All posts by ester

movies, TV, very hot men

… and it’s over

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I have been a media glutton lately. Observe:

WEDNESDAY – Knocked Up. And if you think my reaction was conflicted, compare it to the spitting ire of the Flick Filosopher.

THURSDAY – An advance free screening of Becoming Jane, essentially Shakespeare in Love-lite with James McAvey as a hotter version of Joseph Fiennes. Where did all these smoking hot British men come from all of a sudden? Back in the day, our selection was limited to the admittedly more-than-acceptable Ewan MacGregor. Now he’s jostling for space with Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Glen Hansard from Once, not to mention the whole cast of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Where were they before I got engaged?

FRIDAY – LA Story for Mr. Ben’s sake. I fell asleep halfway through since, before we settled in, we’d spent an indefensible amount of time trying to pick out the Perfect Bedset. What this means in practice was that we spent several hours with our ears to the computer screen, waiting to hear the sweet song of the Comforter-Pillow-Sheet-Duvet Combo that would really complete us as a couple.

SATURDAY – Chapter 2 of Angels in America with my viewing posse. I own the DVD so that, when I mention it Kushner’s version in conversation and someone hasn’t made the 6-hour chunk of time available to subject themselves to it, I can offer it up. (This is also why I own the A&E Pride & Prejudice, Pulp Fiction, and any number of other pieces of Essential Viewing.)

SUNDAY – and the reason I began writing this entry: the final episode, at long last, of the Sopranos, widely recognized as the best television series I’ve ever watched through my fingers. The fact that I — with my famously low tolerance for violence — have found it worthwhile to experience almost a decade of this show should testify to how impressive the acting, pacing, and scripting are, if anyone needs convincing. But you don’t, right? You’ve seen the show, starting from Season 1? Cuz if you haven’t, I have the DVDs …

In a way I’m glad we’ve gotten the final episode out of the way. I’m the sort of the person that likes to have suspense done with so that I can reread or rewatch and focus on details, not plot. But I did like the finale. Very few people can do suspense as well as David Chase; I nearly fibrillated during that last scene at the diner. When the screen cut to black and a string of curses rose up from the entire East Coast, I felt the same immediate frustration and disappointment I imagine everyone did. But I also think there was something genius about that Brechtian move on DC’s part — calling attention to the medium (how many people thought their cable had gone out?), reminding us that this is just art, that we shouldn’t let our emotions overwhelm us.

Also, whether or not you think Tony died in that moment when the screen went black, you have to believe that the best of his life is behind him. He’s caught in the same self-destructive, self-obsessed patterns, only now he doesn’t have Melfi to help him pan for small shiny bits of insight. He has his wife’s and his son’s loyalty but only because he bought them; and two of the closest members of his work family are gone forever. Instead of saving babies the way Tony hoped she would as a pediatrician, his daughter will spend her life trying to save mobsters as a lawyer and it’s because of Tony. He’ll always have to live looking over his shoulder and even if he isn’t killed, the specter of Junior lies ahead of him: wasting away toothless in a New Jersey state hospital with no memory of the pride or glory that made “this thing of ours” worth dying for in the first place.

movies

knocked up and out

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Considering that when Mr. Ben and I spent Memorial Day Weekend lounging in his mom’s house in Chappaqua with friends we rewatched 40 Year Old Virgin, rediscovering exactly how funny that movie is, we naturally wanted to see Apatow’s second major at bat, Knocked Up, ASAP. Truly and duly, we laughed very hard throughout Knocked Up, but there were times that I was also squeezing his hand; there was one time that I cried; and at least once I blessed the fact that I was still off sugar. Apatow coulda given me an anxiety attack.

Nobody told me it was a horror movie! was my first comment when the lights came on, and I was only partly kidding. Knocked Up is impressive for dealing with serious topics without melting into sentimentality. But (excuse the cliche) partly because it was so good, I wanted it to be better.

As some critics have noted, Apatow can’t really do women. The main character Alison’s sister, played by Apatow’s real life wife, is a frightening, controlling, hysterical mess who does almost nothing right from start to finish. She and her husband, played by Paul Rudd, communicate so badly they barely bother to try. As even Alison, who for some reason loves her sister, points out, they’re miserable and utterly wrong for each other.

In real life, they would divorce. In this movie, that’s not an option. Following that same strange moral code, the idea that Alison would consider an abortion when she finds herself unexpectedly pregnant is only discussed briefly by other, minor characters who suggest darkly that Alison should “take care of it.” Did Doc Brown abduct these characters and transport them to 1903? On Gray’s Anatomy — a network TV show! — they dealt with the subject more straightforwardly; and this movie is rated R.

I would have no problem with Alison choosing to have a baby, but you never see her make the choice — you know, consider her options, make a list, decide what she really wants. You don’t even get her looking longingly at kids or something to indicate she has a deep current of maternal instinct. It’s Life With Baby Forever or Nothing for this chick, and I just didn’t buy it. Why would a twenty-something well-off professional single woman in LA unquestioningly change her life around to have the baby of a shlubby guy with whom she’d had a drunk one-night stand? Even though Ben (the fella in question) is funny and sweet and relatively charming.

That’s problem #1 I had with the movie. Problem #2, which I alluded to earlier, is that the main model of marriage is the natural disaster of a couple of Alison’s sister and her husband. I’ve never seen a better ad for homosexuality than this movie. It seems to be saying that men & women are incurably different and can only be “trained” to live together in pseudo peace, because men are wild children at heart and women are appearance-obsessed mysteries who don’t know how to have fun.

To be fair, Katherine Heigl has some moments where she shows she’s more honest and more human than her sister. She’s not judgmental about Ben’s drug use or his layabout lifestyle (something he accuses her of, later). At one point she breaks it to him gently that he’s fine the way he is; just, the guy he is isn’t the guy for her. Great! Plus, she’s right — they would be better friends. Part of me wished the movie would leave it there, giving them full points for trying. But, yeah, part of me enjoyed the rom-com ending.

But there are also plenty of parts where she’s CRAZY, too crazy for hormones to function solely as an excuse. Why, female characters? Why must you be so off your rockers, so bats-in-the-bellfry, bricks short of a load? Could you not have pulled Apatow aside and explained in your nicest indoor voices that there’s an alternative? Catherine Keener in 40 Y.O.V. must have done that, cuz she did not fare nearly so badly.

All of the fringe characters, by the way, are hilarious. My favorite are the Good Cop/Bad Cop E! TV executives for whom Alison works, but everyone’s pitch perfect, ad libbing their hearts out and clearly having a great time. I’d give the movie an 8 for the Vegas sequence alone. Maybe it’s because I’m getting married so all of this cuts close to home. But I really wish it had been just a little bit better.

Interesting factoid: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lindsey Lohan, and Anne Hathaway were all considered for the part of Alison. Throw Selma Hayek and Jessica Simpson into the mix and you have a regular Rockette line of the bustiest thin ladies of Hollywood. Clearly the character needed to be pneumatic, but why? Did the first draft featured a huge flood that Alison needed to survive? Not that I’m complaining; it makes me feel less alone to see the stacked ladies. Although for all the gratutious tit shots, it’s worth noting that Heigl keeps her bra on throughout. You see three shots of the baby crowning but not so much as a nipple. Oh, Hollywood.

DC, mawidge, musing

clean, clear, and under control

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My mother’s thyroid biopsy came back empty. No cancer! One of my parents doesn’t have cancer! I would have thrown a party when I found out if I hadn’t been about to leave for a weekend in DC.

Mr. Ben and I Vamoosed for a mere $25, and if you’ve been craving an alternative to the Chinatown bus, I recommend it highly. Clean, roomy, with working televisions (even if all they did was inform me How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days if you’re the reasonably charming Kate Hudson). Plus, they drop off in Bethesda, close to where my ailing parents reside.

As to my ailing parents, I do wonder a bit what’s to be done. Though my mother was found to be out of danger, the surgeons who removed her thyroid left her with a scar that makes her look like Juno, the chain-smoking caseworker in Beetlejuice played by Sylvia Sydney. For some reason I can’t find a picture, but you remember her — the afterlife expert who exhales through the slash in her throat.

My mom’s had her throat slit, my dad’s been disemboweled. What a year for my parents. My mother is rocking it, though. She looks great — and when she asked the doctor what the condition of the scar would be in early August, he said, “Well, I can tell you one thing that would help.”

“What’s that?” asked my mother.

“A really striking diamond necklace.”

I fear that my father might need more than some frost to distract attention from his situation. Chemo hasn’t been sitting well with him after all; he’s hardly been able to eat or sleep. I can only hope he adjusts soon, or something? What can I hope for?

Probably to keep us from thinking such mopey thoughts, when Mr. Ben and I were in town, they wouldn’t let us stand still for a moment. The weekend whirled by & all I recall looking back are flashes of my wedding dress, about a hundred pairs of silver slippers, a much amended song list, a stack of stamped invitations, a strapless bra, the Rabbi in his office, some really terrific strawberries, and faces made up to look pretend Japanese for a spirited if a bit silly production of the Mikado at Wolf Trap.

I made it back in time to catch the Sopranos with my next door neighbor. David Chase really knows how to gut a viewer, doesn’t he? Except for that overdone bit with the model train, it was an amazing hour of suspense; I think I was whimpering from start to finish. Idly it occurred to me as I watched that it was ridiculous to get all emotionally involved with the deaths of these fictional monsters, whereas I’ve managed to stay relatively calm about the sickness of both of my parents. But I guess that’s what art is for.

books, family

the trillster

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I’ve started reading significant chunks of my friend and co-editor Tara Leigh’s new memoir in progress, the sequel to her first, Here’s To Hindsight (in bookstores now!) As I was leaning over one chapter with a blue pen, as per usual, I made a startling discovery: I was simultaneously in the book. There was my name! Spelled correctly and everything.

To an aspiring New Yorker, being mentioned in a memoir must be an occasion for unalloyed joy. Mine, however, was tempered a bit by context. Tara Leigh, in her infinite wisdom, had chosen to do something I tend to discourage my friends from doing: quote something I said six months ago, when, clearly, I was young and stupid.

“Where do you live?” she recalls me saying.
“Greenwich,” she replied.
“Connecticut?”
“No, the Village.”

I went on (supposedly) to give her a primer on Village geography and nomenclature that left her confidence shaken. The poor thing had only been in the city two days, after all; but how could I in good conscience let her continue going around mistakenly giving everyone the impression that she lived in the Whitebreadville, Hedge Fund Capital of the World? Am I wrong? Am I wrong? No — to quote The Big Lebowski — you’re not wrong, Walter, you’re just an asshole.

In any event, it is exciting to be namechecked in a book that will soon have printed pages and real covers and everything AND might one day be picked up by Pat Robertson. Hey, it’s possible. (Also, did you hear that though Jerry Falwell is no longer with us, his legacy lives on in Poland?)

I also spoke to my father who began chemo today with no adverse effects. In fact he seemed downright chipper. So far as I could tell, chemo is giving him the opportunity to devote not merely his usual three or so hours to reading, but a full, justifiable eight. Eight hours of sitting and ingesting information — that’s a whole workday. I guess some people might get antsy, but to my father, if you throw in a top-notch cornbeef sandwich and a Dr. Brown’s cream soda, that’s all he needs in the world.

Uncategorized

summer begins

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You know spring is over when there’s finally a movie worth seeing in a theater. Of course, currently, that movie is playing in only one theater, but I think that’s going to change. It’s small and charming, exactly what an indie should be. Not perfect — the songs really don’t need to go on quite so long, I mean, after about three minutes we get it — but lovely and romantic in the Before Sunset/After Sunset vein. And the redhaired main character has an Irish accent. MMMhmm.

You also know spring is over when summer hours start. Summer hours! Out at 12:30 on Friday to enjoy the 90 degree weather! This reminds me of when my high school used to release us on Fridays at 2:15, even though the point of that was that we could rush home and help our mothers prepare for the sabbath before sundown, not frolic in the sunshine like heathens. Still: thanks, German Mother Publishing Company Conglomerate. I appreciate it.

The heat is helping soak my wounded pride. I went to the dentist this morning for the first time in over three years, and they had to take x-rays, and I rewarded them for that by making their jobs almost as difficult as they could be. At least I didn’t actually throw up on them. I could have, you know. I had tears in my eyes from holding it back.

Also, Pinkberry tried to poison me yesterday. I found shreds of plastic in my lo-sugar fruit smoothie. And my shoes? That I spent too much money on because I finally thought I had found the perfect soft pretty easy-to-walk-in sandals? Gave me a blister. Because nothing’s perfect, friends. That’s the life lesson. Sweet diet goodness AND dental hygienists AND the footwear you use to run from both are all out to get you. Any way they can.

Luckwise, my family seems to have stumbled into some bad lighting lately. At least it’s Memorial Day Weekend. My mom should be coming home from the hospital today; my dad starts chemo Tuesday; and I’m off to Westchester with Mr. Ben for a bit to escape the dangers lurking in the city’s frozen yogurt.

faux gender theory, theater, TV

mints. peppermints.

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Two notable New York experiences to add to the books. First, on Saturday evening, two friends and I were on our tiptoes in the Eugene O’Neill theater watching Spring Awakening over the heads of 400 theater-goers (they were seated, the lucky bastards). All of a sudden, during the gay love ballad in Act II, a man stumbled into the darkness directly behind us and, making the most unpleasant noise I’ve ever heard outside the Union Square Subway Station, vomited all over the floor.

Bad theater district calamari? An adverse reaction to musicals made from 19th century German plays? Or maybe the man was Ted Haggard and onstage sight of the older boy seducing the younger one hit a little too close to home.

In any event, it was a testament to the highly entertaining nature of the show that my friends and I threw our hands over our noses and stayed where we were, though the Standing Room area instantly smelled as bad as anything I’ve smelled in the city outside the Fulton Street Subway Stop.

Have I mentioned my commute spans both the Union Square and Fulton Street stops? My mornings are fun.

The show was entertaining, although it didn’t bother to be terribly coherent or original, at least plotwise. (WARNING: SPOILERS!!) As I said to my friend during the intermission, “Those two sweet kids had *sex.* Naturally that can only lead to pregnancy and despair.” And sure enough. In fairness, I should add that in the case of Spring Awakening, it did also lead to more singing.

Seriously, playwrights, moviemakers, TV auteurs — we’ve seen it before. We understand that teenagers must be punished for their libidos (just as professional women must be punished for putting off having children by not being able to have children). Sigh. I’m sure there are punishment paradigms I’ve missed too — help me out, kidlets?

My second memorable New York experience had me sheepishly knocking on a neighbor’s door yesterday morning. We don’t know each other well, though we do share wireless internet through the wall. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to bother you. Can I borrow a cup of HBO tonite?” This was the 3rd-to-last-EVER episode of the Sopranos and damned if I was going to miss it just because I didn’t have premium cable and my two friends who do were both out of town.

Luckily my neighbor said “Sure!” Score! My assertiveness was rewarded. The show itself was chilling: it visually quoted incredibly disturbing scenes from both Shortbus and American History X. Not bad, Mr. Chase. I whimpered a lot and twisted around in my seat, trying to avoid the violence (the effects of which have lingered with me — I can’t stop thinking about my teeth and touching them with my tongue to make sure they’re still intact). My neighbor laughed at me and invited me to return for the next/last two episodes. Must be because I brought chocolate.

TV

spy vs. spy

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Jaslene is America’s Next Top Model! Say it with me now: “WHAT?” And then, “Ugh.” She is dim and bony and looks like a man, which went over well in the competition, unsurprisingly. Also, Tyra <3 <3 <3'ed Jaslene-from-the-block's story arc (to recap: last season Jaslene wasn't good enough to make the cut, but she tried again and redeemed herself). It’s not like I was rooting for anyone, really. Who was there to root for? Spunky mail order bride Natasha Galkina, who was also dim but smart enough at least to borrow Angelina Jolie’s mouth for the competition? Or Renee, the annoying, standard blonde from Hawaii?

Renee and Natasha were two of the three teenage mothers in competition, and though we at home could admire the way they managed to magically emerge from childbearing with no scars, fat, or breasts, it got boring hearing over and over again how they had to succeed for the sake of their children. Sure. Because the APA recommends that young mothers enter professions that keep their women starving, travelling, and riddled with alcohol, drugs, and syphilis. If they also train their women to throw cell phones at the help, so much the better.

I guess it was all right that I didn’t get emotionally invested in this finale. The Gilmore Girls left me exhausted — I had to inject Gatorade into my veins to rehydrate me after that much crying.

celebration, family, mawidge

engaged to the teeth

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locket #1
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

you can’t see too well but in this picture, taken by ms. tara leigh last night in the village, i’m wearing the locket my grandmother just gave me. inside are pictures of my grandfather and her from the early 40s when THEY got engaged; the locket had been his gift to her, since he couldn’t afford a ring. it’s an incredible piece: she seems like a movie star, and as for my grandfather — tara leigh took one look at him and shrieked, “Spidey!”

Meaning that the oh-so-dignified late father of my mother resembles Tobey Maguire. Personally I think the Yolato must have gone to her head.

The whole weekend was crazy, although largely in the best possible way. Wednesday Mr. Ben finished his VERY LAST FINAL EVER and we celebrated by attending his law skool’s Barrister’s Ball at the Tavern on the Green. I was a bit scared the restaurant’s 14-foot-wide blue chandeliers would swing low and swallow me up; luckily, we spent most of our time out on the patio under much friendlier lanterns, which did not look like remnants from a giant whorehouse.

Friday, Mr. Ben donned a bright purple gown — all the rage in graduation fashion — and crossed the stage to be hooded in a very lengthy ceremony that featured Winner of the Barack Obama prize for Most Inspiring Politican, Mr. Cory Booker of Newark. We celebrated -that- by dining at Tabla with his entire family. Both sides were on their best behavior, as they were again the NEXT night, for the engagement party my aunt and uncle threw us at Pescatore (which was, coincidentally, May 12, the anniversary of our engagement).

About 25 people came to salute us and wish us well over the four hour meal. I can finally attest to the fact that the food was delicious since I’m eating it right now for lunch. At the time, all the speechmaking and toasting in our honor left me too overwhelmed to eat.

The next day, of course, was mother’s day. Luckily my mom and my grandmother were still in town, and Mr. Ben and I hung out with them in the city until they headed back to DC and then went to meet Tara Leigh for church! Because what better way to cap off a weekend? I’d never been to a Protestant service before and I didn’t like the idea of Jesus Camp being my representative experience of an American Christian religious service.

No wafers’n’wine (the Presbyterians don’t do that) which is cool since I’m still off sugar. I sort of bowed my head when everyone else did and waited patiently for the songs to be over, and otherwise listened intently to the sermon that made up 75% of the service. I think it helped me realize how starved I am for textual analysis and also maybe for religious instruction. Even if I’m not a religious person by the standards of religious people, it’s how I grew up and I miss talking about and reading about the Bible sometimes in an intellectual way.

The easy answer would be to go to shul, our synagogue in Brooklyn Heights. That seems more threatening, though, like it would mean increased devotion or religiousity on my part, and that’s not what I’m looking for. Maybe I just need to get back into full-speed writing of the novel.

books, life in new york

the lusty month of may

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Book news! Not about mine, really. If I want to fulfill my dream of (1) not working in an office forever and instead 2) travelling around the world in part trying to (3) escape publicity, I have to get back into a routine of writing & revising. Because sadly one has to deserve publicity before one can escape it. Unless one is Paris Hilton.

Did you know the Astor Place Barnes & Noble is closing? I find this mind-boggling, a bit like Tower Records succumbing to the fate of its tarot card.

I guess I’ll have to find a different place to buy my literary lover’s latest. Actually, more precisely, since I don’t buy from chain stores, I’ll have to find a different place to use the bathroom when I’m downtown and in need. And let me add, it is a measure of my devotion that I even think of purchase, anywhere. I am a loyal footsoldier of the New York Public Library, with cards for Manhattan & Brooklyn branches. As I am not (yet) dashing incognito to Buenos Aires when being chased by paparazzi becomes too fatiguing, I simply cannot afford to buy every book I read.

Speaking of which, though, I’ve gotten absorbed back into these Dorothy Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey mystery novels I loved when I was younger. They’re wonderful: witty, thoughtful, exciting, really hard to put down. I recommend them highly even — or especially — if you’ve always turned your nose up when confronted with mysteries or genre fiction in general. The ones with Harriet Vane in them are about as romantic as I get.