I Was Away On A Secret Mission To Mars

The absence from my blog has not truly affected my life. I have, I will admit, had a streak of laziness. (...a streak? maybe a long distance run)

Anywho. To continue...

For the past three years that I've had this blog, I've been contemplating the outlet of my life she will consume. Yes, she. I give sexuality to all of my inanimate objects. Maybe it's a result of working at aerie. I have come to the conclusion that I don't care. It's a new ZEN path I'm working out. This is my outlet; whether I talk about my life, 80's teen drama issues I deal with at times, or sex,or general nerdiness, or movies and books it will in the end define who I am since I am all of those things.

So I suppose this is my official HELLO post. I never really had one where I set out for the reader what to expect and if they would want to read on and such. So if you've read any of this so far, congrats to sticking to something with no expectations whatsoever. You're a good man, Charlie Brown.

I will hopefully post more reviews on movies and books, as that is my passion. I wouldn't want to bore you with general tidbits about my life, except if the troubles are universal. I can't remember what I've previously wrote about my sad existence (I don't read back my posts...), so hopefully none of that scared you away.

And on the note of possibly scaring you away, this is the incredibly devastating realization I had when sitting in the cinema yesterday. First, some backstory.

My dad is obsessed with the Planet of the Apes movies. The originals: Heston Styles. And I being a mini version of my dad (just a girl) have always tried to get into them. When I saw the first, I was in love. I thought it was innovative and strange and brilliant! But then I dropped the ball. I never watched another film in the series. I wish I had because then I wouldn't have felt so stupid yesterday.

I saw the remake of Planet and hated it. It rubbed me the wrong way. And it's not just because of Marky Mark. There were other reasons, but that's for later. So when I heard they were remaking Rise of the Planet of the Apes, I was kind of bummed. I didn't want another mediocre movie coming out and me being forced to watch it and hating myself for spending money on something shitty (that is the linear movement that occurs whenever I watch a bad film and I seem to never escape it). Since I had never seen the full original series, I never knew what this movie was going to be about. All I knew was it was yet ANOTHER remake, starring James Franco (love as a Freak, but loosing interest lately) and that was it. But I heard good things from 75% of people, so I went. Plus I snuck in after seeing Fright Night, so a free crappy movie was just what I needed.

To understand the long winded punch line to this anecdote you also have to understand that sometimes things don't click for me right away. The way words are formed don't necessarily compute. So when I sat down and the lights dimmed and the title sequence came on, something in me clicked. The movie is call The RISE of the Planet of the Apes. RISE. This movie is a PREQUEL! They explain how the world was overtaken by apes. (Yeah, I know. This girl is STUPID) Then it got me thinking about the story and how much I loved the original idea of the thing, and thus I became nerdily excited. Then after I realized what I had just realized (I'm so meta...) I felt idiotic, thanked God that I didn't say anything out loud, and sat back to watch the film.

Needless to say I loved the movie. Andy Serkis is an ape God (first Kong - yes I know, not an ape - now Cesaer. I mean, come on!) But I'm not sure if I would have loved it as much if I had seen the original. Since that question has haunted me since yesterday, I think I will need to purchase all of the originals. Now my investigating for BluRays of Apes is on!

Like A Teddy Bear

The gossip tree has a dangerous limb to crawl on; the thin branch of trust. An experience is told, in confidence, or at least reaching out for understanding and sympathy, and I trust my life won't be plastered in the thoughts of every open ear. I don't talk about who I am to anyone; I pick my friends carefully, I tell select few and I trust very little. And once again, I've been shown why I don't trust others.

It's not a betrayal. To betray there would have to be an ounce of hope in the other party. To betray, the other person would have to have character, merit, class. This is not betrayal. This is verification that nothing matters to a lot of people. Scratch that - Nothing matters to some people except for themselves. To be the person with the secret. To have others lean in and be invested in what you're saying. To be the big shot. I know something you don't know. The word pathetic comes to mind, but in fact everyone loves the notion that they are in the loop and can inform someone of the juicy details; the gossip; the dirt. Why is the world so focussed on up-to-the-minute details about people they don't even know? Imagine when the tale is about someone you know. Your co-worker is doing what? Taking advantage of the need-to-know urge in others is the lowest of the low, but not surprising.

So now I'm the drunk. Now he's the creep. Now I stand here in the depth of a lie, of a tarnished image I can't clean and I'm sinking. I want to scream, defend, argue ... but all I manage is a few (hundred) tears at four o'clock in the morning. My private life is a discussion between my friends. They look at me differently, talk behind my back, judge and snicker. I have the scarlet letter plastered on my chest, and unlike Hester, I didn't put it there, I'm not proud, and I don't deserve it.

I'm still sweet. I still have feelings. I have my own image I'm trying to build. The person I'm trying to be isn't who everyone is now thinking. My efforts are dashed. Reconstructing from the ground up is hard, especially when people have a preconceived notion. So my verdict is to what? Do I push on, ignore my anxieties? Do I kick up the dirt and throw mud in her eyes? Neither. I'm stuck in a roundabout where I can't find the right exit to get me on the road to a life without this. Round and round the garden. Like a teddy bear.

what light...

The hindsight of desire gives me perspective that I am in some tentative amount of control about who I'm becoming. When stating a simple fact of boredom, I somehow managed to turn my life into a spiral of experiences I never saw coming. But the glory of simply living your life without expectations means anything that comes your way has the opportunity to be pleasurable, so long as you shun the jaded, cynical aspect of reality.

I've come to realize not everyone consistently needs something. There aren't always hidden motives. Two people can simply be in each others' company; find solace and serenity in the aspirations of another. Possibly the one thing I've been missing in friendships is the companion. Everyone tends to look out for themselves. The dog eat dog mentality. Which, in the long run, is to be expected since who else will look out for you?

When I succumbed to, in essence, a person who embodies friendship, I came to terms with an honesty I shied away from. Talking gave new meaning to sharing and being honest with myself. To protect others, I gave tinted answers; not enough to see the true meaning, but just enough to guess what was behind the lies. I never felt like anyone, even M, wanted to know everything about me. The eyes would judge, the mouth would snicker at my inconsistencies, and the responses would fall short of truly accepting me for the ridiculousness of who I am. When everyone is judging your every tick, what's the point of showing the real you? Put on the veneer of power and confidence, people see through the cracks.

Honesty has become my shield. Although it appears counterintuitive, I determine the only way I can be happy with what I'm becoming is to become that person with truth and confidence. As long as I don't lie to myself; when angry, throw something; when sad, cry. When happy, and this is the key emotion ladies and gentleman, be happy. Don't cloud the sunlight with the cumulonimbus nature of doubt and determination to make everything harder. Life can be easy sometimes. Sometimes, when lying beside him, I let myself just have a moment where others' opinions don't matter, where there are no consequences for the next day.

The adage of living every day to its fullest tends to come to mind, but I've never been able to succeed. An afternoon wasted on television, dawdling and twiddling my thumbs could be a pastime, sitting in the cafe listening to ridiculousness that is "captain falcon". Not full to potential, but satisfactory in making me happy. So if my joy is making others unhappy, here's the honest truth; I could care less. Joy comes in small things. Listening to Kanye, hearing the intricacies of the rhythm, enjoying the company.

The eternalized scene from Fargo [you know the one with the tree shredder] is the perfect image to describe the Coen brothers’ latest dive into cinema; completely shocking, disgusting and hilarious.

Burn After Reading is a surprise enjoyment for me. I have to admit, I am slightly pretentious when it comes to celebrities. The hype building for this movie annoyed me. I prefer for a film to be respected for the directors, writing, cinematography and acting ability. Not how totally awesome the multi-million dollar leading man’s hair looks...oh my gosh and have you heard who he’s dating now? I felt cheated that TIFF premiered the film, causing chaos in the downtown core. The only name I heard for the first two days of the festival was Brad [not even Brad Pitt, as 

if you chat over morning coffee in his local Starbucks about how glowing Angelina looks in her latest pregnancy]. During the entire ten days, I cannot recall hearing the names Joel or Ethan. Not even Tilda, or Francis, or John. And heaven forbid Mr. Pitt should stay in town long enough to acknowledge his second screening. Fly in, jet out. 

But I digress. 

The Coen brothers lived up to the hype entirely. There was a perfect balanced between intrigue, comedic timing and gore. The perfect essence of a Coens’ film is the deliverance of hilarious content in a deadpan, serious tone. Each actor is uncanny in the classic comic Coen execution.

I don’t want to ruin anything for the unsuspecting audience. This is a film that needs to be enjoyed from start to finish without being spoiled. But the obvious Coen connections can be assumed by the intelligent film viewer. Of course, people will die. In a closet with a gun by a man just getting out of the shower. Or by a hatchet in the middle of a street in broad daylight. Bizarre. Beautiful. 

Although I regretfully have no faith in “Brad” as an actor, he happily surprised me in this comedic role, and of course, everyone else in the film is brilliant. Especially an amazing mini-role performance from J.K. Simmons as random C.I.A. head. 

I may have been one of the only two people in the theatre laughing out loud [the other person being my cousin], but it wasn’t for lack of intelligent humour. I think I simply have no shame in public. 

Go see this film.

I don’t usually watch foreign films. Stereotypical pretentious content aside, I never found myself with access to such films. What better place to experience different cultures on screen than at TIFF.

Germany’s Caroline Link displays a determined case of family loss in A Year Ago In Winter. The fortunate asset of Link’s film is it’s subtlety. The heartache of a lost son and brother is attempted to be rectified through a portrait. 

The idea of painting the recently deceased, especially someone who took their own life, is a bit creepy. Link not only discusses the creepiness, but also forms a beautiful piece of artwork, where the sister finds herself through the loss of Alex.

There are two portraits. The first is of Alex and Lilli at the piano. An image that without knowing any history of the siblings, conveys an essence of personality more powerful than hours of dialogue. There is an eerie sense of devotion from the dead sibling, where Lilli looks dismissive, uncaring. I yearned for the dead when seeing the portrait, feeling myself a sense of loss. I didn’t feel right looking upon the image, as though I was intruding on a private moment. 

The second portrait removes Alex from the piano, placing him as only an image behind Lilli. Although satisfying Lilli, I felt too much of a disconnection between the two characters. Through investigating this unknown photograph, Lilli discovers Alex’s image in the final portrait is of devotion for her. He truly loved her despite her dismissiveness. I did not see it in the portrait. 

I understood Link’s efforts in the multiple portraits, but felt the emotion in the second attempt fell short. I was incurious of the connection between the siblings, and left the film without satisfaction because of the portrait. Link branched from artistic grieving into a spiritual connection throughout the film between Alex and Lilli, which she managed to conclude sweetly in the final scene when Lilli dances in the snow. 

The question of why Alex commits suicide is never solved. Each member of the family gave their opinion as to why and mourned because they felt responsible, but a defined reason is never determined. And with reason. Suicide is never understood. To pretend that a single reason can be given for one’s sorrows is pathetic. There can be no sympathetic final scene where all is forgiven and understood so family members can move on with their lives. What can be expected is that people need time to grieve. Then they can move on. Never forgetting, but being able to live.

A man walks in to a bar. 

All stories start somewhere. The Brothers Bloom starts with a girl. And two boys. And a story. 

Rian Johnson’s second adventure [after Brick] manipulates and entertains his audience. A well crafted tale of confidence brings two brothers together, with two girls, to tell one hell of a yarn. 

Inspired after some of cinema’s greatest con-men tales, such as Paper Moon, Johnson brings the camera closer to the heart of the confidence men by splitting the common traits of such into two characters; Stephen, the brains, and Bloom, the heart. In this battle between brothers, we see the battle between the desire to be trusted and the urge to use that trust to gain value. Can the brain ever stop working, stop writing the cons, and let the heart live an unwritten life?

Johnson channels a Wes Anderson emotionality within his words. The dialogue is spiffy and quirky. Johnson lays down the punches minute by minute, layering humanality with humourism. Even a character with two lines [and one karaoke song] is directed flawlessly, with each eyebrow lift and wink conveying paragraphs of script. 

Johnson takes his audience on a drive within a different world. He leads us in to a wilderness, confiding the story until we follow where he’s pointing. We give him our watches. 

The characters are purely lovable and we yearn for an ending where everyone gets what they want; a perfect con. 

Johnson has created an iconic style. Inspiration with originality. Brick gave an unique twist on the crime story for a new generation, providing a challenging role for Levitt, which he played up to brilliantly. Another round of unique characters cons The Brothers Bloom. The brothers, in Brody and Ruffalo, are part of a whole in which each man cannot be successful without his counterpart. Rachel Weisz’s portrayal of the girl who knows everything yet has experienced nothing is fresh, and Bang Bang, Rinko Kikuchi, is bang on as a girl with only two lines, yet speaks volumes through imaginative direction.

Step through the looking glass into Alice’s side of life. Although the quirkiness can be out on a limb, it’s better to climb the branch and become immersed than think ill of Johnson’s fairy tale. Your cradle may fall.

A man walks out of a bar $1.75 million richer.

It is every critics dream to see an absolutely terrible film. 

The moment can finally arise from the ashes left after two hours of unbearable dribble to sharpen the pencils and have the vengeance that every audience member wishes to accost the filmmaker with in the parking lot of the theatre. With a tire iron. 

To witness pitiful acting, coupled with dreary cinematography, and a cameraman better left to shooting sex tapes, a critic can vanquish the dreams of a filmmaker with one simple stroke of the key. And it feels so good. To let out the diabolical and callous phrases that brings tears to the director’s eye on Friday morning can make the weekend a little brighter for movie-goers. It is truly a time to be merciless and remorseless.

This was not a terrible film. 

This was Zack. And Miri. Who together make a porno. 

A timeless tale of two life-long friends who have sex while shooting a pornographic film in order  to pay off the insurmountable debt they somehow accumulate manages to be one of the most touching love stories Kevin Smith has ever made. Yes, even better than Jersey Girl. 

Zack and Miri Make A Porno is reminiscent of the time Smith made films about comic geeks who get laid by lesbians and an uncle with a gerbil problem. For anyone who understands that people like sex (and have it) and can stomach over two hundred phrases uttering the f-word in under two hours, you are obviously a Smith fan and will obviously see this movie. You don’t need a critic telling you to see it. You don’t need four stars. You just need to know this is a film that brings back the Kevin Smith era of filmmaking where you don’t get the feeling he’s selling out. He just being absolutely crude. And I couldn’t stop laughing.