Tootsie

Like so many movies, Tootsie is beloved by me mainly because the people I love really love it. Namely, my mom. My mom is the kind of person who knows exactly what she likes and her taste (in my eyes) has always been impeccable. She differentiates between "pretty," "cute," and "attractive," and her assessments are always spot-on. (For the record, "pretty" is best, and "attractive" can be just as appealing. The most-valued compliment from her is when she looks at my baby pictures and tells me I was not just a cute, but a pretty baby. I assure you that I was always aware that beauty is very much in the eye of the beholder. What I mean is that if my mother--who values pretty above all--wanted a "pretty" baby, she could pretty much convince herself of that, regardless of its objective truth.) My mom has a quick wit and a dry humor. Consequently, she knows what is funny and what is not. Most t.v. shows are not funny. Few movies are. Tootsie, by her analysis, is very funny. And, so, I could always completely embrace this movie with abandon. I could laugh. Out loud.

Tootsie was made the same year as Gandhi, and my entire life I heard about what a tragedy it was for Gandhi to win the Academy Award for Best Picture over Tootsie. So, when I saw the movie, Gandhi, as a teenager, I was really baffled at my own taste. I loved it and, as I grew older, loved everything about the actor, Ben Kingsley, and, of course, the importance of the real Gandhi. But, Gandhi (the movie) wasn't funny, and that must have been its fatal flaw, after all.

Dustin Hoffman plays the lead role in Tootsie. He is Michael Dorsey, a talented New York actor that can never get a part. He decides to dress in drag in order to get a soap opera gig. Of course, he gets it and becomes the raging feminist who is beloved by all contemporary women. Well, he's totally attractive to his male co-stars as well. I have a soft spot for late 1970s/early 1980s films set in New York City. The fashions are so dated and gritty. The actors actually look like real people and are not so airbrushed as is the case of recent movies. The way Tootsie plays with feminist stereotypes and women's bravado of forced assertion is interesting and provocative. Dorothy (Michael Dorsey's woman character) straddles the line between promoting her feminism and staying true to her/his self.

I realize I'm talking in the abstract about this movie, and I'm not making it seem very funny at all. It's just that the movie is filled with nuances and subtleties that are entrenched in the over-arching themes of feminism, self-exploration and self-realization. Michael Dorsey says that he thinks he was a better man as Dorothy as he ever was as himself as a man. That seems like a convoluted statement, and it sort of is. But, he is saying in a round-about way that when we allow all sides of ourselves to come out, we don't have to be boxed in. We can finally be free. And, that idea of "pretty" or "cute" or "ugly" or "funny" is no one's prerogative but each person's. So, laugh out loud. Or don't. It's your call. Yours alone.

Thoughts on the formulaic movie arch

I keep seeing a lot of previews for The Town, which is directed by Ben Affleck. The voice talking over the preview says something like, "from the director of Gone Baby Gone." I mean, is he trying to fool us? It's so lame. Why doesn't he just say, "from director Ben Affleck"? We all know, after all, that Ben directed Gone Baby Gone. I don't know if that's a turn-off or what. It's weird, too, because Ben stars in The Town. Why are we pretending he didn't have his hands all over Gone Baby Gone (with his brother in the lead role and Ben writing it for the screen and directing it) and The Town? It's bizarre mainly because I really liked Gone Baby Gone, and I think it got pretty good reviews over all. The Town is getting excellent reviews. I just don't know why the voice-over man is trying to pull the wool over our eyes when it's totally unnecessary.

The voice-over man's odd reference to the nameless director of Gone Baby Gone is making me think more and more about that movie. It's making me ponder why I actually like the movie if the director/writer is such a douche that he's not even mentioned by name. This got me thinking that, maybe, I only like Gone Baby Gone because it follows a really appealing formula. That formula, my friend(s), is the Arch. The Arch works like this: 1) A story starts out with a certain goal in mind. 2) The climax of the movie is when the goal should be reached but is not reached. 3) The main character struggles to find a way to live her/his life and move on from the unfulfilled goal. 4) During this time, the main character's emotional self is laboring and struggling to get through. 5) The aforementioned goal is finally reached, albeit with a different mindset or after math.

To demonstrate, I will examine two pretty different movies: Sex and the City AND Gone Baby Gone. They have different themes and cater to different audiences. Yet, they follow the exact same formulaic arch. **SPOILER ALERT FOR BOTH MOVIES** In Sex and the City, Carrie has the goal of marrying Big. The movie builds and builds until the wedding when he, invariably, gets cold feet. The movie takes a sharp turn in tone and emotion. The drums start to beat and we, the audience, understand that we are taking a nosedive. Carrie spends a great deal of the movie in a depressed state (even darkening her hair to reenforce the metaphor) before the principle goal of the movie is finally reached; she marries Big. The wedding is not how she planned it, and the goal of the movie takes on a different point of view.

The same is true for GBG. Patrick, as a private detective, spends the first part of the movie fulfilling the film's goal: to find and bring back a missing girl. When the goal is about to be reached, the little girl supposedly dies. The detective, then, is destitute and spends a great deal of the next part of the movie a bit lost and in a contemplative state over how he botched the job of retrieving the little girl. Ultimately, the little girl is found (fulfilling the movie's goal). However, the emotions of the main character have changed because, though the goal is fulfilled, the circumstances surrounding the goal have drastically changed.

Is the Arch a formula to follow in order to ensure entertainment? Maybe, the audience responds to it because it's a rhythmically-paced ride that is both familiar and comfortable. I think it's a great sort of tool. But, like any tool, it's only as good as the person using it. I'm ready to face it: Ben Affleck has skills. You can include his name in the preview for The Town. I'll still go see it.

500 Days of Summer

I really didn't like Summer in 500 Days of Summer. She was brass and bawdy and cold and removed. I didn't like her because she was too real and too reminiscent of boys I've fallen for.

500 Days of Summer is the kind of movie that really wants to be edgy or arty. It wants to be different by letting you know that it's not going to tell its story in a conventional way. Throughout the movie, numbers flash onto the screen. The correspondence to the numbers is not really explained, but I presume they relate to the day of Tom and Summer's relationship (and there are 500 of those days). It's overtly edgy, yes, but I liked that aspect. It was a new way to tell a story--especially a love story. As Tom's little sister notes in the movie, we don't really remember our lives in a set sequence. We remember the good parts. And, we don't even ACTUALLY remember the good parts. We remember what we imagine or perceive to be the good parts. Did she really glance at you in that whimsical way or did you later imagine that she did? Did she really give you that hand job in the shower or did she accidentally brush up against you? Your mind takes you to extremes--maybe in an effort to preserve what is good or to discount the bad.

Tom is a likable kind of guy. He's sensitive, but not too much. He's open and really the kind of guy you could want for a boyfriend. And, that's sort of how this whole movie works. See, Summer insists to him right from the beginning that she does not want a boyfriend. And, she refuses to label their relationship as anything more than friendly. So, that is the frustrating (and good) part. Why WOULDN'T she want Tom?They are clearly happy together. But, that's it, isn't it? That's sort of the age-old question that we can never, ever answer. Well, maybe the better question is why does Tom stick around for someone who clearly only wants to play with him? Well, she makes him happy. For Tom, at least for the now, that is enough.

I liked this movie. I liked the color schemes of the office where Tom works as a greeting card writer. I liked the wardrobe choices for Tom and Summer. I liked how the characters went on a little tour of the architecture of Los Angeles. I even liked the cruelty that is Summer. I guess it's because we're all a little walled or icy when it comes to our inner feelings. We are almost required to share such intimate details in relationships. It's scary, and sometimes we need a little bit of armour.

There is one scene that epitomizes the manifestation of a heart break. It's near the end. Tom's reality is juxtaposed with his fantasy. We've all done that, right? We want so much for our fantasies to play out even though we understand how futile such imaginings may be when they must compete with the cruel world of reality. Oh, and the dance routine Tom does with his neighborhood peeps after he gets laid is kind of brilliant, too.

Good Hair

I have Good Hair. I mean, I guess I do. I do because I am white and my hair is straight (if not me). Bad Hair would be classified as "black" people's hair--hair that has not been straightened and is without chemicals. Good Hair is long and flowing and perfect. With that description, my hair no longer seems so Good, but it is straight, and that may be good enough.

Good Hair is a documentary narrated by Chris Rock about African American women's hair (and beauty and societal pressures on women in general) in the United States. On Oprah (when Rock was promoting this film), Rock said that he was inspired to explore this topic when he overheard his little daughter talking to her white friend, telling her how much she loved her hair. The dialogue made Rock uncomfortable because he could tell that his daughter was not only complimenting her friend in a secure way, but that she was gushing over something she could only dream of having--the set standard of Good Hair.

I watched this movie with two girls (14 and 16) whom I have known since they were born. They are the kids of my mom's good friends and they were adopted from Ethiopia. They are black girls who are being raised by white parents in a white town. The older girl gets her hair done--braided in a twist fashion--every few months for a substantial cost, and her sister lets her hair alone and wears it mostly in a ponytail.

I couldn't help but think of how these young girls felt while watching Good Hair. For me, it was interesting to learn about how the hair for weaves comes mostly from India and which chemicals are used for certain hairstyles. I learned that even girls as young as three years old have their hair straightened with chemicals. The women who were interviewed were candid about the different procedures and reasons behind some of the drastic measures (such as the astronomical costs of wigs and weaves, not to mention scalp and even potential neurological damage from chemicals). Though they spoke of procedures for African American hair, to me the documentary was relateable in that it touched on the beauty expectations of women of all races and ages.

But, what about my dear girls with whom I watched the documentary? They're teenagers and they don't readily spill their feelings. However, when prompted, they said that the film was interesting. Their parents did gush and say how interesting this whole world of hair straightening was. One of the parents said that the girls would not be getting a weave or a chemical perm. It is too expensive, she said. Well, yes, they are expensive. I think, though, that the girls' mom was saying, in her own way, that her daughters' hair is beautiful--that the girls themselves are beautiful--just as they are. That is, of course, completely true.

Mannequin

I can’t decide if Mannequin is a movie filled with metaphors for a man’s sexual insecurities and all-around bouts of self-loathing OR if it’s just really cheesy and bad in the way that only movies made in the 1980s can be. Yes, it stars Andrew McCarthy, the flavorless lug in Pretty In Pink who manages to suck out most of the charm that Duckie puts into that movie. It seems that Andrew’s job in movies is to sulk around to provide some sort of pseudo balance to the flamboyant gay/not gay man that befriends him or is somehow simply in the same movie.

In Mannequin, Andrew is a “weird” guy who gets a job dressing windows at a department store. Well, I think in the beginning he’s hired as a janitor or as a mannequin dresser or something. Then, voila, he makes these amazing window dressings. Amazing? Yeah, right. Please—before I go any further—allow me to explain these AMAZING pieces: the mannequins are all dressed in undergarments! The mannequins are simulating a tennis game by having a ball (that is on a string) sway back and forth! Amazing! Believe me, even when I first saw this movie as a very little girl, I knew this window dressing was boring at best. I played along then, so bear with me now. As you probably know, he’s not doing these displays alone. The mannequin comes to life. And, it’s Kim Cattrall who, in 1987, looks incredibly gorgeous. I mean, WAY too good for meal-y Andrew McCarthy. Of course, Andrew’s uber-flamboyant co-worker is named Hollywood. I always thought he was Anthony on Designing Women. Does it even matter if he’s not? It’s practically the same person. Anyway, I guess that’s the movie’s way of adding spice, much like the juxtaposition to Duckie in Pretty In Pink. Listen, it doesn’t really work. Andrew is bland. Just let him be that way! Do not infiltrate a movie with gay stereotypes just to add color to a vanilla actor. Now, that’s boring.

But, let’s get into what this movie is REALLY about. Like I said before, the mannequin is leggy and gorgeous and an amazing (completely mediocre) designer. She only comes alive when Andrew is alone with her. What is this movie saying? A man is so insecure that he must completely possess a beautiful woman? I mean, she is giving him the pleasure. She is for him and him alone. Why can’t she be seen by others? Maybe, he’s so insecure that he believes that if she goes out into the world, she will understand that she can do so much better than him. Maybe, if she were to brave society, she would realize that there is more to life than the male gaze (this ONE male gaze). She would maybe understand that her life does not have to be about giving this man pleasure—pleasure by way of her body and her talents. The more I write this, the more I am disgusted with this movie. Men, it seems¸ are so insecure in relationships and in themselves that they think that in order to hold onto a beautiful, smart woman, they have to literally hold on to her and cloak her from the effects and influences of society at large. The mannequin in the movie holds a blank stare when in the presence of other people (besides only Andrew). We accept her dead eyes and then embrace her loveliness and charisma when she is alive with Andrew. Maybe we do accept that because we are all so programmed to believe that women are most alive when validated by the presence of the one man, the one “special” man who chooses such possession. I swear, I am holding back the impulse to shake the intelligence back into every girl or woman who has ever copped to the belief that they are only worthy if a man deems them to be. Don’t think I leave myself out of this notion; I am shaking the cobwebs out of my own brain as I write.

Grey Gardens (revisited)

The documentary, Grey Gardens, was made in 1975 by the Maysles, two filmmaker brothers. I already reviewed the HBO movie by the same name starring Drew Barrymore and Jessica Lange. I praised Barrymore just because I thought her acting was good. In the documentary, Little Edie talks about someone playing herself in a movie. She doesn't want anyone to do that. No. If anyone were to play Little Edie, it would be Little Edie. Well, I'm back again to give Drew her props. She looks just like Little Edie--and talks like her, and dances like her, and (dare I say it?) she even captures her charm.

I didn't know anything about the documentary until the HBO movie came out. Of course, that film sparked my interest in the real-life Big Edie and Little Edie (the Beales). I learned a lot in the documentary. I learned that the Maysles really came to love these two women, and that their portrait of them would not have been so endearing had they not. The documentary has become sort of a cult hit. I get why; it's really because of Little Edie. She is an icon and an eccentric--an articulate eccentric. In other words, she's kind of irresistible. Little Edie promotes a sort of thrift store glamour. She's a Bouvier, and with that name comes a social status that turns out to be unshakable. Oh, her fashion sense. It is quirky, but completely spot on. She's really great with color choice and even the manipulation of fabrics and whole outfits. Little Edie wears brooches on her hand towel turbins and 1950s bathing suits as a base beneath an upside down skirt.

The women are not crazy--just over the top and real. The documentary now comes with previously unseen footage of the Beales. They are incredibly charming and social. Little Edie manages to engage in the filmmakers quite a bit, even though they try to stay out of the shot. A 2006 interview from the surviving brother, Albert Maysles, reveals that there was always a bit of a running joke between the brothers and Little Edie about who Little Edie was after. She played it up, too. But, she didn't play it up for the camera. The camera just happened to be there. I think that is the charm of Little Edie. Of course, that is also the charm of the documentary. It is a ride.

Lakota Woman: Siege at Wounded Knee

I entered the eighth grade in a new school in a new town. I cannot much remember the first days of other school years or even the first days of new jobs. However, I remember my first day of eighth grade and pretty much every day after that for the year. I got called a boy by the choir teacher. Consequently, I yearned to crawl into a ball and never leave the corner of the room. This town I moved to was small, and the mindset of the people felt small, and my bedroom felt small, and my tolerance for ignorance was becoming smaller and smaller. See, eighth grade was a time when I was really trying to understand myself and express myself. That is when I began to listen to "peace" music, like Joan Baez. I became, more than ever, interested in women's liberation. Most of all, though, I became interested in Native Americans. I was obsessed, you might say. When I fall in love, I fall hard. This was no exception.

I started to read about the American Indian Movement of the 1970s. I devoured the autobiographical books of Mary Brave Bird. I learned about the incarceration of Leonard Peltier and watched documentaries about him. I was convinced, then, that he was wrongly convicted of murdering FBI agents. I would write the White House on a fairly regular basis, urging the powers that be that Peltier was a political prisoner and nothing more. Those White House folks always wrote me back, saying that the Peltier case was still pending. "Yeah, right," I thought, as I popped in the CD of Joan Baez singing Prison Trilogy. I would like to say that I discovered the American Indian Movement on my own, that I just happened to be reading my encyclopedia when I decided to learn more about the 1890 Wounded Knee Massacre and the 1970s re-taking of the land. No, that did not happen. What did happen was there was a television movie called Lakota Woman: Siege at Wounded Knee (based on Mary Brave Bird's books). I saw it and something clicked. The Native Americans were strangers in their own land; on some level, I could relate.

See, a 13 year old is sort of a stranger to herself. I mean, I was. I was awakening to the strength of my beliefs and realizing the passion behind my convictions. That's heavy for a kid. I needed help, so I transformed my struggle into the struggle of the American Indians. I made their struggle my struggle and vice verse. The historical, 1890 Wounded Knee Massacre was a slaughter of the American Indians. Then, in the 1970s, the American Indians (via the American Indian Movement), many of whom were living in poverty or who were indoctrinated with Christianity, came together to re-claim their land, to re-claim their identity. A symbol of the A.I.M. was the upside down American flag. That was used to symbolize the dissatisfaction of the American Indian people within American society.

My own mind was awakening to certain injustices and wrongs in our society. I understood the American Indians' overall unhappiness with the state of their world. I understood their unhappiness really by way of my own unhappiness with the world. I was coming into a time of my life (a state in which I still currently dwell) when I hungered to understand and paricipate in social movements for the betterment of society. Well, in a sort of solidarity with the idea and passion of social change that I saw in A.I.M., I painted an upside down flag and hung it on my window. I still remember when I was made to take it down for fear that people would shoot at the house if they saw it. (That's the kind of small town in which I was living.) I knew my flag was freedom of expression. I knew that it was unfair to take it off the window. But, I did it. I did it and I thought I understood the oppression of the American Indians. I now know how selfish I was for even relating my own pain to a whole people's. I did learn later, though, that there is no hierarchy of pain or oppression.