File this under the who-asked-for-it category: Lilith Fair is back. You read that right. Eleven years after Sarah McLachlan folded her tent, she’s reopening it with another femme lesbian circus playing for peanuts.

Yes, of course the Indigo Girls will be performing.

I am secure enough in my ovaries to skip the whole tour, thank you very much. Although I am (a) a woman (b) something of a feminist, I also have (c) taste. Nothing against the fine female singers on the docket: Mary J. Blige and Emmylou Harris, you’re good people. But Sheryl Crow? What have you done for me lately besides adopt a baby you couldn’t have with Lance Armstrong?

Granted, I am not the audience for most music festivals. Ozzfest is clearly not my thing (though I went to one on a first date. That should’ve been a good indicator that the second wouldn’t work out too well). And even the ole, beloved Lollapalooza was a bit windy for my taste. Realistically, I’ve got about a 2 hour concert-going limit. After that, my bladder or my back sing louder than whoever’s on stage.

But of all the festivals to bring back…Lilith Fair? She’s not even on Cheers anymore! If I wanted to watch outdated femme-centric performers, I would rent old Family Ties episodes on DVD. Or Top Gun, with lovely crossover Kelly McGillis. The mere thought of suffering through an entire day of such “diverse” female artists (since when is a group composed of a single gender diverse?) makes me wish instead for whatever torture the White House is currently dreaming up for a certain Nigerian who just tried to blow up a certain flight to Detroit.

Seriously, folks. I would do almost anything to avoid the Indigo Girls.

No question about it: I am an avowed fan of Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko. I could probably watch it monthly and still find new stuff in it to cherish. I appreciated Southland Tales in all its deep, dark messiness. But The Box? I found it too dumbed down to love.

At first, I wanted to believe that Cameron Diaz, never the thinking woman’s heroine, was responsible for The Box being painted in gigantic Mark Rothko strokes. (When in doubt, blame it on the former model!) In truth, it’s the screenplay that hits you over the head with its obviousness.

At one point, the antagonist actually lays out his evil mission in a direct exchange. There’s absolutely no hiding the exposition in this scene. And there’s no hinting, bait-and-switch, or outright confusion in the movie as a whole. Sure, Kelly leaves some loose threads, but they’re basically at the hem of his garment. So we don’t really care that they’re dragging on the ground. The characters pretty much spin around 360 for you, and they’re wearing your typical screechy 70’s patterns and (for Cameron) the most unflattering makeup on earth. No alien bunny suits in sight.

Kelly ups the bleak quotient with The Box, but not in an awesome-soundtrack, sad-sack Gyllenhaal kind of way. This time he’s messing with the fate of the universe–ostensibly bad news, folks–but it doesn’t play. Maybe my gripe is that I don’t particularly share the morals I’m “supposed” to. But c’mon: I would’ve hit that button so hard and so often my entire line of progeny would be wiped out for millennia. And you know what? It would be worth it. Try walking the same uncreative path for 8 hours a day, five years running and see what kind of alien demonology YOU wouldn’t be willing to embrace.

I’m not writing Richard Kelly off, yet. I hope he makes a fortune with this one, and I hope he uses the money to fund another completely-tripped-out story of an individual–rather than a poor makeup artist’s representative of the human race.

‘Til then, keep your boxes with your buttons to yourself–lest I unwittingly wipe out our planet in a misguided effort to bankroll my early retirement.

For the past few weeks, this guy in my office has been raving about the new IMAX technology. Granted, it could be the same technology they’ve been using for the last ten years. It’s been at least that long since I was willing to fork out for a six story nature show. But I’m totally susceptible to rave reviews. (Which explains why I paid good American currency to see The Changeling.)

Apparently, full features are released in IMAX, now. It’s not just for nature anymore! At the Museum of Natural History in New York, however, it’s all earth all the time. I can’t imagine how many terrifying visions of extreme weather, journeys to the tops of mountains and fierce (or cuddly) animals they had to go through before they sank to this depth: Beavers.

The museum website doesn’t even give these poor creatures an adjective in the title of their IMAX debut. They don’t package them as “funny,” “resourceful” or even the tried and true “busy.” Nope. They’re asking you to fork out for plain ole beavers. All twelve-year old humor aside, is any beaver worth twenty bucks?

Seeing as the little guys spend most of their day building shelter, I can imagine that half the movie will actually be shot inside oversized dams. Q: What could be less exciting than watching a bucktoothed mammal build a twig-and-mud contraption? A: Watching a twig-and-mud contraption instead of Where the Wild Things Are, screening across town at Sony Lincoln Square.

I have to admit, part of what gets me about Natural History is their ticketing policy. In order to see IMAX, you have to pay the full (rather than suggested) admission to the museum. I’m a big fan of the pay-what-you-wish policy, as I’m pathetically closer to a starving artist than a patron of the arts.  Even so, I imagine that I could pull a crisp bill out of my hat for Spike Jonze.

Beavers, not so much.

I guess I’m never going to meet John Hughes, now.  I’ll have to let that little fame-seeking fantasy go, along with the one where I get to do high school over and end up with Andrew McCarthy. Mr. Hughes has passed away to the prom in the sky, and I don’t know if I can keep from crying.

Growing up in the 80’s, the Hughes’ repertoire was far and away my gold standard of teenage fare. We didn’t have Twillight’s vampires. We had humans to lust after. Truthfully, I still prefer Judd Nelson to Robert Pattinson. At least the “rebel” has a nose. (The better to sniff out cheerleaders with a proclivity for bad boys.)

Speaking of which–Molly Ringwald, the cheerleader in question–perfect casting. Pretty, sweet, but not impossibly gorgeous. She amply fulfills the audience stand-in role for teenage girls in many of Hughes’ most memorable films, fitting perfectly into the “she could be me” category…whereas Kristin Stewart is far too haughty for the every-woman role. When I was 16, there was no way I rolled my eyes that much. My closest relatives may disagree. But please, let me still cling to a few fantasies….

I have to admit, too, that I feel guilty about Hughes’ death–he died in “my” city. New York killed the 80’s, man! He won’t be the last visitor to have a heart attack there. But he was one of the most influential to my generation. Sorry, Wisconsin. We didn’t mean to take him from you.

Flat out, John Hughes was a brilliant filmmaker. He captured teen angst like nobody else. Sure, we all remember our our teen heroes the best.  Hughes was mine. He gave me hope that the jocks, the nerds, the weirdos and the popular girls could all sit around a table together one day. Guess he anticipated FaceBook that way.

For the hope, the dreams, the laughs…to the late, great Mr. Hughes: RIP.

Logically, I know that Phil Spector’s guilty verdict doesn’t “make up” for OJ’s acquittal.  Emotionally, however, I feel vindicated. To a small degree, at least. The fact that Spector’s jury could deadlock in the first place still amazes me. But at least those ten jurors hung onto their convictions (pun intended). Had they allowed some renegade Henry Fonda-type to twist their arms, Phil Spector would be running free today on the streets of LA, scooping up ugly wigs, hair dye and gun cocktails to serve up to a host of blondes in his kitchen.

But no, Spector was convicted.  Karma is alive and well. What goes around comes around.

So. Famous white guys can’t kill women anymore, and get away with it. Well, not when they run screaming out of their house to tell their driver ”I think I killed somebody.” And certainly not when they’re discovered with a smoking gun in their hands, standing over a dead body.  In a pool of blood. It seems that even talented, famous white guys can’t get away with using the old prescription drug withdrawal defense, anymore.

(Please. Twinkie highs are a LOT more unpredictable! Though the defense may only work for shooting homosexuals.)

Maybe one day famous people won’t be able to kill their wives, either. Or beat the crap out their girlfriends.

Now, if only we could get Robert Blake on kidnapping, assault, and grand larceny of Baretta collectibles….

I was young when Mickey Rourke came on the scene. As in, pre-pubescent. Later on, when his star was rising, I was an innocent teen (which doesn’t exist any longer, I’m told. Gone the way of lemonade stands and newspaper routs, apparently.) Which goes to say that I have very little pre-boxing experience with the pretty boy actor. Sure, I’ve seen Diner, Pope of Greenwich Village, Barfly, 9-1/2 weeks. But I didn’t experience those films sexually. I missed out on the animal attraction.

It’s not absent from his more recent work, though. Let me tell you.

The bashed face, the scars, the ridiculous awards show suits and shoes, the sobriety–he wears it well. The actual acting is lionesque. (No, I was not on set of the Wrestler to see what was Rourke and what was Aronofsky. But I respect them both enormously, as I do my own ability to recognize their individual efforts on screen.) I have never seen a film like the Wrestler in my life. In fact, I would have to say that Rourke’s performance puts it in my top four favorite films of all time. Along with, ahem, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off , Fargo, and the Wizard of Oz.

(By now I assume I’ve lost anyone who was reading thus far.)

Despite my schizophrenic, and perhaps inexplicable taste in film, I should mention that Rourke’s is the only acting job that ears my nod. I will not defend Judy Garland. Or Matthew Broderick. (Come near my Frances McDormand, and you’re in trouble, though.) I love those films for a variety of factors. Fargo: the writing, primarily. Ferris: the giddy youthful feel, Wizard of Oz: the sheer glory of color and costume and fantasy come to life. Now add the Wrestler: a masterpiece of tragedy, comedy, brutality and tenderness.

 I was embarrased by the character of Randy the Ram, embarrassed for him, hopeful, angry, lustful. All this in well under two hours in a story set in New Jersey. I can’t tell you the last time I gave a crap about anyone I wasn’t related to who lives in Jersey.

Yesterday I watched the Wrestler twice, back-to-back, for my second and third showings in the theater. A bleach-blonde double feature. (Yes, Marisa, you were wonderful. But you didn’t go through hell and back in your career and come back to vanquish. Try some heroin for a decade and get bashed to shit and quit the smack and  then we’ll talk, K?) I could’ve sat through it a fourth time, too. This from a woman who can’t sit still for an entire episode of Seinfeld on DVD.

So thank you, Darren Aronofsky. And thank you, Mickey Rourke. You raised the bar on character for me so high that I can only hope to climb up on a ladder and reach it with my own writing.

Apparently metabolism isn’t the only thing that changes as you age. I’m finding myself increasingly frustrated by “art house” uh, art. Movies, books, paintings, etcetera. Living in Wyoming, it’s hard to speak about much more than books and movies. We’re pretty far removed from the visual arts, here. Unless you like horses. In that case, we’re smack dab in the middle of the action.

Movie-wise, we’re not privvy to the more experimental releases, as you might well imagine. But we do have a twice-annual (spring and fall) film festival. It’s a great addition to our non-existent nightlife, though it only shows on Wednesdays. After the Oscars. Mostly after the films have come out on DVD.

I caught Synecdoche, New York this week. Wow. I really am getting old! In my aged impatience, I have a need for films to flow….linking scene to scene…ultimately telling a story. I never knew that about myself. All throughout grad school I argued with the concept that writers were storytellers. At that point, I thought it was sufficient to record human experiences. The more mature I get, the more I believe that our real job as writers is to shape our experiences into palatable, truthful, beautiful and sometimes cruel tales. With a beginning, a middle, an end.  As well as characters that pay dividends on a stranger’s generous investment.

I have no interest in hanging out with whiny, self-absorbed dudes (Sideways was a prime offender). This preference explains my distaste for most of the Beat writers, some Hemingway, and, though I haven’t quite given up on him: Charlie Kaufman. I love the absurdist elements in Synechdoche. I love the bold dialogue. I hate that the movie doesn’t tie up in any kind of package, let alone a neat one. Caden Cotard’s conumdrum is best left for someone who could possibly give a crap about a cheating, hypocondriac, egotistical creep–decidedly not my fave type to fill the hero shoes.

Now, I have no problem with flawed characters as a rule. As long as there’s an arc: Learn, grow, change. DO SOMETHING! Without an arc, I’m forced to play therapist. Or Lit major.  My tastes are not particularly populist, but I do enjoy certain aspects of commercialism. Like storytelling. And good, clean links between scenes.

If nothing else, my own taste is refined with every instance of bad execution I experience. So for that, I would like to thank Mr. Kaufman. You can cling to the elitist “she just didn’t ‘get’ it.” I will stick to my “he just didn’t execute it well enough for me to care.”

Now back to my studio to practice what I preach….

I’d just managed to bury the terrible blood behind my viewing of the Changeling, when along comes Benjamin Button to stir the pot again. Admittedly, I’d read enough glowing reviews of both films to have higher-than-normal expectations. Still, I’d never expected that everyone involved with both productions (I will leave Taraji P Henson alone–she was in her own movie, anyway–) could be guilty of phoning it in.

And then somehow getting their studios to press hard for an Oscar nomination.

My main problems are as follows: Why can’t these directors convey a “heavy” message without their stories crawling at a pace more languid than Cate Blanchett’s excruciating drawl?

I understand that there are tax breaks for filming in the Big Easy, and it’s somehow become patriotic to film down there. But not everything below the Mason Dixon Line moves like a cripple stuck in molasses . It is possible to tell a story set in the south without falling victim to plot torpor. (See: Hustle and Flow.)

Here’s the takeaway from Benjamin Button–the version that will save you almost 3 hours of precious existence: Life happens. Now you can skip the effects, which are supposed to be so riveting, and spend your money on Australia instead. Believe me, you’re better off for not having wasted 25 minutes at a Russian hotel for no reason.

Changeling: if I never see another skeleton on roller skates shed crocodile tears it’ll be too soon. Here’s the flick in a nutshell: Never, ever fuck with tha LAPD. Especially if you’re a woman.

Now, come on heavy-hitters: make me feel something, think something, AND plaster me to my seat. I don’t need an hour and a half of set-up to get me into the story. Really, I don’t. I’d much prefer to get in, get out, and leave with mascara streaming down my cheeks.

If there’s enough time for my makeup to dry again before the credits roll, you haven’t done your job.

“I see something shitty happening in the world, and I slap some zombies on it.” –George Romero.

The Peter Travers review of Diary of the Dead included this quote, which makes me want to rent his entire zombie canon this weekend. My plan is to settle down with a big bowl of popcorn, a cake, and a catheter only to emerge again, hair unkempt, on a monday morning. We’ll see if the man goes along with the plan….

It struck me, too, that “slapping a zombie on it” seems to be the Republican Party’s approach to the election. 

Ahem.

I’m still looking for a one-liner to sum up my own artistic process. Maybe “get snacks, start up my laptop and see what happens?”

Sadly, I think it lacks a certain…je ne sais quois….

Any takers on the undead film fest??

Since I live in a rural community where the highlight of the 4th of July is, honestly, watching my vet blow up explosives in his backyard, I did exactly what Hollywood hoped I would this weekend: dragged my man to the movies.

I guess the blowing-stuff-up bug hadn’t left me at the vet’s backyard, because I had a hankering to see Wanted.  I got just what I paid for, too: stuff blew up. There were car chases, dudes-in-peril, knife fights and, best of all, a cubicle take-down. But of all the millions of dollars spent to engrain these scenes in my brain, the image that won’t leave me is Angelina Jolie eating a hamburger.

Here’s the scene: James McAvoy is getting the crap kicked out of him. He’s bleeding heavily through the nose. There are knives. Angelina is in the background, smirking, ostensibly chewing. Damn it! I can’t pay attention to the blood gushing all over the place because I’m waiting to see Angelina swallow her food.

She never does.

Now, I know the movie is supposed to be a bit ridiculous. I mean, an underground network of assassins run windsprints atop a subway car. Clearly it’s a comic book world. I buy that. But in no way can I buy a 5′7″, 95 lb woman pretending to enjoy a gigantic slab of red meat on a bun.

I guess we all have our limits. Mine, I discovered, start–and end–with anorexic chicks. Blood, gore, assassination attempts are all no problem. But when a grown female with the BMI of an adolescent famine victim acts like she’s not starving herself, my hackles go up.

Eat the damn burger, Angelina. Kill the bad guys on screen, not yourself.