Recently, the Onion did a thing. Someone on the staff tweeted that the tiny baby in the sparkly movie was a seaward... am I getting that right? Anyway, whatever they called her, some people got ab.so.lute.ly out.raged, which like, is kind of The Onion's M.O., am I wrong? To make an outlandish joke that will deeply offend the exact people the core of the joke is about? Like, for instance, all the weenies who sit at home to watch the Oscars and have no qualms about bitching over and categorizing and insulting the women on the red carpet, who then gladly sit through an entirely misogynistic pageant of women-hating and homophobia (and casual Old World racism)-- but who bunch their own panties into tight little balls to shove up their own asses in outrage and frustration when the butt of the joke happens to be a little too young for us to demonize yet without them actually having to examine their own consciences about how we treat women and girls in general.
And that's just my point, really-- Quvenzhané Wallis isn't and never was the butt of the joke. True to its core values, The Onion calling a little girl a cunt isn't about how much that little girl is actually a cunt-- it's about how much she isn't and couldn't possibly be, but how the catty and tactless news media portray other girls that way, constantly, even when they aren't or couldn't possibly be. The use of the striking word, cunt, is literally the only difference (and the source of the joke, if you'll allow me to explain comedy to you for a minute here) between The Onion's joke about Quvenzhané and the way women and girls are represented always and forever.
And here's the heartbreaking part: The Onion, bastion of comedic integrity, actually bowed to the pressure and apologized. They broke character, broke the fourth wall for the first time ever in order to apologize for a joke that maybe wasn't very funny but still perfectly resonated with the spirit of the organization: that the disenfranchised aren't jokes, the people who do the disenfranchising are the jokes.
So here's the part where I ask, speaking about the damn Oscars, when god damn Seth fucking MacFarland is going to apologize for his slew of vile and unfunny jokes against women and girls, some of whom were very recently little Quvenzhané Wallises. During the actual awards ceremony, on national television instead of one comment on a Twitter feed, MacFarland strung together the easiest, laziest line of jokes I've heard since The Honeymooners made spousal abuse into a side-splitting (literally!!!) half-hour laugh riot. If comedy is an art, we just watched MacFarlane shit out a macaroni necklace and paid him handsomely for it. Then we hung it on the fridge for everyone to see, because good for him for trying, little guy!
But my point is this: while The Onion felt it had to apologize (and I still can't read any of their articles the same way after that atrocity--I am of course speaking of the apology, and not the tweet) after making a joke with rude word in it, (also, shut up @thedailyshow for bitching about how nine-year-olds don't understand irony, the tweet @wasntmeantforQuvenzhané) we, as a nation, don't feel any need to take MacFarlane to task for his purposeful, hateful jokes where the women actually are the butt of the joke, the girls and minorities are the disenfranchised that we're additionally shitting on. Guys, I know irony is hard, but like... get a grip before you go ruining another amazing thing.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Les Miserables: A Review
FINALLY it is the review you've all been dying to hear: What does Sara Florence Fellini, the transcendent "Eponine" from Our Lady of Victory Parish's 2004 production of Les Miserables have to say about the new film? Well, hang on to your petticoats because I'm about to commit some serious heresy right now: Not only did I fucking love this film, but I think, in terms of plot points, plot arches, and character arches, it's actually a complete improvement on the musical version, and I am speaking as an amateur scholar on all things Les Misérables. You can suck on that for a bit, or you can read my obsessively detailed explanations why. Let's dig in.
Heads up, there are some serious spoilers peppered throughout this entire article, but if you don't already know roughly how Les Misérables goes then you should be fired upon with a revolver from 1830 while you sing a sad, introspective song about being poor and misérable.
I'm going to begin at the beginning, but first I need you to do me a favor: I need you to admit to yourself that if you are a "theatre person", you wanted so hard to hate this movie. You wanted to nitpick and complain about famous actors playing the parts over obscure Broadway people, you wanted to hate the (absolutely necessary for filmmaking, and for artistic integrity in general) re-ordering of the scenes and re-orchestration of some music and re-writing of some lyrics, and you wanted to seethe over the weird new song. And that is just what you did: you came into the theatre wanting nothing less than a stage version of Les Mis that someone happened to catch with phenomenal film and sound equipment, and you congratulated yourself the whole time on loving theater so much that you noticed every replaced word and missing line in "Red and Black". To you, I say shut up. First of all, if I hear one more damn person complaining about movies that are made out of books/musicals/literally any kind of source material whatsoever that aren't precisely the same work portrayed in a different venue, I am going to storm your Bastille, cut your head off, and nail your babies to church doors. Then I am going to subsequently lose my power over you, starve in abject poverty for a few decades, and then fuck your shit up once more, with a little more gusto and longevity this time. So I'm asking you, especially you, theater-lovers, to hear me out for a freaking second before you continue your oral thesis on auto-tune.
First off, and let's get this out of the way: there is a lot of God metaphors, and... they're not exactly subtle. But here's the thing: when was the last time you met a person who had never heard of the Lord Jesus Christ, and was consequently unfamiliar with some of his imagery? Never. You have never met that person. So, when you have a character like Jean Valjean... so steeped in religious iconic imagery in every aspect, you would be remiss to neglect throwing a crucifix-looking thing at him every once in a while. So in the first scene, Jean Valjean carries a crucifix in the form of the French flag, serving as both a Christ image and a symbol of the crushing weight of being French in 1815. Also, oppression. French oppression. And--so, maybe there's no reason for him to pick the flag up and carry it two feet before he drops it right back in the mud, exactly where it was to begin with... but, friends, this is a movie, and sometimes the flashing images are more vital than the absolutely logical reason behind them. Or lack thereof. Perhaps we didn't need Dr. T.J. Eckleberg peeping over Valjean's shoulder during "God on High"-- but I will venture to suggest that maybe that's exactly what we needed. Because it was pretty, and it was obvious, and Jean Valjean is Jesus, and also Nick Carraway? Yes. Why not.
Overall, the Chain Gang scene is just, infinitely better on film, but really that's just a matter of logistics. You're not going to haul a nineteenth century boat hull onto a revolving stage for one scene that can easily be done other ways, Broadway or not. But if your heart doesn't thrill at that enormous, storm-battered ship being dragged into harbor by some hobo guys with ropes, you are dead inside. You are Inspector Javert condemning his own mother as scum for birthing him in a jail cell, is who you are. Meanwhile, the aforementioned Javert looks like a piss-ant in this scene, in his stupid little bright blue newspaper hat, and that is satisfying.
PRO TIP for non theater-people: DO NOT let Russell Crowe ruin this movie for you. He wants to ruin this movie for you, with his meted, "I-am-sing-ing-now", choppy singing, but you do not let him. You just say to yourself "Fuck you, Javert. You just want to ruin this movie because you kind of come off as a dick in it, even though the story and characterization is rich enough that you are also somewhat justified. Just fuck off, Inspector. You think you're something, but it's me who runs this town."
I'll say this: Russell Crowe is fine. He sort of plays Javert the way a high-school-hopeful-theatre-arts-major would if he was way too excited to be playing a bad guy. His singing is, fine. His acting is, fine. Could he have added layers of depth to the rigid, doggedly persistent hunter? Yes. Did he? He did not. He plays the character by-the-book, which... maybe is just really meta? I don't know, I don't even like Russell Crowe. You people are the ones who like him, you explain it. But I also think that part of his sorry performance is that it lives in the shadow of some truly magnificent performances and he just comes off looking even worse as a result. I will be the first to agree that there is so much more potential to the character than Crowe reaps, but as for the direction? A more seamless cover-up has never been implicated: for every moment that Crowe should be expressing something other than stony disapproval of desperately poor people but clearly isn't going to deliver, the camera will swoop across a broad panorama of old timey Paris in the rain, using a device that should be an obvious smokescreen (from a director whose main focus is historically on intimate characterization) in order to foreshadow Javert's ultimate suicide. When Javert should be displaying conflict instead of a calculated decision to jump into the Seine, we're treated to a breathtaking view of the violent, crashing river. If Tom Hooper had directed The Matrix, we might have just believed that Keanu Reeves was a human male instead of the alien cyborg we know him to be, so we all very well dodged a bullet there. A French bullet. From a musket. Revolution!
He even added a satisfying <crunch> as he hits the graded embankment so we could all enjoy Javert's death a little more than we probably should. Thank you, Tom Hooper!
Also, they cut Eponine's part... and... I'm glad of it. As much as I enjoyed playing Eponine when I was fourteen and then again, in my head, every time I listened to the soundtrack anywhere and at any time for years, she actually kind of sucks as a character. Because while Cosette is definitely two-dimensional (although in the movie, she is at least shown giving money to the poor as an indication of her Christian service, and therefore gains major clout as a respectable, fully-formed character) Eponine is really the only character that is just, some whiny little teenage girl, who is also hugely stupid. In the musical, she's infuriating while she continues to be an errand boy for Marius and Cosette, and then she's a big fat idiot for coming back to the barricade just so she can continue to look longingly at Marius and sigh. Guys, I know we love Eponine because she looks adorable in boy-clothes... but honestly, it just makes more sense for Gavroche to deliver the letter and Eponine to die earlier--and to die trying to save Marius! After he threatened to blow up the barricade! Nods to the epic book! Yay, Marius is less of a whiny baby in the movie!
The following barricade scene was simply a matter of choice: it was either going to be a sweeping panorama, or a study of characters within a battle. Seeing as the musical itself is already a sweeping panorama and we're dealing with Tom Hooper, we got a razor's edge portrayal of the heroic death of these young men, with a clarity and intimacy that was probably much closer to the actual reality of the early days in the revolution. In my opinion. I wasn't actually there. I will admit that I was waiting for the delicate pizzicato and the subsequent swell of violins as we made a sweep of the dead rebels over the barricade... but again, it was either/or. You can't combine the two storytelling techniques, or it gets messy. And again, nods to the book and the relationship between Enjolras and Grantaire.... when they die together. Tears! Tears! Weeping! Baby Gavroche with a medal of honor!
Meanwhile, the "Do You Hear the People Sing" scene, with the slow build and rebels storming the funeral procession of General LaMarque instead of randomly riding a cart around Paris? It had my French husband weeping for France... for liberté!
I'll stop now. But Anne Hathaway was transcendent. "I Dreamed a Dream" should always be after "Lovely Ladies", forever and ever. Amen.
Heads up, there are some serious spoilers peppered throughout this entire article, but if you don't already know roughly how Les Misérables goes then you should be fired upon with a revolver from 1830 while you sing a sad, introspective song about being poor and misérable.
I'm going to begin at the beginning, but first I need you to do me a favor: I need you to admit to yourself that if you are a "theatre person", you wanted so hard to hate this movie. You wanted to nitpick and complain about famous actors playing the parts over obscure Broadway people, you wanted to hate the (absolutely necessary for filmmaking, and for artistic integrity in general) re-ordering of the scenes and re-orchestration of some music and re-writing of some lyrics, and you wanted to seethe over the weird new song. And that is just what you did: you came into the theatre wanting nothing less than a stage version of Les Mis that someone happened to catch with phenomenal film and sound equipment, and you congratulated yourself the whole time on loving theater so much that you noticed every replaced word and missing line in "Red and Black". To you, I say shut up. First of all, if I hear one more damn person complaining about movies that are made out of books/musicals/literally any kind of source material whatsoever that aren't precisely the same work portrayed in a different venue, I am going to storm your Bastille, cut your head off, and nail your babies to church doors. Then I am going to subsequently lose my power over you, starve in abject poverty for a few decades, and then fuck your shit up once more, with a little more gusto and longevity this time. So I'm asking you, especially you, theater-lovers, to hear me out for a freaking second before you continue your oral thesis on auto-tune.
First off, and let's get this out of the way: there is a lot of God metaphors, and... they're not exactly subtle. But here's the thing: when was the last time you met a person who had never heard of the Lord Jesus Christ, and was consequently unfamiliar with some of his imagery? Never. You have never met that person. So, when you have a character like Jean Valjean... so steeped in religious iconic imagery in every aspect, you would be remiss to neglect throwing a crucifix-looking thing at him every once in a while. So in the first scene, Jean Valjean carries a crucifix in the form of the French flag, serving as both a Christ image and a symbol of the crushing weight of being French in 1815. Also, oppression. French oppression. And--so, maybe there's no reason for him to pick the flag up and carry it two feet before he drops it right back in the mud, exactly where it was to begin with... but, friends, this is a movie, and sometimes the flashing images are more vital than the absolutely logical reason behind them. Or lack thereof. Perhaps we didn't need Dr. T.J. Eckleberg peeping over Valjean's shoulder during "God on High"-- but I will venture to suggest that maybe that's exactly what we needed. Because it was pretty, and it was obvious, and Jean Valjean is Jesus, and also Nick Carraway? Yes. Why not.
Overall, the Chain Gang scene is just, infinitely better on film, but really that's just a matter of logistics. You're not going to haul a nineteenth century boat hull onto a revolving stage for one scene that can easily be done other ways, Broadway or not. But if your heart doesn't thrill at that enormous, storm-battered ship being dragged into harbor by some hobo guys with ropes, you are dead inside. You are Inspector Javert condemning his own mother as scum for birthing him in a jail cell, is who you are. Meanwhile, the aforementioned Javert looks like a piss-ant in this scene, in his stupid little bright blue newspaper hat, and that is satisfying.
PRO TIP for non theater-people: DO NOT let Russell Crowe ruin this movie for you. He wants to ruin this movie for you, with his meted, "I-am-sing-ing-now", choppy singing, but you do not let him. You just say to yourself "Fuck you, Javert. You just want to ruin this movie because you kind of come off as a dick in it, even though the story and characterization is rich enough that you are also somewhat justified. Just fuck off, Inspector. You think you're something, but it's me who runs this town."
I'll say this: Russell Crowe is fine. He sort of plays Javert the way a high-school-hopeful-theatre-arts-major would if he was way too excited to be playing a bad guy. His singing is, fine. His acting is, fine. Could he have added layers of depth to the rigid, doggedly persistent hunter? Yes. Did he? He did not. He plays the character by-the-book, which... maybe is just really meta? I don't know, I don't even like Russell Crowe. You people are the ones who like him, you explain it. But I also think that part of his sorry performance is that it lives in the shadow of some truly magnificent performances and he just comes off looking even worse as a result. I will be the first to agree that there is so much more potential to the character than Crowe reaps, but as for the direction? A more seamless cover-up has never been implicated: for every moment that Crowe should be expressing something other than stony disapproval of desperately poor people but clearly isn't going to deliver, the camera will swoop across a broad panorama of old timey Paris in the rain, using a device that should be an obvious smokescreen (from a director whose main focus is historically on intimate characterization) in order to foreshadow Javert's ultimate suicide. When Javert should be displaying conflict instead of a calculated decision to jump into the Seine, we're treated to a breathtaking view of the violent, crashing river. If Tom Hooper had directed The Matrix, we might have just believed that Keanu Reeves was a human male instead of the alien cyborg we know him to be, so we all very well dodged a bullet there. A French bullet. From a musket. Revolution!
He even added a satisfying <crunch> as he hits the graded embankment so we could all enjoy Javert's death a little more than we probably should. Thank you, Tom Hooper!
Also, they cut Eponine's part... and... I'm glad of it. As much as I enjoyed playing Eponine when I was fourteen and then again, in my head, every time I listened to the soundtrack anywhere and at any time for years, she actually kind of sucks as a character. Because while Cosette is definitely two-dimensional (although in the movie, she is at least shown giving money to the poor as an indication of her Christian service, and therefore gains major clout as a respectable, fully-formed character) Eponine is really the only character that is just, some whiny little teenage girl, who is also hugely stupid. In the musical, she's infuriating while she continues to be an errand boy for Marius and Cosette, and then she's a big fat idiot for coming back to the barricade just so she can continue to look longingly at Marius and sigh. Guys, I know we love Eponine because she looks adorable in boy-clothes... but honestly, it just makes more sense for Gavroche to deliver the letter and Eponine to die earlier--and to die trying to save Marius! After he threatened to blow up the barricade! Nods to the epic book! Yay, Marius is less of a whiny baby in the movie!
The following barricade scene was simply a matter of choice: it was either going to be a sweeping panorama, or a study of characters within a battle. Seeing as the musical itself is already a sweeping panorama and we're dealing with Tom Hooper, we got a razor's edge portrayal of the heroic death of these young men, with a clarity and intimacy that was probably much closer to the actual reality of the early days in the revolution. In my opinion. I wasn't actually there. I will admit that I was waiting for the delicate pizzicato and the subsequent swell of violins as we made a sweep of the dead rebels over the barricade... but again, it was either/or. You can't combine the two storytelling techniques, or it gets messy. And again, nods to the book and the relationship between Enjolras and Grantaire.... when they die together. Tears! Tears! Weeping! Baby Gavroche with a medal of honor!
Meanwhile, the "Do You Hear the People Sing" scene, with the slow build and rebels storming the funeral procession of General LaMarque instead of randomly riding a cart around Paris? It had my French husband weeping for France... for liberté!
I'll stop now. But Anne Hathaway was transcendent. "I Dreamed a Dream" should always be after "Lovely Ladies", forever and ever. Amen.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
"How to Feel Better When You Have a Cold (For Girls)", A Review
I don't know if anyone else traverses the dark and twisted world of Wikihow with the intensity and fervor that I do-- that of a bewildered but insatiable conquistador, searching for answers to my life's questions and not unwilling to rape the native wisdom for my own advantage-- but I've discovered in my virtual journeying that when you're in dire straits, Wikihow is like the fickle waves of the ocean... or like the fickle wiles of a woman. Or like, a fickle, wily ocean.
My metaphor has gotten away from me.
Suffice it to say that if you're idly browsing the web looking for ways to make a snake memo clip from a plastic straw or appreciate death metal, Wikihow will satisfy you beyond your wildest dreams. If, however, you are looking for a quick and reasonably sane way to do anything normal, I have disappointing news. You're going to have to wade through a veritable wily ocean of half-cocked well-wishers before you reach anything even halfway useful, and that's only if you ignore the Nazi insignia in the background of the home photo illustrations or the ambiguous sexual innuendo peppering your article on how to Attract Birds.
Sadly, I discovered this fact when I had a terrible fever and Wiki-howed a way to bring it down to a level I could possibly survive for more than a few hours. In my already confused and vulnerable state, I came across this natural disaster of a Wiki-how: How to Feel Better When You Have a Cold (For Girls), and I thought to myself: I have a cold, and I can also be qualified as a girl under the vagueness that term allows us in English, therefore fortune has shined upon me, if only the room would stop spinning long enough for me to read it.
Now, okay, granted, this Wiki-how is definitely not the weirdest or most mis-spelled or most clearly-a-magical-curse-on-the-reader, but I have a personal resentment against it because not only does it suck, and it most certainly does suck, but it sucks in such a long-winded, roundabout way that it is clearly a trap for the feverish minds it's supposed to be trying to help. Also, while I appreciate the attempt in the title to forewarn the reader that this is gonna be some stupid shit by specifying that it's "For Girls", as if girls have different colds than boys (maybe their phlegm is pink and rose-scented? Maybe their temperature reaches 143 and has an XOXO at the end? If so, you should really go to a hospital immediately if you are not dead already), it's really not enough of a red flag for me.
First off, I'd like to point out that this guide has twenty-two steps. Twenty-two. That is an incredible amount of steps. When I'm sick I can't even get through the two steps of 1) blowing my nose and 2) throwing my tissues out before I create a little diseased nest for myself inside my own bed. Twenty-two goddamn steps. Next, I'd like to point out that exactly five of the first ten steps are some form of "you should probably sleep at some point, or get ready to sleep", and the last eleven steps are how to take a "soaking" bath, which I guess is different from a regular bath in some way, and could be its own useless Wiki-how. Also one of the first eleven steps is to read the last eleven steps. That's not a joke.
There are an egregious amount of Tips. If Wiki-how Tips were a war crime, and this article certainly makes a fine case for that, these Tips would be an atrocity rivaling a Civil War battle... which is amazing considering that the author makes very little distinction between the "Steps", (which you'll recognize as numbered activities meant to be done, in some sort of order, to accomplish a kind of focused goal) and "Tips" (which are pointers, meant to aid you in accomplishing your goal of making the fever-ants stop crawling up your veins). So the entire article is just an absolute mess of disordered "Tips", that I can not stress enough, are completely, insultingly stupid. Things like "Don't take your teddy bear in the bath with you!" are given entire bullet points to themselves. In fact, I'm going to list some here, and why they are ridiculous.
-"Try going out and buying some Chap Stick"
Fuck you, Wiki-how. I am sick, I am not going anywhere, and this Tip falls between suggesting I take a bath and suggesting I not take a bath with a teddy bear.
-"Try buying a lavender-scented pillow"
WHERE the hell am I supposed to find a lavender scented pillow? That is something that would stress me out even if I wasn't poaching an egg in my mouth.
-"Do whatever you find relaxing in your spare time"
I didn't need a freaking Wiki-how to tell me to do what I already know how to do. You tell me what I find relaxing in my spare time, Wiki-how.
-"Avoid makeup. It will only make you feel more rubbish. (If you are a kid, ignore this tip!)"
Makeup for all the sick kids! Important note: this is the only mildly gender-specific tip on the list, so I guess this explains the title...?
Basically, I just hate this fucking Wiki-how and I wanted you to know about it. The only excuse for this Wiki-how is if it was actually written by me, during a nightmarish fever-dream, trying to cure myself of my own fever through a mystical and circuitous riddle.
My metaphor has gotten away from me.
Suffice it to say that if you're idly browsing the web looking for ways to make a snake memo clip from a plastic straw or appreciate death metal, Wikihow will satisfy you beyond your wildest dreams. If, however, you are looking for a quick and reasonably sane way to do anything normal, I have disappointing news. You're going to have to wade through a veritable wily ocean of half-cocked well-wishers before you reach anything even halfway useful, and that's only if you ignore the Nazi insignia in the background of the home photo illustrations or the ambiguous sexual innuendo peppering your article on how to Attract Birds.
Sadly, I discovered this fact when I had a terrible fever and Wiki-howed a way to bring it down to a level I could possibly survive for more than a few hours. In my already confused and vulnerable state, I came across this natural disaster of a Wiki-how: How to Feel Better When You Have a Cold (For Girls), and I thought to myself: I have a cold, and I can also be qualified as a girl under the vagueness that term allows us in English, therefore fortune has shined upon me, if only the room would stop spinning long enough for me to read it.
Now, okay, granted, this Wiki-how is definitely not the weirdest or most mis-spelled or most clearly-a-magical-curse-on-the-reader, but I have a personal resentment against it because not only does it suck, and it most certainly does suck, but it sucks in such a long-winded, roundabout way that it is clearly a trap for the feverish minds it's supposed to be trying to help. Also, while I appreciate the attempt in the title to forewarn the reader that this is gonna be some stupid shit by specifying that it's "For Girls", as if girls have different colds than boys (maybe their phlegm is pink and rose-scented? Maybe their temperature reaches 143 and has an XOXO at the end? If so, you should really go to a hospital immediately if you are not dead already), it's really not enough of a red flag for me.
First off, I'd like to point out that this guide has twenty-two steps. Twenty-two. That is an incredible amount of steps. When I'm sick I can't even get through the two steps of 1) blowing my nose and 2) throwing my tissues out before I create a little diseased nest for myself inside my own bed. Twenty-two goddamn steps. Next, I'd like to point out that exactly five of the first ten steps are some form of "you should probably sleep at some point, or get ready to sleep", and the last eleven steps are how to take a "soaking" bath, which I guess is different from a regular bath in some way, and could be its own useless Wiki-how. Also one of the first eleven steps is to read the last eleven steps. That's not a joke.
There are an egregious amount of Tips. If Wiki-how Tips were a war crime, and this article certainly makes a fine case for that, these Tips would be an atrocity rivaling a Civil War battle... which is amazing considering that the author makes very little distinction between the "Steps", (which you'll recognize as numbered activities meant to be done, in some sort of order, to accomplish a kind of focused goal) and "Tips" (which are pointers, meant to aid you in accomplishing your goal of making the fever-ants stop crawling up your veins). So the entire article is just an absolute mess of disordered "Tips", that I can not stress enough, are completely, insultingly stupid. Things like "Don't take your teddy bear in the bath with you!" are given entire bullet points to themselves. In fact, I'm going to list some here, and why they are ridiculous.
-"Try going out and buying some Chap Stick"
Fuck you, Wiki-how. I am sick, I am not going anywhere, and this Tip falls between suggesting I take a bath and suggesting I not take a bath with a teddy bear.
-"Try buying a lavender-scented pillow"
WHERE the hell am I supposed to find a lavender scented pillow? That is something that would stress me out even if I wasn't poaching an egg in my mouth.
-"Do whatever you find relaxing in your spare time"
I didn't need a freaking Wiki-how to tell me to do what I already know how to do. You tell me what I find relaxing in my spare time, Wiki-how.
-"Avoid makeup. It will only make you feel more rubbish. (If you are a kid, ignore this tip!)"
Makeup for all the sick kids! Important note: this is the only mildly gender-specific tip on the list, so I guess this explains the title...?
Basically, I just hate this fucking Wiki-how and I wanted you to know about it. The only excuse for this Wiki-how is if it was actually written by me, during a nightmarish fever-dream, trying to cure myself of my own fever through a mystical and circuitous riddle.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Francaises fatales
The other night I was cuddling with Julien, like we do, my head tucked into the crook of his neck. I started to say something, whatever it was, and as I looked up into his face I saw that he had been glaring down at me, with the sort of wild, wide-eyed stare you only see when they take photos of serial killers for the newspaper or in movies where Gene Wilder is crazy. Like... he'd just been sitting there, doing that, while I wasn't looking.
The words stopped coming out of my mouth as soon as I realized I was snuggling with a murder-owl, and Julien started, then told me Sorry, he was just "stretching his eyes". Like, as if that's a thing that people do. Stretching their goddamn eyes.
The words stopped coming out of my mouth as soon as I realized I was snuggling with a murder-owl, and Julien started, then told me Sorry, he was just "stretching his eyes". Like, as if that's a thing that people do. Stretching their goddamn eyes.
To make a long story short, I just think everyone should know that French people are fucking terrifying.
For instance, to continue to use my husband as an example, he has two differently shaped legs; one is normal if not a little bit knobby (a word that he probably does not know, but if you're reading this it means that your knees and ankles are rounded in contrast to your skinny legs, sweet pea) while the other is this gnarled tree branch that props up half his body like a particularly unlucky pirate didn't have an axe or any sandpaper and had to cobble a makeshift leg out of some driftwood, which all told is not really that scary. The scary part is how he partly acquired his weird crooked leg, and that is obviously through various soccer injuries (read: French) but also by being kicked by a stranger in Paris who broke his ankle and left him for dead.
How could this happen in Paris, you ask? City of Lights, adorable tiny pastries, adorable tiny coffee cups, and an historical architectural landmark that sparkles and sometimes dances on holidays? Well, let's talk a little bit about Paris. It's what my Scottish friend once described as a "donut city", which I'm not totally sure is an actual term, as it may be just a food-based metaphor he used to explain European socio-economics to this fat American person. The Paris that we know--i.e. the Paris used as a short-hand in teen chick flicks for someone who is rich and obnoxiously fancy or super-cultured and well-traveled or as a character to juxtapose with our good ol' American farm-boy who can't speak proper English because of an assumed head injury after I guess a fucking goat kicked him in his big fat American head.... Anyway, that Paris is in the center, where the tourism and financial districts are focused. But all around the city are crazy poor neighborhoods: and I mean actually crazy poor. Like poor, but also goddamn nuts.
Par example, on New Year's morning, Julien was scoffing at the French news (something I do with regularity also, but for different reasons) because the new, transparent government had decided to list the number of parked cars that the citizenry had burned out on the streets by location, meaning that for all intents and purposes the article read like a sports score, pitting poor neighborhoods against each other for the most New Year's celebratory exploded street vehicles. What? Why are the people burning down random cars on the street and killing innocent passersby? "...because it's New Year's." Bonne année!
But the French somehow got this limp-dick cowardly stereotype from Americans who were pissed about World War 2, when the French were invaded by the damn Nazis who were like right next door, and invading the shit out of everybody. I mean, if you're going to be invaded, you might as well be invaded by Nazis. It's nothing to sneeze at, is what I am saying. Meanwhile most of the actual people of France were either too French to notice the invasion or Résisting Nazis with fire and explosions. Just, suffice it to say that you don't get the kind of health and social welfare benefits the French have if your government isn't petrified of what you do when you're mad.
For instance, to continue to use my husband as an example, he has two differently shaped legs; one is normal if not a little bit knobby (a word that he probably does not know, but if you're reading this it means that your knees and ankles are rounded in contrast to your skinny legs, sweet pea) while the other is this gnarled tree branch that props up half his body like a particularly unlucky pirate didn't have an axe or any sandpaper and had to cobble a makeshift leg out of some driftwood, which all told is not really that scary. The scary part is how he partly acquired his weird crooked leg, and that is obviously through various soccer injuries (read: French) but also by being kicked by a stranger in Paris who broke his ankle and left him for dead.
How could this happen in Paris, you ask? City of Lights, adorable tiny pastries, adorable tiny coffee cups, and an historical architectural landmark that sparkles and sometimes dances on holidays? Well, let's talk a little bit about Paris. It's what my Scottish friend once described as a "donut city", which I'm not totally sure is an actual term, as it may be just a food-based metaphor he used to explain European socio-economics to this fat American person. The Paris that we know--i.e. the Paris used as a short-hand in teen chick flicks for someone who is rich and obnoxiously fancy or super-cultured and well-traveled or as a character to juxtapose with our good ol' American farm-boy who can't speak proper English because of an assumed head injury after I guess a fucking goat kicked him in his big fat American head.... Anyway, that Paris is in the center, where the tourism and financial districts are focused. But all around the city are crazy poor neighborhoods: and I mean actually crazy poor. Like poor, but also goddamn nuts.
Par example, on New Year's morning, Julien was scoffing at the French news (something I do with regularity also, but for different reasons) because the new, transparent government had decided to list the number of parked cars that the citizenry had burned out on the streets by location, meaning that for all intents and purposes the article read like a sports score, pitting poor neighborhoods against each other for the most New Year's celebratory exploded street vehicles. What? Why are the people burning down random cars on the street and killing innocent passersby? "...because it's New Year's." Bonne année!
But the French somehow got this limp-dick cowardly stereotype from Americans who were pissed about World War 2, when the French were invaded by the damn Nazis who were like right next door, and invading the shit out of everybody. I mean, if you're going to be invaded, you might as well be invaded by Nazis. It's nothing to sneeze at, is what I am saying. Meanwhile most of the actual people of France were either too French to notice the invasion or Résisting Nazis with fire and explosions. Just, suffice it to say that you don't get the kind of health and social welfare benefits the French have if your government isn't petrified of what you do when you're mad.
Which brings us to the Revolution(s), which I don't have to tell you were bananas. People sometimes like to make the case that Americans love their guns because we have such a history with them; we won our independence from monarchial rule through the use of our shitty, old timey guns. If that's true, then all I have to say is thank God the French don't feel the same way because instead of school shootings we'd be hearing a lot more about babies crucified on Church doors, etc. etc. It doesn't help that in French, you can pretty much translate any kind of long pointy object (needles, pine needles, pointy sticks, pikes) as pique, which is the direct translation of our word for "pike"... which you'll recognize as a word with the sole English meaning of "stick that you put a head on, and maybe dance around a bit with it for the joy of murdering your enemies in the most brutal fashion available to you". So whenever Julien asks me to hand him a "pike", made that much more ominous by his French accent and the history of his people that it calls to mind, we pretty much just sit, staring at each other in pregnant silence, until he corrects himself or I start to cry.
I suppose I shouldn't have been so shocked that Julien's mom gave me not one but two recipes to cook my pet rabbit...
I suppose I shouldn't have been so shocked that Julien's mom gave me not one but two recipes to cook my pet rabbit...
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Outright lies about art history
Gian Lorenzo Bernini was perhaps the most talented and influential sculptor of the Baroque era. His mastery of texture and tension flawlessly wove ancient classic traditions with contemporary conceptions of stagnant energy, potential movement. His brilliant designs balanced weight and empty space in sophisticated compositions, bodies and forms twisting and breathing in pristine, unpainted marble. Also, he was a huge dickbag.
If you can think of a statue or fountain in Rome that wasn't carved by Michelangelo di Buonarroti, it was carved by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. But the exquisite moulding of lifeless stone into sumptuous, tangible flesh was really just a hobby to Bernini, who preferred to concentrate most of his creative energy on being a lecherous, thieving bastard.
He would consistently steal commissions from his rivals, even going so far as to take work outside of his field of expertise. When he heard the great architect Francesco Borromini was in line to design the Baldacchino (a free-standing chuppa-like bronze structure standing directly under the great dome in St. Peter's Basilica), Bernini got all up in that shit without even the slightest idea of how to make stuff stand up on its own.
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"More tassels! I have no idea what I'm doing."
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Then, after Borromini had to step in and basically forge the entire thing himself-- saving Bernini the humiliation of failure and a hefty commission check-- Bernini still took all the credit and pretty much told Borromini to just go fuck himself.
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"Borromini? More like Borro-weenie, amiright, ladies?"
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So Francesco Borromini had no high opinions of the man who defined a generation of marble pubic hair. But to the rest of seventeenth century Europe, Gian Lorenzo Bernini was the personification of hawtness.
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Personification of hawtness.
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He was charming, handsome, polite to the right people, and an exceptionally gifted artist. Until he was literally forced to marry by the goddamn Pope because he caused too much trouble as a single man, Bernini was like a liveried postillion with a post chaise.
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Everybody gets a ride.
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As of 1623 the female orgasm wouldn't be invented for at least another three hundred years yet, and many believe that Gian Lorenzo Bernini was a pioneer in this field thanks to his multitude of mistresses and nude female models.
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(Gian Lorenzo Bernini may cause hysterical paroxysm.)
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One romantic debacle in particular featured a woman named Costanza Bonarelli. She was married to one of Bernini's assistants, and so we must assume the artist never worked on this slutty bust in the workshop:
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Her name means "constancy". LOL
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Seeing as Costanza was cheating on her husband with Bernini, it came as no surprise to anyone that she was also cheating on Bernini with another man. Except to Bernini. Bernini was surprised. Particularly because the other man was Bernini's own brother, Luigi.
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When Bernini discovered the sad truth that his cheating cheater girlfriend was cheating, he did what any completely sane and reasonable adult would do: he beat his brother half to death with a rod in the middle of the Vatican. More specifically, he went to the not-so-constant-Costanza and told her, while shifting his eyes left to right and rubbing his palms together, that he'd be out of town for the weekend. Yes, that's right... out of town. For the weekend. Then the master sculptor and defining artist of the Baroque era crouched in a bush outside to wait, likely muttering to himself and picking branches out of his pansied trunk hose.
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17th century fashions were not conducive to violent acts of desperation.
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When Luigi showed up to deflower the Princess Peach, Bernini burst from concealment and chased him through the streets of Rome, brandishing a tire iron or something. Bernini caught up with his brother at St. Peter's Basilica and decided this was as good a place as any to attempted-murder his ass.
Meanwhile, one of Bernini's cronies was arriving at Costanza's house to slash her face apart.
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This was before the invention of the peephole. Apparently.
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After all the violence was over, Bernini received a small fine for his crimes and was forced to marry a wealthy daughter of Italian nobility, with whom he fathered like twenty children.
But Bernini's work began to suffer when he wasn't seducing your wife and eldest daughter, and his lack of architectural skill or knowledge caught up with him when he designed an entirely retarded addition to the Vatican. It was thankfully ended mid-construction when our old friend Borromini pointed out its inherent flaws, such as "sinking into the ground" and "cracking at the foundation". It was the biggest failure of Bernini's career until he died at the horny old age of 82.
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When a piece of the Vatican chipped off and crushed him to death. [citation needed]
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