Four guys from my team were on SIRIUS OutQ this morning talking about Gotham Knights Rugby Football Club. They really did Gotham proud with a hilarious and informative talk. Take a listen.
If Toby, Andy, James and Ted inspire you to check out rugby, be sure to come to our August 16 Boot Camp introductory clinic! Information will be posted at gothamrfc.org
Indiana Jones fought Nazis and ooga-booga natives in his younger days. Twenty-some years later, in both the storyline and in real time, Jones is back to fight secret agents—foreign and domestic—in "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull."
That the original "Indiana Jones" trilogy is an homage to old Saturday afternoon matinee adventure movies and serialized dramas was lost on me when I saw the films as a boy. Subsequent viewings reveal that the humor, political incorrectness and even some of the camera angles that Steven Spielberg and George Lucas brought to the screen are based on cheesy noirish films. Sometimes these elements are adopted wholesale and played straight; other times Spielberg makes light of these constructs or infuses them with bigger, state-of-the-art special effects. The resulting amalgam makes the films enjoyable for their mindless fun as well as their love of their source material.
At least the first half of "Crystal Skull" recalls early American cold war/atomic age neo-propaganda films and the youth culture films of the fifties. Once again, Spielberg and Lucas mine early cinema for those genres' pulpy fun and mesh it with a contemporary sensibility and effects.
Visually, 21st-century Spielberg films "Minority Report", "AI" and "War of the Worlds" have an eerie glow about them. The advent of digital filming provides new palettes for directors and Spielberg seems to have settled on this glow as his signature effect for this new century and its new technology. In "Crystal Skull," the ghastly glow saturates and hazes the colors to make the film seem older than it is. The effect also makes the computer-generated imagery mesh more seamlessly with the live actors and settings in most sequences.
Storywise, Indy is up against the Reds this time, as well as U.S. governmental spooks. The American agents (and their potentially interesting motives) fall out of the film at the halfway mark. Here, the film drops all pretenses of having a cohesive or even surprising story in favor of muddy plot points, extended chases and superterrestrial (or is it extranatural?) revelations. The script has fresh relevance: Russia 2008 looks more like the Soviet Union of old, and the current American political climate induces paranoia and limits civil liberties amongst its own citizens—just as it did in the Commie-baiting McCarthy-era in which "Crystal Skull" is set.
Cate Blanchett rocks a ridiculous black wig as a Communist scientist/psychic/fencer/whatever. Her one-dimensional character doesn't illuminate anything about the Soviets. In this way, "Crystal Skull" has its borscht and eats it, too. It's a dumb adventure movie that pokes fun at the Red panic of the fifties while it paints the Commies as a power-mad force capable of infiltrating American soil and stealing the U.S. government's most protected secrets.
I'm a big softie, so I'm happy to see beautiful, yoga-toned Karen Allen lovingly reprise her role as Mary Ravenwood from the original "Raiders" film. She is joined by her greaser son Mutt Williams, played by Shia LeBeouf. His character is a sticking point in many of the reviews I read. I love LeBeouf's Marlon Brando/James Dean homage, played understated at times, over-the-top at others—just like the actors he is mimicking. Ray Winstone is a triple-crossing archaeologist who has little to do but switch allegiances whenever the plot calls for him to do so. Likewise, John Hurt plays Jones' old mentor, gone mental, who babbles useful clues at just the right time. Both actors and their characters are misused. It would have been a better reveal for Hurt to have switched sides at the end because, by gosh, who doesn't love and trust wise, gay John Hurt? You expect treachery out of Winstone.
Harrison Ford is older and more weathered. But he's sexier than we've seen him in years, he's up for the fight and we're totally behind him. Toward the end of the film, Ford bridges the gap between Indiana Jones and Han Solo when he utters the "Star Wars" catch-all portent, "I've got a bad feeling about this." For an instant you can see Ford playing an aging Han Solo, called to action for one more mission—probably to take down a Dark Side Skywalker. (We can always get ugly Mark Hamill a ventilated mask to wear...but it might be harder coaxing Carrie Fisher to a Yoda class.)
In related news, I'm looking forward to the "Indiana Jones" Lego games, out this summer. Because I'm still seven years old.
Recently, I played a clip of Roxy Music giving a television performance of "Ladytron" in 1972 for my boyfriend. I raved about the costumes; the oboe and saxophone played by Andy Mackey, who wore a space overlord's jacket and gold platform shoes; Brian Eno playing his squelches on that early synthesizer along with Phil Manzanera's crunchy guitar; and Bryan Ferry channeling Marlene Dietrich, vamping through his torch song vocal.
My boyfriend asked, "Why is this different from other 70's prog rock stuff?"
I argued that Roxy Music—and their peers in glam rock, Marc Bolan, David Bowie, the New York Dolls—romanticized the hope and despair of the rock'n'roll jet set. Their aesthetic encompassed the ennui of vintage film stars, the sexual fluidity of German cabarets, and the old timey camp of the fusty British dance halls from which the band took its name "Roxy." It recontextualized these elements against the backdrop of gaudy futurism—a byproduct of pop culture's preoccupation with the advances in space travel of the late sixties and early seventies—and made something altogether new.
Recounting the weird interpersonal bullshit you put up with on the streets of New York is the oeuvre of my boyfriend's blog. I don't mean to step on his territory, but this evening—just half an hour ago—I was pretty skeeved out by a keyed-up admirer on the train.
He asked me what time it was as we descended the stairs, then he attempted a campaign of making eye contact with me. It's amazing what you'll look at when you're trying to dodge the gaze of a weirdo. "Oh, look! Water damage!" Then he followed me up and down the platform until the train came. I have little tolerance for strangers acting poorly under any circumstances, “flattering” or not, so I had no problem curtly and definitively fleeing my F-train Hinckley.
I looked over my shoulder to see that he had shadowed me onto my car. He sat opposite me and continued trying to grab my attention. When we stopped at the next station, I bolted for the door and went to the next car.
We all take second, third or ill-advised, insouciant fourth glances at handsome guys on the subway. (Or, as is often my case, at the wearer of a great suit or pair of shoes.) Following someone up and down a train platform is not something decent folk normally do. I have to wonder, Carrie Bradshaw-like, “Are train platforms the cruisey gay leather bars of the 21st Century?”
Let’s consider the similarities a moment: In both train stations and leather bars, you have loads of random people milling around waiting for something to happen. Both smell like urine. Both are full of loud repetitive sounds that assault your eardrums. Both are full of Bridge & Tunnel you’d rather not have to be pushed up against—unless they’re hot working class Joes, then you don’t mind so much. Both have sticky floors and their share of down-and-out substance abusers. You can find yourself stranded in a train station or a leather bar late at night while you watch men clean some tunnels. The soundsystems suck. There’s often a lame floorshow where it looks like someone is going to get hurt. Both can make you wish you’d brought something to read or that you’d just stayed home in the first place. And more often than not, you wind up running home to see if someone is looking for you on Craigslist "Missed Connections."
Keith Haring inspired me so much in my high school and college days. It was fantastic turning the corner of Bowery and Houston on May 4 to see this giant Haring mural reproduced to commemorate his 50th birthday
Part of me wishes I could have lived in New York in the 70s and 80s, when punk rock, hip-hop, the art world and Wall Street collided. Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Laurie Anderson, Klaus Nomi, Deborah Harry, Andy Warhol, Studio 54, CBGB, Paradise Garage, and cheap rentals—enough said. But I am fortunate to have missed many of the pitfalls of that era, not the least of which were rampant drug abuse, a citywide crime epidemic and the beginning of the AIDS crisis.
I could moralize that the decadence of the era had mortifying consequences and that we are better off now. But I'd be kidding myself. The difficulties of the 80s never really went away. One could argue that crime is down, but if the Sean Bell incident proves anything, there are still problems when the colorline intersects with the thin blue line.
In my thirteen years in New York, I've met many people who were young New Yorkers in the 80s. A lot of them miss the raw energy that New York City once had, but they also tell of watching people overdose in alleyways, or of going to funeral after funeral as their friends died of AIDS. To call them "survivors" seems dramatic, but they did weather an incredibly perilous time. The legacy of Keith Haring and his explosively creative decade is the beautiful, provocative art born out of dangerous circumstances. The lesson, if there is one, is to enjoy the moment, but take care of yourself and your friends. Even if we practice safer sex or party in moderation, accidents can happen. My hope is that I and my friends will always minimize that margin of error and keep ourselves and each other healthy.
Everything I've seen from Judd Apatow's camp has been self-indulgent. Raunchiness abounds but is supposed to be counter-weighted by genuine emotion—a trick that sometimes doesn't pay off. Beautiful women are charmed by paunchy schmucks. Scenes and dialogue are often improvised, an m.o. that has captured some funny moments. Too often these scenes go on way too long and I've grown restless in my seat while young actors with moderate talent spew "inspired" obscenities and stall the plots of their films.
The confessional nature of our society has made us tolerant of, say, Jonah Hill's endless monologues in "Superbad," like we are watching an onscreen enactment of his character's blog. (If I wanted soliloquies, I'd go to the Public Theatre...or...read my own blog, for that matter!) The overall effect is that all these films need to have about twenty to thirty minutes bikini waxed off of them.
"Forgetting Sarah Marshall" feels leaner than its predecessors and is therefore the most entertaining film in its niche since "40 Year Old Virgin." Rather than exploiting the beautiful female actresses' bodies, onscreen nudity is used to show awkward male vulnerability in "Sarah Marshall." It's actually a refreshing reversal and feels progressive, though the recurrence of Jason Segel's Boy-Jay-Jay had a male audience member sitting behind me squirming so much he told his date he was going to have to step out to the lobby.
In this film, Segel's sad-sack slacker "Peter Bretter" is understandably more attractive to his new love interest "Rachel" (gorgeous Mila Kunis) than her ex-boyfriend, a violent pro surfer. One imagines a girl who likes amped-up, dangerous men would likely overlook a lamer guy like Bretter, but in Apatow's world, flabby boarishness is tantamount to rugged sexiness.
Supporting performances by some talented actors—Maria Thayer, Jack McBrayer, Russell Brand—are refreshing next to Apatow standbyes Hill, Bill Hader and Paul Rudd. Rudd's dropout/surf-instructor "Kunu" is an inspired caricature, though Hader and Hill are business as usual, for better or worse. Jonah Hill seems to have two tools in his actor's toolbox: Filth-talking, sex-starved would-be stud and self-deprecating loser who harbors a variety of man crushes. In "Sarah Marshall" he plays the latter with great effect, with Russell Brand's Liam Gallagher-esque Brit rocker as the object of his affection. Brand postures, pouts and preens as the über-cool megastar vacationing with Sarah Marshall, his new girlfriend. Though completely self-absorbed, his character shows some heart in hilarious exchanges with McBrayer and Segel, offering them advice and acceptance like a comic emissary from Planet Cool.
Finally, Jason Segel joins John Krasinski ("Jim" on NBC's "The Office") and a host of other disheveled, wise-cracking actors in the current pantheon of Sexy Dorky Cool Hunks. Hats off to Segel for having the, um...yeah, those...to show his...yeah, that. (Hey, it made me forget Sarah Marshall altogether.)
There's an article in this week's New Yorker about the leaders, past and present, of the video gaming industry. It made me dig out my copy of “Sims 2” that I got last year. I "played" it once and filed it with the cd of pictures from my aunt and uncle's trip to New York two winters ago. I'm just not a gamer. But the New Yorker article reminded me I had a virtual dollhouse on my laptop where whacked-out bullshit could be experienced in a consequence free environment. Like it was Studio 54 circa 1976…or college.
I spent two hours building my first Sim family, The Scotts—Kevin, Jeff and Christian (their humpy cowboy roommate). It proved to be impossible managing three shrieking queens in a bilevel Cape Codder with no open bar and too many neighbors stopping by. Though the virtual making-out was kinda fun, I quickly got bored of rotating them in and out of the bathroom. Gay Sims—like their human counterparts with the clap—have to piss all the time. If they're not having to go pee, they have to eat, hug, relax, clean, shower. On and on. All of these desires are jabbered in their unintelligible language, which sounds like backwards Portugese. Their thoughts and dreams are helpfully exposed as little icons in thought bubbles over their heads. Like God or a nurse, you have to DO something about it before they shit themselves or throw a fit.
I eventually tuned out of The Scotts and turned off the game entirely. Later that evening, I rebooted the software to check on the boys. It seems the algorithms that dictate their mock reality just keep on truckin’—even when the software is off—because the new opening scene showed Kevin Scott in his bathroom, huddled over in agony, dying. His partner Jeff and Christian were nowhere to be found...apparently dead. A thought bubble appeared over Kevin's head with Jeff's face in it. It was an oddly myopic moment. Then the Grim Reaper appeared and hacked Kevin down with a sickle as Kevin yearned for his lover Jeff in a thought bubble surrounded by hearts over his head.
Game over!
I just hope their binary imprints are saved in the same folder someplace on my Mac so they can be together in Sim Heaven for eternity...or until I drop or reformat this laptop.
What terrors befell The Scotts while I was watching cartoons on Fox? Sims software made me a post-modern techno Yahweh. I was asleep at the wheel while my careful creations—made in the likenesses of childhood crushes and former tricks—died slow, painful, unsanitary deaths in their own filth, right in front of their glib, jabbering neighbors. The existential lesson is obvious: God IS one of us...and he’s busy eating Doritos in front of “American Dad.” So cry or pray all you want, cuz he’s not checking on you til after “The Flava Of Love Season II Reunion.”
Once the Scotts were dead and gone, I was free to indulge another family scenario. I started a Sim household comprised of me and my teenage crush, a varsity football player named Doug Hudson. I considered using my actual boyfriend, also named Doug, but I decided I couldn’t bear to see him die in our computer-generated household. And anyway, it was becoming clear that the game is an excellent place to work through unrequited love.
Doug Hudson and I moved into a doublewide in a quiet part of Pleasantville. He flipped through the paper and got a job working in a criminal courtroom. Something about the digital Turtle is incapable of holding a job. Or keeping digital Doug Hudson’s attention, for that matter. In the beginning, my character had options like, “Hug Doug,” “Flirt With Doug,” “Joke With Doug.” These actions were meant to lubricate our relationship and keep our household happy and healthy.
But Doug lost interest in Turtle and my options became less hopeful: “Break Up,” “Move Out,” “Argue With Doug.” Trying hard to save this relationship, I’d make him meals and entice him to the couch to watch television and cybersmooch, but it’s hard to actually control Sims. We’d end up on the lawn arguing in our underwear in the middle of the night.
One night, while my couple slept, the game dealt me a complete non sequitur. As I panned my omniscient eye around the room, I noticed there was a person in a bunny suit standing in the corner watching “us” sleep! A little background: I’m terrified of oversized things that are anthropomorphic and inexplicable. Statues, mannequins, monoliths...I have a hard time with all of that stuff. So I went house on this bunny. Digital Turtle jumped out of bed and kicked his ass. But he didn’t go away...and several Sims days later, I grew tired of beating on the bunnyman. I was also kinda lonely, now that my relationship was crumbling.
Eventually, I befriended the bunny. I’d walk into the kitchen after showering for the third time that day and offer the bunny a sandwich or a drink. I later found out that the terrifying furry apparition is known as a “Social Bunny”—a sort of social worker that the Sims architects created to interact with maladjusted Sims characters like digital Turtle. And here I’d been smacking him around.
A few actual (as opposed to simulated) days into playing this game, I got bored out of my mind making sure half-naked people cleaned the toilet and read the newspaper. I needed to clean my real toilet and read the real newspaper. Flesh-and-blood people began to look like Sims to me. When viewed from a cab or through a store window, people interacting in the city jibber-jabbered and gestured to each other just like their computer-generated counterparts. I decided to give the game a rest, putting my characters and their doomed relationship in techno limbo.
