August Staff Picks

I never got around to July. Whatever. FYI, they were: Bonjour Tristesse, Leave Her to Heaven, L'Atalante, Tabu & M. Hulot's Holiday.

But July is so far gone it's practically last July. Besides, August marks a redundantly momentous moment in the life of yours truly: thirty! Yes indeedy. I can't wait. I've been over my twenties for years now. Clearly I needed to honor the occasion within my August staff picks. However, despite my most noble efforts to unearth five decent movies about turning thirty, I ran headfirst into a brick wall at precisely three: 13 Going on 30, Logan's Run & Beautiful Girls. I mean, sure, there are movies about Zach Braff turning 30 & there are movies based on Douglas Coupland books about people turning 30, but...ew. I wouldn't even watch those, let alone "recommend" them. So I instead chose to feature American movies released in 1978. After much thought & careful consideration, I came up with:


Days of Heaven, Terrence Malick, 1978. But of course. Beautiful, stunning, etc. Ignore Gerbil Ass & marvel at the Malickability of it. And give thanks to the gods that made Malick's first choice star, John Travolta, unavailable. Glorious. If we had five copies, I would have made it all five of my picks.

Coming Home, Hal Ashby, 1978. Hmm...so my two most favorite American movie directors of the 1970s, Malick & Ashby, both just happened to release films during the year in which I was born. Oh, AND Haskell Wexler, one of my favorite cinematographers, shot both of them (although Nester Almendros has primary credit for Days, he had to leave the production early.) Coincidence? Sure. But this one's still a keeper, even if it is a bit heavy-handed nowadays. Then again, the more things change... At any rate, I'm absolutely mad for Bruce Dern's last scene; & if you've only seen Jon Voight in, ahem, Zoolander (like me), you're in for a treat! Penelope Milford is excellent as well.

Piranha, Joe Dante, 1978. The evil bastardos team of bound-for-Gremlins Dante & John Sayles (yep, the same one) totally sock it to the campground kiddies! Per the commentary, I apparently have Roger Corman to thank for so delighting my misanthropic inclinations - seems he instituted a maximum-gore-per-reel policy which didn't see fit to save the children. Also, the piranha noise is fabulous AND it all ends in a most fantastically un-PC fashion. Heh. I hear that in the sequel (James Cameron's first movie, if you care) they breed with...wait for it...flying fish. Oh yes.

The Cat from Outer Space, Norman Tokar, 1978. Cats! Well, a cat! From outer space! With Roddy McDowell, who's also from outer space! Although I loved it as a child, this is not a good movie. In fact, when I found out that I'd confused it with That Darn Cat & it didn't feature spunky Hayley Mills as I'd originally thought, I struck it from my list. But then the Donna Summer disco movie Thank God It's Friday turned out be a real stinker, & when I watched Heaven Can Wait I finally admitted that I actively dislike Warren Beatty, & following that I ran out of time to come up with anything else. The cat talks though! And he's all sassy & droll.

Dawn of the Dead, George Romero, 1978. Fine. You want to get all technical, this was released in the U.S. in April 1979. To which I reply, so? It premiered at Cannes in 1978, bitches. Eat my brain. Zombies, a Goblin (or, er, "The Goblins" as they're credited here) soundtrack & a cutesy little satire of American consumerism? Yeah, I stretched the rules for that. Besides, we don't have Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

For September, I'm doing something French. Either softcore pr0n, or candy-coated movies with realism filling (think The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which puts my own color sensibilities, of which I feel justly proud, to shame & makes me tear up more the older I get (because of the story, not the colors)) or Robert Bresson. I've not decided which.

To Future April, Around January 2009

It won't last forever.

Love,
Past-Present April

Cats Playing Jazz

No, seriously.

CATS

PLAYING

MOTHERFUCKING

JAZZ

I am in love, love, LOVE with The Aristocats.

So much so that I can almost actually forgive Disney for ruining The Little Mermaid for ten-year-old Me with its fake happy ending. Because frankly Me didn't see what, exactly, was so terribly unhappy about the main character not only not getting the guy, but sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of his & dying because of it; & having her very selflessness allow her to enter heaven rather than becoming mere foam on the sea like her mer-brethren. It's Hans Christian Andersen, for fuck's sake.

I mean, compared to my all-time favorite Andersen tale The Travelling Companion's macabre S&M beatings & my second favorite tale The Red Shoes' gruesome body-part cost of avarice (not to mention The Little Freakin' Poor, Cold, Motherless & Oh Yeah, Dead Match Girl), the mermaid's demise is positively sunny!

But I became burdened with a gravity ill-suited to my years at an early age, which it then took me several subsequent years to learn to leaven with equal parts sparkles'n'sunshine.

And behold! Sparkles'n'sunshine made cartoon:


Aaaahhhh. On a less-than-stellar day of painful cornea sunburn, ten-percent-jacked-up apartment rent notice, & being so temporarily choked with bile that I spent several minutes really, really trying to think of a way to make the horn-playing men outside the French bakery cry, this fully restored my spirits. Now, I can't promise that you'll like it; but it hits every one of my cute-buttons.

Full-on HURRAH!

Mmmmmmmmmmm

Yesterday I was here.

Today I am not.

Yesterday was worth the sun burning my corneas & leaving me in flaming waves of vicious eye pain, paranoid that my vision would be permanently scarred.**

If I'm wrong & there in fact IS a heaven, this is what mine would be. Of course, if I'm wrong, I don't think heaven is quite where I'm going to find myself in the end.

** I'm still in flaming waves of pain, but I can see clearly enough today. That three-hour drive home wins third place in my list of all-time worst driving experiences.

Scary!

So, I'm going to start taking a medication.

A month from now.

Because they have to really, really, really make sure I'm not pregnant before I can take it. Twice from piss and once from blood (the kind they take out with a needle. Sheesh). I had to fill out two consent forms. And they sent me off with a shiny red-covered coloring book. Nah, not really; but it's the shape & size of a coloring book & has all sorts of elementary diagrams. I also have to promise to use two forms of birth control the entire time I'm on the meds. Pssst, book-makers: I have, by now, sussed out how condoms work. But I sure am looking forward to breaking out my crayons tonight.

And then, the entire time I'm on it - which could be anywhere between five to eighteen months (!) - I have to go in every month & get a needle stuck in my arm again to prove I'm not pregnant. Plus go on a website & take a little quiz (sample question, no joke: what is a primary form of birth control?). Also, I can't give blood. Which makes me wonder how my organ donor status is affected, then.

See, the medication causes all sorts of nasty birth defects. Honestly, if I had any intention of shooting babies out of my uterus, like, ever, I would think once or thirty times before taking it.

Oh, and beyond that, I had to solemnly swear & initial in two places to tell my doctor if I start seeing things, hearing things, or feeling despondent, er, beyond the usual malaise. Like life-endingly despondent. So...not a medication I would have wanted to take as a tween. Or a teenager. Or when I was twenty two. Or anytime from about October '06 to August '07, when I was going through this super-fun thing called Disassociation for the second time. Tho' to its, um, credit, the second verse was mildly different than the first! Good times.

And after all this, can I tell you? I don't even have any scary medical condition. At all. Not like that time a couple years ago when my doctor thought I had cancer. Two weeks before I was set to move cross-country. Luckily, I was too busy to think, let alone despair; & then it was revealed to be naught but a false alarm.

We are awfully susceptible lot of miscreants.