NYCweboy

Look, Muffy, An Editorial About Us!

One of my favorite things in the New Yorkers I read as a child growing up in Maryland were the little squibs at the end of long articles. They would feature misprints, examples of interesting malapropisms, typos that made a sentence completely unitintentiionally hilarious, things that newspapers miss in the rush to get the paper out the door.

That doesn't happen so much now - I blame Tina Brown - but my own sense of subversive humor gets re-kindled, now and again, while perusing the paper and tripping over an unintentionally hilarious or revealing moment. Like, for instance, yesterday's bizarre editorial on 3-D movies in the New York Times, which ends:

The actual world doesn’t have to create the illusion of its three-dimensionality. Its depth is so pervasive that we forget to notice it. We register it with a kind of 3-D equanimity, taking in everything as part of the natural field of view. There’s an unexpected serenity, a calmness, in how we see.

That was the pleasure of walking up Broadway from the theater. When a man looking for spare change said “Hey, bub!” his face didn’t leap into the foreground, nor did we suddenly see ourselves walking toward him from his point of view. The light mist that was falling didn’t hang like the northern lights between us.

It was a pleasure to take 3-D for granted and marvel, for a few blocks at least, at the subtlety of the special effects inherent in ordinary perception.

... missing from that last sentence? "Then we told the bum to stop bothering us, got in a cab, and headed back to the Upper East Side." Isn't New York glorious?

The Soul That Lives Within

Good Hair is the rare film that lives up to its preview - fast, funny, bracing with barely controlled anger, Good Hair delivers on its promise to go inside the story of black people, their hair, and the complex mix of culture, chemistry, and creativity that is wound up in it.

Chris Rock's basic premise - that he's struggling with what to tell his little girls about "good hair"  (largely a cultural conception that you are doing better, hair-wise, as a black person if your hair more closely resembles that of European white women) - ostensibly drives the documentary, but that may be the film's weakest payoff, since he's no closer to a good answer at the end than he was at the beginning.

But the getting there is fascinating, revelatory, and shows how throwing humor into the documentary mix can add layers to how we look what's unfolding in front of us. Part Paris is Burning, Part Michael Moore, Good Hair, in its best moments, doesn't just climb in, under and around its subject, but shows that the documentary form can still evolve, and can still be the best form for the right subject.

Rock's journey is organized in fairly straightforward manner; he takes apart, piece by piece, each element of what goes into styling black hair - from touring factories that make relaxer (the lye-based chemical that is used to straighten especially coarse hair), to visiting the largest trade show for beauticians in Atlanta, to exploring the elements that go into making "weaves" (hair that is glued or sewn onto the head), Rock pulls together a fascinating tale of money, and conflicted politics in which everyone's choices are problematic... but the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts.

Along the way, Rock gets great, frank observations from a wide swath of African Americans about some of their most intimate aspects, what goes into making their hair the way it is, how they feel about it, and why they do it. As several of the women point out, for a long time, everyone pretended that no one got weaves... and the admissions about weaves, who wears what and what they entail, is by itself worth the price of admission.

It might not, however, be worth the price of a weave; Rock makes a compelling case - aided, brilliantly, by Al Sharpton, of all people - that the biggest problem here is economic: both the exploitation of women in India who essentailly give their hair away, and the black women who scramble to find the resources to cover hair care bills that run into the thousands... though, that said, my $300 Asian perm suddenly seems comparatively cheap.

Rock ends with an American Idol style hair show contest at the Atlanta beauty trade show, a much coveted prize among stylists. The value of the contest footage is debatable, but it does underline Rock's overall observations of the complexities in this: you've never seen anything quite so strange, quite so beautiful... and so thoroughly artificial. And the question that lingers is... really, is any of this worth it?

The answer isn't obvious; as I left the theater, I felt more self conscious than usual about my long, straight hair, that moves with the kind of ease many of us crave. The sociocultural observations Rock raises - and never fully resolves - are not ever easily answered. But it is, really, long past the time we asked what we're doing, why we're doing it, and whether or not it's worth it. That Good Hair manages such a challenging notion, and remains thoroughly respectful of its subject, and utterly enjoyable, is a rare quality in any film, never mind in documentaries. As a cultural object, it insists on being seen; as a film, I highly recommend it.

Girls Rule

I think it's time to admit that Drew Barrymore has grown up.

I don't say this with any joy - Barrymore is the Piscean actress I admire most, who seems to float through her career with lots of interesting detours, never quite with a sense of direction... but always somehow terrific - like not winning an Emmy for Grey Gardens, and yet, somehow, clearly being in charge of its every success.

Still, when you direct a major motion picture - and the results are as charming and winning as the new Whip It - perhaps it is time to admit that someone has put away childish things.

Whip It doesn't give up on kid-like enthusiams - there's lots of swearing, riot grrls with tattoos, and even a food fight - but it succeeds admirably for two reasons: one is by keeping its eye on a smal, sweet story and the other is by making female centered film about sport.

Roller derby may not seem an obvious choice for turning into a tale of sport heroics, but in Barrymore's hands it all makes sense. Whip It is the story of Bliss, a sweet, shy girl who tries to live up to her mother's dream of competing in Texas beauty pageants, but finds herself drawn to the wild girls of a local roller derby, winds up pulling out her old skates and trying out for the team. In short order, she learns to be a tough, kickass derby girl, and helps lead her team of lovable misfits to a chance at greatness.

Oh yeah... and she gets the lead singer in a rock band and she totally wins her parents over to her side.

Whip It breathes knowing coolness by remembering why coolness matters: it's how misfits and geeks work to redefine themselves in a way that both says "fuck off" to the world and rises above the stupidity of petty humiliations. If the gals in Whip It throw more elbows and take more hits than the rest of us, they also get to remind us that they do it all with heart and a shared camaraderie. This is girl power of the best sort, a film that believes in women, in their strength, and their power... and believes we can all get there, if we tap into our natural resources.

In a field of great, winning performances, two really stand out: Marcia Gay Harden reiterates her capabilities as an actress as Bliss' mother, a mail carrier of modest means who dreams of big things for her daughters. It's a performance so layered and so full of possibilities, that it lingers long after the film is over. The other is Kristen Wiig, displaying the kind of mix of toughness and good heartedness that I think Jennifer Aniston yearns to produce naturally, as team captain and mentor to Bliss.

Of course, the whole affair wouldn't work if the lead performance sucked, and Ellen Page reminds us, yet again, that Juno was not a fluke (or a mannered, indie exception). Page is the real thing, a winning mix of grit, determination and winsomeness, perfect for teen rebels and exploring the less obvious, less seen contours of life as a teenage girl. Though Bliss becomes a roller derby standout, we can see that this development amazes herself as much as the audience, and that she will not sacrifice her other strengths - a goodhearted nature and sense of decency - for success. I'm not sure many sports films have had a hero, or heroine, this good.

Barrymore pulls all of this together with a sureness and a sense of off kilter grace that, again, show a real grown-up flair; it's absurd that she has had to work so long for an opportunity handed to 20 year old boys out of USC... but I suspect Barrymore needed a life's journey to get to the point of telling stories this well and with this much assurance. I can't wait to see more... even if the film is not perfect, and the biggest misstep is Barrymore herself, in a somewhat misconceived supporting role as the klutzy, fight prone team member. She's better, and bigger than the part... and it shows.

But that's a minor quibble. Barrymore gets so much good work out of so many people (rapper/actress Eve, Juliette Lewis, Jimmy Fallon, and a slew of lovely teen unknowns), and shows such a winning touch with the material, it's almost absurd how she can take some of the hoariest elements of storytelling, and give them a fresh, edgy spin. And mostly it's because, to its (broken) bones, Whip It believes that women can do anything. So do I. And someday, I think, the rest of the world will grow up to that.

A Woman, Alone

It's surprising, really, that Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel's life has never quite made it successfully into film (or theater, for that matter). A fascinating woman with a fascinating life, hers is probably the most public, most obvious example of the changes in women's lives over the twentieth century - both because she lived her own with such
ferocious independence, and because she then changed the world for a lot of other women, through her pioneering efforts to change women's fashion.

Coco Before Chanel (Coco Avant Chanel) is the latest attempt, infinitely more satisfying than much of what's come before... and yet, still, only hinting at a lot of the possibilities. A lush, beautiful film, beautifully realized, Coco Before Chanel may be a great film about fashion, indeed one of the best yet... and still manages to leave a sense of not being entirely complete.

Abandoned by her father to an orphanage in the French countryside, Chanel grew up with her sister, learning the kinds of things girls learned in orphanages run by nuns - how to sew, and serve - until eventually the two girls struck out on their own as aspiring cabaret singers. With limited options for them financially and personally, both women  move to find older men who will "take care" of them - i.e. as courtesans or mistresses - and both succeed. Coco's sister winds up the mistress of a Baron, and Coco gets involved with Etienne Balsan, a wealthy horse breeder and businessman.

The film presents Chanel as very much, from the beginning, her own woman. She does what she has to do to survive, but she doesn't feel bound, especially, to either convention, or the expectations of others (how very French!). It helps that Chanel is played by Audrey Tautou, luminously beautiful, as always, and capable of conveying volumes in a glance. As Chanel, she keeps herself slightly set apart from the world around her, and we see how Coco takes in what she sees - what people wear, what fanric does, how people react. And we see, gradually, how Chanel's personal style eveolves, and how it brings her to making her own style of clothes for others.

Eventually, Chanel meets Arthur "Boy" Capel, the young scion of a family of British merchants (who speaks impeccable French and thanks to Alessandro Nivola, is drop dead handsome), and falls in love.  But any dreams she has of finding respectability in marriage are thwarted, again, as Capel marries someone considered more suitable by his family, while continuing his relationship with Chanel.

It's all very sophisticated and French and stylish... and it bears a close relationship to what actually happened... if, for instance, you completely ignore Chanel's relationship with the Duke of Westminster or her friendship with Misia Sert. Obviously intended to simplify and straighten out a fairly complicated, often messy life, Coco Before Chanel does better than most to suggest the evolution of style and the development of a free spirit's life... but by cleaning up the details, eliding past major characters and oversimplifying (admittedly more gracefully than others) the development of ideas like Chanel's exposure to fine tailoring, the little black dress or the use of jersey, the film does itself, and the viewer, a disservice. It's Chanel reimagined for the small, independent arty film... and that's fine for what it is... but Chanel's life was, in many ways, bigger than that. It was opera, it was theater, it was big budget cinema. Shrinking it... tends to shrink the possibilities.

Director and cowriter Anne Fontaine clearly sees the feminist elements at work here, and more than previous attempts, Coco Before Chanel notes the pioneering role Chanel had in redefining the possibilities in women's lives, especially the possibility that a woman can lead her own, independent life, without marriage or other traditional notions, as a man would. And Fontaine does better than many French directors at balancing the need to keep the story coherent while showing considerable artistry. The film soars, in part, because it doesn't succumb to the American need to hammer home every development with an exclamation point... it trusts our ability as an audience to figure some things out.

Though the ending can seem tacked on, I think it was also vital - seeing Chanel, as she became, giving one of her later fashion shows ensconced, as she was, on the stairs of her shop in the Rue Cambon, makes clear what the early going, by itself, cannot: that you couldn't do what she did, without the life she led. I believe that's true, and I wish, still, someone would take on Chanel as she deserves to be taken on - courageously, ruthlessly, demandingly... and big. A lovely, gentle bonbon of a film, Coco Before Chanel hints at the possibilities... but only hints. Think bigger.

Romanspeak

As a kid of the seventies, I find the return of the Roman Polanski case fascinating, because it's treated now, as if it was a big deal at the time... and it wasn't.

Polanski's arrest, legal troubles, and subsequent flight generally caused barely a blip in coverage. It was later, when Polanski returned to fairly prolific filmmaking that the question of his "exile" became more of a story... and prompted a return examination of the initial story.

And even then, probably two events really raised the temperature to where we are now: his Oscar for The Pianist and the subsequent documentary Wanted and Desired, which both laid out the events of the rape of a 13 year old girl, and made the point that there was, in fact, no serious effort to return Polanski to LA for any kind of resolution.

In the flurry of attention and energy that's been generated since Polanski's arrest, in Zurich, for extradition to the US, I think there's been a push to pick a side... and less acknowledgment that, in fact, there's an uncomfortable middle that's probably where we belong. Should Roman Polanski come back to LA? Probably, yes. Does that serve as the end of this story? Probably not.

And that's because the person who really needs to speak out and explain himself is... Roman Polanski.

Roman Ampitheater

One of the better lessons from regular blogging is... you don't have to have an opinion on everything. Like say, a feminist who admits her love of wedding blogs... I could have an opinion, but why bother?

Or, consider Roman Polanski. Please. Don't ask me what I think... because I am studiously avoiding taking a position. At least for now. When people I admire and respect can lay out passionate points on both sides... I listen, and for the moment... I'm leaving it at that.

This is all kind of new to me... I like to think of it as some sort of growth, on my part. "Go in, guns blazing" used to be my default approach. Age, and a little experience, has made me realize it's okay to listen, and wait, and take it all in.

Jeralyn lays out the case for Free Roman. Ann Appelbaum offers points over at WaPo...

And Kate Harding takes them apart. As does Melissa over at Shakes. And feminists all over marvel at the defenders...

And for now... that's all I got.

Give Me Time, I'll Make You Forget The Rest

It would be easy for Fame to take the path of least resistance and do yet another faux "gritty", lightweight, heavy on the new style of urban dancing "Dance Movie" that's been done, really, to death. Perhaps the happiest

development is that this is not Step Up 3 - or Inner City High School Musical 6 - even if, in the end, this is neither a remake, nor a repeat, of the 1980 original.

Fame (the original) gets a lot of credit - more than I think it needs - for what it was, a musical at a time when the musical form seemed especially dead. The crush of seventies realism, the generally grim economic times, and the faltering of American cinema had all combined to make the idea of singing, dancing, cheerful shows quite passe. In some sense, the musical has never entirely recovered... though it has, I think, begun to adapt to the realities of leaving the old "showtune" ethos behind and embraced the rock - and music video - eras.

The orginal Fame was a key part of that; by focusing on the Performing Arts High School of Manhattan, the performances could grow, organically, from the material... and not lose the sense of being grounded in the reality of urban life. But that grounding, to me anyway, was often unnecessarily intense and negative, meant to give us a sense that performing was really these kids only moment of escape... but denying the essential thrill of getting to do what you love, and love what you do, for its own sake. Not every story needs sad punctuation.

Urban life isn't all harsh realities and downbeat moments and Fame, now, adapts well to the changed notion of modern urban existence. Less grim, less negative, Fame still presents a unique, diverse notion of the passion to perform, grounded in reality, but given, this time, a chance to soar. Watch it fly.

The Day I Want To Cut Off All My Hair

So yesterday was rough.

When nothing - from my finances ("destitute" applies) to basic chores (our lawn is frightening, like the place is abandoned) - seems to go right or get done... I get myself further and further down til everything seems futile.

And then, naturally, I decide I hate my hair and I should cut it all off... also, I am destitute. And cutting off my hair is cheaper than keeping it. Plus feeling fat and bald and awful will be easier when I am fat and bald.

I've been so very up and down lately... and I don't really know why. It's not like things change enomously one day to the next... but one day the world looks  all right and I can make it, after all.... and the next day, it's all awful and hellish and I hate everyone and everything.

Last night, fortunately, I ran into an old friend, who has far more to bitch about than I probably ever will... and he reminded me that neither his problems, nor mine, or the end of the world. And when he suggested 27 Dresses, The Women and Auntie Mame as a way to cope with my bridesmaid dilemmas... well, I knew why this guy has always managed to brighten my world (and that's not even mentioning the awesome chance I got, thanks to him, to see Bette Midler at Radio City. In the 8th row).

And you know what he said when he saw me - hairdresser that he is?

"Wow, your hair is amazing. It's really grown out!"

Okay... I guess I'll keep it. :)

Patrick Swayze, Dancer

It's a world I don't really recognize, this world where Patrick Swayze captured our hearts and imaginations and had such a brilliant career. I don't mean to seem callous... but we are talking about Patrick Swayze... not Patrick Stewart. At least Stewart's decision to play to commercial success over art seemed to involve a choice.

A lot of people are talking about Dirty Dancing and how transcendent it was, which is kind of true... but also not: it was a slow summer, no one had made a successful musical - never mind really featured dancing as central to the plot - in years, and Swayze was, yes, wildly attractive. It helped that the script for Dirty Dancing was literate and well put together. But we shouldn't overstate what it was - a real classic summer popcorn pleaser - and raise expectations too high. The real power of Dirty Dancing is in the first word, not the second; it's not "nobody puts Baby in a corner", it's that Baby is a grown woman and the story of her summer fling is about dancing as sex, sex as dancing, and both being pretty damn enjoyable, if you do it right.

Dancers and swimmers... the real secret is in the powerful legs.

I always admired Patrick Swayze because he was an unabashed, unashamed dancer; he was well trained (by his mom, for starters) and good at it, and he was straight and butch and he had nothing to prove. There's nothing wrong with being gay and a dancer (that's me)... but it's the one profession where the two kind of get assumed together, and it's more than a little unfair to straight guys who dance. Swayze went a long way to demolishing preconceived notions, without being arrogant or defensive about it.

He was not a great actor; nor was he a particularly exceptional singer, and had he been either, I suspect he'd have made an effortless transition to Broadway star, which never quite happened. As it was, he was a fairly unique combination of beefy good looks, stolid presence, and graceful physicality. All of that is showcased most effectively in Dirty Dancing... and rarely after that. Though I have to admit... I've never seen Roadhouse. But trying to shower accolades on a career littered with Point Breaks and Ghosts and all sorts of B-list business... it's too much labor to try and dress it up.

In some ways he was too early and peaked too soon - the world of show dancing that's appeared in recent years (So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing With The Stars) would have loved him, in his prime. They might even have embraced now, after all these years, had he been well enough and strong enough. I wish he'd danced more, in public; that's where I think we missed out, where Hollywood never made the best use of his finest skill. And I suppose that's why I don't think of Swayze as "gone too soon" - the lives of dancers are just not as long as everyone else; it's hard on the body... and the heart, I think. The dancer is gone. The celebrity survives.

Act Natural

This past week saw a flurry of articles and blog posts about black women and hair and the question of "natural" - it precedes the arrival, this fall, of what looks to be a fascinating new documentary from Chris Rock called Good Hair.

I've written about my hair before, and I fall, pretty squarely, in the nebulous middle ground of the art and politics of hair and people of color. I have had a weave, and braids, and all sorts of "natural" hair - colored, processed, and currently thermal permed (a/k/a The Asian). Yes, I have even worn my hair in pretty much the way it came - naturally dark and curly. I like to change my look, just because that's who I am. But I'm also honest enough to admit that, like others, my image of "good hair" is white and European - long, straight, flip it out hair.

As I've also said, I know from experience the gendered expectations of hair - when my hair is short, and appropriately boyish, I get approving reactions that I do not when my hair is longer, more adventurous, more overtly presented closer to the way women wear hair. I can even gauge that reaction, lately, when I choose to go with or without a ponytail - long haired men who pull it back also fit more of a gendered expectation than those who do not.

But I talk less about the racial experience of hair. That when I wear my hair in a straight, combed out style I get better reactions than when it is long, loose and curly. I get treated differently, I get seen differently - people do not immediately see me as black with my current long straight hair; I must be South Asian, or Native American, or possibly Indigenous South American/Hispanic.