Stories

I don't really have this one mapped out... we'll see how it goes.

A while ago I was shown a film called Weekend, which is a gay love story. I usually balk at calling things gay anything (why can't it just be a "love story" and all that crap), but in this case the qualifier is quite essential. More on that later.

Anyway, I thought the film was really good - especially the acting and the dialogue. Real people talking, and not talking. Meanings carried inbetween. I figured it was a cool new addition to my catalog of relationship studies.

A day went by, then two, and I realized that it didn't go away. A buzz in the back of my head, a lump in the pit of my stomach - it was still there. I got my own copy, re-watched a few scenes. Started cutting out clips, and flinging them at people. I spread the word. Finally I rested, satisfied.

Some time after, my mother asked me if I could get the movie for her. I had sent her a song that played over the end credits (it was very much her sort of music). She did some digging around on YouTube, found a couple of scenes, and wanted to see the whole thing. I figured why not, except the Polish subs were pretty horrible, so I decided to tweak the translation first. This of course meant that I had to see the whole thing again, which rekindled my urge to share it with someone.

Today I watched the whole thing with Ana, and here is where - at long last - the Thoughts come in. One of the characters in the movie is a self-proclaimed artist and semi-militant gay... activist, I guess? If you consider speechifying about the societal structure to be activism. It's even nicely played up for humor, when he delivers a drunken sermon on the inherent heterosexuality of narrative in popular culture to an increasingly confused middle-aged bar patron. The thing is, my first reaction was to roll my eyes at most of the stuff he said. And then roll them again once I realized that he also serves as a delivery system for the filmmaker's thoughts on the subject (it actually gets a bit meta at one point, with the guy musing on whether anyone will see his work, since it's just gay stuff - but the character is so well-written that I hadn't picked up on it at first).

I kept thinking that I long for the day when you don't need to have a character give the audience a crash course in Being Gay in Our Society, and highlight the suckage involved. Or preach on the importance of taking charge and making up "our own" - i.e. gay - stories. Once again: why do they have to be gay? Why can't they just be "stories"?

Well, the thing is... maybe they can't. Or maybe they shouldn't. It's been hours, and I'm still riding a wave of crushing melancholia. The thing punched right through me and pulled out a horrible, gnawing hunger right to the surface. I can recall only one other instance of me having this guttural a reaction to a film - and that was after seeing Angels in America.

I get emotional watching... my first instinct was to write "universal", but yes, the truth is "straight" stories. Stuff happens, I empathize, I appreciate the nuances, I revel in the dynamics. But I do not get fucking incapacitated. That stuff gets filtered and translated through my brain, I guess. Meanwhile, this movie bypassed all those checkpoints, and interfaced directly. And I doubt that's because it was just that good.

The sinking feeling will pass, I should have it locked and chained again in a day or two, but I guess I might need to rethink some of my kneejerk reactions towards ghettoization.

Joseph says

I got a bit drunk tonight while playing boardgames, and then watched too good and too touching a movie (50/50) to go to sleep straight away. So let's take stock, shall we?

Christmas is coming. I've absolutely nothing more to say about that.

I had a major health scare which turned out to be nothing at all. I want all my future health scares to follow this pattern.

I'm trying to figure out whether I should get in touch with my childhood friend via Facebook. I've been trying to figure out whether to get in touch with him since... late high school, I think. I barely remember what he looks like. I just looked him up and he doesn't seem to be an active user (doesn't even have a profile picture), so I guess I'll pass. Could be too weird.

There was a thing, and it went as well as could be expected, so that's cool.

This is turning out to be a very uninspiring blog entry, but I'm in no mood to write about the fluff, and the stuff I actually want to get off my chest I won't, because cmon that's private. Oh human condition, why you so convoluted.

50/50 is really good. Yellow Ledbetter on repeat good.

Other Women

Far from flawless, and hardly revelatory, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. If "enjoyed" is the proper term here.

Reference point #1 - this is how you do a jawline:

The illusion of effortlessness requires a great effort indeed

Reference point #2 - this is how you pronounce "Sarah the Dancer":

The U Factor

In yet another attempt to burn through my backlog of movies, I watched Eulogy and Elegy. The first one was pretty atrocious - I actually groaned outloud several times. An ensemble dramedy with a lot of wasted ensemble. Elegy was better, but unfortunately too remote to make some sort of connection. It dealt mostly with aging and adultery, subjects I'm not intimately familiar with, so my mind wandered. Still, it had Patricia Clarkson (in a small role, unfortunately), and was quite beautifully constructed and shot. Very subdued, but evocative. Only once the credits rolled did I realize that it was one of Isabel Coixet's - which was probably why I got it in the first place.

And there was one brilliant exchange, between the main character, played by Ben Kingsley, and his estranged son (Peter Sarsgaard). I've uploaded it here, if anyone feels like watching 2 minutes of solid acting with a deliciously scathing conclusion.

Roses, condensed

Sometimes I really love my job. Probably never more so than over the past week. I was contracted by three different people to translate three different movies, and... well, let's just say Banksy's hilarious mockumentary turned out to be the least engaging of the crop.

Unfortunately, the trailer for the only feature offering of the bunch is a bit lackluster and all over the place thematically, so I'll showcase the last one:



The scripts I translate movies from often aren't 100% compatibile with the finished product - they contain scenes that were later cut, present the dialogue in a different sequence, or in some severe cases are only superficially related to the actual movie. It's a pain in the ass, but there's nothing I can do about it. This time it led to me translating a story that as it turns out never made the final cut. For once, though, I'm really glad it did:

There was this kid I grew up with, sweetest person you’ll ever meet, and could sing just like James Taylor, had a beautiful voice. His daddy was a Pentecostal preacher and he grew up in the church and ended up marrying a girl whose daddy was a preacher. And he was just surrounded by Jesus and he was a sensitive soul and he didn’t fit in the church. Didn’t fit there, but kept trying and trying until one day he just went to the hardware store and bought him a can of paint. He went to the church, he painted love on one side, he painted hate on the other. And then he sat down on the front steps crying. He just couldn’t find the middle.

Ok, back to work.

There's not much chance of coming out clean

Sometimes i forget how amazing this movie is. Never for long, though. Never for long.

Fadeouts

Marta dropped by with two bottles of rose wine in the evening, so work went out the window. She left around 10p.m. and I've been trying to resurface since. Right now it's raining outside, and I'm looping this:

It's not exactly groundbreaking, but it's definitely doing the job. As for what job that is... Who's to know.

I recently saw short documentary called Birds Get Vertigo Too about an aerial acrobat and her rigger, who are a couple. It opens with a shot of the guy shaving in the morning and a question: who gets more scared - the riggers or the artists? He says the aerialists (love that word) cry a lot before the shows, but they won't admit to being scared of heights. The last dialogue between them comes from some rehearsal, where he starts apologizing for being tired, and she explains that she just asked whatever it was that she had asked him about, because she wasn't sure if there was a problem, or if he was just worried she was too high. To which he replies that he was worried she was too high, but that that was just "his headspace".

It ends with footage from the actual show, with her doing her routine on a big silver hoop suspended in the air, and him darting up and down one of the poles as her counterweight. Halfway through, the spoken word background gives way to sounds of muted sobbing, probably recorded before the show, when the girl was getting ready to perform. Eventually they fade as well.

It's a really beautiful, and beautifully constructed piece. The author's name is Sarah Cunningham. It's her first film.

Brief Interviews

Saw two movies recently - an universally acclaimed one (The Squid and the Whale), and something that had been sold to me as a questionable first-time effort, with the emphasis on "effort" (Brief Interviews with Hideous Men).

The first one left me mostly cold and a wee bit annoyed. It felt like the lovechild of Wes Anderson and Todd Solondz, filled with frighteningly real and unlikable characters. I appreciated the whole hall of mirrors effect, with various people unwittingly echoing each other's sentiments and mannerisms, but there was nothing there that I could latch onto. I don't come from a broken home, I don't have siblings, and my sympathy compass is totally messed up. It's actually one of the reasons why I was never able to fully immerse myself in Mad Men - I usually empathised with the women, which was a very ungrateful exercise for the most part, and was primarily annoyed by Don Draper. The same thing happened with The Squid and the Whale - the father and the sons irritated me, so I was left with the mother, who didn't really provide an emotional anchor either, seeing as she was equally... three-dimensional.

Cue Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, which I really liked almost from start to finish. I remember reading on Pajiba that the book it was based on is basically unfilmable, and that despite their general good will towards John Krasinski (who wrote the script and directed) they felt it fell short. Well, I haven't read the book, and so find myself paraphrasing Kathleen Madigan yet again: "You don't see a frown on my face, do you? Should have waited for the movie instead, like a good American."

Now... it definitely feels like a book adaptation. A theatre play adaptation, even. The dialogue is actually more of a series of monologues, and all of them are very dense and verbose. Still, the only time I felt the pomposity explode the cinematic framework was when they saw it necessary to amp up an already larger-than-life tirade with some of that trademark indie movie discordant electric guitar and drums... jazz... thing.

As for specifics... the title basically says it all. It's a string of guys talking about their expectations, desires and thought patterns with brutal candidness, held together by a rather rudimentary plot. It works though. The monologues are very compelling (the book must be awesome), and there's quite a lot of talent involved. And by talent I mean fun faces - Bobby Cannavale, Lester from The Wire, Josh Charles (aka the dude who had Lara Flynn Boyle after him and still went for Stephen Baldwin. STEPHEN Baldwin, for crying outloud), Ben Shenkman playing a straight Louis Ironson, and a bunch of Hey, It's That Guy's. And John Krasinski himself, who got to perform the most harrowing of the monologues, and - in my opinion - sold it.

So yeah, if you don't mind your movies not trying to hide they're purely intelectual exercises - I highly recommend it.

Good loglines

Via Pajiba. Kristen Wiig has optioned Clown Girl - a movie about Sniffles the Clown, a girl who tries to resist the lucrative clown-fetishist prostitution trade.

I'm so on board.

Strands

It's been a headachey day. I've been trying to shake off a cold for a few days, and finally decided that what I need is some good old chicken soup. This being my world of nevercook, the part of chicken soup ended up being played by Vietnamese Pho from the takeout place. I hope it works.

I ended up in a professional cul de sac. I can either work on a Romanian documentary featuring quaint, rhymed folk ditties, a Polish newsreel featuring quaint, rhymed folk ditties, or a fairy tale featuring quaint, rhymed invocations. I've no idea how I got here, but I blame Twilight.

Which I finally watched, last night. I don't think it's possible to write anything new about the movie, and to just sum it up as "bad" seems completely beside the point. It was such a weird, disjointed creation. Definitely had that Harry Potter adaptation feel of trying to cram and stich together all these elements on a strict deadline, except without any... you know... action. The end credits took me completely by surprise (and were a total what the fuck of their own - who the hell chose that song?)

I genuinely tried to find the appeal, but I suppose I just didn't have the adolescent ovaries. I did like the cinematography. Well, ok: I liked the forest. The landscape shots. Seemed like a place I might want to live, or at least spend some time in.

Then again, I'm guessing they shot it in British Columbia, so that's not exactly news. I also liked some of the music, but my taste does have several glaring, gothic-skewing loopholes...

I could not, however, wrap my head around how remote the whole experience seemed to me. I felt like I was watching a film that was simultaneously its own, ready-made parody. The dialogue was so clunky and hollow at the same time. The girl's acting so... catatonic. She conveyed brain death with very limited means of expression (I swear, there was not a single line she did not either begin or end with a snort or an "um"), but maximum zeal. And then there was the creepy subtext of a mindless, infatuated drone clinging desperately to a guy who keeps saying - sometimes even jokingly - that he might physically hurt her. It all came together perfectly during the shitballs retarded Watch Me Glitter sequence, and the subsequent exchange:

E: I'm designed to kill.
B: I don't care.
E: I've killed before.
B: It doesn't matter.
E: I wanted to kill you. I've never wanted a human's blood so much in my life.
B: I trust you.
E: I try to play marbles with my ex-girlfriends' clitorises, but they're too squishy
B: I totally get that.

Ok, that last part might not have made it into the movie, but it really wouldn't look that out of place. Weird, weird thing.

What else... Ah. I'm madly in love with Jesse St. James. Not the pornstar. The fictional person who says stuff like "I picked the Stephen Sondheim biography section for our clandestine meeting place because only he would be able to express my melancholia." Now with video!

Over and out.

Slow

The thing I'm translating now is literally so stupid that I can't get through it. I lose my grip and fall off into the Interwebs every other sentence. Gruelling, low-paying, ridiculous shit.

So maybe it's time to write that I saw The Ghost Writer last night, and loved it. The cinematography, the color themes, the grand, classical feel of it, the way the threat was always only implied, the fact that I was actually constantly engaged and kept wondering where the plot was going, the way some bits were included only to build and enhance the mood (the constant phone conversations behind closed doors, the "false alarm"), and how seamlessly they were woven into the general story.

But I think my favorite element was the sense of deliberate containment, as the story unfolded in that isolated island manor*. I felt as I were watching some sort of intricate clockwork ballet, with various players fading in and out of the center stage spotlight in ever more intriguing configurations.

Oh, and they actually used the International Criminal Court as a plot device! The international law nerd in me rejoiced.

* I actually tried to find one of the shots showing the study, because they were so exquisitely framed, but no luck

Parenthesis

I finally watched Up in the Air last night. At first I felt it was another case of a movie not really living up to my inflated expectations. I wasn't bored while watching it. I liked the structure - how the city names, popping up randomly at first, became gradually infused with meaning, providing a nice dose of foreshadowing. The dialogue is really good, with a few choice sit-back-and-go-huh moments. There was even a scene with some serious emotional impact (when the girl has to do the remote sacking for the first time), and I really liked the ending, but it seemed like the movie as a whole didn't quite connect with me.

The scene I mentioned before actually seems exemplary of that - it's well crafted, there's real substance there, but the "message" somehow gets underdelivered at the last moment, that final hammer stroke just glancing the nail. And I'm not sure if that wasn't intentional.

The thing is: when I sat down to pick out a screencap to go with this post, and flicked through the whole thing all over again, I found myself pausing and going "oh, this bit was actually good..." at almost every scene.  Which leads me to believe that if I had let it set and wrote this note in a week's, or a month's time, possibly after a second viewing, I might have gushed. Then again, I might have not.

Tonight, most people will be welcomed home by jumping dogs and screaming kids. Their spouses will ask about their day, and tonight they'll sleep. The stars will wheel forth from their daytime hiding places. And one of those lights, slightly brighter than the rest, will be my wingtip, passing over.

The skinny

Actually, now that I think of it, I don't really have all that much to write about either In Bruges or Bored to Death. Or even a reason to lump them into a single post, aside from the fact that both ultimately proved to be disapointing.

In Bruges actually has a lot going for it. It's an unusual take on a popular cinematic motif - hitmen. It shows them in-between assignments, as they try to make the best of their downtime in a seemingly random location, awaiting further instructions from their employer. The performances are good, and the mood is spot-on (the movie actually plays like one of those quaint British small-town comedies, providing a cool contrast to its protagonists' profession), which makes the final, ridiculous misstep all the more aggravating. I won't reveal any plot points, suffice to say that in the climactic scene one of the main characters makes a certain distinction - whether for comedic or dramatic effect, I'm not even sure - which is not only tasteless in and of itself, but also makes a significant portion of the movie in retrospect seem like the buildup to a cheap gimmick. And you're handed this turd blossom literally moments before the end credits roll, so it essentially remains your last impression.

As for Bored to Death, it doesn't stumble so badly, but that's probably because to do so would constitute some sort of statement, and the show is too intent on charting the bland side of quirkiness for that sort of thing. The characters are about as removed from reality as the Bluth family, but they're mired in aimless Seinfeldian tedium, punctuated by Jason Schwartzman* repeating what some other character just said in the earnest monotone of a stoner's revelation. The premise... Schwartzman decides to advertise himself as a private detective on craigslist. No idea why, as no reason is given. It's not for money - that he gets for writing... something for his millionnaire... friend, I guess. Or boss who's really into micro-managing freelance writers. Oh, and his girlfriend left him, cause he smokes too much pot and drinks too much white wine. I'm at episode three, and it's about Jim Jarmusch giving him his new script to look over (he's a fan, y'know). It's about Frank O'Hara. But Schwartzman loses it, so Jarmusch decides to go with Charlie Kaufmann instead. Yeah. And it's a good thing namedropping and cameos are such strong plot devices, because absolutely nothing more of note happens throughout the entire episode. I suppose, given the title, that might have actually been the idea, but I've seen good (Mad Men), or even decent (Hung) slow-paced shows about nothing much at all, and Bored to Death isn't one of them.

* full disclosure: every time I saw him on the screen I wanted to punch him in the face. I'm not proud of it, but cmon.

Harder

A while ago ao gave me a version of The Taming of the Shrew that was part of a BBC mini-series called ShakespeaRe-Told (cringeworthy name, I know). I finally watched it last night, and it is absolutely brilliant. In fact, it was so good I'm totally getting it on DVD for Christmas. I'm posting the same scene ao tempted me with, because it simply has to be seen. And trust me, both Shirley Henderson and Rufus Sewell are spectacular throughout:

For the past 15 minutes I've been trying to come up with a way of expressing how incredibly sexy I find the 3:15-3:20 bit that would make it very clear it's not about violence at all, but as you can see I've had little success. The thing is: granted that an occasional Sunday armstice is observed, a perpetual tug of war really does seem like a dream romantic scenario to me. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that it's a lot more difficult to meet someone in a metaphorical dungeon.

The Fall

Shall I go on?

Watchmen

Just saw the movie. I tried not to read any reviews, and I didn't re-read the graphic novel beforehand (though I won't pretend the latter was some sort of premeditated move meant to render me as unbiased as possible - I just find it too depressing). I did, however, click on some link at one point and read a bit of someone's critique - mostly about the movie losing focus after the first 30 minutes, and how its "slavish" faithfulness to the source material made it aimless and chaotic.

Well.

I loved it. From start to finish, save for two scenes marred by words too big to fit on any screen (the "What happened to the American Dream?" exchange, and the "Rapists having babies is the shit" speech). I loved the sprawling tableau feel of it, the ambiance- and image-based narrative, the uneven pace, which gave me time to recover from seeing pregnant ladies get shot (someone should look into the therapeutic effects of contemplating Patrick Wilson's chest hair), the title sequence (obviously), the music (ditto), the acting... Jeffrey Dean Morgan was great. Jackie Earle Haley was just stellar. Patrick Wilson either has the best agent ever, or the casting directors for his movies are geniuses. I keep seeing him play basically a variation of the same guy, but he fits the bill every time. I don't know if it's still acting if you're a big blue gob of CGI, but I found myself spellbound by Dr. Manhattan's delivery, so bravo Billy Crudup. For some reason though, I was most impressed by Matthew Goode. I thought he was pitch-perfect, just oozing this larger than life, self-satisfied charisma. I had actually only seen the guy once before - in one of those NYT Style showcases - and remember finding him revoltingly narcissistic (seriously, you might need a palate cleanser after that one - have a Joseph, or a Rosario). So maybe it was just another case of perfect casting? No matter, I don't care. His Ozymandias was spot-on.

You should go see it. Just so it breaks even in overseas gross. It's the right thing to do.

Where's the lanky

Every time I see the Wolverine promo pictures I get angry at them for casting Taylor Kitsch (kudos for the last name though) as Gambit. Totally wrong body type and facial features.

I'm very particular about my favorite X-Man.

Terminator has gone preposterous, and Battlestar Galactica merely annoying. The utter self-indulgence of the piano bits in the last ep was so grating. And I can just imagine the circle-jerk over this superfluous bullshit the DVD commentary will inevitably turn into. I wouldn't be surprised if the creators ranked it as one of their favorite episodes, right up there with the god-awful "boxing and flashbacks" one.

Ok, I'm done.

Writing here still doesn't come naturally, but going back to the previous place seems silly. I'm in limbo. Had a remarkably nice week though, at least so far. With more amusement coming my way tomorrow. Who knows, maybe it'll even merit an update.

Wonder how he dies

I'm translating a kung fu movie where the protagonist, having mastered the Shaolin Invincible Body technique, renders himself impervious to harm - his only weak spot is his anus. I'll give you a moment to savor that one. I've yet to actually see it*, so my imagination is just teeming with images. Take for instance this exchange:

- Mom said that after you've been immersed in the wine, the only part vulnerable is your anus.
- Do I have to walk like this from now on?

You'd think it would be the Greeks who'd go there first, but no. It was the Chinese.

* the movie is in Mandarin, and I have a - sort of - English script, so the process is inverted: first I translate the lines, and then try to match and adjust them to the video