Movies and TV have always been a way of life for me, but I really don’t think that I got caught up in the magic of a motion picture until I saw Back to the Future. Funny how it didn’t even take the dark womb of an ice-cold movie house to do it, but just a taped-from-TV copy of the flick, the excitement of my fellow children of the ’80s and the late afternoon of a stifling summer vacation day to cement one of my life’s great loves.
Growing up, we were one of few families in my neighborhood with premium cable. Seriously, the day I came downstairs from a nap and discovered we had it, it was a WHOLE NEW WORLD. Yes, at the ripe old age of three, regular television (except for SNL — which, yes, I had already seen a handful of times) already bored me.
ANYWAY, becoming a pop culture junkie as basically a zygote has led me to connect more easily with older people (I’m the youngest person in my immediate family by ten years, and I jumped on that learning curve like a fat kid on a smartie), appreciate the golden age of sitcoms (that’s the ’70s, kids), and watch a crapload of movies from the ’80s that almost nobody remembers. The most glaring instance of that is the movie Teachers, and the .38 Special song from the film, “Teacher, Teacher” (YouTube link). It’s like Nick Nolte and JoBeth Williams spent a chunk of 1983 in Columbus, Ohio just for me. Obviously, people on the Internets remember it. But nobody I’ve met in real life does. Sigh. I’m sick of getting the blank stare.
[editor's note: i wrote this during the first week of December. My spirits have lifted some since, but i still felt the need to post this.]
Most of this week has been spent laid up with a migraine — trying to ignore or will away the pain, numbing it with an ice pack, sleeping, being on the verge of tears from the pain, the isolation, and the disruption of the semi-contented little routine I’d built up these last few weeks.
So what better time than now to rewatch a flick about people falling in love (along with it’s heart-rending soundtrack)?
Blessedly, it’s a short film. The beginning is a bit rough — neither the nameless guy nor girl (Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova) are actors, so it’s a bit like watching me do improv — uncomfortable & worrisome. But then, as hard as I try to fight it, these people and their story get under my skin.
There’s something about these two people, ordinary except for their considerable musical talents. Getting so intimately into their lives is kind of a salve, it eases at least my troubled mind, knowing that other people have ridiculously retarded love lives as well. Except this one has a customized (to them) soundtrack.
Much of the film has an improvised, realistic quality. Very clearly not a documentary, but more real than your average scripted film. Part of that comes from the über-low-budget and fly-by-night production style. Cinema verite, to get all fancy pants on you.
Entertainment Weekly recently listed Once as one of it’s 50 Sexiest Films Ever. And I’m now inclined to agree. The music transcends the story, just like the love you can see growing between Hansard and Irglova. If anything, the film has (however briefly) restored my faith in love, that it actually can happen to everyone.
I think the next movie I rewatch will have to cut that back down. Because every time a little bit of hope finds its way to the surface, something swoops down instantly to kill it.
Movies are more than just a story slapped onto celluloid. To me, if you love a movie — even if you hate it — that experience becomes part of the tapestry of who you are, affecting the way you think about and do things. So, when a movie that feels like it should be a perfect fit for me turns out not to be such a great fit, I often feel obligated to give it another chance. Sometimes that second chance is influenced by a new person in my life, by the constant urging of existing friends, the Internets, or a beloved publication. This paragraph probably tells you a lot more about me than you ever really needed to know. Like how susceptible I am to guilt and endless badgering. Read more…
So, I’m watching “Hairspray” for approximately the 684th time. The musical version. Shut up, James Marsden is cute. And the songs kind of get into your head. It is in absolutely no way anywhere near as good as the original. In fact, I barely even associate the two in my head. But that’s not why I started writing this.
When the movie was released, people kept talking about how this film is about accepting yourself no matter what your size is, what you look like, what color you are, yada yada, different is good. Which it is. But, the movie/musical are also full of all these backhanded compliments to Tracy (and Edna – but the less we say about Travolta, the better). Read more…
The operative term there is “good”. Unfortunately, I’m watching Halloween: Resurrection, and I don’t think there’ll be anything good about it. I mean, I’m glad that Jamie Lee Curtis got back involved with the Halloween series and all, but H20 sucked a lot. Even with the pretty of Josh Hartnett.
But seriously, when your headliner in a movie is Busta Rhymes, the bar is not set so high. Though, at least they didn’t lead with Tyra Banks’ involvement. And, it’s two minutes into the movie and they’ve already told us that Jamie Lee killed the WRONG dude at the end of H20? What?
Now, I’m used to the retrofitting of story points in order to make a sequel even the slightest bit plausible. But come on. And after all this time, I want to know how Michael Myers can continually find his freaking sister. Is she LoJacked or something?
I’m gonna settle in and see just how bad this movie gets. The mask in this iteration of the series looks slightly effeminate. I hope that the kid from Rookie of the Year doesn’t get killed off too quickly. Oh look. A head in a dryer. How original. Instead of being chilled to the bone, my cynical, desensitized brain just wishes the filmmakers could find more originality than what they stole from the movie Identity.
And also? Characters in Halloween: Resurrection have called Michael Myers a serial killer. And really, he doesn’t fit the profile. People who work in a psychiatric facility should probably know the difference.
Oh, come on. Jamie Lee really thinks she can KILL this thing. He’s not even human. Sure, he’s got anthropomorphic form, but he’s pure freaking evil. Isn’t that the whole point?
So now she’s dead. But Michael Myers still wants to kill? And Haddonfield suddenly has a university? With a girl on a Vespa who will probably somehow end up being a Myers?
Not sure I’ll be able to suspend my disbelief for the whole movie. And someone needs to give that cute boy from Save the Last Dance a REAL job. All of these characters seem like they were written for actors popular 10 years before the film was made.
Vespa girl can break glass with her screams? Please. We won’t even discuss the guy with the bad Christian Slater impression. This movie is half over and the only person to die so far is Jamie Lee Curtis. Brilliant pacing, folks.
Save yourself the two hours. Even Rob Zombie’s remake of the original is better than this dreck.
Growing up, we had premium cable. That means I watched A LOT of movies. On top of my steady diet of sitcoms and game shows (I wasn’t old enough to stay up and watch the dramas, but in the ’80s, sitcoms were king anyway), there were lots of films that could be considered inappropriate for someone under 10 to watch. But, I had the cool parents. And, no idea what the hell was going on a lot of the time. Sex references went WAY over my head (I was older than I probably should’ve been when I realized just what Penny being “knocked up” meant in Dirty Dancing. I had NO clue she was pregnant upon the first 15 million viewings), but I was still addicted to any and all stories I could get my hands on.
This is all a really long winded preamble to me saying that I LOVED the movie “Hairspray” growing up. I was probably around eight the first time I saw it, and I was hooked. The characters were so out there, but still kind of real. They certainly all looked like real people (maybe with the exception of Michael St. Gerard, who was totally dreamy and went on to such illustrious roles as playing Elvis No fewer than three times and of course, the acting teacher who came between AHN-drea Zuckerman and Brenda Walsh on 90210).
Then, the musical version came along, first on Broadway and then on film. It’s one of many movies that I keep watching on a loop. Part of that is because it’s basically on a loop on the movie channel right now. It’s such a different animal than the original movie, I consider them two separate entities that have similar stories.
First of all, if the song “Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now” from the movie soundtrack is any indication, I am INCREDIBLY glad that they cast uber-talented cutie pie Nikki Blonsky as Tracy, because Marissa Jaret Winokur’s voice grates on me so much. It’s so whiny. And when the film already makes me listen to Amanda Bynes’ singing voice, it would’ve been too much to handle.
Seriously, Bynes seems like a sweet girl who has her head on right. And she’s got some comedy chops (no, I’m serious. I’d love to see her dive into the improv scene for a while and come back out a lean, mean comedy machine). But her vocal histrionics are all over the board, and when up against the others, she just doesn’t measure up. Especially someone like Elijah Kelley. The boy has some serious talent.
I LOVED Allison Janney as Prudence Pingleton. She was so perfect. But I feel like she’s perfect in everything she does. The woman is so talented, it makes me want to cry. Christopher Walken rocked his role too, as did the underused Brittany Snow, whom I’ve loved since American Dreams (seriously, put the rest of that freaking show on DVD already!). And seeing Ricki Lake in a cameo made me smile. Even after all these years (and NOT watching her talk show), I still would love to hang out with her and have some beers and get to know her. She seems cool.
The James Marsden factor, I’ve recently realized (partially thanks to this movie), can convince me to watch almost any movie repeatedly. And he’s spot on as Corny Collins, with a progressive stance, a bit of Frank at the Sands, and the right amount of cheese. Plus, he’s dreamy and he can sing. At times he sounds reminiscent of Michael Bublé, which isn’t a bad thing. In my head, Corny Collins and Motormouth Maybelle totally had a thing goin’ on. Just like that dude and Mrs. Jones.
Sadly, Queen Latifah is underused in this film, and I think that the “I Know Where I’ve Been” number doesn’t really show how important the civil rights movement was and still is. That whole section of the film kind of confuses me, actually. Tracy sneaks out super-early in the morning, but they’re marching on WYZT at night.
Overall, the music gets stuck in my head constantly. Like they say, it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it.
Another beef I have with the film is the way they treat Edna. For a start, Edna in the movie is too much of a wallflower. I hate that she’s so shy, especially when Divine played her much more confidently.
If I don’t stop now, this will go on longer than BOTH movie versions of the film. Overall, it’s an enjoyable, possibly even infectious way to spend a couple hours.
Now, if you excuse me, it’s Madison Time. Hit it.
This kind of thing happens a lot. I’ll think about a movie or a TV show, and bam! The episode or movie is on the air within a couple of days. It’s sort of like having my own OnDemand system. And, it’s happening right now.
Of course, last week was the estrogen-a-go-go that was the premiere of the Sex and the City movie. I was one of the hordes there on opening night, though unlike the women who stumbled into the theatre in their too-tall shoes and too-short skirts, I was not dressed in my halloween-costume version of any of Carrie’s hit (or miss) outfits.
Anyway, the movie had some major flaws, but it also had a lot of the heart I loved about the series. I cried. A lot. Which shouldn’t be surprising, considering how much I LOVE the show. But, the movie also got me thinking.
Watching Carrie and Big’s life unfold once more (only this time, on a ginormous screen), I couldn’t help but wonder: is the man I’ve been trying to forget for the past month going to turn out to be my Big? Despite being a neurotic writer, I’ve never fancied myself to be a Carrie Bradshaw-type. Truth be told, I am a dyed-in-the-wool Miranda Hobbes, including often missing the boat, fashion-wise. I hope to get it together at some point, just like she did.
Anyway, back to the Carrie/Big analogy. It’s mostly a case of me going through weeks and months of trying to forget him, to ignore him, to move on to someone who will pay attention to me all the time, not just when it’s convenient for him. Or, more accurately, when he somehow senses that I’m nearly free of the inescapable tethers that keep me tied to him, back he comes and I once again find myself incapable of getting him out of my system.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be romanticizing it by comparing him to the presence that is Chris Noth’s character, and should really start to consider this man to be the romantic equivalent of a urinary tract infection, always popping up when you think you’re finally rid of them for good.
I was doing pretty well with the forgetting. Or, as well as can be expected for a girl who chronically overthinks basically everything. And then, people started talking about him, and one of the nicknames I have for him came up in a completely unrelated conversation. He was haunting me, and I haven’t even seen him in a couple weeks.
Home, alone with only the bunny and my thoughts, the haunting started to take full effect. The thoughts, the wondering, the thinking wishful thoughts. And it continued after I fell asleep. Tossing, turning and fitful REM cycles were augmented by dreams that I don’t even remember, except for him. Always him. I woke up at 4. And 5. And finally gave up going back to sleep at 6, when I was haunted by thoughts of him in full consciousness.
And so, I went through my day, trying to banish him to the cobwebby nooks and crannies of my brain. You know, where grade 9 math hides. And everything from that philosophy class I took in first year. It was mostly successful. Then I got home and found that Sex and the City was on. Which episode? Ghost Town (yes, I’m uncreative and stole the episode title for the title of this post. What of it?), where Carrie is haunted by the ghost of her past with Aidan, Miranda is haunted by her past with Steve (and quite possibly an actual spectre), Samantha is haunted by her past with men, and Charlotte can’t get rid of her mother-in-law.
So, of course, I’m right back to being haunted. Contacting him seems like a bad, masochistic situation, though not all that different from where I am right now. Throwing myself into other pursuits will be the plan for the weekend, but I feel like it’ll only be a matter of time before I get right back here again.
To quote another single in the big city fictional writer-type: Blergh.
Good Will Hunting has been on cable at least three times in the last five days. And I always seem to catch it at the exact same point. When Robin Williams takes Matt Damon to the park and basically calls his bluff:
“But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell… You don’t know about real loss, ’cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much.”
The first time I saw this movie was nearly eleven years ago, and I still have the same reaction to this scene. I cry. A lot. I think it’s funny how sad I thought I was to have not fallen in love by the age of seventeen. Now, at almost 28, it’s not funny anymore. When is that person who could rescue me from the depths of hell going to come along? When will I be able to stop being scared to tell someone “Hey, I like you. We should spend some time together,” or, even better, when will that person reply “You know what, you’re right. We’re awesome together. What an astute observation”?
Maybe it’s time to say “enough now”, and throw caution to the wind. Stop trying to self-protect, because it CLEARLY doesn’t work. What am I waiting for?
I’m sitting here, bawling in front of the live-action version of “Charlotte’s Web”. That Wilbur continues to be Some Pig, even 56 years after he was created.
I think I need to buy this book. It’s been too long since I read it.
Now where is my Kleenex?