2.26.2007
TRAMBLINGS. . .
Okay, ya'll know by now that I am an all-day grape-flavored sucker for the OSCARS so last night was one of my favorite nights of the year. I'll admit it was a little long (okay, too long) but I enjoyed the show. I'm not hard to please. When I was little I'd panic if I wasn't sufficiently "dressed up" to watch the show. High maintenance kid but my mom was understanding and indulgent. So, every year, there I was perched on a pillow in front of the TV, wearing a party dress and slippers. This year, it was a little more sophisticated. The Crown Prince and I went to a party thrown by one of his friends. Great time. Good food. Nice people-- I think.
I stayed in the living room with the serious watchers. The "talk over the speeches" people were in the backyard. Never made it out there. Heard there were at least fifty people but C.P. brought food to me in front and I wasn't giving up my seat. Happy girl. He's always the social butterfly and I get the folks who come up and say, "Oh, you must be Chelle. C.P. said I could find you here." The caterers cooked up homemade donuts (on the premises) for a treat and C.P. snagged me some and Oscar-shaped cookies. What more can you ask for?
On Friday, in preparation for the awards, I watched BABEL, (I know people hated this movie but I didn't - AT ALL. Really loved it.) NOTES ON A SCANDAL (superb acting), WORLD TRADE CENTER (emotional) and UNITED 93. Still have to see LAST KING OF SCOTLAND, HALF NELSON, LITTLE CHILDREN and PAN'S LABYRINTH. I was glad to see Forest Whitaker win but felt a little sad for Peter O'Toole. Jennifer Hudson's speech was nice but what in the world was up with MICHAEL ARNDT'S sell-out speech about "directors being the real authors." Not loving that sentiment. Unless a director is specifically a writer/director they ARE NOT the ones battling a blank page.
I understand where Arndt was going with his entire speech (it was emotional and genuine) but I worked at the Director's Guild when I first moved to L.A (taking minutes at their board meeting) and, let me tell you, there is NO LOVE LOST between directors and writers. The contempt they held for writers was mind blowing to a novice like me, but after years in this town the disrespect seems to be a permanent part of the landscape. I fight it every step of the way and demand respect. You're not giving to me, fine, I'll take it from you. And, believe me, directors rarely want to give it. Read a couple interviews and you'll see what I mean. But, just to be fair and give Arndt the benefit of the doubt, I'll allow that maybe, the directors on this particular film were instrumental in the writing of the script. Could be true but, still, an unfortunate choice of words. Nice speech overall, loved the movie, yet I hated that small sentence in an otherwise lovely moment. Moving on to . . . BOOKS.
"It was another hot night, dry and windless. The kind that makes people do sweaty, secret things. I wait and I listen."-- A DAME TO KILL FOR: FRANK MILLER'S SIN CITY by FRANK MILLER.
"The haunt of Grand Central Station was a small girl with matted hair and dirty clothes. She appeared only in the commuter hours, morning and evening, when the child believed that she could go invisibly among the throng of travelers in crisscrossing foot traffic, as if that incredible face could go anywhere without atrracting stares. Conccessionaires reached for their phones to call the number on a policeman's card and say, "She's back." -- FIND ME by Carol O'Connell.
"Here was what Mary still found extraordinary: on the day before Stella died, nothing unusual happened. There were no signs, no premonitions, nothing but the simple daily routine of their life together - she and Dylan and Stella. Her neighbor when she lived in San Francisco, on a high hill in North Beach, had been an old Italian woman named Angelina. Angelina always wore a black shawl over her head, and thick-soled black shoes, and a black dress. "People should know you're in mourning," she told Mary. "When you wear black they understand." -- THE KNITTING CIRCLE by ANN HOOD.
"After the explosion, the driver of the overturned school bus stood beside the wreckage, his clothes in shreds. He was cupping his hands to his ears, as if to spare himself the noise of sirens, car alarms, bullhorns, whistles, and tumbling masonry. When he brought his hands away and held them in front of his face, both palms were dripping blood. His mouth opened wide in a scream that was lost in the surrounding din." -- SURVEILLANCE by JONATHAN RABAN.
"The playback: late night, Brooklyn, a pot of coffee, and a chair by the window. I'm listening to a mix tape from 1993. Nobody can hear it but me. The neighbors are asleep. The skater kids who sit on my front steps, drink beer, and blast Polish hip hop - they're gone for the night. The diner next door is closed, but the air is still full of borscht and kielbasa. This is where I live now. A different town, a different apartment, a different year." -- LOVE IS A MIX TAPE: LIFE AND LOSS, ONE SONG AT A TIME by Rob Sheffield. I know I already plugged this but so what.
"It started different ways, but always ended the same. This time he'd been in church. It wasn't the Nativity, but he'd known that he was in the old neighborhood. A deep voice intoned alien words. Stained glass spilled bloody light across polished pews. Karen held a hymnal, terror squirming in her eyes. He'd tried to read the book, knowing the key to her fear lay on the page, but the words twisted and blurred. Sliding metal rattled behind him. In the half awareness of an ending dream, he knew he wouldn't make it, that he couldn't impose sense onto this world in time. He looked up to find that Karen had turned into Evan, and that the hymnal had become a pistol aimed at Danny's chest." -- THE BLADE ITSELF by MARCUS SAKEY.
Now, back to the OSCARS or, at least, Oscar Fashion. I love this part of it but today I watched E'S horrendous Fashion Police show. I wanted to see all the dresses so I tried to suffer through all the inane chatter but damn are they asking a lot. I mean, these folks were clowns and not the good time. The two Jays from America's Top Model brought their tacky horror show to another channel. Why am I supposed to believe anything they say about fashion when I'm looking right at them. One has on way too much make-up (for a man or a woman). What's up with all that heavy foundation? He has an unintentional Little Richard thing going and the second one, Miss Jay, has this weird nappy-ass hair that's also shellacked. Bizarre. I'd love to hear what real fashion people have to say but this was too much.
On more positive notes, I caught up on ROME. Excellent. And I am so impressed with CRAIG FERGUSEN'S GORGEOUS SPEECH. Nice. Watch the whole thing.
Until next time. . .
Okay, ya'll know by now that I am an all-day grape-flavored sucker for the OSCARS so last night was one of my favorite nights of the year. I'll admit it was a little long (okay, too long) but I enjoyed the show. I'm not hard to please. When I was little I'd panic if I wasn't sufficiently "dressed up" to watch the show. High maintenance kid but my mom was understanding and indulgent. So, every year, there I was perched on a pillow in front of the TV, wearing a party dress and slippers. This year, it was a little more sophisticated. The Crown Prince and I went to a party thrown by one of his friends. Great time. Good food. Nice people-- I think.
I stayed in the living room with the serious watchers. The "talk over the speeches" people were in the backyard. Never made it out there. Heard there were at least fifty people but C.P. brought food to me in front and I wasn't giving up my seat. Happy girl. He's always the social butterfly and I get the folks who come up and say, "Oh, you must be Chelle. C.P. said I could find you here." The caterers cooked up homemade donuts (on the premises) for a treat and C.P. snagged me some and Oscar-shaped cookies. What more can you ask for?
On Friday, in preparation for the awards, I watched BABEL, (I know people hated this movie but I didn't - AT ALL. Really loved it.) NOTES ON A SCANDAL (superb acting), WORLD TRADE CENTER (emotional) and UNITED 93. Still have to see LAST KING OF SCOTLAND, HALF NELSON, LITTLE CHILDREN and PAN'S LABYRINTH. I was glad to see Forest Whitaker win but felt a little sad for Peter O'Toole. Jennifer Hudson's speech was nice but what in the world was up with MICHAEL ARNDT'S sell-out speech about "directors being the real authors." Not loving that sentiment. Unless a director is specifically a writer/director they ARE NOT the ones battling a blank page.
I understand where Arndt was going with his entire speech (it was emotional and genuine) but I worked at the Director's Guild when I first moved to L.A (taking minutes at their board meeting) and, let me tell you, there is NO LOVE LOST between directors and writers. The contempt they held for writers was mind blowing to a novice like me, but after years in this town the disrespect seems to be a permanent part of the landscape. I fight it every step of the way and demand respect. You're not giving to me, fine, I'll take it from you. And, believe me, directors rarely want to give it. Read a couple interviews and you'll see what I mean. But, just to be fair and give Arndt the benefit of the doubt, I'll allow that maybe, the directors on this particular film were instrumental in the writing of the script. Could be true but, still, an unfortunate choice of words. Nice speech overall, loved the movie, yet I hated that small sentence in an otherwise lovely moment. Moving on to . . . BOOKS.
"It was another hot night, dry and windless. The kind that makes people do sweaty, secret things. I wait and I listen."-- A DAME TO KILL FOR: FRANK MILLER'S SIN CITY by FRANK MILLER.
"The haunt of Grand Central Station was a small girl with matted hair and dirty clothes. She appeared only in the commuter hours, morning and evening, when the child believed that she could go invisibly among the throng of travelers in crisscrossing foot traffic, as if that incredible face could go anywhere without atrracting stares. Conccessionaires reached for their phones to call the number on a policeman's card and say, "She's back." -- FIND ME by Carol O'Connell.
"Here was what Mary still found extraordinary: on the day before Stella died, nothing unusual happened. There were no signs, no premonitions, nothing but the simple daily routine of their life together - she and Dylan and Stella. Her neighbor when she lived in San Francisco, on a high hill in North Beach, had been an old Italian woman named Angelina. Angelina always wore a black shawl over her head, and thick-soled black shoes, and a black dress. "People should know you're in mourning," she told Mary. "When you wear black they understand." -- THE KNITTING CIRCLE by ANN HOOD.
"After the explosion, the driver of the overturned school bus stood beside the wreckage, his clothes in shreds. He was cupping his hands to his ears, as if to spare himself the noise of sirens, car alarms, bullhorns, whistles, and tumbling masonry. When he brought his hands away and held them in front of his face, both palms were dripping blood. His mouth opened wide in a scream that was lost in the surrounding din." -- SURVEILLANCE by JONATHAN RABAN.
"The playback: late night, Brooklyn, a pot of coffee, and a chair by the window. I'm listening to a mix tape from 1993. Nobody can hear it but me. The neighbors are asleep. The skater kids who sit on my front steps, drink beer, and blast Polish hip hop - they're gone for the night. The diner next door is closed, but the air is still full of borscht and kielbasa. This is where I live now. A different town, a different apartment, a different year." -- LOVE IS A MIX TAPE: LIFE AND LOSS, ONE SONG AT A TIME by Rob Sheffield. I know I already plugged this but so what.
"It started different ways, but always ended the same. This time he'd been in church. It wasn't the Nativity, but he'd known that he was in the old neighborhood. A deep voice intoned alien words. Stained glass spilled bloody light across polished pews. Karen held a hymnal, terror squirming in her eyes. He'd tried to read the book, knowing the key to her fear lay on the page, but the words twisted and blurred. Sliding metal rattled behind him. In the half awareness of an ending dream, he knew he wouldn't make it, that he couldn't impose sense onto this world in time. He looked up to find that Karen had turned into Evan, and that the hymnal had become a pistol aimed at Danny's chest." -- THE BLADE ITSELF by MARCUS SAKEY.
Now, back to the OSCARS or, at least, Oscar Fashion. I love this part of it but today I watched E'S horrendous Fashion Police show. I wanted to see all the dresses so I tried to suffer through all the inane chatter but damn are they asking a lot. I mean, these folks were clowns and not the good time. The two Jays from America's Top Model brought their tacky horror show to another channel. Why am I supposed to believe anything they say about fashion when I'm looking right at them. One has on way too much make-up (for a man or a woman). What's up with all that heavy foundation? He has an unintentional Little Richard thing going and the second one, Miss Jay, has this weird nappy-ass hair that's also shellacked. Bizarre. I'd love to hear what real fashion people have to say but this was too much.
On more positive notes, I caught up on ROME. Excellent. And I am so impressed with CRAIG FERGUSEN'S GORGEOUS SPEECH. Nice. Watch the whole thing.
Until next time. . .
Labels: Books, Clowns-The Bad Kind, Fashion, Movies, Oscars
