I am loving these photos. Naked women in the woods resonate for me, as do large-format American landscapes. I love Bierstadt too. And Sally Mann, despite myself. And Mary Ellen Mark, though now the connection--to Mann--is generational, not imagistic.
Yes, I'm reading the Sunday NY Times, a little late, as usual.
But aren't you glad I managed to write this post without a single parenthesis? Let me tell you, it was a challenge.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
My Little Younger Sister of a Pre-Teen
M: Did I tell you about [boy in her class]'s buzz cut?!
E: If you stop talking about boys for a month, I'll be happy, but if you don't stop talking for a month, I'll make you get a buzz cut.
E: If you stop talking about boys for a month, I'll be happy, but if you don't stop talking for a month, I'll make you get a buzz cut.
Victoria Beckham Is an Insect From Another Planet
Check out that picture on the right. I tell you, Molly really has made Popsugar viable again, and I'm all over her obsession with Posh and Becks.
And, speaking of Posh, I wonder what on earth she and Katie Holmes-Cruise talk about (I know, I know: famous husbands, celebrity kids, Barneys, Armani...the usual mom talk).
And, speaking of Posh, I wonder what on earth she and Katie Holmes-Cruise talk about (I know, I know: famous husbands, celebrity kids, Barneys, Armani...the usual mom talk).
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
If Really You Are a Great Parent, But Sometimes, Just Occasionally, Not Very Often, You Get the Teensiest Bit Tired of Reading Yet Another Book Aloud
You will love this site. We love it: you should have seen S and E mesmerized by When Pigasso Met Mootisse.
(And if you have a glimmer of angst, personal or societal, over the image of a child sitting glued to the computer screen while a movie star reads her a story, get over it. Let's face it, either you read to your kids all the time, in which case the occasional book read on the computer by a movie star will be a nice change of pace, or you never read to your kids [not that that describes anyone who would read this blog], in which case at least they will get read to by a movie star on the computer. I just don't think there's a category of people who will say "Great! Movie stars on the computer reading books! Finally I can stop reading books to my kids!").
(And if you have a glimmer of angst, personal or societal, over the image of a child sitting glued to the computer screen while a movie star reads her a story, get over it. Let's face it, either you read to your kids all the time, in which case the occasional book read on the computer by a movie star will be a nice change of pace, or you never read to your kids [not that that describes anyone who would read this blog], in which case at least they will get read to by a movie star on the computer. I just don't think there's a category of people who will say "Great! Movie stars on the computer reading books! Finally I can stop reading books to my kids!").
The Beginnings of Posts I Decided Not to Write
On the Question of Whether the Capacity to Clean Is Innate
Obviously the answer is no. If I were Ma, and M and E were Mary and Laura, I would have them well-trained in cleaning, regardless of their instincts. But I am not Ma, and I am of the progressive (read lame) tribe of parents that lets their children do largely what they please, and then gets angry at them for not doing what we want.
Sometimes I Just Hit the Wall
Last week I had coffee with a new acquaintance. When she discovered that my husband is a chef, she said what people always say: "That must be great!" With my usual smile, I proffered my usual reply: "The great parts are really great, but the bad parts are really bad." (The other thing people always say is "Wow, you must eat really well," to which I always reply, "When he's home, but he's never home.")
Last week was February vacation. S was home Tuesday and Wednesday, the first time he's had two days off in a row this year (more specifically, the first time since Christmas Eve and Christmas Day). But on Friday, he left the house at 9:30 in the morning and got home at 12:30--in the morning. Saturday he left around 10 and got home around 11. Sunday he left at 10 and got home just before midnight. Did I mention that it was February vacation?
Obviously the answer is no. If I were Ma, and M and E were Mary and Laura, I would have them well-trained in cleaning, regardless of their instincts. But I am not Ma, and I am of the progressive (read lame) tribe of parents that lets their children do largely what they please, and then gets angry at them for not doing what we want.
Sometimes I Just Hit the Wall
Last week I had coffee with a new acquaintance. When she discovered that my husband is a chef, she said what people always say: "That must be great!" With my usual smile, I proffered my usual reply: "The great parts are really great, but the bad parts are really bad." (The other thing people always say is "Wow, you must eat really well," to which I always reply, "When he's home, but he's never home.")
Last week was February vacation. S was home Tuesday and Wednesday, the first time he's had two days off in a row this year (more specifically, the first time since Christmas Eve and Christmas Day). But on Friday, he left the house at 9:30 in the morning and got home at 12:30--in the morning. Saturday he left around 10 and got home around 11. Sunday he left at 10 and got home just before midnight. Did I mention that it was February vacation?
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Few Oscar Notes
Enough already with the beige/blush/gray/silver/white column dress.
Ellen makes me laugh. (When she said "Without Blacks, Jews, and gays, we wouldn't have movies," M asked "Who's Jewish?")
What on earth is Apocalypto?
Interpretive dance? By PILOBOLUS??
And the montages? Why??
I liked her OK in the 80s, but I am so over Melissa Etheridge.
Come on, Al, run already! Save us from this madness! (But maybe lose a little weight and cut back on the make-up?)
Do you think Gwyneth and Nicole planned it that way, or are their stylists totally getting chewed out in the morning?
I wouldn't mind Sherry Lansing's career. Or her dress. Though not her voice.
The one person I know who was up for an Oscar lost.
Does Clint Eastwood really speak Italian?
What's up with the weird J.C. Penney ads?
Helen Mirren rocks the world: expected, but gratifying, and man is she hot. And gracious. (And M likes her because she doesn't try to make herself look 20 years younger.)
Nice speech, Forest.
Why is Jack Nicholson bald? (And M, who woke up and saw the end as well as the beginning, wants to know why Jack Black is short.)
Why do I watch this thing anyway? And am I doing my children a terrible disservice by training them to watch it with me?
Movies to see: Dreamgirls, The Departed, Half Nelson, Pan's Labyrinth. I think I'll skip Apocalypto.
Edited to add: You know, that was totally boring, and this morning I am still grumpy at having lost an entire evening of my life to it, and, yes, I know it's my own damn fault.
Ellen makes me laugh. (When she said "Without Blacks, Jews, and gays, we wouldn't have movies," M asked "Who's Jewish?")
What on earth is Apocalypto?
Interpretive dance? By PILOBOLUS??
And the montages? Why??
I liked her OK in the 80s, but I am so over Melissa Etheridge.
Come on, Al, run already! Save us from this madness! (But maybe lose a little weight and cut back on the make-up?)
Do you think Gwyneth and Nicole planned it that way, or are their stylists totally getting chewed out in the morning?
I wouldn't mind Sherry Lansing's career. Or her dress. Though not her voice.
The one person I know who was up for an Oscar lost.
Does Clint Eastwood really speak Italian?
What's up with the weird J.C. Penney ads?
Helen Mirren rocks the world: expected, but gratifying, and man is she hot. And gracious. (And M likes her because she doesn't try to make herself look 20 years younger.)
Nice speech, Forest.
Why is Jack Nicholson bald? (And M, who woke up and saw the end as well as the beginning, wants to know why Jack Black is short.)
Why do I watch this thing anyway? And am I doing my children a terrible disservice by training them to watch it with me?
Movies to see: Dreamgirls, The Departed, Half Nelson, Pan's Labyrinth. I think I'll skip Apocalypto.
Edited to add: You know, that was totally boring, and this morning I am still grumpy at having lost an entire evening of my life to it, and, yes, I know it's my own damn fault.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Sorority Scandal
I'm not much for sororities, but I happen to know a bunch of Delta Zetas (including one of M's favorite babysitters ever) and they are the smartest, most feminist women who've ever overturned my sorority stereotypes. But clearly the Delta Zeta national officers don't appreciate what they've got going for them, and would rather play into those stereotypes. Ugh.
M Gets a Life, E Is Sad
M is four years, seven months, and three days older than E. We didn't plan it that way, but it's worked out well. When E was born, M was old enough to have a life of her own and appreciate a baby sister of her own. There was a reasonable amount of covert sibling torture, but significantly less than I've seen between kids who are closer in age. Mainly there was lots of playing with the baby and ignoring the baby, who of course didn't care if she was ignored, given that she was a baby.
As E became human, they played together all the time. It helped that in No Longer Red State Capital City Suburb, M's best friend was an only child who was very tolerant of E, indeed, considered her an adjunct younger sister. Also, for the last two years we lived there, when M was 7 and 8 and E was 3 and 4, S and E, who were 5/6 and 8/9 respectively, lived two houses down, and the four girls were inseparable, playing together most afternoons and all weekend, in various arrangements of two and four (and occasionally three, when there was a fight, which was usually between M and their E).
Since we moved, though, and especially this year, M has been leaving E behind. They can still play together very happily, but E now has a mind of her own, which leads to much conflict over "the game," and while M still loves to play, she gets bored long before E does. In addition, M's social life is ramping up considerably. She has just become serious about her email and she and her gang of friends (there are about eight of them, give or take the day's conflicts, which are actually remarkably minimal) email every day, making plans for sleepovers, sledding and the like (never one to be left behind, E has also become serious about her email, but her correspondence is limited to grandparents and her cousin--Aunt M, let me know if you want her email address!!). Then there are the slumber parties, the dashing up to me after school and asking if she can go to X's house, the invitations for expeditions with friends and their families. Which is all very well and good and age-appropriate.
But poor E is not so happy. She misses M. She wants M to play with her. She gets lots of Mama time, which is all very well and good, but, let's face it, I don't play so much, and consolation prizes are never as good as the real thing. She has started having sleepovers with her best friend, and I occasionally manage a playdate, usually at the behest of a more organized mother (I think she's had two in the last month), but the bottom line is: she's six, not ten; her best friend lives twenty minutes away, not across the street; she has lots of friends in her new school, but none that she or I have clicked with to the point that making an effort is effortless. In other words, she's the tag-along second child with the neglected social life.
I'm not worried. E will find her friends, and eventually she'll get older and dash off to her friends' houses after school. But I think it's going to be a lot harder to be the big kid younger sister of an early adolescent, than it was to be the little kid younger sister of a big kid.
As E became human, they played together all the time. It helped that in No Longer Red State Capital City Suburb, M's best friend was an only child who was very tolerant of E, indeed, considered her an adjunct younger sister. Also, for the last two years we lived there, when M was 7 and 8 and E was 3 and 4, S and E, who were 5/6 and 8/9 respectively, lived two houses down, and the four girls were inseparable, playing together most afternoons and all weekend, in various arrangements of two and four (and occasionally three, when there was a fight, which was usually between M and their E).
Since we moved, though, and especially this year, M has been leaving E behind. They can still play together very happily, but E now has a mind of her own, which leads to much conflict over "the game," and while M still loves to play, she gets bored long before E does. In addition, M's social life is ramping up considerably. She has just become serious about her email and she and her gang of friends (there are about eight of them, give or take the day's conflicts, which are actually remarkably minimal) email every day, making plans for sleepovers, sledding and the like (never one to be left behind, E has also become serious about her email, but her correspondence is limited to grandparents and her cousin--Aunt M, let me know if you want her email address!!). Then there are the slumber parties, the dashing up to me after school and asking if she can go to X's house, the invitations for expeditions with friends and their families. Which is all very well and good and age-appropriate.
But poor E is not so happy. She misses M. She wants M to play with her. She gets lots of Mama time, which is all very well and good, but, let's face it, I don't play so much, and consolation prizes are never as good as the real thing. She has started having sleepovers with her best friend, and I occasionally manage a playdate, usually at the behest of a more organized mother (I think she's had two in the last month), but the bottom line is: she's six, not ten; her best friend lives twenty minutes away, not across the street; she has lots of friends in her new school, but none that she or I have clicked with to the point that making an effort is effortless. In other words, she's the tag-along second child with the neglected social life.
I'm not worried. E will find her friends, and eventually she'll get older and dash off to her friends' houses after school. But I think it's going to be a lot harder to be the big kid younger sister of an early adolescent, than it was to be the little kid younger sister of a big kid.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Five for Five: Notes on a Scandal
This afternoon the big one took care of the little one, the medium ones took care of each other, and Lucy and I saw Notes on a Scandal, which means, for those of you who haven't been keeping score at home, that I have now seen all the Best Actress nominees. And, along with everyone else, I still think Helen Mirren has it in the bag.
But Judi Dench is awesome, as is Cate Blanchett, who is fully deserving of Best Supporting Actress, even though I don't know who the other nominees are (all I know is the Little Miss Sunshine girl, and Cate Blanchett has it all over her). I also see that the movie is nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay, which it fully deserves as well, and Best Original Score, but more about that later.
Seriously, though, of the THREE MOVIES I SAW IN THE THEATER THIS WEEK (can you even believe it?!), Notes on a Scandal was hands-down the best. Interestingly enough, it has some of the same issues as Little Children: origins in a book I've read (albeit a much better book), a powerful voiceover, and infidelity (not to mention pedophilia, though very differently).
But it all worked for me this time. I didn't think for a moment about the inadequacy of film adaptation, or the fact that I knew what was going to happen, because the movie itself was totally gripping. The voiceover is an integral part of the film: it is Barbara's voice in her diary, revealing her delusions, not an omniscient force telling us what we should know. And the motivation for infidelity is ambiguous and complex, not predictable.
Indeed, compared with Little Children, Notes on a Scandal is an excellent brief for British vs. American cultural preoccupations. In America we have glossy suburbs, glossy compulsive moms, and glossy cinematography. In Britain we have class difference, urban grit, and the lunatic loneliness of the repressed lesbian schoolteacher (did you say Miss Jean Brodie gone mad?).
The only thing I didn't like about the movie was the music which, Philip Glass and all, and probably very good and all, felt intrusive (though Lucy didn't even notice it, so maybe it was just me). And the last thing I loved was Cate Blanchett's clothes, for which I would happily swap my wardrobe, though I would have no hope of looking as fabulous as she does, given that she is tall and slim, and I am not.
Edited to add: The reviews on this one are good: Ty Burr and I are one, once again, and David Denby is right on the mark, though Manohla Dargis seems to be protesting too much, I'm not sure about what.
But Judi Dench is awesome, as is Cate Blanchett, who is fully deserving of Best Supporting Actress, even though I don't know who the other nominees are (all I know is the Little Miss Sunshine girl, and Cate Blanchett has it all over her). I also see that the movie is nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay, which it fully deserves as well, and Best Original Score, but more about that later.
Seriously, though, of the THREE MOVIES I SAW IN THE THEATER THIS WEEK (can you even believe it?!), Notes on a Scandal was hands-down the best. Interestingly enough, it has some of the same issues as Little Children: origins in a book I've read (albeit a much better book), a powerful voiceover, and infidelity (not to mention pedophilia, though very differently).
But it all worked for me this time. I didn't think for a moment about the inadequacy of film adaptation, or the fact that I knew what was going to happen, because the movie itself was totally gripping. The voiceover is an integral part of the film: it is Barbara's voice in her diary, revealing her delusions, not an omniscient force telling us what we should know. And the motivation for infidelity is ambiguous and complex, not predictable.
Indeed, compared with Little Children, Notes on a Scandal is an excellent brief for British vs. American cultural preoccupations. In America we have glossy suburbs, glossy compulsive moms, and glossy cinematography. In Britain we have class difference, urban grit, and the lunatic loneliness of the repressed lesbian schoolteacher (did you say Miss Jean Brodie gone mad?).
The only thing I didn't like about the movie was the music which, Philip Glass and all, and probably very good and all, felt intrusive (though Lucy didn't even notice it, so maybe it was just me). And the last thing I loved was Cate Blanchett's clothes, for which I would happily swap my wardrobe, though I would have no hope of looking as fabulous as she does, given that she is tall and slim, and I am not.
Edited to add: The reviews on this one are good: Ty Burr and I are one, once again, and David Denby is right on the mark, though Manohla Dargis seems to be protesting too much, I'm not sure about what.
Joyce Hatto
I know nothing about classical music and even less about music technology, but I am fascinated by the story of the plagiarizing pianist.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Rebecca Traister Nails It Again
This is kind of what I've been thinking about Britney all week, only she says it so much better (and yes, yes, yes on Little Dorrit and Luke and Laura).
The Game
I don't understand why my children spend as much time negotiating the game as actually playing it, but I have come to accept that the negotiation is part of the pleasure of the game. These days, however, part of the negotiation is over who gets to be better ("I'm better at gymnastics, but you're the better dancer." "No, I want to be the better dancer."), and this I simply cannot stand.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Coolest Lunchbox Ever
M lost her lunchbox. A lot of time has been spent searching for a cool new lunch box. She wants metal. Unfortunately, this one is too small. This one is the coolest ever, but, alas, inappropriate for fifth grade in public school (would it be appropriate for fifth grade at private school? I doubt it). We'll probably go with this one, which is pretty darn hip, even if it's not the coolest ever.
Notes on Current Events Including, But Not Limited To, Baseball, Best Actresses, and Boots
I'm not one for fetishizing dead bodies, especially when the body in question figures as a metonym for the money (see: James Brown). But I do think that Anna Nicole should be buried in the Bahamas, because one thing that seems true about her is that she loved her son, and I'm sure that he loved her, so it seems only right that she be buried next to somebody who actually loved her. Although I thus agree with Howard K. Stern's position on the matter, I hold to my formerly-expressed opinion that he is scum. In fact, I'd amend that to total scum (see TMZ for details).
I'm against the war, but I'm even more against the contemporary American way of waging war, which involves elites arguing and poor people fighting. So I say kudos to Prince Harry for going to Iraq.
This morning I was thinking that I am not in love with this Red Sox team like I was with last year's. But that, of course, will change, because the nature of being a Red Sox fan is that you can't help falling in love. And you know, Kevin Youkilis hasn't crossed my mind all winter, but just the thought of him makes me happy. David Ortiz reporting to camp? Great day. Nevertheless, I am happy to go on record saying that if we'd paid Johnny Damon 50 million last year, we would not need to pay J.D. Drew 70 million this year. That's all I'm saying.
Did I ever say anything nice about Dan Shaughnessy? Why, yes I did. Well, I take it back. The boys are right.
Just chill: Manny will show, and he'll hit, and he'll catch, and that's all that matters.
S was home last night! We got a sitter! We went to see Notes on a Scandal! Except the projector was broken in that theater, so we saw Volver instead. Which means I'm still up to four on Best Actress nominees. Liked the movie, didn't love it, am really wanting to LOVE a movie, but it hasn't happened in a while. Penelope Cruz, like Kate Winslet, was great, but no Helen Mirren. Nevertheless, she certainly wins Most Beautiful Actress.
Finally, my great achievement of yesterday, besides another Best Actress and coaching my friend on her contract negotiations, was boots. OK, so they are my fifth pair of black boots, but unlike the battered granny boots, the flat ankle boots, the stiletto calf-high boots, and the suede knee-highs, these are slightly-higher-than-calf-yet-lower-than knee! Pointy-toed! Goretex! Waterproof! On sale for half price! Boots. In my boots and my coat, I am just the most put together bad weather professional woman you know.
I'm against the war, but I'm even more against the contemporary American way of waging war, which involves elites arguing and poor people fighting. So I say kudos to Prince Harry for going to Iraq.
This morning I was thinking that I am not in love with this Red Sox team like I was with last year's. But that, of course, will change, because the nature of being a Red Sox fan is that you can't help falling in love. And you know, Kevin Youkilis hasn't crossed my mind all winter, but just the thought of him makes me happy. David Ortiz reporting to camp? Great day. Nevertheless, I am happy to go on record saying that if we'd paid Johnny Damon 50 million last year, we would not need to pay J.D. Drew 70 million this year. That's all I'm saying.
Did I ever say anything nice about Dan Shaughnessy? Why, yes I did. Well, I take it back. The boys are right.
Just chill: Manny will show, and he'll hit, and he'll catch, and that's all that matters.
S was home last night! We got a sitter! We went to see Notes on a Scandal! Except the projector was broken in that theater, so we saw Volver instead. Which means I'm still up to four on Best Actress nominees. Liked the movie, didn't love it, am really wanting to LOVE a movie, but it hasn't happened in a while. Penelope Cruz, like Kate Winslet, was great, but no Helen Mirren. Nevertheless, she certainly wins Most Beautiful Actress.
Finally, my great achievement of yesterday, besides another Best Actress and coaching my friend on her contract negotiations, was boots. OK, so they are my fifth pair of black boots, but unlike the battered granny boots, the flat ankle boots, the stiletto calf-high boots, and the suede knee-highs, these are slightly-higher-than-calf-yet-lower-than knee! Pointy-toed! Goretex! Waterproof! On sale for half price! Boots. In my boots and my coat, I am just the most put together bad weather professional woman you know.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Hair Triumph
This morning I gave E a choice of wearing her hair down, with the front ends pulled back in a barrette (sp?), or in braids. She chose braids.
(I am the unsentimental mother who never grew her daughters' hair because it would be too much of a pain. I love the long locks of other little girls from afar--sort of. I mean, they are often pretty, but either those little girls are much more docile than my children, or those mothers are a lot more patient with combs, brushes, snarls, and screams. But, I am also the empowering mother who lets her daughters do what they want, and E now wants long hair, so long it is, along with snarls and screams. Recently, though, I've instituted braids, which are very cute, and apparently they've taken. Thank goodness.)
(I am the unsentimental mother who never grew her daughters' hair because it would be too much of a pain. I love the long locks of other little girls from afar--sort of. I mean, they are often pretty, but either those little girls are much more docile than my children, or those mothers are a lot more patient with combs, brushes, snarls, and screams. But, I am also the empowering mother who lets her daughters do what they want, and E now wants long hair, so long it is, along with snarls and screams. Recently, though, I've instituted braids, which are very cute, and apparently they've taken. Thank goodness.)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Little Children
For weeks now, all I've wanted is to see a movie in a movie theater. I'm not quite sure why it hasn't happened. There are tons of movies I want to see, and several of them were playing around the corner. My dad stayed with us for two weeks, which means that theoretically I was free in the evenings. But kids were sick, S was at work, I had work, it was cold, I was tired: somehow my desire was endlessly thwarted, becoming, in the process, as desires do, that much larger, until, truly, all I wanted in the world was to see a movie in a movie theater (world peace would be nice too, but one's vision narrows in the depths of winter).
Last night I finally made it (sorry, Lucy, S got home at the last minute and pushed me out the door). Borat and The Departed are no longer playing around the corner, and I realized that if I could manage to see three movies this week (ha!) I would at least have seen all the Best Actress nominees, so I went to Little Children.
My main reaction at first was that I either need to give up reading, or give up seeing movie adaptations of books I've read (this doesn't bode well for Notes on a Scandal which I am absolutely determined to see by Sunday--don't know if I'll make it to Volver, though). The movie was fine, but knowing exactly what was going to happen made the whole thing a little slow. It's a pretty faithful adaptation, as far as I can recall. The only significant (and unnecessary) addition was the documentary about the kid whose dad died in Iraq; the only significant omission was the paring down of Sarah's back story and her husband's role (though the absence of the back story, at least, may have made Sarah's character not make so much sense, for those who haven't read the book).
Eventually, though, I got into it and, really, I think I liked the movie better than the book (didn't like the book that much, liked the movie a lot more than I thought I would). The book is pretty frothy, but the movie convincingly, if direly, plumbs the dark side of the suburbs, albeit with a conservatively redemptive ending. The acting, from the playground ladies to the child molester, is excellent, and the cinematography appropriately dark and garish (yes, it can be both). The one thing that didn't work, really didn't work, to the point of making the movie significantly less good than it could have been, was the intrusive voiceover. Isn't the point of film to show, rather than tell? Shouldn't the filmmaking be sufficient to reveal how the characters feel and what they think? Isn't that why we go to the movie, instead of reading the novel?
As for the Best Actress issue, Kate Winslet is great. Physically and emotionally, she fully inhabits Sarah, the ill-fitting suburban mom who doesn't like her child and finds herself in the arms of Brad, the Prom King dad. But the part isn't a full-scale unrecognizable transformation, a la The Queen, so I'd still say the conventional wisdom (i.e. Helen Mirren) is right.
(The weirdest thing about watching the movie was that both Sarah and Brad, the Prom King, reminded me acutely of actual people I know--people who don't know each other, and would never have an affair, though the Brad doppelganger may be on his way to an affair with someone else. Even as I watched the characters on the screen, I couldn't stop thinking about the real people.)
Edited to add: The NY Times review is excellently on the mark (not sure whether it's available without Times Select).
Last night I finally made it (sorry, Lucy, S got home at the last minute and pushed me out the door). Borat and The Departed are no longer playing around the corner, and I realized that if I could manage to see three movies this week (ha!) I would at least have seen all the Best Actress nominees, so I went to Little Children.
My main reaction at first was that I either need to give up reading, or give up seeing movie adaptations of books I've read (this doesn't bode well for Notes on a Scandal which I am absolutely determined to see by Sunday--don't know if I'll make it to Volver, though). The movie was fine, but knowing exactly what was going to happen made the whole thing a little slow. It's a pretty faithful adaptation, as far as I can recall. The only significant (and unnecessary) addition was the documentary about the kid whose dad died in Iraq; the only significant omission was the paring down of Sarah's back story and her husband's role (though the absence of the back story, at least, may have made Sarah's character not make so much sense, for those who haven't read the book).
Eventually, though, I got into it and, really, I think I liked the movie better than the book (didn't like the book that much, liked the movie a lot more than I thought I would). The book is pretty frothy, but the movie convincingly, if direly, plumbs the dark side of the suburbs, albeit with a conservatively redemptive ending. The acting, from the playground ladies to the child molester, is excellent, and the cinematography appropriately dark and garish (yes, it can be both). The one thing that didn't work, really didn't work, to the point of making the movie significantly less good than it could have been, was the intrusive voiceover. Isn't the point of film to show, rather than tell? Shouldn't the filmmaking be sufficient to reveal how the characters feel and what they think? Isn't that why we go to the movie, instead of reading the novel?
As for the Best Actress issue, Kate Winslet is great. Physically and emotionally, she fully inhabits Sarah, the ill-fitting suburban mom who doesn't like her child and finds herself in the arms of Brad, the Prom King dad. But the part isn't a full-scale unrecognizable transformation, a la The Queen, so I'd still say the conventional wisdom (i.e. Helen Mirren) is right.
(The weirdest thing about watching the movie was that both Sarah and Brad, the Prom King, reminded me acutely of actual people I know--people who don't know each other, and would never have an affair, though the Brad doppelganger may be on his way to an affair with someone else. Even as I watched the characters on the screen, I couldn't stop thinking about the real people.)
Edited to add: The NY Times review is excellently on the mark (not sure whether it's available without Times Select).
Monday, February 19, 2007
Tiny Houses and the Challenge of Visibility
The media has once again discovered tiny houses, but what strikes me this time is how so many of these people claim an environmental motivation for their tiny houses--see "ecologically sensitive," "express purposes of conservation," and "no lasting impact on the land"--yet if you look at the slide show, you'll see that the houses are positioned in the landscape so as to visually blight it for anyone outside of the house. "We live in our view rather than look at it," says one couple, but everyone else has to look at them living in it. A paradox that epitomizes the American way of doing good.
(I actually love the idea of tiny houses, but I like them nestled into trees or against a cliff or something--my favorite is the one with the steps down to the water. Then again, I don't like big houses that just stick out of the ground either. Except, of course, The Glass House, but it's surrounded by trees, not invading the prairie--and, of course, it isn't so big).
(I actually love the idea of tiny houses, but I like them nestled into trees or against a cliff or something--my favorite is the one with the steps down to the water. Then again, I don't like big houses that just stick out of the ground either. Except, of course, The Glass House, but it's surrounded by trees, not invading the prairie--and, of course, it isn't so big).
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Every Night Movie
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is in heavy rotation over here. I actually tried it on the girls a year or so ago, but M nixed it pretty quickly. Then Other E got her into the soundtrack. Then she went to a slumber party a few weeks ago where they watched it, and she came home hooked. We rented it the other night as a family movie (our membership allows us three movies at a time, which translates into an E movie, an M movie, and either a Mommy movie or a family movie, depending on how into my book I am). Now E is completely enamoured as well. Plus E has a fever (again), which means all screen time rules go out the window, and we watch Grease over and over.
Summer lovin' had me a blast
Summer lovin', happened so fast
I met a girl crazy for me
I met a boy, cute as can be
E made me print out the lyrics for "Summer Nights," and she walks around reading/singing them. She holds auditions and she gets the part of Sandy; then she has rehearsals (M is currently in two plays; E is suggestible). Both girls are amazed that I know every word to every song.
But now there's nowhere to hide, since you pushed my love aside
I'm not in my head, hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you, hopelessly devoted to you
I'd forgotten that Grease is about sex. But you know, it's kind of like Asterix: it operates on different, and bizarrely appropriate, levels for each of us. E knows that it's about a boy and girl who like each other, but are really different. M gets that Rizzo thinks she's pregnant and is worried. I know what Rizzo means when she tells Danny to go flog his log, and I appreciate the complexities of American sociosexual dynamics at play in Danny's implied pasts with Rizzo and Cha-Cha, not to mention Sandy's costume shift from virginal white to skin-tight black with red stilettos.
Because, really, Grease is the meta-text of (white) American culture. It's all there. James Dean meets American Graffiti meets Welcome Back Kotter meets Happy Days meets Frankie and Annette meets 90210 (or perhaps 90210 is really the meta-text, for surely Kelly and Dylan's summer idyll when Brenda is in France derives directly from Sandy and Danny on the beach in the opening sequence to Grease, except, of course, that Kelly has sex, because it's the 90s, not the 70s riffing on the 50s). But Grease is even more than that: It's "The Gift of the Magi," except things work out, because, after all, we're talking Hollywood American meta-text, not the gloom and doom of the literary past. It's the romance of the automobile. It's Rogers and Hammerstein, with Ado Annie backing up Laurie. It's homosocial bonding. (And I always liked Rizzo best, and, overall, I'd take Kenickie.)
But, finally, Grease is John Travolta, for whom the word I keep coming up with is sinuous. The things that guy did with the length of his body? The dimple in the chin? The brilliant salvageable-sanitized-bad-boy trio of Vinnie Barbarino, Tony Manero, and Danny Zuko? When he and Olivia Newton-John dance through that fun house, two long lines of sinuously twisting black, they're the ones that I want.
Next rental? Saturday Night Fever, for sure. But not with the kids.
I got chills.
They're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' control.
'Cause the power
you're supplyin',
it's electrifyin'!
You better shape up,
'cause I need a man
and my heart is set on you.
You better shape up;
you better understand
to my heart I must be true.
Nothin' left, nothin' left for me to do.
You're the one that I want.
(you are the one i want), o,o, oo, honey.
The one that I want.
(you are the one i want want), o,o,oo, honey.
The one that I want
(you are the one i want want), o,o, ooooo
The one I need.
Oh, yes indeed.
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is in heavy rotation over here. I actually tried it on the girls a year or so ago, but M nixed it pretty quickly. Then Other E got her into the soundtrack. Then she went to a slumber party a few weeks ago where they watched it, and she came home hooked. We rented it the other night as a family movie (our membership allows us three movies at a time, which translates into an E movie, an M movie, and either a Mommy movie or a family movie, depending on how into my book I am). Now E is completely enamoured as well. Plus E has a fever (again), which means all screen time rules go out the window, and we watch Grease over and over.
Summer lovin' had me a blast
Summer lovin', happened so fast
I met a girl crazy for me
I met a boy, cute as can be
E made me print out the lyrics for "Summer Nights," and she walks around reading/singing them. She holds auditions and she gets the part of Sandy; then she has rehearsals (M is currently in two plays; E is suggestible). Both girls are amazed that I know every word to every song.
But now there's nowhere to hide, since you pushed my love aside
I'm not in my head, hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you, hopelessly devoted to you
I'd forgotten that Grease is about sex. But you know, it's kind of like Asterix: it operates on different, and bizarrely appropriate, levels for each of us. E knows that it's about a boy and girl who like each other, but are really different. M gets that Rizzo thinks she's pregnant and is worried. I know what Rizzo means when she tells Danny to go flog his log, and I appreciate the complexities of American sociosexual dynamics at play in Danny's implied pasts with Rizzo and Cha-Cha, not to mention Sandy's costume shift from virginal white to skin-tight black with red stilettos.
Because, really, Grease is the meta-text of (white) American culture. It's all there. James Dean meets American Graffiti meets Welcome Back Kotter meets Happy Days meets Frankie and Annette meets 90210 (or perhaps 90210 is really the meta-text, for surely Kelly and Dylan's summer idyll when Brenda is in France derives directly from Sandy and Danny on the beach in the opening sequence to Grease, except, of course, that Kelly has sex, because it's the 90s, not the 70s riffing on the 50s). But Grease is even more than that: It's "The Gift of the Magi," except things work out, because, after all, we're talking Hollywood American meta-text, not the gloom and doom of the literary past. It's the romance of the automobile. It's Rogers and Hammerstein, with Ado Annie backing up Laurie. It's homosocial bonding. (And I always liked Rizzo best, and, overall, I'd take Kenickie.)
But, finally, Grease is John Travolta, for whom the word I keep coming up with is sinuous. The things that guy did with the length of his body? The dimple in the chin? The brilliant salvageable-sanitized-bad-boy trio of Vinnie Barbarino, Tony Manero, and Danny Zuko? When he and Olivia Newton-John dance through that fun house, two long lines of sinuously twisting black, they're the ones that I want.
Next rental? Saturday Night Fever, for sure. But not with the kids.
I got chills.
They're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' control.
'Cause the power
you're supplyin',
it's electrifyin'!
You better shape up,
'cause I need a man
and my heart is set on you.
You better shape up;
you better understand
to my heart I must be true.
Nothin' left, nothin' left for me to do.
You're the one that I want.
(you are the one i want), o,o, oo, honey.
The one that I want.
(you are the one i want want), o,o,oo, honey.
The one that I want
(you are the one i want want), o,o, ooooo
The one I need.
Oh, yes indeed.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Praise
I've been mulling over New York Magazine's piece on the perils of praise all week. If you don't feel like reading it, it can be boiled down into two points:
1) Don't praise kids for who they are; praise them for what they do. As far as I can tell, this is standard teacher/parent advice. Don't say "that's a beautiful picture"; say "I like the way you used lots of colors in your picture"; or, even better, "tell me about your picture."
2) Research shows that kids who are praised for working hard, or who are given the impression that working hard is the reason for their achievement, do better than kids who are praised for being smart, or given the impression that they achieve because they are smart. In other words, the whole self-esteem movement may very well be bunk. Indeed, it may set kids up to fail, because, if they believe their achievement rests on their intelligence, then failing to achieve signals lack of intelligence, and this knowledge (presumably latent) makes them scared to try and fail.
I have to say this resonates for me. I am always worried about not being smart enough, and I definitely fall into the category of people who don't try as hard as they can for fear that their best effort will not be enough and thus will prove that they are not good enough.
Nevertheless, as a parent, I am ambivalent. I already do the politically correct variety of praise, but I hate the idea of not being able to tell my children they are smart, because I think they are, and I want them to know it and believe it. In other words, I want them not to be like me, but this research suggests that the tactic I am taking will turn them into me.
But then there is the fact that they are them, not me.
As I was mulling over this article, E, out of the blue, addressed the issue. "You know how to make yourself good?" she asked me at dinner, in a conversation about school. "Give yourself compliments before you even know if you're good or bad at it." Then she told a story about a boy in her class who said "Oh, I'm so bad at this," before they began a game, and was indeed bad at it, whereas she, E, thought she would be good, and was. Clearly a believer in the power of positive thinking, not to mention self-boosted self-esteem.
That night, I brought the topic up with M. I told her about the article and asked her what she thought. She said the argument doesn't make sense, because you have to work hard to be smart. "Like, some of it is your genes," she said, "but the rest is work." I think her "it" there is achievement, but overall this seems like a more holistic vision of the issues. When I asked her if she thinks she's smart, she said yes. When I asked her if she works hard, she said yes.
Where to go with this? I'm not quite sure. Perhaps I can make a deal with our entwined psyches: I'll work harder AND I'll keep telling them they're smart, and maybe we'll all turn out OK.
1) Don't praise kids for who they are; praise them for what they do. As far as I can tell, this is standard teacher/parent advice. Don't say "that's a beautiful picture"; say "I like the way you used lots of colors in your picture"; or, even better, "tell me about your picture."
2) Research shows that kids who are praised for working hard, or who are given the impression that working hard is the reason for their achievement, do better than kids who are praised for being smart, or given the impression that they achieve because they are smart. In other words, the whole self-esteem movement may very well be bunk. Indeed, it may set kids up to fail, because, if they believe their achievement rests on their intelligence, then failing to achieve signals lack of intelligence, and this knowledge (presumably latent) makes them scared to try and fail.
I have to say this resonates for me. I am always worried about not being smart enough, and I definitely fall into the category of people who don't try as hard as they can for fear that their best effort will not be enough and thus will prove that they are not good enough.
Nevertheless, as a parent, I am ambivalent. I already do the politically correct variety of praise, but I hate the idea of not being able to tell my children they are smart, because I think they are, and I want them to know it and believe it. In other words, I want them not to be like me, but this research suggests that the tactic I am taking will turn them into me.
But then there is the fact that they are them, not me.
As I was mulling over this article, E, out of the blue, addressed the issue. "You know how to make yourself good?" she asked me at dinner, in a conversation about school. "Give yourself compliments before you even know if you're good or bad at it." Then she told a story about a boy in her class who said "Oh, I'm so bad at this," before they began a game, and was indeed bad at it, whereas she, E, thought she would be good, and was. Clearly a believer in the power of positive thinking, not to mention self-boosted self-esteem.
That night, I brought the topic up with M. I told her about the article and asked her what she thought. She said the argument doesn't make sense, because you have to work hard to be smart. "Like, some of it is your genes," she said, "but the rest is work." I think her "it" there is achievement, but overall this seems like a more holistic vision of the issues. When I asked her if she thinks she's smart, she said yes. When I asked her if she works hard, she said yes.
Where to go with this? I'm not quite sure. Perhaps I can make a deal with our entwined psyches: I'll work harder AND I'll keep telling them they're smart, and maybe we'll all turn out OK.
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