White Christmas

Did you know that you can watch White Christmas in its entirety on YouTube!? And the picture quality is wonderful! What a world.

(If nothing else, just skip to 54:19. The 6 minutes to follow will make your heart stop.)

*Side note: I always felt really bad for Rosemary Clooney at the conclusion of that scene (1:00:16). She just looked so sad there with her dumb tambourine, all fake smiley after Vera Ellen KILLED IT with those legs. I've since gotten past this.

Une Femme est Une Femme

I watched Godard's Une Femme est Une Femme on Saturday night after ditching out early on the overly crowded, overly cool PS1 Summer Warm Up. We were lucky enough to score fancy VIP passes that included special seating and free beer, but even with that-- TOO CROWDED! Too loud. Am I old or just boring? Anyway, I traded in my a perfectly lovely New York summer evening in favor of Anna Karina on instant Netflix. Whatever!

Une Femme est Une Femme is a silly little film about a flirty stripper (the cute kind, in sailor costumes and bloomers) who decides to trade it all in for the hope of a baby. Her boyfriend disagrees and there, dear reader, lies the story. I haven't watched a lot of Godard (Breathless should be next, I'm told) but this one is choppy yet delightful with musical crescendos so dramatic they made me squirm a little bit.

I can't say that Godard stands the test of time, but he does, most definitely, take us back to a time in Paris we didn't even know we longed for. (check out the bit at 1:25. ANNA!)

Crazy. Night. In.

Easter Parade

Easter Parade easily falls into a category of things I loved as a child but have had to rethink as a grownup (also in this category: Goonies*, Breakfast at Tiffany's**, South Pacific***, meatloaf****, and corndogs*****.)

You have to roll your eyes at this film, but I watch it every year anyway. It's one of two spin-off films from the great (albeit silly) classic Holiday Inn, the other being one of my favorite films of all time, White Christmas. I'll take Kaye over Astaire any day.

Yes, Fred Astaire is his usual douchie, self important, condescending self in Easter Parade starring alongside Judy Garland-- whom I adored in both Meet Me in St. Louis and The Wizard of Oz, but later formed a keen distaste for upon discovering her icky aging-cigarette-voiced-Christmas album in the Kmart bargain bin about fifteen years ago-- who overacts, over sings, and can't really dance at all.

The story is essentially Pygmalion, though decidedly less charming than it's counterparts and lazily constructed to match box office blockbusters of the day. It's therefore the type of movie musical that makes most of you out there DESPISE movie musicals, especially from this golden era. Here is Fred at his lowest ebb, just after his first retirement from cinema, cranky from the flash and pomp of it all. And there is Judy, emerging from a nervous breakdown, a suicide attempt, and a psychiatric hospital stay just weeks before filming.

If you're not familiar with the film, excuse the spoiler (although, why exactly would you watch this film for the first time after reading this glowing review?) but I'm going to cut to the end here. After an hour and a half of silly yet welcomed dance numbers and a dramatic makeover on Garland's part, the film slowly beats itself into a frenzy of jealous dancers, back stabbing performances ("It Only Happens When I Dance With You"), and flip flopping accusations. Who are we mad at again? Which one of you did wrong?

We take a deep breath, check our watches, then exit the film as quickly as I've ever seen. With an outpouring of gifts (including a gorgeous live white rabbit), a 'let's laugh it off' apology, an iconic stroll down fifth avenue, and a VERY QUICK proposal there amongst Easter bonnets, top hats, and jolly well wishes, we're kicked right off the MGM lot. Anyway, enough.

Almost unsurprisingly-- this was the most financially successful picture for both Garland and Astaire as well as the highest-grossing musical of 1948. And for the very same reason that thousands of movie goers stormed the theaters fifty years ago, I too will watch this film this weekend. I suppose it's my version of the Cadbury egg-- a stupidly sweet treat that comes around but once a year. Despite it's flaws Easter Parade is there in my history and I can't reject it, not just yet.


*really stupid
**not stupid AT ALL, but definitely racist and about prostitution.
***kind of stupid, and also racist and about prostitution!
****thanks, JSF
*****thanks again!

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.

The Ice Storm

My favorite ice storm movie? The Ice Storm!

I have a coworker who upon having her second set of twins moved from the Upper East Side to Westchester County. She told me a few months ago that in order to understand her life, I needed to watch this movie. Being the voyeur that I am, I rented it that night and sat in horror over everything but the fashion. Yikes, Leslie!

Shivers.

Marcel the Shell at Sundance

Guess who is going to Sundance (besides John)? Marcel! I am so happy for him! (her?)

And how gorgeous is that poster? I want one for my bedroom.

In case you aren't going to Sundance, and in case you aren't one of the lucky few that I've tied down and forced to watch this with me, here it is again for your viewing pleasure:

Desk Set

Tracy and Hepburn's 1957 anti-computer office flick isn't commonly thought of as a Christmas movie, but it absolutely is. It's a silly little film, but one of my favorites, and one of two movies that features Katharine Hepburn as a very exaggerated drunk. It's the office party we all wish we had in an era when tinsel and mistletoe flowed freely and everyone had names like 'Bunny' and 'Peg' and 'Ruthie' and 'Watson'.

My office holiday party is Monday, at a fancy Nolita restaurant where everyone will undoubtedly down champagne, stand a good two feet apart, stare awkwardly at the food, and be home by 7. Same, same.

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.

The Great Gatsby

“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?”

“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”

Well, it's definitely July. The heat is all everyone can seem to talk about right now in the city and I secretly love it. I love it in the same way I love freezing cold February days when everyone is miserable, but, I don't know, bonded somehow because of it. We commiserate together and complain in tandem and it seems that despite politics and the economy and music taste and popular opinion, we are all on the same page about something. Weather as the great equalizer.

I always think about The Great Gatsby during these intense July afternoons-- That chapter where they all escape to the Plaza hotel in Manhattan from East Egg. It is in that oppressively hot hotel suite that Gatsby and Tom finally have it out over Daisy.

No matter where they are in the indirect quarrel over Gatsby's phony use of 'old sport' and the legitimacy of his claim to have attended Oxford, and ultimately, Daisy's heart, the conversation shifts to the relentless heat. They challenge each other and order up mint juleps in the same breath. They confess their love while at the same time commenting on the wedding chords below and the tragedy of attending such an event in that hot, heavy air. The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me, Nick muses. I love that line.

It's a fantastic use of imagery-- the heat as a third party in that hotel room. Fitzgerald uses it to suffocate the reader alongside his players. He heats the conversation in literal terms that make us want to loosen our own collars, grab our own icy drink to cool our brow. It's suffocating, and it's supposed to be. Then, just like that, the heat lets up with a cooling twilight and we are back in East Egg where Tom's furies have also subsided and Daisy has crawled back into the comfort of monotony. Stunning.

Fitzgerald's Gatsby belongs in a group of perfect things, right there next to The Philadelphia Story, Hubbell Gardner, this New Yorker Cover and white peonies. And, if nothing else, it has helped me romanticise this July heat. It's my own mint julep dripping in hand.

photo: one of my favorites, "Katarina" by Karolina Karlic

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

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.)

Match Point

Have you all seen Match Point? It came out a few years ago and I distinctly remember wanting to see it and missing my chance. If you live somewhere like Indianapolis, where I was living at the time, the 'good' films have short runs in theaters and if you miss the first weekend, you're out of luck. (If you live in New York, they last forever. In fact, I tried to see Up In The Air tonight and it was sold out. WEEKS after its opening. Another odd reason that I love this city-- people still go to the movies.)

We all know that I love a good, long, slow story with talking heads and upseting endings, and this seemed to fit on my proverbial bookshelf nicely. A caricature of every movie I've ever fallen in love with that most of the world hated-- Two Lovers. Little Children. Closer. Broken English. FUNNY PEOPLE. (Why did no one appreciate Funny People?! I thought it was somewhat brilliant and I've never even liked Adam Sandler.)

Well, Match Point was different. It was similar to the previously mentioned depressing affair-driven nightmares but our friend Woody Allen went one step further with his shocking punch of an ending. Perhaps the rest of you were aware of the film's conclusion prior to viewing, but I literally spilled hot peppermint tea on my lap the moment he --- well, you know. (I don't want to ruin this for those of you who haven't seen it.) But now I've given it such a big buildup that you will be waiting for a surprise ending, and that's not really the point, now is it? I just can't win.

High Society: The Philadelphia Story remake I never knew existed

Hello :) Welcome back to this little space after a few weeks of much needed hiatus and retreat. I have been away in Nebraska for Christmas, and no, I'm not really ready to be back in the city. But never mind all that, lets jump in, shall we?

I used to play a little game with friends and strangers called 'Let's recast The Philadelphia Story.' The Philadelphia Story, if you weren't aware, is one of my all time favorite films. You can read about it here. One of the many things that makes this film remarkable is that three of the biggest actors from the early 1940's star in it-- Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, and Katherine Hepburn.

So next comes the question of who would we cast in these roles if the film were to be remade? What actress could ever fill the shoes of Katherine Hepburn as Tracy Lord? Cary Grant as Dexter? (George Cluny, clearly. And perhaps Tom Hanks in the Stewart role. MAYBE Brad Pitt. Cate Blanchett as Hepburn could work. I'm open to suggestions.) Could it even be done?

Well APPARENTLY it has! Imagine my surprise when I opened my stocking to find High Society, a 1956 REMAKE OF THE PHILADELPHIA STORY. Mind blowing. (And thank you, Emily, for the stocking stuffer!) High Society, starring (are you prepared for this?) Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra, and to throw in an extra punch, Louis Armstrong.

High Society follows The Philadelphia Story's script to a T, with the addition of a few musical numbers (by the great Cole Porter) and a few minor plot shifts. The biggest addition is C.K. Dexter's reason for being on the estate-- a jazz fest. Oh, and that the story is set in Baltimore. (Which also explains the title change.) The Jazz fest does seem a bit disconnected from the rest of the script, and come to find out, it was only added to the film because the writer decided to combine two films-- The Philadelphia Story and a new film about the jazz scene in Baltimore. There ya go.

As for the cast change-- trying to compare makes me dizzy. Do we ask who is better? Bing Crosby or Cary Grant? Grace Kelly or Katherine Hepburn? Frank Sinatra or Jimmy Stewart? Ahh! It's a mean game of Sophie's Choice. I just can't do it. (Except, well, Grant, Hepburn, and Stewart. They win. There, I did it.)

That said, High Society is glorious. Glamorous, amazing, perfect. See it. When else will you see a duet between Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra? (Do you have chills?) Or, how about Bing Crosby and Louis Armstong!? Bananas. Craziness! Really lovely craziness. And a nice start to the New Year, don't you think?

Happy New Year, everyone :)

PS. A special thanks to my dear friend Amanda, who reminded me why blogging is good, and who has her own NEW little bloggy that I would like to share with you all: amandascates.blogspot.com Enjoy!

Meet Me in St. Louis

Remember reruns? Remember coming home after school and watching reruns of the classics-- Saved by the Bell, The Brady Bunch, Friends, The Wonder Years?

There is something nice and comforting about reruns, I'm coming to realize. It's nice to know what you're getting. No surprises. Just old friends saying lines you've heard before, never missing a beat. We know when Rachel is going to declare her love for Ross. We aren't in shock when Winnie kisses Kevin in that cold barn in the rain for the last time. Of course Jan will make the cheerleading squad, we've seen this one before.

The days of reruns have oddly passed, as I don't watch tv unless its streaming onto my computer, and reruns don't really exist online. Those of you who have Tivo will edit your tv watching to only the essentials, none of that random riff raff. And there isn't a web channel that plays one random episode of The Brady Bunch at a time, now is there? (Is there?! If so, I hope its the Hawaii one.)

However. The past week has brought armloads of reruns into my life-- they entered like huge bouquets of white peonies, bobbing their snowy heads, nodding hello. As I sat down to write a little bloggy post, I realized that I could just display some reruns of old posts. Like this one. Or this. Or this goody. Those are the things I've done.

I've been re-watching, re-reading, and re-living my favorites this week. It's that time of year. I've been going back to all the things that would go into the Sarah Box, if one existed outside of conversation. It's a strange little box filled with Jimmy Stewart films, food memoirs, strands of gold jewelry, and a perfect mix of early 19th century British landscape paintings and contemporary installation work.

I would climb into that box, if I could, and settle there between Eloise and William Turner, Tilda Swinton and Estella Havisham. I'd have dinner with Alfred Hitchcock, tea with Jo March, and swap clothes with Katherine Hepburn. We'd all camp out in that box until morning comes, not daring to peek out at that scary outside world. (Bear with me here.)

Last week my amazing sisters Laura and Emily sent a hug in the form of dvd's to my desk. Julia Child's PBS Special was in the mix (I watched that this morning before work while eating leftover apple crisp and sipping french press coffee- love that Julia.) as was a collection of old song-and-dance musicals from the 1940s. I opened the package to discover Judy Garland's familiar (and bizarrely heart-shaped) face smiling back at me beneath that terrible wig and loud dress and tugged the dvd case to my heart. Meet me in St. Louis is one of my (our) all time favorites. I was so glad to see it again.

It's a odd little film. And truth be told, I rented it a few weeks ago, before La and Em sent the package, with someone who was watching it for the first time. The oddities never occurred to me until I saw it through another's eyes--Those children are morbid! That dancing so saccharine! But I love it. Why? Because it IS a rerun. I'm not seeing it for the first time at 26, shocked by the bizarre costumes, the corny dialogue. It all makes sense because I fell in love with it when I was 10 years old.

Meet Me in St. Louis is the story of a city as told through a family. My friend Sarah Meyer mocks this film for its lack of conflict, but I say the conflict is real. Esther, Agnes, Rose, and Tootie have a palpable love for St. Louis and the thought of leaving absolutely breaks their hearts. The story is based around this love, and I get it. I love a city too. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, the most heartbreaking of all Christmas songs (save for Joni Mitchell's River, perhaps) was written for a city and the heart that was leaving it behind. The love is real and so is the hurt.

And, like most 40s era musicals, this one has a very happy ending. So even while watching hearts break, this audience of one was okay. I knew they would stay in St. Louis-- can't fool me. I knew that Esther would end up with that total bore next door, John Truit, whom she happens to find so charming. I knew that Tootie wouldn't have to dig up her cemetery of dead dolls. That, dear friends, is the best thing about this classic film-- I've seen it before.

Broken English

I watched Broken English for the third time tonight. (First and second times were not tonight, they were months ago. I just couldn't figure out how to word that sentence.) I started it this morning, and finished it while making pasta for a very small dinner party, and I fell in love with it all over again. Have you all seen this film?

Katie first introduced it to me last winter, and the two of us firmly established it as part of our roommate canon. (Other films include Two Lovers, Before Sunrise, and After Sunset.) Parkey Posey stars alongside a cast of tired and worn New Yorkers that create a fairytale story just sad enough to be believable.

Yes, the story is depressing beyond all means, but the acting is superb and if you squint hard enough and focus your senses you will find the hidden satire in Posey's character Nora. It's a funny movie hidden in a mess of sleeping pills and anxiety attacks.

And even in this small jaded indie film we find a happy ending. Because we're here just like Nora--out swimming through this city-- looking for our own.

Flying: Confessions of a Free Woman

"I never wanted to be a girl. The way girls were supposed to be. I wanted to be like my father. I wanted to be free."

Flying is the autobiographical-documentary-mini-series by Jennifer Fox about-- to put it simply-- women. Alison and I have been watching weekly Sunday night installments at her place for the past month or so out of both interest and fear.

At the age of 45 Jennifer, a constantly traveling New Yorker who only wanted to be 'single and free' woke up to discover that she might want a baby. That she might need a commitment. That she might have misjudged what would actually make her happy all of these years.

She suddenly became deeply conflicted about marriage, about babies and about the affairs she was having with a married South African (Kai) and a Swiss cinematographer (Patrick).

Fox is a celebrated independent documentary filmmaker but for this project she quite bravely (and a bit indulgently?) turned the camera on herself and women around the world. She interviewed countless women about the experiences of being female, wherever they happened to be. Most of her own narratives involve lots of tears and sadness. They show her sitting at home or in a hotel room crying over Kai or crying over her potentially failed life. Its depressing, of course it is. But its also extremely enlightening.

Her subjects include Cambodian women forced into the sex trade, social activists in India and Pakistan, film making friends in Berlin and London, a darling Russian babushka, and her own family members. It's fascinating. Troubling, heartbreaking, and fascinating.

What struck me as the most odd in this film was that Fox doesn't shy away from her own issues even when talking with, say, sex slaves in Cambodian war zones. She keeps coming back to her lovers, her sexuality, her sudden need to have a child, her verbally abusive grandmother, her parents' marriage. It's beautiful in that she doesn't see a division between herself and these young girls dying of malnutrition and STD's, but at the same time... come on, Jennifer.

Al and I found ourselves screaming at the television as she repeatedly went back to her 'lover Kai' who was married with children at the time. For being such a strong, independent, awesome woman she was still flawed, still vulnerable, still had an INTENSE need to be loved. We wanted to shake her, but at the same time, we understood her.

Jennifer repeatedly came back to the same conclusion. All women fall into two categories: mothers and whores. It is a terrible realization to come to, especially for a woman who doesn't necessarily believe in marriage and who has been sexually active for over 20 years. But as each episode introduced a different culture of different women, the statement became all the more relevant.

In the most extreme situations, like in Pakistan, the label 'whore' could mean a death sentence without any hope for a husband and therefore income and food and basic needs. In the LEAST extreme, like our girl Jennifer here in New York, it means feeling like a failure. It means having to question your capabilities as a woman.

Alison made homemade pasta with red pepper sauce last night for the final installment. We watched Jennifer's very elderly Grandmother die. We watched her attempt IVF only to see a single line. We watched her cry some more. She told herself that she was going to stop crying and try to be happy. She made a commitment to PATRICK, thank goodness (we were rooting for him.) She moved to Switzerland for a while, which is awesome. She started smiling again.

The film ultimately made us talk about our own lives, as I'm sure it was meant to. Al and I along with all of our other girlfriends have had ongoing conversations since our first viewing about Jennifer and her 45 year old New York predicament-- being super successful professionally yet unmarried without children and suddenly feeling inadequate. I will graciously spare you the details of THOSE conversations, but I can tell you that this film was eye opening to say the least.

In a great Times article about this series, Fox says that life is like a layer cake: nonlinear, potentially messy and occasionally gravity-defying. It's a nice little metaphor for the film too-- a messy pastiche of different ingredients coming together for an indulgent common purpose. And it makes me crave cake.

Also: A special thank you to Annie Llewellyn who gave us these films. THANKS ANNALICIOUS!!!!

King Triton and the Dolphins

(There are only two people out there who will find this post humorous, but just the thought of hearing their laughter makes it worth it.)

You may have noticed that its been a while since I last posted. Well, I've been away. I've been on a boat on a lake in The Middle of Nowhere Missouri with my family and best friends-- far away from computers and blogs and emails and twitters. It was amazing.

You know that feeling of laughing so hard that you can't speak? That point when just the thought of the words that you're about to say coming out of your mouth makes it completely impossible to say the words and share the thoughts with anyone else in attendance? Well, I got there this weekend on the back of a boat on a tube with Meggie Sue and Larn.

The words were 'King Triton and the dolphins' and the feeling was a high that you get only from that specific form of laughter (we really should have more than one word for 'laughter.' I'll bet the Greeks do. Like, 'happy is to laughter as euphoric is to _____.') It took me about five minutes to spit those words out and when I finally did we all fell down laughing at the realization that we might be pseudo-adults in our mid twenties but underneath our veneer of patent leather pumps, fancy careers, engagement rings, and house payments, we are still the girls we've always been with crazy dreams and huge imaginations.

In that moment we all reverted back to our 5-year old selves and talked about what it was like to see The Little Mermaid for the first time. It might have been the first movie I'd seen at the movie theater, I don't know. Is that possible? Well, its the first one I remember.

I was in the first grade and my Grandpa Timmerman (who turned 79 this weekend!) took me to see The Little Mermaid in Omaha. I remember that he let me pick out a candy bar--which was a really big deal-- and I chose a 3 Musketeers, most likely because it had a shiny wrapper (I loved all things metallic, even then.) I sat in that theater and watched a redheaded mermaid fall in love with a gorgeous prince under a magic spell and never wanted that movie to end.

Ariel sang songs with fishes, she brushed her hair with a fork, she twirled around in that gorgeous blue dress and (almost) kissed her prince under a weeping willow and a firefly filled night sky. It was back when Disney made movies for little girls without considering updated humor for their parents and before they complicated them with grown-up plots and special features. It was simple, it was lovely, and it was the first movie I fell in love with. I remember holding my grandpa's hand as we left under my own spell of sugar and contentment.

I left the Ozark mountains this weekend with a similar feeling. Lots of sugar, lots of laughter, and the utmost of contentment. I flew into LaGuardia from Springfield rested and happy. I crossed the BQE with a view of Manhattan at dusk out one window and a full moon with a sapphire sky out the other. It's not playing all day in the water, being the five-year-old version of ourselves, but it is summer and in this city we still get to play. We aren't adults, not yet at least. And I'm in no rush to get there.

Walk the Line

'Marry me, June.'
'Oh please, get up off your knees, you look pathetic.'

I've seen Walk the Line a million times and still get sucked in and completely invested with each viewing. I had a long (but lovely) day at the art fairs and stuck this movie in when I got home to clear my head and fall into another world. It worked. Katie and I took turns exclaiming our love for June Carter and her enviable sixties wardrobe and groaning as Johnny took another handful of pills before crashing into something terrible. We love this film.

The music comforts me and reminds me of my summers spent in the Ozark Mountains where crickets scream at nightfall. I never listen to country music but I love good bluegrass for that very reason--- it feels like a place, like a memory. I also have never cared much for Johnny Cash (sorry) but Holly and I learned every word to this film when it first came out. We tried to listen to Johnny and June but kept going back to Joaquin and Reese. And yes, even I judge us for that.

That said, the blending of music and dialogue is seamless and quite important. We understand the performance as just that, but also feel the pulsing emotion behind each word. It's stressful for most of the movie because, well, Johnny Cash couldn't walk a line.

While the film is essentially about Johnny Cash, its June who pulls us in. Reese Witherspoon won the Oscar for this role and rightly so. Joaquin is also phenomenal as Mr. Cash (And while we're on it, what is going on with him right now?! Anyone?! Crazy bearded man!? Wowza.) and the two are completely believable as static forces intertwined with strength and necessary pull.

June holds more strength and poise than any female character I've encountered in a long time. She isn't perfect, in fact her flaws are many and her mistakes epic. But June faces her life and its difficulties with absolute presence and honesty. There are no excuses, she casts no blame. Watch her with Johnny when he first tries to kiss her. Note her words in the market when faced with cruel criticism. Pay attention to her reaction to Johnny's demise and her strength when he needs her most. She looks everything and everyone straight in the eye and loves with the biggest of hearts so very effortlessly.

If I ever have a little girl I'm going to point her towards June Carter in terms of learning crucial lessons of grace, acceptance, forgiveness, and above all, love. Not romantic love, but human love (I wish for the umpteenth time that we had as many words for love as the Greeks do).

Ginnifer Goodwin, on the other hand, again plays a heinous female character whom no one should ever look up to. Yes, she was right in many (most!) aspects but her handling of conflict is what she got so terribly wrong. I could go on about this, but as my sister Laura would say when faced with someone really awful... I'm just glad I'm not her.

Walk the Line is a great film. A gorgeous, thoughtful, and important film. It's a world to fall into and a wonderful escape from all things city. As I lay here, in my bed in Brooklyn way past my bedtime, I can almost hear the crickets screaming their harsh summer songs.

We got married in a fever
Hotter than a pepper sprout
We've been talkin' 'bout Jackson
Ever since the fire went out
I'm goin' to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around
Yeah, I'm goin' to Jackson, look out Jackson town...

Sweet Land

Ali Selim screened Sweet Land in Northfield, Minnesota during my senior year of college. It is a film about Minnesota and was filmed in Minnesota and we were granted the golden tickets to see this film for the first time. It may not have been the most unbiased of audiences, as this film struck a cord in each of us for that very reason. It was close to us.

I watched it again this weekend in the car on our way home from Grandma Butler's home in Minden, Nebraska. Its a beautiful film. And despite my grandiose New York gal proclamations, it is the film closest to my history, the one about my people. Its a film about the prairie.

Inge comes to Minnesota as a mail order bride. Yikes. It was completely common in the days of the New West, despite its curious connotations. Men settled the west but missed companionship. So they sent away for a bride from the east coast, from Canada, and from Europe.

Inge came from Germany, an obvious slip, we soon learn. Germans weren't welcome due to the looming war, and Inge was assumed to be Norwegian, the preferred race. (Um Ya Ya.) She didn't speak English and Selim left out the subtitles, which I loved. The wedding scene is painful, as she rattles off excited German to a horrified congregation. Its her stubbornness that prevails

in the end, demanding her place in Olaf's house as promised.

The love story is nothing of the sort. Inge and Olaf aren't in love and don't try to be. But they fall into a sort of comfort and respect which is more than enough to sustain a lifetime of contentment. It was the story of so many. Which is kind of the point. This is one story, but everyone has something to tell. It wasn't epic nor particularly exciting. It was quiet and hard and good. They did love each other in the end, undoubtedly.

The best scene is the pie scene. Am I right? So good Emily and I pulled out my famous apple pie with gingersnap crumble from the backseat during our watching and ate it with our fingers, you can't blame us. Alex Kingston and Elizabeth Reaser make it look so very rightfully indulgent. That's some smart film making, Selim. Barely a word exchanged and so much understood.

As I drove through the flatness of Nebraska I again noticed the big skies and obvious beauty. If you ever have the chance to drive the highways toward Minden, do so. Its lovely. There isn't a billboard in sight, and the towns don't even have gas stations. Its hours of fields laced with a few streams and a few farmhouses. The trees give both away, as Nebraska is solid prairie. Only corn fields, I was often reminded of as a child with a small bladder and stubborn soda habit.

My parents lived in Michigan for a few years when they first were married and often talk about what it was like to come back to Nebraska after a five year absence. The skies, my dad always said. They are so much bigger here. Well, if Michigan brought out that shining difference, imagine what they look like coming home from New York City. The blue is breathtakingly large and overwhelmingly surrounding.

Sweet Land took advantage of the skies (though in Minnesota, not Nebraska, I know) with lovingly framed farmhouses, fields, skies, and farmers. The film stills could easily be turned into Rothko's or Mondrian's. Its that kind of separation, that kind of distinction. Parallel lines and solid colors. Few have noticed this beauty, and I'm so glad that Selim is one of them.

Sweet Land is a quiet film that didn't ask for glory or recognition. In fact, I'm unsure of how big its release was and how well known it has become. It took Selim fourteen years to make and at the time of the screening he wasn't sure that it would even end up in theaters. He made it because he wanted to tell this story, not even his own. In my circle, Sweet Land is spoken of with true appreciation and absolute heart. And I know that Willa Cather would be beaming.