I went long on this review and I went into some of my obsessions: performance, masks, stardom, personality, “playing yourself,” and what I call Persona Acting. Manifesto – which is not like anything else – where Cate Blanchett plays 13 different roles, each one spouting different manifestos from history – seems to require it.
Either way, you gotta see this damn thing.
I just re-watched Fire Walk With Me and I continue to feel that it’s a bizarre and messy masterpiece of suggestion, mystery, and surrealism. It answers some questions, maybe too neatly. Because I always felt it was obvious what was REALLY going on throughout Twin Peaks entire. Maybe not the WHOLE thing, but the inciting events … to me, they’re right there, plain as day. But besides that, Fire Walk With Me is suffused with such a feeling of emotional violence and horror – and Sheryl Lee is so damn good, she goes so far into the role – Laura Palmer, this girl who was an object, a mystery, a puzzle, undeniably a dead blonde girl, projected upon, acted upon – throughout the series – that it’s unforgettable what happens to her, what she went through.
I can’t believe this Twin Peaks thing is really happening. My boyfriend and I (at the time) watched the whole series, devoted to it week after week, from our apartment in the St. Airy neighborhood of Philadelphia. It was one of the few ways we connected. Our whole week was organized around Twin Peaks night. And here it is again, decades and lifetimes later. I’m OLD, FATHER WILLIAM.
Now’s a good time to link, again, to Kim Morgan’s essay on the unforgettable music composed for the series: Beyond the Beyond.
An oldie but … a goodie? How I used to write here on a regular basis. In a way, the night described below was the impetus for starting this here blog. This happened in April. I started the blog in October.
He invited me to his birthday party. We met at a party the year before. Insane sparks flew. I then ran into him once by accident, on September 9, 2001 (take note of the date) but that was it. We emailed one another from time to time. Nothing serious. I shouldn’t have been corresponding with him. I didn’t know I was courting danger. The birthday party invite came out of left field.
The party was at Bellevue, a hole-in-the-wall bar on 9th Avenue hovering in the grime-encrusted shadow of Port Authority Bus Terminal. Bellevue is no longer there. It was a sad moment when it closed. A new bar is there called “Blue Ruin” (calling to mind Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), but I can’t bring myself to go there. It won’t be Bellevue. Bellevue was a tarpit of insanity similar to the other Bellevue. The clientele was a hodge-podge of bikers, Goth chicks, drag queens and poets. One of the bizarre charms of Bellevue was it showed porn on the television above the bar, straight porn, Boogie Nights era movies-on-film-stock porn, starring bulky Tom Selleck look-alikes and girls with flippy Farrah Fawcett hair. The best part was everyone in Bellevue was blatantly “over” the porn. Nobody even looked at it, it just flickered above the action, a subliminal message that kept the alcohol flowing and the atmosphere one of ribald hilarity.
I went to the party solo. My sister was going to accompany me but something came up at the last minute. Once she canceled, I considered not going myself. I am not good solo. Especially not then, when the loneliness was making me neurotic. Tormented by what Tennessee Williams called “the blue devils.” I hid the loneliness even to myself. It felt like too big a monster to face. That night, getting ready to go to the party, I found myself in a state of almost unbearable suspended animation. I used to be comfortable with being visible, with assuming a persona for a night out. Those days were gone. It took me a couple of hours to psych myself up into a public mindset. I wore fishnets, a tight black skirt, chunky platform sandals. I would be walking into that party by myself. I needed to adopt another personality, another kind of girl in order to handle it.
I took a bus into the city and called my sister from a payphone outside Bellevue. She wasn’t home but I babbled into her answering machine about my fears, my hopes, my dreams, and my outfit. Then I hung up and strolled inside, head held high and defiant against my own anxiety.
I saw him immediately. He was at the end of the bar surrounded by a huge rowdy group of friends. To walk over there nonchalantly was unthinkable, and I considered turning around and walking right back out. My panic disoriented me. I was not stalking him. My presence would not be an unwelcome surprise. I was invited. By him. But I felt pathetic, needy, all those old feelings from high school dances, wanting to ask some boy in a toga to dance but terrified he would scoff at the mere request. So I went up to the bar, ordered a drink, and engaged in conversation with the bartender, pretending I was not, in actuality, a little lost lamb.
As my beer slid across the bar, I caught his eye. Like lightning, up he got, his intention and emotion tangible in his movements and gestures, and then he was at my side, engulfing me in a hug. It was electrifying, the freedom with which he expressed his joy that I was actually there. I lack such freedom myself. What would have happened if I bounced into that bar and charged over to him as he charged over to me? I was even wearing a leather biker’s jacket that night, a deliberate choice. Armor.
He barely seemed to notice my armor and hugged me roughly, saying over and over into my ear, “I’m so glad you came!”
“Happy birthday,” I managed to get out, even though my face was squashed into his shoulder.
He started sniffing my neck like a gorilla. “God. You smell so good.”
I have thought about this night a lot in the years following, trying to discover the nugget at the bottom of the sieve, the reason. Not why it happened, but why I retained it. One of the reasons why it remains so vivid is because of how bad things got afterwards. I think of the spring and summer following the Bellevue night as “the bad time” and although there have been a couple of dark seasons in my life, none were as bad as that one. There was no end to it. It was not sadness, it was a flatline interrupted by jagged-edged moments of terrible anxiety and loss, which usually came over me at 3 a.m. His birthday party was not world-shaking event, but it awakened something terrible and joyous in me. I couldn’t get back to normal.
There was a giant struggle going on in my spirit during “the bad time”. You can’t be bitter in just one or two areas of your life. Bitterness spills over, staining everything. I didn’t want to be one of those bitter-in-general people, but the more I tried to contain it in a holding pen, the more unmanageable it got. The struggle on the opposite side was just as persistent. I wanted to remember what happened that night, even with the drunken blurriness around it, I wanted to remember what he said to me with openness and receptivity, not cynicism. It seemed vitally important. It is no small thing to realize you have been seen and loved. If I turned my back on the night and wrote it off as a drunken debauch, I would also be writing off the best part of me.
In a funny way, I got exactly what I wanted that night at Bellevue. It’s a difficult thought and a part of me even now resists it. Bellevue was a catalyst, a turning point, a moment where I actually got to choose afterwards who I would be in reaction to it. It seemed very important I choose rightly. It was a spiritual crisis.
We stood with each for a while, enraptured, shouting at each other excitedly. He kept grabbing me, kissing the top of my head, saying, in a refrain, “So glad you came.” He dragged me over to his crowd of friends, many of whom I already knew from the brief manic season when our circles intersected. There was the painter, and the ex-Mormon who would soon to be on his way to Iraq (and eventually publish a book about his experiences). There was a crazy chunk-ball of a guy who worked on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and seemed to be a legitimate vampire (he told me once he had not seen the actual light of day in two years). He had more money than he knew what to do with. He was 25 years old. He ate McDonalds three times a day. I will always have a fondness in my heart for that crowd, all interesting smart people, artists and lawyers and teachers and soldiers. Everyone remembered me and hailed my presence. I was back in the fold.
Then, with visible weirdness on his part, the birthday boy introduced me to his girlfriend. I am an old pro at immediately lowering my expectations on the spot, so the hug he gave me and the gorilla-sniffing behavior was put into a tiny box out of sight. Done.
I shook hands with the girlfriend. I felt the unfriendliness in her eagle eyes and I didn’t blame her at all. I saw how she must have been interpreting me. I was a witch in black leather, with big hair and dark lipstick, showing up at her boyfriend’s party to tag him with a stun gun and drag him off into the bushes. I won’t lie. I had wondered if he was still with that woman. One of the reasons I went to this party – which I could barely admit at the time – was to raise some hell, cause some trouble. I instantly saw that I caused trouble just by showing up. I backed off. I was not dependent on him for company, which was a good thing because after his effusive greeting he didn’t talk to me at all although every move I made caught his attention. I felt like I was under surveillance. Eagle Eye noticed and was not happy about it. She restricted his movements, keeping him holed up with her by the jukebox. I ruined his experience of his own party. I would catch him looking at me from across the room. He was not a deep brooding person. He was an open-faced funny free spirit, but in those moments, he was lost, staring at me, and I’d turn away, startled … Is he actually looking at me like that?
Believe me, if the time is right and the moon is in the seventh house, I am not shy. If he was single, I would have devoured him whole that night. Yes, I strolled in there fluttery with hope of some kind, but I was under control once I saw the lay of the land. Looking back on it, I feel a chill, because I know what is coming. The months of grey fog. The reduced capacity I have for this sort of thing now. But that girl in fishnets perched on the bar stool felt free to revel in her sense of power, cackling at the brouhaha she caused. She didn’t even have to do anything. She just sat there, and the drama over by the jukebox continued, not touching her, not really. It would take a long time to realize that this was why I went. Playing with fire.
I would never be so careless now.
At one point he walked by me on his way somewhere else and I leaned over to say something to him. It was casual, it had nothing to do with the intense radio waves coursing between us, and it had nothing to do with the fight I started with his girlfriend. I said something like, “Check out the juggs on Farrah up there …” You know. Some normal comment like that. I got out maybe two words when he physically recoiled from me as though I charged at him with a battle-axe. He held his hands out at me and actually said, “Stay back … stay back …!!” Like he was scared. Staving me off.
I was startled. Obviously I figured out the situation the moment I pried the embedded glass from the girlfriend’s eagle eyes out of my epidermis, but I was way more willing to, oh, lie and pretend, rather than shout in his face “Stay back” when he came too close.
Game face fully on, I decided to play dumb. I gestured at his body language and said, laughing, “What the hell is going on with you?”
He shook his head and said, “You’re dangerous.”
“Oh, gimme a break. I am not.” (I was.)
“Yes, you are. Stay away from me.”
“You invited me to this party. Are you not going to talk to me at all?”
“I’m in big trouble with my girlfriend.”
To not use my power in that moment took almost superhuman strength. I leaned back from him and shrugged at him, friendly but letting him know, “That’s yours, not mine. Good luck, hope it all works out.” Frozen out, the birthday boy moved on.
I threw myself into drinking and socializing. I did shots with the Wall Street chunk-ball and I laughed until my stomach hurt listening to the ex-Mormon’s stories. Only he could make working security at the airport after 9/11 funny.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of the fight intensifying over there by the jukebox. I could see her angry gestures, I could see him defending himself. I should have left, knowing I was causing problems but in that moment I got stubborn. I dug my platform heels in. I loved it. Maybe if I left, I would have spared myself the darkness of the coming months, but it is useless to speculate because that is not what happened. What happened is: even though he shouted “Stay Back” at me like a lion-tamer, I stayed, leaving him to stew in his relationship nightmare, while I, on the other hand, had fun.
Hours passed. At around one a.m., a sushi chef arrived and began quietly chopping up raw fish beneath the jiggly 70s-era tatas on the television. Shots of whiskey downed, sushi rolls swallowed whole. Music roared and pounded. People ate peanuts and threw the shells on the floor. Everyone screamed at each other. I got wasted.
The years since the night at Bellevue have been, in many ways, rather dark. Something was lost that night, something I have been unable to find since. A certain joyousness, a sense of humor in social situations, a calm awareness of the ground I properly claim, and a courage to toss myself into the fray. And so I look back on Bellevue with a bit of awe and dread. What should I have done differently? Anything? Should I have not gone at all? Do I dare make such a wish or would that be tantamount to rejecting the complicated gift that was that night? [Side note: I wrote this before I got my mental health diagnosis. The mental health issue is REALLY what this piece is all about. I just didn’t know that when I wrote it.]
I was drunk enough to get confused about events from only an hour or so ago. I thought to myself, fuzzily, “Did he actually shout ‘Stay back’ at me or did I just imagine it? Do other girls have men shout ‘STAY BACK’ at them after they say ‘Hello’?… or is that my particular stock-in-trade?”
Things were getting blurry. I couldn’t slow down time enough to contemplate what was happening, and how it might be time for me to go.
At some point, the opening strains of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” started, and it was as though Bellevue lifted off the sidewalk. I love the song but it sounded different that night. It was less a song than a command. The place erupted, en masse. Conversation ceased and as the opening of the song built and built and built, we merged into a mindless pulsing mass (except for the sushi chef who continued to make spicy tuna rolls, oblivious). I was holding so much back the whole night, every natural impulse within me: the urge to walk into the midst of their argument and get bitch-slappy on her, the urge to grab him and kiss him, demand that he choose. I followed through on none of my impulses and, while I was aware of the cost, when “Enter Sandman” came on and the entire bar exploded, I felt ohgodohgod let me get some of this out … We jumped, writhed, pounded our arms in the air, I lost a sense of where I ended and where the crowd began.
Halfway through the song I had to pee, so I staggered off to the bathroom, pushing through the throngs, frenzied because I wasn’t done dancing yet. I needed to hurry. The bathroom was tiny with a bright red light bulb, making everything look debacled and sinister. Graffiti splattered everywhere and when I sat on the toilet my knees touched the opposite wall. I was drunk enough to flop around in there for a while after I peed, standing and staring at my reflection in a baffled way, my red-lit face, wild hair, smudged mascara … who the hell is that? She looks FERAL. No wonder why he said STAY BACK!
Suddenly, the door opened and he entered, barging in after me like a monster in a movie. He grabbed my head, fierce, tight, and shoved me back against the wall. Without thinking, I put my hand over his face and pushed him back against the wall. He took hold of my wrists, I knocked them off. The bathroom was barely a foot wide so it was a tight squeeze. He tried to pin me against one wall, and I smashed him into the other. There was no kissing, believe it or not, and no speaking. We were too busy beating the shit out of each other.
Then he grabbed my face in his hands, not gently, and he hissed at me, with what sounded like hatred but which wasn’t hatred at all. What he said was, “You are the woman for me, Sheila, you are the only woman. Fuck. You.” This was there between us the whole night – it was there the night we first met, too. It was there on September 9th too. And now it was out. It was a beautiful and terrible confirmation. I grabbed at his shoulders, in a rage, because fuck HIM for being like this when he wasn’t free to be like this, and said, “No, no, NO, fuck YOU.”
He held me tightly so I would be forced to stand still, and said, “Here’s what needs to happen, okay? And you need to listen. Here’s what has to happen: You need to get whatever you want out of life, okay? It’s so important. I want you to be happy and get whatever you want. How do we make that happen? It must happen. You have to get whatever you want out of life.”
This really happened.
Somewhere along in there, I started to shake my head in protest, his words were too much for me, too over-the-top, and it was at that point that he slapped me. A quick 1940s movie slap, a fast “whap” to snap me out of … not believing in myself? rejecting his words? The slap was so beyond anything I could even interpret it literally stunned me. I stared up at him, my cheek stinging and tingling, trying to focus my eyes, trying to keep up with what was happening. We barely paused to acknowledge the slap. I then found myself in tears, because he was coming across to me as a bombardment of love, love with no possibility of expression, but in its purest state, and suddenly, awfully, I knew how much this was going to hurt. The knowledge rose up out of the sickly red light, it took my breath away.
He wasn’t waiting for me to catch up. After the slap, he grabbed my arms so hard I had bruises the next day from his fingers – no word of a lie, he hurt me – and he said, “You need to know I will be out there watching, I will be out there, and if something good happens for you, know I’ll be out there thinking, Yup. Sheila deserves this.”
I felt a tidal wave rising, and so, crammed in the filthy bathroom with him, I knew I had to get out of there as quickly as possible, because now it was going to be MY melodrama, not Eagle Eyes’, it would be mine and mine alone, and I needed to be nowhere near him when the wave hit.
I put my head down on his chest, resting it there for a second, and I felt the gentleness of his hands on the sides of my face, the sudden softness of his touch after the roughness … it was done … no more … must leave now … unless you choose me, I am gone. I will miss you. I will miss you. His arms were around me, mine around him. I said his name into his chest and I felt him hold me tighter in response.
My cheek still stinging, I shoved him aside and pushed my way out of the bathroom. I was paranoid about what I must look like. Who saw him go in there with me? What were people thinking? “Enter Sandman” still pounded, the crowd jumping with savage madness. I was part of it before. Briefly.
Time to go.
Say your goodbyes Sheila … quickly … because the tidal wave is coming … it’s almost here … the oblivion of months is upon you … go go go … before it’s too late.
I reviewed Rama Burshtein’s latest film, a rom-com with an Orthodox Jewish setting, for the May/June issue of Film Comment. And this time, the review is also online. You can read my review here. It’s for the “short takes” section. All I will add is that (obviously) the lead actress touched me tremendously, and while it has all the rom-com tropes, plus some unbelievable plot points, I found The Wedding Plan almost unbearably emotional. It called up old old pain, shit I try not to look at anymore. A long era in my life where my loneliness literally – not metaphorically – literally woke me up in the middle of the night. Burshtein, Orthodox herself, and a wonderful film-maker, understands how these issues can be (and are, in a way) life and death. That’s why it’s funny, for sure (the DATES our heroine goes on!!), but that’s also why it’s touching. Recommended!
God, I really enjoyed this film. Pat Healy (who also stars) in his directorial debut.
I used to roll my hair up with hot rollers. On a daily basis. I would heat them up while I was in the shower. It was this whole ritual, and I cannot believe I had the patience and the devotion for it. I’ve never been a makeup-and-hair girlie-girl. Put on some red lipstick, black eyeliner, thick mascara, boom, I’m done. I’m pale and freckled, with a natural flush in my cheeks, so foundation and all the rest of it was never really my thing. Low-maintenance. Except for … the hair ritual. This is the only picture I know of where the hot rollers are featured. This was a crazy night and this photo was taken of me before I headed out into that crazy night. I look at this and think, “Sheila … maybe stay home? No?” Or: “Wow, Sheila. Go you with your naughty reckless hot-rollers Riot Grrrl self. Sleep is over-rated anyway. You can sleep when you’re dead.”
I just dash these off. Superficial bullet-point analysis for the most part. It’s a good way to keep track of what I’ve seen, for year-end lists, of course, but also for future reference. I also always love the discussions on such a diverse list of films/TV.
Feud, Episode 6, “Hagsploitation” (2017; d. Tim Minear)
I’m sorry my New York Times gig is over. It was a lot of fun re-capping Feud. Not a perfect series but with so much to think about and discuss – especially for true-blue Davis/Crawford fans (maybe even more so Crawford, since her reputation took such a hit with the book by her ingrate daughter). Jessica Lange gave the performance of her career in Feud. Here’s my re-cap for episode 6.
Feud, Episode 7, “Abandoned!” (2017; d. Helen Hunt)
Pretty bleak and brutal ep. Here’s my re-cap.
Dead Ringer (1964; d. Paul Henreid)
You know Paul Henreid was Victor Lazslo in Casablanca. He also played opposite Bette Davis in Now, Voyager, helping to create one of the most memorable and sexy moments in cinema (a moment that started a trend): putting two cigarettes in his mouth and lighting both, one for him, one for her. He and Davis remained lifelong friends. He directed from time to time and he directed her in this, done in between Baby Jane and Sweet Charlotte. Davis plays identical twins (a gimmick she had done before back in the 40s.)
Strait-Jacket (1964; d. William Castle)
If you have not seen this movie, what can I say. You are missing out on a wonderful and COMPLETELY unique experience. This was the film that Crawford did in between “Baby Jane” and “Sweet Charlotte.” I covered it in that re-cap. Not to be missed. It includes one of my favorite film gestures of all time:
The Manchurian Candidate (1959; d. Richard Condon)
One of the most paranoid movies ever made. Also one of the best films about the reality of the kind of brainwashing that POWs experienced. It was the work done by psychologists trying to re-program those who came home from the Korean War after being in captivity that began our real understanding of mind control, which is now the basis for understanding cults and helping people get out. ANYWAY. Angela Lansbury steals the whole damn thing. A truly magnificent performance.
Win It All (2017; d. Joe Swanberg)
Meh. My review.
Hidden Figures (2017; d. Theodore Melfi)
One my top 10 last year. This is my first re-watch. Once again, I wept during the opening scene. And I just took it from there. Great film. Taraji Henson’s performance, if anything, is even greater than I remembered. A throwback. To a 1940s women’s picture. A Bette Davis part. She is brilliant.
Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948; d. John Huston)
You know, I block out just how nasty the themes of this film are. Incredibly bleak outlook on humanity. What greed does. Bogart is brilliant. (My friend Farran Nehme wrote a wonderful essay on Tim Holt for Film Comment.)
Some Came Running (1958; d. Vincente Minnelli)
God, this film is gorgeous and Shirley MacLaine is heartbreaking.
Shattered Glass (2003; d. Billy Ray)
I was having a discussion with a friend recently about plagiarism and our fascination with it. And how repellent we find it. This led to stories of fabulism, and outright sociopathy – like Jayson Blair and Stephen Glass. I LOVED this movie when it first came out, and I was one of those people who watched the Stephen Glass thing go down in real time. Long story short, as someone who was working in the burgeoning tech-bubble of late 1990s New York, it was extraordinary and exciting to me and my tech friends that “one of us” – a WEB WRITER – basically cracked this whole thing open. We couldn’t believe it! I was fascinated in particular with Stephen Glass because of his sheer brazen audacity. None of this would have happened in a more technologically savvy era. It went down in the brief “moment before,” when there were still people – even media people – who rarely got on the Web. Peter Sarsgaard is brilliant in what could be a totally thankless role. Hank Azaria is amazing. Hayden Christensen is so good. It’s an amazing film.
Supernatural, Season 12, Episode 17, “The British Invasion” (2017; d. John F. Showalter)
I have been over the BMOL since they appeared so even the TITLE of this one was a turnoff. I am so un-attached to this season that when they toss around the name “Kelly” or “Dagon” it takes me a second to even remember who they are talking about. Can you imagine? These are major characters, they are the reason for the entire season. Mick is not compelling enough to take up that much space. But it was good to see Eileen again. However, it wasn’t developed. One side-eye from Dean does not a development make. Come on, people, build some tension from episode to episode, and NOT plot tension. EMOTIONAL tension.
Dogfight (1991; d. Nancy Savoca)
One of my favorite movies. I can’t even count how many times I’ve seen it. It always works. Welcome to the second longest-running thread in my site’s history: Matt Zoller Seitz and I Discuss Nancy Savoca’s Dogfight. People are still finding that 2011 post and commenting. And the FIRST longest-running thread is this post from 2008, which, who the hell could predicate THAT, I certainly didn’t guess it when I wrote it. Someone put the post on Reddit in a discussion about the book and that’s when the floodgates opened. I read somewhere that this post is a “rite of passage” for those who just finished the book and want to talk. I don’t comment there anymore but I keep the thread open. People still show up from time to time. Back to Dogfight: an extraordinary film, one that continues to move me, no matter how many times I’ve seen it.
13 Reasons Why 13 episodes
I watched the entire thing in 4 days. Which really isn’t the way to watch it. Each episode is so deep and rich and complex (and painful) that it should be lingered over, thought about, processed. Trigger warnings should just be assumed. It’s heavy heavy stuff. But since it’s also a cliffhanger, of sorts, you have to keep going. I am now in the midst of a much slower re-watch, and the re-watch is an entirely different experience since now I know how all the pieces put together. I’m seeing so much more. I have some issues with it, one in particular, but it’s not a fatal flaw. The creators never really worked out why the hell the main kid took so long to listen to the tapes – it strains credibility – but the rest of it is so strong I overlooked it. What I really want to say though is that I am so impressed with this young cast that I barely even know what to do with myself. These are kids, and each character is an EXTREMELY difficult role. Basically you have to cast for the type: jock, nerd, good girl, bad girl … but you also have to cast an actor who is deep enough to go where this series needs EVERYONE to go. These actors blow me away. I am in love with each and every one of them and could not be more impressed. It’s hard for kids sometimes to “gel” into an ensemble. Sometimes an ensemble takes a bit more seasoning. But this is a real ensemble. Each character plays his or her part. Nobody is a “type” after all. And all you nerds out there who say stuff like “I hate jocks” – and think it’s okay – well, first of all, you should be ashamed of yourself. It’s no different from saying “I hate artsy-fartsy types” or “I hate AV Club guys” or whatever. But anyway, that’s a side issue (and a huge pet peeve). But anyway: JOCKS are just as likely to commit suicide as waify young girls reading sad poetry. Maybe even MORE likely because they are expected to have no “soft” emotions. Boys are far more at risk for suicide than girls are, in general. ANYWAY. MY POINT. You meet all the characters and they “present” as types. Because it’s high school and that’s what it’s like. The “popular” kid, the “unpopular” kid, the prissy A-student, the sweet-faced cheerleader who’s nice to everyone, the crowd of dumb jocks … and then bit by bit, episode by episode, layers are pulled away. You just never know what other people are going through. And you should care about it. You shouldn’t just care about yourself. You shouldn’t judge other people: and that goes for jocks judging nerds, but it also goes the other way. Like I said, there are some elements that don’t work for me, and one HUGE part that really holds the series back, but overall, I was so so impressed, especially by the deep thoughtful and complex acting done by everyone in this young cast.
Casey Anthony, 3-part documentary (2017)
I keep trying to quit this sociopath. I was tapped out on Casey Anthony even before she went to trial. And here we are, 10 years later, and I’m tuning in. Screw you, Casey! Plus: you did it. And you don’t care. You are an empty shell of a human being.
Graduation (2017; d. Cristian Mungiu)
Mungiu is one of the best directors right now in the Romanian New Wave and Graduation is his latest. (If you are not familiar with his work, start with 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days – but make sure you’re ready. His films are not easy. And then watch Beyond the Hills, which I think is a masterpiece.) Graduation is devastating, in that slow creep of inevitability way – similar to what Asghar Farhadi does in his films. Amazing film.
Get Out (2017; d. Jordan Peele)
Believe the hype. That’s all I can say. I am so happy that this movie has killed so definitively at the box office. GOOD. It’s a great era for horror films, and this one is unlike any other horror film I’ve ever seen.
Heal the Living (2017; d. Katell Quillévéré)
This movie flattened me. It is extraordinarily beautiful and emotional. My review for Ebert.
Feud, Episode 8, “You Mean All This Time We Could Have Been Friends?” (2017; d. Gwyneth Horder-Payton)
The finale. I went and saw it at a huge public screening at Lincoln Center. Ryan Murphy, Tim Minear, Jessica Lange, Alfred Molina and Catherine Zeta-Jones were all there for a QA afterwards. The standing ovation Lange got when she walked onstage wasn’t QUITE as explosive that the ROAR that came at the end of Hamilton, but it was an ovation that kept going … and going … and going … and going (I’m serious) … and going. It was incredible and I felt so fortunate to be there.
Burn, Motherfucker, Burn (2017; d. Sacha Jenkins)
A Showtime doc about the LA riots post Rodney King, but it was really about the history of the relationship of the LAPD and LA’s African-American community. My review for Ebert.
Supernatural, Season 12, Episode 18, “The Memory Remains” (2017; d. Philip Sgriccia)
I cannot believe it is episode 18. I honestly don’t remember much of this season. And I’m having trouble remembering this episode. So clearly the memory DOESN’T remain. I feel like the final moment – carving the initials – was in a very nice sweet spot for the characters and their fan base – but in order for the moment to REALLY land you have to have been investing in the characters all along, which this season has not done. Being worried about your legacy has to come from somewhere. Not just random “let’s wind down over beers in the bunker” talk. (The bunker, y’all. I want to torch it to the ground myself.) Just thinking out loud, especially since I just re-watched “Kids are Alright”, which also was about Dean worrying about what legacy (if any) he would leave behind: What if Sam and Eileen had had a romance? A one-episode thing? What if the entire episode had been about that, in the same way “Kids are Alright” was about Dean/Lisa. And what if, of course, it didn’t work out, leaving Sam with regrets, annoyance about his life, worrying about himself. Member the retirement community episode where Sam first met her? That episode TOO was all about “what’s going to happen to us? Will we grow old? Who will we be if we are old?” etc. So there’s a nice continuity there – Eileen maybe sorta brings that with her – and so why not explore that? Leaving Sam with an emptiness when she moves on or whatever. THEN carving your name into the table might have a truly TRAGIC aspect, like hieroglyphics from an ancient world that nobody even remembers. That’s just one idea off the top of my head. Pick your poison. I also don’t like how the demons now explode. I miss demons who had to communicate by slitting the throats of innocent people, and making a “call” through the pool of blood. Not this abracadabra Shazzam stuff. Clearly I will never be satisfied with this season if this is the level I am criticizing, so I will stop now. But there were some good moments here, and glimmers – FINALLY – of the relationship between the brothers.
Blonde Crazy (1931; d. Roy Del Ruth)
I own this one. One of the many Warner Brother pre-Codes that Jimmy Cagney did with Joan Blondell. It’s a really good movie but I haven’t seen it in a long time. In this re-watch it was like I really GOT just how dark this film is, just how sleazy. It’s pretty explicit. Very depressing. They’re so good together.
Supernatural, Season 3, Episode 2 “The Kids Are Alright” (2007; d. Philip Sgriccia)
FINALLY. Re-cap up.
Hysteria (2011; d. Tanya Wexler)
Saw at Ebertfest. What a HILARIOUS film, but spikily feminist too. It makes its points, but it’s never didactic. It’s funny and totally absurd and yes, based on true events. The Victorian-era gentleman who invented the vibrator. Director Tanya Wexler and star Hugh Dancy were both at the Festival. I was on a panel with both of them earlier that morning, and then I did the QA with them onstage after the film. By the end of the day, it was like we were old friends. Well, exaggeration. But enough that Dancy said to me he was sorry he wouldn’t be there the next day to see my film. So freakin’ nice. It was great to see that film in a theatre that seats 1500 people. It was packed. The film really does set its tone from the jump, and never deviates. Not an easy thing. It’s a romantic comedy. Filled with women having orgasms. And alarmed Victorian gentlemen taking notes from the corner of the room. Fabulous. Here’s Ebert’s review.
To Sleep With Anger (1990; d. Charles Burnett)
I had not seen this film. It is extraordinary. Robert Townsend was at Ebertfest to do the QA with Burnett and it was a great conversation. Burnett stayed for the whole Fest and sought me out to talk to me about my film (he wanted to know what camera we shot it on), which was so flattering.
The Handmaiden (2016; d. Park Chan-wook)
Critics raved about this film. Many put it on their Best-Of the year. I had missed it, and I love Park Chan-wook’s work so I was excited. I didn’t really care for it though. It was an HOUR too long. Normally I don’t care about length but when it’s an HOUR too long, and when you feel a sense of dread/exhaustion when 2 hours in the title card “Part III” goes up on the screen, you know something’s wrong. Clearly, the majority of critics do not agree with me. Gorgeous imagery though and really inventive plot. You think you know “whodunit” and … not in your wildest dreams could you guess the machinations of that plot.
July and Half of August (2015; d. Brandeaux Tourville)
The film I wrote. Seen on a screen three stories tall. What a thrill. Review here!
They Call Us Monsters (2017; d. Ben Lear)
An amazing documentary about juvenile criminal offenders doing adult time. It focuses on three kids, all of whom signed up to take a screenwriting class with a teacher who shows up at the prison once a week. Over the course of the class, the three kids develop a story together, write it out, and then eventually – the plan is – that script will be turned into a short film. The documentary is really about the travesty of locking up kids as adults, with no chance for rehabilitation (since the prison system is not about rehabilitation anyway). The three young men profiled here have all done HORRIBLE things. Heinous crimes. But they’re also … boys. Kids. They’re not even adults yet. You get to know them, their families. It was very special seeing this with my sister Jean, who is a teacher of kids just a little bit younger than the ones in the film. She recognized so much of the behavior, particularly in the classroom setting. The director Ben Lear is the son of Norman Lear (who was also at Ebertfest!)
Varieté (1925; d. Ewald André Dupont)
Every year at Ebertfest, a silent film is shown, along with accompanying music by the three-person Alloy Orchestra. Alloy Orchestra creates scores for silent films, innovative and fresh, emotionally connected to the action onscreen. They sit in the orchestra pit at the Virginia Theatre, and make such gigantic sounds for an orchestra made up of only 3 people. Varieté is an extraordinary French film, starring the great German actor Emil Jannings. Varieté is innovative in its camera techniques, and very very influential at the time. There’s one amazing swooping point of view shot: what the audience below looks like to a trapeze artist swinging above. I always love the silent film entry every year, especially since most of them are films I’ve never seen. Here’s an essay on the film.
Elle (2016; d. Paul Verhoeven)
It was the thrill of a lifetime, being in the presence of Isabelle Huppert, someone I consider to be the greatest actress of our time. She leaves everybody else in the dust. When she walked out onstage, she got an ovation like the one Lange had received. I was crying. She is a legend. Who continues to do bold brave new work. I reviewed Elle for Ebert. It was on my Top 10 last year.
Mind/Game: The Unquiet Journey of Chamique Holdsclaw (2015; d. Rick Goldsmith)
Director Rick Goldsmith was in attendance to present this documentary about basketball phenom Chamique Holdsclaw and her battle with mental illness. It’s about the difficulty of proper diagnosis, and dealing with stigma – and this is especially true in the case of athletes (as well as African-Americans). Holdsclaw has become an advocate and activist. She was diagnosed with what I was diagnosed with, and – like me – got diagnosed pretty late. She was a fighter, a warrior, and surrounded by coaches and family members who didn’t understand. Her background was very tough. It’s an important film. Holdsclaw was going to be in attendance but she was in recovery from a foot injury.
Pleasantville (1998; d. Gary Ross)
Boy, was this a treat. I’ve always loved this film. I wrote a piece a long time ago, partnering it with Blast from the Past, two films dealing with nostalgia from very different perspectives. But taken together, they make a poignant starting-point for conversation. Seen now, so many years after its release, it’s pretty clear that Pleasantville is a masterpiece. I don’t use that word lightly. Here’s Ebert’s review. Gary Ross was an amazing guest, funny and personable, and he hadn’t seen the film since it was first released. “I had a lot on my mind when I made it,” he said it. Interestingly enough: when I first saw it, it seemed to be a commentary on nostalgia for the good old days, and how the good old days were only good if you were in a certain demographic. But now, it seems to be a pointed commentary on the time we are actually living in right now.
Norman Lear: Just Another Version of You (2017; d. Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady)
A new film from the directors of the unforgettable Jesus Camp. This a profile of Norman Lear, a man who basically created our culture as we know it. A man unafraid to take on the huge issues. I mean, there was a transgender character on All in the Family, for God’s sake. It’s a great documentary. Norman Lear is still with us. It was incredible having him there.
Being There (1979; d. Hal Ashby)
My father loved this film, and loved the line, “I like to watch.” Cinematographer Caleb Deschanel (father to Zooey) was in attendance as a guest. The film still plays like a bat out of hell, and I’ve never seen it with an audience. The laughter was explosive. It’s a biting satire, and – again – it’s difficult to watch and not think about our current-day problems in this country. “Chauncey Gardner” was thrown about as a reference point at some point early in the chaotic reign of 45. It is SUCH a funny movie. Here’s Ebert’s review.
De-Lovely (2004; d. Irwin Winkler)
I had never seen this before. The film playing on the final day of Ebertfest before everyone flew out of town. It destroyed me. Mum and I were a wreck afterwards. A lovely film, celebratory and gentle.
42 (2013; d. Brian Helgeland)
God, I love this film. I wrote about it after I first saw it.
Small Crimes (2017; d. Evan Katz)
Some very good things here. Definitely worth checking out. My review for Ebert.
Flames (2017; d. Zefrey Throwell and Josephine Decker)
I asked for and received a link to this extraordinary film from the publicist since I would be missing it at Tribeca. Eventually I will write about it. I am a huge HUGE fan of Josephine Decker’s work. She’s directed two features thus far (Thou Wast Mild and Lovely and Butter on the Latch) and they are almost their own genre. You can’t compare them to much else. One can already say that they are “Decker-esque.” She is a unique visionary with a style that has to be experienced, compelling, haunting, with an eye for details that other photographers/directors would sell their souls to have. Flames is a documentation the love affair with her co-director, Zefrey Throwell. They only dated for 8 months but it was extremely intense and it took them forever to extricate themselves, especially since they had decided to document their relationship and wanted to finish this film. It sounds self-indulgent. Maybe it is. But when your “self” is as interesting as Decker, when your perspective is as personal … then please. Indulge your “self” as much as you like. I can’t stop thinking about this film.
Intervention – a minor marathon
I was so wiped out from Ebertfest I couldn’t really focus on anything the week following. So I unwound watching Intervention, a show that always makes me realize that – contrary to my own perception – I’m not doing too badly.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 1, Episode 1, “Welcome to the Hellmouth” (1997; d. Charles Martin Smith)
I’ve never seen Buffy, can you believe it? So along with the Intervention escape, I watched the pilot. I enjoyed it. Not sure if I will continue. 6 seasons are quite a commitment. But I really liked it.
The Handmaid’s Tale, Episodes 1 – 3
Been having some interesting conversations on Twitter and Facebook about this. I have not read this book in decades. It blew me away when I first read it. I do love Margaret Atwood, although I think she’s written better books. Cat’s Eye, first of all, and then the unforgettable Bodily Harm. But I think this series is doing a good job of portraying the true horror in Handmaid’s Tale. Visually, it is superb. Terrifying.
Revolutionary Road (2008; d. Sam Mendes)
I need to re-read this extraordinary novel. I remember seeing the film when it first came out, and being blown away in particular by Leonardo DiCaprio. But, of course, it was Kate Winslet who got the Oscar nom. Typical. I thought she was wonderful (although her American accent, as always, left much to be desired.) But it was LEO who stunned. And I already think he is a great actor. He’s fanTASTIC. It was fun to see Winslet and DiCaprio reunited too. Maybe this would be the sequel of Titanic if those two got together, a depressing thought.
Supernatural, Season 12, Episode 19, “The Future” (2017; d. Amanda Tapping)
There were some good scenes here, although Castiel’s purpose on the show has not been clear for 5 seasons now. All he does is fuck up, be self-pitying, lose his angel wings and then – despite the dissipating sense of connection with the brothers – be rewarded with empty “You’re our brother” speeches from Dean. But there was a good scene with Castiel late in the game, but the problem is that Dean’s annoyance with Castiel totally reflected my own annoyance with Castiel (similar to the “I have no purpose” arc of Castiel last season). This is the writers acknowledging the problem of Castiel IN THE TEXT. Like: why are you HERE anymore? And unfortunately, I do not think the actress playing Dagon is very good. Her performance feels lazy to me. I’m sorry. I feel like a starving fan at this point, so I love when ANYthing in the series now allows for relationships to … EXIST. One of the major problems for me is that Sam has vanished almost entirely as a character. It’s a travesty. I am sorry if my strong words hurt anyone’s feelings, those who love what’s happening. I am not trying to tell you that you should feel the way I feel. I’ve read a couple of fan things on Twitter, people who are guessing that this season is “off” because both JA and JP had pregnant wives, and maybe they wanted to take a year off from painful scenes. Bullshit. People who say this have no idea how TV works, and also what it means to be a professional actor of the caliber of these two guys. They’re ACTORS. Nobody is going to sit around a writer’s table with network producers present and say, “Well, our actors have a lot of personal stuff going on, let’s not give them much to do.” Please. This is not how the industry works. The industry is a place for grown-ups. It’s a job, not a therapy session. To me, JA and JP look bored out of their minds. They have not been given anything compelling to do. Pregnant wives or no, they’re actors, they’re not being given stuff to act. As “hard” as the painful scenes are, that’s why they’re in the business. To get an opportunity to do what they do best. What has happened to the series is a result of chaos on the backend, a newbie showrunner, and new writers who seem to understand the LYRICS of the show but not the MUSIC.
Sorry to end this viewing diary on a negative note. It’s been one hell of a month.
A lovely review by Peter Sobczynski of July and Half of August over on Rogerebert.com, in the dispatch for Day 3. It was a hell of a day.
