She pushed the door ajar, animating ethers of dust, which she initially mistook for ghosts.
A chandelier made of stolen necklaces.
A chandelier made of stolen necklaces.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
New York-post graduation, 6/2012
Graduation felt incomplete. Partly because the work I started in fellowship continues. Many say this is something I should be grateful for, yet I wish there was still a sense of a chapter finished, which there isn't. Even after I cleaned my desk. Even after I got my certificate. It just felt like I was going through the motions.
I did go see the Flaming Lips at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, KS. I wish Lawrence was closer to actual KU Med Center. It's such a cool little pocket of enchanted liberalism. The concert was wonderful, a relatively small venue, literally suffocated with hipsters, confetti, large balloons, laser-lights, and Wayne Coyne inside that inflatable ball. Kris and I managed to find the perfect spot to see the entire show, and Wayne Coyne and I even had a moment where his hand and mine touched....though the plastic ball of course.
Also on a sidenote regarding Lawrence, KS: After looking at some dismal living options on the KS side near KU Med, I walked down downtown Lawrence, where there was this gorgeous loft lit up and across the street from a charming cafe called Henry's that made a great Italian Amaretto soda. It is open til 2 am and felt like a slice of the West Village without quite the NY buzz. It was perfect. I wished and hoped that perfect situation could've been walking distance to the hospital. Alas.
What, however, did give me a sense of completion was the ability to go to NYC for an unprecedented 10 days. I was exhausted. The morning of my departure, I woke up at 4 am, had to deal with some contentious issues, before finally leaving for the airport with no warning over the internet of the crazy encounter I was about to have in the airport. I went through security without a hitch or too long of a line. And suddenly, while patiently waiting for the flight to board, a frantic blonde woman announced there was a problem with the plane, likely hydraulics, which probably will amount to hours-long delay, if the flight is not entirely cancelled. The flight was then cancelled, half-boarded, emptied again, cancelled, and then another flight was coming in. By sheer luck, I got on a plane and arrived in NYC in the early evening.
Katherine baked me a chocolate cake when I came and I got to hug my baby who was laughing and touching my face. Such a gorgeous, happy child! Holding him was the salve I needed to deal with all the catastrophes of the day. I couldn't sleep in the night, but woke up early to see my baby rolling around in the crib, talking to himself. He is fascinated with the crazy mangled froth of my hair in the morning, touching it softly, his eyes full of curiosity.
On Sunday, I had brunch with Jeehee, Henry, Cara, and Lisa at this lovely place called Morandi. The gay pride parade was going on and it was fun to walk alongside floats with men in cut-off shorts and trannies, dancing to that Jay-Z New York song. At the restaurant, I was taking pictures with my 680 with the Silver Shade film but unfortunately, at some point the camera crapped on me.
Lisa and I then walked to Pippin as I was hoping to surprise Aditi with a brooch she was lusting after. Aditi apparently already put it on hold! We made some purchases and then decided to go see Annie Hall at the film forum. Man, if ever there was a film to watch in Film Forum, it is Annie Hall. While waiting in line, we ran into Lisa's bosses who seemed absolutely lovely and strangely familiar with KC for New Yorkers. I offered an open invitation, as I apt to do with anyone with a trace of enthusiasm for the spare, forgotten expanse of ghostly Americana that others derisively refer to as the Midwest. We went to a cafe lit in a pink neon glow after and ate some couscous, bread, tomatoes, and avocados. During that time, I relayed my story of a modern-day trilogy employing the lore of Hinduism which I now call the Blue Star Trilogy. Lisa, as she is apt to do, gave a whole-hearted endorsement as I relayed the entire story----it was on the whole a lovely evening.
Monday: I was so tired. I spent the day with Kiran, half-asleep. We skyped where he was so active, giggling, gurgling, even resurrecting guttural sounds which I've called "Baby Yiddish." He smells so sweet, of a fragrant, warm milk, flowers in a meadow. There is something spiritual of nuzzling into a little babe's belly and neck.
In the evening, I went with Lisa to see the recitation of the letters between Chekov and his heroine in real life ( and muse) Olga Knipper. I've recently resurrected an interest in Chekov, as I started to read some of his short stories, and also with this persistence of Chekov in the New York Theatre scene, it's hard to avoid him. My first exposure was seeing Ivanov years and years ago. Not so coincidentally, perhaps, the lead character was played by an extremely understated and dour Kevin Kline, and that performance stands out as the one that illustration how movie acting and theatre acting can be so different. Anyhow, I recall watching Ivanov and thinking oh geez, what IS his problem? And it is easy to feel that frustration with Chekov in general. But it's also his strength.
But Diane Wiest and Kevin Kline---both kids from Missouri---how could I say no to that? Also, recently, while looking up Chekov, I realized how little I knew of the man. Despite his own depressing take on mankind and relationships, in real life, it appears the man was affable and actually was successful in love, faithful to a woman, encouraged her to pursue her career even if it meant a distance that they both could barely stand, that when he died---he was not alone, he was loved. Both, it appears, were intelligent, generous, sweet, and it was this large spirit that they both shared which one could argue fed the feverish output of masterpieces that Chekov produced towards the end of his life.
I watched the letters recitation. It had some attractive, overly theatrical, somewhat sloppy pianist who played songs of the time while the two actors played Anton and Olga. Lisa told me that watching the love story play out gave her faith in love, but also reminded her of my own marriage, though....there are obvious differences. Ha. After the play, we went to eat burgers in the upper east side. It used to be my old haunt, but the diners were a bit of distance away. So we found a burger place which was delightful. I had elk sliders and blueberry soda. Delicious. I recall the place being called Elk Burger.
Teusday: When I came home the night before, I found the toilet to be in a state, so to speak. So I spent the morning dealing with the odious maneuverings that involves plumbing that goes beyond the help of the bread-and-butter plunger. I spent most of the day dealing with it and called for a cleaner to help refurbish the place from the dust and sloppiness that has accumulated from neglect. I was supposed to spend the day with Aditi and Lisa, and alas had to excuse myself from the event. I did, however, treat myself to a lovely keiseki dinner at Sugiyama, which is in the neighborhood. The meal was prepared in front of me by a rather quiet, stoic yet smiling chef and his sous chef was a Latina man. Seeing them orchestrate the delightful, surprising little dishes felt like a story told in small moments, the story of men from other countries, one learning the fine art of another's. There's a novel, movie, documentary, whatever you want in that. The most memorable dishes for me were a chilled tomato stewed in sweet sake and a grapefruit in cream dessert. After that, I decided to go see Grand Illusion at the Film Forum.
It's surprising for me to say this but Jean Renoir on the small screen cannot compare to him on the big screen. Yes, I most always prefer a film projection, but the difference is somewhat muted when it comes to film that deals with something as sweeping yet intimate as the human condition in small strokes---which Renoir is famous for orchestrating. You will run to see Star Wars or Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen but not necessarily Ingmar Bergman or Woody Allen, where the genius is in the dialogue or histrionics. But with Renoir, it's a little different. Seeing the same scenes I've seen a million times on my larger screen TV at home did not nearly resonate the same way as it does in an actual theatre hall, the black and white images flickering on an unassuming screen. Suddenly, the bits of dialogue, the quiet yet dramatic interplay of class during the war, the sacrifices made with little fanfare but deep appreciation----all play out in complete, heartbreaking sincerity. It's really hard to argue against any notion that the man, Renoir, the son of the painter, was a bonafide genius.
Wednesday: Finally, I did what I tend to do in New York. Shop. I bought film, camera batteries, and stopped by the new outpost of Pippin, where I snagged the loveliest necklace I have ever seen. It's from the 1800s with an unassuming pendant of three small minecut diamonds, mounted in succession on a lattice of white gold ( the charming showgirls educated me on the intricate and beauteous facets that make the 'minecut'). I also bought colorful baubles for the Vera sisters.
In the evening, I slipped into a Temperley blouse in a charming print called Japonica ( black blossoms and soft orange starbursts against a cream-colored backdrop) and headed off to some fancy-pants Law Firm function with Cara. Cara was all Farrah Fawcett locks and smart heels. Professionalism forces even the most stubborn of Peter Pans to grow up, but Cara has managed it in spades. She looked gorgeous. We discussed the inadequacies of our lives with amused resignation while eating the sub-par food in a beautiful window-ed penthouse that peddled faux-gambling, silent auctions, over-friendly and generous bartenders ( the ginger ale was delicious like crack...or so I imagine) and bad DJ music. At one point, we found ourselves talking to flamboyant, clever men who live in Brooklyn and discussing the rather old trend of fixies ( fixed-gear bikes. At one point, we did mention the inevitable resurrection of the Penny Farthing) and coffee among trust-fund hipsters in Williamsburgh. It made for a diverting 20 minutes.
Cara also introduced me to one of her colleagues who was fetching and fashionable girl from Puerto Rico, and this girl's equally fetching and fashionable non-lawyer friend from home joined us. While the former PR beauty had long, black locks, her friend had long, curly red hair and looked like a less gaunt, more conventionally pretty Florence ( of the Machine fame). Both girls, when left to themselves, spoke in Spanish and when we intruded in their conversations, apologized and returned to English. Also, oddly, both had French last names. Conversation inevitably turned to the idea of whether PR should ever be a state or its own country or continue to be the nebulous entity that it is. Apparently, the two friends disagree on this matter, one who is resolute that PR should remain as it has been and the other unsure of how she feels, seeing pros and cons to the other possibilities.
In the evening, we had a hilarious run-in with Cara's inebriated co-workers who could not guess the nationality of the red-head from PR. They heard an accent, a pretty face, and couldn't place it. And despite some obvious clues that she provided, they eventually guessed that she was from Goa and I--the Indian girl--was from Latin America. The whole conversation was incredibly hilarious.
Cara and I and another friend then abandoned the crew who were intent on luring us to the after party ( which we later heard inadvertently landed in a gaybar) and went to an Irish pub to hang. We talked briefly about life, love, being a single woman in our thirties ( though I am married.) Eventually, we parted. Cara and I walked partly towards Cheslea reminiscing of our days together traversing midtown and Chelsea, before eventually we said goodnight.
Thursday: The day before, while planning out how to secure Uncle Vanya tickets, I visited the website and managed to miraculously get tickets to the show. So I spent the day with my little kiddo before venturing downtown to see the show. Before I descend into my brief review of the show, I should mention a funny little incident.
I sat down in my seat, which was sort of a carpeted bleacher right in the living room set of the play. A rather charming, greying man arrives slightly late with his younger date, who appears less engaged. I immediately note the people in front of me ask him, "We were wondering which Horowitz would be sitting there, and it was you!" I immediately grasped this man was someone who was important. A director. A playwright. Someone with clout, obviously. I notice as the play unfolds, he laughs at the jokes the hardest, he watches the play with complete attention, that is refreshingly visceral, a true lover of the arts. During the intermission, a throng of more people approach him, and at one point, I was tempted to turn to him and say, "Sir, Who EXACTLY are you?!" I finally called Cara to ask and she didn't know who he was, but fortunately, the internet came to the rescue: The Director of the New Theatre. It was rather refreshing to meet a man who commands that level of respect but still relish a good production like a little child in a candy shop.
Anyhow, now my review. This production of Uncle Vanya was touted as immersive, where the audience members are limited and literally sitting in the living room, where the play unfolds. The performances were mixed, some great, some perplexing, but overall it's a brilliant bit of theater, I have to say. I'm not sure if this is age talking, but my previous inability to grasp what was so genius about Chekov is completely gone. Chekov never felt so contemporary, so perhaps the Chekov bug permeating NYC theatre has gotten to me, as well. First off, the certain disillusionment that accompanies patient care- existed in his time, over a century ago, as it does today, when more organized menaces demoralize the profession. Secondly, the implicit emptiness of good weather and life outside of the city fosters its own existential demons of wasted lives. Before American Suburban Malaise found its voice mid-century, Chekov nailed it. But you probably have to live life a little bit to get what he's driving at. In my case, a medical education worked. Finally, there's a profound pathos for suffering that is not overt, that is not simple, that struggles to find its own voice. Looking at his plays, Chekov must've been a brilliant clinician.
Friday:
The day was spent eating Japanese food at my favorite Totto Soba that serves this amazing dish of uni, roe, sprouts and warm rice. It is accompanied by cold soba and pickled vegetables and a double serving of Calpico. Seriously, my favorite meal ever. I took a picture of the meal that I look at fondly, time to time.
As for the evening: so this was D-day, when Lisa and I decided to watch the musical version of Dogfight, despite our better judgement, out of sincere love of that film. Dogfight the film belongs to a population of obscure gems that somehow don't quite get either the critical or popular recognition they deserve. I'm not being facetious when I blame it on the patriarchy. Other films that belong in this group are Me Without You ( the first film where Michelle Williams showed her dramatic acting chops---NOT Brokeback Mountain) and the New World ( far better than Tree Of Life). These films tend to have complex themes with female protagonists, and I think the system as it is does not know how to market these sort of films, unless the women of concern are prostitutes, nuns, or serial killers.
Anyhow, Dogfight is about a night between a kid about to be shipped to Vietnam and a girl who's trying to develop her voice, socially and musically. They belong to opposite camps, but for this one night, they realize they need each other. The ending of the film is nothing less than perfect: it's a quiet and ambiguous note by which to end a quasi-romantic drama ever. Anyhow, most of my friends and I are extremely fond of this film and may have seen it more than a dozen times, each. It stars a really fetching and subtle River Phoenix and not-as-chubby ( as the film would have you believe) Lili Taylor. The musical, however, is not a compelling work of its own. Rather, it's a sub-par recreation that just makes you want to watch the movie again. The male lead was great, but the music felt too Broadway with a score too stuffed with lackluster ballads. Lisa and I left, both agreeing on two thumbs down.
After Dogfight, I went to see Sleep No More again for old time's sake. Again, I ALMOST got to the 6th floor and missed it by one person. I wonder if it will ever happen ( this is literally the fourth time I have missed the sixth floor). Anyhow, I had magical moments where I was actually in Hecate's lair alone with her before she brought me into her secret chamber. And I saw the amazing door dance again. A nurse who looked like a lovely silent film star from the 1920s brought me into her examination room. Also, I was brought into a chamber, where a man in the dark pressed me against a wall and procured black feathers from his mouth; cracked eggs revealed nothing but dust ( could this be Lady M's infertility?). I of course loved the attention from the man who sounds like Noel Coward on the mike making eyes at me and calling me lovely over and over again. Puddles the Clown did some serious crooning after the show. Think a deep baritone in a smoky R and B melody.
I went home amazed how this show, now a mainstream success with plenty of douchebags lining up, can still be so compelling. At one point, I had a rare moment when I felt like the only person walking down the hall and thought, how could this be? Despite a throng of people at the door that grows larger with each visit. Who's to say? It happened.
All I know is this: Felix Barrett and the Punchdrunk crew, you are all my heroes.
Saturday: Leisurely day where I did nothing but sit on the couch. I went to have dinner with Rahul after checking out his supremely ethnic digs near Chinatown, that feel more authentically third-world than even Queens. The boy unpacks well. Despite boxes, he already had a bed and a bookshelf.
We ate burgers, drank wine, and then met up with his friend who was leaving the City for Portland. We sat on her terrace and talked into the wee hours.
Sunday: I had dinner at Fat Radish with the Wellesley crew. We talked for five hours. I cannot even recall what we were talking about for so long. That's how it usually is when you get us together. Later in the evening, I went to see Lisa's apartment ( beautiful, spare, with choice art on the walls) and we watched Dogfight. I took the cab home and savored more time on the red couch, relishing the sounds of the street in the distance.
Monday: My last day before going home. I spent time with my baby who gurgled and giggled and said words like "Uh-Duh" or "A-dah!" I left NYC still feeling his embrace and listening to his giggles.
That's how I began my trip, and that's how I ended it.
I did go see the Flaming Lips at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, KS. I wish Lawrence was closer to actual KU Med Center. It's such a cool little pocket of enchanted liberalism. The concert was wonderful, a relatively small venue, literally suffocated with hipsters, confetti, large balloons, laser-lights, and Wayne Coyne inside that inflatable ball. Kris and I managed to find the perfect spot to see the entire show, and Wayne Coyne and I even had a moment where his hand and mine touched....though the plastic ball of course.
Also on a sidenote regarding Lawrence, KS: After looking at some dismal living options on the KS side near KU Med, I walked down downtown Lawrence, where there was this gorgeous loft lit up and across the street from a charming cafe called Henry's that made a great Italian Amaretto soda. It is open til 2 am and felt like a slice of the West Village without quite the NY buzz. It was perfect. I wished and hoped that perfect situation could've been walking distance to the hospital. Alas.
What, however, did give me a sense of completion was the ability to go to NYC for an unprecedented 10 days. I was exhausted. The morning of my departure, I woke up at 4 am, had to deal with some contentious issues, before finally leaving for the airport with no warning over the internet of the crazy encounter I was about to have in the airport. I went through security without a hitch or too long of a line. And suddenly, while patiently waiting for the flight to board, a frantic blonde woman announced there was a problem with the plane, likely hydraulics, which probably will amount to hours-long delay, if the flight is not entirely cancelled. The flight was then cancelled, half-boarded, emptied again, cancelled, and then another flight was coming in. By sheer luck, I got on a plane and arrived in NYC in the early evening.
Katherine baked me a chocolate cake when I came and I got to hug my baby who was laughing and touching my face. Such a gorgeous, happy child! Holding him was the salve I needed to deal with all the catastrophes of the day. I couldn't sleep in the night, but woke up early to see my baby rolling around in the crib, talking to himself. He is fascinated with the crazy mangled froth of my hair in the morning, touching it softly, his eyes full of curiosity.
On Sunday, I had brunch with Jeehee, Henry, Cara, and Lisa at this lovely place called Morandi. The gay pride parade was going on and it was fun to walk alongside floats with men in cut-off shorts and trannies, dancing to that Jay-Z New York song. At the restaurant, I was taking pictures with my 680 with the Silver Shade film but unfortunately, at some point the camera crapped on me.
Lisa and I then walked to Pippin as I was hoping to surprise Aditi with a brooch she was lusting after. Aditi apparently already put it on hold! We made some purchases and then decided to go see Annie Hall at the film forum. Man, if ever there was a film to watch in Film Forum, it is Annie Hall. While waiting in line, we ran into Lisa's bosses who seemed absolutely lovely and strangely familiar with KC for New Yorkers. I offered an open invitation, as I apt to do with anyone with a trace of enthusiasm for the spare, forgotten expanse of ghostly Americana that others derisively refer to as the Midwest. We went to a cafe lit in a pink neon glow after and ate some couscous, bread, tomatoes, and avocados. During that time, I relayed my story of a modern-day trilogy employing the lore of Hinduism which I now call the Blue Star Trilogy. Lisa, as she is apt to do, gave a whole-hearted endorsement as I relayed the entire story----it was on the whole a lovely evening.
Monday: I was so tired. I spent the day with Kiran, half-asleep. We skyped where he was so active, giggling, gurgling, even resurrecting guttural sounds which I've called "Baby Yiddish." He smells so sweet, of a fragrant, warm milk, flowers in a meadow. There is something spiritual of nuzzling into a little babe's belly and neck.
In the evening, I went with Lisa to see the recitation of the letters between Chekov and his heroine in real life ( and muse) Olga Knipper. I've recently resurrected an interest in Chekov, as I started to read some of his short stories, and also with this persistence of Chekov in the New York Theatre scene, it's hard to avoid him. My first exposure was seeing Ivanov years and years ago. Not so coincidentally, perhaps, the lead character was played by an extremely understated and dour Kevin Kline, and that performance stands out as the one that illustration how movie acting and theatre acting can be so different. Anyhow, I recall watching Ivanov and thinking oh geez, what IS his problem? And it is easy to feel that frustration with Chekov in general. But it's also his strength.
But Diane Wiest and Kevin Kline---both kids from Missouri---how could I say no to that? Also, recently, while looking up Chekov, I realized how little I knew of the man. Despite his own depressing take on mankind and relationships, in real life, it appears the man was affable and actually was successful in love, faithful to a woman, encouraged her to pursue her career even if it meant a distance that they both could barely stand, that when he died---he was not alone, he was loved. Both, it appears, were intelligent, generous, sweet, and it was this large spirit that they both shared which one could argue fed the feverish output of masterpieces that Chekov produced towards the end of his life.
I watched the letters recitation. It had some attractive, overly theatrical, somewhat sloppy pianist who played songs of the time while the two actors played Anton and Olga. Lisa told me that watching the love story play out gave her faith in love, but also reminded her of my own marriage, though....there are obvious differences. Ha. After the play, we went to eat burgers in the upper east side. It used to be my old haunt, but the diners were a bit of distance away. So we found a burger place which was delightful. I had elk sliders and blueberry soda. Delicious. I recall the place being called Elk Burger.
Teusday: When I came home the night before, I found the toilet to be in a state, so to speak. So I spent the morning dealing with the odious maneuverings that involves plumbing that goes beyond the help of the bread-and-butter plunger. I spent most of the day dealing with it and called for a cleaner to help refurbish the place from the dust and sloppiness that has accumulated from neglect. I was supposed to spend the day with Aditi and Lisa, and alas had to excuse myself from the event. I did, however, treat myself to a lovely keiseki dinner at Sugiyama, which is in the neighborhood. The meal was prepared in front of me by a rather quiet, stoic yet smiling chef and his sous chef was a Latina man. Seeing them orchestrate the delightful, surprising little dishes felt like a story told in small moments, the story of men from other countries, one learning the fine art of another's. There's a novel, movie, documentary, whatever you want in that. The most memorable dishes for me were a chilled tomato stewed in sweet sake and a grapefruit in cream dessert. After that, I decided to go see Grand Illusion at the Film Forum.
It's surprising for me to say this but Jean Renoir on the small screen cannot compare to him on the big screen. Yes, I most always prefer a film projection, but the difference is somewhat muted when it comes to film that deals with something as sweeping yet intimate as the human condition in small strokes---which Renoir is famous for orchestrating. You will run to see Star Wars or Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen but not necessarily Ingmar Bergman or Woody Allen, where the genius is in the dialogue or histrionics. But with Renoir, it's a little different. Seeing the same scenes I've seen a million times on my larger screen TV at home did not nearly resonate the same way as it does in an actual theatre hall, the black and white images flickering on an unassuming screen. Suddenly, the bits of dialogue, the quiet yet dramatic interplay of class during the war, the sacrifices made with little fanfare but deep appreciation----all play out in complete, heartbreaking sincerity. It's really hard to argue against any notion that the man, Renoir, the son of the painter, was a bonafide genius.
Wednesday: Finally, I did what I tend to do in New York. Shop. I bought film, camera batteries, and stopped by the new outpost of Pippin, where I snagged the loveliest necklace I have ever seen. It's from the 1800s with an unassuming pendant of three small minecut diamonds, mounted in succession on a lattice of white gold ( the charming showgirls educated me on the intricate and beauteous facets that make the 'minecut'). I also bought colorful baubles for the Vera sisters.
In the evening, I slipped into a Temperley blouse in a charming print called Japonica ( black blossoms and soft orange starbursts against a cream-colored backdrop) and headed off to some fancy-pants Law Firm function with Cara. Cara was all Farrah Fawcett locks and smart heels. Professionalism forces even the most stubborn of Peter Pans to grow up, but Cara has managed it in spades. She looked gorgeous. We discussed the inadequacies of our lives with amused resignation while eating the sub-par food in a beautiful window-ed penthouse that peddled faux-gambling, silent auctions, over-friendly and generous bartenders ( the ginger ale was delicious like crack...or so I imagine) and bad DJ music. At one point, we found ourselves talking to flamboyant, clever men who live in Brooklyn and discussing the rather old trend of fixies ( fixed-gear bikes. At one point, we did mention the inevitable resurrection of the Penny Farthing) and coffee among trust-fund hipsters in Williamsburgh. It made for a diverting 20 minutes.
Cara also introduced me to one of her colleagues who was fetching and fashionable girl from Puerto Rico, and this girl's equally fetching and fashionable non-lawyer friend from home joined us. While the former PR beauty had long, black locks, her friend had long, curly red hair and looked like a less gaunt, more conventionally pretty Florence ( of the Machine fame). Both girls, when left to themselves, spoke in Spanish and when we intruded in their conversations, apologized and returned to English. Also, oddly, both had French last names. Conversation inevitably turned to the idea of whether PR should ever be a state or its own country or continue to be the nebulous entity that it is. Apparently, the two friends disagree on this matter, one who is resolute that PR should remain as it has been and the other unsure of how she feels, seeing pros and cons to the other possibilities.
In the evening, we had a hilarious run-in with Cara's inebriated co-workers who could not guess the nationality of the red-head from PR. They heard an accent, a pretty face, and couldn't place it. And despite some obvious clues that she provided, they eventually guessed that she was from Goa and I--the Indian girl--was from Latin America. The whole conversation was incredibly hilarious.
Cara and I and another friend then abandoned the crew who were intent on luring us to the after party ( which we later heard inadvertently landed in a gaybar) and went to an Irish pub to hang. We talked briefly about life, love, being a single woman in our thirties ( though I am married.) Eventually, we parted. Cara and I walked partly towards Cheslea reminiscing of our days together traversing midtown and Chelsea, before eventually we said goodnight.
Thursday: The day before, while planning out how to secure Uncle Vanya tickets, I visited the website and managed to miraculously get tickets to the show. So I spent the day with my little kiddo before venturing downtown to see the show. Before I descend into my brief review of the show, I should mention a funny little incident.
I sat down in my seat, which was sort of a carpeted bleacher right in the living room set of the play. A rather charming, greying man arrives slightly late with his younger date, who appears less engaged. I immediately note the people in front of me ask him, "We were wondering which Horowitz would be sitting there, and it was you!" I immediately grasped this man was someone who was important. A director. A playwright. Someone with clout, obviously. I notice as the play unfolds, he laughs at the jokes the hardest, he watches the play with complete attention, that is refreshingly visceral, a true lover of the arts. During the intermission, a throng of more people approach him, and at one point, I was tempted to turn to him and say, "Sir, Who EXACTLY are you?!" I finally called Cara to ask and she didn't know who he was, but fortunately, the internet came to the rescue: The Director of the New Theatre. It was rather refreshing to meet a man who commands that level of respect but still relish a good production like a little child in a candy shop.
Anyhow, now my review. This production of Uncle Vanya was touted as immersive, where the audience members are limited and literally sitting in the living room, where the play unfolds. The performances were mixed, some great, some perplexing, but overall it's a brilliant bit of theater, I have to say. I'm not sure if this is age talking, but my previous inability to grasp what was so genius about Chekov is completely gone. Chekov never felt so contemporary, so perhaps the Chekov bug permeating NYC theatre has gotten to me, as well. First off, the certain disillusionment that accompanies patient care- existed in his time, over a century ago, as it does today, when more organized menaces demoralize the profession. Secondly, the implicit emptiness of good weather and life outside of the city fosters its own existential demons of wasted lives. Before American Suburban Malaise found its voice mid-century, Chekov nailed it. But you probably have to live life a little bit to get what he's driving at. In my case, a medical education worked. Finally, there's a profound pathos for suffering that is not overt, that is not simple, that struggles to find its own voice. Looking at his plays, Chekov must've been a brilliant clinician.
Friday:
The day was spent eating Japanese food at my favorite Totto Soba that serves this amazing dish of uni, roe, sprouts and warm rice. It is accompanied by cold soba and pickled vegetables and a double serving of Calpico. Seriously, my favorite meal ever. I took a picture of the meal that I look at fondly, time to time.
As for the evening: so this was D-day, when Lisa and I decided to watch the musical version of Dogfight, despite our better judgement, out of sincere love of that film. Dogfight the film belongs to a population of obscure gems that somehow don't quite get either the critical or popular recognition they deserve. I'm not being facetious when I blame it on the patriarchy. Other films that belong in this group are Me Without You ( the first film where Michelle Williams showed her dramatic acting chops---NOT Brokeback Mountain) and the New World ( far better than Tree Of Life). These films tend to have complex themes with female protagonists, and I think the system as it is does not know how to market these sort of films, unless the women of concern are prostitutes, nuns, or serial killers.
Anyhow, Dogfight is about a night between a kid about to be shipped to Vietnam and a girl who's trying to develop her voice, socially and musically. They belong to opposite camps, but for this one night, they realize they need each other. The ending of the film is nothing less than perfect: it's a quiet and ambiguous note by which to end a quasi-romantic drama ever. Anyhow, most of my friends and I are extremely fond of this film and may have seen it more than a dozen times, each. It stars a really fetching and subtle River Phoenix and not-as-chubby ( as the film would have you believe) Lili Taylor. The musical, however, is not a compelling work of its own. Rather, it's a sub-par recreation that just makes you want to watch the movie again. The male lead was great, but the music felt too Broadway with a score too stuffed with lackluster ballads. Lisa and I left, both agreeing on two thumbs down.
After Dogfight, I went to see Sleep No More again for old time's sake. Again, I ALMOST got to the 6th floor and missed it by one person. I wonder if it will ever happen ( this is literally the fourth time I have missed the sixth floor). Anyhow, I had magical moments where I was actually in Hecate's lair alone with her before she brought me into her secret chamber. And I saw the amazing door dance again. A nurse who looked like a lovely silent film star from the 1920s brought me into her examination room. Also, I was brought into a chamber, where a man in the dark pressed me against a wall and procured black feathers from his mouth; cracked eggs revealed nothing but dust ( could this be Lady M's infertility?). I of course loved the attention from the man who sounds like Noel Coward on the mike making eyes at me and calling me lovely over and over again. Puddles the Clown did some serious crooning after the show. Think a deep baritone in a smoky R and B melody.
I went home amazed how this show, now a mainstream success with plenty of douchebags lining up, can still be so compelling. At one point, I had a rare moment when I felt like the only person walking down the hall and thought, how could this be? Despite a throng of people at the door that grows larger with each visit. Who's to say? It happened.
All I know is this: Felix Barrett and the Punchdrunk crew, you are all my heroes.
Saturday: Leisurely day where I did nothing but sit on the couch. I went to have dinner with Rahul after checking out his supremely ethnic digs near Chinatown, that feel more authentically third-world than even Queens. The boy unpacks well. Despite boxes, he already had a bed and a bookshelf.
We ate burgers, drank wine, and then met up with his friend who was leaving the City for Portland. We sat on her terrace and talked into the wee hours.
Sunday: I had dinner at Fat Radish with the Wellesley crew. We talked for five hours. I cannot even recall what we were talking about for so long. That's how it usually is when you get us together. Later in the evening, I went to see Lisa's apartment ( beautiful, spare, with choice art on the walls) and we watched Dogfight. I took the cab home and savored more time on the red couch, relishing the sounds of the street in the distance.
Monday: My last day before going home. I spent time with my baby who gurgled and giggled and said words like "Uh-Duh" or "A-dah!" I left NYC still feeling his embrace and listening to his giggles.
That's how I began my trip, and that's how I ended it.
Beasts of the Southern Wild: Review
So I finally checked off something I had been longing to do all summer, just before the autumn equinox, as a bittersweet ending to a truly epic hiatus from work. I finally saw Beasts of the Southern Wild, which piqued my interest back in the spring, while it was being hailed as one of the best films to come out of the Sundance factory and even managed to sway the judges at Cannes. Also, with a sister-in-law whose roots belong in Louisiana, which now has become part of my beloved nephew's heritage, I felt a certain pride that the film took place in the bayou. ( Whereas I call my Kiran "A Bengali Babu," among other things, Katherine's mother calls him the Prince of the Bayou. He is so beautifully both.)
Anyhow, the film is poetry on film. There is definitely some of the folksy nostalgia which seems to gripped the hipster sensibilities, but it manages to transcend it by transforming the story into fable about life, where everything we see on screen is not literal but rather functions as a metaphor. The film resembles a T.S. Eliot poem, not a coming-of-age story of a little girl in poverty. In this film, the people of the Bathtub live on their own terms; what we see as poverty they see as freedom. When the world as we know it tries to save them, they kick and scream and incite rebellion.
Hushpuppy, in the film, is not just a little girl of color---she is meant to be everyone. As I always said, in some ways, the only person who really knows what it's like to be everybody is the person who has felt every bit of suffering---which is likely minority and a woman, not a male, not white. The world that will punish her, not matter how good she can be. In that way, Hushpuppy is literally the Everyperson. Her father understands that, so he brings her up with a lot of heart and love but with a harshness that comes from knowing this world will not be kind to her, so she must be strong, she must face it and conquer it the best she can, without ever flinching.
The film begins beautifully, lyrical and happy, admist a spiral of sparklers and smoke, it's as if the Bathtub manages to conjure an entire galaxy of energy and light into their dark, jungled neighborhood. With such a beginning, the film must inevitably falter into scenes that sometimes can be trying on one's patience, and this is where the film remains imperfect. I am not sure what they could've done differently---maybe some more editing, but even I, who has a notoriously good attention span, eyed my watch midway through the film. The scenes do ramble but they also set the stage for the last 30 minutes of the film, the real gold, where it fully embrace its more lyrical tendencies, the part of the film where it teeters on being a true opus. This is where the movie truly deserves its praise, it is also where you feel more fully immersed not only in the land, water, the filth and beauty of the Bathrub but also into the very soul of Hushpuppy and her love for her father. The film is inspirational.
It is a tragedy but also a triumph.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Lions and Tigers and Bears....oh my!
A previous neglected post from over a year ago that I just posted:
The first time I took a friend from North America and took her to the subcontinent, it was a revelation. The country that I visited with fear and longing, with belonging and alienation----suddenly opened up, with details I merely took for granted: the paintings on the trucks, the inane grammar of "HORN OK PLEASE", the proliferation of public peeing, the busy roads with the trees growing in the middle, and of course---the animals. Linking Rd is a busy carpet of maneuvering, honking cars, yet in this bustle, not too long ago, it was not uncommon to find a cow in the road lazing around, while the cars and autorickshaws, without any hesitation, would swerve around it. My friend pointed out monkeys hanging around the ridge of building or climbing dangling wires, dogs going on about their business. It was this urban cohabitation with the Jungle Book that struck her and most tourists the most, when coming to India.
The first time I took a friend from North America and took her to the subcontinent, it was a revelation. The country that I visited with fear and longing, with belonging and alienation----suddenly opened up, with details I merely took for granted: the paintings on the trucks, the inane grammar of "HORN OK PLEASE", the proliferation of public peeing, the busy roads with the trees growing in the middle, and of course---the animals. Linking Rd is a busy carpet of maneuvering, honking cars, yet in this bustle, not too long ago, it was not uncommon to find a cow in the road lazing around, while the cars and autorickshaws, without any hesitation, would swerve around it. My friend pointed out monkeys hanging around the ridge of building or climbing dangling wires, dogs going on about their business. It was this urban cohabitation with the Jungle Book that struck her and most tourists the most, when coming to India.
Today, I went to a lecture that addressed this phenomenon; it was given by Dr. Salman Akhtar, a renowned psychoanalyist and poet, an enviable achievement in my world view, especially as both come from a certain cultivation of mind and soul that is not easy to accomplish. What also struck me about Dr. Akhtar was a similarity he shared with my mother: they both have a Hindi Film Industry connection, coming from a family that boasts of an artistic tradition. They both left India and had more strictly academic ambitions than their siblings, who embraced the glamour of films. That said, I also think they both have an extreme fondness for their culture, for the lives that they left behind, and it is the personal anecdotes that peppers Dr. Akhtar's lecture that added the real masala to his already brilliant series of observations.
Dr. Akhtar spoke about Hinduism's perception of animals, in reference to Hanuman and Ganesh, and how the use of animals explains important life lessons that permeate the culture of the motherland to such an extent that it explains why it allows the cows to laze in the middle of busy intersection. I will not go into so much what he said, in case it eventually manifests itself into a book ( he already has a ridiculous number under his name), but his rhetoric was so fluid, so precise, both anecdotal but systemetic in its analysis---it demonstrates his ability to embrace the literal and the figurative, his background in science and art. He put it so beautifully when he explained Hinduism. "It is a religion of poetry." Ultimately, what Dr. Akhtar really brought to the table was a psychoanalytical take on how the stories in Hinduism convey a world view, that is really not specific to any religion. Just life, really.
A Coda:
After the lecture, he went to the Tivoli theatres to show and talk about the amazing movie the Pool. I did not attend the film as I was not feeling well and had seen the movie before, but my mother went. She claimed to have seen the movie before and wasn't very impressed by it, but when she returned from the film, she was gushing "What an outstanding film!" As it turns out, she had not seen the film.
The film, by an American Chris Smith, was one of those cinematic gems that gets lost in the hype machine (Other example: Me Without You, the New World). It came out the same time as Slum Dog Millionaire, which also dealt with street kids looking for a better life, but this film did it without the pulp, without the grandeur but within the quiet realm of a house and the pool, the boy-man who longs for its beauty, the secret tragedy that the pool embodies, and the family that resides in the house by the pool. The film was made with mostly non-actors, except for the outstanding Nana Patekar. It also showcases the mangled natural charm of Goa without a swell of orchestras or sweeping cinematography. The beauty speaks for itself.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Summer Movies Update: Old friends, New Love.
So lately, the summer film promise felt inflated. I recall thinking about all the wonderful films out there, and then when it came down to it, not really feeling there was a movie I wanted to watch. As a result, I found myself revisiting old friends in a new venues.
Cleo 5 to 7. I have to thank a paramour for introducing me to this film. He gave it to me and said, watch this. You will love it. And so one night, on my small television with an attached VCR and a warped coat-hanger antenna that could channel PBS decently, I watched the film. Like any great work of genius, the story unfolded in such a powerful, beautiful way, that what was being told was far larger than what was on-screen. I was in medical school at the time, and I watched the film three more times that night.
The film is simple in premise and ambling in style. A pop singer named Cleo is awaiting a test result to see if she has cancer. During that time, she deals with her friends, acquaintances, work collaborators, her lover, an old friend, a silent film, the streets of Paris and a new aquaitance who himself is facing an uncertain, ambiguous fate, and ultimately, she deals with herself. Over this period of time, she grows away from her own vanity as a pop star, woman, and person, finds her own importance arbitrary, forgets her own affectations, and discovers a world greater than herself and in the process, a rebirth and redemption. Not too shabby for two hours, eh. The last shot may be the most beautiful ever filmed, and I think Agnes Varda as a filmmaker and a person bares so much of herself in this film, that despite the simple premise---there are numerous ways to read the story.
Anyhow, I recently saw the film at the SF MOMA with Kris, who of course took immediate pleasure in seeing a young Michel Legrand onscreen, who he labelled as "surprisingly dreamy." He also commented that he loves how a person can make a living in Paris selling hats. But I think that's also a relic of the past.
Take This Waltz. I was really excited to see this film, though I hadn't seen Sarah Polley's first feature which everyone loved so much, Away From Her. Like her previous film, this film has a female director, a female protagonist, seems to have dealt with the prospect of married love in an interesting way. I think I enjoyed the film but mostly, I left the theatre feeling an overwhelming sense of frustration that lingered for a full day after. Which speaks to the power and failure of the film, I think.
I do feel this film is a modern day Anna Karanina, in a way. It is about a married woman struggling with her own attraction to a handsome man across the street and trying to reconcile her inner longings with the structure of her everyday life.
What infuriates me about this film is that these people are not real people. The girl appears to do freelance, but a whole lot of nothing, which allows her to stew in her own emotions a little too much. She's over-marinated and overcooked, and may suffer from what SNL describes as "white people problems." The men of question in her iife are no better: the neighbor is an artist who drives a rickshaw by day. Perhaps, her husband is a little better and different in that he is working hard towards a professional goal....a ridiculous one, but it speaks to a VISION in LIFE greater than oneself. Maybe these people needed to spend the day with Cleo.
The film is beautiful to watch and there are some inspired sequences. Dialogue is awful. Sounds like a high school diary of a lit mag editor listening to too much acoustic singer songwriters. For example, Margot, the main character, discusses her phobia about flight connections, and instead of sounding sympathetic, she just sounds pathetic and pretentious. That said, had Polley just made a movie without the dialogue, left in the beautiful sequences of attraction and chaste flirting, and ended it ambiguously at a near-goodbye with a dream of a future that may never happen, the film may have been perfect. But the film expounded on what happened, resulting on an interesting and unforgettable rotating montage and finally ended with some level of resolution before ricocheting back into some level of cinematic ambiguity. I don't think I'd recommend anyone to watch this film, and yet it lingers in my mind more strongly, which I think is a sign of success. Who knows. Maybe it requires a second watch.
Singin in the Rain. What needs to be said about this film, that hasn't already been said? It's saturated in color, humor and joy. And though I've seen the film probably a hundred times, it boggles my mind how two directors could accomplish this level of freshness that keeps fresh even after multiple viewings.
Moonrise Kingdom. So I have a love-hate relationship with Wes Anderson. Most people who love him do. I am a staunch advocate of his early works: Bottle Rocket, Royal Tennenbaums, and Rushmore. I have seen Rushmore a 100 times. I had the film in my video player of the same television-VCR combo that followed me to medical school and played Cleo for me many years later. I liken the film to Great Gatsby in how it expounds on a certain level of disillusionment intrinsic to the American Dream as it was originally peddled. But that's another blog entry.
Anyhow, I feel after Tennenbaums, Anderson's films seems much more preoccupied with artifice than the visceral feeling of emotions that can give the artifice life. For example, I loved what he did with the vision of India in Darjeeling Limited, the details he noticed, the colors, but as a story, the film fell flat. I liked Fantastic Mr Fox but it did not linger in my mind the day after I saw it. So by no means did any of these endeavors result in a piece of work that I could liken to literature. I sometimes thinks he needs to start writing with Owen Wilson again.
I was so ready to hate Anderson's next film, and yet it was as if he found himself in a language beyond the Kinks and parent-child dilemmas. In the trailer, Moonrise Kingdom had me at the opening guitar notes of Francoise Hardy's "Le Temps de Amour." He found a new way to revisit old themes: a fevered ascension of minor-note arpeggios culminated into a major chord epiphany. Moonrise Kingdom the film lived up to its promise. The artifice was beautiful, yes, but the two young leads added something to the dialogue---real, unfettered, non-ironic, bonafide sincerity. Also, this is the first time Anderson was dealing with a love story between a boy and a girl. A troubled boy and girl. Two misfits, bonding over storytelling, campfires, dreams, and a vague sense of adventure as a means to refuge and salvation. It's old territory, but a pleasant one to visit, nonetheless. It may not have the thematic heft of the earlier masterpieces but I think a well-realized love story is a cinematic marvel in its own league.
I may have to see this one again, but I will say this: Well-played, Mr. Anderson. I tip my hat to you.
Cleo 5 to 7. I have to thank a paramour for introducing me to this film. He gave it to me and said, watch this. You will love it. And so one night, on my small television with an attached VCR and a warped coat-hanger antenna that could channel PBS decently, I watched the film. Like any great work of genius, the story unfolded in such a powerful, beautiful way, that what was being told was far larger than what was on-screen. I was in medical school at the time, and I watched the film three more times that night.
The film is simple in premise and ambling in style. A pop singer named Cleo is awaiting a test result to see if she has cancer. During that time, she deals with her friends, acquaintances, work collaborators, her lover, an old friend, a silent film, the streets of Paris and a new aquaitance who himself is facing an uncertain, ambiguous fate, and ultimately, she deals with herself. Over this period of time, she grows away from her own vanity as a pop star, woman, and person, finds her own importance arbitrary, forgets her own affectations, and discovers a world greater than herself and in the process, a rebirth and redemption. Not too shabby for two hours, eh. The last shot may be the most beautiful ever filmed, and I think Agnes Varda as a filmmaker and a person bares so much of herself in this film, that despite the simple premise---there are numerous ways to read the story.
Anyhow, I recently saw the film at the SF MOMA with Kris, who of course took immediate pleasure in seeing a young Michel Legrand onscreen, who he labelled as "surprisingly dreamy." He also commented that he loves how a person can make a living in Paris selling hats. But I think that's also a relic of the past.
Take This Waltz. I was really excited to see this film, though I hadn't seen Sarah Polley's first feature which everyone loved so much, Away From Her. Like her previous film, this film has a female director, a female protagonist, seems to have dealt with the prospect of married love in an interesting way. I think I enjoyed the film but mostly, I left the theatre feeling an overwhelming sense of frustration that lingered for a full day after. Which speaks to the power and failure of the film, I think.
I do feel this film is a modern day Anna Karanina, in a way. It is about a married woman struggling with her own attraction to a handsome man across the street and trying to reconcile her inner longings with the structure of her everyday life.
What infuriates me about this film is that these people are not real people. The girl appears to do freelance, but a whole lot of nothing, which allows her to stew in her own emotions a little too much. She's over-marinated and overcooked, and may suffer from what SNL describes as "white people problems." The men of question in her iife are no better: the neighbor is an artist who drives a rickshaw by day. Perhaps, her husband is a little better and different in that he is working hard towards a professional goal....a ridiculous one, but it speaks to a VISION in LIFE greater than oneself. Maybe these people needed to spend the day with Cleo.
The film is beautiful to watch and there are some inspired sequences. Dialogue is awful. Sounds like a high school diary of a lit mag editor listening to too much acoustic singer songwriters. For example, Margot, the main character, discusses her phobia about flight connections, and instead of sounding sympathetic, she just sounds pathetic and pretentious. That said, had Polley just made a movie without the dialogue, left in the beautiful sequences of attraction and chaste flirting, and ended it ambiguously at a near-goodbye with a dream of a future that may never happen, the film may have been perfect. But the film expounded on what happened, resulting on an interesting and unforgettable rotating montage and finally ended with some level of resolution before ricocheting back into some level of cinematic ambiguity. I don't think I'd recommend anyone to watch this film, and yet it lingers in my mind more strongly, which I think is a sign of success. Who knows. Maybe it requires a second watch.
Singin in the Rain. What needs to be said about this film, that hasn't already been said? It's saturated in color, humor and joy. And though I've seen the film probably a hundred times, it boggles my mind how two directors could accomplish this level of freshness that keeps fresh even after multiple viewings.
Moonrise Kingdom. So I have a love-hate relationship with Wes Anderson. Most people who love him do. I am a staunch advocate of his early works: Bottle Rocket, Royal Tennenbaums, and Rushmore. I have seen Rushmore a 100 times. I had the film in my video player of the same television-VCR combo that followed me to medical school and played Cleo for me many years later. I liken the film to Great Gatsby in how it expounds on a certain level of disillusionment intrinsic to the American Dream as it was originally peddled. But that's another blog entry.
Anyhow, I feel after Tennenbaums, Anderson's films seems much more preoccupied with artifice than the visceral feeling of emotions that can give the artifice life. For example, I loved what he did with the vision of India in Darjeeling Limited, the details he noticed, the colors, but as a story, the film fell flat. I liked Fantastic Mr Fox but it did not linger in my mind the day after I saw it. So by no means did any of these endeavors result in a piece of work that I could liken to literature. I sometimes thinks he needs to start writing with Owen Wilson again.
I was so ready to hate Anderson's next film, and yet it was as if he found himself in a language beyond the Kinks and parent-child dilemmas. In the trailer, Moonrise Kingdom had me at the opening guitar notes of Francoise Hardy's "Le Temps de Amour." He found a new way to revisit old themes: a fevered ascension of minor-note arpeggios culminated into a major chord epiphany. Moonrise Kingdom the film lived up to its promise. The artifice was beautiful, yes, but the two young leads added something to the dialogue---real, unfettered, non-ironic, bonafide sincerity. Also, this is the first time Anderson was dealing with a love story between a boy and a girl. A troubled boy and girl. Two misfits, bonding over storytelling, campfires, dreams, and a vague sense of adventure as a means to refuge and salvation. It's old territory, but a pleasant one to visit, nonetheless. It may not have the thematic heft of the earlier masterpieces but I think a well-realized love story is a cinematic marvel in its own league.
I may have to see this one again, but I will say this: Well-played, Mr. Anderson. I tip my hat to you.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Movie Log
So I have decided to embark on my own movie log of films that I adore. I have always wanted to write reviews of films on my blog and now that fellowship is coming to a close, with a new portable laptop in tow, I have no excuse, at least during the summer. My god, I haven't had summer vacation in so long, though I'm not sure if it will be a real summer hiatus.
So the notable films of this year have been French for me: Kid on a Bike and Declaration of War. The latter is a very imperfect film, even with its moments bordering on being too precious, but its very visceral depiction of a love story in the midst of circumstantial crisis ( their kid with cancer) was memorable, moving, and beautiful. I felt the most memorable scene for me was when the parents escape the hospital where they child sleeps, go to a party where they smoke, dance, kiss strangers, and act like two lovers with no responsibilities in the world. In these scenes, you feel that rush of being young, or exploring possibilities, or having not to answer to anyone....until at the end, the couple finds themselves on a couch, separated by friends, looking at each other with tears in their eyes, while listening to a girl singing to a room of partygoers now lulled by exhaustion and a lingering sense of satisfaction of having fulfilled the night's promise. That scene was worth the price of admission alone.
The only film that came close to moving me in the same way was A Kid on a Bike, another strange love story of sorts. It's about a women inexplicably capable of a rare, patient love for an angry, abandoned child. There are multiple beautiful scenes between the child and the woman but what makes the film a masterpiece, aside from the gorgeously spare and elegant use of Beethoven, is the ending, when the child's transformation through this woman's love proves to be far more profound than anyone guessed. That even when facing the fickle nature of ordinary human beings, he is capable of sacrifice, love and forgiveness for all the cruelties in the world because he knows a steadfast source of love.
NOW for the shit list: 1) Damsels in Distress. 2) Snow White and the Huntsmen. I always loved White Stillman. He has a knack for dialogue and creating a unique social universe in a film, which is a rare talent as a filmmaker. And he does it with Damsels in Distress. And Greta Gerwig has screen prescence and can deliver Stillman's lines unlike any heroine ever has ( Chloe S. comes in at a close second for my favorite Stillman film Last Days of Disco.) That said, the script had no direction and felt like a student film that was done impromptu. It felt completely pointless and arbitrary, where character development felt zig-zag at best.
As for Snow White, well---it may be the most blatantly derivative film I have ever seen. I am pretty sure it was conceived on the premise of some Hollywood hotshot thinking to himself, How can we package Lord of the Rings for the Twilight demographic so we can target all the fanatics? And then he goes, Aha! Didn't Snow White have dwarves in it? We can have them walking hills to Celtic music sung by Enya and cast Kristen Stewart and we've got ourselves a winner. There's even a blatant "She's the one" shenanigans, and the generously antler-ed Spirit of the Forest, ripped off from Princess Mononoke, even makes a cameo. The only good thing about the film is Charlize Theron. In fact, had the film actually just focused on her, who clearly is more beautiful than Stewart, despite what a Mirror says, the film may have been more interesting.
I can't help thinking of that genius bit in Annie Hall where Woody Allen's character Alvy Singer points out that he was always more interested in the insecure Queen than the Little Miss Perfect Snow White. I agree with him. The Queen's neuroses made her a more full-bodied, alluring, and complex specimen of beauty, inside and out than the oblivious, silly Snow White who seemed more intent on cleaning up the Forest. Damn straight!
So the notable films of this year have been French for me: Kid on a Bike and Declaration of War. The latter is a very imperfect film, even with its moments bordering on being too precious, but its very visceral depiction of a love story in the midst of circumstantial crisis ( their kid with cancer) was memorable, moving, and beautiful. I felt the most memorable scene for me was when the parents escape the hospital where they child sleeps, go to a party where they smoke, dance, kiss strangers, and act like two lovers with no responsibilities in the world. In these scenes, you feel that rush of being young, or exploring possibilities, or having not to answer to anyone....until at the end, the couple finds themselves on a couch, separated by friends, looking at each other with tears in their eyes, while listening to a girl singing to a room of partygoers now lulled by exhaustion and a lingering sense of satisfaction of having fulfilled the night's promise. That scene was worth the price of admission alone.
The only film that came close to moving me in the same way was A Kid on a Bike, another strange love story of sorts. It's about a women inexplicably capable of a rare, patient love for an angry, abandoned child. There are multiple beautiful scenes between the child and the woman but what makes the film a masterpiece, aside from the gorgeously spare and elegant use of Beethoven, is the ending, when the child's transformation through this woman's love proves to be far more profound than anyone guessed. That even when facing the fickle nature of ordinary human beings, he is capable of sacrifice, love and forgiveness for all the cruelties in the world because he knows a steadfast source of love.
NOW for the shit list: 1) Damsels in Distress. 2) Snow White and the Huntsmen. I always loved White Stillman. He has a knack for dialogue and creating a unique social universe in a film, which is a rare talent as a filmmaker. And he does it with Damsels in Distress. And Greta Gerwig has screen prescence and can deliver Stillman's lines unlike any heroine ever has ( Chloe S. comes in at a close second for my favorite Stillman film Last Days of Disco.) That said, the script had no direction and felt like a student film that was done impromptu. It felt completely pointless and arbitrary, where character development felt zig-zag at best.
As for Snow White, well---it may be the most blatantly derivative film I have ever seen. I am pretty sure it was conceived on the premise of some Hollywood hotshot thinking to himself, How can we package Lord of the Rings for the Twilight demographic so we can target all the fanatics? And then he goes, Aha! Didn't Snow White have dwarves in it? We can have them walking hills to Celtic music sung by Enya and cast Kristen Stewart and we've got ourselves a winner. There's even a blatant "She's the one" shenanigans, and the generously antler-ed Spirit of the Forest, ripped off from Princess Mononoke, even makes a cameo. The only good thing about the film is Charlize Theron. In fact, had the film actually just focused on her, who clearly is more beautiful than Stewart, despite what a Mirror says, the film may have been more interesting.
I can't help thinking of that genius bit in Annie Hall where Woody Allen's character Alvy Singer points out that he was always more interested in the insecure Queen than the Little Miss Perfect Snow White. I agree with him. The Queen's neuroses made her a more full-bodied, alluring, and complex specimen of beauty, inside and out than the oblivious, silly Snow White who seemed more intent on cleaning up the Forest. Damn straight!
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Punchdrunk
This company is more than a muse to me, though it is that, prompting me to finish works that have gathered dust over years. The company is sort of a manifesto, a religion, blurring the line between what I think is impossible and possible, real and fiction, giving real heft to fancies that I otherwise wrote off as frivolous and not worth realizing in the light of day. And I had the great fortune of meeting Felix Barret, having him hug me, kiss me on my cheek, offer a job ( that I had to sheepishly decline), and sign my Sleep No More mask.
Anyhow, I happened to first see Sleep No More the weekend I first saw Mcqueen's Savage Beauty exhibit at the Met ( and also saw Mark Rylance in Jerusalem.) The three together make for an extraordinary series exploring the dark romantic mysticism of the landscape in the British Isles. It was a sunny weekend in May in Manhattan but the ghosts of the moor loomed nonetheless.
So it was a matter of time before the two found each other and created a visionary experience together. Punchdrunk helped put on McQ's show recently. And it seems by all accounts AWESOME.
http://www.graziadaily.co.uk/fashion/archive/2012/02/20/watch--mcq-autumn-winter-2012-live-stream.htm
http://www.graziadaily.co.uk/fashion/archive/2012/02/23/all-the-secrets-behind-mcqs-spectacular-show--exclusive.htm
Anyhow, I happened to first see Sleep No More the weekend I first saw Mcqueen's Savage Beauty exhibit at the Met ( and also saw Mark Rylance in Jerusalem.) The three together make for an extraordinary series exploring the dark romantic mysticism of the landscape in the British Isles. It was a sunny weekend in May in Manhattan but the ghosts of the moor loomed nonetheless.
So it was a matter of time before the two found each other and created a visionary experience together. Punchdrunk helped put on McQ's show recently. And it seems by all accounts AWESOME.
http://www.graziadaily.co.uk/fashion/archive/2012/02/20/watch--mcq-autumn-winter-2012-live-stream.htm
http://www.graziadaily.co.uk/fashion/archive/2012/02/23/all-the-secrets-behind-mcqs-spectacular-show--exclusive.htm
Juxtapostion: Time as a Place. ( aka A Forgotten Corner of this World, Full of Love)
I happened to be reacquainting myself with the land of the social network, when I found myself watching a little film about a man and his home and then reading a poem about memories. The film is about a man who is the type of obscure NY character who gives the city its quintessential stature as a hotbed of idiosynchorcies, the whole spectrum of humankind's attributes crammed into a slender island, invigorating its shifting architectural landscape with an awesome collage of individuals. While reading about this individual and all the little stories and objects he has collected, I encountered a poem about the struggle we have with our own past and memories, a tug of war that we all deal with to some extent everday and that summarizes who we were, who we want to be and how that informs who we are now. The poem was sent by Aditi in Bombay. The film was shared by Roger Ebert in his incomparable Twitterfeed.
The juxtaposition makes for an interesting pairing.
The link to the film:
http://vimeo.com/37093042#embed
The poem:
Hard Life with Memory Wisława Szymborska
I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.
The juxtaposition makes for an interesting pairing.
The link to the film:
http://vimeo.com/37093042#
The poem:
Hard Life with Memory Wisława Szymborska
I’m a poor audience for my memory.She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)