so i love lists - revised

First of all ... I'm a terrible blogger. The two people who read this blog must be sick of that picture of Angelina Jolie. Ha.

So, for my return, I'll give you my top ten films of the year. Hopefully blogging more will make it onto my list of resolutions this year. We'll see.

#1 - The Dark Knight

No surprise here. Visually, there's nothing like it. But the Nolan brothers manage to also serve up a moral dilemma that's as engaging and intelligent as anything in any film this year. And Heath Ledger deserves all the praise he's getting.

#2 - Wall-E

I just saw this over Christmas with the family. I was floored. The Hello, Dolly! references are bizarre and endearing. The whole thing is surprisingly subtle. And totally lovable.

#3 - Paranoid Park

I'm officially a Gus van Sant junkie. Nobody does reckless, lost youth culture quite like him. This one harkens back to Drugstore Cowboy and My Own Private Idaho. 

#4 - I've Loved You So Long

Potent, smart, reserved. Kristin Scott Thomas is a devastating force of nature.

#5 - Milk

Surprisingly conventional, but totally engrossing nonetheless. Sean Penn continues to amaze, and the supporting guys (Brolin, Franco, Hirsch) deserve praise. Oh, and people tell me I remind them of the Hirsch character. A favorable comparison, I think.

#6 - Happy Go Lucky

I'm surprised I liked it so much. A totally refreshing crowd-pleaser. Sally Hawkins deserves credit for not turning Poppy into a shrill annoyance.

#7 - Rachel Getting Married

A dynamic family drama. Their dysfunction feels real, and relatable. Rosemarie DeWitt (as the titular Rachel) and Bill Irwin (as the father) are amazing.

#8 - The Wrestler

I just saw this now. It's an intimate, brutal character study that pulls no punches (I kid, but not really). Mickey Rourke, he of the immortal cheekbones in Body Heat and Diner, has aged crudely, which makes him perfect for his role as the titular character. It's career-best work (not just his career, anyone's). Darren Aronofsky more than redeems himself for that awful spectacle The Fountain. Evan Rachel Wood makes a striking impression as his wayward daughter, and Marisa Tomei does stripper better than most.

#9 - Pineapple Express

I loved this movie. Who knew anybody could make a stoner so lovable (and attractive). Enter James Franco. Hot.

#10 - Tell No One

A totally fun French thriller. So enjoyable.

(Keep in mind I haven't seen The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which could be good.)

"our lady of humanitarian narcissism"

Clint Eastwood’s Changeling feels, much like the director himself, like a relic from another era. It’s the type of melodramatic, bravura yarn about a down-to-earth heroine’s perilous travails that seems better suited for the Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Fontaine set. It’s surprising, then, to see this sudsy tragedy feature the decidedly contemporary Angelina Jolie, she of the big lips, smoky eyes, and world-saving ambition.

Jolie plays Christine Collins, a single mother living in 1920s Los Angeles. Over the course of the sometimes laborious two-and-a-half running time, she encounters an otherworldly level of suffering (and wardrobe changes) that would make Susan Hayward proud. One day, Christine returns from her job at the phone company to find her young son, Walter, missing. When she calls the police, she gets the first of what turns into many brush offs. Her search for her son exposes a corrupt police department that would rather silence its critics than admit its own mistakes. When the department uncovers a boy they claim is Walter, but clearly is not, Christine challenges them. Her crusade to find her real son attracts the attention of an evangelical blowhard (John Malkovich, who acted opposite Eastwood to much better effect in In the Line of Fire), who becomes an unlikely partner in Christine’s quest.

Eastwood based the film on a true story, and the narrative suffers for it. True life simply doesn’t move at the compressed pace that even a slow-moving film requires. And even the most exciting lives require a little dramatic license to suit a compelling narrative. Eastwood is too married to the real-life events to keep the audience entertained. With all of the legal and bureaucratic gymnastics that Christine must endure, the film often feels like a second-rate depression-era crime procedural. Think CSI: Pasadena. Additionally, a critical subplot involving a ruthless serial killer is entirely mishandled. It’s a surprising misstep for Eastwood, who has experienced an unlikely career renaissance with the effortlessly thrilling Mystic River and the beautifully-acted Million Dollar Baby.

Given the borderline absurd level of suffering that Christine undergoes, it’s a testament to Jolie’s talent that her performance does not become overrun with hysterics. Yes, she has a nasty run-in with electroshock. Yes, she has the requisite “Give me an Oscar” cry scene. Yes, she must endure not one, but two simultaneously occurring trials. And all without smudging her make-up. It’s a star vehicle of the classical model, and even with the best lighting and killer crimson lipstick, Jolie manages to make Christine’s suffering honest and relatable.

the last movie i saw

With her sullen cheeks and detached gaze, it’s hard to believe the Kristin Scott Thomas we see in I’ve Loved You So Long is the same actress who stunned us in The English Patient 12 years ago. That actress was luminous and radiated an old Hollywood glamour. Her screen presence still held a distant, aristocratic coolness, one that went on to define her subsequent work in The Horse Whisperer and her underrated comic turn in Gosford Park. In this film, a probing French drama that moves at a clip, Scott Thomas leverages her chilly persona to create a fascinating character and deliver an unforgettable emotional wallop.

When we first meet Juliette (Scott Thomas), all we know is that she has just been released from prison and is moving to a French university town to live with her sister (an impressive Elsa Zylberstein) and her family. As we spend more time with Juliette, writer/director Philippe Claudel slowly and masterfully reveals the details of Juliette’s lengthy incarceration, all culminating in a shocking, devastating revelation in the film’s final moments. Until this explosive finale, though, the true drama and tension comes from what is not said and what Claudel keeps from his audience.

As we see Juliette listlessly confront the realities of rebuilding a life – finding a new job, meeting new people, reconnecting with forgotten relatives – her silence and indifference indicate the crippling repercussions of the crime she committed years ago. Each time she tries to reach out for human contact, most notably when she picks up a paramour in a café, she recoils at the slightest hint of a genuine connection. And while the film carries all the trappings of a Lifetime-worthy domestic drama – crime, bitterness, familial dysfunction – Claudel and his actors approach the material with subtle dignity.

Each member of the cast provides an intriguing characterization, but nobody leaves as distinct an impression as Scott Thomas. It’s a largely silent performance, especially during the film’s first two-thirds where Juliette is most acutely unable to forge a connection with anyone. Scott Thomas is able to convey a great deal of anguish, strife, and anger through her characters painful stoicism. It’s an intricate marvel. It certainly has been Scott Thomas’ year. She’s currently receiving raves for her performance in The Seagull on Broadway, and she delivered a funny, touching supporting performance in this summer’s fantastic Tell No One (also in French).

playing to an empty stadium

The last movie I walked out of was David Cronenberg’s dull, hollow Eastern Promises. It wouldn’t make anybody’s list for worst film ever (Tim Burton’s Planet of the Apes remake holds that spot for me), but its plodding mediocrity was more than I could stomach. I felt the same sense of antsy dissatisfaction with Oliver Stone’s sluggish, defanged W. Neither a satire nor a traditional biopic of our current President, this one lazily glides through a score of anecdotes we’ve already heard and tries to pass it off as a narrative. By the time George Bush is traversing the range at his Crawford ranch with Tony Blair and Condaleeza Rice in tow, I knew I had seen enough. Yes, I walked out. My only regret is that I didn’t do so sooner.

Stone has made a career out of making inflammatory, revisionist historical epics. JFK pushes forth controversial conspiracy theories as fact, and Nixon eviscerates a worthy target with gleeful, fact-fudging verbosity. It’s a shame Stone left his boxing gloves at home this time around, because his take on Bush is notable only for its bland, apolitical, and almost objective interpretation. There’s a place for objectivity in hard news, but it doesn’t cut it in cinema.

We get the same story we’ve always heard. Hard-partying frat boy turns unlikely heir to a political dynasty. Stone tries to shape the tale into an Oedipal drama about W’s inability to please his father (a totally unconvincing James Cromwell as Bush Sr.), but it’s hard to buy this dim-witted politico as a tragic hero. And that’s about as much focus as we get. The political policy scenes that follow, especially those that depict the build-up to the current war in Iraq, lack the nuance of even a sub-par episode of The West Wing.

Brolin, who carried last year’s No Country for Old Men with gusto, doesn’t have the range to pull off a winning impersonation of W. We never really believe we’re watching the real thing, even when Brolin mutters an amusing “bushism.” He fares better, though, than the supporting cast, which plays like a rogue’s gallery of rejected SNL impersonations. Richard Dreyfuss hams it up as Dick Cheney, Ellen Burstyn wears an awful wig as Barbara Bush, and Toby Jones looks and acts nothing like Karl Rove. The worst, though, must be Thandie Newton, whose cartoonish interpretation of Condi Rice looks and sounds like a bad Halloween costume.

Elizabeth Banks, as Laura Bush, is the only actor who manages to turn in a fully-realized performance. If it were her story, I might have stuck around.

the people have spoken (and i like what they have to say)

glad to be weirdly close

Since 1999’s Being John Malkovich, Charlie Kaufman has amassed a level of fame that’s rare for a screenwriter. Diablo Cody, with her slang-driven fare and stripper background is the only other recent phenom in the same league. Kaufman’s aggressively idiosyncratic, chaotic worldview has turned conventional genres on their ear – Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a romantic comedy for hipsters, manic depressives, and schizophrenics alike.
It’s no surprise, then, that Kaufman’s directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York, has been so eagerly awaited. Would Kaufman’s decidedly unorthodox narrative style survive without the directorial filter of Spike Jonze or Michel Gondry? The answer is a resounding no.
Synecdoche, New York is a muddle of existential malaise and grating navel-gazing. The film follows Caden (Capote’s Philip Seymour Hoffman), a downtrodden regional theater director whose life is swiftly deteriorating. His sardonic wife (Being John Malkovich’s Catherine Keener) takes their daughter and moves to Berlin with her pot-smoking best friend (Margot at the Wedding’s Jennifer Jason Leigh). On top of this personal failure, Caden experiences a series of increasingly disgusting medical woes – graphically depicted gum surgery is the least of it. Things begin to look up when he wins a prestigious grant and decides to mount an ambitious theater project that aims to realistically depict everyday life. Housed in a gigantic New York City warehouse, the play turns into a decade-spanning behemoth, with recreations of all of the places and people in Caden’s life.
The chief problem with Synecdoche, New York, outside of its crippling ambition, is Kaufman’s refusal to fully develop any of the other characters in Caden’s life. Hoffman does an underwhelming two-dimensional tap dance of death-tinged midlife disappointment, and Kaufman’s obsession with Caden’s woes push the potentially vibrant supporting cast into the fringe.
Samantha Morton (Minority Report) makes the strongest impression as Caden’s loyal assistant Hazel, while Keener, and Dianne Wiest (Hannah and her Sisters) and Emily Watson (Punch-Drunk Love) as actresses in Caden’s production come almost as close. It’s a shame to see remaining cast, consisting of some of the best character actresses working today including Leigh, Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain), and Hope Davis (American Splendor), go to such cruel waste.
While the entire proceedings are tamped down by Kaufman’s exceedingly bleak atmospherics, composer Jon Brion, who provided memorable scores for I Heart Huckabees and Punch-Drunk Love, deserves special mention for his whimsical score.

would you like some chicken fillets?

British filmmaker Mike Leigh has never shied from portraying the gloomy side of everyday life. Secrets and Lies, his sensational, Oscar-nominated drama, explored deception and familial conflict in working class London and his Vera Drake portrayed the destruction of a struggling family at the hands of moral absolutism. So considerable surprise greets his latest, Happy-Go-Lucky, an amusing, ceaselessly funny comedy that follows a perpetually positive and cheery London schoolteacher.
We’ve all met people like Poppy (Sally Hawkins, of Leigh’s Career Girls). You know the type, cheerful no matter the circumstances, and almost giddy in the face of adversity. In life, that kind of eternal optimism can be annoying (to put it mildly), but on screen Leigh and Hawkins create Poppy as one of the most engaging comic heroines of recent memory. When her bike gets stolen, she shrugs it off and says, “That’s a shame, we were just getting to know each other.” She takes a sprained back in stride. She handles class bullies with candor. She even deftly handles a sardonic, misanthropic driving instructor (Eddie Marsan in a richly textured performance). As we see Poppy handle these increasingly intense and potentially inflammatory encounters, we realize that there’s a lot we could learn from her sunny outlook.
In addition to making Happy-Go-Lucky a winning character study, Leigh and Hawkins have also made one of the most consistently funny movies in recent memory. Hawkins’ relentlessly manic, madcap comic persona is the source of many laughs, and the film’s improvisational style resembles Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm. Because Leigh doesn’t work from a traditional script – he creates the story and then works with his actors to create scenes, character traits, and dialogue – every scene pops with lively, unpredictable energy.
The film rests squarely on Hawkins’ shoulders, and it’s a testament to her considerable talent and grace that Poppy’s unflappable perkiness never grates. She manages to find the humanity and vulnerability beneath Poppy’s overt enthusiasm, and constructs and authentic, endearing portrait. I can only imagine what Hollywood could have done with this story – we’d probably get Renee Zellweger, she of the squinty eyes and irritating pluck. In her hands, Poppy could easily have turned into a shrill caricature.
In this, one of the most uneven and uneventful years for film in quite a while, Happy-Go-Lucky is a high point. Along with Gus van Sant’s Paranoid Park, Jonathan Demme’s Rachel Getting Married, and Courtney Hunt’s Frozen River, it’s further proof that the most interesting films being made right now are occurring outside of the studio system.

weekend update

Great weekend. Here are some highlights:

1 - I learned about a killer tax refund, which will allow me to replace my busted computer. Sweet.

2 - Hollandaise sauce can be a bitch.

3 - I rock non-verbal communication.

4 - Bellinis best mimosas.

5 - Great travel/excusion companions are crucial. Yep, I'm lucky.

copper catfish palin

I finally made it to Apple and got my computer looked at ... turns out it's the hard drive! So, keep your fingers crossed for sketchy-seeming data recovery joints in Chelsea. If it doesn't pan out, I'm having a CD-burning party, and will be hitting up random people for decade-old Rufus Wainwright albums.
The whole thing has made me cranky and has kept me from blogging. So, to keep it brief, here's my top ten list of the new things that are going on...
1. Without a computer, I haven't looked at Perez Hilton in over a month. I'm better for this.
2. I've also started writing in a real journal. It's a nice feeling.
3. I almost got through Kiss of the Spider Woman, but it was just the same thing over and over again. Now I'm onto American Pastoral and I'm totally consumed.
4. I started watching 30 Rock through Netflix, and can honestly say that Tina Fey in practice is just as good as Tina Fey in theory.
5. I'm escaping to Connecticut this weekend and I'm elated.
6. I'm also budgeting in an effort to build my savings. It's tough, but kinda fun.
7. I thought the most interesting thing about last night's debate was the decreased height of Sarah Palin's hair.
8. And I feel that I may start convulsing if she winks at me ever again.
9. I am craving the new TV on the Radio album.
10. Trader Joe's in Brooklyn has significantly improved my quality of life. My belly has never been happier!

searching for debra winger ... oh, found

When legendary American director Robert Altman died, I was afraid we would lose his trademark narrative style as well. You know what I’m talking about — tons of characters wandering through a free-flowing narrative that defies conventional standards but still manages to be simultaneously tragic, hilarious, and heart-breaking. If you’re unfamiliar, Nashville and Short Cuts are a good place to start.
There are a few filmmakers still around who embody the Altman spirit — Paul Thomas Anderson of Magnolia and There Will Be Blood chief among them. With Rachel Getting Married, we can add Jonathan Demme, who has had the most unlikely of film careers, to that list. Demme was an American maverick in the 1980s with off-beat comedies Married to the Mob and Something Wild and is best remembered for the genre-bending thriller The Silence of the Lambs. But he’s been off the A-list since (no little thanks to his ill-advised remake of Charade, the embarrassing The Truth about Charlie).
He breaks new ground with this film, which follows Kim (Anne Hathaway) a fresh-out-of-rehab addict as she endures her sister’s wedding. Demme shoots the film with mostly handheld cameras and allows his actors to fumble dialogue and talk over each other. It feels like an intimate family gathering, rife with raw emotion, authentic dysfunction, and caustic humor.
Demme lets his characters to go through the motions of a hectic wedding weekend — preparations, rehearsal dinner, ceremony, after-party — without too much interference. His camera lingers as actors roll from room to room, engage in fleeting conversation, nosh on food, and sip on drinks. Kim slips attention-grabbing one-liners at inopportune moments, which quickly catches the wrath of her sister, the titular Rachel (Rosemarie DeWitt). Their father (Bill Irwin) plays peacemaker, while their mother (Debra Winger) makes fleeting, bruising appearances.
Movies like this depend on great actors. It became clear that Hathaway could do more than giggle through Disney live-action and fetch Meryl Streep’s coffee when she wowed in the small, pivotal role of a hardened Texas rodeo wife in Brokeback Mountain. But nothing suggested that she could pull off the attention-starved, terminally dysfunctional Kim. She portrays this potentially unlikable character with dignity, and imbues her with authentic, relatable pain. It’s a stirring, memorable turn.
It’s to the credit of the supporting cast that Hathaway doesn’t walk away with the film. Theater veteran Irwin, who was unforgettable in the revival of "Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf", is touching as Kim’s doting father and DeWitt makes a striking impression.

"i only married him"

I don't write about lit enough ... actually, seeing as this is my second post this month, I'd say I don't write enough period. Things are busy, what can I say. And my computer has been down. I came home one night and it sounded like Mothra was battling Godzilla in there. Needless to say, getting and keeping an appointment at a Genius Bar in New York is not an easy thing. Hopefully I will have some clarity after tomorrow.

I have, though, been reading with satisfying regularity. I think it's the daily Park Slope to Manhattan subway routine, which allows me to plow through novels and actually stay current with the New Yorker. I recently finished Curtis Sittenfeld's American Wife, her thinly veiled biography of soon-to-be-former First Lady Laura Bush.

I'm generally not a fan of Sittenfeld. The buzz around Prep still mystifies me; I thought the book was glorified chick lit. Yeah, it's readable, but there's no substance. American Wife has a similar, Lifetime-ready feel (she has sex with her dead boyfriend's brother, she has an abortion, the future president goes down on her). Here, at least, we get a mildly amusing heroine. It's fun to see Sittenfeld attempt to understand and rationalize Laura Bush, a woman who still appeals to the American people, even those who find her husband utterly toxic. Sittenfeld paints Bush (oh, excuse me, Alice Blackwell, as she's known here) as a bookish, sensible librarian who is never the same after she accidentally kills her high school beau in a car accident. She ends up with George W. (oh, excuse me, Charles), a boorish, dimwitted politico's son who downs booze, does lines, and runs companies into the ground before an inexplicable rise to the presidency.

Sittenfeld aptly handles Alice's inner turmoil, and the first two thirds of the book, which cover her childhood and the rocky early does of her marriage to Charles, are fairly intriguing. But she loses us when the Blackwells make it to the White House. It's a jarring temporal shift - we go from Charlie hitting his political stride on the state level straight to being a lame duck in the White House. We're spared the gory details of the campaign, and that's a shame. Sittenfeld is noticeably uncomfortable talking politics, what we get is the AOL home page version of the 2000 election and the war in Iraq. It's ham-fisted, sloppy, and anti-climactic (though I did like the moment when the Karl Rove stand-in manipulates Alice into getting a face lift and follow-up botox procedures. That was a hoot).

Vicky Christina Penelope

I had time to write another review!

Even a seasoned Woody Allen fan might mistake the auteur’s latest film, Vicky Christina Barcelona, for the work of another filmmaker. That is, until the characters open their mouths.
Allen’s latest sparkles with sumptuous, sure-footed visuals as few of his previous films have. While nothing can be compared to Manhattan’s arresting black and white cinematography, this is his most compelling work in color. He captures Barcelona in all its sun-soaked glory. But when his characters begin talking, and falling in and out of love, it’s unmistakably an Allen film.
The film follows two Americans, the engaged, sensible Vicky (The Prestige’s Rebecca Hall) and the impulsive, unmoored Christina (Match Point’s Scarlett Johansson), as they spend a summer vacationing in Barcelona. Their reasons for traveling are dubious at best (Vicky is getting her doctorate in Catalan studies, but inexplicably speaks not a word of Spanish), but that’s not the point. It becomes achingly clear that they are in Spain to fall in love, whether they like it or not.
Seduction comes in the form of the painter Juan Antonio (No Country for Old Men’s Javier Bardem). The girls don’t get through their first day in Spain before being whisked off to a rural village with Juan Antonio, where he attempts to seduce them both. As he pursues both women, and they pursue him to a sometimes surprising effect, Allen explores the various maddening effects of attraction.
Madness and love become inseparable when Maria Elena (Volver’s Penelope Cruz), Juan Antonio’s ex-wife, joins the film. Cruz blasts in and out of scenes with a primal voracity, brimming with unstable passion and jolting the sleepy film into something that demands attention. Every time she leaves a scene I wanted to follow.
Cruz turns out to be the film’s most apt performer. Johansson has never looked so uncomfortable on screen, and it’s impossible to know why Allen keeps on casting her in his films. She’s awkward and clumsy, and can’t seem to convey any of Christina’s restlessness or terminal dissatisfaction. Conveying emotion can be difficult, I suppose, when one’s lips and bust line are doing the heavy lifting.
Hall fairs better. Vicky is the type of role Diane Keaton would have played for Allen in the ’70s, a sophisticated, sometimes brash know-it-all who projects superiority to mask crippling insecurity. Hall has great comic timing and imbues the character with relatable false confidence and vulnerability.
Bardem’s role plays up his screen idol appeal, and completely wipes away of his creepy psycho-killer from No Country for Old Men.
While Allen has fun exploiting some of the romantic entanglements, the film ultimately becomes too convoluted to be worth the trouble. Allen gets this, too, as the many bizarre revelations and outlandish plot elements in the third act scream desperation.

prada

For some reason, Jossip ran this little piece about the Prada store in Marfa. It's a tad funny to read, as they act as if it's new to the desert landscape and that nobody's heard of it. This photo is of me milling around outside the store in the Summer of 2006.
That's pretty much my only Prada connection. Oh, and my glasses are Prada. Oh, and I did date someone who designed for Coach, but was interviewing to design at Prada. And then I dated someone else who worked at a small boutique but who had a long-term goal of becoming a salesperson at the Prada store (the Soho, not Marfa, location). Eeep.

Brideshead

I moved to Connecticut the summer before my freshman year of high school. I was appalled with, among other things, the lack of film criticism in the local newspaper. So, by the time I was a sophomore, I had the idea for a column. My father, who is responsible for my borderline obsession with movies, and I started to write a father-and-son movie review column that fall. It was great, and lasted through high school and into college. He still maintains it, though now (after a few relatively unsuccessful guest spots by my little brothers) it's strictly a paternal affair. I still get the opportunity to help out in a pinch, though. So this week I contributed my take on Brideshead Revisted, the utterly lackluster adaptation of the beloved Evelyn Waugh novel. I'm running it below in its entirety. Enjoy.

I can't be the only one a little surprised to see a new version of Brideshead Revisited hit screens. Most agree that Evelyn Waugh's melodramatic saga received the definitive transfer in 1981 when BBC mounted an epic miniseries adaptation that featured Laurence Olivier and Claire Bloom, and launched the career of a budding Jeremy Irons.
That version meticulously captured Waugh's nuance and subtlety over 11 hours, so it's no surprise that the new film can't match its depth in under two. It's still the story of Charles Ryder (Match Point's Matthew Goode), a young man of earnest means who befriends the eccentric Sebastian Flyte (I'm Not There's Ben Whishaw) at a posh boarding school. Sebastian introduces Charles to the world of British nobility, which includes a killer spread (the titular Brideshead), a frigid mother (Howard's End's Emma Thompson), and a conveniently single sister (Cassandra's Dream's Hayley Atwell). Almost immediately after the Flytes accept Charles as one of their own, he realizes that their pristine image masks deep dysfunction. There's greed, jealously, class snobbery, religious fanaticism, and latent desire. You know, the storied terrain of the English class melodrama.
Unfortunately, for all the promise of suds and juicy subplots, director Julian Jarrold (Becoming Jane) has too much of a stiff upper lip to have any fun. The plot pivots on passion, desire, and betrayal, but Jarrold's morose, self-serious approach douses all of Waugh's flames. As such, watching Brideshead Revisited is the cinematic equivalent of nibbling on a soggy cucumber sandwich.
The actors, too, are mostly unable to convey the difficult emotional terrain their characters must traverse. Though effective as Jonathan Rhys-Meyer's smarmy brother-in-law in Match Point, Goode loses his footing here. He is either unable or unwilling to let us see Charles’ inner turmoil. Instead, he glides through scenes as if lost on the way to a photo shoot.
Whishaw and Atwell, as the spoiled, tragic Flyte siblings, are similarly underwhelming. Whishaw camps up Sebastian’s flamboyance to the point of caricature, and it’s hard to understand how Atwell could be anyone’s hotly contested object of desire.
Thankfully Thompson is on hand to class up the proceedings. Though it’s a little disarming to accept her as a graying matriarch (it’s the kind of role Judi Dench and Maggie Smith have been playing for years), there are few actresses who can convey so much by doing so little. When Thompson is on screen, the film really moves.
The production values, so often the saving grace for a film like this, fall short as well. It made me fondly recall Stephen Fry’s Bright Young Things, a jaunty, raucous take on Waugh’s Vile Bodies, and even the otherwise leaden Atonement, two films that presented great costume and set eye candy.
Video Pick: Howards End
The filmmaking team of director James Ivory and producer Ismael Merchant set the gold standard of British period films with this adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel. Thompson stars here in her best role (which also won her an Oscar).

mr. ripley, i presume?

I have an undying love for New York City local news. This one's a doozy, way better than the easily-solved Linda Stein murder.
It seems a recently nabbed con artist (who had been masquerading as a Rockefeller in New York and Boston high society) may also have been responsible for the death of a pair of California newlyweds in th 1970s.
It's a sordid tale of multiple identities, kidnapping, murder, and social climbing. The story's on-the-run and assume-yet-another-alias nature reminds me, of course, of The Talented Mr. Ripley. That film found Matt Damon romping around Italy, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Murderous jealousy, latent desire, and upper-class aspirations make for a bitter cocktail, I suppose. If you haven't seen the movie, well, what's wrong with you? It's Damon's best work, and features sly supporting turns from Jude Law (pre-Sienna Miller and with hair), Gwyneth Paltrow (good here, but, generally, the less said the better), and Cate Blanchett (she can do anything).
Click here to read the Post's requisite tabloid take on the matter.

is gowanus the new williamsburg?

Since moving to Park Slope a few months ago, I've kinda fallen for Gowanus, the totally industrial, smelly, sketchy area to the West. I think I've written about the Gowanus Canal before, which is so steeped in oil and industrial sludge that it's developed its own strain of gonorrhea. There's grafitti, broken windows, and empty streets. And, now, hipsters.

I've recently become familiar with the Yard, an outdoor venue that borders the Canal on Carroll St. DJs spin on Sundays to the hipster crowd that sips beer on picnic tables. If hipsters had a country club, this would be it.

Now, it seems, more venues are coming to the area. I love it. Gowanus could be the new sketchy area the cool kids make cool. Oh wait, does that mean it will turn into Williamsburg? Eeep!

we closed the place down

I hate to employ a cliche in my opening line, but New York really is the city that never sleeps. I don't know what it is about this place, or my life here, but I've had more nights that end with the sun coming up than ever before. A few weeks ago it was eating cheese with my roommates after getting home and seeing the dull light blue morning light streaming through the kitchen window. This weekend it was greeting the new day on a roof in the East Village and then crashing on a friend's floor.

Maybe it happens because bars are open so late. They do close eventually, though, as this poor guy found out. If I was locked in a bar in Williamsburg, I would be hella cranky. At least this guy retained a positive attitude.

literati

While perusing used furniture listings on Craig's list, I found this image of a dresser (that currently resides in Williamsburg) that's being supported by David Foster Wallace's classic humor novel Infinite Jest.

It's certainly the most creative use of the big, sprawling novel I've seen yet. Almost as good as the collection of Kafka short stories that helped my butchered desk teeter over the radiator in my East Village bedroom.

Needless to say, I doubt this is what they mean when they say "Literary Brooklyn".

i love this

Just a moment ago, I was flipping through a dingy paperback of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which I bought at the Strand for $0.48. I found the following message scrawled in black ink inside the front cover:

"To Alison - This is not really a Christmas present, just something that you can read while you're waiting for the train. Your real present is far too precious to send through the post so it will have to wait until I see you. Take care, I love you. Graham."

I fear that something terrible must have happened between Alison and Graham. Maybe she dumped him. Maybe he died. Either way, this lovely memento ended up in a cart on the street. So, we can add the Strand's sidewalk sale as another place where relationships, or at least the vestiges of relationships past, go to die.

"she doesn't want to live off camera"

The subject line comes from Warren Beatty in Truth or Dare, the infamous Madonna documentary that rocked theaters in 1991. Madonna has always been on the forefront of overexposure, blazing the trail for the underwear-free, camera crew-addled reality starlets of today. The difference, of course, is that she had the albums to back it up.

My point, broad as this connection may be, is that oversharing is nothing new. I was fascinated, like many who write and read blogs, to read Emily Gould's New York Times Magazine cover story a few weeks ago. To my account, Gould has positioned herself as both a star and victim of the digital age. In the self-written deconstruction, she pours over the details of her stint at Gawker, her personal blog and the (inevitable) fallout of oversharing online. She does it with all the wit and insight of an emotionally prepubescent college English major, you know the type, who drinks gin and tonics and smokes Parliaments alone in the corner, all the while scanning the room and taking copious mental notes (I was an emotionally prepubescent college English major, so this is only meant to be mildly scathing). Just like the mid-90s era Madonna seemed unable to live off-camera, so too does the past and present Gould.

I'm in New York, but I don't run in the same circles as Gould and her ilk, those who seem to go through relationships and alliances by the keystroke. But Gould's self-portrait of victimization got me thinking: Why do we blog?

When I started this blog nine months ago, I wanted to track the movies I was watching and create a space where film could be discussed and enjoyed. Shortly after delivering on this promise, with posts on Death Proof and Back to the Future, I moved to New York and re-joined the living. Since that moment, this blog has been more about my life, and the New York existance I've created for myself. I still write about film, but more often than not there are posts about media, local news and odd observations and happenings. That's why I'm glad I chose a title like Bad Lighting ... it's obscure and nebulous and therefore all-encompassing.

After reading Gould's piece, I think all bloggers should ask themselves if their lives and actions would change if they weren't blogging. Or, better yet, is life worth living if it's not recorded and consumed? I would venture to say that Gould, like Madonna, isn't capable of functioning without making her life a traveling venue, except she's substituting the tour bus with the blogosphere. Who knows how she would act - or if she could exist - if she wasn't broadcast.

I've never hit a level of over-share worthy of a cone bra or cover story, so I think my life without this blog would be just the same. For me, this writing is an infrequent sidebar and a welcomed bright spot when I get the chance to post.

So, yeah, I'm not going anywhere.

friend!

I loved this shout-out, so I thought I'd share it with you all.

confessions of a closet nerd

Where I went to college (at Rice, yes, in Texas), it was said that every student was a closet nerd. I found, actually, the majority of the student body to be out and proud in that regard. It was always surprising, though, when us cool kids (hah) discovered each other's hidden level of total geek. That guy doing the keg stand at the Rugby party? Yeah, he'll be getting his doctorate at Harvard in the fall. You dig?

My dweeb quotient was always pretty transparent. I was that English major who always did all the reading, I spent many nights locked in the newspaper office (editing the Arts section), I graduated with a hella GPA. I even started wearing thick, black, square-framed glasses before the hipster masses.
Recently, though, I've become a total square in a way I never could have anticipated. Two words say it all. Battlestar Galactica. I was home over the long Memorial Day weekend and my savvy (and total brainiac) little brother introduced me to the Sci-Fi channel series that revisits and amps up the 1978 series (and camp spectacle) of the same name. I had heard good things about the show, so when he suggested watching the miniseries that preceded the show, I couldn't really argue. I was immediately hooked, and have been avidly consuming all things Galactica since.
I really shouldn't have been that surprised. I've never had anything against Sci-Fi. The Star Wars films were requisite viewing in my house growing up, the first two Alien films are bona fide classics that I adore, and I totally dig the whole cyberpunk movement (William Gibson's landmark Neuromancer and Ridley Scott's Blade Runner). But Battlestar has captivated me in an entirely new way. As it portrays human civilization in the days after a brutal android attack (much like Blade Runner this is a tale of technology getting the best of us), it mixes elements of social commentary, stellar action and thrills and gripping soap opera. So, it basically Days of Our Lives for the pocket protector set.

It's also fantastic to see Mary McDonnell, one of the lost relics of 90s indie cinema, as the newly minted President. She's had an odd career, I suspect in part because she imbues each character with an extraordinary intelligence, wit and confidence (just watch John Sayles' Passion Fish in which she plays a paralyzed soap opera actress who returns to her Southern home). Too few female characters, especially in film, get to be smart, funny and lacking neurosis. As the leader of ever-dwindling human civilization, though, McDonnell gets to play to her strengths, and rivets us in the process. One can only hope that the show will lead to a great late-career second act.

just when you thought it was safe ...

... another swarm of bees invades Manhattan. This is yet another reason never to live uptown.
I wrote about it just last week. The whole flies-and-stings-you crowd? Eeep.

diane keaton's shoes would kill us all...

... more to follow.

obvs

Where I go, MTV follows.

F train'd

One of the changes that comes with a move to the Slope is an increased commute. For me, it's still the F train, just a whole lot more of it.
The mornings, so far, have been uneventful and pleasant. I've gotten a great deal more reading done (I'm almost finished with Brooklyn writer Joshua Ferris' The We Came to the End). But yesterday evening, my subway dexterity was tested.
There was a stalled F train at the York station (the first stop in Brooklyn). So that spurned a multi-step process that involved walking down Spring St., catching an express, switching onto an unknown line, and stopping at an unknown stop.
Basically, I handled it like a pro (yes, I feel like I can toot the horn on this one).

movin' on up

I'm moving to Park Slope tomorrow. Hopefully the rain won't wash away me, my stuff, or my new townhouse. OK, it's not all mine, but the top two floors of a townhouse that I'll be sharing with two other people.

So, yeah, this time tomorrow I'll be so Brooklyn.

local hero

One of the best things about living in New York, I've found, is the local news. In a city this big, crazy things happen on a daily basis. The best source for local stuff, ranging from relevant to utterly bizarre, is Gothamist.
Today, for instance, they ran a story about a swarm of bees terrorizing the Upper East Side. This, of course, is one of my greatest fears in life. Things that fly and sting you. I'd rather face a king cobra, a machete-wielding gang, or Joan Crawford any day.

top (five)

In many respects, I'm a computer in need of constant re-booting. Or at least frequent software updates. I'm itching for new all the time, or at least old-as-new (you know what I mean, I hope). It's especially true with music. So for this week's Tuesday Top Five (which is really four, this week), I've listed the album's I've newly discovered, and which you, too, should check out.
- Beach House, Devotion (pictured above)
This is a dreamy album, low key yet haunting, and one that only gets better with time. The band has a light, gauzy sound, the aural equivalent of a soft-focused, sun-drenched photograph. The song "Holy Dances" resonates most with me, but there's not a bum track to be found.

- M83, Saturdays=Youth (pictured at right)
I've always been fond of French electronica band M83. There previous albums, Before the Dawn Heals Us and Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts, hit the right balance of techno beat, dreamscape and substance for my tastes, and helped turn me into a long distance runner in college.
This new album is a thrilling 80s pastiche that displays a broad swath of influences including Vangelis' iconic Blade Runner soundtrack and the opening title music from Twin Peaks. The band has managed this slight departure while still retaining their signature approach, which results in their most distinct, appealing effort yet. I've had the single-ready "Kim & Jessie" on a loop for weeks.

- Cat Power, Jukebox (pictured below)
I've had a thing for Chan Marshall (Cat Power) for quite a while. Her last album before this collection of covers, The Greatest, drifted a tad too far into bluegrass and folk for me, and upon first listen this album left me lukewarm.

I rediscovered it in Paris, and have found myself totally captivated. Don't let the odd, poorly selected opener, a distant, echoing rendition of "New York, New York" throw you. Yes, it's the music equivalent of a miscast starlet, but the rest are gems. She does her best covering herself, with "Naked, If I Wanted To" carrying the bonus disc.
On a side note, I'm all for the cleaned-up Chan (she used to be a notorious, show-ruining boozer). On the plane ride back I caught Wong Kar-Wai's helplessly mediocre My Blueberry Nights, his first English-language feature. It stars songbird Norah Jones (talk about a miscast starlet) as a lovelorn waitress who falls for a cafe owner (Jude Law, showing his age and late nights) over blueberry pie. She then sets out on a cross-country road trip (why, I'm not entirely sure) and meets a cast of misbegotten, craven characters (the most intriguing being Rachel Weisz' reckless, hard-living Sheriff's wife). Chan's songs from The Greatest fill the soundtrack, and she appears in an all-too-brief cameo as Law's ex-girlfriend. It's a film filled with odd casting choices (Natalie Portman as a peroxide-blond card shark? Please.), but this is the one that works.

- Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, Knives Don't Have Your Back (pictured at right)
If you're not familiar with Haines, you totally should be. She's part of my favorite band, the sprawling Canadian indie rock collective Broken Social Scene, providing lead vocals on a number of dreamy tracks, including the much-loved "Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl". She was there when I saw the band live promoting Kevin Drew's album Spirit If ... (another one you should check out). A radiant wisp of a girl, with crimson hair and a come hither smirk, I was totally taken.
She also heads the totally fun band Metric, which was memorably featured in the opening scenes of Oliver Assayas' underrated rock drama Clean (with Maggie Cheung as a Courtney Love-esque rock widow).
Haines' smooth, fragile voice carries this solo effort, which consciously sheds both Broken Social Scene and Metric's frenetic, most often upbeat sound. These are luxuriant, ruminative ballads that drift, float and linger. It takes a little bit more time to jump into than the other recommendations, but is just as rewarding.

getting back

There's nothing like getting back. Paris was wonderful, but as much as I enjoyed the city, I couldn't help but be thankful that New York is home.

This is the spot for me right now. And the impending Park Slope move can only make it better.

And why Park Slope? There are reasons all around. I've been sure of it for a while, but tonight can only confirm it. Tonight was an evening of storied, typical East Village spots. That means lost eye contact, required over-consumption, the loss of friends to the crowd, and the nagging desire to just go home and either listen to music or watch great 80s movies alone. 

I ended up cutting out earlier than everyone I went out with, using jet lag as a convenient excuse. Jet lag is officially the best excuse for everything, if only it would work for all circumstances, all the time.

air france

I'm finally home, after a mind-numbing line at customs and a much-delayed, over-crowded train from Newark. 

Again, musings and pictures from the trip to come all week. Right now, I'm off to happy hour (it's still vacation, I think, officially).

For now, my five reasons why we should all fly Air France as much as possible:

1. Sweet old French women at the window seat next to you who make sure the stewardess brings your red wine and baguette.

2. Free booze. And they don't judge when you ask for another round.

3. Movie choices that include past Cannes Film Festival favorites (meaning today I got to watch My Blueberry Nights, which is in theaters now, and The Piano, an all-time fave).

4. A camera on the nose of the plane that shows you take-off and landing from a cockpit POV. More of a gimmick, really, and actually pretty scary when facing the runway. OK. Maybe this isn't such a good reason. Next!

5. They let you board when you want. None of this "rows 34 and above" nonsense. You get on when you want to get on. How civilized.

charles de gaulle

It's a transit day and I'm sitting in Charles De Gaulle, waiting for my flight back to New York. I'm listening to Thurston Moore, and just bought an English-language paperback of Joshua Ferris' And Then We Came to the End, which a friend had lent to me, but, alas, I left it at home. With any luck I'll blow through it, as I did with Jonathan Lethem's You Don't Love Me Yet on the way over. It's a breezy look at hipster band members in LA's Echo Park. It's sweet, inviting and has killer dialogue, so highly recommended.

It was a great trip, and in the days to come I'll surely post a number of pictures. Let's just say I've had my annual quota of duck, nuttela, wine, brie, baguettes and Ann's creme and chive mushroom dip. I haven't eaten today, but I'm full ... you must know how that feels at the end of a trip.

i'm outtie

The day after tomorrow I'm leaving New York for Paris. No, not for good. It's a vacation, to visit friends. I plan to drink too much wine, eat too much cheese, and smoke too many French cigarettes. It will be lovely, even if the weather forecast - which currently calls for mostly cloudy skies and rain for a day or so - holds true. When I asked my friend Ann what clothes to wear, she said my standard uniform of jeans and t-shirts would do, but also to bring a scarf. A scarf? That sounds like Euro-affectation to me, but it could be practical. I'll let you know.

like walking through a warhol photograph

This past weekend my parents were in town and I took my mom to MOMA. She had never been, and loved the fact that I could get in free with my company's corporate membership. 

There's so much great stuff there right now ... the color exhibit is fun, and I always love seeing Dan Flavin pieces. The highlight, though, wasn't Flavin, though it was clearly Flavin-inspired. Scandinavian artist Olafur Eliasson's Take Your Time features site-specific light installations, much like Flavin. The picture to the left was taken in a hallway, which, with the help of overhead orange light, transforms the space and creates the effect of walking through an overexposed photograph. Another highlight was a piece I called "The Fortress of Solitude", a circular wall of shifting color fields. 

I love light installations, it makes the spectator a participator in the piece, and also powerfully transforms space. It's like wading through celluloid.

For more information on the Eliasson exhibit, visit the MOMA.

in the future, all graffiti will look like this

Gothamist, the go-to for all local New York news, quirky and otherwise, found this image of graffiti on 9th st. between 2nd and 3rd. That's my 'hood, man!

It looks like the melding of two worlds, one animated, one otherwise, like Who Framed Roger Rabbit? or, if you're sinister, Videodrome.

Apparently, it's been tagged since installation, but you can bet I'm going to be checking it out on my way home from work. For the full coverage, visit Gothamist.

tuesday top five ...

... returns in all its glory.

I'll try to keep it up from now on. Today, when set on shuffle, my iPod gives you:

1. 2 Dots on a Map, The Russian Futurists from Our Thickness

2. Unlit Highway, Sun Kil Moon from the new album April

3. Something, the Beatles from Abbey Road

4. I Live For That Look, Dinosaur Jr. from Green Mind

5. Honest James, Thurston Moore from Trees Outside the Academy (this one totally gets me)

it gets great light, but what about the machetes?

I have been knee-deep in an apartment search for the past few weeks. There is nothing like the New York rental search, in fact I think it's worthy of a Christopher Guest-esque skewering, or a series of short stories or essays, best in the tone of David Sedaris or Lorrie Moore. It is, frankly, a nightmare.

I saw a lot along the way, including a loft in an old textile factory in Williamsburg that is (still!) zoned commercial, a bedroom even smaller than my current dwelling on the LES and a carriage house off the Bedford stop with roommates who did not speak to each other (or in English). I've ended up through the looking glass in a dream townhouse in Park Slope with a good friend, so I'm more than happy. I'm also armed with stories to tell.

I looked at a number of places in South Williamsburg, on the other side of the bridge from the trendy part, off the Hewes and Marcy stops on the JMZ. It's up-and-coming, I think, on account of all the young people moving in and looking for roommates. I was struck, both of the times I visited the area over the past week, on the notable police presence. I thought it odd, but then, I live in the played out East Village where the only emergencies on the corner are NYU girls who break a nail or have trouble lighting their Parliaments.

It turns out something serious was afoot. I was lucky, it seems, that I wasn't slashed by machete-wielding gang members. I mean, to get slashed or held at knife point is one thing, but a machete?

Read the full story on Gothamist.

skull and bone sunglasses

I watched the 80s dark comedy classic Something Wild for the first time last night. There's a moment when Melanie Griffith (before the plastic surgery and Antonio Banderas) robs a liquor store wearing the most devastatingly cool pair of black sunglasses, which have plastic skeletons glued to the rim of the lenses. Not only did I want them immediately, I wanted to be transported back to a time when an accessory like that would actually be pushing it. Now, you'd see them worn by Iggy Pop in a John Varvatos ad or in the window of his new store in the old CBGB space.

Like Desperately Seeking Susan (it's cinematic soulmate), the movie is old New York ... you know, the one before Pinkberry moved onto St. Mark's Place. Griffith plays a boho wild child who takes Jeff Daniels' Wall Street starch shirt for a mad cap ride that quickly turns felonious. It's surprisingly dark, complex and endearingly oddball. In short, it's a rare studio film that could never be made today. Strike that, they would probably consider a re-make, but only if Heidi and Spencer would headline.

Sometimes Gawker is too much for me. Reading it can often be described as drowning in snark. But ever so often there's a funny, spot on post, like the one below. It's New York-centric, and ever-so-true (not the hot girls thing, but the Beatrice Inn totally developing an eating disorder).

"An online poll declares that Rose Bar, at the Gramercy Park Hotel, has the most attractive female clientele of any bar in New York City. The runner-up bar, Beatrice Inn, immediately burst into tears and became anorexic."

"... patron saint of those men who hear the riverwhistles sing the mysteries and who return to sleep in wine by the south wheel of the city."

(Part of) the last line of Great Jones Street, DeLillo's third, which I just finished. Another mess. But a focused mess concerned only with East Village life in the 70s. It's entertaining to see a take on the city that includes warehouses, vomit, and utter destitution where condos now dominate. An almost classic New York novel? Sure. Readable outside that uber-specific milieu? Not a chance.

"he lived in a pink stucco palace-as-a-bungalow that clung to the side of malibu canyon."

The above photo courtesy of the streets of la. The subject line might be something i wrote.

"you get what you pay for"

That's the tagline for the new Owen Wilson comedy Drillbit Taylor. Yes, it looks terrible. Doesn't that tagline seem awfully prophetic to you? I can just imagine two fledgling CAA agents discussing the film's inevitable demise over flutes of baby blood at Cut.

"Dude, that movie, like, totally bombed," one would say, never looking up from his blackberry.

"Well, you get what you pay for," the other would respond, alluding to a half-baked script, interchangeable child actors and Wilson, who at this point must be the movie star equivalent of buying a tacky sweater for half-off at a going-out-of-business sale.

"in the end they had to carry me to the infirmary and feed me through plastic tubes."

Another one bites the dust. I'm finished with End Zone, DeLillo's second, the football soap opera. In the end it has less to do with plastic tubes than man's violent nature, with football as the metaphor (subtle, huh?). It's the low point so far, which is saying something considering Americana's radical spin over the edge. Onto Great Jones Street, about an East Village rocker. The namesake is just a couple blocks away, so I'm quite eager.

"monsoon sweep, string-in left, ready right Cradle-out, drill-9 shiver, ends chuff, broadside option, flow-and-go."

At least the Don DeLillo's football plays have words like "monsoon" in them.

I'm in the throws of party preparation at the moment ... I'm making that dip we always ate at special occasions at my house ... I've already had to run to the store for more mayonnaise. Ha. Anyway, if you're not watching the Oscars tonight you're being quite silly. I'm continuing the family tradition of having a party. I'm quite excited, of course.

"he's in exile in libya because his government frowns on sci-fi."

I'm in the middle of End Zone, DeLillo's second novel, and so far it's a pretty straightforward football novel. What gives? I'm waiting for a nuclear meltdown or some mention of guerillas and they're talking about pass interceptions. There's been a little chatter about warheads, and I think we're inching (ever-slowly) to the brink of chaos, but it's just pussy-footing around. Come on!

"that was all, just a kiss between paragraphs."

I thought today's Tuesday top five should be Oscar-related. The ceremony will go on this Sunday (thank goodness they settled that strike) and as I've mentioned before, I grew up with Oscar parties. It's nostalgia, americana, glitz and lore. I'm toying with having a get-together myself, but I'm on the fence. I don't know if my friends are that into it, but I'm sure if I sell it as a sequin and botox extravaganza (with wine, no less), they'll at least show.

Speaking of sequins, the outfits at these things are half the fun. So, here we go, my ceremonial countdown of the five most outrageous Oscar outfits (according to me, and outrageous not necessarily meaning bad).

1. Cher, as a goth pinata. The year? Trivial. This is our past, present and future. She hasn't aged, so why should we date the picture. It's Cher at her most Cher. This is why we love and cherish, and why it's so much less fun without her.

2. The Amex Dress. The motley Australian duo to the right won the Best Costume Oscar for the smashing The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (which is you haven't seen, you really shouldn't be reading this blog). We shouldn't have been that surprised at Lizzi Gardener's attire, as she did outfit Guy Pearce in a dress made of flip flops for that film. It did cause quite the stir in 1994 ... and how many other costume designers do we still gab about today? Looking at this picture now, though, I wonder why we didn't make a bigger stink about her design partner's apparent lack of pants. Talk about a double standard.

3. Charlize Theron, now co-starring with a giant, black bow. First off, I love her. A few years ago, she not only had to deal with snarky pundits bemoaning her nomination for North Country, but she showed up in couture and the fashionistas started in as well. It's a bold, very runway look, and I applaud it. Outrageous? Of course. Awful? Puh-leeze.

4. Geena Davis vs. a rufflied, white train. Within five years, she was in Cutthroat Island. Need I say more?

5. It's ... Cher, again! I just couldn't help it. Different hat. Different decade. Same face! Eeep!

"this is charles of the ritz. this month's lipstick is salmon puree."

Don't mistake the quote above with the previous few entries. One of these things is not like the other. The last few titles were from camp classic Valley of the Dolls, which I saw for the first time just a few weeks ago.

This title, though, comes from Americana, Don DeLillo's first novel, which I just finished. I'm reading all of DeLillo's books, in order. One down, thirteen to go.

Americana is pretty uneven ... it follows a snarky television executive who leaves New York on a cross-country quest to document real, American lives ... you know, to find our what America is all about. DeLillo nails New York corporate culture, and this satirical first part of the novel works quite well. And there are priceless lines and dialogue. But it descends into near incoherent philosophical babble. Oh well. The first of many.

"that's me singing on that jukebox"

For this week's Tuesday top five, I thought I'd share my thoughts leading up to and following my trip to the voting booth this morning.

1. For just about the last two weeks: CLINTON
2. For a scant moment earlier this week, I don't know what was going on, but: OBAMA
3. In the voting booth: CLINTON
4. Post-voting booth. Remember that crack about buyer's remorse from Clueless?: OBAMA
5. And right now, sitting in bed with a tummy ache: I JUST DON'T KNOW

So to sum it up, I'll quote Elvis Costello quoting Burt Bacharach, "I just don't know what to do with myself."

"boobies, boobies, boobies. nothin' but boobies. who needs 'em?"

Leave it to Jezebel to post this photo of Helena Bonham Carter under the title "Helena Bonham Carter is a hot mess." Granted, she's not looking as striking as normal (certainly not the goth guy's wet dream that she was in Sweeney Todd), but give her a break. She just gave birth, like, a month ago. Now, I'm admittedly quick to jump to HBC's defense. I am one of the few who bucked the naysayers and wholly embraced her heartbreaking turn in Sweeney. Sure, she can't sing, but she embodies Mrs. Lovett's lovelorn desperation with grace and depth. Add that to stirring turns in The Wings of the Dove, Howards End and Fight Club and she's above the average snark monger's petty fashion criticism.

That's all.

"I took the job because I needed the work. The sanitarium was very expensive."

We're going to play a little game. This week, the heading of each entry will be a quote from one of the most ridiculous camp classics around. If you (any of the four of you who read the blog) can guess the film, you'll get bragging rights and my utmost respect.

112 things - part 7

49. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
50. Walking is my preferred mode of transportation.
51. I ride the F train.
52. I can't help but order duck if it's on the menu.
53. I just switched to Issey Miyaki cologne.
54. Of all brands, I think Penguin most closely matches my personal aesthetic.
55. But really, I don't have a clearly defined personal aesthetic.
56. I'm a runner.

top five

Wouldn't it be great if every Tuesday (or, this week, Wednesday) I wrote about the songs that are getting the heaviest rotation on my iPod? I think so. So here we go, the
inaugeral list.

1. I'll Dream Alone, The Magnetic Fields, off their new album, Distortion
2. Tarpit, Dinosaur Jr., off the classic, essential You're Living All Over Me
3. Cybele's Reverie, Stereolab, off the album Emperor Tomato Ketchup
4. Mansard Roof, Vampire Weekend, off the self-titled debut
5. Soft Revolution, Stars, off the Arts & Crafts label album Set Yourself on Fire

and W ruled the day (and night)

I was walking along Houston yesterday and saw a striking woman walk out of Whole Foods, sipping a cup of soup. She had long legs, pixie features and flaming red hair. I found her stunning, and thought that if she wasn't a model, she certainly should be. Ten minutes later, flipping through a W waiting to get my hair cut, I came across a striking photo spread set in D.C., with a young woman done up as Jackie O, photographed alone against the monuments. Long legs, pixie features, flaming red hair. Same girl. A lovely New York moment.

That night I went to a party at a killer loft in Chelsea. It was a scene, to be sure. Fashion people, mostly, kids with great clothes and lives that are very different than mine. One of the hostesses wore a black slip dress that was low cut in the back and hung loose on the sides. We saw the sides of her breasts all night, and at one point she revealed star-shaped, glittered pasties covering her nipples.

I ended up talking with a friend-of-a-friend's girlfriend who, as it turns out, works at W (she was also quite beautiful and wore the perfect shade of red lipstick). I mentioned my coincidence, and not only did she now it, she helped pull clothes for the shoot. Another lovely, W-related New York moment.

The night continued as parties like that must, slowly unraveling to an inevitable crescendo. In this case, somewhere north of two, someone broke the pedestal sink in one of the bathrooms. There it was, the toppled basin on the floor, cracked porcelain strewn about and pipes exposed. No spewing water though. I wish I had a picture.

So it was a crazy night. It ended, though, on a nice note. Around three or so, I had a compelling conversation with a late-arriving guest, one markedly lucid and thoughtful given the hour. He was older (shockingly so, it turned out) and was there with his boyfriend (of course), but we had a great conversation about media, print journalism and New York vs. everywhere else. It was unexpectedly mature and provoking and pleasant given that this was a party where people broke sinks.

this happened too

I had planned to do a hefty Oscar nomination wrap-up entry, but the Heath Ledger business put a damper on a normally shameless, self-congratulatory frenzy of a day.

My parents always had an Oscar party when I was growing up. My dad started throwing them in college. Something tells me it was probably the only annual Oscar party Sherman, TX. Anyway, the Oscars have always meant celebration to my family. The day was always filled with preparation, the smells of my mom's special dishes, and the arrival of, at least in the years we lived in Dallas, a lot of Junior Leaguers with big hair and strong perfume. Most movie fans get into the yearly derby, but for me, it's family lore.

This year, the nominations offered few surprises. Atonement snuck into the top five ... I really thought it would go the way of Cold Mountain, a pretty, literary epic with high awards aspirations that failed to garner a Best Picture nomination. That means Sean Penn's soulful Into the Wild got snubbed (only receiving mentions for editing and supporting actor Hal Holbrook, who could well win), which is too bad.

The acting categories offered a few good mentions. I was excited to see Viggo Mortensen finally receive Academy attention (he should have made it for A History of Violence a few years ago). And while I disliked Eastern Promises enough to walk out, what I saw of his performance was impressive.

It was also nice to see Laura Linney make it into the Actress race. Overall, The Savages was pretty mediocre, but Linney is expert as always, playing a tattered, unraveling version of her role in You Can Count on Me. She's one of the best working, so it's nice to see her recognized. Also in that category, I'm a bit surprised to see Cate Blanchett (a double nominee this year) make it in for the drag queen walk-off that was Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Blanchett's my favorite, but even I think this is a bit much. Instead, they should have recognized (the admittedly overexposed) Angelina Jolie, for impressive work in A Mighty Heart.

Other gripes? Where's Zodiac's sublime editing, cinematography and art direction (not to mention Robert Downey Jr.)? Or the Simpsons Movie for animated feature? Helena Bonham Carter in Sweeney Todd? Jennifer Jason Leigh in Margot at the Wedding?

That's my take, what's yours?

on a sad note

As this blog is as much about film and New York as it is about my odd quirks, it would be wrong to not observe actor Heath Ledger's untimely passing. Normally, the public reaction to a celebrity death highlights the more morbid aspects of fan adoration. Craving details, taking pictures, thrusting microphones in the faces of friends and loved ones. We'll never know the truth. And that's fine. It's none of our business.

The truth is that Ledger was a very talented actor. It's a loss to the film community, and one that stings because he was so, so very good. His turn in Brokeback Mountain did recall, as The New York Times suggested at the time, the work of James Dean, Sean Penn, or a young Marlon Brando. He brought power, control and restraint to a tough role, and gamely related the depth and conflict of a complex, taciturn character. Above all, he moved me.

I was talking with a similarly shaken friend earlier today, and we concluded that not only has our generation lost one of our own, but our community has as well. Recently, Ledger had become a New York fixture. When he and ex-fiance Michelle Williams moved to Boerum Hill with their daughter Matilda, they become the darlings of Brooklyn, poster children for the brownstone lifestyle. When they split and Ledger fled to Soho, an entire borough felt jilted. And like any loss in the communities in which we live, it feels close by. I've walked by that loft countless times, it's just a few blocks away from the bookstore where I volunteer. At moments, especially with the media coverage, it all feels within walking distance.

It will be interesting to see how we write the Ledger narrative. Like other public figures who go too early, we will construct a myth. Will it be a cautionary tale of reckless, wasted youth (see River Phoenix, Cobain), or a story about someone stolen from us, unfairly, who quickly achieves iconography (Dean)? I suspect the latter, with images of Ledger in his cowboy garb (like the one above) reaching the same matinee idol heights as Dean wearing a white t-shirt and smoking a cigarette in Rebel without a Cause.

We'll see. The certain truth is that, at least for this finicky moviegoer, he will be sorely missed.