Got home today after a long day--this morning, sleepless at 5 a.m., I gave up and got up and worked until...leaving for work. A good day: the ninth grade pull out group didn't say "Why we gotta work with a fuckin sixth grade teacher?" and some ninth graders who never do nothing did some stuff. Plus Dan got some work done with the other kids because I took the ones who distract the rest. Nice to feel somewhat useful.
Although I felt less useful trying to teach A. to read. Fingers crossed, patience rallied.
J. and D. did a little work in a pull out group. Amazing what some kids are capable of when you stand over them holding an enthusiastic whip, a.k.a. when they feel directly responsible for and engaged in being part of their own educations, if only because an adult keeps bugging them about it instead of letting them blend into the larger louder crowd. But not only because of that--also because they like having ideas and having those ideas recognized and responded to, but they can't focus enough to bring those ideas out when there's too much else going on (which there so is, always, especially in sixth grade with puberty descending), plus some of these kids just aren't the type to enthusiastically wave hands and share any kind of ideas related to school and books, even if they are percolating somewhere down there.
Anyway it was a good day. Even the dentist after work wasn't so awful. And I came home to Nick making soup and the house smelling really good.
He explained that the soup wouldn't be ready for a while: "I just put the beans in.”
Told him, “I had tacos before the dentist anyway, in case I couldn't eat after. Not real ones though. The Chinese ones.”
"Real Chinese ones? Not moo shu?”
"Real Chinese ones.”
Oh, Fresco Tortilla. (Even if you know about Fresco Tortilla, this article from the Times is worth reading. I first read it framed on the wall at the Fresco Tortilla near school.)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Austin.
Oh, Tex-Mex. Oh, that stuffed fried avocado at Trudy's.
The fabulous Barack posters the guy at the coffee shop made, and he gave me one when I asked. Having grown up in Minneapolis and lived in Portland and Seattle and "towns" even smaller, I was not so shocked at his generosity, and his joy in my appreciation of his poster, but Ms. Adri NYC still is, I think. (Image is the poster up in my apartment--it says "SI SE PUEDE" and "TEXANS FOR BARACK 08".) Best souvenir I could've hoped for.
Mexican food and perfect tortillas and $1.50 breakfast tacos and telenovelas playing in the background.
Bees! There are still bees in Austin. (Seems like such a line out of a Bradbury story.)
BBQ. The Salt Lick. On Sunday-after-church (we didn't go to church, just admired the post-church crowd, babies, all of it). I didn't go with the all-you-can-eat, I just worked on my ribs (and that lovely slightly Asian coleslaw) and watched Jason and Adri go go go.
The river behind their surreal enormous apartment complex, and their two outdoor pools, especially the one shaped like Texas!
Lake Travis, a huge lake made from damming said river (we're studying China with the sixth graders--dams, dams, dams), and we drove way up the hill, and wandered somewhat. It was open and smelled good and I flipped over a funny looking rock. Lots of funny looking rocks. (I was sick, so my take on it here is appropriately mono-syllabic and vague.)
Dogs everywhere.
Cacti. Little ones. Randomly.
Thrifting and poking in random stores. I bought too many books, as usual, though as you would hope I was more selective than I would have been in NYC. One was big though. Really big. Hill's Manual of Social and Business Forms [1879: Issued by subscription only, and not for sale in the bookstores. Residents of any State desiring a copy should address the Publishers, and an Agent will call upon them.] It was only fifteen dollars, the most I spent on anything I bought in Texas. Of course, it weighs about eight thousand tons. But worth it. Worth hauling.) You can download a PDF of Berkeley's copy here, or just peruse it. But you know for $15 I had to have my own hard copy, complete with engraved cover and all the plates and illustrations... This may be one of the most useful books I own. Useful information includes the following: Specific directions and a twelve-lesson system for teaching penmanship in case I ever want to open a writing school ("The usual charge for a course of instruction of 12 lessons is from $2 to $5 per pupil"). Somewhat radical suggestions on Marriage ("Do not be afraid of being an 'old maid.' The disgrace attached to that term has long sense passed away. Unmarried ladies of mature years are proverbially among the most intelligent, accomplished, and independent to be found in society. The sphere of woman's action and work is so widening that she can to-day, if she desires, handsomely and independently support herself. She need not, therefore, marry for a home") including how to begin a love correspondence! Writing for the Press including subjects for local news (Accidents, Amusements, Births, Burglary... on through Sickness, Telegraphs, and Violation of Law), results of bad penmanship ("Especial pains should be taken, when writing for the press, to write legibly" since otherwise you may "seriously trespass upon the time and patience of printers and correspondents upon whom [you] inflict [your] penmanship"). Selections from the Poets, including William Cullen Bryant, Florence Percy, and Petroleum V. Nasby, as well as Marian Douglas' "The Motherless Turkeys": "The white turkey was dead! The white turkey was dead!/ How the news through the barn-yard went flying!/ Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys were left,/ And their case for assistance was crying" etc. Altogether a remarkable volume. Additional excerpts mostly likely to follow.
And last but not least: Miramar! Who really is a Texan, now. Pretty surreal.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Mrs. Sheehan
On vacation in Austin, I get this call from Mike that is urgent and anxious, saying, "Call me when you can, please call." Since his sweetie and my good friend Tammi just fell down the stairs and is now housebound except for physical therapy for six weeks, I'm thinking, "Shit, what happened to Tammi now?!" so I call him right away, and he says, "Did you hear?"
"Hear what?"
"About Barbara Sheehan? From 346?"
He was talking about this. The warm, helpful, motherly secretary at the middle school where I taught last year and the year before, and where Mike and Tammi still teach.
Not in any position to feel anything but sympathy for all kinds of people in this situation. Family. Children. Mrs. Sheehan.
"Hear what?"
"About Barbara Sheehan? From 346?"
He was talking about this. The warm, helpful, motherly secretary at the middle school where I taught last year and the year before, and where Mike and Tammi still teach.
Not in any position to feel anything but sympathy for all kinds of people in this situation. Family. Children. Mrs. Sheehan.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
A lit thesis I will not write
I loved Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, despite gossip about Diaz at Syracuse and despite Syracuse in general. The MFA mostly ruined me for contemporary fiction but not entirely, we are relieved to note. (Also, three years later, maybe I'm writing again! Besides blog entries which are helping get things warmed up anyway.)
There's something great about putting a book on reserve at the library, and then when it comes it's like a package in the mail.
I love how Diaz refuses to italicize the Spanish in his writing--I remember reading something by him about that a million years ago [tracked down at least one reference, a quote from Diaz included in the NYT 1996 review of Drown: "I write for the people I grew up with. I took extreme pains for my book to not be a native informant. Not: 'This is Dominican food. This is a Spanish word.' I trust my readers, even non-Spanish ones.''] and this book seems so completely written in his language, even more than Drown did. The ELL teacher at school read it, and he said he loved it because he'd never read a book that was written how people really talk. I kept thinking about who Diaz's audience is meant to be: sometimes he seems to be talking to people who grew up in the world of the book, and sometimes--though rarely--he seems to be explaining that world to his New Yorker audience. Not too often, though, and not too much.
There are lots of footnotes. I love footnotes. Especially footnotes explaining the Dominican history referenced, the side stories, the details that don't belong in the narrative flow of things. But there were places where I got annoyed by pretensions that snuck in, including at least one--maybe only one?--footnote about something that was in an earlier draft and got edited out for various reasons. Meta in a useless jolting way, reeking of McSweeney's. Plus toward the end there was a dumb metaphor involving "nightmare 8-a.m. MLA panels: endless."
But I love the specifics and the dorkiness and the references without explanation, whether Dominican slang or roleplaying games or comics or sci fi. This book has such a voice. And after I finished it I was thinking how much more Diaz has in common with someone like Isaac Bashevis Singer than he does with most contemporary [white American?] writers. Again, I'm not as well-read in contemporary fiction as I should be to be making such claims. But I was thinking that he and Singer have many of the same themes, even with a lot of common threads. New York (outer Brooklyn/far out NJ); tight knit immigrant communities, Diasporas, with so many connections to Back Home; wars and dictators and changing regimes Back Home; young male writers and intellectuals doing what they have to do to pay rent, but living their "real lives" outside of the job; and, entirely essential to both writers, an obsession with the ladies. Lots of players and affairs and romantic intrigue in these guys' books. There's religion, too. And families with all their burdens and obligations. All those generations with their different relationships to Back Home, to language and priorities and family and history and all of it. Gender expectations, secrets left behind (but usually not really left behind at all), myths and God and all the rest of it. Plus did I mention the ladies. So that's the thesis, somewhere in there.
Teacherly post script: If I were teaching college, or maybe even high school, I'd want to use this quote to talk about voice and POV and how much can be conveyed about characters (whether the narrator, character described, or both) in a few sentences: "At college you're not supposed to care about anything--you're just supposed to fuck around--but believe it or not, I cared about Lola. She was a girl it was easy to care about. Lola like the fucking opposite of the girls I usually macked on: bitch was almost six feet tall and no tetas at all and darker than your darkest grandma. Like two girls in one: the skinniest upperbody married to a pair of Cadillac hips and an ill donkey. One of those overachiever chicks who run all the organizations in college and wear suits to meetings. Was the president of her sorority, the head of S.A.L.S.A. and co-chair of Take Back the Night. Spoke perfect stuck-up Spanish." (p. 168, in case you write the thesis or teach not sixth graders).
There's something great about putting a book on reserve at the library, and then when it comes it's like a package in the mail.
I love how Diaz refuses to italicize the Spanish in his writing--I remember reading something by him about that a million years ago [tracked down at least one reference, a quote from Diaz included in the NYT 1996 review of Drown: "I write for the people I grew up with. I took extreme pains for my book to not be a native informant. Not: 'This is Dominican food. This is a Spanish word.' I trust my readers, even non-Spanish ones.''] and this book seems so completely written in his language, even more than Drown did. The ELL teacher at school read it, and he said he loved it because he'd never read a book that was written how people really talk. I kept thinking about who Diaz's audience is meant to be: sometimes he seems to be talking to people who grew up in the world of the book, and sometimes--though rarely--he seems to be explaining that world to his New Yorker audience. Not too often, though, and not too much.
There are lots of footnotes. I love footnotes. Especially footnotes explaining the Dominican history referenced, the side stories, the details that don't belong in the narrative flow of things. But there were places where I got annoyed by pretensions that snuck in, including at least one--maybe only one?--footnote about something that was in an earlier draft and got edited out for various reasons. Meta in a useless jolting way, reeking of McSweeney's. Plus toward the end there was a dumb metaphor involving "nightmare 8-a.m. MLA panels: endless."
But I love the specifics and the dorkiness and the references without explanation, whether Dominican slang or roleplaying games or comics or sci fi. This book has such a voice. And after I finished it I was thinking how much more Diaz has in common with someone like Isaac Bashevis Singer than he does with most contemporary [white American?] writers. Again, I'm not as well-read in contemporary fiction as I should be to be making such claims. But I was thinking that he and Singer have many of the same themes, even with a lot of common threads. New York (outer Brooklyn/far out NJ); tight knit immigrant communities, Diasporas, with so many connections to Back Home; wars and dictators and changing regimes Back Home; young male writers and intellectuals doing what they have to do to pay rent, but living their "real lives" outside of the job; and, entirely essential to both writers, an obsession with the ladies. Lots of players and affairs and romantic intrigue in these guys' books. There's religion, too. And families with all their burdens and obligations. All those generations with their different relationships to Back Home, to language and priorities and family and history and all of it. Gender expectations, secrets left behind (but usually not really left behind at all), myths and God and all the rest of it. Plus did I mention the ladies. So that's the thesis, somewhere in there.
Teacherly post script: If I were teaching college, or maybe even high school, I'd want to use this quote to talk about voice and POV and how much can be conveyed about characters (whether the narrator, character described, or both) in a few sentences: "At college you're not supposed to care about anything--you're just supposed to fuck around--but believe it or not, I cared about Lola. She was a girl it was easy to care about. Lola like the fucking opposite of the girls I usually macked on: bitch was almost six feet tall and no tetas at all and darker than your darkest grandma. Like two girls in one: the skinniest upperbody married to a pair of Cadillac hips and an ill donkey. One of those overachiever chicks who run all the organizations in college and wear suits to meetings. Was the president of her sorority, the head of S.A.L.S.A. and co-chair of Take Back the Night. Spoke perfect stuck-up Spanish." (p. 168, in case you write the thesis or teach not sixth graders).
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Seen, overheard, etc.
Huge Obama sign on the back of a waste removal truck on Fulton.
On the marquee at a storefront church down the block from Gorilla Coffee, in Park Slope: CROSSOVER YOUTH MINISTRY: MAKING JESUS FAMOUS.
Lady standing next to the chain link fence outside the Williamsburg Projects, talking on her cell phone, smoking, her kid (maybe five) next to her waiting impatiently. Her hair is all done up nice, and she's wearing a short very hairy jacket, maybe rabbit fur, with a big fluffy collar. She's also wearing those navy blue polyester uniform pants that are never flattering. She might be a security guard, or crossing guard. On her, the pants are really tight but oddly high-waisted, and the whole look is slightly discombobulated but still fabulous in a "so there" kind of way.
Text from Lauren: "Overheard: I said hey man I'm not gonna be a physicist I'm gonna be a PHYSICIAN."
Text from Gerry: "In e village. Mother with child named Gerry threatens to hit him in the face. Gerry is cute clearly. But bad mother."
Text to Rachel last year: "New game at IS 364: boys punching each other in the genital area, aka the 'johnny.' Known as Bang Cock, or as one kid explained, the capital of JAPAN!"
On the marquee at a storefront church down the block from Gorilla Coffee, in Park Slope: CROSSOVER YOUTH MINISTRY: MAKING JESUS FAMOUS.
Lady standing next to the chain link fence outside the Williamsburg Projects, talking on her cell phone, smoking, her kid (maybe five) next to her waiting impatiently. Her hair is all done up nice, and she's wearing a short very hairy jacket, maybe rabbit fur, with a big fluffy collar. She's also wearing those navy blue polyester uniform pants that are never flattering. She might be a security guard, or crossing guard. On her, the pants are really tight but oddly high-waisted, and the whole look is slightly discombobulated but still fabulous in a "so there" kind of way.
Text from Lauren: "Overheard: I said hey man I'm not gonna be a physicist I'm gonna be a PHYSICIAN."
Text from Gerry: "In e village. Mother with child named Gerry threatens to hit him in the face. Gerry is cute clearly. But bad mother."
Text to Rachel last year: "New game at IS 364: boys punching each other in the genital area, aka the 'johnny.' Known as Bang Cock, or as one kid explained, the capital of JAPAN!"
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
More movies.
Tonight the random movie was The Group. With Devon! I am proud of myself for meeting up with a friend for a movie and dinner on a school night. Still trying to balance everything. (I am also proud that I've been writing a fair amount here, and it's not a teacher blog! Important to write/think/communicate about teaching, but also so important to have other things. Like random movies and books and adventures.) Anyway. I was obsessed with the 1954 Mary McCarthy novel the movie is based on--Vassar girls, just out of college!--when I was a Bard girl, just out of college. I bought multiple copies, every time I saw one at a thrift store, and passed them on. I tend to do that.
The movie doesn't follow the book so closely, plus it's funny to watch a 1966 movie set in 1933 that is so 1960's--based on a book written in 1954 by a woman who was ahead of her time. Sex before marriage, breast feeding, psychiatry--the issues are timely to all times, handled in a way that isn't quite timely to any of them. Plus it's got Candice Bergen and Larry Hagman in it (not only was he J.R. and Jeannie's master, but he went to Bard! who knew?! oh, IMDb), along with a zillion other actors and actresses who went on to be in every television show ever made (remember before IMDb when we were all just like "who the hell is he? I know I've seen him in SOMETHING!" but now you can look him up and figure out that he was in that one ABC after school special).
Also last weekend Lauren and I saw "Network." Very 1976, fabulous. I love Film Forum. The Sidney Lumet series is proving to be more fun than expected.
The movie doesn't follow the book so closely, plus it's funny to watch a 1966 movie set in 1933 that is so 1960's--based on a book written in 1954 by a woman who was ahead of her time. Sex before marriage, breast feeding, psychiatry--the issues are timely to all times, handled in a way that isn't quite timely to any of them. Plus it's got Candice Bergen and Larry Hagman in it (not only was he J.R. and Jeannie's master, but he went to Bard! who knew?! oh, IMDb), along with a zillion other actors and actresses who went on to be in every television show ever made (remember before IMDb when we were all just like "who the hell is he? I know I've seen him in SOMETHING!" but now you can look him up and figure out that he was in that one ABC after school special).
Also last weekend Lauren and I saw "Network." Very 1976, fabulous. I love Film Forum. The Sidney Lumet series is proving to be more fun than expected.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Chuck's birthday
Today is (would be) my dad’s birthday, and before work I was listening to Bob Marley. I had to dig up Legend anyway because I wanted to put the live version of "No Woman No Cry" on a mix I’m making for Farah and Jim and their new baby, Eloise. I remember listening to this tape in my dad’s truck, over and over, starting from seventh grade when it joined our/my essential music oeuvre. I guess I was thinking about this song as sadder than it actually is, as a song of grief instead of comfort. Then I realized that’s because I’m thinking of it as a song for “my peeps who passed away”—but the Fugees album with their version on it came out that fall after my dad died, and I guess is one of the first albums I think he would’ve really appreciated that I never got to play for him, me being one of his “cool” daughters and him the “cool” dad I played “cool” music for, with an enthusiasm that wasn’t cool, really. Neither of us ever were—-not in the least (nor you, really, sister dear--though you probably came closer than I ever did, ms. indie guitar girl).
My music has gotten less cool, or anyway I'm more aware that it's less cool. I think my dad would be into all the old gospel I've been obsessed with, and he'd understand how I'm fascinated by this as a... secular obsession? to coin a term he'd appreciate. And we could talk about it. I'd like to talk to him about it. Plus I know he'd love my recent fascination with all things Johnny Cash and Carter Family--I have a couple Johnny Cash records from my dad's collection, though the eight CDs are from the library.
"No Woman, No Cry" is a song about remembering and anticipating—okay, this is not about to deteriorate into a line reading of a Bob Marley song. Enough. See quote at end.*
Anyway. Thinking about a CD for the new Eloise, I’m realizing, of course, how many of the songs you sing or dance to with little kids are love songs. Most songs are, of course, but…yeah. Three notable exceptions that were top sing-alongs when I nannied were Etta James’ “Pushover,” Roger Miller’s “King of the Road," and Magnetic Fields' "Papa Was a Rodeo." The first is a kickass “fuck you, you can’t play me,” song and the second is a traveler song—much like “City of New Orleans,” which Farah wrote about Eloise’s grandfather singing to her, just like he’d sung it to Jim. (Okay, “King of the Road” isn’t MUCH like “City of New Orleans.” But--yeah.) "Papa Was a Rodeo"--okay, maybe it's a love song. Not debating that right now. Anyway can't argue it's a great sing-along, period. "Nashville Skyline Rag" is also going on the baby mix--I was going to make a case for that not being a love song, but I caught myself--just because it doesn't have words doesn't prove anything.
On the bus to work, listened to Abbey Road. The whole second half of that album-—side B of the record I grew up dancing to—-starts with "Come Together" and gets better from there. I still have my dad’s record. I’ll go home tonight and listen to the album again—or at least side B of the record I grew up dancing to.
*Good friends we have, good friends we have lost, along the way.
In this great future, you can’t forget your past;
So dry your tears, I say.
P.S. Bec, Derek, and the kid-to-come: you'll be getting your own version of the mix, of course. We go so far back with the mixes.
My music has gotten less cool, or anyway I'm more aware that it's less cool. I think my dad would be into all the old gospel I've been obsessed with, and he'd understand how I'm fascinated by this as a... secular obsession? to coin a term he'd appreciate. And we could talk about it. I'd like to talk to him about it. Plus I know he'd love my recent fascination with all things Johnny Cash and Carter Family--I have a couple Johnny Cash records from my dad's collection, though the eight CDs are from the library.
"No Woman, No Cry" is a song about remembering and anticipating—okay, this is not about to deteriorate into a line reading of a Bob Marley song. Enough. See quote at end.*
Anyway. Thinking about a CD for the new Eloise, I’m realizing, of course, how many of the songs you sing or dance to with little kids are love songs. Most songs are, of course, but…yeah. Three notable exceptions that were top sing-alongs when I nannied were Etta James’ “Pushover,” Roger Miller’s “King of the Road," and Magnetic Fields' "Papa Was a Rodeo." The first is a kickass “fuck you, you can’t play me,” song and the second is a traveler song—much like “City of New Orleans,” which Farah wrote about Eloise’s grandfather singing to her, just like he’d sung it to Jim. (Okay, “King of the Road” isn’t MUCH like “City of New Orleans.” But--yeah.) "Papa Was a Rodeo"--okay, maybe it's a love song. Not debating that right now. Anyway can't argue it's a great sing-along, period. "Nashville Skyline Rag" is also going on the baby mix--I was going to make a case for that not being a love song, but I caught myself--just because it doesn't have words doesn't prove anything.
On the bus to work, listened to Abbey Road. The whole second half of that album-—side B of the record I grew up dancing to—-starts with "Come Together" and gets better from there. I still have my dad’s record. I’ll go home tonight and listen to the album again—or at least side B of the record I grew up dancing to.
*Good friends we have, good friends we have lost, along the way.
In this great future, you can’t forget your past;
So dry your tears, I say.
P.S. Bec, Derek, and the kid-to-come: you'll be getting your own version of the mix, of course. We go so far back with the mixes.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Observed on the Street: "Take It Slow"
So this little girl, maybe eight, is waiting for her mom to quit talking to the neighbor they ran into on the street, and while she waits she is busting out in a dance clearly practiced, singing along with the video playing in her head: "I gotta take it slow, take it slow, when it gets too fast I'm gonna take it slow." She is rocking out, and I'm like, "oh, that's cute!" I left a message for my sister about it: "Better that than me and 'Material Girl' at the same age, right?" but then I google the song, and realize I've totally seen this video. The YouTube "video" is just a six-minute still, so I won't link it (couldn't find it anywhere else!), but the lyrics make the point. Not so much better than "Material Girl", actually. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that this would've been a much more disturbing song to dance to in the fourth grade talent show.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Overheard re. Weddings and Indians
A table of attractive young blond people with Euro accents are next to me at a coffee shop that is only six blocks from the school I teach at, but is about thirty-five neighborhoods away. Or at least in another city, it would be thirty-five neighborhoods away--but this is NYC. Anyway, I'm in Williamsburg. At least there are coffee shops, and I can go somewhere during my lunch period that isn't the Associated Grocery or the Dunkin' Donuts, which were my options when I taught in Starrett. Anyway.
One of the men says, "I think I found my wedding ring."
A woman says, "Oh, you found what you want?"
"Yes, it's an Indian thing, not Navajo, another tribe...?"
"Sioux? Sioux? Sioux? Like you spell it with an x?"
"Maybe. And it has a blue stone. You know that blue stone?"
"Turquoise."
One of the men says, "I think I found my wedding ring."
A woman says, "Oh, you found what you want?"
"Yes, it's an Indian thing, not Navajo, another tribe...?"
"Sioux? Sioux? Sioux? Like you spell it with an x?"
"Maybe. And it has a blue stone. You know that blue stone?"
"Turquoise."
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Movies: silent with monkeys, Romanian with a gory abortion, and biopic with Tina!
This past weekend involved a lot of movies. Chang: A Drama of the Wilderness on Friday night with Miriam and Nick; 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days on Saturday night with Miriam and Andy; and What’s Love Got to Do With It, crashed out at home on Sunday night. Impossible to rank or compare the three. Saturday was also supposed to include a Bert Williams double short with commentary at MoMA, but Miriam and Andy and I waited on the uptown A/C/E platform at 14th Street for a long time before wondering if something was amiss, then we walked all the way to the other end of the platform to read the ONE SIGN explaining that the E was running on the V from West Fourth, and by then it was pretty much too late. But we’d been dubious anyway, since it was two shorts introduced by someone who’d just written a book, for a total of a 75 minute program comprised of about a half hour of film and a lot of talking. The odds of the speaker being fabulous were slim, and the odds of her being awful were pretty good. I think the Jim Henson showcase at BAM was probably the only incredible program like that that I’ve ever been to--but of course, that was Jane Henson, Jerry Nelson, Carroll Spinney, and Jerry Juhl!!!* Big Bird vs. someone who wrote an academic book about a long-dead vaudville performer? So we went to the IFC Center and saw 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days, an incredibly disturbing fabulous Romanian movie about an illegal abortion. About as far from a Bert Williams double feature as you could get.
What’s Love Got to Do With It was as amazing as Tiara promised it would be, and brings my recent library-sponsored in-house musician biopic festival to an end: Ray, Walk the Line, and Ms. Turner.* (Plus I’m Not There, which was not library-sponsored or in-house and may not count, being too meta or something.)
But Chang: A Drama of the Wilderness was… not the best of the three, nor the most entertaining, but… the biggest. A 1927 silent, accompanied by the fabulous Alloy Orchestra, it was almost a PBS special but not at all, or maybe it was the first original super-dramatic savage PBS special starring faux Laotians (played by Laotian actors, living a weird western vision of native life in the jungle in Thailand in the 1920's). The guy who introduced it said that directors Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack set out to make a “new kind of documentary” with Chang; “we’d call it fiction.” The same team made King Kong in 1933, and there does appear to be some kind of progression there.
I realized about half an hour into Chang that this probably would have been the first time most of the original audience would ever have seen live footage of so many animals, which explains why there’s so much of it. The mother of the family central to the plot (Chantui, according to IMDb) seems to have much more affection for Bimbo, the family’s pet monkey, than she has for her infant child. This could reflect western views about Laotian people, but more likely is just an excuse for more wildlife. That's what it seems like, anyway. The movie actually doesn’t venture too much into “savage” stereotypes, although we noted that the intertitles reflected the weird language of “savages” everywhere, including spaghetti westerns and Dr. Who aliens: lots of “O my brothers” and “O chief.” There were also plenty of seemingly random (though of course very deep) Buddha references sprinkled throughout. However, it was NOT Broken Blossoms;*** the Asian characters actually all appeared to be genuinely Asian! And they weren't stupid, or conquered, which was nice. The whole movie tried hard to focus on the relationship between Man and Nature, and it hit some good notes, in between the gratuitous animal footage.
So yeah—too much animal footage. The advertised elephant stampede and their preliminary travels are endless, although the baby elephant is cute. There are also too many tigers and leopards. Plus there is a mama bear and a baby bear, an anteater and a baby anteater, animals upon animals upon animals. It is a drama of the wilderness, I suppose. So many monkeys swinging around in trees, picking fleas off each other, knocking down coconuts… not a movie I need to see again, but I’m glad I saw it.
Now I’m going to read a book.
* the Jim Henson stuff is touring now!
** by the way--wikipedia's list of biopics is remarkable.
*** Broken Blossoms:
What’s Love Got to Do With It was as amazing as Tiara promised it would be, and brings my recent library-sponsored in-house musician biopic festival to an end: Ray, Walk the Line, and Ms. Turner.* (Plus I’m Not There, which was not library-sponsored or in-house and may not count, being too meta or something.)
But Chang: A Drama of the Wilderness was… not the best of the three, nor the most entertaining, but… the biggest. A 1927 silent, accompanied by the fabulous Alloy Orchestra, it was almost a PBS special but not at all, or maybe it was the first original super-dramatic savage PBS special starring faux Laotians (played by Laotian actors, living a weird western vision of native life in the jungle in Thailand in the 1920's). The guy who introduced it said that directors Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack set out to make a “new kind of documentary” with Chang; “we’d call it fiction.” The same team made King Kong in 1933, and there does appear to be some kind of progression there.
I realized about half an hour into Chang that this probably would have been the first time most of the original audience would ever have seen live footage of so many animals, which explains why there’s so much of it. The mother of the family central to the plot (Chantui, according to IMDb) seems to have much more affection for Bimbo, the family’s pet monkey, than she has for her infant child. This could reflect western views about Laotian people, but more likely is just an excuse for more wildlife. That's what it seems like, anyway. The movie actually doesn’t venture too much into “savage” stereotypes, although we noted that the intertitles reflected the weird language of “savages” everywhere, including spaghetti westerns and Dr. Who aliens: lots of “O my brothers” and “O chief.” There were also plenty of seemingly random (though of course very deep) Buddha references sprinkled throughout. However, it was NOT Broken Blossoms;*** the Asian characters actually all appeared to be genuinely Asian! And they weren't stupid, or conquered, which was nice. The whole movie tried hard to focus on the relationship between Man and Nature, and it hit some good notes, in between the gratuitous animal footage.
So yeah—too much animal footage. The advertised elephant stampede and their preliminary travels are endless, although the baby elephant is cute. There are also too many tigers and leopards. Plus there is a mama bear and a baby bear, an anteater and a baby anteater, animals upon animals upon animals. It is a drama of the wilderness, I suppose. So many monkeys swinging around in trees, picking fleas off each other, knocking down coconuts… not a movie I need to see again, but I’m glad I saw it.
Now I’m going to read a book.
* the Jim Henson stuff is touring now!
** by the way--wikipedia's list of biopics is remarkable.
*** Broken Blossoms:
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