Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Gone to the Dogs
"To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace." -Milan Kundera
I noticed something telling about myself today.
Though I've been stuck in this abominable melancholy for months now, there is one thing and one thing only that consistently, always, without fail, cheers me up to the point of bliss.
Dogs.
We don't own one, but I am fortunate enough to work in an office with a few dogs. No, I don't mean the few co-workers I don't like. I mean real live dogs. I work with blind people, so guide dogs are of course welcome and embraced in my place of employment. It's one of the few positive things about my current gig, and I hold fast to it each and every day. One particular pooch, a fantastic black lab named Claire, is guaranteed to make me smile no matter how poopy my pants are. She is still young and, when not on duty, a playful bundle of pure nirvana. But when that harness is on, Claire is all bidness. (Just a word of blind people etiquette: never, ever approach, beckon, or play with a guide dog at work; if their harness is on, they are at work; and even if it's off, ask the owner before lavishing love on the dog. It's just polite.)
My own dog, Rupert, lives in Iowa with my parents. He's getting on in years, and when I moved to Boston, I made the painful though appropriate decision to leave him with my mom and dad. Not only had he grown incredibly close to them, but the feeling was totally mutual. It made it slightly easier to walk away knowing how much love, privilege, and comfort he was going to have. Though I readily admit that I miss him desperately every single day of my life. What I wouldn't give for the smell of his coat, the honey of his kisses, the sound of his singsong snore. But Rupert is living it up, I know that. He RUNS that house. And that's just as it should be.
My crazy love extends to all dogs, really. I can be walking down the street, my face so pathetic and long it's dragging the pavement, and someone can saunter by with a canine and everything instantaneously changes. Breed of dog is unimportant. Recognition from the dog is equally unimportant. Just seeing a dog is enough.
It's enough.
To remind me that there is still some goodness, love, and devotion in the world. To remind me there is still some untouchable innocence. To remind that some things never need be spoken to be rewarding, meaningful, and inspiring.
In closing, let me share some of my favorite dog-related quotes. The Kundera selection that opens this post is one of the best, but here are a few other great ones....
"There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face." -Ben Williams
"Dogs are miracles with paws." -Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy (SARK)
"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really." -Agnes Sligh Turnbull
"I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death. Being such wonderfully uncomplicated beings, they need us to do their worrying." -George Bird Evans, Troubles with Bird Dogs
"Properly trained, a man can be dog's best friend." -Corey Ford
"If you think dogs can't count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them." -Phil Pastoret
"A dog is not 'almost human' and I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such." -John Holmes
"The more I see of man, the more I like dogs." -Mme. de Staël
"Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole." -Roger Caras
"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's." -Mark Twain, letter to W.D. Howells, 2 April 1899
"No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses." -Herman Melville, Redburn: His First Voyage, 1849
"You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us." -Robert Louis Stevenson
"I wonder what goes through his mind when he sees us peeing in his water bowl." -Penny Ward Moser
"Children are for people who can't have dogs." -Author Unknown
"The more one gets to know of men, the more one values dogs." -Alphonse Toussenel
"Happiness is a warm puppy." -Charles M. Schulz
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
A Lifelong Study of Evasion: Celebrating Daniel Day-Lewis On His 51st Birthday
OK, OK, I can already hear you all sighing exasperatedly: Another goddamn Daniel Day-Lewis post? Haven't you celebrated this guy enough, between the groveling acclaim over his career and the virtual I-wanna-sex-you-up drool caked on the computer screen?
Quite frankly, no.
Today is DD-L's 51st birthday, and that is reason to do a happy dance. Well, I don't dance, but if I did, I would do a combination Irish jig/English Country Dance in honor of my favorite actor/boyfriend's dual citizenship in both Ireland and the UK. It is a day to honor our greatest living actor, and I just happen to be wearing my party dress (as opposed to my birthday suit, which I also sometimes wear to, um, "honor" DD-L). This is a fete exalting all things Day-Lewis. And yes, I will be jumping out of a cake.
He was born in 1957, the son of actress Jill Balcon and British Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis (a poet! I knew he came from good stock!). He went to boarding schools, was a bit of a wild child, and ended up finding his calling when he joined the National Youth Theater. This was only after he was rejected from his first career choice: cabinet-maker.
He honed a career on stage and had a bit part in 1971's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" (a bloody good film, might I add). From the beginning of his film career, he's done a lot of high-profile movies that were artistically relevant and respected, as well as serving as career-boosters and good exposure for an up-and-coming young actor. For example, he had a very small role as a South African street thug in "Gandhi", which I'm sure looked quite impressive on a resume.
His breakthrough came in 1985's "My Beautiful Laundrette", a bizarre though entertaining Stephen Frears film. The movie was also one of the first unapologetically gay love stories. It told of the love between two men, white Londoner Johnny (DD-L) and Indian laundry worker Omar (Gordon Warnecke). It broke barriers not only for its honest depiction of a same-sex love affair, but also for its no-holds-barred portrayal of 1980s culture clash in the heart of London. Also memorable about this film is a scene that I think is probably the single most sexy moment in a motion picture. The two men are in bed, and at one point, Johnny takes a swig of champagne, leans into Omar, and transfers the champagne in his own mouth into Omar's with a deep tongue kiss. YOWZA!
Johnny was a brave role for any actor to take on, but especially one in the genesis of his career. Yet instead of blacklisting him, the role shot DD-L to stardom. He followed "Laundrette" with a celebrated turn in "A Room With A View" and his first lead as the philandering, complex Tomas in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". "Lightness" is one of my all-time favorites, as is the book on which it based. DD-L was perfectly cast here, and his impassioned work opposite the great Juliette Binoche and terrific Lena Olin is an intense, moving character study.
Intense is a word that could describe every aspect of Day-Lewis's work. He is famous for his tireless, thorough, and total immersion into his roles. He often stays in character throughout the entire shooting of a film, whether or not he's in front of the camera. This driven ethic and unquestionable dedication to his craft has made him both legendary and, to some who have worked with him, alienating. He makes no apologies for his approach, and the results are some of the finest performances ever captured on film. It's no wonder he's only taken on four roles in the last ten years; his process is, I'm sure, exhausting. Though he once described his life as "a lifelong study of evasion", his work proves otherwise. There's not an actor out there who can inhabit his work with such PERvasion.
After "Lightness", DD-L did a surprisingly mediocre movie called "Stars and Bars", to my knowledge his only attempt at comedy. Honestly, I can't give an objective critique of his performance in "Stars and Bars" because I was completely enraptured with one scene and one scene only: my Danny totally, utterly naked for an entire take. It's the only thing that stuck with me about "Stars and Bars".
He won his first Oscar for "My Left Foot", playing British artist Christy Brown. It's one of those mesmerizing portrayals that is so flawless in its execution that you almost feel like a voyeur, glimpsing such personal aspects of one man's life. A number of equally-strong performances followed, including "The Last of the Mohicans" (which is PORN to me -- check out that bod!), "The Age of Innocence", and "In the Name of the Father". I've already blogged about DD-L's masterful work in "The Crucible" and "There Will Be Blood" (Oscar #2). In "Gangs of New York", his Bill the Butcher was one of the most terrifying characters to ever hit the big screen.
What makes DD-L so fascinating and appealing for me is not only what he's given the world, but what he hasn't. For instance, he was working as a cobbler in Florence when he was tracked down and offered the role in "Gangs". Yeah, a cobbler. There's definitely a mystery here that is transfixing in its riddle, and there is something undeniably sexy in that.
Day-Lewis has three sons, one with his former partner, the French actress Isabelle Adjani, and two with his wife, actress/director/writer Rebecca Miller (daughter of Arthur). It may surprise you that -- apart from that confounding mess she wore to the Oscars this year -- I just can't say anything bad about Rebecca Miller. I like her; I like her movies; I like that she gets it good from Bill the Butcher every damn night.
Some gals have all the luck.
Quite frankly, no.
Today is DD-L's 51st birthday, and that is reason to do a happy dance. Well, I don't dance, but if I did, I would do a combination Irish jig/English Country Dance in honor of my favorite actor/boyfriend's dual citizenship in both Ireland and the UK. It is a day to honor our greatest living actor, and I just happen to be wearing my party dress (as opposed to my birthday suit, which I also sometimes wear to, um, "honor" DD-L). This is a fete exalting all things Day-Lewis. And yes, I will be jumping out of a cake.
He was born in 1957, the son of actress Jill Balcon and British Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis (a poet! I knew he came from good stock!). He went to boarding schools, was a bit of a wild child, and ended up finding his calling when he joined the National Youth Theater. This was only after he was rejected from his first career choice: cabinet-maker.
He honed a career on stage and had a bit part in 1971's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" (a bloody good film, might I add). From the beginning of his film career, he's done a lot of high-profile movies that were artistically relevant and respected, as well as serving as career-boosters and good exposure for an up-and-coming young actor. For example, he had a very small role as a South African street thug in "Gandhi", which I'm sure looked quite impressive on a resume.
His breakthrough came in 1985's "My Beautiful Laundrette", a bizarre though entertaining Stephen Frears film. The movie was also one of the first unapologetically gay love stories. It told of the love between two men, white Londoner Johnny (DD-L) and Indian laundry worker Omar (Gordon Warnecke). It broke barriers not only for its honest depiction of a same-sex love affair, but also for its no-holds-barred portrayal of 1980s culture clash in the heart of London. Also memorable about this film is a scene that I think is probably the single most sexy moment in a motion picture. The two men are in bed, and at one point, Johnny takes a swig of champagne, leans into Omar, and transfers the champagne in his own mouth into Omar's with a deep tongue kiss. YOWZA!
Johnny was a brave role for any actor to take on, but especially one in the genesis of his career. Yet instead of blacklisting him, the role shot DD-L to stardom. He followed "Laundrette" with a celebrated turn in "A Room With A View" and his first lead as the philandering, complex Tomas in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". "Lightness" is one of my all-time favorites, as is the book on which it based. DD-L was perfectly cast here, and his impassioned work opposite the great Juliette Binoche and terrific Lena Olin is an intense, moving character study.
Intense is a word that could describe every aspect of Day-Lewis's work. He is famous for his tireless, thorough, and total immersion into his roles. He often stays in character throughout the entire shooting of a film, whether or not he's in front of the camera. This driven ethic and unquestionable dedication to his craft has made him both legendary and, to some who have worked with him, alienating. He makes no apologies for his approach, and the results are some of the finest performances ever captured on film. It's no wonder he's only taken on four roles in the last ten years; his process is, I'm sure, exhausting. Though he once described his life as "a lifelong study of evasion", his work proves otherwise. There's not an actor out there who can inhabit his work with such PERvasion.
After "Lightness", DD-L did a surprisingly mediocre movie called "Stars and Bars", to my knowledge his only attempt at comedy. Honestly, I can't give an objective critique of his performance in "Stars and Bars" because I was completely enraptured with one scene and one scene only: my Danny totally, utterly naked for an entire take. It's the only thing that stuck with me about "Stars and Bars".
He won his first Oscar for "My Left Foot", playing British artist Christy Brown. It's one of those mesmerizing portrayals that is so flawless in its execution that you almost feel like a voyeur, glimpsing such personal aspects of one man's life. A number of equally-strong performances followed, including "The Last of the Mohicans" (which is PORN to me -- check out that bod!), "The Age of Innocence", and "In the Name of the Father". I've already blogged about DD-L's masterful work in "The Crucible" and "There Will Be Blood" (Oscar #2). In "Gangs of New York", his Bill the Butcher was one of the most terrifying characters to ever hit the big screen.
What makes DD-L so fascinating and appealing for me is not only what he's given the world, but what he hasn't. For instance, he was working as a cobbler in Florence when he was tracked down and offered the role in "Gangs". Yeah, a cobbler. There's definitely a mystery here that is transfixing in its riddle, and there is something undeniably sexy in that.
Day-Lewis has three sons, one with his former partner, the French actress Isabelle Adjani, and two with his wife, actress/director/writer Rebecca Miller (daughter of Arthur). It may surprise you that -- apart from that confounding mess she wore to the Oscars this year -- I just can't say anything bad about Rebecca Miller. I like her; I like her movies; I like that she gets it good from Bill the Butcher every damn night.
Some gals have all the luck.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wherever You Go
"Wherever you go, there you are."
I've been trying to uncover who originally coined this phrase, but there seems to be a lot of controversy over its origins. I remember it as the title of Buddhist teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn's famous book, but different online references claim it was first uttered by sources as diverse as "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", a 70s Mexican guidebook, an obscure Christian theologian from 1044 A.D., and Buckaroo Banzai. Where it comes from may not seem as important as what it is saying -- which I think just might be one of the greatest single insights into the human experience. Yet I think it IS important to know who said it, as its originator knew a hell of a lot about human nature and how we are designed.
Well, it's clear I don't have a concise answer to my query, and I may never, so let me drop that topic and simply explore the statement itself.
During my years spent in the cult-like grip of 12-step groups, this statement is thrown around a lot, usually in reply to someone in the group wanting to "pull a geographic". Let me explain. There is, as you know, a whole separate 12-step language, mostly platitudes and bumper sticker slogans, like "Let go, let God", "One day at a time", and "Keep comin' back, it works if you work it!". To "pull a geographic", though, is one of the few AA adages that actually makes some amount of logical sense. Allow me to illustrate it in the following scenario:
FADE IN.
A smoke-filled church basement clogged with the scents of tobacco and really, really bad coffee. Depressed people are sitting around on metal folding chairs and sharing their stories and feelings. They like to talk about themselves, and they like to give unwanted advice.
Drunk #1: "I'm thinking of moving to Cleveland."
(There is a hushed murmur in the room as the group cluck their tongues in disapproval and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.)
Drunk #2: "Are you sure that's a good idea? Don't pull a geographic!"
Drunk #1: "What do you mean?"
Drunk #3: "What are you running from?"
Drunk #1: "Excuse me?"
Drunk #2: "Just remember, regardless of where you end up: Wherever you go, there you are."
FADE OUT.
The message, used in such a context, is clear. You can try to run from your feelings by moving away, and sure, things might seem OK for a little while, but eventually, those feelings will manifest themselves in new ways. Thus, you are back where you started. We can run, but we can't hide.
And this makes sense to me. It's truth. We carry our baggage with us even when we are under the impression that we've left it unclaimed on the baggage carousel. Those damn Samsonites have a way of always, always finding us.
But my dilemma is this: what happens if you've already dredged up all the pain and difficulties and challenges of your past and dealt with them -- but they still insist on following you? I've been in therapy for damn near 20 years, and I've called forth every single ache, pain, and audible fart of my life. With the help of highly-skilled professionals, I've stared head-on into the eyes of each one of these little beasts, examined them, and put them to rest.
Yet why do they come back? How can such tiny destructive bastards be so clever and shapeshift themselves into new, unrecognizable forms? Whenever I think I've found freedom, I realize I've just found the same...old...shit.
Lately, I've wanted to disappear. I've fantasized about it during the day. I've dreamed about it at night. Just a quick, painless exodus from the jumble of thorns that is my life. I'm not talking suicide, I am talking literal disappearance. Just up and going and waking up in a new place, in the mountains, in the sun, in a wash of wildflowers, with John at my side. And no more ties -- no more sticky, messy ties to all that's left behind. Is this a feasible goal rooted in reality? Or is this a utopia cooked up by every man and woman since the dawn of time?
I readily admit that I just don't get it. I don't get what it's all about. And when I say "it", I mean people, human nature. Life I get, at least a little bit. I think life is about loss, about suffering, and living from one loss or suffering to the next with a certain amount of grace and good humor. I don't believe this view is unhealthy; in fact, quite the opposite. When you accept the suffering that inevitably comes and goes throughout our days, you learn that those moments are transitory. They will pass. And in the same vein, you learn that those moments between suffering are equally powerful...and equally fleeting. All those opportunities to laugh till you lose control of your bowels; all those chances to walk with your head held high while not stepping in dog poop; all those moments of unadulterated happiness and fulfillment that twist your knickers in delight: they won't last, either. Appreciate them. This brings a great acceptance of the impermanence of existence.
So why is it, then, that the only goddamn thing that seems permanent are our demons? Why do they always come back? Even after being effectively dealt with, why must they find us so attractive? In the scheme o' life that I've just painted, those demons should have long outlived their lifespans. They should be blobs of goop between the bricks of our history. They should not keep coming back like Freddy Krueger or that dude with the hockey mask.
Though I yearn to wake up tomorrow with the new sun in the small of my back and the whole world filled with the scent of lilac, I just can't grasp it as anything more than wishful thinking. These wraiths I'm always convinced I've ditched would still be there, ready to crest the mountain at any moment.
So what's the use then?
If wherever I go, I'm just going to keep finding myself in the same old shit....
What's the use?
I've been trying to uncover who originally coined this phrase, but there seems to be a lot of controversy over its origins. I remember it as the title of Buddhist teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn's famous book, but different online references claim it was first uttered by sources as diverse as "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", a 70s Mexican guidebook, an obscure Christian theologian from 1044 A.D., and Buckaroo Banzai. Where it comes from may not seem as important as what it is saying -- which I think just might be one of the greatest single insights into the human experience. Yet I think it IS important to know who said it, as its originator knew a hell of a lot about human nature and how we are designed.
Well, it's clear I don't have a concise answer to my query, and I may never, so let me drop that topic and simply explore the statement itself.
During my years spent in the cult-like grip of 12-step groups, this statement is thrown around a lot, usually in reply to someone in the group wanting to "pull a geographic". Let me explain. There is, as you know, a whole separate 12-step language, mostly platitudes and bumper sticker slogans, like "Let go, let God", "One day at a time", and "Keep comin' back, it works if you work it!". To "pull a geographic", though, is one of the few AA adages that actually makes some amount of logical sense. Allow me to illustrate it in the following scenario:
FADE IN.
A smoke-filled church basement clogged with the scents of tobacco and really, really bad coffee. Depressed people are sitting around on metal folding chairs and sharing their stories and feelings. They like to talk about themselves, and they like to give unwanted advice.
Drunk #1: "I'm thinking of moving to Cleveland."
(There is a hushed murmur in the room as the group cluck their tongues in disapproval and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.)
Drunk #2: "Are you sure that's a good idea? Don't pull a geographic!"
Drunk #1: "What do you mean?"
Drunk #3: "What are you running from?"
Drunk #1: "Excuse me?"
Drunk #2: "Just remember, regardless of where you end up: Wherever you go, there you are."
FADE OUT.
The message, used in such a context, is clear. You can try to run from your feelings by moving away, and sure, things might seem OK for a little while, but eventually, those feelings will manifest themselves in new ways. Thus, you are back where you started. We can run, but we can't hide.
And this makes sense to me. It's truth. We carry our baggage with us even when we are under the impression that we've left it unclaimed on the baggage carousel. Those damn Samsonites have a way of always, always finding us.
But my dilemma is this: what happens if you've already dredged up all the pain and difficulties and challenges of your past and dealt with them -- but they still insist on following you? I've been in therapy for damn near 20 years, and I've called forth every single ache, pain, and audible fart of my life. With the help of highly-skilled professionals, I've stared head-on into the eyes of each one of these little beasts, examined them, and put them to rest.
Yet why do they come back? How can such tiny destructive bastards be so clever and shapeshift themselves into new, unrecognizable forms? Whenever I think I've found freedom, I realize I've just found the same...old...shit.
Lately, I've wanted to disappear. I've fantasized about it during the day. I've dreamed about it at night. Just a quick, painless exodus from the jumble of thorns that is my life. I'm not talking suicide, I am talking literal disappearance. Just up and going and waking up in a new place, in the mountains, in the sun, in a wash of wildflowers, with John at my side. And no more ties -- no more sticky, messy ties to all that's left behind. Is this a feasible goal rooted in reality? Or is this a utopia cooked up by every man and woman since the dawn of time?
I readily admit that I just don't get it. I don't get what it's all about. And when I say "it", I mean people, human nature. Life I get, at least a little bit. I think life is about loss, about suffering, and living from one loss or suffering to the next with a certain amount of grace and good humor. I don't believe this view is unhealthy; in fact, quite the opposite. When you accept the suffering that inevitably comes and goes throughout our days, you learn that those moments are transitory. They will pass. And in the same vein, you learn that those moments between suffering are equally powerful...and equally fleeting. All those opportunities to laugh till you lose control of your bowels; all those chances to walk with your head held high while not stepping in dog poop; all those moments of unadulterated happiness and fulfillment that twist your knickers in delight: they won't last, either. Appreciate them. This brings a great acceptance of the impermanence of existence.
So why is it, then, that the only goddamn thing that seems permanent are our demons? Why do they always come back? Even after being effectively dealt with, why must they find us so attractive? In the scheme o' life that I've just painted, those demons should have long outlived their lifespans. They should be blobs of goop between the bricks of our history. They should not keep coming back like Freddy Krueger or that dude with the hockey mask.
Though I yearn to wake up tomorrow with the new sun in the small of my back and the whole world filled with the scent of lilac, I just can't grasp it as anything more than wishful thinking. These wraiths I'm always convinced I've ditched would still be there, ready to crest the mountain at any moment.
So what's the use then?
If wherever I go, I'm just going to keep finding myself in the same old shit....
What's the use?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Disappearing Acts: Examining "Away From Her"
"I think I may be beginning to disappear." -Fiona (Julie Christie) in "Away From Her"
But, alas, she never does. In fact, she never even really begins to. And this was my biggest issue with director/adapter Sarah Polley's 2006 film "Away From Her".
Yup, another movie review. Two days in a row now. I've always secretly found Gene Shalit to be an irresistible hunk of man-meat, so this all makes perfect sense to me.
"Away From Her", based on the great Alice Munro's story "The Bear Came Over the Mountain", is the portrait of aging married couple Grant (Gordon Pinset) and Fiona (Julie Christie), focusing on the disintegration of their hearts, minds, and relationship after Fiona is (supposedly) diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. She spends most of the film in a nursing home, where she befriends a male resident -- and fellow Alzheimer's patient -- named Aubrey. An undeniable, suspicious friendship develops between the two, and Grant is alienated by Fiona's coldness during his visits and her preference for being with Aubrey. Meanwhile, Grant strikes up an unexpected friendship with Aubrey's wife, Marian (the always terrific Olympia Dukakis). The dynamics of all of these relationships, especially that of Grant and Fiona, are made all the more complicated by the guilt Grant is carrying around about a not-so-secret 20-year-old infidelity.
Now. This is heavy stuff, right? But I gotta give some props to 28-year-old Sarah Polley, who is an accomplished actress in her own right (not only was she amazing in "The Sweet Hereafter", but she was Ramona Quimby in the Ramona TV series of the 80s -- and we all know how I loves me some Ramona!). Polley's love for the story and her actors is evident in every scene, and I unabashedly praise her artistic sensitivity and bravery in taking on such difficult subject matter for her directing/writing debut.
But the film is not without its problems. Actually, there's really just one big one that manages to reverberate throughout the whole affair (no pun intended).
Now let me just say that I adore Julie Christie. She is a stellar actress. To this day, I remain haunted by her final scene in "Afterglow" (which was a stinker of a movie elevated to art solely by Christie's radiant performance). And it bears mentioning that 67-year-old Christie is one of the sexiest women -- if not THE sexiest woman -- on the face of the earth. Even playing an Alzheimer's patient, she's insanely hot.
Yet, at the same time, that's kinda the problem. Though Christie was regaled for her performance in "Away From Her" (gaining nominations for pretty much every single major acting award), nothing about her work here made me believe, really believe, that she was suffering from Alzheimer's. Don't get me wrong: she was by no means bad. She was just...inaccurate.
It is appropriate at this point for me to relay a deeply personal, and still painful, story from my own life. Both my grandmother and her sister, my great-aunt whom I was incredibly close to, had Alzheimer's. I watched these two very special people slowly, agonizingly, wither away from this disease. I know what Alzheimer's looks like. And it does not look like Julie Christie's Fiona.
It can be argued that Fiona was only in the early stages of the illness, so the major dementia and losses inherent in Alzheimer's had not yet fully set in. I understand the point in this argument, but I find it fallible. Even in the early stages, there are major signs (and I mean major, messed-up, upsetting signs) that make themselves known. Sure, Fiona did a couple of wacky things, like put a frying pan in the freezer and wander too far from home. But there should have been more telltale acts of the impending disease: huge events of utter confusion and dementia that she bounced back from, with no memory of said acts once back in her normal state of mind. In the natural progression of Alzheimer's, Fiona's life would slowly involve this "bouncing-back" less and less until, at the end, everything was swallowed by dementia.
But this isn't how Christie plays it. Her Fiona is surprisingly in-control and rather glamorous (hence the "skinny jeans" she wears throughout): just too put together for someone believably suffering from Alzheimer's at any stage. I'm not sure if Christie is a method actor, or what her technique or preparation for her work involves, but I felt that her performance just wasn't accurate in its depiction. At one point, Grant wonders if Fiona is faking it all as some kind of revenge for an affair he had 20 years ago. I must admit, given the errors in Fiona's characterization, it's a theory that has some weight behind it.
All this is OK, though. And it's OK because -- despite the accolades heaped upon Christie -- the real star and driving force of "Away From Her" is Gordon Pinset. The movie is really Grant's story, not Fiona's, and Pinset's work here is understated and elegant. Grant desperately wants his wife well again and, in one final, noble (though, in real life, highly unlikely) act of selflessness, he manages to both atone for the sins of his past and give Fiona what she needs to feel, if not better, than at least loved. And Pinset does it all with class.
I can forgive Julie Christie's fine yet flawed performance. If I can forgive her for being a part of that horseshit movie "Troy", I can certainly forgive her for making some mistakes in "Away From Her". She still reigns as one of our greatest actresses, and she is truly a living legend. Though I question the choices she made as Fiona, I applaud her decision to tackle such an "unattractive" role.
For a better representation of what Christie can do, rent "Afterglow". Her character in that film is, I think, infinitely more difficult than Fiona, and she plays it with devastating intensity and skill. Perhaps that was the problem with "Away From Her": Fiona was just too easy, and Christie needs a meatier role to inhabit.
But, alas, she never does. In fact, she never even really begins to. And this was my biggest issue with director/adapter Sarah Polley's 2006 film "Away From Her".
Yup, another movie review. Two days in a row now. I've always secretly found Gene Shalit to be an irresistible hunk of man-meat, so this all makes perfect sense to me.
"Away From Her", based on the great Alice Munro's story "The Bear Came Over the Mountain", is the portrait of aging married couple Grant (Gordon Pinset) and Fiona (Julie Christie), focusing on the disintegration of their hearts, minds, and relationship after Fiona is (supposedly) diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. She spends most of the film in a nursing home, where she befriends a male resident -- and fellow Alzheimer's patient -- named Aubrey. An undeniable, suspicious friendship develops between the two, and Grant is alienated by Fiona's coldness during his visits and her preference for being with Aubrey. Meanwhile, Grant strikes up an unexpected friendship with Aubrey's wife, Marian (the always terrific Olympia Dukakis). The dynamics of all of these relationships, especially that of Grant and Fiona, are made all the more complicated by the guilt Grant is carrying around about a not-so-secret 20-year-old infidelity.
Now. This is heavy stuff, right? But I gotta give some props to 28-year-old Sarah Polley, who is an accomplished actress in her own right (not only was she amazing in "The Sweet Hereafter", but she was Ramona Quimby in the Ramona TV series of the 80s -- and we all know how I loves me some Ramona!). Polley's love for the story and her actors is evident in every scene, and I unabashedly praise her artistic sensitivity and bravery in taking on such difficult subject matter for her directing/writing debut.
But the film is not without its problems. Actually, there's really just one big one that manages to reverberate throughout the whole affair (no pun intended).
Now let me just say that I adore Julie Christie. She is a stellar actress. To this day, I remain haunted by her final scene in "Afterglow" (which was a stinker of a movie elevated to art solely by Christie's radiant performance). And it bears mentioning that 67-year-old Christie is one of the sexiest women -- if not THE sexiest woman -- on the face of the earth. Even playing an Alzheimer's patient, she's insanely hot.
Yet, at the same time, that's kinda the problem. Though Christie was regaled for her performance in "Away From Her" (gaining nominations for pretty much every single major acting award), nothing about her work here made me believe, really believe, that she was suffering from Alzheimer's. Don't get me wrong: she was by no means bad. She was just...inaccurate.
It is appropriate at this point for me to relay a deeply personal, and still painful, story from my own life. Both my grandmother and her sister, my great-aunt whom I was incredibly close to, had Alzheimer's. I watched these two very special people slowly, agonizingly, wither away from this disease. I know what Alzheimer's looks like. And it does not look like Julie Christie's Fiona.
It can be argued that Fiona was only in the early stages of the illness, so the major dementia and losses inherent in Alzheimer's had not yet fully set in. I understand the point in this argument, but I find it fallible. Even in the early stages, there are major signs (and I mean major, messed-up, upsetting signs) that make themselves known. Sure, Fiona did a couple of wacky things, like put a frying pan in the freezer and wander too far from home. But there should have been more telltale acts of the impending disease: huge events of utter confusion and dementia that she bounced back from, with no memory of said acts once back in her normal state of mind. In the natural progression of Alzheimer's, Fiona's life would slowly involve this "bouncing-back" less and less until, at the end, everything was swallowed by dementia.
But this isn't how Christie plays it. Her Fiona is surprisingly in-control and rather glamorous (hence the "skinny jeans" she wears throughout): just too put together for someone believably suffering from Alzheimer's at any stage. I'm not sure if Christie is a method actor, or what her technique or preparation for her work involves, but I felt that her performance just wasn't accurate in its depiction. At one point, Grant wonders if Fiona is faking it all as some kind of revenge for an affair he had 20 years ago. I must admit, given the errors in Fiona's characterization, it's a theory that has some weight behind it.
All this is OK, though. And it's OK because -- despite the accolades heaped upon Christie -- the real star and driving force of "Away From Her" is Gordon Pinset. The movie is really Grant's story, not Fiona's, and Pinset's work here is understated and elegant. Grant desperately wants his wife well again and, in one final, noble (though, in real life, highly unlikely) act of selflessness, he manages to both atone for the sins of his past and give Fiona what she needs to feel, if not better, than at least loved. And Pinset does it all with class.
I can forgive Julie Christie's fine yet flawed performance. If I can forgive her for being a part of that horseshit movie "Troy", I can certainly forgive her for making some mistakes in "Away From Her". She still reigns as one of our greatest actresses, and she is truly a living legend. Though I question the choices she made as Fiona, I applaud her decision to tackle such an "unattractive" role.
For a better representation of what Christie can do, rent "Afterglow". Her character in that film is, I think, infinitely more difficult than Fiona, and she plays it with devastating intensity and skill. Perhaps that was the problem with "Away From Her": Fiona was just too easy, and Christie needs a meatier role to inhabit.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
There Will Be Magic
Paul Thomas Anderson is one of the most original and innovative storytellers in the history of filmmaking. "Boogie Nights", "Magnolia", and "Punch-Drunk Love" rank among my favorite movies, and with good reason. Anderson's voice is distinctive and fresh in the current sea of inane, bland cinema: his unique style as a director and courageous vision as a writer make him one of the few masters of modern film.
It should come as no surprise, then, that his latest effort, 2007's "There Will Be Blood", is a masterpiece of contemporary American storytelling. Based on Upton Sinclair's 1927 novel "Oil!", it is the story of Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis), a self-made entrepreneur on a quest for fortune as an oilman, and the people he encounters in his narrow, merciless path -- notably his son (DIllon Freasier), his one pride and joy, and a young minister (Paul Dano) who entices him to the deal of a lifetime. It is an old story told with great innovation and dedication, helmed by Anderson and a creative team of artists that are pretty much damn-near perfect.
Firstly, the Oscar-winning cinematography by Robert Elswit. This man's beautiful work is soaked with a divine sensitivity to the nuances of the script. One moment he can present us with these massive, expansive shots of arid golden desert, or sumptuous emerald sea, or frightening, breathtaking fire enveloping an oil rig. And the next moment, he can fix his camera on Day-Lewis's face, bringing to light all the buried malice concealed in his brow, or the lines of greed forming around his mouth. Erica Jong once wrote, "I am a vessel for a voice that echoes." In the case of "There Will Be Blood", Elswit's photography is the vessel through which the voice of the entire film resonates. His work here is pure poetry.
Secondly, the music, by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood. At times spare and starkly simple, at other times lush and grand, and peppered with Brahms and Estonian composer Arvo Part, Greenwood's musical fantasia is breathtaking. He clearly shares Anderson's unique vision and not only serves that vision well, but elevates it to another level totally. I can't recall ever being so moved by the music in a film. Greenwood has his fingers on the pulse of the movie's core and has constructed accompaniment to present it in the most highly original and poignant of ways.
Then, of course, there are the performances.
Day-Lewis, in his second Oscar-winning role, continues to cement his title as our greatest living actor. I love watching this man work. He could read the Dunkin' Donuts menu and make it riveting. His Daniel Plainview is a carefully constructed and impeccably executed force of nature. Day-Lewis has an uncanny sense of timing, and he knows the perfect places to slowly, often eerily, pull back the layers of the character. Our perception of Plainview in the opening of the film is a complete 360 from our perception of him in the end of the film, and the masterful revealing of his transformation and true nature is both natural and disturbing. With his gruff, basso timbre, or a slight squint of one eye, or trembling tapered fingers drunkenly raising a cigarette to his lips, Day-Lewis finds the perfect balance to winningly portray Plainview's monstrosity...as well as his humanity.
Paul Dano (so good in the unsettling "L.I.E." and the entertaining "Little Miss Sunshine") is a revelation. The soft hilly planes of his cherubic face and the slightly effeminate lilt to his voice lend themselves flawlessly to his interpretation of the fanatical young minister Eli Sunday. The unassuming Dano is a surprisingly dynamic presence on the screen, and he fills his Eli with just the right doses of religious extremism, moral piety, and plain old-fashioned rage. There is a scene in the movie where Eli "heals" a member of his congregation of her crippling arthritis. Watching Eli's monologue, I was simultaneously mystified, inspired, and absolutely scared witless. Dano's characterization is just as thoughtful and timing-sensitive as Day-Lewis's. I never thought it possible that another actor, of any age or caliber, could steal a scene from Daniel Day-Lewis, but Dano manages to do it more than once in "There Will Be Blood". This is especially commendable when noting that Dano was originally cast in a much smaller role in the film. Anderson decided to recast the original choice for Eli and chose Dano instead. This means that the young actor had four days to prepare his role. Day-Lewis, by comparison, had a year. That is no small accomplishment.
The supporting cast is equally good, but worth a special mention is Dillion Freasier as Plainview's son, H.W. This kid is not an actor, which made him an excellent choice for this pivotal role. Freasier uses his innate innocence and vulnerability to give a hardened movie a very human backbone. H.W. comes to represent all that Plainview has lost. Namely, his goodness.
"There Will Be Blood" has some truly awe-inspiring scenes, most of them between Day-Lewis and Dano. There is such a heightening power struggle between the characters -- a struggle that keeps changing hands between the two -- throughout the film that by the last half hour or so, the invisible power is a tangible thing hanging in the air over the characters. It almost becomes a third character that reaches out through the screen and slaps you hard across the face. The Daniel-Eli "Milkshake Scene" has already become a classic. And rightfully so. The last part of the film, the movie's coda, turns a brutal story into something much more difficult and terrifying (and surprising): a darkly comic finale.
But it works. It all works. So well, and on so many levels. On a very basic plane, it's just damn good storytelling at its finest. On a symbolic level (uh-oh, I can feel Metaphor Hag entering the room), "There Will Be Blood" can be representative of so many current (and most of them timeless) themes. Capitalism versus religion -- and the often uneasy marriage between the two. Corporate greed and colonialism. Faith and disbelief. Fathers and sons. War for oil in the name of "liberation". Any of these things sound familiar?
Paul Thomas Anderson and his gang have created an instant classic.
Now -- Daniel Day-Lewis, can I drink your milkshake?
It should come as no surprise, then, that his latest effort, 2007's "There Will Be Blood", is a masterpiece of contemporary American storytelling. Based on Upton Sinclair's 1927 novel "Oil!", it is the story of Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis), a self-made entrepreneur on a quest for fortune as an oilman, and the people he encounters in his narrow, merciless path -- notably his son (DIllon Freasier), his one pride and joy, and a young minister (Paul Dano) who entices him to the deal of a lifetime. It is an old story told with great innovation and dedication, helmed by Anderson and a creative team of artists that are pretty much damn-near perfect.
Firstly, the Oscar-winning cinematography by Robert Elswit. This man's beautiful work is soaked with a divine sensitivity to the nuances of the script. One moment he can present us with these massive, expansive shots of arid golden desert, or sumptuous emerald sea, or frightening, breathtaking fire enveloping an oil rig. And the next moment, he can fix his camera on Day-Lewis's face, bringing to light all the buried malice concealed in his brow, or the lines of greed forming around his mouth. Erica Jong once wrote, "I am a vessel for a voice that echoes." In the case of "There Will Be Blood", Elswit's photography is the vessel through which the voice of the entire film resonates. His work here is pure poetry.
Secondly, the music, by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood. At times spare and starkly simple, at other times lush and grand, and peppered with Brahms and Estonian composer Arvo Part, Greenwood's musical fantasia is breathtaking. He clearly shares Anderson's unique vision and not only serves that vision well, but elevates it to another level totally. I can't recall ever being so moved by the music in a film. Greenwood has his fingers on the pulse of the movie's core and has constructed accompaniment to present it in the most highly original and poignant of ways.
Then, of course, there are the performances.
Day-Lewis, in his second Oscar-winning role, continues to cement his title as our greatest living actor. I love watching this man work. He could read the Dunkin' Donuts menu and make it riveting. His Daniel Plainview is a carefully constructed and impeccably executed force of nature. Day-Lewis has an uncanny sense of timing, and he knows the perfect places to slowly, often eerily, pull back the layers of the character. Our perception of Plainview in the opening of the film is a complete 360 from our perception of him in the end of the film, and the masterful revealing of his transformation and true nature is both natural and disturbing. With his gruff, basso timbre, or a slight squint of one eye, or trembling tapered fingers drunkenly raising a cigarette to his lips, Day-Lewis finds the perfect balance to winningly portray Plainview's monstrosity...as well as his humanity.
Paul Dano (so good in the unsettling "L.I.E." and the entertaining "Little Miss Sunshine") is a revelation. The soft hilly planes of his cherubic face and the slightly effeminate lilt to his voice lend themselves flawlessly to his interpretation of the fanatical young minister Eli Sunday. The unassuming Dano is a surprisingly dynamic presence on the screen, and he fills his Eli with just the right doses of religious extremism, moral piety, and plain old-fashioned rage. There is a scene in the movie where Eli "heals" a member of his congregation of her crippling arthritis. Watching Eli's monologue, I was simultaneously mystified, inspired, and absolutely scared witless. Dano's characterization is just as thoughtful and timing-sensitive as Day-Lewis's. I never thought it possible that another actor, of any age or caliber, could steal a scene from Daniel Day-Lewis, but Dano manages to do it more than once in "There Will Be Blood". This is especially commendable when noting that Dano was originally cast in a much smaller role in the film. Anderson decided to recast the original choice for Eli and chose Dano instead. This means that the young actor had four days to prepare his role. Day-Lewis, by comparison, had a year. That is no small accomplishment.
The supporting cast is equally good, but worth a special mention is Dillion Freasier as Plainview's son, H.W. This kid is not an actor, which made him an excellent choice for this pivotal role. Freasier uses his innate innocence and vulnerability to give a hardened movie a very human backbone. H.W. comes to represent all that Plainview has lost. Namely, his goodness.
"There Will Be Blood" has some truly awe-inspiring scenes, most of them between Day-Lewis and Dano. There is such a heightening power struggle between the characters -- a struggle that keeps changing hands between the two -- throughout the film that by the last half hour or so, the invisible power is a tangible thing hanging in the air over the characters. It almost becomes a third character that reaches out through the screen and slaps you hard across the face. The Daniel-Eli "Milkshake Scene" has already become a classic. And rightfully so. The last part of the film, the movie's coda, turns a brutal story into something much more difficult and terrifying (and surprising): a darkly comic finale.
But it works. It all works. So well, and on so many levels. On a very basic plane, it's just damn good storytelling at its finest. On a symbolic level (uh-oh, I can feel Metaphor Hag entering the room), "There Will Be Blood" can be representative of so many current (and most of them timeless) themes. Capitalism versus religion -- and the often uneasy marriage between the two. Corporate greed and colonialism. Faith and disbelief. Fathers and sons. War for oil in the name of "liberation". Any of these things sound familiar?
Paul Thomas Anderson and his gang have created an instant classic.
Now -- Daniel Day-Lewis, can I drink your milkshake?
Friday, April 25, 2008
Why Bother?
People in my life -- my husband, friends, therapist, co-workers -- see the state I get myself into at times and always ask the same question: "Why do you care?". And I honestly have no good answer to that, considering that the great majority of the things I get worked up over aren't worth giving half a doodie about. Getting riled up over important matters, like self-preservation, happiness, politics, animals, relationships, are not the issue here. The issue here is why I make myself upset over stupid, mundane things. You know, things like bad movies, or why the grocery store stopped carrying vegan cream cheese, or who the hell out there could possibly be concerned with the celebutard-of-the-moment's latest shenanigans. Crapola like this is not important, and logically, I know that.
So why bother?
Well, I bother because I hold every one one us, myself included (and probably even more so), to a very high standard. I naturally, albeit mistakenly, expect a lot out of people. When they fail me, I take it hard.
But I've realized that lately I've been just not caring so much. Not about big things: that kind of stuff I still care about greatly. It's the smaller matters that I am allowing to filter through my brain unchecked. It feels good, but it's also made some little pleasures rather boring for me. For example, there are a couple of celebrity gossip blogs I enjoy reading for sheer entertainment value. Lately, though, I've been less-than-interested in what some of these celebrities and politicians have been up to.
In the spirit of commemorating these I-Don't-Give-A-Damn milestones, here are a few things worth noting that I just don't care about.
-Are Beyonce and Jay-z married? Though all signs point to "yes", neither has released an "official" statement. All those involved with the did-it-or-didn't-it event have kept mum and given purposefully misleading answers when asked directly. Well I don't care whether or not these two singers are married. I honestly don't. First of all, Beyonce is highly-overrated and I derive no pleasure from her music. Secondly, who is Jay-Z and why should I care? Thirdly, people get married every day. It's not tough to do. It doesn't make you a hero or even remotely newsworthy. Sheesh, get over yourselves. Use your publicity and fame and insane amount of money to help the world. Stop wearing flashy wedding rings one day and removing them the next. It simply isn't worth caring about. I wasn't getting you a wedding gift anyway. I only give congratulatory toaster ovens and Ronco food dehydrators to people I (a) know, and people I (b) like.
-Mariah Carey. Apparently, she has a new album coming out, presumably filled with more painful pop music that is probably tougher on the ears than a goddamn dog whistle. In honor of said album, the Empire State Building is going to be lit in "Mariah's colors" of white, pink, and lavender. This is getting a lot of press. Yeah, I think it's pretty stupid that an historic American landmark is being used as a billboard, but, really, is this worth wasting a moment of thought over? And note to Mariah: white, pink, and lavender belong to everyone. They are no more your colors than the red gushing out of my ear canals after listening to your music.
-George W. Bush appearing on "American Idol" and "Deal or No Deal". He's a moron. Anyone with half a brain cell knows this. His appearances on these two awful TV shows just further solidifies his palatial suite in the Pantheon of Big Ol' Dumbasses. Put GWB on trial on Court TV for crimes against humanity. That I would watch. Or better yet: resurrect "Match Game" and pit him against Charles Nelson Reilly. Now that I would really watch.
-Heidi Montag endorses John McCain for president. This chick needs to go away. No one cares to which candidate the talentless wannabes of the world will cast their votes. This, of course, begs the question: who IS Heidi Montag? Are her political views worth caring about? Will she sway undecided voters with her announcement? I highly doubt it. People are too busy googling her name to find out who the hell she even is. The only political endorsement from a celebrity that we should be anticipating with bated breath is Elvira's. Hers is the only one that matters.
-Clay Aiken's sexual orientation. A lot of people have really tightly-clenched butt cheeks over this one. Is he gay, straight, bi, confused? Personally, I couldn't care less. I don't want to imagine Clay Aiken naked with anybody.
-Nicole Kidman and Botox. It seems that many are speculating whether or not Kidman uses Botox. Me? I don't care. If she is, she's doing it right because the woman is gorgeous. Besides, no amount of neurotoxin protein can take away from the fact that Kidman is a damn good actress. And should those Botox rumors be true, and the injections go terribly wrong, Kidman will rock in the live-action version of the life and times of Madame.
-Are Jake Gyllenhaal and Reese Witherspoon an item? Let me clear this one up right here and now, once and for all. The answer is NO. Jake is saving himself for me. End of subject.
-Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes, Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie, David & Victoria Beckham. It astounds me that anyone cares at all what these "supercouples" are up to. Just because they're richer than hell doesn't make them interesting. If they donated some of their earnings to me, I might find them more compelling. I should really get on that. I'm just unfortunate enough that Brad and Angie might adopt me.
-Leona Helmsley left her dog $12 million. I refuse to waste my time worrying about that lucky little bitch. I only care that dogs and cats are able to lick their own hoo-hahs. That is something to envy.
-Dick Cheney might have seen -- gasp! -- a naked lady! This was all over the news a couple of weeks ago: a photo of Cheney with sunglasses on, and in the reflection of the sunglasses what appears to be a naked woman. This is the least newsworthy of any of the aforementioned items. We all know Cheney has a weak heart (if he has a heart at all, which is debatable). Seeing a shapely nude young female would make him drop dead. Since the old buzzard is still kicking, it clearly didn't happen. It's nothing to be concerned about.
Upon rereading these, I now realize that I've done something foolish. I've given "air time" to things I genuinely don't care about. None of these topics are noteworthy enough for any of us to care about.
UGH! Why am I still writing and ruminating over this? I could be doing something much more important, like plucking my eyebrows or sanding my feet.
So why bother?
Well, I bother because I hold every one one us, myself included (and probably even more so), to a very high standard. I naturally, albeit mistakenly, expect a lot out of people. When they fail me, I take it hard.
But I've realized that lately I've been just not caring so much. Not about big things: that kind of stuff I still care about greatly. It's the smaller matters that I am allowing to filter through my brain unchecked. It feels good, but it's also made some little pleasures rather boring for me. For example, there are a couple of celebrity gossip blogs I enjoy reading for sheer entertainment value. Lately, though, I've been less-than-interested in what some of these celebrities and politicians have been up to.
In the spirit of commemorating these I-Don't-Give-A-Damn milestones, here are a few things worth noting that I just don't care about.
-Are Beyonce and Jay-z married? Though all signs point to "yes", neither has released an "official" statement. All those involved with the did-it-or-didn't-it event have kept mum and given purposefully misleading answers when asked directly. Well I don't care whether or not these two singers are married. I honestly don't. First of all, Beyonce is highly-overrated and I derive no pleasure from her music. Secondly, who is Jay-Z and why should I care? Thirdly, people get married every day. It's not tough to do. It doesn't make you a hero or even remotely newsworthy. Sheesh, get over yourselves. Use your publicity and fame and insane amount of money to help the world. Stop wearing flashy wedding rings one day and removing them the next. It simply isn't worth caring about. I wasn't getting you a wedding gift anyway. I only give congratulatory toaster ovens and Ronco food dehydrators to people I (a) know, and people I (b) like.
-Mariah Carey. Apparently, she has a new album coming out, presumably filled with more painful pop music that is probably tougher on the ears than a goddamn dog whistle. In honor of said album, the Empire State Building is going to be lit in "Mariah's colors" of white, pink, and lavender. This is getting a lot of press. Yeah, I think it's pretty stupid that an historic American landmark is being used as a billboard, but, really, is this worth wasting a moment of thought over? And note to Mariah: white, pink, and lavender belong to everyone. They are no more your colors than the red gushing out of my ear canals after listening to your music.
-George W. Bush appearing on "American Idol" and "Deal or No Deal". He's a moron. Anyone with half a brain cell knows this. His appearances on these two awful TV shows just further solidifies his palatial suite in the Pantheon of Big Ol' Dumbasses. Put GWB on trial on Court TV for crimes against humanity. That I would watch. Or better yet: resurrect "Match Game" and pit him against Charles Nelson Reilly. Now that I would really watch.
-Heidi Montag endorses John McCain for president. This chick needs to go away. No one cares to which candidate the talentless wannabes of the world will cast their votes. This, of course, begs the question: who IS Heidi Montag? Are her political views worth caring about? Will she sway undecided voters with her announcement? I highly doubt it. People are too busy googling her name to find out who the hell she even is. The only political endorsement from a celebrity that we should be anticipating with bated breath is Elvira's. Hers is the only one that matters.
-Clay Aiken's sexual orientation. A lot of people have really tightly-clenched butt cheeks over this one. Is he gay, straight, bi, confused? Personally, I couldn't care less. I don't want to imagine Clay Aiken naked with anybody.
-Nicole Kidman and Botox. It seems that many are speculating whether or not Kidman uses Botox. Me? I don't care. If she is, she's doing it right because the woman is gorgeous. Besides, no amount of neurotoxin protein can take away from the fact that Kidman is a damn good actress. And should those Botox rumors be true, and the injections go terribly wrong, Kidman will rock in the live-action version of the life and times of Madame.
-Are Jake Gyllenhaal and Reese Witherspoon an item? Let me clear this one up right here and now, once and for all. The answer is NO. Jake is saving himself for me. End of subject.
-Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes, Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie, David & Victoria Beckham. It astounds me that anyone cares at all what these "supercouples" are up to. Just because they're richer than hell doesn't make them interesting. If they donated some of their earnings to me, I might find them more compelling. I should really get on that. I'm just unfortunate enough that Brad and Angie might adopt me.
-Leona Helmsley left her dog $12 million. I refuse to waste my time worrying about that lucky little bitch. I only care that dogs and cats are able to lick their own hoo-hahs. That is something to envy.
-Dick Cheney might have seen -- gasp! -- a naked lady! This was all over the news a couple of weeks ago: a photo of Cheney with sunglasses on, and in the reflection of the sunglasses what appears to be a naked woman. This is the least newsworthy of any of the aforementioned items. We all know Cheney has a weak heart (if he has a heart at all, which is debatable). Seeing a shapely nude young female would make him drop dead. Since the old buzzard is still kicking, it clearly didn't happen. It's nothing to be concerned about.
Upon rereading these, I now realize that I've done something foolish. I've given "air time" to things I genuinely don't care about. None of these topics are noteworthy enough for any of us to care about.
UGH! Why am I still writing and ruminating over this? I could be doing something much more important, like plucking my eyebrows or sanding my feet.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Donn's Best of Boston (A Satire)
My favorite Boston weekly newspaper recently ran their annual "Best of Boston" issue. I enjoy these "best of" things for a few reasons. 1) They're typically presented in list form, and I like lists. 2) Although they tend to regurgitate the same things year after year, they use delicious adjectives like "velvety", "blissful", and "baby-fresh". And 3) They remind me that there are still things to like about Boston, despite being a Boston Tea Party-Pooper.
So all of this inspired me to create my own "Best of Boston" list. It is, of course, strictly satirical and meant to be taken with a grain of salt. Translation: "Please don't maim me when I leave the house tomorrow, Die-Hard Bostonians."
Best Place to Have a Nervous Breakdown - Park Street Station/MBTA Green Line. It is simply amazing to me that there is not a city-employed psychiatrist on hand at the Green Line platform in the Park Street subway station. This place is utter chaos, no matter if it's the height of rush hour or the small hours of the evening. Let me paint a picture of this scene for you. Imagine, if you will, thousands of angry people pushing their way up a single flight of tiny stairs. Then imagine all of them boarding a train with you. Bear in mind that Green Line trains are smaller than regular trains; they are typically only four cars. No one would conceive of waiting for the next train, so it is inevitable that everyone crams into the too-few sardine-cans-on-wheels. You'll have the dreadlocked king of B.O. breathing on your neck, an arrogant business-suited prick on his cellphone on your left, a squat Hispanic woman with four screaming children on your right, and a totally lost Chinese woman pressed into your chest as she swings a bag of bloody chicken parts into your crotch. This is a typical day on the Green Line. Sadly, serotonin reuptake inhibitors are not included in the cost of the fare.
Best Place to See Cute, Friendly Hippies - Whole Foods. I've been to many of the Whole Foods stores in the Greater Boston area, and I am always pleased with the attractive, courteous hippies who work there. Although they mostly sell earthy-crunchy stuff and, in the words of my mother-in-law, "things that have only been touched by yellow butterflies", I'm consistently happy when being cashiered by a pierced and tattooed hottie with a sleepy, stony attitude. It justifies purchasing my $12 pink Peruvian artichoke.
Best Place to Get Flattened By an Automobile - Crossing Broadway outside the Cambridge Marriott. Screw bungee jumping or skydiving. If you really want to live dangerously, just try crossing the street on the Broadway side of the Cambridge Marriott. There is a pedestrian-friendly button on either side of the crosswalk that, when pressed, creates a strobe of yellow lights instructing drivers to stop and yield. But of course, no one ever stops, yields, or even slows down, no matter how many people are trying to cross or where they might be in the intersection. It is a point of pride for Boston drivers that they never, EVER give a fellow citizen a break, and they would rather smoosh you with their car than let you cross the street. Their rationale, I'm sure, is rather simple: If I flatten that old lady with the grocery cart, then that's one less person who will be trying to cross the street tomorrow.
Best Place to Buy Sour Patch Kids - Hidden Sweets, Cambridge. You don't know how elated I was when I learned, upon moving to Boston, that the delicious gummy sour candies known as Sour Patch Kids are not a regional Midwestern delicacy. You can buy them here at most grocery stores, convenience stores, and movie theaters. But they are typically prepackaged and far from fresh. For the perfect amount of softness and lip-scrunching flavor, buy them in bulk at Hidden Sweets in Harvard Square. Sure they cost more than sending your kid to Harvard, but the freshness and tear-inducing flavor elements are totally worth it. Besides, who needs an Ivy League education when you can savor the ecstasy of tiny little candies in the shape of fruity mutant children?
Best Place to See Hot College Guyz! (Sorry, but this ridiculous heading demanded an equally-ridiculous "z", as well as an exclamation point) - Northeastern University. Speaking of Harvard, you can keep those Harvard trust fund babies and the computer-humping Poindexters of MIT. Give me the cute college guys of Northeastern. Luckily, my office is about three steps from the Northeastern campus and is located on a mostly-residential block of student housing. Just traversing this street on my way to and from work can be a woody-causing event. And it's often far sweeter than even Sour Patch Kids.
Best Place to Commune With Boston's Native Fauna - The squirrels in Boston Common. The squirrels in Boston Common are bad-ass. There are thousands of them, and they are all unsettlingly tame and festooned with bald patches and gooey red scabs. These creatures are fighters -- and thieves. They have no problem stealing your lunch from your hand, bounding to a shady spot beneath a tree, and gobbling your entire meal right in front of you, all the while meeting your gaze and laughing maniacally. And to that furry little bastard that has my Tofurky sandwich: I know where you live.
Best Hometown Hero - Mr. Gobbles of Cambridge. Mr. Gobbles is a Cambridge institution. He is a gargantuan wild turkey that has inexplicably decided to call the Greater Boston Metropolitan Area home. How he got here and why he chooses to stay is beyond me, but Mr. Gobbles sightings are fairly common and much-discussed. This past winter, I saw him every day for an entire week. I said hello to him each time, but, being a Bostonian, he didn't reply.
Best Place to Reshape Your Spine While Napping - Fenway Park. OK, this is the one that's going to get me crucified. But I think we all know by now that Boston Red Sox fans are more fanatical than the PLO and the People's Temple combined. And though I am loathe to fess up to it, I attended a Red Sox game at Fenway Park last summer. The seats are rigid wooden torture devices that grind into your spinal column and coccyx with every breath. With that said, however, it is possible to pretzel yourself into a position that makes napping feasible. Trust me. I should know. I slept through that entire, painful game.
Best Heart Attack on a Plate - Fried Dough vendors, located in various places around the city. Before moving to Boston, I wasn't familiar with Fried Dough. Fried Dough is just what the name implies: a generous blob of dough that is deep fat fried to golden perfection. It is sold by street vendors who specialize in it and is typically accompanied with powdered sugar (though ketchup, mustard, and cheese may also sometimes accompany it). When you eat one, if you swallow very quietly, you can actually hear the arteries in your heart slamming shut.
Best Place to Practice the Fine Art of Bullet-Dodging (Or Knife-Skirting) - Well...anywhere in Boston! Crime in Boston is at a disquieting high. This year alone -- and bear in mind, we're only four months in -- there have already been 20 homicides, 67 rapes or attempted rapes, 642 robberies of attempted robberies, 130 aggravated assaults, and 114 vehicle thefts or attempted vehicle thefts. So if you've always wanted to be the finger-pointer in a police lineup, stick around for a little bit. It just may happen.
So all of this inspired me to create my own "Best of Boston" list. It is, of course, strictly satirical and meant to be taken with a grain of salt. Translation: "Please don't maim me when I leave the house tomorrow, Die-Hard Bostonians."
Best Place to Have a Nervous Breakdown - Park Street Station/MBTA Green Line. It is simply amazing to me that there is not a city-employed psychiatrist on hand at the Green Line platform in the Park Street subway station. This place is utter chaos, no matter if it's the height of rush hour or the small hours of the evening. Let me paint a picture of this scene for you. Imagine, if you will, thousands of angry people pushing their way up a single flight of tiny stairs. Then imagine all of them boarding a train with you. Bear in mind that Green Line trains are smaller than regular trains; they are typically only four cars. No one would conceive of waiting for the next train, so it is inevitable that everyone crams into the too-few sardine-cans-on-wheels. You'll have the dreadlocked king of B.O. breathing on your neck, an arrogant business-suited prick on his cellphone on your left, a squat Hispanic woman with four screaming children on your right, and a totally lost Chinese woman pressed into your chest as she swings a bag of bloody chicken parts into your crotch. This is a typical day on the Green Line. Sadly, serotonin reuptake inhibitors are not included in the cost of the fare.
Best Place to See Cute, Friendly Hippies - Whole Foods. I've been to many of the Whole Foods stores in the Greater Boston area, and I am always pleased with the attractive, courteous hippies who work there. Although they mostly sell earthy-crunchy stuff and, in the words of my mother-in-law, "things that have only been touched by yellow butterflies", I'm consistently happy when being cashiered by a pierced and tattooed hottie with a sleepy, stony attitude. It justifies purchasing my $12 pink Peruvian artichoke.
Best Place to Get Flattened By an Automobile - Crossing Broadway outside the Cambridge Marriott. Screw bungee jumping or skydiving. If you really want to live dangerously, just try crossing the street on the Broadway side of the Cambridge Marriott. There is a pedestrian-friendly button on either side of the crosswalk that, when pressed, creates a strobe of yellow lights instructing drivers to stop and yield. But of course, no one ever stops, yields, or even slows down, no matter how many people are trying to cross or where they might be in the intersection. It is a point of pride for Boston drivers that they never, EVER give a fellow citizen a break, and they would rather smoosh you with their car than let you cross the street. Their rationale, I'm sure, is rather simple: If I flatten that old lady with the grocery cart, then that's one less person who will be trying to cross the street tomorrow.
Best Place to Buy Sour Patch Kids - Hidden Sweets, Cambridge. You don't know how elated I was when I learned, upon moving to Boston, that the delicious gummy sour candies known as Sour Patch Kids are not a regional Midwestern delicacy. You can buy them here at most grocery stores, convenience stores, and movie theaters. But they are typically prepackaged and far from fresh. For the perfect amount of softness and lip-scrunching flavor, buy them in bulk at Hidden Sweets in Harvard Square. Sure they cost more than sending your kid to Harvard, but the freshness and tear-inducing flavor elements are totally worth it. Besides, who needs an Ivy League education when you can savor the ecstasy of tiny little candies in the shape of fruity mutant children?
Best Place to See Hot College Guyz! (Sorry, but this ridiculous heading demanded an equally-ridiculous "z", as well as an exclamation point) - Northeastern University. Speaking of Harvard, you can keep those Harvard trust fund babies and the computer-humping Poindexters of MIT. Give me the cute college guys of Northeastern. Luckily, my office is about three steps from the Northeastern campus and is located on a mostly-residential block of student housing. Just traversing this street on my way to and from work can be a woody-causing event. And it's often far sweeter than even Sour Patch Kids.
Best Place to Commune With Boston's Native Fauna - The squirrels in Boston Common. The squirrels in Boston Common are bad-ass. There are thousands of them, and they are all unsettlingly tame and festooned with bald patches and gooey red scabs. These creatures are fighters -- and thieves. They have no problem stealing your lunch from your hand, bounding to a shady spot beneath a tree, and gobbling your entire meal right in front of you, all the while meeting your gaze and laughing maniacally. And to that furry little bastard that has my Tofurky sandwich: I know where you live.
Best Hometown Hero - Mr. Gobbles of Cambridge. Mr. Gobbles is a Cambridge institution. He is a gargantuan wild turkey that has inexplicably decided to call the Greater Boston Metropolitan Area home. How he got here and why he chooses to stay is beyond me, but Mr. Gobbles sightings are fairly common and much-discussed. This past winter, I saw him every day for an entire week. I said hello to him each time, but, being a Bostonian, he didn't reply.
Best Place to Reshape Your Spine While Napping - Fenway Park. OK, this is the one that's going to get me crucified. But I think we all know by now that Boston Red Sox fans are more fanatical than the PLO and the People's Temple combined. And though I am loathe to fess up to it, I attended a Red Sox game at Fenway Park last summer. The seats are rigid wooden torture devices that grind into your spinal column and coccyx with every breath. With that said, however, it is possible to pretzel yourself into a position that makes napping feasible. Trust me. I should know. I slept through that entire, painful game.
Best Heart Attack on a Plate - Fried Dough vendors, located in various places around the city. Before moving to Boston, I wasn't familiar with Fried Dough. Fried Dough is just what the name implies: a generous blob of dough that is deep fat fried to golden perfection. It is sold by street vendors who specialize in it and is typically accompanied with powdered sugar (though ketchup, mustard, and cheese may also sometimes accompany it). When you eat one, if you swallow very quietly, you can actually hear the arteries in your heart slamming shut.
Best Place to Practice the Fine Art of Bullet-Dodging (Or Knife-Skirting) - Well...anywhere in Boston! Crime in Boston is at a disquieting high. This year alone -- and bear in mind, we're only four months in -- there have already been 20 homicides, 67 rapes or attempted rapes, 642 robberies of attempted robberies, 130 aggravated assaults, and 114 vehicle thefts or attempted vehicle thefts. So if you've always wanted to be the finger-pointer in a police lineup, stick around for a little bit. It just may happen.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Birth Days...Earth Days...Mirth Days...
You don't need to know me that well to know that I am an incredibly sensitive person. I take everything personally. Being that I'm a person, I know of no other way to take things. If you know how to take things like a salamander, or a canary, please let me know. I'm always open to new coping mechanisms.
So it comes to pass that, being so highly sensitized, my life is inevitably filled with a lot of disappointments and tough breaks. As much as I try to accept these as part and parcel of the Sensitive Life, most of the time I fail gloriously and just try to digest them without guaranteeing myself a spot in a rubber room.
This means I come to rely quite heavily on the people in my life. I'm a bit of a spiritualist, and more than a bit of a metaphor hag, so I firmly people that people come into our lives at certain times for certain reasons. I've got to believe there's some meaning floating around down here, and we have to be open (read: sensitive) to it in order to feel and appreciate it.
And so, it's no wonder that two very special people in my life celebrated milestones today. Being that these dear people mean so much to me, I savored the joys of the day in a way I haven't in quite some time. For the first time in a long while, I was pulled from my melancholic haze and entered a place of peace and celebration.
First, my dearest friend in the universe, Kat. Kat and I went to acting school together, she now lives in San Francisco, and is a happily-married mother of two. In typical Kat fashion, she left the following posting on my MySpace page: "I'm friggin' prego AGAIN!"
Now she and I haven't discussed this yet, so I won't pretend to know all she's feeling about the subject, so I just speak for myself here when I say, "Yipppeeeeeee! Weeeeeeeee! Hurrrrrayyyyyyy!". You see, Kat is an awesome mom. And when I see backwards rednecks breeding like rabbits and naming their kids awful things like Tiffani and Heathyr, it thrills me when I know a child is going to be brought into a safe, loving, liberal, creative, artistic, happy family like Kat's. This world would be a much better place if all family's were like hers. Even just for the purely-selfish reason that living a Sensitive Life would be not only a good thing, but a normal thing.
Enter Metaphor Hag. I also think it's no coincidence that Kat shared this news with me on Earth Day. If ever there was a quintessential Earth Mother, it is Kat. When I first knew her, she was a girl adorned with dyed-black hair, spiked jewelry, and artificial fangs. When I first saw her pregnant (with her second child) ten-plus years later, she was a woman bedecked in au naturel hair to the waist, fabulous hemp necklaces and large stone bracelets, and a long flowing gypsy dress that would've made Stevie Nicks proud. The change from partying goth girl to Mother of the Revolution was also internal; she had clearly transformed some very core beliefs about herself and her world into much more positive, more enlightened, and more generous convictions. But the essence, the unmistakable and unwavering courage and crazy free love, were untouched, probably even strengthened.
I thought, after the birth of her first child, that things between she and I were forever changed. After all, I hadn't known, and will never know, what it's like to be a parent. I often feel a little alienated from my friends who have children, simply because I've lost a key ability I pride myself on: the ability to understand and identify. I was also worried that she wasn't going to be the same person that she was pre-prego. As I drove to visit her in San Fran, I worried the whole way that I wouldn't know her anymore. I mean, would she be the same girl with whom I shared a bong and played nudie Twister?
Well, I needn't have worried.
I wasn't in her home five minutes, when, both of us seated on the couch, I turned to her. She had pulled off her muumuu and was stark naked, lying back and gyrating her hips into the sofa so that her massive new-mother breasts swung in a continuous circular orbit just above the rest of her body. Eyes fixed on her boobs, she simply said, "Hypnotic, aren't they?"
Nope, she was the same girl.
To her I say Congratulations. It does this bitter, aging, balding queen good to have those fabulous, hypnotic breasts in my life.
Speaking of fabulous breasts (sorry, Molly, I needed a good segue here), the other happy event of the day that lifted me from the doldrums was my colleague Molly's birthday. Let me tell you about Molly. She is one of those people who can single-handedly lift me out of my perpetual malaise just by her mere presence. She is filled with such light, such talent, such humor and intelligence, I am transported whenever I am around her. It's rare to find people like that, and whenever I do, I treasure them wholly.
Though we work together, Molly has a much different, and much tougher, job than I have. And I am consistently impressed with the grace and wit with which she handles her rather impossible position. Simply exchanging a few words with Molly is enough to effectively change the shade of my entire day. In my heart, everyday is reason to celebrate Molly, so on the one day of the year that commemorates that celebration, I am extra-giddy.
To these two women, who are such powerful forces in my life, I am eternally grateful.
So it comes to pass that, being so highly sensitized, my life is inevitably filled with a lot of disappointments and tough breaks. As much as I try to accept these as part and parcel of the Sensitive Life, most of the time I fail gloriously and just try to digest them without guaranteeing myself a spot in a rubber room.
This means I come to rely quite heavily on the people in my life. I'm a bit of a spiritualist, and more than a bit of a metaphor hag, so I firmly people that people come into our lives at certain times for certain reasons. I've got to believe there's some meaning floating around down here, and we have to be open (read: sensitive) to it in order to feel and appreciate it.
And so, it's no wonder that two very special people in my life celebrated milestones today. Being that these dear people mean so much to me, I savored the joys of the day in a way I haven't in quite some time. For the first time in a long while, I was pulled from my melancholic haze and entered a place of peace and celebration.
First, my dearest friend in the universe, Kat. Kat and I went to acting school together, she now lives in San Francisco, and is a happily-married mother of two. In typical Kat fashion, she left the following posting on my MySpace page: "I'm friggin' prego AGAIN!"
Now she and I haven't discussed this yet, so I won't pretend to know all she's feeling about the subject, so I just speak for myself here when I say, "Yipppeeeeeee! Weeeeeeeee! Hurrrrrayyyyyyy!". You see, Kat is an awesome mom. And when I see backwards rednecks breeding like rabbits and naming their kids awful things like Tiffani and Heathyr, it thrills me when I know a child is going to be brought into a safe, loving, liberal, creative, artistic, happy family like Kat's. This world would be a much better place if all family's were like hers. Even just for the purely-selfish reason that living a Sensitive Life would be not only a good thing, but a normal thing.
Enter Metaphor Hag. I also think it's no coincidence that Kat shared this news with me on Earth Day. If ever there was a quintessential Earth Mother, it is Kat. When I first knew her, she was a girl adorned with dyed-black hair, spiked jewelry, and artificial fangs. When I first saw her pregnant (with her second child) ten-plus years later, she was a woman bedecked in au naturel hair to the waist, fabulous hemp necklaces and large stone bracelets, and a long flowing gypsy dress that would've made Stevie Nicks proud. The change from partying goth girl to Mother of the Revolution was also internal; she had clearly transformed some very core beliefs about herself and her world into much more positive, more enlightened, and more generous convictions. But the essence, the unmistakable and unwavering courage and crazy free love, were untouched, probably even strengthened.
I thought, after the birth of her first child, that things between she and I were forever changed. After all, I hadn't known, and will never know, what it's like to be a parent. I often feel a little alienated from my friends who have children, simply because I've lost a key ability I pride myself on: the ability to understand and identify. I was also worried that she wasn't going to be the same person that she was pre-prego. As I drove to visit her in San Fran, I worried the whole way that I wouldn't know her anymore. I mean, would she be the same girl with whom I shared a bong and played nudie Twister?
Well, I needn't have worried.
I wasn't in her home five minutes, when, both of us seated on the couch, I turned to her. She had pulled off her muumuu and was stark naked, lying back and gyrating her hips into the sofa so that her massive new-mother breasts swung in a continuous circular orbit just above the rest of her body. Eyes fixed on her boobs, she simply said, "Hypnotic, aren't they?"
Nope, she was the same girl.
To her I say Congratulations. It does this bitter, aging, balding queen good to have those fabulous, hypnotic breasts in my life.
Speaking of fabulous breasts (sorry, Molly, I needed a good segue here), the other happy event of the day that lifted me from the doldrums was my colleague Molly's birthday. Let me tell you about Molly. She is one of those people who can single-handedly lift me out of my perpetual malaise just by her mere presence. She is filled with such light, such talent, such humor and intelligence, I am transported whenever I am around her. It's rare to find people like that, and whenever I do, I treasure them wholly.
Though we work together, Molly has a much different, and much tougher, job than I have. And I am consistently impressed with the grace and wit with which she handles her rather impossible position. Simply exchanging a few words with Molly is enough to effectively change the shade of my entire day. In my heart, everyday is reason to celebrate Molly, so on the one day of the year that commemorates that celebration, I am extra-giddy.
To these two women, who are such powerful forces in my life, I am eternally grateful.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Poor Little Rich Boy: Examining "Into the Wild"
John and I just finished watching the movie "Into the Wild", a Sean Penn-directed filming of Jon Krakauer's book. It is the true story of 24-year-old Christopher McCandless, an upper middle class white kid just graduated from college, who embarks upon a journey of discovery that takes him to the remote Alaskan wilderness.
Before I go any further, let me make two quick disclaimers. The first is that the aim of this post is not to bash the real McCandless. I am fully aware that movie characters based upon real people are not carbon copies of the actual people who lived it. My goal here is to examine the themes brought to the fore by the character of Christopher McCandless as he is presented in the film. I didn't know the real Chris, so my criticisms are not of him but of the screen version of him. The real guy may have been worlds different than his big screen doppelganger, and I respect that. Secondly, this post will contain spoilers. If you haven't seen the movie, or read the book, and plan to, then stop reading right now. In order to get my point across, it's imperative that I open my big fat mouth.
When we first meet the character of Chris, he is graduating with honors from Emory University. He has a trust fund with $24,000 remaining in it. For reasons unknown to us, and presumably to him as well, since it's never really investigated, he gives this entire booty to charity. This is, of course, commendable, and I certainly don't want to minimize or downplay the charity involved in handing over such a sum to a truly worthy cause. But what's puzzling is the lack of reason behind such a huge gesture. I mean, more than once in the course of this movie, Chris is literally handed money, and he rebuffs it each time. The only logic behind it that I can deduce is childish and arrogant. He views it like this: "My parents have money, and they're dysfunctional, therefore money = bad." Most people, myself included, would've killed for the opportunities this kid had. But, being a spoiled little rich white boy, he refused money and opportunity in the name of "finding himself."
This is where Chris's journey gets really infuriating. He pores over Thoreau and Jack London in cliche I-will-live-in-the-woods-in-order-to-find-myself fashion, and figures the only thing to do with his life is head off on some half-baked odyssey of emotional and spiritual fulfillment. In the process, he meets a random group of pretty fascinating characters while managing to devastate his parents back at home (they have no idea where he is; he's fallen off the face of the earth for all they know). On his adventure, there are endless chances to learn the fine arts of compassion and forgiveness, but the selfish kid just doesn't see them. He's too busy remembering what awful parents he had and what a painful background he comes from. He remains fixed on this idea that living in remote Alaska will magically open a door to his true nature and happiness, though he's so caught up in resentment and self-centeredness that he wouldn't have known his true nature or happiness if they were staring him in the eye. What Chris does is meant to come across as noble and courageous. I just find it insulting and immature.
Also, it bears mentioning that, for an intelligent young man who graduated with honors, Chris is pretty damn stupid. He goes into the wild without even a compass or a working knowledge of how to live off the land. He's so romanticized Jack London that he's lost all common sense. It's not surprising that McCandless dies of starvation five months into his big journey. He's been handed everything in life, and when he's faced with the knowledge that he might have to do something for himself, he simply can't. Even when that something is as key as survival. In the barrens of the Arctic, there ain't no mommy and daddy or eccentric, kind-hearted strangers to bail your ass out. So instead of taking care of himself, he dies.
McCandless spends the entire film lamenting his awful upbringing and his awful parents, all the while spouting Hallmark sentiments about happiness and truth. What he fails miserably in realizing is that compassion, for oneself and others, is essential to finding some semblance of happiness. And forgiveness is a direct product of compassion. Not able to forgive his parents, inflicting pain on them with every passing day by not even attempting to contact (or even acknowledge) them, his assertion that "Happiness is only real when shared" just doesn't ring true. How the hell would he know? He's too selfish to share anything.
Although I found the central character frustrating beyond belief and was wholly incapable of empathizing with him in the least, "Into the Wild" is not a bad movie. The photography is beautiful. I think Sean Penn, who also wrote the screenplay, intended to present this very questionable view of the hero in order to challenge us. Emile Hirsch, as McCandless, does a fine job with the one-dimensional character he's given. But it is Hal Holbrook, as one of the people he meets along the way, who walks away with the film. His performance is luminous, gentle, and intensely powerful in its quiet force. Holbrook's character is also the only one in the movie who tries to impart some real wisdom to Chris. But, of course, it's all for naught, as Chris is just too oblivious to the world he so fervently believes he understands.
Before I go any further, let me make two quick disclaimers. The first is that the aim of this post is not to bash the real McCandless. I am fully aware that movie characters based upon real people are not carbon copies of the actual people who lived it. My goal here is to examine the themes brought to the fore by the character of Christopher McCandless as he is presented in the film. I didn't know the real Chris, so my criticisms are not of him but of the screen version of him. The real guy may have been worlds different than his big screen doppelganger, and I respect that. Secondly, this post will contain spoilers. If you haven't seen the movie, or read the book, and plan to, then stop reading right now. In order to get my point across, it's imperative that I open my big fat mouth.
When we first meet the character of Chris, he is graduating with honors from Emory University. He has a trust fund with $24,000 remaining in it. For reasons unknown to us, and presumably to him as well, since it's never really investigated, he gives this entire booty to charity. This is, of course, commendable, and I certainly don't want to minimize or downplay the charity involved in handing over such a sum to a truly worthy cause. But what's puzzling is the lack of reason behind such a huge gesture. I mean, more than once in the course of this movie, Chris is literally handed money, and he rebuffs it each time. The only logic behind it that I can deduce is childish and arrogant. He views it like this: "My parents have money, and they're dysfunctional, therefore money = bad." Most people, myself included, would've killed for the opportunities this kid had. But, being a spoiled little rich white boy, he refused money and opportunity in the name of "finding himself."
This is where Chris's journey gets really infuriating. He pores over Thoreau and Jack London in cliche I-will-live-in-the-woods-in-order-to-find-myself fashion, and figures the only thing to do with his life is head off on some half-baked odyssey of emotional and spiritual fulfillment. In the process, he meets a random group of pretty fascinating characters while managing to devastate his parents back at home (they have no idea where he is; he's fallen off the face of the earth for all they know). On his adventure, there are endless chances to learn the fine arts of compassion and forgiveness, but the selfish kid just doesn't see them. He's too busy remembering what awful parents he had and what a painful background he comes from. He remains fixed on this idea that living in remote Alaska will magically open a door to his true nature and happiness, though he's so caught up in resentment and self-centeredness that he wouldn't have known his true nature or happiness if they were staring him in the eye. What Chris does is meant to come across as noble and courageous. I just find it insulting and immature.
Also, it bears mentioning that, for an intelligent young man who graduated with honors, Chris is pretty damn stupid. He goes into the wild without even a compass or a working knowledge of how to live off the land. He's so romanticized Jack London that he's lost all common sense. It's not surprising that McCandless dies of starvation five months into his big journey. He's been handed everything in life, and when he's faced with the knowledge that he might have to do something for himself, he simply can't. Even when that something is as key as survival. In the barrens of the Arctic, there ain't no mommy and daddy or eccentric, kind-hearted strangers to bail your ass out. So instead of taking care of himself, he dies.
McCandless spends the entire film lamenting his awful upbringing and his awful parents, all the while spouting Hallmark sentiments about happiness and truth. What he fails miserably in realizing is that compassion, for oneself and others, is essential to finding some semblance of happiness. And forgiveness is a direct product of compassion. Not able to forgive his parents, inflicting pain on them with every passing day by not even attempting to contact (or even acknowledge) them, his assertion that "Happiness is only real when shared" just doesn't ring true. How the hell would he know? He's too selfish to share anything.
Although I found the central character frustrating beyond belief and was wholly incapable of empathizing with him in the least, "Into the Wild" is not a bad movie. The photography is beautiful. I think Sean Penn, who also wrote the screenplay, intended to present this very questionable view of the hero in order to challenge us. Emile Hirsch, as McCandless, does a fine job with the one-dimensional character he's given. But it is Hal Holbrook, as one of the people he meets along the way, who walks away with the film. His performance is luminous, gentle, and intensely powerful in its quiet force. Holbrook's character is also the only one in the movie who tries to impart some real wisdom to Chris. But, of course, it's all for naught, as Chris is just too oblivious to the world he so fervently believes he understands.
Friday, April 18, 2008
It's Raining Men: The Great Men of Film
A few years ago, when I was contributing a regular series of articles for John's website, I wrote a piece detailing what, in my opinion, are the ten best performances ever by an actress. I always intended to follow it up with a "ten best" list for the men as well, but I just never got around to it, for whatever reason. And so it goes, after all these years, I've finally assembled my list of Top Ten Performances By An Actor.
In the interest of balance, here were my picks for the actress list:
1. Meryl Streep, "Sophie's Choice" (1982)
2. Renee Maria Falconetti, "Le Passion de Jeanne d'Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc" (1928)
3. Katharine Hepburn, "The Lion in Winter" (1968)
4. Vivien Leigh, "A Streetcar Named Desire" (1951)
5. Elizabeth Taylor, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" (1966)
6. Joan Allen, "The Crucible" (1996)
7. Emily Watson, "Breaking the Waves" (1996)
8. Nicole Kidman, "The Hours" (2002)
9. Miranda Richardson, "Damage" (1992)
10. Kathy Bates, "Primary Colors" (1998)
Admittedly, if I were to write this today, it would be slightly reworked. As much as I adore Kathy Bates, and was blown out of my seat by her work in "Primary Colors", I'd have to bump everyone down a slot and insert Marion Cotillard, for "La Vie En Rose", in the #3 spot. Cotillard's Edith Piaf is hard to top and is simply one of the greatest performances ever captured on film.
But I'm getting off track. On to the men!
1. Maximilian Schell, "Judgment at Nuremberg" (1961). Oh man, this was a difficult, thankless role for any actor to tackle. What makes it even more impressive is that this was Schell's first American film, and he was virtually unknown in the States when he caused a cinematic sensation (winning the Oscar, Golden Globe, and a slew of critics' prizes) with his performance as Nazi defense attorney Hans Rolfe in "Judgment at Nuremberg". Schell, 30 years old at the time the movie was filmed, was blindingly handsome with a booming baritone that filled the courtroom (and I'm sure the movie theater as well). But his looks are irrelevant: the work he does here is nothing short of miraculous. He takes a man -- a lawyer defending Nazis -- and imbues him with such passionate humanity that we just don't feel his moral quandary and fervent (though tragically misguided) devotion. We actually kinda like the guy. Of course, we don't want Hans to win his case; there's no excuse nor appropriate punishment for what his clients did. But we certainly walk away with a clearer picture of the impetuses and obligations felt by everyone involved in one of humanity's darkest hours. This is a brave, thoughtful performance, that I find unrivaled in cinematic history.
2. Jaye Davidson, "The Crying Game" (1992). Davidson was a 23-year-old fashion assistant in London when Neil Jordan cast him in the pivotal role of Dil in "The Crying Game". But the work he does here is not the fumblings of a novice: it is an exquisitely-crafted, devastatingly powerful performance that more than deserves its spot on this list. It's one thing for a man to dress in drag. Any guy can do that. It's something quite different to be the epitome of lovestruck womanliness, feeling and expressing every iota of bliss and heartbreak with each step, each sweep of the hand, each lilt of the Bacall-esque voice. If you've ever questioned the meaning of unconditional love, watch Davidson's Dil sashay her way through "The Crying Game". There is simply nothing like it in the annals of film.
3. Daniel Day-Lewis, "The Crucible" (1996). With his resume of worthy performances, Day-Lewis could easily take every spot on this list. It is only in the name of fairness that I opened the competition to other actors and held my DDL fetish in check. Despite all his fantastic work, his portrayal of tortured Puritan John Proctor in "The Crucible" slightly nudges above all the rest to be singled out by me as singularly amazing. Caught between his personal demons of lust and love in the chaotic midst of the Salem witch hysteria, Day-Lewis breathes such fiery life into Proctor that it almost takes my breath away just writing about it. The last half-hour of the film, especially the seaside scene with Joan Allen, ranks as some of the best acting I've ever come across. A no-holds-barred portrayal of a flawed, fearless man living in a time when things like honor, truth, and the family name were the only things worth fighting -- and dying -- for.
4. Jack Lemmon, "Days of Wine and Roses" (1962). The late, great Jack Lemmon was one of those rare talents that could float effortlessly between screwball comedy and serious drama, and he was in peak dramatic form in the disturbing "Days of Wine and Roses". As alcoholic Joe Clay, Lemmon takes us into the frightening, fascinating mind of a functioning alcoholic, whose all-consuming passion for the bottle not only destroys his life, but mercilessly takes others down with him. This is perhaps the most realistic portrayal of a drunk I've ever seen, and, given Lemmon's later admission to at one time battling an alcohol problem, this perfect marriage of actor and role makes a lot of sense. It also makes the performance that much braver, for it's often easier for an actor to play someone else. Portraying a character with whom you share a common destruction is a courageous, dangerous, and in this case, flawlessly successful, decision.
5. Jeff Bridges, "Fearless" (1993). This is perhaps the most criminally overlooked performance on this list. Jeff Bridges was phenomenal in the intelligent, engrossing "Fearless", though you'd never know it to look at him. Bridges makes his Max Klein seem so nonchalant, so utterly effortless, that it's easy to dismiss the massive internal transformation this character undergoes throughout the course of the film. As a plane crash survivor, Max is regarded as a savior by those he helped escape the burning wreckage. In his own mind, Max, having survived this catastrophe and entered a God-like realm of hero-worship, is convinced that not only is he invincible, but immortal as well. We have the privilege of escorting Max on his journey back to humanness. Back to life. Back to fear. And it's a testament to Bridge's incandescent talent that he can make this voyage seem as natural and easy as, well, breathing.
6. Ben Kingsley, "Gandhi" (1982). It is film legend that during the filming of "Gandhi", the native Indians working on the movie thought Ben Kingsley was actually Gandhi's ghost. That's how complete and total this performance is. Kingsley so brilliantly inhabits the role of the great Mahatma that from the second he appears onscreen (before he has even "become" Mahatma), there can be no doubt that we are watching the real Gandhi. I've spoken before of how nearly-impossible it is to portray someone so famous and so well-respected, but Kingsley pulls it off beautifully with his uncanny transformation. "Gandhi" both reiterated the important power of one of history's greatest men...as well as one of it's greatest actors.
7. Adrien Brody, "The Pianist" (2002). Yeah, yeah, yeah, you all know that I worship the undies that cling to Adrien Brody. But for the moment, put all that out of your head and consider the absolutely phenomenal performance Brody gave in "The Pianist". As the Polish Jewish musician Wladyslaw Szpilman, 28-year old Brody (who became the youngest-ever Best Actor Oscar winner for his work here) gave us one of the most emotionally-charged, deftly-nuanced, and flawlessly, upsettingly, REAL performances of probably the last twenty years. To better inhabit Szpilman's nightmare at the hands of the Nazis, Brody lost 30 lbs off his already-lean frame, learned to play Chopin faultlessly, and gave up his car, apartment, and television in an effort to understand and portray the sacrifices of his character. It is not only a devoted, loving testament to a great man: it is proof that Adrien Brody is far more than a pretty face.
8. Jamie Foxx, "Ray" (2004). Foxx was mainly known as a comedian before his star-making turn in the Ray Charles biopic "Ray", but there is nothing funny about the masterful skill he employs in recreating one of the world's most loved and talented musicians. The technical aspects of the performance are amazing: from inhabiting Charles's distinct physicality, to playing the piano himself, to being literally blinded up to 14 hours a day due to the prosthetic makeup he had to wear, Foxx is a revelation. But what is more subtle -- and just as successful -- is the riveting emotional command with which Foxx soaks his performance. To say Jamie Foxx gives a good performance here is insulting. To say Jamie Foxx IS Ray Charles is much more appropriate.
9. Sacha Baron Cohen, "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" (2006). You may think this is an odd choice for a "best ever" kind of list like this, but I whole-heartedly stand behind it. This is what I wrote about Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat in a previous post, and it more than fits the bill here as well: "Sacha Baron Cohen is too talented for his own good. It's easy to watch "Borat" and regard it as nothing more than silly humor and pratfalls. But it is much more than that. His Borat is a fearlessly executed, raucously hilarious, and totally endearing character, and Baron Cohen makes it seem as natural as a second skin. You can't watch this film and separate actor from role. They are perfectly joined, and the result is not only the funniest thing I've seen in ages...but one of the most thought-provoking as well. Borat bravely holds a mirror up to American society and says, "Look at yourselves." And that is probably the precise reason SBC wasn't nominated [for an Oscar]."
10. Lee Pace, "Soldier's Girl" (2003). Yes, that's right, suspend your disbelief: I've chosen a performance from a made-for-television movie. And there's no possible way I couldn't, in any good conscience, include Lee Pace's astounding work as transgendered performer Calpernia Addams in this list. His performance is unlike anything I've ever seen on the big or small screens. Unlike Jaye Davidson's fragile flower Dil, Pace's Calpernia is a strong, self-assured woman who knows who she is and what she wants. But when she falls in love with straight military man Barry Winchell (the talented, gorgeous Troy Garity), her life is tossed upside-down. It is a perfect, heartbreaking, and emotionally exhausting performance. It is also one of those rare performances that will change you. Rent it. Watch it. You'll see what I mean.
Now I know what you're thinking. Where's Brando? Pacino? DeNiro? Nicholson? Well, this is my list, see, and they didn't make the Top Ten. However, most of them would undoubtedly figure into a Top Twenty. Brando in "Streetcar" or "On the Waterfront"; DeNiro in "Raging Bull"; Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" or "About Schmidt". These lists are much tougher to dream up than they might appear. Especially when you consider the plethora of fine actors we have to choose from.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Art of Distraction (Or: So Long, Hills, It's Been Grand)
Since no "Golden Girls" DVDs came from Netflix yesterday, I decided to watch the televised debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama on ABC last night. Who would've guessed that watching this sparring match between the two candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination would effectively turn the tide for me?
I've made no secret of my indecisiveness when it comes to Clinton and Obama. Until yesterday, I equally loved and loathed both of them. Today, though, is a different story. In spite of voting for Hillary in the primary, I've now decided to pack up my things and set up camp in Obama Country.
You see, Hillary has failed me.
I looked to Mrs. Clinton as a maternal force of equal parts politics and compassion: a powerful Earth mother to mother us all. I looked to her as a strong, shining symbol of feminism and progress. I looked to her, quite simply, as the best person for the job.
But somewhere along the way (or maybe it's been there all along and I was choosing not to see it), Hillary became an expert in the art of what Dubya and his cronies are old pros at: The Art of Distraction. It's the theory that if you sling a lot of muck, and I mean a lot of it, it deflects the public from real issues and at least attempts to paint the muck-hurler in a more flattering light.
Let me give an example.
This whole Reverend Wright thing. Obama's former minister made some scandalous and -- gasp! -- un-American remarks in an old sermon. Thanks to the miracle of YouTube, excerpts from this infamous sermon spread like wildfire, and, inexplicably though inevitably, Obama himself had his own values and beliefs thrown into question as a result.
Personally, I don't care what Reverend Wright said. Whether or not I, or Obama, or Charo, agree or disagree is not relevant. The Reverend is entitled to both his opinion and his right to express it. People seem to have forgotten this last point. Obama should not be held responsible for someone else's opinion, no more than I am responsible for the opinions asserted by the minister of my church 20 years ago. Besides, one opinion felt by one person is a small brush stroke in the huge mural that makes up that one person. Obama stands beside Wright even to this day, even while disagreeing with his statements, because he realizes that. We are more than the sum of our parts.
Hillary, though, ain't havin' none of it. After Obama explained his side of things, Hills jumped right in to declare that this issue merits "further investigation". That we have a choice in our preachers, and someone who would choose to support such an "anti-American" clergyman is not only disgraceful, but a poor, poor candidate for president (even though our current president defines the word disgraceful).
The Reverend Wright issue is, to a lot of people, not an issue at all. It's a roadblock uncovered and exaggerated by those who don't want to see Mr. Obama in the White House. For the millionth time in this posting, the bottom line is this: It's ridiculous to hold one grown person accountable for another grown person's opinions.
That's when it dawned on me. Hillary is savoring a trip-up like this so she can put the full force of her power behind it...in order to keep us distracted. Keep us distracted from the real issues. Keep us distracted from her quickly-flagging approval numbers. Keep us distracted from the one thing we all deserve now more than any other time in American history: The Truth. If she holds onto the Reverend Wright scandal with white knuckles and beats it to death, she just might succeed at making Obama look somehow lacking -- thereby handing her the keys to the Oval Office.
Mrs. Clinton's decision to further investigate Obama's ties to Wright presents her as not much better than our current administration, which operates under a single principle. "Keep 'em distracted and they won't see we're not competent." I think Hillary is scared, and she's grasping at anything she can at this point.
Last night's debate was flawed from the outset. I felt the issues were pretty much ignored in favor of dissecting tabloid gossip. They should've just asked Hills what she thinks of Britney's new weave, or what albums are on Barack's iPod.
What impressed me, and ultimately persuaded me to throw my weight behind the Obama campaign, was his absolute, unfaltering dedication to taking the high road. He never once sunk to Clinton's level of employing The Art of Distraction. This man wants us focused on the issues, focused on the character of those running this race, focused on America and her position in the world. Coming from someone who is an unsympathetic connoisseur of class and tackiness as I am, Mr. Obama presented himself as he is.
Someone with a helluva lot of class.
In keeping with The Art of Distraction, it is notable how the media has blown up every single tiny, insignificant issue of both Clinton and Obama's campaigns. Whereas Grandpa McCain's mistakes are largely ignored. I saw a clip of McCain giving a speech in which he couldn't keep straight the names of our supposed enemies and our supposed allies in the Middle East. And this is the man Republicans want to be some great orchestrator of international relations? My cat could do a better job, and she eats rubber bands.
This isn't altogether shocking, of course. Every "news" outlet is owned by the same four or five conservative Republicans. They want to keep us distracted, too.
But as long as Obama is in the picture, I hold on to the hope that The Art of Distraction will soon be a thing of the past. Come November, I'm counting on seeing his name on the ballot.
His, or Charo's. Either way, my cuchi-cuchi will be happy.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
A Portait of the Reader As A Child
"Nothing in the whole world felt as good as being able to make something from a sudden idea." -Beverly Cleary, "Ramona Quimby, Age 8"
Ever since I mentioned the unsinkable Ramona Quimby in a posting a few days ago, I haven't been able to get the sassy little girl out of my mind. It's led me on a surprising, pleasant journey to a time in my childhood when I was first beginning to grow into something resembling the man I am today: a serious, devoted reader. I've been thinking about all the books I loved as a child, from the time when my mom read me books, to the years when I chose my own reading material. Books have shaped me. Indeed, they still do. To this day, whenever I read a good book, it makes me want to jump up and view the world through different, clearer eyes. Books have tremendous power.
My mom is currently sending me a new copy of what was undoubtedly my first favorite book, "Morris Goes to School" by B. Wiseman. My original copy is tucked away at home, but for the sake of posterity -- and the fact that it is well-read, well-loved, and, hence, well-worn -- we decided to keep it where it's at. I will soon have my hands on a new copy of "Morris", and I (a 31-year-old man) CAN'T WAIT.
"Morris Goes to School" was one of the books that my mother read to me in the years before I could read. It's surprisingly long (60+ pages, if memory serves), but that didn't deter me from picking it out night after night after night. I had a huge collection of children's books -- I clearly recall tons of Disney books -- but "Morris" was the one I always came back to. Repeatedly and ad nauseum. Often several nights in a row. Damn I loved that moose.
It's the story of the big lovable galoot Morris, who is (duh!) a moose. He lives amongst human children, who don't seem to find it the least bit odd that they are friends with a large, furry, none-too-bright land mammal. Morris is frustrated early on, as he figures out that he can't read or count, thereby setting him apart from the other children. He wants to buy gumdrops at the candy store, but he can't read the sign or count his money or figure out how many gumdrops he can buy. This inspires him to go to school, which he does, and is taught by the patient, bespectacled Miss Fine (who is also unfazed by the presence of a moose in her classroom). He struggles, of course, but by the end of the book, Morris is able to purchase a supply of gumdrops, and all is right with the world.
It's hard to say why I was so drawn to Morris. It certainly wasn't the counting lesson in the story. Even at a young age, my aversion to numbers was strong. It may have been that Morris was desperate to learn to read, and I too was at an age where I was ready to decipher those squiggles on the page and make sense of them. Or it also could've been the learned Miss Fine, with her wire-rimmed glasses, upturned nose, and short skirt. She was so hot.
I also enjoyed the Mercer Mayer and Richard Scarry books. I don't remember much about them, but I do recall my grandpa reading me several of the Mayer books. We would make it a game to find the one strategically-hidden baby creature (what the hell were those things? hedgehogs?) in every illustration. Bear in mind that this was in the pre-Waldo years.
The Scarry books are even less clear in my memory. I do know, though, that I loved the curvy brown earthworm who always wore a green hat with a jaunty red feather. Whenever the worms came out after a heavy rain, I used to search in vain for the one sporting the same accessory as Scarry's. I never found him.
By the time I was able to read, I was devouring Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. Ramona Quimby was my hero. She appeared in many of Cleary's earlier Henry Huggins books, but she was always a supporting player and nothing more than the whiny little sister. It was a great vindication to read of her own adventures, therefore discovering the youngster in all her complicated, curious glory. None of her experiences were extreme or full of derring-do. They were simply the life events of a child, seen and understood through the eyes of a child. Ramona was the first literary character that showed me how books could make you feel less alone in the world. Less alone, more understood, and somehow justified for being an inquisitive, sensitive kid. I'll always be grateful to Ramona for that.
I liked the Judy Blumes I read as well, but not nearly as much. "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing", "Superfudge", and "Blubber" were enjoyable for me, but I didn't identify as readily with the heroes of those stories. I read these after Ramona, since they were a bit more advanced, yet I couldn't help comparing them to the eponymous little sister of Cleary's creation. I wished Ramona would grow up with me and chronicle her encounters along the way, but that didn't happen. Cleary didn't write another Ramona book till 1999.
It's interesting to ruminate on these books, examining them with an adult's eye. I think all kids just want to be heard, and the adventures of Ramona are a tribute to that. A voice was given to those who typically aren't taken very seriously. But in the world of an 8-year-old, what might seem insignificant to an adult is life-changing for a child. Cleary understood this.
I remember when Ramona learned how to write her name in cursive. She would make a dramatic flourish with the Y at the end of her name, and then decorate the tip of the curve with a series of dots. Like 4th of July sparklers, she reasoned.
To this day, whenever I sign my name, I still think about doing that.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The Waves
"Everything I do is judged,
And they mostly get it wrong,
But oh well--
Cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged,
And the [man] who lives there can tell
The truth from the stuff that they say,
And [he] looks me in the eye
And says 'Would you prefer the easy way?
No, well OK then,
Don't cry.'
And I wonder if everything I do,
I do instead
Of something I want to do more,
The question fills my head.
I know that there's no grand plan here:
This is just the way it goes...." -Ani DiFranco
It fills me. This inky leaden sea. It starts in my head. The same place it always starts. The auditory canal is the first spot to be deluged. Rushing, surging, crashing swells of salty black seawater, roiling over and over again in unbridled waves. This nautical Judas kiss. This Aquarian betrayal. This tide tempting me with sleep. I can hear it.
It is morbid, for sure. But all the books -- those touchy-feely how-to-write guides -- command you to write what you know. Well this is what I know, have known, and may always know: the slap and surge of a great toxic sea.
Many say that to write about death, about depression, is macabre, unhealthy, perverse. Yet the Buddhists say it is quite beneficial to ruminate upon one's demise. To see it as just another step in the staircase. Another tier of the towering cake. One more cautious footfall on the stone-ridden path.
The Balinese Holy Man told me I would live to 100. Though I adore him, I do not believe him. No, I think Death will come a bit sooner, though of course I can't say when. But I can count on its arrival some day, and on that day, it will perch, unassuming, at the foot of my bed. I will converse with it. I will hear its dirging yet thoughtful case. And then I will make an informed decision.
I make no sense. But that troubles me hardly at all. For there's not a lot of sense in anything. If there were, I'd be able to write this better. I'd be able to describe this ocean more accurately. I'd be able to reach through your bluing computer screen and hold you and implore you to tell me that I am not alone.
That I am not alone.
The smell of roses is everywhere, though I don't see a single stem. The scent is on my fingers and in my clothes. Even soaked saltily, it's there.
It may appear in these lines. Can you smell it?
The sea is getting louder. Can you hear it?
Can you hear it?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Putting the “Bitch” in “Obituary”: Donn Writes His Own Obit!
I recently came across this really fun website and couldn't help myself. I had to do this! A while back, Oprah met with people who did this in a more serious fashion, and the process changed their lives. Perhaps someday I will write a more realistic one in the hopes of examining and transforming my life, but for now, this is what I've come up with....
Acclaimed writer and all-around witted person Donn Saylor was found dead in his Venetian palazzo yesterday. He was 100. Saylor apparently died of a lethal cocktail consisting of Vicodin, wheat grass supplements, chewable Botox, and NyQuil. There is some debate over whether the death was accidental or suicide. While no note was left at the scene, a portion of Saylor’s life savings were discovered wadded up in his mouth, presumably to pay the ferryman for a safe voyage across the River Styx.
Donn was born on January 30, 1977, in rural Iowa. He spent his youth firmly parked too close to the television, watching soap operas and “The Golden Girls”. (Incidentally, his attempts later in life to legally change his name to Dorothy Zbornak were ultimately unsuccessful, as then-135-year-old Bea Arthur threatened to sue.) After graduating high school, Saylor moved to Los Angeles, where he attended an acting school much like the one in “Fame” (unfortunately, without the legwarmers). Donn spent most of his 20s in California and Iowa, usually in an alcohol- and/or drug-induced blur.
He found peace and a much-calmer existence once he quit drinking and met his future husband, John W. Beck IV, through an internet dating site where vegans find love. Donn and John were united in marriage on January 27, 2006, making them one of the first legally-married same sex couples in the country. In the first volume of his autobiography, Saylor admitted that during the nuptials, he peed his pants a little bit.
Over the next few years, Donn worked a variety of demeaning customer service jobs that proceeded to turn him into both a good-natured doormat and a spineless wimp. Inspired to never work in customer service again, it was during this time that Saylor began writing historical romance novels under the one-named moniker "Donnatella".
Donnatella has since become as famous as fellow single-titled legends Madonna or Cher, but only within the romance novel industry. Under this pseudonym, Saylor wrote nearly 7500 romance novels, including the pirate love story "Unbuckle My Swashbuckle", the lusty vampire tale "Bite On This", and the classic Renaissance England menage a trois romance "Two Codpieces, One Wishing Well".
Saylor's success, and speed (he turned out nearly 106 romances every year), with romance writing allowed him the means to devote his time to more serious literature. His debut novel, which appeared under his own name in 2010 with the unfortunate title "Poopsticks", was a scathing satire of contemporary greed, workplace incompetence, and general public service malaise. "Poopsticks" was regarded as a thinly-veiled memoir of Saylor's time serving in dead-end jobs and was reviewed in the New York Times as "the biggest pile of trash trying to pass itself off as respectable since Paris Hilton". Devastated by this review, more by the Paris Hilton comparison than the pile-of-trash remark, Saylor went into near-seclusion for the next several years with no published work appearing under his own name.
It is rumored that during these years Saylor spent much of his time at an ashram in India, studying with Baba Muffin McGee. Baba McGee is otherwise known as the reincarnation of Shirley MacLaine, and Saylor was a devout follower of the famous McGee/MacLaine teachings. The experience rejuvenated him, and he returned to the literary world in 2015 with his classic book "If You Can't Say Anything Nice About Anyone, Come Sit By Me".
"If You Can't Say Anything Nice" was a smash hit with both readers and critics and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, and the Danielle Steele Prize For Excellence in Literature. Saylor produced a string of successful books over the next forty years, including "I Know You Are But What Am I?", "I Love Humanity But I Hate People", and his highly successful five-volume autobiography, "A Life Spent in Poopy Pants".
Saylor retired from writing at the age of 80 and all but disappeared from public view. One notable exception was the funeral of film star Adrien Brody. Saylor threw himself on Brody's coffin, wailing proclamations of his undying love and asserting that the two men had been secret lovers for decades. The spectacle is considered a well-staged scene, since there is no record of Saylor and Brody even having met. Brody's widow sued, and Saylor was ordered to pay her an undisclosed sum (some speculate in the millions). After this incident, he retired to his Venetian palazzo and was not publicly heard from again.
Donn Saylor is survived by his husband, 109-year-old John Beck, who now lives in the Star Trek Commune in Greenland; 17 large dogs and two persnickety 71-year-old cats, Fergus and Claire (who, rumor has it, have both been kept alive by the same unknown miracle elixir that has kept Cher alive now for 131 years); and Ling, a Chinese dwarf and Saylor's longtime assistant. The details of his will state that his fortune should be divided equally among all of them, with the final percentage going to several causes of which Saylor was an active member, including Dykes On Bikes, The Drag Queen Literacy Initiative, and Greenpeace.
Saylor will be cremated, and a memorial service will be held at The Greenhouse Coffee Shop in Amsterdam. Bring your own rolling papers. In lieu of flowers, it is requested that you give money to your local food co-op so that they may provide more tofu to the general public.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Piss and Vinegar
"I'm filled with piss and vinegar! At first, I was just filled with vinegar." -Abe "Grampa" Simpson
When I was a kid, I loved Beverly Cleary's Ramona Quimby books. In one of the books (and for the life of me, I can't remember which one it was; if you remember, please let me know, I'd love to reread it), Ramona spends a great deal of the story in a state of righteous anger and responds by planning to do something she's never done before: swear. Most of the book is comprised of Ramona telling various people in her orbit that they better be careful because she's going to swear one day very, very soon. Different people have different reactions to the thought of the precocious little girl cursing a blue streak. Her parents, I recall, are supportive of her desire for self-expression, but make it clear that swearing is not the best way to handle her anger and pent-up emotion. But feisty Ramona is undeterred, and in the book's climactic scene, she finally lets it rip:
"GUTS!" she screams. "GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"
Well, today at work I almost paid homage to Ms. Quimby's tirade by letting fly a few choice words of my own. Granted, they would've been far more colorful and far more offensive, but they would've been appropriate. The day called for a swear of massive proportions, but I kept my maturity in check.
This is surprising because typically, in the course of my conversations (and writings) throughout the day, I am not so mature. For I do love to swear. I mean, I really, really love it. There isn't a single swear word I dislike or won't use. They are all so totally powerful and diverse, and most of them are interchangeable. I like the fluidity of the multi-purpose swear best, as these words can be acceptably used in a variety of circumstances.
Example: I might say something along the lines of, "That moronic f--k! He/She wants me to read the entire f--king catalog over the phone. F--k that!" Notice that in this one sentence, I am able to use the F word (and slight variations thereof) as a noun, an adjective, and a verb. This excites me.
To be entirely honest, not a lot of people in my life swear. My friend Tony, for one, never swears. Never ever. It baffles me as to how one can go through life without the beauty of an expletive passing between one's lips, but I have the utmost respect for the much more dignified road he takes. It is inevitable, though, that every time he and I have even the most basic and unassuming of conversations, I come off as a wizened, bitter, flannel-clad truck driver. But that's OK. That image captures my swear-crazed self pretty accurately.
The truck driver almost made his first appearance at my workplace today. You see, I realized something huge about my job and the lack of satisfaction I have with it. All along, since the day I started, I'd thought something was wrong with me. That I am the crazy and ridiculous one who just can't make the job work. But today it became evident that I am not the crazy one at all. I am quite sane, and the responses I've had to various people and situations at work are totally understandable. Not just understandable, but sane. I am working in a company rife with INsane (and I mean that quite literally) office politics, fragile egos, and misguided energy. And when you're one of the few sane ones in a setting like this, you have two choices. You can A) join the batshit craziness and respond in turn, or you can B) step away from the damaging environment in the name of self-preservation.
Despite it all, despite everything I've been through in my life, my sense of self-preservation is unshakable. It guides me with its fountains of awareness and knowledge and miraculously remains intact in even the most clusterf--ked of circumstances. Ah, there I did it again: a short prologued word slapped on, and f--k has yet another meaning!
It's grown apparent that I need to leave my job and find better employment (and money), and hopefully some small grain of happiness, with another career. But the idea of starting the job search again is about as appealing as getting pistol-whipped. And, of course, there is the very probable chance that I will land the exact same job with another equally-unfixable company.
This brings with it massive amounts of frustration and anger. When my mini-epiphany happened today, I wanted to jump on my desk and let loose with every swear word in the book. Partly in frustration, partly in anger, and even partly in celebration. Making a realization like I did can also be tremendously liberating. It can light the fires of change. Hopefully that fire will burn directly under my ass, so I can hightail it outta Dodge with no regrets.
I see now that having the truck driver show up at work today wouldn't have been appropriate. More appropriate would've been Ramona Quimby. Had she had the courage to show herself, Ms. Quimby could have captured my thoughts, my sadness, my rage, with one inoffensive and powerful statement:
"GUTS! GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"
Guts, indeed.
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