When having a party:
Have something ready in your apron pocket to talk about. My line is, "Yes, paella is very traditional to the Spaniards." Or "Wasn't that British territory?" If you see a shy person, ask them some questions like, "Why are you so shy? Tell everyone, we're all listening."
Man, it's been over a month since I've posted, missing Christmas, New Year's and my birthday, the most important of all the holidays. But I swear I'm getting my internet situation cleaned up this weekend so I can get back to it.
In the mean time, feast your eyes on the latest in publishing glory:
OK, I don't want to be rude, since I have nothing but respect for the people they feature in their magazine (I say this because they show an elderly female weight lifter who could crack my head between her shoulder blades), but, come on, Geezer Jock? Couldn't they think of something less...um...self-parodic for the title? Like Elderly Athlete or Oldies Squattin' or something?
I shouldn't mock. Like I said, I just celebrated yet another birthday and twisted my ankle drunkenly falling down a stair. Yes, I twisted my ankle falling down one singular stair. Next stop: dialysis. So I can only hope that I'll be half as fit as the subscribers of Geezer Jock when I'm their age. Or hell, even by my next birthday.
Also check out: Happy Birthday to Me.
And: Party Like it's 2001, or 2001: A Space Cadet's Odyssey.
...But I will hopefully be back in full swing soon. Let's just say December 2006 is already a strange, hectic, overwhelming, stressfull learning experience. Ugh.
Obviously, I'm re-working a few things here. I like to give my blog a new look every once in a while, and when Blogger introduced their new Beta mode, I made a few drastic changes. Unfortunately, unlike many of my blogging friends who seemed to have made the transition smoothly, I seemed to have lost a few things along the way.
So bear with me, enjoy the fresh, crisp, herbacious new look, play around with the labels I'm slowly adding to all my posts and hopefully I'll get the kinks worked out soon!
(Update: Things are looking better as of 12/4, but I had to completely re-enter my links list. Please don't take it personally if I missed your link because I had no time to remember every single link I used to have. So, if you were a link on my roll, or would like to be, please email me - donb80@gmail.com - and remind me. Thanks!)
It's that time of year again when editors need to fill space and people need to be told what to buy lest they actually think on their own. Thus, we have not only have The New York Times' Top 10 Books of the Year, but also their Top 100 Notable Books of the Year list which, now that I think about it, is a strangely vague title. Are they notable because they're good or just because they got the biggest PR, media and critical attention? Well, Nicole Ritchie's "novel" never made the list, so their credibility is intact for now, no matter how boring and obvious the list may be.
A more interesting list, however, is The Atlantic's 100 Most Influential Americans of All Time. This title is decidedly not vague, but it is a little unambitious. I mean, geez, only 100? "Of All Time"? Slackers.
The list is full of predictable (which I don't use to imply they're undeserved) choices: Abraham Lincoln (#1), George Washington (2), Thomas Jefferson (3) and Martin Luther King Jr. (8). What's interesting is reading about how the ten historians chosen to vote by The Atlantic made their decisions...
No celebrities! What? Are they all living in some stuffy, TV-less, elbow-patched-jacket vacuum? Historian Walter McDougall "eliminated celebrities altogether on the grounds that their influence is shallow, ephemeral, and replaceable." David M. Kennedy said entertainment is "highly evanescent" and that most entertainers "leave no lasting legacy." How colorless and asexual are their sad little worlds.
Of course, there is Elvis Presley (66) and Louis Armstrong (79), but, I mean, come on. Interestingly, Walt Whitman is ranked 22nd. Haven't they heard? Poetry is so 60's! A-duh hickey, too-cool-for-school (or should I say, too-cool-because-of-school?) historians. Since poetry is such a floundering, uninfluential medium today, how could Mr. Body Electric rank so high? (Please note: the last 39 words are totally sarcastic. Poetry isn't floundering. It's dead. Dead as a rotting carcass on top of a dried skeleton on top of Richard Grieco's career.)
So allow me, at the risk of making those so-called "historians" jealous, to make some of my own suggestions for this sorely lacking list:
3) John Travolta. Bear with me here. OK, in Grease he was this totally studly, good-looking, popular guy who could also sing and dance and wear fitted t-shirts all while appearing 100% heterosexual. So, thanks to him, a whole generation of women could believe that the studly, good-looking, popular guys who could also sing and dance and wear fitted t-shirts who went to their high school were actually straight, and those guys could actually convince themselves and others that they were all about chasin' the cooter. Thus, with one jut of Travolta's slithery hips, a whole generational high school survival system was solidified: millions of guys can avoid getting beat up and get to have prom dates and millions of girls can convince themselves that it's normal for really sensitive boyfriends to bake banana bread for their girlfriends. God bless this American tradition. God bless John Travolta.
2) The Sumerians. Because my .5 seconds of online research taught me that the Sumerians inadvertently invented beer 6,000 years ago (although it doesn't say specifically where they were when this happened, it's safe to assume it was either Vegas or the University of Wisconsin-Madison). Anyone who invented this sweet nectar must have been the celebrities of their time (even if we're talking about an entire culture). Sure, they may not be "American" (what does that even really mean anymore, anyway?) but because of them, ugly people get to have sex, frat boys accelerate the Darwinian process by killing 90% of their brain cells within two months of their freshman year and I get through life every day. (Please note: that last part was totally sarcastic. I also use pot. And Starbucks.)
1) Phil Donahue. Not because he introduced whiny, self-absorbed validation-seeking as self-help. Not because he taught us that the best way to communicate is through confrontation and televised humiliation. And not because he was a totally intellectual stud muffin paving the way for the Matt Lauers and Stone Phillipses (remember Stone Phillips? No? Neither do I) of the world. No, Donahue is influential because without him there would be no Oprah, and without Oprah there would be no Tyra Banks. 'Nuff said.
Yeah, so suck it, Thomas Edison. Eat you heart out, Walt Disney. And it's more like the "Wrong Brothers," Wright Brothers.
But, of course, these are just suggestions. The Atlantic's list is still kind of pretty good. I guess.
In February I shared a poem and a video to celebrate Valentine's Day. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is coming up, but I can't exactly reach through the screen and give you all a plate of steaming mashed potatoes with turkey and cranberry sauce. So I thought I'd do the next best thing and share two videos...that have nothing to do with Thanksgiving whatsoever.
Unless, of course, your Thanksgiving feast is enjoyed with a tall, frosty glass of ice-cold Tab. And if it is, then maybe you also enjoy Thanksgiving wearing leg warmers and torn-up sweatshirts hanging off one shoulder, but that's not the point. The point is, Tab is awesome. And so is this commercial for Tab from the late 60's/early 70's (I'm estimating). I was directed to its brilliance via Elizabeth Crane's awesome blog, and I urge each and every one one of you to watch it. Description cannot do it justice, but the lyrics allude to its dizzy hilarity: "When you can't be with him, be in his mind. Be a mind-sticker." Yes, I'm serious. Tab was all about appealing to the ladies: "Being in good shape - shape with Tab. Keeping your shape in shape has its rewards." All being said in a creepy/sexy male voiceover as a husband comes home to his foxy, Tab-chugging wife.
Watch it below or check it out here.
Um, yeah. Totally makes me want to drink Tab. Or trip on acid. Or both.
The second video is completely different. By way of Popwatch, this is a master thesis from film student Dony Permedi entitled "Kiwi!" It's about a bird who can't fly who goes to great lengths for one last grande attempt. It's cute, funny, sad, complicated and - ultimately - heartbreaking. It's also three minutes long, so break away from your work and spreadsheets and emails to watch it at least once. But you'll probably want to watch it more than once.
Check it out below or watch it here.
So what do these have to do with Thanksgiving? Um, let's see...one is reminder for an underappreciated, overlooked beverage to take its rightful place next to your spiced apple cider, and the other is about being thankful for the things you have rather than dragging yourself down about the things you don't.
Maybe that's a stretch.
OK, it's totally a stretch.
But my brain is already so distracted by the inevitable pleasure overload of pumpkin pie that I can't think straight. So enjoy!
How much do I love Slings & Arrows? Or, better put, is there a better show on TV than Slings & Arrows? I’m going to say no, and not just because I don’t actually have cable and therefore have limited access to the bounty that is network television. (Sorry, Battlestar Gallactica, it was never meant to be.)
(Warning: spoilers ahead)
Slings & Arrows, a Canadian comedy currently in its third season on the Sundance Channel, follows the action behind the scenes of the fictional New Burbage Shakespearean Festival (New York magazine called it "Shakespeare in Love meets Topsy-Turvy). Artistic director Oliver Welles (Stephen Ouimette), once the director of critically acclaimed, provocative theater, is staging a gorgeous yet lazy production of Midsummer’s Night Dream. While he’s making sure the fake goats bleat on cue, temperamental star Ellen (Martha Burns) interrupts rehearsals to discuss problematic blocking and general manager Richard (co-writer Mark McKinney) disrupts everything to make sure Oliver is meeting every need of the corporate sponsors. The pressures of running the festival, with its media coverage and long, lustrous history, drive Oliver to drink so much that he fatally stumbles in front of an oncoming truck the very same night the show opens.
Enter Geoffrey Tenant (Paul Gross, writer, director and actor in TV's Due South, Brian in the first Tales of the City miniseries and Burns' real-life husband). Passionate, histrionic, a little loony and strangely sexy, this extremely anti-corporate actor/director is failing to keep his own Shakespeare theater company afloat when the New Burbage calls on him to temporarily replace Oliver. New Burbage is where Geoffrey famously triumphed seven years prior as Hamlet opposite Ellen’s Ophelia, yet also where he then suffered a nervous breakdown only three performances into the production.
After begrudgingly accepting the offer, Paul meets the crew: neurotic assistant Anna (Susan Coyne), devious board member yet ironically named Holly Day (Jennifer Irwin), kooky actress Claire (Sabrina Grdevich) and her fresh-faced understudy Kate (a pre-Mean Girls Rachel McAdams), among others.
Like Shakespear in Love, the more you know about Shakespeare, the more you'll get out of the show. But I'm not a big Shakespeare expert and there's still a lot to enjoy. Geoffrey and Ellen's relationship is much deeper than just being co-actors, and their romantic history is further complicated by their director and shoulder to cry on, Oliver. Since the love of her life abandoned her on the stage, Ellen enjoys the company of local young boytoys, whether a bartender or delivery guy. How refreshing it is to have a non-ingenue leading lady enjoy her sexuality without flaunting or apologizing for it. Oh, and since Oliver can't be with them in person anymore, he decides to haunt Geoffrey, causing him to yell "Shut! UP!" during a conversation or televised interview.
Meanwhile, Kate is striking sparks with the Burbage's new Hamlet, Hollywood action star Jack Crew (Luke Kirby). I haven't seen a single Rachel McAdams movie yet, but she is so adorable here I just want to put her in my pocket and buy her lots of ponies. No wonder people call her the next Julia Roberts, however unprophetic that may be.
Also, Holly begins a kinky power dynamic with weak, "spindly" Richard, cruelly manipulating things so he can become the new chairman of the board of directors. Even though he might be the one ascending in power, slimy Holly clearly calls all the shots both in and out of the bedroom. In fact, Holly is so disgustly evil, with her perky smirks, affirmation tapes ("You are the center of the universe. You are God."), and disdain for anything and anyone in the way of her ambitions, you pretty much love to hate her. All of which is why Irwin is such a good actress.
This doesn't even scratch the surface of the large cast, which also includes an actor-hating stagehand and the two Irish actors who behave as less cranky versions of Statler and Waldorf. The show obviously has a large budget which I guess is possible with short, six-episode seasons.
The great thing about Slings & Arrows is that whethor or not you love Shakespeare or even theater itself, you can't help but be moved by the actors' and directors' love for what they do. They're not just crazy and high-strung just because they're artists, they're crazy and high-strung because they believe in the power Hamlet can wield over an audience. Their desperation is born not just out of vanity (note the "just") but because they sincerely want their screwy theater company to succeed! They live for the that thrilling, fleeting moment when the actors on stage forget they're on stage and just live it. Even if the show contaminates their personal lives or they have no budget for costumes or sets or the critics belittle them, these people clearly have no choice. They must do what they're doing. The hilarious side-effects are our benefit.
"Spine-tingling!" "Toe-curling!" "Keeps you on the edge of your seat!"
Apparently, watching a scary movie, as opposed to any other genre, is a very physical spectator sport. In the spirit of Halloween and with only a few more months left in the year, I just wanted to take a step back and look at some of 2006’s scary movie offerings, which is actually a fairly solid sampling of what scary movies have to offer, from atmospheric thrillers to straight-up slashers. (Note: because I haven’t yet seen Saw II, I just figured I wouldn’t understand anything in Saw III, so I haven’t seen that yet. The Saw storylines can get pretty intricate. Like Tolstoy.) In order from worst to best:
4) Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning - If you’ve already seen one of the Texas Chainsaw movies, then you know exactly what to expect when you hear they made a prequel. The movie does not offer one surprise or original idea. The filmmakers were so transparently lazy it’s almost insulting. Grainy footage! Hand-held cameras! Crazy hillbillies! Doesn’t it just feel creepy? Not quite. Oh, and memo to horror filmmakers: gore does not equal scary.
3) Final Destination 3 - Horror movies often walk a fine line between scary and funny, often by going so over the top that we're laughing at the filmmakers' audacious perversity than at the characters' misfortune. But FD3 has it all backwards. No film has made me feel older, and less funny, than the third (final?) installment in this trilogy. As Death once again comes up with creative ways to kill of a batch of teenagers (since they defied Death, he/she/it/whatever won’t stop until its mission is accomplished), I couldn’t help but feel that the filmmakers were just soulless assholes. While many horror/slasher movies could use the originality shown in FD3’s death sequences (#4, are you listening?), the writers barely take the time to think of even one personality trait per character, such as valley girl, jock, goth couple, etc. Then the filmmakers take such uninhibited, sadistic glee in dispatching them (let’s watch these bimbos fry in a tanning bed for five minutes!) that any fun is offset by the self-conscious expectation that we’re supposed to laugh and cheer along. Ugh. I know, I know. Just hand me my walker now.
2) Hostel - This movie is what we would call “progress.” The director, Eli Roth, obviously knows his shit. He knows what’s been done before and is obviously trying to tweak old stereotypes and expectations. Yes, it’s too self-aware for its own good and also relies too much on gore. But, refreshingly, it at least tries to aim higher than just sliced Achilles heels and gouged eyes. It’s suspenseful, well-paced and even fun. There is something hollow at its core, which I think is because there's no single, memorable villain in the movie. It's just Paxton (Jay Hernandez) and his buddies against a bunch of sadistic, generic Europeans. Still, it will be interesting to see what Roth does next, besides Hostel 2. And the gang of murderous kids bribed by candy? Awesome.
1) The Descent – Easily the best scary movie of 2006 (except for Little Man). This British import starring six unknown actresses may not have had the marketing hype of, say, The Grudge 2, but it surely deserved it. Six women decide to explore underground caves…and that’s as much as I’ll tell you. Yes, the symbolism of lithe young ladies trying to fit through really tight tunnels is rife for parody. But the film is so confident in its premise that it doesn’t even bother to introduce the creepy-crawly creatures that attack them until halfway through (okay, so I just told you a little more). Employing claustrophobia, smart editing, psychological mind games, complicated group dynamics and some serious ass-kicking female characters (rare indeed in Hollywood horror movies, see #4-2 above), The Descent stands out among the rest. My only problem is that the decision to trim the truly creepy, ambiguous ending from the British run for the American’s easy, lazy, cheap final scare. (For more about The Descent, its influences, references and the deal behind that truly creepy poster, click here.)
So what do these movies say about the modern state of horror movies? Sequels and prequels usually suck and there’s more crap than good ones. But you could say that about movies in general, right? Every other genre has its so-bad-its-good gems, but scary movies are consistently either genuinely great or hilariously God-awful. To paraphrase a quote, when they're good, they're great, when they're bad, they're even better. It's fun to dig through the losers even as you search for the one that truly tingles your spine.
Ladies and gentlemen, break out the sequins and adjust your disco balls, because the Scissor Sisters are back.
Exploding onto the UK charts two years ago with their self-titled debut full of catchy glam-pop, the Sisters found middling success here in the States, where the airwaves are dominated by rigidly masculine rock and hip-hop. This, of course, was exactly why they were such a welcome distraction from the generic, marginally talented acts showcased on TV and radio. Scissor Sisters was packed with intelligent, hilarious, dirty anthems that transcended the narrow, if slightly accurate, defintion of "disco."
Which is why, at first, I was slightly disappointed with Ta-Dah, their second CD. The songs didn’t seem to pop the way they had on SS’ debut. On that album, the aural assault of opener “Laura” segued into the fizzy guitars of “Take Your Momma Out” which floated into the spacey falsettos of the Led Zeppelin cover, “Comfortably Numb.” On Ta-Dah, the contrasts might not always be as sharp, but repeated listening reveals lyrics that are at turns hilarious and haunting and musical influences ranging from barbershop quartets to cheesy rock musicals.
They embody a rebellious, pan-sexual decadance, with a wit so often spiked with arsenic. "I Can't Decide" is a perky confession of murderous intentions that are only resisted because Jake Shears, the band's lead singer and co-writer, is convinced he'll be killed in retaliation if he fails. On "Intermission," Shears sounds like he should be doing soft-shoe with a hat and cane while blithely tossing off lines like "Happy yesterday to all/We were born to die." (The CD cover should have tipped me off to the madcap darkness inside. It recalls imagery from both ends of 80’s horror: the exalted classic The Shining [think of the elevator scene] and the cheesy, low-budget April Fool’s Day.)
Don't get me wrong - the Sisters still like to party. It's hard to deny the ecstatic power once Shears' voice soars halfway through the chorus of "Lights," and "Kiss You Off" may simply be one of the most fun songs ever about kicking out an inadequate lover using an extended cosmetic metaphor. If you learn the brilliant lyrics to the rollicking chorus, you'll definitely win karoake night.
The party theme continues behind the scenes as well, with Elton John co-writing and playing piano on two songs and none other than Miss Cristal Conners herself, Gina Gershon, playing harp on "I Can't Decide" (that was a very weird sentence to write).
But I also can't emphasize enough the intelligent, thoughtful craft behind their more introspective songs. Like how the rambling, meandering verse on "Might Tell You Tonight" recreates a giddy, nervous, stream-of-conscious confession of love. "The Other Side" is a prayer from one dying lover to another ("I'll count our blessings as I/wait for you, on the other side") and the pauses in the verse echo real-life silences in hospital rooms.
I feel somewhat guilty enjoying the fruits of Shears and Co.’s misery, but when it produces such lyrics as “If lies were cats you’d be a litter,” how could I not? In fact, in only twelve songs amounting to forty-five minutes, the sonic champagne of Ta-Dah proves that the Scissor Sisters may be one of the best, most consistent bands at constructing perfect pop songs.
You know how, once you're old enough, you stop paying attention to movie ratings? If it's a family film, you know it's G or PG. If it's a somewhat mild [teen/romantic/misc.] comedy, then it's a PG-13. Anything else is R, and the rare occassion of an NC-17 usually means a lot of sex. In fact, unless you have kids, the only time the ratings mean anything to you is when you want to avoid a G or PG or even a PG-13, to avoid anything too schmaltzy and wholesome (i.e. boring and predictable).
Well, what about the people who decide on those ratings to begin with? Who are they? How do they make their decisions? This Film is Not Yet Rated only finds out the answers for the first two questions, not the third. Directed by Kirby Dick, this documentary is meant to expose mainstream audiences to the hypocritical, unaccountable mess that is the Motion Picture Association of America.
To do this, Dick interviews directors who have had problems with the MPAA. Kimberly Pierce, the director of Boys Don't Cry, had to trim a scene that focused on one of her female characters experiencing an orgasm. She didn't have to cut the scene entirely, but for the film to go from an NC-17 to an R, she had shave a few seconds off. Director John Waters has also, unsurprisingly, had problems getting some of his material pass the MPAA with anything under an NC-17. Matt Stone, one of the writers of Team America: World Police, explains how they intentionally filmed much more of their puppet sex scene than they planned to use just so they could dupe the MPAA into believing they trimmed NC-17 material for an R rating. And it worked.
Why all this effort to avoid an NC-17 rating anyway? Because many newspapers won't carry ads for NC-17/unrated movies (it's not required to even get a rating in the first place), many movie theaters won't show them, and Blockbuster and Wal-Mart won't carry those movies, which accounts for a large percent of the video market. Basically, a film cannot be NC-17/unrated if it wants distribution, marketing and, ultimately, an audience.
It's during this educational portion of the doc that we learn about the MPAA's double standards. Violence is much more tolerable than sex, straight sex is better than "abnormal" (read: gay) sex, and major studios get away with more than indie films. Want to discuss these biases with an actual rater? Good luck. All the members of the MPAA ratings board are kept anonymous so that they don't have to explain their decisions and so that people don't "pressure" them. Seriously.
Who do they think they are? Why are these raters treated like children who must be protected from the big, bad public (ironically, the very public they claim to be protecting with their ratings)? Every single other person has to be accountable for their decisions on their job (well, I can think of one guy who isn't, but we won't go there). Every single other person has to deal with "pressure" if they make a decision that other people might not agree with. Are these raters so fragile that they can't assert their opinion at a dinner party or, even better, assert that they don't care to discuss their decisions at all? How difficult is that? It's called coping, people. Better yet, it's call adulthood.
Of course, if a filmmaker disagrees with a rating, they can appeal. This is done behind closed doors, with an anonymous appeal panel, and the filmmaker is absolutely not allowed to reference other, similar films to put his own in context. Dick manages to talk to two former members of the appeals board, one anonymous, one not. They both explain that there are two religious figures on the appeals board (two priests of different denominations) (and, oh yeah, um, what?), but the anonymous one claims that these religious guys vote, while the identified one claims they don't - can you say "plant"?
Dick also spends time with the plucky private detective Becky Altringer to hunt down the members of the MPAA. They are successful in finding the identities of almost every member of the ratings and the appeals board. Unsurprisingly, their statistics contradict the MPAA's publicized profile of a typical rater. Instead of having children between the ages of 3 and 19, most of their children are in their 20's and 30's (all the are heterosexual parents). Instead of only serving for at maximum nine years, most have been on the board much longer. Although Dick discloses all their identities, it's not exactly clear what to do with this information. Quickly write it down and harass the raters? Write Dick an email congratulating him? I think Dick expexts the audience to share the exhilerating, David-vs.-Goliath pride he revels in, but that "stick it to the man" rush doesn't last long.
Though flawed in its allotment of information, the film provokes much anger against an entity that coddles its members while infantilizing the American public. Fittingly, this film actually is not rated. Dick originally received an NC-17 rating due to using examples from NC-17 films (even the film's posters shown here have been banned in some areas). So, after unsucessfully appealing, he decided to go without a rating at all. That's his choice as an artist, of course - it's not as if the MPAA wants to censor anyone - but that also means it will be very hard to see this film in the theaters. That's not actually a big loss, as it doesn't benefit from the big screen. Since the film is produced by IFC and in this Netflix age, you should be able to find it soon.
And when you do, don't pay any attention to the (lack of a) rating.
