Okay. I know it's uncool in this day and age to be genuinely sentimental about anything. Especially - with all the blogs and the Defamer and the snark - about the Oscars.
But. Growing up? It was pretty much my favorite night of the year. Almost on par with Christmas. Not that I remember the winners or the moments - my memory is fuzzy at best and non-existent at worst - but the important things - the buildup, the dresses, the thrills? Are ingrained in me as long as I can remember. I remember my parents letting me stay as late as they lasted [on the East Coast no less!] I remember being so tired and frustrated the next day - frustrated because how many fifth graders can dish gossip and fabulousity in small-town suburbia?
But. But. I believe in the Oscars. What they represent and what they promise. Because, despite what anyone says, film is THE art form of the 21st century. And no matter how many times they get it wrong, no matter how many boring montages they put out?
Watching the canonization [or the attempt to canonize] of a medium as it's still evolving is....something that is so NOW, so thrillingly new and modern and exciting that...how can you not love it? And because cinema is so good at straddling the line between art and business, between the masses and the select few, between individual entertainment and community spectacle? That holds so much promise...so much potential - that to deny their power is to deny the trials and the triumphs that make us human.
Sure, I realize that for a shy, creative [i.e. 'gay'] desperately depressed boy from Tennessee who wanted so much to run away from anything ordinary that the glamour of Hollywood could appear to fill you/us/me to the brim with hope. It can offer an escape for all of us.
Allowing that - I don't subscribe to the US idea of 'celebrities - they're just like us!.' No. Screw that. As my teacher once said, 'movies are life as it should be.' Why not give us something to aspire to? Something to inspire us.
I don't want them to be 'just like us' I want them to be beautiful and terrifying that we can study yet never understand. I want them to wear things that are stunning or strange. I want them to have gigantic/excessive/'spontaneous' displays of emotion that play every emotion like a note on a piano until they reach places that make you mere humans seem totally dead inside [which means that, sorry haters, I adored Misses Berry and Paltrow.] Make you seem like old-school Cenurion model Cylons. I want them to carry themselves with such fucking confidence that they soak up the gaze of a billion fucking eyes worldwide and you can tell that they're thinking 'is that all you've got?' I wish them to flub, to fume, to fail spectacularly and then recover so well that all is forgiven, forgetten, and fantastic.
I know I'm not the first person to say this but, really, modern celebrities are our Greek Gods. And I'm okay with that. The Gods, if you know your mythology, felt free to come down from Olympus to mingle and mate with us mortals. But they're not us. They look like us, they play with us and they entertain us. But they're not just like us and they never will be.
Since I'm not exactly a religious person, cinema is as close as I get to God. Think about it. A gathering where you sit, surrender to a higher power and FEEL. Together.
It helps, of course, that I just saw 'Zodiac' with a huge group at the Arclight, in the Dome, in digital with seemingly all of this great, weird, disparate city of Los Angeles. [somehow I completely blanked that my friend I talked to 12 hours earlier was going to the same show...then Calliope brought her brother and his girl...and pretty much half of H'wood- an Office confab, the Best Week Ever crew and maybe Caroline Rhea, depending on how much work she's had done.]
I'm not exactly good with scary movies - especially one that, since it's unsolved, is way too real - and by 'not good,' I mean 'am a total fracking girl.' Seriously. I couldn't deal with the requisite nervous laughter [which, to be fair, was completely justified because the humor *was* weaved into the script.] Half the time I couldn't console the actual girl clutching my arm.
But all of us screaming, laughing, watching at the same moments? Breathing the same air, the same mood, the same dream [because cinema is nothing if but a shared dream...not that I can link to the requisite academic papers right now]?
That's fracking transcendent, right?
My one qualm? Robert Downey Jr. as a substance abuser? How much miscasting is that? :)
ETA: All men should be required to wear 70s slacks. Seriously, come Zodiac's DVD release, you'll be able to tell the religion of each of the cast's members.
Mar 4, 2007
Feb 18, 2007
down with love!*
Okay, several days late and many, many dollars short -
But apparently the Valentine's Day movie at the Arclight was Breakfast at Tiffany's.
I've said it before, I've said it again. Despite it's canonization, despite it being a cultural touchstone for zillions of women - there is *nothing* romantic about this movie. Nothing.
Sure, on the surface? It certainly seems romantic. It has Audrey Hepburn, after all! And diamonds! Who doesn't love diamonds!? You watch it with someone you love and it seems like a tale of love overcoming all odds.
But then. Then one night you decide to watch it in the middle of night, alone. And it cuts you deep. You realize that it's actually the tale of two horribly damaged people who are so self-destructive that the only chance they have for a semblance of "happiness" is to be with each other.
It's much, much more blatant in the novella - but Holly Golightly is basically a golddigger one step removed from prostitution. But she has such style, you say! But she perfected the Little Black Dress!. Uh huh. And Carrie's increasingly outlandish outfits on SATC were meant to be taken at face value. [a Salon article that I can't find right now points out that Holly was intended as satire of the elite or something].
This is a woman who runs as soon as the going gets tough - who pushes away people as soon as they manage to crack her tough exterior. She even ran as far as she could from her family because they knew the "real" her. The awkward redneck and not the ideal that she puts forth. And because she saves some cat after she threw it out in the rain, she's now capable of love? No. Sorry.
Paul/Fred is basically a closeted "kept man." Holly is a whore. And these are the people we're supposed to root for?
And it's not just that they're terrible people - because, hey, I'm a terrible person as well and believe that hopefully I can find love. It's just that there's not much poetry, not much romance in the film. It's become seized upon and re-marketed as someone's "idea" of romance - flowers, diamonds, pink and girly - without anyone bothering to note the film's all too painful and real emotional undercurrents.
Besides the fact that I've been man enough to chose Kate, when I think about romance, about love, about lust in the movies -
I think about the sweet longing in Katherine's voice as she says, "My, she was yar." I think about Barbara Stanwyck's legs, in both the Lady Eve and Double Indemnity. The purr in Clooney's butterscotch voice when he tells J. Lo, "it's not a game, it's nothing something you play." Eva Green in a beret, smoking...Eva Green in a shower, wet. I think of James Bond saying "Tracy" is the sweetiest, happiest tone imaginable as Diana Rigg skates up to him. Heck - I even think of Audrey Hepburn smoldering with Cary Grant in Charade as not even really, really obvious rear-projection ruins the moment.
But most of all? I think of a gas station, somewhere in France. Snowfall. Catherine Deneuve and a Michel Legrand score all begging us to remember when we were young and everything seemed possible.
The only moment of Breakfast at Tiffany's that sticks in my subconscious is "Moon River." But the song itself reduces me to tears almost everytime I hear it.
* - actually a good movie that proves that, despite Studio 60, Sarah Paulson is capable of being funny.
But apparently the Valentine's Day movie at the Arclight was Breakfast at Tiffany's.
I've said it before, I've said it again. Despite it's canonization, despite it being a cultural touchstone for zillions of women - there is *nothing* romantic about this movie. Nothing.
Sure, on the surface? It certainly seems romantic. It has Audrey Hepburn, after all! And diamonds! Who doesn't love diamonds!? You watch it with someone you love and it seems like a tale of love overcoming all odds.
But then. Then one night you decide to watch it in the middle of night, alone. And it cuts you deep. You realize that it's actually the tale of two horribly damaged people who are so self-destructive that the only chance they have for a semblance of "happiness" is to be with each other.
It's much, much more blatant in the novella - but Holly Golightly is basically a golddigger one step removed from prostitution. But she has such style, you say! But she perfected the Little Black Dress!. Uh huh. And Carrie's increasingly outlandish outfits on SATC were meant to be taken at face value. [a Salon article that I can't find right now points out that Holly was intended as satire of the elite or something].
This is a woman who runs as soon as the going gets tough - who pushes away people as soon as they manage to crack her tough exterior. She even ran as far as she could from her family because they knew the "real" her. The awkward redneck and not the ideal that she puts forth. And because she saves some cat after she threw it out in the rain, she's now capable of love? No. Sorry.
Paul/Fred is basically a closeted "kept man." Holly is a whore. And these are the people we're supposed to root for?
And it's not just that they're terrible people - because, hey, I'm a terrible person as well and believe that hopefully I can find love. It's just that there's not much poetry, not much romance in the film. It's become seized upon and re-marketed as someone's "idea" of romance - flowers, diamonds, pink and girly - without anyone bothering to note the film's all too painful and real emotional undercurrents.
Besides the fact that I've been man enough to chose Kate, when I think about romance, about love, about lust in the movies -
I think about the sweet longing in Katherine's voice as she says, "My, she was yar." I think about Barbara Stanwyck's legs, in both the Lady Eve and Double Indemnity. The purr in Clooney's butterscotch voice when he tells J. Lo, "it's not a game, it's nothing something you play." Eva Green in a beret, smoking...Eva Green in a shower, wet. I think of James Bond saying "Tracy" is the sweetiest, happiest tone imaginable as Diana Rigg skates up to him. Heck - I even think of Audrey Hepburn smoldering with Cary Grant in Charade as not even really, really obvious rear-projection ruins the moment.
But most of all? I think of a gas station, somewhere in France. Snowfall. Catherine Deneuve and a Michel Legrand score all begging us to remember when we were young and everything seemed possible.
The only moment of Breakfast at Tiffany's that sticks in my subconscious is "Moon River." But the song itself reduces me to tears almost everytime I hear it.
* - actually a good movie that proves that, despite Studio 60, Sarah Paulson is capable of being funny.
Jan 8, 2007
there are two colors in my head....
And they're, like, fuschia polka dots and neon orange.
So. My first hangover in MONTHS. And it's bad. Real bad.
Normally, I don't get hungover because I am the H2O police. Good rule of thumb to follow is for every two drinks, drink a pint glass of water. Honestly, that's some of the best advice my dad ever gave me.
But now, I want to DIE. I want the world to end in a firey blaze and take me with it.
Long story short - due to the soul-crushing task of packing up my apartment and the rage-inducing fact that Amoeba wouldn't take half the CDs I had just spent importing to Itunes, cleaning, finding the right cases for....I had to have "one drink" to calm my nerves.
One drink turned into several. And I hadn't eaten all day. Every cute guy had a boyfriend. Yet still flirted with me. Including one *right in front of his boyfriend* because they have "an open relationship." WTFever. Miss Kay Rose called and invited me to go eat. So I did. We ate at a bar. So more drinking. Then she made me MOVE HER FURNITURE. [Because I'm moving in with her soon.] I was fine driving because I did do the water-binge, plus about a kilo of caffeine. Came home, looked at FOOB, may or may not have posted something at CPMCoG.
Turned on the TiVo to watch...something.
PASSED OUT ON MY FUCKING COUCH.
I woke up less than 2-3 hours later and now can't get back to bed.
Because there is a RABID FUCKING DOG eating MY BRAIN.
Kill me now, kill me later, just kill me.
So. My first hangover in MONTHS. And it's bad. Real bad.
Normally, I don't get hungover because I am the H2O police. Good rule of thumb to follow is for every two drinks, drink a pint glass of water. Honestly, that's some of the best advice my dad ever gave me.
But now, I want to DIE. I want the world to end in a firey blaze and take me with it.
Long story short - due to the soul-crushing task of packing up my apartment and the rage-inducing fact that Amoeba wouldn't take half the CDs I had just spent importing to Itunes, cleaning, finding the right cases for....I had to have "one drink" to calm my nerves.
One drink turned into several. And I hadn't eaten all day. Every cute guy had a boyfriend. Yet still flirted with me. Including one *right in front of his boyfriend* because they have "an open relationship." WTFever. Miss Kay Rose called and invited me to go eat. So I did. We ate at a bar. So more drinking. Then she made me MOVE HER FURNITURE. [Because I'm moving in with her soon.] I was fine driving because I did do the water-binge, plus about a kilo of caffeine. Came home, looked at FOOB, may or may not have posted something at CPMCoG.
Turned on the TiVo to watch...something.
PASSED OUT ON MY FUCKING COUCH.
I woke up less than 2-3 hours later and now can't get back to bed.
Because there is a RABID FUCKING DOG eating MY BRAIN.
Kill me now, kill me later, just kill me.
Dec 18, 2006
question...
Okay, I'm half-joking about this and half-not.
How would one cite Lindsay Lohan's Blackberry Message in a paper or article?
Are there even MLA/AMA rules for Blackberry Tributes/Eulogies?
I ask because I'm considering writing a Lohan-related article to kinda "pitch" myself for freelance work, like for magazines and whatnot. I mean, I write about her enough here, so why not? Plus, the only relevant stuff I've written for this "type" of "work" was working for the daily paper back in high school and I always got assigned the boring crap articles. So I kinda have to write an article on spec, I guess, and be all "look what I can do!"
Elsewhere on teh interwebs, I've been joking about it like this:
"making a fearless and searching inventory of myself (12st book)*"
*[Lohan, Lindsay. "BE ADEQUITE!" Blackberry Eulogy, mixed media on Blackberry. November 2006].
But that almost seems like a proper citation, right?
Can I make the rule that "BE ADEQUITE!" is its "official" Academic title? I also like how I sorta cited it like an art project, but if someone can think of something better, let me know.
How would one cite Lindsay Lohan's Blackberry Message in a paper or article?
Are there even MLA/AMA rules for Blackberry Tributes/Eulogies?
I ask because I'm considering writing a Lohan-related article to kinda "pitch" myself for freelance work, like for magazines and whatnot. I mean, I write about her enough here, so why not? Plus, the only relevant stuff I've written for this "type" of "work" was working for the daily paper back in high school and I always got assigned the boring crap articles. So I kinda have to write an article on spec, I guess, and be all "look what I can do!"
Elsewhere on teh interwebs, I've been joking about it like this:
"making a fearless and searching inventory of myself (12st book)*"
*[Lohan, Lindsay. "BE ADEQUITE!" Blackberry Eulogy, mixed media on Blackberry. November 2006].
But that almost seems like a proper citation, right?
Can I make the rule that "BE ADEQUITE!" is its "official" Academic title? I also like how I sorta cited it like an art project, but if someone can think of something better, let me know.
I'M THE PERSON OF THE YEAR!
Look. I know that Time has named the collective "You" the person of the year.
But really, it's "me you" NOT "you you."
I'm sorry.
You may ask yourself, but "huntergrayson, you've never posted a video on YouTube, why are you more deserving of this title than I, with my awesome 'look at my kitty doing cute things for 90 minutes?' video that shall make De Sica himself weep with envy?"
[special inside joke/aside: "That wasn't fantasy so much as feline neo-realism." ]
Well, because everything I've ever made or done or put out on teh interwebs is a work of genius. It's Just. That. Simple.
Also, Lindsay Lohan and Al Gore and I traveled back in time when we were hopped up on Strawberry NesQuik and invented the internet, which made this whole thing and "person of the year" thing possible.
Oh and then Al actually caused global warming so he could release a blockbuster film later on.
True story. The end.
But really, it's "me you" NOT "you you."
I'm sorry.
You may ask yourself, but "huntergrayson, you've never posted a video on YouTube, why are you more deserving of this title than I, with my awesome 'look at my kitty doing cute things for 90 minutes?' video that shall make De Sica himself weep with envy?"
[special inside joke/aside: "That wasn't fantasy so much as feline neo-realism." ]
Well, because everything I've ever made or done or put out on teh interwebs is a work of genius. It's Just. That. Simple.
Also, Lindsay Lohan and Al Gore and I traveled back in time when we were hopped up on Strawberry NesQuik and invented the internet, which made this whole thing and "person of the year" thing possible.
Oh and then Al actually caused global warming so he could release a blockbuster film later on.
True story. The end.
Dec 16, 2006
coincidence...
OR PURE EVIL!?
A requiem in three parts:
Superduper irony alert:I love how my very first post was slagging Broadway Bar and now I'm looking for a place downtown preferably within walking distance of it, Miss Rose and Miss Magnolia. Bizarre to the max. Massive hugs to the cool bartenders who enable us so. Just, uh, try to get a pair of indie rock glasses, J. Miss Rose would like it so. And by "her," I mean "me." And by "a pair of indie rock glasses," I mean, "assless chaps." Doesn't everyone?
A requiem in three parts:
- While filming License to Wed earlier this year in a certain building belonging to a certain BFF, Robin Williams is milling about downtown. Besides the two of us starting the only interesting (i.e. completely false) rumor ever to exist about Mandy Moore, I stumble into this hilarious idea, which I consistently joke about with aforementioned BFF: "Hey, since the only time Robin Williams was agreed to be super funny was the 70s - which was when he was really coked out - wouldn't it be absolutely hysterically awesome if we invite him back to your place to drink and do some lines? Yeah, I don't know where we're going to get blow, but come on, it would be so funny! And then he could be awesome in the movie and be funny again! I mean, he'd have to go back to rehab after filming, but we'd be doing the world a favor by making Robin Williams funny!" Uh. Prophecy Much?
- I was watching bits and pieces of On Her Majesty's Secret Service the other day and kept thinking how sorta hot George Lazenby was. Then I remembered that Lazenby was Australian, and mused on how based on the experiences of me and selected friends, they tend to be both (a)pretty hot, as a people. And (b)absolutely awesome in bed. [whereas the Brits have the cute accents but couldn't shag to save their lives. This is probably why Fleming actually wrote Bond as a Scot]. I was thinking how nice and hot it would be to, well, BAD PUN AHEAD, "go down under." Lo and behold, later that night? Exactly that scenario happens!
- Less conclusive is the fact that Miss Kay Rose (aforementioned BFF) bought me an much-needed umbrella the other day when it was raining and now I'm going to see her again and it's raining again. But still. COINCIDENCE?.....or evil?
Superduper irony alert:I love how my very first post was slagging Broadway Bar and now I'm looking for a place downtown preferably within walking distance of it, Miss Rose and Miss Magnolia. Bizarre to the max. Massive hugs to the cool bartenders who enable us so. Just, uh, try to get a pair of indie rock glasses, J. Miss Rose would like it so. And by "her," I mean "me." And by "a pair of indie rock glasses," I mean, "assless chaps." Doesn't everyone?
Nov 30, 2006
a vague glimmer of hope...
Can it possibly be true?
Page Six is reporting that LiLo is flirting...
...no, not with a new man, but sobriety.
Good luck, honey. No, seriously, good luck.
[We need both a sarcasm and anti-sarcasm/sincerity font/symbol/etc. Our society demands it. Holly? Irony asterisk?]
That said, isn't the second word in AA anonymous?
It's pretty shitty for someone to go to an AA meeting and then call up Page Six. I mean, don't get me wrong, I would've probably done the same thing. But I would expect LiLo to retaliate by calling up my (hypothetical) boss and tell them about my (not so hypothetical) drinking problem.
This does help explain the mysterious "90 Days" Button she was sporting a while back.
You know, there's Narconon, Nicotine Anon and so on and so forth. And yet we lack the one thing that is most needed in LA for people like Lindsay - famewhorers anonymous.
I find it pretty amusing that I'm considering using the 12 Steps as a jumping off structure for my "favorites/best of/year in review" wrapup, which contains two LiLo movies.
No, Just My Luck is decidedly not one of them. Sorry, extremely hot guy who sometimes wore Krystal-baiting indie rock glasses.
However, if aforementioned movie is re-released on DVD with a LiLo commentary ("I hated this film...I hated this...seriously, I think I walked off set and did 20 lines in my trailer after this scene") and a special all-shirtless Chris Pine viewing option, well, that's another story.
Oh, man, they're so gosh darn cute together. Suits are *so* my kryptonite, though. And a semi-fresh faced and redheaded Lindsay makes me all misty and nostalgic. My, how times have changed. (that's Donna Karen, btw. And it's been less than a year between the two faces of LiLo).
So, LiLo, before you get good and sober, for real this time, have a "La Lohan" on me and Krystal (it's basically a redheaded slut, with a ton more booze) and know that I've got your crazy, cooch-flashing, potentially bisexual and/or lesbian, possibly self-mutilating back.
But while you're making life changes, you may want to consider getting some learning of some kind. We all read your Altman "tribute," and while your heart was in the right place, it wasn't helped by your mind being at the bottom of the Jack Daniels bottle (or you thinking it's acceptable to compose an eulogy on a BLACKBERRY!). So get yourself some schooling to undo having the last 6-7 years of your life be a haze-filled haze. BE ADEQUITE!
Besides the good news in the land of Lohan, that Page Six reports that 50 Cent put Oprah on blast. I hate the word Oreo and its implications, but his words ("[she]has been catering to middle-aged white American women for so long that she's become one herself") have the faint ring of truthiness about them, no? Disagree? One word: Hermes.
In yet another "Borat ruins lives!" tale, Page Six and ONTD report that a private screening of the movie may have been partially behind the Pamela Anderson/Kid Rock split. Frat boys are one thing, but Pamela's happiness? You have gone too far, sir!
She's better off, though. Also, Mommy Rock/Ritchie may have worn fur to one of the four weddings of her son to a super noted animal activist. So that might've been a factor.
ETA: Gosh darn it! I post this and then Defamer takes it on and does it so much better and funnier than I.
Page Six is reporting that LiLo is flirting...
...no, not with a new man, but sobriety.
Good luck, honey. No, seriously, good luck.
[We need both a sarcasm and anti-sarcasm/sincerity font/symbol/etc. Our society demands it. Holly? Irony asterisk?]
That said, isn't the second word in AA anonymous?
It's pretty shitty for someone to go to an AA meeting and then call up Page Six. I mean, don't get me wrong, I would've probably done the same thing. But I would expect LiLo to retaliate by calling up my (hypothetical) boss and tell them about my (not so hypothetical) drinking problem.
This does help explain the mysterious "90 Days" Button she was sporting a while back.
You know, there's Narconon, Nicotine Anon and so on and so forth. And yet we lack the one thing that is most needed in LA for people like Lindsay - famewhorers anonymous.
I find it pretty amusing that I'm considering using the 12 Steps as a jumping off structure for my "favorites/best of/year in review" wrapup, which contains two LiLo movies.
No, Just My Luck is decidedly not one of them. Sorry, extremely hot guy who sometimes wore Krystal-baiting indie rock glasses.
However, if aforementioned movie is re-released on DVD with a LiLo commentary ("I hated this film...I hated this...seriously, I think I walked off set and did 20 lines in my trailer after this scene") and a special all-shirtless Chris Pine viewing option, well, that's another story.
Oh, man, they're so gosh darn cute together. Suits are *so* my kryptonite, though. And a semi-fresh faced and redheaded Lindsay makes me all misty and nostalgic. My, how times have changed. (that's Donna Karen, btw. And it's been less than a year between the two faces of LiLo).
So, LiLo, before you get good and sober, for real this time, have a "La Lohan" on me and Krystal (it's basically a redheaded slut, with a ton more booze) and know that I've got your crazy, cooch-flashing, potentially bisexual and/or lesbian, possibly self-mutilating back.
But while you're making life changes, you may want to consider getting some learning of some kind. We all read your Altman "tribute," and while your heart was in the right place, it wasn't helped by your mind being at the bottom of the Jack Daniels bottle (or you thinking it's acceptable to compose an eulogy on a BLACKBERRY!). So get yourself some schooling to undo having the last 6-7 years of your life be a haze-filled haze. BE ADEQUITE!
Besides the good news in the land of Lohan, that Page Six reports that 50 Cent put Oprah on blast. I hate the word Oreo and its implications, but his words ("[she]has been catering to middle-aged white American women for so long that she's become one herself") have the faint ring of truthiness about them, no? Disagree? One word: Hermes.
In yet another "Borat ruins lives!" tale, Page Six and ONTD report that a private screening of the movie may have been partially behind the Pamela Anderson/Kid Rock split. Frat boys are one thing, but Pamela's happiness? You have gone too far, sir!
She's better off, though. Also, Mommy Rock/Ritchie may have worn fur to one of the four weddings of her son to a super noted animal activist. So that might've been a factor.
ETA: Gosh darn it! I post this and then Defamer takes it on and does it so much better and funnier than I.
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