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!"