Funny Snowman Picture!

at Boston Common

Million Dollar Baby Girl

So I got suckerpunched by Million Dollar Baby and wasn’t too happy about it. I won’t go into detail on that because I don’t want to ruin it for anyone who hasn’t seen it. But I will comment on the film as Oscar contender: It isn’t Oscar-worthy. It isn’t a great film. It’s effective, and entertaining, and absorbing, but it’s still a formula genre picture and it’s full of cliches. Several plot holes too, and a very rushed pace that was unsatisfying.

Yet, there has always been something interesting about Clint Eastwood’s films that I can’t really put my finger on. It is something to do with his interest in gender relations. He seems to choose projects–formula genre projects, yes–that leave room for him to deal with his own old-fashioned “grizzled” (over-used word) masculinity confronting a new kind of assertive femininity. All of his films have fantastic chemistry for this reason, and here again the chemistry between Eastwood and Swank is sparkling. It’s apparent way back in my favorite of his films, A Perfect World (an overlooked gem that you should rent if you can) with Laura Dern as FBI agent sparring with Eastwood as a Texas Ranger. He seems to be reluctantly fascinated with these tough-but-still-feminine broads, and it seems to have its culmination in his support of the girl boxer in Million Dollar Baby. I sort of see it as Eastwood–now looking every bit of his 75 years–passing the torch and finally coming to grips with this “new woman”.

That’s not to say that this is a feminist film, by any stretch of imagination. It’s a very male film. It’s not about a girl boxer, really, it’s about Eastwood’s character. She, like many other sacrificial lambs in big Hollywood films, exists merely to teach the white male a lesson. She is the martyr. She enters his life a perfect submissive–eagerly eating up his insults and patiently waiting for his attentions to turn to her, and then becoming the perfect empty vessel for him to implant with his knowledge and training. She may have a mean right hook, but she succeeds by her unquestioning devotion and loyalty to him. He even re-names her with a Gaelic nickname, has it embroidered on her robes, but won’t tell her what the name means. And she accepts that. And when we find out what it means–”My Darling”–it’s so touching that you don’t really think about the fact that the name isn’t a name really, it’s a sign of his possession. She has no name, she has been erased. She’s just his darling.

But that’s sort of an extreme reading. The film is clearly portraying these two as surrogate father and daughter for each other, as his daughter isn’t speaking to him and her dad is long gone. She’s eager for his guidance because she’s never had a father, and he’s getting to make up for being an absent father to his daughter. And it works, you feel very good that these two people have found each other. (Oh and the truly gorgeous little girl in the truck is one of Eastwood’s many, many, many real-life daughters. The man has plenty of daughter material to mine.)

Bummed

I just got back from eating bbq ribs and seeing Million Dollar Baby.
I was not prepared for it. I really had no idea what it was about other
than a girl boxer. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

More later.

Bamboozled by Herzog

I am glad to hear that Werner Herzog is up to his old tricks. I an eagerly anticipating his new documentary, Grizzly Man:

a fascinating character study of Timothy Treadwell, self-appointed
grizzly bear expert. For thirteen summers, the youthful Treadwell
camped in the Alaskan wilderness to observe and commune with grizzlies.
His final year there ended in tragedy when he and girlfriend Amie
Huguenard were attacked and completely devoured by an older, aggressive
bear. Most of the visuals for the film come from Treadwell’s own video
footage, shot during his last few excursions.

He is a mad Herzogian hero, to be sure:

He comes dangerously
close to the bears, touching them and swimming with them, all the while
convinced that his work as a naturalist and lobbyist is helping to
preserve their environment. Unfortunately, we soon come to learn that
what Treadwell is filming in the Alaskan wilds is less a nature
documentary than a kind of ongoing Crocodile Hunter episode with Treadwell styling himself as a great lone adventurer and
the only human capable of understanding the creatures around him. His
disturbed mental state becomes clearer through interviews and Herzog’s
own voiceover.

Treadwell was a failed actor and alcoholic, rescued in a sense
by the power and individualistic importance that such a reckless
undertaking gave him. The bears saved him from obscurity and addiction,
but his staying there, against the wishes of the park service, to play
out his own narcissistic fantasies and adamant death wish, was bound to
end in tragedy. His childlike love for the animals around him seems
genuine, as was his belief that the animal world, though admittedly
dangerous, was somehow more benevolent than that of humans. In reality,
nature is cruel and animals want to survive.

You may not know that Herzog has a tendency to fabricate in his
documentaries. All docs have some measure of manipulation, but I’m
talking about complete fabrication.So I had to smile when I read the following:

The most powerful scene in
the film comes when Herzog listens to a tape of the attack (the
camera’s lens cap was thankfully on during the recording). He agrees
that, at over six minutes, this is something that the audience should
not hear. 

Hmmm, does it not sound a bit too convenient that Treadwell turned the
sound recording on but left the lens cap on? It could happen, sure, but
Herzog’s docs are filled with these kinds of scenes of things we have
no way of proving. In Lessons of Darkness,
he shows the image of a young boy who just sits there and looks at the
camera. On voiceover Herzog tells us that the horrors he witnessed in
the Gulf War made him lose the ability to speak. And it rings
completely false, as does this Grizzly scene. I’ll bet that when Herzog
is supposedly listening to the tape of the killings, he is in fact
listening to nothing and grimacing for the camera.

Yes, I wrote my thesis on Herzog’s documentaries, and I never made up
my mind about the ethics involved with this kind of fabrication. And
apparently the Greencine correspondent who wrote the review above has some problems with the ethics as well:

Surprisingly, the film doesn’t deal with the ethical issue of
using Treadwell’s own footage to make a film that he, undeniably, would
hate.

Herzog’s docs have never been well-known enough to garner much
criticism for the ethical problems involved, but this one has a lot of
buzz at Sundance and now that docs are so popular these days, perhaps
they will come under greater scrutiny. Not that he’ll care, of course.
He freely admits to the manipulations and fabrications:

“By dint of declaration the so-called Cinema Verité is devoid of verité.
It reaches a merely superficial truth, the truth of accountants. ..There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing
as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be
reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.”

But it will be interesting to start the dialogue again.

Gross

This morning I can report that I actually saw a real-life man take
a real-life piss in the Davis Square subway station. During morning
rush hour no less. I always wondered how the subway stations manage to
smell like urine when I’ve never seen anyone taking a leak in any
stations. I wondered how they could manage to do it when there are
pretty much always people around. Well, now I’ve seen it and I know it
to be true.

Here’s Something to Do With All That Snow

While I am a little put off by the writer’s wording about “pleausuring herself”, here is a kinda cool idea: snow ice cream.

via Boston Common

Those Double-Talking Brits

This is too funny–From a guide intended to help foreigners understand the idiosyncrasies of British English, found by a journalist for The Economist in 2004 on an office wall in the European Court of Justice. Originally from Harper’s Magazine, December 2004. The first is my favorite.

 

What they say: I’m sure it’s my fault.
What is understood: It is his fault.
What they mean: It is your fault.

What they say: I’ll bear it in mind.
What is understood: He will probably do it.
What they mean: I will do nothing about it.

What they say: I was a bit disappointed that . . .
What is understood: It doesn’t really matter.
What they mean: I am most upset and cross.

What they say: By the way/Incidentally . . .
What is understood: This is not very important.
What they mean: The primary purpose of our discussion is …

What they say: I hear what you say.
What is understood: He accepts my point of view.
What they mean: I disagree and do not want to discuss it any further.

What they say: Correct me if I’m wrong.
What is understood: Tell me what you think.
What they mean: I know I’m right—please don’t contradict me.

What they say: With the greatest respect . . .
What is understood: He is listening to me.
What they mean: I think you are wrong, or a fool.

What they say: That is an original point of view.
What is understood: He likes my ideas.
What they mean: You must be crazy!

What they say: Very interesting.
What is understood: He is impressed.
What they mean: I don’t agree, or I don’t believe you.

What they say: You must come for dinner sometime.
What is understood: I will get an invitation soon.
What they mean: Not an invitation, just being polite.

What they say: Quite good.
What is understood: Quite good.
What they mean: A bit disappointing.

Local Nightlife Activism

If you love the Plough & Stars in Central Square, read this, written by my dance partner:

“The Plough & Stars, a long time staple of the Central Sq. community and Cambridge music scene is at risk of losing its entertainment license.  Apparently, the neighbourhood committee is looking to stop music from being played at the Plough.

The Plough’s music has been a part of Cambridge culture for many, many years. I’ve been going to the Plough for the past 20 years. They’ve always offered great entertainment, at a reasonable price, in the most “Neighbourly Pub” in all of Boston/Cambridge.  It’s also offered wonderful opportunities for local up and coming artists to hone their craft. Many great artists have gotten their start at the Plough (Morphine, G Love, Kevin Connolly). There was a time when Van Morrison would play an occasional show (when he resided in Cambridge).

Quite frankly, if the Plough lost its entertainment license, it would be tough for it still make a go of it as viable business.

The meeting is Friday at 1pm at the Cambridge License commission, 831 Mass ave. (In the basement). Anyone who can be there to support the Plough would be a great help.

Alternatively, if anyone would write a letter and email it to May at ploughandstars@yahoo.com. She will print them out and bring them with her.

We always talk about getting involved and making a difference in something we believe in. This might not be about the war in Iraq, global terror or national politics. This is a chance for you to do something in your own backyard that you believe in. Besides, if the Plough didn’t have music, where else would you see Los Diablos?

So, please at least write an email in support of The Plough.”

Puppy Pals

Via this blog which I read about in this NYT article about design blogs, I came across Dogster–Friendster for dogs! Or for dog owners, I would think. What does it mean to be a dog’s “pal”? Sean, don’t answer that.

Disinterested in the Subject

Many people have said that they were disappointed in Scorcese’s work on The Aviator. I’m not a huge Scorcese fan myself but it’s true, it definitely does not feel like a Scorcese film. It feels hollow. It is surprising that he is the one that made it. But Scorcese has said that he was never interested in this story, and only agreed to do it after much convincing from Leo. So I think Manohla Dargis hit it on the head when she mused about what may be the cause of the film’s flaccidity:

Hughes was a rich kid who bought his fame. He was spoiled rotten and it’s no surprise that Mr. Scorsese, a scrapper from Little Italy, keeps him at arm’s length. Or maybe it’s just difficult for Mr. Scorsese to invest passion in a story about a mediocre movie talent like Hughes, whose greatest contribution to the seventh art was as a producer.

That makes sense to me. Scorcese was invisible in this film. It was as if he was merely a technician bringing Leo’s film to life for him. And how ironic that he will probably finally win an Oscar for this film.

Nature v. Nurture

I noticed while walking across still-slushy Harvard Yard today that
most people seem to have so internalized the
driving-on-the-right-side-of-the-road routine that they apply it to
walking on paths as well. The paths in the Yard are shoveled, but very
slushy and slippery, and there is one narrow streak of completely-clear
pavement in the walkways–only wide enough for one person to walk it at
a time. When I started out, the clear area was on the right, where I
was, and whenever any oncoming pedestrians approached me in the “clear”
lane, they instinctively moved over to the slush as I approached–they
were, after all, walking on the “wrong” side of the path. MY side. But
then the clear section moved over to the left side of the path, and I
moved along with it, and whenever anyone approached from the opposite
direction I instinctively moved back to my slushy side to give them
right of way. I only became consciously aware of this after it happened
a few times; it was a completely unthinking act. Of course this is a
completely socialized form of behavior–we are not born with the innate
desire to walk only on the right side of the road, it is an artificial
construct–but it’s weird how “innate” it feels. Unless you’re British,
I guess.

So there’s a little more evidence for the “nurture” side of the debate.

Santa Is A Fascist Dictator

Saw Polar Express at a free screening at MIT last night. Guy pointed out the fascist imagery in the Santa scenes:

That sea of red is a bunch of elves dressed in their red uniforms. And the storyline — kidnapping and brainwashing/re-educating a doubting kid to blindly believe — is a bit fascist as well. It is a very bizarre film. I did a Google search and it seems a few others have noted the overtones:

Then came the second part of the movie, and I was literally shocked anddisturbed. The creators of the film depicted christmas at the northpolewith pictures that could've come out of "Triumph des Willens" ("Triumphof the will") -- large squares filled with christmas elves marching towardsa big christmas tree, dancing a weird form of Nazi ballet. The protagonistsstumble into a sort of surveillance room where evil-mooded elves arevideo-surveilling every child in the world -- and when one child is singledout for having been bad, an infinite loop of the child denying what he did"I didn't do it - I didn't do it - I didn't do it" is shown on a largenumber of screens... When the protagonists stumble back to the bigsquare full of elves, and Santa appears, you think the Fuehrer himself issupposed to appear. It sent chills down my spine.

Things get even weirder from here. The protagonists are a normal boy thatdoubted the existence of christmas throughout the movie, a poor boy, and acourageous black girl. Throughout the movie, the doubting boy is told to"believe(!)", without specifics as to what to believe etc. If he doesn'tbelieve, he can't hear the wonderful bells of Santa's sled. The poor boywho never had a christmas and always got the short end of everything istold to be more optimistic. The black girl is told that she should "lead".So the advice given to the kids in this movie can be summed up as: "Believe, don't doubt !" "Be optimistic, no matter what happens to you !" "Some are born leaders and should lead !"The german translation of the movie has another interesting property here -the black girl, when told to "lead", asks what that means -- and I assumethe english version uses the word "leader" in the following explanations.In German, the literal translation of "leader" ("Fuehrer") is synonymouswith Adolf Hitler, and thus never used, and the german version of the moviedodges the use of that word in an interesting way.

The really scary part was that all these things were presented as wonderfulevents, full of joy etc. This movie basically tells kids: Big rallies withflags, chorals when important leaders appear, surveillance of everybody arenot only OK, but they're just what Santa does.

The movie ends with the doubting boy being a believer and thus capable ofhearing the bells the parents aren't able to hear. It reminded me of Goebble'sphrase: "It does not matter what you think, because we've already convincedyour children".

I walked out of the movie, surprised, disturbed, and worried. I seriouslyhope we can laugh heartily about this 20 years from now. I know that, havinggrown up in Germany, my sensors for fascist propaganda methods is probablya bit oversensitive, but this movie did not require being oversensitive tosmell the fascistoid (under?)currents.

This is not a movie I'd ever have a kid watch.

I don’t know that the film’s motives are as sinister as this guy implies, but then he’s German so he may be a bit sensitive. But it is certainly a bizarre film. I was more stressed out by the endless string of incidents putting the children into extreme danger.

Postscript: There was a family with a few kids a few rows down from us, and the kids’ delight with the movie was quite clear, which was both heartwarming and disturbing.

Blizzard by Moonlight

Most beautiful blizzard photo.
via Boston Common

The World Is Made Of Whipped Cream

Made it to work. Sore from shoveling yesterday. The world is one big
marshmallow today, not too much street grime ruining the effect just
yet. I was surprised at how poorly-shoveled many places still are. I
know we just had a blizzard but an entire row of shops on College Ave
in Davis Square had no shoveling whatsoever. A few tracks where the
adventurous trudged through, but no shoveling. This morning our
landlord finally came to shovel–so he expected us to have stayed
buried and stranded for a whole day? He widened my already-shoveled
path.

Serpico sent me a short story he wrote after the LA trip, an allegory
of sorts for the three of us. It made me smile, which is hard to do
these days.

Amazonian Shoveler

Yes I live with three healthy men and *I* and I alone did all the
shoveling this morning. My walk and the neighbor’s. Thought I’d help
those Irish blokes find a way out. (Yes, four healthy Irish men next
door too and they haven’t shoveled either.) So it was me and the
neighborhood husbands out there this morning, shoveling away. Neighbor
husband said that if I just connected to his path at least I’d have a
way out. Harumph. I connected to his path and then forged my own out to
the street and then back in the other direction to the Irish house.

There’s A Road In There Somewhere

Maybe some people too.

And it ain’t over yet!

ASCII Snowflakes

Here is a snowflake made by typing my name into Guy’s keyflake ascii art program.

Go make your own. Remember to click on the box first!

Notes From LA

So here is a wrapup of the high points of my time in LA. It was
actually a 3-day high point, but here are a few of the memories that
are still making me smile:

–watching an old man beat a young buck at handball on venice beach (while we sat and ate ice cream)
–being dubbed “bulldog”… “am I that hostile?”  “Yes,” in unison.
–laughing till it hurts at 3am while trying to come up with an idea for
a 3-minute film due the next morning in Serpico’s grad class (something
to do with toothpicks in someone’s ass. And a sunset.)
–being tricked into hiking up a mountain
–stuffing ourselves with an enormous greek feast
–falling asleep in the phenomenal Egyptian theater while foreign directors’ interpreters jabbered PR crap
–three people in a 2-square-foot kitchen trying to make chocolate chip pancakes and omelettes at the same time
–jabbing Serpico in the ribs for snoring (he told me to)
–impromptu improv with characters transplanted from the Swiss Alps to
Malibu (Would you like some chocolate? damn, they always melt!)
–arriving at LAX to find no one waiting for me, then enacting a
confusing pay phone-to-cell-phone drama as two Serpicos realized they
were waiting at the wrong baggage claim (“I’m standing in front of
claim 6.”  “Well I’M standing in front of claim 6!” “Well so am
I!”)
–giving Serpico skincare advice (exfoliate and moisturize, exfoliate
and moisturize) and shopping for non-girly facial moisturizer for him
–three days of no TV and no internet and talking talking talking and laughing till it hurts

And then back to reality.

The Aviator

I braved the cold and the dirty bombs this afternoon and went to a matinee of The Aviator. I wanted some fluff. Plus, I had free coupons.

And it wasn’t a terrible movie. The best line (perhaps the only really good line) was when Howard Hughes asks Katherine Hepburn if she’s in the mood for some adventure. She grins slyly and says, “Do your worst, Mr. Hughes.” Nice. Now that’s some old-fashioned “talkie” dialogue. It was actually as irritating as it was entertaining that they wrote Hepburn’s character like one of her movie characters and had her talk like she was bantering with Cary Grant in every scene, but who knows, maybe she was like that in real life.

And while I am in love with Cate Blanchett, I think she played Hepburn a bit over the top. But then again Hepburn was supposed to be over the top in real life, right? Dippy Kate Beckinsdale was all wrong for Ava Gardner too. In addition to lacking depth in her personality, her face is too narrow and rat-like. Ava Gardner’s face was an expansive landscape. Leo, meanwhile, looked 19 years old through the whole film, but did manage a scowl near the end that added a few years and some weight of thought to his acting. I just wish they had gone further into his later years when he was in total withdrawal. I would’ve liked to have seen Leo with long white hair and foot-long fingernails. As is, they only got to be about 3 inches long.

Hollywood Moment

That’s Walter Salles, director of The Motorcycle Diaries, outside The Egyptian Theater in Hollywood. We attended a roundtable/press conference for all the nominees for Best Foreign Language Picture. I left my camera at home but Serpico took photos, so more are on the way as he sends them. He was enamored of Salles though, so this is the first. I personally found all of them to be bigshot-y…it was like watching a bunch of Hollywood directors up there, the only difference being that most of them didn’t speak English and had interpreters in tow. I love how Hollywood treats foreign directors as if they’re so arty and independent just because they’re foreign. Meanwhile every one of the nominated films could pass for Hollywood schlock if the languages were changed to English.

But it was an entertaining day. More photos of Zhang Yimou et al to come.