A horse a horse

My college poetry professor, a renowned aesthete/scamp/hipster, would read us works by John Donne, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens; eyes closed, lips and tongue teasing out each sweet note, he’d actually sigh from the pleasures of a well-written line. One time he exclaimed (without a hint of irony), "Oh, I want to get down on the floor and hug that sentence!" I think of what he said whenever I read anything that just knocks… me… out. Enter Cormac McCarthy. I recently picked up Blood Meridian (1985) after I read an article about McCarthy in The New Yorker and have spent my subway rides since reading and rereading his beautiful sentences, offering up my own exclamations (usually, Holy Sh_t!). McCarthy’s writing is lean and efficient, and never stingy. It complements his Wild West setting without stooping to hokiness. "By full dark the blackened ribracks leaned steaming at the fires and there was a jousting over the coals with shaven sticks whereon were skewered gobs of meat and a clank of canteens and endless raillery." There’s a quietness to it that allows the reader time to see, engage, and appreciate. McCarthy’s characters have almost no interior life, we never know what they’re thinking or feeling. Like some twisted American doppelganger of Virginia Woolf, he writes only exteriority, action, and consequences. Here, he describes an oncoming cattle drive: "By late afternoon, riders were visible to the bare eye, a handful of ragged indians mending the outer flanks of the herd with their nimble ponies." I love "mending" and pretty much all of his other verbs "knuckled," "unseamed," unstalled." Yep, for the next few weeks, if you see me with a glazed look in my eye, know that I’m in a good place: a land of pumice, mud, blood, broken bottles, and mincing wolves. 

Besides the Friendster profile, the most accurate tool available to humans for self-inventory is the Pivot quiz, popularized on Inside the Actor’s Studio. James Lipton is the ultimate sycophantic seer! The Lloyd’s responses:

What is your favorite word?
Brunch

What is your least favorite word?
Malignancy

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Trust

What turns you off?
Dogma

What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck

What sound or noise do you love?
Purring

What sound or noise do you hate?
Toddler’s screaming

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Motorcycle designer and fabricator

What profession would you not like to do?
Security guard

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Mi casa es su casa

Reading: Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

TV: Deadwood, ER, Scrubs, American Idol, The Apprentice, Deadliest Catch, American Hotrod

Favorite Epithet: Twit!

Disgusted: Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, The Clearing, Assault on Precinct 13, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Delighted: Shattered Glass, Ararat

Hobby: Low-level philanthropy, Blogging

Celeb Sightings: Richard Kind, Slash, Duff, John Lithgow

Wounds: Two cat scratches to the face (one deep)

Would Give Up for Lent if I Observed Lent: Moving images, Ice cream

Epiphany: Cheese is addictive

Pet Peeves: High heel shoes, Long-windedness, Mall walkers

Stomach-Turning Weaknesses: New York Daily News, Blade Trilogy, ABS coffee

The gods must be testing me.  Again (see April 7 entry), I was placed in position to help a fellow human being, and once more I displayed a complete and utter lack of empathy.  Two mornings ago, crossing Yellowstone Boulevard on my way to work, I heard a crash in the street behind me.  I turned around and saw an attractive, shaken young woman awkwardly kneeling in the middle of crosswalk, scooping up lipsticks, eyeliners, and other purse flotsam.  The exhalations of the the idling cars seemed like smoke signals sent up from impatient drivers … would … this … person … please … just … get … the … helloutoftheroad!  I took a step towards her, my arm reaching forward, then I stopped, turned on my heel and walked away.  My first thought was "Crap!  I did it again.  More blog fodder."  Next, the rationalizations started: she didn’t look hurt, she was just about finished picking up her things, she would have refused the help of a stranger anyway, and so on.  Then the angry axioms: you get what you deserve when you wear spiky heels, those who can’t cross the street without falling down are doomed to a life walking in circles, etc.  Then the lamebrain fantasies: no doubt, she was just the bait in an elaborate trap to mug me .  Yeah, that’s the ticket — three of her thug friends were probably waiting nearby, ready to pounce on my altruistic ass.  Truth is, I don’t know why I didn’t at least ask her if she was okay and offered my assistance.  Maybe I’ve been infected with some sort of airborne Calvinism — you’re on the ground because you deserve it (now, deal!).  Fine, God, I’ll work on my spontaneous responses to human suffering.  I just pray that I’m not being punk’d.

My picks for the best movies about the movie biz.

1.  Cecil B. Demented

2.  Boogie Nights

3.  Get Shorty

4.  Bowfinger

5.  Barton Fink

6.  State and Main

7.  Swimming with Sharks

8.  The Player

9.  The Big Picture

10.  Living in Oblivion 

"No ad libbing!"

–Cecil B. Demented

Don’t you just love it when you happen across a movie on TV, stay with it, and end up smiling as the credits roll?  I caught The Legend of 1900 on IFC, a 1999 movie directed by fabulist Giuseppe Tornatore.  Not the tightest of movies, but there are some unforgettable, quintessentially cinematic scenes (which I won’t spoil for you).  Tim Roth plays 1900, a piano prodigy born on a cruise ship, who lives his entire life without ever setting foot on land.  Pruitt Taylor Vince (who normally plays plays serial killers and rednecks) stars as 1900’s friend Max, the narrator and undecided trumpet player.  Gorgeous soundtrack by Ennio Morricone.  Without a doubt, this is my favorite movie with the word "legend" in the title — The Legend of Bagger Vance.  The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Legends of the Fall.  Blech.

That Todd Solondz.  I haven’t laughed this much in ages.  Dear readers, if you’re ever feeling out of sorts with the world, nihilistic, depressed, or depraved, our friend Todd will set you aright.  His newest creation, Palindromes, hammers away at the eyes, stomach, and spirit, leaving the viewer feeling defenseless and wonderfully reborn.  The consummate button-pusher, Solondz weaves hot-button topics such as pedophilia, statutory rape, teen pregnancy, abortion, murder (yawn), and red-state Christianity into his smart and affecting screenplay.  While this is an inflammatory hoot, I was more intrigued by his strangely arty decision to have eight different actors play the protagonist, Aviva (anyone who sees this flick, let me know what you think about this).  As in his other masterworks, Welcome to the Dollhouse and Happiness, Solondz puts a familiar and sympthetic face on even his most deplorable characters.  We cannot paste simple labels on these monsters, dismiss them, or judge them without realizing that they are not so very different from us; they are us.  Oh, and the film skewers the idea of human progress or perfectability and shows the inherent emptiness of our systems of belief.  Funny, funny stuff.   

Good news:  I’m still capable of surprising myself.  The other day, on my way to work, I felt a faint tug at my sleeve.  A tiny old lady wanted me to pull her cart up the stairs for her.  I did something then that I’ve never done before: I said "no" and walked on up the stairs.  Sitting at my desk at work, the situation looping in my head, I couldn’t have been more stunned.  Who the hell EVER says "no" to an old lady?  Am I on the express elevator to Hell?  After some pained consideration, I decided that the event was insignificant from a moral perspective.  There was no reason that I had to be the one to lug that cart; any of the dozens of other riders streaming in behind me would certainly have lent a hand.  What enables me to live with, and even celebrate this moment, was the way it put into relief my sometimes careless, unthinking way of existing.  Yes.  Sorry.  Bless you.  Excuse me.  Good to see you.  It’s nauseating the way those words just come tumbling out.  Snubbing that old lady, while reprehensible and all of that, was the most satisfying thing I’ve done recently.  It reminded me that human beings are still fundamentally irrational, egocentric, unpredictable creatures.  I want to be a nice person (really), but not at the cost of my humanity.   

You plunk down $10 for a movie you’ve been dying to see, only to spend the next two hours curled up in agony because one or more actors are sadistically butchering their accents.  Infuriating business.  I think that accent coaches should be listed high up in a movie’s credits, so the fans know whose house to burn down, once the lights come up.  Here’s a list of what I believe are some of the worst movie accents in recent memory:

1.  Connie Nielsen in Basic: Born in Denmark, fluent in Italian; tackles a Southern accent.  Yikes. 

2.  Kristin Scott Thomas in Random Hearts: The "English Rose" plays a Congresswoman from a New England state.  Uh huh.  Who casts these movies?

3.  Rachel Weisz in Runaway Jury: An American accent… I think.  Sigh.  Poor vowels.

4.  Liam Neeson in Kinsey: Again with the nasality.  I’m starting to get a complex.  Do we really sound like this?

5.  Kevin Costner in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves: Like shooting fish in a barrel.

6.  Kristin Scott Thomas in The Horse Whisperer: KST strikes again.  She’s ENGLISH, dammit, ENGLISH!

7.  Emma Thompson in Primary Colors: My hero Emma almost pulls it off, but falters in the more emotional scenes.

8.  Jeremy Irons in Die Hard: With a Vengeance: Don’t combine a creepy Geman accent with a lisp and nursery rhymes.  Ever.

9.  Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black: I went back and forth on this one, but finally decided that, yes, stupid is an accent.

10.  Kate Beckinsale in Van Helsing: It’s official–I’m obsessed.  I still chewed through a throw cushion when she said "I think that’s earned him a drink."

Honorable mentions:

Rachel Weisz in Constantine, Jeremy Irons in Dungeons and Dragons, Anthony Hopkins in Bram Stoker’s Dracula AND The Mask of Zorro, Brad Pitt in Seven Days in Tibet AND The Devil’s Own, Tom Cruise in Far and Away, Richard Gere in Sommersby AND The Jackal, Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider, Gwyneth Paltrow in Duets, and Rosanna Arquette in The Whole Nine Yards.

Why Even Try award winners:

Chow Yun Fat and Jurgen Prochnow in their English language movies and Jean Claude Van Damme in everything he’s ever done.

Have a favorite?  Let me know!  Post a comment!  Please!

Last night, I helped an old friend celebrate the end of bachelorhood at Sammy’s Roumanian, a beloved Eastern European steakhouse at Chrystie and Delancey.  If you go to Sammy’s seeking to nose a wine glass or contemplate a subtle interplay of flavors, textures, and colors, you might feel a tad bit out of place.  Sammy’s is for eaters: those for whom "cut, chew, swallow, repeat" is the mantra of choice.  Our group started off with latkes (potato pancakes) and applesauce, fried kerplach (dumplings), karnatzlack (garlicky sausage) and stuffed cabbage–all were delicious.  My favorite appetizer was the schmaltz (liquid chicken fat), which we sopped up greedily with the endless quantities of fresh rye bread.  Most of us ordered "medium" Roumanian tenderloin steaks, which tended to be about a foot long, and actually hung over the edges of the plate.  These greasy, garlicky, delectable strips of beef were enough to put even this committed carnivore into short-term protein shock.  To aid digestion, a creaky old DJ (Sammy himself?), spun a strange mix of Frank Sinatra and traditional Jewish songs (Hava Nagila, anyone?).  At one point in the evening, about a dozen guests from one of the other tables started dancing the horah–I resisted several attempts to get me to join in.  The waiters are a swell bunch of extremely hairy guys who will not hesitate to ride you if you seem timid about your order.  Needless to say, I was in heaven from the first bite.