Dilettantsia

Hello There

2011-05-09T11:17:00.003-04:00

Thanks so much for stumbling upon my blog! However, I feel I should inform you that due to full-time work, writing, and other commitments, I've switched over to Tumblr. Please bookmark me at nakednesstonight.tumblr.com, or visit my website, www.jessicaferri.com.

Cheers!

Jessica Mitford

2010-09-29T16:28:00.004-04:00

This is Jessica Mitford. If you don't know who she is, you should read Leslie Brody's biography, Irrepressible: The Life and Times of Jessica Mitford, which I reviewed for Bookforum.

(you have to sign in, but it's free! also bookforum is great!)

(i am seriously thinking of switching to Tumblr, you guys)

Apparently J.K. Rowling considers herself to be most influenced by Jessica Mitford. Fascinating, huh? So much so that she named her daughter after her. Pretty nice name!

If you're interested in more about the Mitfords, or the Mitford sisters, there are Jessica's letters, Unity's biography, or many many books by Nancy and Jessica. So have at it!

auf Wierdersehen!

2010-09-03T10:26:00.005-04:00

Dear Readers,

I'm off to Berlin on Sunday for ten whole days. It's my first vacation in two years, and I'm very excited about it. In my mind, the Berlin I know is the Berlin of the movies. I think I'll have to realize that the war's been over for a while and that Berlin, like New York, is a city that constantly changes. If you have any last minute recommendations about where to go or what to eat, please let me know in the comments. I'll be back with a fat post and pictures!

auf Wierdersehen meine mieze!

xoxo

Fraulein Jessica

Snobber's Favorite Books

2010-08-20T10:36:00.009-04:00

Last week, a friend of mine asked me if I had a list of my favorite books posted somewhere and I realized that I didn't! Not a real list, with explanations and such. So here, friends and readers, is a list of my top ten favorite books. Some are linked to prior ruminations of mine. Though my affections wax and wane, these ten are pretty solid choices, no matter what.

1. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Though To the Lighthouse and Orlando occasionally compete for the representation of my Woolf-obsession, Mrs. Dalloway is the novel I recommend for Woolf-virgins. She's at the height of her powers here in 1925 in this story about life, love, and the moments of being that define who we are.

2. Sophie's Choice by William Styron

If you ever wanted to read a Holocaust novel that's about anything but the Holocaust, Sophie's Choice is a great pick. If you're a downtrodden editorial assistant or aspiring writer, find solace in the character of Stingo. (This transference works even better if you are a South to North transplant). Though the romance in this novel borders on melodrama, it's descriptive moments of Brooklyn and love and sex are completely transcendent; Stryon's lyricism borders on book porn. This novel's first read is so enjoyable you will spend the rest of your life trying to duplicate it.

3. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

Probably the most beautiful book written in English by a non-native English speaker. Perhaps it's Nabokov's Russianness that turns his appreciation of the English language into our pure, unadulterated joy. And with a tricky subject manner, he still makes us love and despise these characters equally. When I talk to people who haven't read this novel I just think, what? What are you doing? You know nothing until you have read Lolita.

4. The Loser by Thomas Bernhard

Master of misanthropy, Bernhard's energy for hatred turns into an obsession with life through our failures and hopelessness in the face of fate. Our narrator recounts the suicide of his friend Wertheimer, who gave up at music school when he realized he couldn't compete with likes of Glenn Gould. Bernhard's endless repetition, his constant droning of sorrow and spitefulness becomes the chant of genius. You will want to read everything he's ever written. And you should.

5. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

I say with ease that this book changed my life and continues to change my life every single time I read it. Stumbling upon this thing when I'd just moved to New York and had no idea that Salinger had written anything else besides The Catcher in the Rye was a pure delight. His sheer brilliance at writing dialogue is, in my mind, unparalleled. His books are some of the only ones that can make me laugh out loud and weep like baby. Nine Stories comes in at a close second here, but Franny and Zooey is truly a religious experience.

6. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

After reading this book, the only thing I wanted to do with my life was write. I had no fucking idea that it was even possible to write books like this, and my whole body was jittery with excitement. Every single page of this thing is smart, moving, and stylish. If you are at all interested in the genesis of the nonfiction novel, or creative nonfiction, or if you're just into crime writing, oh holy Lord, get off your butt and get a copy of this book. In this same category I'd place Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem and Janet Malcolm's excellent The Silent Woman.

7. I Love Dick by Chris Kraus

If you are a feminist, and you find yourself exasperated at trying to explain the difference in how art created by women is treated versus art created by men, then look no further for your BIBLE. This pseudo epistolary novel cum treatise on women's art and identity is so fucking good. It will incite a fire under your ass. The good kind. Her honesty and fierceness on sex, love, respect and never-ending struggle between the private and public make this a must-read.

8. Austerlitz by W. G. Sebald

Attempting to describe this book is like trying to describe the Mona Lisa. Why is it so transfixing? I could offer my own explanation, something to do with it's hypnotic rhythm and it's love of sorrow and nostalgia but, just, if you have the time and the energy, just. read. this.

9. Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

Though I love his showier The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay almost equally, there is something so beautiful about this book that I return to it again and again, always finding something new in its pages. Grady is your typical washed up, pot-bellied, middle-aged novelist who's looking for something to quicken him - he finds it in James, a struggling student with serious issues, maybe a pathological liar. The two find themselves involved in a messy affair concerning Marilyn Monroe's fur-lined jacket she wore when she married Joe DiMaggio. The descriptions of James' writing versus Grady's writer's block are heartbreaking and beautifully written. The perfect winter book.

10. Atonement by Ian McEwan

If I could relive the first time I ever read the chapter when Cecila drops that goddamned vase into that goddamned fountain, I'd be a happy woman. Atonement has practically everything you could want from a novel and so much more. The sheer horror of this book, how quickly it turns from beautiful to horrible and yet somehow remains gorgeous throughout - it's McEwan's masterpiece and I don't think he'll ever be able to top it. Even if you aren't that jazzed about the plot (which I think is fantastic) McEwan's sentences are some of the best in English letters today.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 1966

2010-08-16T15:06:00.003-04:00

Until last night I had never seen "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" which is odd because I love Virginia Woolf. Not that the play necessarily has much to do with Woolf herself. I'm not sure how faithful Mike Nichols' film adaptation is to the play, but I experienced such a range of emotion last night watching the movie. In the beginning, all the one liners and epithets George and Martha lob at each other are incredibly funny - but by the end of the movie I was deeply depressed. Also, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton are both really good in it. It's strange how no movie stars in this day and age are really talented actors. We've gone from actually talented larger than life personalities to simply outrageously attractive people with no substance whatsoever. I was struck by the deep sense of stasis that all four characters are mucking around in - all trapped in their little jail cells. In the beginning I was trying to keep track of how many drinks were consumed but within fifteen minutes I had lost count. I'd like to resolve to never be this unhappy. Regardless, it's an incredible film. I'd love to read the play and see a great stage production if someone will revive it.

Marina and Ulay

2010-08-13T11:29:00.009-04:00

I've been reading When Marina Abramovic Dies, a biography by James Wescott that was published in March during her residence at MoMa. Ever since I saw The Artist is Present, I wanted to know more about Abramovic's personal life. Wescott worked with Marina on the book, and it's undoubtedly slanted a bit in her favor - however, if you're looking for a biography with a balanced look at her work and her private life I highly recommend it. Unfortunately it's more of an "art book" so it's not great for subway rides. I just keep it by my bed and read a little of it every night before I go to sleep.

Marina and Ulay's relationship is the center of the book and of Marina's life - they were together for nearly twelve years, living and working together in intense intimacy. They had originally planned to walk towards each other from the opposite ends of the Great Wall of China, meet in the middle, and get married. When they actually did it ten years later they walked to each other over the course of ninety days, embraced, and went their separate ways. Ulay married his translator from the trip shortly thereafter, and Marina returned to New York. I can't imagine the heartbreak she must have felt (not to mention the exhaustion) on that plane ride home. As she wept when they met on the Wall Ulay told her, "Don't cry; we have accomplished so much." And Marina would go on to accomplish much more without Ulay. I think her incredibly lucky: it was possible for her to do the work. And it has sustained her. At 64 years old she glows.

Catching Up

2010-08-10T16:09:00.007-04:00

Shameless Self-Promotion:

Since we last spoke, I wrote a little ditty for one of my favorite sites, The Awl, on how to cast a film adaptation of Les Miz so it will be as successful as Twilight. It was great fun working with Natasha Vargas-Cooper, who edited the series on musicals and is the author of the new book Mad Men Unbuttoned.

Later, I romped over to This Recording with a piece on Spielberg's oft-overlooked masterpiece, Jaws, in honor of shark week. Check it out for more on Richard Dreyfuss' surprising attractiveness in 1975 and Moby Dick analogies.

Today I made my debut at The Rumpus, an incredibly smart culture focused site, with a review of Jeffrey Meyers' The Genius and the Goddess. You may remember my mentioning the book a few posts ago. Though the book intends to be about the marriage of Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe, the finished product is really more of an unflattering, even offensive biography of Marilyn. I've pointed out the issues I had with Meyers' approach.

My professional website now includes a "News" section so you can keep up with the latest, if you are so inclined.

Promotion of others:

In non-Jessica related news, I really enjoyed reading Laura Shapiro's piece on Shirley Jackson at Slate. I also loved her sketches of Hill House that were posted on Writer's Houses.

Richard Morgan's piece on being a freelance writer at The Awl really encompasses everything and more about one of the most difficult, oftentimes obnoxious jobs ever. The section where he describes pitching an idea and having it rejected only to find it on the site several weeks later written by the editor who rejected it is something I think all writers have encountered. I felt this piece. Hard.

Chelsea Biondolillo compared her MFA rejections with famous rejections throughout history at McSweeney's.

Coming Up:

- There are quite a few more book reviews in the works, and an academic paper which I hope you will enjoy.
- For ten days in September I'll be in Berlin, so if anyone has suggestions or recommendations on Berlin-related things, please let me know.
- Soon I hope I will be a proud owner of an iPhone, which means more posting and more images on the blog.
- Exciting professional news to be shared.
- Dying to read Tom McCarthy's C. - will someone send me a copy? Pretty please?
- Currently reading Hans Kielson's Comedy in a Minor Key. Francine Prose called him a genius in the Sunday Book Review and she's probably right.
- Also dying for the new Bernhard, My Prizes. You may remember my Bernhardian worship which began a few years back with The Loser.
- Very, very excited to see the film adaptation of Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. I wrote about the new Sci-Fi a ways back here on the blog.

I AM STILL WRITING MY BOOK PROPOSAL WHICH IS TAKING FOREVER. WORDS OF ENCOURAGMENT AND/OR FREE DRINKS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED.

Hello. And thanks for reading.

Columbine, by Dave Cullen

2010-07-21T10:27:00.013-04:00

Although 9/11 and Virginia Tech might ring a little louder in our ears in 2010, I will always remember coming home from school on April 20, 1999, turning on CNN, and trying to make sense of the footage at Columbine High School, both horrified and unable to take my eyes of the screen. Dave Cullen, a journalist for Salon and The New York Times, was one of the first people to report on the shootings, and nine years later, his book, Columbine, recounts the entire story of the murders.

Though this book is not nearly as well-written as In Cold Blood or as compelling as Helter Skelter, Columbine is a thorough account of the events leading up to the shooting, the murders themselves, and their awful aftermath. Cullen describes how Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold initially planned on blowing up the school entirely; they had set nearly 100 bombs throughout the Cafeteria , in the common areas, and in their cars, which, if they had been successful, would have killed practically every person on campus. When the bombs didn't go off, Harris simply took to the top of the hill and started shooting at random. Though the spree would only last forty-five minutes, (until Harris and Klebold returned to the Library where the bodies of the ten people they murdered lay to commit suicide) that day, 15 people would die.

I, for one, didn't know about the bombs until I read this book. Cullen also recounts the myths of Christian martyrdom that flowed through Littleton, Colorado, after the murders, Cassie Bernall's being the most famous. Yes, myths. Apparently, according to eyewitness accounts and testimony from most of the kids in the Library, it was Val Schnurr, not Cassie, who answered "yes" when Harris asked her if she believed in God. Though she had been injured, she survived. Cassie, on the other hand, had no chance to say anything to Eric before he shot her in the head as she hid under the table, her hand also wounded as she tried to shield her face from the blast.

Most moving in Cullen's account is the struggle of the parents of the children murdered and injured that day. Some blame the parents of the killers, only the killers themselves, or blame no one at all. One, who had struggled with mental illness, walked into a pawn shop, asked to see a gun, and when the attendant stepped away, loaded it and shot herself in the head while her daughter was still recovering from her wounds at the hospital. Cullen also describes the Klebold's confusion and pain over Dylan's actions, and how difficult it was to bury him without an uprising from the community.

Eric Harris was a textbook psychopath. His journals indicate as such. Both he and Klebold had been arrested for theft. Harris' parents, in particular, his father, Wayne (a Marine) recognized how sick he was and tried to get him help, first through therapy, and then through a more strict, rehab-like program. He passed the program with flying colors, just a few weeks before he would go on a murderous rampage. Cullen suggests that Dylan, a depressive love-sick loner, was drawn to Eric because he offered a release from his pain.

Columbine is an engaging, impressive book of investigative journalism. Cullen does very little speculating: all the quotations in quotes in the book are actual, cited quotations, and they make up most of the dialogue. If you are looking for a compelling summer true-crime read, this is your book. But don't expect to be uplifted by it. Aside from classifying Eric as a psychopath (using the DSM IV), Cullen doesn't try to explain why he thinks Eric and Dylan did it, or attempt to "make sense" of the tragedy. Even in this thorough accounting of the events, there is no answer to the question "Why?"

The Summer of Literary ADD

2010-07-20T15:10:00.006-04:00

A list of books I have begun and not finished this summer, thus far:
Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel
A Time of Gifts, by Patrick Leigh Fermor
The Man Who Loved Children, by Christina Stead
The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson
Paris Trance, by Geoff Dyer
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William L. Shirer
The Dud Avacado, by Elaine Dundy
Bomber County, by Daniel Swift
I Was Told There'd be Cake, by Sloane Crosley
Stranger than Fiction, by Chuck Palahniuk

Of those, I will finish:
The Man Who Loved Children
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
Possibly The Dud Avacado

One book I read this summer and loved:
Molly Fox's Birthday, by Dierdre Madden

One book I devoured like there was no tomorrow, then felt terrible: Columbine, by Dave Cullen

The book I have been waiting to read for several months that is finally arriving tomorrow because I had to order it overnight from Amazon because I simply cannot wait any longer: The Genius and the Goddess: Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe, by Jeffrey Meyers

Two books I am so excited about I might explode: My Prizes: An Accounting, by Thomas Bernhard, and C, by Tom McCarthy

P.S. Dear Marilyn, how the hell did you do this to your hair?

Madison Square Gaga

2010-07-13T09:22:00.004-04:00

This is Madison Square Garden last Tuesday night a few minutes before Lady Gaga took the stage. As you can see, there are just a few people there. I bought my tickets several months ago, and the two following shows on Wednesday and Thursday were also sold-out. The premise of the show is a Wizard of Oz like journey, where Gaga and her dancer friends are trying to make their way to the "Monster Ball." Along the way, they are met with many obstacles, including the F Train (quite possibly the worst subway line in New York), darkness, a twister, and a giant piranha that eats Gaga during "Paparazzi" and spits her back up. If you are a lover of spectacle, I don't need to tell you how much you should plunk down the cash and just go see this tour.

As Gaga went through practically all of her discography, she spoke about how much she loved New York and that even though she had been through hard times (drugs, bad boyfriends) she never gave up, and neither should we. She told us never to let anyone tell us we weren't worth it. She told us to put our paws in the air and to celebrate ourselves and to celebrate freedom. While these are all vague, general incitements to the power of indiviuality, I can't think of a better role model for the group of girls sitting behind me who probably ranged from 15 to 25 in terms of age. I could hear them singing the lyrics with Gaga, and I was pleased.

The sheer force of Gaga is impressive; if you're a hater and don't understand why she's so popular, I encourage you to watch her perform live, under a battlement of heavy clothing and heels so high they are practically stilts, Gaga dances, sings, and yells like a fiend from Hell, somehow never falling down from exhaustion or losing her voice. Her strength and her confidence is simply unparalelled. It is overwhelming and inspiriational.

Gaga herself was emotional. Playing three sold out nights at MSG is no small feat, and she knew it. She shined her disco-stick on the audience saying "let me get a loook at you." Her voice broke with tears. During "Bad Romance," when Gaga jumped, the entire auditorium was set in a blaze of light, almost like lightning had struck - she was stuck in mid-air during this moment, almost as if she were ascending to heaven. It's a snapshot I'll never forget.

Mean Girls

2010-06-30T14:30:00.007-04:00

Women (and men, perhaps) of the blogosphere, do you ever find it more difficult to cultivate friendships with women than you do with men? I do.

The reasons are mostly obvious, the most apparent being women are more competitive with each other for men, jobs, accolades, looks, wealth, etc. Do you agree?

I will freely admit that I am violently competitive and have been since the day I was born. Playing sports in middle school and acting in high school really helped me to work through my competitive nature, but since college (where I mostly hid out and allowed my self-esteem to be destroyed by an arrogant ignoramous) I've found there's really no where for my competitiveness to go - no filter, no scapegoat.

Am I too abrasive, too raw, and judgmental? (Is it me?) I try my best not to be a bitch. I am opinionated and wouldn't have it any other way. There are just some women no matter how hard I try that will feel compelled to cut me down, make me feel uncomfortable, and tell me my behavior is inappropriate. I don't really feel that anyone (with minor exceptions - my mom, my boyfriend) should be able to tell me that I'm out of line. What do you think? Do you allow your friends to chide you on what they consider to be crude behavior?

In the company of men I am simply more myself, and not so obsessed with seeming "fair," or "appropriate," and not nearly as competitive. Please don't get me wrong: I really like women. I find them to be intelligent, emotional, beautiful creatures and I am blessed that I have friendships with a few women--and these ladies I trust. But it's not easy to find that kind of a connection. Not easy at all.

Girl Power

2010-06-29T10:18:00.005-04:00

Yo, if you're looking for a great summer dance album with substance to get you geared up to face your daily demons, look no farther. Check out my review of Robyn's new album, Body Talk Pt. 1 over at Planet Magazine. You can thank me later.

Do you think Robyn is "Team Bella" ?

For Neda

2010-06-13T15:28:00.003-04:00

I just watched this new HBO documentary For Neda on the murder of Neda Soltan during the protests of the Iranian elections. You probably saw the horrifying video of Neda's murder on YouTube or a news site - in the video as she's out protesting she's shot and bleeds to death. This documentary explains the events leading up to Neda's death, both in her personal life and in the country. It answers the question "Who was Neda?" And "Why did she die?"

Alejandro, and more.

2010-06-08T13:18:00.003-04:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, Lady Gaga's long-awaited video, Alejandro:

Gaga looks like Evita Peron meets page-boy meets Madonna. The Fascist streak in this video is fairly appropriate to my reading material right now. I just started The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich and it's absolutely fascinating.

In un-related news, my column at Bookslut is up. This month's is on Henry James' The Turn of the Screw. The issue also contains a delightful piece about stalking Dave Eggers, and a review of Justin Cronin's new epic vampire novel.

My friend Peter will be on Jeopardy tonight if you want to tune in at 7pm EST!

I have been wildly allergic to everything lately, and I have five million thousand reviews to write, so I apologize in advance if there is radio silence on the blog. You know I still love you.

Molly Fox's Birthday

2010-06-04T14:24:00.006-04:00

Deirdre Madden's Molly Fox's Birthday is an absolute pleasure.

I reviewed it at The Second Pass. This novel is beautifully written, introspective, smart, and moving. Flavors of Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway make it the perfect summer read -"life; London; this moment in June."

Neither I nor Molly Fox are in London, but boy, this book is good.

Mailer?

2010-05-28T12:07:00.007-04:00

I don't really know whether to write this piece about Norman Mailer, or Norris Church Mailer, or James Walcott, who wrote this impressive piece for Vanity Fair called "The Norman Conquest." It's a little odd that I find this piece so entertaining, since I've never read any Norman Mailer (please leave suggestions and advice as to what I should do about this in the comments). However, Walcott's piece is pretty much one of the most whimsically well-written bon-bons of literary reportage that I've read in a while.

Really what I'd like to read is Norris' memoir, A Ticket to the Circus. She was married to the dude for thirty years. In a piece in the NYT a few weeks ago, she claimed that sex was the glue (no, the honey, she corrected herself) that held them together through his insatiable philandering. I don't know whether to respect Norris or hate her. Was Mailer really a genius? You'd have to be pretty great in the sack and a genius and really love your children for a woman as beautiful (and smart) as Norris to stick by you, right?

Walcott's piece was born as a comment to all of the Mailer paraphenalia coming out of the woodwork the past few months. His cook/assistant has written Mornings with Mailer, then there's Norris' memoir, and a mistress memoir by Carole Mallory barfingly titled Loving Mailer. (The jacket! THE JACKET OF THIS BOOK). If you're stuck trying to chose, New York Magazine has this very handy dandy breakdown of the memoirs of Mailer's women.

Wow. I hope when I die there are people vying to tell about my literary legacy. I guess I had better start stabbing people at parties.

Sweets through the Bittersweet

2010-05-27T09:49:00.007-04:00

Yesterday my review of Kate Moses' Cakewalk went up at The Millions. I hope you'll read the review and the book, a memoir of Kate's childhood and her difficult relationship with her parents. At the end of each chapter she includes a recipe, from a sweet featured in the chapter. Though the recipes are a nice addition (and delicious, I might add - I made her peanut butter cookies) what really rings solid and true about this book is Moses' struggle to come to terms with her parents' marriage and her mother in particular.

I know I have always expected my family to be loving - and I'm very lucky that most of my relatives are supportive. However over the last year I've had to accept that simply because I share DNA with someone doesn't mean they will be a positive, supportive presence in my life. After years of emotional abuse, I've just stepped away. I'm open to the idea that things could change, but I don't expect them to.

Moses' book made me realize that the people who truly love us love us for who we are, flaws and all. Those are the people we want to keep around - they want to see us succeed, see us happy, see us live in the city we love, make a life with the person of our choosing, and encourage us towards fulfillment. This message seems like it should be commonplace, but in looking back at my life I have allowed myself to spend too much time with hurtful, negative people who are intent on tearing me down and seeing me fail. I'm done with those people, and I'm ready to appreciate those in my life who make me feel good about who I am - or who I'll become.

So pick up a copy of Kate's book. She's a fantastic writer - you may have heard of her last book, Wintering, about Sylvia Plath's last weeks. Read a few chapters, bake a cake for that person who loves you for who you are - there are plenty of recipes to choose from.

Whoa! and Beeswax

2010-05-25T10:11:00.010-04:00

I changed the layout of this blog after six years of the same damn thing. What do you think?

A few weeks ago, I watched Beeswax (which is currently streaming on Netflix, fyi) - a very cinema verite film about identical twin sisters floating through life in Austin, Texas. A.O. Scott had some very lovely things to say about the film when it was in theaters last year. When I say "real-life cinema" I mean it: the twins are played by actual identical twins. They, and all the other actors in this movie are "unprofessional actors." Watching Beeswax is like watching your friends talk in front of a video camera. As time (and the internet) marches on, I suspect we'll see more films like this one: unscripted and amateurish, uploaded to YouTube or Vimeo. Making movies is expensive and getting an independent film distributed is near to impossible.

Andrew Bujalski, the director of Beeswax, has been called the "Godfather of Mumblecore," and with no-name, non-professional actors, he's creating movies closest to the original meaning of Mumblecore in comparison to some of his compatriots who have gone off for more mainstream success. However, according to his wikipedia entry, Bujalski is now at work on a screen-adaptation of Benjamin Kunkel's novel, Indecision, for Paramount pictures.

Mumblecore is an American independent film movement that arose in the early 2000s. It is primarily characterized by ultra-low budget production (often employing digital video cameras), focus on personal relationships between twenty-somethings, improvised scripts, and non-professional actors.

Beeswax tells the story of twins Jeannie and Lauren, who, after a relatively lazy and comfortable life, have to come to terms with some major changes. Jeannie, who is wheelchair-bound, finds herself in a legal dispute over the ownership of her vintage store with her absentee partner. Lauren is smugly unemployed, going through the motions of trying to find a job but unsure of what she wants to do. Merrill is Jeannie's former-boyfriend - she brings him back into her life under the guise of needing legal advice as he's studying for the Bar. To say that anything really happens in this film would be to misunderstand it, but in the vein of Sherman's March, it is deeply enjoyable. It's refreshing to see young people struggling for stability and meaning in their lives - real young people, who aren't inexplicably wealthy or attractive like 20somethings in Hollywood movies. The actresses who play Jeannie and Lauren are strikingly beautiful in a unique way, very muscular, Amazonian women. Beeswax feels almost New Wave in its reluctance to offer us anything more than a splice of life permeated by mood and sideways glances. It's the ripple-effect from these subtle details that makes Beeswax truly compelling.

Young Female Novelists

2010-05-19T10:26:00.008-04:00

I asked and you guys answered!

A list of 20 female novelists from Dilettantsia readers:

1. Vendela Vida
2. Julie Orringer
3. Asali Solomon
4. Becky Curtis
5. Karen Russell
6. Sarah Shun-lien Bynum
7. Ceridwen Dovey
8. Judy Budnitz
9. Leanne Shapton
10. Nicole Krauss
11. Nell Freudenberger
12. Marisha Pessl
13. Curtis Sittenfeld
14. Jhumpa Lahiri
15. Selah Saterstrom
16. Rivka Galchen
17. Lydia Peelle
18. Rachel Cusk
19. Zadie Smith
20. Ann Patchett

There are a few ladies over 40, but really: who cares? As William but it best in the comments: "40 is a pretty tough number though. Everybody loves a phenom (for the first 10 minutes at least) but by and large the rule of 10 hits novelists just like anyone else." For the record, Virginia Woolf didn't publish her first novel, The Voyage Out, until she was 33; it had been a work in progress for nine years.

Got Women?

2010-05-14T09:28:00.007-04:00

Virginia, HELP.

On Wednesday night, my friend Trish asked me who were my favorite contemporary female writers. I named one in particular: Sarah Manguso. If you haven't read her memoir, The Two Kinds of Decay, please do so immediately. But what about novelists? Fiction writers? Trish asked. Oh, I thought - well, Mary Gaitskill: Veronica. Well, Trish said, yes, but who else? And younger? I was stumped, and upset.

So who are your favorite*

Female
Contemporary
Novelists
Under 40

*favorite meaning you are a fan of their work(s)

Later, I came up with Zadie Smith. That was it. Is it just me or is there a massive black hole in fiction? Where are the young female novelists? Do they exist? Are they having trouble getting published? Is it just that women are all writing non-fiction pseudo memoirs right now? What the hell is going on? Please leave some names in the comments and prove me wrong!

Metropolis Restored

2010-05-12T09:45:00.005-04:00

Fritz Lang's unbelievably progressive film Metropolis has long been a favorite of movie buffs all over the world. Made in 1927, Lang anticipates skyscrapers, television, elevators and highways in this story of industry and corruption.

However, since its original premiere in Berlin, most viewers have found the film confusing and a bit aimless. After the movie was released, there were complaints about its length (2 1/2 hours) and it was cut down by thirty minutes, and the excised film was presumed destroyed. Not so! In 2008, Fernando Pena, a film archivist, found a copy of the complete Metropolis in the Museo del Cine in Buenos Aries. Film Forum in New York and select theaters across the United States are now showing the restored version during the month of May, with a DVD release to follow.

I saw the restored version on Monday night, and it was well worth it. What's interesting: the missing parts only survive as 16mm transfers, so it's easy to discern as you watch the film which are the new scenes. The character of The Thin Man, who was practically removed from the last version, plays a much larger part. The acting abilities of the main characters are fully exhibited, and major plot points that seem completely essential to the understanding of the film's vision have been restored. This film is now engaging and heartfelt. I spent most of the time gasping and wondering how the hell Fritz Lang managed to film scenes that feature angry mobs, burning at the stake, and large-scale Ayn Rand like cities without the help of special effects. Metropolis is truly a marvelous example of ingenuity and cinematic genius.

The restoration is not only a triumph for film scholars - it's an absolute delight to any audience member. Go and see it now!

White-knuckled

2010-05-10T10:07:00.002-04:00

As a kid, I loved flying. I still love the liminal space of an airport - you're neither here nor there, in some in-between world, where one can talk on the phone and read magazines and think about life. But now flying scares the hell out of me. The last three flights I've taken have been turbulent and bumpy. Last night especially - there had been "strong winds" at LaGuardia and every time the pilot tried to descend, we hit turbulence.

How are we ever going to get down? Will I get off this plane alive? How crazy is it to get in a giant metal tube and propel oneself across the country? Please God, I thought, if you let me get off this plane, I promise I'll stop worrying so much, I'll stop flipping out about other people, stop reading so much stop thinking so much. Just let me live.

It's Monday morning. I'm alive, I'm at work. I had to let three L trains go by this morning. I open my Google reader to find criticism on a piece I wrote. I'm not an academic! I don't have the time nor the funding to sit in the library all day! (Believe me, I wish I did). I'm broke, etc. God dammit, and here we go. First world problems, right?

I wish I could stop thinking and just start living.

Around the Interwebs

2010-05-07T09:31:00.003-04:00

Updated!

Dear friends, I apologize for neglecting the blog as of late, but you will find me a few other places on the internet this week.

I made my debut at The Millions with this piece on Food and Writing. Publisher's Weekly then mentioned it on their morning report.

At This Recording I wrote an essay on one of my favorite writers, Sylvia Plath.

My monthly column at Bookslut is up, this one on Suzanne Collins' Sci-Fi Young Adult novel Hunger Games.

And lastly I've had a great deal of feedback on my review of Emily Gould's And The Heart Says Whatever at Time Out, including a nice nod from Jezebel.

As always you can find all my published clips at www.jessicaferri.com.

Thank you for reading!

Summer Reading

2010-04-29T15:35:00.005-04:00

It's practically May, and you know what that means: it's practically summer. Time for long lazy afternoons in the park, reading in the sun. I've been running around (out of town) but I'm looking forward to the summer months when I can finally get some reading done. Here are a few books I'm excited about reading:

Miss Lonelyhearts (and The Day of the Locust) by Nathanael West
An Education, A Memoir by Lynn Barber (the basis for the film)
A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg (author of food blog Orangette)
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Summer Cooking by Elizabeth David
Memento Mori by Muriel Spark
and, if I like that, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
and if I like both of those, the new biography of Madame Spark
Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin

I've been doing a lot of food writing and reading over the past month. I hope to have something up for you all to read about the genre very soon. I just finished Judith Moore's collection of personal essays on the intersection of life and food, Never Eat Your Heart Out. It was fantastic; I highly, highly recommend it. (It's out of print but you can find it without a problem on aLibris)

I also do a fair amount of re-reading in the summer. My favorites:

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
The Unabridged Diaries of Sylvia Plath
Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan
Slouching Towards Bethlehem

Come to think of it, I pretty much re-read these books all year.

What are your summer reads and recommendations?

Emily Gould's "And the Heart Says Whatever"

2010-04-28T10:10:00.003-04:00

Dear readers, you can find my review of Emily Gould's collection of essays And the Heart Says Whatever in this week's Time Out New York here, along with a few recommendations of my favorite memoirs and tell-alls. Thank you as always for reading. xoxoxo

Songs of Sorrow: Lady Gaga

2010-04-21T11:26:00.004-04:00

Paparazzi: Love and obsession. Facebook stalk-age. Anxiety to leave the communal space. Jealousy, rage, and the thin line between love and hate. The beauty of a lover can never be recreated outside of the relationship.

Poker Face: The mix of shame and excitement on being attracted to the same sex. "Bluffin" with your "muffin" because you only fall in love with men. Distraction. The need for orgasm. Ultimate power over the situation. Control.

Money Honey: Being your girl is all the money in the world. Of course, actual money would be nice, too.

I Like it Rough: Feeling insecure about your sexuality because you want to have sex more often and rougher than your boyfriend does. Men raised by women and only women. No rage, no play, the same, boring. You want the throw down. You get labeled as a slut. Little does he know you are the best thing, you are "shiny."

Bad Romance: I would rather have your resentment and anger than nothing at all.

Alejandro: Your jealousy makes me sick. Let me be free.

Monster: Your girlfriend tells you she slept with that guy, and he was an asshole. You sleep with him anyway because you are stupid. He totally consumes you, then dumps you on the side of the road. Ultimate pain.

Speechless: Daddy issues. Enough said.

Dance in the Dark: Your boyfriend thinks you're fat. You burn and seethe with rage and self-loathing. You are gorgeous, but he makes you feel like you're nothing. You dance in the dark with your friends. Depression and suicide loom. You hope and work back to self-confidence.

Telephone: I will ignore you because you refused to acknowledge me.

Teeth: There is no man who can equal your power. Torn between feeling wonderful about it, or awful. The overwhelming solitude.

Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present

2010-04-19T12:17:00.007-04:00

On Sunday I went to MoMa to see "The Artist is Present," a retrospective of Marina Abramovic's work. And Marina was present, sitting on the second floor of the museum in a brilliant, flowing red dress. At 62, Abramovic doesn't look at day over 38. I jumped to the conclusion that she must look healthy and young because she gets to live her passion every day. Even if that passion is sitting in MoMa, staring at strangers.

Or carving a pentagram onto her stomach using a razor blade.

Or cleaning hundreds of cow bones for the Venice Biennale.

Or handing 72 objects of pain and torture to an audience and telling them "do to me what you will."

Or screaming at the top of her lungs until she lost her voice.

Or standing in the center of a blazing star until she lost consciousness from the fumes.

Or breaking up with her partner and collaborator by each of them walking the Great Wall of China from opposite ends, only to say goodbye once they reach the center.

The list goes on.

Obviously Abramovic can't been in twenty places at one time, and I don't think the Great Wall will fit in MoMa, so most of these pieces are exhibited through video. A few of them, however, are performed by actual human beings. (No, sadly not the pentagram piece). As a patron you do have the option of entering the exhibit by walking in between two naked people (Marina and Ulay in the original below).

I walked in between two naked guys. At first I was nonchalant about it, but after squeezing through I felt a surge of euphoria closely followed by panic and shame. Both of them looked wildly uncomfortable, and hot. MoMa had the heat on, and everyone was sweating - even the naked performers. Squeezing past them with a bag, a purse, a heavy coat and my big military boots wasn't easy. After, I felt bad. It's strange to look at art and have it look back at you. One performer, naked, laying on a slab that came up about waist-high in another room was covered in a skeleton. He looked at me, I looked at him. I tried to focus on looking at his body as a whole, avoiding eye contact, but I couldn't. He seemed sad, in pain. I wanted to bring him some water.

After the exhibit I was so exhausted (mentally, physically, emotionally) that I collapsed on my living room couch and didn't move for nearly two hours. I was overwhelmed by Abramovic's body of work, both in its scope and its nature. There's no distinction between Abramovic and her canvas. She is her canvas. I can't think of any kind of living that's more alive and real. Surely there will be haters who think the exhibit useless, but to hell with them. This exhibit is an inspiration. I walked out of MoMa feeling violated in the best way possible, thinking to myself: how can I live and feel and work on this level? I want it. No matter how uncomfortable. I want that kind of work. Every day. So now: how to do it?

Adventures in Babysitting

2010-04-13T12:05:00.002-04:00

Hi friends. I wrote this essay about babysitting for This Recording.

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, thanks for reading.

Warning: Fashion Post

2010-04-02T12:11:00.002-04:00

I feel somewhat (somewhat, okay?) vindicated by the fact that The New Yorker, tastemaker of snobs, recently published a piece about the website Polyvore. Alexandra Jacobs does a much more thorough job of explaining what Polyvore is in those five pages. If you care about clothes, and you are not familiar, I highly recommend you check this website out - it's essentially an outfit-builder and it tells you where you can find each piece. Whenever I'm looking for inspiration I search the collections others have built. You can search for any term you want. Since it's finally getting warmer here in New York, my current favorite search terms are "spring," "spring in New York," "Michelle Williams," "Chloe Sevigny" and "Jane Birkin."

Today's Tonight... by natalia_k_ featuring

Paris, Je t'aime by dreams that glitter ♥ featuring Fendi bags

hey soul sister

Michelle Williams Street Style . by

Happy Spring!

On Travel

2010-03-25T12:00:00.008-04:00

Since I was young, I have always loved to travel. Whether it was a long eight hour drive down to Florida to see my Grandpa, or a quick weekend to D.C. or Philly, or even just a jaunt to a small town in the middle of nowhere in Georgia, I love to travel. Traveling reminds me of when I was young, when I was a student and I had no serious cares in the world, aside from your usual teenage dramas and first heartbreaks. Honestly, while I love living in New York and I love my people here, I'm still trying to figure out what kind of career I need to pay the bills and to keep me sustained and fulfilled in an emotional sense. It's really difficult. If I had my way, I would write full-time. Traveling, even if it's a brief getaway, makes me feel like I'm seventeen again, with my journal and my books, settling in for a long train ride, ready for newness, ready for anything.

When I was eighteen, my mom and I tagged along on a University of Alabama study abroad program called "In the Footsteps of Virginia Woolf," the best trip I've ever taken in my life thusfar. We traveled all over England, to London, to Kent, to Sussex and finally to Cornwall, and when I stood on our hotel balcony I could see the pulsing light of Woolf's lighthouse. I got to watch my mom's face light up with joy while we walked through Vita Sackville West's garden at Sissinghurst. I saw Woolf's original manuscript of Orlando, handwritten in purple ink, that she gave to Vita, installed at Knole.

I've visited Andalusia, Flannery O'Connor's home in Milledgeville, Georgia, where she lived her entire life and wrote there - I saw her typewriter and her crutches.

I've held Sylvia Plath's childhood valentines to her mother in my hands. I've also held two feet of her hair, braided, in my bare hands at the Lilly Library in Bloomington, Indiana.

I've walked through ancient cemeteries in the UK, kissed the Blarney stone (after some intense anti-bacterial wiping) and taken down epitaphs from decrepit tombstones in Massachusetts. I've danced with Frenchmen and Spaniards in Madrid, even though I barely speak French and speak absolutely no Spanish. I lit a candle for my Grandmother in Notre Dame. I walked through the house where Nathaniel Hawthorne was born, and the house on which he based The House of Seven Gables. I dropped my favorite childhood necklace into the bay in Sausilito.

While standing in the Monk's House garden, where Virginia and Leonard Woolf's ashes are buried next to each other, I watched a big black cat cross through in the blinding sunlight.

For me, traveling is about forging a physical connection with places and people, particularly of the literary and historic persuasion. There's nothing I love more than the idea of a trip to Sleepy Hollow, or a visit to Amherst, to see Emily Dickinson's house. Being there situates you closer to the work, to the writer. I think literary excursions are the most romantic excursions.

And while there are still so many places to go and so many things to see, as I recount these past travels I feel a bit better about sitting inside being stuck at a desk on a gorgeous spring day. You know, I feel lucky.

In Which Cooking is an Analogy to Life Itself

2010-03-15T11:28:00.010-04:00

I've just finished reading Cathy Erway's The Art of Eating In - you may recognize Cathy not from the name of her book but rather the name of her blog "Not Eating Out in New York." Cathy made a promise to herself and her readers that she would not eat in restaurants in New York, cooking all her meals at home, for two years. The book is a recounts her culinary struggles and triumphs. Gimmicky yes. Inspiring, also yes. For instance: last night I was out until 11pm, and I hadn't eaten dinner. Normally I would've rushed into some restaurant, totally ravenous, spent about $40 on booze and food, and gone home feeling guilty for my overindulgence. Thanks to Cathy's influence, I went straight home and looked at what I had in the cupboards. Some whole wheat pasta, parmesan cheese. Quickly, I whipped up some delicious cheese and pepper pasta and was totally satisfied, without spending a cent, without overeating.

Until this past year, I looked at cooking with disdain and apprehension. Cooking was for people with too much time on their hands, for housewives, or naturally talented chefs. But after doing some experimentation, I quickly learned that cooking at home can be healthier in that you control the ingredients, and certainly it's cheaper. In Erway's book she calculates she spends $20 on groceries one week (this is obscenely off - I spend about $60, but then, I'm cooking for two) for eating in. In a week where she eats-out every meal, she spends $221!

I do a fair amount of cooking at home now that I live with my boyfriend. Before cohabitation, as a single gal cooking for myself was a bit of a downer. Combine the social aspect with a kitchen in Park Slope that looked like something out of Taxi Driver, and there wasn't much of an incentive. I ate a lot of veggie burgers, cheerios and tater tots. Most of my meals I spent eating out, spending time with friends, or on dates. I was always jealous of my roommate and her boyfriend, who made intensely delicious dinners (usually on Sundays). The smell from the kitchen was devastating. And sadly, they never really offered to share. Understandable - groceries cost money. But I would have gladly chipped in.

This year, I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner at my house and 12 people attended. Everyone brought a dish (or even two) so thank goodness for that. But I was in charge of the turkey, and I was absolutely terrified. If you haven't ever cooked a large bird, I recommend doing so. It will teach you a great deal about yourself. Slaving over a turkey for six hours was agonizing: constantly basting, ensuring that the bird won't be overdone, and giving yourself a facial every ten minutes from the heat wave of the oven. Watching my friend Sue, who is a culinary master, carve the thing once it was done was like watching someone slaughter my first born child. At one point, I had to leave the room. To make matters worse, herding 12 people into sitting down at the table is near to impossible. And the bird was getting cold. All my work for naught! As Madeline Kahn says in Clue, "Flames, at the side of my face. Flames."

I lost all politeness and composure, barking orders for people to sit the fuck down, shut up, and eat. My boyfriend was embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior. But how could he understand? He had been helpful, yes, cleaning the apartment and going out to buy snacks from Chinatown. But these sort of errands in no way equal the massive amount of pressure combined from cooking the main dish and hostessing. I don't think he will ever fully forgive me for "losing it" at Thanksgiving. I tried to apologize to my guests, citing frustration and fatigue. Who knows if they even heard me over the clinking of silverware.

What Thanksgiving (and subsequent dinners) have taught me is that no matter how upset you get, for whatever reason: whether it's culinary, professional, or personal, you cannot allow your emotions to get the best of you. You must keep a stiff upper lip in public, and if you want to explode or rampage in private, go right ahead. (The gym, too, can be a wonderful safe haven for working out stress and anger issues). But the dinner table, in the company of guests (even if it's just your partner) is never the place to engage in combat with yourself. If you're type A, like I am, you must approach life in the same way: always striving for perfection. Well, it's more about the process, isn't it, than the end product? We should all just enjoy the "doing." Who cares if your place-mats don't match?

Salutations!

2010-03-09T14:51:00.005-05:00

I might as well just come out and admit that I'm not a very good blogger. I don't update enough, and for that, I apologize.

So, what did we all think about the Oscars? I was very pleased and shocked - I didn't think they would give The Hurt Locker Best Picture, too. So that was a welcome surprise. Congratulations to Kathryn Bigelow!

As I've been getting my life back under my control after the summer / winter of hellish unemployment and disaster, I'm thinking about life-goals, dreams, and aspirations. Que the soundtrack to Last of the Mohicans. Y'all, what I've been thinking lately is life is so damn short, right? Why not go after everything you want, relentlessly? As the weather's been improving (and therefore my mood) I'm coming out the muck and for the first time in months I'm able to appreciate who I am and where I am. What about you? I've received several e-mails and messages of Facebook as of late, thanking me for my writing and encouraging me to keep at it. I want you all to know that I find these kindnesses so empowering and I'd like to say: right back at you. If you aren't doing something that makes you happy, right now, get on it. Just, get on it.

In further news, it's gorgeous outside and all I can think about are sunglasses.

Shutter Island

2010-02-25T11:12:00.012-05:00

Props to Scorsese's legal team, because I Google-searched for a total of three minutes before I became exhausted for a photo of Michelle Williams in Shutter Island. This was really the only one I could find, which is a damn shame, because her part in the film happens to be the most beautiful and compelling.

It's alright, I understand why there aren't any photos: this is a twist-ending movie based on the twist-ending book by Dennis Lehane, author of Mystic River. If everyone was allowed to post stills willy-nilly on Google, well then, what fun would the movie be?

The answer is, it's still fun, regardless of whether you know the twist ending (I called it on Twitter about a month ago) or not. Shutter Island is Scorsese's attempt at film noir. Unfortunately, for him and for us, he ends up closer to M. Night Shyamalan than to Hitchock.

Teddy, played by a beefy Leonardo DiCaprio, and his partner Chuck, the dreamy Mark Ruffalo, are called to Shutter Island to investigate the disappearance of patient Rachel Salando. Of course, by the time they get there, it becomes obvious that Teddy has bigger problems than finding Rachel. For one thing, he's wracked with anxiety and flashbacks to his tour in Germany during WWII, and visions of his wife, who died in a fire in their apartment.

Most of these flashback scenes are the reason to see this film - visually stunning, eerie and gorgeous, Michelle Williams (in a beautiful yellow house dress evocative of her Vera Wang at the Oscars with Heath) seems to get more and more beautiful as the years go by. It's no wonder these scenes are the ones that appear in the trailer. And DiCaprio does a pretty good job at playing tortured. That said, I will still never be able to see him as a man. Every time I look at him, I see this:

That said, after the twist, Leo's brutish performance morphs into something remarkable. The same goes for Ruffalo, who, after a simple costume change, becomes a completely different person. The other actors, who are so talented that their supporting-status in this film is practically insulting, Ben Kingsley and Max von Sydow, seem to be playing down to the nature of the film. It's jarring - but appearances by Emily Mortimer and Jackie Earle Haley round out the ensemble.

Unfortunately, the stylistic music just gets annoying as hell, and the jumpy, black-out mental institution prison hallways are a bit much. This film houses none of the suspense of Taxi Driver or even The Departed (please, I don't expect Taxi Driver every time). Sadly (and predicatably) WWII is used solely for shock-value. Overall, there's too much silliness here for the film to get visceral. It's not a complete failure, but it is a failure, I think, for Marty Scorsese. Or perhaps this just isn't his genre.

Tell 'em how you feel girls

2010-02-18T13:31:00.011-05:00

My apologies for the delay on the blog - I headed home to Georgia to wish my mom a Happy Birthday in person and to see my brother who's home from Tokyo on his winter break. I'm back in New York now, back at work, getting adjusting to the full-time job schedule and writing my book in my spare time.

I've been thinking a lot about women lately - specifically women's bodies. Christina Hendricks (Joan on Mad Men) has been in the news lately after Cathy Horyn from the New York Times called her "not pretty" and a "big girl." Later the Times also admitted to stretching their photo of Hendricks arriving at the Golden Globes. Pretty despicable behavior from a reputable news source. Christina is the cover girl for New York magazine's fashion issue - and in it she says she's tired of all the talk about her weight.

The "infamous" Golden Globes dress
fuck you Cathy Horyn I'd like to see you pull this off

Supermodel Lara Stone (one of my personal favorites) recently told the press "People tell me I'm fat, but when I look in the mirror, that's not what I see." No shit! Lara's maybe one of the most gorgeous women on the planet, a throw-back to Bardot, a size four (!!!!) with one of the tightest, hottest bods and the most beautiful boobs in the fashion industry. But because of the pressure on her to lose weight, she developed an addiction to pills and alcohol. Now, thankfully, she's healthy and sober.

If this is fat, I fucking give up

I, too, have struggled with my weight, just like every woman does. I gained quite a bit in college because I had really unhealthy eating habits (a pint of ice cream practically every night - and I never thought twice about eating fried food and Taco Bell) I never exercised and I was depressed because I was in a toxic relationship. Now, I try to stay away from fast food, I've sworn off soda completely and I avoid fried foods (but I still eat french fries - a girl has to live man). Aside from the obvious goal of just being healthy, I want to feel good in my own body. I want to feel comfortable no matter what I'm wearing. I love clothes and I love fashion and I need for my clothes to fit properly. I try to get to the gym as much as I can, but by no means am I a compulsive exerciser. It's hard to find the time. But I'll be the first to admit living in New York has put much more pressure on me to lose weight and to be thin.

Lady Gaga has a song on her new album called "Dancer in the Dark," about a girl who feels good about herself until her boyfriend tells her she's a "mess"

Some girls won’t dance to the beat of the track
She won’t walk away
But she won’t look back
She looks good
But her boyfriend says
she’s a mess She’s a mess She’s a mess
Now the girl is stressed
She’s a mess . . .

Baby loves to dance in the dark
‘Cuz when he’s lookin’ She falls apart
Baby loves to dance in the dark (Tellem’, girls) . . .

Marilyn
Judy
Sylvia
Tellem’ how you feel girls!

Work your blonde (Jean) Benet Ramsey
We’ll haunt like liberace
Find your freedom in the music
Find your jesus
Find your kubrick
You will never fall apart Diana, you’re still in our hearts
Never let you fall apart
Together we’ll dance in the dark

Now, okay. Just reading these lyrics you may think "huh?" Has Jessica lost her mind? But, seriously. I want to say, thank you, Gaga, for writing an electro dance song that's about body image. I think this is an incredible feat - and on top of it, she's managed to reference (the female icons) and encourage a sense of female community - "together we'll dance in the dark." On top of it all, Dance in the Dark is a genius pop song, appropriate for dancing.

Gaga wants you to love yourself

Gaga knows what's it's like to be insulted for her looks - a google search will turn up "Gaga . . . Butterface . . . Hermaphrodite." Her entire gig is about individuality and wearing / doing whatever makes you happy - not to attract a man, but rather to push the envelope of what's considered sexual - isn't confidence and happiness the most attractive thing after all?

Christina Hendricks isn't the first gorgeous woman with big, beautiful breasts and hips. Not only that, Hendricks has the most beautiful complexion I've ever seen - and green eyes and red hair to top it all off. Sure, she's a different shape than the female starts we're used to seeing - and I think that's great. People come in all different sizes. Some are healthy, some aren't. The emphasis on weight, the pressure that women undergo every day to be thin whether they're in the spotlight or not, continues to be a lethal issue. It is literally a battle of life and death. So I'd like to encourage everyone, especially women, to stand behind each other, to defend each other, love your bodies and take good care of them. They belong to you. The minute you let someone else tell you what to do with your body, you're in the danger zone.

Candor Magazine

2010-02-04T15:00:00.005-05:00

Shirley Jackson wants you to submit to CANDOR!

You may remember my call for submissions last year for my lit magazine, Candor.

Well, we launched the first issue and I'd love to extend the call for submissions once again to you, dear readers. This time I'm opening up the entry to men, too! So please feel free to post this anywhere, or forward on to your friends.

The theme for the upcoming issue is "gaiety."

We accept fiction, non-fiction, essays, and reviews. See all guidelines here. Send pieces to candormagazine@gmail.com.

I look forward to reading your work!

Dilettantsia's 2010 Oscar Predictions

2010-02-03T11:11:00.006-05:00

Who's sorry now?

Let's face it: It's going to be a showdown between Avatar and The Hurt Locker. Kathryn Bigelow's already won the Director's Guild Award, which basically means if she doesn't win best director at the Oscars, hell will freeze over.

I'm afraid the Academy will pull another Crash / Brokeback Mountain on us and give Best Picture to Cameron and Best Director to Bigelow.

Full disclosure: I have not seen The Hurt Locker because I was broke as hell over the summer and I've tried to reserve it on DVD but it's impossible to get. So basically I'll be downloading it on iTunes for like ten million dollars because I support women filmmakers. It is near to impossible to get a film made as a female director (sorry, it's just the truth, it's an ugly world) and I would love to see Kathryn Bigelow win.

Also, yes, I concede that the technology in Avatar is mind-blowing or whatever, but the writing is shit and everyone knows it.

Best Picture
“Avatar”
“The Blind Side”
“District 9″
“An Education”
“The Hurt Locker”
“Inglourious Basterds”
“Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
“A Serious Man”
“Up”
“Up in the Air”

Best Direction
“Avatar” — James Cameron
“The Hurt Locker” — Kathryn Bigelow
“Inglourious Basterds” — Quentin Tarantino
“Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire” — Lee Daniels
“Up in the Air” — Jason Reitman

Actor in a Leading Role
Jeff Bridges in “Crazy Heart”
George Clooney in “Up in the Air”
Colin Firth in “A Single Man”
Morgan Freeman in “Invictus”
Jeremy Renner in “The Hurt Locker”

Jeff Bridges is like the pretend un-sung hero of Hollywood. Which is bullshit, because everyone worships him for being "The Dude" from The Big Lebowski. That said, he hasn't really won any major accolades (although god knows he's been nominated ten thousand times) until Crazy Heart, so I think he'll get the golden statue.

Actress in a Leading Role
Sandra Bullock in “The Blind Side”
Helen Mirren in “The Last Station”
Carey Mulligan in “An Education”
Gabourey Sidibe in “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
Meryl Streep in “Julie & Julia”

I don't think the academy will give another statue to Meryl. Also there's been so much hype surrounding Sandra Bullock never winning anything and her heartfelt speeches at the Critics' and The Golden Globes make her kind of a darling for the win.

Actor in a Supporting Role
Matt Damon in “Invictus”
Woody Harrelson in “The Messenger”
Christopher Plummer in “The Last Station”
Stanley Tucci in “The Lovely Bones”
Christoph Waltz in “Inglourious Basterds”

Christoph Waltz was fantastic in this film and basically stole show from everyone. This is a no-brainer.

Actress in a Supporting Role
Penélope Cruz in “Nine”
Vera Farmiga in “Up in the Air”
Maggie Gyllenhaal in “Crazy Heart”
Anna Kendrick in “Up in the Air”
Mo’Nique in “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”

Also a no-brainer. I don't think Mo'Nique has any competition whatsoever.

Writing (Adapted Screenplay)
“District 9” — Written by Neill Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell
“An Education” — Screenplay by Nick Hornby
“In the Loop” — Screenplay by Jesse Armstrong, Simon Blackwell, Armando Iannucci, Tony Roche
“Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire” — Screenplay by Geoffrey Fletcher
“Up in the Air” — Screenplay by Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner

Everyone loves this stupid movie, and I don't know why. The fact that it's been nominated for major awards makes it sort of competitive in the Best Picture category, but the Cameron/Bigelow head-to-head is just better. As amends, I think the academy will give best writing to Reitman.

Writing (Original Screenplay)
“The Hurt Locker” — Written by Mark Boal
“Inglourious Basterds” — Written by Quentin Tarantino
“The Messenger” — Written by Alessandro Camon & Oren Moverman
“A Serious Man” — Written by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
“Up” — Screenplay by Bob Peterson, Pete Docter, Story by Pete Docter, Bob Peterson, Tom McCarthy

Obviously. No contest.

Animated Feature Film
“Coraline”
“Fantastic Mr. Fox”
“The Princess and the Frog”
“The Secret of Kells”
“Up”

Duh! Everyone loves Pixar like it's crack-cocaine. Coraline really should win, but it won't.

Fruits of Labor Linkage

2010-02-02T11:24:00.009-05:00

Charlotte Gainsbourg is the nicest, chicest person in the world; check out my interview with her as proof.

I reviewed Joshua Ferris' new novel, The Unnamed, for Time Out New York.

Finally, I got all boy-crazy at This Recording.

In further news, I just finished We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, thus cementing her as one of my favorite authors of all time.

2010!

J.D. Salinger is dead

2010-01-28T18:10:00.006-05:00

This morning it snowed, and with the afternoon came the news that J.D. Salinger had died.

Now, let's be honest with ourselves. Those of us who really love Salinger don't love him for The Catcher in the Rye. We love him for his masterpiece: Franny and Zooey. If you don't understand that sentence, then please read this fantastic essay by Janet Malcolm.

Salinger was old. He was 91 and had sequestered himself off from public life, moving out to a secluded house in New Hampshire thirty years ago. It's no great tragedy or surprise that he's dead. But I will miss knowing he's there, just camped out in his house.

I love Franny and Zooey with all my heart. I don't love it openly, although I have listed the book on my facebook for nearly three years. My love affair with Franny and Zooey is not a public affair because people tend to shoot Salinger down for being too pretentious, too self-referential, too-white, too-something. I don't care; I'm white, and the problems presented in Franny and Zooey may be first world problems. This argument seems flawed. I don't read novels because of what "world" they belong to. I read them because they're good.

Salinger, to me, is one of the greatest masters of dialogue. When I listen to Zooey and his mom argue in the bathroom, it's like overhearing a real conversation. I can literally smell the cigarette smoke. The humor and sarcasm of these voices is exhilarating. I like to read Nine Stories on the train and when I'm forced to get out of the subway I'm always caught with a lump in my throat from needing to laugh and to cry at the same time.

I am constantly moved by the situation in Franny and Zooey because it reminds me of the way my brother and I interact, how we share tragedies by being related and attempt to buffer it off each other, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. While I haven't called Nicholas from another room pretending to be another sibling (that would be hard because it's only the two of us) I have called him, e-mailed him, and made gestures that siblings make in order to tell one's brother: I'm here, and I was there, I've been through it too, we're in this together.

And yes, like Eli Cash wants to be a Tenenbaum I think we all secretly want to be part of the Glass family, whether we admit it or not: part of their intelligence, their sheer obnoxiousness, their wealth, their neurotic quirks . . . the list goes on. Reading Franny and Zooey in Georgia I thought, oh what caricatures these people are. Upon moving to New York I realized they are anything but caricatures. People like this exist. I interact with them every day.

Salinger's ex-girlfriend said she knew of two unpublished novels he kept under lock and key, and a reporter who somehow managed to gain access to his house a long time ago wrote that there was an entire room filled with manuscripts. Salinger, as we all know, was notoriously private and hadn't published anything since 1965. God knows what might come out of that house - and who knows if anyone will be able to secure the rights to publish it.

When I need to get off my ass I turn to Franny and Zooey. Zooey's speech to Franny about the Fat Lady is a little heavy-handed, but all in all I pretty much agree with almost everything he says. And while Salinger's work may have been about the wages of alienation, he ended up creating some pretty incredible characters that lots of people relate to. No wonder he was so freaked-out and had to retreat to the woods. I think everyone's a little phony; it's unavoidable (and some, certainly, more than others). Whatever. These books, they jump and glisten, they're alive, and incredibly entertaining to read. I never get tired of them.

So cheers, Salinger.
You may have not liked us but we sure liked you.

Wow, this is late! Dilettantsia's Top 10 Films of 2009

2010-01-20T16:16:00.007-05:00

Some of my favorites, in a very particular order, i.e. #1 being the best.

10. Avatar
It was entertaining. I guess I have respect for the technology.

9. UP
I basically wept through this entire movie, and couldn't even bring myself to write a g-d review.

8. Julie & Julia
So sue me, I had a year of massive "what am I doing with my life" crises.

7. Bright Star
Absolutely stunning, gorgeous film by Jane Campion with wonderful actors.

6. Silent Light
One of the most eerie, strange, lovely experiences I've ever had in the movie theater.

5. Two Lovers
Fucking well written love story that's not stupid. Kudos!

4. The White Ribbon
I have a thing for deeply manipulative films that take place in Germany.

3. The Hurt Locker
You know what, I haven't even seen this but I know it's good.

2. Let the Right One In
One of the best vampire movies ever made, gorgeous and confident enough to play with gender stereotypes. God, I can't emphasize how excellent this film is.

1. Inglourious Basterds
Tarentino, Nazis, and a Jewish girl taking revenge. The purest energy, the finest details.

The White Ribbon

2010-01-09T16:10:00.007-05:00

When I saw Michael Haneke's last film, Caché, over three years ago, I was enraged and confused. I had nightmares; I couldn't sleep. After that experience, I became a Michael Haneke convert. Like one of my favorite writers, Thomas Bernhard, Haneke is Austrian. Haneke, like Bernhard, strikes me as a artist who wants to explore the genesis of evil, an evil that can and does run through every society, regardless of ethnicity or history. His auteur has to do with exposing and attempting to explain the evils of humanity itself.

He will give you all the tools to embark on this task, but don't expect him to give you all the answers. After we left the theater last night, one of my friends remarked, "is that ending supposed to be conclusive?" The answer is no, I don't think it is. Here is Haneke describing this lack of explanation in an interview with Roy Grundmann from Cineaste magazine:

"The language-bound arts already circumscribe this freedom considerably, because they are forced to name things by their name. But what is named by its name is artistically dead, has stopped breathing, and can only be recycled in discussion. Film exacerbates this further . . . . I always say, a film ought to be like a ski jump, but it is the viewer who must do the jumping. But to enable the viewer to do so, the jump has to be constructed in a certain way. One has to find a construction that lets the viewer fly--in other words, that stirs the viewer's imagination."

The White Ribbon, Haneke's latest, won the Palm D'Or for 2009 at Cannes. It's a remarkable, beautifully-made film. It takes place about a year before the break-out of WWI in a small German village. Most of the children are raised in a strictly Protestant upbringing, where innocence is king and punishment is brutal. Abuse of all kinds and nasty intentions harbor barely below the surface, behind closed doors. A series of violent events take place: the town doctor's horse is felled by a wire strung from tree to tree as he's coming home one night, a woman falls through a rotten floorboard and dies, the Baron's son is strung up and beaten, and a young retarded boy is stabbed in the eyes. The perpetrator of these crimes is unknown. The Baron asks for everyone's help in finding the criminal, as it must be someone from within. "One of us," he says.

The film is narrated by the town's schoolteacher in old age, as a voice-over, but Haneke also chooses to show us plot points the schoolteacher couldn't have known about. However, he acts as our guide, someone we can trust throughout this ordeal. His story is largely relegated to his love for Eva, the teenage nanny to the Baroness' children. Eva is from another town (actually the one where the schoolteacher grew up) and in that way they are both outsiders.

The children, however, are products of this community. They walk about town, traveling in a pack, curiously inspecting the crime scenes. They are the ultimate observers, watching and listening to their parents. However, it becomes abundantly clear to us (and to the children) that their parents do not practice what they preach. There is a growing, seething rage in this town--it bleeds out of the adults and multiplies in strength through their children. When they act out, by not being home for dinner one night, the Pastor ties a white ribbon to his eldest children, as a reminder of their sin and hopeful reminder of their innocence as children. This badge, worn in shame, is eerily reminiscent of another kind of forced symbol to come.

I think the assumption that Haneke hopes to describe these children as children who would grow up to be Nazis as adults works very well. Most critics who have seen the film have leaned towards this explanation and I think it makes perfect sense. After all, in the closing scene, four men step up to the altar with flowers in their lapels - they are the first joiners for to defend Germany in WWI. And behind them, in the choir, singing like angels, are their heirs, the men and women who would "defend" Germany in the inevitable future.

Haneke resists this explanation when questioned about it, saying that he means the film to be more about Fascism in general, not specifically German Fascism. Regardless, The White Ribbon is a fascinating study of a society on the precipice of murder and ultimately, self-destruction. The religious and conservative rules that line the foundation to this history of violence cannot be ignored, and forces us as viewers to wonder which is the true threat: the evil outside that we fear and shield our children from, or in the enforcement of these "rules" the ultimate evil - the evil that comes from within us?

Hello 2010.

2009-12-31T12:34:00.005-05:00

And then, just a few weeks ago, as I was buying a Christmas tree, I got the best present ever.

I GOT A JOB.

Needless to say, it was a relief. AND I LIKE IT. A LOT.

In 2009, despite my ordeal, I managed to move into an apartment that I absolutely love. For the first time since I moved to New York, I really have a home. I launched my professional website. I founded a literary quarterly. I continued to write, and thank you to my editors at Bookslut, The Second Pass, This Recording, Time Out New York, Identity Theory, More Intelligent Life, Planet Magazine, and The 99%.

Shout-out to my girl, Lady Gaga. Thanks for giving me something to dance to when times were tough.

Things that kept me going in 2009. Thanks to all.

So here's to you, 2010. Show us what you got.

Fuck you, 2009.

2009-12-31T11:57:00.007-05:00

This image was taken from the lovely Escape to New York.

In January 2009 I got laid off.

On January 12, 2009, I started a new job, thinking it was a miracle.

It wasn't.

For six months, I worked at a desk for ten hours, with no lunch break, in fact, no breaks whatsoever. It was terrible. If I had to go to the bathroom, I had to ask someone to watch the phone. Very frequently my request was denied.

Day after day, I scoured the internet for a better job. I didn't find one.

Some mornings, walking to the L train, I wept.

On June 19, 2009, I got laid off. Again.

This time, it wasn't so easy to find a job. I applied and received unemployment benefits.

I went on countless interviews, most of them I was "overqualified" for, them being editorial assistant jobs, a job I had already worked for nearly three years. One potential employer actually told me, "I'm a bitch. I'll make life hard for you. Do you still want this job?"

On my way out of the interview, I cried.

Another potential employer mocked me in an interview for a misuse of boldface. FUCK YOU, bitch. How do you like that use of boldface?

I didn't get jobs because I didn't have enough journalism experience. I didn't get them because the boss decided to hire her friend's niece. I didn't get them because there weren't any. Literally. One day after I found out I didn't get a job I wanted, the entire department was laid-off. Canceled. Destroyed.

I went to a temping agency because I was desperate. They offered me the most wildly inappropriate jobs, not consistent with my skills set, nor meeting the minimum 40% of my previous gross wages. One time, they offered me to interview for one of those jobs. I turned them down. They reported me to the government. I lost my unemployment benefits, and now I owe the government money. If you are unemployed, please feel free to e-mail about this. I would never want this to happen to anyone else. You need to know your rights.

One afternoon, I realized I had forgotten to send in my Cobra payment. They discontinued my health insurance. The payment was one day late. I had to beg to be reinstated.

My former boss refused to act as a positive reference on my job interviews in the worst economic recession since The Great Depression.

Again, I cried.

Throughout all of this, my mom, my boyfriend, and my friends offered an intense amount of support, talking to me on the phone, paying for my meals, taking me out for a drink, patting me on the back and telling me how they weren't worried. That I'd find something. My boyfriend bore the brunt of my frustration, my depressive moods, my anger at the situation. He's an absolute saint, and no matter what happens, I will never forget his ultimate kindness and support through what was the darkest period in my life to date. If anyone ever doubts his supreme goodness, I will cut a bitch.

Another month went by. I started freelancing. Writing. Editing. Things felt better. I was working. And I was doing work that I actually enjoyed. It finally struck me, that perhaps all of this had happened to show me that what I really wanted to do was write. To freelance as much as possible and make the life I wanted for myself. It was a stunning conclusion. But I still needed a job.

Avatar

2009-12-30T13:31:00.005-05:00

I was 12 years old when James Cameron's Titanic was unleashed upon the world. I saw the film six times in the theater, never tiring of it. I understand fanaticism. But I like to think I loved Titanic for its story, the unbridled narcissism of the men who made her without enough life-boats, never imagining she would sink. I loved Titanic for Kate Winslet, her bravery, her real-girl body, her free-spirit. Also, I was 12.

Avatar, possibly the most expensive film ever made to date, by guess who?! James Cameron, is not as terrible as I thought it would be. There, I said it. I like big blockbusters. Putting on the 3D glasses and running to the theater to get good seats is an exhilarating experience. By the way, if you're at all interested in seeing this thing, do it now, in the theater with the glasses. It won't be the same on DVD. Mostly, I'm still in love with the idea that it's possible for a director to make an entire theater filled with people sit down, shut up, and pay attention.

The plot is essentially a re-telling of Pocohontas, except instead of Native Americans we've got natives from a planet called Pandora. The Americans are interested in Pandora because it's got this special mineral that we need for energy called "Unobtainium." Funny, James. Some nerdy scientists, including Sigourney Weaver, who should be bad-ass but really isn't (mainly because she has no idea how to hold a cigarette) have decided it would be easier to communicate with the natives if we could look like them, talk like them, essentially be them. Hence the Avatar program is born. A marine by the name of Jake Sully is harvested to take his dead brother's place as an Avatar on Pandora, because he has the same genetic makeup. Jake's paralyzed from the waist down, so entering an alien body where he can run and jump is worth it for him.

Long story short, Jake falls in love with one of the natives, Neytiri, who is a total babe, obviously. The love affair, on top of his newfound legs, pushes Jake to the other side, which really pisses off his military superiors. They get sick and tired of waiting around for the natives to move, so they decide to just blow the whole place up. You know, shock and awe and all that. Yeah, James, we get it.

Avatar has real nice things to say about the environment and how we've lost touch with Mother Earth. I totally agree. Do I think it'll make the dudes excited about its special effects go home and recycle? No. Why? Because, like Cameron, I think they're more concerned with "progress," i.e. the technology to make billion dollar movies like this so we can all forget that we've shat all over the planet and now there's nowhere for our children to live. Sorry, that was bitter and probably unnecessary, but that's how I feel. I like movies with people in them. Think Woody Allen. Yeah, I like all that real and neurotic shit.

That said, I do think it's possible for this technology (which is incredible, I admit, yes I was impressed by the way the creatures faces even read the actor's emotions) combined with good film-making (and that means good writing, James) to really make a fucking incredible, life-changing, world-changing motion picture. Avatar isn't it, but it's a step in the right direction.

RIP Brittany Murphy

2009-12-20T18:35:00.003-05:00

Shit, you guys, I never had straight friends before.

Wings of Desire, 1987

2009-12-20T16:59:00.006-05:00

Last night as a snow storm raged outside our window we settled in to watch Wim Wenders' 1987 film, Wings of Desire. Incredibly, I managed to make it through 24 years on this Earth without having seen this beautiful piece of cinema, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I'd only seen the pseudo-remake City of Angels starring Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage.

Wings of Desire, a far superior film, was written by Wenders and Austrian novelist Peter Handke. The movie takes place in West Berlin sometime in the late 80s during the Cold War. It's worth watching for a myriad of reasons, one being the depiction of Berlin before the fall of the wall. The plot basically revolves around two Angels who listen-in on Berliners thoughts and dreams, wishing they could be human.

One Angel falls in love with a trapeze artist named Marion, and decides to "take the plunge," become human, and live out his mortal life with her. But the love story is really far from the centerpiece. In fact, the refreshing fact of this film is its ability to waft from story to story as they correspond to different people, whether they be random people the Angels encounter, or a fallen angel (Colombo! Peter Falk!) or Nick Cave (!) performing in a club.

An incredible score by Jurgen Kneiper and the poetry of Handke (who avoids his usual misanthropy here) alongside gorgeous cinematography and the comic relief of Peter Falk results in a film that wants us to remember the delight in being human. Wenders' manages to balance the black and white film and unorthodox narration which makes the movie feel older and wiser with the desire of his characters, who want nothing more than to understand their reason for being - they are close to us, totally empathetic, and real. We don't even think twice that this a reality where Angels watch over us and listen in. It all makes perfect, beautiful sense.

A Guide to Williamsburg, Brooklyn

2009-12-17T11:49:00.024-05:00

Williamsburg, Brooklyn may stand in many's estimation as a hot-bed of hipsters, trust funds, and annoying so-called artists under the age of twenty-five, but williamsburg is much more than the hackneyed clichés. Williamsburg is a great neighborhood, filled with delicious restaurants, great shopping, excellent book stores, and parks. Here's an idea of how you could spend a Saturday in here in the Burg.

1) Take the L Train from Manhattan to Bedford Avenue. Exit, promptly head to El Beit for the best coffee you've ever had.

El Beit is a newish addition to the neighborhood, famous for their Clover Coffee. A clover machine lets the barista adjust three variables (dose, water temperature, and brew temperature) to create the perfect cup of coffee. You will pay $3.00 for a cup of regular joe, and probably more for an espresso drink, but it's a great start to your day.

2) Walk a few blocks to Artists and Fleas, the resident Williamsburg flea market.

Established in 2003, the Flea market features vendors selling silk screened t-shirts and accessories, handmade jewelery and other crafts, and lots and lots of vintage clothes and accessories. If you're in the market for clothes, especially vintage on the cheaper side, I highly recommend that you stop at this flea market, which recently expanded this summer to flow into the building next door. Most of the vendors are very friendly and you can haggle especially if you buy more than one item. This is also a perfect place to shop for gifts. I can spend hours in here.

3) If that's not enough vintage for you, head to Malin's, across Bedford Avenue.

Malin has some of the most eccentric, interesting vintage from all over the world, but mostly Scandinavia. She has so many shoes in her store that I frequently have to walk on the other side of the street to avoid entering and spending copious amounts of money. Malin is frequently in the store and she will greet you and ask you what you're looking for. Return and she'll say she's pulled something perfect for you. It's a great environment and can be a little intimidating for those not used to fraternizing with fashionistas, but if you're looking for great vintage clothes, you've found them.

4) Stop for lunch at Egg, or, if the wait's too long, Blackbird Parlour.

Egg is by far one of the best brunches in Brooklyn, if not in the entire world. The cheese grits and eggs are incredible (and I say this as a Southerner, a girl born and bred in Georgia). You will not find grits like this anywhere else in New York City. Their lunch sandwiches are amazing as well - but everyone knows this, and on the weekends it can be up to an hour wait for a table. If that's the case, saunter over to Blackbird across the street, they have one of the best grilled cheeses I have ever put in my mouth, and it's a lovely place to sit and read.

5) After lunch, browse a great bookstore: Spoonbill and Sugartown

Spoonbill may not have every new release, but they have the ones worth reading, and a great selection of used books, notebooks, stationary, artbooks, magazines, and lit journals. With two resident kitties, the store has a lovely homey vibe and a helpful staff. They also have the occasional reading or event. Do your part and support this lovely local bookstore.

6) Head to the water!
There are several parks that run alongside the water. The first is the East River State Park, on North 8th and Kent. Here you'll find sunbathing hipsters, and a breathtaking view of the city. Concerts (formerly of McCarren Pool) and thrown here in the warmer months. You could also opt to wander through the Northside Piers apartment buildings. Behind them you'll find a gorgeous pier that juts out into the water, also with incredible views. Or the Grand Street Park on Grand and Kent offers a smaller, more intimate view of the city, complete with picnic tables and benches.

7) Grab a drink at Iona Bar
Iona is the resident Irish bar in Williamsburg. It boasts great beer, not so expensive liquor, and a beautiful backyard patio. In the summer the doors are opened and in the late afternoon it can be one of the most romantic bars in town. In the winter, outside, there's more of a youthful vibe to the place. But it never gets too rowdy. A nice pre-dinner drink bar.

8) Dinnertime at Marlow & Sons, Aurora, or Five Leaves

Marlow & Sons is, by far, my favorite restaurant in Williamsburg, and maybe on the face of the planet. But a seasonal menu dictated by smaller plates makes it an expensive choice, and oysters and an incredible bar will really make you want to spend the big bucks. So I recommend reserving it for special occasions. Its sister restaurant, Diner, has an excellent dinner (a great burger) and an even better brunch menu.

Aurora, nouveau-Italian food, is not exactly cheap, either, but still reasonable for the quality food you'll get. They have a beautiful indoor and outdoor dining room, a fantastic wine selection, and a great wait staff. This is a great place to go on a date, or to bring your fam on a visit.

Five Leaves, "Heath Ledger's restaurant" was indeed the baby of Heath and a few Australian friends. After he died, they opened the place with the money he had left, and it's been a very successful venture. The Five Leaves Burger (which features beef, cheese, beets, onions and a fried egg) is a favorite. With oysters and excellent cocktails, this is a great place for date-night or a gathering of friends. Be prepared to wait, though. It's a small joint and everyone wants in.

9) Finish up your night with swanky drinks at Hotel Delmano or slum it at The Levee

Hotel Delmano has some of the tastiest cocktails off of Bedford Avenue, and an incredible bar. The biggest draw to Delmano, besides the alcohol, is the beautiful interior, with tiny tables in sectioned rooms or even seats in the bar area: the atmosphere is like a secret speak-easy in your rich friend's living room. Another wonderful date destination. But the drinks will cost you.

If you're not into rich-friend speakeasy's, head over to The Levee instead. The dive to match all dive bars, The Levee is where you'll find the kids of Williamsburg and their friends from other boroughs. With drink specials (my favorite is the Sportsman, a can of cheap beer and a shot of wells whiskey for like, $7), hotdogs, frito pie, and cheese puffs at the bar, this place is pretty much the most incredible bar in the world. Hang out in their new outdoor patio, or play a game of buck hunter with your friends.

10) Dance the night away at Legion
Legion's a bit of a walk, in south Williamsburg, but it's worth it if you feel like dancing. The DJ's are fantastic, and it feels like everyone's in a great mood. Not the place for drinks (just stick to beer), but it's the end of the night anyway. The cool thing about Legion is it's a melting pot of all different kinds of people. There's no label after this bar. Just great music and fun.

Now, hop back on the L Train and head home! Or, if you're smart, take a cab. Get home safe. You've had a fantastic day in the Burg.

2009-12-09T13:56:00.003-05:00

I just want to give everyone an early shout-out and thanks for all the comments and support on this blog - I had an excellent day yesterday and should have good news to share with you all very soon. I'm so happy 2009 will end on a great note. The boy and I got our first tree together yesterday - it's maybe the most beautiful Frasier Fur I've ever seen.

Hope you all are happy and looking forward to the holidays!

Santa Baby 2009

2009-12-05T16:16:00.022-05:00

What yours truly wants for Christmas . . .

I'm dying for the complete series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The big box set is pretty pricey, but apparently people on EBay are selling season 1-7 separately for a deal.

Multichain necklaces and bracelets.

Or, a more dainty long gold chain, like this one from Erica Weiner.

A cast-iron casserole dish from Le Creuset or somewhere less expensive so I can make Boeuf Bourguignon.

Long Purple Leather Gloves (thanks, Prince!)

A weekend trip to Sleepy Hollow, N.Y.

A lifetime supply of Falling in Love by Philosophy.

Inglourious Basterds, DVD.

More running pants, like these from Puma: spandex, this length.

A set of 15lb barbells.

If someone can find me the Orin, the necklace from The Neverending Story, then wow.

This dog.

Vintage Leather Briefcase like this one.

Anthropologie's novel scents collection.

Biography of Mary Shelley

Continuation of my New Yorker subscription.

Tickets to see Lady GAGA.

Hi There!

2009-12-05T12:05:00.006-05:00

Hey y'all, I apologize for the delay in post-age again. I launched my lit magazine, we had a little party, it was lots of fun. I've been doing a lot of interviewing and writing and the blog has taken a hit because of it! I apologize. Anyway, I hope you writers out there will think of submitting something for the next issue of Candor which will pub in March (the deadline is the end of February). Check out info here if you're interested.

Since I left you, I saw Paranormal Activity, Twilight: New Moon, and The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I hope to see Up in the Air, The Messenger, and The Lovely Bones next week.

I'm currently reading Changing My Mind, the occasional essays of Zadie Smith. They are fantastic.

Last Monday I ventured uptown to see the Tim Burton retrospective at MoMa. A few words:

Walking through the exhibit, which, contrary to what reviewers have said, is incredibly complex and thorough; it covers Burton's career from his grade-school homemade movies up to Sweeney Todd. Maybe you aren't a Burton fan. Maybe you lived under a rock during the late 80s and 90s, or maybe you were too mature, or too little to appreciate his films. But I was the perfect age - and these things defined my childhood. I don't think I ever thought it was possible for someone to articulate isolation and pure unadulterated awkwardness like Edward's - and never in my life had I seen a man wear so much makeup and remain as soul-crushingly handsome as Johnny Depp in that film.

Beetlegeuse, to a large extent, still defines my sense of humor, and my interests, when it comes to movies, books, and theater. Hell, I write a column about ghosts and zombies and other dead stuff. And I love it. Winona Ryder became my absolute IDEAL GIRL TO BE. She still is, in a lot of ways. I think lots of us ladies still feel a kinship with Winona. Watching her movies today all I can think of is that voice! It's like a forty year old half Englishwoman in a thirteen year old's body!

I can still sing The Nightmare Before Christmas the entire way through, and no, I am not ashamed. I remember getting Nightmare Before Christmas dolls when I was little for Christmas, and my brother and I lining them up on the carpet before we watched the movie, ready to sing along. It's one of my fondest childhood memories.

And of course, then there's Batman. I think, for most people my age, and maybe everyone ever, Jack Nicholson will always be the Joker - even though Health did an incredible job, I look at Jack Nicholson and I see that purple suit and that green hair. Not to mention Kim Baisinger and Jerry Hall were maybe the first women that made me want want long blonde hair and big high heels! And in Batman Returns, what a beautiful Gotham, a winter-y landscape, a portrait of lust and violence. Michelle Pfeiffer: enough said. Michael Keaton is still my favorite Batman. He's the most sensitive, the most emotive of all of them, the least ridiculous - and he still has the best lips.

While Burton's later efforts aren't quite as unique or successful (Planet of the Apes, Big Fish, Willy Wonka, Sweeney Todd), I feel this has more to do with the change in how people make movies, with uber special effects and weak plotlines, and Burton's human and he's trying to adapt and stay relevant at the same time. It's a difficult task.

These movies not only defined my childhood, they define who I am as a human being. I can't say that about many directors or many films, and I'm proud to say that about Tim Burton. I have a kinship with him. If you're at all interested in the genesis of an auteur who for many people his work is as personal as it gets, I recommend you head to MoMa sometime before the exhibit closes in April.

CANDOR #1

2009-11-13T16:52:00.003-05:00

Dear all,

I'm so pleased (and relieved) to finally launch the debut issue of my literary magazine, CANDOR.

It's been a while in the making, but on our website you will find:

- An interview with Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker about Writing and Motherhood
- A conversation between Emily Gould and Marisa Meltzer
- Fiction by Lisa Locascio
- Nonfiction by Atossa Abrahamian
- Fiction by Shashi Bhat
- Fiction by Kate Axelrod
- An Essay by Adrian Quinlan
- A book review by Mina Kimes

Many thanks to all my contributors. The call for submissions is back on, and will close at the end of February. Happy Reading!

To Brighten Your Day

2009-11-12T11:57:00.002-05:00

Here in New York it's a cold, blustery day. It's been a really difficult year for me, and the past month has been especially hard. Every day I get up hoping for good news, and all I can do is keep going. My boyfriend sent me this link from the Mental Floss Blog - for Veterans Day they complied videos of dogs celebrating their soldier parent's return from the Middle East. It's pretty much the best thing I've ever seen.

New Gaga Video, "Bad Romance"

2009-11-10T16:57:00.000-05:00

This new Lady Gaga video is so outrageous, I just had to share.

Bright Star

2009-11-07T17:28:00.003-05:00

Bright Star is the new film by director Jane Campion, one of only three female directors to ever have been nominated for an Academy Award. Campion, a Kiwi, is best known for her 1993 Oscar-nominated film The Piano. Both Bright Star and The Piano are required viewing. Bright Star tells the story of the ill-fated romance between John Keats and Fanny Brawne. They were engaged but never had the chance to marry, as Keats died of tuberculosis at the young age of twenty-six.

Although Australian actress Abbie Cornish, who plays Fanny Brawne, has been in the press for her personal life, and appeared in a few American films (Elizabeth: The Golden Age, Stop Loss), Bright Star is really her film, and her entree into stardom. Apparently Brawne was quite the talented seamstress and fashionista, notorious in Hampstead for her outfits and accessories. Campion does a fantastic job illuminating the similarities between Brawne's needlework and the business of writing poetry, but, brilliantly gives us the most insight into Fanny's character when in response to being made-fun of for her vestments, Fanny responds "my needlework is better than your poems - and I can make money at it!"

But it's inevitable that Fanny and Keats will fall in love - they live right next door to each other, and are drawn together through their extraordinary interests and temperaments. Bright Star has nothing of the sugary sentiment that period films like Becoming Jane and the disgusting remake of Pride & Prejudice stand on. Bright Star is all about impressions, feeling, and the transitory nature of love. Fanny and Keats can never really be together: he has no means to support her, his friends despise her for taking up his time to write when really she is the only reason he finds the inspiration to write again after the death of his younger brother.

This film will not receive the attention it deserves, so if you have the chance to see it I highly recommend you take it. There is something infinitely intimidating about the fact that Keats accomplished so much when he barely made it into adulthood. This film emphasizes the beauty of the moment and of love, which when it pronounces itself, must be embarked on wholeheartedly. One never knows when these moments will end. John and Fanny's union is perhaps finally given the acknowledgment it deserves in this film, forever reflected in Keats' poems, including the one which Campion draws her title, which Keats wrote shortly after becoming engaged to Brawne in 1819.

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

Antichrist

2009-11-05T20:11:00.004-05:00

Again, I have to apologize to my readers for the delay in posting - the monster bug which struck me down about a month ago has returned, and I'm just doing my best to stay indoors and rest. I did however, brave the impending winter during my one week of health to see Lars von Trier's Antichrist, perhaps the most talked about and least viewed film of the year.

You've probably read by now that Antichrist received pretty much terrible reviews from nearly every film critic on God's Green Earth, and there's good cause for that. You've also probably heard about the fact that film features, in graphic detail, not one but two instances of genital mutilation. And judging from the photo I've shared above, you know that when it comes to von Trier, trix are not for kids.

Antichrist is by no means von Trier's strongest film, and I don't think he intends it to be. In interviews he's spoken about conjuring the film while he was dealing with the death of his mother. They had a contentious relationship - she was the chairwoman of the Danish women's movement, an ardent Feminist, and led a fairly unconventional life. But obviously, as her child, von Trier's got some skeletons in his closet. These are released in Antichrist.

Charlotte Gainsbourg and Willem DaFoe play the parents of a child, who, as they are having sex and not paying attention, falls out an open window to his death. Consumed by grief and guilt, DaFoe (who, of course, is a psychotherapist) comes up with the idea that Gainsbourg must confront her greatest fear in order to move past her grief. (I call these characters by the actors' names because von Trier has given them no names besides "he" and "she"). He asks her where she is most scared. She answers, "the woods."

So they decamp to the woods where she spent her last summer with the baby as she worked on her thesis, which (as von Trier tells us from the books left around the cabin) appears to be about genocide. DaFoe forces Gainsbourg into exercises to deal with her fear and grief - and practically all of them backfire. There's one day where she feels better, but all progress is forgotten when DaFoe shares their son's autopsy report with her.

I don't want to go much father in terms of plot summary, but I want to emphasize that this film is not nearly as horrible as the critics have labeled it. Compared to von Trier's other films, it's certainly not at the top of his list, but Antichrist raises relevant questions about the difference in the sexes, and the critical, controversial struggle between emotion and reason. DaFoe approaches Gainsbourg time and time again as if she were a child, someone beneath him. While her reaction is overblown (understatement!) von Trier wants to warn us on just how dangerous women can be. Feminist or Misogynist? I'm tempted to lean towards the former.

Fashion Inspiration

2009-11-04T12:37:00.002-05:00

As if I couldn't love Michelle Williams any more, then she goes and wears this outfit. I mean, those boots are both chic and functional. Floral skirt (or dress?) bringing the 90s back, amazing toggle coat, great glasses and hat, (i need some coffee) and a lovely Matilda, complete with yellow rainjacket and pink(!) rainboots to match.

Professional Website

2009-10-27T14:12:00.003-04:00

I'm proud to present my professional website, which you'll find at jessicaferri.com. The site includes my published work, bio, blog, column, magazine, resume and links. Take a look and let me know what you think!

Where the Wild Things Aren't

2009-10-20T11:36:00.005-04:00

So I lied about writing that review on Tuesday. Sorry, here it is!

Spike Jonze is a very talented director; everyone knows this. His past films, Being John Malkovich and Adaptation are excellent. The success of these films is also largely due to the creative genius that is Charlie Kaufman, their writer. Jonze is also the creator of endless music videos, including the Beastie Boys "Sabotage," and Weezer's "Buddy Holly." I'll be first to admit his body of work, at age 40, is very impressive.

When hipsters all over the world (but mainly right here in Brooklyn) heard Jonze was going to tackle the cult children's classic Where the Wild Things Are, American Apparel panties were in a twist. We all waited with bated breath for at least two years for the film to finally come to fruition. That's okay; it takes a long time to make a movie, and Jonze had trouble finding a studio to finance the project. I don't blame producers for hesitating: Jonze wants to adapt a book with less than ten lines of text into a feature length film. How? And, why?

In this iteration, Max, our protagonist, is having a rough time. He's about 10 or 11, and his parents are divorced. His sister is an asshole and his mom is dating. That's some upsetting stuff. And in the first ten minutes of the film Jonze does an incredible job of illustrating just how isolated and angry this little guy is. The young actor who portrays Max is also named Max in real life, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Ellen Page. This is not pertinent to my review, but whatever, I think it's so strange.

RIGHT?!

After an argument with his Mom (always superb Catherine Keener), Max runs off, gets in a boat, and finds himself in the land of the Wild Things. There are five of them, all different animals / monster types, with very human personalities. This works well, mainly because these Jim Henson created puppets are voiced by some of the finest working actors today: James Gandolfini, Catherine O'Hara, Lauren Ambrose, Forest Whitaker, Chris Cooper, and Paul Dano. Their voices are undoubtedly the best part of the film, and the main reason to see it - next to the puppetry and digital work which is gorgeous.

The Wild Things name Max as their king under the condition that he "keep the sadness out," which, of course is an impossible task that he fails at, for the most part. The monsters seem to function as extreme manifestations of Max's own personality, but really they could be anyone: they're neurotic, funny, and sad. They're also a family. To put it simply, this film is an exercise in how fragile people are, especially in intimate relationships. James Gandolfini, as Carol, the leader of the group, and Lauren Ambrose, as his ex-girlfriend-ish, do the best job of voicing the despair over a frustrating relationship.

All of this isn't really new or unique or interesting in any meaningful way. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the artistry that went into this film. Several people said "Spike Jonze has really shown us what it is to be child." I resist this. That would be some kind of achievement. I don't think Wild Things delves deep enough into Max's life to give us that kind of a statement. For this reason, and the overall lack of purpose, I was disappointed.

Jonze is venturing into interesting territory with this kind of Monet-ish movie-making that reminds me of his ex-wife's work. Sofia Coppola is constantly criticized for making these kind of visual-centric films. Marie Antoinette, in particular, took it pretty hard from critics. Movies, after all, are supposed to be amount the image. Otherwise we'd read books or listen to the radio to entertain ourselves (some of us still do this). But it's my hope that filmmakers will use their medium, which incorporates writing, visual, sound, and dialogue into the package. That's what makes a great film. Where the Wild Things Are isn't it.

Jerry Maguire, 1996

2009-10-15T16:36:00.004-04:00

As you may or may not know, my life has been in full-on red alert crisis mode since June 19th, 2009, when I lost my job. Because of these mitigating circumstances, it is not at all difficult for me to relate to Jerry Maguire.

I never thought I would say that I relate to Tom Cruise, but he's actually perfect for this part and he does a decent job. Jerry is a sports agent who, in a fit of moral and philosophical guilt one night, writes a memo about how the sports agencies could be more fair to their clients and focus more on their value as human beings rather than walking dollar signs. At first, everyone in his office seems to love the memo. But within a week, Jerry finds himself with a big fat pink slip. As he leaves the office he asks, "Who's coming with me?" And, to his surprise, Dorothy, played by Renee Zellweger, responds in the affirmative.

She leaves with Jerry because she's in love with him, but she's also bored and she "wants to believe in something." She admits to being moved by his memo, and the two enter into business together with Jerry's one remaining client, a footballer named Rod Tidwell, played by Cuba Gooding Jr. You may remember his acceptance speech when he won the Oscar for best supporting actor for this role.

Essentially the film is the story of Jerry attempting to "make it," in his new world with no clients, no support, and no money. Of course he and Dorothy are bound to fall in love, or at least try to fall in love, and her status as a single-parent makes us love her. It doesn't hurt that her kid, Ray, is maybe the cutest thing ever.

The highlights of this film are its humor, the writing and direction of Cameron Crowe, and the incredible supporting performances of Cuba, Renee, Regina King (who plays Rod's wife) and Kelly Preston (who plays Jerry's ex-fiance). While it's disconcerting that Dorothy gives up a steady job with health insurance to work with some dude she doesn't really know but thinks is cute, the love story between the two of them ultimately ends up being believable. And so in the end the movie becomes a story about how the crises in our lives eventually help us to discover who we want by our side and what we can do to keep them there.

Sherman's March, 1986

2009-10-09T17:50:00.006-04:00

A friend of mine recommended this film to me about a year ago, and I only got around to watching it last week. It's streaming on Netflix right now! Sherman's March is not really a movie about General Sherman's March to the Sea. So if you're looking for a Civil War movie this isn't it. It's much more.

In 1986, burgeoning filmmaker Ross McElwee set out to make a documentary in which he would follow Sherman's path from his notorious march through the South. But before Ross can set out to the South, his girlfriend (who he had been living with in New York) dumps him. Distraught, Ross travels down to Charlotte, NC, his hometown, camera in tow.

His Mom immediately introduces him to Pat, the daughter of some family friends, and he spends practically all of his time talking to her and filming her. Pat wants to be an actress, and she's very fit (there she is above, doing one of her crazy cellulite exercises). She's a little loony, but after a while she starts to grow on Ross, and on us. It becomes obvious that Ross doesn't seem to concerned about sticking to Sherman's story. Instead, he's creating his own.

After Pat has to leave for an audition, Ross meets Claudia, a friend of his sister's. Claudia is a single mom. She's also pretty religious.

Ross decides, after meeting Claudia that he had better get back to his project, so he heads way down to the Georgia islands, where he meets several more lovely ladies and checks in on two of his ex-girlfriends, one of which he appears to still be in love with.

I can't even begin to explain this film. No one makes documentaries like this anymore, and if they do, they end up being plainly unsuccessful. Ross McElwee has made a film about people. About women, to be specific, and they are all trapped in this time capsule of a movie that is one of the most charming, beautiful films I've ever seen. There's something about hearing the soft, endearing tilt of the Southern accent that made me proud to be a Southerner. I think McElwee has really captured Southern womanhood and Southern culture perhaps better than any other director. And he's done it all seemingly by accident. This movie made me think about life, about friends, home, family, lovers: my past. I really cannot recommend Sherman's March enough.

Sick.

2009-10-07T12:23:00.002-04:00

Urg. I have contracted strep throat and I can barely muster the energy to string this sentence together, much less write about two great movies I saw this week. As soon as I'm feeling up to it I'm back!

Jennifer's Body

2009-09-29T21:52:00.011-04:00

You may remember Diablo Cody as the screenwriter of Juno, 2007's smash indie hit starring Ellen Page as a young, whip smart high school student who just happens to get knocked up. I, however, have still not seen Juno. I realize this is problematic and I promise to rectify this situation as soon as possible.

Fortunately this is a review of Diablo Cody's newest offering, Jennifer's Body. The New York Times, in an interesting but belated article called "Girls Gone Gory," describes the surge in horror films geared towards young women. These films are simultaneously scary and empowering, featuring women who find power by overcoming or becoming evil.

Too bad Heathers hit the nail on the coffin way back in 1988. A Mean Girls cum Friday the 13th murderous high school romp starring Winona Ryder and Christian Slater, is really the jumping off point for films like Jawbreaker (1999), Jennifer's Body, and countless others.

So, now that the shout out to Heathers is done, on to the film at hand. Jennifer, played by the unbelievably smokin' Megan Fox, is that girl, the one every girl wants to be, and every guy wants to be with. Inexplicably, Megan has chosen "Needy," (Amanda Seyfried) as her BFF, even though, true to her name, Needy is a bit clingy and nerdy.

But Jennifer needs a wing-man, and Needy's perfect for the job. That way, Jennifer doesn't have to worry about competition when it comes to seducing "salty" dudes. Unfortunately for Needy (and for Jennifer) the cheesy ass emo boy band they go to see ends up burning down the bar and abducting Jennifer, driving off in their van. Jennifer shows up later at Needy's doorstep looking like this:

Ouch.

Jennifer's become some sort of monster, who feels weak and strange unless she's full. And full means she's got a belly full of teenage boy.

So there's the "scary" stuff.

The real scary stuff, however, is the relationship between Jennifer and Needy. Jennifer's never really been a good friend to Needy, and since becoming un-human she's even less sympathetic. The shit really hits the fan when Jennifer goes after Needy's adorable boyfriend, Chip. Then the movie becomes an all and all cat-fight between the living and the undead.

Now, I know all of this is entertaining and results in a fair amount of comedy gold. But what I'd like to ask Diablo Cody is: why is Jennifer punished for her bad behavior? She's technically a victim, after all. And why the hell can't we see a movie where Needy might prevail? Or, even better, a movie where Jennifer and Needy rule the world? Or at least their high school?

The title of this movie says it all. Horror movies, even those written by women, still have a way to go when it comes to girl power. The ultimate girl power, to me, would be watching two lady friends triumph over evil by working together. And yeah, women fight, but it would be cool for once if it we weren't using the same subversive, sexist violence to fight each other.

Lick it up baby, lick it up.

Thoughts on Mad Men

2009-09-28T13:33:00.007-04:00

Until several weeks ago, I had not seen a single episode of Mad Men. This fact does not stem from my inherent snobishness over popularly consumed media, but rather because when the show began I did not have cable television, and by the time friends invited me over to see the series, I felt I was already too far behind to catch up.

When season three premiered, my boyfriend and I both expressed interest in watching the show from the beginning and we were delighted to discover that Netflix offered Seasons 1 and 2. And so we began to watch.

Right off the bat, I found myself depressed and disturbed at the end of each episode. Mostly because of blatant and unrelenting misogyny, that, while I've no doubt is entirely accurate of the time period, left me feeling so upset that several nights after viewing I could not sleep.

And the female characters aren't the only ones who are trapped - most of the men at Sterling Cooper waffle back and forth between rapists and o.k. guys - their complete and total lack of respect for the women in the office and in their personal lives stemming from some cycle of masculine insecurity and violence that none are willing to step outside of. I find the show, in general, tragic and extremely difficult to watch.

I have to wonder if the popularity of the series stems not from its incredible art direction: including an obscene attention to detail in costumes, setting and the characters behaviors that borders on insanity, but rather from its' audience's deep-seeded enjoyment on entering a world that is perhaps not-so-long-gone, in which women are the victims of sexual abuse practically by the minute, and men ticking alcoholic time bombs.

Being only ten episodes into Season 1 [so no spoilers, please!] I have to hope that the women (and by proxy, the men) come to have some positive agency on the show - that they can at least attempt to overcome the crimes perpetrated against them, even if they don't succeed. In the meantime, I would love to hear your thoughts on the show: why you love it, why you don't, if you're a feminist how you deal with the disgusting culture that permeates every single moment, and why you think it's the best thing on television (or not).

David Chang: The 99%

2009-09-27T19:27:00.003-04:00

Last week I interviewed uber-chef David Chang for The 99%, a new website that explores the ideas of entrepreneurs, where their inspiration comes from and how they get their dreams off the ground. David is the owner and chef of Momofuku, an empire that will soon feature five restaurants here in New York.

He was a wonderful interview subject, who told me the need for expansion is not only related to growth and success, but also to provide more opportunities to his employees. What a guy!

Read the interview here!

Fashion Inspiration

2009-09-15T12:44:00.004-04:00

Julie Delpy: Two Days in Paris. Highly recommend the film, if you haven't seen it, which is basically a complete autobiographical account of Adam Goldberg and Julie Delpy's failed relationship - the movie even stars her real-life Mom and Dad! But really, I'd give anything for those glasses, long blonde hair, and effortless French fille style.

Mrs. Doubtfire, 1993

2009-09-03T17:11:00.008-04:00

When my brother and I were young, Mrs. Doubtfire was one of our favorite movies. It remains the sort of film that just has that homey feeling to it. I'm always pleased that whenever I mention the movie people in my age group or a bit younger will readily smile and recount their favorite quotation.

The success of this film is largely due to Robin Williams' absolute manic comedic genius. It should come as no surprise that most of the incredible jokes were improvised. And he has a fantastic supporting cast that includes Sally Field, Pierce Brosnan, and Harvey Fierstein. Who can forget the musical makeover montage when Williams does Barbra Streisand?

This film is a product of the glorious decade that was the 1990s. Our parents had jobs, maybe they had even managed to set aside a nice trust for our college or our first car. Mostly, they were still married, aside from a few kids we knew who split time between their Mom's house and their Dad's depressing apartment. The future seemed bright, and there was just a hint of the inevitable tarnish to come. Mrs. Doubtfire is remembered as a comedy. But what it should be remembered for, aside from the multitudes of comedic moments, is a sensitive comment on marriage, divorce, and parenting.

Daniel Hillard is a down-home actor Dad who barely makes money doing voice-overs. When he throws a birthday party for his flunking kid, and his uber-successful interior designer wife comes home to find a petting zoo in her house and a goat who ate her begonias, well. That's the last straw. She gets a divorce and because Daniel doesn't have a steady job or an apartment, she also gets full custody. In frustration Daniel comes up with the scheme that he'll apply to be his wife's new housekeeper with the help of his makeup-artist brother. Ultimately, he just wants to see his kids.

Hilarity ensues, involving a "run-by-fruiting," a death by drink ("oh, how awful, your husband was an alcoholic?" "oh no dear, he was hit by a Guinness truck"), a decline to swim ("oh no dear, i think they've outlawed whaling"), and an incredible twenty-minute sequence where Williams constantly shifts between Mrs. Doubtfire and Daniel in one evening at Bridges restaurant.

But the truly intriguing moments of this film are the most personal ones, of course. In a discussion with his ex-wife, Miranda, Daniel learns (undercover as Mrs. Doubtfire) the reason why his wife decided to divorce him. "I didn't like who I was when I was with him," she says. He was always the fun one, and she the bad guy. In the beginning he was great, but the lack of seriousness over time just wore her down. "Did you ever tell him any of this, dear?" But of course she hasn't. There is some incredible, overlooked acting in this scene. For Daniel, it's akin to being at your own funeral and eavesdropping the conversations. It's a heartbreaking moment.

This is tragicomedy at its greatest. There are moments when you have to laugh out loud at the ridiculous situation, but at the same time you want to weep because, yes, divorce is difficult. It's more than difficult. And like any great romantic comedy, Daniel and Miranda really come out on top in this game. It's the perfect ending on a perfect San Francisco street. And maybe that's why I return to this movie over and over again, in hopes that it will give away its secrets, and alert me to a better route to forgiveness.

Shout-outs!

2009-09-02T23:45:00.005-04:00

I won't lie to you, this post is filled with blatant self-promotion. Mainly because I cannot figure out how to make my "professional" website worth looking at. Look at this thing. It's terrible. If anyone has any advice on a better format for published work, I'd love to hear it. Or, if you're a bored web designer and you'd like to take a crack at it, I'll buy you a drink in exchange for your labor. Seriously, it's gross.

The main issue with the page is that it doesn't give the websites and magazines in which I've been published the accolades they deserve. I was honored this past week with publications from the following:

This Recording believes in me but more importantly believes in the power of Buffy.
Planet magazine sent me to interview AIR. One word hypenate: googly-eyed.
Time Out New York published my review of Amy Sohn's Prospect Park West.
The Second Pass was kind enough to let me wave the PLATH banner.
Identity Theory ran my review of Wells Tower's Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned.

Stay tuned for my monthly column at Bookslut, and surprise you'll also find on their site.

Thanks so much to all my editors, and to you, precious readers.
High five.

My Favorite Film of 2009

2009-09-01T10:57:00.006-04:00

Quentin Tarantino’s latest, Inglourious Basterds, will disappoint if you’re looking for the sequel to Pulp Fiction. You’ll get your fix of violence—but the strengths of this film are rooted in its masterful dialogue and storytelling, making it one of, if not the greatest revenge fantasies ever told.

Bill, of Tarantino’s last film Kill Bill, is a pretty nasty foe. He asks Beatrix, “Do you find me sadistic?” before he blows her brains out and steals her baby. We root for her as she slashes through person after person to get to Bill. In the end of Volume 2, when she lies weeping from joy on the hotel bathroom floor, we laugh and cry with her. But Tarantino’s taken it one step further in his genre of villain. This time, it’s the Nazis. And instead of going through a middleman, namely, the Allies, to ensure that the scum get their comeuppance, Tarantino has handed the sword (or, in this case, the baseball bat) directly to the Jews. What ensues is the most exciting movie I’ve seen in years.

The opening scene of this film is the perfect example of suspense—it’s agony to watch, but you’re totally incapable of not watching. Hans Landa, colonel of the SS, arrives on a French farm to tell the owner that his house needs to be searched, again, for Jews. Landa’s manipulation of the English language is so deft that it wears the farmer down, word by word, until he eventually must give up the ghost. It’s a terrifying sequence, and only proves that Tarantino’s talent not only lies in his ability to mix violence and humor, but his dialogue, which has the uncanny ability to seem completely realistic, and alien at same time.

Unforgettable performances from Christoph Waltz, who will undoubtedly be nominated for an Oscar, Brad Pitt, Mélanie Laurent, Michael Fassbender, and practically the entire cast, coupled with an insane attention to detail in costume and art direction has made WWII into a Western, complete with trading card heroes and heroines. But in respect to its nasty history, the ending of this film can only be described as pure, unadulterated catharsis. Bravo Tarantino. Bravo.

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned

2009-08-24T15:07:00.008-04:00

I wrote a review of Wells Tower's Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned, which is a debut collection of short fiction. Have a look, it's over at Identity Theory, a wonderful site for fiction, poetry, and interviews. Thanks!

Re-blog: How Sloane Peterson from Ferris Bueller's Day Off Taught Me How to be a Good Girlfriend

2009-08-18T13:31:00.004-04:00

Hi all. I just had to share this amazing blog entry from "No, they don't let me lick the bowl," in which blogger Laura explains how Sloane from Ferris Bueller can teach us to be better girlfriends. I think it's pretty spot-on, and most of my guy friends (including my man) have agreed. What do you think?

THE GUIDE TO BEING SO CHOICE aka How Sloane Peterson from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Taught me how to be an Awesome Girlfriend.

Get along with his friends if you don’t get along with his friends you are done. seriously. That is number 1. Even if you think his friends are uptight weirdos or hypochondriac freaks, HEY, he is friends with them for a reason, so cut the shit. You’ve probably got some weird and crappy friends too…
Rein him in, but only when necessary you are his girlfriend, not his mother. If he wants to sing to the city on a giant float, let him do it. He’s a big man and he can deal with the consequences. You can nicely remind him, Look, if you do that there might be trouble, but if you throw a bitch fit and give him the silent treatmeant you will look fucking retarded when he has a new girlfriend on his arm from the impressive stunts he’s pulled.
Be funny “He’s licking the glass and making obscene gestures with his hands.” simple as that.
Be confident Look, one of the reasons Ferris loved her was because she was cool and classy lady, she didn’t stress. She uttered the words and believed “He’s gonna marry me.” She probably knows if her boyfriend was running through a backyard and saw 2 girls tanning he probably would stop and say hello, but she also knows that he would spend hours of stress and risk his neck to get her out of school to just see her. Relax. You have him. He’s not going anywhere, and if he talks to other girls who the fuck cares YOU are the one he wants to marry.
Say Eloquent Shit did Sloane ever use the word “like” as much as you do in your daily conversation? No. Drop the habit that makes you seem like a dumb valley girl and trade it for stellar vocab terms like “warmth & compassion” and “devastatingly handsome.” Once you’ve mastered talking like an adult, you’ll be able to spew pearls of poetry like “The city looks so peaceful from up here…”
Pack lightly ever notice how tiny Sloane’s purse was? The bigger the purse, the lamer the girl. Its called baggage for a reason.
Be able to keep up with the boys Hey, if you’ve got cramps, take a fucking midol and strap in. You don’t ever wanna be the girlfriend who is a drag and never wants to go out. A girl who can say she cruised with the top down in a convertible, swung by the Stock Exchange, and took in a Cubs game all in one day, is sorta girl who you wanna keep around.
Look badass in a jacket with fringe The End.

28 Weeks Later, 2007

2009-08-17T14:16:00.004-04:00

1. There's no such thing as rehabilitation after a viral zombie attack.
2. If the government says, "don't go here," you probably should listen.
3. Don't waste your time watching this movie.
4. Watch 28 Days Later instead.
5. Thanks.

I swear to goodness, if I have to watch one more horror movie with the an eye-gouge killing scene, I'll just laugh. It's not impressive anymore. Remember when Cillian Murphy gouged that guy's eyes out in the first 28 Days Later and it was awesome because no one had ever really done that before in a movie? Well, it's been done. And if I have to see it again I'm just going to throw in the towel.

It pains me to write that, because I really love horror movies. I love slasher flicks, suspense films, zombie movies, vampire stuff, the whole thing. But I didn't love this movie. I'll tell you why.

Nobody can catch a break in this movie. It turns out, while London has been secured, the rest of the UK still has zombies breaking into people's barns. Ron and Alice are a couple who somehow were able to ship their children out of England but couldn't get out themselves. When zombies break into the safe house where they're sitting with an elderly couple, a young man, and a single young woman, Ron promptly abandons his wife and runs for it. When his children are shipped back to him (London has been declared safe), he tells them he watched their mother die.

There's nothing subtle about this film. After being attacked by the infected, shot at by the United States Government, attacked again by their own father (who is now one of the infected), lost all the people who have tried to protect them, and rolling down an escalator filled with dead, decaying bodies, the two children who star in this film actually walk towards the light at the end of the subway tunnel.

Essentially the only interesting subtext in this movie is the total and complete breakdown of the nuclear family.

Dad leaves Mom to be eaten by zombies
Mom isn't really dead, turns out she's immune
But she's still a carrier, so she gives virus to Dad
Dad kills Mom (eye gouge)
Dad tries to kill kids
Kids have to kill Dad
Can someone give Sophocles a credit line on the DVD?

I could summarize the rest of this thing, but really there's no point. It's fairly grotesque and traumatic. I'm saddened that these two hours could've been spent watching a Von Trier film instead. If the zombies don't bite you, the government snipers will just kill you. They'll kill everything. Is that the point?

28 Days Later is worlds away by far a superior film. If you haven't seen it, you really should. The best zombie movies (even the oldest, lowest budgets ones) are nuanced in their message. The virus is a metaphor. There is only overbearing imagery here. So we're all gonna die? I appreciate the gesture Mr. Fresnadillo, but DUH.

Moonstruck, 1987

2009-08-15T01:26:00.008-04:00

In 1987, I was two years old. But I distinctly remember a cassette tape bearing the image of Cher dancing in front of the Moon being played over and over again in the early years of my life. My mom would say, "Oh, put on Moonstruck!" if she was making Italian food. And on the eight hour long car drive down to visit my Grandfather in Florida, both my Father and Mother would sing along to Dean Martin: When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's amore!

I've finally just watched the movie for the first time.

First off, John Patrick Shanley wrote this thing? Really? The same guy who's responsible for this clunker? Unbelievable. Moonstruck is a Cinderella story, brimming with life. Loretta's a nice Italian girl, whose husband was struck down by a speeding bus seven years ago. Since she's decided that means she has "bad luck," she settles down into keeping the books at a funeral home, living with her parents, and dating this lame guy named Johnny Cammareri. He's sweet, but she doesn't love him. Johnny proposes marriage, and she accepts. Before he leaves to go see his ailing Mother in Palermo, he asks Loretta to do one thing: invite his younger brother to the wedding, who he hasn't seen in five years due to some "bad blood." She agrees.

It turns out, of course, that Ronny, Johnny's brother, is a "wolf," of a man. (See left). The grudge that he's been carrying against Johnny comes from when he was slicing some bread for Johnny in the slicer, and Johnny distracted him. Ronny lost his hand, and as a result, his girl left him for another man. After grilling him up a steak, Loretta concludes that Ronny's really mad at himself, not his brother. She asks if there's been another woman since the one that left. He asks if there's been another man since her husband died. It's inevitable that there's an explosive connection between the two of them.

It's no surprise that the salon Loretta visits the night before she meets Johnny at the Opera is called the Cinderella salon. And, never having been to the Opera "where's the Met?" Loretta asks, the music of La Bohème is really what seals the deal. (The music from this Opera tends to seal almost everybody's deal). Moonstruck's world is a pseudo New York, where people cheat, but families don't fall apart, people actually enjoy Opera, there's always the same little Italian cafe you can frequent on your block, and men you've just met days prior take you to the Opera and then propose marriage in front of your entire family. It's a romantic comedy.

But with lovely performances by the panther herself, Cher, Nicolas Cage, Olympia Dukakis, Danny Aiello, and John Mahoney, to mention a few, the film raises itself up over other romantic comedies and becomes one of the most enjoyable movies ever made. It's easy to see why, years after it had premiered in the theaters, my parents wanted to relive the soundtrack in their own lives. Maybe that's why, after all those years of hearing La Bohème, I packed my bags and went off to school to become an Opera singer.

Julie & Julia

2009-08-10T14:26:00.005-04:00

Julie & Julia is Nora Ephron's first film since Bewitched, which belly-flopped about four years ago. You may remember Ephron's earlier films more fondly: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, Michael, and You've Got Mail. Julie and Julia is based on a book of the same title by one Julie Powell, a struggling aspiring writer who decided to cook her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking and write a blog about her experience. The blog became a book, and Ephron's used Powell's and Child's own memoir, My Life in France, for the material in Julie & Julia.

The resulting film lies somewhere in the netheregion between Biopic and Romantic Comedy. It is delightfully entertaining, with a stand-out performances (as usual) by Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci. I'm yet unconvinced of Amy Adams' talent as an actor. I was very impressed with her first foray onto the Hollywood scene with the little indie that blew up and earned her her first Oscar nomination, Junebug, but I've yet to see her apply herself with the same conviction and energy.

Julie and Julia share a story, according to Ephron, because they were / are both women who were looking for a passion that could turn itself into a career. They felt guilty about their lack of contentment with their lives because they had both married well, and found love, but wanted something more. This is a very feminine condundrum, perhaps less relevant today for women in particular, but certainly relevant to us all in the midst of the most devestating depression since well, the great depression.

Julie's story is less exciting, because her art (writing) is based so largely on Julia Child's story and artistry, that Julie as a character just simply fades as the film goes on. This is not necessarily the fault of anyone, just a matter of fact about the movie's entire premise. But what the film communicates beautifully is a sense of struggle and the hopeful resounding joy of finally succeeding, not at a desk job, not as a wife, but as an artist.

Watching Meryl Streep is like watching a panther stalk its prey in the jungle. She is subtle, effortless, and absolutely stunning. While her characterization at times falls into slapstick and camp, there was certainly an element of camp to the real Julia Child, so it doesn't feel forced. The humanizing moments, when Julia (who after years of trying to get pregnant had given up) receives a letter from her sister announcing she's expecting, breaks down in the kitchen, proclaiming, "I'm so happy!" through her tears, brought me to tears in seconds flat.

Never, perhaps, in my life, have I seen marriage depicted as such a positive relationship than in this film. I mean this, I think, as a compliment. There are lots of kisses in this movie. These are happy happy marriages. And while Ephron tries to throw in a spat between Julie and her husband, it feels rigid and strange. I can't remember the last time a director tried to convince his or her audience that marriage is a good idea. So, kudos, then, to Ephron. Love is real.

The real love affair, of course, is between these women and their passion: Julie's writing and Julia's cooking. In their worlds, the process eventually brings them to fulfillment. And then they've got it all: the career they want and a loving partner. So why do I sound skeptical? Maybe I am. There's a scene when Julia finally gets a letter of acceptance from Knopf for her cookbook. She immediately calls out to Paul, and bounces around her front porch with joy. This is it. This is the big moment. I suppose I just feel little jealous: I want the same thing for myself, to be able to call out to my partner and say, "Here it is, finally, look, I've done it, and all the meltdowns and all your support was worth it!" Until then, this film reminds us that we've got to focus on the day to day, and the little joys about finding the big kahuna.

The Challenge.

2009-08-10T00:03:00.008-04:00

A.O. Scott, New York Times Film Critic

Dear Readers,

Inspired by my latest movie-going experience, Julie & Julia, (which I hope to review tonight or tomorrow), I hereby promise you and myself that I will write 200+ words on this blog about every single film I see, no matter the venue, no matter how Oscar worthy, or terrible the flick, I will review it here for you.

Starting today, Monday, August 10th, 2009.

Do I hear a "hell yes" ?

Yesterday

2009-08-05T13:50:00.005-04:00

I frequently transfer trains from Brooklyn (the L train) to the uptown 2/3 in an underground tunnel. There is always the same man there playing "Yesterday" on the guitar. He is, frankly, not a very talented guitar player nor a very good singer, and I have never heard him play any other song.

Today, he was strumming along as I passed by. There was a large group of small children, all dressed in the same color yellow t-shirt, presumably in summer camp, waiting for the second half of their party to get on the train to Brooklyn. As soon as I passed them, they began to sing along with the guitar guy: thirty kids, all under the age of ten, just singing "Yesterday" in the subway, totally unprompted, completely spontaneous.

This is just one of those New York moments.

And then, I come home to this message in my in-box from a college friend I lost touch with:

Jessica,

It has been a very very long time, but I just have to tell you that I’ve read several of your book reviews on Bookslut and I think you are just fabulous. After forwarding your Twilight review to nearly every female I know, I would feel remiss not to let you know how favorably the article has been received (“Hilarious” and “so valid,” being the most common remarks).

Anyway, I hope you keep writing. You certainly have a new fan in St. Louis.

Elizabeth

It's been a nice day.

Tori & Dean

2009-07-28T13:43:00.006-04:00

My apologies for not updating sooner. Being unemployed is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, it gives me more time to write and pitch work, which is fabulous, but on the other hand, some days it gives me the time to watch Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood on Oxygen.

I was ashamed, at first, to even admit that I watched the show. For those of you who might not know: Tori Spelling is the daughter of Aaron Spelling, creator of 90210 (in which Tori starred as the virginal Donna Martin) and several other successful television shows. Since her father's death, Tori's relationship with her mother has deteriorated, and she has largely retreated into her marriage with Dean McDermont, and into motherhood: they have two kids, Liam (22 months) and Stella (7 months). This is their reality show.

Tori, who is a mediocre actress and a likely anorexic, has never been much of an interest to my passion for all pop culture. The fact that she and Dean were both married to other people when they met, fell in love, and decided to divorce their partners (even though Dean's wife was pregnant at the time) is also not exactly model behavior. But, they have been married for four years, and have two beautiful children.

On the first episode I saw, Tori's best friend, and his boyfriend, the "guncles" annouced their decision to marry sooner rather than later, because they want to adopt a child. They ask Tori and Dean for help with the wedding and to be their recommenders to the adoption agency. Tori is clearly overwhelmed by emotion and tells them that she doesn't know any other couple more suited to be parents, and that she always feels totally confident when she leaves her children with them, and that she couldn't be happier for them.

Dean's also a kind of a babe, and maybe the best husband ever. After the motorbike crash, he feels so guilty for worrying Tori that he sells his bikes, renounces the hobby, and buys her a huge ring. When she gets home, he has a bubblebath, roses and champagne waiting. It's an old school romantic gesture, but the real sacrifice is giving up the hobby because he knows it drives her crazy, and it puts his life in danger. He also flies to New York from Calgary so he can be with Tori on Valentine's Day. And he's constantly telling her what a hot ass she has and how beautiful she is. Did I mention he has her painted on the side of his motorbike and a Tori tattoo? (Yes, I find these sort of things romantic).

With her father dead and her mother estranged, Tori has no other family outside the one she's created with Dean. Her desperation when he leaves to go on vacation, or when he crashes his motorbike, it completely heart-breaking for several reasons. Aside from the clear indicators of co-dependence, it's obvious that Tori and Dean really do love each other, and that their number one priority is their children. That's a beautiful thing.

Kissing Dead Girls

2009-07-06T14:02:00.005-04:00

Ladies and Ghouls, I'm pleased to announce my new column on the paranormal appearing monthly on Bookslut, a "Ladies' Night in the X-Files," if you will. The first piece is on Stephenie Meyer's first installation of the Twilight series. I hope you enjoy it, and I'd love to know what you think!

Also: RIP to the King of Pop.

The Future of Sci-Fi Cinema

2009-07-03T12:00:00.006-04:00

Last month I saw Pontypool, a Canadian zombie film directed by Bruce McDonald, adapted from a book and radio play of the same name. [spoilers abound] When I learned that the virus in this film is transferred from person to person through the English language I was intent on seeing it. What an intelligent, intriguing idea for a horror film.

And it is intriguing! And raises lots of questions about how much one can remember from Psych 101 when we learned about the theories of Noam Chomsky and how our brains process language. In Pontypool, there are only certain words or sounds (phonemes) that can ignite the virus, which causes the host to repeat said sound or word over and over until they become belligerent and apparently thirst for human blood.

How these events are linked remains unclear, and the solution to the problem, which the film's protagonist, a crankily charming radio host named Grant Mazzy eventually figures out, is to literally unlearn the meaning of a word so that the virus cannot take hold, is severely flawed. (Wow, like that last sentence I just wrote)

How does one unlearn the meaning of a word? Is it even possible?

Where the film wins is in its ability to build suspense without showing us the horrific acts themselves. I'm a big fan Hitchcockian elements of suggestion and subtle references through editing, especially with sound. We hardly see any zombies in Pontypool, but they make their presence known. And as representative to the bunch, Georgina Reilly, the actress who plays Laurel Ann, does a pretty incredible job of scaring the pants off everyone in the theater.

Pontypool raises some relevant questions about the way we communicate with each other in the technological age. In this way, it straddles the sci-fi and horror genres. In a world where people hardly even speak over the phone, how much risk, really, is there for a viral event like this to occur? Has technology completely destroyed our language? How do we relate to each other without language? And if we're forced to, can the human race survive without destroying itself?

Moon, a film directed by Duncan Jones, stars Sam Rockwell, one of my favorite off-the-wall actors, which is really the main reason I wanted to see it. Also, one can't help but be reminded of Kubrick's 2001 after watching the trailer. And I think we'd all agree that we're all secretly hoping that someday someone will come out with a sci-fi movie for our generation that can equal the intense emotional and philosophical ramblings of that biblically important film.

Moon is too close to 2001, unfortunately. Kevin Spacey voices a computer module too much like Hal, but not nearly as cool. (He has an emoticon face, for christsakes. Whoever came up with that idea: you lose). But instead of killer computers, [spoiler alert] Moon is the story of clones, created by people, and abused by people. Jones is genius in casting Sam Rockwell, who is perhaps, out of all the cool indie actors one of the most human. In the beginning of the movie, Rockwell is simply Sam Bell, a man working on the moon harvesting resources who gets to go home in three weeks. He misses his wife, and his baby. His accent (which is EERILY similar to those of the Wilson tribe - Owen, Luke), his minature hobby, and his struggling on the treadmill instantly endears him to the audience.

But an accident reveals that there are two Sams on the space station: the original Sam we've come to know and love, and a younger, more virile, hot-headed frat boy Sam, who seems to've appeared out of nowhere. Jones gives us some comic relief in the interaction between the two, which again, is credited to the acting chops of Sam Rockwell. Playing against yourself is not always an easy thing to do, as he points out in this interview with New York magazine.

And smartly, Jones doesn't pit the clones against each other. Instead, being the same person, they can't really hate the other one enough to kill each other. They aren't pod people, after all. In the end, one Sam Bell says to the other, "I know you can't kill anybody because I can't kill anybody." No, in this movie it's the clones versus the humans, and the question we end up with: are clones humans? If so, what are their rights? Moon is a disaster movie in that the technology it presents is entirely possible in the next decade, really, as we've already cloned animals, and stem cell research will finally get its grant with Obama as President. So, if clones are on their way, what do we do with them? And will they be safe? Do we care if they're safe?

Kazuo Ishiguro paints this portrait in a more terrifying way in his novel, Never Let Me Go, which I highly recommend if you haven't read it. But be prepared for your skin to crawl. I had nightmares for weeks. It too is being adapated into a film by the director of One Hour Photo. (Fingers crossed)

While neither film is a total success, they both have a deep reverence to the work of Stanley Kubrick, and signal an intelligent and emotional investigation into the world of 2001, which we've been living in now for a nearly a decade. It's about time that someone at least attempted at a science-fiction movie that would make us all shudder with dread.

In Which I Become Domestic

2009-06-11T15:52:00.009-04:00

I love my new apartment so much it borders on obsession. I would post photos, you know, but then that might be internet TMI. Also, we're still waiting on some furniture and I want to have the whole kit and kaboodle set up before I go all out posting pictures and expecting compliments.

That said, being in the apartment has sent my emotions on a whirlwind. Last night, at Bed, Bath and Beyond (also known as the flaming Gates of Hell to some), I actually bought a pyrex pie dish.

Just who do I think I am?

I don't know how to cook. Hell, I really don't know how to bake. But being in this apartment makes me want to cook, clean, organize, decorate, and just exist in the apartment. Graham and I made our first dinner two nights ago. Check out the recipe here. It was easy as hell, and delicious. Also: it made enough to feed us for lunch for two days. How to save money 101: cook dinner at home.

Dueling Sarah Michelles: Forcibly Domestic / Naturally Domestic

I think up until recently I had always shied away from housework and cooking because I'm pretty lazy, and I'm a feminist. There's just something about being in the kitchen, with my hair all in my face, covered in flour that just screams June Cleaver to me (in a bad, non-sexy, sad, pathetic way). But, ah, with age and maturity comes the realization that cleaning your apartment and cooking your own food just means that you're an adult. It doesn't really have anything to do with feminism. And yes, you want to divide these chores with your partner (if you have one). Lucky for me, my boo unloaded the dishwasher last night.

Basically, I just want my life to be filled with wonderful food, and I want an apartment with fresh flowers. I'm almost there guys. I can almost taste it. (Now if only I could find a better job).

Let's ask Giada. Can domesticity be sexy?

Whoa. Whoa there.

I'm not quite ready for that.

The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall

2009-05-29T16:55:00.004-04:00

When I was a wee one, I loved Ghost Stories (with a capital G, and S). I had this crazy book called the Usborne book of GHOSTS, and I read it so often that it literally disintegrated in my hands. I went on a mad search for the thing several summers ago when I was home, but alas, it appears to have vanished.

The first story in this collection was one about "The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall." The story also included an accompanying photograph, reproduced below.

Now, as I'm writing this, I realize this photograph is most likely a hoax, and that the shadowy figure looks like a statue of the Virgin Mary. If you look closely, you can see the triangle feet, where her robes fall around her, and it appears as if her hands are in the praying position. In actuality, the perpetrator of this hoax probably figured out a way to superimpose a photograph of a statue over the stairs.

But when I was ten, man, I believed this. I believed it so hard. And the accompanying story makes you WANT to believe it. That's the fantastic thing about really great ghost stories. You want these spirits to exist, because their stories are so dramatic.

The deal with the Brown Lady was that she was supposedly Dorothy Walpole (1686-1726), the sister of England's first Prime Minister. She wanted to marry the second Viscount Townshend, but her father wouldn't allow it. Finally, after the death of Townshend's first wife they were finally married. Of course by this time Dorothy had started a love affair with this guy named Lord Wharton. When Townshend learned of the affair, he supposedly bricked Dorothy up in Raynham Hall, where she either

a) died of a broken heart
b) died of a push from Townshend down the stairs
c) died of boredom

And it it her ghost that haunts the halls. An extension of the same story is that guests at Raynham Hall have reported to seeing her walk towards them, a shadowy female figure who comes more and more into focus the closer she gets, and that right as she's face to face, you realize she has. no. eyes. Just sockets! And then, hoping you're sufficiently creeped out, she vanishes.

There is yet another caveat to the story, that, in hopes of getting rid of the ghost, the owners of Raynham Hall took to exploring the house to find the remains of one such woman. The story goes that the skeleton of a young woman was found, and promptly buried at a nearby nunnery. The Brown Lady hasn't been seen since.

Friendship is Miles Away

2009-05-27T13:19:00.007-04:00

I hate that I'm writing this review the week after "Christmas is Miles Away," by English playwright Chloe Moss, has closed here in New York. Let's just say I was lucky to see it. Produced and Directed by my friend Geordie Broadwater, the play chronicles the breakdown of a long-standing friendship between two Manchester boys as they grow into men.

Unsurprisingly, the two are very different, and their differences only blanch and tighten with age. Christie's father dies, he falls in with a girl named Julie, which proves to be his first major love affair. Luke goes off to be a soldier while Christie stays at home to paint at the local art college. The New York Times review really says it all . . . Ms. Moss' dialogue is the shining star of this play, totally natural, and also wonderfully exotic with the nooks and crannies of the Manchester gab. While all three actors are talented, Roger Lirtsman, who plays Luke, is absolutely stunning. His total and complete physical commitment to the character outshines the other two actors, who still seem a bit young and inexperienced in comparison. Lirtsman's tics (Luke has an uncomfortable large and frequent smile) indicate there's more to him than meets the eye. His discomfort (again, that incredible smile) during an intervention Julie organizes is so palpable, I cried. I literally cried.

I had never heard of Chloe Moss, but you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be keeping my eye out to see more from her, and to purchase a collection of her plays. (Is there one? There should be). All I know, is that after I left the theater, I was still crying, thinking of my childhood friends (and even some current ones) and wondering if I'd done them wrong. It's so easy to let friendships slip through one's fingers as you grow and change. You find yourself seeking out that person when you were thirteen . . . but of course they've changed, and you have too.

What defines a friendship? Does it end when you no longer have anything in common? What about friendships that never had anything in common? I'm the first to admit that I'm too judgmental. If a friend mentions they voted for Bush or McCain, I strike them off my list. I say to myself, "We have nothing in common." Is that really true? Should I value my friends for the way they see the world differently than I do?

Who have I lost through my own immaturity, my quickness to judge, my mindless self-indulgence?

Can we, do we want to reconcile?

Exit the King

2009-05-18T12:52:00.008-04:00

Last Wednesday, as part of my birthday present, I traveled uptown to see Geoffrey Rush's adaptation of Eugene Ionesco's Exit the King. The play was a new production of the same Rush put on in Melbourne, newly cast with the devastatingly stately Susan Sarandon and blazing, childlike Lauren Ambrose.

In my experience, Theater of the Absurd can be cloying, or totally boring. But this production is exceptional in that it is brimming with life, unafraid to make fun of itself, and more importantly, unafraid to get serious when things need to get serious. King Berenger is over four-hundred years old. His kingdom has fallen into ruin. As days go by, it actually shrinks in size, people and places falling into a growing abyss. At the beginning of the play, his first wife, Queen Marguerite (Sarandon) calls Queen Marie (Ambrose), his younger, second wife, into the throne room to tell her that the King is finally dying.

Hysterically, Marie refuses to believe Marguerite, or the doctor, who verifies that the King will not live. Marie begs them to keep the information from him, but both insist that he must know so he can come to terms with both his life and its inevitable ending. As the King enters the throne room, Marguerite lowers the boom. Of course the King is in total denial, insisting he feels fine when he can barely stand. Near the end of the first act Marguerite cools informs him that he only has an hour and a half to live, at the end of which he will die and the play will be over.

As the play features a corrupt, impotent monarch, the play's director, Neil Armfield could have gone a very direct route:

And very nearly does, in a monologue given by the King's guard, during which he praises him for his efforts in "national security," and even quotes haphazardly from "O Captain, My Captain," much like a frat boy at a patriotic event might, moved by emotion (unsure of the poem's actual inspiration). Instead the production focuses on the King's loss of power in a generally human sense, which levels him and then grounds him to the point where he is totally alone. At first, he loses his capability to order people and things around. He commands rain, there is none. He commands the guard to walk two paces, he cannot. He demands Marie to come to him, she claims she's forgotten how to use her legs. His executive orders are lost.

In remembering his childhood, the King regresses, and is confined to a wheelchair. He makes a paltry attempt at bonding with his mistreated maid, in which they both celebrate the joys of stew ("Those lovely carrots!" he exclaims), but it's a lost cause. The damage has already been done. Queen Marie remains convinced that he will live on if he continues to love her, but the ravages of his disease prevent him from recognizing her, and she disappears. Soon he is left alone on the stage with Queen Marguerite, who has, it turns out, been right about everything all along.

This production's success is its ability to wax philosophically without being heavy-handed. Convinced that he would never die unless he "decided" to, the King is mentally and emotionally unprepared for his demise. His false confidence in his own immortality is the very cause of his downfall. Queen Marguerite says he has no excuse. You should have thought of this everyday, she says. The fact that death will come. Everyday, at least five minutes a day. It's not altogether bad advice.

While we live for others in life, the transition to death is one we must make alone. The superb set design, lighting, and of course the talents of this cast reinforce Berenger's metamorphosis from King to man, nothing but a broken down instrument, left in the wings. Even if one isn't quite ready to think about the prospect of death for five minutes a day, every day, Exit the King is not to be missed.

Ghost Ship(s)

2009-05-14T09:55:00.010-04:00

Could the icicle Godzilla monster be the cause of the Titanic wreck?

I have always been fascinated by shipwrecks, and various other secrets of the deep. In middle school, I was so obsessed with Titanic that I actually memorized the entire timeline of the wreck, and the number of people killed (fyi: 1,571). So fascinated am I, that I've even seen Ghost Ship, quite possibly the worst scary movie ever made, starring the lovely Julianna Margulies of ER fame. (Warning: clip below contains graphic content).

The movie, of course, is a spin-off on a much classier myth of "The Flying Dutchman," basically a bad-ass pirate who's doomed (in death) to roam the seas until he can find some poor lady to love him. Check out Wagner's opera version, it's pretty awesome. There's another little movie that's pretty much stolen the Dutchman's thunder, too. You may have seen it.

So I was pretty jazzed when I opened my issue of New York to discover an article called "Secrets of the Deep," about all the goodies lying in New York harbor.

Apparently there are over 300 wrecks in the lower Hudson, most of which remain a secret as they are archeological sites.
There's a freight train near Peekskill! It fell off the drawbridge in 1865!
Suicides. "When homicides and suicides end up in the river during winter, they often stay underwater until April, when decomposition speeds up, bloating them with gases . . . The worst I ever saw," says an NYPD scuba diver, "was half in the mud, half out. The skin was peeling back, the critters were eating it."
Lots and lots of cars.
A piano and a giraffe. "Another time, they found the corpse of a giraffe that had fled a circus." :(
404 ice cream trucks. (Good Humor dumped them to build an artificial reef).
Dreamland: One of coney island's first theme parks. It burned down in 1911.

SO COOL.

There's also a rumor that Lake Lanier, the man-make lake in Georgia houses an entire town under the water, including a race-track and movie theater. I once heard tell that a scuba-diver was even able to swim into the movie theater and sit in one of the seats. The Army denies that there's anything under the lake, but last year, when Georgia suffered a severe drought, a steeple from a church popped up and the speedway was exposed.

I love the idea that there's an entire world underneath the ocean. Like, what?!

33 Variations

2009-04-24T09:08:00.014-04:00

33 Variations is a new play by Moisés Kaufman, the man who brought us The Laramie Project. Now, 33 Variations is more of standard well-made play, whereas Laramie is more of a theatre-documentary of sorts, made up of soundbites Kaufman collected when he visited the town where Matthew Shepard was murdered.

Starring the formidable (and totally hot, still) Jane Fonda, Kaufman's new play tells the story of Dr. Katherine Brandt, a musicologist with a specialization on Beethoven, who is dying of Lou Gerig's disease.

Fonda as Barbarella; Fonda, present day: still hot.

Dr. Brandt is obsessed with Beethoven's interpretation of Diabelli's waltz. When asked to write one variation on the piece, Beethoven ends up writing an astounding thirty-three separate variations. And, if he'd had this way, and his health, he most likely would have written more. What was it about he waltz that obsessed him so? And why was he so determined to finish the variations when he was dying, and had more pressing compositions like The Requiem and the Ninth Symphony to consider?

Fonda is, unbelievably, 72 years old, and her presence at the beginning of the play seems to suggest a very, very young fifty. To cast Fonda in a role that calls for the character's severe physical degeneration only highlights the total and utter devastation of this illness. As a professor, it is most heartbreaking when Dr. Brandt points out to her research companion, that her tongue has stopped working. Communication, in this play, in life, is everything.

But then there's the art, and the music. She travels to Germany against the advice of her doctor's nurse, played by Colin Hanks, who, predictably, falls in love with Dr. Brandt's hardened, worthless daughter, played by Samantha Mathis. Mathis, a washed-up movie star from the early nineties, should have promise. But as I watched her in the play, I realized this is something I'd been saying her entire career. Honestly, Mathis cannot act. She is not an actress, and her failure in this role really damages the mother-daughter tension in the play.

I want to like you, Mathis. But, I just can't.

Colin Hanks does a little bit better job of being the comic relief-y goofball of the play, but being Tom Hanks' kid won't save you every time, Colin. If you really want to be an actor, you've got to learn how to be comfortable onstage. So do some more theater, and get back to me.

Overall, this play is entertaining, and heartfelt. But let's get real here, Kaufman. You've basically just written another version of W;t, and inserted Beethoven for John Donne . . . hence the semi-colon in its title. (W;t tells the story of a John Donne scholar, also a mature, formidable lady, dying of ovarian cancer). I suppose, if I hadn't seen W;t, I would think 33 Variations a damn good piece of work. But the fact of the matter is, I have seen it, and dammit Kaufman, you've just borrowed a bit too much. Unfortunately for you, Margaret Edson is smarter than you, and she's written a better play.

33 Variations surely has its moments. The set design is beautiful, and in one moment, during an x-Ray, Dr. Brandt leans back in exhaustion to find herself leaning against Beethoven himself.

Yes, he's in the play. For the most part, it works. Occasionally, it's annoying. W;it doesn't engage in these sort of shenanigans, and without comic relief, it can become totally depressing. But there, I've said it: 33 Variations isn't very original.

That said, it's still worth seeing for Fonda's performance. She has completely committed to this character, physically and emotionally, and to watch an actor like Fonda at the top of her game at her age is like watching an aging all-star athlete beat the hopeful young underdog. There's certainly something inspirational about this, and Dr. Brandt's final monologue, which reminds us that the whole point of a variation is to pick apart a theme, to see where each route leads, is the whole point of living. That it's about each moment. The details.

For us healthy people, this remains a very important message.

CANDOR

2009-04-23T15:46:00.005-04:00

Dear Readers,

Today I launched an online literary journal called CANDOR.

Our aim is to create a space where women can spar with text and culture.

The theme for our first issue is SURVIVAL.

Call for submissions begins now, and closes June 1st. If you're interested, I hope you'll submit!

I Wish I Had a Sylvia Plath

2009-04-16T09:43:00.006-04:00

Gawker tagged this interview with Ryan Adams for Shelf Awareness. For those of you who don't know, he's written a book! It's called Infinity Blues. I've got to get my hands on a copy. Here's Ryan's interview below, followed by my answers!

Book Brahmin: Ryan Adams

My name is Ryan Adams. I am going deaf from Ménière's Disease. I am 34. I am a recovering drunk and amphetamine addict. I am a visual artist first, a writer second, and I bang on guitars to sell my poetry to the dulled masses. I love, love, love donuts, skateboarding, my girlfriend, our dog, sunshine, Los Angeles, reading and daydreaming. I used to live in New York City for a long time. I fought like hell for the city when people left for Brooklyn and dumped every penny I could into the mission and the museums. I got shat on by the New York Times for long enough so I moved. I will always love David Letterman and 2nd Ave Deli forever. Akashic Books has just published my collection of non-music pieces, Infinity Blues.

On your nightstand now:

Cup of coffee, digital shitty hotel clock, broken channel changer holding up computer cable into wall socket and Reading & Writing Chinese: Traditional Character Edition by William McNaughton and Li Yang.

Favorite book when you were a child:

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, Light in August by William Faulkner.

Your top five authors:

Edward Estlin Cummings, Henry Miller, W. H. Auden, Sylvia Plath and Anne Frank.

Book you've bought for the cover:

Paul Auster's New York Trilogy.

Book that changed your life:

Roget's Thesaurus.

Favorite line from a book:

"Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos."--Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller.

Book you most want to read again for the first time:

The Bell Jar.

Why you write:

It feels like the noble thing to do in a world of fake smiles, cowards and so, so many undocumented miracles if standing in the middle of parking lots and laughing for no reason was one. And to see how many times I can get away with the word unicorn in otherwise unsettled text. And vanity. Vanity. Vanity.

***

Book Junkie: Jessica

My name is Jessica. I am 23. I am a recovering shoe and tote bag addict. I am a performer first, a writer second, and I'd probably be a florist in some other life. I love, love, love french bulldogs and pugs, clothes, my boyfriend, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, spring, New York, reading and restaurant-ing. I used to live in Georgia for a long time. I still love the South and wax nostalgic, but mainly I just miss my family. I worked in publishing for a while until I got dumped. I will always love book parties and the New Yorker forever. I hope someday to publish a book of essays, the most unpublishable kind of book, ever.

On your nightstand now:

Glass of water, my journal, The Diaries of Louise Bourgeois, The Complete Unabridged Diaries of Sylvia Plath, The Complete Poems of Robert Lowell, and Brad Gooch's biography of Flannery O'Connor.

Favorite book when you were a child:

The Scarlett Letter. Young Young: Slightly Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

Your top five authors:

Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, J.D. Salinger, Vladimir Nabokov, and William Styron.

Book you've bought for the cover:

Ha! Paul Auster's Collected Prose.

Book that changed your life:

To the Lighthouse.

Favorite line from a book:

"Life; London, this moment of June." - Mrs. Dalloway

Book you most want to read again for the first time:

Franny and Zooey.

Why you write:

Writing I think is the ultimate test for the brain. I write nonfiction, so I'm always trying to hone in on getting my point across and being as concise as possible while introducing some artistry and creativity into the idea. I find it challenging, and I like a challenge.

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

2009-04-15T16:17:00.005-04:00

My apologies for the lull in postage. I've been working on the four book reviews I have forthcoming in the next month. Luckily for me, I love to read. The times are tough, however, and money's tight. I'm very lucky to be employed, but sometimes I feel a little like Susan up there, dragging my bag around town, and taking a bath in the public restrooms. Ok, so I don't really do that second part. You know what I mean, though, right?

Everyone's been tossing this little ditty around the internet. It's a tough sell for me. Frankly, unless you've got a cushy job or a trust fund I think it's difficult to be creative with the looming grim reaper of unemployment flashing his shit all over town. That said, I'm trying to focus on the positive. I figure, Susan had plenty of fun even though she was basically a squatter and lived out of a box. Albeit, a really chic box.

Thinking positive: it's almost spring / summer (really the two are combined in New York). Soon I'll be moving into a new apartment with my beau, and it'll be Saturday and Sunday in the park, with iced coffee.

Are you a bookslut?

2009-04-06T16:54:00.005-04:00

If you're a bookslut in need of something to read, I highly recommend Leanne Shapton's faux auction catalog, Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, including Street Fashion and Jewlery. Through the lot descriptions Leanne tells the story of the four-year failed realtionship between Hal and Lenore. The book is subtle, heartbreaking, and smart. And it's just been optioned by Brad Pitt, for a movie version starring himself and Natalie Portman. I was lucky enough to interview Leanne for Bookslut, a fantastic site dedicated to interviews, reviews, and features on literature . . . read our conversation here.

Bookslut was also kind enough to run my review of Molly Haskell's book on Gone with the Wind, Frankly My Dear, which was really a pleasure to read . . . Haskell gives a refreshing break-down of Scarlett's character and makes a convincing argument for the staying power of the film, even in the face of its less than savory presentation of slavery. Haskell really hones in on the gender studies and sexual politics of the film . . . a must-read if you're interested in the intersection of cinema and zeitgeist.

Thanks to Bookslut, and Happy Reading!

Twins. Hot.

2009-03-31T16:41:00.004-04:00

Kudos to Rebecca Mead for her profile of the Dickman twins in this week's New Yorker. Matthew and Michael Dickman are identical twins, and they're both poets. I hadn't realized I had read one of Matthew's poems, Trouble, earlier in the magazine, and liked it very much. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be an identical twin, for one thing, on top of trying to make it in the same profession as your sibling. This piece has some really interesting moments, however. I'm going to list them below.

1. They like Sylvia Plath.
2. Apparently Matthew is quite the ladies man, and yet:
3. Has kissed Allen Ginsberg for "fifteen minutes."
4. Both are related to Sharon Olds.
5. Both appeared as the twin boy "pre-cogs" in Minority Report.

Like, what?

Here's an awesome moment: Michael describing working on Minority Report.

"Whenever we weren't actually shooting, we would be in our trailers, reading Ted Hughes, and then we would leave and take cabs to bookstores and spend our per diem on poetry. On our days off, we would make coffee in one of our hotel rooms and write poetry all day."

Just Because

2009-03-30T10:15:00.006-04:00

I think JFK and Jackie may have had the most beautiful wedding
of all time.

The Pleasure of the Text

2009-03-26T13:42:00.007-04:00

This morning on a very crowded F-train I started reading Roland Barthes The Pleasure of the Text. It's my first time reading it; I was prompted to do so by another book I read this summer, Long Life Cool White, which illuminated Barthes' reliance on constant notebook-ing.

The Pleasure of the Text is fairly straightforward. The basic premise is that reading can be an erotic activity, and when the reader is lost in the act (or the text, depending on how you see it), then there is a catharsis, or climax. Richard Howard, the book's introducer, labels this act of pleasure jouissance, and its accompanying noun he calls bliss (this being the closest word he can think of in English to Barthes' original French). Pretty sexy stuff!

There are, of course, more complex arguments made throughout the book. I haven't finished reading it yet. But I found it intriguing (and convincing) that I immediately thought of blissful moments in my life.

*

In my backyard there are two maple trees that were just saplings when my parents moved in. They're now quite large, and hang over our back porch. In the summertime, I used to sit outside on the deck reading, and stare up into the leaves. In a way, it was like looking through a chlorophyll filter into the sun.

When my Mom and I spent a week in England, tooling around the Virginia Woolf hot-spots, we took a train down to Cornwall, where her family had spent their summers. It was the most beautiful place I have ever been to date. The time spent with my mother was also absolutely priceless, and helped me to realize how lucky I am to have a parent I can also consider my best friend. We also visited Knole, a Tudor mansion of epic proportions, and the family seat of Vita Sackville West. I can still remember what the scones and tea tasted like in its tea shoppe, even though I had strep throat and could barely swallow.

The way it feels to walk off a stage, body jittery with adrenaline, your shaking water bottle and propensity to smile when someone praises you, the delightful sweat of a job well done. The clear feeling of a throat that's sung its heart out for two hours.

Frequently, if I'm feeling low I'll recall my first scotch on the rocks, at Marlow & Sons, the way the ice clinked against my glass and the flickering candles at the bar. It was one of my boyfriend and I's first dates, and nothing beats the excitement of getting to know someone over a wonderful dinner. That was a year ago. I still feel that anticipation when I'm on my way to see him.

*
For me, writers who are able to capture moments like these: filled with nostalgia and sense memory (the way things taste, sound, look and feel) are TRUE writers. The most obvious example is Proust's madeleines, but lately, with her name so much in the news, I've been thinking of Plath, and how much her simple descriptions of a rainy night indoors, or the way her curlers set in her hair, her lengthy and somewhat indulgent description of a first date, or her feast of tuna and hard boiled eggs while reading Yeats in her college dorm room reminded me so much of what Barthes means when he describes reading as the ultimate experience.

Just look at the comments on the New York Times post on her legacy: over twelve pages of people up in arms to defend her or drag her name through the mud. If anything, the sheer volume of discussion is enough to warrant the importance of her work.

I'm wondering, what are your blissful moments?
Which writers capture bliss for you?

Nick and the Candlestick

2009-03-24T14:05:00.005-04:00

for Nicholas Hughes, 1962-2009
and Sylvia Plath.

I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish---
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.