Friday, October 27, 2006

Utilitarian to the Brutal End

Today I had what could be considered a quintessentially New York moment. It pains me to use that phrase, as I mostly associate it with girls in my high school who saw Rent 500 times and thought their lives were "just like" Sex and the City--excepting of course the relationships, setting, daily habits, general intelligence of surrounding people and income levels--but besides that, they were sooo Carrie. Be that as it may, I can think of no way to describe it, and it's 1:30 in the morning and I have no desire to ponder it further.

It's rather well accepted, even by those that don't live here, that New Yorkers are surly and self-centered. I don't think it's true, but I must plead guilty to one count of New Yorkdom in that I generally don't want to make small talk with someone I am buying a paper or V8 Splash from. My main concern here is speed, as I am a busy man with an expensive datebook. Sometimes I don't even stop--pick up the Times and drop a dollar bill in one elegant, hurried motion. But today I was heading back downtown after meeting a friend for dinner on the Upper East side. Subway stations tend to reflect their neighborhood, so this one was a bit nicer, and had multiple newsstands. As it was late, and trains are about as frequent as good Fergie songs, I was having a bit of a browse. None of the magazines really caught my fancy, but subway stations are about as hot as a frat party at Florida State, so I bought a Diet Coke from the laughably small freezer. I was listening to my iPod, as I almost always am when I walk anywhere, so I just sort of lifted the can to his eye line and looked at the shopkeeper. He met my gaze, and rather than say anything, just held up his index finger, so as to indicate that it was $1. I paid, and walked down the platform.

It was a wordless commercial transaction, but as the shopkeeper was Indian, it is conceivable that we could have conducted it in English or Hindi (I would guess). Instead, we chose the unofficial language of New York--a dialect of silent efficiency tinged with quiet appreciation. I've become quite fluent in it, and when it's working, it's fantastic.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Babies are the new black

After reading this link online, I was pretty shocked. I don't know if it is totally true, but let's just assume it is because it makes for a funny and depressing story at the same time. This trend of babies as a statement of compassion worries me. I feel Angelina Jolie genuinely cares for her children--both adopted and birthed--and that she wanted to give them better lives. At the same time, my deep and abiding mistrust of all things Madonna tells me that she realized how much goodwill Angelina was getting and decided "I can be a trendy Mom too!" The way Madonna's adoption was publicized made me feel like she called a couple of newspapers from her diamond cell phone and told them she was doing this, which cheapens the whole thing a bit. The reasons to adopt a child is if he/she is unsafe or not being provided with food, water, and shelter, not to exercise your own vanity and reveal the magnificent depths of the ocean that is your narcissism. The money Madonna is lavishly and pointlessly spending on this baby could provide the village he hails from with food and shelter for thousands. An electric car? For a baby? What the hell is going on here?

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Too Many Good Men

It's long been a source of embarrassment for me that I don't own the movie "A Few Good Men", because I've seen it somewhere on the order of 12,563,235 times. The first time, I was about 11 or 12 years old and I don't think I had the faintest idea what was going on. I was just responding to a few snippets of funny dialogue and the intensity of the scenes. Now, as a news addict and ardent evangeliser of Aaron Sorkin, I appreciate the film in so many ways. It really shaped how I look at the military and the way they conduct themselves, because let's face facts--we need them on that wall. This was his first big success--the play he wrote that was turned into this movie, and I firmly believe it is one of the best movies I've ever seen.

Even my wholehearted efforts to purchase the DVD are thwarted at every turn, as I can almost never find it in stores. Either it has been out for so long their is no space for it on the shelf and it has been squeezed by the likes of the insipid trash that is Nanny 911, or it is so staggeringly popular that it is constantly out of stock. But now, thanks to the wonder of the Internet, I need not agonize over the glaring omission of this film in my collection. Instead, I can just watch the best scene of the movie on YouTube over and over until my eyes fall out of my skull and everyone ignores me for fear that I'll tell them (again) that this scene is so masterfully written that it practically defies the natural order of our great and glorious universe.

I'm off to see if I can find YouTube clips of "The American President." If I have, you'll be among the first to know.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

A Brave New World

Blogger has given me a new version, but I am not clear on what any of the new features mean or if they are even useful. Despite this, I dutifully updated because when it comes to Google, I try all of their products and am a loyal foot soldier in their army.

I saw The Departed this past weekend, and like every review you've read, it was awesome. I loved the biopics Marty, but I'm glad we're back in gangland. This movie is in many ways a return to form for all involved. It marks a return to crime drama for Scorsese, Jack Nicholson's is playing twisted evildoers again, and the reemergence of the long dormant, but much missed Boston accents of Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg. Martin Sheen has one too, but I never really associated him with Boston, but rather with idealized Democratic Presidents. Damon and Wahlberg's accents are, in a word, resplendent. DiCaprio's intensity is bursting in every frame--he looks as though he is constantly about to snap, but I must say that Alec Baldwin's humor and Mark Wahlberg's savagely hilarious profanity were underrated aspects. William Monahan's insults recall a Mamet-like ferocity that makes me wish I liked my friends a little bit less, if only to allow me to obliterate them as seen on screen.

I have been helping my friend Brady with a script that he's writing, which allows me to see how many "Arrested Development" and "The Office" style awkward moments I can cram into a 10-12 page screenplay. The answer is a lot, but I really believe Brady has written a fantastic script. I was very interested to see how the writing process works for the screen, as it seems to be heavily predicated on showing the drafts to as many people as possible, gathering as many suggestions on pacing, joke placement and length, fears of repetition, balance of characters, etc., and distilling them all while maintaining the idea of the piece. It is a task I do not envy, and was glad to help in any way I can while maximizing the amount of credit I will receive from it.

Co-writer credit. I'd like my name in Helvetica in the credits Brady. It has a quiet elegance.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

The Devil, I Know

Despite my own deep protests, I don't believe I failed the accounting test I took this morning. I had been convinced, completely convinced, that I would--but after finishing it, that doesn't seem likely. Deep and abiding pessimism pays off, it would seem.

I am going to try and write a story (not a very good one) about an incredibly good looking man who is very lonely. I've started 500 stories in the past 3 years, and they are all populated by variations on a few character traits: lonely guy, rich guy, rich lonely guy. I only ever think to write about men--sad, lonely rich men--because I don't imagine I could convincingly write in a woman's voice. The way women think is entirely aloof to me. I've had women tell me stories wherein they are walking me through a decision or a conflict they've had, and their reasoning is something I could never have deduced given 1,000 years and a map. I suppose that is why when I am scouring for fiction books, I never think to read one written by a woman. In fact, just thinking about it right now, I can count very few women authors I even like--Harper Lee is good, but that's all that comes to mind. It isn't that I believe women to be inferior writers, I just don't gravitate toward their work. I don't think women and I share a sense of humor--mine is far to dark for most polite society. If I find a female who loves Ricky Gervais/Stephen Merchant, Arrested Development, Aaron Sorkin, Oscar Wilde, Brendan Behan, and/or Steve Coogan, I'll read her book tonight. Or quite possibly marry her. That's really up to her.