Stahling for Godot

Movie update

Capote - The first half-hour sucked me in with its mood, art direction and cinematography. Then it just went ice-cold for me and Phillip Seymour Hoffman's impersonation became somewhat grating. It wasn't PSH that bugged, it was that cartoonish Capote voice, which is true-to-life, but that doesn't make it any more pleasing to the ears. I never felt he truly cared for his jailed charge, even when he went to the trouble of spoon-feeding the prisoner. Truman came off as just a writer looking for an angle in his own cold-blooded way. Actually, the film reminded me of the Nicole Kidman vehicle Birth--lots of talented actors doing solid work, a gloriously subdued color palette of grays and golds and, sadly, no discernable pulse.

A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia - I have to admit that I only Netflix'd this made-for-TV film due to the fact it features my recently schemed dream co-leads: Ralph Fiennes and Alexander Siddig. Unfortunately, there's not much more to recommend it, but it is delightful seeing the two men, so youthful and giant-eyed, sharing the screen and some undeniably homoerotic chemistry.

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One of the funniest and smartest things I've read of late is a rant in L.A. Weekly by Permanent Midnight author Jerry Stahl as he breaks down the bullshit in the James Frey memoir scandal with his tongue firmly planted in his angry cheek. It means more coming from him since he's actually done the whole drug addict memoir thing.

Here is some of the bitter genius:

"What this author has done amounts to nothing less than liberation. After Frey's A Million Little Pieces, the writer is free, if he or she wants to be, from oppressive, vaguely Old Europe-y notions about what is or isn't 'nonfiction.' Like our current president, whose life arc parallels Frey's on so many levels, the self-proclaimed Addict, Alcoholic and Criminal in A Millon Little Pieces has stepped over standards and precedent as an impediment to Getting the Job Done. The job, in this case, being the creation of a history compatible with one's own myth."

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"I'm going to HANG ON. Because my favorite writer did, and his bravery in the face of fantastic agony--some of it dental--gives me hope that I, too, can make it through. Without drugs or alcohol. And without having to sit around some church basement pretending to give a fuck what some Sanka-swilling, sugar-scarfing freak who wouldn't knock over a 7-Eleven if his life depended on it has to say about God."

"Not, by the way, that I ever knocked off any 7-Elevens. I'm not saying that. I'm saying I feel like I might have. In the course of my out-of-control, desperate and violent past, there could have been some convenience-store situations. That is to say, I may experience the despair and soul-death of a man who has knocked over convenience stores--though, technically, if you're going to go all Smoking Gun on my ass, I was held for shoplifting M&Ms. Peanut.

"The kind that feel like little skulls between my pain-racked teeth. The chocolate mushing to bloody brown with every bite. Blood. Mouth. Peanuts.

"Okay, okay. Fuck the bullshit. I wasn't exactly arrested. There was a security guard, in a turban. Whom I turned into a cop for dramatic purposes. And fuck you if you think I need to embellish my super-bad criminal status by describing how I smacked him in the face with the jerky rack. Jerky everywhere.

"Preserved meat. Which I ate off the floor on all fours. Like a wolverine..."

For the whole brilliant piece, go here.

Smoke and mirrors

I'm really glad that Oprah thought better of her defense of the fiction-riddled non-fiction memoir by James Frey, "A Million Little Pieces." In the book, he claims to have served a three-month jail term, when he was actually only in custody for a few hours. He also allegedly exaggerates mistreatment he received during a visit at a rehab clinic that could have discouraged readers from seeking treatment for their own issues. Oprah has apoligized to her audience for acting as if the truth didn't matter and today she confronted Frey on her show.

Some excerpts from an article by Edward Wyatt of The New York Times reporting on the show:

"Mr. Frey said he had made up many of the details of his life and had created a bad-guy portrayal of himself as a 'coping mechanism.'"

"'I thought of myself as tougher than I was and badder than I was,' Mr. Frey said."

"Ms. Winfrey asked if he made up the material because it helped him cope or because he thought it would help sell books. Mr. Frey responded, 'Probably both.'"

"Ms. Winfrey was about 20 minutes into her show when ABC News interrupted the broadcast to televise President Bush's news conference."

How ironic to interrupt one discussion of a million little lies with another.

Looking for cinema treats in a mundane multiplex

Movie update

Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World
Not so much. And I love Albert Brooks. I think age has mellowed him, removing the feistiness from his fussiness. I think you'd call it a gentle comedy. All I know is I gently ejected myself from my seat at the halfway point.

Junebug
I thought I'd had my fill of quirky Southern families, but this movie manages to stir in a couple of fresh female characters that make it worth watching--an eerily sunny pregnant youngun' and a sophisticated art dealer who is as clueless about life as she is savvy about art and her powers of attraction.

The Aviator
I avoided this movie for as long as possible, but people kept raving about Cate Blanchett as Kate Hepburn or saying what amazing stuff Howard Hughes accomplished in his life. Finally, I decided I'd set aside my Leonardo DeCrapio aversion and give it a try on DVD. Ohmigod, it was booooooring. And the editing was awful. The story didn't flow. Cate was good, but not good enough to make up for what the rest of the film lacked. It wasn't even fascinating to watch HH lose his mind--despite the "edgy" technique of showing a film projected on Leo's buttcheeks as he howled in his screening room. I can't believe it was nominated for best picture. Icky poo-poo. I wash my hands of it.

The Boys of Baraka
This documentary is simply terrific. Sobering, inspiring, eye-opening, haunting. It tracks a group of 12-year-old "at risk" black kids from Baltimore who are sent to a private school in Kenya as a last resort to save them from dropping out of school for a life on the streets. This film follows them in their first year in Africa and shows what happens when they return home for summer break. It's heartbreaking and heartwarming and, as my friend P-girl said, should be required prime time viewing. Here's the web site, if you'd like to learn more.

Sapphic chic, stagecoach style

Due to the critical and box office success of Brokeback Mountain, rumor has it that talks are already underway between director Ang Lee and screenwriter Larry McMurty for a follow-up film.

**Spoiler alert: Some plot points from Brokeback Mountain are about to be alluded to in the following text, so reading further may ruin the movie for you. Actually, the sarcasm in the following text could do some damage, too.**

Set against the backdrop of the hardscrapple frontier life of America in the 1800s, this epic tale of forbidden love is told in fits and starts across the wheat-y blonde plains and breathtaking dirt roads of the nascent nation.

Our leading characters? Eliza Éclair is a sturdy, but ravishingly beautiful, brunette who works as a warm-hearted school marm in a one-room classroom made with mud and straw and good old-fashioned elbow grease. Imogene De La Boca is a taciturn blonde storekeep’ with piercing blue eyes and a soul fire that glows like the embers in a freshly filled bed warmer.

One lusty September afternoon, these two women are brought together by fate and a good old-fashioned ”barn building.” As the waning sunlight warms the backs of the hard-working folk all about, Eliza and Imogene first catch eyes as one hands the other a rough-hewn piece of pine. Their fingers brush against each other only momentarily, but, oh, the chemistry is undeniable. Irresistable. Irrevokable.

By the time the other kinfolk and kind souls set down their hammers and gather around the fire for some barbecued squirrel, Eliza and Imogene are tearing great pieces of calico from each other bodices in the freshly strewn hay of the barn they just help build. The next morning, the barn owner’s family cat is found sick and weak, having just hacked up a nasty hairball. The cat will serve as a pointed visual metaphor. (Don’t make me spell it out for you, but I’ll give you the first letter: P.)

Alas, due to society’s prejudices against the fairer sex shunning the unfairer sex for some fair-on-fair sex, Eliza and Imogene must forage on apart. Each reluctantly marries a man of the male persuasion and raises a small brood of children. Still, every year the two make an excuse to meet wherever there is a newly built barn to be had. There, they secretly consummate their passions once more.

The excuse they give to their bothersome husbands and mewling children to be able to make these passionate escapes? Feined attendance at the Forthfield County Annual Quilting Bee. Never mind that there is no such place as Forthfield. Never mind that it is physically impossible for a fictional county to hold a quilting bee or any other kind of bee (e.g., spelling). Why, a fictional county can’t even hold a bonafide sack race.

These stolen trysts go on for years, decades even, until Imogene’s husband begins to suspect something is amiss when Imogene never brings home a pricked finger, much less a finished quilt. One day he can bear it no longer and sneaks a peek in Imogene’s sewing basket after she returns home after the so-called bee. He finds not a stitch of fabric, barely any batting and nary a needle. His stomach sinks in horror at the revelation, but he decides to wait to confront her about it. Until after they divorce. Several months later. While his children and new wife are within earshot. But then he really lets her have it.

“Imogene,” he says in a hushed, but confrontational tone, “what were you and Eliza doing with your basket all those years if not quilting?!”

The basket will be a pointed visual metaphor. (Don’t make me spell it out for you, but I’ll give you the first letter: P.)

Anyway, I shouldn’t give too much more away or none of you will go see it! Oh, and did I mention the working title McMurty is pitching under?

Lonesome Dyke.

Nip it in the bud

Funny things happen to a person when they work eight days straight under pressure, including a 1 a.m. night on the eighth day. I feel like I do when I take the red eye flight to NYC and go straight from the tarmack to socializing and shopping. A little dizzy, a little queasy, a little feverish, intermingled with bouts of bliss.

Fortunately, my boss picked up on my fading signal and sent me home for the day. Feeling tired, but wired, I ended up doing errands and some city wandering. The wandering led me into the paths of two entertainment personalities.

Speaking of red eyes, the first familiar face ordered a drink by that name at the coffeehouse counter as I waited for my sandwich to go. It took me a second to recognize him, but it was John Hensley of Nip/Tuck fame (doe-eyed teenage son of the nice doctor). As I walked up next to him to reach over the counter for my grilled vegetable panini, I softly said, "You're good on the show." He did a double-take and then thanked me twice, too. Very sincerely. That sweet little interaction gave my work-weary face an instant lift.

About 4 blocks and 45 minutes of window shopping later, I was in line at another establishment to get a cupcake. In front of me was none other than Phillip Seymour Hoffman, still glowing from his Golden Globe win. I almost said congratulations. Then I almost asked for an autograph. He knew I was onto him. Our eyes had met when we crossed paths on the way in and I had stopped in my tracks and smiled an involuntary, "Hey, you're famous" smile.

So there I was standing within a foot of him as he tucked his tip into the designated jar and grabbed his to go booty. I felt my heartrate peak with no treadmill in sight. This was my moment to gladhand Capote, but I wisely decided to call it caput. Something told me he didn't want to be bothered. And I realized I would've been the 514th person to say the "c" word to him in the last 24 hours, so I figured I'd give him the gift of anonymity. The nervous grin on the face of the cashier girl was enough of a fuss for the both of us. I like to think PSH was gratefully surprised as he turned to pass me and all I said was, "A chocolate cupcake, please," to the counter clerk as I tucked my notepad and pen discretely back into my purse.

Linky McLinkyton

This funny Associated Press news item explains the furor Comedy Central's Stephen Colbert has been raising since the Associated Press ran an article that didn't credit him for inventing the word "truthiness." Evidently, it's been in existence since the 1800s according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

Quoted from the article:

"Michael Adams, a visiting associate professor at North Carolina State University who specializes in lexicology, pointed to that definition and has said Colbert's claim to inventing the word is 'untrue.' (Adams served as the expert opinion in the initial AP story.)"

"'The fact that they looked it up in a book just shows that they don't get the idea of truthiness at all,' Colbert said Thursday. 'You don't look up truthiness in a book, you look it up in your gut.'"

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This terrific Salon piece by Gina Fattore perfectly sums up why I felt prideful prejudice against the latest film adaptation of Jane Austen's masterpiece.

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This is my friend K-girl's band's myspace page. They're named Flotilla and they're totally Carter.

(A shout-out to C-girl for hooking me up with the first two links.)

Looking double-fine in a construction zone

I was driving to lunch at my favorite sandwich joint this week when a construction zone cropped up in my path. A chubby, bearded workman in a bright yellow vest flipped his sign from "STOP" to "SLOW" as I approached at about 10 miles an hour. My driver's side window was cracked for air, so I was treated to an "Owooo!" from him as I passed. It was enough to construct a grin on my face.

In other news, I ran into a former barstool of mine.

Since I'm too lazy for eBay or yard sales, I sometimes stick an unwanted possession (e.g., and old lamp) out on the curb in front of my apartment building for the first interested passerby to adopt. I enjoy putting each item on display and timing how long it takes to evaporate. A couple of months ago, I put the aforementioned barstool out on the curb. I had purchased the 1960s-era, orange and brown floral print beaut' years before at a yard sale across the street for $15, since it fit in with my vintage decor at the time. Now that my interior has taken a more sophisticated turn, the kitschy piece had to go. And go it did, within an hour or two after being plopped curbside.

Cut to this last weekend. I'm walking down a busy shopping street a few blocks away from my place and there is my Partridge Family-looking barstool sitting as pretty as can be in a Persian grocery store window, handily providing additional employee seating behind the counter! It warmed my heart so, both to know someone else had appreciated its garish retro charm and to know it was on such prominent display in the neighborhood. A chair that had only served as my adjunct fruit bowl for years was now giving restorative rear support to a hard-working retail clerk. I thought about mentioning the happy ending to the cashier, but got distracted by the dillweed soda display.

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You know how sometimes you read an article and it's so well-written it's like riding a skiff across bracing little breakers? The prose lifts you up in little bounces and smoothes back your hair with a refreshing briskness? That's how I felt when I read this New Yorker commentary about the current Abramoff scandal in Washington D.C. entitled "Abramoffed" by Hendrik Hertzberg. Here's an excerpt I particularly enjoyed:

"In some ways, the K Street Project is a national, and grander, version of the big-city political machines of old. But those machines, corrupt though they were, had their Robin Hood aspects. The pols got the graft and the diamond-stickpin boys got the contracts, but the poor got turkeys, jobs, and, sometimes, genuinely useful public programs. The K Street Project is strictly Sheriff of Nottingham."

Diamond-stickpin boys! Awesome. Oh, and the article's also very informative, too. Bonus. Here's a link to it, for your enjoyment.

Hiding in plain sight

More movie news. I caught Hidden (a.k.a Cache), starring Daniel Auteil and Juliette Binoche this weekend. I liked it very much. Mostly because it made me think. And think. And think. Both during and after. Some of the thinking was in regards to the mystery of who was sending eerie video tapes to a married couple. More thinking was about the most obvious theme, to me, which was how hiding the truth from ourselves is often more dangerous than any outside threat.

Other reviews I've read mention the importance of the political points touched upon in the film (the cover-up of a mass murder of Algerian protestors in 1960s France, which I'd never heard of) and the idea that TV news editing has altered our reality to the point we're not sure of what's truly happening anymore. The director, Mr. Haneke, did a masterful job of weaving all those big ideas into a very small story--a story that has no clear resolution, to the dissatisfaction of at least one audience. (There is supposed to be a "clue" of sorts in the lower left of the last shot. The setting is a stairway full of students, but I apparently completely missed the plot point. I was too busy looking at the reflection of a sign in a car hood, thinking that was the clue, and trying to read French backwards. Oh, well. I've got my own little theory of what happened that I quite like.)

Rather than sewing up the mystery, Haneke prefers to prod the viewer with a needle threaded with provoking questions. He has a lot to say and a very neat stitch. No wonder he got a Best Director nod for this quiet brain teaser.

To quote George Michael Bluth on the subject of the French: "I like the way they think."

Love Woody Allen

While Match Point won't bump The Squid and the Whale out of my top ten, it is a crackling good movie. I wouldn't have told you that as I walked out of the theater, though. In fact, when my friend C-girl asked if I liked it, I said, "Eh."

I hadn't read any press on the film before seeing it, which I think would've helped give me some perspective. All I had heard was, "Woody's back!" Leaving the theater, I wondered, "How did they recognize him?" There were very few trademarks of the Woodman readily evident in the film. None of the whiz-bang wit, none of the staccato Allen dialogue stylings. It felt like a tony version of "Fatal Attraction." Very glossy, very stylish, very well-acted, very well-written, but very predictable (except for a fun reverse twist in the last 20 minutes) and vaguely depressing. It felt like any director could've made it. I couldn't figure out why Woody Allen would want to tell such a ordinary love triangle tale about such unlikeable people. Even the nicer ones are made annoying with their weak backbones and quickness to sweep reality under a fine Persian rug.

Over the next 24 hours, I mulled it over. What was Woody trying to say? Had he just become a cynic--ready to make a commercial film to please the nail-biting masses with a palatable serving of silver screen thrills? Did he really think so little of mankind to portray them in such an unappealing, though very well-groomed, way? Then it began to click. This was a very biting social satire about the selfish and the shallow. I'm a little embarassed how long it took me to figure that out. I blame it on the subtly of the storytelling, which is part of what makes the satire even more eviscerating in hindsight. Those who it is aimed at will walk out oblivious, yet satisfied. Oh, that Woody. Such a clever little devil.

Honk if you love hygiene

Bored while waiting for a traffic light to turn green, I glanced at my rear view mirror and got an eyeful. Behind me, a middle-aged man in a gold, top-down convertible was brushing his hair while peering into his rear view mirror.

It was a long light, so I kept watching his reflection and was rewarded for my persistence. The next step in his beauty routine was to sweep his face with a fat, sable make-up brush. While I've never seen a man powder his visage outside of backstage preparations, as a fellow warrior in the battle against facial shine, I had to applaud his metro traffic/metrosexual prowess. But then came the capper. He took a swill from a green-colored bottle. Perrier? San Pellegrino? Scope? The answer was revealed by the way he began to vigorously swish the liquid back and forth inside of his inflated cheeks.

The light still red, I became rear view-riveted as I awaited the grand finale. It was a cocked head-lean over his closed driver's door, followed by an eruption of mouthwash mist spewing forth from his piehole.

Now, being a casual student of everyday physics, I am quite certain there is no way that ye olde whale spout technique could be performed without some serious blowback. Ewww!

The light snapped green, and the grooming session came to a close. I like to imagine the gold convertible groomer was prepping for a nooner with an alluring companion whose biggest turn-on consisted of a minty fresh matte finish. So L.A.