'Blue Jasmine' A Review

Blue Jasmine is the latest Woody Allen film. The film follows Jeanette aka Jasmine as she soars from the height of the super rich to the depths of living with her working class sister. Cate Blanchette plays Jasmine the Woody Allen character in this yearly incarnation of the same story Woody Allen spews forth each year. Jasmine is amoral, self centered, obtuse, and has absolutely no ability for self realization or growth. I have no idea why there is a movie about this character or why this movie exists. The film may be a comment on the super rich but a comment is never made. It's unclear if we are suppose to sympathize or despise Jasmine. It would seem we are suppose to identify with Jasmine's working class sister who shelters her during her fall from grace but she along with all the working class characters are written so stereotypical, thin, and vapid we are unable to.

The plot of the movie goes no where and says nothing. The dialogue in the film is wooden, robotic, and unbelievable. The acting is at most times vacant and confused with occasional moments of clarity solely because of the talent of the star studded cast. Alec Baldwin, Andrew Dice Clay, Louise CK, Peter Sarsgaard and Bobby Cannavale struggle to bring their two dimensional characters off the page. Blanchette puts in a performance so grating its unpleasant to watch, Jasmine is not a person she's a rich lady demon and Blanchette screams and cries and yells and chews the scenery in each unbearable scene. The only bright spot is Sally Hawkins as Ginger, Jasmine's sister, portraying what seems to be the only real person in the film.

Allen at 77 seems to have lost a lot. Maybe he should try revising his scripts and giving his actors direction as opposed to making sure to get one movie out a year. It's clear Allen is past his prime and needs to put a little more work into the quality of his films as opposed to keeping up his quantity.

Worst movie of the year.

Don't See It.

Outside/Inside

inside is always
outside of something
but if you go in too far
there is no out
only smaller and smaller ins,
there is always something futher out
bigger, broader, and more spacious
but go out too far
and you might not be anywhere.
Nowhere at all.

Cycles

One of the plants I have grows flowers which bud, bloom, and die within a couple days. It's been through probably a dozen cycles since I got it last spring. They're beautiful and fleeting and they keep coming back.

They're on a cycle just like everything. Ups then downs then ups again. The present is a fleeting thing: enjoy it or push through it accordingly.

Name Shame

I've been hosting the 8 o'clock show at iO every Sunday for the last five months or so. I enjoy it and I think I do it well. Tonight however I got rocked with a realization during my opening schpeel.

Me: ...but first some introductions- Dave Asher on keys! (applause) We're not only a theater we're also a bar! We have...(I shade my eyes to look behind the bar, I see a guy and realize I don't know his name. I realize that this has been the guy tending bar for the past month or so and I've been calling him the wrong name. I reach for his name and come up empty. I'm hit with a cold bucket of shame and embarrassment. A take a brief pause to let him say his name and he doesn't. I'm left with no other alternative than to say, again, the wrong name I've been saying for weeks now) Devilyn behind the bar and Molly serving you drinks...

The rest of the show I'm in my head and can't shake off the flush in my cheeks. I feel like the utmost asshole. After the show I'm out back with Molly having a cigarette.

Me: That's not Devilyn.
Molly: No silly that's Nate.
Me: Fuck me.
Molly: You've been doing it for weeks. He was going to tell you tonight. We thought it was really funny. People have been coming up to him asking if they've got his name wrong. But no it's been you!
Me: Such a fucking asshole, Jesus...
Molly: No! It's funny!

I tell myself I haven't ordered a drink at iO in two years so I've had no interaction with the bartenders. I tell myself the male bartenders there look similar- big, bearded. There's no excuse. I feel stupid and embarrassed and like a real uppity shithead who can't find out what the fucking bartenders name is. Devilyn worked the bar on Sundays for a while and I never bothered to check to see if the schedule changed. Never bothered to engage or make an effort. It would be one thing if this was the first night but I've been doing it for weeks. It's a mistake and it's mine and I have to own it. Yuck.

The upshot- I'll never get Nate's name wrong again.

The hard lessons are the ones that stick.

Uninspired

everything is flat
and gray
and square.
all taste is
bran or pulp
or gum.
even the sun
seems bored:
withholding majesty.

emptiness-
never felt so full.

'R.I.P.D.' & '20 Feet From Stardom' Reviews

R.I.P.D. is a paranormal buddy cop movie. A cross between Men In Black and Ghostbusters which I'm sure is how it was pitched to the studio. Dead lawmen get drafted by the RIPD to go back to Earth and hunt toxic ghosts in human form. 

The movie is silly and fun with a fair amount of action. Ryan Reynolds doesn't do much throughout and his personal story which is suppose to drive the story falls flat. Jeff Bridges is in full crazy fun mode embracing the lunacy and comedy of the movie spouting off one liners through an almost unintelligible pan-western accent.

Not much story, no real acting, not much to think about. Exactly what you'd expect.

Rent It.

Twenty Feet From Stardom is a documentary about back up singers. The film follows back up singers in the industry currently, a former back up singers making it with solo careers, and ones who gave it up.

The film examines the role back up singers played in the rock hits of the 60's, 70's, and 80's and the gradual decline of back up singers in bands since then. Each singer has a fascinating complicated story. Who sang on what record with whom. Who wrote that hook who sang that one. But the overall thrust of the film is really what's next?

Implicit in every moment of the film is that no one would want to do this for a living. Being a backup singer isn't a job it's a means to becoming a solo artist, a star. One singer who won a Grammy for her first and only solo album went back to backup singing and through the course of her interviews she's constantly explaining and justifying her actions. As if the film makers themselves can't believe or understand why anyone would stick with the gig.

The film tells an interesting story. But the more interesting question it raises is not answered. What is success? There is a sense of melancholy and failure about the women in the film, emanating first and foremost from themselves. They never made it big, the world doesn't know their names. But every musician knows their names, they still get work, they still perform to adoring crowds. Why do they seem to feel incomplete without fame?

Would you rather sing backup on 50 songs that everyone knows or have a solo album that no one ever heard?

Rent It.

Gifts

I've always considered myself a great gift giver but a poor gift receiver. Its easy to find or purchase a little something or a big something to give to someone to show that you care about them. Something special or something generic it doesn't matter that much. The act itself carries more meaning than the thing being given. It says: I went out of my way, I had you in mind when I wasn't around you, I thought of you when I saw this, I want you to have something from me, I may not be able to articulate my feelings or my thoughts for you so I got you this symbol of them.

I feel like I've always, as far back as I can remember, been deficient in expressing to someone my appreciation for the gifts they've given me. It always feels fake, shallow, incomplete. Unable to acknowledge the little or large meaning of the exchange.

Jen gave me some flowers tonight. A small pot with a bunch of purple pungent blossoms. Her friendship and support and by extension these flowers mean a lot to me and I don't think I was able to express my gratitude. Not only for the gift but for everything.

The unsaid things seem to be the most important to say. And the most difficult.