Does Hilary Duff Count?

You know what the world needs now? It isn't love. Or alternatives to oil. Or freakin' peace for that matter.

The world needs Courtney Love.

And by Courtney Love, I mean the early Courtney Love, she of the baby doll dresses, smeared lipstick and eardrum-splitting melodies, not the later, Versace-whore Courtney Love or even the current circus-freak/negligent mother/artistically spent Courtney Love (although America's Sweetheart was sadly overlooked), because while we may not need that specific woman per se back in the spotlight, we sure as shit could use some new boozing, brawling rock stars. And ladies, I'm looking in your direction.

I mean, where the hell did all the female rockers go?

Where's a chick that will scream into the mic, swig a bottle of beer, yell at the crowd, throw her cigarette at the crowd, maybe even pee on the crowd? Where's a bruised, bawdy banshee that beats the crap out of you while she fucks you senseless after the show and then steals your wallet, goes to your apartment and fucks your girlfriend? Where's a hotel-trashing, cop-slapping terror who crashes her car into a tree because she had three square meals of quaaludes?

Not that there's a lot of male rockers living up to the title of "rock star" right now, either (oh, Axl, if you only you hadn't become a pot-bellied, braided, litigious bore). And Love would chew up these whiny Fall Out With Cutie Chemical Death Cab Romance bands, spit them out and then snort them if she wasn't passed out somewhere in a gutter right now.

But I'm sorry, the ladies just aren't cutting it. Sheryl Crow has settled for adult contemporary "meaning" and "depth," Nikka Costa's record company misplaced her somewhere after she started appearing at gigs as a frizzy-haired couch, and Avril Lavigne has become so blond and bland she makes Ashlee Simpson look like Wendy O. Williams.

You know who's rocking out? Kelly Clarkson. That's who we have now. Are you happy, Shirley Manson? You disappear for a while, come back with an under-promoted, underwhelming Garbage record and leave us with Miss American Idol ruling the teen girl mosh pit.

(On a side note - have you noticed how all these ladies go from dark hair to blonde and blonder? Sheryl, Avril, Ashlee, Kelly. Shirley went blonde for a while. And Pink, of all people, is too.)

Remember the 80's, when Joan Jett and Pat Benatar made men pee in their pants? Or the 90's, when Lilith Fair, while not exactly rocking, overstuffed the media with so much estrogen-fueled guitar chords that even "artists" like Meredith Brooks and Natalie Imbruglia could pop a squat and out came a hit single?

You know how bad it is now? The Grammys had to scrap the male and female rock vocal categories and combine them into one. You know how many women were nominated this year for the Solo Rock Vocal award? Zero.

Thank God there's still Karen O. of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs who fellates microphones, splatters herself with ketchup and actually has the decency as a "rock star" to not comb her hair. Even now in her sixties, Tina Turner could make an entire stadium of people spontaneously orgasm just by brushing her teeth. And, at the Grammys two years ago, Melissa Etheridge raced onto the stage like a bald-headed demon given one last chance to shred apart her vocal chords for the sheer pleasure of it while belting out Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart." Unfortunately, she has since regressed back to the land of ennui, even appearing on Oprah which is one of the least rock things you can do.


Ah, Janis, if only we still had you now. Not only could you sing the blues, but you were a drunk, sweaty, quivering mess.

And that's just how I liked you.

Deep Thoughts from "America's Next Top Model," part 4

Nnenna on her male model co-star: "It helps when both models are attractive. He was attractive and I think I'm attractive so I think that helps."

Modelling 101 with the ever-so-humble Nnenna.

Check out other deep thoughts here!

Dammit, Stephen!

So I've been a little M.I.A. this week and when I come back to blogging what do I find? Dear Stephen at Serenade in Green reminding me of the taxes I haven't filed yet.

God, no wonder we drink so much at these Roundtables. Hop on over and offer your two cents because, seriously, a depressing conversation like this needs all the people we can find to lift spirits over there.

Seattle, Suckas

OK, so the title doesn't make as much sense as the last time I left for a trip, but as far as I know there's no catchy phrase associated with Seattle, except for a certain saccharine Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie that's just too obvious to use, so this will have to do.

Yes, I'm going away for the weekend, so I won't be able to blog until next week. But alas, poor, weeping readers, here are things to occupy your time while I'm gone (besides sitting by your computers, anxiously awaiting my next post, of course).


1. Grab a vodka gimlet and head on over to Metaphor, Dummy. Our dear Sereena X is hosting the Roundtable discussion this week, and she's basically willing to do anything to get the most comments, and by "anything" I mean "sell you ficticious magazine subscriptions." So stop on by, sip a few martinis, flirt shamelessly with RW and the others, and leave a comment!

2. The editor's at Blogcritics have chosen my piece, "America's Previous Barely-Employable Model," as an Editor's Pick of the Week March 8-14. Describing why, they say, "I wish I could offer an adequate summary. I can't. Just. go. read. it." Okay. Anyway...hooray! While that piece summarizes the winners of the first five seasons (sorry, cycles) of the show, I've been sharing with you my favorite America's Next Top Model quotes as they come up. For some past classics, go here, here or here.

3. Still suffering withdrawal since Project Runway ended? Top Chef just not quite filling the void? (Could Billy Joel's daughter - I mean, wife - possibly be any worse of a host?) Check out Kara Janx's "decoy" collection she showed at Fashion Week (since the TV viewers didn't know who the Top 3 were yet, they had Kara show, too, to throw everyone off). It's actually pretty cool, managing to be both colorfully funky and elegant (my favorite combination), especially the aqua/copper dress halfway through. Although that multi-layered dress towards the end looks like a bloated goth wedding cake (actually, that would be cool).



Have fun without me! Don't cry too hard! Seriously, pick yourself up off the ground. You look pathetic.

Julie Powell: Living the Blogger's Dream...One Crepe at a Time

(The lovely editors at Blogcritics have chosen this piece as a Pick of the Week March 22-28. To which I say, merci!)

A long time ago, a young man was asked to read at a club from his journals about his day-to-day life. They were hilarious and started drawing crowds. They eventually caught the eye and ear of Ira Glass, producer of NPR's This American Life, who asked the young man to be a guest on his show. This eventually led to a book deal for the young man. His name is David Sedaris.

(Note: This is a much-abbreviated, detail-deprived version of the story, but fairly accurate based on interviews and reports.)

Talk about living the dream life of a writer. You just jot down your thoughts in a journal and all of a sudden people are shelling out $25 for your book (not to over-simplify the work Sedaris puts into his writing or anything)? What young writer doesn't want that to happen for themselves?

Cut to 2002, when a young woman decides to share her own personal journal, only this time it's a virtual one. And she decides that her day-to-day life is going to have something happen, something big. Julie Powell starts the Julie/Julie Project as a 29-year-old "government drone" - secretary by day, amateur chef by night. She blogs about her attempts to create all 524 recipes in Julia Child's classic tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in one year. It immediately becomes an internet hit, attracting a large audience and media exposure (CBS, Newsweek, The Los Angeles Times, etc.), and culminates in an "obscene" (her word) amount of money to turn it into a book.


Quite the life, right? As many bloggers would love the same fate (which, ironically, supports the literary industry's feelings that blogging isn't worthwhile writing in and of itself, something bloggers have been fighting since day one), very few have made it happen (Dog Days - by the original Wonkette, Ana Marie Cox - is another example).

So what does a blogger do when they get a book deal? Do they just transcribe their blog entries onto pages, thereby charging people for work they can just get for free online? Do they write about their blog, without copying any of the blog's text? Do they do what Cox did, which is write about the same subject as their blog (politics, in her case), to appeal to the same readers, but create a whole new piece of work to compel people to pay for it?

Powell somehow manages to borrow a little from all those ideas. She takes the great premise of her blog, cuts out the daily details that people can read for free anyway, repeats some of the best blog material (almost like a greatest hits), summarizes some of the arcing patterns, adds filler, and voila! You have a 300 page hardcover.

The foodies in her audience get stories about murdering lobsters, flambe-ing crepes and soaking calf's brain. The bloggers are shown the important relationship between blog writer and blog reader (or "bleaders," as Powell calls them), especially when Powell provides whole comments left on her blog, some from friends, some from crazy strangers. And the cosmo-sipping Bridget Jones fans get a fun girlfriend who's a great story-teller with an apartment dirtier than their own. Actually, we're told about practically everything in Powell's life for that year, making us wonder how a lowly blogger got carte blanche to include whatever she wanted in her first book (Powell has said in interviews that the editors were surprisingly hands-off during the publication process).


Strangely, the editors should have been more involved. While she attempts to let us know why this project means so much to her (she hates her job, she might not be able to get pregnant, she's almost 30, etc.), her incredibly over-dramatic reactions to failed recipes seem ridiculous even if she is exaggerrating for dramatic effect. The importance of the blog versus her reaction to its obstacles never connected for me. And she goes in to such detail about her girlfriends and family, digressing into all sorts of irrelevant information, that I couldn't help but wonder if the book could be a good 20-30 pages shorter (hell, even Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, is only 227 pages, and that's about her husband's death and her daughter's chronic illness).

However, it makes sense that Powell would get a book deal because frankly, she's a good writer (she won a James Beard Award for food journalism). Witty, observant, and original, she's fun to be around. She's also a bit nuts, but self-aware enough to acknowledge as such. Her usual response when something goes wrong? It's almost always along the lines of "FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!" Give or take a few "FUCKS!"'s, of course.

It's a wonder how her husband Eric demonstrates the patience he does, considering Julie frequently comes off as a hysterical, over-dramatic mess (albeit a witty, hysterical, overdramatic mess. Note to self: temper craziness with clever phraseology). In fact, her whole support system is pretty, well, supportive. If I went over to my friend's place for dinner, and she served poached eggs suspended in gelatin, I think I'd have a herniated disk all of a sudden and have to go home. Wouldn't you?

In the end, it's not so much about the food (don't expect any recipes), it's about...cue violins...the journey. Powell inserts fictional accounts of Julia's life as a 30-something woman learning to cook in Paris based on real letters and biographies. By doing this, she creates a parallel between Julia discovering food and Julie discovering Julia. It doesn't matter how old you are, or how much experience you have, it's about joy, and applying it to whatever you choose to do.

Since getting the book deal, Powell has been on Martha Stewart's daytime show, written op-ed pieces for the New York Times and hovered in the Top 30 of the New York Times best-seller list. She's turned her blogging experience into a real writing career, something many bloggers aspire to (myself included). But she didn't do it just by listing a bunch of links to other stories, a typical blog format that's never really appealed to me. She gave herself a fun, slightly crazy project - a gimmick, sure, but an entertaining one - and has turned it into literary gold.

And, as somewhat of a foodie myself, I was addicted to this book even with the extraneous information. I don't always have the patience to read long blog entries (I don't like reading any long documents on a computer screen for some reason), so I was glad to have the book. It may not have all the little details about each of the dishes, but there was enough to satisfy my vicarious cooking experiences through her. I may not wrap an entire duck in pastry dough and I'm pretty sure I won't be making anything with "aspic" in the title, but Powell has encouraged me crack open my own untouched copy of MtAoFC. Roquefort turnovers, anyone?

(For more on Julie and her book, click here to watch a cute video where Powell reads about splitting open marrow bones, click here for her piece in the NY Times, or click here for her new blog.)

Ode to Polenta

On a recent stormy Sunday night, my honey and I sat down to a homecooked dinner by candelight. The star of the meal - or should I say the sun, as everything else revolved around it? - was Chicken Piccata. As my faithful readers know, I'm slowly making my way through Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian as the accompanying Food Network show is one my favorites. This chicken dish, one of Giada's "Everyday Cutlets," made me feel like I had accomplished one of the basics of cooking: deglazing. You brown your meat first, take it out of the pan, add in your deglazers (chicken broth, lemon juice, capers and butter in this case), add the meat again to simmer and heat through, and then plate it up, with the smooth sauce poured on top, garnished with fresh parsley.

I had never successfully deglazed before and luckily it turned out delish (although with only four ingredients and one pan, it better have or my culinary confidence would have been shot), especially served up next to some buttery broccoli. The only problem I had was with the other side-dish. As I've wrestled with various recipes to various degrees of success, I feel the need to express my tumultuous relationship with this dish in a piece I call "Ode to Polenta."

....ahem....cough, cough...

Polenta, O Polenta, you cruel, sludgy temptress, how can thou tease me so? You seem so simple and eager to please, like a rookie hooker with her first john - just pour cornmeal into some boiling, salted water, stir for 15 minutes, add butter and done! Nothing fancy...a little attention and a flip of the whisk. Rustic Italian cooking that sits as comfortably next to roast chicken as it does filet mignon.

But somewhere along the line, admit it, Polenta, you fucked with my head. You rebelled. You revolted. You went from fluid, grainy porridge to gelatinous blob in the course of a 15-minute stir session with my stainless steel saucepan. You still tasted fine, I'll give you that, but what happened? Were you anguished that I seasoned you with more salt and pepper, thereby triggering some hidden inferiority complex you've harbored because of America's fascination with that other cheap yet ubiquitous side-dish, the mashed potato? Did you resent my addition of cream and Gorgonzola to make Giada's subtely-titled Polenta with Gorgonzola Cheese? Or did I just have my pan too hot, thereby depriving you of what little excess water you needed?

You threw me for a loop again, sweet Mistress of the field, when I took out your leftovers and threw you into a pan to reheat, condensation-produced water and all. This time you were so thin and liquidy I had to serve you in soup bowls. Yet finally, as you cooled and set, you became the exact right texture: smooth and tender, but still thick enough to coat a spoon.

I gave you one more challenge: I added my homemade Chili Oil and some fresh parsley, poured you into a pan, and popped you into the oven to become Baked Polenta. This also didn't work out so well for us, did it, O cunning cornmeal goddess of the gastrointestinal fates? Again, maybe this was not your fault (so spare me your wrath). The problem may lie in Giada's directions: "Bake in the oven until the polenta is slightly firm to the touch, about 15 minutes." Excuse me? Am I supposed to actually press my fingers into still-baking, piping hot cornmeal to see if it's "slightly firm to the touch," a vague, non-committal litmus test if I ever heard one? It turns out that 15 minutes was not enough time, but damned if I was going to find out by scalding my fingertips.

So, Polenta, we may have gotten off to a rocky start, a culinary first date with the stovetop substituting for the requisite coffee shop, but Polenta - you poor man's doorway to affordable, creamy ectasy, you - somehow we must work together to have a beautiful future together. Do I offer gifts of rosemary to Demeter, the Greek goddess of the harvest, or thyme to Hestia, the Greek goddess of the hearth? If only they would pity me with good fortune. Lesser men have received more, so I pray they find me worthy. Hopefully the kitchen gods will look down kindly on me because, no matter how I've whipped, stirred, beaten, chilled, cheesed, chilied, creamed, or baked you, Polenta, I could still have you fried.

So let's not bicker any more. Let's put aside our differences and join together in a blessed union of Diner and Dinee. Is it a deal, O sweet, sating Polenta?

The Customer Is Not Always Right

Our newest Roundtabler, Atul, has a problem. And he's not keeping it to himself anymore. He's mad as hell, and he's going to blog about it! OK, maybe not "mad" so much as "curious." What the hell is wrong with customer service these days? The phrase "it's hard to find good help these days" could apply to service professionals of all types, from coffee baristas to bookshop owners.

Nothing brings this quandry to life better than the scene in High Fidelity when an older man asks for a drippy, schmaltzy record to give to his daughter as a gift and the "too cool for school" employee (played by Jack Black who, let's face it, is too cool for school) yells at him for being an out-of-touch idiot (which, let's face it, he was).

Having worked in retail for five years myself, I can say not every customer is some innocent victim of a sales associate's vicious snobbery. People lose their temper over the most ridiculous things - there was the customer on the phone who yelled at me, then hung up on me because I wouldn't send her merchandise for free, and the one who insisted I lay out 40 different styles of aprons across the entire sales counter so she could choose which one she wanted (this was at a cooking store). When I was ringing a customer up, she told me to stop talking because she was in a hurry and then got mad when she found out I hadn't mentioned there was a sale going on. And then there was the couple that started yelling so loudly at a co-worker that another customer suggested we call the police. Over time, a worker in the retail industry could develop a hardened, blase attitude towards customers in general due to the actions of a few - how to put this delicately? - "crazies."

So grab a drink (but be nice to the bartender!) and head on over...

America's Previous Barely-Employable Model

(Blogger's Update: This piece was chosen as an Editor's Pick of the Week March 8-14 at Blogcritics. I'm flattered. Thanks, editors!)

Yes, folks, it's that time of year again. The time when short, thin girls get to pretend they're tall, skinny "models in training," the time when Tyra Banks decides to suck up yet another hour of television, the time when I make fun of her UPN reality show while also unable to turn away whenever it's on.

So as Cycle 6 approaches (why are they called "cycles" anyway? All I associate with that is menstrual cycles...not exactly glamorous fashion), let's take a look back at America's Next Top Model's long history of unquantifiable contributions to American culture. And by "unquantifiable contributions to American culture," I mean "shoving naive, unprepared young women out into the cold, sharp jaws of the fashion world, never to be heard from again." There are five previous winners, each with their own special combination of blind ambition and poreless skin.

1) Adrienne Curry, Cycle 1 - "Crazy Model." Sure, as she climbed her way to the top of the cycle one heap, Adrienne came off more "white-trash tomboy" than actually crazy. Rather than, you know, do some modelling, Adrienne signed up for VH1's The Surreal Life, where her true, mentally unhinged nature was revealed. She latched hoof and claw on to Christopher Knight (a.k.a. "Peter Brady"), a man 25 years her senior, despite his constant protests (a restraining order wouldn't have stopped her). Whatever she did, it worked, and Adrienne undoubtedly made "Momma" Tyra even more proud when she decided to let VH1 document their romance on My Fair Brady. Selling her first-born child to the gods of VH1 in exchange for more cash, Adrianne will soon fart her way through another season of the show where they document their wedding plans. Keeping her modelling dream alive, you can currently see her in the February 2006 Playboy (seriously).

2) Yoanna House, Cycle 2 - "Model Model." Tall, skinny, with a disgustingly symmetrical face, Yoanna is actually the most "model" out of any winner so far. She has also kicked off the trend of throwing a bunch of vowels together and calling it a name (I'm waiting for a future cycle to give us "Oaeiouia" or something. You know it's going to happen). Yoanna was actually enjoying herself as an up-and-coming, successful catwalk model before signing on as a host for the Style Network, thereby increasing her exposure to all of the two people who watch that channel (one being Boy George, the other being Star Jones' husband, together, in pajamas). You can currently see her on the "Style Network" (if that is indeed a real network).

3) Eva Pigford, Cycle 3 - "Mini-Model." Girl is short. At 5'7", she's the shortest winner of the show yet (although no shorter than Kate Moss...if you really believe Eva is actually 5'7"). With a nose described as "piggish" and an attitude to match (she was nicknamed "Eva the Diva"), Eva strutted her way through the third season...oh, sorry, the third cycle...oh, fuck it, the third season...until she was the last one standing. Maybe Tyra couldn't see her from behind her judges' table during eliminations, and Eva just kept showing up until all the other girls had been kicked out. She did guest star on the cancelled UPN Taye Diggs drama, Kevin Hill. You can currently see her in your front pocket.

4) Naima Mora, Cycle 4 - "Coma Model." OK, during season four, I was a full-out fan of Naima. Sure, she was quiet, but she was spunky and weird and said things that were just the right combination of dorky and unironic (she styled her hair into a mohawk to "center" herself) that I couldn't help but root for her. Since she won, she appeared on Tyra Banks' talk show to discuss problems she had with her twin sister (as if being in the shadow of a Top Model wasn't bad enough for her sister. Geez, real nice, Naima) and...not much else. She did do some commercials that were only aired during Top Model where she signed autographs for her fans in...Walgreens. You can currently see her on reruns of America's Next Top Model.

5) Nicole Linkletter, Cycle 5 - "Dairy Queen Model." Looking and acting like the influence for Parker Posey's character in Waiting for Guffman, Nicole might be the prettiest Miss Grand Forks, ND that ever sat on a parade float. After being picked as the winner, Tyra declared that Nicole was chosen because she was "pure model," which brings into question what the hell they were looking for the previous seasons. Supporting Tyra's claim, Nicole will alledgedly be featured in an upcoming couture spread in Elle. Holy crap! That's a real modelling gig! You can currently see her at the local community college where she's learning to spell the word "couture."

Who will be the winner of Cycle 6? Does it even matter? Don't we watch for the catfights, the tears, and the bitchy confessionals? (Note to contestants: you're being recorded.) If we want to watch them actually model, we can just sneak into the V.I.P.-only crowd at the Walmart Fashion Show. Yes, I'm dead serious. Not only does Walmart have a fashion show, it was populated by the "models" from the first four seasons. Momma Tyra must be proud.

Food, Folks and Fun: Oscar Edition

In my ongoing efforts to make my way through Giada de Laurentiis' Everyday Italian cookbook (based on her Food Network show, one of my favorites), I whipped up some new goodies for this past Sunday's Oscar party. I was joined by family and friends at my sister's, who also whipped up one of Giada's recipes herself. What can I say? We're spreading the Giada love...



1) Rosemary Popcorn - A simple snack, but with a twist. First, I made Giada's Rosemary-Infused Olive Oil, which is very similar to the Chili Oil recipe below, but with fresh rosemary instead of red pepper flakes (this recipe isn't available online). So, after steeping the rosemary in the oil for a few hours, you coat the bottom of a pan with a few tablespoons, toss in the kernels, and get to poppin'. When they're done, you drizzle on another tablespoon (or four) and salt. Voila! Although maybe too subtle for some palates (the first time I tried it, I barely caught a whiff of the herb's piney essence), it's an interesting twist on an old treat (although this weighs heavily on the "American" part of "Italian-American" food).

2) Sweet & Spicy Almonds - I have nuts almost every day, so I'm always looking for something new do to do with them (Art Smith also has a really good spicy maple pecan recipe). This starts with Chili-Infused Olive Oil (yes, it would be easier to just buy pre-made chili oil, but much more expensive, and where's the fun in that?). Then you just mix a few tablespoons with sugar and salt, toss with the almonds, and bake for 15 minutes. Again, simple, tasty and addictive. (Confidential to Stacey: It turns out microwave popcorn cannot be cooked on the stove. FYI.) Sorry, the almond recipe itself isn't online for some reason.

3) Chocolate Citrus Biscotti - This is where things got serious. Anytime you mention making homemade biscotti, people react as if you signed on for voluntary Chinese water torture. Making biscotti is nowhere near as painful, but it does take about as long. Whipping together the ingredients is straightforward enough (I added chopped pistachios). Then you arrange the very stiff, uncooperative dough into two flat, wide logs and bake for 35 minutes. You take them out, let them rest, slice 'em up, and bake them again. Then you let them cool completely, dip them in semisweet chocolate, and refridgerate them until they set. By the time you're done, you're hoping your retirement funds have kicked in, but it's totally worth it. The aroma of orange and lemon zest permeates your kitchen (and the cookies), and when you dunk them into red wine or coffee, you'll feel mighty proud of yourself.

My sister, the hostess with the mostess, prepared a spread worthy of Wolfgang Puck. One of the items was Crostini with Ricotta and Goat Cheese Spread. The spread, with lemon zest and fresh basil, was originally oddly runny and a little bland. So she chilled it for an hour and added a lot more salt and there you go. Spoon onto grilled bread and you're set to laugh at all the ridiculous Oscar fashions (speaking of, what was with Jennifer Lopez's nuclear orange glow?).

Add in a veggie tray, dried plums, a pesto cheese spread for crackers, cheese quesadillas, beef burritos, and one awesome Red Velvet Cake with both chocolate and cream cheese frosting and we were a very happy, albeit stuffed, clan.

Note to Academy - We Get It: You're Not Racist

What does it say that the Oscars ended a little over an hour ago and I'm already over them? And I actually liked a lot of the movies that were nominated this year. A few things we can learn from tonight's ceremony:

In: Anti-Racism, Rap, Reese Witherspoon
Five-Minutes Ago: Anti-Homophobia, Country, Joaquin Phoenix
Out: Everything that didn't win. Sorry, suckas.

As for the two surprises of the evening:

Best Picture: Crash - A Very Important Movie, with a Very Important Message. The Academy loves to promote itself (how many times can they encourage people not to bother with DVD's? Message: TV is too small and pedestrian for the Big Ideas we promote with movies). Awarding either Brokeback Mountain or Crash would assure the Academy that they're socially relevant, but the anti-racism message in Crash is a universal, airtight political message, whereas the anti-homophobia message supposedly promoted by a Brokeback win would be attacked as pushing a trendy liberal "agenda." Crash wins!

Some people might also say that Crash is simply the better film, but I disagree. Brokeback isn't flawless. I, like many, was bored when it started to drag in the middle. But it was also more than just a Very Important Message; it was a love story, and a beautifully told one at that. Meanwhile, Crash was nothing but a two-hour Message. By the end, it was overwrought and manipulative, as if the writer was in love with his clever (i.e. gimmicky) script.


Best Original Song: "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" from Hustle & Flow - While I was rooting for Dolly Parton's "Travelin' Thru" from Transamerica (how happy did she seem when performing on stage? I would love to get drunk on Mint Juleps with her, she seems like so much fun), I can understand why "Pimp" won. You could cynically argue that it again lets the Academy promote themselves as hip and socially aware (see above; although Eminem's "Lose Yourself" from 8 Mile was actually the first rap song to win an Oscar, he didn't perform on the awards show). But while "Travelin' Thru" only plays during the end credits, "Pimp" is instrumental to Hustle's plot. Not only do you see the main character (played by Best Actor nominee Terrence Horward) create and record the song, you see how much it means to him, how his whole self-instigated redemption revolves around the success of this song. I'm not sure Three 6 Mafia's performance on the Academy Awards would convince people this is the best song in a movie this year, but it probably is the song that meant the most to the movie it came from.

Also, Jon Stewart was great. Crisp and succint, he often offered the best one- or two-line reaction and then moved on. He had some good zingers ("For the record: Martin Scorcese, zero Oscars. Three 6 Mafia, one Oscar.") and fresh ideas, especially those ads done in the style of political lobbying ("Kiera Knightley - Acting While Beautiful"). He set the tone for a fun, laid-back ceremony that was echoed by the Animation winners (Wallace & Gromit: The Case of the Were Rabbit) adorning their Oscars with the same huge, floppy striped bow ties they were wearing, the Documentary winners (March of the Penguins) bringing huge fuzzy stuffed penguins on stage with them, and Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell presenting the award for Best Makeup with way too much on themselves.

Even with the endless pointless montages (film noir? Really?), they managed to keep the show under four hours. And although playing music as soon as the winners started their speeches was just plain wrong (the saxaphone during Ang Lee's speech was especially tacky), the Academy didn't embarrass themselves too badly. Oh, wait, I just rememberd the Crash-as-interpretive-dance sequence for its Best Song nominee. Nevermind.

Oscar Rush, part 3: Match Point

I can't say I'm a huge Woody Allen fan. I like Annie Hall, Everyone Says I Love You, and Sweet and Lowdown, among others. But Celebrity was one of the most annoying films I've ever seen, where Allen pointlessly replaced himself with Kenneth Branagh only to give us two hours of an equally neuorotic, talkative, emasculated and charmless Allen alter-ego.

With Match Point, Allen steps out of both his beloved New York and his usual romantic comedy genre to give us a sexy thriller set in London. Failed tennis pro Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) becomes friends with Tom Hewitt (Matthew Goode) and Tom's fiance, the aspiring actress Nola (Scarlett Johansson). He starts dating Tom's perky, sweet sister Chloe (Emily Mortimer) but begins an affair with the sexy Nola.

As Chris has to work harder and harder to cover his affair, the plot twists might remind some of Fatal Attraction, but this movie is truly an Allen original. Brilliantly using tennis as a metaphor, he explores the debate between being "lucky" and being "good." While I originally wanted The Squid and The Whale to win the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, I could just as easily hope for Allen's nominated screenplay as well. Allen's film crawls under your skin and stays there like an embedded thorn. Creepy and uncomfortable, it stayed with me long after the film was finished (a cliche, I know, but in this case it's actually true).

In interviews Allen has referred to Meyers as "gorgeous" and Johansson as "sexy," and you can tell he loves looking at them through his camera. Every scene is beautifully lit, every angle highlighting their eyes or skin or, especially, lips. The ubiquitous film poster cut off half of the actors' faces, reducing them to sharp cheekbones and perfect jawlines pointing right to their distinctive, pillowy lips. Even Chris' first pick-up line to Nola is, "Has anyone ever told you you have very sensual lips?" This easily qualifies as one of the sexiest films in recent momory, especially since Allen himself is nowhere to be seen (he's a boner buzzkill for sure, although I couldn't help but think how itchy and uncomfortable the make-out scene on what looked like a field of wheat would be - I'm such a nerd).

I don't know what to make of Meyers. Looking like a cross between a male model and a lizard, he's a hard guy to root for (even before he starts making really bad decisions). His cold, unenthused Golden Globe speech, when he won for the TV movie Elvis, didn't really add to my opinion of him. But he is talented and sexy, and I couldn't help but think what would happen if his sneaky, morally dubious character ran into Matt Damon's similar one from The Talented Mr. Ripley. Maybe a Crazy Sexy Guy Walk-Off! If only...

Oscar Rush, part 2: North Country

A by-the-numbers drama starring a be-mulleted Charlize Theron, North Country isn't so much a movie as it is a two-hour public service announcement against sexual harassment.

This move isn't horrible, it's just generic, elevated by a fine cast and effective pacing. If you've seen the trailer, you know what happens, but the movie doesn't aim for unpredictability anyway (a good thing, since the story's plot points could be outlined in about five seconds). And it is somewhat disappointing coming from Niki Caro, who directed the fantastically original Whale Rider, a movie with an equally powerful female discrimination message in a much more exotic, creative milieu.

I can see why so many talented and well-meaning actors would want to work on this project. It's based on a true story about the first ever class action sexual harassment suit, a landmark achievement that would forever change the way businesses nationwide draft policies concerning equal rights. Set in northern Minnesota circa 1989, the story follows Josey (Best Actress Oscar nominee Theron), a single mother of two, who bravely stands alone amidst ridiculously escalating behavior from her male peers (including physical attacks, cum on a co-worker's clothes and shit smeared on their lockerroom walls). Management doesn't care and even her female co-workers (including Best Supporting Actress nominee Frances McDormand) turn their backs on her, afraid to lose the best job in town.

The whole story would be more effective if we got to know Josey more. She's a mother and a victim. That's about all I got. Oh, and she likes to drink and dance, two totally non-specific characteristics (every other female in the movie does, too). Theron does her best, but that basically means she's either about to cry, crying or just finished crying in every scene. When she's actually allowed to be a real person and make a mistake - lashing out at her teenage son who's abandoned her after she was publicly humiliated, only to cause another publicly humiliating scene herself - the scene is so sudden and powerful, it's unnerving.

If Josey was allowed to live and breathe spontaneously in her space, instead of just having to represent something, maybe this would be the updated Norma Rae it's trying to be. It feels more like Without Consent, a Very Important movie-of-the-week from 1994 starring Jennie Garth (sadly, still ignored by the Oscars) as a girl who's locked in a mental hospital and has to fight to assert her rights. There was an interview with Garth where she said she was proud of the movie because it was being shown to hospital staff as a learning tool (I swear I never saw the movie and don't, in fact, own several different copies of it stashed under my bed). So, too, could North Country be used as a learning tool for corporations to not be complete assholes to endangered employees. But shouldn't a movie be well-made in and of itself, beyond any important message?

I also couldn't help but wonder about Josey's reactions to the harassment. It is established that Glory (McDormand) does not get treated badly at all aside from the usual ribbing and wisecracks. Why doesn't Josey, I don't know...ask Glory about that? Maybe she could figure out why Glory is left alone while the others aren't. You could argue it's because Josey just happens to look like a 6' tall South African model and the other one looks like, well, Frances McDormand, but you would be wrong - Josey's female colleagues aren't all supermodels.

When the rushed, unconvincing final courtroom scene has finished (after Josey's co-workers all change their minds in about ten seconds), I felt...fine. It is, ultimately, an uplifting film. Obviously, what the real-life Josey and co-workers accomplished is nothing short of amazing: a cultural contribution based on equality that will affect generations long after they're gone. While North Country is movie-of-the-week adequate anchored by a strong leading lady, it's too bad those brave women didn't get a film that lived up to their own achievements.

Oscar Rush, part 1: Hustle & Flow

Oh my God! The Oscars are two days away! I still haven't seen every single movie nominated! The Hollywood gods (and by "gods," I mean "lawyers") are going to swoop into my room in the middle of the night, force my eyes open with toothpicks and watch 23 movies straight with no breaks! I! Must! Catch! Up!

.........whew.......OK.......must.....calm...down...

I don't really feel like that, but there have been a bunch of movies that I've been wanting to see that have been released on DVD recently, many of which just happen to be nominated for Oscars. So, before I got around to Cinderella Man, Pride & Prejudice, and The Constant Gardener, I decided to start with Hustle & Flow.

To be honest, I've never been a huge fan of rap. Even when there's a really good beat, a strong melodic hook, or clever lyrics, it's just way too repetitive to sustain my ADD-shrunk interest ("Sugar" by Trick Daddy being a recent exception).

Now that I've seen Hustle & Flow, I can't say I'm going to listen to it all the time, but I can appreciate it on a deeper level than I could before. Sure, it's hard to over-emphasize how misogynistic and homophobic rap can be, but, in the absence of those offenses, it can be so much more.

When the movie lets us inside the creative process for DJay (Best Actor Oscar nominee Terrence Howard), a pimp struggling to rise above his circumstances, I was reminded of claims that rappers are our modern day poets. I agreed before but even more so now. Djay is able to express who he is as a person (although occasionally victim to the empty macho bravado of so much modern rap) while encompassing everything from his immediate community to the current national climate in his scope. It's not just that "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" (the Oscar-nominated song), it's why.

The movie has a lot to show us about artists and the creative process of art. It shows how important a creative community is and how different genres are used for inspiration (like gospel in rap). It also asks the eternal question: how far are you willing to go for your art? What degradations and humiliations are you willing to put yourself through to get what you want?

All this makes it that much more frustrating when Djay falls into the usual pimp stereotypes, especially treating his whores like, well, whores. If he wants people to look past his day-time job to see him as a person, why can't he do the same for the ladies who financially support him? After he tries to pump up Nola's (Taryn Manning) self-esteem, he sells her "services" to a shop owner in exchange for a microphone without thinking twice. The only one he's decent to, Shug (Taraji P. Henson), happens to be pregnant (although with a mysterious trick's baby).

Like A History of Violence, Hustle also deals with the conflict and consequences of male violence - the distinction between a man's violent environment and the violent tendencies within himself. So, to balance the hero's violence and misogyny, the writers turn it into a hip-hop Pretty Woman: he might be good at what he does, but it's important to know he doesn't really want to do it. He has higher standards for himself, he wants something better.

Luckily, we have Terrence Howard as our guide through the gritty, hopeless streets of Memphis. Charismatic, sexy, vulnerable, dangerous - I truly believe that with his classic good looks and wavy hair, you could put him in a tuxedo and confuse him for a movie star from the 1930's. 2005 has been declared his breakthrough year and I can see why. From a conflicted yuppie in Crash to the tough, wily Djay in Hustle, his versatility is truly impressive. And when he passionately kisses the pregnant, supportive Shrug, I thought, damn, get that man a romantic leading role. Hopefully, Hollwood will find equally worthwhile projects for him.

Flame of Love

In this week's Roundtable, RW tackles the important question concerning the upcoming Oscars. Instead of who deserves to win (cough...not Crash...cough), it's more like who really cares?

More importantly, with Brokeback Mountain becoming an unavoidable subject even for people who hate movies (does anyone hate movies or did I just invent a completely fictitious group of people?), RW questions the insistence by gay people to claim every possible famous American as one of their own.

Well, maybe not every famous American. I don't think anyone wants to claim Bill Pullman as their own. Isn't he just a walking cardboard sign anyway?

In other news, the editors of Blogcritics have chosen my review of Bravo's Project Jay as an Editor's Pick of the Week Feb. 22-28. Here's what they had to say:

TV Review - Project Jay by Don Baiocchi: I would read anything by Don. If he wants to try to rewrite the phone book, I'm so there! Don't read unless you're alone, otherwise you'll get stares as you giggle to yourself.

OK, so I'm shamelessly plugging myself. So what? It's my blog, I can do what I want. So there. And maybe, one of these days, I just might rewrite the phone book. God knows the K-M section needs a little work, and could the Johnsons-Jones listings be any more boring?

In the meantime, depending on your preference, you can grab a Brassy Blonde or swallow a Flame of Love (can you tell how far I have to stretch for a new Brokeback joke?) and head over to Chasing Vincenzo...