New Yorkers always seem boastful of "their" crazy people. In absence of smiling neighbors or kids playing stickball in the street, people on their way to work instead adopt the muttering schizophrenic by the corner store, the panhandler who works the 1 train at the same time each night, or the godawful John Mayer impersonator on the subway platform downtown. Last summer I would see the same bedraggled panhandler doing the same schtick, asking everyone on the train for money and eventually falling to his knees for effect. It was moving the first few times, obviously, but you have to figure the sincerity lets up around the fifth repetition.
I now work just south of Union Square, which features a maze of a subway stop with exits all over the damn place. Take the right turn and you wind up in front of the Virgin megastore; one bad judgment, however, and you're in the park surrounded by a farmer's market, sent through a wormhole to the Catskills.
This morning I got off the N train and stepped up into the maze, for the first time in weeks completely disoriented. At 8:55 a.m., disoriented is not a thing you want to be in a subway station-- you will get run over by kind of crazy people who wield Starbucks cups and pashminas instead of tattered flannel shirts. I turned around a few times and located myself, finally realizing the reason for my confusion: my saw player was missing. The guy who is in the Union Square station every day, after the pan flute player I think, warbling on a saw. He was gone, and without him, I was lost.
Maybe next time I should tip the guy, being my North Star and all, but that would probably ruin my cred with the other commuters. While you always fear that your local schizophrenic will fuck you up if you cross him, it's the middle managers with the spike heels I fear most.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
an indecent proposal
I got propositioned this weekend. Propositioned by a boy with whom I've had a flirtation for some time, who stands no more than a foot away from me any time we speak, and I never back away. And this was all on a night when I was back visiting Wesleyan and didn't really have a reliable place to stay, as my futon was located in the room of my friend who was fresh off a breakup and quite drunk.
And what did I, the propositioned one, do? I turned him down. Why? Because I am a teenage girl.
See, said propositioner, A, had just broken up with my good friend, B. Now B happened to be in New York last weekend, apparently hobnobbing with important people, or otherwise I would have spent the night watching her flirt with a series of guys while insisting that A is the only one she wants. B isn't a whiner; she's fresh off a breakup, and a particularly confusing one, as A dumped her with little provocation. The best explanation anyone can think of is that B is attractive, funny, and smart, and A is a college-age boy who can't help but fuck these things up.
Yet somehow A is also a college-age boy to whom I am quite attracted, for reasons I have absolutely never been able to pin down. B has known this for a while, and at some point while they were dating, it was suggested that A and I would be able to make out, no strings attached. To understand how this works you need to understand the sexual dynamics of Wesleyan, which is not worth your time, so bear with me. Said makeout never happened, both because of chance and a deep sense of guilt. But the suggestion never went away.
When A offered me a place to stay this weekend, with all implied strings attached, I did a lightning-fast calculation that I have been trained in since high school: the girlfriend loyalty test. How long had they been broken up? (3 weeks) How much had B mentioned him every time we had spoken? (every 10 minutes or so) How long had A and I been blatantly flirting? (about a year) How long had it been since I had made out with someone? (a month) How upset would B be? How easily could I keep this a secret?
So I said no. It is the code of girls beginning in high school that a friend's ex is off-limits, regardless of how long it has been since the breakup. I had one casual friend approach me six months after ending my first relationship to ask if it was OK if she date my ex; they've now been dating for two years. I wasn't allowed to say no, but it was the courtesy that counted. In the code of women, this conversation must happen; at a college as small as Wesleyan, friendships have been ruined when the code was broken.
Later that night, A and I had somehow avoided post-proposition awkwardness and were holding up a third friend, the one who had promised me use of his futon. It was his 21st birthday. It was the end of the night. Between the slumped shoulders of our friend, over his mutterings that he just wanted to lay down on the sidewalk, I kept catching A's eye, and I knew that his offer still stood. And I thought about it. I could escort my friend safely home and come back for a fling that had been a good-bad idea for months. Or I could go home, see friend #3 safely to sleep and wake up there in the morning, with nothing on my conscience but letting that friend get so drunk in the first place.
So I said no, again. And I realized that the code of teenage girls isn't immature, unlike most of the things teenage girls come up with. It's the ultimate act of being an adult-- putting someone else before you, no matter how sexually frustrated you've been for how long. I'm not sure that A and I are finished, and I'm not sure that I'll ever tell B about this night. But the code is upheld. Justice is restored. The teenage girls win again.
And what did I, the propositioned one, do? I turned him down. Why? Because I am a teenage girl.
See, said propositioner, A, had just broken up with my good friend, B. Now B happened to be in New York last weekend, apparently hobnobbing with important people, or otherwise I would have spent the night watching her flirt with a series of guys while insisting that A is the only one she wants. B isn't a whiner; she's fresh off a breakup, and a particularly confusing one, as A dumped her with little provocation. The best explanation anyone can think of is that B is attractive, funny, and smart, and A is a college-age boy who can't help but fuck these things up.
Yet somehow A is also a college-age boy to whom I am quite attracted, for reasons I have absolutely never been able to pin down. B has known this for a while, and at some point while they were dating, it was suggested that A and I would be able to make out, no strings attached. To understand how this works you need to understand the sexual dynamics of Wesleyan, which is not worth your time, so bear with me. Said makeout never happened, both because of chance and a deep sense of guilt. But the suggestion never went away.
When A offered me a place to stay this weekend, with all implied strings attached, I did a lightning-fast calculation that I have been trained in since high school: the girlfriend loyalty test. How long had they been broken up? (3 weeks) How much had B mentioned him every time we had spoken? (every 10 minutes or so) How long had A and I been blatantly flirting? (about a year) How long had it been since I had made out with someone? (a month) How upset would B be? How easily could I keep this a secret?
So I said no. It is the code of girls beginning in high school that a friend's ex is off-limits, regardless of how long it has been since the breakup. I had one casual friend approach me six months after ending my first relationship to ask if it was OK if she date my ex; they've now been dating for two years. I wasn't allowed to say no, but it was the courtesy that counted. In the code of women, this conversation must happen; at a college as small as Wesleyan, friendships have been ruined when the code was broken.
Later that night, A and I had somehow avoided post-proposition awkwardness and were holding up a third friend, the one who had promised me use of his futon. It was his 21st birthday. It was the end of the night. Between the slumped shoulders of our friend, over his mutterings that he just wanted to lay down on the sidewalk, I kept catching A's eye, and I knew that his offer still stood. And I thought about it. I could escort my friend safely home and come back for a fling that had been a good-bad idea for months. Or I could go home, see friend #3 safely to sleep and wake up there in the morning, with nothing on my conscience but letting that friend get so drunk in the first place.
So I said no, again. And I realized that the code of teenage girls isn't immature, unlike most of the things teenage girls come up with. It's the ultimate act of being an adult-- putting someone else before you, no matter how sexually frustrated you've been for how long. I'm not sure that A and I are finished, and I'm not sure that I'll ever tell B about this night. But the code is upheld. Justice is restored. The teenage girls win again.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
There's this photo that's been floating around the internet in a hurry lately, a big topic since Monday, which was of course the anniversary. In the photo, a group of five apparent-twentysomethines are sitting on a wall in Williamsburg, lounging in the sunshine and chatting. Behind them is the lower Manhattan skyline, where two enormous clouds of smoke are billowing in the group's direction. It's 9/11 of course, and here are your classic jaded young people, straight out of Dave eggers, too self-absorbed to even look at history happening behind them.
At least, that's what the photographer wants you to think. Since showing up in Frank Rich's column earlier this week, the photo has been weighed in on across the internet, even earning its own Gawker poll. Finally today one member of the group spoke up-- not so young, it turns out, he's 40-- to answer, yes, of course we were talking about it. He pointed out that if the photographer had just walked 50 feet forward, he could have learned that for himself, instead of simply drawing his own conclusions.
Misinterpretation like this is de rigeur with any kind of surveillance, even in a time of tell-all blogs and full-color security camers. When we observe the lives of other people, there is always room for conjecture, educated guess. What hapepned before we turned the camera on? What did he just whisper? From observing animal behavior to prison surveillance to photographing a group of people from 50 feet away, whatever is not crystal clear is open to interpretation.
Frank Rich wrote of the group that they're not callous, chatting idly during a mind-boggling tragedy-- they're just American. They move on, looking to the future. As for Frank Rich, he's not a liar or a fool, placing his own assumptions on unwilling subjects-- he's just human. In everything we observe and experience we want to see ourselves, from a puppy who "kisses" to the perfect song on the radio that matches your mood.
This is why we watch people, why surveillance has made the leap from governmental privilege to national pastime. We watch for ourselves or what we want to believe, and when we find it we sit back satisfied, knowing we were right all along. If someone comes along with another idea, even the person we were watching to begin with, it no longer matters- whatever we've found is already ours, a symbol for what we wanted, beyond fact or reason.
I remember reading once-- Chuck Klosterman, maybe-- about a screaming match that occurred during the first season of "The Real World," in New York. A black man and a white woman were in a heated argument about racism. a scene that has since become part of every "Real World" season since. What was left out in the editing of this fight, apaprently, was that the conversation took place immediately after the Rodney King beatings, a time when everyone in America was having heated arguments abotu racism. This time Frank Rich could have been right-- they were being histrionic, they were just being American. But by the time the fight aired it was too late-- these two kids had already set the template for generations of hot-tempered twentysomethings to come. The argument was no longer theirs but a symbol with entirely different meaning, in an entirely different person's hands.
It's been shown to us for centuries in art-- Marilyn, when screenprinted, is not just a girl but all of America; a broken set of pince-nez glasses in the hands of Sergei Eisenstein becomes the despair of the proletariat. A pipe is not a pipe. Now that we have so blatantly focuses the lens and paintbursh on ourselves-- no more cloak of fiction, just straight-up reality-- how can we complain when we ourselves become co-opted and distorted by someone else's idea? In putting ourselves out there, whether trying otu for a reality TV show or setting up a MySpace account, we subject ourselves to the opposite of the individuality we may be trying to express: we become someone else's symbol, representative of something we may not even like.
Or sometimes, as with a few people on the waterfront one day in September, we don't even have to put ourselves out there. In a world of "citizen journalists," where everyone believes they're just a few extended metaphors away from Frank Rich, we may all be up for scrutiny and symbolism whether we like it or not. It's bold, certainly. Some might even call it brave. It's a new world, indeed.
At least, that's what the photographer wants you to think. Since showing up in Frank Rich's column earlier this week, the photo has been weighed in on across the internet, even earning its own Gawker poll. Finally today one member of the group spoke up-- not so young, it turns out, he's 40-- to answer, yes, of course we were talking about it. He pointed out that if the photographer had just walked 50 feet forward, he could have learned that for himself, instead of simply drawing his own conclusions.
Misinterpretation like this is de rigeur with any kind of surveillance, even in a time of tell-all blogs and full-color security camers. When we observe the lives of other people, there is always room for conjecture, educated guess. What hapepned before we turned the camera on? What did he just whisper? From observing animal behavior to prison surveillance to photographing a group of people from 50 feet away, whatever is not crystal clear is open to interpretation.
Frank Rich wrote of the group that they're not callous, chatting idly during a mind-boggling tragedy-- they're just American. They move on, looking to the future. As for Frank Rich, he's not a liar or a fool, placing his own assumptions on unwilling subjects-- he's just human. In everything we observe and experience we want to see ourselves, from a puppy who "kisses" to the perfect song on the radio that matches your mood.
This is why we watch people, why surveillance has made the leap from governmental privilege to national pastime. We watch for ourselves or what we want to believe, and when we find it we sit back satisfied, knowing we were right all along. If someone comes along with another idea, even the person we were watching to begin with, it no longer matters- whatever we've found is already ours, a symbol for what we wanted, beyond fact or reason.
I remember reading once-- Chuck Klosterman, maybe-- about a screaming match that occurred during the first season of "The Real World," in New York. A black man and a white woman were in a heated argument about racism. a scene that has since become part of every "Real World" season since. What was left out in the editing of this fight, apaprently, was that the conversation took place immediately after the Rodney King beatings, a time when everyone in America was having heated arguments abotu racism. This time Frank Rich could have been right-- they were being histrionic, they were just being American. But by the time the fight aired it was too late-- these two kids had already set the template for generations of hot-tempered twentysomethings to come. The argument was no longer theirs but a symbol with entirely different meaning, in an entirely different person's hands.
It's been shown to us for centuries in art-- Marilyn, when screenprinted, is not just a girl but all of America; a broken set of pince-nez glasses in the hands of Sergei Eisenstein becomes the despair of the proletariat. A pipe is not a pipe. Now that we have so blatantly focuses the lens and paintbursh on ourselves-- no more cloak of fiction, just straight-up reality-- how can we complain when we ourselves become co-opted and distorted by someone else's idea? In putting ourselves out there, whether trying otu for a reality TV show or setting up a MySpace account, we subject ourselves to the opposite of the individuality we may be trying to express: we become someone else's symbol, representative of something we may not even like.
Or sometimes, as with a few people on the waterfront one day in September, we don't even have to put ourselves out there. In a world of "citizen journalists," where everyone believes they're just a few extended metaphors away from Frank Rich, we may all be up for scrutiny and symbolism whether we like it or not. It's bold, certainly. Some might even call it brave. It's a new world, indeed.
Friday, July 21, 2006
or, as adam would call her, "the dargz
I have mixed feelings about Manohla Dargis. OK, OK, twist my arm why don't you-- I hate her. I hate her background in art cinema, I hate how she comes from Los Angeles, I hate how she doesn't have a wikipedia entry so I can't find more to hate about her.
One of my favorite games to play is "guess which Times critic wrote this review;" with A.O. Scott and Stephen Holden it can be a toss-up, but Manohla is a cinch, largely because her reviews make so little sense. As my friend Jordan pointed out a few weeks ago, her reviews can be fun to read because they make you believe she's actually insane. She tends to focus on minute details of films-- Santa's sack resembling testicles?-- or digress into something only marginally related, like the brilliant but unnecessary mini-review she gave of 1978's "Superman" within her actual review of "Superman Returns."
It's not that I don't respect her as a critic, and her lunacy can often lead way to intentionalof comedy, as when she states up-front in today's review of "Lady in the Water" that M. Night Shyamalan has "lost his creative marbles...[and] Shyamalan's marbles are bigger than those most people." This is just a few paragraphs before she calls him a "Chatty Cathy."
It was this review that set me off, however, and got me to what I really hate about Dargis. She actually liked "Lady in the Water," even though she seems to be alone in that one, and gives props to the film's use of myth and fairy tale as part of this self-proclaimed "bedtime story." What gets her goat, however, is not Shyamalan's arrogance or the plot's incoherence, but that Shyamalan "appears insistent on clinging to myths, particularly about innocence and faith, that serve the myth of his own genius." About Bryce Dallas Howard's water nymph/narf Story, she writes "she’s one of those juiceless virginal fantasies who inspire pure thoughts, noble deeds and stifled yawns. Disney’s Little Mermaid comes off like a tramp by comparison, which suggests that Mr. Shyamalan needs to add a fairy-tale revisionist like Angela Carter to his bedtime reading."
And that's what really makes me hate Manohla. There's very little in filmmaking that's sacred-- one man's flawless crane shot is another woman's bloated budget-drainer-- but when you take on which myths can and cannot be used, you're messing with what makes film worth it to begin with. All art forms deal with myth and legend in some way or another, from the Last Supper to every production of Hamlet that works in references to the war in Iraq. There's no telling which myths are relevant or not, or who should revise them and break down the old stereotypes; there's room to play with mythmaking and room for revision, but if you're going to make a good old-fashioned fairy tale, your heroine can be as virginal and juiceless (as an aside: yuck) as you please.
I haven't seen "Lady in the Water," and I have no idea how it actually deals with the classic fairy tale. If Manohla thinks it works, though, then it works; as "Hoodwinked" showed us a few months ago, revision doesn't always work so well either. Manohla Dargis will probably continue to both infuriate me and make me laugh for a while now, but if she keeps picking on the bones of cinema like that, well, I guess I have no choice but to take her job. Obviously.
One of my favorite games to play is "guess which Times critic wrote this review;" with A.O. Scott and Stephen Holden it can be a toss-up, but Manohla is a cinch, largely because her reviews make so little sense. As my friend Jordan pointed out a few weeks ago, her reviews can be fun to read because they make you believe she's actually insane. She tends to focus on minute details of films-- Santa's sack resembling testicles?-- or digress into something only marginally related, like the brilliant but unnecessary mini-review she gave of 1978's "Superman" within her actual review of "Superman Returns."
It's not that I don't respect her as a critic, and her lunacy can often lead way to intentionalof comedy, as when she states up-front in today's review of "Lady in the Water" that M. Night Shyamalan has "lost his creative marbles...[and] Shyamalan's marbles are bigger than those most people." This is just a few paragraphs before she calls him a "Chatty Cathy."
It was this review that set me off, however, and got me to what I really hate about Dargis. She actually liked "Lady in the Water," even though she seems to be alone in that one, and gives props to the film's use of myth and fairy tale as part of this self-proclaimed "bedtime story." What gets her goat, however, is not Shyamalan's arrogance or the plot's incoherence, but that Shyamalan "appears insistent on clinging to myths, particularly about innocence and faith, that serve the myth of his own genius." About Bryce Dallas Howard's water nymph/narf Story, she writes "she’s one of those juiceless virginal fantasies who inspire pure thoughts, noble deeds and stifled yawns. Disney’s Little Mermaid comes off like a tramp by comparison, which suggests that Mr. Shyamalan needs to add a fairy-tale revisionist like Angela Carter to his bedtime reading."
And that's what really makes me hate Manohla. There's very little in filmmaking that's sacred-- one man's flawless crane shot is another woman's bloated budget-drainer-- but when you take on which myths can and cannot be used, you're messing with what makes film worth it to begin with. All art forms deal with myth and legend in some way or another, from the Last Supper to every production of Hamlet that works in references to the war in Iraq. There's no telling which myths are relevant or not, or who should revise them and break down the old stereotypes; there's room to play with mythmaking and room for revision, but if you're going to make a good old-fashioned fairy tale, your heroine can be as virginal and juiceless (as an aside: yuck) as you please.
I haven't seen "Lady in the Water," and I have no idea how it actually deals with the classic fairy tale. If Manohla thinks it works, though, then it works; as "Hoodwinked" showed us a few months ago, revision doesn't always work so well either. Manohla Dargis will probably continue to both infuriate me and make me laugh for a while now, but if she keeps picking on the bones of cinema like that, well, I guess I have no choice but to take her job. Obviously.
bound to reach my timeless end
As I contemplate a potential move to New York this fall, I try to think of all the things that will change dramatically for me. It doesn't seem hard to think of differences between a sleepy Southern town and the harshest, biggest city in the country, but since my primary reason for moving would be proximity to my friends, I tend to think of the softer side of things. Still, I know I'm in for a rude awakening.
Take tonight, for example. My mother is performing in a play as a fundraiser for an ostensibly charitable organization, whose purpose no one knows for sure. It's dinner theater, which is sure to make my theater hound friends bleed from the eyes, and beacuse it's for "charity" they've roped friends and family who don't want to pay the $65 admission fee to be waiter. Including me, whose last waitstaff experience was bussing tables in a restaurant patronized largely by people who had known me my entire life.
I'm supposed to show up for duty at 6:15 tonight, with only the instruction to "wear all black." I have received no training-- I don't even know what the menu will be--but in a few hours I'll be serving moderately-fancy food to people who paid exorbitantly for the honor of eating while watching my mother recite Shakespeare in a bad British accent.
Here's the kicker-- these people will not care. No matter how many orders I screw up, no matter how many glasses of water spilled, no matter how cold the rolls are, they will not bitch and moan or blame me. And even though I know I could supplement my guaranteed-pathetic New York City writing job with a waitressing gig, my fear of rich, or even middle class, New Yorkers in restaurants will keep me out of the kitchen for life.
I'm not really sure which of these groups are right, either. Even though Xanax prescriptions and other self-medicating techniques have made their way down here, the easygoing attitude of Southerners is pretty much inborn around here. I'm one of them, too; I feel guilty when requesting salad dressing on the side. As much as I hate listening to people bitch and moan, I wonder if they don't have the right idea, refusing to treat everything in life with the same standards of a fourth-grade Christmas pageant: as long as you tried.
Still, when I'm finally serving dessert (whatever it turns out to be) and my mom is taking her well-received curtain call, it will probably feel nice. And it feels even nicer to know that, wherever I may roam, I can always come back somewhere that a mixed-up order is just a little mistake, and where literally anyone can be a star.
Take tonight, for example. My mother is performing in a play as a fundraiser for an ostensibly charitable organization, whose purpose no one knows for sure. It's dinner theater, which is sure to make my theater hound friends bleed from the eyes, and beacuse it's for "charity" they've roped friends and family who don't want to pay the $65 admission fee to be waiter. Including me, whose last waitstaff experience was bussing tables in a restaurant patronized largely by people who had known me my entire life.
I'm supposed to show up for duty at 6:15 tonight, with only the instruction to "wear all black." I have received no training-- I don't even know what the menu will be--but in a few hours I'll be serving moderately-fancy food to people who paid exorbitantly for the honor of eating while watching my mother recite Shakespeare in a bad British accent.
Here's the kicker-- these people will not care. No matter how many orders I screw up, no matter how many glasses of water spilled, no matter how cold the rolls are, they will not bitch and moan or blame me. And even though I know I could supplement my guaranteed-pathetic New York City writing job with a waitressing gig, my fear of rich, or even middle class, New Yorkers in restaurants will keep me out of the kitchen for life.
I'm not really sure which of these groups are right, either. Even though Xanax prescriptions and other self-medicating techniques have made their way down here, the easygoing attitude of Southerners is pretty much inborn around here. I'm one of them, too; I feel guilty when requesting salad dressing on the side. As much as I hate listening to people bitch and moan, I wonder if they don't have the right idea, refusing to treat everything in life with the same standards of a fourth-grade Christmas pageant: as long as you tried.
Still, when I'm finally serving dessert (whatever it turns out to be) and my mom is taking her well-received curtain call, it will probably feel nice. And it feels even nicer to know that, wherever I may roam, I can always come back somewhere that a mixed-up order is just a little mistake, and where literally anyone can be a star.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
the man of metropolis (almost) steals our hearts: superman returns
Early in the film, under the guise of Lois Lane's Pulitzer-winning editorial, "Superman Returns" asks itself a pretty heavy question-- does the world need Superman? The filmmakers waste little time answering with a resounding "Well, duh," but it's a question that's been heard a lot since the movie's opening. In a Hollywood where the real heroes are geeky teenagers in spider suits, geeky middle schoolers in robes and wands, and meek hobbits with furry feet, is there still room for blue tights and a cape?
Well, sort of. "Superman Returns" is welcome in the way all well-crafted superhero movies are, a chance to marvel at spectacle and indulge in fantasy that still resembles our own world (well, sorta: plenty of people would kill for Lois' waterfront mansion facing "Metropolis" from "Brookopolis" or whatever, but it's not gonna happen). Director Bryan Singer, as he did with the X-Men films and even "The Usual Suspects," takes care to endow the characters with dimensions and feelings without letting all that development overwhelm the real show of explosions and last-minute rescues. Some of the most dazzling moments in the film aren't pure action but moments of reflection, like Superman hanging in the stratosphere as he contemplates his fate as the light of the world, or his and Lois' elegant late-night flight. They're both CGI-heavy scenes, but as Peter Jackson has proven and George Lucas has failed to do, CGI is always best when there's a human heart pounding behind it.
Unfortunately, for all the heart (not to mention money) that was clearly put into the film, the result is occasionally spectacular but largely half-baked and messy. The film wastes about 30 minutes in the beginning setting up the concept but basically abandons character setup other than what we already know. In this film Clark will be geeky, Lois will be brassy, Jimmy Olsen will be overeager and Lex Luthor will be evil. Thanks very much, moving on.
It doesn't help matters that talent in this film is essentially wasted or nonexistent. Kevin Spacey as Luthor and Parker Posey as his assistant/girlfriend are glorious in the moments when they're allowed to cut loose, but are largely limited to evil glowering (Spacey) and looking hilarious holding a silly dog (Posey). Bosworth and Routh, on the other hand, are fine but unspectacular, bringing little to their roles that I-- with a very casual understanding of the world of Superman--didn't know already. You can see why Lois loves Superman and why Clark loves Lois, but that much was clear when they were two-dimensional and had word bubbles. Other instances of talent-- particularly the young actor playing Jimmy Olsen-- are shining but brief, because with plots and subplots and the bizarre four-person love triangle at the center of it all, there's not really much more time.
And oh, the plot. Superhero movies, even the best ones, rarely rely too much on plot (quick: tell me about the plot of "Spiderman 2" other than that Alfred Molina was involved). Still, this one is a doozy, something about crystals and real estate that is no less fun or interesting when Kevin Spacey explains it, crazy giggles and all. There seem to be better ways of taking over the world than creating entirely new landmasses, especially when you're an evil genius, and especially when the landmasses you create resemble a rockier, uglier version of the Maine coastline. I went along with the plot initially because I had no other choice, but once I saw Luthor's evil creation, all I could think was, "Come on, who would actually want to live there?"
The one cool trick of the plot, that of Luthor's inclusion of kryptonite in the very foundation of his new world, brings up yet again an interesting question that is never answered: what about a world without Superman? The necessary scene in which Superman is felled by kryptonite is beautiful and painful, the tights black and the cape maroon in the shadows and the mud he's plunged in, mortal and suffering. Who cares if the world needs Superman-- what if the world needed him, and he couldn't be there? It's not really a possibility the film has time to dive into, which is forgivable, but it's a lot cooler than crystals or whatever else Luthor is up to.
In the end, "Superman Returns" is satisfying for what it is, but a total disappointment for what it could be. The ideas and setups are there, from the possibility of a SuperBoy to even a mild flirtation with acknowledging the mild flirtation between Mr. Olsen and Mr. Kent. It seems logical for Singer to play it safe with such an expensive and anticipated franchise revival, and there are few who will be seriously upset with what they find. But because Superman is, in a weird way, every man-- no bat gimmick or sidekicks to work around-- there are limitless possiblities with his character, and it's disheartening to find such a mild effort.
If there are sequels-- and despite all this, I hope there will be-- we can only hope for a little more invention, a little more (coherent plot), and maybe even a little more fun. In a time when so many superhero and action films, included those by Singer himself, have been stellar, it's not really OK to come up with something that's fine but nothing special. But it's Superman, guys, and for him we have a lot of forgiveness left. The world does need Superman-- it always has-- and with a little more effort maybe we can convince ourselves to need this one as well.
Well, sort of. "Superman Returns" is welcome in the way all well-crafted superhero movies are, a chance to marvel at spectacle and indulge in fantasy that still resembles our own world (well, sorta: plenty of people would kill for Lois' waterfront mansion facing "Metropolis" from "Brookopolis" or whatever, but it's not gonna happen). Director Bryan Singer, as he did with the X-Men films and even "The Usual Suspects," takes care to endow the characters with dimensions and feelings without letting all that development overwhelm the real show of explosions and last-minute rescues. Some of the most dazzling moments in the film aren't pure action but moments of reflection, like Superman hanging in the stratosphere as he contemplates his fate as the light of the world, or his and Lois' elegant late-night flight. They're both CGI-heavy scenes, but as Peter Jackson has proven and George Lucas has failed to do, CGI is always best when there's a human heart pounding behind it.
Unfortunately, for all the heart (not to mention money) that was clearly put into the film, the result is occasionally spectacular but largely half-baked and messy. The film wastes about 30 minutes in the beginning setting up the concept but basically abandons character setup other than what we already know. In this film Clark will be geeky, Lois will be brassy, Jimmy Olsen will be overeager and Lex Luthor will be evil. Thanks very much, moving on.
It doesn't help matters that talent in this film is essentially wasted or nonexistent. Kevin Spacey as Luthor and Parker Posey as his assistant/girlfriend are glorious in the moments when they're allowed to cut loose, but are largely limited to evil glowering (Spacey) and looking hilarious holding a silly dog (Posey). Bosworth and Routh, on the other hand, are fine but unspectacular, bringing little to their roles that I-- with a very casual understanding of the world of Superman--didn't know already. You can see why Lois loves Superman and why Clark loves Lois, but that much was clear when they were two-dimensional and had word bubbles. Other instances of talent-- particularly the young actor playing Jimmy Olsen-- are shining but brief, because with plots and subplots and the bizarre four-person love triangle at the center of it all, there's not really much more time.
And oh, the plot. Superhero movies, even the best ones, rarely rely too much on plot (quick: tell me about the plot of "Spiderman 2" other than that Alfred Molina was involved). Still, this one is a doozy, something about crystals and real estate that is no less fun or interesting when Kevin Spacey explains it, crazy giggles and all. There seem to be better ways of taking over the world than creating entirely new landmasses, especially when you're an evil genius, and especially when the landmasses you create resemble a rockier, uglier version of the Maine coastline. I went along with the plot initially because I had no other choice, but once I saw Luthor's evil creation, all I could think was, "Come on, who would actually want to live there?"
The one cool trick of the plot, that of Luthor's inclusion of kryptonite in the very foundation of his new world, brings up yet again an interesting question that is never answered: what about a world without Superman? The necessary scene in which Superman is felled by kryptonite is beautiful and painful, the tights black and the cape maroon in the shadows and the mud he's plunged in, mortal and suffering. Who cares if the world needs Superman-- what if the world needed him, and he couldn't be there? It's not really a possibility the film has time to dive into, which is forgivable, but it's a lot cooler than crystals or whatever else Luthor is up to.
In the end, "Superman Returns" is satisfying for what it is, but a total disappointment for what it could be. The ideas and setups are there, from the possibility of a SuperBoy to even a mild flirtation with acknowledging the mild flirtation between Mr. Olsen and Mr. Kent. It seems logical for Singer to play it safe with such an expensive and anticipated franchise revival, and there are few who will be seriously upset with what they find. But because Superman is, in a weird way, every man-- no bat gimmick or sidekicks to work around-- there are limitless possiblities with his character, and it's disheartening to find such a mild effort.
If there are sequels-- and despite all this, I hope there will be-- we can only hope for a little more invention, a little more (coherent plot), and maybe even a little more fun. In a time when so many superhero and action films, included those by Singer himself, have been stellar, it's not really OK to come up with something that's fine but nothing special. But it's Superman, guys, and for him we have a lot of forgiveness left. The world does need Superman-- it always has-- and with a little more effort maybe we can convince ourselves to need this one as well.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
greenjackets
I hate golf.
The one time I tried to play, I was partnered with a girl two years younger than me who would grow up to be one of the best female golfers in the state. At the time, she was just an 11-year old who was kicking my ass. I used bright-yellow balls that were easier to find in the weeds, but that didn't help matters. I'm not entirely sure what a mulligan is, but I think I took more than my fair share. It's a good thing I wasn't old enough to actively curse yet, because I probably would have been banned for life for unladylike behavior.
Unfortunately I grew up in an area that was wild about golf, and even more so than your average suburban town with too much money. You see, a few miles from the hospital where I was born is the Augusta National, the golf club famous for either the Masters tournament or refusing to admit women, depending on who you ask. Either way, I'm sure attended the only school district in the country whose spring break schedule is determined by a golf tournament.
When I was younger everything revolved around the Masters when the time came, whether I was going or not. If I didn't get to go, it meant being babysat while my parents did or being forced to watch it on television. When I did go, it meant wearing preppy clothes, parking in a stranger's yard and walking around a blazing-hot golf course trying to peek over heads and get a glimpse of Ernie Els' nine-iron. I had no interest. I hated golf. The one detail I can remember from all of these trips is when, around the age of 9, I got violently ill from a ham sandwich I bought at the Masters. I spent hours wallowing under pine trees along the back nine and, once we got home, I vomited all over the rug.
My Masters days ended a little before I went to college, when my family started renting out our house and our Masters tickets to golf fans from Canada. We never see them and they never see us, though one year they bought us a new coffeemaker for some reason, and now it's in my kitchen. When I left for college I began telling people I was from Aiken, South Carolina, "near Augusta, Georgia if you're a golf fan," and usually even that drew blank stares. Turns out at a liberal arts college famous for its war protests and naked parties, no one gives a damn about Ernie Els.
Every spring, though, right around the time Connecticut gets its last snowfall and South Carolina's azalea blossoms start to bloom, my mom sends me links to Masters photos online. They practically make me sick, and not in that bad-ham-sandwich kind of way. Just looking at the shots from Amen Corner I remember exactly what April is supposed to be like, bright and bursting with purple and pink azaleas, hot enough for shorts but too early in the season to even care. I've gotten over my resentment of early-April snowstorms but not the azaleas; though I'm not sure I'll ever live in the South again, it'll never really feel like springtime without them.
This year I watched the last three hours of the Masters on TV, gasping and cheering along with the crowd as Phil Mickelson pulled ahead to win for the second time. I shocked myself at how much I remembered, sitting in the stands at the end of the long 16th green or in the wide open space at the 18th. Every time they showed that big green and white leaderboard my heart yelled a little "I've been there!" I can't explain why then, for the first time in my life, golf grabbed me, or how I even managed to pick up the scoring rules of the game, given how much time I spent actively ignoring it. But Bobby Jones and Jack Nicklaus and Fred Couples are names that are a part of me, whatever that means, and when the first week of April rolls around there's that little Southern magnet in me that perks up and pays attention.
I still hate golf, and God help me if I ever hold a four-iron again. I don't know that my feminist liberal college-graduate self likes being represented by the sport of middle-aged white men, but there you have it. I may never go to the Masters again and will almost certainly never care about the PGA tour, but I will probably never be able to ignore the Augusta National. Every April I'll turn on my TV and hear those hushed, reverent voices talking over a man in a polo shirt, and I'll remember; I'll stop, take a little bow toward the screen, and take comfort in remembering where I come from.
If Hootie Johnson knew his golf club had raised a daughter with no interest in golf, he'd probably pass out. I'll take comfort in remembering that too.
The one time I tried to play, I was partnered with a girl two years younger than me who would grow up to be one of the best female golfers in the state. At the time, she was just an 11-year old who was kicking my ass. I used bright-yellow balls that were easier to find in the weeds, but that didn't help matters. I'm not entirely sure what a mulligan is, but I think I took more than my fair share. It's a good thing I wasn't old enough to actively curse yet, because I probably would have been banned for life for unladylike behavior.
Unfortunately I grew up in an area that was wild about golf, and even more so than your average suburban town with too much money. You see, a few miles from the hospital where I was born is the Augusta National, the golf club famous for either the Masters tournament or refusing to admit women, depending on who you ask. Either way, I'm sure attended the only school district in the country whose spring break schedule is determined by a golf tournament.
When I was younger everything revolved around the Masters when the time came, whether I was going or not. If I didn't get to go, it meant being babysat while my parents did or being forced to watch it on television. When I did go, it meant wearing preppy clothes, parking in a stranger's yard and walking around a blazing-hot golf course trying to peek over heads and get a glimpse of Ernie Els' nine-iron. I had no interest. I hated golf. The one detail I can remember from all of these trips is when, around the age of 9, I got violently ill from a ham sandwich I bought at the Masters. I spent hours wallowing under pine trees along the back nine and, once we got home, I vomited all over the rug.
My Masters days ended a little before I went to college, when my family started renting out our house and our Masters tickets to golf fans from Canada. We never see them and they never see us, though one year they bought us a new coffeemaker for some reason, and now it's in my kitchen. When I left for college I began telling people I was from Aiken, South Carolina, "near Augusta, Georgia if you're a golf fan," and usually even that drew blank stares. Turns out at a liberal arts college famous for its war protests and naked parties, no one gives a damn about Ernie Els.
Every spring, though, right around the time Connecticut gets its last snowfall and South Carolina's azalea blossoms start to bloom, my mom sends me links to Masters photos online. They practically make me sick, and not in that bad-ham-sandwich kind of way. Just looking at the shots from Amen Corner I remember exactly what April is supposed to be like, bright and bursting with purple and pink azaleas, hot enough for shorts but too early in the season to even care. I've gotten over my resentment of early-April snowstorms but not the azaleas; though I'm not sure I'll ever live in the South again, it'll never really feel like springtime without them.
This year I watched the last three hours of the Masters on TV, gasping and cheering along with the crowd as Phil Mickelson pulled ahead to win for the second time. I shocked myself at how much I remembered, sitting in the stands at the end of the long 16th green or in the wide open space at the 18th. Every time they showed that big green and white leaderboard my heart yelled a little "I've been there!" I can't explain why then, for the first time in my life, golf grabbed me, or how I even managed to pick up the scoring rules of the game, given how much time I spent actively ignoring it. But Bobby Jones and Jack Nicklaus and Fred Couples are names that are a part of me, whatever that means, and when the first week of April rolls around there's that little Southern magnet in me that perks up and pays attention.
I still hate golf, and God help me if I ever hold a four-iron again. I don't know that my feminist liberal college-graduate self likes being represented by the sport of middle-aged white men, but there you have it. I may never go to the Masters again and will almost certainly never care about the PGA tour, but I will probably never be able to ignore the Augusta National. Every April I'll turn on my TV and hear those hushed, reverent voices talking over a man in a polo shirt, and I'll remember; I'll stop, take a little bow toward the screen, and take comfort in remembering where I come from.
If Hootie Johnson knew his golf club had raised a daughter with no interest in golf, he'd probably pass out. I'll take comfort in remembering that too.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
