Saturday, August 20, 2011

Just Your Typical Everyday Morning Car Explosion

It's not every morning you walk out of a Starbucks and find yourself in the middle of a real-life fucking action movie.
Let me back up...
I stopped off for coffee on my way to work yesterday morning. While getting out of my car, I vaguely noticed a man across the street dealing with his car's overheated engine. When I walked back outside not five minutes later, I stopped in tracks, uttering the words, "What the fuck...?"
The car directly across the street from mine was on fire. The entire top half of it was covered in flames, and huge plumes of smoke were billowing upward over Wilshire Boulevard. The car's owner was nowhere to be seen. Passerbies began to linger on the sidewalk, faces dropped, cell phone cameras coming out. "Oh shit!" said a guy over my shoulder. I started towards my car, thinking I should jump into it and drive away, but very quickly thought better of it. The flames were growing bigger, spreading across the vehicle. My car wasn't more than a dozen feet away. A passing driver sped up to get beyond the blaze. A man stood next to me on the shop's patio. "Oh, man,"he said. I absent-mindedly held my cell phone, wondering if someone had already called for help. A few spectators walked to the sidewalk directly across from the car, positioning their phones for a better picture. Then the flames reached something combustible, and an explosion shattered the driver's side window and sent debris into the street. "Get away from there!" people shouted. "Don't go near it!" The man next: "Oh man, if that hits the fuel tank, it's gonna' blow." I tensed, and backed up a few feet, but kept eying my own car. "Jesus," I said. Then the man turned to me, "You know, this reminds me of a time I was in Sedona..." As he kept talking, I could hear sirens in the distance, and soon two fire trucks appeared off of Wilshire and parked.

Note my silver Volvo in the foreground.

When things were sufficiently doused, I slid into my car and eased past the fire truck...

... because I was late to work. But I hoped my boss would understand that I'd woken up to a scene from Children of Men or Breaking Bad.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Johnny C. at the holiday party

At the FunnyOrDie holiday party, John C. Reilly was looking pretty relaxed as he strolled amidst the sea of comedy nerds. I wanted to approach him not just as a movie fan but to tell him I saw his amazing production of True West in New York back in 2000 (the one where he and Philip Seymour Hoffman switched roles every few nights, and where I saw them in the roles that the Times liked a little less). Standing there in the chi chi Hollywood bar, I could remind Reilly that after that play I'd gotten up the nerve to get his autograph and, as a shy 17-year-old, had asked if he "had any advice for an aspiring actor." To which he replied, "Trust yourself," and a few of his post-show friends snickered over his shoulder and he cracked a wry smile. And at the holiday party, furthermore, I could demand, "And where has your advice gotten me, huh? Were you friends right to snicker?? I've been trusting myself for the last ten years, and what do I have to show for it?? Huh, John C. Reilly?? WHAT HAVE I WROUGHT?" 

How do you think that'd go over?

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

A Fractured Fairy Tale for you - (Teaser)




The Sweetest Best-est Most Un-wicked Stepmother Ever

            ONCE upon a time there lived a young boy and his stern, hatchet-carrying father, whose wife had recently passed away. She was done in by one of those icky annual poxes that are nowadays so laughably curable. What a waste. The cottage where they lived sat on the Eastern slope of a tall hill, looking pretty quaint and idyllic even though it was structurally very unsound. It had also grown unkempt and dreary in the days since the lady’s death – a woman’s only, only vocation at the time being to keep that homestead shit straightened out. Even the boy’s hygiene and demeanor were going south. The father took note of all this (with a countenance that only ever expressed the emotions “nonplussed” or “enraged”) and, after a five-word heart-to-heart with his boy, resolved to get a new wife lickety-split. His land, his cottage, and all his livestock were super impressive-by-peasant-standards and could probably fetch a new wife-homemaker within the fortnight, which was a word that meant two weeks. The father readied his horse and, leaving the boy with a minuscule food ration and a list of exploitative chores, journeyed off to the large nearby village (population: 40).
....

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

2010 Wrap-Up: 5 Things I'm Grateful For



By late November I'd already called 2010 a wash. It's time to bring on the new year! I'm ready. But first, I’ll pause and admit that this year did yield some impressive entertainment. So here are five books/media/live and un-live pieces of storytelling that I am extremely grateful to have encountered in 2010. 



5. American Buffalo, Steppenwolf Theater Company, Chicago   


I'm fortunate enough to have reasons to visit Chicago, because right now I'm convinced that it produces the best theater in the world. I hadn't seen Mamet done professionally since a Glengarry Glen Ross a decade ago in San Francisco, and I'm not a particularly big fan of his. But this flawless production at the Steppenwolf reminded me of why this guy is such a prolific writer. The first act seamlessly set up things without your realizing - things that were slipped into innocuous character-y conversations only to come back with huge consequences later. I started to think about Mamet's advice to those who want to write screenplays: Just read Aristotle's Poetics. Over, and over, and over. The second act was all tragic reversals, all payoff, as each character has his beliefs about life pulled out from under him. The play offered a trio of terrific performances, but the standout was - expectedly - Tracy Letts, who bulldozed onto the stage with a hilarious portrayal of Teach, a bottom-feeding crook who is cocky, fierce, deluded and ultimately very lonely. Insert audible audience gasps. Commence late-in-play trashing of many, many props.



another production: this spot could also easily go to the amazing OSF production of Hamlet that I saw, if I hadn't already blabbed about it so much in this other post.




4. Noah Baumbach's Greenberg (2010)




Nobody saw this movie. Even Baumbach's fan base steered clear. People found the trailer annoying. And people find Ben Stiller annoying. A friend of mine wanted to start a twitter handle called "That'sSoGreenberg" and tweet about moments of faux-epiphany and "not connecting" around Los Angeles. But I was still interested in seeing it. I've always been impressed by Baumbach's acidic, richly character'd little comedies (adore Kicking and Screaming, admire Squid and the Whale and Margot at the Wedding). When I entered the theater last Spring, I was not disappointed. Greenberg was such a gratifying viewing experience that I never want to watch it again - the first time was so complete.
 I've long had the idea of writing a parody of the precious indie-romantic comedy, a sort of anti-(500) Days of All the Garden State Real Girls. In Greenberg, Baumbach has begun that deconstruction process. His sad sack "romantic lead" is an aggressively unpleasant former-musician-turned-carpenter. Unlikable protagonists have been popping up a lot lately, from Daniel Plainview to Mark Zuckerberg. But Roger Greenberg, scene by scene, must find something to complain about. There's bravery in Baumbach's writing such a vivid pill for a main character. The film's would be "dream girl," who manages to connect with Greenberg in a demented way, is much more glum, lost and prone to making large life mistakes than any Zooey Deschanel character. (Also, The A.V. Club has just named it their 11th best film of 2010). What will I say the next time I encounter a moody grown-up comedy that undercuts my expectations again and again? That's So Greenberg!


another movie: Mike Leigh's Naked (1993)

3. Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames 

Ames' writing has edged into the spotlight this year. The diverting, ramshackle HBO series Bored to Death was created by him (from a short story of his that has an entirely different tone). His other novel The Extra Man (I'm just starting it now) was turned into a movie with Kevin Kline. But Wake Up, Sir! has me assured of Ames' neurotic genius. A hybrid P.G. Wodehouse comedy of manners--New-Jersey-dysfunctional-alcoholic tale, this novel had me laughing out loud on every single page, which instantly places it up there with Catch-22 and A Confederacy of Dunces as one of the funniest books I've ever read. Furthermore, this is the first novel I've read while getting to follow the author on twitter - a kind of real-time footnotes. (Bonus: There's an extended sex scene late in the story that Ames used to refute the NY Times' Book Review's assertion that male novelists these days are much more squeamish about creating sex scenes than their counterparts a generation ago. Ames' is a writer fascinated by fetishes, and this scene will certainly have you think twice about who you lend this book to.) 

another novel: Homeland by Sam Lipsyte 

2. AMC's Breaking Bad

Technically I started this series via Netflix during the summer of 2009, lured to AMC programming by Mad Men. But after three episodes, I wasn't impressed. The early story line involving Marie's kleptomania was underwritten and the show seemed uneven. Some time later, I gave the second disc of episodes a try, which contained episode 6: "Crazy Handful of Nothin.'" This episode hooked me. In it's pre-credits sequence, Walter White admonishes his partner-in-meth-dealing Jesse Pinkman: "No more bloodshed, no more violence" and then the hour ends with Walt using exactly that to strike a business deal with the loose-canon drug lord, Tuco. Along the way, Walt symbolically shaves his head. There have been episodes of Breaking Bad since that have stunned me - the drawn-out desert shack showdown with Tuco and his enfeebled, bell-ringing old man, the "Peek-a-boo" episode with the red-headed boy and the nerve-wrenching ATM incident, season three's stunning bottle episode "The Fly," in which a sleep-drugged Walt laments the "perfect moment" when his life should have ended. But Breaking Bad began for me in the final moments of "Crazy Handful of Nothin'," with Walt's declaration to Tuco "THIS is not meth" and the surprise that follows. To refer to the Poetics again (which I was reading by this point in the year, thanks to American Buffalo), a reversal, which produces a cathartic "ah-ha!" in the audience, comes about when you've built a surprise that makes perfect sense. Not an easy thing to build. But the finale of this episode creates just that, by exploiting the one thing we know about Walt: He's a chemist. While Breaking Bad is very adept with action sequences, spectacle, and music montage, it's never afraid to showcase it's biggest strength: Great writing.  

another show: HBO's Deadwood.

1. Hot Chip's "I Feel Better" music video

With the overwhelming availability of viral content, I never lack for a funny online sketch or an impressive music video. And this video is both. For me, it completes a cycle started when I found The Lonely Island's brilliant "Bing Bong Brothers" video back in 2006. Like that one, this video gratifies me on so many levels. I feel like there's plenty to discuss in terms of its aesthetic choices and anthropological meaning (yeah, I went there). But, suffice it to say, no single piece of media I encountered in 2010 makes me happier... 

Hot Chip - I Feel Better

Hot Chip | Myspace Music Videos



Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Alternate titles for "The Lady Vanishes" (1938) Based on the First 31 Minutes of "The Lady Vanishes" (1938)

The Lady Lives in What is Clearly a Model Town (1938)
The Lady Drives a - No Seriously, Did Audiences Laugh at This Tiny Model Town in 1938? (1938)
The Lady if That's the Lady Gets What She Wants 'Cause She's Traveling with Two Other Ladies and She's American (1938)
The Lady May be this Hot German Maid Who May Not be Shy about Changing in Front of Two British Bumblers (1938)
The Lady Complains About Noises to An Older Lady who May Also be *the* Lady I Don't Know (1938)
The Lady Gets Barged in on by a Musical Cad Who Might Vanish Her... But He Doesn't (1938)
The Lady, in a Lack of Economy Unlike the Director, Isn't Vanished Yet, but Some Dude is Choked Outside by Hand Shadows (1938)
The Lady Who May or May Not be Eponymous Gets Hit on the Head by a Random Box, and Gets the Cinematography Dizzies (1938)
The Lady Climbs On Board the Mode of Transportation Most Befitting the Director's Plots (1938)
The Lady is Deluged with Hitchcockian Tics, Such as Train Whistles that Obscure Crucial Pieces of Conversation (1938)
The Lady Who is Clearly Now *the* Lady Writes Her Name On the Train Window's Condensation to Make a Well-Duh Clue (1938)
The Lady's Vanishing Seems Vaguely Familiar from a Making Of- Documentary (1938)

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Pride in My Prejudice


I'm pleased that my old thoughts on "Pride and Prejudice" continue to strike a chord with the Goodreads community. 


Wednesday, September 22, 2010

An Alice Munro Parody for You





The First Dewberries
~
I

HEART BURGLARY


            ANNABEL NEVER EXPECTED to receive a call from her daughter, Ilsit, so late in the evening and on a Tuesday. Ever since Ilsit and Harold, her husband of twenty-one years, had moved to Toronto, Annabel became used to regular Sunday afternoon calls from her. The couple's move to the city came about soon after their wedding and with the hope that Harold could grow his business selling home furnishings, a range of designer goods which Ilsit thought refined but which Annabel called “ostentatious” behind Harold’s back. Such were his mother-in-law‘s country tastes, a distinction that cannot be overstated. Plus there were her generational differences, Annabel having lived through those very difficult, nearly impoverished years before some war. Still, she had been relieved at her daughter's wedding. She, if not Ilsit herself, had been keenly aware of an eighteen-year-old woman’s dwindling options. Which is not to say that Ilsit was unattractive. She caught the eyes of the young men in town, despite a certain indescribable something that kept her from being beautiful. Since puberty she’d been fair-skinned with dark hair that she always, always, always wore up, and a smile which took a slightly vindictive turn at its left corner. And she was also fairly bookish. Like in a nascent writerly-type way. The town she’d escaped from was where Annabel still lived in their deteriorating but memory-laden farm house – which Annabel's great-grandfather had built (in even difficult-er years) – in a rural valley surrounded by several bodies of water outside of Vancouver, and some distance from Montreal. But probably reachable from Ontario, if you own a car. Which many more people do nowadays.
            “Is something the matter?” demanded Annabel; she could hear her daughter's breath quicken. 
            “No. Everything’s fine.” But after some minutes of conversing, Ilsit hazarded her question: “Mom, do you ever think of Augie Firnable?”
            Annabel's gripped the receiver more tightly to hear the boy's name uttered after so many years. After so many residents of the town had long-forgotten the accident. After the spot in the field, near the kissing gate that lead from the Firnables' land onto their own, had long been worn over and trod down by the harsh seasons.
            However, perhaps Annabel never answered the phone. Never spoke to her daughter that Tuesday night of all nights. Perhaps, instead, she took out the preserved stack of letters between her mother, whose face had always possessed a certain indescribable something that kept her from being beautiful, and her father, who was almost certainly barrel-chested. She sat sipping a coffee mug filled with rye, and carefully unfolded the letter from the week after Augie's death:

            Dear husband George,                                                                         late-1800's
            The seasons are especially season-y this season. I have a deeply felt inner life that no one will ever know about, at least while I'm alive. Out in our field, the handsomest of the Firnable boys has just suffered an Industrial Age accident. I fear this will have subtle reverberations in our town for several generations, and that our daughter Annabel in particular will mine it for lots of metaphors, especially if she ever gets divorced. If only her looks didn't possess that certain indescribable something that keeps her from being straight up beautiful. She deserves a higher education, even though that would be fucking crazy.
            Subtextually,
            Georgiana