Last night, Chrystal and I went to see Brokeback Mountain. We were wiry and heated, hypothesizing about the effect watching the film would have on us. We wondered how graphic it would be. My mother had said it didn't have all that much sex in it, but that it was a visually beautiful movie. Ha! The mountains must have blocked her view.
This week's New Yorker cover has a cartoon parody of Brokeback Mountain, along with virtually every other mainstream print and web media piece since its release, and subsequent innumerable recognitions. Many of the jokes are funny, but the movie itself is stunning. And Mom was right. It is visually beautiful. Not only the scenery and the silvery sheen of the sheep's backs, but the fine movements in Heath Ledger's sparse expressions. As Ennis, he transforms externally from a 20-year-old to a middle-aged man, but he maintains the same restraint, the fear of being exposed, in every line of his face. I searched his skin for movie make-up and his eyes for some giveaway, but he was undeniably Ennis Del Mar, and his wife a very pained ex. Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack Twist is all revved up, and I was with him, but he was emotional, expressive, and so a familiar character. I dunno what happened with Jack's wife, Anne Hathaway, of Princess Diaries fame, but her make-up was absurd, and I didn't believe her for a minute.
When Ennis and Jack push each other away and then get to each other when they can, it's a deceptively easy metaphor for any relationship. But it's also all about sex: the movie strengthens my original lust theory, the one I have held onto for years. No lust? Fuggetaboutit. When a friend tells me she's met someone and they have fun, but there's no chemistry, my response - if she wants it, okay, even if she doesn't want it - is give it up. You are wasting your time. One cannot maintain any sort of long-term, going-through-shit, hating-each-other, meeting-related-people-and-friends (some of whom you inevitably will not be crazy about), without a fundamental, biological I-wanna-rip-something-offa-you, or suck something, or get carnal somehow, that strings you together. Those urges may fade or hibernate, but if they're never ever there, I maintain that they will not show up, regardless of how much you care about each other.
This is why the movie is, yes, about love and passion and how fucked up it is that two men cannot love one another, but it is also about how integral the fucking and the physical and the taste is to the relationship. They can be best friends, and that's all sweet, but they need to be closer than that: they crave the skin-to-skin, the biological and natural urge to get under and into and around, to surpass the superficial and reach for the visceral.
So in the final analysis of what I guess is a movie review, I recommend you go see it so you can remember that true love is rare and it isn't all about a good fuck but it isn't all about a fucking table and chairs and a casserole, either.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
The Case for Complaint
"No Crybabies." I saw this sign in the doorway of a chic retro-diner - or maybe it was on an American Express commercial. The expected reaction is oh, yeah, too true, I so agree. A colleague has a "no whining" sign on her wall, and as I eye it, nausea sets in. The sign may as well say "Lucy, get the hell outta here!" I like whining, it is an excellent hobby, and I don't mind telling you that I am rather good at it.
Who are these supposed adults who act like whining or crying or kvetching is too much for them because they are busy being cool and all put together? Does it mean that I am not supposed to be negative at all? Are we allowed to breathe? Is it like that New England saying "I can't complain?" I've got news: you can complain! If you just worked a 60 hour week, your back is killing you, and your kid has been suspended from school, you get to complain.
Why does a woman, to reverse Rex Harrison's asinine query, think she has to be more like a man? Don't get me wrong, I adored Rex in my formative years, despite his apish look and his absolutely loathsome behavior, I was as idiotic as the next girl, repressing my true lust for Audrey who was quite obviously the hottie in the picture. Nevertheless, one was manipulated to want Rex's attentions, to stop whining, to stand up straight, to act as though being thrown in the gutter and then utterly used and mistreated like so much upholstery were a flattery. I fell for it, too.
But no more. I will complain, proudly, and I find it utterly irritating and fundamentally cloying when women tell me they can't complain. What is it in them that cannot do it? My pat answer is 'sure you can.' Complaining is really giving a report that is less than positive. Must one always give a cheery run-down of the day even if it was goddawful? I can imagine Chrystal, my dear partner-in-crime: "why, Lucy, it was a wonderful sight! The older boy had smacked the younger boy, and I was yelling at full lung capacity! It was quite exhilarating."
How did this happen in our free and progressive culture? If a woman is healthy, then there is no reason to be bothered by anything. Your husband may be sleeping with your neighbor's husband's assistant, your dog ran away, you've just been fired, you're menstruating buckets, but you're healthy. So don't complain. No crybabies. And if a day comes when you are not healthy, tell everyone "it could be worse," or "at least the vomiting stopped after 3 days - I heard some people went for five." A cheery colleague will knock on wood and shrug.
Thus I now endeavor to practice what I preach: I don't have enough money to do what I want and I want to quit working five days a week (whose dumbass idea was that); I have too much fucking housework to do and I would like a magic fairy to do it for me; it's cold out and I do not ski and my winter coat looks like a bad mushroom; my cough won't go away and it chokes me just as my nagging is starting to roll; school vacation is too short; my hair takes forever to dry so then I am even colder; I want someone to come take care of me but I keep having to do it my own self; I want a new pair of pants and I cannot find them; I don't have a good book to read and I am overwhelmed by all of the blogs in the blogworld; our country's being run by a puppet with a bald old dick for a puppeteer; I wanna be a rock star and I am totally not; I still get zits and I'm in my forties, and the one I messed with now looks like a bruise on my left cheek; no one cards me anymore, and waitresses are flummoxed by the small request to keep the goddamn ice outta my tequila.
And, sadly, I am not Audrey Hepburn. Oh, the poise, the hair, the talent. Alas, I am sure she did not complain - not Audrey - so I will resign myself to being more in line with the aptly named Lucy and her pal Ethel, perhaps, or the creepy little nudge in Lord of The Rings, going ga-ga over his precious bit of gold. He may not have been good-looking or particularly friendly, but that troll knew how to whine.
Who are these supposed adults who act like whining or crying or kvetching is too much for them because they are busy being cool and all put together? Does it mean that I am not supposed to be negative at all? Are we allowed to breathe? Is it like that New England saying "I can't complain?" I've got news: you can complain! If you just worked a 60 hour week, your back is killing you, and your kid has been suspended from school, you get to complain.
Why does a woman, to reverse Rex Harrison's asinine query, think she has to be more like a man? Don't get me wrong, I adored Rex in my formative years, despite his apish look and his absolutely loathsome behavior, I was as idiotic as the next girl, repressing my true lust for Audrey who was quite obviously the hottie in the picture. Nevertheless, one was manipulated to want Rex's attentions, to stop whining, to stand up straight, to act as though being thrown in the gutter and then utterly used and mistreated like so much upholstery were a flattery. I fell for it, too.
But no more. I will complain, proudly, and I find it utterly irritating and fundamentally cloying when women tell me they can't complain. What is it in them that cannot do it? My pat answer is 'sure you can.' Complaining is really giving a report that is less than positive. Must one always give a cheery run-down of the day even if it was goddawful? I can imagine Chrystal, my dear partner-in-crime: "why, Lucy, it was a wonderful sight! The older boy had smacked the younger boy, and I was yelling at full lung capacity! It was quite exhilarating."
How did this happen in our free and progressive culture? If a woman is healthy, then there is no reason to be bothered by anything. Your husband may be sleeping with your neighbor's husband's assistant, your dog ran away, you've just been fired, you're menstruating buckets, but you're healthy. So don't complain. No crybabies. And if a day comes when you are not healthy, tell everyone "it could be worse," or "at least the vomiting stopped after 3 days - I heard some people went for five." A cheery colleague will knock on wood and shrug.
Thus I now endeavor to practice what I preach: I don't have enough money to do what I want and I want to quit working five days a week (whose dumbass idea was that); I have too much fucking housework to do and I would like a magic fairy to do it for me; it's cold out and I do not ski and my winter coat looks like a bad mushroom; my cough won't go away and it chokes me just as my nagging is starting to roll; school vacation is too short; my hair takes forever to dry so then I am even colder; I want someone to come take care of me but I keep having to do it my own self; I want a new pair of pants and I cannot find them; I don't have a good book to read and I am overwhelmed by all of the blogs in the blogworld; our country's being run by a puppet with a bald old dick for a puppeteer; I wanna be a rock star and I am totally not; I still get zits and I'm in my forties, and the one I messed with now looks like a bruise on my left cheek; no one cards me anymore, and waitresses are flummoxed by the small request to keep the goddamn ice outta my tequila.
And, sadly, I am not Audrey Hepburn. Oh, the poise, the hair, the talent. Alas, I am sure she did not complain - not Audrey - so I will resign myself to being more in line with the aptly named Lucy and her pal Ethel, perhaps, or the creepy little nudge in Lord of The Rings, going ga-ga over his precious bit of gold. He may not have been good-looking or particularly friendly, but that troll knew how to whine.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Bad Apples
The aptly named Dick Cheney shot a guy by accident and the guy is in the ICU and it's all so casual because they're hunting chums and this is how our government looks at guns and injury and mistakes and it is all a metaphor for the dead-for-no-reason people in Iraq - and here - who they pretend were part of a war when actually it was all PR after the bombing of the World Trade Center and they didn't know what the hell to do so we have dead people and it is all masked but they are Arab or working class or poor or black so who the hell cares and why even talk about it when we could be shaking hands in the Rose Garden or having meetings at big desks or making more money from someone somewhere? I do not care about the Un-witting Whittington who went a-hunting but I do care about all of the holy places, the buildings, the neighborhoods and the people all over everywhere that our government crushes on a whim without giving us the slightest notion of what's going on and the media hides what the government would like them to hide and if you think this is a conspiracy theory forget it I'm talking about all the dead people who didn't die of old age or accident or disease, as awful as those are, but they died of deliberate Bush/Cheney stupidity, hubris, and criminal behavior. There is no apple pie.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Gimme
I was planning on writing about Valentine's Day because I was gonna pretend that I got a ruby bracelet. I would create a morality tale about the epiphany that I am superficial. Then I had a true revelation. Forget the goddamn morality thing. I would like the ruby bracelet. I imagine a gold clasp. I want an inscription, too. A word both cryptic and eclectic. None of this forever crap. How's about more or insane or vulva? Something catchy.
I am not getting a ruby bracelet. Don't get all indignant about how spoiled I am, how mainstream and regressive, complaining about a ruby bracelet. I'm hot for rubies. My students give me little notes from home in envelopes, and I say "ooh, finally, my ruby earrings." Why not? Am I supposed to settle, on this, the holy day of women-chained-to-men getting good crap, for some perfumed lace? Do I willingly ignore the gems I see on other women's fingers, as I do every other day of the year? I would accept any ruby, but I need a bracelet. It could represent all of my hypocrisy, so that when my teenager hurls that word at me, I'll say "I know! Isn't it a beauty?" Hypocrisy - the perfect inscription!
My friends would look at it and wait for me to tell them at which used clothing store I picked it up. And I'd chuckle to myself and shake my head slowly. "Oh no, Ball & Chain had to take out a loan." Their eyes would light up with admiration, and they would beg to hear how much it cost. When he purchased her engagement chunk, my grandmother had my grandfather admirably bow to her will. He bought her a diamond. When he showed it to her, she laughed heartily at its miniscule size. They went back to the jeweler's together, and she chose an absolute planet of diamond: it's so heavy it lolls to one side on my mother's finger. My grandfather had to borrow money to pay for it. Now that woman had ovaries.
Contemporary marriage is fucked up. If I ever rejected an item of jewelry, it would be cause for much stewing. And when I insisted it was too small, I hardly think I'd get a friendly response. Who's the boss over here if I can't even get some pricey stuff in the deal? One time I gushed over a lapis lazuli fish that B&C presented to me outside a shop. A year later, back in the same shop, I saw the fish - and a hundred others - in a glass jar for $2.95 My grandmother would be ashamed.
I'm currently reading Maus by Art Spiegelman. So if you can figure out how a Jewish girl can read about her ancestors starving and suffering, and then blog about gem deprivation, write in with a diagnosis. I think it's ASD/MA, or Appallingly Shallow Disorder, with Materialism Anxiety. If you check out the DSM IV (Psychological Diagnostic Tool), I meet all the criteria, including "believes material goods will genuinely create feelings of well-being." Oh, come on! Doesn't everybody?
Back to some light reading.
I am not getting a ruby bracelet. Don't get all indignant about how spoiled I am, how mainstream and regressive, complaining about a ruby bracelet. I'm hot for rubies. My students give me little notes from home in envelopes, and I say "ooh, finally, my ruby earrings." Why not? Am I supposed to settle, on this, the holy day of women-chained-to-men getting good crap, for some perfumed lace? Do I willingly ignore the gems I see on other women's fingers, as I do every other day of the year? I would accept any ruby, but I need a bracelet. It could represent all of my hypocrisy, so that when my teenager hurls that word at me, I'll say "I know! Isn't it a beauty?" Hypocrisy - the perfect inscription!
My friends would look at it and wait for me to tell them at which used clothing store I picked it up. And I'd chuckle to myself and shake my head slowly. "Oh no, Ball & Chain had to take out a loan." Their eyes would light up with admiration, and they would beg to hear how much it cost. When he purchased her engagement chunk, my grandmother had my grandfather admirably bow to her will. He bought her a diamond. When he showed it to her, she laughed heartily at its miniscule size. They went back to the jeweler's together, and she chose an absolute planet of diamond: it's so heavy it lolls to one side on my mother's finger. My grandfather had to borrow money to pay for it. Now that woman had ovaries.
Contemporary marriage is fucked up. If I ever rejected an item of jewelry, it would be cause for much stewing. And when I insisted it was too small, I hardly think I'd get a friendly response. Who's the boss over here if I can't even get some pricey stuff in the deal? One time I gushed over a lapis lazuli fish that B&C presented to me outside a shop. A year later, back in the same shop, I saw the fish - and a hundred others - in a glass jar for $2.95 My grandmother would be ashamed.
I'm currently reading Maus by Art Spiegelman. So if you can figure out how a Jewish girl can read about her ancestors starving and suffering, and then blog about gem deprivation, write in with a diagnosis. I think it's ASD/MA, or Appallingly Shallow Disorder, with Materialism Anxiety. If you check out the DSM IV (Psychological Diagnostic Tool), I meet all the criteria, including "believes material goods will genuinely create feelings of well-being." Oh, come on! Doesn't everybody?
Back to some light reading.
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