Ranting Details

Milk Does A Body Good

It’s difficult to explain the feeling that comes over me when I am sitting in a movie theater and see two men kiss on screen.  To get the obvious out of the way, it’s as far removed from a sexual feeling as possible.  The first word that comes to mind: comfort. A voice whispering, “it’s okay.” All of my life I have been an avid movie-goer, hooked since I saw Ariel fall for Prince Eric, and yet in my twenty-two years I can remember only a handful of on-screen same-sex kisses; the number of those that weren’t overtly sexual, aggressive, or a punch line is even fewer. 

Within the first five minutes of Gus Van Sant’s newest film, the biopic Milk, two of the largest male stars in the world, Sean Penn and James Franco, not only kiss on a subway platform moments after the opening credits have faded from view, but lay in bed together, playfully wiping cake on each other’s faces as Harvey Milk rings in his fortieth birthday.   “Forty years old, and I’ve yet to do something I’m proud of,” he says to his new companion.  The film, while not perfect, has much to be proud of; first and foremost its balance of portraying gay rights with the weight it deserves in today’s society, while also portraying the love between two men as something not to be gawked at.  

It is this shading that makes Milk so important.  It is a reminder of how far we have come since the days of gay men being murdered in the streets of San Francisco.  And it is a reminder of how much further we have to go.  

This movie has an enormous amount of weight on its shoulders, especially coming in the shadow of the devastating outcome of California’s Prop 8.   Iconic images of protests abound scene after scene, bringing to mind these recent struggles of the gay community. And while a thought running through my mind while watching the events unfold was how much I wish the bigots of the world would be forced to sit down and watch the film, I know it would be as pointless as getting me to sit down and watch football.  (Some things just won’t happen.)   What it does accomplish, however, in the process of preaching to the choir, is it gives the young gay community, a somewhat ignorant bunch in which I place myself, an education about our history. 

The life of a gay people in my generation includes a fair amount of strident optimism, bucking the norm and declaring the lack of mainstream acceptance as superfluous to our existence. We have our own magazines. We have our own bars. We get by fine without the support, right?    Some people do everything they can to distance themselves from conformity, defining themselves by their sexuality and donning sky-high wigs above piles of make-up.  To me, while mainstream acceptance has never been my mission in life, it also seems a bit like a defense mechanism to declare we’re fine without it; putting up a front because it’s a goal we know is unattainable, foolish even.

Seeing this first on screen kiss in what is, to my knowledge, the first mainstream movie about the gay rights movement, felt like my reawakening as a gay man.  Mainly because the love story in the midst of Harvey Milk’s empowering quest to be the first openly gay elected official in major office is presented with such delicacy and lack of salaciousness that it took my breath away.  We don’t see Harvey spitting on his dick and fucking his lover like the characters in Brokeback Mountain.  We see him making breakfast, taking photographs, walking up behind his lover and putting his arms around him on the street.   It’s homosexuality portrayed in as innocent a way as those Disney heroines of my youth.  For brief moments, it’s homosexuality portrayed with an air of nonchalance. 

That word, “nonchalance” exists in this movie because of how completely Penn throws himself into the character.  He is never a straight actor playing gay.  He is Harvey Milk.  But truth be told, however the love story is portrayed, little in Milk’s life—at least the chapters portrayed on screen—was nonchalant. 

Milk’s mouth may as well have been a bullhorn.  From the moment he moved to San Francisco he found a platform for his politics, made up of a dash of the typical scheming that is commonplace in today’s political climate and a bucket of infectious passion, which he poured over anyone he came into contact with. 

“I am Harvey Milk, and I want to recruit you,” he says while standing on a soapbox.  And for the duration of the movie, that’s exactly what he does.  By the time his assassination occurs—an event we know is coming since the beginning of the film—the on-screen Harvey Milk has managed to do for this generation what the real Milk did for his: inspire.  We are human beings deserving of the same rights as everyone else on this Earth. 

Harvey Milk was one person with passion who was able to make a change.  We are all capable.  Our biggest foe is our own complacency (and, in this case, people with guns…which is why you won’t find me supporting gun rights anytime soon).  With a little work, we may be viewed as so regular that mainstream romantic comedies are made with two men as the leads.  Wishful thinking?  Perhaps.  But that’s just what Harvey Milk had.  And that’s everything. 

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Vampire School Musical

How is it that a movie about the courtship between a twelve-year-old boy and a young vampire seems infinitely more realistic than a real-world high school love story with a little singing thrown in?  This is the question nesting in my brain after viewing two films: the Swedish vampire love story, Let the Right One In, and the Disney-juggernaut-that-won’t-stop, High School Musical 3: Senior Year. Comparing these two movies is a bit like setting a de Kooning painting next to a Hello Kitty trapper keeper, but seeing as I happen to like both, you can’t stop me.

Both films were released this past week, just in time for Halloween, yet the film about vampires, complete with blood sucking, wall scaling, and dismembered limbs, proves to be less scary than the musical, complete with auto-tuned voices, jazz hands, and endless duets between the lifeless pairing of Vanessa Hudgens and Zac Efron.  The only similarity between my viewing experience with both movies was the moment of bursting into flames: once with a vampire when the curtains were opened, and once with my pants when Zac Efron disrobed during a power solo before being showered in a cyclone of basketballs.  No complaints.  Sometimes I like fire. 

After films like Van Helsing and Underworld, it seems that, for lack of a better pun, all the blood has been drained out of the vampire film genre.  Yet to label Let the Right One In a “vampire” movie does as much of a disservice to this film as when Brokeback Mountain was labeled the “gay cowboy” movie.  For all of the neck biting and mounting people’s backs (I’m talking about Let the Right One In, pervert) what director Tomas Anderson has created is really a story about first love, the idea of vulnerability at an age where school suddenly becomes a war zone and true friends are hard to come by. 

The plot follows a bullied young boy, Oskar (played to perfection by Kåre Hedebrant in one of the best young performances in recent memory), who spends nights parked on the jungle gym of his apartment building’s courtyard, only to find a run-down young girl, Eli, sitting behind him one evening.   As the story builds, through the sparse beauty of cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema’s muted-palette images, Eli’s true identity as an ageless vampire trapped in the body of her twelve-year-old self comes to light.  Brutality overtakes the screen on occasion—after all, Eli must feed her hunger for blood—but the most haunting moments of the film are the simple ones depicting the restrained, awkward courtship of a young (and technically dead) girl who makes the mop-topped pre-teen feel alive.  Not enough can be said of the film’s beauty, where a shot as simple as Eli’s hand running down Oskar’s arm has the power to freeze you in your tracks.  It’s the type of work that, although not perfect, lingers in your mind for days. 

High School Musical: Senior Year, on the other hand, owes all of its lasting imagery to Zac Efron’s personal trainer.  The third installment of this popular franchise, and the first to hit the big screen, follows a group of high schoolers through their senior year, as they put on a musical called “Senior Year.”  The originality is inspiring.  And while a few of the performers supply high-wattage-golly-gee smiles concocted to warrant parental approval, few of them provide enough personality to make this excursion to the cinema anything more than high-budget camp of the blandest variety.  The more each character smiles (and I assure you, they seldom stop smiling, unless you are talking about Efron, who supplies more than his fair share of orgasm faces doubling as “acting,” again…not complaining, just stating fact) the more cardboard they become.  This type of “character development” allows for Disney’s marketing dream to come true: by making them nobody in particular, they can therefore become everybody—people twelve-year-olds in the audience can identify with.  As Let the Right One In proves, twelve-year-olds are hardly stupid, so to be passing the seventeen-year-olds in HSM off as so generic is not only a disservice, but it’s insulting. 

(Happy Halloween.)

These are all frivolous complaints when reminded that the franchise is little more than a cash cow.  Still, it would be nice if in the process of presenting sugar-coated-banality, there were at least a handful of production numbers to give the stultifying proceedings a bit of electricity.  Instead, all of the songs are rehashes of numbers from the first two films. (The only exception being a junkyard man-duet between Efron and Corbin Bleu that finds them rolling around on tires in front of a chorus of extras on loan from The Return to Oz.)  They may as well just sing ABBA’s “Money, Money, Money” over and over again, as it would be both more honest, and catchier than any of the material presented within the 90-minute adventure.

If this week at the movies proved anything, it’s that sometimes the living, complete with their fancy singing and dancing, come across more lifeless than those who actually are dead.  Maybe Disney should hire Tomas Anderson to direct High School Musical 4: The Vampire Years.  After all, how are they going to keep these characters the same age unless they make them undead?  I’m pale and hate the sun; perhaps I need to bite Zac Efron’s neck and save a Disney franchise...      

      

10 Things I Hate About "The Dark Knight"

I don't know what my entire family was smoking, but we all went to "The Dark Knight" this weekend, and found little to enjoy in it.  Yes, Heath Ledger's performance is jaw-droppingly good (making you forget that you are watching a recently deceased actor, simply because the performance sucks you in so completely), but aside from that, I believe the movie has received far more praise than it deserves.  Here are 10 things that I hate about the movie (in honor of Ledger's American film debut).  I've got my batsuit on...I fully expect flame throwers from readers on this one.  (Possible spoilers below.)

1.    Christian Bale adopts a speaking voice when he is Batman that forces him to quiver his lips in such a way that he looks deathly afraid of smearing lipstick on his bat teeth.  It's so deep and gravely that it makes Alec Baldwin sound like a Girl Scout. 

2.    In a three-hour movie, we only see Bale shirtless once, and he’s sewing up a gash.  I don’t know about you, but when I go to Batman I expect Skinemax. 

3.    Harvey Dent (aka Two Face’s) makeup looks like a forgotten member of the “Pirates of the Caribbean” misfits.  I half expected Jack Sparrow to walk in.

4.    Speaking of, if I had been casting it, I would have put Johnny Depp in the Maggie Gyllenhal part.  I would have much preferred a boozy, mustached woman to Gyllenhal’s clichéd, teleprompter delivery. 

5.    Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman don’t get a make-out scene.

6.    Gary Oldman slips into his British accent as frequently as Maggie Gyllenhal slips into unflattering dresses. 

7.    Prince didn’t do the soundtrack.  I still can’t get enough of “Batdance” from the 1989 original.  Must we really have Hans Zimmer underscoring at every possible moment? 

8.    The movie should have been called “The Insane Clown,” as Heath Ledger’s performance steals the spotlight anytime he is on screen.  (Yes, it’s as good as the rumors.  If not better.)

9.    Katie Holmes doesn’t come back for revenge.  There should be an American Gladiator-style scene between she and Gyllenhal. 

10.    There is only one slow-motion running scene, and it is at the end of the movie, AND almost entirely in darkness.  The only thing that could make it better, would be if Bale was running, and then all of a sudden the camera cuts to the side to reveal that he has Pamela Anderson boobs, beneath his batsuit.  “Baywatch,” vs. “Batman.”  It’s totally the new “Alien vs. Predator.” You can thank me for giving you your next film idea, Christopher Nolan.

SO...AM I CRAZY?  DID ANYONE ELSE THINK IT IS OVERRATED? 

Burton's Bloodbath

SPOILERS WITHIN!

Johnny Bladehands is back with a vengeance, but this time, instead of carving topiary, he’s carving-throats.

When a director sets out to create a movie version of a popular stage work, fans of the original material are out for blood.  With Tim Burton’s latest adaptation of Stephen Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd,” audiences get blood, and then some.  Getting past the inherent gore that comes when the demon barber slashes the throats of his victims may prove difficult for some viewers, but the riches beneath the surface are plentiful in this brilliant adaptation of the beloved stage masterpiece. 

From the opening credits, where blood oozes through the pavement of London, Burton sets the eerie tone that has come to be expected from his films.  Pairing his typical visual flavor, here, a drab, colorless, world to the soaring operatic structure of Sondheim’s masterful music seemed like a good fit on paper; on screen it’s close to perfection.  Even though there are several noticeable cuts to the material (some may miss “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd,” that peppers the stage score on various occasions) Burton and his screenwriter’s choices never diminish the material, and instead keep it going at a very tight and emotionally compelling two-hours. 

Perhaps most refreshing of all of Burton’s choices is how much faith he puts in the source material.  There is no score in modern musical theater that is as complex in its scope, as that of “Sweeney.”  The most invigorating thing about the film is hearing the lush orchestrations swell through the theater, which is all but impossible with a Broadway orchestra.  It shows Sondheim at his best, encompassing simple ballads (“Johanna,” with its easy, poignant rhymes “I feel you Johanna/and one day I’ll steal you”) and some of his most clever and intricate lyrics (“A Little Priest,” where Todd and his cohort Mrs. Lovett search around London naming different types of people they’ll pop into pies).  There is more singing in this movie than in any movie musical in recent memory, as it is practically an opera, which makes the casting subject to some ridicule. 

As the demon barber himself, Johnny Depp sings with a voice more reminiscent of a Beatle than the baritone the role calls for, but acts the part with enough nuance to compensate for his shortcomings.  He’s helped greatly by the fact that he knows how to act a song, squeezing as much variety out of his voice as possible.  Surprisingly, he’s helped greatly by Burton as well, who while never helming a musical before, shows great craft in the genre.  He keeps the theatricality intact, but also utilizes the advantages of filmmaking to maximum effect.   Even when Depp is having the most difficulty with the score (in the point of no return “Epiphany”) Burton comes up with creative ways to mask his shortcomings that never feel like cover-ups. 

The cruel dismissal of the world around Todd is set up perfectly in “My Friends,” where the barber is reunited with his razors.  Scenes like this prove how effective film can be compared to stage, as Burton uses reflections of Todd and Lovett within the razor to hint at the cruelty to come.  From this moment on, Lovett is but a piece of the background anxiously waiting for her moment to come into focus in Todd’s eyes; she never will. 

Even though she is dismissed to the sidelines in Todd’s eyes, the musical is almost as much Lovett’s story as it is his.  Casting Burton’s wife, Helena Bonham-Carter in the role of the mistress of meat pies was a controversial choice.  She comes more from the Bernadette Peters class of coy sexuality, than the brassy comedian of the original Angela Lansbury.  This isn’t much of a problem except in a few of her first numbers (“Worst Pies In London,” in particular) that require a defter comedian.  When she’s called upon to be deadpan, she does remarkably well.  Perhaps most surprising about her performance is how much it grows on the viewer as the film progresses.  Numbers that could have been cut, like Lovett’s day-dreamy “By the Sea,” are instead utilized perfectly by the cast and Burton, to further the character development and bring a bit of comedic relief to the second half. 

Regardless of the fact that most of the actors do well with their roles, it’s clear that Burton isn’t an actor’s director.  Most disappointing of the actor’s was Alan Rickman (who I coincidentally sat next to the last time I saw “Sweeney” on Broadway), who underplays the part of Judge Turpin so completely, that any sense of pedophilia, or true terror is lost. 

For all the swiftness of the camera work, there are moments where the staging of musical numbers stops so completely (“Not While I’m Around,” where an otherwise wonderful Toby stands still and sings), and therefore sucks any emotion out of the music.  It would have been interesting to see a different director’s take on parts of it. 

What Burton does accomplish perfectly, is the cruel, psychotic tone of the piece.  It’s filled with dark humor, but is essentially a commentary on the cruelty of mankind.  Depp shows true craft at displaying the slow unraveling of the title character that is clear from his opening lines “There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit/it’s filled with people who are filled with shit.”  Scariest of all is how Burton builds to the tragic climax of the film, and he lets the proceedings snowball to a devastating end. 

Ju-know? I Kinda Like You Now

SLIGHT SPOILERS WITHIN

Every year, there comes at least one little indie that could.  Past years brought surprise audience favorites like Little Miss Sunshine and Napoleon Dynamite, the first of which was a critical darling and contender for the prized Best Picture Oscar.  Following in those movie's footsteps, this year's Juno was touted since day one as the quirky audience charmer to beat.

Perhaps, after all of the premature gushing, it's understandable that my first viewing of the movie left me chuckling...with doubts.  I went into the film with high expectations (mainly due to the participation of two Arrested Development alums, Michael Cera and Jason Bateman) but left a bit confused what all the fuss was about.  A few nights ago I journeyed to downtown Missoula, with every other twenty-something in town, and found myself swept up in the charm.  What had changed?

Juno, despite the title, isn't about a city in Alaska, but instead about a girl who finds herself pregnant at sixteen and unsure of how to continue.  Blessed (or cursed) with a wicked sarcastic tongue and a bedroom decked out in ironic memorabilia from decades past, Juno decides that her age and maturity level makes her ill-equipped to mother a child, and begins searching for adoptive parents (Bateman and Jennifer Garner).  Along the way she delivers some side- splitting one-liners, and does a bit of growing in the process.

On first view, I found the script's constant use of one-liners to be a sad substitute for character development.  Juno grew bigger and bigger in size, yet I never found myself emotionally connecting to her, or the peripheral characters.  Save for a touching scene between, the always wonderful, J.K. Simmons (coincidentally from Missoula), I walked out of the movie feeling relatively little. 

First time screenwriter, Diablo Cody, appeared to have earnest intentions with the movie, but I took most of the script as an attempt to merchandise talking dolls of Juno and her friends saying "Hand to blog?!" to be sold at Urban Outfitters.  Perhaps the doll of Juno and Napoleon Dynamite could date in the bargain bin?  That's not to say that on the first viewing I didn't enjoy the movie, I found much to like in it.  However, on second viewing I started to see what all the fuss was about.

From the opening shot, where we see Juno staring at a recliner in her front lawn, sarcastic voice-over blaring, Ellen Page delivers a career making performance.  While my qualms about her being a little too knowing carried over to my second viewing, it’s nonetheless a winning portrayal of an adolescent girl caught in an unlikely situation.  What makes the movie work so well, is that instead of using the pregnancy as a way to ruin the heroine’s life, she becomes a stronger heroine throughout.  It helps that she is supported by a cast that, like most other winning indie comedies, is full of polished professionals and fresh upstarts. 

I’m not quite sure what category Michael Cera, as the unlikely man with the powerful sperm, falls into.  Just 19 years-old, Cera has already established a list of strong comedy credentials that most actors only dream of.  His impeccable comic timing, gangly body and charming persona are utilized well in the film.  On first view I was disappointed in the lack of relationship development between Juno and Bleeker (Cera).  The second time around I realized that it was an honest portrayal of the fleeting high school romances that consume teenager’s lives; they are sometimes built upon very little, but can somehow help people grow. 

Other than Cera, Allison Janney makes the strongest impact in her supporting role as Juno’s stepmother.  The development of the characters, most often through set decoration and hobbies (as with Janney’s dog-loving fascination) borders on being too animated, but is consistent throughout.  Everything from Juno’s hamburger phone, to Bleeker’s goofy sweatbands, Juno’s Sunny D guzzle, or Bateman’s fixation on guitars and gore, provide the clearest character development, whereas in most films it’s what comes out of the characters mouths that defines them most vividly.  Here, what comes out is funny, but it's where they are and what surrounds them that illuminates them. 

Every bit of me still cringes slightly at how manufactured to charm this movie appears to be.  The cast, the props, the dialogue, even the soundtrack are, as my friend Angelina put it, “too cute by half.”  That being said, it’s a sweet movie deserving of praise.

My Rough Attempt at a "Best Of 2007" List

All I heard for months before I turned twenty-one was that it was going to be “the best year of my life.”  I assumed this meant champagne would rain from the sky, the name of the company would be changed to “Matthew Murphy’s ABT” and I would publish somewhere around eight or nine novels (preceded by an award winning series of short stories, of course) in between winning a few Oscars.  Four months into 2007, it became clear that the words predicting the year’s triumphant bragging rights were but a cruel joke. 

2007 goes down as the most difficult year of my life (or as Homer Simpson would say “The most difficult year of your life…so far”).  Emotional and physical tests were fired at me as gruesomely as paint ball guns shot at close range; there’s no denying that my wounds splattered across the surface for all to see.  It was a year where I had no choice but to call out for help from whoever would listen. 

Writing a post to close up such a tumultuous year is all but impossible.  There is no pleasant way to wrap up dynamite that exploded already.  The different challenges I faced throughout 2007 have taught me more about myself, and the world around me, than the twenty years preceding it.  In that sense it has been a spectacular year;  spectacularly frightening in every way.

(Superfluous Pom shot.)

I’ve always had a tendency for vices in the form of arts and entertainment, but never have I been more dependent on the happiness that different art forms create than in the past twelve months.  There were days, months even, where my best friends were the singers who floated out of my speakers.  Characters on TV personified my problems, and opened up emotions in myself that I kept bottled up.  Paintings created fifty years ago peered out from books and whispered that they understood my emotions.  Art found a way of impacting me like never before. 

One of the most disappointing parts about being ill for so long is that it hasn’t allowed me to get out and see as much theater, or museums, as I would have liked in 2007.  The only portion of this list that I feel to be definitive in any way, is the list of best albums.  I immersed myself in music during my illness, and the albums that follow create the soundtrack of my so called “Epstein” life.

(Chocolate Covered (Oddly Leafy) Strawberries: The Cure-All Food.)

(Michael Lowney and Nick McCarvel: The (Slightly  Creepy) Cure-All Friends.)

A difficult repercussion of music playing such an important role in my year, is that many of the albums that I fell in love with are forever associated with my struggle.  Certain songs come on and suck me back into the mindset I existed in when I first discovered them.  Many of these albums made my year, but several of them are ruined for me because of their place in the library of my illness. 

While there may be worse years to come, I can’t help but hope that I’m coming out of a particularly dark spot in my life.  For everyone who has stood by me in the past year, thank you.  I can’t imagine how monotonous this blog must have become at times.  For everyone that toasts health on New Years Eve, say it and mean it.  You never know how quickly health, or life itself, can be taken away.  Cherish it while you have it. 

Here is a look back on what helped make this difficult year great…even in the smallest ways.   I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR EVERYONE ELSE'S ADDITIONS! 

(Voice your opinion.  Raise your (on-line) hand.)

ALBUMS:
1.    M.I.A-Kala
2.    Arcade Fire- Neon Bible
3.    Nicole Atkins- Neptune City
4.    Radiohead-In Rainbows
5.    St Vincent-Marry Me
6.    LCD Soundsystem- Sound of Silver
7.    Rilo Kiley- Under the Blacklight
8.    Sara Bareilles- Little Voice
9.    Alicia Keys-As I Am
10.    Amy Winehouse-Back to Black
11.    Kevin Drew-Spirit If...
12.  Feist- The Reminder
13.    Mark Ronson- Version

THEATER/ DANCE/ CONCERTS:

1.    Company-Broadway Revival
2.    Nederlands Dance Theater
3.    Eurydice
4.    Xanadu (#1) - With Michelle Dorrance.  Nothing beats the first time. 
5.    M.I.A. at Terminal 5
6.    Alessandra Ferri’s  Farewell
7.    Xanadu (#4)- With Marcelo Gomes.   During the strike, which brought the performance to volcanic levels.
8.    Decadance at Cedar lake
9.    Audra McDonald in “110 in the Shade”
10.    Xanadu (#2)- With David Hallberg and Nick McCarvel.  A pleasure to share with my two best friends. 
11.    West Side Story 50th Anniversary at Gypsy of the Year

MOVIES:
1.    The Lives of Others (technically released in US in February 2007)
2.    Ratatouille
3.    No Country for Old Men
4.    Knocked Up
5.    Once
6.    Hairspray
7.    La Vie En Rose
8.    Superbad
9.   Juno
10. Lars and the Real Girl

(Expected to be on the list once they make it to the end of the cinematic earth Montana: Atonement, Sweeney Todd, There Will Be Blood, The Savages, I’m Not There)

BOOKS:
1.    The Fountainhead- Ayn Rand
2. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle- Haruki Murakami
3.    The Corrections- Jonathan Franzen
4.    Will in the World- Stephen Greenblatt
5.    Under the Banner of Heaven
Runner Up:  Harry Potter #7

TV:
1.    Friday Night Lights
2.    30 Rock
3.    Pushing Daisies
4.    The Office
5.    Wednesday Night Trifecta- America’s Next Top Model, Gossip Girl, Project Runway.  (The perfect diversion during Eppy-sodes.)

TOP TEN EVENTS IN MY LIFE THIS YEAR:
1.   Spending the summer with Nick McCarvel in New York
2.    Paris
3.    My first published article
4.    Dancing Mercutio w/ Boca Ballet Theatre
5.    The Musee D’Orsey
6.    Performing “The Green Table” In Europe
7.    The release that my first break down, five months into being sick, brought.
8.    Discovering I love photography
9.    Turning 21 At Gay 90’s in Minneapolis
10.   BIP/BONing

Lazy Post Of The Day: Crazy Cool

I've watched a fair amount of classic movie musicals in the past few months.  One thing that they all make  clear is that musical theater choreography (for the most part) just ain't what it used to be.  Most shows these days seem to forgo any sense of storytelling, or intricate musicality for that matter and go for crowd pleasing pizazz instead. 

Jerome Robbins was a master, that's no secret.  Perhaps my favorite of all of the work I've seen of his is the opening scene of "West Side Story" which is pure genius.  I love how slowly it builds, and how individual each of the dancers is.  They each invest their own personality into the dancing, and it therefore starts to tell a story, rather than becoming a kick-line.  If only gangs in real life were like this, I'd fit right in.  For some reason there are subtitles on this version, so get ready to read a lot of "Jets! Jets! Jets!  Chico!!!"  for the next eight minutes.

"In A Galaxy Far, Far, Away..."

My pile of writing projects outside of the blog has been a bit overwhelming for the past few days.  Even though I didn't have to attend class last night, several papers for school have been keeping me mighty busy.  This week we were given essays on two subjects that I love: the first was about the incredible author Jonathan Franzen and the second was about....me. 

Each week we have little writing exercises and this week's assignment was to discuss something you used as a form of escape in your childhood.  After reading Jonathan Franzen's essay about his love of the "Peanuts" comics, I immediately settled on my topic.  The only thing that separates this entry from any of my other blog posts all about myself is that I had to incorporate some minor research.  So here is my paper, in all its rough glory! 

The first Target store in Montana opened its doors on my eighth birthday.  This event goes almost unparalleled in my canon of birthday memories from my childhood.  Forgoing the typical party and cake extravaganza, my mom promised me that we would tromp through the store and I’d be able to fill the basket with several choice items lining the toy aisle.  Nothing excited me more and I mark that day as the moment the comfort of the red and white aisles of Target took a hold of me. 

From that day forward I would eagerly await the weekly trip to Tarjaay (a pronunciation I believed to be a secret language of my mothers and I; you can imagine how crushed I was to find out the commonness of this mock French accent.)  Entering the red automatic doors at the front of the store was like a gun going off to start a race.  I’d walk as quickly as possible (running didn’t seem polite) to the action figure aisle and rest my eyes on the shelves stocked with “Star Wars” memorabilia.  In under a minute I could search through each pile and discover which characters would be new and welcome additions to my collection.  I don’t think my mother realized what a simple birthday shopping spree would do to her son; I had discovered how to escape into a galaxy far, far, away. 

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.  When George Lucas created the movies in 1977 he was smart enough to secure the rights to all of the merchandising tie-ins.  “Before Luke, Leia, Han and the short furry zen-meister took to the big screen, toys tied to movies were few and far between.”  A world without movie-tie-in products was a completely unfathomable idea to me when I was eight.  All of the toys I owned were in the likenesses of the characters I saw on screen.  It’s no surprise, seeing that Lucas’ idea has earned him over “8 billion in global sales in 100 different countries” that others quickly followed suit. 

What my mother, and Lucas, could never have predicted was how much this new escape brought out the OCD side of me.  After I’d frantically plowed through the toy aisle, I would realize that other boys my age had done exactly the same, leaving the aisle looking like a tornado had stormed through it.  Rather than take my prizes and run like everyone else, I spent time organizing and cleaning up the aisles while my mother browsed duvet covers and blenders.   

This strange, methodical ritual had its advantages; the women working in the toy department quickly took notice of the little gay boy that could.  Within a few weeks I had gained access the stock room to slice open boxes of the newest shipments of 4-inch figurines.  “Star Wars” mania was at the peak of its resurgence in the toy world and rather than claw my way to a Princess Leia with the other, dirtier, boys, I enjoyed my preferential treatment. 

It’s no surprise that a science fiction movie captured my attention so undividedly; the very appeal of these movies is how far removed they are from the world we live in.  “Star Wars” is “arguably the reason that science fiction moved out of the sub-culture and into the mainstream.”  Whether people are a fan of it, or despise it, it has a special place in everyone’s life.  To this day I can still sit down with other adults and see a fire lit inside of them the moment “Star Wars” toys come up.

Somehow I’m always convinced I can beat others in terms of merchandise acquired.  The aisles of Target and the flood of “Star Wars” merchandising that began to clutter my room bled into other aspects of my life as well.  I found the stories so exciting that they began to inspire much of my young artistic life.  While most kids in Montana were outside riding bears and dancing with deer, I was in my basement choreographing a one man “Star Wars” ballet.  It’s a wonder that I’ve even become remotely socially capable as a young adult.  When I was a child I never remember feeling like an outsider, but it’s clear now to me that “Star Wars” was a comfort because it protected me from the real world.  In a land full of aliens, space fights, and slave women in gold bras attached to giant slugs, I was utterly normal. 

The toys I collected on my various trips to Target allowed me to act out all of my wildest dreams and develop my storytelling skills.  Of course, there was the occasional moment where the OCD would overtake me at home.  A Luke Skywalker figurine that began his life in a pleasant off-white robe would slowly start to change color as my hours of playtime dirtied him.  Panic overtook me and I’d rush downstairs to have my parents calm my psychotic fears. 

Toy industry insiders claim that “Star Wars” established that you could make buckets of money off of kids.  If my parents could, they would probably go back to 1977 and plead with George Lucas to leave his movies as movies and forgo his marketing empire.  I, however, wouldn’t change it for the world.  To this day I can’t enter a Target without a flood of memories and there is rarely a visit where I still don’t head to the toy section first.  Even though my “Star Wars” ballet will forever stay in my basement, the memories created by my escape into Lucas’ world will remain out in the open. 

Ever So Slightly "Enchanted"

When I was growing up, I was obsessed with Disney princesses.  For some strange reason, of all of the doe-eyed beauties that populated the cartoons, I loved Pocahontas the most.  At summer camp while most people (i.e. boys) were out taking archery lessons (which would have benefited the Pocahontas in me) I was inside making replica necklaces that I claimed were for my mother.  Luckily I knew she wouldn’t be caught dead in a string of beads with an aqua bear tooth dangling from the end; it was all mine. 

Ever since “The Little Mermaid,” I eagerly awaited the arrival of each subsequent movie, as it played into not only the musical theater side of me but the merchandising freak as well.  Burger King tie-ins, future Broadway musicals, and everything in between; these movies helped define my childhood in a very strange way. 

In the past few years, they’ve all been released on DVD and as I watch each one I’m amazed at how ridiculous they are.  Some of them have great music, but on a whole, the women are lovesick, bordering on the verge of psychotic, damsels in distress who meet their prince and fall in love as soon as his nipple-less chest comes into view.  I’m amazed that a good parody of the genre hasn’t come along until this week’s release of “Enchanted.” 

In true Disney fashion, they’ve been advertising this one for months in advance.  Part classic animation, part live action, (with a small amount of 3-D thrown in), “Enchanted” is the closest thing I’ve seen to a true Disney princess movie since Mulan (which aside from introducing Disney’s first male character with nipples, didn’t do much for me…or anyone.) 

“Enchanted” begins as a cartoon in the land of Andalasia, where Giselle sits awaiting “true love’s kiss.”  As soon as her Prince Charming rides up on his white horse, they fall in love much to the dismay of the evil Queen mother.  Rather than have Giselle usurp her, the Queen disguises herself and banishes Giselle to New York City, and real life. 

Upon her arrival (out of a manhole in Times Square) the scenario draws immediate laughter.  In the hands of anyone less capable than the truly stellar Amy Adams (who knew what a great actress she was when she did “Drop Dead Gorgeous?!”) the joke would grow tired very quickly.  Decked out in a ball gown with a circumference as big as a small planet, she stumbles around New York searching out anything familiar; what she finds is Patrick Dempsey. 

Blessed with a head of hair that would make a Treseme model swoon, Dempsey’s character has a moment of hesitation before taking Giselle into his New York apartment.  This is where the movie starts to unravel slowly.  The initial shock and humor of seeing a cartoon character in the real world starts to wear off, and it becomes clear that the script rarely transcends the generalities of the cartoon movies which it spoofs. 

There are a handful of charming songs, written by Disney veterans Stephen Schwartz and Alan Menken that keep the proceedings moving along quickly for the first half of the movie before petering out.  Along with spoofing the songs of past Disney hits quite nicely, the cast is populated by all of the women who reigned as Disney princesses in the 90’s.  Lining the scenes, the keen observer (or Disney nut like I used to be) will recognize Jodi Benson (Ariel), and Judy Kuhn (Pocahontas), as well as Broadway veterans Tonya Pinkens and the usually fabulous Idina Menzel.

With the introduction of Menzel’s character, the seemingly icy girlfriend of Dempsey’s family man archetype, I started to lose interest.  Menzel, who has appeared on stage in “Rent,” and won a Tony Award for “Wicked,” makes it clear that she should stay on the stage.  Something about her acting style reads awkwardly on screen, and in addition to that, she has some very unfortunate wig and costume choices towards the end of “Enchanted.” 

Anyone who knows me will be sure to point out that I seem to be a fan of spoofs.  The unfortunate thing about “Enchanted” is that it rarely rises above the level of the material that it lovingly mocks.  There are things that an audience will allow characters to get away with in a cartoon world that just aren’t acceptable in a live action feature.  Character development is one of them, and while Ariel’s swooning over Prince Eric the moment she sets her fins on him appeared cute, here it seems more strange than "enchanted."

No Country For Old Men

The Coen brothers’ “No Country For Old Men,” is perhaps the last movie I would expect to draw comparisons to “Brokeback Mountain.”  Yet walking out of the theater early last week, it was the first thing that crossed my mind.  Both are set on vast landscapes that, in addition to providing enticing scenery, mirror the psychological bareness of the characters.  Most importantly, both movies say as much with silence as they do with words. 

What is essentially a thriller about a cold-blooded killer in search of money that has fallen into the hands of another man, “No Country,” comes very close to being a great movie.  Unfortunately it becomes unhinged in its final act.

In many ways it reminded me of last year’s “A History of Violence.”  Just like that film, “No Country,” is a psychological portrait of men overtaken by violent acts.  It’s an exciting change from the normal fugitive’s on the loose summer blockbuster, and it’s helped by a great script and a handful of incredible performances. Through the skillful storytelling of the Coen brothers, it is a film that keeps the audience on the edge of their seats cringing, yet mesmerized, by the horrific violence being depicted. 

The movie drops the audience into the events going on with little or no back-story.  A hunter (played by Josh Brolin) stumbles upon a briefcase filled with two million dollars and what ensues is a chase that finds him narrowly escaping the grasp of a psychotic killer.  We don’t ever find out how these men became the violent beasts that they are today which in turn makes it even more chilling.

At the center of the madness is the incredible Javier Bardem. He gives a performance that is as scary as anything I’ve ever seen on screen.  When I was watching I was reminded of Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lector and I would be amazed if Bardem doesn’t take home a handful of awards come January.  His character is a man of few words, but he is able to say more with his icy stare than with an entire script.

That’s not to say that the Coen brother’s don’t deserve a huge amount of credit for the script they’ve written.  Like their other films, they populate the periphery of the action (that travels across Texas) perfectly.  From the desk clerk at a run down motel, to a gas station attendant and everything in between, the script adds the needed touch of dark humor to the proceedings.  These minor characters’ interactions with the main men tell us more than any of the words that come from the men’s mouths. 

Though it’s a viciously bloody movie, it becomes less about the actual violence than it is about what pushes humans to be capable of such acts.  For 2/3rds of the movie the audience buys into it without craving much exposition, only in the last 1/3rd do the Coen’s falter with their script.  Perhaps in an effort to tie things up, or to add an emotional punch to what we’ve seen, the final act declines into a series of speeches that quickly lost my interest.  It’s unfortunate that an otherwise great movie is dragged down at the end because it left me feeling slightly cheated.  I wanted to absolutely love this film, but in the end I was torn.