Four Kernels*
Just caught the newest Meryl Streep flick, Julie & Julia, based on two memoirs: Julia Child's My Life in France and Julie Powell's Julie and Julia, an account of the year she spent trying to cook every recipe in Child's seminal cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and blogging about the experience. The film deftly switches between the two women's stories to show how Child (played by Streep) came to write the book, essentially how she became THE Julia Child of cookbook and TV fame; and how 50 years later her efforts inspired rudderless Julie Powell (Amy Adams) to get some direction in her life.
Much has been made of Streep's glorious performance as Child, capturing not only the distinctive warble, but also the infectious enthusiasm of the famous chef. Every superlative is justified, as Streep once again turns in a stellar performance sure to garner another Oscar nomination. She IS the definitive actress of our age. Unfortunately, her portrayal is so good that poor Adams bears the brunt of criticism directed at the film simply because her character is not as interesting or vivacious as Child. Other critics gripe about how Powell's character reflects all the narcissistic, celebrity-obsessed, get-rich-quick, etc. traits of the modern Internet generation. I think those who level such criticism at the film miss an important point: Powell would agree with them.
Based on interviews I've seen and read with Powell (an Austin native, BTW), her portrayal on screen---warts and all---is a fair reflection of her personality and life. In 2002 Powell was at a crossroads in which many young people find themselves: facing her 30th birthday and feeling like she had not lived up to her potential. As shown on screen, despite being married to a very nice guy, Eric (Chris Messina), Powell has no direction. A college graduate who was apparantly a very good student, she find herself underemployed as a calltaker at a New York center handling issues related to the 9-11 disaster. She has no power and must listen to a barrage of complaints and sad stories all day. It's enough to make anyone depressed. Add to that, she and Eric can only afford to live in a tiny apartment over a pizza parlor. Meanwhile, all of her college friends (which whom she masochistically endures regular lunches) have gone on to great career success and treat her like a poor, sad relation. Julie, who once aspired to be a writer, has nothing to show for that dream but one unfinished novel.
One thing Powell likes to do is cook, so she issue a personal challenge to herself to cook every single recipe in Julia Child's mammoth cookbook (524 recipes) in one year. Eric suggests she take the project a step further by blogging about it (in the movie she gets the idea to blog first, but in real life blogging was secondary to the experiment). The film shows how Julie becomes obsessed by Julia Child, reading all about her life as well as her cooking. The experiment yields some culinary ups and downs, but in the end, she succeeds in cooking every Child recipe and in having a hugely successful blog that spawns a professional writing career and this film.
The movie intercuts Julie Powell's experiment with the story of Julia Child, taking place mainly in France during the 1950s. One can see why Julie Powell felt a kinship with Child. Both were childless, married to wonderful and supportive men, in love with fine food, and looking for direction in their lives. Child, a Smith graduate who had once been a clerk for the OSS, arrives in Paris in the late 1940s when her husband, Paul (Stanley Tucci), is assigned to the U.S. embassy. Financially, she has no need to work, but she is bored with many of the matronly duties of other embassy wives. Fascinated by French culture, and especially French cuisine, Child enrolls in the all-male Le Cordon Bleu cooking school and blows away skeptics with her fearlessness. She soon becomes a cooking teacher herself and along with two French friends, writes a French cookbook for Americans that will transform the cookbook industry. Her later career as a pioneering TV personality is reflected only through taped shows that Powell studies.
As portrayed in the film (and in real life), Child was indeed fearless and funloving. The title of her cookbook was apt, as she was totally dedicated to the art of cooking as well as to the proper instruction of it. She and her co-writers toiled for eight years to produce the cookbook, carefully testing recipes and revising wording to make sure the text was useful for its intended audience. This was a labor of love and obsession, much like French cooking itself. There should be no shortcuts (a point well-made when one potential publisher insists the length of the tome be cut and recipes simplified for modern cooks who prefer working with boxed mixes). Not surprisingly, in 2003, when the nearly 90-year-old Child was informed about the buzz surrounding Powell's project, she is said to have dismissed it as "disrespectful" and "not serious." It is to Powell's credit that she neverlet this lack of admiration by her idol dim her own spirit. In fact, to this day Powell still talks about Child with an air of reverence and mist in her eye.
If critics think Powell stacks up unfairly when measured against Child, then they get the point of the movie and of Powell's experience. None of us can dare measure up to our idols. Julia Child was an original and trailblazer. That is why Powell admired her. By taking on the daunting task of cooking every recipe in the book in a year, Powell came to admire Child even more. French cooking (heck, any REAL cooking) is hard and time-consuming (since Powell worked until 6 p.m. and many of these recipes were time consuming, she and Eric often didn't eat until after midnight). It requires dedication and artistry, just as with other creative efforts, like writing.
It is no wonder that during the course of the experiment, Powell finally became the professional writer she always wanted to be. As she herself has said, the experiment gave her focus for the first time. Lest anyone think that Powell is just a second-rate blogger who lucked out with a gimmick, it should also be noted that she has since won two prestigious James Beard awards for writing about food (the Beards are considered "the Oscars of the food world," according to Time magazine). She may not be Julia Child, but she has a talent that might never have been tapped without the inspiration of Julia Child.
So, in addition to being a fun, inspiring film worthy of a Saturday night out, Julie & Julia also offers something else: reminders that sometimes we need to challenge ourselves to find out what we are made of, and that we can look to amazing women who have gone before us for inspiration. For some, this might be cooking 524 recipes in 365 days. For others, it might be training for a marathon, losing 100 lbs., or completing a novel. Whatever it is, the challenge is worth it, because if you stick to it, you just might find it opens up new possibilities in life that you never knew existed. As Julia Child might say, life is a banquet, so bon appetit!
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
DVD of the Week: Knocked Up
Four kernels*
Sitting through Katherine Heigl's less-than-impressive rom-com The Ugly Truth last week made me nostalgic for her much better rom-com, Knocked Up (2007). I remember actually seeing this one in the movie theater, inspired by its positive ratings and my fondness for the Emmy-winning Heigl from Grey's Anatomy. To say I was pleasantly surprised by how much I liked the film is an unstatement. I LOVED this movie, and still do.
What's more, I noticed an interesting phenomenon as I discussed the movie with family and friends. The people who seemed to like the movie the most were women over the age of 35, married with children. Young male slackers, who ostensibly might relate to the male lead and the gross humor, were turned off. I recall one college-aged relative expressing his complete revulsion at a memorably graphic shot of childbirth that produced appropriate fits of laughter among women who had personally gone through the experience. Once you see the movie, you'll know exactly which scene to which I am referring.
Why does this movie appeal so much to the hen crowd? For one thing, it contains the two elements essential to any successful rom-com: likeable characters whom the audience cares about and big, big laughs. A third essential element, which Knocked Up aces, are memorable and funny supporting characters. But what really sets this movie apart is writer/director Judd Apatow's script, which is so realistic in its dialogue and approach to family relationships that one wonders whose home he was bugging to write this story.
For those who don't know, the story centers around Heigl's character of Alison, a beautiful, ambitious entertainment reporter who is clearly on her way up in the world. During a drunken lapse in judgment, she winds up having a one-night-stand with total stranger Ben Stone (Seth Rogen). As his name suggests, this tubby, unemployed pothead comes across in the light of day as a mistake Alison would just as soon forget. She tries, until a pregnancy test reveals a surprise for these unlikely co-parents.
Alison and Ben decide to have the baby and even start dating while pregnant to try to see if they can make a relationship work. Along the way they are influenced by their families and friends. Alison lives next door to her sister, whose marriage to a nice guy and good father is fraught with tensions over unresolved longings and pressures. Their example makes Alison wary of entering into a relationship in which the two parties might wind up acting more like they hate than love one another. The conversations between this couple (played by Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd) are almost painful to watch in their realism.
Ben is a child of divorce who has never had a strong model for relationships. He and his slacker buddies live a carefree lifestyle in which their major concern is making the first showing of the latest big-budget action flick. It is to Apatow's credit that he doesn't make Alison a snob about Ben's friends. She and the buddies like and accept each other as they are. She just doesn't want these stoners to raise her baby, lest they forget which is the baby and which is the bong.
Inwardly, Ben knows that to be a good father and partner he will have to give up some of his bad habits and grow up a bit. Apatow's script reflects this internal struggle in a realistic way (save for one less-than-realistic road trip to Vegas subplot). Despite his atypical leading man looks, Rogen and Apatow imbue Ben with enough charm to make the audience understand why someone like Alison might be attracted to him. Another memorable scene involving an empty ring box had every woman in the theater ready to take Ben home with her.
This films resonates with hens because it is ultimately about the struggle to make relationships work. Anyone who has even been married, had long-term friendships, or raised children, understands that maintaining such close relationships is not always easy. Sometimes it is very hard and requires sacrifices. But just like the little bundle of joy that Ben and Alison ultimately bring home, the struggle proves worthwhile. For a reminder of that reality, get Knocked Up this weekend.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Sitting through Katherine Heigl's less-than-impressive rom-com The Ugly Truth last week made me nostalgic for her much better rom-com, Knocked Up (2007). I remember actually seeing this one in the movie theater, inspired by its positive ratings and my fondness for the Emmy-winning Heigl from Grey's Anatomy. To say I was pleasantly surprised by how much I liked the film is an unstatement. I LOVED this movie, and still do.
What's more, I noticed an interesting phenomenon as I discussed the movie with family and friends. The people who seemed to like the movie the most were women over the age of 35, married with children. Young male slackers, who ostensibly might relate to the male lead and the gross humor, were turned off. I recall one college-aged relative expressing his complete revulsion at a memorably graphic shot of childbirth that produced appropriate fits of laughter among women who had personally gone through the experience. Once you see the movie, you'll know exactly which scene to which I am referring.
Why does this movie appeal so much to the hen crowd? For one thing, it contains the two elements essential to any successful rom-com: likeable characters whom the audience cares about and big, big laughs. A third essential element, which Knocked Up aces, are memorable and funny supporting characters. But what really sets this movie apart is writer/director Judd Apatow's script, which is so realistic in its dialogue and approach to family relationships that one wonders whose home he was bugging to write this story.
For those who don't know, the story centers around Heigl's character of Alison, a beautiful, ambitious entertainment reporter who is clearly on her way up in the world. During a drunken lapse in judgment, she winds up having a one-night-stand with total stranger Ben Stone (Seth Rogen). As his name suggests, this tubby, unemployed pothead comes across in the light of day as a mistake Alison would just as soon forget. She tries, until a pregnancy test reveals a surprise for these unlikely co-parents.
Alison and Ben decide to have the baby and even start dating while pregnant to try to see if they can make a relationship work. Along the way they are influenced by their families and friends. Alison lives next door to her sister, whose marriage to a nice guy and good father is fraught with tensions over unresolved longings and pressures. Their example makes Alison wary of entering into a relationship in which the two parties might wind up acting more like they hate than love one another. The conversations between this couple (played by Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd) are almost painful to watch in their realism.
Ben is a child of divorce who has never had a strong model for relationships. He and his slacker buddies live a carefree lifestyle in which their major concern is making the first showing of the latest big-budget action flick. It is to Apatow's credit that he doesn't make Alison a snob about Ben's friends. She and the buddies like and accept each other as they are. She just doesn't want these stoners to raise her baby, lest they forget which is the baby and which is the bong.
Inwardly, Ben knows that to be a good father and partner he will have to give up some of his bad habits and grow up a bit. Apatow's script reflects this internal struggle in a realistic way (save for one less-than-realistic road trip to Vegas subplot). Despite his atypical leading man looks, Rogen and Apatow imbue Ben with enough charm to make the audience understand why someone like Alison might be attracted to him. Another memorable scene involving an empty ring box had every woman in the theater ready to take Ben home with her.
This films resonates with hens because it is ultimately about the struggle to make relationships work. Anyone who has even been married, had long-term friendships, or raised children, understands that maintaining such close relationships is not always easy. Sometimes it is very hard and requires sacrifices. But just like the little bundle of joy that Ben and Alison ultimately bring home, the struggle proves worthwhile. For a reminder of that reality, get Knocked Up this weekend.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Hen Movie of the Week: The Ugly Truth? Heigl Needs to Pick Better Material
*Two Kernels
The latest rom-com entry of the summer season is "The Ugly Truth," a movie I had actually been looking forward to seeing based on the amusing trailers and the casting of Katherine Heigl, whom I enjoyed in the movie "Knocked Up," as well as on the TV series "Grey's Anatomy." Alas, this is one of those films in which the trailer is better than the actual movie, more because of creative editing than because the marketing folks put the best bits in the preview. The ugly truth is, there aren't any best bits.
Heigl plays a character very similar to the one she portrayed in "Knocked Up"---a smart workaholic in the television industry who is beautiful, but unlucky in love. Here she is the producer of a local morning news show in Sacramento whose ratings are tanking. The station manager decides to draw in Jerry Springer fans by hiring Gerard Butler, a cable shock jock whose bits entitled "The Ugly Truth" purport to explain how men really think. His act relies on the belief that meaningful relationships are bogus because men are simple apes guided by their private parts. Heigl is completely repulsed by his philosophies, though he proves great for ratings. Against her better judgment, she even helps him perfect his neanderthal schtick, if only to save her news show. The best scene in the movie is a dream in which she imagines how far she might sink to his level just to win ratings.
Then, on a bet to get rid of Butler, she agrees to follow his advice in her own love life. Despite her best efforts, she can't seem to find the man who meets her 10 criteria for the perfect mate, until she runs into her doctor neighbor. Butler guarantees her success in snagging this perfect guy, if she follows his advice and changes everything about herself. Of course, eventually she figures out that the guy isn't so perfect if he can't accept her for who she really is. Guess who turns out to be the real perfect guy?
As with any rom-com, much depends on how funny the gags are and how much we care about the characters. Unfortunately, this one comes up short. I never laughed out loud once in the theater. A couple of crude gags involving soda spilled on a crotch and vibrating underwear simply fall flat. Despite an intriguing premise of discussing the differences between male and female expectations, the dialogue lacks wit and creativity. In fact, the whole film feels like an effort that never lives up to its potential.
And I never really cared much about the characters. Unlike films such as "Knocked Up" and more recently, "The Proposal," none of the supporting characters is interesting or funny. The best rom-coms know how to accessorize with a good supporting cast. As for the main couple, I just wasn't feeling the love. There are hints of a relationship building as a friendship grows between the two, but I wasn't sold by the finale. Also, while hints are dropped that Butler's character contains more depth than he allows for his TV persona, the story could have used a few more scenes to establish this nice guy lurking beneath the pig exterior. A few more tweaks on the screenplay and at least ten minutes of crucial footage added to the 94-minute movie could have bumped this from a mediocre film into a good one. Too bad.
Finally, it is a testament to Katherine Heigl's star quality that I enjoyed watching her onscreen, even if I didn't care for the movie. She definitely has presence, and based on her previous work (including her Emmy-winning stint on G.A.), she has talent. I fear, though, that she needs to be pickier with her big-screen material, lest she wind up shunted to the B-list of rom-com flicks. If she is going to stick with rom-coms, at least pick quality material. Better yet, break out of the rom-com formula and do something different. It is a risk, but one that has worked well for the likes of Julia Roberts. Not so much for Sandra Bullock, but Sandy is still making good rom-coms (see previous review of "The Proposal") mainly because her strength is comedy. She is more of a modern-day Lucille Ball.
So far, Heigl has not excelled as a comedienne. She is better as the straight woman or in drama (which so far has been limited to television), but producers seem to want to push her into the rom-com mold. I'm sure her great beauty contributes to such casting. Every rom-com movie-maker is looking for the next Julia Roberts. But Roberts won an Oscar for . . . a drama and successfully broke out of the rom-com mold. In that respect, Katherine Heigl has the potential to truly be the next Julia Roberts. Heigl would do well to recall that she won her Emmy for dramatic acting. She should take a chance and use those skills on the big screen. Just pick a better script than she chose for this lame rom-com.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
The latest rom-com entry of the summer season is "The Ugly Truth," a movie I had actually been looking forward to seeing based on the amusing trailers and the casting of Katherine Heigl, whom I enjoyed in the movie "Knocked Up," as well as on the TV series "Grey's Anatomy." Alas, this is one of those films in which the trailer is better than the actual movie, more because of creative editing than because the marketing folks put the best bits in the preview. The ugly truth is, there aren't any best bits.
Heigl plays a character very similar to the one she portrayed in "Knocked Up"---a smart workaholic in the television industry who is beautiful, but unlucky in love. Here she is the producer of a local morning news show in Sacramento whose ratings are tanking. The station manager decides to draw in Jerry Springer fans by hiring Gerard Butler, a cable shock jock whose bits entitled "The Ugly Truth" purport to explain how men really think. His act relies on the belief that meaningful relationships are bogus because men are simple apes guided by their private parts. Heigl is completely repulsed by his philosophies, though he proves great for ratings. Against her better judgment, she even helps him perfect his neanderthal schtick, if only to save her news show. The best scene in the movie is a dream in which she imagines how far she might sink to his level just to win ratings.
Then, on a bet to get rid of Butler, she agrees to follow his advice in her own love life. Despite her best efforts, she can't seem to find the man who meets her 10 criteria for the perfect mate, until she runs into her doctor neighbor. Butler guarantees her success in snagging this perfect guy, if she follows his advice and changes everything about herself. Of course, eventually she figures out that the guy isn't so perfect if he can't accept her for who she really is. Guess who turns out to be the real perfect guy?
As with any rom-com, much depends on how funny the gags are and how much we care about the characters. Unfortunately, this one comes up short. I never laughed out loud once in the theater. A couple of crude gags involving soda spilled on a crotch and vibrating underwear simply fall flat. Despite an intriguing premise of discussing the differences between male and female expectations, the dialogue lacks wit and creativity. In fact, the whole film feels like an effort that never lives up to its potential.
And I never really cared much about the characters. Unlike films such as "Knocked Up" and more recently, "The Proposal," none of the supporting characters is interesting or funny. The best rom-coms know how to accessorize with a good supporting cast. As for the main couple, I just wasn't feeling the love. There are hints of a relationship building as a friendship grows between the two, but I wasn't sold by the finale. Also, while hints are dropped that Butler's character contains more depth than he allows for his TV persona, the story could have used a few more scenes to establish this nice guy lurking beneath the pig exterior. A few more tweaks on the screenplay and at least ten minutes of crucial footage added to the 94-minute movie could have bumped this from a mediocre film into a good one. Too bad.
Finally, it is a testament to Katherine Heigl's star quality that I enjoyed watching her onscreen, even if I didn't care for the movie. She definitely has presence, and based on her previous work (including her Emmy-winning stint on G.A.), she has talent. I fear, though, that she needs to be pickier with her big-screen material, lest she wind up shunted to the B-list of rom-com flicks. If she is going to stick with rom-coms, at least pick quality material. Better yet, break out of the rom-com formula and do something different. It is a risk, but one that has worked well for the likes of Julia Roberts. Not so much for Sandra Bullock, but Sandy is still making good rom-coms (see previous review of "The Proposal") mainly because her strength is comedy. She is more of a modern-day Lucille Ball.
So far, Heigl has not excelled as a comedienne. She is better as the straight woman or in drama (which so far has been limited to television), but producers seem to want to push her into the rom-com mold. I'm sure her great beauty contributes to such casting. Every rom-com movie-maker is looking for the next Julia Roberts. But Roberts won an Oscar for . . . a drama and successfully broke out of the rom-com mold. In that respect, Katherine Heigl has the potential to truly be the next Julia Roberts. Heigl would do well to recall that she won her Emmy for dramatic acting. She should take a chance and use those skills on the big screen. Just pick a better script than she chose for this lame rom-com.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Beauty Shops as Sacred Spaces
Rebecca Wells's latest novel, The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder, tells the story of a woman whose destiny is linked to the perfection of hair. Early in the book, Calla Lily Ponder recounts vivid memories of growing up in the shadow of her mother's beauty shop in a small Louisiana town. The shop, wonderfully named The Crowning Glory Beauty Porch, is more than just a place where women get their hair done. It is a place for sharing gossip, learning the ways of the world, and in some cases, healing the soul. In one touching scene, Calla Lily realizes her own calling as she watches her mother ease a widow's pain through a loving shampoo and set---the beautician as minister surrounded by mirrors and shampoo bottles rather than stained glass.
Louisiana native Wells is a master at vividly portraying setting (always within her home state) and character (if ever a state was full of characters, it's Louisiana). In describing this small town beauty shop (called the Porch because it is, literally, built on the family's back porch), Wells perfectly captures the spirit and feel of the beauty parlor for women of all ages.
Which got me to thinking: what is it about this place, the beauty parlor, that makes it a sacred space for women? Certainly not every establishment that services hair qualifies. Suffice to say that most large-scale chains function mainly as a site of commerce for speedy and cheap service rather than as holy ground. Those are mere hair-cutting stores. But true beauty parlors still exist, those that feed the soul as well as set the hair, and not just in small towns.
Part of the beauty shop appeal is surely the ability to get together with other women, though men are sometimes allowed in (and small children, as my sons have learned). There is also an intimacy to the process of taking care of someone's hair, or even doing a manicure or pedicure. It involves the human touch and a certain amount of trust on the part of the client. Perhaps that is why so many women feel comfortable sharing information with their hairdresser, even personal details they might not share with anyone else. For women who establish a routine with a stylist, the relationship becomes personal. They have regular get togethers, sometimes as often as once a week, that rival any other friendships. It usually provides a relaxing break from other responsibilities, a time in which the client can "let her hair down," both literally and figuratively.
When I completed my first novel a few months ago, the first person I asked to read it was my hairdresser. I have been going to her for several years now. She works in a family-owned shop located in a building that was once a house and still looks like it. If you drop into the shop at certain times, you are sure to see "the regulars," like the Thursday morning crowd that gathers every week at 10 a.m. Through them I have learned more about public opinions, local news, and popular culture than I often do from the daily newspaper.
My hairdresser is not a professional writer, but rather a prolific reader and honest evaluator of written works. Age and gender-wise, she also fits the demographic of my target readership. I am not the first writer whose work she has evaluated. In a town full of artists, she has become a savvy first reader. A screenplay she reviewed for another client has been optioned and is in now in pre-production. For many years the late, great Molly Ivins was a client. This lady has serviced some talented heads. If we trust her with our heads, we can trust her with our work. She has a wisdom and insight that comes from years of living and interactions with the human race. It is that wisdom and insight that we seek from her during our visits, like spiritual pilgrims beckoning our sage. For our work to be acceptable, they must be blessed by passing "the beauty shop test."
In a world of cheaper and faster options, there is value in the healing, nurturing, and educational realm of the beauty shop. The sacred space that Wells describes still exists and is worth seeking out. Especially on bad hair days.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Louisiana native Wells is a master at vividly portraying setting (always within her home state) and character (if ever a state was full of characters, it's Louisiana). In describing this small town beauty shop (called the Porch because it is, literally, built on the family's back porch), Wells perfectly captures the spirit and feel of the beauty parlor for women of all ages.
Which got me to thinking: what is it about this place, the beauty parlor, that makes it a sacred space for women? Certainly not every establishment that services hair qualifies. Suffice to say that most large-scale chains function mainly as a site of commerce for speedy and cheap service rather than as holy ground. Those are mere hair-cutting stores. But true beauty parlors still exist, those that feed the soul as well as set the hair, and not just in small towns.
Part of the beauty shop appeal is surely the ability to get together with other women, though men are sometimes allowed in (and small children, as my sons have learned). There is also an intimacy to the process of taking care of someone's hair, or even doing a manicure or pedicure. It involves the human touch and a certain amount of trust on the part of the client. Perhaps that is why so many women feel comfortable sharing information with their hairdresser, even personal details they might not share with anyone else. For women who establish a routine with a stylist, the relationship becomes personal. They have regular get togethers, sometimes as often as once a week, that rival any other friendships. It usually provides a relaxing break from other responsibilities, a time in which the client can "let her hair down," both literally and figuratively.
When I completed my first novel a few months ago, the first person I asked to read it was my hairdresser. I have been going to her for several years now. She works in a family-owned shop located in a building that was once a house and still looks like it. If you drop into the shop at certain times, you are sure to see "the regulars," like the Thursday morning crowd that gathers every week at 10 a.m. Through them I have learned more about public opinions, local news, and popular culture than I often do from the daily newspaper.
My hairdresser is not a professional writer, but rather a prolific reader and honest evaluator of written works. Age and gender-wise, she also fits the demographic of my target readership. I am not the first writer whose work she has evaluated. In a town full of artists, she has become a savvy first reader. A screenplay she reviewed for another client has been optioned and is in now in pre-production. For many years the late, great Molly Ivins was a client. This lady has serviced some talented heads. If we trust her with our heads, we can trust her with our work. She has a wisdom and insight that comes from years of living and interactions with the human race. It is that wisdom and insight that we seek from her during our visits, like spiritual pilgrims beckoning our sage. For our work to be acceptable, they must be blessed by passing "the beauty shop test."
In a world of cheaper and faster options, there is value in the healing, nurturing, and educational realm of the beauty shop. The sacred space that Wells describes still exists and is worth seeking out. Especially on bad hair days.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Not My Son, You . . .
As I have mentioned previously, my Tweener is an obsessive Harry Potter fan, counting down the seconds until we see the new film. It has been quite the topic of conversation among his age group lately. Oddly enough, such conversations have had me relating to the Potter character of Molly Weasley in more ways than one.
Molly, for the uninitiated, is the matron of the large, but poor Weasley clan. Molly represents the ideal earth mother, providing a simple but safe home, always keeping tabs on the kids even when they aren't home, dispensing tough love as needed (try talking back to a screaming letter chewing you out in public for crashing the family car, as Ron endured in The Chamber of Secrets), lovingly sewing hideous sweaters, and cooking hearty feasts for any friends and family who drop by. But Molly has her penultimate motherhood moment in The Deathly Hallows, the series' final installment. STOP READING HERE IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS.
Okay, you've been warned. After evil villainess Bellatrix Lestrange gets away with killing one of the Weasley boys and starts to go after daughter Ginny, Molly springs into maternal action, screaming: "NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!" She orders everyone else to back off as she and the wicked sorceress duel it out. The moment is both shocking and rousing for Potter fans, whom I anticipate will cheer loudly when actress Julie Walters (who plays Molly in the movies) gets to shout the words in the final film. As a writer, I appreciate author J.K. Rowling's well-chosen use of profanity to make a point. So much modern literature and film overuses profanity to such an extent that the words lose much of their power. Molly is not a character prone to such vulgarities in everyday speech (nor, for that matter, are most of the characters in this series geared towards young readers). For that reason, when she shouts the words they express the full power of her righteous anger. Bellatrix learns it is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.
When my Potter-crazed son first read these words on the page, he was shocked because, as he told me "that's one of the worst words!" He also knows what I would do to him if I ever heard the term coming out of his mouth, even repeating the line from the book. But he understood what it conveyed about Molly's feelings.
So it was that I felt a sisterhood with Molly while listening to one of my son's conversation about Harry Potter. You see, for the past couple of weeks Tweener has been participating in a "Rock Camp," as in "rock 'n' roll." Musically, it has been a great experience for him, but his band's lead singer is tiny diva in the making. On day one, she came across like a Leann Rimes Star Search wannabe, hitting the high notes and trying to "work the crowd" even if it meant moving from her assigned mark. Since then she has insulted audience members whose reactions don't seem enthusiastic enough, channeled her inner Janis Joplin to brag in a gravelly voice about getting her coffee fix between sets, and basically made it clear that she intends to be rich and famous someday. Hubby describes her as one of those children who usually require a visit from Supernanny. She's something else.
She is also a Harry Potter fan, thus she and Tweener have engaged in numerous discussions about all things HP, forcing visions into my head of him one day bringing such a girl home for dinner. Pardon me while I shudder . . . Okay, all done. Yesterday provided a moment of sympathy for Tiny Diva. Upon arriving to pick up Tweener, I brought along a special treat that I had picked up while running an errand on the way. Tiny Diva (who is always picked up by a babysitter) wished somewhat pathetically that her mom would bring her such treats. I felt sorry for the kid for about 30 seconds, until, during the day's final discussion of Harry Potter, Tiny Diva felt the need to shout Molly's infamous line, unedited and disregarding any adults and small children within earshot. As Tweener shot me a glance that indicated he knew exactly what I was thinking, I declared that it was time to leave.
Inwardly, however, I was repeating an edited version of Molly's declaration. Sorry, Tiny Diva, but my (unspoken) reaction should you ever show up as Tweener's dinner date is likely to be, "Not MY son, you . . ." It is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Molly, for the uninitiated, is the matron of the large, but poor Weasley clan. Molly represents the ideal earth mother, providing a simple but safe home, always keeping tabs on the kids even when they aren't home, dispensing tough love as needed (try talking back to a screaming letter chewing you out in public for crashing the family car, as Ron endured in The Chamber of Secrets), lovingly sewing hideous sweaters, and cooking hearty feasts for any friends and family who drop by. But Molly has her penultimate motherhood moment in The Deathly Hallows, the series' final installment. STOP READING HERE IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS.
Okay, you've been warned. After evil villainess Bellatrix Lestrange gets away with killing one of the Weasley boys and starts to go after daughter Ginny, Molly springs into maternal action, screaming: "NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!" She orders everyone else to back off as she and the wicked sorceress duel it out. The moment is both shocking and rousing for Potter fans, whom I anticipate will cheer loudly when actress Julie Walters (who plays Molly in the movies) gets to shout the words in the final film. As a writer, I appreciate author J.K. Rowling's well-chosen use of profanity to make a point. So much modern literature and film overuses profanity to such an extent that the words lose much of their power. Molly is not a character prone to such vulgarities in everyday speech (nor, for that matter, are most of the characters in this series geared towards young readers). For that reason, when she shouts the words they express the full power of her righteous anger. Bellatrix learns it is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.
When my Potter-crazed son first read these words on the page, he was shocked because, as he told me "that's one of the worst words!" He also knows what I would do to him if I ever heard the term coming out of his mouth, even repeating the line from the book. But he understood what it conveyed about Molly's feelings.
So it was that I felt a sisterhood with Molly while listening to one of my son's conversation about Harry Potter. You see, for the past couple of weeks Tweener has been participating in a "Rock Camp," as in "rock 'n' roll." Musically, it has been a great experience for him, but his band's lead singer is tiny diva in the making. On day one, she came across like a Leann Rimes Star Search wannabe, hitting the high notes and trying to "work the crowd" even if it meant moving from her assigned mark. Since then she has insulted audience members whose reactions don't seem enthusiastic enough, channeled her inner Janis Joplin to brag in a gravelly voice about getting her coffee fix between sets, and basically made it clear that she intends to be rich and famous someday. Hubby describes her as one of those children who usually require a visit from Supernanny. She's something else.
She is also a Harry Potter fan, thus she and Tweener have engaged in numerous discussions about all things HP, forcing visions into my head of him one day bringing such a girl home for dinner. Pardon me while I shudder . . . Okay, all done. Yesterday provided a moment of sympathy for Tiny Diva. Upon arriving to pick up Tweener, I brought along a special treat that I had picked up while running an errand on the way. Tiny Diva (who is always picked up by a babysitter) wished somewhat pathetically that her mom would bring her such treats. I felt sorry for the kid for about 30 seconds, until, during the day's final discussion of Harry Potter, Tiny Diva felt the need to shout Molly's infamous line, unedited and disregarding any adults and small children within earshot. As Tweener shot me a glance that indicated he knew exactly what I was thinking, I declared that it was time to leave.
Inwardly, however, I was repeating an edited version of Molly's declaration. Sorry, Tiny Diva, but my (unspoken) reaction should you ever show up as Tweener's dinner date is likely to be, "Not MY son, you . . ." It is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Monday, July 13, 2009
Hen Movie of the Week: The Proposal
* Rating - Three kernels
It is Saturday night, the babysitter is booked and hubby and I get to have a date night. Yeah! He picks the movie, one of those romantic comedies marketed as the ideal date flick. Actually, most of the audience is made up of women obviously on Girls Night Out, with only a few scattered couples like ourselves in attendance. This is NOT the type of movie that straight men go out to see alone or in pairs.
We expect something light and frothy, with an appealing cast. We are not disappointed. This type of rom-com hinges entirely upon actor and character appeal, and how funny the execution of the predictable plot is. Sandra Bullock plays Margaret, a hard-nosed editor at a major book publishing house (think a younger, less wicked version of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada---in some ways I suspect Sandy’s parodying Meryl, to positive effect). Ryan Reynolds plays Andrew, her long-suffering assistant, who has endured three years of abuse for a shot at a promotion and a published novel (having worked in the publishing industry for many years, I can affirm such employees and bosses do exist). A Canadian faced with deportation because she was too busy working to observe U.S. immigration policies, Margaret orders Andrew to marry her in exchange for fulfilling his career goals.
In order to convince skeptical immigration officials that their engagement is legit, they fly off to tiny Sitka, Alaska, for the weekend to celebrate the birthday of Andrew’s grandmother (Betty White). Along the way we meet his loving mother (Mary Steenburgen) and macho father (Craig T. Nelsen), from whom he is estranged because he moved to New York to work in publishing instead of staying home to run the family business empire (which seems to include most Sitka commerce).
Of course, soon the orphaned, hardnosed city girl is so charmed by the family and quirky locals that her hard heart begins to melt. Thus opens the way towards appreciating Andrew’s charms as well. We in turn, begin to understand that Andrew’s devotion to his boss goes beyond mere career ambition. Will they realize they are actually in love before immigration officials catch onto their ruse? If you’re looking for mystery, you need to find another movie.
In a nutshell, the rom-com formula works this time around. The actors are all appealing in their roles, I did come to like them (if not care too deeply), and I laughed out loud several times (to the point of weeping at least twice---a sign of quality laughs and the main reason the film gets three full kernels instead of two and a half). These three elements lend themselves to a successful rom-com and Sandy has presented us with one. Good on her that this movie provided her best opening weekend ever.
Other positives: Alaska was a nice choice for the plot (not just because Sarah Palin continues to remind us how quirky Alaskans can be). The scenery is gorgeous, though I was a bit disappointed to discover that nothing was actually filmed in the state. But such is the magic of movie-making. Few audience members will know or care that the lush views were created by digital wizardry. I actually heard an audible gasp from the audience when the first panoramic mountain image came into view (louder even than when we first glimpse Reynolds in the altogether).
Speaking of which, Sandra Bullock has her first nude scene ever in this film---played for laughs, not lust. But I must say on behalf of all females over 40: I salute you. Sandy. Whatever you are doing to maintain that spectacular bod, keep it up. Ryan ain’t too shabby, either.
White, Steenburgen, and Nelson are all pitch perfect as the family. While White has been getting a lot of buzz for her humorous role, in my opinion Oscar Nunez steals the show as a multi-talented local who can handle virtually every wedding need from the bachelorette party through the nuptials. At a certain point, the audience began to laugh just by virtue of his showing up in a scene. His mere presence becomes funny. I’m glad he was included in the ending montage (do NOT leave the theater until the credits have rolled) to emphasize his contribution to the film.
So if you have a free night out and are looking for a light, frothy rom-com that will make you laugh and not think too hard, this is the ideal formula flick for you.
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
It is Saturday night, the babysitter is booked and hubby and I get to have a date night. Yeah! He picks the movie, one of those romantic comedies marketed as the ideal date flick. Actually, most of the audience is made up of women obviously on Girls Night Out, with only a few scattered couples like ourselves in attendance. This is NOT the type of movie that straight men go out to see alone or in pairs.
We expect something light and frothy, with an appealing cast. We are not disappointed. This type of rom-com hinges entirely upon actor and character appeal, and how funny the execution of the predictable plot is. Sandra Bullock plays Margaret, a hard-nosed editor at a major book publishing house (think a younger, less wicked version of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada---in some ways I suspect Sandy’s parodying Meryl, to positive effect). Ryan Reynolds plays Andrew, her long-suffering assistant, who has endured three years of abuse for a shot at a promotion and a published novel (having worked in the publishing industry for many years, I can affirm such employees and bosses do exist). A Canadian faced with deportation because she was too busy working to observe U.S. immigration policies, Margaret orders Andrew to marry her in exchange for fulfilling his career goals.
In order to convince skeptical immigration officials that their engagement is legit, they fly off to tiny Sitka, Alaska, for the weekend to celebrate the birthday of Andrew’s grandmother (Betty White). Along the way we meet his loving mother (Mary Steenburgen) and macho father (Craig T. Nelsen), from whom he is estranged because he moved to New York to work in publishing instead of staying home to run the family business empire (which seems to include most Sitka commerce).
Of course, soon the orphaned, hardnosed city girl is so charmed by the family and quirky locals that her hard heart begins to melt. Thus opens the way towards appreciating Andrew’s charms as well. We in turn, begin to understand that Andrew’s devotion to his boss goes beyond mere career ambition. Will they realize they are actually in love before immigration officials catch onto their ruse? If you’re looking for mystery, you need to find another movie.
In a nutshell, the rom-com formula works this time around. The actors are all appealing in their roles, I did come to like them (if not care too deeply), and I laughed out loud several times (to the point of weeping at least twice---a sign of quality laughs and the main reason the film gets three full kernels instead of two and a half). These three elements lend themselves to a successful rom-com and Sandy has presented us with one. Good on her that this movie provided her best opening weekend ever.
Other positives: Alaska was a nice choice for the plot (not just because Sarah Palin continues to remind us how quirky Alaskans can be). The scenery is gorgeous, though I was a bit disappointed to discover that nothing was actually filmed in the state. But such is the magic of movie-making. Few audience members will know or care that the lush views were created by digital wizardry. I actually heard an audible gasp from the audience when the first panoramic mountain image came into view (louder even than when we first glimpse Reynolds in the altogether).
Speaking of which, Sandra Bullock has her first nude scene ever in this film---played for laughs, not lust. But I must say on behalf of all females over 40: I salute you. Sandy. Whatever you are doing to maintain that spectacular bod, keep it up. Ryan ain’t too shabby, either.
White, Steenburgen, and Nelson are all pitch perfect as the family. While White has been getting a lot of buzz for her humorous role, in my opinion Oscar Nunez steals the show as a multi-talented local who can handle virtually every wedding need from the bachelorette party through the nuptials. At a certain point, the audience began to laugh just by virtue of his showing up in a scene. His mere presence becomes funny. I’m glad he was included in the ending montage (do NOT leave the theater until the credits have rolled) to emphasize his contribution to the film.
So if you have a free night out and are looking for a light, frothy rom-com that will make you laugh and not think too hard, this is the ideal formula flick for you.
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Kid Flicks and the Meaning of "Family"
Having just sat through Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs with my boys, I couldn't help thinking about a common theme in kid films today---the formation of new, alternative "families." In some ways, this trend isn't entirely new. Ever since Bambi's mom bit the dust, family films have had an inordinate focus on orphans. Almost every major Disney hero or heroine seems to be missing at least one parent. Now, though, films allow the protagonists to create a new family. Take three examples just from this summer's fare:
Up: An excellent movie that all film-lovers should see, even if you don't have kids. The story focuses on Carl, an elderly grouch still mourning the death of his beloved wife. The couple were never able to have children, but had a wonderful marriage. Just as Carl is trying to escape from the world with his giant clump of balloons, he encounters Russell, a little boy desperately trying to earn a scout badge just to get the attention of his absentee father. We discover that Russell was once close to his dad, but ever since his parents divorced and his dad remarried, the father has dropped out of his life. By the end of the movie, Carl decides to re-enter the world by becoming a surrogate dad to young Russell. If the montage at the end showing the two of them engaged in all types of fun activities doesn't make you well up, you are made of stone.
Ice Age 3: Like the previous Ice Age movies, a funny and well-made animated movie with quite a bit of action this time around. The running theme of this entire franchise is the creation of an unconventional family (or "herd"). At the beginning of this film, the motley family consists of two mammoths, two opossums, a saber-tooth tiger, and sloth. The family cohesion is threatened by the arrival of the a new baby mammoth for the herd's stand-in "mother and father." The "adopted" children think they will be left out by the biological child. Of course, in the end, every family member proves their value and the herd remains intact, with the addition of the cutest wooly baby you've ever seen.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: My Potter-crazed eldest is dying to see this one when it opens next week, but having already read the books, we already know how it will fit into the theme of making your own family. Harry's search for family is a running theme throughout J.K. Rowling's fictional masterpiece. Harry actually gets orphaned twice---once as a baby when his parents are killed by Voldemort and later when his godfather is killed by Voldemort's follower. Though he still feels the love of his parents, his other "blood kin" treat him horribly. He is forced to endure their abusive company just to survive until age 17. Harry envies the poor, but loving Weasley clan, who represent the ideal family he wishes he had [read the end of book seven to see how this element unfolds]. In the end, Harry really survives by relying on a family of his own making---his friends.
Those who push a "traditional family" agenda may protest this theme of making up your own family, but it reflects a reality of our times. Statistics prove there are many Russells out there, growing up without a strong father-figure; as well as many Harrys, whose abusive blood-relations reflect more hate than love. In all the stories, love, loyalty, and presence count more than DNA in building family. To me, this is a hopeful message, telling kids that, no matter what life throws your way, you can find happiness and love. It is a worthwhile message for any kid to hear.
Up: An excellent movie that all film-lovers should see, even if you don't have kids. The story focuses on Carl, an elderly grouch still mourning the death of his beloved wife. The couple were never able to have children, but had a wonderful marriage. Just as Carl is trying to escape from the world with his giant clump of balloons, he encounters Russell, a little boy desperately trying to earn a scout badge just to get the attention of his absentee father. We discover that Russell was once close to his dad, but ever since his parents divorced and his dad remarried, the father has dropped out of his life. By the end of the movie, Carl decides to re-enter the world by becoming a surrogate dad to young Russell. If the montage at the end showing the two of them engaged in all types of fun activities doesn't make you well up, you are made of stone.
Ice Age 3: Like the previous Ice Age movies, a funny and well-made animated movie with quite a bit of action this time around. The running theme of this entire franchise is the creation of an unconventional family (or "herd"). At the beginning of this film, the motley family consists of two mammoths, two opossums, a saber-tooth tiger, and sloth. The family cohesion is threatened by the arrival of the a new baby mammoth for the herd's stand-in "mother and father." The "adopted" children think they will be left out by the biological child. Of course, in the end, every family member proves their value and the herd remains intact, with the addition of the cutest wooly baby you've ever seen.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: My Potter-crazed eldest is dying to see this one when it opens next week, but having already read the books, we already know how it will fit into the theme of making your own family. Harry's search for family is a running theme throughout J.K. Rowling's fictional masterpiece. Harry actually gets orphaned twice---once as a baby when his parents are killed by Voldemort and later when his godfather is killed by Voldemort's follower. Though he still feels the love of his parents, his other "blood kin" treat him horribly. He is forced to endure their abusive company just to survive until age 17. Harry envies the poor, but loving Weasley clan, who represent the ideal family he wishes he had [read the end of book seven to see how this element unfolds]. In the end, Harry really survives by relying on a family of his own making---his friends.
Those who push a "traditional family" agenda may protest this theme of making up your own family, but it reflects a reality of our times. Statistics prove there are many Russells out there, growing up without a strong father-figure; as well as many Harrys, whose abusive blood-relations reflect more hate than love. In all the stories, love, loyalty, and presence count more than DNA in building family. To me, this is a hopeful message, telling kids that, no matter what life throws your way, you can find happiness and love. It is a worthwhile message for any kid to hear.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
It Must Be True Love: I’m Devoted to Roger Ebert, Even When I Disagree with Him
Yes, it’s true. Don’t tell my husband, but I have an ongoing relationship with a rotund Chicago film critic whom I’ve never even met. I read his words almost daily and cannot express how much he has changed my life.
Oh, as is typical with most youthful crushes, originally I was more enamored by his tall, lanky wingman. The duo fought constantly to see which could win me over, convincing me to follow their thumbs up or down recommendation of how best to spend my weekends. The lanky one initially wooed me with his smooth words, but in the long run, like Cyrano de Bergerac, the eloquent words of the less photogenic one won me over.
I was first introduced to Ebert as a tweener when our local PBS station began showing Sneak Previews, the first iteration of the movie review show that paired him with his newspaper rival Gene Siskel. The show was a revelation to me, growing up as I did in an isolated rural community that had one drive-in and a very run-down theater that smelled like old gym shoes and never showed first-run films. Yet despite my limited viewing options, I grew up loving movies. And these two guys from Chicago introduced me to all kinds of films that I would never have heard of otherwise. They talked about foreign films, artsy films (what we now call “independent”), documentaries, scandalous movies, and even really bad films. I remember they always ended the show with “the dog of the week,” some really bad movie that had stolen two hours of their lives, introduced by a real barking dog. Were it not for Siskel and Ebert, I would never have heard of movies like Sweet Sweetback’s Badass Song (I didn’t even know you were allowed to use the word “ass” in a movie title!!) or John Waters’s Pink Flamingos (the image of the clip with Divine licking all the dishes still haunts me today). They made me want to know more about movies, even ones I would never have the opportunity to see as a minor.
On television, Siskel always impressed me more than Ebert, not because of any greater physical appeal, but because he came across on screen as the more serious critic. Ebert seemed to go easier on films, giving more thumbs up to mediocre offerings and generally trying to be nicer. Whether he really did give more thumbs up than Siskel is a matter for data keepers in other forums. I’m just reflecting my impressions from watching television. It was hard to imagine that Ebert was the one with the Pulitzer Prize, when Siskel seemed the more critical of the two. I continued to maintain this same impression through years of watching as their television show evolved right up until Gene Siskel’s death.
Then a strange thing happened. I began to read some of Ebert’s written reviews, first in his published collections, then, through the wonders of the Internet, from his Web site. Now I know why he has a Pulitzer. His written reviews and commentaries are among the most insightful and well-written of any popular film critic around. Unlike on television, where he was relegated to quickly synopsizing plot, summarizing his views and concluding with the thumbs up or down within a matter of minutes, his written pieces reflect careful thought and analysis based on a lifetime of film-watching experience. His is one of the few sites I check almost daily for updates, anxiously anticipating his every word. Ironically, though cancer has now rendered Ebert unable to speak, his lack of a physical voice has only made him a more prolific writer, proving he never needed sound to communicate effectively.
I don’t always agree with Roger, especially when it comes to his analysis of certain genre movies such as hen flicks or family movies, but I always respect and appreciate his opinions. This week he published an insightful blog about some of the less-than-thoughtful reactions to his negative reviews of popular movies like Transformers 2. Be sure to check it out at http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2009/07/i_am_a_brainiac.html
The gist is that as the role of the professional film critic has been replaced with popular opinion sites such as rottentomatoes.com, the level of discourse has also declined, reflecting an anti-intellectual bias in our culture. Jim Emerson also discusses this trend in his blog: http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/
Personally, I think that sites such as Rotten Tomatoes do serve a useful purpose in reflecting a general consensus. And many of the video reviews offered by movie fans illustrate as much intelligence and depth as those of professional critics. Among the myriad fans whose only response to opposing views is a shallow “you suck” or “I hate you,” there are many others who can rationally explain their opposing views without personalizing their attacks. Here’s hoping the intelligent fans continue to outweigh the “you suck” group.
Still, I hope the professional critic never goes entirely by the wayside. Certainly there are some film snobs whose disdain for their readers and movie fans warrant their unemployment. But others offer a valuable service to movie fans. A good critic, like Ebert, has the ability to inform and instruct viewers, raising their awareness of lesser-known films and improving how one views movies. True movie fans, not just those looking to spend two hours in an air-conditioned room, should appreciate this instruction. Those who choose to ignore the value of such instruction and embrace their blissful ignorance remind me of high school kids who think they are too hip to try to learn anything in class.
For me, I know my life has been enriched by the knowledge passed along by Roger Ebert. I hope he keeps “teaching” and continuing our relationship for many years to come.
Yours in Sisterhood — VB
Oh, as is typical with most youthful crushes, originally I was more enamored by his tall, lanky wingman. The duo fought constantly to see which could win me over, convincing me to follow their thumbs up or down recommendation of how best to spend my weekends. The lanky one initially wooed me with his smooth words, but in the long run, like Cyrano de Bergerac, the eloquent words of the less photogenic one won me over.
I was first introduced to Ebert as a tweener when our local PBS station began showing Sneak Previews, the first iteration of the movie review show that paired him with his newspaper rival Gene Siskel. The show was a revelation to me, growing up as I did in an isolated rural community that had one drive-in and a very run-down theater that smelled like old gym shoes and never showed first-run films. Yet despite my limited viewing options, I grew up loving movies. And these two guys from Chicago introduced me to all kinds of films that I would never have heard of otherwise. They talked about foreign films, artsy films (what we now call “independent”), documentaries, scandalous movies, and even really bad films. I remember they always ended the show with “the dog of the week,” some really bad movie that had stolen two hours of their lives, introduced by a real barking dog. Were it not for Siskel and Ebert, I would never have heard of movies like Sweet Sweetback’s Badass Song (I didn’t even know you were allowed to use the word “ass” in a movie title!!) or John Waters’s Pink Flamingos (the image of the clip with Divine licking all the dishes still haunts me today). They made me want to know more about movies, even ones I would never have the opportunity to see as a minor.
On television, Siskel always impressed me more than Ebert, not because of any greater physical appeal, but because he came across on screen as the more serious critic. Ebert seemed to go easier on films, giving more thumbs up to mediocre offerings and generally trying to be nicer. Whether he really did give more thumbs up than Siskel is a matter for data keepers in other forums. I’m just reflecting my impressions from watching television. It was hard to imagine that Ebert was the one with the Pulitzer Prize, when Siskel seemed the more critical of the two. I continued to maintain this same impression through years of watching as their television show evolved right up until Gene Siskel’s death.
Then a strange thing happened. I began to read some of Ebert’s written reviews, first in his published collections, then, through the wonders of the Internet, from his Web site. Now I know why he has a Pulitzer. His written reviews and commentaries are among the most insightful and well-written of any popular film critic around. Unlike on television, where he was relegated to quickly synopsizing plot, summarizing his views and concluding with the thumbs up or down within a matter of minutes, his written pieces reflect careful thought and analysis based on a lifetime of film-watching experience. His is one of the few sites I check almost daily for updates, anxiously anticipating his every word. Ironically, though cancer has now rendered Ebert unable to speak, his lack of a physical voice has only made him a more prolific writer, proving he never needed sound to communicate effectively.
I don’t always agree with Roger, especially when it comes to his analysis of certain genre movies such as hen flicks or family movies, but I always respect and appreciate his opinions. This week he published an insightful blog about some of the less-than-thoughtful reactions to his negative reviews of popular movies like Transformers 2. Be sure to check it out at http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2009/07/i_am_a_brainiac.html
The gist is that as the role of the professional film critic has been replaced with popular opinion sites such as rottentomatoes.com, the level of discourse has also declined, reflecting an anti-intellectual bias in our culture. Jim Emerson also discusses this trend in his blog: http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/
Personally, I think that sites such as Rotten Tomatoes do serve a useful purpose in reflecting a general consensus. And many of the video reviews offered by movie fans illustrate as much intelligence and depth as those of professional critics. Among the myriad fans whose only response to opposing views is a shallow “you suck” or “I hate you,” there are many others who can rationally explain their opposing views without personalizing their attacks. Here’s hoping the intelligent fans continue to outweigh the “you suck” group.
Still, I hope the professional critic never goes entirely by the wayside. Certainly there are some film snobs whose disdain for their readers and movie fans warrant their unemployment. But others offer a valuable service to movie fans. A good critic, like Ebert, has the ability to inform and instruct viewers, raising their awareness of lesser-known films and improving how one views movies. True movie fans, not just those looking to spend two hours in an air-conditioned room, should appreciate this instruction. Those who choose to ignore the value of such instruction and embrace their blissful ignorance remind me of high school kids who think they are too hip to try to learn anything in class.
For me, I know my life has been enriched by the knowledge passed along by Roger Ebert. I hope he keeps “teaching” and continuing our relationship for many years to come.
Yours in Sisterhood — VB
Monday, July 6, 2009
Why Steel Magnolias Became the Ultimate Hen Flick and the Ya-Yas . . . Didn't
In honor of Rebecca Wells, one of my favorite writers, releasing a new book tomorrow (yeah), I feel the need to ponder on what seems like one of the great lost opportunities in the pantheon of women's fiction and movies.
The formulas follow the same pattern: stories of a multi-generational group of Louisiana women who share laughter and heartache, based on popular source material, with all-star casts of respected actors. But Steel Magnolias (1989), based on the play by Robert Harling, became a box-office hit and the defining canon of women’s films. Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (2002), based on the popular books by Rebecca Wells, has all the same ingredients, yet performed below expectations and now reigns among the second tier of chick flicks. While the Ya-Ya film certainly has its share of fans, overall it has been dismissed as a lesser Steel Magnolias wanna-be. Understanding why reveals much about the state of women’s films, what works, and what doesn’t.
Certainly part of the difference lies in timing. Simply by being first, and successful, SM serves as the point of comparison for Ya-Ya. The ad campaign for Ya-Ya relied heavily on this comparison, clearly pitching the worn-out claim, “If you liked X [Steel Magnolias], you’ll love Y [Ya-Ya].” Even today, one can rarely find a review of Ya-Ya that does not draw comparisons to SM. Indeed, based on Internet reviews, one would think that the Steel Magnolias vs. Ya-Yas debate is as much a cultural marker as the “Mary Ann vs. Ginger” or “Betty vs. Veronica” divide. Which side you fall upon in the debate reveals as much about your own personality as it does about the films. Once again, film execs underestimate the effectiveness of the tagline.
Disregarding the timing and ineffective marketing approaches, what about the two films themselves accounts for the difference in popularity and legacy?
Let’s begin with casting. To many fans, the key difference can be summed up in two words: Julia Roberts. Granted, this film did much to launch fair Julia’s reign as America’s Sweetheart (and secured her first Oscar nomination), but I would posit that all of the roles were perfectly cast (the physical dissimilarities between Julia and onscreen parents Sally Field and Tom Skerritt not withstanding) and portrayed by all the actors. Even Dolly Parton, an entertainer whose charisma can sometimes overwhelm her limited acting range, was perfect for the role of hairdresser Truvy. Credit must be paid to casting director Hank McCann for fitting actors to characters.
Secondly, related to casting, was the screenplay, which retained enough of the witty banter and memorable dialogue to entertain and balance out the more dramatic moments. In many ways, SM is the perfect bipolar movie, with both gut-busting laughs and gut-wrenching drama guaranteed to make the viewers shed tears of laughter and joy. Both the high and low moments are delivered perfectly by the cast, whose characters remain distinctive individuals.
On paper, the Ya-Yas casting seems perfect as well: Ashley Judd, Ellen Burstyn, James Garner, etc., etc. Rarely does a film boast such a fine pedigree, with a host of actors I admire and love to see in just about any role. They even cast the other “America’s Sweetheart,” Sandra Bullock, in the adult daughter role, ala Ms. Roberts. Therein lay the problem. The producers were trying too hard to emulate the SM formula in the all-star casting, especially with Sandra Bullock in the key role of Sidda Walker, a serious character more reminiscent of Meredith Grey than Shelby Eatenton. Yet the casting choice almost required this unfair comparison between the two actresses. First of all, let me say that I personally adore my fellow Austinite Sandra Bullock, a charming and down-to-earth lady who can be highly entertaining the in the right role, and I appreciate her efforts to break free from rom-com typecasting. However, I think she was completely the wrong choice for this dour, confused character. Remember, Julia Roberts had only had one role, in the sleeper Mystic Pizza, before SM. Perhaps Ya-Ya would have been better served by casting an unknown in this pivotal part.
The casting issues are compounded by the shaky debut directorial debut of Thelma and Louise writer Callie Khouri and a less-than-stellar screenplay, whose liberties with the original source material serve to weaken, rather than strengthen, the characters and storyline. The contrived kidnapping of Sidda by the Ya-Yas is unnecessary and only seems designed to highlight the group’s eccentricities. Several film critics have commented that it is impossible to tell the difference between the three supporting Ya-Yas other than that Maggie Smith has the oxygen tank, Fionnula Flanagan chews gum, and Shirley Knight is the whiny one. None seem distinctive characters on their own and only serve as a chorus of nutty southern alcoholics. Indeed, the screenplay and direction of the film comes across as insulting to southerners in general, expecting the audience to laugh at, rather than with, the characters. In Rebecca Wells’s books (and SM), each woman is a distinct person with her own unique personality, producing laughter and tears that seem natural rather than forced. The Ya-Ya filmmakers should have given more credit to the strengths of the original novel.
Finally, perhaps the most telling mark of an iconic film is the memorability factor. SM has lasted, in part, because it contains so many images and lines that stick with the audience. Who can forget the armadillo groom’s cake, the Pepto-Bismol colored wedding, the locker room “color commentary,” Truvy’s shop, the cemetery scene, or lines like “that looks like an autopsy,” "all gay men have track lighting . . and are named Mark, Rick, or Steve" or “I’d rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.”
Nothing in the Ya-Ya film has entered the lexicon in the same way. To be honest, after viewing the film, the only images that really stuck with me were the flashback scenes involving Ashley Judd as the young Vivi. That is the one characterization the film replicates accurately from the novel. Judd perfectly embodies the strong, vivacious young woman whose spirit is dampened by her own mind. The novel makes it clear that Vivi’s detachment from reality proves both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. Her childhood belief that she is destined to be famous helps her survive a harrowing home life and horrific reform school. As an adult, it contributes to her mental breakdown when her spirit can’t handle being reigned in by domesticity drudgery. These nuances are somehow lost in the film version.
While familiarity with original material can enhance the film-viewing experience, movies should be able to stand on their own. Likewise, they should not rely solely on repetition of a successful formula to assume success. Too often film studios think they can fool audiences with the “If you liked X, you’ll love Y” appeal, especially when it comes to films for women. We’re smarter than that. We know that using the same cookie cutter does not ensure the same results if the ingredients are not mixed correctly. Ya-Ya had the perfect recipe for success, but the Hollywood cooks wasted their ingredients, thinking the cutter, not the batter, created the appealing flavor. Here's hoping that, should TPTB ever try to produce Wells's works on film again, they do her creations justice this time around.
Yours in Sisterhood — VB
The formulas follow the same pattern: stories of a multi-generational group of Louisiana women who share laughter and heartache, based on popular source material, with all-star casts of respected actors. But Steel Magnolias (1989), based on the play by Robert Harling, became a box-office hit and the defining canon of women’s films. Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (2002), based on the popular books by Rebecca Wells, has all the same ingredients, yet performed below expectations and now reigns among the second tier of chick flicks. While the Ya-Ya film certainly has its share of fans, overall it has been dismissed as a lesser Steel Magnolias wanna-be. Understanding why reveals much about the state of women’s films, what works, and what doesn’t.
Certainly part of the difference lies in timing. Simply by being first, and successful, SM serves as the point of comparison for Ya-Ya. The ad campaign for Ya-Ya relied heavily on this comparison, clearly pitching the worn-out claim, “If you liked X [Steel Magnolias], you’ll love Y [Ya-Ya].” Even today, one can rarely find a review of Ya-Ya that does not draw comparisons to SM. Indeed, based on Internet reviews, one would think that the Steel Magnolias vs. Ya-Yas debate is as much a cultural marker as the “Mary Ann vs. Ginger” or “Betty vs. Veronica” divide. Which side you fall upon in the debate reveals as much about your own personality as it does about the films. Once again, film execs underestimate the effectiveness of the tagline.
Disregarding the timing and ineffective marketing approaches, what about the two films themselves accounts for the difference in popularity and legacy?
Let’s begin with casting. To many fans, the key difference can be summed up in two words: Julia Roberts. Granted, this film did much to launch fair Julia’s reign as America’s Sweetheart (and secured her first Oscar nomination), but I would posit that all of the roles were perfectly cast (the physical dissimilarities between Julia and onscreen parents Sally Field and Tom Skerritt not withstanding) and portrayed by all the actors. Even Dolly Parton, an entertainer whose charisma can sometimes overwhelm her limited acting range, was perfect for the role of hairdresser Truvy. Credit must be paid to casting director Hank McCann for fitting actors to characters.
Secondly, related to casting, was the screenplay, which retained enough of the witty banter and memorable dialogue to entertain and balance out the more dramatic moments. In many ways, SM is the perfect bipolar movie, with both gut-busting laughs and gut-wrenching drama guaranteed to make the viewers shed tears of laughter and joy. Both the high and low moments are delivered perfectly by the cast, whose characters remain distinctive individuals.
On paper, the Ya-Yas casting seems perfect as well: Ashley Judd, Ellen Burstyn, James Garner, etc., etc. Rarely does a film boast such a fine pedigree, with a host of actors I admire and love to see in just about any role. They even cast the other “America’s Sweetheart,” Sandra Bullock, in the adult daughter role, ala Ms. Roberts. Therein lay the problem. The producers were trying too hard to emulate the SM formula in the all-star casting, especially with Sandra Bullock in the key role of Sidda Walker, a serious character more reminiscent of Meredith Grey than Shelby Eatenton. Yet the casting choice almost required this unfair comparison between the two actresses. First of all, let me say that I personally adore my fellow Austinite Sandra Bullock, a charming and down-to-earth lady who can be highly entertaining the in the right role, and I appreciate her efforts to break free from rom-com typecasting. However, I think she was completely the wrong choice for this dour, confused character. Remember, Julia Roberts had only had one role, in the sleeper Mystic Pizza, before SM. Perhaps Ya-Ya would have been better served by casting an unknown in this pivotal part.
The casting issues are compounded by the shaky debut directorial debut of Thelma and Louise writer Callie Khouri and a less-than-stellar screenplay, whose liberties with the original source material serve to weaken, rather than strengthen, the characters and storyline. The contrived kidnapping of Sidda by the Ya-Yas is unnecessary and only seems designed to highlight the group’s eccentricities. Several film critics have commented that it is impossible to tell the difference between the three supporting Ya-Yas other than that Maggie Smith has the oxygen tank, Fionnula Flanagan chews gum, and Shirley Knight is the whiny one. None seem distinctive characters on their own and only serve as a chorus of nutty southern alcoholics. Indeed, the screenplay and direction of the film comes across as insulting to southerners in general, expecting the audience to laugh at, rather than with, the characters. In Rebecca Wells’s books (and SM), each woman is a distinct person with her own unique personality, producing laughter and tears that seem natural rather than forced. The Ya-Ya filmmakers should have given more credit to the strengths of the original novel.
Finally, perhaps the most telling mark of an iconic film is the memorability factor. SM has lasted, in part, because it contains so many images and lines that stick with the audience. Who can forget the armadillo groom’s cake, the Pepto-Bismol colored wedding, the locker room “color commentary,” Truvy’s shop, the cemetery scene, or lines like “that looks like an autopsy,” "all gay men have track lighting . . and are named Mark, Rick, or Steve" or “I’d rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.”
Nothing in the Ya-Ya film has entered the lexicon in the same way. To be honest, after viewing the film, the only images that really stuck with me were the flashback scenes involving Ashley Judd as the young Vivi. That is the one characterization the film replicates accurately from the novel. Judd perfectly embodies the strong, vivacious young woman whose spirit is dampened by her own mind. The novel makes it clear that Vivi’s detachment from reality proves both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. Her childhood belief that she is destined to be famous helps her survive a harrowing home life and horrific reform school. As an adult, it contributes to her mental breakdown when her spirit can’t handle being reigned in by domesticity drudgery. These nuances are somehow lost in the film version.
While familiarity with original material can enhance the film-viewing experience, movies should be able to stand on their own. Likewise, they should not rely solely on repetition of a successful formula to assume success. Too often film studios think they can fool audiences with the “If you liked X, you’ll love Y” appeal, especially when it comes to films for women. We’re smarter than that. We know that using the same cookie cutter does not ensure the same results if the ingredients are not mixed correctly. Ya-Ya had the perfect recipe for success, but the Hollywood cooks wasted their ingredients, thinking the cutter, not the batter, created the appealing flavor. Here's hoping that, should TPTB ever try to produce Wells's works on film again, they do her creations justice this time around.
Yours in Sisterhood — VB
Monday, June 29, 2009
Scratchings: Lemonade in a Wine Glass
Sometimes moms and kids need a little distance to appreciate one another.
After three weeks of near constant summertime togetherness, this mom received a reprieve in the form of a weekend writers’ conference. I came home every night, but otherwise was able to revel in three days of “grown-up” conversations about art and business, a very rare occurrence for me. Despite dad’s undivided attention and care, apparently mom’s absence did make the kiddos’ hearts grow fonder. Every night I came home to loving appeals asking why that conference had to be “SOOOO LOOONG.”
Surprisingly, the biggest guilt trip came not from my preschooler or even from hubby, but from my eldest, the “tweener” who has begun to display annoying hints of the teenage years to come. For example, lately a simple request to stop watching TV and do his chores results in the “full-body hang” to illustrate the unfairness of life. Virtually everything Baby Brother does is annoying. Somehow Tweener fails to appreciate how much BB worships him, causing Mom to want to scream, “Someday you’ll wish ANYONE thought you were that worthy of adulation!”
So it was rather refreshing to realize that Tweener missed having old Mom around. Upon returning home from the first half-day of conferencing, Tweener asked if we could stay up and watch an old movie together. Within the past few months, watching old movies has become a special treat for Tweener and myself. Despite having an extensive collection of old black and white movies, I rarely get to watch them due to time constraints and lack of interested companions (hubby falls asleep ten minutes into any flick made before 1960). So I was delighted when Tweener asked me to introduce him to the classic Universal horror films, a hobby that soon expanded into other old movies. He's even willing to sit through silent films and really bad Ed Wood flicks! What a champ!
On Friday night, as we prepared to snuggle on the couch and take in Revenge of the Creature , Tweener asked for a glass of lemonade in "a fancy glass" to make the event more special. I dutifully obliged, serving up lemonade in a wine glass for him and a Fresca spritzer for myself. We clinked our glasses together in a joyous toast as we watched the Creature from the Black Lagoon try to forceably obtain a human girlfriend.
By Saturday evening, Tweener was even more perturbed that Mom had spent "AAALLLL DAAAAYYY" at this conference doing "BOORRING" grown-up stuff. Initially, I was too absorbed in nervousness over an impending profesional interview to indulge in Tweener's dramatics. Having not had a face-to-face job-related interview of any kind in years, I was really wondering why I was even wasting my time getting nervous over this certain-to-fail effort.
But Tweener's whining kept infringing on my internal stress. "Why do you have to go to this conference?" he beseeched.
"To meet people who could help me get jobs," I explained.
"But you already have a job!" he declared, still not fully appreciating the "gig" concept of my freelance writing career.
"Well, this will hopefully help me get more work," I explained again. "And it might help me become a better writer."
"But you're already a great writer! You're the best writer! You don't need to get any better!" he insisted.
At that point I gave up. Why burst his bubble by explaining how flawed Mom is? Instead, I reveled in the knowledge that Tweener likes to think Mom is the best at what she does and still misses her when she's gone.
I kept that thought with me as I headed into my interview on Sunday. Years ago a kindly grad-school mentor advised all of his underlings, "Remember, no matter what happens to you in this program, you're Momma will still love you!" [Depends on the mom, of course, but we all got the gist.] So on Sunday, as I headed into the interview, I focused on that advice. "No matter what happens, my babies still love me." By design the interview would be limited to 10 minutes. It was only 10 short minutes out of a very full life. "Relax and enjoy the practice," I told myself.
Suffice to say: Mom aced the meeting.
It would not have happened were it not for Tweener's reminder that there is more to life than some stranger's first impression. The incident made me realize that my son is lemonade in a wine glass: somewhat sweet, somewhat tart, but always refreshing. Sometimes, that’s just what Mom needs.
Yours in Sisterhood,
VB
After three weeks of near constant summertime togetherness, this mom received a reprieve in the form of a weekend writers’ conference. I came home every night, but otherwise was able to revel in three days of “grown-up” conversations about art and business, a very rare occurrence for me. Despite dad’s undivided attention and care, apparently mom’s absence did make the kiddos’ hearts grow fonder. Every night I came home to loving appeals asking why that conference had to be “SOOOO LOOONG.”
Surprisingly, the biggest guilt trip came not from my preschooler or even from hubby, but from my eldest, the “tweener” who has begun to display annoying hints of the teenage years to come. For example, lately a simple request to stop watching TV and do his chores results in the “full-body hang” to illustrate the unfairness of life. Virtually everything Baby Brother does is annoying. Somehow Tweener fails to appreciate how much BB worships him, causing Mom to want to scream, “Someday you’ll wish ANYONE thought you were that worthy of adulation!”
So it was rather refreshing to realize that Tweener missed having old Mom around. Upon returning home from the first half-day of conferencing, Tweener asked if we could stay up and watch an old movie together. Within the past few months, watching old movies has become a special treat for Tweener and myself. Despite having an extensive collection of old black and white movies, I rarely get to watch them due to time constraints and lack of interested companions (hubby falls asleep ten minutes into any flick made before 1960). So I was delighted when Tweener asked me to introduce him to the classic Universal horror films, a hobby that soon expanded into other old movies. He's even willing to sit through silent films and really bad Ed Wood flicks! What a champ!
On Friday night, as we prepared to snuggle on the couch and take in Revenge of the Creature , Tweener asked for a glass of lemonade in "a fancy glass" to make the event more special. I dutifully obliged, serving up lemonade in a wine glass for him and a Fresca spritzer for myself. We clinked our glasses together in a joyous toast as we watched the Creature from the Black Lagoon try to forceably obtain a human girlfriend.
By Saturday evening, Tweener was even more perturbed that Mom had spent "AAALLLL DAAAAYYY" at this conference doing "BOORRING" grown-up stuff. Initially, I was too absorbed in nervousness over an impending profesional interview to indulge in Tweener's dramatics. Having not had a face-to-face job-related interview of any kind in years, I was really wondering why I was even wasting my time getting nervous over this certain-to-fail effort.
But Tweener's whining kept infringing on my internal stress. "Why do you have to go to this conference?" he beseeched.
"To meet people who could help me get jobs," I explained.
"But you already have a job!" he declared, still not fully appreciating the "gig" concept of my freelance writing career.
"Well, this will hopefully help me get more work," I explained again. "And it might help me become a better writer."
"But you're already a great writer! You're the best writer! You don't need to get any better!" he insisted.
At that point I gave up. Why burst his bubble by explaining how flawed Mom is? Instead, I reveled in the knowledge that Tweener likes to think Mom is the best at what she does and still misses her when she's gone.
I kept that thought with me as I headed into my interview on Sunday. Years ago a kindly grad-school mentor advised all of his underlings, "Remember, no matter what happens to you in this program, you're Momma will still love you!" [Depends on the mom, of course, but we all got the gist.] So on Sunday, as I headed into the interview, I focused on that advice. "No matter what happens, my babies still love me." By design the interview would be limited to 10 minutes. It was only 10 short minutes out of a very full life. "Relax and enjoy the practice," I told myself.
Suffice to say: Mom aced the meeting.
It would not have happened were it not for Tweener's reminder that there is more to life than some stranger's first impression. The incident made me realize that my son is lemonade in a wine glass: somewhat sweet, somewhat tart, but always refreshing. Sometimes, that’s just what Mom needs.
Yours in Sisterhood,
VB
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Book of the Week: Half-Pint, We Hardly Knew Ya!
Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert
A sprained wrist and family vacation offered a fine opportunity to catch up on some mindless summer reading in the form of the ever-popular celebrity tell-all biography.
Many hens are well familiar with Melissa Gilbert, having grown up watching her as Laura "Half-Pint" Ingalls on the Little House on the Prairie television series. Of course, we also read all of the Little House books, a staple of girlhood life before moving on to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume. Laura, and thus Melissa, was like one of our friends. Like her, we secretly envied Mary's beauty and perfect behavior, but inwardly preferred "Half-Pint's" spunk and misadventures. Although Gilbert grew up to become queen of cable television movies and president of the Screen Actors Guild, she has never been able to shed her association with Laura Ingalls. To her credit, she's okay with that. Unlike many former child stars (I'm talkin' to you, Tatum!), Melissa has apparantly avoided most of the pitfalls of post-superstar adulthood to build a rather normal life with husband Bruce Boxleitner, and successful career.
Much of the buzz about Prairie Tale has centered on the more scandalous revelations, such as the juicy details about Melissa's longterm relationship with Rob Lowe, including the relevation of an unexpected pregnancy that resulted in miscarriage. To sum up: he was a serial cheater ill-prepared for adulthood, as was her first husband, Bo Brinkman. No big shock there, really. Many readers may be shocked by her candid admission of numerous flings with famous and non-famous men, but still nothing compared to most Hollywood tell-alls. To me, the most surprising revelation was that Melissa is Jewish. Oy! Who knew?
In fact, the most refreshing thing about this celebrity bio is how much it reinforces Melissa Gilbert's "everygirl" appeal. For a former child star whose upbringing was far from normal, she comes across as spectacularly grounded and relatable. Even her challenges, from poor choices in men to recent alcohol addiction and therapy, come across as problems faced by millions of average women. None of her issues have been the result of early fame and fortune.
Credit for her normality rests primarily with Melissa's mother, who loved and protected her child unconditionally. First a little background: unlike many child stars, Melissa was not pressed into the business by some overbearing stage mom seeking fame and fortune. At one day old, she was adopted by Paul Gilbert and Barbara Crane Gilbert, both actors themselves. Her grandfather, Harry Crane, was already a well-known Hollywood powerhouse (he created the Honeymooners, among other projects). For Melissa, becoming an actor wasn't so much a shot at fame and fortune, but merely stepping into the family business at an early age. Hob-knobbing with the likes of Harry's pals Frank Sinatra and Groucho Marx was normal for her and her siblings, Jonathan (Willie Oleson on Little House) and Sara (Darlene onRoseanne).
Melissa' parents divorced around the same time she got her big break on Little House. Her father died early during the show's run. Partly for that reason, Michael Landon stepped in as her surrogate father for many years. The familial chemistry between "Half-Pint" and "Pa" was quite real. That wasn't the only part of Little House that reflected reality. She had a strained relationship with Melissa Sue Anderson, which enhanced the sense of sibling rivalry between Laura and Mary. Despite Laura's on-screen rivalry with Nellie Oleson, Melissa's best friend on the set was Alison Arngrim, as "naughty" in real-life as Nellie was mean on screen. One suggested alternative title for the book: Nellie's Not a Bitch, Mary Is.
Were it not for Alison, "Half-Pint" would probably never have learned about the facts of life. Throughout the years of Little House superstardom, overprotective Barbara kept her daughter very sheltered by Hollywood standards, so much so that Melissa remained innocent for longer than many of her peers. She was a self-professed "dork," terrified of her first on-screen kiss with Dean Butler (who played Laura's love, Almanzo) because she had never even held hands with a boy in real life! The awkwardness showed through. If you are ever reviewing DVDs of the show, see if you can spot the change in Melissa's comfort level between the seventh and eighth seasons. Let's just say that Melissa's summer hiatus "matured" for performance in many ways.
Upon reaching age 18, there were the obligatory years of partying with the Brat Pack, still not that shocking given her age and context. As Melissa rightly explains, she and her Hollywood peers were essentially living the same life as many college students in the (pre-AIDs scare) 1980s. Instead of going to classes all day, then partying all night, they worked on sets all day, then partied all night. Despite dabbling in the wild side, Melissa was grounded enough to avoid the most dangerous excesses of the times and grew out of the phase by her mid-20s. Marriage and parenthood does that to most people.
In recent years the now 44-year-old Gilbert has come to terms with many of her personal issues, including alcoholism and issues with men stemming in large part from confusion over her adoption, parents' divorce, and idolization of her very imperfect father (mirrored in the very imperfect surrogate Michael Landon, whose affair and divorce proved more disillusioning than that of her own parents). Love---from mom, children, friends, and her second husband, has continued to keep Melissa grounded.
In many ways, Prairie Tale read less like a tabloid-style bio and more like a self-help book about one woman's journey to peace during the hen years. Despite living in the Hollywood glitz, "Half-Pint" still comes across as an easily relatable everygirl, just like we thought when we were girls. She struggles with the same issues many of us do.
Somehow, that's comforting to know.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
A sprained wrist and family vacation offered a fine opportunity to catch up on some mindless summer reading in the form of the ever-popular celebrity tell-all biography.
Many hens are well familiar with Melissa Gilbert, having grown up watching her as Laura "Half-Pint" Ingalls on the Little House on the Prairie television series. Of course, we also read all of the Little House books, a staple of girlhood life before moving on to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume. Laura, and thus Melissa, was like one of our friends. Like her, we secretly envied Mary's beauty and perfect behavior, but inwardly preferred "Half-Pint's" spunk and misadventures. Although Gilbert grew up to become queen of cable television movies and president of the Screen Actors Guild, she has never been able to shed her association with Laura Ingalls. To her credit, she's okay with that. Unlike many former child stars (I'm talkin' to you, Tatum!), Melissa has apparantly avoided most of the pitfalls of post-superstar adulthood to build a rather normal life with husband Bruce Boxleitner, and successful career.
Much of the buzz about Prairie Tale has centered on the more scandalous revelations, such as the juicy details about Melissa's longterm relationship with Rob Lowe, including the relevation of an unexpected pregnancy that resulted in miscarriage. To sum up: he was a serial cheater ill-prepared for adulthood, as was her first husband, Bo Brinkman. No big shock there, really. Many readers may be shocked by her candid admission of numerous flings with famous and non-famous men, but still nothing compared to most Hollywood tell-alls. To me, the most surprising revelation was that Melissa is Jewish. Oy! Who knew?
In fact, the most refreshing thing about this celebrity bio is how much it reinforces Melissa Gilbert's "everygirl" appeal. For a former child star whose upbringing was far from normal, she comes across as spectacularly grounded and relatable. Even her challenges, from poor choices in men to recent alcohol addiction and therapy, come across as problems faced by millions of average women. None of her issues have been the result of early fame and fortune.
Credit for her normality rests primarily with Melissa's mother, who loved and protected her child unconditionally. First a little background: unlike many child stars, Melissa was not pressed into the business by some overbearing stage mom seeking fame and fortune. At one day old, she was adopted by Paul Gilbert and Barbara Crane Gilbert, both actors themselves. Her grandfather, Harry Crane, was already a well-known Hollywood powerhouse (he created the Honeymooners, among other projects). For Melissa, becoming an actor wasn't so much a shot at fame and fortune, but merely stepping into the family business at an early age. Hob-knobbing with the likes of Harry's pals Frank Sinatra and Groucho Marx was normal for her and her siblings, Jonathan (Willie Oleson on Little House) and Sara (Darlene onRoseanne).
Melissa' parents divorced around the same time she got her big break on Little House. Her father died early during the show's run. Partly for that reason, Michael Landon stepped in as her surrogate father for many years. The familial chemistry between "Half-Pint" and "Pa" was quite real. That wasn't the only part of Little House that reflected reality. She had a strained relationship with Melissa Sue Anderson, which enhanced the sense of sibling rivalry between Laura and Mary. Despite Laura's on-screen rivalry with Nellie Oleson, Melissa's best friend on the set was Alison Arngrim, as "naughty" in real-life as Nellie was mean on screen. One suggested alternative title for the book: Nellie's Not a Bitch, Mary Is.
Were it not for Alison, "Half-Pint" would probably never have learned about the facts of life. Throughout the years of Little House superstardom, overprotective Barbara kept her daughter very sheltered by Hollywood standards, so much so that Melissa remained innocent for longer than many of her peers. She was a self-professed "dork," terrified of her first on-screen kiss with Dean Butler (who played Laura's love, Almanzo) because she had never even held hands with a boy in real life! The awkwardness showed through. If you are ever reviewing DVDs of the show, see if you can spot the change in Melissa's comfort level between the seventh and eighth seasons. Let's just say that Melissa's summer hiatus "matured" for performance in many ways.
Upon reaching age 18, there were the obligatory years of partying with the Brat Pack, still not that shocking given her age and context. As Melissa rightly explains, she and her Hollywood peers were essentially living the same life as many college students in the (pre-AIDs scare) 1980s. Instead of going to classes all day, then partying all night, they worked on sets all day, then partied all night. Despite dabbling in the wild side, Melissa was grounded enough to avoid the most dangerous excesses of the times and grew out of the phase by her mid-20s. Marriage and parenthood does that to most people.
In recent years the now 44-year-old Gilbert has come to terms with many of her personal issues, including alcoholism and issues with men stemming in large part from confusion over her adoption, parents' divorce, and idolization of her very imperfect father (mirrored in the very imperfect surrogate Michael Landon, whose affair and divorce proved more disillusioning than that of her own parents). Love---from mom, children, friends, and her second husband, has continued to keep Melissa grounded.
In many ways, Prairie Tale read less like a tabloid-style bio and more like a self-help book about one woman's journey to peace during the hen years. Despite living in the Hollywood glitz, "Half-Pint" still comes across as an easily relatable everygirl, just like we thought when we were girls. She struggles with the same issues many of us do.
Somehow, that's comforting to know.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Chick Flick DVD Pick of the Week: Australia (2008)
Rating - Three kernels*
Since I always like to hear other women's recommendations of movies I might like, I'll pass on the favor. See bottom of review for explanation of my rating system.
Australia was one of those movies that I had planned to see in the movies theaters. Initial reviews upon its release, even those that mocked its storyline and debated its racial narrative, praised its visual elements. The cinematography and art direction intentionally tried to emulate grand epics of old. This was to be the Australian Gone with the Wind. Having enjoyed Nicole Kidman in most of her roles and relishing the opportunity to see a shirtless Hugh Jackman without having to endure a comic-book-based action flick, I eagerly added Australia to the list of “date night” movies for hubby and myself.
Alas, it was not to be. As usual, life got in the way of the ideal movie night. During the brief period when the film was in theaters, we were too busy to fit in time to see the nearly three hour film in theaters. Since it did not perform as well as expected at the box office (earning less than $50 million), it was gone before we had to chance to even catch it on a cheap date night at the local dollar theater.
But oddly enough, what proved less-than-successful at the box office must have had appeal on DVD, as my attempts to rent it upon initial video release were always thwarted (though such failed attempts did allow me to discover The Changeling, an underrated winner to be discussed another time). Finally, I had the chance to rent the movie and check it out for myself, albeit spread out over three late nights while preparing for my five year-old’s birthday party.
I must say, the first ten minutes almost made me shut off the movie and switch to the Food Network. After an initial opening scene that fascinates with a murder and a mysterious little boy on the run, the movie shifts into a sequence designed to set up a backstory, but which manages instead to include so many western film clichés in such a silly manner that I started to think the film was going to be a parody of epics, rather than an homage to the genre.
Then, the tone shifts again once it catches back up with the very first scene of the film and the mysterious little boy who proves to be the heart of the film. The story spans 1939 to 1942 in the Northern Territory. The boy, Nullah (Brandon Walters), is the son of an Aboriginal woman and a white man at a time when racism runs rampant in the country. As a “half-caste,” Nullah is rejected by both white and Aboriginal society and is expected to be sent to a church-run mission school to “have the black bred out of him,” as one headmaster explains. In reality, many of these schools forced non-white children into a harsh life of indentured servitude.
The little boy lives life constantly on the run from local white officials who would “improve” his life by forcing him into a mission school, but receives some protection from his Aboriginal grandfather, holy man King George (David Gulpilil), and his loving mother and grandmother, both of whom work on a struggling cattle ranch called Faraway Downs. Nullah has inherited some of his grandfather’s mystical gifts and the two share a psychic connection throughout the story.
Trouble comes to Faraway Downs when the owner, Lord Ashley, is murdered and King George is the prime suspect. Nullah, who witnesses key elements of the crime, now has two reasons to run. He is led to seek protection from prim Lady Sarah Ashley (Kidman), who arrives at the ranch from England expecting to tell off her no-good husband, only to find him dead, the land threatened by a set of Snidely Whiplash-type villains, and the boy begging for help. She enlists the aid of a rugged cattle driver simply called Drover (Jackman) to lead the cattle to the capital city of Darwin to secure an important military contract and save the ranch (and possibly Nullah). Thus sets up a series of adventures worthy of classic epics of old. This is, first and foremost, a western, with odes to romances and war dramas of the past. This is just as the director, Australian Baz Luhrmann intended. Luhrmann also directed Moulin Rouge, a rousing tribute to epic musicals. This man clearly loves his grand old movies.
This is a film I could highly recommend to my parents, especially my John-Wayne-loving dad who embraces just about any film that involves cattle drives and tough cowboys. Mom would be drawn in by the good old-fashioned romanticism. I got a kick out of both, but the elements of the film I personally liked the best involve the main character of Nullah. Brandon Walters is a charming, very natural child actor who imbues his character with just the right amount of childish wisdom and impishness, without being precocious. One of the most delightful scenes is when Lady Ashley, who admits to not being very experienced with children, attempts to comfort Nullah by telling him a story. All she can think of is The Wizard of Oz, the current hit film of the time. She awkwardly tries to sing “Over the Rainbow,” a tune that will remain meaningful to both characters. It is a genuinely sweet moment.
That said, much was made at the time of its release about the racial themes of the storyline. While some critics praised Luhrmann for condemning his nation’s past racism, others accused him of overly sentimentalizing the Aboriginal characters and making King George and Nullah almost godlike at times. Indeed, there does seem to be a tendency to make up for past movie-hero racism by having two Aboriginal characters nobly sacrifice themselves to save others and another provide the key “save” that finally does away with the major threat to Faraway Downs. I was less bothered by the mysticism of Nullah and his grandfather, mainly because it was not applied to all the Aboriginal characters (although mysticism is a key element of traditional Aboriginal religion). The film makes it clear that King George is a uniquely powerful holy man from whom Nullah has inherited special gifts. Because of the way Luhrmann shot and edited the film, most of the time it is hard to tell whether King George is really supposed to be appearing in a scene or if Nullah is just connecting with him spiritually. Frankly, I didn’t care. Sometimes it pays not to overthink these things, just go with the flow and enjoy the ride.
Despite accusations of overly praising the Aborigines, Luhrmann does underplay some of his country’s racial policies regarding children. The film seems to imply that whites and Aborigines maintained peacefully segregated, but essentially autonomous, societies and that only “half-caste” children were subject to being forcibly sent to mission schools. In fact, the practice of taking Aboriginal (not just bi-racial) children away from their parents was widespread, peaking in the 1930s but continuing until 1973. The film also implies that Lady Ashley cannot legally adopt Nullah after he is orphaned because he is half-black and she is white, but many Aboriginal children were adopted by white families. In the final analysis, Luhrmann uses the story of Australia as a metaphor for the racial acceptance that he wants to win out in his country. It is a noble idea, if a bit flawed as a historical treatise.
But then again, this is a big old-fashioned epic, not a documentary. I’d still love to see it on the big screen someday, as the cinematography and art direction live up to the hype and would look gorgeous on the big screen. Still, I’m glad I rented it and wish it had performed better at the box office, simply to encourage Luhrmann to keep making his homages to grand old movies of yore. Something tells me he will anyway.
And hey, Hugh Jackman took off his shirt multiple times without whipping out the Wolverine claws. ‘Nuff said. Rent it, gals.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Since I always like to hear other women's recommendations of movies I might like, I'll pass on the favor. See bottom of review for explanation of my rating system.
Australia was one of those movies that I had planned to see in the movies theaters. Initial reviews upon its release, even those that mocked its storyline and debated its racial narrative, praised its visual elements. The cinematography and art direction intentionally tried to emulate grand epics of old. This was to be the Australian Gone with the Wind. Having enjoyed Nicole Kidman in most of her roles and relishing the opportunity to see a shirtless Hugh Jackman without having to endure a comic-book-based action flick, I eagerly added Australia to the list of “date night” movies for hubby and myself.
Alas, it was not to be. As usual, life got in the way of the ideal movie night. During the brief period when the film was in theaters, we were too busy to fit in time to see the nearly three hour film in theaters. Since it did not perform as well as expected at the box office (earning less than $50 million), it was gone before we had to chance to even catch it on a cheap date night at the local dollar theater.
But oddly enough, what proved less-than-successful at the box office must have had appeal on DVD, as my attempts to rent it upon initial video release were always thwarted (though such failed attempts did allow me to discover The Changeling, an underrated winner to be discussed another time). Finally, I had the chance to rent the movie and check it out for myself, albeit spread out over three late nights while preparing for my five year-old’s birthday party.
I must say, the first ten minutes almost made me shut off the movie and switch to the Food Network. After an initial opening scene that fascinates with a murder and a mysterious little boy on the run, the movie shifts into a sequence designed to set up a backstory, but which manages instead to include so many western film clichés in such a silly manner that I started to think the film was going to be a parody of epics, rather than an homage to the genre.
Then, the tone shifts again once it catches back up with the very first scene of the film and the mysterious little boy who proves to be the heart of the film. The story spans 1939 to 1942 in the Northern Territory. The boy, Nullah (Brandon Walters), is the son of an Aboriginal woman and a white man at a time when racism runs rampant in the country. As a “half-caste,” Nullah is rejected by both white and Aboriginal society and is expected to be sent to a church-run mission school to “have the black bred out of him,” as one headmaster explains. In reality, many of these schools forced non-white children into a harsh life of indentured servitude.
The little boy lives life constantly on the run from local white officials who would “improve” his life by forcing him into a mission school, but receives some protection from his Aboriginal grandfather, holy man King George (David Gulpilil), and his loving mother and grandmother, both of whom work on a struggling cattle ranch called Faraway Downs. Nullah has inherited some of his grandfather’s mystical gifts and the two share a psychic connection throughout the story.
Trouble comes to Faraway Downs when the owner, Lord Ashley, is murdered and King George is the prime suspect. Nullah, who witnesses key elements of the crime, now has two reasons to run. He is led to seek protection from prim Lady Sarah Ashley (Kidman), who arrives at the ranch from England expecting to tell off her no-good husband, only to find him dead, the land threatened by a set of Snidely Whiplash-type villains, and the boy begging for help. She enlists the aid of a rugged cattle driver simply called Drover (Jackman) to lead the cattle to the capital city of Darwin to secure an important military contract and save the ranch (and possibly Nullah). Thus sets up a series of adventures worthy of classic epics of old. This is, first and foremost, a western, with odes to romances and war dramas of the past. This is just as the director, Australian Baz Luhrmann intended. Luhrmann also directed Moulin Rouge, a rousing tribute to epic musicals. This man clearly loves his grand old movies.
This is a film I could highly recommend to my parents, especially my John-Wayne-loving dad who embraces just about any film that involves cattle drives and tough cowboys. Mom would be drawn in by the good old-fashioned romanticism. I got a kick out of both, but the elements of the film I personally liked the best involve the main character of Nullah. Brandon Walters is a charming, very natural child actor who imbues his character with just the right amount of childish wisdom and impishness, without being precocious. One of the most delightful scenes is when Lady Ashley, who admits to not being very experienced with children, attempts to comfort Nullah by telling him a story. All she can think of is The Wizard of Oz, the current hit film of the time. She awkwardly tries to sing “Over the Rainbow,” a tune that will remain meaningful to both characters. It is a genuinely sweet moment.
That said, much was made at the time of its release about the racial themes of the storyline. While some critics praised Luhrmann for condemning his nation’s past racism, others accused him of overly sentimentalizing the Aboriginal characters and making King George and Nullah almost godlike at times. Indeed, there does seem to be a tendency to make up for past movie-hero racism by having two Aboriginal characters nobly sacrifice themselves to save others and another provide the key “save” that finally does away with the major threat to Faraway Downs. I was less bothered by the mysticism of Nullah and his grandfather, mainly because it was not applied to all the Aboriginal characters (although mysticism is a key element of traditional Aboriginal religion). The film makes it clear that King George is a uniquely powerful holy man from whom Nullah has inherited special gifts. Because of the way Luhrmann shot and edited the film, most of the time it is hard to tell whether King George is really supposed to be appearing in a scene or if Nullah is just connecting with him spiritually. Frankly, I didn’t care. Sometimes it pays not to overthink these things, just go with the flow and enjoy the ride.
Despite accusations of overly praising the Aborigines, Luhrmann does underplay some of his country’s racial policies regarding children. The film seems to imply that whites and Aborigines maintained peacefully segregated, but essentially autonomous, societies and that only “half-caste” children were subject to being forcibly sent to mission schools. In fact, the practice of taking Aboriginal (not just bi-racial) children away from their parents was widespread, peaking in the 1930s but continuing until 1973. The film also implies that Lady Ashley cannot legally adopt Nullah after he is orphaned because he is half-black and she is white, but many Aboriginal children were adopted by white families. In the final analysis, Luhrmann uses the story of Australia as a metaphor for the racial acceptance that he wants to win out in his country. It is a noble idea, if a bit flawed as a historical treatise.
But then again, this is a big old-fashioned epic, not a documentary. I’d still love to see it on the big screen someday, as the cinematography and art direction live up to the hype and would look gorgeous on the big screen. Still, I’m glad I rented it and wish it had performed better at the box office, simply to encourage Luhrmann to keep making his homages to grand old movies of yore. Something tells me he will anyway.
And hey, Hugh Jackman took off his shirt multiple times without whipping out the Wolverine claws. ‘Nuff said. Rent it, gals.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
*The Henhouse Movie Rating System:
Four kernels – An exceptional film worth paying for a babysitter to see in the theater, or worth staying up late to watch on DVD after the kids have gone to bed and devoting your full attention to.
Three kernels – A good film that has many entertaining elements and might be worth seeing in the theater if you have a free babysitting offer from relatives or renting to watch while folding the laundry.
Two kernels – A so-so movie that might be worth seeing if it happens to be on cable and you want something to take your mind off washing dishes without thinking too hard.
One kernel – A bad film only worth watching if you need an unintentional laugh or if it’s the only decent thing you can find on free TV while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Zero kernels – A film SO awful you should avoid at all costs; yes, worse than watching even a bad infomercial for the 20th time while breastfeeding at 2 a.m.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Women's Pictures to Chick Flicks: Evolutions in Film
This will be the first in an ongoing series of commentaries, or cluckings, about films appealing primarily to female audiences. They will be accompanied by regular reviews of films either currently in theaters or on DVD that fit within this genre. Why bother? Mainly because I love movies and think the genre of women-oriented films is woefully undervalued by most traditional film critics and misunderstood by modern-day film studios. The most useful and insightful information about such movies tends to come from other women. Hopefully this feature will help spark a dialogue with fans of the genre to help enlighten and improve our awareness of films for us.
Once upon a time, the industry referred to such films as “women’s pictures,” more recently replaced by the term “chick flick.” But even that current phrase may now be too restrictive. Contrary to what many filmmakers and marketers seem to assume, not all films that appeal more to women than men can be classified as “chick flicks.” Just as with literature, there are different categories that appeal to different types of women. In popular reading, “chick lit” refers to stories about hip, single first-career 20-somethings , while “women’s fiction” generally involves female protagonists facing some personal challenge. Candace Bushnell (Sex and the City) writes chick lit; Jodi Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) writes women’s fiction.
The recent surge in “chick lit” has influenced development of the “chick flick,” which seems to be a hip film appealing mainly to young single women (think: the majority of romantic comedies produced by the major studio starring hot television actresses under 35). “Chick flick” seems inadequate to describe films that may appeal more to women over 40 whose life experiences have refined their film palettes. We’ve matured beyond “chicks” into “hens,” thus the title of this column and use of the term “cluckings.” (I personally prefer the word “gal,” but that may be a regional preference).
But while I call this feature “Hen House Theater,” that term still does not seem adequate for the genre of movies that appeal to women over 40. I’ve been struggling to come up with a term that might be less stodgy than “woman’s picture,” but more mature than “chick flick.” Here are a few that have crossed my mind:
Mammary Movies
Cervical Cinema
Feminine Films
Ovarian Art
What do you think? Write-in votes are always welcome. If we have consensus, or I just like your term, we’ll stick with that. Who knows, we might even come up with something that surpasses “chick flick” in the popular lexicon.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Once upon a time, the industry referred to such films as “women’s pictures,” more recently replaced by the term “chick flick.” But even that current phrase may now be too restrictive. Contrary to what many filmmakers and marketers seem to assume, not all films that appeal more to women than men can be classified as “chick flicks.” Just as with literature, there are different categories that appeal to different types of women. In popular reading, “chick lit” refers to stories about hip, single first-career 20-somethings , while “women’s fiction” generally involves female protagonists facing some personal challenge. Candace Bushnell (Sex and the City) writes chick lit; Jodi Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) writes women’s fiction.
The recent surge in “chick lit” has influenced development of the “chick flick,” which seems to be a hip film appealing mainly to young single women (think: the majority of romantic comedies produced by the major studio starring hot television actresses under 35). “Chick flick” seems inadequate to describe films that may appeal more to women over 40 whose life experiences have refined their film palettes. We’ve matured beyond “chicks” into “hens,” thus the title of this column and use of the term “cluckings.” (I personally prefer the word “gal,” but that may be a regional preference).
But while I call this feature “Hen House Theater,” that term still does not seem adequate for the genre of movies that appeal to women over 40. I’ve been struggling to come up with a term that might be less stodgy than “woman’s picture,” but more mature than “chick flick.” Here are a few that have crossed my mind:
Mammary Movies
Cervical Cinema
Feminine Films
Ovarian Art
What do you think? Write-in votes are always welcome. If we have consensus, or I just like your term, we’ll stick with that. Who knows, we might even come up with something that surpasses “chick flick” in the popular lexicon.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Monday, June 15, 2009
Check Out the New Book
For those of you who might be interested, the June 15th blog offers a preview of my new novel, Tenure Track, coming soon from iUniverse. I'll keep you posted about our release date.
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Yours in Sisterhood - VB
Tenure Track Preview
Tenure Track: A Novel Author: Victoria Bradley
Prologue
A Seminal Event
“Caution,” Dr. Donald Pfeiser warned, “Never, ever, use this form if ε ≠ 0!” To emphasize the dangers that could result from such a mistake, the esteemed nuclear engineer flashed the image of a skull and crossbones on his overhead Power Point. The 50 or so students listening to his dry lecture on particle reactor design dutifully noted this important point, so as not to make a fatal error of mass destruction in their future careers.
Most of the students were so engrossed in their note taking or efforts to stay awake that they failed to notice petite, freckle-faced freshman Jessica Hampton calmly walk down the center aisle at 10:23 a.m. One witness later testified to observing Hampton only because he found it odd for a student entering class so late to seek a seat right in front of the professor.
Hampton did walk all the way to the front of the classroom, but she never took a seat. Instead, she carefully raised a 9mm Glock handgun and shot Donald Pfeiser strategically in the groin and abdomen, immediately severing his aorta.
Pow! Pow!
Dr. Pfeiser bled out within minutes, with the ominous skull and crossbones still projected above his dying body. Chaos erupted as students dove under chairs and anywhere they could to avoid getting shot in the windowless room with only one exit door. Perhaps thinking that the skinny young woman was no match for a couple of rugged, tank-sized athletes, two senior varsity wrestlers lunged almost at once to try to take her down. But the gun proved to be a great equalizer as Jessica Hampton dispatched both would-be heroes in quick succession, one with a shot to the heart, the other to the head.
Pow! Pow!
The next gunshot came quickly and only had one target. A few students who were watching from their hiding places testified that Hampton stared at the two fallen athletes with deadened eyes, then quietly placed the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brain matter across three rows of seats and the south wall of the lecture hall.
Pow! For a split-second afterward, the stunned room was so quiet that every survivor recalled hearing the big hand on the ancient wall clock click into place, marking 10:24 a.m., February 14.
Part One:
Present and Past
Chapter One
A Test Case
“I don’t care if he dunks like Jordan, we can’t pass him if he failed his final,” Dr. Jane Roardan said firmly, but calmly. The outcome of this summer course meant the difference between the forward guard being academically eligible to play this semester or sitting out almost half of the regular season, presuming he could make eligibility for spring.
“Well, perhaps you can at least let him retake the final,” Athletic Director Doss pleaded, to no avail.
“Now you know with the fall semester beginning today, that would entail a retroactive grade change,” she reminded the sputtering A.D. on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. I’m not inclined to play that game. I suggest you take advantage of all the fine opportunities we provide your athletes to help him retake the class and pass this time. Just apply a little basketball muscle to memorizing some historical facts and improving his writing skills.”
After a few more terse words, the conversation ended abruptly. Jane took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She sat back in her chair, silently fingering the strand of pearls around her neck, a long-ago anniversary gift from Mark. She rarely wore them to school, but they went well with the new pale blue suit she was sporting. The outfit hung nicely on her tall, 60 year-old frame, accentuating her short-cropped silver hair with a look of authority. Dressing the part helped give her an air of confidence as she tackled this new position.
She needed all the help she could get. Despite her firm, composed stance on the telephone, such unpleasant conversations always rattled her a bit. Dr. Roardan was used to dealing with coaches who wanted her to cut their star players some slack on their grades. This time it was easier than usual to refuse, since she was not the professor in charge of the class in question but rather the new History Department Chair backing up a fellow colleague. After 32 years as a professor of British and Women’s History at this university, it still chapped her how much the school placed sports above academics. The godlike status of athletes had only been exalted by the martyrdom of two mediocre wrestlers who had had the misfortune of meeting their end three and a half years earlier on what was now known as “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”
The reverence with which many students still spoke of the two young men, hailed by A.D. Doss as the finest examples of student athletes, successfully deflected attention away from less impressive facts, such as the paltry academic performances of most male jocks. For years Jane had listened with annoyance as Doss made the dubious claim of high graduation rates for the school’s scholarship players; a fudging of data she recognized as skewed by the women’s programs — especially the basketball team, which had maintained an astonishing 100 percent graduation rate for more than 20 years under the auspices of the country’s winningest female coach. The athletes with ovaries allowed Doss to create the allusion that sports enhanced education at the university. Jane knew better and she was not inclined to play his game.
Jane wondered what her undergraduate mentor, Women’s History pioneer Gerda Lerner, would make of this post-Title IX development. Dr. Roardan’s eyes panned across the framed diplomas that aligned the dark-paneled walls of her tiny office — bachelor’s degree from Sarah Lawrence, Ph.D. from Lerner’s alma mater Columbia — before falling on the signed photograph of Dr. Lerner that she often stared at for telekinetic inspiration. Gerda would know what to do with Doss, Jane told herself.
With her mind focused on athletics, another photograph soon drew Jane’s attention. Her hand fell upon the desk-framed image of a thin, bespectacled man, with a graying shock of frizzy hair, his arms around two teenagers — a similar-looking boy in a T-shirt reading “Super Geek” and a muscular girl dressed in a basketball uniform.
Jane’s children served as a fine metaphor for the split nature of the university. The fraternal twins had shared a womb and an environment, but had grown up to have completely different priorities — Dennis, of the mind; Dana, of the body. Athens and Sparta. History taught that Athens paved the way for the rise of western civilization while Sparta defeated its enemies with physical might, then faded into oblivion like hot shot athletes who peaked then declined at an early age. Jane feared the same future for her athletically inclined daughter, whose greatest wish was to play for the system that her mother so despised. Dr. Roardan grimaced at the irony.
Her contemplations of athletics and education were interrupted by another telephone call. Isobel, the department’s administrative assistant, announced that Dean of Students Gary Jones was on the line. “He sounds nervous,” she reported.
Jane had to stifle a chuckle. Despite his generally jovial manner when things were going well, Gary was known to dissolve into a nervous wreck whenever something went wrong. It could be as minor as a report of students dropping water balloons on rival frat members, or as serious as a massive cheating scandal. He would react the same way, initially uncertain of what to do, and scared to death of any situation that might incur negative publicity for the school. With his rotund body and habit of constantly wringing his hands when nervous, the image of Piglet from the twins’ childhood books always popped into Jane’s head when she discussed a problem with Gary. Only his colleagues ever observed such nervousness, though. In front of students, he usually emitted an aura of extreme calm and control, save for profuse amounts of sweat dripping off his brow.
Jane took in a final cleansing breath as she picked up the receiver. “Hello Gary,” she greeted, trying to sound upbeat. “What can I do for you today?”
“Jane, we have a problem,” he sputtered.
“Already? It’s only the first day of the semester. What’s up?” she replied, trying to sound positive. Internally, she was quickly running through the list of issues that could possibly be a problem for both the Dean of Students and the Chair of the History Department, unless A.D. Doss had already snagged Gary to plead his case about the poor unfortunate student athlete.
“I need to see you right away,” Gary said, sounding agitated. “I received a call this morning from the mother of a female student, claiming her daughter has had an inappropriate relationship with one of your History professors.” Jane could envision the sweat popping out of the brow on the other end of the telephone as she tried to remain calm and reasonable.
Hot damn! Horndog finally got caught! She was torn between feeling gleeful that the most notorious letch on campus was finally getting busted, while dreading having to deal with the crisis, since the letch in question was in her department.
Rather than make it obvious that she knew exactly who the culprit probably was, she asked innocently, “Who?”
“I hate to tell you, but it’s Lewis Burns.”
She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
“Jane, are you there?” Gary queried.
“Oh, uh yeah.” She tried to shake off her initial shock. “What are the details? Is this just an overreacting parent or are we talking about something serious?”
“Oh, it’s serious, and they have proof,” he said. “This could be very bad, Jane. Very bad. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me here on the hour?”
She agreed, then spent the next 25 minutes trying to convince herself that this would all turn out to be a mistake.
No way. Not Lewis, of all people.
Jane told Isobel that she would be out for an unspecified amount of time. Walking out the door of the department’s administrative office, she passed beneath a security camera camouflaged by a sign reading: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it—George Santayana, 1904.” It was her favorite pithy response to obnoxious students who dared ask why they were required to take History courses.
She left Hammond Hall and quickly made her way across campus to the phallic limestone tower that housed most of the main administrative offices. The afternoon was sweltering, typical for the first day of classes under the hot August sun. The smell of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils. In the distance rumbled the faint sounds of weed whackers and leaf blowers used by the Hispanic lawn care men who worked practically nonstop at minimum wage to keep the campus looking immaculate. It had been years since Jane had seen a non-Hispanic maintenance worker on campus. She often thought that students in the Spanish Department would do well to immerse themselves in the language by volunteering to help these men, most of whom were non-English speaking immigrants.
Just outside the main administrative building, she crossed the Commons — a large, grassy expanse where dozens of young men and women were lounging about, taking advantage of the sunshine to keep up their summer tans. Aah, youth. Skin cancer be damned. Let’s try to get as brown as those maintenance men we never acknowledge.
It was amazing to her how, no matter how much changed in the world, some things always remained the same. Throughout her career, she had found that college students from generation to generation shared a propensity for testing their mortality. They had the impulsiveness of teenagers, coupled with the sudden freedom of living beyond the watchful eyes of their parents. The more parental types said that something was bad for them, the more they wanted to try it. As one of her otherwise well-disciplined students once explained about his smoking habit, “Ya gotta die of something, why not lung cancer?” Jane had frequently overheard the same comment about cirrhosis of the liver from obviously heavy drinkers. At their age, death from a slow, painful disease was far away and abstract.
As a teacher, she had always found this aspect of student behavior to be just an amusing curiosity. As the parent of two high school seniors, it terrified her. Many times she had heard Gary exhort to nervous parents during frosh week: “Mom and Dad, it’s time to let your children pursue their own dreams, even if they differ from your own.” Next year she would be one of those parents. Increasingly these days she thought about the twins whenever she observed students on campus. In just one year her babies would be in the same position as these young bodies roasting themselves on the Commons.
God help them all.
Ironically, concerns about the decision-making skills of college students had indirectly resulted in her current trek — concerns born of the darkest day in the university’s 150-year history. Maintenance workers had expertly covered the physical stains left by Bloody Valentine’s Day, but the psychological marks remained. Campus violence experts declared the school lucky, in that the death toll had been limited to four, but the incident had forever shattered the collective sense that this campus was a safe haven in a violent world.
Revelations in the days following the murders had been even more shocking. From the start, experts had been baffled by Jessica Hampton’s deviation from the typical profile of most campus shooters. For one thing, she was female. The notoriety of having been the country’s first female campus mass murderer led to huge media scrutiny of Hampton’s life. The presence of Donald Pfeiser’s skull and crossbones drawing overlooking the crime scene lent an air of the supernatural to the event, further fueling public fascination. Then the lurid motivation became public, revealed in a videotaped recording Hampton had posted on her Web page about one hour before the shooting. Police investigations verified the troubled student’s claims on the video.
It seemed that the 52-year-old Donald Pfeiser, married with four children, had been carrying on an affair with Jessica Hampton. It had not been his first, as it turned out. The tall, balding engineering professor had a long history of bedding students, both male and female. In the weeks following the shooting, numerous former and current students came forward with their tales of “Don the Juan,” as he was apparently known. Seventeen year-old, virginal freshman Jessica Hampton had simply been one of his more emotionally fragile conquests. As Jessica recounted in her video, he had approached her during the first week of the semester, as she sat alone at a popular coffeehouse just off campus. Shy and homesick, she had been easily flattered by the attentions of the older man, whose initial fatherly concern helped ease her into seduction. “He was in my pants before mid-terms,” she had testified with shame.
The affair had lasted throughout much of the girl’s first semester at college, until Pfeiser tired of her increasing clinginess and attempts to contact him over Christmas break. He had finally ended the relationship in late January, coldly advising Jessica to use the sexual knowledge he had conferred upon her to become more popular at frat parties.
The girl had been devastated, especially when, a few days later, a campus health center nurse informed her that she had contracted gonorrhea. The nurse later recalled how Jessica broke down in the examination room, crying and confessing exactly who had given her the disease. The veteran health care professional indicated a lack of surprise. Over the years she had seen numerous cases of unwanted pregnancy and disease caused by randy professors, but the center’s privacy rules prevented her from saying anything other than recording Jessica’s case as another campus STD statistic. However, as many critics noted after the shootings, the nurse could have referred the clearly distraught student to one of the campus’s many mental health counselors. Instead, she merely sent Jessica home with a prescription, a handful of condoms, three STD pamphlets, and the advice to learn from her mistakes.
The used, confused, and now diseased teenager quickly spiraled into a deep depression. Her roommate complained to their dorm R.A. that Jessica was acting “creepy,” not going to classes or showering, wearing nothing but sweatsuits, eating only junk food, and listening to “angry chick” music constantly. The R.A. did nothing other than lecture Jessica that she needed to get to her classes or face academic probation. The roommate effectively moved out, sleeping on the floor of a friend’s room down the hall.
Police found that Jessica did venture outside the dorm at least once, to withdraw the remainder of her summer job savings from an ATM, then walk to a nearby gun shop to purchase the handgun and ammunition. Her father had owned a similar handgun, which he had insisted she learn to use for her own protection against dangerous people like rapists. Her rambling video indicated that, in Jessica’s mind, Don the Juan was equivalent to the rapists her father had warned her about, “destroying innocence and spreading pestilence.” Even though Jessica’s STD was entirely treatable, she might as well have been afflicted with advanced AIDS. In her rapidly unhinging mind, her life was over.
Never in the video did Jessica say that she was planning to kill Pfeiser. Her purpose in leaving the document seemed more to warn other students to stay away from him and other similar predators. But few who viewed the video would ever forget the eerie words with which she ended. “Well,” Jessica had said blankly into the camera, “at least he won’t be able to give it to anybody else.”
Most experts who endlessly analyzed the incident concluded that Jessica was not a true mass murderer in that she had probably only intended to castrate Pfeiser and kill herself in front of him. The shooting of the two wrestlers was likely just a defensive reaction to seeing two large men coming at her. In her mind, the theory went, they had been potential rapists, too. Despite this conclusion, Jessica Hampton would forever be known in the public consciousness as the first female campus mass murderer. And the university would forever be known as the site of “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”
Hampton’s parents and those of the two wrestlers sued the university, arguing that it had failed to protect a mentally unstable young woman from a known sexual predator, thus indirectly contributing to her violent breakdown and the deaths of two innocent young men. After months of scrutiny, the veteran nurse was pressured into retiring; the R.A. transferred to another school; and the university reached an undisclosed monetary settlement with the families. As part of the agreement, the administration agreed to beef up campus security and take action to discourage sexual relationships between faculty and students. Out of months of debate grew the No Fraternization Policy.
Despite Internet rumors started by some either ignorant or snarky students, this regulation had nothing to do with abolishing the Greek system. In an effort to show the world that they were serious about protecting students, the Board of Regents implemented one of the most stringent sexual harassment policies among major colleges. Jane had served on the committee that initially devised the rule, though the final wording went far beyond the committee’s original intent.
Noting that Dr. Pfeiser seemed to have had a strong psychological hold over Hampton, the debate had moved from sexual harassment into the realm of whether or not faculty members had implied power over students just by virtue of being faculty. In the aftermath of the shooting, many people, especially several vocal female faculty members, supported this argument.
By the time the new No Fraternization Policy worked its way through various levels of committees, administrators, and the Board of Regents, it had become a rule that forbid all sexual relationships between students and faculty members, unless it could be proven that a previous relationship existed prior to the two parties becoming student and faculty (such as if a faculty member’s spouse or significant other decided to take some courses). State law already held a similar policy for public high schools.
The final committee vote on No Fraternization had been very close, falling mainly along gender lines. The Chancellor and the Board of Regents unanimously favored it, largely because several key state lawmakers were threatening to pass similar legislation if the university proved unable to regulate itself. As much as the liberal arts faculty liked to think of the campus as an independent island within the state capital, as a public university it was often at the mercy of politicians who worked across town. Many in the Republican-led legislature despised the perceived liberalism of the flagship U. Some lamented the shooting as an inevitable result of the faculty’s lack of morality. Many voters agreed, as public support for the new policy ran high.
Jane had been torn over the final wording of the rule. On the one hand, she understood the ethical need to discourage faculty-student relationships. Her department housed its own version of “Don the Juan” in the form of Henry Gould, a.k.a. “Horndog Harry.” Although there had never been a single formal complaint lodged against him in 40 years, Gould’s nickname and reputation were well-known subjects of campus gossip. Married three times, his last two wives had been undergrads, one of whom was pregnant while he was still married to another.
Jane often wondered if the secret to Horndog’s success in avoiding complaints was his ability to pick weak-minded targets whom he could easily control. His first wife had been very timid; the second committed suicide; and the third had been confined to a mental institution for several years. For Jane, Horndog was exactly the type of professor the new policy was designed to ferret out. If a clear prohibition against sexual relations with students did not change his behavior, perhaps his conquests might at least be more willing to speak out.
On the other hand, from a practical standpoint, Jane thought the new policy was far too broad, and to be honest, except for the occasional child prodigy, they were talking about consensual activities between legal adults. Yet she agreed there was a big difference between an impressionable 18 year-old frosh and a 40 year-old grad student. She worried about her daughter becoming susceptible to seduction by someone like Horndog or Don the Juan. Catching herself being somewhat sexist, Jane realized that she did not have such concerns about her son, partly because he was male and partly because she just could not envision her nerdy boy as the object of an older woman’s desires.
Despite objections voiced only in private meetings, Jane publicly stood behind the policy, which had been supported upon legal challenge by the state Supreme Court. Behind closed doors, administrators and leaders of the faculty senate agreed that enforcement would only be initiated by student complaint. They had no intention of closely scrutinizing the sex lives of teachers or students, but hoped the new policy would give them more leverage to purge tenured predators like Don the Juan. It was the school’s version of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” in place for a year but yet to be tested in a real case.
Now, on the first day of classes, instead of the notorious old goat of the History Department, it was mild-mannered young Lewis Burns being accused of violating the policy. Jane secretly hoped this would turn out to be a false accusation. This was not how she intended to start her tenure as Chair.
Upon reaching the second floor of Hyde Tower, Jane motioned to Gary’s secretary, who waved her into a spacious, well-lit room carpeted in familiar, trademark school hues, walls covered by framed newspaper clippings quoting renowned psychologist Dr. Gary Jones. Gary’s famous studies on adolescent impulse control had influenced his hiring by the U. following Bloody Valentine’s Day. As Dean, Gary had worked very hard to rebuild a sense of trust on the campus, proving himself that rare academic capable of top-notch administration and research while still connecting well with students. No one could question his dedication to duty, though Jane often worried that Gary’s career success came at the expense of his own well-being. He had never married, weighed about 300 pounds, and breathed heavily through his nose. Jane fully expected him to keel over from a heart attack one day while sitting behind his desk, just as he was perched when she entered the office.
Right then, Dean Piglet was too engrossed in his computer screen to keel over or even to wring his hands. Jane noticed that he had strategically placed the monitor at a slight angle, so that she could not see what he was viewing. Gary had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Looking more serious than usual, he took one last squint at the monitor through his brown-rimmed glasses before turning to face her.
“How are you, Jane?” he asked, somewhat wearily. Good old Gary. He could always be counted on to start even a difficult conversation off with a friendly gesture. It was one of the many reasons people liked him.
“I’m good, and you?” she said, trying to hide her concern.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly and gave her a sad, gentle smile, more reminiscent of Eeyore than Piglet.
“What’s going on, Gary?”
He clasped his hands together on the desktop. “Well, like I said before, I got a call from the mother of a female undergrad this morning. She was very upset. It seems she just discovered that her daughter’s been romantically involved with Lewis Burns. The girl is starting her junior year. Apparently, she worked as Lewis’s research assistant last year and at some point they began a sexual relationship. I didn’t ask for details. Anyway, the mom’s a lawyer with political connections, so there was a lot of talk about sexual harassment, accusations of Lewis serving the girl alcohol, trouble for the school at the capitol, yadda, yadda. Anyway, it’s a mess. We need to fix it.” By now he was propping one elbow on his desk, rubbing his right temple with a thumb.
“Does she have any proof of this relationship?” Jane asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Gary replied. “She and the whole wide world. That’s what I was just looking at.”
Uh-oh. This does not sound good.
He motioned for Jane to come over to his side of the desk. “This is from the girl’s Web page.”
Jane stood dumbfounded as her eyes beheld a photograph of Dr. Lewis Burns, lying in a well-lit bed, with obviously little or no clothes on, one eye starting to open, as if just waking up. His bare chest was exposed, as well as most of one leg. While a thin sheet covered his private parts, the drapery could not mask evidence that Lewis clearly had an erection that lifted up a triangle of fabric like a small tent. Jane could feel her face flush in a combination of embarrassment and arousal. She had to admit that Lewis had one fine body underneath his scholarly attire.
Rather than express her admiration, she responded more appropriately, “Hmm. You’re right. That does not look good.”
“Yeah,” said Gary. “According to my student spies, the kids are already calling him ‘Puptent.’”
“Oh, definitely not good.” Jane then read the photo caption: “’YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. Guess how this Prof at the capital U spent his summer? Screwing his student, then dumping her by text message! MOFO! Avoid this prick!’”
Jane hated revealing her ignorance, but had to ask, “MOFO?”
“Shorthand for one having a sexual relationship with a maternal type,” Gary translated diplomatically.
Following was a list of posted responses suggesting various punishments for the offending professor, ranging from “pulling a Hampton” to filing charges, as if some criminal offense had taken place. Jane spent several minutes reading through the very explicit commentaries. “Lovely language there,” she whispered sarcastically. “Does the lawyer mother know about this?”
“’Not sure,” Gary replied. “I looked it up myself.”
Jane gave him a puzzled look.
“It’s really the best way to find out about anybody, Jane. You should check it out regularly. I’m up to 5,000 friends on my page.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, quickly scanning other information on the page, whose author identified herself as “Yellow Rose.” When she read the pseudonym out loud, Gary explained, “Her full name is Amanda Rose Taylor.”
Jane read on, learning that Amanda Rose Taylor “likes any music you can dance to, romantic comedies that aren’t lame, vodka martinis, cute older guys and hangin’ with my BFFs.”
Sitting back down on her side of the desk, Jane gave Gary a skeptical look. “Have you talked to Lewis about this? It may not even be a real photo, the way students can alter digital images these days. Maybe all this is just a joke or an unhappy student trying to get revenge for a bad grade. We should really get his side of the story.”
Gary turned away from the computer. “Uh, no, I haven’t. That’s why I called you. You’re his Chair and you know him better than I do. I thought you should approach him first.”
Jane felt slightly defensive towards her junior colleague. “I have to tell you, this really seems out of character for Lewis. I know he’s had a rough time since his divorce, but I can’t believe he be so stupid as to get involved with an undergrad.”
“That may be,” Gary responded. “But mom sounds pretty mad and we can’t afford more bad publicity about professors and students, especially a student connected to the legislature. That’s the worst of it. Her stepfather is none other than Rick Benedict, remember him?”
Jane knew full-well who Rick Benedict was: majority leader of the state senate; conservative, family-values Republican; one of the university’s most vocal critics and a major backer of No Fraternization. Surely the gods could not be so cruel as to have his stepdaughter serve as the first test case for the policy.
“Is it possible this is some political trick he’s orchestrated?” she said, hopefully. Stranger things had been known to happen at the capitol. “This wasn’t the type of teacher I thought we’d wind up going after.”
Dean Jones removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “At least he doesn’t have tenure, so that makes it a little easier.”
“Well, he’s up for final approval this semester. He passed the preliminary phase last spring,” Jane revealed.
“Oooh,” Gary whistled. “Bad timing. Look, I think I can pacify the mother into not doing anything publicly until we’ve talked to her. She lives in the Metroplex but wants to come down in a couple of weeks for a face-to-face. I don’t think she’ll do anything until then. In the meantime, I want you to talk to Lewis Burns and get his version of the story. Right now, as far as I know, the two of us are the only people who know about the complaint. After I find out what the mom wants, I’ll consult with the President and legal.”
They discussed a few more details before she left his office. Stepping back out into the sunlight, she shook her head in disbelief.
Lewis, how could you be so stupid?
Copyright 2010
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