Got Milk?

Milk is captivating without even breaking a sweat. There's a certain point when the richness of history sends a movie plot into autopilot. I'm not trying to undermine the writer Dustin Lance Black's work on Milk, but at it's most rudimentary form, Harvey Milk's story is a touching and awesome one. What struck me most about the film was the overall ease about it. The story flowed smoothly--the 2 hour length was shockingly humble in this day and age of 3 hour movies. The cast slipped into their characters effortlessly, which is most clear when the male actors share affectionate scenes without clamming up like a robot. This ease is ironic, when you consider the insurmountable barrier that Harvey Milk faced and felled.

Like any historical film, there is a great risk of coming off as didactic. Sean Penn derails this with his light touch. Harvey Milk is not portrayed as perfect or Christ-like (as demonstrated through his MAJOR mistake of staying with his second partner in the film, Jack Lira--the epitome of needy). He was simply persistent--stubborn actually. But it takes that to take on the monsters he encountered. I've been raised in an era where sexuality, race, and gender have had isolated moments of discrimination. I take for granted what older generations have arranged--almost seamlessly, as far as a history text book chapter is concerned--for my generation. We know nothing about the Anita Bryants and the Senator Briggs of olden days. I am not so naive to think that people don't feel or think that way anymore, but at least they have been reduced (for the most part, though I can't speak for those red states...) to muttering at their TVs or newspapers in the privacy of their own homes.

Forgive me, for I am about to get a little cheesy. I found the film even more moving after seeing an African American get elected this year. I did not experience the weight of historical figures like Milk or Dr. Martin Luther King when they were pushing for change, but I naively assumed I understood their fights. Milk gently showed me how ignorant I am of what it took to get the US to where it is today. This year, I had the privilege of voting for a man with a solid campaign. In 2008, his campaign could outshine the fact that he was African American. No matter how many of Hollywood's renditions of civil rights activism I see on the silver screen, I will remain naive of the real-time gravity.

That is not to say that being homosexual today is a picnic, by any means. I do not wish to make that claim. Though, it certainly is a bit easier than in Milk's day. All I know is that I was beyond moved during the final 10 minutes of the movie. I sat fighting back tears at the sight of the candlelight vigil. I cannot imagine how people find the courage to fight adversity, particularly when the world in which I was raised did not offer any concrete example of what adversity actually is.

Dexter, the cutting edge of drama (predictions for season 3 finale)

One more episode left in another tumultuous day(s) in the life of Dexter Morgan. This season, like the previous two, has been a gripping one, though many of the themes aren't as shiny and new. I've read that Jimmy Smit's Miguel Prado was essentially Lila with a mustache. Despite my initial desire to dispute that claim, it does hold true under scrutiny. Dexter, the most defended of all men, takes a lot to seduce or befriend, respectively shown by Lila and Miguel. The odd thing about Dexter is that for all his monstrous characteristics, he does try to let people into his world. Of course, given this latest track record of killing off Lila and Miguel, it makes me a little worried for Rita. As long as Rita continues assuming Dexter is just an aloof sweetheart, she's fine. It's only when people dig deeper into Dexter's soul that they get in trouble. There's no soul to find and therefore no way for him to feel remorse when he slices them up like a red onion.

So how will this season end? I suspect that they won't wrap this one up in neatly wrapped packages, as Dexter wraps up his victims. Showtime has given us two seasons with fully resolved season finales and so we're do for one hell of a cliffhanger. This leads me to several different possibilities.

Cliffhanger 1:
Someone finds out Dexter's true colors. You might jump to Rita as the first person to find out, but then she would certainly annul their marriage. I assume the writers are looking forward to figuring out how a serial killer can pull off murder AND marriage. Just imagine what a great hiding place a diaper bag would be for his knives. So that leaves us with Deborah.

Deb has been in the dark for her and Dexter's entire relationship. It's high time she find out about Dexter and the secret he shared with Harry, their dad. Dexter has already let the cat out of the bag about Harry cheating, so how much worse would it be to learn about Dexter's tendencies? "Sure Dad cheated, but he never killed anyone.... Speaking of murder, did I ever tell you about this hobby I picked up sometime after forensic school...?"

Cliffhanger 1.5:
This cliffhanger is sort of a back up one in the chance that the writers don't pick Rita or Deb to discover Dexter's dark side. Laguerta always felt that Doakes was innocent. Imagine her inner conflict if she determines that not only was Doakes framed, but that Dexter is a dark twisted Miami hero? If Dexter has managed to kill the Ice Truck Killer, Miguel Prado, and countless other "bad guys," will Laguerta have the balls to turn him in? If she was torn about handing in Miguel, I suspect she'd be reluctant to pass Dexter over.

Cliffhanger 2:
Deb is still hopeless in the love department. It probably would help if she let down her guard a little bit and laid off the bad language. In the race between, Quinn and Anton, we think Anton wins. Deb has a knack for picking guys that seem like Prince Charmings on the surface, but are supremely effed up when you get down to their core (she might as well get hitched with Dexter, since they're not blood related and he's her "type"). Anton is not quite a bad guy, but he's certainly a "bad boy." I mean on the Dexter/Hannibal Lector scale, Anton looks like a pretty solid citizen. My guess is that the writers will leave us up in the air about who she'll decide on. Maybe Anton will crash the wedding to confess his true feelings, right as Deb has given into one dance with Quinn. A guilty glance from Deb, followed by an Anton pursuit to some quiet corner of the reception?

This all depends on whether Dexter makes the wedding. From the previews for the finale, it seems that he gets tied up on his way...

For the Record: Lots of Abstractions

Sunday night I found myself sucked into the Britney Spears' documentary For the Record. I knew 2 minutes into it that she was not going to provide any real insight into her tailspin last year. The interview scenes revealed far less than the images of her simply going about her daily life. At one point, she tries to go to a NY boutique for some shopping and cannot get out of the car on the first try, since the paparazzi descend on her like scarabs from The Mummy. Seeing her stare blankly into the dressing room mirror as they plaster her with makeup and hairspray was more insightful. Sure, she's a superstar, but when you boil down her life from minute to minute, it's clearly very lonely. Her father, along with an army of handlers, has her under lock and key.

At one point in the interview scenes, she begins crying and admits that "she's sad." I'm not sure how to react to that comment. It's hard to feel sympathetic for someone who has the gall to say "I know that some people have it worse me." In light of the recession and the Bombay bombings, this comment is insulting. Sure, the interview was recorded in September or October, but that doesn't excuse how self-centered the her commentary is. Particularly since she offers no REAL reason for her tailspin. At no point does she mention addiction or depression or anxiety. Hell, just say you had a nervous breakdown, Brit. Let's get real.

The truth is that her life is so far from reality that she cannot be real or genuine in her interviews. Look no further than the caked on make up and the dried out weaves. She's a doll. At one point, she dresses up as a witch for Halloween and descends to the first floor of her house to attend to her two sons. She holds one and it struck me that she looked like a child holding a toddler. I pray those boys will make it to adulthood--even adolescence--alive.

I want to root for Britney. In a way, she is as much a product of America as the cheeseburger, a pickup truck, or baseball. Despite my disapproval of the idea of someone who bares her navel, girates, and sings in a octave that can only be described as sexy (and not angelic, talented, or even memorable), I find myself busting a move when her songs come on any airwaves. The scary thing is that my feelings regarding Britney are the same as rubbernecking: despite the horror and nausea I feel in the pit of my stomach as I look on, I cannot avert my eyes and ears.

Plaxico being Plaxico

Man, I would love to be a professional athlete. Basically, you get paid millions upon millions of dollars to do whatever you want without ever having to face consequences or responsibility. Oh sure, there are those fines that amount to thousands of dollars, but that's just a drop in the bucket. That's one less sports car a month. I, among many Americans, happily overlook this trend because of the thrill of a truly phenomenal sporting event. So, for a lot of Plaxico Burress's shenanigans this season, I simply rolled my eyes and grumbled with my dad at the breakfast table, but remembered his game winning touch down catch in the Super Bowl. He's been a bigger diva than Dina Ross, but that lack of responsibility clause covers diva behavior.

Eye rolling will no longer suffice. Plaxico Burress shot himself in a club this weekend. Yes, you read that right. Shot HIMSELF. In his already injured leg. Moronic is an inadequate description.

He'll probably need to continue to pack a gun to ward off angry fans. His job is to play football. He's clearly lost sight of that fact. His body is his investment. The ESPN commentators this morning debated as to why he would go to a club that required a gun in the first place. Mike Ditka made the point that Plaxico has absolutely no respect for anything--not even himself. Money is often linked with power. I'm going to propose a new theory: aside from Bill Gates and Warren Buffet, money exponentially decreases IQ points. One just has to look at wall street and professional athletes to see that this is completely true. The worst part of this ordeal is that Plaxico's injury appears to have been a clean shot through his thigh--without hitting a major artery or bone. How is this idiot going to learn a lesson if he's walking out of the hospital 12 hours after the fact???

I am beyond disappointed, but not surprised. It was only a matter of time that Plax literally shot himself in the foot, since he's been doing so figuratively all season.

Bite me?

It was only a matter of time before HBO cashed in on man's twisted fetish for Vampire lure. My brother says that rubbernecking puts us barely above the animals, but I think that Vampire culture really proves that the gap between man and animal is marginal at best. We fear and envy their ability to openly act upon greed, lust, malice, and thirst. There are plenty of day-to-day human pastimes that border on blood sucking--just take a look at our Sarah Palin feeding frenzy. With a good vampire movie/show/book, we are allowed to pretend that we are more human than we actually are, only because our fangs aren't literal.

I never really jumped on the bandwagon of zombie and vampire culture, even when Buffy the Vampire Slayer was all the rage. Though, a few weeks ago, when I gave True Blood a try, I found myself mesmerized by the truly dark disturbing nature of Vampires. When the main Vampire, Bill, stalked into the bar in the first episode, I realized the true allure of a tall, dark, handsome vampire. Stephen Moyer plays Bill with eerily beautiful bone structure and pale skin, effortlessly going back and forth between devastatingly handsome and hauntingly creepy. His character acts just chivalrous enough for us to want him to call on Sookie--as he says in his Civil War courtship way. (He was bitten on his march home after fighting for the South.) But, he has enough vampire characteristics to make him far more interesting than the average Joe. True Blood really presses the point that human men really aren't any more gentlemanly than vampire men.

In True Blood, vampires have become a sizable demographic and are attempting to "mainstream" and normally live among humans. Discrimination is nothing new in the show's Southern setting, and vampires get the brunt of it these days. Again, humans fear the vampire's twisted nocturnal activity, but one wonders if those who wore white sheets and lynched African Americans were any better than vampires? The exploration of humanity is even more thorough since the protagonist Sookie (Anna Paquin) can hear people's thoughts. (Hey, this is a Vampire show after all, so telepathy isn't so hard to believe within the context of blood sucking people.) The window into people's real sentiments and thoughts is often far more candid than she'd like--it's the ultimate "too much information". Bill, whose mind is unreadable to her, wins her over by not bombarding her telepathic ear with TMI.

The show cleverly has expanded upon vampire culture, making their blood as addictive to humans. Vampire Blood, or "V" as it is known on the streets, has become sort of like crystal meth, in that users' lives immediately and dramatically down spiral. The drug makes people just as vicious and lustful as Vampires, or maybe it just allows humans to act on their underlying vampire inclinations.

HBO has a true knack for casting, and the actors in True Blood continue this trend--aside from the occasional accent slip up. I forgive Stephen Moyer when his British accent comes through, mostly because of that bone structure I mentioned before. Also, if an actor's real accent comes through, it helps that it's not the standard American one. Anna Pacquin seems to be trying too hard at times, but I think that might just be her take on Sookie, who is always trying: trying to block out the voices, trying to be a nice friendly waitress, trying not to fall in love with a Vampire, trying to be a good southern girl. Her brother Jason Stackhouse (Ryan Kwanten) often steals the show as the dimwitted sex addict, but his future isn't looking so bright now that he's addicted to "V." I knew I was a True Blood fanatic when Ryan Kwanten stopped by the Men's Health office and I got all giddy. I'm campaigning to get him on the cover.

For all the vices it highlights, True Blood itself is a sick guilty pleasure. Each episode pits vampires and humans against each other in a race to be more disgusting, with the occasional hurdle of, not good intentions, but less evil intentions. The series of murders is another source of intrigue and, obviously, the humans assume vampires are to blame. We all know, however, that humans are perfectly capable of mass murder, so I'm pretty sure True Blood writers are going to throw us a curve ball. There's also signs of a werewolf, which often come hand in hand with vampires. All in all, between Dexter and True Blood, Sunday night has become a deadly evening of television.

Yawn-tourage

The trouble with a cast of men who refuse to grow up is exactly that: they don't evolve. The boys of Entourage have learned nothing from their ups and downs over the last 5 seasons, and therefore, Vinny being bankrupt again is not just deja vu, but it's plain boring. I'm not saying I need their moral compasses to align, but I am saying that these boys should at least be adolescents by now, if not full grown men. What once made the show fun and playful--boys playing in Hollywood with big bucks, babes and wheels--is no longer interesting. A friend of mine made the observation that where Entourage once was the "Sex and the City" for men, it now has become "The Hills" for men. I will add that it is the Hills, with marginally better acting.

Speaking of the show's acting, I want to talk to the voters of the Emmy Awards. Don't you realize that Jeremy Piven is NOT acting??? Why on earth would you give him an award three years in a row for simply being himself on camera? Good Lord, couldn't you have given it to Dexter's Michael C. Hall who plays Dexter Morgan with great subtle complexity? It's clear from Piven's acceptance speech that Piven, just like Ari Gold, is an asshole of catastrophic proportion. And I seriously doubt he's pulling a Daniel Day Lewis and staying in character well after the director yells "cut." Once again, it was interesting 2 seasons ago to see this asshole fly off the handle, but I think I'm done with Gold's temper tantrums.

I will cut Entourage a little slack just because the show is entering an awkward stage as it works through it's 5th season, which is a difficult time for any show to not only remain true to what made it popular, but change it up enough to keep viewers interested. This season might yet deliver the overhaul for which I am hoping. I think if the series is going to stay afloat, something's gotta give. I wouldn't even mind if they got rid of a character. I think E should go. Entourage, like the rest of the U.S., needs to cut some fat. E has long been the pointless middle man between Ari and Vince. Furthermore, the state of the economy makes it difficult to feel sympathetic for a group of frat guys who can't bear the idea of giving up a shamelessly decadent lifestyle. God forbid they actually have to work a 9-5 instead of spending the day getting high and going to strip clubs. In order to maintain its sinking caliber of entertainment, the boys of Entourage really have to man up.

If this is goodbye

This weekend, Yankee Stadium bid farewell to the world, its beloved fans, devoted New Yorkers, and pinstriped heroes. I was lucky enough to be able to attend the penultimate game with a large group of family. We sat in right field, behind Bobby Abreu. The bleachers were particularly animated on Saturday. After they called out all the players’s names, they turned to the crowd and chanted, “box seats suck.” God I love New York.

Before I even arrived at the game, I told myself to relish it all. Staring out at the grass, I was struck once again by the greenness of it. To me, taking in Yankee Stadium during the first inning feels like watching Wizard of Oz when Dorothy enters the bright colors of Munchkin Land. At Yankee Stadium, the grass is even greener than the other side.

The penultimate game was dull as far as baseball goes. I don’t think I’ve seen more pop flies and strikeouts. Even donning Giambi mustaches couldn’t bring on a hit. For each historic game that has gone down within the throbbing confines of the stadium, there have been 6 slow ones. Having watched Giambi win the game in the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs earlier this summer, I didn’t feel like I had the right to complain about the slowness of this particular game. You gotta take the good with slightly yawn inducing. The Yankees won in the blink of an eye, when Robinson Cano hit a single with the bases loaded. I think the Yanks were simply saving their energy—both physical and emotional—for the last game.

Sunday night, I watched the coverage of the last game and felt the sting of tears form in the back of my eyes as Yogi proudly stood in uniform on the infield. Despite the slight hunch of his back, his presence was still intimidating. The biggest cheers, mine included, went out not for Yogi, however, but instead for Bernie Williams. It was an overwhelming ovation, one that clearly registered on Bernie’s smiling face.

Saying goodbye to the legacy of the stadium is no easy task. Yet, I think it’s time for a new era, and there’s nothing more symbolic of change than a new setting. The Yankees were lackluster this season. It’s easy to get complacent within the walls of a winning stadium. Autopilot setting, however, does not get you to the playoffs. These guys need to change something so why not build a new stage?

Bernie Williams said that the fans really made the experience at Yankee stadium. “It was more the people than the stadium,” Williams said. “You talk about the magic and the aura, but what really made the Stadium was the fans. Concrete doesn’t talk back to you. Chairs don’t talk back to you. It’s the people that are there, that root for you day in and day out. That’s what makes this place magical.” This was clear as the camera panned across the stands, showing tearful young boys decked head to toe in Yankee gear hugging close to their Yankee cap-clad fathers. Yankee fans aren’t going anywhere any time soon. Actually, they are, but only a baseball’s-throw across the street.

Fantasy Reality

“I’m obsessed with DVR. Sometimes I find myself trying to fast forward meetings at work,” my friend Sonya said as she stretched out her arm, mimicking the click of a remote control, “Boring. Boring. Boring.” I laughed long and hard, as she spoke for me as well. I, however, feel a little less pain than Sonya, seeing as I do not actually have DVR yet. As I discussed in my blog post about “Life On Command,” I find man’s ability to stop time—at least what’s on cable—a bit eerie. There are a lot of pop culture tools with which people can skew their perception of life: DVR, so-far-from “reality” TV, video games, facebook, myspace. These are all platforms in which the world, time, and people can tweak with facts. Are facts facts anymore? Only time will tell—well, unless we fast-forward through it.

This brings me to another subset of pop culture where we play make believe: Fantasy sports. Yesterday, I participated in my first fantasy football draft. I used ESPN’s Live Draft program where a dozen girls all timidly and nervously picked players to represent us as the football season begins. The chat room, a neat feature of the program, was riddled with apprehensive confessions: “What are we doing?” “I don’t get it.” “I don’t know how to pick! How can I get auto draft going?” Suddenly, the draft started, and somehow, and we were on our way—whether we were ready or not. “Ah! I’m so stressed right now!” I typed. In the true spirit of good-natured girls, Team J-To said, “It’s okay. We’re all a bit lost and you’re first pick was good!!!” All’s fair in love and fantasy football, at least in an all female league. Soon, the chat room was filled with modest admissions: “My boyfriends helping me, thank god!” “Oh me too! “Haha my dad is over my shoulder.” The draft concluded, and we all wait anxiously to see how our teams will fair.

Fantasy Football, while not exactly DVR, is another way for us to deflect the cold hard truth of life. Now, even though I will root for the Giants with all my heart, I can justify a loss to the Vikings, since Adrian Peterson is my RB, or even the benighted Cowboys, as Tony Romo is my QB. (Forgive me!!!) In a roundabout way, Fantasy sports serve as some sort of fast forward button. Where DVR makes commercials go away, Fantasy sports makes fan heartbreak go away—at least some of it. It’s kind of like a glorified schoolyard game, where we can once again pick a team of our liking, leaving the particularly uncoordinated or dubious athletes near the tail end of our pick—kind of like Favre, who was one of the last to be picked as a QB.

At a certain point, I worry about society’s overwhelming urge towards escapism, or at least Fantasy sports escapism. Reality Football isn’t good enough? Did you miss last year’s NFL playoffs? The Giant’s streak was a fairytale. Who needs make believe leagues when Eli Manning helps facilitate an underdog win practically in glass slippers (or, rather, glass cleats)? Then again, perhaps Patriots fans would argue that last years season—at least the final game—was an absolute nightmare, which would require coping with a fantasy world….

My real worry is how modern day escapism entails an overwhelming amount of staring at a screen—computer, television, movies, cell phones, iPhones, iPods, etc. No longer is it about flying a kite or strolling with a parasol. How about letting the mind wander? How about books? The typical workday involves staring at a computer screen—with stolen glances at my cell phone screen—before I go home and stare at my TV screen. Half of every day spent at some sort of glowing rectangle. I suppose living vicariously through athletes who can avoid staring at screen’s all day is one step closer to playing flag football as a form of escapism. At this point, of course, there’s little I can change about the role of the computer in the work world. Maybe I’ll try to institute a “no screen” policy after work… except for Mondays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. You saw my Gossip Girl post; do you really expect me to give up my shows?!?

Perhaps Sonya really was hoping to get work to go by faster. I just worry that society’s escapism ends up taking up more of our time than actual living. I guess I should get DVR, so if I really do try to go out and live a little I won’t miss anything. Oh wait, that's the whole point.

Thank God it's Monday

There are few things that can pull a New Yorker from the post-Labor Day depression. I admit that even I, the biggest skeptic of young children, found myself smiling this morning as I watched elementary school students heading off for their first day, backpacks bouncing and their hands apprehensively clutching that of their parent’s. Though this was a very short-lived smile. Post-Labor Day depression is the mother of all acute cases of the Mondays. This particularly case began creeping up on me yesterday afternoon as I drove into New York. Somewhere along the Henry Hudson Highway, I was listening to a Labor Day Weekend radio special that was counting down the top 200 songs of their listeners. Perhaps it was the developing depression, but I found it utterly offensive that Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” came in at 76, with Jewel’s “Foolish Games” at 77. Suddenly I was talking to myself “Seriously!?! ‘Born in the USA’ didn’t make top 25? And ‘Foolish Games’ is somehow juxtaposed with Springsteen’s most politically charged songs??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD TODAY!?!?”

I was reminded of all the good in the world, however, with a vicarious trip to the Hamptons with my most favorite melodramatic, preppy crew. That’s right, Gossip Girl is back! I have to say that it was a good premiere: Outfits were noteworthy. (OMG did you see Serena’s long flowy gown and perfectly messy up ‘do? The white was like totally symbolic of Dan and her imminent wedding!!!) Verbal daggers were thrown. (Insert any of the exchanges between Blair and Chuck go here.) Plots were twisted. (Awwww the Grandmother has found inner peace and is suddenly civil AND helping Dan Humphrey!) In other words, it was perfect.

The temporary Hamptons setting was a nice change up to start off the season. I am quite sure, however, that fans will be happier to see the cast in their true stomping grounds. The White Party was also great on so many levels. Blair, the ultimate manipulator and evil-doer, donned in pious white was no subtle irony. Of course, the lack of any diversity in the cast also makes the White Party a bit of a political statement. I have to say, in light of Sarah Palin’s recent family controversy, even Gossip Girl might have to step up the drama….

After the episode ended, I realized that, yes, the summer has concluded, but there will be plenty to look forward as the crispier shorter days fall upon us. On TV alone (I can assure that my social life will also give me things to look forward to), there’s Gossip Girl, the new cycle of America’s Next Top Model, Grey’s Anatomy, Football and the Office. I realize now that I am blocking out the post-Gossip Girl season finale depression I suffered from this May. In fact, cases of the Mondays might be all but vanquished now that Gossip Girl airs on that night. So, now it’s 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Is it Monday yet?

What's Love Got to Do with It?

Vicky Cristina Barcelona, like all things related to Spain and love, is intoxicating. The inebriation might be a sort of osmosis phenomenon since the characters have a wine glass in hand for about 85% of the movie. The movie washes over the viewer like the buzz of a fine Rioja, leaving a warm sedated feeling. When I say sedated, I do not mean that the movie is uncomplicated. Ah yes, man never tires of the exploration of love: rational, irrational, passionate, calculated, new, old, loyal, desirous, etc. This movie covers a lot of ground on the map of love, though it’s not entirely clear how much headway it—and its characters—makes.

The actors come together wonderfully, all exactly right for their characters and clearly at ease in their roles. Penelope Cruz, as Maria Elena, swiftly steals the show with her brooding eyes and stunningly delicate features. Her fiery personality is what is truly gripping, particularly when she delivers the movies funniest, and perhaps best, lines. Javier Bardem also scorches the screen as Juan Antonio, the ultimate Don Juan. His asymmetrical features make him both strikingly handsome and almost primitively rugged, depending on the angle. He had me before, “hola.” Cruz’s and Bardem’s sadistic tango is both beautiful and painful to watch, although leaving the theater I’m sure everyone hopes to see them onscreen together again soon.

Where Cruz and Bardem provide the movie will its most vibrant color, Rebecca Hall, as Vicky, brings the movie soul and gravity. Vicky’s evolution over the movie is the meatiest thread of the movie. Hall’s anguish over her old expectations for love and marriage being toppled by one weekend in “stupid Oviedo,” is naïve but not completely crazy. One scene with her fiancé Doug, and the audience hopes she runs for the Catalan hills. We are constantly reminded that “only unfulfilled love can be romantic.” Sure, that sounds poetic at first. Then I realized that it was coming from Woody Allen, and I don’t know whether I’m prepared to take advice from Allen, given his sketchy romantic history. Vicky and Cristina, polar opposites in love and life, offer two alternatives, we can’t help but hope that there’s some happy medium.

The movie does pose one tricky riddle: why is Scarlett Johansson famous? It’s not that she’s unattractive, but I don’t agree that her looks alone can carry her fame—especially since her acting skills are utterly underwhelming. If Penelope Cruz had Johansson’s acting chops, we’d look the other way, but Scarlett is just not good enough to justify her pay grade. She, however, manages to get away with this role, because Cristina is unsophisticated and not an entirely likeable character: “I don’t know what I want. I just know what I don’t want.” That’s a great BS line to get out of any responsibility. The worst part is just how generic Johansson looked compared to Cruz. I cringed; thinking to myself that there must be a better representation of American beauty and youth that Allen could have juxtaposed with Cruz. The great thing about Vicky Cristina Barcelona, however, is that the warm buzz quickly washed away my irritation over Johansson.

The film is a truly vintage romantic comedy. It is made timeless not only by its European setting, but also because the age old question regarding love, and whether you should act with passion or reason, will never stale. Vicky Cristina Barcelona does not want to offer an obvious compromise between the two, but I’m not sure that people want an easy way out, as it would make life far too boring.

Have you heard the News? Huey's still got it.

I'm at the age when I'll drink just about any glass of wine. And, if I'm buying, it's often the cheapest glass I can get. Every once and a while--usually in the company of my parents--I'm served up a truly fine wine, aged longer than the Yellow Tails and Little Penguins of wine shops. These glasses of aged grape may be few and far in between, but they always go down extremely well. Last night, seeing Huey Lewis and the News was like sipping a fine glass of Bacchal music--finely aged and pleasant on the palate.

They opened with "Heart of Rock N' Roll" and had about a quarter of the audience in Englewood NJ dancing in the aisles. The crowd clearly were 80s music devotees, and they were thrilled to see Huey and the News. Looking around, not only was it so awesome to see that these guys could still kick it, it was also great to see the older fan base still rockin' out on a Wednesday night. Huey continually asked, "Are you still with me?!" It seemed fitting, since they're definitely still with them after all these years.

Despite my jokes about taking the DeLorean "Back in Time" for the concert, a quick google search will prove just how current Huey Lewis & the News are. They wrote the title track for Pineapple Express (Keeping up with Seth Rogan? They know it's hip to be associated with Hollywood stoners). There's also recent footage of Huey on stage with the Foo Fighters, rocking out on the harmonica. Their sound, like the DeLorean, is timeless simply because everyone loves the 80s, even if it was a ridiculous decade of weird fashion and the keytar (though Huey and the News thankfully don't use that instrument). Huey's voice, while surely not life changing, is distinct and pleasant. The brass section takes the volume up a notch. The guitarist had a solo that seemed to come out of left field in "It's All Right." Huey's harmonica work is truly noteworthy. The acapella song in the middle reminds us of the olden barber shop days, but they pull you right back to their true sound with "Workin' for a Living" and "I Want a New Drug."

As the show drew to a close, I hoped that some of the bands I love now can keep the stamina of Huey & the News in the decades to come. I wonder which of Huey's fans knew that their shows would still go down so well, particularly after a bit of aging in the cellar.

A Night at Camp Coldplay

This weekend in Hartford, all the Coldplay concert needed was a campfire. Everyone was already singing along; why not cast a warm orange glow? Sing alongs are appealing, but there's something weird about a band that makes their performance easy enough for the audience to accompany. Don't get me wrong, I was singing my heart out with Chris Martin and the entirety of Hartford's XL Center, but partway through the show, I longed for them to think outside the box for a song or two, maybe even a solo or, hell, even a mere chord.

The campy feel made for a comfortable environment: everyone knew what to expect and there were no surprises. But a live show is far more interesting with a musical curve ball thrown in every once and a while. Come on Chris, make us marvel at a surprising pitch. If anything, the Hartford show made Coldplay look like they were on cruise control. Unlike in Coldplay's two previous concerts that I've seen, Chris Martin offered very limited amusing self-deprecating comments. They went seamlessly from song to song, never wandering from their set list. The show was good, but it wasn’t great—something that is very hard for me to say about a band that I will blindly love and admire for the rest of my life.

Ultimately, Coldplay is endearing and charming enough so that I forgive the band for their lack of creativity. The live version of "Yellow" always thrills the crowd. Near the end of the show, the four band members pranced up to the back of the arena, up in the second tier, and did an “impromptu” acoustic set. I throw quotation marks around impromptu because I found out that they did this at the Boston show, if not every other show. Somehow the relocation lost its charm when I discovered it was all a part of their cruise control performance. That being said, “The Scientist” always brings me to tears, and hearing it in the acoustic set still got the waterworks going.

The best parts of the show were when Coldplay didn’t rely on the amped up top 40 hits, flashing lights and enchanting globe projectors. For “The Hardest Part” the lights were up and it was just Martin playing on the piano. Though, near the end of the song he stopped and said "This song isn't big enough," and quickly started up another. You'd think that a band with 4 platinum albums would actually WANT to sing a "small"song. It was different enough from the version on X&Y that the audience didn’t sing quite as loud because they were actually watching and listening. The other great part was during the “impromptu” set, in which the drummer Will Champion sang “Death Will Never Conquer.” As the member of the band who agreed to play drums because it was the only slot left, Will’s chance to sing and be the front man was a great moment. Chris Martin handing over the microphone for one song was about as close to a curveball as Coldplay got.

A 90-minute set passes quickly, and before I knew it, my favorite band was wrapping up the concert, bowing, and exiting the stage. I stood waiting, knowing that their encore would help tip the scale from a good concert, to a great one. During the last tour, they played “Fix You,” essentially the song everyone came to see live, in the encore. They saved the best for last and it was brilliant. This time around, however, I stood in vain. House lights when on, despite the crowd’s protest, and the road crew started dismantling the stage. Coldplay was long gone, leaving the campers with nothing but embers that were growing colder by the moment, and the longing for a little something more from a night at Camp Coldplay.

Dark midKnight show

I never thought I’d see the day when a director would render Tim Burton's work as cotton candy fare. Looking back on the beloved first Batman movie, with Jack Nicholson’s playfulness and Michael Keaton’s two-dimensionality, it’s clear that Christopher Nolan’s new series is not about having fun. Of course, it’s hard for me to admit those things about Tim Burton’s Batman. I still ask, “Where does he get those wonderful toys?” and “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” every chance I get. Perhaps the truth is that 1989 was just a simpler and happier time, when even psychologically tormented men who “moonlight” as caped crusaders could keep it light. Nolan wants to examine heroes and villains much more closely in The Dark Knight, and his viewpoint is a dark one, shadowed further by Heath Ledger’s untimely death.

Nolan loves to answer the questions asked in Tim Burton’s films. Batman gets his toys from the thoroughly good closet nerd engineer Lucious Fox (Morgan Freeman). Why, yes, as it so happens, Batman has danced with the devil in the pale moonlight. Dark Knight is essentially a long and complicated tango between Christian Bale and Heath Ledger, where Burton’s Batman and Joker were a sort of palatable half moon cookie—both enjoyable and easily digested. Nolan parallels many of Burton’s scenes, such as in an empty city street when Batman comes barreling down on the Joker. There’s also a similar heart-to-twisted-heart moment on the top floor of a tall building in the conclusion. Though Nolan takes both Burton’s scenes and flips them over on their head, quite literally.

I don’t know whether it was because I saw the midnight show, but the movie’s dark implications made for fitful sleep, as I turned all of Nolan’s motifs in my head: good and evil, love and duty, justice and righteousness, and you could go on all night, which I actually did. Nolan’s focus is off of why Batman came to be, but more how he can continue to be. The other installments were happy to leave certain aspects unanswered (read: toys and stamina), but Nolan actually shows Batman’s battle scars and imprisonment. Bruce Wayne never fully realized how incarcerating his cape would be.

That being said, there were countless times when the audience laughed aloud, so it’s not a complete downer. Ledger’s performance is a beautiful one to watch. He has fun with it, but truly owns the Joker’s twisted soul, right down to the terrifying nervous twitch of licking his lips constantly. His performance lends the question: what came first, Ledger’s demons or the role of the Joker? A sort of chicken and egg conundrum. There’s been Oscar talk, which is justified upon seeing Ledger’s Joker.

Bale, as always, delivers. I think he will become the resident “series restorer” as demonstrated by the preview before The Dark Knight for Terminator: the Salvation. Bale can wear the suit—both bat and Armani. He wears Batman’s righteousness and frankness on his knife-adorned bat sleeve, and naively wears his affection for Rachel Dawes on his pinstriped sleeve. One wonders if the audience will ever tire of seeing Bruce Wayne suffer as he tries to really live when his is mask off. The answer is a wholehearted no—as long as Bale is at the helm.

Maggie Gyllenhal, Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman, and Michael Cane are also great components of Nolan’s twisted tapestry. The script gift-wraps some of the more melodramatic and better lines of the film for Michael Cane, and he, of all people, can sincerely deliver them. Oh, and obviously the script has some nuggets for Freeman, though he can make any line sound like Robert Frost caliber poetry (even a line like: "Oh, you want to be able to turn your head in your new suit.") Aaron Eckhart holds his own among Bale and Gyllenhal, despite the audience’s loyalty and sharper attention for Wayne and Dawes. We vaguely see why Rachel may be tempted by a capeless life with Harvey Dent. Nolan also demonstrates his dominance over this series by seamlessly evolving Harvey Dent’s transition to Two Face.

The Dark Knight will require more and more viewings to fully wrap one’s head around it. Gotham and it’s citizens—both masked and unmasked—are clearly in for far more three dimensional problems, at least while Nolan’s in charge Though, I am sure each viewing will offer up a new philosophical cookie—much more complex and richly sinful than Burton’s half moon one—to munch and ponder. Again, it’s not that we didn’t like Burton’s batch, it’s just that Nolan’s is like tollhouse on smart and bad-ass steroids.

Must Be the Suit

A rainy blue July 5th ended up being the perfect day for seeing Kabluey. It is a comedy at face value, but it dabbles in some somber themes—war, motherhood, and “loserhood.” America is used to the first two themes, and most comedies (think Knocked Up and all Owen Wilson movies) make “loserhood” their singular theme. Scott Prendergast, the writer, director and main character of the film, makes this theme a bit more three dimensional, particularly with the use of a rather remarkable blue mascot-like suit.

Salman, played by Prendergast, resorts to taking a job that involves donning a giant blue suit and handing out flyers. His humiliation is apparent, but Salman, so often snubbed by others, soon takes refuge behind the large head. The suit is alternately funny, scary, and adorable. Kabluey makes a point to fully appreciate the comic effect of the suit, which never seems to get old. Salman learns that the blue costume, like all costumes, allows him to slowly shake free from his coma-like state. By coming out of his shell in the costume, he can cut loose in his own skin. As an English major, I got a big kick out of the suit just because of its rich symbolism. Well, I got a kick out of that and the scenes when Salman reaches for a beer can out of the zip up hole in the suit’s rear end…

The only “big” actor in the cast is Lisa Kudrow. For once, she doesn’t play a relocated Phoebe from Friends. She effortlessly captures the wife of a deployed soldier trying to make ends meet with two sons, who are essentially demon children in the beginning. Always known for her light comic touch, Kudrow’s ability to capture the sheer weariness of her character is impressive.

Kabluey is unassumingly charming. Prendergast doesn’t try too hard, but takes the plot and characters further than simple blue suit gags. Like most movies, the ending seemed to be the trickiest part to work out. I wasn’t quite sure it was the best one, then again I couldn’t think of a better way to end it. But like Salman, I exited the movie with a smile and found that while watching, the rain had passed.

Will Power

It’s a good thing that Will Smith wears sunglasses for a large part of Hancock, because if he didn’t, we’d see him winking at us. Will Smith: blockbuster actor or master con artist? He’s the latter, since with average performances and storylines, he rakes in the big bucks. I walked out of Hancock realizing that I’ve surrendered my pocket money to him countless times--I even saw I, Robot in theaters! Yet, none of his movies is going to change your life for the better. I would liken most of his movies to a third slice of pizza—completely palatable but totally unnecessary. Like that last slice, you’re not really sure why you gave into Hancock.

I must preface this entry with the fact that I have never bothered to try and see Ali or The Pursuit of Happyness. Arguably, Will Smith was giving cinema and acting a good honest try with those movies, and not trying to con the audience. I don’t know whether or not that reflects badly upon me....

Hancock starts off as an interesting take on the superhero movie. Hancock, blessed with basically 90% of Superman’s powers (minus the eye lasers and maybe some others), is a drunkard who happens to save the day sometimes, though at the price of destroying LA in the process. We catch on that his inebriation level contributes to his less-than-smooth landings and the obvious lack of follow through in his strategizing. In this day and age, superhero movies are all about elaborate action sequences where not only does the superhero manage to think everything through, but they also account for all spontaneous disasters with quick adjustment in their pace, hand eye coordination, and perhaps an impromptu prop. So, it’s very novel to see Hancock stop the train, only to cause a 24-train car pile up behind it.

Halfway through the film, however, it is blatantly obvious that the writers of Hancock ran out of coffee or ideas, or maybe even both. Their “explanation” for how and why Hancock came to be is just flat out lazy. By presenting the most vague reasoning possible, the writers sort of trail off and try to distract the audience with another action sequence. It’s not the best ploy ever, but they knew that Will Smith is a master con artist and that it would probably end up just fine. By “just fine,” I mean a weekend gross of 60 something million and over 100 million for the entire long weekend. Though, the question is whether or not gentle warnings, like mine here, will deter prospective audience members.

Jason Bateman is amusing as always. Charlize Theron plays the token hot woman role well enough. I think she was also meant to serve as part of the pyrotechnics to distract the audience from the “plot holes” that the writers weakly fill. Hancock is a decent summer movie but, like when you reach for your last slice of pizza, you should think long and hard before taking a bite.

Get Smart, Mike Meyers.

This Monday evening, as my family was walking up Columbus, my father saw an ad for The Love Guru and emphatically announced, “Mike Meyers is FINISHED!!!” I stopped myself from reminding him of the cash cow-ogre Shrek, among many other lucrative Meyers franchises. I did realize, however, that I hadn’t given a second thought to seeing The Love Guru this weekend—even with my beloved JT as a co-star. The fact is, I have moved on from Mike Meyers' caricatures to fully embrace the new comic era: deadpan humor as brought you by Steve Carell and/or Will Ferrell. The similarities between their humor and their names make me feel like they’re one and the same. Or, at the very least, they’re from the same planet, Planet I-Can-Keep-A-Straight-Face-No-Matter-What.

Get Smart tests Carell’s deadpan comic timing once again. Although, I suspect that it was much harder for his fellow cast-mates to keep it together. Perhaps this is why Anne Hathaway comes off as completely bland—she had to dull her senses in order to get through each take. The Rock aka Dwayne Johnson does well enough, though his screen time is minimal.

It seems ironic that a different spoof of the spy movie genre defeated Mike Meyers, who successfully roasted the same genre with Austin Powers. Though, as far as spy movies go, this is the post-Jason Bourne box office world, where Austin and Dr. Evil don't have a place anymore. They're just TOO silly. It's not that Carell doesn't deliver frivolous scenes (think the barf scene). It's just that his deadpan delivery makes the audience take him more seriously. Meyers, on the other hand, always has that twinkle in his eye--as if he knows he's hoodwinked the audience and conned millions from us. After seeing Carell and Ferrell’s technique, I don’t know that I can handle Meyers’ heavy handed comedies with outrageous accents and costumes. I don’t want to see Meyers in another wig—unless it’s the wig for Wayne Campbell.

Now, similarly to the way I once adored Meyers, I cannot get enough of Ferrell and Carell’s comic franchise. Perhaps there will be a day when someone new will rip the rug out from Carell and Ferrell. Though, until then, my life is based around their movie releases. Stay tuned for my review of Step Brothers, which will be Ferrell’s next take on the deadpan middle-aged child.

Meh and the City

Halfway through the new Sex and the City movie, I had to wonder: had I gotten sick of Carrie Bradshaw? Or was I just sick of her “wondering”? Was my nausea based on having spent three hours at the DMV earlier that day, or was it some sort of reaction to the bombardment of brand names?

In all seriousness, I walked out of the theater with a sense of disappointment. The funny thing is, I think every Sex fan was happy to support Carrie when she was with or without Big. Yet, during this film, I just hated how once again, the cornerstone of the plot was based around Big leaving Carrie. AGAIN. Sex and the City shouldn’t feel like a broken record. The tagline of the film is “Get Carried away.” How about “Get trampled on for the 23094823049 time.” I think I would’ve been far happier had they left the series the way it ended: Carrie and Big simply together but not necessarily on the road to marriage. Big told Carrie she’s the one. That should be enough!

Okay okay, so my friends who enjoyed it claim that that the movie is about friendship and not giving up on love. In the abstract, I can agree with those two mottos. I just think that the movie didn’t really successfully convey them. I found myself feeling—for the first time in the entire Sex and the City reign—that Carrie had settled. Sure she has clothes, friends, and an indentured servant—I mean personal assistant--but she can’t seem to see the Big picture. (Crap, now Carrie is making me throw puns left and right!) When does a woman’s pride step in? Big essentially practices emotional domestic violence throughout their relationship, which seemed to stop at the series finale. The movie just awakens the beast again.

The movie also makes men appear to be complete jerks. Or at least the movie makes a point to focus on Big and Steve, the offenders, rather than Harry and Jared, who are loyal and loving. I suppose happiness is boring though, so why not focus on the men who can’t commit?

Don’t get me wrong. I was happy to see the girls together again. My heart swelled to see them sauntering down the streets of New York in pointy shoes and completely ridiculous outfits. But the movie added things that were unnecessary, like the Merecedes Benz and Louis Vuitton product placements. It also took away from the heart and sole (crap another Carrie shoe pun!) of the series, like when the writers literally removed anything off-color but substituting “coloring” for “sex” in one what would otherwise be a wonderful girl talk session.

I think the movie should have ended after the New Year’s even scene. I loved the sight of Carrie coming out of the subway—which she probably hadn’t ridden since 1978—in an outrageous fur coat over her pajamas and wearing stilettos in the snow. Now THAT was Carrie Bradshaw. I want to remember Carrie like that—standing on a street corner getting her bearings in an outfit that I admire but would never wear, enroute to see one of her dear friends. Instead, we are led to believe that women are nothing without their men. And don't even throw in the argument that Samantha is without a man at the end. She's a freak of nature, albeit an awesome freak of nature. So she doesn't count. Perhaps if I had walked out when Carrie arrived at Miranda's on New Year's Eve I wouldn’t be left wondering: where did the movie go wrong?

Well played, Coldplay

The new album Viva la Vida or Death and All of His Friends makes die hard Coldplay fans like myself truly proud. Two summers ago, when Coldplay's X&Y came out, I embraced the CD with lovingly open arms. In hindsight, X&Y did not exactly change the face of music—though “Fix You” may be one of the best driving songs to have graced airwaves in the last 3 years. Who doesn’t love throwing open the windows and screaming the lyrics, “Tears streammmm down youuuur faaace!”? I think you’d be hard pressed to find someone who doesn’t at least secretly dig that song.

After listening to Coldplay’s latest album, Viva la Vida or Death and All of his Friends, I fully realize how weak X&Y was. I will not, however, dwell on the negative. My point is that their new album proves that Coldplay can and will evolve. Right when I finished listening the entirety of Viva, I found myself almost choked up—and it wasn’t just due to Chris Martin’s angelic falsetto. No, it was more the fact that this CD reflects the promise of their early Radiohead-esque B side tracks. Yet, this promise is also blended with the energy and experience of having already released 3 albums. “Yes” takes us away from Martin’s formulaic mournful vocals. “Strawberry Swing” brings in almost a country sound that males me want to move to the country and eat me a lot of peaches. I find myself clapping along within he first few drum beats of “Lost!”

The CD is an evolution also because each song starts, grows, and changes into something completely different before the final chords. Just when you think the band has wooed you into a suicidal state in “42,” the song turns around 180 degrees and fills you with hope and near euphoria with the realization that though we didn’t get to heaven, but at very least we were within arms reach. Though, I worry that when Madonna, Gwenyth and Chris Martin had apple martinis at some point this last year, Madonna and Chris exchanged notes on getting close to heaven. Does anyone else think of the line from Madonna’s “4 Minutes”? “The road to hell is paved with good intentions—yeah!” Do you think they played rock, paper, scissors to determine who could use “heaven”?

Most important, the CD opens with an instrumental track. This proves—quite literally—that Coldplay does not need to rely on Martin to carry their tune. I cannot wait to see how the new songs sound live. I imagine the different movements to the tracks will lend themselves to some great solos, sprinkled with some classic Chris Martin self-deprecating humor in between songs. With Viva la Vida or Death and All of His Friends, Coldplay will not only seduce many new fans, but they will also restore the faith of any fans whose skepticism grew with X&Y. Viva fills me with parent-like pride for the band, who have come so far since they seduced me in a mere two sentences: “Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you.”

Smart People for Dummies

The trouble with movies is that they often make real life incredibly disappointing. Though you may find it hard to believe based on my girlish gushing about movies like Enchanted and Definitely, Maybe, the disappointment does not stem from the brutal absence of happily ever afters. No, often as I walk up the dark movie aisle as the credits are rolling, I feel profoundly underwhelmed instead by the lack of witty, funny, and ultimately heartwarming dialog on the set of my own life. Smart People is a perfect example of this phenomenon. The script is basically flawless: touching, intelligent, comic, and it also boasts great SAT words.

The cast has been perfectly hand picked for their roles. Dennis Quaid, Ellen Page, and Thomas Haden Church play their roles perfectly. Though, I think Church’s performance is the best. It’s not easy to make the deadbeat juvenile Uncle an endearing character, but he quickly charms us all—despite the unsightly shots of his rear-end. Ellen Page runs the risk of being type cast as Juno, since Vanessa is basically an unpregnant Juno. Her relationship with Chuck, played by Church, also mirrors that of Juno’s relationship to the adoptive father. I think she can now try a new shtick. Though, we’re more than happy to see her do it a second time in Smart People.

Speaking of type casting, Sarah Jessica Parker should legally change her name to Carrie Bradshaw. I must say, I find Carrie a much better writer than a doctor, as she is in this film. I also found myself thinking that a pompous professor was such a step down from the glamorous city boy, Big. It would’ve helped to dull down her wardrobe. Then again, Dr. Carrie Bradshaw would always be wearing fabulously cute dresses beneath her white Doctor’s coat, as she does in Smart People. Perhaps test audiences reject the sight of a frumpy Carrie Bradshaw—by the way, I just ADORED her sweater dress in the airport scene. Carrie invented casual chic. My initial skepticism of her, however, evaporated as she repeatedly points out to Lawrence, Quaid’s character, that he’s an asshole.

What I truly admired about Smart People is that the characters did not conveniently evolve and mature to provide a cookie cutter resolution. Lawrence is pretty much the same jerk he was at the beginning of the movie at the end, though at least he can admit it. We can only hope that Vanessa, at the ripe age of 17, can reign in her cheekiness in her adult life. Honestly, we love Chuck just the way he is, so we are happy to see he’s not really altering his gig. Like the ratty old Wesleyan sweatshirt he wears, Chuck is unappealing only at first glance. Once everyone tries him on, he becomes the sweatshirt they’ll wear forever.

I left Smart People feeling so profoundly dissatisfied with my own words. Both the writers’ material and the actors’ delivery make the life’s unscripted dialog feel all the more inadequate. Yet, just when I was about to pull out my old SAT books to become more like smart people, I remembered that ultimately, Lawrence uses someone else’s words—I won’t give away who—because, despite all his intellect and vocabulary, one often needs to dumb down a little bit to live happily. Here’s to living life off the book and being a dumb ass, as opposed to a smart ass.

Oscarzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (yawn)

Alright, at this point I’ve established myself as a movie lover. At one point in my life, I was also an Academy Awards lover. This year, however, I found myself not particularly interested in the circus event. Yes, I tuned in. Though, I do confess that I changed the channel during almost every acceptance speech. (The fact that I was changing to “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” is really a sign that the Oscars weren’t entertaining me as they once did.) I wonder if the record-low ratings reflect society’s agreement with my indifference. Perhaps I should see how the ratings were for “Sisterhood”….

I will commend Jon Stewart. I laughed aloud, despite watching alone, on numerous occasions. I liked the bit about black and female presidential candidates being an indication of asteroids hitting the Statue of Liberty. I thought the “Binocular and Periscope” montage was sheer comedic brilliance, as well as the “bad dream” montage. The irony with those clips is that the writers were surely responsible for their conception. If the strike had continued, I’m certain they would’ve just taken clips from other Oscar hosts’ monologues—probably the successful ones from Billy Crystal’s early years hosting—and not something as witty as binocular shots. It was an example of how writers do get the short end of the stick, for whoever came up with the periscope and bad dream monologues will remain anonymous.

There was something so anticlimactic about this year’s awards. I knew that Daniel Day Lewis was going to get best actor. His freakish technique, remaining in character on and off the set for the duration of filming, clearly puts him above every other actor who resumes their own personality when the cameras are off. Though it doesn’t make these other actors lazy. It makes them normal. Despite his talent, Lewis just gives me the heebie jeebies. Even Cameron Diaz, questioned about his style on the red carpet by Regis Philbin, seemed to be at a loss as to how to say something nice about him. I saw through her “Oh, yes…he’s extremely talented… Though we rarely interacted….” To fill in her pauses, I’m sure she wanted to say, “I couldn’t talk to that dude because he’s a psychopath.”

Between the obvious winners like Lewis and “No Country for Old Men,” the whole event seemed kind of stale. Also, there was no real reason to tune in for the whole thing, as I could certainly YouTube anything I missed. Hence, I went to bed at 11. With the instant gratification of internet clips, the urgency to tune into events like the Academy Awards is lost. It’s not like the Super Bowl, where no replay can touch seeing something live (think Tyree). The Academy Awards was almost made for Tivo. I mean who wants to watch 4 hours of over paid pretty people celebrate themselves? (Don’t get me wrong, I love pretty people and their equally pretty albeit outrageously expensive ball gowns, but do I love them enough to feel overtired on a Monday morning? Apparently not.) You’re better off recording it and skipping through the boring bits, which account for at least half if not 60% of the show.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t written off the Oscars just yet. I will tune in again next year because of moments like the binocular montage. Though I will certainly change the channel when they start showing clips from SEVENTY-NINE best picture winners. Seriously, life is too short to show us all. I don’t care if it’s the 80th anniversary. The Academy loves celebrating itself every year—regardless of whether it’s a round decade marker. I also haven’t written off the event completely because of moments like when Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova won Best Original Song for “Falling Slowly.” They were so surprised and sincere to beat out all three of Disney’s songs from Enchanted. Though, as Marketa encouraged everyone to have hope and keep dreaming (okay, so I did watch at least one acceptance speech), she seemed too real and humble to share a room with all the Hollywood egos.

Yet, maybe that’s the point. For every 5 Hollywood egos that are inflated at the Oscars, 1 or 2 genuinely good and talented people walk away with recognition and a little gold statue to show for it.

Definitely Amazing (do not read if you don't want to crave Mexican)

Definitely, Maybe was like a great plate of cinematic nachos. It had a great foundation of tortilla chips, with just the right amount of fixings--not to many beans and the perfect amount of jalepeno kick--all topped with a wonderful layer of cheese. A proper romantic comedy cannot avoid that top layer, though a well executed one uses the cheese as a compliment and not as the overpowering ingredient.

The movie listens in on Will Hayes, played by the beautiful, albeit plastic Ken Dollesque Ryan Reynolds, recounting his three life loves to his daughter Maya, portrayed by Abigail Breslin. Abigail Breslin is darling, though in a way that suggests she's well aware of her charm, which reduces it slightly. Of course, the stunning Will Hayes has three choice leading ladies: Elizabeth Banks, Rachel Weisz, and Isla Fisher. They all represent a certain kind of woman. The "safety" girl, the "charming heart breaker", and the "sarcastic girl next door." In a way, it's kind of an intense too-much-info bed time story to his young daughter. Maya is much more perceptive that you'd think: "Dad, what's the boy word for 'slut'?" Though, we're supposed to believe it's appropriate because Maya's school dropped the sex education class bomb on her, which sparked the whole conversation to begin with.

I won't get weighed down by the plot, since you can just see that unfold for yourself. I will say that I was utterly charmed by this movie. Of course, if you've read more than 2 of my entries, it's easy to see that I'm easily won over. Yet, this movie manages to be touching in a meaningful way despite the risk it runs of being completely cheesy. The fact that my brother, who has a critical eye for pop-culture, liked this movie proves that it's a successful romantic comedy. Of course this links back to the fact that everyone--especially guys--loves nachos, so why wouldn't he dig into a big cinematic plate of them?

I will say that my main problem with the movie was how "well" the characters aged. Basically, Ryan Reynolds and his ladies look 20 for the entire movie, despite the weak attempt to make them look progressively older with barely perceptable changes in their hairdos. Well, that's a bit off. Rachel Weisz looks 24, despite being 37 in reality. Of course, Kevin Kline, who's minor role is a pleasant surprise, definitely (not even maybe) looks old. I guess they thought one older looking character would distract us from the eternal youth of the other characters.

Will, who arrives in New York City from Madison, WI thinking he'll one day become president, has to settle for life's harsher realities. Plans, when you make them, often crumble apart in your hands. What makes this movie a bit different from others, however, is that despite the fact that life took him where he didn't expect, Will doesn't really have a chip on his shoulder. You truly see Will grow up. His maturation is a nice counterpoint to Kevin Kline's portrayal of a rather surly self-centered and, despite his grey hair, immature old man. It also helps that the movie doesn't have the the straight forward formula of plot set up, high point, low point, and then resolution. The bed time story narrative allows for a more winding structure that throws a few curve balls, kind of like biting into a big jalapeno slice on your tortilla chip--it's bound to throw you off for a second.

Okay, now I'm getting too cheesy with the nacho thing. The fact is that as I left the completely full theater this Saturday, every couple was holding hands, walking out with their arms around each other, or engaging in tasteful PDA. Definitely, Maybe succeeds in warming everyone's heart.

Love storybook endings? Look no further.

Okay, I know it’s been a couple of weeks since the Super Bowl, but the truth is I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the Giants victory well enough to write about it until now. As an English major, I have always looked to literature and poetry for the kind of resolution I witnessed on Super Bowl Sunday. It is a resolution so rarely encountered in life, but when it does cross your path, it is so awesome, so inspirational, that it brings chills to the back of your neck and a goofy grin to your face. I know that ESPN and sports analysts everywhere have already made the best points about the game—better points than I could ever make—but given that my blog tracks entertainment, I simply must write about the Super Bowl on that basic level. Super Bowl XLII was one of the most entertaining sports events we will watch in our lifetime.

The truth of the matter is that the Giants were destined to win. I believe this more and more as their victory reminds me of historic under-dog triumphs. People want an upset. I would go so far as to say perhaps the Patriots wanted it somewhere deep inside, underneath their brawn and football padding. Just look at memorialized victories, like that of Seabiscuit, the little horse that could. In fact, I think 20 years from now there will be a novel and a movie about this season’s Giants, much like Seabiscuit book and movie of a few years ago. Maybe I’ll write it just to prove the point. The formula is exactly the same. Seabiscuit triumphed over War Admiral in the midst of the depression. The Giants, and “little” Eli Manning, defeated the mighty Patriots, and their studly Tom Brady, in the midst of the US’s general depression over Bush and Iraq. The War Admiral-esque Patriots had everything going for them—the coaching, the playing, and heck, even looks. The Giants, however, were mightier at heart, despite their awkward and almost adolescent quality (though this may mostly refer to Eli). Tyree’s catch was also the “So long Charlie” moment of the game. The Patriots brief lead in the 4th quarter, just like Woolf pulling back on Seabiscuit in the homestretch, was exactly what the Giants needed to surge ahead.

So back to destiny. I do believe a football team will go 19-0. The team that does accomplish that feat, however, will face a more equal adversary in the Super Bowl to get their undefeated season. They will face the more stacked teams, like this year’s Packers or Cowboys. It may have taken just a bit more chance that the Giants overthrew those two teams on their way to the Super Bowl, but the fact is that they, at a true relative disadvantage, were fated to beat the Patriots once they stepped onto that field in Phoenix. History, both actual and literary, indicated that they would win.

Of course, like any of these storybook victories, no one is absolutely bet-on-their-life sure the underdog can pull it off. When the clock wound down to zero and it snowed confetti in Phoenix, the Giants fans I heard collectively cheering from every corner of Manhattan were voicing their euphoria and, more important, their realization that they knew all along that the Giants were going to do it. They had just been too cautious and humble—like their beloved Giants—to say it aloud. These victories are about the quiet confidence that goes unsaid. Arguably, Burress said it, but he made no promises. He didn’t exactly make a “Babe Ruth” homerun call. Yet, Strahan knew when he ran through the Patriots like hanging laundry. Tyree knew it when he almost casually used his helmet as a second hand. Moss knew it when he couldn’t complete passes. Brady knew it when he continually fell to the turf. And finally, Manning knew it when—after an entire regular season with an inability to shake off linemen—he shrugged off two Patriots as they grabbed desperately at his jersey.

You want a storybook ending? I give you the New York Giants.

Dex, you slay me

I’ve always had an irrational—yet arguably rational—fear of serial killers. I think it has something to do with the fact that I associate serial killers with the outdoors and the ability to sneak up on people in empty isolated houses. For whatever reason, I feel safe in the city, where serial killers get lost in the crowd, or at least the crowd prevents them from really lashing out. This was all just a flimsy theory, but it allowed me years of sound sleep, at least in New York.

This theory, however, was blown apart when I was given season one of Dexter, the Showtime series. Now I not only know that serial killers do, indeed, live and work in cities (especially Miami), but I also know now that they can be absolutely charming. I love the antagonistic protagonist, Dexter, FOR all his faults—not despite them. His appeal rests in the bad good guy theory that I delved into with my Bourne Ultimatum entry. Nobody’s perfect, and since Dexter flaunts his imperfections—as twisted as they are—we can accept him and love him all the more easily.

The true appeal of the show is the sociological and psychological critique of society. Dexter emphasizes how inhuman he is, not only because he loves to kill, but also because he feels he fakes every human interaction. He doesn’t fit in, and his outsider perspective shows humans to be odd, often malicious, and perhaps not worth fitting in with after all. It’s the age-old exploration of what is considered normal, and why exactly we hold such standards to ourselves. I don’t want to go into the plot, but I will say the psychology intensifies with each episode to a truly awesome apex in the final episodes. The problem with having the season at your disposal is that you watch too many in one sitting and may be prone to turbulent serial killer nightmares, particularly if you watch right before bed. I have managed to counteract these dreams by revisiting my thoughts on the movie Enchanted, which has enough fluff to blot out all homicide.

Dexter, a forensic blood specialist that moonlights as a serial killer who kills serial killers, allows us to openly embrace how fascinating murder is. It’s not that we want people to murder, but we do relish the ritualizing of homicide. Turning the serial killer fascination on its head and making us love the murder and hate the murdered is scandalous and, in a way, scrumptious. We happily stow away our memories of each episode just as Dexter stows away a drop of blood of each of his victims. Dexter isn’t just good—it’s killer.