As an avid moviegoer I've turned into a "know-nothing." I like to have as little information as possible about a movie before seeing it. Previously I read reviews, I talked incessantly to people about movies, and generally tried to be "informed" about the particular film I was going to see. Expectations were created.
With each film I watch I realize how important my expectations are and how they alter my enjoyment. I went from an avid review reader to an avid avoider. I must say I'm the better for it. As a reviewer you have a tricky job, you teeter on the bring between revealing too much or too little. Some don't even attempt to walk the line between the two and choose to stick to mere plot summation. There are no surprises for the moviegoer. It leaves one in a somewhat paradoxical situation. How do you "find out" about a movie without creating preconceptions?
Again, Seinfeld (The show never fails to be applicable)
The Rye Episode-
George and his parents are over at Susan's parents house for dinner. After an uncomfortable exchange between Frank and Mr. Ross about chickens, George tries to change the subject to "Firestorm." Frank takes exception to George and Mr. Ross talking about the film because he hadn't seen it yet.
MR. ROSS: It doesn't have anything to do with the plot!
FRANK: Still! Still! I like to go in fresh!
Take the latest movie I saw-La Visite de la Fanfare (The Band's Visit). It was a gem. Time and again the movies I see "fresh" offer enjoyment whereas movies that never lack a shortage of praise fail to deliver (two examples: Lost in Translation, 40 Year Old Virgin). Raised expectations create an unattainable goal.
In an attempt to live by the laws I want others to abide by I try to keep my praise of a movie limited unless specifically pressed. I've instituted the binary scale in my life for other less auspicious reasons so it might as well be put to use for movies. 1=You should see the film 0=You should not see the film.
La Visite de la Fanfare=1
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Opera Garnier
Sunday night Morgane and I went to the Opera Garnier to hear a chamber music concert. For the most part I am tone deaf. So while I enjoyed the concert (Strauss & Beethoven) I think that someone who knows the difference between F Major and B Minor might have enjoyed the music more. The concert hall on the other hand absolutely captivated me.
Hands down the coolest venue I've been to (Red Rocks being the closet competition). At the Opera Garnier everything is so compact that there isn't a bad seat. Unfortunately enough the operators of the venue take the "equality" part of the French motto to heart. Which means that despite having box seats we had to sit on the same stuffed wooden chairs as everyone else. They looked as if they had been there since 1777.
To top it off (no pun intended) there was a mural on the dome ceiling by Chagall. Even though it doesn't exactly mesh with its surroundings it still seems to work.
All in all it was a very adult way to spend a Sunday evening. Many thanks to Zoe for the wonderful present.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Fear
It occurred to me that I live my life here without fear. When I say "fear" I mean one of danger. My life is full of any number of small fears, the type of fears you face as an outsider, not confident in your language capacities yet. But I had yet to face any sort of the uneasiness I might get when I walk down a "bad" street in the U.S. until last week. Walking down Boulevard de la Villette to meet McCall and Finney for a drink was the first time I had any inkling of nervousness or fear since I've been here.
European cities are completely different to American cities. In America we have the phenomenon of "white flight"--the exodus to the suburbs. European cities revolve around the city center. The poor are forced to the "suburbs" in Europe while the rich clamor for the city center. That isn't to say that there aren't "bad" parts of European cities, it's just difficult in a sense to "experience" those areas as you might in America. Our "ghettos" are often inside the city which, to a certain extent, increases contact with those neighborhoods.
Evidently I found the edges of a neighborhood teetering on the cusp between dereliction and regentrification, between poverty and trendy. As I walked along the boulevard my realization should have been along the lines of "poverty doesn't equate criminality," but it wasn't. My realization was, "hey, I'm in France. What's there to be scared of?" Unfounded or not, I (and assume America in general) have the conception of France as being a bit soft. The stereotype is one of pacifism and capitulation, not of confrontation.
The most analogous example I can refer to is naturally Seinfeld. There is an episode where Jerry and Elaine go to the opera (Pagliacci, the tragic clown) and as they are waiting on Kramer and George, Jerry gets into an confrontation with a man. Afterwards Jerry remarks that, "I like hanging around this opera crowd. Makes me feel tough." If my mindset of safety could be summed up it would be much like Jerry's, inflated and without a real basis.
European cities are completely different to American cities. In America we have the phenomenon of "white flight"--the exodus to the suburbs. European cities revolve around the city center. The poor are forced to the "suburbs" in Europe while the rich clamor for the city center. That isn't to say that there aren't "bad" parts of European cities, it's just difficult in a sense to "experience" those areas as you might in America. Our "ghettos" are often inside the city which, to a certain extent, increases contact with those neighborhoods.
Evidently I found the edges of a neighborhood teetering on the cusp between dereliction and regentrification, between poverty and trendy. As I walked along the boulevard my realization should have been along the lines of "poverty doesn't equate criminality," but it wasn't. My realization was, "hey, I'm in France. What's there to be scared of?" Unfounded or not, I (and assume America in general) have the conception of France as being a bit soft. The stereotype is one of pacifism and capitulation, not of confrontation.
The most analogous example I can refer to is naturally Seinfeld. There is an episode where Jerry and Elaine go to the opera (Pagliacci, the tragic clown) and as they are waiting on Kramer and George, Jerry gets into an confrontation with a man. Afterwards Jerry remarks that, "I like hanging around this opera crowd. Makes me feel tough." If my mindset of safety could be summed up it would be much like Jerry's, inflated and without a real basis.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Nostalgia
At the beginning of High Fidelity Rob asks, "What came first, the music or the misery?"
My own cycle seems to have been kicked off by Levon Helm's latest album "Dirt Farmer." The album was a birthday present that I still hadn't listened to until today. I jokingly told Witty at one point that I was saving it up until I was really homesick so an Arkansan could soothe me over.
This afternoon when I popped it in the player I eventually got lost down inside my memories. The music came first but was my heart sending messages to my mind? Did I subconsciously desire it?
Strangely enough the memories and thoughts I was having weren't of going home but of times forever lost. It's a realization we all have at some point in early adulthood and its sentiments have been given voice in various forms throughout history--from Thomas Wolfe to Garden State. Inside each of us lives the desire to return-to find our place of comfort and happiness. And so we spend our years out on our own--separated from what we once were and not yet what we'll become. We are a shapeless lot waiting to find "our" place.
Today I got lost in the web of nostalgia remembering times past, remembering youth, remembering life on South Jackson--eating KFC with my Great-Grandparents, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, the garage code. These nostalgic thoughts are often a pleasant thing to get lost in especially since I long ago realized that I could never return to them. Robbie Robertson summed it up in the Last Waltz when he lamented that "it ain't like it used to be."
My memories where of happy times past and not memories tugging at my sleeve to "come home." I've long felt "homeless." I've had houses. I've lived places but the "home" for which I search, I fear, is still far off in the distance.
My own cycle seems to have been kicked off by Levon Helm's latest album "Dirt Farmer." The album was a birthday present that I still hadn't listened to until today. I jokingly told Witty at one point that I was saving it up until I was really homesick so an Arkansan could soothe me over.
This afternoon when I popped it in the player I eventually got lost down inside my memories. The music came first but was my heart sending messages to my mind? Did I subconsciously desire it?
Strangely enough the memories and thoughts I was having weren't of going home but of times forever lost. It's a realization we all have at some point in early adulthood and its sentiments have been given voice in various forms throughout history--from Thomas Wolfe to Garden State. Inside each of us lives the desire to return-to find our place of comfort and happiness. And so we spend our years out on our own--separated from what we once were and not yet what we'll become. We are a shapeless lot waiting to find "our" place.
Today I got lost in the web of nostalgia remembering times past, remembering youth, remembering life on South Jackson--eating KFC with my Great-Grandparents, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, the garage code. These nostalgic thoughts are often a pleasant thing to get lost in especially since I long ago realized that I could never return to them. Robbie Robertson summed it up in the Last Waltz when he lamented that "it ain't like it used to be."
My memories where of happy times past and not memories tugging at my sleeve to "come home." I've long felt "homeless." I've had houses. I've lived places but the "home" for which I search, I fear, is still far off in the distance.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Belgian Waffles & 4 Random Notes
As I expected waffles turned out to be the most important part of the Belgian experience. They were followed closely by beer and the art nouveau architecture. I can't say they were amazing waffles. I don't know what sets one waffle apart from another but the mere fact that I got to have waffles was enough.
Naivety, however, did get the better of me once again: I just assumed they would have maple syrup. The Belgians seem to prepare their gauffres (waffles) in three ways: au natural, with powdered sugar on top, or covered in chocolate. The last option obviously proved to be the best. You could have it chaud ou froid, that is hot or cold. Hot came with the chocolate melted all over the top of the waffle making it difficult and messy to eat (pictures coming soon). Cold came with the melted chocolate settled on the top of the waffle. It wasn't as messy but nor was it as good.
My waffle experience took a positive turn on morning two when we found a restaurant that had "syrup du Canada." A celebratory trumpet sounded somewhere when I read that. Maple syrup. (Insert Jay Lane "Booyeah" here)
Random Notes:
1) There seemed to be a lot of people using canes in Belgium. When I say this I mean young to middle aged people that have some sort of leg affliction. I saw upwards of 15 perhaps while I was there. Proportionally that might not be a whole lot but in this day and age how often do you see seemingly young healthy people using walking canes?
2) I found out today that there are more Lebanese people in Brazil than in Lebanon.
3) I think the Smash Mouth song, "All Star" would make a great/funny Country/Western cover song. Sing some of the opening lines to yourself in a twangy accent.
"She was lookin' kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead."
4) I've seen several great movies lately and one stinker. From the names of the following actors & their movies see if you can figure out which one gets a negative review from me.
Casey Affleck-Gone Baby Gone
Tom Hanks-Charlie Wilson's War
Javier Bardem-No Country For Old Men
Norah Jones-My Blueberry Nights
Naivety, however, did get the better of me once again: I just assumed they would have maple syrup. The Belgians seem to prepare their gauffres (waffles) in three ways: au natural, with powdered sugar on top, or covered in chocolate. The last option obviously proved to be the best. You could have it chaud ou froid, that is hot or cold. Hot came with the chocolate melted all over the top of the waffle making it difficult and messy to eat (pictures coming soon). Cold came with the melted chocolate settled on the top of the waffle. It wasn't as messy but nor was it as good.
My waffle experience took a positive turn on morning two when we found a restaurant that had "syrup du Canada." A celebratory trumpet sounded somewhere when I read that. Maple syrup. (Insert Jay Lane "Booyeah" here)
Random Notes:
1) There seemed to be a lot of people using canes in Belgium. When I say this I mean young to middle aged people that have some sort of leg affliction. I saw upwards of 15 perhaps while I was there. Proportionally that might not be a whole lot but in this day and age how often do you see seemingly young healthy people using walking canes?
2) I found out today that there are more Lebanese people in Brazil than in Lebanon.
3) I think the Smash Mouth song, "All Star" would make a great/funny Country/Western cover song. Sing some of the opening lines to yourself in a twangy accent.
"She was lookin' kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead."
4) I've seen several great movies lately and one stinker. From the names of the following actors & their movies see if you can figure out which one gets a negative review from me.
Casey Affleck-Gone Baby Gone
Tom Hanks-Charlie Wilson's War
Javier Bardem-No Country For Old Men
Norah Jones-My Blueberry Nights
Friday, January 25, 2008
Bruges (and the continuing saga of the Euro-toilet)
As a port city Bruges was once one of the most important cities in Europe, not to mention one of the richest. Once the water dried up Bruges lost its access to the sea and thus its trade. Naturally the loss of its population and riches came next. Bruges became a ghost town. This also served to “preserve” the city and is now its lifeblood thanks to the millions of people who pass through Bruges each summer to gawk at the buildings and stroll along the canals.
After seeing Bruges for myself I can relate to Collin Farrell’s recent quip about the city in the trailer for his latest movie, “In Bruges.” Since my mother reads this I won’t be giving a verbatim quote but he intimated that things can be a bit boring in Bruges. This is true. There is a slower pace to the city, which I suspect plays into its stature as a city “stopped in time.” I don’t want this to be construed in a negative light. It is a picturesque city built for peaceful strolls. In the summertime you get to fight the crowds but enjoy the weather. In the winter you lose the crowds but gain large layers of clothing. I have to admit that the frigid weather was a bit of a distraction for me.
There seemed to be little to Bruges beyond the architecture and the quaint waterways. This much was later confirmed by a young citizen and business owner. My other fascination was the bikes. They were everywhere. Until I see Amsterdam, Bruges will remain the bike capital of Europe in my mind.
While we traveled through the cobblestone streets of Bruges in the freezing temperatures we came upon a manifestation of heaven on earth: Le Pain Quotidien. Somehow this Flemish establishment has perfected the art of baking, an art I had always associated with France. Despite her pride in French baking, I'm confident Morgane will attest to the veracity of my claims. It is impossible for me to break down pleasure into words so I’ll just tell you that if you are ever in Bruges get the Tarte au Chocolate at Le Pain Quotidien.
I often pose questions on here. They are rarely rhetorical and if someone has an explanation or answer for them, please let me know. The preceding is especially true for the following: Why are there no “free” toilets in Europe? My dad always told me that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” but as long as man has existed we’ve been able to get rid of those lunches for free. This has ceased to be true in Europe. I could understand it if with the money spent cleaner facilities were provided. However, they seem to be on par if not worse than those in the States. Is it to promote jobs, much like the New Jersey/Oregon laws forbidding citizens to pump their own gas? Is it because they know people will pay? Perhaps it is a true expression of capitalism in socialistic Europe? Answers are needed to ease my wandering mind.
After seeing Bruges for myself I can relate to Collin Farrell’s recent quip about the city in the trailer for his latest movie, “In Bruges.” Since my mother reads this I won’t be giving a verbatim quote but he intimated that things can be a bit boring in Bruges. This is true. There is a slower pace to the city, which I suspect plays into its stature as a city “stopped in time.” I don’t want this to be construed in a negative light. It is a picturesque city built for peaceful strolls. In the summertime you get to fight the crowds but enjoy the weather. In the winter you lose the crowds but gain large layers of clothing. I have to admit that the frigid weather was a bit of a distraction for me.
There seemed to be little to Bruges beyond the architecture and the quaint waterways. This much was later confirmed by a young citizen and business owner. My other fascination was the bikes. They were everywhere. Until I see Amsterdam, Bruges will remain the bike capital of Europe in my mind.
While we traveled through the cobblestone streets of Bruges in the freezing temperatures we came upon a manifestation of heaven on earth: Le Pain Quotidien. Somehow this Flemish establishment has perfected the art of baking, an art I had always associated with France. Despite her pride in French baking, I'm confident Morgane will attest to the veracity of my claims. It is impossible for me to break down pleasure into words so I’ll just tell you that if you are ever in Bruges get the Tarte au Chocolate at Le Pain Quotidien.
I often pose questions on here. They are rarely rhetorical and if someone has an explanation or answer for them, please let me know. The preceding is especially true for the following: Why are there no “free” toilets in Europe? My dad always told me that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” but as long as man has existed we’ve been able to get rid of those lunches for free. This has ceased to be true in Europe. I could understand it if with the money spent cleaner facilities were provided. However, they seem to be on par if not worse than those in the States. Is it to promote jobs, much like the New Jersey/Oregon laws forbidding citizens to pump their own gas? Is it because they know people will pay? Perhaps it is a true expression of capitalism in socialistic Europe? Answers are needed to ease my wandering mind.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Brussels, Sandwiches, and Orwell
Brussels
I spent most of my first day in Brussels in a tavern near La Grand-Place. There was a mix-up with Paypal and so instead of exploring the city, Morgane, Zoe, and I were stuck in a tavern trying to fix the situation. Since they have the French language background they got to do the talking and I got to sit around thinking about Belgian identity. At the risk of being pedantic (that’s for you Matty): Belgium is made of two ethnic groups divided along fairly distinct geographic lines. French is spoken in southern Belgium (Wallonia) and a Dutch dialect, Flemish, is spoken in northern Belgium (Flanders).
I asked Morgane if the French speaking Belgians were proud of their “French” heritage or felt any connection to the people at all. This turned out to be quite off the mark. Apparently there is a bit of a rivalry between the two—the Walloons are often the butt of French jokes. I found this quite amusing and wondered if this was true for the Dutch side of the equation too. Neither Morgane nor Zoe could proffer much of a definitive answer but I tend to assume it would be. This seems to be the natural order of the world—poking fun at those with which we have so much in common save one thing or another. Lord knows in growing up in Western Arkansas (and living in Texas) we tended to poke fun at the people from Oklahoma. If we discount the Sooner fans, there is little that separates the majority of us from the majority of “them.”
And yet isn’t it fitting that this country, divided between two cultures, the butt of certain jokes, and at times barely able to form a government for itself is the “capital” of Europe.
SANDWICH SOCIETY
Though much is made of our penchant for hamburgers America is a sandwich society. Of course there are sandwiches everywhere but nowhere is it engrained in the life of its people like the in the United States. Our lives are filled with sandwiches.
Despite outer appearances I am a man of routine. I make lists of things I want to do. I close the lids of open Tupperware and shut the doors of open cabinets. There is a mechanism inside my head that tries to keep things in my life in order. Depending upon the situation these traits range anywhere from “blessings” to “annoyances” but often reside somewhere in the middle ground between “quirks” and “foibles.” Perhaps it is just because I am a man of routine but my meals, especially lunch, revolved around the sandwich. And as a result of my long running penchant for turkey sandwiches I might be biased in making this assertion for America but I believe it.
There are those who argue against the hamburger as a national dish and try to rally around the melting pot status of the United States. We’re too “large” or too “diverse” to have a national dish. Why not have a national dish as broad and varied as our inhabitants and geography? The sandwich is perfect—Gyro, Panini, BLT, California Club—It covers all the ground.
This might not be a ground breaking idea or sentiment but it’s out there now. As I spend my days eating a wide variety of dishes for lunch I often find myself longing for my simple sandwiches. And each time I am able to have a sandwich I am content in ways only the familiar friend can supply.
HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
My life has been filled with books. As I waited for the apartment versus paypal debacle to be sorted out I finished George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. I had enjoyed reading the book while I was in college (in fact it was one of the better books I was assigned to read while I was there) so when I saw it on the bookshelves in the apartment I was keen to revisit it.
The version I read in college was the “original” version. At some point after its initial publication Orwell decided upon some changes to the order of the chapters. So, when I read this “updated” version two chapters from the middle of the book that dealt largely with the overall political situation in detail were removed and placed at the end of the book as appendixes. The rearrangement of the chapters proved to be quite beneficial as it streamlined action creating a more cohesive narrative.
Now that you are bored with this inconsequential miscellany: I hesitate to divulge this but I’ve never read Animal Farm or 1984. Despite this embarrassing gap in my literary experience I love Orwell’s writing. He is refreshingly honest throughout the book, not only about what he sees but about himself as well. Despite the somewhat depressing nature of the situation, this honesty allows humor to pleasantly creep in along the edges. And for my money, the closing paragraph is one of the most sweepingly tender and prophetic passages penned.
I spent most of my first day in Brussels in a tavern near La Grand-Place. There was a mix-up with Paypal and so instead of exploring the city, Morgane, Zoe, and I were stuck in a tavern trying to fix the situation. Since they have the French language background they got to do the talking and I got to sit around thinking about Belgian identity. At the risk of being pedantic (that’s for you Matty): Belgium is made of two ethnic groups divided along fairly distinct geographic lines. French is spoken in southern Belgium (Wallonia) and a Dutch dialect, Flemish, is spoken in northern Belgium (Flanders).
I asked Morgane if the French speaking Belgians were proud of their “French” heritage or felt any connection to the people at all. This turned out to be quite off the mark. Apparently there is a bit of a rivalry between the two—the Walloons are often the butt of French jokes. I found this quite amusing and wondered if this was true for the Dutch side of the equation too. Neither Morgane nor Zoe could proffer much of a definitive answer but I tend to assume it would be. This seems to be the natural order of the world—poking fun at those with which we have so much in common save one thing or another. Lord knows in growing up in Western Arkansas (and living in Texas) we tended to poke fun at the people from Oklahoma. If we discount the Sooner fans, there is little that separates the majority of us from the majority of “them.”
And yet isn’t it fitting that this country, divided between two cultures, the butt of certain jokes, and at times barely able to form a government for itself is the “capital” of Europe.
SANDWICH SOCIETY
Though much is made of our penchant for hamburgers America is a sandwich society. Of course there are sandwiches everywhere but nowhere is it engrained in the life of its people like the in the United States. Our lives are filled with sandwiches.
Despite outer appearances I am a man of routine. I make lists of things I want to do. I close the lids of open Tupperware and shut the doors of open cabinets. There is a mechanism inside my head that tries to keep things in my life in order. Depending upon the situation these traits range anywhere from “blessings” to “annoyances” but often reside somewhere in the middle ground between “quirks” and “foibles.” Perhaps it is just because I am a man of routine but my meals, especially lunch, revolved around the sandwich. And as a result of my long running penchant for turkey sandwiches I might be biased in making this assertion for America but I believe it.
There are those who argue against the hamburger as a national dish and try to rally around the melting pot status of the United States. We’re too “large” or too “diverse” to have a national dish. Why not have a national dish as broad and varied as our inhabitants and geography? The sandwich is perfect—Gyro, Panini, BLT, California Club—It covers all the ground.
This might not be a ground breaking idea or sentiment but it’s out there now. As I spend my days eating a wide variety of dishes for lunch I often find myself longing for my simple sandwiches. And each time I am able to have a sandwich I am content in ways only the familiar friend can supply.
HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
My life has been filled with books. As I waited for the apartment versus paypal debacle to be sorted out I finished George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. I had enjoyed reading the book while I was in college (in fact it was one of the better books I was assigned to read while I was there) so when I saw it on the bookshelves in the apartment I was keen to revisit it.
The version I read in college was the “original” version. At some point after its initial publication Orwell decided upon some changes to the order of the chapters. So, when I read this “updated” version two chapters from the middle of the book that dealt largely with the overall political situation in detail were removed and placed at the end of the book as appendixes. The rearrangement of the chapters proved to be quite beneficial as it streamlined action creating a more cohesive narrative.
Now that you are bored with this inconsequential miscellany: I hesitate to divulge this but I’ve never read Animal Farm or 1984. Despite this embarrassing gap in my literary experience I love Orwell’s writing. He is refreshingly honest throughout the book, not only about what he sees but about himself as well. Despite the somewhat depressing nature of the situation, this honesty allows humor to pleasantly creep in along the edges. And for my money, the closing paragraph is one of the most sweepingly tender and prophetic passages penned.
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