No Country for Old Meh

OK. Now I consider myself a pretty astute and intelligent filmgoer. When I watch a movie, I am not simply observing an interplay of characters on a screen. I watch films through several different lenses: I (try) to see the director's vision, the writer's intentions, the actors abilities; these are just a few examples of how I digest a film. And I give all movies an equal shake on this; my multi-faceted scrutiny is not reserved just for "highbrow" films: I apply it to the largest grandest epic to the most silly slapstick comedy.

Approaching film-watching in this manner typically results in a more balanced critique. Like, the story may have sucked but the actors made it watchable. Or, the actors came off as community theater rejects but the end titles were in a nice font. You see my point. There are very few movies I outright hate -- or outright love.

And there are even fewer that outright confuse me.

Like most sharp-minded, red-blooded human beings, I hate looking like a dumbass. Especially when it comes to a subject in which I consider myself a bit of an aficionado, like movies. When a particular film is lauded with critical praise, heaps of awards, and the acclaim of millions of moviegoers, and I see the flick and just don't get it, I feel kinda dumb. What did I miss? What didn't I see, that clearly everyone else saw? It makes me feel as if there's some great joke that I haven't been let in on.

The latest movie in which I missed the punchline in a big, big way is "No Country for Old Men". Last night, I settled in to watch this film, all ready to enjoy a rollicking, highly original piece of art as only the Coen brothers can produce. And, 122 minutes later, I was left with one feeling and one feeling only about this multiple Oscar winner, critic's darling, and box office smash. I was left with "Meh".

Allow me to attempt a translation of "Meh" as applied to "No Country for Old Men".

The movie wasn't bad. The movie wasn't good. But I suppose I failed at seeing it through the lens of the directors' vision, since I didn't really see much of anything at all happening. Granted, this stark simplicity is a Coen brothers trademark: their films tend to move slowly though methodically, introducing fascinating and unique characters along the way, presenting deliciously dark and twisted moments of intensity, leading up to an unforgettable climax. Though I couldn't identify any of these elements in "No Country". It's more aimless than slow. The characters are more one-dimensional than human. And the usual dark humor and memorable climax were missing altogether.

But I know this is what some people liked about the movie. They enjoyed that the Coens stepped out of their "violent black comedy" genre and made a movie that was entirely different for them. A) It's the first time they presented an adaptation of someone else's work; "No Country" is based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy, and though I haven't read the book, most agree that it is a faithful, almost identical reworking of the novel. B) The movie eschews their usual dark and bloody humor for dramatic and deathly-serious mayhem, the consensus being that this is the first interpretation of "real life" the Coens have given us without clever, quirky little commentaries. And C) "Hurrah!" Hollywood seems to be shouting. "You've finally abandoned your artsy-fartsy ways and given us the guns and blood and explosions the world so desperately needs!"

Well. I don't need it. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the riskier, darker, wonderfully wicked Coen brothers that gave the world such American masterpieces as "Blood Simple" and the amazing "Fargo". Don't get me wrong, all of the Coen's movies are violent and bloody and extreme, but in their pre-"No Country" work, it's typically in aid of a higher purpose: painting a certain picture of a certain community of endearingly oddball characters in moments of sinfully entertaining crisis. To me, "No Country for Old Men" seemed to be violent only for the sake of violence, and any hope of the Coen brother's usual wit was substituted with a pretty ho-hum story of a bunch of bad guys chasing each other for a bunch of money. Meh.

Normally by this point in a movie review, I would've given you a synopsis of what the movie is about. But if you reread the second-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph, you pretty much have the gist of it. There's nothing new here. There's nothing surprising. There's nothing revolutionary. And there's nothing I found even remotely unique.

So why all the praise? Why all the unabashed adoration for this film? Sure, it's the Coen brothers and they are a respected cinematic institution. Yes, the actors all do fine work here (Javier Bardem is a stand-out -- and somehow manages to still look incredibly sexy even with that ridiculous bowl-haircut; and I am a big fan of Tommy Lee Jones, I think he's the most underrated and underappreciated actor in movies today...plus he reminds me of my dad). Yup, the cinematography is great and adds to the overall mood of ruthless desert bedlam. Of course, with the Coen's adaptation of the great McCarthy's words, the script and (surprisingly sparse) dialog are commendable. So yeah, I can see giving a nod to "No Country" for being an acceptable departure from the Coen's usual work. But this movie was a critical and commercial blockbuster! And I totally missed why! Argh.

I think it's in order that I watch "Fargo" again tonight, just to remind myself of the many, many reasons why Joel and Ethan Coen are masters of their craft.

The (Super)Power and the Glory

I just read a very entertaining article on one of my favorite blogs. In it, the author discusses what superpowers she would like to have.

John once told me he often fantasizes about what superhuman powers he would choose, if such a thing were possible. The one he desires the most is the ability to make it rain on command, usually over the head of a disrespectful smoker with whom we are in close quarters. I think this ability is one possessed by some comic book character he enjoys. I'm not sure which one, being that I run screaming and pulling out (what's left of) my hair whenever anything to do with comic books, superheroes, or supernatural powers are mentioned.

Given those feelings, I confess I only decided to examine my own secret superpower daydreams because I was drawing a blank on what to write about today. And so, onto my list of Fantasy Superpowers. In order to get the full effect, you may want to hold some kryptonite while you read this post.

Actually, scratch that. I have no idea what kryptonite even is, I was just trying to get in the mood.

Bilocation. Despite the ambiguous moniker, this doesn't mean I want to make sexy with both men and women. It means that I'd like to have the ability to be in two places at once. I'm not talking cloning: I'm envisioning just one me in two places simultaneously. Yeah, it's confusing. But it's not altogether fantastic. Many devoutly spiritual people (saints, healers, holy men) have been said to possess the power of bilocation. Of course, they probably did it by ingesting massive amounts of communion wine or peyote; I'll have to research that part a bit more. Regardless, one part of me I would send to work, the other would stay at home and watch foreign films and eat fudge. At the end of the workday, I would magically meld back into a single entity. I would listen to my worker self kvetch about the boredom and ridiculousness of my job. Then, in an effort to soothe and self-medicate, I would eat more fudge.

Hair Mastery. Oh what bliss it would be to be able to control my hair. Some days I enjoy having a shaved head, but on others I would really like to have my long flowing locks back. It would be grand to run my hand over my scalp and command my coif to fit whatever mood or style I might be feeling that day. In a similar vein, I could finally control the pesky hairs that indiscriminately pop up on my shoulders. I'm by no means a bear of a man, so the presence of these random follicles truly vexes me. I usually take care of them with a Bic, though I did get waxed once. I admit the end result was pleasant, but the process itself can only be described as an untapped-into torture method. It might also be fun to command myself totally hairless everywhere. I'd like to see what those prissy little twinks are so damn prissy about.

Superstar Power. For one day, it would so fun to be a celebrity. Not just your run-of-the-mill tabloid whore, but a real, bona-fide superstar. I'd roll out of bed at noon, be chauffeured to Starbucks for a venti soy cinnamon dolce latte, with the paps in tow. Then I would saunter on over to a movie or TV studio, where I would film a two minute cameo in one take and have a a million-dollar check in hand before leaving. Dinner would be somewhere glamorous, like Spago, or Sizzler. And then on to a night of debauchery...the only remnants of which would be published the next day: another swaying, unsteady star getting into a limo with no underwear.

X-Ray Vision. OK, this one is pretty run-of-the-mill, I admit. But how cool would it be to have x-ray vision that you can switch on and off at will? As much as I'd like to say I'd spend my time checking out anyone I was remotely interested in seeing naked, let's be real. I'd spend my entire life watching Adrien Brody movies on constant repeat.

Brain Control. I would find it so rewarding to be able to walk up to any stupid person and smack them upside the head. Before they could respond, my all-powerful smack would've already implanted common sense into their brains. They would thank me and go on their way, and, alas, there's one less stupid person in the world. There is one major drawback to this superpower, though: I'd get nothing accomplished. I'd spend my days walking around slapping the great majority of the population.

WAIT. I just realized something. Will possession of any of these superpowers require me to wear tights? Oh happy day! This is a delicious fantasy, indeed!

Pink Morning

"The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day." -John Milton


Today I came across a fascinating, heartbreaking article on the NPR website. It profiles two young boys dealing with gender identity issues and the brave, well-intentioned set of parents trying to make sense of it all. One of the boys is under the care of a psychologist, Dr. Ken Zucker, who views transgenderism as a disorder that needs simple "correcting". The other boy is treated by psychologist and gender expert Diane Ehrensaft, who looks at the issue as a non-issue: her client suffers from no disorder, thereby making any effort to change him a moot point. Her theory, which I wholeheartedly agree with, is to just let the kid be a kid. Give him freedom to experiment and explore and live and learn. Trying to brainwash and control his very feelings is dangerous and very, very wrong.

Sadly, this brainwash and control is something Dr. Zucker advocates. He advises his patient's parents to control everything, everything, the boy comes in contact with. His theory, so flawed and damaging I would call it abusive, is to surround the kid with only "boy things". The most heartbreaking part of the story for me was when the mother noted that her child has learned to lead "a double life....I'm still quite certain he is with the girls all the time at school, and so he knows to behave one way at school, and then when he comes home, there's a different set of expectations." The poor kid is also terrorized now by the color pink. Just glimpsing the color can set off his natural rage at having to stifle who he really is.

For all our attempts to define ourselves a "civilized people", it's cases like this that prove we're far from it. While Ehrensaft's patient has thrived, Zucker's has grown withdrawn and depressed. What the world is telling him, in a blatant, cold-hearted manner, is that it's not OK to be who you are. Conform, conform, conform. Bend yourself to the will, comfort levels, and expectations of those around you. You have a disorder. And it's all your fault.

Man, this child's parents should immediately start looking for second jobs and take a loan out against their house, because they're going to need the cashola for therapy bills. While the other kid grows up to be a happy, healthy, well-adjusted, self-assured human being (male, female, or whatever route he should choose to take), theirs will be so entrenched in keeping straight the personae of his double life that he won't have time to even THINK about happiness.

All this led me to examine my own childhood, and my own preferences in colors, toys, and clothes. It should come as no surprise that I was mesmerized by high heels, nail polish, and the glamorous divas of the ABC soaps. But I equally loved riding my Big Wheel, digging in the dirt, and having snowball fights. The pastimes I relished most, however, were truly genderless. The bulk of my childhood was spent playing with stuffed animals (yes, a lot of little boys do this), reading, writing stories, and coloring. Above all else, though, I loved acting. Falling into the most outlandish reaches of my imagination, I would play-act and pantomime all sorts of scenes and characters, and I loved every minute of it. I never liked pink or any Easter-y pastel colors; in fact, I never gave a lot of thought to any colors and was always hard-pressed to pick a favorite when asked. I never wanted to wear an evening gown and was just fine with my dungarees. If my parents handed me a baseball bat, I would've reacted with the same disinterest had they handed me a Barbie purse.

But I, of course, was not born with transgenderism. There was balance in the boy- and girl-stuff in which I was interested. My parents had the great good sense to let me explore and enjoy my childhood. Though I've no doubt they hoped for a butch little bruiser of a kid who was an ace baseball player and star of the football team, they didn't say much to divert me from the less gender-defined things to which I gravitated. Sure, they discouraged some of them at first (how many 7-year-olds know all the actors' names on "One Life to Live"?), but in the end, they just let it be. And that was a tremendous gift.

My only hope is that Dr. Zucker's patient receives this same gift. I hope his parents, after hearing their story on NPR, are inspired to objectively investigate what the so-called "treatment" is doing to their child. Would they rather have a depressed, suicidal kid than a vibrantly alive one -- just because he might happen to prefer diamonds to dirt-bikes? There is nothing wrong with their child. The only thing wrong or unnatural or immoral is a society that forces him -- or any of us -- to be something we are not.