Spotlighting

This was only one of two Oscar nominated fil-ums we saw before the actual show, and I am super glad because I really enjoyed cheering for it and seeing it win. And just in case you have been trapped under something heavy during the hullaboo surrounding it, Sugar Man attempts to unravel the mystery around Sixto Rodriguez and his disappearance from the music scene way back in the early Seventies. He’s got all the elements to a brilliant career, but it just never materializes, save in South Africa, of all places, and completely unbeknownst to the wider world. Which makes me think of those t-shirts that say, “I am huge in Japan!” It is also a brilliant story of coming to terms with your life as it is. What happens if your dream never comes true? Or maybe comes to fruition some forty years after the fact? Could you be at peace with it? I’m currently wrestling with the notion and will have to get back to you. In the mean time, watch the fil-um if you haven’t, or at least have a listen to “Cause,” my favorite song of his:

Oh dear, The Killing! Rather than one of those cop shows that solves the brutal murder in forty-five minutes or less, this takes a whopping twenty-six episodes, each of which constitutes a day on the case. There are myriad twists and turns and a slow unraveling of facts. We learn the intimate details of the victim, her friends and family, the complicated histories of the cops on the case, and the dirty dealings of every possible suspect. While there are some loose ends left untied, it’s the best show of its ilk I’ve seen in quite some time. There’s gonna be more, too!

Sunday was a gloomy day for me, stuck in a stubborn funk, but rather than fake anything even remotely cheerful, I went whole hog, flopped on the couch, and watched Ordinary People. I loved the book and the movie as a kid and had a crush on Timothy Hutton, too. He’s adorable, even with those tired eyes. I’m pretty sure it was Robert Redford’s directorial debut, as well. Anyhoo, it is a good meditation on guilt and forgiveness. Conrad survives a boating accident in which his golden boy brother dies and cannot manage the burden of being the survivor. The story follows his return from four months in a psychiatric ward post suicide attempt and the complications of family, friendships, and simply making it through the day. It is unflinchingly honest and often difficult to watch, but soo worth it!

Generally speaking, I am not a fan of sushi. Save for the occasional roll, where the fish is of the tiniest proportions, I do not like it. That said, I was utterly inspired and enthralled by all things sushi while watching this and even wanted to eat some! It is a stirring portrait of hard work, perseverance, and ultimately, love. Jiro loves sushi, every last detail, and has worked tirelessly at his craft (for more than seventy years!) to become the very best there is.

This is an odd one and is a tough sell for about the first twenty minutes, but if you can make it through the idiosyncratic laying of foundation, you will be rewarded. It’s ping pong from every angle, complete with slow-motion action and balls on paddles. There’s the hustler, the devotee, the mystic, and the coach. It’s also about fierce love, coping with failure, and believing in your own worth. Wacky and goofy and well worth an evening.

This is a sweet one. A street performer and struggling woman inspired by him meet and fall in love, though, of course, it isn’t that easy. There are complications in the form of Topher Grace as motivational speaker (hilarious!), and the sister who interferes where she shouldn’t (bitchy!). Chris Messina’s good looks and velvety voice didn’t hurt, either.

Con men and life long friends, Ben and Alan have their lives planned out, stealing cars and wallets, creating fake charities, and never actually growing up being the dominant themes. Enter one troubled boy and their lives are upturned. Do they dump a child in need and stick with their plan or grow up and become the parents they never had?

As much as I am loathe to admit it, for illness signifies weakness in my striver brain (however untrue), I spent the better part of the past three days lying prostrate on the sofa. Sinuses good and clogged, I mouth breathed through the hubster making me chicken noodle soup, hours of television, movies, and documentaries. I watched our President walk the final stretch of his Inaugural Parade. I watched a mini Knots Landing reunion. I watched Jennifer Aniston and Jason Bateman in a fun fil-um called The Switch. But the documentaries were definitely the best bit.

Bones Brigade: An Autobiography was my hands-down favorite. My love for skateboarders (and surfers) is pretty well documented, so you’re probably not surprised by this one. It follows the world famous Bones Brigade from their most humble beginning, Stacy Peralta hand-picking the gang one-by-one and driving them hither and yon in a station wagon before the explosion came, and with it, fame, accolades, and wealth. I think, ultimately, that this is a fil-um about a deep abiding love, not just for skateboarding, but for each other.

Oh, Bernie Mac! Talented. Irreverent. Hilarious. His own MAN. Stories from some of the people who knew and loved him best, interspersed with some of his best comedy. It’s a goodie.

My goodness, so much I didn’t know about Bond, James Bond! First and foremost, what is now likely considered to be one of the sexiest monikers around was chosen by Ian Fleming because it was, “boring and flat,” the name of a bird enthusiast, of all things. The history of Bond and all the fil-ums has as much intrigue, suspense, and back stabbing as the stories themselves. The eye-candy ain’t bad either…

Oh, and Thom Yorke, because he makes me smile. Yessiree…

Holy frijoles, peeps! It’s been a while since I wrote about fil-ums. A dearth of the spectacular, I suppose. Life is like that, sometimes. Average. Meh. Vanilla pudding. Though, I must take occasional exception to that last expression. Vanilla pudding, when done right, is anything but vanilla pudding, silky, smooth, delicious, the height of splendor! Yup, yup.

Starting with Safety Not Guaranteed, for it had me in stitches, loud peals at pretty regular intervals, thanks to great lines like “You’re dangling my vagina out there like bait” and “Storm Troopers don’t know anything about lasers or time travel. They are blue collar workers.” To be followed by a most grateful round of claps and cheers at the end. I kid you not. It was one of those rare moments when I actually wanted to explode with glee and happened to be in sync with the rest of the theater. Pretty awesome, if I do say so.

To the details: The fil-um centers around a magazine writer and two interns as they investigate the above ad. Did this person really invent a time machine, or is he just mad as a hatter? Well, he certainly isn’t your everyday Joe. He’s a little odd but sincere, too. He’s wounded and paranoid and completely dedicated to the task at hand. He takes one of the interns into his confidence and friendship blossoms. Then there is the magazine writer, chasing his own past while trying to get his male intern laid like his life depended upon it. It’s a great bit of everything, very human characters, romance, fun, mystery-thriller. Put it in the queue!

Griff the Invisible is an Australian import about a twenty-six year old man who believes he is a Super Hero. He’s got the costume, scads of surveillance equipment, and a sincere desire to rid his neighborhood and the world of evil. The trouble is, he’s not the best at it, and even worse with actual people. He is awkward and flails at work, falling prey to the office bully and his cronies. His brother, who sincerely wants the best for him, is also a bit clueless, trying to get Griff out of his shell and into the real world. Then he meets Melody, fascinated by science and equally drawn to Griff, the one person who sees the universe as she does. It’s about the painful ways we learn of our delusions and the people who love and encourage us, despite them.

All of My Friends are Funeral Singers, well, hmmm, this one is a tad odd, even for me. I’d venture to say that it is bordering on the avant-garde. Zel is a psychic and lives in a house filled with ghosts: a child, a bride, vaudevillians, and some musicians, too. They are her only friends, save her love, and the source of her power, giving voice to the dead and eyes to the future. She loves and hates them, yet knows no other life. When a bright light beckons the ghosts to the woods beyond, and they cannot leave, Zel must unearth the truth behind their shared existence and contemplate a life without them. It’s got a great soundtrack too, by Califone, who, as it happens, will be at Mississippi Studios on November 30th. Could be fun!

Starting with a digression. Milo is snoring like that cartoon character of childhood, blowing a feather up off his lips, again and again, more like a machine decompressing than a true snore. I think he learned it from the hubster, lying prostrate on his chest, paws curled in the sweetest heart shape, cataloging his every move. Though the pair is quite capable of sawing gigantic logs, as well. Last night, as a matter of fact, the the G-Man was roaring something fierce, and I tickled him on that soft spot near the hollow of his hip bone, and his body leapt, utterly and completely shaking the bed. I laughed and told him everything was alright before the pair of us drifted off, though who knows where. I have only echoes of those dreams.

I realized that it had been a while since I told you about movies, so here we are, despite the fairly steady stream I watch. I wonder if Netflix has a little widget like the Goodreads one? It would be nice to always have them there, quiet and patiently waiting for a click. Do you look at them, the books I read? That last one was a goodie, Autobiography of Red, still wrapping my brain around it.

Anyhoo, to fil-ums, these are coming-of-age stories, magnifying those painful bits we all go through in one way or another.

Submarine takes place in Wales during the eighties and follows Oliver Tate, as he navigates the waters of his first love with Jordana, a girl with a lot of extra-curricular problems and a wicked sense of humor.  Although his life isn’t without complications. He is awkward and nerdy, with few friends, and suffering at home, too, through his parents faltering marriage. His father is inept and clueless, while his mother contemplates an affair with an old lover, a pseudo-ninja, self-help guru with a bad mullet. It is comical and sad and hopeful, too, punctuated by a great soundtrack and unusually great narration. Proof that first love matters, always.

Oh dear, this is a toughie, to tell it straight. I did a whole LOTTA tonglen during this one, dear readers, the hubster looking over at me, tears streaming, but breath a-flowing. From the novel of the same name, A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints follows Dito as a youth and an adult through some pretty rough experiences. This is a memoir made of composites of people the author/director knew growing up. His parents, deeply in love with their son, but rife with their own problems. His own first love and the coarse ways between them, yet tender, too. His best friends, on the cusp of insanity, hopelessly tethered to violent homes and surroundings, drinking and drug use, the infinite love and jealousy that can never be spoken, and the one who sees it all with enough clarity to know that they will be the end of him if he doesn’t make his own way, apart from them. A heartbreaker.

Chris Waitt has an interesting way with women. They dump him. One by one, again and again. He sees this as a problem and decides to make a documentary in which he seeks out his ex-girlfriends to ask them what happened. After a bit, it becomes obvious to everyone but Chris, though, bless his heart, he plods on, ever determined to get to the root cause. And he does, in his own way, with a little bit of everything, including help from his dear Mum, S & M, getting arrested, and being verbally abused by more than one ex. Hilarious one minute and tear-filled the next, watch how a grown boy becomes a man, for all the world to see.

I took the day off Tuesday, writing not a single word of useful prose. Instead, I enjoyed an extended yoga practice, a perfectly pruning and exceedingly hot bath, and two very good streaming fil-ums (Why I like to hear and type this, I do not know, but it’s staying, for now).

The first was I Am Love with Tilda Swinton, object of one of my lady-crushes. The woman is a goddess, brilliant and beautiful, a style all her own, that certain je ne sais quoi that keeps me rapt. Which also reminds me of my latest man-crush on Michael Fassbender. I saw him last year in Jane Eyre and thought, well, isn’t he interesting? And those eyes! Then I heard him on Fresh Air and saw him on Charlie Rose and said, “Oh, yes please.” There’s nothing like an attractive man speaking eloquently of the work he loves. Indeedy.

Lest you get your knickers in a bunch lamenting my poor hubster and his wife gone off the rails speaking openly of her admiration of others, he’s got his own crush (and thinks Tilda’s pretty, too), and I wholeheartedly approve, on Emily Blunt, even putting her movies in the queue for him. She’s cute, smart, and a good actress. I would have liked to steal her Golden Globes dress, I might add. As well, I know for a fact he’d be over the moon at the chance to spend a day, week, or a month discussing everything tech with the Woz. So there. We’ve got our own good thing going, with crushes and silliness and all that jazz.

Anyhoo, enough of my digression, I Am Love is sensual and expressive, a very cerebral examination of a family that on the surface looks and acts the same as always but is roiling and changing and coming apart at the seams. Tilda plays Emma, a Russian plucked and inserted into a very bourgeois life (servants who dress her and wear gloves – can you imagine?) in Italy, speaking Italian and Russian (I told you; she’s brilliant). She is the mother of grown children, a good wife and cook, and a very stylish dresser. She is a master organizer, very much in control, planning parties and dinners with aplomb and ease. The slow unraveling starts and ends with a party, both of which look the same on the surface but are wholly different. Filled with exquisite food, immaculate homes, romance and infidelity and upheaval and picturesque landscapes, so very much at once. The score is fantastic and the cinematography some of the best I’ve seen. Molto bene!

Now to the Eames, Charles and Ray, who, like me, maybe you thought were brothers, instead of husband and wife, despite being fairly well educated on Modern Design. After the shame of my ignorance wore off, I really got into it, loving that the pair were so much more than really cool chairs. They made truly awesome animated fil-ums: puppets, stop motion, and drawn; collected ephemera, designed buildings, and worked, worked, worked, their minds like Vesuvius in a constant state of eruption. I loved their quirkiness, their manner of dress (so sweet and dapper), and how they truly loved everything they did, adding so much flair and panache to the world. Inspirational!

Without meaning to, this week I watched two films (or fil-ums as I once read in an Irish novel) that involved the murder of a child. What the h-e-double-hockey-stick kind of coincidence is that, anyway? Despite the rather gloomy subject matter, they were quite good and had me rapt.

In Bruges, takes place in, you’ll never guess, Bruges! Or “fucking Bruges” as Colin Farrell’s character often says. He plays Ray, a hit man who makes the rookie mistake of murdering a boy along with his mark. He’s in Bruges with his partner and sort of mentor, Ken (the brilliant Brendan Gleeson), while they wait for the dust to settle back in London. I’ve seen this fil-um touted as a comedy, and while there are some humorous moments, don’t go in thinking that it’s going to be funny. It’s actually very melancholy and quite beautiful, save for the end. Avert your eyes, for there will be blood, my friends.

As Ray fights their exile, forever cursing the city, and Ken embraces it, happily taking canal tours and exploring some of the oldest architecture in Europe, both struggle to come to terms with their chosen profession, a sincere loneliness, and, most importantly, the loss of the boy. They meet an assortment of characters: a caring hotel owner, an obsessive gun runner, a stunning drug dealer, and an opinionated dwarf (or midget, depending), each bringing out the essence of Ken and Ray, how they got to this place, and hope for something more. It is lovely and thoughtful in its brutality.

Troubled Water is Norwegian and tells two perspectives of the same event. The life of Thomas after his release from prison for murdering the boy, and Agnes, the mother of the murdered child. Each takes half of the film and merge in the end.

It is almost a thriller and definitely a meditation on forgiveness and reconciliation. How can you ever move on from something so horrible? Thomas tries to start fresh by becoming an organist at a church, his playing a mesmerizing gift. He likes the female priest, and her son, Jens, takes to him immediately, despite Thomas’s protests. Perhaps he is not evil?

Agnes obsesses about Thomas and what he might do now that he isn’t behind prison walls. Is she safe, her husband, their adopted daughters? Then there are the last minutes of her son’s life, never knowing exactly what happened. The truth sets them both free and has the audience (or maybe just me) gasping for breath.

I am not a fan of Formula One racing, the mind numbing sound of high powered automobiles traveling on winding, swirling, looping tracks of asphalt and concrete.  I’m afraid I land on quite the opposite end of the spectrum, the kill joy who watches in horror as I contemplate environmental degradation through the excessive use of fuel and rubber and who knows what else to make it all happen.

I am, however, fond of stories, in particular of those who have found precisely their intended métier, as the French would say, without equivocation or second thoughts.  The often brave men and women who hear distinctly the voice of God, Buddha, Allah, or perhaps a brilliant collection of cosmic dust, depending upon their persuasion, to move this way, along this path, despite the din of voices screaming otherwise.

Ayrton Senna was such a man, brilliant, charming, handsome, and a great knower of speed on macadam.  He found his passion early, behind the wheel of a go-kart, and would hone his skill over years and continents, through awful politics, pettiness, and ill conceived and implemented rules to dominate the sport, and win, win, win.

He was a gentle man, a patriotic Brazilian, close to God and his family, and an absolute pleasure to watch, behind the wheel, moving in ways I can hardly fathom, or speaking about that which mattered to him.

What great testament too, to the fine direction of the filmmakers to create such a touching portrait and have this naysayer on the edge of her seat with fascination and anticipation.  My soul was cracked.  Very well done, indeed.

Thank you, Bert, for the recommendation.

Bill Cunningham New York: Though my “uniform” might suggest otherwise, I LOVE clothes and fashion, and all the inherent juiciness of it.  Yes, I am “shallow” (in quotations because I don’t really believe it but lack a better descriptor) enough to spend the whole of a day reading a fashion magazine cover to cover, turning back pages I find inspiring or interesting.  I love watching people, well dressed or not, at least to my eye, and absorbing what they’ve got going on.  Is it something that fits my aesthetic that I hadn’t previously imagined?  What makes it work?  Oh jeez, isn’t that what that Tim Gunn guy says?  I love the courage it takes to try something outrageous, bold, or just plain different, probably because I lack it myself.

So now, imagine all of this in the hands of a humble, bicycle riding photographer who wants to share with everyone, namely Bill Cunningham of the New York Times, taking photos every single day over a period of decades.  The film follows Bill in his daily life, sleeping on a cot wedged between rows of filing cabinets of photos and negatives in a tiny apartment in Carnegie Hall (I didn’t even know this was possible).  The man lives for fashion, “I eat with my eyes,” mostly the on the street variety, and takes pictures nearly everywhere he goes.  He is earnest, beyond hard working (at 80+ he still works every day!) and impossibly kind, at least to those he photographs, the sort one wants as a friend and fashion consultant.

Adam’s Apples: Ivan is a small-town minister who “rehabilitates” men upon their release from prison.  He takes wearing rose-colored glasses to the extreme, patently refusing to see the truth before him, no matter how squarely it is presented.  When Adam, a particularly wretched Neo-Nazi, is placed with Ivan for the requisite 12-week program, he is determined to break the man, no matter the cost.  A strange, funny, and somewhat violent portrait of unshakable faith.

The Trip: I can’t say I really know who these men are, though they seem quite familiar, but goll-ee, I could watch and listen to them all the live long day.  In “mockumentary” style, the gentlemen play themselves, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, two longtime friends on a road trip to England’s finest restaurants and inns.  It was meant to be a romantic getaway for Steve, but his girlfriend leaves rather suddenly for New York at the last minute, so Rob fills in.  It is an odd and interesting mix.  It’s sometimes wildly funny, with some of the best impersonations I have ever heard, mostly of Michael Caine, Sean Connery, and Hugh Grant.  Then it’s a little gloomy and sad tale of middle age and being alone, all while exploring beautiful places and serving up exotic dishes at some very posh restaurants.  A lot like real life, I think.