Tuesday, December 30, 2014

This was my movie life in 2014.

Forthwith: the movies I saw in 2014, and what I thought of them. 

But first, a brief explanation of my scientific method of reviewing movies:

no stars: I saw this movie. I thought this and that about it. I cannot officially recommend it with any stars, although I may in fact have enjoyed it for reasons which I share. Or I may despise it. You'll just have to read to see. 
ê: I thought this film was good. It's worth seeing! It may not be the very best film I saw this year, but I liked it and recommend it.
êê: I thought this film was very good. In my decidedly low and flexible system of evaluation, I may designate a flaw or two. Or maybe it's like when I give a student an 85 instead of an 87. I have my reasons, okay? Which I may or may not share with you. It's a mystery, like why the moon is made of green cheese or why the Academy still has not given Leonardo DiCaprio an award.
êêê: The film in question is the best of the best of the best, sir.


According to my super-organized filmgoing records (not really a thing), these are all the films I saw during the 2014 calendar year:



êêThe Wolf of Wall Street: I thought this was a flawed masterpiece. Masterpiece because it does more than you think it's doing--sickens you, for instance, and wearies you--and the film does this even while you think you're enjoying it. Flawed, because even though it uses overkill as a tool to do what it does to you, it is nonetheless still overkill. I think this three hour spectacle could have been two and half hours easily, and I know which thirty minutes to cut. Even so, even so: I will not soon forget some of the scenes, most memorably that in which the FBI, in the righteous form of Kyle Chandler (and some other guy), comes aboard Leonardo's / Jordan's yacht and a battle of quien es mas macho ensues. We might not know the outcome of this battle until the very end, but when the FBI finally busts the crooks, I have seldom been so relieved in a theatrical experience. That's some serious filmmaking, there. Kudos to all for terrific performances, and for a film that despite its considerable excesses, has nonetheless stuck with me in a serious way.

47 Ronin: Why? Why did I see this, and why did I want to? Is it too much to ask that Keanu Reeves have a role that perfectly matches up with his idiosyncratic gifts as an actor, which I confess I do love? Well, this was not good, it must be said. But I wasn't sorry I got to see Keanu as a self-sacrificing warrior, even in a movie as silly as this one.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: Special effects of this movie that I admired: Ben Stiller skateboarding in various circumstances. A great, still performance by Sean Penn, supposedly in some Afghanistanian mountains (I think). A snow leopard, maybe. Kirsten Wiig singing "Space Oddity" in a village in Greenland. This is a movie that doesn't quite work logically, but it had moments of great beauty that sometimes substituted effectively for those lapses. Beautiful soundtrack.


êêêThe Great Beauty: Well, I cannot lie and say I remember everything about why I loved this movie, but I can say this: Toni Servillo gives a performance of complete attunement to his environment, every little thing in it, and his environment is: ROME. This film makes you want to open your eyes, your mind, your perception, your pores to life, and it is, in fact, a film of great beauty in the most robust sense of this word.

êêêStories We Tell: I finally saw this on Netflix after several people had recommended it. In fact, I had had every intention of seeing it, but for whatever reason did not when it was in the theater. It is smart and thoughtful and moving and driven by a restless question: how do we change--if we do--when the story we've told ourselves of who we are has changed? There's nothing else quite like this film, and I highly recommend it.


êGloria: This is the kind of film the historian loves: an intimate and intelligent drama about people living lives that feel real. In this case, a woman who is single, middle-aged, whose children are grown, and who wants a full life with love and things to do. She falls in love, has disappointments, picks herself up again. There is paintball action, but it is not whimsical. (I don't think that was a spoiler.) Come to think of it, this is the kind of film that *I* love. It was good.


êêLego Movie: Who can deny that this movie is splendid? Lively, funny, full of awesome sight gags and other higher-ordered wit. I got to see this once with one grandson, and once with two other grandsons. I'd see it again in a heartbeat.

The Monuments Men: Jeez, what a disappointment. Smug and pompous. And I think you know how I feel about George Clooney. George: Get a grip! This is not the kind of thing that a guy with your capabilities oughta be doing. Or, here's another way of looking at it: couldn't someone have made a more entertaining, less didactic, more fluid film out of this story than this? How about the George Clooney who made Confessions of a Dangerous Mind? GEORGE get a grip and make a better movie.


êThe Lunchbox: I liked this so much. Full of genuine romance and emotion, and sharp, and interesting. Also, my son was living in Mumbai, where the lunchbox system actually works in real life, when we saw this. I felt attuned to it and I recommend it.


êêêThe Grand Budapest Hotel: maybe my favorite movie of the year. Maybe. Here's what the film has to recommend it: a bunch of wonderful performances. Ralph Fiennes may seriously never have been better. I think of his performance as a masterpiece of comedic acting, and it will be a crime--a CRIME I say!--if it is not nominated for a slew of awards. (Insert diatribe about how comedies are always, always overlooked come awards time, and it is a crime, a CRIME I say!, that this is so.) Also: Tilda Swinton with crooked lipstick and crooked hair as an elderly lady. The list goes on. This film is wonderful and full of delights and is not to be missed.

êêVeronica Mars: (a) Veronica Mars the television show was a prize and ended far too soon. RIP. (b) the story of how Veronica Mars the movie got funded--i.e., through a fan-based Kickstarter--is one of my favorite things ever. (c) this movie probably does not deserve two stars on the merits. But it deserves two stars because: Veronica, Logan, Weevil, Wallace, Mac, Keith, and Dick Casablancas (looking exactly like the surfers of my own SoCal youth would have looked ten years after high school graduation) all show up for the party, tell me a story, and give me a romance that completes some primal longing I didn't know I was feeling. A+, Veronica Mars-ers. A+.

Noah: What a crazy bunch of Biblical folderol. Yet watchable. Noah, it turns out, has a death complex. However, the world was cleansed by a flood and so, you know, there's that. In conclusion, Jennifer Connelly.


êCesar Chavez: This biopic was maybe a little preachy, but it was also pretty durn good. It inspired me to learn a little more about Cesar Chavez, and that was a good thing. It also reminded me again--we always need to be reminded, why is that?--that change requires people to organize. Organizing isn't a one-time thing, it's a forever thing. It requires energy and it requires commitment. To remind the viewer of that political and rhetorical fact is a pretty good thing for a film to do. Nice lead performance by Michael Pena, too.

Draft Day: I cannot resist a sports movie. I'm pretty sure that there was some worthier film--possibly a foreign film--that I missed because I picked the sports movie over whatever that worthy film was. Also, it's hard for me to resist Kevin Costner in a sports movie. Just fyi. This movie, however, was not so awesome. Poky in its pacing, a lot of 'who cares?' in the plotting. Kevin Costner in wooden-mode. So, I made a mistake, probably. Full disclosure. Just keeping it real here in the year-end movie roundup.


êêLocke: Who would believe that you could make a compelling movie of a guy driving for 90 minutes (less than that--85 minutes!) and talking on his cell phone? Other characters basically appear, if they do, as voices on the other end of the phone. That is to say, the entire movie takes place in the car. Well, such a movie is possible when you have the secret weapon of Tom Hardy as the driver and cell phone talker. This movie works pretty much perfectly. 

êBelle: Tom Wilkinson and Emily Watson are the mom and the dad (or rather, the great uncle and great aunt) of the mixed race child of Matthew Goode, who has died, leaving the child with these relatives to be raised. In England. This is, at least in some factual way, a true story, or true-ish. Anyway, in the way of dramas set in the late eighteenth century, with principled, headstrong girls as their protagonists, this movie was enjoyable and stirring. And: Tom Wilkinson. And Emily Watson. And (briefly) Matthew Goode.


êêêIda: Beautiful, austere, still, full of terrible discovery and yet meditative in tone. Set in 1960s Poland, it's driven by two perfect performances, the characters a niece and an aunt. The niece wants to take her vows to become a nun, but first must meet her only relative, an aunt, a Communist and an atheist, embittered by the past and her role in it. They take a journey together to make the past speak. This is one of the most fully realized films I have ever seen. It is splendid, and it must be seen. David Denby wrote a very good review of it, and by "very good," I mean "correct," and not "entirely wrong-headed," which is what I usually think about David Denby and his reviews.

Chef: Entirely enjoyable, full of good food and redemption. Which was fine by me, because it also contained a scene in which Jon Favreau and John Leguizamo sing "Sexual Healing," one of the all time great songs, in a food truck careening down the highway. If all you ask of your movies is that they be as enjoyable as a really good sandwich, I think you might enjoy this.

Million Dollar Arm: Sports movie, Jon Hamm, India goes to America. Workaholic learns to relax a little and value the people. Indian boys make good in American baseball. A curry dinner saves the (romantic) day. Lake Bell (object of romance) and Aasif Mandvi (business partner). This is all okay with me. It's possible that I have watched it twice? Can that be right?


êX-Men: Days of Future Past: I saw this with my friend, and it entirely redeemed a small professional disappointment I had had that day, which makes it aces in my book. Frankly, I'm pretty happy when Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy show up for anything at all, and it's icing on the cake with Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I can't really remember what happened in this movie--there is a time-bending element, I'm pretty sure, and that's pretty cool. Also this scene. So: this is a fine, fine blockbuster of the superhero persuasion (X-Men subcategory), and I bet you've already seen it, so really what I'm saying is: if you like this kind of thing, the movie is an excellent specimen of it.

Words and Pictures: It's Clive Owen and Juliette Binoche, two of the very best looking, sexiest, most talented people on the planet, playing a writing teacher (writer, sort of) and art teacher/painter, respectively. Will they/won't they? And what about the kids (high school students)? I can't believe that someone couldn't come up with a better movie for all this star power. But I went, didn't I? That's why they don't, maybe?

Maleficent: Angelina Jolie wears the horned hat beautifully. And her heart is softened. That is all.

The Fault In Our Stars: Super sad, with sweet sick kids. The most wonderful thing in this movie, and the thing that did seriously feel heartbreaking to me, was Laura Dern as Shailene Woodley's mom. Also, Willem Dafoe plays the author of a book the Woodley character loves, who is a serious jerk, thus adding to the tradition of authors who are monumentally flawed human beings. In case you're keeping track. I liked this movie and I certainly cried at it.

Rio 2: I went to this with a giant swath of grandkids and I believe I fell asleep during part of it. Beautiful animation. Jesse Eisenberg plays an anxious bird, thus adding another to his list of roles in which he plays anxious guys.


êEdge of Tomorrow: I'm not quite sure why I feel this way, but I kind of love a movie in which Tom Cruise is entirely successful, and this is that movie. Also starring a badass Emily Blunt. So, pretty much a perfect summer action movie which I enjoyed without reservation.


êêObvious Child: Jenny Slate, who plays Jean-Ralphio's sister Mona-Lisa on Parks and Recreation (Jean-Ralphio says that "Mona-Lisa's the worst person in the world"), comes up with this beautiful gem of a film. It's a romantic comedy, but it's also about growing up and making adult choices, which aren't easy and are sometimes painful. Gaby Hoffman is perfect as her best friend. I loved this. 


êHow To Train Your Dragon II: These dragon-training movies are the best. First of all, dragons in regular life. Second of all, super Vikings. Massive hairstyles and superb metal hats. This one has a rediscovered mother and the hero must face his dragon's full dragon-o-city. It's good and I loved it.


êSnowpiercer: I feel lucky that I got my youngest son to consent to see this with me. It was wild and madly inventive and super-violent and disturbing, but also really good. I read an article somewhere that detailed all the greatest scenes in this year's movies, and one of them, the classroom scene, was in Snowpiercer. I found this movie visually riveting. Recommended. 

Begin Again: second film from the Once guy. Not as good, not really, but still enjoyable. A lot of self-righteously passionate pontificating by Mark Ruffalo, but that was okay with me. I loved Keira Knightley in it, and I thought what's his name from Maroon 5--Adam Levine--was entirely believable as a pop star who had a hard time getting over himself. I enjoyed the music. The end.


êêêBoyhood: Another movie that I've never seen anything like, and neither have you. My daughter swears that this movie lasted twelve years, which is the span of years over which it was made. I thought that it had the feel and texture and smells and ache of life to it. The parents, played by a never-better Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette, were especially splendid. I loved this film and would say that you, dear reader, should not not not miss it. In other words: see see see it!


êêGuardians of the Galaxy: As much fun as it is possible to have at the movies, I think. With a terrific 70s soundtrack that made me feel happy at every turn. For real, I wish I could see this again for the first time all over again. Chris Pratt was a complete and total delight.


êThe Rover: Guy Pearce playing a relentless machine of a human, hell bent on getting his stolen car back in a post-apocalypic Australia. Like a dustier, darker, less hopeful Mad Max, with not as cool outfits. On the way, he picks up a weirdly dysfunctional Robert Pattinson, in a weirdly affecting performance, who has been abandoned by his bad brother. Bad people, in fact, abound in this movie. Why does Guy Pearce want his car back so bad? It is for the saddest of reasons. This was compelling and very well made.

Wish I Was Here: Do you like Scrubs? Did you like Zach Braff in Garden State? This movie was tailor made for you if you can answer yes to either or both of those questions. This movie is not a success, not really, but it had three perfect things in it: Mandy Patinkin as the very difficult father of Zach; Kate Hudson as Zach's long-suffering wife; and Jim Parsons, in a tiny little part that he nails perfectly. So, you know. Heartwarming and Zach Braff'd up. If that's your thing. I find Zach Braff, particularly in this mode, to be a little unbearable, but I will remember the film for the three other things.


êêA Most Wanted Man: One of Philip Seymour Hoffman's last performances. This is a small spy movie that is, in my opinion, perfectly realized. I loved it. Very sharp, and it serves as a reminder, as if we needed one, of why it is so very sad that PSH is gone.


êCalvary: I also loved this film, although I thought it was flawed, a bit. A priest gets a confession that is also a death threat  having to do with the previous sexual abuse of a parishioner, when he was a child, by a (different, long ago) priest. As the priest, played by Brendan Gleeson, goes through his week, he encounters all the people with whom he regularly meets, without knowing for sure who it is that has threatened him. The film has a slightly schematic feel to it, but truthfully almost all of that is discharged by the way Gleeson lives in his performance. He is one of my favorite actors for this reason. His daughter is played by Kelly Reilly, in a lovely performance. 

Get On Up: Fairly standard biopic, interesting if a little long. Chadwick Boseman should be liberated from biopics, because he is a compelling performer. Here, he's James Brown, dancing and lip-synching up a storm. Craig Robinson is Maceo Parker, if you like to keep track of these things.


êRich Hill: This was a not perfect but still affecting documentary about three boys growing up poor in a small Missouri town. When we saw it, I thought it made a perfect companion to Boyhood. It is a compelling document about what poverty means day to day to children and families in America.

The Hundred Foot Journey: Winsome and adorable, maybe a little bit too much so. But Helen Mirren can take the too-sweet right out of things, and thus, this was fun to watch even so. It made me want to go to France. And eat Indian food. Which I did, in the second case, and I will, in the first, if I can find enough quarters in my couch cushions.

What If: Gaa, why is it so hard to make a romantic comedy? Zoe Kazan and Daniel Radcliffe are the friends who should be more than that, but other people blah blah blah i won't *say* what happens, but you know what happens, don't you? Well, don't you? I forgot that Adam Driver was in this movie, and he made up for a lot of the blah blah blah. He is the best (see: This is Where I Leave You.).

Step Up All In: All I can say is, thank God for dance movies, and especially for the Step Ups. I remain firm in my conviction that Step Up 2: The Streets (don't forget to pronounce the colon) is the best of them, but the nice thing is, the girl from 2 returns and dances with/falls for (spoiler?) the boy from 4, which works out pretty darn well, dancing-wise. I guess what I'm saying here is, just rent (or buy--you might need it for a rainy day!) Step Up 2: The Streets (don't forget to pronounce the colon). It is the best and will truly satisfy all your dance movie needs, probably forever or until the reincarnation of Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, and Gregory Hines.


êThe Trip to Italy: The original The Trip, starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, is better. Let's get that out of the way first. However, what made The Trip wonderful is also what makes this quite wonderful, which is banter and competitive impressionizing, the specter of other people eating really delicious food, the melancholy of all existence. If that sounds like your cup of tea, then I suggest you arrange for a two-fer viewing. Salutary and delicious.


êêThe Drop: This was one of my favorites of the year. Just a plain, straight up, noirish thriller, starring an impeccable Tom Hardy, James Gandolfini, and Noomi Rapace (that's right--all of them impeccable), plus a puppy, plus a menacing Mathias Schoenaerts and other assorted thugs. It's good and if it's maybe a little bit by the book, as noir films go, so what? A by the book but well-executed thriller is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. As is Tom Hardy, and I am not kidding around there.


êThis is Where I leave You: This movie has too many people in it. And some of the writing isn't all that great. But it has Tina Fey, it has Jason Bateman, it has Corey Stoll and Kathryn Hahn and Rose Byrne and good Lord, it has Timothy freaking Olyphant, AND it has Ben Schwartz, aka Jean-Ralphio, as a rabbi. A family, led by Jane Fonda (!) is sitting shiva for the death of the father. Wisecracking, family crisis, and shenanigans ensue. Also heartbreak and romance. Also misunderstandings galore. BUT I still really loved it. You'll have to discount my star by a factor of whatever you deem reasonable, given the overkill that all of the above implies. Still, just wait: there's Adam Driver as the baby brother who is kind of a mess, and who is dating the inappropriate and still very sexy Connie Britton. Is this better or worse? I say better, and why not enjoy a movie that's a little bit of a mess, when there's still so much goodness? (that last sentence is basically the encapsulation of my movie-going credo, if you want to know.)

The Skeleton Twins: I was mad at the ending of this movie. I won't tell you what it is, but it made me mad. So I am not giving it a star, even though I really liked a lot of things in the movie, especially the chemistry between the two stars, and also the very good performance by Ty Burrell. Bill Hader is, it must be said, a bit of a revelation in this role. Fine, I'll give it a star. But only at the end of the review, because I had to talk myself into it.  ê

êThe BoxTrolls: Such cool animation from Laika, the house that also brought you Coraline and ParaNorman, both fine films in their own right. This story was a bit on the dark side for children, as I well know, since I took three grandsons. I loved its meditation on the lust for status and the loathing of difference, and found the trolls themselves, who wear, live, and sleep in the titular boxes, to be utterly and completely charming.


êGone Girl: This story--I say story because it's not the movie that I'm talking about, it's the story itself--is whack. It is a fever dream of a crazy person's nightmare of a marriage. So, that. While I was watching this movie, though, I felt all the sick pleasures of it, and the critical part of my brain--the part that actually does the thinking--only really engaged toward the end of it. Before that, I reveled in Rosamund Pike's beauty and Ben Affleck's perfectly performed lunkishness; Tyler Perry's sharp guy lawyer; Kim Dickens as the methodical detective and Patrick "Almost Famous" Fugit as her partner; and Carrie Coon as Ben Affleck's loyal sister. It was an enjoyable film, while it lasted.

êThe Tale of Princess Kayuga: One more beautiful film from Studio Ghibli. It didn't have the same gorgeous embroidery as Spirited Away or Princess Mononoke, but it was beautiful all the same, and affecting in ways I hadn't predicted. Take a child and see it.


êKill the Messenger: I hoped this movie would be as good as, like, American Hustle. Instead, it was a fairly straightforward and earnest movie, but I loved Jeremy Renner's journalist, working for the small town paper and getting screwed by the lying liars in SpyWorld-Inc., as well as fellow journalists who published disinformation that discredited him. It addresses the charge that was in some large measure substantiated that the CIA allowed crack cocaine to flood into poor neighborhoods of U.S. cities, in return for a means to funnel money to the Contras in Nicaragua. The film was complex and required you to pay attention. It reminded me of how fully infuriating all that was during that time period, how infuriating it remains. 

St. Vincent: What can I say, except that there were plenty of things I completely enjoyed about this film, even though it was, at some level, full enough of implausibilities that the enjoyment itself became unsustainable...until the next enjoyable thing erased my implausibility scorecard and I had to start all over again. Bill Murray is basically an awesome special comedy effect. There is an amazing sustained bit of footage that shows while the final credits are rolling. It involves a garden hose, a lawn chair, headphones and a Bob Dylan tune. You get that as both a teaser and a reward.

êêThe Homesman: I read some reviews about this film that accused it of being too square. Or maybe that's something one of my discerning friends said. But I found it devastating and beautiful, and its squareness, if that's what you'd call a traditional style employed in the service of telling a deceptively traditional story, was part of that devastating beauty. The two central performances, Tommy Lee Jones as a scoundrel saved from hanging, and Hillary Swank as a woman bringing three women who have lost their senses and themselves out on the plains back to a more settled town. Anyone who saw The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada will know not to expect the film to follow a steady path. Still, it surprised me more than once, and it broke my heart.


êêêWhiplash: I just keep begging everyone I know to see this film. Everyone! See this! If you're a musician or artist of any kind. If you're a teacher of musicians or artists. If you have ever gone to school, or think you might go to school, or live near a school. See this movie. It has a couple of excesses, but the film also puts its excesses to good use. Miles Teller plays an aspiring jazz drummer, a freshman at music school; J.K. Simmons plays a bandleader and teacher. Their agon is electric and toxic and unforgettable. 

The Judge: We struck out for the dollar movie mainly because we had seen most of the movies at the Broadway already and because we wanted to watch some movie stars do some movie star action. This movie has movie stars, Robert Duvall and Robert Downey Jr., and they do what movie stars do best: be watchable. This is a hoary, hackneyed script, probably, but it had plenty of pleasures, and who am I to tell you not to see it? (I feel like my rhetorical situation has gotten slippery here, since I'm the one who went to see it for a dollar and basically am asking you not to make me feel bad for seeing it. Which I don't, okay?) Also, Vera Farmiga is good as a hometown former girlfriend, and my old friend Vincent D'Onofrio is in it as an older brother. It's all good when it's movie star time at the movies.


êêêBirdman:  This might actually be my favorite movie of the year. Maybe. I've had and observed a number of conversations about this film. One of my good friends whose taste I generally respect thinks that possibly character development got sacrificed in favor of the arresting visual technique of the film (the seemingly endless single take; the visualization of the main character's former role's superpowers). This was the first film the historian and I saw in a theater after his surgery, and both of us found it amazing. The word I've used is exhilarating. I felt that the film's visual fluidity and incendiary surprises were a manifestation of the main character's outsize consciousness--his ego, his fears, his need. One friend read this as a male artist's story, but I read it as an artist's story, tout court, all the ways that creating throws one into the abyss, an abyss out of which one must haul one's ass and start over again. I would really love to see the film again--I love loved it, and I love loved the movies anew after seeing it. I think it is brilliant.


êêNightcrawler: This film is disconcerting and unsettling and nervy and visually sharp. Jake Gyllenhaal plays a guy who learns to shoot footage of accidents in order to sell that footage to news stations. He is skinny and hungry and articulate and spooky. So is the world of the film, an L.A. that's both recognizable and ghoulish. It was absorbing and unpredictable. A really unusual film, totally worth seeing.


êêêInterstellar: "So Interstellar is your top film, right Mom?" said my son, when I told him I was putting together this list. No. It's not my top film. But it is so good in so many ways, and chief among them is the way it makes you feel in a visceral way how time works, and what lost time feels like. The scene where McConnaughey sees the hours of video that his children have sent him while he's been out back of beyond in space is one of the best things I've ever seen. This is why there are movies, and Christopher Nolan is as good as anyone at pulling it off. So yes, it's on the list, my sons. It is a really wonderful film.


êBig Hero 6: I got to see this movie with a grandson, my daughter, and my son, and it was super fun. I really, really loved it. The visual conceit of Big Hero, who is an inflatable health care robot, is so ticklishly witty and charming that it is irresistible. I feel like I saw several lovely animated films this year. This was one of the funnest.


êêMockingjay: Despite the fact that this is an example of that loathsome trend, the divided final installment of a series, this film worked quite thrillingly, I thought. And it felt like it spoke right now to our current predicaments. It was unsettling yet again to see Philip Seymour Hoffman, like a blow to the body. I know that you wouldn't see this film if you weren't already seeing the entire Hunger Games series, probably, so the point is, if you are watching The Hunger Games series, then you'll see this anyway, but I expected to like it a lot less than I did, and in fact, I thought it was pretty great.


êêêWild: This film worked on me and for me in so many ways that it's hard to totally explain it. I think the most powerful thing is a self-made ritual for reconstituting the self--a ritual that demands something, that requires every emotional resource, that leaves something behind and finds something new, and that faces a heartbreak head on. The fact that the heartbreak is the loss of the mother is meaningful for me at a level I can barely articulate. I wept like a child in this film. I loved its love of the world.

The Gambler: This movie doesn't really work--it feels like a failure in the writing to me, but then, sometimes it seems like the writing works, for instance when John Goodman is saying the words, or Michael K. Williams (aka Omar from The Wire). In fact, all the gangsters are great. But the titular gambler, played by a skinnied down Mark Wahlberg, is a character I don't really want to care about. I'm not sure why I should, and I'm not sure what he has to give me if I don't like him. I don't require that characters be likable but they do have to be interesting. L.A. and Joshua Tree looked pretty nice, though. So there's that.

êêThe Imitation Game: We just saw this. Partly because a friend of ours recently died, and this film in some way connected to that loss in both our experiences of it, I found it very moving and profound. But it seems to work on a lot of levels. I'm sure I can work out its flaws if I wanted to, but I don't really want to. It's an interesting story, complicated enough to be a little challenging, and the figure of Turing, brilliant and often lonely, just spoke to me tonight.

ADDENDUM: êêêFinding Vivian Maier:  I loved this documentary. Vivian Maier was a woman who worked as a governess/nanny for years and years, and who shot a billion rolls of film, only a little of which she got developed in her lifetime. The serendipitous story of how her photographs were found is part of the story; the amazing and beautiful photographs themselves are part of the story; the meditation on artistic energy, enterprise, and ambition is another part of the story; and the mystery of who people really are, behind/underneath who we think they are is yet another part. This was a really substantial and rewarding film, and a little heartbreaking too. Really worth seeking out.

Movies I'm sorry I missed this year: Two Days, One Night, Listen Up Philip, Dear White People, Love is Strange, Under the Skin, Lucy, Goodbye to Language, Citizenfour, The Immigrant, and Only Lovers Left Alive.

Movies I still hope to see: Into the Woods, Big Eyes, Top Five, A Most Violent Year, Selma, The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness, American Sniper, Foxcatcher, Mr. Turner, and Inherent Vice.


Cheers to movies! Special love to the Salt Lake Film Society, where I saw many of these films and without which I wouldn't have been able to see many of them in a theater. If you live in SLC or environs, you should (a) come to the Broadway and/or Tower, and (b) become a member of the coolest cinema organization around.

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

End times survival guide.

End of the semester, obviously. What did you think I meant?

Actually I'm reading some fairly apocalyptic police procedurals, and my colleagues are having their Zombie Survival Guide event in a couple of days. We're running pretty low on snacks. I'm just saying, the end of the semester might as well be end times, maybe?

No, no, we're going to survive this. Here is my plan:

1. I plan to be caught up. One way to make the grading go better is not to have to dig oneself out a hole of tragic, ungraded work. I am pleased to report that I am altogether caught up (although this is a moment by moment thing, since students are still weaseling late assignments in on Canvas like, oh, late assignment, nbd, Lisa will take it because she's a late assignment taker aka sucker). CHECK.

2. I plan to wear good outfits and comfortable shoes. Good outfits take everything from the "this is bearable" level to the "I will crush this" level. And my new no uncomfortable shoes policy has literally revolutionized my attitude. (Am I overstating? Possibly. But it's almost as if one's baseline well-being radiates out and up from the foot's kajillion tiny little bones and their companionate muscles, tendons, and nerves.)

3. I plan to keep reading fairly apocalyptic police procedurals, as well as any other damn thing I feel like reading.

4. I plan to recognize that no single friend of mine will lose his or her mind if I don't make them a bottle of homemade orange extract or some other thing that requires buying (a) bottles and (b) expensive spirits and (c) worrying that I didn't start the extraction soon enough and (d) other related gift-giving nonsense.

5. I plan to sleep, at least a little more than usual. At this point in the year, shouldn't I be hibernating like a French peasant anyway?

6. I plan to take a walk, to go to the gym, and to be on speaking terms with my dog.

7. I plan to give some of the stuff in my house away. Like books and clothes and food.

8. But above all, I intend to buy more and better snacks. Grading is hungry work.

Monday, December 01, 2014

Notes for December.

Here are the things I want to do in December so far.

See a billion movies.
Bake and eat cookies.
Make delicious wintry dinners.
Eat pancakes.
Get a Christmas tree.
Read.
Nap.
Look at Christmas lights, the more colors and blow up figures and white-light-reindeer the better.
Go to Louisiana for college daughter's graduation!
Have piles of family fun with the folks around here, and those visiting.
Possibly take on an epic television program like (finally) Breaking Bad.
OR just watch a zillion episodes of Modern Family or so.

I would like to go for a wander downtown or around a neighborhood with my camera.
I would like to walk someplace where there is water.


This little listicle does not really comprise a story, it is desultory and generic. But I tell you, tonight while we were walking with Bruiser, we walked past a house that had a snowman with lights that changed colors, including all pink, and I thought: December, it is on. Bring me your everything: your evergreen, your wreath, your tangled strands with fizzly bulbs, your too much noise and crowds and excess of desire, your quiet and melancholy. Bring the darkest night. Bring your stars and bring the cold. Bring snow. I'm in the mood for a solstice and a nativity, for song and candles: let's sing and light them together.


Sunday, November 30, 2014

And the sauce shall have depth of flavor, and mystery.

This is a little culinary history. Well, a little of my culinary history.

I. In olden times. Back in the olden times, when I was a lass, and the Mormons had Primary during the week, my mother often left me in charge of dinner. Usually I had instructions. My mother made the best spaghetti sauce, which upon occasion I was asked to prepare. It was the sauce of the meaty variety--a bolognese, as some more sophisticated sorts may call it, but we called it spaghetti sauce and we liked it. It tasted dark and thoroughly cooked. There may have been a seasoning envelope, as folk were wont to use in those days. Or there may have been dried herbs in bottles. Whatever. The sauce was good. And the parmesan came in a green foil-wrapped cardboard dispenser.

II. The middle years. Back when I was a young person, I became a vegetarian. The meat sauce, she was no longer my gig. Instead, I assembled a variety of vegetables that made what I considered to be a pretty darn good sauce. It included chopped onion, garlic, mushroom, green pepper, and parsley, stewed in canned tomato sauce, or maybe bottled tomatoes that I had preserved myself. I loved this sauce. I would make it and give it away to people who had just had a baby, along with a loaf of french bread that I had also made myself. I thought this was clever and kind, because the sauce could be frozen and saved for a rainy day, when all the dinners had dried up and the baby was crying. I made this sauce for many, many years. I am still happy to make it, or something like it, to this very day.

III. The latter days. In which I learned to roast tomatoes, thereby creating an even greater depth of flavor, as the tomatoes took on a caramelized flavor from the roasting and the concentration of the sugars, etc. These tomatoes could be thawed and chopped and used as is, or they could be further stewed and made into a saucier sauce.

IV. A short note about noodles. Linguine, obviously. So suave. But also any of the long thin noodles. I am not a fan of fettucine. The broadness leads to uneven cooking. Maybe I'm impatient, which is why: linguine.

V. A short note about herbs. The advent of widely available fresh basil basically changed everything, of course, so much so that where, back in the middle years, I would move through a bottle of dried basil at a pretty good clip, now I don't have any dried basil in the house.

VI. A short note about chopped sauces. When it's summertime and the tomatoes are fat and luscious, it makes no sense to cook a sauce, to my mind. You just chop all the things that might go into the sauce, at a smallish dice, and put them on the hot noodles. They will melt a little and be the very glory of summer, especially if you have peaches for dessert.

VII. The sauce I made tonight. Tonight, my grandson gave me a call to see if there was something good cooking over at our house. 'We were actually going to eat leftovers,' I said, truthfully. My grandson said, 'Couldn't you make something better? Like pancakes?'

Or noodles, I thought. So I bestirred myself to seek the provisions of my house, to try to rustle up some sauce.

First: I had about a third of a packet each of four different kinds of pasta. So: mixed pasta. This requires some deft timing of when you add which kind of pasta to the boiling water. You'll be happy to know that you can cook penne and mini farfalle together, as long as you give the penne about a minute and a half headstart.

Second: no parsley, no basil, no peppers. I had an onion, several fresh-ish cloves of garlic, six small portobello mushrooms, and some greens.

I chopped the onion and garlic and began sautéing in olive oil. Then I chopped the mushrooms with haste and anxiety, since many in my family are not fans of mushrooms, but I planned to blend the sauce, so the mushrooms would not be in evidence. If anyone saw them, though, all bets would be off. I chopped the greens and added them to the pan. Then I took a big can of San Marzano crushed tomatoes and started blending.

My blender complained a little bit, but I kept adding tomatoes and a little water and giving it a little prod now and then, and we got a good, no-chunks sauce flecked with green. I put it back in the pan and added a little more water, then a nice sprig of rosemary for something a little sharp in the background.

My daughter and grandkids arrived. My daughter said, 'Mmm, it smells good in here!' Oh, good, I thought. 'Good!' I said.

A minute later, she said, 'Are there mushrooms in the sauce? It smells like mushrooms.' And I was all, Good Lord. And then, dear reader, I briefly lied. 'No,' I said. And then, maybe fifteen seconds later, I retracted: 'Okay, yes. But it's all blended!'

VII. A short note about the other time I lied about mushrooms in a pasta dish. One time, I lied about mushrooms in something or other, probably a lasagne. My son asked if there were mushrooms, and I pulled the same logical shenanigans. Later, my lie was revealed and he has not let me forget it. Perhaps the memory of this mushroom-oriented untruth is what made me repent so quickly tonight.

VIII. A short note on pickiness. Other people's pickiness evidently turns me into a liar. I wish, therefore, for the greater good and for the strength of my own character that people would not be so picky. That is all.

IX. A conversation about mushrooms in the sauce. Then we had a lengthy discussion about the whole flavor and scent of mushrooms and whether this person and/or that person could discern the mushroominess within the sauce. I myself love mushrooms, and I wanted the flavor to have an earthiness to it. And let's be honest here: I wanted to make a sauce that was more than tomatoes and dried oregano.

X. The verdict. And if I do say so myself, it was good.


Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Scenes from the night before Thanksgiving.

1. At the noodle restaurant: New trainee at the cash register. The people ahead of us seem to have an extensive and very complicated order. One factor is that on this, the night before Thanksgiving, there appears to be no spaghetti, just penne. I spot one of my students, who comes over to say hi.  She's such a good student. We are both very pleased to introduce one another to our respective dining partners.

2. In my kitchen: I take the two-tined chocolate dipping fork that I bought that one year when I thought I would become a master chocolatier (nope!) and pierce two pumpkins and two squashes, then put them in the oven to roast. I consult the pumpkin pie recipe I'm considering. Actually, I'm making two pumpkin pies, one my regular with the candied ginger, then the other, still theoretical pie, with garam masala in it. This may be a bad idea. I'm still just thinking about it.

Anyway, I realize that I need a piece of ginger. Ginger itself. Which I don't have in my refrigerator, as it turns out. Gotta go to the store.

3. Outside the grocery store: there are two guys--father and son?--who are perusing the RedBox with serious intent.

4. At the grocery store: there are a lot of people, but there is a ton of ginger, ginger itself. Also, it occurs to me that I may need some non-nonsensical lettuce (I have two kinds of endive and a lot of arugula) for the salad I am taking tomorrow. So: some more organic greens of the non-pungent variety. And cherry turnovers also. Because there they were, looking eminently edible.

There are a zillion people at the store. The lady in front of me in line at the cashiers, like me, discovered a crucial missing ingredient. Turns out she had no corn starch, a necessity for the coconut cream pie she's making for dinner tomorrow.

5. Outside the grocery store: two guys still talking over the RedBox options.

6. At home: the kitchen smells beautifully of roasting squash.

7. Somebody: still needs to make pie crust.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Today.

Today, like many of you, I have been reading. Many of these pieces I first encountered on Facebook, for which I thank my friends and acquaintances:


Jeffrey Toobin, "How Not to Use a Grand Jury"

Carol Anderson from the Washington Post (August 29), "Ferguson isn't about black rage against cops. It's white rage against progress."


From Heather Armstrong, "A Syllabus for Thanksgiving Break"

Chase Madar from The Nation, "Why It's Impossible to Indict a Cop"

"Situation 6 from CITIZEN by Claudia Rankine in collaboration with John Lucas" on Vimeo.

Jamelle Bouie on Slate, "Justifying Homicide"

Syreeta McFadden in The Guardian, "Ferguson, goddamn"

Aida Manduley, "The Ferguson Masterpost"


It's not enough, not an adequate response, to read and repost and read some more.



Adding: "Why Ferguson Burns," from The Nation. 
"So yes, Ferguson is on fire. Black America, brown America, poor America is on fire. And these embers of rage will smolder and flare until our out-of-control “justice” system is thoroughly reformed."

Monday, November 24, 2014

In which I write another post for this blog, for no apparent reason.

Five good things:

1. Chinese takeout, just waiting to be dinner.
2. A cold walk on a brilliant afternoon.
3. Possibly the best socks ever.
4. The proximity of no more grading for a week. Almost there!
5. Such good movies on the horizon.

Oh, okay. A few more:

6. Thanksgiving is just around the corner!
7. Ergo, pie!
8. My LSU daughter is just about to graduate!
9. Ergo, beignets! in New Orleans!
10. Yesterday, I wrote a poem. For no good reason!

Let's see if I can blog again tomorrow for no apparent reason.

Wednesday, October 08, 2014

Some things about the hospital.

1. No one, and I mean no one, can predict when the doctor is going to come around. 

Except for that 6:30 a.m. rounds thing.

2. I have eaten the same sad salad at the salad bar too many times.

Lettuce, kidney beans, mushrooms, carrots, cucumbers. Croutons, a few. Some sort of ranch-y dressing. What can I say? It is my go-to salad bar salad, and unless the salad bar is quite fancy, it'll do, or have to do.

3. Places I have spent a lot of time: 

The surgical waiting room. The CVICU. The Starbucks in the lobby. The cafeteria.

4. There is fairly reliable wireless. So you can "teach" from the hospital.

5. Your nurses are what you have going for you, most of the time.

Most of them are pretty awesome.

6. When things get unnerving, the whole gamut of medical professionals are an awesome team.

However, the minute there are a million specialists coming in and out of the room, you can have a bunch of different narratives of what is happening, and someone needs to be there to synthesize. And critically think. And generally to resist, even if for a few moments.

7. It would be amazing to be able to ward off their worst case scenarios. Like, with a shield or something.

I would tell you some of the scenarios spoken in certain ICU rooms, but you, dear reader, don't really need that. You really don't.

8.  The doctor will say things to you, but unless he writes it down, it's as if you made it up.

You know, when you try to tell it to a nurse later. Is it rude to say to the doctor, "So are you writing that down?"

Also, today, when we were trying to track down a chimerical order that was spoken but not written, one of our nurses said, "I'm gonna see if I can track down those CT desperadoes and get to the bottom of this."

9. I wish I could send a dozen roses to one of our nurses from the ICU. 

Because he was splendid.

10. In the cafeteria's favor, they do have Banbury Cross doughnuts.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The best/worst. (medical edition)

a marble impression of the IV trolley.
1. the ICU. So much beeping. So many alarms! The IV contraption is Medean in its multi-stranded-ness. So many people coming in and out with medications and blood to draw and ideas about how
you should get up and walk. And the beds. So, so uncomfortable. YET: when they transfer you upstairs to the counterintuitively named "step down" unit, with its heavy solid door and its much more quiet, you kind of worry they've forgotten you. What about all the needs? what about the alarms that go off and nobody comes? In the ICU this never would happen.

a bunch of people who can describe part of the problem.
2. Specialists. The Social Worker. The Case Manager. The Physician's Assistant. The Anesthesiologist, both attending and resident. The ICU nurses. The Respiratory Therapist. The Dietician. The Hematologist. They all know so much! Yet not a soul of them can tell you, really, how's he doing. Except maybe...



THIS GUY.
3. The Surgeon. Who is the best. No, really: the best. He might be a hero, in fact. He comes in at
6:30 for rounds with the medical students or interns or residents or whatever they are, their tired yet young faces fixed on his. He says, "The Historian is a X-year-old man..." and then gives the historian's case history. There's a lot of interesting stuff there, what with the factors and the surgery and the developments and the ins and outs and what have yous. Then, he steps into your room for all of 45 seconds to say that, despite this or that serious GD big effing deal that is causing you to lose sleep and possibly be at the ICU at 6:30 in the GD a.m., the historian is nonetheless looking good. Looking good.

Okay then!

I love/hate this place.
4. The hospital. This is an entirely admirable hospital. It's publicly funded, and thus it takes Medicaid, which means that they take the sorriest, meanest cases, and do a damned good job of helping people get better. So when I say that the hospital is the worst, I only mean that I hate it. I mean, I hate/love it. I mean, I am so damned grateful for it, and yet still I hope that my days there are few and fewer, and that it won't be long at all before the historian is in good enough shape to leave it for good.

But not until the hospital finishes its healing work with him, of course. Not until then.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Open letter to this week.

Dear This Week,

I wish that you were not driving toward a serious medical event, but you are. There, I said it. I'm saying it in a blog post stroke open letter that means, in some weird way, that I am trying to talk about why everything, literally everything has felt so strange. Like one's life is living one, and not the other way around. Is it stranger to talk about it, or to keep it to myself? This is what I've been asking myself for weeks now. Just like, This Week, I have been planning you for many weeks before now--before This Week. Planning how to teach after This Week. How to withdraw from any but the most essential commitments. How to ask for help (how does one ask for help? I think I would know how to ask for help if I were, say, drowning, but for this? how?). I have been trying to manage everything including my feelings about you, This Week. Maybe it's easier to plan and schedule and work and cram meeting upon meeting than to grapple with the serious medical event that is the apex of your arc.

On Friday, more or less the end of you, This Week, I will be sitting in the waiting room of a hospital while my beloved is in surgery.

On Friday, I will not be alone, but I will feel so alone. I know I will, it's just how I'm made.

By about midday on Friday, I will know the meaning of the week, the arc toward which this narrative seems to have been inevitably tending. I, who by training know that there is no one story, rather many stories, feel threshed and chastened by the power of this story. Helpless, maybe, in its inexorability. Is this a fruitful way to think about one's life? I think not, but there I am: I am at the mercy of this story.

I hope that you will be merciful, this week. I am, in fact, praying for that mercy.

lisa b.



Sunday, September 21, 2014

Never mind, I found it.

Tonight, right before we went out to take Bruiser for a walk, I received two nearly identical pairs of messages from students. The first went a little something like this:
"Dear Professor Megastore, I cannot find my assigned peer reviews! Where did you hide them from me, at the eleventh hour and three quarters? Why are you the kind of teacher that would hide something at the eleventh hour and fifty minutes from her students? Why are you so terrible? Also, can you help me?" 
And the second went like this:
"Uh, never mind, I found it."
It's actually kind of amusing--it's like the kind of teacher-story that the Universal Ministry of Educational Flack (UMEF) hands out every so often, so that teachers can regale one another (not to say one-up one another) over sandwiches or tea:
Professor one: (sipping tea and nibbling a biscuit) I had a student the other day who called me a wanker! In the class! Where everyone could hear! And I was being observed! For tenure!
Professor two: (taking a savage bite of his cookie) LUXURY! I had a student who threw sandwiches at me while insulting my teaching because he couldn't find his peer reviews, and then followed by a sheepish never mind!
--rinse, repeat, etcetera &c &c then there was no more tea and we all cried.

This pedagogical episode puts me in mind of every other different-yet-similar episode, wherein one person puts another person into a panic because the first person (are you with me? there are only two characters in the story, but neither of them has a name, because it's a generic story etc. &c you will simply have to pay closer attention!): one person (my son, say) puts another person (me, myself, moi) into a panic because the first person (son) can't find his, say, immunization records. And he's in China! and he wants to register for school! or something. So I turn up the entire house in its chaos, trying to remember where it was and then it always ends up with a never mind from person one, and that is, somehow, deeply amusing to me.

Here are some things, however, that I have not yet turned up, that I am really not amused about, and thus the universe stands, holding its breath, waiting for the sigh of a never mind to release us all from our panic:

1. this one poem draft that I remember as somehow having something brilliant in it but who really knows, because: poof. It is no more, and this was before the advent of the personal computer and files, etcetera &c the poem she is lost. (this happened a really really really long time ago. I think I better just get over it already.)
2. plenty of books, oh yeah. I just remembered a couple and I'm still kind of mad about them.
3. plenty of DVDs that people borrowed, I think, and then never returned, I'm pretty sure, although who can say, really. Maybe they're here in the "shelving system" that is really nothing but the Screwy Chaosimal System (say it aloud, you'll hear it) with no rhyme nor reason nor Findability Index that will work for a person with a working, data-organizing, normal-functioning brain. (also, I'm suddenly, and with exquisite embarrassment, remembering that I have in my possession certain DVDs that belong to other people that I had better return, pronto!)
4. two beautiful and inky pens that were (a) expensive and (b) given to me as cherished gifts from cherished people. Alas I believe I left them in a motel room in West Yellowstone, Montana, and lo they are no longer to be found.

But! it's 11:32 on a Sunday night and I have graded like a champ, done some subtle yet somehow critical reordering of my new manuscript, and it is almost bedtime, there is a lunch packed already, waiting for me in the refrigerator. Earlier, I helped my son make two casseroles that he intends to eat in limited installments until they are gone, and also I made corn salad! So all is well, order reigns, etcetera &c except for the fact that the DVR stopped recording before the last two minutes of tonight's The Good Wife episode--so we know only part of what happened to Cary Agos and we do not know which of the lawyers duking it out in the bond hearing prevailed in those last two minutes.

As my son says, tomorrow the episode will be on the internet ("I think if it's on the internet, it's legal"), and then we'll say (wait for it)...




Saturday, September 20, 2014

Things that are the worst: a short list.

Idiosyncratic, of course. Don't even bother arguing with me.

1. The conservative majority on the Supreme Court. And while we're at it,
2. the Citizen's United decision. And also,
3. the Hobby Lobby decision.

That's probably enough for the Supreme Court section of the The Worst list. Although I totally could go on. But I shall not. Instead, I shall move to the restaurant section.

4. the fact that my favorite Mexican food restaurant for several years running made a shrimp enchilada that was soggy, and now I must give that restaurant a rest while it gets its act together, I hope.
5. the fact that the good restaurants in my neck of the woods are thin on the ground, which means that sometimes we eat at chains, and mostly we just eat a lot of whatever's there. Also,
6. the fact that we ate so much Thai food for awhile that I've kind of had it with Thai food. Alas.
7. Applebee's.

Movie critic section:

8. the way certain movie critics just cannot stop being grouchy about Seth Rogen and Jason Segel and Judd Apatow. I mean, I get it, but for crying out loud, David Denby and A.O. Scott and David Edelstein: maybe just watch a massive personal film festival of your favorite heyday films and shut up about it?

Personal lifestyle:

9. the condition of my study.
10. the disorganization of my books.
11. there is tooooooo much food in my refrigerator, and, incongruously, it is hard to figure out something to make for dinner.

That is all for now. For now, that is all.


Tuesday, August 19, 2014

I'm back, and I have movie regrets.

Are you sitting in a big fat meeting? Where there are, I'm sure, massively important things being discussed, but still it kind of sounds like big fat meeting drone (BFMD, which is a catchy acronym for what is happening, which is, sorry to say, not catchy, not even a little.).

Sigh.

Well, not that anyone's counting, but it has been a long time since I wrote anything whatsoever in this space. Reasons? Oh, I've got reasons:

  • big fat family visit (BFFV)
  • attendant whirl of activities
  • attendant whirl of melancholy
  • etc.
Paradoxically, now that the visiting/summer are over, and the droning has commenced, I kind of feel optimistic. I have lots of reasons that this is so, but let's leave that for now. For now, what I want to talk about is this:

I have not seen as many movies as I think I should have. Not in order, and as near as I can figure out, here are the movies I've seen in 2014 thus far:

  • Wish I Was Here
  • The Lego Movie
  • The Monuments Men
  • Cesar Chavez
  • The Grand Budapest Hotel
  • Chef
  • Noah
  • Veronica Mars
  • Rio 2
  • Draft Day
  • Million Dollar Arm
  • X-Men: Days of Future Past
  • How To Train Your Dragon 2
  • The Fault in Our Stars
  • The Rover
  • Edge of Tomorrow
  • Maleficent
  • Ida
  • Locke
  • Obvious Child
  • Snowpiercer
  • A Most Wanted Man
  • Calvary
  • Belle
  • Gloria
  • The Lunchbox
  • What If
I have missed a bunch, and a bunch of good ones (The Immigrant, Night Moves, Only Lovers Left Alive, and also Step Up All In, which I can totally catch, and maybe later today, after the droning either ceases or I quit the droning, whichever happens first.). Also Boyhood, which I am determined not to miss.

Maybe I've seen more, and I just haven't kept track? Let me just say that I never intend not to catch the movies--I am a movie completist. But this year--this year kind of kicked my ass. Reasons? Oh, there are reasons. But I am going to do better. I am going to catch the movies this weekend hardcore. Boyhood at least and probably more. And Step Up All In. Because I am definitely all in for the dance movies, or I don't know what.




Sunday, July 27, 2014

Perspectival magic.

Today, I read this in the New York Times and it resonated hardcore:
Failure is big right now — a subject of commencement speeches and business conferences like FailCon, at which triumphant entrepreneurs detail all their ideas that went bust. But businessmen are only amateurs at failure, just getting used to the notion. Writers are the real professionals.
Just last night over an enchilada I was telling the historian how tired reading my manuscript makes me.

"But the poems aren't worse than they were. They haven't changed," I said. (Insert adverb, like plaintively.)

No, I'm just sick of them. Or right now I am. So that must mean that it's the downhill slope of summer.

I have had time to become sick afresh of my poems because my Scottish visitors are away--indeed, none of my children are here at the moment. They have been attending a family reunion in Logan and having a good time. Meanwhile, I have been recovering from a sinus cold and feeling a tad bereft. That's how I roll. Good times, sinus colds, limeade, bereftitude. It's a big fat aria of doldrums.

Did you start blogging again just to whine? I hear the people saying. Yes! yes I did, thanks for asking.

Let me start again. 

Here's what's been happening for the past few weeks:
Chalk art and breakfast and cookouts on the patio. Swimming with the cousins. Planting little pot-gardens. Bead necklaces. Stories at bedtime. Malcolm in the Middle watch parties. Doughnut tastings. A visit to the Museum of Natural Curiosity. Gardening in the evening. Laughing, quarreling, tears, and more laughter. Snacks galore. A full glory of summer childhood. 
Their brief absence over the last few days has meant I could take a nap. We went to the farmer's market and bought cherries and peaches and tomatoes. Of course, in the time they've been gone, I've also found the time to become weary of my poems, and to let melancholy bloom into view (as opposed to playing its usual gloomy bass note in the background). It's not like letting melancholy bloom is a great idea, I get that. But I have never been particularly decisive at marshaling my inner resources. My strategy is more to let the clouds cloud the sky--no one controls the weather--and know that they'll pass.

Soon they'll be back. I plan to bake this with them, and, I hope, see more movies, have more cool mornings on the patio, water the plants and discuss the habitat with the girls, make more Lego creations. We may need to eat more doughnuts. We have a handful to people still to see, and we need to finish one storybook and start and finish another. (I also need to unweary myself enough to make decisions about my manuscript...fresh courage take! Fail better!) An ending looms, but we'll all be trying to do that perspectival magic that keeps it at a distant hover until it is actually at the doorstep, with a bouquet of melancholy, a bevy of plane tickets, and an echo.








Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Written upon stone.

From the Lonely Planet Guidebook for Shaanxi:

























To see a library made of stone: yes.

We wandered through the galleries. Some of the tablets were under shelter but otherwise open to the air and elements. It was warm but not sweltering.

There was a time when people had touched the tablets so much that they were black. There was a time when there was a big earthquake, in the 1500s, and many of the largest and most important stones were broken into pieces. A scholar made smaller stones to fill in where the text was broken. In those galleries, it is as if the tablets are pages of a book. There were times when the center of power shifted, and the texts were lost to the "wild suburbs"; there were times when they were gathered together. The Nestorian stele was buried for centuries before it was found again.

It is a miracle, is it not, that any library survives, no matter what its texts are made of?

I suppose that a scholar would be able to look at the tablets and know things like the era, and the calligrapher, and the carver, and the nature of the text. The interpretive material was intermittent, so we could discern some of this. Not all. We could see, by the sweep of a cursive calligraphy for instance, that here we had entered a different period; by the minuscule, exacting characters, that perhaps this was a legal text. Each of the galleries presented its interests and its longeurs. We moved quickly sometimes, and lingered at others.

At the end, my son and I talked about faith on the steps of a gallery while we waited for the historian to finish his more deliberate examination. There were birds, and their song. A thicket of pillars with carved finials stood in orderly rows to our left. Stone is not eternal--it is susceptible to human touch and the earth shifting and burial and weather--but it feels eternal. Its breath is cool and unhurried. It speaks and it keeps its counsel.





 

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

On museums.

I picture the end of the Roman occupation of Britain like this: somewhere around the late fourth century A.D., people looked around themselves, said, Hey, when was the last time you saw a Roman tax collector? and proceeded to take stones and bricks from Hadrian's Wall to use in their houses, barns, and stiles. They didn't even bother to raise a glass. They just raided, and why not?

Much, much later on the timeline, we went to visit. What is the Roman Wall? we asked ourselves. We bought maps and studied websites and visited sites and discussed things amongst ourselves. There are ruined garrison towns and forts and all sorts. People are digging them up, and providing explanatory placards, and suggesting pathways through the dig. In a word, out of the ruins of history they are making museums: exhibits that narrate a lost past, a past that would be all but invisible but for these efforts.

°

When we got to Sichuan, we had toured the following:
  1. The Forbidden City (aka The Palace Museum)
  2. The Lama Temple
  3. The Summer Palace
  4. The Mutianyu section of The Great Wall
  5. The City Wall in Xi'An
  6. The Terra Cotta Warriors
  7. The Forest of Stelae (more about this in a subsequent post)
In other words, eastern China's Greatest Hits. 

[Digression: on a first visit to China, would it really be possible not to have gone to see these monuments? Would it really? If I were going back to China, I would still want to see the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace again, because I know that I did not exhaust the interest nor the elements of either place. In fact, when I looked at a map of the Forbidden City, I realized that we had only seen maybe a third of what there was to see. And we spent hours there. Hours.]

[Digression 2: periodically, when we ventured down some dark alleyway or gritty, unpicturesque location, my son would turn back to us and say, This is real China, as if to say: what you've been seeing heretofore has been prepared for your consumption as a tourist. Not this. This is unprocessed, unfiltered, this is not arranged for your comfort or your pleasure, this is how they do it here. Examples: shopping not in the fancy Euro-style mall but down the narrow halls with a thousand booths selling a mad efflorescence of goods. Taking the sleeper train from Beijing to Xi'An. Eating porridge for breakfast on some completely un-touristy street in Beijing. Real China. Whatever that may be. You can feel it when you're in it. Not fancy, not Western-fetish-style clean.]

Resuming the narrative: when we got to Sichuan, we had done a lot of the Major Attractions. (They were awesome.) We had arrived very very late the night before, so we slept in while my son went to class. For lunch, we ate Yan Jian Rou and had some green tea with his friends. We walked around the campus, just to see it, had a smoothie where he often has a smoothie, went to the People's Park. 

What do you guys want to do in Sichuan? This was the big question. We had four days left before we would get on a plane and fly back to our lives.

There are temples to see in Chengdu. Museums. One thing I had imagined doing when we first started planning the trip was visiting an ancient irrigation system near Chengdu. It was right beside a sacred mountain. Also, it happened to be not too far from a panda conservation center. Sights to see: restored and preserved ancient technologies. Shrines. 

We mulled our options over, and my son said, with deliberation: The more I think about it...I think we should go to Four Girls Mountain. 

I was surprised. He'd been somewhat resistant to this idea when I mentioned it--I've already been there, Mom. Let's find a place I haven't gone yet. Which made sense, and was a point of view to which I had come around, if a little reluctantly. He was there with his friend. They posted pictures. I wanted to go there too, to take my own pictures.

[Digression 3: Is picture-taking a motive in itself? Or just another way of seeing?]

He continued: If we go to Four Girls Mountain, we could stay two nights or three nights. You'll see these beautiful valleys. 

I was in. We talked over the details, and the historian decided, yes, he too was in. It would be a completely different experience than anything else we had done. We wanted to see a different part of China, and here was our chance.

My son: To be honest, I'm just so tired of museums.

I think it might have been the Forest of Stelae that did him in. He said, I liked it for about forty minutes. And it's true: it was practically an infinity of stone tablets, engraved with all manner of ancient and historical texts. It was mesmerizing, it was overwhelming. It was, in a word, a museum. A shrine, a temple. Exhibit. Monument.

[Digression 4: I love museums. If there had been, in easy proximity, a straight up art museum anywhere we had been staying, it would have been hard for me to stay away. I love the way an exhibit is a narrative and an argument. I love the way an exhibit, its specific articulation of a collection, its specific gesture of preservation, is a form of cultural love and attention. I love parsing exhibits, and I love falling in love with the museum space. I just love them.] 

As we walked through the first valley at Siguniangshan National Park, my son said, Now what is your favorite thing you've done on this trip? And what he was implying--that this, this setting, the high, high mountains, the shifting mist and the snow, the Tibetan stupas everywhere, was surely the best--seemed inarguable.

Better than any museum, he said. Arguing, but only lightly.

Friday, June 06, 2014

Les étrangers.

It is inevitable, is it not, when one is in another country, the way we remark upon our differences, large and small?

Huh, noodles for breakfast again! we say. Or why does that man have his shirt rolled up so that we can all look at his belly? Am I supposed to look at his belly? But there it is, right there, right there where his shirt is rolled up.

Like that.

Or the time we were in an elevator in Xi'An, and the guy in there with us glanced at us, then looked back in a series of lengthening looks. He turned to his friend and they started chatting animatedly.

He probably thinks you look like Karl Marx, I said to my husband the historian, who is (a) bearded, and (b) a socialist, not that they would know that, except that maybe the beard implied it?

My son said, That's exactly what he just said. He said, He looks like Karl Marx. 

And that's when he leaned in for a selfie with us. In the elevator.

In China, we were the odd ones. We were strange and exotic. My tall, curly-headed bearded son was, of course, used to it, having lived in China, at different times, for more than a year. I loved seeing how people responded to him, once he spoke, and how he was able to negotiate so capably in this place so far from home, in a language so different than his home language. None of this grace was an option for us.

If you want to say 'thank you,' it's 'xie xie,' he instructed us. We were in a grocery store in Beijing, our very first morning. We wandered past the vegetables, past the dried fruit, the practically infinite varieties of dried mushrooms, past the nuts, practicing this tiny phrase in a spectrum of pronunciation manglements. A lady sitting by one of the stalls smiled. Hilarious. I smiled back, because it really was.

The historian said 'xie xie' the whole trip long, like a champ. I did too, but more hesitantly and less frequently. No amount of phrase-mongering would obliterate our strangeness, our otherness. It was right there, written on our faces.

In Rilong, in western Sichuan, I admired the canvas shoes of one of the young women working at the guest house.  They had hefty tread, black, a black toecap, army green canvas uppers, laced up.

My son translated: my mom likes your shoes. Where can you get them?

She said we could find them anywhere, and when we did find them in a little shop on the main road, a small group clustered around, watching while I tried them on. A local man laughed, although not in a mean way: her feet are bigger than my feet! he said. Back at the guest house, when I came down to dinner, the woman with the admirable shoes took a look at what I was wearing: cotton trousers, a light shirt and light cardigan, canvas shoes. She entered some text into her smart phone, then showed me the English translation, which read something like this: I am worried about the thinness. Please put on more thickness so you are not becoming cold. 

So much the clumsy-footed stranger, and, in a corollary, evidently unable to dress myself appropriately. It's possible that I had to rescue myself from feeling almost existentially incapable a little bit every day. I found this to be one of the recurrent threads in the whole narrative of the trip. It was unsettling, but then, I think I knew that it would unsettle me. I had a talk with myself about it long before we departed.

At the moment, I think this kind of experience is useful. It's useful to be reminded that you're are not the prince of everything, or the princess. That the world is not yours to command, that you are every bit as strange to some people as some people are to you. Part of the grace of this kind of experience--the experience where one feels lost and graceless and incapable--is to be reminded that you live in the world and the world is not made in your image. The world is enormous. The big world contains you and you might as well keep your eyes open, to see every last strange, unfamiliar bit of it you can.

I think you can see why these nice people wanted
a picture with me. Because I am a celebrity, obvs.
(Xi'An City Wall)


Tuesday, June 03, 2014

In which we went to China (part 1).

You guys need to decide what you want to do when you come, said my son. He sent us the link to the Lonely Planet guide, which we perused and out of which we made lists. We had basically decided on the architecture of the trip--meet in Beijing, train to Xi'An, fly to Chengdu--but what would fill our days? What places, what things, what experiences?

Proposition one: China is bigger than you think. Even when you think: China is big. It's still bigger.

Proposition two: You can never imagine, not really, what you're in for when you go to China. Where you're the foreigner--really, really the foreigner, the true Other.

China just isn't China without the Great Wall, said my son. To which I wholeheartedly agreed. In a conversation I had this morning, a man I work with said, It's like when you've seen pictures of things your whole life, and then you go see them in reality. It's like when I saw the Eiffel Tower. I was pretty much, Yeah, that's what I thought the Eiffel Tower would be like.

The Great Wall is not like that, not really. I don't care what you think it will be like. I don't care what you've read, what homework you've done, what history you've assembled, what pictures you've seen, how many times you've viewed Mulan. I don't care. If you are on that wall, you are in another place entirely than the place you imagined. It is much grander and much, much more difficult. 

Proposition three, corollary to Proposition One: You will not see everything. Not remotely.

Proposition four, corollary to Proposition Two: You will hunger for home and home comforts--the internet, ice in your drink, a sandwich--and you might feel a little bit ashamed of this longing, but that won't change the fact of it. And you will confront your limits, also a non-negotiable element of being in China.

I looked up at the steps, the stone steps ahead of me. They seemed almost vertical. I had not imagined them. Even though my son had told me about this--had said, it's pretty strenuous, mom, words meant to warn me and encourage me to prepare--I nonetheless found myself looking up those steps and thinking, I don't want to have a heart attack on the steps of the Great Wall and also I don't want to fall down the steps of the Great Wall, and sometimes I thought those thoughts simultaneously.

I said, I don't want to... and my son finished my sentence: ...have a heart attack? 

Exactly, I said. And also I don't want to fall. 

He said, but think about being able to say that: I had a heart attack on the Great Wall! 

Funny, definitely. I found myself thinking, plenty of times during this trip, that despite the great anticipation I had had for this trip--despite the planning and the itineraries and everything we had done to get ready to go--I found myself thinking that China might kick my ass. If that's what adventures are supposed to do: dominate you and make you, basically, submit to them.

Well, the people, I did. I submitted, at least sort of, to China. I climbed the steps and rested when I had to so I wouldn't have a heart attack and/or fall. When we got to the towers, we rested and drank water and leaned up against the cool stone. And then climbed some more. To be clear, I was the main person who needed the resting. The historian and my son were, comparatively speaking, nimble mountain goats. But it was so worth it to be there. To look and see the wall snake away from us, over the next mountain ridge, and the next and the next after that. To be humbled by my limits and still press on.


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