bad lighting

the year that was

2012-01-03T06:52:00.000-08:00

Because I know you've all been dying of anticipation, here's my list of favorite films of the year. There are a few things I haven't seen yet (but really, War Horse isn't my jam), so it's a pretty representative list.

1. Melancholia
Grand, stately and haunting -- and that's just the overture. Lars von Trier's ode to the end of the world supposes that the clinically depressed are best prepared for the apocalypse, and though it's subject may be bleak, I can't think of a moviegoing experience I enjoyed more (perhaps it has something to do with watching it in bed). Kirsten Dunst earned major plaudits for her turn as the bipolar bride, but I'd say Charlotte Gainsbourg's anxious sister is the more accomplished performance.

2. Martha Marcy May Marlene
With it's naturalistic tone and eerie atmosphere, this film resembles the character-driven paranoia thrillers of the 1970s (like the Stepford Wives, but in the Catskills). Elizabeth Olson gives the breakout performance of the year as an escapee from a cult who recovers at a Connecticut lakehouse with her sister (an awesome Sarah Paulson). It's hard to believe that this is writer/director Sean Durkin's debut feature -- I can't wait to see what he does next.

3. Young Adult

I'm a bit sick of everyone complaining about how Mavis Gary (the expert Charlize Theron) is unlikable. Yeah, she's a manic, alcoholic, would-be homewrecker, but I'd argue she's misguided, misunderstood, and ultimately very sympathetic (and, yes, part of me is concerned about how easily I identify with her). This dark comedy represents the most watchable work from screenwriter Diablo Cody (free of all of Juno's cutesy dialogue), and a major return for Theron.

4. Beginners
Just one Zooey Deschanel cover away from being too twee and hipster, this lovely dramedy hit the perfect balance of cute and heartfelt without being sentimental and cloying (not an easy task). Ewan McGregor stars as a relationship-phobic guy struggling with his elderly father's coming out. Christopher Plummer will win the Oscar for his touching newly-out dad, and Melanie Laurent continues to be the most adorable gal in movies today.

5. Bridesmaids
Easily the funniest film of the year, it's no surprise that it's a big hit that everyone still talks about. I still want more from it, like a sequel with Wendi Mclendon-Covey and Ellie Kemper that plays like a comedic Thelma & Louise, or a prequel that explores Rose Byrne's terrible step-momming.

6. Shame
The un-sexiest movie about sex ever. It's haunting and at times brutal to sit through, but formally brilliant and ultimately astounding. Michael Fassbender is a hollow sex addict and Carey Mulligan (in one of my favorite performances of the year) is his live wire, unstable sister. Mulligan's slowed-down, heartbreaking rendition of "New York, New York" (pictured right) might be my favorite scene of the year.

7. The Skin I Live In
I don't get why so many people have dismissed this gleefully macabre, absurd film as lesser Almodovar. I'll take diabolical melodrama over something earnest any day. Almodovar's labyrinthine screenplay is the key accomplishment here -- the complex story expertly unfolds and the reveal is killer good.

8. We Need to Talk About Kevin
It's hard to imagine any actress other than Tilda Swinton tackling the role of the mother of a mass murderer in this unrelenting, but gorgeous, melodrama. She's at times steely and heartbreaking, most often conveying the most without saying a word. Director Lynn Ramsey photographs it with grace -- the color schemes and shot compositions are immaculate.

9. Take Shelter
Michael Shannon gives the performance of the year as a man slowly losing grip on reality. Relentlessly paranoid that the world is ending, he goes into debt building a bomb shelter, loses his job, and puts great strain on his marriage (it-girl Jessica Chastain plays his increasingly terrified wife). Is he losing his mind or is the end really coming? It's left open-ended, and thank goodness.

10. Weekend
An intimate story of a one night stand that turns into something more, and one of the few gay films I've found authentic and identifiable.

the year-end list

2011-12-27T15:08:00.000-08:00

Dark Allies at the CMJ event at the New Museum by Altered Zones (may the rest in peace)

I'm holding off on pulling together a "best of" 2011 album list until later this week. But I had the itch to create a playlist for the end of the year ... not something to play at a new year's eve party unless you really want it to sound like the third act of a John Hughes movie. Anyway, it's a lot of new stuff I've been listening to for the past week or so. And it's all awesome.

Enjoy.

http://www.mediafire.com/?wqgnnhvi6dqp5yz

The December List

2011-12-01T07:38:00.000-08:00

(Dive, performing "Sometime" at Altered Zones' CMJ show at the New Museum)

So this is my playlist for December. Predictably heavy on melancholy synth dreamscapes. Some old, some new-ish, all fairly awesome.

Here's the link: http://www.mediafire.com/?r80ack3ofqx9euz

Not sure how the zip ended up sequencing the tracks, but here's the recommended order:

- Dust Cloud (Justin K. Broadrick Remix), Bear in Heaven
- Shells, Dreams West
- A Certain Someone, Light Asylum
- Sometime, Dive
- Strawberry Skies, Games
- Romantic Streams, Sleep Over
- French Letter, Bon Accord
- Deerfield Village, Rangers
- Keen on Boys, The Radio Dept.
- Mind, Drips, Neon Indian
- Local Joke (Neon Indian Cover), Millionyoung
- First Time, Soft Circle

Drive

2011-09-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

I caught Drive, Danish director Nicholas Winding Refn’s hollow confection of a caper film, at Nitehawk, the new movie theater in Williamsburg. It’s a hipster’s concept of movie-going, with high end bar food and cocktails available to nibble and sip during the feature. There was something so fitting about ironically chomping down on nachos while trying to enjoy Drive, which, regardless of quality, stands to emerge as an instant hipster classic. With it’s neon-soaked industrial landscape and seductive, 80s-inspired soundtrack, it embodies a style and attitude that’s captivated the too-cool-for-school post-MTV generation. Despite it’s visual flourishes and occasional breathtaking sequence, Drive amounts to nothing more than a whole lot of posing. It’s the Marie Antoinette of chase movies – all style, no substance.

It-boy Ryan Gosling stars as a nameless stunt driver who moonlights as a wheel man for heists and robberies. It’s unclear whether thrill-seeking or economics motivate his felonious night job, but then we don’t ever find out why any of these characters are doing anything. He inexplicably falls for his downtrodden neighbor (Carey Mulligan) who comes with her own baggage – a husband in prison, a young son she takes care of, and a really tacky pair of hoop earrings. When her husband is released and needs cash quick, Gosling helps him with a robbery that predictably goes awry. In its aftermath, Gosling is forced to go head-to-head with a brilliantly cast-against-type Albert Brooks, a kingpin in LA’s seedy underbelly. It’s a great set-up for a trashy B-movie tribute, but Refn’s approach is so cold and detached that it’s impossible to become emotionally invested in the proceedings.

The actors can’t be faulted; they’ve been given cardboard cutouts to work with. The direction for Gosling was clearly to channel Steve McQueen, which he does with aplomb, though his cheekbones are doing most of the heavy lifting. It’s tough to buy Mulligan as a down-on-her-luck waitress – she has an inherent confidence and sophistication that’s at odds with the character. The supporting cast is a lot more fun, dialing up to archetypal B-movie figures. It’s a delight to see Brooks playing the heavy, while Bryan Cranston and Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks bring an otherwise absent authenticity to their small but pivotal roles.

Ultimately, the whole thing plays like an M83 music video that runs two hours too long. It might not be a bad strategy, however, as I couldn’t wait to download the soundtrack the minute I left the theater.

song of the day - monday

2011-03-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

Lately it feels like I've been constantly espousing my affection for Sofia Coppola. I loved Somewhere -- easily one of last year's best films -- and have frequent pangs of nostalgia for Lost in Translation. Keeping in that theme, I thought Kevin Shields' "City Girl" would be a good song for this AM. It's briefly featured in the film, playing softly in the background during the title sequence, accompanying the infamous shot of a translucent-pink-panty-clad Scarlett Johannson. Kevin Shields of course is the frontman of My Bloody Valentine, so the song has that requisite dreamy, hazy quality (that band's "Sometimes" from Loveless is also featured in the film. Here's a Sofia Coppola-directed music video that nicely pairs the song and film:

jalapeno cheddar cornbread win

2011-03-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

Here's a shot of the jalapeno cheddar cornbread I made for my friend Todd's Cajun-themed dinner party last night. It was delicious. I'm not much of a baker, so I was a tad nervous. But, as with most things in life, the guidance of The Barefoot Contessa proved invaluable.

song of the day - saturday

2011-03-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

It seems I have a thing for exposing my celebrity crushes. This one should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I think Thurston Moore is a total fox. My love for Sonic Youth is of course undying, as they are and always will be my favorite band.

Here's the first single off of Moore's forthcoming solo album. It's called "Benediction" and it's lovely:

Thurston Moore :: Benediction

my thoughts on my liz

2011-03-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning in San Francisco to a newsfeed overwhelmed with news of Elizabeth Taylor's passing. While not surprising news given her years of health complications, it's nevertheless sad to see an icon fade to black.

For me, Elizabeth Taylor was ceaseless glamour and emblematic of an old world, aristocratic luxury. Monaco. Casinos. VIP lounges. Everything that's cheesy now that used to be "it".

She was a world class movie star, but also a great actress. It's easy to forget, as she invented tabloid fixation and the culture of celebrity heartbreak (Mike Todd! Tracheotomy! Oscar!). For me, she's the essential Maggie in Cat on the Hot Tin Roof. So hungry, so desperate, so smoldering (she was similarly well-matched with Tennessee Williams the following year in Suddenly Last Summer). I remember seeing Ashley Judd try to bring the same glamour and restlessness to a Broadway revival a few years ago, which of course didn't work. Too fussy, over-rehearsed, self-conscious.

She was also appropriately disgusting and billowy in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, however I prefer Kathleen Turner's star turn in that Broadway revival a few years ago.

In the 80s and 90s Taylor didn't do as much, showing up in her final theatrical release in The Flinstones as Wilma's mother. Eeep. Our icons should be better served. Of course there were those delicious perfume ads, which offered the soap opera intrigue of any 50s melodrama. I've always wanted to live out the fantasy or wearing diamonds, watching a poker game, and seeing men fight (presumably over me). Here's a choice 30-second spot:

that time i fell in love with keith haring

2011-03-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

I picked up artist Keith Haring's journals at Bookmarc a few weeks ago. Say what you will about Marc Jacobs' hellbent determination to overtake the West Village, and about the undeniable charms of Biography Bookshop which occupied the space intially, but Bookmarc is really quite lovely. As many have noted, it's exceedingly well-curated and offers an impressive range of art books, biographies, pop, miscellanea and various tidbits. It's lovely and engaging and showcases some real gems.

I'm a fiction loyalist, however over the past few years I've developed a keen appreciation of biography and non-fiction, particularly interviews, diaries, journals, and memoirs. I think the gold standard is Andy Warhol's collected diaries, which are an immense collection of recorded phone conversations he made over the years. Coupled with Victor Borkis' seminal biography, both provide a well-textured portrayal of the enigmatic figure. Diana Vreeland's memoir, D.V., which I had wanted to read since hearing it referenced in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, similarly captures her voice and candor.

Before stopping picking this up, I didn't know much about the life of Keith Haring. I knew the images, of course, but was unfamiliar with the artist himself. Since wrapping up the journals on my flight back from San Francisco earlier this week, I've fallen for him. I can't help but feel that there's something very romantic about his artistic struggle in his early years and the progress he made in conceptualizing and intellectualizing his work over time. It's also the undeniable romance of New York in the early 80s, something we all missed out on. For me, it's the great party I didn't go to but keep hearing about the day after. That'd be the time period I would revisit if I could.

While the journals are more about his work and glib observations on art -- on Matisse he says "too many drawings of tits and ass, I'd think he'd get bored" -- there are candid glimpses into his personal life, the tumult of notoriety, the general fabulosity of being close friends with Grace Jones, etc. What struck me most is how, despite global notoriety, Haring remained so naive and insecure in many ways, and also so loving and devoted to children and humanity.

It's also an incredible glimpse into a time where the gay experience in America was quite different. Haring came of age in the era before AIDS, and when the disease led to the death of several friends, viewed contracting it as an inevitability. There's a heart-wrenching anecdote of when Haring finds out he has AIDS, he walks down Houston to the East River, cries, and then makes the decision to live as long as he can, and to produce as much art as he can before it's too late.

It's impossible not to be moved. In many ways Haring is emblematic of a generation of lost and disenfranchised gay voices. There's a lot there -- why hasn't there been a film about his life yet?

song of the day - nostalgia edition

2011-03-03T15:04:00.000-08:00

My Bloody Valentine “Blown a Wish”

Because I talk about them all the time, I thought I would post my favorite song from my favorite band. For me, it’s a deeply nostalgic dreamscape – driving in college with the top down, drinking at coffee shops that no longer exist, now-cringeworthy vintage clothing decisions, sloppy dorm room hookups etc. I've been in Austin this week for work, so I guess that's meant meandering through a lot of old Texas memories. The short hand -- I want to move back.

I included a snippet of lyrics – “Midnight wish/Blow me a kiss/I'll blow one to you/Make like this/Try to pretend it's true" -- in a short story I wrote in college, and would be more likely to get a tattoo that says that than anything else (though I think I’ve aged past that foolishness).

song of the day - wednesday

2011-03-01T19:39:00.000-08:00

Abe Vigoda, “Sequins”

A few weeks ago I caught Wild Nothing (who I just can’t get over I like them so much) at Bowery Ballroom with my friend and preferred concert buddy Claire. Wild Nothing of course rocked with all the 80s inspired nuance that their album Gemini and subsequent Golden Haze EP delivered. It was an all-around great show with Minks, who just released an impressive debut LP, opening with Abe Vigoda. I didn’t know anything about this LA-based group of awkward guys, but have come to love their sound. “Sequins”, the opening track off their album Crush, is both upbeat and sweeping, pretty representative of their overall sound. The lead singer's voice works for me, and it’s nicer to listen to than it is to watch him perform – I’ve never seen someone sweat so much live … it was a bit like Albert Brooks anchoring the weekend edition in Broadcast News.

Here’s the band performing the song live:

song of the day - thursday

2011-02-21T16:50:00.000-08:00

Work Drugs, "Dog Daze"

Distant vocals offset the disco-light, lounge-ready beat, lightly resembling a track from the recent Destroyer album, but obscured and drowning in melancholia. It's still decadent and glittering, a bit like and episode of The Love Boat but done as sudsy melodrama. Here's the video:

song of the day - wednesday

2011-02-20T10:20:00.000-08:00

Small Black "Despicable Dogs (Washed Out Remix)"

Great opening bands are one of my favorite things. When I saw No Age at Music Hall of Williamsburg last fall, I wasn't too impressed with the headliner (all noise, no nuance), but openers Soft Circle and Small Black were really great. I knew nothing about either beforehand, so it was a great surprise. Small Black (a pleasantly motley band of locals) has the killer 80s sound that I just can't get enough of. Last year they released both a self-titled EP and the full-length Chains, both of which I highly recommend picking up. This track reinterprets the EP's most appealing track through the eyes of electro artists Washed Out (if you haven't given their EP Life of Leisure a listen, do so now):

song of the day - tuesday

2011-02-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

Beach Fossils, "What a Pleasure"

Last summer I played Beach Fossils' self-titled debut on an endless loop. Dreamy, drifting lilts with just the right amount of summertime twang. Their new EP shows encouraging growth. They've moved beyond the beach bum aesthetic and now show a deeper, hazier sound that closely resembles label-mates (and the totally awesome) Wild Nothing. Here's the title track off the new album:

song of the day - monday

2011-02-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, "Alisa"

I've been a bit of a fanatic for Ariel Pink since hearing Before Today, his killer album from last year. That one features "Round and Round", a hypnotic track that is currently my ring tone. His whole body of work is quite strong, particularly 2006's House Arrest. I've learned that they will soon re-press it on vinyl, and given that it's a grainy, sample-heavy sound, that will be a sublime must-have. Here's today's track, "Alisa", performed live (and quite well), below:

song of the day - sunday

2011-02-20T08:01:00.001-08:00

A Gap Between, "Neon Signs"

Heavy synth beats propel this sudsy bit of nostalgia. It's like a nightclub scene from any 80s film (Fright Night actually comes to mind) - and that's a serious compliment. Click here to visit the band's Soundcloud page to give it a listen.

(Pictured above: A gay club in Cape Town, the name of which I can't recall. A room bedecked with disco balls felt appropriate for the song)

song of the day -- saturday

2011-02-19T09:11:00.000-08:00

Memoryhouse, "When You Sleep"

My love for these guys' debut EP The Years, which was released last year, is well-documented. So I was intrigued when I heard they had done a live cover of this track from My Bloody Valentine (my favorite band). Memoryhouse is among the few bands that possesses the requisite dreamy haze necessary to cover those legendary shoegazers. Here's video of Memoryhouse performing the cover at Mercury Lounge last year:

song of the day

2011-02-18T16:56:00.000-08:00

Toro y Moi, "New Beat"

The first song off their new album Underneath the Pine(s) is a seductive, upbeat disco send-up. Dripping with retro synth and a champagne dream-soaked vibe it's a dance track that even guys who don't dance (me) can get behind. I recommend checking them out at Music Hall of Williamsburg on April 10. Here's the video:

the year that was ...

2011-02-15T11:35:00.001-08:00

Where did the lazy, cozy, red-wine-soaked winters of yore go? So far this has been a frantic, angry-badger-faced season for me, which means I've only now caught up on last year's films. Here's my list of 2010's best:

1. Winter's Bone

Call it Ozark noir. Jennifer Lawrence stars as a ceaselessly determined teenager who must hunt down her meth-cooking father to keep her family together. As she portrays this search through backwoods Appalachia, writer/director Debra Granik captures her subject and setting with a documentarian's eye. It's atmospheric, moody, and riveting. Lawrence, who played a similarly precocious and world-weary teenager in The Burning Plain, makes her character's pluck endearing and believable, while Dale Dickey and John Hawkes offer indelible portraits of not-entirely-unsympathetic figures entangled in the meth business.

2. Black Swan

Sure, I can handily buy all the "it's about the artistic process" arguments, but for me, this is a blood-soaked psychological thriller, as gleefully over the top as Carrie or Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?. Darren Aronofsky has never been one for subtlety, and thank goodness. Natalie Portman has never been better as a ballerina losing grips on reality (she relishes the stage like Elizabeth Berkeley did the stripper pole in Showgirls ... that's not a knock). Barbara Hershey and Vincent Cassel haven't gotten the praise they deserve as Portman's manipulative mother and director, respectively.

3. Somewhere

Sometimes I think about what it must be like to be Sofia Coppola.

"But Daddy, I want to make a costume drama!"

"When I was in the front row at the Anna Sui show ..."

"I loved that song 1901, off my husband's last album."

It's easy to hate on Coppola, but perhaps that's because we all wish we were hollywood progeny, fashion icons, and indie rock wives. Also, that we could write delicate, minimalist screenplays and bring them to the screen with grace and visual splendor. That's just what Coppola's done with Somewhere, her best film since Lost in Translation (the less said about Marie Antoinette the better). It's easily her most minimal, defined by dialogue-less scenes, a rudderless narrative flow, and relationships are implied rather than stated. I love the ambiguity as well as apathy for traditional narrative propulsion. Stephen Dorff stars as a disenchanted hollywood star living in the famed, decadent Chateau Marmont. Elle Fanning (she of the Dakota Fannings) is his charming, precocious daughter. They interact, disconnect, go to Milan. Their relationship -- and Dorff's lack of relationships with everyone -- feels quintessentially LA. It reminds me of the line from Less Than Zero, "People are afraid to merge."

4. White Material

I've written about Claire Denis' brilliant examination of post-colonialism before, so I'll keep it brief. Isabelle Huppert (always great) is the steely operator of a coffee farm in a crumbling African nation. It's abstract, non-traditional, haunting.

5. I Am Love

It had me at hello. A snow-blanketed Milan, John Adams' lavish score, and vintage credits. A fitting start to an opulent send-up to old style melodrama. Tilda Swinton (who else?) stars as a the matriarch of a dynastic Italian clan. Betrayal, dueling loyalties, clandestine love. It's all there. The soap opera is fun, but the technical marvels are the reasons to stay - costumes to die for and the most appetizing prawn I've ever seen.

6. Animal Kingdom

When his mother overdoses, a teen is forced to move in with his only family -- a notorious gang of bank robbers. Similar to this year's The Town, it's a fairly traditional crime film that explores loyalty, honor and family. The white trash Australian setting is fascinating and Jackie Weaver deserves all the praise she's receiving as the motley crew's duplicitous matriarch.

7. The Social Network

Yeah, it's been overpraised. Which is too bad, because there's now a bit of a backlash against this witty, insightful look at flawed ambition and social alienation. Few directors working today possess David Fincher's skill and precision, and when paired with Aaron Sorkin's rapid-fire dialogue (so good it warrants comparison to Preston Sturges), it's hard to beat. The opening confrontation between Jesse Eisenberg and Rooney Mara could easily be one of the best first scenes ever, and contains my favorite line of the year, "Dating you is like dating a Stairmaster."

8. Shutter Island

A real treat for lovers of old film, Martin Scorsese approaches this psychological thriller with an eye to Hitchcock and Georges Franju. The technical merits are peerless, and supporting turns from Ben Kingsley and Max Von Sydow are over-the-top in a great way. This is also, I think, the better of DiCaprio's "tortured soul due to late, crazy wife" performances.

9. Inception

Now for the other DiCaprio as a "tortured soul due to late, crazy wife" film. With The Dark Knight and this follow-up, Christopher Nolan deserves credit for pushing blockbuster filmmaking into an uncharted realm. It's also refreshing to see an original idea (not a franchise, reboot, etc.) get the big budget treatment (even if every line Ellen Page says is a piece of exposition). And as much as this isn't a performance piece, why people haven't been talking about Marion Cotillard's affecting work as Leo's luminous (albeit slightly crazy and dead) wife is beyond me.

10. Exit from the Gift Shop

An engaging look at the art of the scam, which itself might just be a scam. It looks at the rise of street art and the mysterious (and potentially fictitious) Banksy, who along with Shepard Fairey are the empresarios of the movement. It's all about what's art and who decides, or as Jennifer Egan put it in the excellent A Visit from the Goon Squad, "When does a fake mohawk become a real mohawk? Who decides?"

my life in mocktails

2011-01-19T07:48:00.000-08:00

For those of you interested in how Amy and I are doing with this detox bit, check here for updates, anecdotes, and breakdowns: http://onceandfutureslurry.tumblr.com/

We're both quite funny, so it's worth a read.

that time we stopped drinking

2011-01-10T12:01:00.001-08:00

One night over drinks (naturally), my friend Amy and I decided to take a break from booze. We came up with a 90 day goal, which takes us through March. This isn't a Lohan situation (as it's not court-mandated), we're just seeing if we can.

The reasons why are plenty. First off, I probably drink too much, in both frequency and quantity. It could be that I'm feeling the weight of my holiday season glut, or that everything I did in my early 20s is now catching up with me (eeep), but I just feel my body telling me to slow down.

Speaking of body, well, it could just be gay panic (at the disco), but the post-holiday puffiness has me wanted to focus a bit more on all that, so the lack of hangovers will make weekend workouts less rare.

Oh, and then there's the money. My rough estimates for how much I spend going out each month are brutal and un-sharable. Let's just say funneling some of that into savings would be advisable (or at least that's what Suze Orman would tell me).

So far, it's been surprisingly easy. We started on January 2, after the New Year's revelry had subsided. The first day was easy, as I was in a van coming back from a boozy trip to the Catskills, in which I may have been my most hungover ever.

On Saturday, I went to the Xanadude party in Williamsburg. The whole thing felt like the East Village had hopped the river, devoured Willamsburg, and then thrown it back up. Which is my way of saying it was more gay scenester than gay hipster. That said, the music was killer (the theme seemed to be regurgitated glitter); there was a giant, inflated cat tacked to the ceiling; a drag queen wore gloves adorned with talons; tank tops are in this winter; and I was perfectly fine sober. Funny is still funny, and awkward is still awkward. The biggest challenge is that any social anxiety is felt more acutely (a big reason people drink in the first place). Oh well, I'll figure it out.

Going forward, I think Amy and I are going to set up another site where we chronicle all of this, so stay tuned!

(Pictured: Me, in egregiously mismatched patterns, a little over a year ago at a winery in the Franschhoek Valley region of South Africa)

christmas? again? already?

2011-01-06T05:10:00.000-08:00

Moments of utter bliss can occur in the most random of places. Picture me, puffy-eyed, hair tussled, early this morning at the Admirals Club at O'Hare. What an odd time to discover a bootleg version of Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story online.

It's not an exaggeration to say I've waited my entire adult life to see this movie. It's the first work from Todd Haynes, who I've had a crush on since I saw Safe in high school. It only grew when I saw his other films -- Poison, Velvet Goldmine, Far From Heaven -- in college.

But until now finding this first short film has been impossible. Due to his liberal, unauthorized use of the Carpenters songbook, and the fact that he uses Barbies (a trademarked entity) to play Carpenter and the other characters, it's been banned everywhere.

Amazingly, it lives up to my decade-long anticipation. It's camp meets David Lynch meets Kathy Acker meets Ivy League dissertation. It's unflinching, impossible-to-look-away-from, highly stylized, and profoundly disturbing. So, a fitting precursor for the Todd Haynes filmography.

I encourage all of you to take a look!

best. date. movie. ever.

2011-01-04T07:18:00.000-08:00

Obviously, I'm kidding.

Nothing says "afternoon of a bonus day off" like an ultra-realistic film about the explosive demise of a relationship, but laundry was the alternative, so I couldn't resist.

Eeep. To call Blue Valentine the cinematic equivalent of getting punched in the stomach might be an understatement. Deliberately difficult to watch and pulling no punches, the film painstakingly documents all the horrible things people do to each other in a relationship. Unfortunately, it's a like what Cassavetes would have been like if he tried way, way, way too hard. That said, Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams can't be faulted. Yes, they're "fearless" for being so exposed, but they also make the film seem almost believable and real, even at its most contrived. If this is what that hipster couple next door grows up to become, I hope to have moved by then.

To that point, imagine my surprise to be alone in a sea of couples watching the film at the Angelika. What were these people thinking? Apart from loving seeing movies by myself, I was thrilled to be alone, I was relieved to not have shared the experience with anyone I know (Trading gasps during an abortion or awkward sex scene isn't going to bring me closer to anyone).

So, as hard as it was for me, the cold walk home with someone else would have been way harder.

isabelle huppert never lets me down

2010-12-29T08:50:00.001-08:00

Five things that will happen to you during a snowpocalypse:

1. You'll get stranded in Connecticut.

2. You'll remember how much you hate shoveling snow. Outside of the threat of gay bullying, it was the thing you liked least about high school.

3. You'll become lousy for baked goods. You'll see that there's an inverse relationship between inches of powder and ability to display will power. You'll dread returning to New York this puffy.

4. You'll fall for Video On Demand. You'll take full advantage of your parents' cable and watch White Material, now showing at the IFC. You'll love Claire Denis' searing, unflinching look at post-colonialism. You've always had a crush on Isabelle Huppert and as the operator of a crumbling coffee plantation, beset with family disloyalty, a corrupt government, and unruly rebel miltias, she brings it. If you had a vote, she'd be your pick for the Oscar.

5. You'll be glad to (finally) return to Williamsburg, only to find yourself in something out of Land of the Lost. More than a day after the snow ended, your street will not be plowed and you'll see an abandoned bus stuck at the intersection of Driggs and N. 7. The look will be post-apocalyptic arctic chic. You get hipster apathy, but with half the guys in the nabe looking like burly woodsmen, you'll wonder why so few of them lack shoveling skills.

your parents' favorite movie of the year

2010-12-26T07:34:00.000-08:00

We managed to take a break from preparing for Snow-pocalypse 2010 last night to catch The King's Speech. It's tradition for the Schumanns to brave the cold and the crowds to catch a movie on Christmas night. My pleas for Burlesque were ignored and we ended up at Masterpiece Theater.

Tis the season for self-serious historical biopics, and that's just what this one is. Deliberately paced (read: slow), handsomely photographed, and screaming it's importance at the top of it's lungs, one senses that the real climax the filmmakers are aiming for will occur on Oscar night. That might be a tad harsh, as the film does this brand of film as well as any other ... I'm just a bit sick of the stuffy British dramas.

The history behind the King's Speech is actually pretty fascinating -- the reluctant Duke of York (Colin Firth) is forced to take the thrown when his brother (Guy Pearce) steps down to marry a commoner (Wallis Simpson, the subject of Madonna's future Razzie-winning directorial debut). That's all fine, but it's the age of radio, there are Nazis all over the place, and the new king has a killer stutter. Enter an unconventional elocution expert (Geoffrey Rush) hired to prepare the king for his first wartime speech. It's the Odd Couple with a scepter when the unlikely duo become good chums and isn't that nice.

The actors, though, cannot be faulted. It's nice to see Firth do something more lively than the morose gay eulogy that was A Single Man, and Rush proves again that he can do no wrong -- they're an apt, dynamic pair. Most people know that I have an undying love for Helena Bonham Carter, so of course I ate up her tart rendition of the Queen Mum -- she's quick-tongued and witty. As much as I love her constant goth queen incarnations in Tim Burton's films, I wouldn't mind seeing her remind us of her range like this more often.

my 2010 music picks

2010-12-24T09:24:00.000-08:00

I love the end of the year. The constant stream of holiday parties is like being on an endless prosecco-drip, skillful layering is back in fashion, and frosted items momentarily become their own food group. It's also the time of year-end lists, which are just the tops.

So here's my take on the year in music. I've listed my ten favorite albums and also four EPs from new-ish bands that are exciting and worth exploring.

Albums

10. Crystal Castles, Crystal Castles

I was a huge fan of the band's previous self-titled effort ("Untrust Us" is one of the ten highest played songs on my iTunes), so I had high expectations for this follow-up. The high points here are "Celestica" and "Not in Love" which stay true to the band's electro-pop supremacy, but are also layered and atmospheric.

9. Kanye West, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

Even I couldn't avoid the bandwagon on this one. Try to forget his cloying public persona and appreciate the magic here. The trumpet chorus and hypnotic Rihanna vocals make "All of the Lights" my fave track.

8. No Joy, Ghost Magic

I'm a sucker for dreamy, hazy dissonance, so it's no wonder I latched onto this one. Re-visiting the storied shoegaze territory of My Bloody Valentine, it's beautiful, distant background music.

7. Scissor Sisters, Night Work

This was the year when I became a true Scissor Sisters fan. Their NYC concert at Terminal 5 was a big gay must this summer -- they were on fire and I was immediately hooked. I feel like this album brings together all of their strengths -- sometimes soulful, but always with a flare for the dramatic, it makes me want to get glitter-bombed.

6. Twin Shadow, Forget

My favorite trend this year was the resurgence of the 80s backbeat, and Twin Shadow led the charge. It's a heart-wrenching gay fantasia that recalls Talking Heads and The Smiths. The opening track "Tyrant Destroyed" features my favorite line from any song this year: "As if it wasn't enough to hear you speak, they had to give you lips like that."

5. Beach Fossils, Beach Fossils

This was my album of the summer. The Brooklyn-based band epitomized the beach-ready, retro stylings that so many bands were doing earlier this year. It's relaxed and sandy, and makes me miss my tan lines.

4. No Age, Everything in Between

When I saw these guys at Music Hall of Williamsburg earlier this year, I was pretty disappointed. All of their nuance was lost in a sea of unruly distortion and sloppy noise. This album, however, captures it all, and is a great, loud rock effort. The bonus track, "Inflorescence", is a quick, rollicking jaunt, and easily wins best in show.

3. Beach House, Teen Dream

I was a huge fan of the band's previous album Devotion and think this new outing builds on their initial promise. Tracks are able to stand firmer on their -- "Norway" and "Zebra" are singular efforts -- while the album still retains an appealing consistency.

2. Small Black, New Chain

These guys were the saving grace of the ill-fated No Age show. They were that great opener I had never heard of going in, but stole the show. It's all 80s-inspired synch-pop with a heavy layer of electro dissonance. "Camouflage" and "Photojournalist" are the stand-out tracks.

1. Wild Nothing, Gemini

What can I say, these guys stole my heart when I first heard this album. It's everything that I want to hear right now -- 80s beat, hazy vocals, and a slather of melancholy. I'm kicking myself for missing their several NYC shows this year (oh business travel), but hope to catch them in 2011. My fave tracks are "Chinatown" and "My Angel Lonely".

EPs

4. Twin Sister, Color Your Life EP

These guys caught my ear when I heard the track "All Around and Away We Go" which feels like a dusted off, bedazzled Donna Summer track. The rest of the tracks show impressive dexterity -- "The Other Side of Your Face" and "Lady Daydream" are lovely, sad ballads.

3. Class Actress, Journal of Ardency EP

I think these guys have real potential. The songs range from the exceedingly listenable, upbeat "Let Me Take You Out" to the more complex, weighty "Someone Real." Worth looking into.

2. Games, That We Play

Probably a bit more electronic and abstract than I normally go, but this has some great beats. I'm partial to "Strawberry Skies" which is both catchy and melodramatic.

1. Memoryhouse, The Years EP

These guys had me when I heard their live cover of My Bloody Valentine's "When You Sleep" (covering and being inspired by MBV is the surest way to my heart, by the way). This EP is dreamy like that iconic band. Can't wait for more.

When Spider Man Fell

2010-12-22T09:20:00.000-08:00

It was an eventful Monday night, as I was in the audience of Spider Man when one of the stunt men was injured. I had bought tickets for the show a while ago, thinking it would be a great birthday present for my Dad, who loves theater. I chose Dec. 20 when the opening night was scheduled for Dec. 21, thinking the show would be "frozen" by then. Silly me.

The first act was technically seamless -- there's a great deal of complex aerial work that occurs above the orchestra audience (we sat in Row M, Center, so at the thick of the action). The stunts are impressive and really did go off without a hitch. The accident occurred about an hour into the second act -- and what couldn't be far from the end of the show. It's during the iconic sequence when Mary Jane hangs beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. There's a giant set piece of the bridge, the actress dangling on a tether below, and then a giant cardboard cut of the Green Goblin appears and cuts the tether (if calling it cardboard sounds like a cheap shot, it is, the show has a frustrating lack of a unified aesthetic vision, and for the $65 million budget, the seams really do show).

When the Goblin has cut the rope, she descends artfully and theatrically into the pit below. Spider Man, on top of the bridge, looking helpless, is meant to artfully and theatrically descend after her. Well, that's not what happened. He dove in after her, and fell. Like, really fell. Quickly and without control. His cable swung in the air after him, and was connected to him but seemingly not connected to anything else. It looked to me that it may have snapped, and even seemed to swing out into the audience.

It was immediately clear something was wrong. Initially, I had thought that someone in the front rows may have been hit by the swinging tether. But then a scream and muffled sobs from in the pit -- presumably from the actress who plays Mary Jane -- and a shout from down below to call 911 made it clear that an actor had been hurt. Shortly thereafter a voice came over the PA and said they would be taking a "momentary break" (duh) and then less than a minute later the current came down, the lights went up, and they announced that they would be "ending the show for the night". As we walked down the street, we saw the ambulance pull in on the street behind the theater so our thoughts that someone may have been seriously injured were seemingly confirmed.

So that's that. After word got on that I saw the whole thing, a friend-of-a-friend who works for NY1 did a quick phone interview that aired live that night (I've also got a blurb on the online piece), so I've had about two-and-a-half minutes of fame and have added "Spider Man Audience Member" to my CV.

The eeriest thing about it -- and yes, it's eerie to witness someone get injured in a spectacle -- is that I had joked all week about possible catastrophe at the performance. Given the heaps of bad buzz the show had amassed, I really wasn't expecting much. I thought the best bet would be to look forward to a Carrie-esque debacle. So I was really hoping for something that would implode, shutter early, and become the stuff of theater legend. Like with most things in my life, I was in search of a killer anecdote, something that could become endless fodder at dinner parties for years. And, really, that's just what I got.

That said, I think the responsible thing to do is either to close down the show or cut back on the elaborate spectacle. It's reckless to continue at this pace given the amount of cast injuries. And, trust me, this is not a show worth dying for. With it's split-personalities, forgettable rock anthems, and histrionic choreography, it's the theatrical equivalent of Exxon Valdez. As I watched (often with slack-jawed befuddlement that the entire spectacle was actually happening), I came up with the following alternate titles:

1. Barbarella On Ice

There's an odd number in a lab (where Peter Parker will, as we all know, be bitten by a radioactive bug), that has a chorus of scientists clad in silver jumpsuits doing something that looks like the macarena. It's stilted at best, something one would expect from a marriage of Jane Fonda's sci-fi classic and the Ice Capades.

2. The Battle of Reeve Carney's Bulge

It took me a while to realize that Carney (who headlines the show as Peter Parker) wasn't doing his own stunts as Spider Man. Lucky him, as the show's one faulty tether short of a dead aerialist. I came to this realization because, well, the skin-tight Spidey suits leave precious little to the imagination. Let's just say the pole-thin Carney doesn't hold up to his stuntmen counterparts.

3. Spaceballs: A Melodrama

There's a very odd moment near the end of the second act when the Green Goblin (resembling the beleaguered hero from Return of Swamp Thing) hams it up in a broadly comic cabaret number. It reminded me, naturally, of the sequence in Spaceballs that spoofs Alien. The critter leaps from the poor guy's stomach with a top hat on, ready to bilk his moment in the spotlight. In a show that really does put everyone's life on the line -- characters, audience members, aerialists -- it's a jarring tonal shift.

shuffle this!

2010-07-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

So a while back on the FB, there was a meme where you'd hit shuffle on your iPod and forward your list to friends. Then they'd do the same, etc. The whole bit is that we all have great stuff and we all have schlock, and oh isn't it fun to revel in it all. So, on this champagne friday (yes, that's how we roll on Friday afternoons at The Sound), I thought I'd share my shuffle ten. Here is the v. Williamsburg-friendly list:

1 - Intro, Deerhunter

2 - Music Is Happiness, The Octopus Project

3 - Into the Groove, Madonna

4 - Young Adult Fiction, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart

5 - Procession, New Order

6 - I Bleed, The Pixies

7 - Pitter Patter Goes My Heart, Broken Social Scene

8 - Home, LCD Soundsystem

9 - Your Name Is Wild, Guided By Voices

10 - Daniel, Bat for Lashes

What are yours? Please do share.

Casting Couch

2010-07-16T14:50:00.000-07:00

No stranger to the political circus, writer Aaron Sorkin will tackle the John Edwards-Elizabeth Edwards-Rielle Hunter-Andrew Young saga. He's bought the rights to Young's tell-all and will write as well as direct. Good for him. Based on the Edwards section of John Heilemann and Mark Halperin's Game Change (which I loved), there's plenty of drama to mine.

No matter the quality of Sorkin's script, the film's success, I'm betting, will come down to casting. Think of The Queen without Helen Mirren's dead-on portrayal. And remember how sour all of the portrayals in Oliver Stone's W. rang? Thandie Newton as Condi Rice? Please. So let the guessing game begin.

For the man in the center of the media firestorm, I'd say Dennis Quaid if he hadn't just played another Southern politician embroiled in scandal (Bill Clinton) in HBO's The Special Relationship. So, as wary as I am to give Tom Cruise more work, who else could embody smarm, artificiality, and expensive hair so well?

The role of Elizabeth is a meaty role for any actress - she's a media martyr but a reported paranoid terror behind closed doors. I'll go with Annette Bening, who is showing everyone how good she is at mixing steely exteriors and fragile vulnerability right now in The Kids Are All Right.

Based on how she came off on Oprah, all lost/affected valley girl, I'd have to say Gwyneth Paltrow. Hey, and if the script calls for her to carve a chicken, we know Paltrow's a pro at that.

Scenes from a blog, revisited ...

2010-04-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

Last night was about revisiting the past. Keeping in the spirit, I've decided to revamp this blog (wherein I'll actually write on a semi-regular basis). Reboots are the thing of the moment, don't you know?

Hole is the latest to try to recreate something old as something new. That's right. Flannel made a comeback last winter, so why not dredge up everything from 1996? At the time, Hole was everything I was afraid of and wanted to be. Loud, outspoken, subversive, provocative. Courtney Love - front woman, pinup, antichrist - shocked and scared me. But somehow I couldn't look away. I just wanted more and more and more.

That was then. For Love, the road since has been wild and well-documented. For a while, her trainwreck antics were emblematic of the flip side of celebrity culture in the information age. Drugs, twitter, trash bag dresses, pale skin, protruding bones, and plastic surgery -- that's a look that even an icon can't wear well. So it was with morbid fascination that I accepted an invitation to see Love front a rebooted Hole at Terminal 5 last night. Based on my experience, here are 10 things that will happen to you at a Hole show:

1. You will get hit on.

He may be old and in town from Buffalo, but it will happen. Another demographic you're not pursuing thinks you're irresistible. Cheers.

2. You will learn esoteric facts about Courtney Love.

Like the fact that Malibu won't give her the key of the city, despite the song she rocks on Celebrity Skin. What's a girl gotta do?

3. You will see Zach Quinto.

In the VIP. Dreamy.

4. You will be in the splash zone of the mosh pit. And it will suck.

No wonder your mother wouldn't let you go to shows like this in the mid-90s.

5. You will be corrected for thinking that Hole is an oldies band

Or in Courtney's words, "We're not an oldies band, fuckers!!!"

6. But you will still think the old stuff trumps the new stuff.

Miss World, Doll Parts, Violet. These are a few of your favorite things. And she can still rock them.

7. You will see Love channel Stevie Nicks.

The cover of Gold Dust Woman? Fab.

8. You will learn you shouldn't wear your shitty converse with holes in them.

You will get spilt beer on your purple socks.

9. You will think Courtney Love has a thing for her lead guitarist.

Yes, his name is Dragon.

10. You will be glad that Courtney Love is alive. And fabulous.

Enough said.

2009-10-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

Jane Campion’s latest, Bright Star, explores the love affair between poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne. For all its literary ambition and handsome styling, it’s never more than a coffee table book of a film – very pretty to look at, but totally devoid of substance.
When we first meet Brawne (the round, vacant Abbie Cornish), she’s a superficial fashionista who finds literature and poetry a total bore. That’s until she meets Keats (the brooding, whisp-thin Ben Whishaw). He sulks around the grounds, writing verse and wearing his impending demise like the latest fall fashion. Of course she falls in love with him and their mutual infatuation swiftly moves into doomed love affair territory. With echoes of Julianne Moore’s nagging cough in The End of the Affair, Keats begins hacking up blood and though we know how this story will end, Campion chronicles his slow end at a snail’s pace. I suppose that I was meant to feel something, but as I watched Whishaw wither away, I couldn’t help but think how much better Bright Star would have been if he died at the beginning of the film.
It doesn’t help Campion’s case that Cornish, meant to be the film’s heart, is an utterly hollow screen presence. Best known for being the third wheel in a campy love triangle with Cate Blanchett and Clive Owen in the mess that was Elizabeth: The Golden Age, she has the look of a younger Kate Winslet with none of the depth. Whishaw fares slightly better, though as written Keats is more of a lovesick teenage girl’s fantasy of who Keats might have been rather than a fully formed character. Paul Schneider (so good in Lars and the Real Girl and currently on TV in Parks and Recreation) delivers the film’s only real performance as Keats’ pompous fellow poet and confidante.
This is a rare misstep for Campion, who even when she is off (the bizarre Kate Winslet and Harvey Keitel two-hander Holy Smoke!) is at least interesting. While nice to look at, Bright Star lacks the visual whimsy and dazzle of either The Piano or In the Cut, not too mention the dramatic urgency.

god, not more phlegm

2009-07-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

Long before he burned the image of Tobey Maguire in spandex into our minds with the Spider Man franchise, Sam Raimi was the master of B-movie schlock. His Evil Dead films are the gold standard for blood-splattered, midnight-showing-worthy guts and gore. With Drag Me to Hell, Raimi returns to the genre, this time with tongue firmly planted in cheek. Much like Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino did with their Grindhouse double bill, Raimi delivers a gleeful, self-referential horror send-up.

When we meet Christine (Alison Lohman), her life seems full of potential. She’s ripe for a promotion at work, is about to meet her brainy boyfriend’s parents, and has bouncy blonde hair worthy of a shampoo ad. Everything changes when she turns down an old woman’s request for a third mortgage extension. The old woman begs and pleads, but with that promotion in sight, Christine has security escort her from the building. Big mistake. Christine quickly learns that the last thing you want to do is shame a gypsy, especially during the housing crisis. The old woman puts a curse on Christine that she has three days to reverse, otherwise she will, as the title suggests, be dragged to hell.

As Christine works tirelessly to undo the gypsy’s curse, demons from the underworld unleash an increasingly horrific barrage of terror upon her. It’s gross, visceral stuff — geyser-like nose bleeds, home-wrecking phantasms, and phlegm, lots of phlegm. There’s an especially memorable sequence when Christine finally meets her boyfriend’s comically snobbish parents that involves a piece of cake that bleeds and spews flies.

Raimi pulls all the gross excess off because he’s winking at us the entire time. The film sustains an elevated comic tone throughout and crescendos at a memorable, shocking climax.

Lohman, best known for enduring an embarrassing succession of wigs and the foster care system in White Oleander, gamely traverses the corporeal horrors that Raimi springs on her. The film rests on her shoulders, and she carries the narrative with dignity and pluck. As her improbably supportive and understanding boyfriend, Justin Long reminds us why he’s most famous for those 30-second Apple ads — he’s a TV-sized personality who does not seem comfortable on the big screen.

Drag Me to Hell knows exactly what it is. The production values, including a memorable score by Christopher Young, conjure memories of dated, low-budget staples of the horror genre. One gets the feeling that it would feel more comfortable being watched in the middle of the night on one of the lesser cable networks. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

what's your state of play? yeah, you've got no game.

2009-05-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

I'm currently reading Don DeLillo's Players. Written in 1977 and largely taking place on the 79th Floor of the World Trade Center's North Tower, it reads like a time capsule of sorts. Being a DeLillo novel, it's no surprise that everyone's paranoid. One character wanders the trading floor on Wall St. consumed with the fear that people are reading his thoughts. There are also terrorists everywhere, of course.
Speaking of the 70s, and getting to what this post is really about, ha, Hollywood in the 70s brought us my favorite sub-genre of film, the paranoia thriller. Think The Parallax View, Marathon Man, and The Stepford Wives. The new film State of Play, based on the highly acclaimed British mini-series, seems to be trying to channel these genre standards. Oh, and because it's centered on journalists pursuing the truth, there are shades of All the President's Men throw in for good measure.
Russell Crowe, or rather a puffy, sweaty fleshball somewhat resembling Russell Crowe, stars as a haggard DC reporter who happens to be besties with a dignified-looking, but totally duplicitous Senator (Ben Affleck). When Affleck's pretty, young aide dies a mysterious, accidental death, Crowe investigates and before you can say "Deep Throat" there's talk of a conspiracy. Crowe and the hip/young/stubborn blogger on staff (Rachel McAdams in some terrible outfits) work together and uncover a potential conspiracy involving a Blackwater-esque private mercenary company. The plot contorts into a messy web, characters say things like "this is a conspiracy to the highest levels", and there are some fairly unconvincing chase scenes (one involving a wheezing Crowe ducking behind cars in an underground parking garage). Basically, it makes The Pelican Brief look like art.
It doesn't help that Affleck, he of the Keanu Reeves school of inexpressive acting, stars as the two-faced Senator at the center of the tangled web. An eyebrow raise or pouty lip does not an emotion convey, Mr. Affleck. Other odd casting decisions abound. A surprisingly off-center Jeff Daniels plays a Cheney-like powerbroker, Jason Bateman bizarrely beams down from another planet (or another movie) as a sleazy PR slack, and Robin Wright Penn has nothing to do with the thinly conceived "scorned political wife" role. Thank goodness Helen Mirren stomps around as Crowe's coarse, broadly-conceived editor. She looks fabulous and curses a blue streak (score).

phasers set for stun

2009-05-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

I’ll start with an embarrassing confession. When I was a kid, I was a trekkie. I had the action figures. I snuck into the TV room late at night to watch re-runs of the original show. I even had my mother sew me an officer’s uniform for my costume one Halloween. I patrolled the neighborhood that night in full anticipation of a Klingon attack. Few pop culture narratives have achieved such a cult status. It’s the exploration of unusual worlds, the bold vision of the future, and the constant peril that befalls our heroes that has kept scores of fans rabid for every iteration of the popular series.

It’s no surprise, then, in Hollywood’s era of the reboot, that audiences would be given a slick, youthful reinvention of the classic tale. This, after all, the same town that will show us remakes of Friday the 13^th, The Taking of Pelham 123, and Sherlock Holmes in this year alone. There’s even talk of a new Footloose for 2010. Lucky for us, director JJ Abrams, the man who has millions of TV viewers in awe and constant head-scratching with his hit series Lost, manages to pay due homage to the original show while creating one of the most thrilling adventure films I’ve seen in years.

Abrams’ interpretation is an origin story. We first see James Kirk and Spock as two very different children – Kirk as a mischievous rebel and Spock as a brilliant, if tortured young mind. Abrams sidesteps the narrative issues that normally plague exposition-heavy background stories and quickly flashes forward to the two men as students at the Star Fleet Academy and eventually onboard the fabled Starship Enterprise. Along the way we meet the new versions of other members of the original show including Uhura (a knockout Zoe Saldana), Dr. McCoy (Karl Urban) and Chekov (Anton Yelchin). Abrams wisely doesn’t spend too long on the introductions, and the Enterprise is soon locked into heated combat with a rogue Romulan vessel. The action scenes are visually stunning and incredibly well-paced.

Abrams and his actors should be credited for delivering finely etched characterizations while hoping from one elaborate action set piece to the next. As Kirk and Spock, respectively, newcomer Chris Pine and Heroes’ Zachary Quinto ooze matinee idol charisma. The other members of the Enterprise crew do justice to their predecessors, most notably the hilarious Simon Pegg as Scotty.

Much like last summer’s The Dark Knight, Star Trek proves that Hollywood is still capable of raising the bar for summer action epics. And seeing as though Abrams ends this chapter ripe for a more, I fully expect him to somehow top this adventure.

her again?

2009-03-12T07:56:00.000-07:00

Well I am just blogging all sorts of things today.

I read this item about Scarlett Johansson replacing Emily Blunt in the next Iron Man movie on Nikki Finke's blog this morning, and was totally disheartened. I had heard rumors about it elsewhere (perhaps from Finke, perhaps elsewhere), and was hoping some other actress (anyone, really) to fall from the sky and into the lap of the casting director. Or for something terrible to befall the over-employed Johansson (not like tragic-terrible, more like gain-a-bunch-of-weight or caught-in-an-embarrassing-scandal terrible).

Blunt is a far more interesting choice (not only can she act, but she's funny and mischevious and not a cookie cutter starlet). It's bad enough that we had to endure Johansson in Vicky Christina Barcelona (so joyless compared to the rest of the game cast). Why more? Why?

P.S. - I try not to make a habit of Finke's blog ... it was a must when I lived in LA, but now it's not crucial for my day-to-day (obvs). She's a course, overzealous, mean-spirited know-it-all. So it's kinda like reading a train wreck. Or, rather, a five car pile-up on Sunset.

row e, center

2009-03-12T07:22:00.000-07:00

I haven't used this space for notes on theater before (well, lately I haven't used this space for notes on anything, but that's another matter entirely). I'm lucky to live in New York, and to have friends (well, a friend, really) who works in theater and therefore gets free tickets to many things. I'm a frequent companion, and I take her out to dinner. It's a great deal for both parties.

Last night we saw God of Carnage, the new Yasmina Reza play which was a big success in London and has now transferred to Broadway with a new (stellar) cast. It's about two very different pairs of Brooklyn (tony Cobble Hill) parents who meet after their young children get into a fight. In its opening moments, the play feels like a sassy jab at bourgeois parenting, but as it progresses, and as everyone starts behaving badly and gulping rum, it turns into so much more.

The actors (Jeff Daniels, Hope Davis, James Gandolfini, and Marcia Gay Harden) are all fantastic. Daniels' role is the least interesting (a stock lawyer type), and Gandolfini's unsophisticated hardware salesman could live around the corner from Tony Soprano (it's a niche, but nobody does it as well as him). The women are the standouts. Davis is game for some hilarious physical comedy, and Gay Harden, in the play's plum role, blows everyone out of the water. As she's such a commanding presence onscreen, it's no surprise to see her milk every line reading and moment here. She's a pleasure to watch (and quite funny).

And the audience ate it up. It's currently in previews, and will assuredly open to stellar reviews. I can't help but think back to a time (and I don't know when this was, but it's certainly not now) when a show like this would be the talk of the town. Something on Broadway that New Yorkers (not tourists) saw and talked about. Oh well.

(A note on the headline. And this is really gay. In All About Eve - yes, I'm going there - Addison DeWitt comments in the film's opening voiceover that nothing in the playwright's wife's background should have brought her closer to the stage than Row E, Center. I've always thought that it would be great to date a stage actor - wouldn't it? - and to make a living running a bistro called Row E, Center. That, or Theater By Marriage).

turf wars?

2009-02-11T07:47:00.000-08:00

Moma has launched a hella creative ad campaign in the Atlantic/Pacific subway station in Brooklyn. Above you see a print of a famous Pollock ... also on the walls are Lichenstein, Cindy Sherman, Mondrian, etc. It's an inventive take on the station's white tile walls, and it works because they've taken over all the ad space.
But let's look at the subtext. Atlantic/Pacific is the stop you get off at for a number of things. Target. And Flatbush Farm. Oh, and BAM. Maybe the MOMA folks are trying court those on the way to the Brooklyn's cultural gem (the cinema and theater programming has blown me away), but one can't help but sense that there's a little bit of a cultural turf war afoot. BAM vs. MOMA ... with MOMA on the offensive.

best. catfight. ever.

2009-02-03T14:40:00.000-08:00

This one is courtesy of defamer. And oh how happy it makes me. It's been a hella day, and there's nothing like a good, old-fashioned catfight to make me sigh with relief. This one is the improbable but kinda great dual between tween queen Hilary Duff and icon Faye Dunaway.
So, it starts when Dunaway knocks Duff after hearing that the young actress/singer plans to play Bonnie Parker in a seemingly ill-advised remake of Bonnie and Clyde. We all know that Dunaway played the role in the original, rocked it, and made flapper chic something we all had to embrace in 1967 (ok, I wasn't around, but I totally would have been all for it).
Today comes Duff's response, that invokes two things that are sure to make Dunaway do her best Joan Crawford (again): Old age and plastic surgery. It's totally Mean Girls.
It seems more than a little catty for Duff, who is a commodity but as Dunaway suggests not a real actress, to knock the great Dunaway. Sure, Faye doesn't do good work anymore (the last thing I saw with her was a CSI episode a few years back, and yes, it was awful). But at her peak you'd be hard pressed to find better. Network. Chinatown. Three Days of the Condor. Come on. Duff makes movies that co-star Heather Locklear. Case closed.
If I were Duff, I would sleep with one eye open. And clear the house of all wire hangers. That's really the one thing that could send Faye over the edge.

the holocaust, illiteracy, old age makeup, oh my!

2009-01-28T09:17:00.000-08:00

Every year around this time, I turn into the most improbable moviegoer. All year long, even through the often overcrowded holiday movie season, I try to see all the films that garner critical praise or become hot buttons of discussion. In a perfect world, these films would be in the running for Oscar recognition, but that is seldom the case (that Rachel Getting Married’s sole chance at a win rests on Anne Hathaway’s shoulders is a crime).
But as we all know, the Oscars play from a different rule book. That’s why after the nominations are announced, you can find me in line with all the other saps to see something I would never waste time on under normal circumstances.
The Reader, Stephen Daldry’s melodrama that takes place in post-WWII Germany, exemplifies this dilemma. I had a lukewarm reaction while watching the film, but in the past few days my opinion has solidified and I’ve had trouble shaking its acrid aftertaste. The film certainly panders to the Academy’s faux-highbrow tastes. It’s painfully self-serious, dutifully photographed, and confronts one of their favorite themes, the specter of the holocaust. And all while pulsing with a disposable score that, I’ve decided, is in place to keep us awake.
The story follows a dull German student who improbably conducts an illicit affair with a much older woman (Kate Winslet) in 1950s West Germany. She’s icy, controlling, and they bathe together quite a bit. The first third of the movie is spent laboriously chronicling their trysts, an exercise that is neither thought-provoking nor stimulating.
One day, Winslet’s character leaves without saying goodbye, which sends our awkward protagonist into lamentable turmoil. A few years later, he’s a law student (still awkward, still dull), who studies the case of several SS guards on trial for murder. He’s shocked and horrified to see Winslet as one of the accused. The trial and its aftermath (where our protagonist is now played by Ralph Fiennes, and yes, still dull, still awkward) investigates the legacy of the holocaust with a club foot, and throws in illiteracy and old age makeup for good measure.
The film can’t succeed because we never get a handle on Winslet’s character. It’s meant to pivot on the tension that comes from feeling improbable sympathy for a Nazi guard, but it fails. When we first meet her, years after the war, it’s clear that she’s a damaged person, but she’s also cold, calculating, and selfish. I hate to suggest that Winslet turns in a two-dimensional portrayal, but we never get a glimmer of Hannah’s inner-life. Sure, there are moments in the film’s final act that suggest insecurity and childish curiosity, but it’s not enough to add texture to her morally dubious behavior. There’s no rule that says all characters must be sympathetic, we need enough substance to complicate and engage our reaction.

"The whole parlor to Alexandra's eyes was clouded by merged and pulsating auras, sickening as cigarette smoke."

2009-01-27T12:21:00.000-08:00

That's a line from The Witches of Eastwick, one of my favorites, which I'm currently reading for the fourth time. I had the thought just yesterday about taking on the complete John Updike, much like I did with Don DeLillo last year (I chronicled some of this on the blog, as you'll recall the early stuff is tough to get through).

And today comes the news that we've lost Updike, one of our best writers. That his passing comes at a time when he was at the forefront of my mind strikes me as quite a bit odd. Perhaps it suggests that I'm mildly prescient.

Given the news, I think it's only fitting to take on the Updike canon. I've got less than 100 pages in Eastwick to conquer, and I've got a paperback of Couples that I can tackle after that. What should be next? When should I attack the quartet of Rabbit novels?

news flash

2009-01-22T07:16:00.000-08:00

So I didn't finish my golden boy selections before the Oscar nominations. Oops.

The nominations were announced this morning, and I came into work late so I could watch the broadcast. That's about as nerdy as I get (I wish ...), but I've been doing that since I was in middle school. The nominations are normally when the big surprises happen, and to here it live makes it all the more exciting. This year was no exception, with big shut-outs and surprising inclusions. Here's what people (Hollywood people, at least) will be talking about today:

- No The Dark Knight. Despite eight nominations (including Heath Ledger's foregone win in Supporting Actor), the superhero flick was snubbed in the Best Director and Best Picture categories. Bummer, as included the groundbreaking film would have virtually guaranteed improved ratings. Also, it's the best film of the year.

- Instead, we get The Reader. After Manohla Dargis' dismissive review in the Times when the film opened, I thought that this one was all hype and hot air. Guess I was wrong. Looks like Harvey Weinstein has re-asserted some of his mid-90s magic for getting obscure titles attention. I need to see this one.

- Kate Winslet, not a double nominee, gets a lead nomination for The Reader, not Revolutionary Road. So much for the Golden Globes being a predictive force. People expected Winslet to be named in the supporting category for The Reader (though everyone who has seen the picture agrees that it is a lead performance). So even though the campaigns said one thing, the academy thought for themselves. Cheers.

- Michael Shannon nominated for Revolutionary Road. By far the best element of this underwhelming melodrama (aside from the also-nominated production design ... seriously I DiCaprio and Winslet would be fighting and all I could think of was how I wanted their toaster), was Shannon's brief, ferocious turn as their mentally unstable neighbor. He's a New York theater actor (so good in Sidney Lumet's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead last year), so it's a treat to see him included.

- Best Actress. This was the hardest category to peg. I really thought that critical favorites Sally Hawkins and Kristin Scott Thomas (in my favorite performance of the year) would make it, as would Cate Blanchett because, well, she's Cate Blanchett. Instead, Melissa Leo surprised for the indie Frozen River (which is fine, but very Lifetime), and Angelina Jolie actually made the cut for Changeling (a good performance in an awful movie). I thought Jolie would be snubbed because she didn't make it for better work in A Mighty Heart last year. They must have felt bad about that.

OK. Enough is enough! I'll keep you posted with my picks. I still need to see The Reader and Frost/Nixon, though I doubt anything will come close to my ardor for Milk (yay for including Josh Brolin).

golden boys - part 2

2009-01-19T10:39:00.001-08:00

So now supporting actor.

1. Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight

It's to the point where this one goes without saying. He will be missed, for sure. This indelible portrayal of malevolence will be remembered up there with Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lector.

2. Josh Brolin, Milk

It's a small part that stands out. Brolin plays Dan White, Harvey Milk's bitter and contentious rival on San Francisco's city council. It could have been a throwaway role filled with generic crazy. But the grace of Brolin's performance is his ability to add texture to every moment. He creates White as a jealous, small, and confused man. There's ambiguity, too, and a queer studies-ready

reading of the part. Compared to his two-dimensional Bush impression in W. (perhaps not his fault, as he was asked to play a man with the complexity of a piece of cardboard), this is Brolin's best work yet.

3. Bill Irwin, Rachel Getting Married

I was one of the lucky theatergoers who saw Irwin's sad-sack interpretation of George in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf a few years ago (opposite the force of nature that is Kathleen Turner). I've been craving more of Irwin since. He stands out in Jonathan Demme's sprawling ensemble as the beaten-down but eternally upbeat father of his two warring daughters Kym and Rachel (Anne Hathaway and Rosemarie DeWitt). It's another performance consisting of divine small moments. The dishwashing scene? Killer.

4. Brad Pitt, Burn after Reading

So this has been his year. Previous to this film and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I've never been too impressed. His Oscar-nominated work in 12 Monkeys was entertaining, but still fell in that stock-straight jacket crazy category. And Casey Affleck managed to slyly steal The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford out from under him. But here, pairing with the Coens for this first time, Pitt makes a striking impression. As Chad, the hard-bodied, soft-minded trainer and confidante of Frances McDormand's plastic surgery-obsessed lonelyheart, Pitt elicits guffaws whenever on screen. Watch for the small movements, it's a great physical performance.

5. Emile Hirsch, Milk

I feel like I'm cheating a little bit with this one. Yes, I love how Hirsch disappears into the role of Chuck Jones, one of the activists who dedicates himself to Harvey Milk's cause (and who is, incidentally, the only main character portrayed in the film who is still alive). And this coupled with last year's Into the Wild makes Hirsch one of the most exciting young actors around.

But, really, this one is here because so many people have told me that Hirsch's Jones, in attitude, behavior, and gesture, reminds them of me. Looking at the film again, I must agree. So, this is probably as close as I will come to an on-screen portrayal, so I must give it the attention it deserves.

golden boys - part 1

2009-01-16T12:23:00.000-08:00

So as you may know (or have heard), we are a week away from Oscar nominations. Here's a not-so-stunning admission - I am movie, and therefore movie awards obsessed. It's a pretty frivolous hobby, and a lot less violent than the other spectator sports (unless you count Angelina Jolie's cool staredowns a form of assault).
For the next week, I'll be featuring my picks for the big six categories (and maybe the screenplays, depending on how frequently I can pull myself together). Let's start with Best Supporting Actress, a category that has honored both the great (Juliette Binoche in The English Patient, Marcia Gay Harden in Pollock) and the dubious (Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny, Mira Sorvino in Mighty Aphrodite).
Here are my five picks for this year's top five:

1. Penelope Cruz, Vicky Christina Barcelona
Several years ago in college, for our annual joke issue, the Trasher, I think it was called, I wrote a faux news item about Penelope Cruz winning an Oscar. At the time, she had starred in Vanilla Sky and Sahara, so the idea did seem preposterous. This was before Almodovar transformed her into our generation's Sophia Loren, a timeless beauty with screen magnetism to spare. Her bit part in this Woody Allen laugher proves that her career-defining work in Volver was no fluke. She's a hoot as the wildly unstable Maria Elena, an artist consumed with herself, madness, and undying love for her ex-boyfriend (Javier Bardem). As worthy as the other actresses this year no doubt are, I'm pulling for this one.

2. Rosemarie DeWitt, Rachel Getting Married

The sibling relationship in Jonathan Demme's criminally underrated Rachel Getting Married reminds me of Georgia, a film that say one of its siblings (Mare Winningham) nominated for the Oscar. The title characters in both films play second fiddle to their crazy, neurotic, selfish sisters (Jennifer Jason Leigh - in one of her best roles - in Georgia, and Anne Hathaway in Rachel).

Like Winningham before her, DeWitt does not allow her put-upon character to fade into the background, or to let the film turn solely into a showcase for Hathaway's histrionics. Of all of the film's naturalistic, raw performances, DeWitt's feels the most lived-in and authentic. You believe her frustration, aggravation, and ultimately (and here's the trick), her ability to relate and forgive. It's a performance so good that many are likely to see past it (it doesn't scream, "Hand me that damn statue!" in a Bette Davis-eque voice). At the very least, hopefully it will allow us to see more of her.

3. Tilda Swinton, Burn after Reading

Who knew she could do comedy? After searing dramatic work in Orlando, The Deep End, and Michael Clayton (for which she won the Supporting Actress Oscar last year), I knew she had range, but that doesn't always translate into winning comic timing? As the uptight wife of John Malkovich's discontented CIA man in this Coen Brothers fiasco, Swinton is my pick for best in show in a mostly winning ensemble.

4. Evan Rachel Wood, The Wrestler

Talk about a film full of surprises. Not only does it feature the year's best performance in Mickey Rourke, and pack an unexpected emotional whallop, but it also features this minor gem from an actress I've never really enjoyed. Sure, Wood's messy bundle of adolescent angst in Thirteen did resonate, but her bizarre off-camera existance (going goth and briefly dating Marilyn Manson) totally turned me off. Here, though, in the small role of Rourke's estranged daughter, all of Wood's confusion, detachment, and disappointment ring true.

5. Misty Upham, Frozen River

I wasn't a huge fan of Courtney Hunt's somber look at two desperate women barely making it by in upstate New York. It's a bleak view of the new economy, but the main storyline, about a discount store cashier saving up for a new trailer for her two sons, felt played out. The subplot, involving Upham's character, a Mohawk woman who lost custody of her young daughter, was far more intriguing. Upham imbues her character, who is forced to play on the wrong side of the law just to get by, with dignity and strength.

Check back in a few days for my Best Supporting Actor picks.

more review

2009-01-13T12:27:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a page out of my friend Em's book (or blog, rather) and lifting her list of year-end salutations as a jumping off point. I'm a sucker for lists, and 2008 was a good one, so here we go.

1. What did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before?

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't quite remember what they were last year, though I'm sure they had something to do with staying healthy, eating well, working out etc. I'll give myself half credit. This year, it's eating fresh and local, cutting down on processed foods, and getting to the gym at least five times a week.

3. Did any one close to you give birth?
No, thankfully. It sounds coarse, but it would have been a Juno situation if someone had.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Gramps, my paternal grandfather (he was quite old, though, 92).

5. What countries did you visit?
France, to see two great friends living in Paris.

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
A boyfriend. Ha. It'd be nice, I won't lie. Otherwise, I'm fairly complete.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Martin Luther King Jr. weekend: Three nights of excessive going out. When I am older and think back to being in my '20s in New York, I'll remember that weekend.
September 10: A day during Fashion Week spent at the shows at Bryant Park.
November 5: Election night. In Gowanus and Park Slope with friends. A proud day for us all.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
To wax careerist, I'd say the three particularly precarious projects I managed to complete successfully. I've never worked so hard.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I read about a job at nymag.com, but didn't apply.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Despite being a sick mess for a week in October, I didn't take a sick day.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A navy blue Rag & Bone cardigan and a white Band of Outsiders shirt with black buttons.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Frank Rich. He's able to articulate the impossible in a way that makes me totally envious.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Those who made Prop 8 a reality.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent. Obvs.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Paris. The Catskills. West Village stay-cations. So any excusion, it would seem.

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?
M83's Kim and Jessie.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier.
b) thinner or fatter? I think about the same, though potentially a tad heavier (eeep!)
c) richer or poorer? Richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Running. Reading.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Cigarettes and vodka. Ha.

20. How did you spend Christmas?
With family in Connecticut.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008?
Nope. Though my relationship with Brooklyn is going really well.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
30 Rock

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't like that word. Nor did I know anything about Sarah Palin or Rick Warren.

24. What was the best book you read?
Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Girl Talk.

26. What did you want and get?
A new computer (sweet).

27. What did you want and not get?
An iPhone (technically a 2009 get).

28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Paranoid Park.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 25. The night of my birthday my cousin threw a small dinner party at her W. Village apartment for me and a few close friends. The following Saturday there was a hyper-low key party at a bar in Carroll Gardens (Abilene if you must know).

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
A larger clothing budget.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
Increasingly mod. Solid colors, clean lines, more attention paid to accessories such as scarves and eyewear.

32. What kept you sane?
My friends.

33. What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Carrie Fisher because of her indispensible memoir Wishful Drinking and special brand of crazy.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Gay rights. Obvs.

35. Who did you miss?
My brothers.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Joe and Kendra. It was New Year's Eve last year, but the whole really began in 2008.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
I'll probably realize it later on.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
I don't do song lyrics. We'll go with Carrie Fisher and something that stuck with me, which I think is true, "Life under tremendous stress is necessarily funny."

so i love lists - revised

2008-12-28T11:23:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-11-26T07:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T07:40:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-05T08:18:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-11-05T07:52:00.001-08:00

glad to be weirdly close

2008-10-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

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"

2008-09-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T06:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-10T21:43:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-08-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-07-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-09T07:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-06T12:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-05T18:16:00.001-07:00

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"

2008-06-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-05-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

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

confessions of a closet nerd

2008-05-30T06:06:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2008-05-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

... 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...

2008-05-15T19:55:00.001-07:00

... more to follow.

obvs

2008-05-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Where I go, MTV follows.

F train'd

2008-05-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-05-06T19:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-03T23:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-02T15:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-02T01:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-23T21:08:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-23T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-23T09:55:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2008-04-22T13:13:00.000-07:00

... 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?

2008-04-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-18T06:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-04-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

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."

2008-03-06T20:11:00.000-08:00

(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."

2008-03-05T20:30:00.000-08:00

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

"you get what you pay for"

2008-03-04T04:40:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-26T20:28:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-24T10:47:00.001-08:00

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."

2008-02-21T16:07:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-18T20:21:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-02-05T21:00:00.000-08:00

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?"

2008-02-04T20:18:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-03T18:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-02T07:47:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-30T20:21:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-01-27T19:27:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-24T20:40:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-23T17:09:00.000-08:00

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.

112 things - part 6

2008-01-22T19:49:00.000-08:00

41. In college, gin and tonic was my drink.
42. Now, it's jack and (diet) coke.
43. I live in constant fear of getting spinach caught in my teeth.
44. I love road trips.
45. One of my favorite recent memories was a picnic last year in a field in the mission (in San Fran). Tartine sandwiches and the best people.
46. I don't dance.
47. In the summer and when I run, I totally sweat.
48. In New York, I fall in love daily, on every street corner, it seems.