Where the Wild Things Are

I hasten to clarify that Where the Wild Things Are is not what some wanted to call feel-good family entertainment. I find it astounding that several critics have pinpointed the surliness of the monsters to be a weakness of the movie. Sendek’s original 1963 book, though now critically acclaimed, was at the time the center of a lot of controversy for his grotesque portrayal of the monsters. There’s an air of melancholy in the movie that is sure to divide audiences. And interpretations of the book vary, even to this day. But viewers should be assured that the imaginative chaos that ensues out of Max’s loneliness is impermanent. His flight of fancy comes to an end by his belief of parental love. As TIME magazine asserted four and a half decades ago, Where the Wild Things Are is the perfect balance for the “seesaw of fear and comfort.” In watching this movie, I have arrived at two realizations. For one, Spike Jonze is a true artist. The simplicity and pureness is outright inspiring. But also, I truly hope I never become the kind of person that is unable to enjoy a movie like this.

Postcards from Romania

Perhaps it’s my newly found affection for my Central European roots, or the grandiosity with which Beirut and their Balkan ensemble grace my ears with, but whatever the case may be, it is undoubtedly certain that I’ve found a passion for Romanian film. Like many streetwise Cannes winners, 12:08 East of Bucharest (which I unfortunately delayed watching for two years now) depicts the kind of satire that I can’t recall seeing in a film. It’s not simply a melancholy rumination of failed Eastern European communism, but a hilarious insight into a very depressing time. But this isn’t a movie review, so I’ll spare you my bias. What’s more poignant to note here is what many have labeled the Romanian new wave.

I get the realism. I get the hand-held camerawork. And I get the long takes. These are just a few of the characteristics of modern Romanian cinema that I’ve noticed. But it’s tremendously interesting to watch this cinematic breakthrough unfold, especially as my interest in Central and Eastern Europe augments with every new Beirut single and Milan Kundera novel. I’ll redirect you to AO Scott’s video podcast of five different Romanian movies that should reflect everything I just mentioned.

The Death of Mr. Lazarescu – quite simply, an indictment of an indifferent healthcare system. But also reflective of what we struggle with here in the States; therefore making this film very pertinent to America’s rash dismissal of a univsersal health system.

4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days – perhaps the most succesful of Romanian new wave, if one wishes to go with the label, and beautifully sentimental and melancholy. This film is about more than what the plot aspires. It’s remarkable acumen of societal life in pre-Velvet times makes this worthy both artfully and culturally.

12:08 East of Bucharest – satirical evidence that the Romanian revolution of 1989 really occured (not that any moron wouldn’t acknowledge this, I’m just sayin’). Very minimilistic and incisive, you should enjoy this whether you posses my dry sense of humor or not.

The remaining two I have yet to watch. But am greatly intrigued.

The Paper Will Be Blue

California Dreamin’

Whatever your opinion of international film, it appears Romanian cinema is rising and that is not to be disputed. Three of those five films previously listed, I enjoyed thoroughly. This so-called new wave of art in Romania is just enhancing my already all-consuming love for all-things Central European. Bad news for my parents, I suppose. My desire to expatriate only greatens with these craftful films. Lord how I want to see A Hawk and a Hacksaw on the Charles Bridge.

Single-Payer Healthcare: Cost-Effective, Universal, and Accountable

From my perspective, adapting a single-payer healthcare system is truly the most cost-effective and accountable way to insure every American. I think it’s fairly reasonable to say that the majority of Americans are not against the idea of universal care; the problem however remains that so many uninsured citizens are intimidated, and most importantly afraid and overwhelmed by subsidzing the public entity.

I’m part of a family plan, and am already privately covered, but do not reject in the slightest moving to a government-run public system. The gist of liberal-leaning voters, methinks, can accept just the same. But the Democratic plan isn’t exactly widely understood, and I blame ourselves for that. Irresponsible Republicans are offering no compromise; responsible Republicans work hard to come up with a compromise, however, that will be even less coherent than the Democratic plan. My advice: make the public understand, put single-payer healthcare on the table, and move forward.  No one is thrilled with the insurance companies, and as Mr. Krugman warned several weeks ago in a NYTimes op-ed, do not trust them. There’s a way to make single-payer healthcare politically possible; we have to talk about it.

Wistful Smiles, Sir Edward

Firstly, a note on the wonderfully talented composer who ended his life in Zurich last week, with the help of an assisted suicide clinic, and by the side of his terminally ill wife. And, methinks there’s nothing immoral about this, as the couple truly wished to die hand-in-hand; in fact, I don’t see why America doesn’t consider changing the legal position on this.

Secondly, Sir Edward’s children are really named “Caractacus” & “Boudicca?” Awesome.

Quandaries Behind the Screen

The last time I felt this ambivalent about a film, coincidentally, was when The Reader debuted. Winslet’s taut, naked belly titillated me enough to forget, for a short time, that she allowed 300 innocent peoples blacken and burn to death inside an ablazed church. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas equalled that ambivalence tonight. 

Though masterfully filmed, and written by Boyne for that matter, it severely distorted and trivialized the Holocaust, which is something I’m not willing to overlook. Yes, yes it saddened me, numbed me; but what to make of a world calamity hijacked for the tragedy of a Nazi family? As in The Reader, I struggled to find a balance between beautiful filmwork and misplaced sentimentality. The innocence of a young child, ignorant of his own father’s monstrous doings, is easy bait for soft-hearted watchers. Hence making The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas a story of utter and unnecessary embroidery. It’s a film I’d recommend, but not more than once. There is no joy in reconciling with WWII Hitler vermin.

Ring-Wing Hate

Here’s an article by Frank Rich in The New York Times describing the vicious circle of right-wing extremism in America, and what it could ultimately, and heartrendingly, lead up to: http: link

And while we’re on the subject, let me just say that I’m baffled by the negligence of the Republican party. Not that anything they can say will completely curtail these homegrown acts of terror, but when you’re party’s torchbearers are likening Dr. George Tiller to Nazi’s or calling Sonia Sotormayor “the Latino KKK” and a racist and a David Duke, what kind of impression are you leaving on your acolytes? These are just a few examples of the right-wing abhorrence of our nation’s president, who by the way, as Rich said, has not lifted the 2nd amendment and not yet exacerbated the wars he inherited. What he has done non-ideologically, is attempt to reach across the aisle, more than his predessor ever did.

Friendships Aside…..

The fields are plowed, harvested, primed to grow. But I don’t give a shit about these fields, or the red-county yokels that live and die for them. There are certain things, that usually stem in these parts, that really, really know how to dismantle me. One of which being the ignorant, soil-stained (literal reference), 25-toothed farm boys of south western Pennsylvania. Hemingway wrote once about how achingly hard it is to write about your hometown. He isn’t kidding. I don’t want to denounce this place for all it’s faux rustic appeal and overall ignorance, but, in the plainest terms, it sucks here. To quote Hem, my hometown is made up of “wide yards and closed minds.”

Making a permanent move to Philadelphia is really important at this juncture in time. I’m nearing the prime years of my life, my early 20’s. Despite my affection for my working-class parents, I have to do this; staying here would be stripping myself of my intellectual and artistic potential.

To the type-writer. To where the music beats loudest. Hasten I must.

Ruminations from Panera

Have you ever felt engulfed in amibiance? The yellow walls of Panera cafe are swallowing me. The hot coffee I ordered is burning my blood vessels. The fireplace shows its teeth, grinning, like a Chesire cat. Then there’s an old couple sitting behind me chatting away on President Obama’s Supreme Court judge appointee. A hawk-faced man with specs and a pin-striped tee reads from The Post-Gazette. And I, stoned as hell, sit stangtantly writing for Apocrypha.

This is how I spend my afternoons. My current employer seems unenthusiastic about giving me hours, so this is what I’m left with. Squandering last summer’s salary on coffee and pecan braids. I’m inquiring about an apartment. Temple is so inept with housing information, and so I’m left to make craigslist inquiries. There’s a nice place on Fairmount with red walls and bookshelves. It’s already occupied by two females but that’s fine with me. I’ve always wanted an older sister.

N

In case you’re wondering, ‘N’ signifies the upper-most cardinal direction. Very much like the ‘N’ on Chris McCandless’ belt.

With that said, I went upstate for a few days with the cronies. Tidiute, PA. Along the Allegheny river, betwixt some mountain range I don’t know the name of. We drank enough beer to fill a freight car, smoked enough weed to kill Einstein’s brain cells. I will confess, however, it didn’t live up to the stature of last year’s excursion.

I wish I had pictures to post. Even if I’m an inferior photographer, I still get enjoyment out of the art. To both the dismay of myself, and my mother (who paid a wallet-macerating 250 dollars for my Sony), I no loner have a camera. I theorize it had been stolen and subsequently sold on Craigslist by my Trump-like Korean rooommate. He did sell my calculator, so why not? Fuck that slanted-eyed, Tasmanian mother fucker.

Nah. Namsik, you’re awesome. Don’t let what I write convince you otherwise. I’m a severely impulsive human being, and will almost certainly feel less aggitated tomorrow.

Beginnings of Summer, Parisian Dreams, and My Faux Ode to the Infinitesimal Number of Fans I Have

Venetian Snares pretty much consume most of my time thus far. That and all the boxes of cigarettes I wane my lungs with. I’m wondering how I will react to my permanent move in the fall to Philadelphia. Probably with good spirts.

There’s an interesting piece in The Atlantic about Hemingway’s seemingly life-long (though physical evidence suggests otherwise) rapport with Paris. I first read A Moveable Feast in high school at the suggestion of an English teacher, who I once abhorred and grew to admire. One of the more superb armchair reads, that’s for sure. If there’s one recollection of an adolescent fantasy of mine, it was my salaciousness to be a part of the Parisian literary congregations. My desire to drop out of school to pursue this was overshadowed by the propriety I felt towards my parents; though the salacity never vanished, it now wanes in the face of academic responsibility.

On another note, I’m going camping next week with the cronies. Won’t be around for almost a week. And so I apologize to the micro-hordes of commonfolk that follow my blog. Peace.