Month: March 2005 (Page 2 of 2)

Surfing yesterday afternoon, Buena Vista Social Club looked interesting in the channel guide, but instead the Independent Film Channel was just finishing up a rebroadcast of the Indie Spirit Awards, a show “recognizing the achievements of independent filmmakers and promoting independent film to a wider audience.” So says their website. Anyway, the show had gone long. Go figure. One of the reasons it went long was the incredibly annoying Robin Williams. Of course he’s way too big of a star to just come on the stage and present the “Best Feature” award. He has to do his manic, stream of consciousness schtick for five minutes, including making fun of some woman in the front row for her hair and face. Hey, that’s some funny and original stuff, Robin. Then he announces the nominated films with little voices to remind everyone that the films are really just props for Robin to mock. Finally, just when we think his convulsions are over, he continues to carry on while the winner is trying to speak. Rude and annoying.

What do we remember about movies? Some very good movies are visually stunning, others packed with action or suspense, but what sets some apart as great? It’s the story. The words. The lines… Great screenplays engage our intellect, tug at our emotions and pull us into the story. When they’re over, they keep us thinking about them. Two from 2004 I’m still thinking about just won Best Screenplay Oscars. If you haven’t seen them, check out:

Best Original Screenplay
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Screenplay by Charlie Kaufman

The entire script is on the writers website, but here’s a sample:

Best Adapted Screenplay
Sideways, Screenplay by Alexander Payne & Jim Taylor

Here’s a scene from Sideways:

Miles Raymond: Well, the world doesn’t give a shit what I have to say. I’m not necessary. Had. I’m so insignificant I can’t even kill myself.
Jack: Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Miles Raymond: Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can’t kill yourself before you’re even published.
Jack: What about the guy who wrote “Confederacy of Dunces”? He killed himself before he was published. Look how famous he is.
Miles Raymond: Thanks.
Jack: Just don’t give up, alright? You’re gonna make it.
Miles Raymond: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’ma thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I’m a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.
Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. ‘A smudge of excrement… surging out to sea.’
Miles Raymond: Yeah.
Jack: I could never write that.
Miles Raymond: Neither could I, actually. I think it’s Bukowsky.

So I wonder, during a NYC weekend that included the Gates and Strawberry Fields in Central Park, the Museum of Natural History, dinner at Sparks Steak House and The Lion King on Broadway, how come shopping was the highlight of the trip for Megan? So I asked. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Hey, you love watching football. Explain that.”

The Gates were worth seeing in person, but my overall impression is Central Park didn’t need them to provide a lifting of spirits. Its complexion needs no makeup. Still, based on the many bright faces contrasting rosy cheeks with waving saffron, the Gates did just that. Or maybe they just helped New Yorkers to not think about the Yankees… Of course there were many booths set up hawking Gates memorabilia including numbered conceptual drawings of the Gates by Christo. As art, I think the drawings are more aesthetically pleasing than the gates were themselves.

What is art, anyway?

At the Whitney Museum of American Art, that question jumped at me from a series of crayon scribbles by Cy Twombley. On the other hand, the boundless creativity of Tim Hutchinson astonished me. Drawings, paintings, sculptures from old tires, mechanical contraptions amplifying the work… See it if you can. There was also a stunning video art exhibit by Bill Viola called Five Angels for the Millennium. In a darkened room, five screens flicker with images of shrouded human forms entering and exiting water, backwards and forwards, in ultra slow motion. The Whitney web site reads, “Viola creates projective narrative environments that explore the nature and consciousness and universal human experiences such as birth and death. The artist’s subject matter is rooted in the history of Western and Eastern art, as well as in such spiritual traditions as Sufism and Zen Buddhism.” I felt the irony of the exhibit crushing my very soul, for Megan had earlier bought a little Buddha statue from a street vendor. He wanted $15. He got $11. It was probably manufactured in China for 14 cents.