Hot Southerners

I am sitting in my upstairs apartment in the dead of summer in Florida.  At 11:30 at night, it is still 85 degrees outside.  My apartment is roughly 2 degrees warmer.  The ceiling fan whirs and I keep the lighting to a minimum.  Sitting on the little sun porch, I am illuminated only by my computer screen and the string of star twinkle lights I affixed to the wall.  This affords just enough light for me to see the beads of sweat on my chest and arms.  I feel the trickles drip down my skin between my breasts, as my blousy, sleeveless nightgown does nothing to absorb any of the perspiration.  I refrain from using my window air conditioner.  It wouldn’t reach the sun porch, anyway.  I like the heat.  I am in my personal steam room.  Mostly, though, I feel like I’m in a southern, old-timey movie where the characters live forever lubricated.  It looks sexy on screen, but I’m really just a sweaty mess, drinking my cold beer and shifting in my seat so as not to stick to the chair.

I love movies set in the South.  I feel like the characters are stronger somehow, subconsciously working to assert themselves when they have the legacy of slavery and stupidity to deal with.  I love when the farm daughters, as in Man In the Moon, sleep on the windy porch during the summer months just to get some relief from the weighted, hot nights.  The sisters talk to each other well into the night, just like girls always do during sleep overs—whatever age they may be.  I love when, in A Time to Kill, Matthew McConaughey’s character comes home from lawyering all day to find his hot and sticky wife, Ashley Judd, scraping at the floor of their big fixer-upper farmhouse.  No, they never would simply come home and veg out in front of the t.v. They have work to do, after all.  And no fans or air conditioners in sight. No sir.  They are down and dirty and sweaty southerners.  They are hot.

Come to think of it, Ashley Judd is really a staple of southern, sweaty characters in movies.  In Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood (which is a really good book but a terrible movie…i.e. fantastic guilty pleasure movie…with lots of drippy Southern accents and nostalgia for drunk moms and superb summer swimming holes), Judd and her friends hang out in an upstairs room of a beautiful plantation house in their skivvies, complaining with buttery southern drawls how hot and sweaty they are. Now that I actually live in an upstairs room in the South, I completely understand their malaise on a whole new level.  I, too, play my record player while I lie on the bed, praying for someone to “wring me out.”

Why this love? Why this infatuation with the stinky, sweaty, southern characters?  I guess I just feel more alive when my body’s working overtime to compensate for this spike in temperature.  I spend lots of (too much) time in my head.  Feeling feverish in my body reminds me I am more than just my thoughts.  My body is mine, too.  It’s here; it’s hot; so am I.

Maleficent

The best way to approach life is how I approached seeing Maleficent:  sans expectations.  Sleeping Beauty was one of my favorite Disney movies as a child.  It was not due to the storyline of Sleeping Beauty (a.k.a. Aurora) herself.  She is a typical blonde princess who, due to a curse, pricks her finger on a spinning wheel, falls into a deep sleep, and needs a prince to rescue her.  Yawn.  Instead, I liked the little trio of guardian fairies, but the woman whom I loved most of all?  Maleficent, of course.  In the cartoon, she was intriguing in that charismatic and terrifying way that the best villains are. 

In the live-action version, Angelina Jolie as Maleficent does not disappoint.  In fact, she is downright fierce.  Those horns.  That smirk.  The cape.  The storyline is simple.  We follow Maleficent from a naïve girl to a brutal woman.  The scenery is stunning, a superb fantasy fairy forest.  I admit, I’m a sucker for anything with wings.  And, Maleficent’s got them—until she doesn’t.

SPOILER:  Maleficent gets her wings chopped off.  We do not see the act—which makes it all the more heinous in one’s imagination.  When Maleficent awakes, she cries out with an animalistic howl; she is sore; she is broken.  Rapes can take different forms.  For example, in Toni Morrison’s Beloved, a character is raped by men who suck milk from her breast.  She is violated.  She is harmed.  The same sort of rape occurs here for Maleficent, which serves to explain to a degree her need for vengeance and her distrust for the world. 

Throughout the film, we see Maleficent soften and reconcile her station and the consequences of that violent act.  She is, after all, able to overcome her sorrow and open her heart again—this time, to a young woman.

For that, Maleficent, the movie, turns feminist and woman-supporting in a cruel “man’s world.”  Yes, princesses still exist, but that seems beside the point.  The women here support each other and rescue themselves.  Maybe, just maybe, some young girls will understand the importance of self-salvation and how a prince will never save you.  That’s your own job, after all. 

"Comfort Food" Movies

Comfort food, to me, is usually starchy and cheesy and salty and filling.  It's familiar and satisfying.  Sometimes, movies can also serve as comfort food.  

I recently moved to a new town.  My work hours are very long, and I decided that it just was not worth the trouble or money to get cable, or t.v. for that matter.  I am tired when I come home.  I need to unwind.  I need mind-numbing, but familiar love.  I don't have a roommate or a boyfriend.  What I do have, though, are a revolving number of movies that give me pleasure.  And, no, I'm not talking about porn.  I mean that these movies are like old friends to me.  The stories are usually simple and do not involve suspense or thrill.  They are light dramas--the kind I would never encourage anyone to pay $12 at the movie theater to see.  No, these are movies that you must buy.  They are in the $5 bin at Walmart.  They have been overlooked by the masses, yet embraced by the love-lorn.  They are friends; as such, I will defend them with my very being.  Dramatic?  Yes, but they have gotten me through lonely Saturday nights and terribly exhaustive work days.  

I am always learning about new movies, mind you.  However, this is a list of my current sweethearts:

It's Complicated

Julie and Julia

Walking and Talking

Something's Gotta Give

This Is My Life

Before Sunset

The movies change, depending on the new town in which I am living and my mood.  Usually, though, the list shifts between such directors as Nicole Holofcener (Lovely and Amazing, Walking and Talking) and Nora Ephron (Julie and Julia and This Is My Life), who typically sets her characters in an atmosphere of a grittier, more real New York City.  Of course, when I need beautiful scenery and rich serenity, I turn to Nancy Meyers (It's Complicated).  

In order to be a "comfort food" movie, you must be able to turn it on at any point in the course of the plot and continue watching until the end.  You must identify at least one character as a potential best friend.  You must never be able to recommend that others see this movie in a theater.  Most importantly, you must only watch this movie in pants that have an elastic waist while you wallow on your couch while eating ice cream or macaroni and cheese.  Alone.  

Go ahead and make your own movie friends.  They can shuttle you through loneliness or simply keep you company.  They are besties without expectations.  They are givers and ask nothing in return.  We all need that sometimes.

Inside Llewyn Davis

Inside Llewyn Davis is a story about a folk singer in 1961.  He's talented and soulful, but he has not reached a level of fame or fortune.  There could be lots of reasons for this:  maybe, talent doesn't necessarily get recognized by the masses; he doesn't sell out his personality and trade it in for a sweet one to make himself appealing to everyone. Whatever the reason, this guy isn't making it big, and I never necessarily felt sorry for him--which actually made this an appealing movie for me.

This is the kind of movie where nothing significant really happens, but we, as the audience, are allowed a glimpse into this guy's life.  He is a writer and a singer.  He's real.  Consequently, he has a lyrical soul.  Lewynn has a presence about him that's both humble and arrogant.  Humble because he basically is broke and living on people's couches.  Arrogant because he knows he should be successful.  He knows his only fit in life is to be singing live on a spotlight-soaked stage.  It's frustrating when the world doesn't agree.

I found myself relating to Llewyn and all of his insecurities and expectations of not only his career but also of his personal life.  I want action and movement and close calls and big rewards.  Mostly, I want to live out my lofty dreams.  I want to come close to the edge.  I want to live a scrappy life.  I'm tired of the suburb and family dreams everyone pushes.  They're not for me; they're not for the folk singers.

With the gritty existence comes some trials.  Joel and Ethan Coen, when creating this movie, celebrate the humor and revulsion within each human spirit, much in the same vein as when they wrote and directed Raising Arizona and Fargo.  Trashy characters you can't help but root for because, for better or worse, they reflect the best parts of you.

P.S. T Bone Burnett does the music.  He is my homeboy.

The "Hart of Dixie" Effect

Hart of Dixie is a CW show in it's third season. It's about Zoe Hart, a New Yorker, a surgeon, a lover of designer fashion, who somehow lands in backwater Alabama working as a small-town doctor. It's a classic fish out of water story. Rachel Bilson plays Zoe Hart, and while I am truly in awe of her low BMI, she can't act her way out of a paper bag.

The show has a very Hollywood-esque portrayal of the South:

 

Everyone is gorgeous, thin and well dressed. It's a post-racial society where everyone eats fatty, greasy foods and still has washboard abs. Jamie King's Southern accent is atrocious. The writing is sub-par...
But good Lord I will watch that show anytime there is a new episode on Hulu. Just stream it, let it be white noise, let my brain unfurl and devolve as I listen to the show's mindless patter. There's some good sexual tension between Zoe and Wade (far left) but the show has very little going for it. But I've watched THREE SEASONS!

And this is because of what I'm going to term "the Hart of Dixie Effect." That is, when given the choice of watching something critically acclaimed or something mindless and entertaining on Netflix/Hulu/bit torrent I will always choose the latter. Like, if you said I had the choice of watching "Ten Things I Hate About You" or "Casablanca" on my laptop, I would pick Julia Stiles in a second. But if I were presented with those two options at a movie theater, I would pick some artsy fartsy movie and rant about the under-representation of female directors in Hollywood.

But when I am at home, when my laptop screen glows bright, when I am in my elastic stretchy pants...my brain SHUTS off and there is nothing I can do to resist the spell of Rachel Bilson. I think it's because once I've decided to stream something on Netflix I've already given up a little bit on life. I am not leaving this couch. I am not going to comb my hair and I am not going to change out of this shirt that I've been wearing all weekend. Then I take it one step further and give myself permission to allow my mind to atrophy, as well.

Oh Zoe...

The other day I was hunting for something to watch on Netflix or Hulu but I couldn't find anything appropriate so I just started watching movie trailers. And I realized that I was FAST FORWARDING through the trailers. Like, I am incapable of even focusing on the most condensed/exciting version of a movie. Forget long form writing, or the great American novel, I can't even watch trailers all the way through. This is what the internet has done to my brain.

I guess the moral of the story is, Hart of Dixie is not a bad show.

Roger Ebert

I don’t miss Roger Ebert.  I don’t miss him because I feel that he is so much a part of who I am as a writer and as a movie viewer that he will never be gone for me.  His passing gives me an opportunity to reflect on the trajectory of his career that has influenced my life.  This sounds egotistical, but it is the highest and only compliment I can give a person I do not personally know, but who has given me so much. 

Roger Ebert died.  There have been tributes and articles about him from many news publications and blogs.  I had no idea that he influenced so many people—and that his effect was not only on film criticism, but also on writing style.  I have felt a certain amount of comfort from the outpouring of love for Mr. Ebert.  I feel connected to these people because they recognized genius in the same place I did.  I now know that what I feel for Roger Ebert is not special because so many others feel and felt the same way as I.  I take solace in the idea that I am part of the group.  Roger appealed to me (and probably everyone) because he was such a personal and honest writer, and I take comfort in the idea that so many people appreciated a mantra that Ebert stood for, which is that the more personal something is, the more universally felt it is. 

Roger Ebert has been a societal staple since before I was born.  I watched him on the review show, Siskel and Ebert, most Sunday mornings and I was always vaguely familiar with his influence on movies.  For most of my life, however, I did not realize how much he championed independent films.  My favorite movie is Hoop Dreams—a documentary about two high school basketball players and their families.  Really, though, it is an exploration of class and race.  When I was a child, I was not exposed to inner city life, which included drugs and poverty.  Hoop Dreams allowed a white girl from suburbia to open her eyes to not only a different American existence but also to the power of exposing such truth.  I only found out many years later that Roger Ebert was a person who pushed to have Hoop Dreams be released widely.  That is the brilliance of a visionary.

If Roger had only been a writer, if he had only been a reviewer of movies, I would have liked him, but I probably would not have loved him.  However, I began to respect him when, after he got cancer, he began to write about disabilities and society’s reaction to illness.  Roger said in articles that, even though his face was deformed from the way it normally looked, he would not hide from public.  He would continue to attend events and his annual Ebertfest.  Roger insisted that the American public was far too removed and not accepting of people with deformities and disabilities, and he would work to challenge the discrimination. 

I was impressed with how he confronted perceptions of disability and beauty.  Further, Roger never seemed defeated by his illness.  When he lost his ability to speak and then eat, he managed to find joy and purpose in his life.  He communicated via his computer; he wrote; he took long walks.  Roger embraced the life and vitality he still possessed.  I had to ask myself if I could do the same.  I was healthy and able, and, yet, I often lacked the ability to embrace the shape of my body and the potential influence of my words.  Just by continuing to live his everyday life, he showed me how valuable and rich my own life was.  My job was to have enough guts to embrace myself. 

Whenever I write or otherwise communicate, Roger’s influence is my companion.  I strive to hear my own truth and have the courage to display my ideas, my voice, and my vision.  Roger Ebert influenced me and millions more just by sharing his point of view and not being afraid to embrace all sides of himself.  His showcasing of his vulnerabilities—both in his life and in his creative works—has taught me that the bravest people live the most raw lives.  How can I thank him?  He is gone.  I will never meet him.  I probably never would have met him in life.  I believe, though, that it is not important to put flowers on a grave.  The most vital way to pay tribute to a life respected is to embrace the influence that person had on my life everyday.  I forever stay in pursuit of honesty in memory of Roger Ebert, a person who was brave enough to show the world his truth.   That is my most precious memorial to my most precious role model.

Art.

We take turns nursing this blog, usually after months of ignoring it. I'm guilty of this, so is Aileen. Kathleen is better but she's been absent, too. Images Move Me has become this feral cat that has worms and an unsteady gait, that understands it needs to get fed where it can. Suspicious of people but a girl's gotta eat. Kathleen is the most constant feeder, giving it hearty food - tuna maybe. But I'm feeding it now so I get to choose what it eats...

Just a very long winded way of saying sorry for what you are about to read. But I don't think I need to apologize because no one reads this blog! Okay, around 800 people staggered here looking for Biggest Loser results (according to the stats that was our most popular post by about...800 times). We also have a surprising number of visitors from Germany. Guten Tag!

That is to say, I'm feeding this feral cat some rambling rants about comedy. And that's that.

Certain types of art are more liable to become victims of their own success. Art that is lo-fi, anti-establishment, that chafes against the system. What happens when it becomes the truth? This can happen with so many things. Rap went from being f*ck the police to bragging about designer clothes. And the moment when that happens, in any genre, becomes the moment when I can't love that piece/song/show like I loved it before. This wouldn't happen to I dunno, Britney Spears or anything because it's not like she was promoting some authentic version of herself or some hidden anti-consumer message. But artists who pounce on others for selling out then start hawking Nokia phones...that leaves a bad taste. But it's not just about "selling out" because that's a tired term and it's used so much that it's empty.

For instance, take Louis C.K. I've loved him for years. I remember watching Chewed Up a few years ago and committing the whole thing to memory. Then I forced people to listen to me do his bits. I guess I know why I don't have that many friends, but you get the point. He's contrarian. He tells it like it is. He points out human foibles, magnifies them then rails on them. But I recently tried to watch one of his more recent specials, "Live at the Beacon Theater" and I couldn't even get through it. It was funny, it was good. But it was off. Because his observations of human foibles morphed into something else -- into proclamations. He's universally loved and people write all these laudatory things about him, which he totally deserves, but his old line of humor just doesn't feel the same to me. It's not an outsider harping, it's an insider yelling. After I watched the special I looked up some old interviews of his on Youtube and I found one where he's talking to Howard Stern. It was right around the time he got green lit for Lucky Louie on HBO. He was excited but cautious. And in hindsight he had a right to be cautious because his show got canceled after one season...the audience didn't get that he was trying to play with form and re-invent the sitcom. But he spoke so differently back then. Maybe he was even saying the same things, but they didn't have the weight of truth behind them...so his words were lighter.  And for that reason, they had more impact. To me, at least.

I know you're probably thinking that that's such a stupid mindset to have. Fangirl until others find the light. That I'm setting myself up for failure. That's not it. I want art, not dogma. I'm going to end with a story that might be more confusing than illuminating. Bon Iver won best new artist (weird since they've been around for a while) at the 2012 Grammys. When he gave a speech, it was this rambling thing about how he didn't really believe in the Grammy's...he was grateful for the award, but saddened that so much talent was not recognized. It was not very gracious. It was not very practiced. But it was the truth.  That's where his music comes from. It comes from the outside and to have the ultimate insiders recognize it is a weird, wrist slapping commendation.