MOVIES:
Steven Spielberg once said “the only thing better than seeing movies is
reading about them.”
We agree. This month:
Body of Lies,
Zack and Miri Make A Porno, Role Models and
Twilight.
DVD'S:
Senior editor Rick Sayre declares his love for the French
with reviews of Love Songs and Priceless, as
well as the second best comic book film of the year,
Hellboy II: The Golden Army, and Wall-E. Plus,
the return of the Brooklyn Gang with one of their most
disturbing reviews yet of "the vagina dentate movie”
otherwise known as Teeth.
MUSIC:
Kristin Chenoweth's A Lovely Way to Spend Christmas
and The Killers' Day & Age.
BOOKS:
Noralil Ryan-Fores' "The Philosophers."
FOCUS:
Noralil Ryan-Fores' "The New Perspective." Plus, illustrator
Chris Wilson's tribute to Twilight.
SPOTLIGHT:
“With
a film career that would make even the Hollywood gods
jealous, Jennifer Connelly has proven to all of us
that she is more than just another pretty face. She has
become a force in the acting world, choosing roles that
challenge both her acting ability as well as the direction
of her career. She is an actress that has never been afraid
to tackle a demanding or controversial role.”
Movies Lily Saw:Body of Lies, Zack and Miri Make A Porno, Role Models
and Twilight.
When I first started seeing trailers for the new Ridley Scott/Russell
Crowe/Leonardo DiCaprio film Body of Lies I was
immediately onboard. I had absolutely no idea what the movie was
actually about—some sort of terrorist-spy flick—and although The Good
Year, the last Scott/Crowe collaboration, should have been a
deterrent, the combination of Crowe and DiCaprio was enough to draw me
in. (The fact that I had recently been having a series of “sex dreams”
featuring DiCaprio in the lead didn’t hurt either).
Sadly the trailer was not misleading: even after seeing the 2+hour movie
I still can’t really tell you what Body of Lies is about.
DiCaprio is a CIA covert operative working in the Middle East and Crowe,
looking like he’s starring in a sequel to The Insider, is his
rogue boss. Some terrorist shit goes down and DiCaprio is screwed over
by Crowe; nothing is ever really explained, which is particularly
disappointing considering that Body of Lies screenwriter William
Monahan also wrote the superb script for The Departed. In the
end, I spent the majority of the movie trying to piece together some
semblance of a narrative, fishing for clues in their secret agent-speak,
and the other half trying not to lose myself in DiCaprio’s penetrating
gaze.
Which is not too far from how I felt watching Kevin Smith’s latest film
Zack and Miri Make A Porno, except that there was sadly
nothing remotely penetrating about it. Watching Smith’s last
film, Clerks II, was a particularly painful experience for me,
über-Silent Bob-fan-girl, as I rarely laughed throughout the comedy, so
I figured that it really couldn’t get any worse with Zack and Miri.
I even went in with some semblance of expectation as the topic of this
film was porn and love, and who knows those two better than Kevin Smith?
I wasn’t too far off. The funniest moments of the film were the ones
involving porn (adult film star Katie Morgan and Jason Mewes were
especially great). The love story between Seth Rogen and Elizabeth
Banks, the Zack and Miri of the film, however, was not as entertaining.
Their “deep” connection was never fully developed, at least not enough
for me to root for their eventual coupling. The movie lacked the
sincerity that made the respective love stories in Chasing Amy
and, yes, Jersey Girl, genuinely moving let alone enthralling.
Kevin Smith movies were once synonymous with “funny” and “hilarious” not
to mention “original”—I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not better off
simply watching his Q&A’s and skipping the films from here on in. It
would definitely make it easier to be a fan again.
Although Zack and Miri was definitely not the laugh-riot I was
hoping for, David Wain’s Role Models was surprisingly
hysterical. Wain directed and co-wrote the classic Wet Hot American
Summer (and the terrible The Ten) and he is back to true
comedic form with Role Models. Much like Stepbrothers
earlier this summer, I expected the movie to be funny in a
one-long-sketch kind of way, and therefore was especially shocked to
discover that Role Models has an actual storyline holding it
together. Paul Rudd usually steals any film that he’s in (although
damn if that man did not look absolutely gorgeous dressed up like a
member of KISS) but this movie really belongs to Seann William Scott.
His delivery is impeccable and painfully funny; seeing him onscreen
again made me wonder where the hell he’s been recently, and more
importantly, why the hell isn’t he in more quality comedies? Who would
have thought that Seann William Scott would be so miscast and underused?
Speaking of unlikely comedies, Catherine Hardwicke's big-screen
adaptation of Stephenie Meyer's vampire saga Twilight was
so bad at times that stifling laughter became nearly impossible. About
four months or so ago, I too succumbed to the teenage girl vampire
novels and became a self-proclaimed member of "Team Edward." I went out
and bought tickets to the midnight screening of the movie as soon as
they went on sale and I stood in line for about two hours surrounded by
a slew of women (and the occasional boyfriend or creepy
Edward-look-alike) before even setting foot in the actual movie theater.
But even I, sighing-Forks-visitor-and-proud-owner-of-"I was bitten in
Forks-paraphernalia have to admit how terrible Twilight the movie
is. I didn't want to admit it, which is why I went to see it for a
second time in less than 24 hours (surrounded by gay men in Chelsea,
which made it sort of better), hoping that it would somehow magically
become what I had actually envisioned as a reader not-so-long-ago.
Ultimately I can gripe all day about the terrible special effects, the
ridiculous, completely unnecessary tree-jumping and the disappointing
meadow scene, but what killed the film for meeach time was the
essence of what made me fall for the Twilight story in the first
place: Edward and Bella.
In
the hopes of attracting a larger audience, the filmmakers (I am
especially baffled by how screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg, a writer for
the terrific "Dexter" and the formerly terrific "The O.C.", could have
forgotten this) forgot all about what made us fall in love with Meyer's
vampire drama—the love story. Meyer's books are filled almost entirely
with pages and pages of Edward and Bella talking—not fucking
flying, not solving some stupid Hardy Boys mystery—and yet the film
relies on action rather than dialogue to develop their relationship.
With
the exception of the movie's dead-on casting (Billy Burke as Charlie and
Taylor Lautner as Jacob especially standout, and who can forget the
orgasm-inducing—pre-teens were hyperventilating both times that I
watched the film—Robert Pattinson), watching Twilight briefly
made me reconsider why it was that I fell for this story and these
books. But then I picked up the first book again…and turned to that
meadow scene for the millionth time…and sighed wistfully, like a
love-smitten teenage girl.
2008 was a great year for comic book fans. It was hard to
escape hearing about movies based on comics this summer, mostly due to a
pair of the year’s biggest movies, The Dark Knight and Iron
Man (not to mention the less-admired Incredible Hulk and all
of the buzz on next year’s Watchmen). I’ve got to say that for my
money the year’s best comic book movie was definitely… okay, The Dark
Knight. But mostly because I’m certain that it was the best
comic book film ever.However, a close second is Guillermo Del
Toro’s Hellboy II: The Golden Army. Therefore, I was counting
down the minutes and stalking the mailbox until my copy of the 3-Disc
Collector’s DVD arrived. (You can also get a super-deluxe edition with
toys and such or a single movie-only disc.) The disc is done right (as
was the original film’s special edition), filled with commentaries,
featurettes, deleted scenes and even a digital copy. Hellboy on
my iPod? Yes, please.
In case you were wasting your time on other superheroes this
summer, here’s what you missed: This time around, Hellboy and company
are trying to prevent the awakening of a clockwork army that will no
doubt destroy the world. On top of that, they are handling personal
problems (Hellboy and Liz try to keep their relationship afloat), a new
team member (who turns out to be the loveable Krauss, voiced by Seth
McFarlane) and coming out of the closet to a world that still sees them
as a group of freaks, despite all of the good they’ve done. Combine all
that with the astounding vision of Guillermo Del Toro and you have a
movie that entertains on every single level and won’t leave you feeling
empty the next morning. He brings us tooth fairies that aren’t what we’d
expect, a Troll Market filled with amazing sights (I love the man with
the castle on his head!), a plant elemental that is both destructive and
heartbreaking, and a mesmerizing prelude told with puppets. The movie is
also blessed with a good dose of Del Toro’s wonderful humor, including a
great musical moment featuring the best use of a Barry Manilow song
since Serial Mom or television’s “Angel.”
I’m sorry; I gave Iron Man a try and while I adored
Robert Downey Jr. in the lead, that was pretty much all I took away from
it. I prefer to spend time in Del Toro’s unique world, populated as it
is with the freaks and the outsiders and Ron Perlman’s wildly
charismatic, ever-so-much-more interesting Hellboy.
I’ve long had a crush on France. In high school I took two
years of French. Sadly, that’s mostly gone now, except for the always
necessary, “Parlez-vous Anglais?”and “Où est la plage?” (So I’m golden
if I need to find the beach or more importantly—and far more
likely—someone who speaks English.) Whatever else I learned in those two
years has long been replaced by oddities like the lyrics to Billy Joel’s
“Only the Good Die Young” and the ability to conjure up random movie
trivia out of nowhere. However, my love for Ze French has not
faded and my love for their cinema has only grown stronger and stronger.
Two reasons in particular are Louis Garrel and Audrey Tautou, hence, my
recent double feature of Love Songs and Priceless.
I have been obsessed with seeing Love Songs for quite a
while now, knowing only that it had Louis Garrel (and Ludivine Sagnier)
and that he would be singing. Also that some of that singing was done
along with a cute guy in orange underwear. The film’s writer/director,
Christophe Honoré, also collaborated with Garrel on the great film
Dans Paris. Unfortunately, they also made Ma Mère together
and it was the sort of film one sees and wonders if it was solely made
to shock very uptight people, or even pretty liberal ones. However, I
focused on the fact that Dans Paris, a film about a pair of
brothers that co-starred another great French actor, Romain Duris, was
très très bon. It’s hard to talk about what Love Songs is
about because I feel like too much detail will take us into Spoilerville.
Suffice it to say that while the trailer suggests a film about a couple
in a ménage a trois with a young woman until a hot new boy becomes
involved, the fact is that the story is nothing like that.
Yes, there is a couple (Garrel and Sagnier) involved with a
third, but the hot new boy doesn’t show up until the second act, after
“Something Big” occurs. I’ll say a few things and then you must go watch
it: It is worth seeing, just don’t expect the romantic octagon promised
in the trailer. It’s a musical. Did I mention that? In the tradition of
Umbrellas of Cherbourg, our characters tend to go in and out of
song. Really good songs, too, by musician Alex Beaupain. (The soundtrack
is available and worth it, even if you’re not sure what they’re saying
because they never mention going to the beach.) Sagnier (of 8 Femmes
and Swimming Pool) and Chiara Mastroianni as her sister are both
fantastic and moving. Grégoire Leprince-Ringuet as the hot new guy in
orange underwear will absolutely melt your heart. However, as is usually
the case when he’s involved, it is Garrel who steals the show, from
moments of heartbreak to humor (and he could absolutely carry off a
silent movie with his whimsical expressions and physical humor).
Frankly, if you didn’t want to already, you’ll want to take him home and
take care of him. It may also help that he’s not having inappropriate
sex with family members this time. At least, not his own.
While Love Songs may feel like a new version of a New
Wave film, Priceless is a throwback to the glamorous days of
Grace Kelly or, of course, Audrey Hepburn. Slick and charming,
Priceless is the story of a beautiful woman (Audrey Tautou) who
lives in luxury by dating older, wealthy men. One night she seduces
young Jean (Gad Elmaleh), only to discover soon after that he isn’t a
wealthy man with a 5-star suite, but a hotel employee. She leaves for
the next town on the French Riviera and Jean follows, determined to be
with her, no matter how much money he spends. Which turns out to be all
the money he has. Stranded in another town, Jean runs into a lucky break
in the form of an older, wealthy woman who wants to keep him! As Jean
and Irène trump each other’s acquisitions (A watch! A scooter! A closet
full of clothes!), Irène starts to realize her feelings for Jean. It’s a
scrumptious romance, beautiful to look at and wonderfully acted by both
leads. Elmaleh in particular reminds me of Italian actor Roberto Benigni,
another great physical comedian with charm to spare. It’s impossible to
imagine anyone as lovely and classy as Tautou, despite the fact that
she’s pretty much playing a prostitute. Viva la France!
The artists at Pixar have managed, once again, to amaze the
world with their latest (and possibly best) feature film, Wall•E.
Our hero, a lone robot left behind to clean up the mess that humanity
left on Earth while the remaining humans have become gelatinous blobs on
a space cruise that never ends. We’ve got robots to tend to our every
need, instant gratification—we don’t even have to look away from our
ever-present TV screens to have a conversation with the person on the
floating chair next to us. But then Wall•E encounters EVE, who is
scouting the planet for signs of vegetation. It is love at first sight
and this bit of humanity will end up waking the humans out of their
slumber. One revelation on the film’s DVD is that writer/director Andrew
Stanton never intended for the film to be seen as a political statement.
He just wanted to tell a love story. Along with the Pixar team, he has
managed to do both, whether he intended to or not. He’s also made one of
the best films of the year, a computer animated film set 800 years in
the future that pays homage to the silent film comedians of the 1920s,
Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton.
On DVD the film is just as good as you remember it, better
even, with the addition of a new short film, Burn•E, which tells
the story of a little robot who wasn’t exactly thrilled when his life
was touched by Wall•E. Also included is the pre-film short, Presto,
which for my money is the most perfect thing Pixar has ever done. Amid
the deleted scenes, Stanton’s commentary and some games for the kids,
the 3-disc edition’s highlight is a feature-length documentary, The
Pixar Story. It’s an interesting look at the history of a group of
people who have taken animation (and cinema) to a whole new world.
The Brooklyn Gang return with Teeth and wonder, does dental
insurance cover a case of vagina dentate?
Quirky music.
“She ain’t my sister.” Hillbilly children fight in a tiny plastic pool
in their front yard while their parents drink beer. He then maneuvers
himself only to end up saying “Now show me yours.”
The little boy’s finger gets cut. We all assume that the little girl’s
vagina bit him. This is all kinds of creepy.
Chris: No, now it’s tasted human blood. It wants
nothing else.
Opening Credits.
A creepy girl is holding a celibacy seminar and telling a bunch of
way-too-young little kids to keep their gifts wrapped. In the middle of
the seminar she casts a longing glance at some guy who is a weird mix of
a Jonas brother and Giovanni Ribisi. The Jonas brother thing being
especially appropriate since they’re all pledging to never have sex. The
creepy girl, who we’ve decided looks like a younger, uglier, creepier
Heather Graham, heads home. Her home is directly in front of a nuclear
power plant.
Richard: (sarcastically) I wonder if that
will have any bearing on the story.
Creepy girl talks to her mom who is dying of something or another. They
live in front of a power plant so it’s not all that surprising. During
the heartfelt talk metal music suddenly starts blaring and we all
remember that there was another kid in the little pool at the beginning.
Richard: Cut to her brother and he has no fingers
left.
Chris is unable to believe that the creepy chick who is all “rainbows
and unicorns and sex is evil” could be in the same family as the brother
who is a tattooed metal-head. The creepy chick literally skips into a
scene at one point and when she and her celibacy friends go to see a
movie they can’t find one that won’t infringe on their delicate
sensibilities so they watch a cartoon.
Then they all wander off into the woods together ‘cause that’s what
teenagers do when they don’t have sex.
The brother on the other hand is at home smoking, playing with his crazy
Rottweiler and fucking his prostitute looking girlfriend in the ass (I
guess having a vagina bite you at a young age can really warp you.) He
then tries to feed a dog biscuit to her.
The creepy girl and the Jonas brother are having a long, celibate talk
in the woods. She finds out that he’s not a real virgin just one of
those re-virgins in the eyes of god kind of thing and now she’ll
never look at him the same way. After the woods she comes home and is
seriously creeped out by a black and white movie of a giant scorpion
attacking a man. If her vagina looks anything like that then Jesus
Christ! God help the first man to go down on her.
Creepy girl goes to bed and starts masturbating to the thought of her
and the Jonas brother having post marital sex in her wedding dress. The
illusion is ruined when, as her hand slides into her panties, she sees
the scorpion face in her mind.
Next scene, all these celibate, evangelical kids are being snarky in
science class because evolution is lame.
Richard: How is having a vagina with teeth
beneficial? Overpopulation? Maybe it feeds her?
Creepy girl calls Jonas brother while they’re both in locker rooms. Lots
of bare male butts. They break up with each other so that they don’t act
on their impure thoughts.
Creepy girl talks to her brother about how she wishes they were closer
as family and he says that he’s been waiting to fuck her. Grossness all
around.
Creepy girl calls Jonas brother because nothing washes out the wrongness
of incest like biting off the penis of a Jonas brother. They swim in a
beautiful lake that’s probably toxic from the power plant and make out.
Chris: Oh no. God hates you now.
Richard: They’re going into the cave. Get it? (The
cave images abound in this not-so-subtle movie)
In the back of the cave is a little raised niche with sleeping bags.
Um…convenient. She wraps herself in the hobo blanket and Jonas comes out
to join her. Making out ensues.
Chris: This is a good place to stash his body once
she tears his penis off and he bleeds out.
Chris: You’re typing what I’m saying!
Chris: No, don’t type that, too.
She tries to stop because of the whole purity thing, even shouting
“purity” like it’s a safe word, but Jonas is all wound up. He shouts at
her that he hasn’t even jerked off since Easter. So romantic. He bangs
her head into a rock and while she’s out he takes the chance to start
with the sex. Of course, she freaks out and her vagina avenges her by
biting off his penis. Lots of screaming follows. Jonas dives back into
the lake sans penis. You’d think he’d have taken that with him.
Richard: She got back to school the next day and
all of the boys were calling him Stumpy.
Richard: She’s not walking so sprightly anymore.
Chris: Nice way to mock a rape victim, Richard.
Is nothing sacred to the Brooklyn Gang?
As she walks in her mom asks her if she’s eaten and she says she’s full.
Richard: “I ate. I couldn’t have another bite.”
Creepy girl starts tearing down all of the rainbows and unicorns from
her walls. Innocence is dead.
Richard: So much for the wedding.
Jeanne: So now she’s going to start listening to
metal and fuck her brother? But only anal.
Richard: Who knows what she’s got down there.
Creepy girl heads to an abstinence rally. She seems less than psyched to
be speaking. She sits in front of the mike and rambles about Adam and
there being something inside of her.
Jeanne: It’s like a Fiona Apple concert.
After the celibacy is fun rally, creepy girl gets a ride home
with some guy in an army jacket that’s been eyeballing her. When he
stops at her house he hands her his card and asks her out on a date. She
tells him that’s funny and he seems super offended by that.
Jeanne: My vagina’s just not all that into you.
After driving about a block he turns around and comes back to give her a
piece of his mind. Instead, her brother answers the door and decks the
kid.
Creepy girl swims out to the little niche in the lake again. I guess she
really likes to relive bad memories. As she gets into the cave she looks
up and the first thing she sees is Jonas brother’s penis being eaten by
crabs.
Richard: Oh my god. Tobey has crabs. Literally.
Creepy girl leaves the lake and the partially
eaten penis. She takes off her purity ring and throws it off the cliff.
So sad.
Richard: One ring to rule them all.
When she gets home she looks up genital mutations online and reads about
vagina dentate.
Chris: Now she’s writing fan fiction about it.
Richard: Twilight fan fiction
She finally gets a good idea and goes to a freaking doctor. She uses a
false name because gyno’s are probably evil to evangelicals.
Richard: You should warn this guy before he goes
in there. That he should use utensils or something.
The doctor starts like fisting her or something. He’s totally unethical.
He says something like, “let’s check your flexibility” and sticks an
ungloved hand all the way in her. This is not gyno protocol. Of course
she freaks out and her vagina bites off four of his fingers. He starts
screaming, “Vagina dentate! It’s real!”
Chris: “They talk about it at all of the
conferences but I never believed it until now.”
Somehow she walked out of the doctor’s office without anyone stopping
her and on her way home she sees divers in the lake pulling out the body
of the Jonas brother. When she gets home she finds her mom on the floor
and calls 911. Worst week ever.
She goes home from the hospital but her house is filled with the sounds
of her brother screaming at his prostitute girlfriend. With no friends
she heads to the house of the army jacket guy. She immediately starts
crying and rambling about vagina dentate and how a hero has to conquer
it and somehow that guy doesn’t just hit her over the head and call the
cops.
The next scene and she’s in a bath. Chris and Richard wonder if this is
the scene where her vagina starts talking to her.
When she gets out of the bath, the army jacket guy and his awesome
mullet and black eye have put like 3000 candles around the room to make
it all romantic.
Richard: What part of vagina dentate didn’t he
get.
Jeanne: The dentate part, clearly.
So then she opens her eyes and the army jacket guy is naked and feeling
her up. She seems all cool with it. He pulls out a condom and starts
going to town but she tells him that they shouldn’t because they’ll get
him. It’s totally Pillowpants. And yet they totally have sex and his
penis is still on him.
Richard: And they lived happily ever after.
Jeanne: Until one day he tells her she looks fat
in her jeans and her vagina eats him.
The next morning before she heads to the police to confess that her
vagina killed a Jonas brother, Army jacket gets her to have a quickie.
During their romp he gets a call and she finds out that he’d made a bet
that he could bed her. Her vagina is angry and eats his penis. This
time, instead of dramatic depression she just looks annoyed and leaves
him there with his dick in his hand.
Cut to a scene from the operating room as army jacket’s penis is
reattached. The doctors joke that it almost doesn’t seem worth it. It’s
a penis joke. ‘Cause he has a small one.
The dad confronts the metalhead brother and they fight. The brother sics
his rot on the dad and after the fight the dad gets taken to the
hospital by the prostitute girlfriend. I guess she’s sick of eating dog
biscuits and getting fucked in the ass.
At the hospital the dad, creepy girl and prostitute girlfriend meet. The
girlfriend tells creepy girl that she and the brother heard the mom
screaming that night but that the brother said to ignore it. In her
revenge, creepy girl puts on some devil paint (a.k.a makeup) and goes to
seduce her brother into putting his penis into her vagina blender. He
tries to play the anal card but she gets him to fall for her trap.
Vagina dentate has hypnotic powers. The rottweiler is opposed to the
sexy goings on and tries to get out of its cage.
Chris: Dogs can sense vagina teeth.
There’s a flashback during the sex where he remembers that time when her
vagina bit his finger in the kiddie pool. In time with the memory, her
vagina bites his penis off. She stands, dramatically, next to the bed
afterward while he cries and stuff and starts looking for it. The music
swells and it falls from between her legs. The dog finally loosens the
latch on its cage and gets out. He tells the dog to get her but instead
it totally goes over and eats his penis. It spits out the tip though but
that probably won’t help him reattachment wise.
Creepy girl gets on her bike and rides away. Once her bike quits on her
she gets picked up by an old man who drives her to a rest stop and
starts making some fucking-gross-tongue-sticking-out lecherous faces.
She tries to get out but he keeps locking the door on her.
Chris: Just punch him in the face. He’s an old
man.
Instead she smiles crookedly because if that old dude has the Viagra to
get it up then her vagina will totally be eating his penis.
Kristin Chenoweth - A Lovely Way To
Spend Christmas
One of the highlights of the now-canceled television show
“Pushing Daisies” was getting to hear Kristin Chenoweth sing on a
near-weekly basis. After stealing the show in Broadway’s You’re a
Good Man, Charlie Brown, Chenoweth was labeled The Next Big Thing in
musical theatre. And so she was, going on to create the role of Glinda
in the smash hit Wicked. Since then she has focused mostly on
television and film, which is a shame, because above all I love
Chenoweth as a singer. Her debut album, Let Yourself Go, is a
perfect collection of standards and show tunes, giving her room to
display her astounding vocal talents. I’ve waited a long time for
another disc like it and her follow up album of Christian music with a
country tinge, As I Am, did not satisfy.
With rumors of a“Pushing Daisies” soundtrack on the
way, I had high hopes. Then, much to my surprise, I discovered that
Chenoweth had released an album of Christmas carols. I love Christmas
carols. I used to buy 4 or 5 Christmas albums every year, starting in
October. The combination of Kristin Chenoweth and Christmas thrilled me.
Upon listening to the disc, I can honestly say that I am not
disappointed. A Lovely Way to Spend Christmas indeed. Once again,
all of the facets of KC’s personality are allowed to shine. There is
comedy and solace, songs of worship and of winter, a little bit of
country and a little bit of swing. The songs are a combination of
traditional favorites and originals and, thankfully, no sign of anything
as horribly cheesy as “Grown Up Christmas List.” Perhaps with the
disappointing cancellation of “Pushing Daisies,” Chenoweth will return
to her roots and thrill us with her beautiful voice and charming
personality on Broadway.
Listening to a new album by one of
your favorite bands is hard work. Seriously. Listening to a new album by
[insert favorite artist here] for the first time is really daunting and
somewhat nerve wracking—you don’t want to be disappointed but more often
than not, you usually are on that first listen. Consequently, I’ve come
to understand that the only way to avoid said disappointment is by
playing that new album non-stop, repeatedly, for several hours. Trust
me, this works. By the end of the experiment you will know exactly where
you stand with both the band and their new work.
Case in point: I recently had about
six hours to kill on a bus ride from New York to D.C. and I took the
opportunity to play the new Killers album Day & Age for the
entire ride. Earlier this summer I saw the band on tour and they
performed several songs from the album, including “Joy Ride” and “Neon
Tiger,” so I had some idea of what to expect from Day & Age, and
that was mainly a harkening back to the days of Hot Fuss rather
than Sam’s Town. Meaning, more synthesizer and dance beats, less
storytelling and guitar riffs.
I wasn’t entirely wrong. Day & Age
is definitely filled with more dance tunes than anthemic rock ballads,
but it has anthems nonetheless. My favorite track right now is the
grandiose “The World We Live In”; the song completely envelops you
within its many layers of sound. And layered is definitely the best way
to describe this album. Day & Age is the next logical step for
The Killers: with Hot Fuss, they reminded everyone just how fun
the 80s (and synthesizers) were; with Sam’s Town they discovered
the art of jaw-dropping guitar-driven ballads and personal storytelling;
with Day & Age they fuse all that they’ve previously learned
while exploring the world of saxophones, calypso music, jazz and, of
course, dance.
“Human,” their first single off of the
album is the perfect example of the fun that there is to be had
here but it is merely a taste. “Spaceman” is pretty impossible to resist
dancing to and “Joy Ride,” with its Squeeze-esque saxophone solo, catchy
beats and Flowers’ Lou Reed-vocals, is equally as incredible. “Losing
Touch,” the first track off of the album, grabs you from the very
beginning of the kick-ass bass line (courtesy of Mark Stoermer), and
“Neon Tiger” seems poised to be the next big sing-along a la “All These
Things I’ve Done” at future concerts:
“I don't wanna be kept/I don't wanna
be caged/I don't wanna be damned/Oh hell/I don't wanna be broke/I don't
wanna be saved/I don't wanna be S.O.L./ Give me rolling hills so tonight
can be the night/that I send them up a thousand thrills/Mister, cut me
some slack/Cause I don't wanna go back/I want a new day and age./Come on
girls and boys/everyone make some noise!” (“Neon Tiger”)
Day & Age is not an album as accessible as Hot Fuss or as
immediately impressive as Sam’s Town—to put it plainly, it is a
grower, not a shower. I’ve probably listened to the album around 30 or
so times now and I have to say, each and every time I discover something
new—some new chorus that I had never really heard; a new Brandon Flowers
burst of screaming energy (which are such a treat!); a subtle tin drum
quietly banging in the background; or a new and impressive use of their
beloved synthesizer. With this new album, The Killers continue to prove
why they are truly a band worth listening to.
Although I’m less
than a decade removed from my teenage years, I willingly admit that I
remember very little of that time, and perhaps, I’ve come to conclude
recently, this striking lack of memory is based entirely on a
deep-seated desire not to. General impressions lead me to frame my
former self up as a highly-motivated, always-creative, somewhat socially
savage youth, and honestly, I’m completely comfortable with that not
entirely flattering image. It’s odd though that in working with
teenagers now on a daily basis I find myself so uncomfortable with many
of the notions they approach the table of life inquiry with:
“High school is
only a way to get to college,” says Wyatt, peering out at me from behind
a worksheet of Geometry problems.
“Education is
joyous. How can you---I mean, learning, it’s---I mean…” I can’t muster a
coherent argument against this rather solid thesis. Do kids really think
this way, and if they really do think this way, how in goodness’ name
can I be of any help as a tutor? This thought leads me to a discussion
of brother and sister pairing Joshua and Lucy Kim, a jot down the NPR
lane and our trio moments of reading philosophy.
Now I should
begin by saying that Joshua and Lucy are much like any other set of
sibling teenagers. They taunt one another, they push one another, they
use SAT vocabulary words to belittle one another, and oh, of course,
sometimes they do all these same uncharming activities while speaking
Korean, a language which I attempt to remind them on occasion I neither
speak nor, more importantly, understand. “At least if you’re going to
brutalize each other, do it in English so I can get some smidgeon of
enjoyment from the cacophony!” I think this. I never say it.
After a week of
two-hour daily sessions with these two, I was making a great, big, fat
attempt not to either punch a wall or break down in tears. I was
supposed to teach these two how to take a standardized test administered
to students applying to private schools, but rather it was I who was
being schooled in the methods of anger management. These kids were going
to make me hard and mean unless I acted both quickly and decisively.
And, that’s the point at which I threw them This American Life.
Ira Glass’ voice
is one so soothing to me, so entirely reliable that I find myself always
comforted by This American Life, even, that is, when the stories
are poignant, melancholy. I hoped, more than knew, this same effect
would strike the warring duo.
We sit in a
conference room removed from the other students. I tell the two to
listen, take notes. I’m going to ask them questions about details and
themes of the podcast later. I press play on my tiny stereo, and here
then comes Glass’ voice, already soothing away my anxieties. David
Wilcox’s story, entitled Thinking Inside the Box, retells the
loss of his mother and the impression this made on his mentally
handicapped sister. Well, actually, Wilcox says she’s retarded, which
makes Joshua laugh, and, I have to admit, in context, the term really is
funny. I laugh too. We’re liking this! Look we’re laughing together. No
arguments, no quickly spoken Korean—not that I have anything against the
language. In fact, I really love the sound of the language, that being
the only darned element to it I can follow. But, look! We’re enjoying—in
English.
Wilcox’s story is
funny at first and then progressively sad. He talks about how his sister
wasn’t expected to learn to walk, talk or bathe herself. He talks about
how his mother taught her how to do those things. He talks about a music
mix tape that his sister loves, how she listens to it every day, how
Carly Simon belts out a version of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” on said tape
that swat teams could use as a last resort. And, it’s with the same hope
for cherishment that Wilcox’s mother makes a tape of her own, a thought
left behind that her disabled daughter, a note of comfort. I won’t tell
you where this tape ends up, and, in fact, I think you can imagine just
from that statement where it does.
“This is sad,”
Joshua says. “It’s really sad.” And, he looks it too, but he’s thinking.
I can tell he’s thinking because his eyes seem faraway and strange and
brilliant all at the same time.
Joshua, Lucy and
I talk for a while about death, forgetting, letting people go. It’s a
conversation we’re having, a real one, and I’m as informed by it as they
are.
It’s strange;
with some kids you do this, you ask them to think, and they shut down on
you entirely. Not so, Joshua and Lucy. All of the sudden that constant
bickering turned into debate. What is the purpose of art? Why do we
communicate? Is there a certain moral harshness to the world? Joshua
always picks the harder side of the Lincoln-Douglas style set-ups, and
Lucy always wins. On either side though there’s such clarity of thought,
such a need to discover that it’s hard to say either has really lost the
argument.
At some point we
start reading John Stuart Mill, the famous English philosopher who
clarified many points of utilitarianism. We start reading Mohandas
Karamchand Gandhi, to which Joshua asks, “Wait, Mahatma Gandhi?”
“We’re reading
about peaceful protest, aren’t we?”
“Oh, I didn’t
realize.” This now he says rather sheepishly.
I’m just giving
him a hard time. The term “Mahatma” in Sanskrit means, “Great Soul,” and
through the years of his dedication to Indian independence, Gandhi’s
name became synonymous with that honorary term, much in the same way the
Gujarati term “Bapu”, meaning “Father,” would praise the great thinker
as well.
What astonishes
me most now is not only that Joshua and Lucy are fully capable of
answering deep philosophical questions but that each listens to me,
readily takes my instruction and advice and then asks for more of it.
They still bicker and complain every now and again, but I can check it.
I can put my foot down and say, “You’re being disrespectful to one
another, and I’d much rather you not do it in front of me.” I can be
that taskmaster because, as Joshua says:
“I like doing
this. I feel like I’m really thinking afterward.”
For a teacher,
and more importantly, for any writer or philosopher, what greater
compliment is there than that?
As pitched to the
very fine editors of this magazine, the following column was meant to
address the situation of highly-educated twentysomethings in states of
gross uncertainty and poverty who struggle with a general inability to
get where they are going although they’ve ambition and direction in
ample supply. While the column will still reflect some of this original
intent, the vast bulk of the discoveries here will be drawn from a much
less narcissistic well, and in fact, it’s this same well that will check
any inkling of narcissism altogether. With this said, our story here
begins in the hyper-personal, but as is the tendency of hyper-personal
stories, it will blatantly refuse to remain that way, will demand that
its significance be magnified beyond the individual, and for lack of a
better word, will request a space in the language of the universal.
Part One: People Die
But a few months
ago now, my cancer-riddled grandfather asked his doctor for an
expiration date. The concept of asking such a question, one that forces
me to imagine myself examining my grandfather for a day and month,
printed on his ass say, in the same manner I would an egg carton, seems
to me absurd. Perhaps I simply have enough faith in nature and God and
existence to feel somewhat immune to inquiry about mortality. I’m also
young, as my father and his best friend like to point out. But, asking
for a death date? It’s dire. Not only am I uncomfortable with the whole
idea of the question, I’m more so with the result, this rapid
resignation of a man who for all the years of his life had worked so
tirelessly that he exhausted everyone else around him with his manic
hustle and bustle. My grandfather is dying, but I’m not saddened by the
reality that he’s dying. I’m saddened that he’s not accepted it or
embraced it but rather has bowed down to it, is allowing himself to be
beaten by it. This process of passage is of no joy for him, and it’s
consequently of no joy to any of my mother’s family.
Taking advantage
of every last moment with my now pill-enslaved, always-lethargic but
ever-inspiring, ever-adoring, ever-ingenious grandfather, my parents
called to say several weeks ago that they’d see me next for winter
holidays. This was the logic through which I found myself scheduled for
a loner day on Thanksgiving itself.
Now, the notion
of aloneness has never coincided in my mind with loneliness. I often
find myself most gratified, most engaged and most enamored with life
when I’m entirely left to my own slightly eccentric, sometimes brilliant
devices. The fact that I’d see my parents a mere three weeks after
Thanksgiving holiday seemed to me no more than delayed gratification, a
present all that much more appreciated because it took that much longer
to earn. This viewpoint, however, is not popular with the masses.
“I wish you were
here.” This is my mother on the phone a few days before the holiday.
“Every mother wishes her child were around on Thanksgiving.”
And my
grandmother: “I would have purchased you a plane ticket a few weeks ago.
Can’t you just do that now? Get on a plane right now and fly down here?”
To which I very evenly, now in earnest sadness answered—--“I don’t
really have the money to do that, Mom-Mom. I’m a bit broke. Actually,
I’m really broke. Plus I work six days a week, so I can’t really…”
Then the
inevitable inquiries from co-workers: “So, what are you doing? Oh, you
don’t have family here? Oh, well. That’s a shame. I mean, that’s a
shame. Really, no one should be alone on Thanksgiving.”
Sketched in my
own reflections, Thanksgiving alone seemed fabulous, a day of book
reading, film watching, guitar practicing, dog walking, cat cuddling,
meal cooking goodness. As judged by the plethora of others, however, my
perfect little day appeared no better than a pity case. It’s unlikely I
would have taken the mass critique to heart, however, had it not been
for an invitation from my apartment building’s neighbor, the
alternatingly affable and irritable bike shop owner Bob.
Sometime in the
middle of Atlanta’s three-week gas crisis a few months back, I said to
myself, “Screw this. I won’t be a slave to a gas company. I’m flying
solo, man.” Not too long later, I picked out my newly-built Masi
Cylcocross from this neighboring bike shop, and for the most part, I’ve
failed to look back in terms of work commuting. As an ancillary benefit
as well, since the purchase, Bob has had a bit of a soft spot for me,
probably based on the fact that he sees me ride almost every day, almost
everywhere. And, it’s this soft spot that drove him to stop me, as I
happened to walk by the shop on Tuesday, with a now common question:
“What are you
doing for the holiday?”
“Oh,” I said,
briefly reconsidering my answer, “hanging out.”
“With family?”
“They’re in
Florida. My grandfather is—Well, he’s not really in shape to visit right
now.”
“You can’t be
alone on Thanksgiving. Nice people should never be alone on
Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, no, I can.
I’m really excited actually, it’ll be---.”
“My son, his wife
and kids are coming into town. Spend it with us. Would you spend it with
us?”
“I—“ Lately, I’ve
made myself a promise. It’s this—that I will not chicken out of chances,
that I will not fail to engage with other human beings, that I will take
people at their promises. “Okay, thanks, I’d love that.”
Part Two: A Party
I pull up to the
house in East Atlanta on my Masi. The ride was just more than eight
miles, and for the most part, the whole of it was flat. An easy ride,
comfortable, no other cars on the road, even the normally busy ones.
Everyone is inside, cooking turkey, baking pumpkin pies, enjoying one
another’s company. It’s quiet, lovely.
Dogs Abel and
Gypsy Rose bark in welcome at the gate. “They’re harmless,” says an
attractive woman just a few years old than I. She’s the definition of a
Georgia peach—put together, sturdy with a kindness that belies the
hardiness of her personality. This, I shortly after am made aware, is
Bob’s daughter-in-law Melissa. In the next few minutes I’ll meet a host
of folks, only some of whom at first I remember to make a mental note
of. Over the course of the few hours I’m in this company, I’ll untangle
the entire web of relationships.
Here’s how the
history goes: Melissa is married to Cain; Cain, since age four, has
lived with his mother Joy, Bob’s wife; Cain’s bio-dad, although he also
considers Bob a real dad, is Joe, a Vietnam vet who insists on being
called Papa Joe; now, Melissa and Cain have two young sons, both of whom
are watching cartoons when I arrive, and Melissa also has a brother
Jaime, who’s with his fiance Candice and their four children—although
Jaime tells me, only the youngest is his in blood, although the other
three are his in spirit; one of the three oldest is autistic, which
Jaime tells me, is apparent up when you talk to him but isn’t apparent,
especially when he’s doing puzzles because---
“He’ll take a
500-piece puzzle, the ones with the really small pieces, and he’ll put
that together in two hours. And, he’s amazing with Erector Sets…”
Then there are
Rachel and Solomon, both of whom are Jaime’s childhood friends; Kimmy,
the mother of Solomon’s oldest three children; Brandon, Kimmy’s new
beau; a pretty woman whose name I never learn but who I find out is the
mother of Solomon’s youngest son; and the all-too-many children at this
point to both name or count. Joy herself, the loving matriarch and
holiday prep guru, is out of town visiting family in Florida, and so
with the exception of Bob and Joe, all of these listed house welcomers
are, at the most, just four years older than am I.
There’s a certain
something that happens to the mind when it knows it is in an entirely
new environment, a certain hyper-awareness it has of nuances and
gestures, of needing to act correctly in order to fit in. And, there’s
also a certain point at which the mind realizes that even when noting
these details that this intended personality adjustment for social
correctness will make itself impossible to mold.
Within minutes of
stepping into this family’s circle, I knew I could be, and was, in fact,
expected to be, no one but myself. And, quite honestly, I couldn’t
possibly boast enough hubris to assume I’d truly fit in at all. Cain at
one point, Bob tells me, was imprisoned; his brother even now is in a
state penitentiary. Candice had her oldest boy at age sixteen; there’s a
history for some there at the party of addiction, a history for others
of trouble they refuse to speak of in mixed company, a history of depth
that I’ve never explored, and likely, that I never will. These are Bush
and Miller, two Newport pack a day folks; these are the electricians,
plumbers, housewives and small business owners that politicians easily
neglect; these are the good hearts who remember to thank the military
before dinner, the salt of the earth souls who define so much of what
America has been, is now and will continue to be, Amen. And, somehow
strangely, despite the very acute differences between my particular
coming-of-age and those of the twentysomethings around me, I feel
perfectly at home here, completely happy and absolutely grateful for the
extended hand that holds this moment out to share with me.
The essential
conundrum of my every day existence lies in waxing philosophical about
the relationship between my checkbook and my personal worth. Am I
really, in fact, only the value of this paltry two-week barrier that
separates me from starvation, homelessness and credit card collectors?
Now, mostly I enjoy my job, and I’m fortunate, more than fortunate with
my boss and co-workers. But, a number is a number is a number, to
channel some Gertrude Stein, and that three-digit number is horrifying.
Am I, likewise, as horrifying as that number?
This is the point
at which the narcissism halts. It halts because here I am in the
presence of twentysomethings who are caring for not only themselves and
their own young children but young children who suffer severe medical
needs.
“Angelo got his
first grand mal seizure at 13 months,” Jaime says as he watches the
progress of a backyard basketball game, his teenage son, the one he
tells me is autistic, dunking the beanbag ball into the tiny hoop. “It
was lucky he survived it. I can’t imagine that. I just saw him go
through a bad one recently, and it tore me up. He’s with a new doctor
now, the best one in Atlanta for kids with autism. We were on the
waiting list for two months, but we waited because I just couldn’t stand
it anymore. The other doctors, they don’t know about autism yet, so they
have these kids taking drug after drug. They treated my son like an
experiment. He was taking fourteen pills a day, seven in the morning,
seven at night.”
“It’s been an
issue for at least the last ten years,” I say, trying in my
unintentionally urban haute bourgeois way to sound informed. “I’ve heard
it said that it’s from all the vaccinations.”
“Yeah, Angelo got
those first vaccinations just before he was 13 months, and right after
that, he had the grand mal.”
I’m humbled by
this story, but I’m not stricken by it. Angelo is such an active,
well-mannered kid that I can’t conjure any feelings for him other than
relief that he’s so strong-willed and a deep-seated pride for humanity
that both Jaime and Candice are such good parents. It’s a story that
makes me want Angelo’s suffering to stop, but it’s also a story that
proves to me that humanity is basically good, loving and full of grace.
No, it’s Melissa’s story that shocks me silent and quite frankly, just
makes me sad and mad at the same time.
“Over the summer,
Cain and I got pregnant, and I just knew it was my baby girl,” she says.
“But, we found out it was ectopic pregnancy; the egg developed in one of
the Fallopian tubes, and the tube bursted. Just bursted.
“I went to the
doctor, and I was vomiting and vomiting. He said he didn’t know what it
was, nothing showed up on his scans. He wanted to send me home, but, I
just knew, I knew something was wrong, and I told Cain to rush me to the
emergency room.
“When they ran
the laparoscopy--the tube they run through your belly button--they could
see that I was bleeding internally. The doctor said that if I’d have
gone home, I would have lasted two hours. Then, after the surgery, we
found out my other Fallopian tube was infected, and so I’m not going to
have that baby girl now. I’ve just got the two boys.
“I’m trying to
convince Jaime and Candice to do that for me. I need a little niece,”
Melissa says, laughing now, calling Jaime over to her with a wave of her
hand. “I told them that even if they didn’t want to raise her, I’d raise
her.” It’s half-joke, half-desperation. I’m not sure what to say. I
don’t think there’s anything I can say.
I do note later
that when Soloman’s little girls arrive, Melissa rushes over to them,
wine glass balanced perfectly in her hand, and wraps her arms around
each in a warm hug. I imagine that warmth comes at the price, buried
somewhere deep beneath the joy, of immense sorrow.
I should mention
Rachel, how her husband is currently threatening to gain full custody of
their two sons during a fairly bitter divorce, and for the first time at
this party I hear a glimmer of my mother in another. “My boys are with
their dad now, and looking out at all these kids, it just makes me miss
them more.
“He says I’m not
a good mother, but he was a real ass. Always said abusive things. I
tried to make it work because we had the two boys together, but it just
wasn’t meant to be with us.”
I should mention
Papa Joe, how in the course of a year in Vietnam, his planes were shot
down seven times and that of those seven, two of them were crashes. “I’m
not a smart man, schoolwise,” he says, “but, when I got back, they made
me a teacher. Me-- a teacher. I thought, “Well what the hell is this? I
don’t want to do this shit.” A very funny man, his face a textured map
of hardship and joy. I wanted to take a picture of him. He’s got the
type of face publishers put in those beautiful, glossy photo journals.
I should mention
how Kimmy’s the type of woman from a good Southern novel, the spit image
of a Hustle & Flow Taryn Manning; she has that same outward
dullness, that same sweetness of spirit that gets so often held up in
literature and film as being of the very greatest of virtues. The
reality, however, of meeting these saint-like simples is more than a bit
disconcerting. It’s so much easier to reflect on people who have these
natures as figments of an overactive, moral imagination.
I should mention,
perhaps, a million other details, but in truth I think the point is well
made already. Of the twentysomething dilemmas that could possibly be
explored, which could be of less consequence, less tangible value than
that of a somewhat highly-educated, ambitious although poverty-stricken,
directed although uncertain quarter-life disaster? What life studied
could be more almost laughable in the grand scope of human conundrum?
Now, this is not to say that every person’s story shouldn’t be told.
This is not to say specifically that my story is of little value; it’s
just to say that this new perspective pinpoints clearly that my story
isn’t the only one, and moreover, it’s not even a predominant one.
My life is a
niche. I don’t necessarily think of it as such from day to day, if only
because my niche is filled in so nicely with my friends, who are
likewise in a similar, if not simply the same, niche. My environment
seems enormous to me that is until I step out of it and realize, much as
does Plato’s The Republic innocent stepping out from his cave,
that, in fact, my reality is merely the shadow of an illusion. I’m of so
much consequence and so little consequence at the same time. And, oddly,
that’s liberating. It’s a joy for me that I don’t have to write a column
solely on the topic of twentysomethings and education and poverty and
ambition and getting nowhere fast. It’s a joy that for a few hours at
least I can step outside myself enough to know that I’m not the only one
out there just trying to make it through a day unscathed. And, that,
knowledge, well that, I can truly be thankful for.
Jennifer Lynn
Connelly was born on December 12th, 1970 in the Catskill
Mountains of New York. She is the daughter of Gerard Connelly, a
clothing manufacturer, and Eileen Connelly, an antiques dealer. Connelly
grew up in the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn just across
from the famed Brooklyn Bridge. When she was ten years old, her parents
took her to a modeling audition. This was the beginning of a short-lived
modeling career that featured her in newspaper ads, magazines and T.V.
commercials. These modeling opportunities opened the door for her to
start pursuing movie auditions and launch a career in acting that has
spanned over twenty five years and is still going strong. Most of you
know Jennifer Connelly from Career Opportunities or that
famous-yet-creepy David Bowie movie Labyrinth. Unfortunately, I
can’t really talk about all of her twenty nine feature films for this
spotlight, so I have decided to talk about those films that best
represent the diversity of roles in her career and also demonstrate her
sheer talent as an actress. Throughout her career Connelly has been able
to jump from genre to genre in a seamless fashion. From sci-fi to
fantasy, comedy to horror, drama to adventure, romance to suspense,
Connelly has done it all and each and every role stands out from the
last. She is truly one of the most influential actresses of my
generation.
Her first film
role was as young Deborah Gelly in Sergio Leone's 1984 gangster epic,
Once Upon a Time in America. In the film Connelly plays a sweet and
innocent Jewish girl with ambitions of becoming a ballerina. Even at
such a young age Jennifer Connelly has the ability to capture the
audience with a look, a smile and the bewitching spell that she holds
over the young David 'Noodles' Aaronson’s played by Scott Tiler. She is
the angel amidst the turmoil, violence and tragedy of the film. (As some
of you may know I’m not a fan of the gangster genre but Sergio Leone’s
classic is truly the exception to the rule. Recently I saw The Hot
Spot for the first time and let me just say that I was hooked.) At
first glance this film might seem like something that should be playing
on the Lifetime Network. But don’t be fooled—this little gem is worth
watching, especially for Jennifer Connelly and her Lolita-esque
performance. Even though the film revolves around Don Johnson and
Virginia Madsen’s characters, Connelly ads an extra bit of mystery and
sexual tension to an otherwise predictable storyline.
I have always
considered Jennifer Connelly to be the thinking man’s dream girl.
Probably because she’s a brunette that doesn’t shy away from doing
sci-fi or maybe it was because her character was married to John Nash in
A Beautiful Mind. I still remember the first time I saw Jennifer
Connelly on the big screen; it was in the action adventure film The
Rocketeer. She played the voluptuous and sexy Jenny Blake. (Did I
mention she was voluptuous and sexy?) This was my introduction to the
beautiful brunette. Even though her role in The Rocketeer did not
challenge or highlight her acting skills, Connelly made quite an
impression on this young man. It wasn’t until I saw
Dark Cityhowever that I
realized how much Jennifer Connelly had to offer as an actress. Even
though she had done several films since The Hot Spot and The
Rocketeer, it was this film that stood out from the rest. To this
day Dark City remains my favorite Jennifer Connelly film. Maybe
it’s because Dark City is one of the great sci-fi classics of our
time and she’s great in it, or maybe it’s because she made you want to
be Rufus Sewell so bad that you didn’t care if you had to spend an
eternity in the dark as long as you had her to sing you to sleep every
night. Regardless of the reasons, Jennifer Connelly uses everything she
learned in her previous roles to lure you into a world where what seems
real might just be a lost memory.
Connelly’s next
three films Waking the Dead, Requiem for a Dream and
Pollock are all serious dramatic roles. Requiem for a Dream
stands out from the three and has got to be the toughest role of her
career. In the film she plays Marion Silver, the cocaine crazed
girlfriend of Jared Leto’s character, Harry Goldfarb. Requiem for a
Dream, much like Trainspotting and Leaving Las Vegas,
is a realistic take into the world of drugs and addiction. Even though
Ellen Burstyn steals the show it’s Jennifer Connelly that shocks you
with her performance. Her desperation and willingness to do whatever it
takes to get high leaves you feeling dirty, guilty and numb all at the
same time. This movie is not for the faint of heart but it’s worth
watching just to see how much Jennifer Connelly has grown as an actress.
A Beautiful Mind
won Connelly her only Oscar for Best Actress in a Supporting Role. The
film is the story of John Nash, a mathematical genius that received the
Nobel Prize late in life after overcoming obstacles with his mental
health. In the film Connelly plays a crucial supporting role that not
only helps to carry the film but also gives us insight into the
importance of Alicia Nash in the life and work of John Nash. There is no
doubt in my mind that without her performance the film might not have
been the best picture that year.
In December of
2003 House of Sand and Fog was released. The film stars Jennifer
Connelly as Kathy Lazaro and Ben Kingsley as Behrani. This is another
hard film to watch as it shows us tragedy and humanity in a way easy for
us to understand. Connelly’s character is a severely depressed
recovering alcoholic that has just lost the house she inherited because
of back taxes on a non-existent business. She is evicted and the house
is put up for sale, which is where the new owner, Colonel Behrani, comes
into the picture. He bought Kathy’s house in an auction and hopes that
the purchase will improve his family's future prospects in the U.S. What
follows is a fight for the property that lasts the length of the film.
Both Jennifer Connelly and Ben Kingsley give unforgettable performances,
and once again Connelly is able to tap into a desperation and madness
that makes this film a must see.
Dark Water
is the American remake of the Japanese horror film Honogurai mizu no
soko kara. Even though the film does not seem like much of an acting
challenge for Jennifer Connelly, I still enjoy her performance in the
film. She manages to keep me in suspense even during those scenes that
seem a little hard to believe. My favorite thing about Dark Water
is the mood created by the Roosevelt Island locations, but Connelly
comes a close second.
Little Children
is another brilliant film in with Connelly plays an important supporting
role. The leads are played by Kate Winslet and Patrick Wilson. Each is
incredible in their role but it’s thanks to the character that Connelly
plays and her dominating presence in their lives that the movie works.
She becomes the guilt in both the viewer and the protagonists. You feel
sorry for her but at the same time you kind of understand why Patrick
Wilson’s character is looking for love in the arms of another. Little
Children is another great example of the quality roles that Jennifer
Connelly picks. She might not always be the lead but she is always well
aware of how great the story is.
Blood Diamond
is
definitely in keeping with this. The film stars Jennifer Connelly as Maddy Bowen, an idealistic American journalist that gets caught up in a
civil war in 1990's Sierra Leone. Connelly plays a supporting role and
the love interest to mercenary smuggler Danny Archer, played by Leonardo
DiCaprio (Djimon Hounsou also stars in the film; he is incredible in the
role of Solomon Vandy). The three of them must try to reunite Vandy’s
family; after they were ripped apart by the civil war and the illegal
diamond trade. Although DiCaprio and Hounsou take up most of the screen
time, Connelly manages to create a character that reflects the sense of
urgency and the desperate need to help a struggling people. She becomes
the buffer between greed and compassion in the film.
With a film
career that would make even the Hollywood gods jealous, Jennifer
Connelly has proven to all of us that she is more than just another
pretty face. She has become a force in the acting world, choosing roles
that challenge both her acting ability as well as the direction of her
career. She is an actress that has never been afraid to tackle a
demanding or controversial role. She will continue to test the waters
and expand our horizons with her talent and ability. On a personal note,
I’m glad to see that Connelly is doing sci-fi again; I can’t wait for
the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still. She can also be seen
later next year in the independent drama Creation alongside her
husband Paul Bettany, and opposite Drew Barrymore in He's Just Not
That Into You.
