I have found myself in the middle of summer with no job. Every friend - hell, every acquaintance I have has found themselves in the middle of summer with a job. Consequently I have found myself (seemingly) doing Jack Shit. I have chosen to capitalize these two words because together, they have currently become a very defining element to my existence.
Two lines above I have put the word "seemingly" between parenthesis. Many of you probably smirked at this as you may have thought I was trying to be clever and witty. However, if you have ever had a conversation with me you may have had to remind yourself that I rarely am translucently clever and witty at the same time without having tones of sarcasm underneath. This may be the reason I can't make new friends. Or why people tend to think I'm an over-opinionated A**hole. Or why I was never chosen as a representitive for anything in my 17 years of schooling. BUT I DIGRESS. The point I was trying to make with the seemingly clever and witty insertion of "seemingly" was that not doing Jack Shit has actually allow me to do, well, Lotsa Shit - mainly thinking.
This morning I sat on my back porch sipping bitter coffee and trying to ignore the sweltering humidity. Eight a.m. is entirely to early for sweltering humidity, especially if you are drinking coffee. The heat was soon lost on me though as I became strangely intrigued by two egrets stalking around my dock. I watched these egrets stalk for 30-minutes and in those 30-minutes they did almost less than I was doing. I believe collectively they stabbed three bugs and each bug was a ten-minute process. One would slowly, as if in the Matrix series, high step in the direction of his meal and then precariously wait for the moment to strike. The whole time I was thinking, "Jesus Hollis, just go for the f*cking bug. If it bolts there are millions more." Yes, I named the bird Hollis and was completely aware of how bored I was, but I was so captivated at the same time. I believe I was so captivated because of how applicable this process was to what we know as human life.
I'm a big fan of the Theory of Relativity, and the concept of relativity in general. Hollis and his hombre were taking their time catching these bugs because that's all they had to do that day. Relatively, they were working really hard and they were good at their trade. We all silently stalk our perfect bugs, be it the right job, the perfect boyfriend, the best fitting dress to minimize love handles. Sometimes it takes (seemingly) forever, but when you know you know. That's what I love about the world. The laws of physics and the laws of life are constant and the same for everything. Sure, some people are better looking and smarter and don't have weird obsessions with monkeys, but we are all connected some how. Maybe this is me being too metaphorical and figurative, but regardless this is the point of the discussion today which has taken me quite a few paragraphs to get to - the Collective Unconscious.
This is undeniably more spiritual and sappy than I usually am. I recognize this and have vowed to listen to less Jewel. ANYWAYS the collective unconscious was coined by Carl Jung (remember freshmen Psychology!) and is, to quote Wikipedia, "a part of the unconscious mind, expressed in humanity and all life forms with nervous systems, and describes how the structure of the psyche autonomously organizes experience." Digest that for a second. Basically we are all (humans and animals) connected with each other through some crazy and totally pervasive force.
J*l**s F*l*p* texted me some weeks ago about a giant sycamore tree in Blacksburg which was about to be chopped down - it had some fungus he supposed. He then proceeded to tell me that the night before he learned this bit of information, in his drunken stupor he had stumbled to the tree on his way to Tots (a bar full of pretty, and pretty drunk college tools [minus a few regulars whom I love dearly]) in desperate need of a place to piss. Ready to pull out his peter and unload in the privacy the tree's shadow provided, which was probably nonexistent but good enough for a drunken fool, he was stopped suddenly by an overwhelming love for this sycamore tree, of which he had never given any thought before. This love was so overwhelming that he zipped his pants back up and hugged the tree. For a long time. Then went on his way to use a legitamate bathroom.
The next day he read in the front page of Virginia Tech's school newspaper the Collegiate Times that the tree was to be cut down. Its 300-year life was to be ended. J*l**s believes the tree was saying goodbye to him through our collective unconscious. Sure, maybe he loses some credibility for being hammered (actually a lot of credibility), but I think he may have been tapping in to his collective unconscious.
There is one more collective unconscious incident I will sum up. I was camping with my mom and brother around the same time J*l**s texted me. It was a particularly hilarious and aggravating camping trip which involved a lot of getting lost and not a whole lot of sleeping. At the camp site there were two recently abandoned beagle puppies who were justifiably frightened. The first night as I approached them one ran away and the other, who I will call Lucy slowly came to me and basically begged me to hold her in my arms. I walked with her like that for about a half mile with her brother, Sawyer, following us. Then when I got to my destination I put her down and kept walking, but not before she licked my ankles. That night we were awoken by an awful sound that resembled putting a small animal into a blender and pushing "On," followed by quiet whimpers. Terrifying, I know. For hours the next morning we saw Sawyer running around frantically...and alone. I can only assume it was Lucy who was killed that night as she was nowhere to be found.
All day I couldn't help but think about how she let me hold her for so long and then "kissed" me goodbye. Ok I know you think I'm batshit crazy, and maybe I am, but it seemed eerily coincidental on both of these occasions. Things will always find a way to speak to you if you listen. So thank you Mr. Jung for the (seemingly) baffling term of analytic psychology.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Photo
I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. I stand on an unearthed sidewalk outside a filthy white fence I have never seen before. Finding a rotted gap between the slats, I strain to see through the cobwebs at what lies beyond. 2115. I turn the picture over- 2115. This is it.
I begin to step towards the gate, inching through the knee high weeds, my faded blue Keds shoving ancient broken beer bottles further into the ground. The cracking of the glass reminds me of those school nights when I would retreat to my room to do my homework as my mom began her routine. One bottle. Two, three, four. Sobbing. Pause. A shatter. Silence. I used to tip toe down the stairs, careful not to let them groan as if any sound would destroy the long awaited calm. “Mommy?” I would ask. “Not now,” was all she would say.
Now, after burying these shards in the dirt, I pause right in front of the latch and lift the photo to my face. I know what this man looks like. I could draw you a perfect copy with my eyes closed I have studied him so many times. Since I found it six years ago in my mother’s make-up drawer, covered by tubes of lipstick and eye shadow dust, I have looked at it every night before I went to bed. The man’s youthful smile connects his two dimples on his round cheeks. His thick mustache sits perfectly trimmed under his straight nose. Blocking the sun in the picture is his bushy brown hair that rests on his eyelashes.
There has always been a weird sense of familiarity that reaches the back of my throat and hovers, not budging for hours after I look at the picture. Sometimes, I think I can remember that man; singing to me at night, or pushing me on the porch swing. But then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’ve never seen him off this glossy picture paper. Have I looked at him so many times that my mind has begun fabricating memories to satisfy my confusion?
I suddenly find myself inside the fence; farther than I ever planned on getting. The picture is creased from my anxiety and I can feel my grip tighten even more as I realize just how close the front door is. Another twenty steps? How far to the gate? Ten? I want to take the easy way out, turn right back around and get to the other side of the street as quickly as I can- recoil from discovery, and nestle into uncertainty, but my burning curiosity rages inside of me.
Five steps. Who are you!
Ten steps. Why did she have a picture of you!
Fifteen steps. Why can’t I erase you from my mind!
My heart feels inhuman thumping so hard it makes me sick. It’s intensity climbing with each step up the porch.
Twenty steps. Please don’t open the door.
It swings open inward so suddenly that the picture is swiped from my hand and my extraordinary grip, taking with it any breath, fear, or longing I have ever had. Staring right into those eyes that I have studied so many times before, with only a sheet of thin criss-crossed wires separating the reality, my cheeks dimple to match his. I know the answer.
Dad.
I begin to step towards the gate, inching through the knee high weeds, my faded blue Keds shoving ancient broken beer bottles further into the ground. The cracking of the glass reminds me of those school nights when I would retreat to my room to do my homework as my mom began her routine. One bottle. Two, three, four. Sobbing. Pause. A shatter. Silence. I used to tip toe down the stairs, careful not to let them groan as if any sound would destroy the long awaited calm. “Mommy?” I would ask. “Not now,” was all she would say.
Now, after burying these shards in the dirt, I pause right in front of the latch and lift the photo to my face. I know what this man looks like. I could draw you a perfect copy with my eyes closed I have studied him so many times. Since I found it six years ago in my mother’s make-up drawer, covered by tubes of lipstick and eye shadow dust, I have looked at it every night before I went to bed. The man’s youthful smile connects his two dimples on his round cheeks. His thick mustache sits perfectly trimmed under his straight nose. Blocking the sun in the picture is his bushy brown hair that rests on his eyelashes.
There has always been a weird sense of familiarity that reaches the back of my throat and hovers, not budging for hours after I look at the picture. Sometimes, I think I can remember that man; singing to me at night, or pushing me on the porch swing. But then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’ve never seen him off this glossy picture paper. Have I looked at him so many times that my mind has begun fabricating memories to satisfy my confusion?
I suddenly find myself inside the fence; farther than I ever planned on getting. The picture is creased from my anxiety and I can feel my grip tighten even more as I realize just how close the front door is. Another twenty steps? How far to the gate? Ten? I want to take the easy way out, turn right back around and get to the other side of the street as quickly as I can- recoil from discovery, and nestle into uncertainty, but my burning curiosity rages inside of me.
Five steps. Who are you!
Ten steps. Why did she have a picture of you!
Fifteen steps. Why can’t I erase you from my mind!
My heart feels inhuman thumping so hard it makes me sick. It’s intensity climbing with each step up the porch.
Twenty steps. Please don’t open the door.
It swings open inward so suddenly that the picture is swiped from my hand and my extraordinary grip, taking with it any breath, fear, or longing I have ever had. Staring right into those eyes that I have studied so many times before, with only a sheet of thin criss-crossed wires separating the reality, my cheeks dimple to match his. I know the answer.
Dad.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Are you there Kanye? It's me, Kaleigh
I feel I need your guidance now since Jesus is off curing a fatal disease in a mother of four in Detroit. I haven’t talked to you in a while. I’ve been so busy with school and work, but I can really feel myself slipping in some areas of my life.
After all, I saw you proclaimed you were “God’s vessel,” on VH1’s “Storytellers,” while I was up late thinking about the temptations of the day,
Yesterday, Vicki told me she got an “a” on her anatomy paper. I told her good job but then reminded her that that won’t cut it in the real world, nor will it save her from damnation.
She insisted that we should try to spend more time with other people, claiming I was “arrogant, sarcastic and egotistical.” I think it’s because I’m white.
See, that’s what is so hard now a days. No one understands the pain and struggles I go through on a daily basis being me. I sympathize with and admire you.
Like dying on the cross, you have given up any normal life you may have had to bring joy into the hearts of all your fans. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; Women weep at your feet, men raise you up high, and children, wide-eyed and pure, follow you to the ends of the earth.
Mr. West, your humility astounds me. When you said, “I have sacrificed real life to be a celebrity and to give this art to people,” it nearly brought me to tears. What wouldn’t I give to be able to take some of this pain away from you?
These heretics that try to come between you and I to kill The Word don’t understand. Your misery is our pleasure, and as God and Man, there is no other like you.
(Well there is, but he doesn’t have his own Louis Vuitton shoe or $50 million, just a dirty robe and miracle healing powers).
I only hope that my friends, family and the rest of the world realize the fragility of their mortality and the awesome power of your immortality. We need someone like you for guidance. We need you to salvage our tainted souls when the time comes. We need you as the voice of our generation and the thousands more to come.
A true saint and savior, we should all model our lives after you, not those other self-righteous crusaders. Martin Luther King Jr. is to you as Jerry Falwell is to Gandhi.
Life for you must have been much simpler before model chicks were bendin’ over, or dealerships asked you Benz or Rover. As a martyr though, you show true piousness by willingly accepting your fate as a self-important millionaire.
Everyone thinks you were out of line for interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the VMA’s this year. I think they are crazy. Why, it is your duty as the holiest of holies to spread your Gospel.
Beyoncé deserved to win for Best Female Video, not Swift. You only speak the truth. If Beyoncé hadn’t have won for Video of the Year, I would have expected you to smite the two-bit country star.
Some blonde-haired twanging talent can’t stop your big plan for us. How dare she seek to change the course of destiny? You alone are fit for that.
Kanye, you are our only light in this world doomed to racist ex-presidents, a declining music industry and looming nuclear war.
Without you we wouldn’t have fashion. Without you rap music wouldn’t have soul. Without you my Louis Vuitton Don shoes would not exist and I would be shunned from my social circle. Without you we would have no direction and would fall to temptation.
Kanye you make us work harder, better, faster, stronger, and for that I will testify ‘til the day I die.
In your name we pray,
Amen.
After all, I saw you proclaimed you were “God’s vessel,” on VH1’s “Storytellers,” while I was up late thinking about the temptations of the day,
Yesterday, Vicki told me she got an “a” on her anatomy paper. I told her good job but then reminded her that that won’t cut it in the real world, nor will it save her from damnation.
She insisted that we should try to spend more time with other people, claiming I was “arrogant, sarcastic and egotistical.” I think it’s because I’m white.
See, that’s what is so hard now a days. No one understands the pain and struggles I go through on a daily basis being me. I sympathize with and admire you.
Like dying on the cross, you have given up any normal life you may have had to bring joy into the hearts of all your fans. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; Women weep at your feet, men raise you up high, and children, wide-eyed and pure, follow you to the ends of the earth.
Mr. West, your humility astounds me. When you said, “I have sacrificed real life to be a celebrity and to give this art to people,” it nearly brought me to tears. What wouldn’t I give to be able to take some of this pain away from you?
These heretics that try to come between you and I to kill The Word don’t understand. Your misery is our pleasure, and as God and Man, there is no other like you.
(Well there is, but he doesn’t have his own Louis Vuitton shoe or $50 million, just a dirty robe and miracle healing powers).
I only hope that my friends, family and the rest of the world realize the fragility of their mortality and the awesome power of your immortality. We need someone like you for guidance. We need you to salvage our tainted souls when the time comes. We need you as the voice of our generation and the thousands more to come.
A true saint and savior, we should all model our lives after you, not those other self-righteous crusaders. Martin Luther King Jr. is to you as Jerry Falwell is to Gandhi.
Life for you must have been much simpler before model chicks were bendin’ over, or dealerships asked you Benz or Rover. As a martyr though, you show true piousness by willingly accepting your fate as a self-important millionaire.
Everyone thinks you were out of line for interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the VMA’s this year. I think they are crazy. Why, it is your duty as the holiest of holies to spread your Gospel.
Beyoncé deserved to win for Best Female Video, not Swift. You only speak the truth. If Beyoncé hadn’t have won for Video of the Year, I would have expected you to smite the two-bit country star.
Some blonde-haired twanging talent can’t stop your big plan for us. How dare she seek to change the course of destiny? You alone are fit for that.
Kanye, you are our only light in this world doomed to racist ex-presidents, a declining music industry and looming nuclear war.
Without you we wouldn’t have fashion. Without you rap music wouldn’t have soul. Without you my Louis Vuitton Don shoes would not exist and I would be shunned from my social circle. Without you we would have no direction and would fall to temptation.
Kanye you make us work harder, better, faster, stronger, and for that I will testify ‘til the day I die.
In your name we pray,
Amen.
An inflatable Jesus in October
At 3:00 a.m. on a Tuesday night I staggered into a Wal-Mart, disheveled and zombie-esque. I had woken up terrified, remembering I had forgotten to buy construction paper for a group presentation.
The rush of wind from the automatic doors forced my eyes shut, and once inside, as I tried to open them, an awesome light that would make even the proudest genuflect, blinded me.
Finally as my eyes adjusted, I focused in on its source – Christmas trees. One hundred fake Christmas trees wrapped in tinsel and magnificent white lights, for the low price of $19.99.
First, my heart skipped a beat- everyone loves the holidays. Then, I became terrified. Had I slept through two months? What was today’s date? There are so many people to buy presents for.
Did Mom say houndstooth or cashmere?
Scrambling, I located the date, Oct. 5. My relief was soon overcome by disgust.
Oh the horror! Have Americans no shame? It seems Halloween and Thanksgiving have been eradicated by the crippling clutch of consumerism.
Winter holidays, especially Christmas, are becoming marketed earlier every year. Last year I cringed when “Deck the Halls’ rang through Sears at 8:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving. This year, corporate America lit their Yule log well before Halloween.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas time; it makes me as warm and fuzzy as the next guy, but incessant flashing Christmas trees in the beginning of October boils my blood pressure more than the Westernized euphemistic portrayal of Thanksgiving. And that’s saying something.
Quite simply, we, as a consumer-driven culture, have allowed ourselves to be controlled by crap, and one of the biggest entities holding the reigns is Christmas.
As trinkets, giant inflatable Santas and fake trees emerge earlier, our understanding of what the holiday is becomes irreversibly tangled with the eight boxes of lights you have stored in the attic.
Americans have socially evolved to understand that if their house isn’t the brightest on the block the earliest, their neighbors will think of them as cantankerous bah-humbuggers. If you have no decorations at all? You can forget about your soulless heart being invited to the neighborhood potluck.
This race insists that companies sell their Christmas products sooner every year. It’s only a matter of time until we see a sign stating, “Buy your bikini, get one for Rudolf half-off!”
While it bothers me that by the time Christmas does roll around, I’m ready for it to be over (due to an overdose of Nat King Cole’s “Oh Come all Ye Faithful”), I am troubled by the willingness that consumers have that allows thousands of companies to guide their intentions.
Consumers have allowed advertisements to distort the holiday’s original meaning – family and goodwill. This can’t be found on a clearance isle among 40 other ravenous mothers and fathers.
I am admittedly not religious, but it is disgusting to see Jesus turned into one of the most successful marketing tools. Has this become completely acceptable for the majority of Americans?
Due to the overwhelming evidence in my neighbor’s front yard, I’d say so. An inflatable Jesus should be a red flag for all.
Snap out of it. You haven’t even bought Halloween candy. Christmas isn’t going anywhere. It will arrive as planned on Dec. 25, but before that, you have an entire month after Thanksgiving to chisel a perfected jolly holiday image with your bonus money.
Give the pumpkins and the pilgrims a chance, and keep Jesus in your hearts and off the shelves.
The rush of wind from the automatic doors forced my eyes shut, and once inside, as I tried to open them, an awesome light that would make even the proudest genuflect, blinded me.
Finally as my eyes adjusted, I focused in on its source – Christmas trees. One hundred fake Christmas trees wrapped in tinsel and magnificent white lights, for the low price of $19.99.
First, my heart skipped a beat- everyone loves the holidays. Then, I became terrified. Had I slept through two months? What was today’s date? There are so many people to buy presents for.
Did Mom say houndstooth or cashmere?
Scrambling, I located the date, Oct. 5. My relief was soon overcome by disgust.
Oh the horror! Have Americans no shame? It seems Halloween and Thanksgiving have been eradicated by the crippling clutch of consumerism.
Winter holidays, especially Christmas, are becoming marketed earlier every year. Last year I cringed when “Deck the Halls’ rang through Sears at 8:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving. This year, corporate America lit their Yule log well before Halloween.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas time; it makes me as warm and fuzzy as the next guy, but incessant flashing Christmas trees in the beginning of October boils my blood pressure more than the Westernized euphemistic portrayal of Thanksgiving. And that’s saying something.
Quite simply, we, as a consumer-driven culture, have allowed ourselves to be controlled by crap, and one of the biggest entities holding the reigns is Christmas.
As trinkets, giant inflatable Santas and fake trees emerge earlier, our understanding of what the holiday is becomes irreversibly tangled with the eight boxes of lights you have stored in the attic.
Americans have socially evolved to understand that if their house isn’t the brightest on the block the earliest, their neighbors will think of them as cantankerous bah-humbuggers. If you have no decorations at all? You can forget about your soulless heart being invited to the neighborhood potluck.
This race insists that companies sell their Christmas products sooner every year. It’s only a matter of time until we see a sign stating, “Buy your bikini, get one for Rudolf half-off!”
While it bothers me that by the time Christmas does roll around, I’m ready for it to be over (due to an overdose of Nat King Cole’s “Oh Come all Ye Faithful”), I am troubled by the willingness that consumers have that allows thousands of companies to guide their intentions.
Consumers have allowed advertisements to distort the holiday’s original meaning – family and goodwill. This can’t be found on a clearance isle among 40 other ravenous mothers and fathers.
I am admittedly not religious, but it is disgusting to see Jesus turned into one of the most successful marketing tools. Has this become completely acceptable for the majority of Americans?
Due to the overwhelming evidence in my neighbor’s front yard, I’d say so. An inflatable Jesus should be a red flag for all.
Snap out of it. You haven’t even bought Halloween candy. Christmas isn’t going anywhere. It will arrive as planned on Dec. 25, but before that, you have an entire month after Thanksgiving to chisel a perfected jolly holiday image with your bonus money.
Give the pumpkins and the pilgrims a chance, and keep Jesus in your hearts and off the shelves.
We're tired of the apocolypse, you know?
The world is going to end again, and unfortunately its existence rests in the fumbling hands of Nicolas Cage.
This 2009 sci-fi thriller begins in Massachusetts in 1959 when a creepy little girl with wide, dark eyes (Lara Robinson), buries a paper filled with a cryptic numerical sequence in her class’s time capsule. Fifty years later it is unearthed and the paper falls into the hands of the intelligent and logical son (Chandler Canterbury) of widowed and alcoholic MIT astrophysics professor John Koestler (Nicolas Cage). John miraculously discovers the numbers predict devastating tragedies in the past and in the future and now must single-handedly save himself and his family.
Cage couldn’t handle the Apocalypse if it was canned like EZ Cheez and equipped with instructions. His nervous and spastic acting method would have certainly caused it to combust. His performance here isn’t another “Ghost Rider,” (thank God), but it’s as if he is required to be weird and over-the-top in all of his films.
One has to ask if Cage skimmed this script while eating cereal in the morning and signed immediately, knowing it would only be mediocre at best. Cage should receive credit for trying, though – his intense presence does reflect the mood well, and enhances a shaky plot.
Despite poor casting for its leading man, the film is ambitious and director Alex Proyas does the best he can with the jumbled and over-used, but exciting plot. Proyas has some good shots, but nothing inspiring, and the age-old science versus religion theme over powers too quickly in the movie during a sappy bedtime conversation between father and son.
Redemption for its flaws is scattered throughout the 121 minutes in well-edited suspenseful scenes and a solid performance by the big-eyed girl’s grown daughter, Diana (Rose Byrne) and Canterbury, who has potential for being the next child star.
For an apocalyptic movie, the scenes of destruction are full of terrifying special effects that would make even Bruce Willis dodge the asteroid. One in particular is a graphic plane crash, which almost tips the PG-13 rating to an R. The absurdity of a couple flaming moose however, knock the scale right back into place.
The plot of “Knowing” is overused, unoriginal and scattered with loose ends such as strange shiny black rocks and silent, stalking, beautiful white males dressed in black trench coats that morph into aliens? It’s too shallow to be a cult hit, yet too entertaining to be a box-office bomb so it simply hovers in the middle leaving it’s fate to be determined by the futile interests of teens and young adults.
If you’re having trouble deciding if you would spend your money on “Knowing,” know this: If you have read the book of Ezekiel from the Bible, seen “Armageddon,” any of the “National Treasure” movies, or “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” save your money for some ice cream. You already know what you need to know.
This 2009 sci-fi thriller begins in Massachusetts in 1959 when a creepy little girl with wide, dark eyes (Lara Robinson), buries a paper filled with a cryptic numerical sequence in her class’s time capsule. Fifty years later it is unearthed and the paper falls into the hands of the intelligent and logical son (Chandler Canterbury) of widowed and alcoholic MIT astrophysics professor John Koestler (Nicolas Cage). John miraculously discovers the numbers predict devastating tragedies in the past and in the future and now must single-handedly save himself and his family.
Cage couldn’t handle the Apocalypse if it was canned like EZ Cheez and equipped with instructions. His nervous and spastic acting method would have certainly caused it to combust. His performance here isn’t another “Ghost Rider,” (thank God), but it’s as if he is required to be weird and over-the-top in all of his films.
One has to ask if Cage skimmed this script while eating cereal in the morning and signed immediately, knowing it would only be mediocre at best. Cage should receive credit for trying, though – his intense presence does reflect the mood well, and enhances a shaky plot.
Despite poor casting for its leading man, the film is ambitious and director Alex Proyas does the best he can with the jumbled and over-used, but exciting plot. Proyas has some good shots, but nothing inspiring, and the age-old science versus religion theme over powers too quickly in the movie during a sappy bedtime conversation between father and son.
Redemption for its flaws is scattered throughout the 121 minutes in well-edited suspenseful scenes and a solid performance by the big-eyed girl’s grown daughter, Diana (Rose Byrne) and Canterbury, who has potential for being the next child star.
For an apocalyptic movie, the scenes of destruction are full of terrifying special effects that would make even Bruce Willis dodge the asteroid. One in particular is a graphic plane crash, which almost tips the PG-13 rating to an R. The absurdity of a couple flaming moose however, knock the scale right back into place.
The plot of “Knowing” is overused, unoriginal and scattered with loose ends such as strange shiny black rocks and silent, stalking, beautiful white males dressed in black trench coats that morph into aliens? It’s too shallow to be a cult hit, yet too entertaining to be a box-office bomb so it simply hovers in the middle leaving it’s fate to be determined by the futile interests of teens and young adults.
If you’re having trouble deciding if you would spend your money on “Knowing,” know this: If you have read the book of Ezekiel from the Bible, seen “Armageddon,” any of the “National Treasure” movies, or “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” save your money for some ice cream. You already know what you need to know.
Cinema finally unearths a precious gem
When the final scene faded to black, and the credits silently rolled, I did not leave my seat or take a breath. Neither did the other moviegoers who chose to see “Precious” that Sunday night.
In an age of linear and mechanical movies, deemed “spectacular” due only to their hypnotizing special effects and loud explosions, “Precious” is unparalleled in its sincerity, social commentary and uninhibited production.
Based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, this nearly two-hour long movie is the painful, honest and hopeful story of obese and nearly illiterate Claireece “Precious” Jones (newcomer Gabourey "Gabby" Sidibe), a 16-year-old African American girl living (if you can call it that) in the ghetto of Harlem in the late 80s.
Precious lives under the physical and emotional abuse of her welfare-fed mother, Mary (Mo’Nique), and is currently pregnant with her second child by her dead-beat and addict father, whom we never see except in shaky flashbacks. When her middle school principal kicks her out, she joins an alternative school where she meets friends and an insightful teacher and mentor, Blu Rain (Paula Patton). With the help of Rain and understanding social worker, Mrs. Weiss (Mariah Carey), Precious learns to deal with the abuse she has suffered and currently is suffering.
Though this may sound like another sob story, director Lee Daniels knows how to cut through the realities of impoverished and unfortunate Harlem just enough to leave the viewer tear-stricken, but not guilty for their presumably more fortunate life. It’s as if he has an instinct to come back to the precious moments in life at just the right time.
Daniels’s style is gritty and honest, using unsteady camera movement and seemingly unrelated edits, i.e. Precious being raped, to chicken frying in disgusting grease (her father treats her like meat. Clever, eh?).
Sidebe handles the challenging role with talent far beyond her acting experience and siphons any empathy from viewers in her unique, courageous, and silently hilarious screen presence – implying wisdom beyond her years, on and off the screen.
Sidebe isn’t the only one who captures the raw reality of the Harlem streets. Mo’Nique, a comedy actress known for her sassy-plus-sized-woman attitude in all of her films, is terrifying and brilliant as Precious’s mother. It’s apparent she prepared and invested much of herself in this film, from the backwards affection she shows to her cat, to the most heart-stopping and vicious parent/child fight scene in cinema.
Patton also delivers a sincere performance as Precious’s teacher, which leaves the viewer unabashedly dependent on her presence and guidance to Precious. Carey is surprisingly believable, free from all her glamour she usually dons, and redeems herself from her performance in what was quite possibly the worst film ever made, “Glitter (2001).” Fans might not even spot her at first, but will soon recognize her salient self-esteem.
“Precious” is elegantly done and consequently, steers clear from the sappy clichés about learning to love oneself despite a mountain of hardships. The film delivers hope and inspiration but doesn’t give in to the temptation many screenwriters fall prey to of allowing the main character to conquer all in two hours. “Precious” remains grounded, causing sorrow, consolation and enjoyment in viewers.
Don’t be surprised if any of the main characters snag an Oscar nomination – the film’s importance and performances will not be over-looked.
“Precious” is beyond worthy of a nine-dollar movie ticket. The insight and powerful credibility will stay with you long after you exit the theater – if you can leave your seat, that is.
In an age of linear and mechanical movies, deemed “spectacular” due only to their hypnotizing special effects and loud explosions, “Precious” is unparalleled in its sincerity, social commentary and uninhibited production.
Based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, this nearly two-hour long movie is the painful, honest and hopeful story of obese and nearly illiterate Claireece “Precious” Jones (newcomer Gabourey "Gabby" Sidibe), a 16-year-old African American girl living (if you can call it that) in the ghetto of Harlem in the late 80s.
Precious lives under the physical and emotional abuse of her welfare-fed mother, Mary (Mo’Nique), and is currently pregnant with her second child by her dead-beat and addict father, whom we never see except in shaky flashbacks. When her middle school principal kicks her out, she joins an alternative school where she meets friends and an insightful teacher and mentor, Blu Rain (Paula Patton). With the help of Rain and understanding social worker, Mrs. Weiss (Mariah Carey), Precious learns to deal with the abuse she has suffered and currently is suffering.
Though this may sound like another sob story, director Lee Daniels knows how to cut through the realities of impoverished and unfortunate Harlem just enough to leave the viewer tear-stricken, but not guilty for their presumably more fortunate life. It’s as if he has an instinct to come back to the precious moments in life at just the right time.
Daniels’s style is gritty and honest, using unsteady camera movement and seemingly unrelated edits, i.e. Precious being raped, to chicken frying in disgusting grease (her father treats her like meat. Clever, eh?).
Sidebe handles the challenging role with talent far beyond her acting experience and siphons any empathy from viewers in her unique, courageous, and silently hilarious screen presence – implying wisdom beyond her years, on and off the screen.
Sidebe isn’t the only one who captures the raw reality of the Harlem streets. Mo’Nique, a comedy actress known for her sassy-plus-sized-woman attitude in all of her films, is terrifying and brilliant as Precious’s mother. It’s apparent she prepared and invested much of herself in this film, from the backwards affection she shows to her cat, to the most heart-stopping and vicious parent/child fight scene in cinema.
Patton also delivers a sincere performance as Precious’s teacher, which leaves the viewer unabashedly dependent on her presence and guidance to Precious. Carey is surprisingly believable, free from all her glamour she usually dons, and redeems herself from her performance in what was quite possibly the worst film ever made, “Glitter (2001).” Fans might not even spot her at first, but will soon recognize her salient self-esteem.
“Precious” is elegantly done and consequently, steers clear from the sappy clichés about learning to love oneself despite a mountain of hardships. The film delivers hope and inspiration but doesn’t give in to the temptation many screenwriters fall prey to of allowing the main character to conquer all in two hours. “Precious” remains grounded, causing sorrow, consolation and enjoyment in viewers.
Don’t be surprised if any of the main characters snag an Oscar nomination – the film’s importance and performances will not be over-looked.
“Precious” is beyond worthy of a nine-dollar movie ticket. The insight and powerful credibility will stay with you long after you exit the theater – if you can leave your seat, that is.
If you didn't already own a motorcyle, you'll want one now
If there was ever a movie that would make anyone drop their briefcase, cancel their newspaper subscription and drive out on the open road with no place to go, “The Motorcycle Diaries” would be it.
“Diaries” is a biopic about the journey and written memoirs during 1952, of Ernesto “Fuser” Guevera, played by Gael Garcíal Bernal (“Y Tu Mama Tambien”), then, a young medical student. With the companionship of his older friend and biochemist Alberto Granado (Rodrigo de la Serna), he sets off to finally “see” South America at its crudest and most candid form across 5,000 miles with an ancient motorcycle.
The two-hour film, directed by Walter Salles, not only projects beautiful and breath-taking scenery of the oceans, thick forests, raw mountains and weathered plains of South America, but it also captures the worn and sincere faces of its people.
Guevera and Granado meet the good friends they were hoping for: doctors, a leper colony, mistreated peasant laborers, menacing foremen, and loose, lovely ladies. However, lingering heavily in each of these engaging scenes is the air of disparity between the rich and the poor throughout all of South America.
Salles uses symbolism to highlight these social issues wherever he can, most notably, the wide river dividing the healthy doctors and staff of the leper colony from the dying patients on the other side. It’s as if Guevera gains 10 years of wisdom in each artful scene.
Salles brilliantly inserts black and white shots of the weathered poor. These aren’t stills, but the people are standing as still as they can to represent how critically their poverty and mistreatment by the government tainted Guevera’s naïve political perspective. Memories of these shots resonate throughout the film’s entirety.
The mystery of this movie, for anyone aware of Guevera’s path of eventually becoming the repressive leader, “Che” Guevera of Cuba’s Communist movement, is that Bernal’s performance is so sweet and endearing. The thought of his authoritarian future seems almost inconceivable…until you factor in the constant injustice he witnesses after leaving his sheltered upper-middle-class life as a student.
You can’t help but root for the happiness and success of Bernal and de la Serna until the end credits when you read that Guevera stood alongside Castro and smothered the civil liberties and freedom of speech of the people. This conflict makes the naïve aura of the lead characters all the more captivating.
While Bernal and de la Serna are strong and convincing in their parts, their dynamic never develops much past what you know – they are good friends. A traveling duo in all the great movies develops many complexities (think Thelma and Louise), and these two just don’t have it. Regardless, the strong performances by the minor characters hold their chemistry solidly enough.
For anyone passionate about art, history and coming of age stories, “The Motorcycle Diaries” is a wonderful cultured conglomerate of all three. The viewer will undoubtedly inherit tiny wisdoms from the characters’ conversions and leave him or her thinking long after the final credits.
“Diaries” is a biopic about the journey and written memoirs during 1952, of Ernesto “Fuser” Guevera, played by Gael Garcíal Bernal (“Y Tu Mama Tambien”), then, a young medical student. With the companionship of his older friend and biochemist Alberto Granado (Rodrigo de la Serna), he sets off to finally “see” South America at its crudest and most candid form across 5,000 miles with an ancient motorcycle.
The two-hour film, directed by Walter Salles, not only projects beautiful and breath-taking scenery of the oceans, thick forests, raw mountains and weathered plains of South America, but it also captures the worn and sincere faces of its people.
Guevera and Granado meet the good friends they were hoping for: doctors, a leper colony, mistreated peasant laborers, menacing foremen, and loose, lovely ladies. However, lingering heavily in each of these engaging scenes is the air of disparity between the rich and the poor throughout all of South America.
Salles uses symbolism to highlight these social issues wherever he can, most notably, the wide river dividing the healthy doctors and staff of the leper colony from the dying patients on the other side. It’s as if Guevera gains 10 years of wisdom in each artful scene.
Salles brilliantly inserts black and white shots of the weathered poor. These aren’t stills, but the people are standing as still as they can to represent how critically their poverty and mistreatment by the government tainted Guevera’s naïve political perspective. Memories of these shots resonate throughout the film’s entirety.
The mystery of this movie, for anyone aware of Guevera’s path of eventually becoming the repressive leader, “Che” Guevera of Cuba’s Communist movement, is that Bernal’s performance is so sweet and endearing. The thought of his authoritarian future seems almost inconceivable…until you factor in the constant injustice he witnesses after leaving his sheltered upper-middle-class life as a student.
You can’t help but root for the happiness and success of Bernal and de la Serna until the end credits when you read that Guevera stood alongside Castro and smothered the civil liberties and freedom of speech of the people. This conflict makes the naïve aura of the lead characters all the more captivating.
While Bernal and de la Serna are strong and convincing in their parts, their dynamic never develops much past what you know – they are good friends. A traveling duo in all the great movies develops many complexities (think Thelma and Louise), and these two just don’t have it. Regardless, the strong performances by the minor characters hold their chemistry solidly enough.
For anyone passionate about art, history and coming of age stories, “The Motorcycle Diaries” is a wonderful cultured conglomerate of all three. The viewer will undoubtedly inherit tiny wisdoms from the characters’ conversions and leave him or her thinking long after the final credits.
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