The second coming of the Britney catastrophe

I was quite infuriated earlier this afternoon to learn that reruns of House and Lie To Me were being replaced with “The Teen Choice Awards”.

Nonetheless, I made my way through the day.  Because my Beloved One’s ex-hub declared he needed to drop the other two munchkins off at our house for a bloody week, I went to the store and brought back four armloads of groceries (with two hands) on the bus.  I made breakfast for dinner.  We’d had our iced cream, and so far, kept the 11 year old (going on tabloid teen queen) Caitlyn from realizing that these wretched “Teen Choice” awards were taking over the television.

The ruse didn’t last long.  The television somehow made its way to the Teen Choice channel just as Caitlyn’s idol, Miley Cyrus, was making her way on stage.

Then, I saw it:  the reprise of the Britney catastrophe.  You might remember, once upon a time, young miss Spears was actually marketing herself as a wholesome teenage girl with talent.  Then, the downward spiral.  Pornographic clips appeared on the Internet, the babies came, the court case about the babies, the shaved head, the power of attorney fiasco taking center stage on the fishwrap stands.

It’s happening again, this time with ‘wholesome’ Disney endorsed Saturday Morning Hannah Montana teenstress, Miley Cyrus.

She appeared in short shorts, a shirt revealing (instead of covering) a bra, and a fedora.  At one point, a prop. pole was actually brought out on stage for her to swing from and dance around.

I remember recently hearing on a radio interview that her Father, Billy Ray Cyrus, had taken offense to a comment made by a comedian, which said “Make your sex tape, grow up!”

If I were a Father, I’d have taken offense too.  However, there’s no denying, if the polesports continue, she’s well on her way.

I’ve always had a grudge against the media for streaming images which are encouraging thirteen year old girls, children to dress and compete with thirty year old women.  And based on this evenings “teen choice” presentation, I can’t say I’m inspired to lighten up about it anytime soon…

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

“Elegy”, the pork disaster, and other topics of random.

Well, I haven’t written anything around here for quite the while, have I?  I remember a few months ago feeling so dedicated to the idea of publishing at least one entry each day.  Right, that lasted long, didn’t it?

I have, since last I wrote, inherited a new typing device.  A Dell Laptop, lovely little black thing.  It had belonged to my Uncle.  Although I have called and said “Oh my god, quite a surprise, thank you very much!”,  I am still working on the official thank you letter.  Perhaps I’ll have to dedicate some of this Sunday afternoon to completing that and preparing it for the mail.  Yes.  I should, I did after all buy a new pen and some lovely stationary expressly for that purpose.  It is lovely to have a typing tool of my own, again.  It allows me to blog–as you see I am doing–while my beloved one is adding photographs to her sister’s ancestry website, in the chair next to me. 

Truth be told, it was never as annoying as I perhaps made it out to be to have to share the computer.  But it is very nice to have this lovely little lap-dwelling Dell.

Also, since last writing, I’ve found a new little coffee shop I love…  I’m not going to tell you what it’s called because I don’t want anyone to read about it, and for it to suddenly become popular, making it more difficult for me to find a table…  It is, however, near my Beloved one’s work.  I can drag my typing tool in there, and hammer at the keys while I wait for her to appear from beyond the dark doors of the modeling agency, at the end of the day.

I did apply for a second job, selling subscription packages and some light fundraising for Portland Opera, much like I did for Oregon Symphony.  Alas, I applied too late, someone nabbed it before me.  I did, however, receive a very sweet, very encouraging rejection letter.  I sent a ‘feeler’ email off to the local classical radio station, (89.9) inquiring about any positions, with particular curiosity about what is required to become a program host at some point in the future. . .  The program director wrote back a very helpful and supportive email, but of course, nothing will be happening at any point in the very near future. 

In spite of my absence on my blog, I have been able to devote a bit more time to non-blog-writing.  My novel is coming along nicely, although it’s changed titles and now begins in a different way.  Perhaps when I finish it, (if I finish it) it will be called something else, and begin in yet another way I don’t know anything about, as of yet.  Who knows, who knows, who knows.  I certainly don’t know.  Someone should tell me what I’m doing.  (Not that I’d listen, of course.)

Speaking of books and such: I haven’t read The Dying Animal, by Phillip Roth, but I did see the film loosely based upon it, called Elegy last night. 

ELEGY features Sir Ben Kingsley, and Penelope Cruz

I missed the first third of the film entirely, I was busy creating a dinner which no one (including myself) really ended up enjoying.  (Perhaps I’ll come back to that later.  Sometimes recipes make perfect sense in your mind as you walk through the shop, picking up herbs and vegetables and cuts of meat and bread and so on.  Then you get home and you put it all together the way you told yourself you would and it’s…hmm.  “Missed the mark there.  Why did I spend $30 to make this, when I could have done what I know how to do for $15?”) 

At any rate, I’ve heard mixed things about Elegy.  I have heard that it’s an enormous disappointment, if one has already read Phillip Roth’s The Dying Animal.  However, what I saw of the film put up a fair fight for itself.  I think it–like many films–might have been regarded very highly if there had never been a novel with which it was associated.  If it just suddenly appeared in the mind of a screen writer. 

What I did find very interesting about Elegy was its ability to make me feel very uncomfortable.  Kingsley’s character, reminded me very much of the vision I used to entertain of what I’d end up being like, at fifty/sixty years old.  Having said that, while I watched what I did watch, whilst tucking into the nearly disasterous pork experiment, I really didn’t like that man!  He was not terrible, he wasn’t a villain.  He could obviously do some things well–his work, mainly.  He seemed to play a few wicked tunes on the piano, he hosted a radio talk show about books, so on, so forth.  But he was quite a lonely, cut off, deceitful, sarcastic prick! 

I suppose it was difficult for me to watch, mainly, because it pointed out (again) that it takes some of us a long, long, long time to get where we’re going.  That’s if (yes, if) we do actually ever arrive at some form of honest, well-rounded, completedness or meaning at all. 

Yes, I think we all have an image of where we’d like to go in this terribly humbling chain of events called life.  That’s pretty common place, I’d say.  And, whether or not we get there…  that’s the rub, isn’t it?

I would like to try to see the first forty-five minutes or so that I missed, but, what I was able to see was a little painful.  Witty?  Yes!  I still love Ben Kingsley.  Some beautiful images and lovely lines were sprinkled throughout what I saw of the film.  But it was a little painful, watching someone who–somehow–vaguely reminded me of myself, choose to be wretched and miserable.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

The Reader

The Reader: Directed by Stephen Daldry, with Kate Winslet and Ralph Fiennes.

 At long last, Friday came.  What a Friday, at that.  Today was one of those Fridays that throws one back and forth against opposing walls, relentlessly.  One of those Fridays where you think to yourself:  “I do not want to be at work that long” only to end up being rushed, poked, redirected, then rushed and prodded again for much longer than you originally intended.  However, work is only one part of life, and thankfully only one part of any Friday, and therefore, only a handful of hours of today’s adventures. 

Today was a rather familial sort of day.  Saw my Mum–which was nice, despite the subtle burn of the almost constant feeling that she worries about me.  To a degree, it’s a warm thing: Mothers worry about their children, because Mother’s tend to love their children.  Only now and then is there a slight singe, briefly.  It has much to do with trust.  After being asked three or more ways, “What’s new?”, “What’s been going on?”, “Anything new happening”, I begin to wonder what sort of response is actually being hunted.  I say, “Not much is new.  Same old same old.”  I say, “Haven’t really done terribly much lately.  Just working, we did see a couple of movies…”  The same questions keep being asked.  Odd.  I think it’s because Mothers can worry too much, and don’t trust that in such a complicated world, a simple answer of “I’m fine” may actually sum things up very neatly. 

After visiting briefly with Mum, off to Parry Center, to visit my Beloved One’s eldest.  In quite remarkable spirits today, and admirable form.  It’s always good to spend time, touch base, and remind him of the fact that we’re here.  Largely, that’s the root and the rub.  But it’s wonderful when–on days like today–everything goes smoothly, and all of the time to be shared is very enjoyable indeed. 

After Parry Center, my Beloved One and I embarked upon our Friday date!  The #9 came just as we walked off Parry Center’s campus, and whisked us away to downtown without a minute’s wait.  Both a bit hungry, we walked around looking for something to eat.  Then we walked around searching.  Then we walked around begging to find something that would work: time limit before the movie starts, can’t spend all night.  Price limit, can’t elaborate upon that, ’tis enough said.  Energy limit: can’t walk around all night.  Patience limit: I’m getting tired of walking already.  We settled for the Starbucks kitty corner to the Fox Tower.  We behaved like naughty children at the tables outside, smoking a cigarette clearly within ten feet of the windows.  Hangable, these days!  Those ridiculous little “Smoke Free Oregon” stickers–the ones that are posted everywhere; the ones that were so hiddeously designed by the chief of the coalition for hiddeously designed government issue stickers–require cigarettes to be smoked ten feet from doors, windows, and/or general glass surfaces.  It feels so wonderful to break that rule!  Even more nourishing is the realization that you can break it without other people realizing that you’re breaking it.  Particularly thrilling this evening considering the wind.  I’m confident that my carcinogenic exhalations were carried in the breeze all the way to Salem, and into the State capitol, where they afflicted the freedom crunchers more intensely than a thousand lashes from invisible whips.  Well, I’m not confident, but hopeful, nontheless. 

 After Starbucks, we skilled across the street to The Fox Tower, to watch The Reader.  What a breathtaking example of the beautiful thing a film has the potential to be. 

I was originally drawn into The Reader because of Ralph Fiennes, and then the realization that the screenplay was written by David Hare, and the film was directed by Stephen Daldry.  I never really knew thoroughly what I was getting into.  Granted, I didn’t read the reviews, because I don’t particularly care for reviews.  But I did read a few summaries, which were elusive and unclear.  After watching the film, I’m tremendously thankful they opted not to spell everything out ahead of time. 

Wonderful cast, in addition to Fiennes.  Though, a note about him: it’s very difficult to not pick up on the fact that this is not his first film set against the backdrop of Europe during WWII.  There was Schindler’s List to name the obvious.  There was Sunshine which to this day ranks in the top three of my all-time-favorite-movie-list-of-all-favorite-movie lists.  I think historical pieces, or period pieces–or whatever name you wish to pin to the genre–can be terribly dull.  There are a very few that I’ve adored, some I’ve appreciated, and many I’ve wanted to sleep through, but failed, because of Insomnia.  Each of the period films I’ve seen in which Ralph Fiennes has taken a part, have been quite good indeed.  I find him rather the ideal sort of actor for those sort of films.  He is tremendously clear, and has a tremendous amount of gravity all of his performances.  He–acting students–is someone to watch intensely. 

Kate Winslet is unquestionably the best I’ve seen her in this film.  There’s a beautiful, brief, wordless moment that takes place at an out-of-the-way Church in the country.  There’s a rather modest church/children’s choir rehearsing, and the camera reveals Winslet sitting in one of the pews, absolutely ecstatic and excited by their singing.  But what’s wonderful is the modesty and simplicity of the choir.  It’s a children’s choir.  A country church’s children’s choir.  Rehearsing.  It’s not the grand, thundering, heavenly, hundred-strong professional choir of the music capitol of the world.  It’s a simple, modest, group of seven or so children singing, and she’s enraptured, like she’d never heard singing before.  Brilliant.  Tiny moment–you could blink and miss it, but don’t.  It’s brilliant.

Bruno Ganz–who I have an odd little soft spot for anyway–played an amiable, quirky, little law professor, with one of the greatest lines in the film.  I’ve decided not to quote it here, after already typing it in, then deleting it.  I don’t want to spoil it. 

All in all, start to end, the script, the score, the cast, all of it. . .  Beautiful.  Difficult, compelling story to tell, the sort that requires a level of craftsmanship and emotional maturity, and they all did it beautifully. 

If you want to see a movie that is the best of what movies can be, see The Reader. 

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.