Ever since deciding to pursue my career as a writer I’ve been filled with a very cynical feeling. Sometimes that feeling is followed in tow by a wave of melancholy and depression—why be so depressed over things that do not really matter all that much? Now, don’t pull a David Foster Wallace exit and take this as seriously as I’m making it out to be. Really what it boils down to is this: me finding a problem in every thing I read, watch, or listen to. I think that my own take will somehow shape the whole into a better form than it already is. I heard that Kanye West—the megalomaniac, takes-no-shit genius MC—went back into the studio this week after fan feedback from his latest single was mainly negative. Put some new tracks on some new wax, ‘Ye. Still, got to show him props for taking constructive criticism in the best light an artist should.
So as I near (and by “near”, I mean a few weeks away) the end of my first draft of the new play, And the Bronx Got Bombed, I solicit to reviews of recently exposed material from the greater entertainment mediums:
The Third Story—a new play by Charles Busch playing at our theater is tonally off, about two scenes too long, but otherwise, ballsy, bold, and surprisingly heartwarming. It consists of three different stories all thematically interwoven with one another. The first is a fairy tale involving a sorcerer creating a double for a shy princess to woo her love. This tale is told by an aging female screenwriter, one of Hollywood’s golden girls in the 1930’s, to her failed screenwriter son, in an attempt to get him to collaborate on a script with her. The script (this being the third story, hence the name) involves a Mob Queen looking to clone herself with the help of a scientist and all the problems it creates. I liked it…some of the jokes fell flat, but those that succeeded, pull the slack up of the ones that didn’t (Best line came after Queenie beats her son’s teacher senseless: “Good thing I didn’t bring an apple; you wouldn’t have the teeth to eat it!”). And in the end, the connection between to two screenwriters that is honed in on, comes to a beautiful finale. All in all, thumbs up, C.B.
So as I near (and by “near”, I mean a few weeks away) the end of my first draft of the new play, And the Bronx Got Bombed, I solicit to reviews of recently exposed material from the greater entertainment mediums:
The Third Story—a new play by Charles Busch playing at our theater is tonally off, about two scenes too long, but otherwise, ballsy, bold, and surprisingly heartwarming. It consists of three different stories all thematically interwoven with one another. The first is a fairy tale involving a sorcerer creating a double for a shy princess to woo her love. This tale is told by an aging female screenwriter, one of Hollywood’s golden girls in the 1930’s, to her failed screenwriter son, in an attempt to get him to collaborate on a script with her. The script (this being the third story, hence the name) involves a Mob Queen looking to clone herself with the help of a scientist and all the problems it creates. I liked it…some of the jokes fell flat, but those that succeeded, pull the slack up of the ones that didn’t (Best line came after Queenie beats her son’s teacher senseless: “Good thing I didn’t bring an apple; you wouldn’t have the teeth to eat it!”). And in the end, the connection between to two screenwriters that is honed in on, comes to a beautiful finale. All in all, thumbs up, C.B.
“Deadwood”, Season Two—a semi-cult series that was cancelled after three seasons was one of the most interesting things to come out of HBO. I say this a rabid fan of The Wire, Flight of the Conchords, The Sopranos, Big Love, and Extras. But Deadwood was something else: a down and dirty Western tale where it’s really, really hard to tell the good from the bad from the ugly. This season followed newly appointed Sheriff, Seth Bullock, as he sacrificed his affair with the widow, Alma Garrett, to honor the wife and son of his dead brother. Meanwhile, Al Sweargen is rallying his troops against the annexation of the camp with Yankton and the women of Deadwood start to find common ground in all their struggles. I'll admit that "Deadwood" didn't hook me right away because the episodes were so long (or at least felt like it) and the dialogue so dense (or maybe it was me...that can happen). However, with the fight between Bullock and Sweargen, Al's kidney stone arch, Mr. Walcott's lethal habit, Ellsworth's proposal, and Jonnie and Calamity Jane's friendship...well, I'm one gutted cocksucker for the show and can't wait to see the last season.
Burn After Reading--there was a point where I'd leap at the chance to see an Coen Brothers' movie out. Then came Intolerable Cruelty. And then Ladykillers. But this is an entry about looking up in life when it is so easy to look down and I have to say that's no hard thing with the latest from Joel and Ethan. There humor and off-beat style work wonders with the phenomenal cast, especially Brad Pitt. There are parts where it lulls, but by the end, when everything is a mess and the Coen Brothers fully admit it's a big mess, it's like a Jackson Pollack black comedy -- spattered together just right that it's mesmerizing. George Clooney lives up to his title of "last movie star alive", showing he can do just about anything. Brad Pitt shows us once again that he's a four-star comedy actor when given the right role. And John Malkovich, together with Frances McDormand, do what they do best in the quirkiest way possible: show us real human emotion under duress. So far, it's up there on my top ten list for 2008 movies.
I suppose the reasoning behind this entry is that as the week wraps up (and what a shitty week it's been. For further reading on the subject, look at my last post or open up the business section of the newspaper). Sara, Scott, and my mom have all called this week depressed with "after-bar-mitzvah-blues" among other things and I'd be a liar to say I haven't felt that way too. My homesickness for New York is at an all time high. One of my bosses at work yelled at me today for a mistake I made. Was the error mine? Yes, to the fullest extent. Was it that big of a deal? No. In fact, my boss' boss said it wasn't anything to break a sweat over. Could it be that every year we get older we start from scratch and I'm just in my guppy phase of twenty-three? Perhaps, but I'm not willing to let myself get off that easily. I thrive in situations where dumb people need my help. Now I'm the one who's head is not quite in the game.
However, there is light...
Coming home tonight on my bike, some drunk guy who I heard down the street walked up to me and said, "You're a faggot, faggot!" I haven't been called that in a long time. Brought back memories of woe from the pizza-face with extra anchovies years, when all was in the gutter and there was no end in sight. God bless you, you drunken frat boy! Your mother might not be proud of you; you obviously have some self issues that need resolving, yet bygod you've made a believer out of me!
Burn After Reading--there was a point where I'd leap at the chance to see an Coen Brothers' movie out. Then came Intolerable Cruelty. And then Ladykillers. But this is an entry about looking up in life when it is so easy to look down and I have to say that's no hard thing with the latest from Joel and Ethan. There humor and off-beat style work wonders with the phenomenal cast, especially Brad Pitt. There are parts where it lulls, but by the end, when everything is a mess and the Coen Brothers fully admit it's a big mess, it's like a Jackson Pollack black comedy -- spattered together just right that it's mesmerizing. George Clooney lives up to his title of "last movie star alive", showing he can do just about anything. Brad Pitt shows us once again that he's a four-star comedy actor when given the right role. And John Malkovich, together with Frances McDormand, do what they do best in the quirkiest way possible: show us real human emotion under duress. So far, it's up there on my top ten list for 2008 movies.
I suppose the reasoning behind this entry is that as the week wraps up (and what a shitty week it's been. For further reading on the subject, look at my last post or open up the business section of the newspaper). Sara, Scott, and my mom have all called this week depressed with "after-bar-mitzvah-blues" among other things and I'd be a liar to say I haven't felt that way too. My homesickness for New York is at an all time high. One of my bosses at work yelled at me today for a mistake I made. Was the error mine? Yes, to the fullest extent. Was it that big of a deal? No. In fact, my boss' boss said it wasn't anything to break a sweat over. Could it be that every year we get older we start from scratch and I'm just in my guppy phase of twenty-three? Perhaps, but I'm not willing to let myself get off that easily. I thrive in situations where dumb people need my help. Now I'm the one who's head is not quite in the game.
However, there is light...
Coming home tonight on my bike, some drunk guy who I heard down the street walked up to me and said, "You're a faggot, faggot!" I haven't been called that in a long time. Brought back memories of woe from the pizza-face with extra anchovies years, when all was in the gutter and there was no end in sight. God bless you, you drunken frat boy! Your mother might not be proud of you; you obviously have some self issues that need resolving, yet bygod you've made a believer out of me!
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