Ghetto Movie Theater

Back in the day, when America's air often buzzed with a thousand flying bullets in broad daylight—like that was the sane thing to do with twin concepts like "new" and "people"—we had an attitude of social looseness that constantly imposed upon the needs of others with an impunity that was artificially called "freedom", when, really, it was often a smokescreen for insanity committed in public spaces without fear of censure. Take, for instance, the ghetto movie theater (see also, Times Square in the 70s: http://gothamist.com/2013/03/27/photos_of_times_square_in_the_1970s.php#photo-2). 

Kids dared one another to run into a peepshow theater and back as if we were risking our young lives like western gunslingers of yore, and we were. Yeah, we had the buses of the Port Authority to take us back home, but if you missed the last sane commuter bus leaving the station, it was just you and your friends with hours of time in an almost empty bus depot, trapped with bums who got much scarier, louder, and active with each passing sip from their cheap bottle of wine. 

We were terrified of getting caught in the city's rain, because we knew a trickle of water could rouse a bum if it reached him before the rains stopped, like the time me and my boyfriend watched water fall down in torrents, stuck underneath a Central Park overpass. We only had so much time left before the water woke him up, and then it finally did. He was pissed off until he suddenly noticed us, which sent him flying towards us in a greatly renewed psychotic rage.

Which meant that we were constantly searching for safe places and happy diversions to combat the hellish scenes popping off around us. It was, uh, a little stressful, to put it mildly. People chain-smoked and drank like "The Final Days of Judgment" were being visited upon them any second, and if you believed the signs of the ranting religious zealots who frequented the midtown tourist areas, the end was always near. Ditto with the bald white "Hari Krishnas" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hare_Krishna_(mantra), who were usually ex-hippie burn-outs from the 60s looking to wind down (or amp up) from their tense neurosis "the natural way", which meant spinning around like a "Whirling Dervish" for hours (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mevlevi_Order), banging tambourines and asking for money from onlookers.

There were also door-knocking, tie-wearing, short-haired Jehovah's Witnesses, robotic over-groomed Mormons who looked like extras from a 1950s-era movie, or "Moonies" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moonie_%28nickname%29) who would turn aggressive on you in a New York minute, which made the average New Yorker play this weird game of pretending not to notice that bleeding guy sitting next to you on the train, because he might stab you if you tried to help him out. Eye contact was also a serious no-no that kept us from helping out one another, because my dad repeated the same line about it over and over again with "no good deed goes unpunished", as an illustration of that very principle we used to live by. 

And so, our public lives were rife with strangely surreal scenes from horror movies or prescient sci-fi movies like "Escape from New York", that warned of The Second Coming as an apocalypse for the damned. Behavior was at an all-time low, and public life reflected the lesser of two evils that presented itself to us at any time. Sure, smoking a big stinky cigar in a movie was rude, oppressive, and unhealthy for everyone around you, but heck, it was better than rape, right? Right?! People sneaked booze and pot into theaters all the time under their jackets, and gay men used the movie's bathrooms as frequent hook-up spots that became so notorious for city people, we avoided public restrooms like The Plague. Anything could happen to you in there.

Like the worst of the human experience that becomes repetitive over time, we got used to extremely fucked-up people. Not comfortable or complacent, but accustomed to seriously violent offenders who'd snap at the slightest excuse to do so. People shouted back at the movie screen, or hissed their questions loudly to each other, in bad stage whispers that were clearly audible to everyone around them. My mom is so bad with watching movies, that I got used to prepping my friends about her odd behavior, because she loses the thread of the narrative quicker than anyone I've ever met. 

At home it was better, because we could stop the movie for food and drinks, or bathroom runs, or funky relatives with serious impairments, which my parents are not nice about. They're New Yorkers from the Bronx and Bed-Stuy, ya feel me? They aren't "nice" about anything, including their own ignorance that they self-defend like embarrassed kids at the rough local playground for tough kids in leather jackets, with switchblades and greased-back hair, smoking unfiltered cigarettes while snapping their chewing gum loudly. In other words, "assholes" presenting themselves in quick visual shorthand. 

"Who is that?!" my mother would yell out loud, and if you ignored her, she'd just abuse you until you had to give her the answer, which she argued about through her constant sense of befuddlement and misunderstanding, especially if she objected to the highbrow intellectualism that surpassed her grasp of the subject matter, like an offended two year-old after their lollipop is ripped out of their hands. It was histrionic bullshit, but look where they came from. Horror shows.

Years later, after we escaped our own individually tragic fates that working class people like us were often fated to, we could sit back and relax over something as simple as watching a t.v. show or a movie without being molested with uncommon violence for our presence or preferences. And, lo and behold, along came a show that addressed our humble city roots with a fun twist: we were safe now, and we also had homemade hand puppets to help spread the fun around to our friends. We'd say to each other in asides: "Yeah, check out that guy's hat and hairdo! Historically accurate, n'est ce-pas?" Or: "Yo, did you see that karate move?", quickly followed by "Hey, I wonder what he'll do next?" "Oh, I don't know! Let's pretend to be surprised by hammy bad acting and a cliched script!" Ahhh! Look out!! He's right behind you! Nooo!!! Don't go into that scary dark basement! 

Classic Movie type

The Quiet Man.***

Since my introduction to the entrepreneurial world (which involves some hunger, a lot of anxiety, and much freedom), I've been cutting costs like a store having a fire sale the day after Christmas. All items must be sold! Bargain prices! SELL SELL SELL! 

I solved my "watching t.v. on a budget" dilemma through the acquisition of a cheap digital antenna and converter hooked into the back of my flat screen and...voila! There it was; the moving images we've come to know as modern t.v. The baddest part was the first channel it tuned in: a bitchin' classic movie channel aptly named "Movies!" with a capital "M" for a logo (which suits me just fine), airing a "Sinbad" movie with original Ray Harryhausen* stop-motion animation. WOW!

It's given me access to a host of golden oldies I wouldn't have found before, enhancing my education through the knowledge that humans really haven't changed all that much since the invention of modern cinema, because we really haven't. Families still struggle with dysfunction, powerful addictions, cycles of poverty, illness, and other dastardly things, albeit played by handsomer folk than that girl next door, but that's not very different than any other type of storytelling. 
If you're going to see a show, why not look at some pretty people? 
It'll make the time go faster.

The artist in me especially loves the opening credits, like a beautifully illustrated book with a gorgeously set title page. I've always preferred trailers over a full-length feature (for obvious reasons, like my time), and classics are no different. Check out some typesetting from back in the day, and bask in the knowledge that artists have always lead the way, whether you've realized it or not. You're welcome!

From the original 1943 version of "Heaven Can Wait".**

*     http://www.rayharryhausen.com/
**   http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0523932/bio?ref_=nm_ov_bio_sm
*** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quiet_Man

Electricity

When I was growing up, I had no sense of scope about the history attached to New York City (or state), nor did I realize how old and famous it really is around the world, because why would I? Sesame Street was a kid's show about a city block that had large animals in garbage pails (like the nightly raccoon raids at our house), narrated by a girl named "Maria", of the same name in the musical West Side Story. Bugs Bunny had a whip smart comeback to every quip that was delivered in a cool cartoon version of our accent, King Kong regularly climbed our tallest buildings, Batman fought for our fair Gotham's streets to be safe, Spiderman spun webs everywhere, and The Ramones just wanted to go to the beach badly on a musician's dime. 

It was either a t.v. show, or a movie, or a play, or your favorite song. Was there anything else? Who cares? We had everything you could think of named after or devoted to our culture. So when I saw this old shit nailed to a post nearby, I knew it was some crusty, rusty relic from our past, but what it actually was? That I had no idea. 

I went in for closer look, at first to take a picture of a funny bumper sticker on a truck parked in the mechanic's garage that operates next door, and there it was; a bright orange spot in the sun. Ever wonder what a switch box from the first electric poles that delivered early currents to old farmhouses converting over to the new power grid looked like, back when it was new? Now you do.

The Red Room

 

A fable in three photos.

 

Type: Movies, Mad Men, and Lemonade Stands

The "Mysterious Mr. Moto", in an American kind of Chinese.

Today's post is a set of shots I've been collecting over the past few weeks, so I decided to post them in one, big, fat, font post. Yay! 
The first example comes to you via the Movies! channel, courtesy of the classic movie Mysterious Mr. Moto (1938), with Peter Lorre. I'm a sucker for cheesy pseudo-Asian fonts, especially authentically retro ones like these, redolent of a white guy made up in poorly drawn Chinese eye makeup; it fools no one. A fine specimen of typecasting gone wrong, and cultural appropriation. Please to enjoy!

Uh oh. "Devil's Island". That sounds bad, in a good way.

The map is cartography perfection, though. Nothing wrong or off here. A gorgeous movie opener, overall.

Good advice!

The next type sample comes off the back of a coupon I clipped, now expired, and then flipped over to reveal this gem of a tagline from your friendly neighborhood advertiser. Sage advice, indeed.

Organic is just good all around, type included.

This fontography sample came to me from the fridge one fine morning, friendly and inviting, with the perfect cheerful "Good Morning, Sunshine!" message facing me from the back of a hastily placed half and half carton sitting on the top shelf. It really is a beautiful piece of typesetting, a complete type block set right, and it's interesting, too. That's how you do "inviting" and "pretty" with black display type: it's a gorgeous piece of work on it's own that also fits the artwork just so. The former (M)ad Man in me is pleased. I'm not alone in my cause for good, healthy products, and you can see that the designer cared enough to take the time to craft a package the consumer can enjoy and also feel proud of, through an organic purchase that can feel unjustly costly at times. Nice job!

Classic Americana: the homemade lemonade stand sign, now discarded on the sidewalk, like a kid's dreams about money and enterprise

Like a children's toy abandoned in a yard, this discarded lemonade sign I saw on the sidewalk one afternoon took me back to my own childhood in the country, boringly slow and stingy when it came to money and Scout badges. We never earned enough to justify the time we spent on our pursuit, because there's one car every hour or so on Hudson Valley back roads, which is a good lesson in of itself. It served me and my brother's well when we entered the supposedly hallowed and sacred halls of Big Business in the Big Apple, which is actually our second home, thanks to our very own "Mad Man", our Dad (shhh...don't tell anyone our big "secret"). We don't waste time, because time is a commodity you can't buy or get back once it's gone, like your health. Clever, right?

The infamous Saul Bass, in movies now and forever.

I grabbed my fine, photo-taking device when this famous Saul Bass opener flashed across the t.v. screen, again from the classic movie channel. It's simply one of the best graphics I've ever seen in my life, and you should see it very, very soon. Google Anatomy of a Murder, and be dazzled. It's a humbling piece of art because it really is perfect: on posters and packaging, as motion art, as a set of static images, and a shining example of the power a great graphic has: simple and unforgettable.

"Bye bye", translated into jazz hands and Oscar worthy graphics.

Many a graphic design student feels awe seeing it for the first time, which is why I'm so glad I was technically an Illustration major while at R.I.S.D.: "flawless" can be so very daunting to a youngster taking it all in, trying to learn and keep up at the same time you're desperate to figure it all out: how can I be an artist? What is my style? Will I ever be capable of doing something like that? Dare I hope and dream, even with hours of studio time and practice? What about all that money spent? IS it (and am I) worth it?! We didn't know what awaited us in the world or how it comes together for us as designers, thinkers, intellectuals, and dreamers, and that's a scarier prospect than any business meeting could ever be, on any given day of the week.

The oft-avoided bestseller (for obvious reasons), but the book is set well.

Finally, here's a nicely done chapter opener, something I don't often do as a book designer and art director, because covers are huge, colorful and expensive marketing pieces that take up most of my time, but I appreciate their quiet strength when I see them just the same. When I do find myself in a position that affords me the time to typeset a page that goes with my cover design, I relish it for the synchronicity I so often don't find in business, because of the conflicting production schedules we have in trade publishing. Sigh....oh, well.

Design is hope made visible.

 That's it for now. See ya next time. Y'all come back now, ya here? 

Toys: Bubo! As a Key chain!

Bubo in handy key chain form. Come with me in my pocket, Bubo!

Fans, followers, friends, family and the occasional hater know I love the original Bubo owl character from the first Clash of the Titans movie: you know, the real one, with Harry Hamlin and stop motion animation by Ray Harryhausen, who kicked ass in so many ways for me as a kid that he is a separate piece entirely. Yeah, that one.

Athena's Magical Owl.

Anyway, whenever I find my trusty, little sidekick Bubo in other forms, I dig it in a big way, and I also kind of freak out because it's so cute. Here is Bubo as a magical screeching key chain toy with glowing eyes. Please to observe:




Do you have a Bubo? If so, what does it do? If the answer is "no", then why the hell not?! Have some fun today, will ya? That is all.

Grow with Totoro!

I love this time of year, when trees, shrubs, bushes, lawns, everything, burst out energetically into showy flowers and tender new shoots overnight; the scent of rich, wet soil releasing it's moisture and ozone into the warmer air, as the morning sun quickly evaporates the dew. 

Master Artist Miyazaki has the captured magic of the growing season with My Neighbor Totoro (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/01/hayao-miyazaki.html). Who better to do so than artists who come from a culture where big, beautiful, ancient trees are venerated and marked as special? As they should be. 

What would happen if you let yourself care about all life on the planet as sacred and special, not just a few, select humans? What would that look like to you? How would it change they way you feel, think, and act? What would you do differently? Interesting questions to ponder, brought to us in a flawless gem of a movie about the awesome power and beauty of nature. Enjoy it now, because it's "Totoroing" outside!

http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mavxy01V5F1qbsjqno2_r1_250.gif

Reel Life: A Sensei's Vampire Senses

In order to become a master of the arts, one must succumb to it wholly and completely. Where there is great love, there can be no half way. Once an art has chosen you, you must follow where it takes you, dedicated to the end. That's the price of great passion; utter devotion, and the sublimation of the self in search of the attainment of mastery. Many a sensei has often said that "in the pursuit of perfection, we attain excellence", and so it goes for the artist in their search. We hone our senses to their human heights, hoping to achieve greatness, and in doing so, we may attain immortality, or what passes for it in our human world, limited as that is by our perceptions.


 
I submit to you for your perusal two such examples of artistry and devotion in cinema, "Jiro Dreams of Sushi" and "Frostbitten": one, the story of a lifelong chef in his noble quest for mastery with his chosen elements through the Art of Sushi, and the other a perfect show about the joys of a well-done horror movie; there's camp, humor, fun, gore, suspense, and irony. Sometimes, there isn't an obvious harmony between the movies I select, but the cognitive dissonance of what appears to be a random selection, that then stitches itself into a matched set before my very eyes, forming connections by what feels to be of its' own will, but is indeed of my making. Everyday magic is the ability of the best human minds to stretch out to reach the edge of it's vast limits through the daily discipline of practice. In doing so, the master vaults way past the average person in abilities, attaining powers of craft that allude the individual incapable of such acts of constancy.  Look, and see.

Slavery

http://www.polarisproject.org/

Last week I saw a movie called The Whistleblower, based on one woman's real life experiences as a Gender Specialist investigating crimes against women overseas, in the areas most plagued by the Serbian and Croatian wars: a Muslim woman brutally beat by a husband who hadn't been prosecuted prior, and the abduction of teenage girls for sale. Naturally it affected me, because it's such a powerful story about hatred and prejudice, but I returned the DVD to the library and let it go....or so I thought. 

A few days later, I went a couple of doors down to my favorite pizzeria in between cycles at the laundromat. I got into a conversation with the guy behind the counter. At first we chatted about pizza, cooking, the sometimes hilarity of so-called "diets", and then we talked about locales. He asked me if I was new to the area, and then I asked where he was from. He said "Kosovo", and I admitted it's an area I don't know much about, except for the worst news reports. He didn't dispel my notions outright, saying there's "nothing" over there. I mentioned the movie I'd seen, and at this point, all three men behind the counter joined in the conversation.

Turns out, the Super Bowl here in the States was Ground Zero for human trafficking, and we discussed how major world events can become natural cloud cover for illegal activities. It made me think about the Olympics in Sochi going on right now. God only knows what horrors exist right beneath the surface, out in the open, blind as we are attending these sports events, except to our own amusement. As one of the delivery guys showed me the news story on his smart phone, I scrolled down the sad, sick story. "How alone they must feel, like we don't care about them....like no on loves them", I said to him, reading about people sold like meat, killed after they're used, nameless and faceless to society, lost after their identities are obliterated with fake passports. And they're right to feel such despair, when we routinely ignore suffering that's so obvious around us every day, because it seems unbelievably horrific, or someone elses' problem. 

It seems so insurmountable: overwhelming, frightening, threatening. "Well, what can I do about it?" After all, no one goes to a ball game to cry into their expensive beer about some teenage girl unlucky enough to seek work in another country to support her family by answering an ad in the paper for maids in a hotel, somewhere "over there", far away from here. But we can do something. We can talk about it. We can publicize it. Just like the Super Bowl. Just like the Olympics.

http://www.thewhistleblower-movie.com/

http://www.cbssports.com/nfl/eye-on-football/24429762/fbi-rescues-16-juveniles-in-super-bowl-human-trafficking-operation 

http://www.nbcnews.com/id/20185681/ns/dateline_nbc/t/woman-rescued-human-traffickers/ 

Type: Black and White

Not subtle.

Today's type selections are lessons in contrast, in more ways than one. Black and white is the first typesetting we know of: black ink rolled onto type blocks and then pressed onto paper. Simple. Or is it? 

I don't know the characters, but....

Just as there are many ways to print a book, so there are many ways to render letters, due to the natural complexity of human vision. We see an enormous range of information quickly and very well, just like any predator with eyes set in the front, creating an unobstructed field of vision, which is great for fighting. And other pursuits.

....I know an arm bar when I see one.

Enjoy the fights tonight, battle hounds.

Movies: Gopher It

You realize this means war.

One of our best-loved comedies as kids was Caddyshack. My oldest brother worked at a local country club in high school that's a golfer's paradise. Me, my middle bro, and our cousin got bored one afternoon at an older cousin's wedding, held conveniently on a golf course. Without too much thought or planning, we jacked a golf cart for a joy ride around the grounds that was the height of the day, if not for the summer of that year. We still laugh about it, and I remember the outfit I wore: a waitress-inspired preteen dress separate, with white polka dots on a grey background, pink trimmings on the collar and sleeves that mimicked the rolled up ones of real diner outfits. 

Tragically, one of my mother's oldest school friends from her old neighborhood in the Bronx died suddenly from head trauma as the result of falling out of a golf cart onto a rock while riding with her husband around their Arizona golf community's grounds. Even though none of us are avid golfers, golf courses and greens seems to run a current through our family's lives, and that's just what the movie is about: working class Irish Catholics looking to break through to WASPY society and its' supposed access to wealth and benefits. Some of us figured out a long time ago that money ain't the only way to a dream, and some of us still feel that money is a ticket out of dysfunction to a better life, and that's what the exclusivity of a country club promises to them; proof that they've finally "made it". 

My mom loved the gopher from the movie the best, and he no doubt is a scene stealer: a cute, cuddly, rascally troublemaker who ruins golf paradise by simply showing up to do what gopher's do. She loves his little dances and song skits so much, that when I saw an animatronic doll that's a a dead ringer for the movie version, I bought it as a gag Christmas gift immediately. She loved it! All these years later, the darn thing still works. One of my nephews was terrified by it as a baby, and we still laugh about that, too. A doll that looks like a TeddyBear but moves?! Uh uh. Not right. He'd get this wide-eyed suspicious look on his chubby face that was the exact opposite of the intended reaction. Good times.

 

Cinephiles, Culture Vultures, and Couch Potatoes, I got it covered: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/culture-movies-and-t-v/.

Bluebell the English Bulldog

Who's that little doggie in the parking lot?

Little Bluebell with the big personality.

I first met Bluebell walking to the library. I noticed a dog sitting in a window seat often, in a house behind the local funeral home. One day I saw a little white bulldog sitting outside, looking up at another dog sitting in the window seat of the house, in a way that seemed like teasing. I called out "Hey! What are you doing?" and then the white dog started racing across the parking lot in spurts, stopping then starting, with me giggling nervously but also enjoying the show. Then a man with a handlebar mustache came out, shouting and calling to the dog, which made it take off in a tear towards me, jumping right over a small hedge easily, surprising for a doggie with such short legs. I shouted out "Is he friendly?" He said "She's a girl! Very!" I noticed she had a pink dog collar as she tried to bite into my shoe, snuffling around my ankles. When he came closer, she jumped back over the hedge, circled around his legs a few times while he chased her, trying to bit his feet, too.
It was really funny.

Belly rubs!

After that, I kept an eye out for her, and one afternoon I noticed the owner sitting outside on a lawn chair, so I went over to say "hello". He told me her name was Bluebell, an English Bulldog, one of two dogs he had. I noticed her big personality right away and told him so. There was also what I thought was an Irish Setter, a long haired Retriever named Highway, lingering near us with a tennis ball in his mouth, trying to engage us in a game of "keep away". When I asked him about his name, he said it came from his favorite Clint Eastwood movie, Heartbreak Ridge, and he asked me if I'd seen it. I couldn't remember if I had or not. He said Bluebell was a lot nicer than his first bulldog, an irascible, grumpy little fellow, but his son loved the breed so much that they got a second one when he died. She was his opposite; gregarious, friendly, endlessly charming, always ready for playtime, attention, and affection. She let herself out of the house often, and she also liked to sunbathe in the parking lot on her leash.

Aww. Puppy face. "Hi Bluebell!"

Haha! Shake it off, Bluebell!

He said it was a shame bulldogs didn't live very long because of the aggressive inbreeding used to create their distinctive looks. 
I understood. My Giant Mal didn't live long, the same as the other snow dogs I had, and that it was harder for us humans than it was for them, because we missed them so much after they were gone. I realized after I said goodbye to my new friend and walked away that I was probably one of the few people in town (if any) to say those consoling words to the town's funeral director, a man who has said them countless times to people in their times of comfort and need. I'm sure the irony wasn't lost on him, either. 

Precious little doggie with sad face :(

Are you a crazy pet person and you know it? I've got your number right here: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/dogs/.

Small Town America: Malls

Grassy mound, at The Nanuet Mall.

One of the worst experiences about country life are the malls. They kinda suck the life out of people and places through the merciless sell sell sell of things. A lesser mind can get turned around in this fake Shangri La, a tempting NeverLand of beautiful objects priced just high enough to drain your wallet, making someone else rich. I'm not going to say malls destroy the environment, because that's easy and they provide jobs, but calling them blights on the landscape is justified.

Up.

Where the grassy mound sat was the last hold out from the early 70s boom in Rockland's economy, a time when young families from the city moved on up, and there one old lady sat in her old house as a reminder of our rural past, a real life version of the animated movie "Up". When she died, the developers finally moved in, and I found this mound where her house was a fitting tribute to her courage against the forces of Capitalism, the green earth not unlike a burial mound, some of the things I contemplated sitting at a red light.

How do you do honor the past in the present?

http://www.rocklandtimes.com/2012/11/29/simon-group-guts-ferrettis-home/ 

Around the Way: Earth Day Lorax, for 2013

Earth Day Lorax

I took this shot of a subway poster awhile back, when the movie premiered in NYC, because I thought the graffiti added a more ominous element. The Lorax gushes oil from its' eyes, a harsh reminder that we need to move further away faster from our dependence on fossil fuels, towards a brighter, healthier future.   

Heed the warning signs.

Around the Way: The Pavillion Theater

Type inlay on hard wood floor

A recent trip to my local cinema turned up a few lovely surprise, like inlaid type on a wooden floor, and custom hand-painted tables. Little gorgeous details like that, personal artistic touches to a space, make the experience all the more memorable.

Custom painted tables

Just like the art of the book, a really good movie house will never go out of style, because it's not something you can replicate digitally. Enjoy your movie time, just like I did.

Family portrait!

Reel Life: Chop Shop

Few movies capture the horror of growing up on the streets like this one: no parents, no authority figures, and no protection whatsoever. Like the Brazilian movie City of God, Chop Shop lets you see what happens when a society utterly fails its youngest, and then exploits their naivety and innocence for profit.

The biggest difference for me is that Chop Shop feels exactly like the area of Queens that circles the big baseball stadium where all those juicy cars park, begging to be ripped off. This is my home turf. In between that con is a massive array of gypsy cabs illegally combing our city streets looking for fares, then clogging the nearby garages, seeking the cheapest deal to quickly replace a broken rear-view mirror.

Our hero is a “little man” in the ghetto sense of the words: because he has to be. He finds his sister (also out of foster care and in the shelter system), then tries to fold her into his now-legit world at the garage. He both works and sleeps there, and humble as it is, it's a toe-hold into the makings of a new life, as we watch him struggle to bring her into it.

I won't give away much more, but if you're a native New Yorker, you know people who grew up like this, or maybe you did, too. I know I started working as a kid, and it's still the mainstay of many cultural labor forces. Some parts are difficult to watch (who likes seeing children hurt or violated?!), but in the end, they remain a family: a small family of two, with a boy-child who is more of a man than many will grow up to be, and his troubled teen sister, and how they manage to stay together.

That's hope.

Happy New Year!

For all you martial artists and fans out there, this action-packed adventure is a classic Samurai gore fest. There's lots of limb-hacking and bloody battles, with plenty of hand-to-hand combat. It's weirdly improbable and highly enjoyable at the same time. Have at it!

Self Portrait: Me at 43

it's up close but it's nothing personal, except that it's me

I've always been interested in self-portraits by women (Alice Neel*, Cindy Sherman*) because it's often seen as taboo in our society for a woman to age. Why is that? Why does a woman lose her supposed attractiveness when male leads like Sean Connery can still play the main lead love interest at 73, next to a woman half his age? Is he really better looking than say, Helen Mirren? I would say "no". I think it's really weird to see fresh young starlets next to old dudes, but that's just me. What do you think?

In the interest of romance and age, I submit to you this lovely little tale about retired Brit expats in India who find true love, as they also contemplate the end of life.   
Enjoy your Thursday, no matter your age.

* http://www.aliceneel.com/          * https://www.artsy.net/artist/alice-neel
* http://www.cindysherman.com/

Keeping it Reel: "Gigante"

Any master storyteller knows bringing your audience in so close that you can almost feel them sitting on your lap is the hallmark that you've crossed the divide separating you from them. That intimacy is the biggest luxury artists and writers have, something lost in the sensory experience we have as moviegoers. It's a closeness we don't feel watching speeding images projected onto a large screen in quite the same way that we sense a closeness to characters brought to life through a book that's inches from our very face. We breathe them in, like we do the smell of ink and paper, holding a physical object in our hands, in a scale that's designed especially for our senses. The slow crafting of a story produced from the pacing of a book gives our human brains a time frame we can easily adjust to, turning pages slowly (or not), maybe going back to reread something again just to get it right in our head, or pausing to ruminate on the picture the author has just created that illuminates something in way previously unknown; it's that loving lingering that give t.v. shows and movies cause for frustration in hardcore book people like myself.

The director has already called the shots, creating their own world from words made precious in our minds through time, the way books and stories become. We get tripped up by niggling details like the anachronism of an actors' bad hairdo, let alone big story elements like time and space. That suspension of belief is the bane of many a lesser talents existence. It's what every classic, timeless, great story hangs upon; the ability for me to hold you right in the palm of my hand, where I need you to be, so you can take in the story richly from every angle, drinking it in, letting it soak into you, so that the story also becomes a part of you. Some people have it, some people spend years chasing it, some people try to learn it, and the rest become our wonderful audience who we spend our lives wooing in a necessary dance that exists between the creator and the viewer.

The freedom we give a reader to transpose what we've written or drawn into their own imaginative spaces is something that a t.v. director can't do, because they have to "draw" a character and tell a defined story in a half an hour. It's really hard. Books also have the same deadline. We must make something to print on the presses, and the edition that lives on your shelf is semi-permanent, at least until we reprint it and possibly revise it, just like a film is "cut" and released; the story stays that way until somewhat remakes it, which is way more expensive than reprinting a book. Genres are troublesome, too. I hate romances for the exact reasons I outlined above: I simply don't buy it. Love is something best left to poets, because it's like trying to explain the color purple to a blind person. What does color mean to them? I've seen a few really good adaptations of books to movies, but it's something best left to a truly gifted artist. Maurice Sendak wisely advised Spike Jonez to make his own Wild Things instead of trying to lavishly re-create his work into a movie, a world made specifically for children as a book, functioning best on the level it was designed for, and he spoke like a true master. The formats are too different to reconcile the gap that exists.

So when I see movies that have characters who feel so real, I actually know people just like them, it's a rare experience. I found this gem of a movie called Gigante that's the most flawlessly real depiction of actual human love than any other movie I've seen about it. There's just no false notes or wrong moves, because every heart-wrenching scene feels exactly like a young man crushing hard and falling deeply in love. There's no bullshit CGI effects, no bombastic declarations delivered hammily or wildly desperate acts for her attention (because our hero is very shy around his lady love), nor fake showiness of his affections. This is a real story that takes place in a real world you know exists, because it's the same thing that's happened to you. He's an average guy (but not to us), working cruddy minimum wage jobs for a buck (just like we have), falling in love with an average girl (but not to him, because she's his whole world), who gets mistreated because they don't love her like he does (or we do). It's that perfect.

Yeah, I know.