Enchanted, Enfatuated, and a bit Euphoric

Enchanted is every young woman’s dream come true. I’m talking about the young women who, as young girls, watched Disney cartoons until the VHS tapes came off the spools. And let’s face it, even women who didn’t enjoy Disney as young girls fall for this film. My mom, one of the few people with an immunity to animated features, loved this movie. So skeptics beware; you’re bound to fall for Enchanted too.

The movie combines animated characters, songs, New York City, James Marsden and Patrick Dempsey. Disney takes 2 hours to mock its own classic films. It’s good to see some self-deprecation from Michael Eisner’s alma mater, so to speak. Oh, and did I mention the film features Patrick Dempsey? I’ll get back to him in a bit.

Just when you think you’re going to have a seizure from the bubble-gum beginning of Enchanted, when it’s still set in Andalasia, Giselle is thrown right into the brutal real world of Times Square. I was impressed that Amy Adams was able to portray the FLAWLESS cartoon rendition of Giselle with her real flesh. I had forgotten how all cartoon Disney heroines not only have perfect singing voices, but also flaunt impeccable hourglass silhouettes to their viewers. I won’t even get started on Disney hair. It’s enough to set a young woman’s insecurity back to freshman year of high school. These are just their physical attributes too; I can’t really focus on how they always get the guy. At this point in my life, desiring that kind of Disney ending just gives a girl crow’s feet, or am I just too pessimistic?

Giselle’s absurdity immediately charms us, and conveniently charms Robert (or should I say, McRobert?). I will say that Giselle’s character is essentially a female version of Will Ferrell’s Buddy the Elf. With their endearingly blind innocence, it’s hard not to completely love the two characters. Cynical characters (and viewers) may admit initial dislike, but Giselle and Buddy melt away even the most frigid of people—which is where characters like Robert and Buddy the Elf’s Dad come in handy. Simultaneously, these skeptical characters and viewers are slowly enchanted (ah yes! What a clever title, huh?) by the joyous optimism of Giselle and Buddy. That kind of personality isn’t even rare in the real world; it actually doesn’t exist. Thus, these movies call upon make-believe optimistic people from Andalasia and the North Pole.

As a New Yorker, the setting of the film was perfect. Skeptics and cynics alike, even cockroaches, are challenged to dislike or dissuade Giselle from her tunnel vision for true love’s kiss. Even if she was a bit off on which Prince Charming would eventually grant her that wish, she had her eyes on the prize and earned it.

Which brings me to Patrick Dempsey. Although I’m biased—why yes, now that you ask, I’m completely in love with him and my life’s biggest disappointment will be the fact that I will never marry him—I have to hand to Dempsey AND Disney for casting him. Brad Pitt would be just TOO pretty. George Clooney would be too sleazy. Matt Damon is too badass (Jason Bourne would have killed the queen too quickly). But Patrick Dempsey, while we’re discussing fairy tales, is like the last bowl of porridge—he’s just right. His asymmetrical features make him handsome, but not absolutely perfect. My one criticism is that he really didn’t change characters from McDreamy, but I’m really not complaining. He had me way before hello.

Susan Sarandon disappointed me. I think it was her drag queen costume that really ruined it. Perhaps if I hadn’t read the Times review with that commentary I may not have been so quick to come to that description, but it’s dead on accurate. Can we talk about her transvestite shoes? Please Disney, I know it’s Times Square but times have changed! I have to say the best performance—besides that of be-still-my-heart-McDreamy--was James Marsden as Prince Edward. The ease with which he played the character was apparent. Morgan (Robert’s daughter) was also adorable, but a mere footnote to other characters.

All in all, Enchanted left me enchanted (duh) but also a bit euphoric. Perhaps no real woman can live with the exhausting upbeat personality of Giselle, but, if anything, this movie gives you the SLIGHT hope that fairy tales can come true—even in New York. It quietly encourages girls not to settle for a Prince Edward—the obvious and easy choice—and hold out for your Dempsey. The main point, however, is that even if absurd optimism is a stretch, perhaps some—if not pessimism in moderation—will get you what you want.

FINE! I'll watch it already!

Okay, I'll come clean. I've shamelessly fallen for trendy TV shows. I thought that I would leave this habit behind after my Dawson's Creek years, but I now know that I must embrace my inability to look the other way when shows become hits. I was seduced into the O.C. culture, as well as Project Runway, okay and the Hills, and yes I suppose America's Next Top Model roped me in. Oh and then there was the tantalizing McDrama of Grey's Anatomy, and then the sweet talking boys of Entourage. I suppose I fell hardest for Flight of the Conchords, but I like to think that show isn't super trendy—yet.

So even as hard as I tried NOT to succumb to Gossip Girl, it was hopeless. It has too many factors of the show addiction equation that has overpowered me before: a witty narrator, a swanky locale (in GG's case the PERFECT setting: my beloved NYC), beautiful 20-something actors playing 15 year-olds, music that will surely scale the top-40 charts, and it's all wrapped up in preppy packaging. It's a miracle that I waited as long as November to really get into it.

I will say, however, that while I do fall into TV trends, I do recognize the difference between good TV and good entertainment. I know that shows like Boston Legal, the Weeds, Six Feet Under, Deadwood, Law & Order, and West Wing are (or were) all much better written and served up much more authentic drama. Gossip Girl plays on the innate desire to gossip, which is not noble or complex. It does not offer insight into today's political arena or comment on society. In fact, it actually glamorizes a somewhat sinister pocket of society—a pocket that is deep with privilege and disposable wealth. Gossip, pretty people, and expensive spreads and threads, what's not to love?

I realize now that the O.C. might have cleared the path—or rolled out the red carpet—for Gossip Girl, as they are practically the same show separated only by location. Yet, there is something tantalizingly different enough for Gossip Girl to come out on top of the O.C. First off, there is no equivalent to the neurotic Seth Cohen character, which is popular at first only to quickly become nothing but irritating. Secondly, Gossip Girl's narrator mystery will end up providing the show with a second wind (should the show need one). My bet would be at the end of the second season they'll come close to revealing—or maybe actually reveal—the identity of Gossip Girl. This of course could lead to another anonymous blogger to take over, perhaps Gossip Guy. In the mean time, Gossip Girl's identity is not crucial to the drama, so the viewers will be happy enough to follow the main characters without needing to know who the heartless voyeuristic narrator is.

I would like to say I've learned something from falling for trendy shows, only to lose interest in them when everyone else does. The truth is that I've really learned nothing, mostly because most of these shows have nothing to teach. I think as long as I know the difference between good television and good entertainment, the shows won't truly get the best of me, though I'm certainly happy getting the best of them.

TV–and Life–"On Command"

I found myself home alone one night this week. It was Tuesday. Without any primetime television to watch, I reveled in the idea of HBO On Demand. Reaching for the remote, I had the world of entertainment at my fingertips: shows, movies, the JT concert, etc. Seriously, who needs the limitless live forms of NYC entertainment, when you can throw on some pajamas and call up almost anything on a whim?

The TV screen lit up, I turned to the HBO On Demand listings. Suddenly, an urge to watch “Flight of the Conchords” rose within me. In that moment, I sat assured that I had the entire first season at my disposal. I scrolled through options: “Tell Me You Love Me”… “Curb Your Enthusiasm”… “Big Love”… and back to the beginning. Wait… no Conchords!?!?!?!? This was simply unacceptable. I wanted the Conchords. I wanted them right now.

In the midst of my tantrum, I realized that with On Demand, people will be even more spoiled, as they will stand for nothing short of instant gratification. When I say “people,” I know that I’m right in the thick of them. We will expect our recorded entertainment, and everything else in life, to play and pause at our command—On Command entertainment is more like it. On Demand DVR technology supposedly allows you to carry on with your life outside of TV, since you don’t have to rely on a show’s “live” time slot. Yet, there are darker implications here.

DVR takes the new “instantanity”—a word I’ve invented to suggest even more strongly the power of right now—of the modern world to the next level. We’ve already reached a point where modes of communication lend themselves to be constant and current. Can’t reach someone by email? Call their cellphone. They don’t pick up after you call? Text them. Chances are, they’ll text right back. Communication technology and DVR serve as doping techniques to the ADD track America is following. Forget commercials. Forget the limitations of “Tuesday at 9pm EST.” I want my show now and God damn it I will watch it now.

HBO On Demand cleverly hooks their viewers into complete DVR subscription. Only having HBO On Demand doesn’t allow me to call up just any show. I’m limited to HBO’s offerings. Now that “Flight of the Conchords” has been taken out of the On Demand line up, I am forced to wait until it appears again, or simply buy the DVDs. It’s clever—almost malicious—actually. HBO, having hooked me with the power of instantanity, knows I won’t be able to break the habit. Hi, my name is Sophie, and I’m a DVR addict.

Mankind supposedly outgrows the self-centered urges that warrant terrible tantrums when they leave infancy behind. DVR and On Demand may spark the “devolution” of society. We will simply be cavemen with less hair—all acting on urges in the moment, and flipping out if those urges aren’t satisfied. From my own Conchord tantrum, I can attest that no good will come from an “On Command” lifestyle.

Gimme More? Hell no! Make it Stop.

Gone are the days when live performances were a one-time phenomenon. Now, celebrities will be held unforgettably accountable for any misstep. (Think Beyonce falling down a set of stairs at a recent summer performance, immediately asking her fans not to post it on youtube.com. Needless to say, they did not comply.) Instead, shows need to be down right perfect as they will be replayed and replayed and picked over by every internet user.

Of course, as much as someone wants to watch a truly memorably performance again and again, America is more interested in seeing stars fall—literally and figuratively. Beyonce’s soulful live renditions of “Irreplaceable” are not nearly viewed as many times as that unfortunate fall of hers. Furthermore, Britney Spears’ “comeback” performance of her new single, “Gimme More,” at the VMA’s last night is an example of how the youtube.com phenomenon is more like rubbernecking than seeking out fine entertainment—as of 11am on September 10th (basically 12 hours after it first aired) it has been viewed 500,000 times on youtube.com.

The truth of the matter is that America was hoping that Britney would pull a Beyonce and fall on her face onstage. Yet, her figurative fall, although not as dramatic, was more painful to watch than her careening down a flight of stairs. Scared, bored, drugged, disoriented—all adjectives that fit her description last night. She was once forgiven for lip-synching when she could command her audience with her dance moves and flat stomach. Last night she barely knew the words to “Gimme More.” Dressed in a sequined lingerie set, black stockings, and hooker high-heeled boots (I’m sorry, but that’s the only way to describe them—God forbid someone help her pick out a flattering outfit), she fulfilled all the expectations that people were harboring for her, not to nail her performance, but to fail her performance.

The shots of the star-studded audience conveyed all that was necessary. They looked like rubberneckers—pained expressions, but still watching without blinking. Even a wardrobe malfunction would not have saved her. (Furthermore, the countless back up dancers could not distract anyone from her poor performance.) Yet, as appalled as I am about the American obsession with Britney’s fuck-ups, I am a total participant. I check celebrity blogs daily, I tuned in to VMAs only for her performance, promptly turning the TV off after she finished.

Now, of course, there is even more backlash against Britney for her half-assed (or not even, so call it quarter-assed) rendition of “Gimme More." There was a day when her VMA performances defined the MTV awards show for any given year. Who will ever forget when she danced with a snake? Or what about the Madonna kiss? She was never afraid to push the envelope, so last night’s blandness made her current state even more tragic.

Unlike Beyonce’s fall, after which she got up quickly and carried on without shame or embarrassment, Britney cannot easily dust herself off and pick herself up again. The tragic figurative implications of her “Gimme More” performance suggest that Britney may fall down a few more flights of her metaphorical staircase before coming close to being able to stand up again. The worst part of all is that it seems that people are happier to keep rubbernecking her plummet downwards rather than see her rise again.

A Divine Dip in Timberlake

Twenty years from now, I wonder if I will have seen a better performance than that of Justin Timblerlake’s Futuresex/Loveshow at Madison Square Garden. With his talent and stage presence, he puts on one hell of a show. In fact, I would argue that he puts on THE show, not merely A show. Between his falsetto vocals, affinity for the piano, and, of course, his bitchin’ dance moves, he keeps his audience captivated from start to finish. It was the closest I’ve been to a religious experience. This either means that he is, indeed, of God-like stature or perhaps this just confirms just how sacrilegious I am.

The stage itself was huge, spanning most of the floor of the Garden. JT had no problem filling up all that space. He worked every inch of that stage. David Copperfield would have liked the trap door usage of the concert. Although there’s nothing I love more than when JT busts a move on the dance floor, I think JT could have commanded his audience just as thoroughly if he only had a piano and/guitar at his disposal.

At this point, Justin has arrived musically. He is not the boy band graduate, who has to rely on his choreographed moves. Now he’s got his own solo moves and music—that he even wrote himself. (That being said, I will never belittle Justin’s time with N*Sync. Let’s not forget that almost every great solo artist has to rely on a group to get going. If anything, his N*Sync roots just show how awesome he is by demonstrating how far he’s evolved musically.)

One finer point that I enjoyed was the vibe between Timberlake and Timbaland. When they gallivanted about the stage for “Chop Me Up” and “Sexy Back”, you just knew those two guys have a good time when they’re together. There’s just something about the way JT “dumbs down” his dance moves so that Timbaland can keep up with him that puts a smile on my face. Also, you only have to look at all the songs they’ve collaborated on (Cry Me a River, Give it to Me, Ayo Technology, etc etc etc) to be certain that they truly dig each other. JT is a tried and true friend, particularly if you happen to be a genius moneymaking producer, as in Timbaland’s case.

There was one thing that tipped the scale from it being a great performance to being a flawless performance: his humble gratitude for his fame and fans. Whether he’s completely sincere, I cannot say, though I would like to believe it. He reminded us of his modest Louisiana roots and admitted that, even after being big in the music world for ages, it’s still “so fucking cool” to have his job. After a phenomenal performance that showcased his talent and his extreme fame, Justin smoothly morphed into a seemingly mere mortal for his humble encore. Of course, once he finished his modest thank you, touched his fingers to the keys, and started crooning “Another Song (All Over Again)” he promptly became God-like again, and the audience was once again a mass of shameless worshippers (myself definitely included).

Bourne Again

It is yet another summer full of non-stop action thrillers. As accepting as I am of all movies (I’m all about entertainment for entertainment sake, whether I’m left breathless after 5 minute action sequences, or if I'm simply laughing at a movie’s so-bad-it’s-good quality), there is one movie this summer that will upstage all before or after: The Bourne Ultimatum. Never before have I been so drawn to an action hero, perhaps because he is not your typical hero. He is a cold-blooded killer who shows little remorse or emotion, even if he kills those who most likely deserve to die.

I marvel at the past audiences of the Bond thrillers, who so lovingly embraced the playboy inclined spy. I would liken Bond’s spy experience to that of a country club membership: at the end of driving, chipping, and putting his way to victory over his enemies, he can shower and return to the club house for a nice dry martini—shaken not stirred. The martini becomes a metaphor for the way Bond can cater his experience to his liking. Bourne on the other hand, never stops and doesn’t get to send his martini back for another. In fact, he has no times for drinks or ladies. His 18 holes involve explosions and psychological torture (as shown in Ultimatum).

Unlike Bond, who typically gets captured and escapes, Bourne is simply too slippery for any formidable foe. The scene at Waterloo Station in Ultimatum is one of the top ten best suspense scenes in action films. Furthermore, Bourne’s orders to the reporter who gets caught in the middle of the CIA vs. Bourne war helps demonstrate just how super-human Bourne is. Who needs Spiderman, Batman, or any Marvel character, when we have Jason Bourne?

Action movies are taking a new turn, where the good guy is part bad guy. The Die Hard series dabbles in this idea, but does not take it as far as Bourne. John McClain has a lot of baggage, and is basically a royal asshole. Then again, royal assholes can certainly drive a terrorist mad—and right into the arms of apprehension. McClain, however, still has a lot of Bond qualities, as he always has time to sign off with his signature “yippee kiyay, motherfucker” at the end. Any hero who has a signature line (again one thinks of “Bond, James Bond”) is clearly compensating for something.

It has been a long time since movie heroes wore white, and Jason Bourne certainly does not. More important, however, Bourne never walks away from his triumphs with a grin and a praising slap on the back, like so many others. He had his girl, but like almost everything else in his life, she was taken from him. Sure it is a movie, but at least the Bourne series better represents reality: there aren’t necessarily martinis and love interests to go around at the end of the day. Bourne carries the faces of all his victims—good and bad, to the grave. Then again, someone like Bourne, who seems so untouchable, may never die, so the weight of these horrors will make for a more complex and tormented good guy. Jason Bourne proves that nice guys do finish last, that’s why it’s best to be part bad on top of being mostly badass.

Another One Bites the Dust

JANE magazine will close after its August issue, according to an announcement made last week. I have mixed feelings about this event, as I was not a regular reader of the magazine, but I did really like it the few times I picked up a copy. The content mocked women’s magazines, but also understood that women are inherently drawn to them. JANE wasn’t afraid to be a little dry and sarcastic, yet without alienating their readers. In a way, JANE is the women’s magazine that I would have wanted to create if I had the choice. It did have a respectable entertainment section that gave smart reviews. I can’t exactly describe what I found appealing about Jane, but I would narrow it down to the fun smart tone of the magazine.

The truly scary thing about JANE closing is that the readership is not all the young. When I was interning at Teen People and it shut down, the close made sense since younger readers look for free information on the web. Magazines simply do not have a place in a younger generation's lifestyle. JANE, however, catered towards the college and post-college woman, who should be reading. JANE's closing does not bode well.

Despite my appreciation and respect for JANE, I could probably count on one hand how many times I actually read an issue. For all its wit and humor, I could not be motivated to subscribe or buy it when in the airport. (The one time I actually choose a few magazines from the rack with every intention of reading them cover-to-cover.) So is it really worth it for a magazine to be of intelligent and comic caliber? Perhaps it is safer to fall back on the universal tone found in Cosmo, Glamour, Self, and Allure in order to sell magazines. If the tone doesn’t contribute to the bottom line, there’s no way advertisers will stick around simply for the sake of cleverness.

Reality Bites?

Having made the point that there are few examples of 20 something pop culture, I immediately was told of two examples from the 90s, including Reality Bites. I was ashamed to admit that I had never seen this cult classic, hence the reason I did not mention it in my previous post. I hoped it would live up to expectations. It did to a certain extent.

The most disappointing part of the movie was seeing Winona Ryder in her prime, knowing that sometime after this movie she ruined it all by shoplifting. Also, Ethan Hawke’s teeth were distractingly crooked. Call me shallow, but these little things can chip away at the integrity of a film. I began to wonder if that’s why Troy was so angsty—his over-bite caused him all sorts of inner mouth pain and thus psychological turmoil.

On a more serious note, I do feel that the cast worked well together. Janeane Garofalo showed that sarcasm is not simply a humor tactic, but a fine art if executed correctly. Steve Zahn also was a pleasant surprise, though I much prefer him in Saving Silverman. (That might be just me.) Ben Stiller might be the best part of the movie, toning down his usual comedic flare and stepping in with some of the scripts more solid lines—“what’s your glitch?!?!”

Production notes aside, the ultimate message of the movie does ring true to 20 somethings, particularly those fresh out of college. My heart soared a bit when Lelaina (Winona Ryder)confesses to Troy (Ethan Hawke), “I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 23.” To which he replies, “Honey, all you have to be by the time you’re 23, is yourself.” I realized as I sat watching, that I am about to turn 23. If I remain in my limbo status, I might just fall back on this line when my parents ask me what the hell I’m doing: “Relax, Mom and Dad. I’m just being myself.”

The main flaw with this movie is that for all the angst the characters pretend to entertain, they’re really just softies. Lelaina still is tempted by the corporate sell out (even she is prone to his unique albeit odd Ben-Stillerish charm). Troy still falls back on cheap middle school flirting tactics: “You look like a doily.” For all of Lelaina’s struggling artist façade, she pulls out Daddy’s gas card at the drop of a hat and gladly drives his hand-me-down BMW. Though Lelaina wants us to believe that using the gas card is her way of saying "fuck you" to her dad, it still gives her that financial advantage that most 20 somethings don't have.

If anything, the movie reminds the audience that no matter how hard we emphasize and build up an outer shell of angst and intellect, we’re all naïve, innocent and not as smart was we think we are—this fact also counts for valedictorians, as Lelaina shows us. Ultimately, this message is far from unique in the movie world. You can almost group it with any old high school movie.

On top of this fact, Realy Bites, like many other films, gives us the false impression that despite any character shortcomings, you can still crack the mob rocker’s crusty shell and ultimately move in with him to share an answering machine with a oh-so-witty “at the beep” message. So the title should really be finished with a question mark, as the "bite" has long since worn off by the time the credits roll.

I will hand it to Reality Bites for coming close enough to stand as a significant cultural text for 20-somethings. Perhaps it works because it once again reaffirms that life in your 20s will be a crapshoot no matter what happens. The most comforting notion it pushes is that answering questions with “I don’t know” is okay; it might even get you a round of applause.

What about the 20 Somethings?

“Congratulations,” is a word I hear frequently these days. It is the choice word for college graduates, and it is immediately followed by the same questions: where are you living? What are you doing? I only know where I’m living. I’ve found myself slipping into a state of degeneration in the last few weeks, brought on by lack of structure and too many opportunities to do nothing. I have no regrets though. As these same noisy questioners point out, I have the rest of my life to work. Why not fuck around for a few more weeks?

Of course, this will all change as my usual supporting cast of late have been employed. I’m hoping that I can at least meet these employed friends for lunch and they can pick up the tab for this struggling non-artist.
In any event, I find myself looking for a point of reference in this ambiguous time; something to reassure me that people have done absolutely nothing, just as I am doing now, and made it out with a job and their dignity. I know my brother did this a few years ago, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t be a little unsettled by my unemployed status.

So of course, I look to popular culture for some sort of guideline. A movie or song that will offer me a chorus I can sing during low moments or an uplifting feeling as the credits role. Having left behind the plentiful cultural references and wisdom for college and high school students, I find that there is an overwhelming lack of cultural support for 20 somethings. After the frat movies, there is a bit of generation gap. 30 somethings have plenty of movies to turn to, as it is the decade in which people ponder the great plunge of marriage, children, and job promotions.

Upon further analysis, however, why does the world turn their focus away from life between being a teenager and being 30 something? Making that first step into the real world, getting your first house, your first job, your first serious relationship outside of a college campus, these are the moments that will truly define you. Out from under your parents, and away from your friends, how is it that musicians and moviemakers overlook this crucial period?

There are a few superficial answers one could use. First, 20 somethings have no money; they won’t pay to go to a movie about their generation, or purchase a CD or concert ticket even if it includes their generation’s anthem. Entry level in life means entry-level pay. 20 somethings will wait until the movie is on TV or illegally download an anthem before they blow potential rent or beer money on pop culture. The other answer is, maybe people don’t really want to remember their 20 somethings, so they don’t create a cultural text around this period of life. I worry that this is the answer. People will always glorify their naïve teenage youth or embrace the permanent decisions they make in their 30s before they pay homage to the aimless wandering of being 20 something.

There are movies that seem to want to speak to 20 somethings, but the characters and scripts never openly embrace their age by revealing it. For example, is Office Space meant to show 20 somethings hating their entry-level office jobs? It's hard to say. Jon Livingston could be 25. He could also be 31. In other words, these ambiguous movies cannot truly speak for us 20-somethings because they do not embrace our generation.

So should we have held onto 16 as long as we could have, as John Cougar Mellencamp urged? This cultural gap kind of makes me want to rush to my 30s in order to truly understand the advice of Wedding Crashers and Four Weddings and a Funeral. I suppose Knocked Up could stand in for 20-somethings, but then again watching Katherine Heigl in the “crowning” scene makes the fundamental message—keep the baby—something I refuse to buy into.

Perhaps the popular culture does not guide us 20 somethings because ultimately, this is the decade in which we should flounder on our own. It is the last time in life to be spontaneous and selfish without suffering great consequences. So as we head out into our entry level jobs and tiny apartments, we have the reassurance that we can look back to the glory days of college and high school and know that at some point we’ll make it out to the other side, as a 30 something, having survived the great limbo of being 20 something.