Friday, February 29, 2008
Can't Plan This
Was just talking about James W. Hall the other day... Just randomly wandered into a reading of his and saw him and he was all like: "Oh, yeah, I remember you, don't you have that blog?!?" I was like: "Meeep!!! He read whatever I said!!! What DID I say?!? Nothing bad, I hope, I'm a fan!!!" But while I was worriedly trying to remember he signed me a copy of his new book, "Hell's Bay". Yay! It says: "Best wishes on your own work." Tee-hee!!! I'm happy!!!
Gavin Hood's "Rendition"
Like "The Darjeeling Limited", "Rendition" works best as virtual tourism than as coherent story-telling. This time, it's Egypt.
"Rendition" tries for a "Babel" effect, but it comes across as disorienting, and lets you slip as often as it grips you. A "rendition" is basically taking a suspect to shady country X to "interrogate" them in more creative manners than America's supposed "no torture" policy allows- and that's pretty much what happens in the movie. It means well, but a film about torture should have something more to say than "torturing innocent people is wrong and unpleasant to look at." NO SHIT! At least if you're going to take a steadfast stand against torture, (which is worthy) don't confuse us simple viewers by having a suicide bomber kill a bunch of innocent civilians, 'cause, that's you know, "wrong and unpleasant to look at" too. If you're going to make a one sided tract, don't jeopardize your own point, 'cause a political naive like moi is only going to go like: "So torturing someone is evil because they might NOT be an evil terrorist. Agreed!!! But- wait- what if they ARE an evil terrorist and torturing them could save thousands of lives? Movie, THINK FOR ME, damn it!!! Don't force me to wrestle with complicated notions if you can't!!!"
You know those bad DVD covers where photos of the main actors are awkwardkly pasted side by side at different scales and staring in different directions- as though they don't belong in the same universe, let alone the same movie? The one above is not THAT bad, but you still get that effect here, with a great cast, (Jake Gyllenhaal, Reese Witherspoon, Meryl Streep, Alan Arkin, Peter Saarsgard, JK Simmons) that's entirely isolated, as if they were filmed in boxes. This is a movie of monologues, no dialogues, and as scattered as a Jihadist's body two seconds after the bomb goes off.
"Rendition" tries for a "Babel" effect, but it comes across as disorienting, and lets you slip as often as it grips you. A "rendition" is basically taking a suspect to shady country X to "interrogate" them in more creative manners than America's supposed "no torture" policy allows- and that's pretty much what happens in the movie. It means well, but a film about torture should have something more to say than "torturing innocent people is wrong and unpleasant to look at." NO SHIT! At least if you're going to take a steadfast stand against torture, (which is worthy) don't confuse us simple viewers by having a suicide bomber kill a bunch of innocent civilians, 'cause, that's you know, "wrong and unpleasant to look at" too. If you're going to make a one sided tract, don't jeopardize your own point, 'cause a political naive like moi is only going to go like: "So torturing someone is evil because they might NOT be an evil terrorist. Agreed!!! But- wait- what if they ARE an evil terrorist and torturing them could save thousands of lives? Movie, THINK FOR ME, damn it!!! Don't force me to wrestle with complicated notions if you can't!!!"
You know those bad DVD covers where photos of the main actors are awkwardkly pasted side by side at different scales and staring in different directions- as though they don't belong in the same universe, let alone the same movie? The one above is not THAT bad, but you still get that effect here, with a great cast, (Jake Gyllenhaal, Reese Witherspoon, Meryl Streep, Alan Arkin, Peter Saarsgard, JK Simmons) that's entirely isolated, as if they were filmed in boxes. This is a movie of monologues, no dialogues, and as scattered as a Jihadist's body two seconds after the bomb goes off.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wes Anderson's "The Darjeeling Limited."
Wes Anderson is first a colorist, then a humorist, then an interior decorator, and finally, distantly, a story-teller. "The Darjeeling Limited" feels... well, limited, even as it crams every possible visual delight in front of you. You will feel as though you got a tour of India, an India even more vibrant and technicolor, (and less smelly) than the real one. But you won't get a tour of the brothers played by Owen Wilson, Adrien Brody and Jason Schwartzman. They're funny little depressive sketches we're supposed to project our own spiritual journeys on. On those terms I guess it works.
That train stretching snake-like towards a planned epiphany reminded me what the word "religion" means: it's from the Greek to relink, to connect to an origin. The characters are running from the mess of their pasts towards their even further past, towards re-linking with their mother (played by Angelica Houston). This at least feels authentic. Every one of our journeys is a quest that simulatenously comprises the future and the past- we must learn about yesterday to understand tomorrow. The problem with "The Darjeeling Limited" is that the characters are simply too Wes Andersony to really find themselves: there's no THEMSELVES to find at all.
It really does look gorgeous, though.
You know who doesn't look so gorgeous? Natalie Portman in "Hotel Chevalier" the short/ prelude that opens the movie. She's naked and chickeny and all bruised. I really hope those bruises were put on her by the make-up department for some unexplained reason, because otherwise, I've seen crack whores in better health.
(I don't usually approve of these shenanigans, but below is a little sort-of-NSFW pic from the movie so you see I'm not just talking smack about Miss P. I'll probably feel guilty and take it down later. You can find this pervy crap on your own. Under 18, close your eyes now.)
That train stretching snake-like towards a planned epiphany reminded me what the word "religion" means: it's from the Greek to relink, to connect to an origin. The characters are running from the mess of their pasts towards their even further past, towards re-linking with their mother (played by Angelica Houston). This at least feels authentic. Every one of our journeys is a quest that simulatenously comprises the future and the past- we must learn about yesterday to understand tomorrow. The problem with "The Darjeeling Limited" is that the characters are simply too Wes Andersony to really find themselves: there's no THEMSELVES to find at all.
It really does look gorgeous, though.
You know who doesn't look so gorgeous? Natalie Portman in "Hotel Chevalier" the short/ prelude that opens the movie. She's naked and chickeny and all bruised. I really hope those bruises were put on her by the make-up department for some unexplained reason, because otherwise, I've seen crack whores in better health.
(I don't usually approve of these shenanigans, but below is a little sort-of-NSFW pic from the movie so you see I'm not just talking smack about Miss P. I'll probably feel guilty and take it down later. You can find this pervy crap on your own. Under 18, close your eyes now.)
THE TILT # 29: Louis Louis
According to Wikipedia- and I blindingly trust Wikipedia's high standards of reporting- only 1 % of Louis Vuitton products you see are authentic.
I'm onto you, South Beach girls, it's not only your breasts that are fake.
I'm onto you, South Beach girls, it's not only your breasts that are fake.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE BARON OF TAVERNEY THINKS HE SEES AT LAST A SMALL OPENING INTO THE FUTURE
Our dauphiness faints. Joseph springs out of the grotto. The Baron of Taverney runs to the spot. Philip figures Joseph tried to touch Marie Antoinette’s boobs, and is ready to hack at the magician with his sword, but M.A. recovers and begs that no one harm Balsamo, that it’s just her damn rib-crushing corset.
Not a person in the retinue believes M.A.’s excuse, but if the dauphiness says no one touched her boobs, who’s going to argue?
M.A. asks to lay down in a bed for a few, no matter how moth eaten the Taverney sheets may be, and she won’t talk to anyone except Andree and the old lady (the Countess of Langershaussen).
It is then that a character on horseback makes it to the front of the Chateau de Taverney, a certain Count of Stainville.
HAHAHA, STAIN-VILLE! GROSS! I know, I know, it’s pronounced Stahn-ville… still, GROSS!
Anyway, the Count of Stainville is brother-in-law to the Duke of Choiseul, the all-powerful Minister of Foreign Affairs. (Don’t worry if you’re not a historian, we’ll meet all of those peeps in time.) Stainville has a dispatch for M.A., which the Cardinal of Rohan tries to intercept, but eventually M.A. opens the little white envelope and reads the following:
“The presentation of Madame Dubarry is decided on, if she can only procure some noble lady to present her. We still hope she may not find one; but the only sure means to prevent the presentation will be for her royal highness the dauphiness to make all speed. Her royal highness once at Versailles, no one will dare to offer such an insult to the court.”
(SOME BACKGROUND: This Madame Dubarry is some sort of skanky ho that the King Louis XV has on the side, and Louis is trying to officially settle her in the Court, but if his future daughter-in-law, Marie Antoinette, gets there BEFORE Madame Dubarry, it would be too embarrassing to interrupt M.A.’s presentation to move Dubarry in. The Duke of Choiseul doesn’t want the King to move his skanky ho in because… Well, because it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. M.A. doesn’t want skanky-ho to move in because, golly, imagine you’re just about to get hooked up with Prince Charming and move in with his family, and at the same time your husband’s dad is like: “So, beloved wife, dear son, adorable daughter-in-law, since we’re all in the middle of this happy wedding deal, you guys don’t mind if I ask my special friend Candy to move in with us, right? She’s a swell gal. Sure, she knocks back the booze, and maybe she’s been around the block a little, but she’s got a heart of gold, I tells ya.” It ruins your special day, doesn’t it?)
Anyway, M.A., like every other woman in the Dumas-iverse, keeps on changing her mind: no resting, no stay at Taverney, here she goes again on her own/ going down the only road she’s ever known. But since she’s made a promise to make the fortune of the first Frenchman she encounters, she has a happy idea:
“Hey!!! Baron!!! Philip!!! Andree!!! You all seem like nice folk!!! And I didn’t want to say anything before, but really, this Taverney place is kind of a slum!!! SO… why don’t you guys just, you know, MOVE IN WITH ME AT THE FRENCH COURT?!?!? Andree can be some sort of maid of honor, Philip can… well, we’ll find something for this strapping young man to do. What do you say?!?”
The Baron’s eyes pop out: “KA-SHING!!!” It looks like the Taverneys are moving on up!
That studly Philip de Taverney is back to straddling his stallion (EEEWW, that sentence came out wrong!!!) He leads Marie Josephe Antoinette Conchita Alonso away. A matter-of-fact gentleman called Monsieur de Beausire remains to make arrangements for departure with the rest of family. The Baron of Taverney is once more ready to torch the house and leave it all behind. But of course, even though it looks like his fortune is made he’s freaking out “comme d’habitude.” Will everyone realize what a bunch of broke-ass peasants they are in the Court? Where will they get the money to buy Louis Vuitton accessories for Andree? Was Louis Vuitton even born at this time?
All these questions, (well, one of them) are solved when Gilbert, the young dreamer boy who’s stayed out of the way for the last few chapters, marches up to the bewildered Taverneys with a note from Joseph Balsamo that basically says:
“Remember that goblet in the garden? That’s my gift to you for your hospitality. Sell it. It’s super-valuable.”
ABOVE: It's not THIS goblet Joseph is talking about.
Tears of pure grateful greed bubble out of the Baron of Taverney as he hugs Andree and says:
“Now, Andree, courage, my child. We are going to court; there are plenty of titles to be given away there; rich abbeys—regiments without colonels—pensions going to waste. It is a fine country, the court! The sun shines brightly there; put yourself always in its rays, my child; for you are worthy to be seen. Go, my love go! I must go and arrange my papers. We must be out of this hole in an hour. Do you hear, Andree? And we are leaving it in good style, too. What a capital fellow that sorcerer is! I am becoming as superstitious as the devil!”
Nicole Legay, who has also conveniently stayed out of the way for the last few chapters, appears to take Andree away.
I missed her! We’ll have more of her right up next.
Not a person in the retinue believes M.A.’s excuse, but if the dauphiness says no one touched her boobs, who’s going to argue?
M.A. asks to lay down in a bed for a few, no matter how moth eaten the Taverney sheets may be, and she won’t talk to anyone except Andree and the old lady (the Countess of Langershaussen).
It is then that a character on horseback makes it to the front of the Chateau de Taverney, a certain Count of Stainville.
HAHAHA, STAIN-VILLE! GROSS! I know, I know, it’s pronounced Stahn-ville… still, GROSS!
Anyway, the Count of Stainville is brother-in-law to the Duke of Choiseul, the all-powerful Minister of Foreign Affairs. (Don’t worry if you’re not a historian, we’ll meet all of those peeps in time.) Stainville has a dispatch for M.A., which the Cardinal of Rohan tries to intercept, but eventually M.A. opens the little white envelope and reads the following:
“The presentation of Madame Dubarry is decided on, if she can only procure some noble lady to present her. We still hope she may not find one; but the only sure means to prevent the presentation will be for her royal highness the dauphiness to make all speed. Her royal highness once at Versailles, no one will dare to offer such an insult to the court.”
(SOME BACKGROUND: This Madame Dubarry is some sort of skanky ho that the King Louis XV has on the side, and Louis is trying to officially settle her in the Court, but if his future daughter-in-law, Marie Antoinette, gets there BEFORE Madame Dubarry, it would be too embarrassing to interrupt M.A.’s presentation to move Dubarry in. The Duke of Choiseul doesn’t want the King to move his skanky ho in because… Well, because it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. M.A. doesn’t want skanky-ho to move in because, golly, imagine you’re just about to get hooked up with Prince Charming and move in with his family, and at the same time your husband’s dad is like: “So, beloved wife, dear son, adorable daughter-in-law, since we’re all in the middle of this happy wedding deal, you guys don’t mind if I ask my special friend Candy to move in with us, right? She’s a swell gal. Sure, she knocks back the booze, and maybe she’s been around the block a little, but she’s got a heart of gold, I tells ya.” It ruins your special day, doesn’t it?)
Anyway, M.A., like every other woman in the Dumas-iverse, keeps on changing her mind: no resting, no stay at Taverney, here she goes again on her own/ going down the only road she’s ever known. But since she’s made a promise to make the fortune of the first Frenchman she encounters, she has a happy idea:
“Hey!!! Baron!!! Philip!!! Andree!!! You all seem like nice folk!!! And I didn’t want to say anything before, but really, this Taverney place is kind of a slum!!! SO… why don’t you guys just, you know, MOVE IN WITH ME AT THE FRENCH COURT?!?!? Andree can be some sort of maid of honor, Philip can… well, we’ll find something for this strapping young man to do. What do you say?!?”
The Baron’s eyes pop out: “KA-SHING!!!” It looks like the Taverneys are moving on up!
That studly Philip de Taverney is back to straddling his stallion (EEEWW, that sentence came out wrong!!!) He leads Marie Josephe Antoinette Conchita Alonso away. A matter-of-fact gentleman called Monsieur de Beausire remains to make arrangements for departure with the rest of family. The Baron of Taverney is once more ready to torch the house and leave it all behind. But of course, even though it looks like his fortune is made he’s freaking out “comme d’habitude.” Will everyone realize what a bunch of broke-ass peasants they are in the Court? Where will they get the money to buy Louis Vuitton accessories for Andree? Was Louis Vuitton even born at this time?
All these questions, (well, one of them) are solved when Gilbert, the young dreamer boy who’s stayed out of the way for the last few chapters, marches up to the bewildered Taverneys with a note from Joseph Balsamo that basically says:
“Remember that goblet in the garden? That’s my gift to you for your hospitality. Sell it. It’s super-valuable.”
ABOVE: It's not THIS goblet Joseph is talking about.Tears of pure grateful greed bubble out of the Baron of Taverney as he hugs Andree and says:
“Now, Andree, courage, my child. We are going to court; there are plenty of titles to be given away there; rich abbeys—regiments without colonels—pensions going to waste. It is a fine country, the court! The sun shines brightly there; put yourself always in its rays, my child; for you are worthy to be seen. Go, my love go! I must go and arrange my papers. We must be out of this hole in an hour. Do you hear, Andree? And we are leaving it in good style, too. What a capital fellow that sorcerer is! I am becoming as superstitious as the devil!”
Nicole Legay, who has also conveniently stayed out of the way for the last few chapters, appears to take Andree away.
I missed her! We’ll have more of her right up next.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
How DO writers look?
Yes, Diablo Cody, nee Brook Busey-Hunt, is hot (FOR A WRITER!)
H.G.'s comment to a previous post interested me enough to add on it. Here it is:
"I was kind of shocked when I first saw Diablo Cody for the first time during the Oscars. For some reason, I expected someone a few years older, like a younger version of what you'd expect the real Erin Brockvitch would look like in her prime. I think the writing itself altered my perception. Though in retrospect, it makes perfect sense looking at her and her writing. It makes me wonder about how people percieve the way a person looks based on their writing. Like the floating, authorless text of blogs. Until you posted your pictures, how did people percieve you? Was there an Oscar Wildian flair about you in their depictions? Did they see corpulent masses? A foreign looking Stephen King with think glasses and a homely slump over the keyboard? How do people imagine I look like based on my writing? Do they see a 20-something with a minifro and a widow's peak, wearing either a shirt and tie or polo or nerdy t-shirt? Or do they see something entirely different?
All that being said, I'm glad Diablo Cody is kind of hot. She gives ugly writers something to shoot for. Though 10 bucks says she NEVER dates another Hollywood writer. Is she married? I bet she ends up dating some low-level Ethan Hawke of the now generation (because as we all know, Ethan Hawke has become irrelevant....much like this comment at this point; holy crap is it long....) Finally, you only give a crap about the Oxford comma because of your newspaper experience, they only place in America where that fucker is still important."
YEAH, it IS weird how writers LOOK, right?!?
Look at Hans Christian Andersen below- he wasn't posing for no underwear ads, I tells ya. There's some odd relationship we create with those we read: we hear the voice, and usually need a face on the book jacket.
Flannery O'Connor looked like this:
But by the time her endless bouts with lupus left her unable to do as much as climb the stairs, her editors were concerned that the puffy face her medications gave her wasn't "publicity-friendly."
SHALLOW MOTHERFUCKERS!!!
When I first met Stephen King I was shocked. SHOCKED, I tell ya! He was awkwardly big, lumberjackish, and his eyes were all weird and myopic, and he coulda been a biker- pretty he wasn't, but that wasn't what REALLY threw me off.
It was the VOICE.
Stephen King talked like... LIKE SOME GUY!!!
Like he was nothing special! I don't know what I expected. Vincent Price's voice? Bats fluttering out of his mouth? Prophetic storm clouds of imagination around his head?
Nope. Dude sounded squeaky even.
I've seen a few crime writers at readings- James Ellroy and Robert B. Parker and Lawrence Block- and I guess I thought I would see tough journalist guys, wheelers and dealers, imposing macho Hemingway types who can sneak up to the crime scene and describe the tortured poses of a hacked up dame- but they were all just... little nice dudes. Couldn't tell them out of a crowd. Hubert Selby Jr? I thought he would be some tough dealer, wrestler of the inhuman abyss...
"
He looked like a sweet little effeminate guy!
I'd read James W. Hall's books before he was one of my teachers and I'd pictured him as a grizzled Florida conservationist, a tough and sun-tanned ladies' man who could cold-cock someone for littering in the Everglades. But when I met him and he was THERE...James, if you're reading this, it's a compliment, I swear: You just look like somebody's nice uncle! Like, I wanted to pinch yout cheek.
Now that Stephen King and Diablo Cody alternate in the backpages of Entertainment Weekly, (how oddly things are juxtaposed in this world)... it's rather clear to me that writers look like ANYTHING because what really matters about them is ALL ON THE INSIDE!
There's only twenty-four hours on a day, sixteen if you're getting enough sleep. Everyone has a million things to do before they can earn their rest. Writers too, except that in addition they have to take in and observe EVERYONE ELSE'S lives and hobbies an insanities and fads. It's a must before they can begin to write something that's even remotely alive. They have to live their life AND the lives of a bunch of imaginary but very real people.
You think with all looking at other people, they have time to worry about how they look? That's for models and actors to work on! That's why they have writers WRITE FOR THEM! And that's why Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie don't just go: "Well, what's the big deal about this writer's strike? Who needs writers! Can't we just, like, say our own stuff?"
Brad and Angie know that without those pasty guys and gals that hunch over keyboards, they just stand around looking pretty.
Pretty boring.
H.G.'s comment to a previous post interested me enough to add on it. Here it is:
"I was kind of shocked when I first saw Diablo Cody for the first time during the Oscars. For some reason, I expected someone a few years older, like a younger version of what you'd expect the real Erin Brockvitch would look like in her prime. I think the writing itself altered my perception. Though in retrospect, it makes perfect sense looking at her and her writing. It makes me wonder about how people percieve the way a person looks based on their writing. Like the floating, authorless text of blogs. Until you posted your pictures, how did people percieve you? Was there an Oscar Wildian flair about you in their depictions? Did they see corpulent masses? A foreign looking Stephen King with think glasses and a homely slump over the keyboard? How do people imagine I look like based on my writing? Do they see a 20-something with a minifro and a widow's peak, wearing either a shirt and tie or polo or nerdy t-shirt? Or do they see something entirely different?
All that being said, I'm glad Diablo Cody is kind of hot. She gives ugly writers something to shoot for. Though 10 bucks says she NEVER dates another Hollywood writer. Is she married? I bet she ends up dating some low-level Ethan Hawke of the now generation (because as we all know, Ethan Hawke has become irrelevant....much like this comment at this point; holy crap is it long....) Finally, you only give a crap about the Oxford comma because of your newspaper experience, they only place in America where that fucker is still important."
YEAH, it IS weird how writers LOOK, right?!?
Look at Hans Christian Andersen below- he wasn't posing for no underwear ads, I tells ya. There's some odd relationship we create with those we read: we hear the voice, and usually need a face on the book jacket.
Flannery O'Connor looked like this:
But by the time her endless bouts with lupus left her unable to do as much as climb the stairs, her editors were concerned that the puffy face her medications gave her wasn't "publicity-friendly."
SHALLOW MOTHERFUCKERS!!!
When I first met Stephen King I was shocked. SHOCKED, I tell ya! He was awkwardly big, lumberjackish, and his eyes were all weird and myopic, and he coulda been a biker- pretty he wasn't, but that wasn't what REALLY threw me off.
It was the VOICE.
Stephen King talked like... LIKE SOME GUY!!!
Like he was nothing special! I don't know what I expected. Vincent Price's voice? Bats fluttering out of his mouth? Prophetic storm clouds of imagination around his head?
Nope. Dude sounded squeaky even.
I've seen a few crime writers at readings- James Ellroy and Robert B. Parker and Lawrence Block- and I guess I thought I would see tough journalist guys, wheelers and dealers, imposing macho Hemingway types who can sneak up to the crime scene and describe the tortured poses of a hacked up dame- but they were all just... little nice dudes. Couldn't tell them out of a crowd. Hubert Selby Jr? I thought he would be some tough dealer, wrestler of the inhuman abyss...
"
He looked like a sweet little effeminate guy!
I'd read James W. Hall's books before he was one of my teachers and I'd pictured him as a grizzled Florida conservationist, a tough and sun-tanned ladies' man who could cold-cock someone for littering in the Everglades. But when I met him and he was THERE...James, if you're reading this, it's a compliment, I swear: You just look like somebody's nice uncle! Like, I wanted to pinch yout cheek.
Now that Stephen King and Diablo Cody alternate in the backpages of Entertainment Weekly, (how oddly things are juxtaposed in this world)... it's rather clear to me that writers look like ANYTHING because what really matters about them is ALL ON THE INSIDE!
There's only twenty-four hours on a day, sixteen if you're getting enough sleep. Everyone has a million things to do before they can earn their rest. Writers too, except that in addition they have to take in and observe EVERYONE ELSE'S lives and hobbies an insanities and fads. It's a must before they can begin to write something that's even remotely alive. They have to live their life AND the lives of a bunch of imaginary but very real people.
You think with all looking at other people, they have time to worry about how they look? That's for models and actors to work on! That's why they have writers WRITE FOR THEM! And that's why Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie don't just go: "Well, what's the big deal about this writer's strike? Who needs writers! Can't we just, like, say our own stuff?"
Brad and Angie know that without those pasty guys and gals that hunch over keyboards, they just stand around looking pretty.
Pretty boring.
THE TILT # 28: Ideals vs. Ideas
Nader may only be a little nuts. While on my quest for sanity someone defined being crazy as "doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result." I thought: "Nader!!!"
But that's also all of us who've ever been in a relationship, had it end in pain and tears, and a few months later are like: "You know what I need?!? A relationship!!! And THIS time is going to end happily ever after!!!" even though we know that it's ALWAYS going to end with someone dying, or with silverware being aimed at someone's head, and the man or woman who swore "your two souls were as one and nothing will ever part us because our love is eternal" is now giving you shit in court and trying to take your money or your kids.
Yes, I am bitter beyond my years.
Anyway some interviewer just asked Nader if, at 74, he wasn't a little too old for the presidency, and Nader said a really really pretty phase that I bet his mirror had been hearing for months:
"The only aging is the erosion of one's ideals."
AWWWW, Bush could never say that one! Bush would probably confuse "erosion" with "erection."
But after my initial moment of "awwwness", I reflected that Nader is only saying the same thing Bush absurdly stands for, coaching in pretty words the same deadly fallacy:
"I believe in something, and goshdarn it, I ain't changing my stubborn little mind because I AM NOT WRONG NOT EVER!!!"
I disagree strongly. You age not when your ideals erode, but when your IDEAS don't EXPAND.
When you know what you know, and you'll never learn anything new.
When you're set on your truth even if evidence says otherwise.
I had a terrible moment a few years back- despair set upon me because I thought that I pretty much knew all that life was going to throw my way: happiness and illness and love and heartbreak- and all I could expect were variations and repetitions of the same basic unfulfilling patterns.
No one understood what the hell I meant- how could they- oh, boo-hoo, I was such a wise lonely soul.
I was in my EARLY 20's and I was already thinking like I had a senior's discount card.
Luckily life slapped me around something fierce- if only to prove that there's more to learn and experience that I ever could fancy in my feverish dreams. I credit the Japanese people with saving me. Just when I'd seen it all, they throw Final Fantasy 27 your way, and there you are, visiting some magical new land.
That's why I try to learn something new every day. To change my mind. To be proven wrong. The girl that drives you nuts today might be the person you're signing divorce papers with tomorrow. So what?
Whenever I need some confirmation that PEOPLE CAN CHANGE, I recall this:
My favorite childhood movie wasn't some Swedish film about confronting the open godlesness of an uncaring universe through a philosophical board game!
It was...
You would never guess
...
"National Lampoon's Vacation."
I'm not being fully honest.
It was "National Lampoon's EUROPEAN Vacation."
I thought that was the funniest thing ever. I told myself: "Now, THAT is a movie I could see again and again every day of my life and never be bored!"
(Amy Heckerling, of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Clueless" fame, directed that, by the way. It's a shitty shitty movie. I still get really happy when I hear "Little Pink Houses" by John Mellencamp, though, because it plays at the end of "European Vacation"- when the Griswalds return to the U.S. and crash into the Statue of Liberty. Actually, now I feel like renting this and seeing it with new eyes as an adult!!!)
The point- for Nader, for Bush, for me, for you: Let's be happy when your ideals change, reform, grow for the better. When you get what you want, keep on wanting more.
THAT'S how you stay young.
Gosh, sometimes I think in a freaking pulpit. Don't take anything I say too seriously, Dear Imaginary Reader. I'm a moron, what do I know about anything?
But that's also all of us who've ever been in a relationship, had it end in pain and tears, and a few months later are like: "You know what I need?!? A relationship!!! And THIS time is going to end happily ever after!!!" even though we know that it's ALWAYS going to end with someone dying, or with silverware being aimed at someone's head, and the man or woman who swore "your two souls were as one and nothing will ever part us because our love is eternal" is now giving you shit in court and trying to take your money or your kids.
Yes, I am bitter beyond my years.
Anyway some interviewer just asked Nader if, at 74, he wasn't a little too old for the presidency, and Nader said a really really pretty phase that I bet his mirror had been hearing for months:
"The only aging is the erosion of one's ideals."
AWWWW, Bush could never say that one! Bush would probably confuse "erosion" with "erection."
But after my initial moment of "awwwness", I reflected that Nader is only saying the same thing Bush absurdly stands for, coaching in pretty words the same deadly fallacy:
"I believe in something, and goshdarn it, I ain't changing my stubborn little mind because I AM NOT WRONG NOT EVER!!!"
I disagree strongly. You age not when your ideals erode, but when your IDEAS don't EXPAND.
When you know what you know, and you'll never learn anything new.
When you're set on your truth even if evidence says otherwise.
I had a terrible moment a few years back- despair set upon me because I thought that I pretty much knew all that life was going to throw my way: happiness and illness and love and heartbreak- and all I could expect were variations and repetitions of the same basic unfulfilling patterns.
No one understood what the hell I meant- how could they- oh, boo-hoo, I was such a wise lonely soul.
I was in my EARLY 20's and I was already thinking like I had a senior's discount card.
Luckily life slapped me around something fierce- if only to prove that there's more to learn and experience that I ever could fancy in my feverish dreams. I credit the Japanese people with saving me. Just when I'd seen it all, they throw Final Fantasy 27 your way, and there you are, visiting some magical new land.
That's why I try to learn something new every day. To change my mind. To be proven wrong. The girl that drives you nuts today might be the person you're signing divorce papers with tomorrow. So what?
Whenever I need some confirmation that PEOPLE CAN CHANGE, I recall this:
My favorite childhood movie wasn't some Swedish film about confronting the open godlesness of an uncaring universe through a philosophical board game!
It was...
You would never guess
...
"National Lampoon's Vacation."
I'm not being fully honest.
It was "National Lampoon's EUROPEAN Vacation."
I thought that was the funniest thing ever. I told myself: "Now, THAT is a movie I could see again and again every day of my life and never be bored!"
(Amy Heckerling, of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Clueless" fame, directed that, by the way. It's a shitty shitty movie. I still get really happy when I hear "Little Pink Houses" by John Mellencamp, though, because it plays at the end of "European Vacation"- when the Griswalds return to the U.S. and crash into the Statue of Liberty. Actually, now I feel like renting this and seeing it with new eyes as an adult!!!)
The point- for Nader, for Bush, for me, for you: Let's be happy when your ideals change, reform, grow for the better. When you get what you want, keep on wanting more.
THAT'S how you stay young.
Gosh, sometimes I think in a freaking pulpit. Don't take anything I say too seriously, Dear Imaginary Reader. I'm a moron, what do I know about anything?
My Next Imaginary Band Will Be Called Werewolf Holiday
I feel a tiny smidge of rebellious guilt for enjoying the Vampire Weekend album: It feels like something Diablo Cody and the good folks at Pitchfork would have conspired to make me buy instead of something I would seek out on my own.
Random Interlude:
Oh, Diablo Cody.
Everyone loves a literate stripper right until they realize that her name is Spanish for THE DEVIL!!! Worship the Devil, you suckers!!!
End of Random Interlude.
Anyway, Vampire Weekend. They're pretty alright, in a gimmicky way.
Oh, and I kinda give a fuck about an Oxford comma.
Random Interlude:
Oh, Diablo Cody.
Everyone loves a literate stripper right until they realize that her name is Spanish for THE DEVIL!!! Worship the Devil, you suckers!!!
End of Random Interlude.
Anyway, Vampire Weekend. They're pretty alright, in a gimmicky way.
Oh, and I kinda give a fuck about an Oxford comma.
Good News/ Bad News
GOOD NEWS! I GOT LAID... BAD NEWS: OFF.
I got laid off.
I guess Discovery decided somewhere a kid in India is doing my job better than me :-p
There was much sniffling today. I will miss the good girls at Captionhouse.
I got laid off.
I guess Discovery decided somewhere a kid in India is doing my job better than me :-p
There was much sniffling today. I will miss the good girls at Captionhouse.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Ridley Scott's "American Gangster"
As opposed to those gangsters from Uzbekistan I keep hearing about.
This is no comment on the movie, which I loved- but let's come up with some other way of lazily naming movies! There's already been "American Graffitti," "American Beauty," "American Pie," "American History X," "American America"- it's gotta stop!
Alternate title? "Denzel Does Pacino".
This is no comment on the movie, which I loved- but let's come up with some other way of lazily naming movies! There's already been "American Graffitti," "American Beauty," "American Pie," "American History X," "American America"- it's gotta stop!
Alternate title? "Denzel Does Pacino".
Hmmm...
So I don't know what happened last night... But apparently ONE THOUSAND A HUNDRED AND TWENTY THREE PEOPLE visited "Hallucina" yesterday... Anyone feels free to clue me in?
Craig Zobel's "Great World of Sound"
Somewhere in that South By Southwest 2007 Mumblecore map below you will find Craig Zobel’s “Great World of Sound”, an awesome, hilarious, squirm-inducing movie about the music business, artistic delusions and the compromises of adulthood… Great flicks have THEMES, they put their stuff on the screen and let you make conclusions and connections.
Martin (the GUY YOU’LL RELATE TO, played by Pat Healy) and Clarence (the IMPRESSIVE Kene Holliday) start working for a somewhat-sort-of-shady music production company: Aren’t they all? If you’ve ever worked for a company whose practices were slightly less than immaculate- (and face it, you probably ARE working for a company whose practices are slightly less than immaculate)- you will find some part of yourself in this movie. Martin and Clarence’s job description is simple: Trick a deluded sucker into poney-ing up a few thousand bucks for studio time; seduce them into recording an album that’s probably going to go nowhere. And OF COURSE people think THEIR awesome song is IT, they have got IT, haven’t THEY? These are the basic delusions of the music/ modeling/ acting industries. Let me tell you, folks: if you’re an artist, people will pay you for it, but if you have to PAY SOMEONE so they call you an artist, you’ve been conned.
The genius of the movie is that Craig Zobel actually put up ads asking for musicians who wanted their dream to come true. Deluded real people actually showed up to stake their claim at fame and he filmed them (don’t feel guilty, what you see in the end product was accepted by those people). At least one sage woman realizes that fame could very well be a scam- she’s been around.
Fame IS a scam.
It’s false.
It means nothing.
Paris Hilton ain’t ever done nothing for you, people.
But there’s so much more to this movie than just a candid camera set-up: it’s a story about an unlikely friendship, about art, about our self esteems being ground down by corporate processes, and, weirdest of all, about how a true, beautiful song can break through all the bullshit and will not be denied.
Martin (the GUY YOU’LL RELATE TO, played by Pat Healy) and Clarence (the IMPRESSIVE Kene Holliday) start working for a somewhat-sort-of-shady music production company: Aren’t they all? If you’ve ever worked for a company whose practices were slightly less than immaculate- (and face it, you probably ARE working for a company whose practices are slightly less than immaculate)- you will find some part of yourself in this movie. Martin and Clarence’s job description is simple: Trick a deluded sucker into poney-ing up a few thousand bucks for studio time; seduce them into recording an album that’s probably going to go nowhere. And OF COURSE people think THEIR awesome song is IT, they have got IT, haven’t THEY? These are the basic delusions of the music/ modeling/ acting industries. Let me tell you, folks: if you’re an artist, people will pay you for it, but if you have to PAY SOMEONE so they call you an artist, you’ve been conned.
The genius of the movie is that Craig Zobel actually put up ads asking for musicians who wanted their dream to come true. Deluded real people actually showed up to stake their claim at fame and he filmed them (don’t feel guilty, what you see in the end product was accepted by those people). At least one sage woman realizes that fame could very well be a scam- she’s been around.
Fame IS a scam.
It’s false.
It means nothing.
Paris Hilton ain’t ever done nothing for you, people.
But there’s so much more to this movie than just a candid camera set-up: it’s a story about an unlikely friendship, about art, about our self esteems being ground down by corporate processes, and, weirdest of all, about how a true, beautiful song can break through all the bullshit and will not be denied.
Monday, February 25, 2008
THE TILT # 27 Childhod Memories Recovered! Thanks to My Cousin Samantha, Who's a Bright Young Writer
I've always had a weird relationship with my name.
HAnSeL CasTro
A Nordic boy in the tropical heat of Cuba.
I heard it all-
"Whereeeee's Gretel?"
And, of course:
"Castro?!? As In Fidel? Yes, You stick to it those damned Capitalist pigs!"
Eh, no relation. Jesus, I hope not, anyway.
When I was very young I found another Hans and I was FASCINATED because I thought he was like me.
His name was Hans Christian Andersen.
He wrote the saddest most beautiful fairy tales that I had ever heard. That little mermaid... she didn't get her prince, her prince got it all wrong and went for the dumb bitch instead and the little mermaid died (Sorry Disney, but Ariel ends up dead in the REAL DEAL). But it didn't matter... Because somehow Hans made it so that the little mermaid's sacrifice was much more beautiful than whatever boring fate had for the obtuse prince and his trophy wife. LOVE mattered to that Hans.
I kinda thought I was the reincarnation of Hans Christian Andersen, and then I looked up the definition of reincarnation, and I was, like: "HMMMM. No, I don't believe in this shit. It doesn't make mathematical sense."
...
And when did I hear my name again?
I was a little kid watching an anime version of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake," and there was a cute little SQUIRREL named Hans, but really I thought I was that Prince looking for that little princess.
This is why even though ballet doesn't do much for me, Tchaikovsky's music, (here and in "The Nutcracker" and in the "1812 Overture"... and everywhere, really) transports me.
You know, you hear aaaall the time about how much romantic nonsense is poured upon little girl's ears, but you know, little boys also get their share of: "One day you will meet the girl of your dreams! And she'll be a lady! And she won't fart!" We all have to break through the muck of illusions to get at real love, which is this:
Two People. Getting Together. Agreeing on Things. Working on Something. Doesn't work out? Well, at least you tried.
And you will both grow from it.
It doesn't have to be disastrous all the time.
You just gotta try and construct something beautiful. It's up to you. It's hard work, no question. But it has its rewards.
I was talking about my name.
Here was another motherfucker who kinda had my name and I was like: "YES!!!!"
Notice how he got his princess.
Hell, it was a stretch, but I even bonded with this HANK dude for a while, 'cause he was smart but beastly, a poet really.
And there was even another HANSEL who'd also been born in a Communist country and made it to America-
Now I don't traffic much on mutilating your genitalia in the pursuit of a dream, but darned if that story is about more than just a Bowie-loving transexual. It was about someone odd and incomplete who knew that through love, we find ourselves.
How's the song go?
Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It's the story of
The origin of love.
That's the origin of love.
HMMMM. So, yeah, I wonder: How do YOU relate to your name? What does it mean to you? A funny-little-nothing-label? Does it mean nothing? Make it mean something.
HAnSeL CasTro
A Nordic boy in the tropical heat of Cuba.
I heard it all-
"Whereeeee's Gretel?"
And, of course:
"Castro?!? As In Fidel? Yes, You stick to it those damned Capitalist pigs!"
Eh, no relation. Jesus, I hope not, anyway.
When I was very young I found another Hans and I was FASCINATED because I thought he was like me.
His name was Hans Christian Andersen.
He wrote the saddest most beautiful fairy tales that I had ever heard. That little mermaid... she didn't get her prince, her prince got it all wrong and went for the dumb bitch instead and the little mermaid died (Sorry Disney, but Ariel ends up dead in the REAL DEAL). But it didn't matter... Because somehow Hans made it so that the little mermaid's sacrifice was much more beautiful than whatever boring fate had for the obtuse prince and his trophy wife. LOVE mattered to that Hans.
I kinda thought I was the reincarnation of Hans Christian Andersen, and then I looked up the definition of reincarnation, and I was, like: "HMMMM. No, I don't believe in this shit. It doesn't make mathematical sense."
...
And when did I hear my name again?
I was a little kid watching an anime version of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake," and there was a cute little SQUIRREL named Hans, but really I thought I was that Prince looking for that little princess.
This is why even though ballet doesn't do much for me, Tchaikovsky's music, (here and in "The Nutcracker" and in the "1812 Overture"... and everywhere, really) transports me.
You know, you hear aaaall the time about how much romantic nonsense is poured upon little girl's ears, but you know, little boys also get their share of: "One day you will meet the girl of your dreams! And she'll be a lady! And she won't fart!" We all have to break through the muck of illusions to get at real love, which is this:
Two People. Getting Together. Agreeing on Things. Working on Something. Doesn't work out? Well, at least you tried.
And you will both grow from it.
It doesn't have to be disastrous all the time.
You just gotta try and construct something beautiful. It's up to you. It's hard work, no question. But it has its rewards.
I was talking about my name.
Here was another motherfucker who kinda had my name and I was like: "YES!!!!"
Notice how he got his princess.
Hell, it was a stretch, but I even bonded with this HANK dude for a while, 'cause he was smart but beastly, a poet really.
And there was even another HANSEL who'd also been born in a Communist country and made it to America-
Now I don't traffic much on mutilating your genitalia in the pursuit of a dream, but darned if that story is about more than just a Bowie-loving transexual. It was about someone odd and incomplete who knew that through love, we find ourselves.
How's the song go?
Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It's the story of
The origin of love.
That's the origin of love.
HMMMM. So, yeah, I wonder: How do YOU relate to your name? What does it mean to you? A funny-little-nothing-label? Does it mean nothing? Make it mean something.
Oh, scarred
Man, were the Oscars boring! The only things I didn't call three months in advance were the Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress bits. Granted, that part when Daniel Day-Lewis bit Cate Blanchett's head off was kind of funny...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
PERSONAL
Dear Imaginary Reader:
You've also mentioned that I'm impersonal sometimes. WELL. I am not some ethereal voice drifting through black clouds to appear on white print before you. There's a fallible human body behind every writer's bits of inspired tomfoolery. Here's a picture of me, my awesome brother and his lovely girlfriend.
I would also *sigh* add that here's a picture of the woman I have loved for almost two years.
How much more personal can you get? This is the most wonderful woman in the world, you just don't know it yet. She's the person I dream of every night.
You've also mentioned that I'm impersonal sometimes. WELL. I am not some ethereal voice drifting through black clouds to appear on white print before you. There's a fallible human body behind every writer's bits of inspired tomfoolery. Here's a picture of me, my awesome brother and his lovely girlfriend.
I would also *sigh* add that here's a picture of the woman I have loved for almost two years.
How much more personal can you get? This is the most wonderful woman in the world, you just don't know it yet. She's the person I dream of every night.
Talking About Crazy
Ralph Nader is at it again. Good, I guess. I thought he was a terrible factor in the 2000 election- (I still believe it was his Greenness that syphoned votes away from Gore, who would have been as Green a President as Nader himself hoped for) - but I have never less than admired him for being crazy, a holy fool is what he is, and we must protect our holy fools. He has an ideal, and he's worked for it, and he's done wonderful things, (he hasn't just talked- and I love Obama, but Obama has only just talked up to now). I like Hilary as a person, anyone who doesn't see her for a wonderful courageous rabid woman isn't looking, but Hilary isn't any change, she's just going to be an extension of Clinton's politics; Bill Clinton's politics were very much preferrable to Bush's, but we've been there. I think all Americans, Democrats and Republicans, sense that we're at a moment when NEW is what we need, and CHANGE FOR THE BETTER is what we need... I don't dislike McCain and that's a problem for the Democrats, because he's a very likable Republican, but he can't bring change, because he's still centered around the military experience as opposed to the diplomatic experience. You, Dear Imaginary Reader, have often told me I don't talk politics. Feel better now? You know what I would want? I would want McCain and Hilary and Obama and, yes, even, Nader, to be our Presidents TOGETHER, to work together in a little office and have to deal with each other and bounce ideas off each other and say: "Look, I disagree with you on this and this and this, but hey, maybe you have a point there and there." I DON'T want them to attack each other like retarded high schoolers, the way Obama and Clinton go about it, creating drama out of their minimal differences, I want them to work
TOGETHER
To say: "We are left wing sometimes and right wing sometimes and reach out to other countries sometimes and know when to back away from other countries, and we have to deal with each situation wisely, one problem at a time, one good choice at a time, and we have to LISTEN to what the other person is saying."
LISTEN.
I want a president who listens to the people.
Not the voices of God in his head.
The people.
Because the people are speaking with the voices of God when they say that something's going wrong.
Does that Make Me..?
I hear the word "crazy" bandied about often... I've heard at least ten normal everyday people wonder if they're crazy in the last few days. What does the word even mean? Maybe we need to send some men with strait-jackets to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue where a funny-sounding little man went in front of microphones and actually admitted that he heard voices from "God" that told him it was okay to cause the deaths of thousands of people. If that man had been wearing a clown suit smeared with blood, we would have done the right thing and put him away, but he was nearing a nice suit, so I guess he wasn't crazy.
After seeing "The Amateurs", "King of California", and "Away From Her", movies about dreamers and madmen and people with mental problems- and we ALL have mental problems-I wonder more and more about this. We're all stuck in our worlds, the worlds our brains have constructed, and all these conflicting universes collide into something like a communal reality... And when someone's reality doesn't match yours, then maybe you think they're crazy.
I heard someone say:
"Crazy people talk to themselves."
(You mean, like, THINKING?)
refine and define:
"Crazy people ask questions to themselves, and get answers."
(Well, what the hell good is it to ask questions if you're not going to get answers? ASK and YE SHALL BE ANSWERED, dummy. Seems to me it's crazy- and worse, pointless- to ask a question you'll get no answer to.)
"Ok... Hmmmm. Crazy people have IMAGINARY INVISIBLE FRIENDS!"
Ever heard of an imaginary invisible friend called JESUS? 'Cause we might have to declare the Bible-belt a huge insane asylum.
I'm still not sure what a crazy person is...
A person who's a danger to society?
Again, I'm thinking of that funny sounding man who heard voices that told him it was okay to kill people.
I saw a cool crazy old lady mumbling to herself on the bus. She was all about how Jesus was riding with her, yes siree, Jesus done her good...People were moving away from her, she smelled awful, but she wasn't hurting anyone. I just felt really sad that Jesus couldn't get her a job with a good health care plan.
Po'tree
Maybe I don't read enough poetry,(outside of anthologies, which I hope weed out the ephemeral), but there's a reason: poems are magical outbursts of words coming from one person, and first I have to trust that person's power to seduce me, and the poems must fit the right time and the right place... If literature was a farm, great novels would be cattle, full of protein, good novels would be nice little piggies, short stories would be chickens and peacocks and the such, and most poems would just be pretty flowers complementing the scenery... Because most poems are images, emotions, moments, ellusive, ephemeral, unimportant to all but the poet, and even to that poet they are universes that often fizzle out in the blackness. Don't misunderstand, though, FLOWERS MATTER!!! Great poems will mean everything to you, and when the cattle has stampeded away, sometimes staring at a darling little lily can keep a farm boy amused for hours.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Sarah Polley's "Away From Her'
This may be a movie about Alzheimer's. Sure. But it's about love. Real love, the kind of love that makes two human beings come together to create something beautiful and tender even as our bodies betray us and our minds change. The wisdom and beauty in "Away From Her" is astounding, coming from someone as young as Sarah Polley, (wiser than the Sofia Coppolas of the world, methinks). I really can't praise this movie enough: Julie Christie and Gordon Pinsent made me believe in love again. Love, unconditional, true, the LOGOS at the beginning, the WORD, the one cause worth fighting for.
Yes, I'm in love, and I've been in love for a long time with someone.
So this movie touched me.
Friday, February 22, 2008
THE TILT # 26
MUMBLECORE.
I honestly hadn't heard the term until now. I've been eye-ing Andrew Bujalski's "Funny Ha-Ha" and "Mutual Appreciation" for a while, because they captured my up-to-then ignored milieu: smart, unglamourous, professionally adrift Gen Y-ers who understand and examine their feelings and document their low-key chill beer and pot binges on their blogs and on MySpace and communicate through text messages because even though they talk a lot, they feel like they're not being listened to by anyone, they fuck a lot but don't get much out of it, are emotional and CARE ABOUT THINGS but they're paralyzed by the paranoid fear that NO ONE ELSE CARES ABOUT THINGS; they don't know what to do with themselves besides gathering 'round and fret over Bush's fuck ups while watching the Daily Show and topping each other on obscure cultural references.
Well, yeah, so mumblecore is a film-making movement that looks at these talkative twenty-somethings through low-budget digital eyes. I think the more enjoyable exponents so far are Bujaksi's, Aaron Katz's "Dance Party USA", and Joe Swanberg's "LOL" and "Hannah Takes the Stairs".
BELOW: The mumblecore map!
I honestly hadn't heard the term until now. I've been eye-ing Andrew Bujalski's "Funny Ha-Ha" and "Mutual Appreciation" for a while, because they captured my up-to-then ignored milieu: smart, unglamourous, professionally adrift Gen Y-ers who understand and examine their feelings and document their low-key chill beer and pot binges on their blogs and on MySpace and communicate through text messages because even though they talk a lot, they feel like they're not being listened to by anyone, they fuck a lot but don't get much out of it, are emotional and CARE ABOUT THINGS but they're paralyzed by the paranoid fear that NO ONE ELSE CARES ABOUT THINGS; they don't know what to do with themselves besides gathering 'round and fret over Bush's fuck ups while watching the Daily Show and topping each other on obscure cultural references.
Well, yeah, so mumblecore is a film-making movement that looks at these talkative twenty-somethings through low-budget digital eyes. I think the more enjoyable exponents so far are Bujaksi's, Aaron Katz's "Dance Party USA", and Joe Swanberg's "LOL" and "Hannah Takes the Stairs".
BELOW: The mumblecore map!
"King of California"
Have I mentioned that Evan Rachel Wood is, like...the prettiest thing EVER?
In "King of California", she more than holds up to a Quixotic Michael Douglas (in his best role in a while) as they quest for Spanish treasure buried under layers of Applebee's, McDonald's and Starbucks. The magic that hides under the familiar is one of my personal life-themes. I do believe that if the magic isn't there, then by all means it's our duty to invent it. If there isn't wonder in your life, it's only because your imagination has failed you. Magic and Evan Rachel Wood. That's TWO of my personal life-themes. So I dug this movie, and although I could find no great treasure in it, I did pick up a few extra quarters for the bus.
In "King of California", she more than holds up to a Quixotic Michael Douglas (in his best role in a while) as they quest for Spanish treasure buried under layers of Applebee's, McDonald's and Starbucks. The magic that hides under the familiar is one of my personal life-themes. I do believe that if the magic isn't there, then by all means it's our duty to invent it. If there isn't wonder in your life, it's only because your imagination has failed you. Magic and Evan Rachel Wood. That's TWO of my personal life-themes. So I dug this movie, and although I could find no great treasure in it, I did pick up a few extra quarters for the bus.
"When Nietzsche Wept"
Which is also THE TILT # 25: You can make really dumb movies out of really smart literature. I should have known, though: "Bad Boys 2" was based on Moliere's "Les Deux Amies Noires."
Thursday, February 21, 2008
"The Amateurs"
This is the sweet little all American story of an innocent small town full of quirky naives and adorable dreamers, and, jizz whiz, they all get together to shoot a porno. You may find that too cutesy and contrived, but sometimes cutesy is ok.
It puts the cum back in cummunity?
Hannah is no Juno...
But she’s indie indeed. “Hannah Takes the Stairs” is excruciatingly real, like shooting some of your nerdier uglier friends talking about smack, but, you know, even nerdy ugly people have relationships and sex and stuff somehow. I should know. Andrew Bujalski looks like he’s one chromosome away from Down’s but his talky naturalistic movies capture New York youth reality in ways that movies shouldn’t. Hell, if I want to watch ordinary human beings laze around and worry about what they’re going on Saturday night and feel adrift and insecure in a world full of pain and miscommunication all I have to do is STAND STILL AND LOOK AROUND.
It does capture the sneaking twenty-something realization that “independent” is another word for “isolated.”
It does capture the sneaking twenty-something realization that “independent” is another word for “isolated.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: MAGIC
Joseph Balsamo and Marie Antoinette! Face to face! Mountains meeting! And they pretty much banter back and forth like so:
MA: So you’re the magician.
JB: I can sometimes predict the future, yes.
MA: The only mysteries I believe in are those of the Catholic faith.
JB: Oh, those are swell. But there’s a lot more mysterious stuff out there than you’ve ever imagined. I think even Monseigneur the Cardinal of Rohan here might agree.
(Aha! The gentleman in black is the Cardinal of Rohan! He hadn’t been introduced, and no one knew his name, but Balsamo knew. OOOH, he’s so wily! The Cardinal of Rohan is a little startled, but Marie Antoinette doesn’t seem to notice and goes on: )
MA: Well, at the very least you’ll admit those are the only mysteries that can’t be explained.
JB: There is faith and there is certainty.
MA: I’m a foreigner so maybe I don’t get your little French puns. I need you to come out and say what you mean.
JB: What I mean is that the future is known. But it may be best not to know it, because it may not match present hopes.
MA: What, let me guess...you want to read my palm! That’s what this little garden set-up is all about.
JB: God forbid, I don’t even want to look at your palm..
MA: Yeah, because you can’t tell the future.
JB: Can’t I?
MA: The Baron of Taverney says you predicted I would come here. How exactly did you do that?
JB: Looked at a glass of water, ma’am.
MA: That so? So you can look at my future in that there decanter. Let’s get to it.
JB: I’ll rather not.
MA: Because you can’t.
JB: Again with this! It’s because I might see a cloud in the future, and I wouldn’t want to sadden you.
MA: Hmmm, have we met before?
JB: When you were but a little girl, I visited your mother the queen.
MA: My mother the EMPRESS MARIA THERESA. Respect! History will not discover a single weakness in her!
JB: History won’t know what you, me and her know.
MA: What’s that?
JB: A secret we three share!
MA: Tell me!
JB: If I tell you it’s not a secret. Ok, fine. It’s this: one morning, you were walking by your mother’s writing desk, saw she had a written a letter, didn’t like something about three words in it and erased them.
MA: Why didn’t I like them?
JB: They were too chummy.
MA: What were the words?
JB: My. Dear. Friend.
(Marie Antoinette here pales, bites her lip, shows that the magician was indeed able to saw a private family moment. You are probably confused. Well, here’s the gossip: MA’s mother, the Empress Marie Therese, who was the consort to Louis XIV, had written an overly friendly letter to the Marchioness of Pompadour, who was the mistress of Louis XV, who… Look, it’s just tabloid drama, incestuous royal tabloid drama. DIRT. The whole point is that Marie Antoinette is impressed by Joseph’s powers. Let’s move on, shall we?)
Marie Antoinette turns to everyone present:
MA: Hmmm. Well, yes, this dude’s for real. I can’t lie. He saw something he couldn’t have seen.
(murmur murmur)
JB: Ok, I’m done here.
MA: Not so fast, boy-o. You can see into my past, now look into my future.
JB: Please, your highness…
MA: I never ask for something twice. And I already asked for it once. Do the math. If it’s good, I’ll be amused. If it’s bad, I’ll be prepared.
Balsamo stares at the sun shining dimly, yellow, in a glass of water. He stares. Stares. Stares.
JB: I can’t.
MA: You can’t see anything!
JB: I can’t tell this to a princess.
MA: You can’t tell me ‘this’, because ‘this’ is nothing.
JB: It’s something, all right.
MA: Aww, shut up. Ok, everyone, show’s over, this guy’s a hack.
JB: Oh, yeah?
MA: Yeah!
JB: I’ll tell you your future, then, bitch. It’s going to be BAD.
MA: How bad?
JB: REAL BAD. And I am going to show you right NOW!!!
A cloud forms in the glass of water. Marie Antoinette looks, looks, LOOKS into her future
AND SCREAMS
and faints before Joseph.
…
Dear Imaginary Reader. Am I spoiling things here? Or do you by now suspect what fate awaits our young, sexy, Kirsten Dunst/Marie Antoinette? Follow me, we’ll BE HEADING in that direction soon! Mwahahah!
MA: So you’re the magician.
JB: I can sometimes predict the future, yes.
MA: The only mysteries I believe in are those of the Catholic faith.
JB: Oh, those are swell. But there’s a lot more mysterious stuff out there than you’ve ever imagined. I think even Monseigneur the Cardinal of Rohan here might agree.
(Aha! The gentleman in black is the Cardinal of Rohan! He hadn’t been introduced, and no one knew his name, but Balsamo knew. OOOH, he’s so wily! The Cardinal of Rohan is a little startled, but Marie Antoinette doesn’t seem to notice and goes on: )
MA: Well, at the very least you’ll admit those are the only mysteries that can’t be explained.
JB: There is faith and there is certainty.
MA: I’m a foreigner so maybe I don’t get your little French puns. I need you to come out and say what you mean.
JB: What I mean is that the future is known. But it may be best not to know it, because it may not match present hopes.
MA: What, let me guess...you want to read my palm! That’s what this little garden set-up is all about.
JB: God forbid, I don’t even want to look at your palm..
MA: Yeah, because you can’t tell the future.
JB: Can’t I?
MA: The Baron of Taverney says you predicted I would come here. How exactly did you do that?
JB: Looked at a glass of water, ma’am.
MA: That so? So you can look at my future in that there decanter. Let’s get to it.
JB: I’ll rather not.
MA: Because you can’t.
JB: Again with this! It’s because I might see a cloud in the future, and I wouldn’t want to sadden you.
MA: Hmmm, have we met before?
JB: When you were but a little girl, I visited your mother the queen.
MA: My mother the EMPRESS MARIA THERESA. Respect! History will not discover a single weakness in her!
JB: History won’t know what you, me and her know.
MA: What’s that?
JB: A secret we three share!
MA: Tell me!
JB: If I tell you it’s not a secret. Ok, fine. It’s this: one morning, you were walking by your mother’s writing desk, saw she had a written a letter, didn’t like something about three words in it and erased them.
MA: Why didn’t I like them?
JB: They were too chummy.
MA: What were the words?
JB: My. Dear. Friend.
(Marie Antoinette here pales, bites her lip, shows that the magician was indeed able to saw a private family moment. You are probably confused. Well, here’s the gossip: MA’s mother, the Empress Marie Therese, who was the consort to Louis XIV, had written an overly friendly letter to the Marchioness of Pompadour, who was the mistress of Louis XV, who… Look, it’s just tabloid drama, incestuous royal tabloid drama. DIRT. The whole point is that Marie Antoinette is impressed by Joseph’s powers. Let’s move on, shall we?)
Marie Antoinette turns to everyone present:
MA: Hmmm. Well, yes, this dude’s for real. I can’t lie. He saw something he couldn’t have seen.
(murmur murmur)
JB: Ok, I’m done here.
MA: Not so fast, boy-o. You can see into my past, now look into my future.
JB: Please, your highness…
MA: I never ask for something twice. And I already asked for it once. Do the math. If it’s good, I’ll be amused. If it’s bad, I’ll be prepared.
Balsamo stares at the sun shining dimly, yellow, in a glass of water. He stares. Stares. Stares.
JB: I can’t.
MA: You can’t see anything!
JB: I can’t tell this to a princess.
MA: You can’t tell me ‘this’, because ‘this’ is nothing.
JB: It’s something, all right.
MA: Aww, shut up. Ok, everyone, show’s over, this guy’s a hack.
JB: Oh, yeah?
MA: Yeah!
JB: I’ll tell you your future, then, bitch. It’s going to be BAD.
MA: How bad?
JB: REAL BAD. And I am going to show you right NOW!!!
A cloud forms in the glass of water. Marie Antoinette looks, looks, LOOKS into her future
AND SCREAMS
and faints before Joseph.
…
Dear Imaginary Reader. Am I spoiling things here? Or do you by now suspect what fate awaits our young, sexy, Kirsten Dunst/Marie Antoinette? Follow me, we’ll BE HEADING in that direction soon! Mwahahah!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
DIRRRRTY
What happenned to Britney?
WE happenned to Britney.
We zoomed in too close on an average ditzy teenager with no particular stance on life and the lens deformed the heck out of her. She asserted herself as a person the only way she knew how, by yelling at the camera: "I'm not who you think I am!" How COULD anyone be? We needed her to be hypersexual yet virginal; demure yet exhibitionist; a passionate artist and a level-headed accountant; a glamorous party girl who said grace over her mashed potatoes and went to sleep by 10. Maybe we would allow her a glass of wine with her dinner. Maybe. Who could be all these things at once?
Who Britney always was is close to the character Amy Ryan plays in "Gone Baby Gone", an irresponsible trashy woman who likes her beer and her cigarettes, who enjoyed seeing her toddlers happily tripping around the porch, and who wants her man to keep it "REAL"- and she understands reality to mean tattoos, corn-rows and the perpetual wife beater.
Throw in a judgmental camera on the perpetual look-out for a panty-shot. Of course she couldn't make it under our oppresive glare, but the monster is us, not her.You can't tell us the girl is dirty because she flashed you, it's you who's dirty because you keep on looking at the flash. The dirt is in our heads.
She gets crazy, so we zoom in, and so she gets crazier, and so we zoom in...
It's a parasitical relationship we have with our celebrities.
FX's "Dirt" understands that duality- you can't be a celebrity if you're not interesting under the glare- to be interesting you have to be unusual- your fame depends on the tabloids that ruin your mental health. No scrutinizing eye from us, no mansion for you.
"Dirt" is... well, dirty, trashy fun, with the benevolent aspect that its scandalous celebrities belong to a parallel Hollywood, and their meltdowns are fully scripted. Courtney Cox-Arquette-Longoria-Parker is perfect as Lucy Spiller, the tabloid journalist running "Dirt Now". She embodies the dualities of her profession: the cool and coiled viper is, naturally, a neurotic girl who didn't get enough love from Daddy. Or maybe got a little too much love from Daddy. One of those. (There's some Daddy issues here.) Her bedroom, her inner sanctum is a sensual wonderland, all done in that engorged-pussy palette, but it's all show, because she's too busy to bring anyone in there for more than a perfunctory tryst.
Lucy's only real friend is- in the show's sweetest, oddest gesture- Don Konkey (played by Ian Hart), a "highly functional" schizophrenic photographer. A caricature of a papparazzi, Don has a tendency to disappear into nightmarish dream worlds of guilt that make for some amusing television, and he's really the heart of the show's first season. Since Lucy has none.
It's a fun show, sexy as all get out. Didn't you ever want to see Monica messing around with her vibrator..?
Or, heck, making out with Rachel?!? As seen below!!!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
THE TILT # 24
Finally. Fidel Castro resigns.
Today, I learned that you can put so many buffers between you and reality that you can go to your death surrounded by approving grins, completely oblivious to the fact that you've brought pain to literally millions of people.
Today, I learned that you can put so many buffers between you and reality that you can go to your death surrounded by approving grins, completely oblivious to the fact that you've brought pain to literally millions of people.
Ben Affleck's "Gone Baby Gone"
So. Ben Affleck. Waaaay better director than Kevin Smith. Who wouldda thunk?
I'd read and enjoyed James W. Hall's books before I found out he was involved with my alma mater's creative writing program, and it has been one of my life's thrills that he had me in his class, he liked my writing, and gave me the most wonderful professional praise I've ever gotten. It gave me that heady, mystical feeling that not only was it possible to have my name crawl up the spine of a book at a Barnes and Noble someday, but it was only me that willfully kept it from being so, by not writing the thing in the first place. Can't publish what isn't there.
A similar thing hapenned with Dennis Lehane. I'd read his novels completely unaware that he had an M.F.A with FIU's Creative Writing Program, that he'd walked the same halls and entered the same classrooms and perhaps parked his butt in the same seats as mine. So when "Mystic River" was a best-seller, and then Clint Eastwood had directed the movie and everyone was talking about it, I thought: "Well, that Lehane guy was moving around here not too long ago. I could have been him! I still could be him! Heck, I'll be way better!"
Who knows how THAT will turn out, but the point is I feel a closeness to Lehane's work. His Bawston is really not that different from the Miami I recognize. Cubans and Irish ain't too far apart: we're both crazy Catholics and we like green, them in their leprechauns, us in our mojitos. If you're used to L.A. gloss, the neighborhood color in "Gone Baby Gone" might seem too much, bordering on the grotesque, but yeah, that's what rang so true to me, these are the dealers and the losers I see everyday- with a little more brown, mind you.
I don't know that "Gone Baby Gone" is more than just a great crime procedural, with wonderful acting across the board. (I get the feeling it WANTS to be more.)Casey Affleck looks just a tiny smidge too soft for his role, but when he's backed by a brave Michelle Monaghan, you believe he can walk out of a bar brawl with all pearlies intact. I can't tell Bridget and Michelle apart, but those Monaghan girls make for the most under-praised supporting actresses around. Michelle's in this one, and notice how her role is practically silent. In the Patrick Kenzie/ Angie Gennaro books, the relationship between the detectives is built on banter, but here it's all about quiet acceptance of each other's quirks. Amy Ryan is unforgettable as a trashy mom- I think I've been neighbors with this woman. (She's nominated for an Oscar!) If 2007 hadn't been such a strong movie year, you would be hearing about Ed Harris' role too. Morgan Freeman- well, I said it a few posts back and I will say it again, so I don't even consider it a SPOILER, but it kind of IS, so, be warned:
If you have a huge-name-impressive-guy playing a respectable character and then he disappears for most of the movie and you're wondering: "Hey, where did so and so go?" It's BECAUSE HE'S A BAD GUY! WE SEE IT COMING...
But then there's nothing as easy as a "bad guy" in "Gone Baby Gone". As in life, there's just people. People doing the wrong things for the right reasons, and the right things for the wrong reasons, and living out the hells that we've carefully mapped out for each other.
I'd read and enjoyed James W. Hall's books before I found out he was involved with my alma mater's creative writing program, and it has been one of my life's thrills that he had me in his class, he liked my writing, and gave me the most wonderful professional praise I've ever gotten. It gave me that heady, mystical feeling that not only was it possible to have my name crawl up the spine of a book at a Barnes and Noble someday, but it was only me that willfully kept it from being so, by not writing the thing in the first place. Can't publish what isn't there.
A similar thing hapenned with Dennis Lehane. I'd read his novels completely unaware that he had an M.F.A with FIU's Creative Writing Program, that he'd walked the same halls and entered the same classrooms and perhaps parked his butt in the same seats as mine. So when "Mystic River" was a best-seller, and then Clint Eastwood had directed the movie and everyone was talking about it, I thought: "Well, that Lehane guy was moving around here not too long ago. I could have been him! I still could be him! Heck, I'll be way better!"
Who knows how THAT will turn out, but the point is I feel a closeness to Lehane's work. His Bawston is really not that different from the Miami I recognize. Cubans and Irish ain't too far apart: we're both crazy Catholics and we like green, them in their leprechauns, us in our mojitos. If you're used to L.A. gloss, the neighborhood color in "Gone Baby Gone" might seem too much, bordering on the grotesque, but yeah, that's what rang so true to me, these are the dealers and the losers I see everyday- with a little more brown, mind you.
I don't know that "Gone Baby Gone" is more than just a great crime procedural, with wonderful acting across the board. (I get the feeling it WANTS to be more.)Casey Affleck looks just a tiny smidge too soft for his role, but when he's backed by a brave Michelle Monaghan, you believe he can walk out of a bar brawl with all pearlies intact. I can't tell Bridget and Michelle apart, but those Monaghan girls make for the most under-praised supporting actresses around. Michelle's in this one, and notice how her role is practically silent. In the Patrick Kenzie/ Angie Gennaro books, the relationship between the detectives is built on banter, but here it's all about quiet acceptance of each other's quirks. Amy Ryan is unforgettable as a trashy mom- I think I've been neighbors with this woman. (She's nominated for an Oscar!) If 2007 hadn't been such a strong movie year, you would be hearing about Ed Harris' role too. Morgan Freeman- well, I said it a few posts back and I will say it again, so I don't even consider it a SPOILER, but it kind of IS, so, be warned:
If you have a huge-name-impressive-guy playing a respectable character and then he disappears for most of the movie and you're wondering: "Hey, where did so and so go?" It's BECAUSE HE'S A BAD GUY! WE SEE IT COMING...
But then there's nothing as easy as a "bad guy" in "Gone Baby Gone". As in life, there's just people. People doing the wrong things for the right reasons, and the right things for the wrong reasons, and living out the hells that we've carefully mapped out for each other.
Monday, February 18, 2008
CHAPTER XIV: MARIE ANTOINETTE JOSEPHE, ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA.
Marie Antoinette arrives with a great hullabaloo! Bunch of courtiers on horses, three carriages, the biggest one gilded and covered with mythological bas-reliefs, (I’m seeing sirens and dolphins and nymphs and Venuses popping out of clams.) Young Gilbert is running by the side of this royal contraption, all goggledy. Out of it comes Marie Antoinette, sixteen, her hair an elaborate pile, she’s wearing a white silk dress and is being escorted by a somber looking gentleman dressed in black and carrying a St. Louis ribbon under his mantle, which at this time denotes him as a cardinal.
…Oh, haha, I get it now.
Never mind him for now, Miss M. A. is the main attraction. She’s actually hot, which Dumas notes is apparently not a tradition with French queens. Nice shoulders, nice necks, (love those marbly regal necks), expressive eyes- apparently the only sign of the centuries of inbreeding is a pouting lower lip she’s inherited from seventeen emperors. Pouty is not so bad.
“What a pretty little house!” She pouts. Everything she’s going to say is all pouty.
Philip, Andree and the Baron of Taverney greet her.
Philip is a little nervous: “Here’s the Baron De Taverney-Maison-Rouge, my father, and my sister Claire Andree de Taverney.”
Oh, great, NOW we’re told her first name is Claire! Why don’t they use that? Whatever, it’s Mademoiselle Andree now and forever.
The Baron HAS to point how humble and unworthy his abode is, but M.A. reassures him: “My mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, has told me that in France those richest in history sometimes are the poorest in lesser treasures!”
(Which sounds a heck of a lot like: “I heard that in France, people talk a lot of smack but have nothing to show for it!”)
The Baron still knows that there are at least forty great gentleman accompanying the dauphiness and he has four available chairs, but M.A. is gracious and perceptive and orders her entourage to stay outside. She starts walking towards the Chateau accompanied only by the his eminence the cardinal (in the black) and a little lady called Langershausen, who seems to be her old nanny from Austria.
The Baron is all cringing at the idea of M.A. putting foot inside his house, (I used to hate it when people wanted to get in my old crappy apartment so I kinda relate to the old weirdo’s people-phobia), and even Philip gets a little nervous. M.A. catches the vibe:
“How about I don’t even go in? Let’s just enjoy the garden. Why don’t you just bring me some milk!” POUTS.
The Baron: “Milk? Why would you want milk?”
M.A.: “It does a body good? And I like doing bodies, good. Besides, newly laid eggs and milk were what I grew up with.”
Suddenly the servant LaBrie pops out from under an archway of "jessamine" in the garden, dressed in a splendid livery, happy to be useful for once, and says: “Well, the milk is ready and waiting for your highness!”
Everyone is impressed.
M.A.: “How did you know I was going to ask for milk...? Am I visiting a magician?” She’s all delighted and walks under the archway to find a little alley of flowers at the end of which awaits an oval table covered with damask and offering biscuits from Aleppo, oranges from Malta, bottles of Persian wine, and, in the middle of it all, a silver vase with MILK.
Obviously, everyone’s a little surprised by the arrangement.
M.A.: “So you WERE expecting me! How did you know?”
The Baron of Taverney: “Well, we have sort of a magician in the house. A man who sees the future and predicted your coming, and has made this little feast appears from the very bowels of Hell, if you ask me.”
The cardinal is halfway between cautious and curious: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Oooh, is that wine? I want some!”
M.A.: “Your eminence! How worldly of you! Didn’t you just tell us ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?’”
The cardinal: “Well, you don’t expect me to take all that churchy stuff LITERALLY, do you?”
They all have a good laugh at the idea.
M.A.: “So where IS this magical man?”
Steps are heard, a hush descends upon the party, and branches part to reveal Joseph Balsamo, standing a few inches away from Marie Antoinette.
…Oh, haha, I get it now.
Never mind him for now, Miss M. A. is the main attraction. She’s actually hot, which Dumas notes is apparently not a tradition with French queens. Nice shoulders, nice necks, (love those marbly regal necks), expressive eyes- apparently the only sign of the centuries of inbreeding is a pouting lower lip she’s inherited from seventeen emperors. Pouty is not so bad.
“What a pretty little house!” She pouts. Everything she’s going to say is all pouty.
Philip, Andree and the Baron of Taverney greet her.
Philip is a little nervous: “Here’s the Baron De Taverney-Maison-Rouge, my father, and my sister Claire Andree de Taverney.”
Oh, great, NOW we’re told her first name is Claire! Why don’t they use that? Whatever, it’s Mademoiselle Andree now and forever.
The Baron HAS to point how humble and unworthy his abode is, but M.A. reassures him: “My mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, has told me that in France those richest in history sometimes are the poorest in lesser treasures!”
(Which sounds a heck of a lot like: “I heard that in France, people talk a lot of smack but have nothing to show for it!”)
The Baron still knows that there are at least forty great gentleman accompanying the dauphiness and he has four available chairs, but M.A. is gracious and perceptive and orders her entourage to stay outside. She starts walking towards the Chateau accompanied only by the his eminence the cardinal (in the black) and a little lady called Langershausen, who seems to be her old nanny from Austria.
The Baron is all cringing at the idea of M.A. putting foot inside his house, (I used to hate it when people wanted to get in my old crappy apartment so I kinda relate to the old weirdo’s people-phobia), and even Philip gets a little nervous. M.A. catches the vibe:
“How about I don’t even go in? Let’s just enjoy the garden. Why don’t you just bring me some milk!” POUTS.
The Baron: “Milk? Why would you want milk?”
M.A.: “It does a body good? And I like doing bodies, good. Besides, newly laid eggs and milk were what I grew up with.”
Suddenly the servant LaBrie pops out from under an archway of "jessamine" in the garden, dressed in a splendid livery, happy to be useful for once, and says: “Well, the milk is ready and waiting for your highness!”
Everyone is impressed.
M.A.: “How did you know I was going to ask for milk...? Am I visiting a magician?” She’s all delighted and walks under the archway to find a little alley of flowers at the end of which awaits an oval table covered with damask and offering biscuits from Aleppo, oranges from Malta, bottles of Persian wine, and, in the middle of it all, a silver vase with MILK.
Obviously, everyone’s a little surprised by the arrangement.
M.A.: “So you WERE expecting me! How did you know?”
The Baron of Taverney: “Well, we have sort of a magician in the house. A man who sees the future and predicted your coming, and has made this little feast appears from the very bowels of Hell, if you ask me.”
The cardinal is halfway between cautious and curious: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Oooh, is that wine? I want some!”
M.A.: “Your eminence! How worldly of you! Didn’t you just tell us ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?’”
The cardinal: “Well, you don’t expect me to take all that churchy stuff LITERALLY, do you?”
They all have a good laugh at the idea.
M.A.: “So where IS this magical man?”
Steps are heard, a hush descends upon the party, and branches part to reveal Joseph Balsamo, standing a few inches away from Marie Antoinette.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
THE TILT #22
That Merriam Webster dude just informed me that "twee" was coined in 1905, and it's just baby-talk for "sweet". Oh, Tweety, I get it now!
You Know, I Still Haven't Seen Juno. So I'm Only a Half Lemming. A Ming.
What's the ethymology of the word "twee"? When I look it up, the "Juno" soundtrack is going to be part of the definition, isn't it? It's so adorable, you want to pinch its cheeks and it would flip you the bird, but it would do so in a cutesy, precious way. Kimya Dawson and the Moldy Peaches anchor the album, but it's got "Expectations", my favorite Belle and Sebastian song; some Bowie, The Kinks, and Velvet Underground, (what better way to seduce me?); Sonic Youth's awesome cover of "Superstar"; Catpower's cover of "Sea of Love" (and people still tell me she's 'obscure'!), and two versions of the instant heartwarmer "Anyone Else But You." There, I did my part in the whole process of "Juno's" hype, backlash, counter-backlash, post-hype/backlash-re-assessment, and eventual oblivion.
I Gave this One to my Brother for His Birthday
I wonder what Walter Benjamin would make of something like this, a comic book that is an expansion of a TV show. (The art work is so-so, it's a collection of webcomics that were released in between episodes of the first season, and the stories are too brief to really develop, but it's still a nice way to linger in the world of "Heroes".)
Frankly, I can't even picture Walter Benjamin calling a TV show a work of art. If he was alive he would probably be fuming over a pipe in the bell tower of a dusty university in Frankfurt and going like: "So. The future. Weird. All my smarty-pants predictions turned out to be wrong."
No, Walter Benjamin, don't jump off, nooooooooooo!
SPLAT!!!
Clive James' "Cultural Amnesia"
I carried this book around for a while, and there's so much to agree and argue with in it, that it was a lot like lugging a very knowledgeable if ocassionally myopic friend. James encyclopedically comments on the historical and/or artistic legacies of, well, a whole bunch of people! Some of his little essays are masterpieces of intellectual digression. (Let's talk about Coco Chanel! But really let's talk about the oddities of fashion, and how fashion affects pop culture, and my tweed jacket could certainly use some mussing up. Oh, yes, Coco Chanel.)
What James pointedly comes back to throughout these essays is that there's a certain awful intellectual willingness to forgive the horrors of the left while attacking the terrors of the right. "Les extremes se touchent"- yes. (Although why he feels the need to bring up Stalin in the essay about Beatrix Potter still evades me!) But, yes, I felt incredibly comforted to know that a liberal humanist of his caliber (who hails from Australia, no less) can accurately expose Che Guevara T-shirt wearers with a line like: "apparently off-shore Castro sympathizers can read the simple minds of those happy, salsa-loving Cubans from miles away." James actually spent time in Cuba and has as accurate a take as anyone can expect from someone who clearly spends most of his time in a tower bricked with books.
One huge problem with "Cultural Amnesia"? The typos.
I don't think I've ever seen a big serious book with so many of them- seriously, some proofreader at Norton books was hitting the juice during lunchtime, because there's one every other page, which is a problem in a book that specifically criticizes OTHER books for misusing commas and semicolons and the such- (book-kettle calling the book-pot black much?)
Wonderful and smart as James is, some of his lines can smack you with their pompous assumptions. One that really hit me was in an essay about Walter Benjamin:
"The essay by Walter Benjamin that everyone knows something about is 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.'"
SCREECHING HALT!!!
I was reading that on a bus to work that goes through Biscayne in downtown Miami and I had to look up from the book. Now, *I* didn't know who Walter Benjamin was until I read the essay. This is Walter Benjamin, by the way:
I looked at the faces of the unwashed masses I travel with and I was willing to bet a million bucks that:
a) not only had no one in that bus read the essay
or b) heard of Walter Benjamin
or c) be even remotely interested in the essay if it was presented to them
but d) even if they were forced to read they wouldn't have the tools to make heads or tails of the darned thing.
So, no, not EVERYONE knows something about "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction."
Maybe they SHOULD, but thassa-one for anutha day.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Emanuele Crialese's "Nuovomondo"- which, you know, means "The New World"...
.. But for the obvious conflicting reason was released in the U.S. as "Golden Door"- although no such door ever makes its presence. Neither does the New World, a.k.a. America, for that matter. This is a movie about journeys, not destinations, and I don't think it would have anything too profound to say about the destination anyway.
That journey- Italian immigrants being forced out of the rotting womb of a barren Old World Sicily into 1913 Ellis Island- is excruciating, tortuous, magical, and yet so real it's enough to make one who's suffered it in the flesh want to turn away- and one who hasn't to be more than a little bored: "Geez, is it really THAT hard to get into the U.S.? Mexicans do it all the time, don't they?"
It's hard, my brother, painful and it fucks with the head. But that's what America was built on. Painful journeys and displaced people with a LOT of dreams and a lot of shit to prove.
Martin Scorcese introduces the DVD version in a heartfelt but defensive way, that subtextually says: "Look, I know this movie is a little long and tortuous and it puts you through the wringer, but you need to KNOW about this, because you may think you're apple pie but unless your name is Sorrowful Eagle someone in your family past went through a lot of hell and a lot of effort to make sure that you live in this country, and they didn't do it for the sake of a fun vacation in a New York ghetto but because their old life had become impossible to tolerate."
Starring the wonderful Vincenzo Amato and, for international appeal, a somewhat incongrous Charlotte Gainsbourgh, (as an unconvincing British lady, no less), "Golden Door" combines the daguerreotypical reality of those huddled wretched masses on the shadow of Lady Liberty with scenes of magical realism which will either amuse or annoy, (both?): Visions of an American where money LITERALLY grows on trees, (huge COINS are fruit blooms) while giant roosters, missile-like carrots, and milk-flooded rivers ensure the Mancuso family will never go hungry again.
WARNING:
PERSONAL, TOUCHY-FEELY MOMENT-
I was hit on a personal level. I've subconsciously blocked out a lot of my past. The immigration process is part of that. None of my recent friends or even girlfriends really ever asked me about it, (the assumption being: "Hey, you're here, you seem happy, you know all about the Brady Bunch, right? You've got a little bit of an accent, but no worries!") Well, immigration is a horrible, wonderful process of transformation, and I will distinguish it from exile thus:
My family is not a family of exiles; it's a family of immigrants. An exile is forced out of their country and spends their time thinking about their country and argues politics and feels displaced, and can't wait to return to it.
I am an immigrant.
An immigrant builds a new life and
doesn't
look
back.
That journey- Italian immigrants being forced out of the rotting womb of a barren Old World Sicily into 1913 Ellis Island- is excruciating, tortuous, magical, and yet so real it's enough to make one who's suffered it in the flesh want to turn away- and one who hasn't to be more than a little bored: "Geez, is it really THAT hard to get into the U.S.? Mexicans do it all the time, don't they?"
It's hard, my brother, painful and it fucks with the head. But that's what America was built on. Painful journeys and displaced people with a LOT of dreams and a lot of shit to prove.
Martin Scorcese introduces the DVD version in a heartfelt but defensive way, that subtextually says: "Look, I know this movie is a little long and tortuous and it puts you through the wringer, but you need to KNOW about this, because you may think you're apple pie but unless your name is Sorrowful Eagle someone in your family past went through a lot of hell and a lot of effort to make sure that you live in this country, and they didn't do it for the sake of a fun vacation in a New York ghetto but because their old life had become impossible to tolerate."
Starring the wonderful Vincenzo Amato and, for international appeal, a somewhat incongrous Charlotte Gainsbourgh, (as an unconvincing British lady, no less), "Golden Door" combines the daguerreotypical reality of those huddled wretched masses on the shadow of Lady Liberty with scenes of magical realism which will either amuse or annoy, (both?): Visions of an American where money LITERALLY grows on trees, (huge COINS are fruit blooms) while giant roosters, missile-like carrots, and milk-flooded rivers ensure the Mancuso family will never go hungry again.
WARNING:
PERSONAL, TOUCHY-FEELY MOMENT-
I was hit on a personal level. I've subconsciously blocked out a lot of my past. The immigration process is part of that. None of my recent friends or even girlfriends really ever asked me about it, (the assumption being: "Hey, you're here, you seem happy, you know all about the Brady Bunch, right? You've got a little bit of an accent, but no worries!") Well, immigration is a horrible, wonderful process of transformation, and I will distinguish it from exile thus:
My family is not a family of exiles; it's a family of immigrants. An exile is forced out of their country and spends their time thinking about their country and argues politics and feels displaced, and can't wait to return to it.
I am an immigrant.
An immigrant builds a new life and
doesn't
look
back.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Ken Follett's "World Without End"
It took a lot of rocks to make the fictional Kingsbridge Cathedral of "The Pillars of the Earth", and God knows "World Without End" weighs a ton, but they're still two immersive historical novels that really do have a lot to offer. Follet is best known as a thriller writer and he's usually entertaining, but he transcended genre with "The Pillars of the Earth" because he captured the spirit of mankind in the process of creation, thousands of people cooperating to make something that went beyond their individual petty differences, men and women working towards something beautiful. It really was a very inspiring novel and deserved its success.
The sequel sort of replicates the formula. It's 200 years later, the Cathedral and the town are once again the crucible of the new and the old, science vs. superstition, the young turks and the old guard. You'll definitely smell the stench of the boar at the spit and get the feel of this market town. The book doesn't disappoint, but I do wish Follet was smoother when he shows off his detailed research, (some of it sort it sticks out and reminds you he looked at the encyclopedia!)
Good middlebrow novel, anyway. The sort of thing James Clavell and James Michener would do. I liked it.
THE TILT#21
A vug is not a bug.
A vug is a cavity formed inside a rock. Rocks are so wondrous. So beautiful, so unique, no two alike. Why don't we think more about them? Maybe rocks have secret lives, and they whisper to each other when we're not around.
"Hey! Do you see that shadow coming over us, CJ? I think a NIKE is going to visit us and give us its love."
"No way, dude, it's an ADIDAS. My Dad got stepped on by an ADIDAS some time back real hard, and that's how I was born. I'll recognize ADIDAS anywhere. It's coming! It's coming! AAAHHH!"
"Told you it was a NIKE."
"I was so sure."
Nah, rocks don't talk. They're pretty dumb. Some of them are dumb and pretty. Bimbo rocks. They call themselves diamonds and act all nouveau riche, but everybody knows they started out pretty rough, I guess it was all that pressure that gave them the bling bling. They lived in some cool caves for a while, the glittering life of the stalactites and the stalactmites, everything topsy turvy, living the high life, forgetting about all the other huddled masses of rocks in oppressive heat at the core of the Earth. They don't keep it real, but I understand. Now they're all up on some woman's ear or finger or nose, acting all haughty taughty.
Oh, rocks.
Why do they always fight each other with volcanic heat when they could build beautiful mountains. Hmmmm, I guess the heat makes the mountains.
Ah, who cares, they're pretty dumb and that's that.
Rocks.
And vugs.
The hollow inside a sad little rock.
*violins play*
A vug is a cavity formed inside a rock. Rocks are so wondrous. So beautiful, so unique, no two alike. Why don't we think more about them? Maybe rocks have secret lives, and they whisper to each other when we're not around.
"Hey! Do you see that shadow coming over us, CJ? I think a NIKE is going to visit us and give us its love."
"No way, dude, it's an ADIDAS. My Dad got stepped on by an ADIDAS some time back real hard, and that's how I was born. I'll recognize ADIDAS anywhere. It's coming! It's coming! AAAHHH!"
"Told you it was a NIKE."
"I was so sure."
Nah, rocks don't talk. They're pretty dumb. Some of them are dumb and pretty. Bimbo rocks. They call themselves diamonds and act all nouveau riche, but everybody knows they started out pretty rough, I guess it was all that pressure that gave them the bling bling. They lived in some cool caves for a while, the glittering life of the stalactites and the stalactmites, everything topsy turvy, living the high life, forgetting about all the other huddled masses of rocks in oppressive heat at the core of the Earth. They don't keep it real, but I understand. Now they're all up on some woman's ear or finger or nose, acting all haughty taughty.
Oh, rocks.
Why do they always fight each other with volcanic heat when they could build beautiful mountains. Hmmmm, I guess the heat makes the mountains.
Ah, who cares, they're pretty dumb and that's that.
Rocks.
And vugs.
The hollow inside a sad little rock.
*violins play*
Thursday, February 14, 2008
4
Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa now writes for "Big Love" (I'm still caught up in Season Two of that awesome awesome show, hard to let go of that family.) He did some wonderful work with the Marvel Knights imprint for "4" from 2004 to 2006. Reed Richards, Sue Storm, Ben Grimm, Johnny Storm... he kicked them out of the Baxter building and had them crawl around the streets of New York looking for work and worrying about their financial statements. In the process he made the Fantastic Four feel like the very best family- Until recently the Fantastic Four bored me, but reading these stories, it's easy to see why kids fantasize about having Reed Richards for a dad and Sue Storm for a mom and...
...
Yeah, no, if our Moms looked like Sue we would all have some terrible issues, wouldn't we?
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