L.A. Story - Part Deux

It was an eventful weekend, in that it was full of events. But one day at a time, please.

On Friday evening, the itinerary called for a movie and Thai food with C-girl (in a restaurant featuring its own Thai Elvis. So L.A.). The movie? Shopgirl. The verdict? I liked it walking out of the theater and grew to love it on further reflection. That said, I would recommend it to very few people. I'll admit, it is slow, sad and quiet and the ham-handed narration was awful and awkward overkill. In his role, Steve Martin was creepy-adjacent, drained of emotion and motion. And the Hollywood ending is lame. And the plot is as thin as Claire Dane's waist, but...BUT.

I expected to dislike the film. I hated the novella it was based on and I have a serious repulsion when it comes to Claire "Stare" Danes, but something about the trailer piqued my curiosity. Something about the muted mood and saturated color scheme beckoned. I felt compelled to see it. And not just "sometime." I had to see it opening weekend.

So why the unexpected admiration and enjoyment? I loved Shopgirl, because it's true. Especially true for 20- and 30-something single women in L.A. I know, every big city has its dating challenges, but the veneer-eal disease (I stole that pun) running rampant in this city throws the pitfalls into sharp relief.

So, first the caveats. Anyone who has NOT been involuntarily unattached for an interminable length of time in a big city will be bored by this film. Anyone who hasn't had to bite their tongue, holding back a profession of affection for fear of making a significant other bolt, will be annoyed by this film. Anyone who hasn't had to spell-check their own sanity when surrounding by crazy-makingly thoughtless love interests will not dig this film on any level. Anyone who hasn't wondered if the sexual revolution actually screwed over the women it was trying to liberate will think this movie is pointless.

But Steve baby nailed it. The psychology and sociology of the disjointed dating dance of intimacy is dead-on. I didn't feel that about his book, but the pathos is there on the big-screen--the mixed messages, the cruelty clumsily justified by claimed ignorance, the solitude that can be sweet or lonely--but remains solitude nonetheless.

And while I haven't been privy to the press junket sound bites, it's clear it's no accident that the lead female in the film works where she does. The girls trapped behind the Windexed-glass of the retail store counters they man are just as much commodities as the goods they are shilling. Desirable until taken home and worn awhile. Returnable without explanation. A perfect metaphor. Well-done, Mr. Martin. Well-done.

And Claire, after all the years I've mocked your Andrew McCarthy school of bug-eyed expression of emotion, I've got to give props. The play of emotions on your face, from delight to despair to ennui were heartbreaking . And Jason Schwartzman, you kept the movie afloat with aplomb. A fine comedian, you be. And to the cinematographer, wonderful job shooting L.A. and its hazy gold-flecked afternoons and teal-soaked nights. And to the location scout, kudos on showcasing different slices of Lalaland, especially Mirabelle's wrought-ironed window apartment building. And to the director and editor, may I say my favorite shot in the whole movie (while there were many more gorgeous in color and composition) was the long hold on Mirabelle's mom at the dinner table while her daughter was on the phone. Talk about a punch to the gut in a seemingly throwaway shot. Kudos to all. And don't let the haters get to you, even though they will (understandably) be the majority of filmgoers (I mean, even MD'A gave it a D+ for pete's sake). Be that as it may, you still rule in your subdued way. Just like Mirabelle, it takes awhile to truly savor your signficance.

DVD nation?

M. Night Shyamalan is speaking out about a proposed movie distribution strategy that would shorten the gap between a movie's big-screen and DVD releases (or even make the release dates simultaneous). Evidently director Steven Soderbergh is part of a business venture that is promoting this expected trend.

Excerpts from an E! Online article by Joss Grossberg:

"'Art is the ability to convey that we are not alone,' Shyamalan noted. 'When I sit down next to you in a movie theater, we get to share each other's point of view. We become part of a collective soul. That's the magic in the movies.'"

"'If you tell audiences there's no difference between a theatrical experience and a DVD, then that's it, game's over, and that whole art form is going to go away slowly.'"

As much as I hate the negative things a movie audience can bring to the viewing experience (whispering chair-kickers, you know who you are), there's nothing like watching a brilliant story on the big-screen. So sod off, Soderbergh!

Writing on the wall

Funky fresh site alert: Pictures of Walls. "A gallery of walls with stuff written on them." Funny, thought-provoking, cool!

Found via the ever delightful Disco Dave.

Women I Love (take that, Esquire)

A recent issue of FLM magazine asked director Rodrigo Garcia to list some of his favorite female movie characters, which struck me as a really interesting assignment. Hence, I assigned the assignment to myself. Here are my personal picks for favorite women in film (anyone who gets inspired to make their own list, consider yourself tagged). (And a warning: my predilection for romantic comedies will soon become glaringly apparent.)

Annie
Annie Hall
Well, duh. Only the leading lady in the best romantic comedy ever. Simultaneously uptight and carefree. La-dee-dah.

Sally
When Harry Met Sally
Duh, two. Only the leading lady in the second best romantic comedy ever. Simultaneaously vulnerable and chin-up brave. The fake orgasm to end all fake orgasms, plus a surrey with a fringe on top.

Jackie
Jackie Brown
I've read that Quentin Tarantino was disappointed in this cinematic jewel he directed, but I disagree whole-heartedly. Pam Grier was brilliantly cast and amazing to watch as a down-on-her-luck chick who plans a scam to break free once and for all. This is one determined babe. No wonder jaded bail bondsman Max Cherry fell for her hook, line and sinker.

Hildy
His Girl Friday
As Cary Grant's comic foil, Rosalind Russell fires off rat-ta-tat conversational ricochets with stunning aplomb. The dame knows how to wear a hat, too.

Tracy
The Philadelphia Story
Do I think you made of bronze? No, dear Katherine Hepburn. Do I think you made of silver-screen gold? Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. What other woman could carry off being wooed by both Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart in the same film, I ask you?

Angela
Married to the Mob
In this overlooked gem, Michelle Pfieffer shows her comic chops as a gum-chomping mafia widow who has to contend with an amorous mob boss and single motherhood. She broke my heart and made me giggle, all while wearing leopard print without irony.

Judith
Living Outloud
In another hidden treasure of a romantic comedy, Holly Hunter brilliantly, but quietly, plays a divorced thirty-something woman trying to make sense of the world as a "soloist." Her frantic inner monologue about an imaginary adopted crack baby is a comedy classic.

Katie
The Way We Were
When it comes to tragic romance, Ka-Ka-Ka-Katie is one of the leading martyrs of ill-fated love. Barbra Streisand shines as a woman cursed and blessed by her clashing passions (Robert Redford and social responsibility). The girl's got moxie!

Lola
Lola
Anouk Aimee carries a torch like nobody's business and lights up the screen all the while. Lovely and sad and bewitching.

Pai
Whale Rider
The strongest little girl I've even seen on-screen, Keisha Castle-Hughes warms this family film (in the best sense of the term) with soul and spirit as a child hitting her Maori culture's glass ceiling at an unusually early age.

Francie
Gidget
I'm sorry, but it's one of my favorite-ist films ever. Sandra Dee is sweeter than sweet and cuter than, yes, you guessed it, cute, as a high schooler who'll do anything to win the heart of hunky surfer Moondoggie. Dreamy!

Postscript:
Oh, yeah! I forgot one (thanks for the reminder, Jonny M)

Amelie
Amelie
I'm red-faced that I forgot this amusing muse of romance and wonder played by the dimpled Audrey Tautou, who lives life like a treasure hunt.

Oops! One more almost-missed miss:

Celine
Before Sunrise
and
Before Sunset
A friend of a friend said, "Real people don't talk like that" in regards to the dialogue in Before Sunset. OK, not that many people do, but there are a few intellectual, charming, witty and sweet individuals I'm aware of personally who could carry on Celine-level conversations with ease. However, I don't know anyone who could expound on world politics and romantic politics with Julie Delpy's pretty French accent and neurotic charm.

Paging Dr. Noah Drake

Last Friday night I got stood up by none other than Rick Springfield. I was a hardcore Rick fan during his General Hospital/Jesse's Girl days and was looking forward to a little '80s flashbackin'. Alas, it was not to be due to a hernia operation. Whatever with that, Rickster.

And here I'd talked my sister into going to the show with the help of this rave review by converted former non-Rick-fan Pesky Malice. My sibling was a hesistant participant and had to endure the mocking taunts of her co-workers for her planned attendance. She drove an hour and a half to L.A. for the special event, too. I even asked special permission to take off from work early, so that we could gain pre-show sustenance. This was a big deal, people. While we had not gone the full nine by renting a stretch limo or bringing along lace panties or red roses to hurl on-stage, we were totally ready to ROCK! But once we pulled up to the deserted theater and read the sad little flyer taped to the door that announced the show cancellation, we realized the point was rather moot.

I felt it only fair to assuage my sister's disappointment by taking her to the delightful Wallace and Grommit film (funny and charming with a snug little storyline that outshines most animated films I've seen).

Now mi hermana y yo must wait patiently for several months before his Rickness graces the City of Angels once more. He is worth the wait, no doubt. And this will give us time to embroider "We'll make you forget Jesse's skank" onto those aforementioned propulsion lace panties.

Drop it like it's hot

"He so hot, it's ridiculous. I mean, really."

"She's so hot, I can't even think around her."

"That guy thinks you're hot."

These are just a few sound bites from a typical day in my cubicle world. You see, I sit within ten feet of two 20/30-something single people who enjoy hanging out in the bar scene (as is totally age-appropriate, natch). They usually give some kind of informal accounts on Monday mornings of the babe/fox/dreamboat sightings of their weekends. These babes/foxes/dreamboats are usually described using the "H" word.

Due to the resulting overexposure to the word "hot," I'm soooo over it. I never had a problem with "hot" before. Now, I've openly hated "hottie" for years, just because I think that that word sounds idiotic. It's the linguistic equivalent of wearing Daisy Duke denim cut-offs. But "hot" was always fine by me. Until I started hearing it used so often and with such emphasis and emotion. The drawn-out sighs that accompany it. The shaking heads. The eye rolls. The hands slamming into desktops.

It's starting to feel like being hot is all that matters out in the dating circuit--and not just in the dating world, in the world at large. Anyone not hot is off the radar. Anyone of a lower temperature might as well not even exist. At times I find it amusing. At my ripe old age, I can listen to the kids rant and rave about washboard abs or supermodel pouts and realize how little importance those attributes really have in the big picture of life. I can take what those in tailored wool suits call "the long view." But, realistically speaking, while living in L.A., it is impossible to ignore the influence of the heat. The thermostat is stuck--and so are you, if you're not in the high 90s.

Clouded with ink

Since I'd forgotten my gym clothes at home, I figured a movie night was in order and rushed across town to see Noah Baumbach's new film The Squid and the Whale. I've been a Baumbach fan since his clever romantic comedy Mr. Jealousy, so expected great things. On top of that, the trailer had really sucked me in a month or so back and the film's gotten some good reviews.

Unfortunately, I was disappointed. Don't get me wrong, the movie offers some heart-wrenching moments, witty lines and impressive acting. Jeff Daniels is completely disarming and charming as a gruff, lazy, bearded bear of a past-his-glory-days writer. He really steals the film with the hilarious, low-energy emotional force field that emanates from his corduroy-sleeved self. The two boys who play Daniels' teen and pre-teen sons, Jesse Eisenberg and Owen Kline, are terrific, as well. Very believable in very challenging parts. Laura Linney, as the mom, just does her usual plain Jane schtick, but she's fine. Interestingly enough, both parents are asses, but only Daniels' character is likeable in spite of that fact. The only sign that Linney's character is a nice person at all are the odd, food-related pet names she calls her children. Mkay.

The movie is about a family going through a divorce. It pointedly illustrates how kids are left to survive the shambles their selfish parents leave in their wakes. Baumbach, who based the story on his own childhood experiences, doesn't miss a detail in the fallout--from the kids' curious coping mechanisms to the parents' bumbled handling of just about everything.

Baumbach's got "real" nailed and deserves accolades for that. It is no easy feat to pull off a family drama so pitch-perfectly. It's just the structure that's lacking and, sadly, the lack of it drags the film down from the cresting waves of instant classic to murky almost-greatness. If I may be so wordplay-ey, it feels as if another audience must've gotten joint custody of the plot.

I wish Baumbach would have hammered out his script with more of the "big picture" story arc in mind, because his remarkable characters, actors and dialogue deserve a stronger structure to showcase their brilliance. Maybe Noah's been hanging out with (as much as I love him) Wes "Set Piece" Anderson too much.

And, an open note to all filmmakers, please don't drop your film title into your dialogue with lead weights attached and then end the movie with a lead character staring at the subject of the title and then abruptly throw up a title card reiterating the name of the movie one millisecond later. Please? Thanks in advance.

Corn chips are no place for a mighty warrior

Some people are just so weird and funny, I have to hold my sides and laugh.

A new Homestarrunner.com "Teen Girl Squad" cartoon for those who like it wacky.

Just wild about Bushy

So a little more fuel was added to the fire regarding the "plenty bright" Lil' Miss Miers, as the New York Times reports.

Evidently, she thinks Dubya is "cool" and has told him so more than once in officially archived documents. That's cringe-worthy for so many reasons. Do you mean cool like wearing goth eyeliner past the Labor Day of your life, Harriet? By the way, do you still dab a little Jovan's Musk behind your ears, hoping to turn W's head as you run through his briefs in the Oval Office? Did you flash a little thong, a la Lewinsky, in the White House hallway to garner this nomination? I wonder. At least we know how you feel about Ku Klux Klan bingo. Way uncool. LIke, gag me with a gavel. I'm so sure.

(Found via P and B.)

I'll be here all week

I don't think it could ever be said that I don't know how to treat myself right. Let the four-day weekend I just gave myself prove that point. And the spa day. And the ice blended mocha, fer Pete's sake.

While my 60-something spa attendant massaged my temples with some divine smelling potion, the topic of marital status came up. She told me she'd been married and divorced twice.

She sounded content about it, so I asked her, "Are you fine with being single?"

"Oh, yes," she murmured. "Sometimes, I think it would be great to meet a nice man, but then I think about having to make dinner and all the other stuff that goes with it and realize I'm better off on my own."

Heard that.

Which reminds me of an exercise we had to do in improv class last week. The teacher made us get up one at a time and then he'd give us a topic that was usually perceived as a negative thing. We'd have to do a few minutes on why it was super-awesome and stuff.

My topic: men who can't commit. At first my mind was blank, but then I went with it and started ranting about how bo-ring it would be to have a dependable guy at home every night helping feed the kids and pay the mortgage. At that point, I yawned. Now how exciting was it, I continued, to wonder what the coming weekend could possibly hold?! Not knowing if you'd get to have a nice dinner out or would be forced to nosh on the granola bar stuck in your car's glove compartment? How thrilling it would be to date a man who won't return your phone calls, giving you a night's worth of food for thought: Where is he? Is he with another woman? Is she blonde? Is she skinny? I mean, get a bottle of wine and you've got yourself a night's worth of entertainment. Who wants to be 60 with the same old guy in the rocker next to you night after night? Wouldn't you rather be out on the town playing bingo at the senior hall and playing bingo with your life, wondering who you're going home with? Exactly.

The bit was well-received and a couple of people in class said I should take my act on the road. So let me prep by reminding you to tip your waitresses.

Contract on America?

I heard an interview on NPR this weekend in which a professional blog-watcher commented on the rash of blog postings that have hit the web since the Miers nomination was announced. During the interview, she mentioned that conservative bloggers tend to pick a few topics and just hammer them into the ground with many cross-links and much focused conversation. Liberal blogs tend to discuss a wider range of topics. Kinda interesting. Maybe that's a reflection on why the conservatives seem to be having more success pushing their agenda in Washington versus the well-meaning, but vacillating liberal contingent.

Speaking of conversatives, I saw a news clip of the very ballsy House Democratic Leader Nancy Pelosi have a shouting match on the House floor over a suspiciously long voting period for an energy bill that barely passed (an energy bill that loosened restrictions on the use of federal land, among other things). I became enraged that once again the Republican party is playing fast and loose with the environment in the name of corporate greed (all while playing fast and loose with House voting policies to buy arm-twisting time).

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the term "conservative" hardly seems to apply to the party that embraces the handle with such rabid pride. Which led to another political rant on the poetic tip, so here we go.

The "conservative" U.S. administration:

initiates wars pre-emptively,
doctors intelligence deceptively,
pisses off global allies carelessly,
protects our borders lazily,
grows our deficit voraciously,
promotes corporate interests wrecklessly,
pillages our environment greedily,
responds to drowning cities tardily.

Just what is it that "conservatives" do conservatively?
I vote they change their inaccurate calling card immediately.

Bed head

I have a new bed.

This is big. The bed is big, too. A queen. A pillow-top queen. That's fancy.

Now, I know to many this seems like little cause for a timpani solo, but I'm darn excited about the big queen in my bedroom. You see, I've been sleeping on the same twin daybed for about 15 years (except for my six-month gig of living in sin with Vietnam when it was relegated to the guest room). Why I never thought to get a big girl's bed, I'm not sure. I guess I never had an extra thousand bucks and change in the bank collecting dust. And I was used to my twin. It didn't take up much room. And there was a roll-out "trundle" bed underneath, which popped up to accomodate the occasional sleep-over friend or love interest. I was fine with my twin, really. We spoke a special language no one else could understand.

Then a friend from work stopped by my place one day and during the boudoir tour, she took in a deep breath and lamented ever so sorrowfully, "Oh, Nictate. You have to get a bigger bed! No man is going to walk in here and feel welcome. He has to be able to picture himself in it!"

Why this feng shui-esque theory had never occured to me is anyone's guess. In my defense, however, no guy had ever complained about being in bed with my twin. I'm sure they might have thought it charmingly eccentric or hot in a "It's like I'm in a high school girl's bedroom" way, but none of my past Romeos had said a peep.

Anyway, cut to several months later and I'm sleeping like a queen. It's quite an empowering and inspiring acquisition, I must say. It's a grown-up bed and I've taken the opportunity to dress it with sophisticated sheets and Oprah-endorsed bedding and jauntily arranged decorative pillows.

I think about my bed when I'm in class or at work. Not about wanting to sleep on it, but longing to stare at its lusty dark brown quilt and dusty blue toss pillows. I want to admire the heft of it, as it reclines like a giant piece of luscious chocolate in my room. I must say, owning this supersized sleeper makes me feel like one damn fine sophisticated lady. I wonder if people notice anything different about me. Maybe a new swing in my stride or a glimmer in my eye. You'd be surprised what a new lay will do for a gal.

***

Speaking of being in bed, what in the heck is up with Dubya nominating his never-been-a-judge White House lawyer, Harriet Miers, for the Supreme Court? Rather than gnash my teeth, I've decided to channel my outrage through poetry.

Harriet Iscariot?

I'm troubled by this Texan chick who W's proposed.
I smell something funny and it ain't a yellow rose.

Even reaction on the Hill to Harriet was cool.
Does Bush Jr. think us all dang-blasted fools?

It seems clear having been on Dubya's payroll
Might sway her into taking a court-tilting toll.

While her resume's full, she's never sat on a bench.
Why, she's got all the makings of a back-pocket wench.

Still, there's no Supreme surprise in this cronyistic lob.
After all, back in 2000, the Court handed Bush his job.

So, Harriet? No kidding? Can't you see the absurdity?
Hell, the lady can't even apply her eyeliner judiciously.

***

A foreshadowing of the gentrification of Blogger.com: the hilarious and brilliant Ms. Julia Sweeney of SNL (and now one-woman show) fame has moved into a nice little blogalow on our street. I must stop by later with some muffins of admiration.