Another letter to a filmmaker who is screwing stuff up

Dear Zack Snyder,

I really believe that you are a fanboy. You are camped out at 9:15 on Wednesday mornings outside your local shop to pick up the week's new issues. You bag and board anything and everything in case it might be of value some day. You know as much about obscure letterers and colorists from the '60's as baseball fanatics know about the Baltimore Orioles leftfieldsmen. I'm not doubting your geek pedigree. I know you too fucking well.

You're the sniveling little shit who disparagingly asks me upon my arrival at said comic book store if I'm "looking for something in particular - a gift for a boyfriend, maybe?" You're the one who points me firmly in the direction of the Buffy comics when I say I want horror pulp (not that there is anything wrong with the Buffy comics, but they're not exactly Hack 'n' Slash, are they?) You follow me not-terribly-covertly around convention floors making comments about the fit of my Star Trek t-shirt. You are the idiot who insists on trying to rolling to seduce my very powerful, not-at-all sexy mage in a one-off D&D adventure.

Here's the thing, Snyder. I don't much care for your movie-making. I think in your eagerness to make movies that are frame for frame reenactments of the comics they come from, you lose any desire to imbue your films with honesty or weight. It's frustrating when you do that to source material like Frank Miller's 300 and downright detrimental when it's something like Alan Moore's Watchmen. I don't know what graphic novel you were reading, but the Watchmen movie you made was NOT the Watchmen comic I read. The book was filled with fully-fleshed, complex characters with realistic motivations and emotional lives. Your movie? Not so much.

And now you bring us Sucker Punch. On the surface, there is nothing about this film that I shouldn't like. It is filled with dragons and mechas and sword-wielding lovelies and Jon Hamm. But why, for the love of Firefly, must you make the female characters look like they fell face-first into a vat of Porn Spackle(tm)? And why must the entire story be predicated on the assault - implied SEXUAL assault - of a teenager? And why do you take incredibly talented actors like Carla Gugino and Jena Malone and force them to emote with their fake eyelashes? You first remove all the power and agency from Queen Gorgo and Silk Spectres I and II, forcing them into roles where the ONLY art they wield is sexual - the sword-wielding and high kicks are merely frames for their ridiculous costumes. Now you are intent on selling us a whole two hours of this disenfranchising nonsense.

NEWSFLASH: We women live in a world that is fucking FULL of disenfranchising nonsense. We don't need it spoonfed to us in the guise of empowerment. Neither do our daughters, and just as importantly, neither do our sons. I want my budding geek son to not be the guy who chases girls out of the comic book shop, either directly with his nasty attitude or indirectly by insulting their intelligence and sensibilities with his complete ignorance of what makes a tough woman tough.

Honestly, Snyder. Your take on female power makes me feel bite-ier than the JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot. That is saying something.

Yours,
stella

P.S. In case you have forgotten what sexy AND capable looks like:

From now on

I will only use this blog to complain about things which I hate. Today, it's Hollywood. Again.

I know that I have already penned long diatribes about how Big Movies seem determined to destroy the things I feel strongly about by making them NEW! and IMPROVED! but I have to rant about it again. See, a couple of years ago, a little Swedish horror film called Let the Right One In made a bit of a splash amongst film buffs for being creepy, atmospheric, and heartbreaking. It is a coming of age story about having no age to come to, and an exploration of loneliness shared. One of my favorite themes that gets explored in storytelling is how we constantly strive for connection and the myriad ways we build bridges between ourselves. It stayed with me for weeks after I watched it, and I recommended it to anyone who would listen to me. Now Hollywood has gone and "remade" it so's Joe Average don't have to read and watch a movie at the same time (so taxing!) and I am wailing in protest.

All you need to know about the changes made to the story - and I have no doubt they will be endless and appallingly hamfisted - is to note the difference in the admonition offered by the original and revamped titles. Let Me In - the American version - is a plea against good sense, and the very thing we are warned against when dealing with vampires. Let the Right One In... well, there are exceptions to every rule.





I don't have to implore you to let the right one in, do I? Chose wisely.

Also, if you have yet to read the book, go ahead and do it. But not if you think every horror movie needs to be scored with angry screaming rock instead of minor key cello.

Still ...ing, just not blogging about it

I have mostly come to the conclusion that anything I post over on Ing and Ed gets read only by Mr. B and La Fab, which is fine, but ... well. I really like the attention I get posting over here, so I am going to update my own ...ing and ...ed over here, because I like to delude myself that more than just La Fabulous reads this (Hi, Lady L!)

Watching:

Terminator: Salvation
There were blowings-ups. And killer robots. And post-apocalyptic nonsense. And Christian Bale in a Messianic fury. And several inconsistencies which we are supposed to blithely ignore. It was fine. And noisy.

Star Trek: Rebooting a Series Which Has Seen More Reboots Than the Beta Version of Windows Vistasince when was Jim a beatnik?

It was nowhere near as bad as I had feared. That is not to say that it was good. It was distinctly JJ Abrams-y. There were a few too many conversations in extreme profile close-up and a few too much cool shit for the sake of being cool. Christopher Pine is too pretty, too young, and not Kirkian enough for my tastes. There was no need for the clumsy and unnecessary love story (hmmm... have I said this before?) But Karl Urban was the epitome of the good doctor, and Zachary Quinto didn't make me want to strangle him. We will ignore the wretched plot holes and the facial tattoos on the Romulans. Also, the occasional stilted lines of dialog and stiff deliveries were easy to dismiss, as that is par for the course with Star Trek. All in all, it was not the worst of the lot. That honor, of course, belongs to Star Trek IV: The Journey Home. Neither is it the best of them - Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country tie for that in my book. It was solid, if blinding, thanks to Abrams' irritating adoration of the lens flare. I will save my gripes about the look of the bridge and the uniforms for someone who wants to tune out my ranting. I will probably watch it again on DVD, if only to point out the glaring discrepancies to my companion, who is not a Trek fan per se, and who is uncaring but patient as the day is long.

thaaaaat's more like it.

Reading:

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
I always knew Lizzie Bennett had it in her. Any story is improved with muskets and katanas.

The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America
This is an interesting examination of the cultural divide that occurred in post-war America between adults and adolescents, who for the first time were being recognized as something apart from either children or grown-ups. There were the first stirrings of the generational gap that would fully evidence itself by the late 1960's, and the outcry over true crime comics and, shortly thereafter, the newly fledged genre of music called rock and roll, presaged the unrest by more than a decade. Also, there were some cool full-color repros of old horror and true crime comic covers.

Listening:

It might be mere coincidence that Steve Earle released an album of covers of songs written by the late Townes Van Zandt just weeks after Earle's son (and Van Zandt's namesake) Justin Townes Earle released his own sophomore effort. It might just be chance that there are echoes of Van Zandt's yearning outlaw country voice in the younger Earle's writing, which also recalls Hank Williams and a pinch of Bob Wills. It might be happenstance that both these albums were recommended to me in roundabout ways - one through an independent online music subscription service, the other the daily sale offering from a huge online music merchant. But all of a sudden, I am listening to a lot of serious country and western music written earnestly and unironically, and I am loving every minute of it. Sometimes there is an honesty in country music that is unparalleled in any other type; the lyrics cut through the bullshit to the heart of the matter in short order. The chorus in this song says what I haven't been able to spit out for the last month and a half:


And my favorite Townes Van Zandt song, which is one I have known all my life, is the rest of what I would say were I less of a coward:


All the rest is just the usual stuff. Go listen to that Justin Townes Earle song again. It's real good.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

That song is one of the most irritating holiday songs ever penned. You're welcome. I know you wanted an earworm for Christmas.



Here's what I got:

-Ironman. You knew it. I knew it. There was not a way that this movie was not turning up. It was one movie that surprised me with its goodness this year; everything else was more or less exactly what I expected. I still feigned surprise, and Cap'n Jack saw right through me.

-New knives. They are lovely, but I only use three of the ones I have already with any regularity. I think these will not be used half as much as the giver intended. I apologize.

-A sparkly purple box. I asked what was intended to go inside it, and HRH replied, "Your THINGS." Oh. Sorry. How could I have asked such a ridiculous question?

-A sweet, meandering conversation with the man I hesitate to put a label on. It was not long enough by half, but it went a long way to luring the proverbial lemur into the light. It also made me long for his face and his hand to hold, but I will take whatever crumbs the universe tosses me at this point.

- A rousing game of Zombie Beauty Shop. This consists of sitting in a tiny purple playhouse, training a fake hairdryer on a ridiculous toy purse-dog, and alternatively shouting, "BRAAAAAINSSSS!" and attempting to lick the wriggling child opposite you. It is the best game ever invented, especially if it makes your eldest child shriek, "Quit staring at my forehead! You're freaking me out!"

I hope you got the things you wanted the most off your list, and I hope that you had your own Zombie Beauty Shop moment. Someday, your loved ones will be able to look back and say, "We're not sure why we love you so much. You are a sick individual." And that is the best present you can get.

Pop culture update!

If you've been wondering why I haven't been shooting off at the mouth about the things that take up my time and headspace, it's because my list of awesome things I'm consuming has moved over to ing & ed. As a matter of fact, there'll be new stuff up over there pretty darned soon. But I had to, had to, had to talk about two things:

1) If you haven't seen Iron Man yet, we're not friends anymore until you do. I hate movies that are poorly made with lots of special effects to disguise that fact. I love movies that are laden with effects, to good... effect. You know. Where the explosions and the glowy things and the badassery support an actual plot, with actual characters who actually develop. My one beef with this movie is that it does not pass the Bechdel Rule, but I will forgive, because Pepper Potts is inoffensive. She is not a damsel in distress, and it is implied that her relationship with Tony Stark is complex and deep. And my favorite part? THIS IS A (small) SPOILER. At one point, the computer displays a solid gold (think Oscar statue) rendering. The camera pans to a (stereotypical) glossy 'rod, and Tony says, "Tell you what. Throw a little hotrod red in there." Fuck. Yeah. Jon Favreau now has a lifetime pass, between this and Swingers.

2) Star Trek trailer. I will cop to the fact that I screamed, "HELLS YEAH!" out loud. To a television screen. At 10:30 at night. I am SUCH a geek. My friends, I love the Enterprise. In my head right now, I have an overview map of the bridge. I know how to get from there to the captain's quarters, on both Kirk's ship and Picard's. I cannot wait. Can. Not. WAIT. J.J. Abrams better not fuck this up.
In case you're not as cool as me, Kirk's Enterprise is registry number NCC-1701. Picard's is NCC-1701-D.

Do you love musical theater?

How about supervillains? Captain Mal Reynolds? Doogie Howser? Sarcasm? Laundry?

Okay, if you love all of them, then you already know what I'm gonna say next. If not, hie thee IMMEDIATELY to Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and languish in the marvelosity that springs fully formed from the mind of Joss Whedon. If you go and watch this and say anything - ANYTHING - derogatory in the comments, then you are dead to me. DEAD, I say, because this is the very pinnacle of webertainment, as far as I am concerned.

If that is not enough to convince you, might I just say that Nathan Fillion's shirt is decidedly nippletastic? I thought so.

An overwhelming sense of nostalgia

Is this what happens when you hit your thirties? This indistinct but resolute longing for a return to childhood? Cuz, damn. Enough already.

I brought myself to tears listening to two songs this week: Dan Fogelberg and Emmylou Harris singing Only The Heart May Know and a very grown-up Mark Knopfler singing a pared down and heart-tearing version of Romeo and Juliet. Then I listened to Willie Nelson's Crazy and had to go lay down for a little while.

Speaking of tears, Wall*E about slayed me. If this had been a live-action film with a breathing actor, it would be deemed too sad, too apocalyptic and desolate for children. It's a portrait of what we do to stave off the burden of loneliness, a picture of how the comfort of routine and purpose keeps hope's candle burning and the darkness of spirit at bay. It reminds us that we can measure our humanity by our connection with other humans, and that mere existence is not living. And guess what? The kids got it. My kids did, at least. Cap'n Jack walked away thinking how great it was that Wall-E found a girlfriend and true love; Miss Thing walked away thinking how great it was that Wall-E found somebody just to hold his hand. Holding hands is something to wait for, even if it takes seven hundred years.

Go see Wall-E. Do yourself a favor, though, and don't listen to Willie Nelson or Mark Knopfler right before.

Lamest Update EVER.

Oh, hey! Hi! Sorry, I've been... kinda busy...with stuff...

Okay, I always have stuff to say, but I haven't been saying it on this blog lately. Sorry for all you regular blog-checkers.

Watching:
Sex and the City. I went in with low expectations, and I was still disappointed. Everything was just off. The pacing was terrible, the writing was worse, for every wonderful, inspired outfit, there was a high-priced trainwreck, and there was the slight problem of Carrie being referred to as 40, after a decade with Big. If I remember correctly, they celebrated her 34th birthday in the first season, also the season she met him, so she should be...44, right? She mysteriously did not manage to age for nearly half the decade. I am sure that there is deeper meaning in that statement, but I can't be bothered. I can't because I have to talk about the happy ending bullshit. Are we still buying the myth that the path to happiness is paved with goddamn diamond rings? I call shenanigans. I don't even want to talk about it anymore.

Also featuring Sarah Jessica Parker, Ed Wood. Tim Burton is a magnificent freak.

Listening:
Lipstick pop-punk heroes The Dollyrots and Go Betty Go. Sometimes a girl just needs a hook, y'know?

Reading:
When You Are Engulfed in Flames, David Sedaris. This is self-explanatory, right? Everyone already knows? It's funny. zs

I'm also rereading the 7th Harry Potter book, but just on and off because it happens to be laying next to my bed.

Eating:
Cherries. Piles of them. Rainier ones.



Finally, I always show pictures of Miss Thing, because she is slow enough to capture with a camera. Cap'n Jack, not so much. Nearly every shot of him is blurred and out of focus. But I managed to get a pretty great one of him in Juneau. It makes me sad, though, because it's one of those pictures that shows the future.

I always spoil everything.

*SPOILERALERTSPOILERALERTSPOILERALERT*

If for some unfathomable reason, you have been even lamer than me and have yet to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Motherfucking Alien Magnetic Crystal ESP Skull, please feel free to skip this post. Oops, I just spoiled everything.

AREA 51? Steven Spielberg, are you OFF your NUT? I know that there is no hope for George Lucas - JarJar Binks clinched that one for me - but come ON. I can forgive you cracking wise about Indy's age. I can forgive the clumsy and unnecessary love story, because they all have clumsy and unnecessary love stories. I can even forgive you trying to pass Shia "call me Stanley Yelnats" LaBeouf off as a Marlon Brando embracing greaser of a tough, clumsy and unnecessary James Dean biker cap notwithstanding. But interdimensional aliens? Roswell AND the Lines of Nazca? Jesus wept, man. No. No, no, no. I bought your undead, 800 year old Knights Templar and James Bond as Han Solo's dad. I will not have you heap the X-Files on my ever-loving, unsuspecting noggin.

Here are some other places you could have visited: Angkor Wat. Stonehenge. The Buddhas of Bamyan. Atlantis.

And just a couple more points, real quick: 1) I don't believe for a second that a piece of quartz half the size of Harrison Ford's torso could be toted around with such impunity in John Hurt's left hand, which leads me to believe that the inclusions that look like crumpled Saran Wrap are indeed, crumpled Saran Wrap and 2) Indy says with a sense of wonderment about the tourists from the 4th dimension, "They were archaelogists!" No. All those artifacts you found down there were supposed to be contemporary to the period in which our pointy headed friends visited South America. If they were collecting them from study, that would make the aliens ethnologists. If they were just collecting them because, well, you have to bring something back for the girls at the office, because if you don't, that's just rude, then the visitors were morons and the ancient and priceless artifacts were tchotkes.

The fistfight were too much, except the impromptu malt shop rumble, but Cate Blanchett LOVES her job, and Harrison Ford still does most of his own stunts. Damn. Also, props for the age-appropriate love interest, even if it was clumsy and unnecessary. Ditto for the well-groomed pomp on Mutt.

If you are the debunking type, which I (ahem) am, here's interesting reading. And if you are just sad because the mileage included a few too many miles of bad road, here's Indiana Jones like you remember him:

Annie are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?

This is the best thing that has happened to me on a Sunday morning in a long, long time.



You're welcome.

(oh, and thanks, Neatorama!)

I Think This May Be a Regular Feature

Watching: BSG. Still. Yeah, it's pretty good. Like, can't peel my eyes away. Also, Girls Rock! Shane and Arne have put together a really good movie, and I have to commend them for being so sensitive and honest with the subject matter.

Listening: Janet Klein and Her Parlor Boys. Naughty 20's ukulele jazz. AKA: my next career move.

Eating: This morning, cheesy garlic biscuits and hardboiled eggs with iced coffee and orange juice.

1 1/2 c. all purpose flour
1/2 c. whole wheat flour
1 T. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 c. cold butter, in chunks
3/4 c. grated sharp cheese
2 tsp. garlic powder
1 T. parsley
3/4 - 1 c. buttermilk or skim milk

In a food processor, add all dry ingredients except parsley. Pulse to combine. Sprinkle with butter. Process until pea-size bits form. Add cheese. Pulse briefly to combine. With processor running, slowly add milk until dough comes together. Bake at 400 F for 20-25 minutes. Eat warm.

Pretty in pink

That outfit is positively volcanic!

You may have noticed a tiny redesign here at BMA. There was no real reason behind it, except I couldn't for the life of me remember why I chose willow green as the color scheme. I do love yellowy greens - it's one color I absolutely CANNOT pull off, even if I adore it - but still. It seemed un-MarieAntoinette-y and un-Stella-y and... not quite right. So, pink it is. For the moment.

We are watching Sesame Street Old School DVD right now. Santa brought it to HRH this year, even though there are disclaimers all over about how it no longer suits the needs of modern pre-schoolers or some such nonsense. Miss Thing, of COURSE, is captivated. So, for that matter, is Cap'n Jack, despite his double digit age. Why? Because this Sesame Street feels real. It's paced like life is - long stretches of quiet mundanity punctuated with moments of interest. Most everybody - even the monsters! - are non-excitable, tranquil, even (dare I say it) slightly surly. Adults are quite firmly figures of authority, not friends, although they are friendly. There is a little slapstick - kids running into laundry on a clothesline - and many, many lessons: where milk comes from, how to form a knit stitch, counting to 12, over, under, around, and through... It's orderly and frankly, to eyes jaundiced by the frenetically paced, neon-colored, song/dance/laugh fest that is children's television today, a little boring. In a really good way. There is a real sense of respect for children that I don't feel from the program anymore.

Anyway, this isn't on the DVD, but it is my favorite Grover moment, and has the bonus of being several teachable moments in one:

Obligatory pop culture update

Listening to:
- She and Him. Zooey Deschanel is obviously a fairy tale, because without the benefit of fairy godmothers, no one can be this talented at this many things, or that enchantingly pretty. Damn her.

- Deke Dickerson. Go on, roll your eyes. I dare you.

-The Phenomenauts. Because I am still a convention-going, card-carrying, costume-wearing science-fiction non-apologist from way back. Word.

Reading:

-The Canon, by Natalie Angier
This is kind of science lite, an overview of various disciplines by a non scientist for people who are frightened by science. I still got stuck on the probability chapter. My only real beef with Angier is her tendency to insert herself into her writing. It worked well in Woman: An Intimate Geography, but only because it was her personal experiences that prompted her research. Here, I wish she had let her voice speak for her.

-Natural Acts, by David Quammen
Quammen comes right out and says what Angier will not: he is not a scientist, and he writes about natural history and the social sciences because it is the only way the world makes sense to him. This collection, which is published in its 25th anniversary edition, is more noticeably magazine articles than his later collections of essays. Still, he never fails to inspire me when he wryly makes an observation about, say, octopus eyes, or the evolutionary path of mosquitoes, and in doing so makes a larger point about our own place in the world and how frail it, and we, are.

-Louis Armstrong's New Orleans, by Thomas Brothers
This was not as well written or as insightful as I wanted it to be. I haven't finished it yet, and it has to go back to the library this afternoon. Prospects are not good for its completion.

Watching:

-Leatherheads

Whither hast thou gone, Spencer Tracy? And why the hell should we accept Renee Zellweger in place of our beloved Kate Hepburn?

-BSG
Alright, already! Okay! I give up! Look, Netflix is winging this to me as fast as is humanly possible, okay, so no revocation of my aforementioned sci-fi geek card. You people are fucking RUTHLESS.

Eating:

Nothing of value in Las Vegas. But here at home, I am very fond of dried apricots stuffed with goat cheese, and also bacon pie, which I understand is a breakfast delicacy found in New Zealand. You make it thusly: chop and fry three or four rashers of good bacon with some diced onion, and some mushrooms if you like. Line a pie plate with puff pastry. Throw in your bacon. Scramble six or eight eggs without milk. Pour that on. Toss in a handful of shredded cheese. Top with another sheet of puff pastry. Seal your edges, cut vents, egg wash. Bake at 375 for 35 or 40 minutes. Rest it for a few, then slice and enjoy.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled snark. Suggestions for this list for next time?

Third time's the charm

Three things I ate on my recent trip to Seattle:

- Muenster cheese, organic baguette, almost overripe but actually perfect pear from Ralph's Grocery, the gourmet grocery store across the street from our hotel

- A handful of peanut M&M's from a vending machine in the hallway of the movie theater, because you can't buy a package of them at the concession stand, while you are purchasing your medium (also known as the bucket large enough to soak your head) soda

- A trio of creme brulee: cappuccino, butterscotch, and zablagione, washed down by a shot of Amaretto DiSaronno and an espresso doppio con panna.


Three movies I have seen this week:

- Juno
My biggest beef with Juno was not the dismissive way it treated reproductive health care providers or the apparent ease with which the title character dismisses abortion as an option, but instead... the music. Juno goes on at length about her old-school punk sensibilities, and Jason Bateman's character, whose name I can't recall, loves the early 90's grunge, but the soundtrack is nothing but twee indie pop. I mean, damn. The girly tosses out names like Mott the Hoople, Iggy and the Stooges, and the Velvet Underground, and they trip convincingly off her tongue, but while they show up on the soundtrack, in the movie itself, they play as background music. The Velvets do show up singing "I'm Sticking With You" in a pivotal moment, but anything cutting ended up (sorry, I have to) on the cutting room floor.

- Sweeney Todd

It was bloody. Very, very bloody. Also, Johnny Depp listened to a little much glitter rock in his formative years, and Tim Burton needs to make a different movie, for God's sake. Not the same movie with different sets and children, a different movie, please. No more strange, misunderstood outsider. No more longing beautiful woman willing to overlook his faults. No more shredded velvet and puffy shirts and weskits. Enough.

- The Darjeeling Limited

Luggage as baggage. Subtle.

There were a few rough editing cuts in the beginning that I know were intentional, but which felt to me like poor filmmaking. Wes, please read my note to Time Burton above. Except please replace puffy shirts and weskits with bespoke suits too short in the inseam and quirk.

Three items of clothing in my closet I am anxious to wear when the weather returns to normal:

- The new red dress I bought in Seattle, which has a vibe that is a little forties (square neckline, cap sleeves, A line skirt) and a little mod (oversize black buttons arranged double breasted, a wife black belt).

- The cherry print camisole with red buttons I bought at Anthropologie last summer.

- My cowboy boots. Any of them.

And some Junior mints and a Cherry Coke, please

Since you guys declined to add anything, except of course for the marvelous Princess Japonski, I had to go and find the other rock and roll movie clips myself. There are still a few that I haven't added, most notably a clip from Purple Rain, but let these few amuse you.

It's a love song, really. This whole movie is about the price of fame, but I particularly like this delicate little piece from Spinal Tap:



Some actors have uncanny ability when it comes to mimicry. Joaquin Phoenix's Johnny Cash is more homage that imitation, but Jamie Foxx's Ray Charles is eerie. "We gotta get that on wax!"



We could talk for a really long time about how I am obsessed with boys with blond pompadours, but I think it can all be traced back to this movie, this clip in particular. Lou Diamond Phillips plays Ritchie Valens as a young man fully aware of his fate, which I never quite bought, but I paid about ten thousand dollars buying into Brian Setzer's spot-on Eddie Cochran:



Laurence Fishburn as Ike Turner was magnetic and frightening. This clip really illustrates the kind of power the man must have had. From What's Love Got To Do With It, with Angela Bassett as Tina Turner:



Who's That Girl is not a great movie. It's not even really a good movie. But Madonna is allowed to basically play herself, and the opening credits are divine, mostly because I love animation. I only wish that it was the title song instead of Causing a Commotion:

Popcorn, baby!

I got bored with the last Mixtape, so I'm divering my attention to something related, but more fun for me. I am going to list my favorite rock and roll movies, along with my favorite scenes in each, and then you can so the same. I will limit myself to a mere five, that's right, only FIVE rock and roll movies, so as to leave plenty of material for you guys. If you have any knowledge of me whatsoever, you will realize that this is a huge sacrifice on my part.

5) Great Balls of Fire, about Jerry Lee Lewis. With Dennis Quaid and Winona Ryder. My favorite scene is when Myra brings all her little friends over to see Cousin Jerry, and he terrorizes them and does something funny to her by trapping them in a corner with his piano while playing. In my head he is playing the Wild One, but I think he's actually just fooling around with a boogie woogie. Anybody able to clear this up definitively? I can't find a clip of this.

4)The Buddy Holly Story with Gary Busey. They go onstage at the Apollo Theater, the first white act to perform there ever, and they do a medley that includes Oh, Boy! and my favorite Buddy Holly tune, Rave On.




3) Walk the Line, about Johnny Cash. With Joaquin Phoenix. When he goes onstage to sing Get Rhythm. He looks out at the sea of faces and chokes out, "Hello. I'm Johnny Cash." There's a smattering of applause, and then they launch into the song. I am almost positive the bass player is actually play the bass in this clip.



2) Rock and Roll High School. Not a biopic, but I wish it was. With P.J. Soles and the Ramones. My favorite scene is when they sing I Want you Around in the dream sequence - actually a drug sequence, since she's toking when it happens - and DeeDee is playing the bass in the shower, with the water running. He's totally soaked and appears not to care. It's at the very end of the clip - watch it all the way through.



1) Jailhouse Rock. With Elvis. Obviously, the only scene worth focusing on in the movie is Jailhouse Rock. It's iconic, and he's electric. It's worth noting though, that his character in the movie is jailed for killing a man by punching him. Damn. That's rock and roll.



As a bonus, my favorite scene from a music movie that is not rock and roll: in Coal Miner's Daughter, Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn is too scared to sing in the studio until Doo goes and gets their kids and lines them up in front of her. He says, "Just sing to the babies, Loretta." And she does.

You'll note the conspicuous absences, my friends. Fill in the blanks!

La Reine et Moi

Oh, Sofia.

I knew. I knew, and yet I was hoping against hope that the movie that you made was somehow the movie I really, really wanted to see about Her Majesty, the last Queen of France. I wanted someone to show the heartbreaking truth of what it is like to be in a gilded cage, how it feels to have not the slightest decision to be your own, what real grace in the face of death may look like. Instead, what you gave all the world was a lovely, lovely, empty painting of a lost teenager being indulged in the fulfillment of insubstantial wishes. It is the same movie you have made before, and I am a little sad about it.

We have already talked, you and I, about my own attraction to the doomed Queen, and I thought perhaps I understood a little about your motivation. But I was wrong, wasn't I? You never lamented to woman she was forced to become, or regretted the woman she never was, but instead you identified with the child of privilege and wealth who wielded her power carelessly and frivolously. Don't misunderstand me - your movie was stunning. It was a crystal chandelier of a movie, though, a layer cake, and the Marie Antoinette who grew in my mind while making this costume was a whole meal, and the candles behind the reflections. She was a woman who I imagine loved her children and her country and feared death and perhaps welcomed it, at the end. She was a woman who was asked to be a woman before she was grown, after never really having been allowed to be a child herself. She was a pawn, and she was a player. She craved simplicity and loved luxury. She was a bundle of contradictions, just like you or me or anyone, and she was made an example of because of it. Didn't that break your heart? Where was that in this gilded plate of petit fours? Where was the woman who dared to have herself painted astride like the King himself, who dared to be seen sans corset? That is the portrait I was awaiting.

Antonia, you were there somewhere. The candyfloss and fairydust they spin around you, the curses and the punchlines that still accompany your name down through the annals of history, they are the stories we always weave around the women we don't or can't understand. You are there in the heart of the tales, and perhaps someday, we'll see your face instead of your reflection.

Dear Sofia Coppola,

Well, I hope you're satisfied. You and your lousy little movie about the pop-ification of Kirsten Dunst, Baby Vampire/Reine de France have flooded every single thing there is to flood about popular culture and fashion this fall . What little is left after the complete enshrinement of women's bodies in overlarge, men's-wear stealing hideousness is inspired by Marie Antoinette, or in homage to Marie Antoinette, or because the designer is the big, fat best friend of yours and knows how much you love Marie Antoinette. Because of you, M.A. is on the hot list of every self-respecting magazine worthy of having a fall fashion issue. There are new biographies of M.A., there are articles galore praising your genius or lambasting your faulty sense of revisionist history ( and taste in books - I mean, Antonia Fraser? Really.), there are pictures of her EVERYWHERE. And that's where I have a problem with you, my little rockstar babymama.

My costume idea for Marie Antoinette was inspired. Halloween is all just a big excuse to dress up as sexy as possible, and there is nothing sexier than the good dying young. I was going to wow the crowds with the lusciousness of my constricted Orbs of Delight, I was going to shock them with my dramatic interpretation of her stately march to the guillotine, I was going to amuse them with my bon mots and double entendres, all of which had to do with cake. And I was going to do it in a manner that required little more research than a few viewings of Dangerous Liaisons, a novel by Rosalind Miles called To Dance with Kings, and what little I remember about the history of the Ancien Regime that I picked up while flirting with Jeremy Bailey in my World History class in 11th grade. But no. You had to come along and make a movie about her, and you had to do it in a really big, Oscar-buzz sort of way, and you had to debut it way early but not release it until the week before my big event. In short, you had to go and tutor the entire planet about MY ICON, so that every schmo I run into will engage me on my opinion of her political acumen while ogling my Orbs. Not only that, but half the town will be aware that the gown I am choosing to make and wear represents only the first decade of her reign, and is therefore entirely inaccurate for the aforementioned march to the Blades of Death. Shame on you! My weakness exposed! I hate being called on my knowledge of all things trivial, and if even one person, even one, so much as mentions that my meticulous robe a la francaise is made from synthetic material, well, I hold you wholly responsible.

My High Holiday will not be ruined because of your so-called masterpiece. I will hold my head high, and I will answer each and every question that I am asked, and each time someone begins with, "Well, in the movie...," I will make a mental tick against your name. Soon you will be seated in my mental principal's office, miss, with some explaining to do.

Sincerely yours,
S.

P.S. - If you are considering a biopic about the love affair between Gustav Klimt and anyone before next year, please reconsider. Otherwise I will get a restraining order. Thank you.

So... Here we are again.

There has been some muttering on some fronts that I do not update this blog quickly enough. Don't bother wondering who you are; there are only like three of you out there. I am trying, but for heavens sake, I have a lot to do - I have sewing, and research, and Oreo cookies to eat, and novels about Marie Antoinette to read (she went by her Austrian name of Antonia, BTW), and stell boning to be frightened of cutting ... The list goes on and on. But here you are, you ravening masses, you. Some proof that the project progresses. I am ready to start the seaming that will hold in place the boning that will hold in place, um, me. But it is a liitle intimidating. I have read a review of this pattern that wqarns of the top edge rolling once boned, so I am thinking again of modifying the pattern a bit to suit my purposes. But my determination to have it finished by the Pirate Party is complete; I will stand for nothing else.

On another note, I purchased a copy of Dangerous Liaisons to use as costume research, and now I cannot stop watching it. So many things about it: first, that the costuming is indeed dlicious, and enviable; second, Malkovich was actually strangely sexy; third, the very meaness of it is what appeals. Don't we always wound the ones we love? Can't boredom drive us to terrible heights?

See what happens when ladies aren't allow to slump in chairs? They have to almost recline! The most interesting thing, though, is that it makes me wish that I had chosen something other than peach for the color of the gown - the cafe au lait taffeta with rust trimmings that Mme. Merteuil wears is divine, even if it is a day dress. There is the peacock satin evening gown, though, with the shell pink trimmings, and the rosy thing with the acid green petticoat, that also appeal. It makes the monochrome palette I chose seem insipid, almost. Anyhow, now I am investigating the inkling of an aquamarine overgown with peachy-pink petticoat and robings, even though I said no ice blue. It's hard not to get caught up in the minutae, especially when that is what the Rococo aesthetic was all about.

But before I persue that, which is after all a long ways off, I have steel to cut and tip.. I hope the yellow of the tipping fluid doesn't show. I can't imagine how it will, through the opaque satin and even opaquer (new word!) cotton twilled corduroy.

I just fixed the Rococo link, if anyone is interested.