Me and My Precious Feelings While Attending the 2012 Sundance Film Festival. Me, Me, Me. [Part 3]

There is this young long-haired surfer dude I keep seeing at every film I attend, which means he has the same festival pass as me, and we always end up sitting on the same aisle (it's the one with the most leg room).  Without fail, if I hate a film, I hear/see him enraptured over it.  If I find a film engrossing, I observe him fidgeting with his cell phone.  I've come to the conclusion he is me in Opposite Land.  I must talk to him and find out if he enjoys Circus Peanuts and pretzels the same way I loathe them.

I've thought of a pretty good tagline for the film Keep the Lights On:  Love Means Never Having to Hold Your Lover's Hand While He is in a Meth-Addicted Fog While Being Sodomized by a Hustler. (Seriously, though, it's a great film with an excellent soundtrack by Arther Russell--check it out when it hits theaters.)

I saw Cheyenne Jackson in the lobby of the Festival Headquarters, and good god is that man tall.  He was with another gent I assumed to be his husband who was just as epic in size, and my hope is that medical science will find a way for them to birth a baby together, thereby breeding a race of super-tall toddlers which will one day rule the world.

While seated waiting for a film to begin, a woman stands near me chatting with her friends seated next to me: "Oh! I never knew this theater had a balcony!", she exclaims while looking up.  "I've never done balcony.  Have you ever done balcony?"  Not "done the balcony"--but "done balcony", as if it were a drug.

I've only walked out of two shit films, which is a new low record for me at Sundance.  I must be getting better at sniffing out the duds before entering.

I thought of a pretty good tagline for the film For Ellen:  It's Kramer vs. Kramer for the MTV Generation! (Seriously, though, it's another great film by So Yong Kim--check it out when it hits theaters.)

Whenever I'm in line for a screening, there is a moment in line where someone standing next to me asks where I'm from, and for a split second I debate whether or not to lie rather than admit I'm from Arizona, the Land of Fucktards.

The Grand Jury Prize for U.S. Dramatic Film went to Beasts of the Southern Wild and it was wholly deserving of all the accolades.  It's a grand work, thematically ambitious and addressing a fully-formed range of ideas, and yet the filmmaker is only 29 (after suffering through the reprehensibly boring Save the Date and its sitcom-level concerns, I had wrongly assumed all 20-something filmmakers cared about was telling stories of other 20-somethings trying to figure out this thing called love).  I'm reading a great deal of reviewers referencing Terrence Malick as an obvious influence, and although the narration of wise-beyond-her-years lead character Hush Puppy does put it in the same category as Days of Heaven, there seems to be more going on than that initial comparison.  I'd go one further and cite Malick devotee David Gordon Green's George Washington, Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep and perhaps even Pedro Costa's Fontainhas trilogy (specifcally In Vanda's Room) in its deeply humanistic documentation and celebration of outcasts struggling to survive while being wiped away by outside forces.  So moved was I by this film that I've decided to skip all the screenings for the rest of the festival.  Beasts is such a perfect film, mixing moments of visceral tenderness, textured imagery and mythical grandeur in equal measure, I want to make sure this is my last memory of the festival.

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 2]

Stalking Benjamin Bratt in the Haight Street Amoeba Music: A One-Act Play

Cast:
Benjamin Bratt as Himself
Disco:Very as Himself

Curtain rises on a busy day at Amoeba Music on Haight Street. Disco:Very, dressed in the youthful fashions of today, is in the "B" section of the CD racks, mystified as to why the goddamned store doesn't have any music by The Black Jaspers. At that very moment, Benjamin Bratt, star of both TV and talking pictures, enters the store, eventually inching his tall lithe frame down the aisle across from where Disco:Very is shopping.

Noboby has yet noticed Benjamin Bratt except Disco:Very--similar to the same way nobody but Disco:Very spied Michael Moore walking towards his gate at the Chicago Airport some years ago, and how could they miss him because that guy's as big as a trash barge? Does Disco:Very possess a sixth sense of some kind? An ESP which alerts him to the proximity of actors, musicians and entertainment personalities? Perhaps, upon Disco:Very's eventual demise, scientists ought to slice Disco:Very's brain into thin tissues so as to study and learn from what are surely remarkable and perhaps even revolutionary cerebral impulses.

Benjamin Bratt is dancing the dance upon which all celebrities embark: hoping to not be noticed while hoping to be noticed; pretending to be an Average Joe out on a shopping excursion while fully expecting that his many fans will gather around him, gawking and gushing about his filmic achievements. Because Disco:Very sniffs his nose at the types of films and TV series in which Mr. Bratt would appear, no praise will be forthcoming from the lofty blogger. Instead, he merely follows Mr. Bratt at a safe yet inquisitive distance.

What music will Benjamin Bratt be buying, in this enormous shop containing millions of CD's, records and tapes? The possibilities are as endless as one's tastes. Will Bratt pursue the extensive International section, concerning himself in particular with Native American recordings, thus showing an interest in his own proud ethnic heritage? Or will he instead skirt along the edge of the jazz aisle, purchasing a Verve reissue of musical renown? Perhaps Bratt will indulge in some extreme noise recordings and surprise us all by brandishing a recording of Sunn O))), or perhaps he's into the experimental creations of mathematically-inclined composer Iannis Xenakis?

No, Benjamin Bratt stays in the vicinity of the rock and pop aisle, picking through the racks labeled Fleetwood Mac.

Disco:Very, seeing this, shoots himself in the head.

[Curtain]

On the Cutting Room Floor

Once again, I must apologize for the lack of posts. Everyone in Hollywood has been scrambling to repeat the runaway-freight-train success of the family-friendly Disney flick Beverly Hills Chihuahua, so as a result, I've been hired to script one of the many dozen sequels in the works. America, I give to you an all-Chihuahua version of Caligula! I don't want to give away too much, but in my version, castration has a more beneficial purpose.

In between my daunting writing schedule, I will be at the 36th Telluride Film Festival for the next few days. I promise to gossip about everything I see upon my return.

My One Sentence Review of Slumdog Millionaire (Note to Fox Searchlight: Please Make Checks Payable to Disco:Very)

If you only see one movie this year involving a man kissing a woman’s disfiguring scar as a means of magically erasing a lifetime of being sexually enslaved by cartoonish thugs who seem to have stepped out of a story from a Disney film, then see Slumdog Millionaire!

Going to See Revolutionary Road During the Superbowl: A Play in Three Acts

Prologue: An empty movie theatre. Four 50-something women enter the theatre as the lights dim for the feature presentation. Three of the women take their seats; the fourth women is overheard announcing to her friends that "she prefers to stand during the beginning of a movie."

Several previews are played, along with commercials, announcements urging the audience to shut off all electronic devices, etc. Eventually, the movie begins. The fourth women continues standing through the first 10 minutes of it.

Act One

[The scene is a mid-1950's upper-middle class suburb in Connecticut.]

Leonardo DiCaprio: My name is Frank Wheeler. I am named thusly because I speak in a frank fashion and, like the wheel on a car, I roll along day after day without a thought as to where I am going.

Kate Winslet: My name is April Wheeler. Like the month after which I am named, I represent growth and renewal. It would be a shame if my blossoming were to be cut short before my petals had a chance to bloom.

Leonardo DiCaprio: Although I am newly-married with a family, living in a pristine upper-middle class home and working my way up the corporate ladder, I feel my life is stifled and my dreams unrealized.

Kate Winslet: Let's give in to your long-time aspirations and move our family to Paris. We will buck the patriarchal socio-economic system of the mid-50's by making you the house husband while I, the woman, trot off to work each morning.

Leonardo DiCaprio: This drastic new lifestyle will truly put us on...a revolutionary road.

Act Two

Kathy Bates: I am Helen Givings. I am thus named because I am very giving. Although I am merely the realtor who sold Frank and April their idyllic mid-50's dream house many years ago, I will be forcing my way into the story quite often, usually at a point when our newlyweds are in emotional disarray, which occurs about every 4 minutes.

[To Frank and April] I would like to make a bizarre demand and insist upon bringing along my emotionally disabled son John Givings to your next dinner party. Although he was just released from a mental hospital and is given to frequent outbursts of screaming and derisive comments, I can't possibly see what could go wrong with having him attend a fancy-dress dinner in your home.

[We now see a dinner party at Frank and April's pristine pastel-colored dining room.]

John Givings: [To Frank and April] Because I am a social retard and therefore not hindered by the same social constraints as you, I am uniquely qualified to give voice to the churning discord of your counterfeit relationship. By definition, I am insane, but by the standards of your violent and unsettling marriage, I might actually be the most sensible character in the entire movie because I dare to speak the truth which you conveniently sweep under the carpet of your idyllic mid-50's upper-middle class home.

[Skip ahead 90 minutes.]

Leonardo DiCarpio: April's blossoming has been cut short before her petals had a chance to bloom!

Act Three

[Disco:Very is seen on the theatre floor, vomiting.]

THE END

[Curtain]

My Precious Feelings on the 35th Annual Telluride Film Festival

As usual, I was the first in my party to spot Ken Burns. I somehow end up winning this spirited competition every year, with Burns and I gravitating towards each other within mere hours of the festival’s beginning. Is it because I, too, am a 40-something male sporting the bowl cut hairdo of a 12-year-old?

While waiting in line for Firaaq (a film so pedestrian, I had to depart 30 minutes into it), I spy Salman Rushdie conversing with the film’s director Nandita Das. I briefly considered carrying out the fatwa which has been exacted upon him, but realizing there was no financial reward involved, I quickly lost interest.

Although I am against public stalking in principle, during a screening of Max Ophuls’ newly-restored 1955 epic Lola Montes, I spy my favorite husband and wife filmmakers Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor (also known as the Desperate Optimists) taking their seats. Needless to say, I can’t resist planting myself in front of them to blather to them how much I love their films, especially Who Killed Brown Owl, a film which still haunts my thoughts every so often. Thankfully, they are gracious and polite, completely refraining from having security remove me from their vicinity, although the restraining order presented to me after the screening did hurt my feelings somewhat…

If the timing had been a bit more perfect, I could have crossed swords with actor Greg Kinneer in the men’s restroom right before viewing the tepid Danish blockbuster Flame and Citron. Instead, I am a few nano-seconds behind him, performing my last-drop dance at the urinal while he’s already at the sink soaping up. I had an “in” (we attended the same college) but by the time I had worked up my opening statement (“Hello, Mr. Kinneer. You lather your hands with the same dedication you showed in Little Miss Sunshine—and I even walked out of it halfway through!”) he was long gone. Curse me and my long-winded time-consuming verbosity!

Another restroom encounter, this time with UK director/genius Mike Leigh. I briefly entertained reaching out to introduce myself and proclaim my love of his movies, but he’d just left the urinal and had not yet washed up afterwards. Yes, he’s created some of the most acclaimed films in recent British film history, and more than a few of his cinematic efforts are on my Top 100 Favorite Films list, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let his pee-pee backsplash rub onto me as we shake hands. Ewwww!

A day into the fest, I once again spy Ken Burns, this time one row in front of me during the screening of the gritty Italian film Gomorrah. Oddly, he and his wife make tsk-tsk faces at each other during the film’s frequent outbursts of violence, as if to say couldn’t the director scale this bloodshed back a little? Considering it was a film about the present-day Italian mafia, he’s lucky the carnage wasn’t more savage than it already was. If only I’d had a bottle of tequila with me, I could have made their shocked reactions into a drinking game.

Imagine my surprise when Hunger—the film I was most reluctant to watch--turns out to be one of my favorite flicks of the entire fest. The elliptical style and the stark camerawork had me captivated from beginning to end. Bonus points go to those seated near me who did not seem to mind my loud munching on carrot sticks during the hunger strike scenes.

Take the frantic family antics of Capturing the Friedmans, turn the dysfunction up about 10 notches, toss in a third-act link to Orson Welles and you have Prodigal Sons, a discomforting autobiographical documentary by Kimberly Reed. After it’s over, you’ll almost find yourself feeling lucky for being born into your own family. Almost.

Rain is one of my least favorite weather elements (right behind tornados, swarms of locusts and ash clouds spewed from active volcanoes). To avoid one of Telluride’s typical torrents, I reluctantly grabbed a place in the dry tent-covered line for Paul Schrader’s Adam Resurrected merely as a means to avoid the downpour. Had I known what was in store, I’d have gladly chosen a deluge of Biblical proportions instead. Imagine the worst parts of Patch Adams, Life Is Beautiful and (I assume) The Day the Clown Cried tied together in a Holocaust comedy/drama vehicle for Jeff Goldblum. Goldblum is made to behave as a dog under the Nazi thumb of Willem Dafoe, later causing him to engage in dog-like animalistic sex on all fours with sexy nurse Ayelet Zurer (it's quite natural that hot women spread their legs for aged men 30 years their junior). Did I mention he attempts to heal the heart of a young Holocaust survivor who thinks he’s a dog?

One feels a sense of wonder and innocence while watching Jan Troell’s 1966 coming-of-age tale Here Is Your Life. Then the scenes of the where-did-that-come-from? homoeroticism pop up and you just end up feeling like a pervert. Bonus points for the snippet of conversation between two aging film professors I overheard before the screening begins: “My students are on You Tube all the time. I’ll send you the link.”

While exiting Tulpan, the acclaimed new film from Sergei Dvortsevoy, I find myself behind a contingent of marketing brass from Turner Classic Movies, all of them underwhelmed by this subtle award-winning work, utterly perplexed are they by the frequent images of goat herds living and dying on the Kazakhstan plains. It’s good to know the vast cinematic library overseen by TCM is in such capable hands.

Please Die Already. Both of You.

The new Jack Nicholson/Morgan Freeman film The Bucket List has really inspired me to reflect on life and death and what I hope to accomplish before God decides He wants me to join Him at The Big Table. So in the spirit of this heartwarming film, I've decided to start a list of all the movies I hope never to watch before I kick the bucket:

1. The Bucket List

That's all I've come up with so far, but as long as dirty old man (but not in a good way) Nicholson and controversy-free negroid white man Freeman keep making movies, the list should continue to grow by leaps and bounds.

My Love Affair With Lavender Diamond Is As Volatile And Passionate As The Central Love Affair In Reds (And Is Almost As Dull)

Me (a.k.a. Diane Keaton): Your theories on the worker's struggles are quite interesting to me.
Lavender Diamond (a.k.a. Warren Beatty): Thank you. Here's my latest written piece, entitled When You Wake For Certain.
Me: It's brilliant! I love you! I will never sleep with Jack Nicholson again!
[The romance blossoms; seasons change]
Lavender Diamond: Here's a new piece I've come up with. I'm calling it Dance Until It's Tomorrow.
Me: Dance Until It's Tomorrow??? What, did Kate Bush burrow into your ass and force you at gunpoint to come up with this crap? Get out of this house! I never want to see you again!
[Many months come and go. Our paths cross once again in the snowy streets of Petrograd.]
Me: I just heard Oh No and it opened my eyes to all the qualities that made me fall in love with you in the first place. It's so powerful, yet full of delicate passion.
Lavender Diamond: If you like that one, wait till you hear My Shadow Is A Monday.
Me: Jesus fucking christ on a Q-Tip--did I hear that right?? My Shadow Is A Monday??? You're more pretentious than all of Tori Amos' fictional selves combined! Take your music and serenade me never again!
[After a separation of almost a year, Lavender Diamond and I attempt to reconnect]
Lavender Diamond: I always want to be with you. I've written this quasi-Christian ditty for you entitled Side Of The Lord.
Me: Ugh. It stinks like a pickled jar of Natalie Merchant. I hate you. Drop dead.
[Lavender Diamond dies of Typhus.]

The Baffling Music I Listened To In The Days Of My Sappy Youth (Before I Discovered Punk Rock and Everything Changed For The Better) (Part 1)

First in a series.
Religion and I never got along, even during my tenure as a pre-pubescent squirt, yet I found myself drawn towards hippy-dippy retellings of The Bible. Sadly, like millions of record-collecting dullards of the '70's, this meant owning the original motion picture soundtrack to Godspell (purchased at a thrift strore, I recall). The faux-funky gospel-tinged stylings of Light Of The World were somewhat alluring to my white-bread suburban ear canals, while All For The Best seemed, at the time, to be an absolute ovation-rendering showstopper. I was convinced it was The Most Perfect Foot-Tapping Showtune Ever Written. I never quite understood what Beautiful City was about...I still don't. I also seem to remember thinking All Good Gifts was telegraphing some important messages about...Thanksgiving??? Perhaps it was advising us to be nice to snails, being grateful for the foods we toss out after eating too much...? I never had a clue. Back then, the lyrics of By My Side seemed so deep and earnest. Today, it gives me the same painful shudder I experience upon hearing certain tracks by R.E.M. (circa Green). I was in the 4th grade and a total know-nothing. Please forgive me.

Disco:Very Reveals Endings to Recent Oscar-Nominated Films You Were Never Planning on Seeing Anyway

LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
Japan loses the war because they did not know "The Secret"

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
Earth gains more self-confidence after J. Alexander provides free makeover

UNITED 93
Crisis averted when passenger Faith Popcorn identifies terrorism as the new cultural zeitgeist

BABEL
Four more narrative threads are interwoven into the story, all of them involving LonelyGirl15

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
The yellow VW bus is a penis symbol

Are You There, Me? It's Me, Me.

I'm back from the 2007 SXSW film festival. Actually, I returned a bit earlier than today but needed some "personal" time to process the following observations made while in attendance:

1. The woman at the trade show booth for Music Supervisor looked disturbingly like my Aunt Gracie. I kept expecting her to scold me for not waiting an hour after eating before I went swimming in her pool, followed by backhanded racial insults slyly directed towards my mother.

2. Pegging your pants to a diameter smaller than that of your ankles is The New Flared Corduroy Loose Fit Jeans (previously known as The New Black). Also, there were a shocking amount of attendees who resembled Harry Knowles in both girth and hair style. I weep for a generation. Especially if they all start reviewing movies on-line.

3. While I applaud the practice set forth by the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas--that is, bringing food directly to your seat while you enjoy a movie--I would recommend that, while watching a midnight horror flick involving a man whose eyes are being pulled from its sockets by a Satan worshiper, it's best not to be eating Creme Brulee.

4. Although everyone else was in line to obtain the autograph of director John Sayles during a special festival appearance, I was in line to demand he pay back the six hours of my life he owes me for sitting through Casa De Los Babys, Lone Star and Sunshine State.

5. While everyone else at the Austin Airport was gawking as Peter Buck walked by, I was demanding he pay me back the $60 I paid for the past four REM albums. The punchline is: I downloaded them all for free.

6. The ultimate in nerd overload is to attend a sold-out screening of the new typeface documentary Helvetica, where you will find interactive dorks and graphic design junkies of all shapes and sizes. The punchline is: I was the eighth one in line.

How To Volver

When your husband of many years is stabbed to death by your underage daughter after he attempts to rape her, it's best not to show much emotion about it. Just make sure you look super hot at all times, even while cleaning up the bodily fluids and hiding the body. Although mopping up gallons of fresh blood is messy work, you will probably only end up with just a few dabs of red on your sensual sexy body.

If you are the underage daughter who just killed her father, be sure to go about your average, normal teenage ways within a matter of a few hours. Sticking a knife in your father after he attempts to rape you is nothing to fret or worry about. Whatever shock or hysteria you feel initially will most likely pass once your mother unexpectedly opens up her own restaurant.

Should you feel the need to suddenly start up your own restaurant--despite no prior knowledge of running one nor any discernable ability to cook for large groups of people--don't despair. It is almost certain that a small film crew will magically appear on your doorstep asking if you can cater their film shoot. While most feature films, low budget or otherwise, would need to figure the catering costs into the budget many months before the cameras roll, this particular production can just wander the streets the very day filming begins, certain they will find a good caterer a mere few hours before lunch time arrives. Just make sure, as you're stirring pots and carving vegetables for 30 hungry high-maintenance crew members in a stuffy cramped kitchen, that you look super hot while doing it.

There should never be any worry, when starting up a brand-new restaurant, that your previous job as a cleaning lady at an unnamed instituion will ever come back into the picture. Because you've abruptly decided to take on this new entrepreneurial excursion, your old job should probably just fade away, as if it never existed in the first place. There is no need to explain this change of careers to anyone; ultimately, it's the loss of this unnamed hospital or university or whatever, where you scrubbed floors and washed sheets, all the while sporting sexy just-fucked hairdos and enormous stylish hoop earings that never get caught in your mop handle. There should also never be any worry that your fellow cleaning staff at this unnamed institution will look hotter than you. You will look stunning as you swab toilets, and they will look drab and plain and lack all the charisma that normally befits those who are forced to clean up after others as a means to make a living.

Super hot women who live in Madrid should constantly surround themselves with friends and family who are plain or overweight by comparison. While the other women of Madrid are forced to wear frumpy hand-me-down clothing (since, we are led to believe, you and your friends are very poor), you, on the other hand, should always wear fabulous form-fitting slinky dresses and fashionable jewelry at all times. For a change of pace, when you're in the woods late at night struggling with heavy picks and shovels to bury the dead husband whose life was taken by your own teenage daughter, you can instead wear a fabulous form-fitting track suit. Be sure to remain emotionally detached from these proceedings, showing the same concern for this ghastly circumstance as you would when creating a scrumptious meal for a small film crew on just a few hours notification.

When friends and family ask why your husband is nowhere to be found, simply tell them he promptly left you after a marital dispute. For the convenience of moving the story along, they will continue with their homely poverty-stricken lives, never once asking you for any specifics relating to this wildly unusual turn of events. Nor will they ask why you are super hot, va-va-va voom, sizzling sexy at all times of the day or night, while they, on the other hand, are forced to look unattractive and dull, even when partaking in the same working class existence as you.

Although you are super sexy and hot, it is perfectly normal to expect that one of your best friends will be a flashy overweight prostitute. Conveniently, she is also supremely adept at running the bar of your newly-acquired restaurant. Like you, she has no discernable prior knowledge of running a dining establishment--her spunk and joie de vie will more than make up for lack of experience. She is a hooker--how much different can it be to run a bar? By coincidence, she has also just bought several pounds of fresh meat--just enough to, say, serve the entire film crew which just showed up impulsively in the doorway of your restaurant. If you're worried that you'll have nothing to serve for dessert, fret not: another unstylish unattractive friend will pass by on the street and she, also, has just purchased large quantities of food for herself--in this case, chocolate cookies. Despite purchasing these for her own consumption, she will have no problem selling the entire supply of sweets to you. All you have to do is ask.

With your husband dead and buried, you are now single. As luck would have it, the Location Manager of the film whose cast and crew you are feeding happens to be young and sexy and hot, and he will flirt with you immediately, so there is no need to bother dating again or showing any inward turmoil over the shocking muder of your spouse. Because you are a walking wet dream, good luck and fortune will automatically fall into the lap of your form-fitting dress the minute you walk down the street.

Lost: One Horizon, Reward Offered For Safe Return To Owner

In the end, the world will forgive Tom Hanks for foolishly jumping into bed with the universally panned The Da Vinci Code, the same way we all once absolved Burt Bacharach for scoring the 1973 musical train wreck of Lost Horizon. I'm a big enough fan of The Burt that I can allow him the soppy spectacles of Reflections, Question Me An Answer, Things I Will Not Miss and the almost unbearably hippy-dippy World Is A Circle. Sitting through the entire film (still unavailable on DVD) is another matter entirely. But I'm more inclined to take on this Herculean task than watch any Ron Howard film you'd care to mention. But please, please don't mention any of them. I just had lunch, thank you.