Sharon Stone was recently quoted in Entertainment Weekly praising the power of her Broken Flowers co-star Bill Murray's enigmatic performance style:
"He reminds me of the balls Bogart holds in his hand in The Caine Mutiny. You know they're about something. You don't know where they're gonna go, and you can't take your eyes off them."
Where's a komodo dragon when you need one?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Everybody wants to be a genius,
you're not the only one
After watching the amazingly wonderful, impossibly cute, sweet and strong-voiced wonder Inara George (who I am now virutally obsessed with--can you tell?) perform last night while my friend K-girl and I gazed up adoringly from our stage-adjacent, speaker-top seating, I ran into my friend Joe who had played keyboards with the previous act: a talented singer/songwriter and prolific TV/movie composer named Mike Andrews (Me and You and Everyone We Know and Donnie Darko anyone? Score!).
I'd written about Joe's terrific pop album on these pages awhile back and it's still in frequent sing-along rotation in my vehicle's CD player.
Our inebriated conversation went a little something like this.
Joe: Hey, I found your blog! I Google'd myself and found it.
Nictate: You Google'd yourself all over my blog?!
Joe: That's too many G's. This is starting to sound dirty.
***
Want to see a cool animated Honda commercial with a Garrison Keillor vocal appearance and a themeline that even Adbusters would embrace? OK.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Me so misunderestimated
The secret behind Dubya's silver tongue has now been revealed in a short, funny mockumentary starring Andy Dick called "Presidential Speechalist."
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Persuasion is a pretty thing
This weekend's movie pick: Pretty Persuasion, a black comedy that sticks a knife in all the most sensitive acupuncture points of American culture: sexism, racism and numero uno-ism.
While I entered the theater with managed expectations thanks to MD'A's guarded recommendation, I walked out quite impressed.
The film's most noticeable quality was its unblinking intelligence. The dialogue was piercingly smart and its actors, especially the gasp-inducingly good Evan Rachel Wood as the lead femme fatale, brilliant in their multilayered performances (other stand-outs: a reveling-in-his-boorishness James Wood and the demure perfection of Adi Schnall as Muslim girl who falls prey to ERW's character's twisted cultural assimilation program). All its blistering wit is shrink-wrapped with sharply stylized art direction and cinematography that glistens and enchants, much like Kimberly Joyce--the center of this sardonic solar system. And it's sexy! Sexy and smart is the new black lace underwear, you know.
Of course, it's not perfect. I think the trigger-pulling moment went one step too far-fetched and the manipulative media maven thing has been done to death, but overall a very pretty package with a lot of important things to say. Kudos to director Marcos Siega and writer Skander Halim. I laughed. I winced. I nodded. I recommend(ed).
Up next: The Clog Master--a tale of not-so-pretty persuasion.
While I entered the theater with managed expectations thanks to MD'A's guarded recommendation, I walked out quite impressed.
The film's most noticeable quality was its unblinking intelligence. The dialogue was piercingly smart and its actors, especially the gasp-inducingly good Evan Rachel Wood as the lead femme fatale, brilliant in their multilayered performances (other stand-outs: a reveling-in-his-boorishness James Wood and the demure perfection of Adi Schnall as Muslim girl who falls prey to ERW's character's twisted cultural assimilation program). All its blistering wit is shrink-wrapped with sharply stylized art direction and cinematography that glistens and enchants, much like Kimberly Joyce--the center of this sardonic solar system. And it's sexy! Sexy and smart is the new black lace underwear, you know.
Of course, it's not perfect. I think the trigger-pulling moment went one step too far-fetched and the manipulative media maven thing has been done to death, but overall a very pretty package with a lot of important things to say. Kudos to director Marcos Siega and writer Skander Halim. I laughed. I winced. I nodded. I recommend(ed).
Up next: The Clog Master--a tale of not-so-pretty persuasion.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Moving towards entropy
Last night I had a wonderful four-months-after-my-birthday dinner with my New York homie and her official sister (and my informally adopted sister) C-girl. We ate well. Too well, if that's possible. Then we found a young actor friend to chauffeur us to see "The 40 Year-Old Virgin." The movie was kinda sweet and surprisingly funny, although about 45 minutes too long (talk about waiting to consummate).
I now face the first of two three-day weekends in a row--a welcome break from my been-working-my-booty-off breakneck pace of the past two months. I plan to spend money with mild abandon and reward myself with food.
Speaking of 40-year-old virgins, a guy I went to high school with e-mailed me out of the blue suggesting a lunch date. I pondered it for a moment, even though I knew that the sweet, four-eyed nerd chick he remembered from high school physics may still wear glasses once in awhile, but she has cultivated a smart-ass mouth and twisted sense of humor that will be ill-suited for his conservative world view.
That said, I was perfectly willing to be e-mail pen pals with him until he busted out an anecdote mentioning something I'd been wearing the last time I ran into him in college. I can remember neither the encounter or the ensemble and it kinda creeps me out that he can. Or maybe it's more that he did the anecdote busting on his third e-mail instead of a candlelit date after we'd known each other for awhile. Or maybe it's just that he's not my high school crush coming around to realize my supreme awesomeosity so many years later. He's just a nice, smart, socially inept guy who I have nothing in common with but a 1980s physics teacher.
I now face the first of two three-day weekends in a row--a welcome break from my been-working-my-booty-off breakneck pace of the past two months. I plan to spend money with mild abandon and reward myself with food.
Speaking of 40-year-old virgins, a guy I went to high school with e-mailed me out of the blue suggesting a lunch date. I pondered it for a moment, even though I knew that the sweet, four-eyed nerd chick he remembered from high school physics may still wear glasses once in awhile, but she has cultivated a smart-ass mouth and twisted sense of humor that will be ill-suited for his conservative world view.
That said, I was perfectly willing to be e-mail pen pals with him until he busted out an anecdote mentioning something I'd been wearing the last time I ran into him in college. I can remember neither the encounter or the ensemble and it kinda creeps me out that he can. Or maybe it's more that he did the anecdote busting on his third e-mail instead of a candlelit date after we'd known each other for awhile. Or maybe it's just that he's not my high school crush coming around to realize my supreme awesomeosity so many years later. He's just a nice, smart, socially inept guy who I have nothing in common with but a 1980s physics teacher.
Monday, August 22, 2005
In the Sweet Bye and Bye
I'm going to have a hard time topping last weekend this summer in terms of its variety of activities and level of enjoyment, but doggoneit—I'm gonna try.
Sunday was one of those perfect L.A. days—bread oven hot, but with a breeze to cut the baking, crystal clear blue skies and a faded yellow sun to flatten the stucco and pavement flatteringly. I was delightedly absorbing Vitamin D in the downtown streets, padding between art shows with a couple of coincidental coworkers.
The Basquiat exhibit at MOCA was impressive and inspiring. The kid was smart. And talented. Now I have to watch the movie of his life since I'm too lazy to read his bio in the museum brochure after reading all his canvasses. Kidding. Really. I. Am.
Nearby was a cool exhibit by a low-brow artist named Margaret Kilgallen, who had quite the knack for folksy flair and retro typography wonderfulness. She tragically passed away at 33, but left a beautiful legacy in her work that you can see glimpses of here. She's also the cover story on the current issue of Giant Robot, which also has a book of her work for sale in their online store (see inset above). It seems that she was a remarkable artist, surfer and banjo player who translated her vision of Americana to stitched canvas and rough-hewn wood with quirky charm and somber grace.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Broken promise
My friend P-girl and I went to see Rufus Wainwright in concert this weekend. He did a fine job and his voice sounded brilliant, but it was a much more subdued Rufie this time around compared to his concert two years ago. That time he was a flamboyant party host swathed in a colorful scarf and snappy repartee. This year, he was the reserved gentleman inviting us into his drawing room for a spot of tea.
He traded his starring spot to open for Ben Folds, who turned up the juice as any newly appointed headliner should. I'd never seen Ben in concert before. Both he and Rufus prooved there's something very sexy about a skinny boy having his way with a piano. One of the highlights of the show was their heartfelt duet of Wham's "Careless Whisper." Then Ben led the audience as a choir for one number that got all the people as shiny and happy as could be.
On the cinematic tip, the weekend included Jim Jarmusch's new film Broken Flowers starring Bill Murray, which I viewed with C-girl. I'd read it was JJ's most commercial film, a comment which makes him cringe. I guess you could say it was his most commercial film, but that's not saying a hell of a lot.
I think it is a movie that will grow on me during post-partum impressions. Once my mind can edit out the boring parts and buff a nice patina out of the good moments, like Bill's uncomfortable interaction with a Lolita by the same name, a carefully tended performance by Jessica Lange, Bill's priceless expressions and the damp, quiet sadness of the film.
C-girl and I were trying to figure out what JJ was trying to say with all his slow-burn scenes of sadness, long takes of driving, driving, driving and CD listening (very Ghost Dog), and, most unsettling, the unfinished feeling and lack of resolution. C-girl supposed it was a comment on life as an imperfect tangle of a journey with many uneventful stretches between the knots. Sho'nuff makes sense to me.
He traded his starring spot to open for Ben Folds, who turned up the juice as any newly appointed headliner should. I'd never seen Ben in concert before. Both he and Rufus prooved there's something very sexy about a skinny boy having his way with a piano. One of the highlights of the show was their heartfelt duet of Wham's "Careless Whisper." Then Ben led the audience as a choir for one number that got all the people as shiny and happy as could be.
On the cinematic tip, the weekend included Jim Jarmusch's new film Broken Flowers starring Bill Murray, which I viewed with C-girl. I'd read it was JJ's most commercial film, a comment which makes him cringe. I guess you could say it was his most commercial film, but that's not saying a hell of a lot.
I think it is a movie that will grow on me during post-partum impressions. Once my mind can edit out the boring parts and buff a nice patina out of the good moments, like Bill's uncomfortable interaction with a Lolita by the same name, a carefully tended performance by Jessica Lange, Bill's priceless expressions and the damp, quiet sadness of the film.
C-girl and I were trying to figure out what JJ was trying to say with all his slow-burn scenes of sadness, long takes of driving, driving, driving and CD listening (very Ghost Dog), and, most unsettling, the unfinished feeling and lack of resolution. C-girl supposed it was a comment on life as an imperfect tangle of a journey with many uneventful stretches between the knots. Sho'nuff makes sense to me.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Spin globally, think frequently
A friend loaned me her copy of the 1960's Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movie Charade recently. I hadn't watched it in years and had forgotten how clever some of the dialogue is. Especially the scene where Audrey and Cary meet cute on a ski trip right before they both return to Paris. I've left out a few bits, but this contains most of the delight (of course, much better experienced with the unplaceable accents and unmatchable elegance of Hepburn and Grant on-screen). They don't write 'em like this anymore.
Cary: Do we know each other?
Audrey: Why, do you think we're going to?
Cary: I don't know. How could I know?
Audrey: Because I already know an awful lot of people and until one of them dies I couldn't possibly meet anyone else.
Cary: Well, if anyone goes on the critical list, let me know.
Cary starts to walk away.
Audrey: Quitter.
Cary stops in his tracks.
Cary: Huh?
Audrey: You give up awfully easily, don't you? What's your name?
Cary: Peter Joshua.
Audrey: Oh, mine's Regina Lampert.
Cary: Is there a Mr. Lampert?
Audrey: Yes.
Cary: Good for you.
Audrey: No, it isn't. I'm getting a divorce.
Cary: Please! Not on my account.
Audrey: Oh, no. I don't really love him.
Cary: Well, at least you're honest.
Audrey: Is there a Mrs. Joshua?
Cary: Yes, but we're divorced. I've enjoyed talking to you.
Cary starts to leave again.
Audrey: Oh, now you're angry.
Cary: No, I'm not angry. I just have a lot of packing to do.
Audrey: Wasn't it Shakespeare who said: "When strangers do meet in far off lands they should ere long see each other again"?
Cary: Shakespeare never said that!
Audrey: How do you know?
Cary: It's terrible. You just made it up.
Audrey: Well, it sounds right. You going to call me? I'm in the book.
Cary: Are you?
Audrey: Charles is.
Cary: Is there only one Charles Lampert?
Audrey: Lord, I hope so!
***
If you want to buy a great indie-indie singer/songwriter album, check out Tim Seely's Funeral Music. He used to be a member of one of my favorite smart pop bands The Actual Tigers. He's left the piercingly pleasurable harmonies of that group's Gravelled & Green album behind for a more stripped-down, rusty shed sound that brought a tear to my eye with the bee-u-tiful "The Bees at Nite," stirred up road weary reflection with "Trucker's Lullaby" and illicited some sweet soul yearning with "Fake What You Need."
One of my favorite lines:
"[In a fateful sigh,
the many things I may never try]"
There's some really interesting instrumentation going on here and the packaging has a homemade, letter-pressed low-techness that is tactile to the max--even a little grey bird's feather was tucked inside the CD case. Awww! Tim's voice is really great, too. Unaffected and appealing.
Sample some sounds on his site and then do whatever feels rite, a'ite? If you like what you hear, you can buy it online for the low-low price of only $9.99 at Sonic Boom Records. This concludes my pop pimping for the next fortnight or so.
Cary: Do we know each other?
Audrey: Why, do you think we're going to?
Cary: I don't know. How could I know?
Audrey: Because I already know an awful lot of people and until one of them dies I couldn't possibly meet anyone else.
Cary: Well, if anyone goes on the critical list, let me know.
Cary starts to walk away.
Audrey: Quitter.
Cary stops in his tracks.
Cary: Huh?
Audrey: You give up awfully easily, don't you? What's your name?
Cary: Peter Joshua.
Audrey: Oh, mine's Regina Lampert.
Cary: Is there a Mr. Lampert?
Audrey: Yes.
Cary: Good for you.
Audrey: No, it isn't. I'm getting a divorce.
Cary: Please! Not on my account.
Audrey: Oh, no. I don't really love him.
Cary: Well, at least you're honest.
Audrey: Is there a Mrs. Joshua?
Cary: Yes, but we're divorced. I've enjoyed talking to you.
Cary starts to leave again.
Audrey: Oh, now you're angry.
Cary: No, I'm not angry. I just have a lot of packing to do.
Audrey: Wasn't it Shakespeare who said: "When strangers do meet in far off lands they should ere long see each other again"?
Cary: Shakespeare never said that!
Audrey: How do you know?
Cary: It's terrible. You just made it up.
Audrey: Well, it sounds right. You going to call me? I'm in the book.
Cary: Are you?
Audrey: Charles is.
Cary: Is there only one Charles Lampert?
Audrey: Lord, I hope so!
***
If you want to buy a great indie-indie singer/songwriter album, check out Tim Seely's Funeral Music. He used to be a member of one of my favorite smart pop bands The Actual Tigers. He's left the piercingly pleasurable harmonies of that group's Gravelled & Green album behind for a more stripped-down, rusty shed sound that brought a tear to my eye with the bee-u-tiful "The Bees at Nite," stirred up road weary reflection with "Trucker's Lullaby" and illicited some sweet soul yearning with "Fake What You Need."
One of my favorite lines:
"[In a fateful sigh,
the many things I may never try]"
There's some really interesting instrumentation going on here and the packaging has a homemade, letter-pressed low-techness that is tactile to the max--even a little grey bird's feather was tucked inside the CD case. Awww! Tim's voice is really great, too. Unaffected and appealing.
Sample some sounds on his site and then do whatever feels rite, a'ite? If you like what you hear, you can buy it online for the low-low price of only $9.99 at Sonic Boom Records. This concludes my pop pimping for the next fortnight or so.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
How was your weekend?
Overheard Bradgelinafer quote of the weekend:
"Did you guys read that Vanity Fair article about Jennifer Aniston? Well, I only read part of it, but she said that Brad has a sensitivity bug missing...or something like that."
Sensitivity "chip," girl. At least your conversational dart lodged itself the computer lingo realm, but if you're gonna be the celebrity rag name dropper, get your facts straight, mkay?
Celebrity sighting of the weekend:
George Hamilton looking less tanned than usual at a French sidewalk cafe as he elegantly regaled two older men with a tall tale of some sort or another.
I wanted to interrupt and tell him, "You were so good in Where the Boys Are," but it seemed in bad taste to compliment a 60+ year-old gentleman on a role he did as a teenager.
Music tips of the weekend:
Marjorie Fair
"Self-Help Serenade"
Graceful, melancholic pop. You've heard of Better than Ezra? Consider this Better than Travis.
Josh Rouse
"Nashille"
Singer/songwriter with Freedy Johnstone-esque lyrics and melodies. Sweet and smart.
Holopaw
"Quit +/- Fight"
Fluttering and puttering and dreamy in a non-cloying way.
Muffled guffaw of the weekend:
I went to see 2046 again this weekend, wanting to view it once more on the big-screen before it leaves town. It was worth a second visit, to be sure. Since I didn't have to study the story or subtitles as carefully, I could fully enjoy the visual feast.
I got to savor little moments like a close-up of a girl's feet in Mary-Jane high heels as she traces circles on a linoleum floor while speaking Japanese aloud in an imaginary conversation with her faraway, forbidden boyfriend. And the luscious colors, beautifully sad actors and dozens of emotions that can be conveyed in a wary and/or halting smile. Wong Kar Wai definitely deserves the title of "genius." And Ziyi Zhang is amazing in her role as the beautiful Bai Ling. Definitely a scene-stealer. I'm predicting this will be my #1 film of 2005. If it's not, I can't wait to see which film dethrones it.
After my film expedition, I headed over to my favorite grocery store, Whole Foods, to enjoy some healthy indulgences. While I was checking out, the cashier looked up and me and said, "So you really liked that movie, huh?"
For a second I was wondering how he knew I'd just come from seeing a film. Was there a stray popcorn pendant stuck to my t-shirt? Then I realized the t-shirt in question bore a line drawing illustration of one Napolean Dynamite.
"Oh...yeah!" I stammered. "Did you like that movie?"
"Let's just say I feel asleep twice watching it on DVD," he replied, obviously underwhelmed. "It had a lot of inside humor. I'd say it was a physical comedy."
"So what kind of movies do you like?" I queried, expecting him to launch into a monologue about Kurosawa's noble aesthetic.
"You know 'Deuce Bigelow'?"
"Did you guys read that Vanity Fair article about Jennifer Aniston? Well, I only read part of it, but she said that Brad has a sensitivity bug missing...or something like that."
Sensitivity "chip," girl. At least your conversational dart lodged itself the computer lingo realm, but if you're gonna be the celebrity rag name dropper, get your facts straight, mkay?
Celebrity sighting of the weekend:
George Hamilton looking less tanned than usual at a French sidewalk cafe as he elegantly regaled two older men with a tall tale of some sort or another.
I wanted to interrupt and tell him, "You were so good in Where the Boys Are," but it seemed in bad taste to compliment a 60+ year-old gentleman on a role he did as a teenager.
Music tips of the weekend:
Marjorie Fair
"Self-Help Serenade"
Graceful, melancholic pop. You've heard of Better than Ezra? Consider this Better than Travis.
Josh Rouse
"Nashille"
Singer/songwriter with Freedy Johnstone-esque lyrics and melodies. Sweet and smart.
Holopaw
"Quit +/- Fight"
Fluttering and puttering and dreamy in a non-cloying way.
Muffled guffaw of the weekend:
I went to see 2046 again this weekend, wanting to view it once more on the big-screen before it leaves town. It was worth a second visit, to be sure. Since I didn't have to study the story or subtitles as carefully, I could fully enjoy the visual feast.
I got to savor little moments like a close-up of a girl's feet in Mary-Jane high heels as she traces circles on a linoleum floor while speaking Japanese aloud in an imaginary conversation with her faraway, forbidden boyfriend. And the luscious colors, beautifully sad actors and dozens of emotions that can be conveyed in a wary and/or halting smile. Wong Kar Wai definitely deserves the title of "genius." And Ziyi Zhang is amazing in her role as the beautiful Bai Ling. Definitely a scene-stealer. I'm predicting this will be my #1 film of 2005. If it's not, I can't wait to see which film dethrones it.
After my film expedition, I headed over to my favorite grocery store, Whole Foods, to enjoy some healthy indulgences. While I was checking out, the cashier looked up and me and said, "So you really liked that movie, huh?"
For a second I was wondering how he knew I'd just come from seeing a film. Was there a stray popcorn pendant stuck to my t-shirt? Then I realized the t-shirt in question bore a line drawing illustration of one Napolean Dynamite.
"Oh...yeah!" I stammered. "Did you like that movie?"
"Let's just say I feel asleep twice watching it on DVD," he replied, obviously underwhelmed. "It had a lot of inside humor. I'd say it was a physical comedy."
"So what kind of movies do you like?" I queried, expecting him to launch into a monologue about Kurosawa's noble aesthetic.
"You know 'Deuce Bigelow'?"
Thursday, August 11, 2005
D.J. ever wonder?
I've noticed over the last two years that there seems to be an evergrowing number of people in their 20s and 30s with the first name of D.J. I'm seeing it popping up everywhere--in magazines, club flyers--heck, even Nicole Ritchie's fiance is named D.J.
You know, with all the birth record tabulations I've seen reporting the top babies' names every year, I've never seen "D.J." on the list. It's glaringly in absentia. Sure, Mark and Mike and Mary are always there, year after year, but why isn't "D.J." showing up on the stats sheets?
I've been trying to figure out why so many parents, 20 to 30 years ago, were drawn to the name D.J. It's a fairly generic choice, it seems. There is no blue-blood flair that a name like Sebastian or Cassandra bears. My first guess is that because these families had such distinctive surnames (e.g., Shadow and Krush), they decided to go with unassuming initials for the first half of their children's handles.
Some sociologist should really get on this, because there also seems to be a significant overlap between those named D.J. and an aptitude for music. I highly doubt it's coincidental.
Somebody should put a clever spin on this phenomenon and petition for government funding for a landmark study. Unfortunately, resources for this kind of subject matter are rarely forthcoming. But just imagine if we turned the tables on those so-called scientists who are studying that pie-in-the-sky stem cell hullabaloo and got them to step up to the mike on a serious issue like this D.J. culture I've only heard underground murmurings about. Yeah, right. I won't hold my breath on that one.
You know, with all the birth record tabulations I've seen reporting the top babies' names every year, I've never seen "D.J." on the list. It's glaringly in absentia. Sure, Mark and Mike and Mary are always there, year after year, but why isn't "D.J." showing up on the stats sheets?
I've been trying to figure out why so many parents, 20 to 30 years ago, were drawn to the name D.J. It's a fairly generic choice, it seems. There is no blue-blood flair that a name like Sebastian or Cassandra bears. My first guess is that because these families had such distinctive surnames (e.g., Shadow and Krush), they decided to go with unassuming initials for the first half of their children's handles.
Some sociologist should really get on this, because there also seems to be a significant overlap between those named D.J. and an aptitude for music. I highly doubt it's coincidental.
Somebody should put a clever spin on this phenomenon and petition for government funding for a landmark study. Unfortunately, resources for this kind of subject matter are rarely forthcoming. But just imagine if we turned the tables on those so-called scientists who are studying that pie-in-the-sky stem cell hullabaloo and got them to step up to the mike on a serious issue like this D.J. culture I've only heard underground murmurings about. Yeah, right. I won't hold my breath on that one.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Wong Kar Wow
My most anticipated film of the summer, 2046 did not disappoint (warning: the site takes almost as long to load as the movie did to get its U.S. release).
I suspect the word "gorgeous" was first invented in anticipation of Wong Kar Wai's latest offering. He drenches the screen with lush colors—from pomegranate red to vivid bottle glass green, lovingly lights and cleverly frames amazingly beautiful women (Gong Li and Ziyi Zhang are breathtaking and heartbreaking in their roles) and steeps the film's longing mood with music interludes ranging from opera to a past Latin hit parade. Lead actor Tony Leung does his best Clark Gable as a struggling fiction writer and Don Juan whose search for love seems half-hearted and broken-hearted at the same time. He and the stories he pens thread together the flashbacks of Hong Kong and Singapore in the 1960s and futuristic glimpses of android affection.
There are many things reminiscent of Wong Kar Wai's lovely film In the Mood for Love here—the saturated color palette, star-crossed love, 1960s Hong Kong, Nat King Cole and Leung and Cheung to name a few—but any similarities are reassuring versus redundant.* While the story is thinner in this film, there is enough pathos and passion to carry the viewer through, leaving one sated and starved for more at the same time. Ahh, cinematic bliss.
*Addendum: After reading press on this film after seeing it, I've finally been enlightened that 2046 is a sequel of sorts to In the Mood for Love, featuring the same male lead character who is trying to replace his lost love from the first film. Sure didn't seem like the same bloke to me. I remember the ITMFL character as meek, sensitive and anything but manipulative. I guess romantic disappointment does funny things to a guy.
I suspect the word "gorgeous" was first invented in anticipation of Wong Kar Wai's latest offering. He drenches the screen with lush colors—from pomegranate red to vivid bottle glass green, lovingly lights and cleverly frames amazingly beautiful women (Gong Li and Ziyi Zhang are breathtaking and heartbreaking in their roles) and steeps the film's longing mood with music interludes ranging from opera to a past Latin hit parade. Lead actor Tony Leung does his best Clark Gable as a struggling fiction writer and Don Juan whose search for love seems half-hearted and broken-hearted at the same time. He and the stories he pens thread together the flashbacks of Hong Kong and Singapore in the 1960s and futuristic glimpses of android affection.
There are many things reminiscent of Wong Kar Wai's lovely film In the Mood for Love here—the saturated color palette, star-crossed love, 1960s Hong Kong, Nat King Cole and Leung and Cheung to name a few—but any similarities are reassuring versus redundant.* While the story is thinner in this film, there is enough pathos and passion to carry the viewer through, leaving one sated and starved for more at the same time. Ahh, cinematic bliss.
*Addendum: After reading press on this film after seeing it, I've finally been enlightened that 2046 is a sequel of sorts to In the Mood for Love, featuring the same male lead character who is trying to replace his lost love from the first film. Sure didn't seem like the same bloke to me. I remember the ITMFL character as meek, sensitive and anything but manipulative. I guess romantic disappointment does funny things to a guy.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Bow Wow Wow Yippee Yo Yippee Yay
Celebrity sighting alert in two parts
As I stood in line waiting to order my salad "to go" at a Beverly Hills restaurant, three young men in various stages of bling sidled up next to me. I didn't think much about it, except to assume that they must've had some bank to be bejeweled and jersey'd out like they were. As we all split with our takeout orders, they climbed into a gold-accented SUV and a shrill circle of five 12-year-old blonde girls on the sidewalk started bouncing up and down in their flip-flops and ponytails while pointing at the SUV. Obviously, I'd been rubbing elbows with someone of note: one Lil' Bow Wow. Nice to know being a teenage heartthrob hasn't made him too proud to carry his own doggie bags. Badumbump.
Later that same day, while looking for a parking space near a movie theater, I spotted Willem Dafoe hoofing it down the sidewalk with a female companion. I called out my sighting to my two friends in the vehicle with me and we managed to circle the block in time to find ourselves waiting to take his parking space.
We idled behind his sedan as he opened the passenger door for his amiga. He looked our way and gave us a "Don't worry, I know you're waiting for me to move" nodding grimace. We three, all hovering around 40 years of age, were just as shrill as the 90210 pre-teens from earlier in the day as we reveled in the fact that we were soon going to be in "Willem Dafoe's parking space!!!" We all agreed he was majorly do-able. Quite handsome despite his slight build and shaved head. His locality also implied that he'd just left the previous showing of the movie we were walking into, 2046, so he has good taste in films, too. How dreamy can one guy get? No disrespect to Bow Wow, natch.
As I stood in line waiting to order my salad "to go" at a Beverly Hills restaurant, three young men in various stages of bling sidled up next to me. I didn't think much about it, except to assume that they must've had some bank to be bejeweled and jersey'd out like they were. As we all split with our takeout orders, they climbed into a gold-accented SUV and a shrill circle of five 12-year-old blonde girls on the sidewalk started bouncing up and down in their flip-flops and ponytails while pointing at the SUV. Obviously, I'd been rubbing elbows with someone of note: one Lil' Bow Wow. Nice to know being a teenage heartthrob hasn't made him too proud to carry his own doggie bags. Badumbump.
Later that same day, while looking for a parking space near a movie theater, I spotted Willem Dafoe hoofing it down the sidewalk with a female companion. I called out my sighting to my two friends in the vehicle with me and we managed to circle the block in time to find ourselves waiting to take his parking space.
We idled behind his sedan as he opened the passenger door for his amiga. He looked our way and gave us a "Don't worry, I know you're waiting for me to move" nodding grimace. We three, all hovering around 40 years of age, were just as shrill as the 90210 pre-teens from earlier in the day as we reveled in the fact that we were soon going to be in "Willem Dafoe's parking space!!!" We all agreed he was majorly do-able. Quite handsome despite his slight build and shaved head. His locality also implied that he'd just left the previous showing of the movie we were walking into, 2046, so he has good taste in films, too. How dreamy can one guy get? No disrespect to Bow Wow, natch.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Deplane, deplane
I heard the news today. Oy, vey.
It seems that some survivors in the Air France crash in Canada were complaining that there was confusion after the crash and they didn't know where to go.
Huh. Confusion at a crash scene seems pretty normal to me. Survivors after a plane crash? Not so much.
YOU UNGRATEFUL EVERLOVIN' NUTJOBS! YOU SURVIVED A FRIGGIN' PLANE CRASH! SHUT THE HELL UP AND RETURN YOUR FLAPPING LIPS TO THEIR UPRIGHT AND LOCKED POSITIONS. THE CAPTAIN HAS TURNED ON THE "BE GLAD YOUR ALIVE AND QUIT BITCHING FOR FIVE MINUTES WHY DON'T YOU" SIGN.
It seems that some survivors in the Air France crash in Canada were complaining that there was confusion after the crash and they didn't know where to go.
Huh. Confusion at a crash scene seems pretty normal to me. Survivors after a plane crash? Not so much.
YOU UNGRATEFUL EVERLOVIN' NUTJOBS! YOU SURVIVED A FRIGGIN' PLANE CRASH! SHUT THE HELL UP AND RETURN YOUR FLAPPING LIPS TO THEIR UPRIGHT AND LOCKED POSITIONS. THE CAPTAIN HAS TURNED ON THE "BE GLAD YOUR ALIVE AND QUIT BITCHING FOR FIVE MINUTES WHY DON'T YOU" SIGN.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The day after yesterday
Tuesday morning I woke up in the usual way--right arm flailing in the general direction of the snooze button on my radio alarm clock, trying to smack down disturbing soundbites of NPR news between nine-minute (and why nine, alarm clock maker people?) reprieves. As I finally dragged myself from my comfy cocoon at the last possible moment, I was filled with the urge to call in sick. Only I knew I couldn't. It was too busy at work and I'd be letting people down. I tried to positive self-talk myself to the shower, but I was having none of it. It was going to be a no good, horrible, very bad day and I could do nothing to alter the suckage.
Then I show up at work to find my favorite coffee drink sitting on my desk. One of those people I couldn't let down had made an impromptu Starbucks run to surprise me. This alone had a remarkable effect on my outlook, as food and beverage-related items often do. Later in the day, I got a free lunch, a couple of compliments from co-workers, heard a radio commercial on the air for the first time that I'd scribed and managed to get out of a meeting I was dreading. All in all, a good, wonderful, pretty damn OK kind of day. A day I would have "missed" by pouting under the covers.
I guess I showed me.
Then I show up at work to find my favorite coffee drink sitting on my desk. One of those people I couldn't let down had made an impromptu Starbucks run to surprise me. This alone had a remarkable effect on my outlook, as food and beverage-related items often do. Later in the day, I got a free lunch, a couple of compliments from co-workers, heard a radio commercial on the air for the first time that I'd scribed and managed to get out of a meeting I was dreading. All in all, a good, wonderful, pretty damn OK kind of day. A day I would have "missed" by pouting under the covers.
I guess I showed me.
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