The last time I visited Auntie’s in Spokane, I nearly ran into a pillar. Thankfully, no one seemed to be watching. Also, that pillar was covered with staff-recommended books. The one closest to my head, which would have left its imprint on my forehead if I hadn’t snapped out of my daydream in time, was The Bell by Iris Murdoch.
I’d seen the movie Irisa couple of times (it features three of my very favorite actors–Judi Dench, Kate Winslet, and Jim Broadbent–who were, incidentally, all nominated for Oscars for their performances in this film) but had never encountered any of Dame Iris’s books before, so naturally I was curious.
For a book written by a noted philosopher, The Bell is surprisingly easy to read. The prose bears the marks of its time (some overwriting, adjective stacking, etc.) and at times, Murdoch does use some of the trademark tools of the philosophical novel (long speeches delivered by characters, stretches of philosophical internal monologue). But overall, she lets the reader figure out the message for him/herself–and I appreciated that. Read more »
I went to see Eat Pray Love yesterday. I’d read a review that made me a bit hesitant to spend my money on it, but it was hot out, the theater was air conditioned, and my husband had actually offered to accompany me to a chick flick (I now owe him one action movie). Unfortunately, the review I read was spot on. It had most of the plot points in order, but very little of the book’s emotional core.
But I’m not here to quibble about the movie’s faults and merits. Instead of spending the film wondering what the movie company had done to Liz Gilbert’s book (though I did spend a fair amount of time whispering my editorials to my husband, who had no idea what I was talking about), what mostly struck me was: What did they do to her life?
It’s hard enough for me to imagine my life story in print, selling millions of copies the way Liz Gilbert’s did. It’s even harder for me to imagine sitting in a movie theater, with Julia Roberts up on screen (or, if I’m imagining it’s me, maybe Ginnifer Goodwin or Maggie Gyllenhaal?), play-acting events that really changed my life. I would have to watch it–the whole train wreck effect–but how would I feel? The mind begins to boggle.
At the last Get Lit! festival in Spokane, I attended a panel where authors and screenwriters spoke about translating novels into film. The consensus seemed to be that authors had to separate themselves from the filmed product, release control, and thus release themselves from responsibility for what came out in theaters. But what about memoir? Can you really separate yourself from your life? And if you do, how does that affect the way you feel about your own memories? Do your experiences lose their impact when they run through so many filters?
I had planned to go check out one of the Brooklyn Bridge Park movies with my friend Maryanna this week, but when I checked the schedule I saw that they were playing Brokeback Mountain–one of my least favorite movies of all time. Usually when I tell people how much I don’t like this movie they look at me with horror and distrust.
I agree that Brokeback Mountain is visually beautiful and the acting is great and the subject matter is important and maybe even groundbreaking–but all that isn’t enough because the movie plays one brutal, mournful, high-pitch the whole time, without acknowledging any layers, variance or contradiction of feeling. No matter how hopeless or terrifying artistic subject matter is, I never believe that it’s truthful to force and force and force the despair of it all on your audience for the duration of the piece–which I believe this movie does. That type of subject matter can speak for itself. It needs to be left to breathe once in a while. Read more »
pretty much everyone i know has seen inception at this point. and pretty much everyone i know not only loved it, but loved it enough that they had to start talking about it with everyone else they knew. and pretty much everyone i know, and the people they knew, all immediately took to the internets after seeing it to see what other people were saying about it. i am pretty much like pretty much everyone i know in this regard. here is what i found:
Yes, we think words are the bee’s knees. We’re obsessed with opening lines. And last lines. Hell, second lines. It’s only a matter of time before someone (my money’s on me) posts a quiz of first full sentences from page 57 of novels written after 1979.*
But this week, I watched Stormy Weather (1943) and was forcibly reminded that sometimes words are insufficient and superfluous. The song is “Jumpin’ Jive,” performed by Cab Calloway’s band, and these are the Nicholas Brothers:
* (e.g., “Our mother opened her frayed wallet and wondered aloud how I’d make a living while I was writing poems.” —Mary Gaitskill, Veronica)
this is easily the coolest thing i’ve ever seen done with graffiti art (ever), courtesy of blu. it takes ten minutes, but you’ll probably want to watch it again as soon as it’s over.
Above is a trailer for Bad Writing, an upcoming indiedoc I learned about today, while trawling YouTube for videos to upload in lieu of writing a full blog post. This is probably old hype, but I’m nonetheless curious.
They were dead all along.
Hurley was still fat. He liked opening cans. There should’ve been more hunting on the island. More boar hunting with spears. Shirtless men following the beast into the jungle, surrounding it, thrusting their spears, a final killing blow. I would have watched another season if the producers stocked the island with other animals to hunt: panthers, Kodiak bears, Wallace Stevens. If the show was more like Cabela’s Big Game Hunter on Wii. I love that Goddamned game.
There should’ve been more broads too, but on a separate island. I liked the dark-headed one. She was feisty. I wonder what she would look like in jodhpurs, polishing my rifle. The blonde one with the bad hair reminds me of my second wife.
The last episode was sappy, a candy-ass convention, everybody kissing and embracing each other. I almost changed the channel to watch some UFC. Ken Shamrock was a god. Now there was a man. He settled his problems the way a man should, half naked and choking his enemies into submission. LOST should’ve been about courage. Sawyer and Jack drinking aperitifs, and complaining about women. If only Sawyer would cut off that lady hair of his.
I came across this adaptation of Camus’ The Fall earlier today. The more I watch it, the more I appreciate it. You’re gonna lose some content from muting, drawing, and casting a monologue into motion, of course, and the leaf metaphor is a little obvious, but it’s kinda cool, and having recently reread it, pretty on-point.
I will admit right here that I went to see Hot Tub Time Machine, paying full price at the theater. I chose Hot Tub Time Machine because of the title Hot Tub Time Machine. And I was satisfied with my movie-going experience, although when I tried to explain the reasons to someone who hadn’t seen it, all I could say was, “Well, one of the guys goes, ‘It must be some kind of … hot tub time machine!’” I like that the movie acknowledges how dumb it is, but really, especially, I like those four words together. In fact, when I started to think too hard about Hot Tub Time Machine, I discovered little good about it besides those four words together. Some parts are OK, but not good, and some parts are bad – cliché, predictable. In a movie about time travel, there’s much discussion about … the Butterfly Effect. But there are those four words. Hot Tub Time Machine.
This is where you might ask a question: Then why think too hard about it? Exactly. Isn’t some stuff just for fun?
For instance, why you gotta rain on our parade, Anthony Lane of The New Yorker? Here’s Lane on Kick-Ass, in which, among other apparently awesome fight scenes, an 11-year-old girl perpetrates a killing spree: “The standard defense of such material is that we are watching ‘cartoon violence,’ but, when filmmakers nudge a child into viewing savagery as slapstick, are we not allowing them to do what we condemn in the pornographer – that is, to coarsen and inflame?” Because that’s why you go to see a movie called Kick-Ass, you might say eye-rollingly– coming very close to dropping the magazine in favor of a snack – to think about such things. Read more »
2 Comments 
