Hmm. Why is my blog clock set to Pacific Standard Time? I'm on the east coast. I'm watching the show on a very big TV practically overlooking the Pacific, I mean, Atlantic. I was installed here in order to watch this show and report on it.
DEAR GOD! Alicia Keys, who as a contemporary singer is a total enigma to me (I only know Grace Slick, thank you) is wearing red. Maybe she's pregnant because she isn't skinny. She doesn't look bad.
Halle Berry, looking boring. But there's Paul Giametti! Love him. Please win, whatever it is! YAY you WON!!! This is uncanny, my predictive powers. What was he in? He is adorable!
Sunday, January 16, 2011
GOLDEN GLOBS 201111!!!
OK, I will continue.
No comment on Fincher's speech. Hmm, Jesse Eisenberg is super cute! I once saw him in an interview- he actually seems to have a brain.
A lot of these actors are cute, come to think of it. Who knew the acting profession was so welcoming of attractive people?
Oh lord, there is that poor January Jones. All I see are boobs and a cheap shade of red.
Best TV series. I want The Big C, but that's the only show I've seen. Never trust my opinions on TV. Right, Glee won. Haven't seen it. Seems to produce a lot of noise.
Jimmy Fallon is getting a little pudgy. I hope that helps his humor. Never thought he was funny.
Natalie Portman in red as well. Remind me: if I ever win an award (I won't, but let's pretend) don't let me wear bright red. It doesn't photograph well. Julianne Moore wore fushcia- much better.
No comment on Fincher's speech. Hmm, Jesse Eisenberg is super cute! I once saw him in an interview- he actually seems to have a brain.
A lot of these actors are cute, come to think of it. Who knew the acting profession was so welcoming of attractive people?
Oh lord, there is that poor January Jones. All I see are boobs and a cheap shade of red.
Best TV series. I want The Big C, but that's the only show I've seen. Never trust my opinions on TV. Right, Glee won. Haven't seen it. Seems to produce a lot of noise.
Jimmy Fallon is getting a little pudgy. I hope that helps his humor. Never thought he was funny.
Natalie Portman in red as well. Remind me: if I ever win an award (I won't, but let's pretend) don't let me wear bright red. It doesn't photograph well. Julianne Moore wore fushcia- much better.
GOLDEN GLOBS 201111!!!
No, that won't work. I'll just write so you all come this way, okay?
The primary spectacle two hours in (I missed the first hour anyways) is the ladies. But I keep looking away and missing them.
Robert Downey Jr. rambling about sleeping with the Best Actress nominees... maybe I have a bad sense of humor, but that was funny.
Julianne Moore looked great. Amazing dress.
Jane Fonda looks as old as I do. That's a bit eerie seeing as she's 72. But she sounds EXACTLY like her father when he was eighty. It's uncanny how similar her voice and accent are to his.
What else... Jennifer Lopez or J Lo or whatever they call her- she likes the sixties glam look, doesn't she. It becomes her, but she should go with it and make her eyebrows more dramatic. I doubt they can move anyway, so she can just draw them really high.
I've decided Angelina Jolie is a drip. The camera keeps cutting to her when various presenters make funny jokes and she never lets loose and laughs. She just leans back with this really glossy, styled hair and uses Brad Pitt's shoulder as a prop. She did participate in the mass love-in for Robert DeNiro, mouthing something to him I could not understand.
I've also decided I like Matt Damon. His introduction for Robert DeNiro's lifetime achievement award was perfect: "About five years ago this guy Robert DeNiro asked me to be in his movie. I'd never heard of him but I started asking around. He did a lot of movies!" Yes, really cheeky and funny.
Oh, here is Annette Bening presenting Best Director. Um. Who will it be? The Social Network guy? Darren Aronofsky looks too weird. Yes, I was right! Oh yeah, it was David Fincher. Good call.
The primary spectacle two hours in (I missed the first hour anyways) is the ladies. But I keep looking away and missing them.
Robert Downey Jr. rambling about sleeping with the Best Actress nominees... maybe I have a bad sense of humor, but that was funny.
Julianne Moore looked great. Amazing dress.
Jane Fonda looks as old as I do. That's a bit eerie seeing as she's 72. But she sounds EXACTLY like her father when he was eighty. It's uncanny how similar her voice and accent are to his.
What else... Jennifer Lopez or J Lo or whatever they call her- she likes the sixties glam look, doesn't she. It becomes her, but she should go with it and make her eyebrows more dramatic. I doubt they can move anyway, so she can just draw them really high.
I've decided Angelina Jolie is a drip. The camera keeps cutting to her when various presenters make funny jokes and she never lets loose and laughs. She just leans back with this really glossy, styled hair and uses Brad Pitt's shoulder as a prop. She did participate in the mass love-in for Robert DeNiro, mouthing something to him I could not understand.
I've also decided I like Matt Damon. His introduction for Robert DeNiro's lifetime achievement award was perfect: "About five years ago this guy Robert DeNiro asked me to be in his movie. I'd never heard of him but I started asking around. He did a lot of movies!" Yes, really cheeky and funny.
Oh, here is Annette Bening presenting Best Director. Um. Who will it be? The Social Network guy? Darren Aronofsky looks too weird. Yes, I was right! Oh yeah, it was David Fincher. Good call.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
My readers come to my blog for one thing and one thing only: to learn about themselves. Reading "The Boca Union Sentinel" for one minute a day is equivalent to a few hours in the company of a wise old aunt, the sort who worked as a chorus girl back in her youthful bohemian days (if you want to feel you're in the company of a former WPA photographer or a Rivington Street seamstress who organized labor unions, go elsewhere). So, I just want to say one thing, and if I'm wrong I'll take early retirement, perhaps in Florida. In other words, no more blogging in Boca! Actually, with that introduction, perhaps my finest, I'll say two things:
1. Vets are smart. Logic should have told me that $95 was a bit steep for a six-month supply of flea meds for a cat who doesn't even have fleas. But how else can I show my cat I care? What else can I do to remind her that she should live to see me grow up, get a job bagging groceries, board that greyhound bus for the bright lights of the- what? They don't let cats on the bus? Where's my dream go?
2. Steve Martin's "An Object of Beauty" is like Judith Krantz meets junior level art criticism. In other words, it's fun. But he was funner when he was funny.
3. Whatever transpires about today's tragic massacre in Arizona, the one which has so far left six people dead, it will not "unite Americans" and we won't find a way "pray for each other and support each other" in the abstract. The level of discourse about the crime on television and in dusty random corners of the internet is not encouraging. I don't care what the murderer was angry about, and I don't care where his political sympathies lie. Most of these mass murders seem to be committed by young men between seventeen and twenty-five. The language of anguish about these events might have more of a point if there were a point, and why can't the point be criticism of our extreme openness about bearing arms? The fundamental intention of the second amendment is to assure that citizens are able to arm themselves against a standing army and overthrow an unjust government- as part of a militia. A deranged young man could see himself as part of a militia- but a militia does not attack unarmed people.
The second amendment is treated in this country like the bible, and the comparision is apt: in some ways life has changed as much from 1776 to now as it has from ancient times. The constitutional framers did not envision untrained men (of course we can use the term men here) using firearms independently, and they certainly did not foresee the technology of a gun which can take out twenty people in minutes. But there it is again: the hand wringing against something shadowy, and if it must be named it's called something stupid, like a "liberal" or a "conservative".
It's alienating to see that the dominant culture does not speak for me. I do not want to have a gun. On the bright side, of course, my alienation will hurt no one, though it could give me an ulcer.
1. Vets are smart. Logic should have told me that $95 was a bit steep for a six-month supply of flea meds for a cat who doesn't even have fleas. But how else can I show my cat I care? What else can I do to remind her that she should live to see me grow up, get a job bagging groceries, board that greyhound bus for the bright lights of the- what? They don't let cats on the bus? Where's my dream go?
2. Steve Martin's "An Object of Beauty" is like Judith Krantz meets junior level art criticism. In other words, it's fun. But he was funner when he was funny.
3. Whatever transpires about today's tragic massacre in Arizona, the one which has so far left six people dead, it will not "unite Americans" and we won't find a way "pray for each other and support each other" in the abstract. The level of discourse about the crime on television and in dusty random corners of the internet is not encouraging. I don't care what the murderer was angry about, and I don't care where his political sympathies lie. Most of these mass murders seem to be committed by young men between seventeen and twenty-five. The language of anguish about these events might have more of a point if there were a point, and why can't the point be criticism of our extreme openness about bearing arms? The fundamental intention of the second amendment is to assure that citizens are able to arm themselves against a standing army and overthrow an unjust government- as part of a militia. A deranged young man could see himself as part of a militia- but a militia does not attack unarmed people.
The second amendment is treated in this country like the bible, and the comparision is apt: in some ways life has changed as much from 1776 to now as it has from ancient times. The constitutional framers did not envision untrained men (of course we can use the term men here) using firearms independently, and they certainly did not foresee the technology of a gun which can take out twenty people in minutes. But there it is again: the hand wringing against something shadowy, and if it must be named it's called something stupid, like a "liberal" or a "conservative".
It's alienating to see that the dominant culture does not speak for me. I do not want to have a gun. On the bright side, of course, my alienation will hurt no one, though it could give me an ulcer.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
After a brief hiatus, back with Siskel and Ebert
Lots of food has been eaten, as always, but let's take a look at Today's Cinema with "The King's Speech".
"The King's Speech", a rather wonderful prestige picture coproduced by the UK Film Council and the Weinstein brothers, stars Colin Firth, Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush as a future king, a future queen mother, and the king's sports coach. The latter detail is admittedly a sort of fancy. Can I describe "The King's Speech" as "Breaking Away" meets "The Queen" meets "Kiss of the Spider Woman"? Perhaps that is overreaching, but here is the story: a stuttering prince decides to overcome his impediment with the help of an unorthodox speech therapist. If you have ever seen a movie, you know the protaganist must succeed, so no need to wonder about the outcome. The prince is Albert, aka Bertie, aka King George VI, father of the present Queen of England and brother of the now more famous abdicator of the throne and husband of Wallis Simpson. The true story of overcoming the stutter and Edward's abdication of the throne, and how one event demands the success of the other, is the plot.
"The King's Speech" takes place in a London both classically imagined and absolutely real. London of the 20's and 30's is drenched in fog and grey and rain, as befits a fairly old-fashioned picture, and the settings are not only sumptuously austere royal interiors but the shabby chic of a failed actor and struggling Bloomsbury intellectual (incidentally filmed in Lord Davenport's mansion on Portland Place). Serious British cinema tends to take place in the grotty kitchen sinks of council estates or the offices and bedrooms of palaces. What I like about the display of British passion a movie like "The King's Speech" entails is the focus on understated intimate relationships. Much of the film is a two-hander, a gentle and well-written look at the evolution of Albert's relationship with his speech therapist. As Albert is a quivering Oedipal mess whose stammer flourished in the perfect hothouse condition of a repressive family and destiny, and the speech therapist is a kind oddball who immediately demands his royal highness treat him as an equal, reveal the torment of his childhood and sing and curse his way through the therapy, we can see where this is going.
It's comforting to see such attention given to psychotherapy, which is actually what takes place between the future king and his speech therapist. If a stutter is what it takes for a future king to open up about his father's torturous parenting and older brother's disdain, perhaps that's a good thing. Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush are superb, embodying their roles which are supposed to incarnate and critique the idea of inherent superiority based on blood. The would-be King seems a rather lonely fellow whose only real relationship is with his wife and children, here a positive and supportive force. The passion the movie embodies comes from its extreme focus on the subject. A great deal of the time we are watching Albert in enormous close-up, and he becomes an object of pity and scrutiny. As a stammerer in the public eye he is often uncomfortable and unhappy; as a King he is sometimes belligerent, snobby and rash; as a husband and father he is the sort of proud and adoring English man idealized in Dickens, a man happiest in the comfort of home. That is is of royal blood is frequently remarked on- Albert seems quite taken with his inherited superiority- but his defect humanizes him.
In other words, "The King's Speech" dramatizes the journey of a man to success, the simple one of being able to utter a three minute speech about the fate of the nation without stammering. King George is an interesting figure: the younger brother of the pretender to the throne, he was never groomed for anything but a small naval career as prince until his brother abdicated. The story works beautifully: Albert's need to overcome his stutter increases as he nears the throne, a role he is reluctant to take but absolutely must.
The gentle interplay between Albert, or Bertie as he is called by his family and insistently by his therapist, and that therapist, Lionel Logue, is of course the heart of the movie. It's not quite a romance or a buddy picture. While Lionel's unorthodox methods are shown to be superior to those of more established speech therapists (in other words Lionel is the underdog and therefore the cinematic winner) there is still the passionate British insistence on decorum, understanding and suffering one's assigned role honorably. Albert and Lionel riff on their differences, their sessions taking most of the drama and background of the movie, but one of the most important scenes has as a third character a large microphone. Other standout parts are Timothy Spall as a grimacing, sympathetic Churchill and Michael Gambon, as King Edward VII, looking like he walked straight off a coin.
It will win awards- lots of them. Really, how many British costume drama end with the triumph of an underdog who is actually the king- and done well, amid fainting violins, slow, emotional tracking shots, and a grand burst of glory? I was barely holding back the tears. In other words, hello Oscar!
"The King's Speech", a rather wonderful prestige picture coproduced by the UK Film Council and the Weinstein brothers, stars Colin Firth, Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush as a future king, a future queen mother, and the king's sports coach. The latter detail is admittedly a sort of fancy. Can I describe "The King's Speech" as "Breaking Away" meets "The Queen" meets "Kiss of the Spider Woman"? Perhaps that is overreaching, but here is the story: a stuttering prince decides to overcome his impediment with the help of an unorthodox speech therapist. If you have ever seen a movie, you know the protaganist must succeed, so no need to wonder about the outcome. The prince is Albert, aka Bertie, aka King George VI, father of the present Queen of England and brother of the now more famous abdicator of the throne and husband of Wallis Simpson. The true story of overcoming the stutter and Edward's abdication of the throne, and how one event demands the success of the other, is the plot.
"The King's Speech" takes place in a London both classically imagined and absolutely real. London of the 20's and 30's is drenched in fog and grey and rain, as befits a fairly old-fashioned picture, and the settings are not only sumptuously austere royal interiors but the shabby chic of a failed actor and struggling Bloomsbury intellectual (incidentally filmed in Lord Davenport's mansion on Portland Place). Serious British cinema tends to take place in the grotty kitchen sinks of council estates or the offices and bedrooms of palaces. What I like about the display of British passion a movie like "The King's Speech" entails is the focus on understated intimate relationships. Much of the film is a two-hander, a gentle and well-written look at the evolution of Albert's relationship with his speech therapist. As Albert is a quivering Oedipal mess whose stammer flourished in the perfect hothouse condition of a repressive family and destiny, and the speech therapist is a kind oddball who immediately demands his royal highness treat him as an equal, reveal the torment of his childhood and sing and curse his way through the therapy, we can see where this is going.
It's comforting to see such attention given to psychotherapy, which is actually what takes place between the future king and his speech therapist. If a stutter is what it takes for a future king to open up about his father's torturous parenting and older brother's disdain, perhaps that's a good thing. Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush are superb, embodying their roles which are supposed to incarnate and critique the idea of inherent superiority based on blood. The would-be King seems a rather lonely fellow whose only real relationship is with his wife and children, here a positive and supportive force. The passion the movie embodies comes from its extreme focus on the subject. A great deal of the time we are watching Albert in enormous close-up, and he becomes an object of pity and scrutiny. As a stammerer in the public eye he is often uncomfortable and unhappy; as a King he is sometimes belligerent, snobby and rash; as a husband and father he is the sort of proud and adoring English man idealized in Dickens, a man happiest in the comfort of home. That is is of royal blood is frequently remarked on- Albert seems quite taken with his inherited superiority- but his defect humanizes him.
In other words, "The King's Speech" dramatizes the journey of a man to success, the simple one of being able to utter a three minute speech about the fate of the nation without stammering. King George is an interesting figure: the younger brother of the pretender to the throne, he was never groomed for anything but a small naval career as prince until his brother abdicated. The story works beautifully: Albert's need to overcome his stutter increases as he nears the throne, a role he is reluctant to take but absolutely must.
The gentle interplay between Albert, or Bertie as he is called by his family and insistently by his therapist, and that therapist, Lionel Logue, is of course the heart of the movie. It's not quite a romance or a buddy picture. While Lionel's unorthodox methods are shown to be superior to those of more established speech therapists (in other words Lionel is the underdog and therefore the cinematic winner) there is still the passionate British insistence on decorum, understanding and suffering one's assigned role honorably. Albert and Lionel riff on their differences, their sessions taking most of the drama and background of the movie, but one of the most important scenes has as a third character a large microphone. Other standout parts are Timothy Spall as a grimacing, sympathetic Churchill and Michael Gambon, as King Edward VII, looking like he walked straight off a coin.
It will win awards- lots of them. Really, how many British costume drama end with the triumph of an underdog who is actually the king- and done well, amid fainting violins, slow, emotional tracking shots, and a grand burst of glory? I was barely holding back the tears. In other words, hello Oscar!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Letters, Wolves, Trees, Celebs: Day two of looking at art. Bonus: dinner at Fratelli Lyon
We continue our journey into the art world via a day trip to Miami.
But first, rather than submit an incomplete and not even finish it next semester, I'll briefly describe the return to Fratelli Lyon. We've met Fratelli Lyon a few blog posts down, and it would be nice to further our acquaintance, would it not? At least to enjoy a primi patti after the appetizer?
My companions were some well-to-do art patrons who share my last name and my genetic makeup. They graciously followed my recommendation to eat at Fratelli Lyon after the fair, since it beat walking from the convention parking lot to South Beach or getting a $13 roast pork sandwich in the Art Basel garden cafe.
It was touch and go. We arrived at about 5:30, heady from looking at art and tired from walking (at least my parents were, I was okay). The restaurant was entirely booked- not surprising since an extra 40,000 people were in town. But the manager found a little table for us and sat us in the hallway, which sounds bad but was fine. The only loss was the orange mesh placemats.
Well-to-do art patrons like to eat food that reminds them of art, so we went all out and ordered all the courses an art patron can ingest. Feast your eyes on this:
Let's see. You've got your veal milanesa, your seafood stew, and your mushroom risotto. All very good. I ate the mushroom risotto- it was subtly flavored and hearty and the color of pencil shavings. I like when food looks plain and tastes good. Seems very spiritual. Dad loved his veal milanese, which was the daily special. He hadn't had it for years. Apparently veal milanese is hard to find. I tried a bite and liked it, though it could have been a bit, I don't know, dirtier and crunchier. Perhaps that isn't appropriate for an a nice meal for a well-to-do art patron?
But first, rather than submit an incomplete and not even finish it next semester, I'll briefly describe the return to Fratelli Lyon. We've met Fratelli Lyon a few blog posts down, and it would be nice to further our acquaintance, would it not? At least to enjoy a primi patti after the appetizer?
My companions were some well-to-do art patrons who share my last name and my genetic makeup. They graciously followed my recommendation to eat at Fratelli Lyon after the fair, since it beat walking from the convention parking lot to South Beach or getting a $13 roast pork sandwich in the Art Basel garden cafe.
It was touch and go. We arrived at about 5:30, heady from looking at art and tired from walking (at least my parents were, I was okay). The restaurant was entirely booked- not surprising since an extra 40,000 people were in town. But the manager found a little table for us and sat us in the hallway, which sounds bad but was fine. The only loss was the orange mesh placemats.
Well-to-do art patrons like to eat food that reminds them of art, so we went all out and ordered all the courses an art patron can ingest. Feast your eyes on this:
Let's see. You've got your veal milanesa, your seafood stew, and your mushroom risotto. All very good. I ate the mushroom risotto- it was subtly flavored and hearty and the color of pencil shavings. I like when food looks plain and tastes good. Seems very spiritual. Dad loved his veal milanese, which was the daily special. He hadn't had it for years. Apparently veal milanese is hard to find. I tried a bite and liked it, though it could have been a bit, I don't know, dirtier and crunchier. Perhaps that isn't appropriate for an a nice meal for a well-to-do art patron?
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