Dominance. It’s been a theme that keeps ringing ’round, turning up at my stoop. To begin, when I first moved to Boca, I was invited to join a new book club that was in its infancy; I missed the first meeting, but I learned quickly enough that the group was eclectic, interesting, nice even!, but especially hardcore. While whips and strap on leather gag balls aren’t involved yet, the group is closed, not open to new members unless someone drops out, and there’s a courtesy gag order designed to discourage side conversations during meetings. It’s not an S&M club; they don’t, for example, permit book selections upward of four-hundred pages (I have a hard time committing to an entire magazine, so it truly would be my petite torture). More members than not will arrive to the meeting often having read not just the selection of the month, but the entire series following.

The book selection this month was 50 Shades of Gray, a Soft Porn Oprah Pick, about a woman who chooses a sexual relationship with a man with a predilection for dominance (think of James Spader in Secretary. Also, think of a riding crop smacking a clitoris into submission). There’s also these choice turns of phrase to consider: “the length of him,” “cupping my sex,” and the truly gag-worthy, “I shatter into a million pieces.” The novel is littered with cliched writing, for sure, but the plot pushes you through it, waiting for a surprise, something worthy of the build and text foreplay. My point is, dominance and it’s lady partner submission are top of mind these days.

Next stop: A Dangerous Method, a film about the relationship between Freud and Jung. Keira Knightley, a patient, gets wet at the thought of being caned. Honestly, if only I could matchmaker my way through film and books. That’s not a bad idea actually. I’m going to play at that.

Now I’m off to see Albert Nobbs, hoping to distract myself from my own thoughts of dominance and submission and how they turn up in my own life, over and again.

scad art

A short at the Savannah Film Festival, Girls Named Pinky has stayed with me. Not so much the actual film, but the Q&A session with the director afterward. Before I go there, here’s how the notes I’d scribbled in the dark read (a drip-feed of information):

Irish bar. Hermit asks for another dark one.
Ominous music, everyone checks out woman, hear the sound of her skirt.

* Scenes in bars invite us into the world of possibility—of a stranger walking into your life—of the illicit—no one will know. THIS, this moment, this afternoon, this can become a part of who I am, what I know about me, for me alone. A secret me that no one who knows me has to know.

A dance with a stranger
Rock so softly with you
Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?
A disco ball.

We’re warned, when a bartender tells a handsome customer that the woman at the bar is with a different guy every night, not to mention that she has a husband. A hermit at the end of the bar drinks another dark one.

Woman returns to bar from bathroom, smoothing her skirt. It’s the first time we see her. We hear ominous music, the fabric as it rubs against her thighs. Watch out.

Handsome customer makes his move, gets too aggressive, and our hermit saves the day, taking a right hook, landing on his back, but still driving handsome customer off.

Hermit offers to buy her a drink. She tells him she’s the one who should be thanking him. They agree to a quick one, even though, he admits, he shouldn’t be drinking either… he’s diabetic. You know this is as close as he’s gotten to a woman this striking. She tells him over a quick game of darts that tonight’s a special occasion: she’s leaving her husband Danny. She shares with our hermit that she heard her husband whispering on the phone. “Pinky” she whispers. He looks confused. “That’s her name. She’s probably from Texas.” Audience laughs.

She drinks some more. He offers to drive her. Wait, in the parking lot she swears she sees his car. Oh, God. Danny ain’t out of town. Oh, shit. Now what… ahh, car, wrong car. Whew.

Because she’s still afraid Danny is in town, hermit offers to help her sober up at his motel room. Ha ha.

Diabetic. Again. Should have taken insulin two hours ago. Makes me think something bad will happen to HIM.

She gets naked. Sex is shown in silhouettes against a wall. Moaning.

You’re kind. Hope I get home now before he does.

Morris. Mr. DeBruno. Yeah, it’s done.

We then see that hermit guy’s tattoo says PINKIE.

Kills her. Falls asleep on her.
Dead in hotel.

Gives money to handsome customer from earlier on his way out… handsome guy goes up the motel steps with cleaning supplies.

END

What I loved most was this, a question that sat with me long after the Q&A session: What makes an effective twist—and, more specifically, what elements make up the art of misdirection? Topics like this fascinate me and make me want to fill out a school application. I LOVE learning techniques like these. The director didn’t get into any of this, only commented on how he kept tuning and tweaking the film with this in mind. Here’s what stands out to me when I examine my notes above:

1. Make the victim seem like the bad guy. She’s danger. Ominous music. Other characters warning others (and us the audience) to watch out.
2. And this is why I wish there were a class, or maybe why I need to watch more movies, looking for this misdirection… when they throw in the random person, and you think, aha, must be him… to mix things up. In the above, it was the missing husband. Would he show up? Would he catch them? Is he following her up to his motel room? See how the questions come? That’s built, that’s technique. That’s what I wish someone could just hand over to me and say, HERE. I’ve got instinct, but I adore techniques.
 

I saw Black Swan at the Savannah Film Festival a few months ago. What follows are my notes, taken in the dark, on a yellow legal pad. But before I air and share, may I just say again how awesome SCAD is? The festival, yes, but the school itself? I totally want to go back to school and have a studio. Okay, ball’s back into play:

The opening of the film, with Natalie Portman as good girl Nina ripping up the soles of ballet shoes, scoring them, her reflection in a mirror—rhythm, metered steps, a French accent. And all I can think is that I should be harder, stricter, a black twin of myself. Hard, conniving, tough. A mother you remember for getting in your face and pulling the best out of you. Can you embody both white and black? Be a twin of yourself? Can you be a graceful white swan and also be a back-stabbing bitch? Yes we can!

We see a spider spinning a web. Then, Lily arrives in dark colors, clearly to serve as the badass to beat, the one on which we need to keep a watchful eye. It’s been my experience during this festival that any time ominous music plays or we’re shown “bad,” dressed in dark colors, etc. that it’s a bait and switch on the audience, trying to mislead us. This will likely be the case with this “psychological thriller.”

Bulimia. It’s just there. Obviously it’s there, in a world of ballet. And I like that they don’t make an issue out of it. For once, something understated. Good.

“Ever do something so forcefully for so long that you see your whole world through that lens?” I used to dream in advertisements, and when I was younger, addicted to Super Mario Brothers, I used to read textbooks and would sometimes imagine Mario jumping from word to word, banging on the letters in the previous sentence, hoping to find a mushroom or hidden coins. So yes, it’s a provocative question, and it’s relatable. 

It’s a wonder this film wasn’t shot in black and white. Good/evil, Madonna/whore. It’s just one step away from giving us Straight Hair v. Curly. There’s Nina, picking her cuticles, wanting to be perfect. “Perfectionism isn’t just about being in control; it’s about knowing how to let go and be wild.”

The bathroom is a place of secrets. Phone calls, bulimia, reflections, self, reflection- cutting, pain, locks on doors.

Nina is always in blush, whites, innocent, except she reveals her “shadow” – steals a lipstick. No surprise here, that same lipstick wrote whore on the mirror. Just my guess, but I’m sure I’m right. We’ll see…

Black Swan is about the battle of selves, about the shadow, the evil, imprecise, wild, sloppy, devastating part of ourselves.

More symbolism, a black and white Rorschach. The director of the ballet, the dude who calls the shots, calls Beth a pet name, and I’m sure he will call Nina the exact pet name later. God, I hope they don’t do that—a la Legally Blonde. This film has the palette of a Betty Boop bedroom: blush, black, white.

Beth, he says, he thinks threw herself in traffic on purpose, like a black swan. It’s all analogy. Nina visits Beth in the hospital, flowers bedside, same as a dressing room. Mirror décor.

A nail file, box of matches, lipstick. Biting her nails in the dark, so much internal shown visually. The nail file. Control. A weapon. Lily says aloud, that the girl in black “lives a little.” She lets you kiss her even when she’s wearing red lipstick—my words. I find it so interesting, the notion that a nail file is meant to control, to tame, to round the sharp, yet it’s also a weapon. It is it’s own Black Swan, a duality in an object show to mirror what’s going on in the film, what’s going on in the ballet.

Why is everyone touching Natalie Portman’s crotch?

People arriving out of shadows. Taming of the beast within, “You’re not my Nina right now.” Serpent sounds, bulimia, cutting, control. “There’s always an alternate.” Coco, nail file, lipstick, cigarettes: the things Nina steals from Beth, the previous star playing the role Nina so wants to play now. I’m getting a “be careful what you wish for vibe,” and it’s obvious that Nina’s story will mirror the story of the ballet. She’ll throw herself “in traffic” like Beth, or in some other way, just like the swan at the end of the ballet.

END

The symbolism was heavy-handed, and in truth, I didn’t love the film, mostly because of the predictability and obvious manipulation of the audience. Or maybe it was just obvious to me. I guess I wish the symbolism was more subliminal, that the story of Nina wasn’t a replica of what was going on in the ballet, but then it would be a different film. In keeping with the duality theme, I’ll allow that parts of the film have stayed with me, looming, but mostly the film feels like a structured term paper, played out for our entertainment. It’s textbook analogy, with parallels and kinship. Only sometimes you have to remind yourself to breathe… which is a good thing in a thriller. So, maybe I did like the film. See, what I did there? Huh? Went ahead and flashed you some of my black and white feathers. We’re all a confusion of black white, but I think we indecisive Libras have it as bad as the Gemini twins.

There’s something so right about showing up at a 10:25 am matinee showing, in my sweatpants with my snot-covered sleeves—because I was too lazy to get up and search for the tissues. I was looking really gross is what I mean. Out and about in my pajamas, unshowered, hair frizzy, just to see the opening day of How Do You Know with Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Owen Wilson, and Jack Nicholson.

Quickie synopsis from IMDB: Feeling a bit past her prime at 27, former athlete Lisa Jorgenson finds herself in the middle of a love triangle, as a corporate guy in crisis competes with Lisa’s current, baseball-playing beau.

I don’t know if it was because the theater was empty, or if it was just the on-screen chemistry, or if the characters themselves were supposed to be awkward, but some of the scenes, particularly between Paul Rudd and Jack Nicholson, felt really off. As if they worked better in the trailer, out of context, than they did in the film. No way was this all the work of James L. Brooks.

Most of the scenes between Paul Rudd, the corporate guy in trouble, and Jack Nicholson, the screaming father who owns the company, felt empty, as if the adored men before us were simply actors reciting lines. I couldn’t be immersed in the Jack/Paul storyline because, perhaps, the story itself felt manufactured. It felt like Brooks was throwing obstacles into the formula, upping the stakes, but that’s all these scenes felt like, obstacles. It was as if that very storyline could have been replaced with a handful of others, swapped in and out interchangeably. The reason it didn’t matter what the story was is because I didn’t believe the relationship. I wasn’t convinced of the father son story between Jack and Paul. I didn’t hate Jack the way Annie (the wonderful Kathryn Hahn who played -again- the pregnant woman in HBO’s Hung) hated him, to the point where she almost strikes him. And I wanted to. I really wanted to hate Jack. But the film’s manipulation of our affections was too heavy-handed. Having an emotional pregnant woman nearly punch Jack, really? Do we all need to be hit over the head with it? I have no reason to hate him. And maybe that’s because Jack Nicholson brings too much history to his role. We expect him to be crass and abusive, so when he is, it’s no big shock. We’ve already learned to tolerate him that way. I wanted to hate him, but I wasn’t given the opportunity to care, really care, about his son George (Paul Rudd) before Jack got all abusive on his ass. I wish we could’ve hated Jack with a smaller gesture. Not a punch to the head by a sweet prego mama but in a smaller moment, when perhaps, he steals someone’s parking spot, or neglects to open a door or hold an elevator… or my personal favorite, when someone saves up all their money to buy him something special and he insults the gift. That’s an immediate hate- cliched, but locked and loaded. So, no, when it came to the father/son storyline, I simply didn’t care.

But there was a lot I did care about. There were a lot of good language moments, and moments where I found myself laughing out loud in such a genuine way, and you know it’s genuine because no one else is in the theater, so it can’t be conformity laughing. I loved the heart of it, the uniqueness of some of the scenes. In particular, an early moment when Reese Witherspoon’s character suffers from a setback, we don’t see her emotions until she’s brushing her teeth. It’s there, staring at her reflection that tears mingle with toothpaste. And we’re shown who she is, the type of character, by the self-help post-it notes affixed to her mirror, her mantras. I wanted those same details about Jack, to be shown why we should hate and understand him.

SLIGHT SPOILER: I loved the scene where George (Rudd) filmed and re-filmed the proposal to his friend. See, now that, that scene was original. I adored it. It was the best scene of the whole film.

The big thoughts of the picture: you want someone to love you the way you are. And not want to change you or make you love yourself in a different way. You should love the things you love about yourself, and find someone who interprets your bad shit as adorable shit.

Also, I love when people get gifts in movies because there’s so much expectation and story behind a gift.

I didn’t love the Owen Wilson character as the baseball player. And I didn’t love all the softball team stuff in general. I just didn’t care about any of them. They had these small parts that kept being roped in, but nothing happens with it, and the softball storyline never really pays off. You take the roll as the softball friend, because, come on, who’s going to turn down anything with a Paul Rudd, Reese Witherspoon, Jack Nicholson, James L. Brooks film? I mean, come on. But, you kinda should’ve.

And why include the “almost going to therapy” scene where Reese’s character is told to know what you want and figure out how to ask for it. Love the advise, but why would it come from a therapist and not one of her softball friends? Why add this scene into the film?

Basically, I liked the film in a vacuum, between Reese and Rudd only. Paul Rudd as George says it best, about how we’re all one small adjustment away from our lives finally making sense and coming together. And that’s what Reese’s character needed to hear from him, so she could understand that despite her softball setback, things would fall into place for her, too.

I would see it again, but just for the Reese Rudd scenes. The rest, I know, I could do without.

Some days you feel like you’re in a movie. You can almost mute your life and add your own soundtrack. I’m heading out now, myPod in hand, as I clear out for Guam while in Savannah, GA. I’m covering the Savannah Film Festival this week, put on by Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD), so get ready for a slew of updates, photos, observations, and a wee bit of food jealousy. Movie reviews aplenty (I love the movies category of my site perhaps more than I love loafers with shiny pennies).

Smooches from Savannah (where they drink on the street)… I just took my wine TO GO in a clear plastic cup, ’cause I’m classy that way.

The Goodbye Girl (1977) was in my Netflix queue, with a prediction of 4 stars. Logline: After being dumped by her live-in boyfriend, an unemployed dancer and her 10-year-old daughter are reluctantly forced to live with a struggling off-Broadway actor.

I don’t know why, exactly, but it feels like a sucker’s bet, waiting for an old, non-new-release movie to arrive in the mail. Like, I’m sure it’s somewhere on TV or online. Also, with so many of these “I was a two-year-old when this was filmed,” I feel like I’ve already seen them, or parts of them, and eh, what’s the point. Despite this delayed thinking, I moved the film to the top of my queue. Then I spent the weekend crying. Those sloppy menstrual tears that make men roll their eyes. And I was brought back to that time in my life when I was a walking psycho. And just for a moment, I missed the hell out of her.

I’ve been her: the over-analyzer. The pessimist. I was absolutely the crazy girl, not crazy enough to call crazy outright, but had just enough crazy to chase off the right men, and keep the wrong ones wanting more. Really, I could have made money on the way I managed to kill things before they started. It’s why so many of my posts, once upon a blog, involved wishes, wanting so much to find a man who could put up with my crazy. Who didn’t expect me to grow up or change, but who kinda liked my anxiety and unhinged, ape in a cage, ways. I don’t know if I liked being her at the time, but I really do miss her. Does that make any sense?

I miss the way it was just okay to break down and cry, to say the word “hormones,” or blame things on my being a Libra. It was a life lived in feelings, not thought. I didn’t bother with rational. I lived amped up, on fire escapes, falling in love in the rain, being sought after in cabs, strangers running into the street, banging on my taxicab window asking me to please change my mind. It was drama, and it was fantastic.

And THAT is what makes movies sing, makes us sob in a way no man will ever understand: forget the fairytale. We want the sloppy, but it doesn’t make sense, but who the hell cares, somehow we make it make sense love.

I was right. I had seen parts of The Goodbye Girl before, bits and pieces, out of order. While assembling seafood dumplings after one of my spa cuisine classes, I’d caught a few scenes—Richard Dreyfuss with a hump, gnarled fingers, and a “gay lisp”—and I thought, Eh, this part is for the men. Men will think Richard Dreyfuss being forced to play Richard III as a screamingly gay hunchbacked boob is funny. It’s the equivalent of the gratuitous love scene in the shoot ‘em ups. I didn’t find any of that funny, but I knew I was supposed to. I feel like so much of me lives in that life, where humor just falls flat for me, it’s too over the top, or too, “Trailer.” You know, the silly scenes they use in trailers to get asses into seats. And I always look around in the theater, amazed. Seriously, you’re laughing at that? It’s almost as if I need a focus group of these crowd laughers, who genuinely seem to laugh at anything Hollywood tells you to. 

I never like that kind of humor, the obvious kind. And I guess that’s what’s so hard. Writing a comedy where the humor isn’t about people walking into clear glass walls or being somewhere they shouldn’t be (like under a bed, when people are having sex, at the kitchen table eating take-out, when people are having sex). So much of comedy is actually about suffering, about Agador trying to wear shoes. So I understand trying to show Dreyfuss as tortured, compromised, livid, and I’m sure I’m the only one, but it felt too Trailer.

Still, when it was over, I walked into our New York guest room and told Phil, one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long time. It just so happens that along with Nancy Meyers and Nora Ephron, I’m in psycho middle of the night love with Neil Simon. Going to read every last one of his scripts now, despite the fact that they’re not huge silly high-concept ideas. His are the kind of movies I want to make, even if they do originate from the stage. I’d rather that than have everything feel so staged.