One Night Only: 'After Hours'

One of the best things about writing is the justification of all sorts of random questions and obsessions. Basically, I can ask anyone anything with the vague excuse "it's for something I'm working on!" In the past several months, I've posed these inquiries to my followers on Facebook and Twitter:

1) What were you listening to in the 90's?
2) What are your favorite movies set in New York City?

(P.S. If you haven't answered these, leave a comment!)

In response to the latter, my friend Molly suggested "After Hours," a Scorsese film from 1985. I had no idea this film existed. And I was far from disappointed.

Griffin Dunne - all soulful eyes and charmingly imperfect teeth - plays Paul, a quiet word processor who ventures into a coffee shop one night after work. He chats up the pretty but cryptic Marcy (Rosanna Arquette), and who invites him to the SoHo loft she shares with kinky artist Kiki (Linda Fiorentino). A bizarre chain of events ensues, involving overdoses, windy cab fare, papier mache, sixties-obsessed cocktail waitresses and a heavy dose of paranoia for Paul, who just wanted to hook up with the girl who shared his affinity for Henry Miller.

I love the idea of a single, life-changing night, and so movies that take place within this time frame ("American Graffiti," "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist") have a special place in my heart. It's my goal to write a novel with a one-night timespan someday. Though I'd never want to have the utterly weird night Paul experiences in "After Hours," it's so fun to watch. Scorsese keeps the pace fast and the camera angles Hitchcock-esque as this meek desk jockey sinks further and further into paranoia. Dark comedy is extremely hard to pull off successfully ("Take Me Home Tonight" couldn't do it), but "After Hours" has a nightmarishly silly tone that works.

And it couldn't have taken place anywhere else. The New York City of "After Hours" is dark and gritty, with all-night diners, drafty lofts and grimy dance clubs with basement abodes. It's like a really strange moving performance art piece - yet with a realistic air. I could imagine someone actually experiencing this night, even as the circumstances rocketed further out of the ordinary. Not to mention the incredible cast: Rosanna Arquette almost but not quite annoyed me as the manic pixie dream girl, but luckily Paul tired of her just as I did. Teri Garr's turn as a beehive-sporting waitress made me forgive her for the utterly spewtastic "One From the Heart." (Do not see "One From the Heart." Ever. Even if a zombie apocalypse renders it the last film on Earth.) And for all the "Home Alone" fans out there, Kevin McAllister's mom and dad appear: Catherine O'Hara in all her oddball glory, and John Heard as a weirdly sexy bartender. Oh, and Balki from "Perfect Strangers" is in the first scene. I may or may not have spooked my cat when I screamed.

I wonder if "After Hours" could be made today. I think yes, but it would make the indie circuit and I don't know if someone with Scorsese's clout would be approached to direct. Either way, I'm glad it exists. To me, the film comes across as a love letter to the real New York City, where strange people do strange things and one single night presents endless possibilities.

Totally 80's: 'Take Me Home Tonight'

Maybe it's because I'm now in my thirties, but in the past couple of years I've really gotten into nostalgia. Last year for a writing project, I started listening to music of the 1960's and '70's and I've never fully recovered. (Because seriously, that stuff is good.) As you've probably guessed from this summer's posts, I'm trying to re-establish the feel of the 1990's for another writing project (check out a fun guest blog I wrote about 90's TV BFF's).

And when it comes to totally tubular nostalgia, there's nothing like revisiting the 80's. Neon, mousse, perms, actual video stores: what's not to love? So when my pal Bob and I sprawled on his couch for a movie night, frozen spinach pizza in the oven and jasmine tea flowing (and we'd just been to yoga, because apparently we're yuppies now), the Amazon rental choice was simple: "Take Me Home Tonight."

The verdict? Decidedly: "Hm."

According to a Doug Loves Movies podcast with the "Parks and Recreation" cast, the movie did very poorly at the box office and was in fact shelved for almost four years due to a subplot involving cocaine. That said, you know what did well at the box office? "Transformers 3." And cocaine subplots? Psh. No, neither of those problems were the chief big issue of "Take Me Home Tonight." Quite frankly, the movie couldn't decided what it wanted to be.

Topher Grace plays Matt, a recent MIT grad who's spent the summer of 1988 working at Suncoast Video and living at home in the Valley area of L.A. Matt's not sure who and what he's supposed to be. He is sure he wants the attention of Tori (Teresa Palmer, who looks so much like Kristen Stewart in a blonde wig, it effed with my mind for the whole damn movie), his high school dream crush who of course didn't know he existed way back when. Meanwhile, Matt's best friend Barry (Dan Fogler) has just quit his car salesman job and Matt's twin Wendy (Anna Faris) is facing a major life decision of her own. And tonight's the big Labor Day bash thrown by Wendy's rich boyfriend Kyle (Chris Pratt, who isn't as adorable without the beard), where in true 80's movie style, everything will change and all will be revealed.

Sounds fun, right? I've always loved movies and books that take place in one spectacular night.("American Graffiti" is in my all-time top 10, and a poster for the movie is visible early in "Take Me Home Tonight.") And it takes place in the 80's, so there's fun music to listen to and wacky clothes to giggle at. All this should add up into one adorable romp, yeah?

Kind of.

It starts out that way for sure. There's a whole getting-ready-for-the-party montage involving mousse and shoulder pads. And all the great 80's movie staples are there: pretty youth with problems, fast cars and trampoline hijinks, and of course, an awesome soundtrack. Lucy Punch and Demetri Martin have small but hilarious roles as an overenthusiastic party guest and a bitter wheelchair-bound trader, respectively.

And then, "Take Me Home Tonight" takes a pretty dark turn.

I'm not against substance in 80's movies (the plot kind, not the narcotics kind). A family favorite is "Sixteen Candles," which boasts over-the-top silliness but also genuine heart (the scene between Sam and her father is really lovely). In fact, the best 80's movies were a ton of fun, but also took their characters seriously, knowing that pining after an unattainable boy/girl can mean everything to the pine-r. I think this mix of goof and sentiment is what "Take Me Home Tonight" was going for.

It didn't quite get there, though. Bob and I were chortling away at the opening scenes, but grew somber when the characters were revealed for the sad and desperate people they really were. And granted, sad and desperate can be darkly humorous, but here it was just dark. It's hard to giggle or go "aww" when a character is brutalized by his own father. All the nostalgia goes away, replaced by emotional disturbance. Not exactly fun Friday night viewing.

Say what you want about Adam Sandler - and believe me, I have - but I always thought "The Wedding Singer" did 80's nostalgia right. The movie combined a cute story with a love letter to the decade, with references to junk bonds and newfangled CD players sprinkled throughout. "Take Me Home Tonight" wasn't as successful: it hit us over the head with references, and then forgot about them as it segued into dramedy. And really, why weren't Bob Odenkirk and Michael Ian Black allowed to be funny?

As the credits rolled, I turned to Bob and asked, "what did you think?" "Um..." he trailed off. "I liked the soundtrack?"

I sighed. "Yeah, me too. Me too."

I Learn a Lesson: Writing Movies for Fun and Profit

Apologies for the absence: last weekend I was dreaming up ideas for my brilliant (ha) fiction at a phenomenal Little Writers Retreat on the Prairie. Now I have returned to wrap up State Month (or technically, State Five Weeks) with a review of Thomas Lennon and Robert Ben Garant's latest opus! And no, it's not Taxi 2.

Some families bond by playing board games. Mine goes to movies. One May in 2009, my siblings and I were all visiting my parents. Not much in the theatres looked interesting, so we decided on Night at the Museum 2, even though we were way out of the demographic (my youngest sib was 19 at the time). It was cute: clearly for younger kids but still fairly enjoyable. I never pass up a chance to see Hank Azaria semi-shirtless.

Anyway, about three quarters into the movie, which took place at the Smithsonian, there was a cameo by Orville and Wilbur Wright. Ever the trivia dork (thank you, discovery of IMDb during a bout with insomnia sophomore year of college!), I elbowed my mom and whispered, "Those are the guys who wrote the movie." The "guys" were Thomas Lennon and Robert Ben Garant, scribes of both Night at the Museum movies, which did very well at the box office; Taxi, which did not; and Herbie Fully Loaded, which was a disaster of Titanic-epic proportions (and which I sort of want to watch while drunk).

Say what you want about these State and Reno 911! alums (Lt. Jim Dangle and Travis Junior, if you don't recognize them by their real names) and the quality of their work: they're out there, they're writing, and they're making a pretty nice living while still doing their own stuff and being funny. Recently, they co-authored Writing Movies for Fun and Profit, where they hold forth on everything from pitch meetings to stage directions to parking in L.A. to why In-N-Out burgers are the yummiest ever (they are).

Even if I weren't a State devotee interested in writing, I'd still have enjoyed the hell out of Writing Movies for Fun and Profit. When it comes to working the Hollywood system, Lennon and Garant know their shit. No two ways about it. Granted, they write like, well, screenwriters (there are a LOT of CAPITAL LETTERS and underlined phrases....and ellipses) and they talk about boobs a lot (sometimes I sighed and said out loud, "Good heavens, boys, I hope you are being satirical!").

But weirdly enough, in between laughing at their bossy-yet-silly collective voice and occasionally saying, "hm, that applies to all types of writing, thanks guys!," I learned some LIFE LESSONS (and how to use Caps Lock, apparently). So here they are, The Top 5 Life Lessons I Learned from Writing Movies for Fun and Profit (Besides the Fact That I Want to Do Naughty Things With Ben Garant, Which I Already Knew):

1. Jump In.
What I found most interesting about Writing Movies for Fun and Profit was its structure: Lennon and Garant tell the reader how to SELL a screenplay, THEN how to write one. Business first. To sell, you need to know the ins and outs. You need to live in Los Angeles and be on speaking terms with words like "arbitration." And most of all, you need to "ALWAYS BE WRITING."

I hate driving, so I could never call L.A. my home, so I will probably never be a screenwriter. But I like the idea of jumping in. As I've gotten older, I've grown more cautious, and it's good to be reminded that sometimes risk-taking and throwing oneself into what others might call a shitty pipe dream could really pay off in the end. Or not. Which brings me to Life Lesson No. 2:


2. Sometimes Things Go to Crap. Deal With It.
One of Lennon and Garant's first films was Taxi. Remember Taxi? Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah in a cab having adventures? The total box-office bomb that Adam Carolla has dubbed "the worst movie of all time"? Yeah. They wrote that. They own that most of the writing in that film was, in fact, theirs. And then came Herbie, Fully Loaded. Lennon and Garant wrote this as a fun family movie, like the  ones they used to watch at the drive-in as children. It was greenlighted ON THE FIRST DRAFT, which almost never happens. And then...yeah.


And they dealt. They kept working. They own their failures every bit as much as their successes. While working on Taxi, they got to hang out at Luc Besson's estate in France, and Gisele Bundchen hugged them. They tell the reader, "Even the poop clouds that bring shit storms sometimes have a silver lining." Who the hell can't learn something from that quote?

3. Always Be Nice and Easy to Work With.
Apparently "the industry" is made up of the same seventy-five people who just rotate jobs. Today's intern can be tomorrow's vice president. So you better not be an ass to any of them. Now, Lennon is a native Midwesterner (from the suburbs of Chicago, in fact!) and Garant hails from the South (and has the adorable drawl to prove it), so it makes sense they'd be big on politeness and manners. But really, it's not just Hollywood: it's a teeny tiny world wherever you go. So be cool. Don't be a pushover, but establish a good reputation and maintain it. And people will remember.

Even if Billy Crystal is really mean and makes fun of your Southern accent (I learned that on the Internet. All Lennon and Garant say in their book is that Crystal's a dick).

4. Love What You Do.
Early in the book, Lennon and Garant outline one of the very basic tenets of writing for the studios: "ALWAYS BE WRITING . . . You should feel COMPELLED to write every day. Always. It's that simple. If you don't feel the desire to write every day--skip it. And let everyone else in the world get rich writing screenplays."

Again, I'm not an aspiring screenwriter. And you, my superawesome reader, might not want to write for a living. But I like this advice. Even if it's not your day job, if you have a passion and want to get ahead, you need to be disciplined. (Especially if your passion and your day job are not one and the same.) This advice is so important that these two even restate it in interviews promoting the book. Garant once said something like, "I'd write all the time even if I weren't getting paid. If you feel that way too, you know it's the right thing for you to be doing." I have no doubt horribly mangled that quote, but you get the sentiment, right?

5. Don't Be a Dick.
"Hey Unpro, you covered this in #3!" you might be saying right now. Maybe, but it bears repeating. "Don't be a dick" is also the life philosophy of the forever-cool Wil Wheaton. It seems so simple and clear, but it's astounding how many people in this world don't follow this rule. Whether you're negotiating with the studios to put your name in the credits of Starsky and Hutch or trying not to whap someone with your purse as you hurry to work, just don't. Be. A. Dick. Not only could this help your career, whatever that may be, it's good karma besides.

Oh, and Ben? Please call me if your impending marriage doesn't work out. You sexy Southern nerd, you.

Irreverence: The Ten

One of the best things about having my own blog is getting to write about whatever I want. If I'm obsessed with certain clip-show hosts turned NBC stars, I can pen three or four posts and those who don't want to read them, don't have to. The other day, a friend on Facebook said she hoped her writing didn't sound too fangirl. "Dude," I responded, "I started writing because I'm a fangirl."

With that in mind, I hereby declare July to be State Month here on the ol' Unpro. For the next few weeks, I will explore the subsequent work of my eleven favorite Tisch alums (well, Michael Ian Black dropped out and Michael Showalter ended up graduating from Brown...yeah, I'm the nerd who knows this). First up, David Wain's 2007 Biblical satire, The Ten.

Though he was hysterical as a performer on The State, David Wain also did a lot off camera. Who can forget the episode when he re-edited the opening credits? Not I.


Since The State ended, Wain's concentrated on directing. Between Wet Hot American Summer (read my friend Robin's hysterical love letter to the film here) and Role Models, there was The Ten.

I first saw The Ten when it was released in 2007. I believe it was supposed to coincide with the release of The State on DVD. However, the latter was put off for another two years because of yet another battle over music rights. I remember liking, not loving, the movie. Some scenes worked much better than others. It was decidedly okay.

Once I revisited it, I gained a new appreciation. Though some scenes still work way better than others.

It goes like this: each of the Ten Commandments is presented as a vignette. Some are slapstick, some dark, some just plain bizarre (in other words, vintage State). Hosting the vignettes, and starring in "Thou shalt not commit adultery" is Paul Rudd in his nicest of nice-guy modes. Except not really, because he's cheating on his wife (Famke Janssen) with a younger woman (Jessica Alba). Some characters appear in multiple vignettes, such as Ken Marino (who co-wrote the film with Wain) as a doctor who kills a patient "as a goof" and ends up the object of two rapists' affection in prison. And it's really, really funny.

Again, The Ten has its weak points. First, I know every comedy needs a straight man, but Rudd is just so much funnier when he gets to be goofy, which doesn't happen nearly often enough thanks to his conventional good looks. The commandment "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor" is almost entirely animated and it comes across like Wain is trying and failing to ape Monty Python. And I can't decide whether Winona Ryder's ventriloquist dummy-loving character is humorous or just whiny. Then again, I always was on the fence about Ryder when she wasn't playing Lydia Dietz or Jo March.

That said, The Ten is worth a rental, for the following awesome vignettes:

• "Thou shalt have no other gods before me:" A regular Joe (Adam Brody) gets stuck in an awkward position following a skydiving accident, and experiences the ups and downs of sudden fame and the hubris that accompanies it. This represents the one and only time I have liked Adam Brody.
• "Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain:" On a Mexican getaway, a shy librarian (Gretchen Mol, who really should have a better career) has a love affair with a carpenter named Jesus (Justin Theroux, who needs to break up with Jennifer Aniston and marry me instead. No offense, Jen, but I'd be a better writing partner).
• "Thou shalt not kill" and "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife:" The aforementioned vignettes featuring Marino's murderous doctor, who gets what's coming to him (ha) in prison. Rob Corddry is hysterical as a fellow prisoner with his eye on Marino, and his scenes are oddly romantic.
• "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods:" Liev Schreiber takes a break from his uber-serious typecasting as a suburban dude competing with his neighbor (Joe Lo Truglio) over...CAT scan machines.
• And finally, "Honor the Sabbath day and keep it holy:" A husband and father (A.D. Miles) finds a fulfilling alternative to church...involving a lot of nudity. And it ends with a musical number.

However, what may be the absolute best best best thing about The Ten: all of The State appears. Some have leading roles in the vignettes, others pop up in Rudd's segments (really, does anyone drop the F bomb better than Tom Lennon?), a few are blink-and-you'll-miss-it (though I never miss naked Ben Garant), and one shows up in a photograph (Michael Patrick Jann, who had a scheduling conflict the day he was supposed to film). For fangirls like me, it was so much fun to pick out everybody--and to marvel, "Oh cool!  They still get along!" in my little fangirl reptile brain.

So declareth The Unprofessional Critic:

Thou shalt Netflix The Ten.

Not Another Superhero Movie: Bridesmaids

In 2007, my friend and I stood up in the wedding the woman who'd been the third of our college Three Musketeers.  We'd been asked nearly two years prior.  Having not been in a wedding since I was eleven years old, I had little to no idea of what I was getting into.

Ah, bridesmaid-ism.  You never forget your first time.

I was fortunate, in that the bride was absolutely wonderful (and I'm not just saying this because she reads my blog).  She was conscious of everyone's body types and budgets, both of which varied greatly from woman to woman.  She let us wear our own shoes (mine were $12 numbers from Payless) and enlisted me to help pick out her wedding shoes (which, unlike throwing bachelorette parties or showers, was something I was comfortable with).  She also gave each bridesmaid a really nice gift, which I still use four years later.  Bride win!

Still, I became intrigued by bridesmaid culture, fascinated by those who had way worse (and more expensive) experiences than my own.  As my broke-ass roommate and I somehow got the We channel, I avidly watched Bridezillas (oh, the screeching!  oh, the judgmental rhyming narrator!  oh, the old-school theme where the bride breathed fire!).  I was fascinated, not just by the harpy brides, but their equally crazy attendants.  What is it about a wedding where spending exorbitant amounts of money and treating your nearest and dearest like dog poo suddenly becomes not only acceptable, but expected?

I have never seen a movie that captures the insanity--not to mention the class warfare, friendship dynamics, and life uncertainty--as skillfully and hilariously as Bridesmaids.

Annie (the phenomenal Kristen Wiig, who also co-wrote the film) is in a slump.  Her bakery business collapsed due to the economy, and now she's stuck in a dead-end job at a jewelry store while sharing a crappy apartment (genuinely crappy, not movie crappy aka still nicer than my apartment) with two odd roommates.  Oh, and her friend-with-benefits Ted (Jon Hamm: yes ladies, he's naked) doesn't like it when she spends the night.  When Annie's best friend Lillian (Maya Rudolph, who really should have a better career) announces her engagement and asks Annie to be her maid of honor, Annie's confronted with financial concerns, life questioning, and the other bridesmaids, who range from Disneyphile newlywed (Ellie Kemper) to desperate housewife (Wendi McLendon-Covey) to just plain weird (Melissa McCarthy) to "I'm a more awesome friend than you" one-upper (Rose Byrne).

Can I just say how all the articles expressing surprise that Bridesmaids is doing so well at the box office just kiiiill me.  Everyone is SO surprised that women who aren't named Tina Fey can actually be funny.  That Yet Another Silly Wedding Movie is raking in almost as much buckage as the latest dumb superhero popcorn flick.  (Don't get me wrong, I love a good superhero movie.  What I don't love is when every other damn new release is about superheroes.)  That--gasp!--both women AND men are turning out in droves and really enjoying themselves.

Well, Hollywood, this is what happens when you greenlight a movie that's actually good.

Because all hilarity and hijinks aside, Bridesmaids is a solid film.  Everything from the Milwaukee setting to the actual wrinkles (!) on the thirtysomething actors to the re-enacting of 90's pop songs (I don't know about you, but I have some sort of dorky dance inside joke with most of my friends) feels genuine and straight out of real life.  Sure, some sequences of defiling expensive gowns and bad reactions to prescription drugs on airplanes are over-the-top, but they're balanced out by scenes dealing with class warfare, dreams deferred, and jealousy of new friends.  There's an early scene, largely improvised by Wiig and Rudolph, where Annie and Lillian are having brunch, which so accurately captures close friends catching up that I felt like I was watching a re-enactment of brunch with any one of my pals.

Just...see this movie.  If you've ever been in a wedding, see this movie.  If you've ever played the comparison game (money, relationships, what have you) with others in your peer group, see this movie.  If you've ever dealt with how a friendship has changed over time, see this movie.  If you want to see the funny overweight lady stereotype turned on its ear, see this movie.  If you like to watch really darling Irishmen be really darling (Chris O'Dowd, I loved you on The IT Crowd and I love you now--I'm single!), see this movie.  If you want to laugh and laugh and laugh while also wanting to cry a little, see this movie.

If you're like me and you're sick of bad comic-book adaptations and silly rom-coms with Katherine Heigl, see this movie.

Just see this movie.

A Change Would Do You Good: Everything Must Go

I know it's all marketing and hype, but I'm an absolute sucker for a good tagline.  Four or five carefully chosen words can be all it takes to transform my moviegoing mindset from "maybe, if I'm bored" to "definitely, first week it's out!"  I know I'm being manipulated, but when it's done well, I happily submit.

Not long ago, the poster for Everything Must Go, the second film in the genre of Will Ferrell Can Be Serious, Y'all, went up at my friendly neighborhood indie theatre.  The tagline?  "Lost Is a Good Place to Find Yourself."

Me?  Sold.

In 2006, I graduated from law school and accepted a job at a Chicago firm.  Exactly two months after I started, I was let go.  I went from being the textbook young urban professional to a girl adrift, without a plan or a way to pay my rent.

It was one of the best years of  my life.

I walked around a lot, reacquainting myself with a city I'd left five years before.  I hung out with my struggling actor/waiter roommate and scavenged for cheap eats, drinks, and entertainment.  I worked temp and retail jobs (luckily, this was before the economy collapsed).  I reevaluated everything, and ended up changing my career focus entirely.

To an outside observer, I was never more lost.  To my close friends, I was never more excited to be alive.

Based on a short story by Raymond Carver, Everything Must Go is nothing particularly new or groundbreaking, but it explores the liberated lost soul in a quiet, lovely manner.  Will Ferrell is at his craggiest as Nick Halsey, a former top salesman and recovering alcoholic who quickly relapses after he is fired for inconsistent job performance and a questionable business-trip escapade.  On the very same day, Nick returns home to find his wife has left him, changed the locks, and thrown all his wordly possessions on the lawn.  When Nick's sponsor and neighborhood cop (Michael Pena, also very good in the middling The Lincoln Lawyer) informs him that Nick has five days to vacate his front lawn, Nick decides to hold a yard sale, much to the curiosity of a pregnant neighbor (Rebecca Hall) and an outcast kid who just wants to play baseball (Christopher Jordan Wallace, son of Faith Evans and the late Biggie Smalls).

Sure, there are a lot of indie tropes at play here: the lovable loser, the pretty artsy chick, the renegade youngster who teaches everyone an important lesson.  There's even a happy-go-lucky blast from the past in the form of Laura Dern, who has a sweet if slightly cloying cameo as Nick's former high school classmate.  That said, even the most predictable cliche of predictable cliches can be incredbly effective if done well.  (Many argue there are only five stories to be told anyway: the magic is in the telling.)  I appreciated how Nick wasn't a pure victim of circumstance: he'd been in and out of rehab several times, and let himself get into a sticky situation with a female colleague.  It's not surprising that he wasn't a good husband, and he's not instantly redeemed.  There's an edge to Ferrell's performance: the humor is sharp, the anger and bitterness palpable.  Many comedians have sad, dark undertones as performers, and Ferrell plays these to the hilt.

What I also appreciated was the film's ending: I won't spoil anything, but let's just say it doesn't wrap up neatly with a bow on top.  Nick still has a ways to go and a lot to reevaluate.  However, I believed he would be okay.

I'm grateful not to be lost anymore.  I'm even more grateful to be employed, to be able to pay my bills and stay afloat in a world where many are struggling.  That said, I'm most grateful for the time I got lost.  Like the ever-effective tagline said, it was the best place to get found.

A Little "Something Borrowed" About Love Triangles

I'll own it: I read a lot of YA and chick lit.  Regarding the former, I'll descend into Hipsterville and say I was devouring teen books way before Twilight blew up (just ask my ex, who thought it was really funny to follow me into that section at Borders).  And as for the latter, I'll be a bad feminist for a second and say that I think the cutesified term for women's fiction is, well, cute.  And unlike the early 2000's, chick lit (or women's fiction, if you're a good feminist) is less all about men and shoes and more about real women dealing with real issues.

Such as falling in love with the last person you're supposed to.

The love triangle is a tale as old as time and one frequently visited in YA, chick lit, and romance (another genre I adore).  The thing about the love triangle?  It is very, very hard to write.  Sure, the stakes are really high (something I constantly struggle with in my own fiction), but how do you NOT make everyone seem like assholes?  You've got the girl who's crossing a major boundary (person/point one), often at the expense of her friend who in lesser love-triangle stories is portrayed as a cartoonish meanie (person/point two), with a guy they may both be better off without (person/point three).

See what I mean?  The potential for a crappy story where the reader hates everyone and ends up throwing the book across the room (um, not that I've ever done this, Chicago Public Library, I swear) is huge.

Last year I reviewed Something Like Fate, a YA love-triangle story by the darling Susane Colasanti (whose new book, So Much Closer, just came out last week).  I won't rehash the whole review here, but this was a love triangle done right.  The friendship between the two girls was believable.  The boy was simply awesome, if a bit idealized (but hey, who didn't idealize a boy in high school?  If you're like me and grew up surrounded by asshole jocks, it was hard not to put the nice guys on a pedestal).  The sense of "this is so wrong yet so very right" was palpable.  Also?  I didn't want to smack anyone.

Later in the year, I read another YA love triangle, Elizabeth Scott's The Unwritten Rule, and had the very opposite reaction.  Now, Scott's books are hit or miss for me.  I tend to like every other one (Living Dead Girl; Love You Hate You Miss You; Something, Maybe?  Oh yes!  Bloom, Stealing Heaven?  Not so much.)  The Unwritten Rule fell into the unfortunate latter category.  I couldn't stand the protaga-dude and dudette.  I felt like he was a shallow jerk and she was a selfish bitch masquerading as a "good" girl.  I felt that neither of them gave the best friend enough respect or credit: yes, she could be mean, but she also had a pretty terrible home life.  Now, Sarah of Smart Bitches Trashy Books disagrees with me, but even for teenagers, these two were acting pretty horrible in the name of "love" (and I gave them about three months anyway).

Which brings me to a very recent chick-lit read: Emily Giffin's Something Borrowed.

I've seen this book on shelves for years but was never tempted to pick it up.  I think I was turned off by the cover (yes, I'm that shallow).  But Jezebel's been posting the shit out of the new movie version starring Kate Hudson, Ginnifer Goodwin, my husband John Krasinski, and some guy who played Erica Kane's aborted fetus on All My Children.  And I was sick at home one day with only my Nook for company, so I figured, why not?

I don't know if I'll see the movie, but I really, really enjoyed the book.

As a "good girl" who struggled to break out of that shell for a really long time, I could relate to Rachel, who spent her life trying to do the right thing (good college, law degree, career), only to end up sleeping with Dex, a fellow law school alum and the fiance of her childhood best friend Darcy.  Sure, Darcy's bitchiness comes off as cartoonish at times, but there's also so much of a history between the two women that I understood why Rachel still considered Darcy her best friend, and vice versa.  What I loved best about Something Borrowed was Rachel's palpable struggle with the whole situation.  She had, in fact, introduced Darcy to Dex when she herself didn't feel worthy of such a great guy.  She knew falling for him in the months before his wedding to Darcy was all kinds of ill-advised.  She had a believable mix of love, loyalty and loathing for her best friend.  This angst, combined with Giffin's breezy writing style, is why I'm currently rereading Something Borrowed.

(Plus, Rachel quotes Creedence Clearwater Revival, one of my favorite bands because I think I'm actually a 50-year-old man.)

Growing up, we're often inundated with "girl code"--you don't go near your friends' boys, even after they've broken it off.  As grown-ups, however, many of us realize that people often meet and fall in love under less than ideal circumstances.  A good love triangle book reminds its readers that what sounds so black and white when you're a kid morphs into shades of gray when you're a teen or an adult.  Either way, there will be tears and scars, but the lucky and genuine ones can emerge with relationships relatively intact.

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You: Abandon

Kevin Williamson is awesome.

Sure, he's had his missteps (I never even attempted Wasteland because of how awful I heard it was, and Vampire Diaries looks positively poopy), but Dawson's Creek provided a gigantic bonding experience for me and my roommates freshman and sophomore year of college.  And seeing Scream 4 at 12:01 last Friday, surrounded by a raucous crowd who wasn't above yelling at the screen, I was reminded how much FUN horror can be. Much as I enjoyed the morality-play aspect of the first Saw film--and to an extent, the second--I hate how quickly it denigrated into straight-up torture porn.  RiffTrax notwithstanding, where's the entertainment in that?

Of course, Kevin Williamson isn't perfect.  He is also largely responsible for introducing the world to Mrs. Tom Cruise, or as she was known pre-couch jump, Katie Holmes.

Because I am a nerd, after seeing Scream 4, I immediately visited IMDb for the film's trivia/fun facts.  This led me to look up the original Scream trilogy, which I haven't seen in ages.  And for some reason, I remembered a suspense-y piece of tripe I encountered on the university movie channel back in my law-school days.

Anyone else remember Abandon?

Kevin Williamson's not involved at all, but Katie Holmes sure as hell is. This KH vehicle was unleashed in 2002 when the Creek was still running and Hollywood's powers that be were trying to translate her little-girl voice and rolling eyes into full-fledged stardom.

Didn't really work.

Let me just say I'm a little prejudiced.  I never liked Joey Potter.  Yeah, she was from the wrong side of the tracks and her sister had the audacity to get knocked up by a non-white guy (one of the many, many things Joey bitched about), but my God, the girl never stopped whining.  Also, honey, your best friend/boyfriend/whatever's name is DAW-son, not DAH-son.  In contrast, Michelle Williams' Jen Lindley was just as misguided, but way more interesting.  I mean, she liked 70's rock and her best friends were her grandma and a gay guy.  WINNING.

Also, who has the more successful acting career now?  I rest my case.

Anyway, Abandon.

So Katie Holmes is Katie Burke, a senior at an unnamed super-chichi East Coast-looking school.  We know it is for smart people because a boy in Katie/Katie's group of friends wears glasses.  Katie/Katie's other pals include resident African-American and Bring It On alum Gabrielle Union, and Zooey Deschanel in her pre-hipster goddess days when she was typecast as the wacky friend.  Katie/Katie is NOT friends with the weird girl in the library, played by Melanie Lynskey in the lean post-Heavenly Creatures years before she had much of a career.

Katie/Katie has everyone drooling over her: she's one of two students on campus being pursued by the exclusive i-banking firm McKinsey.  Even the thesis she's struggling to finish sounds impressive.

But much like with Elizabeth Wakefield, I don't really see the appeal.  You see, Katie/Katie is sort of a robot.  A very pretty, apparently smart robot, but a robot nonetheless.  She has what I like to call Bella Swan Syndrome: where a young character is totally popular despite having practically no personality.  I have no idea what McKinsey sees in her--then again, I'm not an i-banker.

Anyway, this little robot has a secret.  When she was a sophomore she fell in love with senior Embry Larkin (Charlie Hunnam, who is now on Sons of Anarchy, which everyone says I should check out).  Shown in flashback form, Embry is a picture-perfect, spot-on trust fund brat desperate for street cred crossed with theatrical pretentious douchebag.  In other words, I would totally have wanted to do him in college.

At the end of Katie/Katie's sophomore year, Embry staged an elaborate theatre production which he introduced by essentially telling the audience to fuck off, and disappeared into a waiting vehicle, never to be seen again.

Two years later, Embry has no family to speak of, but his attorneys want him declared legally dead so they can donate all his riches to the family foundation or something, and recovering alcoholic cop Benjamin Bratt (when Hollywood was trying to make HIM happen because I think he was doing Julia Roberts at the time) is digging out his notepad and most serious expression to find out what happened.

Meanwhile, Katie/Katie is having a very boring nervous breakdown: she can't sleep, can't finish her thesis, and despite the McKinsey guy showing up at her dorm room (which I'm imagining breaks all sorts of rules and codes of appropriateness) and Detective Bratt creaming his jeans over her, she's seeing Embry everywhere she goes.

What is Katie/Katie hiding?  Is Embry really back?  Will Det. Bratt start drinking again?

All I know is Zooey's wisecracking all the way!

I don't get it.  Why did I gravitate towards this film?  And by "gravitate" I mean "stalk relentlessly."  Back in 2006, when I couldn't catch the whole damn thing on the university movie channel, I went to no less than 2 or 3 video stores trying to track it down.  And yesterday, I looked at my local video place and at the library, plus Netflix streaming and Amazon, before I may or may not have illegally streamed it from some Japanese website where I think they're trying to sell me sex shoes made of chicken.

In other words, it's a big ole case of This Movie Sucks And I Can't Stop Watching And I Totally Hate Myself.

I think in the old days, I could relate to Katie/Katie's general stress and weirdness surrounding her upcoming graduation, job interviews, and remembering an ex best left un-remembered.  The end of school is a strange time and I thought the film actually did an okay job of conveying that (would have done a better job with a more convincing actress, just saying).  In the now...hm, I dunno.  Maybe it's nostalgia.  Maybe I really like it when Zooey plays the wacky friend (aw hell, I love her as the hipster goddess too).  Maybe I find Embry totally hot and who am I kidding, I'd probably still hit that.  I'd just tape his mouth shut first.

Either way...I might still buy the DVD.

Or one of my readers could buy it for me (hint, hint).  I'd even take it as a present from Katie, if Tom lets her out of the Scientology basement.

Do you have any inexplicable favorites?  Along the same lines, what movie do you think desperately needs a RiffTrax?

'Cause for me, the answer to both those questions starts with A and ends with -bandon.

Son of a bitch.

Happythankyoumoreplease, or My Life As an Indie Movie

On Friday, I saw Happythankyoumoreplease, which was basically Josh Radnor of How I Met Your Mother fame's attempt to be Woody Allen.  It kind of worked, in no small part because Radnor--who also played the lead--is quite adorable.  (Not that Woody Allen's adorable, unless your name is Soon-Yi, but you get my drift.)  And for once Malin Akerman, aka The Worst Working Actress in Hollywood, didn't annoy me too much, even though it was obvious she thought she was sooo deep for playing a hippie chick with alopecia.  However, the AV Club (who I would kill puppies to write for) made a good point: if Radnor weren't an established TV actor on a popular series, this movie probably wouldn't have gotten past the screenplay stage. 

Why?  Because it is full of Indie Movie Cliches.

And because I am a sucker for Indie Movie Cliches, roll my eyes at them as I am buying my ticket to whatever twee attempt at capturing the Stuff White People Like experience, I began to wonder.

What would my life be like if I existed in an indie movie?

Here goes:

1.  I would have long hair.  With bangs.  Unless I was the manic and/or perpetually horny and/or E-popping club-hopping friend/foil of the male protagonist.  Then I could keep my short hair.

2.  I would either play the guitar or have a charming yet sultry singing voice, which would only be used for folk songs, ironic covers of 80's hits, or Kander & Ebb showtunes that outline my life's overarching themes or the lesson I am supposed to learn that day.

3.  Speaking of music, I would have a ton of it.  Whenever I had sex, created something meaningful, saw someone on the street who would eventually play a huge part in my life, came to a major decision, or just sat and pondered my life, there would be gentle guitars and gravelly male tunefulness or uber-feminine warbling right on cue. 

4.  Jeff Daniels would be my dad.  Or my sad sack love interest.  Either way, Jeff Daniels would be involved.

5.  If my love interest weren't Jeff Daniels, he would be a mopey, vest-wearing, Smiths-loving gent with a quirky day job that still stifles his natural artistic instincts to pen navel-gazing prose, draw loser-turned-superhero comics or design arty buildings.  OR he would be a nerdy stalker who takes photos without my knowledge which he later shows to me to prove how beautiful I don't know I am, and instead of calling the police for a Temporary Restraining Order, I am totally charmed.

6.  I wouldn't have any gay male friends.  I would, however, know a lesbian or two who wanted to adopt or get turkey bastered.

7.  If there were any children in my orbit, they would draw meaningful pictures and spout innocent wisdom causing me to question my values and possibly get pregnant.

8.  I would--only once--get drunk and sleep with my ex, and feel quietly empty and regretful the next day.  And possibly get pregnant.

9.  My apartment building would have a stoop to sit on with my friends while we drank bottled beer and wondered "where is my home?"  That's more than an Indie Movie Cliche.  That is an Indie Movie Law.

And finally...

10.  As a woman, I would only exist as the sarcastibitch sister who swears a lot, the friend/foil who listens supportively between E-popping and club-hopping, or the long-haired pixie musician who captivates the whiny manboy protagonist simply by making eye contact with him on the sidewalk while sporting an Anthropologie sundress.  If I were one of the first two, I might get a subplot where I acquire a nerdy stalker or impregnate myself via ex or turkey baster.

Hey, I love indie movies.  If I didn't, I wouldn't be familiar with all these cliches.  However, just FOR ONCE can there be an indie movie with a smart, funny young female protagonist?  With someone who has a corporate job and is happy about it?  With gay characters who are real people?

I know they're all out there, but there are not enough.

Script Frenzy is coming up.  I don't know shit from apple butter about writing a screenplay, but I'm a little tempted to give it a shot.

Revisiting My Girl (And Young Unpro)

This post was originally published on The Film Yap.


When you're 11 years old, all you want is to be understood.


No matter how loved and cherished you are, it's not enough. You want someone to get you. Forget about adults: They have their own lives, which you're starting to realize seem largely mundane and petty. That leaves your peers, but if you're in any way unusual or unique, they tend to ridicule rather than accept.


One friend's all you need.


In one of "My Girl's" opening scenes, preteen Vada Sultenfuss (Chicagoan Anna Chlumsky, more recently seen in "In the Loop" and on TV's "30 Rock") holds court on the steps of her home, which doubles as a funeral parlor. When she offers to show a group of neighborhood boys a dead body, one of them opts out and is called out as a wuss. Before he heads home, the boy and Vada exchange a look.  That's all it takes to establish Thomas J. Sennett (Macaulay Culkin at his floppy-haired cutest) as Vada's best — and only — pal.


Vada's not only shunned for her funeral-home family, headed by her distant father Harry (a portly Dan Aykroyd). She likes climbing trees and doesn't wear dresses. Vada's convinced she killed her mother — who died in childbirth — and that she herself is dying as well. Her grandmother, with whom Vada had been very close, is now largely uncommunicative. It's enough to make any kid feel weird. And when free-spirited makeup artist Shelly DeVoto (Jamie Lee Curtis, sporting an enviable collection of mini-dresses) takes a job at the funeral home and falls for Harry, Vada's life gets even weirder.


But she's taking a writing class, taught by her crush, Mr. Bixler (Griffin Dunne). So what if it's for adults and she paid for it by stealing money from Shelly? And there's always Thomas J., who may be allergic to everything but is always up for an adventure. Vada doesn't make it easy for him, once calling him a "pacifist" and "bedwetter" in one breath. But compare her easy meanness to Thomas J. with her behavior around her father, which vacillates between desperate good girl and crying out for attention by declaring she has prostate cancer at the dinner table. Vada can insult Thomas J. because she's comfortable around him. She knows he won't leave her.


Until one day he does.


When "My Girl" was released in 1991, I was 11, the same age as Vada and Thomas J. I had a mad crush on Macaulay Culkin and couldn't believe — gasp! — he was going to die in the movie. I was mildly intrigued as well that the protagonist of the film was not only exactly my age, but a girl. Outside of the Disney Channel, this was practically unheard of. Oh, and there was a kiss. Sold.


I remember seeing the movie with my dad and talking about it afterward. He said to me, "I like that movie. It's about things you can't change, and even though they happen, they are not your fault." First, my dad and I rarely did things one-on-one; there were two other kids in the family. And as I was still reeling from Thomas J.'s untimely fate in the moments after the movie, this simple explanation offered me a whole new outlook.


When I was 16 and a week away from going on my first real date, I rewatched "My Girl" at my cousin's house. What stuck out to me that time wasn't my childhood crush's character's death, but Shelly's quote to Harry: "You can be in a room with a hundred men and not like any of them. But you can be in a room with one man, and he's exactly the one you want." "Wow!" I thought. "That went right over my head when I was 11, but now I totally get it!"


I'm now 30.  Just a couple of weeks ago, a fellow critic and I were discussing "My Girl." He remembered Macaulay Culkin's whimper before he met his untimely fate. I remembered how the movie took the young girl's problems seriously and how I could identify with them. I then wondered if "My Girl" would hold up; as we all know, not every childhood pop-culture favorite stands the test of time.


"My Girl" does.


Sure, there are a couple of moments where the kids' interactions seem forced or the score borders on treacly. But as a nostalgia piece, it works well — like 1995's "Now and Then," "My Girl" employs a groovy '70's soundtrack and sun-dappled shots of bike rides to evoke a simpler pre-video game era. And as a believable coming-of-age story, it works even better. Aykroyd journeys from gruff to openhearted, Curtis is fun and flamboyant without resorting to a manic pixie dream girl stereotype. Culkin wasn't always great as a child actor, but here he brings a subtle sweetness to Thomas J.  And Chlumsky is excellent — adorable without the pageant-esque shine common to so many young stars today and able to hold her own with her more experienced costars.


I wonder if "My Girl" could be made today. It's neither icky-sweet nor forcibly gritty. It isn't slow, but moves at its own pace, stretching out leisurely like childhood summer. It's a low-key dramedy that wasn't going for millions of box office dollars or scads of critical acclaim. It just is. Watching it as an adult, I recalled that time in my life when, like Vada, all I wanted was to be understood — and as I grew up, I found people who got me.

Hey Girl, Let's Talk About Ryan Gosling (Part 2)

The following is a continuation of yesterday's post, in which I raved about the incomparable (and incomparably sexy) Ryan Gosling.  Today, I will review his two most recent films:


All Good Things
I'm very surprised All Good Things didn't merit a wider release.  Sure, it's dark and depressing, but it's a fascinating true crime story--made more fascinating by the skillful maneuvers executed by director Andrew Jarecki, who's previously directed only documentaries, to avoid being sued by the individuals in question.  All Good Things is based on the life of Robert Durst, the heir to a New York City real estate scion.  In 1982, Durst's young wife disappeared and has since been declared legally dead.  In 2000, Durst's female best friend was found murdered in Los Angeles.  In 2001, Durst's neighbor in Galveston, Texas was dismembered.  Durst has never been charged with any of their murders.

As a fan of Unsolved Mysteries and Dateline, I was all over this shit.

As a young adoring bride turned ambitious medical student, Kirsten Dunst does a fine job portraying half of a marriage that slowly grows more oppressive and horrifying.  Frank Langella turns in a predictably awesome performance as the anti-hero's father, whose secrets and lies were meant to protect and instead destroyed.  Also, Nick Offerman (who was screwed out of an Emmy for Parks and Recreation) and Kristen Wiig (love her on Saturday Night Live) take four-scene roles and turn them into memorable characters.

But it's Gosling who's incredible here.  His David Marks, the fictional version of Robert Durst, is equal parts shyly charismatic, socially awkward, and flat-out scary.  You get the feeling Gosling took the role not because he really, really wants an Oscar (can I say right now how much that annoys me?  Mark Wahlberg, I'm looking at you), but because he found it interesting.  And the saddest thing for me, is how few people will see this bravura performance.



Blue Valentine
I was so excited for Blue Valentine.  The trailer was charming yet hinted at darkness.  Michelle Williams was always my favorite actress on Dawson's Creek and her movie career has been formidable.  And Gosling.  Playing a ukulele.  Having sex.  Aw yeah.




And I like movies about troubled, complicated relationships.  Closer inspired me to cut my hair short.  Plus, these films make me feel good about being single.

After viewing Blue Valentine, I left the theatre a shivering husk of a woman with my face set on perma-cringe, vowing to stay single forever and ever, amen.  (I also felt really sorry for the poor misguided couples in the audience who thought it'd be a great date movie.  I hoped none of them broke up immediately after exiting the cinema.)

It's not that Blue Valentine isn't good.  Quite the contrary.  It's fantastic.  Williams and Gosling give stunning, raw interpretations to characters both likable and loathsome.  The cinematography is absolutely gorgeous, the music cues spare and non-manipulative.  And little Faith Wladyka is so sweet and natural, one of the best cinematic portrayals of a tiny child I've ever seen (despite the fact that she doesn't really look like either of her parents, which bothered me.  Come on, how many kids are there in Hollywood?  You can find one that looks genetically similar, casting directors.  Do your job).

However, and this is coming from someone who loves sad movies about relationships gone awry:

Blue Valentine is depressing.

Really, really depressing.  Slit your wrists depressing.  Sex scenes that range from uncomfortable to downright painful to watch depressing.  Oh-my-God-how-much-worse-can-it-get-oh-wait-there's-my-answer depressing.

When it comes to movies about troubled couples, 2008's Revolutionary Road had a bit of Of Mice and Men-style optimism, plus it took place in the 1950's which explained a lot.  Last December's Rabbit Hole cut sadness with dark humor, and ended on a hopeful note for the protagonists' marriage.  Blue Valentine does have a couple of happy moments (and maybe one very sexy scene), but as the movie progresses it's clear the main characters have no hope or happiness left.  And it's a beautiful tragedy, but a tragedy nonetheless.

Basically, Blue Valentine is worth watching, but a) it's like putting your heart through a meat tenderizer, and b) it is mandatory to have your DVD's of South Park/What Not to Wear/fluffy show of your choice at the ready immediately afterward, to cleanse what will be your extremely morose palate.

Yet after all this, I still want to marry Ryan Gosling.

Hey girl, what can I say?  He's hot.

Hey Girl, Let's Talk About Ryan Gosling (Part I)

What is it about Ryan Gosling?

In the past several years, this former Mickey Mouse Clubber has positively captivated the ladies of my generation.  Here's a clip.  Why?  Because I like you!



Funny to think that in his early career days (Mouseketeer notwithstanding), he was known for playing teenage psychopaths.



Then The Notebook happened.  You know, I'd love to say I was a huge fan beforehand, but like everyone else I know, I went all Team Ga-Ga Gosling when I saw that kiss in the rain.  Though really, I got more turned on when Noah removes Allie's stocking.  It's hard (ha ha) for actors to convince me they really want to have sex with their leading ladies, but that hungry look in his eyes . . . when I watch that scene, I need to be alone, if ya know what I mean.

Also, he repeated the iconic rain kiss with costar Rachel McAdams at the MTV Movie Awards that year.  Yum.



But it's more than his beardy and non-beardy sexiness.  Gosling exudes intelligence, not only in his career choices but in his obvious respect for his female costars.  He had a lot to say when the sex scenes of his most recent film, Blue Valentine, put the film in danger of an NC-17 rating:


You have to question a cinematic culture which preaches artistic expression, and yet would support a decision that is clearly a product of a patriarchy-dominant society, which tries to control how women are depicted on screen. The MPAA is okay supporting scenes that portray women in scenarios of sexual torture and violence for entertainment purposes, but they are trying to force us to look away from a scene that shows a woman in a sexual scenario, which is both complicit and complex. It's misogynistic in nature to try and control a woman's sexual presentation of self. I consider this an issue that is bigger than this film.

Feminist SWOON.

Is it any wonder that this blog exists?

What's even more amazing is how Gosling actually read from the blog in an interview.

When he wasn't singing the My Little Pony theme song:



Indie girl/80's nostalgia SWOON.

Even when he's playing characters that range from flawed to downright frightening, I just can't quit the Gosling.


Hey girl, if you consider yourself a Gosling aficionado, stay tuned for tomorrow, when I review his two most recent movies, All Good Things and Blue Valentine!

Papa Don't Preach: Somewhere

About two years ago, I seriously considered moving to Los Angeles.

I'd just had a falling-out with someone very close to me, which I thought at the time would be permanent.  One of my closest friends in the world was living in L.A. at the time.  And, well, it was a Chicago winter.  Who ISN'T California dreamin' in February?

I got to the point of looking for jobs when I realized: a) I hate driving and the City of Angels may as well be called the City of Freeways, b) apart from one friend, it was further away from my other loved ones than I wanted to be, and c) falling-out or no, I friggin' love Chicago.  It's home to me.

And let's face it, L.A. is weird.  It's gorgeous and ugly at the same time.  Because people are used to perfect weather, they freak out when it rains (whereas in the Midwest, that's called "Tuesday").  And this extends into their lives: Angelenos expect everything to be as flawless as the weather, whereas Midwesterners get on with it.  Snowing ten inches?  You still have to go to work, so put on your boots and suck it up.

This weekend I saw Sofia Coppola's Somewhere, which reminded me why staying in Chicago was a very good decision.

The movie opens with the main character, Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff, who never did it for me before this movie, but DAMN), circling around and around in his black Ferrari.  Noise and movement aplenty, but ultimately he's going nowhere.  Some might argue the symbolism is heavy handed, but I thought it was a great introduction into Johnny's life.

The guy is a major movie star, yet he lives at the Chateau Marmont hotel.  He smokes, drinks and parties, but even when there are pole-dancing twins in the room--who Johnny seems to keep on retainer--he's forever alone.  And what's crazy is how people kowtow to him: assistants, publicists, actors who want a piece of what he's got.  He wants for nothing, but he lacks everything that's important.

Enter Cleo (Elle Fanning, Dakota's kid sister), Johnny's eleven-year-old daughter.  She lives in the same city, but he's so emotionally distant from her he doesn't know she's been ice skating for three years.  We assume Cleo's mother has been the primary caretaker, but she seems to be about as stable an influence as absentee Johnny.  Case in point: Johnny receives a phone call from Cleo's mother, who says she's "going away for a while," and Cleo is in his care for the several days before she departs for camp.

You might be thinking this is a Three Men and a Baby scenario.  Think again.  There are virtually no problems.  Cleo's a lovely kid: she reads her book during press conferences; when tagging along to Milan with her dad, she's just thrilled with their private swimming pool; and she can make eggs Benedict.  What's sad is, you get the sense this isn't Cleo's best behavior.  Rather, she's probably like this all the time, being good for both parents, knowing exactly when she needs to disappear, never asking too much.

Because he only has her for a few days, Johnny doesn't really learn how to be a good dad.  He doesn't have to.  And Cleo doesn't ask that of him.  Probably because she knows he can't be.

I loved Somewhere for many reasons: cliches that turn out not to be, a portrait of a movie star who doesn't make tabloid waves but is messed up in deeper ways, a child I came to care about and worry for. No child is perfect, but Cleo is sweet and smart, and Johnny could probably be a decent father if he tried.  By the end, I really hoped he would try.

Keep in mind this is a Sofia Coppola movie.  All her trademarks are there: long camera shots, characters contemplatively staring out windows, moody music, usually some example of foreign pop culture weirdness.  And unless it stars Bill Murray, you can't watch a Sofia Coppola movie for its dialogue, because it will be sparse and sound like real people talking.

But all this works for me.  I like how Coppola can tell a story with only a few words and lots of pictures.  How by the film's end, she had me rooting for her two main characters, hoping Cleo would ask for the love she deserved and Johnny would realize he had to snap out of his L.A. coma and step it up as a parent.  How well she casts her players, especially Elle Fanning, whose goofy smiles and intermittent skipping were so perfectly eleven years old.  How with every shot or word, I know how she wants me to feel--and rather than get angry at the manipulation, I feel it.

The more I think about Somewhere, the more I love it.  Yeah, it's a tale as old as time: money and fame can't buy you happiness and love.  But when illustrated in such an evocative way, even the most tired tropes reveal their truth.

New Year, New Unpro: Reso-ma-lutions

Happy New Year, Unpro-ites!

Normally, I'm not a big fan of New Year's resolutions.  Mainly because for two weeks, the dance and yoga studios will be chock-full with rude heavy breathers who take no heed of people who, you know, actually work out regularly.  (Note: by "heavy breather," I'm not judging people who are overweight and out of shape.  I'm just saying if you really DO want to get healthy, pace yourself and pay attention to the etiquette and habits of people who attend class in months other than January.  You might learn something!)

That said, this is an interesting new start.  I'm 30 now.  I'll be looking for a new apartment in a couple of months.  I want to make some other changes and advances as well, while still retaining my own life, which is fabulous and I adore it.

So without further ado, here are my New Year's Resolutions, pop culture and otherwise:

1.  Go to the movies.  All the time.  Even if it's a busy period at work and I don't want to get my ass off the couch.  I always feel better when I go to the movies.  Case in point: the week between Christmas and New Year's was a film-o-palooza for me.  And it was awesome.

2.  Write about said movies!

3.   When someone says I absolutely need to watch/read some fantastic new Oscar-bait movie/super-intense TV series/New York Times bestseller, consider watching/reading it rather than saying in my head, "if this many people are telling me to do it, I don't wanna."

4.  Get some kind of paid writing gig.  Not that I don't love getting "paid" in free DVD's and books, but I've been told I'm not too bad at this writing thing, so I might as well seek a little compensation.

5.  Keep a Moleskine and pen by my bed so when I wake up from some really cool/weird dream that would be a good idea for a story, I don't forget it in my insane apply contacts/get dressed/lift cat off of stuff pre-work apartment race.

6.  Get in touch with Dan Savage, whether it's a message for the Savage Love podcast or a fan-girly email.  Because I love him.

7.  Sign up for another burlesque class.  It's fun as hell, combats stress and makes me happy.  Come to think of it, just dance as much as freaking possible.

8.  Be open-minded when it comes to music, movies, TV shows, books, anything culture-y.  Specific tastes are fun, but discovering cool new stuff is even better.

9.  Work on creative writing.  A LOT.  This includes:
a) Getting my current draft of my 2009 NaNo all shipshape and perfect, so I can start sending it out to agents again,
b) Working on my 2010 NaNo, which may never ever sell but was still a story I loved telling and want to work on more,
c) Think of tons of new ideas and pick the best one for NaNo 2011.
d) Take classes: one-offs and hopefully longer-term if I can afford it.
e) This summer, apply for another writing residency.

10.  And finally: try to post here more.  I LOVE all of my readers and am so grateful you listen to me natter on every week, and I want to give you more of what you want.

What are YOUR New Year's resolutions, pop culture and non?

Reality Bites My Ass: Tiny Furniture

I'm a really big fan of the "new adult" genre that publishers are kicking around: lit geared toward the 18-25 set, about coming of age in a world very different than that of our parents.  (Last year's Commencement is a poignant, funny example.)  In some ways, angsting in one's early twenties might seem like whining of the White Girl Problems or Stuff White People Like kind: many recent liberal arts college grads have parents who won't let them starve, a host of knowledge, and free time to burn, so what's the problem?

Maybe I'm outing myself as a liberal arts college grad here (in case the rest of this blog wasn't any indication), but there are a lot of problems.

Liberal arts degrees might not score you a plum job in the working world, but in this economy, neither will more "practical" areas of study.  More and more college grads are having to move back home for financial reasons.  And the early twenties are weird.  You're not quite a kid, not quite an adult.  The older generation might scold you for perpetuating adolescence, but with no direction or means of support, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

In her debut film Tiny Furniture, Lena Dunham explores these issues more or less successfully.  She plays Aura, a newly-minted film theory grad who's spent the last four years in Ohio (if I had to venture a guess, I'd say at Oberlin) and is now returning to her native Tribeca.  Aura's single mom (played by Dunham's real mother) is an artist who never really held a day job, so she's not pushing her daughter into the realms of full-time employment.  Though Aura could use some direction.  She's recently been cut loose by her boyfriend, is growing more distant from her best friend who's still in Ohio, and just wants someone to tell her who she should be.

As Aura drifts through a hostessing gig and flirts with two losers (one of whom would be cute if he lost the hipster 'stache, the other way too hirsute and lispy for my taste), hanging out with her "bad influence" of a childhood best friend (Jemima Kirke, who's fantastically British and offbeat), I kind of wanted to shake her.  Tell her she's been given every advantage and just to snap out of it already.  And to be fair, she does get quite whiny, she has terrible taste in dudes (her ex-boyfriend doesn't sound like much of a prize either), and Dunham isn't always the best actress (neither is her mom--their scenes range from touching to downright painful).

When I didn't want to smack Aura, though, I recognized the early twenties experience in all its teeth-gritting uncertainty.

Because it's a time when the world expects you to emerge from college fully formed, knowing exactly who you are, when you're only just beginning to figure it out.  It's a time when you realize the hothouse university environment, enriching as it may be, hasn't taught you any actual survival skills, and you're going to learn more from  your mistakes than the things you do right.  It's a time when relationships change, especially family dynamics (Aura's relationship with her overachieving teenage sister, played by Dunham's real-life sister, is incredibly real in its up-and-down nature).  It's a time when you have to reassess exactly who and what you want to be, and even though you'll learn down the line that you'll constantly change your mind, at this point you just want to make a decision and be done with it.

So, sure, Tiny Furniture can be aimless and totally twee, but it also speaks a lot of truth.  Kudos to Dunham for not backing down and giving the quarterlife crisis a fair, honest representation.

Though I do wish the ending would have been more concrete.

(And I realize in making that wish, I may be missing the point.)



What do you think of this "new adult"/quarterlife genre?  Any recommendations?  Leave a comment!

Burlesque 101, or How I Found Empowerment By Shaking My Ass

"It's like this," I told my friend Bob, as I shook my chest in the booth at the gay bar.


I've come a long way since June.


Several months ago, I was at a crossroads.  I loved modern and musical theatre dance classes, but I felt in a bit of a rut.  Plus, I was frustrated with my writing and with other parts of my life.


I needed a new hobby.  Preferably one that got me up and moving and feeling good.


At the same time, a friend of mine was getting into burlesque dancing, and her Facebook was full of stories of women with awesome names like Jeez Loueez and comments about something called "shimmying."  Despite having danced for nearly twenty-six years of my life, I was a little unsure about what burlesque entailed.  Even the word "striptease" was opaque to me.


Understood or not, I was patently aware that I didn't think I could do it myself.


As a former theatre major, I was well-informed of Gypsy Rose Lee. Not to mention I've been dancing (other, more clothed forms) for 26 years. But I couldn't do that. Sure, it was a far cry from licking the pole a la Nomi Malone, but still . . . baring it all in public? No way!


Plus, the non-body snarking feminist in me was hesitant.  Could I really get behind an art form consisting of bumping, grinding, and clothing removal?  Was that copasetic with the sisterhood?


There was only one way to find out.


I went to a burlesque show.  Specifically, a showcase of advanced students at the studio where my friend took classes.  I naively stepped into the bar that Sunday night, unsure of what to expect.


What I got?  The dirtiest dance recital known to (wo)man.


At first, it was a little weird.  I tried to muffle my nervous giggles as the first girl did her thing, shaking her tail and shucking it all off.  But then something happened: I got into it.  The ladies of all shapes and sizes.  The silly puns and dirty jokes between dances.  The fun, creative choices of music: everything from Bobby Darin to James Brown.  The feathers and adorable shoes.


Then the head of the studio--Miss Exotic World 2005, and a finalist on the first America's Got Talent--did a fan dance like you wouldn't believe.  She was wearing next to nothing, but it was downright elegant.


I wanted to do THAT.


So I signed up for a basic class at Studio L'Amour in Chicago.  It's a friendly, funky little place (and no, they are not paying me to talk about them) where all girls who want to learn to shake it are welcomed with open (bare) arms.  I went in person to sign up because I wanted to check out the vibe.


"Um, is it okay if I wear workout clothes?" I shyly asked the studio owner/head teacher.


"Sure, I'm wearing this for class," she replied, indicating her own workout clothes.


Five months later, I'm demonstrating my shimmy for my friends. 


Mind you, I haven't shown any real skin: the studio emphasizes being comfortable with yourself, and you don't take anything off until the performance class, if you choose to go that far.  But what I've learned is this: burlesque isn't just about skin.  It's about having a sense of humor.  Embracing those silly puns while bumping the hips your mama gave you.  Getting your dance on while thinking, "damn, I look hot!"  It's not about the boys.  It's about the girls (innuendo intended).


Now if you'll excuse me, I have to practice tying a tie.  So I can remove it from my person at next week's class.


Oh, and true burlesque or no, I am excited as hay-ell for this movie: