NYCweboy

Touched For The Very First Time (Or The Second, By A Werewolf)

"You never forget your first time" is one of those backhanded phrases that I think no one really wants to endorse. Of course, some people don't have memorable first experiences, and of those who do, only some, I suspect, really want to remember. I like to remember mine - with an artist of some repute in the art world, who I recently found out (in Vogue) is now married and living in Italy - because it has a certain name-droppy quality (come on - the first guy I slept with is written up in Vogue!) and, frankly, I had a really nice time.

An Education takes the familiar story of a first time experience with sex and love and manages to reinforce not some unhappy message about starting too young (there isn't, really, a right time, I think), but manages to remind us that we all have a first time... and then we move on. And it's okay.

Set in the early sixties, An Education tells the story of Jenny, a middle class girl in England, pushing for her chance to get into University, when she runs into a much older man, David, who... well, leads her astray. Soon, Jenny is ditching her studies for glamorous excursions into nightlife and David's slightly seedy world (he is, bascally, a huckster) of style without a lot of substance.

This is not necessarily new ground, but Nick Hornby's screenplay (from Lynn Barber's memoir) and Lone Scherfig's direction keep things focused on Jenny's slightly bemused, observational take on her own flowering into womanhood. Many of these sorts of female coming of age tales can give the girl a hard time for having her own desires or for enjoying her sexuality; An Education doesn't fall into those traps. In so doing, it manages to uncover new lessons in old truths: that something too good to be true usually is, and people say things like "stay in school" for a reason.

As Jenny, Carey Mulligan has one of this year's breakout roles, and she really does shine; if Jenny seems a little too easily converted into her new roles, Mulligan does a nice job of showing the quality of making up adult sophistication as you go along, unaware of the mines around you. Making sure Jenny survives is a good reason to see this film through. As David, Peter Sarsgaard is effortlessly charming, and manages to turn an easy stereotype into a real combination of believable contradictions. His betrayal is all the more striking and disheartening because the lies he's telling are to himself as well as others. Meanwhile, Olivia Williams and Emma Thompson do impressive supporting work as caring educators trying to keep Jenny's eyes on the real prize.

An Education made me realize how many of the films I'm watching these days - this, as well as Precious and even New Moon - are variations on women coming of age, and how long that process has been out of sight, hidden. As well, An Education made me think of those youthful days of bravado and mistaken choices, and how perhaps the message we forget to pass along is that you will make mistakes, and survive them. Learn something. Move on.

Which is why perhaps the  most disheartening thing about Twilight: New Moon is that Bella, the lead character, seems to learn nothing. Bella is the protagonist in the doomed vampire love affair that drives the Twilight saga, yet as with the first film, she seems about the least present thing in her own life.  The story continues to feed the contradictory - and arguably quite damaging - messages that a seemingly strong, independent thinking woman is nothing without a man, incapable of self protection, and prone to depressive fits when faced with her own solitude.

New Moon compounds the problematic themes by confounding Bella with a new problematic relationship: when Edward Cullen leaves her (and makes it seem her fault), Bella turns to Jacob, her childhood friend, part of a local native American tribe near her hometown. A with Edward's vampire status, it's no surprise to point out that Jacob is a werewolf, as are many men in his tribe.

"Preposterous" doesn't begin to cover this kind of plotting - I mean "Smart Women, Foolish Choices" didn't even envision a woman who could lurch from vampire to werewolf, nor did Anne Rice - and Stephenie Meyer's novel doesn't seem to offer much to make sense of it. The film suffers enormously from the absence of Robert Pattinson for the middle hour, as Jacob and Bella's attraction deepens, yet seems to go essentially nowhere fast. The movie picks up steam when Meyer essentially swipes the final act of Romeo and Juliet to service her threadbare plotting, and for once, the vampire elements of the story finally yield some results in the Vultari clan of Italy, Rice-ian vamps who drip luxe elegance and barely suppressed violence. Of course, we leave them there... and go back to rainy, drippy, desolate rural Washington state.

It's literally painful to watch this exercise - Pattinson, Kristen Stewart and Taylor Lautner all recite their dialogue as if it hurts, all done at a snail's pace that does nothing to give any sense of momentum to the proceedings. Pattinson is as exquisite as before, but that missing hour robs him of a chance to either connect with the audience or make a compelling case for the deathless romance meant to fuel this story. Lautner, sadly, is just overwhelmed, and while he may prove to be a viable presence, that's not what's here; as impressive as his physical transformation is for the role of Jacob, Lautner lacks some essential element of dangerous menace to give his scenes with Stewart tension. Without that, things drone along, and the emotions often seem misplaced, or misplayed.

The more obvious problem remains Stewart herself - faced with a depressive, reactive character, she has yet to inhabit the role fully, rather than sketch at it; Bella's endless passivity, her self destructiveness, moodiness and selfishness... do not make for likability or resonance (it's telling that the female driven audience divides neatly into "team Edward" or "team Jacob"; a "team Bella" would be hard pressed to dredge interest), and Twilight remains the curious saga of a girl no one seems to like or want to be, who is far less interesting or compelling than the things around her. If there's more to Bella than her flaws... Stewart seems at a loss to find them. And while director Chris Weitz has solved some stylistic flaws of Catherine Hardwicke, he's done little to solve the film's central, problematic messaging to its female audience. 

And in the end, I found myself wishing that Jenny could give Bella some of her wisdom and sense of perspective - enough to see that a doomed romance isn't the end of the world, and a bad boyfriend is a nice thing to have... in your past.

Choosing and Choices and The Choice We're Stuck With

Of all the problematic aspects of the healthcare bill still (still!) not fully decided in Congress, none I think is as far reaching as the Stupak Amendment on coverage of abortion. And as much as it is revealing the complexities of applying the idea of "no federal funding of abortions" to health insurance, I think the bigger problem it's revealed is a deeper, more systemic question: is the left really as unified on abortion as we've been arguing for years?

One of the more popular lines people have been using in the new millenium is that abortion is "settled" - there's a left-right divide, easily labeled "pro-life and "pro-choice", never the twain shall meet, and almost all of the rest of anyone's politics can be determined by the simple test of picking a side on abortion.

It was never that simple, and it never quite will be... but I think up until about 2006, it was easy to mask internal tensions on the left while the Republicans were self destructing.

Blame it on the first President Bush and his "big tent" philosophizing, but for whatever reason, the drama around abortion for the past 15 years or so had been on the right. As much as religious conservatives were clearly anti-abortion absolutists and just as clearly had the power to dictate policy, the far right didn't have a lot to show for control of the Republican aganeda on abortion. For all the talk about "sanctity of life", the anti-abortion agenda of repealing Roe v. Wade, passing some sort of Human Life Amendment banning abortion, or even extensively altering laws at the state level never quite developed into much in the way of success. And many, myself included, would conclude that the problem, simply, was that anti-abortion forces were a vocal, but not powerful minority.

It's a real indication of the failure of Republicans in the northeast that "Country Club" Republican types - especially women - were never particularly interested in having government intrusion back into women's lives by excessively restricting or limiting abortions. Or, more pointedly, starting with abortions... and moving on to banning access to birth control. And the minute the Southern, religious conservatives made anti-abortion and other social issues central to whether or not you were a real Republican or a RINO... the exodus of northeastern Republicans began.

A big part of the Republican crack-up - the part that's keeping them from really figuring out how to reassert themselves into the majority - is just what the abortion tensions signify, a whittling down of the right to a smaller, more conservative core group much more homogenous in belief and approach to issues. "Prolife" is one of the easiest unifying points of the current Republican/conservative narrowing, pretty much a given among one and all, and virtually no candidate - even perceived "moderates" - can really voice any kind of support for women's reproductive freedom. That's one reason Stupak was so obviously going to pass - Republicans had no way to oppose it. And you can have unity around an unpopular doctrine... but you can't do it and be in the majority.

All of this means that, with Democrats in the majority, the question of who's got deep internal tensions on abortion suddenly switched, and in ways I think many people were unprepared to face. Yet the indications were always there - in the conservative and "Blue Dog" candidates being chosen, in the soft pedaling of "abortion rights" to rehtoric about "pro-choice" and "safe, legal and rare."  Liberals have operated under an illusion that we all supported women's reproductive rights... but never really determined just what everyone thought those rights should be.

One of the most problematic aspects of the "abortion debate" - a debate, as with other controversial topics, we talk more about having than ever actually have - is that much of the terms of debate are mush.  Neither "prochoice" nor "prolife" ever really meant anything, and both, really, served as fig leaf descriptions meant to protect people from the extremes of either side. You may not like abortions... but you'll support "choice."  You may not like clinic protesters... but surely, you support "life."

For years, feminists who believe in abortion - me included - have accepted that "choice" rhetoric was a necessary, if occasionally unhappy, compromise; you learned to live with the "I don't like the idea of abortions, myself, but I think a woman should be able to choose..." type logic even though, deep down, it meant that, at times, you couldn't count on that kind of support to keep abortion available. It's why we have the Hyde Amendment - you can be in favor of choice and believe, wholeheartedly, that it's just not "federal funding" of abortion... as opposed to keeping abortion services essentially unavailable to poor women on Medicaid.

I've argued - and still argue - privately that the real failure of progressive feminists is to stick to our terms: abortion is a medical procedure, and what we don't want, really, is government making decisions about which medical procedures we like and don't.  I want for women what I want for anyone - the right to determine, with a medical professional, the right care for a given situation. Sometimes, that choice is an abortion. And it's not about deciding what's a good abortion or a bad one, who's a woman who's suffering and who's a tramp. It's a medical procedure. And too often, the "choice" argument comes down to feelings over basic, medical facts.

We on the left have no one to blame but ourselves for where things stand, in the Democratic Party, with the Stupak Amendment still (still!) potentially standing as a possible element of healthcare reform. We have for years, blithely ignored that abortion is, for the left, hardly a settled issue, that women's reproductive rights are by no means solidly settled among liberals, and that the reason Stupak passed isn't about the hardline right, but about an inability on the left to use precise terms and come to internal agreement on a position. It may make us a (slightly) smaller party... but like many, I am convinced that most Americans believe in reproductive freedom, and believe, even in limited ways, that access to abortion is a reasonable part of that freedom.

As angry as many people are, as much as people are convinced that healthcare reform can happen without Stupak (I'd say 50-50, at best), the bigger fissure that's been blown open can't be dismissed or ignored. Until we do with abortion what needs to happen on so many issues right now - have a healthy, internal debate that is not about "right and left" but about finding common ground within our own party - we will have more Stupak moments. And we will not know how to solve them. And that, too, is a choice. A bad one.

We Have Nothing To Lose But Our... Er, Um... Those Things In Our Boobs!

Vive la revolucion, and all that... but I'm hard pressed to buy that massive protests and highly focused opposition to what is being called the "bo-Tax" on elective cosmetic medical procedures that's being used to fund parts of the Senate healthcare bill will amount to very much.

Conservatives have never met a tax they didn't like, so naturally they're prepared to stand up and fight for breast implants, collagen injections and liposuction... though, of course, they've often been the same people decrying Hollywood and the kind of fake, bought beauty represented by plastic surgery. Now it's all for one, all for implants.

Veronique de Rugy (I've always wanted to quote her name alone) makes the case today:

The Senate version of the health-care bill has a cosmetic tax. The idea is to make the rich (who are assumed to be the ones consuming plastic surgery) pay for the cost of the health-care reform. Wrong. First, according to Laurie Essig:

Cosmetic surgery is now primarily consumed not by the rich, but by the working and lower-middle classes, sometimes even by the poor. According to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery (ASAPS), about 1/3 of cosmetic surgery is consumed by people who make less than $30,000 a year.  About 70% of it is consumed by people who make less than $60,000 a year. It is mostly women (90%) and mostly white, middle-aged women (80% and between 35-55 years old).

Plus, why tax a good that increases people's happiness permanently? According to Will Wilkinsonvery serious academic research), plastic surgery (breast implants in particular), unlike expensive cars, increases people's happiness in the long run. (and based on

Like a number of reports, de Rugy cites a new statistic from the ASAPS - an organization, one might point out, devoted to selling more people on more plastic surgery - that suggests that "ordinary, working class folks" will be hurt by a tax on cosmetic procedures. That's all well and good... but one can bet that they're lumping about as many things as possible (Botox injections and other in house treatments costs hundreds of dollars, while a major procedure like implants or lipo starts around $5,000) into a stat of dubious usefulness. People with $30,000 may be getting something - they may even, with loans and long term payment plans, be having major surgery - but the industry is driven, most clearly, chasing after high levels of disposable income. Or disposable life savings.

Conservatives ought to be careful about who and what they're planning to celebrate here; this new celebration of "The Wonderful World of Boob Jobs" relies heavily on self-interested propaganda and marketing materials that generally try to disguise notions of pain, discomfort, never mind massive expense in support of notions about "perfection" and certainly some level of unhealthy body image and societal expectation that ought to be rejected more than embraced. It's lovely to think of plastic surgeons are doing sainted work bringing happiness to ordinary ladies as simple as an extra cup size... but that's not the reality, and I suspect many conservative agitators know it quite well.

And no, I'm not some angry anti-surgery advocate either; the women I've known with implants do indeed seem quite happy and healthy, comfortable with the choices they've made, and pleased with the results. So too the people I've known who've had lipo, breast reductions, lifts... you name it. Cosmetic surgery - even the occasional Botox injection - is not what I'm opposed to. But I think we should always be clear about what we're talking about: dangerous, possibly life threatening procedures involving risky chemicals and substances that shoud, preferably, be avoided. We should always ask, when repeating promotional statements handed out by plastic surgeons, what kind of self-interest motivates the information, and maintain a healthy skepticism. And we can and should do more to question why personal happiness depends, so much, on such expensive, potentially dangerous, possibly mutilating, work.

If there's a reason to question the "Bo-Tax" it's probably more on common sense fiscal grounds: given that, as New Jersey has demonstrated (with the only cosmetic surgery tax in the nation), that the tax will probably bring in less revenue than forecast and succeed, as taxes do, in reducing a particular activity or behavior, does it make sense to count too heavily on the tax as a moneymaker? Will the tax drive wealthy patients overseas or over borders to have work done... and will we, in turn, be creating a new "surgery scandal" over the Mexican border? It's not that an elective medical practice tax will "hurt the middle class" - many people, clearly, will simply have to factor in the added cost - but it's that a tax aimed at a luxury behavior of the wealthy often fails because the rich have so many discretionary spending options: travel elsewhere, trumping up "medical necessity" (it's the return of "deviated septum" nose jobs!) and the like... will probably take much of the punch out of any anticipated revenue stream.

And, yes, hurt plastic surgeons. Given the recession, we were always bound to see - and have seen - a crisis in an overabundance of cosmetic specialization; that pain, surely, drives a lot of the fear among the plastic surgeons about how much more harm a tax will inflict. But like so much of our health care crisis, the real problem here stems from the needless surgeries, the high rates of specialiazation, and the attraction of a quick, easy buck over the health care people actually need. That conservatives would be more concerned about cleavage, well... that's just par for the course these days... isn't it?

Precious

Nothing I write, nothing others have written, can really convey the power of Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire.

Which may be why I have been struggling since Saturday to write a review of it... or indeed, to write almost anything.

Precious is astonishing, overwhelming, powerful, brilliant... and heartbreakingly sad, unbelievably hopeful, and like nothing that's come before... and yet, is a completely timeless, archetypal story of survival through adversity. All that, and it forces you to see what we try, very hard, not to see, in our lives, our cities, and our culture.

Set, ostensibly, in 1987, Precious is the story of Precious Jones, a 16 year old African American woman living in poverty. She likes school, but is barely getting by, when it is discovered that she is pregnant... with her second child. All of which is announced to us in about the first 5 minutes.

Finding out how Precious got to this point, and what she does beyond it, is the story of the film. The film is frank, often brutal in depicting the painful home life Precious has with her mother, who is physically, verbally and emotionally abusive. In the dark, run down apartment they share, you can see how Precious holds herself tightly within, because to reveal herself is to invite more abuse. And you can see - via brilliant, beautiful realizations of her dreams and fantasies - how much Precious holds within that is vibrant, alive and ready to break free.

The opportunity Precious has to break free comes when she is transferred to an alternative school for at risk women, a small class of about 8, led by an impassioned, caring teacher. Through her lessons, Precious learns to read, to express herself (they have to write a daily journal), and to share her hopes and dreams, fears and mistreatments.

If education is the window of opportunity it is, as is often observed, also dangerous: as Precious learns to feel better about herself and to realize that she can achieve the things she wants, it becomes impossible for her mother to maintain the level of control necessary to keep Precious servile and fearful. And when Precious reveals, in heartbreaking detail, how she got to be 16 with two children to her social worker, her whole world is up-ended, and the cycle of abuse comes to a powerful, fury-filled climax.

Created in the eighties at the height of the "welfare queen" and Reagan era discussions of reforming welfare and breaking "cycles of dependency", Sapphire's novel takes on a number of preconceptions and refuses to provide easy, rote answers; the reality of life on welfare and in poverty is complicated, the life situations painful and complex (which is why, though the film visually straddles the present and the recent past, the 1987 setting is so necessary: welfare as we knew it is not we have now).

Director Lee Daniels great achievement, then, is to let those larger societal observations come through without having them take over the story. However one feels about the "cycle of dependency" or how one views the system of welfare, Precious reminds us at every turn that this is, ultimately, a human story where the larger implications mean nothing if we can't see or feel the people in question.

Daniels real strength as a director lies in his work with actors, and here he mixes the work of newcomers, veterans and unexpected celbrities and gets amazing work out of everyone. That Mariah Carey is virtually unrecognizable as the social worker Precious goes to and ultimately reveals her story to is by itself breathtaking; or Lenny Kravitz taking a part that ten years would have belonged to Jeffrey Wright and shows that he too has the depth and sensitivity to be the lone, decent male in the proceedings. And who knew Sherri Shepherd - that's right, on The View - was such a capable, naturalistic performer.

But Precious hinges on three central performances, all of them brilliant, yet different. Paula Patton imbues the teacher, Blue Rain, with such passion and sense of purpose that she manages to override notions that the part is, at times, almost too good to be true. We do not get enough images of teachers who honor their profession; we need more of it.

As Precious, Gabourey Sidibe more than holds her own opposite her remarkable costars, all the more amazing for a newcomer and nonprofessional. In the beginning her impassive, defiant look seems to define all that we can know about Precious; yet, by degrees, we begin to see the difference between the armor Precious uses to protect herself in the world and the strength and inner resilience she has to carry her through. It's all there in Sidibe, and because of her size, and her dark skin, she also serves to challenge our notions of how, even now, we marginalize some of the black experience - never mind our weightist obsessions with showing only thin people - in favor of other, easier, views that fit our cultural expectations.

Even more, though, the film's real force of nature is Mo'Nique, as Mary, the mother who is, by turns, monstrous, frightening, and intensely vulnerable. To me, her performance is something on the level of Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce (or Bette Davis in The Little Foxes), harking back to the golden age actresses and their ability to play such fascinating, monstrous characters because of their ability to hold us, riveted, in their fierce, fearsome star power. That Mo'Nique trusts Daniels enough to "drab down" her usual star qualities, and disappear into Mary's selfish, childlike demanding nature is remarkable; but the real power is how, in the end, she delivers the monologue that brings together all we have seen and fills in the blanks that take the story to its final, desperate, heartbreaking yet necessary conclusion.

In the four days since I've seen it, Precious has come back to me, every day, refusing to let go. Even now, I can weep for the girl and her pain, or smile at her determination and refusal to be, literally, held down. By degrees, the film continues to reveal itself, to make me think, and to see. To realize my own privileges, to recognize that I have been blessed, as most of us are, with a life nowhere near so challenging and a family that is there to love and support me. Gratitude, and hope for our humanity, really, is this film's unexpected gift. Precious has made me think about the world I - we - try to shut out, explain away, talk our way around... so that we don't have to face the hardships, the desperation... but also miss the strength and determination that drives someone to become the best person they can be. 

Precious could, easily, give into simply making the audience suffer and feel bad for all that we don't do, as a society, even now, for those in need. Instead, it let's us see that, even in the darkest moments and most difficult lives, there are things that can lift indviduals out of despair, if only they will try. And no, the film is not perfect - at times seeming unrealistic, visually held back by what was clearly a very low, tight budget - but for what it is, what it accomplishes, and what it reveals... Precious is nothing short of a miracle, a revelation. It demands to be seen. And I have to demand that you see it.

Aw Hell No

Stunned into relative silence, it took a day or so to let the anger find its way to the surface. Now I'm just furious. The idea that Democrats in the House just eliminated access to reproductive health services for millions, and possibly all, women is just stupefying.

I think incomprehension has been the main force behind the slow rolling reaction - only late last evening did it seem clear that the full horror had begun to sink in widely - an incomprehension that itself seems cheerfully naive.   The signs that healthcare reform had become a political exercise fully ignorant of larger implications was clear months ago, the sense that women's heath concerns were being dismissed was clear weeks ago, and the national madness around abortion policy is just part of my entire lifetime. Yet, still... it's hard to imagine something quite this unbelievable taking place.  Even as I watched it unfold on Saturday afternoon... and then went to see Precious.

For years, I have tried to be one of those voices of "it's not their fault" when it comes to Democratic missteps. I've been one of those "gee I hope they get their act together one day" type of Dems who, since the seventies, has figured I just happen to be in the hapless party that can't quite pull it together. Sometimes we do... but usually, wecave, or we get scared, or we fold too soon.  If only we could get our act together... well, I have to admit, this one's got me realizing... this is their act. And it is together... and that's the scary part.

As others say so often, the Stupak amendment is "a feature, not a bug;" These things don't "just happen" and Nancy Pelosi doesn't just get to say some group or other made her do this, against her will. The woman who could claim to be prochoice and let this happen can't claim to be buffeted by circumstance. This is a choice that can be made, comfortably, by people who lead a party no longer attuned to the needs of poor people, working people, people in need. It's a cavalier, uncaring assessment that somehow, people can make do... or they'll just have to deal with it. Or the kind of bald political calculus that says, somehow, magically, this will all just go away.

There's plenty of reasons to be unhappy about the healthcare "reform" still going full steam ahead, racing pell mell to a foregone conclusion that looks less and less appealing each day. But there's unhappy... and then there's this, a situation which cannot be acceptable, cannot be excused, cannot just be called okay, if we just make a few changes. This is a "hell no... and what the hell were you thinking?" moment. Say it... shout it. And dammit, let's do something about it.

Silence of the Dudebros

I was struck - but not surprised - by the relative silence over a Sunday front page NYT article about the White House's "DudeBro" problem: the reality that the President is surrounded by the lefty equivalent of the all male "boys club" mentality that can be found many places, including Washington politics.

The president, after all, is an unabashed First Guy’s Guy. Since being elected, he has demonstrated an encyclopedic knowledge of college hoops on ESPN, indulged a craving for weekend golf, expressed a preference for adopting a “big rambunctious dog” over a “girlie dog” and hoisted beer in a peacemaking effort.

He presides over a White House rife with fist-bumping young men who call each other “dude” and testosterone-brimming personalities like Rahm Emanuel, the often-profane chief of staff; Lawrence Summers, the brash economic adviser; and Robert Gibbs, the press secretary, who habitually speaks in sports metaphors.

The technical foul over the all-male game has become a nagging concern for a White House that has battled an impression dating to the presidential campaign that Mr. Obama’s closest advisers form a boys’ club and that he is too frequently in the company of only men — not just when playing sports, but also when making big decisions.

I think the relative silence was in part a shrug of obviousness: this is not new, and really has been dogging the Obama folks since the campaign with Hillary Clinton - who, wouldn't you know it, gets to be cited as the "we don't have a woman problem" example since she is now Secretary of State. I suspect that many feminists are wondering mostly why it took everyone this long to figure out the obvious.

Of course the "DudeBro" problem is a problem; and, of course, it goes a long way to explaining why the Administration has a variety of problems dealing with a number of women's issues and, by extension, the problems that have developed with gay and lesbian activists as well. When you surround yourself, comfortably, with mostly straight guys who share your straight guy interests... you get, well, comfortably DudeBro.

What's remarkabel, to me anyway, is watching the regression of progress I figured couldn't really be shaken; we're re-arguing issues that I feel like should have been settled long ago. The rise in anti-feminist stupidity, not just crassly sexist, but frankly disturbing anti-woman presentations in advertising and media, is deeply concerning. Or the stupefying conversations I've had - most recently at Red's wedding - suggesting that "gays have to be patient" when looking for progress on, say, Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Mustn't rock the boat. Must realize... this could be controversial, And difficult.

There's a sense that we're either moving forward on stuff like this... or slipping back. And, unfortunately, I think it's fairly obvious that the backsliding on progress for women and gays is systemic, and has everything to do with a comfortable, casual sexism that's taken hold, even as we mouth platitudes about progress and "change" since the election. Who cares if the President plays golf with only men? Or sets up basketball tournaments among the DudeBros? Hey... he's way better than that last guy! And his stay-at-home, no career of her own wife? That's her choice!

The point is... these are choices, in the most problematic sense. They are choices to accept the status quo, to not do the hard work - the teaspoon work as Melissa McEwan puts it - of challenging every prevailing notion of sexism and "traditional" expectations. As my female dinner companion - a well connected political woman in DC - told me about her thinking to finally change jobs after several years, she wouldn't contemplate working in the White House - "I like my family and my life too much" she said. That, of course, shouldn't be the choice. And when it is... it's not surprising that women, collectively, opt for alternative choices.

I suspect we're stuck with the DudeBro problem for some time to come; and like a number of entrenched, ignored, and often dismissed observations about a systemic problem with the supposed "progressiveness" of the Obama Administration that state obvious relaities... I also suspect that they're indicative of the growing political rumblings that the Democratic Establishment might consider owning up to, rather than denying. There's a reason that dissatisfaction seems to be growing, why surface notions that "everything is fine, and politics is hard and progress is slow" don't really suffice as defenses of the Obama Administration's weaknesses (and "we're way better than the last guy" is really... just getting old). If we can't admit and face that not everything is golden with this White House, we can't change it. And if we can't change it... then people will look elsewhere for the progress they seek. Bet on that, Dude.

Saturday Singalong: I Can't Wait, I Gotta Celebrate

Like I said a while back... some of these things just write themselves; this one has been with me since I was a kid.

For my pal Red, in whom I found an old soul who lives for... old soul. None of these were played at her wedding... but they could have been (and should have, probably, if we'd stayed past midnight). And of course, for Betty, who made me feel like I'd never been alone, and who knows more than I ever did.

And with that... you too should be dancing... yeah.

• France Joli, Come To Me. Disco warhorses are a hard subject, because you have to separate the overplayed from the atrocious, without losing songs which are, indeed, timeless. Disco's 1978-1980 moment may have been too much, in some ways, but we got there for a reason, and musically, it did grow out of pop and dance elements that had been there all along. The slow build, the swooping strings, the pulsing bassline... all of these are on display here, plus Joli, at the time a teenager newly discovered and shot to instant success. Though we tend to lump all disco into an obvious sexual come on, Come To Me is really more traditionally romantic, a declaration of love for just one person that will always be there, just for you. I still try to sing along - even the soaring high note.
• Cher, Take Me Home. Of all the seventies stars, Cher was probably the best natural fit to disco's showy, sexy aesthetic - she'd already been vamping around in Bob Mackie's showgirl costumes, embodying the dawning feminist awakening that a woman shouldn't have to depend on a man for her own worth or success, and do it on her own terms. She only did one real disco album, but that's all it took: Take Me Home is a near perfect single, and perfect disco (and, lashed into a gold and chains teeny bikini and Valkyrie winged headdress, even Mackie managed to outdo himself). And yes, it does speak to the direct, one night stand, why bother with old conventions approach to sex in the seventies with refreshing directness. Sexy, playful without being tawdry or cheap, the song reminds you that we do like sex (and dancing) because it's fun and brings us joy. I'm in heaven, feels like heaven... so much heaven...
• Donna Summer, The MacArthur Park Suite. In some ways this is a cheat, because it avoids picking one song of Summer's, which is hard... but also unfair: of all the artists of the period, Summer shouldn't be represented by just one song, since the wonder of her output at the time was its variety - with the help of Giorgio Moroder, Summer was rarely the same thing twice. And while she helped define the idea of a disco song, she never seemed bound to "the rules." That seemed especially true with this 17 minute(!) remix of One of a Kind, Heaven Knows and MacArthur Park, the latter a remake of an old jazz standard that rarely worked, but Summer somehow made into an emotional tour-de-force. Unlike many disco hits - even hers - she doesn't belt out the crucial final verse, but builds the emotional intesnity gradually, a reminder that she is, really, an incredible vocalist who can do nearly anything. Still.
• Barbra Streisand, The Main Event. Streisand, too, had a voice made for disco's soaring highs; when she finally gave into the trend, her vocals were some of the best, and not just in the obvious super-pairing on No More Tears with Summer. I always liked The Main Event, a fairly simplistic lyric which Streisand makes her own. And Streisand's usual tendencies to over-emote and go big (always big), actually work better for her on disco than her usual standards, where she can seem shrill and lacking in subtlety. Here, against a big wall of sound, she's got the room she needs to show how versatile her big voice actually is.
• Diana Ross, The Boss. Ross could be just as well represented by Love Hangover, but that song belongs on a different list, one that's more attuned to disco's early relationship to R&B. The Boss is more representative of the strong, independent female singer of 78-80, partly because after some pretty rough years (pretty much from the making of Mahogany until The Boss) personally and professionally, until Ross asserted a more direct role in shaping her own career. Working with Ashford and Simpson, Ross put together one of her best albums, a real statement of personal strength (which is why "I Ain't Been Licked" or "It's My House" also make the point quite forcefully). The Boss soars from its first notes, never looks back, and makes real virtues of Ross' unique vocal abilities, a lighter voice less suited to belting, but which conveys a real yearning, and is well matched with a near gospel intensity in her backup singers. And who can argue with letting love rule the day?

The Blonde Leading The Blonde

As I was flipping around morning news TV - a fool's errand if ever there was - I tripped over a little informative fact I'd missed, that along with Liz Cheney, Debra Burlingame has become a Board member/spokesmodel for Keep America Safe, the new "let's compain about Obama and foreign policy" group that prefers to call itself concerned with advocating for the "policies that kept us safe for the past 8 years."

There's plenty to debate in those notions, but I was struck by the appearance of Burlingame; in case you've missed her, Burlingame is the sister of one of the pilots of American flight 77, which crashed into the Pehtagon on 9/11. In the aftermath, among a number of other family members of victims, Burlingame moved into a fairly prominent role, speaking out for the concerns of families, and more generally, revealing herself to be a fairly traditional notion of a conservative woman.

It's not surprising that Burlingame's wound up in the Cheney group... but I think it gives a good indication of just what Keep America Safe is about... and what it isn't. And it seems likely that we'll have another semi-serious, pseudo-activist  group to watch and groan by, should we tune into those 24 hour news channel programs where people largely unconnected to things actually happening opine about how their easy to predict viewpoints reflect fresh, deep insight into the issues of today. The combination of Cheney and Burlingame - both so camera and soundbite ready - will likely be yet another exasperating example of what isn't happening in our political discourse, and harder to counteract because the objectionable lines will come from attractive blonde women.

And it's that familiar approach to dressing up conservatism that's got me this morning.

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.