I spent much of the last week in Canada. And I spent much of that time driving through the middle of nowhere, a term I didn't fully understand until I found myself in the wilds of Canada.
The ride up was a bit harrowing. We drove from New York to Manchester, VT in the middle of a rather sizable snowstorm. Considering that my car has no snow tires, is pretty low to the ground, and Vermont has a rather whimsical idea of what constitutes a plowed road, I was kind of surprised we didn't die in a ditch on fire. But, here I am.
In the course of the trip, I went to the Boreal Zoo and looked at some polar bears that seemed to think I looked rather delicious, rode a toboggan down an ice ramp in Quebec City, parked and stood on Lac St. Jean amid a village of tiny houses, watched a cougar lick a cow leg, and spoke what I think constitutes very poor French. I also ate caribou, inferior maple on a stick, and poutine. Not only did I eat poutine, I ate McDonald's poutine. Which is pretty much what you'd expect.
And now I'm back in New York where it seems that by some miracle of oversight I have not in fact been fired. Yet.
-TC
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Robert Downey, Jr.
I am really glad that we have reached the point as a society where a man can once again be nominated for an Academy Award for a performance done in blackface.
-TC
-TC
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Whoops
Next week I go to Quebec City. There is a strong likelihood that I will be fired before I get back.
Whoops.
-TC
Whoops.
-TC
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Movies and Things
So, as nothing of consequence is going on in my life, I thought I would take a moment to tell you all about the movies I've seen lately that are more interesting than my real life.
For some months now, people keep saying to me that Heath Ledger is pretty much guaranteed to win the Oscar for best actor this year. While he certainly has the whole "dead" thing going for him, and while I will admit I am very biased towards anyone portraying a sociopath, I have to say that I was simply blown away by Sean Penn in Gus Van Sant's new film, Milk. Milk is a marvelous work, and Penn gives a truly remarkable performance. Moreover, there is a scene early in the film that takes place on Harvey Milk's birthday, and and we find the titular Milk laying in bed eating cake with his lover, who playfully spreads cake on Milk's face. His lover moves to lick it off, and the ensuing make-out session contains the single most convincing screen kiss I have seen in a very long time. It may be a minor moment in the film, but it was perfect.
Frost/Nixon was an enjoyable affair, if at times dominated by Ron Howard's very typically Hollywood conception of storytelling. While drawn out dialogue scenes and the occasional extended monologue reminds you that the work was originally a stage play, David Frost's "research montage" leading up to the final interview left me with an image of Rocky pummeling American cynicism in a freezing meat locker somewhere. I don't want to spoil the end, but he goes the distance. Most interestingly, this film was the first thing I've ever really been exposed to that made any effort to humanize Nixon, and that was something I wasn't quite prepared for.
As I was watching Woody Allen's latest picture, Vicky Christina Barcelona, I could just imagine Woody Allen overlooking Spain and thinking to himself, "How can I watch Scarlett Johansson kiss another woman? Wait a minute! I make films!" While the movie is better than many of his offerings of the late 90s and early 2000s, it falls short in several respects. Most notably, the plot is driven forward by a heavy-handed narration that robs some very strong performances any subtlety they may have had if let to speak for themselves. When anyone tells you how a movie should be made, they always rail against voiceover, as conventional wisdom is that things should never be explained, they should be seen. While personally, I think that's a bunch of shit, I do think that there are times when the story should just tell itself, and thoughts and feelings should be found in the faces and actions of the actors. And this film could have benefitted greatly from being one of those times.
And the less said about Zombie Strippers, the better. My thought process for deciding to rent the movie went something like this: "I like zombies. I like naked women. How could this possibly go wrong?" Well, for starters, anytime you're casting a porn star in a leading role, you're on shaky ground. Especially when said porn star is surrounded with corn-fed Nebraskans and their insipid ramblings on Nietzche and the nature of existence, clearly written by someone who took one philosophy class in high school and decided they could give Aristotle a run for his money. But I think the worst offense committed by the film is the violation of one of the cardinal rules of low-budget post modern horror movies: If you don't have the money to do an effect convincingly, do it spectacularly cheaply. Rather than make use of latex and things, peoples heads regularly explode in geysers of cheap CGI blood. Gunshots are represented not by blanks, not even by cheesy sound effects, but by computer generated approximations of muzzle flashes that would embarass Ed Wood. Someone seems to have had one lesson in After Effects and thought they were George Lucas. And finally, if ever I find myself teaching a class on screenwriting, I will begin with the following thought: "If you are writing a script, and you reach the point where the next logical progression is to have someone shoot pool balls out of their vagina, something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now get out of my sight, all of you."
Straying from the subject of film, I recently met someone who is responsible for a web comic. It amused me, so I thought I would share it with my loyal devotees. (Before I paste the link, I will take a moment to let the deafening silence and tumbleweed pass.) The comic, Darwin Carmichael is Going to Hell, can be found at http://dcisgoingtohell.com. Anyone who knows me will understand why I find it amusing by simply looking at the first two panels of the first comic. And if the comic doesn't take off, they should at least be able to unload the domain name for a hefty sum.
-TC
For some months now, people keep saying to me that Heath Ledger is pretty much guaranteed to win the Oscar for best actor this year. While he certainly has the whole "dead" thing going for him, and while I will admit I am very biased towards anyone portraying a sociopath, I have to say that I was simply blown away by Sean Penn in Gus Van Sant's new film, Milk. Milk is a marvelous work, and Penn gives a truly remarkable performance. Moreover, there is a scene early in the film that takes place on Harvey Milk's birthday, and and we find the titular Milk laying in bed eating cake with his lover, who playfully spreads cake on Milk's face. His lover moves to lick it off, and the ensuing make-out session contains the single most convincing screen kiss I have seen in a very long time. It may be a minor moment in the film, but it was perfect.
Frost/Nixon was an enjoyable affair, if at times dominated by Ron Howard's very typically Hollywood conception of storytelling. While drawn out dialogue scenes and the occasional extended monologue reminds you that the work was originally a stage play, David Frost's "research montage" leading up to the final interview left me with an image of Rocky pummeling American cynicism in a freezing meat locker somewhere. I don't want to spoil the end, but he goes the distance. Most interestingly, this film was the first thing I've ever really been exposed to that made any effort to humanize Nixon, and that was something I wasn't quite prepared for.
As I was watching Woody Allen's latest picture, Vicky Christina Barcelona, I could just imagine Woody Allen overlooking Spain and thinking to himself, "How can I watch Scarlett Johansson kiss another woman? Wait a minute! I make films!" While the movie is better than many of his offerings of the late 90s and early 2000s, it falls short in several respects. Most notably, the plot is driven forward by a heavy-handed narration that robs some very strong performances any subtlety they may have had if let to speak for themselves. When anyone tells you how a movie should be made, they always rail against voiceover, as conventional wisdom is that things should never be explained, they should be seen. While personally, I think that's a bunch of shit, I do think that there are times when the story should just tell itself, and thoughts and feelings should be found in the faces and actions of the actors. And this film could have benefitted greatly from being one of those times.
And the less said about Zombie Strippers, the better. My thought process for deciding to rent the movie went something like this: "I like zombies. I like naked women. How could this possibly go wrong?" Well, for starters, anytime you're casting a porn star in a leading role, you're on shaky ground. Especially when said porn star is surrounded with corn-fed Nebraskans and their insipid ramblings on Nietzche and the nature of existence, clearly written by someone who took one philosophy class in high school and decided they could give Aristotle a run for his money. But I think the worst offense committed by the film is the violation of one of the cardinal rules of low-budget post modern horror movies: If you don't have the money to do an effect convincingly, do it spectacularly cheaply. Rather than make use of latex and things, peoples heads regularly explode in geysers of cheap CGI blood. Gunshots are represented not by blanks, not even by cheesy sound effects, but by computer generated approximations of muzzle flashes that would embarass Ed Wood. Someone seems to have had one lesson in After Effects and thought they were George Lucas. And finally, if ever I find myself teaching a class on screenwriting, I will begin with the following thought: "If you are writing a script, and you reach the point where the next logical progression is to have someone shoot pool balls out of their vagina, something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now get out of my sight, all of you."
Straying from the subject of film, I recently met someone who is responsible for a web comic. It amused me, so I thought I would share it with my loyal devotees. (Before I paste the link, I will take a moment to let the deafening silence and tumbleweed pass.) The comic, Darwin Carmichael is Going to Hell, can be found at http://dcisgoingtohell.com. Anyone who knows me will understand why I find it amusing by simply looking at the first two panels of the first comic. And if the comic doesn't take off, they should at least be able to unload the domain name for a hefty sum.
-TC
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I Sold My Soul To Nexterday
The avid followers of my life might be wondering what I've been up to lately, as I haven't posted anything in a while. This has not been because nothing has been happening, but rather because I have been suffering from the rare occurrences of both business and Vermontiness at the same time. The first left me with little free time, and the second left me with only shoddy, sporadic, and stolen internet connections. So, in brief, here are some of the highlights of my life.
I got a new job. One of my old company's clients is paying almost my full salary to work about eight days a month for them. So in a rare but welcome change of pace, I win! But the best part is that the day after I started my new job, the CEO of National Lampoon (who just bought my old company, putting me out of work) was charged with securities fraud, along with several other executives. Schadenfreude never tasted so sweet.
Just before my first day of work, I went to Schedule B of Confronting Chekhov, a series of short plays inspired by the playwright. There were six plays, all of which were highly enjoyable. Sleepy, the only one based directly on a short story by Chekhov, involved a woman with a baby going mad. Perhaps I'm a terrible human being, but how can you not enjoy the theme of a child destroying someone's mental stability? Sexy Monk was based on a seemingly gimmicky premise of putting a monk on a "You Bet Your Life" type reality TV show, but managed to win me over with such quips as the monk observing that "life is wonderful if you don't think of it as important." But the real highlights of the show were the final two plays, Through the Red and Dr. Chekhov, Gunshot expert. The first was an interesting tale of a young American woman on a trip to help rebuild post-Soviet Russia. The second was a delightfully absurd mixture of Chekhovian drama and Marx Brothers-esque wackiness, with just a hint of post-modern deconstructionism to keep things interesting. A good night, all around.
And then a week later, I found myself in Vermont. Within half an hour of arriving in the unnecessarily snowy state, I found myself at a solstice party where a man lectured me at length on how there are natural cycles that we aren't in tune to, all based on the Fibonacci sequence, and how a man who was shot several years ago in Brattleboro was the result of a World War II cycle. And then he told my mother she needed to "connect with the ocean." Going home is always a good way to understand why you are who you are.
As a random aside, I've been listening to Nexterday by Ric Ocasek rather a lot lately, and I highly recommend that others do the same. The former frontman of The Cars and producer of such notable works as the first two self-titled Weezer albums, Ocasek hasn't had the most successful solo career, but he has put out a few albums that I think are just great, and this one may well be my favorite.
And now I am back in New York. We'll see what happens next.
-TC
I got a new job. One of my old company's clients is paying almost my full salary to work about eight days a month for them. So in a rare but welcome change of pace, I win! But the best part is that the day after I started my new job, the CEO of National Lampoon (who just bought my old company, putting me out of work) was charged with securities fraud, along with several other executives. Schadenfreude never tasted so sweet.
Just before my first day of work, I went to Schedule B of Confronting Chekhov, a series of short plays inspired by the playwright. There were six plays, all of which were highly enjoyable. Sleepy, the only one based directly on a short story by Chekhov, involved a woman with a baby going mad. Perhaps I'm a terrible human being, but how can you not enjoy the theme of a child destroying someone's mental stability? Sexy Monk was based on a seemingly gimmicky premise of putting a monk on a "You Bet Your Life" type reality TV show, but managed to win me over with such quips as the monk observing that "life is wonderful if you don't think of it as important." But the real highlights of the show were the final two plays, Through the Red and Dr. Chekhov, Gunshot expert. The first was an interesting tale of a young American woman on a trip to help rebuild post-Soviet Russia. The second was a delightfully absurd mixture of Chekhovian drama and Marx Brothers-esque wackiness, with just a hint of post-modern deconstructionism to keep things interesting. A good night, all around.
And then a week later, I found myself in Vermont. Within half an hour of arriving in the unnecessarily snowy state, I found myself at a solstice party where a man lectured me at length on how there are natural cycles that we aren't in tune to, all based on the Fibonacci sequence, and how a man who was shot several years ago in Brattleboro was the result of a World War II cycle. And then he told my mother she needed to "connect with the ocean." Going home is always a good way to understand why you are who you are.
As a random aside, I've been listening to Nexterday by Ric Ocasek rather a lot lately, and I highly recommend that others do the same. The former frontman of The Cars and producer of such notable works as the first two self-titled Weezer albums, Ocasek hasn't had the most successful solo career, but he has put out a few albums that I think are just great, and this one may well be my favorite.
And now I am back in New York. We'll see what happens next.
-TC
Friday, December 12, 2008
Keys
Wednesday was my last day of work.
So on Thursday I was at work, and on my way out the door, I took out my keys to lock the door for what was to really, truly be the last time. But then I thought, "No, that's too easy, locking the door and leaving." So instead, I took out my keys and with the sort of flourish that only a sleep deprived tall man can quite manage, I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft.
I spent the next hour on the phone trying to find someone who could put me in touch with the superintendent for the building. Then I spent the following hour standing in the freezing rain waiting for him to come. After that second hour, I got a call telling me that the super wasn't really coming.
I went back today, and after ladies behind the desk of the shoe store next door fininshed laughing at me, they had a man who didn't speak any English but had mastered hand motions indicating how tall I was lead me down to the elevator motor room, where I collected my keys.
A typical Thursday, really.
-TC
So on Thursday I was at work, and on my way out the door, I took out my keys to lock the door for what was to really, truly be the last time. But then I thought, "No, that's too easy, locking the door and leaving." So instead, I took out my keys and with the sort of flourish that only a sleep deprived tall man can quite manage, I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft.
I spent the next hour on the phone trying to find someone who could put me in touch with the superintendent for the building. Then I spent the following hour standing in the freezing rain waiting for him to come. After that second hour, I got a call telling me that the super wasn't really coming.
I went back today, and after ladies behind the desk of the shoe store next door fininshed laughing at me, they had a man who didn't speak any English but had mastered hand motions indicating how tall I was lead me down to the elevator motor room, where I collected my keys.
A typical Thursday, really.
-TC
Monday, December 1, 2008
No More Porn...Or Other Work For That Matter
The good news is, my company is not being bought by a porn company. The deal fell through, and all the porn magically vanished from my desk one day.
The bad news is, that puts my company back into dire financial straits.
The good news is, my company is being bought by National Lampoon.
The bad news is, they are shutting down my office.
My last day of work will be next Wednesday. Suddenly, porn doesn't seem so bad...
-TC
The bad news is, that puts my company back into dire financial straits.
The good news is, my company is being bought by National Lampoon.
The bad news is, they are shutting down my office.
My last day of work will be next Wednesday. Suddenly, porn doesn't seem so bad...
-TC
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