Hi my name is Katherine and I’m a Steinaholic. That’s right, I am addicted to this modernist poet, and have been off the wagon for quite some time. Although I have Modernist cheated many times with Woolf, and I might even call myself a polygamist in this respect, Stein still holds my heart forever.
It is resonating with me today. Who knows why, but I too am wondering “If I Told Him”. Enjoy this rare reading by Stein. She is a lesbian, French-obsessed, Picasso adoring goddess. Vive la Stein.
I think most people can come to the general consensus that Mondays blow. To liven our spirits, our minds, and our souls, I’ve decided to start a weekly tradition of Poetry Monday. That’s right, whatever poem catches my eye will be posted here at the depressing beginning of each soul-crushing work week. Inspired by my revisit of Woody Allen’s Hannah And Her Sisters, I’m choosing an E.E. Cummings classic for the inaugural post. Enjoy!
Somewhere I Have Never Travelled
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
We’ve got our first award show noms, and although the Independent Spirits aren’t usually regarded as a total O-Day precursor, I tend to respect them, more so than the Academy Awards. You see, I’m a large a-hole who turns up her nose at most conventional cinema. (I know, I’m the worst). So, the Independent Spirits are like my safe haven. Better yet, they are a guy who is more intelligent and interesting, but who I ultimately pass over to date the guy who hasn’t got much in the way of brains, but can rock a muscle T hard. If you’re having trouble deciphering the subtle complexities of my brilliant analogy, that less intelligent guy in the muscle shirt was supposed to be the Oscars, just fyi.
Unsurprisingly, George Clooney’s film George Clooney Plays Himself in a Movie Set in Hawaii, wait, I mean The Descendants got 3 nominations, (review to come), none of which included a Best Male Lead nod for George Clooney. See, aren’t the Indy Spirits swell?
I am pleased to announced that The Artist, a black and white silent film that I am anticipating more than when Mini Eggs come out in Spring, lead the pack with the most nominations at 5. Score one for pretension! Similarly, Drive, a personal favorite of mine, starring the man who visits me every night in my dreams, Ryan Gosling, got some much needed recognition, with 4 noms, including Best Feature, Best Director for Nicolas Winding Refn (no that’s no typo), and Best Male Lead for Ryan Gosling, (insert inappropriate comment here).
Other films that got some indy love include; 50/50, Win Win, Take Shelter, My Week With Marilyn, Martha Marcy May Marlene, and Midnight in Paris. Oh, and none for The Help or Gretchen Weiners.
To read the complete list of nominations, visit http://www.deadline.com/2011/11/spirit-award-nominees-unveiled/
What did you think of the Independent Spirit Nominations? Are you psyched or are you more excited about Mini Eggs? Comment and join the conversation.
**UPDATE
The New York Critis Circle have just tweeted, yes tweeted this year’s winners. They are as follows:
Best Actor: Brad Pitt (Moneyball, Tree Of Life)
Best Actress: Meryl Streep (The Iron Lady)
Best Foreign-Language Film: A Separation
Best Supporting Actress: Jessica Chastain (Tree Of Life, The Help and Take Shelter)
Best Supporting Actor: Albert Brooks (Drive)
Best Nonfiction Film: Cave Of Forgotten Dreams
Best First Feature: Margin Call
Yay Meryl. Yay Tree Of Life.
You might as well know this about me: I am a huge Broadway dork. It’s not even to the point where it’s funny or kind of cute. It’s mostly just annoying and socially awkward. For example, doing the Evita arm raise and singing Don’t Cry for Me Argentina every time I am on a balcony isn’t charming to those around me. And singing Carrying the Banner when I try on a newsboy cap in a public store makes those accompanying me embarrassed. Whatevs. Thems the breaks for someone with a specialty Playbill album that I had to order online from Ohio and pay $45.95 in shipping and handling fees for. Don’t be hatin’.
Me after failing to get Daniel Radcliffe’s autograph after “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying”. I’m the coolest.
Needless to say, this passion can be accompanied by a bit of pretension. I tend to feel alienated or annoyed by a show that I once enjoyed, simply because it grows exceedingly popular. I had the pleasure of seeing Wicked in New York during the first year of its run. I initially loved it. But as years passed and the amount of Youtube videos of 38 year old accountants singing Popular grew, I lost my taste for the over-hyped Schwartzepic.
I assumed this “oh thaaaat musical. Yeah, I got in the ground floor of that shiz, original cast all the way and now I’m over it” shtick would be the same when I saw The Book of Mormon. After all, it’s not exactly a small, low-key little show. Conceived by South Park wunderkinds Trey Parker and Matt Stone, scored by Avenue Q hot-shot Robert Lopez, and produced by Hollywood big wig Scott Rudin, it wasn’t exactly a sleeper hit. However, I was one of the lucky few who got to see it in its first month of production in New York, before buzz and Tony wins ruined the ticket prices and the fun. Yeah, the informational segment of this blog has now transitioned into pretentious bragging, just fyi.
I naturally assumed that as soon as the inevitable huge Tony nominations and subsequent wins came for the not-so-little show that could, I’d immediately be sick of it. But please, let me be the 8 millionth person to tell you how amazing this show is. Seriously, it defies the coolness expiration date that most Broadway a-holes such as myself subscribe to.
The basic story, for those living on a rock or for those who don’t know the difference between Broadway and Off-Broadway (sorry, I’m the worst), is of Elder Price and Elder Cunningham, two 19 year old Mormons, sent to Uganda on a Mormon mission. Needless to say, hilarity ensues. However, not in the way you would expect.
When I first heard the concept and team behind The Book of Mormon back in ’08 (I’m so sorry, I’m just the worst), I didn’t know how it would work. After all, a big-budget, traditional Broadway musical doesn’t exactly mesh so naturally with Parker and Stone’s patented poop humor and veiled atheism. I initially assumed that it would be a two hour, expensive, well-produced Saddam Hussein reference. I assumed it would condemn Mormonism and organized religion altogether in one blaze of glorious farting. I thought it would be cynical and crude and awkwardly crammed into a traditional Broadway format. Boy, was I wrong.
Yeah, I suppose it was all that. It had some poop jokes, some famous dictator jokes, it was cynical about religion. But somehow, it was also one of the most joyous and hopeful shows I have ever seen. It somehow managed to be a typical South Park off-shoot, as well as a critique of blind faith, as well as a celebration of the endurance of the hope in the face of unimaginable horrors, as well as a traditional Broadway musical that paid homage to the medium’s past greats, all at the same time. Parker, Stone, and Lopez managed to make a show that unabashedly spoke the terrifying truths of Aids, famine, female castration, and genocide while still making it funny, hopeful, full of Broadway glitz and originality. How does this happen? How, I ask you???? (That was mostly directed at Stephen Sondheim, who I assume reads my blog weekly).
Anywho, I’m being super original here in urging everyone to pay the now exorbitant but well worth it ticket prices and go see this show. The national tour is set to kick off in Denver in December ’12, four months early. Hopefully it will make its way to Winnipeg and we can all bask in the glory that is this incredible feat of cynicism and optimism. I’ll be there with bells on, while still reminding anyone who will listen that I got to see it original cast. Yeah, I’m the worst.
Am I just the worst? Please tell me. Comment, comment, comment!
Last friday, all of my fellow CreComm first years and I walked the few blocks to the Cinematheque to see “Page One: Inside the New York Times”, a documentary that captures one year inside the New York Times newspaper. I found the film to be a gripping snapshot of a medium that is painfully in flux and uncertain.
The biggest concern for many of the NY Times staffers was the increasingly unclear future of the printed word. As citizen journalism becomes more and more popular and inexpensive to produce, many are beginning to question if knowledge should be for sale.
I myself feel concerned about the E revolution, but for somewhat different reasons. As a former English major, I love my books. And I’m not just talking about first date, giddy kind of love. I’m talking mind-blowing, unforgettable, truly one of a kind love. It’s the kind of love that you allow to order the Ultimate Feast at Red Lobster. Yeah, it’s that serious.
Needless to say, I don’t get the same life-changing love from an e book on my iPad than from my perfectly preserved first editions. My e book of “Pride and Prejudice”, for example, would get a Red Lobster side salad. And I wouldn’t even share a single cheese bun.
But of course there are so many great things to be said for online reading materials: they’re cheaper, they’re better for the environment, they’re more accessible. But I just can’t see a real future for us. It’s not them, it’s me.
So as the world begins to change around me and I grip onto the spines of my wonderful novels that helped me see so many new worlds, I just can’t help but be a bit afraid, a bit unsure, and a lot nostalgic. Just don’t tell Steve Jobs.
How do you feel about the E revolution? Do you sleep with your iPhone or still work on a typewriter? Either way, I want to know. Comment and share your two cents, or twelve. Whichever.
When I was 8 years old, I fell in love for the first time. It happened one Sunday night, in which I felt particularly rowdy and unable to sleep. I heard my Dad in the family room watching a movie. I left the comfort of my Beauty and the Beast sheets to join him, hoping he would let me stay up a bit longer to watch. What ho, success! He was either feeling generous or too annoyed to protest; (I believe I had drop-kicked my sister down the stairs that day after seeing the move performed in a “Power Rangers” episode. Therefore, I’m going to go with the latter). Regardless, he allowed me to watch the movie with him. Within this film, I was to discover the first love of my life; the film was “Annie Hall” and the man was Woody Allen.
Now if any of my readers have seen “Annie Hall”, you’re probably thinking right about now, “My, what an inappropriate and bizarre film to show an 8 year old, and what an inappropriate and bizarre man for an 8 year old to fall in love with. Wasn’t Woody Allen 42 in that film?” Well judgmental reader, all I have to say for myself is that the heart wants what it wants. At 8 years old, my heart wanted simultaneously for a Barbie Jeep and a 42 year old neurotic Jewish New Yorker. The film showed me an authentic and melancholic archetype for a male romantic. For this, I am forever grateful.
After this life-changing moment, I became an Allen fan for life. I began watching all of his movies and plotting my future life with him. When my Dad saw that my infatuation with Allen was not ending, he informed me that he was in fact taken and I was “not to be involved with that creep”. When I immediately asked why, he hurriedly responded, “never mind”. After further probing, my Dad told me he was in a relationship with Mia Farrow and that he was not single. Lies, all lies!! My trusty library card and a few inquiries with some loose-lipped, inappropriate uncles revealed the truth; the love of my life was no longer with that woman Mia Farrow. No, he was with his . . . wait, what? With his adopted daughter? Whaat? (8 year old heart shatters)
Last sunday, TCM aired a slew of quintessential New York movies to commemorate the tenth anniversary of 911. Annie Hall was one such film. I tuned in, thinking it was time for a reconciliation. I figured I would fall in love with my long lost Woody all over again. I thought that we just had a brief parting of ways, a trial separation, if you will. How could I stay mad at him? After all, we are meant to be. But alas, the spark was no longer. Like Alvy meeting Annie at the health foods restaurant in Beverly Hills, everything was just off. My heart just knew too much. It made me wonder if we allow celebrities personal lives to influence us too much. Soon-Yi aside, Woody Allen still made great films. His characters are still original, endlessly romantic, ridiculously neurotic, and a hundred times over authentic. Knowing about his relationships shouldn’t change that. Knowing Sinead O’Connor and the Pope aren’t exactly bros shouldn’t change how lovely her voice is. Knowing Kate Moss has a thing for cocaine in recording studios doesn’t stop her from being beautiful. Knowing Tiger Woods has an avid texting life doesn’t change how great his swing is. Oh, wait . . . anyways, the point I’m trying to make is that we shouldn’t let these things influence our perception of their work. And yet, we do. So Woody, if you are reading this, (as of course you are), I just wanted to say that I’m not mad at you anymore. As only an 8 year old lusting after a 42 year old knows, the heart wants what it wants. At least we’ll always have New York.
Do you agree with me? Do you disagree with me? Either way, I want to know! Post your feedback, pretty pleeeeeaaaaaase.
This story may seem a bit passé to some of you, as the Tate Taylor directed runaway hit The Help opened in theatres almost a month ago. However, I’m feeling the need to light the internetz ablaze today with talk of this film. This is mostly because in the past week, I have been hearing Oscar buzz for a well-deserving Viola Davis, but also for the film itself in the Best Picture category.
On August 11, 2011, The Association of Black Women Historians released a statement urging fans of both the original Kathryn Stockett book and the film adaptation to re-educate themselves on the true racial tensions of Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960s. The statement explains, “Despite efforts to market the book and the film as a progressive story of triumph over racial injustice, The Help distorts, ignores, and trivializes the experiences of black domestic workers. We are specifically concerned about the representations of black life and the lack of attention given to sexual harassment and civil rights activism.” Baaaam. These ladies ain’t playin’.
I myself both read the original Kathryn Stockett text and saw the film opening weekend. I was underwhelmed with both. While I hate to sound like a Negative Nellie here, the ABW may have hit it exactly on the nose when deeming the “Mammy” stereotype alive and well in this rose-coloured Black History lesson. For those of you unfamiliar with the Mammy archetype, the ABW explains it as “a mythical stereotype of black women who were compelled, either by slavery or segregation, to serve white families. Portrayed as asexual, loyal, and contented caretakers of whites, the caricature of Mammy allowed mainstream America to ignore the systemic racism that bound black women to back-breaking, low paying jobs where employers routinely exploited them.” Again, you just got served The Help, seriously served.
My personal understandings of the Mammy archetype stem from one of my all-time favorite movies, the Victor Fleming masterpiece Gone With The Wind. I first saw this movie at age 8, one rainy day at the cottage when all my grandmother could do to keep her sanity was to stuff my sisters and I chalk-full of the MSG deliciousness that is Chinese food and put on the longest movie known to man, i.e. Gone With The Wind. I initially loved the Mammy character who is, in the film, literally named Mammy. It wasn’t until my post-secondary English classes in which I became familiar with how damaging these portrayals actually were to an already oppressed African American population. (Thanks for the education, Dad. Money well spent, for serious).
But I think what really miffed me about The Help, (and here I am speaking more to the film than the text), is the saviour complex given to the Skeeter character, played respectably by the summer box office It Girl Emma Stone. It wasn’t just that the African American female characters all seemed to be variations on the same stereotypically sassy yet silent Mammy archetype, or that the African American man was represented as “drunkards, abusive, or absent,” as the ABW explains it. It was that the most important narratives of all, the Black maids incredible courage in sharing their stories in a time of tremendous conflict and bloodshed, took a back seat to Skeeter’s own lame triumph. Yes, I said it. Her triumph was downright lame. Yeah, Skeeter got to become a published author while sitting comfortably in her own Jackson version of Tara. I mean, who cares that Aibileen and Milly risked life and limb to tell you their stories. Good for you, Skeetz! You totes rocked it, girl!
So as it stands, The Help is getting a ton of Oscar buzz. Now, if anybody reading this knows me, you know that Oscar night is my holy night. Seriously, I train all year to not only have enough energy to make it through the excitement overload that is the Oscar telecast, (OMG Harvey Weinstein, OMG I think Hugh Jackman’s going to dance, OMG that movie is soooo overrated, right? RIGHT? ANSWER ME OSCAR PARTY GUESTS), but also to truly destroy my Oscar pool. (Yeah, take that Uncle George. I just destroyed you. How to Train Your Dragon for Best Animated Feature? Gaaawwwd). But every few years, there comes along a movie that presents a moral challenge for me. This is a film, not to name any names (cough King’s Speech cough),that although it is a lock to clean up, I cannot bring myself to vote for it as I feel it is overrated. I worry that The Help will be one of those movies. I’m in full support of Viola Davis getting an Oscar nod, Emma Stone I could even deal with. But as for the movie, I just can’t get behind it. So I’m going to start taking sedatives now in preparation for Oscar night. So far, none of my guests from last year’s Oscar party said they’d be attending this year, but whatevs.
What did you think of The Help? I want to know! Comment, share, destroy!
Hello my large readership, (i.e. Dad)!
Thanks for stopping by my oddball, unassuming, mildly original, highly entertaining blog! This is the place where I will rant, rave, and devour every scrap of high and low culture that piques my fancy. By high and low culture, I mean everything from Gertrude Stein to Bachelor Pad, (yeah, it’s going there). I became interested in blogging about the gaping, yet unclear divide between what we consider to be “high” culture and “low” culture based on my own interest in a large span of cultural medias. My own cultural media interests span from ones I’d be proud to brag to my Russian Literature professor about, to those I’d be ashamed to admit I’m obsessed with to the programming director for Cinemax at Night. This broad and embarrassing aesthetic range, in my opinion, represents a large societal tension, one that is both a fabulous and horrifying thing. Why is it considered sophisticated to love the shameless violence of Dexter and not Cops? Why is John Galliano allowed to sell corsets made of latex and rubber for thousands of dollars, while the sex shop has to sell theirs for $19.99? Why is there this distinction at all?
Wow, wow, wow. I guess I’ve jumped the gun a bit here. I guess it would be prudent to give you a bit of background/biographical information on myself, your friendly, cynical, judgmental resident blogger. I’m a 23 year old Creative Communications student who’s obsessed with fashion, theatre, reading, travel, as well as reality television, tabloid magazines, and fast foods of varying popularity and nutritional levels. I love myself a good sonnet, as well as a good episode of “Real Housewives of New Jersey”. Don’t judge, I also watch the Real Housewives of New York.
Anyway, I’m hoping this blog will give me an outlet that will take the guilt out of some of my guiltiest pleasures. I want to deconstruct the ways in which popular culture encompasses the societal attitudes and temperaments of this post-empire world we are all living/tweeting/blogging/sexting/breathing in. I also wish to feed my pretentious, academic soul and write about high culture, like Godard and whatever Kushner play has yet to close before its prime. I want to write about Marc Jacobs’s new line as well as how weird it’s going to look when Forever 21 rips it off 6 months from now. I want to write about Salvador Dali and why on earth Woody Allen would cast Adrien Brody to play him in a movie about time travel. I want to write about both Anthony Bourdain and Guy Fieri . . . in one blog post! Yeah, I know! It’s happening, with a side of turducken. But more than anything, I just want to post pictures of kittens dressed in outfits.
Anyway, I hope you’ll read it often, enjoy it, and if you don’t, I suggest taking a Valium and watching three straight hours of Toddlers and Tiaras. That will really take you where you need to be to truly “get” me.
Kisses and judgement,
Katherine
