Not On the Ground, Not To the Sky, But What's In Front of Me

I can't stand it. Why am I a moderate? Because people gravitate to the extremes, too much of the time. We're either inspecting the wrinkles in our leather shoes or gazing sadly into the murky, unknown, tantalizing depths of the Milky Wa - oh, get over it. 

Now is the time for college essays, and everyone's telling me about how they're writing about religion or science or the "potential link between neuroscience and religion as the key to our souls", and I'm just like "good for you! fuck that shit." I went through a self-aggrandizing, intellectual phase in freshman and sophomore year, and I am THROUGH with it. I am the not the first to think those through, nor am I the last. Billions of people, most of them smarter of me, have asked and probed the same questions. We want to think that we're special for thinking these recycled, tired thoughts that have will not get us very far. Well guess what? What we want is not the same as what we need.

We need to find that intersection between the past, present, and future. To look straight ahead while walking. Look at the flowers that mean more to us than our futile words can ever express, accept the candy from Halloween, pick up the person who is lying in the street, crippled. Be active and healthy, dreamy and appreciative. Fucking READ those health articles in the Reader's Digest so everyone can stop getting cancer and heart attacks. It's much more preventable than you think it is. And please, stop talking so much. Recently I've gone through a phase where I've heard endless speakers give their spiel, all the while thinking, "I could have taken your half-hour speech and condensed it into five-sentence bullet points. Unless you're a ridiculously eloquent speaker whom we pay for the pleasure of listening, jaw-dropped, catching each word like a goddamn gold nugget, BE EFFICIENT. Be efficient, be happy. Dily-dally over good food, good music, plants, the beauties of life, help each other to do the same, and don't shit over who you're going to sit on the bus with or the psychobabble of religion. That is all.

Woman, FEED ME!

Well, now I know what I'm going as for Halloween. 

*Also realized, while looking at the first pic, how many similarities there were between this movie and Marie Antoinette, by none other than Jonze's ex, Sofia Coppola. Slight empahsis  on Converses, for instance. 

IMDB Profile Archive

Because I'm continually updating my IMDB account profile, I thought I would save some of the old ones to my blog.

One posted a few weeks ago:

"Recently discovered what having a favorite movie really meant. Not necessarily one that you would love to rewatch 298492x, but one that from a first-time viewing, immediately speaks to you. Analysis comes easy, as if there was a SparkNotes mapped out in your brain when you saw the movie, and you feel that you could understand the director's every intent, every decision, every why and how, every instinct in tune with your own. How nice it is to have favorite movies!"

That was after I saw Bright Star. It amazed me afterwards to see how much people misunderstood its intentions or some of the moments in the movie. I kept saying to myself "but how could you NOT understand it?" Then it dawned on me that it was as if the film had been assembled from bits of myself. Schmaltzy but true. It boils down to the differences we all have. You can't expect other people to walk away feeling the same thing you felt.

My profile note as of now (also a response to a blog question):

"I've seen 20 of Christian Bale's movies (some of them accidentally. I mean, we've all seen Pocahontas). And I've gone out of my way to see about 12 of them. Then I lost interest. But he will always hold a special place in my heart for having introduced me to IMDB, Hayao Miyazaki, American Psycho, and Ben Whishaw (his successor as my actor-obsession du jour)"

:) :) :)

:( :( :(

I no longer think that Christian Bale is a great actor. But he is still one of the most fascinating. I will never understand how he can be so perfect in some movies and numbingly bad in others. He's constantly surprising me, which is a rare trait in an actor, at least. But it was his inconsistencies and unconventional acting that really made me fall in love with movies and acting. He's not great, but he tries stupendously hard (though goddamn it, sometime I'll have to make a rant post about how severe weight loss/gain is absolutely useless to an actor) and that's gotten him pretty far: in retrospect, the second highest grossing movie of all time (inflation aside), a hoard of unbelievably vicious fans, and relative respect as an actor until his little Terminator spiel and the shit hit the fan. So you see, hard work does get you somewhere! But typical me to espouse the rewards of hard work while I'm procrastinating for my AP hw. Toodles.

Funny Frances

As weird it may be, I've decided what I might - must, actually - give any future daughter as a middle name.

Frances - in allusion to four great female characters in literature/movies that I've identified with or enjoyed.

Fanny Price - Mansfield Park

 

Francie Nolan - A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Franny Glass - Franny and Zooey 

Fanny Brawne - Bright Star (alright, I can't identify with her, I'm nowhere as ballsy or pretty or fashionable as Fanny, and and I've never had a Romantic poet fall in love with me. But you may have deduced from my 3948194 posts on Bright Star that the movie meant a lot to me).

So there you have it. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was one the best novels I read in middle school, and it's almost impossible for any young female reader not to identify with Francie Nolan's dreamy detachment, her earnest love for writing and reading, and her cliched, but still frankly depicted loneliness. 

I've only read Mansfield Park a few months ago, but I liked Fanny, unlike most people I know. I like that she's kind of sweet and priggish and sly. P&P is an absolute favorite, so the Austen reference would be appropriate. 

Franny and Zooey - firstly, favorite book. Plus, Franny is a blast. Most people would call Franny whiny, but I think there's a difference between whining for the sake of whining ("I have two essays due tomorrow, fuck my life") or the agonizing of a young girl genuinely confused about the age-old dynamic between idealism and normalcy. 

But as fascinating and flawed as their owners are, the names Franny, Francie, or Fanny are simply not suited to 21st century girls, not even as middle names. Can you imagine "Lauren Franny", or "Alexandra Fanny"? Eh. All the poignant, doe-eyed heroines in the world couldn't save it. The name is pretty much equivalent to Maude or Barbara. There's a certain century it needs to stay in.  

Frances, on the other hand, is a little charmingly old-fashioned but in sort of timeless, girlish fashion, and uncommon. Not to mention I've always wanted to learn French....that's five references.

**Postscript: My friend argued with me as to why I would pick these girls. Specifically? Pluck, presence, an eye for beauty, a love for learning, introspection, good sense, and a big heart. That's all the traits a girl needs in life. Oh, and a wicked sense of humor, so I think I'll need to find a fifth Frances that embodies that trait. Maybe I'll name my future possible daughter "______ Frances Tina Fey Yossarian" (did Yossarian from Catch-22 have a last name?).

Do We Really Need to Define "Rape" In This Day and Age?

I agree, parts of the Polanski rape case are murky. But that's up for the judge to decide.

What has been killing, killing, killing me over the past few days, is how some people have been trying to justify the rape. I saw a post on IMDB so offensive, I'll need to reprint it here.

"People Who Think Polanski Should Be in Prison is Under-Educated..."

The 13-year old girl was no child, but a teenager.

She had already had sex on numerous ocassions.

Polanski was un-aware of her age.

The girl was the kind who looked she could have been anywhere from 15-25.

Polanski OFFERED her alchohal, which she accepted, understandably to seem "hip". She never said "I'm under-aged". She didn't say anything.

She was not UNDER THE INFLUENCE when she had sex. This is a complete misnomer. She drank one glass.

She said "no" casually a few times. She didn't struggle, raise her voice, push him away or anything- she gave the impression she was fine with it. To him, "no" could mean "I don't think of you this way".

JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH. That is all I have to say. Particularly the last one. It doesn't matter if she said no through miming, dance interpretation, or a raised middle finger. NO MEANS NO. This is how rape happens - the guy isn't taking the girl seriously. Well, too bad for him.

Besides, whether she said "no" or not is completely irrelevant. She is thirteen. She could have thrown herself at Polanski or stripped down to a pink thong, and it would still be irrelevant. It's his responsibility, as a 44-year-old adult, to restrain himself.

Another justification I've heard is that Polanski has already been through too much. I feel terrible about his wife. I blogged about it just last week. But seriously, going through the Holocaust and having a loved one murdered by Charles Manson does not give a "free rape" pass in life. In fact, it's even more shameful that someone who has experienced so much tragedy and oppression in life would inflict the same on someone else. He of all people should know the lifelong emotional repercussions of a single devastating event.

The ugly, subtly sexist sides this controversy has brought out in people is appalling. I can't believe that in this day and age, people only have a vague idea of what rape is. There is no "rape-rape", regardless of what Whoopi Goldbery says. Some rapes are more brutal than others, but it is still rape nevertheless. The rapist doesn't have to be a pervert. A boyfriend may rape a girlfriend, while she's drunk and unable to express her refusal. It may occur through miscommunication, when the guy thinks the girl was "asking for it". Like Joan on Mad Men, a rape can be quiet affair, with the woman silently suffering because she doesn't know what else she can do. Nevertheless, it is never the victim's fault. The people who think that Samantha Geimer is at fault have seriously twisted, fucked up logic.

I'm no radical feminist, but this troublingly flippant attitude towards rape is a woman's issue. After all, it is very difficult for women to actually rape men. But oh lord, just read the comments on the Huffington Post, or listen to the goddmann French writers advocating on behalf on Polanski, and they'll have you know that it's not always the man's fault when he rapes a woman, and by the way, Samantha Geimer is Delilah, Angelina Jolie, Lolita, all rolled into one, a minx, a harpy, and a conniving temptress in little girl's clothes.

Even in our sophisticated educational system, little attention is given to rape education, judging by the massive numbers of victims. A speaker once asked members of my school to stand up if they knew anyone who had been raped. Most of the students are from affluent, quiet suburbs, but two-thirds of the body stood up.

A few weeks ago, a 16-year-old girl in South Carolina was gang-raped for two hours by a dozen teenage boys after the homecoming dance, watched by at least twenty spectators. Later, I saw a Twitter remark - from a woman, yes - that I think personified the amazing progress we've made on promoting women's rights and realizing the barbaric nature of rape - "There are people getting murdered everyday, why is everyone making a big deal of this supposed "gang rape"?"

Why Girls Like Twilight

Twilight = Emotional Porn. That's the simplest way to describe it. 

 Come on - most girls imagine themselves to be the secret object of worship by really hot guys who can see through them like an x-ray for the deep, mature, beautiful creatures that they really are under this sad teenage skin. (Think scene in "Juno" where a jock makes fun of Juno but Juno asserts that he secretly has a crush on her but can't resist the status quo. Really, Diablo Cody? Really?)

And a super hot guy who saves you all the time and won't look at a single other girl? Oh, baby! We girls have been fed this sh!t since Cinderella in preschool.

 

 

(sidenote: If I have any daughters, I am so making them watch "Mulan" and "The Lion King", no princess movies, period. I think it's ironic that we have these "safe" ratings for family movies, when I'm pretty sure that a violent, sexual movie of *intelligent* thematic depth and development is a hell lot safer than "clean", IQ-obliterating kiddie crap like Transformers or Hannah Montana.)  

I read some Bright Star reviews followed up by reader comments like "If only men were more romantic like Keats, the world would be a better place." Hell, why don't we WOMEN ever try to be the romantic one? We oppress ourselves by expecting the knight-on-a-steed treatment from every guy we meet, expecting chocolate and roses, yet these gestures are rarely reciprocated, except maybe some dirty stuff in bed, which hardly equalizes the relationship. Maybe by complaining less and doing more, they could open up a romantic portal in men that they themselves didn't expect. 

Coming back to "Bright Star", I think one of the most romantic parts of the movies is whenever Fanny shows Keats a romantic gesture - sewing his brother a pillowcase of exquisite artistic detail, slipping Keats a goodnight note under his door. Result: Keats is utterly beholden to her. Leave it to Campion to have the dynamic women to rule every relationship.

I have to credit Nathaniel R from FilmExperience for pointing out that the poster is a welcome deviation from classic love posters - every kind of woman I know loves to bark out for prominent rights, but it's these little details, impressed since childhood, that really imposes sexist barriers. 

 (shh, Bella, don't cry. Daddy's here!)

And what makes me so vitriolic about Twilight is that this kind of "male domination" poster is going AGAINST the trend of modern romantic movie posters. It legitimizes what I've been yelling about for the past three years; that Twilight is the most backwards, anti-feminist book aimed towards teenagers that I've ever seen. 

Consider: after a quick google search for "romantic movie posters".....

(Becoming Jane, above, was an unexpected surprise. Really enjoyed the treatment of relationships in that one)

Note their poses in relationship to each other. 

Thoughts on Bright Star

Is is better to have loved and lost than have never loved at all?



That's something I'd like to ask Fanny Brawne, who managed to move on after Keats' death and have her own family without him. The end notes would have you believing that Fanny, like Arwen from LOTR, wandered the frozen woods in eternal sorrow while draped in black and muttering lines from his poems. In a way, Jane Campion's new movie is a very idealistic view at love. But my severity aside, it's still a rapturous, beautiful ode to first love, quite different and similar from "The Piano" in many ways. There are certain elements in common, like the funny little girl, or the relationship between the characters founded in a weird mutual attraction/revulsion and moving on to quiet devotion. Keats tries to teach Fanny poetry and though her attempt are genuine, you feel that, like Harvey Keitel, she's more interested in the teacher than the lesson.

But whereas The Piano was harrowing, shocking, raw, Bright Star is a very chaste affair. In the hands of lesser performances, the love affair could have felt sterilized, but the chemistry is palpable between Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw. 

The movie's slow, luxurious pace is explained in a single line by Keats, who says that one does not dive into a lake "for the purpose of getting to the other side, but rather absorbing all the sensations". So I basked in the lush images, though after awhile the endless reptoire of flower fields got a bit tiring. 

But the ending is an emotional punch to the stomach. Cornish's crying scene is one of the best I've ever seen. It's not just one where the viewer merely watches and admires the mechanics of it (cough like I do for Leo Dicaprio), but I'm right there in her shoes, sobbing along with her as she cries for her mother. I actually turned away because it became too painful - I felt like I was Fanny.

And sure enough, just as she swept up the sad remains of Fanny's impulsive butterfly collection, just as she has done all her life, Mrs. Brawne comes to help her daughter back up again. 

I found a review that just made me smile, because in many ways it reflects my post-viewing feelings immediately, when I walked around the streets of New York, with a spring in my step and a glow in my eyes. Like Keats, I was dazzled, aware - my senses were sharper, both happy and devastated. I was shocked when I saw my reflection in a window; my hair was wavier, my eyes were brighter, my cheeks were pinker - I looked prettier. Never thought a movie could be a secret beauty sponge. 

From http://tgeorge12345.blogspot.com/2009/10/bright-star-review.html:

"When I walked out of the theatre, I felt other than before. Autumn cool, ground wet but not raining, and overcast, there was a certain lightness of mind, of decluttering, a scrubbing. Each step seemed a thing in and of itself, like the riding of a horse, a palpable sense of separation between the walking and the walker. Also the looking, as if through different eyes; occasioned of an equanimity tinged in fear, of something good, right, justified yet fleeting. Breath, too, the breath of morning in midday, a gentle rising and falling to match the gait. 

How does one describe the indescribable. To be changed and to know of the changing, a realignment, a tectonic shifting of soul and mind and even body--a lightness such as the unshouldering of a heavy coat, where everything, every step, lifts again in peaceful joy, neither frown nor smile burdened. And above all, a calm, the kind after a long, hard cry, when resistance gives way, is released into the wind, carried somewhere, away. 

I could write of the movie, the score, the acting, the cinematography. But everything I would say would pale the art as words always dilute their object. But I will say this, there are moments, devastating moments, when what is real and what is affected become confused, where one loses the sense of stage and in its place, a witnessing. Of what, I'm not sure. Yet, one knows upon the moment, of something other. "

The most common praise I've heard for this film is that it's "beautiful." And it is, in every sense of the world (funny when you consider that the movie actually has very muted tones). It's not just pretty in the sense of lavish costumes and glossy superrealism - it's like staring into a spring day or a single flower. The beauty fills your mind, your heart, the body with joy until the very soul is moved. You don't just watch it, you breathe it.