9.(tie) The Hours/United 93 (aka CCS' Head Explodes)

You want to know why The Hours is on here? Because every man I know hates it, and every woman loves it. And it leads to guys writing the movie off as "gay," "boring," and "typical feminist bullshit." Too bad they don't actually pay attention to what the movie is saying about gender roles in our society and then try to be better boyfriends/husbands.

I have had more than one woman tell me that The Hours nails it on the head about how they feel society tells them to behave. Moore's and Kidman's storylines focus around the everyday routine of life which leaves them without meaning and unsatisfied. They cannot be who they want because some outside force (in Moore's case marriage) is impeding them. Moore's act is particularly moving, because it makes you question exactly how many women have given/are giving up the lives and dreams they want so that the hubby and children can pursue their own. Even in today's society where more women are working, how do many often spend their "free-time"? By going after their personal hopes? Or picking up after the kids, doing laundry, and cooking dinner?

The movie centers around the nobility of the fairer sex, and does so by having Ed Harris' character appear in the Streep portion of the film. Harris, who is a poet dying of AIDS, does nothing but lament the injustice of his fate. He has reason to, but he also does what most men do in any relationship with a woman. He makes it all about him. It is his feelings which must come first. Everything must be done on his timetable. While Moore suffers silently in her arc and the audience truely feels for her, Harris takes away any sympathy you might have for his character by behaving selfishly. Moore sets the example, Harris bitches and moans. In other words, The Hours does in fact seem to hit male/female dynamics square on the head and makes it in my opinion one of the best movies of the last 20 years. Not to mention the top-rate acting and the genuine writing.

(In case you think I'm full of shit, go ask a women, who isn't your girlfriend or wife, how they feel about the movie/issue.)

And then there's United 93. It's too bad that the handful of you who read this probably haven't seen it. I can understand why. We live in a country ran by a poor sole of an individual whose administration has politicized 9/11 to such a degree it now makes us feel rather cynical about the whole event. But before you discard Greengrass' fucking masterpiece, try to remember how you felt on that day and the ones immediately following it. Think about the despair, fear, and unknowing.

Moviemaking is an artform. And when done well, it should be commended. But along the lines of why people don't watch the techinal Oscars, they also don't go to the theater for that reason either. People watch a film to be moved, entertained and touched. Most couldn't give fuck what sort of filter was used. The just want to laugh, cry, or see Michael Bay blow something to kingdom come. Maybe it's not intellectual, but it is uniquely human. What makes United 93 great, though, is that it combines the best of both these worlds, and gives each the appropriate amount of respect.

Rather than try to overly-sentimentalize the victims, Greengrass takes almost the opposite approach. He shoots most of the movie in real-time and gives it the feel of a documentary. He rarely uses names, tells little to nothing about the individual characters, and relegates the most "Hollywood" moments to footnote status. ("Let's roll" is barely audible.) He just kind says, "Here it is. You decide." In spite of this, he is still able to pack a tremendous amount of emotion into the film.

I kept having to remind myself, "The plane crashes. You know how this ends." Yet, Greengrass was able to time after time keep getting my hopes up that maybe I just mis-remembered what actually happened that day five years ago. And he was able to send me crashing down with the plane, when they passengers weren't able to regain control, even though I know nothing about them. What allowed him to accomplish this was that he showed you that these people didn't fight back for love of country, political party, or reason to go to war. They did it for themselves, each other, and their families. The passengers sought to regain the plane for the same reasons you, yourself, probably would.

And he did all of this without having to play a single aspect of it up (Attention Oliver Stone.) He knew his audience would be already moved, he just had to make sure you knew why. Never once does he try to give anyone hero status. Yet, by the end you feel as if they all do. It is apolitical, objective, and fair. But most of all, it is representative of all the reasons why we should remember what happened that day.

How Do You Have A Job?

I'm a freshly minted lawyer, and practice with a couple of other people. Two of us were filling out paperwork today for malpractice insurance. Now, the company we're going through has only one set of forms for everybody. So, whether you've lost your carrier 50 times or just starting out, everyone has to answer the same shitty questions.

This becomes important because most of the questions assume that you've had some experience. Unfortunately, that's not us. And makes the question about how much of your billable hours are devoted to varying areas of the law a little difficult to answer. So, I call the wonderful people up to ask what the hell are we supposed to do. And the conversation went a little something like this:

"Hello, this is Black-Hole-of-Life, how may I help you?" in the the least helpful voice ever.

"Um, yes, Black-Hole-of-Life, I'm a new attorney with a new firm, and I was wondering if there was an additional/special application we should fill out as many of these questions do not seem applicable to us?"

"No, there is only the one application."

"Um, well, okay. The reason I asked is because of the question regarding percentage of practice. How do you suggest we fill it out?"

"Well, you should just approximate what you believe they might be."

"Approximate."

"Yes."

Uh-huh. So, let me get this right. The representative for the insurance company just told me to guess on the form I fill out to set my premium. Fan-fucking-tastic. My partner and I could wind up shelling out 6 grand a month, and Black-Hole-of-Life just told me that I might have just as well thrown darts at a board than call her up. What a country. I hate insurance companies.

10.(tie) Menace II Society/Field of Dreams

Okay, there's actually twelve on the list. (No. 9 is a tie, too.) Let's start with Menace.

It came out in 1993 as a response to John Singleton's Boyz n the Hood. See, the Hughes brothers didn't think that Singleton's pic was tough enough. So, they made their own L.A. gang-banger pic. And what a goddamn response it was, especially since they made this movie when they were 21. It has all of the same elements as Boyz: A born and bred gang-banger, someone thinking about leaving the hood, girlfriends, strong/weak parental figures, cops, and violence. But it is all done at such a dirtier, grimier level, you just feel as if the characters are more human and act/react they same way you would. In other words, Albert and Allen accomplished what they set off to do. Look at the characters themselves.

Clearly, in Boyz, Doughboy, Tre, and Ricky are supposed to represent individual segments of the black population, and while they all interact with each other, Singleton never really lets them go beyond the type of man each is supposed to be. The Hughes Brothers just said fuck it. Everyone's got weaknesses, so why not have our characters show that. Caine is clearly supposed to be their Tre. But unlike Tre, he is also part fucking Thug. Such as when he tells the girl he knocked up that it can't be his kid, because he "had the jimmy-hat on extra-tight." O-Dog, who is supposed to counter Doughboy, actually makes you wonder if Tate was the one who wrote all of NWA's lyrics, as opposed to Cube. Doughboy is tough, but in the end you kind of like him. On the other hand, you fucking fear O-Dog and silently hope that he dies, too afraid to actually say it on the off-chance he might actually come through the goddamn screen.

Finally, the violence. Simply, you knew when it was coming in Boyz, you never did in Menace. You knew Ricky was a dead man, but don't tell me you knew O-Dog was going to shoot the bum who offered to suck his dick and then eat the dude's fucking hamburger. Jesus Christ. Boyz was good and deserved much of the praise it got because it was original. But this movie tops it in every way.

On a lighter note, there's Field of Dreams. I know, some of you are thinking it's just typical Hollywood sentimental schlock. It's not, but I'll get to that in a minute. First and foremost, the movie is about baseball, obviously. And in today's world of Barry Bonds, the film takes on cultural significance simply because of that. Sports has had, and will always have, an important role in the lives of many Americans, and until my generation, baseball was king. This movie serves as a reminder to why that was, and maybe should be again. In it's purest form, baseball is a beautiful sport. It's simplicity and complexity work so well together, it's impossible not to wonder if a more perfect sport has been created. (I argue yes, but I think baseball has a pretty good case.)

Second, the movie is about the 60's and what happened to flower power after Ronald Reagan. A little bit of this story line exists in the relationship between Annie and Ray Kinsella. But it is brought to perfection with James Earl Jones' character, Terrence Mann. Mann, the author of the fictionalized work, The Boat Rocker, is a writer who just always wanted to be that. He seems to have once embraced what the sixties were about, but after having to listen to one too many stories about how people rebelled against their parents, he is now completely burnt-out and living by himself. In the end, I think it works as a beautiful analogy for that time period.

Finally, the movie is about fathers and sons and the reason that I say the movie is more than just sentimental fluff. I saw the movie for the first time when I was young enough to still unquestionably love my father, and thought it pretty good. But it wasn't until I had lived a few more years that I really got it. In the film, you learn that Ray's father had at one time been a pro ball player long before he was born. Costner never really got a chance to know that part of his dad, and only knew him after life had worn him down. Largely because of this, Ray's relationship with his father was strained, culminating in him moving out when he was in his early teens after reading Mann's book and not coming home when his dad became ill. The regret he feels is told through Kinsella lamenting about how he stopped playing catch with his old man and it feels unbelievably real.

My dad and I never got along too well when I reached high school and throughout the time I was in college. But the one thing we always had that we could talk about or bond over was sports. We shot basketball, threw the football, and pitched the occasional baseball. And when we were done with that, we would watch them on television. All of it together. One summer though we didn't talk to each other. Not a single word, June through August.

Field of Dreams ends with Kinsella finding his dad, John, out on the baseball diamond. Ray recognizes him, but his dad does not, or so we're led to believe. They talk for a couple of minutes, with Ray complimenting him on his game and introducing John to his granddaughter. As the older Kinsella turns to leave, Ray goes, "Hey, dad...wanna have a catch?" John agrees, and the movie slowly fades out. I cry every goddamn time. You can probably guess why.

The last shot is of a line of cars, going on for miles, heading towards the diamond. To me, it symbolizes all of the people who wish they could have those moments, like Ray's, back with their parents. I know I want that summer back.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, it's Iowa."

My Top 10 Movies

Everyone is doing/or has done one of these, so why not me? I also figured that I would select seem which might cause blood pressures to rise (jff-I'm looking at you). So here are the criteria. (1) Movies must have been considered for Oscar nomination from 1987-2006. I started seeing movies at the theater about then, and it covers the last twenty years. It's a substantial block of time, but also one in which I feel it is really fair to compare individual films. All-time lists are mistaken, in my opinion, because styles of directing/acting/writing change. Other art forms seem to recognize this, so why not movies as well? (2) No documentaries, only dramatizations. I love doc.s, but don't really feel its fair to compare the two types. (Sorry Hoop Dreams.) (3) I have to have seen it in the movie theater. Seeing a film on the silver screen is vastly different than seeing it on a T.V. And because I think seeing it with a group of people in a darkened room is just as important sometimes as the movie itself, I'm going to limit the list this way. Why is this significant? I saw the following movies on tape for the first time: The Usual Suspects, Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July, Silence of the Lambs...oh, and Goodfellas.

An Evening Jaunt

I like to walk around my neighborhood at night as much as possible, because it is rather... interesting. By this I of course mean there are lots of homeless and crazy drunks, sometimes combined into one person. So, it may be a lot of things, but it is rarely boring. And last night was no exception.

I was returning home from a trek up to the Circle K when a group of three, two men and one women, darted across the street and onto the road a few feet in front of me. They were loud, and not really feeling like talking, I kind of hoped they would ignore me. Two of them did, but one had apparently spotted me and determined that I was the sort of chap he could hit up for random, awkard conversation.

"Hey man, where are you off to?" he asked. Instantly I hoped whatever answer I gave him would not be taken as an invitiation to join me for the evening.

"I live down here," I replied.

"Hey man, you smoke that weed?" Apparently, it was immaterial what I was up to, unless the Rice Krispie bar in my bag was actually disguised pot.

"Yeah man I do, but I ain't got any," I said, hoping that this might get rid of him. Unfortunately...

"Ah, man, I hear that. I took a bunch of pills tonight."

"Great." By this point we were stopped in front of the Jack-in-the-Box, and I had a real chance to size him up. About my height, little shorter. Shaved head, cut, and with a ton of ink. All black and white. Kind of sunken eyes. He had a glass in his hand, filled with something. I assumed booze, but it could have been tea. Couldn't really smell anything. We started walking again, mostly so he could catch up with his friends who were a good block or so ahead. When he turned around, I saw that the back of his neck was done. It was a skull, missing a bottom jaw, but with human eyes, and something was coming out of his mouth, but the shirt covered the rest up. The work was good, but it also looked really familiar.

"How long ago these apartments go up?" He asked, gesturing wildly towards the buildings.

"Couple of months ago, bout the time school..."

"Looks like a goddamn high-rise prison with all of the gates."

Thinking about what he had just said, I didn't really have time to absorb it. Because the next thing I knew...

"Hey man, can you hold this?" Giving me little choice not to, I took his glass. And as soon as I had it, the dude was taking off his shirt. And that's when I saw it, and all of a sudden I knew why the skull looked so familiar and why he had made the comment about the apartments.

It was a swastika. And a poorly one done at that. In fact, the art was so shabby it was without a doubt done while homeboy was serving time. He was probably a Brother if he had been to prison, which meant the fellow not only enjoyed getting fucked up, but fucking other people's shit up as well.

I tried not to stare, lest I be accused of being a "fag-it" and getting curbed on my way back from picking up some muchies at ye olde local convience store. But I figured out he was really too messed up to notice. His entire back was covered, and the swastika was the only one which looked like it had been put on him in the joint. I recognized them as all being pretty common for skinheads to wear, since I had seen a lot of the same symbols when I had looked through portfolios before I got my pieces done.

It was at this point several thoughts began running through my head. I don't exactly live in an all-white neighborhood. So, not only did I start thinking about my own safety, but his as well. He may have been an ignorant fuck, but I really preferred not to be a first-hand witness to a goddamn race riot. This didn't seem to cross his mind, at least that's how he acted. But I also noticed that he started walking in more of march, so maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.

I also wondered if he was "true believer" or just ran with the Aryans to survive prison. But just as I started thinking about it, I was really beginning to hope that are paths would be splitting up soon, too.

"Goddamn morons parked all the way down at the Burger King," he turned and said to me.

"Why'd they do that?"

"Beats the fuck outta me, man. Fuckin' mile out of the way. And at goddamn, nigger Burger King." Well, so much for that question. I really wanted to laugh, but I remembered one thing: he could probably kill me with his bare hands, not to mention the glass he held.

So I mustered up an, "Oh yeah?"

"Yep, nigger Burger King." About this time, his friends started to cross over to the B.K., and he followed suit.

"Stay safe, man," he used as a good-bye.

"You too, man, " I answered back.

I really don't know what to make of it. but truth be told, he was the most interesting person I had met in a while. And part of the reason I don't just drive my car into one of the lakes around here. I kind of live for these random moments. there are so many stories out there, some sad, some happy, or in this case, some angry. but whatever it is, they all intrigue me.

ever since I was kid, I've met people this way. for whatever reason, they just come up and start talking. often they are much like the population of my neighborhood, drunk and/or crazy. When I was ten, one homeless guy thought I was his doctor and wanted to know why I hadn't seem him in a while. A month ago, one of the local bums came up and started talking Marx with me. I was in heaven. For being a complete wino, he knew his shit. Had he not been scared off by a cop, I think we would have talked for a while. About two weeks after that, he stopped me in the above-mentioned Circle K parking lot and asked if I wanted to split a case of beer with him. Unfortunately, I had to go back into work, or else I'm pretty sure I would have. In law school, one of my best friends was the janitor. He stayed at my place a couple of weekends. We sat around, drank beer, got stoned, talked classic rock, and passed out to horror movies. And he only talked to me about his life.

i don't know why I listen, or even why they feel as if I'm someone they can talk to. I would to think they see something in me, instead of them just being batshit crazy. I don't really know. but i think i'm better for it. and maybe that's all that really matters. it's enough to keep me walking.