I like to think about story archetypes. One of the most appealing to me, for some reason, is the story of the absolutely unsurpassed professional, whose professionalism includes the rejection of personal relationships. Then, of course, he stumbles into a personal relationship that destroys his professionalism.
There is an aspect of this story that applies to other stories that I've loved: single-mindedness. I went through a period many years ago when I read Civil War histories, biographies, and autobiographies, and the characters I loved best were those that had a single-minded commitment to principle. John Mosby, Nathan Bedford Forrest, William Tecumseh Sherman, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson... These were the men who were extraordinarily successful because they were committed to achieving their purposes to the exclusion of all other considerations. Later, I read about Che Guevara, and completely independent of his political views, I loved him because of his absolute commitment to what he believed.
I think my admiration stems from the complete opposition to myself that such commitment represents. I can't even say for sure what it is I believe, let alone commit to that belief with a passion that excludes all else. This is also why I admire military men and women. I could never imagine myself joining the military and committing my life to an ideal. There's not much for which I'd willingly die. My wife. My son. The circumstances in which such a sacrifice would be necessary are limited, though.
I started thinking about this again after watching Drive this week. Ryan Gosling's professional driver who is undone by his affection for a little girl reminded me so much of Jean Reno's professional assassin who is undone by his affection for a little girl in, of course, The Professional. Assassins apparently have a weakness for spunky girls on their own, as evidenced by The Man from Nowhere. This "assassin who lets a little girl into his heart" theme occurs again in The Warrior's Way, but the warrior isn't quite destroyed in that one. Sometimes, though, it's romantic rather than some substitute for paternal love, as with Robert DeNiro, undone by his affection for a woman in Heat.
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I like stories of pure commitment to a single purpose. And I like them better when that pure commitment is unraveled by love, even when the hero's death is the ultimate result.
What does that say about me?
Showing posts with label Movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Movies. Show all posts
Monday, June 3, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
I Don't Hate You, But I Kind of Do
A few days ago, a friend linked to this video based on an excerpt from a commencement speech given by David Foster Wallace. I usually sigh and roll my eyes over internet videos longer than 3 minutes or so, but this one is worth every second of its 9 1/2 minutes. I've been thinking about it all week. I can't fathom how I can be so inconstant myself (sometimes deeply in love, sometimes deeply annoyed, sometimes kind, sometimes selfish, sometimes patient, sometimes incredibly short of temper) and yet so unable to remember that other people are no more constant than I. The guy who cuts me off in traffic is no more permanently defined by his moment of selfishness and impatience than I am by mine when I occasionally do the same, and yet I immediately classify him by that action: "Jackass!" If my son learns any obscenities from me, he learns them in the back seat of the car when I'm driving.
These past couple of weeks, I was listening to Alexander Adams read A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. Hearing Frederick Henry and Catherine Barkley gush over each other in their small, quiet months together amidst the chaos of the world around them, I felt even more deeply in love with my wife, more grateful for her as a sanctuary. For a time. But a moment later, despite years of history, I am suddenly, disproportionately annoyed as hell by some inconsequential action. Knowing long before it comes just how the story is going to end (because how can it not? But maybe it won't. But how can it not?), I feel closer to my child and the undeserved luck of his healthy birth. But still, I'll snap at him all day long for small irritations. Why?
I also watched God Bless America this week, a mediocre movie that is just as sensationalistic and dehumanizing as the the pop culture that it purports to criticize. While watching it, I thought, "But there are no people that deserve to die!" even while chiding myself that yes, there are some people that deserve to die. Not Kardashians, certainly, but maybe someone that would kidnap teenage girls, keep them captive for years, raping them over and over and over again, yes? Deserve to die? And yet human. With thoughts and feelings and history and circumstances.
I want very much to be a better man, but for some reason, there is no such thing as ever after.
Mr. Wallace, who not insignificantly decided to end his own life, points out that it is a choice to think of others as just as human as yourself, and yet, I can't understand why making that choice is so hard, and never gets easier, day in and day out. It's a choice that must be made again and again, ad infinitum, and so many times in any given day, it's easier, or at least more appealing, to choose dehumanization.
And why is it so much harder to make that choice while driving, or while tediously working one's way through the grocery store?
I don't want to hate you. I really don't. But sometimes, I kind of do.
These past couple of weeks, I was listening to Alexander Adams read A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. Hearing Frederick Henry and Catherine Barkley gush over each other in their small, quiet months together amidst the chaos of the world around them, I felt even more deeply in love with my wife, more grateful for her as a sanctuary. For a time. But a moment later, despite years of history, I am suddenly, disproportionately annoyed as hell by some inconsequential action. Knowing long before it comes just how the story is going to end (because how can it not? But maybe it won't. But how can it not?), I feel closer to my child and the undeserved luck of his healthy birth. But still, I'll snap at him all day long for small irritations. Why?
I also watched God Bless America this week, a mediocre movie that is just as sensationalistic and dehumanizing as the the pop culture that it purports to criticize. While watching it, I thought, "But there are no people that deserve to die!" even while chiding myself that yes, there are some people that deserve to die. Not Kardashians, certainly, but maybe someone that would kidnap teenage girls, keep them captive for years, raping them over and over and over again, yes? Deserve to die? And yet human. With thoughts and feelings and history and circumstances.
I want very much to be a better man, but for some reason, there is no such thing as ever after.
Mr. Wallace, who not insignificantly decided to end his own life, points out that it is a choice to think of others as just as human as yourself, and yet, I can't understand why making that choice is so hard, and never gets easier, day in and day out. It's a choice that must be made again and again, ad infinitum, and so many times in any given day, it's easier, or at least more appealing, to choose dehumanization.
And why is it so much harder to make that choice while driving, or while tediously working one's way through the grocery store?
I don't want to hate you. I really don't. But sometimes, I kind of do.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Red State
If you came here from Google because you just watched Kevin Smith's Red State, and you can't for the life of you figure out what "why did you shine the direct?" means, I'm hear to tell you that I did the same thing, and then suddenly had the epiphany that it was "shy on the direct," as in, "why did you balk on following the direct order?" The interviewer is asking John Goodman's character, "Why didn't you follow orders and kill everyone?" to which John Goodman replies with a long story about two gentle old dogs who fight to the death over a turkey leg? And maybe he also resigns after getting a promotion? I don't know. This is the only Kevin Smith movie I know that's not full of strange, unnatural, high-speed dialog. I didn't hate it, though. Also: Michael Parks is awesome.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Phantomly Menacing Questions
One of the benefits of having a wife who feels guilty when she takes time for herself is that when she plans to go out of town for a few days for recreational purposes, she lets me go to Dads' Night Out with my stay-at-home dads' group, then sleep in the next morning, then have another night off to go see a movie. I chose Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace in 3D, and it brought up a few questions:
1) Why is this movie so full of tedious political intrigue when it's so heavily marketed toward children, who have zero patience for tedious political intrigue?
2) Why are the Tatooine/Pod Race characters so ridiculously cartoonish, especially the two-headed Pod Race Announcer, and several of the pilots?
3) Who decided that Jar Jar Binks would survive this movie while Darth Maul would not?
4) Isn't it Obi-Wan's rage and grief at the death of Qui-Gon Jinn, which are distinctly Dark Side traits, that give him the strength to defeat Darth Maul?
5) When it first came out, was the average viewer supposed to know or to be shocked by the reveal that Padme was Amidala and Palpatine was the Sith Lord?
6) Did I just miss the Immaculate Conception of Annakin Skywalker the first time around, or was that another new innovation from George Lucas, who has previously demonstrated his willingness to revise his movies with every new re-release? Spontaneously knocked up by the midichlorians? Really?
7) Do the accents of the Viceroy and the other members of the Trade Federation seem vaguely racist in a way that I can't quite put my finger on, or is that just me?
8) Shouldn't Palpatine have learned from the destruction of the Droid Control Ship and the resulting shutdown of the entire invading army, that placing all of one's eggs into a single basket, such as a massively expensive Death Star with a glaringly exploitable weakness, is poor strategy?
9) Isn't "Real 3D" essentially a gimmick, layering 2D images, much like a pop-up book, allowing theaters to make the ridiculously expensive theater experience even more expensive? And why exactly are the glasses modeled after the Ray-Ban Wayfarers of Risky Business fame?
1) Why is this movie so full of tedious political intrigue when it's so heavily marketed toward children, who have zero patience for tedious political intrigue?
2) Why are the Tatooine/Pod Race characters so ridiculously cartoonish, especially the two-headed Pod Race Announcer, and several of the pilots?
3) Who decided that Jar Jar Binks would survive this movie while Darth Maul would not?
4) Isn't it Obi-Wan's rage and grief at the death of Qui-Gon Jinn, which are distinctly Dark Side traits, that give him the strength to defeat Darth Maul?
5) When it first came out, was the average viewer supposed to know or to be shocked by the reveal that Padme was Amidala and Palpatine was the Sith Lord?
6) Did I just miss the Immaculate Conception of Annakin Skywalker the first time around, or was that another new innovation from George Lucas, who has previously demonstrated his willingness to revise his movies with every new re-release? Spontaneously knocked up by the midichlorians? Really?
7) Do the accents of the Viceroy and the other members of the Trade Federation seem vaguely racist in a way that I can't quite put my finger on, or is that just me?
8) Shouldn't Palpatine have learned from the destruction of the Droid Control Ship and the resulting shutdown of the entire invading army, that placing all of one's eggs into a single basket, such as a massively expensive Death Star with a glaringly exploitable weakness, is poor strategy?
9) Isn't "Real 3D" essentially a gimmick, layering 2D images, much like a pop-up book, allowing theaters to make the ridiculously expensive theater experience even more expensive? And why exactly are the glasses modeled after the Ray-Ban Wayfarers of Risky Business fame?
Friday, July 9, 2010
More Awkwardness
I'm not sure how to write about this now. I think I've been looking at things from the wrong direction. I've thought of play groups as something good for Thumper, something that helps him learn how to interact with other people, and maybe get some potty training motivation from seeing other kids pause the action while they go pee. I have also thought of it as something good for me, as ideas for destinations and activities when I run out, as pleasant conversation. I had several expectations for the dads' group when I first joined, with almost none of them actually approaching reality. I thought I would find ideas for ways to supplement Aerie's income; I did not. I thought I would find conversations and message board posts about approaches to solving difficulties I was having. But dads don't talk much. They sit in companionable silence. They talk about possible solutions to inexplicable noises coming from rear brake drums. And fishing. And sports. And they tell dirty jokes.
Don't get me wrong; there are a few great guys in the dads group whose company I enjoy and whose parenting I admire. I've had pleasant times and even great times over the past few years. But I haven't made fast friends, and I haven't found the regular, core group of kids that Thumper can play with again and again, learning how to navigate personality conflicts when everyone's not on their best behavior because they've just met. One obstacle is the large size of the group and the large size of the geographical area over which they're spread. The bigger obstacle is the apathy the dads have towards getting their kids together to play.
So I joined the couple of moms' groups thinking I'd have better luck finding friends for Thumper, but not really expecting to find friends for me. I have never minded being the only man on the playground. Moms have always been surprisingly friendly and accepting of me, especially with Thumper's outgoing nature. But I didn't anticipate, when I joined the moms' groups, the frequency of the in-home play date versus the playground/pool/sprinkler park play date. I tried twice to host in-home play dates for the dads' group. When Thumper was almost 6 months old, I hosted. I was apparently a little nervous. It went well, but it didn't turn into a relationship, either for me or for Thumper, and it would be another 2 years before I hosted another. Again, it attracted only one dad and one kid. The kids had fun; I had fun. But I haven't seen the dad, or the kid, since, at playgrounds or elsewhere.
Since joining the two moms' groups, though, we've been to 3 in-home play dates, a birthday party, and a baby shower, on top of many playground, pool, and sprinkler park dates. That's five times in a couple of months that we've gone to other people's homes, along with sometimes large and sometimes small groups of other kids and parents. Thumper loves these play date so much that he has not yet managed to leave one without having a screaming, hysterical fit. It is a cruel injustice that so much fun ever has to end.
For me, though, the in-home play dates add another layer of social awkwardness. Not just with the unselfconscious breastfeeding, but with all sorts of aspects that don't generally come up at the playground. I want to make sure my kid doesn't make a mess and shares and has good manners and covers when he coughs and doesn't club any babies or big-screen TVs with a baseball bat, lest my male parenting style be judged inferior. I want to make sure I participate in food prep or cleanup to the degree that's appropriate, not too much to be overbearing or annoying but not too little, either.
And conversation, especially at the baby shower, just takes turns that seem to leave me behind. When one mom asks the showeree how much weight she's gained, and the showeree says, "Oh sure, bring that up in front of everybody..." I feel like maybe I'm overhearing something I shouldn't, or that I'm the particular everybody it shouldn't have been brought up in front of. When birth stories were shared, with so many hours spent to reach so many centimeters dilation, I just never felt the natural opening in the conversation to talk about Thumper's birth, and transverse breach and c-section. It felt like I'd be intruding.
And then Bingo was played, and I was invited, and I played. I misheard the prize, though, thinking that the winner would watch the showeree's 3 1/2-year-old some day soon so that she could go out and watch the latest Twilight movie in peace by herself before the baby comes. I won at Bingo, tying with another of the moms, and it was explained that the prize was two other moms watching the showeree's and the winners' kids so that we could all go enjoy Edward and Jacob together. It suddenly seemed too much like a date to me, and I mumbled something about what I thought the prize was and wandered away. At the end of the shower, one of the moms who'd offered to do the kid watching reminded the other winner of Bingo that she was obligated to go see the movie whenever the showeree wanted, but she never looked my way, and I felt kind of stupid. And kind of relieved.
And when people began to leave, and the showeree was hugged, I filled one arm with my big bowl of fruit salad and the other with my big toddler so that I wouldn't wonder if I was supposed to hug too, or not. But still, it seemed like the hug could've happened, if I'd tried, but I didn't, and I wondered if she felt snubbed, or felt like I was oddly reserved, or if the hug, if I'd attempted it, would've been even more awkward, especially since I'd filled my arms with cargo.
And then, when I got home, I saw a Facebook Status Update that made it clear that one of the breastfeeding moms had found my blog, and I remembered that, though I'd originally intended to keep my blog anonymous and separate from my Facebook, I'd had second thoughts. I couldn't recall if I'd actually added irodius.com as my webpage in my Facebook info, or if I'd just thought about adding it. Turns out I had actually added it. And my imaginary online life collided with my real life.
It didn't sound like she was offended, though maybe her husband was. Hard to tell. But what struck me from what she said about the whole thing was: I am probably making up all of this awkwardness all by myself. If I feel like I'm standing on the outside, unincluded, it's probably because I'm standing on the outside, not participating. I have been very careful not to offend, not to overstep my bounds, whatever those bounds might be to whoever might be keeping score. And who knows how my own reserve is interpreted by these perfectly nice people who've invited me into their homes.
I wonder how old I'll be when I finally stop acting like that awkward teenage boy who was pretty sure that everyone else was working with a script he never got?
Don't get me wrong; there are a few great guys in the dads group whose company I enjoy and whose parenting I admire. I've had pleasant times and even great times over the past few years. But I haven't made fast friends, and I haven't found the regular, core group of kids that Thumper can play with again and again, learning how to navigate personality conflicts when everyone's not on their best behavior because they've just met. One obstacle is the large size of the group and the large size of the geographical area over which they're spread. The bigger obstacle is the apathy the dads have towards getting their kids together to play.
So I joined the couple of moms' groups thinking I'd have better luck finding friends for Thumper, but not really expecting to find friends for me. I have never minded being the only man on the playground. Moms have always been surprisingly friendly and accepting of me, especially with Thumper's outgoing nature. But I didn't anticipate, when I joined the moms' groups, the frequency of the in-home play date versus the playground/pool/sprinkler park play date. I tried twice to host in-home play dates for the dads' group. When Thumper was almost 6 months old, I hosted. I was apparently a little nervous. It went well, but it didn't turn into a relationship, either for me or for Thumper, and it would be another 2 years before I hosted another. Again, it attracted only one dad and one kid. The kids had fun; I had fun. But I haven't seen the dad, or the kid, since, at playgrounds or elsewhere.
Since joining the two moms' groups, though, we've been to 3 in-home play dates, a birthday party, and a baby shower, on top of many playground, pool, and sprinkler park dates. That's five times in a couple of months that we've gone to other people's homes, along with sometimes large and sometimes small groups of other kids and parents. Thumper loves these play date so much that he has not yet managed to leave one without having a screaming, hysterical fit. It is a cruel injustice that so much fun ever has to end.
For me, though, the in-home play dates add another layer of social awkwardness. Not just with the unselfconscious breastfeeding, but with all sorts of aspects that don't generally come up at the playground. I want to make sure my kid doesn't make a mess and shares and has good manners and covers when he coughs and doesn't club any babies or big-screen TVs with a baseball bat, lest my male parenting style be judged inferior. I want to make sure I participate in food prep or cleanup to the degree that's appropriate, not too much to be overbearing or annoying but not too little, either.
And conversation, especially at the baby shower, just takes turns that seem to leave me behind. When one mom asks the showeree how much weight she's gained, and the showeree says, "Oh sure, bring that up in front of everybody..." I feel like maybe I'm overhearing something I shouldn't, or that I'm the particular everybody it shouldn't have been brought up in front of. When birth stories were shared, with so many hours spent to reach so many centimeters dilation, I just never felt the natural opening in the conversation to talk about Thumper's birth, and transverse breach and c-section. It felt like I'd be intruding.
And then Bingo was played, and I was invited, and I played. I misheard the prize, though, thinking that the winner would watch the showeree's 3 1/2-year-old some day soon so that she could go out and watch the latest Twilight movie in peace by herself before the baby comes. I won at Bingo, tying with another of the moms, and it was explained that the prize was two other moms watching the showeree's and the winners' kids so that we could all go enjoy Edward and Jacob together. It suddenly seemed too much like a date to me, and I mumbled something about what I thought the prize was and wandered away. At the end of the shower, one of the moms who'd offered to do the kid watching reminded the other winner of Bingo that she was obligated to go see the movie whenever the showeree wanted, but she never looked my way, and I felt kind of stupid. And kind of relieved.
And when people began to leave, and the showeree was hugged, I filled one arm with my big bowl of fruit salad and the other with my big toddler so that I wouldn't wonder if I was supposed to hug too, or not. But still, it seemed like the hug could've happened, if I'd tried, but I didn't, and I wondered if she felt snubbed, or felt like I was oddly reserved, or if the hug, if I'd attempted it, would've been even more awkward, especially since I'd filled my arms with cargo.
And then, when I got home, I saw a Facebook Status Update that made it clear that one of the breastfeeding moms had found my blog, and I remembered that, though I'd originally intended to keep my blog anonymous and separate from my Facebook, I'd had second thoughts. I couldn't recall if I'd actually added irodius.com as my webpage in my Facebook info, or if I'd just thought about adding it. Turns out I had actually added it. And my imaginary online life collided with my real life.
It didn't sound like she was offended, though maybe her husband was. Hard to tell. But what struck me from what she said about the whole thing was: I am probably making up all of this awkwardness all by myself. If I feel like I'm standing on the outside, unincluded, it's probably because I'm standing on the outside, not participating. I have been very careful not to offend, not to overstep my bounds, whatever those bounds might be to whoever might be keeping score. And who knows how my own reserve is interpreted by these perfectly nice people who've invited me into their homes.
I wonder how old I'll be when I finally stop acting like that awkward teenage boy who was pretty sure that everyone else was working with a script he never got?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
On Avatar
It's beautiful, and engaging, and a stunning achievement. However, three thoughts kept popping into my head:
1. It's Dances with Wolves... in space!
2. James Cameron loves bioluminescence. But then, who doesn't?
3. Whoever came up with the word "unobtainium" should have been fired from the project very early on.
UPDATE: Apparently "unobtainium" is a real word. Those engineers and their wacky senses of humor.
1. It's Dances with Wolves... in space!
2. James Cameron loves bioluminescence. But then, who doesn't?
3. Whoever came up with the word "unobtainium" should have been fired from the project very early on.
UPDATE: Apparently "unobtainium" is a real word. Those engineers and their wacky senses of humor.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Complex Human Emotions
Aerie gave me the morning off, and I went to see Where the Wild Things Are at the discount theater. $1.75 ain't bad. Too bad the soda and popcorn weren't on the same price scale.
Much thanks to Aerie; it was the perfect movie for me to see today. I couldn't see Max as anyone but J-H through all of the pre-wild things segments, but J-H sort of disappeared when Max hit the island.
I was a little distracted by the Wild Things performers, too. Tony Soprano was particularly distracting. And Catherine O'Hara. I thought Alexander must be Steve Zahn. And it took me awhile to place Chris Cooper as Douglas. I didn't peg Mark Ruffalo as the boyfriend, or Forest Whitaker as Ira. And I thought Catherine Keener must be doubling as the mother and as K.W. But she wasn't K.W. at all. So all of that kept pulling me out of the story a bit, now and again. But mostly I was amazed.
It was good for me because it was a story about a young boy coping with the complications of being a human being. He was an immature person trying to process complex human emotions like love, jealously, anger, isolation, fear, powerlessness, and so much more. Each of those wild things was an aspect of himself as well as a study in the impossibility of peace, love, and harmony in a human community.
Which of course made me think of me. And the boy. And how he acts out. And how I react to it. He is the wild thing. He is Max in the wolf suit, standing on the table and yelling and biting. And I am Catherine Keener, reacting, and knowing I'm not doing right, and not knowing how else to do it.
I don't know that it helped, but it made me want to keep working to be my better self, to remember that each of us, including me and my son and and everyone else are all weak and afraid and hurt and capable of more and trying and failing. And trying again.
Much thanks to Aerie; it was the perfect movie for me to see today. I couldn't see Max as anyone but J-H through all of the pre-wild things segments, but J-H sort of disappeared when Max hit the island.
I was a little distracted by the Wild Things performers, too. Tony Soprano was particularly distracting. And Catherine O'Hara. I thought Alexander must be Steve Zahn. And it took me awhile to place Chris Cooper as Douglas. I didn't peg Mark Ruffalo as the boyfriend, or Forest Whitaker as Ira. And I thought Catherine Keener must be doubling as the mother and as K.W. But she wasn't K.W. at all. So all of that kept pulling me out of the story a bit, now and again. But mostly I was amazed.
It was good for me because it was a story about a young boy coping with the complications of being a human being. He was an immature person trying to process complex human emotions like love, jealously, anger, isolation, fear, powerlessness, and so much more. Each of those wild things was an aspect of himself as well as a study in the impossibility of peace, love, and harmony in a human community.
Which of course made me think of me. And the boy. And how he acts out. And how I react to it. He is the wild thing. He is Max in the wolf suit, standing on the table and yelling and biting. And I am Catherine Keener, reacting, and knowing I'm not doing right, and not knowing how else to do it.
I don't know that it helped, but it made me want to keep working to be my better self, to remember that each of us, including me and my son and and everyone else are all weak and afraid and hurt and capable of more and trying and failing. And trying again.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Hurt Locker
Not sure I get the title; was the box of bomb parts under his bed his "hurt locker?" Was the job itself a locker in which he hid away his hurts? I don't know. It was a worthy addition to the American combat movie genre, though. And I want to see more of this guy. He's dead sexy. We sort of kind of started to watch The Unusuals a bit here and there, but couldn't get into it. This dude wasn't the worst part of it, though, fo' sho'.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Watchmen
No wonder it's only playing at one theater in the entire Greater Austin area. I mean, Jesus. You're going to be all particular about sticking to the details of the comic in so many little ways, and then decide to totally go off the reservation when it comes to the single most important plot point of all? Really? I mean, what the hell? Why, why? You couldn't devote 15 more minutes to exposition on the entire raison d'etre? I mean, it's like adapting MacBeth and deciding to leave Lady MacBeth out of it entirely. And while the casting of Dan and Laurie and Malcolm and even Rorschach were perfect, who the hell picked Veidt? And Big Figure? Is Danny Woodburn the only little person working in Hollywood these days? Man. Disappointing. And almost so not disappointing. Except for, you know, the single most important plot point in the entire friggin' story.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Thumbsucker
I'd never heard of Mike Mills. Wait, isn't he the other guy in R.E.M.? Oh, never mind. When suttonhoo linked to him, I liked it, especially the graffiti and the Thumbsucker graphics. So I added Thumbsucker to my Netflix queue and bumped it to the top. I fully expected it to fit my perception of independent movies: a long (or long-seeming) exploration of quirky characters, an exploration of a meandering path that has no destination, an experience at the end of which I'd apologize to Aerie for making her sit through it. And it did fit that perception, sort of. Except for Keanu Reeves' cigarette-smoking dentist. A dentist/spiritual guide. I found myself inexplicably thinking of Danny Aiello's chiropractor/spiritual guide in Jacob's Ladder, though that movie was a very different sort of experience. But in Thumbsucker Neo is kind enough to summarize for us, and lo and behold, I suddenly liked the movie. I guess I prefer my art spoon-fed:
"I don't know. I guess I stopped trying to be anything and accepted myself and all my human disorder. You might want to do the same.... No, really. Look, Justin: there was nothing wrong with you."
"It felt like everything was wrong with me."
"That's because we all want to be problemless, to fix ourselves. We look for some magic solution to make us all better, but none of us really know what we're doing. And why is that so bad? That's all we humans can do: guess, try, hope. But Justin, just pray you don't fool yourself into thinking you've got the answer. Because that's bullshit. The trick is living without an answer. I think."
"I don't know. I guess I stopped trying to be anything and accepted myself and all my human disorder. You might want to do the same.... No, really. Look, Justin: there was nothing wrong with you."
"It felt like everything was wrong with me."
"That's because we all want to be problemless, to fix ourselves. We look for some magic solution to make us all better, but none of us really know what we're doing. And why is that so bad? That's all we humans can do: guess, try, hope. But Justin, just pray you don't fool yourself into thinking you've got the answer. Because that's bullshit. The trick is living without an answer. I think."
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Oh, You Know, This and That
This morning I finally hit ten pounds lost since the boy was born. A pound a month isn't a great rate, but it's better than nothing. And better than gaining. I didn't, as I hoped, get to the point before summer arrived where I'm not self-conscious about taking off my shirt at the pool. Thumper loves the pools, as do Freckles and Robert McGee, so we'll be spending a lot of time at them this summer. I guess I have to keep trying, and also try to get to the point where I don't worry about what other people think. It's not like everybody else out there is a swimsuit model.
I gave Thumper his first haircut last night. It was hanging over his ears. The Mrs. and I periodically mentioned that we should do something about it, but it seemed like it would be hard to accomplish on a squirming infant, so we never followed through. I told her I could just buzz it all off like I do with my own, but she wasn't keen on that idea. So last night, I had a few drinks, took the sharp, steely, slicing implement in shaking fingers, and let fly. Just kidding; I only had one drink. I trimmed over his ears and straightened out his bangs where his widow's peak made them uneven. Actually, they're still uneven. It's hard to cut a squirming infant's hair. I kind of regret doing it now; I think I Delilahed his Samsony cuteness. He looks like he's moved a bit down the scale from babyish to boyish.
I haven't been blogging or twittering much. I've just kinda been laying low. I've been thinking a lot about the portions of What the Fuck Do We Know? that deal with shaping one's own reality and about how people repeat the same behaviors because they've established neural net patterns and they're addicted to the brain chemicals that result from those behaviors. I've also been playing a lot of Scarface. These two things don't exactly go together very well, but when I found out that the latest in my beloved Grand Theft Auto series, GTA IV will not be available on Playstation 2, and simultaneously realized that I have no interest in purchasing a PS3 or XBox, or Wii, or whatever else, I used the last trade-in credits that I was saving for GTA IV on the closest thing I could find: Scarface. Last night I folded some diapers, then killed the Diaz brothers with a chainsaw. After that, I folded some more diapers, then took over the coke warehouse. It's cathartic, but not very New Agey.
I thought I was going to blog about What the Fuck Do We Know?, but by now I think it's gone the way of the review I was going to write for The Time Traveler's Wife: by the time I got around to it, the moment had passed.
I also thought I was going to blog about what Now Me thinks of 1995 Me and the paper he wrote, but it turns out I don't have that much to say. It was a paper written five months before I was married and twelve years before I actually became a househusband. The part about the fear of being perceived as gay is a little stupid, but I guess the movement from "househusband" = "less manly," to "less manly" = "gay" makes sense in a way. I do feel awkward being the only dad sometimes, but I don't feel a loss of respect, but it is twelve years later, and I doubt that it could still be said that "[s]tatistically, few men enter into the role of househusband completely voluntarily." I get Tracey's thoughts on gender socialization and how I omitted any consideration of same-sex couples, but I think it was outside the scope of the paper since it focused on reversing gender roles in heterosexual couples that had previously embraced more traditional gender roles. I also think it's part of her template to be ever-vigilant for racism/sexism/homophobism. And in my opinion, her illustrative boy being raised by lesbians mothers is still likely be socialized toward traditional male gender roles by one or the other of those mothers anyway. At least, that's what my experience with lesbian couples leads me to believe. But perhaps that's homophobic to say. Still, I'm glad she read it and had something to say about it. Thanks, Tracey!
We'll be at the Brushy Creek Lake Park water playscape around 12:30 today. Stop by and say hello. It's a good time.
I gave Thumper his first haircut last night. It was hanging over his ears. The Mrs. and I periodically mentioned that we should do something about it, but it seemed like it would be hard to accomplish on a squirming infant, so we never followed through. I told her I could just buzz it all off like I do with my own, but she wasn't keen on that idea. So last night, I had a few drinks, took the sharp, steely, slicing implement in shaking fingers, and let fly. Just kidding; I only had one drink. I trimmed over his ears and straightened out his bangs where his widow's peak made them uneven. Actually, they're still uneven. It's hard to cut a squirming infant's hair. I kind of regret doing it now; I think I Delilahed his Samsony cuteness. He looks like he's moved a bit down the scale from babyish to boyish.
I haven't been blogging or twittering much. I've just kinda been laying low. I've been thinking a lot about the portions of What the Fuck Do We Know? that deal with shaping one's own reality and about how people repeat the same behaviors because they've established neural net patterns and they're addicted to the brain chemicals that result from those behaviors. I've also been playing a lot of Scarface. These two things don't exactly go together very well, but when I found out that the latest in my beloved Grand Theft Auto series, GTA IV will not be available on Playstation 2, and simultaneously realized that I have no interest in purchasing a PS3 or XBox, or Wii, or whatever else, I used the last trade-in credits that I was saving for GTA IV on the closest thing I could find: Scarface. Last night I folded some diapers, then killed the Diaz brothers with a chainsaw. After that, I folded some more diapers, then took over the coke warehouse. It's cathartic, but not very New Agey.
I thought I was going to blog about What the Fuck Do We Know?, but by now I think it's gone the way of the review I was going to write for The Time Traveler's Wife: by the time I got around to it, the moment had passed.
I also thought I was going to blog about what Now Me thinks of 1995 Me and the paper he wrote, but it turns out I don't have that much to say. It was a paper written five months before I was married and twelve years before I actually became a househusband. The part about the fear of being perceived as gay is a little stupid, but I guess the movement from "househusband" = "less manly," to "less manly" = "gay" makes sense in a way. I do feel awkward being the only dad sometimes, but I don't feel a loss of respect, but it is twelve years later, and I doubt that it could still be said that "[s]tatistically, few men enter into the role of househusband completely voluntarily." I get Tracey's thoughts on gender socialization and how I omitted any consideration of same-sex couples, but I think it was outside the scope of the paper since it focused on reversing gender roles in heterosexual couples that had previously embraced more traditional gender roles. I also think it's part of her template to be ever-vigilant for racism/sexism/homophobism. And in my opinion, her illustrative boy being raised by lesbians mothers is still likely be socialized toward traditional male gender roles by one or the other of those mothers anyway. At least, that's what my experience with lesbian couples leads me to believe. But perhaps that's homophobic to say. Still, I'm glad she read it and had something to say about it. Thanks, Tracey!
We'll be at the Brushy Creek Lake Park water playscape around 12:30 today. Stop by and say hello. It's a good time.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Really?
I don't know. Maybe I need to watch it a few more times over the years before I pass judgement. I mean, it took awhile for Hudsucker Proxy to really work for me. But seriously? No Country for Old Men was the best picture this year? There had to be one better than that. I guess the speech at the end about the dream where the Sheriff's father goes on ahead and lights a fire in the cold and the dark, it was probably supposed to be meaningful and tie it all together. It seemed like a lot of pointless deaths to me. Did they decide the story would be for Llewelyn to strike Anton down and escape with the money, with the Sheriff maybe catching up with him and letting him go, letting the good guy get away with one to balance out all the times the bad guys get away? So they decided instead to make the anti-story? Or something? I don't get it. Somebody, please, make like Lucy and do some 'splainin'.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Suture
I loved President Palmer. Mrs. Rodius and I longed for President Palmer to be the real Commander-in-Chief. When he got shot in the throat within moments of his appearance in Season Five, it was one of the most shattering moments of our television viewing lives.
So lamenting the fact that he is now shilling insurance instead of guiding the ship of state through turbulent waters, I dropped a couple of Dennis Haysbert movies into the Netflix queue. See, for instance, my stunningly insightful review of Far From Heaven. Then comes Suture. Mrs. Rodius vetoed it within the first 2 minutes because 1)it's in black and white, 2)it's probably going to be all artsy, and 3) it doesn't have English subtitles. We like having the subtitles on because it reduces the number of times we have to rewind after saying, "What'd he say?"
So I tackled Suture on my own over a couple of nap times. Mrs. Rodius was right: it's too artsy. I never really got over the fact that a key plot point is that the character played by Dennis Haysbert is supposed to look remarkably similar to the character played by Michael Harris. In fact, everything about the story hinges on the two looking nearly identical. I know, there's something profound and artistic about this, something suavely ironic. I know, the tagline is, "A thriller where nothing is black and white," yet the movie is shot in black and white; the Prince is white while the Pauper is black; the Pauper becomes the Prince by wearing his white clothes and moving into his white house; while the Prince lurks in the background, now dressed all in black.
But I couldn't find anything meaningful in it. Or even anything all that thrilling. I couldn't reconcile that irony with the relatively straightforward monologue of the psychiatrist that neatly wraps the story up for us. I guess I'll have to break out the 24 DVD's. The old ones, back before Jack Bauer was a broken former drug addict and torture victim. Back when President Palmer still had us all in good hands.
So lamenting the fact that he is now shilling insurance instead of guiding the ship of state through turbulent waters, I dropped a couple of Dennis Haysbert movies into the Netflix queue. See, for instance, my stunningly insightful review of Far From Heaven. Then comes Suture. Mrs. Rodius vetoed it within the first 2 minutes because 1)it's in black and white, 2)it's probably going to be all artsy, and 3) it doesn't have English subtitles. We like having the subtitles on because it reduces the number of times we have to rewind after saying, "What'd he say?"
So I tackled Suture on my own over a couple of nap times. Mrs. Rodius was right: it's too artsy. I never really got over the fact that a key plot point is that the character played by Dennis Haysbert is supposed to look remarkably similar to the character played by Michael Harris. In fact, everything about the story hinges on the two looking nearly identical. I know, there's something profound and artistic about this, something suavely ironic. I know, the tagline is, "A thriller where nothing is black and white," yet the movie is shot in black and white; the Prince is white while the Pauper is black; the Pauper becomes the Prince by wearing his white clothes and moving into his white house; while the Prince lurks in the background, now dressed all in black.
But I couldn't find anything meaningful in it. Or even anything all that thrilling. I couldn't reconcile that irony with the relatively straightforward monologue of the psychiatrist that neatly wraps the story up for us. I guess I'll have to break out the 24 DVD's. The old ones, back before Jack Bauer was a broken former drug addict and torture victim. Back when President Palmer still had us all in good hands.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
My Media Week
anniemcq tagged me, and hey, why not? I actually got some answers for this one.
BOOKS
I was slogging through The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, but last night I finally gave it up at about the halfway point. No engaging plotlines, no likeable characters, no emotional punch at all. So I donated it to the Dick Paxton Memorial Library, the odd assortment of reading material shared among the ushers. I don't know who Dick Paxton was, but I guess he must've liked a good read. I'm sorry to dump this crap on you, my coworkers. I picked it up because I had a Book People gift card from my birthday and Capote on the cover looks exactly like the French professor in whose class Mrs. Rodius and I met.
I don't know if this counts as a book or as a "what I'm listening to," but I'm counting it as a book. And it's a fantastic book. When I finish it, I think I'll do a whole review, because I love, love, love it: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.
In place of Capote, I just started Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor, which I also picked up with the gift card because it was on sale and finished off the balance on the card nicely. By the first page and a half, I don't think I'm going to dig it much, but sometimes I'm wrong about these things.
MOVIES
My last three Netflix returns:
Oldboy, which should've been right up my alley, but somehow wasn't. Very strange, very violent, very sad. Maybe if they make a big budget American remake, I'll dig it. The twist was a little icky for me.
Brick, which also should've been right up my alley, but also somehow wasn't. It had Claire from Lost, Eden from Heroes, and Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun. It also had an annoyingly pretentious dialog style that presumably was supposed to anchor it firmly in the film noir style by reminding us of hip '40's slang that might be rattled off by the likes of Humphrey Bogart. But coming out of the mouths of 21st century high school students, it just sounded stupid. And the nicknames were pretentious, too. Brain. The Pin. Tugger. Eh, not bad. But not great either.
'Allo, 'Allo!, Season One. It's not really a movie, but it was a DVD on Netflix, so I'm counting it. Screwball physical comedies are sort of out of character for me, but this one was a nostalgic choice. When I was in jr. high and high school, Pops and I used to spend every Sunday night watching British comedies on PBS together, and this was one of them. It wasn't as funny as I remembered it, but nothing ever is. It was fun reliving it again, though.
MUSIC
Lemon Jelly. I have '64-'95, LemonJelly.KY, and Lost Horizons. I don't know anything about this group, even that they were British or a duo, until I just linked to the Wikipedia article. I heard "Space Walk" on Paul Oakenfold's compilation, Perfecto Chills, and absolutely loved it. So when I saw some more Lemon Jelly, I grabbed it. Now, of course, "Space Walk" is a Friskies cat food commercial, which makes me very, very sad. It's not the greatest workout music I've ever heard, but it is hypnotic and beautiful. And when you don't really like working out very much, hypnotic can be helpful.
BOOKS
I was slogging through The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, but last night I finally gave it up at about the halfway point. No engaging plotlines, no likeable characters, no emotional punch at all. So I donated it to the Dick Paxton Memorial Library, the odd assortment of reading material shared among the ushers. I don't know who Dick Paxton was, but I guess he must've liked a good read. I'm sorry to dump this crap on you, my coworkers. I picked it up because I had a Book People gift card from my birthday and Capote on the cover looks exactly like the French professor in whose class Mrs. Rodius and I met.
I don't know if this counts as a book or as a "what I'm listening to," but I'm counting it as a book. And it's a fantastic book. When I finish it, I think I'll do a whole review, because I love, love, love it: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.
In place of Capote, I just started Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor, which I also picked up with the gift card because it was on sale and finished off the balance on the card nicely. By the first page and a half, I don't think I'm going to dig it much, but sometimes I'm wrong about these things.
MOVIES
My last three Netflix returns:
Oldboy, which should've been right up my alley, but somehow wasn't. Very strange, very violent, very sad. Maybe if they make a big budget American remake, I'll dig it. The twist was a little icky for me.
Brick, which also should've been right up my alley, but also somehow wasn't. It had Claire from Lost, Eden from Heroes, and Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun. It also had an annoyingly pretentious dialog style that presumably was supposed to anchor it firmly in the film noir style by reminding us of hip '40's slang that might be rattled off by the likes of Humphrey Bogart. But coming out of the mouths of 21st century high school students, it just sounded stupid. And the nicknames were pretentious, too. Brain. The Pin. Tugger. Eh, not bad. But not great either.
'Allo, 'Allo!, Season One. It's not really a movie, but it was a DVD on Netflix, so I'm counting it. Screwball physical comedies are sort of out of character for me, but this one was a nostalgic choice. When I was in jr. high and high school, Pops and I used to spend every Sunday night watching British comedies on PBS together, and this was one of them. It wasn't as funny as I remembered it, but nothing ever is. It was fun reliving it again, though.
MUSIC
Lemon Jelly. I have '64-'95, LemonJelly.KY, and Lost Horizons. I don't know anything about this group, even that they were British or a duo, until I just linked to the Wikipedia article. I heard "Space Walk" on Paul Oakenfold's compilation, Perfecto Chills, and absolutely loved it. So when I saw some more Lemon Jelly, I grabbed it. Now, of course, "Space Walk" is a Friskies cat food commercial, which makes me very, very sad. It's not the greatest workout music I've ever heard, but it is hypnotic and beautiful. And when you don't really like working out very much, hypnotic can be helpful.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The King of Kong
suttonhoo, knowing of my adolescent love of the Brothers Mario, suggested the documentary The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters. It was released this week, and out of my powerful respect for her taste and intelligence, both of which far outshine my own, I not only added it to my Netflix queue, I even bumped it up to the front of the line. I didn't want to be six months behind on the conversation.
The documentary gives us entry into the world of "competitive classic gaming," a cabal of skinny, greasy, bespectacled geeks who commit their lives to the profitless pursuit of world record scores in early-'80's cabinet arcade games the likes of which I spent years of my youth dropping quarters into at the local 7-11. Specifically, the story centers on the previously undisputed god of Donkey Kong, whose score is so exponentially higher than any other pretenders to the throne that it is universally believed that it will stand forever as the greatest achievement ever on one of the hardest games ever invented. Then enters our David to this Goliath, and the chase is on.
I didn't think I'd enjoy this documentary after the opening sequences because of the apparently serious treatment of an utterly ridiculous subject. The cartoonish nature of characters like the villainous Billy Mitchell and his long-time nemesis, Mr. Awesome, left me wondering when Harry Shearer and Christopher Guest would wander onto the scene, sporting outlandish accents and hairdos. Then two things changed for me.
First, I started to realize that the filmmakers weren't taking it all that seriously after all; they seemed to be approaching the subject exactly as if they were making Best in Show or A Mighty Wind: making fun of the world that they're documenting, but with a genuine, heartfelt affection.
Second, I was surprised to find that I was becoming somewhat emotionally invested in the story. I felt outrage for the dastardly treatment to which Steve Wiebe, our David, was subjected at the hands of the Scorekeeping Establishment and Billy Mitchell, the man pulling the Establishment's strings. Wiebe seems fully aware of the ridiculousness of the world into which he's entered, but he still yearns for his one fair shot. I felt a pang in my gut when he's shown with wet cheeks after being thwarted once again. I admired and pitied his wife, who supports him in his quest and travels back and forth across the country with him in his pursuit of it, but who kind of just wants the whole thing to be over soon. Even the minor characters, the hangers-on to the greatness of Billy Mitchell, are presented with an endearing sort of humanity. The desperation of Mitchell's protégé, Brian Kuh, as Wiebe gets closer and closer to the record, for example, is nearly as heartbreaking as Wiebe's tears.
I won't spoil the story and tell you whether Wiebe's David takes down Mitchell's Goliath, but if you enjoy a good fake documentary, I recommend this real one. Thanks for the suggestion, Ms. hoo.
The documentary gives us entry into the world of "competitive classic gaming," a cabal of skinny, greasy, bespectacled geeks who commit their lives to the profitless pursuit of world record scores in early-'80's cabinet arcade games the likes of which I spent years of my youth dropping quarters into at the local 7-11. Specifically, the story centers on the previously undisputed god of Donkey Kong, whose score is so exponentially higher than any other pretenders to the throne that it is universally believed that it will stand forever as the greatest achievement ever on one of the hardest games ever invented. Then enters our David to this Goliath, and the chase is on.
I didn't think I'd enjoy this documentary after the opening sequences because of the apparently serious treatment of an utterly ridiculous subject. The cartoonish nature of characters like the villainous Billy Mitchell and his long-time nemesis, Mr. Awesome, left me wondering when Harry Shearer and Christopher Guest would wander onto the scene, sporting outlandish accents and hairdos. Then two things changed for me.
First, I started to realize that the filmmakers weren't taking it all that seriously after all; they seemed to be approaching the subject exactly as if they were making Best in Show or A Mighty Wind: making fun of the world that they're documenting, but with a genuine, heartfelt affection.
Second, I was surprised to find that I was becoming somewhat emotionally invested in the story. I felt outrage for the dastardly treatment to which Steve Wiebe, our David, was subjected at the hands of the Scorekeeping Establishment and Billy Mitchell, the man pulling the Establishment's strings. Wiebe seems fully aware of the ridiculousness of the world into which he's entered, but he still yearns for his one fair shot. I felt a pang in my gut when he's shown with wet cheeks after being thwarted once again. I admired and pitied his wife, who supports him in his quest and travels back and forth across the country with him in his pursuit of it, but who kind of just wants the whole thing to be over soon. Even the minor characters, the hangers-on to the greatness of Billy Mitchell, are presented with an endearing sort of humanity. The desperation of Mitchell's protégé, Brian Kuh, as Wiebe gets closer and closer to the record, for example, is nearly as heartbreaking as Wiebe's tears.
I won't spoil the story and tell you whether Wiebe's David takes down Mitchell's Goliath, but if you enjoy a good fake documentary, I recommend this real one. Thanks for the suggestion, Ms. hoo.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
That's a Stupid Name
There's a whole set of male actors that I love. Why male? I don't know. That might require a whole level of personal introspection that I'm not prepared to make at this moment. But these actors, I'd watch just about anything if they were in it. I think I mentioned Brad Pitt before. Would I have sex with these actors? I don't know. Maybe. If they asked nicely. I don't think that makes me gay. A partial list might include Morgan Freeman. Ben Kingsley. Bruce Willis. Josh Hartnett. I know, I know. I don't know why on the last one either. It must be the hair, carefully coiffed to look like he just tousled it carelessly before walking out the door.
Maybe you can see where this is going. My Netflix list, as I've mentioned, is unnecessarily long. It takes so long for a movie to rise to the top that when it arrives, I no longer remember anything about the movie, like why I picked it or what it's about. This week, Lucky Number Slevin showed up in our mailbox.
Mrs. Rodius, from the beginning, was unaccountably offended by the title. "That's a stupid name," she said. I think she felt that the name of the character of Slevin was contrived such that it would rhyme with "seven" and thus provide a clever twist on the familiar phrase, "Lucky number seven." She may have had a point. It's not until the 17th Google hit that Slevin becomes an actual name unrelated to the movie. But, whatever. I'd watch it.
Now, our Netflix queue is occasionally a point of contention. Mrs. Rodius has neither the time nor the patience to spend adding movies that she's interested in, so she has little other choice, besides finding something else to do, than to sit through the schlock that I pick. Sometimes even I am dismayed by the choices I made when they, after a long, long cooling off period, arrive in our mailbox.
"Why did you pick this?" she asks. I can only admit I haven't a clue.
Mrs. Rodius made it clear whenever she saw a commercial for Lucky Number Slevin, throughout the theatrical run and again after the DVD release, that she was not interested. She was irredeemably disgusted by the title.
Beware: here there be spoilers.
But I remember seeing the trailers and thinking it was right up my alley. Morgan Freeman. Bruce Willis. Some sort of semi-comic gangster movie? Maybe? I don't know. Whatever. I'd watch it. Maybe not one of those rare, willing-to-pay-an-ungodly-amount-of-money-to-see-it-in-the-theater-I-mean-four-bucks-for-a-soda-you-gotta-be-kidding-me kind of movies, but yeah, I'd watch that.
So this week, we did. Finally. The verdict? Eh. It was all right. I wanted to like it; I really did. But I was distracted by the many instances of horrible wallpaper. And the intentionally concealed plot elements through the first half of the movie made me feel like I was drunk and too embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what was going on.
In the end, all is explained except the wallpaper, and I didn't feel quite so drunk. We find out, too, that the hero with the perfectly tousled hair didn't really let his love die, innocent and insignificant collateral damage in his lifelong Count of Monte Cristo-style vengeance plot. So it can end as the semi-comic gangster/love story it seemed to be before it suddenly went all medieval on our asses. (By the way, that's a reference to Pulp Fiction, Mom.)
So will I learn from this experience and become more selective in my use of the Netflix queue? No, I will not. I will continue to add movies just because I like the people that are in them. Like Christian Bale. And Russell Crowe. Maybe you can see where this is going. Stop by again in six months for a disappointed review of 3:10 to Yuma.
Maybe you can see where this is going. My Netflix list, as I've mentioned, is unnecessarily long. It takes so long for a movie to rise to the top that when it arrives, I no longer remember anything about the movie, like why I picked it or what it's about. This week, Lucky Number Slevin showed up in our mailbox.
Mrs. Rodius, from the beginning, was unaccountably offended by the title. "That's a stupid name," she said. I think she felt that the name of the character of Slevin was contrived such that it would rhyme with "seven" and thus provide a clever twist on the familiar phrase, "Lucky number seven." She may have had a point. It's not until the 17th Google hit that Slevin becomes an actual name unrelated to the movie. But, whatever. I'd watch it.
Now, our Netflix queue is occasionally a point of contention. Mrs. Rodius has neither the time nor the patience to spend adding movies that she's interested in, so she has little other choice, besides finding something else to do, than to sit through the schlock that I pick. Sometimes even I am dismayed by the choices I made when they, after a long, long cooling off period, arrive in our mailbox.
"Why did you pick this?" she asks. I can only admit I haven't a clue.
Mrs. Rodius made it clear whenever she saw a commercial for Lucky Number Slevin, throughout the theatrical run and again after the DVD release, that she was not interested. She was irredeemably disgusted by the title.
Beware: here there be spoilers.
But I remember seeing the trailers and thinking it was right up my alley. Morgan Freeman. Bruce Willis. Some sort of semi-comic gangster movie? Maybe? I don't know. Whatever. I'd watch it. Maybe not one of those rare, willing-to-pay-an-ungodly-amount-of-money-to-see-it-in-the-theater-I-mean-four-bucks-for-a-soda-you-gotta-be-kidding-me kind of movies, but yeah, I'd watch that.
So this week, we did. Finally. The verdict? Eh. It was all right. I wanted to like it; I really did. But I was distracted by the many instances of horrible wallpaper. And the intentionally concealed plot elements through the first half of the movie made me feel like I was drunk and too embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what was going on.
In the end, all is explained except the wallpaper, and I didn't feel quite so drunk. We find out, too, that the hero with the perfectly tousled hair didn't really let his love die, innocent and insignificant collateral damage in his lifelong Count of Monte Cristo-style vengeance plot. So it can end as the semi-comic gangster/love story it seemed to be before it suddenly went all medieval on our asses. (By the way, that's a reference to Pulp Fiction, Mom.)
So will I learn from this experience and become more selective in my use of the Netflix queue? No, I will not. I will continue to add movies just because I like the people that are in them. Like Christian Bale. And Russell Crowe. Maybe you can see where this is going. Stop by again in six months for a disappointed review of 3:10 to Yuma.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Breaking the Cycle, Part 2
And Half Nelson. I guess now I have to watch Waitress. Thanks a lot, Tracey. But then, then I'm done.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Breaking the Cycle
Would somebody please tell me why I always add independent films to my Netflix queue?
Because you're an idiot.
Oh, yeah.
By the way, that's a reference to the movie Heathers, Mom.
Anyway, I'm swearing off independent movies forever. If it even mentions Cannes or Sundance, I wash my hands of it. It takes about six months for the bottom of my Netflix queue to percolate to the top, so I never remember why exactly I thought I would like a particular movie. I probably saw a trailer, or read a review by someone like defective yeti that said it was the greatest freakin' movie since Godfather II or something. But it never is. It's always, always, an interminably slow-moving character study of some quirky, greasy-haired, terminally depressed young man and the quirky folk which inhabit his environment. By the end of the movie, our quirky main character is just almost imperceptibly different than he was at the beginning, and I invariably wonder what else I might have accomplished with those two hours that usually turn into four because I watch, doze off, rewind, watch again, doze off again, rewind again.
Well no more! No more Station Agent. No more Lonesome Jim. I mean, I kinda dig Steve Buscemi as an actor, and Jim Jarmusch made Ghost Dog, so I can't fault him entirely. I've already banned any movie that describes itself as "wacky" or "romantic comedy;" from now on, the words "quirky" and "independent" are also out. Just so's you know.
Because you're an idiot.
Oh, yeah.
By the way, that's a reference to the movie Heathers, Mom.
Anyway, I'm swearing off independent movies forever. If it even mentions Cannes or Sundance, I wash my hands of it. It takes about six months for the bottom of my Netflix queue to percolate to the top, so I never remember why exactly I thought I would like a particular movie. I probably saw a trailer, or read a review by someone like defective yeti that said it was the greatest freakin' movie since Godfather II or something. But it never is. It's always, always, an interminably slow-moving character study of some quirky, greasy-haired, terminally depressed young man and the quirky folk which inhabit his environment. By the end of the movie, our quirky main character is just almost imperceptibly different than he was at the beginning, and I invariably wonder what else I might have accomplished with those two hours that usually turn into four because I watch, doze off, rewind, watch again, doze off again, rewind again.
Well no more! No more Station Agent. No more Lonesome Jim. I mean, I kinda dig Steve Buscemi as an actor, and Jim Jarmusch made Ghost Dog, so I can't fault him entirely. I've already banned any movie that describes itself as "wacky" or "romantic comedy;" from now on, the words "quirky" and "independent" are also out. Just so's you know.
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