Global Hollywood

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

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

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?

(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."

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

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."

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

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

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

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.