As philosophical debates go, this one was right up my alley. Words or art, which matters more?
With a fellow art and word lover in tow, we sat down at the Criterion for "Words and Pictures," both a battle of that issue as well as a middle-aged romance.
Unfortunately for us, everyone else in the very small crowd was long past middle age, meaning they talked throughout the movie stating the obvious ("He's going to get drunk!") and generally moving around more than anyone needs to in 115 minutes.
But I digress.
At the heart of the film was a "war" between an arts honors class taught by the luminescent Juliette Binoche and an English honors class led by the handsome to a fault Clive Owen to prove which - words or pictures- was more capable of conveying something.
As a card-carrying art lover and one who makes her living with words (and often writing about art), I fell somewhere squarely in the middle of that debate.
But it got me thinking about something that has been mentioned to me time and time again. Why don't I ever put pictures on my blog? Wouldn't photos help my readers see the things I devote so many words to? Give us pictures, Karen!
My response is always the same. This blog is about words and my goal always to paint a picture with words and bring my reader along with me so he or she can feel like they experienced what I did.
Posting pictures holds no appeal, but of course I'm in the minority on that. Hell, that's why they came up with Tumblr so people could use pictures instead of words to blog.
But that's not what I want to do.
I want to share things I overhear people say. I want to tell you what I think of something and not just show you what it looks like. I want to paint a picture without ever picking up a paintbrush.
And as long as I'm at it, I'd like to be as beautiful as Juliette and have a wordy man like Clive say things to me such as, "I've been studying your ass for months."
And when he does, I will tell you, dear reader, in far too many words (because I can go on and on) what a thrill it gave me to hear him say that.
But there will be no picture of my ass.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Monday, June 16, 2014
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Fairy Tale for a Fine Day
Sometimes, only a fable will do.
After yesterday's tornadoes or microbursts (they just keep making up these terms, don't they?), today's crystalline skies and dry air made for a day a photographer friend referred to as cool, bright and beautiful.
It's a description I wouldn't mind being called myself.
And by the time I finished doing my necessaries, I wanted an evening just as wonderful, some sort of lovely escapism, something as exquisite as this day.
So naturally I went to see my first Wes Anderson film.
I know, I know, but somehow I hadn't, so there you have it.
Perhaps because it was my first, I found "Moonrise Kingdom" touching, whimsical and earnest.
And since I revel in period details, watching a film set in 1965 was a visual treat, both for the veracity and the occasional misstep.
Coffee percolators weren't electric, they sat on stoves.
Men wore white socks with black shoes,
Men and boys wore shorts that were actually short (no doubt offensive by today's standards).
No one, not even the island's only policeman, used a seat belt.
Kids sprawled on the floor listening to record players and playing Parcheesi all summer long.
Scout leaders smoked, even when they were doing troop activities.
Twelve-year old girls wore dresses that short and knee socks that high.
All perfectly 1965.
But I would argue that a woman, much less one working for Social Services, would not have worn a pantsuit in 1965.
Pantsuits came into vogue in the late 60s and more so the 70s. By the time pantsuits came in, hats were out.
Also, the young hero asks his heroine if she's depressed. I'm willing to bet the farm that no twelve-year old would have asked that question in 1965.
But that's nitpicking and overall, the evocation of the era of LBJ's "Great Society" was charmingly evoked.
And besides charm, there was the wistful depiction of first love, albeit in a most fantastical setting.
The tale of two kids who run away together to the other side of an island was rife with first passion.
After the two go swimming in the cove, they hang their clothes up to dry.
That affords a golden opportunity for him to paint her in her training bra and high-waisted flowered underpants, which he does wearing his own underwear.
She's brought along her record player (and spare batteries) so they play the French singer Francoise Hardy's record her Grandma had given her, dancing to it on the sand.
Despite their youth, both scenes were sweetly romantic.
And certainly their conversation about what they wanted to do when they grew up was.
"Go on an adventure and not get stuck," she tells him, no doubt already aware that her own parents are very much stuck in lives they couldn't have wanted.
Coincidentally, that's exactly what I want to do when I grow up.
Therein lies today's lesson in film.
When it comes to life, Wes Anderson and I are on the same page.
After yesterday's tornadoes or microbursts (they just keep making up these terms, don't they?), today's crystalline skies and dry air made for a day a photographer friend referred to as cool, bright and beautiful.
It's a description I wouldn't mind being called myself.
And by the time I finished doing my necessaries, I wanted an evening just as wonderful, some sort of lovely escapism, something as exquisite as this day.
So naturally I went to see my first Wes Anderson film.
I know, I know, but somehow I hadn't, so there you have it.
Perhaps because it was my first, I found "Moonrise Kingdom" touching, whimsical and earnest.
And since I revel in period details, watching a film set in 1965 was a visual treat, both for the veracity and the occasional misstep.
Coffee percolators weren't electric, they sat on stoves.
Men wore white socks with black shoes,
Men and boys wore shorts that were actually short (no doubt offensive by today's standards).
No one, not even the island's only policeman, used a seat belt.
Kids sprawled on the floor listening to record players and playing Parcheesi all summer long.
Scout leaders smoked, even when they were doing troop activities.
Twelve-year old girls wore dresses that short and knee socks that high.
All perfectly 1965.
But I would argue that a woman, much less one working for Social Services, would not have worn a pantsuit in 1965.
Pantsuits came into vogue in the late 60s and more so the 70s. By the time pantsuits came in, hats were out.
Also, the young hero asks his heroine if she's depressed. I'm willing to bet the farm that no twelve-year old would have asked that question in 1965.
But that's nitpicking and overall, the evocation of the era of LBJ's "Great Society" was charmingly evoked.
And besides charm, there was the wistful depiction of first love, albeit in a most fantastical setting.
The tale of two kids who run away together to the other side of an island was rife with first passion.
After the two go swimming in the cove, they hang their clothes up to dry.
That affords a golden opportunity for him to paint her in her training bra and high-waisted flowered underpants, which he does wearing his own underwear.
She's brought along her record player (and spare batteries) so they play the French singer Francoise Hardy's record her Grandma had given her, dancing to it on the sand.
Despite their youth, both scenes were sweetly romantic.
And certainly their conversation about what they wanted to do when they grew up was.
"Go on an adventure and not get stuck," she tells him, no doubt already aware that her own parents are very much stuck in lives they couldn't have wanted.
Coincidentally, that's exactly what I want to do when I grow up.
Therein lies today's lesson in film.
When it comes to life, Wes Anderson and I are on the same page.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Raisin in the Henrico Theater
Gloomy weather aside, my reasons were twofold for wanting to go to the movies this afternoon.
Ever since I saw the Design 2010 show at the Virginia Center for Architecture, I've been wanting to see the renovated interior of the art deco Henrico Theater, over in a part of town I seldom frequent (the last time was to Farmer Jack's to buy a turkey; don't ask).
And I'd never seen A Raisin in the Sun, surely an egregious omission.
I barely made it into the lobby before being surrounded by the myriad reasons the judges had chosen the theater for a design excellence award.
I paid my dollar admission and began to ogle.
The inside is beautifully restored, with carpeting recreated from a salvaged scrap, the original paint colors, lots of gleaming silver and the feel of a bygone era. In the lobby sits an enormous projector once used in the theater.
Movie posters decorate the walls.
And inside the auditorium are comfortable seats, with the rows spaced far enough apart that there is actually a large gap between the patrons' knees and the next row.
The Byrd and the Westhampton had made forget such a thing was possible in an old theater.
My only complaint was that there was no concession stand and no eating or drinking in the theater.
Too bad, really, since our culture all but requires eating while movie going.
I made do.
Somehow I'd never seen 1961's A Raisin in the Sun, despite having read it in what, high school, college?
I at least knew it was based on a play, so I wasn't expecting much in the way of varied locations.
And, unlike some people, I'm okay with films that mimic plays.
The claustrophobic feel of the apartment was a big component of the characters' lives, so it made sense to keep shots close and stage-like.
As usual, I loved the 60s-era details.
When Ruth gets up in the morning, her bottle of milk and newspaper are on the windowsill waiting for her.
The family shares a bathroom down the hall with other tenants.
When Mama comes back from shopping, her reusable tote in hand and full, Ruth chides her about wearing herself out going cross town to the markets instead of using one the new supermarkets.
But Mama wants none of a place with "buggies, belts and meat wrapped up like candy."
Come to think of it, Mama was espousing exactly the kind of food shopping many people are trying to go back to now.
And it wouldn't be the 1960s without cringe-worthy, politically incorrect dialogue, like "How come all you college boys wear those faggoty-looking white shoes?"
When Ruth unexpectedly finds herself pregnant, she puts down a five dollar deposit with the local back street abortionist.
On the more uplifting side, the film dealt with the emerging interest by blacks in their identity and African heritage.
The contrast between Mama, who had no knowledge of or interest in Africa, and her daughter, who was trying to embrace all things black, showed the cultural shift as the sixties took hold.
And of course, Sidney Poitier, such a superb actor and one of the handsomest men ever to grace a screen, was sheer pleasure to look at for two-plus hours, especially in tonal black and white film.
Naturally my favorite line of dialog came from his character.
Sometimes it's just hard to let the future begin.
And sometimes you just can't wait.
Ever since I saw the Design 2010 show at the Virginia Center for Architecture, I've been wanting to see the renovated interior of the art deco Henrico Theater, over in a part of town I seldom frequent (the last time was to Farmer Jack's to buy a turkey; don't ask).
And I'd never seen A Raisin in the Sun, surely an egregious omission.
I barely made it into the lobby before being surrounded by the myriad reasons the judges had chosen the theater for a design excellence award.
I paid my dollar admission and began to ogle.
The inside is beautifully restored, with carpeting recreated from a salvaged scrap, the original paint colors, lots of gleaming silver and the feel of a bygone era. In the lobby sits an enormous projector once used in the theater.
Movie posters decorate the walls.
And inside the auditorium are comfortable seats, with the rows spaced far enough apart that there is actually a large gap between the patrons' knees and the next row.
The Byrd and the Westhampton had made forget such a thing was possible in an old theater.
My only complaint was that there was no concession stand and no eating or drinking in the theater.
Too bad, really, since our culture all but requires eating while movie going.
I made do.
Somehow I'd never seen 1961's A Raisin in the Sun, despite having read it in what, high school, college?
I at least knew it was based on a play, so I wasn't expecting much in the way of varied locations.
And, unlike some people, I'm okay with films that mimic plays.
The claustrophobic feel of the apartment was a big component of the characters' lives, so it made sense to keep shots close and stage-like.
As usual, I loved the 60s-era details.
When Ruth gets up in the morning, her bottle of milk and newspaper are on the windowsill waiting for her.
The family shares a bathroom down the hall with other tenants.
When Mama comes back from shopping, her reusable tote in hand and full, Ruth chides her about wearing herself out going cross town to the markets instead of using one the new supermarkets.
But Mama wants none of a place with "buggies, belts and meat wrapped up like candy."
Come to think of it, Mama was espousing exactly the kind of food shopping many people are trying to go back to now.
And it wouldn't be the 1960s without cringe-worthy, politically incorrect dialogue, like "How come all you college boys wear those faggoty-looking white shoes?"
When Ruth unexpectedly finds herself pregnant, she puts down a five dollar deposit with the local back street abortionist.
On the more uplifting side, the film dealt with the emerging interest by blacks in their identity and African heritage.
The contrast between Mama, who had no knowledge of or interest in Africa, and her daughter, who was trying to embrace all things black, showed the cultural shift as the sixties took hold.
And of course, Sidney Poitier, such a superb actor and one of the handsomest men ever to grace a screen, was sheer pleasure to look at for two-plus hours, especially in tonal black and white film.
Naturally my favorite line of dialog came from his character.
Sometimes it's just hard to let the future begin.
And sometimes you just can't wait.
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