Several songs are rolling through my head right now. Unfortunately, there are a lot of losses for me going on in December. Considering the raw fact that I have self-diagnosed SAD, dreary winters are difficult as it is. Losses, however, do not add to the general unpleasantness of this holiday season/month. I used to really like New Years.
In fact, I was reminded today of how I brought in 1999-2000. Wow, life was so simple and yet so complicated. When you're 17, things are just so, so different. The drama in your head-- with embroiled emotions and hormones-- what a cocktail of excitement all that is. I'm glad I had that little chat, even though I was a bit covered up in depressing thoughts to be able to satisfactorily wallow in the nostalgia. An evening of movies, sleeping, making out, playing, enjoying--- what a great way to start this decade and century.
So, December marks the loss of my wonderful grandpa-- when I was only 14-- he was like my father. My dad had more or less checked out physically, and was only around for emotional hardship purposes. It absolutely ached to see all the people around me who loved him hurting so much for his quiet calm, wisdom, and knowledge. I said to my mom at the wake, "people are telling me they are sorry, like they know it's my grandpa. But it's really like I just lost my dad." My middle school band director (a really great person) stayed at the viewing for hours while my younger sister sobbed in his arms. It was quite touching.
A nice memory I have of that cold December-- I was determined that my younger siblings wouldn't miss Christmas traditions because of it all-- so I rallied my siblings-- all 5 of us, and dug out my mom's recipe box. I ordered my little brothers around alllllll day in that kitchen and made cookies like no one's business. There were little tricks about all those cookies that my mom knew that I didn;t-- but it was truly beautiful, all the handwriting on the recipe cards, the giant mess, the trays and trays of cookies, the plates to bring to neighbors, etc.
Last year, my grandma Jane died on the 9th. She planned to miss thanksgiving for surgery in the hospital, but had a plane ticket booked for the weekend after. That's how much she planned on being back in the game. She was sitting on the couch in her nightgown and fleece robe-- clipping coupons and saying to me and my sister-- the night before surgery-- I'm not through bothering you all-- haha-- spending time with you all yet. Somehow her body got the best of her spirit and it was time for her to go.
There are times that I don't feel like she's gone at all-- like I'll be able to have the senior breakfast at Ihop with her or talk about all the trips we took together or bitch about my mom. I suppose I can still bitch to her about my mom, but my replies are a lot less catty. I want to talk to her so much about being a teacher. She'd have been so proud of me for what I'm doing-- I honestly feel like so many things about her skipped a generation-- her flamboyant personality, her attention to other's feelings, her need for attention, her competitive nature-- that made it squarely into me and I am so honored to have had such a great relationship with her. I grew up (until I was about 12-19) with 3 great-grandparents. I thought for sure my kids (the ones I don[t have) would know her. I hate that they won't.
It brings me on to another type of loss I'm experiencing right now-- the loss of a partner. It's breaking my heart because it's so slow and bitter. I'm reminded of so much music-- the most music that I've ever shared with another (outside of a performing group, duh) and it hurts to have shared all that. Listening to itunes-- I have to uncheck and delete songs from playlists because they make my heart absolutely ache right now. I came across some paper letters from this one today and somehow they were strangely impersonal. They were about his ghosts and triumphs with me as an afterthought. The search through gmail for his name popped up the ones that made me miss the what-could-have-been/what-we-had. What does that say about the interface? The emails had greater depth? His personality was more at ease when translated through a keyboard, not a pen? The other thing I realized, is that he and I have not sent letters since he's been back in the same time zone. Granted, the letters made it more romantic and were more of a necessity because we were far apart, but did that part need to go away entirely? That's for another day to think through.
I hope the rest of this week isn't so hard. Last week was really, really rough for me. I'm so grateful for my friends and my sister putting their hands out to catch me. I feel like I'm falling so slowly and I can't enjoy the wind in my face because I know the ground is going to be cold and hard when I hit it.
Here's the big ones in my head/radio/ipod right now. Sorry Grandma and Grandpa, you'd hate all of these.
Wilco: I am Trying to Break Your Heart
"I always thought that if I held you tightly
You'd always love me like you did back then
Then I fell asleep and the city kept blinking"
Kelly Clarkson: Already Gone
"Remember all the things we wanted?
Now our memories are haunted,
we were always meant to say goodbye."
Rilo Kiley: The Good that Won't Come Out
"It's such a big mistake
lying here in your warm embrace.
I've been waiting for you to come in.
You say I choose sadness
that it never once has chosen me."
Glen Hansard: Say it To Me Now
"Cause this is what you've waited for
Your chance to even up the score.
This mystery only leads to doubt
And I didn't understand when you reached out to take my hand
And if you have something to say
You'd better say it now."
Imogen Heap/DeRulo: Hide and Seek/Whatcha Say
"Cause when the roof caved in and the truth came out
I just didn't know what to do
What did she say?
That you only meant well?
Well of course you did.
Whatcha say, that it's all for the best?
Of course it is."
--adr
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Poem for a Summer's Jog in Decatur
Leaving the pup's leash behind,
went for an evening jog.
More for exercise, not simple locomotion.
Smoldering, muggy, hazy air
thick with humidity and previous athletes' respiration.
Twilight or dusk,
only the first is a sexy movie.
Both are the time of day too dark
to go without reflective gear.
Except here.
Quiet streets lined with sidewalks where I call home:
S. Columbia Drive, Derrydown Way, Heathermore, Missionary Ave--
eclectic Irish street names,
peppered with the next morning's recycling.
"PAY AS YOU THROW" in seafoam, butter, and tarp-blue bags,
The Christmas-colored bins with milk jugs and beer bottles,
Tide and Downey,
organic strawberries, eggs, yogurt cartons.
Cardboard once nestled
chicken breasts
Ramen
Coke Zero
indicating our choosy Decaturite's product preferences.
The night-blooming jasmine bursts into my palette's scent,
its olefactory glory
drawing attention to the
stubby rosemary
climbing cucumbers
daylilies not faded even at evening
tigerlilies with freckled cheek petals
petunias draping over sidewalks.
Ipod buds rooted deeply in my ear canals,
"chicka rockas" playlist of
Shakira, Wreckers, Anna Nalick
serenading my straining steps.
The volume saves me from stopping to speak:
nosy neighbor needs a
wave, grin, and nod pointing to my cords to
cut him off quietly
Earbuds bloom again,
leaving only the waves of others--
Cute beagle leashed by a homely housewife...
Ugly shepherd leashed by a cute guy.
The misty air holds Southern mystery...
No Spanish moss of Swashbuckling Savannah,
no coasts of Charming Charleston,
no nightlife of Noisy New Orleans.
But mystery in the air East of Atlanta in Darling Decatur.
Lightning bugs punctuating the pretentious haze,
swarms of gnats dance near cypress trees.
Thanks to nervous parents' fear of West Nile,
mosquito spraying neatly prevents any interactions
with the poisonous pests.
But the heat,
the glorious, mysterious, thick-aired heat...
has meant that jogging for exercise,
not just locomotion,
makes for an evening's jog in June
to be a walk in Decatur.
went for an evening jog.
More for exercise, not simple locomotion.
Smoldering, muggy, hazy air
thick with humidity and previous athletes' respiration.
Twilight or dusk,
only the first is a sexy movie.
Both are the time of day too dark
to go without reflective gear.
Except here.
Quiet streets lined with sidewalks where I call home:
S. Columbia Drive, Derrydown Way, Heathermore, Missionary Ave--
eclectic Irish street names,
peppered with the next morning's recycling.
"PAY AS YOU THROW" in seafoam, butter, and tarp-blue bags,
The Christmas-colored bins with milk jugs and beer bottles,
Tide and Downey,
organic strawberries, eggs, yogurt cartons.
Cardboard once nestled
chicken breasts
Ramen
Coke Zero
indicating our choosy Decaturite's product preferences.
The night-blooming jasmine bursts into my palette's scent,
its olefactory glory
drawing attention to the
stubby rosemary
climbing cucumbers
daylilies not faded even at evening
tigerlilies with freckled cheek petals
petunias draping over sidewalks.
Ipod buds rooted deeply in my ear canals,
"chicka rockas" playlist of
Shakira, Wreckers, Anna Nalick
serenading my straining steps.
The volume saves me from stopping to speak:
nosy neighbor needs a
wave, grin, and nod pointing to my cords to
cut him off quietly
Earbuds bloom again,
leaving only the waves of others--
Cute beagle leashed by a homely housewife...
Ugly shepherd leashed by a cute guy.
The misty air holds Southern mystery...
No Spanish moss of Swashbuckling Savannah,
no coasts of Charming Charleston,
no nightlife of Noisy New Orleans.
But mystery in the air East of Atlanta in Darling Decatur.
Lightning bugs punctuating the pretentious haze,
swarms of gnats dance near cypress trees.
Thanks to nervous parents' fear of West Nile,
mosquito spraying neatly prevents any interactions
with the poisonous pests.
But the heat,
the glorious, mysterious, thick-aired heat...
has meant that jogging for exercise,
not just locomotion,
makes for an evening's jog in June
to be a walk in Decatur.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
i have a magnet my aunt gave me with part of this quote...
Lately I've been having these rather euphoric moments that wash over me and take over my subconscious-- it's as if everything is okay in the universe-- that some part of the powers that exist all around me are pacifying all the stress and bad things...giving me a quiet, reassuring nod and pat on the shoulder. I'm so sorry if it sounds cheesy, but I wish this ultimate calm for others. I truly wish I could bottle it, because it's really, really powerful. Maybe it's faith? I don't really have a good word.
So, a quote that has woven itself in and out of my life at different times (I think because I've always been performing and talking and making music-- and NOISE) that quotes about quiet often speak to me. (Paradox, yes, kids.) So, the part about, "in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul" has spoken to me. Honestly, I believed it was a Proverb, when I finally decided to look it up. Much to my surprise and giggly pleasure, this piece by Ehrmann includes a quote on a magnet that my amazing Aunt Janet gave to me at one point-- "you are a child of the universe, no less than all the trees and stars, be gentle with yourself." Jay once mentioned to me, but if the first premise is that you are amazing and compare to all these great things, you shouldn't be gentle-- you should have high expectations of yourself. I like the calm end. Too often, I'm unkind to myself and criticize myself too harshly. Reminding me to be gentle with me is never a bad thing.
Another point that came up today at work was the relationship between the givers and the takers. When you have a lot to give, the takers seem to find you. This is all well and good, especially because it does seem to serve a reciprocal purpose-- I enjoy giving, and I feel rewarded when the takers appreciate my assistance. That's probably why I'm in my field. However...the catch comes when you're low on the giving or don't know when you're going to be able to fill up next. I have a co-worker who's experienced a great deal of grief and turmoil lately-- and in my non-expert opinion, I think what's hurting her so much is that she is such a giver and to be so drained and unable to serve others her gift of giving makes her even more exhausted and feel unappreciated (sorry, poor construction on that one).
I am attempting to feel appreciated (in my environment of work where aspects of people have forgotten how to experience gratitude) for the gifts I bring-- to my students, colleagues, administration, community...and how I ENJOY giving, even if the appreciation/gratitude/thanks is not immediately present. It's in the universe somewhere. I know it. I've been getting these amazing feelings of grateful euphoric calm that proves it.:)
Here's the piece....I don't know anything much about the author, but his words are so simplistically beautiful and true.
Max Ehrmann
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
So, a quote that has woven itself in and out of my life at different times (I think because I've always been performing and talking and making music-- and NOISE) that quotes about quiet often speak to me. (Paradox, yes, kids.) So, the part about, "in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul" has spoken to me. Honestly, I believed it was a Proverb, when I finally decided to look it up. Much to my surprise and giggly pleasure, this piece by Ehrmann includes a quote on a magnet that my amazing Aunt Janet gave to me at one point-- "you are a child of the universe, no less than all the trees and stars, be gentle with yourself." Jay once mentioned to me, but if the first premise is that you are amazing and compare to all these great things, you shouldn't be gentle-- you should have high expectations of yourself. I like the calm end. Too often, I'm unkind to myself and criticize myself too harshly. Reminding me to be gentle with me is never a bad thing.
Another point that came up today at work was the relationship between the givers and the takers. When you have a lot to give, the takers seem to find you. This is all well and good, especially because it does seem to serve a reciprocal purpose-- I enjoy giving, and I feel rewarded when the takers appreciate my assistance. That's probably why I'm in my field. However...the catch comes when you're low on the giving or don't know when you're going to be able to fill up next. I have a co-worker who's experienced a great deal of grief and turmoil lately-- and in my non-expert opinion, I think what's hurting her so much is that she is such a giver and to be so drained and unable to serve others her gift of giving makes her even more exhausted and feel unappreciated (sorry, poor construction on that one).
I am attempting to feel appreciated (in my environment of work where aspects of people have forgotten how to experience gratitude) for the gifts I bring-- to my students, colleagues, administration, community...and how I ENJOY giving, even if the appreciation/gratitude/thanks is not immediately present. It's in the universe somewhere. I know it. I've been getting these amazing feelings of grateful euphoric calm that proves it.:)
Here's the piece....I don't know anything much about the author, but his words are so simplistically beautiful and true.
Max Ehrmann
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
Monday, February 16, 2009
tea time!
So, I've become slightly obsessed with tea lately. Maybe it's cuz I've been sick--but now I am majorly loving on some hot tea. So, I bought this awesome tea at the Farmer's Market today-- it was crazy expensive-- 10.78 for this little container...apparently it's $39 a pound. Since I have no gift for conversions or division...I have no idea how much tea I have.
It smells like the delicious flower-jasmine tea you get at thai restaurants-- and it's little flowers-- kinda look like the tops of clover flowers-- but it smells amazing-- and I haven't tried it yet...but here's a pic I found on el internet to tell me what it's supposed to do in water..GORGEOUS!
Oh, it's called Yi (or Vi?) Dian Hong.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
triple films-- 1 oscar?
Good movies I’ve recently seen: Waitress, Milk, and In Her Shoes. Commonality: not a lot. People overcoming adversity? Movies with big name people that still felt like Independent FILMS? (I make a big distinction between movies and films. Films you watch at a theatre with deliciously fattening popcorn and fizzy Coke. Films you watch at “showings” on campuses and in weird locations like libraries and museums. You know, you have that friend who’s like, “hey, you wanna go to see this film with me at this place? It’s artsy, I think.” And, the foregone conclusion is that, although it might be weird, uncomfortable, lush, or eye-opening, it will be—dum-dum-dah! A Film. Movies, well, movies you might watch on cable. Specifically TBS. They usually have Adam Sandler saying things in silly voices. Now, you just might see a movie at a theatre with said low-calorie popcorn, and it’s not a film. Example: Twilight. I know I love it, but it’s still in the category of movie. Movie. Film. Get it?)
So, in the interest of preventing my mind from exploding with cinematic joyousness, I humbly attempt to analyze (that’s probably not the word) my appreciation for Adrienne Shelly (murdered writer, director, and actress in) and Waitress, Sean Penn and Company in Milk, and the good and lovely Cameron Diaz, Toni Collette, and Shirley MacLaine in In Her Shoes.
How to start? I watched Waitress and In Her Shoes at home on DVD (God bless Netflix…for these and all the television shows I watch artfully, 4 episodes to a sitting.) Waitress was a solo view, but I felt in spirit a little connection with Katy—seeing as how Felicity actress (come on, do any of us call Keri Russell ANYTHING but Felicity?) stars and Katy and I share a weird obsession with Felicity’s college experience. I could pretend it’s my appreciation for JJ Abrams and all he’s done for unique television, but it’s not. I just liked Felicity. No Lost, no Alias…whatever—the characters were endearing, the plot had moments of mirroring reality, and it seemed to have, well, heart. I think that’s what I’m getting to about these three films: la Coeur. They all have the most charming heart—beating in the center, pulsing the plot along through beautiful pillow shots, shocking action, gruesome conflict, and my voyeuristic annoyance with Cameron Diaz’ underclothed body.
Waitress is about a mentally and sometimes physically abused woman in the deep south (time period not clear, most definitely contemporary) overcoming a terrible marriage, an illicit affair, and disaffection for her unborn child through her friendships and support of a grouchy old benefactor, two ninny-headed, but lovely friends, her ability to make delicious and creative food, and her own fortitude.
Milk is a narrative-documentary style biopic about the life of Harvey Milk, the slain politician who happened to hold the title of being first public political office holder in California (and arguably the US) who was openly gay. An advocate for rights of many, including racial minorities, he was shown through the film as being vulnerable, hopeful, loving, and righteous. Penn and the supporting cast created a stunning and emotionally-wrought group to support the agenda of the history-telling, and the ideology of the film.
In Her Shoes is a main-stream chick-flick about two sisters who don’t get along because one is responsible and boring (Collette) and one is frivolous and naughty (Diaz)—but they are united over some family misshaps and reconnections with a long-lost grandmother (MacLaine). Through this, they all find what they have been missing—generally to be needed with a relationship or family, a career that supports and nurtures, and appreciation for family and loved ones.
Commonalities again? Yes, the heart part. Relationships make up WHY we watch movies which leads to the Heteronormative push. Check-nope-check. However, the gay relationships presented in Milk (between Penn and Franco, for example) seem more healthy, supportive, and loving than the heterosexual ones in Waitress. Russell’s husband hits her, demands she not love the baby more than him, breaks chairs at a friend’s wedding. This is not wedded bliss. All the waitresses in the movie seem to be settling—one is settling for having an affair with a married cook while she has the honor not to leave her comatose husband, one marries her stalker (but he seems so nice with the spontaneous poetry…?) and Russell is having an affair with her married OB. Moments before the climax made me feel, well, awful. This poor woman’s spirit should have been broken down by the men around her, her poverty, her place. She even asks around to see what makes people “happy” and decides that she is, in fact, not happy, but there’s nothing and no one who is going to save her. She simply must exist.
However, the film takes a turn and the solution, then, seems to lie with the camaraderie of women as friends, daughters and mothers. Russell continues the tradition of cooking pies (handed to her by her mother, with the tune of a sweet song) with her daughter, but this time has the upper hand of owning her own pie diner, named after her little girl. She’s divorced the paralyzing husband, abandoned the cheating doctor who’s married to a “trusting” wife, and made a home for her waitress friends in the bright, shiny diner to be able to cook with her precious little one and head home, a woman happy.
In Her Shoes has relationship troubles—of course, it’s a romantic comedy! Mental illness, suicide, child-abandonment, aging, sibling-rivalry, and birth-order expectations are all touched upon during the serious moments of the film which are mercifully punctuated with the excellent MacLaine and Collete. As the older sister loses grips with her uptight lawyer life due to a series of dates gone bad, her bratty baby sister ups the ante and gives her motion to make some life changes. As the baby sister meets the grandma she didn’t much remember, she gains some self-confidence, puts on some damn clothes, and gets a job she’s good at. She also has some moments miraculously overcoming a learning disability (the English teacher in me says, yeah, okay.) but it lends credence to her desire to become a deeper, more full character.
I was drawn to this movie by Emily, my bratty (sometimes) baby sister who we share many traits similar to the girls in the movie. We, however, do not wear the same size shoes. Although the rising action has moments of ridiculousness that Em and I would never put each other through—the moments of realization that the big sister had sheltered and protected the little one through so much childhood trauma—and that the extended family was so supportive—hit very, very close to home. Again with the heteronormative—Diaz is punished in a way for her sluttiness—she lives at a retirement home and doesn’t get laid past the first 20 minutes of the movie. Colette on the other hand, loses a bad guy in an affair, but gains a great guy in a really sweet Jamaican-style marriage. It’s adorable. Diaz even quotes an ee cummings poem, which is about carrying the other’s heart—and it’s truly how I feel about my sister—that although we are separate people, wholes, jobs, interests, musics, etc.—we always have the other’s heart.
Oh, and onto Milk. I have trouble articulating my impression of this film—because I was so impressed! It had excellent sound design, plot, characters, documentary footage, music, unusual shots (the body bag in the reflection of the danger whistle on the street, for example), allusions, and foreshadowing. None of the actors seemed to “overdo” it for me. Ironic, considering the fact that it was about a band of gay guys who didn’t set off to change the world—but started a revolution in San Francisco that helped lead to so much progress in the world. The parties, the sets, the music, the intimation of experience—it was all so powerful. I left the theater feeling full—not from the artificial butter topping on my popcorn, but from my heart feeling like I had just lived through something heinous and real—and that I couldn’t stand by for change not to come for so many people in so many places. Penn did an outstanding job portraying a sometimes-fatalistic guy who had hopes and dreams—but never got too full of himself. “My name is Harvey Milk and I’m here to recruit you!” seemed to be his battle cry of an opener for speeches. His love of opera, photography, and pursuit of happiness made him whole—and impressive to see captured for film.
So the ultimate commonality? The sisterhood. I’ll leave the cheap joke in there for Milk, but these three films center around the dynamic, ethereal strength of sisterhood. The heart part comes in here, of course—the heart of these people—the marginalized—as women, as poor women, as orphaned children, as gay men—comes to its strongest, most admirable beat when they work together for a cause—for the cause of family, for the cause of protection, for the cause of progress. Minorities in groups—sisterhoods, if you will, are a mighty powerful thing—on film and off.
2-12-09 alg
So, in the interest of preventing my mind from exploding with cinematic joyousness, I humbly attempt to analyze (that’s probably not the word) my appreciation for Adrienne Shelly (murdered writer, director, and actress in) and Waitress, Sean Penn and Company in Milk, and the good and lovely Cameron Diaz, Toni Collette, and Shirley MacLaine in In Her Shoes.
How to start? I watched Waitress and In Her Shoes at home on DVD (God bless Netflix…for these and all the television shows I watch artfully, 4 episodes to a sitting.) Waitress was a solo view, but I felt in spirit a little connection with Katy—seeing as how Felicity actress (come on, do any of us call Keri Russell ANYTHING but Felicity?) stars and Katy and I share a weird obsession with Felicity’s college experience. I could pretend it’s my appreciation for JJ Abrams and all he’s done for unique television, but it’s not. I just liked Felicity. No Lost, no Alias…whatever—the characters were endearing, the plot had moments of mirroring reality, and it seemed to have, well, heart. I think that’s what I’m getting to about these three films: la Coeur. They all have the most charming heart—beating in the center, pulsing the plot along through beautiful pillow shots, shocking action, gruesome conflict, and my voyeuristic annoyance with Cameron Diaz’ underclothed body.
Waitress is about a mentally and sometimes physically abused woman in the deep south (time period not clear, most definitely contemporary) overcoming a terrible marriage, an illicit affair, and disaffection for her unborn child through her friendships and support of a grouchy old benefactor, two ninny-headed, but lovely friends, her ability to make delicious and creative food, and her own fortitude.
Milk is a narrative-documentary style biopic about the life of Harvey Milk, the slain politician who happened to hold the title of being first public political office holder in California (and arguably the US) who was openly gay. An advocate for rights of many, including racial minorities, he was shown through the film as being vulnerable, hopeful, loving, and righteous. Penn and the supporting cast created a stunning and emotionally-wrought group to support the agenda of the history-telling, and the ideology of the film.
In Her Shoes is a main-stream chick-flick about two sisters who don’t get along because one is responsible and boring (Collette) and one is frivolous and naughty (Diaz)—but they are united over some family misshaps and reconnections with a long-lost grandmother (MacLaine). Through this, they all find what they have been missing—generally to be needed with a relationship or family, a career that supports and nurtures, and appreciation for family and loved ones.
Commonalities again? Yes, the heart part. Relationships make up WHY we watch movies which leads to the Heteronormative push. Check-nope-check. However, the gay relationships presented in Milk (between Penn and Franco, for example) seem more healthy, supportive, and loving than the heterosexual ones in Waitress. Russell’s husband hits her, demands she not love the baby more than him, breaks chairs at a friend’s wedding. This is not wedded bliss. All the waitresses in the movie seem to be settling—one is settling for having an affair with a married cook while she has the honor not to leave her comatose husband, one marries her stalker (but he seems so nice with the spontaneous poetry…?) and Russell is having an affair with her married OB. Moments before the climax made me feel, well, awful. This poor woman’s spirit should have been broken down by the men around her, her poverty, her place. She even asks around to see what makes people “happy” and decides that she is, in fact, not happy, but there’s nothing and no one who is going to save her. She simply must exist.
However, the film takes a turn and the solution, then, seems to lie with the camaraderie of women as friends, daughters and mothers. Russell continues the tradition of cooking pies (handed to her by her mother, with the tune of a sweet song) with her daughter, but this time has the upper hand of owning her own pie diner, named after her little girl. She’s divorced the paralyzing husband, abandoned the cheating doctor who’s married to a “trusting” wife, and made a home for her waitress friends in the bright, shiny diner to be able to cook with her precious little one and head home, a woman happy.
In Her Shoes has relationship troubles—of course, it’s a romantic comedy! Mental illness, suicide, child-abandonment, aging, sibling-rivalry, and birth-order expectations are all touched upon during the serious moments of the film which are mercifully punctuated with the excellent MacLaine and Collete. As the older sister loses grips with her uptight lawyer life due to a series of dates gone bad, her bratty baby sister ups the ante and gives her motion to make some life changes. As the baby sister meets the grandma she didn’t much remember, she gains some self-confidence, puts on some damn clothes, and gets a job she’s good at. She also has some moments miraculously overcoming a learning disability (the English teacher in me says, yeah, okay.) but it lends credence to her desire to become a deeper, more full character.
I was drawn to this movie by Emily, my bratty (sometimes) baby sister who we share many traits similar to the girls in the movie. We, however, do not wear the same size shoes. Although the rising action has moments of ridiculousness that Em and I would never put each other through—the moments of realization that the big sister had sheltered and protected the little one through so much childhood trauma—and that the extended family was so supportive—hit very, very close to home. Again with the heteronormative—Diaz is punished in a way for her sluttiness—she lives at a retirement home and doesn’t get laid past the first 20 minutes of the movie. Colette on the other hand, loses a bad guy in an affair, but gains a great guy in a really sweet Jamaican-style marriage. It’s adorable. Diaz even quotes an ee cummings poem, which is about carrying the other’s heart—and it’s truly how I feel about my sister—that although we are separate people, wholes, jobs, interests, musics, etc.—we always have the other’s heart.
Oh, and onto Milk. I have trouble articulating my impression of this film—because I was so impressed! It had excellent sound design, plot, characters, documentary footage, music, unusual shots (the body bag in the reflection of the danger whistle on the street, for example), allusions, and foreshadowing. None of the actors seemed to “overdo” it for me. Ironic, considering the fact that it was about a band of gay guys who didn’t set off to change the world—but started a revolution in San Francisco that helped lead to so much progress in the world. The parties, the sets, the music, the intimation of experience—it was all so powerful. I left the theater feeling full—not from the artificial butter topping on my popcorn, but from my heart feeling like I had just lived through something heinous and real—and that I couldn’t stand by for change not to come for so many people in so many places. Penn did an outstanding job portraying a sometimes-fatalistic guy who had hopes and dreams—but never got too full of himself. “My name is Harvey Milk and I’m here to recruit you!” seemed to be his battle cry of an opener for speeches. His love of opera, photography, and pursuit of happiness made him whole—and impressive to see captured for film.
So the ultimate commonality? The sisterhood. I’ll leave the cheap joke in there for Milk, but these three films center around the dynamic, ethereal strength of sisterhood. The heart part comes in here, of course—the heart of these people—the marginalized—as women, as poor women, as orphaned children, as gay men—comes to its strongest, most admirable beat when they work together for a cause—for the cause of family, for the cause of protection, for the cause of progress. Minorities in groups—sisterhoods, if you will, are a mighty powerful thing—on film and off.
2-12-09 alg
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