It's not that I haven't been watching movies... it's just that I haven't had a whole hell of a lot to say about any of them-- even the ones I've really liked. So, for this post, I'm just gonna list stuff and give a brief response to each. For those of you who like it when I write long, insightful viewer-responses, well, uh, tough. For those of you who read my posts but wish I would just keep from running off at the mouth so much, well, lucky you!
Running With Scissors
My officemate at work hated this movie, but I gather she'd read the book. The book is not interesting in the least to me-- memoir of gay boy's crazy childhood--but the movie appeared to have some charm, judging by the trailer. I dunno. The movie wasn't really all that charming. Evan Rachel Wood, as per usual, was luminous and full of spirit. I'm again struck by the way such a beautiful delicate-looking girl can deliver charged performance after charged performance. But, really, it's Annette Bening's movie--and she does a pretty good job acting out the role of a truly awful parent. I say "pretty good" because the bad-mother-of-a-gay-boy -- or maybe just the (archetypical? Is she archetypical already) Bad Mother-- is getting to be a pretty tired variety of character. I was wondering aloud at work the other day about why we see so many depictions of irresponsible, self-destructive, unpleasant mothers in film these days... and a coworker said something about how it must be a reaction to that June Cleaver/1950s/perfect-housewife-complete-with-blinging-teeth image-- the one that puts women in a lovely little birdcage, sitting teeteringly atop a pedestal. To which I think, so, great! Now mothers are demonic.. and yet put-upon...so they are both evil and victimized? Yay! We've come so far! Well, anyway, I imagine bad mothers aren't really anything new to film-- it just seems like I'm feeling sensitive about the depictions of them lately.
Delicatessen
What's up with French comedies, lately? Why must they all seem like cartoons, and yet not be? I'm thinking here of movies like Amelie, which, don't get me wrong, is adorable... but why continue to produce movies that feel like they're populated with caricatures more than characters? Perhaps this isn't a legitimate complaint to make of French comedies in general, but, man, was I bored by this movie... and maybe the fact that I was seriously fighting sleep for the last 45 minutes of it contributed to the fact that I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on... I don't know. Maybe I owe it a second chance. But basically, there's a former clown who goes to work odd jobs in a tenement building where a bunch of loonies live-- including a couple of, uh, comically suicidal loonies, and a murderous butcher and his myopic daughter (of course, she's the object of affection for the has-been clown). And somehow, there are all these weird men in goggles and suits made out of Glad bags who are, I dunno, vegetarian crusaders? Really, I think I must've missed a lot. Maybe I won't have two glasses of wine before I watch it next time...
The Motorcycle Diaries
If I were to judge a DVD by its cover, I would assume that I'd just love this movie. It's about the life of a political revolutionary (Che Guevera (ok, I have to interject that it just occurs to me that Jessica Alba's character (Max Guevera) in the short-lived James Cameron(ugh)-produced TV show, Dark Angel, was most likely named for Che... um, anyway...)) and stars Gael Garcia Bernal,to whom I'm beginning to pay much attention, mostly because he chooses such INTERESTING movies. But alas, I felt like this movie was a total let-down. And in a totally bizarre way. Assuming the audience already knows all about Che, the movie quickly becomes a series of snapshots in which we see Che's heroism mounting. On his motorcycle journey w/ his friend, he meets a poor migrant worker and his wife: *click*. He encounters umpteen other poor folks throughout Latin America: one *click* for each. He goes to live in a leper colony for a while: several more *clicks* here. I mean, yes, I'm sure these events were integral to shaping this political figure, but the movie lacks any form of subtlety at all. And so, I come away from it feeling like I've been looking an an airbrushed portrait or an angel for two hours, rather than a gritty movie about a gritty man. Tres disappointing!
Loverboy
Yeah, um, this isn't a very good movie. Kyra Sedgwick plays a woman who, at the beginning is VERY single-minded in getting herself pregnant. And then, once she manages to do so, becomes one of those mothers that makes me thank my lucky stars that my own is as great as she is. For example, my mother never tried to kill me and herself so as to prevent me from growing up. Thanks, Mommels! I owe ya one! But aside from this being yet another lousy mom story, I couldn't help but feel like there were some real gaps in story-telling here. There are a few flashback scenes to when Sedgwick's character was a kid-- and her parents, Kevin Bacon (also the director) and Marisa Tomei, are ickily lovey-dovey. And then one day Kevin Bacon coughs. And then one day, the two of them commit suicide, I guess? Yeah, I didn't entirely follow there either. And Sandra Bullock plays a hot-but-sad neighbor lady. And Matt Dillon shows up briefly. And Campbell Scott. And they all stand in front of the camera, wave, then walk off. OK, they kinda do stuff, but they're each sorta there to be placeholders for Sedgwick's character's psychological associations. And, though the kid does his best to rebel and prove that he's a real kid, he seems just a much a flat projection of her psychic state as the rest of the characters. So, I'm 4 for 4 now, aren't I?
Dreamland
I admit it. I rented this movie for no other reason than it has the kid from the Mac commercials (Justin Long) in it. C'mon-- you all think he's completely charming, too, don't you? His nerdy/cool ratio seems awfully well-balanced. And this movie is certainly... well... earnest. So much so that I nearly found myself caught up in the soap opera of the trailer park for which the film is named. First, there's Audrey, your average nurturer/caretaker, who has a drunk/agoraphobic/widower/heart-broken father. And then there's Cindy/Calista, Audrey's very cleavage-y best friend, with eyes on the big prize-- that's right! She's shootin' for Miss America. Except she has Multiple Sclerosis. Sad. Enter the perpetually sweaty, perpetually fish-belly-white-despite-the-fact-that-the-movie-is-set-in-New-Mexico Mookie (the Mac kid) to steal the hearts of both girls. Within moments of his arrival in the trailer park, he has meaningful sex with Calista-- out in the desert (no fear of the jumping cholla up the ol' tuckus in these brave, brave folks!)and then, within days, it seems, he decides that he's fallen hopelessly in love with the poetess Audrey (unfortunately, someone felt it was necessary to have her do voiceovers reading some of the saddest, most adjective-heavy, moony variety of high-school poetry I've heard in some time) and Calista wises up and, from her hospital bed (she crashed her motorcycle-- never fear, she's not ready to die just yet!), she tragically dumps Mookie, who immediately goes sniffing after Audrey, with whom he then has meaningful sex in the comfort of her very own trailer. And then Audrey gets to leave all the trailer park sob stories behind and go to college! Yay! I dunno. I kinda feel like there IS something salvageable in this story, but man! The pacing was just so far off! Either the passage of time was not conveyed effectively, or everyone was doing some turbo-bonding! I don't mean to be such a skeptic about true love amongst economically challenged teens... but this is basically your average teen love/sex drama filmed as though it wants to be considered an innovative independent film. Nice try, folks... but no dice.
Tadpole
So, now it's time for a commentary on a totally dated film. Tadpole came out when I was in grad school, so it's probably at least 5 years old. I could look it up, but I'm lazy. But I feel like this movie illustrates a number of things I've been talking about for some time on this blog. It's a movie about a 15-year-old kid who's in love with his stepmother, and proceeds to have an affair with this stepmother's best friend. There are a number of discussions between women about how they are unsatisfied by boring, staid, cynical men their own age.. and how a 15-year-old boy, given that he's smart enough and passionate enough and speaks French enough and is sophisticated in a million other ways atypical to 15-year-old boys, isn't such a bad alternative. And truly, the character of this 15-year-old boy is pure fantasy. But! He's a 15-year-old boy who is given the precious gift of sexual agency. True, he is far too adult to be convincing, but no one condescendingly calls him "innocent" or questions the fact that his desires are both sincere and adult-like in their viscerality. However, if men in their 40s are all boring, staid, and cynical... jeez. This bleak prospect makes me want to stop thinking about this movie immediately and move onto the next.
Half Nelson
Ryan Gosling's nominated for this film this year and I'm glad about that. When I saw The Believer, a little-known, but FANTASTIC film about a Jewish kid who becomes a Neo-Nazi, I remember feeling like I was watching something transformative happen-- as though the character was a presence above and beyond this very pretty actor. And same goes for Gosling's performance in Half Nelson. However, acting aside, I like this movie very much (yep, finally one that I liked, unequivocally) because the audience is unsure throughout where to invest its loyalties. I wanted to love this smart, articulate, sad, compassionate man, who is also incredibly fucked-up, who is also an addict (yep, an addict even I can love) but, as to be expected he lets me down, and he lets his students down (oh, yeah, he's an inner-city middle-school history teacher, doing his damnedest to impart Hegel's theory of dialectics upon a bunch of 7th graders). And there's a drug-dealer character, who is set up in opposition to Gosling's character (how's that for dialectics for you?), who's out there contributing to the detriment of his community, yet trying to protect his de facto family as best he can. There are a few simply wrenching moments in this film-- one in which Dan (Gosling) finally succumbs to buying crack from the aforementioned dealer, not realizing that the dealer is sending out Dan's favorite student to do the deliveries that night. They're exchange is silent but her sense of betrayal is palpable, his defeat also palpable. And there is a also a pretty interesting underlying political discussion that keeps popping up. Dan makes jokes about our ridiculous president a couple times, he engages in a totally stoned monologue about the futility of American humanitarianism, he feels his educated left-wing ideals are completely ineffectual, thus contributing to his very addiction. It's a movie about the frustrations and mis-directed coping mechanisms of economically challenged Americans, and for that, I'm glad it's getting it's little glimmer of Oscar attention, even if Forest is destined for the glory next Sunday night...
Monday, February 19, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Mercury in retrograde
...And this is the point in the saga of little brown rabbits at which Marjorie remembers why she curses winter. For my entire life, I've been a warm weather girl. I've never been so happy, weather-wise, as I was during the three years I lived in Tucson. But, as my regular (ha!) readers might recall, I've recently watched An Inconvenient Truth and have finally been able to put winter in its proper perspective-- a necessary part of this planet's cycle, one that would have dire repercussions were it to disappear. Until this afternoon.
Last night, my freakin' psychic mother informed me that Mercury had just gone into retrograde, where it will stay for the next three weeks or so. In general, when Mercury goes retrograde, all sorts of the minor-annoyance brand of hell breaks loose. Miscommunications galore! Travel mishaps. Lost items. The milk spoiling two days before its expiration date... that kind of thing. And so, I should have known.
As I mentioned in a post earlier today, this morning, I decided to not brave the inclement Northern Virginia weather so as to make the trek into Georgetown where my office is. However, around 3 this afternoon, I went to the front of my building and noticed that a snowplow had indeed scoured the driveway of my apartment complex. So, I figured I'd try to drive in so I could enter some stuff into the computer at work-- and win some brownie points. I went and scraped all the ice off my car. I got in my car. I put the car into reverse. My car grunted loudly but did not move.
I should explain here that, while the snowplow cleared the main driveway area, it dumped all of the snow and ice that was in its way all along the sides, i.e., right under the rear tires of all the cars in the lot. Brilliant, eh?
I got out of my car and dug all four tires out with my piddly little icescraper. No, I do not own a shovel-- I live in a little apartment that has an enclosed sunroom, not a balcony... and I do not have a single square inch of ground on which I could stake a flag, so I generally assumed I would have no need for a shovel. So, yes, I'm digging away at hard-as-rock ice with an icescraper/brush-combo-deal. I get back into my car. I begin to back out, but apparently I began turning a little too quickly and my front tire sunk deeply into about 15 inches of snow. I wasn't goin' nowheres. Nowheres at all.
So, at this point my car is halfway out of my parking spot and neighbors trying to get out of the complex are honking at me--though it was painfully obvious that I'd gotten myself good and stuck. At this point, a lovely good Samaritan from a neighboring building comes to my service, bless him. He and I manage to dig the front wheel out again and he backs the car safely out of the slot. He gets out of the car. He locks the door to the car. With my keys still inside. With the car still running. Oh, yes he did. He did, indeed.
At this point, I can't even get back into my building b/c my door censor and my apartment key are, yep, on my keychain, in the ignition, in the car. So, I stand out in the cold shivering until this well-intentioned neighbor invites me into his truck... but then I figure I can at least call my landlord who can come let me into my apartment because he lives right around the corner. So, poor fellow, Mamadou the crazy nine-foot-tall Senegalese landlord, arrives moments later and lets me back into my home. At which point I go scurrying around trying to find spare keys. I manage to find my spare apartment key, but god only knows what's happened to my spare car key.
I get on the phone with the insurance folks and they manage to flag down another poor soul, who's been running around all day, dealing with people far less stupid than I, but who, nevertheless, possesses tools with which he can jimmy the lock. Bless him, too. However, by now, my car's been running in the driveway for a good hour and it's getting dark and the lights aren't on and I'm getting worried that some oblivious neighbor is gonna plow right into its little ass-end. Fortunately, no one did that. But, curiously, several neighbors found that it's helpful if you HONK at an unmanned vehicle, clearly stranded in the middle of the driveway. I'm not sure I follow the logic, but I'll have to remember that that is the proper protocol if ever I happen to see something of this nature.
So, anyway, the fabulous Auto-Rescue guy (Frank the Finn) opens my car without a problem. At this point, the idea of leaving my apartment complex is WAY TOO FUCKING STRESSFUL for me, so I decide to pull the car back into its slot. Foolish, foolish girl, I am! The fucking car gets fucking stuck. AGAIN. Frank has a snow shovel-- because it's his job-- and manages to dig my car out once again and then I get it pulled back in. And I turn it off. And I sign my locksmith receipt -- a measly $60! I thought it would be so much more! And I thank the nice man. And I go back into my cosy warm apartment. And I write this blog post.
Now, how's that for some seriously stinky-ass spoiled milk? I mean, really!
Last night, my freakin' psychic mother informed me that Mercury had just gone into retrograde, where it will stay for the next three weeks or so. In general, when Mercury goes retrograde, all sorts of the minor-annoyance brand of hell breaks loose. Miscommunications galore! Travel mishaps. Lost items. The milk spoiling two days before its expiration date... that kind of thing. And so, I should have known.
As I mentioned in a post earlier today, this morning, I decided to not brave the inclement Northern Virginia weather so as to make the trek into Georgetown where my office is. However, around 3 this afternoon, I went to the front of my building and noticed that a snowplow had indeed scoured the driveway of my apartment complex. So, I figured I'd try to drive in so I could enter some stuff into the computer at work-- and win some brownie points. I went and scraped all the ice off my car. I got in my car. I put the car into reverse. My car grunted loudly but did not move.
I should explain here that, while the snowplow cleared the main driveway area, it dumped all of the snow and ice that was in its way all along the sides, i.e., right under the rear tires of all the cars in the lot. Brilliant, eh?
I got out of my car and dug all four tires out with my piddly little icescraper. No, I do not own a shovel-- I live in a little apartment that has an enclosed sunroom, not a balcony... and I do not have a single square inch of ground on which I could stake a flag, so I generally assumed I would have no need for a shovel. So, yes, I'm digging away at hard-as-rock ice with an icescraper/brush-combo-deal. I get back into my car. I begin to back out, but apparently I began turning a little too quickly and my front tire sunk deeply into about 15 inches of snow. I wasn't goin' nowheres. Nowheres at all.
So, at this point my car is halfway out of my parking spot and neighbors trying to get out of the complex are honking at me--though it was painfully obvious that I'd gotten myself good and stuck. At this point, a lovely good Samaritan from a neighboring building comes to my service, bless him. He and I manage to dig the front wheel out again and he backs the car safely out of the slot. He gets out of the car. He locks the door to the car. With my keys still inside. With the car still running. Oh, yes he did. He did, indeed.
At this point, I can't even get back into my building b/c my door censor and my apartment key are, yep, on my keychain, in the ignition, in the car. So, I stand out in the cold shivering until this well-intentioned neighbor invites me into his truck... but then I figure I can at least call my landlord who can come let me into my apartment because he lives right around the corner. So, poor fellow, Mamadou the crazy nine-foot-tall Senegalese landlord, arrives moments later and lets me back into my home. At which point I go scurrying around trying to find spare keys. I manage to find my spare apartment key, but god only knows what's happened to my spare car key.
I get on the phone with the insurance folks and they manage to flag down another poor soul, who's been running around all day, dealing with people far less stupid than I, but who, nevertheless, possesses tools with which he can jimmy the lock. Bless him, too. However, by now, my car's been running in the driveway for a good hour and it's getting dark and the lights aren't on and I'm getting worried that some oblivious neighbor is gonna plow right into its little ass-end. Fortunately, no one did that. But, curiously, several neighbors found that it's helpful if you HONK at an unmanned vehicle, clearly stranded in the middle of the driveway. I'm not sure I follow the logic, but I'll have to remember that that is the proper protocol if ever I happen to see something of this nature.
So, anyway, the fabulous Auto-Rescue guy (Frank the Finn) opens my car without a problem. At this point, the idea of leaving my apartment complex is WAY TOO FUCKING STRESSFUL for me, so I decide to pull the car back into its slot. Foolish, foolish girl, I am! The fucking car gets fucking stuck. AGAIN. Frank has a snow shovel-- because it's his job-- and manages to dig my car out once again and then I get it pulled back in. And I turn it off. And I sign my locksmith receipt -- a measly $60! I thought it would be so much more! And I thank the nice man. And I go back into my cosy warm apartment. And I write this blog post.
Now, how's that for some seriously stinky-ass spoiled milk? I mean, really!
A valentine for Diamond Jim...and for Noah
Every so often, a Springer wins Westminster. And every so often, every Springer-lover in my family goes nuts. The only thing I don't understand is why Springers don't win every year, seeing as they are the best-looking dogs around. And this guy is no exception. Though, I think my Noah is at least as handsome as that fancy dog... and I don't know if James smells like corn chips or not, but certainly, that would give Noah an edge. And, if you can't tell the difference, Noah's the black-and-white one, James is the liver-and-white one with the dopey look on is face. All right. Fine. Noah's face is a little dopey, too. Part of the Springer charm.
Punxsatawney Phil, you got some 'splainin' to do.
It seems that leaving my little apartment today is just not even an option. I'm watching a few brave souls ascend the entrance ramp to I-395 over the top of my laptop today, amidst a lot of ice and not much snow. Weather weenie that I am, I've opted for curling up with a blanket and a large stack of test questions in need of editing and reviewing. *sigh* As much as I would enjoy an actual day off, it seems I'll have to settle for "working at home." With cold feet.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Distracters
hI compose multiple choice questions for a living. If anyone questions my masochism that I mentioned in the post below, be not deluded. I compose MULTIPLE friggin' CHOICE questions for a living. I bring this up because, in assessment terminology, the correct option to a multiple choice question is called a "key." All the wrong options are called "distracters." Because I my work entails composing multiple choice questions day in and day out, I thought I should mention the things that distract ME from my desire to a)punch walls, b)punch my colleagues, c)punch my computer monitor, and/or d) punch myself for taking the job in the first place. (For the record, all 4 options above are keyable.) So here are the two newest:
Thank you to Bob for this. I've also included a permanent link to this delightful bit of merriment in the right hand margin over there ---------->. Take note!
And because I'm still sorting through my enthrallment with the Killing the Buddha book, I thought I'd include a link to a fascinating article on the cult of virginity that was published in Rolling Stone, written by one of the co-editors of the aforementioned book, Jeff Sharlet. I find this article fascinating because, somehow, Sharlet managed to make the cause and the argument for maintaining chastity compelling... even to ME! Crazy, eh? I mean, there's a fair amount of the religiosity therein that makes me uber-nervous, but the people he interviewed seem sane, intelligent and have re-envisioned the notion of "the counter-culture." Though, I must say, I was amused to note how all the virginal interviewees seemed mightily obsessed with sex. And friends, I dare you one and all to start wearing one of those "masturband" numbers. Just 'cuz I'm nosy.
Thank you to Bob for this. I've also included a permanent link to this delightful bit of merriment in the right hand margin over there ---------->. Take note!
And because I'm still sorting through my enthrallment with the Killing the Buddha book, I thought I'd include a link to a fascinating article on the cult of virginity that was published in Rolling Stone, written by one of the co-editors of the aforementioned book, Jeff Sharlet. I find this article fascinating because, somehow, Sharlet managed to make the cause and the argument for maintaining chastity compelling... even to ME! Crazy, eh? I mean, there's a fair amount of the religiosity therein that makes me uber-nervous, but the people he interviewed seem sane, intelligent and have re-envisioned the notion of "the counter-culture." Though, I must say, I was amused to note how all the virginal interviewees seemed mightily obsessed with sex. And friends, I dare you one and all to start wearing one of those "masturband" numbers. Just 'cuz I'm nosy.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
regarding droughts
My friend Jack asked me to write a poem. I haven't written a poem in nearly 3 years, though this is the subject in which I supposedly have an advanced degree. I hate writing poems. I think I suck at it. Yes, you'd think this would have stopped me from getting a degree in this particular discipline, but no. I'm just that much of a masochist. Oh, yes, I am. However, I owe Jack a gift. And lucky for him, his request arrived when I was just exhausted enough, just pissed off enough and just giddy enough to think a linguistic improvisation was in order. And so, I'm posting it here. Forgive my continued poetic suckiness. This is for Jack:
An Improv: Prose Poem for Jack
You're stopping, mid-costume-change and it's you and a wifebeater. It's you and those damn black stilleto boots. It's you and a black thong and it's you thinkin' he'd like this better. But, though the sky could rain mud, it doesn't. September and its juices can't come soon enough and neither can I. Is that your skin? Skin bubbles and cracks, creakin' beneath those boots. This is what I've got left to give you.
Have I effectively proven my masochism now? Glass of wine didn't hurt, though.
An Improv: Prose Poem for Jack
You're stopping, mid-costume-change and it's you and a wifebeater. It's you and those damn black stilleto boots. It's you and a black thong and it's you thinkin' he'd like this better. But, though the sky could rain mud, it doesn't. September and its juices can't come soon enough and neither can I. Is that your skin? Skin bubbles and cracks, creakin' beneath those boots. This is what I've got left to give you.
Have I effectively proven my masochism now? Glass of wine didn't hurt, though.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
A celebration of the impending early spring
I don't care what Punxsatawney Phil says. For the last several days, the greater DC area has witnessed temperatures ranging from 7 to 23 itty bitty degrees. That's cold as fuck (positing, of course, that "fuck" is cold, that is, and, in general it isn't, but that's beside the point). It's really fucking cold here. So what does every good little movie nerd do? Yep, I balled up under a blanket and settled in for the weekend.
So, firstly, I'm beginning to think Maggie Gyllenhaal is slightly unsung. I mean, her brother's caught fire... and he's good and all... but his sad-eyed yearning in the likes of Brokeback Mountain and Donnie Darko and even The Good Girl (all movies I've quite liked) really only puts him on equal level with Maggie. God knows Secretary was the first love story that's spoken to my heart in many many years. And here she comes in Sherrybaby. In general, this is an unremarkable movie about a messed-up addict of a woman who gets out of prison and really wants nothing more than to get her kid back. It's not all that interesting a story. But Gyllenhaal's acting is something else again. She's a miserable sexpot who does a lot of ruining of her own life but somehow still manages to scape together enough integrity to act in the best interest of her kid. It's like the anti-The-Heart-Is-Deceitful-Above-All-Things. And I don't know that it's all that great a movie, but her performance is both meek and fierce, and though the sad Gyllenhaal eyes peer through it, the character is fully-realized and transcendant.
And every once in a while, even I need a good ole' craggy, cranky, cowboy story. The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is a movie that I heard quite a bit about last summer and just couldn't make myself see in a theatre. It's Tommy Lee Jones' directorial debut and he's ostensibly the star. But really, Barry Pepper's border patrol officer steals the show. This guy's a racist manhandler in his job and just plain apathetic in his personal life.. until he kills an illegal Mexican vaquero (the Melquiades Estrada character) and karma comes 'round to bite him in the ass. Pepper never quite softens, and I was never fully convinced he'd learned his lesson, but he has the last words in the film... and those are subtle and underplayed and adeptly punctuate a rigorous performance. Jones' movie is about the lengths some of us will go to validate an unlikely friendship, but Pepper's movie is about how there are rules and how we break those rules and how we pay. And I found Pepper's story the more engaging of the two. And despite the fact that I wanted this movie to make some commentary on immigration issues relevant to border communities (and I suppose it does, to some degree), I was far more taken with the give-and-take aspect of justice that pervades the film.
And so, neither of these two movies caught my imagination in the way that some that I write about do... but they are marked by some stellar acting. Make of them what you will.
So, firstly, I'm beginning to think Maggie Gyllenhaal is slightly unsung. I mean, her brother's caught fire... and he's good and all... but his sad-eyed yearning in the likes of Brokeback Mountain and Donnie Darko and even The Good Girl (all movies I've quite liked) really only puts him on equal level with Maggie. God knows Secretary was the first love story that's spoken to my heart in many many years. And here she comes in Sherrybaby. In general, this is an unremarkable movie about a messed-up addict of a woman who gets out of prison and really wants nothing more than to get her kid back. It's not all that interesting a story. But Gyllenhaal's acting is something else again. She's a miserable sexpot who does a lot of ruining of her own life but somehow still manages to scape together enough integrity to act in the best interest of her kid. It's like the anti-The-Heart-Is-Deceitful-Above-All-Things. And I don't know that it's all that great a movie, but her performance is both meek and fierce, and though the sad Gyllenhaal eyes peer through it, the character is fully-realized and transcendant.
And every once in a while, even I need a good ole' craggy, cranky, cowboy story. The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is a movie that I heard quite a bit about last summer and just couldn't make myself see in a theatre. It's Tommy Lee Jones' directorial debut and he's ostensibly the star. But really, Barry Pepper's border patrol officer steals the show. This guy's a racist manhandler in his job and just plain apathetic in his personal life.. until he kills an illegal Mexican vaquero (the Melquiades Estrada character) and karma comes 'round to bite him in the ass. Pepper never quite softens, and I was never fully convinced he'd learned his lesson, but he has the last words in the film... and those are subtle and underplayed and adeptly punctuate a rigorous performance. Jones' movie is about the lengths some of us will go to validate an unlikely friendship, but Pepper's movie is about how there are rules and how we break those rules and how we pay. And I found Pepper's story the more engaging of the two. And despite the fact that I wanted this movie to make some commentary on immigration issues relevant to border communities (and I suppose it does, to some degree), I was far more taken with the give-and-take aspect of justice that pervades the film.
And so, neither of these two movies caught my imagination in the way that some that I write about do... but they are marked by some stellar acting. Make of them what you will.
Sundance wishlist
Of the new crop of Sundance movies, there are certainly quite a few calling my name. Oh, how I wish I could have my very own little Sundance in my living room... Or you know, take one of those vacations where I go to Utah and do nothing but go to movies all day for a week... *sigh*. Oh, to dream... Meanwhile, I'm tentatively considering spending a week in Nashville in April so that I can go to a whole slew of movies at the NAFF. Last year I got a sneak preview of The Notorious Betty Page (it was ... um... awfully cute, considering it's about an S&M queen) and Beyond Beats and Rhymes: A Hip-Hop Head Weighs in on Manhood in Hip-Hop Culture (one of the MOST fascinating documentaries I've ever seen) and some other movie about the loss of the father (I can't remember the title... Jon? Any Clue?). In general, it was a very positive experience-- one that I hope to repeat. We'll see, my Nashville friends, we'll see!
So here are the little tidbits to which I'm looking forward from this year's crop:
Hounddog
Yep, the famous Dakota Fanning rape movie. I've read all sorts of crazy reviews about this thing... everything ranging from debates about whether pre-adolescent kids have sexual agency to snark-fests that claim the director is pro-rape (this is an assertion I find unlikely, at best). Regardless, issues of childhood and sex are of particular interest to me and so I'm breathlessly awaiting this thing. I'm prepared to both love it and hate it.
Teeth
At last! How long have we all awaited a film about the physiological anomaly known as Vagina Dentata? Seriously. Anyone? Ok, it's just me, then. I very much want this to be a movie about the female confusion that surrounds our simultaneous desires to worship and mutilate the most obvious symbols of maleness... but, alas, I hear that it's yet another attempt, by a gay man, to define female sexuality. Yeah, the director's a big homo. And I am just SICK and TIRED of gay men, who are often afraid of vaginas, thinking they have something relevant to say about the politics of heterosexuality. OK, that's harsh, I realize, but I don't think John Cameron Mitchell did it all that well in Shortbus, so I'm really rather skeptical here. But, regardless, it's interesting fodder and I do, indeed, plan to spend money on this ticket.
Grace Is Gone
For a long time, I've tried to claim that my crush on John Cusack was really just a crush on Lloyd Dobler, the uber-optimist from Say Anything, but now, I'm pretty sure this movie is gonna solidify my bid for Mr. Cusack's heart. Apparently, it's a story about a guy who loses his wife to the Bush-administration-generated bunch of bullshit going on over in Iraq. In every clip I've seen, Cusack just looks so soulfull and so grown-up... goodness, it IS hard not to love him!
Padre Nuestro
An illegal alien gets his identity stolen-- and he didn't even throw away one of those credit card come-on letters! I dunno-- I hear this is supposed to be good. Could be in a similar vein as Maria Full of Grace, which was rough and moving and well-acted by one of the most gorgeous women I've seen in a long time (Catalina Sandino Moreno). We'll see. Looks promising.
Once
It's billed as a musical but it's a movie about immigrant buskers singing for their bread on the streets. I gather music would not be quite so disruptive in a story of that nature, yes?
Sweet Mud
Life on the kibbutz isn't as sweet as it could be, you know? Really, when was the last time we had a good kibbutz movie? Anyone?
Rocket Science
Oh, please let this be another Thumbsucker! Please!
So, we'll see how it goes. Oh, how I love it when little indie curiosities in film form get front-page coverage. It gives me hope.
So here are the little tidbits to which I'm looking forward from this year's crop:
Hounddog
Yep, the famous Dakota Fanning rape movie. I've read all sorts of crazy reviews about this thing... everything ranging from debates about whether pre-adolescent kids have sexual agency to snark-fests that claim the director is pro-rape (this is an assertion I find unlikely, at best). Regardless, issues of childhood and sex are of particular interest to me and so I'm breathlessly awaiting this thing. I'm prepared to both love it and hate it.
Teeth
At last! How long have we all awaited a film about the physiological anomaly known as Vagina Dentata? Seriously. Anyone? Ok, it's just me, then. I very much want this to be a movie about the female confusion that surrounds our simultaneous desires to worship and mutilate the most obvious symbols of maleness... but, alas, I hear that it's yet another attempt, by a gay man, to define female sexuality. Yeah, the director's a big homo. And I am just SICK and TIRED of gay men, who are often afraid of vaginas, thinking they have something relevant to say about the politics of heterosexuality. OK, that's harsh, I realize, but I don't think John Cameron Mitchell did it all that well in Shortbus, so I'm really rather skeptical here. But, regardless, it's interesting fodder and I do, indeed, plan to spend money on this ticket.
Grace Is Gone
For a long time, I've tried to claim that my crush on John Cusack was really just a crush on Lloyd Dobler, the uber-optimist from Say Anything, but now, I'm pretty sure this movie is gonna solidify my bid for Mr. Cusack's heart. Apparently, it's a story about a guy who loses his wife to the Bush-administration-generated bunch of bullshit going on over in Iraq. In every clip I've seen, Cusack just looks so soulfull and so grown-up... goodness, it IS hard not to love him!
Padre Nuestro
An illegal alien gets his identity stolen-- and he didn't even throw away one of those credit card come-on letters! I dunno-- I hear this is supposed to be good. Could be in a similar vein as Maria Full of Grace, which was rough and moving and well-acted by one of the most gorgeous women I've seen in a long time (Catalina Sandino Moreno). We'll see. Looks promising.
Once
It's billed as a musical but it's a movie about immigrant buskers singing for their bread on the streets. I gather music would not be quite so disruptive in a story of that nature, yes?
Sweet Mud
Life on the kibbutz isn't as sweet as it could be, you know? Really, when was the last time we had a good kibbutz movie? Anyone?
Rocket Science
Oh, please let this be another Thumbsucker! Please!
So, we'll see how it goes. Oh, how I love it when little indie curiosities in film form get front-page coverage. It gives me hope.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
and speaking of well-deserved Oscar attention...
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.
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.
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.
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