The SPECTACULAR Now

For a night out amongst the hipster high-life I prefer to see an appropriately alternative movie, compared to a typical romantic comedy that spurs one to hurl into their extra large popcorn. So, rolling up cool at arguably the most urban movie theater of all time, I bought one overpriced ticket to The Spectacular Now, a new movie starring the uncoordinated best friend from the new Footloose and the pregnant girl from The Secret Life of the American Teenager (I'm not going to pretend that I'm not extremely familiar with that particular show).

It turned out to be better than expected, utilizing various lighting and makeup techniques to portray variations in the characters' social classes, openness to change, and personality. They managed to make the prettiest girl ever, Shailene Woodley, look relatively plain by placing her in straight up awkward lighting. I imagine it was purposeful. It also added to the oppressive realistic blanket that covered the entire movie. The characters were not visually perfect, mirroring their imperfect lives and revealing their faults more prominently.

Just look at that romance.
Miles Tyler, the male in the picture above, is not going to win handsomest man alive on any list, but he was able to beautifully and realistically portray emotion better than a lot of actors would be capable of doing. And I had to laugh because all I initially saw was Willard.

This isn't the greatest picture to describe this, but the romance was not the most important part of the movie's plot. Sutter has a multitude of other problems aside from Aimee and all of the fun perks to having a woman in your life. She helped him cope with his major father wound, the fact that he doesn't believe he is worthy of love from anyone, and his certainly unhealthy addiction to hard liquor from tasteful flasks.

At any rate, the movie was surprising, filled to the brim with very "teen" activities, and appropriately lighted so that the entire movie looked like it was shot through an instagram filter.

Just look at how hipster that cast is! That's two pairs of overalls in one picture. Yes. And a fun bun. 

The Nostalgia I Felt After Mass-Murdering the Colony of Ants in my Closet

I recently managed to exterminate all of the ants that recently infiltrated my closet and this is the poem I wrote in an attempt to console myself:

There was a colony of ants in my closet.

They sent their little spies out to discover my bedroom

and the ways of its inhabitant

like I had a secret to tell.

My mom says it’s because of the pasta and frosting I keep in there

but I know better.

In The Departed they refer to 

the secretive people masked in trust that lie about their allegiance

as rats.

And I know you sent the ants to find me behind enemy lines

to crawl up my legs and make maps of my mortal form

report back to a box of sweet smelling makeup in the corner

Like an undiscovered safehouse.

I admire your dedication.

Unfortunately my mom set out ant traps:

White squares with drops of ant poison.

They don’t set in right away

The chosen ants find the alluring drops of poison

and unknowingly bring it back to the colony to kill everyone

like the femme fatale you always trusted.

Now I am the rat that infiltrated your safehouse

Deception and betrayal are among my many talents

as well as being a terrible host.

I am currently three weeks ant-free.

The Thomas Crown Affair

I saw the remake first, and, in fact didn't know that there was an original until I did a little googling. Now, to set the record straight, the remake is incredibly different than the first, half as alluring, fashionable, and terrific, and the remake didn't have Steve McQueen. (Pierce Brosnan does not make up for this fact. They are different kinds of handsome.)

He's all fancy and clever and plans to rob banks for fun. He smokes cigars and drives his little red car thing amongst the dunes:

There he is smoking a cigar in the little red car amongst the dunes. Looking pensive and thinking about his torrid love affair with Faye Dunaway.

The seductive (for lack of a better, more sexual, yet normal word) romance between the two main characters is the central plot for this 60's cult classic. Thomas Crown, a handsomely rich billionaire/sportsman (still not sure what it is he does) plans a wildly successful bank robbery, and Vicki Anderson is flown in to solve the dastardly deed. She doesn't really follow the rules whilst solving her cases and tumbles into a romance with the man she knows is guilty. What follows is a beautifully captured, expensively maintained relationship involving many hats, cigars, and games of chess. As their love grows, so does Vicki's guilt for not turning him in.

This is when she beats him at chess and he is all bothered and has to fix his tie.

This is when they drove through a field of birds in the little red car. Just look at that head scarf.

I had a mad time taking screen shots, decided to stop kidding myself.

That is all.

Corsages & Boutonnieres

Oh, Prom. Where the joys of teenage existence reach ultimate heights and true colors (intended pun) are revealed to all. I have never been a dance person. That is, I don't like dances and I don't like to dance. I also think dancing would be a bit more fun if it didn't have to be done in high heels. Have you ever tried to cupid shuffle in high heels?
It sucks.
But, I digress. I generally lived it up last night as my high school celebrated stupidity. And today I dodge embarrassing pictures of myself, wash my face of all memory of last night's makeup extravaganza, and peel off last night's sequined frock.
My date wasn't all bad. I didn't pay for a thing. He had a car with which to drive us to the various destinations of the night -- Let the record show the car was his mother's. He had his cuff-links on wrong. He put my corsage on wrong. No hard feelings.
I think the worst thing you could ever do after six hours of gavotting around in one's expensive dress, hair, and shoes, is to meet up at someone's house, fall asleep strewn about the furniture like the clothes we all so furtively invested in, and wake up hating everyone around you and the current state of each other's faces.
So last night I slept in my own bed after my date drove me home at 3:00 AM.
But before my energy was completely drained, six hours earlier, we went out to eat. Now, when one is dressed in all kinds of fancy clothes, hair ornately furbished atop one's head, and flowers dispensed about one's wrists, lapels, and hair, everyone you see feels inclined to remind you that you look incredibly different than everyone else. If the person who notices you is younger than you, they will either react with disinterest or awe. If the person is older than you, they will either react with melancholy reminiscence at the best years of their life, or belittle your partaking in the biggest tradition in both American and high school history. There is no escape.
The dance itself was very shimmery, smoky, crowded, and smelled of sweat. Since, as I forementioned, I am not a dancer, my dancemates found my slight movements to be sad excuses for participating in the night's events and tried to get me to open up on the floor and really let loose. Now, whilst clad in high heels (especially with my exceptionally wide feet), letting loose is just not going to happen. My dancemates didn't see it this way and shimmied off the dance floor every few songs or so for refreshment because they were so winded. And I just sat there rubbing my feet and telling the various people I knew they looked pretty.
And it's true. Everybody looked great. Stuff people in an expensive gauzy thing, whip their hair into hairspray coated curls, raise their height a few inches, and everyone looks like celebrities. The amount of creative buns and colorful vests I saw last night is probably in the thousands.
After the dance my group went midnight pontoon-riding on one party-goer's pontoon, discussing physics and The Voice. Then we went inside and watched The Big Bang Theory. At this point I fell asleep, so I am unaware of what happened for about 20 minutes in the middle, but when I woke up everybody was picking up their various belongings: crushed corsage/boutonnieres, patent leather shoes, bobby pins, dignity, etc.
And now here I am, laying in bed with crusty hair and sore feet.

Tarantino Binge

Honestly, the greatest still. Completely by accident.
This whole scene brought real tears to my eyes.

Mr. Brown

I'd say I'm a little squeamish. Just a little.
That sort of character trait is never good if one plans to watch anything by Quentin Tarantino.
Is it just me or is there a bloody car scene in both Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs?
That both inadvertently involve Harvel Keitel?

I digress.

At any rate, I was surprised how much I enjoyed both of these films, considering I am wary of both being shot, and being covered in the blood of someone I know.

This is right before he shoots him. And I so wanted their friendship to survive.
That is all.

Hal Hartley

Is a genius. I can't believe I even understood the meaning of cinema until I saw his films.
I'm exaggerating slightly, of course.

The Unbelievable Truth (1989) is one of my favorite movies of all time.
It is unbelievably great.
It begins with Josh (played by the wonderfully tan and fantastic Robert Burke), a supposed "mass murderer", being released from prison and hitchhiking his way back to Long Island, where he lived before he went to prison. Since he is a rather good mechanic, he finds a job fixing cars for Vic Hugo (take notice of creative character name), father of the beautiful, cynical, and sassy Audry Hugo (played by the late Adrienne Shelly).

And everything after that is a wonderfully entertaining blur of dry humor and creative character development.

This movie also has a score of 100% on Rotten Tomatoes.
I know.
Normally, I don't pay too much attention to Rotten Tomatoes (mostly because they like to rate Wes Anderson movies rather poorly), but I have to make an exception in this case.

After I discovered that Hal Hartley directed this, I attempted to wildly watch a few more of his films in a rather obsessive manner.

They're all this great. I can't even handle it.