New York, I Love You

There is nothing in this world that I love more than movies. I did, after all, devote four years of study to the crafting, telling, and analysis of the medium. There's something so great about film - it taps into telling stories and delving into the human condition, belly-first. But, if there was ever a contender for things I love more than movies, it might just be New York.

Enter "New York, I Love You," the perfect hybrid of motion picture and the Big Apple.

It's like Christmas when I first discovered they're making a companion film to 2006's Cannes Film Festival darling, "Paris, Je T'aime," appropriately titled "New York, I Love You." The premise is simple: each five minute vignette is about a specific part of New York - the Upper East Side, Bronx, East Village, and so on. And each vignette is written and directed by a prominent director.
It just so happens to be the directorial debut of Natalie Portman, who appeared in a "Paris, Je T'aime" vignette.

Emmanuel Benbihy, the architect and ingenue of these love letters to various cities, is also planning "Shanghai, I Love You," slated for release in 2010. And though "NY, ILY" won't be out until October, there's still plenty to love about this film - it boasts all-star cast, from Robin Wright Penn, Orlando Bloom, and Andy Garcia (it angers me that Blake Lively is in it, though she is a part of New York, if only fictitiously.)

Does this mean "Cleveland, I Tolerate You" is in the works? Doubtful. But who knows, the wanderlusting writers of "Paris, Je T'aime" might have started a vast empire.

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.

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.

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.