They shimmer and twinkle and buzz

Review: Milk + Paranoid Park

Gus Van Sant, I'm glad you're trying to redeem yourself. My first exposure to the man was Psycho. The remake. The film that took a masterpiece of low-budget cinema, slathered it in honky-tonk neon, recruited a frat boy and Ellen's girlfriend to play iconic roles, and made one and only one update to the '90s: "Let me get my Walkman."

2009, even if the Oscars don't award it, is Van Sant's year. He's not going to be mainstream, but he's now Hollywood-friendly-indie. And how can you not feel warm and fuzzy after watching Milk? It's a love letter to gay activist Harvey Milk. The screenplay for the most part covers his zest, his chutzpah, his honesty. As he becomes a local hero, it doesn't shy from his difficulties with intimacy. Sean Penn deserves all the praise he's gotten; you forget you're watching a performance. Milk's stride and gesticulations may be alien to Penn, but he doesn't rely on the tics to find his character. Plus, it's nice to see him smile. It's a movie all about the men -- James Franco's coolness and Emile Hirsch's rebel-rebel vigor balance out well.

Van Sant prefers us to interpret psychology without showing it, a fine trick when it's about the people. But Dan White (Josh Brolin) gives us little to understand the progression from Point A, team player, to Point C, assassin. More probing might have kept him from seeming like the villain of this fairy tale.

Paranoid Park fits more into the dream-like state that defines most of Van Sant's films. A skater kid accidentally kills a security guard when hopping onto a train, and it stunts him emotionally until he gets it out, not with the police, but on paper. And really, on film. Some critics were in love with this film, maybe in response to the fear that this type of Sundance fare will be eclipsed by safe-indie Milk. Van Sant gives us internal conflict, again, without the psychology. In a cycle of disconnecting (starting with the severed guard's body) and reconnecting with the world and ordinary teenage-hood, the film veers around a lot. The acting's rough, the redemption's uninspired. What lingers are moments of clarity: the gracefulness of skaters in parks and city pipes, gliding along in a hallucination, swooping up to the heavens and returning to terra firma in a concentrated yet effortless descent.

After the accident, there's a scene in the shower (much stronger than Psycho 2.0's desecration of Hitchcock with comically red blood like Kool-Aid), where the kid responsible lets the water drip down his long hair for two straight minutes. Here's one scene where no words are necessary. Who knew a moment of such stillness could be so riveting?

Give up the ghost!

Did you know Hillary Clinton used a ghostwriter for her post-White House, round-one memoirs? Her ghostwriter reportedly received $500,000 for the job. Hillary's hubby had to work two years as the president for that dough.

Ghostwriters out there, take the money while you can, from whomever you can. With publishing what it is, the well may just dry up a touch. Christmastime 2008 saw decreased sales in Z-list celebrities, and I say it's about time people started spending money wisely. Sure, they're just not buying books at all -- though they are buying Kindles -- but I hope that when they choose to spend their $9.99 on a Kindle edition, they skip over Michael Phelps' How To Win More Medals Than Muhammad.

It makes it difficult to tell who's actually writing out there. Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer both released memoirs last year. There's no "with..." on their book covers. I'm going to assume they at least wrote drafts of their books, even if they were later polished (and how many nonfiction books aren't?). She's a well-received children's book author, and the excerpts I've read of his seem too witty and candid to be inauthentic. Besides, they both starred in my favorite childhood movie.

On the safe list: Barack Obama. First because he's Our Hero, but also he started before he was famous. Rachel Clayman of Crown Publishing confirms: "I've never worked with any other writer who needed less line editing than he did." Jimmy Carter was probably our last presidential booksmith, and he continues to publish. Ronald Reagan famously remarked of his memoir, "I hear it's a great book!" If John McCain had won, he could have tossed Faith of our Fathers into the ghostwriter mix.

The more we look into it, the more discouraging and farcical it becomes. Sarah Palin now seeks to broker a book deal. If we package it with the inevitable W memoir, the OED will commit suicide just to roll around in its 26-volume grave. And where does this madness stop? Wikipedia has the ultimate insight: "God could also be considered a ghostwriter of the Bible." Sure hope he got a great advance.

There's a Sucker Born Every Minute

Some days you get home and you need a glass of wine. I hope today isn't one of those days (though typeface searching gets to you) because Kate's gone and thus I would be drinking alone. But you know, it's not always the fact that your quick design assignments took over four hours or you spent the entire day at your internship folding 370 blads (like trailers for cookbooks!) into UPS packages and sending them out, making your mind numb to all that it sees.

I like to think of myself as an understanding person who doesn't create scenes. But I went to the food court for a break, ironically, from cookbooks. A $7 salad from Au Bon Pain? But where do they hide the dressing, and does it cost extra? A plate of greasy but delicious Chinese? On my way, I see Sbarro and a paper that reads: "Special on Philly cheese steak, stromboli, or stuffed pizza $4.99." Yeah, I have a weakness for stromboli... but what does this placard mean? The stromboli and stuffed pizza on the menu are $4.59... does the special come with a drink? With breadsticks? With a big hug? (It doesn't say.)

It's crowded, but I get in line and ask the guy for stromboli "like in the special," pointing at the paper. He points to the types I can get; I go with sausage. Next guy asks what side I want... does it come with the special? He assures me it does. Cash register time. I'm armed with my stromboli, my ziti side, and a Dr. Pepper poured when I asked if it came with the special and he concurred. A lady rings it up as $8.18. Which is not $4.99 plus tax. "Oh, isn't this the special? I was told that it came with a side and drink," I rebut. "No, this is the combo. Only number one is the special." #1 on the menu is regular pizza -- none of the three things listed on the paper at the front of the line. So I get angry and hold up the line and keep the next guy from getting his drink because I was only here for whatever the special might be. That's fine if that's not the special, but don't delude me along the way into thinking it was. I gesture toward the paper and read it aloud for everybody to hear (and again, I'm not a make-a-scene guy, but honestly). Nope; cash register KGB says "number one" is the only special.

I felt bad later for being so upset about it, and don't think that I'm hating on this cash register woman, who didn't really speak English and surely wasn't at fault. But attracting people with a deal and then not giving it to them? Duplicity is the American way. The reason I got in line was to avoid taking out a mortgage on lunch. Of course I gave up, meeting nothing but blank states behind the counter, even from ziti guy and Dr. Pepper themselves. I wanted food, so I paid all $8.18 for it. What happened to the tenet of customer service? In the move-'em-down-the-line formula, it's easy for people to get things wrong and then take no blame. I'm sure they get paid less than my lunch cost per hour, so I can't be angry at them. But I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Moral of the story: Sometimes you just gotta suck it up. New plan: bring lunch to work on Monday and Wednesday. Buy a soda from the vending machine. At least if that screws you over, you can pound it to death.

If you give a mouse a cookie...

...he's going to want some milk.

But if you are part of this new eco-friendly 

     unplug-your-fridge movement,

The milk will be spoiled.

If the milk is spoiled,

The mouse will die.

If the mouse dies,

Future mice won't wheedle into your pantry 

     and rob you of cookies.

If you don't have to worry about wasting money on 

     mouse-eaten cookies, or an exterminator,

You'll be able to replenish your food supply daily.

If you go to the grocery store every day,

You might make poor decisions and buy the sample items 

     because they're so yummy.

If you buy too much food and worry it will spoil,

You're bound to gain tons of weight.

If you become a couch potato,

You'll grow too lazy to buy food daily.

If you stop eating so much food,

You'll probably develop an eating disorder.

If you have to see doctors to solve this problem,

Word will get out that you unplugged your fridge, 

     and the New York Times will write an article

     about you: Fridge-Less Men Deprived of Cold Beer.

If you're suddenly pseudo-famous,

You'll want to be more famous.

If you want to be more famous,

You'll want to be more wealthy.

If you achieve the topmost tax bracket,

You're going to spend your wealth.

If you buy what money can buy,

You're going to hire someone to buy you 

     fresh milk everyday.

If you have fresh milk,

You're going to have mice who just ate cookies.

If you kill the mice invading your home,

Isn't that worse for the environment than using a fridge?

Good Win, Good Singers, Good Commercials

Did anyone else feel the blink-and-you-miss-em one-second ads from Miller Lite were a little dubious? Whatever... I was already drinking beer, without any coaxing from their subliminal mind-shocks, but I was really dying for some Doritos after that game.

Using physical violence for humor during the Super Bowl? Good timing.

#1: Even better than a Magic 8 Ball.



#2: A tragedy of operatic proportions.


#3: Oh, and this Bud Light commercial. Potentially the most disturbing visuals of the night.