I know I posted this once before but indulge me...

A moment of respect for the sexiest legs in the movies. RIP, Cyd Charisse.




(And Iggy remembers what I think of Gene Kelly, I'm sure.)

Labels: movies

Megan Daum’s essay in yesterday’s Dallas Morning News spurred much discussion between me and Tom. The gist of the essay is that she’s sick to death of hearing about baby boomers and why don’t we shut up because nobody cares. It sounded a lot like a petulant teenager complaining about grandpa’s war stories. Bo-ring grandpa.

What struck me as moronic about the whine is that she’s not actually complaining about boomers. She’s complaining about marketing. I was born on the tail-end of the boom but I take no responsibility for such things as art house revivals of the Rosemary's Baby, innocuous if tiresome public radio features about Valerie Solanas' shooting of Andy Warhol, and, if there's a slow week, maybe even an E! special commemorating the marriage of Jackie Kennedy to Aristotle Onassis.

Daum needs to get out of the office sometimes and stop reading so many press releases—she’s starting to confuse media hype with reality. Of course media companies are going to try to make money out of whatever they can. That’s what they do. Not my fault, chickie.

If you want to wallow in your own pop culture, watch music awards shows. I have no idea who any of those young women in trashy clothes are. Don’t know, don’t care. I don’t blame you for that.

It’s all money and marketing, Megan. As soon as Gen X's anniversaries start rolling around, you’re welcome to throw yourself parades if you want. What big important moments would you suggest we celebrate? I’m sure there is someone ready to make money off it. Actually, I can't begin to articulate how little I care about Raiders of the Lost Ark but I heard an awful lot about it recently. I believe that's your fault?

Tom and I agreed that if she’d wanted a truly compelling angle, Daum would have wondered why classic rock has become such a music juggernaut. She touched on this then veered off into dopey, unfocused griping. No radio stations, no television commercials are safe from wheezin’ geezer rock—and I say this as a wheezin’ geezer. Every time we hear a boomer hit on TV, Tom wonders why they dig so far back. To whom are they selling? We keep hearing about that precious 18-35 demographic--so what's with the Bob Dylan and Beatles?

It could be that old rockers have finally decided that they’ve made their point about integrity but you can’t eat integrity for dinner so might as well sell out and cash in. Maybe the dinosaurs are cheaper than today’s music hitmakers so the advertisers are getting while the getting's good?

It could be that these songs became entrenched at a time when we were not overwhelmed by too much music—when songs had a chance to reach large audiences instead of being quick blips in an ever-increasing barrage of blips. It’s hard for anything to be heard among the racket these days and it’s also hard for artists to mature in our increasingly hit-obsessed media industry.

It could be that radio is full of oldies because younger peeps don’t listen to the radio—they’re too busy pirating music online.

Me, I still like listening to the radio, although I find less and less new music to buy that way, so layered is it under the oldies. (And if I have to listen to Heard It Through the Grapevine one more time, there’ll be hell to pay.)

Daum’s essay had my eyes rolling so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Who’s acting self-important? You want to be center of attention? Go ahead. We’re all waiting.

Labels: baby boom, media, movies, music, news, pop culture

Although I like both sex and the city, I don’t really get the whole cult status of Sex and the City. I used to watch it in reruns sometimes, BC (Before Cable) but found it more irritating than entertaining.

I was particularly annoyed to read a quote from a 45-year-old woman in today’s paper saying, “They were the first really powerful women” on television.

Wow. Can we define power here? Yeah, have good jobs, although except attorney Miranda, they all were in pink-collar jobs. (And, by the way, could Carrie really afford all those clothes on a columnist’s salary? She must work at the same place the friends of Friends worked to pay for all those nice apartments.)

But what they did most was talk about men, think about men, fret about men, sleep with men, pine for men, break up with men … I know sex is in the title, but where is the power in all that? Considering that the theme of the show seems to be we don’t need no stinkin’ men, we have each other! they sure seem boy crazy. Bo-ring.

And let’s talk about powerful women on TV. While she’s at the front of my mind--what with the death of Harvey Korman-—how about Carol Burnett? She was powerful as a professional and she was completely in control of her comedy. Maude was a powerful female character. The golden girls of The Golden Girls had a lot more on their minds than men, even though they were out there dating and getting laid plenty. I know that because the show has become one of my late night guilty pleasures. Believe it or not (I know you don’t) it’s funny.

Mary Richards was virginal, but she was out there makin’ it on her own. Actually, the girls of SATC are more like Rhoda, who was supposed to be the boy-crazy loser on the MTM show. Hot Lips Hoolihan wasn’t above a little extramarital hoohoo, but she was nothing if not strong like ox and she had lots more on her mind than shoes and penis.

Yeah, SATS brought a baby into the mix, and breast cancer. But in the shows I saw, all the other characters were self-congratulating when they tore themselves away from their sexual needs to pay attention to the enormous life challenges their dear, dear friends faced. Such sacrifice!

First strong women on television? I don’t see the characters of SATS as strong at all. I see them as needy, demanding and annoying. They might have been the first to talk openly about sex, but they also had the benefit of cable. The Golden Girls was pretty good at innuendo, working within network broadcasting codes.

Are the women who admire this gang of whiners as strong women to emulate the same ones who think a Hillary nutcracker is funny?

OK, I’ll give the show one thing: The catch phrase “He’s just not that into you” is incredibly useful and applies in various contexts. But even Dr. Phil has contributed to our society with “How’s that workin’ for you?” which is equally useful although he is equally annoying.

I won’t be getting a gang of gal pals together to partake in this particular pop culture nonevent. I’m just not that into them.

Labels: feminism, movies, pop culture, sex, sex and the city, sexism, television

On Saturday night, Tom and I went to see Shine A Light, the Scorsese Rolling Stones documentary.

It was a lot of fun and by the end, I felt a little like I’d been to a real concert--kind of worn out and invigorated. We saw it in IMAX and it was a bit hard to watch at times because there were so many cuts and short scenes, but it was still fun to see Mick’s every pore, even if seeing Keith that close up was a little bit terrifying.

Tom was bummed that Mick seems to be a caricature of his former self, so full of jumping and twitching and dancing and mugging that it’s hard to take him seriously. And what happened to Keith? He is no longer the mystery man he once was and now seems like someone’s dotty old uncle. Kind of a rock 'n' roll Smurf, and a little sloppy on guitar. (According to Tom. I was not that discerning during this spectacle.)

Does every old rock band have to go Borscht Belt on us? We saw the Dictators a few years ago and they were full of shtick. Ditto Sylvain Sylvain.

Anyway, as always happens during concerts, my mind wandered during the movie, and this time I started paying attention to its twists and turns. I wondered…

Do Mick and Keith dye their hair? Ron Wood clearly does, it’s too black for reality at any age. Charlie Watts has gone gray and one camera angle exposed a balding spot on the top of his head. He still looks great. (Overheard after the movie, one plump middle-aged woman to another: “Who do you think is better looking? The drummer or Mick Jagger?")

Are all those excited young babes in the front few rows ringers? No way would these hot young things be all worked up over a bunch of grandpas.

What is that nasty schmatta Keith wears on his head? How would I describe it in a blog? It looks like it grew there naturally, like some sort of fungus. Does he sleep in it? Does it keep his wig on?

How does Keith find his eyes to apply eyeliner amidst all those leathery wrinkles? He looks like a dried apple head.

Are they really having as much fun as they seem to be?

Does Mick bother with groupies anymore?

Do the other guys ever get tired of Keith getting up in their faces? He sure does like to get close.

Did Jack White dream he forgot the lyrics or otherwise fucked up the night before the show? He looked pretty thrilled to be on stage with the Rolling Stones.

Does the band use stylists?

Is that girl in the front row anorexic?

Does Mick feel as silly as he looks using a guitar strap with the Rolling Stones logo on it?

Did Mick have liposuction on his bingo arms? They don’t look nearly as wobbly as they did when they played the Super Bowl halftime show.

And so on…

Labels: movies, music, rolling stones

Here’s a WSJ interview with Jennifer Weiner about her book Certain Girls, in which she addresses Jane Smiley’s review, which I linked to earlier this week.

Weiner says, in part: “What shocked me was that she said I have to stop writing about nice Jewish characters. [In her review, Ms. Smiley wrote that Ms. Weiner "seems boxed in by her chosen genre" and should "address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters."]

I couldn't believe that made it past the copy desk. The idea you can tell a writer of a specific religion to stop writing about that religion is presumptuous. When an older writer tries to tell a younger writer through a review what kind of career she should be pursuing, it tends to speak to the reviewer's anxieties rather than the book itself…”

I didn’t interpret Smiley’s review as dissing anyone’s religion as much as suggesting Weiner look farther afield for her characters. Big difference. On the other hand, Smiley has written about horses and academia, which is the stuff of her life, so she should talk.

Speaking of chick stuff, Mary and I rented Private Benjamin last night and I am pleased and relieved to report that it held up. Sure, the fashions are 1980s as is some of the humor, but it’s still clever and thoughtful and fun. The cast includes Goldie Hawn, a few minutes of Albert Brooks, Eileen Brennan, Mary Kay Place, Armand Assante, Sam Wanamaker, Harry Dean Stanton…not too shabby. I love it.

More girltalk: A very kind blog reader sent me a link and asked my opinion of this article from The Atlantic, titled Marry Him!--the Case for Mr. Good Enough. It is an interesting argument for women to stop being so picky about their men and "settle" for someone who might be too short or too bald or too something or not something enough. I wasn't sure what to think of it--I had a knee-jerk negative reaction--and hemmed and hawed, but the woman who sent it managed to sum it up in one very neat sentence: I think what she says is to settle, I say is maturity. Yes, yes. Of course. That's exactly what I meant to say.

Deelish for Dallasites: The city elders plan to rename Industrial Boulevard to reflect the glamorous (very distant) future they plan for it. For you outtatowners, Industrial Boulevard is pretty much what it sounds like—a gritty stretch of auto businesses, titty bars, the county jail, bail bondsmen and, as happens to any area that abuts a dry district (that is, areas with no alcohol sales), a whole lot of liquor stores. (Read about it here.)

Among the names being floated:
Big D Boulevard (gak)
Dallas Delta (makes it sound romantic, don’t it?)
Kirk Parkway (presumably after former Mayor Ron Kirk)
Rio Vista (and what a vista the Trinity River offers!)
Stanley Marcus Boulevard (I’d rather see them name the planned Calatrava Bridge for him)
The Promenade (how grand!)

I say call it Beer Run Boulevard.

Speaking of Eileen Brennan, Tom and I watched most of the movie FM the other night. It was mildly entertaining--the hairdos alone gave us something to talk about--but we wondered which came first, FM or WKRP in Cincinatti? Anyone?

Finally, because my workout DVD shelf runneth over, and because reviewing DVDs helps keep me fit, I have decided to launch a second blog dedicated to reviews, called Suit Up and Show Up. I’ve posted a few old reviews and one new one up already and will keep up as best I can. Please check in from time to time if you’re interested, I’ve added it to my blogroll to the right.

Labels: books, dallas, exercise, fitness, fitness dvds, movies, news, writing

Chick flicks and chick lit are under discussion these days. In a review by Jane Smiley of Jennifer Weiner’s Certain Girls, Smiley bemoans the pinkness of the cover, which relegates the book to the girl ghetto. Actually, she laments Weiner’s evident decision to aim for the chick lit shelves.

Smiley writes:

In her latest novel, she seems boxed in by her chosen genre, and it's a shame, because she's got the intelligence and the ambition to address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters. For whatever reason, though, she doesn't dare.

Meanwhile, Hollywood is trying to figure out what the Next Big Thing in chick flicks will be, now that Meg Ryan is getting long in the tooth. (OK, Hollywood didn’t say that, I did. But to me, Meg Ryan epitomizes the last round of chick flicks. She’s just so cute and inoffensive.)

My first question: Why is chick lit considered a ghetto while guy lit is considered the real deal? Why should the psychological ups and downs of Martin Amis’ characters be more respected than Weiner’s?

For that matter, why wasn’t Wally Lamb’s massive bestseller, She’s Come Undone given a pink cover? I wonder if Henry James was considered chick lit in his day, since his stories are all about intimate relationships? What about Jane Austen? Is Anne Tyler chick lit?

I have similar questions about chick flicks. I love the entire Bette Davis canon—are those chick flicks? What about Gone With the Wind? (Movie and book, actually.) If a book or movie has staying power, does that move it out of the ghetto into the good neighborhood?

I guess what is considered hardcore chick lit today is written to a formula that includes lots of shopping, brand name-dropping, cocktails and looooove. And chick flicks basically are boy+girl= happily ever after, eventually. Unless they’re a about somebody dying. (Beaches—which I’ve seen and didn’t care about.)

I don’t read a ton of hardcore chick lit, but I read The Devil Wears Prada and was surprised by how well-written it was. I also enjoyed the movie. Then I read Lauren Weisberger’s second book, Everyone Worth Knowing, and found it to be the exact same story, different career (public relations). Tedious. I read Bridget Jones’ Diary and enjoyed that and the movie, but decided not to read the follow-up for fear it would suck. (I rarely see movie sequels either, for the same reason.)

I am a sucker for a few recent-ish all-out chick flicks. Although I usually find Julia Roberts irritating, I do have a soft spot for Notting Hill. (I suspect my aversion to Julia Roberts has something to do with my loathing for her breakthrough movie, Pretty Woman. No, don’t get me started.) I catch Legally Blonde on TV whenever I come across it. I love the fact that Elle gets the degree and, only incidentally, the good guy.

Most of my favorite chick flicks are moldy olides, though. An Officer and a Gentleman got me through some hard times when I first moved to Texas and things weren’t going well. I saw it several times in one week because I needed escapism so badly. I love Private Benjamin, with Goldie Hawn, in which she is widowed on her wedding night and joins the army. The ending tickles me every time I see it (and it’s been a while—I might have to find it for fun). I also like Rich and Famous, with Candice Bergen and Jacqueline Bisset, which follows a friendship over decades.

I suppose my favorite chick lit and flicks involve women going for something other than the guy. You know, finding a guy is great, but that’s not all there is to us.

Labels: books, feminism, movies, writing

Yesterday I went to see Stop the Presses: The American Newspaper in Peril, a documentary about what appears to be the inevitable demise of the newspaper as we know it. (The film was co-produced and directed by Manny Mendoza a former Dallas Morning News critic who took a buyout.) It’s playing as part of the AFI Film Festival here in Dallas and shows one more time, on Saturday, at the Angelika.

To an extent, of course, I didn’t hear anything I didn’t already know—Craiglist killed classified, advertising is going to the web (where rates are lower), nobody is willing to pay for news on the web, going public put too much emphasis on profits, young people aren’t reading newspapers, yadda yadda yadda.

Nonetheless, hearing wizened newsmen (Ben Bradlee to Ed Asner) and women talk, seeing footage inside daily planning meetings (which I attended from time to time as an assistant editor) and watching newspaper-related clips from old movies made me feel even more poignantly the loss. I had great fun at the Dallas Morning News, when it was fun. Even in features (as opposed to hard news) we felt ourselves part of the pulse of the city . Our perceptions of our importance were greatly inflated, of course, but it was a giddy, heady feeling to be part of something the entire city shared (we imagined). I loved walking into the big, downtown monolith each day, with the pompous inscription carved above the front door:

Build the news upon the rock of truth and righteousness. Conduct it always upon the lines of fairness and integrity. Acknowledge the right of the people to get from the newspaper both sides of every important question.

I loved the pace of the newspaper, loved knowing the people behind the byline, loved seeing myself in the paper, even loved seeing myself smiling up from the bottom of a gerbil tank in my vet’s office one day.

As a consumer, I love that transitional time of day, between sleeping and work, spent drinking coffee and reading my newspaper. Alas, that time gets shorter and shorter as the paper contains less and less to read. The other morning, Tom tossed the newspaper on the bed for me as he does every morning and it felt no more weighty than a napkin hitting the bed. It’s fading. It’s fading away.

But the loss will be more than just about nostalgia. The newspaper really is the watchdog of our democracy and the more it buckles under the weight of the marketplace, the more I fear for us all. Nobody does investigative reporting like the newspapers. Watergate, the Catholic Church scandals, the Walter Reed hospital exposé—all these were the work of diligent, committed, creative and hard working reporters. And believe me, good reporters work their asses off. I’ve seen it.

As the documentary points out, all the TV and radio news shows and pundits draw information from newspapers. Those guys will have nothing to talk about if the New York Times, LA Times, and Washington Post go under. Then it will be all Britney all the time. When it’s not Paris.

What I do? It’s just piffle. I love writing features and I’m glad to entertain people, but you can get features anywhere. OK, they do help the rest of the newspaper go down more easily--I’ll read about the latest Dallas Independent School District scandal if I know I can reward myself with Carolyn Hax afterwards. I would miss features if my newspaper carried news alone. Still, nobody needs them. They’re just newspaper candy.

But we do need reporters, the kind of tough nuts who will knock on strangers’ doors and ask hard questions, who will go past the surface and then past the surface and then past the surface to find out what’s at the bottom. The kinds of people—and they do exist, I know lots of them—who would rather starve than violate the code of ethics by which newspapers operate. (By taking subsidized trips, I cannot count myself fully among them but I am meticulous about fairness in both my travel and non-travel stories.) Bloggers are taking up the slack to an extent, but they are unsupervised and simply not as trustworthy. No, don’t argue. They’re not.

The real bummer is that nobody sees a solution. They laugh about it in the documentary, but it’s a hysterical laugh. An entire, vital industry is scrambling to save itself but nobody knows how.

I feel like I’m standing on shore watching the Titanic go down and can’t do anything to stop it.

Labels: dallas morning news, media, movies, news, newspapers

I enjoyed this Tom Maurstad story about sitting through all five best picture Oscar nominee films back-to-back, especially since I just did some marathon film-watching of my own, on my long, long, so long flights.

Over the course of four international flights, I watched Brokeback Mountain again. I enjoyed it more than the first time but it still didn't make me cry. The Chronicles of Narnia, did, though. I always did cried when they killed Aslan in the book and I cried again seeing it in the movie. I thought the movie did a perfectly fine job with the story, and I was fearful about that, having loved the books as a girl. The special effects were lovely. I also cried at a clumsy little tearjerker called Evening, starring Vanessa Redgrave and Claire Danes. It kind of sucked, but a dying mother and all...

I watched Dan in Real Life, which made no impression and most of Elizabeth: Into the Golden Age, a reasonably satisfying costume drama with good spooky acting by Cate Blanchett. Oh yes, and Vanity Fair with Reese Witherspoon, which went down real easy. I watched Into the Wild, which was more absorbing than I expected. Hal Holbrook made me cry.


Finally I watched a Britcom with Alan Partridge. I'd read a profile about the comic in the New Yorker not long ago (that might have run years ago--New Yorkers tend to stack up in this house) but had never seen him. The show was hilarious. I started watching an episode of different show of his, but we started our approach and I had to turn off and stow all electronic devices and return seat back to full and upright position.

Labels: movies, travel