There's a Facebook chain posting where you write 25 random things about yourself, thereby allowing all your friends to peer through a little window into your world. Here's mine.
25 random things
1. The revelation of Things to others, however random, is a TOTAL violation of my Show No Weakness policy. What if you people spot some kind of Balkan soft underbelly and attack?!?! I guess you can decode this one as an admission that I am aggressively defensive, not comfortable with criticism (however constructive) and can't have honesty without a punchline to defuse it.
2. I love movies. I have been to Sundance twice, have Netflix and two movie channels, will watch anything anytime, am a standard go-to for the answer to entertainment questions, and have a standing self-bet that I can name any movie that shows on TV between the time it starts and the time the title rolls.
3. Sadly, I don't really understand "sports". Thingy in the goal. Thingy over the line. Go for two. Don't block in the back? Whatever.
4. Ironically, I am El Commissionero Magnifico of illegal gambling pools on football, basketball, and even baseball. Turns out, you don't have to appreciate sports to appreciate the rewards of gambling thereupon.
5. I use a lot of words. It's what I do.
6. My first car was a Honda Prelude. Wrecked it. My second car was a Datsun 280Z. Wrecked it. My third car was a Jeep Cherokee. Drove it until it smelled funny. Thus begat the Bronco era, as fondly and incorrectly remembered as the Antebellum South.
7. My dog is my boy. He was a handful of heartbeat and fur about 12 years ago; and now, much older, he still limps to meet me at the door every day. He's sullen, bitter, distrusting, gregarious, loving, carnivorous, agedly unathletic, selectively friendly, occasionally enthusiastic, perpetually hopeful, and always thrilled to see his friends. I don't know where he gets it.
8. Underneath the house freaks me out more than any other thing. My greatest fear is knee-walking under there on some critical home maintenance mission, rising up between two floor joists, and come down wearing a spiders' nest like an Afro.
9. I lettered in High School. In Quiz Bowl. Two years. Captain of the team. My letter has no football, no winged track foot -- it's a lamp of knowledge. Try using that to meet chicks. For best results, try using more words. You may need to supplement this with financial success or frequent gymnasium visits.
10. My grandmother owned a business, survived a mass murder, cared for my grandfather through MS and cancer, became a sad alcoholic, and died with Alzheimer's in a nursing home with no memory or property. She taught me two things on purpose: (1) you're going to meet a lot of people you don't like and you better get used to it, and (2) wear a towel when you walk from the bathroom to the bedroom; it's just basic courtesy. She taught me another thing by observation: Life sure is complicated... full of love and hurt and loss and forgiveness, but mostly complicated.
11. I wish I were a fireman. I have the helmet, and you know I can get the mustache.
12. I wish I could drive my car like a stuntman. Actually, I already do; I just wish I had formal training and a certificate to give the authorities.
13. I wish I did something that was worthwhile. I admire people that put it all out there, and I guarandamntee you they aren't in Global Financial Investment Marketing Service Management.
14. There's nothing I admire more than Cleverness, nothing I detest more than Lack of Consideration. I'm looking at you, person having loud conversation on cell phone.
15. While not strictly "scared" of children, since they don't build nests in the crawl space, I am not entirely comfortable around them. Their noises are not pleasing to the ear, their hands are often smeared with jelly and snot, and I was once bitten by a toddler. If you know how tall a toddler is, and what sensitive area is about teeth-tall on a man, you can calculate exactly how wary I am now.
16. I married my high school sweetheart. She is my most trusted partner in crime and confidence, my best audience, my favorite performer, my keeper and my responsibility, my challenge, my support, and the one I love most clumsily but purely. She does not High Five.
17. I own a reasonable number of firearms, and can use them. I count among my proudest moments the time I took Dad shooting, and he turned to say, "You're really good."
18. I can make linguine alla puttanesca really, really well.
19. Skynet rules.
20. "Good things happen to net givers."
21. I like to watch people smile, when their eyes crinkle at the corners. People with experience laughing are good people.
22. "I was gonna" is no longer part of my Library of Excuses. Either make the mix tape, or don't.
23. Every voicemail message my mother leaves is always to the maximum of three minutes, and devotes at least one minute to the weather conditions of the recent week. I cannot find the "skip ahead" command. One day, this statement will make me sad.
24. I don't want to be excluded, yet I do not like to be discussed.
25. I will help you move, for beer. I will help you move the body, for whatever reason that's important to you. Friendship is more than Christmas cards, bub.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sundance, the last, a week late
Having been out of Utah for a week, I feel the wave of enthusiasm for anything I may have to say about Sundance may have crashed and receded.
Being habitually disinterested in whether others have an interest in what I'm saying, however, I press on (as is my way).
When last we spoke, I had soothed my aching knees with some freely-applied general anaesthetic at a random sponsor party on the way home from snowboarding. It was held a ski shop just across the lot from our accomodations. The couch made of solid ice and covered by a fur throw caught my eye, as did the buckboard full of rye whisky, campfire, and martinis filled via ice luge. Inside, they had beer, models in ski togs, stacks of food -- and not crappy Costco heat-em-ups either -- and an acoustic band. There was a raffle with a bajillion prizes, but sadly, the gods of good fortune smiled only enough to grant me the cocktails and sammiches. I really wanted those Skullcandy headphones, you know, for my DJ'in' and such. The band, incidentally, did a version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane" that was somewhere between smoky and folksy; and while my appreciation may have been fueled by free Steinlager, handfuls of gratis canapes, and the fact the two lead singers were hot girls, it really did stop me in my tracks. We'll file that event under S for Serendipity.
Friday morning required more coffee, so we hit Starbucks because we (a) embrace their version of accessible consumerism and (b) still have some gift cards to use. This gave us the last celebrity sighting of the week: Paul Mitchell, the hirsute hair styling guy. I gave his wife some Splenda, so I'm pretty sure he owes me a wash-n-cut.
We saw "Big Fan" at 8:30 am. If you are a Giants fan, it's a must-see. If you are a football fan, it's a must-see. If you have ever called into a sports radio station at midnight to bust balls, you might be a Yankee, and it's a must see. I liked it, but I was conflicted by the representation of the protagonist as a loser because he watched the home games on TV in the tailgate parking lot instead of going to the game. One member of the audience commented to the director how shockingly unbelievably funny this was, and we slunk a little further down in our seats. We smirked, but we slunk.
After that, we saw "The Yes Men Fix The World". Merry pranksters with deep pockets, they mock the raging injustices and stupidity of the Powerful. I can't believe they aren't in jail. They create opportunities for themselves to be invited to speak to conferences or on TV as representatives of corporations or government, then perpetrate hoaxes that are as shocking as they are poignant. They were live on the BBC pretending to represent Dow Chemical, promising to pay off all the victims of the Bhopal disaster of 1984 -- something Dow has conspicuously ignored. They made a presentation in New Orleans, purporting to be from HUD, rolling out a new program to reopen existing housing developments for immediate occupancy -- something that is necessary, but not done because there's more money in tearing them down and building new ones. It's eye-opening and invigorating to watch, but... Well, I didn't ask, but had the question, "Does this ever result in change?"
We waitlisted for "Peter & Vandy", which is a perfect combination of "About Last Night" and "Go". That is to say, it's a basic boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl-because-of-tirade-about-sandwich-making-protocol, boy-gets-another-chance-with-girl kind of story; but it's told out of order. You get to see them live together before you see their first date, which is kind of cool because you already know how they interact when you see them first tentatively begin to bond. Also, I learned if your Pad Thai smells funny, you should call it Poon Thai.
Afterwards, actor Jason Ritter was on stage with the writer/director and other cast members doing Q&A. One member of the audience asked, "What's your background?" He stepped up to the podium and said, "What's my background? Well, bricks, wood, a really huge screen..." Everybody looked at him like he'd just quoted a Pakistani poet in the original language. He paused and gestured behind him -- brick wall, wood trim, and the huge movie screen we'd just watched. His timing was impeccable, and totally juxtaposed the pretensiousness of the moment with pure corn. I thought that was perfect, and an indication of really good sense of humor.
We considered trying to waitlist into "Dead Snow", a midnight showing of a movie about Nazi zombies in the Alps. I was willing to risk the nightmares, but the decision was made for us by the guy handing out the waitlist numbers. "No way." he said. "I've already given out all 150 waitlist numbers. That, and you'd look like the babysitters in that crowd." Ouch.
For dinner, we went to Pizza Beer Taco. That's not the name of the place, but it is the three neon signs in the windows. I had all three. We sat next to a guy from San Francisco in town to represent his company, Scenechronize. I checked it out online later -- pretty cool.
Why can't every day be filled with pizza beer taco conversations with people doing cool movie things?
Being habitually disinterested in whether others have an interest in what I'm saying, however, I press on (as is my way).
When last we spoke, I had soothed my aching knees with some freely-applied general anaesthetic at a random sponsor party on the way home from snowboarding. It was held a ski shop just across the lot from our accomodations. The couch made of solid ice and covered by a fur throw caught my eye, as did the buckboard full of rye whisky, campfire, and martinis filled via ice luge. Inside, they had beer, models in ski togs, stacks of food -- and not crappy Costco heat-em-ups either -- and an acoustic band. There was a raffle with a bajillion prizes, but sadly, the gods of good fortune smiled only enough to grant me the cocktails and sammiches. I really wanted those Skullcandy headphones, you know, for my DJ'in' and such. The band, incidentally, did a version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane" that was somewhere between smoky and folksy; and while my appreciation may have been fueled by free Steinlager, handfuls of gratis canapes, and the fact the two lead singers were hot girls, it really did stop me in my tracks. We'll file that event under S for Serendipity.
Friday morning required more coffee, so we hit Starbucks because we (a) embrace their version of accessible consumerism and (b) still have some gift cards to use. This gave us the last celebrity sighting of the week: Paul Mitchell, the hirsute hair styling guy. I gave his wife some Splenda, so I'm pretty sure he owes me a wash-n-cut.
We saw "Big Fan" at 8:30 am. If you are a Giants fan, it's a must-see. If you are a football fan, it's a must-see. If you have ever called into a sports radio station at midnight to bust balls, you might be a Yankee, and it's a must see. I liked it, but I was conflicted by the representation of the protagonist as a loser because he watched the home games on TV in the tailgate parking lot instead of going to the game. One member of the audience commented to the director how shockingly unbelievably funny this was, and we slunk a little further down in our seats. We smirked, but we slunk.
After that, we saw "The Yes Men Fix The World". Merry pranksters with deep pockets, they mock the raging injustices and stupidity of the Powerful. I can't believe they aren't in jail. They create opportunities for themselves to be invited to speak to conferences or on TV as representatives of corporations or government, then perpetrate hoaxes that are as shocking as they are poignant. They were live on the BBC pretending to represent Dow Chemical, promising to pay off all the victims of the Bhopal disaster of 1984 -- something Dow has conspicuously ignored. They made a presentation in New Orleans, purporting to be from HUD, rolling out a new program to reopen existing housing developments for immediate occupancy -- something that is necessary, but not done because there's more money in tearing them down and building new ones. It's eye-opening and invigorating to watch, but... Well, I didn't ask, but had the question, "Does this ever result in change?"
We waitlisted for "Peter & Vandy", which is a perfect combination of "About Last Night" and "Go". That is to say, it's a basic boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl-because-of-tirade-about-sandwich-making-protocol, boy-gets-another-chance-with-girl kind of story; but it's told out of order. You get to see them live together before you see their first date, which is kind of cool because you already know how they interact when you see them first tentatively begin to bond. Also, I learned if your Pad Thai smells funny, you should call it Poon Thai.
Afterwards, actor Jason Ritter was on stage with the writer/director and other cast members doing Q&A. One member of the audience asked, "What's your background?" He stepped up to the podium and said, "What's my background? Well, bricks, wood, a really huge screen..." Everybody looked at him like he'd just quoted a Pakistani poet in the original language. He paused and gestured behind him -- brick wall, wood trim, and the huge movie screen we'd just watched. His timing was impeccable, and totally juxtaposed the pretensiousness of the moment with pure corn. I thought that was perfect, and an indication of really good sense of humor.
We considered trying to waitlist into "Dead Snow", a midnight showing of a movie about Nazi zombies in the Alps. I was willing to risk the nightmares, but the decision was made for us by the guy handing out the waitlist numbers. "No way." he said. "I've already given out all 150 waitlist numbers. That, and you'd look like the babysitters in that crowd." Ouch.
For dinner, we went to Pizza Beer Taco. That's not the name of the place, but it is the three neon signs in the windows. I had all three. We sat next to a guy from San Francisco in town to represent his company, Scenechronize. I checked it out online later -- pretty cool.
Why can't every day be filled with pizza beer taco conversations with people doing cool movie things?
Friday, January 23, 2009
Sundance recs
After some great discussion with Lynn, I think we can add "Arlen Faber" and "World's Greatest Dad" to the list of you-need-to-see's. You need to be a grown-up, and open-minded; but after hearing her analysis, I'm convinced.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Catchup
"Adventureland" is "Superbad" without the fat curly-haired kid (the sample-sized Seth Rogan). It's not profane, it's kind of cool to watch -- particularly if you are a fan of the Replacements, Lou Reed, or 1987. Ryan Reynolds plays against type, Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig stay thankfully in the background, and Kristen Stewart is now on my List. It'll make $33MM at the box office, but wait for the DVD.
"Cold Souls" is "Being John Malkevich", but creates some really good questions about the nature of the human soul. Lynn liked it; I think, "Eh."
Okay -- today is Thursday, and while I beat my knees into gravy while snowboarding, Lynn went to THREE movies without me. She got to watch Bobcat Goldthwait do Q&A after watching his new movie, "World's Greatest Dad", which is a pitch black comedy and apparently pretty good. She got to sit next to the director of a documentary about Up With People, and got a Chapstick with a fuzzy head on it. She also saw "Arlen Faber" and something about tween girls ("Don't Ever Change"?), but liked WGD the best -- ask her for details. Three movies in eight hours -- she's a pro.
But on my walk home, I passed a ski shop that was hosting a party with free food and free booze.
I win.
"Cold Souls" is "Being John Malkevich", but creates some really good questions about the nature of the human soul. Lynn liked it; I think, "Eh."
Okay -- today is Thursday, and while I beat my knees into gravy while snowboarding, Lynn went to THREE movies without me. She got to watch Bobcat Goldthwait do Q&A after watching his new movie, "World's Greatest Dad", which is a pitch black comedy and apparently pretty good. She got to sit next to the director of a documentary about Up With People, and got a Chapstick with a fuzzy head on it. She also saw "Arlen Faber" and something about tween girls ("Don't Ever Change"?), but liked WGD the best -- ask her for details. Three movies in eight hours -- she's a pro.
But on my walk home, I passed a ski shop that was hosting a party with free food and free booze.
I win.
Sundance --recommendation
There was one movie that I specifically wanted to see, and it remains the best one I've seen so far. "Taking Chance" is the story of a Marine escorting the remains of a young man killed in action in Iraq. Based on a terse journal of the events written in 2004, it is singularly saddening and uplifting in the way that only stories about fellowship can be.
Your homework: find the original story online -- Google "taking chance phelps strobl wyoming" and you'll get hits for the movie and the original narrative. Read the story. I first read it in '04 or '05, and I've read it every Memorial Day since then. When I read the synopsis of the movies at Sundance and realized that this story was now a film, I made damn sure I was literally front row center for this one.
You can watch the trailer for the film as well. While the story can prepare you for the movie, and the trailer can prepare you for the movie, it still is a humbling, enriching, soulful presentation that is done with care, respect, objectivity about the war, and sensitivity of the impact of sacrifice. It's about the fellowship of warriors, the rituals they observe to mark the passing of their own; and the way that one soldier's death can allow us to share that loss.
It's beautifully done, too. There's a sense of reverence in every shot that is not merely slow pacing. It's respect in mourning for a brother lost. There is a montage in the Dover AFB mortuary of the preparation of the bodies prior to their final trip home, and it's so clear that the people there are washing away the war and pain, readying the fallen for rest.
It got a standing ovation, well-deserved. The director spoke after the film, with Kevin Bacon and the original author, Lt. Col. Strobl. I wanted to ask a question or make an observation, but didn't have the nerve -- or a good question.
I did take the opportunity to linger after the Q&A to speak to Lt. Col. Strobl, and it was difficult to talk. I thanked him, as I try to do for anyone in the armed forces; but still felt very useless, as I usually do around anyone in the armed forces. I hope he understood that he brought home more than Chance Phelps, he brought home to me the meaning of losing just one boy in battle.
Put this one at the top of the list.
Your homework: find the original story online -- Google "taking chance phelps strobl wyoming" and you'll get hits for the movie and the original narrative. Read the story. I first read it in '04 or '05, and I've read it every Memorial Day since then. When I read the synopsis of the movies at Sundance and realized that this story was now a film, I made damn sure I was literally front row center for this one.
You can watch the trailer for the film as well. While the story can prepare you for the movie, and the trailer can prepare you for the movie, it still is a humbling, enriching, soulful presentation that is done with care, respect, objectivity about the war, and sensitivity of the impact of sacrifice. It's about the fellowship of warriors, the rituals they observe to mark the passing of their own; and the way that one soldier's death can allow us to share that loss.
It's beautifully done, too. There's a sense of reverence in every shot that is not merely slow pacing. It's respect in mourning for a brother lost. There is a montage in the Dover AFB mortuary of the preparation of the bodies prior to their final trip home, and it's so clear that the people there are washing away the war and pain, readying the fallen for rest.
It got a standing ovation, well-deserved. The director spoke after the film, with Kevin Bacon and the original author, Lt. Col. Strobl. I wanted to ask a question or make an observation, but didn't have the nerve -- or a good question.
I did take the opportunity to linger after the Q&A to speak to Lt. Col. Strobl, and it was difficult to talk. I thanked him, as I try to do for anyone in the armed forces; but still felt very useless, as I usually do around anyone in the armed forces. I hope he understood that he brought home more than Chance Phelps, he brought home to me the meaning of losing just one boy in battle.
Put this one at the top of the list.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sundance Shorts
Short films offer artists a way around limited budgets, limited casts, limited equipment, and limited access. It's one of my favorite genres, and we always schedule a couple of blocks of shorts to see what's germinating in the fertile ground of future great filmmakers.
To be honest, it really comes down to my attention span -- visible only through an electron microscope, and comparable to the lifespan of the male of the mite Acarophenax tribolii. This thing "develops inside the body of its mother, fertilises its female siblings, and then dies before it is even born, all within the space of a couple of hours." Actually, that's too long in real time; but I'm pretty sure my focus on anything is generally over before it begins. Short films appeal to me in particular because I'm never more than 14 minutes away from seeing something else.
Where was I?
Shorts. Shorts can be comedic, tragic, evocative, shocking, endearing, way cool, way off base, intensely personal, or an effort to lobby for more funding for expansion into a feature.
They are like those beer samplers stacked in the aisles at your local grocer and gift shoppes around the holidays. You get an ale, a lager, a port, a double-bock, a stout, an IPA, and another three kinds of brew whose recipe was scribbled on the back of a TGIFriday receipt when the brewmaster wondered if jalapeno poppers and pizza bites could be brewed into bottle form. Some are good, others are merely noble efforts. Over 5600 short films were submitted for competition -- less than 50 made the cut for inclusion, so they all have something worth noting.
I walked out of first block of shorts firm in my belief that it was biggest pile of steaming crap left behind since the circus left town.
Dude, when I think about one of the shorts, from Iceland, even now my hands are shaking a little -- I have never been so enraged by something so raw and painful and wrong. When the directors go down front for Q&A afterwards, many of the questions are about budgets, lens choice, shooting schedule and production development. I wanted to ask, "Yeah, WHAT IN THE FUGGING HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!?" I still want to punch him in the face.
Huh... Two days later... I still want to punch him. He created a story that was so brutal and painful, that I feel rage days later. I may have to concede that kind of impact is a form of artistic success.
And then, there was the one about the giant pencil with the creepy face. And the one they made for just the $50 in digital tapes they used. And the one by a famous music video director that bounced around time and viewpoint to let you come to an conclusion about what happened in a drug shootout. And the one that was technically porn, but in a good way, with a Buzzcocks soundtrack. The variety is wonderful, the results vary, and the passion for film is inherent in each.
As with the beer sampler, I generally discover a couple that I wish there were more of, a few worth recommending, and at least one that is like that beer with the upside-down chicken on the label that tastes like Pine Sol, coffee grounds, and the floor of my fraternity house basement.
(Try the Almost-Porn Ale.)
To be honest, it really comes down to my attention span -- visible only through an electron microscope, and comparable to the lifespan of the male of the mite Acarophenax tribolii. This thing "develops inside the body of its mother, fertilises its female siblings, and then dies before it is even born, all within the space of a couple of hours." Actually, that's too long in real time; but I'm pretty sure my focus on anything is generally over before it begins. Short films appeal to me in particular because I'm never more than 14 minutes away from seeing something else.
Where was I?
Shorts. Shorts can be comedic, tragic, evocative, shocking, endearing, way cool, way off base, intensely personal, or an effort to lobby for more funding for expansion into a feature.
They are like those beer samplers stacked in the aisles at your local grocer and gift shoppes around the holidays. You get an ale, a lager, a port, a double-bock, a stout, an IPA, and another three kinds of brew whose recipe was scribbled on the back of a TGIFriday receipt when the brewmaster wondered if jalapeno poppers and pizza bites could be brewed into bottle form. Some are good, others are merely noble efforts. Over 5600 short films were submitted for competition -- less than 50 made the cut for inclusion, so they all have something worth noting.
I walked out of first block of shorts firm in my belief that it was biggest pile of steaming crap left behind since the circus left town.
Dude, when I think about one of the shorts, from Iceland, even now my hands are shaking a little -- I have never been so enraged by something so raw and painful and wrong. When the directors go down front for Q&A afterwards, many of the questions are about budgets, lens choice, shooting schedule and production development. I wanted to ask, "Yeah, WHAT IN THE FUGGING HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!?" I still want to punch him in the face.
Huh... Two days later... I still want to punch him. He created a story that was so brutal and painful, that I feel rage days later. I may have to concede that kind of impact is a form of artistic success.
And then, there was the one about the giant pencil with the creepy face. And the one they made for just the $50 in digital tapes they used. And the one by a famous music video director that bounced around time and viewpoint to let you come to an conclusion about what happened in a drug shootout. And the one that was technically porn, but in a good way, with a Buzzcocks soundtrack. The variety is wonderful, the results vary, and the passion for film is inherent in each.
As with the beer sampler, I generally discover a couple that I wish there were more of, a few worth recommending, and at least one that is like that beer with the upside-down chicken on the label that tastes like Pine Sol, coffee grounds, and the floor of my fraternity house basement.
(Try the Almost-Porn Ale.)
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Live from Sundance, Day 3a
Geez, it's late on Day 4 and I'm still talking Day 3?
Monday's movie-watching began with a 9am showing at the Park City Library. The feature was preceded by a short from Ireland, introduced by the fine Irish lad that produced, created, and directed "A Film from My Parish - 6 Farms". It was a composition of digital stills, which is to say, he took pictures and linked them together to create his imagery. It wasn't a still picture with a voice over -- it was an animated sequence of images. A walk down a lane was created by taking a picture, stepping two inches forward, taking another picture, and so on. Ostensibly about old Irish handmade furniture in the farmhouses around County Tipperary, it became a visit with the farmers, the history, and the rich palette of the land. The director, Tony Donoghue, showed us the camera hanging around his neck like a tourist and said, "This is all you need." He wore out two such cameras taking 50,000 images, and built an absolutely captivating seven minutes in an Irish heaven.
And then, the feature: a documentary about an old Korean farmer and his faithful 40-year old ox called "Old Partner". This farmer and his wife raised nine children, season after season in the rice paddies and chili fields, always accompanied by this ox. It hauled their carts, ploughs, and harvests -- every day, in a season-driven pattern of service. The difficult rural life showed on their bent limbs, the tired eyes, the difficult steps, the exhaustion of their daily routine -- the farmer, his wife, and the ox too. So many years together created a bond, a partnership, and a mutual reliance that transcended the role of mere livestock. The farmer rises every morning to cook his ox a special cattle gruel, and you can see his eyes cut to alert status when hearing his lowing. Not to ruin it for you, but the ox dies -- and the taciturn farmer, his lined face a legacy of his labors, barely acknowledges it. In his gnarled hands, however, is the bell that the ox wore for all those years. Perfect.
Anatole France wrote, "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." That's tagged with the movie, and may or may not be true. All I can say is that I have an old dog that has hauled his aching legs up to walk and meet me at the door every time I walk through it, and when the day comes that he is no longer there, a piece of me will be pass with him.
Monday's movie-watching began with a 9am showing at the Park City Library. The feature was preceded by a short from Ireland, introduced by the fine Irish lad that produced, created, and directed "A Film from My Parish - 6 Farms". It was a composition of digital stills, which is to say, he took pictures and linked them together to create his imagery. It wasn't a still picture with a voice over -- it was an animated sequence of images. A walk down a lane was created by taking a picture, stepping two inches forward, taking another picture, and so on. Ostensibly about old Irish handmade furniture in the farmhouses around County Tipperary, it became a visit with the farmers, the history, and the rich palette of the land. The director, Tony Donoghue, showed us the camera hanging around his neck like a tourist and said, "This is all you need." He wore out two such cameras taking 50,000 images, and built an absolutely captivating seven minutes in an Irish heaven.
And then, the feature: a documentary about an old Korean farmer and his faithful 40-year old ox called "Old Partner". This farmer and his wife raised nine children, season after season in the rice paddies and chili fields, always accompanied by this ox. It hauled their carts, ploughs, and harvests -- every day, in a season-driven pattern of service. The difficult rural life showed on their bent limbs, the tired eyes, the difficult steps, the exhaustion of their daily routine -- the farmer, his wife, and the ox too. So many years together created a bond, a partnership, and a mutual reliance that transcended the role of mere livestock. The farmer rises every morning to cook his ox a special cattle gruel, and you can see his eyes cut to alert status when hearing his lowing. Not to ruin it for you, but the ox dies -- and the taciturn farmer, his lined face a legacy of his labors, barely acknowledges it. In his gnarled hands, however, is the bell that the ox wore for all those years. Perfect.
Anatole France wrote, "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." That's tagged with the movie, and may or may not be true. All I can say is that I have an old dog that has hauled his aching legs up to walk and meet me at the door every time I walk through it, and when the day comes that he is no longer there, a piece of me will be pass with him.
Live from Sundance, Day 3
I have not discovered the Undisclosed Location Cheney Bunker that contains all the A-list celebrities, so my brushes with greatness are not exactly People magazine cover material. You know who topped the celebrity sighting list on Monday? No, you know who was my celebrity sighting for Monday? Edward freakin' Hermann. That's the voice of Dodge automobiles and dozens of books-on-tape, veteran of numerous "Oh, it's that guy" character roles, and Goldie Hawn's husband in "Overboard". Somewhere around town there was a charity hockey game with all the cool people, and I get to spot the Senior Vampire from the "Lost Boys". I want shiny celebrity! I'm an American!
All interesting things I may have overheard were ploughed over, scorched, and salted by the incredibly vapid conversation held next to me by cell phone girl ("Do you want to see, like, a cool sweater?") and her fabulous ("You know I love a cool sweater.") boy friend. Apparently, like her friend Erica is, like, totally on probation, like as her friend, but she doesn't know yet. In the short version, Erica tries to date cell phone girl's friends. In the longer version, there are about 459 "likes" and three text messages. There is a total ignorance of the speaker to the fact that her only chance with any male is the confluence of heavy drinking and a shot at the "Pig of the Week" trophy. Worse, drama club boy friend ran into Kristen Wiig in town. Unbelievable.
All interesting things I may have overheard were ploughed over, scorched, and salted by the incredibly vapid conversation held next to me by cell phone girl ("Do you want to see, like, a cool sweater?") and her fabulous ("You know I love a cool sweater.") boy friend. Apparently, like her friend Erica is, like, totally on probation, like as her friend, but she doesn't know yet. In the short version, Erica tries to date cell phone girl's friends. In the longer version, there are about 459 "likes" and three text messages. There is a total ignorance of the speaker to the fact that her only chance with any male is the confluence of heavy drinking and a shot at the "Pig of the Week" trophy. Worse, drama club boy friend ran into Kristen Wiig in town. Unbelievable.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Sundance Stare
I think I've perfected The Sundance Stare. It's the slightly overly long eye contact you make as you walk by somebody that allows you to confirm that the other person is not, in fact, anybody famous.
It's only natural to glance around as you walk around a neighborhood, the mall, the prison yard, what have you. You catch the eye of the person coming towards you, access threat or familiarity, and move on. At Sundance, however, everybody is wearing a hat, a parka, a scarf, sunglasses if you're a chick, three days of beard if you're a guy. There's about twelve square inches of face space on which to base your decision to keep scanning or go, "Oooo, that's that guy from that thing, or possibly Mira Sorvino!"
It's interesting to get scanned like that. People look at me, 1 ("Is that Noah Wyle, Josh Charles, or one of the skinny Baldwins in a Mad Bomber fur cap?") ... 2, 3, 4 ("Nope."); and move to the next face. It's nice just to be nominated.
The chance of seeing celebrities is kind of fun, despite the challenge.
But it's even easier to spot celebrity by watching for the paparazzi. They swarm with their massive cameras; you glance, identify, catalog, move on. It's like letting the vultures guide you to the body.
Paparazzi kind of suck, by the way. They're looking for the $1500 picture of Mariah Carey wearing nothing but a ski cap, and they get the kid that played Frodo trying get a free can of Monster energy drink. And they'll shove old people to the ground for either one.
But you have to be sure. I also saw four little girls practically in tears with excitement over getting a picture with an attractive redhead yesterday. They were thrilled to have run into this woman, clearly a star of some kind. "We LOVE YOU," they sighed. The redhead was so gracious.
But she wasn't anybody. As she walked away, I heard her say, "I wonder who they thought I was..."
It's only natural to glance around as you walk around a neighborhood, the mall, the prison yard, what have you. You catch the eye of the person coming towards you, access threat or familiarity, and move on. At Sundance, however, everybody is wearing a hat, a parka, a scarf, sunglasses if you're a chick, three days of beard if you're a guy. There's about twelve square inches of face space on which to base your decision to keep scanning or go, "Oooo, that's that guy from that thing, or possibly Mira Sorvino!"
It's interesting to get scanned like that. People look at me, 1 ("Is that Noah Wyle, Josh Charles, or one of the skinny Baldwins in a Mad Bomber fur cap?") ... 2, 3, 4 ("Nope."); and move to the next face. It's nice just to be nominated.
The chance of seeing celebrities is kind of fun, despite the challenge.
But it's even easier to spot celebrity by watching for the paparazzi. They swarm with their massive cameras; you glance, identify, catalog, move on. It's like letting the vultures guide you to the body.
Paparazzi kind of suck, by the way. They're looking for the $1500 picture of Mariah Carey wearing nothing but a ski cap, and they get the kid that played Frodo trying get a free can of Monster energy drink. And they'll shove old people to the ground for either one.
But you have to be sure. I also saw four little girls practically in tears with excitement over getting a picture with an attractive redhead yesterday. They were thrilled to have run into this woman, clearly a star of some kind. "We LOVE YOU," they sighed. The redhead was so gracious.
But she wasn't anybody. As she walked away, I heard her say, "I wonder who they thought I was..."
Sundance, Day 2
We spent Sunday afternoon roaming the greater Old Town area until our first movie at 9pm.
Most interesting observation: there are a lot of dogs here. Huskies, Border Collies, and handsome beasts of non-specific lineage are in much greater supply than handheld sweater wearing dogs, thankfully. Also noted: dog poop melts snow, but only to about a depth of four inches. I think this would be an excellent school science fair project, with a hand drawn chart on posterboard showing the Time/Temperature Decline Curve. It should be cross-referenced by breed and ambient air temperature.
Speaking of dogs, we saw the Amstel Light girls --dressed in tight white snow suits with white Russian fur hats -- walking their St. Bernards through town. As my loyalty can be secured by exactly this kind of brand management, we drank Amstel Light as soon as possible.
Most interesting thing Overheard/Eavesdropped was a cell phone conversation: "That bitch has been all OVER my dick; she be THROWING the pussy at me." It is unclear whether this was self-congratulation or a statement of irritation, but it was certainly news to the crowd of children pouring out of the ice cream store in front of him. I think they expected someone to throw a cat at them, or at least at the kid named Richard.
Least interesting thing observed: there was a PETA anti-fur brigade, possibly a whole division, staging a protest. Wrapped in fur coats covered in faux blood, ski masks, zombie costumes, and their own inflated senses of self-importance, they stood on either side of the street and chanted slogans back and forth across the street. "1-2-3-4, something something something gore. 5-6-7-8, something something something crate." They had gruesome placards showing furless corpses and reminded passersby that "your fur had a face."
Yeah, so did my lunch. And your boots, darlin'.
Our first Sundance movie of the week was "One Day in A Life" and we saw it at the classic Egyptian Theatre venue in the center of Old Town. It's an Italian movie, originally titled "Un Altra Pianeta", and the guide description goes like this:
"A man, Salvatore, crosses a sand dune heading to the beach. The next instant the beauty of the sea and sky is revealed to him, as if a forecast of the possibilities that lie ahead. Salvatore cuts a striking figure in his bathing suit and becomes an instant lightning rod for others' curiosity. He exudes a bold presence, although his aloof exterior barely masks a lingering hurt from his past. The sun and sand do their part, helping separate him from the struggles of his everyday life and serving as a surreal backdrop for a peculiar menagerie of characters to enter his life. Writer/director Stefano Tummolini tells a simple, yet beautiful, story that unfolds in a single day. "
The director brought two stars down front to introduce the movie: a handsome guy in a black t-shirt and a beautiful girl whose Italian stiletto pumps were almost as impressive as her massive breasts. About two minutes into it, I'm thinking -- cool structure, Italian language, English subtitles, get to see a day at a real Italian beach with intertwined stories and interesting charaters.
Three minutes into it, I'm like, "Dude, that's a dude... seriously kind of close to that other dude... are they going to fight? Dude! DUDE! Stop kissing!! That's NOT COOL!!!! It'sa Brokeback-a Beach-a! Where's the booby girl?!?!? "
By the closing credits, played across the intertwined nekkid bodies of a man and woman, with the ghost of a deceased lover jogging away down the beach, I'm pretty impressed. The director made this movie for next to nothing, creating a half-dozen stories of love where you only have one half of the relationship in the movie. For example, the main actor is a gay man who has lost his lover to AIDS. The main actress was hurt in different ways by a now-failed relationship. The booby girl is losing her beloved father; another actress is losing her mother. There's a boy in an open relationship, and a man who never speaks of his wife. The director created stories of couples and families without having the couples or families present. The more I thought about this movie, and tried to be a little more cosmopolitan about the men kissing, I liked it.
And now I know the Italian word for BJ.
Most interesting observation: there are a lot of dogs here. Huskies, Border Collies, and handsome beasts of non-specific lineage are in much greater supply than handheld sweater wearing dogs, thankfully. Also noted: dog poop melts snow, but only to about a depth of four inches. I think this would be an excellent school science fair project, with a hand drawn chart on posterboard showing the Time/Temperature Decline Curve. It should be cross-referenced by breed and ambient air temperature.
Speaking of dogs, we saw the Amstel Light girls --dressed in tight white snow suits with white Russian fur hats -- walking their St. Bernards through town. As my loyalty can be secured by exactly this kind of brand management, we drank Amstel Light as soon as possible.
Most interesting thing Overheard/Eavesdropped was a cell phone conversation: "That bitch has been all OVER my dick; she be THROWING the pussy at me." It is unclear whether this was self-congratulation or a statement of irritation, but it was certainly news to the crowd of children pouring out of the ice cream store in front of him. I think they expected someone to throw a cat at them, or at least at the kid named Richard.
Least interesting thing observed: there was a PETA anti-fur brigade, possibly a whole division, staging a protest. Wrapped in fur coats covered in faux blood, ski masks, zombie costumes, and their own inflated senses of self-importance, they stood on either side of the street and chanted slogans back and forth across the street. "1-2-3-4, something something something gore. 5-6-7-8, something something something crate." They had gruesome placards showing furless corpses and reminded passersby that "your fur had a face."
Yeah, so did my lunch. And your boots, darlin'.
Our first Sundance movie of the week was "One Day in A Life" and we saw it at the classic Egyptian Theatre venue in the center of Old Town. It's an Italian movie, originally titled "Un Altra Pianeta", and the guide description goes like this:
"A man, Salvatore, crosses a sand dune heading to the beach. The next instant the beauty of the sea and sky is revealed to him, as if a forecast of the possibilities that lie ahead. Salvatore cuts a striking figure in his bathing suit and becomes an instant lightning rod for others' curiosity. He exudes a bold presence, although his aloof exterior barely masks a lingering hurt from his past. The sun and sand do their part, helping separate him from the struggles of his everyday life and serving as a surreal backdrop for a peculiar menagerie of characters to enter his life. Writer/director Stefano Tummolini tells a simple, yet beautiful, story that unfolds in a single day. "
The director brought two stars down front to introduce the movie: a handsome guy in a black t-shirt and a beautiful girl whose Italian stiletto pumps were almost as impressive as her massive breasts. About two minutes into it, I'm thinking -- cool structure, Italian language, English subtitles, get to see a day at a real Italian beach with intertwined stories and interesting charaters.
Three minutes into it, I'm like, "Dude, that's a dude... seriously kind of close to that other dude... are they going to fight? Dude! DUDE! Stop kissing!! That's NOT COOL!!!! It'sa Brokeback-a Beach-a! Where's the booby girl?!?!? "
By the closing credits, played across the intertwined nekkid bodies of a man and woman, with the ghost of a deceased lover jogging away down the beach, I'm pretty impressed. The director made this movie for next to nothing, creating a half-dozen stories of love where you only have one half of the relationship in the movie. For example, the main actor is a gay man who has lost his lover to AIDS. The main actress was hurt in different ways by a now-failed relationship. The booby girl is losing her beloved father; another actress is losing her mother. There's a boy in an open relationship, and a man who never speaks of his wife. The director created stories of couples and families without having the couples or families present. The more I thought about this movie, and tried to be a little more cosmopolitan about the men kissing, I liked it.
And now I know the Italian word for BJ.
Sundance, Day 2 short
We have to jet to a movie at 8:30am, but I'll be back with the report later!
Yesterday, we saw Kevin Sorbo, Eljah Wood, the guy that was the quiet roommate in "School of Rock"; and did a shot of Rumpleminz with Jessica Alba. One of those things is not true.
Yesterday, we saw Kevin Sorbo, Eljah Wood, the guy that was the quiet roommate in "School of Rock"; and did a shot of Rumpleminz with Jessica Alba. One of those things is not true.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Art & Copy was a must-see
Art & Copy was a must-see for me, and then I read a review on Cinematical.com (linked, to the right). First, I wish I could write this this dude; and (B) revel in run-on wonder at this comment.
"If you had shown me Art & Copy at the Cleo Awards (honoring advertising's best and brightest) as a highlight reel of excellence, it would have felt like a nice, glossy puff propaganda piece; watching it at Sundance, I couldn't help but marvel how well the film's makers and backers had practiced the trade it depicts and convinced the Festival this circular sell-job of self-celebration was a real documentary."
SLAM. Check, please.
"If you had shown me Art & Copy at the Cleo Awards (honoring advertising's best and brightest) as a highlight reel of excellence, it would have felt like a nice, glossy puff propaganda piece; watching it at Sundance, I couldn't help but marvel how well the film's makers and backers had practiced the trade it depicts and convinced the Festival this circular sell-job of self-celebration was a real documentary."
SLAM. Check, please.
Live from Sundance, Day 1
Dateline: Park City, covered in the white of Christmas snow and the black of L.A. cool
Oh, yeah; it's pretty awesome. The fireplace is cranking, the condo is full of bacon, and the coffee is putting a halfway decent dent in my altitude sickness. By "altitude sickness", of course I mean that I forgot that drinking this far above sea level requires a shade more moderation than "Yeah, give me two more beers -- no, make it four because it's crowded." I recommend the Bobsled Brown at the Wasatch Brewery, but not the fifth and sixth Budweiser at -- whatever that last place was.
It was a close race for Most Interesting Thing Overheard and Eavesdropped. A woman with a very clear sense of both irony and health care management stated, "I just don't want a cardiologist that weighs 300 lbs." Edging that out slightly, solely on the basis of the speaker's snowboard-style pigtails, was, "Right after Episode I came out, I tried to get JarJarSex.com; but that site was already taken!"
Actually, no, there was one more. We stopped in at a random bar just off Main Street -- unwilling to pay the twenty bucks each to get into the one on Main Street (at that point). It was crowded, but my attention was suddenly drawn to the dude that was banging his bar stool on the floor like a jackhammer while yelling, "James Bond, man, JAMES BOND! I have a freakin' BONER that's so awesome!" Pierce Brosnan was working his way through the crowd a couple of tables over. There was no evidence of a martini in any particular condition, but I did admire his cool as people swarmed him. They were all trying to get that Arms-Length Reverse-Camera shot to capture themselves in a picture with him.
And while we're on "Who'd Ya See?" -- Paris Hilton. A black Escalade went by with a pack of teenage boys running alongside like cartoon dogs chasing a firetruck. The back window rolled down and I saw her inside, presumably exposing herself to throw some pocket change out to the poor street urchins. Gotta say: very lovely skin. She looks much better in natural light instead of nightvision-green.
Later, I glanced up at the Wasatch Brew Pub and saw a couple of members of the Broken Lizard team. It was the two main characters from Beerfest. I like most of their work, but didn't know what to say because I don't know their names and didn't want to say, "Hey, you're those guys from that movie! I like most of your work!" Or, "Where's Jay Chandrasekhar, the one member of your troupe whose name I know, but whose work on the "Dukes of Hazzard" movie was abysmal?" Or, "Come get beer sit here famous dudes!" I sat dumbly instead. It seemed the best of all my options.
There's something very disconcerting about seeing someone in three dimensions for the first time. I swear, my first reaction is based on confusion. Here are people I've only seen on a screen, flat and a foot tall. And here they are, six times bigger and coming right at me with a strangely familiar look that is completely out of familiar context. Sitting dumbly is about as much as I can muster.
I'm also pretty sure I saw either the 3-6 Mafia or maybe three members of some NFL offensive line. Basically, I saw three big black guys that appeared to be very popular with the people that were taking their picture. I was demographically unprepared for additional analysis.
We committed the body to the party as we went past a bar where the barker advised us that the Gin Blossoms were playing. Next thing I know, I'm $40 lighter and in a basement bar straight out of my fraternity house memories. Lynn heads to the stage -- actually, a corner of the basement about the size of my office cube, with no risers because the ceiling is so low -- and I head to the bar to double order beer. Turns out, the Gin Blossoms have left; but their drummer is playing with this cat named Matthew Moon that turns out to be pretty good. We stood right in front of them, a couple of feet from the microphone, ass-to-ass with all the partying starlets and studio hacks. There's nothing like a basement party rock show in front of the band. One huge guy lunged across us to grab the mike, turned it around to himself; and I fully expected him to be beaten back with axe swing of the bass guitar. Instead, he pulled out a harmonica and played along with the band. Tremendous! We rocked until they closed with crowd favorite "Drink a little, Smoke a little". I got a business card from my new best friend Maltzy, whose enthusiasm for this band was matched only his taste in women; then I noticed it was 3am,and turned into a pumpkin.
So, somewhere our Sundance credentials and tickets are waiting for us. I really need to get those, but there's an interview show on the local festival TV channel with the founders of Hulu, YouTube, and Netflix, and somebody just said that Google is SkyNet and it will become self-aware in 2012.
I couldn't be happier.
Oh, yeah; it's pretty awesome. The fireplace is cranking, the condo is full of bacon, and the coffee is putting a halfway decent dent in my altitude sickness. By "altitude sickness", of course I mean that I forgot that drinking this far above sea level requires a shade more moderation than "Yeah, give me two more beers -- no, make it four because it's crowded." I recommend the Bobsled Brown at the Wasatch Brewery, but not the fifth and sixth Budweiser at -- whatever that last place was.
It was a close race for Most Interesting Thing Overheard and Eavesdropped. A woman with a very clear sense of both irony and health care management stated, "I just don't want a cardiologist that weighs 300 lbs." Edging that out slightly, solely on the basis of the speaker's snowboard-style pigtails, was, "Right after Episode I came out, I tried to get JarJarSex.com; but that site was already taken!"
Actually, no, there was one more. We stopped in at a random bar just off Main Street -- unwilling to pay the twenty bucks each to get into the one on Main Street (at that point). It was crowded, but my attention was suddenly drawn to the dude that was banging his bar stool on the floor like a jackhammer while yelling, "James Bond, man, JAMES BOND! I have a freakin' BONER that's so awesome!" Pierce Brosnan was working his way through the crowd a couple of tables over. There was no evidence of a martini in any particular condition, but I did admire his cool as people swarmed him. They were all trying to get that Arms-Length Reverse-Camera shot to capture themselves in a picture with him.
And while we're on "Who'd Ya See?" -- Paris Hilton. A black Escalade went by with a pack of teenage boys running alongside like cartoon dogs chasing a firetruck. The back window rolled down and I saw her inside, presumably exposing herself to throw some pocket change out to the poor street urchins. Gotta say: very lovely skin. She looks much better in natural light instead of nightvision-green.
Later, I glanced up at the Wasatch Brew Pub and saw a couple of members of the Broken Lizard team. It was the two main characters from Beerfest. I like most of their work, but didn't know what to say because I don't know their names and didn't want to say, "Hey, you're those guys from that movie! I like most of your work!" Or, "Where's Jay Chandrasekhar, the one member of your troupe whose name I know, but whose work on the "Dukes of Hazzard" movie was abysmal?" Or, "Come get beer sit here famous dudes!" I sat dumbly instead. It seemed the best of all my options.
There's something very disconcerting about seeing someone in three dimensions for the first time. I swear, my first reaction is based on confusion. Here are people I've only seen on a screen, flat and a foot tall. And here they are, six times bigger and coming right at me with a strangely familiar look that is completely out of familiar context. Sitting dumbly is about as much as I can muster.
I'm also pretty sure I saw either the 3-6 Mafia or maybe three members of some NFL offensive line. Basically, I saw three big black guys that appeared to be very popular with the people that were taking their picture. I was demographically unprepared for additional analysis.
We committed the body to the party as we went past a bar where the barker advised us that the Gin Blossoms were playing. Next thing I know, I'm $40 lighter and in a basement bar straight out of my fraternity house memories. Lynn heads to the stage -- actually, a corner of the basement about the size of my office cube, with no risers because the ceiling is so low -- and I head to the bar to double order beer. Turns out, the Gin Blossoms have left; but their drummer is playing with this cat named Matthew Moon that turns out to be pretty good. We stood right in front of them, a couple of feet from the microphone, ass-to-ass with all the partying starlets and studio hacks. There's nothing like a basement party rock show in front of the band. One huge guy lunged across us to grab the mike, turned it around to himself; and I fully expected him to be beaten back with axe swing of the bass guitar. Instead, he pulled out a harmonica and played along with the band. Tremendous! We rocked until they closed with crowd favorite "Drink a little, Smoke a little". I got a business card from my new best friend Maltzy, whose enthusiasm for this band was matched only his taste in women; then I noticed it was 3am,and turned into a pumpkin.
So, somewhere our Sundance credentials and tickets are waiting for us. I really need to get those, but there's an interview show on the local festival TV channel with the founders of Hulu, YouTube, and Netflix, and somebody just said that Google is SkyNet and it will become self-aware in 2012.
I couldn't be happier.
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