This pisses me off.
I am trying to be in a good mood and often that requires purposefully not thinking about things that piss me off, but this has been impossible to ignore (though I’ve done a pretty good job up until now.) In what has got to be one of the most criminal remakes of all time, a new Footloose has been released. And if logic holds wherein the ratio of advertisements to quality are inversely proportional, it really sucks. Adding insult to injury they covered the soundtrack as well… making it all countryfied. Let’s hear it for the Redneck? Come on.
So, I went to the website and checked out all the hullabaloo. Like for example, who the HELL would think this is a good idea?
Remakes in general pale… but I think if you are going to do a remake, do like Soderbergh did for Ocean’s 11 (granted, probably not #12 and #13…) But he took a pretty weak movie – even by camp standards – and made it something better. I’d say good even. That movie is serious eye-candy at the very, very least. Remaking Footloose is like remaking, what? Like… ummm… Better Off Dead. A great niche movie. I loved me some Better Off Dead. In 1985. Right where it belongs. And I like to be able to reach right back to 1985 when I want to. I do not want to have my 1985 becoming your High School Freaking Musical.
And this movie opened at number one. Seriously? The advertisements are showing the older side of the ‘tween market talking about how they were “a little unsure because it was, like, a remake… but OMG – we were dancing in the theater!! It was so amazing!” [It lost its first position to Real Steel, which I will refrain from judging simply based on the Hugh Jackman rule. And by the Hugh Jackman rule I pretty much mean, he is in it, and probably has his shirt off at some point.]
I have a slam book from my spring break trip to Washington DC in 1984 (remember those? I cannot believe there is a Wiki entry describing them. I should probably be more shocked that I still have them.) Anyhow, I have this book in which we wrote a bunch of stupid shit – “What is your favorite drink?” Answers: “Vodka and OJ, so great!” “Peach Schnapps!!!” Yes, the exclamation points are in the book and yes, it is highly improbable that any one who wrote those answers had any real firsthand knowledge… we were lucky to get our hands on Hamm’s or California Coolers. One of the pages asks: “What is the best movie EVER made??” Answers: “Totally Footloose!” “Oh my god, the best movie ever is totally Footloose!” [Do you need to know about the favorite songs? Ummm: #1, #2, #3 - I am sure Kenny Loggins and Deniece Williams were on there too.]
Obviously, this situation hurts me deeply. Scratching the fragile veneer of my pop culturally formed heart.
Please Hollywood, can’t you keep it real, even for a minute? STOP.THIS.MADNESS. What is next? You going to get on the Swayze Train and redo Dirty Dancing?
I Love L.A., Part Five: “We love it we love it we love it!”
Century Boulevard – We love it!
Victory Boulevard – We love it!
Santa Monica Boulevard – We love it!
Sixth Street – We love it, we love it, we love it!!
We love L.A!
I get up early now. I do not know how or when this change occurred, and I don’t mind that much, except for the part about how I still stay up really late. Anyhow, up early on this occasion was okay. I was getting a ride back to Hollywood in time for brunch. My aunt was totally cool to make the drive, especially since Carmageddon had been such a bunch of baloney, and Malibu takes a few hours to be beach ready anyhow. The Malibu surprise had been epic on many levels, and my work there was done. And I was going to be eating some brunch with a side of magic, apparently.
When A first told me they were staying at The Magic Castle, I was nonplussed (and I mean this in the vein of the actual meaning of the word, not that I was unfazed, which apparently many people believe that word means.) Why not The Roosevelt? A explained that with the entire A-Team in tow, The Roosevelt wouldn’t be ideal. Fair enough. And, why I am at all surprised that anything A plans is not entirely thought out just shows my forgetful nature (this is the girl who shows up at music festivals with coded spreadsheets of the bands. For real.) The hotel was great. And by great I mean, generous, friendly, and insanely tolerant. I give them an excellent rating for customer service, location, and chillness. On Saturday morning, I was greeted by Dr. I (aka Mr. A) bearing a Bloody Mary. Nice start. Showers and outfits done and we were ready to get things going.
Come on, you know you want to go.
it came upon a midnight clear…
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. ~William Blake, 1790
Christmas Eve, Sandpoint, Idaho -
Last year I said I would be home for Christmas. And here I am. Though I have my moments of missing Hong Kong, this would not be one of them. I am knee-deep in Americana up in the North Woods. For real. There is a big old moon (just past full for that impressive lunar eclipse caught so wonderfully in the Petaluma sky by my friend Gabe) and snow on the ground. It is sparkly inside and out. It is warm inside. And I am with the core of my family – the epicenter as it were: the nuclear group.
Things are as they should be.
And what of Christmas Eve? A walk down the snowy road returning to alpenglow and meeting a friend lighting ice lanterns [luminaria in the Norwegian tradition, imagine his dismay to realize his discovery a centuries old tradition, though none the less spectacular for its prior existence] at the end of the lane. These lanterns are so beautiful and fragile and temporary. This must be what makes them so spectacular.
My Twilight Saga: or “How I learned to stop worrying and love Donnie Darko all the more.”
“Doesn’t he own a shirt?”
[I must start this story by telling you three things: 1) I adore my friend J, 2) Matilda is not in this story... directly and 3) The above quote is categorically the best line in the entire movie.]
On Friday I was down in San Francisco to take care of some very important business (hair appt) and made plans to meet up with J afterwards for dinner and a movie or something. I was kind of excited, having just seen Inception (still pondering necessity of a blog there but it seems to have been done, exponentially) and Salt was opening. I thought seeing Angie get her groove on (or off) would be a nice follow-up. But then J gave me some interesting information: she wanted to see Eclipse, the third movie in, not the Twilight Series, but the self-titled, SAGA. I laughed, certain she was joking.
That should teach me.
7:45 p.m., Lowes at the Metreon, A & J were seeing Eclipse.
Going (senti)Mental?
I have heard it said that certain people “become sentimental,” and it is rare that this suggests something positive. Rather it seems to assume a lack of ability to somehow perceive things realistically or with any degree of sophistication. Not too long ago in a discussion of movies contending for Academy Awards, I do recall saying of my mom that perhaps she was “becoming sentimental,” in response to her positive reviews of Mayor Clint’s latest film, Invictus, and the consensus that it might be too saccharine for the Academy.
Becoming sentimental.
The word comes from the Latin, sentire, meaning “to feel.” Seems okay. Of course, for those of you who might enjoy word roots in the same way I do you probably already know that “sentient” shares the same root. While sentimentality, which means expressive of or appealing to sentiment, especially the tender emotions and feelings, as love, pity, or nostalgia (or worse, mawkishly susceptible or tender - mawkish? slightly overstated, no?); sentient means characterized by sensation and consciousness. I dare say we would not be waxing complimentary in disregarding another person’s sentient qualities (though rest assured I have, and would kindly request proof indicating otherwise for a few choice individuals…) So, why the bad rap for being sentimental?
In consideration of this subject, the abundance of spiritual teachings throughout history that encourage the awareness of, and kindness to, all sentient creatures strikes me as particularly relevant. It is the sentient nature of a creature that we tend to honor – yet we grossly overlook this sentience when it suits us. My step-dad, in his efforts to rescue all threatened things great and small, has been known to gently call the most hideous of insects, “Poor little guys…” And rescue them he often does. I recall my mom asking me, on seeing me rashly take down a trail of ants in my bathroom, if I would do the same to a litter of kittens. I hardly thought it a fair question. But, maybe… On reading Robert Frost’s A Considerable Speck, I have to wonder if in fact they were all onto something a bit more sophisticated than I had been willing to admit. A certain delicacy in dealing with the world around us.
Could we be confusing delicacy with mawkish sentimentality?
I am reading a book right now that I am thoroughly enjoying, so much so that I am reading it for the second time in as many days. Selected reviews of this book accuse it of being overly sentimental though I respectfully disagree (further thoughts to that end later) – but perhaps, I too, am “becoming sentimental”? Then tonight, I watched the aforementioned Mayor’s movie, Invictus. It had all the trappings of the typical triumph-of-the-spirit-sports-can-heal-the-world story: beating the odds, great anthems, the perfect ‘bad guy’ (I still, and will always, love the All-Blacks…) and the becoming-buddies-in-spite-of-ourselves element.
And I thought it was great.
An Oscar winner? Unlikely. A solution to the problems that plague a nation as diverse and historically troubled as the Republic of South Africa? Uh, no. A gross oversimplification of the racial strife that has permanently associated itself with places like Pretoria, Jo’burg, Durban and Capetown? Possibly. But so what? I have long subscribed to the (likely over-simplified) attitude that sports CAN mend fences of a far more serious nature. And I do not think that I will ever outgrow that tendency. [There are several examples mentioned here including the 1995 Rugby World Cup.] Eastwood did a nice job with this movie, avoiding mawkishness, and including some very delicate moments. Yeah, I just said a movie that takes place in South Africa in the mid-nineties, about rugby, by Clint Dirty Harry Eastwood, was delicate. Certainly not the whole thing, mind you, but there were graceful, even nuanced, elements that added a lot to the story: the little boy listening to the match outside the stadium with the police, the fourth ticket for the championship being given to Eunice, the Bokkes holding rugby clinics in a township. All with definite McDisney potential, but coming off as lovely understated sentiments. Yup, that’s right, sentiments.
How deeply personal are our sentiments, our sense of right and wrong? They are so intrinsically essential to our beings they defy, time and again, the possibility of articulation. Hence, arguments, fights, wars. Far from expecting they all be understood, a better idea may be aiming for acceptance. Only a few months prior to Mandela’s historic 1994 election, I was traveling around Europe with a boy named Stephen who came from Durban. Stephen and I had the kind of relationship that one has when one is 23 and traveling around the Mediterranean until one can no longer continue traveling around the Mediterranean. He was lovely and polite (he certainly charmed my mom way before I remember anyone calling her sentimental) and he was an Afrikaner to the core. Having just graduated from Thurgood Marshall College at UCSD, I asked Stephen all sorts of questions about South Africa that in hindsight only showed my cultural arrogance. He was mostly very patient. One day he tersely responded to one question too many by saying, “Our blacks are not the same as your blacks. You will never understand.” I remember that we spent some time apart after that and I still take issue with the statement, but in fairness, I have no idea of the situation of which he spoke beyond the level that appears on to celluloid. [Okay, I have more than that, but when I think about what it was like traveling with Stephen - how everywhere we went he was stopped at the border, held back, searched, questioned, I pause. He was 23. He was a lot like me. But his country had a much more visible strike against it. (Even in 1993 I had been told to affix a Canadian flag to my backpack. No I did not.)] Did the 1995 victory in the world cup make a difference for Stephen and make him embrace the multi-lingual anthem (the only anthem in the world to incorporate five languages) and hug his black neighbor who is not like my black neighbor? I have no idea. But I would bet, that for one day, he let a lot of stuff go.
Does that make me sentimental?
The thrill of victory that comes from sport has yet to be matched for me. I cry watching the Olympics for goodness sake, even when the other guys win, and in life, maudlin I am not. The Bokkes beat the All-Blacks in 1995 and they never should have. That was an All-Black team of legend. On the same token, Mandela beat Robben Island for nearly three decades, and one wonders what the odds were on that.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.~ Invictus, by William Ernest Henley
Who’s sentimental now?
The brief and wondrous life of Oscar – WOW!
Sunday there was quite a lot of pre-Oscar speculation at my house as we all completed our ballots to see who could pick the most winners of the 24 major award categories for the 2010 Academy Awards. I find that just about everything is more fun when you have a wager on the line. [Sue won with a tie-breaker over Vickie, both having guessed 12 correctly...] One big disadvantage of living in Asia is that we do not get a lot of the hype associated with the movies nor do we get a chance to see a lot of them in the theaters, certainly not prior to the Academy award telecast. [Though, The Hurt Locker is coming now, and as I was walking through the Causeway Bay station on my way to work about an hour after the end of the live telecast in Los Angeles, I saw the poster for it and it says winner of 6 Academy Awards - that was fast! (On second thought the sign is in Chinese so I suppose the "6 blahblahblah 9" could mean something else...)] On the other hand one of the big advantages is that we have almost all of the movies (save for foreign films, documentaries, and shorts – far too, what? Too cultural? I don’t know…) on DVD thanks to our very industrious pirated entertainment industry. So, among us we had seen a pretty significant number of the films up for awards.
It made for a very lively discussion (along with whether or not my neighbor, now living in Saigon would vie to defend his impressive win (21 of 24) from last year, via the interwebs. (He did not…) Sue was sure Mo’Nique would win, Vickie and Andre had their money on Sandra, I knew this would be the year The Dude would Abide, Jerry was simply convinced that Avatar was not good enough for a Best Picture win, but conceded that it might… We vacillated between The Fantastic Mr. Fox and Coraline lot about the animated features, which in hindsight was kind of lame since, as Neil Gaiman pointed out, when one of the cartoons is also nominated for Best Picture, it is probably going to get the nod in the Animated Feature category. Personally, I was totally pulling for the regional flavors in the documentaries and I didn’t get either with Burma VJ or China’s Unnatural Disaster.
In general, the whole spectacle is just an excuse for a party and a chance to banter on pop culture phenoms. I have always loved the Oscars and I am not entirely sure why. The telecasts can be terribly tedious, the hosts can be painful, the politics too much or not enough, and the Red Carpet interviewers (hosts?) generally make me want to punch something. But still, I love it. The clothes, the couples and the speeches.
Oh, and the “In Memoriam” part always makes me cry. Serious. This year they did not include Farrah Fawcett and some people were pissed about that, but I am not sure she was ever in a movie, was she? I don’t know, maybe they should have put her in simply because her death got totally overshadowed by MJ. I am always amazed – and saddened in a strange way as I certainly do not know any of these people – when I watch this segment. I guess it serves to remind me of the fragility or the inevitability of death. Doesn’t matter if you are a SuperStar or drive a big fancy car…
Brief and wondrous.
And in the spirit of brevity, right after the touching images and voice overs, we’re right back to the best and worst dressed. As I mentioned, not “watching” the awards live but through various live feeds (this year substantially bolstered by live Twitter feeds from a variety of sources, most notably the aforementioned Neil Gaiman) I saw mostly still images. I thought Sandra Bullock, Rachel McAdams and Penelope Cruz looked stunning. Nicole Richie! No idea why she was there, but she looked amazing. JLo <– WTF? Demi Moore was making it work and Charlize Theron could probably not look bad if she tried… oh wait, she actually did try once, but not here, though her dress was totally boobie-centric. Not interested in the dudes, sorry – all looked the same-ish. Oh, except RDJ, he always brings it and his wife’s dress was AWESOME. Kate Winslet looked hot too… why is everyone always on her case? The Grande Dames were working it too… Helen and Meryl FTW.
Everyone was loving on Cameron Diaz and Zoe Saldana… I am not sold. And that Twilight girl – gack. Oh, and SJP? The color was ace, but, um… yeah. And could someone please tell me what Whiney Cyrus is doing at the Oscars? On that note, Kathy Ireland? I tripped right back to 1986 on that note. Mariah Carey… eeewwwww. This link pretty much indicates that I do not share my taste with the majority of people polled. Good thing I don’t care. And these links are more interesting.
After the fashion brigade, I like to contemplate the books or stories that I would like to see make it to the big screen. And there are a few. Of course the much mentioned Steig Larsson books would be a good time (the Swedes already made them for T.V. I think), The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie would be very good, or Counting Coup: A True Story of Basketball and Honor on the Little Big Horn – I would like to see some modern Native American young-adult stories. And one that I have been contemplating as a great screen play for some time now is The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. On a semi-realted note, I am hoping to go to see Junot Diaz next Tuesday in Hong Kong when he delivers a talk as part of the Man Hong Kong Literary Festival.
Would that I were a screen play writer…
Brief and wondrous sounds okay, for a day: at the Academy, followed by a party at Morton’s…
It is so fun to talk with smart people…
I finished the Steig Larsson trilogy last week and was speaking with a friend of mine who I not only adore, but who is simply one of the smartest people I know. We got to talking about my recent, Lisbeth-related assertion that ‘information is power,’ (in contrast to, but not exclusive of, the notion that ‘knowledge is power.’) I was reminded about how I am always going on about the sad state of affairs in a world of education where people are only too happy to open brain (note, not mind) and insert facts, then call it a day, rather than to employ the more organic and useful function of thinking. True that. But my point, à la Lisbeth, was that knowledge is actually based on what you do with information. You must have some information to work with. Without information, but with innate intelligence, you may be smart, likely quite curious, and certainly very interesting, but you are not yet knowledgable. It is on acquisition of information that one can actually demonstrate their knowledge – or not.
Take for example the situation of someone with misinformation, who then assumes (and in doing so already admitting they are sort of without intelligence, because you all know to assume only makes an ASS out of -ume) that they now have knowledge about something, and so they act on said bad information. Wrong – so wrong in fact, it is beyond laughable, it is hilarious. Without good information, and in this particular case, without context or much intelligence and common sense, the individual simply gets themselves in such a gigantic hole of misfortune that you might feel bad for them if they were not so ridiculous. Had this person acquired the information, then perhaps they could have demonstrated the existence of their knowledge. Unfortunately, in my (sadly all too real) example, the person is absent information, context or knowledge.
In comparison, one could be like Good Will Hunting; I have spoken of Will often. Will, like Lisbeth, has a photographic memory. In both cases this presents a dilemma because in their respective situations, the garnering of information is so easy, it becomes a default position from which it would be very easy to languish into uselessness. Will collects information (initially) and that is it, at least outwardly. It is the necessity to use, contemplate, cogitate and truly understand the scope of this information that leads Will to finally “go see about a girl” signalling the change that he has made. To simply spout off facts or read (though likely not fully understand) a broad spectrum of resources will eventually make you look like a total jack ass. It comes down to understanding information. Real talk, people.
And this is Lisbeth’s gift. She is socially strained to say the very least, though certainly not without reason. But her ability to understand, fully and deeply, the power gained by the acquisition of information underscores her knowledge. She is the perfect example of how to use information knowledgeably, though it must be said she is reticent at first to demonstrate this. [Probably a good litmus test of true smarts anyhow; those people who perpetually pontificate on their (pseudo-) intellectual prowess are generally not so smart... I mean, they have yet to realize that no one is even listening to them. Seriously. In effect, their conversations in the real world, on the internet and in professional circles are carried on with themselves. No one is interested. I wonder if it is some evolutionary coping/survival skill that they are unable to realize this fact.]
So, knowledge? Key. Information? Necessary. As another one of my oh-so-smart friends said, “It wasn’t the invention of the printing press per se that caused a revolution; it was when people learned to read.” To that I have to add… and then they learned to question what they read, you know, to actually see what it is they think they are seeing.
Yup.
So, if you are unable to see the value and power that is requisite in good information, you likely have bad information or lack knowledge. I am glad that the folks I hang around do not fall into either category.
And finally, Avatar.
I saw it last night.
I went to a late, late, late show (for me.) This meant no 5:35 or 6:55 a.m. ferry to town for yoga this morning, so considering that fact, you know I really wanted to see it. The UA cinemas at Times Square are sort of old school, but one thing is for sure, the aircon works a treat. I froze my ass off. But I actually didn’t think about it too much until I re-entered reality and walked outside to find normal temperatures. Whatever may be said about the movie, one thing is for sure… it is a full-on immersion experience. I am not sure why I waited so long to see it, likely the logistics and the length of the movie had much to do with it, but I knew I had to see it before we have the annual Oscar party at my place this weekend.
So, nine Academy Award nominations, four Golden Globe nods and two wins, eight BAFTA potential wins coming away with only two (I have some thoughts on this), and the NY Film Critics Online, Critic’s Choice, Broadcast Film Critics, among others have all noted the film for everything from directing to technical merit, though none for the acting. That speaks to the BAFTA performance I think, and it is probably fair play. This film has been a ginormous money-maker and in typical Cameron form, it has a lot of the standard features of a commercial epic. This does not include stellar acting, though it does include good-looking people. And I say this without the slightest hint of disappointment, I do not see Cameron’s movies to be astounded by thespian prowess, I see them for the sheer scale of audio and visual ass-kicking.
And here, Avatar delivers.
3-D is so much fun, and this 3-d experience was particularly impressive. I especially liked how the ewya and other smaller ethereal things floated out at the audience. The concept of the planet Pandora was also visual euphoria with the colors and the sparkles and the texture. It reminded me of what the Atlantis Casino in Reno must be aiming for, and also a long ago evening spent in the Wizard of Oz themed bar at the MGM Grand in Vegas when it used to be like a munchkin forest. Suffice it all to say, it is reminiscent of certain experiences one may have had that one does not want to necessarily detail in a public forum. It will leave you a bit agog, and my eyes got tired because I realized in several instances I was forgetting to blink.
With regard to the plot… I thought there were a couple of holes… but again, I am not sure that is the point, and I definitely enjoyed the human race in the role of the antagonist. [It is like a bog old "Duh" moment.] And what of the acting? Well, exactly. And as above, who cares. It is not like you were really all that unsure of the outcome. It’s like when I was waiting in line to see Titanic way back when and we were joking aloud about how the film ends, “I mean, the ship’s gonna sink, right?” And this woman behind us got all upset. Wait, did she not realize? Oops. For her. I was a little disappointed that it has to be the human/Na’vi who saves the day and tames the wild beast and wins the hot (I think) girl and all that. But it couldn’t really go any other way, could it? I mean then it would just be like Fantasia or something… visual masterpiece where you leave wondering what everyone in the place was smoking. I think you have got to keep certain elements a little simpler when you are going so full-bore for another. It is like balance in fashion: if you wear denim on the top, you would never wear it on the bottom at the same time would you? No, I did not think so. Or in make up: Dark eyes – light lips, and vice versa. It’s standard.
Cameron’s message about appreciating the environment lest we end up totally fucked like the humans of 2145 in the film is significant, and probably most people will glean this aspect. The more subtle suggestions touching on things like interconnectivity, even elements of quantum physics like entanglement and coherence, were much more interesting to me. Those are things that I believe in (does that make them true – quién sabe) and so they are the things I took away from the story of Avatar. As far as it being an Oscar winner for the Best Picture? That will really depend on one’s interpretation of the word “picture.” If it is about the visual imagery, I think Cameron gets the win. If it is a more global context, like meaning, and synthesis and plot development… not so much. I have a feeling though, that the Academy will come down to dinero. I mean, what other reason could there be for including ten pictures in the Best Picture category this year, with the full knowledge that they are definitely NOT all Best Pictures.
I did read that Cameron planned to do two sequels to Avatar if it was successful. The success question has been answered. Shame about the addiction to sequels, it would be so nice to let something stand alone these days. I believe Avatar could do that just fine.
I’d like to thank the Academy…
Every year, I host an Academy Awards party on Oscar® Sunday©. In the States it was kind of different because my party actually incorporated the awards telecast and we could do silly things like dress up or whatever. Over here in GMT +8, we do it differently. They do televise the awards eventually, usually on Monday night after everyone has worked out who won, who looked like shit and who won the coveted Red Carpet Douche-Bag award.
Some things remain the same though: we still pick the winners and have a little pool to see who can out guess the guessers Academy. This year I think I am going to add some categories like Best/Worst dressed, Best/Worst lines, or Best/Worst audience appearance, just for a little more variety. And we have champagne, ’cause we are classy like that. Oh, and one other thing we can do here, thanks to the fabulous Asian copyright laws, is that we can hand out the movies as swag because they are easily purchased in any SE Asian locale. We have ‘em all. [Okay, except Avatar.]
And so, as the necessary prelude to the March 7 (or 8th) event, “The Academy” announced the Oscar® nominees a couple of days ago. [Their website has a countdown in case you have lost the ability to use a calendar.] This of course precipitated the standard litany of commentary on the oversights, the poor judgment, the obvious make-up calls, the general dissatisfaction with the list. It’s predicable and fabulous and a part of the cultural fabric to which I always look forward.
It’s a Shocker.
I have a friend in Hong Kong who I have mentioned here before… I call her Frenchie. Because she is French. Not original, but catchy enough that it has become a bit of a nom d’jour. Or I could just be feeling self-important. Regardless, I mention Frenchie tonight for this reason: We have nothing in common. Seriously. It has become somewhat of a joke because it is pretty much a guarantee that if I like something she will hate it, and I have to say, if she likes it, I think it is pretty much garbage. Ironically, this has actually worked to our advantage and having our one commonality be that we have a shared mutual disregard for the preferences of the other turns out to be something pretty significant to have in common. She is the perfect one to share food with – she loves what I hate. We will never fight over the last anything because for sure if she wants it, I definitely do not. I like cats, she says she likes dogs (though she refers to N & M as her niece and nephew… or wait, that could be me… I don’t even remember). She likes pâté, I like vegetables. She likes bright colorful clothes, I like black. She likes heavy reds, I like Pinot. She likes the outside of the brie, I like only the middle. She hates to plan, and you know how I feel about that. She thinks the internet is crap, (and though I am starting to see her point of view there, I am resistant to giving it up…) She likes white chocolate, I like the darkest you can find. She hates the word “fuck” and counts how many times she hears it in the American movies she cannot stand but watches to humor me, and well, you know how I feel about the world’s most versatile word… You get the idea; we are a veritable Bert and Ernie. And yes, I am certainly the Bert.
Anyhow, on the odd chance that we ever do agree on anything, we always laugh, and it is a guarantee for a good conversation.
Tonight, Frenchie brought a movie over to watch – and it could not have been more perfect for the two of us. It is called “Bottle Shock.” [Imagine my surprise on seeing the DVD cover that it was called Bottle SHOCK as ever since she has been talking about this film I thought she was saying Bottle SHOP. Just one more area where we make it work - I cannot count the times where one of us has told an entire story to the other only to realize at the culmination of the long and inevitably circuitous and detailed account, the other has no appropriate response to offer as comprehension was lost from the second sentence. Now we just look at each other and say, "You have no idea what I am talking about do you?" And carry on.] But Bottle Shop Shock was an interesting call.
The premise of the movie is about the introduction of delicious (me) rubbish (Frenchie) California wine into the snobby (me) discerning (Frenchie) wine culture of France. And it was pretty good. The movie made me incredibly homesick with the sweeping views of the Napa and Sonoma Valleys – I come from one of the most amazing places on the planet – and I think for Frenchie the scenes of Paris and France in the Seventies had the same effect. It was a funny shared sentiment. While we watched the movie we shared a bottle of Sonoma County Zinfandel. We both liked it. We also had some cheese and crackers (I ate the middle of the brie, she the rinds.) And we had some black pepper Boursin as well, which we both agreed was inferior to the garlic variety. We were freakishly in synch.
Oh, and we totally agreed on the presentation of the Brits in the film, but then, that is one of our few and far between standard shared sentiments. [As when Alan Rickman's character says, "Because you think I'm an arsehole. And I'm not, really. I'm just British and, well... you're not." A mutual nod took place. Or when Dennis Farina's character says, "Where I'm from, they call it a left-handed compliment. They don't have a name for it in England: it's too ingrained in their culture." We both totally get it.]
The film has a great cast [and the California rental car is a Gremlin, seriously, rad] - and though it is admittedly lighter fare than say, Sideways (not to mention lacking Thomas Hayden Church – though Farina is a good call, I can’t ever really dissociate him from Get Shorty…) it is a fun little film along with which to throw back a nice bottle of a California vintage.
And you might just realize that the things you think are so different might not actually be all that discernibly oppositional in nature at the end of the day.
The “Best” Movies Of a Decade…
I love movies and I love lists, so how great is this? I have been mulling over this thing for about a month, doing the things that list obsessives do, like counting how many movies on this list I have seen, want to see, would never see, etcetera. Of course also thinking about movies that should have made the list or maybe should not have.
Some highlights:
- In the Loop
- Me You and Everyone We Know
- Memento
- Anchorman
- Shaun of the Dead
- Y Tu Mama Tambien
- Eternal Sunshine
- Team America [#5!]
Some WTFs:
- Knocked Up
- Minority Report
- United 93
Some “Really? Serious?”
- School of Rock
- 28 Days Later
- Borat
- The Bourne(s)
This list was supposed to be the best 100 movies of the decade, so not of all time, therefore when I started thinking of movies I thought should definitely have been on there it was a little more challenging… Not to mention I have yet to see the majority of “Just Released” movies (though I bought them all in Vietnam totally legally I am sure.)
Some I thought should have gotten a nod include the following (and I fought hard from including Tropic Thunder…):
- Almost Famous or High Fidelity
- Chocolat
- Snatch
- Motorcycle Diaries
- Big Fish
- Kill Bill
- Iron Man
Just sayin’.
{Feel free to contribute, I am looking for the top recommendations form the last two years, my veritable movie blackout.}
“Inside all of us is a Wild Thing”
To make such a perfect book as this one, a feature film would be a challenge for the most gifted writers. Thank goodness it is Dave Eggers who heeded the call. The poster for the movie already has me all emotional; I have always loved to be be where the wild things are.
Let the wild rumpus begin!!
Hell hath no fury… Seriously.
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”
~ William Congreve, The Mourning Bride, 1697
People make jokes about this line all the time… like, “Oh snap, don’t make her mad, you know how a girl gets!” or, “Damn, why’s she so pissed off? Well you know what they say…” But it dawned on me this morning, in a grey moment of epiphany, that I actually proved this maxim recently. I experienced such complete and focused rage directed towards a very particular individual because of their unbelievable dissing of me that I can only express it in terms like <Hell Hath No Fury> Now, said individual’s behavior was egregious and in many ways inexcusable, but that is not what interests me anymore. I am more interested in the levels of anger that it inspired within me. To. My. Core.
Why? Why did it make me so angry? Well, lots of reasons come to mind, but they seem silly when I look at them on their own. And frankly people I know far more intimately and far more concretely have done things that are far worse and not inspired even an iota of the ire I am talking about here. So, what was the deal?
I honestly contemplated doing things to this person that are beyond outrageous. I considered tweeting his phone number… posting the NSFW photos he sent me to a public web domain and linking it to him… spamming his email… forwarding his emails to me to random people who may or may not have anything to do with him… making his physical address known to all and sundry. Seriously, I contemplated all of these things. And I reveled in the satisfaction of reigning down vengeance on this person. This single, inconsequential, small, little person. The irony.
Of course, I did not do these things – though I could have. But I am absolutely mystified as to why I wanted to… It was so completely out of character for me. I mean seriously, I have put up with some whacked out bullshit from people that I have just blown off… but this really got to me. And the more I let it get to me, the more I saw this unfamiliar rage rise up. To be honest, it was a little scary.
I was thinking about this as I chilled out in Bangkok last weekend, and you know, while I was there the whole thing seemed so remote – so distant – so tiny, that it was even more perplexing as to why it got to me so severely. At various times I had chalked the whole thing up to a lack of information, humiliation, disrespect, deceit… to name but a few. I imagine it has a bit to do with all of those things. But notice, none of them indicate an emotional connection – like heartbreak, say. Or betrayal. It was totally ego-driven. Wow. And, ironically, the bruised ego seems to subsequently act in ways that are actually truly humiliating.
As I sat poolside at the Mandarin Oriental, sipping a cool drink and reading Cosmo, yes – actually on purpose, I saw an article about stalkers. Now, I have been stalked, and I take that shit quite seriously. This article was discussing how casual interactions can lead to stalking and one sort of off topic line jumped out at me: “…that he would even want to engage with someone who was not even remotely interested in him was…” And I was like, “Holy shit. Why am I even interested in working any of this out with someone who has made it clear that they are not even remotely interested in the same?” I mean, how contradictory in nature for someone with a sensitive ego… I was not stalking this person, but the mental energy was certainly comparable.
How. Totally. Embarrassing.
Ouch.
So, yeah, Congreve’s line might better be expressed as ‘Hell hath no fury as an ego wronged.’ [I think it best to remove the gender qualifier since it is reported that the majority of violent crimes against women are perpetrated by men who believe they have been you know - faced.]
In the end… I am glad I did not act on my ideas for revenge. He is not worth it. And even though I got this email from him recently that made me want to immediately jump right back into his quagmire of crap…
I know that I treated you badly and I’m sorry. I would just rather forget the whole experience. Some messed up shit, that I care not to go into, happened in April. Please don’t contact me again; I don’t want to rehash any of this. I wish you the best.
…I abstained. And I will abstain. For, while plotting revenge is sweet, and a righteous good time… carrying it out seems scary and creepy and yucky. And I definitely do not want to share in his karma. In the end I prefer my revenge served up by others, on others, for pure entertainment value: Like you can see here in the 20 Best Revenge Movies.
And one night in Bangkok worked that all out for me… Just in time.
RIP John Hughes: The Director of my Youth
Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. ~ Ferris Bueller
How sad was I to wake up to the news that John Hughes, at the age of 59, has died. This totally bums me out for lots of reasons, and also it is notable that I nearly wrote the “young age of 59.” I would guess there are few people of my age who aren’t ruminating on their John Hughes moments today – whether they were actual celluloid moments or those that took place while watching said celluloid moments. The whole experience was awesome. In the words of the illustrious Grace, “Oh, he’s very popular Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads – they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.”
The best John Hughes movie ever has got to be Ferris Bueller… though 16 Candles, Vacation and The Breakfast Club are certainly right there with it. I hope you never have to watch any of these movies with me because I can recite all of the lines. However, regardless of your cinematic opinion, if you are my age, Hughes scripted your adolescence, or you wished he had. [Let's also not forget that Jay and Silent Bob would be missing a whole chapter without Hughes as they were on a mission to find the fictitious Shermer High School in Mall Rats - because it was the obvious market for the chronic.] Kevin Smith called him our generation’s Salinger. The Slate referred to him as the first Balzac of the homeroom in an article totally worth reading about Hughes’ point of view, and point of origin in many ways.
With his passing I feel one more step removed from said adolescence, and though I am totally okay with that, I am very glad to have had him as the auteur du decade for my coming of age. I learned so much from him, along with Ferris, Cameron, Farmer Ted, Samantha, Jim Baker, Grace, John Bender (I will always ♥ you), even Dick Vernon & Ed Rooney, and perhaps especially Carl the Janitor. The characters were awesome and the soundtracks unforgettable. And though I never had a totally hot guy show up in his Porsche and wait for me to come out of a ridiculous wedding, who didn’t have Samantha Baker moments at at least on high school dance? Some other choice moments? Remember these ones?
- “Um, he’s sick. My best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who’s going with the girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night. I guess it’s pretty serious.” Simone
- “I’m being honest, asshole. I would expect you to know the difference.” John Bender
- “This information cannot leave this room. Ok? It would devastate my reputation as a dude.” The Geek/Farmer Ted
- “Take this quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off your face! Good day to you, madam.” Buck Russell
- “You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much. People think she’s a whore.” Boy in police station (Charlie Sheen)
- “Chicks cannot hold their smoke, dat’s what it is.” Brian Johnson
- “What was he wearing? Well, uh, let’s see, he was wearing a red argyle sweater, and tan trousers, and red shoes… No, he’s not retarded.” Grandpa Howard
- “Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain… and an athlete… and a basket case… a princess… .and a criminal… Does that answer your question?” The Breakfast Club
Thank you, John. You painted a magnificent picture… and you are a righteous dude.
I am not going to sit on my ass as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life. I’m going to take a stand. I’m going to defend it. Right or wrong, I’m going to defend it. ~ Cameron Frye
Bang Bang In My Head
Strange kind of feels unguided
like the voice of life went
it went bang bang in my head
Epiphany time. Have just realized that nothing matters. Like seriously, N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Unguided, unplugged. Whatever. I cannot decide if this is total freedom, or if it is, as one friend said, a bit akin to nihilism. Regardless, contemplating it is silly, because – say it with me – Nothing matters.
The funny thing is when nothing matters, things no longer trouble you. It’s just like, whatever. And not ‘whatever’ in the apathetic, mal/unconsidered way, but really, just the okay with everything way because none of it makes a difference in the end.
The wrong people get sick.
The wrong people die too young.
The wrong people get away with outrageous crap.
The wrong people get fucked over.
The wrong people get hurt.
That is just the way it goes.
And in this moment I have questions burning
They go bang bang in my head
I am still curious about everything. I guess that is my own vital paradox. Nothing matters, but I care. Mostly I care because the alternative is too bleak – or because it is a habit of a lifetime. Either way, the knowledge that nothing really matters seems to ameliorate the sting of confusion and bewilderment and color it with a bit of curiosity and a lot of awareness.
ps: You should listen to Sara Sciralli‘s album, Bang Bang. It’s awesome.
Goddammit… it’s happening again.
Forget over-hyped H1N1… Lately I have been suffering from something far more severe. My need for travel has risen again, and it should be noted, we are talking to a degree of epic proportions. I am a chronic sufferer of this condition. I would say I have wanderlust mostly just for the opportunity to be subtly prurient and slip lust in here, but truthfully the etymology of the word doesn’t fit for me. It comes from the German, wandem, which means to hike; and lust, which means to desire. I do not actually desire to hike. More accurately described, I have fernweh – an ache for the distance. Semantics aside – I need to take a trip.
I am not sure what actually brought this on, but there have been a few things I know contributed. First, I have taken two completely, stupidly abbreviated trips home in the past few months. While a seemingly good idea at the time, both excursions only served to remind me that I have not had a real vacation in way too fucking long. Next, two very cool people that I have the good fortune to have in my orbit, recently embarked on two vastly different but equally inspiring journeys. One chose to move herself and her life to the other side of the world (and the other side of the HDI, frankly) for the opportunity to see something new and pursue a passion. The other, after losing his job, opted not to freak out, but instead to break out and headed for Europe with an open mind and an open heart. In both cases I feel tremendously proud to know these people, and benevolently envious.
Possibly even more influential than all of the above is that I have recently been exposed, through a multitude of situations, to a bunch of people suffering from Good Will Hunting Syndrome (GWHS). Not familiar with this malady? Let me explain it to you: This is mental condition whereby people of a generally pretentious nature (though as I have, on occasion, been accused of having a bit of attitude in this vein, we will not allow it to dominate the diagnostics) wax on (semi) poetically about why they want to travel and where. These people are undoubtedly well versed in the cultural nuances of places far and wide. They speak longingly of the cuisine, the music, the experience. To listen can be intoxicating. They cast aspersions at the more provincial people that surround them for being lowbrow and limited and unable to see the vastness of the world around them. Further, the sufferers of GWHS often accuse those around them of having no interest in the world beyond their daily experience. They pontificate on the features and benefits of different kinds of travel, they know all “the” places to go. They discuss all this in earnest over a cold PBR in designer denim and hipster t-shirts (or perhaps even an appropriate logo T like Beer Lao or Chang.) They are tortured by the limits of their circumstances, but man, they know what they would do – and so it goes. You can generally accurately diagnose a sufferer of GWHS from one of three main symptoms:
Amanda
