These are in a loose order. Near the middle and the end, things get a little blurry for me. In this list, I try to include a cross section of dramatic actors, comedic actors, and some up and coming actors from my generation.
1. Johnny Depp
Impulsive, mischievous, dark, and always with a trick up his sleeve, this actor has a talent for drama and comedy alike. He lights up the screen most in roles that combine these two aspects. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.
The opening monologue from Depp’s film, The Libertine.
2. Kate Winslet
The well of her soul is open for her audience in every performance she gives. I am constantly surprised and never disappointed by her.
This clip is from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This movie also makes my top ten movies list.
3. Meryl Streep
A legend in her own time, there is no challenge too great for this woman. Her idiosyncrasies never fail to bubble to the surface in every role.
This clip is from The Hours.
4. Dustin Hoffman
What a joy he is. I find his playfulness incredibly engaging. He also has the uncanny ability to disappear into a role when he wants and to stand out when he chooses.
The following clip is from Hoffman’s first film, The Graduate. It also happens to be, in my opinion, one of the greatest scenes ever filmed.
5. Dame Judi Dench
Her presence is enough to make my hair stand up on end. She is a commanding force to be reckoned with and even her strong characters are smartly crafted with just the right vulnerable cracks in their surfaces to keep things interesting.
The following is a compilation of clips of her Oscar winning performance in Shakespeare in Love.
6. Ian McKellen
One of our best Shakespeare performers alive today and the perfect Gandalf in Lord of the Rings.
This clip isn’t exactly from one of his best movies, but it is one of the funniest things I have ever seen and it happens to be Ian McKellen’s episode of Extras on HBO. Also appearing is Ricky Gervais, creator and original star of The Office in Britain.
7. Steve Carell
Steve is a master. He’s the kind of actor I aspire to be, a comedian of the soul. He is simultaneously honest, horrifying, and heartbreaking. He is a living miracle.
The following is a clip from The Office. I found better ones, but they could not be embedded.
8. Robert DeNiro
He always seems to have a secret. A talent for comedy and for drama just by being himself, he seems to know more than his audience.
DeNiro in Meet the Parents.
9. Sean Penn
I am always impressed by the characters this actor chooses to play. He always seems to be looking for a new challenge.
A clip of Sean Penn as Harvey Milk in Milk. Every moment the character was giving this speech, he could have been shot. Watching his delivery with that in mind gives it a whole new perspective.
9. Anne Hathaway
A lot of people may disagree with me on this, but hear me out. I think she has great potential and for her age, she is positioning herself perfectly. Her performance in Rachel Getting Married was nothing less than brilliantly mesmerizing.
The following clip is a scene from Rachel Getting Married.
10. Will Farrell
Again, people may disagree with me here, but I think it’s important to include comedic actors. Most of what Will does is improvisation, but some of what he’s done is unmistakable creative brilliance. His one man show, You’re Welcome, America, was nothing short of astounding. He was painstakingly specific in every moment and managed to make me feel pity for a man i despised.
A clip from You’re Welcome, America. If you watch it to till the end, I promise it will be worth your time and you may come closer to agreeing with me about him deserving a spot in the top ten.
(11.) Gene Kelly
He’s dead… but he’s so amazing that he gets to be my ghost 11th favorite Actor of All Time. His dancing, his voice, and his presence are the complete package.
To close, here’s Gene Kelly with Singin’ in the Rain
Last night I learned that the series I’m currently reading, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, is being made into a movie. I learned this by stumbling across the following preview.
The worst part about seeing a preview for a movie you’ve been dying for someone to make is that when you happen upon it, you usually have to wait months or even a year until it comes out. Now I’m sitting here and I’m practically squirming on my couch. This movie isn’t due out until President’s Day 2010. I’m in agony. I can’t even do research on the movie without running into people posting comments that contain spoilers about the end of the series. Even though I want to look up more movie production news, I have to restrain myself.
When the Harry Potter books were made into movies, I knew there was such a massive, dedicated following that the production and creative team would really try to make the movies for the readers. Based on my opinions of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, that seems like it turned out to be an accurate prediction. However, a few of my discoveries have led me to believe that this may not be the case for the Percy Jackson series.
Don’t mistake me. I am completely ecstatic that Rick Riordan’s books are being made into feature films, but I’m fearful that they won’t be respected- and they deserve to be! I’m almost finished with the third book in Rick Riordan’s series, The Titan’s Curse, and as far as I’ve read, I can certainly vouch for the quality and creativity of his writing. I’m a big sucker for classical mythology so I’ve been very impressed with the way Riordan makes us view ancient myths from a modern perspective.
Alexandra Deddario plays Annabeth in "The Lightning Thief"
When I saw the trailer initially, I jumped out of my skin. Then I hopped around my living room like a little girl which probably drove my room mate crazy. After I had calmed my giddiness, I searched for the movie on imdb.com. As I scanned the impressive cast list, I was a bit confused to see characters listed that don’t appear at all in the first book, which shares the title of the upcoming movie, The Lightning Thief. The cast list includes Pierce Brosnan as Chiron, Uma Therman as Medusa (which I am extremely excited about!), Catherine Keener as Sally Jackson (perfect casting, in my opinion), and my absolute acting hero Kevin McKidd as Poseidon. I fell in love with him during his work on the HBO series Rome. I’m a little worried that Annabeth is being played by Alexandra Deddario because she seems, simply based on appearance and her actual age, to be way too old. Deddario is twenty three years old and Annabeth is twelve in the first book of the series. This is nothing Miss Deddario can control, so let me emphasize that I’m not saying she is a poor choice for the role based on her acting merit. I’m just surprised they cast someone who looks so old in a role described repeatedly as very young during the course of the written series.
I’m not exactly confident in the choice of director for the film either. Chris Columbus, who I’ve seen do some very visually stunning shots but haven’t seen get the best performances from his actors, is adding The Lightning Thief to a resume that includes Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and Rent. The two Harry Potter movies he directed are my least favorite of the lot and I’m worried he’ll play a part in “dumbing down” the Percy Jackson series in the same way. I did not think he got good performances out of his child actors in the first two Harry Potter films and I know he’ll face the same challenges here. I will say, however, that his direction of Mrs. Doubtfire is highly commendable and that movie is one of my favorites.
I can’t exactly explain my forboding feelings regarding this movie. I want The Lightning Thief to be good. It’s not like a play where if you get it wrong the first time, there could be a revival in years to come if the script is good enough. You can hardly tell from this teaser trailer what to expect. It only shows bits from one scene that occurs near the end of the book. This also worries me because I feel like they may have shuffled around events from the book. On the other hand, I could be way too worked up about this. I just want the film to stand up to Riordan’s masterfull series, which I’m positive I will be reviewing at some point in the near future.
Tonight, I had the distinct pleasure of viewing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at the Clearview Cinemas Zeigfeld theater. I’m including the theater in which I saw the movie because it had a lot to do with my experience of the film. So far, critics have given the movie rather lackluster reviews, but I considered my thirteen dollars and fifty cents money well spent.
Firstly, the Zeigfeld theater is a sight to behold. It is a movie theater with a vintage feel. As soon as you walk in the building, you’re surrounded by a sea of crimson, gold, and velvet curtains with over-sized shimmering tassels. The staff is also very friendly and began shouting to the crowd about how the stars of the movie had been there the previous week for the NYC premiere as we filed into the packed theater. When you enter the theater itself, the space is vast. It clearly was an actual theater with a stage at one point and is only a few blocks away from The Great White Way.
On this particular evening, the place was packed because it was the first day of release. My friend and I arrived at the theater early, eager to settle into good seats for our epic journey into J.K. Rowling’s universe. My friend is an avid Potter fan and her intense excitement was undoubtedly infectious. I doubt I would have had the same experience if she hadn’t been with me. She has read the books more carefully and more times than anyone I know and I credit her with infallible Harry Potter expertise. We actually went to this same theater to Coraline and we instinctively knew that it was the right place to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. In Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s book, Decolonizing the Mind, he says that “Space is never neutral.” That is certainly the case for the Zeigfeld. There is a curtain that they close between the previews and the film. When they open it as the movie starts, it’s as if you’re looking at a live stage with infinite possibilities. Due to the nature of the space, the audience took on the characteristics of a live theater crowd, cheering, applauding, gasping, and laughing along with the performances. The place was buzzing with energy.
Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson
The best thing this film did, which was only further amplified by the movie theater itself, was to honor the brilliant performances that the cast turned in. It’s hard to believe that Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint are the same children who performed in The Sorcerer’s Stone. Their skills have matured and deepened, each with their own specialty. Watson is stunningly vulnerable while retaining the values and strength of Rowling’s original character, crestfallen when it comes to Ron’s inattentiveness and brutal when it comes to Harry’s occasional overconfidence. Grint’s skill for improvised physical comedy is at an all time high. Especially amusing were his scenes while under the affects of a love potion and his oblivious separation of Ginny and Harry when they are about to have an intimate moment, followed by offering them scones. I simply couldn’t get enough of him in this film. He kept the audience in stitches the entire time.
I must credit Daniel Radcliffe with remarkable improvement in his acting prowess. I have to admit that when I saw the first Harry Potter film, I actively disliked him. I have seen a bit of improvement over the years, but what truly changed my mind about him was his performance in Equus, by Peter Shaffer. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that this play is impeccable on its own as a written piece, but when I saw Radcliffe perform his extremely challenging role on Broadway, I saw a spark I hadn’t seen before. He was playful, unafraid, and interesting. I’m not sure when it was, but during the run of that show, Radcliffe discovered something about being in the moment and following impulses, no matter how strange or inappropriate they might be. That was reflected in his performance in The Half-Blood Prince, impersonating spider pincers, and impersonating the characterization of his co-star, Jim Broadbent, while under the effects of a “luck potion.”
Daniel Radcliffe, I hereby retract all ill wishes I harbored in your earlier years and officially give you my full support and a well deserved round of applause.
As the younger members of the cast rise to the occasion, the elder members become even more brilliant. As Snape, Alan Rickman is impeccable, both hilarious and terrifying. His comedic timing and command of his vocal instrument is a killer combination. I was on the edge of my seat, falling for the bait each time he paused, only to drop in the last word of his sentence at exactly the right moment- Simply an astounding and relentless performance.
Jim Broadbent, as Professor Horace Slughorn, gives a very intelligent performance. I have been a fan since his role in Moulin Rouge. His drunken monologue in Hagrid’s cottage was a stunning combination of brilliant writing and expert performance. Broadbent does a wonderful job of addressing the multi-faceted nature of this character.
Helena Bonham Carter is a delicious villain. Her body and her voice are incredible, enhanced by her costume and makeup. I was so thankful that we got to see more of Bellatrix Lestrange in this film.
The only performance I wasn’t ecstatic about was that of Tom Felton as Draco Malfoy. While his performance was honest and heartfelt, the way he portrayed his character’s public actions at Hogwarts was extremely over the top. Anyone who saw him would have known he was up to no good. Draco Malfoy won the “emo kid” award for the evening.
I can understand why some of the reviews for The Half-Blood Prince are negative. There was so much wonderful acting that the movie could not contain all of it while simultaneously dealing with all the complexities of Rowling’s story. There were points at which I would have been extremely lost if I hadn’t read the books and points at which I was still lost simply because I haven’t reread the books in a few years. My biggest problem was that they focused a lot on the developing relationships between Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Harry, yet left the actual mystery surrounding the Half-Blood Prince and his Potions book mostly untouched. I missed the the mystery solving capers of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I think the director, David Yates, was more interested in giving detailed cinematic highlights of Rowling’s written world rather than a well-told story presented on film. I will say, however, that the composition of his shots is extremely dynamic. I felt in this film, more than in the other parts of the series, that there was a level of detail and depth that was fully integrated with the performances of the cast. The film wasn’t structured with stunted acting scenes followed by action sequences. The whole thing was a cohesive piece.
For anyone who enjoys the Harry Potter series, this movie is a must see. For those who haven’t read the books, I don’t think you’ll be able to understand and appreciate the brilliant parts of the movie in a way that will compensate for the otherwise unfinished story telling.
Sometimes I wonder if everything we do in our modern world makes us intrinsically less human, distilling passion and instincts into gray suits and briefcases. Are most of the populous really living to the full potential of our race? Where is the action, the desperation of true love, and the intricate sword play in our every day lives?
In ancient Rome, people walked around armed with swords. There was always a potential threat. A word could get you killed if it landed on the wrong ears. Sex was for anyone who had but a need or a whim for release and everyone was doing it openly with everybody else. If the husband didn’t like being cuckolded, he could simply go out and kill the man his wife was sleeping with. No one would begrudge him this satisfaction.
Today, we have the right to bear arms in this country, but the majority of people that I associate with on a daily basis don’t. Some even openly reject that right, supporting many gun control laws that would keep guns out of the hands of most American citizens.
One observation I’ve made is that the interpretation of the right to bear arms has been distorted. It was originally intended to describe the right to form a militia in order to defend our rights. Now people see the right to bear arms as the right to protect themselves with hand-weapons as opposed to the right to defend the belief system upon which our country was founded. People want to be able to carry concealed weapons or keep guns locked in their cars while they’re at work, or even keep rifles in their homes as if they lived in the Old West.
I am aware that my view on gun control is based mostly on my urban upbringing. If New Yorkers were allowed legally to carry concealed weapons, I think all hell would break loose. Even without a law allowing us to carry lethal weapons, there is sometimes a persistent sense of compression in the city, like at any moment something might pop. Objects could be set in motion that could change our circumstances or our lives at any moment. I feel it often when it’s late at night and I’m taking the subway home with only one or two other occupants in my car. I’ve also felt it as a scuffle between a few men catches my eye from across a crowded street. That sense of compression stays in tact because people do whatever they can, for the most part, to keep themselves cool and contained, with a few exceptions.
Most of the time, when we get angry, it festers with no outlet, eating us alive from the inside out. Rather than attack others, we attack ourselves and blame ourselves for not being able to keep things together. Sure, sometimes we’ll talk things out behind closed doors, but very rarely is there the possible threat of one of us killing another.
Be assured that I am talking from the perspective of a young, private school educated, urban woman. I know that crimes of passion happen every day, but they certainly aren’t happening in my every day life or within the circle of people I normally associate with. I’m also not suggesting that we should all be barbarians and begin killing each other every five seconds and gnawing on turkey legs in our spare time.
The word “barbarian” perplexes me. What does it really mean? The vision of Ancient Rome I described earlier certainly had some barbaric elements, but there was a general movement towards an organized government, which, by definition, is not barbarism.
Then again, I think what I admire most about interpretations and historical accounts of ancient Rome are the more impulsive, passionate qualities of the culture. That is what I mean when I say I wonder if we are “distilling” humanity in our modern culture. I think a lot of people have lost touch with what it means to live in a high stakes environment, to feel the life coursing through their veins or to act on their needs with conviction on a daily basis.
I began thinking about all of this a few weeks ago when a friend of mine from Florida mentioned that people there are allowed to shoot trespassers who come onto their property on sight.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed incredulously, always the articulate blogger. “But you can’t kill them, can you?”
He just laughed at me and shrugged. “Sometimes when you shoot ‘em, you kill ‘em.”
So even though I often wonder where the passion has gone while I’m making my commute to and from work amidst the milling herd, wondering when we all got slipped our daily dose of “soma,” I am also horrified at the opposite end of the spectrum. It just shocks me that in some parts of the country, entering someone’s property is enough to warrant violence without warning and murder without much punishment. There’s just something about that idea that doesn’t sit comfortably in the pit of my stomach.
It gives me this image of an orange farmer screaming, “This. is. FLORIDAAAAA!” while brandishing an AK-47.
When I was a kid, I used to play with flashlight lightsabers and go to the movies with my friends. From what I hear of rural childhoods, “blowin’ shit up” is a regular after-school activity. YouTube is overflowing with videos of kids from throughout the center of this country blowing up whatever they can find in front of a camera. I even stumbled across one video where a few teenagers were wading into the Mississippi River to find tube worm mound colonies, a staple of that particular ecosystem, and setting them on the ground, followed by shooting them to kingdom come with rifles. The had no clue that they were probably destroying the ecology of that part of the riverbed and were more interested in seeing the strange gooey blobs get blown to smithereens. I also got the impression that they wouldn’t have cared much if they did know about their possible eco-footprint.
This sort of dispassionate violence is what frightens me. A majority of our youth is disconnected from the fact that guns are not toys. They are absolutely lethal. The NRA famously insists that “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” However, I’m going to have to jump on the band wagon with British comedian and actor Eddie Izzard here and say, “Yes, but the guns certainly help.”
I remember holding a water gun and pointing at my Dad when I was a little girl.
“Bang, bang, Daddy!” I shouted, holding the gun at his face, point blank.
He moved the gun away from his face with the palm of his and looked at me very seriously. “Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to kill them.”
Sure, it was just a water gun, but my father made certain that I knew what that toy represented. He said his father had imparted the same wisdom to him.
Dispassionate people own lethal weapons in states like Texas and Florida and they can use them without much cause or repercussion. I’m perplexed and torn. On the one hand, I think it is our right to protect ourselves and our families and that people, given the proper licencing, should be able to own guns, though I realize it’s still hard to control how many guns get into unqualified hands. Plus, the dramatic part of me wants my life to be an epic and adventurous tale worthy of the Odyssey. On the other hand, I don’t think we should be teaching our children that guns are a worthwhile “pass-time.” Hunting for food when food needs to be hunted is one thing. Blowing up bear bottles and Indiana Jones action figures for no reason is another. Plus, in terms of our humanity, I don’t think we need the danger of weapons or our lives constantly hanging in the balance to spur us into living a fulfilling life.
Violence isn’t the answer, but I think dispassion is an epidemic.
How do you cure dispassion? How do you light the proverbial fire under humanity’s ass?
When Prometheus stole fire from the Zeus on Mount Olympus and brought it to the mortals below, he took a risk. He wagered his life to bring warmth and knowledge to his fellow man. His story isn’t famous today because of violence, but because of his daring and his contribution to mankind. There is also the bit about how he was punished by having his liver be eaten out by vultures only to grow back every day for all of eternity, but that’s beside the point.
Maybe, what we all need to spice up our lives is a little calculated risk taking. Set your sights on something and go for it. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Listen to that little voice in your head when it tells you to do something. Listening to your instincts is what keeps you from being a sheep in the middle of a herd.
Broadway tickets aren’t easy to come by these days, but sometimes there is a show that changes the face of the Great White Way, a show that introduces the greater theater community and the world to knew methods of story telling. This season, Next to Normal fits the bill.
With a risk-taking pop/rock score by Tom Kitt and unflinchingly perceptive libretto and lyrics by Brian Yorkey, Michael Greif’s dynamic direction soars. Greif’s most famous credit is undeniably the groundbreaking cult-inspiring musical, Rent, but he outdoes himself with Next to Normal. The show is both articulate in staging and in design/creation. It accepts the intimacy of a five character show while fearlessly abstracting its themes and emotional character relationships. Mark Lendland’s set is architectural, functioning both as a literal home and also as housing for the levels of consciousness that operate simultaneously in the play.
The play explores the life of a family struggling with the loss of an older son. The father attempts to hold the home together as his wife experiences dangerous bouts of schizophrenia and their daughter is left feeling invisible amidst the aftershocks. The cast is commendable as an ensemble, but especially of note are the performances of Alice Ripley, J. Robert Spencer, and Jennifer Damiano.
Alice Ripley’s 2009 Tony Award for Best Actress in this piece is well earned. Her performance as Diana is vulnerable, audacious, and gut-wrenching. As always, she is a belting powerhouse and her navigation of the lyrics and music is artful, specific, and fearless.
Spencer’s 2009 Tony Nominated performance cuts to the core. He allows himself to explore both the selfless and the selfish sides of the Dan, the father, without apology. His voice is unexpectedly young and fresh, a real find.
The daughter, Natalie, as played by Jennifer Damiano is similarly fearless and for a young actress, she is a force to be reckoned with. Her voice is interesting and her musicianship keeps the audience in the moment with her, leaving your heart racing when she makes an unexpected choice or change in dynamics. We should expect great things from her in the future.
If you see one musical this season, make it Next to Normal and support new visions and methods of story telling that keep the Broadway stage truly alive.
To buy tickets to Next to Normal or for additional information about this production, see http://www.nexttonormal.com
I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in this:
Sooner or later, everyone will drop anchor in New York City.
Be it a year, a semester abroad, or a long weekend, people from all around the world will pay a visit to the place my father reverently calls “The Center of the Universe.”
I’ve said a few disparaging or disheartening things about this urban labyrinth, but I wouldn’t be living here if I didn’t love it. However, I’m not so in love with this city that I can’t recognized the misplaced overconfidence in this statement.
There is an undeniable dream-like quality that accompanies the uttering of the words “New York.” I want to be a part of it. My little home is on the 100th floor. The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down. It’s the city that never sleeps. Lets face it, if Amy Adams endorses New York City as the perfect place to unfold a fairy tale in her movie Enchanted, I’m inclined to believe her. She’s just so darn cute!
In my five years living here, I’ve ventured to tourist hot-spots like the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’ve also discovered my own treasures, like the gorgeous story-book fountain by City Hall that is lit with gas lamps, their flames flickering like smoldering ballerina feet in the night. I’ve enjoyed a disparate array of cuisines from street food to five star restaurants. No matter how long I’m here, the infinite well of the city provides me with more scope for the imagination and my taste buds. Where else can you get pad thai delivered to your door at 3 AM?
I love the ability to disappear amongst the metal spires of skyscrapers and at the same time, I stand by the fact that even in this massive city, I still run into friends on the street. They vary from close friends to long lost coworkers. While this may not be everyone’s last stop, it certainly makes everyone’s “must see” list. I’ve crossed paths with almost every important person in my life while treading the metropolitan asphalt.
People always want to visit me here to get a proper tour from a “real New Yorker.” I love having them and it’s incredibly convenient and cost effective for me. Like Hermes, the Greek god of hospitality, I accept all visitors and newcomers with dutiful open arms, suggesting interesting off-the-beaten-path attractions and helping foreigners find the best subway routes- and I’m not the only one! Once, when my mom was on business here for her law firm, it was raining heavily and a man saw her without an umbrella and promptly walked her all the way back to her hotel, not taking no for an answer. When they arrived, he said, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you New Yorkers aren’t nice.” Then he promptly disappeared into the sea of passing umbrellas leaving no name and no trace.
However, I find I’m leaving the city less and less. It makes me ponder how this affects my mental health and most importantly my sense of perspective. New York might be a centrifuge for culture and commerce, but I’m not sure that it really is the center of the universe and without question, it isn’t the only place that matters inside of it.
New York sometimes feels like an inescapable womb in the process of breeding and evolving a new strain of subhuman. I shall call them:
Turtle People.
Just kidding.
But not really. Let’s take a ride, shall we?
When you decide to live in New York City, you run the risk of becoming a Turtle Person. I once stumbled up on this phenomena, and by stumbled upon I mean coined this term myself, while discussing what a battle it is to navigate the NYC subway system, pick up your morning coffee, and arrive at work unscathed and on time. I was commiserating with my friend, Pam, about how alone you can feel even in a packed subway car and how everyone moves through their day with their head inside their shell until they require food or some other service, and then they pop their heads out, blazing with this incredibly unattractive, blinding sense of entitlement. If two Turtle People pop their heads out of their shells at the same time…
The results could be disasterous.
This is the danger of letting New York trap you. which I don’t necessarily mean in a physical sense. It’s very easy to get sucked into a grueling routine. Every weekday, when I plunge down into the subway at rush hour, I begin to feel my turtle shell forming and hardening. I bend my elbows, clench my fists, and forge ahead through the flow of people towards the turn-styles. I used my shoulders defensively, protecting my iPhone like a linebacker driving the ball through a veritable phalanx of opposition. I brace myself as I weed through people rushing at me, trying just as fervently to go in the opposite direction, all of our shells thickening as we advance deeper into the underbelly of the city. I arrive at the doors of my train as they are closing. In my way: A tiny old woman who is unsure of whether or not to enter.
“MOVE!” I bellow at her, head emerging from my shell as I try desperately to make my train. I completely ignore the fact that the woman could be a tourist who doesn’t understand English and I disregard that old platitude about “respecting your elders.”
You get the picture? Turtle People. Tell your friends.
That’s the risk you run when you live here. Of course, there’s a degree of expectation that you will get used to all of the people packed into small spaces. At first its just a matter of putting on your headphones and getting to a state of Zen, but eventually, this develops into a defensiveness and a willingness to be combative. It’s a jungle out there and you have to eat or be eaten from time to time.
At the other end of the spectrum, I have also felt the immense power of communal love in New York City. Last summer, my parents and I were in a car accident on the Upper West Side. We were in a cab on our way home from my graduation from NYU. I was in a gentle slumber, leaning on my mother’s shoulder. I was full of good food and celebratory dreams when I was shaken from my sleep by the perpendicular impact of our taxi with a woman’s car that was speeding across town. I woke, crumpled against the divider. Stupidly none of us were wearing seat belts and I was completely disoriented. My mother was gasping for breath, repeating the words, “My chest is crushed.” The combined weight of me and my father had slammed into her and sharply knocked the wind out of her. As I got my bearings, I realized my father was clutching his head. I could see his head had a huge gash across his forehead. He was talking quickly and saying “I’m ok,” not to mention trying to tell a few jokes as he stumbled out onto the street. I knew he couldn’t be too badly hurt because his jokes were at the same degree of “corny” that they always are, but the blood made it look worse than it was.
I followed him, trying to help him settle on the curb when I noticed how many people were rushing out of their stores onto the street. Apparently the crash had been rather loud. People gathered around us, trying to help my dad and steadying me as I dropped my diploma and my program. They carefully began checking my face and arms for scrapes and blood.
“I have to get my mom,” I said to the woman who was leading me to the sidewalk, but when we turned towards the cab, a gentleman was already helping her, supporting her weight on his arm. As an EMT student who happened to be passing helped my dad into the neck brace he was carrying with him, a shop-owner brought out plastic chairs and bottled water for me and my mother.
The traffic on Broadway had been brought to a halt and as my senses reawakened and the pounding in my head subsided, I realized that for every person that was helping us on our side of the street, just as many were helping the female driver who had hit us on the other side.
When I looked at my dad lying on the sidewalk, bleeding profusely from his forehead, I started to lose it and began to cry. I didn’t see her approaching, but a homeless woman put her hand on my shoulder. Normally I would have glared and pulled away in disgust, but that day I didn’t. She squeezed my shoulder with her warm leathery hand and said. “He’s going to be OK, Mama.” She smiled reassuringly. I stopped crying as we locked eyes and she calmed me down with her steady, concerned gaze.
I kept dropping the papers I was holding. The woman who was looking after my mother picked them up for me. She noted the purple NYU insignia on them and smiled. “I went there. What a great school!”
“I g-graduated today.” I stammered. It was all I could think to say.
She giggled good naturedly and looked between my mom and me, taking both of our hands. “You’ll remember this day for the rest of your lives!” We all laughed.
That day was such a testament to the spirit of New York- the spirit that got this amazing city through immense tragedy and hardship during 9/11/2001, the spirit that made that Wesley Autrey Sr. leap onto the slippery tracks of the New York Subway in order to hold down 19 year old epileptic, Cameron Hellopeter, saving his life by keeping his shaking body still as the train passed over them.
So yes, we run the risk of becoming Turtle People, but being here isn’t always a battle. Sometimes it’s the greatest opportunity of your lifetime and an absolute honor to be a New Yorker.
Does the world really need another article about the death of Michael Jackson?
Probably not, yet here I am on the eve of his memorial service and I can’t get him out of my head.
Earlier today, my cousin, Wendi, suggested that I tackle this complex, over exposed topic and ever since, I’ve been wondering what I could possibly contribute to this massive international dialogue.
The day Michael Jackson died, I was at my family reunion in Tennessee. In one of the few and far between moments when my golf and LSU Baseball-crazed cousins weren’t hogging the television to watch sporting events, the news of Michael Jackson’s heart attack flashed across the screen. I paused, unable to register what I was hearing. The rest of my family went about their business drinking a glasses of chardonnay, piecing together jigsaw puzzles, or reading quietly by lamplight.
“Michael Jackson? What? How? What? The Michael Jackson is dead?” My voice was high and squirrelly as I looked around the room for a response.
My father was the only one to take note of my outburst. He was reclining on a large, white, leather couch with his feet up on a pillow. He chewed on the inside of his mouth, making the familiar sucking noises that accompanied this strange habit. “Yup,” he simply said as he starred up at the screen.
The rest of the room remained the same. The news correspondent explained that Jackson had collapsed in his home earlier in the day due to a heart attack and could not be resuscitated at the hospital.
Make no mistake, I was shocked by this news.
But:
A few minutes later I was cutting myself a piece of pineapple upside down cake and life was continuing as usual.
I have an odd sense of detachment from this event. I’ve felt like a fly on the wall for the last two weeks with no relation to the giant emotional upheaval that’s been going on regarding the loss of this celebrity. On one hand, I see Michael Jackson, pop sensation and dance visionary, and on the other hand I see Michael Jackson, probable (yet unproven) pedophile and plastic surgery addict. I just can’t reconcile the two images I have in my head. Its like I’m watching him split into two entirely different people every time I watch a televised documentary of his life. He was some kind of bizarre, freaky genius. I suppose it makes sense that a recipe that unstable was bound to explode at some point.
In the weeks following Michael’s death, I received messages on Facebook from random people announcing that “Michael never touched those kids. If you had a son and you truly thought he’d been sexually abused, would you settle for cash or see the deviant put behind bars where he belonged?” My immediate response was that I would see him put behind bars. However, I can imagine if I were a private person and my face and my son’s face were being plastered in all of the tabloids that it would wear on me emotionally and physically. It must have been a terribly stressful ordeal for the mother of Jordan Chandler and if she was offered an unimaginable sum of money from the King of Pop, I could imagine how she might have brought herself to take it as a means of getting her family out of the spotlight and away from the scandal.
It cannot be denied that Michael was an addictive man. From the augmentation of his skin color and facial reconstruction to his publicity stunts, he lived for the lime light. Despite his famous song’s title, it did matter to him if he was black or white, or at least it seemed to, based on the physical evidence. At the age of 50, his eyes were pretty much the only recognizable feature linking him to his birth-given face. He went from revolutionizing the dance and music video industry to jumping on the hood of his limo before a court appearance. For me, he reached the limit when he hung his baby out of a hotel window in Berlin. In the pictures, his face is oddly excited, mouth wide to accept the shouts and protests from below as if they fell on his ears like praise, his eyes slightly deranged.
It makes me sad to see this plethora of misplaced showmanship when I think back on this man’s remarkable life. He was so talented and inspired so many people that he really didn’t need any of these desperate plays for attention.
Tonight I watched the coverage of MJ’s memorial service on VH1 with my friend, Greg. Besides the fact that we were surprised by Brooke Shields’ description of her close friendship with Michael (Who knew?), the evening was filled with adulation for Michael as a friend and artist. Even his friend’s questioned some of his minor eccentricities. My favorite example of this was when Shields described when she had asked Jackson, “What’s with the glove?” Between speeches, those in attendance yelled and shouted in worship to their fallen king and idol. It only took a changing slide to set them off repeatedly and unstoppably. It is undeniable that Michael left behind millions of fans world wide. More than all of the scandal and speculation about his eccentric life, Michael was an innovator, and more importantly, and inspiration.
That was his greatest gift. For the last two weeks there has been an outpouring of dancers and singers who all swear they started learning their craft because of watching Michael Jackson perform. That is Jackson’s true legacy.
I hope that is what people remember in years to come. I hope dancers learn to moon walk and I hope music videos get bigger and better at story telling. I hope children watch videos of The Jackson 5 and believe that their dreams are possible. Where is there love for music and dance, Jackson will be there to continue to inspire.
One of my co-workers reported that one of her clients had said this disparaging remark regarding her personal appearance. It shocked me so much that all I could do for a moment was blink. The client she was quoting was in her mid thirties. I thought I must have heard her wrong.
Maybe it’s just my time.
Does it “just become our time” to get plastic surgery these days, like some inevitable, foregone conclusion? What ever happened to aging gracefully like Whistler’s Mother?
There is something sickening about our new trend towards eternal youth. I understand that people want to retain their smooth skin, high breasts, and taught muscle tone, but at some point, we are all going to get older.
Of course, it’s easy to say that at the tender age of twenty three.
To be honest, I can’t exclude myself from that cultural trend. I’ll probably cry when I get my first gray hair and my first wrinkle.
Like so many girls and women today, I have body image issues. I’m not a slight woman. Slightly deranged, perhaps, but not thin. When I walk past a window or a mirror, I look at myself. I eyeball my measurements and press on through my day ashamed of what I see. I check my makeup and wonder how my face disappeared in the full moon of fat I see in my reflection. I know I’m not alone in this kind of life and I know all of these self-hazardous thoughts are partially true, and partially an infectious disease boiling in my brain.
I work at a gym where I am constantly confronted with the fact that I am out of shape. I perform in an industry where skin deep beauty is a skill you can list on your resume and some girl’s with that one skill and not much else “make it big.” Weight and self image are indelible parts of my life because of the vocational choices I’ve made, but I truly believe that they weaseled their way into my psyche long before I decided to become and actress who took a day job at a gym.
Disney is the devil.
Disney is glorious.
This dichotomy echos in my mind constantly. As a child I loved Disney movies. I worshiped Disney Princesses and sang along to every film. I loved Ariel’s red hair and singing voice, Belle’s spunk and her golden ballgown, and how Cinderella got her Prince Charming even though she spent most of her days toiling as a maid. I idolized them each for their own personalities and also for their stunning beauty. I remember every girl in my class going to see each film and planning to dress as that character for Halloween. I never dared to follow suit because I knew I would look awkward and tubby compared to the rest of the perfect Belles and Jasmines. I preferred odd, lumpy, home made costumes like “The Universe,” complete with hula hoops fit for dangling planets made of tin foil.
Looking back, all of that Princess worship seems relatively innocent, but as an adult looking back at the very animation of Princesses, I have to say, they became increasingly sexualized as time went on. Snow White was a domesticated pie-serving Betty-Homemaker and the last animated Disney heroine, Megara from Hercules, is a bit of a con-artist and seducer who is in league with Hades to meet her own ends. Hers is a story of depravity and eventual redemption. Obviously all of the princesses are idealized, but this one is actually a seducer with a waist the circumference of a pin. Hades is able to wrap his thumb and forefinger around it. That’s sick. She’s was voiced by Susan Egan, the original voice of Belle on Broadway… but that’s neither here nor there. Her voice is sultry and her words laden with double entendre. I’m including the following video to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. It’s appropriately backed with the song, “She’s a Lady,” by Tom Jones.
When the movie came out, I loved her. I loved her power and her prowess. I loved the song she sang. I loved her hips and her sensual physicality. I wanted hair like that. She was sexy and I knew it with every fiber of my being.
I was twelve years old.
I was twelve and I was heralding this woman as a sex symbol. Isn’t that just a bit young to be thinking of someone in that capacity? Don’t even get me started on Jasmine in Aladdin. I loved the way she seduced Jafar at the end of the movie in order to cover for her beloved street rat. I wanted to wear that little red slave girl outfit with the transparent silk scarf draped over my shoulder.
These days, Disney doesn’t even use animation to mask their oversexed young women. They have created real life Disney Princesses in the guise of Miley Cyrus and Vanessa Anne Hudgens, both of whom are idolized by young girls and both of whom have been involved in what I would describe as “provocative picture scandals.” These pictures are so accessible that when I typed their names into Google, their taboo photos came up in the first few image results. Think about how many 10-12 year olds type those girl’s names into search engines every day to be met with sexualized images of their role models. Whats worse, the role models were the ones taking them. They weren’t victims of an evil photographer or director. They chose to take these pictures themselves.
No wonder young girls are dressing more provocatively than ever. They are being taught by example that it is desirable and cool to be sex symbols. They plaster their facebook pages with pictures of themselves in bikinis and bras taken at arms length or in a mirror. They pout their lips and push out their budding chests. They lie about their ages advertise themselves for the attention of male websurfers, hoping one will comment on their wall or their online journal to tell them they are beautiful.
The first time I was told I was beautiful by a man was on the internet. I can still remember the fluttering feeling that pulsed in the pit of my stomach as I read the navy blue comic sans font in the instant message. I got up from the computer and danced around the black swivel chair in my mom and dad’s study, unable to believe that someone could possibly see the beauty I could never find when I looked at searched myself so desperately in the mirror.
Even so, it wasn’t exactly how I’d always imagined it.
I still had to face my classmates every day. Things didn’t get any easier when I went to boarding school. I was an odd, musical theater loving, Star Wars fan whose sense of humor wasn’t exactly main stream. When it came to dances, I was so shocked and frightened that I never stayed for long.
High School dances look like orgies these days. At my high school, all the girls gathered near the stage and danced with each other in a circle, just waiting for a guy to come and “grind” with them from behind. For those who don’t know, “grinding” is a club dance where a man stands behind a woman and the two begin rubbing against each other in a lascivious rhythm. Some people may think that I’m being overzealous in my “wee” crusade here, but I’m just trying to express my own experience. I realize that this is common behavior in high school, but that’s exactly my problem with it. Dry humping has become common behavior at chaperoned school dances. It’s one thing in an +18 nightclub, but in high school? I remember when I was a camp counselor at a summer camp for 10-17 year olds, it was my job to walk around the dance floor with a ruler, making sure all of the couples had at least a foot between them. Let’s just say grinding wouldn’t have made the cut.
So here we are, modern Disney Princesses reaching the age of our former stepmothers and villainous evil queens, realizing our lips aren’t as red as they once were and our skin is no longer as white and smooth as fresh fallen snow. In a way, I suppose it makes sense that we are desperately trying to purge ourselves of all the undesirable traits we find creeping up on us as the years roll on. Perhaps our time is waiting for us just over the hill… and beyond the mossy knoll. With just a little help from a good surgeon and the right diet, we can be ready for our 11 o’clock number.
I really am filled with hate right now. I tried to update my iPhone with 3.0 software and AGAIN it went into recovery mode and is in this odd loop hole where the computer tells me to restore it and then says there is an error and it can’t be restored. This happened once before and I took it into the store. They managed to restore the phone so that I could use it, but I’ve never updated it to the new software again for fear of having this very thing happen. I wanted to try to download it today so that I could download the Wordpress App, but it seems I have entered this annoying “You-need-to-restore-but-we-are-unable-to-restore” vortex again.
I made an appointment with the Apple Store, but there’s not an available time until Saturday, two days from now, at 5:50 PM. Even though that’s an inconvenience and it may ruin my plans for the 4th of July weekend, I HAVE to go on that day because my phone has to work. I can’t live without it.
I had forgotten what this is like. I actually feel naked. I’ve grown so accustomed to all of the tools on my phone, not to mention its run of the mill ability to, you know, make phone calls. I have plans to hang out with two people this weekend and without my phone, that may not happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll be a sad panda.
Ugh, who am I kidding? I’m already a sad panda.
I’m also pretty disgusted with how reliant I am on my iPhone. A few posts ago I wrote about how I was addicted to my iPhone and its different bells and whistles. Now I’ve progressed to going through actual withdrawal. I’m not kidding folks. I’m restless and I keep pacing around the apartment and trying to sleep this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach off. I keep wondering how people will contact me.
Would it kill me to be incomunicato for a few days?
Maybe I should just… move to the jungle and live off of fish I catch with my bare hands and water tempered with iodine tablets. I could even fashion a spear out of a branch and hunt boar. Maybe I’ll meet John Locke from ABC’s Lost. Ah, let’s face it. I’d never make it.
I used to be way more outdoorsy. I have taken several “adventure” trips in the course my blessed life. I went horseback riding with my parents in Arizona for two weeks. I’ve camped and rafted in Alaska for three weeks and gone on glacier hikes near Valdez. I went into the Montana mountains for three weeks and stayed out in the woods on solo for one of those weeks. I visited the Galapagos Islands and took naturalist tours. I worked with the National Park Service tagging sea-turtles and living on a boat in the Caribbean. I went white water rafting in the Colorado River and hiked out of the Grand Canyon.
So now I live in New York City. Rewind. What? How did that happen?
When did I become so tirelessly urban? Where has my inner cowgirl gone?
I think she’s still somewhere inside of me. I feel her stir in me whenever I can see a large expanse of sky, even if its only over Washington Square Park. I actually felt her today, of all days, while I was sitting in Grand Central Station.
I was trying to get a few moments of escape and serenity from my boss, who was making me do all sorts of annoying little tasks like canceling her Visa card and changing her legal address, both of which are real headaches for the actual person, let alone an assistant who is trying to remember all of her boss’ personal information.
As I sat on a bench, I noticed that there was a bird twittering and tweeting away. I knew immediately that it wasn’t a pigeon because pigeon’s coo.
Actually, if you ever get a chance to hear pigeon sex, its coo-rific. It makes me die laughing. I’m not a pervert, for the record, but they used to roost right outside of my window as a child. I often convulsed in giggles when I heard them going at it in a rousing “coorus.” Get it? Coorus, Chorus? Come on people! I digress.
As I looked for the source of the sound I noticed something tiny and dark running across the floor. I almost shrieked because I thought it was a nasty New York rat. Upon further observation I realized it was a red breasted robin. Phew.
My father is obsessed with birds and he taught me long ago how to identify one. Actually, we used have a huge one that lived in our backyard in Chicago. This type of bird is also significant to me because I loved The Secret Garden as a child and Mary Lennox, the heroin of the story, was guided by a “Robin Red Breast” to the gate of her Aunt Lily’s garden and he flew around the ivy covered, overgrown walls and kept the girl company while she planted seeds. That story was so gorgeous, both in text and on stage as a musical.
So there I was, overworked, underpaid, and sitting on a bench looking at my very own Robin Red Breast. This one was singing beautifully but upon closer inspection, I realized his wing was broken. He must have flown into the building and banged into a window or other reflective surface while trying to get out. It was so tragic because you never see anything but pigeons (AKA the rats of the air) in the city. Atleast I don’t. Then again I’m not specifically looking to identify birds.
It is a fact: This poor creature that reminded me of my childhood and a beautiful story will die. I didn’t know how long he’d been there. Perhaps he was singing for his supper. Perhaps it was his “Swan Song.” He must have been in so much pain. Maybe it’s stupid, but it made me tear up a little bit as I watched him waddle about. He even hopped over to me and just looked at me for a while, completely unafraid and uninhibited. It reminded me of how the animals had acted during my visit to the Galapagos Islands. The sea lions and marine iguanas would just sit and sun themselves on the beach. They hadn’t been introduced to fear of humans because they’ve never been hunted there. That whole trip made me feel like I was living in the Garden of Eden. The guide warned us not to touch the sea lion pups even if they approached us because the mothers would stop recognizing the scent of their young and disown them. They were so adorable. You just wanted to pick one up and squeeze it so badly. I don’t mean like Lenny in Of Mice and Men. I mean a comfortable cuddle rather than a life threatening clamp of doom.
As I watched my doomed bird-friend, I felt a similar conflict. I wanted to pick him up and mend him, but as we all know, birds are ridden with disease, germs, and God knows what else. Also, who am I to think I could “mend” a broken bird wing. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in theater. I’m not a veterinarian.
That thought reminded me of how when I was on my Outward Bound “solo” in Montana, I had decided to make a woven basket and failed miserably. I don’t know what made me think I would just naturally have the ability to do something like that. Did I expect it to be written into my homo sapien DNA? However, it was undeniably fun and it gave me something to do during the lonely days. I sort of remembered singing through the entire score of every musical i could remember and even the ones I was less clear on as I worked.
Somewhere along the way I traded simple pleasures and child-like curiosity for iPhone apps and rent checks. Some of that is just a part of growing up, but sometimes I think it wouldn’t be such a travesty if we all tried to retrace our developmental steps a bit and follow our silly impulses. Mind you, I’m not telling you to expose yourself to disease ridden urban creatures on the verge of demise, but a walk in the park to lie on the bedrock outcroppings and read clouds wouldn’t do you any harm.
Before you Bible thumpers get too excited, let me preface this with the fact that this is not a religious blog, nor is it a religious moment in a religious post. In fact, this is the antichrist of blogs. Well, maybe that’s pushing it, but let me tell you something. The devil is real, ladies and gentlemen.
Now when I say devil, I’m not talking of a red guy with a pointy tail, or an animated Satan in love with Saddam Hussein. No, my comrades, I am speaking of our modern opportunities for addiction. Honestly. Every time I turn around I hear someone saying, “You know what I’m obsessed with now?” Even I must admit that I have a moderately addictive personality. Ok… I may have an EXTREMELY addictive personality.
These days, addiction can sneak up on you. It’s that Starbucks coffee you think you need before class or that last high score you need in Tetris before you get back to writing your final English Paper. It’s facebook and myspace. It’s Ben and Jerry’s Fossil Fuel Ice Cream (Can you really blame me?).
Granted, some addictions are more serious than others. There are the old classics; sex, drugs, and booze. They’re still around.
I happen to be obsessed with Star Wars. I always have been. I think it probably creaped out the rest of my freshman class in high school. Han Solo is a hottie. You know it. I know it. Actually, I think my additional obsession with musical theater didn’t help too much in the popularity department either.
For the last 2 and a half years I’ve played World of Warcraft. Now, if that isn’t an addiction, I don’t know what is. I have levelled away HOURS of my life on that game. I have three level 80’s and I raid with my guild three nights a week. Its like having a part time job that I don’t get paid for. Does this make me sexy? No. The only person WoW makes sexy is Felicia Day. No. World of Warcraft makes me quite decidedly UNSEXY, nay, quirky at best.
I’m amazed at how easy it is to get addicted to games on my phone. The Sims 3 is one of my most recent iPhone love affairs. I loved fishing and selling my wares at the market so I could build my magnificent Sim House and get my Sim married off to whichever loser Sim lived in the house next door. I loved making them have sweet sweaty Woohoo on my hard earned Bohemian bed. After I got bored of repairing refrigerators and filling the empty parts of my Sim Mansion with potted plants, we broke up. I rebounded with Archers, a free iPhone app where you use your finger to aim an arrow at an opponent at a distance which is operated by your phone or in my case, my father. The first one to kill the other player wins. Suffice to say, it got dull fast.
Today, I welcomed the Devil into my home again, and by “home” I mean iPhone (which in itself, is another addiction). I signed up for Twitter. I have 5 followers, all of which are probably selling something. Lets not fool ourselves. They are all selling stuff. I thought Twitter would be some horrible thing that lonely people use to stay connected. Then I realized: I’m just a lonely person who wants to stay connected, plus following Dane Cook provides me with brief comedic respites and frankly, what’s not to love about that?
It is actually kind of fun to read about what your favorite actor’s, writers, and singer’s are up to in an average day. It got me thinking. With all of these little addictions that take us away from being face to face with one another in any sort of recognizable form of social interaction, Twitter is this odd cry for help. People need to feel connected in an increasingly digital world. That’s what their little video on the website says. I mean, sure, there is such a thing as threat level STALKER, but its kind of fun to take stock of what I’m doing during the day or post that my boss is making me prune her cactus with my bare hands (NOT AN ODD SEXUAL REFERENCE, I SWEAR) or reassure renowned award winning novelist Neil Gaimon that its OK for him to want to buy a particularly nice table.
But when it comes down to it, why don’t I just go knock on my neighbor’s door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar and then invite him over for some tea? Is it time we rest our eyes from the glow of the computer monitor or iPhone? Everything that seems fun these days is a trap. Holy shit. We’re living in a booby trapped virtual playground.
That said, if you want to know what goes on inside my crazy head during the day, you can follow me on Twitter. @annrichmond
Or, if you are boycotting Tweets in general, stay tuned to this blog.
These are in a loose order. Near the middle and the end, things get a little blurry for me. In this list, I try to include a cross section of dramatic actors, comedic actors, and some up and coming actors from my generation.
