Movie Maven

I'll preface this post by saying that I have not seen the new Amanda Bynes movie She's the Man, a modernization of Twelfth Night. So I have no reason to talk. But when I read New York Press film critic Armond White's fawning review of the film, something just didn't sit right with me. Let's have a little blockquote for context, shall we? (Bold type added by me.)

She’s the Man operates at a less literal level than such ’80s drag comedies as Soul Man and Just One of the Boys, and it’s not a sophisticated comedy-of-drag manners like Clare Peploe’s dazzling 2002 film of Marivaux’s The Triumph of Love. Instead, director Andy Fickman and a trio of screenwriters simplify Shakespeare’s plot to offer an innocuous, but buoyant, moral lesson. Avoiding the gender pathology of Boys Don’t Cry, they’ve done what most purveyors of pop culture don’t think to do: borrow from the past for edification. She’s the Man’s modest and, yes, corny use of Shakespeare offers contemporary filmgoers what Max Ophuls called The Memory of Justice.

Most purveyers of pop culture don't think to use the past for edification in film? Is he kidding me? The past ten to fifteen years of popular mainstream film have been nothing but homages to classic literature and theatre. Clueless was based on Jane Austen's Emma. She's All That was based on My Fair Lady, which was based on the Greek play Pygmalion. 10 Things I Hate About You was based on The Taming of the Shrew (which was also the inspiration for Kiss Me Kate.) And in the name of all that is holy, what was Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet, if not a pop culture opus edifying Shakespeare's love story? What was Moulin Rouge, if not a mingling of the past and present to create a portrait of universal themes that everyone, including Shakespeare, have dwelled on? For crying out lout, what was freaking Shakespeare in Love?

And those are just the ones I could think of in the past five minutes.

She's the Man may be a fine ol' time (preliminary reports indicate that it actually isn't horrible- see here and here for other reviews) but it certainly isn't the first of it's kind, or even the most striking. If anything, the old "borrowing from the past for edification" game is getting a little tired.

The Brattle Theatre is not a movie palace. Unlike the other art house theatres along the muddy Charles River- Coolidge Corner, Kendall Cinemas, the Somerville Theatre- the Brattle is like an old sweater, threadbare and strangely comforting. Creative director Ned Hinkle says it "has character," which is a pretty accurate description. Old spotlights hang from the ceiling, a remembrance when the theatre was a venue for live theatre. The carpeting is old and musty, a huge neon clock proclaims the time for the audience sitting in the dark. Creaky stairs lead to the balcony, directly above the extra seats which are set up to accommodate any stragglers into the 250-seat theatre.

But it's not the aesthetics of the place that brings people to the Brattle, or instills such a profound attachment for the venue. It's the programming. Ever since it's inception as a cinema, the Brattle's proprietors have had a mission to bring films that you can't find anywhere else. One of their greatest coups was finding a print of Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible Part II, which was thought to be destroyed by Stalin during the Cold War. They were among the first theatres in the country to show important cinema that failed financially but survived the tests of time: Welles, the French New Wave filmmakers, and foreign cinema that wasn't state funded. It was a gathering place for the artistic, the avante garde and the curious.

In short, it's one of a dying breed.

The Brattle got another shot at life, however, when its owners announced last year that without a massive fund-raising campaign the tiny theatre could be shut down forever. It was a call to arms for the Boston/Cambridge community, who poured in the moolah, winning the Brattle owners a year's extension on their lease. But they still have to raise $250,000 by the end of this year, so if anyone in the area has a spare farthing or two, toss it in the Brattle's poor bucket. It'll be a donation not just for the Brattle, but for the scores of interesting, independent, foreign and just plain weird movies the Brattle makes it's mission to show.

Oh yes, a quick explanation of the title before I move on...

Hudson Hawk, for those who are not fortunate enough to know, was one of Bruce Willis's vanity projects, very bad, and very entertaining. It includes just about everything and the kitchen sink, but here's a couple running themes:

1. A kidnapping
2.The works of Leonardo Da Vinci (without having to wade through pages and pages of Dan Brown's overblown ego! Huzzah!)
3. Mystical (or at least very shiny) crystals hidden in the works of Da Vinci.
4. Musical action sequences.
5. It's complicated. And the plot doesn't really matter anyway.

In any case, the Brattle had two midnight showings of Hudson Hawk last weekend (their April Fool's Guilty Pleasure feature!) It's just a little break from their fancy-schmancy intellectual-type movies. Art theatres have a sense of humor too, despite popular belief.

So, I say again, drop a tuppance in the Brattle's coffers. Do it for art. Do it for Eisenstein. Do it for Hudson Hawk.

I've played this game many a time with Mother Maven and her compatriots, and recently had an exciting round with The Roommate in the noble pursuit of procrastination.

Here are the rules:

Each player names an actor or actress. The other players have to decide whether they think that actor is a "boy" or a "man" (with actresses of course it's 'woman' or 'girl.') If a player disagrees they are to, um, disagree vehemently and state their case. Then all players decide by democratic vote who is correct. Generally, whether an actor is a boy or a man depends upon the roles said actor plays, although the behavior of said actor in real life can also be debated.

Example: George Clooney is a man. Topher Grace is a boy.
Female Example: Emma Thompson is a woman. Kirsten Dunst is a girl (except in Interview with the Vampire, where, ironically she was a girl playing a girl who acted like a woman. Oh, those pesky vampires!)

Now comes the tricky part. Occasionally one will run across an actor/actress who defies simple categorization. Either their roles have been too diverse and complex, or they are pathetic man-children who haven't yet reached a mature stage in adulthood that can register in their performances. In such a case, The Roommate and I have decided that there should be a merging of said maturity levels- "Moy" and "Wirl," respectively. The naming of a Moy or Wirl must be sufficiently explained to come into play.

Example: Johnny Depp is a Moy, mainly because his chameleon-like ability to morph into whatever character is required enables him to be alternately boyish and playful or manly at will. It is a rare gift.
Female Example: Kate Winslet is a Wirl, because she is able to integrate both a girlish cute factor without being nauseating, as well as an ability to fit into complex and mature roles. Also a rare gift.

There are no winners or losers in this game, and you can play until exhausted and/or bored with the entire affair. Play it with your friends! Play it with your family! Play it with a stranger on the bus! Or you could just debate below in my fabulous comments box. Enjoy!

The Three Faces of Eve (1957)
Starring: Joanne Woodward, David Wayne, Lee J. Cobb
Written by: Hervey Cleckly, Corbett Thigpen (book,) and Nunnally Johnson
Directed by: Nunnally Johnson
IMDB listing

The first time I ever saw Joanne Woodward in a film was when my Art, Drama and Music professor showed The Fugitive Kind, a humid, glorious retelling of the Orpheus myth adapted from Tennessee Williams's play Orpheus Descending. I've watched it many times since then- at first I was understandably preoccupied with a very young, very beautiful Marlon Brando, who played the tragic hero. But after awhile, I began to notice Woodward's fabulous performance as a wild New Orleans party girl. Woodward thrashed around barefoot in an old party dress through most of the movie, loud and obnoxious and entirely captivating.

Since then I've seen her in several other films, including Empire Falls, Philadelphia, and Sybil. But never have I seen her talents employed in such brilliant quality as in The Three Faces of Eve. Woodward is Eve White, a mousy housewife unwittingly suffering from multiple personality disorder. It's interesting how almost frivolous the plot seems now. The worst thing that came of her illness was her idiotic husband (David Wayne,) and the film fast-forwards through many of Eve's breakthroughs, making the entire process of personality integration seem a lot easier than it actually is. The movie also skirts completely around the issue of sexual abuse (the typical trigger of dissociative identity disorder) and tries to convince us that Eve's illness was caused by a far more innocuous experience. It may have played in 1957, but after the main viewing public got a load of Sybil (coincidentally in which Woodward played the title character's psychiatrist,) the movie has a bit of a dated feel.

But that's not to say it isn't worth viewing; quite the opposite. Woodward is a lone star in this movie. Her three characters are the only principles. Her husband, doctor and daughter all revolve around her like planets around the sun- they become part of the scenery around which Woodward tells her story. As she shifts between each of her personalities, she closes her eyes, like a young actress preparing for an audition. Her rhythm between the beaten Eve White, the tumultuous Eve Black, and the elusive Jane is impeccable. It's pure classic Hollywood- you know the entire time that you're watching a trained actress in a performance. But the illusion of it is so well-played, it makes absolute realism or even scientific accuracy unnecessary.

You know what I have in my hand right now? Come on, guess. Come on! Give up?

It is totally a theater program with Tim Robbins' signature on it.

He wished me all the best. And he spelled my name right. I am in cinephile heaven.

Robbins (dressed intriguingly enough a little like his hippie character Ray from High Fidelity,) spoke at Northeastern yesterday on theater as civic dialogue. He said that theater is the only medium where civic issues can really be addressed and discussed. "You don't get it with television, you don't get it with movies, but you can still get it with theater."

You don't get it with the movies? I was a little miffed when he said that, until I realized he was right. A movie can have themes that cause controversy. There are subversive movies, movies that comment on our time, or our humanity, or our relationships with one another. But there's no discussion- no debate. Theater is an incredibly intimate medium that can't really be copied anywhere else- there's something about watching a person laugh, rage or weep in real life that no movie can touch. In a way that's where the discussion and dialogue lies- within the give and take of the cast and audience.

Robbins spoke as artistic director of The Actor's Gang, a theater troupe he helped found and has ran with since the 1980s. They began in New York City, he said, and their focus was not only to talk about issues and raise questions, but also to "shock" and make people distinctly uncomfortable. He talked of the "theatricality of discomfort," how emotional involvement can be brought from, say, having a cast member in the audience with a loud radio shout epithets at the cast and spectators. You become part of the show- it makes you sit up and pay attention. It's another aspect that theater has always had over the movies- it's inherent communal experience, the performance without safety nets like jump cuts, special effects, and content editing. It's actually the main reason I still shell out ten dollars to see a movie in the theater. Would V for Vendetta have been as good if I'd watched it at home instead of in a cavernous theater with punky teenaged boys right in front of me? Not as good as a live performance of the show (V for Vendetta- The Musical!) but somehow a bit closer to the action. It's just better movie-viewing when you're fighting for the cupholder with the stranger next to you. If the movie is an escapist diversion, then you escape together. If it's to raise hard questions, you raise them together. The critical entity of the actor is not there in the flesh, as in theater, but it still fosters a sense of community.

Robbins also talked politics, hitting all the liberal mainstays (War in Iraq, death penalty, etc., etc.) It seemed like the audience was fairly nudging him into it, hoping to arouse that classic liberal Hollywood fire. But Robbins' passion lies in art asking questions rather than railing against "the machine." There was fire- but it was more about giving life to complicated issues in art than the "Bush is a lying toad," genre.

There was one moment I still have fixed in my mind. Robbins was discussing The Guys, an Actor's Gang play being shown at Northeastern University April 1 (go get tickets if you're in town, by the way, it sounds fantastic.) The play revolves around the true story of a fire chief who lost eight men on September 11, and a Columbia professor who helped him write their eulogies. Robbins was remembering the first time he saw the play in a theater in Manhattan, about eight blocks from Ground Zero. He remembered watching a fireman in front of him, a "huge guy," who was shaking and crying during the play. Robbins described his movements, and then burst into shuddering, and hoarse weeping to show us what he meant.

He became that fireman right in front of me. It stopped me cold. Because that was what he meant by theatricality of discomfort. In three seconds, he had broken my heart, and drawn me into the grief most of us can only read about.

V for Vendetta
Starring: Natalie Portman, Hugo Weaving, Stephen Rea
Written by: The Wachowski Brothers
Directed by: James McTeigue
Official Website

(Hugo Weaving and Natalie Portman. Photo by David Appleby, courtesy of V for Vendetta's website)

It’s occurred to me that about 90 percent of the movies I'd viewed in the past few months always came with phrases like "critically acclaimed," "Oscar nominated," and "moving." I consider myself a discerning movie viewer, but after a while, "moving" becomes incredibly exhausting. Sometimes, I just don't want to be moved.

And darnit, sometimes I want to see something blow up.

I was not disappointed, of course, in V for Vendetta, the first really divisive movie of the year. Columnist James Wolcott thinks it's "the most subversive cinematic deed of the Bush/Blair era." Salon reviewer Stephanie Zacharek thinks it's a load of "bullocks." The film is based on the graphic novel by Alan Moore and David Lloyd. A masked man known only as V (Hugo Weaving) stages a one-man assault on totalitarian England in the not-too-distant future, which is ruled by an evil dictator, sadistic police and creepy clergymen. His mask is based on the visage of Guy Fawkes, the man convicted and hanged of attempting to blow up Parliament in the 17th century. Fawkes, along with Edmund Dante from The Count of Monte Cristo became the inspiration for V's quest, and complicates the question of whether this man is indeed a freedom fighter, or merely a terrorist.

I viewed it this weekend as these movies should always be seen: in a packed multiplex full of rowdy adolescent boys. Many things blow up. There are decapitations, poisonings, fires and fancy sword-play- all for the makings of some serious brain candy.

And yet there's something different about V for Vendetta. While some of the scenes meandered into classic kick-butt action movie, it was also a meditation on the fragility of independence, and the pervasive nature of fear. England is how it is in 2020 because of a devastating world-wide imperialistic war (which the Americans started, nudge, nudge) and the ravages of a global plague. A terrified and desperate public turned to a dictator for the semblance of security, while allowing their rights to be trampled underfoot.

This is sounding vaguely familiar...

It's a little heavy-handed perhaps, but it's asking important questions in a time where these questions are desperately needed. And it's not quite as simple as bad government against good crusader. V strikes a rather terrifying figure. He plays horrible mind games with his young protégée Evey (Natalie Portman) and uses panic-inducing tactics to bring supporters to his side. Weaving understands this, and imbues V's voice with a ambiguous aspect that can be alternately charming and very creepy. One begins to wonder what V's version of England would look like, and there is an increasing sense of dread of what might come after his glorious revolution.

The plot sometimes threatens to fall into cliche (the romance between V and Evey was not in the original graphic novel, and appears to be thrown in almost as an afterthought here,) but McTeigue and the Wachowskis still manage to keep it on track. Stephen Rea does a wonderful job as the Chief Inspector Finch assigned to catch V. Probably the best scene in the movie is when Finch mulls over his situation in a chilling soliloquy and montage. Portman more than makes up for Queen Amadala, making Evey first a willfully ignorant stooge and then a cold, calculated soldier in V's revolution.

I fear I've already given away too much, so I'll stop blathering and leave the rest to you. I tend to veer more of the side of Wolcott's opinion. It is the most subversive movie I’ve seen in a while, I think partly because it's wrapped up in an action movie package and geared to mass appeal instead of the peacnik, liberal, Sundance crowd. It's also quite a wonderful, engrossing movie, despite it's shortcomings.

Plus they blow up Parliament. And that's just freakin' cool.

Tim Robbins.

In person.

At Northeastern University.

I may freak out.

I managed to wrangle tickets (after shoving several old ladies out of the way and throwing one small child into traffic to get them before the box office closed) so this Monday shall be a festival of hero worship. Robbins will be speaking on theatre as civic dialogue (or at least that's what the fliers say.) Robbins is also artistic director of the theatre troupe The Actor's Gang, which will be putting on the plays Exonerated and The Guys at Northeastern over the next two weeks. Unfortunately the event's for NU faculty and students only (nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I get to see Tim Robbins and you don't!) but the plays are available to the public. Check out the link above for ticket information. AS for me, I'll do my best to cover the whole thing so well, it'll be like you were there.

In the middle of the dreary, rainy March that Boston has to offer, I look gaze with longing towards the south- specifically Austin, Texas, where the annual South by Southwest festivals are in full rockin' swing. The festivals are a celebration of Indie culture in general, but the Film Conference and Festival going on this week is one of the main attractions. Salon's Andrew O'Hehir, my main man when it comes to Indie film, is reporting from the front lines of this extravaganza. SXSW has basically become the new Sundance, since what used to be the festival for unseen talent has been taken over by the nuclear blob known as Celebrity.

One of the most promising things coming out of SXSW is its opening night film A Prairie Home Companion, based on Garrison Keillor's long-running radio show on NPR. Ok, I'm going to admit it. I HATE Garrison Keillor and his show. My parents were avid fans, and I cannot count the times I was forced to yield to Keillor's interminable bouts of nostalgia while riding in the car. Plus there's just something about his voice that makes me want to kill something. But I still have great hopes: it was directed by Honorary Academy Award recipient and resident old-coot Robert Altman, and stars the likes of our beloved Meryl Streep (see previous post,) John C. Reilly, Kevin Kline, Lily Tomlin, Virginia Madsen, Lindsay Lohan and Woody Harrelson. I plan to see it as soon as it hits Boston, if only so I can safely say that I hate absolutely everything about Garrison Keillor.

There's a big emphasis on music (the music festival is the biggest of the series) and concert films and documentaries abound. Included are East of Havana about Cuban hip-hop, and Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, among many, many others. But the coolest thing about SXSW is that I didn't recognize a lot of the names on the bill. Unknown directors face a long hard slog to get any kind of recognition, and many of them are creating more important and interesting films than all the Spielbergs in the world.

While reading the coverage of this little hippie-fest, I had half a mind to clean out my bank account and wing my way down to sunny Austin to see what I could see.... But the threat of failing classes and living on the street pulled me back from the brink. But for any of you out there in Blogland lucky enough to be in the Austin area, go and check it out! It's the only place in the world that would have Keillor and Erykah Badu in the same vicinity.

Meryl Streep, one of the few Great Dames left in American cinema is being honored in a retrospective and Life Achievement Award this week at Boston's Coolidge Corner Theatre. The theatre will be showing The Deer Hunter, Kramer vs. Kramer, Sophie's Choice, Defending Your Life, Silkwood and Out of Africa. It's a good thing to do if one is in Beantown and wishes to bask in the glory of Streep.

Or if one wants, one could Netflix them and bask, as I intend to do as alas, I am but a poor college student with no time for the treacherous ride down the C-line. But if I were you, I would skip Sophie's Choice (a brilliant film, but don't we all know what the choice is by now?) and go for The Hours or the HBO miniseries Angels in America. Both are still appropriately depressing, but Angels in America has Streep playing executed possible Communist Ethel Rosenberg. And the Mormon mother of a gay son. And an old Rabbi. And an angel.

It's complicated. But gloriously so, and good for a 6-hour marathon of sexual ambiguity, AIDS and religious debate.

Streep is similarly resplendent in The Hours as Clarissa Vaughan, one of the many Dalloway counterparts in the film that literally does "buy the flowers herself" for her dying friend's party. She's a bit more demure in this role, but her performance still shines through as one of the best in the film.

There's also her role in Adaptation. And Dancing at Lughnasa. Oh, and The French Lieutenant's Woman! Oh the list goes on- just IMDB her.

But if for whatever reason you have never witnessed a Streep performance (and it breaks my heart a little to think that someone may not have) and you happen to be passing Boston in your travels this week, go to the Streep-a-thon at Coolidge Corner. It's good for the soul.

Mystery Train (1989)
Starring: Masatoshi Nagase, Youki Kudoh, Screamin' Jay Hawkins
Written and Directed by: Jim Jarmusch
IMDB Listing

Photo by: DVDBeaver.com

Who wants to see a film with an actor named "Screamin' Jay Hawkins?" You know you do. Hawkins is actually the composer for many of Jarmusch's films, and appeared in Mystery Train as a sage old night clerk of a seedy, yet fated hotel. He's best known for his single "I Put a Spell on You," a truly hot song, now shafted and abused in jean commercials. There is no justice in the world.

But this strangely riveting film uses Hawkins to his best ability, as well as a host of other talented unknowns (you know you're indie when your biggest name is Steve Buscemi.) Mystery Train centers around a block of strangers in Memphis, including two young Japanese tourists (Nagase and Kudoh,) an a recently widowed Italian woman (Nicoletta Braschi) and a local barber (Buscemi.) They never actually meet in any significant way, but through different circumstances are forced to stay in the same motel on the outskirts of the city. It's a story about music and Elvis, about foreigners and strange happenings, about love and silence.

One would think another movie about the interconnectedness between human beings would be tired and pointless- the theme has been a favorite of directors since the dawn of time. But Jarmusch's freshness and originality keeps the idea alive. Jarmusch recently directed the wonderful Broken Flowers, and what seems to set him apart is his celebration of the mundane. He has a fantastic attention to detail, and a willingness to let a look or moment of silence steal the scene, which is rarely found in "mainstream" directors. Many people would find this merely dry and unmotivated (he is an acquired taste) but for me it's a wonderful demonstration of the world in all it's quirkiness and banality.

My favorite characters hands-down are Jun and Mitsuko, the Japanese tourists. Obsessed with 1950s American culture, they travel from city to city on the train, seeing rock-and-roll landmarks. Kudoh is both funny and charming as Mitsuko, the Elvis-obsessed girlfriend, dressed in a series of vintage T-shirts and carrying around a stuffed-dog purse. Nagase is similarly hilarious as Jun, Mitsoko's sullen yet loving boyfriend. The two are perhaps a bit of a caricature, but there's something about the way they carry the stereotypes that makes it entirely genuine.

Some of the best scenes belong to Hawkins, however, and the bellboy (Cinque Lee.) The smattering of conversation between the two lights up the movie. Though the bellboy is young, he seems like an old face in the hotel along with the night clerk. In the end they become part of the scenery itself- the broken-down, overgrown outskirts of Memphis, TN, barren and clinging to its glorious past.

A touching little piece of American cinema, Mystery Train allows us to explore the run-down beauty in our own backyard. It's well worth having a look at.

The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Starring: Steve Carell, Paul Rudd, Catherine Keener
Written by: Judd Apatow and Steve Carell
Directed by: Judd Apatow

Photo by: Can Mag

As it is with many movies, The 40-Year-Old Virgin was one I had always meant to see, and "never got around to it." It was shameful, I know, to claim myself as a die-hard Carell fan, and not seen the movie that ushered him into stardom, but I had... stuff to do.

But no matter! I have seen it now, and can honestly say that I laughed until I cried. The chest-waxing scene, the speed-dating scene, the end with the whole cast belting out "Age of Aquarius" all had me falling off my chair. But it was the movie's inherent sweetness that really got me. In many ways, the DVD cover says it all- Andy looking glowing, boyish, full of wide-eyed naivete. Andy's virginity is not the only thing keeping him from happiness. He's a social misfit, the kid in high school constantly being stuffed in his locker. His whole demeanor is slightly uncomfortable throughout the entire movie, and you can feel his embarrassment. You feel sorry for Andy, and cheer for him, but not so much that you feel uncomfortable also laughing at him. It's a tricky tight-rope walk, and Carell walks it masterfully.

On the other side of the aisle are his gruff, but ultimately kind, friends (Paul Rudd, Romany Malco and Seth Rogan,) who all have advice for Andy's problem. They are really three icons of manhood- Jay (Malco) is the player, constantly cheating on his girlfriend and hitting on drunk girls in bars. Cal (Rogan) is the tattooed "man's man," opting for the aloof bad-guy approach. And Rudd is the SNAG (sensitive new-aged guy,) obsessed with his ex-girlfriend, loving her and hating her in the same breath. In the end none of these approaches work for Andy- only learning to grow up, giving away his precious action figures and admitting who he is gets him the girl.

But let's not get so sappy (or, God-forbid, read too much into this little gem) because in the end it's simply a fantastic comedy- one of the many recently coming from director/producer Judd Apatow and a new generation of comedians recently dubbed the "Frat Pack." I wouldn't be surprised if the chest-waxing scene went down in history as comedic genius, like Monty Python's "Knights who Say Ni!," or Tom Cruise's dance scene in Risky Business. Carell deserves the lauding he got when the movie first came out, and I'm also giving props to Catherine Keener, for her wonderful performance as the "hot Grandma" Andy falls for. Finally, Rudd, Rogan and Malco are absolutely hilarious as Andy's friends, without being too over-the-top (I expect to hear the 'Know how I know you're gay' sketch referenced mercilessly.)

It's been difficult lately to find a comedy that wasn't either completely forgettable, or something I only wish I could block from my memory. Carell is due to act in eight more films in the next three years; it'll be exciting to see what this meticulous comedian can come up with next.

Melvin Goes to Dinner (2003)
Starring: Michael Blieden, Matt Price, Stephanie Courtney, Annabelle Gurwitch
Written by: Michael Blieden
Directed by: Bob Odenkirk

(Photo Courtesy of sundancechannel.com)

Once in a very great while you find a movie that's surprising. And not horror or thriller movie surprising, with their so-called "plot twists," because that is far easier to achieve. I mean surprising in a way that speaks to you, that brings you in, and tells you to make yourself at home. Surprise achieved without the help of special effects or grand set design- the kind that can happen to someone walking down the street.

With that in mind, let me say that Melvin Goes to Dinner is the most surprising movie I've seen in a very long time.

Based on Michael Blieden's stage-play Phyro-Giants!, the movie is indeed about a guy named Melvin who meets three people for dinner. Most of the film is the conversation that ensues between the four relative strangers, and ranges from gut-bustingly hilarious to sad to reflective.
What is most extraordinary about these characters, and this movie, is how natural all these people are in their conversation, and their actions outside of the restaurant: they could be my friends, my family, the people I sit next to in class. Their experiences are experiences any of us could have. But their stories- their affairs, their unhappiness with their jobs, their sense of spirituality- are not mundane. They are beautiful and tragic. They are true to life, without ever seeming trite or cliched. It's so true that the "twist" at the end is simultaneously shocking and completely realistic.

The movie also has a terrific supporting cast, including Jack Black as a rational schizophrenic, David Cross as a motivational speaker and Maura Tierney as Melvin's sister. All these people are remembrances- part of the stories the four characters tell in the course of their evening. These people are distant from the four protagonists; it's as if the dinner party are in a world or a dream of their own, where openness and real honesty reigns supreme. When the waitress comes to tell them that they need to pay their bill, it's like some wonderful spell has been broken.

I bought this movie the day after viewing it. I plan to keep it for a day I need something truly surprising- something to help me pause my busy life and simply laugh and look at the beauty that can be found in anything. Even a dinner party.

Email from my dear Mother Maven on the Oscars:

We will speak more of the Oscars BUT...When you have a woman as beautiful as the divine Charlize why, oh, why would you stick her in a dress that is 1) hideous and 2) doesn't even fit her. I was appalled. Did they dope her up in order to get her to consent? At some point in the evening did the opium wear off and she was suddenly confronted with the horror that she was? Has anybody checked on her today? I'm worried about her...

Indeed I am worried about Charlize who had to endure not only an Oscar loss (predictable though it may have been) but also wearing some sort of wrapped number that looks like it was made with green crepe paper. Let's hope the roofies have worn off.

I am also worried about our darling Jon Stewart; I put on a good face, showered him with a mother's affection, but the cold hard truth is he bombed. Hard-core. It would have been bad if he'd been actively horrible, but in the end he was just flat. Boring- an adjective I would never associate with Stewart, but there you are. And flat is worse. I lost interest. It was depressing to watch. Cintra Wilson smells a conspiracy against the beloved fake-anchor, and there is a yearning in my heart for it to be so, but we must face the truth: Jon Stewart bombed.

But the show went on. We were dragged through endless montages of classic films and themes, jumped up and down when Hoffman won for best leading role (I did in any case) and Crash inexplicably breezed by Brokeback Mountain to score best picture. The only major award I think Brokeback actually won was best adapted screenplay for Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, a huge surprise for the talking heads with all the "buzz." Don't get me wrong, Crash was an excellent film. And in the end it was safe movie. You mean there are racial tensions in L.A.? AND they're complicated?! Get out of town! But the Academy will go with what's safe- and, in the end, gay cowboys (or shepherds) are not safe. Cest la vie.

So it was a safe year for Oscar, with worthy films, and, if anything, announced the graduation of George Clooney from A-list star to Hollywood GOD, a la Jack Nicholson. Let's just hope he doesn't start wearing those horrible sunglasses.

A final word to our friend Jon Stewart, who is probably nursing a massive hang-over after drowning his sorrows in champagne:

It's all right Jon. We love you. People have bombed the Oscars before you, and they will bomb them after. Stiff upper lip, old boy. You are still our leading man.

'Lo all! Welcome to the 1st Annual Movie Maven Oscar Coverage- in real time!!

We've started the all-important Oscar countdown- the most important aspect of the awards, I believe, because who cares about Brokeback Mountain when there are swan-dresses to mock?!!
One of the anchors appears to be wearing some sort of stripper get-up with a sequined mid-section. Someone needs to be fired.

Matt Dillon. There's something about him that bothers me, but there's no doubt he's good with sleazy roles. It's that furrowed cave-man brow. It's good for sleazy.

I am truly, truly tired of entertainment journalists yelling at me. What did I ever do to them?

Dresses appear rather low-key this year. There's a rather refreshing lack of skin. It's a shame, but I'm not terribly good with the style commentary (check out my cohorts' blogs Fashionistas First and Style in the City for far better commentary than I could provide.) Oh goodness the countdown's over! Time flies when you're having fun, I suppose.

Truly surreal Oscar intro... Oscar himself overtowering the rest of the buildings... maybe paying homage to King Kong?

Oh God, Jon, please don't bomb.

This is taking too long- oh wait, Jon's in bed with George Clooney. Suddenly my interest has been renewed.

"I'm sorry to say Bjork will not be here today- she was trying on her Oscar dress and Dick Cheney shot her." There you go Jon, keep 'em coming...

Best Supporting Actor roles are up first... Nicole Kidman and her glorious Aussie self presenting... it's George Clooney!! So Matt Dillon and his forehead were defeated after all. Hooray!

Am I hallucinating, or is Ben Stiller in a green suit? Oh, he's doing the visual effects awards. That makes a little more sense... just a little.

Look at Nick Park's tie! And he has some for the Oscars too.

Has anyone noticed that Dolly Parton looks like a ventriloquists' dummy? Seriously- just look at her.

Oh dear god, they have two animated creatures presenting animated shorts. It's like I'm watching the Oscars while on hash. Between them and Reese Witherspoon there's too much cuteness going on in this show.

It's occurred to me how few movies I've actually seen. My friends think I've viewed every film under the sun, but there's still so much to see. Every time they name a film I think to myself, Oh yeah, I wanted to see that! But unfortunately food wins out over movies (by a small margin, but still.)

My friends appear to be not too keen on Russell Crowe, who's presenting. I don't care what anyone says- I love that he hit someone with a phone.

Oh Amy Adams. I know she won't win, but I want her to so badly. Her desperate friendliness in Junebug was so wonderful. But she won't win.

She didn't win. But it's ok, I'm quite fond of Rachel Weisz as well.

I stepped away from the TV for just a moment, and suddenly I have no idea what's going on. Another classical movie montage? The montage ode to King Kong and other monkey films was about as much as I could take.

I'm actually pretty pleased with Stewart's hosting. Here's a good quip, after yet another montage of social issue films like Guess Who's Coming to Dinner and The Grapes of Wrath: "None of those issues was ever a problem again."

A funny looking man claims to be the President of the Academy... Who exactly is the Academy anyway? Are they like the Freemasons or something?

Ohhhh... Technical awards... I'll see you in a bit folks. As much respect as I have for these workers of the cinema, and their capabilities, I can't watch sound editors, and mixers for the next hour.

We're back! And Clooney is doing the memoriam for those who have died. Solemn moment ensues... Oh wait we applaud their deaths, all right then.

STOP THE PRESSES!!! PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN HAS WON!!!

Let's just stop and reflect a minute on the sheer fabulousness of Philip and the enduring wisdom of the Academy. Solemn moment. Ok.

I suppose I should see Hustle and Flow. So how hard is it really out here for a pimp? Inquiring minds want to know.

Argh! The blasted penguins took Best Documentary. I knew they would, but I had wild fantasies where hordes of Werner Herzog fans take over and steal the Oscar of Grizzly Man's behalf. But no. Apparently adorable flightless birds trump murderous bears and the men who love them. Go figure.

And Witherspoon. I should be accurate and say I still haven't seen Walk the Line, so I shouldn't talk. Perhaps she brings June Carter's persona to grand new heights. But I've said it before and I'll say it again- that girl is too cute for her own good. Plus I don't think I can ever forgive her for marrying Ryan Phillipe.

Wow- they're already at Best Picture? I'm impressed Academy- just under four hours. They must have had Halle Berry gagged backstage.

And it's...... CRASH?!! Oh, I suppose I'm not that surprised- the Academy's big on guilt this year. But I'd hoped for Capote or Good Night, and Good Luck, sappy journalism nerd that I am.

Well there you are, folks! I'll write again tomorrow for a more, um, coherent run-down of the Oscars, (and perhaps rant a bit more on the great injustice done to Herzog.) Until then my Hollywood darlings, get some sleep, and rise bright-eyed and bushy tailed for endless post-coverage. Nighty-night!

I will be covering the Oscars tonight, as they happen, ladies and gentlemen. So after the festivities, come to the Maven for all the coverage you could ever need. It's like the commentary after the State of the Union. Only more intelligent.

Also one of my culture heroines Cintra Wilson will be doing an Oscar simulcast along with Camille Paglia from their home at Salon. If you have never read Wilson's post-Oscar essays before you cannot miss this simulcast. So much better than watching Oscar commercials, which believe me are not nearly as cool as the Super Bowl's.

See you there!