Three Dollars
Mood:  on fire
Gosh, these blog entries have gone wildly astray recently. In theory, this is supposed to be a blog about David-related topics, not bad Christmas gift ideas. Sorry about that. Blame it on the lack of news.

*Three Dollars spoiler alert*

Last week I finally broke the fifteen-month drought of new David films, and saw Three Dollars. There were mixed reactions when this movie came out. Some loved it, some hated it, but in either case the film provokes strong emotions and a lot of discussion. Would Eddie really have fallen downhill so fast? Is the middle class living within a razor-thin margin of safety, or is that a leftoid fantasy? Is economic rationalism that bad? (The question that occurred to me: would the thoroughly moral and decent Eddie have willingly participated in the garlic bread scam?)

I don't subscribe to the Calvinist notion that one's personal wealth is entirely a reflection of one's merit. I certainly don't discount the role of effort and talent in creating wealth, but considering that the vast majority of wealth is invested and inherited, most upper-class people are very much the beneficiaries of random chance, starting with the circumstances they were born into. (Or as Molly Ivins once wrote of a certain U.S. president, who shall remain nameless: "He was born on third base, and thinks he hit a triple.")

Eddie was unfortunate enough to be born into a family that was struggling financially; by late childhood, he and Amanda's paths were already diverging. As an adult, he wasn't able to acquire the backup resources that might have prevented his downfall, like an emergency savings account, or a large job network. His aging parents had health problems and lived far away. All of their equity was in the house and the car-shaped shrine to mobility. Even with all that, I'm willing to bet Eddie's starting point was still ahead of the average middle-class American, who graduates from college saddled with overwhelming debt (tertiary education isn't free here), working for one of the growing number of companies that no longer offer pensions, 401Ks, health insurance, or job stability.

Things are looking pretty grim for the middle class, and Three Dollars taps into that anxiety in a way that Hollywood has been curiously silent about. To take an anecdotal example, my current company has had five layoffs since I started in 2000. Two years ago, they cut 90% of the company one week before Christmas. In one day, we went from 300 people down to 25. It was as if the Black Death had swept through our office. When Eddie was getting laid off, it was like reliving my worst nightmares. The awkward silence, the reluctance to make eye contact, the stunned boxing up of personal articles, the delayed shock and anger. Coffee cups still cooling on the desks. Muffled weeping in the bathroom. Nobody ever forgets the horrible, helpless sensation of watching co-workers marched off to the firing squad; and yet these realities are forever insulated from the C-suite types like Gerald, to whom employees are simply headcounts on pieces of paper.

The other scene that gave me horrible flashbacks was the one where Eddie discovers the hidden and illegally stored barrels of toxic chemicals. A similar thing happened to me once when I was investigating the site of a proposed bike path in Fall River (our firm was competing for the project). The right-of-way happened to run through property owned by an industrial warehouse. I had to skirt around a chain link fence and bushwack into the forest to get back to the old B&M railroad bed. Along the way, I kept noticing strange items that shouldn't have been there: car batteries, rusting barrels, engine blocks. There was also a tarp covering a mysterious pit.

As I emerged from the woods with my notebook and camera, the warehouse owner and three huge goons were waiting. They grabbed and hustled me into a back room, confiscated my film, threatened me with bodily harm, and debated whether to call the police and have me arrested. While this donnybrook was going on, one of the goons returned with two civil engineers from a competing firm, who had also been apprehended inside the woods. Reluctantly, the owner decided to let all three of us go. "But don't you never come trespassing here no more," he warned us. He might as well have been wearing a sign saying "I'M HIDING SOMETHING."

When I got back, I told my boss "we are NOT, repeat NOT, bidding on this project". Then I called the town manager. She was interested and sympathetic and said they'd been keeping an eye on this guy for years, but without photographic evidence or a search warrant, there wasn't much they could do. It was frustrating, to say the least. In the movies there would be an immediate investigation and journalists would get involved and people would shoot at me from black limos and there'd be a jetski chase, but alas, the real-life story just kind of ended there. It's possible that eventually they did nail the guy though.

Oh, sorry. That anecdote kind of went off on a tangent. Let's reel this topic back in.

So did I like Three Dollars? I did, although it seemed to me that the movie ended at the beginning. That is, the REAL beginning of Eddie's story was the moment he found himself with no job and only three dollars. All the stuff with Amanda and Joy Division and the wheatgerm queue and the Thatcher/Reagan-era anomie was interesting background material, of the sort that writing teachers tell you to write before you get on with the actual telling of the story, but the dramatic tension didn't ratchet up satisfactorily until close to the end of the movie. I wanted to find out what happens to Eddie and his family. Does their house get repossessed? Does Abby get over her febrile epilepsy? Does Tanya leave the job market altogether?

And will Eddie ever be able to eat Edam cheese without guilt again?

Yankee Swap
Mood:  accident prone
You've probably heard of the phenomenon called "beer goggles", where all the people in a bar suddenly get more attractive at closing time? Well, there's a similar phenomenon that comes around at holiday time. "Gift goggles". Ten minutes before the store closes, an item of merchandise quickly gains plausibility and stature as a possible Christmas present.

While at the supermarket Wednesday night, I suddenly remembered the office Xmas party the following day. A Yankee Swap was on the agenda, which meant I needed a gift, fast.

The candy aisle was nearby. My eye fell upon a wind-up penguin which would, when fully loaded, waddle across a desk and poop cola-flavored candy pellets. Coincidentally, our company mascot is a penguin (insert unflattering metaphor here). Since in past years, our Yankee Swap has been dominated by silly gifts -- sea monkeys, guns that shoot foam darts, that sort of thing -- the penguin seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.

However.

Unbeknownst to me, my co-workers had all independently decided to go tasteful this year with their gifts. No singing squirrels or light-up Elvis shaving cream dispensers for them; this year, it would be tea samplers and gift certificates.

Also unbeknownst to me, our new CEO had flown into town to meet the employees and attend the party.

The venue was a slightly posh local hotel, with linen table cloths, candles, and live jazz. Hardly the ideal setting for a plastic pooping penguin. I waited till nobody was looking, then slid my gift into the back of the pile.

The new CEO drew the highest number - 24 - which meant he would get to pick last. I lurked in the back, sweating bullets, as scented candle sets and leather day planners were unwrapped and exclaimed over. As the pile dwindled, my gift remained unchosen, a ticking time bomb. I drew number 13 and unwrapped a tasteful bottle of blueberry wine, which I tastefully traded for a tasteful set of tasteful travel coffee mugs.

More people chose, more people traded, and still my hideous wart of a gift lingered on the table. I swear I saw it pulsate slightly. Perhaps others could sense the evil force field emanating from the blister pak within, for they deliberately steered clear of it.

"What did you bring?" my office-mate asked.

"Um...a food item." Vagueness seemed the better part of discretion.

Finally, it was down to number 24, the new CEO. Guess which gift was still left on the table.

He unwrapped it, frowned, and examined it more closely. His expression slowly changed to resemble a vampire who has just been shown a cross carved out of garlic. By this point I had casually drifted to the very back of the crowd.

"What is it?" somebody called.

There was an ominous silence.

"It's....a pooping penguin."

The silence grew puzzled, as people tried to register the fact that those two words had just come out of the CEO's mouth. The CEO stalked over to the current owner of the blueberry wine, who looked stunned, and wordlessly handed him the penguin.

I was slightly cheered by the sight of the entire table craning their necks and nearly falling out of their chairs with laughter ten seconds later. But I fear the CEO now believes we're not "team players" and will put us on the chopping block. Mark my words. Soon, we'll all be out on the street digging through the trash for loaves of moldy garlic bread. All because of that stupid incontinent penguin.

The tin-foil hat brigade
Mood:  spacey
For anybody who's seen David in "A Little Bit of Soul", and thought the idea of highly-placed government, industry and finance leaders engaging in bizarre quasi-Satanic rituals was a little far-fetched: Try Googling "Bohemian Grove".

At the video store the other day, my eye fell on a copy of "Lord of the G-Strings -- The Femaleship of the String", mixed in with all the regular, non-adult movies. Here's the copy from the back of the DVD:

In the mythical realm of Diddle Earth, diminutive yet delectable Throbbit Bildo Saggins (Misty Mundae) is sent by Smirnoff the Wizard to destroy the legendary G-String - most powerful weapon in the land. The G-String was forged by the ancient villainess Horspank (Paige Richards), and those who possess the slinky and sexy under-garment experience supreme invincibility…and untold sensual pleasures.

Bildo is accompanied on her dangerous mission by fellow Throbbits Hornee (Darian Caine) and Spam (A.J. Khan) - both small of stature but big of erotic appetite. Together this courageous and curvaceous threesome trek far and wide throughout the territory of Diddle Earth, evading the Dorc forces of the evil wizard Sourasse and finding safety only in one another's arms. Along the treacherous path, Bildo and company also meet up with a fearless fighter - the dethroned Queen Araporn (Barbara Joyce) - who joins their quest to Party-Pooper Volcano, the only place where the G-String can be destroyed. Amidst rampaging desires and female fantasies made flesh, Bildo must be wary of Ballem, a hideous creature who desires the G-String and will stop at nothing in his mad quest to have it.

J.R.R. Bacchus presents a Terry M. West film, Lord of the G-Strings: Femaleship of the String - an epic erotic adventure pitting good against evil, small against big, beautiful against ugly and hot against 100% smokin'!

According to my sister, who saw a snippet of this soft-core parody on cable while staying at a hotel last year, mere words cannot do justice to the jaw-dropping badness of the film. She tried to describe it to me over the phone the next day, and all I could hear was the clunk of the receiver hitting the floor and faint sobbing gasps of laughter.

I'm almost tempted to rent it to see if it's as hilariously awful as the Ralph Bakshi version, but I don't want to have to keep fast-forwarding through all the naked women.

Theater etiquette
Mood:  incredulous
Three short but true stories about theater etiquette.....

Etiquette Story #1 - "Proof"

Once upon a time (last weekend to be exact), I bought a ticket for a screening of "Proof", a complex, cerebral, explosion-free movie about father and daughter math geniuses.

Shortly before the movie started, three teenage boys came slouching down the aisle and sat directly across from us. You know the type: humungous pants, backward baseball hats, size 17 feet, etc. I thought to myself, "How nice. These youth are interested in mathematics."

Boy, was I wrong. The second the lights dimmed, they began cat-calling and whistling. Kid #1 yelled "I'm scared!" over the credits, then punctuated each scene with one or two random screams. Kid #2 crinkled his candy bag loudly for several minutes until he was shushed. Kid #3 entertained the crowd with armpit farts. It was like a really irritating Cinema Paradiso. When the belching contest started, I went out to the lobby and found the manager.

The manager was quite understanding. Earlier that day, she'd had to remove a group of teenagers who'd been startling the people in front of them by reaching forward and grabbing their hair during the scary moments. She marched in with a flashlight, shone it in the kids' faces, and put the fear of God in them. Nary a peep or a rustle was heard for the rest of the movie. I was left to ponder whether they'd mistakenly wandered into the wrong theater, thinking they were going to see "Jarhead".

Let us now skip over the unpleasant part of this story, the part where we encounter the same kids in the street after the movie, who recognize me as the one who finked on them. Instead, let's move on to....

Etiquette Story #2 - "National Treasure"

This is a very short, and extremely pointless, story.

PrincessFaz, at a showing of "National Treasure", had the pleasure of watching kids in the front row throw gummy worms at the screen, one by one. The candy stuck to the bottom of the screen and stayed there for the rest of the film. During the snow scenes, there were all these fluorescent worms hanging, which ruined the cinematography.

There really isn't a moral to this, except to suggest that anybody under age 45 should be chaperoned at the movies.

Etiquette Story #3 - "Fahrenheit 911"

I went to see this two summers ago with a huge group of friends. The theater was packed, so we had to split up. Three of us ended up sitting near the back.

The moment the movie got going, my seat started jiggling. And jiggling. And jiggling. After a few minutes, I turned around and asked the guy behind me to please quit messing with the seat. He denied it vehemently.

I turned back to the movie. The jiggling started up again. I turned around, glared, and told him to cut it out. He said "It's not me, it's him!" (pointing at the guy next to him). The two of them started arguing with each other. I said "I don't care who's doing it, just please stop!"

I turned back to the movie. Again with the jiggling. Another heated kerfuffle and exchange of threats (this time accompanied by an angry chorus of "sshhhh"s from our neighbors).

By this point, I'd missed about 15 minutes of the film, and it was time to call in reinforcements. I leaned over to my friend Carmen, and whispered "Hey...is your seat jiggling?"

Carmen whispered back "No...is yours?"

"Yes," I said. "Those two idiots behind me claim they're not doing it. Then they wait till I turn around and start up again. I'm about ready to kill them."

There was a short pause. Carmen said "Okay, did the jiggling stop?"

"Yes..." I said. There was another short pause while horrified comprehension dawned. "You mean...was that....you?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I always jiggle my leg at the movies."



PS Yes, I apologized to the row behind me after it was over. Lavishly and abjectly.

The Thinking Woman's Crumpet
Mood:  lazy
As many of you know, David has been repeatedly been anointed "The Thinking Woman's Crumpet" by the press.

We decided to put this assertion to the test, by asking some highly accomplished female thinkers what they think of David:

ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, former First Lady of the US: "No one can make you feel swoony without your consent."

JANE AUSTEN, 19th-century British novelist: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a beautiful acting talent must be in want of 50,000,000 half-crazed, drooling fans."

MARIE CURIE, winner of the 1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for her discovery of radium: "Ah! Zees Dahveed, 'ee is....'ow you say?...magnifique! 'Ee meks me glow lahk uranium!"

JANE GOODALL, renowned primatologist and conservationist, and world's foremost authority on chimpanzees: "David is highly intelligent, social, co-operative, and shares 99.99% of his genetic material with humanity. Paradoxically, the less he emulates alpha-male behavior, the more females he attracts."

DOROTHY PARKER, American writer, poet, and wit: "They sicken of Brad Pitt, who know David Wenham."

SUSAN B. ANTHONY, American civil rights leader and suffrage advocate: "Squeeeeeeee!"

This morning, I spotted a discarded Coconut air freshener lying on the sidewalk. A desiccated air freshener, no less. Was it a sign from the deities?

Amazon delivered '300' unto my mailbox Saturday, so I sat down and had a gander to see what we can expect from David's current project. In a word, yikes. Frank Miller's ink-and-testosterone illustrations depict a brutal, stark, cold world where life is cheap and the only real currency is Honor and Glory. Weakness is not just discouraged, it's beaten with a stick and tossed off a cliff. Sentimentality is for losers. The soldiers march through a desolate, rocky landscape with no food and little rest. Women barely register on the radar, except as chattel. This is going to be the most un-"chick flick" movie ever committed to film.

The filmmakers plan to stick closely to the novel and film it virtually panel-for-panel. They'll have to pad out the script a bit for the story to support the weight of a feature film. Judging from the casting calls for Gerry Butler lookalikes at various ages, we can guess that Leonidas' childhood will be fleshed out beyond the wolf episode. (By the way, are there many 3 - 5 year olds with martial arts experience? The place where I take karate requires a minimum age of 6).

The story is narrated in the first person plural, as though it were being told collectively by the 300. This "we" voice is used to great effect - it emphasizes how closely bonded the 300 were as a unit, and it effectively conveys an us-against-the-world sense of doom. The writing style is clipped, bare, and Hemingway-esque. The sentences. Are short. And sometimes repeated.

And sometimes repeated.

One thing I don't understand is the comic book convention of putting random dialogue words in boldface. It sounds oddly stilted. Will the movie characters be expected to speak that way as well?

Going 'cold lembas'
One movie I'm looking forward to seeing is "Little Fish", starring Galadriel (Cate Blanchett) and Elrond (Hugo Weaving) as recovering drug addicts:

Algebra 101
Phantasmagoria recently found the following posting on Technocratic's Xanga blog:

*****

Let Rodrigo Santoro = (hot).
Let David Wenham = (hot) (Faramir).
Let Dominic West = (badass).
Let Gerard Butler = (hot) (badass).

300 = [ ( Rodrigo Santoro + Dominic West + David Wenham + Gerard Butler ) x (Frank Miller) x (What I assume will be copious amounts of naked) ] ^ (Thermopylae)

Which can be reduced to:

300 = ARE THEY TRYING TO KILL ME WITH THE WAIT, AND WITH THE MEN?
= WHY DID PRODUCTION ON THIS ONLY BEGIN YESTERDAY?
= HOLY ****, I AM SO EXCITEDER.

*****

Well, you can't argue with the math.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:16 AM EST

Updated: November 4, 2005 2:53 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

It's....the perfect storm!
Mood:  accident prone
I'm too lazy to actually go and dig up this interview, but somewhere awhile back, David Wenham mentioned that he almost didn't survive a viewing of "The Perfect Storm".

I bring this up today because we've got a repeat performance going on outside. Hurricane Wilma and Tropical Storm Alpha have combined with another storm from the west to bring us 60+mph gusts and lashing sheets of rain along the coast. Snow is predicted tonight for the mountains.

When I saw "The Perfect Storm" in the theater, my friend kept quietly predicting each line seconds before they were uttered. For example, some meteorologist might be droning on in a long rambling monologue. As he paused, my friend would whisper gravely, "It's....the Perfect Storm", moments before the meteorologist said the exact same thing. After nearly an hour of this, my stomach hurt from holding in the laughter and I had to beg her to stop.

Quote from boyfriend: "My primary enjoyment of the film was watching George Clooney drown."

For me, the most unforgivable sin was the Boston Brahmin "pahk your cah" accents. Mark Wahlberg should know better. He's from Dorchester, for crying out loud.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled weather.

Books books books
Mood:  caffeinated

Today, I dreamt that I was given $1000 by a benevolent, book-worshipping deity, and commanded to spend it as fast as possible at Amazon.com. Not one to upset the gods, I spent part of lunch hour creating a 5-mile long wish list.

A good chunk of this hypothetical money went into the pockets of Andy Goldsworthy.

He creates mesmerizing earth art out of leaves, grass, feathers, raw sheep's wool, sticks, icicles, and pebbles, then photographs it. Circles, serpentine shapes, and spirals figure prominently. His pieces are simply breathtaking. For example:







And:






Photographs of his ephemeral art have been compiled into a series of beautiful, but pricey, coffee table books: "Wall", "Wood", "Stone", "Arches", "Time", etc.

Another portion of my invisible $1000 was spent on Dust and Van Helsing.