Coming Out Party

Every few years, let’s say 8 or so, there’s a spate of movies starring the We’re-Gonna-Be-Fucking-Big newcomers. Many of them have been building their oeuvre for quite some time, but, in a moment that resembles a flock of South Pasadena parrots taking flight in a flash of green, these actors march into the season and shove aside the previous class, declaring their “itness.”

This is one of those summers, and it’s a pretty exciting crop, actually. Every movie I’ve seen this summer provides a shining example of tomorrow’s people. The actors who are destined to be the Big Comedy Star, the Big Action Star, the Oscar Regular.

First, there was Thor–a somewhat slight film that is surprisingly better than it should be an yet not as good as it could be–starring that Chris Hemsworth, who is destined to grace screens in the coming years as that Ridiculously Charming and Handsome Guy who’s ridiculously, unbelievably, unspeakably tall and buff, and whose eyes are unnaturally blue.

Then there was Bridesmaids, the season’s entry in the “Duh, we’ve been here all along” category. This is Kristen Wiig’s moment. Those who called her too odd or skinny or goofy or old to be a Big Comedy Star (rather than a small-screener) just ate their words. And she brings with her a number of women who have also done their time on the tube, particularly Melissa McCarthy. They now get to chant: “We’re here, we’re funny, now get used to paying $14.50 for it!”

Next came X-Men, First Class, which is an embarrassment of tomorrow’s riches. Forget that a few stars in this treasure trove have already racked up a “starter” Oscar nod–it’s the future nods we’re all waiting for: James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender, and Jennifer Lawrence (Hunger Games!) are all poised to dominate the red carpets in the next few years. This bunch (add in Nicolas Hoult, who will star in the new Bryan Singer/Christopher McQuarry re-teaming) was clearly cast in an effort to gather a gaggle of talented unknownish actors with bright futures, a choice that earns the award for This Summer’s Brilliant Move.

Lastly, we have Super 8, which is less notable for all those new kids (this is less a coming out for this group, aside from Elle Fanning, than it is an amuse bouche) than for the appearance of the small screen’s Kyle Chandler, proving once and for all that doing time on a brilliant-but-not-watched TV show can yield a big screen payoff. Sure, he garnered an Emmy nomination last year for his fantastic work on Friday Night Lights (shame on you if you have not watched it), but his appearance on the big screen solidifies his post in the pantheon of go-to actors who play sympathetic dads. And Elle Fanning, with her giant, knowing eyes, will cause you to cry out: “Dakota who? That chick’s a has-been.”

So keep your eyes on the big screen this summer. It’s clearly a time for the type of discovery that leads to meteoric rise and ends in inevitable under-whelmingness. Enjoy the ride.

Yes, I’m One of THOSE People

I’m not going to see Avatar. I have myriad reasons for this choice, not the least of which is that I think James Cameron makes hollow movies that are overly long, stunning to look at, and dangerous to the concept that substance is as significant as spectacle.

But that’s not really it. “It” is that, when it comes to this movie, I’m one of those people who presumes she knows what the film’s problems are without having seen it–I’m one of those who I typically hate, those of knee-jerk assumptions.

So I’ll be clear. I’ve seen the blue figures gracing the cover of my Entertainment Weekly; I’ve read the reviews; I’ve heard tell of the pathetic writing and over-simplified content, and I’m a little worried. The Navi (is that right?) are clearly a mix tape of indigenous peoples with the braids, the necklaces, the outfits. Their portrayal–even in the context of advertising–smacks of romanticizing what was, those people who were better because they were purer, simpler, less, you know, white.

And this scares me. Prejudice is a slippery beast–hatred develops from ignorance, a lack of understanding that over-simplifies the complexity of human behavior. Perhaps more dangerous, however, than overt hatred is misguided reverence. When people are romanticized as knowing the secret to more utopic life, there’s nowhere to go but down–the reality will obviously be a disappointment.

So I keep hearing–over and over and over–that Avatar is a blue Dances with Wolves, and, because I find the myth-making of the American Indian in the latter movie to be so troubling, I cannot bring myself to see the former. Yes, these blue folk are the product of one man’s imagination and not an historic reality, but they are symbolic of a huge problem–the romanticizing of native peoples. Most of all, this habit, which is so linked to white guilt and a subsequent seek for redemption, feels like a has-been. It is a trope developed by the baby boomers, an important step on the way to more complex critical understanding of the interplay between native and interloper. Truth is, I’m unlikely to see Avatar because I feel like I’d be stepping into a time-machine, giving my 2010 dollars to a film that is easily 30 years past its relevance regardless of its futuristic visuals.

Demented and Sad but Social

For the four years that spanned the early mid- to late mid-eighties, John Hughes defined me. I was always a little younger than his characters—when Samantha Baker turned 16 in the spring of ’84, I was 11. By the time Keith and Watts graduated in ’87, I was just about to begin my own high school years. For those of us who waited in line outside the local theater to see the R-rated Breakfast Club at 12-years old with our moms or squatted on the floor in front of the front row to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—twice, I give you this gushy revisiting of the movies that defined a genre as well as a generation.

Sixteen Candles (1984)

The first of JH’s teen films also defines his affect on the zeitgeist—a direct response to the silly plotless comedies (think Porky’s) that characterized teens as punchlines, but not quite as brutal as Amy Heckerling’s Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982). Samantha Baker was Every Girl—a sophomore enamored with the hottest senior in school, a dorky, braced freshman puppy-dogging her every move—she was the insider/outsider that we all could identify with. While other films gave us distinct types (the brain, the athelete, the criminal), Sixteen Candles gave us pedestrian. Sam was, like most 16-year olds: completely regular. And her conquest of Jake Ryan (even despite the unfortunate panties incident) gave the rest of us regular girls a little hope that we could be noticed, too. We just had to live with being a little less funny than the teens in Sam’s world.

The Breakfast Club (1985)

Definitely the most serious of Hughes’s teen films, The Breakfast Club is in some ways his most indelible. While Samantha Baker was perfectly normal, the five teens in this movie were the ultimate outsiders—spending the Saturday at detention with a bitter principle who had lost all ability to identify with the students who were his charges. Even the insiders—the jock and the princess—were outsiders, cultivating a simulated identity in order to appeal to their peers and parents. The five teens in The Breakfast Club were types that became individuals over the course of a day trapped at school, and, for those of us who saw types in our own schools (even if those types were slightly different or blurred), we began to understand how similar we all were to each other.

Interesting side note: at my high school, there had been a crew of asshole jock guys called the Rat Pack. They actually did things like tape nerds’ buns together. The group was in its death throes my freshman year, and, by 1988, they were pretty much gone, leaving our high school with less-defined group demarcations (there were still cliques and still assholes—they were just less organized, more rogue groups). I contend that The Breakfast Club had something to do with this permanent shift at many schools.

Weird Science (1985)

Hughes loved nerds. He was one, after all. The bra-headed adventures of Gary and Wyatt gave us Hughes’s most gonzo and light teen movie, a welcome break from all the angst we had to face in his previous outing. In his third film with Anthony Michael Hall, he clearly trusted his young protégé with broader comedy, and he rewarded the nerd with the girl. However, the movie’s most memorable character is Bill Paxton’s Chet, Wyatt’s military dillhole of a brother. Torture from an older sibling (this is Hughes’s only film that goes this route—most of his characters have younger sibs) is most definitely an unforgettable teen trope, and the broad ridiculousness of Weird Science allows for Chet to get his comeuppance in the form of transition into an alien blob—now if that’s not an obvious metaphor, I don’t know what is.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

The last teen film directed by Hughes is also in some ways his most successful. Equal parts teen disillusionment and high-concept comedy, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off does not dwell on external teen politics; its focus is existentialism. Adults, some sympathetic and some not, have no clue how complex and intelligent the teens that surround them really are. But, despite the grandeur of its intentions, the movie never gets mired down in the philosophy it espouses. Instead, it has fun. And as viewers we enjoy the ride—particularly the parts in which obsessed principal Ed Rooney is tortured for his juvenile behavior while our teens behave as semi-thoughtful adults.

Pretty in Pink (1986)

Hughes handed over the directing reigns to Howard Deutch with this outing, and the effect is obvious. While Pretty in Pink explores all the traditional teen themes, it is more a collection of fantastic moments and songs than it is a successful film. However, Duckie serves as the first crush-worthy nerd (so much so that Hughes had to write another film where the loser wins romance to rectify the mistake of giving Blane—Blane!—the girl), and there are, as always, a slew of quotables. It’s amazing to watch this film now and think that we all wanted to dress like Ringwald’s Andie, who resembles a grandparent’s couch cover. But Pretty in Pink is like that—it is a collage of indelible memories set to, let’s face it, the most awesome soundtrack ever. If The Breakfast Club inflenced high school politics around the country, this movie changed the music we identified with, giving the loser punk types the leverage we would use to take over (and quickly help corporatize and ruin) radio in the early 90’s.

Some Kind of Wonderful (1987)

Also directed by Deutch, this movie is a total mess—bad editing, bizarre story gaffes and other rookie stuff. It feels like it was rushed through the pipeline and slapped together with duct tape. It is also the Hughes film I have watched the most, warping two VHS copies before DVD ever existed. This is Hughes’s most punk rock script—where the typical high school assholes are footnotes in celebration of outsiders. Even the object of Keith’s affection (there’s no limit to the love I felt for Eric Stoltz as a teen), Amanda Jones, is an outsider, posing with the rich kids in a vain attempt to make it through high school with as few bruises as possible, getting seriously bruised in the process. While Hardy Jenns, Amanda’s popular boyfriend, remains unchanged throughout the movie, his counterpart, the punk Duncan, gets to grow and change, proving that he’s a standup guy under his tough exterior. However, there was nothing more dear to a young punk girl-in-training than Mary Stuart Masterson’s Watts, the tomboy drummer that, after all the heartbreak and pain, gets her man. This movie, for all its demonstrable faults, proves that a strong friendship between freaks is a much better foundation for true love than raw attraction to a great pair of legs.

Though such awesome Hughesian films as Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, Christmas Vacation, and Uncle Buck deserve attention all to themselves (particularly Uncle Buck, which is as good as Hughes’s best teen films), it is the above six movies that became a coming of age mantra for Generation X as it birthed its way from adolescence to adulthood. When we were, in our heyday, described as alternative, slacker losers who would never do as well as our parents (raised in the 50’s on poodle skirts and perfection) had, we could look at these movies and grin, knowing we—whether The Criminal, The Princess, The Brain, The Athlete or The Basket Case—did the best we could with what we were given.

Ten Actors Whose Names You Should Know

10. Enver Gjokaj
Gjokaj is one of the many actors on Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse with an unpronounceable name. Dollhouse is a unique opportunity for the actors who get to play “dolls,” people who have their identities wiped clean and replaced with various personas, because they play a diverse stash of characters. Playing the doll Victor has been the perfect milieu for Gjokaj’s talents—a promising look at what this young actor can do.

9. Andrea Anders
I bet Anders hopes you don’t hold Joey against her. But now that she’s on Better off Ted, her comic chops really shine. She’s funny, odd, quirky, and adorably mid-western.

8. Aziz Ansari
You probably know him best from his angry Twitter message, but this young comedian has recently taken off as the resident asshole, Tom, on Parks and Recreation and as the unwatchable comedian Randy on Funny People. It’s hard to get a sense of where the comedy ends and the person who Ansari is begins—and that’s a good thing for funny.

7. Carla Gallo
Judd Apatow has made stars of his in-group of boys from his television days; however, the women have struggled a bit more to break into his mega-hit comedies. Still, you can find Undeclared‘s Gallo getting kicked in the face by Steve Carell or crotch-bleeding on Jonah Hill in the Apatow oeuvre. Keep your eye on her as a young porn star on Californication. And maybe Apatow will write her a role that matches her promise.

6. Kat Dennings
Also a graduate of 40-Year Old Virgin, Dennings cut her teeth screeching about teen sex from behind a bathroom door. Equal parts adorable, quirky, and every-girl, Dennings also starred as Michael Cera’s romantic partner in Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist.

5. Demián Bichir
The Mexican actor who plays Esteban Reyes, the proud papa of Nancy Botwin’s newest progeny, can only be described as sexy/scary. He’s beyond handsome—the kind of guy who talks to thermostats just to turn up the heat. And he somehow pulls off being equal parts sympathetic and psychotic, a perfect match for a woman who is as repellent as she is irresistible.

4. Rosemarie DeWitt
DeWitt has had a big couple of years, playing the uber-enlightened Midge on Mad Men, the title character in Rachel Getting Married, and Charmaine, Toni Collette’s selfish sister on The United States of Tara. She has made a career of playing second fiddle to big, enigmatic characters, and she still manages to get noticed.

3. Aaron Paul
Now that Paul is nominated for an Emmy, maybe you’ll remember his name as much as you remember his characters. Causing viewer schizophrenia playing sweet-hearted, upstanding Scott on Big Love and beyond-fucked-up-meth-head Jesse on Breaking Bad, Paul has become a must-see element of some seriously must-see shows.

2. Chris Pratt
You’re going to laugh, but I first noticed Pratt when he played Everwood‘s affable dumb stud, Bright. Now he’s Andy on Parks and Recreation, and, seriously, every word this guy says is gold. He’s surrounded by some big-time comic talent, and he’s the funniest damn thing on the show. I could watch him deliver lines all day long.

1. Callum Keith Rennie
There’s always that one actor you would watch tie his shoes. Rennie is that guy right now. He spooked the crap out of me as BSG’s Leoben and then romanced me within an inch of my life as Californication’s Lew Ashby, may he rest in Best Character Ever peace. He should be in everything. Preferably wearing a kilt.

To Die By Your Side Is Such a Heavenly Way to Die

Let me preface this by saying that I am not a fan of The Smiths. In fact, I’m notorious for this amongst my peers, as each of them carries Morrisey nostalgia in their tortured-youth-that-was satchels. I would never, however, imply that I am immune to similar musical nostalgia. My distaste for The Smiths belies my passion for The Pixies, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and, of course, The Cure.

So when I saw the preview for 500 Days of Summer, I was intrigued, but I was also concerned about the one scene with the two leads in the elevator bonding over the morosely romantic lyrics of “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.” I was concerned that the film would be too precious. After all, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a Gen Xer or Yer who extols the virtues of The Smiths. I was worried that, if the movie somehow treated this fetish as unique, it had a fucked up definition of unique.

Luckily, the movie is well aware that there’s nothing particularly special about being a 25-40 year old Smiths fan; in fact, it hangs its thesis on the knowledge that this is patently mundane. Just not to Tom, the film’s loveable-but-arrested hero, who is mumbled to life by Joseph Gordon-Levitt. And, though the audience is told flat out that it is not watching a love story, fans of the grumpy idealism of mid-80’s new wave may just find themselves falling for the film’s obvious misrepresentation early on. We are, like Tom, victims of our own nostalgia.

Not that Summer, played by the always lovely Zooey Deschanel, is not worth our affections. Her wide blues eyes, reflecting both child-like wonder and craziness, reflect Tom’s affections like the season for which she is named reflects the sun. She is a vehicle for years of indoctrination by music’s most confusing time, where we believed that love was both possible and painful, as epic as a coma and as sweet as a razor blade.

What is delightful—and all too recognizable—about 500 Days of Summer is that it doesn’t dwell unnecessarily on nostalgia (it’s there, we get it, and it’s only directly addressed once, and not by Noah Taylor during the world’s longest elevator ride), and it does not become precocious or hip in its references, costumes, or set design. It’s about two people who are, admittedly, a confused conglomerate of retro pastiche, but this does not turn them into caricatures; instead, it helps them to be complete and complex people. This underscores the film’s thesis, which is, again, that nothing is particularly extraordinary unless we imbue it with our perceptions, our senses, our over-developed love of things that are, most often, sound and fury signifying nothing.

Because, while Tom clearly believes that death by Summer’s side would suit him just fine, we understand that Summer is not meant for him because, as objective observers, we can clearly see that the lens through which he sees her is as much a mirage as the latent desire to be hit by a ten ton truck is ridiculous.

The Sum of Milk’s Parts

Last evening, curled up under blankets in the dim light of the non-denominational holiday tree, Chereth, J, and I watched a screener of Milk. 

Sometime in the whirlwind of the past few weeks (finals and shopping and visiting and sleeping), President-elect Obama, who I do believe will be a measured, thoughtful leader, chose Rick Warren to offer the invocation at his inauguration. 

Before I rail against this choice, it’s important to note that I’m fully aware that Rick Warren’s significance here is merely symbolic.  He’s not joining Obama’s cabinet or making policy decisions or doing much besides babbling a prayer and moving off stage to make way for the next speaker.  But I have a writer’s love of symbols, and this one, at this moment, is going to cast a darkened hue when history looks back upon this time.  Because I think gay equality is going to be the civil rights issue of our first black president’s career. 

When he began making films, I loved Gus Van Sant.  He appealed to my youthful love of all things quirky, and my friends and I would toss around inside jokes about hats on beds.  But over the last decade, Van Sant has made me gristle more than once; alternately due to self-conscious melodrama or self-conscious hatefulness, his work has lost any sense of authenticity. He began to make the movies he thought people wanted to see—gooey bigger budget crap, grainy indie crap. 

So the fact that I wanted to jump feet first into a Gus Van Sant film says a lot—about the incredible stable of actors, and about my willingness to believe that this was a story Van Sant could tell organically, without romanticizing it or defiling its simplicity. 

Less than two short months ago, on the very day California went blue for Obama, my state also voted to remove the rights of gays to marry.  November 5^th was one of the most exciting and heart-crushing days of my life as a political beast.  The long-term promises of the Civil Rights movement were both realized and dashed.  It was a paradox for the ages. 

But there was a silver lining: despite the crushing blow of inequality, there was also a sense of inevitable progression.  The states can only vote against the civil rights of a minority group for so long—eventually, the Constitution will catch up with them, and history will be far kinder to those on the progressive side of the fight—it will be less kind to Rick Warren, who, like those who supported Prop. 6 back in 1978, will be seen as hateful has-beens in the United States’ inevitable movement towards defending the rights of its citizens.

And the fight against Prop. 6 has a significant place in Milk.  But Van Sant’s film is also the story of a man becoming a leader, a politician, a fighter for justice, and a tragic hero.  What works so flawlessly in this bio-pic is precisely what causes so many others to fail: it’s a snap shot of a an extended moment rather than the tale of an entire life.  Van Sant, perhaps because he’s gay, perhaps merely because he lives in the actual world and can smell the winds of inevitability, made this movie at the precisely perfect moment, cast it with the perfect group of talented (and straight) actors, and created a work of art that is somehow more than the sum of its parts.  Milk is a flawless bio-pic with clear narrative intentions; it’s wonderfully shot, weaving historical footage with his own in a way that does not feel didactic or Oliver Stone-esque.  His earnest love of the material, and perhaps even of Harvey Milk himself, allows him to eschew the false bravado that has tainted some of his films.  Van Sant sees the significance of the man, and the importance of him as a symbol for both the civil rights fight of his lifetime as well as the civil rights fight of ours.  In this symbolic moment of 2008—a watershed year that challenges, in some significant ways, 40 years of evangelical tyranny—Harvey Milk will once again come out on the right side of history, while Rick Warren will decidedly not. 

Milk is a great movie, but it is inseparable from its moment.  30 years after his death, the unrelenting battle for equality fought by Harvey Milk feels, in some ways, like it’s been bicycling in a vat of molasses.  But there are also signs of great progress for the LGBT community since 1978, and those, both real and symbolic, cannot be overlooked.  This whole process may be far too slow for those of us who believe in the promise of the US’s founding documents, but there has been progress since Milk’s tragic murder, and it will not stop for the bloated Twinkie defense that claims Rick Warren’s belief that gay marriage is comparable to statutory rape or polygamy is merely something upon which we must “agree to disagree.”   We all should have learned by now that this country has always rolled, however slowly, toward broadening equality, and, just like the community leaders and politicians from the 1970’s who now sound like bigoted lunatics ranting about the evils of homosexuality, Rick Warren will, too, become an obscure footnote in the more memorable tale—a plot point for conflict, nothing more significant.  I’m just sorry that Obama can’t see (or has chosen to ignore) what seems so abundantly clear—Rick Warren does not represent change, and this perfectly-timed release of Milk reminds us exactly what happens to such bit players in the compelling dramatization of a hero’s story—they become the passing symbols of outmoded hate.

You Can Shove Your Manolo Right Up Your Ass

As a person who wastes time reading the words of people who talk about media and entertainment, I’ve read a good deal this week about the significance of the Sex and the City movie and its cultural implications for women-driven films.

Phooey.

The truth is, the antiquated Hollywood idea is that “chick flicks” (let’s be more demeaning) are hard to open, and a male presence is necessary to open a film successfully. Of course, this movie will be different: a “watershed,” proof “female viewers matter.”

But dollars-to-doughnuts this film will be set aside as an anomaly, and the next time Angelina Jolie makes a really shitty film, it will once again be used in the robotic mantra: women can’t open movies.

Doesn’t matter that no one can open a movie people don’t want to see. Aren’t super hero movies all the rage? Ask Superman and Ang Lee’s The Hulk. Family films? Like Prince Caspian or Speed Racer? Of course, those films fail due to timing and crap direction and whatever else.

Films starring women fail because they star women.

The conversation is tireless and tiring, and so I’m not looking for SATC to offer the world a new perspective. The discussions of the age of the film’s women and Sarah Jessica Parker’s unconventional look are downright demeaning. Because Tom Cruise is such a beauty with his face only Picasso could love.

But the real reason this movie, like the show before it, won’t actually change anything despite the hype and numbers is because there’s nothing unconventional about it. Relatively wealthy white women who like fashion and want to be married.

New concept!

I’ve never been a fan, I admit it. The level of self-absorption displayed by the characters astounds me, and I can’t stand Kim Catrall. Ever. She hasn’t increased her ability one iota since Mannequin, and watching her overact is more than this girl can bear.

So I, unlike my entire gender, apparently, will not be running off to see SATC this weekend. And though I’m vaguely glad that there’s a moment for women to come together around a specific text in theory, I am disconcerted by the text itself. I don’t see women fretting over fashion and using their strong female friendships as an excuse to talk about how men are the true focus of their lives as any more revelatory than women sitting around in their corsets playing croquet on the lawn, discussing potential husbands before passing out in their tea.

A Year of Unwanted Pregnancies and Teen Angst

I find it interesting that three of this year’s best films are about unwanted pregnancy.  Something in the water, perhaps.  I hope it’s not roofies.

  Chereth, some pals, and I went to see Juno on Saturday night, and I could not have been more delighted.  The performances were pristine, the writing so sharp it could cut my grandmother’s brisket, the direction perfectly underplayed.   What perhaps impressed me most was the way the film held back.  I’ve grown weary of independent movies that show too much just because they can.  Overall, it turns out I’m not a fan of the Todd Solondz school of directing.   Just because the “R” rating on your cool little film means you can show nearly anything doesn’t mean you should.  There were many moments where writer Diablo Cody (my new hero) and director Jason Reitman could have taken things too far for the sake of doing so, but their love of Juno, the most lovable teen character since this summer’s Rocket Science (so that wasn’t very long ago, but it is a reminder to get off your ass and see that movie!), is so complete that they allow her world, even as it shatters, rebuilds, shatters, rebuilds, to be oddly innocent.  Sure, she might be what the adults call “sexually active,” but she’s still sixteen, and a girl with the world’s most awesome dad should indeed feel security in her most insecure moments, despite her outsiderness in the teen world.  This film defies all conventions: weird girl has cheerleader best friend, cool stepmom (!!!), and a super sweet best boyfriend who allows her to call the shots.  Juno is not from a harsh world; she’s just in an untenable situation.  This is soooo refreshing.

 Also refreshing is the adoptive couple (Jason Batman and Jennifer Garner) who, though initially shrouded in a suburban cookie cutter that is so at odds with Juno’s blunt teenness, is both complex and resonant.  What’s so great about this film is that every character is a good person.  When we look around our lives, we see primarily good people.  Fortunately, truly dark figures in the lives of most are anomalies.  Sure, we know selfishness and regret and fear and impossible, and so does Juno.  But it’s the fact that no deus ex machina drops from the sky to add unneeded drama or a quick fix that makes this film so pitch perfect.  There’s nothing about any of Juno’s characters or situations that are foreign to its audience.  It’s kinda like life, but with much better dialogue.

 

 On another note, the one film I’ve really loved this year that’s not about teens or pregnancy is Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There.  I have nothing to say about this movie (how could I?  It’s unspeakable) except that, when you see it (you really should), just go for the ride.  Thinking too much will not only ruin the movie but will afford you no comfort.  Let it wash over you; this is much more satisfying.    

Warner Brothers Confirms What We All Know Is Said Behind Closed Doors

The LA Weekly’s Nikke Finke feels quite solid in her reporting that WB president of production Jeff Robinov declares that Warner will not make any more movies with women in the lead. Finke’s points are dead-on here, about the crap scripts and the failure of multiple films in general over at the Woobie as of late. However, I find this to be not only unsurprising information but, I suspect, this sentiment has been uttered by many a president of production–perhaps just behind closed doors. Robinov’s merely allowed it to bubble above the surface. The case has long been that the studios have less faith in chick-driven films from the get go, and, not surprisingly, their general perception that women will watch anything while men have slightly more discerning taste (thus, the chick flick should always have a far lower budget) is an accepted fact around this town. This is actually a marketing strategy. And don’t think TV is any different. Any successful women-led shows on the big three networks have come at a time when those nets have been floundering and willing to try anything. Sure, ensembles are okay, but only give us the women when the men are off to war, fighting for the flag of antiquity.

Hopefully, Robinov’s boldness in allowing this sentiment to slip will draw attention to this pervasive Hollywood problem, but I sort of doubt it. There is a perception in this country that equality–gender, racial, and otherwise–is a fact merely because the entire concept of America demands it. When evidence arises to the contrary, so many people sweep it under the rug as an anomaly. But nowhere are these universal inequities more rampant than here in the city where dreams are made. As long as you lose 15 pounds, reveal more skin, and stand two steps behind your male co-star when you’re on camera (so that he can appear larger! Taller! More manly! More powerful!), you can have it all.

Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong

A little over a week ago, our friends Teacher and Actor were over for dinner and some Slings and Arrows. We all entered a discussion of love stories, including romantic comedies. While Teacher, Chereth, and myself all love a solid romance, Actor is less keen. The three of us agreed with him that a bad love story is about as bad as it gets. For every Annie Hall there’s ten unwatchable Kate Hudson films. But the three of us stuck our ground; the best tales are about love.

That seems to be the theme of the summer for me. First, I must set forth some boundaries: I’m not merely citing romance here, though that can be included. I’m talking about movies wherein love is the central focus rather than, say, bombs. Actor loves a good mind-bender. He says that even the bad ones can draw him in. Me? I can be drawn in by the horrible love stories, mostly because the template is so specific and sublime that those that fail are not merely bad; they’re inept.

This was not, however, the summer of the inept love story. And let me broaden my scope again. My four favorite films this year are not all romances–only one is, really. But they are all, in some form, about love.

I’ve already sung the praises of both Waitress, which is vaguely romantic, and Knocked Up, which is fully a romantic comedy (though it has a strange way of showing it). I want to add to the list Superbad, which is perhaps the year’s most traditional romance in terms of design, though the couple is a highly unconventional. Michael Cera and Jonah Hill are so highly vulgar, and yet I never forgot, as a viewer, that their best friend tale was simply sweet, simply about love. As with it’s big brother Knocked Up, patron laughter in the theater made me miss some jokes. It’s a hilarious film. But just as the John Hughes films of the 80′s (even the ones directed by Howard Deutch) deconstructed the caste system of the American high school, the Judd Apatow films (even those he doesn’t direct) of the 00′s are building a case for our basest desires: the desire to be unflinchingly crude and the desire to love. My favorite part of this particular brand of crude is the specificity of it. While it seems all the more obscene for this, I think it’s that much more honest than a random stream of swearing. This honesty perhaps is most at home with teenage boys, who can speak so frankly about what they desire but have no idea how to get it. This and Michael Cera’s brilliant reactions are at the heart of Superbad.

Cera and Hill

Perhaps my summer’s biggest surprise came in the form of the indie film Rocket Science. I fell so deeply in love with Hal Hefner, the film’s stuttering protagonist, that I had to take a few days to let him sink in fully before writing about him. And I’m not going to write about him too much more because I don’t want to spoil him. He’s simply too precious. And it’s not just Hal; his brother Earl, antagonist love object Ginny, and friends Heston and Lewis are charming, as well. This is an unbeatable cast of kids in a pitch-perfect movie. In Rocket Science, the inevitable pain of love, how to endure it and come back for more, is Hal’s major concern. Love stutters and loses its words. Love knows it wants pizza but can’t ask for it. Love is an agry teen anthem played on a cello. While this film is probably the least optimistic about love, it is also the one that best serves as a microcosm for the travails of the characters in all four films. Love is a surprise, a mess, a mistake, a pie conundrum, a drunk night, a hung over morning, and life’s most imperfect perfection, which is why so many good movies turn on its axis.

Reece Thompson as Hal Hefner, my hero