if you haven't ...

If you haven't read Jennifer Egan's short story in this week's New Yorker, do so now. It's called "Found Objects" and it's simply thrilling.

something else

I just realized that my last few posts have been totally film-centric. There's more going on in my life, trust me, but things have been so busy that it's been a chore to write. I do want to do a Thanksgiving post, but there's still a lot to digest on that one (surely I could come up with a better way to put that ... buy you know what I mean).

Anyway, winter hit New York this weekend. I awoke to snow on Sunday morning, and even though I was still fighting a head cold (which I am still not rid of), I took a brief walk in my neighborhood. It was another "I Love New York" moment, with everything blanketed in white, snow still falling, smiles galore, etc. And, even though people were out and about, it was markedly calm. The clamor of 2nd avenue felt especially dulled.

I picked up a new pair of gloves, too, given that I have already sacrificed one pair to the subway gods (ugh). I've never understood fingerless gloves. They just seem like a frost bite accelerant. But lately I've seen people wearing fingerless gloves that convert to mittens ... the mitten portion folds over the fingers when you're braving the elements, and then you can fold it back and use your fingertips when grabbing cash, keys, etc. When I was out among the snow flurries, I picked up a pair. I'm totally pro. They eliminate the anxiety of the seasonal fumbling for things ... and allow you to keep your gloves on all the time, making them a tad harder to lose.

So, there you go, a post about something other than film. We can file this one under accessories.

sick day

I'm finally on the mend after two days of nose-running, body-aching, head-clunking illness. I even took a sick day on Friday, so I turned into the office guy who talks about never getting sick who actually got sick. Staying in hasn't been fun. I've decided that New York may be the least pleasant place to be sick. There's stuff going on everywhere, and to be stuck in a bedroom this small for so long feels criminal. It would feel like a jail cell if it wasn't so well-decorated.
When I was a kid, my mom made the prospect of staying home sick as unpleasant as possible. No TV. No action figures. No coloring books. It was all throat-mopping, pedialyte-swilling contemplation. Feigning illness came with no incentives. So even during this quarantine, when I flipped on the TV, I felt like I was cheating. And while I would have much preferred being at work (and being able to go out this weekend), I was able to catch up on a load of movies I missed that are now on video.
Here's a rundown:
I started with Hairspray, which I resisted for a number of reasons when it was released this summer. I saw the show when it was new to Broadway, and was totally unimpressed. I thought it sucked the crude joy out of the John Waters classic ... the only thing that didn't make it Disney was a lack of mouse ears. The movie's no different, but it works better here. It's a fun, bubble gum trifle, and that's fine. It's a far better screen effort than Dreamgirls ... this one glides from dialogue to song effortlessly, and the talent is pretty consistent. Nikki Blonsky is adorable in the lead, Zac Efron is pretty, John Travolta is from another planet. It works. The only one that doesn't fit is Michelle Pfeiffer, who can't sing, is too thin, suffers from a Nicole Kidman-esque inability to make a facial expression, and doesn't seem to be having any fun.


After having seen Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino's lackluster contribution to Grindhouse, I wasn't too eager to catch Planet Terror, Robert Rodriguez' zombie-fest companion. I caved ... and am totally glad I did. Plant Terror delivers everything Tarantino couldn't muster. It's shamelessly campy, intentionally bad, it's in on the joke and doesn't care. Blood oozes through every frame, the audio crackles and the reels skip and shudder along. It's as fun and entertaining as anything I've seen recently. Josh Brolin gamely plays a masochistic doctor ... he's had a killer year. The best part? Anyone who loathes Fergie will get to see zombies eat her brains. When I saw that, I was sold.

I thought I was done with horror films after Planet Terror, but the real monster movie turned out to be La Vie en Rose, the biopic of French songbird Edith Piaf. Marion Cotillard has gotten heavy awards buzz for her portrayal of Piaf, and I can see why. It's yet another impersonation that finds an actor mouthing lyrics in between shots of whisky (see also Ray, Walk the Line, The Rose, The Doors ... the list goes on and on). This one, like the rest, chronicles the hard-knock life of a budding artiste. With Piaf, it's almost too much to believe. Raised by prostitutes. Goes blind as a child only to regain sight at the most dramatically opportune moment. Grows up to drink like a fish. Has a romantic life akin only to Elizabeth Taylor's. Looks 75 by the age of 40.
The production design, costumes and cinematography cannot be faulted. And Cotillard? Well, maybe I'm being too harsh. Her Piaf is a slurry, sloshing beast. She rips through the picture with teeth gnashing, her nails like talons and her lips aflame. At moments she looks more like one of De Kooning's devouring women than anything else. I normally enjoy watching despicable characters on screen (I find villains and deadbeats to be infinitely more interesting than heroes), but Piaf is too vile even for me. She's the cinematic equivalent of a spilt bottle of wine. It doesn't help that Cotillard is weighed down by fake teeth that jut from her mouth like something out of the Jerry Lewis canon and penciled-in eyebrows that wouldn't suit even the least-convincing drag queen. These snafus make the artifice surrounding the performance glaring and distracting. The seams totally show.

For a more convincing bit of stunt casting, I would recommend Angelina Jolie in A Mighty Heart, which finds the most photographed woman in the world masquerading as the wife of slain journalist Daniel Pearl.
The movie itself isn't as good. It plays more like Law & Order: Pakistan than anything else, an intricate investigation that leads to an inevitable result. It works because Pearl is a fascinating heroine who refuses to succumb to weepy-wife cliches (I was waiting for the Reese Witherspoon "Tell me where he is!" catharsis). Instead, she's seething with anger, confusion and emotion. It's an astonishingly subtle portrayal until the requisite purging of rage when she learns of her husband's fate. I wished she and director Michael Winterbottom would have held back in that moment, but I'll forgive the misstep. To play against the grain and avoid the cloying sentiment that trivializes heartbreak and loss in so many films is commendable. Even if the rest of the movie feels like a cable-ready crime drama.

wrapping up again

I've seen quite a few movies lately, but due to the hectic pace of life and such, I haven't written in a while. A few weeks ago, the morning after my birthday party, I bombed around downtown, aimless and desperately haggard and ended up catching Margot at the Wedding, Noah Baumbach's follow-up to The Squid and the Whale. It's smart and daring and feels very much like the first effort after a breakthrough success. Baumbach gets away with scathing dialogue, repellent characters and a dramatically shapeless narrative structure. Some would note these traits with derision, but they really are what makes the film great and different than so many current American films.
The film follows the uncomfortable domestic clash between a successful writer (Nicole Kidman) and her approval-seeking sister (Jennifer Jason Leigh). It's full of incidents (a wedding tent collapses, neighbors squabble, marriages collapse), but nothing really happens. Baumbach deftly plumbs the love-hate relationship between siblings, allowing the film to breath and move at its own pace. It's a refreshing, naturalistic take, and Baumbach writes dialogue better than anyone today ("Maybe I'll move to Williamsburg? People are moving their, right?" Pauline asks. Margot replies, "Pauline, it's for young people.")
The weak link is Kidman, who can't help but be terribly mannered. Baumbach's jilted camera work, use of close-ups and jumpy editing call for a stripped-down acting style. I imagine Laura Linney in the role, not only because Margot closely resembles the character Linney played in Squid, but because she is so natural and unpretentious.
Leigh does raw emotion better than most actresses, and here she turns Pauline into a messy ball of unstable vulnerability. It's killer work from one of our best (have you seen Georgia?).

No Country for Old Men, the new Coen Brothers movie, has been getting more buzz than any movie this fall (reference my previous post about trying to catch a sold out late night show). I finally caught it, and must say that while technically flawless with an intriguing aesthetic, it's just a solid thriller that falters when it tries to become something more in the third act.
When a West Texas good ole boy (Josh Brolin) stumbles upon a stash of drug money when hunting in the desert, his life changes forever. He makes off with the cash, leaving his trailer trash wife (Kelly MacDonald) behind. Soon, a vengeful gun for hire (Javier Bardem in a towering performance) and a wise old sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones) are on his trail. There are a few masterfully edited chase sequences, and the performances are terrific, but the Coens make an odd decision with the climax. Perspectives shift, a great deal of action occurs off screen, and the wise old cop waxes philosophical. Sure, it's fine, but I like my thrillers to end in a bloodbath.
Brolin, who has always been a bit of a cheeseball, channels Rock Hudson and other 50s idols with his broad chin and beefy stature. He carries the film well, and will hopefully continue to progress. The film will be remembered for Bardem's gleefully sardonic work. It's chilly, frightful, and one of the most memorable villainous turns in recent memory.

And, finally, I caught Todd Haynes' much-talked-about Bob Dylan biopic I'm Not There over the Thanksgiving holiday. I've always had a crush on Todd Haynes. Because of the flesh-eating disease in Poison, because of the title sequence in Safe, because of the music videos in Velvet Goldmine, because of Far From Heaven in its entirety, because he went to Brown, because he's outspoken, because he was on the forefront of the queer cinema movement, and because he's the most academic filmmaker working in the mainstream today. Basically, he's my intellectual crush and I would totally blush in his presence.
I'm Not There is a bit of a disappointment, an overly ambitious, hyper-fragmented dissection of both Dylan and the artifice of celebrity. By now we all know that six actors portray Dylan-esque figures at different points in his evolution as an artist and idol. Yep, they're a few stunts (a black kid, a woman, Richard Gere). The whole thing doesn't coalesce, and feels a bit like the cinematic equivalent of a fallen souffle.
It's a bit of a shame given my love for Haynes, and the grand black-and-white segments with Cate Blanchett as the Blonde on Blonde-era Dylan. These bits have the absurdity and grandeur of a Fellini film, and are as visually exciting and alive as anything put on film recently. It goes without saying that Blanchett is the best working today, and here she gives us the performance of her career. Mimicry is so in right now with actors (Jamie Foxx, Reese Witherspoon, everyone's doing it), but this transcends the game. She strikes closer to Dylan than the rest, it feels like a real character, and you forget who you're watching. My jaw totally dropped.

the last movie i saw

I love catching late movies. There's something satisfying about slipping into a ten or eleven o'clock show just as the light goes down. It's also one of the only ways to go the movies without buying tickets ahead of time in the city (i.e. planning). At least, that's what I'd found to be the case until last night. I tried to see No Country for Old Men, on a whim, but got to the theater (that awful multiplex at Union Square) to find it sold out. It was one of those "everyone in New York has the same idea" moments. I'm dying to see this one, it's gotten the best reviews of any film this year and its impossible to pass up the Coens in serious mode (none of this Intolerable Cruelty nonsense). It looks like a throwback to their first film, Blood Simple, a hardboiled Texas noir, which is one of my favorite films.
So, I came home with a shrug and decided to watch Last Days, Gus Van Sant's poetic rumination on grunge icon Kurt Cobain. It's a strikingly unusual film ... it feels almost experimentally taciturn, non-linear and rambling. This makes it a tough sit for some, but others (myself in the front row) find it mesmerizing and beautiful. As the Cobain figure, Michael Pitt (so compelling in The Dreamers) stutters in and out of the frame with a soiled mop of blond hair and slurs the incoherent musings of a tragic rock figure. He's hardly audible, but that's the point. He doesn't know what he's saying either.
More so than any other filmmaker, Van Sant has the ability to capture wayward youth culture with an eye more endearing than critical. Look at Drugstore Cowboy and My Own Private Idaho ... both neo-classics about drug-tainted youth culture on the run. Last Days captures the spirit of these earlier ventures and nearly wipes away the stench left by Elephant, Van Sant's miscalculated exploration of a Columbine-like school shooting, which was aesthetically vibrant but suffered unforgivable narrative sloppiness.
The real joy of this film comes from the small moments that will make any rock lover swoon ... Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon shows up for a quickie scene, another character sings along with the Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs." And, if that hasn't won you over, a few shaggy-haired hipsters, complete with square-framed glasses and wool ski caps, climb into bed together. Talk about swooning.

because you shouldn't have to be a celebrity to fill out the New York survey

After reading Brian Williams' stomach-turning responses to New York's survey, I decided to give it a try. If you didn't know, real people are almost always more fascinating than celebrities. If you're so inclined, turn in yours in the comments section.

Who: Jon
Job: Communication Analyst
Age: 23 (24 on Monday ... eeep!)
Neighborhood: East Village
Who's your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?: I bet a lot of people pick Daisy Buchanan. Real, living is Joan Didion. Real, dead is Dorothy Parker. Fictional? Annie Hall.
What's the best meal you've eaten in New York?: When I was in high school we would go to Cafe Artistes the day after Thanksgiving every year with visiting friends. All of those meals, combined.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?: I develop and implement communication strategies for companies.
Where do you get your coffee?: The fresh roast place on 8th St. and 2nd Ave., Cafe Pick Me Up, that guy in the cart outside my office who has memorized my morning order. I don't even have to say "the usual."
What's the last thing you saw on Broadway?: The Year of Magical Thinking.
Do you give money to panhandlers?: If I have change in my pocket.
What's your drink?: Jack and (Diet) Coke.
How often do you prepare your own meals: I rarely don't.
What's hanging above your sofa?: In my bedroom I have a large silk screen of a black vinyl record on an orange canvas.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?: I spend too much. This is a touchy subject. Let's move on.
When's bedtime?: Somewhere north of midnight.
Brunch. Pro or con?: It's my favorite meal to have out.
What's your thread count?: Ask me in 10 years.
What do you hate most about living in New York?: Rent.
What's your brand of jeans: St. Augustine, from a boutique in Echo Park in LA.
When's the last time you drove a car?: September. (I'm new).
Who should be the next president?: Hillary.
Times, Post or Daily News?: Times (of course).
Yankees or Mets?: If you had a ticket, I would go to either game, as beer would be involved regardless.
What makes someone a New Yorker?: Gumption, wit, sass, neurosis and the belief that living anywhere else would be a waste of time.

insert norma rae joke here

The media frenzy surrounding the Writer's Guild strike is pretty fascinating. Thank goodness Tina Fey and Eva Longoria walked the line, otherwise, mainstream America would have trouble putting a face on the scribes' plight.
I wholly support the strike. When I lived in LA, I had a variety of jobs, all of which involved screenwriters. I interned for a producer at Paramount who gets along with and nurtures writers famously. I ended up as the assistant to a lit manager, on the phone with writers everyday. Most of the writers I knew were sharp, talented and friendly. All were passionate.
Given my experience, I consider myself fairly familiar with the writer's place on the Hollywood food chain. Considering the industry's mammoth cash flow, writers are underpaid and under-appreciated. Talent salaries invite a somber comparison. Compound this with the harried neurosis of a creative mind, and you've got a potentially prickly set who are (mostly) too smart for the town they call home.
This strike isn't about general salary; it's about new media. Sure, DVD residuals are on the table again, and that's good. Writers only see a slim portion of those proceeds, and considering the cash cow that is the home video market, they deserve a bigger cut. Digital content and the internet are the real issues here. Writers want to be protected for the online content they create. Pretty simple. If someone creates a character online who becomes a youtube phenom, they want to be protected and see residuals if a sitcom or movie deal ever happens. They just want the same protection online that they have in other mediums.
So why are the studios so resistant? Because these demands force them to examine their currently outdated business model. Hollywood has been mystified and confused with the digital realm for a while now. Without the tangibility of a DVD, a ticket stub or a CD, they're at a loss for how to make money. They're both eager to make every possible penny but also afraid to change the way things are and risk tipping the ever-tenuous balance that holds the town together. Fear and greed? Yep, that's a pretty volatile cocktail.

smug alert

I sometimes wonder if pop culture has been too tough on news anchormen. James L. Brooks has staked a career on poking fun at these dignified, seemingly informed pretty boys. There's dimwitted Ted Baxter on The Mary Tyler Moore Show; the vacuous, upwardly mobile twit played by William Hurt in Broadcast News; and, not least of all, silver-haired cartoon character Kent Brockman on The Simpsons. Other instances in other people's films abound. Christopher Plummer's portrayal of an image-obsessed Mike Wallace in Michael Mann's The Insider had the real Wallace fuming. And we can't forget Bill Murray's seething weather man in Groundhog Day. He's so unpleasant that only an otherworldly plot device can inspire change.
But, after reading an interview with NBC's nightly talking head Brian Williams in New York last week, I am beginning to think that these filmmakers may have the right idea. If there was a meter for smugness, this nonsense would be off the charts. Let's do a rundown:

- He's against brunch. "Brunch is an unnatural event, invented by the restaurant industry. Life is about hard choices. Before noon on weekends, it's called breakfast. After that, it's lunch. Pick one." These are harsh words that totally clash with my personal beliefs. Williams sounds like the kind of guy who denies himself life's pleasures. He probably hasn't had dessert in a decade. The joyous texture of powdered sugar is probably a mystery to him.

- He refuses to disclose his political affiliations, but nevertheless makes a crack about the cost of John Edwards' haircut. Ugh, can't we let this innocuous gossip item go already?

- He's a pedestrian-knocking New York driver. When asked what he hates most about living in New York, he cites "the relatively new 'pedestrian empowerment' of crossing the street after the light has changed and glaring at oncoming drivers as if to say, 'Go ahead and hit me.'" First off, it's silly to be driving in New York. I don't care how Upper East Side (Williams' neighborhood) a person is. This is a pedestrian friendly city, Mr. Williams, and if you continue to feel such disdain, may I suggest a move to LA? But, beware, that town brunches like no other.

the last movie i saw

This was certainly a movie weekend. Today, hungover and dealing with a case of "I did what last night?" I decided to finally see Into the Wild, the much-lauded new film from director (and kick-ass actor) Sean Penn.
It's the true story of a college grad (Emile Hirsch) who ditches the trappings of his bourgeois family life, snips his credit cards, donates his savings to charity and hits the open road. He heads West, of course, in search of the restorative power of the natural landscape.
It's a stunning film, deeply moving, but, thankfully, never cloying or sentimental. It plays almost like a video diary, a collection of vivid images and moments often set against a stirring score or original Eddie Vedder song (I've never really been into him, but here he provides the perfect sound for the action).
The film, like so many right now, toys with chronology. Unlike, say Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, it's an effective device here. Because Hirsch's fleeting encounters with random strangers comprise so much of the movie, a non-linear structure prevents the film from becoming episodic. The performances are uniformly excellent. Hirsch ably carries the whole thing, with dynamic supporting work from Catherine Keener as an aging hippie and surrogate mother, Marcia Gay Harden as Hirsch's real-life, nightmarish mom, and especially Hal Holbrook as a lonely do-gooder who meets Hirsch late in his journey. Holbrook's a suave old-timer, and I wouldn't be surprised to see him walk off with an award or two for this one. His performance, like the film, is tender and moving.

short cuts

Lately, I haven't been very good about getting to the movies. When I was in high school, I wrote a weekly movie review column with my dad for the local paper. As a result, I got into the habit of seeing at least one movie a week. I did the Arts section for my college newspaper, and I kept a similar schedule. But now, as a grown-up (eek!), it's harder. Time (and money) are at a premium. But, since moving to New York, I've made more of an effort. I really love film, and it feels odd to not stay current. Similarly, it feels odd not writing about film on a weekly, if not daily, basis. So, I am going to try to keep track of my viewing habits on this blog.
I saw Elizabeth: The Golden Age a few weeks ago, it's opening weekend, I believe. What a mess. It's all a blur of feathers, scowls, raised eyebrows, ripped bodices and red wigs. I loved the first Elizabeth film, and found it to be an intriguing contemporary interpretation of the normally stale costume drama. It was visually brazen and gave us Cate Blanchett, who is so clearly the new Meryl Streep. In the sequel, which finds Elizabeth settling into the "Bette Davis Period" of her reign, even Blanchett seems ill-at-ease with the proceedings. Sure, she gets a grand speech about having a hurricane within her. Yeah, she gets to wear boy armor and ride around on a horse. Clive Owen's around, but you never really know why. To call it disjointed would be too kind. At the least the costumes are ravishing (rivaling the primo duds from Marie Antoinette, but overall, a less visually coherent or aesthetically impressive film). And Samantha Morton has too small a part as the bilious Mary Queen of Scots. It's an amusingly sinister performance, one that seems meant for a different (and better) movie.
I just got back from seeing Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, an uber-buzzworthy indie from veteran director Sidney Lumet. After a knockout career in the 70s (he did Network), Lumet faded into schlock territory in the 80s and 90s. He was even responsible for the Sharon Stone clunker Gloria. Oh how the mighty fall. Many people have labeled this film, about the perfect crime gone tragically awry, a comeback picture. And while it does offer a visual coherence and attention to character detail that hearken back to 70s cinema, it's also a fairly cliched, melodramatic and contrived caper film. The film's biggest problem is the jumbled chronology of the narrative ... in the spirit of Babel I suppose. Sometimes this device works (it's great in Pulp Fiction) but here it just feels like an attempt to hide the holes in the plot. Movies about sibling strife, financial desperation, anguish and guilt depend on tension to hold everything together. Long silences, swelling tears, etc. When you hop around, you lose this crucial glue and end up with a few nice scenes and that's about it. Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman have great fun playing misfit brothers who decide to knock over their parents' jewelry store. Hoffman's is a more one-dimensional, almost cartoonish portrayal. I think it's the way the character's written. This guy can do anything, really, and is nothing if not fun to watch. Hawke struck me as the real revelation. Sometimes he's too twitchy and self-conscious on screen, but here he plays naive and troubled with conviction. I don't get those trumpeting this one as an Oscar contender. Hawke, yes, and even Hoffman, too. But it should stop there.

pumpkins!

For me, it isn't fall without candy corn and the smell of rotting pumpkins. Let's not glamorize it. Every year, we stuff ourselves on sugar and corn syrup and revel in the aroma of a hollowed-out, slowly dying vegetable. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I think I'll always carve a pumpkin. I did it last year, alone in LA, because I had very little to cling to that was normal, sane and familiar. I bought it at the Hollywood farmer's market, carved it with a kit my parents sent me, and let it live in my fireplace, where I normally kept my shoes.

This year, in New York, I had people to carve with. Wine, knives, pumpkins. I bought this one at a bodega, which, unless you live in New York, you can't really grasp. The bodega is part of the thread that holds it all together. They sell everything, including pumpkins in October.

This guy (pictured above) is a hefty fella, and as you can tell, my knife skills, especially after a few glasses of white, aren't stellar. But he's endearing. Even jolly. And how can you resist a pumpkin with eyebrows like that?

goodbye blue monday

I am off to my first book club. The book? Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, which I read in middle school (far too young for such things.) Anyway, I'm not wild about it. But I do love this sentiment: "It is harder to be unhappy while eating Craig's ice cream!"

oh the places i've been

After an unseasonably warm October thus far, Fall hit New York this past weekend. And though it may have just been a tease - they say this week will make October one of the warmest on record - it was my most "I love New York" weekend yet.
I won't go into too many details, but let's just say it involved a rather magical combination of Williamsburg bars, free hugs, French photographs in Soho, a dinner party, Issey Miyake cologne, organic apple sauce, a gondola and a run along the West Side Highway. Hard to beat.

just because

This picture is from a friend's apartment in Austin. I'm posting it because it's Saturday, I'm hungover, I just did laundry and part of me has always wanted to be the girl who pops out of the cake.

the last movie i saw

One of the best columns I wrote for my college newspaper was called "Movies by Myself" (named after that great Rufus Wainwright song) about my love of going to the movies alone. After two nights of non-moderate fun (Thursday was happy hour and a gimlet-laden bad date and Friday was Lower East Side bar-hopping and a party in Chelsea in which I fell for the hostess' boyfriend) I needed a quiet night. So, last night I went uptown and caught Michael Clayton, the new George Clooney legal thriller.

It's a slick, stylish character-driven thriller that resembles a cold, steely hybrid of Michael Mann's The Insider and a cynical, unsentimental Erin Brockovich. Clooney is the titular "fixer" for a high-profile New York law firm that is in the midst of representing a corporation being sued for poisoning hundreds of farmers with a lethal weed killer. When the lead lawyer for the defense (Tom Wilkinson) goes crazy and threatens to leak incriminating evidence to the prosecution, the corporate backstabbing takes a literal turn. It's high-intensity filmmaking with stellar performances. I wouldn't be surprised if Wilkinson nets awards attention - the audience I saw the movie with really connected with the performance. Tilda Swinton, as the chief counsel for the corporation, is also excellent (as usual). It's a chilly exercise in malevolence, and I can't remember a time when an actress' physical transformation has been such a crucial part of the performance. With sweaty armpits and significant belly fat, the art house goddess really looks like a fierce career woman beginning to crack.

meg ryan's best friend

In the movie version of our lives, most of us would like to think of ourselves as the Meg Ryan type - a plucky, adorable singleton who will find love in the end despite all quirks and flaws. Reality, though, casts most of us in the best friend role (think Rosie O'Donnell in Sleepless in Seattle), and asks us to provide immaculately timed comic wisecracks and a shoulder to cry on over a side dish of fries.

I find this analogy particularly fitting because a good friend of mine (who will remain nameless) recently went on a date with a celebrity (who will also remain nameless ... I have no interest in dealing with the personal entanglements of those who can afford to eat at nicer restaurants than I can ... if that is your fancy then please refer to Gawker on the sidebar). As my friend revealed detail after tabloid-ready detail, I felt dumpier, sadder and even more romantically helpless. Hello, my name is Rosie, please pass the cheesecake.

I'm not the green-with-envy type, but there was a very vocal part of me that wondered, "Why can't this happen to me?" It's not entirely out of the question. The New York experience so far has been romantic and cinematic, I could see myself being swept of my feet. But, it seems that this is one of those times when all people can be split into two groups. In this case, those who date celebrities and those who hear about it. And, for now, my ears are wide open.

oh the places i've been

The first Saturday night in a new place can be kinda daunting. There can be a great deal of ambiguous social pressure, as everyone else is going out (and in New York, you can hear them going at it). And if you are lucky enough to find plans, you run the risk of being "that new guy who doesn't know a soul and ends up pounding gin and tonics in the corner."
I lucked out, and was able to have a fun evening with a few people I already know. It started on the Lower East Side at Fat Baby, a great name for a bar, I think. I had heard that the LES had popped, and now I can safely say it has. It is not what it was, say, last year when I had a friend who lived on Ludlow. The scene I saw Saturday night was pretty fratty and involved a line around the block to get into a bar that used to be known for its laid back, hip charm. Any time you wander around a bar wondering if Miami Vice-style blazers are making a comeback, it's time to leave.
And so I did. The next stop was Sugarland in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a recently-opened gay bar with a killer roof porch. The drinks were cheap and strong, the music was fun and a little unexpected (anytime Fleetwood Mac makes an appearance, I can't help but smile), and the guys were unpretentious, stylish and a fair bit grungy (which totally works for me). The night ended with pizza on a street corner with a group of friends. Hard to beat.

punctuation

So I just finished up the first week of my new job. I think it's going very well, and I can see myself being happy there for a long while. It's great to be surrounded by smart, articulate and friendly people at the office. Ugh, just listen to me. I'm so chipper, I almost used an exclamation mark. Last night, I celebrated with red wine and pizza, a sophisticated pairing. Good wine can make even the greasiest pizza feel like an elevated experience. Certainly above the standard pigging out.

I've also been packing like mad, readying myself for my big move today. The groan-inducing apartment search came to an end this week, and with winning results. I found a charming place in a killer location with a few cool-seeming roommates. The total New York experience will now begin, and yes, I am elated. Again, so much so that I almost used an exclamation mark.

A note on the exclamation mark anxiety. I had a creative writing professor in college (I say that as if it was so long ago, ha) who told us that every person gets five exclamation marks. Ever. "So make them count," he said. And I have. I find nothing more humorous than the glut of forceful enthusiasm that plagues a great deal of communication. Think of the self-congratulatory letters that flood mailboxes around the holidays. "Tom's team won the first game of the season! Then the second! And the third! Before we knew it, they won the state championship!"

According to the rule, that over-zealous sport fan only has one more exclamation mark to last a lifetime. Now I don't know how the karma works out, but when a person perpetually overuses the exclamation mark, aren't they lowering the bar for excitement in their lives? I don't know. I guess I'm more into smirking than gum-flaunting. But, again, I really am happy! That gives you a sense of scale. One down, four to go.

the next new thing

Tonight feels a bit like the night before the first day of school, as I start a new job tomorrow. It's exciting (I am actually excited), but of course I have those nerves that come with any new thing. There is a lot to process, but only one question lingers in my head: What if nobody wants to sit with me at lunch?

need apartment, will bake

the last movie i saw

I missed the Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino double bill Grindhouse when it was in theaters earlier this year. Life in LA seldom permitted me a three hour chunk of time to get lost in B-movie send-up splendor. The word of mouth was terrific, though the Weinsteins, true to their reincarnated form, bungled the release entirely. They seem to have done the same with the DVD release, giving us the Tarantino film Death Proof unencumbered by Rodriguez' zombie flick Planet Terror and in its extended, full feature form, which played at Cannes. The result is one of the strangest viewing experiences I've had in recent memory.

The flick, about a psycho killer stunt man who combines vehicular thrill-seeking and homicide, shouldn't be this long. There's the much talked about chase/fight scene, which pits fast-talking femmes against Kurt Russell's maniac, but outside of that exhilarating sequence, we get long chat scenes with mostly uninteresting characters spouting dialogue that sounds like an overzealous film student trying his hardest to sound like Tarantino. I dug the Austin, Texas locales, but I think I'd prefer the Reader's Digest version.

And that's the problem with the Weinsteins' DVD release plan. Planet Terror will be released on its own in mid-October. I don't know when the films will be released as they were in theaters (under the collective Grindhouse title). What's missing from the DVD is the full sticky-theater-floor, spilled popcorn feeling that the faux trailers, missing scenes and double bill created.

obligatory apartment search entry

I took the above picture of the iconic palm trees that line Hollywood Blvd. while walking home from a hike in Runyon Canyon sometime last year. I thought it appropriate to pair with this post because my Los Angeles apartment search was, simply put, heavenly. It was a Craig's List miracle. I coordinated the whole thing from Connecticut, and sealed the deal without leaving the living room. I lived in a studio apartment above a crazy lady's garage. The whole estate (which has since been carved into several properties) was designed in the 30s by the art director who did Mutiny on the Bounty. As such, the apartment had odd nautical design elements, including a porthole in the bathroom, above the toilet.
As awful as Los Angeles was as a whole, my living situation was (mostly) drama free. I will always recall it fondly, especially now as I traverse the New York real estate market with hair-tugging angst. I won't go into specifics, but it has been one disappointing near-miss after another. I hope to find something soon, as I start a new job in a week.
If you have been through this before, I appreciate all good will, advice, commiserating and connections.

the last movie i saw

When I first thought about starting a blog, I envisioned a screening log of sorts. I would chronicle the movies I saw, and through that include little anecdotes about my life as it happens. With bad lighting, I've decided to go broader with entries about whatever strikes me. I still want to include this feature, which will provide a brief musing on films (current and otherwise) as I see them.
It's Saturday morning (afternoon by now, but it still feels like morning) and fall is here. Crisp to the skin, fallen leaves, the smell of cold air, etc. I've missed this ... LA, as we all know, doesn't have seasons. And, actually, September is the hot month there; it's a lot like August everywhere else (read: gross and unforgiving). For years now, I have felt that Saturday morning movies are the best, the equivalent of great cartoons growing up (I remember loving Garfield, Muppet Babies and Pee-Wee's Playhouse which, though live-action, was certainly cartoon-ish).

So this morning, feeling nostalgic, I watched Back to the Future (1985, dir. Robert Zemekis), which is one of the great 80s pop movies. Since then Zemekis has gone on to be a hack-master of schlock (Forrest Gump fans should never read this blog), but this one is pure fun. As a kid, I always preferred the sequel, which finds Michael J. Fox thrust into the future, rife with flying cars, books without dust jackets and yet another Jaws sequel, this one with a hologram shark. The original sends Fox (at the hands of mad scientist Christopher Lloyd) flying back to the fifties to ensure that his parents will meet and fall in love. It's a solid concept, and the result is easily the best "80s slacker time-traveling comedy" (sorry Bill and Ted).

cookie monster

I've done quite a bit of baking lately. It's something about Connecticut, I think. Everyone picks up a Martha Stewart trait or two. Last week I did blueberry muffins, and yesterday chocolate chip cookies (left). They're healthy recipes, actually, that use whole wheat flour and other ingredient substitutions. In the muffins, for instance, I used yogurt instead of cream because they do the same thing chemically and yogurt is, obviously, way healthier.

that title means what?

First, a note on the title. There's that great line in Clueless when Cher laments a date gone awry, saying, "What, did I stumble into some bad lighting?" It's one of my favorite lines in any film, because it's so true to life. Sometimes, things are just out of our control. Bad lighting.