Right now, I'm in Charlotte, going to that wedding I mentioned in my last story. I am excited, particularly after the very fun rehearsal dinner last night, a huge BBQ-style deal that was at somebody's very gorgeous house out on the Charlotte 'burbs. The houses in the area reminded me of the mansion at the end of the second Harold and Kumar movie. The particular house we were at had a Colonial-style church on the lot behind it, which was brightly illuminated and provided a nice view. Even nicer was (have been) everyone I've encountered since I stepped off the plane. I know I live in one of the least friendly cities in the world, but even after factoring that in, I am struck by how familial and relaxed people are here. Not only is it refreshing, it's infectious. On principal, I try to avoid being rude to customer service people, but here I can't help being extra nice. It feels good to really smile and mean it when you say "Thank you so much."
One thing I got to do (and there are pictures of it) is hold my cousin Amy's new baby daughter. Now, I generally don't like kids. They're loud and dirty and irrational. They don't know how to blow their noses or edit what they say. They carry germs and terrible television is produced every day in their name. However, babies who don't cry for twenty-four hours straight, are adorable, and Little Natalia is no exception. Once she was handed to me I was reluctant to give her up. Amy is also a great parent. After only a few months, she's devoted to her baby but doesn't hover or antagonize other grownups. She also trusts her relatives. When we got there and Amy came up to give us all hugs, we asked where Natalia was and she said "Oh, she's being held by somebody over there." When I grow up, I want to be a mommy like Amy.
Today is the second wedding in the space of about two months that I'll be going to. I'm not going to draw any unfair comparisons between the two (except for the DJ; Jessie and Satish had the best wedding DJ ever). The wedding also won't go all night, so there might still be time to check out the bars and sample the locals. And will Lucy ever relinquish the bathroom? Only time will tell.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
My Night with Hollywood Canteen
I'm staying up late to watch Hollywood Canteen on TCM, a 1944 musical comedy written and directed by Delmer Daves, and starring everyone and their mother who was under contract at Warner Brothers at that time.
Robert Hutton plays a GI named 'Slim' who shows up in Hollywood with a buddy. His Bronx-born buddy goes off to drink and Slim wanders around in a montage sequence that features every miracle mile intersection possible. Its the kind of montage that you would only get if you've ever actually spent a fair amount of time in Hollywood, so I have a feeling signs for Sunset and Cahuenga went over Middle America's heads. After doing that, Slim is hungry and goes to a full lunch counter where the customers are all rude to him and the counter man sasses him, a sequence that seems less 1944 and more 1969. All they need is for an extra at the end of the bar to yell "Baby killer!" and this movie would be ageless.
So Slim finds his way to the Hollywood Canteen, and nelly-ass Joe E. Brown is holding court at the entrance, surrounded by sailors who are totally in heat for his autograph. I swear Brown does not actually make a single joke, and he has probably three facial expressions, but the laughs from the extras around him seem to come naturally. I hope they all got SAG vouchers for that one.
Jane Wyman (looking very tan and dark-haired) shows Slim to the counter, where there is A) no line and B) Barbara Stanwyck doling out slop. She and Slimster flirt back and forth in what is the first really magical moment of the movie. Getting the moves put on you by Barbara Stanwyck must have been a uniquely intimidating and exciting experience, and this is the closest I will ever get. Thanks Hollywood Canteen!
One of the busboys is drop-dead handsome John Garfield. He and Slim start chatting and it's homoeroticism at first sight. Garfield vows to find golden woman Joan Leslie to sacrifice to the Slim.
Slim keeps wandering around asking other famous people where Joan Leslie is. Not creepy at all, right? And even though the place is jam packed, they have plenty of time to help him. When Joan Leslie shows up to work dressed in a shimmering cape (what else you gonna wear to night shift?), Bette Davis grabs her and gets her to say yes to meeting him.
Some other musical numbers.
Slim finally meets Joan Leslie. And naturally it's love at first sight. Joan is stunning and the scene between them is beautiful and understated, one of those scenes that makes you wish that all of one's life could be a 1940's movie. Also three words concerning Bette Davis that I can take home from this whole interlude: Best. Wingman. Ever.
John Garfield is being a voyeur i mean gazing longingly at Slim I mean love's young dream happening over in the corner. One stern look from Bette Davis snaps him right out of it.
A soldier hits on Eddie Cantor. Eddie discovers that he's not that funny, and that the young people don't know who he is any more. He and Nora Martin do a song. Then Eddie invites a sailor up and gives him a kiss and makes a gay joke at his expense.
S.Z. Sakall's face gets molested (and roughly) by three different soldiers who he calls 'gheneral.' I cover my lap. What is this movie doing to me?
The Sons of the Pioneers appear and sing something. Roy Rogers rides in on Trigger and the extras part like the Red Sea, which would TOTALLY happen in real life (as SO sanitary ). He makes trigger 'bow.' That is SSOOOOO Tom Mix in 1925. He asks Trigger for a kiss. I never ever again want to hear a human say of a horse "He sure kisses juicy!" Roy sings Don't Fence Me In. Then he jumps back on Trigger and makes Trigger "dance" which is cute at first, but the extras standing look less enchanted and more nervous.
Slim FINALLY has an "I will never wash this hand" moment.
Ida Lupino invites a GI to sit down and pretends to be nice to him and show him "the ropes." He tries to give her a French lesson. She humors him so bad it's cruel. Then a French sailor comes up and asks for her autograph. Is this the Hollywood Canteen or the Mustang Ranch.
For a time when Hollywood was ruled by soft-focus and Max Factor, Ida Lupino is a shining beacon of natural beauty.
There's that French sailor again! Chatting up faux blond Irene Manning.
Patty Andrews looks like a man.
Peter Lorre is Sydney Greenstreet's mini-me, peering out from under the crook of Greenstreet's arm. They also talk to each other like pedophile wingmen scoping out a playground, only with less of an understanding of "personal space." Yes, I know Delmer Daves is doing all this on purpose, but it feels so dirty to watch.
Patty Andrews encourages drinking your tallboy with a straw.
Paul Henreid gets hit on by the GI who thinks he knows French. But Paul is more interested in Irish battle axe Mary Gordon. At least that's what Mary thinks until she leaves them alone and they start talking about rubbing noses and animal instinct.
French GI corners Alexis Smith. She's not having any of that nose-rubbin' talk.
Dennis Morgan: "Excuse me fellas but I gotta be a douche bag and go out and do a patriotic song." (By the way, I'm paraphrasing) Also, the term "a spade's a spade" is still racist.
Every patriotic song needs a chorus of people from the kitchen.
Morgan can't carry the number on his own, so Joe E. Brown comes out again and does his thing. He actually manages to look LESS gay when he's sauntering around to different tables with GIs and singing. Oh, and he finds the Asians in the audience.
The French Guido has a homo moment with a HAWT blond sailor who he thinks is Alexis Smith.
"I like these novelty bands that play music the way it's written!" What?!?
I know this is a little bit gay, but LOVES ME the Joan Crawford. If she walked up to me and asked me to dance, I would faint too.
The boys are back at the camp, having a bunkside chat. Gayer! They're talking about democracy. Gayer!
OMG, Farmer's Market! Been there! Oh, and Joan Leslie shops there! Dressed like Heidi!
Aw, Slim and Joan Leslie, sittin' in a tree. The Frenchman can't take it.
The guys aparently were jonesing for the HC so they're back again the third night in a row. And they think they're going to have their millionth man walk through the doors that night. So now we have some exposition about how the different studio departments all contributed, yaddiyaddayadda...
Finally there is a line of people at the entrance. Tension must be built, you see. Slim is the millonth man (surprise!) and he gets kissed by every junior hostess in the house (surprise!). "You didn't know you were somebody special, did you, corporal?"
Bette Davis has the right to pimp out any actress to the millionth man for the weekend. He chooses... Joan Leslie. And of course Slim doesn't forget his best friend. He gets to dance with Dolores Moran, who apparently has really good "give." Oh, and Joan Leslie shows us she can sing. And then they get rice thrown on them as a joke.
Slim is so taken he can't drive straight. Cute.
A 'rice' rumor starts to circulate. Joan Leslie still lives with her folks, who next door to the Shaggy Dog. She apparently is also in the habit of taking men to her home at night before she's married them. Slim just wants to talk though, cuz you know, he's not much of a romantic. And stuff... That's exactly what they end up doing. It's a pretty adorable scene.
Sexy room service girls tell Slim he's married to Joan Leslie. They go to the studio, and Slim can't bare to watch Joan Leslie kiss her scene partner Zachary Scott. It turns out, she really is into him, and wants him to come to dinner with her parents. I feel like I don't need to watch any more of this movie.
Millionth man's friend gets shown around the studio and they stealth-boom him up on a camera crane after he wanders into a 'Ballet Girls Dressing Room.' Then there's a ballet number that is very 'Wedding of the Painted Doll' only slightly less embarrassingly antiquated, and with ballet sailors and a lot of upskirt.
We meet Joan Leslie's family. Her sister is played by her real sister, who looks like the chick from Gambling with Souls. Her parents are played by impostors.
Joseph Szigeti plays 'Flight of the Bumblebee' which, if you believe this movie and Radio Days, was the most popular song in all of World War II. Bette Davis seems really unsure of her announcements. She introduces a second act, and the principals spend most of it arguing about who is a better performer. Sorry, too boring, I'm fast-forwarding.
There's some cute samba music. Dolores Moran and Frenchy sneak off to to go bang up at Hollywoodland. There's a Spanish dance number I also wasn't interested in. Slim has a monologue, and proves he can't pronounce Czechloslovakia. We are treated to a rousing Rainbow Nation montage of everyone sitting at the Hollywood Canteen. Kitty Carlisle asks for a request from Slim as he leaves, and ends up doing a reprise of the song Joan Leslie sang the night before.
Slim waits a little longer, but Joan Leslie isn't anywhere to be found. Somebody tells him he's just being used, but he writes her a note saying he doesn't care either way. Meanwhile, she's stuck at what appears to be the same gas station from Assassin of Youth.
OMG! Union Station! I've been there! And Joan Leslie makes it to say goodbye. They promise to keep on dreaming about each other. Another adorably smaltzy movie that I totally loved.
Robert Hutton plays a GI named 'Slim' who shows up in Hollywood with a buddy. His Bronx-born buddy goes off to drink and Slim wanders around in a montage sequence that features every miracle mile intersection possible. Its the kind of montage that you would only get if you've ever actually spent a fair amount of time in Hollywood, so I have a feeling signs for Sunset and Cahuenga went over Middle America's heads. After doing that, Slim is hungry and goes to a full lunch counter where the customers are all rude to him and the counter man sasses him, a sequence that seems less 1944 and more 1969. All they need is for an extra at the end of the bar to yell "Baby killer!" and this movie would be ageless.
So Slim finds his way to the Hollywood Canteen, and nelly-ass Joe E. Brown is holding court at the entrance, surrounded by sailors who are totally in heat for his autograph. I swear Brown does not actually make a single joke, and he has probably three facial expressions, but the laughs from the extras around him seem to come naturally. I hope they all got SAG vouchers for that one.
Jane Wyman (looking very tan and dark-haired) shows Slim to the counter, where there is A) no line and B) Barbara Stanwyck doling out slop. She and Slimster flirt back and forth in what is the first really magical moment of the movie. Getting the moves put on you by Barbara Stanwyck must have been a uniquely intimidating and exciting experience, and this is the closest I will ever get. Thanks Hollywood Canteen!
One of the busboys is drop-dead handsome John Garfield. He and Slim start chatting and it's homoeroticism at first sight. Garfield vows to find golden woman Joan Leslie to sacrifice to the Slim.
Slim keeps wandering around asking other famous people where Joan Leslie is. Not creepy at all, right? And even though the place is jam packed, they have plenty of time to help him. When Joan Leslie shows up to work dressed in a shimmering cape (what else you gonna wear to night shift?), Bette Davis grabs her and gets her to say yes to meeting him.
Some other musical numbers.
Slim finally meets Joan Leslie. And naturally it's love at first sight. Joan is stunning and the scene between them is beautiful and understated, one of those scenes that makes you wish that all of one's life could be a 1940's movie. Also three words concerning Bette Davis that I can take home from this whole interlude: Best. Wingman. Ever.
John Garfield is being a voyeur i mean gazing longingly at Slim I mean love's young dream happening over in the corner. One stern look from Bette Davis snaps him right out of it.
A soldier hits on Eddie Cantor. Eddie discovers that he's not that funny, and that the young people don't know who he is any more. He and Nora Martin do a song. Then Eddie invites a sailor up and gives him a kiss and makes a gay joke at his expense.
S.Z. Sakall's face gets molested (and roughly) by three different soldiers who he calls 'gheneral.' I cover my lap. What is this movie doing to me?
The Sons of the Pioneers appear and sing something. Roy Rogers rides in on Trigger and the extras part like the Red Sea, which would TOTALLY happen in real life (as SO sanitary ). He makes trigger 'bow.' That is SSOOOOO Tom Mix in 1925. He asks Trigger for a kiss. I never ever again want to hear a human say of a horse "He sure kisses juicy!" Roy sings Don't Fence Me In. Then he jumps back on Trigger and makes Trigger "dance" which is cute at first, but the extras standing look less enchanted and more nervous.
Slim FINALLY has an "I will never wash this hand" moment.
Ida Lupino invites a GI to sit down and pretends to be nice to him and show him "the ropes." He tries to give her a French lesson. She humors him so bad it's cruel. Then a French sailor comes up and asks for her autograph. Is this the Hollywood Canteen or the Mustang Ranch.
For a time when Hollywood was ruled by soft-focus and Max Factor, Ida Lupino is a shining beacon of natural beauty.
There's that French sailor again! Chatting up faux blond Irene Manning.
Patty Andrews looks like a man.
Peter Lorre is Sydney Greenstreet's mini-me, peering out from under the crook of Greenstreet's arm. They also talk to each other like pedophile wingmen scoping out a playground, only with less of an understanding of "personal space." Yes, I know Delmer Daves is doing all this on purpose, but it feels so dirty to watch.
Patty Andrews encourages drinking your tallboy with a straw.
Paul Henreid gets hit on by the GI who thinks he knows French. But Paul is more interested in Irish battle axe Mary Gordon. At least that's what Mary thinks until she leaves them alone and they start talking about rubbing noses and animal instinct.
French GI corners Alexis Smith. She's not having any of that nose-rubbin' talk.
Dennis Morgan: "Excuse me fellas but I gotta be a douche bag and go out and do a patriotic song." (By the way, I'm paraphrasing) Also, the term "a spade's a spade" is still racist.
Every patriotic song needs a chorus of people from the kitchen.
Morgan can't carry the number on his own, so Joe E. Brown comes out again and does his thing. He actually manages to look LESS gay when he's sauntering around to different tables with GIs and singing. Oh, and he finds the Asians in the audience.
The French Guido has a homo moment with a HAWT blond sailor who he thinks is Alexis Smith.
"I like these novelty bands that play music the way it's written!" What?!?
I know this is a little bit gay, but LOVES ME the Joan Crawford. If she walked up to me and asked me to dance, I would faint too.
The boys are back at the camp, having a bunkside chat. Gayer! They're talking about democracy. Gayer!
OMG, Farmer's Market! Been there! Oh, and Joan Leslie shops there! Dressed like Heidi!
Aw, Slim and Joan Leslie, sittin' in a tree. The Frenchman can't take it.
The guys aparently were jonesing for the HC so they're back again the third night in a row. And they think they're going to have their millionth man walk through the doors that night. So now we have some exposition about how the different studio departments all contributed, yaddiyaddayadda...
Finally there is a line of people at the entrance. Tension must be built, you see. Slim is the millonth man (surprise!) and he gets kissed by every junior hostess in the house (surprise!). "You didn't know you were somebody special, did you, corporal?"
Bette Davis has the right to pimp out any actress to the millionth man for the weekend. He chooses... Joan Leslie. And of course Slim doesn't forget his best friend. He gets to dance with Dolores Moran, who apparently has really good "give." Oh, and Joan Leslie shows us she can sing. And then they get rice thrown on them as a joke.
Slim is so taken he can't drive straight. Cute.
A 'rice' rumor starts to circulate. Joan Leslie still lives with her folks, who next door to the Shaggy Dog. She apparently is also in the habit of taking men to her home at night before she's married them. Slim just wants to talk though, cuz you know, he's not much of a romantic. And stuff... That's exactly what they end up doing. It's a pretty adorable scene.
Sexy room service girls tell Slim he's married to Joan Leslie. They go to the studio, and Slim can't bare to watch Joan Leslie kiss her scene partner Zachary Scott. It turns out, she really is into him, and wants him to come to dinner with her parents. I feel like I don't need to watch any more of this movie.
Millionth man's friend gets shown around the studio and they stealth-boom him up on a camera crane after he wanders into a 'Ballet Girls Dressing Room.' Then there's a ballet number that is very 'Wedding of the Painted Doll' only slightly less embarrassingly antiquated, and with ballet sailors and a lot of upskirt.
We meet Joan Leslie's family. Her sister is played by her real sister, who looks like the chick from Gambling with Souls. Her parents are played by impostors.
Joseph Szigeti plays 'Flight of the Bumblebee' which, if you believe this movie and Radio Days, was the most popular song in all of World War II. Bette Davis seems really unsure of her announcements. She introduces a second act, and the principals spend most of it arguing about who is a better performer. Sorry, too boring, I'm fast-forwarding.
There's some cute samba music. Dolores Moran and Frenchy sneak off to to go bang up at Hollywoodland. There's a Spanish dance number I also wasn't interested in. Slim has a monologue, and proves he can't pronounce Czechloslovakia. We are treated to a rousing Rainbow Nation montage of everyone sitting at the Hollywood Canteen. Kitty Carlisle asks for a request from Slim as he leaves, and ends up doing a reprise of the song Joan Leslie sang the night before.
Slim waits a little longer, but Joan Leslie isn't anywhere to be found. Somebody tells him he's just being used, but he writes her a note saying he doesn't care either way. Meanwhile, she's stuck at what appears to be the same gas station from Assassin of Youth.
OMG! Union Station! I've been there! And Joan Leslie makes it to say goodbye. They promise to keep on dreaming about each other. Another adorably smaltzy movie that I totally loved.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Wedding Dresses, History and Me
I am currently working my way through a backlog of entries from the podcast Stuff Mom Never Told You, hosted by the always lovely and congenial Cristen Conger and Molly Edmonds, and this past week I heard an excellent episode that not only appealed to my girly side, but mirrored current events (both past and approaching) in my life. It also just got me thinking generally about the topic: Why do brides wear white? At least that was the heading that showed up once iTunes was finished downloading the file; the topic could just have easily been Where to wedding dresses come from? Other than 'shut up, that's why' and 'hopefully somewhere reasonable,' I have a few reactions to the podcast. There are my thoughts.
Just to recap, I had a very dear old friend, well two dear friends, get married recently (they aren't all that old ... late twenties). I also have a cousin who is getting married later this month, and that trip will take me to Charlotte, North Carolina, which I am trying to tell myself will be fun, a chance to see relatives and sample at least one local (and blog about it, using lobby cards from A Woman in Grey as illustrations).
Anyhow, back to weddings. Cristen and Molly stated, at one point, that wedding dresses tend to follow contemporary fashion trends, which is totally true. However, Molly posited that, for example, in a 1970's wedding, "...you'd wear, like, you know, a mini, just like you would wear to go... shopping? Wherever you wear your mini's?" Actually, not as far as I can tell. While I wasn't technically around in the seventies, I can attest to seeing the many wedding photos of not just my parents, but of many friends' parents, all of whom were married in the seventies. All I remember from those photos were long, lace-up-the-front hippy-flavored gypsy dresses. These get-ups were as ubiquitous in these photos as our dads' John Lennon hair cuts. Mini-dresses, however, not so much.
World War II also came up in the discussion. Both sets of grandparents were married during that era, though neither (as far as I can tell) were married in a dress made out of parachute silk. Grandma Kitty and Grandpa Oji-San (Mr. and Mrs. Don Lynch) managed to swing a marriage in Italy in 1944, at the height of the conflict. They were married in a baroque chapel and honeymooned in Sorrento. Sounds romantic, right? Well, for the most part it sounds like it was, but fifty years later, Grandma was a little resentful of the fact that she had to get married in her uniform. Once, when we were watching TV together, a commercial for allergy medication or something started up, and the woman on the screen professed to be so excited about getting married in her mother's wedding gown. Kitty snorted "Nobody would ever want to have been married in my wedding dress!"
My dad's parents, as I said, were also married around that time, and their wedding photo stands in marked contrast. A traditional studio portrait, it shows John Sr. in a three-piece suit and cravate, and Regina in a long, elegant dress and corresponding veil. Again, I can't say whether the dress was made of parachute silk, but I will say that it is gorgeous, understated, and encapsulates the era. Grandma Reggie has never had any pretense about being stylish (she just is) but her wedding gown looks like the equivalent of something Worth or Dior were turning out at the time.
According to Cristen and Molly, the first recorded wedding white wedding dress was that of Queen Victoria I of England. This does actually sound like something I've hear somewhere before, so therefore it must be true. Apparently, Old Vic was the the first bride to have bridesmaids carry her train. My friend Jessie, who just got married, did not have an expansive train as part of her gorgeous gown, but she did work for a company three years ago that was bonding The Young Victoria, an Emily Blunt-starring hoop-skirt-straviganza that needs to come out already (seriously, it's been like three years). So, Jessie's wedding and former job are my connections to the late British monarch and the work of Sandy Powell.
The above photograph was found at a new discovery, the blog Jane Austen's World, which has a lovely illustrated article about weddings from November of last year, titled "Regency Wedding Dresses and Later Developments in Bridal Fashions."
http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com
Just to recap, I had a very dear old friend, well two dear friends, get married recently (they aren't all that old ... late twenties). I also have a cousin who is getting married later this month, and that trip will take me to Charlotte, North Carolina, which I am trying to tell myself will be fun, a chance to see relatives and sample at least one local (and blog about it, using lobby cards from A Woman in Grey as illustrations).
Anyhow, back to weddings. Cristen and Molly stated, at one point, that wedding dresses tend to follow contemporary fashion trends, which is totally true. However, Molly posited that, for example, in a 1970's wedding, "...you'd wear, like, you know, a mini, just like you would wear to go... shopping? Wherever you wear your mini's?" Actually, not as far as I can tell. While I wasn't technically around in the seventies, I can attest to seeing the many wedding photos of not just my parents, but of many friends' parents, all of whom were married in the seventies. All I remember from those photos were long, lace-up-the-front hippy-flavored gypsy dresses. These get-ups were as ubiquitous in these photos as our dads' John Lennon hair cuts. Mini-dresses, however, not so much.
World War II also came up in the discussion. Both sets of grandparents were married during that era, though neither (as far as I can tell) were married in a dress made out of parachute silk. Grandma Kitty and Grandpa Oji-San (Mr. and Mrs. Don Lynch) managed to swing a marriage in Italy in 1944, at the height of the conflict. They were married in a baroque chapel and honeymooned in Sorrento. Sounds romantic, right? Well, for the most part it sounds like it was, but fifty years later, Grandma was a little resentful of the fact that she had to get married in her uniform. Once, when we were watching TV together, a commercial for allergy medication or something started up, and the woman on the screen professed to be so excited about getting married in her mother's wedding gown. Kitty snorted "Nobody would ever want to have been married in my wedding dress!"
My dad's parents, as I said, were also married around that time, and their wedding photo stands in marked contrast. A traditional studio portrait, it shows John Sr. in a three-piece suit and cravate, and Regina in a long, elegant dress and corresponding veil. Again, I can't say whether the dress was made of parachute silk, but I will say that it is gorgeous, understated, and encapsulates the era. Grandma Reggie has never had any pretense about being stylish (she just is) but her wedding gown looks like the equivalent of something Worth or Dior were turning out at the time.
According to Cristen and Molly, the first recorded wedding white wedding dress was that of Queen Victoria I of England. This does actually sound like something I've hear somewhere before, so therefore it must be true. Apparently, Old Vic was the the first bride to have bridesmaids carry her train. My friend Jessie, who just got married, did not have an expansive train as part of her gorgeous gown, but she did work for a company three years ago that was bonding The Young Victoria, an Emily Blunt-starring hoop-skirt-straviganza that needs to come out already (seriously, it's been like three years). So, Jessie's wedding and former job are my connections to the late British monarch and the work of Sandy Powell.
The above photograph was found at a new discovery, the blog Jane Austen's World, which has a lovely illustrated article about weddings from November of last year, titled "Regency Wedding Dresses and Later Developments in Bridal Fashions."http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Happy Birthday to Me (and Myra Breckenridge)
So today is my birthday. I share this birthday with a few celebrities that people know about (Raquel Welch, Rose McGowan, Michael Keaton) as well as a few who I actually admire and care about (Werner Herzog, Paddy Considine, Arline Pretty - see below left).
Virgos are alluring, but have doughy faces, as Ms. Pretty demonstrates here. I am likewise a bit doughy in the face. As for the alluring part, I don't know so much.
I'm about to go out to celebrate, and I just wanted to post a cute clip of what I was watching right before I left. Here's an unrecognizable Ginger Rogers singing two songs in A Night in a Dormitory (1929), from that period where musicals were so bad they almost died. Just goes to show you that everyone needs a little time to grow into their own. I feel like 23 sounds a lot older than 22 but people keep saying I still have time to grow into myself. I'll take it.
Virgos are alluring, but have doughy faces, as Ms. Pretty demonstrates here. I am likewise a bit doughy in the face. As for the alluring part, I don't know so much.I'm about to go out to celebrate, and I just wanted to post a cute clip of what I was watching right before I left. Here's an unrecognizable Ginger Rogers singing two songs in A Night in a Dormitory (1929), from that period where musicals were so bad they almost died. Just goes to show you that everyone needs a little time to grow into their own. I feel like 23 sounds a lot older than 22 but people keep saying I still have time to grow into myself. I'll take it.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I'm Not Your 2001 Monkey
It's only the second day of the fall semester, and already I have a fun anecdote. I was sitting right behind a deaf guy in my History 1 class, and of course he had a sign language interpreter on hand, who signed everything the crazy professor had to say, even his weird asides that make me wonder if it's possible to have a GTS attack and also be snarky. Interpreter girl must have been tired by the end of the class. I was just watching her.
In the last quarter part of the time we had in class, the professor showed us the first 15-20 minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey, one of those movies that I know and admire, but have only really seen all the way through once, because if I never saw it, I could never be a real boy as so on. Unlike some other movies (Battleship Potemkin, Casablanca - I know, sacrilege) I think 2001 is a great movie, one of those "even it's flaws are interesting" kind of movies. It was nice to see even just a portion of it after at least eight years (I saw it in middle school).
So back to the hot deaf action that was going on in front of me. All three of us - me, deaf guy, sighner girl - all knew that she was under some sort of obligation to "sign" the movie, even though there really isn't any dialog in the parts we were watching (all the stuff with the monkeys, and the ship reaching the space station). If there is any dialog that occurs before Floyd gets off the rotating elevator, it’s not the coherent spoken English kind that might need interpreting. Still, Miss Lady Sign Languagesson still had plenty to say with her hands before the clip was over.
This then begs the question: “What does ‘More monkey noises’ look like in American Sign Language?” Sadly, I cannot describe it. I’d like to think that statement was in her jestures somewhere, but it could just as easily have been “It’s that annoying classical music again.” If this guy stays in the class, maybe someday I’ll learn the difference. Until then, I have a mountain of Math Homework to get through.
PS: The above is not a scene from the film, rather an accurate depiction of life in the bureaucratic labyrinth of despair that my school. Those pendulous clouds are from the fire that is slowly engulfing Los Angeles County. Happy September, y'all.
In the last quarter part of the time we had in class, the professor showed us the first 15-20 minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey, one of those movies that I know and admire, but have only really seen all the way through once, because if I never saw it, I could never be a real boy as so on. Unlike some other movies (Battleship Potemkin, Casablanca - I know, sacrilege) I think 2001 is a great movie, one of those "even it's flaws are interesting" kind of movies. It was nice to see even just a portion of it after at least eight years (I saw it in middle school).
So back to the hot deaf action that was going on in front of me. All three of us - me, deaf guy, sighner girl - all knew that she was under some sort of obligation to "sign" the movie, even though there really isn't any dialog in the parts we were watching (all the stuff with the monkeys, and the ship reaching the space station). If there is any dialog that occurs before Floyd gets off the rotating elevator, it’s not the coherent spoken English kind that might need interpreting. Still, Miss Lady Sign Languagesson still had plenty to say with her hands before the clip was over.
This then begs the question: “What does ‘More monkey noises’ look like in American Sign Language?” Sadly, I cannot describe it. I’d like to think that statement was in her jestures somewhere, but it could just as easily have been “It’s that annoying classical music again.” If this guy stays in the class, maybe someday I’ll learn the difference. Until then, I have a mountain of Math Homework to get through.
PS: The above is not a scene from the film, rather an accurate depiction of life in the bureaucratic labyrinth of despair that my school. Those pendulous clouds are from the fire that is slowly engulfing Los Angeles County. Happy September, y'all.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
An American Wedding
This past weekend, two of my oldest friends in Los Angeles got married. The ceremony was great, with lots of drinking, great music and carousing with old and new friends. More on that in a moment.
The story of Satish and Jessie, the wonderful couple in question, is long and filled with drama (in a good way). Not to sound like a douche bag, but I was there at the beginning. They had one particular class together, one of those classes that are so complicated that it destroys friendships, and were part of the same group. I came along for a meeting early in the semester at Jessie's house and watched her argue with Satish. Even though they clearly disagreed about several things, they were clearly on a certain wavelength. Since Jessie was the only one with a car at the time, she drove everybody home. She dropped Satish off at his place, and as we watched him make his way up to the front door, she said something along the lines of "I think I want to make out with him."
My reaction: "Go for it!"
Flash-forward to this past weekend. The wedding ceremony was held at a Buddhist college in Aliso Viejo, and among the guests were Jessie's big Filipino family, Satish's big Italian family, and both of their friends, who are one of the most eclectic and international groups of people you could hope to find anywhere. It was classic and elegant, with the poofy dress, the tuxedos, the centerpieces, but it was loose and free in a way that all weddings ought to be.
In episodes of Six Feet Under where primary characters died their funerals would be packed with extras you had never seen before. That struck me as weird, even though I could look to other funerals I've been to, such as my grandmother's in 2006, when old neighbors and my mother's high school friends were showing up. Similarly, in the weddings I've been to in the last few years (and there have been several) there were always those people who you didn't know, the guests you never spoke to, the guests who were just extras and who you'd totally have forgotten about if they weren't walking through the background of your snapshots. All I ever saw on Six Feet Under were the lead characters, and their relationships with other lead characters. This weekend I feel like I had something of an epiphany. Those scenes from the HBO show finally made sense when I looked around and saw all these people who I had never met, but who were there, just like me, to show Satish and Jessie their love and support. I am finding that, from my very selfish perspective, I see my interactions with people as being the only events that really take place. Why would they know anybody I've never met? Why would I not know any other people that they know? Because, I know now, we are humans. Those people I have never met are all humans. I grant that this revelation probably doesn't make sense to anyone else in the world, but for me it's a bit profound. No wonder people are still dismissing me by saying "Oh, you're young."
If you look at depictions of weddings in popular American culture, they are usually pretty staid, sober affairs. Not only have they been manufactured by award-winning production designers with the backing of a major studio, but there is a formal going-through-the-motions quality that seems to be present only when you're dealing with a white, WASPy family. The only loose weddings seem to be the 'ethnic' ones, and that's usually because they are some sort of homogeneous gathering for a particular minority. I look back on Jessie and Satish's wedding, and I am struck by what a microcosm of America the whole thing is. Especially when the newlyweds (Indian and Pinay respectively) and their Bridesmaids (Indian, Middle Eastern, African American) and Groomsmen (Indian, Pakistani, Mexican) jumped on the dancefloor for a surprise rendition of Michael Jackson's Thriller dance (led by a white girl). Meanwhile, Satish's adoptive Italian family, Jessie's Filipino family and everyone else in the room clapped along and hooted and cheered.
Saying that a particular wedding is more American than another doesn't qualify it as better or worse, but this one, with it's white minority and melting pot pastiche of guests, was the most fun I've ever had.
The story of Satish and Jessie, the wonderful couple in question, is long and filled with drama (in a good way). Not to sound like a douche bag, but I was there at the beginning. They had one particular class together, one of those classes that are so complicated that it destroys friendships, and were part of the same group. I came along for a meeting early in the semester at Jessie's house and watched her argue with Satish. Even though they clearly disagreed about several things, they were clearly on a certain wavelength. Since Jessie was the only one with a car at the time, she drove everybody home. She dropped Satish off at his place, and as we watched him make his way up to the front door, she said something along the lines of "I think I want to make out with him."
My reaction: "Go for it!"
Flash-forward to this past weekend. The wedding ceremony was held at a Buddhist college in Aliso Viejo, and among the guests were Jessie's big Filipino family, Satish's big Italian family, and both of their friends, who are one of the most eclectic and international groups of people you could hope to find anywhere. It was classic and elegant, with the poofy dress, the tuxedos, the centerpieces, but it was loose and free in a way that all weddings ought to be.
In episodes of Six Feet Under where primary characters died their funerals would be packed with extras you had never seen before. That struck me as weird, even though I could look to other funerals I've been to, such as my grandmother's in 2006, when old neighbors and my mother's high school friends were showing up. Similarly, in the weddings I've been to in the last few years (and there have been several) there were always those people who you didn't know, the guests you never spoke to, the guests who were just extras and who you'd totally have forgotten about if they weren't walking through the background of your snapshots. All I ever saw on Six Feet Under were the lead characters, and their relationships with other lead characters. This weekend I feel like I had something of an epiphany. Those scenes from the HBO show finally made sense when I looked around and saw all these people who I had never met, but who were there, just like me, to show Satish and Jessie their love and support. I am finding that, from my very selfish perspective, I see my interactions with people as being the only events that really take place. Why would they know anybody I've never met? Why would I not know any other people that they know? Because, I know now, we are humans. Those people I have never met are all humans. I grant that this revelation probably doesn't make sense to anyone else in the world, but for me it's a bit profound. No wonder people are still dismissing me by saying "Oh, you're young."
If you look at depictions of weddings in popular American culture, they are usually pretty staid, sober affairs. Not only have they been manufactured by award-winning production designers with the backing of a major studio, but there is a formal going-through-the-motions quality that seems to be present only when you're dealing with a white, WASPy family. The only loose weddings seem to be the 'ethnic' ones, and that's usually because they are some sort of homogeneous gathering for a particular minority. I look back on Jessie and Satish's wedding, and I am struck by what a microcosm of America the whole thing is. Especially when the newlyweds (Indian and Pinay respectively) and their Bridesmaids (Indian, Middle Eastern, African American) and Groomsmen (Indian, Pakistani, Mexican) jumped on the dancefloor for a surprise rendition of Michael Jackson's Thriller dance (led by a white girl). Meanwhile, Satish's adoptive Italian family, Jessie's Filipino family and everyone else in the room clapped along and hooted and cheered.
Saying that a particular wedding is more American than another doesn't qualify it as better or worse, but this one, with it's white minority and melting pot pastiche of guests, was the most fun I've ever had.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Bonnie and Clyde
I am getting toward the end of the book Go Down Together by Jeff Guinn, a recent (and excellent) biography of Bonnie and Clyde. A real page turner, it reflects a lot of new research that re-examines, and in many cases debunks, numerous popular myths and misconceptions about the famous Depression-era outlaws. Of course, this put me in the mood to do something I had wanted to do since middle school: Start writing my Bonnie and Clyde screenplay. The book has so many interesting stories and pieces of information that I was thinking that a John Adams-style mini-series might (at least sort of) do it justice, but I was dismayed to learn that a movie about the very same subject has been filming since April.
The movie The Story of Bonnie and Clyde, which is due out next year, has garnered a lot of criticism due to the fact that Hilary Duff will be playing Bonnie Parker. Everybody on the webs are up in arms. I have to admit I was too at first. As an ex-Disney pawn (is she still a Disney pawn?), Duff doesn't seem like the type of actress that you want to entrust with a serious role. Her movies so far have all been majorly fluffy, and her Lizzie Maguire TV persona isn't help much. She's too young, too perfect, to modern to accurately play the Bonnie Parker who lived a rough life, aged quickly and died violently beside her sociopathic boyfriend.
I'm gonna say it: Maybe she can do it. Why not? She hasn't really been presented with the opportunity to tackle a challenging role. With a woman at the helm of the production, Duff might be privy to some directorial insight into the character that Faye Dunaway didn't quite get from Arthur Penn. I'll hold out hope that Tonya S. Holly is more Kathryn Bigelow than Catherine Hardwicke.
Am I wary of the choice of Duff to play this hallowed, complicated character? Yes, absolutely. We also have to remember that many of the common notions about Bonnie are false or unproven: Bonnie probably never shot anybody, she never smoked cigars, she most likely never slept around with other members of Clyde's gang. While she's nowhere near my first choice (Mireille Enos), or second (Anna Paquin), or third (Jennifer Jason Leigh), Duff must have done something right in the audition process. The problem of casting her in this role is, partly, the problem of casting any current age-appropriate actress: People look younger, seem younger, and more youth-oriented personas now than they used to. Duff is going to be 22 this year, about the same age as Clyde and Bonnie when they first met.
The only other thing I'm really worried about is the movie's actual overall quality. Since the subject is pretty close to my heart, I want it to look nice and be presented accurately. I want it to be shot in the right locations (it is), on film (fingers crossed), with a large enough budget to allow for accurate costumes and props (one can only hope). I doubt that it's budget is anything close to that of Public Enemies. I'm hopeful that they'll be able to make it work.
Most of the uproar around this movie seems to come from everyone's impression that this is a 'remake' of the 1967 movie Bonnie and Clyde that starred Dunaway and Warren Beatty at the title characters. I can't agree about this being any particular sort of "tragedy," since I don't like and never liked that film, but calling this movie a 'remake' is about as accurate as Sarah Palin's recent use of the term "Death Panel." This movie is a retelling of historical events, not the rehashing of an older film. If you still want to look at it that way, then just remember that your precious 1967 movie would then, by that definition, also be a remake, since it was preceded by the terrific Gun Crazy and, before that, the proto-noir You Only Live Once.
I'm annoyed that a Bonnie and Clyde movie is being made at the moment, but I'm annoyed for very selfish, unrealistic reasons. I want it to either be good and be well received, or for it to be so terrible that it gets buried by the distributor, with no release whatsoever. The real tragedy will be if it picks up where Public Enemies left off turning the subject of 1930's gangsters into 21st Century box office poison.
The movie The Story of Bonnie and Clyde, which is due out next year, has garnered a lot of criticism due to the fact that Hilary Duff will be playing Bonnie Parker. Everybody on the webs are up in arms. I have to admit I was too at first. As an ex-Disney pawn (is she still a Disney pawn?), Duff doesn't seem like the type of actress that you want to entrust with a serious role. Her movies so far have all been majorly fluffy, and her Lizzie Maguire TV persona isn't help much. She's too young, too perfect, to modern to accurately play the Bonnie Parker who lived a rough life, aged quickly and died violently beside her sociopathic boyfriend.
I'm gonna say it: Maybe she can do it. Why not? She hasn't really been presented with the opportunity to tackle a challenging role. With a woman at the helm of the production, Duff might be privy to some directorial insight into the character that Faye Dunaway didn't quite get from Arthur Penn. I'll hold out hope that Tonya S. Holly is more Kathryn Bigelow than Catherine Hardwicke.
Am I wary of the choice of Duff to play this hallowed, complicated character? Yes, absolutely. We also have to remember that many of the common notions about Bonnie are false or unproven: Bonnie probably never shot anybody, she never smoked cigars, she most likely never slept around with other members of Clyde's gang. While she's nowhere near my first choice (Mireille Enos), or second (Anna Paquin), or third (Jennifer Jason Leigh), Duff must have done something right in the audition process. The problem of casting her in this role is, partly, the problem of casting any current age-appropriate actress: People look younger, seem younger, and more youth-oriented personas now than they used to. Duff is going to be 22 this year, about the same age as Clyde and Bonnie when they first met.
The only other thing I'm really worried about is the movie's actual overall quality. Since the subject is pretty close to my heart, I want it to look nice and be presented accurately. I want it to be shot in the right locations (it is), on film (fingers crossed), with a large enough budget to allow for accurate costumes and props (one can only hope). I doubt that it's budget is anything close to that of Public Enemies. I'm hopeful that they'll be able to make it work.
Most of the uproar around this movie seems to come from everyone's impression that this is a 'remake' of the 1967 movie Bonnie and Clyde that starred Dunaway and Warren Beatty at the title characters. I can't agree about this being any particular sort of "tragedy," since I don't like and never liked that film, but calling this movie a 'remake' is about as accurate as Sarah Palin's recent use of the term "Death Panel." This movie is a retelling of historical events, not the rehashing of an older film. If you still want to look at it that way, then just remember that your precious 1967 movie would then, by that definition, also be a remake, since it was preceded by the terrific Gun Crazy and, before that, the proto-noir You Only Live Once.
I'm annoyed that a Bonnie and Clyde movie is being made at the moment, but I'm annoyed for very selfish, unrealistic reasons. I want it to either be good and be well received, or for it to be so terrible that it gets buried by the distributor, with no release whatsoever. The real tragedy will be if it picks up where Public Enemies left off turning the subject of 1930's gangsters into 21st Century box office poison.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Good Ideas: Ozsploitation
I've gotten really interested, lately, in vintage foreign action movie genres, namely the Nikkatsu yakuza thrillers of the 1960's, and the Roger Corman-produced, Pam Grier-starring quazi-Blaxploitation women-in-prison action movies from the 1970's, movies like The Big Doll House and Black Mama, White Mama (they count as foreign because they were shot in the Philippines). I have to admit I'm even curious about those awful Golan & Globus action movies that were shot in Israel or Apartheid-era South Africa in the late 1980's. Maybe this was a phase I should have gone through when I was younger, but right now I'm rethinking my old attitudes about "guy" movies, movies that are gritty and cheep and know it.
I can now add another sub-genre to that list, thanks to today's episode of The Business on KCRW (I listen to the podcast version every week). Ozsploitation is the subject of a documentary called Not Quite Hollywood, which documents the rash of sleezy, ultraviolent and bra-ripping early days of 1970's Australian filmmaking. According to the director, Australia had developed a very strong film industry in the 1940's and 1950's, but the foreign powers bought up all the cinemas in the 1960's and pushed the homegrown industry out. The country's return to domestic film output co-incided with the dismantling of censorship laws, and as a result, the outback cinema became one of blood and boobs, and more than a handful of near-death car stunts. Among the best known of the genre were Mad Max and The Cars That Ate Paris, but there were dozens of other films that were far dirtier, far more explicitly violent and sexual, far more shocking. The genre also gave start to a lot of careers, including Barry Humphries/Dame Edna Everage, who you'll remember from another blog entry.
I had no idea there was a piece of history like this lurking in the shadows, but it does fit with what information I did already have about Aussie films. If I had to name any Austrailian movie older than Mad Max, I couldn't get much farther than The Story of the Kelly Gang. and that's only because it's been acknowleged as the first feature film ever made that wasn't a boxing documentary. It's really qite a sad story, that of Australia's film industry, that it produced the worlds feature film (in the tender year of 1906) and had a thriving industry that was so destroyed by America in about fifteen years time that these films are the output of an industry that was starting over from scratch.
That's not to diminish the value of the movies that are profiled in Not Quite Hollywood. They look fun and exciting. Given the context in which they were made, I feel like now is the best time for me to see them. The really ironic thing is that the only other movies being made in Australia at the time were languid hits and misses like Walkabout (hit) and Picnic at Hanging Rock (not a hit).
Somehow I bet Night of Fear or Alvin Purple Rides Again are a lot more watchable that the beautifully shot but not very rewarding Careful, He Might Hear You, which I just sent back to Netflix yesterday.)We'll see how I feel once I've seen a few Ozsploitation movies all the way through, but first, Seijin Suzuki's Youth of the Beast.
I can now add another sub-genre to that list, thanks to today's episode of The Business on KCRW (I listen to the podcast version every week). Ozsploitation is the subject of a documentary called Not Quite Hollywood, which documents the rash of sleezy, ultraviolent and bra-ripping early days of 1970's Australian filmmaking. According to the director, Australia had developed a very strong film industry in the 1940's and 1950's, but the foreign powers bought up all the cinemas in the 1960's and pushed the homegrown industry out. The country's return to domestic film output co-incided with the dismantling of censorship laws, and as a result, the outback cinema became one of blood and boobs, and more than a handful of near-death car stunts. Among the best known of the genre were Mad Max and The Cars That Ate Paris, but there were dozens of other films that were far dirtier, far more explicitly violent and sexual, far more shocking. The genre also gave start to a lot of careers, including Barry Humphries/Dame Edna Everage, who you'll remember from another blog entry.
I had no idea there was a piece of history like this lurking in the shadows, but it does fit with what information I did already have about Aussie films. If I had to name any Austrailian movie older than Mad Max, I couldn't get much farther than The Story of the Kelly Gang. and that's only because it's been acknowleged as the first feature film ever made that wasn't a boxing documentary. It's really qite a sad story, that of Australia's film industry, that it produced the worlds feature film (in the tender year of 1906) and had a thriving industry that was so destroyed by America in about fifteen years time that these films are the output of an industry that was starting over from scratch.
That's not to diminish the value of the movies that are profiled in Not Quite Hollywood. They look fun and exciting. Given the context in which they were made, I feel like now is the best time for me to see them. The really ironic thing is that the only other movies being made in Australia at the time were languid hits and misses like Walkabout (hit) and Picnic at Hanging Rock (not a hit).
Somehow I bet Night of Fear or Alvin Purple Rides Again are a lot more watchable that the beautifully shot but not very rewarding Careful, He Might Hear You, which I just sent back to Netflix yesterday.)We'll see how I feel once I've seen a few Ozsploitation movies all the way through, but first, Seijin Suzuki's Youth of the Beast.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Now I Wanna Be Your Dog
Every now that then you see something that makes you angry, not because it offends you, but because you wish you came up with it. Back in February I saw Diablo Cody speak at Cinequest in San Jose and she said that The Wrestler had made her angry for that very reason.
Well, here's the item for this week that I wish I had come up with: A beautifully designed and smashingly edited rendition of the classic Stooges song. Why couldn't I have come up with this? It's not like I've been busy updating my blog or anything.
Oh well. I'm sure I'll be feeling the same thing tonight; I'm going to see the long-awaited (500) Days of Summer.
Well, here's the item for this week that I wish I had come up with: A beautifully designed and smashingly edited rendition of the classic Stooges song. Why couldn't I have come up with this? It's not like I've been busy updating my blog or anything.
Oh well. I'm sure I'll be feeling the same thing tonight; I'm going to see the long-awaited (500) Days of Summer.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Good Ideas: WPA Murals, Hawaii
There are a few things bothering me lately, but only slightly since I haven't been keeping up on politics a whole lot in the past few weeks. From what I can tell, crazy white people are still having affairs and snubbing government money that would help their states' schools, and then spreading rumors that Barack Obama might not have been born in the US, and about how brown women are racist. Oh yeah, and they're still practically going out of their way to mispronouce non-WASP surnames. I guess I haven't been missing very much.
President Obama is a native of Hawaii, that beautiful state where white people can go and get treated like massa's. Hawaii was inducted into the union in March 1959, a year and five months before his was born, so the question of birth on American soil isn't an issue. However I was talking with a friend the other day and the hypothetical "What if he had been born before 1959" came up. It's a reasonable scenario. Fortunately, Albert is smart and knew right away that, since 1900, Hawaii had been a US territory, which qualities it as American soil, and therefore Obama wouldn't have had any trouble. Can you imagine what Mrs Ann Coulter would have done with that, though? I'm going to write Albert in on the ballot for 2012.
The only things that are really bugging me about Obama are already things we knew before we voted for him: He's a little more moderate than I would like, and he doesn't support marriage equality. I've said that before, not on here, and I'll say it again, on here. And, yes, it's the perfect time to take down Don't Ask, Don't Tell. These Human Rights Campaign spam emails really to stop. People are also totally freaked out about the free communist healthcare, big surprise. I just want to know if American can expect free WPA Murals with their healthcare. That's a change I could believe in.
By the way, this is the WPA mural from the late, great Essex Mountain Sanatorium in Verona, New Jersey. Check out the link below to see more fabulous pictures.
http://www.mountainsanatorium.net/
President Obama is a native of Hawaii, that beautiful state where white people can go and get treated like massa's. Hawaii was inducted into the union in March 1959, a year and five months before his was born, so the question of birth on American soil isn't an issue. However I was talking with a friend the other day and the hypothetical "What if he had been born before 1959" came up. It's a reasonable scenario. Fortunately, Albert is smart and knew right away that, since 1900, Hawaii had been a US territory, which qualities it as American soil, and therefore Obama wouldn't have had any trouble. Can you imagine what Mrs Ann Coulter would have done with that, though? I'm going to write Albert in on the ballot for 2012.
The only things that are really bugging me about Obama are already things we knew before we voted for him: He's a little more moderate than I would like, and he doesn't support marriage equality. I've said that before, not on here, and I'll say it again, on here. And, yes, it's the perfect time to take down Don't Ask, Don't Tell. These Human Rights Campaign spam emails really to stop. People are also totally freaked out about the free communist healthcare, big surprise. I just want to know if American can expect free WPA Murals with their healthcare. That's a change I could believe in.
By the way, this is the WPA mural from the late, great Essex Mountain Sanatorium in Verona, New Jersey. Check out the link below to see more fabulous pictures.
http://www.mountainsanatorium.net/
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Thanks for Birth Control, Auntie Em!
For a research paper I am crunching today, I was looking up the 1957 interview Mike Wallace did with Margaret Sanger, the famous and controversial birth control advocate. Once you get past Wallace's lengthy, prattling plug for the Phillip Morris cigarettes (he might as well be smudging a lit smoke in your ear, it's that obvious) the actual interview is extremely interesting and Sanger comes off as very sincere and articulate, as much an advocate for personal responsibility as for . (She also had recanted her past views on eugenics at this point, and that doesn't excuse them, but it shows she wasn't above changing her mind when broader life experience proved her wrong.)
The entire time I was watching the interview, I was struck by how much Sanger resembled that actress everyone doesn't know they know, Clara Blandick. A classic character actress, Blandick is better known as Auntie Em to Judy Garland's Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz (1939). I kept picturing that scene where Elmira Gulch (Margaret Hamilton) gets told off by Auntie Em, but with different dialogue.
Ms Gulch: What do you say to opponents that birth control violates, not only a Catholic law, but a 'higher law.' What would you say to that?
Auntie Em: Well, you'd have to ask a Catholic. I can't speak for them.
Watch the interview here:
http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/multimedia/video/2008/wallace/sanger_margaret.html
The entire time I was watching the interview, I was struck by how much Sanger resembled that actress everyone doesn't know they know, Clara Blandick. A classic character actress, Blandick is better known as Auntie Em to Judy Garland's Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz (1939). I kept picturing that scene where Elmira Gulch (Margaret Hamilton) gets told off by Auntie Em, but with different dialogue.
Ms Gulch: What do you say to opponents that birth control violates, not only a Catholic law, but a 'higher law.' What would you say to that?
Auntie Em: Well, you'd have to ask a Catholic. I can't speak for them.
Watch the interview here:
http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/multimedia/video/2008/wallace/sanger_margaret.html
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Vanity Fair
I have to give this month's Vanity Fair major props for its 'Ain't We Got Style?' photo spread by Michael Roberts, Norma Jean Roy and Mark Seliger, especially for the fantastic portrait of Mila Kunis as Letty Lynton, the Joan Crawford role/character that has been hard to find for the past seventy-something years since it was court-ordered back into the MGM archives on copyright violations. My next thought, after taking it in, was 'Of all movies, Letty Lynton? Do people actually know about that movie?'
Apparently people know about the dress. "(T)he Letty Lynton dress, with billowing, diaphanous sleeves, became an overnight sensation" says the small text in the upper right corner. Previously, my only visual reference was a small still in the great book Sin in Soft Focus by Mark A. Vieira, which shows Crawford buried in silver fox, leaning against Nils Ascher. Indeed a google image search did turn up some terrific glamour shots of Miss le Seur in the white dress with big sleeves.
A YouTube search turned up something even more exciting: The entire movie, which I don't think has ever been on VHS (and certainly never been on DVD). Until it gets taken down, do seek it out. It's been divided into about ten increments.
I watched the first three or so last night, and I can't say I'm not completely impressed. The overall image quality is better than nothing, but still very dismal and washed out, particularly disappointing when you consider how gorgeous movies from that era at MGM usually looked. (The cinematographer Oliver Marsh, was also responsible for Dancing Lady, San Francisco, The Women and a few of the Thin Man movies.) The sets, by Cedric Gibbons, are disappointingly plain. As to the acting, let's just say nobody won any Oscars. Joanie is good, not great. Her wardrobe is more interesting. Robert Montgomery is charming, and more interesting to watch than Joan's wardrobe. Nils Ascher is good, but not the complicated General Yen you'd like to see. Character problems aside, the actors don't bring a whole lot.
Granted, I'm saying this after watching the equivalent of the first three reels. Maybe Letty Lynton will redeem itself in its second act. By the time I'm finished with my essays for English class, hopefully this faded apparent bootleg will not have been removed from the webitudes. In the meantime, I'm just glad it's available, glad that it didn't suffer the same fate as Convention City. Then again, Convention City was exciting enough to watch than it actually threatened the status quo. Letty Lynton scandalously (allegedly) plagerized an outside source material, but so far that's about the only aspect of it that's still scandalous today.
Apparently people know about the dress. "(T)he Letty Lynton dress, with billowing, diaphanous sleeves, became an overnight sensation" says the small text in the upper right corner. Previously, my only visual reference was a small still in the great book Sin in Soft Focus by Mark A. Vieira, which shows Crawford buried in silver fox, leaning against Nils Ascher. Indeed a google image search did turn up some terrific glamour shots of Miss le Seur in the white dress with big sleeves.
A YouTube search turned up something even more exciting: The entire movie, which I don't think has ever been on VHS (and certainly never been on DVD). Until it gets taken down, do seek it out. It's been divided into about ten increments.
I watched the first three or so last night, and I can't say I'm not completely impressed. The overall image quality is better than nothing, but still very dismal and washed out, particularly disappointing when you consider how gorgeous movies from that era at MGM usually looked. (The cinematographer Oliver Marsh, was also responsible for Dancing Lady, San Francisco, The Women and a few of the Thin Man movies.) The sets, by Cedric Gibbons, are disappointingly plain. As to the acting, let's just say nobody won any Oscars. Joanie is good, not great. Her wardrobe is more interesting. Robert Montgomery is charming, and more interesting to watch than Joan's wardrobe. Nils Ascher is good, but not the complicated General Yen you'd like to see. Character problems aside, the actors don't bring a whole lot.
Granted, I'm saying this after watching the equivalent of the first three reels. Maybe Letty Lynton will redeem itself in its second act. By the time I'm finished with my essays for English class, hopefully this faded apparent bootleg will not have been removed from the webitudes. In the meantime, I'm just glad it's available, glad that it didn't suffer the same fate as Convention City. Then again, Convention City was exciting enough to watch than it actually threatened the status quo. Letty Lynton scandalously (allegedly) plagerized an outside source material, but so far that's about the only aspect of it that's still scandalous today.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
One more reason to visit Israel
I always joke about how I don't want to go to Israel because I don't want to be killed. I know it's wrong, but my Israeli friends don't take it personally. The truth is that the only thing I'm afraid in Israel of is the excess of sunshine. If I could be guaranteed a moderate, overcast weekend and an umbrella barer to follow me around anytime I went outside, I would be strolling down those Bauhaus boulevards in Tel-Aviv, and floating through the pudding water of youth that is the Dead Sea.
Doing some research on tourism in Israel, for a paper for school, I came across this offering that reminded me of what I've already learned from the films of Eytan Fox, and best spoken by Sal on Mad Men: "These Jews aren't like our Jews. You don't see that down in the diamond district!"
I leave you with that racist comment. Now back to work.
Doing some research on tourism in Israel, for a paper for school, I came across this offering that reminded me of what I've already learned from the films of Eytan Fox, and best spoken by Sal on Mad Men: "These Jews aren't like our Jews. You don't see that down in the diamond district!"
I leave you with that racist comment. Now back to work.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Fuck Assimilation
I wanted to finish up June with a little story from a few weeks ago.
I was waiting at the bus stop on LaBrea and Pico with my friend Jessie (she can back me on this) that evening. That particular bus bench had one of those spiffy ads for the movie District 9, which I have been waiting to see with mounting anticipation. The ads, which are part of a very clever marketing campaign, look like this:
Before I say anything else (and you'll see why this is important) I should warn you, never ever attempt to take the bus that runs along LaBrea. You'll wait about an hour, only to eventually climb aboard an overcrowded, rickety vehicle with an actively rude and beligerant driver. It goes through a mostly-latino neighborhood, making it very difficult for the locals to get very far out of the area, which is not a particulaly nice one. It also makes it logistically harder, more time consuming and less desirable, to go up LaBrea to the relatively nicer, more commercially thriving neighborhood, or up to the Hollywood area, where tourists might see them.
So we're sitting on this bench and I look at it, about to say something about how I love this particular marketing campaign and I'm looking forward to the movie, and South African accents are hot, when I notice some interference with the lettering of the ad. Stepping back and squinting (it was kinda dark) we made out a new, shocking message.
I apologize for the poor quality of the pictures. I will summarize the damage: the word 'Human' in the first line had been abbreviated to just the letters 'US.' Then the 'Report Non-Humans' had been changed to 'Deport Non-United S' with 'tates Citizens' trailing after it. Strong, hateful words to put out in a community that is already horribly marginalized.
I was surprised that I couldn't find anything about our bench online. There was, however, a similar picture of a different bench on Bunny Blog. It looks like this:
I'm the victim of my own racism sometimes, and I beat myself up about it. When you live around any particular ethnic group for a long enough period of time, you start to notice things that annoy you. I lived around white people for eighteen years, and that got old really fast. But people in this town really hate the latino population for what they see as refusal to assimilate. I'm aware of my own prejudices, and in my time in LA I've had the misfortune to meet many people who aren't aware of theirs, but that doesn't mean sights like this are any less upsetting.
I've seen discrimination on both sides of the line, and heard racial hatred spew from mouths of all colors and creeds, and what can you expect from a city where everyone comes to get away from their closed-minded upbringings in small towns in flyover states. All it does is feed the mindset inherent to the city itself. LA was designed to keep it's population segregated, which is obvious if you know the town's history or looked at the city plan (yes, LA was actually planned), and its residents are doing their best to make sure it stays that way.
On another, lighter note, I offer this photo, courtesy of faithful YWBT operative Brian, who recorded this piece of fagtastic defiance in a port-a-potty at San Francisco Pride this past weekend. This is exactly what's missing from LA's gay community, this spirit of "You know what, we have baseball bats too!" That's exactly what we need, an antidote to something like the Happy Hour 'Demonstration' hosted by Fiesta Cantina, a good safe distance away from anyone not already part of the choir, on May 26, 2009. Where are the fags setting buildings on fire? That's what I want to know!
Oh well, I'm not bitter. This rant should have ended several paragraphs ago. Happy last day of June, everybody!
I was waiting at the bus stop on LaBrea and Pico with my friend Jessie (she can back me on this) that evening. That particular bus bench had one of those spiffy ads for the movie District 9, which I have been waiting to see with mounting anticipation. The ads, which are part of a very clever marketing campaign, look like this:
Before I say anything else (and you'll see why this is important) I should warn you, never ever attempt to take the bus that runs along LaBrea. You'll wait about an hour, only to eventually climb aboard an overcrowded, rickety vehicle with an actively rude and beligerant driver. It goes through a mostly-latino neighborhood, making it very difficult for the locals to get very far out of the area, which is not a particulaly nice one. It also makes it logistically harder, more time consuming and less desirable, to go up LaBrea to the relatively nicer, more commercially thriving neighborhood, or up to the Hollywood area, where tourists might see them.
So we're sitting on this bench and I look at it, about to say something about how I love this particular marketing campaign and I'm looking forward to the movie, and South African accents are hot, when I notice some interference with the lettering of the ad. Stepping back and squinting (it was kinda dark) we made out a new, shocking message.
I apologize for the poor quality of the pictures. I will summarize the damage: the word 'Human' in the first line had been abbreviated to just the letters 'US.' Then the 'Report Non-Humans' had been changed to 'Deport Non-United S' with 'tates Citizens' trailing after it. Strong, hateful words to put out in a community that is already horribly marginalized.
I was surprised that I couldn't find anything about our bench online. There was, however, a similar picture of a different bench on Bunny Blog. It looks like this:
I'm the victim of my own racism sometimes, and I beat myself up about it. When you live around any particular ethnic group for a long enough period of time, you start to notice things that annoy you. I lived around white people for eighteen years, and that got old really fast. But people in this town really hate the latino population for what they see as refusal to assimilate. I'm aware of my own prejudices, and in my time in LA I've had the misfortune to meet many people who aren't aware of theirs, but that doesn't mean sights like this are any less upsetting.I've seen discrimination on both sides of the line, and heard racial hatred spew from mouths of all colors and creeds, and what can you expect from a city where everyone comes to get away from their closed-minded upbringings in small towns in flyover states. All it does is feed the mindset inherent to the city itself. LA was designed to keep it's population segregated, which is obvious if you know the town's history or looked at the city plan (yes, LA was actually planned), and its residents are doing their best to make sure it stays that way.
On another, lighter note, I offer this photo, courtesy of faithful YWBT operative Brian, who recorded this piece of fagtastic defiance in a port-a-potty at San Francisco Pride this past weekend. This is exactly what's missing from LA's gay community, this spirit of "You know what, we have baseball bats too!" That's exactly what we need, an antidote to something like the Happy Hour 'Demonstration' hosted by Fiesta Cantina, a good safe distance away from anyone not already part of the choir, on May 26, 2009. Where are the fags setting buildings on fire? That's what I want to know!
Oh well, I'm not bitter. This rant should have ended several paragraphs ago. Happy last day of June, everybody!Monday, June 29, 2009
Completely Inconsequential Film History Brought to You by Pixar
I had the pleasure of taking in the new Pixar film Up today, and it exceeded all of my expectations, which were pretty high to begin with. I don't recall the last movie that had me in tears the first fifteen minutes, then had me laughing like a little girl just a few frames after. Yet another masterpiece from the best animation studio in the world.
I was particularly hooked by the 1930's newsreel that opens Up, how accurately it captured the material from that period (see the very first ever post on this blog for my thoughts on the Hearst Metrotone collection at UCLA). In the newsreel, we see the diminutive protagonist Carl as a little boy, watching the exploits of ficticious explorer Charles Muntz, who travels the globe in search of exotic creatures by way of a giant diridgible. This, combined with my recent failed attempt to locate my school's copy of Kevin Brownlow's The War, the West and the Wilderness ... segue... made me think of all those filmmaking explorers who went out to the Pacific, the Arctic, and Near East and nearly everywhere in between to capture places never before photographed. I particular, I thought of a husband and wife couple, Martin and Osa Johnson.
Active between 1914 and 1937, Martin E. Johnson and Osa Leighty Johnson made several documentaries on location in Africa and the South Seas, including Congorilla (1932), which they touted as "the one and only picture shot entirely in Africa." Their collaboration ended in 1937, when Martin was lost in a plane crash.
Martin and Osa were a cute couple, but they were hardly the most inventive, or ethical, documentary wunderkinden. They did the Robert Flaherty trick of playing records for the "natives," or of giving a chimpanzee a beer and filming the results. Basically, they look down on the natives and say "Aren't you glad you're not them, America?" They even filmed and touted (there's that word again) their own capture of a gorilla family, having the mother killed and the babies isolated by hired locals. For this work, they received sold-out premieres on Broadway.
Here are a few shots of the Johnson's at work. Not glamorous, but then even a PA gig on Entourage probably isn't as sexy as you might think.
This still reveals that the Johnson's offered equal opportunity employment, at least once they got to the location. In those unequal days of the 1930's, even Oscar Micheaux was stuck with white camera operators.
I do wonder what Martin and Osa would think of the currently thriving American film presence on the Dark Continent.
For more information, check these out:
The Osa Johnson Safari Museum, located in her hometown of Chanute, Kansas. Finally, there's a place in Kansas I actually want to go to. Can you say your local library has a safari museum and used to be a train station? Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? Probably not, unless you're lucky enough to live in Chanute.
http://kansastravel.org/safarimuseum.htm
The blog where most of these images came from, and which also has a lot more information about them:
http://theselvedgeyard.wordpress.com/2009/02/04/martin-osa-johnson-safari-film-legends/
Another article/photo source:
http://www.a2oxford.info/pages/reno_2006/pages/osa_arc.html
Oh, and GO SEE UP.
I was particularly hooked by the 1930's newsreel that opens Up, how accurately it captured the material from that period (see the very first ever post on this blog for my thoughts on the Hearst Metrotone collection at UCLA). In the newsreel, we see the diminutive protagonist Carl as a little boy, watching the exploits of ficticious explorer Charles Muntz, who travels the globe in search of exotic creatures by way of a giant diridgible. This, combined with my recent failed attempt to locate my school's copy of Kevin Brownlow's The War, the West and the Wilderness ... segue... made me think of all those filmmaking explorers who went out to the Pacific, the Arctic, and Near East and nearly everywhere in between to capture places never before photographed. I particular, I thought of a husband and wife couple, Martin and Osa Johnson.
Active between 1914 and 1937, Martin E. Johnson and Osa Leighty Johnson made several documentaries on location in Africa and the South Seas, including Congorilla (1932), which they touted as "the one and only picture shot entirely in Africa." Their collaboration ended in 1937, when Martin was lost in a plane crash.
Martin and Osa were a cute couple, but they were hardly the most inventive, or ethical, documentary wunderkinden. They did the Robert Flaherty trick of playing records for the "natives," or of giving a chimpanzee a beer and filming the results. Basically, they look down on the natives and say "Aren't you glad you're not them, America?" They even filmed and touted (there's that word again) their own capture of a gorilla family, having the mother killed and the babies isolated by hired locals. For this work, they received sold-out premieres on Broadway.
Here are a few shots of the Johnson's at work. Not glamorous, but then even a PA gig on Entourage probably isn't as sexy as you might think.
This still reveals that the Johnson's offered equal opportunity employment, at least once they got to the location. In those unequal days of the 1930's, even Oscar Micheaux was stuck with white camera operators.
I do wonder what Martin and Osa would think of the currently thriving American film presence on the Dark Continent.For more information, check these out:
The Osa Johnson Safari Museum, located in her hometown of Chanute, Kansas. Finally, there's a place in Kansas I actually want to go to. Can you say your local library has a safari museum and used to be a train station? Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? Probably not, unless you're lucky enough to live in Chanute.
http://kansastravel.org/safarimuseum.htm
The blog where most of these images came from, and which also has a lot more information about them:
http://theselvedgeyard.wordpress.com/2009/02/04/martin-osa-johnson-safari-film-legends/
Another article/photo source:
http://www.a2oxford.info/pages/reno_2006/pages/osa_arc.html
Oh, and GO SEE UP.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Out of Despair comes... Blog Posts
I was doing a little research online for an English research paper, the due date for which is thankfully not for a couple more weeks. In hopes of finding inspiration for a topic, I did a search on propaganda and came across some fantastic World War One posters. Scrolling through and enlarging them one by one, I thought 'This would be terrific fodder for at least one blog post.' And that is why I am selecting a few and offering commentary on them below.
We live in an age of overly-colorful print ads. I wish we could go back to the simpler times, when all you needed was an artist who could draw women well and color them in even better.
Very little has changed since the War to End All Wars. We still teach our white kids to shit all over those who are less fortunate.
The origins of the corn subsidizing in America.
...and look good doing it!
Talk to Chuck.
"I got your liberty bonds right here..."
Even in war time, child nudity is wrong.
Theater people are shameless name droppers.
You can find more information on this title by here - http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0289290/
aka Der Angfall die 50 Meter Stahlzehestefel.
"No, because you're family's poor!" she continued.
It might hurt a little at first, but once you get used to it...
Just when you thought the Boy Scouts couldn't get any gayer.
I'm always a fan of nurses in furs.
Back when the homos actually cared about politics.
When the uniform isn't sexy enough, try smoking.
Link to poster page on the sidebar.
We live in an age of overly-colorful print ads. I wish we could go back to the simpler times, when all you needed was an artist who could draw women well and color them in even better.
Very little has changed since the War to End All Wars. We still teach our white kids to shit all over those who are less fortunate.
The origins of the corn subsidizing in America.
...and look good doing it!
Talk to Chuck.
"I got your liberty bonds right here..."
Even in war time, child nudity is wrong.
Theater people are shameless name droppers.
You can find more information on this title by here - http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0289290/
aka Der Angfall die 50 Meter Stahlzehestefel.
"No, because you're family's poor!" she continued.
It might hurt a little at first, but once you get used to it...
Just when you thought the Boy Scouts couldn't get any gayer.
I'm always a fan of nurses in furs.
Back when the homos actually cared about politics.
When the uniform isn't sexy enough, try smoking.Link to poster page on the sidebar.
Monday, June 22, 2009
'Angels' Devilishly Fresh, Fun
Last Thursday, I went out to Casito del Campo, a Mexican restaurant tucked away in the hills of Silverlake. I've eaten there before, and recommend it, but this time I was there to see a show in the basement.
That's right. A show. In the basement. "Some thing with latin drag queens being " was the jist of it. I took a deep breath, squeezed into a tiny seat between my date and the Asian mother of one of the secondary performers' friends, and got ready to be thoroughly bored and insulted.
In fact, the exact opposite happened. Why? I was witnessing a performance of Chico's Angels, a long-running but woefully neglected take on the 1970's television show Charlie's Angels, only with latin drag queens Kay Sedia, Freida Laye and Chita Parole. One of four episodes (or so I think I heard), this particular show sent them on the Love Boat, where they attempt to apprehend the culprit behind several attempts on the life of Coochie Coochie mistress Charo (jes, that Charo). Along the way, there are probably 25 musical numbers (with terrific choreography), several simulated slow-motion 'NNNNOOOOOOOO!' moments, and some surprising, delightful sight gags.
Love Boat Chicas (that's the name of the show) is. like most drag comedy, a collection raunchy double entendres, ethnic stereotypes (i.e. Latino men preening in dresses) and 1970's pop culture references. It just does it all so freakin' well that the past 25 years or so of bad drag queens and self-loving attempts at camp humor are forgiven. I haven't laughed so hard at something I normaly can't stand since the last Brian DePalma movie. This time, I was laughing with them.
El cho, Love Boat Chicas, runs through July 19, with a possible extention, but more importantly, is so worth getting over the hill to see. Oh, and buy their T-shirts and stuff. They need money, ok?
http://www.chicosangels.com/
That's right. A show. In the basement. "Some thing with latin drag queens being " was the jist of it. I took a deep breath, squeezed into a tiny seat between my date and the Asian mother of one of the secondary performers' friends, and got ready to be thoroughly bored and insulted.
In fact, the exact opposite happened. Why? I was witnessing a performance of Chico's Angels, a long-running but woefully neglected take on the 1970's television show Charlie's Angels, only with latin drag queens Kay Sedia, Freida Laye and Chita Parole. One of four episodes (or so I think I heard), this particular show sent them on the Love Boat, where they attempt to apprehend the culprit behind several attempts on the life of Coochie Coochie mistress Charo (jes, that Charo). Along the way, there are probably 25 musical numbers (with terrific choreography), several simulated slow-motion 'NNNNOOOOOOOO!' moments, and some surprising, delightful sight gags.
Love Boat Chicas (that's the name of the show) is. like most drag comedy, a collection raunchy double entendres, ethnic stereotypes (i.e. Latino men preening in dresses) and 1970's pop culture references. It just does it all so freakin' well that the past 25 years or so of bad drag queens and self-loving attempts at camp humor are forgiven. I haven't laughed so hard at something I normaly can't stand since the last Brian DePalma movie. This time, I was laughing with them.
El cho, Love Boat Chicas, runs through July 19, with a possible extention, but more importantly, is so worth getting over the hill to see. Oh, and buy their T-shirts and stuff. They need money, ok?
http://www.chicosangels.com/
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Quick and Enigmatic
I wanted to do one quick post today, one of my favorite finds from the 50-cent bin at Fairfax/Melrose. I won't say too much about it. It speaks for itself.
I can't read most of the writing on the back. Maybe one of you can help me?
I can't read most of the writing on the back. Maybe one of you can help me?
Monday, June 15, 2009
It's the Little Things
My neighborhood was invaded by homosexuals last weekend for the annual Gay Pride dog and pony show here in LA. I did my best NOT to get caught up in the fanfare, but I did manage to make it down the street (I live in the gay-berhood) to spend the afternoon in the closest, least busy anti-circuit bar, catching up with people I hadn't seen in a while, dishing the dirt with people I had, and occasionally maybe letting other peoples hands drift to over to unmentionable areas.
Yesterday (Sunday) was all one big Up reference. It came to be that somebody would say 'Squirrel!' and turn their head every time something (some body) they liked walked by. I haven't seen this movie yet; I must be the last gay man on earth who hasn't seen it. That'll go on my list of gay things I don't have, right below 'Gym Membership' and 'iPhone.'
LA Pride (some call it WeHo Pride) is epic. It's Intolerance without the sets. It's Gone with the Wind, with slightly fewer hoop skirts. It's like King Kong, and everybody gotta be Fay Wray. Where else can we go with this? It's like the prologue for Ten Commandments, and everybody gotta be Estelle Taylor. Anyways, I thought it would be nice to share a small but hardly insigificant detail from that epic journey, brought to you by my sexy shutterbug friend Chris.
We found this in the driveway of LA Buns & Co. left by someone with my sense of humor. For their work, I give ten whore diamonds. Happy Gay Pride, possums.
Yesterday (Sunday) was all one big Up reference. It came to be that somebody would say 'Squirrel!' and turn their head every time something (some body) they liked walked by. I haven't seen this movie yet; I must be the last gay man on earth who hasn't seen it. That'll go on my list of gay things I don't have, right below 'Gym Membership' and 'iPhone.'
LA Pride (some call it WeHo Pride) is epic. It's Intolerance without the sets. It's Gone with the Wind, with slightly fewer hoop skirts. It's like King Kong, and everybody gotta be Fay Wray. Where else can we go with this? It's like the prologue for Ten Commandments, and everybody gotta be Estelle Taylor. Anyways, I thought it would be nice to share a small but hardly insigificant detail from that epic journey, brought to you by my sexy shutterbug friend Chris.
We found this in the driveway of LA Buns & Co. left by someone with my sense of humor. For their work, I give ten whore diamonds. Happy Gay Pride, possums.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Dame Edna Lives! In the Past.
I just had the pleasure of seeing the first of what I hope will be at least one other live Dame Edna Everage shows, this one being last night's premiere at the Ahmandson Theater in Downtown Los Angeles. I took the train with my friend Kevin from Highland to Civic Center (also known as my daily commute to a temp job this time last year - *sigh*) and got in the cheap way, in the stand-by line. It's a good thing that neither of us were singled out by Dame Edna, or else our zero-dollar admission fee would have come out and we would have been reamed over the coals by herself and the audience.
With extremely minimal prior exposure to all things Dame Edna, I had only a rough idea of what to expect, so I certainly can't say I was disappointed on any level by the show. Dame Edna, aka Barry Humphries, is incredibly talented, so sharp-witted in his interactions with the audience and so wholly that character that you forget it's a man under that purple bouffant and the pair of winged glasses. The character of Dame Edna goes deeper than drag, deeper than camp, to a place we all know and, I'll say it, identify with. We each know a Dame Edna one way or another, and we each want to be her a little.
One highlight I would like to preserve for forever, occurred early on in the show. Edna had singled out a woman in the audience, and was trying to torture some audience participation out of her, when another (much younger) woman in the exact same seating area got up and tried to sneak out of the audience to use the restroom. Edna stopped and everyone in the audience laughed until the the girl realized she was on the spot and tried to reason her way out without getting heckled by the Dame. After the girl left, Edna suggested that everyone in the audience ask the girl in unison once she got back if she was "Feeling Better?" They did.
Dame Edna's performance was, as I said, a premiere, in this case for a tour called 'My First Last Tour.' I'm hopeful that I'll have more opportunities to see him him on further last tours. Maybe I'll finally get a Gladdy thrown directly at me in such a way that I can actually catch it, not wince as it whistles through the air towards me like the Confederate standard in O Brother Where Art Thou.
This entry is a two parter, Possums. For a while, there is a particular snapshot in my collection that I've been meaning to upload and share with all (both) of you who actually might be reading this. A mixture of (to a much greater extent) laziness and (to a lesser extent) waiting for the right moment-ness has brought us to the unveiling of this fantastic little chestnut from Melrose/Fairfax discard bins.
Voila! Dame Edna's sullen twin.
The back of this photo reads "Aug. 2, 1924" in black fountain pen cursive. Then just below that in scratchy blue ink is written "Mary Sandefer; My Grandmother; Take In N.M." This would normally be a 'bad idea' post but I've really grown fond of this glum woman with her rumpled, complicated and very stylish outfit. She's also making a bit of a Dame Edna face. Mary Sandefer, I'm glad that chance and posterity have brought us together.
With extremely minimal prior exposure to all things Dame Edna, I had only a rough idea of what to expect, so I certainly can't say I was disappointed on any level by the show. Dame Edna, aka Barry Humphries, is incredibly talented, so sharp-witted in his interactions with the audience and so wholly that character that you forget it's a man under that purple bouffant and the pair of winged glasses. The character of Dame Edna goes deeper than drag, deeper than camp, to a place we all know and, I'll say it, identify with. We each know a Dame Edna one way or another, and we each want to be her a little.
One highlight I would like to preserve for forever, occurred early on in the show. Edna had singled out a woman in the audience, and was trying to torture some audience participation out of her, when another (much younger) woman in the exact same seating area got up and tried to sneak out of the audience to use the restroom. Edna stopped and everyone in the audience laughed until the the girl realized she was on the spot and tried to reason her way out without getting heckled by the Dame. After the girl left, Edna suggested that everyone in the audience ask the girl in unison once she got back if she was "Feeling Better?" They did.
Dame Edna's performance was, as I said, a premiere, in this case for a tour called 'My First Last Tour.' I'm hopeful that I'll have more opportunities to see him him on further last tours. Maybe I'll finally get a Gladdy thrown directly at me in such a way that I can actually catch it, not wince as it whistles through the air towards me like the Confederate standard in O Brother Where Art Thou.
This entry is a two parter, Possums. For a while, there is a particular snapshot in my collection that I've been meaning to upload and share with all (both) of you who actually might be reading this. A mixture of (to a much greater extent) laziness and (to a lesser extent) waiting for the right moment-ness has brought us to the unveiling of this fantastic little chestnut from Melrose/Fairfax discard bins.
Voila! Dame Edna's sullen twin.
The back of this photo reads "Aug. 2, 1924" in black fountain pen cursive. Then just below that in scratchy blue ink is written "Mary Sandefer; My Grandmother; Take In N.M." This would normally be a 'bad idea' post but I've really grown fond of this glum woman with her rumpled, complicated and very stylish outfit. She's also making a bit of a Dame Edna face. Mary Sandefer, I'm glad that chance and posterity have brought us together.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
My Childhood Doppelgänger Has Been Found!
I was just checking the Library of Congress photostream on Flickr (like you do), and I came across this lovely photograph from the Bain New Service.
Apparently, these are the children of somebody named H.P. Whitney. Aside from looking like a behind-the-scenes photo from a certain Hailey Mills movie from the sixties that I saw a few too many times as a child, there was one detail that caught my eye:
This kid.
Now, I can't say I'm either particularly straight-acting or swishy in adulthood but, as a kid, I was very girly. Sensitive, you might say. I was fortunate to be able to hang on to it long enough before various oppressive influences (Jordan Middle School, Jane Lathrob Standford Middle School, Boy Scouts) made me change my ways pretty significantly. This little boy is me from that era, right down to the limp eye-lids and high black socks with light colored shorts!
Thank you again, Library Congress. Who knew an institution of the American Government could make life so worth living?
Apparently, these are the children of somebody named H.P. Whitney. Aside from looking like a behind-the-scenes photo from a certain Hailey Mills movie from the sixties that I saw a few too many times as a child, there was one detail that caught my eye:
This kid.
Now, I can't say I'm either particularly straight-acting or swishy in adulthood but, as a kid, I was very girly. Sensitive, you might say. I was fortunate to be able to hang on to it long enough before various oppressive influences (Jordan Middle School, Jane Lathrob Standford Middle School, Boy Scouts) made me change my ways pretty significantly. This little boy is me from that era, right down to the limp eye-lids and high black socks with light colored shorts!
Thank you again, Library Congress. Who knew an institution of the American Government could make life so worth living?
Your Las Vegas
Friday night I was persuaded by my friend Grace to go see The Hangover, that new film set in Las Vegas about four guys who have a bachelor party so wild that they wake up the next morning with no memory of it. While I thought the movie itself was funny, I have a feeling my enjoyment of it was a little hampered by the lack of distance between the Friday night screening and the previous weekend's foray into the actual Las Vegas.
The Hangover is set in the 'nicer' part of Vegas, over in the Bellagio/Cesar's Palace neighborhood. We, on the other hand, were staying at the Golden Nugget, right on Glitter Gulch. Old town Vegas isn't like most old town centers with pedestrian thoroughfares. Those places usually have attractive historical facades, trees, places to sit and good-looking tourists.
Glitter Gulch, as it's name might suggest, was a place full of tragedy. Not the sudden, unexpected tragety, but the long-living, chain-smoking, crack-addled kind of tragedy that is really so much more depressing. This was a place shouded in nicotine and despair.
There were a few moments I have to preserve:
1. We are at the check-in counter. The girl behind the desk informs us that the pool has been closed. The following exchange takes place between her and my mother: "Is there another pool in the area? Do you have some kind of agreement with another hotel?" "No." "Well, I guess I might as well give my children cigarettes." We are mortified.
2. One look at the lobby, and I understand why Las Vegas is so popular with expatriates from the Emerates. They also would know not to go somewhere called Glitter Gulch.
3. We kept seeing members of the Griswald Family Reunion wandering around. We know they are part of the Griswald Family Reunion because they have "Griswald Family Reunion" T-shirts with their names (Chet, Bud, etc.) emblazoned on the back. I kept seeing members of the Griswald party and thinking about the prospective benefits of eugenic councelling. Yes, I know, that makes me a terrible person.
4. My sister, brother and myself were all waiting in the gift shop for mom and dad to join us. I get a text from Shaun that says 'It's 7:30. Are you being a slut yet?' I text him back: 'I'm with my brother and sister in the gift shop wating for our parents to come down. What do you think?'
5. My sister doesn't have her ID. There goes our plans to see the Chippendales dancers.
6. We do actually see some Chippendales dancers posing for pictures. I am still a little mortified that I retold Margaret Cho's joke about the Chippendales dancers to my dad and my brother. ("It doesn't work for women.")
7. My sister and I did end up having some fun time bonding and comparing guys as we wondered around. I think she wishes I were more adventurous. I know she's eighteen, but I still refuse to buy her cigarettes.
I think my parents do no research ever before they go on trips. It reminds me of the time my dad wanted to take us to Seattle for Christmas, not because we know anybody there but because it seemed "like a cool place." A month after settling on those plans, he realized that Seattle in winter was a bad idea for everyone (though I probably would have been fine, sicne I live cold weather).
With Vegas, mom and dad came away from the trip grossed out and depressed. I wanted to scream at them "What did you expect? It's called Glitter Fucking Gulch!" I have managed not to yet. I think if I ever do vocalize my thoughts on the subject I'll include something along the lines of: "The only reason any sane person would go to Glitter Gulch is for some sick kind of anthropology study."
I know both of my parents are smart people, and it makes it that much more frustrating to see their questionable judgement in action. If I learned one thing from this trip, it's the same I learn from all the others: This is my last family vacation. At least for a while. Till then, I will revisit The Hangover and probably enjoy it a lot more once the taste of real-live flesh-and-blood Las Vegas is finally washed all the way out.
The Hangover is set in the 'nicer' part of Vegas, over in the Bellagio/Cesar's Palace neighborhood. We, on the other hand, were staying at the Golden Nugget, right on Glitter Gulch. Old town Vegas isn't like most old town centers with pedestrian thoroughfares. Those places usually have attractive historical facades, trees, places to sit and good-looking tourists.
Glitter Gulch, as it's name might suggest, was a place full of tragedy. Not the sudden, unexpected tragety, but the long-living, chain-smoking, crack-addled kind of tragedy that is really so much more depressing. This was a place shouded in nicotine and despair.
There were a few moments I have to preserve:
1. We are at the check-in counter. The girl behind the desk informs us that the pool has been closed. The following exchange takes place between her and my mother: "Is there another pool in the area? Do you have some kind of agreement with another hotel?" "No." "Well, I guess I might as well give my children cigarettes." We are mortified.
2. One look at the lobby, and I understand why Las Vegas is so popular with expatriates from the Emerates. They also would know not to go somewhere called Glitter Gulch.
3. We kept seeing members of the Griswald Family Reunion wandering around. We know they are part of the Griswald Family Reunion because they have "Griswald Family Reunion" T-shirts with their names (Chet, Bud, etc.) emblazoned on the back. I kept seeing members of the Griswald party and thinking about the prospective benefits of eugenic councelling. Yes, I know, that makes me a terrible person.
4. My sister, brother and myself were all waiting in the gift shop for mom and dad to join us. I get a text from Shaun that says 'It's 7:30. Are you being a slut yet?' I text him back: 'I'm with my brother and sister in the gift shop wating for our parents to come down. What do you think?'
5. My sister doesn't have her ID. There goes our plans to see the Chippendales dancers.
6. We do actually see some Chippendales dancers posing for pictures. I am still a little mortified that I retold Margaret Cho's joke about the Chippendales dancers to my dad and my brother. ("It doesn't work for women.")
7. My sister and I did end up having some fun time bonding and comparing guys as we wondered around. I think she wishes I were more adventurous. I know she's eighteen, but I still refuse to buy her cigarettes.
I think my parents do no research ever before they go on trips. It reminds me of the time my dad wanted to take us to Seattle for Christmas, not because we know anybody there but because it seemed "like a cool place." A month after settling on those plans, he realized that Seattle in winter was a bad idea for everyone (though I probably would have been fine, sicne I live cold weather).
With Vegas, mom and dad came away from the trip grossed out and depressed. I wanted to scream at them "What did you expect? It's called Glitter Fucking Gulch!" I have managed not to yet. I think if I ever do vocalize my thoughts on the subject I'll include something along the lines of: "The only reason any sane person would go to Glitter Gulch is for some sick kind of anthropology study."
I know both of my parents are smart people, and it makes it that much more frustrating to see their questionable judgement in action. If I learned one thing from this trip, it's the same I learn from all the others: This is my last family vacation. At least for a while. Till then, I will revisit The Hangover and probably enjoy it a lot more once the taste of real-live flesh-and-blood Las Vegas is finally washed all the way out.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Today, Utah. Tomorrow, the World. Actually Vegas.
The Utah part of our trip is coming to an end. We will be saying goodbye to Big Love state and spending a night in, yes, Las Vegas. My first trip ever to Las Vegas, and I am spending it the same way I spent my first trip to UK and all my trips to Florida - with my family. It's getting harder, but I'm still not complaining.
I find it a little embarassing that I've lived in California all my life, lived in Los Angeles for five years, and know people who hop the state line all the time to see friends and family, and still I have not been to Las Vegas. My ex-boyfriend went once while we were dating and texted me saying 'We need to do a dirty weekend there one time.' A couple I know got married there, and I still hold a (petty, I know) grudge that I wasn't invited by them or any of our mutual friends. I know about the whole Lucky Luciano/Virginia Hill/Flamingo Hotel debacle from 1947. I've seen Sister Act, Austin Powers, Showgirls and that episode from season one of Six Feet Under where David gets gonorrhea from a male prostitute. I plan to see The Hangover on DVD at the latest. That's the closest I've come to the city where everything stays... in that city.
This is the trip where I bust my Vegas hymen. I don't know why, but it feels like a big deal. I'll say it: I feel lame. I feel like I should be hitting the strip with my man friends, getting really drunk and touching gogo dancers in their private areas. I want to meet a handsome stranger, or two, and go back to their hotel room. I want to not worry about editing myself in front of the people who bore me and are helping my pay for college. Vegas is the kind of place where you're never supposed to even think about that.
If I'm lucky, I'll either see a show or hit some 18-and-over club with my sister. I'm not saying it can't work, I'm just saying I'm not holding my breath. Maybe I could argue that this trip doesn't count. We'll have to see how it goes.
There is a silver lining to this Vegas trip. There's a great line at the end of the movie Hamlet 2 where Steve Coogan is imparting some words of wisdom to a Tuscon-born student: "You know, Chuy, you're going to have an amazing life. Because wherever you go, it'll always be better than Tuscon." I kind of feel like this trip will be a really great one, because whatever we do, we won't be doing it in Utah.
*Sassy*
I find it a little embarassing that I've lived in California all my life, lived in Los Angeles for five years, and know people who hop the state line all the time to see friends and family, and still I have not been to Las Vegas. My ex-boyfriend went once while we were dating and texted me saying 'We need to do a dirty weekend there one time.' A couple I know got married there, and I still hold a (petty, I know) grudge that I wasn't invited by them or any of our mutual friends. I know about the whole Lucky Luciano/Virginia Hill/Flamingo Hotel debacle from 1947. I've seen Sister Act, Austin Powers, Showgirls and that episode from season one of Six Feet Under where David gets gonorrhea from a male prostitute. I plan to see The Hangover on DVD at the latest. That's the closest I've come to the city where everything stays... in that city.
This is the trip where I bust my Vegas hymen. I don't know why, but it feels like a big deal. I'll say it: I feel lame. I feel like I should be hitting the strip with my man friends, getting really drunk and touching gogo dancers in their private areas. I want to meet a handsome stranger, or two, and go back to their hotel room. I want to not worry about editing myself in front of the people who bore me and are helping my pay for college. Vegas is the kind of place where you're never supposed to even think about that.
If I'm lucky, I'll either see a show or hit some 18-and-over club with my sister. I'm not saying it can't work, I'm just saying I'm not holding my breath. Maybe I could argue that this trip doesn't count. We'll have to see how it goes.
There is a silver lining to this Vegas trip. There's a great line at the end of the movie Hamlet 2 where Steve Coogan is imparting some words of wisdom to a Tuscon-born student: "You know, Chuy, you're going to have an amazing life. Because wherever you go, it'll always be better than Tuscon." I kind of feel like this trip will be a really great one, because whatever we do, we won't be doing it in Utah.
*Sassy*
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