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Rachel_greeneyes
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Name: Rachel
Birthday: 7/5/1989
Gender: Female
Interests: God, music (I play piano, the djembe, still some violin, and some guitar), gaming, movies of all types, hanging out with friends and family.
Occupation: Student, Chik-fil-A employee.
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/14/2006
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Red River
By John Wayne, Montgomery Clift, Joanne Dru, Walter Brennan, Coleen Gray
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So around 11 o'clock tonight, in comes Mr. Indie Rocker. This guy and I have a little bit of coffee-shop history, and since I hold customer grudges for the lifespan of any beluga whale, I had to glare a little bit when I saw him coming in. See, he's your absolutely stereotypical, drawn-from-description kind of Indie Rocker. He's got the blonde wavy hair partially covering his deep eyes, most often green or blue, that radiate an inner unspoken pain that clearly inspires most of the indie/emo lyrics like "I won't hold you back, I won't make a sound/I know what scares you the most/Being Alone/Just like them/Being Alive/Feeling so... DEAD." He slumps in corners with his dark-wash skinny jeans, vans, graphic T-shirt-with-a-message and trucker cap, torn somewhere between the indie music scene and the emo music scene that has slowly been washing into the former. He's one of those kids that has a Mac because Macs are cool, listens to vinyl because vinyl is old-school, and flicks his hair out of his eyes after every phrase. "Hey . . . /hair flip/ . . . can I get a . . . /hair flip/ . . . mocha?" You'll hear him say things like, "the other day, when I was pumping up my guitar riff in Garage Band, I totally found this great rhythm that turned into a whole new song that I like to call . . . 'Bleed My Heart For Her Careless Gaze.'" Ten years ago these kids were found in Starbucks across the nation, but once they realized that Starbucks really is the man, they started trying to find other places, such as my wonderful little independent coffee shop.
So he comes in. He's got two petite little blonde chicks following him in, their hair a little grunge, their skirts a little too short, their tights a little banged-up. I honestly think the alternative kids nowadays just took the worst parts of the last three decades and mashed them together just to see what would happen, then were so traumatized by the horrible results that they actually thought it worked. Most of the time, Mr. Indie Rocker doesn't buy anything, and likes to leach off our internet - whether he's too poor is probably not the issue, because he's undoubtedly buying new amps and that shiny MacBook on daddy's dollar. Just a guess. They find an emptier room, then he sits these girls down and proceeds to show them his band's videos. "Hey . . . /hair flip/ . . . what'd you think? /hair flip/ Like, did you like that bass groove I threw down there? /hair flip/ It was totally . . . /hair flip/ . . . wicked. Yeah. Wicked." Then he looks into their eyes with his own sad ones, brushes his hair bashfully out of his face, and asks them earnestly if they think he's cool. In the next room, Mr. Indie Rocker, the guffaws you hear are your barristas, getting a good laugh at how badly your band needs to be validated by 17-year-old wannabe-rockers who will one day deeply regret the entire last year of highschool that they spent trying to convince you that you should let them in free to every show.
Here's my point: say what you will about Jennifer's Body, the new Diablo Cody movie, but her portrayal of indie rockers totally hit the mark for me. Not the sacrificing-virgins part, but the part where Adam Brody's character (Nikolai Wolf) explains to Jennifer why he's about to perform a Satanic ritual. "There are so many of us," he says, "and we're all so cute! We have to have something set us apart, something to get us on the latest episode of Conan O'Brian." Sing that awful song, Mr. Indie Rocker. The one that we liked alright the first time we heard it, then slowly began to resent as it was repeated hundreds - no, thousands of times on all the radio stations that we once held dear. Your Myspace has had a million views, yes, but your band is just a flash in the pan. Let's not forget it.
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| Gunshots around here are something of an existential experience. There's no sound, before or after. There's no screaming, no squealing of tires, nothing to denote any kind of distress. There's that deep, early-morning silence before, then six to eight shots, then that silence again. It struck me last night as something almost like a spiritual experience; something . . . reverent, that I can't place my finger on.
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| There's something so loving about a movie shot in black and white. The soft grays and the rich blacks give a movie the untainted air of classiness, of old-fashioned double-breasted suits and high-end scotch. The way the shadows can highlight the lines on the actor's faces, their rugged, manly countenances with cigarettes dangling from between pursed lips; the way the same lighting shines so true on the actresses, their alabaster cheeks almost glowing against the soft lighting, their hair haloed around their faces and their eyes dewy - black and white movies are a love song sung to the art of cinema. In the black and white era, men were men, and their conflicts were rough and primal. They are both gladiators and gentlemen, sparring with their words but battling brutally with their fists when it comes time.
A tiny, niche trend has turned back to black and white recently, and I'm eternally grateful to them, some stylized and sensational, and others calm and classy. Good Night and Good Luck is a lovely representation of elegant filmmaking, a piece of lovely cinema directed in that throw-back style by George Clooney, and acted just as tastefully by David Strathairn, Robert Downey Jr., and Clooney himself. It's timeless, it's beautiful, it's refined; without lending an ear to the demanding mode of cinema today, Clooney creates a movie that cares not at all for being modish or hip, and therein lies its beauty.
On the opposite side of the style spectrum is the new wave of movies - often based on or directed by Frank Miller - shot in black and white or some form of sepia with occasional strokes of intense color. Sin City is probably the most perfect example of this style, with its noir lighting and intermittent sparks of color. The first time the viewer is introduced to the color is when The Man lights a cigarette for The Customer - the camera closes in on her eyes just as the lighter flickers on, and her eyes flame with the lighter into a brief, rich shade of green. Although Sin City is some sort of odd neo-noir, more brutal than any old noir while yet not being as gritty, it is still an intensely beautiful visual experience.
This helps you understand one of the many reasons why I'm excited not only about The Spirit (Christmas '08), but also about Watchmen (June '09). While we're on the subject of Watchmen, I thought I'd mention the fabulous trailer that premiered with The Dark Knight a few weeks ago - the fabulous visuals, the way the stills could have been taken directly from the graphic novel, the dark tone of the song . . . altogether, one of the most majestic and awe-inspiring trailers I've ever seen. One thing I really loved about it was the fact that the trailer was cut for those who know the story and have read the novel - no explanation to speak of, just images of the characters we, who I'll term the elite, know so well. It's pretty much glorious.
"The world will look up and shout, 'Save us!' And I'll whisper . . . 'No.'"
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| My pride never ever gets along well with honesty. I think that's the
nature of the beast - my pride tells me repeatedly, throughout the
night, through every situation I've been in since I was 10 that
required any kind of emotional honesty, that honesty is never the best
policy, and that it only leads to the kind of vulnerability that I've
been wary of since I was a child. To my mind, emotional honesty is a
thing reserved for those who've earned it, rightfully and
painstakingly, and sometimes even withheld from those who do indeed
deserve it. I don't believe in baring your feelings to much of anyone
- not those who've wronged you, certainly, as it gives them a power
that no one should have over me. Even my friends should rarely have
that power, the ability to hold out my emotions - those things that I
would consider my deepest, darkest secrets as innocuous as they may be
- and present them to the world, claiming that I'm actually vulnerable
to other attack. You tell someone that you're vulnerable to one thing,
it's naturally assumed that you're vulnerable to all other similar
types - if your enemies are informed that you're stung every time
someone calls you fat, they will do their best to take their sharpest
sword and press it deeply into that formative wound.
But
back to the real issue at hand. When someone does you wrong, do you
really turn to them and say, "you've hurt me. You've done me wrong,
and my soul is wounded from it." Do you really think that's a natural
thing to do? It may be the Christian way, but it's not the way that
I've come to understand, and it's not the way my personality is built
to comprehend. I believe firmly that when one person wrongs another
person, the wronged - the offended - has every right to turn around and
walk away, and that the offender has the God-given responsibility to
leave the offended party alone until the offended party chooses to do
otherwise. Is that so much to ask? It perpetually confuses me how
people try to run after the offended party in hopes not of apologizing,
but of reconciling without taking any blame. And even after the
apology, there should still be the right to refuse, to walk away and
have no worry of ever hearing from the offending party again. It's a
simple process, and yet apparently so hard for most people to
understand.
Miss Cindy tried to break through that wall between
my inner being and the rest of the world, but by the time she got to
it, I'd reinforced it enough to easily keep her out, and fairly keep
out most of the girls at my youth group. Once you get the hang of it,
it's an easy job, and I'm something of a master. Shannon's been trying
to break through with me for several months now, and although I let her
in at first, and although it's partially her influence spurring me on
in the entire Cal issue, I've pushed her back on the outside and
currently have no real intentions of letting her back in. Even my
sister has seen that phenomenon in me - at one point she pushed me too
hard on an issue and felt me lock down. She felt through IMing that I'd completely locked her out. I let her back in eventually, but the point still stands.
In
all honesty, is there any part of human nature that is such a glutton
for punishment? Do we really run back to those who wrong us, just that
easily? Do some people find it stimulating to hand the key to their
weaknesses to those who only want to dig into those chinks in our armor? | | |
| Something about Guillermo del Toro's movies consistently leaves me emotionally off-balance. So far, each del Toro movie that I've seen has left me with this almost dizzying sensation halfway between the sinking feeling of despair and the high of revelatory enlightenment. I think somehow he sets the viewer off-guard, constantly striking some equilibrium between hope and anguish that leaves the viewer maybe even worn down on some level. It fascinates me, but it causes his movies to be . . . if not an ordeal, then at least something of an experience. It's harsh, but not unduly so.
Here's a comparison to chew on: Clint Eastwood is a director's director, similar to how he was a man's man. His shoots are short, efficient, and intense, and the finished product is the ultimate example of how a great director can create a sparse conglomerate of great acting and classic style. Del Toro, on the other hand, is an artist's director. His shoots are average to long, but the finished product accurately represents his overwhelming artistry. His attention to detail is particularly stunning; more than once I've spotted tiny references between his movies, most especially in Hellboy (the first one) when the tiny fairies from Pan's Labyrinth can be seen in the corner of a frame in a jar.
Del Toro is probably most noted for his ability to take that which is innocent, maybe even mundane, and twist it to become fantastic and sometimes horrible. The teeth fairies in Hellboy 2 are nothing to be trifled with - tiny maneating monsters that leave not even fragments of bone from their victims' bodies. Both Pan's Labyrinth and Hellboy 2 display an uncanny sensibility for the whimsical, although sometimes a dark version of it. The Pale Man (from Pan's Labyrinth) is a terrifying, twisted version of the monster that all of us knew was in our closets as youngsters. But similarly, the Angel of Death in Hellboy 2 is like something out of a Royo painting, or like a Frazetta painting sprung to life. Simultaneously glorious and frightening, they're things of another realm that we can only wonder at.
Even as I believed whole-heartedly that del Toro was taking the wrong path in Hellboy 2 - and a few things I'll stick to my guns about - I was nevertheless drawn into the story and the characters as fully as before. Even though I could see that Liz was a far different character than she had been in the first movie, I still felt the same kind of sympathy and interest in the character that I had before. And although his highly inflated budget was so very evident, he didn't let it go to his head - for many directors, the inflated budget between sequels absolutely murders the quality of the second movie. Del Toro changed many things, sometimes even the gritty authenticity that I really liked about the first Hellboy, but the integrity of his characters, or maybe more accurately the stock that you put in them, is still just as strong.
One thing that strikes me about Liz is del Toro's ease with change. So many superhero movies now succumb to the temptation to keep the overarching story completely static, in hopes of drawing the story out longer over many more movies. The most recent example of that is The Incredible Hulk, at the end of which you reaize that nothing of any kind of lasting significance actually happened. He defeated one more enemy, but in the long run, did anything really happen? Similarly, Terminator 3 served no advancement of the general storyline at all. Del Toro confronts his characters' changes with an effortlessness that is really refreshing. Although I'm not sure I was ready for Liz to become a more stereotypically confident and powerful being that she was, I felt like maybe there was just more to the story than del Toro had time to tell us, and that maybe it was a natural change that we just didn't quite see coming.
The elves were just beyond glorious. Their world, their lore, their very essence was as rich as you would expect from an artist like del Toro. The unexplained details make del Toro's elven world great - when an elf of the royal family dies, they turn into some marble-like substance as they pass away. And the variety of species that guard the royal family is fascinating, while being characteristically discomforting. I found the combat and the weaponry especially fascinating - Prince Nuada fights with a beautiful spear-ended sword that quickly changes into a razor-sharp spear, a piece that is extraordinarily hard to describe but equally beautiful. Del Toro actually sped up the combat, just enough that Prince Nuada seems appropriately superhuman. The sequences where Prince Nuada shows off his combat skills are simply breathtaking, both in beauty and in brutality.
The villains - or maybe more accurately, neutral or darker supporting characters - have an odd sort of sway in del Toro's movies as well. The original Hellboy was closer to the original comic book style, but in Hellboy 2, Prince Nuada's dying words are intense. You can see the truth of them hit our hero as viscerally as with a fist, which in turn forces you to sympathize with Nuada in more ways than one. When he refers to himself and Hellboy as a dying breed, his eyes light up with fanatacism and yet sorrow, and somehow the viewer is forced to identify with this absolute loneliness. In the original, Hellboy is lured to take up Rasputin's side briefly because of promises of everlasting power, but more importantly, the return of Liz's life. The reverse of that can be seen in a chilling sequence in Hellboy 2, when Liz bargains with the Angel of Death for Hellboy's life. He offers her a choice - "the world, or his life" - after explaining that it is Hellboy's destiny to bring about the destruction of the earth. Without a second thought, with tears in her eyes, she asks for his life, and the Angel slides a few more orbs around the circle he stands in and grants her wish. It's an emotional scene, even with the fact that it's a giant red demon and the pyrokinetic girl who loves him.
Overall, I loved Hellboy 2: The Golden Army. I left with the same hint of sorrow and loneliness that I typically do with del Toro's movies, but I find that emotion causes the movie to impact me more deeply, and thus cause me to like it more. It was beyond gorgeous, both aesthetically and emotionally, and the acting was solid throughout. Ron Perlman is just beyond amazing, and Selma Blair's portrayal of the love of his life is hilarious at times, and deeply layered at others.
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