Girlfight

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Women boxing on a rooftop in Los Angeles, 1933.

Posted in Art/Photography | 4 Comments

Only Lovers Left Alive (2013); directed by Jim Jarmusch

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It’s a rare movie that wraps you up in its own unique dreamspace. I suppose that’s the ultimate goal for any director, and any scriptwriter, too. Many movies try to do that. Many movies fail. The story, whatever it is, exists as a dream in the writer/director’s head before it makes it to the screen, before words are put to paper. There is something to say, something to contemplate, a world to be inhabited, characters that need to speak. The goal, the hope, is that whatever that dreamspace is will translate.

Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive has one of the most luscious and evocative and emotional dreamspaces I’ve experienced in a long time, and while the movie lasts, you are caught in it, submerged in its mood and feeling. It takes a long time for the effects to wear off. The characters in Only Lovers Left Alive are nocturnal, by necessity, and emerging from the film is akin to walking out in bright sunlight after being in a dark space for hours on end. You shake your head to let the dream go.

John Cassevetes once said, “I don’t care about the scene. I only care about what happens between people.” Jim Jarmusch is the same way. He is interested in the charged space that exists between people: they could be strangers, they could be a long-time married couple … but when human beings (or, as in Only Lovers Left Alive, the undead) interact, a charge is transferred, something sparks, something ignites. The spark is not controlled. Anything can happen in that space: empathy can open up, or close down, connections can be made and lost, understanding achieved or disintegrated. Human beings often shy away from those sparks, because they cannot be controlled. We fall back on cliches or small talk in order to bear the interaction. We do so automatically. It’s not necessarily rude. It’s how we survive. Jarmusch removes those barriers. All that is left behind is the raw and open space “between people.” What happens in that space? How do we listen to one another? How do we share ourselves and share our perspective on things? Are we alone? Or can a hand cross that abyss and pull you over?

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Only Lovers Left Alive tells the story of a longtime married couple. They got hitched in the 1860s. They are vampires (although the word is never spoken in the film). Their names are Adam and Eve. They are played brilliantly by Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton. At the beginning of the film, Adam is hiding out in a dilapidated house on the outskirts of Detroit, surrounded by his collection of guitars and amps, and Eve is holed up in Tangier, books stacked against every wall. Travel is challenging, since they have to avoid the sunlight. Blood supply is a constant issue, especially since so much blood is now contaminated. Getting “the good stuff” requires connections. Eve has a connection in Tangier, a “doctor”, also an undead being, who is actually Christopher Marlowe (played by John Hurt). “Kit” is able to hook Eve up with “the good stuff,” procured somewhere in the warren-maze streets of Tangier. Adam, meanwhile, has a connection at a Detroit hospital, a “Dr. Watson” (Jeffrey Wright), who gives him thermoses of blood in exchange for wads of cash, no questions asked.

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It is not clear why the couple is across the world from one another, although the opening sequence makes clear, visually, that geography is irrelevant. A record spins on the record player. It is Wanda Jackson’s “Funnel of Love.” As the swoon-y gritty song plays from the Queen of Rockabilly, we see Eve from above, the camera circling over her, echoing the circling of the record. Her beige hair is long and wild, and she lies on the floor against a sky-blue bed, surrounded by books. We see Adam, sprawled on a leather couch, surrounded by shadows, guitar in hand, also with the camera circling above him. The images continue to alternate, circling, circling, no movement from the figures, the only movement coming from the camera. They are on opposite sides of the world. They are connected. Life is hard. Adam is depressed and lonely for his wife. Eve flies to Detroit (making sure all the flights are night-flights) to be with him.

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From the get-go, I was caught in the dreamspace of Only Lovers Left Alive. Not much happens. It is a story of a marriage. There are a couple of other characters: John Hurt’s “Kit,” a grizzled old guy, who still seethes somewhat because Shakespeare got the glory for works written by him. “He was illiterate …” moans Kit. There is Eve’s sister Ava (Mia Wasikowska), who shows up uninvited in Detroit, asking to crash. There is bad blood, so to speak. Something bad went down in Paris once, involving Ava. She is impulsive, reckless, bratty. She plays with Adam’s drum set, grinning at him, hoping for approval. He glowers. It’s like any in-law drama you’ve ever seen. Except they’re all the Undead.

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There is a humor in that dichotomy, but it’s not presented in a cutesy way, i.e. “Oh, isn’t it funny to have a vampire man bitch about his vampire sister-in-law to his vampire wife?” In Jarmusch’s dreamspace, it’s an emotional confrontation, with a sister-in-law who shows up uninvited, and leaves a trail of wreckage wherever she goes. Adam is right to be cautious. Eve feels torn. Ava is hurt.

The plot is not the thing here, anyway. “The thing” here is a portrait of a marriage. A good marriage. When one is in need, as Adam is in the beginning, contemplating suicide, lonely, the other does what she has to do to get to his side. The reunion is breath-taking. They play chess. They listen to music. They talk about music. After all, Adam lives in the city of Motown, although, as Eve says to him, “I’m more of a Stax girl, myself.” She tries to get him to lighten up. She takes care of him. She makes fresh-blood popsicles, and they suck on them as they play chess.

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He is gloomy. She is practical. She tries to get him to see the bright side. She forces him to dance with her, even though he’s not in the mood. The scene where they circle around, playfully, sexily, intimately, all to Denise LaSalle’s “Trapped By a Thing Called Love” is a swoon of romance.

Things happen. Bad things. But all around it is the magical and strange darkness of the night, the spaces in between people, the relationships, the inter-relation of all things. Having been alive for so long, the vampires have a wealth of knowledge. Eve touches one of his guitars and knows the make and model, merely from what her fingertips tell her. She speaks every language on the planet and speed-reads books, inhaling them. He was a Romantic – like, literally. He hung out with Byron and Shelley. He saw Eddie Cochran play. He writes music and releases it anonymously. Blood is hard to come by. It seems that they may be at the end of the road.

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Jarmusch films all of this with a heightened and glamorous drama, the shadows thick and encroaching on the figures. In one scene, we see Adam and Eve lying in bed together, the blankets are black, their skin is white, and they are so entwined it is hard to tell whose limb is whose. It’s gorgeous. Detroit seems like an abandoned city. It is seen only at night, the bright lights of downtown glimmering faintly in the distance from the bombed-out outskirts, overrun by gigantic empty factories and shells of houses. Adam and Eve take long drives at night. They drive by the house where Jack White grew up, and sit there in the car at the curb, staring up at it. They are still capable of being amazed by things. It is the main way they connect.

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Our culture is drenched in vampires. It always has been, since they first stepped onto the scene. Currently, of course, we have the tween version, with glittery skin and Superman powers, vampires being turned into a metaphor for self-sacrifice. There is that here, too: the undead here do not kill, or “turn” people. At least they try not to. They try to get by with blood procured from other places. Humans do intersect with them, sometimes on comfortable terms, but, in general, Adam and Eve keep their distance. It’s better for all involved to keep a low profile.

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Tangier and Detroit are the locations, filmed only at night. It’s a a dark and twisty insomniac underworld where everyone seems both out of place and at home at the same time. Everyone needs something. Everyone is wandering the streets, looking for a fix. Whatever it might be. Sex, drugs, black-market blood, companionship. The vampires don’t “pass” as normal people, not really. You get the sense that the humans know something may be strange about them, but they’re not sure what. They always wear gloves when out in public. They wear sunglasses at night. They seem to communicate without language.

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Einstein’s “spooky entanglement” theory is mentioned once at the beginning, briefly, and then brought back near the very end. How do quantum particles react to one another, mirroring one another, changing, reversing, whatever, while at opposite ends of the universe? How is that possible? It could be seen as the theme of the film, or at least the theme of the marriage between Adam and Eve. Without getting intellectual about it, Jarmusch shows us that interconnected-ness from the very first scene, with the twirling record, and the twirling couple, separated by thousands of miles.

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Once upon a time, Hollywood used to specialize in something sometimes referred to as the comedy of remarriage, where a husband and wife who have separated or divorced find their way back to one another. The Awful Truth, starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, is a high watermark of the form. His Girl Friday. The list goes on and on. What was so special about these films, and what is still so special, is that the re-marriage comedy doesn’t have to trouble itself over a “meet cute,” or a falling-in-love process, or the other things that go into typical romances. The remarriage comedy features a couple who has already been through all that. They’ve got some miles on them. You can’t fool your partner anymore like you did during the courtship stage. The mystery is gone. But with the disappearance of mystery, other more profound things start to come into play. The audience is thrust smack-dab into the middle of a well-worn relationship, and when these films work, you ache for them to get over themselves and get back together. It also makes marriage look like the biggest possible adventure.

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In its strange undead way, Only Lovers Left Alive is one of the best and most positive films about marriage I’ve seen in a long long time. This is a working relationship. Adam has strengths and weaknesses, so does Eve. They balance each other out. They reach out for one another, glancing towards one another, for confirmation, or questions asked/answered, many times without any language exchanged. They hang out. They talk about literature and music. They problem-solve together. What he cares about, she cares about, and vice versa. The needs of his soul are on her radar. Always. It’s a partnership.

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The more I think about the film, the more I think about those separated quantum particles, spinning and reversing, and reacting to what is happening with its partner across the universe. Adjusting: “Oh, you’re going this way now? Okay, lemme catch up, so I can go that way too.” Balance, connection, mirroring.

Like Cassavetes said: The scene doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what happens between people. And the space “between” could mean across the room or across the universe.

Only Lovers Left Alive is all about that. It’s a swooning dark dreamspace of love.

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“Mortified” Show Cousin/Sibling O’Malley Collage

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Cousin Joshua and cousin Ian backstage at this past week’s Mortified show (Tuesday and Wednesday night). Ian is a jazz drummer, and Joshua is a jazz trumpeter. Joshua works/lives at West Point, and starts every day playing reveille for the West Point campus. Sometimes he plays Taps as well. He’s a busy busy man. The Army keeps you wicked busy. Then he drove down for the gig. Joshua and Ian have so many people in common because of their jazz background. Here are the cousins looking at jazz clips on Youtube.

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My sister Siobhan, a producer of the “Mortified” shows, who also performed excerpts from her junior-year-in-high-school diary this past week, along with organizing the O’Malley Family Band. Not to mention starting a music-teaching business, as well as being a new mom to the glorious little Beatrice. Siobhan is a busy lady and I am so proud of her!

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My tambourine. I have bruises up and down my right leg. I feel like a real rock star now.

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Rehearsal beforehand. Cousin Matthew and cousin Joshua.

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After running through “These Words” before the show, I glanced behind me and saw cousin Joshua, with one of the video clips from the performance up on the screen behind him. One of the participants in the show that night was a guy who shared a home video from his childhood, where he, a 12-year-old boy, displayed his impressive collection of cuckoo clocks. They clearly were testing the video before the show, and I could not stop laughing seeing that cuckoo clock (which is actually the Halloween costume of the guy who told the story – there’s a little boy in there!) with cousin Joshua hanging out with his horn in front of it. Dying. Life is comedic.

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The O’Malley Family Band in action.

I think we’re ready to take our act on the road.

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Review: Falcon Rising (2014)

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Falcon Rising, starring the to-die-for Michael Jai White in the title role, is clearly meant to be the start of a new franchise. It’s a throwback to 1980s action flicks, with a strong hero at the center, and an unambiguously evil foe.

The fight scenes are out of this world. I enjoyed the film a lot.

My review of “Falcon Rising” is now up at Rogerebert.com.

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Review: The Identical (2014)

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It’s obvious why the editors at Rogerebert.com assigned me this one!

“The Identical” asks the question: What would have happened if Elvis Presley’s twin brother had lived?

I have more questions, the main one being: Why is the music so terrible? “The Identical” occurs in an alternate universe where Elvis Presley “changed the world” with awful music.

My review of “The Identical” is up at Rogerebert.com.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , , | 11 Comments

R.I.P. Joan Rivers

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Joan Rivers has died at the age of 81. I pay tribute to this icon over at Rogerebert.com.

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Backstage at Mortified

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Cousin Matt backstage, running through one of our songs we would be doing, I think the Coldplay one. “Every part of this song ….” said Matt, searching for the words, “…. goes on for way too long.”

My sister is a producer of the “Mortified” shows (now a worldwide phenomenon, with a documentary about it on Netflix). “Mortified” features people getting up and reading excerpts from their high school diaries, or reading their short stories they wrote when they were 10, or love-lorn letters they wrote in high school. (I was way ahead of the curve with my Diary Friday feature!) It’s an amazing show (I’ve been a couple of times). It’s cathartic. The person onstage offers their awkward teenage self up for an audience, and the audience literally ROARS in sympathy and recognition. It’s strangely moving. A lot of fun. Makes you feel like, You know what? We’re all dorks out here, trying to do our best.

My sister, as producer, has put together a band to sing songs in between each reading (songs that reflect or comment on the different readings). The band is called The O’Malley Family Band. Because … duh … it’s made up of all O’Malleys. So we all gathered in Brooklyn last night for our Family Band gig. My cousin Ian on drums. My cousin Matt on electric guitar. My cousin Joshua, who commutes down from West Point, on horns. My cousin Liam on guitar. My sister Siobhan on lead vocals and guitar. I joined last night as a back-up singer and tambourine player. To say it was fun doesn’t even cover it. I love my family. And singing with them means we are now the Partridge Family and it couldn’t feel more right.

But what I wanted to share, for my fellow SPN fans, is the sign on the wall of the “dressing room” backstage.

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I think you’ll all understand why I had to take a picture.

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Mitchell Fain Presents, Part 3: A Conversation About Joan Rivers

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Mitchell and I have been discussing having another conversation about various pop culture icons. We did a two-parter a while back, and are both very happy with how it all came out. Part 1, where we discuss Justin Timberlake, Lena Horne, Doris Day, Jill Clayburgh, Cary Grant, and Don Rickles. Part 2 where we discuss Woody Allen, Joan Crawford, Lily Tomlin, Claude Rains and Burt Reynolds. I have another List of Names I want to throw at Mitchell, and we will do that soon, but for now, here is another very time-sensitive entry. We had a huge discussion about Joan Rivers the other day. Joan Rivers, as everyone knows, is extremely ill right now and in a coma. I thought it would be a great opportunity to talk about this legend with someone who loves her, and who has a lot of smart things to say about her. We had been talking about the tone of all of the Tweets in support of her, and how unique they are, and what they said about Joan Rivers. So I put Mitchell on speaker and turned on the tape recorder.

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Mitchell Fain: Joan Rivers is definitely one of the top queer icons. I don’t know a gay person who doesn’t love her.

Sheila O’Malley: And why is that?

MF: It’s twofold so stick with me on this. There’s a lot of criticism lately because of the mean things Joan says. It’s a very PC world right now. My thing is: Nobody gives that criticism to Don Rickles. They only say it to Joan, because of sexism, anti-Semitism, a kind of “keep that mouthy Jewish broad quiet” thing.

But I think what people are missing is: Yes, she says incredibly mean things. A. She’s a comedian. She’s never done anything differently than the boys. And B. if Joan Rivers were a person who said mean things about one particular group of people and not another, if she only singled out one group, it would be a very different thing. But there’s not one group of people who get a pass from her.

She’s one of those people who says things out loud what we’re all thinking, in our worst moments, and she says it with cleverness and speed. And the monster gets smaller. You know when you’re a little kid and you think there’s a monster in your closet, and you have to take the monster out of the closet and realize there is no monster? Joan Rivers makes the monster smaller. Whether it’s Kim Kardashian or menopause, she makes the monster smaller. And everybody is subject to her attention. It could be the Jewish girl sitting there, the skinny white girl, the black guy. Yes, it’s insult comedy, but it’s always felt honest, as opposed to just mean.

There was that thing recently where she was on CNN and she walked out of the interview.

I think a lot of people thought she was faking it for publicity. I don’t think that’s true. Rivers said, “You are not the person to be interviewing a comic.” The woman was taking her to task and saying, “You say really mean things …” and Rivers just walked off. We can talk about it in terms of political correctness, and of course it will be better to be a kinder gentler nation, but I will always take Auntie Joan’s honesty.

One of the big controversies recently was with Lena Dunham, where Rivers said something about Dunham’s thighs or something. Lena Dunham tweeted about Joan Rivers when she heard Rivers was ill, and she could have said any number of things, and she wrote:

We can’t lose Joan. All love and healing wishes to Her Majesty Joan Rivers- being ripped a new one by you is an honor to be treasured.

It makes me want to cry, I don’t know why. Dunham freakin’ gets it. There was an article titled Did Joan Rivers Body-Shame Lena Dunham? Yes, she did. And Lena Dunham said it was an “honor and a treasure.” So fuck you.

All I know is Joan Rivers still makes me guffaw or gasp or shake my head in shock. I am never less than entertained. She’s a loud-mouthed bubbe who tells the truth. We need her.

We can talk about her in terms of her importance to comedy. You can really count on one hand the female comics who broke that ground. What Joan was doing was different and she was doing it on a much larger scale.

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The one time I saw Joan in concert was back in the 80s. My brother and I went to see her at the Warwick Musical Tent, and it was a big deal because the whole show was David Brenner and Joan Rivers. And at the time, popular conception was that you couldn’t have two comics on a bill. It wasn’t done. You’d have a singer and a comic. And Brenner and Rivers were like, “WHY can’t we do this?”

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It was a juggernaut. It was huge. It changed the game. She challenged people’s ideas, she challenged how the industry saw comedians.

She also changed the way women could speak in public. Let’s not underestimate that. Yes, a lot of what she did was self-deprecating. But the stuff she talked about, her inadequacies as a sexual partner, all of that stuff, was extraordinary.

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Her mom was like “You marry well as a Jewish lady, and make sure your husband makes a lot of money so that you can have a fur coat and rise in a society that hates Jews.” That’s how it worked. Joan’s mom married a doctor and it was the Depression and Joan’s dad would see patients for free, or take eggs as payment, and Joan’s mother was not having it. There was a lot of tension in the household about success and making money which is why Joan Rivers was always good at making money. She marries this guy Edgar, she loves him, he then loses all her money, and kills himself. And remember when that happened: this comedian’s husband kills himself, and the one commodity she has, her humor – nobody wants to see it anymore. Nobody wants to see the widow of a suicide victim tell jokes. Then she proceeds to make her fortune back by doing whatever the fuck it takes. And that is a big thing for me about Joan Rivers and her comedy. She will do whatever the fuck it takes.

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One of the things that is very fun to watch is this In Bed With Joan Rivers web series. My favorite one recently is Bianca Del Rio, who was a contestant on Rupaul’s Drag Race. Bianca is an insult comic but he does it in drag, and is definitely the descendant of Joan Rivers. So here is this drag queen basically doing Joan’s act, really well, on Joan’s show, and you see Joan Rivers sitting back, letting Bianca Del Rio get all the laughs. Joan Rivers certainly gets in her perfectly-timed digs, but that type of generosity is the real Joan Rivers.

Here’s the deal. Everybody I know has stolen from Joan Rivers’ act. We watch Joan Rivers and she said all the things we couldn’t say or felt disempowered to say. It’s like Barbra Streisand’s answer to why the gays love her so much: “I was different and I made it.”

SOM: There was a moment in the documentary “Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work” where she’s there for the Mark Twain award for George Carlin. And what was so revealing was her saying, “I’m never included when these events come up. I’m just glad I’m included.” It takes a kind of stamina to withstand the Boys Club that still exists.

MF: In her first book, Enter Talking, she talks about Second City being a Boys Club and she tells stories of stepping forward from the back line – where you step into a scene – and seeing other people put their arms out to stop her. Now she talks very lovingly about Second City, in retrospect, but her experience there was not a positive one. It was another place where she wasn’t wanted.

SOM: And then there are these amazing moments like when Johnny Carson says on air, “You’re gonna be a big star” and then eventually hands over a permanent guest-spot to her. That was a game-changer as well.

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MF: There still isn’t a late-night talk show with a female host, except for Chelsea Handler.

SOM: At the Comedy Central roast of Joan Rivers, it was all about trashing her looks and her plastic surgery. Anytime anyone mentions the plastic surgery, I get annoyed. If she didn’t do that to her face, she’d hear about it. “Look at how she let herself go!” You can’t win, as a woman, with aging. Besides, who cares? It’s the most obnoxious concern-trolling. Men aren’t treated this way. She was also one of the first people to talk about, to admit she was getting plastic surgery.

MF: She talked about everything. Periods, menopause, how your body falls when you get older. It was the next step from Phyllis Diller who talked about not being a good housewife.

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SOM: And Diller’s schtick was including women in the conversation of comedy in a very important way. Diller was admitting something really secret, admitting that the happy homemaker thing was shit. She was telling a dirty little secret about women’s lives at that time. Then there was Carol Burnette. Elaine May. You can feel a new ground opening up.

MF: Rivers opened the door for us to talk about stuff that the boys didn’t want us to talk about. And she did it anyway and she’s been doing it for 50 years.

There was a late-night cable show a while back that was a roundtable of different comics. It was almost always boys, with an occasional girl. They would throw out names of comedians and everyone had an opinion. “Let’s talk about Pryor.” And someone threw out Joan Rivers. It was all these young boy comics, and the way that these guys talked about Joan Rivers, they were like, “Let me tell you something. Do not count Joan out. Just because she’s an old lady with plastic surgery and she’s on red carpets and Hollywood Squares – when you’re one on one with Joan Rivers, she’s still the smartest person in the room.”

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And that’s what matters. The reaction from comics to her illness has been so interesting. It’s not “Poor Joan Rivers,” it’s almost selfish. It’s like, “We need more from you, Joan. Get it together.” There’s a selfish thread of “We are not done needing Joan Rivers. We still need Auntie Joan to say shitty things.” The tone is: “No no no, there are way more people to make fun of, we need you, the Kardashians are still around, who’s next, we need you to call it out.” Who’s gonna say that stuff now?

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It also speaks volumes about Joan Rivers’ awareness of pop culture. I mean, Fashion Police, is, for me, appointment TV. She says shit you can’t believe someone is getting away with on TV. It’s amazing. Even the people on the set with her, they can’t believe what she’s saying. Joan Rivers calls out Ariana Grande, or Lena Dunham, she calls out the most brand-new and/or obscure or utterly of-the-moment pop culture person, and Joan Rivers wants to find out who the fuck they are. It seems like she’s off-the-cuff making up mean things, which she is, but the important thing is that she’s still paying attention. In a weird way, she’s a version of Will Rogers. She’s the Will Rogers of mean. She’s always observing and making comments about our culture.

I mean, what 80-something year old lady knows who Ariana Grande is? I think it’s extraordinary. Clearly it comes from a place of being driven, maybe a little bit crazy, or desperate … but she’s still doing it at a level that other people her age just are not.

SOM: What I loved in that “Piece of Work” doc were her file cabinets of jokes. One was labeled “Cooking to Tony Danza.”

[Roaring laughter.]

SOM: D comes after C. Oh my God.

MF: It’s genius.

SOM: Cooking to Tony Danza…

[More laughter.]

SOM: There’s that moment in the documentary where she’s playing the club in Wisconsin and she makes a Helen Keller joke and a guy storms out after heckling her. And afterwards there was a little Wisconsin lady getting Joan’s autograph and the lady was like, “That guy, he just doesn’t understand comedy,” and Joan said, “I know. It’s comedy. It’s not meant to be serious.” I loved that bonding moment with a real person, but then, Joan is being walked out to her car, and she’s saying, “I feel bad. His son is deaf. Maybe he had a catharsis tonight. Maybe it was good for him to shout at me.”

MF: What I love about that scene is how she handles the heckler. As someone who has spent many years onstage, making jokes, hoping the audience thinks it’s funny and then dealing with people who don’t, watching Joan deal with it is a master class. She tells the joke. He heckles. She rips him a new asshole. She improvises a joke to get the audience back on her side. And then, boom, she’s back into her act. THAT is technique. She’s an old lady. She’s a senior citizen. I know 20-year-olds who cannot recover from a moment onstage like that. She does a 3-point turn right back into her act. It’s one of my favorite scenes in the movie. It blew me away. I watch that scene over and over, asking, “How does she do that? What’s the formula?”

Here’s one of my favorite Joan Rivers moments of all time. It was from when she had a daytime talk show and it was during the whole Jessica Hahn and Jim Bakker scandal. Jessica Hahn was on Rivers’ show via satellite and Hahn turns the interview around to start attacking Joan for saying mean things. And you think, “Honey, what possessed you to take on Joan Rivers?” Underestimate her at your peril. Underestimate this old lady at your peril. It ends with Joan Rivers, legitimately pissed, saying, “I’m not the one who slept my way to the middle.” I think when the history of television is written, that is definitely a high point. It is one of my favorite moments of all time.

SOM: “I’m not the one who slept my way to the middle.” Wow. You can’t recover from a comment like that.

MF: Yup. Done. Garry Shandling tells this great story about how he opened for Joan Rivers in Vegas years ago. There was a big party afterwards, there was dancing. Joan was dancing with Edgar, and Garry was dancing with his wife, and this old Jewish woman danced up to Garry Shandling, not realizing Joan Rivers was right behind them, and she leaned into Garry Shandling and she said, “We thought you were much funnier than Joan.” And Joan turned her husband around, without missing a beat, and said, “You have no breasts,” and then danced away with Edgar.

So mean, so base, but the whole point is: You’re shaming me in my own place, and I’m going to go right for the jugular.

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This is sort of a nonsequitir but it has to do with my feelings about Joan Rivers. I was recently talking with someone about Madonna. There is a world of Madonna Gays. I am not one of them. I love Madonna but I stopped paying attention after “Music.” There are Madonna apologists, you can’t say anything bad about Madonna, they lose their minds. I’m a bit of a Joan Rivers apologist.

Yes, she’s politically incorrect. Yes, she’s rude. Yes, she’s self-deprecating. Yes, she has had too much surgery. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I still love her. She’s a legend. She changed the game. She’s a trailblazer who’s still working at a certain level at her age. How many people of her generation have their own television show? Don Rickles doesn’t have his own television show.

Then there is the fact that Joan got her fortune back. Selling jewelry on QVC. Doing Hollywood Squares. There’s something about this woman as a business woman that I find unbelievably admirable. Everyone made fun of her for hawking her jewelry on QVC, and now, who DOESN’T have a line on QVC? Everyone snickered and sneered at the time, and now Mariah Carey does it, Jennifer Lopez does it, Gwyneth Paltrow does it … not that they personally sneered at Joan, but the idea that Rivers would have the gall, the lack of class, to go hawk jewelry that she thought was pretty – which, by the way, she stands by and wears all the time – and she did it anyway. She was a single mom with a daughter to raise. She made all her money back. Amazing.

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SOM: I think the fact that the boys are all rallying around her on Twitter – that it’s not just the women – speaks volumes.

MF: Yes! I mean, Seth Rogen. He’s so current-generation goofball stoner boys club, and his Tweet says

I really need Joan Rivers to be ok.

The tone of Seth Rogen’s is the tone of a lot of them. In these tweets, is the idea that Joan would want her friends and fans to be like, “Get your ass up, Joan Rivers, because we are not done with needing you.” It’s almost selfish and it’s revealing the importance that she had for people, even those who don’t admit it because she’s not hip or politically correct.

Listen, there is an argument for being kind to each other and to not use words that hurt people’s feelings. But Joan is a social commentator, Will Rogers as a pit bull. She’s making a social comment with her shark-biting humor. It’s all absurdity to her. The absurdity of life, of the human condition. If she pulls out of this, the jokes that she’ll tell about it … I am so looking forward to it.

The Tweets from other comics reminds me of the poem that we love by Frank O’Hara.

SOM: “Oh Lana Turner we love you get up.”

MF: We need our Lana Turners to get up, we need our Joan Rivers to get up. Oh Joan Rivers we love you get up.

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The Books: Essays of E.B. White, “Here Is New York”

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Next book on my essays bookshelf:

Essays of E. B. White

New York is one of the most evocative of cities. You could fill a library with works addressing its particular charms/annoyances/character. Like Paris, it exists as a symbol, as well as an actual landscape on the planet earth – and the symbol and the reality do battle, and anyone who lives here knows what that feels like (especially the transplants, those who came here from somewhere else). You either dream about New York or you don’t. If you do, then you understand. There is a ton of great writing about New York, and I hesitate to play favorites, but for me there are two essays which capture New York’s essence (and how it operates in its citizens) – one is Joan Didion’s “Goodbye To All That,” which is so powerful I have only read it in its entirety maybe 4 times. I still can recite some sections of it by heart. It is definitely the perspective of a transplant to New York. Those who grew up here would not have the same relationship to a city, but “Goodbye to All That” is the apotheosis of the transplant’s expression of love/dismay/heartbreak in relationship to her chosen city.

The second high watermark of New York essay writing is the following, from E.B. White. He, too, was a transplant. And he also kept one foot out of New York, by living on a farm in Maine, after years of New York living. Sometimes it is the “outsider” who can see more clearly what a landscape provides, what it IS. Some of my Irish friends read some of my writings on my trip to Dublin in 2006, at the height of the so-called Celtic Tiger (which then crashed and burned, horribly) – and they said to me that they hadn’t realized just how crazy it had all gotten, and just how much Dublin had changed until they read some of my writing on it. I had hesitated to even put that writing out there. Nothing more obnoxious than an outsider saying, “Wow. What the hell is going on here.” But I’ve been to Ireland enough. I could sense something was very very different, and I called it out. I didn’t mean it as criticism. It was observation. What was happening was a speculative-bubble type financial boom which has since collapsed – and many Irish people saw it coming, but many didn’t, because that is the nature of unreal financial booms. You can’t see it while you’re in it. Visiting Dublin in 2006 was like visiting New York in 1986. Or like visiting the office of a dot-com startup in 1998 (I worked for one of those dot-com startups, so I know of which I speak! Complete Fantasy-Land.)

So E.B. White, despite his years-long residence in New York, was still “not from there,” and in “Here Is New York,” he sets out to explain the city. Its attractions, its quirks. The piece was written in 1949. A lot has changed, but also nothing has changed. New York is eternal. There are some observations here that are so on the money that I want to pass out excerpts of it, in order to explain to people who don’t get it – THIS is what New York is all about.

I have always maintained that New York, despite its reputation for rudeness, is a city positively obsessed with good manners. There are just too many of us, and we all need to work together. For example, just try to cut in line at a bank in New York. You will be reprimanded sharply and immediately by multiple people, the same way a family reprimands a misbehaving toddler. There are certain things that are sacred in New York and maintaining the integrity of the line is one of them. I wrote an entire essay about the experience of standing in line in Manhattan and what it says about New York life. I have lived in many cities and New York is unique in its collective sense that we are all in this together, so don’t cut in line, don’t cut people off, if you try to push to the front, we WILL correct you. It “reads” as rudeness to those who don’t understand the code, to those who are used to passive-aggressiveness. There are many many more examples. One of my favorite examples is: ask a New Yorker for directions. They will go out of their way to give you the best directions possible (if they stop when you ask them, that is. Sometimes they are too busy and will blow on by you.) I have been that person OVER-explaining how to get to the A train and how to transfer at West 4th. By the end, the poor tourist is like, “Okay, okay, please stop giving me a dissertation. I got it.” But New Yorkers LOVE being helpful about their home town.

E.B. White nails that in a far more concise way than I just did. He also nails the neighborhood-quality of New York life, something that will totally not be apparent to someone visiting New York for the first time, or as a tourist. New York is grouped into hundreds of small neighborhoods. Everything you need is in a 3-block radius. And it is because of this that New York, despite its cosmopolitan reputation, is one of the most provincial of cities. New Yorkers don’t like to travel. There was a whole Sex and the City episode where Miranda moved to Brooklyn and everyone treated it as though she was being deployed to Afghanistan. Hilarious and silly, but so true. I live in New Jersey, just over the river, and it is 10 minutes with no traffic to Times Square. TEN MINUTES. Way less than a trip to Brooklyn. But just try to get a New Yorker to come visit you “in Jersey.” It feels like the dark side of the moon. It’s very strange, but one of its funny quirks. If you live on the Upper East Side, you may as well live in Connecticut. If you live in Queens, you may as well live in Iowa. Easily reachable by multiple trains, but the perception is that it is far far far away, and that is because of the neighborhood setup of Manhattan. People stick to their neighborhoods.

After 9/11, this essay was pulled out and quoted all the time, because of a prophetic couple of paragraphs near the end, where E.B. White gets a sense of the city’s vulnerability from the air, especially with these brand new skyscrapers and the Empire State Building rising like targets to be taken down by a “perverted dreamer”:

The subtlest change in New York is something people don’t speak much about but that is in everyone’s mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.

All dwellers in cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer who might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm.

It’s downright eerie.

But that’s a small section of a larger whole. The essay should be read in its entirety, of course, but here’s an excerpt about New York’s hidden neighborhood setup.

Excerpt from Essays of E. B. White, “Here Is New York”

To an outlander a stay in New York can be and often is a series of small embarrassments and discomforts and disappointments: not understanding the waiter, not being able to distinguish between a sucker joint and a friendly saloon, riding the wrong subway, being slapped down by a bus driver for asking an innocent question, enduring sleepless nights when the street noises fill the bedroom. Tourists make for New York, particularly in summertime – they swarm all over the Statue of Liberty (where man a resident of the town has never set foot), they invade the Automat, visit radio studios, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and they window shop. Mostly they have a pretty good time. But sometimes in New York you run across the disillusioned – a young couple who are obviously visitors, newlyweds perhaps, for whom the bright dream has vanished. The place has been too much for them; they sit languishing in a cheap restaurant over a speechless meal.

The oft-quoted thumbnail sketch of New York is, of course, “It’s a wonderful place, but I’d hate to live there.” I have an idea that people from villages and small towns, people accustomed to the convenience and friendliness of neighborhood over-the-fence living, are unaware that life in New York follows the neighborhood pattern. The city is literally a composite of tens of thousands of tiny neighborhood units. There are, of course, the big districts and big units: Chelsea and Murray Hill and Gramercy (which are residential units), Harlem (a racial unit), Greenwich Village (a unit dedicated to the arts and other matters), and there is Radio City (a commercial development), Peter Cooper Village (a housing unit), the Medical Center (a sickness unit) and many other sections each of which has some distinguishing characteristic. But the curious thing about New York is that each large geographical unit is composed of countless small neighborhoods. Each neighborhood is virtually self-sufficient. Usually it is no more than two or three blocks long and a couple of blocks wide. Each area is a city within a city within a city. Thus, no matter where you live in New York you will find within a block or two a grocery store, a barbershop, a newsstand and shoeshine shack, an ice-coal-and-wood cellar (where you write your order on a pad outside as you walk by), a dry cleaner, a laundry, a delicatessen (beer and sandwiches delivered at any hour to your door), a flower shop, an undertaker’s parlor, a movie house, a radio-repair shop, a stationer, a haberdasher, a tailor, a drugstore, a garage, a tearoom, a saloon, a hardware store, a liquor store, a shoe-repair shop. Every block or two, in most residential sections of New York, is a little main street. A man starts for work in the morning and before he has gone two hundred yards he has completed half a dozen missions: bought a paper, left a pair of shoes to be soled, picked up a pack of cigarettes, ordered a bottle of whiskey to be dispatched in the opposite direction against his home-coming, writing a message to the unseen forces of the wood cellar, and notified the dry cleaner that a pair of trousers awaits call. Homeward-bound eight hours later, he buys a bunch of pussy willows, a Mazda bulb, a drink, a shine – all between the corner where he steps off the bus and his apartment. So complete is each neighborhood, and so strong the sense of neighborhood, that many a New Yorker spends a lifetime within the confines of an area smaller than a country village. Let him walk two blocks from his corner and he is in a strange land and will feel uneasy till he gets back.

Storekeepers are particularly conscious of neighborhood boundary lines. A woman friend of mine moved recently from one apartment to another, a distance of three blocks. When she turned up, the day after the move, at the same grocer’s that she had patronized for years, the proprietor was in ecstasy – almost in tears – at seeing her. “I was afraid,” he said, “now that you’ve moved away I wouldn’t be seeing you anymore.” To him, away was three blocks, or about 750 feet.

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Daughter From Danang (2002); directed by Gail Dolgin and Vicente Franco

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Nominated for an Oscar, Daughter From Danang is one of the most emotionally harrowing documentaries I’ve ever seen. Halfway through I started to get a very very bad feeling. Something was approaching, something unforeseen, something completely unexpected. You could feel it, like the shadow from a cloud. When that “thing” arrives, it is as wrenching as you had feared. Even more so. By the end of the film, I felt like I had been chewed up and spat back out. It is an unforgettable experience.

Directed by Gail Dolgin and Vicente Franco, Daughter From Danang tells the story of Heidi Bub’s return to Vietnam, after living her entire life in America. She was airlifted out of Vietnam in 1975 (when she was 7 years old) with the so-called “Operation Babylift,” a well-meaning messy program to remove orphans out of Vietnam and find homes in the United States. However, Heidi was not an orphan and many of the children were not orphans, they were given up by their devastated parents who wanted their children out of the country in safety. The entire thing ended up being a bureaucratic nightmare (and, horrifyingly, one of the planes, filled with Vietnamese babies, crashed), once it became apparent that many of the small children were not orphans at all. Some of their parents had been coerced by aid workers to give up their children (and the film-makers have dredged up an extremely sinister clip of footage showing a chirpy American aid worker doing just that).

Heidi was born Mai Thi Hiep. Her father was an unknown American serviceman, and her mother had many other children with another man, a man who had deserted the family and joined the Vietcong. She put her one daughter on that plane: since her daughter was mixed-race, Hiep’s mother feared reprisals from the Vietcong when they finally took over. Hiep was eventually adopted in the States by a single mother (rare, in those days), re-named Heidi, and raised in a small town in Tennessee (the same town, incidentally, which boasts the birth of the KKK). Heidi doesn’t “present” as Vietnamese at all. She “passed,” totally, as a white American, with a thick Southern accent. She was encouraged by her mysterious adoptive mother (not interviewed in the film) to not tell people she was born in Vietnam. “Just say you were born in South Carolina,” says this mysterious woman. What the hell.

Heidi was raised with many advantages and her adoptive family accepted her and loved her. But there are disturbing undercurrents. Heidi never felt loved. She was haunted by her unknown birth family. Her adoptive mother kicked her out of the house for being 10 minutes late for her curfew, and they have never spoken since. There are hints that she beat Heidi, although everyone (including Heidi) seems reluctant to label her as abusive. The love her adoptive mother gave her was completely conditional, and Heidi longed for the unconditional love of her real mother.

Heidi, now married to her high school sweetheart, a Navy officer, with a couple of kids, always yearned for her birth family and wondered who they were. Through various helpful journalists, and contacting the adoption agency, she was able to track down her mother, who still lived in Danang. Accompanied by a journalist, who spoke Vietnamese (Heidi speaks none), Heidi traveled back to Danang for a reunion with her mother and all of her brothers and sisters, still living in Vietnam.

The documentary clearly started out one way and then morphed into something else. That happens sometimes with documentaries, whose stories change mid-way through. A director of mine in college used to say to us, when we were complaining about how a certain show wasn’t what we wanted, or we were disappointed in this or that element: “It may not be the show you want, but it’s the show you got.” The directors here started out to tell the story of one of the orphans from the “Operation Babylift,” and it was ostensibly going to be a moving story about a long-delayed reunion between mother and daughter.

But that is not at all what ends up happening. The reunion scene in the airport was so emotional that I almost felt embarrassed that cameras were present. Heidi’s mother clutched at her daughter, wailing. Heidi, a sweet and polite woman, if a little naive, clutched her mother back, and you could see all of these emotions doing literal battle on Heidi’s face. She had her own emotions but her mother’s swept hers away. It was almost too much pain to be present to. You want to take a step back. But you can’t. This mother gave her daughter up and that fact has haunted her all her life. She says, at one point, “I didn’t want her to think I abandoned her.” Heidi says at one point, before meeting them, and she sounds anxious, “I hope they understand that I am completely Americanized.”

Heidi’s Vietnamese family are very poor but they have strong family bonds. They pull out all the stops to entertain her, putting together gigantic meals, taking her shopping at the market, and going on long walks through the neighborhood where Heidi had been born. These are all very nice people. But as the visit goes on (and it only lasts 7 days), Heidi starts to feel totally smothered. Completely overrun. Disoriented. Upset.

There is a culture clash. An enormous one. One starts to wish that Heidi had been better prepared for what she might run into. The journalist who accompanied her said that she had a feeling it would go the way it did, but she was so taken up with trying to teach minimal Vietnamese to Heidi that she didn’t say anything. It might have been better to skip the language lessons and say, “Here is what they will ask of you. So just be prepared for it.”

When they all, one by one, start asking her for money, start explaining that they expect her to send money back on a monthly basis, that it is now part of her job to help take care of their mother, maybe even move their mother back to the United States with her, Heidi is completely blindsided. It feels like an ambush.

The breakdown that follows is devastating. There is so much in it. Devastation on both sides. It is a train wreck that happens in slo-mo. Nobody is a villain here. Heidi is not an entitled silly American and her Vietnamese family are not rude money-grubbers. It’s a culture clash, that’s all, and the sad thing is that it could have been avoided if both sides had been prepped a bit more. There are glimpses of pain on Heidi’s mother’s face that are so profound you want to look away. And even in the midst of the breakdown in communication, so hurtful to Heidi’s mother, the mother reprimands her husband who criticizes Heidi (in Vietnamese). The mother says to him, “Have some compassion.”

To be able to say that, even as you are faced with all of the losses, and the guilt and the shame, and the disappointments … I mean, this woman’s life is basically ruined through the course of the reunion … It’s just extremely moving.

I wept for all involved. Heidi’s brother (a very kind and sweet man) says later that he feels bad about how it all went down and he is afraid that it made the Vietnamese look bad to Heidi. He says to the interviewer: “I am learning English, so I can write her a letter.”

I’m still crying.

It’s a devastating film. It starts out one way, and then it goes firmly off the rails. It is just one story but you know it is symbolic of many many more. Dolgin and Franco film it all with great sensitivity and compassion, not tipping the scales one way or the other.

I highly recommend it, painful as it is.

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