Movie: Ils (aka, Them)

I finally got the French horror movie, "Ils," on DVD, watched it last night. While people have praised it as exceedingly scary, I found it to not be so -- which was a disappointment, as "The Strangers," (an American version of "Ils" that has not been as well-received as "Ils" was), actually frightened me a great deal. Without wanting to throw spoilers in the mix, I thought that "The Strangers" was far scarier, was shot more evocatively, and absolutely terrified me like few films ever have (although I'll also say that "The Strangers" works ONCE as a terror film -- once you've encountered its terrors, there is a sense of diminishing returns with it on repeated viewings, although the terror gives way to dread, which is still a strong emotion).

What is my problem with "Ils?" Well, it does maintain tension throughout it -- that is without dispute, but the kinetic nature of it, some of the protagonists' choices, this "scared rabbit" mentality they had, it spoke to a kind of political slant in the view of the writers, I think. A kind of moral message carved into the story with a butcher knife, which isn't particularly what one needs in a slasher movie.

So, why did "The Strangers" hit me harder than "Ils?" I think the sense of home invasion was stronger in the former than the latter, and the dilapidation of the simply massive dwelling in "Ils" made it, paradoxically enough, less threatening than the nice cottage of "The Strangers." You already expect horrors in the "Ils" dwelling -- the place looks like the playground of an undead Bond villain, whereas the dwelling in "The Strangers" is a nice, cozy little home -- so, when the descent into nightmare is undertaken, the fall is further in the American version, most definitely.

The protagonists in the American version are somewhat more savvy (and combative) than the chickenshits in the French one. I think any American watching it would be like "C'mon! Deck'em!" when confronted by something like that.

Similarly, the villains in the American version are both more visible and less human than the villains in the French version. There's something terribly chilling about the Mansonian wackos with the masks (see below), when contrasted with the hoodie-wearing villains in "Ils." There are only three killers in "The Strangers" and there are many more in "Ils" and yet the three baddies in the former are far more terrifying.

The use of silence, music, and noise in the American version cannot be overstated -- it plays a key role in it in a way that the French version lacks. The French have you careening through the cavernous dwelling when the American version has you sitting there, in darkness and silence, waiting -- much more powerful stuff. Even simple things like hard knocking on a door at odd hours is absolutely terrifying in "The Strangers."

Perhaps the civilization of the French accounts for the horror they perceive in the "big reveal" of the story, whereas, in the States, where all sorts of outrages are apparently more common (or we hear about them more), the reveal is kind of not so revealing. Oh! Good heavens! Versus in the American version, the baddies are big and bad and scary (and two of them are girls) and we ultimately don't know their identities, and something about that makes it scarier -- we don't know who they are, and their motive for doing it is simply because the characters happened to be home. The arbitrary and absolute nature of that violence seems more terrifying to me than the moral outrage we're supposed to feel in "Ils." Maybe I'm jaded.

I'm at a loss for why "The Strangers" is less-favorably reviewed than "Ils," because I'm a fan of French filmmaking, and I really wanted "Ils" to deliver for me, but it just didn't. Tense, yes, but not terrifying. I think people feel like maybe they're supposed to like the original better, but in this case, I think the American remake was superior. Maybe it was in the hands of a better director and writer, I'm not entirely sure, but one terrified me, and the other didn't.

I'm forever grateful that "The Strangers" came out a few years after I'd sold my home in the quiet woods! Even then, I found myself being sure the door was locked in the apartment while watching it. "Ils" didn't spark nearly that same reaction.

Suede

Trotted out the suede shoes (weatherproofed, mind you), as it's springtime, and it just seems right. Fuck the rain. Viva la Suede!

Started working on a writing project again (one from late last year), finding my feet on it, while the new "real-world" story germinates. Good stuff, should be. Gonna make it so, anyway.



Slept uneasily last night. I think my asthma and reflux are worse in Spring and Fall -- I think all the mold gets to me. I know I'm strongly allergic to mold, and I know those times of year are tough for me. I feel that more than a bit.

B1 was sweet -- I was getting the boys ready for their day, and he sighed contentedly and said "You're so NICE, Daddy. You're a nice guy." That made me smile, warmed my heart. I asked "What'd I do?" and he said "Nothing, you just ARE." I loved hearing that. One of the rewards of parenting. I'm good at being a dad, and I enjoy it so much. My guys'll learn how to be good dads from me, and that makes me happy.

PPD: Sprung

A good year is determined by its spring.

PPD: Cocky

A good cock was never fat.

Oscar Grouching, cont'd...

What else stood out at me at the Oscars? As ever, George Clooney's self-consciousness bothers me. I mean, he's GEORGE CLOONEY, right? What's he got to worry about? And yet, he's acutely aware of himself, is staggeringly self-conscious, and it bothers me. He's a pretender to the Cary Grant throne (yeah, there's a Cary Grant throne, and only Cary Grant got to sit on it), and he knows it, but he's like the guy at the party who talks too loud, swaggers when he's sitting still, and tries to get everybody to listen to this "really funny story" that's actually not funny, but that won't stop him from cornering you and telling you it, anyway. It bothered me every time the camera would go to Clooney and he's mug for the camera, or otherwise react to it. Chill out, Clooney. You're a movie star, not an actor, and there really is a difference, and your movie star is setting. I know it bothers you (it's come up in interviews, although he guffaws about it like it doesn't really bother him, but I know it does; I can just tell). That acute self-awareness is off-putting; he's not natural, he's contrived.

And speaking of that, I'm bothered by Stanley Tucci's eyes -- he has these dead eyes that call to mind Michael Caine. And I think it's part of the problem. I see it every time he performs -- he embodies that East Coast style of acting, where American actors focus on theater work in hopes of being as good at it as English actors. The English have a remarkable ability to create Great Actors(tm) -- those workmanlike actors who can basically be inserted into any role and they will excel in it. They bring a very cerebral approach to acting that focuses on craftsmanship instead of the from-the-heart style of Method. And with the English, it works.

But when American actors try it, they come off as cold and actorly -- and Tucci is of that school. He's a successful actor, gets a ton of work, and he's very much that kind of actor who you say "Can you play this?" and he'll gaze at you coldly and say "No problem." and he'll give you a credible performance of whatever the fuck it is that he was called upon to play.

And, to me, that's exactly the problem. There is a clinical detachment to his craftsmanship, an inherent coldness to his work that, regardless of the role he plays, remains there. It's why I bring up Michael Caine -- Caine has a huge, huge career that spans endless decades. And he's played countless roles -- but that clinical coldness is always in his roles, like the smile that fails to reach the eyes. The coldest thing onscreen is Michael Caine smiling -- just look at his eyes, and you'll see the smile doesn't get up there. Tucci has that same thing going on -- the smile doesn't reach the eyes, the life doesn't get in there.

I pay so much attention to actors' eyes -- and Tucci's got scary-cold eyes. And you know where I went after thinking about his performance style, right? Yes. He's a Scorpio. I knew it. The eyes always, always reveal the Scorpio. Cold fucking eyes.

I didn't know that until I just looked a second ago -- what bothered me is those shark's eyes of his and his cold, clinical performing style, and then I thought "Oh, wait, I bet I know what he is." Sure enough.

I'm not saying Tucci's a bad actor, because he's not -- he's a highly competent craftsman with his acting. He'll give you any performance you require of him. He's what George Clooney could, perhaps, aspire to, if Clooney were actually a good actor, and not George Clooney(tm), the fading movie star. But Tucci won't ever be an incendiary talent -- he's acting far too up in his head to ever take that kind of risk. For him, I'll wager it's an exercise in calculated performance -- his guiding star would be Olivier, not Brando.

Costume Designed

I actually watched the Oscars last night. That was something I rarely ever do, but I was curious to see what and who would win this year, and it was fun ogling the fashions and the stars and what-not. I got a kick out of Sandy Powell's outfit -- she won her third Oscar for Costume Design, and I liked the moxie she had in her own choices. Spunky, offbeat. Loved the peacock-hued fingernails, and how the bangles played to the colors of the dress (which itself had an almost Art Deco vibe to it -- like Art Deco on a bender, with a touch of 80s flair). Loved the exuberant eccentricity of it, and how she carried herself! (and she was gracious in her thank-you speech, as well). It fits that someone who has excelled in Costume Design over the years would, in turn, craft a memorable costume for herself at the Oscars. I could totally see Corvina playing this way...

Oscar Grouching

Aw, c'mon -- they did their horror movie montage in the Academy Awards show and included: "Jaws," "Marathon Man," "Beetlejuice," "The Sixth Sense," and "Edward Scissorhands" in the montage??

No, no, no, no, and no! Not. Horror.

PPD: Ass

A contented ass enjoys a long life.

Sun-Day

Yesterday was very sunny. Nice day, weatherwise. I took the bus to Target, kind of a test run in my post-car-owning days. No problems -- took maybe 1.5 hours, all told (e.g., getting out there, shopping, returning). And going that way kept me from buying TOO much there (although I still topped out at $114 -- I maintain that I can't go to Target without exceeding $100 in purchases, no matter my original intent).

The bus ride was fun; it's so good for people-watching, I can't help but be amused. This father and his little daughter, the latter who kept playing with her sunglasses and dropping them, and he kept picking them up. It was cute, just the exchanged glances, the private smiles. A little game.

Saw a platinum blonde Trixie in shades with a black wool overcoat, black and white striped miniskirt, black hose, black open-toe high heels that looked like they were part felt (?), light gray scarf, burgundy fingernails (and toenails). She was absently chewing some very bright blue gum and reading Ayn Rand's "Three Plays." Ayn Rand? I always hate seeing people read Ayn Rand. Bogus intellectual. Rotten writer. Trixie actually rode on both of my buses -- I got off the first bus and waited at another stop, and then got on my connecting bus, and there was Trixie again, cracking her gum and reading her Rand (moving her lips now and again while reading).

Preppy gay guy sat nearby and gave me a couple of searching glances, seeing if I was game. His look was so retro-preppy I wanted to snicker -- I remember kids in high school prepped out like that. He reminded me of a former classmate (J. P.), who always worked that preppy look to the max. Sort of an amusing image.

My hair is pretty shaggy -- I haven't gotten it cut over the winter; just thick-haired to keep warm! My sideburns are lupine at the moment! I'm sure I'll bite the bullet and get a cut soon, but not yet. Maybe later this month.

I did some spring cleaning around the apartment, cleaned the inside and outside of the windows, which needed it badly. Satisfying to get them all cleaned up. Watched "Apollo 13" with my boys -- B1 loved it (as I knew he would). He wanted to watch it again, so I put it on later in the evening, and ordered "The Right Stuff" for him to watch, too. Anything with rockets and space, I tellya.

The whole Apollo 13 incident happened right before (and when) I was born. Like they splashed down the day after I was born.

I think I'm finally over my cold of the last couple of weeks -- just a tiny bit of it left.

Oh, I refined my White Spaghetti recipe last night -- used rotini with it, instead! I did so because I didn't have any spaghetti in stock, but I did have some rotini (I always have a strategic reserve of pasta in-house -- I told B1 "I never say 'basta!' to pasta!" and he asked what 'basta' meant, and I told him, included the accompanying hand gesture, which is almost instinctive). I'm happy to report that the rotini worked perfectly, actually better than the spaghetti I typically use. I could see Exene trying to process it and I said "What, you're going to try to assimilate that recipe, claim it for your own?" and she said "I'll give proper credit for it." and I said "Yeah, right." She'll never be able to properly replicate it, because she doesn't know all the ingredients that go into it. It takes a certain culinary nuance to get it just right. B1 actually tried some of it, which was nice, although he was skittish about the fresh diced flat-leaf parsley that was in it.

I'm going to get some writing done today.

Bebelicious.

Bus kiosk, State Street and Van Buren.

Whoopsie.

My Rules

It occurred to me that, over the years, I have a small set of working rules that govern my friendship, or at least who I consider friend-worthy:

• Don't be crazy/psycho
• Don't be an asshole
• Don't be pretentious
• Don't be phony/affected
  
• Don't be chickenshit
• Don't be lame

Seemingly not very hard, and yet, it is, I suppose. One might argue that all of those things are subjective, subject to interpretation, and that I should be more tolerant of the craziness, assholery, pretensions, affectations, chickenshittery, and lameness of others, or that I'm too harsh a judge of human character. That we're all human, nobody's perfect, blah blah blah. True, nobody's perfect.

But it doesn't give people a license to slack off, to be assholes, and it doesn't obviate the need for standards in one's associations, and doesn't obligate me to tolerate shitbaggery when I face it. My friendship is a gift and a treasure, and should not be thrown aside lightly.

I'm forgiving to a point (and loving to a fault, unfortunately), but I pursue an inductive, empirical approach to friendship where I just pay attention to what people say and do: I look, I listen. If somebody has a redeeming quality, I will cut them some slack, but if they force me to pay attention to my aforementioned "rules," I will distance myself from them. I can sometimes forgive one or two of the above (and even then, only if it's not too strong), but more than that, and they're out, or at least consigned to the distant reaches of my psyche -- curbside, on the wrong side of the velvet ropes of the Studio 54 of my mind, heart, and soul.

You know the line about you being judged by the company you keep? Well, I think of that now and again. People strive for excellence in so many things -- why not excellence in friendships, too? I don't believe in "settling" for love, and I don't believe in "settling" in friendships, either. So, taking the opposite of my "rules" above, one can at least hypothetically divine what I value in a friend:

• Be sane
• Be kind and compassionate
  
• Be honest and modest
• Be natural, unselfconscious, and authentic
  
• Be bold and spunky
  
• Be fun

I don't think that's asking too much. It's not the Ten Commandments, but being those things can't hurt. Looking at the above, it's also possible for someone to be exceptionally strong in one area (or, ideally, many of these) and that balances out some of the negatives. Like if someone were exceptionally kind, I'd forgive them for being exceptionally lame -- I wouldn't judge them for that, because their kindness would offset the lameness. Exceptional virtues can (up to a point) forgive faults, so long as the virtues outmatch the vices.

I think it's natural to have an aesthetic -- it just makes sense to me on a deep and intuitive level. To know beauty, you have to understand it intuitively. And I think it applies to friendships, as well. Friendship is a beautiful thing, and I treasure it -- why cheapen it by lowering my standards? Mediocrity in friendship is as damning as mediocrity in anything else.

The Four Horsemen

The title of this article ("The Cavalry Can't Save Them") made me snicker.

Under the heading “The Seduction of the Libertine,” followed by a line of English verse (skip it), the notes detailed John Galliano’s collection of cavalry coats with blown-away collars, the riding tweeds and herringbones mixed with chunky sweaters, and the muted earth tones “romantically restrained like the rebelling gentry of then and today.”

The gentry? You mean those people who are running to Costco to stock up on Evian.

*cackle*

Looking at the runway photos, the Elbaz designs for Lanvin jumped out at me, and I was pleased that the reviewer appeared to concur...

Alber Elbaz’s clothes for Lanvin this season have two powerful qualities. They are at once emotional and economical, with many of the dresses cut from a single piece of stretch fabric and perhaps another to whip around the shoulder and down one arm to form a sleeve. The emotion comes from the almost muscular way Mr. Elbaz seemed to drape and gather the fabric. He is not a peplum kind of guy — too old hat for him — but to see a silver-gray jacket lightly pinched at the sides and drawn up into folds at the back was to marvel at how he got around his distaste. Perhaps he imagined he was beating egg whites to make a meringue.

Although the models were way too skinny, I thought the designs were sleek and retro-chic in all the right ways.