Saw “Black Swan” this week at the AFI theater in Silver Spring. Me and what looked to be at least a half dozen Walter Matthau and Shirley MacLaine look-a-likes. I was the only man in the theater under 55 and the only man not wearing a tan corduroy blazer. I don’t wanna get too sidetracked, but this needs to be said; older people talk a LOT in movie theaters, especially middle-aged women who are out with their moms.
To be fair, “my” people talk a lot in movie theaters too, but at least it’s entertaining sometimes. Once I was watching “The Matrix: Reloaded” at one of the stadium-seated theaters at Arundel Mills, when one of my people in a wheelchair decided to ask his friends at the top of his lungs
“Hey dog, why can’t I sit up top witchoo? I wanna sit up there. What y’all watching, Matrix? Yeah I heard it was tight, looks like er’ybody got good seats, plenty of LEGroom…”
He thought it’d be funny, and to his credit it was. It was funny watching somebody eventually get up to go tell on a guy in a wheelchair. It was funny watching the usher come in and try to wheel him out of there without looking like a sadist. It was funny learning how uncomfortable a guy in a wheelchair could make a roomful of strangers, which turned out to be basically as uncomfortable as any man can make a roomful of strangers withOUT exposing his genitals. I remember being annoyed at the time, but at least the awkwardness gave my brother and I a good laugh on the ride home.
The group I was in earshot of at the AFI was not so entertaining, or I guess only about as entertaining as a middle-aged woman and her mom would be in any situation. This fun bunch did nothing but ask questions, questions about things that had JUST happened on the screen. The movie’s only been on for five minutes, how can you be so lost already? Oh I know; it’s because you spent the first four minutes asking questions about the cast.
“Is that Barbara Hershey?”
“She looks older than when she was in ‘Kung Fu’.”
“Who’s the young girl?”
“Wasn’t she in Star Wars?”
“I did not like those movies”
“You didn’t see those movies.”
“I don’t have to see them to not like them.”
“…”
“Is she Jewish?”
“I don’t know.”
“She looks Jewish”
“…”
“What’s happening now?”
“I’m not sure, I think she’s a dancer, so I guess she’s getting ready to dance.”
“I swear I can’t follow this movie… why is that black guy glaring at us?”
“I don’t know but he sure is rude…”
Chatty McChattersons aside, “Black Swan” was a beast of a film. Can’t recall the last time I saw something that disturbed and stayed with me as much as this movie. Think I have to go all the way back to Linda Blair and yeasty crucifixes. Not sure if it’s the best picture of the year, but it definitely affected me more than all the other Best Picture nominees I’ve seen so far (King’s Speech, Inception, The Fighter, True Grit, The Social Network). Lost track of the number of times I leaned back or winced in horror, covered my mouth to smother a teenybopper-grade gasp, or literally sat on the edge of my seat without breathing. Whatever the number was, it made me forget I had just paid five dollars for a microwave hot dog in the lobby.
Love ballet, ballet music and all the fine arts with the same passion that I love football, the Olympics and great movies. Seeing people push themselves to the limits of their capabilities makes even the most jaded, broken parts of the psyche believe in magic again, and strive to make a little magic in its own world, or at least I sure I’ve heard something like that at one of these Academy Award ceremonies. I do love the arts and what they do for me, but I’m not sure how or why anyone does that stuff or sports for a living. We as modern spectators don’t really respect anything that doesn’t involve massive, near-crippling amounts of pain, sacrifice and most likely a tattered excuse for a personal life, complete with an ex that hates you to the very core of your soul and kids who can’t wait to put out a sex tape. If you’re lucky, we the people will reward you for your months and years of hard work and denying yourself with a brief round of applause and the opportunity to try and entertain us again down the road. Only whatever you do next had better be even more breathtaking than the last thing you did or we’ll forget you entirely, remembering your name only long enough to pummel you until you wish you’d never been born, and then have the nerve to look perplexed and disappointed when we hear you’ve locked yourself in a room at the Plaza Hotel with a duffel bag full of uppers and an extremely frightened call girl who desperately wishes she had let the new girl Rachel pick up this gig.
If Natalie Portman ends up walking around with a duffel bag full of uppers one day, she’s certainly earned the right with “Black Swan”. If I ever do something that good, am going to retire immediately and spend the rest of my life tweeting snarky remarks about other people’s work until they lock themselves in a room at the Plaza Hotel. Fate probably knows I would do that, that’s why I’m not Natalie Portman. Too bad, but she’s probably better at being Natalie Portman anyway.
It’s cool and surreal watching people hit the next gear with the quality of their work, forces you to mature against your will. Used to like her because she was hot, now I just think she’s crazy good at acting, up there with Ian KcKellen, Audrey Hepburn, Denzel Washington and Kenneth Branagh. I think Ian McKellen is in the running for my favorite living actor right now. Was watching Lord of the Rings for the 87th time last week, because that’s what winners do on Sundays. When I was a kid, used to think it must be easy being an actor, but I don’t think I’d ever be able as a grown man to dress up as a wizard and pretend to fight a flame-engulfed dragon-thingy that wasn’t there. Especially not in front of a crew that’s all walking around in normal people clothes drinking Starbucks. If I have dress up as a wizard, everyone else on the set needs to dress up as a wizard, or at least rock out with that hobbit jheri curl. Love the way Ian McKellen commits to that dragon-thingy scene, delivers his lines with a conviction reserved for biblical epics and slam-dunk zingers in presidential debates. Watching him and Natalie Portman work make me feel extra guilty for all the Jessica Alba movies I’ve sat through. To this day I think it’s only been two so far, but that’s still probably three too many. I’m not saying she’s not a good actress but I would be surprised if any of her movies ever have the chance to get talked through by middle-aged women and their possibly anti-Semitic moms at the AFI Theater.
Go see “Black Swan” if you get a chance. Stay away from the hot dogs.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Walk Like An Egyptian
Interesting times in Cairo. Journalists are getting harassed and detained by “not-cops”, pro-government suppporters who just happen to be walking around with billy clubs, handcuffs and keys to police vans. Every photo and video clip looks like a mob scene from a Danny Boyle movie. And poor Anderson Cooper’s been beat up more than a Chicago quarterback, to the point where he seems intent on covering the rest of the protest from the curtains by his hotel bathroom. Can’t say I blame him; I would’ve been out on there on the first thing smoking, eating chicken cordon bleu on Brian Williams’ and Katie Couric’s laps.
Got mad respect for Brian Williams and Katie Couric. They’re the first prominent journalists I can recall having the sense to know when it’s time to step back and send in the interns. I don’t know why so many reporters think we need to see them bleeding, wearing a flak jacket or sitting in a rowboat to take the story seriously. Significant government buildings are engulfed in flame dude, we get that’s it’s a big deal. How bout you run those wrinkle-free Dockers back the hotel room and avoid making an orphan of the cameraman’s son?
I learned something important about myself over lunch yesterday. If I’m browsing online and see a video title featuring some famous journalist’s name, followed by the words “punched”, “attacked” or “attacked again”, I WILL click on that link. Immediately. I will watch that link and all the related videos I can find for no less than thirty minutes. CNN had a link to one video saying a reporter was “beaten like hell”; I watched that one with cookies. The next time I post a comedy set online, am going to title it “Comic gets kicked in face” and see how many shots of drain cleaner I can down in the twelve minutes it takes to go viral.
Poor Mubarak. He had a good thing going until Tunisia. And then like any jaded girlfriend or overpaid athlete, the people started getting antsy.
“Mm. I see Tunisia’s getting rights and change. America’s been had rights and are getting themselves some change. When do we get some rights and change?”
“In thirty years or so my dears, after I’ve grown bored with having all the power and not having to care about what you want.”
“Mm. You know what, we think we want to give your friend Omar a try. He listens to us.”
“Hah. That is as cute as my mustache. You want to try Omar? Over my dead body.”
“K.”
Cue large groups of angry citizens shouting and burning stuff. Cue army who referees without refereeing. Cue large group of aggressive Mubarak “supporters”, a curious number of whom seems to have access to billy clubs and handcuffs and keys to police vans. Add to that a soon-to-be burned out square, along with a seemingly limitless supply of rocks and gauze eye-patches and you’ve got a bona-fide liberation party. Except no party is a party without cocktails; Molotov, anyone? Hold the Vermouth...
Have a special admiration for the commitment to the Molotov cocktail as the weapon of choice in this transitional soiree. Gas is $3.15+ here in the States, so I know it can’t be readily available in Egypt. Sure the oil is right there, but who’s got spending money when no one’s worked for two weeks? Plus, from what I saw in the “Anderson Cooper attacked” videos, some of these Egyptians’ aim is really REALLY bad. Can’t put a number on how many flaming bottles I saw launched with a valiant Tom Brady-quality throwing motion, only to end up setting an unimportant piece of unoccupied sidewalk on fire, or better yet, already burnt grass. Whatever the number, it was embarrassing, like watching your gym teacher try to teach you how to play basketball, only to shoot brick after brick after brick, finally claiming the hoop was oblong. I’m nine man; I don’t know what oblong means. But I do know someone else should be teaching me basketball.
Can’t be too hard on those guys I guess, I mean who practices throwing Molotov cocktails? I’d be lucky to get one off without setting my favorite coat on fire, no man’s last words should be “Why’d I wear a fur lining?”
The prayer breaks are inspiring. I thought I loved God, but I don’t know that I’m disciplined enough to stop throwing rocks and setting strangers on fire once I’ve started. You have to admit to yourself, as long as you’re not the one getting hit, throwing rocks at people sounds like a little bit of fun. That’s a terrible thing to say, I can feel your judgmental gasp, but I think once you get past throwing the first rock, it probably gets really good to you. It has to be fun, how else did stoning mobs in biblical times get started so fast? No one ever turns down an opportunity to throw rocks. Your next-door neighbor would come by
“Hey you wanna come throw rocks at a hooker?”
“Absolutely. What did she do?”
“She’s a hooker.”
“Good enough.”
I can’t get myself revved up for some proper rock and cocktail throwing and then stop to pray. If I do pray, it’s probably going to take me at least three or four minutes to start praying for anything besides “awesome aim” and “some crazy sweet headshots”. Then I’ll start to feel guilty and apologize. Then I’ll focus and start really praying. As I’m praying, I’ll become aware of the amazing oneness I feel with everyone around me, all of us prostrate in one direction, all taking time out to take stock of our priorities. I’ll remember how no matter our differences we are all bound together by our love of life, our love for our families and our esteem for the Higher Power that put us here. As we finish, I’ll stand up feeling unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to have experienced this life-changing kinship with my fellow man and woman. And it’ll be just then, while I’m still in my spiritual euphoria, some wanker will bloody my kufi with a well thrown chunk of asphalt while his buddy sets my tunic on fire. Well played “non-cops”; next time I’ll stick to praying for crazy sweet headshots and the presence of mind to “stop, drop & roll”.
I hope this tumultuousness in Egypt works itself out soon. The situation is starting to distract from my stressing about the possibility of an NFL lockout, and that’s just not a good look for me. I hope Egypt succeeds in establishing itself a quality democracy, one that doesn’t take two-hundred-plus years to refine itself to the sometimes-stupefying-but-still-marginally-promising level of dysfunction we enjoy today. I hope the Egyptian people aren’t going through all this heroism and bloodshed just to put in power a new de-facto dictator who will eventually have to be run out of office himself a few years from now. When all’s said and done, Egypt’s going to need some time to replenish its supply of gauze and flammable landmarks, just hope everyone can stay off the cocktails long enough to finish the job.
Got mad respect for Brian Williams and Katie Couric. They’re the first prominent journalists I can recall having the sense to know when it’s time to step back and send in the interns. I don’t know why so many reporters think we need to see them bleeding, wearing a flak jacket or sitting in a rowboat to take the story seriously. Significant government buildings are engulfed in flame dude, we get that’s it’s a big deal. How bout you run those wrinkle-free Dockers back the hotel room and avoid making an orphan of the cameraman’s son?
I learned something important about myself over lunch yesterday. If I’m browsing online and see a video title featuring some famous journalist’s name, followed by the words “punched”, “attacked” or “attacked again”, I WILL click on that link. Immediately. I will watch that link and all the related videos I can find for no less than thirty minutes. CNN had a link to one video saying a reporter was “beaten like hell”; I watched that one with cookies. The next time I post a comedy set online, am going to title it “Comic gets kicked in face” and see how many shots of drain cleaner I can down in the twelve minutes it takes to go viral.
Poor Mubarak. He had a good thing going until Tunisia. And then like any jaded girlfriend or overpaid athlete, the people started getting antsy.
“Mm. I see Tunisia’s getting rights and change. America’s been had rights and are getting themselves some change. When do we get some rights and change?”
“In thirty years or so my dears, after I’ve grown bored with having all the power and not having to care about what you want.”
“Mm. You know what, we think we want to give your friend Omar a try. He listens to us.”
“Hah. That is as cute as my mustache. You want to try Omar? Over my dead body.”
“K.”
Cue large groups of angry citizens shouting and burning stuff. Cue army who referees without refereeing. Cue large group of aggressive Mubarak “supporters”, a curious number of whom seems to have access to billy clubs and handcuffs and keys to police vans. Add to that a soon-to-be burned out square, along with a seemingly limitless supply of rocks and gauze eye-patches and you’ve got a bona-fide liberation party. Except no party is a party without cocktails; Molotov, anyone? Hold the Vermouth...
Have a special admiration for the commitment to the Molotov cocktail as the weapon of choice in this transitional soiree. Gas is $3.15+ here in the States, so I know it can’t be readily available in Egypt. Sure the oil is right there, but who’s got spending money when no one’s worked for two weeks? Plus, from what I saw in the “Anderson Cooper attacked” videos, some of these Egyptians’ aim is really REALLY bad. Can’t put a number on how many flaming bottles I saw launched with a valiant Tom Brady-quality throwing motion, only to end up setting an unimportant piece of unoccupied sidewalk on fire, or better yet, already burnt grass. Whatever the number, it was embarrassing, like watching your gym teacher try to teach you how to play basketball, only to shoot brick after brick after brick, finally claiming the hoop was oblong. I’m nine man; I don’t know what oblong means. But I do know someone else should be teaching me basketball.
Can’t be too hard on those guys I guess, I mean who practices throwing Molotov cocktails? I’d be lucky to get one off without setting my favorite coat on fire, no man’s last words should be “Why’d I wear a fur lining?”
The prayer breaks are inspiring. I thought I loved God, but I don’t know that I’m disciplined enough to stop throwing rocks and setting strangers on fire once I’ve started. You have to admit to yourself, as long as you’re not the one getting hit, throwing rocks at people sounds like a little bit of fun. That’s a terrible thing to say, I can feel your judgmental gasp, but I think once you get past throwing the first rock, it probably gets really good to you. It has to be fun, how else did stoning mobs in biblical times get started so fast? No one ever turns down an opportunity to throw rocks. Your next-door neighbor would come by
“Hey you wanna come throw rocks at a hooker?”
“Absolutely. What did she do?”
“She’s a hooker.”
“Good enough.”
I can’t get myself revved up for some proper rock and cocktail throwing and then stop to pray. If I do pray, it’s probably going to take me at least three or four minutes to start praying for anything besides “awesome aim” and “some crazy sweet headshots”. Then I’ll start to feel guilty and apologize. Then I’ll focus and start really praying. As I’m praying, I’ll become aware of the amazing oneness I feel with everyone around me, all of us prostrate in one direction, all taking time out to take stock of our priorities. I’ll remember how no matter our differences we are all bound together by our love of life, our love for our families and our esteem for the Higher Power that put us here. As we finish, I’ll stand up feeling unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to have experienced this life-changing kinship with my fellow man and woman. And it’ll be just then, while I’m still in my spiritual euphoria, some wanker will bloody my kufi with a well thrown chunk of asphalt while his buddy sets my tunic on fire. Well played “non-cops”; next time I’ll stick to praying for crazy sweet headshots and the presence of mind to “stop, drop & roll”.
I hope this tumultuousness in Egypt works itself out soon. The situation is starting to distract from my stressing about the possibility of an NFL lockout, and that’s just not a good look for me. I hope Egypt succeeds in establishing itself a quality democracy, one that doesn’t take two-hundred-plus years to refine itself to the sometimes-stupefying-but-still-marginally-promising level of dysfunction we enjoy today. I hope the Egyptian people aren’t going through all this heroism and bloodshed just to put in power a new de-facto dictator who will eventually have to be run out of office himself a few years from now. When all’s said and done, Egypt’s going to need some time to replenish its supply of gauze and flammable landmarks, just hope everyone can stay off the cocktails long enough to finish the job.
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