THE EVITA INCIDENT

I haven’t blogged in a while.  Last we (I) spoke, I was in the middle of my Sophia Loren phase.  A lot has gone down since then.  School children and firemen were shot and killed.  We went over a fiscal cliff.  The end of the Mayan calendar didn’t mark the end of civilization as we know it.  People are (as per usual) sick, starving and jobless.  Nobody can get along on anything.  There’s doom and gloom all around… and I’ve been in grad school writing papers, not blogging. 

Let me catch you up on something that happened to me since I last posted an entry.  It happened to me over winter break.

Those who know me (even just a little bit) know that one of my top three favorite past-times is going to Broadway musicals… even the somewhat crappy ones.  As I was in New Jersey / Brooklyn visiting family over the break, I insisted upon going into Manhattan one-day to try to see a show.

SO, the day after Christmas, my family and I took a Lakeland bus from Dover into Mid-Town.  Never mind that I had a Christmas stomachache left-over from the night before.  Never mind that it was supposed to storm later and it might take us three hours to get back into New Jersey.  Never mind that there wasn’t a particular show that I found myself salivating to see.  I just had to see something.  And…  Well…  After standing in the TKTS line, I realized that something was Ricky Martin in EVITA.

I know, right?  I was super jazzed.

Those who know me (even just a little bit) know that Ricky Martin holds a special place in my corazon.  His first album was my JAM.  The opportunity to see him play Che in EVITA made me giddy – and for ½ price.  YEAH.

Never mind that my stomach was gurgling pretty hardcore at this point.  With about an hour before curtain, my family and I decided to hit up the Times Square Olive Garden (we O’Connors are a classy bunch).  Perfect, I thought.  I’ll order a little salad, some soup.  I’ll be great.  Never mind that over lunch, I visited the ladies room three times and my stomach started to hurt even worse.  My sister made fun of me for the spacey, nervous look in my eye.

After lunch, walking felt okay, I suppose.  Never mind that the scent from every falafel cart we passed made me queasy.  When my sister suggested going into a Yankees souvenir store, I said sure.

As I trudged up the stairs of the Yankee apparel place, with each breath, I got more and more nauseated.  At the top, in the excessive warmth of the store, I felt that unmistakable flush in my cheeks – that gaggy feeling.  Now, it was for real.  I was going to vomit.  Before having time to ask the location of the nearest toilet, I started to projectile all over the floor.  Goodbye latkes I had at continental breakfast.  Goodbye Olive Garden. 

Hovering over a massive puddle, trying to catch my breath, I told my mom I felt better and could go see Ricky Martin.  Never mind I had puke in my hair.  My Dad said NO WAY.  I had to go back to the motel in Jersey and he’d go with me.  My sister and my mom would take the tickets to see EVITA.

Though I was disappointed, I knew my dad had a point.  I couldn’t risk throwing up like a five-year-old again – much less in a hallowed hall like the theater.  I needed to go home.

I’ll spare you the details of what happened when we got off the bus in Dover and drove back to the motel.  The details of how I reenacted the disgusting bridal shop scene from BRIDESMAIDS during a sleet storm would probably just gross you out and I’ve done enough of that for one blog entry.

Needless to say, while my Mom and sister were watching the incomparable Ricky Martin, I wasn’t having the time of my life.  In fact, I think I’ve had that nightmare before – missing a Broadway show due to the stomach bug.

SO.

What’s the point of my telling you about all of this?

About a week and a half after what I am lovingly referring to as “The Evita Incident,” I visted a Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Birmingham Museum of Art.  As I gazed upon Rockwell’s old Saturday Evening Post covers, I was struck by the stories that resided within every single image that the guy painted.  Images like these –

I know this sounds weird, y’all, but I found myself wondering what a Saturday Evening Post Cover of my Evita incident would look like – a girl in a blue sweatshirt losing the contents of her stomach in a Yankees souvenir shop, an embarrassed twinkle in her eye.  If people looked at a painting of that – what would they think it meant?  Would it be read as some sort of Anti-Yankee, Pro-Mets statement?  Would it be taken in that same “apple pie America” way that most Norman Rockwell paintings are?  WHAT WOULD IT MEAN? 

What does anything that happens to us MEAN?  Whether it’s an afternoon of the stomach bug, having a vending machine fail to give you what you want, winning the lottery, getting fired or even losing somebody close to you?

What does it mean?

I could give weight to my Evita incident.  I could say that without it, my appreciation of the Norman Rockwell exhibit would have been less.  I could say that without it, I’d have little to blog about.  However, trying to make sense of the events that happen to us can drive us up the wall.

We do it anyway.

It seems impossible sometimes for us as human beings to comprehend that stuff might just happen for no reason and with no real consequence.  Our nature is to constantly question and make sense of everything – to give significance to stuff that might actually be insignificant.

AND –

If I’ve learned anything over the course of winter break, it’s that art and storytelling are an incredible means by which we can reflect on and make sense of things – to make significance of the insignificant.  That’s what I love about it.  That’s why I shared this story with you guys today.

By blogging about missing Evita due to the stomach bug, I’ve somehow elevated the incident and given it more significance – even if it’s just in my head.  Calling out the little incidents and little scenes in our lives makes us stop and take stock of what’s happened to us.  It forces us to pay better attention to our existence – to being alive.

Would anybody notice the above Norman Rockwell paintings if they happened in real life – or is it because they’re solidified on canvas and on magazine covers that we pause to think about them?

Give it a ponder.

I’ve also come to the conclusion, however, that perhaps it’s bad to have the kind of time on your hands where you can ruminate on the little things that happen to you.  For if this is the case, you might write blog entries about vomiting in souvenir stores and really gross folks out.  Maybe I do need to get back to school and to writing papers again.

Ciao for now.

SOPHIA LOREN LOOKS LIKE ME

So, I still have this small dream that lingers deep within my soul.  Okay, maybe it's more of a delusion at this point, but I still hold fast to the notion that......... I'm going to make a movie someday.  And when I do, it will be cathartic.  I'll be able to take my life experiences and all the knowledge I've gleaned from my years spent devouring films and I'll be able to sculpt it into this one giant blob of ME.  And from watching this sure-to-be cinematic masterpiece, people will know me in the greatest sense possible.

Simply put -- watching a movie becomes infinitely more exciting if I can ask myself, "would I make a film like this?"  

I'm a total storytelling narcissist.  I identify myself through the stuff I write and through the movies I love (and subsequently shove down everyone else's throats).  When a friend sitting next to me at the movie theater says of the Silver Linings Playbook trailer, "that looks like you," I get positively giddy... especially when I agree that the Silver Linings Playbook trailer does, in fact, "look like me."

Maybe that little desire deep within my soul is not the desire to make a movie at all.  Maybe it's a desire to find self-definition, to find behavior and stylistic choices that appeal to me on screen and claim them as my own -- to paint a picture of who I really am.  I really, REALLY like having a specific sense of taste (Disney-meets-Hal Ashby) that people are able to pin-point and associate with ME.   

Most people have never seen a film or play that I've written, but somehow Pedro Almodovar's sweeter, more humanitarian flicks remind them of me.  Perhaps it's because I talk a blue streak about how I really like Pedro Almodovar's sweeter, more humanitarian flicks.  

Whatever the case, I just dig it when films possess "my storytelling sensibility".  I dig it when films look or feel like me.

And if you've made it this far, you're probably wondering what Sophia Loren has to do with ANY of this!  

Well, she has EVERYTHING thing to do with it.

Lately, I've been watching her movies like a complete maniac.  Even the not-so-good ones.  Why?  Because I think Sophia Loren looks like me.

Yes, you read that last sentence correctly.  Sophia Loren looks like ME.  When she's at her best, her films are almost representative of everything I adore about cinema.

For the past few weeks, I have been taking lessons from her on how to "own it."  If you really step back and look at Sophia Loren, she's not perfect-looking.  She's got a long, pointy nose with strange, almond-shaped eyes -- and she's got a big booty.  However, from the way she carries herself, you just believe she's the most beautiful woman in the world -- the way she walks with her head up and boobs out, smiling and waving at everybody.  She just doesn't seem to take herself too seriously.  It takes a special type of actor to pull-off an insulting argument with a child, or to do a striptease without objectifying herself and looking like an idiot, but Sophia is able to do it all... endearingly so.  

In fact, she has an incredible knack for bringing out the warmth and humanity in the scabbiest, most unholy of subjects.  I'm pretty sure she wrote the book on how to play "the whore with the heart of gold", which (let's face it) is pretty much one of the biggest, most cliched stock characters in the universe.  However, whenever Sophia plays a sweet-natured prostitute, she somehow feels like the first one you've ever encountered.  

Her multi-decade, multi-faceted career has included work in pretty much every genre there is, but she's really good at realism (of the Italian, Bicycle Thieves variety).  Sophia Loren can work a black & white close-up like nobody else can.  She makes every little mundane task on screen seem incredibly personal to her and you just naturally root for her.  In the same breadth, she can play extremely broad comedy and knock a musical number out of the park!  If there's a genre that "feels like me", it's realism with a touch of humor and musicality... and Sophia Loren would be right at home within it.  

There's also another distinct quality that Sophia brings to the screen.  It's a quality that few other actresses can evoke.  I think it has to do with her upbringing.  Supposedly, until the age of 14, Sophia Loren was a shy, awkward-looking "ugly duckling" who got treated differently in strict Catholic Italy because her mother had her illegitmately.  By the time, she started acting in films, she had grown into her voluptuous self, but still pulled-out that quiet "I need validation" sensibility in her work.  It's such a pleasure to watch many of Sophia Loren's characters (however confident they might appear on the outside) learn to get over their lack of self-love and come into their own.  When she finally lets her guard down and bursts into loud laughter, you feel it -- and if there's one thing I love in movies, it's that.  

Sophia Loren's films, ESPECIALLY her collaborations with director Vittorio de Sica (pic. below) and screenwriter Cesare Zavattini, look and feel like me.  That's why I'm writing this entry today -- to pay tribute to Lady Loren for her 78th birthday (which happened last week) and because this is a space where I like to call attention to the things I love, mainly in movies and pop culture, so that other people can continue to know ME.  I might not be able to make a movie at the moment, but I have a blog.

But seriously, she really does look like me.  I'm pretty sure my grandparents have this photo of me in their collection of lake pictures -- one piece bathing suit, stomach protruding, armpit hair.  She's THE BEST.  

Ciao for now!!!

SPICE JAM

Sometimes, I get struck with a really great hankering to tell a story.  I sit down at my desk or I lie in bed with the computer in front of me -- and I attempt to write something.  More often than not, I just end-up staring at my computer screen with the cursor flashing before my eyes.  I type a few words, but quickly become dissatisfied and tap the erase button.  Despite my hunger to express myself, I can never lower my high expectation bar enough to even begin to say something…  So instead I just allow myself to produce nothing… and I permit myself to flounder in the mentality that it's easier to not try at all.  And after a prolonged period of wallowing, sometimes it's difficult for me to have a great deal of regard for myself.

Over the years, I have discovered that a good cure for the "I'm Not Good Enough" blues is watching the Olympics.  It can sure be inspiring to watch athletes with God-like abilities work unimaginably hard to push themselves to their physical limits.  Living vicariously through their triumph when they break world records and win gold medals is pretty darn fun.  But then I step back again…  and realize that I'm sitting on my bum watching television while other people are actually working and achieving something.  I look at female athletes from middle eastern countries and how hard they have to struggle to get where they are and it makes me feel BEYOND hopelessly lazy.  

Last Sunday I had that pathetic, languid feeling as the London games were coming to a close.  Sure, I was a little glum to see the games go, but I was ready to cease comparing myself to Missy Franklin (and coming up short).  There was, however, one thing that I was excited for…  And that was the rumor I heard that the SPICE GIRLS were going to perform during the closing ceremony.  Actually, I was really, REALLY unbelievably pumped about that.

So, my friend Amanda and I went to dinner and we came back to my apartment and we turned on the TV.  As the ceremony proceeded, I started watching with bated breath.  I realized I was nervous…  Nervous because the Spice Girls were about to come on; nervous because I hadn't seen them in a while.  What if they looked like idiots?  Let's face it -- they are getting on in years.  Most of them have been put through the ringer a few times and almost all of them have kids now.  And I'm older and more sophisticated now too -- admittedly above bubblegum pop. 

I just REALLY didn't want the stupid Spice Girls to look asinine and demolish my precious childhood memories.

AND…  As a bunch of light-up London taxis made their way through Olympic stadium, I took one big, definitive breath.  The Spice Girls emerged.  And BOOM!  I was pleasantly surprised.  Okay -- they're not the greatest singers in the world.  To be fair, they never were.  However, despite their lack of vocal bravado, they have a shamelessness about them and they really know how to heat-up a crowd.  Yes, nearly 15 years since their explosion to prominence, the Spice Girls have still got it.  

Their performance made me incredibly happy and catapulted me back into Spice Mania.   In fact, anytime somebody so much as mentions the Spice Girls, I get pulled back into my obsession for a solid week or so.  Now that I'm a tad older, I finally understand what middle-aged people are talking about when they say that an artist like Pink Floyd or Rod Stewart "takes them back."  

YEAH.

When I think of the Spice Girls, I think about 1997.  I think about my mom taking me to the video/CD store and helping me find their debut album, "Spice."  It was the first CD I ever called my own -- and I still remember ripping it from its plastic packaging and placing it gently into the boom box.  As "Wannabe" blasted through the house, I sprawled out on the playroom floor and stared at the pictures and the lyrics in the CD pullout.  I was 100% entranced.  

The Spice Girls were magical.  They were like my manic big sisters -- older, wiser, cooler and British.  They took me under their wing, empowered me and taught me about all the stuff I wasn't supposed to understand yet -- like boys and sex and curse words.  And they did it all to the tune of a phat dance beat.  They were complete lunatics and they didn't seem to give a care what other peeps thought of them.

Debates would rage for hours on the playground over who was the most superior Spice girl. 

But SERIOUSLY, it was all we were capable of talking about!  One night, my Dad even made a screensaver on the computer that read in scrolling text, "I am sick and tired of hearing about the stupid Spice Girls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Unfortunately, it was all very fleeting -- our collective obsession lasted a little over a year.  Yes, it's hard to believe that in a year and a half, the Spice Girls released only two albums and became the biggest selling female act of ALL TIME…

I still remember very vividly where I was when I heard the unsettling news that sent it all plummeting to the ground.  I was in 4th grade and it was the last week of school before summer vacation.  I was sitting on the school bus and the driver had the radio on.  Some DJ announced that Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell had quit the Spice Girls…  And my heart fell out my ass.  I was in a pissy mood for the rest of the day.   

It was over.  Geri's departure proved that team Spice was a true ensemble -- meaning, they couldn't go on without one of their essential components.  Okay, yeah… they continued to release albums…  But I certainly didn't care about them and I don't think anybody else did.  By the time the Spice Girls officially broke-up, they were totally irrelevant.  

I didn't think that I still cared about the Spice Girls, but (as I said earlier) they would randomly pop up in my life.  I'd find myself dusting off those old CDs and taking them for a spin to find the tunes as catchy as ever.  And when I went to college my roommate and my close friends and I bonded over them.  In fact, the first thing my roommate and I wrote on our door's message board was "Spice Up Your Life."  

I didn't think I cared about it anymore…

But in 2007, when ALL FIVE ladies said they'd be coming back together to do a farewell tour, my heart leapt through the ceiling.  Even though I didn't live remotely close to any of the cities they'd be visiting, I found it comforting to know they were still around, kicking and reunited once again!

Given that 2007 was their FAREWELL tour, I never expected to hear from them again.  It's needless to say that this year's Olympics were great -- and very needless to say that I am in the throws of one of my week-long Spice binges.

I recall going to some Junior Journalism thing in the 4th-grade and choosing to write an article on why kids my age were so fascinated with the Spice Girls.  Here I am, 15 years later and I'm still ruminating and writing on the same subject.  What did we take away from them back then that still resonates with us when we see them today?

Surely, it wasn't the lessons they taught us on how to sell out or be overexposed.  Again, they weren't all that talented.  Aside from their expertly engineered harmonies, they didn't have a sound that was particularly unique to them.  They imitated everybody from The Supremes to The Andrews Sisters to CeCe Peniston.

Hmmmm….

I like to think that it's something beyond nostalgia and overly catchy melodies and paste-on personalities that gets us…

I like to think that there's something in the way that those ladies carry themselves.  They have a self-awareness even to this day that seems to make a mockery of their fame and success. 

It's appealing that despite their foibles as a group, despite stripper pasts, eating disorders, stints in mental hospitals and other decidedly undignified adventures, the Spice Girls can still pick themselves up and get together for a few minutes and raise the roof and shout zig-a-zag-ahhhhhhh!!! 

At the risk of sounding like a fool, I want to say that I am almost as much inspired by the Spice Girls as I am by any of the Olympic athletes.  Unlike Olympians, the Spice Girls probably don't come by their talents and abilities quite as naturally… yet they're able to come together to prove that it's not necessarily about winning, it's about playing the game.

And even though they sometimes look a little dumb, they're able to come together and put on a good show!  

And if the Spice Girls can get it together, I can certainly get it together.  I can stop being so darn insecure and self-depricating and just write what I want to if I really want to.  I can step forward even if it doesn't sound perfect and even I look a little silly.

Because I have girl power.

Ciao for now.

PESSIMISM'S TINY VIRTUE (or my excuse to quote a funny classic TV show on my blog)

Here's a little exchange from Episode 23 of Season 3 of THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW.

MARY:  I'm not so down.
RHODA:  Oh yeah you are.  I mean, admit it Mary, suddenly your life got crummy.  So, it'll get better. It has to.  You're not the crummy life type.  Truly, you aren't.  I am the crummy life type.  You're just on a lousy streak.  I happen to be on a terrific streak, but soon things will be back to normal again.  Tomorrow, you'll meet a crowned head of Europe and marry.  I will have a fat attack; eat 300 peanut butter cups and die.  That's the way it always is.

So, I've been watching a lot of Mary Tyler Moore lately -- and cackling at it.  And it's taught me a little something valuable.

You know when you have a really bad day -- like you get a flat tire -- and it seems like the world as you know it is OVER!?!?!  Don't you always appreciate it when there's someone there to tell you about the time that she got TWO flat tires in one day?  

It might sound crazy, but sometimes I think pessimism, or the "glass half empty" view of life, has a bit of virtue.  Sometimes when somebody shares her whoas and negativity with you, it makes your problems seem smaller.  It helps you to feel better.

...  Right?

I guess (at the very least) it's a nifty storytelling trick.  If you have a show about an optimist (like MTM), pairing her with a cynic just makes her seem all the more radiant and positive... and able to turn the world on with her smile! 

Plus, cynicism and negativity just make for good laughs.

So, here's to eye-rolling, self-doubting sidekicks like Rhoda Morgenstern, whether on sitcoms or in real life.  

I adore them.

And I just needed a good reason to share that hilarious quote on my blog -- and to excuse my negativity by saying that it just might a positive side.

Ciao for now.

FINDING SERENDIPITY IN THE GREAT AMERICAN SONGBOOK

There is a place, or (more accurately) a state of mind called "music euphoria" -- and only the best songs possess the ability to transport one there.

And...

Yesterday, while trying to plum the depths of the so-called "Great American Songbook", I had the good fortune of being transported to that magical place not once, but TWICE.

While plugging various song titles into my spotify account, I stumbled upon a lovely little ditty entitled "Side by Side" recorded by pop/jazz singer Kay Starr in 1953.  The recording features Starr essentially performing a duet with herself -- and in her voice, there is something so elegantly sensuous, yet also carefree and whimsical.  It is this exact happy-go-lucky sultriness that sends one straight into that state of music euphoria.  For me, while listening to "Side by Side", euphoria feels something like visiting a snazzy donut shop just off the highway in Texas in the 1960s.  It feels like my name is Dinah and I'm flirting with congenial truck drivers while sipping black coffee and wearing one of those fabulous check-printed dresses.

I guess I'd like to define music euphoria as a song's ability to make me happy whilst also setting my imagination afire with compelling images -- the ability to transport me to a different time or location.

Check out the song below.  Turn it up, close your eyes (and ignore the youtube picture montage).  Does it make you blissful?  Does it make you think of anything in particular?  Does it transport you some place else?



What about "Yes Sir, That's My Baby" recorded by Frank Sinatra in 1966?



I don't know about you, but for some reason, this song makes me think about tripping the light fantastic with my future spouse during our first dance at our wedding.  WHAT?!  I never think about marriage!  I don't even have a boyfriend!  Perhaps the sense of music euphoria here comes from watching one too many Nora Ephron rom-coms with Harry Connick, Jr. songs in them!  Perhaps.  For whatever reason, this song makes me feel absolutely ecstatic and in love.

So, my ears were pretty stoked about the momentous occasion that was discovering both of these songs within the span of one afternoon.  Because I liked both tunes so much, I decided to look-up who wrote them.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered that both were written by the same lyricist...

Some guy named Gus Kahn...

... who is supposedly a legend of Tin Pan Alley.

Now, I don't know the first thing about Tin Pan Alley, but I do know the unmistakable feeling I get when a piece of music inspires me.  And yesterday, I discovered a new favorite song lyricist from the era of the showtune... and (just possibly) the song for the first dance at my wedding.  No small feat!

The funny thing is that during college, my roommate and I had Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" (the record that "Yes Sir, That's My Baby" is featured on) hanging on our living room wall for two years.  And we never listened to it because neither of us could play vinyl.

The moral of this incredibly random story is that old music is a treasure trove of euphoric tunes, but we're all too caught-up in the present to take a listen.  Maybe now is a good time to actually meet that goal of getting a record player and collecting vinyl.

Ciao.


Your somewhat pretentious friend,

Lauren

HERB

“When I have an apartment of my own, one of the first things I’m going to do is buy an Herb Ritts print to hang on the wall,” said my friend Jhasilyn as we left the Getty Center last week. All I could do was smile and agree with her. Why?

 … because we had come full-circle. Nearly a decade ago, we were two awkward teens in our 9th-grade photography class, presenting a Powerpoint slideshow on the work of a photographer that neither of us knew or truly understood… Herb Ritts.

The year was 2003. Less than two months before our presentation, Ritts had died of complications of pneumonia – and that was pretty much the extent of our familiarity with him. We had seen reports of his death on the news – and were reminded of the Britney Spears and Janet Jackson music videos he directed. When our teacher assigned us the task of researching a photographer and presenting a Powerpoint slideshow on our findings, we decided to do our project on Ritts (because his name was fresh on our minds). After all, the man was famous for directing music videos and photographing celebrities. In the end, that’s the kind of thing that truly matters to 14-year-olds.

What fate it is that ten years after our presentation, Jhasilyn and I should both be in the great city of Los Angeles… and that an exhibition of the work of Herb Ritts should be on display at the Getty Center!

Anyway.

Walking around that great gamut of Ritts prints the other day, I was taken aback by more than just the artistic prettiness in front of me. While gazing upon photos of Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford, I realized that Herb Ritts has had a HUGE influence on my artistic preferences. It’s almost purely a subconscious influence, but it’s one that has held a grip on me for years… and I haven’t even been cognizant of it.

So, what is it about these simple black and white celebrity photographs that have compelled me from a young age and never let me go?

When I was in middle school and the Calvin Klein ad below adorned my Social Studies binder, I had no earthly idea who had taken the picture. Frankly, I didn’t give two craps because I’m pretty sure I liked the picture for something beyond its aesthetic merits. BUT it goes to show that Ritts has been a part of my life since my youth… even when I didn’t know his name.

The first time I registered the name Herb Ritts was when ‘N Sync released the music video for their single “Gone.” It was black and white. It was artsy-fartsy – the kind of music video where you’re really AWARE of the fact that somebody directed it… And the name on the title card was “Herb Ritts.”



Okay, so here’s the part of the blog entry where I try to make a point and tell you why I’m writing all of this in the first place.

It’s a little embarrassing, but I’ll just go ahead and say it.

I absolutely adore black and white films. Quite frankly, it sounds cooler to say that the movies of Elia Kazan or cinematographer Gregg Toland influenced this adoration… rather than a dumb music video by a boy band that’s basically slipped into irrelevancy for most people. While making a film, you can’t really turn to your cinematographer and say “Hey, why don’t we make this look like that N Sync video?” without being chuckled at and taken far less seriously. So, you play it cool and you recommend that he/she take notes on the imagery in Woody Allen’s MANHATTAN.

Well, as always, I’m through trying to be cool in front of other people! This blog makes me look asinine ninety percent of the time anyway.

Herb Ritts and his photos and music videos have influenced my love of black and white more than any classic movie! And Ritts shouldn’t be deemed less relevant or taken less seriously because he worked with a few tongue-in-cheek musical artists… or because he took pictures of some silly celebrities for silly fashion magazines. The man was truly brilliant.

To look at some of his pictures is to take a lesson in photography. Each photograph is an homage to simplicity and contrast. Because his style is so sparse, you really get a sense of the subject he’s photographing. Oftentimes, the subject is a person.

In every aspect of filmmaking, contrast is everything. Actors can’t really play a scene believably unless they possess at least minutely opposing objectives. A film goes nowhere if it lacks a sense of conflict. (And conflict is totally just a fancy way of saying “contrast,” is it not?)

There’s nothing more blatantly contrast-y than black and white photography. So, I find it a great conundrum that more movies aren’t made in black and white.

I’m an old soul. I think Herb Ritts was too. In fact, I think his work helped to make an old soul of me. After all, it took traipsing around a gallery of his work for me to realize I had to put into a blog entry my love of black and white.

Back in 9th grade, Jhasilyn and I didn’t know much about Mr. Ritts. Actually, we still don’t! However, I believe we were on to something when we did our presentation on him. We connected to his work… and how, through black and white imagery, he unearthed the sincerity in his subjects.

And where art is concerned, WHAT is more important than that?

Ciao for now.

THE MOVIE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE (by Corey Harnish)

As a former film student, I am reluctant to answer the simple question, “What’s your favorite movie?” With so many films having impacted me throughout my life, it’s very hard for me to pinpoint the ONE to represent them all... to represent me Corey Harnish. Perhaps I’m putting too much weight onto an innocent question. When starting film school asking this question was how we (as students and about to spend four years of our lives together) got a first impression of each other. You would judge a classmate's taste by his/her answer. Everyone was afraid to say the wrong title. “Pulp Fiction” was a banal answer. “Star Wars” was too nerdy. “Trois couleurs: Bleu” was too pretentious. That stigma still follows me to this day. Does your favorite movie have to be a masterpiece? No.

In fact the movie that has most impacted me and my life isn’t a very good movie at. It’s very flawed. A structural and tonal mess. And yet I love it. I’m not alone (thank God) because this film has a cult following. The film I speak of is...

GREMLINS.

The 1984 Warner Bros. horror-comedy directed by Joe Dante and Executive Produced by Steven Spielberg. In fact it is the first film released under the newly formed Amblin Entertainment. Gremlins was originally scripted by Christopher Columbus (director of Home Alone and first two Harry Potter films) as a straight out horror creature feature. Spielberg decided to blend tones by making the Gremlin creatures be just as funny as they are scary. Director Dante took that note and ran with it. The film was a huge hit with a minor controversy over the film’s violence for a PG rated film which along with Indiana Jones And The Temple of Doom motivated the need for a new rating PG-13.

Why does this movie speak to me? To answer that I have to mentally travel back in time to when I was a child. I recall seeing a commercial for the television broadcast premiere of Gremlins around the time the second film was opening in theaters. The images of Christmas, monsters both furry and scaly, green slime, and the terrific theme by Jerry Goldsmith tugged ay curiosity. I saw only half of the movie (with numerous commercial interruptions). I recall having to go somewhere to do something with my Dad. What I saw had such an impact on me that I begged my Mom to rent the video. She did more than that... she bought it. I remember sitting in the car alone while my Mom went inside. She came out and held the VHS up to the window with a smile. I probably watched that VHS tape a bazillion times. In fact I was banned from watching it because I would act like a Gremlin after watching it. To outsmart my parents I switched the cases of Gremlins and E.T.. That way when my parents asked me if I was watching Gremlins I could show them the empty E.T. case and say that was what I was watching. It didn’t work.

What Gremlins did for me was spark my imagination. It was such an odd mix of humor and horror that I wasn’t sure when to laugh. As I look back to the short films I’ve directed or the features I’ve written I notice a odd humor that I think comes subconsciously from the awkwardness of numerous Gremlin viewings as a child. I was a weird kid and my love for that movie just pushed me further out into strange-dom. During a parent teacher conference, Mrs. Simms my second grade teacher showed various drawings of creatures and monsters to my Mom expressing concern over the unusual imagery. My Mom asked me not to draw that stuff at school.

Now when I watch the film I see the flaws. It can’t make up its mind if it wants to be a horror or a comedy. Some of the jokes and references are so dated that they no longer have resonance. And of course there is the infamous sad Santa story that I go back and fourth on how I feel about. But watching it makes me recall how I felt at age five or six watching the film. Little odd details that made in impression to me as a child.

Perhaps I love Gremlins because it reminds me of my childhood. The days when I didn’t have to work to earn money and play was my biggest concern. One thing is for sure, Gremlins impacted and molded my imagination as child. Then, Star Wars took off where Gremlins left off.

Twenty some odd years later I still draw monsters.



Just so you know: Corey Harnish and I went to film school together. We were in all the same classes freshman year. During school, we liked to dine out together and gossip about people.