Godammit, I’m Mad!

I just saw “Valentino: The Last Emperor” for the first time, and of course it is delightful. The love story, the pugs, the hair, the dresses, the excess! My favorite moment was Valentino’s emotional proclamation:

“An evening dress that reveals a woman’s ankles when she is walking is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.”

But when Andre Leon Talley appeared, I wondered anew, What is the point of him?

Watching him in the September movie, I felt he provided comic relief but beyond that, I don’t get it. Is he some kind of mascot for Anna Wintour?

His writing is nothing special, his personal style is grotesque, he fucked up Jennifer Hudson that year at the Oscars, why is he so celebrated? Is it his enthusiasm?His height?

This is a real question.  All day long, I bombard my husband with questions even stupider, and he often responds by saying, “Why? Weren’t you at the meeting where we all learned this?”

So, whoever was at the meeting, please explain.

Am I the only female on earth who doesn’t care about Sex and the City?

I don’t care about the new movie any more than I cared about the other movie, which I didn’t see. Who gives a shit about these awful women? Oh right, everyone. I tried to watch the TV series a couple of times but all it did was create arguments with my husband. I would start whining. “Oh god, eeoow, she’s so ugly!’ or “Jesus, how pretentious!” and he would reflexively defend SJP and the dialogue, both of which I found excruciating.

So, can I assume the popularity of this franchise is something to do with female friendship? Does it remind us how nice it is to have a group of girlfriends who aren’t afraid to say ‘clitoris’? Or is it just a fantasy about having lots of clothes?

Is it a comforting fable about how you can be super ugly but still considered attractive a la SJP? If I was ever going to respect SJP, I would have to reconsider after she denied having that mole removed.  She can deny that her husband’s gay if she must, but denying the mole is like insisting that we’re all blind or brain-damaged.

All I know is this: I have zero interest in seeing this movie. I hate all four actresses. I am mystified by the whole phenomenon and it took years for me to decipher the acronym SATC.

(In fact, I just learned what FLOTUS and POTUS mean!)

The only movie I want to see less than Sex and the City 2 is Killers, a romantic comedy starring Ashton “I can’t shut up!” Kutcher. If I had to choose between them, I’d just kill myself.

Last night I stayed up late watching 44 Inch Chest, a movie that was not appreciated by film critics. As a huge fan of Sexy Beast, I figured it must have something going for it.

If you like British gangster movies, 44 Inch Chest will not disappoint. A bunch of thugs screaming “CUNT!” at each other is my idea of heaven. Ray Winstone, John Hurt, Tom Wilkinson and Ian McShane are fabulous, all obviously relishing the chance to use Cockney accents and slang while inhabiting their violent, sociopathic characters.

Several critics note the undertones of Mamet, Pinter and Tarantino but they forgot to mention Derek & Clive. I fucking loved this movie, you fucking fucking cunts! A movie about revenge and the difficulties of being a man, it is a must for anyone who loves this genre.

Thanks to Hammie, I now know what actress should play me in the movie based on my life: Catherine Keener. Perfect choice, Hammie! She is definitely an idealized version of me…an attractive, mature hippie type. Or as I like to call her, the thinking man’s Demi Moore.

Years ago, my sister’s husband had an “adventure” that I won’t go into, except to say that afterward, my sister and I liked to secretly cast the movie of it. The title would be “On the Lam.” We figured that Karen Allen or maybe Debra Winger could play us, and Sam Neil could play her husband. I can’t remember how we cast the other characters in our lives, but it was a great game.

The other night though, I saw a movie with Debra Winger, who is now an old hag; she’s definitely out. And I have remarried. My husband can be played by Carlos Santana, since he’s been mistaken for Carlos Santana more than once.

If for some reason, Catherine Keener is too busy to play me, I would settle for Dita Von Teese.

Who would you cast as you in the movie of your life?

I was honored to serve as the Los Angeles premiere* of Kate Battrick’s short film, “Dress Up,” this week. Kate is known to some of you as the author of Make Do Style.

Her film is a charming and ambitious look at celebrity, aspiration, fashion and status, told through the chance meeting of a young couple who misread each other’s expectations.

When Kate becomes a famous auteur, you can say you remember her start in film-making. Great job, Kate!

*Sweater from my Grandma, shoes from SWEAR London.

The other night, I saw the film Blow-Up for the first time. What a piece of shit!

Don’t you hate it when a movie you’re supposed to revere turns out to be crap? Blow-Up is the boringest most pointless movie I’ve seen in years.  I know it’s a landmark movie of the 60’s but seen today, it’s just ponderous and stilted. David Hemmings can’t act to save his life and never changes out of his bright white jeans. After an hour of nothingness, all I wanted was a different pair of pants.

In the end, David Hemmings comes upom a group of mimes and pretends to return an imaginary ball to them. The End. Fuck! Reading the reviews now, I wonder if everyone was too high on acid to figure out what a stupid bad movie it was.

Black Dynamite, on the other hand, is delightful! It’s a loving homage to blaxploitation films, just funny enough to provoke laughs without devolving into a winking satire.  When a sexy lounge singer tells Black Dynamite “I get off in about 15 minutes,” he answers “I know you do, baby.” My husband and I are still having fun saying, “I can dig it.”

Much more entertaining than a Beatle-haired photographer sulking around his apartment or staring into space. One review of Blow-Up explained that it was about meaninglessness. I think that’s just a euphemism for “Huh?”

What classic or cult films have failed to live up to your expectations?

I just saw this movie on TV, late at night, and was haunted by its depiction of a suffocatingly close friendship that revolves around need and control.

Have you ever had – or observed – a friendship like that? There’s usually one person who seems more dominant and demanding, and one who allows this to happen. They seem to share an identity, one that doesn’t permit either to grow or change.  But you can’t really cite either one as villain or victim, since it’s a dance that takes two people to perform.

When an exasperated lover tells the Michelle Williams character that her best friend “controls” her, she is shocked. It’s not always easy to recognize the dynamics of a relationship when you’re in it. From my perspective, the controlling friend, played by Anna Friels, was more like an emotional vampire who thrived on sucking the joy from the other girl’s life. She is also a classic portrait of Borderline Personality Disorder, a condition so fucked up and harrowing that many shrinks balk at trying to treat it.

My mother was a Borderline and bipolar, too. Because of her, I can’t watch movies that feature a Maniac character; I still get freaked out by the trailer for The Shining. Because of her, I can’t stand people who try to control me, even though I have married two of them.

The first one is still a “control freak” who won’t even talk to you unless he gets to control the conversation. When I met him, I must have found that reassuring. I was only 16. Later, it was unbearable.

The second one, the Love of My Life, is so controlling that he won’t let me buy the groceries, because I “can’t do it right.” The other day, he said to me: “Let me open the sugar next time.” This gave me a frisson* of perverse glee; I’m 56 and my husband thinks I’m too incompetent to open a box of sugar!

Today, I experienced another secret thrill when I opened the new box of sugar while he was at work.

I think the moral here is that people can only control you if you let them. The control is yours to keep or give away. And sometimes, you can pretend to give it away as long as you remember deep down that you are the boss.

~

* frisson is the word for this week. Try to use it in conversation or in writing. See if you can keep a straight face!

I admire Lars Von Trier more for his pranks than his artistry, although I thought Dogville was pretty brilliant.  Breaking the Waves, Dancing in the Dark, nope, not for me. Too much angst, too little catharsis.

Now, his new film Antichrist has riled up viewers at Cannes, and has divided critics into two camps (roughly, “What a genius!” and “What repulsive trash!”)

Here’s the storyline: A married couple goes into the woods to help the wife recover from the death of their child. Things get out of hand, ending in shocking violence and sexual mutilation.

How much would you pay to not have to see this movie? I don’t have much in my bank account but I’d be willing to empty it, if that’s what it took.  Lars, I love you, don’t ever change, just don’t come near me with anything sharp.

Here’s the trailer if you’re up to it.

While trying to find a research study I once read about hoarding and gender, I came upon a great documentary called “Possessed.”

The film maker, Martin Hampton, lets four hoarders talk about their behavior and how it has affected their lives. It is 21 minutes long and well worth your time if you’ve ever wondered why you have so much crap, or why you continue to buy things you don’t need.

Even if you can’t relate to hoarding, you will still be fascinated and moved by the plight of Mr. Hampton’s subjects. They are in different stages of both awareness and desperation, but all four are so straightforward and sincere that you can’t help but feel for them.

Is hoarding a metaphor or a mental illness?  Do our possessions provide solace or do they weigh us down?

I was going to count my t-shirts to add a personal note here but I can’t bear the thought of it right now. Let’s just say I have a lot of them. Inside my thin self is a fat circus lady trying to get out, and inside my t-shirt collecting is a hoarder of empty toilet rolls and plastic bags.

Know what I mean?

On Christmas Eve, I felt blessed to be surrounded by friends and family, all of us hardcore fans of Pulp Fiction. Unbeknownst to my husband, the entire 4-set collection of Pulp Fiction Action Figures was wrapped and waiting for him under the tree. The plan was to watch the movie and shout out our favorite lines of dialogue.

If you don’t care about Pulp Fiction, this is a good time for you to stop reading.

If you do: Achtung!

Having commented to my nephew, Russell, that The Gimp sequence was always hard for me to take, I settled into the action as Butch and Marcellus were trapped by the Racist Hillbillies in the back of the pawnshop. Becca, a beautiful young girl sitting on the floor near the TV, chided me for not knowing more about ball gags.

As Bruce Willis pauses at the door of the pawn shop, splattered with blood and about to escape, he stops and reconsiders. When he heads back into the lunacy of the back room, I am always moved by his heroism. I turned to my nephew and said, for pointless emphasis, “That’s character!”

“No it isn’t,” Russell replied, with a hint of annoyance at my stupidity. “Butch goes back to save his own ass. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he stands by the door! He’s thinking, if he leaves, he will always be a hunted man. Marcellus has given the order to kill him. If he saves Marcellus, the hit could be called off.”

I was astonished by this interpretation. This is one of my favorite Pulp Fiction moments, and Russell was daring to fuck it up.

“No, it’s pure selfless courage!” I insisted. “Butch can’t bear to leave Marcellus to his fate. The idea sickens him! It’s moral outrage! He’s standing right in front of the Confederate flag for Christsake! It represents racism and hillbillies! He even chooses a samurai sword as his weapon!”

Everyone else agreed with Russell, who tried to soften the blow by saying he was touched by my innocent, benevolent interpretation. I scolded him for being a cynic. And for denying that as always, the subject was The Love Between Men (see a post on that elsewhere at godammit.)

I have discussed this controversy with my experts, and the smartest among them supports my argument. He pointed out that the entire movie is about honor. It is brought up constantly, and explicitly. The watch scene; the statement that you don’t scratch another man’s car; Vince’s determination to put loyalty before lust. Even when Jules lets Ringo go, it’s a point of honor as a newly religious man. Hmph!

Okay then. Comments? Arguments? Pulp Fiction scholars and/or critics, please speak up.

Let me just add that it was a lovely Christmas Eve by any standard. Our friend Mishelle gave out lottery tickets and my kid won $70! Plus, my SweetSpot gifts were a big hit, resulting in a delighted scream of: “I LOVE VAGINA WIPES!”