Yesterday was my last day as a toddler teacher for the foreseeable future. I've had my own classroom for almost two years (my anniversary was next month) and for almost the entire extent of that time, had a core group of kids that I stayed with. Some kids added, some dropped, and a small number of them transitioned up, but there were a couple kids (D, A, I, B, N, etc) who were with me almost the entire time I was at my center. (I would include W, but he moved to another state this past June and it about broke my heart.)
The job has been exhausting, and challenging, and incredibly, painfully, difficult. It has also been incredibly rewarding, forcing me to be inventive, creative, and flexible. I've had to adapt myself to situations, work with teachers and assistants and directors whose views are in direct opposition to my own, and become frighteningly comfortable with the human body. (Thanks for your legendary poops, B. I mean that.) The connections I have made with the families have enriched my life in ways I never expected and I look forward to maintaining the relationships I've created these past two years.
As a toddler teacher, I've been asked many times, "But, like, what do you actually teach them?!" And I always give the same answer: how to be human. They know how to walk when they come to my classroom, but they have no idea how far they can go. They are starting to speak, but they've yet to learn the power of words to build or destroy. As they develop a sense of independence, learn the bounds of their autonomy, and figure out social skills like sharing and apologizing, I'm the person responsible for helping them. For modeling these skills. I'm certainly not perfect.
Some weeks, the toddlers teach me more than I teach them. Here are some of the lessons I've learned while I've been with these incredible, bright, important children.
1. People are like oobleck.
Surely, you've mixed cornstarch and water together. If not, you should do it right now. Oobleck has bizarre properties, existing in both a liquid and a solid state simultaneously. That means that when you squeeze the oobleck in your closed fist, it gets hard and crumbly. When you relax your hand, it turns into a viscous liquid that will drizzle out between your fingers.
How does this relate to people? I've seen it in my personal relationships and I've seen it in my interactions with the children compared with my coworkers'. If you try to hold a person, sure, they might not get away, but it's unlikely it'll be a pleasant experience for anyone. They will turn hard and begin to fall apart. When you let them go, when you open your palms and leave them to do as they will, sure, they might run away, slip right through your fingers, and make a mess -- but maybe they'll stay. Either way, isn't it better to not cramp your hand trying to hold onto them, and take your chances?
2. Bubbles solve everything.
No, seriously. If you have nine children fighting over one toy, children who want binkies, children transitioning into a center environment after two years alone with Mommy, or even a staff who hates each other -- there's a simple answer that never fails. Bubbles. Lots of damn bubbles.
I'm pretty sure it's universal. You put the leaders of all the world's nations into a room, starting blowing bubbles, and see how long it takes for everyone to develop a more... democratic spirit. And start getting along. There are always enough bubbles for everyone.
3. Some people build; some people destroy.
Don't let these people build lego towers together. Seriously.
4. Everyone has unique needs.
You can try as hard as you want to create a fair and equal classroom, but you're going to learn, fair and equal are not the same things. Some kids get potty trained at 2 and some wait until they're almost 4. Some kids need to be held when they're sad or when they fall down or when someone new comes into the classroom and some kids, well, they'd like their space, thank you very much. Techniques that distract or deter one child will not work for another, and sometimes, it won't work on the same kids twice. In order to meet nine unique sets of needs every day, you need to be creative, adaptive, flexible, and for god's sake, patient!
5. Everyone needs the exact same thing.
We all just want to have our feelings and experiences recognized as valid. You might think it's not a big deal that Suzie just took the purple shovel and I should stop crying, but how difficult can it be when you think, "I am master of my universe," only to learn that Suzie is master of the one thing you want RIGHT. NOW. THIS. VERY. SECOND. MORE. THAN. AIR. Kids -- human beings -- respond much better to hearing, "I know what you're going through must be difficult; how can I help you to feel better about it?" than they do to, "Stop crying; it's just a shovel. Here, take the red one." "Stop crying, he's just a boy" does not go over nearly so well as, "Ashley, I know you love him and I know this impossible situation has left you frustrated, drained, and hurt. And I know you recognize how impossible this is. Do you want to go get ice cream and talk about Frank Turner?"
Likewise, people need to have their efforts recognized, especially when they are not doing well. I had one child who would not stop a particular behavior pattern that was destructive to social relationships and the classroom in general. It wasn't an intentional thing that happened, and you could see the upset and the hurt every time this child failed. My co-teacher's method of behavior management was to keep the child at her feet, to force this child to sit out and miss the rest of the day, all the while lecturing the child about why this behavior was undesirable. My approach, when I took control of these situations, was much more "bleeding heart." I tended to praise the child's hard work, "I can see how difficult it is for you to control yourself, and I know how hard you're working to do better. I'm really proud of you for that, but next time, I want you to get me when you need help." Then I would either sit with the child or give the child space until the child calmed their body down and felt ready to rejoin the group. When the damage was particularly bad, my co-teacher had a tendency to rub the child's nose in it, to say, "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE. YOU'VE DONE THIS TERRIBLE THING." My reaction was like this:
Me: Do you see this? How did that happen?
Child: [explanation of how damage occurred]
Me: How can we fix this?
Child: [offers solution and apology]
We would then carry out any needed maintenance to "solve" the problem and "reverse the damage."
Over time, the child refused to be alone with my former co-teacher, screaming any time diaper changes rolled around and refusing to even greet my co-teacher. The tension between them was so immense that the child is now going to a new center. I'm not trying to say that I am perfect, and I certainly have reacted to children with frustration, sometimes in a less than forgiving mood. Sometimes I'm tired or I'm distracted or I'm upset about something else. But I think what I learned to do very well was to acknowledge the validity of everyone's individual experiences, and their hard work. It's all any of us really want, and even though it looks like a nice life to us, we must all remember the words of the great French singer, Jordie...
"Dur dur d'etre bebe." (It's tough to be a baby!)
Monday, September 23, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
Traveling Alone
I like my life the way it is, mostly. I like impulse buying piles of hand-painted vintage tulle with the express intent of upstaging my cousin at her wedding. I like buying glitter, or taking my friends out to dinner. As Sempleton put it the other day, "I've got friends who are rolling money, and then there's you. You're just like, 'Fuck it. I live a fabulous life.'"
And that might sound bad.
But I love my friends. I love the place I live. (Ok, not the whole apartment, but my bedroom. And the location.) I like my crazy stories and my adventures. I like being alone. I like that when I want company, it's not hard to find.
I'm not good at complimenting people. I'm not good at asking people about themselves. Not adults, anyway. I am terrible with names. I forget birthdays and to buy Christmas gifts for people. I often find myself distracted from the things you say because I'm thinking about the no doubt fascinating things I'm going to say after you've finished. I really like to be the center of attention, but only on my own terms. I'm not good at sitting back and letting other people be the stars.
When John Irving read my question at a forum, I thought, "Of course he chose this to be the only real question he answered, because I'm much more interesting than everyone else here."
I sound awful.
This morning, I was in a really awful mood. A really terrible rare mood. Just foul. But here is the thing about my job: you can't sit there and wallow in your own filth. I might impose my values on these kids by teaching them that Jackson Browne says "Doctor, my eyes!" and to complete, "I want..." with "to dance!" (A Frank Turner song, of course.) But they actually need me. And not selfish me, not self-absorbed me. I spend all day taking care of them. Interacting with them. Meeting them at their levels, trying to provide solid scaffolding so they can keep growing, even while I feel my own soul stagnating. What I'm trying to say is, this is painful for me.
I come home from work and I don't have the energy to take care of someone else who has all these emotional needs. I can't kiss one more booboo or let one more person climb all over me just because it's fun for them. When my shift ends, I can't put aside my own moods anymore. I don't remember the last time I had a good cry, or the last time I thought about anything real. (Wrong. Last solid cry was Thanksgiving day.) I have enough to feel sad about, and not from a selfish point of view. I've lost a lot that really mattered to me in the last twelve months. More than I thought I could, more than I thought I would. I've gained a lot, too, but letting go hurts and pretending for more than half my waking hours that I exist purely to meet some tiny child's needs is exhausting. You're not even my kid and I spend all this emotional energy on you. Is this unconditional love?
So I fill myself up with these things. The tulle and glitter and fluffy music and nights spent just having a really good time. Doing stupid things like pulling my friend to the bar for her birthday dinner, on a sled, down a typically busy street. Insisting on outlasting all those other fair-weather drinkers who might be out in the middle of a blizzard. And then I want to talk about that when I have (very limited!) free time. Not war. Or human rights. Or religion.
And I'm sorry. It doesn't mean I don't love you, just because I'm not very good at reciprocal conversations right now. It just means that I spend the bulk of my day asking, "What color is this pillow? Where is the bunny in this picture? Do you need my help putting your shoes on? Why did you hit your friend?" It just means that I am tired and I'm not sure I can give you the attention you deserve. It just means I need a break, and boy do I. I might sound indulgent, a little selfish, maybe. But I spend all day being selfless for people who won't remember me in a year and a half. Forgive me if it just feels a little futile.
Or as Marie Antoinette might say, "Pardon me, sir... I did not mean to do it."
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Oh, hai, bloggy....
So the url of this blog is "Lord Byron's Luggage." This used to be the blog title, as well, and back then, it was ever so appropriate for my purposes. I was chronicling my adventures in a fairytale city that tasted like meringue and melted on my tongue with that same sticky sweetness, the lightness, the airy, can't-get-enough-ness of Edinburgh.
Anyway, the title/URL combo came from a Warren Zevon song, called "Lord Byron's Luggage." I liked the opening line:
But just the same, I had some luggage. I was traveling to a new country, escaping some really awful failed friendships, one romantic misstep that seemed, at the time, particularly brutal, and a grandfather who was about to die. Let's not sugarcoat that, because it happened. He died three or four days after I got to the city.
So I spent six months living in a fairy tale. Falling in love with strangers who would get to stay as perfect as James Dean, wandering around giant gardens, drinking for the first time in my life, hanging out with Robert and Susannah and Mhairi and Jason and Cara and Kevin, and Amandine, and ohgod, that Benedict. I miss Will almost all the time, and Beth, too. I wrote more while I was in Scotland than I have at any other point in my life. I also played more Snood and had more insomniac meanders through the really sketchy parts of town than I ever hope to again. As I told Ben one night, when I ran into him with his roommate at 3 AM on Prince's Street, "My legs, they just won't settle."
(For those of you who wonder where my confusion with Ben lay, I met his roommate and her response was, "OH! ASHLEY! It's so fantastic to finally meet you!")
But as I came home from Scotland, my blog became more about appreciating that, then I stopped writing. Then I started writing again. But it was a mishmash of things. Quotes from Alice Hoffman, pictures of dresses and Scottish islands. Esoteric bull about scattering my grandfather's ashes. Then I moved to DC and didn't write for the four months I was there. And why would I? That was an awful experience, and I had no time to sleep, let alone write about the grind of being Alicia's little wife. Then I met Homeless Dan, and I moved home, and I wrote about movies for awhile. Then I did not write for a long time, during which my life has been utter turmoil and upsets and plot twists and "When did that happen? And how old am I again?" This was the "Typing Gibberish" period.
And now, here I sit, at yet another crossroads, and I'm thinking about all that luggage. All that nostalgia and the things I keep just for me, those things that don't fit in my tiny suitcase, and that don't even really fit in my life anywhere, anymore, and I keep thinking, how am I holding onto these things and why can I not let go for the life of me? My jaw hurts from holding so tight. (I mean that literally. I often cannot unclench my jaw.) My knuckles can turn white and my knees can collapse, and my entire world can shrink so that nothing will fit, but I keep carrying these things, finding space for them, making space for them.
I love the things that are just mine, but I'm not sure how to keep them without missing out on forward momentum.
So the url of this blog is "Lord Byron's Luggage." This used to be the blog title, as well, and back then, it was ever so appropriate for my purposes. I was chronicling my adventures in a fairytale city that tasted like meringue and melted on my tongue with that same sticky sweetness, the lightness, the airy, can't-get-enough-ness of Edinburgh.
Anyway, the title/URL combo came from a Warren Zevon song, called "Lord Byron's Luggage." I liked the opening line:
Lord Byron had a lot of luggage; he took it when he traveled far and wide.I don't have a lot of physical luggage. I travel light enough that, when I arrived at the airport in Edinburgh at about 6 AM, having just undergone the undocumented flight from hell, the woman sent to greet the exchange students was shocked. A backpack and what Homeless Dan calls my "tiny suitcase." It did not occur to me that, for six months of living in a new country, I might need more than six shirts. (It didn't occur to me because, after all, I did not. Seriously. Look at the photos. I am constantly wearing the same six shirts layered in different ways. In every single photo.)
But just the same, I had some luggage. I was traveling to a new country, escaping some really awful failed friendships, one romantic misstep that seemed, at the time, particularly brutal, and a grandfather who was about to die. Let's not sugarcoat that, because it happened. He died three or four days after I got to the city.
So I spent six months living in a fairy tale. Falling in love with strangers who would get to stay as perfect as James Dean, wandering around giant gardens, drinking for the first time in my life, hanging out with Robert and Susannah and Mhairi and Jason and Cara and Kevin, and Amandine, and ohgod, that Benedict. I miss Will almost all the time, and Beth, too. I wrote more while I was in Scotland than I have at any other point in my life. I also played more Snood and had more insomniac meanders through the really sketchy parts of town than I ever hope to again. As I told Ben one night, when I ran into him with his roommate at 3 AM on Prince's Street, "My legs, they just won't settle."
(For those of you who wonder where my confusion with Ben lay, I met his roommate and her response was, "OH! ASHLEY! It's so fantastic to finally meet you!")
But as I came home from Scotland, my blog became more about appreciating that, then I stopped writing. Then I started writing again. But it was a mishmash of things. Quotes from Alice Hoffman, pictures of dresses and Scottish islands. Esoteric bull about scattering my grandfather's ashes. Then I moved to DC and didn't write for the four months I was there. And why would I? That was an awful experience, and I had no time to sleep, let alone write about the grind of being Alicia's little wife. Then I met Homeless Dan, and I moved home, and I wrote about movies for awhile. Then I did not write for a long time, during which my life has been utter turmoil and upsets and plot twists and "When did that happen? And how old am I again?" This was the "Typing Gibberish" period.
And now, here I sit, at yet another crossroads, and I'm thinking about all that luggage. All that nostalgia and the things I keep just for me, those things that don't fit in my tiny suitcase, and that don't even really fit in my life anywhere, anymore, and I keep thinking, how am I holding onto these things and why can I not let go for the life of me? My jaw hurts from holding so tight. (I mean that literally. I often cannot unclench my jaw.) My knuckles can turn white and my knees can collapse, and my entire world can shrink so that nothing will fit, but I keep carrying these things, finding space for them, making space for them.
I love the things that are just mine, but I'm not sure how to keep them without missing out on forward momentum.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
A note of justice
Just double-checked. 127 is nominated for Best Original Score. AND IT SHOULD WIN SO HARD THEY FEEL IT IN 2012!
Also, once again... DIDO?
Also, once again... DIDO?
127-- OMIGOD THAT ROCK JUST FELL ON HIM -- erm, spoilers ahead
Blogging 127 Hours. Because Danny Boyle is good for nothing if not for a sense of surreal immediacy. (Crawling babies, anyone? Also, anyone feeling a craving some Shallow Grave...ing? Terrible, I know.)
Ten minutes: Someone just give this movie the best picture Oscar already? Also, there's a reason Danny Boyle is one of my two favorite directors. Since when does Amber Tamblyn still exist?
Ten minutes: Someone just give this movie the best picture Oscar already? Also, there's a reason Danny Boyle is one of my two favorite directors. Since when does Amber Tamblyn still exist?
Twenty minutes: Dear Danny Boyle: I knew it was going to happen, but it terrified me when it did
One minute later: I HAVE SYMPATHY PAINS FOR ARON RALSTON
Thirty-seven minutes: Now I'm crying on the bus. WELL DONE DANNY!
Forty-one minutes: Thirsty. GIVE ME WATER. WANT GATORADE. CanIhaveit? Also, congratulations on finding an unflattering angle to shoot Mr. Franco from.
Forty-three minutes: No. Chilled urine is nothing like sauvignon blanc
Forty-five minutes: Idea strikes him. Stomach turns... Even more than at the thought of drinking pee.
Forty-eight minutes: I think the thing with the contacts bothers me more than it should, only because I know how helpless I feel when I don't have mine.
Forty-nine minutes: He's dating Fleur? I guess she got over Chuck Bass awful fast. Also, didn't she just marry Bill Weasley?
Fifty-three minutes: James Cameron is in the house
Fifty-three minutes: James Cameron is in the house
Fifty-five minutes: Wait, was it even raining? At least he's keeping his spirits up somehow.
Fifty-seven minutes: Lesson number 127? TELL PEOPLE WHERE YOU WILL BE. Ferrealz, yo.
ONE HOUR: We have punctured skin.
Sixty-one minutes: I'm having a Dumb and Dumber moment.... "This tastes like piss"
Sixty-three minutes: "If you keep singing Phish, you're never going to get a girlfriend." Somebody please tell GuitarHero to see this movie.
Seventy minutes: I LOVE THIS MOVIE. Even if you hate this rock.
Seventy-three minutes: Wait, since when does Dido still exist?
Seventy-four minutes: We have broken bone.
Seventy-six minutes: Is this nominated for best score? It really deserves to be. OMIGOD I MIGHT PEE MYSELF
Seventy-seven minutes: Release. Though it hardly feels like freedom. Mere survival is all.
Eighty-four minutes: Yup, tears again. Can you imagine being the family that found him? Can you imagine being him, upon being found?
Eighty-eight minutes: Oh, hey, @RealAronRalston. I'm glad you tell people where you will be now. And stopped singing Phish
Thursday, February 10, 2011
That's why it's called acting
Because Jennifer Lawrence (of Winter's Bones) is the cheerleader sort. But my god, watch the girl gut a squirrel or take on an entire family of criminals who killed her father.
That movie was heartrending. In one scene, I thought a character was whimpering as something terrible happened, but as it got louder (and I thought, "This is real, this person is really, truly upset") I realized -- nope, that noise is coming from my own throat. I can't exactly tell you how gorgeously acted this movie was and as discussed with ma mere in the aftermath, it's a hard movie to recommend. Not because it isn't excellent.
It is excellent. Beyond excellent.
It's just heavy. Dark. Deadly. It's not a movie that you can say you enjoyed. (And if you did, uh, you should probably get help.) I told Mom I thought that she (Jennifer Lawrence) was going to have a long career and Mom agreed before remembering that she is, in fact, the Angel of Death.
(Jeff Buckley, Heath Ledger, Earthfest, and multiple fish--all blood on my mother's hands.)
So knock on wood for that, yeah?
Though it is interesting to me if you look at Winter's Bones and True Grit. Both about determined young women who set out to find someone (either their father or their father's killers). Sure, True Grit is about avenging her father's death and Winter's Bone is about finding proof that her father is dead, but they both feature women clinging to survival and purpose in a world run by men. One of the women in Winter's Bone asks Ree, "Don't you have any men that can do this for you?" and Ree very matter-of-factly responds, "No." In the end, it is women who step up, the men posturing endlessly and purposelessly at each other in hopes that one will back down or the other will act. It is a man's world, yes, and it is harder to make your way in the world of Winter's Bone if you are a woman, but if you can, if you don't collapse into insanity, well, it's because you've got true grit. Sorry, wrong movie.
In True Grit, we are told that it is Rooster Cogburn who is a man of true grit, but in the end, the only character who proves she has what it takes is Mattie Ross. Granted, in the end, the men save the day, but that is because Mattie Ross is a fourteen year old girl. There's only so much that grit can do against brute strength and let's be clear that a fourteen year old girl firing a gun on a grown man takes grit. A grown man taking a fourteen year old girl hostage takes... well, not that much, as a matter of fact.
I loved these movies and I loved their female leads. I'm nothing like either of them and cannot relate at all to their specific experiences of the world, but I totally appreciated seeing strong females -- and to see them be so young, and to persevere through so much was magnificent. Both of them teenaged girls, abandoned in one way or another by their fathers, seeking to rectify an unjust situation, despite the men around them proclaiming it too dangerous for a woman (let alone a young girl!) and too futile for a man -- really their own cowardice overwhelming them.
And then there was Natalie Portman, who, don't get me wrong, worked her ass off in Black Swan. But I'll get to that later.
That movie was heartrending. In one scene, I thought a character was whimpering as something terrible happened, but as it got louder (and I thought, "This is real, this person is really, truly upset") I realized -- nope, that noise is coming from my own throat. I can't exactly tell you how gorgeously acted this movie was and as discussed with ma mere in the aftermath, it's a hard movie to recommend. Not because it isn't excellent.
It is excellent. Beyond excellent.
It's just heavy. Dark. Deadly. It's not a movie that you can say you enjoyed. (And if you did, uh, you should probably get help.) I told Mom I thought that she (Jennifer Lawrence) was going to have a long career and Mom agreed before remembering that she is, in fact, the Angel of Death.
(Jeff Buckley, Heath Ledger, Earthfest, and multiple fish--all blood on my mother's hands.)
So knock on wood for that, yeah?
Though it is interesting to me if you look at Winter's Bones and True Grit. Both about determined young women who set out to find someone (either their father or their father's killers). Sure, True Grit is about avenging her father's death and Winter's Bone is about finding proof that her father is dead, but they both feature women clinging to survival and purpose in a world run by men. One of the women in Winter's Bone asks Ree, "Don't you have any men that can do this for you?" and Ree very matter-of-factly responds, "No." In the end, it is women who step up, the men posturing endlessly and purposelessly at each other in hopes that one will back down or the other will act. It is a man's world, yes, and it is harder to make your way in the world of Winter's Bone if you are a woman, but if you can, if you don't collapse into insanity, well, it's because you've got true grit. Sorry, wrong movie.
In True Grit, we are told that it is Rooster Cogburn who is a man of true grit, but in the end, the only character who proves she has what it takes is Mattie Ross. Granted, in the end, the men save the day, but that is because Mattie Ross is a fourteen year old girl. There's only so much that grit can do against brute strength and let's be clear that a fourteen year old girl firing a gun on a grown man takes grit. A grown man taking a fourteen year old girl hostage takes... well, not that much, as a matter of fact.
I loved these movies and I loved their female leads. I'm nothing like either of them and cannot relate at all to their specific experiences of the world, but I totally appreciated seeing strong females -- and to see them be so young, and to persevere through so much was magnificent. Both of them teenaged girls, abandoned in one way or another by their fathers, seeking to rectify an unjust situation, despite the men around them proclaiming it too dangerous for a woman (let alone a young girl!) and too futile for a man -- really their own cowardice overwhelming them.
And then there was Natalie Portman, who, don't get me wrong, worked her ass off in Black Swan. But I'll get to that later.
You got a friend in me (all of you)
Last year, the frontrunner was Up. It was okay, but let's be clear: The Secret of Kells was infinitely more beautiful and unusual.
This year is a bit of a toss-up, between Toy Story 3 and The Illusionist. I've seen two of the three, but I've not seen The Illusionist. I'm dying to. And there's a really good reason that my old followers might know.
Most of the movie is set in the 'Burgh. I saw a still from it and I knew those spires, those cobblestones, it felt like home. And it looks sweet. That seems to be the theme this year with the animated films. All three are really, really sweet. Toy Story 3 and The Illusionist are also all about loss of something, childhood or an era.
Meanwhile, How To Train Your Dragon is funny, smart, and impeccable. I haven't seen the last one yet, but it's set in my second home, my British home. Toy Story is funny, smart, and plays on your nostalgia. It's the best job Tom Hanks has done in ages, and it's not afraid to be devastatingly tragic. (Happy ending, though!) It wasn't made for kids; it was made for my generation. "Ok, guys, you're graduating college now. Be GROWNUPS!"
I'm just so sad about having to choose a favorite eventually.
This year is a bit of a toss-up, between Toy Story 3 and The Illusionist. I've seen two of the three, but I've not seen The Illusionist. I'm dying to. And there's a really good reason that my old followers might know.
Most of the movie is set in the 'Burgh. I saw a still from it and I knew those spires, those cobblestones, it felt like home. And it looks sweet. That seems to be the theme this year with the animated films. All three are really, really sweet. Toy Story 3 and The Illusionist are also all about loss of something, childhood or an era.
Meanwhile, How To Train Your Dragon is funny, smart, and impeccable. I haven't seen the last one yet, but it's set in my second home, my British home. Toy Story is funny, smart, and plays on your nostalgia. It's the best job Tom Hanks has done in ages, and it's not afraid to be devastatingly tragic. (Happy ending, though!) It wasn't made for kids; it was made for my generation. "Ok, guys, you're graduating college now. Be GROWNUPS!"
I'm just so sad about having to choose a favorite eventually.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Some Notes on Rabbit Hole
- I'd have nominated Aaron Eckhart.
- I wish Nicole Kidman's face could move.
- I want to hug that kid.
Friday, January 28, 2011
True Grit, Tron, and Tuesday movies
I should preface this by saying that I thought I was going to henceforth steer clear of my life in this series, but I'm going to get into it, because it's all part of the race.
Last year, I did this thing where I sort of tried to watch every movie nominated for an Academy Award before the ceremony. Now, I was in my last semester of college and prone to fits and starts, so I gave up when I saw how difficult The Most Dangerous Man In America would be to find. But I like the idea, so I'm coming back for round 2. And this time, I'm coming fully armed with charts, budget lists, and a supportive (if vaguely confused) boyfriend. He's even helping me with my spreadsheets.
Anyway, about Tron. I love Jeff Bridges. As anyone who knows me is aware, Crazy Heart was my favorite nominated movie last year and he was a big part of that. I think he is just swimming in talent--in the right movies. And I simply adore his voice. I, like Maggie Gyllenhaal, could find myself falling against my will for him if he showed up in my life and looked at me -- but that was all last year.
Okay, so a few weeks ago, the HomelessBoy and I were driving through a snowstorm to get groceries for the family I'm staying with and decided that we needed to stop and see a movie, since we'd set the date before the snow was ever predicted. So we stopped at the Hampshire Mall Cinemark and asked them what the next movie was. Something lame, like The Tourist (sorry, Johnny, but you're not making me want to overcome my Angelina revulsion) or Season of the Witch. So we asked what movies were starting in the next 45 minutes. And between Tron, True Grit, and The Fighter for viable options, I acquiesced because he showed up that morning with hot chocolate and a bagel at 9 AM and he'sjustsosweetomigodstopmeplease. And so we had a pretend first date (since how we met and all was not conducive to that at all) and I let him choose Tron. And that's how that mess happened.
Positives: I was pretty certain it would be nominated for at least a technical Oscar so it would help me out in my eventual quest. Also, it was my first 3D movie experience, so I thought, "Could be cool." Olivia Wilde is hot, too.
Negatives: It sucked. Not even the 3D could make it interesting and I learned something important about 3D in movies. It doesn't actually enhance my experience of the film. Anyway, the movie was boring, made very little sense to a newcomer, and when Jeff Bridges shows up as The Young Dude at the beginning and again once his son is actually inside the game, he looks like some creepy character from The Polar Express, a movie that gives me night terrors. Anyway, it was SO EPICALLY DISAPPOINTING to see Jeff Bridges on screen. And to know that because it was "first date night" HomelessBoy paid twenty whole dollars (that's almost ten hot chocolates for those keeping score at home) for that nonsense. But it was okay because seeing a movie on a weekday afternoon in the middle of a snow emergency can have its upsides. And the absolute worst part of the movie? When Tron, who had up until that point been fighting rather hard AGAINST the users (stupid concepts for a stupid film) suddenly, in the last two minutes, decides, "I fight for the users!" and saves Olivia Wilde's life and apparently the world. But what I don't understand is exactly what power the characters in the video game would actually have in the real world and why it would be such a disaster for their army of a thousand or so to get loosed on America. Explain it to me so I understand, please, geeks.
Also, Dear Jeff: JUST STOP. Lovecommaenter Ashley
On the flip side of the Jeff Bridges coin is True Grit. Have I ever told you how much I love cowboys? Cause I so do. Also loved: Tuesday Night is bargain night in almost ever city. At the Hadley Cinemark, that means every movie is the "First screening of the day" price -- a paltry $5.25. That's actually less than the price of a small popcorn. And it was FANTASTIC. I had never seen a Cohen Brothers movie before, a fact that was a proverbial thorn in my literal side for ages and this was a pretty decent way to start, I think. Even knowing it's not their typical, it makes me want to see more. Within minutes of the movie opening, I was in love with the lead actress (weirdly nominated as a supporting character, but heytherepolitics!) I can't say too much about it, but when Josh Brolin showed up on screen, I wanted to applaud. I know he was the "bad guy," but I feel an instinctive need to root for him (which will not serve me well should I ever be forced to view W.) Also, surprisingly violent and racy for a PG-13. Well done, Joel and Ethan. On that note, also much more pleasant to watch movies that involve chopping off fingers when I can hide my face in HomelessBoy's shoulder.
Dear Jeff: All is forgiven. Carry on making movies. Lovecommaenter Ashley
Last year, I did this thing where I sort of tried to watch every movie nominated for an Academy Award before the ceremony. Now, I was in my last semester of college and prone to fits and starts, so I gave up when I saw how difficult The Most Dangerous Man In America would be to find. But I like the idea, so I'm coming back for round 2. And this time, I'm coming fully armed with charts, budget lists, and a supportive (if vaguely confused) boyfriend. He's even helping me with my spreadsheets.
Anyway, about Tron. I love Jeff Bridges. As anyone who knows me is aware, Crazy Heart was my favorite nominated movie last year and he was a big part of that. I think he is just swimming in talent--in the right movies. And I simply adore his voice. I, like Maggie Gyllenhaal, could find myself falling against my will for him if he showed up in my life and looked at me -- but that was all last year.
Okay, so a few weeks ago, the HomelessBoy and I were driving through a snowstorm to get groceries for the family I'm staying with and decided that we needed to stop and see a movie, since we'd set the date before the snow was ever predicted. So we stopped at the Hampshire Mall Cinemark and asked them what the next movie was. Something lame, like The Tourist (sorry, Johnny, but you're not making me want to overcome my Angelina revulsion) or Season of the Witch. So we asked what movies were starting in the next 45 minutes. And between Tron, True Grit, and The Fighter for viable options, I acquiesced because he showed up that morning with hot chocolate and a bagel at 9 AM and he'sjustsosweetomigodstopmeplease. And so we had a pretend first date (since how we met and all was not conducive to that at all) and I let him choose Tron. And that's how that mess happened.
Positives: I was pretty certain it would be nominated for at least a technical Oscar so it would help me out in my eventual quest. Also, it was my first 3D movie experience, so I thought, "Could be cool." Olivia Wilde is hot, too.
Negatives: It sucked. Not even the 3D could make it interesting and I learned something important about 3D in movies. It doesn't actually enhance my experience of the film. Anyway, the movie was boring, made very little sense to a newcomer, and when Jeff Bridges shows up as The Young Dude at the beginning and again once his son is actually inside the game, he looks like some creepy character from The Polar Express, a movie that gives me night terrors. Anyway, it was SO EPICALLY DISAPPOINTING to see Jeff Bridges on screen. And to know that because it was "first date night" HomelessBoy paid twenty whole dollars (that's almost ten hot chocolates for those keeping score at home) for that nonsense. But it was okay because seeing a movie on a weekday afternoon in the middle of a snow emergency can have its upsides. And the absolute worst part of the movie? When Tron, who had up until that point been fighting rather hard AGAINST the users (stupid concepts for a stupid film) suddenly, in the last two minutes, decides, "I fight for the users!" and saves Olivia Wilde's life and apparently the world. But what I don't understand is exactly what power the characters in the video game would actually have in the real world and why it would be such a disaster for their army of a thousand or so to get loosed on America. Explain it to me so I understand, please, geeks.
Also, Dear Jeff: JUST STOP. Lovecommaenter Ashley
On the flip side of the Jeff Bridges coin is True Grit. Have I ever told you how much I love cowboys? Cause I so do. Also loved: Tuesday Night is bargain night in almost ever city. At the Hadley Cinemark, that means every movie is the "First screening of the day" price -- a paltry $5.25. That's actually less than the price of a small popcorn. And it was FANTASTIC. I had never seen a Cohen Brothers movie before, a fact that was a proverbial thorn in my literal side for ages and this was a pretty decent way to start, I think. Even knowing it's not their typical, it makes me want to see more. Within minutes of the movie opening, I was in love with the lead actress (weirdly nominated as a supporting character, but heytherepolitics!) I can't say too much about it, but when Josh Brolin showed up on screen, I wanted to applaud. I know he was the "bad guy," but I feel an instinctive need to root for him (which will not serve me well should I ever be forced to view W.) Also, surprisingly violent and racy for a PG-13. Well done, Joel and Ethan. On that note, also much more pleasant to watch movies that involve chopping off fingers when I can hide my face in HomelessBoy's shoulder.
Dear Jeff: All is forgiven. Carry on making movies. Lovecommaenter Ashley
I think this might be a good year for the Oscars
Seen it yet? The first teaser for February 27th. I AM RIVETED
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I'm BAAAACK and I'm better than ever
Oscar season rolls around again, the nominees are in, Leo is jilted (once more), and everything is right with the world. If boys get to watch football playoffs and March Madness, and hockey semi-finals -- well, I have this. The Oscar season.
The finalists are in! And this year, I intend to accomplish my goal, goddamnit. I will see (and blog about?) every single Oscar nominated movie before this year's ceremony. I'm sure you've all seen the list of nominees by now. How dull. No Leo. No Mahky. Very little Benny. Boston was, all in all, woefully under-represented. Not even a single mention of The Ghost Writer, which I had so been excited to watch. But now I have 33 days to see 32 movies and about 15 short films. And because of how dull the list of nominees looks (and how can you really keep track that way, anyway?) I've made my own chart. Alphabetical by film, with the nominations listed beside it and a way of keeping track of how and when I can see these movies.
Anyone know how I can get my hands on Biutiful? I've loved me some Javi since the Before Night Falls days. (In fact, that movie is the reason I'm so in love with Latin American culture, a fun fact I bet you DID NOT know about me.)
CLICK ME to see my handy-dandy chart, as of today. :)
The finalists are in! And this year, I intend to accomplish my goal, goddamnit. I will see (and blog about?) every single Oscar nominated movie before this year's ceremony. I'm sure you've all seen the list of nominees by now. How dull. No Leo. No Mahky. Very little Benny. Boston was, all in all, woefully under-represented. Not even a single mention of The Ghost Writer, which I had so been excited to watch. But now I have 33 days to see 32 movies and about 15 short films. And because of how dull the list of nominees looks (and how can you really keep track that way, anyway?) I've made my own chart. Alphabetical by film, with the nominations listed beside it and a way of keeping track of how and when I can see these movies.
Anyone know how I can get my hands on Biutiful? I've loved me some Javi since the Before Night Falls days. (In fact, that movie is the reason I'm so in love with Latin American culture, a fun fact I bet you DID NOT know about me.)
CLICK ME to see my handy-dandy chart, as of today. :)
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Proof 1: Dressing rooms > Hotel rooms. Proof 2: Dressing rooms = classier than hotel rooms.
Follow my logic or not, it's the truth. Being asked for rolling papers is way cooler than being asked for 70%. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Typical. Let's begin at the beginning. (We're lovers and we're losers; we're heroes and we're pioneers. Skirting 'round the edges of the ideal demographic, we're almost on the guest list but we're always stuck in traffic.)
I do wish I could sing, but wasn't gifted with it. Might be tone deaf, actually.
Anyway, last night marked a new adventure with Awkward Ashley. (I have been scaling those Awkward Heights lately, always managing to achieve new and exiting levels of awkward like I've got the hand of God beneath me, lifting me toward the goal of Most Awkward Ever.)
Let's recap briefly some of my Awkward Concert Moments:
- The time I refused to speak to Warren Zevon and he had to coax me into the picture.
- The time I begged members of Low Millions to leave their trailers in a rainstorm to meet me and then I confused one of them for Adam Cohen and told him I loved his father. Oops...
- The time Jess J and I noticed this realllly hot guy walking by and asked him to take pictures with him, after she said "Hey, hottie!" loudly enough for him to hear. Turns out he was the bassist for the Fray.
- The same day, when I saw Ari Hest and was like, "Oh, hey! Do you know who you are? You're Ari Hest!"
- The first time I met Ben Jelen, when I forgot how to talk, forgot my name and how to spell it, and managed to tell him he looked like "an old man."
- The second time I met Ben Jelen, when we talked about my cousin Bailey the whole time.
- The entire Teddy Thompson Debacle. Especially Prop 70/30.
- The time I met Cory Branan and was like, "Ehhh, I like you because I like James Dean."
- The (first) time I met Jonny Burke and Dad was all, "I'm her father" when I was trying to have an "I'm all grown up" moment.
- The (second) time I met Jonny Burke and Brian made me drink Scotch. (Though that turned out less awkward because by the end of the night it was just.... something else entirely.)
- The Jackson Browne Event? The screaming, the tears, the refusing to let go of his hand?
All of those are awkward. Most of those are embarrassing. I won't apologize for any of them. And do you notice anything that is conspicuously absent from that list? Loudon Wainwright III is the least awkward person ever. He puts you right at ease. So for the record, he's not the conspicuously absent musical encounter. And I'm not even getting into "Awkward encounters with roadies and tour managers." Because Cory Branan's tour manager and I had a rather fun discussion that left Brian nearly apoplectic, but that's not even the worst.
But there's this band you know I love. The Young Dubliners. And let me just say that they are incredibly awkward. Except they're not. Not with me. With me, it's all just staring at each other and laughing and texting and putting me on the guest list for Jethro Tull concerts. While texting Brendan Holmes might seem awkward to outsiders, to me it just feels right. (I think that if he and I were the same age, we'd be best friends. I'm not the only one who sees that, either. You know I've got a thing for bassists, too.) Anyway, this isn't about any of that. And I'm still getting ahead of myself and rambling as you know I do.
Parents came to town yesterday to visit me. Well, not for me, really. For him. Either way, it's generally pretty cool when they come to visit, even if Dad has the palate of a three year old. (Ehhh, it might actually be less diverse than that.) Anyway, The Great Todd Snider came to town, too, to visit me.
Well, not to visit me. To visit a sold-out Iron Horse. But still. I've seen some good shows there. Catie Curtis. Freedy Johnston. My boys. On the walls are the remnants of more shows -- Tommy Makem, Jon Pousette-Dart, David Lindley... Warren Zevon's comb-over days are immortalized on the cover of the menu, for Chrissake. It's like a little Ashley-haven. Anyway.
Todd was, as always, ON. He opened with "Greencastle Blues" and played three in a row before stopping. If you've never seen a Todd Snider show, this seems so "Meh, so what?" But in between the second and the third song, Todd said, "I'll play one more and then we'll catch up." Because that's what he does. Todd Snider is all about his audience. He doesn't just play to them; he speaks to them. He is, as I've mentioned in a previous concert review, a whole universe smarter than you or I will ever dream of being. Whatever your IQ, whatever the name of your college, however many degrees you've got hanging on your wall -- doesn't matter. Todd knows the only thing worth knowing: not a single one of us knows what happens next.
Not next "tomorrow" or next weekmonthyear, but Next.
And if he is, as he claims and as his concerts and music seem to support, truly an evangelical agnostic, well, I'm onboard with the Good News that we don't know jackshit about what's heading in our direction. There's a fair amount of comfort in that.
Listen: I can't say much more than I did previously about Todd Snider's concerts. He's funny, personable, affable, has the broad and guileless smile of one of my many toddlers... His live shows are an Experience. You can't duplicate them, though everyone tries. He encourages you to make and share recordings. He sells recordings of his shows online. He wears pinstripes and polka dots together! Bucket hats and bare feet! Sometimes he reminds me of Mr. Rogers in his online videos and promo material. He's happy; he's sad. He doesn't take himself seriously at all, at least not on stage.
I can't tell you why you should go to a Todd Snider concert and there's no showing what goes on at one. It's not like talking about how Jackson Browne makes me feel like the only person on the planet or how the Young Dubliners make me feel like the most important. Todd Snider does something else with his shows -- he makes me feel like I'm a part of the world. Like simply by being at his concert, I've not missed a single important experience. Like there's some community I actually belong to.
Which brings me to what I said at the beginning, about the adventure.
As you may have guessed by this particular post, or as you know if you're my one regular reader (you do exist, don't you? Mom?) I have a tendency to meet musicians. Call it Susannah's Strategic Hover if you want. I call it a genetic predisposition to being found where music is being made. And for the most part, all of those people have been really, really cool. I've met them in all sorts of ways: accidentally on the sidewalk, waiting in the cold for two hours (guess who!), hanging around their tour buses, offering them band aids, pressed forward by my mother, entirely by accident, right place right time, all of it. I once manipulated my brother into being the best wingman in the history of wingmen. It just works out for me, usually.
I say strange things like "I named my dog after your song," or "You look like an old man," or "I like 'Knickers.'" They say things like, "But you only have to do, like, seventy percent of the work!" or "I smell terrible" or "What you do is -- you get a fake ID and then you come to Ireland with us and drink."
I've been asked where the afterparty was, invited to hotel rooms (yes, rooms, yes, it's happened more than once), asked on dates, asked for use of the slogan on my shirt, gone out partying with them, been put on their guest lists -- and as of Mach 3d, 2010, been invited to the dressing room.
There are two experiences prior to this moment that I cherish and hold dear (as far as music is concerned). Which is to say that I've had a lot of "Meet your heroes!" moments and most of them have been positive experiences, with a few really unfortunate moments in there to make me feel terrible about myself. (The "Your cock is huge, Teddy" moment still makes me blush and fills me with undeserved shame.)
1. Meeting Jackson Browne. I was incoherent and a shattering mess for it, but he was the slice of perfection I always dreamed he would be.
2. Todd Snider left me a voicemail that got me through several all-nighters whilst I finished my finals.
After Wednesday night's concert, my parents left and I politely asked Elvis, the tour manager, "Excuse me, but would it be at all possible for me to get a picture with Todd tonight, please?"
His response? "A pretty girl like you? We can make it happen."
I've always thought Elvis was funny; turns out he's a bit of a charmer, too. He told me to wait a few minutes while things settled down and then, after a bit of staring at impressive photos on the walls of the Iron Horse, Elvis walked by me and said, "Follow me." Oh, oh, okay! I followed him right into the dressing room, where he informed Todd I was just too cute and he couldn't say no when I asked for a picture. Seriously: ladies, look out for Elvis; he will make you blush.
So I got to meet Todd Snider. With my awkwardness, the conversation was strange and delightful -- at least on my end. I'm convinced I petrified him. He asked how old I was (22), if I liked to sing (ha!), and what I wrote about (historical fiction, but I really want to write about music). He asked if I was going to school for writing and I said I was graduating in May. "You're so young!" he said. "I just... powered... through..."
Then this happened...
Me: My parents actually met you about a year and a half ago when you played Johnny D's in Somerville.
Todd: Yeah, with Don Was and Was Not Was -- wait, don't tell me -- we didn't call you?
Me: (in shock) YEAH! I'm THAT girl!
Todd: It's so great to meet you.
Then I spilled some nonsense about Woody Guthrie and Robert Johnson and Ben Shahn and Arthur Rothstein and the FSA. I swear to god, every time I had the chance to open my mouth, I put my foot right in it.
Todd, of course, was incredibly gracious, funny, disarming. When I told him I couldn't believe I was able to put sentences together after what happened with Jackson Browne, the screaming and the tears? He replied, "Was that in Chicago?"
He actually made me feel like less of a fool for responding that way to Jackson Browne because, apparently, it's not so uncommon. (!) What an utter gentleman he was, so unlike the Hoteliers. Oh, they also asked me if I had any rolling papers -- nah, don't smoke, sorry.
I'm not saying he's a perfect guy, just that whatever flaws he has, they are not ones that prohibit him from being ridiculously wonderful to be around. When he says he is having fun on stage, oh dear, but you believe him. He's funny -- I cannot stress this enough -- and even when he is saying something tragic, well, he says it from the newspaper's point of view, the tree pulp, so you have to laugh.
When I met Jonny Burke the second time, we spent most of James McMurtry's set chatting and some of time we talked about what a cool dude Todd Snider is. Jonny had just finished a stretch of opening for him, and so we were just talking about how excellent his music is and how some musicians, when you meet them, are bitter letdowns, but not Todd. I hadn't met Todd at this point, but something told me he'd be more Jackson, less Thompson. Jonny had pretty much all nice things to say about Todd, and my opinion of him was already pretty inflated. Now that I've met him -- it's only gotten worse.
There was just one thing I meant to ask and totally forgot in the "Wow" of the moment:
"Hey, Todd, will you play my graduation party?"
PS. I am well aware this post isn't REALLY about the concert. I'm not sure what I could possibly say about it. It was an hour and a half of fun times. Todd taking requests, playing songs he'd never played before, songs that weren't even his. The highest possible compliment I could give a concert is that there is no describing it; you just have to see it. And this is exactly the case with Todd Snider. Drive to the nearest show he has scheduled, I don't care if it's six states away, just get your butt to one of his shows.
PPS. I finally got my Todd Snider teeshirt. About five years ago, my brother went to a Todd Snider show in Virginia and I gave him twenty bucks to get me a tee shirt. Promised me he got it. Told me he had it. Told me he just forgot to bring it home. A few years later, he finally admitted that he never bought me a shirt. Now, I have a Todd Snider tee shirt all my own. Thanks, Brian!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Die for something useful and you don't die in vain.
Don't misunderstand. It's a terrible tragedy. But maybe something good will come out of this, after all. I don't have much time or inclination to get into it right now, but I will write over the weekend and explain exactly what I hope this terrible event brings about.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Man of the Hour
In praise of vulnerability.
Allow me to elaborate on my feelings about the issue of Leonardo Dicaprio. Because I think there might be one person on this planet, maybe in some remote jungle in South America, who was raised by a bear named Ragu, who doesn't know. Although I think you all misunderstand my meaning and my reasoning when I say that I love beyond love one Leonardo Wilhelm Dicaprio.
In honor of our sixteenth anniversary, I thought I would write about the longest and most rewarding relationship I have had with a man.
I was six. It happened at the Cameo. I don't know why and I won't pretend to know how it happened, but it did. Later, Mom would acknowledge that of the thousands of movies I have seen in my life, it's pretty clear that there is one that reached me beyond all others.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape?
(Match in the gas tank, boom-boom.)
Maybe six was too young for that movie. But I've never let being too young stop me from going after anything I wanted. Doesn't mean I'll always get it, but I'm always going to go for it. Anyway, it was a rather epic introduction to Leonardo Dicaprio.
Then on December 26th, 1997, Mom took the four of us to see Titanic. And folks, my fate was sealed. It wasn't so much the blonde hair or the way he squints into the sun in that one particular shot, right before Rose comes to him and makes her choice. It was the way he looked at Rose, the way he loved her. The moment when he accosts her in the gym, when he's so completely vulnerable and exposed -- it's breathtaking. He puts himself entirely at her mercy.
And I never looked back. (Except one, but that was because there were rumors that he had been with Lindsay Lohan and let's face it.... She's RANK.)
And then there's always this
And here is where Leo and other men are different: he understands the difference between weakness/sensitivity and vulnerability. People aren't just vulnerable; they make themselves vulnerable. I don't want to deal with boys who think the way to win a woman is to be sensitive and feminize themselves. Crying over homeless puppy commercials is not a good thing. But if you can walk that fine line between being weak and being vulnerable... You're Leo.
Movies where he really excels at this? Marvin's Room. Titanic, yes, I said it. Catch Me If You Can. Gangs of New York. The Departed. Blood Diamond. Shutter Island. In each other these movies, he plays a character with a wellspring of emotions just under the surface. Who he chooses to reveal them and how he chooses to reveal them -- or not reveal them in most cases -- is incredibly telling. And rather than coming off as whiny, over-sensitive, feminine, or weak like most boys I've met in my life, for him, revealing his emotions is counter-intuitive and thus an act of strength. And I think that there in lies the difference between being "sensitive" and thus "annoying" or being vulnerable and sexy.
Watch this clip from The Departed. It's not in English, but I've seen it enough, and his body language says more than words ever could.
What makes this such a compelling love scene is not the fact that his body is gorgeous and his shamrock tattoo is hot, or even that it's forbidden. It's two lines of dialogue.
Vera: Your vulnerability is kind of freaking me out right now. Is it real?
Leo: I think so.
It's the way he hesitates, then leans on the door frame. It's the way he bites his lip and speaking seems like an obstacle to what he wants to say. It's the fact that he is so genuinely infatuated -- in love? -- with her that he is giving her something he doesn't just hand out like candy. Where Matt Damon comes off as smarmy and insincere throughout the film, and that's the point, Leo takes up the role of being the heart-breakingly vulnerable character. Surprisingly delicate, but only to a certain touch. As he says, his hand is steady. His voice doesn't crack. He doesn't need Vera Farmiga's character; he wants her. And not getting her isn't going to send him into the arms of someone else; he doesn't just run around flirting with every girl he sees. When he expresses interest, it's because he's interested. And not just because you're female.
You think I'm reading too much into it, I know you do. You're shaking your head saying, "No way. You're just seeing what you want to see. Maybe I am. Maybe I imagined the way he looked at the nurse who was setting his arm at the hospital. Maybe I read too much into the juxtaposition of Matt's approach to women and Leos in the film. But watch it again, paying close attention to the early scenes. Watch how they each deal with Vera. How phony Matt seems, how standard and boorish he is compared to Leo.
Now think about Scorsese and think about Dicaprio and think about the fact that neither of those men ever make an unintentional move with film.
Why is this all coming up now? Easy question. Shutter Island. Listen, I know it's February and I generally have a rule about saying so-and-so is going to win an Oscar before last year's ceremony has even happened. But I have the same feeling I did in 2004 when the Yankees crush the Sox in the second game of the ALCS. "What's everyone so worked up about? We're going to win the World Series."
I know a lot could happen between now and then, and I know a lot of people are still prejudiced against Leo. It's the only way to explain why he was nominated for Blood Diamond instead of The Departed. People want him to not win. They hate him because he's beautiful and he's talented in ways most actors (ahem, BradTomBruceJude) only dream about.
But look at the movie poster. He's looking rather wary and quizzical, is he not? Now look again. There's pain there. Deep and abiding pain. (In the slant of his eyelids, not that I'm crazy; I'm just detail-oriented when it comes to pictures. And it's not in his eyebrows, I swear. But it's in that general area.) So let me just say this about Shutter Island without giving anything away. It was the most heart-breaking performance I have ever seen from Leo. And if you don't believe that says something when it comes from me, well... What are you? New? I've never cried watching Titanic. Arnie gets left in a bathtub for hours and nearly freezes. The Departed? Marvin's Room? (Which, by the way, is still the Leo that I see when I go into Leo-geek mode.)
I've seen every Leonardo Dicaprio movie released in the United States. I've seen every episode of Growing Pains he was on. Hell, I've seen every episode of Growing Pains. I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that not one of his performances has hit me quite as viscerally and as squarely in the gut as his performance in Shutter Island.
And I know that those movies are full of characters, and he plays characters, not Leonardo Dicaprio. I'm cool with that. I haven't been saving myself for Leo, folks; maybe be Jack Dawson, maybe, but not Leo. I'm just saying that if boys want to know how to be men, they should maybe watch some of his movies, take notes, and then practice.
I would like also to add that similar to how my love for Jackson Browne is born of a love for his work, so too is my love for Leo. It always has been. While my peers were busy spelling his name as fast as they could to prove their undying love for him, I was diving into his film catalog. I remember every time I saw every Leonardo Dicaprio movie for the first time. I once had a dream that he died. It was infinitely worse waking up from that than it was realizing there was no waking up from the Heath Ledger nightmare reality.
Now I'd like to leave you with some Leo quotes from the new issue of Esquire.
On East of Eden:
I remember seeing the hunger in Dean's eye and the angst and confusion that he put onscreen. He became the poster boy for cool, but he was at his most vulnerable and exposed. I watched it five times in a row.
(Exactly what I mean. More than James Franco, who I love for inexplicable reasons, LEO is James Dean. If only he looked more like Jeff Buckley, he could play him so well.)
on honesty:
"I don't think I'm capable of honesty to the extent of my grandmother. But people tell me I have that quality. If it's true, it must come out in different ways.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Oscar Run Updates
1. Avatar
2. The Blind Side
3. District 9
4. An Education
5. The Hurt Locker
6. Inglorious Basterds
7. Precious
8. A Serious Man
9. Up In The Air
10. Up
11. The Last Station
12. Julie and Julia
13. A Single Man
14. Invictus
15. Nine
16. Crazy Heart
17. The Messenger
18. The Lovely Bones
19. In The Loop
20. Coraline
21. Fantastic Mr Fox
22. The Princess and the Frog
23. The Secret of Kells
24. Ajami
25. The Milk of Sorrow
26. Un Prophete
27. El Secreto De Sus Ojos
28. The White Ribbon
29. Burma VJ
30. The Cove
31. Food, Inc
32. The Most Dangerous Man In America
33. Which Way Home
34. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
35. Sherlock Holmes
36. Young Victoria
37. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
38. Bright Star
39. Coco Avant Chanel
40. Il Divo
41. Star Trek
42. Paris 36
43. Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen
44. "China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province"
45. "The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner"
46. "The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant"
47. "Music By Prudence"
48. "Rabbit A La Berlin"
49. "French Roast"
50. "Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty"
51. "The Lady and the Reaper"
52. "Logorama"
53. "A Matter of Loaf and Death"
54. "The Door"
55. "Instead of Abracadabra"
56. "Kari"
57. "Miracle Fish"
58. "The New Tenants"
the films I had seen as of the last update:
The films I have since seen
1. District Nine
2. An Education
3. Up
4. In the Loop
5. The Princess and the Frog
6. The Cove
7. Food, Inc
Shorts:
1. Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty
2. The Lady and the Reaper
3. A Matter of Loaf and Death
Feature films left to view:
Short films left to view:
2. The Blind Side
3. District 9
4. An Education
5. The Hurt Locker
6. Inglorious Basterds
7. Precious
8. A Serious Man
9. Up In The Air
10. Up
11. The Last Station
12. Julie and Julia
13. A Single Man
14. Invictus
15. Nine
16. Crazy Heart
17. The Messenger
18. The Lovely Bones
19. In The Loop
20. Coraline
21. Fantastic Mr Fox
22. The Princess and the Frog
23. The Secret of Kells
24. Ajami
25. The Milk of Sorrow
26. Un Prophete
27. El Secreto De Sus Ojos
28. The White Ribbon
29. Burma VJ
30. The Cove
31. Food, Inc
32. The Most Dangerous Man In America
33. Which Way Home
34. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
35. Sherlock Holmes
36. Young Victoria
37. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
38. Bright Star
39. Coco Avant Chanel
40. Il Divo
41. Star Trek
42. Paris 36
43. Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen
44. "China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province"
45. "The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner"
46. "The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant"
47. "Music By Prudence"
48. "Rabbit A La Berlin"
49. "French Roast"
50. "Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty"
51. "The Lady and the Reaper"
52. "Logorama"
53. "A Matter of Loaf and Death"
54. "The Door"
55. "Instead of Abracadabra"
56. "Kari"
57. "Miracle Fish"
58. "The New Tenants"
the films I had seen as of the last update:
- Avatar
- Precious
- Up In The Air
- A Single Man
- Nine
- Crazy Heart
- The Lovely Bones
- Coraline
- Sherlock Holmes
- Young Victoria
- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (uh, duh)
- The Blind Side
- Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen
- The Hurt Locker
- Inglorious Basterds
- Julie and Julia
- Fantastic Mr. Fox
- Star Trek
The films I have since seen
1. District Nine
2. An Education
3. Up
4. In the Loop
5. The Princess and the Frog
6. The Cove
7. Food, Inc
Shorts:
1. Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty
2. The Lady and the Reaper
3. A Matter of Loaf and Death
Feature films left to view:
- A Serious Man
- The Last Station
- Invictus
- The Messenger
- The Secret of Kells
- Ajami
- The Milk of Sorrow
- Un Prophete
- El Secreto De Sus Ojos
- The White Ribbon
- Burma VJ
- The Most Dangerous Man In America
- Which Way Home
- The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
- Bright Star
- Coco Avant Chanel
- Paris 36
- Il Divo
Short films left to view:
- "China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province"
- "The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner"
- "The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant"
- "Music By Prudence"
- "Rabbit A La Berlin"
- "French Roast"
- "Logorama"
- "The Door"
- "Instead of Abracadabra"
- "Kari"
- "Miracle Fish"
- "The New Tenants"
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Shadow City part 1
As I approach that critical point called "Entering the REAL WORLD," I have been forced by every single person around me to do some thinking. I'm not sure what I've come up with yet.
Except, I know what I don't want. I don't want my life to become a constant repetition of high school awards night. I didn't like that bullshit in high school; I haven't grown any fonder of self-congratulatory, utterly superfluous bullshit as I've gotten older. There used to be epic screaming matches in my house over it all. I only collected the plaques and certificates of my "superior achievements" because my parents like to have them. I'd rather the paper be used for something useful.
Here's what I'm certain of: I love to teach. I have a real talent for caring about "difficult elements" of society, maybe because that's how so many people see me. I'm incredibly good at connecting with those kids that people have incredibly low expectations for and making them believe that it's worth exceeding those expectations for their own sakes. I love it. It's emotionally rewarding and spiritually fulfilling. That's just truth. My truth. My own truth, and if that was all I was ever good at, that would be more than enough for me.
Because here's another thing I'm quite certain of: I don't want to be a part of "Publishing." High school awards night for the rest of my life? No thanks. I don't want to sit there wondering what part of me they're going to think is worth rewarding, who was better in history, who nailed mathematics, who excelled in chemistry, and who I trumped in English. Frankly, I don't care if people think I'm smart or talented or even know my name. That's not why I'm here and it's never been why I write. (If I feel like it, maybe I'll get into that another time.) I don't need the politics, the self-aggrandizement, back-slapping, the pretense, the parties, the publicity -- I don't want it. You can keep it. Maybe I'm over-thinking it, but the more I consider what is involved in the writing industry, the more absurd it seems, the less pure, the less noble, the less honest it becomes every second that I think about what a future as a writer looks like.
That's just not who I am. When I say there were epic fights over whether or not I went to awards night, I don't mean just screaming matches. Oh, I was vicious in my refusal to acknowledge them as legitimate. Because they're NOT legitimate. If you're doing it for those reasons, to be better than someone else or to be recognized for it, then you're not doing it for the right reasons. And that goes for everything in this world. If you're not doing it for your own fulfillment or the betterment of this world, then what the hell are you doing? That is emptiness, needing the recognition, needing the high-powered jobs, the high-profile book deals, the plugged-in and impressive connections. Who I know and who I've worked with? What the hell does that matter if the work doesn't matter? name-dropping and award-shopping won't make you a writer. It just makes your work less legitimate.
Listen: if I am going to become a writer, I'm damn well going to do it on my own terms. Everyone and their mothers get book deals these days. If the "Stuff White People Like" boys can get a book deal, if lauren Conrad and Paris Hilton and Madonna and every other celebrity on this planet can get book deals, there's no pride in that. There's no value in a book deal, no worth in pursuing it for the glory. And I mean that literally: the only worth that can be found in a book deal is found in the cash advance.
Van Gogh didn't get shit while he was alive. He sold one painting while alive. So what? Monet got all the glory and let's be honest, he's painfully dull and commercialized. I would rather have Van Gogh's career than Monet's. I'd rather be proud of the passion I put into my work than the accolades it acquires. I'd rather pursue my artistic truth than someone else's standards of good or bad.
The work has to speak for itself. The editor doesn't matter; the author doesn't matter. You know it in your heart, if you look honestly at your heart. The work is more important than the recognition. After all, I am a miracle not because I am a success but merely because I exist, correct? And I am a miracle and success because I exist, because I simply am. Not because I meet some arbitrary standards our society has laid out for what a successful person looks like.
Here's the thing. I'd rather have my convictions than my friends. I can always make more friends; hell, I can always write more friends. And if I've ever been a part of this world at all, it's only ever been in service of something greater than myself. The children I have tried to help, the stories I have tried to find. If I could lock myself away in a shed in the woods, I would. All the publishing industry does is serve people; it barely serves the work. Publishing houses, everything that goes along with writing books, the tv appearances and the public readings, those aren't for the good of the work; those are for the benefit of the writer. Those don't enrich your writing; they enrich your bank account.
I don't give a shit what my bank account looks like so long as it's not in the red and I could keep it in the black working as a waitress. If I was empty enough to think that a bulging wallet could save my soul, that having stuff could fix what was wrong in my heart, or to think that dressing well made me any kind of worth knowing, hell, I'd pack it in and go into finances. (Yes, I do hate Wall Street. No, I won't apologize. Because what good has Wall Street ever done for someone who wasn't already in a position of power? What good has Wall Street ever done for anyone? And if you're not doing good, then what the fuck are you doing with your life? Wasting it on imaginary money and constructed values. That's not really an issue I consider up for debate, but if you don't like it, aw, poor you. Change your life. Save yourself.)
So don't tell me that it's good for me to get awards and praise; what's good for me is to work. To continue to work and to continue to grow. Not to hear that I am wonderful, but to hear that I can become even better than I already am.
That being said, here's an out-of-context passage from one of my Div III stories. This particular passage might be the very best thing I've ever fucking written.
Except, I know what I don't want. I don't want my life to become a constant repetition of high school awards night. I didn't like that bullshit in high school; I haven't grown any fonder of self-congratulatory, utterly superfluous bullshit as I've gotten older. There used to be epic screaming matches in my house over it all. I only collected the plaques and certificates of my "superior achievements" because my parents like to have them. I'd rather the paper be used for something useful.
Here's what I'm certain of: I love to teach. I have a real talent for caring about "difficult elements" of society, maybe because that's how so many people see me. I'm incredibly good at connecting with those kids that people have incredibly low expectations for and making them believe that it's worth exceeding those expectations for their own sakes. I love it. It's emotionally rewarding and spiritually fulfilling. That's just truth. My truth. My own truth, and if that was all I was ever good at, that would be more than enough for me.
Because here's another thing I'm quite certain of: I don't want to be a part of "Publishing." High school awards night for the rest of my life? No thanks. I don't want to sit there wondering what part of me they're going to think is worth rewarding, who was better in history, who nailed mathematics, who excelled in chemistry, and who I trumped in English. Frankly, I don't care if people think I'm smart or talented or even know my name. That's not why I'm here and it's never been why I write. (If I feel like it, maybe I'll get into that another time.) I don't need the politics, the self-aggrandizement, back-slapping, the pretense, the parties, the publicity -- I don't want it. You can keep it. Maybe I'm over-thinking it, but the more I consider what is involved in the writing industry, the more absurd it seems, the less pure, the less noble, the less honest it becomes every second that I think about what a future as a writer looks like.
That's just not who I am. When I say there were epic fights over whether or not I went to awards night, I don't mean just screaming matches. Oh, I was vicious in my refusal to acknowledge them as legitimate. Because they're NOT legitimate. If you're doing it for those reasons, to be better than someone else or to be recognized for it, then you're not doing it for the right reasons. And that goes for everything in this world. If you're not doing it for your own fulfillment or the betterment of this world, then what the hell are you doing? That is emptiness, needing the recognition, needing the high-powered jobs, the high-profile book deals, the plugged-in and impressive connections. Who I know and who I've worked with? What the hell does that matter if the work doesn't matter? name-dropping and award-shopping won't make you a writer. It just makes your work less legitimate.
Listen: if I am going to become a writer, I'm damn well going to do it on my own terms. Everyone and their mothers get book deals these days. If the "Stuff White People Like" boys can get a book deal, if lauren Conrad and Paris Hilton and Madonna and every other celebrity on this planet can get book deals, there's no pride in that. There's no value in a book deal, no worth in pursuing it for the glory. And I mean that literally: the only worth that can be found in a book deal is found in the cash advance.
Van Gogh didn't get shit while he was alive. He sold one painting while alive. So what? Monet got all the glory and let's be honest, he's painfully dull and commercialized. I would rather have Van Gogh's career than Monet's. I'd rather be proud of the passion I put into my work than the accolades it acquires. I'd rather pursue my artistic truth than someone else's standards of good or bad.
The work has to speak for itself. The editor doesn't matter; the author doesn't matter. You know it in your heart, if you look honestly at your heart. The work is more important than the recognition. After all, I am a miracle not because I am a success but merely because I exist, correct? And I am a miracle and success because I exist, because I simply am. Not because I meet some arbitrary standards our society has laid out for what a successful person looks like.
Here's the thing. I'd rather have my convictions than my friends. I can always make more friends; hell, I can always write more friends. And if I've ever been a part of this world at all, it's only ever been in service of something greater than myself. The children I have tried to help, the stories I have tried to find. If I could lock myself away in a shed in the woods, I would. All the publishing industry does is serve people; it barely serves the work. Publishing houses, everything that goes along with writing books, the tv appearances and the public readings, those aren't for the good of the work; those are for the benefit of the writer. Those don't enrich your writing; they enrich your bank account.
I don't give a shit what my bank account looks like so long as it's not in the red and I could keep it in the black working as a waitress. If I was empty enough to think that a bulging wallet could save my soul, that having stuff could fix what was wrong in my heart, or to think that dressing well made me any kind of worth knowing, hell, I'd pack it in and go into finances. (Yes, I do hate Wall Street. No, I won't apologize. Because what good has Wall Street ever done for someone who wasn't already in a position of power? What good has Wall Street ever done for anyone? And if you're not doing good, then what the fuck are you doing with your life? Wasting it on imaginary money and constructed values. That's not really an issue I consider up for debate, but if you don't like it, aw, poor you. Change your life. Save yourself.)
So don't tell me that it's good for me to get awards and praise; what's good for me is to work. To continue to work and to continue to grow. Not to hear that I am wonderful, but to hear that I can become even better than I already am.
That being said, here's an out-of-context passage from one of my Div III stories. This particular passage might be the very best thing I've ever fucking written.
“He’s away,” she said and did not look at him. “He is in the war.”
Some part of Billy’s chest caved in and broke away, drifting through his veins so that he felt through his entire body the brutality of his circumstances, slowly but like a spreading warmth. A hand lifted itself toward his chest as if to feel for blood or an open wound but there was nothing to touch, nothing to bandage. Whatever it was that was bleeding was inside of him and could not be seen.
“The war,” he choked when he could manage it, “is over.”
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The best thing about making a list
Is crossing things off of it. (That is, assuming it is a "to-do" or "to-see" or "to-read" or "to-hear" or "to-write".... I think you get it, right? If it's a list of things that ought to be crossed off, a wish-list, or a checklist, the best part is...
Crossing things off of it.
So here's a list of the movies nominated for Oscars this year:
It's like a pre-fab "To-Watch" list. No thought necessary, just movies that possess some remarkable quality, even if it's just a performance worth seeing or sound editing that is really, well, out of this world. (Susannah might have just groaned, but I don't care.) So if you look at this list as a "To-Watch" list, then what could I cross off immediately?
Well...
Let's see what else I have managed to cross off that list.
Because it's worth it. I'll keep you updated. Also, I really hope they let Ryan Bingham get on stage and sing his song. And I hope he wears his cowboy hat. Because he was a really good concert and he may be shy in interviews, but the boy knows how to work a stage.
Crossing things off of it.
So here's a list of the movies nominated for Oscars this year:
- Avatar (Best Picture, Directing, Cinematography, Art direction, Film editing, Original score, sound editing, sound mixing, visual effects)
- The Blind Side (Best picture, actress in a lead role)
- District 9 (Best picture, film editing, visual effects, adapted screenplay)
- An Education (Best picture, actress in a lead role, adapted screenplay)
- The Hurt Locker (Best picture, actor in a lead role, cinematography, directing, film editing, original score, sound editing, sound mixing, original screenplay)
- Inglorious Basterds (Best picture, actor in a supporting role, Cinematography, directing, film editing, sound editing, sound mixing, original screenplay)
- Precious (Best picture, actress in a lead role, actress in a supporting role, directing, film editing, adapted screenplay)
- A Serious Man (Best picture, original screenplay)
- Up In The Air (Best picture, actor in a lead role, actress in a supporting role - twice, directing, adapted screenplay)
- Up (Best picture, animated feature film, original score, sound editing, original score)
- The Last Station (Actor in a supporting role, actress in a lead role)
- Julie and Julia (Actress in a lead role)
- A Single Man (Actor in a lead role)
- Invictus (Actor in a lead role, actor in a supporting role)
- Nine (Actress in a supporting role, art direction, costume design, original song)
- Crazy Heart (Actor in a lead role, actress in a supporting role, original song)
- The Messenger (Actor in a supporting role, original screenplay)
- The Lovely Bones (Actor in a supporting role)
- In The Loop (Adapted screenplay)
- Coraline (Animated feature film)
- Fantastic Mr Fox (Animated feature film, original score)
- The Princess and the Frog (Animated feature film, original song - twice)
- The Secret of Kells (Animated feature film)
- Ajami (Foreign language film)
- The Milk of Sorrow (Foreign language film)
- Un Prophete (Foreign language film)
- El Secreto De Sus Ojos (Foreign language film)
- The White Ribbon (Foreign language film, cinematography)
- Burma VJ (Documentary feature)
- The Cove (Documentary feature)
- Food, Inc (Documentary feature)
- The Most Dangerous Man In America (Documentary feature)
- Which Way Home (Documentary feature)
- The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (Art direction, costume design)
- Sherlock Holmes (Art direction, original score)
- Young Victoria (Art direction, costume design, makeup)
- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Cinematography)
- Bright Star (Costume design)
- Coco Avant Chanel (Costume design)
- Il Divo (Makeup)
- Star Trek (Makeup, sound editing, sound mixing, visual effects)
- Paris 36 (Original song)
- Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (Sound mixing)
- "China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province" (Documentary short)
- "The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner" (Documentary short)
- "The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant" (Documentary short)
- "Music By Prudence" (Documentary short)
- "Rabbit A La Berlin" (Documentary short)
- "French Roast" (Short film - animated)
- "Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty" (Short film - animated)
- "The Lady and the Reaper" (Short film - animated)
- "Logorama" (Short film - animated)
- "A Matter of Loaf and Death" (Short film - animated)
- "The Door" (Short film - live action)
- "Instead of Abracadabra" (Short film - live action)
- "Kari" (Short film - live action)
- "Miracle Fish" (Short film - live action)
- "The New Tenants" (Short film - live action)
It's like a pre-fab "To-Watch" list. No thought necessary, just movies that possess some remarkable quality, even if it's just a performance worth seeing or sound editing that is really, well, out of this world. (Susannah might have just groaned, but I don't care.) So if you look at this list as a "To-Watch" list, then what could I cross off immediately?
Well...
- Avatar
- Precious
- Up In The Air
- A Single Man
- Nine
- Crazy Heart
- The Lovely Bones
- Coraline
- Sherlock Holmes
- Young Victoria
- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (uh, duh)
Let's see what else I have managed to cross off that list.
- The Blind Side
- The Hurt Locker
- Inglorious Basterds
- Julie and Julia
- Fantastic Mr. Fox
- Star Trek
Because it's worth it. I'll keep you updated. Also, I really hope they let Ryan Bingham get on stage and sing his song. And I hope he wears his cowboy hat. Because he was a really good concert and he may be shy in interviews, but the boy knows how to work a stage.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
My own personal Oscar race
The race to see every film nominated, that is.
Best Picture
"Avatar"
"The Blind Side"
"District 9"
"An Education"
"The Hurt Locker"
"Inglourious Basterds"
"Precious"
"A Serious Man"
"Up in the Air"
"Up"
Best Director
Kathryn Bigelow, "The Hurt Locker"
James Cameron, "Avatar"
Lee Daniels, "Precious"
Jason Reitman, "Up in the Air"
Quentin Tarantino, "Inglourious Basterds"
Best Actress
Sandra Bullock, "The Blind Side"
Helen Mirren, "The Last Station"
Carey Mulligan, "An Education"
Gabourey Sidibe, "Precious"
Meryl Streep, "Julie & Julia"
Best Actor
Jeff Bridges, "Crazy Heart"
George Clooney, "Up in the Air"
Colin Firth, "A Single Man"
Morgan Freeman, "Invictus"
Jeremy Renner, "The Hurt Locker"
Best Supporting Actress
Penelope Cruz, "Nine"
Vera Farmiga, "Up in the Air"
Maggie Gyllenhaal, "Crazy Heart"
Anna Kendrick, "Up in the Air"
Mo'Nique, "Precious"
Best Supporting Actor
Matt Damon, "Invictus"
Woody Harrelson, "The Messenger"
Christopher Plummer, "The Last Station"
Stanley Tucci, "The Lovely Bones"
Christoph Waltz, "Inglourious Basterds"
Best Original Screenplay
Mark Boal, "The Hurt Locker"
Quentin Tarantino, "Inglourious Basterds"
Alessandro Camon and Oren Moverman, "The Messenger"
Ethan Coen and Joel Coen, "A Serious Man"
Pete Docter, Bob Peterson, "Up"
Best Adapted Screenplay
Neil Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell, "District 9"
Nick Hornby, "An Education"
Jesse Armstrong, Simon Blackwell, Armando Iannucci, and Tony Roche, "In the Loop"
Geoffrey Fletcher, "Precious"
Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner, "Up in the Air"
Best Animated Feature
"Coraline"
"Fantastic Mr. Fox"
"The Princess and the Frog"
"The Secret of Kells"
"Up"
Best Foreign Language Film
"Ajami" (Israel)
"The Milk of Sorrow" (Peru)
"Un Prophete (A Prophet)" (France)
"El Secreto de Sus Ojos (The Secret in their Eyes)" (Argentina)
"The White Ribbon (Germany)
Best Feature Documentary
"Burma VJ"
"The Cove"
"Food, Inc."
"The Most Dangerous Man in America: Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers"
"Which Way Home"
Best Art Direction
"Avatar"
"The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus"
"Nine"
"Sherlock Holmes"
"The Young Victoria"
Best Cinematography
"Avatar"
"Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince"
"The Hurt Locker"
"Inglourious Basterds"
"The White Ribbon"
Best Costume Design
"Bright Star"
"Coco Avant Chanel"
"The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus"
"Nine"
"The Young Victoria"
Best Editing
"Avatar"
"District 9"
"The Hurt Locker"
"Inglourious Basterds"
"Precious"
Best Make-Up
"Il Divo"
"Star Trek"
"The Young Victoria"
Best Visual Effects
"Avatar"
"District 9"
"Star Trek"
Best Original Score
"Avatar"
"Fantastic Mr. Fox"
"The Hurt Locker"
"Sherlock Holmes"
"Up"
Best Song
"Almost There" from "The Princess and the Frog"
"Down in New Orleans" from "The Princess and the Frog"
"Loin de Paname" from "Paris 36"
"Take It All" from "Nine"
"The Weary Kind (Theme from Crazy Heart)" from "Crazy Heart"
Sound Mixing
"Avatar"
"Hurt Locker"
"Inglourious Basterds"
"Star Trek"
"Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen"
Sound Editing
"Avatar"
"Hurt Locker"
"Inglourious Basterds"
"Star Trek"
"Up"
Documentary Short
"China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province"
"The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner"
"The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant"
"Music by Prudence"
"Rabbit a la Berlin"
Animated Short
"French Roast"
"Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty"
"The Lady and the Reaper (La Dama y la Muerte)"
"Logorama"
"A Matter of Loaf and Death"
Live Action Short
"The Door"
"Instead of Abracadabra"
"Kavi"
"Miracle Fish"
"The New Tenants"
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