Two More

You're welcome.

Movie Trailers

For the past week, I've been dog sitting for a friend of mine in Brooklyn Heights who-- in addition to the world's cutest dog-- has a full cable package, Netflix On Demand, Hulu Plus, TiVo, and Apple TV. YET---- all that I seem to watch is these four movie trailers over and over and over. Here we go!

Clooney and GOSSLING?!?! Paul Giamatti? Philip Seymour Hoffman!? Are you kidding me?! Yes, I will watch this. I don't even care what it is about-- those four can just sit there and knit for all I care.



People, they subtitled the dog. SLAY ME. Are you a little worried that the movie itself won't be half as lovely as the trailer? Me too. (I've watched this trailer so many times that it actually leaked into my dreams one night. I'm not proud of that.)



John saw this film at Sundance in February and called me immediately, saying that he just watched my new favorite movie. (Isn't he a good friend?!) Apparently there is a big Paul Simon tie-in too. Can't wait can't wait.



This looks creepy and awesome. Come see it with me and tell me what happens while my hands are in front of my eyes.

Jane Eyre

I know it's been well over a week since writing anything on this ol' bloggy, though not for lack of content. I've written about once sentence about this, and this place, and this, and this. But lately, whenever I sit down to write something for this lovely space, I remind myself that I still haven't thought of a single word for a much more topical purpose-- my Maid of Honor speech, due for a wedding two days from now.

And each time I sit down to write that, I inevitably end up in a cornmaze of a google chase that somehow lands me at YouTube, watching the Bridesmaids trailer ten times over before flat out giving up on grounds of absolutely NO HOPE of ever being as funny or awesome as Kristin Wiig. Might as well just resign!, I decide before collapsing into bed face first, exhausted from the very thought of my weekend ahead.

ANYWAY.

I saw Jane Eyre last week. The NEW Jane Eyre, the film noir Jane Eyre starring that awesome young actress from The Kids are All Right and the bad Alice movie. My friend Lo and I saw it together at the Sunshine's matinee performance with all the old people, candy in hand, eager for the dark drama ahead. We spent much of the movie melting over the Byronic Mr. Rochester, his good hair, and his impressive skill of forcing people to talk to him before berating them for it. SWOON.

Lauren kept nudging my arm, wide eyed and giddy over the overt absurdities-- A beaten orphan! A secret wife! A handy fire! A blind lover!-- but we loved every swooping second. She was smart, that Brontë sister, albeit perhaps a bit repressed? (It's why we like it!) Jane is a deeply developed story, Lo pointed out to me, despite the, uh, wife-through-a-hidden-doorway trick, in a time when women were writing little more than cotton candy.

And directed by the stripped-and-stark Cary Fukunaga, this Jane held its own outside of the chic-y nineteenth century dramas to which we've become accustomed. His version enters a new category of lady-films cut without grace or petaled romance. It's Brontë-meets-Plath, if you will. (Well, that might be stretching it-- there is still a dashing-blind-man-who-survives-the-handy-fire in the ending.) Brontë-meets-Ibsen. Happy?

Now, onto the next.

How to Die in Oregon

When Megan invited me to attend a screening of the Grand Jury Prize winner for best Documentary at Sundance this year, I jumped in with two feet. Hell yeah, sign me up.

It wasn't until the morning of the screening, however, that I finally clicked on the attached link that she sent describing the film. How to Die in Oregon, turns out, is a little documentary about euthanasia. Go figure.

How to Die is an account of the process by which several Oregon residents chose to end their lives with the administration of a physician-prescribed dose of barbiturates. The film opens with old man drinking a cup of murky white liquid into a quick and painless coma that would result in his death before introducing us to the woman mixing the liquid-- his 'volunteer' Sue Porter, from the non-profit Compassion & Choices. It's shockingly okay in that room, we observe while watching the man die peacefully after a few laughs and final farewells.

We then meet Cody Curtis, a 54-year-old Portland woman of grace and verve and clarity who is suffering from recurring liver cancer. She shares with us her 10 month struggle with terminal illness and her linear struggle with the decision to end her own life. We meet her steady husband and two teary eyed twenty-something kids. We watch her hike through the forest, garden, and visit her doctor to talk about her time line. Now, I understand that much of this is editing and director's angle, but Cody will BREAK YOUR HEART, dear reader. She'll make you want to be a better human being.

The film also depicts the 2008 Washington state ballot initiative debate over whether terminally ill residents should be allowed to end their lives similarly. The film's director was careful to include the opposition as an equal voice, fairly and honestly. We heard from doctors who oppose the initiative, and those who support it. We heard from a man whom the state refused aid for chemotherapy, but offered the deadly barbiturates as an alternative. I understood his anger, and so will you. Washington's ballot passed, by the way, and Montana is next.

What struck me throughout each story (we meet about 10 people who choose to end their lives) was the amount of clarity in each decision. None of them were afraid. None of them were second guessing their choice to die. Cody, the wonderwoman I mentioned above, seemed to approach her death as one might approach selling the family home, or giving away a much loved pet. "We're doing it at 6:00 on Monday, because that is when my surgeon is through with her clinic that day," she tells her hairdresser the Thursday prior. "But I'll take the first pills at 5:25. Thank you so much for my lovely haircut."

The film was gruesome. So much so that half of the HBO staff walked out of the original Sundance screening, and the majority of press in attendance openly sobbed. I closed my eyes for most of the medical stuff and ugly-cried at the end there. It's gruesome, this film. Heartbreaking like you can't even imagine. But for those who manage to make it through, the film’s message is ultimately uplifting. It's as much about life as it is about death, and death suddenly reveals itself as something not so scary.

I hope you're able to see it too.

Blue Valentine

I saw Blue Valentine this weekend with three girls, each smarter than the next, fully ready to analyze the hell out of this little film about a big bad relationship. We did so afterward at a tiny table in Nolita, sipping on beer with upset eyes and differing opinions. There is just so much to say!

Blue Valentine is tragic-- head to toe. It starts out lonely and ends hurtfully. I don't think it needed to be this mean, to be honest, but I guess therein lies the great big question of what makes fiction good, necessary, and transcendent.

Iris Murdoch once described love as "the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real. Love, and so art and morals, is the discovery of reality." This is the secret of fiction. It offers a challenge—a challenge to try to understand that other people are real in the same way we are. That they are as complex, as sensitive, as capable of being hurt. Similarly, my girl Nicole describes fiction as "the ability to remind us of ourselves, of who we are in our essence, and at the same time deliver a revelation."

This is a surprisingly difficult thing to remember when entering movie world, as we tend to separate it fully from real life. We want to see OURSELVES up there, on that screen. We tend to merge Michelle Williams' Cindy with our own persona's, ignoring the fact that Cindy is as real as we are and doesn't need that crutch of relativity too easily offered in contemporary verse. Ryan Gossling isn't our ex-boyfriend and that's not your father. Get it?

The present culture encourages the opposite idea, that it's all about you. Good fiction that rejects that idea, and Blue Valentine achieves this tricky balance better than most. It's mean, yes indeed, but the vicious fights and unfair circumstance only serve to underline what is, in it's essence, a truly honest and beautiful love story.

Black Swan

Alison and I agreed that our Saturday was really about as perfect as they come-- so perfect that I'm going to tell you about it. We started the day with brunch-and-cheesecake at the New Apollo Diner downtown Brooklyn; attended the greatest craft sale in the world at the Starrett-Lehigh Building on W 26th street (have you been inside!? Those windows!); talked with a man as passionate about glitter as I am ('This glitter in particular is EXTREMELY useful,' he said in all seriousness while showing us the snow pack); saw the best movie I've seen all year; stopped for a glass of wine in a random Chelsea bar where we've NEVER been more popular; and ended the night in Williamsburg at a housewarming/Hanukkah party with a backyard and a bonfire and the best latkes on this side of the East River. Should I have used commas in place of semi-colons in that sentence? Who cares, it was perfection! But let's talk about the movie, or I'll go on for days about glitter.

Black Swan. Black Swan is the story of Nina, a New York City ballet dancer played by a dramatically changed Natalie Portman, and her pursuit of a single dream. Nina lives at home with a controlling mother, tends toward bulimia and compulsive scratching, and doesn't have any life experience to speak of. She eats grapefruit for breakfast and sleeps in a room dressed in teddy bears. She's timid and dedicated and quiet and is suddenly handed the role of a lifetime-- Swan Queen in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

But alongside the iconic white swan, crowned in feathers and sparkles, and white, white, white!, Nina is also asked play her evil doppleganger-- the Black Swan. SEDUCE ME!, the director (Vincent Cassel) cries, while grabbing at her skinny limbs in want and in anger. He maintains that she’s suited only for half the double role, but offers both parts anyway as a sort of sick fascination with watching a little girl crack into a woman. It's a brilliant set-up: asking the Purest Dancer of All to lose control. And there our story begins.

I read somewhere that Darren Aronofsky tended toward a tight camera angle on the back of Portman's neck for much of Black Swan to hint at paranoia. We, the audience, therefore play the part of 'stalker'. By doing so, he brought the audience along with Nina in a rapid head game of feeling like someone is watching you, anticipating turning on the lights to someone standing there in the darkness.

The dancing is beautiful-- breathless at points-- thanks in no way to Aronofsky. It says something about ballet itself, as Aronofsky did his best to darken its shiny surface. He favorited cracking joints, quivering exhales, bleeding toes and emaciated backbones in place of the lightness we are used to. We see dancing swans through a shakey lens and the sound of heavy breathing. They become something else there before us-- puppets representing Dickensian archetypes: Good and evil. Right and wrong. Pure and tainted. Tchaikovsky's violins start to scream and that music will never sound the same, I assure you.

The movie could have been made about go-carts, Portman stated in an interview, making the point that it isn't about ballet at all in the end. But I disagree. The ballet world cradles such a story perfectly, for the very reasons stated above. It's an incredibly soft backdrop for such a harsh story. Without it, Black Swan could feel too mean, too terrifying, too destructive to matter. But because of the ballet, this baby will win awards.

Yes, the film is GRUESEOME-- a horror film or close to it. I closed my eyes for at least 10 minutes of that, but so did everyone else around me. Don't even really know what happened in that hospital room with Winona Ryder, I just heard a lot of tearing flesh. Ick. Honestly, a good chunk of that could have been cut out, but I personally don't like gore to begin with. To me, it wasn't necessary in leading the psychological downfall, but I will say that the blood and guts did lend toward a PHYSICAL reaction from the audience, which absolutely has its place in the film's lasting impression. You will leave completely shaken, trust me, and will have to force your mind away from it when crawling into bed that first night. Shivers. I still can't think about it at bedtime, to be honest.

Black Swan is my favorite film of the year, hands down. Portman especially is more deserving of an Oscar than any actor in my memory. And if not an Oscar (I am by no means an expert on these things) than at least a nod at unwavering focus and commitment to her craft. Forget the year of intensive ballet training, severe dieting, 16 hour workdays to get her body to look and move the way it did, Portman's fluid transition from scared girl to psychotic tour-de-force kept us at attention for the full two hours.

You will exit the theater completely shaken and undone. You'll need to talk about it, laugh about it, scream about what you saw. It's visceral, and its supposed to be. As most good movies are, Black Swan is really about the Human Condition and how far we can be pushed before snapping. And the snapping, in the end, is only a few steps away from normal. Scary, indeed.

The Romantics

John and I disagreed wholeheartedly about this film. We actually couldn't talk for a few minutes upon leaving the theater.

John: Did you like it?
Me: Yes, I loved it, but I know you didn't so let's just not talk about it.
John: That was a terrible film.
Me: I'm going to walk five steps ahead of you now and not talk, okay?

We eventually were able to discuss The Romantics like normal, functioning human beings, over fancy cocktails at Coffee Shop. But I was reminded of why I prefer to go to movies alone, in the morning, with all the old people. They allow my bad taste to go unnoticed.

So, as a fair warning, if you like 'good cinema', as John calls it, maybe don't read my thoughts on this one. If you're kind of a sap with slightly lowbrow taste who doesn't really know what she's talking about, welcome to my post.

The Romantics is a WASPy little tale of tangled friendships and about coming home. It's The Big Chill lite, and a decade earlier. It centers around a wedding and what we suddenly become when we stop paying attention. I remember Zach Braff saying that he wrote Garden State about a time of life that very few films touch on-- the awkward late 20s. It's suddenly acceptable to be married, or successful professionally, and its not unheard of to own a home. Your life has started to take shape, and its terrifying if you haven't progressed with your peers.

Katie Holmes was pitch perfect in this role, and I mean it. She played the odd girl out of a group of friends who all married each other. She was tall, and unhappy, and tired, but she stood up for herself at the end there, breaking the mold a bit. We expect her to hold her tongue and to suffer silently as she watches the love of her life marry her best friend. SHE'S the enemy, I suppose, having slept with him the night before his wedding, but its always more complicated than that with infidelity, now isn't it? I felt her pain, down to my spleen. It hurt so very badly.

Like one of my other favorite films, The Philadelphia Story, The Romantics takes place in a 48 hour period, most of which its characters are intoxicated. WASPy, indeed. We sat nervously through terrible rehearsal dinner toasts and awkward silences and that very specific sound of beer bottles clinking past midnight when there aren't any other sounds to dull them. It was shot on a hand held camera, and even John couldn't argue its stellar impact on capturing slurs and stumbles and too-loud laughter.

I've always fallen for movies that capture a world, and this film does it well. J.Crew did the costuming, I mean, COME ON. It's gorgeous, you have to give it that! And the pretentious unhappy drunkenness is an exaggerated observation of a certain set, not a portrait. No one talks that way, I KNOW. But they let me into a world where one might get to go sailing, and it was lovely. Don't tell John, but sometimes that's all I need.

Annie Hall

I realize that its a bit radical to write about an event before it takes place, but it was 90 degrees out before breakfast and I'm feeling a bit daring. What one has to do with the other, I do not know, but we all seem to be blaming the heat these days, and it feels good to use it to my advantage.

At any rate, tonight marks the first evening of Movies With A View at Pier 1 of Brooklyn Bridge Park, and the first film, Annie Hall, is one of my favorites. I have seen this movie more times than is probably normal, I own it, and therefore will not be disappointed by the movie itself. I also won't be disappointed by the view, the food, and the company. A good night ahead, no doubt.

I first saw Annie Hall during the spring of my senior year of college when my little sister and I discovered a treasure trove of videos for rent at the Northfield Public Library in our sleepy college town. I distinctly remember renting The Big Chill, Beach Party, Beach Blanket Bingo, The Philadelphia Story, and Annie Hall on VHS before a trip to Jess's cabin in Wisconsin with my best college girlfriends. I was in charge of bringing movies, and while they were probably expecting something from, well, 2006, they humored me with my choices.

Looking back, it was one of the best trips we ever had together, there in the middle of the Wisconsin lake country in a cabin fitted with window beds and a cupboard filled with cookie ingredients, real maple syrup, and strong coffee. For most of the weekend, Kira and I danced along with Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon while Jess made cookies and Lauren studied her Computer Science textbook. Cheridyn was finishing up her independent study on world religions, and I remember not packing any textbooks to speak of.

I read The Bell Jar for the first time on the back deck, we cooked pancakes for breakfast, and talked about our BIG LIVES ahead. We watched all of my movies, smooshed into big leather couches with quilts to our chins. The Big Chill hushed us into reality, The Philadelphia Story made us swoon, and Beach Party made us groan in unison (I still love those beach movies, though, they remind me of my mom).

But Annie Hall... Annie Hall made me dream of New York. I watched it over and over those last few weeks of college, scared to death that I had made the wrong decision in not coming right away. I watched it the next year too, in Indiana, when I frantically counted down the days until I could drop my lease and make the jump to a city where I didn't have a job, or friends, or any real plan. I remember sneering at the massive Midwestern parking lots and cheesy condo swimming pools and wanting desperately to be here, in Brooklyn, in a tiny apartment stuffed with houseplants and books and loud cookware, and a rooftop just like Annie Hall and Alvy Singer had. Heaven, this film. Over thought, over analyzed, wordy, Woody Allen-esque heaven.

Well, a year later, I was here, in New York, in a tiny apartment on the Upper West Side. I bought a black turtleneck and striped scarf like Annie Hall wore and started to carve out my own story on this island. That first month after moving here I found Movies with A View listed on a free website of sorts and made my way down to the Brooklyn Waterfront with a blanket and a picnic, and not a friend to speak of.

I watched the sunset over Manhattan, and observed happy couples and groups of girlfriends playing cards, and delighted in every detail. I loved it. (Lurve it, actually. Loave it. I luff it, with two F's.) I still do. And I'm luckily enough to now attend the movies with friends who have become part of my own New York story. In fact, Alison actually runs this event now! Imagine that! It's a great list of films this year, and took A LOT of planning, so come join us, New York. You'll lurve it.

Movies with a View Schedule:
Thursday, July 8
Annie Hall

Thursday, July 15
Monsters vs. Aliens

Thursday, July 22
The Big Lebowski

Thursday, July 29
Rear Window

Thursday, August 5
Brokeback Mountain

Thursday, August 12
Dreamgirls

Thursday, August 19
The Blues Brothers

Thursday, August 26
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

I Am Love

Vulture released the I Am Love trailer a few months ago with the following tease:

"There's a new trailer for I Am Love, in which Tilda Swinton plays a woman living in Milan who — well, the trailer for the thriller foregoes the usual exposition and just shows us frame after frame of stuff happening to Swinton in Italy (sex, betrayal, secrets, food, possibly international politics) along with critic quotes like, "See it by any means possible," which, by the time it appeared on the screen, was a completely unnecessary command. We have no idea what's going on here — and we can't remember the last time we could say that in this age of trailers that explain the entire movie. With all the food and scenery, this looks like the smart man's (or woman's) Eat, Pray, Love. We're there."

SO THERE! (I actually wish that the title was always written in the all caps "I AM LOVE", like SWINTON, to match those gorgeous text blocks denoting the passing of time throughout the film. "MILANO"; "QUATTRO GIORNI DOPO"; "LA PROSSIMA PRIMAVERA!", per esempio. Something to match John Adam's score of crescendos.)

Then, to boot, John offered his own tease after seeing this film over a year ago at Cannes and has been screaming in my ear 'SARAH YOU HAVE TO SEE SWINTON'S NEW ITALIAN FILM YOU'LL LOVE IT ITS SO GORGEOUS AND ABOUT FOOD AND TRAVEL AND SEX AND ITS JUST SO GREAT!!!!' several times a day since, thus clearly I was curious. Clearly. Well, I finally made it to BAM last night, two whole weeks afters its release date due to an annoyingly full schedule that I won't bore you with at this time. And a treat it was. I Am Love is the most enjoyable film I've seen in quite some time, and-- I'm going to be bold here-- a new favorite of mine.

Tilda Swinton is phenomenal in this role, which surprises absolutely no one. She is amazing in everything, especially in Lanvin, and this role was really created around her talent and verve. But the filming itself-- something I don't even usually notice-- drew in our greedy interest. The silver, the carpeting, the fountains, the gilded frames, the food--oh! the food! We were transformed right out of Brooklyn and into Milano, which previously held state as my least favorite Italian city, but I'm now dying to revisit. It was dazzling, this film. All of it.

The story itself followed time with the sweeping photography and classical score. We met a family, fell quickly in love with them, and patiently waited for the story to come to us. It didn't rush into anything, even giving pause to little events like polishing silver and making Russian soup. That soup came back to haunt us, though, snapping the brilliant direction of this young filmmaker into a spotlight. He's good.

Swinton's character is one we haven't seen her in lately. She played the stoic but kind matriarch of a seemingly generous and functional family. They are wealthy, yes, but they treat their help with respect, and they love each other deeply. She remains poised yet natural (like the donkey, remember?) until absolutely necessary to come undone. I loved her relationship with her daughter, and with her housekeeper Ida, didn't you? Without it, we may have hated her structure and her control, but with it, we were generous with what turned into a disastrous decision. It was her acting that convinced us to offer her character grace.

This trick of attributing superhuman characteristics (beauty, poise, supreme control) to a protagonist and then making her vulnerable through love is a literary trick as old as the Greeks. F. Scott Fitzgerald would have loved this little tale of exploding wealth, don't you think? Though perhaps he would have captured our goddess at the end instead of sending her shimmering into the masses. I did love this ending, though. Alas--love is the great equalizer, and it makes the viewer less resentful of a supremely gifted hero.

***If you're interested in reading a review much more well written and slightly less self involved than my own, bounce over to Anthony Lane's review 'Second Helpings' in the New Yorker. Never disappointing.

Please Give

David Edelstein of NPR and NY Mag fame recently recommended on CBS's Sunday Morning that we see three independent gems, all directed by women, in place of this summer's blockbusters. He chose Please Give, The Kids are All Right, and Winter's Bone-- films that might suggest there are 'ways of seeing the world that rarely make it to the multiplex'. Love that. This is the sort of recommendation that I crave, take immediately to heart. Thank you, David!

Winter's Bone holds a special appeal to me, as it is set in the OZARK MOUNTAINS(!) where I spent every summer up until, well, this year. While the movie might not be about the glory of southern Missouri, the area really is quite something to see and I'm glad its getting some credit. Just gorgeous, and no one really knows that it is there!

The Kids are All Right immediately reminds me that I probably misuse 'alright' and 'all right' most of the time. (Is 'alright' even a word? Bless you, readers, for following what is surely a grammatically embarrassing blog.) The concept sounds like a cheap sort of 'hey-has-anyone-made-a-movie-yet-about-a-lesbian-couple-and-their-sperm-donor-yet?!'- idea but lucky for us, the execution looks well played. Juliann Moore (swoon) and Sydney Ellen Wade herself (Annette Bening) play the moms, with Mark Ruffalo as the donor. All set somewhere with lots of outdoor dinners, snarky children, and gardening. Good enough for me!

But the film that Alison and I decided to see first, on the Summer Solstice of all evenings (don't worry, I walked home after to enjoy the light) was Please Give. Please Give is the story of two New York City families and the inevitable intersection of lives as neighbors. It's a story about sadness and guilt; of love and understanding. It's my very favorite type of film and this one is exquisite.

It would be quick and easy to label this film 'First World', as is so popular these days. The main source of conflict exists in a sort of privileged guilt, that feeling that we aren't doing enough to 'make the world a better place'-- the urge to give to the homeless, to volunteer, to humble ourselves beyond our little worlds. 'First World Problems' or whatever is going around the Twitters and the Facebooks by those of us who want to come across as clever. I find that sort of categorizing tired and will argue this film's honesty above it's preachiness. Honest emotion is relevant, no matter the circumstance. This is a film about The Human Condition and that, dear friends, is the reason why so many stories can be recycled without getting old.

Catherine Keener plays Kate, a mother and wife who owns a mid-century antiques store with her husband Alex, played by Oliver Platt. Rebecca Hall and Amanda Peet play sisters who care for their elderly grandmother in the apartment next door. It's all very New York and very familiar, to begin with.

Nicole Holofcener, the brilliant director (also of Friends With Money, which I adore) tends to exaggerate her selling points by giving each character a sort of hangup-- a shtick, if you will. Kate lives with guilt in her industry and constantly chases a forum to charitably give; Alex doesn't read anymore and unironically admires Howard Stern; Marissa, their teenage daughter, dreams of premium denim and the prefect fitting pair of jeans; Rebecca wants to visit the leaves upstate; and Mary stalks her ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend and her too-muscular back.

Each are dealing with the oncoming death of Mary and Rebecca's elderly grandmother, whose apartment has already been purchased by Kate and Alex. It works because the conflicts slowly overlap and entwine before resolving in a way that gives us closure. The film is, after all, a snapshot of five lives, not an epic of any standard.

Keener, Platt, and Hall are all pitch perfect in this film, but the actor whom most critics are slighting in praise is Amanda Peet. Peet plays the older sister (Mary) to Hall's character (Rebecca), once again exaggerated in Holofcener's theme of 'other'. Mary is tan, tan, tan, while Rebecca is pale as can be. Mary works in a spa giving facials to the Upper East Side's glitterati, while her younger sister spends her days as a mammogram technician (opposite ends of societal ideals on female beauty, get it?). Mary is pretty, Rebecca is not. Rebecca is kind, Mary is brutally honest.

The role of Mary could have easily been played flat. It was written that way, to be honest. She is the stereotypical 'pretty girl' who isn't very smart and isn't very nice. But Peet found something in Mary that absolutely humanized her. In addition to her out-of-nowhere comedic timing that kept us laughing out loud throughout the film (did you know that Peet is funny? AND talented?), she held onto an unapologetic vulnerability that stole the show. There is a scene at the end of the film that absolutely cut me-- Mary's hang-up in the new girlfriend ultimately results in a confrontation. It's subtle and raw and important.

There is much more to discuss here-- the unexplained affair; the digression of the elderly; the danger of raising children in Manhattan. I could talk about Mary's obsession with toxins and Rebecca's sweet romance, and why we are often too forgiving of mean old women. I didn't even mention the irony of Kate's chairitable giving up there, did I? And how she always falls flat and how that's an important part of the story? This is the type of film that I get excited to write about and why I write on this thing at all. But I'll leave that all to you so that you will go see the film, and we'll touch base again to talk about the Ozark Mountains and sperm donors, shall we?

Happy Wednesday, New York.

Breaking Upwards

Sunday evening brought three Brooklynites and one Astorian together in Manhattan's IFC for a viewing of a film within our favorite genre: New York indie relationship stories that FREAK US OUT. Why do we watch these things?

We know they are going to be depressing, we know they are going to be too snarky, or too saccharine, or too close to home. But there is something about watching a twenty-something couple on screen walking their bikes through the West Village that makes us tilt out of our chairs with interest. Maybe it's the cautionary part of it, or maybe its the narcissists in all of us. But very few things can get us out of Brooklyn on a Sunday, and this movie did just that. (Sure wish it was playing at BAM! Stupid C train...)

Breaking Upwards is the story of a breakup. And doesn't that bit of knowledge kind of make you hate the title? It's the story of an over educated Manhattan couple who love each other but have grown bored of their relationship and the monotony of Idol on Tuesdays and things like that. We all know the story-- they met right after college, got comfortable, and never really left. They don't feel the need to talk about marriage like their Midwestern counterparts because in New York you don't have to talk about things like that for a while. And yet, the relationship eventually becomes stagnant and stale but without reason. Ho hum.

The film opens with a mutual need for 'days off' of their relationship. 'Lets try spending some time apart! Dating other people! It might be good for us! Perhaps even bring us closer!' Well, obviously it isn't good for anyone, and it ends in heartbreak. Clearly. (The word 'clearly' was for Anna, who confessed to me last night that I overuse it that and she sometimes uses it to imitate me in conversation.)

What drew us to this film, however, is that the two main characters, Daryl and Zoe, were played by THEMSELVES. They wrote it, they acted in it, and they are a couple in real life! In New York! In the Village! Their real life names are Daryl and Zoe too! See, you would go to Manhattan for it too.

Ali, Katie, Nick, and I timidly discussed the movie over curry (so spicy that it gave me upper lip sweat) on Bleecker afterwards, all hesitating on our opinions. We were clearly interested in it (there it is again!) but no one would really fess up to actually liking the movie. We all liked Daryl, and came to a mutual conclusion that he is the good guy that none of us will ever date. We liked Zoe's shiny lipstick, and we liked that Margie's cousin Olivia had a small role. (Hi Margie, if you're out there!)

The thing is, even if the film making is choppy and cliche and falling very short of brilliant, we will never grow tired of these Woody Allenesque films about people whom we secretly aim to be. We embrace the New York tragedy of it all, and will suffer through as many talking heads as young film school grads will throw our way. We loved Annie Hall and we LOVED The Way We Were (not Woody Allen but you get my point) and are continually left chasing the idea that eventually a film like this will give us some answers.

Yes, in the end Daryl and Zoe broke up. We knew it was coming and instead of making us hurt, it made us feel relieved and a bit lighter. Which, come to think of it, is a nice little film trick that they totally pulled off. They flipped the genre a bit. And what we learned in the 90 minute viewing is that good things happen after relationships end-- really good things. Good things like lazy Sunday afternoons in the Village watching indie films at the IFC, then eating spicy green curry and laughing so hard you cry with your best friends who haven't figured any of it out either.

A Serious Man

"Let's have a good talk."

This film made me laugh. In fact, just thinking about it now makes me laugh, and looking at the photo above makes me laugh. A Serious Man succeeds in that very subtle and pointed humor that attacks the art of observation and absolutely delights this audience of one.

It's also the type of film that benefits from rewinding, and rewinding I did. I have been sitting in front of my tiny television for the past two nights and three mornings gawking at the brilliance in the details-- the written telephone messages ('Let's have a good talk'), the exasperation (he doesn't look busy!), the deliberate retro phrasing (Whoopsie doopsie, The Jolly Roger, Columbian Record Club, 'wash my hair')-- the Coen Brothers nailed it, my friends.

I read a review somewhere that likened Michael Stuhlbarg to Eugene Levy. I disagree wholeheartedly. While Levy's characters tend towards 'aloof', Stuhlbarg's Larry Gopnick was sincere, grounded, and the only character in the entire film rooted in reality. He is Michael Bluth in a room full of--- Bluths. (ha.) He is Odysseus charting a path through a sea of fools in search of a generous and unseen understanding.

It's this grasping for answers without a single voice of reason that carries the momentum of this seemingly endless race. Larry continues to seek help, but receives only useless--albeit comical-- answers. Yet the brilliance of the Coen Brother's lens is that the nonsensical advice is delivered with such direct articulation that we are satisfied instead of squirming. The lack of direction works.

I am still completely mystified by the I Think We Should Start Talking About A Divorce conversation and its swift delivery. Both supporting characters-- Judith Gopnick and Sy Abelman-- work to overwhelm Larry with authority and reason. They ease Larry out of his own home using nothing but soothing platitudes and sharp execution. It's brilliant.

These sirens, monsters, and shepherds (hot neighbor; Sy Abelman; lady with crutches in the park) work together in guiding Larry back to a place of simple being. And we, as an audience, eventually land there too. For if we stop seeking answers, we eventually won't need them (But helping others... couldn't hurt.)

That said, I was confused by the ending. The film stops short upon two major additions to the story-- the first is what we assume to be cancer, and the second is a massive black tornado headed directly into a school yard. It wasn't until hearing Fred Melamed's take that the ending it not only made sense but also carried a profound resonance. Melamed said in a fantastic interview that the ending sends you back into the movie. That by leaving the film in this fashion, we take the characters with us. It stays in some part of our brains as we reenter our own serious lives.

I initially had no real intention of seeing A Serious Man, despite my extreme excitement for its filming location (Um Ya Ya!). But upon hearing the phrases 'the best film of 2009', 'my favorite film of 2009' and 'second favorite Coen film of all time' repeated as often as that damn Jefferson Airplane song (Don't you want somebody to loooove) I gave it a go. And NOW I have to rethink my entire years worth of movie watching, as A Serious Man just might have to kick Up in the Air from the top of my favorite list. Can I do that to dear Clooney and his slick roller suitcase!? Gahhh, I might have to. Nailing it down: so important.

(***Note: AMANDA, you have to see this film, if only to recount our days of 8am Human Bio with Alan Ernst in the old Science Center lecture hall. 'Sarah, how do you think I'm doing as a professor? Do you think I'm good at this?' Swoon.)

Io Sono L'Amore

SWINTON is back! Clearly I will be seeing this film. John already has-- he saw it in Cannes or Sundance or whatever other amazing place he goes to see films that isn't the IFC like everyone else. This was before he MET Swinton and changed both of our lives forever.


Anyway... from NY Mag's Vulture:

There's a new trailer for I Am Love, in which Tilda Swinton plays a woman living in Milan who — well, the trailer for the thriller foregoes the usual exposition and just shows us frame after frame of stuff happening to Swinton in Italy (sex, betrayal, secrets, food, possibly international politics) along with critic quotes like, "See it by any means possible," which, by the time it appeared on the screen, was a completely unnecessary command. We have no idea what's going on here — and we can't remember the last time we could say that in this age of trailers that explain the entire movie. With all the food and scenery, this looks like the smart man's (or woman's) Eat, Pray, Love. We're there.

Lo Hoffman actually sent me this clip this morning with this tag: "One of your favorite things (Swinton!) and one of my favorite things (people being snarky about Eat Pray Love!)."

Thanks, Lo! And so true! Should we see this during our 36 hours of greatness in June?! Sometime between chocolate croissants and silent reading time? You think about that.

Florence and the Machine

SPEAKING OF FLORENCE--- I'm seeing Florence and the Machine in a couple of weeks at Terminal 5 and just can't wait. So what if she's all over this trailer. Which, lets just be honest, I also just can't wait for Eat, Pray, Love. Judge if you will.

Greenberg

Ben Stiller falls in line with all of those 'stupid movie' (not the technical term) comedians who feel the need to show their full range by starring in a super depressing indie film. Adam Sandler, Jim Carey, Will Smith, you know the type. I have never been one for the 'stupid movie' comedies (Katie still scolds me for never having seen Dumb and Dumber, Tommy Boy, Liar Liar, or that one where Ben Stiller plays the male model, what was it called?) but luckily I happen to ADORE super depressing indie films(!!!), as you are well aware. Give me Punch Drunk Love over Billy Madison any day, yes please.

Although, come to think of it, Stiller had little to nothing do with my reasons for seeing Greenberg on opening night at the Angelika. It was his much younger leading lady, Ms. Greta Gerwig, who pulled me in. More accurately, it was a charming little profile done by New York Magazine about Greta in last week's issue.

They do a swell job over there at NY Mag, cutting the fat and forcing our interest. They gave this seemingly unknown (I don't know what the hell Mumblecore is, do you?) young actress full credit while still revealing her awkwardness and naive charm. She comes across as fresh faced, sincere, yet completely dedicated and talented in her craft. Good writing fascinates me.

The line that really hooked me was regarding Gerwig's costume fitting and how she gained seven pounds afterward because she “thought [the character's] thighs needed to rub together.” I read that and thought, I know this girl. She is the type of girl I went to school with at my fancy liberal arts college who wasn't fancy at all. Like NY Mag so deftly articulated, she is a girl who looks like she could knit a scarf. And sure enough, Gerwig NAILED this part.

Florence is a character that hasn't yet been exhausted like so many archetypes for twenty-somethings as of late. I think it's her lack of angst. It's her ability to slouch, and mumble, and over apologize. She's totally okay with her employers forgetting to write her a check before they depart for Vietnam. In fact, she encourages their tardiness by claiming its better for her anyway-- this way she'll spread out her spending. When she sees Roger in the bar after her performance, she doesn't over think her reaction-- she waves excitedly with that soon-to-be-recognized toothy grin. She is the anti-Juno, and thank goodness for that.

Greenberg actually hit a different note than I was expecting. It was much funnier than the previews allowed, and Stiller played the role without that ache of loneliness we have come to expect from films about lost souls. He was very crass and unfailingly arrogant. The romance was wacky as well, though not necessarily for lack of purpose. It played out with a sort of bait-and-switch emotional pull. We were encouraged to want Florence to run away from Roger, but melted a little bit when she did things like give him puppets and we were happy when he learned to care for the dog. This was a very sweet film, in the end. We all exited the the theater smiling-- I love when that happens.

I would also like to note the artist Jill Greenberg, whose photos totally distracted me while googling 'Greenberg' for an image for this post. I saw her show at ClampArt last fall, where they served tootsie roll pops at the reception, as she is rumored to make those children cry by taking away candy. She is also the photog who was in trouble with both The Atlantic and the McCain campaign after shooting the presidential candidate 'in sinister light.' That really had nothing to do with anything-- just a little 'Greenberg' trivia for you all. Happy weekend. :)

Up in the Air

Did you all enjoy the Oscars? Despite getting SO BORED at the end (Can anyone sit still for that long) I was thrilled with the results, the gowns, the winners. I love Sandra Bullock, and have since While You Were Sleeping, circa my childhood. Love, love, love. And I liked that she made jokes in her speech and ended by thanking Meryl Streep, her lover. Oh, the world needs more Sandra Bullocks, and it needs more people who appreciate the Sandra Bullocks.

Anyway. My favorite movie of the year was Up in the Air. Hands down. I didn't have high expectations for it to win anything, and I don't think it did, but I LOVED this movie. I saw it twice in the theaters and think about it often. It struck and cord in me-- a humanity cord, I think.

Up in the Air is a story about the human condition. It is about what we need in order to be happy, to be alive and content and functioning. I remember hearing a statistic once about dolphins-- that if we were to make a checklist of what it means to be human, then tested it against other species, that dolphins would beat out babies.

According to this study, dolphins are tool users, they are highly creative (perhaps even artistic), they enjoy recreational and social activities, from surfing to sex, and they have proven time and time again that they are self-aware. They’ve also formed symbiotic relationships with fisherman, and recent reports suggest that dolphins even have names for each other.

On this same accord, if you tested George Clooney's character, Ryan, against a standard of human living, he may drop on the list below dolphins. Yes, he is cognitive, and a tool user; he likes recreational activities and has a name; but he lacks the basic instincts that most of us go our entire lives seeking-- Home. Family. Relationships. Marriage. Comfort. Material things.

The film succeeds in playing Ryan's character against two other super-humans. Natalie, the driven, confident, naive young girl with a checklist in place of a relationship, and Alex, the love-interest-without-strings. First off, I will say that I was SO GLAD that the script didn't turn to a romantic relationship between Ryan and Natalie. Didn't you all get worried about that in the trailer? It was simply a work relationship turned friendship in which both parties were changed as a result. It was a halting in the lives of two people who are always moving forward.

Natalie's character is one of my favorite ever written. Anna Kendrick nailed it, with each forceful stroke of the keyboard and each forced syllable in her sensible suit and sensible shoes and sensible haircut. Her character let us move deeper into a sort of Wonderland, initiated by Ryan's character in his shiny shoes and standardlized cufflinks.

I'll tell you the other reason that we all went to see this film (in addition to that deep voice and dreamy jawline... love me some Clooney...) It was the same reason we all saw Avatar, and will see Tim Burton's Alice sometime this week. This film was another WORLD. One in which we all pass through quickly, in transit, hurriedly, sure, but also one in which we haven't ever stopped to consider it as an actual structure and universe.

The click of the roller bag handles, the beep of the security lines, the zip of the hotel key-- there was something sensual and romantic about a world so standardized and sterile. Natalie's little skirt suits and simple necklace created for us a character SO SIMPLE that she was actually considered outside of normalcy. The articulation of ever syllable made her untouchable and awe inspiring from her very first presentation.

Ryan and Alex (ironic names, right girls?) began a relationship that from its onset didn't temp us with magic. It was about sex and convenience and fun. No expectations, no feelings, no stopping. It was the wedding in Wisconsin-- that lovely little montage at his old high school, in the snow, on the dance floor-- that made our hearts swell, that made us yearn for it to work. Yet at the same time, it wasn't something that we could see lasting, either. The loophole was that Ryan and Alex didn't have lists like Natalie did. Their lives were already started, moving, flying. A relationship wasn't on the horizon. (Please excuse my airplane metaphors, its just so easy!)

The beauty of this film's 'unhappy' ending is that we didn't find Ryan's character as flawed. It wasn't a story about breaking someone down, forcing them to love, to stop, to settle. The ending showed us his real emotion and heartache. He is human, after all. But being human doesn't exist in two-and-a-half baths and fireplaces and Christmas dinners and white picket fences. Ryan taught us that living exists without rules.

Up in the Air is a film that I will own. One that I will pull out on a Saturday morning and overanalyze with my coffee and buttered toast time and time again. It didn't depress me, not even a little bit. (I heard a lot of people say it was depressing?) Instead, it cleared an understanding in my mind for second chances, for starting over, and above all else-- what it means to keep moving forward.

New Muppet Movie news!

So, have you all heard this awesome news!? I first heard that Jason Segel was writing the next Muppet movie last year after his phenominal display of muppet-dom in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. NOW, not only is he completing the script, but James Bobin, who created Flight of the Concords will be directing! Also, the working title is apparently 'The Cheapest Muppet Movie Ever Made'? Alrighty then! Here is what Mr. Segel has to say about my new favorite movie...

“I’ve just grown a little disappointed with ‘Muppets in the Old West,’ ‘Muppets Under Water,’ and all these weird concept movies. I just want to go take it back to the early 80’s, when it was about the Muppets trying to put on a show. That’s what I’m trying to bring back,” said Segel, who also wants to bring back the big name cameos of the earlier films. “All of our friends that I’ve brought it up to are pretty excited by the prospect of it. Everyone loves the Muppets; they’ve got a warm place in most people’s hearts. We want a lot of cameos. You look back at Charles Grodin, Charles Durning, there were just such great performances in those movies.” “We’ve got a great plot. I think if we can execute it right, it will be terrific. But I can’t tell you more – it’s top secret.”

Swoon.

Nine

Most of you will probably disagree with this post. Nine isn't the most popular movie, and the critics all hated it. It was long, formulaic, and slightly boring. In fact, the first half hour of the film made me so uncomfortable that I developed a headache. But I kind of loved it.

I loved it for the few moments that (excuse the cliche) took my breath away-- in the way that Italian cinema will take your breath away (before I say more, PLEASE see Io No Ho Paura. Its an amazing Italian film and no one ever takes my rec to watch it. You know who you are.) My movie dates would agree with me-- Kate Hudson, Fergie, and especially Marion Cotillard hit notes that we could feel in our bones, that pulsed through our blood.

Nine tells the story of Maestro Guido Contini and the women who have shaped his life. Contini is Italy's most successful film director when Italian cinema was at its height in the early sixties. We enter Guido's life upon a press conference revealing his new film, 'Italia.'

We meet the seven women (why weren't there nine women? Or why wasn't this film called 'Seven'. Well, Sarah, there already was a Seven, with Brad Pitt from the early ninties, but wasn't there already a Nine as well? Like last month?) who are apparently going to inspire this film that he hasn't yet written-- there are his muse, his confident, his wife, his mistress, his whore, his crush, and his mother. Clever, no?

But what started out as a little cabaret of sexist female stereotypes drew me to tears by the closing number. Penelope Cruz, in her role of 'mistress' grabbed Guido's hand in her final scene, saying words that absolutely broke my heart in their raw state-- "Guido, don't forget me. I am still here-- you go out into the world and make your movies and home to your wife, but I am still here." Her desperation killed me because I understood it.

And then Marion Cotillard--Oh, Marion Cotillard!-- stung us with final number, 'Take it All', uncovering the point of the film. It wasn't about making a movie afterall. It wasn't about finding inspirtation either. It was about women. About what happens when you use them up. See this film for Marion Cotillard's number, if nothing else. Stunning.

I could have done without Sophia Loren, Judi Dench, and Nicole Kidman's ballads-- another reason why most of you will disagree with me. I was supposed to love Sophia's return and Dench's lingering sass, but they just didn't translate as well as the other four. I blame the writing (and Loren's plastic surgeon. Ew.) And I would have liked to see Nicole in a stronger song. But hey-- I'm no Maestro.

A Single Man

Movie Monday was resurrected last night with the stunning Tom Ford creation, A Single Man. Now, when I say stunning, I mean visually, and when I say creation, I don't mean movie. Because this wasn't so much a movie as much as it was a--- I don't know-- painting? photograph? vintage gown?

A Single Man was a chance for Tom Ford to visually create a world that includes all of the 'things he likes' for lack of a better phrase. It would be like me making a film about exposed brick walls, jars of white peonies, Brooklyn wine bars, Jimmy Stewart films, crackling fireplaces, and vats of salty olives. All the women would be very smart in turtleneck dresses with black tights and massive gold bracelets, and the men would all be funny. A bit indulgent, don't you think?

For his film, Tom Ford chose thin black ties, freshly pressed oxford dress shirts, square silver cuff links, and gin martinis. He also bowed toward beauty like no one has before. Super models played the extras, all the men had crazy tans and chiseled abs. The women were manicured into magazine cut outs who smoked pink cigarettes in their candy colored lips.

Mr. Ford also remained somewhat non-specific and general in his telling. Although based on a 1964 novel by the same title, Ford's adaptation wasn't deeply personal or too intimate, like we might expect a film-about-a-gay-professor-attempting-suicide-upon-the-death-of-his-young-and-charismatic-love to be. The film was a symphony, not a folk tune. This might help explain why it didn't feel like a movie to me-- it was removed, like how paintings are removed-- it was still, hushed, subdued.

Julianne Moore completely stole the film, you have to agree. She was the red paint, the splash of color and noise. I am completely obsessed with her 60s eyeliner and redheaded up-do. (Can we please bring black coal back into rotation?--I've asked before and I'm asking again.) While George's home was rich brown and grey and ivory, Charley's home was decorated with orange trees, silk upholstery, and a peach colored crescent shaped sofa. In fact, I saw this film for one scene, as described in Vogue magazine as 'iconic 60s perfection'--- Julianne Moore and Colin Firth doing the twist. And, yes, it was well worth the other 100 minutes of viewing. As were the Gatsby eyes. (If you know what I'm referring to, you get a gold star.)

Did I love the movie? Well, no. Alison, Katie, and I kind of nodded afterwards, agreeing that we 'got it', that we understood what it was supposed to be, who it was for. (It was for Luke Foss, duh.) It was a absolutely stunning film, we cannot argue that. But after coming to these somewhat broad conclusions we moved right along, back into our silly lives on the C train to Brooklyn.

See it. But please don't take this film seriously. Like is too short to brood over starched collars and square cuff links. Just have a gimlet and a very Merry Christmas. :)

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs

Trust me, I am just as shocked as you are to be writing about this movie. So shocked that this post could easily morph into something more akin to a graduation speech, a motivational conference, or a Lutheran sermon. Something with a theme along the lines of 'not judging a book by its cover' or 'stepping outside of your comfort zone' or 'the world is full of surprises.' It was just THAT inspiring.

I have never had any real interest in animated movies (well, not since Disney's princess collection came to a halting screech just as I left my childhood behind and entered junior high in 1995. Come on, we all loved Ariel.) I went because I was offered a free screening ticket. Simple as that. Free things are nice. And it was Movie Monday after all.

Alex and I settled into our 3-D glasses in a theater packed by press and their children, with the lowest of expectations. I loved the children's book as a child, and he knew little about this movies save from a few flying cheeseburgers. But we sat through Ice Age: 3 and we could sit through this.

What came to follow was an hour and 48 minutes of laugh after laugh after laugh. The humor was right on target, the animation gorgeous, and the actors outstanding. Bill Hader, Anna Faris, Andy Samberg, and the treat of all treats--Neil Patrick Harris-- as Steve the monkey. No, we did not see that coming, and yes, we gasped in sheer delight when we saw his name in the credits.

I will spare you the 'don't judge a book lecture' if you promise to give this splashy animated feature film a chance. Then, once you've seen it, do as we did and walk to Madison Square Park's Shake Shack for burgers and fries-- you will want one too after seeing burgers float to the ground like manna from heaven in the first food storm.

Real laughter, a long walk, and Shake Shack. A Movie Monday for the books.