God, a shout out to MLIA. Never thought I would find a community where everyone enthusiastically hates on Twilight and Miley Cyrus, revels in all things Harry Potter, Pokemon, and enjoys forging random connections with strangers. I love how NONE of the stories submitted contain average anecdotes, unless they're ingeniously witty like like "Today I had sex with my girlfriend. She screamed the name Tommy. My name is Tommy." 

I've also noticed that there's an FML-MLIA divide. My friends enjoys FML much more and insists that MLIA is stupid, even though she's laughed her ass off at all the MLIA stories I've given her. Honestly, what does it say about you when you enjoy drowning yourself in depressing stories about jackass boyfriends and food poisoning, instead of pithy, hilarious ones? In short, I have no idea why everyone in the world isn't an MLIA convert yet. 

Here are some of my favorite MLIAs. I'm kind of using this as a memory storage in case I forget any of them in the future, though some of these are hard to forget.

Today , I went to the new Harry Potter movie with a friend . At the part where Dumbledore died , a man close to the front row yelled "NO!" and ran out the emergency exit door . It made my day . MLIA.

When I was little I would write my initials on my one dollar bills before I spent them. Today, I bought a cup of coffee and my change included a dollar bill with my initials in the corner. I've waited 10 years for this to happen. It's bound to be a good day. MLIA (not one of my favorites, exactly, but just a reminder for me to do the same in the future). 

Today, my friend explained to me that if you write 3.14 on a piece of paper and hold it in a mirror, it will say pie. Mind. Blown. MLIA

Today, I asked my dad to make me a milkshake. He told me to make one myself. I responded that I didn't know how to make a good milkshake. His response? "Well, that's why your single. No boys ever come to our yard." MLIA.

Today, in history class, we were studying the ancient city states of Ancient Greece. Our teacher (the classic old history teacher) had a rolling chalkboard with a map of greece, and we tried to label them of a reading in our textbook. Our teacher pointed at one unmarked city and asked, "What city is this?" No one answered. After the awkward silence, our teacher yelled "THIS IS SPARTA!" and kicked the chalkboard to the floor. MLIA

Today, I went through the McD's drive through and ordered a #3 with a cinnamelt. I realized I did not have enough money for the cinnamelt so I quickly drove out of line and pulled in a parking spot by the door. I walked in and, almost as if puzzled as to what I should get, I ordered simply a #3. I was happy to have enough money for the essentials. The man proceeded to hand me a bag and said, "here. there's a cinnamelt in there for you too. some ass hole just drove off after ordering." MLIA

Today, I decided to have some fun at the mall by walking up to random women, and saying in a stern voice, "I know about the affair." Four said they didn't know what I was talking about, five begged me not to tell their husbands, and three women paid me off. New hobby? I think so. MLIA

Today, a young male trick-or-treater came to my door in a fairy suit, with vampire teeth. A bit confused I asked if he was vampire or a fairy. 
He replied with I'm both. My name is Edward Cullen. Needless to say he got all of the candy I had. MLIA

At a friends house this weekend I heard his 6yr old daughter say she had a weiner. As her mom explained that only boys have a "weiner", her 4yr old brother yelled "Yeah, girls don't have weiners, they have brains!". Wise beyond your years, young one. MLIA.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving to the world at large! Things I'm thankful for...

My beagle, Jane Campion movies, Margot Tenenbaum sad and eyelined, JD Salinger novels, David Sedaris' nervous tics (ticks?), the internet, cranberry sauce, sweet potato fries, best friends who start crying with mirth at the mention of fart jokes, 30 Rock, sequin minidresses, Ben Whishaw flamboyant and adorable, roommate's shenanigans, plush oversized cashmere sweaters, back rubs, my phenomenal history teachers, Al Pacino's expressively enormous eyes, Judy Garland's voice, MyLifeisAverage, Sofia Coppola's Cherie Dior commercial, above average intelligence, odd but divinely human experiences that we all share, New York City, ice cream. 

Wuthering Heights Movie

HOLIDAYS

Marquis de Sade: The whole world over, we eat, we shit, we fuck, we kill and we die. 

Coulmer: But we also fall in love, we build cities, we compose symphonies, we (INVENTED CHRISTMAS) and we endure. Why not put that in your books as well.

 - Quills (2000) (tweaked)

Is it too early to start thinking about pumpkin pies and wish lists and cherry pound cake oh my?NO! By my own standards, once November comes it's a free-for-all. I've already started dabbling around my Christmas playlists on Itunes, listening to Judy Garland's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas". This melancholy classic never fails to pull at my heartstrings. Whenever I listen to it, I always think of this passage from "The Great Gatsby":

"One of my most vivid memories is of coming back west from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o'clock of a December evening with a few Chicago friends already caught up into their own holiday gayeties to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This or That's and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances and the matchings of invitations: "Are you going to the Ordways'? the Herseys'? the Schultzes'?" and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour before we melted indistinguishably into it again.

That's my middle-west--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns but the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. "

That's why I love Fitzgerald -because he's just ingenious at recreating nostalgia in his books. It's all in the whimsical details. I personally always (for some reason) associated nostalgia with the clear, faraway sound of bells jingling on a snowy night. It's magical, happy-sad, and dimly fading, as the best memories are. Which really, also stems from my Fitzgerald-Ingalls-Garland fantasy. I've always wanted to be decked out in a ball dress,  underneath a velvet coat, riding in a horse-drawn sleigh across the Midwestern prairie on Christmas night, with nothing around but miles of dark snow and glinting lights.

For now, the closest I can get to it is probably rewatching The Polar Express, making hot apple cider, buying white-wool sweater dresses and counting down the days until the Holidays. And more than any other event, Christmas-time really shuffles the memory of your childhood, stirring up these vestiges of innocent caregiving that you thought to be long-lost. Unless of course, your childhood Christmases sucked. Then I apologize. 

Oh, holidays! It's one of the very few things from my childhood that has yet to be corrupted by greedy consumerism and gradual cynicism. It doesn't matter how much things suck around Christmas; it feels like there's always a stranger around the corner with their heart in good Christmas cheer, warming the streets and souls with smiles and foamy mugs of (insert favorite holiday beverage). It's one of the great Human experiences that will never go out of style. When I was little, my heart would actually burst from thinking about the mammals and little critters out in the cold snow that would never experience Christmas or Channukah or any kind of December-fest. I remember on one occasion depositing food in my backyard, whispering to the squirrels that might be listening: "Merry Christmas!"

*Polar Express theme playing in head*

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. 

State of the Union:

TV:

- Gossip Girl is back on, and is still a nice source of escapism, but now that the spark is gone between Leighton Meester and Ed Westwick, there's not much else appealing about the show.

- When is 30 Rock coming back on? "Best of Liz Lemon" is officially one of my favorite videos on YouTube.

Movies I Saw Recently and Loved:

- The Wind That Shakes the Barley (history teacher's already recommended me a book on the Irish Revolution. Just powerful, powerful stuff. Cillian Murphy's brilliant in it)

- Memento (what surprised me was how funny it was. "I must be chasing this guy" *gets shot at* "wait, no, he's chasing me." I never suspected Nolan of having a sense of humor.)

- The Piano (the kind that changes your perception of movies forever. I have never seen a bolder depiction of female longing, but it's also a contemplation on female selfishness - Ada teases her husband mercilessly, Flora ends up as her mother's betrayer. It's definitely more of a woman's movie - all the men on IMDB seem to hate it, and it has a lower rating in guys' demographics)

Books:

Read "Picture of Dorian Gray" and "Mansfield Park". Latter's surprisingly racy for Jane Austen, but not gonna lie, it's pretty refreshing. I lament that I prefer old novels over contemporary ones, but they're so well written. It feels like every current novel I've picked up lately has been a contemplation on adultery. Snooze. Will be starting teacher's book of Irish-Revolution tales soon. I also read a picture book written by Jackie Kennedy's sister Lee, about the summer after their graduations (high school for Lee, college for Jackie) they spent in Europe, traveling and looking at art. Good lord, am I jealous. I started reading up about the Kennedys and got melancholy about Bobby Kennedy. I think that had he become president, he would have totally outshone his brother's reign (which is completely overrated, anyway). 

Other Pop Culture Bits:

- Tsunamis are shitty but I can't see anyone willing to donate at a time of such fiscal uncertainty. 

- Roman Polanski case got me reading up on murder of his wife Sharon Tate, and it was one of these moments where I hoped Hell existed just so the people who stabbed Tate, who was two weeks away from giving birth, SIXTEEN TIMES, in addition to hanging her body and using her blood to scrawl "Pig" on the front door, could burn there for eternity. Then I discovered that one of her murderers just died less than a week ago, isn't that odd? I then Youtubed a recent video and was disconcerted on how composed, soft-spoken and well, remorseful her killer was. There was a great sadness that emanated from her, and then I started feeling bad again because she probably came from a cracked-up background. I was right - it turned out that her father was an alcoholic, her mother was crazy, she had faced abuse, foster homes, alienation, etc. as a kid, and was consequently fucked since the day she was born. 

- BTW, I have to admit I don't care very much if Polanski gets away with it, though I prefer conviction. I mean, pay your dues. C'mon.

Is Conviction a Good Thing?

"Think critically and flexibly. Never defend your scrap of reality to the death, because no one knows the whole picture."

This is what a wonderful teacher from my summer course said. I took these literature courses this summer, taught by two teachers: one professor nearly bored me to tears with his droning and desire to explicate on the "symbolism of the Brooklyn Bridge". I yearned to throw my books right in his "intellectually deep", stupid face. 

(Btw, anyone who describes themselves as "deep" is surely not)

The other teacher was MY kind of teacher. Smart, introspective, yet deeply practical. I loved hearing her rants because afterwards I would write down these little snippets of wisdom that burst spontaneously from her brain. The one above is the most important, I think. 

Personally, I think it's frustrating that for most people, 12+ years of edjamacation will not teach them the importance of said quotation. They will learn a little piece of observation or opinion. They will agree with it. Then they will use it to define their ideology, and by proxy, every single issue in the world. Fuck other viewpoints or ideas, I'm clearly right because that's the only thing I can see in my very limited scope! 

I think back to when I was a child, and saw everything through a strict Disneyfied glass: everything was categorized as "evil" or "good". But the point is, part of growing up is to recognize the gray areas of life. Ambiguity becomes frustrating and awful, but it's a responsibility. It seems to me that some of the most learned, eloquent people I've met are also some of the most childish and narrow people I have ever met.  

The reason why I bring this up is because the other day in Economics, someone treaded upon the topic of health care. A girl spoke up. "I don't understand why we don't have govt. health care. I mean, I have RELATIVES who don't have health care." I despised her, but I'll also admit that she's truly one of the smartest and quick-thinking people I've ever met.  The discussion quickly turned into "why are people against health care so dumb?", self-aggrandizing roast. Meanwhile, I was steaming under the table. 

I don't consider myself affiliated with any party, but I do have aunts and uncles in the medical community, who have completely contrasting views on health care. I like to listen to them, and learn more because I KNOW I don't know enough about the issue to establish a legit opinion. And here were these sixteen/seventeen year old girls throwing hissy fits about health care because it didn't feel logical in their narrow little viewpoints. Hey darlings! How about you read up some articles, do a little research, and try and understand why the other side feels that way? 

Learning isn't about what you know. It's about recognizing that you don't know every little thing.

 I see classmates and friends on the ivory tower, complaining about how intolerant their parents are of race/sexuality, unaware that they're heading to the same deadlocked wall. At a certain age, I think people start to cancel out the possibility that they can be wrong. About themselves, about issues, everything. 

So now I remain in doubt. 

But back to the title of my post - is even DOUBT a good thing? See, now I'm doubting the ideology of doubt. It's driving me crazy. (I hate these little quasi philosophical circles - I feel safer when I'm rooted in practical ground) But after all, convictions is what gets things done. How often was something accomplished just because of ONE person's cocksure, absolute assurance that he/she was right? To what extremes should we stop doubting ourselves and just dive nose-first, at the risk of diving into a pool of shit?

Going to sleep now. Getting up in four hours to study......sigh. 

Trailer Love #1

Two things on my mind....two absolutely mesmerizing trailers. 

One day I'd like to see a history on movie trailers; starting with the utterly campy narrated ones in the 30's to the bombastic ones of the present. 

That said, the latest trend in trailers is a music video-like montage of images played to a single soundtrack. A variation on this is to stick an occasional bit of dialogue in it. 

I'm not sure where this trend came from. The first noticeable one Sofia Coppola's "Marie Antoinette" teaser. Pretty, but also incoherent (like an actual music video) and not incredibly well executed. 

Then came Watchmen. Mindblowing stuff set to the nihilistic feel of the Smashing Pumpkins' "The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning". It may have been the one to have popularized this music-video trailer thing, because then we got "Where the Wild Things Are" trailer and more. 

Anyways, who has a problem with it? Not me. I've seen probably a dozen music videos or so in my life, and excuse me for saying so, but most of them are so boring (I'm talking to you, yes you, Lady Gaga, Pink, Taylor Swift, etc), and its indie music relatives just vaguely disturbing. I've never understood the appeal of pop stars in candy-colored stripper clothing showing off their bedtime capabilities. These videos usually feel like strictly male fantasies, and the ones who cater to girl-empowerment are incredibly cliched and forced (Taylor Swift, you can don the dorkiest glasses in the world; I do not believe for one moment you had a hard time getting guys in high school). 

I digress. Anyways, I'm a montage freak. Half the videos on my Youtube favorites will be these little montages the Oscars show each year. And the latest to my little collection are these two incredibly sensual, ravishing trailers that one user aptly described as "win".

A Single Man (Tom Ford's film debut. It's hard to go through the trailer without how noticing how some images play off like a fashion spread in Vogue. From the trailer, I was afraid that the movie itself would favor style over substance, but I've read some reviews and apparently it's not so. Plus there's buzz about a future Oscar nod for Colin Firth, finally abandoning his awkward-but-endearing romantic lead (if you think about it, he's like the English adult Michael Cera, or rather, Michael Cera is the American teen version if him). 

Bright Star (again, am dying to see Jane Campion's latest) 

The only problem, I think, is the possibility of the films not living up to their trailers (speaking of which do they give out awards for trailers? I think they should. These are mini-gems). Did you like the contrast and similarities between the trailers (ugh, English teacher osmosis alert!)? Of course, A Single Man is more edgy and surreal, befitting the director's style, while Bright Star has a more organic feel to it, with most shots taken in natural sunlight or by fire. And that one shot of Ginnifer Goodwin in A Single Man nearly ruined it for me. Anyone else hate her cute-ditzy-girl shtick? Darling, Audrey Hepburn/Marilyn Monroe/Anna Faris you are not. She's that girl you know in everyday life who you want to smack just for being too artificially upbeat. Okay, I'm being mean now. Anyways, enjoy the trailers....

You Know How To Whistle, Don't You Steve? You Just Put Your Lips Together and Blow

The above is a classic line from "To Have or Have Not", a film that starred Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart together. It's the kind of movie where you feel bad for the filmmakers, because no one remembers shit about the actual film, but remembers it just for "that movie where Bogie and Bacall met".  Their union, scandalous yet seductive and totally fitting to the standards of Hollywood (she was 20 at the time and he was in his forties) was one of the hot things going on at the time. 

 WOW.

Sadly, he died about a decade after they got married, but Lauren Bacall is still alive and kicking. I've ALWAYS wondered about how old-time stars feel about the current movie era. How does this time of raw, provocative small films + smashing blockbusters compare to to "Old Hollywood", a once upon of time when stars were larger-than-life, US Weekly didn't exist, and all the films were glittery and happy? 

Well, you either go the "in the old days," path like Olivia de Havilland (yes, she's also alive at the ripe age of 93 and is apparently writing some book about 1930's Hollywood), or you go the Liz Taylor route. She joined Twitter, befriended Michael Jackson, and happily embraced the zeitgeists of each decade (am I using that word correctly?).

Bacall is happily a contemporary dame as well. She just joined Twitter, and though her press occasions are rare, I have seen her attending premieres of artsy fare like "I'm Not There" and "Milk". She proclaims herself a huge Hayao Miyazaki fan, which I also find impressive. Her Tweets are littered with movie references - she said she was thrilled about the trailer for "Nine", was furious with her granddaughter for showing her "Twilight" and resisting the impulse to whack her head with shoe lest a "Grannie Dearest" be written upon her death, gave her teenybopper granddaughter a copy of "Nosferatu" instead, calling it a real vampire movie. You go, grandma.

I wonder if she still secretly laments the end of classic Hollywood, though. I just can't separate the two images in my head, one of Bacall, almost ethereal in her old-film beauty, flirting with Bogart (the title quote was about as racy as Hollywood got those days) and the present Bacall whose last onscreen performance I can remember was as herself on "The Sopranos", cursing (and getting punched) as she tussled with Michael Imperioli.

Her tweets are overall pretty entertaining. She is shamelessly self-promoting, listing her autobiography and three of her movies in her description title, but all I can say, what a great, sassy, old-school broad. She also mentioned that she would like to be in a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's nice to see that she's simply a genuine movie lover after all. I admittedly twittered her, asking her what her favorite TV shows are. She definitely goes for the edgy, so it tickles me with wonder to think that she'd watch anything as raunchy as True Blood.