Me & Jon & the romantic comedy

A couple of years ago, I put up a rare post containing one of my own poems. It contains the line, "I find it humbling that I'm the same dumb fool for love I was 10 years ago." That might be the most unmitigated moment of autobiography I've ever included in a poem. And my poems tend to be not much more than heavily coded navel-gazing. So maybe it's merely the least obfuscating line of autobiography I've ever written.

Most of the time, I feel like I've pitched my emotional pup-tent somewhere approaching the more neurotic end of the self-awareness spectrum. Like anyone, I miss stuff and feel side-swiped when someone makes an astute observation of me that I did not anticipate. But I suppose I feel so knocked asunder by those observations because it's my own lack of anticipation itself that is rare. So, because I plumb my own psychic depths with some regularity, you'd think I'd have an easier time breaking problematic behavior patterns than some folks who can't or choose not to even see their own metronomic zigs and zags. But this is not the case. In other words, I find it humbling that I'm the same dumb fool for love I always was and probably always will be. I also find it comically ironic that I consider my snarky, bitchy, irreverent self to be no kinda romantic.

Last night, Jon and I went to go see 500 Days of Summer on opening night of The Nashville Film Festival. This little movie's going to have a smallish roll-out in July and, if it catches on, it may well pick up a wider distribution. And it might well catch on. It's a tilted, wistful romantic comedy of the Garden State/The Last Kiss/Wristcutters ilk. It's the sort of film for which I can't really help but begrudgingly offer up my affection, despite my knee-jerk dismissal of its genre. It has a happy-ish ending that still allows for more romantic strife in the offing. It has a skinny, brown-haired, unconventionally sexy male lead who can play soulful without coming off as effete (A Frankenstein's monster made from Zach Braff, Patrick Fugit and Joseph Gordon-Levitt parts would probably be not all that far off from adolescent me's masturbatory fantasy of all that is desirable in a boy.) And it has the overall tone of a Matthea Harvey poem: amused despair at the human condition. I don't know. Something in that salmagundi is what makes a romantic comedy palatable in my estimation. And so, I pretty much hearted this movie in spite of my much-cultivated scoffing cynicism.

Admittedly, it's Gordon-Levitt who works me over for everything I'm worth, in this movie, as in all others. Whether he's fucking a john up the ass as a rent boy in (the near-flawless) Mysterious Skin or slurring through his luscious drunken squint to give us a karaoke rendition of "Here Comes Your Man," (a song that pulled me from the depths of many a funk my senior year in high school) he inspires more affection in me than I knew I could have for a total stranger. I think it's his deep-down command of his physical instrument that I find so compelling. Few men as young as he (seemingly instinctively) understand their own bodily rhythms so well as to be able to shape them to each character's specifications without losing that great settled-into-the-bones aspect of real man. 500 Days in particular really does make the most of this gift. Oh, yes, we are treated to a tonally spot-on "I just got laid" choreographed dance sequence. Not since Ferris Bueller has such an ebullient expression of a character's physicality worked so well. Because sometimes it really is okay, even necessary, to let your movie indulge in that sort of celebration, even if you are a "serious actor."

However, what is truly noteworthy about this cute little film (and it is cute-- whether you interpret that word to mean something complimentary or derogatory) is that it seems to have found a wormhole in the art of making a narrative character arc. It's plot, according to the tagline, is this: "Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Girl doesn't." But that's only the half of it. It's more like: "Boy meets girl. Boy projects soulmate fantasy onto girl. Girl knows better. Boy gets heart broken. Boy suffers. Boy gets drunk. Boy makes an ass of himself. Boy quits his futureless job. Boy refuses to give up hope in spite of girl's straightforward rejection. Boy malingers. Boy begins to heal. Boy hits on new girl. Boy projects soulmate fantasy onto new girl. Boy hasn't learned a damn thing." In landing Tom, Gordon-Levitt's character, squarely back where he started, the film does something really fairly unusual. It shows us an example of such a deeply ingrained, problematic behavior pattern that does not get resolved and yet this ending is no less satisfying for doing so. In fact, it contains the thing that is absent from virtually every happily-ever-after ending: an acknowledgment that even the smartest, most self-aware folks are pretty much resigned to being the same dumb fools for love they always were forever after. In terms of genre conventions, this ending is notable because, really, it subverts the usual model in which the hero learns, grows and changes via the vehicle of plot-driven conflict. In terms of being a reflection of the human experience, this ending most certainly feels like home, if your home was a stylized land, populated with people wearing nostalgic Doris Day dresses and in which you get to make out on the model beds in IKEA, that is.

So, watching this movie with Jon was a complicated experience. Jon and I have had a rough year in the history of us. Last year at this time, I was dating someone and trying to forge a distance from Jon and this year, he's doing the same to me. Which isn't to say that I'm not dating anyone this year-- it's just that trying to keep him at bay was so harrowing that I figured I'd be better served henceforth by keeping a slot open for him on my dance card. A late-in-the-evening, hair-unfurled, heels-kicked-to-the-sidelines slot, but a slot nonetheless

And, nonetheless, we rail against each other and we cling to each other. This jackass (a term of endearment. I think.) has been my closest friend for the last 5 years. However, we did not speak, email, text or gchat for nearly three months in the very recent past. And until Thursday night, we had not set eyes on each other even once since last April's film festival. (Ahem. Unless you count a couple Skype-related indiscretions, that is. *cough* Skype is evil.) Simply put, we are not a couple. We've never been a couple. We could never be a couple. And yet we cleave to each other through petty argument after petty argument, through other lovers, through senseless beat-your-head-against-a-wall frustration that we simply do not process emotional information in similar ways. And the unspent sexual component hangs heavy between us. Yeah, surprise. There's that.

So, upon our first in-person meeting in a year, we went to see a sweet romantic comedy about unbreakable behavioral patterns. Our conversation afterwards was tense and a more than a little mournful. We both know we can no longer reach the level of intimate connection with each other that we've come to depend upon and yet we are utterly flummoxed in trying to delineate the parameters of how our friendship will continue from here on out-- if it will continue at all. Our post-movie conversation also had an ironic twinge that did not go without notice: hilariously, we both identified, to a certain degree, with Tom, with regard to each other. At different moments, I think, either one or the other of us has been the willing supplicant, wishing the other would just go ahead and fall in love already. At the same time, though, we've both always been aware of a element of wrongness about our closeness. We pick at each other too much. We are too quick to find ourselves annoyed with the other. We lug a list of past slights and fights into each new skirmish. There is some underlying fundamental level on which we just don't get each other. We know this. We've exhausted our capacity to discuss it, rationally and irrationally.

So, why, then, can we not just knock each others' names off that damn dance card? Why can't two not-idiotic, thoughtful (if neurotic) people jump off this Ferris wheel of relatively self-defeating patterned behavior? Because we're the same dumb fools for love we were five years ago, that's why.

Learning the lesson that identifies your foibles is one thing. Deciding whether to embrace those foibles or eradicate them is something different. Completely. So then, it is, no doubt, that moment at the end of 500 Days, when the decision washes over Tom's ever-expressive face, his choice to own his peccadilloes rather than transcend them is what earns him, as a character in a completely not-earth-shattering movie, my respect. To do otherwise would be swimming upstream. Or so I tell myself.

N.B. Sorry, Jon, for airing dirty laundry. Please don't kick my ass.

English-Plus!

There's an important bill on the ballots in my hometown of Nashville, Tennessee today. Because I know that several amongst my small smattering of readers hail from that very city, I feel I'd be remiss if I didn't bring it up-- especially in light of all the high global and American community spirits currently aloft in my adoptive city of DC.

There is a group of citizens who've got bees in their bonnets about government services being conducted in languages other than English. They've brought forth this so-called English-Only bill to enact some dubious legislation that will prevent non-native English speakers from recieving services in their own tongues. Now, the impetus behind this bill is fear-- fear that the "fur-eigners" will take over; fear that, because so many immigrants will work for less money than born and bred Amurikuns, said Amurikuns will lose their gainful employment to these nefarious interlopers. Now, I could go on and on about how these fears are unfounded (we spoiled Americans are pretty effin' reluctant to fill all those thankless, menial brazero positions after all, aren't we?) but there's really no need. I can sum all that up by saying the bill is ethically questionable at best and a logistical nightmare at worst. In a best case scenario, it'll cost the city budget gajillions in added costs incurred while coping with skein after skein of brand new (totally needless) red tape.

It's important that my Nashville readers do their part for voting this thing down. My mom's been on her soapbox about it every time I've talked to her in this past month. My dad gives me poll numbers whenever I speak with him. And Jon. Well, Jon's been posting regularly about it for months, with some particularly interesting bits in the last 10 days or so.

Actually, I would have been harping about this here on my own blog much earlier, but my biggest source for links, information and commentary about it has been... Jon's blog. And well, dear readers, please forgive this: my impending over-share. As Jon's and my complicated relational enterprise came to a relatively abrupt end a few weeks ago, I've been reluctant to link him-- which is one part petty, one part self-preservation. On a daily basis, I'm still cycling through a regular rotation of disconsolate sadness about the demise of our conflicted association, hot rage at him for any number of perceived affronts, and nauseated irritation with myself for still feeling so passionately emotionally involved in the whole thing. He's been my closest human spirit for the last four years and this is a trying period of detachment. I made plane reservations for my annual excursion to the Nashville Film Festival last week and I'm experiencing something of an onslaught of mixed feelings at the prospect of attending the festival without him as my companion. The last thing I need to have happen is for the simple act of my linking pertinent, trenchant information from his blog to stir up some pit of uneasily salivating attack dogs from deep within me. The second-to-last thing I need is his interpreting a passing on of political commentary as an invitation to engagement of some sort. It's not. Really.

So, I know this post is an emo mess. That is, in part, I have no doubt, due to that fact that I'm feeling pretty deeply mired in my annual winter funk-fest at the moment. I may or may not have some more to say on how much January in DC sucks in a future post.

But nonetheless, I hope I can catch a couple readers before the polls close. Please. Go read Jon's posts. He's far more versed in the nuances of this thing than I am, so he sounds a lot smarter than I would if I tried to recount it all in my own words. And then go vote this thing back to racist-hell from which it came. Go!

UPDATE: As you can tell from the comments, this amendment did NOT pass. Now non-native English speakers can continue to receive 911 care with the aid of a translator. See? Nashville's not so heartless after all.

Now THAT'S my hometown!

Jon's been playing roving reporter via blog, text messages, gchat and the occasional cellphone call all day, god bless 'im! Seeing as I'm feeling particularly far from home on this night when all the politics worth talking about are going on in the city of my youth, rather than the city of my present, I am terribly grateful for his surrogate presence in the crowd.

And the best news? He tells me the crowds are dominated (dominated!) by Obama supporters. The crowds are dominated by Obama supporters in the city that is home to Belle Meade, the part of town with the most, per capita, Republican party contributors in the country. In one of the wealthiest cities in the south. In the south!

Honestly, it's about damn time the rest of the country takes note Nashville's outgrown its redneck reputation, isn't it? The city's always been more than country music and mayors named "Boner" but tonight's debate in particular, with all those happy, excited, blue-sign-toting Obama supporters, seems like a bright, sparkly moment in its history.

Dare I venture forth such with such unadulterated optimism? I'd say so.

Launched.

At the inception of this blog, Jon and I had spent some time theorizing about co-writing a film blog in which we debated with each other. Essentially, we were getting into these arguments pretty much every time we went to the theater together. And they weren't polite, erudite little arguments. We'd come out of them bruised and achy, and duly committed to never becoming a couple. So, we devised this plan for saving the battle for the blogs, whereby we thought we might avoid killing each other.

That idea is from whence these little brown bunnies were birthed. Of course, this blog's become something quite other than a simple film blog. It's my writerly outlet as well as a place in which I can talk about all the political/feminist stuff that's always on my mind. Obviously, it's a catch-all for articles and other internet foragings, too. It's provided something of a foundation and a motivation for my future graduate studies. And it's mine, all mine.

So, then, Jon had this great idea that maybe we should start a blog that's not so much a he-said-she-said debate, but one that's mostly composed of top-5 lists of our favorite films in various categories (with the occasional critical interjection tossed in for good measure).

And we've done it.

I am hereby announcing the launch of Jon's and my spankin' new joint blog, film/foreplay.

We're hoping that everyone who reads our solitary blogs will be tempted to pop over and watch us go at it like pissed-off pterodactyls every now and again. It should be loads of good, combative fun.

Now, go!

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.