Alas, Poor Lem

Let's just get this out of the way first.   Yes, I do have tickets to the midnight screening of Cowboys & Aliens.  I've been waiting a year for this film and I didn't want to have to wait another day.  Hell, last night I dreamed Shane Vendrell was a Jedi and was flying around the galexy with Obi Wan (Ewan McGregor--it's the one part of my Star Wars roots I just can't seem to stay true to, sorry) on a quest to avenge Lem's death.  Oh, and Jedi Shane was in love with me.  I dream in really bad fanfiction.

Point is, I'm staying up past my bedtime, and I even have a snap-front western shirt I fashioned into a dress to wear.  Liz Ellis over at The Insatiable Critic kindly agreed to host my review, so I'll post an update and you all can duck over there when that goes up.  Liz is awesome.

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I wasted way too much time reading The AV Club's Silly Little Showbiz Book Club yesterday, (that is, before I realized it was by my arch-nemesis Nathan Rabin) but in reading Nathan Rabin hate on Chris Farley for being Catholic and tearing off melodramatic, angst-ridden prose like sheets of cheap toilet paper in the Taco Bell bathroom, I had a breakthrough of clarity and realized that my Creative NonFiction mentor Jaed Coffin had been right--snarky prose is for douchebags.

Rabin's style consists of, if I may borrow mentor Coffin's wise words, shitting all over everybody and everything.  He hates Catholics,  he hates people who don't know who Belle and Sebastian are, he hates everyone who isn't as smug or as darling or as bald as he is.

And I used to write much the same way.  I was better than everyone, smarter than everyone, smug and pretty to boot.  You can see it in some of the prose I have over on the sidelines there.  And even though I resented being called out on it the first time (figuring that he was just not as good/smart/smug/pretty as me) I realized later, especially listening to Jaed talk about respecting the stories and the people you're interviewing, that a guy we called "Brospringer" behind his back was actually right.  And he was not only right, he was a genius for bringing honesty and respect and not being a privilaged douchebag back to CNF.

When you're writing CNF, you are basically saying to the audience, "I have something important to tell you about myself.  My life is so important that you have to listen to me."  Whether you're writing about your parents dying or your drug addiction or going to the movies or listening to records, you are already being kind of a dick by expecting that peole care about what you have to say.  If you're good, like Kevin Murphy, you make your stunt into something universal, something all the readers can connect with.  If you're a dick, like, say, Dave Eggars, the audience is chained helplessly to their chairs, forced to listen to you scream in their face MY PARENTS DIED AND THAT MAKES ME SPECIAL!!!!!  I SHOULD BE ON MTV!!!!  LOOK AT ME!!!! 

It is my goal now, as I write this blog and as I write essays, to step away from the snark that gets me laughs and look at the subjects of my essays, whether they're myself or my ex-boyfriends or my wacky family, with the kind of respect that makes my readers say, "wow, she has rendered that in a way that I can relate to."  I'm just sick of being a jerk to my readers--they don't deserve to have all that negativity thrown at them.  I want to learn to tell them a multi-facited story so they can decide for themselves if my ex-boyfriend is a dope without having me screaming HE WAS A JUNKIE OTAKU LOSER, CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?!?

That isn't to say I won't still be snarky.  I'm not perfect.  I will probably still say sarcastic things about my mother and my ex-boyfriend and Nathan Rabin.  But my goal is no longer to be the smartest/smuggest/prettiest girl at the dance.  Mr. Rabin already has that covered.

In Praise of Beautiful Film

I almost never see modern films I would consider "beautiful."  Let's face it, these days I'm pretty much stuck seeing movies because they either have Ewan McGregor or Walton Goggins in them, and that's about as beautiful as I get.  As I've noted before, going to the movies has become just something we all do, crammed into icebox cattle-car theaters, jamming salty snacks into our gaping maws as a means of escaping our pitiful, empty lives for two hours.

Which is why seeing Beginners at the Alamo Drafthouse was such a life-affirming experience.

We spent a week in Austin, TX with our good friend Sterling and he insisted that we go to the Alamo Drafthouse cinema.  I know you all think we picked this movie just went becaue Ewan McGregor was in it, but in fact, we only went because nothing else interesting was playing.  For starters, you order food at the Alamo Drafthouse.  Not crappy Applebees quality microwaved crap, but really good food for decent prices.  I had a steak sandwich with fries and green tea, with a Harry Potter-themed caramel apple cake for dessert.  Sterling got some sort of vegetarian sandwich and Ian got a pizza.  $6.50 got you unlimited popcorn with real butter.  They treat you like a human being, a real person, at this theater, not just some faceless consumer.  Kudos to the staff of the Alamo Drafthouse, and my only complaint is that you're not here in Upstate New York (and that you were showing The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai the day I left the state).

After our orders were placed, we were treated to the Alamo's famous Pre-Show, a series of short films, old ads and a crazy PSA about talking and txting in the theater.  Here's one of the shorts; watch and be terrified:

Simply put, it was the ultimate movie going experience.  But even if I had to sit in a tin box with no food, drink or AC (it averaged about 103 on the trip) it would have been worth it to see Beginners.  It's the most beautiful film I've ever seen.  Not just because of Ewan McGregor, with his quirky romance and his charmingly baggy sweaters, but because the visuals were so intense, the colors so vibrant and the images so carefully chosen that I wanted to cry from the beauty of it all. 



By Charles Bremer

There's one shot, a single shot of his father's white tea cup with a green caterpiller crawling on the saucer, all set on top of a red book, and it just struck me as this delicate, tender, wonderful thing.  As McGregor narrates the differences between 1950 and 2005, still-frame images of the night sky and photographs and objects, set against a stark black background (very reminiscent of Charlie Bremer paintings) appear.  It's a very unique way to set up a film, and a gamble as to not appear too quirky, but it worked. 

And when we all walked out of that theater, bellies full, into the hot still air of late-night Austin, we felt as though we'd been part of something.  That we'd seen a glimpse into the lives of real people . . . and for crying out loud, that's what cinema, what art, is supposed to be about.  It doesn't matter if those people are sitting in a cafe or are being attacked by robots or flying around in space.  We have to care about them, we have to see their lives, if we're going to want to spend all that time with them. 

I, for one, could have spent the rest of the night with those characters.  Even though the film opens with Christopher Plummer dying, I still got misty eyed when the hospice nurse shook Ewan McGregor awake at the table and said, "He's gone."  Because through visuals and clever writing and good acting, I was lead to believe that those people on the screen were real.  I cared about what became of them, how their lives turned out, whether or not they got what they wanted. 

And really, isn't that what makes cinema (and art) so wonderful?  Not special effects, not fart jokes or pop culture references or Steve Carell running around screaming, but the lives of people . . . people we know, people we love, people who may or may not be a part of us.  We like music because of how we can relate to it, how it makes us feel--isn't it time we start asking the same thing of our movies?

HAPPY

BIRTHDAY

ME!

Surprisingly, I Liked Rango

Most of my friends have stopped going to the movies with me, because I either A) Hate the movie and deconstruct why it sucked all the way home or B) Gush about what a babe Ewan McGregor/Jeff Goldblum/Walton Goggins/Whoever was.  I've stopped liking what theaters expect me to like, and of the Oscar nominated films last year, I saw 2 and I guess only liked one of them (fuck you, Inception, you're not fooling me!)  Of last year, I only enjoyed I Love You Phillip Morris, Morning Glory, the Last Exorcism and yes, Predators (I didn't say it was good). 

And this year, I'm only excited about Cowboys and Aliens because it combines three great things--Harrison Ford, Walton Goggins and Clancy Brown.  But mostly the first two.  It's like my 11 year old self and my 28 year old self are giving each other a high five.  And . . . yeah, that was the only movie I was planning to see.

POINT IS that I was certainly not planning to see Rango.  I gave up on Johnny Depp, officially, after Public Enemies.  I'd mostly written him off following Pirates of the Carribbean 2 and gave in, with regret, to Sweeney Todd.  I got tired of his shtick and missed the Johnny Depp I'd loved when all the other girls I knew were in love with Justin Timberlake--Depp's quiet, nuanced, subltle performances in Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood.  I didn't like his trademarked wackiness, which felt to me like a half-reheated Hot Pocket version of his Hunter S. Thompson gag.

Sad to say, Rango had a lot of that Johnny Depp-ness, including a cameo by Raul Duke himself (with an awesome homage to Ralph Steadman serving as Dr. Gonzo). 

And in spite of this, I really, really liked Rango.

For starters, the film doesn't cater to any demographic.  Movies are made, for the most part, to appeal at least two of these demographics: teenage males, teenage females, older men, older women, and stupid little kids.  This movie appealed to none of that.  Everyone (thing?) in this film is ugly and un-plush-able.  Johnny Depp is not awkwardly hot, he's a freakin' lizard.  There is a lot of grown-up humor in the film, but not enough for packs of adults to get a babysitter and go out on a Saturday night.  Films that don't appeal to any demographic appeal to the Me Demographic.  I don't like being labled and I don't like being pandered to.  Studios don't know me, because if they did, they wouldn't have taken so long to release I Love You Phillip Morris and Walton Goggins would be a leading man. 

This compared to the two previews which opened the film--the revolting-looking 3D CG crap-a-ganza Mars Needs Moms (it was fun with it lasted, Princess and the Frog) and the utterly generic Kung-Fu Panda 2 (I miss the offensive, loud Jack Black that I hated) two films which appear to prove that kids are stupid and their parents are also stupid.

Rango is dark.  It's very dark.  And weird.  There were moments where I felt a little awkward, like watching Rango flirt with a naked headless Barbie torso (three minutes in), or the presence of massive frog prostitute boobs.  There's a lot of western-y type stuff even I didn't catch onto at first and a body count that rivals Hardboiled.  There's talking roadkill.  Creepy walking cactuses.  Massive frog prostitute boobies.  The plot to Chinatown.  It's not not a kid's film in that kids can't handle this (after all, Who Framed Roger Rabbit is dark and weird and wonderful) it's not a kids film because they probably don't get it or care. 

And that's fine, because again, it wasn't trying to appeal to any demographic.  They made the film they wanted to make at a time when everything has to be based on a pre-existing franchise.  Gore Verbinski didn't get locked into how many toys he could sell or how many teen girls would buy Rango-inspired lipgloss sets at Claires.  He made the movie he wanted to make, and it STILL kicked the ass of vanity projects like Take Me Home Tonight .  . . . and that is the ultimate Hollywood Fuck You.

Ugly Men I Have Loved

On this, the eve of both my final graduate school residency, my friend Eeon's wedding and, most importantly, the release of Predators, it is time I confess what everyone has known for months.

I am so in love with Walton Goggins.



I love his femmy eyes.  I love his woodchuck teeth.  I love his receeding hairline and his southern accent and his boot cut jeans.  The man's got the nicest pants I've ever seen, even beating out Jeff Goldblum's skinny slacks on Law and Order: Criminal Intent.


Ian and I have been devouring The Shield. We just finished season five, and things are getting rough.  I sobbed during the finale.  It was not good, but for whatever reason, I just couldn't stay mad at Shane.  And I know things aren't going to end well for him, because it's The Shield, and nothing ends well for anybody.

By all logic, I should have had the crush on Dutch Boy, because he looks like Homicide's Det. Bayliss, who I was secretly in love with back in the day.

Or Lem, who looks like Trigun's Vash the Stampede.

Okay, that's cheating, because I did have a crush on Lem, but anyone who's watched The Shield knows that that's a love that ends pretty badly.

But there was just something about Shane that struck me.  Maybe it was because there's an ernestly about Shane, a real divide between wanting to do right by Vic and the team and wanting to do right by Shane.  He's the most complex character on the show, and I'm drawn to that.  Plus, as I said before, the man wears a pair of blue jeans like you can't believe.

Walton Goggins is just one more in a long list of ugly celebrities I've had the hots for, which includes babes like Benicio del Toro in Sin City, Adrien Brody (who's also in Predators) and Tom Waits in Down By Law.  In my defense, Tom Waits has an absolutely breathtaking heinie.  Watch the scene where the cops frisk him and check that thing out.  It's really something special.

My adoration for ugly dudes does not manifest itself in my real life.  Ian looks like Ewan McGregor.  My friend Matthew, the second hottest guy I know, looks like Jeff Goldblum, unless he's wearing his other glasses and then he looks like Morrissey. 

But on film, ugliness carries a raw sexuality.  There are a million petty boys, but to find a man with Benicio del Toro's lips or Walton Goggins' eyes or Tom Waits butt is a real gem.  They captivate me and I can't look away.

Also, Shane once said, "Eatin' ain't cheatin'" which just about made me faint dead away.  The man knows what the ladies like.

Of course, my friend Eeon, not thinking ahead, planned his wedding for the day Predators opens.  I think he's letting me give Bill Pullman's speech from Independence Day to make up for this grevious error.  I forgive him.  I'm a generous girl.

Celebrity Fantasies Special Birthday Edition: Ewan McGregor

In honor of Ewan's birthday, I dedicate this post to him.

. . .  so I have this fantasy that Ewan McGregor and his beautiful wife and his perfect children ask Ian and I out to dinner, and we go to this really nice place for sushi.  And we're all laughing, and his kids are perfectly behaved, and his accent is adorable and for once someone's wife doesn't think I'm totally after her husband (I get that a lot).  And when dinner is finished, he picks up the check.

He drops his wife and kids back at the hotel and Ian back at our hotel, and we get his motorcycle and he even got me a helmet with a bunch of cool voodoo/rockabilly designs on it.  He and I are going to see The Police play at Madison Square Garden, and we have front row seats, and Ewan is wearing a really awesome striped sweater that he has to keep rolling the sleeves up off his hands.  Oh, and he's wearing skinny jeans, not like emo skinny jeans, just a nice, slim, well-fitting pair.  And the Police are playing all my favorite songs, and it turns out that Sting and Ewan are pals so he gets to go up on stage and sing "Can't Stand Losing You" and "Walking on the Moon," the latter which he dedicates to me.  And afterwards I get to meet Sting and Stewart Copland, and that's cool, and then Ewan and I go to the Sunflower diner and drink coffee and laugh until, like, 2 in the morning, and then we get back on his motorcycle and he drops me off at my hotel and gives me a kiss on the cheek.  "We should do this again sometime," he says, in that awesome accent.  

Guys and Dolls

The first record I ever fell in love with was Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy

But the second album I fell in love with was the soundtrack to the 1992 revival cast of Guys and Dolls. I was at my friend Erin’s house and her dad, who was conducting the show at the local college, played the tape for us. This began a love affair with musical theater that lasted up until college, when I lost my virginity and didn’t have to be a theater nerd anymore.

I kid, I kid. But all jokes aside, most of the theater I loved as a high schooler has fallen into the category of adolescent mistakes—Phantom of the Opera, Rent, Les Miserables, all those other wanker musicals. Only two musicals have stood the test of time, and Guys and Dolls is number one. (The other is Little Shop of Horrors). Hearing JK Simmons cheerfully snarl out the title number still sends gleeful shivers down my spine. This has almost nothing to do with the fact that over six seasons of Oz, I’ve seen the JK 1) Carving a swastika into Lee Turgeson’s ass, 2) Getting a blow job. 3) In the nude. The full nude.  Talk about having your childhood raped . . . literally.



There’s an exuberance in the music itself that transcends the actor’s own voices, from “Runyonland” (the overture) to the reprise of “Guys and Dolls.” It’s the kind of music that reminds you how wonderful musical theater really can be when in the hands of professionals, not a bunch of idiots and D-list actors (I’m looking at you, Ashlee Simpson). They just don’t write them like this anymore. “I’ve Never Been In Love Before” is one of the most beautiful love songs ever written, and “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat” has done more to save my soul than a whole hymnal. I still harbor a fantasy from childhood about performing “Marry the Man Today” in a talent show—to uproarious applause, of course.

I met Nathan Lane, very briefly, in 2001. My friend Ann and I snuck into a Christie’s Auction for a chance to make cocktail party chatter with the two leads of The Producers. Matthew Broderick is a charmer even if his wife is an utter cunt. And short, too. I could totally take her.

We only got to talk to Nathan Lane for a minute, but he was kind and polite, with a little sadness behind his eyes. In another circumstance, I might have asked him to sign my CD.

Ian and I flew to London to see Ewan McGregor perform in the show as Skye Masterson, which marked two things: 1) The most insane thing I’ve ever done to attract a man’s attention (it failed—next time, Ewan!) and 2) The first time I’d actually seen the show. In all those years of hearing Nathan Lane belt out “Sue Me,” I’d never actually seen a production of Guys and Dolls. I actually started to weep when Ewan sang “My Time of Day” in front of the glowing white painted moon. They never put out a cast recording, and I can no longer listen to Peter Galligher sing Skye’s part—I don’t want to ever erase Ewan’s voice from my mind.

Most albums from childhood don’t stand the test of time, but Guys and Dolls continues to enchant me. It can cheer up even the worst day, and revive my energy better than a cup of coffee. Even if I have seen Benny Southstreet in the buff.

Boys on Film . . .naked ones

Male nudity, once heavily frowned upon in film, is becoming more and more acceptable.  This needs to stop.  Not because it's indecent, but because it's usually perpetrated by people who are gross, like Kevin Bacon or Jason Seigel, and can permenantly damage the fragile, budding sexuality of young people.  My first actual experience with male nudity (I grew up in a house with all sisters) was seeing Geoffrey Rush in Quills.  Mr. Rush is a handsome man, but I do not want to see his area.  The same goes for you, JK Simmons.  We'll make an exception for Chris Meloni.

That being said, I must take this time to praise the two most beautiful naked men Hollywood has ever offered us.  If you have ever doubted the existance of God, these two will prove that not only does He exist, but man is truly made in His great image.  And the fact that these two actors star in films bearing the name Adam cannot be a coincidence.

I'm talking, of course, about Ewan McGregor and Jeff Goldblum.

In Young Adam, Ewan is just lying there on the bed, smoking a cigarette, lovely cock dangling against his alabaster thigh, pillowed on a tuft of red-gold public hair.  It might be the most beautiful thing in existance.  It is the Holy Grail of wangs.  And there's an odd unsexiness too it, not the repulsion one might get if seeing, say, Jack Black in the buff but just simply a "huh, wow, there's Ewan McGregor's lightsaber.  Hmm."  The casualness of it makes it almost more real and, to my mind, more titilating.  He is proud of his cock, as well he should be, and he is content to just lay in bed and smoke all day.  Fine by me, except for the smoking part, I'm allergic.  Maybe we could eat cadbury eggs instead.

In Adam, Resurrected, Jeff Goldblum opens the film, literally, with a shot of his buttocks as peered through the keyhole.  Pushing sixty, Goldblum has a nicer bum than I've seen on some guys my age.  It's firm, it's round, it's well lifted.  No cellulite, no wrinkles, no evidence of sagging.  Really, quite lovely, artistic even.  He stays clothed for the rest of the film, but please, don't let that stop you.  And let's not forget that Jeff bares it all, from a side shot, in both The Fly and my favorite, Earth Girls Are Easy.

So enough with the joke nudity, and enough with ugly guys baring it all to prove that they can.  We get it, Seth Rogan, you don't care what you look like.  Well, frankly, we don't either.