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.
Friday, September 18, 2009
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.
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