Wow Oui

Why, within in mere days of seeing the fine gentleman you may know as Jason Schwartzman, I had the good fortune of attending a preview of a film he starred in. Isn't that just divine? You see, I had a fortnight ago acquired a ticket for the event in the hopes of seeing the delightful director Ms. Sofia Coppola introduce the film--as she was scheduled to do. Alas, she is with child and was too fatigued to grace us with her presence. Still, the film itself made it worth exposing oneself to the mischievous night air.

My, my, it was a veritable visual feast. The costumes and art direction were ravishing, darling. The unexpectedly modern soundtrack was quite invigorating and the acting? Simply sublime. So many artful lovelies made an appearance alongside the perfectly poised and rosy-cheeked Queen Kirsten: Danny Huston, Rip Torn, Steve Coogan, Asia Argento and Judy Davis. A divine assembly, to say the least. Certainly the story does linger unnecessarily at points, but it is a satisfying lark. I think it 'tis especially inviting to those of the feminine ilk. I blush to be so bold, but I fancy it may play a role in my top ten list of the annum. If you are so inclined, here is a tempting sampling.

Underbelly on da telly

This ABC show coming out in November actually looks funny, well-written and well-acted and stars the girl who played Jessica (Jennifer Westfeldt) in the charming romantic comedy Kissing Jessica Stein. It's called Notes from the Underbelly and you can watch a preview clip here. I've been "send-a-friending" the preview to some peeps and I never do that. Suffice to say, it gets my stamp of comedy approval. I want to go on record here as saying that star/fictional father-to-be Peter Cambor is a one-of-a-kind comedy find. (Paul Rudd, watch your beehind.)

What a Rushmore

What would you do if you were three feet away from Jason Schwartzman (of Rushmore, I Heart Huckabees and Shopgirl fame) as he gazed handsomely into a gourmet deli display?

If you were me, you would stare at him with a grin on your face trying to decide if you should say, "I don't mean to bother you, but I think you're brilliant" or maybe "You saved Shopgirl from some dangerous doldrums" or "My hair spells out inspirational messages in the bathroom sink." Or, the final option, just don't say a thing and do him the favor of pretending to ignore him.

I went with the latter, but the girl behind the bread counter, where he dashingly wandered next, broke into a grin and quietly announced, "Jason Schwartzman" to the self same. I couldn't see his reaction due to being blocked by a baguette cart.

I walked away, semi-kicking myself for not taking a chance to at least interact with him for a moment. But I am twice shy after having been burned by a negative celebrity encounter during my youth. At least that TV personality had the decency to take a career nosedive after dissing my innocent autograph request with a hissed retort.

In retrospect, I wished I would've found a way to engage Jason in a brief conversation along these lines:

Me: Hi, are you figuring out what to get for dinner?

Jason: Yes, but I'm having a hard time finding something that will fit into my macrobiotic diet regimen.

Me: O.R. you?

Why can't a life that puts Jason Schartzman three feet away from you also put those kinds of bon mots into your mouth?

Owooooo! to you, too

Today I pondered the origin of the modern catcall "Owoooo!" When did that replace the classic wolf whistle, I wonder?

The "Owoooo!" has a definite late '70s vibe to it. I can imagine it first issuing forth from the lips of a 19-year-old Midwestern dude with a blonde mullet, while he leaned out of a pick-up truck window with Foghat's "Slow Ride" playing on the radio. The girl who inspired it would have been wearing Farrah Fawcett feathered tresses, shiny Dolphin short-shorts and high-heeled Candies slides. Owooooo, indeed.

One night a few years ago, my friend P-girl and I were in an especially irreverant mood and found ourselves driving around West Hollywood at night, windows rolled down, howling our own robust "Owoooo's!" at whoever we passed. And I do mean whoever--gay dudes, married couples--each and every one of them we passed earned a aural stamp of attractiveness. I don't know how the recipients of our howls felt about the whole thing, but P-girl and I were in stitches in my Civic. It was unadulterated, immature pleasure the likes of which only 8th graders usually enjoy.

The reason "Owoooo!" is on my mind is that this week, while I was walking across a parking lot, I got an "Owoooo!" from someone rolling by in a dark, mid-sized sedan. I burst out laughing in sheer enjoyment of the randomness and silliness of the tradition. My day was made. Viva Owooooo! Long may you wave.

Sink to the top, part deux

This morning the Sink Hair Fairy struck again. Twice in one week. Strands that flew from my head mid-blow-dry once more landed on and clung to the damp sink basin in the shape of a word, spelled out in cursive: "Love." I kid you not. The L was capitalized and had both the top and bottom loop perfectly formed. That seems like a particularly difficult letter for a random gust of synthetically generated hot air to choreograph with a dislodged follicle filament. You know what I'm saying?

I know it sounds wacky. And, hey, it's admittedly no Virgin Mary on a Wheat Thin, but something curious is happening in my humble apartment loo and I don't know what to make of it. First Joy, now Love. If I see Peace written in that there sink come mornin', I may have to alert the local media. And call in paramedics for resuscitation.

Sink to the top

Today while getting ready for work, I glanced down in the sink to see several strands of my hair clinging to the porcelain. Not an usual sight post-blow-dry, but this time was different since some of the pieces had twisted and turned to form the word "joy." In cursive. OK, the "y" wasn't perfect, but still. The hair had left my head to made its point. And that point was duly noted and deeply appreciated.

***

I was standing outside of the creperie, reading their posted menu and trying to find my favorite crepe listed: spinach and feta. Mmm. Then I heard a craggly voice next to me. A homeless man, 50-something, who looked a little like Sammy Davis Jr. was bundled in a dirty, puffy black parka and asking me for change for Cheetos. He held up a quarter to show he was bringing something to the table. Could I spare something? I pulled a dollar bill from my wallet and handed it over. He grabbed it and started backing up.

"I'm going to get them right now. The Cheetos," he reassured, nervously, legs jangly as he moved away from me.

"OK," I said, smiling at his anxious sincerity.

Several feet away from me, he turned around, waving the dollar bill in the air, and shouted back an almost forgotten "Thank you!" I smiled at him again and nodded encouragingly, then turned back to menu to hunt down my own cheesy treat. A few minutes later, I was walking out of the restaurant with my neatly wrapped, cozily warm "to go" crepe in my hands. I stepped out into the sidewalk rush and leaned down to take a bite.

"I got them!"

I heard him before I saw him. I turned quickly too look, but not in a startled way. The homeless man was thrusting an opened, silver-lined bag of dusty orange snacks towards me. If it pleases the court: Exhibit A.

"Oh, good!" I mumbled, due to being mid-swallow. He nodded with a grin and shuffled off, like a kid who'd done a chore just right.

I heart Banksy

Who's the cleverest, coolest cat to currently have an art exhibit up in the City of Angels? That'd be Banksy, baby. My new crush, which means he unseats Reza Azlan in that role.

Banksy, who I just recently discovered via someone's blog post about his Paris Hilton CD project (search it at YouTube.com), is a British street artist/social provocateur who likes to make his mark in unexpected, status quo nose-thumbing ways. For instance, he's been know to smuggle his own art into internationally renowned museums and display it--right under the security guards' noses.

His exhibit in L.A. only runs three days (9/15-18). There's only a street name posted on his web site to locate it. There's no admission charge and cameras are welcome (although spray paint and markers are not). Inside a hollow warehouse are around 50 pieces of art, humorously and pointedly holding up a mirror to society's foolishness and cruelty.

For me, the highlight of the show was live elephant decorated with a lovely red and gold wallpaper pattern. It was just so absurd and surreal to see this wrinkled, painted pachyderm being ogled by all these hipster artsy types with their sebaceous scalps and stretched out t-shirts. I had to laugh when I overheard one skinny, short specimen of this ilk chatting on his cell phone with this commentary on the event: "There aren't many hot guys here." (Poor baby. Wouldn't want a socially aware art show to act as a cock blocker for the laddy, now would we?).

The living, breathing, hay-eating elephant was the embodiment of the show's theme:

"There is an elephant in the room. There's a problem we never talk about. The fact that life isn't getting any fairer. 1.7 billion people have no access to clean drinking water. 20 billion people live below the poverty line. Every day hundreds of people are made to feel physically sick by morons at art shows telling them how bad the world is, but never actually doing something about it. Anybody want a free glass of wine?"

I admire Banksy's chutzpah. I applaud his cause. I enjoy his humor (quoted from an L.A. Weekly article):

"This show has been quite an undertaking for me; it represents nearly a month of getting up early in the morning. Some of the paintings have taken literally days to make. Essentially, it's about what a horrible place the world is, how unjust and cruel and pointless life is, and ways to avoid thinking about all that. One of the best ways turned out to be sitting in a warehouse making 50 paintings about cruelty, pain and pointlessness. You get immune. I painted one picture of a Western family eating a picnic in a village of starving African children called I HATE EATING MY DINNER IN FRONT OF THE NEWS, and got so obsessed with painting each and every fly on those kids' faces, I never once thought about a starving kid for a second. I guess the show is about wanting to make the world a better place whilst not wanting to come across like a jerk. Imagine what would happen if we took all the money we spent on weapons and gave it to the poor. Then I'd have to grow my own cocaine; my manicurist would kill me."

Thanks to C-girl for being the first to clue me into the event and thanks to S-girl for The New York Times link about the exhibit.

To see more of Banksy's work, visit his site. The image displayed on this linked page was my favorite in the show. I interpreted it as an Iwo Jima-meets-Detroit commentary on the neglected war against poverty. But that's just me.

Here's to the brilliance of Banksy. The world could use more geezers like him.

Sauteed in right sauce

The latest addition to the Great Movies You Probably Never Saw file: 8 Women.

One of those films best described as a confection, director/co-writer Francois Ozon's 8 Women stars the brightest French actresses in the cinematic night sky. We're talkin' Catherine Denueve, Isabelle Huppert, Ludivine Sagnier, Emmanuelle Beart...and that's just half of 'em.

Don't let the phrase "musical murder mystery" throw you. This is really more of a comic showcase for eight fascinating women who each just happen to have a motive and a musical number. It's funny, irreverent and lovely to look at--from the art direction to the costumes to the glorious divas themselves. Do treat yourself to a rental. Merci beaucoup!

***

Quote of the week (lifted from Entertainment Weekly):

Rocker and celebrity judge Tommy Lee's response to a poor performance on some music competition show:

"I thought that was sauteed in wrong sauce."

Irreducible ideals - now 50% off

Now that the madding crowd has gone online, it's harder to sort through the legion of voices to find ones worth listening to. Luckily, I did stumble across one remarkable specimen recently via a random link. Sharp intelligence and eloquent writing spill forth from the fount that is Bouphonia.

Here is the quote that first pulled me in, from a post about Hurricane Katrina:

"It's often claimed that George W. Bush has asked for no sacrifices in this time of war. On the contrary, he's asked us to sacrifice our humanity and our compassion. He's asked us to sacrifice our privacy and freedom, and our respect for our fellow citizens. He's asked us to sacrifice every irreducible ideal - and there were few enough of them, God knows - on which this country was founded, and whatever fragile steps we've taken towards implementing them under the law. He's asked us to sacrifice any religious truth that would interfere with the dreary, mechanical pursuit of redundant wealth and false security. He's asked us to sacrifice our souls and our conscience, in exchange for his snake-oil promise that we'll never have to suffer the consequences of our own inhumanity. He's asked us to sacrifice our present for his future, and our future for his present."

Brilliantly said, I say. Bravo.

***

Something cool that P and B pointed out: a "comic book" serialization of the 9/11 Commission's Report. Perfectly portioned servings of unsalted truth for the MTV generation.

Sands through the hourglass

My movie outing of the week was the patient Brazilian saga The House of Sand. Filmed in the pale blonde deserts of Brazil, it shares the tale of three women—a grandmother, daughter and granddaughter—stranded in virtual nothingness over a range of 59 years (1910-1969). With only remnants of their provincial life to give them a connection to civilization, from dusty photos to tattered lace tablecloths, they find a way to survive and give the viewer a chance to ponder what it would be like to live a life so pristine, peaceful, lonely and detached from modern man's concerns and pursuits.

About 30 minutes into it, I started to wonder if I'd made a misstep. The plot quietly plods along in unsurprising ways, although the stark setting and the silence are rewards in themselves. Then something shifted, like the ever-changing sand dunes that make up the story's canvas, and the film took me to a deeper emotional level. What it has to say about life, love, time and freedom is ever so poignant. After leaving the theater, I felt enlightened in a way. Within a few hours afterwards, I was struck again by other layers of meaning in the film and its whispered way of conveying them. Some might call it boring. Some might call it pretentious. I call it genius.

The film stars real-life mother and daughter Fernanda Montenegro and Fernanda Torres in dual (or triple) roles. Both are rightfully acclaimed actresses and perfectly cast as women who stare life in the face without blinking. Seu Jorge, the songman throughout The Life Aquatic, is terrific in his stoic role as well. The film was directed by Andrucha Waddington. Writing credits: screenplay by Elena Soarez, story by Luiz Carlos Barreto, Elena Soarez and Andrucha Waddington. Cinematography props go to Ricardo Della Rosa. Bravo to all involved for pulling off this wonder.

***

Most intriguing preview trailer: A road trip into ennui by two Generation X lads called Old Joy. I say, "Oh, boy!"

Least intriguing preview trailer: From the maker of Funny Haha an even more lo-fi(!) look at Generation Y ennui called Mutual Appreciation. I say, "Oh, puhlease."

Crazy Litter Lady

That's right. That's what I've become. The Crazy Litter Lady. All I need is a brightly hued super hero uniform with a silk-screened icon of a crushed tin can on the chest and a piece of dirty paper stuck to my boot heel.

It all started innocently enough at lunch today. Not so innocently, evidently. I'd gotten a take-out salad at a gourmet market and was walking back to my car when I noticed that some college-aged young guns in a posh black sedan were parked next to me. One guy in the car happened to be blocking my way with his open passenger door. He was leaning out of the door, trying to put soy sauce on his sushi tray lunch. I patiently went to my passenger side door to toss my stuff inside, allowing him some soy soaking time. In the meantime, young guy number two comes out of the store, dropping the "F" bomb about some store employee he had a beef with. It was pretty obvious these were privileged kids, in their Hamptons wannabe madras shorts and shrunken polo shirts. When I came back around to my door, I noticed that the first kid had thrown his plastic grocery bag, soy sauce container and paper tray on the ground before he shut himself back in the sedan.

Now, before I go on, it may help to know that I'm stickler when it comes to litter. It's one of my biggest pet peeves to see people chuck junk out of their vehicle windows. It's so lazy and so inconsiderate and so ecologically unsound. I once had a fantasy that every litterer's trash that they'd tossed out in a lifetime--from beer bottles to gum wrappers--would one day seek them out and physically attach to the litterer's body as if magnetized. I like to imagine these trash-covered people walking with their arms extended forward, zombie-like, through a city. Neat.

So back to the trash before me. I was annoyed when I saw it, thinking these kids should know better. How lazy, inconsiderate and ecologically unsound of them! I almost got into my car, but then stopped myself. If I didn't pick up their trash, I'd be an accomplice of sorts. So I bit the bullet and bent over, starting to grab the disgarded dreck.

This triggered a small crisis of conscience in the litterer, because he quickly popped open his door and said self-consciously, "I'll get that. Sorry. My bad." But it was too late. He didn't know I'd been raised by a mom who knew the power of a passive-aggressive guilt trip, especially when it came to picking up after one's self.

"Oh, no. That's cool," I said, still leaning down, not making eye contact. "I'll get it. I just have this thing about litter."

The kid kind of gulped and said, "Oh. OK, thanks." and closed his door.

I was embarassed, but determined, as I swung around with the junk in my hand to get back in my car--squealing audibly when a stream of stray soy sauce splashed within inches of my light-colored seersucker skirt. It would have really sucked if I'd been soyed on top of being annoyed, but further insult was averted.

I quickly wiped off my hands and backed out of my parking spot, making a point of not making eye contact with the dudes. I didn't know what kind of expressions I'd see looking back at me, and didn't want to know. I do think I caught a glimpse of one guy in the back waving thanks from behind a darkly tinted window. Let's hope so. At least I saved the outdoors from one lunch's worth of rubbish. And hopefully the kid and his posse will think twice before they cross the Crazy Litter Lady again. Booya.