Considering all the glowing reviews, considering my natural favorable leanings toward sci-fi, animation, the unusual and innovative in general, considering that my friend Theresa e-mailed me to be sure I didn't miss this gem, I sat back in my comfy $5 (senior and first-showing rate at my local Kent Triplex) theater seat fully expecting an experience of perfection in cinema.
I was not disappointed. And then I was. And then I wasn't. Testament to the power of "Wall-e" I noted that not a single patron in my line of sight got up to leave once the credits started rolling. Personally, I always stay through the credits, if only out of respect for all the unsung folks who make our movie experiences possible, but most people rush out the moment the first one starts a-rolling. (And even here most folks left about halfway through them.)
The film is a work of art. Unequivocally. It has its innovations, most notably the lack of dialogue for much of the film. Nevertheless ... I thought the plot was sorely lacking with the portrayal of our future selves pitifully pandering (to the political left) and simplistic. Actually it's that unremitting reduction to an absurdly blissfully unaware future brought on by a blissfully unaware present -- and an overbearing big, bad megacorporate consumerist culture -- that really gnaws at me. Such treatment brings to mind WWII-era films in which the hero glares at the enemy and snarls "You dirty Jap" or some such, as if that explains all Evil in every guise everywhere. Well, what is a cartoon but caricature anyway. Sure. But it doesn't have to rule out all nuance, does it? Couldn't the heavy hand be lightened a bit? Can we have some innovation in outlook as well as artwork please?
Still, the larger story ... of heart and hope over comfort and complacency and even in the face of unremitting hard work ahead ... draws me in. The true experience of this movie is, I suppose, visceral. It will speak to your core. And it's gorgeous.
Perfect? No. But mighty mighty close.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Funny Story
Magazine junkie that I am, I could not resist, on one of my recent long walks in Manhattan, checking out the month-old Magazine Cafe on West 37th Street.
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Alicia and Andy visit India
I know neither Andy nor Alicia, but I came across this blog and really enjoyed reading it and looking at the photos. It was like ... well ... I don't have to visit India now 'cuz Alicia and Andy have done it for me.
Really nicely done: entertaining, informative, personable, lucid. Sheer delight.
Really nicely done: entertaining, informative, personable, lucid. Sheer delight.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
At the Movies Cubed
The last three films I've seen have all been winners, true gems, a paragon of perfection each in its own genre. More than entertainment, they each earn what is in my mind the highest of accolades, a sentence that reads: seeing this movie will change your outlook; it will change your life; it will change you. for the better.
Young@Heart
I was attracted to this for all the wrong reasons: the knitted guitar in the advert caught my eye (in the film, nobody knits, much less knits a guitar), and it was opening night, filmmaker to be in attendance. I thought it might be fun; I was afraid it would be too cute. Well, yes, it's fun, but it's serious, too. And, no, I wouldn't call it cute. Not at all. What it is: real. stereotype defying. unblinking. creative. inspiring. death defying. true. And fun, oh my goodness, is it fun! The DVD to be available later this year promises even more. Believe me, you will want more. If you'll be in the Boston area on June 20th, you can even catch the group in concert at 8 pm at the Somerville Theater in Somerville, MA. Tickets available right here.
The Counterfeiters (Die Falscher)
Do not go to be entertained; this is not entertainment. Holocausts, alas, continue in various parts of world to this day, but the one we all mean when we say The Holocaust you would think would have been poked and prodded and examined from every possible viewpoint by now to the point of exhaustion. Still, as happened with me during the infamous "events of 9/11", when yet again the horror is shown, I must watch it again and again and yet again. Tired of it? Nay, rather, for my taste you cannot repeat it enough times. And so of course I had to betake myself to see this Austrian retelling of the role Jewish prisoners played in Germany's attempt to destroy Allied countries' economies by counterfeiting their currencies. So you think you know going in what the story will be. Yes, it will be that. It will also be other ... and it will be more. And if you learn, later, which character is the person who wrote the memoir the film is based on, you will have something to always wonder about. What's true? What's right? Is the hero the person you think it is? Are there ever heroes, really? Well? My advice: steel yourself; see the film.
Before The Rains
A heartbreaking story in a lush and lovely environment. Sajani, lovely, married, works as a servant in the home of Moores, a handsome, powerful, married Englishman in India just before the end of the Raj. They indulge in an illicit love affair that ends ... it is inevitable ... in tragedy. But this is not just a morality tale by any means; read Sajani as a stand-in for India itself, read India as a stand-in for any occupied country you could ever name, and admiration for the art of "fiction" grows. At least it did for me.
The friend who recommended "Before The Rains" to me commented that she didn't "think there was a frivolous anything in that movie!" Amen. And ditto for all three.
Young@Heart
I was attracted to this for all the wrong reasons: the knitted guitar in the advert caught my eye (in the film, nobody knits, much less knits a guitar), and it was opening night, filmmaker to be in attendance. I thought it might be fun; I was afraid it would be too cute. Well, yes, it's fun, but it's serious, too. And, no, I wouldn't call it cute. Not at all. What it is: real. stereotype defying. unblinking. creative. inspiring. death defying. true. And fun, oh my goodness, is it fun! The DVD to be available later this year promises even more. Believe me, you will want more. If you'll be in the Boston area on June 20th, you can even catch the group in concert at 8 pm at the Somerville Theater in Somerville, MA. Tickets available right here.
The Counterfeiters (Die Falscher)
Do not go to be entertained; this is not entertainment. Holocausts, alas, continue in various parts of world to this day, but the one we all mean when we say The Holocaust you would think would have been poked and prodded and examined from every possible viewpoint by now to the point of exhaustion. Still, as happened with me during the infamous "events of 9/11", when yet again the horror is shown, I must watch it again and again and yet again. Tired of it? Nay, rather, for my taste you cannot repeat it enough times. And so of course I had to betake myself to see this Austrian retelling of the role Jewish prisoners played in Germany's attempt to destroy Allied countries' economies by counterfeiting their currencies. So you think you know going in what the story will be. Yes, it will be that. It will also be other ... and it will be more. And if you learn, later, which character is the person who wrote the memoir the film is based on, you will have something to always wonder about. What's true? What's right? Is the hero the person you think it is? Are there ever heroes, really? Well? My advice: steel yourself; see the film.
Before The Rains
A heartbreaking story in a lush and lovely environment. Sajani, lovely, married, works as a servant in the home of Moores, a handsome, powerful, married Englishman in India just before the end of the Raj. They indulge in an illicit love affair that ends ... it is inevitable ... in tragedy. But this is not just a morality tale by any means; read Sajani as a stand-in for India itself, read India as a stand-in for any occupied country you could ever name, and admiration for the art of "fiction" grows. At least it did for me.
The friend who recommended "Before The Rains" to me commented that she didn't "think there was a frivolous anything in that movie!" Amen. And ditto for all three.
The Munkee is Baaaaack
Duly prodded and scolded by my friend Theresa, who noted that I've been neglecting the Jungle for almost a full year now, I have seen the error of my errant ways, followed the breadcrumbs back to these wilds, and am proceeding today, as faithfully promised, to resettle in here in the Blogosphere.
Beware.
(The above is a warning to myself alone. You need have no fear.)
So, where have I been and what have I been up to since last July?
For one thing, I joined the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, then proceeded to take little advantage of the membership. It's relatively nearby and I was newly into getting out and about and walking everywhere, so I thought I'd be visiting the Garden lots and lots in all sorts of seasons. Didn't happen. However, I have been there recently, for the Cherry Blossom festival, and then to the annual plant sale.
The Gardens is a lovely oasis of peaceful communion with nature, a blissful aside in a raucous urban setting. Except during the occasional jazz concert held there, which I have attended quite happily with Joe. And except for the Cherry Blossom festival, which this year, the first one there I've attended, was overflowing with booths and people and booths and people and tents and, just when I thought I'd accepted all the people and noise for the happy festival it was of course supposed to be, after I'd admired the cherry trees all in full blossom on the Cherry Esplanade, eaten the $4 slice of scrumptious cherry pie (while *fenced in* on the Esplanade as it was strictly forbidden to take one's slice to eat in peace elsewhere), after I'd frowned at the rock music coming from the Japanese Garden, I came upon the Worse Abomination Ever: loud, raucous, totally inappropriate -- they call it music -- by the fountain inside the main gate.
I hurried out, escaping into the innards of the MTA, where any raucousness is at least entirely appropriate to the environs.
And then last week I returned to the Garden for their annual plant sale. Many joyous plant lovers amongst much -- totally appropriate -- activity. I sighed relief. And I bought some flowering plants for my sunny east-facing windowsill: a miniature rose and a lantana. Plans are to get larger containers and soil, transplant them along with the marigold and impatiens I'd bought earlier this spring, and put them out on the terrace. These, for me, are ambitious plans.
Next up at the Gardens: Members' Rose Night, June 4, promises wine and cheese at the Cranford Rose Garden. The date is duly noted on my cell-phone calendar. Let us hope any music provided is appropriate to the setting.
Beware.
(The above is a warning to myself alone. You need have no fear.)
So, where have I been and what have I been up to since last July?
For one thing, I joined the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, then proceeded to take little advantage of the membership. It's relatively nearby and I was newly into getting out and about and walking everywhere, so I thought I'd be visiting the Garden lots and lots in all sorts of seasons. Didn't happen. However, I have been there recently, for the Cherry Blossom festival, and then to the annual plant sale.
The Gardens is a lovely oasis of peaceful communion with nature, a blissful aside in a raucous urban setting. Except during the occasional jazz concert held there, which I have attended quite happily with Joe. And except for the Cherry Blossom festival, which this year, the first one there I've attended, was overflowing with booths and people and booths and people and tents and, just when I thought I'd accepted all the people and noise for the happy festival it was of course supposed to be, after I'd admired the cherry trees all in full blossom on the Cherry Esplanade, eaten the $4 slice of scrumptious cherry pie (while *fenced in* on the Esplanade as it was strictly forbidden to take one's slice to eat in peace elsewhere), after I'd frowned at the rock music coming from the Japanese Garden, I came upon the Worse Abomination Ever: loud, raucous, totally inappropriate -- they call it music -- by the fountain inside the main gate.
I hurried out, escaping into the innards of the MTA, where any raucousness is at least entirely appropriate to the environs.
And then last week I returned to the Garden for their annual plant sale. Many joyous plant lovers amongst much -- totally appropriate -- activity. I sighed relief. And I bought some flowering plants for my sunny east-facing windowsill: a miniature rose and a lantana. Plans are to get larger containers and soil, transplant them along with the marigold and impatiens I'd bought earlier this spring, and put them out on the terrace. These, for me, are ambitious plans.
Next up at the Gardens: Members' Rose Night, June 4, promises wine and cheese at the Cranford Rose Garden. The date is duly noted on my cell-phone calendar. Let us hope any music provided is appropriate to the setting.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Offline Online Song and Dance
So. I'm back. Sort of. Did you miss me?
Didn't think so. Still, here I am. Deal.
The sordid details: It all began when suddenly the "Ethernet" light on my nifty little DSL modem refused to light up. All her siblings were co-operative: Power, DSL, Internet. But. Ethernet refused to get down to work. I tried to coax her with a brand new Ethernet cable. The little light didn't even notice. I took the modem to work with me, where Mr. Techie Co-worker plugged Modem in to another computer and gently fed her through her Ethernet slot. Little Miss Ethernet Light lit up in a great beam of happiness. So I brought Modem back home with me and glared at my computer, one Milady Rose. I ran a diagnostic on Milady's Ethernet card: all appeared to be well. A finger was pointed at the device driver. So I uninstalled that, rebooted Milady, and the "new hardware detected" message came up as expected. But instead of politely requesting a driver reinstall, apparently Milady simply went and got the "proper" (presumably corrupt) driver, reintroduced the two components (hardware and software) and proudly presented me with Local Area Connection(2).
But. Still no Ethernet light.
"I'll show you!" mutters I, as I plug in the cord from the dial-up modem. Yes, Virginia, dial-up still works just fine. So the beat goes on, although considerably more slowly. It's rather like slogging through a waist-high lake of dense mud, but still I can do everything except ::sob:: watch online videos or ::boo-hoo:: log in to resource-intensive 3D worlds like Kaneva, or ::pout:: download anything more than, say, a meg in size.
But even beyond all that, it pains me that Ethernet Light should become so depressed on my watch. I shall delve deeper, explore further, and try to cheer her up. It's the only humane thing to do. And, besides, I *need* her light!
Didn't think so. Still, here I am. Deal.
The sordid details: It all began when suddenly the "Ethernet" light on my nifty little DSL modem refused to light up. All her siblings were co-operative: Power, DSL, Internet. But. Ethernet refused to get down to work. I tried to coax her with a brand new Ethernet cable. The little light didn't even notice. I took the modem to work with me, where Mr. Techie Co-worker plugged Modem in to another computer and gently fed her through her Ethernet slot. Little Miss Ethernet Light lit up in a great beam of happiness. So I brought Modem back home with me and glared at my computer, one Milady Rose. I ran a diagnostic on Milady's Ethernet card: all appeared to be well. A finger was pointed at the device driver. So I uninstalled that, rebooted Milady, and the "new hardware detected" message came up as expected. But instead of politely requesting a driver reinstall, apparently Milady simply went and got the "proper" (presumably corrupt) driver, reintroduced the two components (hardware and software) and proudly presented me with Local Area Connection(2).
But. Still no Ethernet light.
"I'll show you!" mutters I, as I plug in the cord from the dial-up modem. Yes, Virginia, dial-up still works just fine. So the beat goes on, although considerably more slowly. It's rather like slogging through a waist-high lake of dense mud, but still I can do everything except ::sob:: watch online videos or ::boo-hoo:: log in to resource-intensive 3D worlds like Kaneva, or ::pout:: download anything more than, say, a meg in size.
But even beyond all that, it pains me that Ethernet Light should become so depressed on my watch. I shall delve deeper, explore further, and try to cheer her up. It's the only humane thing to do. And, besides, I *need* her light!
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
From Russia, with Wit
Here's a delightful animated short from a young Russian director, Anastasia Zhuravleva. Buttons are the featured players, but Miss Floss and her papparazzi make an appearance, too.
Mind the Gap!
Mind the Gap!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Social Butterfly
So, here's my whirlwind week ... well, okay, 3 day whirl out of 4, cuz I took Sunday off. Heh.
NY WRITE-A-THON
What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday, ensconced inside a venerable old library! The Library of The General Society of Mechanics & Tradesmen (est. 1820) is in a very ordinary-looking building at 20 West 44th Street ... but inside its character really shows. According to a brochure I picked up there, the library once functioned, until the founding of the NY public library system, as the largest free circulating library in the city. And to think I've lived in NYC for 40 years and never knew about it! These days it is still open to the public, but by subscription.
So I spent the day writing and writing and writing till my hand started to hurt (!!) ... and kept on writing anyway. I started with a workshop, there was a break for lunch, and another break for the guest speaker, Chris Baty, the founder of National Novel Writing Month. He was a delightful speaker, very funny and very inspiring. Afterwards, I sat across from him at a table, noting the "I'll sleep in December" sticker on his laptop (NaNoWriMo is in November), and I managed a fangirl hiya and told him how my friend John who wasn't at the 'Thon had introduced me to NaNoWriMo a while back ... and, while I'd never managed to complete the challenge, I vowed that this year would be the year. He grinned, we shook hands, it was a great end to the day. Oh, and I'd raised enough $$ to win a subscription to the Bellevue Literary Journal, which I had a copy of that I read on the way home and found to contain *excellent* work. So I was pleased, and I can't thank my sponsors enough!
SCIENCE SOIREE
Another day (Monday), another Library, this time the Science and Business Library at 34th Street and Madison. This was the 4th and last in a series sponsored by the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories. I'd been to the first and found it interesting, so was glad I could make it to this last one ... it was about research into birdsong in an effort to understand language (umm ... right). I was mostly annoyed, this time, by the lecture, but by the time they got to the business at hand, I had already been awed: introducing the speaker was none other than Mr. DNA himself, Dr. James Watson! Now I didn't speak to him at all, but I did stand mere inches away from him, and let me tell you that was as much a thrill to this fangirl as was sitting behind Arlo Guthrie at the film festival.
Man, I love New York.
INDESIGN USERS GROUP
Another day (Tuesday) and this butterfly wasn't finished flitting yet. My first Users Group meeting, I was enticed by a chance to meet some fellow users (shop talk!) and to win the new Adobe CS3 suite. So I chatted with some folks, got a Mac techie recommendation (as opposed to using TekServe, which folks there apparently generally considered a pain), sat through a demo of XML (fellow kept saying "now here's the WOW factor ... ooops ... let me try that again"), enjoyed a presentation by a fellow who does a regular podcast (made me wish I had a 'pod' to watch 'casts on), and didn't win a thing, not even one of the books on offer much less the software. And no fangirl sightings. But a worthwhile evening nevertheless.
So now I'm spending the rest of the week resting up.
NY WRITE-A-THON
What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday, ensconced inside a venerable old library! The Library of The General Society of Mechanics & Tradesmen (est. 1820) is in a very ordinary-looking building at 20 West 44th Street ... but inside its character really shows. According to a brochure I picked up there, the library once functioned, until the founding of the NY public library system, as the largest free circulating library in the city. And to think I've lived in NYC for 40 years and never knew about it! These days it is still open to the public, but by subscription.
So I spent the day writing and writing and writing till my hand started to hurt (!!) ... and kept on writing anyway. I started with a workshop, there was a break for lunch, and another break for the guest speaker, Chris Baty, the founder of National Novel Writing Month. He was a delightful speaker, very funny and very inspiring. Afterwards, I sat across from him at a table, noting the "I'll sleep in December" sticker on his laptop (NaNoWriMo is in November), and I managed a fangirl hiya and told him how my friend John who wasn't at the 'Thon had introduced me to NaNoWriMo a while back ... and, while I'd never managed to complete the challenge, I vowed that this year would be the year. He grinned, we shook hands, it was a great end to the day. Oh, and I'd raised enough $$ to win a subscription to the Bellevue Literary Journal, which I had a copy of that I read on the way home and found to contain *excellent* work. So I was pleased, and I can't thank my sponsors enough!
SCIENCE SOIREE
Another day (Monday), another Library, this time the Science and Business Library at 34th Street and Madison. This was the 4th and last in a series sponsored by the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories. I'd been to the first and found it interesting, so was glad I could make it to this last one ... it was about research into birdsong in an effort to understand language (umm ... right). I was mostly annoyed, this time, by the lecture, but by the time they got to the business at hand, I had already been awed: introducing the speaker was none other than Mr. DNA himself, Dr. James Watson! Now I didn't speak to him at all, but I did stand mere inches away from him, and let me tell you that was as much a thrill to this fangirl as was sitting behind Arlo Guthrie at the film festival.
Man, I love New York.
INDESIGN USERS GROUP
Another day (Tuesday) and this butterfly wasn't finished flitting yet. My first Users Group meeting, I was enticed by a chance to meet some fellow users (shop talk!) and to win the new Adobe CS3 suite. So I chatted with some folks, got a Mac techie recommendation (as opposed to using TekServe, which folks there apparently generally considered a pain), sat through a demo of XML (fellow kept saying "now here's the WOW factor ... ooops ... let me try that again"), enjoyed a presentation by a fellow who does a regular podcast (made me wish I had a 'pod' to watch 'casts on), and didn't win a thing, not even one of the books on offer much less the software. And no fangirl sightings. But a worthwhile evening nevertheless.
So now I'm spending the rest of the week resting up.
Monday, June 11, 2007
I've Been Tagged
I'm taking up Cynthia's challenge to post 8 random things about myself:
1. I usually wake up at 5 a.m. to the sound of birds singing / chirping / chattering. It's quite a cacophony, and I enjoy it.
2. On many Sundays, I sleep till noon. I don't know why I seem to need to do that, nor how my body "knows" it's Sunday.
3. I dislike make-up and never wear any.
4. Often when I come home, I leave the mail in the mailbox and grab it in the morning instead. In the morning, I can deal with things. By the time I return home at the end of the day, I just want to hide.
5. When I'm not thinking of anything in particular, my mind keeps busy by counting. I often catch it counting. Often to song.
6. Deadlines. Give me a deadline and I'm all action. No deadline? You have a long wait. Alas.
7. There are monkeys in my house. Also robots, a wizard, a Mr. Spock doll, and a big stuffed grinning Hershey's Kiss.
8. My eyes are blue.
This is part of an ongoing Meme. The rules of the Meme are:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves
2. People who are tagged write a blog post about their own 8 random things and post these rules
3. At the end of your blog you need to tag 8 people and post their names
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
Like Cynthia, I don't have 8 people to tag. Let's see ... who do I know?
Marianne G
and a couple of folks who don't have blogs. Well, John has, but not one appropriate for tagging:
JohnH
Penny
Well, maybe someone will drop by and post their 8.
1. I usually wake up at 5 a.m. to the sound of birds singing / chirping / chattering. It's quite a cacophony, and I enjoy it.
2. On many Sundays, I sleep till noon. I don't know why I seem to need to do that, nor how my body "knows" it's Sunday.
3. I dislike make-up and never wear any.
4. Often when I come home, I leave the mail in the mailbox and grab it in the morning instead. In the morning, I can deal with things. By the time I return home at the end of the day, I just want to hide.
5. When I'm not thinking of anything in particular, my mind keeps busy by counting. I often catch it counting. Often to song.
6. Deadlines. Give me a deadline and I'm all action. No deadline? You have a long wait. Alas.
7. There are monkeys in my house. Also robots, a wizard, a Mr. Spock doll, and a big stuffed grinning Hershey's Kiss.
8. My eyes are blue.
This is part of an ongoing Meme. The rules of the Meme are:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves
2. People who are tagged write a blog post about their own 8 random things and post these rules
3. At the end of your blog you need to tag 8 people and post their names
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
Like Cynthia, I don't have 8 people to tag. Let's see ... who do I know?
Marianne G
and a couple of folks who don't have blogs. Well, John has, but not one appropriate for tagging:
JohnH
Penny
Well, maybe someone will drop by and post their 8.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
On The Wagon
The wake-up call was a sudden sharp pain in my lower left leg, every single time I took a step. My instinct was to walk through it, but two days later I was still walking even more slowly (far more slowly) than I usually do. Then on the third day I tried hurrying to hop on a subway train before the door closed ... well, let me tell you, the pain brought on by that little maneuver was excruciating, stopping me dead in my tracks. The train went on without me while I hobbled to a bench to await the next one.
So off I went to the Internet to scope out this thing ... and, bingo, first hit I had the answer: there was either a bloodclot or a constricted vein. Super scarey and of course the first advice was to hie one's sorry self to one's friendly physician for a correct diagnosis and appropriate medication. Just exactly what I avoid like the plague. So I read further:
1) Stop smoking. Immediately. (But this is a vice I have never had. Lucky, wise ole me.)
2) Walk through the pain, and your body, your wonderful otherwise healthy body, will build a workaround for itself so that, with diligence, walking will once again be pain free. (Okay, this I can just keep on doing.)
And the third component? Other than medication? It comes something like this: Hey, dodo, what have you been eating lately? Whatever happened to those good intentions, those lovely salads, fruits, veggies, good whole-grain carbs and so on? Hmmmm?
Well, I'd been sort of back on the diet wagon for a week or so before this all happened, but obviously not to the extent I should have been. Too little too late? Off I went again to the Internet and once again, bingo, first hit I had an answer. Her name is Anne Collins, and let me tell you, I am soooo happy I found her and her site: http://www.annecollins.com
Not to be a shill or anything, but hey. This is the most sensible weight-loss resource I've ever come across ... and the cost is an amazing $20 per year, that's per YEAR, folks, not per month, although even so it took me a couple of days before I parted with that princely sum to gain access to the diet plans and the forum.
Did I say diet plans? Yes, I did. Nine of them, and each one a complete sensible program in and of itself. Honestly, did you ever buy a diet book? What did you pay? How about $20 for nine diet books? And just cuz these are e-books doesn't mean they are skimpy or lacking in any way. And why nine? Different strokes for different folks ... do one, do them all, mix and match, depending on your needs. And they come with access to an online forum, diet tips that aren't just one-line aphorisms that you can already recite in your sleep, and honest, down to earth, personalized one-on-one help if you need it.
I'm blown away. Best dang $20 I ever spent in my life.
And, oh yes, that leg pain? Took two and a half weeks, but I'm walking normally now, the pain has completely disappeared. No doctor's visit, no medications, just continued walking and healthy eating. I'm sold!
So off I went to the Internet to scope out this thing ... and, bingo, first hit I had the answer: there was either a bloodclot or a constricted vein. Super scarey and of course the first advice was to hie one's sorry self to one's friendly physician for a correct diagnosis and appropriate medication. Just exactly what I avoid like the plague. So I read further:
1) Stop smoking. Immediately. (But this is a vice I have never had. Lucky, wise ole me.)
2) Walk through the pain, and your body, your wonderful otherwise healthy body, will build a workaround for itself so that, with diligence, walking will once again be pain free. (Okay, this I can just keep on doing.)
And the third component? Other than medication? It comes something like this: Hey, dodo, what have you been eating lately? Whatever happened to those good intentions, those lovely salads, fruits, veggies, good whole-grain carbs and so on? Hmmmm?
Well, I'd been sort of back on the diet wagon for a week or so before this all happened, but obviously not to the extent I should have been. Too little too late? Off I went again to the Internet and once again, bingo, first hit I had an answer. Her name is Anne Collins, and let me tell you, I am soooo happy I found her and her site: http://www.annecollins.com
Not to be a shill or anything, but hey. This is the most sensible weight-loss resource I've ever come across ... and the cost is an amazing $20 per year, that's per YEAR, folks, not per month, although even so it took me a couple of days before I parted with that princely sum to gain access to the diet plans and the forum.
Did I say diet plans? Yes, I did. Nine of them, and each one a complete sensible program in and of itself. Honestly, did you ever buy a diet book? What did you pay? How about $20 for nine diet books? And just cuz these are e-books doesn't mean they are skimpy or lacking in any way. And why nine? Different strokes for different folks ... do one, do them all, mix and match, depending on your needs. And they come with access to an online forum, diet tips that aren't just one-line aphorisms that you can already recite in your sleep, and honest, down to earth, personalized one-on-one help if you need it.
I'm blown away. Best dang $20 I ever spent in my life.
And, oh yes, that leg pain? Took two and a half weeks, but I'm walking normally now, the pain has completely disappeared. No doctor's visit, no medications, just continued walking and healthy eating. I'm sold!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Tribeca Film Fest: Part the Last
Okay, I went to nine showings this year, of which I've reported on five. Four to go, but I'm running out of steam, so I'm going to wrap it all up in this one post. I do want to say that I was among the volunteer crew for the first time this year, and the rewards of that were well worth the effort. If nothing else, there were 4 screenings that I went to that I wouldn't have been able to otherwise. And there was a party for the volunteers last Tuesday night, but if the party were ever a reason to volunteer, I sure wouldn't do so again. Um. Too many strangers and too loud for my taste. Heh. But I'll probably volunteer again next year too. It's a great way to experience the Festival from another perspective, meet some interesting folks, and have a story or two to tell!
Express Stops Only: A number of shorts, the funniest of which was Super Powers, the story of a couple who find adventure as Wonder Woman and Batman (in boxers), or maybe the funniest was Happiness, in which a worker in a condom factory .... oh but let me not spoil it. Surely you'll see for yourself. The best overall, imho, was A Nick In Time, a tale of morality and caring told in a barber shop. Remember the name Be Garrett. If he doesn't go places, then there's just no justice.
The Gates: A documentary covering the process Jeanne-Claude and Christo went through to get their 2-week installation, The Gates, up and running in Central Park. I'd seen it only from afar while it was there, so I truly appreciated the close-up vistas this film afforded. And the 20+-year work up to the event was well worth seeing and lessons in and of themselves. And, in many cases, a hoot! Although I'm quite sure the artists saw it far more as utter frustration than a hoot.
Portraits of Women: Another series of short films, the most interesting of which were at either end: the first, Manuelle Labor, and the last (and longest), So. Manuelle Labor was an odd piece of absurdity about the birth of a pair of hands. Trust me, you had to be there. So was the long-ish documentary of a solo sojourney through Australia, taken, says just-turned-30 filmmaker Aimee Jennings, as a kind of honeymoon as she realized she would "never" marry. There is a thread of risk-taking throughout ... although, having seen Shame, things like bungee-jumping -- though something I would most assuredly never dare to do -- pale into useless frivolity. And Theresa and I agreed that a little more distance/time and some judicious editing would have improved this film. Even so, well worth seeing, and I'd guess we'll be seeing more of Ms. Jennings.
Tootie's Last Suit: A good film to end on! Tootie Montana, known among the "Indians" of New Orleans for his wonderful Mardi Gras get-ups, makes his last suit. Well, his purported last suit. Which is to say, he's addicted to 'masking' for Mardi Gras and he isn't *really* about to retire, if he can help it. Thing is, in the end, he _can't_ help it. None of us can. Tootie dies, as is noted, on the battlefield. And, in the end, we have another father-son-relationship tale. With as unstintingly honest a camera lens as you can get, which is to say that both Tootie and his son opened up some, which the camera caught and filmmaker Lisa Katzman edited well. A film well worth seeing, and a legacy well worth preserving.
Express Stops Only: A number of shorts, the funniest of which was Super Powers, the story of a couple who find adventure as Wonder Woman and Batman (in boxers), or maybe the funniest was Happiness, in which a worker in a condom factory .... oh but let me not spoil it. Surely you'll see for yourself. The best overall, imho, was A Nick In Time, a tale of morality and caring told in a barber shop. Remember the name Be Garrett. If he doesn't go places, then there's just no justice.
The Gates: A documentary covering the process Jeanne-Claude and Christo went through to get their 2-week installation, The Gates, up and running in Central Park. I'd seen it only from afar while it was there, so I truly appreciated the close-up vistas this film afforded. And the 20+-year work up to the event was well worth seeing and lessons in and of themselves. And, in many cases, a hoot! Although I'm quite sure the artists saw it far more as utter frustration than a hoot.
Portraits of Women: Another series of short films, the most interesting of which were at either end: the first, Manuelle Labor, and the last (and longest), So. Manuelle Labor was an odd piece of absurdity about the birth of a pair of hands. Trust me, you had to be there.
Tootie's Last Suit: A good film to end on! Tootie Montana, known among the "Indians" of New Orleans for his wonderful Mardi Gras get-ups, makes his last suit. Well, his purported last suit. Which is to say, he's addicted to 'masking' for Mardi Gras and he isn't *really* about to retire, if he can help it. Thing is, in the end, he _can't_ help it. None of us can. Tootie dies, as is noted, on the battlefield. And, in the end, we have another father-son-relationship tale. With as unstintingly honest a camera lens as you can get, which is to say that both Tootie and his son opened up some, which the camera caught and filmmaker Lisa Katzman edited well. A film well worth seeing, and a legacy well worth preserving.
Tribeca Film Fest: Part II.i
There was a film that Theresa told me I must see if I had the chance at all, and I did so I did. When Theresa recommends something, I pay attention. I am so glad that this time I not only paid attention, I obeyed.
SHAME: This documentary follows the last five years in the life of Mukhtaran Mai, a Pakistani woman of remarkable integrity and tenacity. And talk about emotional honesty! Oh, heck, just plain honesty. Raped on the orders of a tribal council, in retaliation for her younger brother's alleged misconduct, this uneducated illiterate woman (who had nonetheless memorized the Quran) raised her voice in protest and, with the help it must be said of at least one man in the village, a cleric who took up her cause, made the government stand up and pay attention and (unwittingly!) fund a school. Which is to say that what Mai decided to do with the decidedly small amount of money the government awarded her in recompense was to use it to start the very first school in her village. The entire story is remarkable. And inspiring. And I cried through the whole thing, the tears just would not stop. Which is not to say that I was saddened; on the contrary, I was cheering her on all the way. You will too. If you have the chance, you must see this film.
CELEBRITY SIGHTING: Mukhtaran Mai herself, who answered audience questions through the filmmaker, who acted as her translator. A male, Pakistani, filmmaker, by the way. And there was one fellow in the audience who stood to proclaim how much she made him *proud* to be Pakistani. Wow. As for me, I am in awe.
SHAME: This documentary follows the last five years in the life of Mukhtaran Mai, a Pakistani woman of remarkable integrity and tenacity. And talk about emotional honesty! Oh, heck, just plain honesty. Raped on the orders of a tribal council, in retaliation for her younger brother's alleged misconduct, this uneducated illiterate woman (who had nonetheless memorized the Quran) raised her voice in protest and, with the help it must be said of at least one man in the village, a cleric who took up her cause, made the government stand up and pay attention and (unwittingly!) fund a school. Which is to say that what Mai decided to do with the decidedly small amount of money the government awarded her in recompense was to use it to start the very first school in her village. The entire story is remarkable. And inspiring. And I cried through the whole thing, the tears just would not stop. Which is not to say that I was saddened; on the contrary, I was cheering her on all the way. You will too. If you have the chance, you must see this film.
CELEBRITY SIGHTING: Mukhtaran Mai herself, who answered audience questions through the filmmaker, who acted as her translator. A male, Pakistani, filmmaker, by the way. And there was one fellow in the audience who stood to proclaim how much she made him *proud* to be Pakistani. Wow. As for me, I am in awe.
Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.iv
I'm a great fan of animation, but somehow John Canemaker was a name unknown to me. Since it sez here his animated short, The Moon and The Son, won an Oscar last year, I figured it was time to get to know him. Little did I know . . .
THE ANIMATED WORLD OF JOHN CANEMAKER: There were several shorts spanning a long career, notably The Wizard's Son, a delightful tale told without words, Bridgehampton, a Fantasia-inspired leafy meditation in celebration of a move he made with his family to said town, and a short interview with/documentary about Otto Mesmer, the unsung animator of the old-time Krazy Kat cartoons. Of these, I particularly enjoyed Bridgehampton and the Mesmer documentary. And I liked the whole series because each of them was vastly different from the others, showing not professional growth so much as a depth of skill.
But nothing prepared me for The Moon and The Son, the story of his father, of his relationship with his father. It is presented as an imagined conversation with his recently deceased dad. In many more ways than one, it is a revelation. For one thing, there were the secret parts of his dad's life, beginning with the matter of his birth. "So, dad, where in Italy were you born?" "Hazelton, Pennsylvania" is the reply. (although I am probably not remembering the exact town correctly) That the story unfolds engagingly, intelligently; that the art, the animation, the presentation is spot on really goes without saying. I expected all that even as I was sitting there admiring the extraordinary craft of the piece. And I expected, too, a resolution to the strained relationship between father and son, a coming-of-age, a coming-to-understanding, a forgiveness ... that is, after all, how such explorations are supposed to conclude. Isn't it?
It disturbed me that things did not wrap up so neatly here. Bothered the bejabbers outta me it did. I thought and thought and thought and couldn't stop thinking about it. How could you look so deeply into a life, how could you live your own --- certainly flawed, isn't everyone's life flawed somehow, don't everyone's expectations not just of others but of themselves fall short in one way or another? -- and come away so ... so ... so unforgiving? I thought about my own relationship with my father. My family's various relationships with him. How was it different with us? Why was it different?
And as I thought and thought and argued with myself I began to understand that I had just seen perhaps the most emotionally honest film I'd ever experienced. Heck, no perhaps about it. And how valuable that is. And it is an animated film ... and perhaps indeed it is because of that that it can be so honest.
An Academy Award. It won an Academy Award. No wonder. And ... very probably ... not a high enough award for so thought-provoking, so honest, a piece of work.
CELEBRITY SIGHTING: John Canemaker himself was present for Q & A. Among other things, we learned that Fantasia is his favorite film. And that his real last name, which he never legally changed, is of course that of his father, Cannazarra. So why Canemaker? Seems he'd aspired to being an actor and when he was signing his first acting contract, he was told that Cannazarra was too "ethnic" and in searching for something more acceptable, someone decided that Cannazarra probably translates into Canemaker. Sure. Whatever. The son took it on profesionally and, as he said, is stuck with it.
THE ANIMATED WORLD OF JOHN CANEMAKER: There were several shorts spanning a long career, notably The Wizard's Son, a delightful tale told without words, Bridgehampton, a Fantasia-inspired leafy meditation in celebration of a move he made with his family to said town, and a short interview with/documentary about Otto Mesmer, the unsung animator of the old-time Krazy Kat cartoons. Of these, I particularly enjoyed Bridgehampton and the Mesmer documentary. And I liked the whole series because each of them was vastly different from the others, showing not professional growth so much as a depth of skill.
But nothing prepared me for The Moon and The Son, the story of his father, of his relationship with his father. It is presented as an imagined conversation with his recently deceased dad. In many more ways than one, it is a revelation. For one thing, there were the secret parts of his dad's life, beginning with the matter of his birth. "So, dad, where in Italy were you born?" "Hazelton, Pennsylvania" is the reply. (although I am probably not remembering the exact town correctly) That the story unfolds engagingly, intelligently; that the art, the animation, the presentation is spot on really goes without saying. I expected all that even as I was sitting there admiring the extraordinary craft of the piece. And I expected, too, a resolution to the strained relationship between father and son, a coming-of-age, a coming-to-understanding, a forgiveness ... that is, after all, how such explorations are supposed to conclude. Isn't it?
It disturbed me that things did not wrap up so neatly here. Bothered the bejabbers outta me it did. I thought and thought and thought and couldn't stop thinking about it. How could you look so deeply into a life, how could you live your own --- certainly flawed, isn't everyone's life flawed somehow, don't everyone's expectations not just of others but of themselves fall short in one way or another? -- and come away so ... so ... so unforgiving? I thought about my own relationship with my father. My family's various relationships with him. How was it different with us? Why was it different?
And as I thought and thought and argued with myself I began to understand that I had just seen perhaps the most emotionally honest film I'd ever experienced. Heck, no perhaps about it. And how valuable that is. And it is an animated film ... and perhaps indeed it is because of that that it can be so honest.
An Academy Award. It won an Academy Award. No wonder. And ... very probably ... not a high enough award for so thought-provoking, so honest, a piece of work.
CELEBRITY SIGHTING: John Canemaker himself was present for Q & A. Among other things, we learned that Fantasia is his favorite film. And that his real last name, which he never legally changed, is of course that of his father, Cannazarra. So why Canemaker? Seems he'd aspired to being an actor and when he was signing his first acting contract, he was told that Cannazarra was too "ethnic" and in searching for something more acceptable, someone decided that Cannazarra probably translates into Canemaker. Sure. Whatever. The son took it on profesionally and, as he said, is stuck with it.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.iii
I was excited: this was the premiere, the premium-priced showing that I'd tried to avoid, actually, because of the $25 cost. But the $18 tickets for the other two showings were sold out, so I had to "settle" for these ... I was feeling no pain, however, only anticipation. Fair warning: I was a teenage (okay, young adult) flower child / peacenik / countercultural wannabe. Just so you know.
PETE SEEGER: THE POWER OF SONG
The film began with a standing ovation.Um, no, not the film itself . . . the experience began with a standing ovation. Before the film started, Pete Seeger was announced to be in the audience. At once, everyone in the place stood and applauded. And then we sat down, the film cued up, and we were transported waaaay back in time ... before most of us had yet been born, there was Pete, there were the Weavers, there onscreen for us to remember and be reinspired by, was integrity personified, Pete Seeger ... unfolding, as biographies will, with only the occasional, thank the good filmmaker, talking head to get in the way (or in Arlo's case cause a knowing guffaw or two to erupt from the audience). The songs, of course, were wonderful, and it was great to relive those times we (all) shared on the planet with this man who sang his way through good times and bad. Of course, a film about Pete Seeger cannot be just about Pete or even just about song ... there is a clear agenda here ... but, as it's Pete & I'm with him in that agenda, it's okay, I forgive him, & yah I sang along though carrying a tune is hardly my forte. (But, Pete, my love, you're wrong, it's not the song that has such power, it's the people ... oh, but Pete I know you know that. Wish the filmmakers did -- can you tell I am at odds with that awful subtitle? The power of song, indeed. Bah.) ::ahem:: Okay. Another standing ovation was in order after the film. And a resounding ovation it was, too. The audience sat down again ... only to rise a third time, this ovation for the lady who keeps his home fires burning, his wife, Toshi. And well deserved the ovations are, although the smoldering radical countercultural feminist in me winces a bit at the implications of so highly praising Toshi's self-subsuming sacrifices to further her husband's career / mission in life. Um, sufficiently so that I refrained from the third ovation though no doubt that sacrifice was willingly and lovingly made. All in all, it was a *stellar* evening, one that left me with only one word coursing through my overloaded, sleep-deprived brain: WOW. And wow and wow and wow and wow.
CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Pete Seeger, of course, was in the audience. He'd come walking by before the show, by the curb, along the line of those of us waiting for the doors to open. After he'd passed by & entered the theater, the fellow behind me says to his companion, gee do you think Pete will be here? So several people said in unison, Did you not see him just go by??? Poor fellow. And truly exciting for me was to sit in the row behind and four seats to the right of none other than Arlo Guthrie. I just smiled and enjoyed it. No fangirl bow for me. Learned my lesson at the Eisner showing. I'm a jaded New Yorker, after all, yanno.
PETE SEEGER: THE POWER OF SONG
The film began with a standing ovation.Um, no, not the film itself . . . the experience began with a standing ovation. Before the film started, Pete Seeger was announced to be in the audience. At once, everyone in the place stood and applauded. And then we sat down, the film cued up, and we were transported waaaay back in time ... before most of us had yet been born, there was Pete, there were the Weavers, there onscreen for us to remember and be reinspired by, was integrity personified, Pete Seeger ... unfolding, as biographies will, with only the occasional, thank the good filmmaker, talking head to get in the way (or in Arlo's case cause a knowing guffaw or two to erupt from the audience). The songs, of course, were wonderful, and it was great to relive those times we (all) shared on the planet with this man who sang his way through good times and bad. Of course, a film about Pete Seeger cannot be just about Pete or even just about song ... there is a clear agenda here ... but, as it's Pete & I'm with him in that agenda, it's okay, I forgive him, & yah I sang along though carrying a tune is hardly my forte. (But, Pete, my love, you're wrong, it's not the song that has such power, it's the people ... oh, but Pete I know you know that. Wish the filmmakers did -- can you tell I am at odds with that awful subtitle? The power of song, indeed. Bah.) ::ahem:: Okay. Another standing ovation was in order after the film. And a resounding ovation it was, too. The audience sat down again ... only to rise a third time, this ovation for the lady who keeps his home fires burning, his wife, Toshi. And well deserved the ovations are, although the smoldering radical countercultural feminist in me winces a bit at the implications of so highly praising Toshi's self-subsuming sacrifices to further her husband's career / mission in life. Um, sufficiently so that I refrained from the third ovation though no doubt that sacrifice was willingly and lovingly made. All in all, it was a *stellar* evening, one that left me with only one word coursing through my overloaded, sleep-deprived brain: WOW. And wow and wow and wow and wow.
CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Pete Seeger, of course, was in the audience. He'd come walking by before the show, by the curb, along the line of those of us waiting for the doors to open. After he'd passed by & entered the theater, the fellow behind me says to his companion, gee do you think Pete will be here? So several people said in unison, Did you not see him just go by??? Poor fellow.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.ii
I am a fan -- from way back -- of comic art. Back in the day, when I was still in my teens, or perhaps just before, I discovered the Chicago Tribune archives on filmstrips at the main branch of the Chicago Public Library. I would sit for hours pouring over all the Moon Mullins, Bringing Up Father, Smokey Stover, Dick Tracey, Blondie, etc. comics I'd missed. I loved comics. And I stuck up for them: they are as much literature, I would declare to any passing adult, as any Tom Sawyer, David Copperfield, Little Women, or Moby Dick around. And the adults would snicker knowingly, pat me on my head and send me on my way. And then at long long last along came Maus. And I have been vindicated. Oh, but before Maus, apparently, there was ...
WILL EISNER: PORTRAIT OF A SEQUENTIAL ARTIST
What I knew about Will Eisner before seeing this film you could, as my father used to say, put in your right ear and have room left over for an extra bowlful of wax. This film, thank you very very much, did a wonderful job of filling me in on this creator of what is arguably the first graphic novel, A Contract With God, certainly the first published graphic novel ... although the first one for *me,* and I suspect many others, was Art Spiegelman's seminal and super-popular Maus. The film, as I say, was a good biography. But I kept waiting -- in vain -- for it to be ... more. More than talking heads (Jules Feiffer, Art Spiegelman, Will himself among them), more than a montage of snips and pieces from his work, more than a PBS offering, however interesting and informative that is. I thought ... wanted it to be ... something deeper, more compelling, something ... I don't know ... dramatic, I guess, something placed more firmly in context perhaps, something to give the bare facts more humanity, more meaning. Something that would bring those not already fans of the medium into the theater and then send them out into the bookstores to explore further. Though it did do that to some extent for me: there I was, later in the week, seeking out A Contract With God, which I found, not at the crowded & lively Forbidden Planet where I expected to find it, but at Barnes & Noble on a bottom shelf in the well-stocked but forlorn graphic novels section. Dear reader, I thumbed through the tome but left without it (I do want to read it, just not at that price).
CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Outside the theater, while waiting in line, there by the curb chatting with friends was Samuel R. Delaney, the subject of the previous film at that theater. I recognized him by the photo in the Film Guide. I smiled, remembering my sci-fi-fan-days way back when. Inside the theatre, though, after the film, Art Spiegelman answered one of the Q-and-A questions from his seat just across the aisle from me. Oh, Lawdy, I couldn't help myself: hadda give him my fangirl bow-of-appreciation. Embarassed the heck out of me and I'm sure he thought how tacky but what's a tongue-tied fangirl to do? And he was very gracious.
WILL EISNER: PORTRAIT OF A SEQUENTIAL ARTIST
What I knew about Will Eisner before seeing this film you could, as my father used to say, put in your right ear and have room left over for an extra bowlful of wax. This film, thank you very very much, did a wonderful job of filling me in on this creator of what is arguably the first graphic novel, A Contract With God, certainly the first published graphic novel ... although the first one for *me,* and I suspect many others, was Art Spiegelman's seminal and super-popular Maus. The film, as I say, was a good biography. But I kept waiting -- in vain -- for it to be ... more. More than talking heads (Jules Feiffer, Art Spiegelman, Will himself among them), more than a montage of snips and pieces from his work, more than a PBS offering, however interesting and informative that is. I thought ... wanted it to be ... something deeper, more compelling, something ... I don't know ... dramatic, I guess, something placed more firmly in context perhaps, something to give the bare facts more humanity, more meaning. Something that would bring those not already fans of the medium into the theater and then send them out into the bookstores to explore further. Though it did do that to some extent for me: there I was, later in the week, seeking out A Contract With God, which I found, not at the crowded & lively Forbidden Planet where I expected to find it, but at Barnes & Noble on a bottom shelf in the well-stocked but forlorn graphic novels section. Dear reader, I thumbed through the tome but left without it (I do want to read it, just not at that price).
CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Outside the theater, while waiting in line, there by the curb chatting with friends was Samuel R. Delaney, the subject of the previous film at that theater. I recognized him by the photo in the Film Guide. I smiled, remembering my sci-fi-fan-days way back when. Inside the theatre, though, after the film, Art Spiegelman answered one of the Q-and-A questions from his seat just across the aisle from me. Oh, Lawdy, I couldn't help myself: hadda give him my fangirl bow-of-appreciation. Embarassed the heck out of me and I'm sure he thought how tacky but what's a tongue-tied fangirl to do? And he was very gracious.
Film Festival, Part I.i
The Tribeca Film Festival will be in town through this weekend, and I've seen 4 of the 8 films I have tickets for (3 freebies, thanks to some volunteering stints), so figured it was time for a half-time post. Or four, actually, one per film, so if I bore thee, dear reader, you may handily skip over what doesn't interest you.
THE FORTY-FIRST
This restored Russian film from 1956 was introduced live by Martin Scorsese. Seems it had had a powerful influence on him in his youth, and he heartily recommended it to us, along with the cameraman's (Sergei Urusevsky) other work also in the festival, The Letter That Was Never Sent, which, said he, "You must see." The film proved to be, as advertised, a color-cinematographic revelation with not only sweeping water (and sand!) vistas under a glorious "Prussian-blue" sky but a definite sense of the camera as naked-eye-witness to the unfolding drama. The story is of a female Red Army soldier, a sure shot, who handily fells her 39th and 40th enemies, congratulating herself after each one: the 39th! the 40th! She misses when she takes aim at number 41 ... but, dear film-goer, she does get him in the end. She tries not to fall in love with him ... charming her, he wins her over ... and then, alas, circumstances bring on ... an awful deed. A bit of melodrama. A bit of (unfortunately laughable) overacting (Scorsese allowed as how the highly-charged emotional acting was reminiscent of silent film, and he had a point there, he did). Actually, there was sufficient overacting that I might have been upset had I paid the full freight to see this one, but as this was a last-minute freebie for me, I was instead glad to have seen it. The cinematography *was* truly stunning ... the music lovely and understated ... storytelling even in the silences ... all in all a good enough film that it's left me wondering why the choice was made (surely it was a choice) to push the acting / emoting between the two unlikely lovers so far up to and over the edge. Perhaps an antidote to the unblinking eye of the camera? I don't know. I shall ponder further.
THE FORTY-FIRST
This restored Russian film from 1956 was introduced live by Martin Scorsese. Seems it had had a powerful influence on him in his youth, and he heartily recommended it to us, along with the cameraman's (Sergei Urusevsky) other work also in the festival, The Letter That Was Never Sent, which, said he, "You must see." The film proved to be, as advertised, a color-cinematographic revelation with not only sweeping water (and sand!) vistas under a glorious "Prussian-blue" sky but a definite sense of the camera as naked-eye-witness to the unfolding drama. The story is of a female Red Army soldier, a sure shot, who handily fells her 39th and 40th enemies, congratulating herself after each one: the 39th! the 40th! She misses when she takes aim at number 41 ... but, dear film-goer, she does get him in the end. She tries not to fall in love with him ... charming her, he wins her over ... and then, alas, circumstances bring on ... an awful deed. A bit of melodrama. A bit of (unfortunately laughable) overacting (Scorsese allowed as how the highly-charged emotional acting was reminiscent of silent film, and he had a point there, he did). Actually, there was sufficient overacting that I might have been upset had I paid the full freight to see this one, but as this was a last-minute freebie for me, I was instead glad to have seen it. The cinematography *was* truly stunning ... the music lovely and understated ... storytelling even in the silences ... all in all a good enough film that it's left me wondering why the choice was made (surely it was a choice) to push the acting / emoting between the two unlikely lovers so far up to and over the edge. Perhaps an antidote to the unblinking eye of the camera? I don't know. I shall ponder further.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
A-Blogging We Will Go
Actually, a-blogging we went.
I like to just hit the "next blog" button every now and then and see what is to be seen out in the blogosphere. Rather like the impromptu bus trips I would take of a weekend in my long gone misspent youth . . . just as fascinating but far less costly!
I rather liked this one -- check out the homemade cat toy. Very creative and fun! I also enjoyed the tree-in-autumn and those croquettes sound/look very tasty!
--R
I like to just hit the "next blog" button every now and then and see what is to be seen out in the blogosphere. Rather like the impromptu bus trips I would take of a weekend in my long gone misspent youth . . . just as fascinating but far less costly!
I rather liked this one -- check out the homemade cat toy. Very creative and fun! I also enjoyed the tree-in-autumn and those croquettes sound/look very tasty!
--R
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