Action Movie Buddy Seeks Same

While casting about oh so fruitlessly on Facebook for someone - ANYONE - who would see the 80s action classic Miami Connection with me at TIFF, I came to a realization. My Toronto friends don't like action movies.

Which means I must not have any true Toronto friends at all... right? 

No, my friends are just too classy for me. Well, to solve this problem, I turned to the same place which had solved so many in the past. Or at least the place which helped me sell my old crockpot: Craigslist. In the "strictly platonic" section, I posted the following ad:

While I love all my friends dearly, these friends don't seem to love cult action movies. What? I know! Shameful. So I'm looking for people who would get as excited about screenings of They Live! and Miami Connection as I do. (Cross-posting to both genders, because ass-kicking knows no labels.)  

Since I chose the "strictly platonic" section, this naturally meant I was looking for the following type of reply:

You sound "A" OKee but the problem with you is your age. Basic data: I am single, white, born and raised in Europe, blond & blue eyed, 52 y.o.a., 5'11", clean shaven, no tattoos, no STDs, no smokes, no drugs. I am straight, "naturally dominant", mature, sane with a good sense of humour.

Oh yeah. The problem with me is my age. Instead of your age. And YOU. And oh, Craigslist. Where nothing is ever truly platonic. Not even, probably, the "for sale: rvs" section.

The Before Midnight Trailer

Some people like Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. And some other people are terrible, miserable human beings, whom you should not be friends with. It's a simple division. Since we can safely ignore the second group, here is some news which will interest the first: Before Midnight, the third film in the series, finally has a trailer.

Of course I'm as excited to see where Celine and Jesse are now, and what they'll talk about, as a fan waiting for Iron Man 3. However, I don't think Before Midnight can replace Before Sunrise in the fondest corner of my heart, just as Before Sunset was doomed to always be a distant second. In the first movie, Jesse and Celine, as young strangers, are so perfectly unguarded and unspoiled that you know it can only last for a moment. Because they still had their whole life to choose, there was no sadness at the cost of their choices - even if they made the right ones. Before Sunset was perfect but sad, because Jesse and Celine had clearly learned that life was not one long romantic night in Vienna. And as perfect as the movie was, it's harder to love something that's darker. Anyway, as an indication of how important these movies were to me, here's a story as I shared it on a friend's Facebook wall:

So, for some reason a post you commented on re. Before Midnight showed up on my news feed, which reminded me of a story. Back when I lived in Victoria, I was having a bad week and thought I would take an impromptu trip to Vancouver. My rough plan was to go without any commitments, meet some nice BC hero, and have a Before Sunrise-type gambol throughout the city. Instead I spent like 6 hours walking by myself through Vancouver's storage unit district and injured my knee. The closest I got to a genuine connection was the look I exchanged with a raccoon crawling out of the library's garbage can at 3 in the morning. WHERE'S MY MOVIE, LINKLATER???

The Family Porno: Stoker, Reviewed

If there's one thing I'm learning not to trust about movies, it's my own expectations. Hopes bite in the dark. Like Prometheus, which wasn't worth the effort I made to keep myself spoiler-free. Nor the cost of the ticket. Or even the TTC token I'm pretty sure I dropped in the theatre. 

More recently, Stoker let me down. The trailer had me all excited - Hitchcock crosses the Mason-Dixon line! - but the result was a hot mess, country-style. The plot is not unlike Shadow of a Doubt, though Mia Wasikowska's India Stoker is a far more sinister protagonist than Teresa Wright's Young Charlie. Still, they are both threatened by an Uncle Charlie. And though the solutions to their family difficulties are wildly different, their actions bring them both into their sexual maturity. Of course, this is less direct if we go back to the Hitchcock. Somewhat less shower masturbation, if I remember correctly. Because it's Park Chan-wook, there's sex. And in Stoker it teeters instead of balancing on the knife's edge of incest. However, it's not the sex which makes Stoker so silly. Needing to be either less or more stylized, to revel in its deep-fried absurdity or tone it down a little, what's on screen just looks awkward. You admire its ambitions. Even as you giggle at their results.

Pillow Blog: Small Pleasures

Another commentary-free list, this time of things which have made me feel content in the past few days. Gotta balance the consistent negativity of the last few posts.

1. Kraft Dinner
2. The fur on my cat's forehead
3. Having a cappuccino and a pastry between an appointment and work
4. The light in the Wychwood library branch
5. The smell of Earl Grey tea
6. Wearing handknit socks and leggings
7. Thinking of Trinity Bellwoods park in the summertime
8. Rediscovering my Sleater-Kinney CD
9. Two quilts on a cold night
10. Texts featuring my dog from my Dad

Pillow Blog: Irritation

A list of things that have irritated me today, as my tooth holes remain tender. Presented without commentary.

1. My cat
2. Amanda Palmer
3. TED talks
4. Ice cream
5. Me, for eating too much ice cream
6. My stomach, for not being able to hold too much ice cream
7. This guy
8. That guy
9. That other guy
10. Chamber music

Skate, Baby, Skate

Grace, beauty, strength, puffy shirts.

One of the great benefits of being doped up on Tylenol 3 this past week was an excuse to spend some quality time with sequins. The World Figure Skating Championships were on, which meant I was on the couch, considering the status of my favourite sport/art. Over the years my position on figure skating has mutated from outright contempt to secret shame and, finally, open support. It combines all of the things I love: athleticism... drama... headbands. It's opera with jumps, and ballet with blades.

It's also a sport that's having some problems.

In the '90s, skating seemed to have dug its toepicks into the fantasies of young women. But after a decade of judging scandals and North American talent lying fallow, things have changed. These championships were held in a minor league hockey arena, and skating revues are struggling not to close. As an interested observer, I'm wondering what the solution could be. Well, you can always pray that a spunky American girl can Cinderella-skate to gold, which would at least make a great movie. But part of a more reliable solution might be in fixing a fix - in other words, re-adjusting the scoring changes which were supposed to make the sport more objective. This seemed like a good idea, as I watched most of the men struggle through their free skate on Friday. Forced into throwing quads they couldn't land, which kept their points up but their spirits low, a few them looked like they would rather stab themselves in the neck with their skate than finish their routine. It's also difficult for audiences, who see clean skates score lower than trickier ones. If that fails, though, I recommend hiring whoever designed the Russian ice dancing costumes below to design all of the costumes from here to Sochi. Just think of the tie-in clothing deals you could run with H&M.

Farewell, Wisdom (Teeth)

My wisdom teeth were pulled out this morning. And nobody gave me any Percocet to replace them. Just a handful of Tylenol 3's.

I was also only mildly sedated, which the nurse assured me would give me enough amnesia to forget the surgery. Though I definitely have a memory of yelling "Isschme! Ischme!" while they tried to remove the most stubborn tooth. Only to clearly spit out "Itchy!!" once they removed whatever was keeping my jaw propped up and have a coughing fit, for whatever reason. Fortunately, I'm feeling more of a general nausea and irritation than any real pain post-surgery. Though the swelling has given me a window into the future, or at least of my aging process. And it is jowly. I'm also wondering what my new nervous tic will be, since I no longer have some emerging teeth to run my tongue over. Anyway, if you haven't had your wisdom teeth out yet, I wouldn't recommend doing it until you've procured the following: an oversized vintage Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. And something stronger than Tylenol 3's.

Greetings from the BiMonSciFiCon

I was in Montreal on Saturday, and I'm here in Guelph on Monday. But where was I on Sunday? Considering my proximity to LeVar Burton, Patrick Stewart and Jonathan Frakes, it must have been the command deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise. But really, it was the basement of the Toronto Convention Centre. And there was a rotund man in a leopard thong somewhere over my left shoulder. 

My ex-roommate (and preferred friend) Basement Joe had invited me to Toronto's Comic Con. I went because, in spite of my nearly impeccable nerd credentials, I had never been to a real convention. I had been to zine shows and the Toronto Comic Arts Festival. But actual conventions were a step too far. Even though I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet. Because I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet.  Angel! Bishop! Cannonball! And so on, until X-Man. That's knowledge best left to wither in the brain.

 

And yet, as the years go on, you become more comfortable in your own skin, or at least your own X-Men t-shirt (XL, little boy's department, Zellers, 2004.) Which had unfortunately gone missing before this weekend, but mentally I was ready. And so I took the long ride to the convention centre. The closer I came, the more costumes I saw, so I didn't even really need the address to find the building. The assorted Stormtroopers and Catwomen made a trail to its doors. And then down the escalators, to the basement, where we belonged. You could get the cast of Star Trek: TNG to sign your stuff, and you could definitely buy that stuff, but sometimes the con seemed as much about being seen as not. Like some sort of pop Bois de Boulogne, the crowds shuffled around the centre, admiring and being admired at how accurately they had dragged their favourite fandoms into reality. 

At the ComicCon, signs get flipped. Dress up like a sexy lady TARDIS with a phone booth hat and wander around the Eaton's Centre, you'll get looks. Dress up in a plain skirt and shirt while almost buying a Golden Age crime comic, and you'll get more. I was a part of this group, but not, and when I checked the price on the polypropylene bag, I just felt poor. 

Stupid Smarch Weather

Thank God February's over.

Let us never speak of that month again.

Fortunately, a new one's just started. My friend who was incredibly sick near the tail end of February appears to be on the mend, and I have a week and a half of vacation coming to me. If I can just triumph over my coming midterm, all should be well. Onward and upward with the arts!