Most Erratic-est Blog Ever.

A (Really Bad) 21st Century Love Story

It was too fucking loud. You were dancing. I was… sitting. With my second drink in hand. They started playing Sweet Child o’ Mine and some Queen after a series of terrible music by LMFAO and other groups I didn’t care to identify.

You were the cutest girl I saw all night. I was… still sitting. Almost done with my drink—swirling around the ice, pretending to drink something that wasn’t just backwash and melted water, deciding whether I wanted to get the hell out of there or get another drink. Our eyes kept meeting and we took turns smiling. I ordered another drink.

I somehow ended up dancing next to you and then kind of with you. You got close and yelled into my ear, “so you do dance!” I yelled back with my hand shielding your ear from the music, “you call this dancing? I need a few more drinks.” But I was completely out of my element and no amount of anything would change that.

I went to sit and you joined me. We spent the rest of the night yelling some more into each other’s ears—cramming in as many words as we could during the quieter moments in between songs. We joked about being middle children, shared our appreciation for foreign cinema, and talked about things better suited for a coffee shop.

We had a longer-than-usual hug at the end of the night and you suggested we do something. I half-heartedly said sure but didn’t get your number or anything. I was glad that we had a good time and that was fine.

Out of curiosity, I looked you up on Facebook the next day. We had no mutual friends out of your 1719 and my 776, we both “liked” The Beatles, and three of my ten favorite films were under your favorites. But you had a photo album with 165 pictures of just yourself.

I did not send you a friend request.

Boulder, USA

I don’t remember too much from the Boulder, Colorado trip. The $5 pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea at Half Fast Subs on The Hill might have something to do with that. (Not really—I barely finished one.)

They released a wild buffalo on the field during pregame intros (wild as in crazy, not as in not domesticated), it was really cold (there was snow on the sidelines!), and Trojans slayed Buffaloes (no real animals were hurt during the football game—just the collective pride of the home crowd). That’s about it. Like I said, I don’t remember too much from the Boulder trip.

Another thing I do remember, however, was that in addition to Boulder feeling like a really small but cool college town, all the fire hydrants were painted seafoam green. Seafoam green! This was not only cool because they were, well, seafoam green, but because I wrote a poem titled Seafoam Green Water Buffaloes during my senior year of high school. (It was the final installment of Colored Water Buffalo poems, following Pink, Periwinkle, and Maroon.) And bonus because it was a great color to photograph for the series.

So I took a shot… but it didn’t come out seafoam green. What the heck? How do you even describe this color? Grey-brown? Bronze? I don’t even know. But it sure as hell isn’t seafoam green. That was the moment I knew that my Polaroid series was probably coming to an end soon. We’ll see.

Poetry (2010)

“To write poetry, you must see well. The most important thing in life is seeing,” a teacher tells his beginning poetry class of mostly middle aged to elderly folks.

“When you really see something, you can feel it naturally […] You should prepare paper and a pencil and wait for that moment to come,” he continues.

“Empty white paper… A world of pure potential.”

Are the things the teacher says profound? Or are they vacuous? Is he a real poet or a complete hack? I’m still not sure.

But his class becomes inspired and begin sharing their own stories. About the beauty of a first time childbirth: “this fiery hot mass, like the sun, slipping out.” And the pain of a love that cannot be because both are married. One man even poignantly (hilariously? again, I’m not sure) admits, “I don’t have any beautiful memories.”

This is the first thing we see Mija, the film’s lead, write in her notebook:The sound of birds singing
What are they singing?

You’re never quite certain of much. A lot happens off camera and we’re always left on the anxious line between knowing and waiting to find out (and occasionally being somewhat lost). This is only possible because Lee Chang-dong is so precise with his writing, so in tune with the dialogue, and so trusting of his audience. An impressive balancing act of letting us in and keeping us out.

Like any writer, Mija gets stuck. She wants to be a better poet but isn’t sure how, so she seeks the advice of more seasoned writers at a local poetry night. We get the sense they are equally lost, only better at manufacturing inspiration. But isn’t that just a part of the game? We’re all amateur people—trying to get better so we can fit in.

While Mija walks around outdoors for inspiration, a gust throws her hat into the river. There is an odd sense of relief and she reaches some kind of epiphany. She lets go.

She later pulls out her notebook to start writing again, but before she can start, a drop of rain falls on the page. The splatter on the paper darkens as the water soaks in. Then, another drop. The entire page is covered within seconds and the rain becomes the ink on her page.

By the end of Poetry (which I thought was one of 2011’s best), we’re left with a lot to chew on. Was Mija the one to call the police on her grandson? Who is the girl on the bridge? Do we see a retelling of past events or the imagination of a remorseful poet? Or is she the one who (presumably) jumps?

Lee provides the paper and the only thing left for us to do is write.

The apricot throws itself to the ground.
It is crushed and trampled for its next life.

South Bend, USA

The drive from Chicago to South Bend, Indiana was beautiful. Admittedly I was asleep during half of it, but every time I woke up to oohs, ahhs, and OH SHIT LOOK AT THATs I saw things you only see in postcards of the stereotypical Midwest. Endless corn fields, a small lake with one of those wooden paddle boats, etc.

I was particularly excited for this rivalry game—mainly because the first time I remember going nuts watching a sporting event was during the 2005 USC-Notre Dame game. (This was long before I ever wanted to go to USC, but was a bandwagon fan.) I don’t think I remember the details of any game quite like that game. The endless lead-changes, the Leinart fumble at the goal line, and The Bush Push—and that’s just the last 2-3 minutes.

After saying hello to Touchdown Jesus, we made our way to the stadium and could immediately sense a different energy in the air. The game was about more than just a win. It was about pride, tradition, and the history of one of the most storied college football rivalries.

As much as I wanted to irrationally hate everything about the Fighting Irish—a mascot I could never take seriously because of an incident involving my high school Spanish teacher (yes, it was Mr. Mondejar for those wondering), his muscles, and an angry outburst—I couldn’t help but love the green alternate/throwback jerseys that a lot of the fans were wearing. So I asked one of the alums on the field if I could take a shot of it for my Polaroid series.

Pina (2011)

I’ve watched only four 3D movies in which the use of 3D wasn’t complete crap: Avatar (2009, James Cameron), Cave of Forgotten Dreams (2010, Werner Herzog), Hugo (2011, Martin Scorsese), and Pina (2011, Win Wenders). As much as I loathe 3D cinema, this just shows what it’s capable of in the right hands (look at the directors).

However, Pina (which I thought was one of 2011’s best) is the only film where I thought 3D was absolutely necessary. Yea it looked good in the other films, but that ‘extra dimension’ didn’t really add anything significant. In Pina, it is essential. But enough about 3D. Pina is much more than the best use of 3D in a movie so far.

Coming out of the theater, my head was buzzing. The best word I could come up with to explain this was “experience.” It was an experience. It wasn’t just a movie, it was an experience unlike any other I’ve had in a movie theater. (I’m not being hyperbolic.) I’ve come out of better movies with more inexplicable feelings, but this was a completely different animal.

When you go see a performance (opera, dance, orchestra, etc.) there is a clear spatial dichotomy: the performers are on stage and the audience sits on the other side. This separation is acknowledged by the opening shot of a hauntingly empty theater and then completely turned on its head with the first performance. We spend the next 100 minutes among, between, and inside the dancers of Tanztheater Wuppertal—not in our seats, on the other side.

I know very little about modern dance and I didn’t quite understand some of the performances, but I don’t think ‘understanding’ is the point. The dancers so effectively and so gracefully (and sometimes even humorously) explore concepts of life, love, and lost love; mourning; gender inequalities; our fascination with youth and growing old; and the bliss that is life. It is remarkably pure, artistic poetry in motion.

Due to overwhelming reception, Pina’s limited release has been extended for at least another week or so. I super duper highly recommend it to anyone who is up for the experience. It’ll be gone soon, so don’t wait—it won’t be the same watching it at home on a small screen in non-3D.

Top 10 Movies of 2011

Before you hear news of The Artist sweeping the Oscars tomorrow (it will) and believe that it actually was the “best” movie of the year (it’s not), I would like to preemptively disagree and offer my ten cents.

Here are my ten favorite films of 2011:

Copie Conforme (Certified Copy), 2010, Abbas Kiarostami
Shi (Poetry), 2010, Lee Chang-dong
The Descendants, 2011, Alexander Payne
Pina, 2011, Wim Wenders
The Tree of Life, 2011, Terrence Malick
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, 2011, Tomas Alfredson
Melancholia, 2011, Lars von Trier
Moneyball, 2011, Bennett Miller
Shame, 2011, Steve McQueen
Midnight in Paris, 2011, Woody Allen

Honorable mentions (alphabetically):

Loong Boonmee raleuk chat (Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives), 2010, Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Martha Marcy May Marlene, 2011, Sean Durkin
Rango, 2011, Gore Verbinski
Take Shelter, 2011, Jeff Nichols
The Artist, 2011, Michel Hazanavicius

*Some 2010 films were included because of their U.S. release date in 2011.

Looking back at last year’s list, it seemed a bit vapid to just list a bunch of movies (one reason I stopped doing my cinema lists), so I will accompany this year’s list with my favorite scene, image, sound, detail, line, etc. from each film:

Chicago, USA

There’s a line in Sufjan Stevens’ Chicago that goes, “I was in love with the place—in my mind, in my mind.” And that’s exactly how I feel about Chicago after my first visit.

I loved everything about my very brief stay in Chicago (minus the hell of a labyrinth that is the O’Hare airport parking lot). The deep dish pizza was glorious. The Chicago River at night looked as beautiful as a river can look in the middle of a city. And of course I geeked out passing by the Gene Siskel Film Center. But there was something else.

When I got out of the metro and first saw downtown Chicago, there was this sudden, unexpected feeling that just blindsided me and I couldn’t explain it. It was kind of like love at first site (see what I did there?). I didn’t feel it with New York, or San Francisco, or Seoul, or Beijing (my pathetic list of “great” cities that I’ve visited ends there). Whereas I felt New York had this ‘reputation’ and just tried so hard, Chicago was unassuming and simply great. I fell in love with Chicago—in my mind. And only in my mind because really, I know nothing about the place. Strange, isn’t it?

This Polaroid was taken at the subway station under our hotel, of some kind of communication box. At first I didn’t like that the subway train’s lights flared into the shot, but I think the subtle splash of color is pretty cool now. This makes it the first non-monochromatic shot in the series—not that anyone is keeping track or cares.

Also, I think the shot recalls the mood and color palette of Lost in Translation (easily one of my favorite films). Check it out:

Tempe, USA

The first stop on our wild journey covering the USC football team this past season was at Tempe, Arizona—home of the Arizona State University Sun Devils (JAMES HARDEN! aka The Beard aka my second favorite NBA player).

While driving in our sick white Charger (with Joey’s terrible unprotected left turns and Trevor enthusiastically instagramming our rental car at every stop), I remember thinking how monochromatically complementary the colors of all the buildings were and wondering if that was really boring or had some greater significance. I don’t know why I was so engrossed in that thought because looking back, that sounds so stupid.

After a long day and a longer game, I forgot to take a shot for my Polaroid series so I forced myself to wake up early to take one before our flight. I think around 7:34am (because I never set my alarm to ‘round’ times like 7:30 or 7:45 or 8:00 or 8:10). I left my hotel room and there were no interesting colors. Just a bunch of sandy browns, faded reds and dull oranges. After walking around for ten minutes I saw a tree with pistachio colored bark so decided to shoot that.

As I pressed the shutter, I saw a man in his 60’s walking directly towards me. He looked really excited. “Is that an old Polaroid camera?” he asked. I said it was and his eyes lit up and he told me that he used to have one around 40 years ago. After some polite conversation, he didn’t have much else to say and I probably couldn’t have carried a conversation because I was so damn tired. So I smiled and went back to my room.

The Polaroid SX-70 is easily my favorite camera ever not only because of its impeccable looks and folding design, but because of the countless interactions I have because of it. Like being held by the TSA for an hour because they thought it might have been a bomb (they told me they detected traces of gun powder). Or having cute girls ask about it at modern art museums. Or even if it’s just an old guy that got to briefly reminisce because of it.

After the shot fully developed and looked nothing like the pistachio colored tree I saw, I knew that the film—from the last batch Polaroid ever made, expiration marked October 2009—was starting to shift colors and fade even though I keep them stored in my refrigerator. It was kind of a bummer because that pistachio color looked really cool in person. Whatever though. Uncertainty is part of the fun when shooting Polaroid film, I guess.

The Cove (2009)

There is a haunting scene toward the end of The Cove that still makes me cringe weeks after I’ve watched this documentary.

The hidden underwater camera observes seaweed drifting in the water. A school of fish just float around until they abruptly swim away. We hear the screeching echos of a hundred dolphins. They are all about to be slaughtered. And within seconds, the murky water turns blood red.

We rarely see the dolphins actually being killed, but what is implied is far more terrifying.

This is The Cove. A hidden area in Taijii, Japan where thousands of dolphins are massacred every year. I don’t mean to sound like a Greenpeace recruiter, but that really is only the beginning of a very long list of crimes.

Although The Cove is a documentary (an Oscar winning one I might add—although that doesn’t really m… yea, let’s not go there), it’s structured like a Jason Bourne spy thriller and executed like a James Bond mission. Pretty entertaining for such heavy material, if you ask me. But above all, this is an important film. Not just for the tree huggers. Not just for the people who wanted a dolphin when they were young. This is an important film.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

Who decided that calling a movie The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was a good marketing move? (Because it definitely wasn’t one of those artistic/creative decisions.) Might as well have called it The Goth Girl with A Lot of Piercings and an Awesome Mohawk, Who is Also Good at Hacking, no? …Yea probably not that. But still.

The native title of both the book and the original Swedish film is Män som hatar kvinnor—which translates to a more fitting, albeit more polarizing and less sexy, Men Who Hate Women. This adds a completely new dynamic to the film that I want to briefly touch upon.

There has been a lot of praise (especially from female critics and bloggers) about how refreshing it is to have such a strong, independent, kick ass female lead. How she is a woman others can relate to and learn from.

But is Lisbeth Salander really?

I have a hard time understanding how her revenge made anything better. Do her actions (no matter how justified) truly “empower” women? Is that really what an independent woman with power looks like? I would like to think not. And I know that is one extreme example, but take for example a more subtle instance later in the film. Just as Lisbeth saves her male counterpart Mikael in the basement and is about to chase Martin, she hesitates and turns around to ask, “Can I kill him?”

WHAT? Why does she need permission if she’s such an individual? Since when does she need approval to do the things she wants? Does this undermine everything she stands for as a woman? As a person? Is she just another female character written by a man, in a man’s world?

I’m probably taking this a bit too far, but it was the most interesting point of conversation in an otherwise mediocre movie. I think it’s David Fincher’s least compelling film to date (mostly due to weak source material)—which really isn’t so bad considering his filmography.