Moment Magnitude

Conversation with Another Woman

Most of the time, I do not write about popular culture, apart from the culture that my friends and I experience - and since we are New Yorkers, we are part of a bellwether for popular culture for the rest of the country, if not the rest of the world - excepting California. Okay, so maybe I do scrawl about pop culture, but I want to believe it is less banal than the crap you can read anywhere about B-celebrity stalking and the like.

I do make the occasional reference, though not as obscure as Dennis Miller, that is, before he had his self-induced personality transplant, which is to say, when he was funny, back in the Holocene - to erstwhile popular music, my favorite films, and classic books.

The point here and now, is about a film I went to see, its premiere weekend, in but a handful of cities, one of them mine, of course. C'est normal. We are an island of cineastes, among the many personas we are or adopt.

Muck. I am sounding like Henry James again. Forgive.

Well. My hair colonist-stylist did aver that I was a "gay man trapped in a straight woman's body." Except that I like straight men. Well, my gay brethren do too - that's most likely what he meant.

The film my biz partner and I saw was Conversations with Other Women, a profoundly mis-titled piece of work. And I do know one or eighty-seven things about titles, given my history in book publishing. Yes, not only titles, but covers do matter. Shocking. Right.

The film starred two compulsively watchable actors: Aaron Eckhart and Helena Bonham Carter.

My pithy, literary, politically-charged, former editor, writer friend - who traffics among movie reviews, blurbs, and interactions with stars - for a living, described it within the structure of that well-known, Japanese, structured verse here.

Wrong title. After watching this gorgeous tone-poem of a film, more like an intensely wrought duet that could have played itself well on a stage, before a live audience, I thought: "Why the shit did they name it that?"

Even though I visited the film's official site, and read the writer's rationale, I wanted to say:"Huh?" Or, "No freakin'; way!"

The writer is a young woman, and kudos to her for crafting such pitch-perfect characters, such worthy dialog. And the less than subtle, but oh-so-appreciated references to Jane Austen and Edith Wharton. Brava, young, smart thing that you are. Keep at it. Don't stop now.

But. She - or the director or producers - got the title dead wrong.

Skip the obscurity. Audiences of a certain age and appreciation would prefer a straighter line. Not a deviation.

How about a modification? How about: "Conversation with Another Woman?" Dead-on. Ping. Just replace the question mark with a period, or better, nothing at all.

More incredible - and this film is by no means distinct - is that here is a film, a story brought to cinematic life - the split-screen device at first disorienting, then essential and brilliant - made out of the minds of the writer and director. Bravi for them. Make the film in which you believe, cast remarkable talent, in this case, both of whom have indy-cred (and in truth, more), but probably liked the excellent script, and saw roles upon which they could dig in and chew. Or so, I'm supposing.

But where were the rainmakers? Where were the taste makers? Where were the people - behind the scenes - those folks who could have dialed into the target audience(s) and devised a demand for this film - way in advance? For surely, and I as one person - among a handful - can attest that there is not only a target audience, but it would be rabid.

Too often, films get made under the rubric: "If you build it, they will come." Well, news flash: they won't. That wall of noise is several hundred stories high.

Whether or not Snakes on a (mother fuckin') Plane is worth the price of $10.75 - yes, hello the rest of the world, that's how we roll here - I expect it will have a killer opening weekend. You would have to be living on a stopped elevator for the past year not to know about that film.

Sure, I'll go see Snakes on a Plane.

But I'll wind up buying the DVD (or future equivalent) of Conversation with Another Woman (my title), and watch it over and over again. Like, oh: Something's Gotta Give, Amelie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Door in the Floor.

And almost any other film starring the guy, yep: Aaron Eckhart.

The Jane Austen Quiz

I'm back on the Brits.

I had gone off them for several months, I found them a bit too snarky, oddly protectionist, boring. The last few times I visited London, I was dismayed by the proliferation of American mass-culture icons everywhere. Where was the London of my university days, smaller and quirky, funny and charming? I know it's there, but the city center smacks of big-box consumerism, more like Chicago or Denver, with blocked off walking malls. And never mind the cost, the pound-to-dollar value. Egad.

Every so often, Jane Austen's stories recapture my imagination.

The recent feature film remake of Pride and Prejudice has caused a slow, consistent burn in my consciousness these last weeks. It almost caught me by surprise, but after repeated viewings, including the director's voice-over analysis cut, I find that I am mesmerized by the Mathew MacFadyen twists and turns his hands, clenching, fiddling, splaying them, as a way to convey Darcy's inner turmoil.

I returned to the BBC/A&E version of Pride and Prejudice, by way of comparison, and found almost as delightful, and certainly more didactic, more complete.

It's all about the relationships among the women, isn't it?

Just as Emma or Sense and Sensibility are. Jane Austen's themes are recurrent, and I find no need to belabor them. I did, however, find several Jane Austen character quizzes on-line. In contemplating my inner circle of girlfriends, I wondered, how would each of of us score? With which Jane Austen character would we most align? I put it to the test, and asked them to take the quiz and report.

The quiz can be found here. There are many versions, but this inventory seemed the most complete.

A fast synopsis of the characters - that we approximate:

Elizabeth Bennet (the heroine of P&P): As one of Austen's most beloved characters, Lizzie represents what most women would like to be: strong, independent, and loyal. She has her shortcomings: for all her smarts, she is often times too stubborn and too quick to pass judgment - both to her detriment. Rather than own to her errors, she will take time alone, preferring the outdoors and reading. Still, she remains intelligent, witty, and warm-hearted, and is able to sort her way through ill-conceived first impressions.

Jane Bennet (P&P): Eldest of the Bennet sisters, Jane is beautiful, good-natured, sweet, selfless, and universally well-liked. She refuses to judge anyone badly, and instead will make excuses for others' bad behavior or character flaws. Her tenderness and forgiving nature allow others to sometimes take advantage of her generous nature. Nevertheless, her opinions of others are often exactly correct.

Emma Woodhouse (Emma): "Handsome. clever, and rich," Emma is used to getting her way. She holds herself in high self-regard, and is possessed of a healthy self-esteem. She is a meddler, and although well-intentioned, her actions sometimes result in foibles and hurt feelings. She is clever, however, and through successes and mistakes, she learns to be more considerate, aware, and over time, comprehends the real meaning of love.

Elinor Dashwood (S&S): Eldest of the Dashwood sisters, she has a great awareness and obligations of social decorum - and common sense. She is an adept people-person, and tempers her own emotions and judgments with discretion and reason. That is not to say that her feelings do not run deep and powerful - they do. She keeps her innermost feelings private, and takes pains not to burden others with her personal problems.

Marianne Dashwood (S&S): Younger sister to Elinor, Marianne is impetuous and romantic. She lacks her older sister's sense and discretion and says exactly what she feels, holding nothing inside. Elinor often must apologize for Marianne's behavior - since she does not conceal her contempt or derision for those she dislikes, and often disregards politeness and good manners. She has a good heart, but her exuberant behavior is sometimes embarrassing.   

Herewith the results of us:

Hot Momma scored as Elizabeth Bennet, with Jane Bennet as a close second. I tend to think of her more as Jane, since men seem to fall for her the instant they meet her, and because she is kinder by far than I am - or so I believe.

Striptellectual came in as Elinor Dashwood, as did La Latina and Liz Taylor, Jr. By far, this was the most popular outcome - although Liz may have taken the quiz more than once, and the second time yielded a different result.

The Voice of Reason turned in as Emma Woodhouse. So did Surfer Girl - a surprise, until you think about it. I thought the quiz might melt or self-destruct as she took it. But Emma? Yes, it fits.

Datomantrix weighed in as Marianne Dashwood. But of course.

And me? No surprise. Lizzie Bennet all the way (and Liz Taylor Jr., too on one of her tries).

I think a marathon movie night/girls night in is on the near horizon. Champagne toasts to the almost-bicentennial of Miss Jane Austen.

Famous in France Again

The film crew was here, at my loft this week, taping us for a multi-part documentary to air on France 5 television a year from now. On Women and Beauty, we represented New York City as one segment, and we would argue the most important segment in the series.

       

                 

Antoine Lassaigne, the director, instructed his crew mike us up like reality show participants. The crew hail from Montreal, and we women decided that such Quebecois can come visit us any old time. Once wired, Antoine popped a series of words, one at a time, and asked that we repeat each of those words within our responses.

I'm sure I don't remember all of the words, but here's a truncated list, and my answers. I should add that I went last, in the "wrap position," so I took the liberty to embroider, to add deeper context. Not sure how it will turn out - for all I know I may be cut out and left on the editing room floor (if not, the French dub or subtitles may distort what I said), but here's a gander:

Make-up: I find that as the years speed by, I prefer to wear less and less. Light powders, simple lipsticks, decent mascara and eyebrow liners. Not much else. When I was in my twenties, I liked to wear more, but now I find that it can look garish and cheap, somehow. A little goes a longer way.

Clothing: I like garments that stay close to the body, that show the body. I am a little bit of a Pilates junkie, so when I feel confident about my body, I like to wear form-fitting clothing.

Hair: Ah, hair. I am blond-ed, as if the word were a verb. I have no idea what my actual hair color is, but I love going to the hairdresser for highlights. I have to sit still for almost three hours while professionals play with my hair. It feels glorious, It calms me down. As with most American women who color their hair, I prefer it to look fairly natural.

Plastic surgery: No knives, no cutting. I don't mind injectables, and I am overdue. I had Botox done from the outside of laughline area of one eye, clear across the brow to the other side. But I can wiggle my eyebrows right now.

Shoes: We women love shoes. It has been said that women look at shoes the way men look at breasts: there are two of them, they come in pairs, and we want to own (or at least fondle) all of them. Maybe it's evolutionary, biological, but no woman I know can walk by the window of a shoe store without staring, or stopping to look.

Beauty - are you beautiful? But of course. And the reason why I believe I am beautiful, the reason why I feel beautiful, is because of my friends, my women and men friends. The love and regard we have for one another makes us shine, and I could not be beautiful without them.

Now gals - and you know who you are - tell me what your responses were, or how you remember them. And if forgot any of the trigger words, let me know those too. I desire completion, or at least more than this.

For me, this will be the third time my mug appears on French television. The last two times were France 2, and Arte.

Another New Yorker "big" in France. Not the ranks of Paul Auster or Jim Jarmusch, but hey, in the remotest of senses, this could be the start of something.

Oh That Feeling

I read once, somewhere, maybe it was James Clavell, that Japanese experience the pain and ecstasy of love in their lower stomachs. I imagine it's deep in the intestines, the Japanese call it the hara.

We Westerners claim we feel love in the heart. Heartache. Heartbreak.

I read somewhere in the last couple of months that behavioral biologists or neuroscientists or some combination, studied the human response to heartbreak. Whether it happens in the hara or the heart, I don't know, but I recall that the data found that heartbreak symptoms are similar to some kinds of stresses, anxieties, or depression disorders, or some admixture of all these brain, chemically-associated diagnoses. Some of these included heart palpitations, cold sweats, and sleeping disorders. Sounds like symptoms of withdrawal.

I know where I feel it, and it's not in the heart or the stomach, although the latter takes a beating when I experience "heartbreak." I've learned that a therapeutic hit or three of a certain controlled substance - although in those quantities no longer illegal in downtown Denver - ameliorate the agita and nausea caused by the stress of heartbreak, like balm on the wound of addiction, easier than morphine. It helps me keep my appetite.

No, I feel it in my upper arms. A trigger point, it must be, where the muscles of the biceps attach to the rotator cuffs or the cap of the shoulders. It feels like sudden, acute muscle fatigue, as if I pushed the muscles past the anaerobic threshold - straight to failure. My arms fall, weakened, to my sides. Like I cannot move them.

The first time I remember this happening was when I was thirty-one years old. I was in a double-whammy problematic relationship. We worked for the same company, and we lived a two-hour plane ride apart.

Once, after we had a rendezvous in South Carolina, a vacation-weekend, except it was always vacation and it was always passionate, his plane left hours before before mine. I remember standing outside, in the airport parking lot, trying to determine which plane was his. And as that jet ascended quick, northwestward, I felt this queer pain in my upper arms, both of them. I was almost paralyzed. Tears started to well, but I short-circuited them somehow, gulped them back or something. That short choke, that catch that makes the back of your throat feel dry. For a second.

I remember it happened again, years later with one of the Erasers. We were at at the tag-end of a geophysics conference in Boston. He left before me, and I waited before I stared out from a high-floor hotel window toward Logan Airport, imagining that I could pick out his plane, this one heading due west, then southwest.

I am amazed that the same feeling happened when I watch the silliest of movies. It happened in the last couple of weeks. The Wedding Date? Ridiculous. The recent, semi-necessary remake of Pride and Prejudice - oh good lord.

The good thing, I have to believe, is that I can still experience the feeling, weak arms and all, even at a remove, vicarious, a sense memory.

Five Waits

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait."

Said in rapid fire, I have heard this word, repeated very often anymore. I say it myself, usually in fast-paced conversation. I've taken notice of it when other people utter it - and last night, I caught it on Huff - or was it Big Love? I hope it was Huff. Big Love makes me itch. And it's "wait," always five times in a row. Always.

Anyhow, some screenwriter has added it to a script, picking up on everyday lingo. Let's say it was Huff. I want it to be Huff.

Because my new small-screen crushes is Andy Comeau, who plays the schizophrenic Theodore - Teddy - on Huff. And Teddy is one sexy m.f., as last night's episode will attest.

The other new crush is Alexander Siddig, whom I scrutinized in his scenes in Kingdom of Heaven, when it was in rotation on HBO Cinemax. He was also in Syriana, which I saw on the big screen. Yes, George Clooney happened to star, and co-produce that film, winning the Oscar too. But it was Siddig, all Siddig. 

Good thing I have On Demand. Because I can cycle back through episodes of Huff, or call up Kingdom of Heaven, and pause when I want to, the word in my mind, repeating, five times, "Wait."

Goodfellas

There is a scene in the movie, Moonstruck, when the wonderful actress, Olympia Dukakis says, "What you don't know about women is a lot."

That line was zooming around inside my head last night. I was out with three terrific guys, holed up in a punk rock jukebox bar in the East Village, well after we had attended the NYC HBO premiere of The Trials of Darryl Hunt, a very important documentary, one that deserves to be seen by many, many people.

One of the guys was sending text messages to a gal he met last weekend - in Vail, Colorado. He was asking for my advice on how to respond. He wants her to come to NYC to visit for several days - and he is willing to pay for her airline ticket. Her messages sounded both interested and coy. I told him I thought he was doing the right thing, asking her when she would be free, that he would be happy to send her a ticket, and so on.

"Women like to be wooed," I said.

"No, they don't," the second guy disagreed, and in fact, was insistent, almost patronizing, in his disagreement. That kind of insistence, that kind of sounding as though he needed to be right - now that, I thought, is a turn-off.

That line again, inside my mind, "What you don't know about women..."

The last guy got it. I invoked a version from a line from another film, Dead Poets Society, "Why do we need language? (ellipses) To woo women!"

I substituted "poetry" for "language."

The last guy said, "You should read my poetry." He's a smart fellow, and I'd wager his "language" is pretty good. Maybe I will read it.

The second guy, the disagreement guy, he lent me cab money to get home. Because for all the bluster, he, like the other two, is a good guy.

Good guys give me hope.

And I am hopeful. A hopeful romantic.

Altitude

Flying over The Front Range, Colorado and The Rockies, before descending into the Eagle-Vail Airport, if you can call landing at an altitude of 8000 feet above sea level descending.

I haven't been back in the mountains for sixteen months. I lived in Boulder, Colorado for over three-and-a-half years where I ran an imprint of a NYC-based publishing company. I traveled to and fro to the city for meetings at least once a month. I am dead certain that if I hadn't been back to New York on that frequent a basis, I would have put a sharp stick in my eye.

Sebastian Junger visited Boulder when I lived there. He read from his excellent collection, Fire. It was but a few months after September 11. I remember his patience as he fielded questions from the locals at the Borders Booksellers on the western end of downtown Pearl Street. I found some of the old-school pacifists cloying. Their questions had that accusatory tone, as if Sebastian believed in war, as if he was responsible for the U.S. invasion into Afghanistan. He's been in more than a few war zones, and I gave him the upper hand, for all he was so moderated. He's a good guy that like that.

I never cottoned to the "native" Boulder population. A small, mostly-ex-pat group of us referred to them as "smug, self-absorbed, and sanctimonious." My politics trend moderate-left, but the folks in that town were "liberal jackboot fascists," as a friend of a friend coined it.

Still, the physical beauty of the The Front Range is astounding. I love the mountains, the geology that you can touch and upon which you can trod - along clear, wide trails. I am happy to visit. I am happy to have a handful of good friends with whom I can spend time on those trails, and among a few of the bars on the eastern edge of Pearl Street.

I am always as happy to get back on a big jetliner and fly home, one of the most culturally diverse and tolerant places I ever have lived. I have lived in many places - France, Brooklyn, Keansburg, NJ, Okinawa, North Carolina, Queens, Germany, Bay Ridge, Staten Island, the Jersey Shore, Syracuse, NY, London, UK, Bergen County, NJ, Cambridge, MA, Manhattan, Boulder, CO, and back to Manhattan, pretty much in that order. Funny how I distinguish among the city's boroughs, but anybody with roots here understands that it makes sense.

The Vail Film Festival went swimmingly for Snow Blind. One junket videographer called the film "The centerpiece of the whole festival." If the film's director, Chris Scott, was the center of his entourage, then I had Debbie Mazar's role. Chris' roommate Jordan is a better Turtle than Turtle. My face ached from laughing.

Oh, and no sign of Owen Wilson. Or Luke.

We're all back in the city. We have lots to do.                     

     

   

 

Vail Film Festival

Well, well.

I shall be flying west when this posts, heading through Denver International Airport, a place I know too well, before connecting to Eagle-Vail.

Eagle. Makes me think of Kobe Bryant. I have an opinion about that - maybe I'll scribble it some day - I lean toward Mr. Bryant's defense. Maybe that's all I need to write.

For the two of you I haven't told already, I'm going to the Vail Film Festival, where I shall be working with the good guys at Red Sky Pictures, to assist them with the first screening of their film, Snow Blind. I will write more about why I am doing this anon.

Meanwhile, not only will I work the screening tonight, but I also shall be hangin' with the film's snowboarding stars afterward at Art's Bar. Sauza Tequila and Stella Artois are sponsoring. I'm taking extra vitamin packs, since I doubt I will sleep the forty-eight hours I am there.

Rumor has that Owen Wilson will be attending the gig.

I'll write about that - or not - after I return home.

Cheers.

Famous in France

It  looks as though we're going to be on French television. Again.

This time it will be for the France 5 television channel. The director, Antoine Lassaigne, is doing an eight-part series on how women express their beauty - individually, culturally, and in some cases, nationally. He's filming in Paris, New York, Los Angeles, Shanghai, Tokyo, and other yet-to-be-finalized places in Europe. Last week, he was in NYC, scouting. Us.

After meeting eleven of the gals at Employees Only - and after oh-so many cocktails - he said he would bring cameras and crew chez moi this summer for an evening all about us, gabbing, laughing, telling our stories. Stories about shoes, handbags, and other accessories, about our fitness habits or not, about cosmetics and - ahem - cosmetic enhancements. Maybe even shaving preferences.

The last time French television covered us was last summer, when an independent filmmaker shot the party I hosted on my roof deck - see the photo gallery in the left-hand sidebar. That segment, part of a longer documentary for the Arte television network, was meant to capture modern women's lives in New York City. 

Before that, France 2 television covered a Frenchtuesdays event last May, and somehow they nabbed me for a quickie interview. One of my French friends in Paris caught the piece, a news item, and phoned.

"Cherie! I see you on television! France 2. You look so beautiful! And you were speaking French!"

I was speaking French badly, but the fellow with whom I was standing is French, so he bailed me out.

"I tell Tommy. I glue him to the television. So that he can see you!"

So, I'm big in France. Maybe. Jerry Lewis and me. Oh boy.

      The director departed and L-Diva made a little sketch of me on an Employees Only napkin.

One of the sketches that she did three years ago at Pastis made its way into the April edition of Glamour Magazine.

  Voila!

We're the hardest working girls in NYC nightlife show-biz, baby.

And a shout out to Duchamps, the EO bartender who made me champagne cocktails with muddled kumquats. Yep, muddled kumquats. Say that fast, five times, in a row.

Crunchy Black

I hosted an Oscars party. I's not girly. Not even a little bit.

The Lieutenant Commander brought a gallon or so of his award-winning Bloody Marys. Catnip brought spicy Italian sausage (sausiche) and steaks, all of which we broiled under open flame in my stove - which gets used about a half-dozen times a year.

No ballots, no pool. Just booze and seared meat.

GV-Wonder pointed out that a man called Crunchy Black won the Oscar for Best Song, for It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp, from Hustle and Flow. Anyone who saw the film will understand how cool it was to watch the creation of a hip hop song, how its tracks are built up and layered, fictionalized or not. It's a great song. Period. It deserved to win.

More so than the film that won the big prize, Crash, which for me was nothing more than a twenty-first century rendition of Grand Canyon or Short Cuts. Call me a pointy-headed New Yorker. I'm cool with it.

Right on for George Clooney, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Rachel Weisz.

Anyhow. The Voice of Reason (TVOR) was more Reason than Kissing Bandit that evening. She left at a respectable time after the last award, but told me a few days later that it took her forty-five minutes to get a cab on Sixth Avenue between 25th and 26th Streets. I thought that was strange. it wasn't raining. The longest I've had to wait is about ten minutes, and that can make me plenty tense. I'm often in a rush.

TVOR said she was calm, she knew she could hop the subway if a yellow did not make itself available. And since no yellows stopped or even slowed, she was approached, first by a black town car and second, by a BMW.

The first pulled over and a male passanger leaned out to ask if he could give her a ride. She declined - smart. Then, after another five or ten minutes passed, when no cab-light-on yellows approached, the same black car drove by, and the same fellow leaned out to ask her if she needed a ride, again. And again she declined.

Then, after another ten or so minutes, the BMW pulls up, and the guy behind the wheel asks if she needed a ride. She declined. To which he suggested, "Okay, but do you want a ride back to my house?" To which she said no thank you. And he drove off. Polite, he could have been a serial killer.

She was able to get that taxi a moment later.

Put it down to Oscar madness? A pheromone rush? Who knows? Better to be safe than crash.