Like any other twenty-something, I eagerly counted down the days until the releaes of the Jonze WTWTA.
Karen O. enticed me with her siren sounds as I bathed in the glow of the trailer on TV and my computer over and over until the fateful day.
I bought my tickets online and ahead of schedule opening day. I arrived first and saved eight seats for my party.
I pretended to ignore the swarms of children who I was convinced were not the target audience of this film. And you know what? I was right.
While the break from technicolor candy coating was welcome and the soundtrack was appropriately visceral yet playful, the script was an atrocity.
I have trouble with most interpretations from book to film, but somehow I thought this would be the exception. Alas. Everyone makes their own internal interpretations when experiencing art. Though shades can be shared, most artistic experiences are highly personal. The leap between media is often too great to bridge for an entire generation.
Anywho, back to specifics. Sendak's original wild things seemed ferocious yet irreverant. Bellicose yet social. Jonze's wild things could be wild, but more often were overwhelmed.
Pleas of "make the sadness go away" and accusations of "you were supposed to take care of everything" were regurgitated throughout with a settling heaviness.
My wild things enjoyed their king but they were also able to take care of themselves and take a joke.
A nostalgic visit turned into a heavy drag through forced pathos without catharsis.
Boo.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Stop Rockstaring at Me
As a “new kid,” the last thing you want to do is stand out in a not so positive manner. I learned this lesson the hard way. Walking into middle school with stitches in one’s face after banging into a door is an example of what not to do if you want to make friends, trust me.
Finding myself in a new school ten years later, I vowed never to make the same mistake again. But fate had something different in mind.
It all started on taco night in my new place. Surrounded by beige carpet, eggshell walls and other lonely, neutral colors, I hoped that the scratchiness in my throat was a result of singing in my car.
Alas, the next day it was confirmed that I had a cold.
Days 1-3 Symptoms: sore throat, swollen glands. Run of the mill.
Days 4 and 5 Symptoms: friends dubbed it the sexy, raspy voice. Inappropriate phone messages and calls made to demonstrate the effect of said voice. Also did a reading of Cosmos’s latest sex tips at a going away party.
Day 6 Symptoms: mucous.
Day 6 unfortunately coincided with the first day of class.
Sliding into the back of French was the easy part. After the first cough, my cover was blown. I was officially spotted and tagged as a potential disease carrier, even though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website clarifies that “[i]n general, the flu is worse than the common cold, and symptoms such as fever, body aches, extreme tiredness, and dry cough are more common and intense.” None of which I had. Nevertheless, the headlines abounding about H1N1 virus and the swine flu clause in all syllabi made each and every sniffle a source of extreme suspicion.
But it’s not as if I don’t care. I do. I was determined to take every germ precaution offered possible even though I was sure I was not contagious.
Case in point: the hand sanitizer at the Reitz Union elevator bank. Perfect!, I thought as I hurried over. Not so much. While my hands may have been cleaner, they surely didn’t look that way. What I thought would be gel turned out to be foam; a non-absorbing, white, semi-liquid foam which did not actually look like hand sanitizer. Was there really any way to avoid public embarrassment in my circumstances?
No. The coughing attack began in a stadium style lecture hall. My eyes watered. The harder I tried to suppress it, the more my lungs wanted to explode with a racking cough that made my whole body shudder. Way to make a good first impression, right?
But the real point of this self-deprecatory rant is really that we all need to relax just a little bit. Not only is the stress of the first week of school mostly self-imposed yet unnecessary worry, but so is thinking that you will die from swine flu.
Though this is not in any way advising against normal medical precautions, let’s not go overboard here. It’s tempting to listen to sensationalism but maybe not so healthy. Instead, simple advice is often the best. Take your vitamin C, get a reasonable amount of sleep and plan on packing your own hand sanitizer.
Finding myself in a new school ten years later, I vowed never to make the same mistake again. But fate had something different in mind.
It all started on taco night in my new place. Surrounded by beige carpet, eggshell walls and other lonely, neutral colors, I hoped that the scratchiness in my throat was a result of singing in my car.
Alas, the next day it was confirmed that I had a cold.
Days 1-3 Symptoms: sore throat, swollen glands. Run of the mill.
Days 4 and 5 Symptoms: friends dubbed it the sexy, raspy voice. Inappropriate phone messages and calls made to demonstrate the effect of said voice. Also did a reading of Cosmos’s latest sex tips at a going away party.
Day 6 Symptoms: mucous.
Day 6 unfortunately coincided with the first day of class.
Sliding into the back of French was the easy part. After the first cough, my cover was blown. I was officially spotted and tagged as a potential disease carrier, even though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website clarifies that “[i]n general, the flu is worse than the common cold, and symptoms such as fever, body aches, extreme tiredness, and dry cough are more common and intense.” None of which I had. Nevertheless, the headlines abounding about H1N1 virus and the swine flu clause in all syllabi made each and every sniffle a source of extreme suspicion.
But it’s not as if I don’t care. I do. I was determined to take every germ precaution offered possible even though I was sure I was not contagious.
Case in point: the hand sanitizer at the Reitz Union elevator bank. Perfect!, I thought as I hurried over. Not so much. While my hands may have been cleaner, they surely didn’t look that way. What I thought would be gel turned out to be foam; a non-absorbing, white, semi-liquid foam which did not actually look like hand sanitizer. Was there really any way to avoid public embarrassment in my circumstances?
No. The coughing attack began in a stadium style lecture hall. My eyes watered. The harder I tried to suppress it, the more my lungs wanted to explode with a racking cough that made my whole body shudder. Way to make a good first impression, right?
But the real point of this self-deprecatory rant is really that we all need to relax just a little bit. Not only is the stress of the first week of school mostly self-imposed yet unnecessary worry, but so is thinking that you will die from swine flu.
Though this is not in any way advising against normal medical precautions, let’s not go overboard here. It’s tempting to listen to sensationalism but maybe not so healthy. Instead, simple advice is often the best. Take your vitamin C, get a reasonable amount of sleep and plan on packing your own hand sanitizer.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sterility
Not that kind.
The hospital kind. The professional kind. Really what I'm referring to is the museum kind.
I think I am a pretty intent art appreciator. However, something about museums has never totally clicked 100% for me.
My earliest memory is of the MET. My mom took me relatively often when we were in the city, and I always bee lined to the gift shop at a dead run whenever possible. It was the most magnificent place I had ever been. Games, toys, books, colors, puzzles, science experiements.
My favorite was the lanyard set for making keychains.
The museum itself never did it for me.
I would prefer to see one piece by itself than thousands of pieces competing for my attention, eventually overwhelming me to the point where my awareness viewed all of the pieces as a continuous blur.
I have since returned and often enjoy myself if I focus on one exhibit. The moment we start wandering, it's all over and I just want a hot dog and the hard stone steps of the entrance.
When I was 20, I visited the Brooklyn Museum to see both an Annie Leibovitz exhibit and a Ron Mueck exhibit. I was blown away and thought my aversion to museums had finally been cured.
Then I visited the MOCA in Los Angeles. Again, there was a turn off that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The exhibit I visited was amazing and featured Robert Frank's portfolio of The Americans. But as I began weaving away from the photography, I began to get angry. Modern art often makes me angry (not always, but usually).
Well, it was the modern art and not the museum, I thought.
Then again, I visited a small art museum. Something was not clicking.
Then it came to me: the sterility.
I felt like I was walking on eggshells. The guards were constanly watching me. I couldn't get too close to a piece to see the detail. Some of the prints were too small for the huge, white walls that held them. I was shushed.
But how many of these artists intended for their pieces to be viewed as a static?
As a generality, many artists are rife with eccentricities and I wouldn't say "reserved" is a quality that is required of the artist. Sure, there is the "brooding" artist. But many must be kind of out there. And even if they aren't, they are still people and, like the rest of us, probably don't like being shushed and pushed and watched and advised.
Looking through an art book, in privacy and without intrustion, offers much more thrill to me.
Currently, I am looking through The Photo Book, Phaidon's megalithic bible of images.
Within seconds, I am captivated by James Abbe's informal portrait of Bessie Love. Taken during a break from a photo shoot, the nude actress warms herself by the fire. The beauty, the story, the energy is overwhelming.
Had I seen this in a museum, with a guard hovering over my shoulder, would I have felt the same?
The hospital kind. The professional kind. Really what I'm referring to is the museum kind.
I think I am a pretty intent art appreciator. However, something about museums has never totally clicked 100% for me.
My earliest memory is of the MET. My mom took me relatively often when we were in the city, and I always bee lined to the gift shop at a dead run whenever possible. It was the most magnificent place I had ever been. Games, toys, books, colors, puzzles, science experiements.
My favorite was the lanyard set for making keychains.
The museum itself never did it for me.
I would prefer to see one piece by itself than thousands of pieces competing for my attention, eventually overwhelming me to the point where my awareness viewed all of the pieces as a continuous blur.
I have since returned and often enjoy myself if I focus on one exhibit. The moment we start wandering, it's all over and I just want a hot dog and the hard stone steps of the entrance.
When I was 20, I visited the Brooklyn Museum to see both an Annie Leibovitz exhibit and a Ron Mueck exhibit. I was blown away and thought my aversion to museums had finally been cured.
Then I visited the MOCA in Los Angeles. Again, there was a turn off that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The exhibit I visited was amazing and featured Robert Frank's portfolio of The Americans. But as I began weaving away from the photography, I began to get angry. Modern art often makes me angry (not always, but usually).
Well, it was the modern art and not the museum, I thought.
Then again, I visited a small art museum. Something was not clicking.
Then it came to me: the sterility.
I felt like I was walking on eggshells. The guards were constanly watching me. I couldn't get too close to a piece to see the detail. Some of the prints were too small for the huge, white walls that held them. I was shushed.
But how many of these artists intended for their pieces to be viewed as a static?
As a generality, many artists are rife with eccentricities and I wouldn't say "reserved" is a quality that is required of the artist. Sure, there is the "brooding" artist. But many must be kind of out there. And even if they aren't, they are still people and, like the rest of us, probably don't like being shushed and pushed and watched and advised.
Looking through an art book, in privacy and without intrustion, offers much more thrill to me.
Currently, I am looking through The Photo Book, Phaidon's megalithic bible of images.
Within seconds, I am captivated by James Abbe's informal portrait of Bessie Love. Taken during a break from a photo shoot, the nude actress warms herself by the fire. The beauty, the story, the energy is overwhelming.
Had I seen this in a museum, with a guard hovering over my shoulder, would I have felt the same?
The Journalist Procrastinator
What makes something newsworthy?
Various things: interest, proximity, importance and something my professor likes to call (and aptly so) the sexy factor. But maybe one of the most important is timeliness.
If you're the last to know, it ain't news no more. And if you're the last to know and you're a journalist, you're also screwed.
If you are like me, you thrive on last-minute projects that go in just under the wire. This works if you have an actual deadline. Quite well actually. But if you are a freelancer, you have to hustle. The only deadlines are the ones you set yourself.
On this particular Saturday morning, I had intended to visit the Thornebrook Art Festival, suggested by local artist Roberto Evans. My alarm went off promptly at 9:09 a.m. Reflexes just as catlike in the wee hours, the disturbance was promptly snoozed about 10 times.
And just like that the opportunity was gone. I had time enough to get ready and report to my volunteer post.
Next order of business: make a motivational poster featuring the word "hustle."
Various things: interest, proximity, importance and something my professor likes to call (and aptly so) the sexy factor. But maybe one of the most important is timeliness.
If you're the last to know, it ain't news no more. And if you're the last to know and you're a journalist, you're also screwed.
If you are like me, you thrive on last-minute projects that go in just under the wire. This works if you have an actual deadline. Quite well actually. But if you are a freelancer, you have to hustle. The only deadlines are the ones you set yourself.
On this particular Saturday morning, I had intended to visit the Thornebrook Art Festival, suggested by local artist Roberto Evans. My alarm went off promptly at 9:09 a.m. Reflexes just as catlike in the wee hours, the disturbance was promptly snoozed about 10 times.
And just like that the opportunity was gone. I had time enough to get ready and report to my volunteer post.
Next order of business: make a motivational poster featuring the word "hustle."
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