Hollywood, and the entertainment industry in general, is a man's world. Moneyed, opinionated, white men pull the strings, oppress minorities and women, hoard profits, laud over their enslaved underlings, take all the credit, and believe themselves gods. Why the world at large puts up with this is a valid query but is subject for another blog, a 22 volume treatise, and several documentary series.
But we can take some solace in the fact that every once in a while someone makes a swipe at one of these over-stuffed, over-rated moguls, and it is quite satisfying to be validated even if for just that brief moment. And this takes me to BBC Film critic Mark Kermode, who has something to say about Michael Bay.
In brief: Michael Bay is terrible. In long: "His films take millions of dollars but I think he's terrible. His films are rotten." and "If critics made any difference Michael Bay wouldn't be making movies. He's just terrible. Watching a Michael Bay movie is like being hit over the head with tax returns."
What music to mine ears! Finally someone, some man, some man in the industry, speaks out against gratuitous Michael Bay! Maybe all the trailer-editors/producer/whoever makes them will realize that putting "A FILM BY MICHAEL BAY" or similar in their mash-ups makes quite a few of us snicker. I was actually given a Transformers shirt for free by a studio exec and just could not bring myself to wear it. I eventually shame-facedly foisted it off on my sister's boyfriend, who at least is an engineer and has a somewhat valid interest in robots.
Kermode further spouts poetry when discussing Kiera Knightley: "I called her Ikea Knightley as her acting was so wooden." though he somewhat chickens out by adding, "She is better now." Regardless, this Kermode is a critic after my own heart.
**retires to a rose garden and sighs dreamily**
Friday, November 20, 2009
Leveling the Scales
I recently had the privilege of watching Britain's (un)offically smartest man--- Stephen Fry, that is--- bustle endearingly through his latest guest star stint as Doctor, now Chef, Gordon Gordon Wyatt on Fox's stellar police drama, Bones. Whilst making other intelligent observations about the quality of both the episode and Fry's performance, I recall saying to myself, "My, isn't Stephen looking trim these day!" Whether the man who has in the past described himself as a "floundering whale," "sloshing bin of yogurt" or similar has indeed shed pounds or not (which in the interest of his health I hope he did as I and his millions of other fans want to prolong his life as long as science and fiction possibly can) the point is our witty Twitter king is looking slimmer.
A few days later, I happened to catch another gem of British comedy yucking it up on the Graham Norton Show: Robert Webb and David Mitchell. Graham noted that Robert Webb, the sexy one of the dynamic duo, and wife had recently had a baby girl. (Pause for Webb enthusiasts' celebratory dance, song, etc.) "Oh David you look marvelous considering you had a baby three months ago!" quips Grahmy dearest, making a jab at David's now not-pudgy tummy after the comic cutie happened to have lost some weight from "having a bad back" and "doing some walking" according to self-report. Cue Mitchell rant about vanity and self-loathing, while Webb grins from ear to ear faithfully beside him. ("He's funny!" adds a giggling Anna Paquin helpfully, just in case we missed out on that fact.)
Alan Davies, yet another hilarious humorist, also has made comments about his weight. In mocking the 'can you pinch an inch' attitude to women of his acquaintance, 'Yes!' screams the not-exactly-Capt. Lardy, "Because when I'm reaching up for something, I don't want to split open."
But how atypical is all this! Talking about men's weights? Usually we don't even bat an eye when some fat, ugly balding chump gets it on with the gorgeous, super-fit supporting actress. See The Witches of Eastwick for a pronounced example of this. But here we are, celebrity gossiping about men losing weight for once! Maybe the tables are finally starting the turn as men get a taste of high cosmetic standards women are expected to adhere. Newly-hunkified and notorious male-grooming-phobiaed Mitchell (although a lot of us have confessed to being attracted to him purely for his intelligence and beautiful personality. Yay girls for not being lookist!) has sounded the alarm on this front. In his Unusually Smart Soapbox rant, Mitchell pleads with the handsome men of the world to tone it down and stop being so gosh-darned stylish, because it makes it hard for duds like him to to impress people with their 'unusually smartness' when donning their socially-sanctioned tuxedos and bow ties.
A few days later, I happened to catch another gem of British comedy yucking it up on the Graham Norton Show: Robert Webb and David Mitchell. Graham noted that Robert Webb, the sexy one of the dynamic duo, and wife had recently had a baby girl. (Pause for Webb enthusiasts' celebratory dance, song, etc.) "Oh David you look marvelous considering you had a baby three months ago!" quips Grahmy dearest, making a jab at David's now not-pudgy tummy after the comic cutie happened to have lost some weight from "having a bad back" and "doing some walking" according to self-report. Cue Mitchell rant about vanity and self-loathing, while Webb grins from ear to ear faithfully beside him. ("He's funny!" adds a giggling Anna Paquin helpfully, just in case we missed out on that fact.)
Alan Davies, yet another hilarious humorist, also has made comments about his weight. In mocking the 'can you pinch an inch' attitude to women of his acquaintance, 'Yes!' screams the not-exactly-Capt. Lardy, "Because when I'm reaching up for something, I don't want to split open."But how atypical is all this! Talking about men's weights? Usually we don't even bat an eye when some fat, ugly balding chump gets it on with the gorgeous, super-fit supporting actress. See The Witches of Eastwick for a pronounced example of this. But here we are, celebrity gossiping about men losing weight for once! Maybe the tables are finally starting the turn as men get a taste of high cosmetic standards women are expected to adhere. Newly-hunkified and notorious male-grooming-phobiaed Mitchell (although a lot of us have confessed to being attracted to him purely for his intelligence and beautiful personality. Yay girls for not being lookist!) has sounded the alarm on this front. In his Unusually Smart Soapbox rant, Mitchell pleads with the handsome men of the world to tone it down and stop being so gosh-darned stylish, because it makes it hard for duds like him to to impress people with their 'unusually smartness' when donning their socially-sanctioned tuxedos and bow ties.
"Black-tie is a gift to men! It requires no thought, and it makes any of us as good as it is possible for us to look! Why would you throw that away? . . . Whatever your twisted motivation is, for heaven's sakes, stop ruining it for the rest of us. If cool men continue to selfishly indulge their individuality, the convention will disappear and we'll all have to think about what we wear forever after. We'll be in the same situation as the poor women! . . . Men, in general, don't have to look as good as women. We should be clinging to that with all we're worth! Women have to fall back on make-up, botox and surgery. The cosmetic and sartorial yoke under which they labour is terrifying, and it looms for us if we, or indeed just a few of us, renounce the black-tie."And yet, it is also quite possible that we should not get our hopes up. These anomalous male weight-loss jabs have been aimed at a group of unclassically handsome men, who, after all, make a living out of self-mockery. They are free to be self-aware and are generally smart enough to take shallow and superficial attack in their stride. The beautiful men of the big and small screens may not be as hardy. It might be just the women and the chubby comics who have the truest grit, after all.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
La poste
"My Dearest Friend" --- letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams
Even as a small child I greatly admired the art of correspondence. Whether in nineteenth century novels, or in the dramatized excepts from primary sources in Ken Burns' PBS miniseries, the eloquence of the sentiment and precision of expression displayed in these 200+ year old documents are astonishing. I think most of us would agree that such writing is a long-lost art. But I have always felt it my duty as an admirer of the written word to at least do my bit to keep the practice of letter-writing alive. This has made me a loyal patron of the United States Postal Service. I appreciate its history and am glad to use it as my go-to mail service. However, the poor USPS seems to be striving to make this more and more difficult for me each year.
(1) As many letter-writers may know, the cost of the stamp has inflated over the years, often an additional cent every year. This makes the snail-mail corresponder's life most difficult as we juggle a jumble of 44 cent, 42 cent, 2 cent, 28 cent (postcard), 27 cent, and 1 cent stamps, fearful that if we get the wrong combo our messages to our dear and beloved will be lost somewhere out there in mail limbo.
And yes, I realize that we could buy the 'forever' stamps, but that would require surrendering to brown Liberty bell image blandness, versus the fun flower, fruit and furniture selection offered by the regular stamp. One should not have to compromise on aesthetics!
(2) Flat-rate boxes are an evil ruse. Sure you can ship anything you want in their cheapest box offered for just under $5. But the catch is that you can't actually fit anything in it. Unless you are planning on ship something relatively flat and rectangular-shaped like a stack of magazines, it's unlikly anything you actually want to mail will fit in their handy-dandy less than $5 box. Nope. Instead, you'd probably have to upgrade to the box that you can actually put things in. It only costs you $5 more.
I resent these shenanigans. I understand the ole postal system is in want of finances. But trying to pick-pocket me out of it with sneaky flat-rate box schemes shrouded by innocent tv ad facades and going all evil big-businessy on the general pop is not the way to go. Whatever happened to sticking to our founding principles, doing the right thing and being the better man? UPS and FedEx may have given up on ethics (or just be better, but we'll ignore that one for now), but who is the bigger mail system in the end? Oh, that logic actually does not work.
Well, I guess when the day comes that the homey USPS delivery trucks are running down pedestrians and joggers a la FedEx driver protocol, then we'll know we really have to worry.
Even as a small child I greatly admired the art of correspondence. Whether in nineteenth century novels, or in the dramatized excepts from primary sources in Ken Burns' PBS miniseries, the eloquence of the sentiment and precision of expression displayed in these 200+ year old documents are astonishing. I think most of us would agree that such writing is a long-lost art. But I have always felt it my duty as an admirer of the written word to at least do my bit to keep the practice of letter-writing alive. This has made me a loyal patron of the United States Postal Service. I appreciate its history and am glad to use it as my go-to mail service. However, the poor USPS seems to be striving to make this more and more difficult for me each year.
(1) As many letter-writers may know, the cost of the stamp has inflated over the years, often an additional cent every year. This makes the snail-mail corresponder's life most difficult as we juggle a jumble of 44 cent, 42 cent, 2 cent, 28 cent (postcard), 27 cent, and 1 cent stamps, fearful that if we get the wrong combo our messages to our dear and beloved will be lost somewhere out there in mail limbo.
And yes, I realize that we could buy the 'forever' stamps, but that would require surrendering to brown Liberty bell image blandness, versus the fun flower, fruit and furniture selection offered by the regular stamp. One should not have to compromise on aesthetics!
(2) Flat-rate boxes are an evil ruse. Sure you can ship anything you want in their cheapest box offered for just under $5. But the catch is that you can't actually fit anything in it. Unless you are planning on ship something relatively flat and rectangular-shaped like a stack of magazines, it's unlikly anything you actually want to mail will fit in their handy-dandy less than $5 box. Nope. Instead, you'd probably have to upgrade to the box that you can actually put things in. It only costs you $5 more.
I resent these shenanigans. I understand the ole postal system is in want of finances. But trying to pick-pocket me out of it with sneaky flat-rate box schemes shrouded by innocent tv ad facades and going all evil big-businessy on the general pop is not the way to go. Whatever happened to sticking to our founding principles, doing the right thing and being the better man? UPS and FedEx may have given up on ethics (or just be better, but we'll ignore that one for now), but who is the bigger mail system in the end? Oh, that logic actually does not work.
Well, I guess when the day comes that the homey USPS delivery trucks are running down pedestrians and joggers a la FedEx driver protocol, then we'll know we really have to worry.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Poem: Telemachus
Telemachus
(based on 'Ulysses' by Tennyson)
It profits little that a seasoned youth
In this moldering place, amid these sterile walls,
Does fret and idle his childhood away
Knotted in the snare of troubled lives,
which pass, and stare, and sit, and feel not me.
I will not cease my vifor; I will be
All that I will be. All things I have known
Quickly, have tired quickly, both with those
Living my life, and not; in truth, and in
Dreamy visions in thoughtless eyes looking
Away from here. I will be become a name;
For always empty for a noble cause
For much I have hungered; a weakened heart,
And substance, firmness, essence, presence
Myself amid, and dissolved in it all.
I am apart from all I have known;
And all future is a space aloft as
There through shines an unforeseen world, that shrinks
Infinitesimal, lost as I reach
How sad it is to die
To crumble untested, and never freed!
As though to sigh were breath! Sigh blowing sigh
Were all nothing, and still nothing to me
Releases breath; but every moment saves
From that eternal graveyard some lost life,
For I have not yet what I will becomes
in life past by, that which I'm not I will be:
One pulsing for of solitary will,
Kept weak by youth and age, but alive in heart
to live, to stretch, to fly, and not to fail.
(based on 'Ulysses' by Tennyson)
It profits little that a seasoned youth
In this moldering place, amid these sterile walls,
Does fret and idle his childhood away
Knotted in the snare of troubled lives,
which pass, and stare, and sit, and feel not me.
I will not cease my vifor; I will be
All that I will be. All things I have known
Quickly, have tired quickly, both with those
Living my life, and not; in truth, and in
Dreamy visions in thoughtless eyes looking
Away from here. I will be become a name;
For always empty for a noble cause
For much I have hungered; a weakened heart,
And substance, firmness, essence, presence
Myself amid, and dissolved in it all.
I am apart from all I have known;
And all future is a space aloft as
There through shines an unforeseen world, that shrinks
Infinitesimal, lost as I reach
How sad it is to die
To crumble untested, and never freed!
As though to sigh were breath! Sigh blowing sigh
Were all nothing, and still nothing to me
Releases breath; but every moment saves
From that eternal graveyard some lost life,
For I have not yet what I will becomes
in life past by, that which I'm not I will be:
One pulsing for of solitary will,
Kept weak by youth and age, but alive in heart
to live, to stretch, to fly, and not to fail.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Pas les temps
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an ambitious college student in pursuit of a successful academic and professional career must be in want of one thing: T I M E. (And no not the publication, nit wits.)
The Guess Who's 1970 "No Time" ought to be the official anthem for driven scholars at any prestigious institution of higher learning. We are all screaming the "I got got got got no time! I got got got got not time!" that leads the song out whether internally or externally. Except in this day and age, the You who we've got no time for is no longer some spurred ex, but instead is us, the driven scholars. We've got no time for ourselves.
As my workload begins to mutate monstrously and take on a life and destiny of its own, it's the basic things that get squeezed out. Sleep being the least of these.
Chatting with a friend as we hurried ourselves into a required 8pm screening of British General Post Office short films from the 1930s, I recounted with a genuine sense of glee and luxury, "I actually got to eat dinner today! It was so exciting!" and my friend express her jealousy of my good fortune. A little professor's wife in the aisle in front of us turned around and gave me a haughty look of disparagement. It made me pause and register just how ludicrous my statement was. I'm sure from her uninformed perspective, I sounded like some ditsy 'fashion merchandising' major in the fast lane to anorexia, but in actuality, most of us just no longer can afford to allot the 15 minutes required for dinner. And it is a sad comment on my life.
But it gets worse. This few mornings ago I actually took a moment to look at my reflection as I brushed my teeth, and realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I needed to pluck my eye-brows. I wracked my brains as to when I would have time to take care of this. I toyed with the possibility of taking the time out of my 10 minute breakfast, but opted to count it as a 'study break' later in the afternoon. As I recounted this to my sister on the phone (factored into my schedule three days beforehand), I expressed my astonishment at how I had managed to actually do my makeup every day last year--- something which I have since given up. Freshman year, doing my hair went. Sophomore year, eating lunch went. Junior year, exercising went. Senior year, nearly all forms of physical maintenance are going as I struggle to squeeze showering in.
Is this really how we are meant to live? When we cannot eat, sleep, talk to our family members on the phone, pluck our eyebrows, put on make-up or shave our legs (something that men should appreciate they do not have to worry about if only from a scheduling perspective), much less shop for new jeans when the ones we have are literally falling apart, without a paralyzing fear of getting behind schedule? Somehow I think we were not meant to grow up to be slave to our calendars. It tempts one to look up at the sky and scream "Where did it all go wrong?" Maybe if we could think of some answers to that question, we would have a fighting chance. But we just haven't got the time.
The Guess Who's 1970 "No Time" ought to be the official anthem for driven scholars at any prestigious institution of higher learning. We are all screaming the "I got got got got no time! I got got got got not time!" that leads the song out whether internally or externally. Except in this day and age, the You who we've got no time for is no longer some spurred ex, but instead is us, the driven scholars. We've got no time for ourselves.
As my workload begins to mutate monstrously and take on a life and destiny of its own, it's the basic things that get squeezed out. Sleep being the least of these.
Chatting with a friend as we hurried ourselves into a required 8pm screening of British General Post Office short films from the 1930s, I recounted with a genuine sense of glee and luxury, "I actually got to eat dinner today! It was so exciting!" and my friend express her jealousy of my good fortune. A little professor's wife in the aisle in front of us turned around and gave me a haughty look of disparagement. It made me pause and register just how ludicrous my statement was. I'm sure from her uninformed perspective, I sounded like some ditsy 'fashion merchandising' major in the fast lane to anorexia, but in actuality, most of us just no longer can afford to allot the 15 minutes required for dinner. And it is a sad comment on my life.
But it gets worse. This few mornings ago I actually took a moment to look at my reflection as I brushed my teeth, and realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I needed to pluck my eye-brows. I wracked my brains as to when I would have time to take care of this. I toyed with the possibility of taking the time out of my 10 minute breakfast, but opted to count it as a 'study break' later in the afternoon. As I recounted this to my sister on the phone (factored into my schedule three days beforehand), I expressed my astonishment at how I had managed to actually do my makeup every day last year--- something which I have since given up. Freshman year, doing my hair went. Sophomore year, eating lunch went. Junior year, exercising went. Senior year, nearly all forms of physical maintenance are going as I struggle to squeeze showering in.
Is this really how we are meant to live? When we cannot eat, sleep, talk to our family members on the phone, pluck our eyebrows, put on make-up or shave our legs (something that men should appreciate they do not have to worry about if only from a scheduling perspective), much less shop for new jeans when the ones we have are literally falling apart, without a paralyzing fear of getting behind schedule? Somehow I think we were not meant to grow up to be slave to our calendars. It tempts one to look up at the sky and scream "Where did it all go wrong?" Maybe if we could think of some answers to that question, we would have a fighting chance. But we just haven't got the time.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Les novelles britanniques
So random but oh so fantastic bits of news for those of you interested in the goings on in the British entertainment world (and yes some of this is so last month, but I've just heard of it):
(1) Michael Sheen is in the much anticipated New Moon. Isn't he just precious!?!
I mean, he already had a few nice roles in, oh, I don't know, Bright Young Things, The Queen, and Frost/Nixon but this will really kick-off his career.
(2) My much beloved Primeval has negotiated itself back to life after an apparently unprecedented routine of corporate acrobatics. We could even go so far as to call it an **anomaly** (Har har har). The powers that be have also taken steps to "ensure that the spectacular special effects that have made Primeval such a huge success will continue throughout the new season." Cuz where would we be without those? Oh time traveling dinosaur show. We love you.
(3) Gavin & Stacey, which has managed to remain frustratingly absent from youtube, has been picked up by ABC. Thank God!
(4) Russell Brand is in love with Katy Perry. They are dating. It is magical.
As someone who in a fit of madness actually read two thirds of Brand's remarkably enjoyable autobiography this summer, this bit of celebrity gossip cannot help but make me go "Awwwwwww." Despite his being blatantly un-PC and vile, the Western mainstream media consumer still seams to adore him--- as if we know that underneath that gruff sex and drug addicted exterior is a just a quirky, talented teddy bear. (To be quite honest, his book does revealing as quite a lot more lucid and sensitive than he may appear.)
If love of a good woman can turn Brand from his nefarious and self-gratifying ways, well then what more evidence do we need that love conquers all and that there just might be hope for the rest of us?
To the happy couple!
(1) Michael Sheen is in the much anticipated New Moon. Isn't he just precious!?!
I mean, he already had a few nice roles in, oh, I don't know, Bright Young Things, The Queen, and Frost/Nixon but this will really kick-off his career.
(2) My much beloved Primeval has negotiated itself back to life after an apparently unprecedented routine of corporate acrobatics. We could even go so far as to call it an **anomaly** (Har har har). The powers that be have also taken steps to "ensure that the spectacular special effects that have made Primeval such a huge success will continue throughout the new season." Cuz where would we be without those? Oh time traveling dinosaur show. We love you.
(3) Gavin & Stacey, which has managed to remain frustratingly absent from youtube, has been picked up by ABC. Thank God!
(4) Russell Brand is in love with Katy Perry. They are dating. It is magical.
As someone who in a fit of madness actually read two thirds of Brand's remarkably enjoyable autobiography this summer, this bit of celebrity gossip cannot help but make me go "Awwwwwww." Despite his being blatantly un-PC and vile, the Western mainstream media consumer still seams to adore him--- as if we know that underneath that gruff sex and drug addicted exterior is a just a quirky, talented teddy bear. (To be quite honest, his book does revealing as quite a lot more lucid and sensitive than he may appear.)
If love of a good woman can turn Brand from his nefarious and self-gratifying ways, well then what more evidence do we need that love conquers all and that there just might be hope for the rest of us?
To the happy couple!
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