how to stave off cabin fever and not become a cannibal

This post first appeared, in slightly different form, on blogcritics.org

From episodes of Gimmie a Break and Perfect Strangers, to the real-life tweeting of reporter Ann Curry, the dramedy of being trapped in an elevator is a staple of entertainment in this age of Otis. Striking the hearts of both the claustrophobic and the Luddite who should have just taken the stairs, these tales of strange bedfellows are especially chilling to those caught in the middle of the snowpocalypse that has left the Mid-Atlantic states without cupcakes for days on end. So what better way to battle cabin fever than with Hallmark Channel's Valentine's Day offering, Elevator Girl? Would you want to be trapped with these people? Come closer - let's take a look.

Under the opening credits we are introduced with keen efficiency to a typical morning for each of our predestined characters: Liberty (Lacey Chalbert, the one on Party of Five who looked like Jennifer Love-Hewitt but wasn't; this is to her great credit, as the career track of her former co-star has led to one of the most misguided and disturbing examples of celebrity too-much-informationitis: Love-Hewitt's public announcement that she had a bejewelled vajayjay ) hits the snooze button and pulls the sheets back over her head, stumbles into a kitchen past a refrigerator encrusted with post-it notes and brews herself a pot of Mr. Coffee. Jonathan (Ryan Merriman, Final Destination 3) - and note that this is by contrast, walks into an immaculate kitchen with granite counters and chrome fittings to make a perfect single-serve espresso.

Jonathan was just made partner at a prestigious law firm, and is on the way to a dinner thrown in his honor. She's on the way to cater said dinner, and runs to catch the fated elevator. I've seen a lot of forced dialogue in rom-coms in my time and I know we'll never see the verbal or charismatic ilk of Bringing up Baby again, but while their banter was not especially interesting (contrary to Libby's small-talk remarks to Jonathan how "interesting" that is), they have a kind of awkward chemistry that was surprisingly believable. It is certainly more believable than the chemistry that's supposed to make us coo at such Hollywood rom-coms as PS I Love You and Crazy Heart. Trapped for just a few minutes, Jonathan and Libby share a little bit of their lives and go their own ways ... to meet again?

"Maybe you were put on that elevator with that guy on that night to learn a little something about yourself." That's Tessa, Liberty's stock funny-looking friend, and alas it is around here that the rom-com formula starts to go bad - not as bad as a box of brownie mix that expired in 2005, but no chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, either.

Still, there are slight charms and textures to come. Patty McCormack's long career began with The Bad Seed, and television credentials that go back to Route 66 with stops at Fantasy Island and The Sopranos. Here she plays the small but crucial role of Rosemary, Jonathan's secretary. Rosemary plays matchmaker and hires Libby to cook for a dinner at Jonathan's decadent condo.This leads us to the first of a recurring variation on get-downism, but instead of the magical ethnic character teaching the stuffy Protestant to get down, Libby teaches Jonathan how to cook hummus. Earthy! The kitchen plays a role in a subsequent scene of get-downism, punctiuated by a funk soundtrack that asks us to "swing it on down and shake it up sister." Is there a clause in the contract for Hallmark Channel scripts that requires this scene? It reminds me very much of a scene in Ladies of the house, previously reviewed in this space. Hmm. Elevator Girl may be formulaic rom-com with standard-issue notions of dropping the soul-sucking nine-to-five job to answer your artistic calling, but the principals do their best to make this a pleasant diversion, and it is a good message for the kids. This Hallmark Channel Original Movie premieres Saturday, February 13th (9p.m. ET/PT, 8C).

a brief note on gods and godesses

This review first appeared on blogcritics.org.

One of my favorite movies of 2009 was Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno (L'enfer d'Henri-Georges Clouzot), a documentary that assembled footage from the French director's doomed 1964 production. Marvelously edited and with a spanking new but era-appropriate soundtrack, the most spectacular sequences were simply lighting tests of Romy Schneider:

I don't know about you, but I could watch that all day. So I thought, if Romy Schneider's test shots made for a five-star movie, I could watch her in anything, right?

Swimming Pool (La piscine), part of the five-film Alain Delon Collection, answers that question: positivement non! A 1969 vehicle for Schneider and Delon, who together were the Brangelina of their time, the picture is ostensibly a thriller but is one of the most boring movies I've seen in recent memory — and this is coming from someone who thinks Last Year at Marienbad is funny. Alainomy play Jean and Marianne (aka Jearianne), a young couple vacationing near St. Tropez. If you are still awake, I'm surprised. Because despite the magnificent specimens of gender that are Alainomy, there's only so much visual and dramatic interest you can squeeze from scenes of screen gods lounging tanned and glistening at poolside. Did I mention there's spanking? Oh, it is playful, as Delon strips a low-hanging branch from a nearby tree and lovingly slaps his topless Schneider on the back; first gently, then with gusto! You would rip off his shirt too, no?

This wouldn't be French without the promise of a menage-a-trois or even a-quatre. Column B is provided, if you can call it that, by the couple's old chum Harry (Maurice Ronet) and his teenage daughter Penelope (Jane Birkin, hot off her iconic duet with Serge Gainsbourg, "Je t'aime ... moi non plus"). This May-September couple make for romantic rivals — and, in the case of Mlle Birkin, someone to count walnuts onscreen.

Not to toot my own horn as a writer, but if you've read this far, you've likely experienced amounts of heat and tension comparable to that I felt during the entire two-hour length of Swimming Pool. There's a murder, but by the time it happened I didn't care who lived or died. Swimming Pool is sad proof that the beautiful people of any era made for a lot of baaad pictures.

J'accuse!

Au revoir Alphaville

I meant to blog this when I got back from New York a few weeks ago. I was saddened to learn that Alphaville, the antique toy shop on West Houston just across from Film Forum, is closing up shop after 16 years. I'd always wondered how such a specialized shop could make do in such a large space. The co-owner told me that wasn't a problem, as they had an understanding landlord. The prospects of an expensive heater repair helped the owners decide to call it a day. They'll continue to operate online, but I'll miss stopping in there before a movie to browse the display cases:





And, more often than not, get my fix of Italian 3-D plastic. As you can see above, they stocked their share of kittens and puppies, and the owner kept an eye out for 3-D popes for me. But it was this horrifying subgenre that I will remember best:



I mean, how do you look that up on eBay? Alphaville was also good for the occasional lenticular teddy bear cottage:



Thanks Alphaville! And if you happen on one of these, save me two!

RIP Sandro

This piece first appeared in a slightly different form on blogcritics.org.

A year ago this week, near the end of a whirlwind holiday trip to South America, I walked into the magnificent El Ateneo bookstore in Buenos Aires. I looked through the Argentine DVDs for something to remember the country by. On a whim led by cover art that spoke some strange yet familiar sentiment to me, I picked up a movie starring Roberto Sanchez, aka Sandro. This is the trailer for that movie:



My homie and I watched it that night, and were immediately transfixed by his infectious gyrations, now rhythmic, now melodramatic. On our last night in Argentina we went back to El Ateneo for more Sandro for her and for friends back home, but nobody else really seemed to recognize his swarthy awesomeness.

English-language obituaries call him the Elvis of Argentina, though Sandro's musical hips are attached to a dramatic ham that Elvis never showed in his movies. Sandro's entertainment was no less than an alchemical explosion of equal parts Tom Jones and Richard Burton.

Sandro died on January 4th, from complications arising from a lung and heart transplant. He was 64. In an interview with Mitre Radio, excerpted in the Star Tribune, Sandro curses his fate:

I am debilitated because I cannot move. My life is my bed, my spot in the dining room where I read the newspaper, and from there I do not move, I am to blame for the condition that I am in. I deserve it; I sought it out. I picked up this damn cigarette.

May flights of angels hip-shake thee to your rest, Senor.

eye smoke, eye drank, eye supposedta stop but eye can't

My Eyes On Stuff, a new tumblr page documenting exercises in modern identity. Am currently soliciting book offers, cases of Cristal, and money - 'cause it glows.

sometimes when we record at extended play

In the 80's, I asked a high school chum, who shall remain nameless but who is a FB contact (apropriately enough, I also remember lending him a philosophy textbook, which he left in his car during a pouring rain; he returned the book to me besotted with water damage, and our Philosophy teacher pointed to it's damage as an indicator of how much its owner referred to it. I never corrected his assumption) to tape Lord Love a Duck for me, off a broadcast station (WBFF 45, a Baltimore station) I couldn't get well in DC. The tape was full of dropouts and transmission problems, and though I taped over it long ago, and the movie is now available in a pristine DVD transfer, I sometimes wish I could watch it again broadcast problems and all. The tracking (and audio) problems in these clips of similar vintage are the video-age equivalent to the patina of scratches and emulsion damage seen in neglected celluloid prints of the silent era. Cf: the time I saw a faded-to-pink print of Lasse Halstrom's Abba movie. Via lapinfille.

the tumbly, tumbly dew

I've started a tumblr.

Merry Christmas from the Bloggy, Bloggy Dew

I've wanted to mix these for years. Thank you, Universal Music Group.

what's behind the mask

Last night, after months of delays, and in the aftermath of a snowpocalypse of historic proportions, I tried out a continuous positive airway pressure machine, or CPAP. Some of my best friends swore their praises and curses of the machine, which either sung them into a device-assisted date with sandman, or made them to claw at their faces and sleep unadorned.

I didn't claw. As uncomfortable as this looks, I had a much better night's sleep than the last time I was so nocturnally wired. Because this time I was masked. Thanks to this Darth Vader-like apparatus I breathed in not only positive air pressure but clean and more or less allergen-free air, with the added benefit of a humidifier. The sleep center had moved to a new facility just weeks before, and the mattress - which turned out to be simply a big cushion on top of the standard hospital-issue slab - was more comfortable by far than the hospital sleep lab. I did miss the Soylent Green-flavored relaxation videos piped into the hospital sleep lab, replaced this time with the Charlie Brown Christmas special and a news report on adopted children finding their birth parents. But the bedroom was decked with artwork that reminded me of the big sleep of Edward G. Robinson.

I woke wanting more sleep, but feeling like I actually slept.

No, thank YOU.

Linda and Aisling, the Scriveners

Not all musical Liverpudlians were as cuddly as the Fab Four. The Fab lapinfille brought to my attention as a case in point the Reynolds Girls, one-hit wonders who are at a considerable disadvantage already by being just two and furthermore by not being Fab. Produced by the law firm of Stock Aitken and Waterman, who issued their relentless briefs and shook up the legal airwaves with such hits as Dead or Alive's "You spin me round" and the collected works of Kylie Minogue, "I'd rather Jack" ratcheted up the UK charts to number 8 in 1989. Once heard, it can't be forgotten, no matter how much you try. Once seen, the video cannot be shaken from memory, and the questions spin right round like a record round round round: What teenager would let themselves out of the house wearing that? What contest did les filles Reynolds win - and who lost? Why are there people like Frank? What exactly is "Jack"?

"Jack," as the blonde Reynolds explained in a television interview at the time, is a dance, liberally speaking. But the ambiguity of the lyrics is hard to ignore, suggesting that the girls would rather masturbate than Fleetwood Mac. Here across the pond, the youth of my generation happily integrated the two, though in the case of Tusk, with some difficulty.

Accordion to their wikipedia entry, Les Reynolds failed to chart with their next single "Get Real," and the sample available on their MySpace page makes the reason clear: they were calling for nothing less than working class revolution.

if you gotta go, go now

This year's model

As the snow falls on our little burgh and the Christmas tree is lit on the town square and we candy the oysters to leave for Santa when he visits our cozy cave, remember 'tis the season for another yuletide tradition to warm the cockles: the Charmin holiday restrooms in Times Square. Next door to what just last year was the Virgin Megastore and is today a gaping maw of unutilized commercial space in the center of New York's Disneyland Theme Park, the Charmin base camp employs blue and pink-decked elves of unusually perky demeanor given their holiday employment requires cheerfully inviting the teeming masses to come and void their bowels, with no expectation to void their pockets, for this is free like America.

Last year at Marienbad

Not only do the elves shuttle customers in and out of the free receptacles, but they clean up after the teeming, voiding masses. And they sure are happy to do it! Perhaps no-one is happier with his seasonal vocation than Charmin Guy. The most gregarious of Procter and Gamble's holiday charges is closing in on 2,000 frends on the Facebook. I am one of them, and can track how many happy customers tag him in their holiday photos. Here he is recording a testimonial behind the arras of a new feature for 2009, the Canfessional:

I attended this public bacchanal for the first time last Christmas.

Sadly, this year they have dispensed with the sleigh and have offered in its stead a photo op of more commercially appropriate but none-too-festive means:

These are the times that try men's duodena, but I'd like to hope that the out-of-work actors who make this a joyous and mostly hygienic season (it looks like somebody missed a spot on the floor of the receptacle I used monday afternoon) will take this experience off-off-Broadway and transform their economic suffering into avant-garde suffering. It can't be any worse than starring Willem Dafoe opposite a giant duck with stigmata.

Black and WTF Like Me

My contribution to Black and WTF , found as is in a volume of House and Garden from 1948; coincidentally, the same year Joseph Cornell designed a holiday cover for the magazine.

@BoltBus blogging

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Bus blogging

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American Masters: Rick Dees

Over the transom from lapinfille comes Rick Dees's companion piece to "Bigfoot" and "Disco duck." Any single one of these records may seem like no more than cheap novelty with a driving beat, but the cumulative effect of these dismissed if not forgotten lipstick traces of the nineteen-seventies is more troubling than bell bottoms. Dees is clearly fascinated with modern man's increasing distance from nature, meaning not only natural environment but his own animal instincts. These treatises on bodily transformation are mined in the rich vein of his contemporaries Davids Johansen, Cronenberg, and Bowie. Today, Dees lords over America's Top 40, and while Lady Gaga may traffic in personal identity a la Bowie, and Mariah Carey has shed her secret life as Chewbacca, we can only hope that as Taylor Swift grows into adulthood she throws her remarkable poise and skills into her own cryptozoological project. I think I'll tweet this at her.

Bus blogging

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Lunch blogging

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Bus blogging

Eastern Avenue and Twelfth Street

Holiday sales blogging

Melody Records, Washington, D.C. Support your local merchants this holiday season.

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