with all his bodily tics and I love him? No, I don't get it either. And really, this is the genius of rotoscoping. This sort of animation that maps real filmed acting into small, flat planes of moving colors has a curious manner in which it exalts and exacerbates the ways bodies move. I mean, I'd know the way Keanu Reeves walks and moves his hands whether or not he looks like himself. And so, all the Cochrane-isms and all the Downey-isms suddenly become this amazing sculptural choreography of strung-out-edness that wouldn't be nearly so dramatic were this film not doctored up with the rotoscope.
And that begs the question with which I titled this post: would I care about the demons these folks incur were it not for the visuality (is that a word?) at play in this movie? So dazzled am I by the animation--by the way it seems to make actors even more situated in their own bodies than ever before--that I really can't tell you. Though I can say this: there is something genuinely tragic about a man who regrets the direction his life has taken because of his addictions--particularly when his addiction was unethically shoved upon him by the dictations of his job. And the sadness that pervades a story like A Scanner Darkly, despite its humor, is notably absent from Factotum, in which the so-called protagonist vehemently and defiantly, if metaphorically, thrusts his middle finger at every the more reasonable option within every choice that comes his way.
And so a verdict: Rotoscoping-->interesting, though slightly distracting. Drug movies-->jury's still out.
Friday, January 12, 2007
allaying fears
It appears that a couple dutiful and beloved readers were mislead by my last post. I am not, in fact, intending to quit blogging completely. I love my blog, and really, it's the only place where I can publicly air all the laundry that pertains to my obsessions with sex, racial identity, kinks, quirks, funks and fiascos.
However, I have a job replete with 12-hour days and 6-day weeks and slanderous back-biting and frenetic hysteria and, well, it's a lot more than this little guppy bargained for.
I had plans to leave work at 5:30 this evening. Instead, for the 2nd Friday in a row, I was in the office until nearly 8pm. Before leaving, the big boss... the vice president... left me an ominous post-it on my computer monitor. And then, when he re-surfaced, minutes later, in my very own office, he somehow managed to swindle me out the better portion of my 3-day weekend. Nevermind that I've been in the office for a minimum of 10 hours a day for the last two weeks. Nevermind that my insomnia has revisited me with a vengeance (and yes, I'm composing multiple choice items in my fitful dreams). Nevermind that I've gotten, maybe, 4 yoga practices in in the last 3 weeks. Nevermind that, even though I'm not getting adequate excercise, I'm losing my love-handles because my stomach is too acidic for eating to hold much appeal.
And so, no, I don't intend to quit blogging altogether, but I can't keep up this pace and still have synapses left to fire off anything above and beyond whiny posts like this.
I feel crazy. No. Strike that. I'm convinced that the aforementioned VP has lost his everloving mind. You can't run a ship like this. Folks are awfully likely to jump.
However, I have a job replete with 12-hour days and 6-day weeks and slanderous back-biting and frenetic hysteria and, well, it's a lot more than this little guppy bargained for.
I had plans to leave work at 5:30 this evening. Instead, for the 2nd Friday in a row, I was in the office until nearly 8pm. Before leaving, the big boss... the vice president... left me an ominous post-it on my computer monitor. And then, when he re-surfaced, minutes later, in my very own office, he somehow managed to swindle me out the better portion of my 3-day weekend. Nevermind that I've been in the office for a minimum of 10 hours a day for the last two weeks. Nevermind that my insomnia has revisited me with a vengeance (and yes, I'm composing multiple choice items in my fitful dreams). Nevermind that I've gotten, maybe, 4 yoga practices in in the last 3 weeks. Nevermind that, even though I'm not getting adequate excercise, I'm losing my love-handles because my stomach is too acidic for eating to hold much appeal.
And so, no, I don't intend to quit blogging altogether, but I can't keep up this pace and still have synapses left to fire off anything above and beyond whiny posts like this.
I feel crazy. No. Strike that. I'm convinced that the aforementioned VP has lost his everloving mind. You can't run a ship like this. Folks are awfully likely to jump.
Friday, January 5, 2007
I want to, I really do
My orginal thoughts about this blog came from an idea that Jon and I had. We went to go see a lot of weird movies in empty movies theatres--basically the stuff that only pretentious art-movie dorks were really interested in. And we'd fight about them. A lot. Knock-down, drag-out arguments that served neither of us. So, we figured, if we started a blog in which we had to reason out our opinions on these films without the face-to-face contentious interactions, well, we'd be much happier in our friendship. And so, I started this blog so that I could spew forth my fair share of the dialogue about the movies that I loved, hated, attempted to engage with, laughed at, cried through... whatever.
And then I got this corporate job.
Today, I left my house shortly before 8 A.M. I worked my ass off, skipping lunch, until 8 P.M. This is the third day of a 4-day week in which I've done that. I had a deadline today that I missed and so, I have to go in to work tomorrow-- a Saturday. I have a deadline every day next week, so, if I decide to not complete my current task-at-hand before Monday, my deadlines are going to pile up behind me in such a way that I may never come up for air again. I feel like the domino at the very front of the line... and everyone else's full body weight is just poised to land on my sad little caved-in ass.
And so, my dear readers (all 4 of you): I want very much to continue writing about movies... hell, even SEEING a movie now and again is proving challenging, given my schedule... but I'm just not sure I can put forth the engagement that the films deserve. I miss this writing, though. I miss the outlet. At some point when I was in grad school, writing poetry became distinctly un-fun. But the urge to write, the desire to put order to thoughts and language to order, didn't go away... and so, I wanted this to be the informal outlet that all that other poetic posturing could never have been. But now, there are just so few hours in the day... and so few days in the week. And I am One Tired Chica.
OK, OK, venting over.
Here are three movies that I wish I could talk more about:
The King
I think this went straight to video and that's a shame. It's got William Hurt and Gael Garcia Bernal, the kid from Y Tu Mama, Tambien and it's a really smart little piece. I think this is a movie about how even the most fervent of religious conversions can never absolve people of their sins--at least not in this karmic go-round! And I didn't know that that was what was going on in this movie until the very last line was uttered. It's sexy and hopeless--not an uninteresting combination of descriptors, eh?
Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesue
This movie is too short to truly flesh out its subject matter. Which is really its only flaw. It's a little documentary about what's beautiful about the ugliest parts of being a Southerner. Though I'm one citified little twerp these days, the majority of my childhood was spent in the Tennessee backwoods... and, though I was born in Chicago and my parents are sure-as-hell Yankees, and I'll never be a REAL Southerner, the soul of my childhood is in this murky, grisly, delicate little documentary. When I was in Tucson for Christmas, somehow a conversation arose about how people identify with whatever they consider to be their hometowns-- and I mentioned how, whenever I leave the South, I always feel like I've gotta answer for being a white girl from Tennessee. And a friend of my brother's said, "Well, you weren't born there? Why do you think you should apologize for it?" And I said something about how it's bigger part of me than Chicago could ever be... and what I meant was, if I didn't feel like I had to answer for being a Southerner, if I didn't feel like that place had infiltrated my soul--bored its black, blistered, vine-y way into me--well, what would be left of me? What would I have to rasp against? And Jim White, our guide through this little squint-eyed, side-winding film, is a transplant himself. But he shows us the dirt and grime, the brimstone, and the gristle of the landscape that hits home in ways I can't quite put words to. And, noteably, it's shot in the winter--- the nastiest time of year for that part of the country-- 40 degrees, rainy, trees all barren and metallic-looking... and the mud... and yet every damn shot of the landscape is gorgeous. White says he could never see the beauty of the South until he left it and truly, this movie shows all the ugly at its prettiest.
An Inconvenient Truth
Oh, how I resisted this movie. I refused to see it in the theatre, due to the fact that I wasn't so keen on making a public spectacle of myself. And I would have. I did, in fact, make a private spectacle of myself. But, oh, man, this is another required-viewing sort of film-- to accompany Who Killed the Electric Car and Sorry, Haters and Paradise Now. No conscientious American should miss it and that's no exaggeration. However, it's going to be in the low 70s here in DC tomorrow. Tomorrow is January 6th. God knows I love warm weather--I've mourned for the Tucson desert ever since I left it 2 1/2 years ago. But a day in the 70s? In Washington, DC? In January? It's not right... and, because of this movie, the daily weather reports fill me with a new sort of anxiety. Today, after my hellish day of work, the only positive thing I can say about my job is that, hopefully, soon, I may be able to afford to trade it my peice-of-shit, sub-par emissions-standards-bearing, American-made Ford for a Japanese hybrid. It's really the very very least I can do.
And then I got this corporate job.
Today, I left my house shortly before 8 A.M. I worked my ass off, skipping lunch, until 8 P.M. This is the third day of a 4-day week in which I've done that. I had a deadline today that I missed and so, I have to go in to work tomorrow-- a Saturday. I have a deadline every day next week, so, if I decide to not complete my current task-at-hand before Monday, my deadlines are going to pile up behind me in such a way that I may never come up for air again. I feel like the domino at the very front of the line... and everyone else's full body weight is just poised to land on my sad little caved-in ass.
And so, my dear readers (all 4 of you): I want very much to continue writing about movies... hell, even SEEING a movie now and again is proving challenging, given my schedule... but I'm just not sure I can put forth the engagement that the films deserve. I miss this writing, though. I miss the outlet. At some point when I was in grad school, writing poetry became distinctly un-fun. But the urge to write, the desire to put order to thoughts and language to order, didn't go away... and so, I wanted this to be the informal outlet that all that other poetic posturing could never have been. But now, there are just so few hours in the day... and so few days in the week. And I am One Tired Chica.
OK, OK, venting over.
Here are three movies that I wish I could talk more about:
The King
I think this went straight to video and that's a shame. It's got William Hurt and Gael Garcia Bernal, the kid from Y Tu Mama, Tambien and it's a really smart little piece. I think this is a movie about how even the most fervent of religious conversions can never absolve people of their sins--at least not in this karmic go-round! And I didn't know that that was what was going on in this movie until the very last line was uttered. It's sexy and hopeless--not an uninteresting combination of descriptors, eh?
Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesue
This movie is too short to truly flesh out its subject matter. Which is really its only flaw. It's a little documentary about what's beautiful about the ugliest parts of being a Southerner. Though I'm one citified little twerp these days, the majority of my childhood was spent in the Tennessee backwoods... and, though I was born in Chicago and my parents are sure-as-hell Yankees, and I'll never be a REAL Southerner, the soul of my childhood is in this murky, grisly, delicate little documentary. When I was in Tucson for Christmas, somehow a conversation arose about how people identify with whatever they consider to be their hometowns-- and I mentioned how, whenever I leave the South, I always feel like I've gotta answer for being a white girl from Tennessee. And a friend of my brother's said, "Well, you weren't born there? Why do you think you should apologize for it?" And I said something about how it's bigger part of me than Chicago could ever be... and what I meant was, if I didn't feel like I had to answer for being a Southerner, if I didn't feel like that place had infiltrated my soul--bored its black, blistered, vine-y way into me--well, what would be left of me? What would I have to rasp against? And Jim White, our guide through this little squint-eyed, side-winding film, is a transplant himself. But he shows us the dirt and grime, the brimstone, and the gristle of the landscape that hits home in ways I can't quite put words to. And, noteably, it's shot in the winter--- the nastiest time of year for that part of the country-- 40 degrees, rainy, trees all barren and metallic-looking... and the mud... and yet every damn shot of the landscape is gorgeous. White says he could never see the beauty of the South until he left it and truly, this movie shows all the ugly at its prettiest.
An Inconvenient Truth
Oh, how I resisted this movie. I refused to see it in the theatre, due to the fact that I wasn't so keen on making a public spectacle of myself. And I would have. I did, in fact, make a private spectacle of myself. But, oh, man, this is another required-viewing sort of film-- to accompany Who Killed the Electric Car and Sorry, Haters and Paradise Now. No conscientious American should miss it and that's no exaggeration. However, it's going to be in the low 70s here in DC tomorrow. Tomorrow is January 6th. God knows I love warm weather--I've mourned for the Tucson desert ever since I left it 2 1/2 years ago. But a day in the 70s? In Washington, DC? In January? It's not right... and, because of this movie, the daily weather reports fill me with a new sort of anxiety. Today, after my hellish day of work, the only positive thing I can say about my job is that, hopefully, soon, I may be able to afford to trade it my peice-of-shit, sub-par emissions-standards-bearing, American-made Ford for a Japanese hybrid. It's really the very very least I can do.
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