when i look deep in your eyes

Si cantas por mi, te regalo un Oscar

2010-02-02T08:52:00.008-05:00

Wow.

And so it begins: Claudia Llosa's run as the most decorated Peruvian director continues as Peru makes it for the first time to the Oscar ceremony. Up against films from Israel, Argentina, France and Germany, the real question is... will we get to hear Quechua in Los Angeles?

In other Oscar news... wait, is there other Oscar news?

Links:

Breaking news from El Comercio
Peruvian film blog Cinencuentro
Variety review from Berlin film festival
Palm Spring fest Q&A with Claudia Llosa

Peru looks deep into Oscar's eyes...

2010-01-20T14:53:00.004-05:00

I can't say I didn't hope for this. The film did, after all, win the Berlin Film Festival. And the Peruvian Embassy and Consulate in the U.S. did a bang-up job promoting the film in Los Angeles.

But boy, oh boy, it still feels awfully good to see this just-released news:

9 Foreign Language Films Advance in Oscar^® Race

Beverly Hills, CA (January 20, 2010) — Nine films will advance to the next round of voting in the Foreign Language Film category for the 82nd Academy Awards^®. Sixty-five films had originally qualified in the category.

The films, listed in alphabetical order by country, are:

Argentina, “El Secreto de Sus Ojos,” Juan Jose Campanella, director;
Australia, “Samson & Delilah,” Warwick Thornton, director;
Bulgaria, “The World Is Big and Salvation Lurks around the Corner,” Stephan Komandarev, director;
France, “Un Prophète,” Jacques Audiard, director;
Germany, “The White Ribbon,” Michael Haneke, director;
Israel, “Ajami,” Scandar Copti and Yaron Shani, directors;
Kazakhstan, “Kelin,” Ermek Tursunov, director;
The Netherlands, “Winter in Wartime,” Martin Koolhoven, director;
Peru, “The Milk of Sorrow,” Claudia Llosa, director.

Unbelievable. It's not nominated yet (and in the pack are some strong films, including the Argentine, the Australian, the German and the French, the last of which I have seen) but it's so close. It would be Peru's first nomination. Fingers are crossed starting... now!

Aughts, to be in pictures

2009-12-29T21:48:00.003-05:00

Ten years ago on New Year's Eve, I remember working at this family restaurant in Pacific Grove, California, where my wife-of-less-than-a-year came specifically to bring me to the rocks by the beach so that we could watch the world end.

Remember, of course, that the end of the last decade was also the end of the millenium, and that this would cause all our computers to go back to 1900, and then we would all be plunged into the dark ages, and chaos and, well, yes. Prince had, after all, warned us that the end was then. So, in the immortal words of the Kitchens of Distinction, what happens now?

Lots of film folks are weighing in with their best-o'-the-aughts, none better in my opinion than Nick, who has a wildly and wonderfully eclectic list with morsels of information indicating why he likes them. Given that we had some free time coming home this last weekend whilst driving on the Delaware ~~Turnpike~~ Parking Lot, I mused upon what my own list would look like. Unlike any other film person writing right now, however, I cannot claim that I have seen a gargantuan number of movies this decade, what with the arrival of a job, a child, a book and tenure (in that order) over the last few years. (This is why I like Nick's list, since it provides a checklist of the most tantalizingly raised foie gras as well as the funkiest salted popcorn.) My own preference for certain kinds of movies therefore warps this list considerably; that there are fewer that come at the end of the decade is also no surprise, given that I have seen fewer films as the decade went on. Yet these, a baker's dozen, happen to be the movies that stick in my head, which is the greatest praise I can think of:

Brokeback Mountain (2005): When we first saw this movie at Telluride, Angela and I were a little underwhelmed; rumored even then to be the break-out hit of the year, we thought it a bit slow and Heath Ledger a bit... well, mumbly. We admitted at the time that it could have been simply because it was the fifth movie of the day, and that we were damn tired. Years have passed, the hype is over, the Oscar lost, the actor buried -- and still, the movie has a haunting lilt for me. I have since taught the film as a wonderful exercise in adaptation, given that Ang Lee imbues the spaces in Proulx's story with a delicate hand.
Donnie Darko (2001): This movie may be a one-hit wonder for Richard Kelly, who has not really done anything as mystifying as his debut -- but, oh, what an experience. I honestly think my feelings for this movie are more for how I saw it than the movie itself: after the slow boil at midnight screenings, I caught this with a graduate student at a midnight screening at the now-defunct Visions Theater while my wife was out of town. Baffled yet mesmerized by the movie, we realized that this one merited some discussion -- but I had to run to catch the last bus back to Glover Park. The grad students begged me to go for coffee -- and I suddenly realized that yes, indeed, I could stay out late! The conversations that the movie engendered were generally thrilling, with all sorts of viewers postulating about what the giant rabbit torturing Jake Gyllenhaal might mean; that alone makes it one of the most thrilling movie experiences of the decade. I saw the subsequent "Director's Cut" once, and never again: his clarifying his own film made me like it far less, and I much prefer the ambiguous original release.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004): I notice that my list is terribly romantic, which amuses me given my own penchant for dark material. Sunshine, however, was irresistible from the get-go, combining the melancholy/beautiful nature of love with the wacky/ordinary nature of a small company erasing memories for those who want it. (That the pic is set in Rockville Centre, next to my hometown of Baldwin, is a bonus.) Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey are delights playing against type -- and against each other -- and the doomed couple, and the movie looks dirty/lovely throughout, with Gondry realizing that the most powerful way to use technology is to make it look ordinary.
Hable con ella (2002): This would probably be my pick if I had to only list one favorite: Almodóvar's engrossing love story that focuses, oddly enough for him, on men. I am a huge fan of the Spaniard (heck, I taught a course on him), and this movie cemented the deal for me (even though I really love Todo sobre mi madre and La mala educación -- which I didn't get at first, and now also totally enthralls me). I love the ethical strings this movie pulls at (what do you make of an otherwise nice guy who suddenly does something morally reprehensible -- and what then, when that act results in something positive?), and the movie is fun to teach to freshmen, who otherwise like their movies black-and-white, at least when it comes to good-and-bad. The performances throughout the film are matched by the multiple performances within the film: Caetano Veloso singing a hreatbreaking version of "Cucurrucú, paloma"; and the two dances that bookend the film so beautifully.
In the Mood for Love (2000): Peoplse who know my taste in movies know that I am all about sumptuous atmosphere with many layers to them. (This list only proves that point, I think.) Of the list, however, Wong Kar-Wai's sumptuous love letter to Tony Leung, Maggie Cheung and the six thousand dresses that she wears throughout the film also has a complex love story to boot. The scene where they confront (and confirm for) each other that their spouses are having an affair, set to Nat King Cole singing in Spanish, is one of my favorite scenes in film.
Madeinusa (2006): So over the last decade, I happened to write a book about Peruvian cinema and all -- and yet this film only got one line in the whole tome. I agreed to lead a discussion about this film, sight unseen, sponsored by my university library -- but when it was over, I was in such shock from what I had seen, I barely knew how to begin. This assured first feature from Claudia Llosa is my current obsession (and the subject of an article in the works, heh heh), where Magaly Solier's performance dares you to not appreciate the levels at work throughout the film.
Moulin Rouge! (2001): We drove all the way to Santa Cruz back in the day to see this film, and were not that impressed when we saw it. After three separate times of teaching a course on the musical, I now completely love this film. Part of it is really wishing that I were Ewen McGregor; part of it, I'm sure, is that he sings "Your Song," which I serenaded Angela with before we were married; part of it must also be that Angela and I duet on the soundtrack when we go on long drives. But the flash and dazzle of the movie (somehow) holds, and more effectively that one would think. (It even does Singin' in the Rain one better by actually making the only new song a plot point.)
La niña santa (2004): I don't know whether this is the most melancholy melodrama or terrifying horror film I have seen in ages, but Argentine Lucretia Martel worked magic over the course of this decade. This whole movie, revealing the tensely wound stories festering in a hotel in the same location as her debut film, La ciénaga, seems to be shot in close-up, providing us with an uncomfortably intimate view of people gone horribly wrong.
Punch-Drunk Love (2002): I still really love this movie, more so than the other PTA flicks, largely because it becomes a minimalist tone-poem of sorts for Adam Sandler (whose shtick finally gets exposed as horrific rather than funny) and Emily Watson (who is, like, ah-maaazing). This was one of the first films I ever assigned for my introductory film class for their final papers, which yielded the most dynamic set of papers I have ever read. Th
Reconstruction (2003): Even though Breaking the Waves is one of my favorite films ever, I tired of Dogme films from Denmark by the middle of the decade (this, despite my love for Dancer in the Dark). Hence, I found this truffle from Christoffer Boe (seen at Telluride) a true visual delight, with an intriguingly meta-narrative that was beautiful and painful at once.
The Triplets of Belleville (2003): Another Telluride find. As I was contemplating the really fantastic Pixar flicks throughout the decade -- especially the work of Brad Bird, Ratatouille and The Incredibles -- I found myself coming back to this largely wordless gem, another love poem for yesteryear's animation, even as it uses some cutting edge processes to achieve them. (The bicyclist's wheels, for example, are digitally rendered.) The film has a joyful soul that is tinged with melancholy, and made it truer than most of the non-animated films that we see.
Yi Yi (2000): Yet another Telluride find, and a surprise hit there in the same year that another Taiwanese film took most of the thunder. I could not imagine a three-hour-long film about contemporary Taiwan, performed by many non-actors, would be even remotely interesting. How very wrong I was: I was riveted throughout the screening, and have every time I have seen it since. This was also the reason I was profoundly sound when the director, Edward Yang, died toward the end of the decade.
Y tu mamá también (2001): You knew this was coming. After all, Alfonso Cuarón happens to be the topic of my new project. And, let's face it, those eyes at the top of this blog come from this film. I have now seen this startling movie at least a dozen times, sometimes for class, sometimes for myself, and I am still finding new elements to the film. I first saw this in DC at a preview screening with a lot of gray heads in the audience, most of whom were confused by the sex-laden road-trip without confronting the really nuanced commentary lying just beneath the surface. Cuarón was there -- and now, oh, how I wish I had said something. That his other two films (Children of Men and yes, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) also could have made this list may say something about my auteurist obsession -- but may also say something about the quality of his work as well.

Videodrome

2009-12-23T16:11:00.002-05:00

The current state of the weirdness of our movie-viewing culture (where we watch things on cable, on demand, online, on Netflix, on, Donder! on, Blitzen!) has resulted in the downsizing of Blockbuster. This should surprise absolutely no one, given their gigantic expansion nearly everywhere and the subsequent squeezing out of nearly every locally owned video store. (My own local store, Video Americain, is a mini-chain of four stores, and wonderfully eccentric. When you want to get, say Desk Set, you wonder whether it is listed under "Classics," "Katherine Hepburn," "Comedies" or "Walter Lang." Inevitably, you have to ask one of the semi-snotty employees. I love this place.) I have no love for Blockbuster whatsoever, given that they inevitably never had anything I wanted. At the one located 10 minutes away from my in-laws' place on Cape Cod, an employee finally admitted to me that although they receive virtually everything, anything that had not been rented in three months went on the "Previously Viewed For Sale" rack.

Actually, this is the only reason I ever liked Blockbuster: because the stuff I wanted would rue of quickly go on sale in the discount rack. This was particularly true of anything subtitled. ("Sir, you do realize that this movie is subtitled." "Yes, that's why I want it. The other ten in the basket are also subtitled.")

So, I have to say that the wonderful thing about the mass Blockbuster closing has been the sale. And because I don't need a copy of The Hangover, I can get all sorts of cool stuff that everyone has passed over. This is particularly cool now that all DVDs have gone down to $3 per disc. And hey, for me, this is a tax deduction! (Seriously, I'll probably use several of these in class; I already showed Hedwig and the Angry Inch as the final exam in my course on the musical.)

I had already passed through the store in Langley Park, MD a few weeks ago and hope to swing by the College Park one before they close when I get back to the DC area; yesterday, I cleaned out the one here in North Falmouth.

I can't be the only film geek doing this, however. When Hollywood Video closed last fall near campus, I picked up all sorts of cool stuff, including the Criterion version of Overlord; in Langley Park, I nabbed a whole bunch of Spanish-language stuff like Cilantro y Perejil and Tésis. I'm curious to know what other folks have picked up -- so, in an effort of full disclosure, here is what I nabbed from North Falmouth (and if you want to know why, just ask -- and I will tell why):

(Note: I'd actually like to pick up a copy of some Tyler Perry movie, but they were out of Diary of a Mad Black Woman. Can anyone suggest a better Tyler Perry?)

Be it resolved...

2009-12-21T22:59:00.002-05:00

...that my New Year's resolution will be to revive this (and the other) blog. Oh yes, it will happen.

O, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune!

2009-06-13T23:05:00.002-04:00

This morning, Angela and I were awakened at around 5:30AM by, of all things, people screaming at each other. Perhaps if we lived in another neighborhood this would be something de rigeur, but in Takoma Park, it's a bit unusual. It is even more unusual that I woke up at all: I am known, after all, for having slept through bombs and four-year-olds crawling over my body. This must have been some fight.

After I discerned what was going on, I thought to myself, Who the heck is this? Our neighbors? No -- it's definitely a man and a woman fighting. The new folks across the way with the baby? No no, and besides, her parents are staying with them, so why would they be outside? The relatively new folks behind us? The semi-redneck next door? No, none of them, because the voices were too... too...

"I can't believe you would say that!!"
"Oh yeah? Tell me: HOW COULD YOU FUCK HIM??!"
"Aaargh!!"

...young. Ah yes, the world of the young, when everything is overly dramatic and the world is going to end at any moment. Granted, there is clearly some infidelity going on here and, well, clearly some craziness is inspired, perhaps warranted. And goodness knows that when it comes to movies, I'm a total sap for over-the-top melodrama. To spar on a public street in quiet Takoma Park at 5:30 in the morning, however?

Well, that's something for the young, I think. Let 'em have it. I'm thrilled to be old. Let me go back to sleep.

Hot off the press!

2009-06-08T23:16:00.003-04:00

Back in 1998, I was floundering about for a dissertation topic when I took a graduate level French course on Cahiers du Cinéma with Carina Yervasi and was introduced to the concept of film journals. By this point, I had already learned a great deal about Latin American film history and, as a final project for this class, I decided to examine each and every page of Cahiers to look for material on Latin American film. This proved to be an arduous project -- but, oddly enough, also an exhilerating one, of sorts. (That paper is still in my electronic "trunk" of sorts, trying to burst its chains to try publication again. Quieto, quieto, soon, my friend...) I started looking for Latin American film journals written around the period of the 1960s and 70s, a high point of filmmaking from the region and discovered that the only one to survive the period of New Latin American Cinema from beginning to supposed end happened to come from Lima.

Lima? Peru?? Home?? But were there any movies made around then? Then why would one of the most respected film journals in Latin America come from a place that really didn't make any movies? It didn't make any sense.

Eleven years later, you can finally really read what I learned. Behold: my book. Finally. I hold the first copy, before the go on sale for real at the end of the month (although Amazon has it available at a discount for pre-order now! I know, I hate Amazon -- but, hey, discount!). In this picture, you can also see the snazzy cover art. I have to say: UPNE definitely knows how to make a pretty book. They rock.

Eleven years. Given that I've already started the next project, here's hoping it's not another decade until the next one. Huzzah!

Don't look back in anger

2009-05-31T15:55:00.005-04:00

It has been quite a spring semester. Much teaching, a couple off-campus talks, a frazzled dash to the end of the semester and, oh yeah, tenure. The semester ended and the nuclear family rallied off to Lima for about 10 days, in between the spring and summer semesters, to meet the large extended part of the family residing down south.

If I blog lots about Peru over the next few days, it will undoubtedly be random and in fits and starts. Nonetheless, I figure I should do this. Peru is on my mind quite a bit now these days, and not just because I've been talking up Peruvian film (a presentation at the alma mater, where I also found out that the book will physically be done on Monday! whee!). The trip was the first time I have been "home" in about five years and Lima has changed in many significant ways.

A plus from the trip -- and, admittedly, a main goal -- was to get Xan interested in Peru in general. Given that he has a cousin who is only two months older than he is, this was an easy task. Now, all of a sudden, he isn't shutting out all the Spanish he is hearing, and has been mildly amused to find that folks speak the language not just in Peru. I'm not sure if we'll make like my parents and ship him off to South America when he turned 12 and surly (which is what happened to me), but who knows?

The Big News

2009-04-27T12:19:00.004-04:00

From the beginning of this blog, the masthead has read "Musings on movies, fatherhood, the pre-tenure stresses, life in Takoma Park and other randomness."

The careful reader will observe that the masthead has now subtly been altered.

Because I am "pre-tenure" no more.

(aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!!!! ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!)

Thank you, thank you, un millón de gracias to everyone who has helped me through this.

Perhaps needless to say, I don't think my grading will be done by tomorrow.

If we have to wear green on the 17th...

2009-03-18T02:04:00.005-04:00

...then let it be cinematically green!

Great Expectations

A Little Princess

Children of Men

Sólo con tu pareja

(And check out the eyes in the banner, from Y tu mamá también, which I actually screened tonight to my class!)

Celebrating the two filmmakers I most associate with the color green: director Alfonso Cuarón and cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki. Not even remotely Irish, just like me!

Going against Amazon

2009-03-14T23:10:00.004-04:00

Truth be told, I love Amazon. Not only do I have friends who work there (hi, Ted!), but it is an impressive space where one can find almost anything. I have found all sorts of obscure movies, CDs and books, many from used bookstores and bought at wonderful discounts. (Hour of the Assassin for 85 cents plus shipping! Woohoo!!) As a soon-to-be-published author myself, I will also admit that it has given me a minor kick to find my own book up there already available for pre-order, even as I am frantically in the midst of doing the index as I type this. (Although I am not actually attending my 20th high school reunion in a month, somehow the Amazon listing legitimizes my work for all my former classmates who otherwise could care less about academia.)

And then, on the blogroll to the right, I saw this: "Saving Shaman Drum."

Oh no, I thought. Not Shaman Drum.

The fact that Shaman Drum might be on its last legs probably should not be a surprise to me, but it fills me with great sorrow. I arrived in Ann Arbor right around the time that they moved into their current space on State Street, and I attended the opening party because it was a cool thing for a first-year graduate student in the humanities to do. I remember wandering around that party with my old friend Jack Chen (now atUCLA, apparently) as he made faces at a baby facing backwards in a backpack. I also got a phone call two days afterwards with a message that I had won a door prize: a new dictionary. I don't need a new dictionary, I have a perfectly good old one, I thought, and went in intending to ask to trade in the dictionary for perhaps a gift certificate so that I might be able to buy more textbooks. That is, until they handed me the gigantic, lovely American Heritage Dictionary, which immediately and inexplicably made me drool, causing me to say "thank you" and head for the door with a book that sits on the main floor of my house and still gets used regularly.

That book-love is what makes news of Shaman Drum's near-passing so sad -- and, as I read with horror, I realized that the reason it is probably failing is something I currently practice at my own institution: making my reading lists available to students early so that they can purchase them online. In my case, the reasoning is simply because the only option for our students at AU is the soul-less Follett bookstore which routinely has horrible service, never orders a sufficient amount of books and prices everything way over the list price. I have a number of saved e-mails where I tried to get someone to contact me about a book I had ordered that I was assured would come in, which never came in at all. This set my whole syllabus for that semester in a tailspin. I have not forgiven them for that. As such, I have actually recommended to students that they not buy at the bookstore, that they take the search into their own hands.

In part, however, my reasoning behind this was simply because our own university bookstore has a monopoly on the situation; at Michigan, I had the option of choosing between two more mainstream stores, or this little local one. I opted for the latter and loved it. At Dartmouth and UCSC, there were also other grass-roots oriented textbook-stores that successfully cut into the monopoly stores with better service and prices; in the case of the former, Wheelock Books, I was actually one of the first employees when they opened in the year after I graduated. I always wished I had another option at AU, but perhaps the large nature of Washington couldn't support that.

Shaman Drum, however, was much more than a textbook experience for me: they really do have an amazing commitment to the humanities and cultural studies in general, and I spent hours as a graduate student poring over their shelves for stuff that I should probably read. Given that my parents still live in Ann Arbor, I have actually gone there now that I am much older and done something similar (although doing it with a two- or three-year-old in tow is less of an idyllic experience, since he wants to visit a different section from the one I want to go to).

I miss Shaman Drum and it pains me that they might go. That said, I am now actively considering joining their Great Lakes Literary Arts Center solely to help them out -- and if there is a book I need, I may even bypass my own local bookstore (that would be Politics and Prose) to have them ship from Ann Arbor, if it will help them out. I certainly hope they stay alive, as that store helped shape me into the academic that I am in many ways. They deserve the support.

The questions only get tougher

2009-03-08T22:09:00.002-04:00

To his parents, after seeing the WAMU radio tower, "Why does the radio come over in waves? How does it get to our radio?"

To his mother, on the metro ride into work: "Mama, where does the sidewalk end?"

And, in a moment I'm not sure I necessarily want repeated, to his female babysitter lying next to him in bed after they have played for a few hours: "What's your name?"

I am turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding

2009-03-01T22:20:00.003-05:00

Yes, well, I dare anyone to say the above isn't true.

But that's not the reason I'm posting it here. It also happens to be a line from Walt Whitman's massive poem "Song of Myself." Despite the fact that I was an English major in college, have a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and currently teach literature at a university, I had never read Whitman's poem. This is a major oversight, one that I cannot even justify by my emphasis in Latin American literature -- for I knew that José Martí's "Our América" is a response in the tradition of Whitman. I cannot even justify this as an oversight on the film front. After all, upon coming back to the United States for college, several of my friends wrote to me back in Lima that I had to see this movie which was all about me; when I went to see it, I discovered that ol' W.W. lorded over the English classroom like a spectre, sounding his "barbaric yawp" like the "sweaty toothed madman" that he is.

In any case, the oversight has been corrected in a most wonderful way.

On Friday, my colleague Linda Voris hosted a one-time public reading of "Song of Myself." It was possible to say that she decided to do this "just becuase," but she explained at the outset that this whole endeavor was inspired on Obama's inauguration day and the fervor his election alone generated. Each participant selected one of the 52 sections of the poem.

My colleague Katherine (who, mind you, we only just discovered was also an English major at Dartmouth at the same time I was!) threw down the gauntlet when she announced her choice, lamenting that "I would love to do #24, but I think that one should be read by someone manly." Naturally, I took this as a challenge; naturally (and blindly, really), I chose that selection.

I would suggest trying to read it out loud for yourself to see if you get the same results. I only read it once to myself the night before while watching ER, and discovered I really could not read it any other way with with a low, gravelly voice. It was all about sensuality, the corporeal -- and it was really fun to read:

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whateve I touch or am touch'd from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles and all the creeds.

If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,
Transluscent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breat that presses against other breasts it shall be you!

I mean, really. You don't get better than this. No wonder why I am a Unitarian. I even got to do an encore when a couple people didn't show up and I got to pinch-hit with #42 as well. This particular section got a big laugh:

I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omniverous lines and must not write any less,
And must fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

The entire reading was really a magical experience, one I haven't had with poetry for a long time. All the different voices -- men, women, all with different accents and inflections -- made for a really exciting evening, one that finished in three hours, which was much shorter than I imagined. I wonder if it is a common occurrence to read Whitman like this -- or whether any other poets merit such a reading. Certainly, I'm using a bookstore gift certificate that has been burning a hole in my jacket pocket to buy some Whitman before I lose all this feeling.

And as for my section? Let me put it this way: three students came up to me afterwards to tell me that they were going to have a hard time coming to my class again next week; a fourth said he now never plans to miss any of my classes again.

Cine peruano es lo mejor

2009-02-14T16:58:00.007-05:00

And when I say that Peruvian film is the best, this time (and for the first time) I actually have some proof to back me up.

A few weeks ago, Peruvian film blogs were all aflutter because Claudia Llosa's new film, La teta asustada, became the first Peruvian film to play in competition at the Berlin Film Festival, one of the top film festivals in the world (the level of Cannes, Venice, etc.). The movie considers the idea that the fear experienced during the period of high terrorism in Peru (the Shining Path years through the 1980s, which actually correspond with my own time in Lima) can be trasmitted through breast milk across generations, particularly among those who were raped. Certainly, Peruvian filmmaking has tackled the subject of Sendero Luminoso before, but perhaps not quite from a perspective this personal or traumatic, certianly not from the perspective of a woman. Selection for the festival was huge news and one which the Peruvian cineblogosphere got very excited about. Sure, Peruvian films had gone to San Sebatian, or Sundance, but none had ever gotten this far. It was quite an honor to be nominated, and the Peruvians were having a great time with it.

I'm pretty sure no one expected the movie to win.

And yet, lo and behold, there you can see Claudia Llosa, the director of La teta asustada kissing her Golden Bear. Reuters reports that Llosa commented simply, "This is for Peru. This is for our contry." The first time a Peruvian film actually gets to play in the game, it wins.

Wow.

Granted, I have a huge vested interest in this film and Peruvian film in general since, after all, I have a book on the topic coming out in just a few months. (You can even pre-order it! Shameless plug!) I have not even seen the film, but the trailer is very impressive. I also confess to being a smitten fan of Llosa's only other film, Madeinusa, which I knew I had to write about even before I finished watching it. That movie completely rocked my foundation about film in general, not to mention films coming from my "other country." It is beautiful, disturbing, unique in its storytelling. I am not surprised that Llosa's follow-up appears to have similar qualities.

Very few people are pointing out the fact that Llosa is only the third woman to ever direct a feature-length movie in Peru (along with Nora de Izcué and Marianne Eyde). Filmmaking (and film criticism) in Peru has been dominated by men since the very beginning and the number of impressive films centered around women are very few; even fewer are those focusing on Quechua-speaking women. The win is a huge thunderbolt to Peruvian film and may shake many foundations there.

Not to mention that drop-dead gorgeous lead actress Magaly Solier now has the honor of being kissed on the hand by none other than drop-dead gorgeous (and amazonian in her own way) jury president Tilda Swinton.
I can't wait to see the film for myself. ¡Viva Perú!

UPDATE: Variety has its review up as well as coverage of the event. And there is a YouTube clip of the announcement, including a mesmerizing speech by Magaly in Quechua. (No, I cannot translate it.)

If you're looking for something to watch on DVD this week...

2009-02-10T19:49:00.003-05:00

...AU's Media Services currently has my suggested flicks on their blog. Feel free to peruse at your leisure -- and let me know what you think if you've seen any of them.

All of a sudden, I'm glad I didn't write about the "laundry bags incident"

2009-02-09T15:37:00.005-05:00

If you have a computer, you know about the "25 Things" meme that is heading all over Facebook at the moment. In fact, if you don't own a computer, you know about this, because other media outlets are also covering the ubiquity of the phenomenon.

Such as the Washington Post. Funny enough, this article got brought up at church yesterday, but I didn't think much about it -- until it was pointed out to me that one of my own responses was actually quoted in the article. (If I hadn't thought about it as little as possible, I would have easily figured out who would be writing such an article.) The piece is written fairly well, particularly given the form.

I'll let you figure out which one is mine. No, I did not poop in my pants as an adult.

(h/t to jenny for pointing this out)

Career moves

2009-02-02T00:12:00.003-05:00

Recently, Xan let us know his plans for the future. If I'm not mistaken, this was offered up to Angela spontaneously, not as a reply to "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

In order of how this was happen, Xan is going to:

Drive a train
Be Tigeroo's dad
Be a dinosaur
Go to work at AU
Stop working so that he can be at home

Sounds like a plan to me!

In which I offer proof that Laura Brown is a better cook than I am

2009-01-29T23:34:00.002-05:00

The cake is less than she hoped it would be. She tries not to mind. It is only a cake, she tells herself. It is only a cake. ...

According to the clock on the wall, it is barely ten-thirty. She has plenty of time to make another cake. This time, she will prevent crumbs from getting caught in the icing. This time, she will trace the letters with a toothpick, so they'll be centered, and she'll leave the roses for last.
- Michael Cunningham, The Hours

Exhibit A:
On the left, you'll see the dregs of cake #1, which was an attempt at a double-laayered chocolate cake, aborted when both cakes stuck to the bottom of the pans they baked in, despite my having "lightly greased" each pan per the directions. Cake #2 had the opposite problem. While this time I greased and floured the pan, it was a bundt pan and the cake came out fairly quickly ... too quickly, in fact, as it practically fell apart as I turned it onto the plate. I ran out of time to make a third cake, before I went to pick up the person who said, "There will be cake on my birthday."

Unlike Laura Brown, however, I love my spouse immensely. So I resisted the urge to read Mrs. Dalloway (again) and go for a long drive.

Ah yes, and happy birthday, belovéd. I love you, clearly more than the cake loves me.

Coming up on America's Next Top Scullery Maid

2009-01-19T22:05:00.008-05:00

Inaugural Ball guru Roxanne Roberts (along with many others) says that one should only ever think of wearing flats to one of these events.

Yes, well, tell that to my wife who bought the near-platform high heels yesterday. "But they're OK!" she says. "There are no seats," I say. "I'm going to wear them," she says. They really do kick ass.

To prove that ~~they are comfortable~~ she might not be crippled for life, she decides to do housework in the shoes.

After an hour and a half, her feet are still fine -- and, better yet, the floor is clean!

Let's see Tyra rock stilletos and a dustpan like that!

Stepping out!

2009-01-18T21:38:00.003-05:00

Inaugural fever has hit DC like a ton of port-a-potties. Years ago, I envisioned there one day being someone I was excited to go see at an Inauguration Parade; that day has arrived -- but now I have a three-year-old and, wouldn't you know, presidents are inaugurated in this country in the cold. As such, we have generally been avoiding Inaugural mania while the warning keeps popping up that the city will quadruple in population for this event and that all forms of transportation, including passenger pigeon, will be overloaded on the day of the event. A quiet day at home, we thought, watching it on TV.

Then, a few days ago, a colleague sent us an invitation to the local Takoma Park Inaugural Ball. This seemed super-fun: our crunchy liberal hometown with a potluck affair, complete with dancing and childcare. What's not to love? This sounded pretty neat. He mentioned this at a meeting and wondered what we were doing in the morning. I said we were probably just watching the event on TV -- but that maybe we should all watch it together? Brunch! An Inaugural brunch for those of us with kids too chicken to brave everything! Sold. My menu developed easily:

vegetarian breafast tacOs
cherry-whole wheat scOnes
cheeriOs (or the equivalent from trader jOe's)
bacOn
dOnuts
cOffee
Orange jOOce (with champagne to make mimOsas)
bagels (this, requested by Xan when we told him what the theme was)

Fabulous. Then all we needed to do was get the tickets for the Takoma Park ball! Angela had been hounding me to get them, if we had indeed decided to go. She, the antisocial one, had left this decision up to me; I, in my inimitable manner, had procrastinated.

At Xan's gymnastics class, our friend KC told me that she was trying to procure Inaugural Ball tickets. "Really?" I said. "Yeah," she said. "Would you want to go?" "Well, I think we're going to the local Takoma Park one," I said, realizing I still hadn't gotten tickets yet. I came home and hopped online to get the tickets.

Sold out.

Damn.

Our one chance to get decked out and hang out with the neighbors. Ah well. A quiet evening at home, then. No big deal.

And then -- KC calls Angela, wonders if I've told her about the Inaugural tickets. Tells her that she's secured four. Wants to know if we'd like to accompany them.

Really?

Really?

Within the span of about an hour, Angela in particular goes from being totally blasé about Inaugural Day brouhaha to joining the madness, pulling a U-turn the likes of which I haven't seen since we got engaged (at which point she-who-had-never-thought-she-would-get-married all of a sudden bought a trunkload of wedding-oriented magazines). She happens to be at the second-hand store when she gets the call and lands a beaded evening gown for $35. I use Facebook to procure childcare. We spend hours at the mall today looking for sundry items (control-top pantyhose, platform stilletos, a nice dark shade of lipstick -- and then Angela needed some things as well). We come home, Angela finds that the beaded dress is too long, but then she comes out in a black, slinky thing that she had in the back of the closet and I say, damn! and insist she only think of wearing that. Xan, getting into the spirit, puts on an elephant costume; we worry that this is the first sign he might turn into a Republican and contemplate therapy. Angela does a dry-run of fab makeup for the evening, comes out in full get-up, I say damn!! and hurry Xan to bed.

We don't even know what time the shindig begins.

We're a little excited.

More to come...

What I get for not updating this blog more frequently

2009-01-17T13:34:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was my second day of class in the new semester. I teach my upper-level class in the early afternoon, half of which have taken one of my classes before; in other words, they know me and my idiosyncrasies fairly well. My introductory film class, however, meets at 8:30AM. I hate teaching at this time; they hate taking classes at this time; we all nonetheless try to make it all work.

I had my computer open and up on the big screen in the room, showing some clips and the trailer for Singin' in the Rain. In discussing trailers, one person mentioned Don LaFontaine, the voice-over artist for trailers who recently passed away; reminded by the mention of his name, I asked if anyone had seen the trailer for Comedian, the Jerry Seinfeld documentary. No one had, so I said, "Give me a moment to open my browser. It's definitely worth it." I pulled up the browser and continued with whatever I was saying while I was waiting for Firefox to open.

In the middle of a sentence, however, the entire class started laughing. I stopped, turned around.

Naturally, my browser opens on my blog. If you scroll down to see the posting immediately before this one, you'll see what was displayed on a very large screen behind my head. Photo included.

I turned back, very red in the face, and said, "I can explain that..."

Let's see if that shows up on evaluations.

Do ya think I'm sexy?

2009-01-08T13:27:00.004-05:00

This is my official photograph for the university. It's a couple years old, but it gets the point across. I'm not going to sell any magazines, it's true, but I do OK.

Oh, except, wait. I forget that the above photograph demonstrates that I'm sexy as all get-out.

Granted, perhaps you could just learn that from my wife after a couple shots of vodka. But according to a new poll, apparently it's not just me, but my profession that makes me sexy. I received this from another professor in my department, and responded that now I really need to hit the gym this semester; another person replied, "Why bother? Just wear your glasses!" (To wit, Angela has actually rejected my tentative flirting with contact lenses, since she indeed thinks glasses are better.)

So how do I translate this to higher student evaluations? Hmmm....

Best Supporting Actress, Class of 2008: Diane Wiest

2009-01-04T20:56:00.004-05:00

Gosh, I wasn't going to do this this year. I have been embarrassingly lax in going to the movies this year. I said this last year but I did an even worse job this year. Stinkylulu has been reminding me for weeks about this, and I've been pained about it because I thought, "You know what? I have nothing."

And yet...

It's the list that's currently up that inspired me. Granted, it's a very strong list, which is typical of this particular effort, since people really defend their choices well. In particular, I noted the various nods toward Synecdoche, New York, which had a slew of wonderful acting going on, mostly by women and mostly in supporting roles. (The casting of this film is so uncanny that I had to get to the end of the flick to realize that Samantha Morton was not doing double duty, that my crush-object Emily Watson looks so much like Morton made digital editing unnecessary. Michelle Williams also proves once again that her previous nomination was no fluke.)

But I realized that my own favorite from that film was missing from the list.

I'm discovering over the course of these blogathons that I'm drawn to the performance that for me yields the crux of the entire story. For me this year, and particularly for this film, that performance was masterfully maneuvered by the queen of contemporary supporting actressing, Diane Wiest. Really, has she done lead work that equals the strength of her supporting performances? It seems redundant to mention it here, and her again -- and yet, it is so deserved here. The character of Ellen becomes the one that Caden melts into (or is it the other way around); Wiest proves to be the one person able to be dismissive at first blush as she enters the world of Synecdoche, only to take it over completely (and literally) by the end. We believe her in this position. Part of it, I realize, is from the power that her supporting-actressing yields here -- but it's power well-used by Kauffman, to the extent that she only needs to appear in the last quarter of a rather long film to make it work.

For these reasons and more, I submit my candidate for Best Supporting Actress 2008: Diant Wiest.

This entry is part of the 3rd Annual Supporting Actress Blogathon -- please feel free to visit the other sites on the list, since I know for sure they have probably seen more films than I have and the list is always fun and varied

Like a kick in the head (Actually, not "like" at all.)

2008-12-29T13:37:00.001-05:00

Guess why my son has this really nasty, gigantic bump on his head?

(A) He really wanted to be a unicorn for Christmas. Or a rhino.
(B) He was brained in the head by the school bully with a wooden car
(C) Voldemort stopped by, but messed up the scar.
(D) He had an encounter with the Przewalski's horse at Zoolights the other night.
(E) He is a klutz, falling down on a concrete step near the Capitol.

Despite (B) having actually happened earlier (see the other bump on his forehead, now almost healed) this time it's actually D. This confirms once again that he is, after all, my son.

The snow always shines on TV

2008-12-26T12:15:00.001-05:00

Earlier this month as the holiday season came upon us, I was chatting with my dean about favorite holiday flicks; my head currently embroiled in Ernst Lubitsch films, I mentioned The Shop Around the Corner as a favorite. "For me," she said, "I love nothing better than the hokey wonderland that is White Christmas. I just love that film."

"If you can believe this," I said, "I've never seen it."

Her jaw dropped. Indeed, somehow I have never managed to catch Bing, Danny, Rosemary and Vera-Ellen do their post-WW2 tinsel-wrapped spectacle in any form (television, video or otherwise). I have no idea why I missed this, since I'm a sucker for everything that the movie stands for: musicals, Bing Crosby crooning, implausibly mild Vermont winters, etc. My dean (who is not a film expert, mind you) was genuinely upset that I had not seen this; within two days, a DVD copy that had been lying around her house appeared in my departmental mailbox. The end-of-semester grading mayhem quickly commenced, however, and I didn't get to watching it, despite her constant cajoling in the hallways, until a few days before Christmas, with my parents in town and a cold wind blowing outside.

Since I'm still ovewhelmed by holiday cooking, I'll say that my first response is that White Christmas is something like a meringue: a light, fluffy, pretty confection that isn't very filling. I was stunned to find that a drag routine done by two of the most popular jocks in my Peruvian high school was lifted verbatim from this movie (costumes and all!); I was less stunned to discover that Donald O'Connor was originally slated to do Danny Kaye's part, given its similarity to his role in Singin' in the Rain.

I decided to post about the movie after reading a holiday posting by Glenn Kenny on the film, mainly because one particular aspect piqued my professional curiosity and has stuck with me. The plot finds Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye up in Vermont at Christmastime, where their beloved general has fallen on hard time following the War while running an inn; to cheer him up, the boys decide to ask all the members of their infantry who live in New England to come to Vermont for a surprise. In order get them there quickly, however, Bing decides to go to New York and appear on the Ed Harrison television show (Harrison also being a fellow infantryman, coincidentally enough) to encourage them to come. Everyone watches this show, including the general (Kaye must fake a knee injury to get the general out of the room from where the television set is located) and Rosemary Clooney, who watches backstage from the nightclub act that she is doing in New York when she mistakenly thinks Bing is using the general's plight for cash.

This use of television fascinates me and I want to investigate it more. For one thing, using television as part of the plot seems to run counter to the entire point of the movie in the first place, since the film was known and marketed at the time for being the first to be filmed in Vistavision, Paramount's entry into the widescreen market. From what I understand (and it's been a while since I've read Bolton's book on widescreen), this technological innovation was meant to combat the encroachment of television into the entertainment market. (Drive-in theaters and 3D also were technological innovations, but widescreen is the most interesting to me). It is therefore somewhat surprising for me to see a television screen within a wide theatrical screen. From an international perspective, this might have been the first time that some countries would have seen televisions and how they might be used; according to this, television didn't arrive in Peru until 1958, and this movie was released four years earlier and was undoubtedly screened there. So what was the general reaction to seeing television in this film? And what about in the United States? Why did Paramount choose to include the use of television as part of the plot, when the movie industry was trying to combat television? How many other movies in the 1950s did this? What kind of relationship between TV and movies existed for this?

We'll see. Give me your thoughts, if you want, and let's see what happens.

Jingle bells all the way, man!

2008-12-24T16:55:00.005-05:00

'Tis the season for all sorts of wonderment. Due to my potential jury duty (which so far hasn't actually occurred, yay), we stayed in the DC area this year and instead brought my parents here. This means that we've gotten to experience the holidays in DC for the first time. It's been a lot of fun to actually put up the tree and lights and actually enjoy them for Christmas. Santa will be coming down our chimney (which, come to think of it, may mean that we shouldn't start a fire in the fireplace tonight). We almost went to Michigan, which is currently overrun with bad weather, so this turned out to be great foresight on our part, even if Xan won't quite have a white Christmas. And we're having some good friends over for Christmas dinner whose families are otherwise far away (in Kazakhstan, Hong Kong and Michigan again), which may be accompanied by Stinkylulu's holiday soundtrack which he sent. (Should I play the "Festive" CD, or the "Filthy" one? Hm.)

For me, one of the funnier stories has to come from a couple weeks ago, when I had a bit of deja vu. Oma and Opa were due to arrive in a couple days and I was started to indicate to Xan that they would be arriving. "Are you excited that Oma and Opa are coming for Christmas?" I asked in the car.

He thought for a moment. "No," he said.

I was a little taken aback. "Really? Why not?"

"I don't want Oma and Opa to come for Christmas," he said with finality. "I want Ruben and Gabriel and Liam to come for Christmas." These are three of his best friends at school, part of what I call The Gang. The first two are twins, the second is the sweetest kid ever.

All three, however, also happen to be Jewish. "Well, Xan, that's sweet, but they don't celebrate Christmas?"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because they celebrate Channukah." I knew he knew about that, because a parent had done a special thing at school about Channukah and he was therefore well-versed on dreidels and menorahs.

"Why do we have to celebrate Christmas? Why can't we celebrate Channukah?" he asked.

And suddenly, I was taken back about thirty years to when I started school myself, only to discover that all of my friends were Jewish as well. Growing up on Long Island, where everyone is either Roman Catholic or Jewish, I was a bit of the outcast as the Hispanic Protestant.

We have since gotten totally into Oma, Opa and Christmas (with all the songs, as you can see below, and the going to church), so we're dedinitely in the swing of things. And man, Santa is a great bribe to get a wayward child in line. What will I do tomorrow?

Merry Christmas, everyone!

A great way to fall off the wagon

2008-11-27T10:47:00.004-05:00

While I've been grading, my dear friend Marcy has pointed out that our dear alcoholic current president has apparently been partaking of the national drink of Peru.

In an effort to explain the significance of the pisco sour, I provide below a recipe for the drink that I had published in the International Cookbook for AU's International Student and Scholar Services office. (Please feel free to order the cookbook, which has been created to raise funds for an emergency fund for international students on campus, something greatly needed. Not only does the book make a great stocking stuffer, but you'll find a whole menu that I've come up with with Peruvian food.)

Pisco sours also make a great drink for Thanksgiving, as would making the stuffing infused with some pisco, as I did a few years ago. If I only knew the president would have partaken with us, I would have invited him over for dinner!

Pisco Sour
Submitted by Jeffrey Middents, Assistant Professor of Literature
Serves 4

History tells us that the War of the Pacific ended in 1883, but disputes linger on over 100 years later. The northern territory claimed by Chileans in the middle of the Atacama desert turned out to be very rich in nitrates, copper and saltpeter – and happened to be a wonderful growing area for grapes. Today, Chile is internationally recognized for alcoholic beverages made from grapes, including a lucrative wine industry and, recently, pisco. Peruvians would claim otherwise: a very potent type of brandy distilled from grapes, pisco has historical connections to many areas of southern Peru, including Chicha, Ica, Arequipa, Lima, Tacna and – not so surprisingly – Pisco. Although both countries now make pisco, there are subtle differences, primarily involving how long the fermented drink is aged. Although Peru has filed with the World Intellectual Property Organization for proprietary rights to the drink, it may still be easier to find Chilean pisco in the United States. As a Peruvian, I would disapprove and tell you to purchase it online... but if don’t tell your guests, they’ll never know.

The pisco sour is a very simple drink to make, and a favorite among tourists. I will warn you that its taste similar to lemonade masks the very potent alcohol. Being American and not knowing the Peruvians are notorious for starting everything late, my father mistakenly arrived on time for a function in his honor held in Peru in the 1960s and started drinking this tasty concoction – only to find he had become rather inebriated by the time the event got under way. (Thankfully, he didn’t make a scene.) The recipe I am providing here is a more traditional preparation; in a rush, my good friend Barbara says that substitute limeade concentrate for the limes and sugar syrup works just as well. The general proportions are 3 parts pisco for 1 part juice and 1 part sugar syrup.

½ cup sugar
3 Tablespoons water
7 ½ oz. pisco*
1 egg white
2 ½ oz. key lime juice
Ice, lots of it
Angostura bitters (optional)

Combine sugar in a small saucepan with just enough water to moisten it. Heat over very low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat and let cool for a few minutes.
Add the lime juice and pisco to the still warm sugar syrup and beat quickly until everything is mixed well. Put into blender and add enough ice to double the volume.
Blend at high speed for approximately 30 seconds, until the ice has broken up. Add the egg white and blend for one minute. There will be a signature foam on top of the liquid. Add more sugar if you’d like a sweeter
Serve in old fashioned or white wine glasses immediately. If desired, place a drop or two of bitters as a garnish on top of the foam in each glass.

A time to laugh, a time to cry

2008-11-25T11:33:00.002-05:00

The family was heading out late last week for our semi-annual joint haircut at Cabello's, having let our manes get quite shaggy. We scheduled the visit on the day I didn't teach, which corresponded with the day that Xan was not in school due to a day of parent-teacher conferences. Ange had to teach, however, and so just before the appointed time, we were parked relatively close to her classroom to wait. We were listening to a mix-CD (is that what you call the slightly more modern version of a "mix tape," before we get to playlists?) made by a friend as a party favor for his three-year-old's birthday party earlier this year. Since this CD features Elmo, Xan was in a particularly good mood.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, a quiet voice from the back seat of the car said, "Dada, when someone kills, that means someone dies, right?"

I was a bit shaken by this, but the word "kill" has come up a few times before. I think one of the kids at his school had talked about "killing" things, perhaps because he has a video game or something and I had dissuaded Xan from blithely using the word, trying to indicate the serious finality of killing. He also understands the concept of death, somewhat, mainly because his great-grandfather died only a year ago. So I said, "Yes, that's what that means."

There was a pause.

And then: "Dada, when will I die?"

In the rear view mirror, I could see the earnest expression on his face. At that point, I had to figure out how to hold it together. I was not preapred for this at all, nor the way that such a question would put me near tears. Quite frankly, I don't think about this possibility at all because, deep inside, I know this would crush me in ways I really can't imagine. (This, even though we upped our life insurance the other day. My own potential death? Apparently, I can handle that.)

I replied, "Oh, sweetie. I have no idea when you will die. Hopefully, not for a very, very long time."

He pondered that. "When do people die?" he continued.

"We don't know," I said. "No one ever knows when they're going to die. That's why we have to do the best we can while we're still here."

He seemed to accept this, and I gave him a squeeze. I did think, however, What on earth inspired him to ask that question?

On the way home from the haircut, the CD had started over again and I realized that one of the songs we had heard in the morning was Dolly Parton's version of the Byrds' "Turn, Turn, Turn." I absolutely love this song in virtually any form (part of my amusement comes from the fact that this is probably the only #1 pop song to be inspired by the Book of Ecclesiastes), but of course the song posits a series of opposites. In fact, as I thought about it, I realized that a few days earlier we heard the song and Xan, having processed the concept "kill = bad," had said, "Dada, they said 'kill.' That's bad." I had explained what the song was trying to do, and that we needed the bad things in life in order to appreciate the good. Somehow, however, I hadn't thought about him processing the concept of death as it might apply to himself.

All this simply means that I better take my copy of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" out of the car.

Back from outer space (or maybe just Macchu Picchu)

2008-11-22T21:01:00.003-05:00

I'm so very sorry that it's taken me this long to get posting again. In all honesty, I simply vowed that it wasn't right for me to blog while I still had some papers due back to my students. It's been a rougher semester than what I originally planned. Among other things, the infamous tenure file got submitted and I had to quickly race through edits on the book. Speaking of which, as it turns out, if you think I'm not legit about this whole getting published thing, I apparently now have an official ISBN! How exciting! You can now even read the synopsis, and even pre-order at Amazon! (Hopefully by the time a cover is designed and/or the book actually gets published, the powers that be will have figured out that my middle initial isn't "R." Sigh...) I can't think of anything more fabulous than that.

Well, maybe I can. Because you know what would be really fabulous? These days, I've been getting into Bollywood movies a little more. I even showed Dil se... to my general class this semester. What a shame, however, that I can't combine my growing interest for Bollywood films and my Peruvian heritage. I mean, wouldn't it be cool if, say, a Bollywood film were to film in Peru or somethng? Maybe some giant science fiction flick starring worldwide goddess Aishwarya Rai frolicking around Macchu Picchu with some alpacas frolicking in the background?

Well, well. Dreams really do come true!

And this flick might even be better than the last science fiction film set in Peru (which, mind you, encouraged the main Lima newspaper El Comercio to create a brand-new "no-stars" rating). The only reason to apparently see that flick was to catch super-telenovela hunk Cristian Meier naked. That, and a fake UFO over Maccu Picchu.

O? Yeah.

2008-11-05T09:34:00.003-05:00

More a little later today on yesterday's election experience, but for now, I'll note that Angela pointed out to me last night that the first president that Xan will ever remember will be Barack Obama.

And that is a wonderful thing.

Listen to Diddy

2008-10-31T00:23:00.002-04:00

(And know that those of us working those polls on Tuesday are going to do our damnedest to make sure those lines move as quickly as we can manage them.)

Would Disney-owned ABC show movies about leggy, murderous transvestites?

2008-10-30T20:33:00.004-04:00

When The WB and UPN merged to become the WB, the leftover stations apparently turned into a network lamely called myNetworkTV. According to Wikipedia (and I remember this when they started up), they originally began as the place where English-language telenovelas started up; they didn't catch and, quite frankly, I am never sure what these stations are for except as literal way-stations from one of out PBS affiliates to the other.

Except that occasionally these networks show some pretty funky movies for network television.

I haven't been watching too much prime-time network TV, but it's fun to do while folding laundry. About a month ago, I remember channel surfing and discovering to my amusement that Lars von Trier's Dancer in the Dark was showing. Thinking that only PBS would have the nerve to show a long, difficult film with non-stop handheld camera punctuated by musical numbers all featuring Bjork, I was truly shocked when all of a sudden a commercial for fast cash appeared.

Tonight, they appear to be showing The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Who is programming this stuff? This is great.

Why Zithromax and amoxycillin are welcome guests in our home this week

2008-10-28T22:50:00.002-04:00

Upon picking up the boy at school today:

A: So who did you play with at school today?
X: I didn't play with anybody.
A: Really? I thought I just saw you playing with Shaya-
X (adamantly): No, I wasn't playing with him.
A: Why didn't you play with anybody today?
X: Because I have germs.
A (slightly worried, "is he being ostracized?"): Really? Who said that.
X: I did.
A: You did.
X: Yes. I have a hundred and fifty-seven germs.
A ("oh"): Really.
X: I have a hundred and seventy germs.
A: I see.

Beats in Barranco

2008-10-13T13:32:00.004-04:00

Lima has grown far more cosmopolitan in many ways since I lived there almost 20 (crikey!) years ago. At the time, I was heavily into music and I still relish whatever little clubbing I did, bopping away to the likes of Depeche Mode and New Order in the black, black rooms of Bizpix and Nirvana. These bands, however, never played in Peru, as if the mere thought of touring the area was anathema. French band Indochine came and I think Roxette gave a few concerts at my high school (!) shortly after I left Peru, but the big bands from England and the U.S.? Not then. Erasure came many years later (my cousin says that her super-macho now-husband danced the night away like a transvestite superstar), but the closest we ever got was Air Supply -- and I even think that concert was cancelled.

This is why, despite what I know to be true about Lima's resurgent cosmopolitanism, it still surprises me when I get something in my Inbox indicating that yes, pop culture arrives there as well. I used to buy Global Underground's CDs fairly frequently, given my penchant for electronica (now somewhat dormant) and as the series went around the world (Moscow, San Francisco, Ibiza), I kept thinking to myself, Well, they ain't never gettin' to Lima. Punta del Este, Uruguay, sure, but that's a resort town. And here I am, eating my words. (Plus, the music is pretty good.)

(And if I'm listening to music again -- and writing here again -- can you tell that the tenure file went in today? Wheeeeee!)

Dat's wat I'm talkin bout

2008-10-05T10:52:00.002-04:00

Naturally, Angela and I are so out of touch, we hadn't heard of the original song before we laughed our heads of at this. The scary thing is that, as you can imagine, some of this regularly seeps into some of the papers I receive.

Plus, this (at least visually) features the amazing HotforWords, who has to be doing something for rising interest of English-language etymology among teenage boys.

Is it so wrong...

2008-10-03T01:14:00.002-04:00

...for me to expect a candidate running for election to be able to pronounce "nuclear" as it is spelled?

Then again, what do I know. After all, the person I'm referring to is a rather accomplished poet.

Raising my bottle of vinaigrette

2008-09-28T01:06:00.004-04:00

Oddly enough, one of my favorite Newman clips remains this screen test for East of Eden:

Naturally, I think this in part because James Dean is in it and everyone knows how I swoon for Jimmy. (Note: Giant played on PBS tonight. All kinds of good.) But man, this is so wonderful in part because Dean and Newman are so wonderfully different. Dean is clearly taunting the boy with the bowtie in a very sexual way -- and I don't say that just because he says, "Kiss me." The mutual stare at the end almost looks like they will either come to blows or make out. Either way might have worked for the film.

The funny thing, of course, is that it's arguable that Newman got his big break because of Dean's untimely, pointless death. His role as Rocky Robert Wise's Somebody Up There Likes Me broke Newman out of pretty-boy roles on television and into film and, quite frankly, the movies were never quite the same (or at least the leading men). As much as I am a Dean fanatic, I'm fairly certain that, like his idol Brando, he would have burned out or became large and eccentric had he survived. At the very least, he would never have had the career that Newman did -- or, indeed, the life that Newman did. The clip above is a funny reminder of how two stars diverged so very much from this point on -- and yet how both ~~have gone down in infamy~~ glow brightly, only in our collective memory.

Thank you, Paul.

He knows not of what he narrates

2008-09-24T00:04:00.005-04:00

No, I am not referring to any of my lectures. I am referring to my son's current narrative strategies, which is to take several things he has learned about and combine them into a new, even more exciting story. As I have previously mentioned, The Blob has already entered the family parlance, although now it refers simply to tasty jello. Somehow, however, the boy did manage to also process the correct definition of "The Blob," i.e. scary monster that creeps (and leaps and gliiides... OK, yes, please stop me now). I swear, he hasn't seen the movie. (Yet.)

This was apparently combined this evening ~~at dinnertime~~ while Angela and Xan were riding home together on the bicycle with the concept of "robots," apparently acquired through a friend at school. (I was not a first-hand witness to this, by the way, because it was "back to school night" at the preschool and I was the one on hand; at this meeting, the parents of the aforementioned child wanted to know is "camping" was a topic at school, because their son suddenly wants to go camping. It's hilarious how quickly these concepts are picked up.) Add the ever-constant Thomas the Tank Engine, who appears in all narratives these days. (Even when they involve pirates. Don't ask).

This results in the following narrative, explained matter-of-factly by Xan to Angela tonight: "The Blob and the robot were chasing after Thomas very, very fast. Thomas was scared -- but then he was faster and got away. From the Blob. And the robot. Who was big."

Personally, I think this would make a fantastic movie myself.
Apparently, Thomas doesn't share my opinion.

After all, it's just jello...

2008-09-19T20:36:00.008-04:00

As indicated by the last post, we're becoming slightly obsessed with The Blob over here chez Middents-Dadak. Since Angela has been posting about this on her Facebook page, I suppose I let the world know why. For the last few years, our department has hosted a Literary Dessert Party, featuring all sorts of inventive confections inspired by works of literature. Since I am one of the film folks, we decided last year to enter with a film-inspired dessert instead. (You can see last year's entry here.) I still like the idea of One Hundred Cookies of Solitude, but our oven's being on the fritz prevents that from happening. In fact, that prevents most desserts... except, of course, gelatin.

Hence: our entry this year will be The Blob.

Angela gets all the credit for this, having heard the NPR story about the flick's 50th anniversary last week. I did go out, however, and acquire the flick from the library's collection. It was wonderfully campy and, I thought, hilariously funny, right from the opening credits with the fab Burt Bacharach theme song. ("Beware of the blob, it creeps, and leaps and glides and sliiides across the floor!" Priceless!) I watched it on Tuesday when no one else was home and was telling Angela all about it at the dinner table that evening.

Xan, of course, was listening. "Can I see The Blob, Dad?"

Angela looked at me and said, "I don't know. Can he?"

I considered this. Remember that he has been exposed to a grand total of about a half-dozen movies in his lifetime so far, mainly ones featuring musical numbers or trains like Singin' in the Rain or The General. So if we were to show him The Blob, it would be one of the very few we've allowed. On the one hand, I'm loathe to show him what is actually a horror movie at the tender age of three-and-a-half. On the other hand, when I taught my course on horror movies, my students indicated that they had been exposed rather early to really terrifying movies at the age of five. Besides, the boy has already entered Pirates phase and is all about swashbuckling and what-not. (There seems to be a progression of interest from trains to dinosaurs to pirates among young boys; if this is true, we seem to have skipped over the Tyrannosaurus for now.) So how much harm would cinematic man-eating jello cause? Certainly this is less creepy than Grimm's Fairy Tales (which we also haven't started) and I suppose there are worse things to happen than to develop jangelaphobia.

Luckily, I had to return the movie before Xan could watch it. But now he's curious about it. So I open the idea to you: do you think it's to early for The Blob? (It creeps!)

(By the way, we are not dressing him as the Blob for Halloween. Although maybe that's not a bad idea for me...)

UPDATE: In case anyone wants to see what the end result looked like (although it's a shame you can't taste it, because it tasted far better than it looks...):

Beware the Blob!!

2008-09-16T14:25:00.002-04:00

I just got finished watching The Blob and all I have to say is that if the Republicans want a real reason to prevent climate change, perhaps they should consider what's frozen up there...

That Darn Cat

2008-09-11T23:39:00.003-04:00

So I have a cat, named Vega. Or rather, my wife has a cat named Vega. We got her together, but now matter how many times I happen to be the one who either feeds her or gives her water, she only seems to have love for Angela. Unless I happen to by typing, in which case she shows love by purring on my wrists so that my chances of acquiring carpel tunnel syndrome triple every ten minutes.

This evening, I was taking two bottles out to the recycling. It was a little warm and I was wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs, but I would be out for only a moment, so I thought, why bother? I turned off the front porch light (just in case the neighbors would be offended) and opened the door,

Vega took this moment to dash out the front door.

This has happened before. Thankfully, she is also a Scaredy Cat, so usually one car going by on the main road will freak her out enough that she realizes she doesn't like being outside and runs in. Either that, or a brief chase. I took off after her, but this time she quickly dashed back into the darker driveway.

I realized that this might take slightly longer than the usual 90-second chase and therefore pants might be more prudent. I quickly found a pair of shorts and raced outside again. After a few minutes, I saw she appeared at the back door. I went up to open the door for her, but then she abruptly turned.

And subsequently disappeared.

I started freaking out at about the 15-minute mark when I realized that if I couldn't find her, going meticulously through the yard with a (mini) flashlight might also be pointless. I started asking random dog-owners out walking their mutts to please let them loose in the yard to flush out my cat, only to find that all the dogs out walking by me were already used to cats and wouldn't bark. I went through the whole back yard several times with a flashlight, including the sketchy area next to the garage. Where I got my face stuck in a spider web. Uh huh.

Angela knew none of this, being on a red line train. At the 30-minute mark, I finally called her, saying that I can't find Vega anywhere and that I would pick her up when she got to the train station, because by this point I've also called our neighbor Meipo to watch Xan (who is fast asleep) while I stretch further away from the house to look for her. At this point, I'm in a state of mild panic: a feeling of I-hope-she's-OK mixed with stupid-cat-why-did-she-sneak-out to what-the-hell-is-Angela-going-to-do-to-my-testicles-when-she-finds-out-her-cat-is-gone. None of these are pleasant feelings. When I pick Angela up from the train station, I'm tense and near tears.

We arrive home. Angela whistles once and says, "Vega!" Out of nowehere, our cat scampers to the porch and meows once.

On the one hand, I'm so happy that stupid wretch of a cat is OK. But after 45 minutes outside looking for that fucking loser excuse of a cat who didn't even acknowledge that I was looking for her, no matter what I said? I'm telling you: I ain't feeding that damn thing for a week. Maybe some bananas.

Hot for....

2008-09-07T11:57:00.002-04:00

Jimmy Kimmel recently said that VP candidate Sarah Palin "looks like one of those women in the Van Halen videos who takes off her glasses, shakes out her hair, and then all of a sudden, she's in high heels and a bikini."

Like so:

Despite my love and appreciation for "Hot for Teacher," as someone who appreciates the English language (perhaps more so than Palin or Halen), I much prefer to be hot for words.

I mean, really, wouldn't you?

(h/t to Ange via GrammarBlog, who says "She makes me feel funny, like when we used to climb the rope in gym class." Ahem. Yes.)

My Tellurium-Plated Life

2008-08-28T21:59:00.006-04:00

As I'll be busy throughout the fest, I thought I'd post the official Telluride Film Fest widget in the regular part of the blog. I'll update my own schedule and this little contraption is pretty neat, given that it will feature updated information as it happens at the fest. Moreover, there will be some clips of on-the-street interviews shown on Starz! through the weekend and apparently Turner Classic Movies (my home theater!) will be featuring two days of TFF material. The lineup, by the way, has already been announced. Enjoy!

Whee!!

2008-08-27T20:56:00.001-04:00

I'm here! (And already having issues with altitude.... maybe some wine will help....)

CAMERA

2008-08-23T20:41:00.006-04:00

CAMERA
D: David Cronenberg, Canada, 2000, approx. 7 minutes.
Source: Viderdrome (Criterion Collection version)

A narrator starts to tell a story off-camera: "One day, the children brought home a camera." It's a simple statement; it starts simply, with a man -- no, not a man: an actor. Images of the children with the camera are intercut with images of a nice gentleman with graying hair, shot with a video camera in medium shot. As he continues, however, the (video) camera starts to push forward, so that the man is in close-up when he announces something unexpected: "When you look at it in a cold light, photography is death."

Camera continues a fascinating interplay of images as the actor delivers a monologue about the "dangers" that the Camera proposes. The children matter-of-factly do all the tasks needed to make a movie: check lights, process film, measure the f-stop; these are all shot in a very matter-of-fact manner as well, with relatively "normal" lighting and camera distances. These are all in stark contrast to the images of the actor, who the video camera moves into shots so close that we as viewers feel uncomfortable. The actor appears unattractive, even sinister: the light from the windows appears too harsh, his eyebrows are thick and menacing. The actor is also edited in an odd manner: often, we are presented with jump cuts to sudden extreme close-ups of his eyes. The images are not necessarily horrific, yet the tone established throughout this piece is horrific.

In many ways, Camera is an interesting precursor to Cronenberg's 2005 feature film A History of Violence, which cannily comments on the movies in a similar way. In that film, scenes of violence and gore which would otherwise titillate the viewer are presented in a stark, cold manner than unnerves even the most seasoned viewers, making us question the very nature of the horror film genre. (One can argue he this is a common preoccupation for the director, also seen in eXistenZ, Naked Lunch and especially the brilliant Videodrome, which also featured Leslie Carlson, the actor featured here.) In Camera, Cronenberg does not present any gore and yet the whole film is structured to terrify. I particularly like this piece because the link between photography and death so clearly derives from Roland Barthes' tragically final work Camera Lucida. These ideas were not academic for Barthes: the work is inspired by his mother's death, and every photograph of her does not remind him of the joy that her life brought, but instead serves to mock him, reminding him that she is dead. Cronenberg highlights something very similar: the life captured by motion pictures only demonstrates that such moments cannot be repeated and taunt us with what once was and can never be again.

Camera becomes truly haunting in the last minute or so, when the children bring the large, old 35mm camera into the room with the actor. They apply make-up, change everything around and then a young boy (bespectacled, like Cronenberg) says, "Action." And suddenly, the image changes: it is warm, gorgeous, widescreen. And suddenly we realize that the harshness of everything that has come before is largely due to the use of video instead of film. (This section was actually filmed with the very camera seen throughout the short.) And yet, as soft and beautiful as this looks/sounds/feels, we are acutely aware of everything that the actor has noted before this. He repeats his initial line -- "One day, the children brought home a camera" -- but the line is changed, no longer innocent. And this time, the shot hangs on just a little too long. It catches the actor's face in a private moment: in the last seconds of the film, Carlson's face breaks for just a moment, his eyes watering and distant, filled with despair. The film cuts away to black -- and the effect is terrifying. Can we watch movies again the same way?

This entry is part of the Movies About Movies Blogathon hosted at GoatDogBlog -- please feel free to visit the other entries listed on that site. This is also cross-posted as the first entry at the newest incarnation of The Short Films Blog, the blog associated with my course this semester. New entries on short films will appear every day until December 11th, with students starting to post next weekend. Please visit there often -- and comment on the students' work, since they earn extra credit for more comments!

Of trains and sewing machines

2008-08-22T16:50:00.003-04:00

Hide and Seek

We were introduced to this song, I'm almost ashamed to say, because of So You Think You Can Dance. (Yes, admitting it.) And this song completely bowled us over, so much that Angela bought the song for her ipod. This is somewhat surprising on the surface, since she's not exactly a fan of electronic music at all. Yet she's listened to it non-stop. It's also become an earworm for me, enough that I tried singing the tune to Xan in an effort to calm him down at some point over the last day.

We might be a little obsessed.

I have since found Imogen Heap's whole website, where she has ridiculously cool video-blog entries about the creative process. The song also seemed ripe for use by collegiate a-cappella singing groups -- and, sure enough, I found that the group I sang for (well, the summer version, I never even tried to make the regular version since they had ridiculously talented basses already and I didn't stand a chance in hell) has a pretty decent version.

So what's your favorite earworm these days? Or did I just provide one for you?

Just like Casey Kasem...

2008-08-21T16:12:00.004-04:00

Right now, we are counting down to several things:

The first day of classes, for the whole family;
The first day in "Green Room" (aka the Big Kids' Room), for Xan;
J&A's departure for Telluride, which happens during the first week of classes; and
the relaunch of this.

We can't do anything if you want to participate in the first three; for #4, however, please e-mail me if you're wondering how you can participate in making my students' lives that much better or worse. (Yes, grading is involved. Señor Pájaro, here's your chance!)

I don't watch movies. I prefer good film criticism.

2008-08-16T00:23:00.003-04:00

I just found out that Metropolitan, one of my favorite movies from the early 1990s, just got release on Hulu, of all places. The movie was an oddly daring debut from director Whit Stillman, and garnered a well-deserved Best Original Screenplay Oscar nomination for a talky piece about some rich kids maneuvering through the upper echelon of Manhattan.

I saw this when I was a freshman or sophomore in college, just before I started really appreciating "films" and yet I found this movie utterly refreshing, having giggled incessantly throughout. I thought that perhaps it was because I was at Dartmouth, where many of these people who were really so full of themselves seemingly ended up (or so it seemed, work-study kid that I was, surrounded by what seemed to be very privileged people). On my exchange term at UC-San Diego, however, I convinced someone on my hall -- a very loopy, arty guy that I respected -- to come to a campus screening with me, and he laughed throughout the whole movie and thanked me profusely when it was over.

There's a great moment which, I'm sad to say, isn't spoken by my favorite character, the insouciant Nick (played with gleeful abandon by Chris Eigeman), but rather in an exchange between Audrey (Carolyn Farina) and Tom (Edward Clements). (I wasn't able to snip out a clip from Hulu, so look for it around the 27-minute mark.) Not so surprisingly, Audrey loves Jane Austen and is unnerved by Tom's vehemence against her work -- when all of a sudden he admits the he's never read Austen at all. "Oh no," he says, "I don't read novels. I prefer good literary criticism. That way you get both the novelists' ideas as well as the critics' thinking."

Every so often, I wonder about whether literature (and film) professors in general suffer from this conundrum. And then they wonder when people like Audrey, who rightly live in the pleasure that the book provides, think that we're nuts for looking too closely at what we read.

Las olimpiadas peruanas

2008-08-12T23:13:00.004-04:00

The Olympics are on again, which means that NBC must remind everyone in this country that no one cares about anything that the Americans don't win. Though I am as swept-up as the next guy with the impressive swimming out there, the constant rah-rah becomes tiresome, overshadowed only by the singularly dumb "commentary" offered by the "sportscasters" who seem more interested in Philip Dalhausser's lack of hair than his playing ability. My good friend laloca seems to be upset that equestrian events are being given the short shrift in television coverage; I think that she should thank her lucky stars that she doesn't have to hear about how Gandalf really loves to eat carrots in the morning. I try to alleviate all the flag-waving by checking the medal tracker every day to discover heretofore unknown athletes from countries you wouldn't expect to get a medal. (For example, I see that Togo has won a bronze medal in kayaking! Why isn't there a story about that? I bet you it's big in Lomé right now...)

All this brings me back rwenty years to August 1988 when I was just starting my senior year of high school in Lima. Peru has never been one to make a huge presence in any international sport these days (in soccer, for example, I thank God for Bolivia for keeping Peru from the bottom of the pack of the South American World Cup standings), but that year the country sent a world powerhouse team for one sport: women's volleyball. Strange but true: Peru used to be a feared presence in women's volleyball.

To the delight of millions of Peruvians, the women made it all the way to the final game, where they played against the "Confederation of International States" -- which is to say, the Soviet Union, having just broken up and not figured out what to do in time for the Olympics. Given that the big event was happening in Seoul, the medal match got under way very late at night, probably around 2am or so. I remember being allowed to stay up late to watch the game, even though it was a school night, although I was so tired I couldn't stay awake.

When I woke up, I turned on the TV to see what the final score was -- and discovered that the game was still going on.

Indeed, after soundly winning the first two sets, Peru subsequently lost the following two sets, leading to a do-or-die fifth set, with both teams trading points. The game was still going strong when my family realized that the school bus was on its way -- and with my school all the way on the other side of town and us not having a car, I had to race down the stairs to get the bus on time. Someone, probably Vicente, had a portable radio to listen to the rest of the game; I remember Jenny complaining about a lack of equestrian events being shown in Peru. (Some things really never change.)

The bus ride offered one of the more surreal images I will ever see. Despite the fact that it was rush hour and the route to school traversed some of the most traffic-laden roads in Lima (and that says something), there were barely any cars at all. The bus zipped to school in no time flat -- and the only people we saw on the street were all crowded around electronics stores, which had graciously turned on television sets in their display windows so that dozens of Peruvians stood staring, immobile, at a single screen.

When we got to school, the game was still on. A teacher had a portable TV in the trunk of their car and various teachers crowded around; we students were stuck with radios. I had never seen the final points until tonight when I happened upon a sketchy YouTube clip of the final ten minutes of the game:

If you look at this video, you will note around the 7-minute mark the point where Peru had this in the bag: 15-14, championship point, Peru serving. I distinctly remember this moment being transmitted over the radio. The ball went into the air --

And the transmission stopped. Silence.

Everyone who was listening at school basically let out a loud cry of "WTF?!" in both English and Spanish. What happened? Satellite feed? Sendero Luminoso? Crappy Peruvian 1980s technology? Aaaaigh!

Less than two minutes later, the feed came back. Just in time for us to hear the announcer say that the Soviets had just gotten the last point. 17-15. Peru lost.

Peruvian women's volleyball never came back to that high point on the international stage: despite being recognized as a major player throughout the 1980s, you will note that Peru is not playing in the Olympics this year in that event. The loss at this game still meant that Peru won the silver medal, one of only four won by Peruvian athletes at any Olympics. This merited a major celebration when they got back home, which remains memorable.

That is, maybe, until 2020. Since, apparently, if Alan García gets his way, Peru won't just be a major player at the Olympics: Peru will be the Olympics. Hell, that Great Wall ain't got nothin' on Macchu Picchu, man. Can Francisco Lombardi match an opening ceremony to the level of Zhang Yimou? And if the athletes can take Beijing's smog, how will they do in Lima? (Actually, Lima's probably better than Beijing in that department. Maybe.) There are those who think the idea of a Peruvian Olympics isn't so bad. Then again, this comes from the government so full of itself that it actually, seriously tried for a bid for the 2016 Olympics... even though the deadline had passed nearly a year ago.

Still, check out the "promotional video!" I, for one, am convinced.

Scene: Int. Night. Somewhere on the blogosphere.

2008-08-11T16:13:00.002-04:00

A door is in the middle of the screen. It is fairly non-descript, lacking adornment beyond a round doorknob and a small sign with a hand-printed sign that says "Summer 2008."

Slowly, the doorknob turns. The door slivers open, creaking ominously. An EYE peers out. Blinks once.

VOICE

Hm.

The door creaks open further, and a HEAD pokes out. This is MIDDENTO, a slightly frazzled guy with dark hair and glasses set askew on his face. Behind him, glimpses of a richly colorful, playful images can be seen in the background: a young boy and girl on a swing; a carousel horse; the Ann Arbor art fair; many, many road signs; a squirrel stealing a green tomato; Peruvian food consumed by many; The Dark Knight.

Quickly, MIDDENTO steps out of the door and slams the door shut. He brushes some dust off his hands and the top of his jeans. He looks around.

MIDDENTO

Well. I guess I should get back to blogging.

He looks around, offers a perplexed eyebrow.

MIDDENTO

I wonder if anyone is still here. Or will mind if I just jump back in after being away for so long.

He looks at the camera.

Cut to black.

Where parents fear to tread...

2008-07-24T12:21:00.005-04:00

I had promised to take Xan to the playground after a nap on our last day in Ann Arbor, fully aware that it was supposed to storm that day. Luckily, there's a cool indoor playground/coffee shop called Jungle Java that has a giant structure to climb around. Xan saw it, went in and didn't touch the floor again until they closed.

At some point, I decided that this was a good moment for me to take my trusty new pocket video camera and venture inside this structure. Clearly, a Steadicam would have been more useful here, if even more impossible to go around various corners; clearly, this was also not made for a thirty-six-year-old man. (That said, you may note I'm not the only one in there.) Please note how appreciative my son is of my travails in maneuvering said obstacle.

The power of bargaining

2008-07-14T23:29:00.003-04:00

There is so much to blog about, and it's criminal that I really haven't had an opportunity near a fast connection. Not to mention the fact that my poor camera lost its button, and therefore I have lost the ability to take pictures.

But, then there's this.

We are currently on summer vacation in Ann Arbor visiting my folks. My cousin Ed also happens to live here and he and his wife have two kids. John, the elder, is a year older than Xan, but is exactly the same size. Last year, John was three (and all that implies) and this year he's an angel -- but now Xan's three (and all that implies). So when they invited us out for pizza, I was worried how things would go. Luckily, being boys, they were both thrilled at their mutual interest in toy cars and fries. Things were going swimmingly.

As we were leaving, however, I noticed that Xan had the two cars (one larger, one smaller) that he had brought in one hand, and one of John's cars in the other. This could not be good. "Xan," I warned as we went down the staircase, "you have to give John back his car."

"But I don't want to!" This is a common retort.

"It's not your car. It's John's car."

"But I like John's car."

I decided to try logic. Again. It only works occasionally, but I'm persistent like that. "What would you say if John wanted one of your cars." I waited for the expected response: I wouldn't like that, no no, it's my car.

But there was a pause as he went down a few more stairs. Thoughts were being processed. My ears perked up as I realized we were officially off-script.

He replied, "I would tell him OK, and he could give me the car back the next time we see each other."

Holy crap. "Really?" I said.

"Yes."

OK, then! "Well, let's ask him then."

Sure enough, at the bottom of the stairs, Xan heads for John. They talk for a moment and John happily grabs both of Xan's cars while Xan happily comes back with the single (but very cool) car of John's. It takes me a minute to tell John's parents that no, he does not need to give the car back, that the boys have (somehow) worked it out. All of us marvel at this unprecedented event.

Since then, Xan and "John's car" have been inseparable. Which makes me a little nervous as we head to tomorrow, where we will be joining forces at a local (kick-ass) water park. But for now, I revel in the negotiation skills of my son. And how logic worked. Well, for a moment, at least.

Everyone agrees that...

2008-06-29T17:17:00.005-04:00

In terms of movies made in 2002, Pedro Almodóvar's Talk to Her is better than Tom Tykwer's Heaven.

Totrilla española is tastier than potato pancakes.

If I wanted to leave tomorrow and come back in a week, Orbitz indicates that it will cost me $2000 less to fly Iberia to Madrid than it would for me to fly Lufthansa to Berlin (or, actually, Madrid).

Hm. Movies. Food. Flights. Soccer.

Yep, Spain is better than Germany.

(yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!! sorry, Hausfrau, but that was one heck of a game!)

¡Gooooool!

2008-06-22T17:22:00.004-04:00

YES!!! (Have I mentioned that I'm a fan of the Spanish national team? With Turkey down several players in the semi-final against Germany, Spain only needs to get through Russia to get to the final. And then, the husband of the Desperate Hausfrau and I can definitely start the trash-talking...)

With the family out of town...

2008-06-19T01:05:00.002-04:00

...I've naturally taken to watch some porno.

Particularly, you know, if said porno features Isabella Rosselini. And an impish grin. Meow.

(Hat tip to Stinkylulu! This turns out to be great stuff for my fall course...)

Nothing beats a great pair of legs

2008-06-18T11:41:00.003-04:00

My students hate the "Broadway Melody" sequence. Every time I show Singin' in the Rain (which is practically every semester, since it is a great film to reference throughout any film course), I always brace myself when we get to the big number about three-quarters' through the film. It stops the plot dead with absolutely no relevance to what has come before and it will take about 17 minutes for us to return to the story at hand. No matter that this was the reason why audiences went to see the film back in 1952, my students generally hate the sequence.

But oh, those legs. No one can deny those legs.

Every time I see Singin' in the Rain -- which, between my classes and my son, is often -- I still get chills every time those green-clad legs come on screen. I remember that even as a kid, I was mesmerized by those legs. Cyd Charisse never says a single word and yet, in this spectacle-within-the-film, she has a brilliantly executed character arc, created only by dance. And while the movie isn't done in widescreen, Charisse's stretched legs certainly makes it seem otherwise.

Charisse's passing follows the other greats from the film: Lina Lamont (1977), Don Lockwood (1996), Cosmo Brown (2003); only spunky Kathy Seldin remains with us. Each one dancing into the afterlife makes me thankful for the wonderful world they left behind. Mme. Charisse, you will be missed.

Wednesday Whyning 2 (now with added mooning!)

2008-06-18T10:01:00.000-04:00

It has been hot around here. Like good American consumers that we are, we bought a cheap inflatable swimming pool (made in China, natch) for all of us to cool off with in the backyard. Last week, Xan had returned from school, only to remove all his clothes to throw himself with wild abandon into the pool. We are, needless to say, not exactly the most modest of families.

I had been cooking, realized the rest of the family was home, and went outside to say hello. This included a trip to the aforementioned pool.

"Daddy, I want you to take off your clothes and come into the pool."

Hm. Yes. Well. I did say the whole family is like this, and back in the day when it was hot and Xan and I stayed home together (before school), there were many celebrations of Naked Boy Day. (I used to have a posting about this, but I have no idea where it went...) "I'm sorry, Xan, I'm cooking. I can't take off my clothes and come into the pool right now."

"Why can't you take off your clothes and come into the pool?"

I decided to tell him the truth. "Because there are laws against Dada taking his clothes off outside where the neighbors can see him."

Oddly enough, he accepted that idea.

15 years from now, this posting would probably show up on Facebook titled "After the first frat party"

2008-06-17T22:02:00.002-04:00

Angela and Xan left last night for the road trip to Cape Cod, with an overnight pit stop in New York. The trip was uneventful and actually fun for everyone involved. (If I'm not mistaken, Angela has not had quite the solitary summer road trip experiences with Xan -- with optional emergency issues -- that I have had in the past.) They arrived without incident early this afternoon and he took one look at the grandparents' backyard, said "I need to mow," and clicked back into his summer groove. Apparently, he has also managed to completely scrape up one knee less than 6 hours after arriving. Beautiful.

After putting him to bed and checking her email in another part of the house, Angela went to check on Xan in his bed as she normally does. She fumbled around in the bed for a little while in the dark . . . only to discover that he wasn't there. For a moment, she got confused and a bit worried, wondering if he had perhaps gone in with his grandmother? maybe? did I put him here?

And then she heard some light snoring coming from elsewhere in the room.

At which point she found the boy in the following position:

Naturally, the whole family was called to witness this. Many photographs were claimed to have been taken. A beer was almost placed into his hand. Please make note of the seeming cat-skin hat perched on his head: to get the full effect, you must also know that the kid-snores were accompanied by the obsessively purring cat (not Vega; this is good ol' [friendly] Cous-Cous).

Angela called me about this. How can he sleep like that? she asked incredulously. I really don't know what you mean, I replied, but he sure looks like a drunk frat boy to me.

A new set of eyes

2008-06-14T00:30:00.005-04:00

I was perfectly happy with the old blog template, having had the same (Dots Dark) since the beginning with only a few modifications. Then Angela told me, luddite that I am, about RSS feeds to manage blog-reading more efficiently. I then discovered I could post the feeds on here, simply by adding a new form of a blog-roll. Neato.

Doing so, however, threw my whole template out of whack. Primarily the picture of Xan's eyes, which were now floating in Nowheresville instead of over the blog title, like I originally had it. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get it back to the way I had it.

Basta, I said, it's time for a slightly more radical change.

Truth be told, I really didn't care for many of the other template choices. It's the first time I've been peeved by blogspot for screwing up my original format. I was annoyed by the one I finally settled on as well, since it had this random orange star right at the top.

That is, until I discovered I could simply cover it up with a banner.

I think it will take getting used to seeing my blog this way, but change can be good. Tell me if you think agree that change is good (bonus points if you can identify the other set of eyes). Who knows: I might even post more often.

Sick day

2008-06-10T00:15:00.004-04:00

Xan had a 102-degree fever today, which pretty much matched the weather outside. Luckily, celebratory revelry this weekend forced us to bring down the giant air conditioner, thus the boy was able to exist in relatively cool temperatures. We'll see where he's at tomorrow.

Since he was a baby, however, living with fever basically means one thing: he becomes the Cling Monster. A parent going to, say, the refrigerator to get him some orange juice is taken as if the limbs of his favorite stuffed animal have been ripped off. (Going to the bathroom? Forget it.) Basically, the entire day he wants to be held, even if it's ridiculously hot between the weather and his feverish body. On the plus side, this activity is a relatively good indicator of whether he's better because then he wants to, you know, play or stand up by himself or something. On the minus side, until the fever is past, there is no plus side.

Like I said, this has been this way since he was a baby. Sucker that I am, I give in to whatever he wants when he's sick, to my own detriment. Case in point: my lunch today consisted of some crackers with hummus that I managed to shove into my mouth before my lap was demanded in a pathetic whimper.

By dinnertime, he felt much better. As we were eating, however, Angela observed with bemusement that I was still in my bathrobe, having never made it to the shower. (Don't think she got off too easily today: as her bike was stolen late last week, we replaced it over the weekend; as this bike wasn't quite up to speed, however, she spent roughly an hour and half at Target this evening trying to return it.)

Xan, who was polite all day today (!), asked to be excused from the dinner table. He scampered off a little and I finally relaxed a bit. "I noticed you're still in a bathrobe," Angela said, bemused.

"Yep," I replied. I jerked a thumb toward Xan's favorite tiger and affected a Marshall Dillon accent. "Me and Tigeroo have been clutched to all day long. First moment we've had free pretty much all day. I'm thinkin' he and I should go for drinks."

"There's all that margarita in the fridge."

Oooh, indeed there was! Someone brought over a gigantic vat of margaritas, mixed nice and strong, over the weekend. (Really tasty.) Surprisingly, we hadn't finished it all yet. "I think that's a great idea!"

She poured a glass, stepped back and laughed. "This would make a great picture. You could post about how you deal with a sick day."

I laughed. "Go get the camera."

Who needs a shower when you have tequila?

The terrible threes(ome)

2008-06-06T21:41:00.005-04:00

M is a sweet and pretty little girl at Xan's school who apparently is relatively shy and reserved, often plays by herself.

That is, unless my son is involved.

Xan had a hitting incident with me this morning (for which he was reprimanded with some stern words and a three-year-old lecture on the perils of hitting, particularly the perils of hitting me). When I brought him to school, another kid came up to hit him while I was there. I was proud that he didn't hit back right away and mentioned this morning's incident to one of his teachers. "Oh yeah," she said, "it's his new thing, the hitting. He's definitely in that rambunctious phase." We've known this for a while: don't let anyone tell you anything about the "terrible twos," which I now think is a completely myth -- it's the threes you have to worry about (and Ange's Mom said she was the worst at four so I guess it could get worse). His teachers mentioned, however, that this new bravado turned out to be a good thing in another way: apparently, his current wild-man phase has been pulling M out of her shell a bit, since she adores him and will happily follow him around, even doing some naughty things herself because he did them. This is actually a good thing for her, according to the teachers, since they would like her to mix things up a bit. So while they are not letting him get away with everything, secretly they are pleased about the residual effect on M.

Anyway, Xan went over to M's house yesterday for a play date after school and they had a great time. This evening was the school potluck and M's mother sat next to me while the kids were supposed to be doing this group exercise thing in the campus amphitheater; my kid, meanwhile, was running around the back part of the plant area. "Look," M's mother said, pointing to her daughter who was running after him with the biggest grin on her face. "She is so smitten with him. I think she has a crush."

I had seen this a little earlier, when the two of them went off together to play on the playground and then she followed him to the tricycles. He had pedaled away and she was standing there. "Would you like to ride as well?" I asked her. She shook her head and said simply, "I don't know how to ride the tricycle yet." (This is totally understandable: Xan has only just learned, and through much determined effort because of his neverending obsession with wheels.) I watched him ride away with me and her standing there, looking after him. And she had that look in her eyes that said, Wow, he is just so cool. I thought to myself, Oh my goodness, I think M totally has a crush on my kid. This is so freaking adorable. Except, male that he is, he isn't really noticing at all. Typical guy.

I mentioned some of this to M's mother, who laughed. I looked back at the kids and at M running after Xan, trying to get his attention. But at that point, I noticed he was doing the same thing -- only not with M. I turned to M's mother and said, "M may have a crush on Xan, but right now it looks like Xan has a crush on R" -- one of the twin boys in his class, who Xan was indeed chasing after and imitating, no matter than R was trying his best to ignore him. In an exact parallel of what was happening with M.

For a moment, I realized with some surprise that this was mimicking the plotline of Threesome, a movie with Lara Flynn Boyle, Stephen Baldwin and Josh Charles that isn't all that great but that I still have an affection for, maybe because in 1994 I identified with it a bit too much when I saw it (and that is all of that story any of you people need to know, thank you very much). Still, all we need is for R to have unrequited affection for M, and then they go to college and...

No, no. No.

Still, it's incredibly cute to see what seems to be the first crush. (Just don't tell Jolie. Seriously. M doesn't stand a chance.)

Attention: Worlds officially colliding

2008-06-06T21:29:00.004-04:00

I read Entertainment Weekly's Popwatch blog semi-religiously. It keeps me in touch with what's happening in pop culture, it occasionally has some great things to dish about and it produces America's Next Top Doll, which makes me bust a gut every time.

Today, they brought up the Slayage Conference on the Whedonverse happening right this second in Arkansas. This is a fab conference, with lots of really fun Buffy geeks. I should know: I went to the first one in Nashville several years ago. I'm even an official "Buffyologist" since the paper I presented there subsequently was picked up and published in Slayage. And yes, it's part of the scholarship material of my tenure file (which, incidentally, went to outside readers this morning). I am very proud of my little piece on the treatment of race in the American musical genre and "Once More (with Feeling)" I am also particularly proud that one of my graduate students is there right now (hi, Lauren!) and can't wait to chat with her about her experience.

But I digress: back to Popwatch. I decided to leave a comment on the article earlier in the day. I checked back again tonight, just to see what else had been posted about the conference. And in the comments, I discovered the following comment left by someone named Alissa:

Middento is a professor at my school. This popwatch comments section has become too surreal.

Ah, the 'verse is small indeed. Not to mention surreal.

The birth anouncement

2008-06-04T17:20:00.001-04:00

Please welcome the birth of Writing National Cinema: Film Journals and Film Culture in Peru, which will be published by the University Press of New England sometime in 2009. The author, Jeffrey Middents, reports that he is exhausted but doing fine.

O Happy Day!

Quietly, with Madeline

2008-05-29T01:37:00.006-04:00

Many things will be said about the comic genius and fantastic, zippy presence of Madeline Kahn during Stinkylulu's Kahn-fest today. There will undoubtedly be a lot of wonderful commentary on her roles throughout her career; I hope, for one, that someone does a comparison of her Blazing Saddles singing with Marlene Dietrich's warbling in the westerns that she did.

For me, however, thinking about Madeline Kahn oddly comes back to Judy Berlin, a quiet wisp of a movie that happened to be her last. Her supporting role as a Lawn Guy Land mother, just realizing her marriage ain't what she thinks it is, is pitch-perfect.

I remember less about the film itself, however, and more about the experience watching it. I wanted to see it not only because it happened to win Sundance that year, but also because I heard both Madeline Kahn was fantastic in it. It was playing at a theater I had not really been to in downtown Monterey, California, right on the main drag. The only time that I had to see the movie was a matinee sometime during the week; in those days, I was mostly trying to finish my dissertation during the daytime and waiting tables at night, so movies had to get squeezed in by hook and crook sometimes. I remember racing to the theater, buying my ticket and walking in.

Upon entering, I realize that the space I've entered is somewhat cavernous: a relatively large theater for what is really a small town. There are only a few lights on, although maybe there was only one, as I only remember one, right above. The rest of the theater was curiously dark. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw that I was in what had been a lovely old theater, with some wonderful details on the sides -- but that had been years ago. Fallen somewhat into disrepair, there were cracks on the ceiling in a number of places, some plaster on the floor somewhere. I saw it was a beautiful theater, if a bit sad in its manner of cracking.

And so began the movie: Judy Berlin. And quickly, before I get into the movie itself, I realize that I am alone in this grand old theater. It is, I think, the only time I have had such a privilege -- awkward, because this should have more viewers, because movie-watching is a social experience where we are collectively alone. And yet, also amusing and intimate. And so, when Madeline comes on the screen, I don't feel as if she is speaking only to me; she really is only speaking to me -- large, in black-and-white, wonderful, cracking.

This entry is part of Stinkylulu's Madeline Kahn Appeciation Day -- please visit the other sites on the list, since at least one of them is sure to bring up that fact that she was in possibly the best flick of 1979 The Muppet Movie.

Wednesday Whyning #1

2008-05-28T23:45:00.001-04:00

Today we begin a new series akin to Jack Handey's Deep Thoughts where you, gentle reader, may contemplate some of the issues brought forth in our world today as funneled through the ever-inquisitive mind of my three-year-old who NEVER. SEEMS. TO STOP. ASKING. WHY. I have at times, in fact, placed a limit on the number of why-questions he can ask while in the car on the way to school, mainly because I have already answered 619 of them and I still haven't had any coffee. (I have also discovered perhaps the best response to these questions. Trust me, I will find a way to use this at some point.) Feel free in the comments to provide some good answers to these questions.

This week's selection, said to Mama:
"Why do you have legs, Mama?"

(Husband's response: "For me to ogle, kid.")

Smackdowning John Malkovich

2008-05-24T23:47:00.003-04:00

It's been ages since I have had the chance to participate in one of Stinkylulu's Supporting Actress Smackdowns -- so when a call went up for 1999 and I realized I had already seen most of the performances involved (I had only not seen one of the films), I jumped at the chance. For the record, the nominees are:

Toni Collette in The Sixth Sense
Catherine Keener in Being John Malkovich
Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted
Samantha Morton in Sweet and Lowdown
Chloe Sevigny in Boys Don't Cry

A pretty interesting year, one that yielded some fun nominations indeed. As a curio, however, it turns out that I actually kept track of the movies I watched back in 1999 and chose my own list of a top five back then. In apparent order of preference from nine years ago, my choices then for Best Supporting Actress were:

Julianne Moore for Magnolia (but also Cookie’s Fortune and An Ideal Husband)
Sissy Spacek for The Straight Story
Toni Collette for The Sixth Sense
Cameron Diaz for Being John Malkovich
Nora Dunn for Three Kings

Poor Cameron Diaz will never get another shot like this again, I fear. I do wonder why Spacek wasn't nominated: it's such a great little performance, and Richard Farnsworth got an acting nomination out of it. (Plus, hey, she was playing someone mentally challenged! It's a sure thing! Heck, look what it did for Jolie!) Then again, what was I thinking about Nora Dunn?

Anyway, my views have changed slightly in the ensuing years. Check out the Smackdown to see the winner (who, by the way, I'm totally happy with).

Eureka!

2008-05-22T10:36:00.004-04:00

(UPDATED to include picture of item in question...)

Our family tends to shop at the Salvation Army.

I should qualify that statement: we usually shop for Xan at the Salvation Army, where we can pick up a whole bag of shirts for under $10, of usually really nice stuff. One has to take the time to rifle through everything to find the right sizes, but that's half the fun. Angela often finds great things as well and the prices simply can't be beat. The SA store near Takoma Park also happens to be know for pretty good quality clothing items as well.

I never find anything.

I usually chalk this up to most men's fashion habits. Or at least mine. Basically, I don't get rid of anything unless the item has too many holes or stains to merit not wearing -- and even then I usually just put it in the pile of painting/gardening clothing that I also have. I can't even bear to get rid of the overwhelming number of t-shirts I have. Surely, I cannot get rid of my beloved NIN black t-shirt, even though the logo is mostly worn away. No way, man.

If most men are like this, this is why I can't find anything worth buying at the Salvation Army. I usually end up shopping as frugally as possible at outlet stores.

Yesterday, I went on half-price day. This was a new experience and the store was completely overrun with all sorts of folks in there grabbing everything left and right. For the next month of so, Xan and I are spending Wednesdays together, so he was there as well. I went on a whim to satisfy a particular fashion issue in conjunction with my class this summer (which I'll detail more on later, if the class figures it out). Once I had resolved that issue, I went looking in the boys' section for shirts for Xan. I found several that seemed promising. Alas, sometimes people also put things in places where they don't belong. For example, this shirt that was clearly not a child-size shirt. What is it doing in...

Hmm. That's a familiar crest.

And this fabric seems like the football jersey mater-

Oh my God.

I start looking at the shirt all over and it dawns on me that I had found an authentic football fan jersey from the Spanish national team. Older, naturally, but in otherwise perfect condition.

I have wanted an España shirt for the last three years, when I made my prediction that Spain would take the World Cup in 2006. I was horribly wrong -- and yet still I have remained a fan of Spanish soccer and, given that Peru once again seems like it will flounder like nobody's business and not make it into the big game, I'm still on board behind Spain. I have ben actively considering for almost two years to just hunker down and spend the roughly $70 it costs for a jersey, just because I'm a fan.

The price tag on this shirt: $3.99.

Oh, wait: it's half-price day. That means $2.

I showed this to Angela last night. She said, "Oh, man, someone's girlfriend is in biiiig trouble for getting rid of that shirt."

"Girlfriend?" I said incredulously. "It better be a wife that threw this shirt out. Because if it isn't, I guarantee they're not boyfriend and girlfriend anymore."

Cuarón! No, Cuar-off. No: on. Off. On again! Off? Sheesh...

2008-05-19T23:11:00.002-04:00

Last year, I managed to successfully teach a summer course on auteurs. I had long loathed the idea of teaching a whole course about a single director, yaaaawn, but I thought that six weeks would be kinda brisk and fun. The course is actually more about general auteur study than anything else and each student has to pick their own director of choice to follow; as a class, however, I choose one director to follow as a case study. Last year was an easy choice: Pedro Almodóvar, chosen because now I could order all the wacky early stuff I had always wanted to see and so that I finally wouldn't have to choose whether I should screen Hable con ella or Todo sobre mi madre.

This year, I decided to put myself on a bit of a limb and chose Alfonso Cuarón. If Almodóvar was a risky choice of sorts, Cuarón is even more so, particularly since he only has a few features to his name thus far. This choice was inspired, however, by an offhand comment at an SCMS panel on Children of Men that I attended, where a panelist said, "When I went to see the movie, I wanted to know whether I would be getting the director of Y tu mamá también or the director of Harry Potter." And all I could think of was, But it's so clear it's the same guy. Hence: a good choice in my mind for an auteur study.

There is another reason: in doing the very preliminary research on Cuarón, I discovered there was very little written about him. Given my decade-long exploration of Peruvian cinema and my new fascination with shorts, hearing the phrase "barely anything written" was music to my ears and I made an initial pitch with a press at SCMS to write a book on Cuarón and they seemed receptive to the idea for a series on contempo directors. When the recent horrific snafu happened with the Peru book (still unresolved, though an answer may come forth next week, keep those fingers crossed), Angela suggested that since I actually tend to write conference papers with 48 hours to spare (it's true), why not try writing at least a draft of the whole book as I'm teaching the course. Not a bad idea, I thought. So my ulterior motive for teaching this course (much like the shorts course from two summers ago, now turning into a regular course for this fall) is to prep a larger academic work.

All great ideas, except for one thing: where are the students?

When summer registration was just beginning, I was pleasantly surprised that I had six students right off the bat; within a few days, I had 8. This was great: the last two summers, my classes had 7 students, then 6. (This, while a couple other literature courses had 20.) Now at least I wouldn't have to worry about my course. I turned my attention to the end of the semester.

Right before graduation, I got ready to send an email informing the class about the textbook we'd be using, in case they wanted to purchase it online or something. I looked at the roster and, to my horror, the list had not expanded, but shrunk in half. 4.

There was no way they would let the course run at 4.

And, of course, this was one of the only times I actually had all of my materials done ahead of time. Crapola. Why had this happened? Since most of the students who had dropped were from the MFA program, my first instinct was that the Mean Girls (TM) who had sabotaged my evaluations in the fall were now telling everyone to avoid my course. (Curses!) Then, I realized that was paranoid and the likelihood is that it's the economy, stupid, or something like that. Indeed, virtually all the summer courses in the department were drastically underenrolled.

Over the last week, the course fluctuated. We got as high as 6, which I felt comfortable would be allowed to go, but then dropped down to 5 again. I still had no idea on Friday whether or not the course would run and the administrator in charge of this (a pal) also had no clue, that decisions would be made on Monday. I broke the news to the class that we were on the bubble, asked them to ask friends if need be.

I looked yesterday morning: one more had dropped. Back to 4.

The administrator said that he could argue 5, but not 4 -- but that he would hold my course from cancellation on the off-chance, mainly because I knew at least one student might need it to graduate.

This morning, still at 4. The administrator sent me an e-mail saying it was off.

By this point, I had resigned myself. In the shower, I thought up of how I can teach the course in the spring anyway and how to teach it as a full-length course by adding Alejandro González Iñárritu to the mix and cribbing some ideas from a similar course taught by a friend on the Coen Brothers. I thought, hey, who says I can't still watch the movies and write the book? I'll invite friends for a summer film series and they can help me find things. There will be wine and food and great conversation every Wednesday. I'd miss the summer salary -- but this would be fun and productive! And I haven't had a summer like this in a few years? I toweled off, feeling happy with what I was doing with the summer, ready to start fresh. I logged online to get my class' emails so that I could let them know it had been canceled.

There were now 5 students.

Sometime in the hour it took me to shower and have lunch, another student had come into the course. I called the administrator. He said, "Congrats! Your course is a go!"

And as I watched the paycheck come back into view as the summer film series in my house faded away, I wasn't sure exactly how I should feel.

An invitation to manipulate

2008-05-13T01:09:00.006-04:00

Now that the semester's over, I have two academic things on my plate this week: (1) finish up my syllabus for my course on Alfonso Cuarón which is due to start in a week, and (2) finish up a long-overdue article on Peruvian director Luis Llosa.

This is a necessary introduction for the surprise discovery that I had been tagged in a meme. And from none other than Film Experience guru Nathaniel. (Ohmygosh, hi Nathaniel! *pant pant* big blogger looking at little ol' me, try not to sweat or vomit *pant pant*)

Here are the rules:

Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Locate the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences on your blog and in so doing...
Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged me.

There happen to have been two books in my bookbag, which I was just packing up in order to go to bed. The first, Ricardo Bedoya's 100 años del cine en el Perú: Una historia crítica, amusingly has photographs on page 123, so I had to go to page 127 to find text. As such, this is what I get

Así, el factotum de Amauta Films -- que por entonces substitía como empresa dedicada al negocio de la distribución de cintas extranjeras, principalmente mexicanas -- Felipe Varela La Rosa intentó regresar a la producción, para lo que formó la empresa Nacional Films del Perú, asociandose con Ismael Bielich, Kurt Hermann y Federico Uranga. En el distrito limeño de Barranco, emprendió la instalación de estudios y laboratorios con los que se propuso prestar servicios a empresas que intentaban probar la eficacía del apun incipiente negocio de la publicidad fílmica y mantenerse en la producción de noticiarios y documentales. En la nueva experiencia apareció acompañado por Kurt D. Hermann, director de producción de la nueva compañía, Guillermo Garland y por los técnicos Pedro Valdivieso y Julio Barrionuevo, responsables de fotografía y sonido que habían iniciado su carrera en Amauta.

Hm. What do we learn from the above?

Film history in Peru in the early 1940s involves something called Amauta Films.
Spanish sentences are really friggin' long. (And yet, is anyone else glad that neither Saramago nor García Márquez was near me right now?)
And often really boring.
I am a big geek.

I expected the other selection to be even more tedious -- and yet, out of context as it is, it is more fun and profound. The book is the textbook I have assigned for my class, Auteurs and Authorship, a collection of essays edited by Barry Keith Grant. The essay that encompasses page 123 is Claire Johnson's "Women's Cinema as Counter-Cinema"; the three sentences selected happen to comprise one of her own writing and two quoted from Hans Enzenberger:

There is no such thing as unmanipulated writing, filming or broadcasting. The question is therefore not whether the media are manipulated but who manipulates them. A revolutionary plan should not require the manipulators to disappear; on the contrary, it must make everyone a manipulator.

Gotta say, I like that one much better. Plus, this bestows upon all of you the power to manipulate the media however you choose.

Oooh, now it's time for my favorite game of tag! Let's see what Zunguzungu, StinkyLulu, the Magiares, Manasse and that Desperate Hausfrau have to say. Not quite the usual suspects, but all smart folks, which should make this even more fun.

Hook, line

2008-05-12T19:57:00.005-04:00

Without going into too much detail yet (because, dear God, I don't want to jinx this), I got notification today that something I have been waiting for with bated breath might actually go through. The nibble on the line is more sure and solid. I've been here before, though, which is why I'm not saying anything for sure yet. I will find out in the next two weeks about this possibility.

Saying no more than this, if you've got some good thoughts, prayers, karma, crossed fingers or bonus points to send in my direction, I'll take 'em about now. (Thanks in advance. And yes, I will inform here if and when this goes through.)

Ibuprofen? You shouldn't have...

2008-05-11T21:04:00.005-04:00

The scene opens with Xan in the back seat of the car following his gymnastics class. In typical Middents form (and given that this backbreaker of a semester only ended the night before as I finished up the grading), I still had to get something for Mother's Day.

I turned in the seat before heading out. "So, Xan, do you want to get something for Mama for Mother's Day?"

Xan nodded his head vigorously. "Yes."

"What shall we get her?" I was prepared for anything.

His answer was definite: "Watermelon."

OK, maybe not anything. "Why should we get Mama some watermelon?" I asked, noting that I've had to answer roughly six "why" questions per minute over the last couple weeks.

"Because she will like it."

I actually considered this for a moment. Then, sense returned. "Um, Xan, I think watermelon is out of season right now."

"Oh." This fazed him for just a moment. "Then I want to get Mama some medicine."

Now I turned around again. "Excuse me? Why should we get medicine for Mother's Day?"

His answer was again unequivocal. "We need to get Mama some medicine in case she gets sick. Then she can get better."

In my mind, I think for a moment that I was just hanging out with a doctor who could have written up a great prescription of something advertised on television that I know I should have paid attention to. Paxil? Oxycontin? Xymox?

"Perhaps we should go to the bookstore instead, Xan."

Big grin emerged. "OK!" Whew.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone!

Payback doesn't have to be a bitch

2008-05-05T16:44:00.005-04:00

So this weekend, we wallowed about in our yearly scramble for a babysitter. Angela once again had a spring concert (once again featuring Copland, wheee!) and our usual supply of potential babysitters via students was completely wiped out due to final exams. With the coming of spring, many of our other sources (neighbors, former students, illegal immigrants looking for construction work in Prince William county, etc.) were also wiped out. At gymnastics class, I was going to ask JP, Xan's best friend's dad, if he could give me the name of their babysitter. But before I did, he mentioned that an aunt had come and was helping them out.

"Darn," I said. "I'm desperate for a babysitter and I was going to ask if you had a good one to recommend."

"Well," he said helpfully, "why doesn't Xan just come over to play with Jolie? She would love it, they could play at the park and you won't have to worry about anything?"

I blinked. "Really?"

After much assurance from both JP and later KC on the phone, we agreed this was a good thing. I brought Xan over and both he and Jolie were ecstatic, literally jumping up and down at the sight of each other. I had brought over pajamas, since KC had suggested that he could even try getting in a sleeping bag in her room when I expressed concern that we might be late. I thought, Wow, his first slumber party, of sorts! What fun! Indeed, he barely lifted his head up to wave goodbye as I drove away (madly, trying to get to Capitol Hill from Wheaton in under a half hour). The concert, which included a fantastic flamenco piece by Miguel de Falla that I was previously unaware of, was amazing and, as it was the last concert of the season, we stuck around a little while to mingle with some of the other performers. I realized I didn't have KC's or JP's phone number at intermission, but guessed that they had Angela's and would call if something was wrong. We checked as we left the theater: no messages. It was a wonderful evening -- and we took a leisurely drive back to their place.

At the door, KC met us with a big smile. Xan ran to us with a huge hug. And upstairs, we could hear poor Jolie howling.

The gist of it was that there was a definite conflict of ideas between the two kids at bedtime: he wanted to be in with her, she wanted no one else in the room. And there was much howling that ensued, apparently from both sides. Once this was finally resolved, Jolie was up way past her bedtime and was now overtired. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that KC, JP and KC's aunt all could have used a pitcher of mojitos. Each. That is how we left them.

They never said a word but, oh my goodness, we felt horribly guilty for not coming back sooner. KC: so, so, so very sorry.

So: we think payback is in order. As in, what can we do for them that would be both fun and deserving? Seriously, we need suggestions. I'm soliciting. (Should KC respond in the comments herself that no payback is necessary, pay no attention to the crazy woman who has a newborn, a fantastic job as a full-time doctor, three different blogging responsibilities and a penchant for going a little overboard with birthday parties. Remember: she needs a picther of mojitos. Plus, she's clearly been uber-busy with the new, fab-lookin' website, so make that a picther-and-a-half. Hmm, maybe I should just make mojitos?)

36 for 36

2008-04-26T09:55:00.015-04:00

For my birthday, I got a fabulous little portable digital camcorder. The best part about it, however, was that it wasn't blank. My sweet and wonderful beloved had actually gone out to make 36 videos of people wishing me happy birthday.

She had agreed that I wouldn't post everyone's videos onto YouTube, so alas you can't see how hilarious most of these are; luckily, some stills will give you an idea of the whole group. It's also a very sweet testament that so many cool and wonderful people -- students, administrators, librarians, professors, friends, neighbors -- were willing to do this. And even with this motley crew, Angela apologized that she couldn't get some others. Personally, I'm touched.

Naturally, I can show one of the videos, perhaps the only one who I don't have to worry about getting permission for, because I'm the person responsible for giving him the permission. Plus, it's probably the cutest of the bunch.

Thanks, everyone! (And don't be surprised if now some videos start popping up on here, once I finally get back to blogging more regularly, heh heh.)

Oh my gosh!

2008-04-07T15:03:00.001-04:00

Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh.

(I'm, um, a little excited. One of my favorite books from the last few years, directed by a more than competent director with a stellar international cast and a script by one of the most interesting screenwriter-actors out there. Yep, I'm sold.)

Cinematic Homonyms #1: Cherry Valance

2008-03-26T16:38:00.004-04:00

It's time to play everyone's new favorite game: Cinematic Homonyms! I provide you with two characters with the same name and you tell me what you think of them, which one you prefer and how they might relate.

Today's entry (inspired by my showing Red River today): Cherry Valance

#1: Cherry Valance in Red River (D: Howard Hawks, 1948), played by John Ireland

#2: Cherry Valance in The Outisders (1983, D: Francis Ford Coppola), played by Diane Lane:
Personally, I think S.E. Hinton chose wisely in terms of naming her dreamy-eyed Oklahoma redhead Cherry in the novel. As played by Lane, the connection becomes very clear. The fun part is seeing what this does to the other characters, as she only have googly eyes for Dally/Matt Dillon, the same way that the original Cherry only had eyes for Matt/Montgomery Clift, which makes a very appropriate analogy. The RR still above is striking upon multiple viewings, since Ireland really only once looks away from Clift once during this speech. (And I'm not even getting into the gun showing scene. I mean, really.)

Anyway, which one do you prefer? And do you think they'd enjoy going out for sushi together? What do you think?

¡Three, Amigos!

2008-03-20T22:09:00.008-04:00

The buds are coming out, it's just starting to finally warm up more regularly and college basketball is in full force. Which means that, once again, someone has had a birthday. Xan turned three today, which seems unfathomable to me -- and apparently to him, as well. (More on that in a moment.)

First, what has now become a birthday tradition. Here is Xan three years ago, pretty much to the minute:
At age one:Age two:And, this year, at age 3:

It seems that the one consistent thing about Xan's birthday is that we all desperately need a haircut around this time. Someone has certainly learned how to ham it up in front of the camera now, even pulling out a good "cheeeeese" when necessary. Even wrapped in a towel, he can turn on the charisma.

Naturally, it wouldn't have been his birthday without cake. Or, as it was, cakes.

This year, we decided to use "trains" as a birthday theme, considering his obsession with them. You will note that this year's cake is actually made up of seven little cakes, all laid out on chocolate train tracks. You may remember last year's cake madness; this year, I joined the madness by being in charge of the tracks, realized that I didn't like it plain like that and added the "grass" with colored white chocolate. Please note that the cake pictured above was actually the second cake of its kind today -- and it's not even the "real party" cake, which will come when we have his friends over on Saturday. That will be an even more impressive feat. Yes, we are that mad about cake.

And just in case you think there's no "party madness" this year, please note the following picture, with an anonymous woman in the background who thought that making trains out of cardboard boxes would be simple.

(We would be gunning for crazy party parents of the year but, alas, that honor has been claimed by someone looking for her cake... er, cape.)

Happy birthday, kiddo.

My school spirit goes to 11

2008-03-14T11:46:00.005-04:00

Seven years ago, when I first got to AU as a sabbatical replacement, the men's basketball team was on the verge of entering the hallowed March Madness dance. They had played wonderfully well, the clear favorite as they played the final game in the Patriot League against Holy Cross. They had not been beaten. Life was good. ESPN was coming to campus. There was an air of destiny.

I wanted them to lose so very badly.

Why the ire? For one thing, all the voice-mail messages. There were about three-per-day on my machine, popping up randomly before I could delete them. I've also never been a sport guy and, after Dartmouth, I really haven't developed any sense of school spirit around athletics. If I never went to a football game when I lived in Ann Arbor, you know that I'm not the athletics kinda guy. Seven years ago, I went to the pep rally (seemingly odd in this non-football school) with my teaching assistant, Stephen; both of us dressed in black and raised our pom-poms with a disaffected lower-case "rah" when they told us to cheer. I went home and was thrilled when the team lost, because that meant the hullabaloo was over.

Seven years later, the school is poised again. This time, I became aware of it when they started talking about in on NPR as the school to look out for. Uh-oh, I thought, here we go again. This time, it's against Colgate, but there is a rally planed this afternoon and tickets are available.

Here's the difference: I actually care this time. I want them to win. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I've had athletes in my classes on several occasions -- including the entire men's freestyle swim team for a whole year in two films classes. (I referred to them as a group as "da boyz.") Maybe I'm developing school spirit after all.

Or maybe it's that I can finally have a reason to have a public screening of This Is Spinal Tap. Since there is, miraculously, a connection:

UPDATE -- Oh my God: they did it!

In Bed with Middento

2008-03-11T22:13:00.004-04:00

I recently pointed out to one of my classes that movies are not always released with the same titles everywhere else in the world. In some cases, it's because the significance of the title simply does not translate. Case in point: Madonna: Truth or Dare, which could not be released elsewhere with this title because, funny enough, the "fun party game" is only immediately recognizable in this country. Everywhere else (and this is how it was translated into other languages), the film was titled In Bed with Madonna.

These days, in case you'd like to know, this is what I am often In Bed with:

A. One Tigeroo. Still #1 favorite friend for almost three years now, although these days he apparently also "likes" to be squished all the way into a square basket about half his size.

B. Cool books for me to check out, often placed near or under my pillow. I came to bed at 3:00AM the other night and slammed my head down on this. (It's a hardcover.) (UPDATED NOTE: Item labeled "E" points out that I am actually the one who put said book in that location. This does not change the fact that I think the person who put it there is a bone-brain.)

C. (1) A train of cars, because anything put together in a row can be a train. (Can anyone guess the theme of this year's birthday party? Heck, at least this year we thought about it at least a week before his birthday, which is pretty good for us.) Making trains with trucks brings the best of two worlds together. Lately, the trucks are especially a good thing if accompanied by a (2) squished Mandy. This is easily #2 fave friend, but lately she has also been good to (a) stomp on, (b) rock over with the rocking horse, or (c) roll over with anything with wheels. On the plus side, he usually indicates that this makes her cry and comforts her accordingly. (On the minus side, he often announces that he's going to squish her and make her cry with particular glee. Perhaps it's not a bad thing we don't have another kid yet.)

D. Pizza. Apparently, my side of the bed is something like an oven,, because someone puts the pizza there to cook on a nearly daily basis. Please note its placement under the sheets: this is important, otherwise "the pizza won't cook right." It is usually forgotten there until I try to crawl into bed, so I can slam my knee on it before slamming my head on the book.

E. The Logic Puzzler. Most likely, I do not actually go to bed with the logic puzzles, but I do know that this person tends to be there when I head to bed... Wait a second, I've clearly been staying up much too late these days trying to get work done. Who is this? Do I know this person? How did I get here? Am I in another part of the world?....

On Eduardo Noriega

2008-03-09T23:37:00.003-04:00

This weekend was the SCMS annual conference, held this year in Philadlephia. I have had the good fortune to be able to present at the conference every year (except 2000) and it regularly becomes the energizing academic force for me every year. This year, blogging came into play as well: I have recently read about bloggers meeting other bloggers but hadn't done that myself until Stinkylulu sent me an email asking if we should meet while at SCMS -- and suddenly, I realized that several of the film blogs I've been lurking around were also written by young film ~~nerds~~ academics like me! It was a blast meeting Lulu and Nick (and QTA, whose own blog is now defunct because of silly pressures like having to write one's dissertation and all). Plus, I went to a couple panels directly related to blogging on films, so we'll see how this affects this space as well. (Although Nick and Lulu both said that the Xan-pics need to keep coming as well.)

My own paper was for a panel on the relationship between contemporary Latin American cinema and Ibermedia, the most prominent funding source for Latin American filmmaking, which happens to be located in Spain. The panel was great: one person wrote about the program itself, I gave some ideological implications resulting from the growing dependence on Ibermedia within Latin America, and a third offered a somewhat anthropological glimpse as an insider on a movie funded by Ibermedia. We had a robust crowd with over a half hour of questions (unheard of!) and a number of compliments after we broke.

And, of course, this meant that I talked a little about Eduardo Noriega.

You may or may not know that I am teaching a course on Stardom this semester and I am always tempted to discuss him because he fascinates me. He actually has made a number of films, of which I have seen four: Alejandro Amenábar's Tesis and Abre los ojos (Open Your Eyes), Guillermo del Toro's El espinazo del diablo (The Devil's Backbone) and Marcelo Piñeyro's Plata quemada (Burnt Money). With those heavy eyebrows and strong facial features, he's natural hunk hunk burning movie-starness; what fascinates me is how these four films (a) know that and (b) subsequently twist the characters around how smoldering he is. In all of these films, he is either crazy or a murderer or both -- and yet somehow the viewer wants to let him off the hook anyway because he's, ya know, hot. Amenábar in particular uses him in this way, particularly as he is paired with phenomenal character actor Fele Martínez, who conspicuously plays the normal (read: not hot, but also not crazy) guy in both of those films. Angela and I talked once about how the relative hotness of an actor often helps us identify with a character quicker and easier, justifying decisions like casting Jennifer Connelly in House of Sand and Fog for a character who was originally plain and dumpy. (Christian Metz would, I imagine, have quite the field day with this idea. But I digress.)

My paper, however, was not about Noriega's hotness (which is what I would talk about if and when I bring him up in class this semester) but rather his Spanish-ness. The image above comes from Plata quemada, which is actually an Argentine-Spanish co-production. While that production certainly gained cachet by casting Noriega after his performance in the break-out international hit Abre los ojos, doing so also slightly changed the narrative since the script (and novel) is based on a true story about two Argentines. My paper talked about his inclusion as such and the implications of diluting national cinematic identity when you throw a random Spaniard in a main role.

Naturally, I waited until the very last minute to finish my paper, which means I finished it very early Saturday morning before the presentation that afternoon. When I checked into my hotel, I had asked if there was a place to print nearby. They happily assured me that I could print there. Great, I thought, I'll just print it, grab something for breakfast and run to the first panel. Alas, when I came down to print, I discovered that the internal server was down and I wouldn't be able to print from the regular terminals -- but that there was one behind the front desk that I could print from.

It was only after I begun that I realized I was printing on the slowest printer ever. My 12-page document took 40 minutes to print. I was kicking myself.

Here's where things get a little spooky. While waiting for the interminable print job, I tried to find the printer application so that I could speed things up. In the process, I opened up the "Recent documents" drop-down menu. Clearly, whoever had used the computer before had been viewing some -- ahem -- naughty pictures of a sort, given some of the random document names that I saw on the list. While amusing, I would otherwise not note this -- except that smack in the middle of the list, I saw the name "eduardonoriega.jpg."

Now how weirdly coincidental is that? I'm printing a paper referencing this guy on the same computer that rather recently someone else is apparently ogling him -- which I guess only proves my original claim above, that he's a hunka hunka burning movie star. I think that for the next conference I go to, I'll try writing about some other semi-obscure randomly attractive actors that I like -- Emily Watson, Ricardo Darín, Shohreh Aghdashloo, maybe Maggie Cheung? -- to see if other hotel computers can be made to bend to my whim even before I arrive. (Or maybe I should just try to channel this to happen again. Because if they all show up at my hotel at the same time... well, I might just pass out in cinematic apoplexy.)

Li'l Devil

2008-03-02T21:26:00.003-05:00

No news, frantically trying to finish up manuscript/SCMS paper/grading before Thursday. But I couldn't let this photo go by, which Angela took at breakfast and which I completely love. Yes, it does appear as if we have an honest-to-goodness boy on our hands.

Global Hollywood

2008-02-26T22:21:00.004-05:00

Much is being made right now about the fact that, for the first time, all the Oscar winners in the acting categories happen to not be American. Although two of them play Americans (convincingly, I might add), Javier Bardem is Spanish, Marion Cotillard is French and Daniel Day-Lewis and Tilda Swinton are both British.

This is significant perhaps only in context: it seems that the Academy may finally be embracing the fact that Hollywood is truly a global place, even when it comes to acting.

Certainly, many foreigners have been nominated before and several, especially the Brits, have taken home awards left and right. But we only need to look back to the year I graduated from college to see an example where this wasn't true.

We could debate left and right whether or not Marisa Tomei really deserved the Oscar for this film based on her performance. At the time it happened, I was as outraged as many, particularly since I believed Judy Davis had been robbed for her incredible performance in Woody Allen's Husbands and Wives; I also thought this because, quite honestly, I hadn't bothered to see My Cousin Vinny. Years later, I did and her performance is actually quite good. Tomei has since proven herself several times over, including fantastic turns in In the Bedroom (where she deservedly picked up a second nom) and last year's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (where she might have picked up a third, had the field not been so incredibly overrun with really prime performances). I still don't think it's better than Davis', but maybe it's not so bad either. Besides, comedy is harder to play than it looks, so maybe we should be happy that at least this time it was rewarded.

And yet, as time has gone on, it becomes evident that one of the main reasons why Tomei probably won was that she was the only American that year. The other three nominees were all British: Joan Plowright in Enchanted April, Miranda Richardson in Damage and Vanessa Redgrave in Howards End. (Davis happen sto be Australian.) That year the field was clearly also tight: these are fine performances all and may have served to cancel each other out. That Tomei got as many votes as she did, however, speaks something to the age and overwhlemingly American composition of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. In many ways, Tomei represented the home team -- and my guess is that many voted for her out of a sense of nationalism more than anything else.

It seems strange now to consider that, given how global we now take our movies. I am thrilled, for one, that this aspect has come through: that one can make it here from an international perspective. All of the winners this year still work in some of the smaller, crazy cinema projects back in their home countries (save Day-Lewis, who simply doesn't make many movies at all these days), so perhaps some attention will be drawn to those cinemas as well; certainly the Spanish is quite vibrant and deserves more attention.

Naturally, my only gripe about all of this is that the year that Oscar finally showed the love for overseas acting happens to be the one year when none of those actors were from Latin America. Maybe next year, Gael.

Wallflower no more

2008-02-21T21:53:00.004-05:00

I have a colleague at work who also has a nearly-three year old son. The kids met at a summer get-to-know-each-other departmental party for what I called "the underclass" (i.e. the untenured, the folks still on one-year-contracts, etc.) at our house, where we discovered that our kids were both, miraculously, followers of sorts. Each stayed in his respective dad's arms, eying the other with a mixture of curiosity and concern, waiting to see what the other would do. This lasted until a 4-year-old boy showed up and took charge, turning the two 2-year-olds into versions of tie-fighters flying in formation around him.

The other day during my evening class' break, I found this colleague in his office with no students. We exchanged pleasantries and at some point I asked him about N, his son. "Oh man," he said, "I have no idea what to do. I have to get him ready every morning and he just throws this ridiculous fit. It happens every morning. And I don't know what to do."

"Really?"

And at this point I turned into Dear Abby, offering advice on how to traumatize your child into submission so you can get his pants on. I have to say that it still works: the other day he was resistant and I calmly said, "Would you like me to bring you outside with no clothes on?" He looked at me and said, "No, I put on my pants now."

Here's the sadistic part: I can't wait to hear how N will take to the smackdown. Bwahaha: tormented fathers of the world, unite!

---

I haven't written much lately for a few reasons. Primarily, it's because I fell behind in my writing and other work due to some illnesses (both mine and Xan's) that set things back a bit. (Indeed, my last posting notes the beginning of this spiral.) But the revisions are close to being done indeed, and the Oscars are actually happening no matter what (hooray!) so I just have to KEEP ON GOING. Come mid-March, I may actually be caught up with all the writing, which would be novel.

One of the interesting by-products of the creeping crud that invaded our house a couple weeks ago was that Xan suddenly turned into Mr. Obstinate. He would yell all day at us, "No! You to do that. No, no, don't say that!" Very insisting, very forceful, refusing to be nice for any reason whatsoever. (Apparently, something invaded many little boys around this time, since I wasn't alone in wondering what the heck happened to my sweet little child.) Within a week, he returned to a version of his normal self, but one day I lingered at his school and watched an interaction with his classmates. He sat down at a table doing some crafty thing and got up to move a chair for some unknown reason. As he was doing this, the girl next to him grabbed all of his craft material to put on her tray. Xan returned, discovered his stuff was gone and started to throw a minor fit. "Give me my stuff back!" he started yelling at the girl.

I was talking to one of the teachers and my first response was to stop him, but before I even said anything, the teacher turned to me and said, "Let's see how this plays out." The girl ran off with his stuff and he chased her, managing to get some of it back but not all. The teacher -- who saw more than I did -- eventually stopped the two of them and actually berated the girl: "Did you take his stuff when he wasn't looking?" "Yes," she said. "Well, you need to give it back. You don't like it when someone does that to you, do you?" She did, Xan was happy and all was well." The teacher turned back to me. "I think that went well," she said."

"I'm impressed," I said. "I was just going to say that he's been pretty willful this last week and was concerned that he was transferring back to school."

The teacher looked at me. "Well, you know, it's been a goal of ours to actually get him to stick up for himself."

And at that point she fleshes out the details that she mentioned in our parent-teacher conference but that I had forgotten: indeed, when he first arrived at school (at only 2 1/2, the very youngest there), he had been a doormat. A kid would take his toy and, in his relatively good-natured way, he would shrug and find something else to play with. The teachers had apparently been concerned that he wasn't asserting himself enough. Lo and behold, this may have been part of the reason he got snippy with us: testing the waters to see whether he could also rule over us.

Today, however, more news, and this actually worries me slightly: when she picked him up today, Angela got word from the teacher that Xan is now teasing the other kids.

As someone who has all sorts of traumatic memories of elementary school, I almost couldn't fathom that this was happening. Apparently, it makes sense: the other kids did it to him and now he's trying on that particular hat for himself. Tomorrow, when I bring him in (provided we don't have a snow day), I'm planning on asking if there's anything we can do at home.

Garbo, reincarnated

2008-02-03T23:56:00.000-05:00

Two minutes ago, with me still up late writing, I heard Xan start to cry. "Are you OK?" I asked.

"I want to be alone," he said sleepily.

And just like the Baron von Geigern, I quickly scampered away.

A.M. UPDATE: Actually, he turned out to be lying. Waking up a couple hours later, he had a fever. So we're home today.

How have I NOT damaged my child in the past week?

2008-02-02T01:59:00.000-05:00

(a) This morning, I took him out in the cold rain, forgetting to put on his rain boots. Naturally, the first thing he does is splash in a large puddle outside. Naturally, this is also the day that I don't have the car, having dutifully brought it in to be serviced. Naturally, we have also missed the bus. "My feet are wet," he says. Naturally, he is the only one who doesn't have rain boots when we get to school, so I have additionally committed a fashion faux pas.

(b) Last night, upon taking him to bed, I accidentally bump his head while getting his pajamas on. "You hurt my head!" he says. "Don't do that!" I ask for forgiveness. I get it only after many kisses and a few tickles for good measure.

(c) On Monday, I deny him the opportunity to see Barack Obama in person. In DC, I explain, disenfranchisement happens early and often.

(d) In the process of (c), I have to bring him in to school much earlier than we usually get there. As such, instead of being late for snack when everyone is already there, he is only the second person, and the other kid is significantly older than he is. After taking off his coat, he looks around, looks at me with wide eyes and, very seriously with an extremely cute voice, asks, "Dada, where are all my friends?" (Thankfully, the twins his age -- who also usually arrive very late, actually usually right before us -- come within a minute, since their mom also has an early meeting.

(e) Late last week, I go through the daily motions of getting him ready for school. Usually, this involves much bellyaching and a chorus of "I don't want to [x]" with [x] being either "have breakfast," "get dressed," "put shoes on," "go to school," "put coat on," or, you know, "breathe." This has occasionally devolved into mild tantrums -- and, lately, not so mild. On the day in question, I am running late (as usual) and trying to put clothes on, which leading to complaints and thrashing as described above. This, after I've given him a LOT of extra time to play and after he has agreed to get dressed without a fuss. "I DON'T WANT TO WEAR CLOTHES! NO! NO!!!"

At some point, I give up. I remember that apparently I had this problem as a kid and my mother made me go to school in my pajamas for a whole day. I decide that perhaps it's time to bring out the big guns. "Really?" I ask. "You don't want clothes? Fine." I pick up his clothes and shoes, put them in a bag, grab my coat and his lunchbox and drag him out the back door to the car.

He is wearing only a diaper and a pair of socks.

The temperature is about 16 degrees above absolute zero outside.

I then proceed to put the howling boy ("I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOOOL! I DON'T WANT TO WEAR CLOOOOTHES!") into the car, strap him into the car seat, start the car and drive off. To cover up the howling, I put Annie Lennox's "Coloured Bedspread" on the CD player at a relatively loud volume. I then pray to God that a cop doesn't drive by, since I'm not entirely sure that what I am doing is legal. Only when I get to the other side of town do I finally hear a small voice in the back seat say, "Dada, may I please have some clothes?" And after an apology and a huge hug, I put them on.

Wracked with guilt, I confess all this to his teacher at school. "You're better than I am," she laughs. "I probably wouldn't have even turned on the heat in the car." I look at her. "What makes you think I did?"

(f) I gave my son a fat lip.

ANSWER: (f)
Funny enough, he gave himself a fat lip at school. Later telling us that it involved "riding tricycles around and around and around and around and then CRASH," he actually manages this by simply running with a plastic toy in his hand and then falling on it, giving himself a nice bloody cut. By chance, Angela and I both arrive only minutes after this happens and are thus able to document the aftermath, snapping photographic evidence with the incriminating evil toy, still in his clutches.

"I'll show you, Evil Squiggly Plastic Blue Toy!"

"This is a one-shot thing we got going on here."

2008-02-01T21:46:00.000-05:00

I haven't written about Heath Ledger until now. The reason is perhaps obvious: everyone's already written about Heath Ledger in some form or another and I wasn't quite sure I had much to add that wasn't said more eloquently elsewhere.

That said, from the moment I found out about his death, the fact that I happen to be teaching a class about stardom (and, randomly and separately, am screening Brokeback Mountain in my grad seminar) this semester jump-started the academic in me. Quite frankly, I'll admit to being utterly fascinated at the phenomenon of Ledger's somewhat posthumous stardom. I'll admit my utter shock at finding out about his death while picking up some movies at the library 10 minutes before class -- and then somewhat puzzled why I seemed to have such an empathetic response. It's not like I've fawned over him incessantly; indeed, I have only seen three of his films, two of which were supporting turns in Monster's Ball and I'm Not There. As talented an actor as he was or potentially might have been, I had no idea he was this big of a star -- and I have a feeling many people felt the same way, surprised at their own emotions toward him.

This week my class is reading some considerable theorizing about the confluence of actors and roles that make up stardom. For me, the outpouring of emotional wringing around Ledger's death solidifies something nearly every sane cinephile has been saying for two years now: that as both a film and a cultural touchstone, Brokeback Mountain endures. Perhaps this is because BBM was really more of a throwback to the most memorable melodramas of Hollywood's classic periods. As such, we viewers (caught in the cultural zeitgeist of the film) easily and unknowingly transformed the actor into the star that matched that kind of performance. As obsessed as some of us are about the Oscars (and hey, I'm the one with the party and trademarked drinking game!), it no longer bothers me as much that what amounts to a lightweight film like Crash won that evening. Heck, Singin' in the Rain doesn't have a Best Picture Oscar and Around the World in 80 Days does: you tell me.

If this sounds like I'm gearing up for a possible article on this subject, I just might. The last time I got really this interested in stardom, I wrote a great piece on Matt Damon and Ben Affleck that I now regret not publishing; indeed, I was planning on returning to that piece instead (and still might). But once the manuscript is done done done (which will hopefully be soon), maybe a detour into the current phenomenon might be worth examining.

(This actually started as a comment on a post on Heath Ledger at The Film Experience -- so thanks for the inspiration, Nathaniel!)

Bye bye, Miss American Pie

2008-01-27T21:47:00.001-05:00

I've decided to post this now to see just how/if my mind changes come November. As it happens, the political stalemate that has been going about my head over the last few months has finally been decided in one direction.

I had been a Richardson fan since he announced his candidacy. Forget the fact that he's Latin (which I was drawn to): I honestly found him with both the most extensive track record on foreign policy of the bunch, not to mention one of the few that was a governor and therefore had experience running a state. I still think it's a shame he didn't catch any fire. Since he bowed out, I've been trying to figure out who I might fall behind: Clinton or Obama? (I didn't like Edwards the first time around and there's no reason to think I might be a fan this time.)

The two had been running neck and neck in my head until yesterday, when I read my good friend Marcy's posting on her blog about what has been happening in Michigan. The national media (OK, NPR, which is all I listen to) hasn't really been discussing the issue and, indeed, it may seem like a minor one. And yet, as Marcy so aptly points out, the notion of trying to pander to Florida voters and working to try to back-end her way into the Dem nomination is one taken "by a reckless person who put herself above the larger good."

And you know, I've had enough with eight years of that kind of attitude in a president who thinks they are bigger than they are.

Therefore, count me squarely in Obama's camp. I had been impressed anyway by how he has so effectively galvanized the young people of this country into getting something done; I hope they can keep the momentum going to actually elicit some -- dare I use the c-word? oh fine -- change.

Mind you, this all depends on what will happen on the other side as well. If Obama gets the dem nomination, I'm likely to vote that way no matter what; if Romney, Huckabee or Giuliani make it on the other side, I'll also vote dem no matter who the nominee is. If my choices are Clinton and McCain, however, at this point I imagine I'll have some serious thinking to do.

(All this written on the eve that, of all things, Obama is coming for a big rally at AU tomorrow -- complete with Caroline and Edward Kennedy providing their endorsement on campus. They will be about 100 feet or so from my office... except I won't be there, because tomorrow I have a day's training as an election judge for our own primary in a few weeks. Given that Maryland, Virginia and DC follow Sooper Dooper Toosday, I'm not sure our votes are really going to count for a ton, but still, it's my civic duty. And, given what happened last time I worked a primary, perhaps it's good that I go. Still, woulda been nice to finally attend a political rally, which I've actually never done, and one where I could bring my coffee mug and not have to put on a coat! Sigh.)

"You know something? You read too many comic books."

2008-01-19T21:45:00.001-05:00

Because we are so very hip and cool, Angela and I often spend Saturday evenings sussing out what WETA, one of the local PBS stations is going to play as the classic movie of the evening. Having done a bit of work today, I thought I'd check out what was playing. Maybe it would be something good.

Today: Rebel without a Cause.

Oh, man.

I really love this movie. I have seen Rebel at least a dozen times, probably more. Sure, I own a copy. Many who know me know that I happen to also be somewhat obsessed with James Dean, primarily from this movie. (OK: entirely from this movie, since I only saw Giant about six months ago.) In many ways, it's incredibly hokey, so thoroughly entrenched in 50s teenspeak that it's a relic. I am so terrified that my students will make fun of the movie that I have yet to show it for a full class screening in the seven years I have been teaching movies.

And yet, Rebel is a thrilling portrait of the self-absorbed nature of teenage life, when even the most minor things are so darn IMPORTANT, that the world is just plain over. ("That's the edge. That's the end.") This, despite the fact that everyone -- including, I think, the characters themselves -- realizes that these are simply spoiled kids attempting to react, to respond to suburban ennui. Like so many of the melodramas of the period, Rebel is completely earnest in how it presents everything: the trauma, the drama is so real. In many ways, the film should still resonate; in 1955, during the age of Levittown when the United States is just coming to terms with this decade-and-a-half-old concept of "adolescence," this must have been like a bomb. It is also no wonder that the film critics from the 60s (at Cahiers in France, at Hablemos de cine in Peru, all over) went ga-ga over the film and its thrilling cornucopia of cinematic details: the intensity of that impossibly red jacket; the mixture of disdain and eroticism when Buzz takes Jim's cigarette from his mouth; the wonderful canted camera as Plato goes down for the last time; the truly terrifying light show at the planetarium (evocatively reflecting contemporary fear of "the Bomb") turning into a playful, almost water-like dance on Jim's face toward the end (see top photo); Nick Ray's brilliant use of Cinemascope from the opening credits when Jim is sprawled across the entire screen. (Yes, I walked out of a screening at the Michigan Theater in the mid-90s when it wasn't presented in widescreen format. Thanks, DFS, for turning me into a film snob.)

And oof, James Dean: has there ever been a more visceral character on screen than Jim Stark? This still below highlights a fascinating moment in the film: right after the chickee run where "a boy died" and right before Jim confronts his parents in the most animalistic way, Jim has a quiet moment where he enters though the back door, opens the icebox, takes a long swig of milk, then rubs the cool glass bottle on his forehead. Did I say that this is quiet? Not quite: Dean offers this moment a subtle tautness, reeking of desperation, emblazoning the moment with the contradictions that make up Jim Stark's life. Check out the mise-en-scene: Ray's choice of positioning the milk on the screen works in opposition to The Red Jacket, both played out vertically on screen, but interrupted by that supple, yet nervous face. No wonder boys and girls alike fell in love with him. Dean himself would be stupidly dead before it would be seen (and yes, I realize that's why he fascinates), but the performance bites, even in the scenes where he doesn't caterwaul -- which, of course, he also does.

This is the first in a new, infrequent series of cinematic gushing, inspired by and hopefully resonant with the work of the old-school French film critics who tended to just gush about their favorite movies. Tell me what you think -- and if I should continue, heh heh.

It came from beneath

2008-01-19T21:00:00.001-05:00

I came home last night and Xan had gone to bed not long before. "Go say hi," Angela offered. "He's got to still be awake."

I went in his room. The covers, which usually I find tossed aside haphazardly, are this time over his face. I bend over to check him out.

Very slowly, the covers are pulled down by forces underneath them. A grin lies underneath. "I'm sleeping," he whispers.

"No, you're not," I laugh. "Not if you can tell me that you are."

"I'm sleeping," he repeats with the biggest grin, then slowly covers his face once again.

This just in

2008-01-10T01:07:00.000-05:00

TAKOMA PARK, MD. (AP) -- A local boy tried to get out of bed early last week when reports indicate that he was suddenly hit with what has been called a "sleep attack." Alexander, 2, was apparently caught by the attack in mid-escape, leaving him dangling off his bed. "I don't know how he does that," his father said, "but then again I also don't understand how he can fall asleep with his butt in the air either."

Attempts to wake the child were quickly quashed; attempts to quash giggles were not as successful.

Getting schooled

2008-01-07T20:33:00.000-05:00

The scene: A few days before we take down the Christmas tree, I wander by. Xan is sitting on top of the leather Peruvian poof thang that we have; Angela is sitting cross-legged next to him. I notice that he has the book 500 Words to Grow On in his hand.

X: Dada, come!
J: What are you doing?
X: Sit in the circle, Dada.
J looks at A quizzically.
A: Storytime circle.
J [recognizing this as a school activity]: Oh! Right. Sorry. [sits]
X [approximating reading from a book]: OK, guys, this is an apple can y'all say "apple"?
J/A: Apple.
X: Very good, guys.
J [to A, aside]: "Y'all"? Who says that?
A [to J, aside]: Maybe from one of the work study students?
X: OK, guys. This is a cake can y'all say "cake"?
J/A: Cake.
X: Very good.
J [getting up]: I need a picture of this for the blog.
X [suddenly agitated]: No no, Dada! You need to sit down! It's circle time!
J grabs camera and quickly sits back down.
J [sheepish]: Sorry.
X: That's OK. OK, guys, this is a dinosaur can you say "dinosaur"?
J/A: Dinosaur.
X: Very good. And this is [eyeing a page full of colored crayons] redorangeyellowgreenbluepurplegraybrownblackaaaaandblack. Can you say redorangebluegreenblackwhitepurplewhitebrowngray?

Last night, there were more lessons. When he was born, the illustrious Julie Full Fare sent him a Green Eggs and Ham plate and cup set, the former of which has a saying from the book printed on it. "What's this, Daddy? asks this child, pointing to a word. (A note: "What's this?" is the question of the month and can apply to anything, kind of like we assume "Why?" is with most kids a little later on. Thanks to my sister-in-law's impishness over Christmas, I occasionally reply, "It's a pumpkin," just to keep him on his toes.) (Note to Julie: did you get our gift?)

I look at the word. "It spells Y-O-U. That spells 'you.'"

He looks at it. Looks back at me like I'm an idiot. "No, Daddy. X-A-N spells me. What does this spell?" And with that, the smacking of Dada's forehead continued.

Best Supporting Actress, Class of 2007: Tabu

2008-01-05T23:07:00.000-05:00

I have seen so few movies in theaters this year and, admittedly, many of them just happen to have great male supporting roles but not so many female ones. Really, I'm a huge fan of Cate Blanchett's turn in I'm Not There, even if I'm not that much of a fan of the film -- but that would be too easy. I also really enjoyed Kelly MacDonald's turn in No Country for Old Men, but that could have something to do with the accent.

The Namesake, however, seems to hinge on the character of Ashima, both in terms of the chronology which really begins and ends with her, and in terms of the narrative structure, since she really is the character that holds it together. And, though she is very well known in India, her presence in Nair's film is refreshing, yet grounded. Plus, as can be seen above, she can pull off girlish rebellion while wearing her future husband's spats. It's not quite the lead role in this very ensemble film, but it's the linchpin and the performance sticks.

For these reasons and more, I submit my candidate for Best Supporting Actress 2007: Tabu.

This entry is part of the 2nd Annual Supporting Actress Blogathon -- please feel free to visit the other sites on the list, since I know for sure they have probably seen more films than I have and the list is always fun and varied

¡Feliz año de la papa!

2008-01-01T17:15:00.001-05:00

That's right, folks. If you didn't know, it is now the Year of the Potato. Like my family, the potato comes from Peru. This must mean I'll be making more causa limeña, which I've been making fairly often these days. Perhaps because it's so yummy. Mmm.

Oh yes, Happy New Year as well.

"Forget the Alamo"

2007-12-29T16:46:00.000-05:00

The entry is part of the Endings Blog-a-Thon, featuring a variety of other blogs all talking about movie endings, which i find a fascinating subject. Thanks to Joe at Joe's Movie Corner for putting this all together.

And therefore, be forewarned that the very nature of this posting means here there be spoilers and please do not read unless you have seen the movie in question or don't mind the ending ruined.

Every semester that I teach the introductory film course, I pick a new slate of 14 movies to show over the course of the semester. Most of the students stay with me no matter what I teach, because, somehow, they trust me. Even the movies that confuse them -- Lucretia Martel's The Holy Girl (which I've written about before), Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo (which I still don't understand why they don't like), Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless (their dislike for this also mystifies me, yet it's happened three times) -- are accepted.

All except one.

This is a still from the final scene in John Sayles' Lone Star, one of the most impressive movies I have seen about the contemporary American condition. Featuring a complex tapestry of storylines centering about the town of Perdido on the Texan border with Mexico, the film also openly deals with complicated concerns about history and how nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Unlike other films which tackle RACIAL CONCERNS!! with bolded, italicized, capital letters by arming itself with a sledgehammer of stereotypes (hello, Crash!), each person in Sayles' Lone Star is a full-fledged character, even if they only have a single scene.

The movie begins with the discovery of a sheriff's badge and a bullet on a skeleton right outside the town limits. This sends the current sheriff, Sam Deeds (played by Chris Cooper), on a quest to determine whether local hero and lauded sheriff Buddy Deeds -- who happens to be his father -- actually deserves his honor, or whether he killed a fellow sheriff in cold blood. In the process, he unearths many long-buried stories about how the white, black, Mexican and native populations have not-so-carefully gotten along in the interim and how times really have changed.

Add into the mix a rather interesting and tender romance between Sam and schoolteacher Pilar Cruz (Elizabeth Peña). We eventually learn that she is widowed with a teenage son, he is divorced, and that as teenagers themselves they were deeply in love. Torn apart when his father and her mother, a Mexican immigrant, find them hot and heavy at a drive-in, they are forbidden to see one another until now. As the rest of the story unfolds, Sam and Pilar's story seems like an interesting diversion. At one point, we are even offered a very steamy lovemaking scene between Sam and Pilar with Freddy Fender playing in the background.

If you've seen other Sayles films, you'll know that that scene is a bit out of character for him. Indeed, the love scene seems otherwise typical for any other film, shot in a very standard style. But most of Sayles' films don't deal with love in quite this way, so this stands out, even if it doesn't seem that problematic or consequential at the time.

It turns out to be very important. The last scene is very simple: Pilar drives up to the drive-in -- long since abandoned -- to meet Sam for the first time since they had their fling, the very drive-in where their parents separated them so many years ago. And while there, Sam shows her a picture of her parents. That is, a picture of her mother and his father. Yes: at the very end, she -- and we -- find out that his father had been having a secret affair with the Mexican immigrant who he helped save as she was crossing the border. And that what they though was merely their parents' racist attitudes covered a bigger fear: that they would find each other and commit incest instead. May I remind you of the sensuous love scene I described above?

Here is the kicker: she is completely overcome, not believing that after all this time of unrequited love, they are still thwarted. He holds her hand as they sit on the hood of his car.

Sam: If I met you today, I'd still want to be with you.
Pilar: We start from scratch?
Sam: Yeah.
Pilar: All that other stuff-- all that history... to hell with it, right? Forget the Alamo.

And the movie ends.

It's important to know that I usually end my screenings by having a discussion immediately following the credits. Students have usually taken this moment to chat with one another about it and I then offer them the ability to share with everyone what they think, a la 60s cinephilia.

Here's the thing: this is the only movie which hasn't worked well under such circumstances. Upon further reflection, students are able to process the subtle layering of the movie, how this one very quiet scene sends a corkscrew through every other part of the movie. It turns everything around and manages to force us as viewers to reflect on each element of the movie as it has built up. It's a different kind of twist than what we are used to in things like The Sixth Sense or The Usual Suspects, but those movie also allow us with at least a couple shots in a montage to show us just how the twist affects the movie. Lone Star makes us think that for ourselves, which we eventually do. As such, it's an extraordinary piece.

But this ending really messes up your average undergraduate's mind, where all they can think is oh mah gahd, he just slept with his SISTER!!! I mean, heck, Chinatown gave us more time to deal with that. The fact that these otherwise really cool, normal, nice characters not only learn that they have committed an ultimate transgression but that they resolve to be OK with it and keep going -- to "forget the Alamo" indeed -- is just too much to immediately process. Lone Star has an ending that demands thought and time and, as such, stands above many other contemporary films.

Joy to the World

2007-12-25T21:31:00.000-05:00

We're up in Cape Cod this Christmas and, although there is no snow around, everyone has been having a good time. Around here, presents are opened on Christmas Eve, so we had fun opening last night -- all except for Xan, who waited until this morning after Santa had delivered. (We've then been opening throughout the day, as he just got overwhelmed with items. He still has two more to open, I think.)

Christmas Eve, however, is usually punctuated by Angela and me -- and now Xan -- accompanying her grandparents to church. A word here: I am now a Unitarian-Universalist, although I have admittedly been lax at getting to services every Sunday; Angela has generally inherited her father's (dis-)taste for anything church-related. In general, however, this is something that Nana in particular loves and we feel it's the best for everyone to go to church, even if it means delaying the Christmas Eve Meal for some time.

I should also say that I happen to love Christmas Eve services. This is, after all, the happiest day in the Christian calendar with no strings attached. If I am ever wistful for Christmas, I think of the services from back home in Lima which, for me, were always a great sign of Christmas, even though it was usualy hot and outside in the summer evening air (which I never got used to for the holidays). My church in Lima does a candlelight service with lots of Christmas carols (and for many years I was forced into the choir as a guy who could sing), so for me Christmas always solidifies with a singing on "Silent Night" as the lights go out and the candles turn on -- but in my world, it features three verses in English and one each in the original German and in Spanish. For me, that's magic.

Two years ago when we were last on the Cape for the holidays, we went to what was billed as a "Birthday Party for Jesus." This turned out to be amazingly wonderful, even for the sub-one-year-old that we had at the time: lots of Christmas carols, a direct rendering of the Christmas story and afterwards a quick round of "Happy Birthday to You" with balloons and cake in the parish hall. Brief, to the point and entirely on a kid's level. It was, to use a word, heavenly. I was actually looking forward to the service this year, gleefully expecting cake.

In the interim, however, the former pastor (who actually married us) has been moved elsewhere and a new pastor -- who we refer to as "Reverend Doctor" since the "Dr." was prominently on display when we attended a memorial service only a month or so ago -- has been installed. We had not been to a regular church service at this church for quite some time.

Certainly, I would not have expected that our venture would be worth recoutning. And yet, here I am

For starters, we walk into the main hall of the church to the musicians practicing, since we're a little early. There is a boy playing trumpet and a woman playing piano. They appear to be playing similar tunes, but are at an interval that is dissonant. "Is the trumpet in a different key?" I turn to ask Angela. "Maybe," she says, "since I don't think piano and trumpet are in the same key. Surely the pianist has figured this out." Indeed, we see the two chatting and they wander off as everyone else is wandering in. Xan picks a row for us to sit in and Nana and we two are happily esconced. There is even a little boy who comes to try to make friends with Xan.

At some point before the service begins, we notice a rather large change to the church: there are now two rather large screens hanging around the cross. Oddly, this seems incongruous to me in this otherwise fiarly normally adorned church and I realize that they have gone high-tech in a way, that the lyrics will be projected. I look down at my program and see the lyrics have also been printed in full here. Why, I think, do we have both? Isn't this a waste of paper?

The service begins and the first thing we realize is that the pianist and the trumpeter clearly have not been talking about how to fix their problem because it's still there. They are still dissonant. This grates on a number of my nerves. Xan, however, is thrilled to pieces and fascinated by the music. It appears that he knows something of "Jingle Bells" and tries in a few places to sing it while he is in my arms.

We quickly fall into "Angels We Have Heard On High." This features the chorus that goes "Glooooooooria, in excelsis deo." Xan perks up with a big smile: "Fire engine!" Indeed, each time the church sings the "Glooooooooria," it sounds like a siren and he starts happily singing along, "Fiiire engiiiine! Wooooo!"

As is to be expected. the lyrics come up on the aforementioned screens. As is to be expected, said lyrics are correctly rendered, sometimes.

There is a skit in the middle of the service, impassionately performed by several of the congregation's kids, where each letter in "Christmas" is noted, with some notation as to how a word beginning with that letter pertains to Christmas (such as "T is for tequila, which you undoubtedly could use right about now"). Before this begins, however, the screen features a lone "C" while the pastor explains what is about to occur. A long animated bell continues to ring on the corner of the screen. Xan lights up, happily yells: "Jingle bells!" The pastor, who has not said anything about what anybody else's kid has done, calls attention to this. Xan then proceeds to repeat each letter as a kid comes forward with a large letter. (As is perhaps to be expected, at one point the word in front of us reads "CHRI2TMAS.")

The Biblical passage that the pastor reads comes from a completely different translation than what appears on screen.

The trumpet and piano still are not together as the carols continue.

The kids are brought up for a small children's sermon, which involves him going on about war. The one cool thing that happens at this service is when he gives the kids bells made from spent cartidges made from the metalic detritus of war in Indochina. Xan has gone up with the rest ofthe kids but, upon seeing a mother with a smaller child in her arms, comes back to drag Angela up with him, thus inducting her into the Dadak tradition of being forced against their will to the front of the church (which apparently happened to her father all the time as he would arrive late to Christmas pageants when only the front row was left).

At some point during this, Nana turns to me and points out a 60-something-year-old man sitting with the kids. "That's Joseph," she says to me. I later find out from Angela's mother that indeed this man played Joseph in aliving nativity scene in front of the church; Mary was played by a 14-year-old. Yeesh.

The kids come back with the bells and I realize that my kid finally got his jingle bell -- and that he won't be the only one making noise for the rest of the service.

This being a kids-oriented service, the pastor then offers a regular sermon where I believe he discusses homeless people in three different cities. At this point, however, Xan gets antsy and forces each of his parents out into the vestibule for a while. (In my time away, we got to look at both the traffic and the parking lot.) I realize by this point that, this being the happiest day of the year, the pastor hasn't smiled once.

For the last hymn, the pastor introduces a new song with a calypso beat. (Remember, we're in Massachusetts, where spicy often means black pepper.) The piano and trumpet are still nopt coordinated, no one else appears to know the tune, the lyrics provided on the screen are half grammtically correct and and half rendered in grammatically-incorrect-yet-possibly-Caribbean-patois-maybe? style, Xan is still happily singing about fire engines on one side and Nana, who is lovely but completely tone-deaf, is singing on the other.

The service ends. We do not stay for cake.

I know Christmas Eve services. Later, I will tell Angela that this was by far one of the worst I have been to, on many levels. Before then, however, we turn to Nana in the car: "How did you like the service?"

"Wasn't it lovely?" Nana said genuinely. "I just love seeing all the kids around. And you."

And that, kids, is what the holidays are all about. Merry Christmas.

I think I've seen this someplace before...

2007-12-18T20:45:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has taken one of my classes knows that I am somewhat obsessed with fonts. Somehow, I missed this particular font-oriented tidbit, brilliantly put together by Goodie Bag. Now all I need to to see the new documentary Helvetica and my life melding my font and movie obsessions shall be complete.

(Cross-posted at the new Critical Approach to the Cinema blog, for the AU Cinema Studies student community!)

In lieu of day laborers

2007-12-16T11:55:00.000-05:00

Cookie season is under way. Luckily, we now can employ some indentured servitude to get through the many baked goods that need to be made during this time of the year.

Rates per hour will go up when he's able to reach the sink in order to wash the dishes.

Why I still get carded

2007-12-13T22:59:00.000-05:00

Overheard this evening, on the bus coming home with Mama:

X: Mercedes is a kid.
A: Yes, she is.
X: And Xan is a kid.
A: Yes, you're right.
X: And Dada is a kid.
A: No, he's a grown-up.
X (in resolve voice, a la Willow Rosenberg): No, he is not a grown-up. Dada's a kid.
A: He may act like a kid sometimes, but he's really a grown-up.
X: No, he's not. Dada's a kid.
(slight pause)
X: Mama's a grown-up.

Well, there you have it.

Ahead and Behind

2007-12-09T13:42:00.001-05:00

The grading piles left over from Thanksgiving are finally completed. I am as mystified as everyone else that it has taken this long. But I'm back and, while I have to now make it through the next week of final exams, I may be back to blogging at least a little more regularly.

To celebrate, Angela and I have thought about posting this Way-Too-Much-Information posting for some time now. So, here goes:

The Last Ten Places Xan Has Asked One of His Parents to Kiss Because He Has Hurt It (And Which We Have Subsequently Kissed, Despite Any Aversions)

Head
Finger
Head
Elbow
Head (hmm, trend?)
Head
Tongue ("Dada, I'th bith my thongue. Can you kith it?")
Back
Head
Butt (For the first time, but undoubtedly not the last: "Dada, kiss my butt!")

I would continue this posting, but I think I hear him crawling up to take a flying leap off the ottoman onto the sofa. Again.

Last night

2007-12-03T08:48:00.000-05:00

(Paper count:
"Jeff, how many are left?"
"About 20."
"In that stack or overall?"
"Just in that stack. Should have it done tonight or tomorrow. Then one more stack to go before all the finals come in.")

Visions of Holiday to Come (by AMD)

Last night, the three of us were sitting in Xan's room during the handoff between post-bath/pyjamas (Jeff) and pre-story/music (Angela).

"Goodnight, Dada. I love you." Kiss.

"Did you say goodnight to the Christmas tree?"

Xan hops off the bed and excitedly scampers into the living room. "Goodnight Christmas tree." Parents smile. "I love you." Parents giggle. "I give you a hug." Parents panic.

No se lo digas a nadie

2007-12-01T00:41:00.000-05:00

I'm raising my head up from the morass (four piles down, two to go) with news that is not news -- or, rather, that I got news that I don't want to publicly advertise yet because it's not definite yet. (No, nobody's pregnant.) Nonetheless, it points to some very good news. I'll just leave it at that

With one week before the semester ends, it's back to the grind.