Little (Economic) Drop of Horrors

Apologies for the serious lapse in updating, dear reader(s). However, with the constant call of a 9-6, the demands of living in New York City, and general negligence on my part, I have failed to update Bethertainment Weekly by its' promised calendric measures of time.

America is melting. It is a giant mushroom cloud of stale credit, foreclosures, and vaporized 401K's. Wall Street has transformed into a leviathan bowl of Jell-O in which financial brokers flail, wearing those little orange floaties and go down with the proverbial ship as the orchestra plays "Nearer to Thee." Leonardo diCaprio can be found whispering endearing words to the Kate Winslet's of the world; Frodo can be found wandering the streets looking for Mount Doom.

So, what's a body to do when there is little to celebrate, little funding to attend keystone cultural films such as Nights in Rodanthe and Twilight, where teeny-bopper vamps run around in the forest making doe-eyes at each other? Why, very little, of course. But American film has done much of the same. Taken hard times, made them a little less hard. Or just added cushiony fluff to pad the fall. Such economic destitution call for one of two things: one, a lot of comfort in the form of alcoholic beverages. Two: films to make the general populous forget that they might be begging for spare change on Delancy St. next week. So, here are five films that either embrace or deny the need for the god of green, the root of all evil, and, the unobtainable.

1. Golddiggers of 1933 (1933)
What better way to celebrate monetary prosperity and the end of Herbert Hoover's asinine presidential rule? By celebrating capitalism, of course! With show tunes! And Pig Latin! In Mervyn LeRoy's musical romp, veteran showgirl Trixie Lorraine (Aline MacMahon) and her roommates are simply drowning in debt. The bright lights of Broadway have lost some of their gleam, and no production can seem to last past rehearsal. There's just no money. Until, of course, the dapper Warren William (J. Lawrence Bradford) saves the angry producer (Ned Sparks) from an embolism by writing a winning show, and magically funding it. The story is pure fluff-sugar and spice and everything with a price-there's socioeconomic wars between William's family when his older brother finds out Warren is courting a Broadway showgirl. Or that he's using his trust fund to support the frivolous "Gold diggers."

In the end, you have a feel-good lavish production that uses appoggiatura and bobbed hair to coat the economic horrors of the Great Depression. Which could be why the studio adds a politically charged number to the end of the film, "My Forgotten Man," a mournful ballad about the faceless thousands still stuck in breadlines, still scarred from war. A true show stopper.

2. Marie Antoinette (2006)
Ten minutes watching Sophia Coppola's brazen rock'n roll rendition of the lavishly opulent French monarch will make you want to eat cake in Versailles, too. Although it was greeted with less than stellar acclaim, Coppola's artistic ambition is worth its weight in gold. You know the story.

Self-involved teenage queen forced to marry young, produce an heir, discovers the pleasures of carnal affection. Though chocabloc full of anachronisms (see: a pair of blue Converse All-Star's in Marie's dressing room), it's a fantastic mix of wealth and waste. Not to mention, several dozen pairs of custom-made Manolo Blahniks.

3. Little Shop of Horrors (1986)
Ever want to get rich quick? Try stumbling across a curious plant in Chinatown after a total eclipse of the sun, bring it back to your failing floral business, and see where that takes you. The only snag is, the plant doesn't have a taste for Miracle Grow: the only fodder it fancies is the kind with platelettes and leukocytes - yes, folks - blood. Such is the woeful tale of Seymour Krelborn (Rick Morranis), a down-and-out orphan who was taken in by the surly florist, Mr. Mushnick (Vincent Gardenia).

Turns out, this bloodthirsty plant, christened the Audrey II after Morranis' love interest (the wonderful Ellen Greene), is more than he barganed for. Morranis nurses the fledgeling plant as much as he can, literally giving his lifeblood for the sake of the plant that's bringing so much publicity to the small florist. So, Seymour is bloodless and spineless, letting Audrey slip through his awkward finger to the clutches of the maniacal dentist, Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS (Steve Martin). Audrey II needs blood: Seymour needs Audry I: Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS is full of blood. You see where I'm headed?

One may argue this little gem of a musical is not specifically about economic crisis. But it's about slumming it, finding a way, and has a nifty paralell to the consequences of unbridled addiction. What's not to love?

So tighten your belt, dig out your library card, and rent away, these movies that make you feel wealthy...at least, in the intellectual sense.

Quote of the Day: Seymour: The Audry II isn't a healthy girl.
Mr. Mushnik: Strictly between us, neither is the Audrey I.

A Heartbreaking Letter to a Staggering Genius

Dear Tina Fey,

Stop it. Stop it now. We all know how intelligent and beautiful and witty you are. You probably use all of your Emmy's and Golden Globes as marshmallow roasters and back-scratchers. At least those that you have room for. But stop making the rest of us feel like wife-beater wearing slobs like Frank, or clogged and strained and utterly beat, like one of Jack Donaghy's coronary ventricles.

If your life is remotely like it is portrayed on "30 Rock," then give me a navy Brook's Brothers blazer, the impossible task of monitoring Tracy Jordan, and call me Kenneth the Page. I promise I won't be as hilariously creepy or have as many hick-like tenancies as Jack McBrayer, but I will bring some good old-fashioned Midwestern flair. Though, if I see Jerry Seinfeld in the elevator, don't wager I won't start humming the theme to "Seinfeld," rather than make polite conversation. ("So, Jerry. I hear you were in a show. That's terrific. I clean up stale pizza and was urinated on yesterday by a bearded man on the Six Train!") I have cute, antiquated sayings. I say words like: fiddlesticks, gosh-darn it, crappers, and mrrrrf. "Mrrrrf" isn't so much a word yet, but I'm thinking it could be my own personal "Blurg."

I'm trying it on for size, if you will.

I think, Tina Fey, we're not that different. We're not that different, you and I. While I may not have those chocoatately brown tresses or the affinity for Solidad de Sabor chips, I must say, we both look really really good when bespectacled. Though I got my degree in Creative Writing and you got yours in drama, I did my fair share of acting, as I'm sure you did in the crafting of great stories. And, we share some genetic background! We're both of Scotch-Irish stock! Isn't that fantastic, Tina Fey/Liz Lemon?

Also, we love to eat our feelings. Once, when I graduated college and couldn't find a job, I lived off of cookie dough and Mr. Pibb for a month. And then I realized that people would probably want to hire me even less, the closer I came to resembling Java the Hut. So, though I haven't purchased a wedding dress because it was "40 percent off" and tried it on at the office, and inadvertantly was seen by all my co-workers and was forced to wear said dress all day to make a point and get ham juice on it, I think that you have tapped into one of the deepest parts of my persona. And that bond lasts longer than "I Love Lucy" sindications.

But enough about our similarities, because that's where they stop. You were a writer on SNL - the first female head writer, in fact - before you came to bless America with "30 Rock." You led Weekend Updatet with unwavering reserve; a sort of younger Peter Jennings with lady bits who sometimes was confused for a lesbian.

Also, there is that whole writing thing.

So, please, Tina. I give you two options. Either stop being so darn good at what you do, or take me with you to the top. I would scale a medium-sized hill for you. I would wake up eight minutes early, if it meant I might see you. If I saw you on the Six Train and I had a seat, and you were standing, I would seriously consider giving you my seat.

That is to say, if the homeless man was nowhere in sight.

Mrrrrrrf.

Yours Sincerely,
Beth

Yes We Did!

Some Thoughts of Media's Impact in Presidential Election

As part of the "East-coast Media Elite" (and I use that term very lightly, as I am on the lowest rung of that elitist ladder), it has been fascinating to watch how pop culture has shaped this election. Shows like "The Colbert Report," "The Daily Show," and "Saturday Night Live" have all put in their two cents worth, either explicitly, or hidden behind a faux-Channel suit-wearing, 'g' droppin' Tina Fey. It's no secret that the media has a liberal bias. Jon Stewart proclaimed his support for Obama early on; Fey brought to attention Palin's down-home quaintness - and her adorable way of dodging questions.

(Amy Pohler as Katie Couric): "Is it true that you become increasingly more adorable when you're cornered?"
(Tina Fey as Sarah Palin): "I don't know, you tell me! Pyew, pyew!" (She shoots imaginary finger guns into the air).

And what of Stewart's Old Man McCain jokes? In the weeks preceding the election, he would constantly make "get off my lawn, you crazy kids!" smears.

Now that isn't to say Obama was not the brunt of many a joke. With the middle name "Hussein" and a unique ethnic background compared to the pallid Protestants that preceded, come on. That's easier than falling out of the proverbial tree of knowledge into grassroots! But, for example, the opening skit to Saturday Night Live featured Obama and Hillary Clinton in a CSPAN interview. Everyone proclaimed to have "Obama-itis," "Obama fever," and just plain Obama-session. Obama was never portrayed as a feeble old man who had to take a nap on the road from caucus to caucus, but neither was he.

I was sent by the Post last night to report on the happenings at Union Square. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people - mostly the errant hip and young crowds of NYU, but a few older fuddy-duddies weaved intermittently. The energy was palpable. People hugging, dancing, drinking, singing - with all of their hearts. It was as though Christmas came early, or New Years happened on the fourth of November. People brought anything they had - pots, pans, garbage cans, drums, cello's, trumpets, silly string - to celebrate. Then came the brown bags and the dubious clouds of smoke. And then, a few daring young gentlemen thought it wise to scale the lampposts in the Square. One climbed to the top and was handed an American flag, which he waved euphorically over the crowd. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

McCain's Concession Speech was gracious and humble and beautifully delivered. At no point did he sound bitter or spiteful, or like he was going to chase some young hoodlums off his (seven) lawns. He admitted Obama was the candidate for the time, and hushed the boo's and hisses of his still fervent supporters.

Obama, meanwhile, delivered a speech that I think will be a hallmark in history books and presidential documentaries. As he has for the past two years, he spoke of hope, and of change, and begged Americans and politicians to drop the silly bipartisan labels of old. It is time for change. And this great nation will pursue that change, under the guidance of Obama.

In honor of Obama''s glorious win, I have written a poem:

Some people call it an abomination
I like to call it Obamanation
'Cause he Obamanated every
Insane husseincusation
And Came out
Solid as Barack.

I Wished I Looked as Smoldering and Pensive in Eye Makeup as Edward Cullan

I'm not one to hate on vampires. They've been through a lot these past thousand years. The whole condemned to darkness, eternal damnation thing seems like it might be difficult - even more difficult than waiting for the next season of "Mad Men." And I love shows like "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and mildly tolerate "Angel." Underworld was pretty baller, too. But seems like everyone's been bitten nowadays with something I like to call the "VampStamp." That is to say, latching on to a trend that was popular nearly a decade ago, and approaching it with as much creativity and insight as Sarah Palin does with foreign policy.

Case in point: Twilight. I, of all people, am not immune to pop culture phenomena: the Harry Potter series, "Gossip Girl," gaucho pants, and blue eyeshadow. But this is where I draw the line. I justify The Boy Who Lived with intellectual excuse: J.K. Rowling may be a literary magpie, a wordsmith of wile, but she begs, borrows, and steals from credible places. Hidden within all of the expecto millions and marketability, Rowling cleverly embeds references to classical Greek mythology, Celtic legend, and enough pathos and humor to keep the reader interested.
You're, like, totally hotter than my last girlfriend, Buffy.

As a social experiment, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about with the Twilight series. And so, I swallowed my pride as I marched in to Barnes & Noble and marched out with a shiny new copy of Twilight. On the subway ride back to my flat, I read the first chapter. "First Sight." Alright, I said to myself. This could be promising, in a sort of YA-bit-of-guilty-pleasure-to-hide-under-the-bed-when-English-major-friends-come-to-visit way. Like a cookie. Sinfully indulgent. But, as I sat on the L train and read the first few words, ("My mother drove me to the airport...it was 75 degrees in Phoenix...the sky was blue...") I cringed. This was everything - EVERYTHING - I fought so savagely against in my college workshops. Unimaginative, dull, poor writing.

It's every story I have heard before. The estranged and awkward (but appropriately pretty) new girl, Bella, has moved from her warm roots of Phoenix for upstate Washington to live with her father. (Fly Away Home, anyone?) Her new school is unfamiliar and bizarre. She seems out of place, though she manages to find friends to sit with at lunch. She asks one of the girls, Jennifer, about those five svelte hotties with the alabaster skin sitting all alone at a table in the corner. "That's Edward. He's gorgeous!" Jennifer says. Bella and Edward Cullan lock eyes. We know where this is going.

I could not make it past the first chapter. Call me closed-minded, call me a vampire-hating fishmonger, but when books are that obvious, there's little point. Please, humor me, and let me make my educated guesses:

Bella and Edward find they have much in common - mostly, their ridiculous good looks and incredible glow-in-the-dark pallor. Neither of them say much, because when you're that hot, what's the use? Oh, except he's a vampire and wants to suck the lifeblood out of her. Brilliant. Where have we seen this before? Not Joss Whedon's ingenuous "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," no? Of course, there is trouble in paradise, and something keeps Edward and Bella from being together. Insert a dark character shrouded in evil mystery. There's probably a kidnapping, a near-death scare, and a prom thrown in there somewhere.

Maybe I'm as off base as snow in Phoenix. But, maybe not. Does that mean that I'll boycott the film? Probably not. It is my patriotic duty to screen and suggest to you, loyal readers, what is quality and what is not.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to avoid the sun and try and seduce a mysterious man with a pallid complexion.

Quote of the Day: "He's gorgeous!"

If I'm Going to Die, I Want to Die in Manhattan

The storm's been percolating on this season's horizon: each character set up for the grand culmination. Peggy's secret lovechild with Pete; Don's erratic behavior; Betty's gradual liberation from the Stepford Wives; the Campbell's marital problems; Joan's unhappy engagement; Sterling Cooper's merger with Lowe. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The only question is ... what will explode?

This week's episode, "Meditations in an Emergency," is the title of a Frank O'Hara anthology of poetry - a moody, reflective collection that comments on dystopia. The episode certainly reflects upon that notion.

In last week's episode, Betty found that she was spotting. So she goes to see the doctor. Turns out, there is a third Draper bundle of joy on the way. The doctor is curious why Betty isn't delighted, even more so considering an abortion. "I find it hard to believe that a married woman of means is even considering that," he says. Don comes back from his sojourn to California, the prodigal husband. Betty has just finished riding (though the doctor has told her explicitly not to) "I want to be with you," he says. And who has ever resisted a sales pitch that Don Draper has made? Betty Draper, that's who. "Things haven't been that different without you," she says. Score one for the Home Front!

Meanwhile, the ever-ambitious Pete Campbell finds out he's got promoted to Accounts Director, as Duck has been promoted to the new president of Sterling Cooper. It is everything he has wanted. To be the new Don Draper. And, we see Duck's true colors. He has no wife, no life outside of Sterling Cooper; with this new promotion, he is eager to fell the mighty warrior of advertising.

Don's homecoming to Sterling Cooper is not a jubilant one. People no longer down gin like it is going out of fashion, no light-hearted jest, no laughter. People, hunched around the television. Tense radio broadcasts. Whispers of Castro. It is not the effervescent carnival of before.

"Mad Men"'s brilliance lies in the ability to simultaneously alienate and amalgamate - it's off-putting, for instance, that forty years lie between Don Draper and us - to paraphrase Dylan, the times, they have a-changed. But, there is a strange parallel between the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Economic Crisis of today. Though maybe not in the form of an empty Times Square or angry bickering at the local beauty parlor. Worry translates throughout the decades.

The nuts and bolts of the episode belong to the women: Peggy, Joan, Betty. Betty Draper. Betty Draper, Bonnie Parker. What's the difference there? Both are experiencing sexual liberation. In one of my favorite scenes all season, Betty goes to an upscale bar after dropping off the children with Don. A man on the other end of the bar buys her gimlet. "This means he'll come and talk to you," warns the bartender.

"We'll see about that," Betty says, taking off her coat and adjusting her new suit. The vintage McDreamy comes over to woo her, but Betty dismisses him like last year's fashions at Bloomingdale's. "Thank you so much for the drink, I'd just like to enjoy it, if you don't mind."

Back on the home front, Don and the children have ordered room service at his hotel. Sally and Bobby seem nonplussed by all of this...they're just happy they can watch "Leave it to Beaver" and eat burgers in bed.

Cut back to Betty: she asks the bartender to look over her parcels. We think she's just going to the ladies' room, though she lingers outside. McMystery comes back, obscured in shadow. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I'm waiting," she responds. He opens the door to the back room and looks at her expectantly. "I'm married," Betty says, more as a statement than an excuse not to go in. It's an interesting juxtaposition - Don at "home" with the kids, and Betty being the solicitous adulteress. It's a classic role reversal.

Then, it is time to meet with the new owners of Sterling Cooper. Tempers flare as Duck proposes a more surgical, sterile approach to advertising. "There's more than one way to run a company," Duck says, making a not-so-subtle jab at Don. To Duck, that means buying time on television. Lots and lots of time. To Duck, it's not about the client; it's about what sorts of profit the client can procure. To Duck, it's about what is owed to him. It's clear that his nerve is hanging on a thread, and he makes it known. Poor Duck; not only does he have an unfortunate name and no business prospects, but he's a lightweight.

"No, he never could hold his liquor," says one of the Brits.

The office clears out for the weekend, with some thinking it will be their last. Peggy and Pete are the only two left. So, Pete asks Peggy to stay for a drink, which, of course, leads to talking on the self-same sofa where they engaged in lusty, passionate copywriter passion. "I think you're perfect," Pete confesses, gazing into her eyes. "I wish I'd picked you, then."

You expect Peggy to swoon, you expect her to look at Pete and say that's all she's ever wanted, you expect her to say that there's still time. Peggy's look is hard to interpret. "I could have had you," she finally says. She confesses that she had his child and that she gave him away. Pete's less than dapper response:

"Are you serious?"

"One day you're there, and all of a sudden, there's less of you," Peggy explains. It wasn't in the cards for her to keep that child. She leaves Pete in the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb being dropped. And you wonder, why can't the Academy Awards apply for television? Because that scene was the stuff of legends.

And Don, content again to be the supportive father and husband he once was, wrote a note to Betty, begging her to take him back ("I'll be alone forever"). So, Betty invites him back to their house in Connecticut. And, what a better way to end. The perfect, Norman Rockwell painting of a family in front of the television. Mother, father, sister, brother. It would be cliche only if you know the backstory; both husband and wife have been with other people, Betty wants an abortion. They're on the brink of oblivion. Their world is crumbling from the inside out.

What, then, is in store for next season? (That is to say, if there will be a new season - AMC has not ordered any more shows as of yet.) I see the repercussion of Joan's rape by her fiancee, daddy issues, mommy issues, the Merger, at a lot more smoking and drinking, to be vague. Suffice it to say that they'll keep us coming back for more.

Way to Normal

In the elusive school of the unwilling, begrudging school of the errant hipster, Ben Folds might just be Dean. Or President. Or the guy who sits in the back of MUS 101 with a scowl on his face aimed at the Jonas Brothers, Miley Cirus, et. al. who seemed to have grasped success more so. And with his third solo album, Way to Normal, Folds flies the flag of the social outcast in Ray Ban's who never quite understood cool. Or didn't want to participate in it.

Fans of Folds will be delighted to hear iconoclastic Folds that Songs for Silverman seemed to sorely lack. From the hard piano rock of "Dr. Yang" to the soulful piano ballads ("Kylie from Connecticut") Anthropological issues are addressed, everything from gender to love to class. In "Free Coffee," Folds laments "when I was broke I needed more/and now that I'm rich I get free coffee." "Effington," like a sequel to "Jesusland," flips the bird to American conventions. The notion to marry, settle down, lead a quite life. "

The two standout tracks ( in my humble opinion, at least) are "Cologne (Piano Orchestra Version)" and "You Don't Know Me," featuring fellow piano prodigy Regina Spektor. The first is haunting in melody and message; semi-autobiographical in nature, a moody Folds decides to end things with his significant other, how they might have been happy if circumstances had been different. Besides being the top iTunes download, "You Don't Know Me" boasts serious indie-pop potential for the "Grey's Anatomy"/"The O.C"/"One Tree Hill"/"Gossip Girl" crowd of complex beats and existential meanings.

Regardless, Folds has proven that the way to normal is not the yellow brick road of promise. Let's hope, for listener's sakes, that it takes Folds many, many more albums before he becomes "Normal."

Quote of the Day: Bitch Went Nuts.

A Show to "Pie" For

"Pushing Daisies" is revived for a thrilling second season.

If, one night, the Brothers Grimm went to a bar and drunkenly went home with Tim Burton, Nancy Drew, and Dr. Seuss, "Pushing Daisies" would be its' awkward offspring. From brainy brawny Bryan Fuller comes forth the fascinating fantasy of Ned the Piemaker (Lee Pace,) a pious person who precipitates people back to life. Such is Ned's tale (narrated by Harry Potter veteran Jim Dales) - to resurrect his childhood crush Chuck (Anna Friel), only to spend the rest of his life wearing bells on his slippers, avoiding the second fatal touch.

That is the premise; perhaps a little kitsch, but Pace and Friel play each flawlessly, with just enough deadpan to counter-act the whimsy. Equally as interesting is the pint-sized Olive Snook (the charming Kristen Chenoweth) who banishes herself to a convent to keep her secrets silent. In homage to The Sound of Music, Chenoweth swirls round and round a mountainous plateau like a blonde Julie Andrews, only to be told "here we value silence." Probably for the best, since Olive is harboring some zingers: that Ned accidentally killed Chuck's father, that Chuck's aunts don't know she's alive...again, that Aunt Vivian is really Chuck's mother.

It would seem, though, that "Daisies"'s producers felt it proper to summarize the entirety of Season 1, as fair-weather viewers will only now be tuning in. The effect seemed haphazard, shoving a savory season one into a To Go bag without the extra condiments or spice. Why not re-air the Emmy-winning "Pie-Lette" rather than recapitulate?

That aside, "Bzzzzzzzz!" presented a strong season premiere, with writers having more time to think about the story in the Writer’s Draught of 2008. No more agoraphobia for Aunts Lily and Vivian, it seems. They are out and about in the town of Cour d’Cour and are ready to live life again. Vivian (Ellen Greene) is the more naïve of the duo, unaware that her sister seduced her husband and a little bundle of joy in the form of Chuck resulted nine months later. Lily (Swoosie Kurtz) haunts Olive like indigestion from a bad slice of boysenberry pie, even to confessional. (The quote “Forgive me, Father, for I don’t like to be poor” is a smiley surprise).

And what of the weekly morgue investigations? More gruesome every time, this week’s victim, Kentucky Fitz (Autumn Reeser) is covered by livid bee-induced welts. And after Ned kills (or re-dead’s) her, a swarm of bees explodes from her mouth. Things are getting stranger, more bizarre. It makes you wonder when the mortician will interject more than the brilliant, “Mmmmm hmmmm” every time the Scooby Gang investigates a crime.

There are a few cosmic questions left unanswered: how much longer can this innocent It Happened One Night romance play out between Ned and Chuck? Eventually, they’ll have to touch, or at least try to. And then what? What about Olive obtaining a porky friend named “Pigby” to replace the canine one of “Digby”? And what of the strange juxtaposition of Emerson Cod (Chi McBride)? First, he’s a P.I., then he knits tea cozies for stress, next he makes pop-up books to find his daughter, what will he do next? His character most of all seems the most inconsistent.

For now, though, I’m stuck to this sweet forensic fairy-tale like Chuck’s fingers are after tending to her many beehives.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: A-

Quote of the Day: Ned: “If I could breathe, I would vomit,” when Ned thinks Chuck’s aunts have seen her alive and well at the Pie Hole.

I Couldn't Find Waldo in Beijing's Closing Ceremonies

Fireworks. Wall dancers. Behemoth LCD screens. The Chinese version of the Death Star. Arguably more spectacle and theatrics than a production of Les Miserables. Yes, the Closing Ceremonies of the 29th Olympiad have come and gone, leaving the world with the warm glow of universalism and the fuzzy feeling of a global community. But what of the next four years? How will London prepare for such a daunting task?



Good question. You might want to ask them. But, if not - here's the plan in a London-sized nutshell. East London will be transformed - specifically, the Lower Lea Valley, a location which has "great untapped potential," according to the site. More than 200 buildings will be demolished to accommodate this task to make room for the Olympic Park, from an Aquatic Centre to Olympic Stadium, and the Velodrome. . And, after the Olympics have ended, the site will be metamorphosed to Europe's largest urban park.

The green may be good, but the gold is better, as the saying goes.

Maybe it doesn't. But it should.

Thought of the Day: I, too, was not ordained "cute enough" by the American government to publish this post. It has been type-synced so the optimal amount of cuteness has been reached.

Mad about Mad Men

Imagine you are sitting a smoky bar in Manhattan. It's 1960, and you are fabulous and drinking a martini, with a Lucky Strike cigarette hanging nonchalantly from your fist like some Humphrey Bogart. The terror of the Cold War has passed, the nightmare of Vietnam is nothing more than a vague whisper: you are rich and fabulous and work on Madison Avenue at Sterling Cooper Advertising Agency.

You are Donald Draper, Mad Man.

But things are more than they seem: Draper, the creative force behind successful ad campaigns, must deal with Peter Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser), the newlywed Account Exec who nips at his heals; his alcoholic boss Roger Sterling (John Slattery), and - of course - his own infidelity with his ex-model wife, Betty (January Jones). In this world of smoke and mirrors, people are naive to health risks (Betty's pregnant friend smokes heavily, Merlot in hand), easy to judge (the new divorcee who shamefully works at a local jewelry store), and slow to forgive (insert any number of unfaithful spouses).

Into this world comes wide-eyed Peggy Olson (Elisabeth Moss), fresh from secretarial school. She quickly learns to keep her mouth shut, to show and not tell, and to type 70 words a minute. This is no small town.


After watching the first season, it's no wonder this behemoth of a show snagged a staggering 16 Emmy nods. Each episode is a rich, 42-minute movie, complete with stunning cinematography, painstakingly accurate attire (down to the rather pointy underpinnings), and witty dialog. It's incredible what strides feminism has taken in the past 45 years. On Peggy's first day, Pete Campbell comments how she should show more leg. Housewives are meant to stay home and dutifully raise the children while the wily men live their fabulous Manhattan lives. And let's talk about Draper himself, brilliantly played by Jon Hamm. Never is it overdone, never too much. When he pitches, you believe he knows what he's selling, and he'd throw himself from the roof of Sterling-Cooper to prove it.

So, grab a Smirnoff, some stunning lipstick from a basket of kisses, and a Lucky Strike cigarette, and watch perhaps the best period drama to hit television. Ever.

Networks, Expounded

Stations have always (and I use this term lightly, since always implicates infinite existence) been giving themselves aesthetic face lifts. Things to make them pretty. Shiny, even. But what's in a network? What is the signature thing that makes someone say, "Oh, that's an ABC show, right?" Just what I was wondering. Let's investigate, shall we?


ABC
American Broadcasting Company.

Known Best For: Endearing dramadies, heart-warming home renovations, crazy islands outside of the space-time continuum, wipe-outs
Famous Faces: Meredith Grey's whiny self-indulgent mug ("Grey's Anatomy"), Ty Pennington ("Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," Sears commercials), Scared and/or nervous people from "LOST," Mickey Mouse.
Catchphrase: "Start Here."
Underrated Show: "Pushing Daisies." No matter what Entertainment Weekly pundits have to say about it.
Shiny Factor: Invented

NBC
National Broadcasting Company

Known Best For: Deadpan comedies, Laws and Orders, The Olympics, More Reality TV, Conan.
Famous Faces: Michael Scott (Steve Carell of "The Office"), Ann Curry, Liz Lemon/Tina Fey ("30 Rock").
Catchphrase: "Must See TV."
Underrated Show: "Chuck." It's cute and cuddly and nerdy and is available on a Friday night. What more do you want?
Shiny Factor: Flashy as a peacock.



CBS
Columbia Broadcasting System
Known Best For: Demeaning Reality Television, Moderately Good Sitcoms, A Lot of Crime Shows
Famous Faces: The sad little children exploited for "Kid Nation"
Most Underrated Show: "Jericho," and also: "Twin Peaks."
Catchphrase: Let's See Who Next to Exploit.

A Bright Day for the Dark Knight

There is a disconnect between Hollywood today and the Hollywood of thirty years ago. Back then, the blockbusters were the award crusaders - films such as Star Wars and Jaws weren't simply summer popcorn fodder, but films that promoted change, entertained, the whole nine yards. Heck. One of those franchises even inspired its own religion. And it doesn't worship giant demonic fish. It would seem that Christopher Nolen found a time machine - because The Dark Knight supremely delivers both.

Over a brooding Gotham City skyline, the dark hero watches a city that has restored to fear and doubt. A lot of sundry men in Joker masks attempt to rob a bank. One by one, they are weeded out by another of their heist group. "You're not needed anymore," they say. "One less share." Only when The Joker enters does the audience see that he is a One Man Act, and that his idea of making writing utensils to disappear is to hide them in men's craniums. Heath Ledger's Joker is not Jack Nicholson's. Ruthless, disturbed, and - oh yes - criminally insane, he makes the average viewer squirm uncomfortably. Are his deeds and actions funny? Certainly not. But seeing a grown man in demonic clown paint and a nurses' uniform brings up a plethora of emotions. And he has this ... thing ... with making sure his victims suffer. "It brings out their true character," says The Joker. Posthumous Oscar nods, anyone?

The film is covered by its overwhelming sense of darkness and doubt. Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) serves as the Beacon of Light in a city where no one knows who will be the next target, the next victim to Drug Lords or Psychosomatic Clowns Gone Awry. Christian Bale's dutiful Batman shines like a ray from the Batlight; the recasting of Maggie Gyllanhaal over Katie Holmes as Rachel Dawes is like Batman choosing his newer, lighter titanium Batsuit. Nowhere in the film are the kitschy references to a comic book, tight spandex costumes, or villains that can be defeated or understood. The Joker uses Gotham as his urban playground, where hubris and human nature collide.

And what of the brooding Batman himself? The guy goes around the entire time playing hero only to realize that Gotham needs someone to look up to, and another to collaborate against, and despise. Guess who's not the White Knight on the shining stallion? It's okay, though, Bat Boy can take the heat.

Seems like there's been some time-travel going on back to the days where Blockbusters are both satisfying and substantial. Go Hollywood. Looks like you've seen the distress signal in the night sky.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: A
A solid, brooding film that kicks Bat Butt.

Quote of the Day: Harvey Dent: You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Na na na na BATMAN!

Pardon the hiatus in writing. What is 'Bethertainment Weekly' if not a weekly entertainment from my innocuous and inventive self? But the job search continues, and seeing as these United States are in a bit of a pickle financially speaking, jobs are few and far between.

But I digress.

I'm going to see The Dark Knight in a few hours. So expect a fantastic film review. Really.

(Not) Gone to Pot: Weeds Season One

It seems unlikely that anyone pitching a show would have an easy job of it. A man pitching "Magnum, P.I.," for instance, might say something along the lines of, "...and Tom Selleck will run around in obscenely short shorts and fire guns and solve crimes." That wouldn't fly well. Nor would, "Silver foxes past their prime lounge about and talk of all the hot sex they used to have." So, one might imagine the shock a Showtime executive received when he heard this pitch: "A recently widowed, upper crust Jewish housewife and mother sells pot to her equally upper crust white Jewish friends and gets her dope from wise-cracking Mama, who be calling her a skinny bitch."

And yet, that is the basic premise for Showtime's ingenious series, "Weeds." The pilot wastes no time in semantics and begins in full-fledged medias res. Nancy Botwin (Mary-Louise Parker) lost her husband to a heart-attack witnessed by her youngest son Shane (Finding Nemo's Alexander Gould). She's already selling the MJ to suburban dads at soccer matches, already making pot-lemonade from the metaphoric lemons with which her late husband left her.

The writing is snappy and sharp. (Do the writers not indulge in this mauie wowie, I wonder?) . That doesn't mean that it doesn't veer into well-charted territory. It's as though "Desperate Housewives" moved from Wisteria Lane to Agrestic, California and, rather than sleep with the gardener, they move pot and sleep with the drug lord of the community college. Nancy's friend, or rather, PTA associate Cecelia Hodes (Elizabeth Perkins) is the vindictive, perfectionist mother that hides laxatives in her child's hidden stash of Hershey bars so she'll lose weight. There are cheating husbands, dead husbands, and - most importantly for Nancy - pot smoking husbands.

Nancy must quickly find a covert cover-up business before suspicions start to arise of how she's maintaining her expensive lifestyle. And why not open up a bakery, where her product can be consumed without the damaging affects to the lungs. But things aren't exactly 'smoking' for her.

You've got it all here. Intricate plot, disturbed children who imitate terrorist videos and then wave to Mommy, sexually charged deaf teenagers, and even poop humor. And the added bonus of seeming really cool when you talk about "Weeds" with your friends.

Don't mow the lawn; the grass can wait. It's this entertaining joint where you want to be.

Quote of the Day: Andy Botwin: How can you be so blindly pro-Bush?
Doug Wilson: I like his wife Laura... I used to buy weed from her at SMU.

The Dog Days of Summer

Some people tend to be partial to summer. No school, lazy days spent by the pool, no worries. But - of course - that also means no new shows. Yes, as the month of May wanes, so too does the quality of entertainment. Gone are the hopeful Oscar contenders, the art films, and even Blockbusters. In their place are crude facsimiles, usually to do with some talking rodent or a grown man in neon tights. Oh, and lots of explosions and things that go...

BANG!

WHIZ!

BIFF!

No new shows, alas. I am lost without "LOST," I want to be pushing up daisies with no "Pushing Daisies," I'm going mad without "Mad Men." (I won't tell you what activities the lack of "Weeds" encourages). Yes, there are the redemptive media apostles, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert - but the world needs more. More than pundit jokes about current events. More than clever taglines and theme music. But ... how? September seems like some sort of unobtainable Grail, an Elysium of plot and character development. Have faith, O ye with anxious eyes and worn sofas.

There is hope.

Here are several ways to hold on:

1. Revisit Old Favorites
What was that one thing that Michael Scott said to Dwight that was just so inappropriate? Or a steamy love scene featuring Jonathon Rhys-Myers? Thanks to modern technology, DVD's allow it. So figure out the mysteries of LOST, find out what made Betty ugly, and see if saving the cheerleader really does mean saving the world. (I'd argue, save the Nielson, save the show, but that's why I'm not an important television executive).

2. Discover Something New (That Might be Old)
There are a wealth of films and television shows that simply go under the radar. Find movies that were nominated for an Oscar but didn't win (some of them simply get the shaft when they are, in fact, the better film) and be amazed. Or, discover the beauty of television gems of yesteryear - "Boomtown," "Freaks and Geeks," and of course - the short-lived but epically entertaining "Cop Rock."

3. Do Something Old-Fashioned
Books. Ever heard of them? Sometimes they're in the pockets of DVD's and explain special features. They are heftier versions of scripts and screenplays. And some of them are pretty entertaining. And then there's hoop-twirling, four-square, and flashlight tag, for starters. For the more advanced, there are regattas, parades, poodle grooming, and French lessons. Très amusant, non?


Be strong. Please, do it for the television.
September will be here before we know it.

Quote of the Day: "Are you blue?"
"Only in color, Michael."

The Brill and the Aggro - The British Invasion

The Office. The Daily Show. Sanford and Son.

What do these three seemingly unrelated shows have to do with each other?

Is it that they're funny? That they deal with important issues like race, bigotry, and ignorance? That funny front men do inappropriate things?

How about they all hail from a small island in the northern Atlantic where the inhabitants drink tea and use proper grammar? Yes, that's right. Your favourite (as the Brits might spell it) television shows have their roots from Merrie Olde England. If it wasn't apparent with the recent super bands (Coldplay, Radiohead, Snow Patrol), then maybe it's the encroaching fashion. In any case, they came. They saw. They inserted their oddball humour.


The craze started as early as the 1960's and '70's when shows like Sanford and Son emerged after the British Steptoe and Son. Both dealt with racial bigotry and socioeconomic class, sure, but there is the whole accent thing to get around.

Big fan of TLC? Then you'd be a fan of the BBC as well; nearly all of TLC's programming has its roots in British television, from Trading Spaces (British alias Trading Places - see what they did there?) to the more famous What Not to Wear. The British version of the aforementioned is not nearly as polite. The brazen co-hosts, Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine, have no qualms against breaking into the victim's changing room and pointing out vast amounts of "poodge" that a pair of capri's are causing. Americans Stacy London and Clinton Kelly tend to tone it down and allow their guests to keep as much dignity as possible. Shut up, Stacy! I'm not even kidding!

And those of you who avidly watch the crazy antics of Jim, Pam, and Michael Scott? It started as the crazy antics of Tim, Emma, and David Brent. Only after a few desperate years did the comedy get transposed for American audiences. (And beer me strength, it did). The quirks and comedy was obviously adapted for American audiences, the insane accents, the obscure slang and the like.

So next time you're enjoying one of the Davids singing on American Idol, remember that it was Pop Idol first; Simon Cowell still offered his capriciously thorny criticisms; the only difference is the contestants on Pop Idol could understand him. So crack open a nice cold Magner's hard cider, pop on the BBC, and keep tuned, in a year or two you might be seeing a doppelganger show stateside.

Quote of the Day: "Bears. Britain. Battlestar Galactica."

What to Watch if You Can Ony Watch One Show For the Rest of Your Life

"Arrested Development."




That is all.

"The Bachelorette" Made Me a Widow: Several Reasons Why Reality Television Should be Forgotten like the Hackneyed and Trite Pseudo-Scare of Y2K

A few months ago, I had a behemoth of a cold. We are talking the Hindenburg of nasty viral infections. I was sick as a dog, I should have been quarantined and not have been allowed to resurface until Hilary is elected in office (meaning, of course, never). My point being, I had some unwonted free time, as rare as a lunar eclipse or Brittany Spears wearing more than one layer of clothing. Excellent, I thought. Now I can catch up on all of the quality television shows I’ve missed when I have so diligently been studying 18th Century British Literature.

False.

I turn on the tube only to find a terra nullius of shows—“Survivor,” “Big Brother,” “The Bachelor,” “My Super Sweet 16,” “Next,” – in fact, any show on MTV. (That network, at one point, used to play music, right? Or was that just a Buggles-induced fantasy?) The infamous Writer’s Strike of 2007-2008 had deprived me—and, by proxy—the world, of intelligent, plot-driven shows. Nowhere to be found was “The Office,” “Lost,” “Pushing Daisies,”—anything. It was a vast and desolate wasteland of shoulder cams and cleavage. Studies have shown, people have lost brain cells by watching “Fear Factor.” “Joe Schmo” has been known to cause uncontrollable drooling. And “Flavor of Love” has killed thousands of babies because of its asinine lack of plot and Flava Flav’s wardrobe choices.

Whatever happened to worthwhile, quality television that was both educational and entertaining, that stimulated a few dozen neurons and dendrites while being mildly interesting? While you’re shoving Cool Ranch Doritos in your pie hole with the same lusty vindictiveness in which Gerard Butler slays the Persians in a skimpy man-skirt watching “Big Brother,” is there any activity between thalamus, hypothalamus, and cortex? I’ll take a stab in the dark and say, probably there is not.

But it’s just a hunch.

Though I was young and naïve and had the thin veil of ignorance and callowness and extreme amounts of sugar from Hawaiian Punch, I remember the glory days of “Sesame Street.” And, of course, there was the wonder of “Wishbone,” a mid-90’s PBS show about a literature savy Jack Russel terrier who takes the viewers through lush landscapes of literary masterpieces. Ivanhoe. Paradise Lost. Great Expectations.

Now, the only Great Expectations viewers can hope for include the nagging question if Tela Tequila will ever find true love through the vast sea of sexually confused C-list actors and actresses. It is the basest form of television for those who will not or cannot follow simple story arcs and character development.

ABC recently broadcasted a teaser commercial proclaiming “The Mole” to be “the most fun you’ll have all summer.” Thanks, ABC executives. Why yes, before “The Mole,” the best hope for fun I had this summer was lathering SPF on Great Uncle Al’s back and trimming his nose hair. Geez. Just give me an embolism already.

In specific terms, “Kid Nation” is the Pol Pot of the reality TV show. Not only is it mind-numbingly dull to watch, but there are moral qualms as well. In a word, the show is about forty children, ages 8-15, who are left to their own vices in a ghost town in New Mexico. The ghost town looks suspiciously similar to the set of 3:10 to Yuma. It’s a western Lord of the Flies.

Or it would be, if not for the constant, irritating, and heavy-handed interference of the lobotomized CBS executives. Of course these children are not by themselves. They are surrounded by cameramen, producers, and child psychologists. And, like its’ big brother, “Survivor,” it is not the simple subsistence of surviving on an island or ghost town, but a heavily contrived romp of game-show like challenges and confessionals.

The children are split up into four teams—red, yellow, blue, and green. And from the get go, live, work, and play in these predetermined groups. Moreover, the socioeconomic status for the group is determined who wins the challenges. Say the Blue Team pushed all of their wagons over the finish line first. Then they become the bourgeois, and the others are below them. But do you see the flaw? (Loaded question, yes, but I mean within this context.) This is not a social experiment. It is the basic reinforcement of class and socioeconomics. In a word, it is reiterating the sordid underbelly of the American lifestyle.

The medium of television has allowed for this sort of meta-reality. It is not reality, but neither is it fictitious.

Even if this society would be autonomous—without the interference of ‘grown-up’s,’ there are the moral questions. Has television really sunk so low that they subject children to manipulative submission for the entertainment of a nation? In the “Kid Nation” contract, for example, there is a clause that reads something along the lines of the parents cannot sue and surrender all rights, including but not limited to if their child ingests bleach, looses an appendage, dies, or is sexually assaulted. For that matter, what kind of parent would subject their kid to this? And for a paltry $5,000 stipend, no less.

Excuse me, I need to release my vexation with this show and eat some Teddy Grahams.

It is called the Idiot Box for a reason, yes. But, what of what critics say—that we are in the Second Golden Age of Television? If that is the case, then there are a plethora of shows of which to chose that can be defined as entertaining, but with actual redeeming qualities. (Of course, the media is what I study, so I justify being able to watch 13 hours of straight TV). Post-Writer’s-Strike-Draught, there is a digital Babylon of quality shows. What of “30 Rock,” a wickedly intelligent comedy about writers in New York? Or “LOST,” perhaps the most intricate show to grace television since the dawn of, well, television?

What it boils down to is that people don’t want to have to think when they watch television. It is an escape, a means of travel that doesn’t cost $4.00 a gallon. It takes the viewer from the sofa to an abandoned ranch in New Mexico or an island in the Philippines without the hassle of having to follow intricate plot lines. That is, there is very little invested in reality television. You can just as soon sit down and watch season five of “Big Brother” as the pilot, and understand what is going on. Not so with “24” or “Dexter.” It’s the difference between a seven-course meal versus fries, a burger, and a shake at the local Burgers ‘R Us. One is delicious and takes time to ingest and discern, one is a quick fix.

And Americans have spoken on which of the two they like. Keep your giant hamburger with onion rings and pass me a book.

I think I’ll stay in bed with that cold.

Books versus Film: A Case Study of "Atonement"

At the Oscars, in the category of best picture, there are two distinctions: Best picture from material previously published or produced, and best original screenplay.

But where do they get the material for that?

Aliens?
Divine inspiration?
Woody Allen?

Short stories, yes. Paintings. Songs. All of those. But - the most obvious (and the most ambitious) is certainly the novel. The superlative Sistine Chapel of writing endeavors. Ian McEwan's epic novel, Atonement, is grandiose in a much subtler way than the film. Though each are confined on a simple medium (paper and plastic, respectively), they are both epics, without refute. McEwan takes luxury and delight in the most intricate of descriptions. In the scene by the fountain and the breaking of the vase, we find out why it is the most expensive possession of the Tallis family - that Mr. Tallis' brother fought in World War One, found it from a destroyed museum, and died a few weeks before armistice. Rich details like these are simply not practical for the medium of film.

At variance, director Joe Wright's already legendary five-minute tracking shot from Dunkirk is an impossibility to paint in prose. That is, the effect would be lost. From the chaos of shooting wounded horses, to drunken soldiers riding a carousel in celebration, to the scale of 3,000 men on a beach in France - gives the viewer the most accurate portrayal that one can hope to achieve (barring virtual reality and actually being there, of course). We see what the jaded, war-weary Robbie Turner does, experience what he does, feels his struggle through pictures, not words.

So which medium is better? Can it be phrased in such simplistic terms? Or does each have its own particular merits?

Yes.

Quote of the Day: "The cost of obvious daydreaming was always the moment of return, the realignment with what had been before and now seemed a little worse. Her reverie, once rich in plausible details, had become a passing silliness before the hard mass of the actual. It was difficult to come back."
Atonement, Chapter Seven

Jumping the Shark, Healing the Deer

"Monday, Tuesday, happy days.

Thursday, Friday happy days.

Spending the week with you..."

Glad to spend another week writing the Bethertainment weekly blog. Glad to be here after an epic tornado in which i was trapped in a grocery. Glad to maintain my dignity and not die next to chicken cutlets and Frosted Flakes.

And, glad to write about a new and exciting bit of entertainment fodder.

This week's theme? Jumping the shark. A popular colloquialism among television theorists, the idea of jumping the shark stems from a 1977 episode of "Happy Days" in which the Fonz, while water skiing, jumps over a shark. Many argue that this was the point in the show that reality was thrown out the window (arguably with good writing) and the future of the show was on the downward spiral straight to the loo. It is, in essence, the loss of the show's original charm, where the plot and/or characters have diverged far from their original beginnings. it is, in a word, a ridiculous moment where viewers furiously yell at their television sets, "YEAH RIGHT! that would never happen!"

So why pull this out of the bowels of obscure television history? Not only for educational purposes, dear readers, but to appertain to modern-day instances. What shows have or are Jumping the Shark? Which ones can argue it is part of the show's confines?

1. Grey's Anatomy.

Seasons 3 and 4 proved a tumultuous roller-coaster for producer and creator Shonda Rhimes. What with the fledgling "Private Practice" needing constant attention (much like Cristina after a rough day without a cutting-edge surgery). Managing both proved a strain on the show's essence - a sort of liminal "cuteness" (read: whiny self-indulgence) that kept audiences coming back for more.

This show's shark jumping did not, however, involve a large cartilaginous fish; rather, a poor dilapidated deer in the back of a pick-up. Izzy Stevens (Katherine Heigel) is seen "Healing the deer" to prove a point to her interns that she's a credible resident over her fledgling interns. See if this term doesn't catch on. I certainly hope it does.

2. Degrassi, the Next Generation

Teenage pregnancy? School shootings? Canadians? All of these are seen in the-n's "Degrassi: the Next Generation." The show follows Canadian teens as they navigate the halls of Degrassi High and the streets of suburban Toronto. One girl gets pregnant. Another gets syphilis. One is bi-polar. A student is shot and bound to a wheelchair. All very real and consequential issues that are dealt with on a weekly basis.

But what of the past few seasons? It's gone from covering controversial issues - from Manny Santos' (Cassie Steele) eating disorder and abortion, where the episode was deemed to 'racy' to air on American television, to JT Yorke (Ryan Cooley) selling drugs to support his unborn child to the token Christian Darcy Edwards (Shenae Grimes) worrying about losing her virginity. While this isn't a true "jumping the shark" moment, the resurrected "Degrassi" might need to go to detention and think long and hard about what they've done.

Quote of the Day: "Some advice: find a dictionary and look up "pathetic".

(Courtesy of "Degrassi" - thank goodness for angst-ridden, French-fry induced adolescent insults.)

Don't Worry, Be Jewish!

I am not a New Yorker. I have never claimed to be. But this weekend, I packed my bags and made the journey to the Big Apple - New York City itself. (Yes, you thought I wouldn't have any entries about travel, as I am somewhat land-locked to a small cornfield in southwest Ohio. Well, as fate would have it, you were wrong.)

A short flight and a terrifying cab ride later, I was on E. 80th and Lexington waiting for my friends to return from breakfast in Central Park. The smell of the city, the rush of traffic, the absolutely apathetic, gaunt faces of true New Yorkers clutching a designer bag that cost twice my college tuition and chain smoking some Marlboro's, all entered my senses. The sun beat down pleasantly, workers emptied their vans of fresh broccoli and carrots, or overpriced chez lounges. It was a beautiful day in the city. Minus the fatal crane accident in the city Friday morning.

For those who have never experienced New York, it is a necessity. There may be other places one must see - London or Paris, for instance - but, ah, New York. Not going to New York is like calling yourself an American and not liking baseball, or Republicans, or reality television. Bad example. But it's still a sight worth seeing. The woman I sat in the terminal with at La Guardia was on her cell phone, shoving jalepeno poppers in her mouth like a refugee and gabbing loudly on her cellphone to a friend: "I don't know who would want to visit that city. It's disgusting. It smells like stale hot dogs and pretzels, the subways are coated with germs, and there's homeless men on every street corner. And it's so damn expensive!"

Really, lady? Then why go?

Some of the weekend's events included getting horribly, horribly lost (we're talking crossing the Brooklyn Bridge lost) as well as the best Thai rice noodles in SoHo. Oh, and the Sex and the City premier. My friends and I were first in line. I'm not quite sure it was worth it.

Sunday morning began with grabbing a legendary H&H Midtown Bagel (blueberry with plain cream cheese) with a friend and relocating to Central Park. around ten, we noticed ... there seems to be a whole host of activity from roundabouts Fifth Avenue. Turns out, it was a parade to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the declaration of freedom from the British mandate of Palestine in 1948. First, the sounds of marching bands reached us, then bagpipes (?), then - most importantly - some girl singing Bobby McFarrin's "Don't Worry, be Happy," but with slightly altered lyrics.

"Don't worry ... be JEWISH!"

Quite amazing. I know New York.
I need New York.
I know I need unique New York.

Quote of the Day: "...and then i just looked at her, you know? What else is there besides New York? A lot of cornfields and fat people." - A woman on the 6 Train.

There's No Place Like Home

Today is a watershed day for many.

It marks the last Thursday of the month of May. It marks the anniversary of Edmund Hillary (and his Sherpa from Nepal) reaching the summit of Mt. Everest. Bob Hope was born this day. Wisconsin enters the American Union. And to be added to this vast catalogue of importance, , the season finale of LOST premiers.


I'll admit right now, I am a bit obsessive and - dare I say - fanatical with this show. You would be too after a lingering flu and a lazy Christmas vacation. but I'm not here to justify my noble cause: I'm here to enlighten and engage the general public to what will surely be the defining show of the Second Golden Age of television.

Whoah, sounding a bit too much like a COM class there...

So ... where did we last leave these island cast aways? We've discovered the Oceanic Six, and see their initial arrival to the civilized world once more. But ... there's something that Jack, Kate, Sun, Sayid, (and Aaron, though he can't really talk) aren't saying. What of this fabricated tale, that they were the only survivors, that their survival was one of Lord of the Flies - subsistence on a deserted island. And when any of the five "mix up" a detail, it is of course, due to shock, and not the inaccuracies of their fabrication.

One of the delicious riddles of the show now is how these people manage to get off the island; they are visibly unscathed, relatively un-traumatized, and all at separate points at part one of the "There's No Place Like Home" denouement. Kate and Sayid have been taken by Charles Widmore's people, Jack and Sawyer are again roaming the jungles of the island, Jack fresh from a recent appendectomy and sewn up like a 7th grade home economics project. And Sun? She and her husband Jin have been transported to the freighter to await deployment.

An interesting tidbit from part one of the finale was during the flash-forward. Jack is deposing what happened when the plane (as he says) hit water. "We used cushions, a few life jackets...at that point, there were only eight of us left." Eight, eh? but it's the Oceanic Six. I'm no math major, but some things are not adding up.

And, hallmark to LOST and its' hidden intelligence, this season's finale gives a more than generous nod to various cultural and literary elements. "There's no place like home" of course, is a line from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the beloved children's novel by L. Frank Baum. On many occasions, the show salutes these metafictions - that is, stories that open the characters into strange and wonderful worlds they never thought existed. It can be said with Alice when she goes "through the looking glass" (the title of season three's finale) or of Dorothy when she realizes she's not in Kansas anymore. could the writers be insinuating the island is no more than a vivid fabrication - a falsification made for whatever reason to keep the island's inhabitants in a sort of limbo or purgatory until their lesson is learned?

Or maybe they just really really like to freak the viewers out.

Quote of the day: Locke: You guys have electricity? How do you manage that?
Ben: We have two giant hamsters running on a massive wheel in our secret underground cave.

A Flurry of Films

This weekend was one of elevated intellect, elevated insight, and elevated blood pressure.

The first two are owed in part to the vast amount of films I watched. The last has to do with the $4.03 I paid per gallon of gas, as well as the promise of seven years indentured servitude and my firstborn child.

America’s national holidays let me savor time that I wouldn't have had originally, and provide a cathartic release to watch all of the films I’ve wanted to watch over the past few years but have made excuse - you know. "Oh, I can't, not tonight, A Shot of Love with Tela Tequila is on ... is she straight? Is she bi? Is she greedy and attention-seeking?" "Not tonight, I have a headache," "..." and so on and so forth. But with little excuse, barring my iTunes library is already too full, I decided, with no time like the present, that this was the weekend to catch up.

I have a friend who won't watch the Oscars unless she has watched all films nominated that year. At least for best picture. I’m not sure how she feels about Foley editing or best-set intern - I’m just talking about the majors.

I’ll start with the one I saw last: there will be blood.

Daniel Day-Lewis plays (incredibly, I might add) the hardened, articulate oil tycoon Daniel Plainview, a man bent on striking deals and finding as much black gold as possible. He claims to be a family man, caring for his prepubescent son, H.W. (whom he adopted, an orphan child of one of his dead workers).

The film follows several decades of Plainview’s life, from humble beginnings in the 1890's where he digs for silver but finds black gold, all the way until the 1920's, where Plainview has evolved, gone to seed, and the years seem to be catching up on him. The humble, concise Paul Sunday (Paul Dano, who plays the identical twin Eli as well) once approaches Plainview in the late 1890's about his family's goat farm, where he believes there is a lucrative market for oil drilling. And thus begins the transformation of the sleepy town of little Boston from religious bastion to industrial behemoth.

The clarity in which Paul Thomas Anderson writes and directs makes this film an instant classic. And let's not talk about DDL - who listened to old turn-of-the-century recordings to adapt the speech patterns of men of the time. And his mustache? Day-Lewis means business. Oil business.

In this sleepy Texas town (which was coincidentally filmed right next to its Oscar contender, no country for old men) we find less of what life is like in 20th century oil country and more of the evolution - or regression - of a man. Plainview reveals to his brother, "I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people." you don't get a plainer view on Plainview than that.

I drink your milkshake.

Watch this movie. Now. Or there will be blood.

Tomorrow: If you're lucky (or if I’m up to it) an in-depth review of the season finale of LOST.

Quote of the day: "I drink your milkshake."