(kick-ass) Books!

1. Lost Encyclopedia, 2010. Written by Paul Terry and Tara Bennett.

I hate referring to us as "Losties," but this book is a Lostie's tape-your-glasses wet dream. The characters, the art, the books, and yes, the theories, are all in full effect. The number one reason to get this book is for the images, which are really, really excellent. Fish crackers, MacCutcheon Whisky, weapons, Dharma stations, Island locations, hieroglyphics, minor characters (and so on)---they're all in this alphabetized, complete volume.

Some attractive sections: Sawyer's nickname hall of fame; illustrations and definitions of the hieroglyphics found in the temple and the heart-of-the-island evil stopper; some interesting business about The Tempest (Dharma Station), The Truce between The Hostiles and Dharma, and The Purge, (stuff that the fans may have missed or hadn't seen yet); and Desmond's adventures in time-travel. Also, there is a two-page spread of the religious stained glass piece from the church at the finale's end---had I purchased this just a few months earlier I wouldn't have had to "draw" my own version of it for my cross stitch and could have just used this for my model and NOT A FROZEN IMAGE ON THE TELEVISION and it probably would have been a hell of a lot tighter . . .

Anyway, it's a fun, fun book and every Lost fan should definitely look into it. The only thing I really thought was missing was a complete, accurate map of the island; topography, Dharma Stations, Black Rock, Lighthouse, Cabin, Candidate Cave, all of it. If someone comes out with that (or explains to me where things are so I can re-do an exact replica cross stitch map DAMON and CARLTON I'm talking to you) I'll be first in line to slam my husband's money down on the counter. Yeah?


2. Views From The Loft: A Portable Writer's Workshop, 2010. Edited by Daniel Slager.

I think I picked this up last summer when it was first released and didn't start reading it until just this month, which is too bad, because it's a really killer collection of essays on writing. During some of them I quietly marveled (usually in the tub, where I do most of my reading) at the fact that these writers were speaking things, thoughts, from their own lives and experiences that I felt myself. It's weird when someone can do that, but it's kind of cool, too. I have to admit that I mostly skimmed over the poets because poetry just isn't relevant to what I'm doing right now. The exception was Barrie Jean Borich, who wrote a poetic essay to win a contest her chiropractor had---(Describe the life of your body: I have become aware of a double self. Some hidden force has hold of me, sending up life, then death, alternately. Living fills me until my dead self punches itself to the surface. Both selves can exist at once.) That was awesome.

My very favorite essays were the ones about fiction or the writing of fiction that were woven into the author's life and experiences. Kate DiCamillo's "Comes a Pony," CJ Hribal's "Power and Powerlessness," Susan Straight's "Why I Write Fiction," and Will Weaver's "Up-North Literary Life;" these were all personally touching, and so wonderfully well done I almost feel compelled to track down the authors (as many of them are local) to tell them so. It's a neat book; I plan on getting the next series as soon as it's released.

News Events and American Psycho.

This month has already been a crazy one, and I'm trying to keep some semblance of organization going inside my head, therefore, you can consider this kind of a little newsletter/game plan post, as well as the send off to the Locked, Loaded, and Laid list, ended appropriately enough, with Patrick Bateman and American Psycho.

The biggest news this month is probably that I started officially writing (official, no-profanity) film reviews for Examiner.com! It's fun, so far, and quite a test of discipline since I've basically written first-person, foul-mouthed, devil-may-care "reviews" for four straight years; I had no idea how rusty I'd gotten at actual *writing.* Anyway, I'm still planning to keep up on Television Lady, here, but will be altering my format a little bit, just for consistency's sake. TL will still focus on television, and older release/cheese films, just like always, but new film releases will be covered on Examiner.com. Additionally, in order to keep local (which is what I've told them that I'll do), I'm going to be grabbing one film a week from Kowalski's Red Box and one from Washburn Library down the street, two places from my neighborhood. So I'm not leaving, I'm just . . . expanding. See you over there?

Also: I would like to open the floor to anyone who has anything to say, good films, bad films, television, guest blogging, and so on, let me know! Talk to me! Let's get something going, yeah?

And lastly: film vs. book.
American Psycho, 1991, by Bret Easton Ellis.
 Beginning on April Fools' Day 1989, American Psycho spans roughly three years in the life of wealthy young investment banker Patrick Bateman. Bateman, 26 years old when the story begins, narrates his everyday activities, from his daily life among the upper-class elite of New York to his forays into murder by nightfall. (wikipedia)

"These are terrible times." This obviously a very personal, very dark, hate-Valentine to the eighties from Ellis; someone just doesn't sit down and create a story like this out of thin air. If you were a child, like I was, during the eighties, it's possible that you too were unaware of just how bat-shit ridiculous the materialism and superficiality was, but clearly, it must have been massive. The descriptions of peoples' clothing labels, shoe and jewelry designers, costs of furniture, luggage, handbags, restaurant names, locations, menu offerings, costs, and fucking SKIN CARE ROUTINES literally go on for minimum, three pages each time there is a new setting and situation. The musical reviews (Huey Lewis, Phil Collins, Whitney Houston) also go on for days, but are somehow funnier than everything else because the artists are divorced from all the materialism, if you can imagine. As with any story with a million characters, some of who are mentioned once and never again, you start to filter out many of the names, but in this story, this faceless transparency business---everyone looking the same, everyone mistaking someone for someone else, and there being no real meaningful exchange about anything--is obviously the point of Patrick Bateman's issues. He wanted to fit in, but now that he has, he can't control his murderous rage at the world around him. And despite this, no one notices.

" . . . where there was nature and earth, life and water, I saw a desert landscape that was unending, resembling some sort of crater, so devoid of reason and light and spirit that the mind could not grasp it on any sort of conscious level and if you came close the mind would reel backward, unable to take it in . . . Fear, recrimination, innocence, sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, were things, emotions, that no one felt anymore. Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyone found meaning in . . . this was civilization as I saw it, colossal and jagged."
Ending: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT. Fucking amazing.

American Psycho, 2000, directed by Mary Harron.
Written by Mary Harron and Guinevere Turner (screenplay)
starring: Christian Bale, Jared Leto, Reese Witherspoon, Justin Theroux

The film is a much different experience from the book, but a good one, too. Pretentious, violent, sexual. It's amazing to me just how much work it must have been for the screenwriters to cut into a novel like this (399 pages), sort through the meaty parts and then throw out a film that still seemed to capture what was at the heart of the novel. I dig Mary Harron, a lot. Bale was a great Bateman; everyone was actually well-cast. And you get that everyone is superficial, doesn't really have any loyalty to anyone else, mistakes names and faces constantly, and are silly tools with money, but the book explains this *way* more, like, to the letter. Regardless, the film had a very specific look to it---tons of blacks, whites, and reds; a really great soundtrack, and big hair!. The aesthetics were amazing, even above and beyond Bale's many, many skin scenes (FTW). There were a lot of little dialogue things that obviously weren't meant to be funny, but became funny just because of Bale's stiff, banana-in-the-tailpipe delivery: "I was probably returning videotapes." "No Lewis, it's not me, you're mistaken." "Do you like Phil Collins?" "Your name is Kristie. You are to respond only to Kristie."
Fun and ridiculous.

Rescue Me, Season One.

First off, this may just be my new favorite show. I am supposed to wait for Matt to watch any more episodes but I am considering being a big cheater and rolling through as many as I can at nap time . . . I used to do this with 24 and The Sopranos, too, and then I'd have to stay mum about having already seen the episodes, since I would (of course) watch them all over again a second time with Matt (cheater cheater cheater).

And secondly, I have developed a unnaturally obsessive case of lust for Tommy Gavin (Denis Leary). I cannot be the only one this has happened to, right? RIGHT?

The show is really, really (sarcastic, sexual, hilarious, tense, exciting) excellent. It's not at all politically correct, and that will kill it for probably a lot of viewers, but hey, there are all kinds of people in this world, and many of them have issues and aren't perfect but they're human beings---this show is a prime example of just that. My favorite thing about Tommy Gavin is probably his crazy obsession over his wife (from whom he's separated) and the way he parents his kids---"WHOEVER GOES TO BED RIGHT NOW GETS $20!"

It's not all sarcasm of course, there are some major events happening with these guys: Tommy's wife is seeing a douche-y investment banker and threatens to move out of state with their children; Lou still has trouble dealing with 9-11 so he secretly writes poetry which helps him to cope; Franco suddenly gets saddled with a daughter he didn't know he had; the Chief's wife might have Alzheimer's, and so on. Also there's the small issue of Tommy constantly seeing dead fire victims, most regularly, his dead cousin and fellow fire fighter, Jimmy. Denis Leary handles the dramatic parts of the show amazingly, making them almost more interesting than the snappy meanness he delivers for the majority of his scenes; vulnerability is a hard thing to capture but the show nails it, a lot, usually when you least expect it. Also contributing to this obsession over the show is the fact that Leary (together with Peter Tolan) wrote 84 episodes during the show's run between 2004 and 2010. Not exactly a lightweight.

Season 2: full steam ahead.

Requiem for a Dream.

Requiem for a Dream, 2000, directed by Darren Aronofsky.
Written by Hubert Selby, Jr. (novel and screenplay).
starring: Jared Leto, Jennifer Connelly, Ellen Burstyn, Marlon Wayons.

"The drug-induced utopias of four Coney Island individuals are shattered when their addictions become stronger." (IMDB).

This film is hands down, the (best-done) most disturbing film in creation. Best done in that the writing, acting, and music are absolutely smashing, and most disturbing because, well, it's downright awful. Really, really awful, and I hesitate to even write honestly about this film because I know a lot of my followers actually use this blog to get ideas for what to watch----so maybe just skip this one, okay? The things that happen in this film are *impossible* to get out of your head, and they are really, really dark.  My own husband refused to watch the ending, just got up and bolted from the room, and this is a guy that thinks the film Happiness should be allowed . . .

First things first: Ellen Burstyn lost the Oscar for this film to Julia Roberts (in Erin Brockovich). The woman was utterly amazing in this film as Sara Goldfarb, UNBELIEVABLE, while Julia Roberts was at best acceptable. Burstyn pulled off a credible (Brighton Beach?) accent, probably worked her ass off during numerous time-lapse scenes, and played frantic/strung-out/crazy better than anyone I've seen. And she was the influence for the name of this blog, so you know, society owes her quite a lot (!).

Secondly: the music here makes the film. Clint Mansell composed the original music for the film, most famously the piece "Lux Aeterna" (eternal light), which has been used in probably millions of other media since. I was looking for a youtube link to a piano performance to put on here but the only videos available were really pedal-heavy (and wrist-y), among screaming kids running around in the background, or on a simulated keyboard, not an actual one, and none of them were keeping with the extremely high quality I like to exemplify on this blog. Bummer, I know.

And third? Most reviews focused on the drugs, which yes, get a lot of screen time, but this experience (for me) was more about loneliness and disappointment than addiction. Clearly, they all get addicted, but the scenes in the film that carried the most weight seemed to be the scenes where each character was relating to another one (Marilyn and Harry/Harry and Sara/Tyrone and his mother, etc.) You might blow them all off as junkies, but Darren Aronofsky has taken a lot of time and effort to point out that they are human beings, and not even the worst ones you'll ever meet. There is no optimism in what happens to any of them, and the score to this film is gut-wrenchingly sad for a reason. There is. No. Hope.

Something Wonderful.

You would think that by the fourth year of doing this blog I would somehow figure out how to not always be the last to know about good television, right? I just started watching Rescue Me.

I realize that not everyone is into Denis Leary's particular brand of crazy (I am), but this show is *amazingly* well written. I am hooked after three episodes. It wasn't just the sarcasm or the quickness or the extremely hot dudes, although these things were all really sweet; I think it was the scope of what was actually happening with these guys, Tommy Gavin (Leary), especially. I know people who do this, and just seeing a fraction of the stuff that happens inside a burning building was really worrisome. And impressive. And a total turn-on. Wow. 

I would *totally* hit that. Seriously.

Leaving Las Vegas

Leaving Las Vegas, 1995, directed by Mike Figgis
Written by John O'Brien (novel) and Mike Figgis (screenplay)
starring: Nicolas Cage, Elizabeth Shue

"Ben Sanderson, an alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter who lost everything because of his drinking, arrives in Las Vegas to drink himself to death. There, he meets and forms an uneasy friendship and non-interference pact with prostitute Sera." (IMDB).

Nic Cage really hit it with this, clearly, but I happen to think that he's *always* this good. That said, the arms-thrown-up-in-victory-after-a-morning-gin-at-the-bar move, his shakes and dry heaves, his tears and emotional apology as he gets fired, the slurring, the sudden smoothness that comes when he gets a burst of energy and optimism from whatever he's been drinking---ALL of this, is so disturbing and sad but played extremely well. Best Actor Oscar went to Cage for this role, I still remember how pumped he was as he walked up to collect the statue; it was fun.

About the rest of the film: aside from the unsettling, disturbing subject matter of a man slowly drinking himself to death, there are many other dark and horrible things that happen here. Sera (Elizabeth Shue) isn't too happy with her life either, it seems (getting knifed by pimp, getting gang-raped and assaulted, etc.) so the relationship between them made sense, but most scenes were still really uncomfortable and tense. If you know someone with a drinking problem, which a lot of us do, *many* of Cage's scenes will be difficult. Getting canned from the screenwriting job and then going home to burn all his manuscripts struck a real chord with me, along with the violent outburst at the casino, ("I'm his father! I'm his father!") Not easy.

Liz? Looking Good!

The thing that I spent the most time thinking about this time around was actually the score---was anyone else at all jarred by it? It oscillates between different jazz genres, sometimes night club, other times like a Woody Allen clarinet kind of thing, and then there's also a Sting verse that seriously gets overplayed maybe 600 times . . . I don't know if it all really did much in the way of tying the room together, if you know what I mean. There are no uplifting moments in this film, maybe a few comical lines spoken (by Cage) but virtually everything else is a huge downer, and sometimes it felt like the music was going a little too far into Woody Allen-silly world, and not in an ironic way, either.

Thoughts?

The Memory Keeper's Daughter

The Memory Keeper's Daughter, by Kim Edwards, 2005.

This is a story of a doctor who, on the night of his twins' birth, sends away his new infant daughter when he realizes she has Down Syndrome, and the lifelong affect his decision has on not only himself, but his wife (who believes her daughter died at birth), his other child, and the delivery nurse who flees with the baby and raises her as her own daughter.

It was hard to know how to feel about this. My gut reaction is to get Beatrix Kiddo on Doctor Henry; YOU NEVER. TAKE. A WOMAN'S. CHILD. NEVER. And much of me can't get over that obstacle. I understood a lot of the grief in this novel, it was very well written and believable, but honestly, the only people I liked were Caroline (the nurse), Al, the truck driver she marries, and Phoebe, the daughter. Everyone else really sucked, and I'm sure that was the intended effect, but writing characters with no real redeeming qualities (other than their pain and sadness) doesn't do much in the way of making me care what happens to them. It was intelligent, and emotionally well written, but I was kind of relieved when it ended, to be honest. The very best parts dealt with Caroline's concern and love for Phoebe:

"Caroline felt a rush of despair. They'd never really see Phoebe, these men, they would never see her as more than different, slow to speak, and to master new things. How could she show them her beautiful daughter Phoebe, sitting on the rug in the living room and making a tower of blocks, her soft hair falling around her ears and an expression of absolute concentration on her face? Phoebe, putting a 45 on the little record player Caroline had bought her, enthralled by the music, dancing across the smooth oak floors. Or Phoebe's soft small hand suddenly on her knee, at a moment when Caroline was pensive or distracted, absorbed by the world and its concerns. You okay, Mom? she would say, or simply, I love you."

One final thought: I am really not a fan of any sort of third person-specific omniscient narration. I find it kind of lazy and annoying, and really sort of a cheat at storytelling, especially when the POV flip-flops from page to page as it did in this book a few times. Had it been contained wholly each character's chapter, I think it would have worked better. I know it's common, and these inside his head/inside her head kind of parallel stories are probably the norm these days, but it's sloppy. Maybe it's a control freak thing.

Also: check out FuckYeahLost today; my art is up! It's quite an honor to be on such a cool site; Gratitude to Crit and Louise!