…. that is, Sal’s GREAT cinematic question to all of us in the comments section of my last post.
I’d put it here, but I’d kind of like to see the answers all in the same place.
Go answer it! (And I’m already revising MY list in my head.)
That Sal’s quite a gal. Thanks, Sal!
I have this fun little book called “Uppity Women of the Renaissance.” I bought it on an utter whim a few years ago because I liked that title. I still do. Anyway, the book offers very brief, amusing histories of, well, uppity women of the Renaissance, well-known and not.
So I thought I’d start a regular series of these, putting these entries up intermittently. I have my favorites that I’ve read several times and it’s tempting to start with those, but instead, I think I’ll just close my eyes, open the book, and see who comes up. Ready? Here I go. Just wait a sec. I have no muzak, so hum “Muskrat Love” to yourselves or something.
Okay. Today’s Uppity Woman is …….
Anna of Austria!
Here’s the entry:
“The Better to Eat Chocolate With”
Every great family worth tabloid-bashing has had a curse and the Hapsburg girls and boys were no exception. The only dynasty to rule for twenty generations without ever having had an actual country, the Hapsburgs’ power began with a small dukedom in Austria and spread like crabgrass across Europe via marriage.
The original curse was pretty meager — something about a pregnant peasant girl and a randy Hapsburg teen. But the true family curse was The Lip (in point of fact, the entire jaw). Populations of good-sized cities could have taken shelter under a Hapsburg chin. Wobbly and red as cherry Jell-o, The Lip made many males of the family look positively moronic. So you can just imagine how Princess Anna of Austria and all the other Hapsburgs Annas, Marys, Elizabeths, and Christines felt when they looked in a mirror.
Among other thankless tasks, Anna married King Louis XIII, produced a Louie heir, and ran France as queen regent from 1643 to 1661. Spanish-born Anna brought new ideas to the French court. Naturally, they all tittered when she first lifted a cup of some dirty brown substance to those Austria-sized lips. But Anna persisted, jutting out a chin that would stun Jay Leno into silence. The drink she introduced — hot chocolate — eventually became the only beverage fit for the Beautiful People to quaff, once she got the hang of adding sugar to it. For ages, the drink was deemed to be an aphrodisiac in the bargain. Ole! for Queen of Chocolate Anna, who gave women of the world the serotonin-loaded solace they so desperately needed.
So here she is, Princess Anna, as painted by the great Peter Paul Rubens, whose portrait of his beautiful daughter graces this site. (Oh, I love Rubens!)
Hmmm … I don’t see a Jay Leno chin. It’s not a great chin sure; I mean, it has a twin, but Lenoesque? Well, maybe Rubens was being kind.
I also notice the distinct lack of a hot chocolate mustache.
Still, thank you, Anna of Austria, for the wondrous, warming goodness that is hot chocolate. How could you know that generations of faces after yours would light up at the sight and smell and taste of your delicious “dirty brown substance.” You really ought to try it with marshmallows or …. ahhhhhh …. a dollop of whipped creme! Er, uhm, if you can.
So, Princess Anna, I will drink some of this happy, creamy nectar THIS VERY EVENING and think of you!
Just dashing off some thoughts here, rather random.
My Beloved and I went to see “King Kong” the other day for a practically paltry $5 apiece. We’re so used to paying at least 9, 10 bucks apiece these days, that we actually asked the bored, mumbly cashier WHY it was so cheap.
“First show of the day,” he muttered without looking at us. The “duh, idiots” part was merely implied. What a nice boy.
Now, let me say: I was never a “King Kong” fan. Always seemed more about screaming and grunting and chest thumping with a creepy bonus threat of rape by an ape than anything else. But that was then, this is NOW. I have to admit: This new version of “King Kong” is just some rip-roaringly good entertaiment.
Great things:
— the ape himself — really phenomenal. I never for a moment thought he wasn’t actually there. I was thoroughly swept up in the absolute reality of a 25-foot gorilla!
— the creepy natives — just really scared the beejezuz outta me.
— the shots of a reimagined 1930’s New York. Not truly real, but even better — kind of magical.
— the backstory at the beginning of the movie. Now, I’ve heard several reviewers say things like “Oh, just show up an hour into it; that’s when you finally see the ape.” To that I say NO! You need to see what’s happening with the Jack Black character and the Naomi Watts character, in particular, to know what’s motivating their decisions. They’re both desperate; but you’ve gotta be desperate or else INSANE to end up on a place called Skull Island. I mean, it ain’t exactly a lazy Sunday afternoon picnic spot.
But also, what “creature” movie worth its salt shows the creature at the very beginning? “Frankenstein” didn’t. “Jaws” didn’t. You saw what he DID, but you didn’t see him. That’s how suspense is built. So DO show up at the beginning and allow the build to happen.
— Naomi Watts. I like her so much as an actress. Loved her in “21 Grams.” I believed every moment of this performance where she’s acting alongside a freaking nonexistent 25-foot gorilla! She moves past the one-dimensional, shrill screaming of Fay Wray and the creepy, sexualized performance of Jessica Lange and imbues the ape-girl relationship some genuine poignancy and heart; you really feel that these two come to understand each other. It sounds almost ridiculous to say it — but you believe the love between the two of them. And that’s — in large part — because of Naomi Watts.
— the T-Rexes and all the rest of the, ah, “critters.” Really squirm-in-your-seat scary. A lady sitting by herself in front of us kept cracking me up — she spent half the movie gasping and jumping out of her seat, then falling back and covering her eyes. Whenever I felt I couldn’t look at the screen, I watched her. She was wildly entertaining.
— the pace of the movie. It’s kind of an intangible, pacing, but every good movie, every good play has it — a spot-on sense of pacing — not too slow, not too fast and nonsensical, but with reasonable, well-timed ebbs and flows. If “Jaws,” for instance, had SHOWN us Jaws right away, it would have been too soon; it would have rushed the pace; we’d have become bored — oh, yawn, HIM? AGAIN?
Our senses adjust, become complacent. We NEED to be kept off-balance, never sure when we’re going to see IT again. We almost need to feel that we’ve EARNED the right to behold the creature. And here, in “King Kong” the comparative quiet of the opening builds substance and anticipation for the thrill of the coming adventure. Not every moment can be or should be a fever pitch moment. Trust me, there are PLENty in this movie. I can honestly say that I didn’t even notice the 3-hour length until I left the theatre and looked at my watch. I was thoroughly engaged. IN A MOVIE ABOUT AN APE, NO LESS! Just a good ol’ rollicking epic adventure.
(But if I might add a wee critique in the midst of this giddy endorsement: Jack Black, I like you, I DO, but someone has to tell you to ease up on that rather freaky, maniacal, “I’m so intense” expression you do. It’s funny, to a degree, but overused, and in some moments, it’s just REALLY out of place. Or maybe you think it’s some kind of emotion intensifier, that look. Oh, Jackie, it’s not. It’s REALLY not. It makes me feel a tad icky, as if you practiced saying “I love you” in the mirror just ONE too many times. So just as someone, it appears, FINALLY got to George Clooney and told him to stop with the annoying Bobble-Headed twitch he had, I do this for you, Jack Black. Oh, and Adrien Brody? Trim just a smidge off that clawlike nose of yours. It’s a little too far gone on a reckless downward path towards your mouth. You must NOT let this happen. Repercussions galore. )
Great Thing #2 —
A book I just finished — “Life of Pi” by Yann Martel.
Read it yet? You SHOULD. A tale, as one character says, to “make you believe in God.” I found it alternately disturbing and horrific and magical and delightful, a curious blend.
In the tiniest of nutshells — it’s the story of a castaway boy left to survive on a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger.
But what sounds like a basic adventure tale is so much more. I loved that the book asks you to be innocent, to hurl yourself into wonder, to squelch that inner, jaded voice that wants to say, No — that’s just … just IMPOSSIBLE!
I guess that’s where I’m at right now — with this movie and this book — LOVING being able to believe the impossible, to be swept away.
And shouldn’t great movies and books do that?
Oh — and add to that: FINALLY a book ending simultaneously surprising and satisfying and thought-provoking. (I’ve had rather bad luck with that in my reading this year, er, LAST year. Whatever.)
Thank you, Yann Martel!
So …. see the movie. Read the book. Enjoy ’em both!
Also —
I promise. NO predictions for 2006.
So bless my little soul.
And yours.
Now, I know wha’cher thinkin’ …. so, nooo, I don’t mean me.
No, this kid, Alex Tew, a 21-year-old college student. From an article from Reuters (and because I couldn’t get the link to work — haha, genius!):
He had the brainstorm for his million dollar home page, called, logically enough, www.milliondollarhomepage.com, while lying in bed thinking out how he would pay for university.
The idea: turn his home page into a billboard made up of a million dots, and sell them for a dollar a dot to anyone who wants to put up their logo. A 10 by 10 dot square, roughly the size of a letter of type, costs $100.
He sold a few to his brothers and some friends, and when he had made $1,000, he issued a press release.
That was picked up by the news media, spread around the Internet, and soon advertisers for everything from dating sites to casinos to real estate agents to The Times of London were putting up real cash for pixels, with links to their own sites.
So far they have bought up 911,800 pixels. Tew’s home page now looks like an online Times Square, festooned with a multi-colored confetti of ads.
So THIS is what he came up with. Check it out.
Genius.
(M@ — why do I have the feeling you’d love this one?)
Well, my mom didn’t give me the rest of the ensemble. this year. I kept waiting for it, but it didn’t come. With each gift, I held my breath. Still, it didn’t come.
What? Nothing to make my eyes twirl, my heart sink?
There was no sweet fancy sluttiness. OR bitter cheesy grannyness. What was happening? I am programmed to run this gamut. I am always braced for it. I prepare for my role with “positive self-talk” and well-rehearsed, canned reactions. No Method acting here. Oh, no! That would be most unwise. One never wants to be so convincing as to encourage the survival of this strain of gift-giving. And even then, even with my obviously less-than-credible performances over the years, this practice has lingered … and lingered.
But, this year, something threw me off my game, shoved me off the familiar gamut. And when it happened, I was lost, really. I didn’t know what my face was doing. What happened to my canned reactions? I sputtered inelegantly for words. Where were my well-rehearsed words?! I blinked and blinked. I didn’t even know what I was seeing.
It was strange and unprecedented and wondrous because
My mother gave me a ring.
And not just ANY ring.
Let me explain.
My mother has been chronically ill for over 20 years. We do not know what it is. No doctor has gotten to the bottom of it, ever. Not even the Mayo Clinic. She takes painkillers and they don’t kill her pain. She sometimes hallucinates. She remembers things that never happened. She is frequently impossible to talk to. And when you’re able to talk to her, she’s frequently hostile and angry and cruel. I suppose any of us would be, too, in her shoes. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her. I don’t live inside her body; I don’t think inside her mind. I’m not an expert on her pain. I’m simply an expert witness to it. In many ways, my father has not really had a wife for over 20 years, and my siblings and I have not really had a mother.
I don’t say this to garner any pity or sympathy for our situation. I don’t say this for anyone to comment on what might be wrong with her. Oh, please don’t. I am simply stating the facts as I know them.
This is my mother. And for as long as I’ve known her, even before she became ill, she’s rarely succumbed to expressions of deep sentiment.
But this year on Christmas, she gave me The Ring.
The Ring is her ring. Or was her ring. It is an exquisite sapphire and diamond ring, glittering in a perfect, simple, modern setting.
Many years ago, my parents purchased a beautiful, loose sapphire and, shortly thereafter, my dad had a setting designed for it. We all “oohed” and “ahhed” over The Ring and mom wore it with pride, flashing it this way and that. Subtly, of course. She absolutely loved that ring. She was never without it. Her ring.
But on my wedding day, she let me wear it. Borrowed and blue, too, you see. To be honest, I was stunned by the rare, unexpected gesture. She handed it to me quite matter-of-factly, minus showy sentiment, without a trace of tears, but, it was a gesture, nonetheless. As she walked away, I slid it on my finger, flashing it this way and that. Subtly, of course. I liked the way it shimmered through my tears.
And now, all these years later, I sat next to a glowing tree with a small package on my lap. There was greedy chaos in the rest of the room as nephews and nieces practically chewed open their gifts. Now, normally, nothing can tear my mom’s attention from watching her grandkids’ feeding frenzy, but this night, she turned her head away from the pandemonium and stared only at me. Intently. Aware of her gaze, uncomfortable, I thought, “Oh, no. She thinks this is a good one, so I need a good reaction. Crap.” Quickly, I clicked through my pat responses until I settled on a classic: “Ooooh, a ________! How GREAT!”
Slowly, nervously, I began to tug at the paper. There wasn’t enough paper for me to drag this out, especially once Button Baby caught sight of me and decided she had to help. She let out a squeal and two seconds later, the small naked box was in my hands. It wasn’t a jewelry box, so I had no reason to suspect or speculate on its contents. Lifting the lid, I found a drawstring pouch, velvet, too small for almost anything. Almost. I glanced quizzically at my mom and she was stone still. Her eyes were fixed on me, mingling in their blueness pride and joy and fear. I’d never seen that look before and I’ll never forget it.
My hands were clumsy as I opened the pouch. And, of course, tucked inside that little pouch was The Ring.
I recognized it, but I didn’t, because this couldn’t be. It could not be that she was giving this to me! This was her ring. Her special ring. I opened my mouth and …. nothing. Staring at this sparkly thing in my hand, memories flooded back, and I was dumbstruck. Mom’s face had a certain composure, but her eyes, her eyes were naked, defenseless. I looked at her and found my voice, lamely:
“Mom? Mom, I — ”
I crumbled. So did my canned responses.
” — can’t believe –”
I looked at mom and she crumbled, too. Her eyes slowly trickled tears.
“Well, I — I — well, I can’t wear it anymore, so –”
“Mom –”
“– well, I — wanted you to have it.”
“Thank you, Mom — ” I whispered. “It — means a lot to me. I can’t believe it.”
We looked at each other and it was too much. It was overwhelming, mostly unfamiliar, territory. But we’re women and we do know how to cry even if we don’t do it well. So we did our best. I hugged my mom tightly and felt the cool moisture of her cheek.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see My Beloved’s face, wet with tears. I saw Button Baby’s mom, teary too. And then I saw Button Baby, swaying back and forth on her little Mary Janed feet, unaware, smiling a goofy baby smile amidst the chaos. She didn’t know. She was just happy.
The world, it seemed, stood still for this rare, fleet second. Happy, so much happy.
“Thank you, Mom.”
It’s breathtaking, really, the trivial or stupid or deeply cheesy things that will suffice to whip me into a froth of excitement.
Witness these ….
First, I’m a HUGE sucker for survivalist type movies — man against the elements type movies. And they don’t even have to be particularly good. They just have to BE and I’m quite satisfied.
Movies like “White Fang,” “White Squall” (which I really watched for Jeff Bridges, because he can do NO wrong — ever!) or “Alive” (based on that gruesome, chilling true story. Read the book, if you dare.) or “Touching the Void” (Another true story, which you simply MUST rent. YOU MUST RENT IT!)
But if it’s an ANIMAL against the elements type movie? Fuggedaboudit. I’m toast.
So break out the butter and jiggle the jam, baby, because now there’s THIS:
A new movie (unfortunately) titled “Eight Below.” Here’s the synopsis from the website:
“Inspired by a true story, a sudden accident leaves eight sled dogs stranded in
Antarctica where they must struggle to survive the frozen wilderness while a
team of adventurers mounts a rescue mission.”
Okay. Well …. hmmm. Really not the best synopsis. And it’s from Disney. Sooo …. okay, also dicey. But … but … but would it help if I tell you the dogs are huskies? Beautiful, fluffy huskies?!
No? I’m not selling this well.
Okay. Here’s the trailer. (All right. You have to click on “Eight Below” once you’re there.) And, yes, it’s kinda cheesy in the beginning and — I’m still not selling it — but it gets better once the humans are not the focus, so stay with it and you may just decide you want to see it, too.
As I said, I’m a HUGE sucker for stuff like this. Think what you must of me!
NOW, for something not stupid or cheesy, but no less exciting —
I am head-over-heels in love with William Goldman, that great, Academy Award winning screenwriter.
It’s bad. I mean, throw in some slight psychosis here and I could definitely revert to stalking and such …. because I’m a little obsessed. My Beloved is fully aware and completely understands. And is totally supportive, actually …. because, please ….
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”? Love it. Who doesn’t?
“Marathan Man”? Brilliant and horrifying and … brilliant.
“All the President’s Men”? Genius.
And let’s not forget —
“The Princess Bride.” Wrote the book AND the screenplay. One of my all-time favorite books. Wickedly clever and fun and with that trademark Goldman humor. (And, don’t hate me, but I LOVED the book, liked the movie.)
But NOW — Oh, NOW!
WILLIAM GOLDMAN IS CURRENTLY ADAPTING “THE PRINCESS BRIDE” FOR BROADWAY!!!
A MUSICAL, NO LESS!!
HOORAY!!
OHHH, HOOORAAAY AND HAPPPPY DAAAY!!!!
It’s true. He’s collaborating with Adam Guettel, this year’s Tony winner for Best Original Score for “The Light in the Piazza.” So no slouch, either, with that guy. The only thing that could possibly add MORE exclamation points to this post would be the news that William Goldman is collaborating with Stephen Sondheim —
Mr. “Sweeney Todd”
and “A Little Night Music”
and “West Side Story”
and “Sunday in the Park with George”
and “Gypsy”
and “Into the Woods”
and “Passion”
and …. well, that’s just a few off the top of my head. You get the picture. Another genius with whom I am thoroughly in love.
But if I can’t have my dream — a Goldman/Sondheim collaboration on “The Princess Bride,” I’ll be quite happy with the sweet, sweet REALITY.
Just hurry up, William Goldman! You’re no spring chicken and your adoring public WAITS!!
Oh, and people?
Get behind me in the ticket line.
I’m there first.
For probably the last decade or so, my mother’s Christmas gift-giving judgment has been rather seriously impaired by a few teensy illusions she’s harboring about me. I share a few with you now:
1) That she and I are the same age.
2) That as 69-year-old women, we both like knick-knacks and gewgaws and objets d’art like miniature porcelain shoes or wee crystalline menageries.
3) That I am, in fact, a hippopotamus, and that to clothe me requires the copious amounts of fabric found in tents or caftans or mumus (Not. And doesn’t).
4) That I want and LOVE — and look scrumdillyumptious IN — elastic-waist granny pants ( I don’t, NO ONE does, and if YOU have these, burn them, BURN THEM NOW. And, NO — don’t get all charitable on me and give ’em to the homeless. That is NOT a good deed, Jesus WON’T be impressed, and neither will the homeless because THEY DON’T WANT THEM EITHER!!)
5) That her, uhm, well-endowed daughter looks good in, oh, stretchy spandex sweaters COVERED WITH PEACH-COLORED FUR! YES, FUR. FURRR, I SAY!
S’true. One recent, best-forgotten year, a stretchy, peachy fur ball under the tree had MY name on it. It lurked silently, waiting to strike, a killer in shiny paper. The second I opened that gift, my sister looked at me and instantly bowed her head, as if in quiet prayer. But then she started shaking violently and covering her mouth so that the heaving howls of laughter would not escape.
Now, once in the privacy of my own home, I did try the damn thing on — you know, as a lark.
SWEET. FANCY. SLUTTINESS.
Stretched out over my “giftedness” — as one friend calls them — the peachy, furry badness did, ah, accentuate and suddenly, I saw new, previously rejected career paths yawning wide before me. But, tragically, I lacked the leopard print micro mini, metallic silver stilettos, and 6-inch hoop earrings necessary for such vocations. I mean, if mom was crossing her fingers that I’d start some kind of new ministry to the lonely and pervy, then she probably should’ve completed the ensemble.
6) That the sight of me in oversized sweatshirts with giant, appliqued daisies will make My Beloved’s blood pound with desire (It doesn’t. Wow. Surprisingly.)
7) That the proper purse for a “hippo-sized gal” is a hippo-sized purse with — what else?– giant, appliqued daisies. Or animals. Or craaazy, geometric shapes. (I think I could actually fit INSIDE these purses.)
8) That hot pink is MY color. Or perhaps electric blue.
9) That hot pink and electric blue TOGETHER are even better.
(Actually, I wear a lot of black.)
10) That hot pink is the new black.
11) That a gal who calls “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” one of her favorite musicals because she did the show in Seattle and loves it and has fond memories of it — of “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” for Pete’s sake — that a gal like that, who still has her “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” cast sweatshirt complete with Demon Barber graphic — that a gal like this would be quite simply overcome by Christmas sweaters sporting kitties and teddy bears and Santas parading impertinently across her “giftedness.”
Ah, mom. DEAR Mom. Quite a history there.
But this year, THIS year, something entirely different happened …..
I want to wish you all the merriest, happiest Christmas ever!
Thank you to all of you who stop by and make this a joyous place for me to spend time!
And may the presence of the newborn Babe make each of us new as well.
If ol’ Scrooge can become like new, surely we can, too:
Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.
He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!
And so, as Tiny Tim observed, GOD BLESS US, EVERY ONE!
