Food grab bag

One thing I love about Akron-area food is the sheer number of pizza joints that also serve chicken. I'm not talking about wings, I mean real honest-to-goodness fried chicken. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I grew up here, but I've always found pizza and chicken to be a natural combination. Order a large pie and an 8-piece box of chicken and you've got an instant picnic on a mild Northeast Ohio evening. Not that I'm well-traveled or anything, but I haven't seen the pizza-and-chicken combo anywhere else (have any of you?). Another wonder that can often be found at these restaurants is what is known as the jojo. Whereas chicken shacks far and wide serve potato wedges, jojos are a different breed entirely. These are some big shanks of potato, deep-fried and agreeably seasoned, often served as a side order with fried chicken. When I was younger, I used to dip mine in macaroni salad, but as you all know I'm weird, so don't mind me.

Another local delicacy, which I know can't be found elsewhere, is the Galley Boy, the signature burger of local legend Swenson's. The recipe is fairly simple- two patties (which if I recall correctly are seasoned with cinnamon), two slices of American cheese, barbeque sauce, chopped onions, mayonnaise, and sweet pickle relish, all on a toasted bun. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm. I just found out there's a Swenson's near my new place of employment- another movie theatre, surprise surprise- and I'll drop in before work tomorrow to see if they're up to snuff. Although there's no reason to believe they won't be...

Cross at your own risk

Again, maybe it's just that I've been living in the city for so long... but ever since I moved back home I've noticed that the state of railroad crossings is far different here. In Columbus I don't think I saw a single crossing without both the swing-down gate and the flashing lights for whenever a train passed. But here in Portage County, OH, I'd say those highfalutin' railroad crossings are the exception rather than the norm. More often than not I see a crossing with only the flashing lights, although sometimes it's just the gate. And on lightly-traveled residential roads, I'm even prone to seeing railroad crossings with no signals whatsoever- just a sign that reads "Railroad Crossing" and a striped pylon. It's a good thing the pylon doesn't rotate, or else I'd stop there to get a haircut. I'm not complaining, understand- variety being the spice of life, things just wouldn't be as exciting if everything was standardized. But still, these things couldn't be reassuring for the railroads' insurers- what's the railroad company going to do if a car gets into an accident with a train at night because he couldn't see to stop? Are they just going to say "well, it's not like we didn't warn you or anything..."?

Notes From Flyover Country

- I know "flyover country" is a pretty condescending label that usually gets applied to Middle America by cosmopolitan-and-proud types on the coasts, but I can't help but feeling like one of those people as I survey the scene in my new hometown of Suffield, Ohio. I should have known this would happen when I was taking the highway through Akron and saw a city bus with a "SCAT" sign on the side. Of course, SCAT is an acronym for Summit County Area Transit (or something like that), but being Captain Irony from the Big City I couldn't help but giggle. And it happened again earlier today when I drove past Hustler Turf Equipment. I can't help it, I guess- and I'm a big fan of the Robert Rossen movie. While some might ask the question, "what kind of dirty mind would think of porno mags automatically when he sees the word 'Hustler'," I can't help but ask, "what kind of person would name a business with little regard for the potential negative connotations of the name?" I guarantee that nearly every teenage boy who sees the sign thinks the same thing I do.

- Went shopping with my mom yesterday, mainly so I could more easily find my way around the local stores if I had to buy something. Little did I suspect that I'd end up spending nearly ninety minutes inside a Marc's. For those of you who don't know, Marc's is a kind of discount retail emporium that sells a little bit of everything- groceries, health and beauty, home and garden, etc. But the real bargains, as I found out yesterday, are to be found in what's called Aisle One. Aisle One is a catch-all of all the week's sale items, and unless you're the bargain-shopping type, it's pretty much hell. Think plastic kids' sporting goods next to travel-size toiletries next to school supplies next to (I wish I was kidding) cheap lingerie. If you have the stomach for it, you can spend pretty much all day in there. My mom, happily, confined herself to about half an hour or so. But still, I was reminded of a fundamental difference between the two of us- our shopping philosophies. Years of living on my own have made me the kind of shopping who will buy only what he needs, whereas my mother is fairly compulsive in her bargain shopping (actual quote: "I might as well buy two of these basting brushes while I'm here"). One of the few arguments I've ever gotten into with my mother came when I was a senior in high school and I was in a store with her for some reason, and she insisted on buying me another backpack in spite of the fact that mine was perfectly fine. Her reasoning? Why, "it's such a deal," of course. But I wasn't having any of it. I liked my backpack, there was nothing wrong with it, and I'm still using it almost a decade later. Later, I felt kind of bad, not only to get into an argument with my own mother in public, but also because it seems like such a petty reason to argue. But some ideological gaps aren't easily breached. Anyway, a question for any parents out there- is bargain-shopping a typical obsession once you have kids?

- I've also decided to maximize my earning potential by getting a second job while I'm home, which should have the added bonus of making me feel slightly less down on myself. So today I went around to various local business to pick up applications. Checking out the four area banks, I noticed there was not a single male teller or manager working this afternoon. Of course, this may have simply been a coincidence, and there could very well be male employees who just weren't scheduled today, but it seems a bit of a stretch to me that there wouldn't be ANY guys working in banks here.

- The local library is TINY (seems weird that I'd capitalize in this case, but nevermind). They didn't even have a copy of THE LONG GOODBYE- the book, I mean. Or any of the other Marlowe books, actually.

The Unthinkable

All of you folks who've been waiting on pins and needles ever since my New Year's mirthfest to hear what direction my life will take, wait no longer! Because help is on the way...

Not that I'm thrilled about it or anything, but desperate times, etc. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I'm going to moving back with my folks for a bit. Now you understand why I'm less than ecstatic.

Ever since I've graduated from college, I've been in this funk that has me wondering if I should incur the wrath of Cruise and submit to various drugs to make me feel happy again. No, it's not really that bad. I've just been kinda unmotivated to do anything. My lifestyle isn't really condusive to a get up'n'go attitude. I spend my days alone in a dark projection booth, and when I finish working I usually sit for a few hours in a dark movie theatre. Maybe I should start quilting or something, find people with similar interests who live near me.

So for the time being I'm going to bite the bullet and, at my parents' suggestion, bunk up at their place. The idea makes sense, I suppose. Aside from the twinge of shame I'd feel moping around THEIR house on a Friday night (at least when I moped around my place on a Friday night it was still MY place, right?), there are more practical reasons why this is a pretty kind of okay temporary arrangement.

To begin with, I'd be closer to my extended family, who I don't see nearly enough. In particular my grandparents, who are all still around but are currently all between the ages of 85 and 90 years of age. Some of them have not been too well of late, and I feel bad that I'm unable to visit them more than two or three times a year. I always enjoy talking with them, and I hope my company isn't too much of a bother for them. One of my assorted problems is that I'm lousy about calling people. Personally, I chalk this up more to the fact that I've always despised impersonal telephone chit-chat (Miranda July would be so proud of me) than to simple rudeness. Plus I always worry that I'm interrupting something when I call. So the opportunity to see them face-to-face on a regular basis is a positive of this move. Also, if any of them should take a turn for the worse, I'd like to be able to lend a hand if needed.

On a more selfish note, I need to save my money. I'm currently pursuing the idea of going to film school in fall '06, and while I'm sure I could get some monetary help both from my family and through various loans, I'd also like to chip in some of my own green. So I'm planning to work through the shame! In addition to transferring to another theatre (the theatre manager is also from Columbus) in order to keep getting health insurance and free movies, I'll also be getting another job for during the day. Between the two jobs and the decreased cost of living, the money will, if all goes according to plan.

Of course, there are drawbacks. My parents live out in the country (their property backs up into a farm), so I'll probably have to spend more on gas. I'll also need to get used to how quiet their house gets at night compared to the trains, garbage trucks and lawn mowers I'm used to hearing here. And if I want to see a remotely that is even remotely "artsy," I'll have to drive about an hour to Cleveland instead of the ten-odd minutes it takes me to get to the Wexner Center from my current place. In other words, I'll probably get much more selective in my viewing (unless I get paid to screen something).

At this point, the folks are limiting me to a year at their place, which sounds doable. It's not that I don't like my parents, I just feel like this is a step backwards for me from living on my own, independently, barely making ends meet but nevertheless getting by. Then again, sometimes one needs to take a step backwards to better see what needs done. If the film school thing doesn't work out for whatever reason (if you have any advice along these lines, don't hesitate to drop me a line), I'll probably look for a grown-up type job. Maybe I'll move back to Columbus, or maybe an even cooler city (one without asswipe Buckeye fans). But until then, I'll have a year to evaluate. Watch this space for occasional updates on my situation. I thought about doing a regular blog on the subject of my year at home, but right now I'd rather not commit to something like that. But if I change my mind, you'll be the first to know.

"My name is Paul. Your name is Paul. I'll find a job. You'll find a job. I'll get a friend. You'll get a friend. I won't fall into the rut. You won't fall into the rut. Good night. Good night."

Random observation

I was just thinking the other day- what is the big deal about alphabetical order? Yes, I know that it makes a handy-dandy filing system, but what I don't get is why the alphabet needs to be in a particular order in the first place. This isn't a unique thing- every alphabet has a special order, but there honestly isn't much of a reason for this. Sure, when you're in kindergarten the order (and the song that goes with it) makes an effective mnemonic device, but once you know what the letters mean, the whole thing feels arbitrary to me. The letters exist primarily as symbols for one or more sounds, and have no real qualitative value. In other words, A is no greater than B, and there's no concrete universal law that states that Z must be last (the ABC song must be different in Britain, where they say "zed"). This isn't a pet peeve or anything- it's just something I've been wondering about. If you can think of a compelling reason why the alphabet should have the order we all know (from a causation standpoint- I know the effect that alphabetical order has on modes of classification), I'm all ears.

Scenes From a Mall is a lousy movie but an applicable title in this case

A few months ago I transferred to another theatre because they were short-staffed. I like the change of venue- my coworkers are more friendly with me, I get all the hours I want, and the booth equipment is newer. However, the new theatre is not without its drawbacks. One of the big ones is that it's quite a bit further from my house- about 15 more miles each way, which hits my gas budget pretty hard. A more personal issue is that, unlike my old theatre, it's situated smack dab in the middle of a mall. And you know how I feel about malls.

Now, I'm not going to gripe about my ideological objections to mall culture- after all, I've done that already, and seeing as how I almost never update this thing the post won't be hard to find. No, this space is reserved for more specific observations/gripes about the mall in which my current place of employment can be found.

To begin with, the food options found within are slim and, for the most part, pricey. Now, nothing against PB&J, but you just get sick of eating the same thing every day, so sometimes you have to shell out for lunch. However, even the most modestly-priced restaurants can't fill me up for anything less than $8. Which may not sound like much to you but is a decent chunk of change when you're a non-union projectionist.

A more work-related gripe is a typical projectionist pet peeve- the staring audience members. Maybe this will come as news to some of you, but there are people who start the movies, and before they start the films they have to thread the projectors. But just because a person is doing something behind a glass partition doesn't mean you're visiting the zoo. Projection booths are filled with people who work this particular job because they aren't big on interacting with paying customers (who have a tendency to treat service-industry workers as subservient goons). As such, chances are the guy threading the projector doesn't really want to be watched as he is working, much less waved at. I'm willing to make exceptions for young children, but once you're in double digits, I'll ignore you no matter how largely you gesticulate in my direction.

My next observation isn't a gripe so much as just something I noticed when leaving the mall today. On the way out to the garage where I usually park my car, a modeling agency has an office, and today they were advertising for "free screen tests for reality TV show." I didn't really think much of this until I noticed that there were three sharply-dressed model-type girls standing by the sign trying to reel in mall-walkers (they didn't bother with me, to my relief). To me, this says just about all there is to say about reality television as a genre- only type-A photogenic (or in this case telegenic) hotties need apply. THE AMAZING RACE is pretty cool though.

Then there's the parking lot itself, where I have recently rediscovered the phenomenon of the space-stalker. You know the types- when the lot is semi-full, these are the drivers who circle the lot in search of customers who are leaving in order to swoop in and steal their spot. Today, this was taken to an almost frightening extreme by a guy who followed closely behind me like the world's most inept stalker while I strolled out to my car. If I wasn't in a hurry to leave I would have taken a nice long walk around the parking lot, up and down a bunch of rows (or maybe even levels), acting lost so as to throw this asswipe off the scent. Following someone around simply to have first dibs on their parking spot is pretty much the definition of being a selfish leech.

Which brings me to my final gripe- customers who park in employee-designated spaces. Perhaps this doesn't sound like a big deal to some of you, but I really hate this. Say I'm working the late shift on a Saturday and I get stuck in traffic. Lot's pretty much full anyway, but there is absolutely no way I'm getting an employee spot. Half of them are invariably filled with cars no mall employee could possibly afford (H2s, Lexuses, etc.). Sometimes I see these people parking and getting out of their cars, and some of them even have kids with them. Yeah, great example for your progeny, parents- take a parking spot that's designated for someone that's not you. Children have a tendency to pick up on little things like that, and can seize on the realization that rules aren't really all that important. Listen, the employee parking spaces weren't designated in the lot for the purpoe of stealing space from the paying customers- they're a courtesy given to mall employees for convenience, and they are certainly convenient. When I'm on a schedule, I shouldn't have to hunt for a place to park for twenty minutes. The sooner I turn the car off, the sooner I can come in and start your movies. So leave me the spot, so that everyone wins.

The pet peeves column only the people in Dallas can see

Seeing as how it's been nearly three months since I last posted here, I figured it was time to poo or get off the pot, so I came up with the idea of writing posts about little things that bug me. If this works out, I'll keep doing them every so often when I think of something. So, without further ado...

When I was in grade school the school lunchroom they would sometimes sell orange juice. I always loved orange juice growing up, so I'd buy that whenever they had it instead of milk, just for something different. I remember that there was always one kid who complained every time they had orange juice because he couldn't stand the pulp. He was a pretty big kid so I never asked him why (I didn't want to get him angry, I guess), but I always figured that he was just a weirdo.

Flash forward to a few years ago. I'm at my local grocery store and I have a craving for orange juice. I head over to the dairy case and I notice that there are all sorts of orange juice- regular, "heart-smart," calcium-fortified, and you guessed it- pulp-free. Which either means that big grade-school pulp-hater guy grew up to be the president of Tropicana or there are lots of pulp haters in the world. I'm leaning toward the latter.

Honestly, I just don't get it. What's wrong with pulp, folks? You like oranges, right? Well, oranges are full of pulp. So why not drink orange juice with pulp too? Seems a logical extension to me. But pulp-free orange juice seems to sell almost as quickly as regular orange juice, if not faster, since when I went to the grocery store this evening the pulp-free row of the dairy case was actually more empty than the normal-level-of-pulp row.

I fear that it's only a matter of time until scientists genetically-engineer an orange with no pulp. I know it sounds odd now (I imagine the orange slices will be nothing more than little baggies full of juice) but corporate science being the way it is, they'll do their damnedest to appeal to the pulp haters of the world. "Love oranges? Hate vitamin C? Introducing Sunkist pulp-free oranges. Loaded with all the vitamins, minerals, and great taste of regular oranges, but without all that pulp you hate." And then maybe they'll throw in a dig at pulp saying that the Taliban loves it or something.

But for me, orange juice without pulp just isn't orange juice. Try fresh-squeezing yourself some. What are the chances you'll get a batch without any pulp? Oh... wait, let's see here... well, whaddya know, zero. One time I stopped at a convenience store late at night with a raging OJ craving, and all they had in stock was pulp-free. So I bought it, opened it up in the car, and took a drink. I swear the first thought I had was "who put Tang in my OJ?" That's what it tasted like to me, an orange drink- sweet, sort of orange-y, but lacking in the body and presence that pulp provides.

Recently, my salvation has arrived in dairy cases. That's right- orange juice with LOTS OF PULP. More than just answering the question "where does pulp go after the wussy fake-tasting OJ the kids like has had its soul sucked from the mix?" extra-pulp OJ just tastes so much better to me than that de-pulped concoction. This is a drink that puts on no airs and harbors no illusions- when you take a drink, you know exactly where it's been, and it's like the orange is right there, giving you the gift of its goodness. Or something like that. I first tried LOTS OF PULP OJ when I had a pretty bad cold- sneezing and coughing and the like- and just drinking it made me feel better. On top of that, when I went into a coughing fit later in the day, little bits of pulp came up with the lung-butter I coughed up into my mouth, and it tasted a lot better than it would had I been drinking juice without pulp. All right, so that was kind of gross, but it really was a cool moment, in a weird way.

So maybe I can't stop the wussification of the American consumer (why can't they just drink apple juice, fer chrissakes?), but I can do my part to show my love for old-school pulpy OJ. Imagine an orange juice that was 95% pulp, with just enough juice to give the pulp flavor, and it would come out of the carton slowly, like cream soup or ketchup. I know I can't be the only pulp fan out there. So I ask you- pulp, yea or nay?

hahahahahahahaha heeheehee *snort*

In case you haven't heard about it already:

http://enews.earthlink.net/article/str?guid=20050306/422a8e50_3ca6_15526200503061163583095

What a jokester. I know I find the idea of basically taking out an entire country pretty hilarious. I mean, hey, when I was young, I got bored one afternoon and asked my mom what I could do, and one of the suggestions I threw out jokingly was "can I bomb Libya?" Of course, I was eight at the time, and yeah, she called me on it.

The point here isn't that someone is joking about nuking Syria. I'm all for free speech, after all. But it's one thing when, say, a standup comic, a radio talk-show host, or an idle kid jokes about it, and another entirely when someone in an actual position of power makes the suggestion. Then it takes on a level of irresponsibility on the part of joker, I'd say. I'm sure all the people of Syria found it pretty hysterical, to say nothing of its neighbors, who no doubt would've suffered from the fallout. And how about all the parents of the dead and injured soldiers from the Iraqi war, who've died while (vainly, thusfar) searching for the WMDs that Sen. Johnson is so eager to make light of? Rolling in the aisles, I'm betting.

Yeah, Sen. Johnson was within his rights as an American to make that joke. But that doesn't mean it was a good idea. And as a senator, he should know that being not only in the public eye but in a position of power and influence carries a degree of responsibility for one's actions that wouldn't be an issue if he was just a private citizen. That one of the people he was talking to at the time was President Bush, who's almost always in the public eye, makes it worse. I'd like to hear what the people of Syria have to say about this incident- not just his inappropriate joke at their country's expense, but at his dismissive "hey, didn't you realize I was just kidding?" response when he was questioned about it.

Oh, and "just talking between veterans?" Now there's a joke for you. As they said in the film THE OPPOSITE OF SEX, "just because I've gone to a bar mitzvah doesn't make me Jewish."

For the time being...

Those of you who have been waiting for me to write something new on this thing will have to wait a while longer until something worth writing about comes along. I come across blogs all the time where people will write what they did that day, what they had to eat, etc., and that's really not my bag. In other words, still lonely, still underappreciated at work, still unable to get any substantial amount of writing done. Oh, and the bells situation (as described in a previous post) has only gotten worse, I'd say. But hey, seeing plenty of movies, so if you want fresh content, you'd be better off with my film blog at:

http://hkoreeda.tripod.com/filmdribble

However, here's something to tide you over for now, one of those strange news stories. I swear I didn't make this up, even if the incident sounds like something you'd find in a HOME ALONE knockoff. But the vocation of the genius in question is what makes this priceless.

http://enews.earthlink.net/article/str?guid=20050223/421c0dd0_3ca6_1552620050223-2082323585

Enjoy!

Unhappy New Year (please don't read)

(Warning: loads of self-pity contained herein. Do not read on an empty stomach, or on a full stomach for that matter. And no, I'm not drunk.)

So it's 2005, and I still don't have a flying car. But my mode of transport, crappy though it may be, isn't really on my mind right now, since it survived the recent severe dip in temperature and ought to do so again when the time comes. No, with the turning of the years, the time has once again come to assess my life and where I am right now. And what a sad bastard I've become.

Yes, I actually cried just a few minutes ago. I shed tears, the first time since, oh, last New Year's, when I re-watched that masterpiece 25th HOUR. This time, I suppose my tears could potentially be explained by the shattering combo of DOGVILLE and Nico's haunting synth-y version of "My Funny Valentine." But that wouldn't really be accurate. No, I cried for the same reason I did when I was young- because my life has made me sad. This time it wasn't one particular thing, like a painful fall or a sudden loss of a pet, but the combination of every little thing I've been sitting on and wallowing in for years now, and which I haven't really done much to resolve.

My work situation most of you already know, so I'll spare you the gory details. It's a piece of the puzzle that is my life, and though I spend a great deal of time working, my anxieties in life don't really have much to do with the work itself- in fact, fretting over job-related matters is a welcome reprieve from the all-consuming troubles of the world at large. Instead, I think a lot of my problems can be traced back to where I am right now- sitting at home, alone, typing something up on the computer.

This is SO not where I saw myself ten years ago. I know that it's like that for just about everyone, but fuck, this isn't even remotely close. Hell, I didn't even know what I wanted to study in college back then, much less what my plans were in life, but living with a roommate, working long hours, weekends, and holidays to pay the bills weren't on the agenda. The hopeful version of the high-school-me might have imagined the today-me sitting at the computer, yes, but I'd be hard at work writing some great screenplay or novel, not an onanistic blog in which I mostly just feel sorry for myself. Nothing against onanism, you understand. It's just that when you yearn to complete something major and substantial, jotting down your personal feelings feels a little like treading water.

Of course, I've been pretty much blocked for the last month or so, and the few occasions I have been able to eke out a few pages they don't really fit into anything larger. Writer's block is part of the game, of course, but this is getting pretty ridiculous, in my opinion. Part of me wants to just give up. There's a difference between a dream and a goal, after all, a dream being something you hope you might someday find yourself doing, and a goal being something you actually work and strive for. Naturally, the two can coincide, but I'm less and less sure that they actually have in my case. To say nothing of my yearning to actually direct movies. I just have no goddamn idea how I'd get from where I am now to the point where I'd actually make a movie. Sad but true.

It's not that I'm opposed to the idea of "selling out." Back in college this was a big and nauseating idea for me, the idea of trading in one's lofty aspirations to instead find a place in the everyday grind. Right now I can't even find an entry point into this world, much less a comfortable niche in it (hell, I can't even be comfortable in shopping malls, as you already know). I've never been the kind of person who can assimilate easily into his surroundings, and ever since I went to college I've gotten worse and worse at it.

Which brings me to my other problem- I'm really fucking lonely, and I'm scared to do anything to change this. I've always been a solitary person, from the time when I was young, and I've become a bit of a social retard (if you'll pardon the expression) as a result. I've recently discovered that my personality can be alienating or discomforting to those around me, and because of this not a lot of people really want to socialize with me for any extended period of time, not even to tell me in any kind of depth what's wrong with me.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

How does one react to finding this out? Well, if you're me, you smile and nod and stroke your chin, saying things like, "hmmm, I see," and "yeah, I'll work on that." But, to extend Brad's question from I HEART HUCKABEES, how can I be not myself? I've always seen myself as being genial and easygoing, and while the perceptions of are only a certain portion of what I really am, these perceptions are all they've got to go on, and if they're put off by what they see, I can't convince them otherwise. They can't walk the proverbial mile in my shoes, so to speak.

Which brings me to a dilemma- I want to be close to others, but I don't really have much experience with it, and others don't seem to want to be close to me. Maybe it's only certain other people who don't want to be close to me, but right now these people are pretty much all I've got. The wedding I'm going to next week casts this into pretty sharp relief. The bride, the daughter of some family friends, is three years younger than I am. Meanwhile, I'm not married, not engaged, and I haven't even had an honest-to-goodness girlfriend in years (I won't say how many). I'm not saying that marriage is something I crave in the near future- far from it- I'm just extremely lonely, with no light at the end of the tunnel.

How do people meet people? This seems like a silly question, but in my case it's actually fairly sincere. I know that people go to parties and clubs and the like, but frankly these places tend to frighten me. The situation at work is weird (it was a group of coworkers who leveled with my about my personality), and I don't really have many other avenues in my life. I don't need a lot of friends around me- I'm not the kind of person- but a few people I can hang out with on a night like tonight isn't an unreasonable expectation for a guy like me. The upcoming wedding also made me think about this- if I was getting married soon, I have no idea who I'd choose to be my best man. I only keep in semi-regular contact with my best friend from high school, and I'm not close enough with any of my friends nowadays to even consider them. I suppose I'd choose my younger brother, not because we're particularly close but because I wouldn't really have anyone else to turn to.

Thankfully, I don't see myself getting married anytime soon. Again, I'm cool with this. But my loneliness has caused me to yearn for women even while my crippling insecurities have kept me from going anywhere with them. If I have a problem meeting friends, it's at least twenty times as bad when it comes to dating. Most of the females I encounter in my life are in my work environment, meaning they're either (A) career-minded women looking for a mature, settled-in man, or (B) college-aged girls out in search of a good time. I generalize, of course, but in my life the women in between these two extremes are few and far between, and usually spoken for. I've reached the point in my life (three years after graduation) where the trappings of my college years- roommate, casual and faded clothes, no real career prospects- are getting harder and harder to justify as anything other than laziness. But at the same time, I'm not a party guy looking for a casual screw (grass being greener, would that my life were that fun or that eventful). So I'm too much of a slacker for the women in category (A) and too much of a drag for category (B). Add to this that I live in Columbus, where most women here love Buckeye football (I can't stand it) and you've got quite a predicament.

I know, I know. It could be worse. It could always be worse. I have a family that loves me, although I'm kind of a deadbeat son who doesn't keep in touch as often as I should. I'm employed, with health insurance to boot, which in today's job market is nothing to sneeze at. And hey, I still have my health. Or do I? I'm beginning to wonder whether my anxieties haven't affected me physically. Despite having given up caffeine a full six months ago, I've lately had trouble getting a full night's sleep, often waking up two or three times a night even after a long and exhausting day. The resultant fatigue has even affected my sight- on more than one occasion in the past few weeks I've had some trouble with reading numbers out of order (for example, at work I read print number "4214" as "4124").

So what am I to do right now? Even if I get friends, get a better-paying job, and maybe even find a girlfriend, my anxieties will most likely remain. I've had them for years, and it's going to take a lot for me to shed them, I think. I wish I had someone to talk to about my personal issues, maybe even a professional- an analyst, I mean, not a hooker. I don't want to self-medicate (at least not with prescription drugs- whereas if the wedding has an open bar, I'm there), but what could possibly help me break out my current funk?

Many people I know have made New Year's resolutions, but I can't bring myself to do that this year. I guess part of me has gotten tired of my history of not following through on them in years past, but then again the problems in life rarely have concrete solutions. After all, if it was so easy to solve these problems, they would've been solved long ago. I know I have problems, and I know I have to work on them. But I also can't lose the essence of myself, even if it something manifests itself in ways that can make others uneasy. So where do I go from here?

(Thanks for reading. Much less self-pity in the future, I promise.)

It stinks!

Normally I'd post something like this to my film blog, but since I have this page for more personal observations I figured I'd put it here instead.

Is film criticism becoming irrelevant? It's a question that bears asking, not so much for serious film-nerd types, but because of more mainstream moviegoers. My job in a multiplex brings me face to face with these people every day, people who don't necessarily espouse the same ideas on film as an art form as I do, people who still see movies as a tool to unwind and relax after a stressful day. I'm not one of these folks, although I can kind of sympathize with where they're coming from- sometimes you just need something to take your mind off your troubles. And when you have to spend $8.50, you'd like to pick a winner.

Now, sometimes this means seeing a movie like THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW, a silly but highly diverting disaster movie that sells itself on effects and spectacle. But, as the old saying goes, you can't eat burgers everyday. Sometimes you crave something a little different, although with some grounding in the familiar, usually a recognizable cast. How, then, can one choose between the various offerings out there that don't have a $30 million ad campaign or a pre-sold franchise name? That's where the critics come in.

In the past year, the critics have given their seal of approval (more or less) to a number of just-outside-the-mainstream titles as BEFORE SUNSET, ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND, I HEART HUCKABEES, THE LIFE AQUATIC WITH STEVE ZISSOU, BIRTH, SKY CAPTAIN AND THE WORLD OF TOMORROW, and CLOSER, all of which have played at my (mainstream) multiplex. These positive ratings have (to a certain extent) encouraged a number of people to see these films, and when I've had the chance to observe the audiences exiting after these films, more often than not I've heard a distinct amount of grumbling. Random comments I've heard have included "well, THAT sucked," "I didn't get it," or the old favorite "what the hell was that about?"

None of the aforementioned titles are outside my cinematic comfort zone, so I can't exactly empathize with people who don't receive these films on their respective wavelengths. Still, I can see where they're coming from. When one is used to viewing a certain kind of film (e.g. Hollywood) in a certain way (e.g. "turning the brain off"), watching something in a non-commercial style that requires active engagement in the story can cause uneasiness and discomfort in an audience caught unawares.

I suppose the mainstream critics are at least partly to blame for this. One major reason is the ratings shorthand that has pervaded contemporary movie reviews, providing an at-a-glance assessment of a film's quality, or lack thereof. Taken in the context of a full review, a critic's rating can provide a relative measure of his feelings, but more and more newspapers and magazines have taken the ratings out of their natural context. Nearly every (mainstream-oriented) publication I read nowadays has a page devoted to "capsule" reviews and ratings, with little more than a sentence or two to back up the rating. So when one picks up a newspaper with the intent of finding something to see, there's a list of movies, star ratings, and maybe a bit of synopsis or a pithy observation.

The problem comes from taking the star ratings at face value- i.e. to assume that every film listed under a given rating is equal. To name one ready example, Roger Ebert gave both VAN HELSING and THE BROWN BUNNY 3 stars. Having seen both films I can attest to the fact that assuming one film is equal to the other is, quite frankly, laughable. And yes, I realize that the example is a bit extreme- after all, they were never meant for the same audience, they were never booked at the same theatre in Columbus. However, if two different films at the same multiplex are rated similarly by critics (for example, BIRTH and FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS), there's a temptation to think both films to be equally-suitable choices for a casual weekend viewing, when that's clearly not the case.

It's this conundrum, and the bad feelings it stirs up among some viewers, that brings me back to my original question. Is film criticism becoming irrelevant? I don't think so, although the discontent many people feel for critics would imply otherwise. If people are going to put stock in the opinions of critics, these people need to learn to actually read the reviews, instead of just going by the critic's grade. A good critic will, in the process of expressing his own opinions on a film, provide enough information on the film's style and substance for a reader to gauge whether or not he's interested in the film in question. If you trust a critic, you should be able to read a review and know whether you want to see the film, provided you hadn't already decided.

I think it also helps to know one's own tastes. If you don't like a certain kind of movie, that's OK. As with anything in life, when it comes to cinema we all have a comfort zone (mine includes violent Asian revenge flicks and long-ass French movies about nothing, but does not include Garry Marshall movies). If you want to try something new, that's fine, but if you don't like it, don't blame someone else. But at the same time, don't let that discourage you from trying something else that's new in the future. After all, do you think I've been watching Claire Denis movies all my life?

Don't ever try to swim against the mighty tide of justice.

A few weeks ago, I got a jury summons in the mail. I was summoned to report tomorrow morning at the municipal courthouse, and I'd be in bed right now if not for the fact that the theatre doesn't give time off for jury duty. While there are certain things in this country and its current government that have me disillusioned, at heart I believe in the system itself, and so I'm a little frustrated that I'm unable to report for jury duty. We're taught from a young age that jury duty is both a right and a responsibility for all citizens, much like voting, and I sincerely believe that's true.

What rankles me is that, like so many other things in life, money became the deciding factor for me- my choices were to either be excused from my civic duty in order to remain financially above-ground, or to report tomorrow morning and bail on work for as many as two weeks (if not more) during a season in which the theatre is short-staffed. So naturally, I chose the former, with one of my managers sending a request to the courthouse asking that I be excused (at least, I hope she sent it- all I need now is to get in trouble for THIS).

So pardon me if my rants all seem to have the same theme of late- I just can't help but feel like I'm hemmed-in by my economic station these days. If I was working a job more befitting my degree and intelligence level, I'm sure I could've gotten vacation pay in order to be a good citizen. But since I'm working for, quite frankly, lousy pay, I can't afford not to keep working.

Which brings me to a point I made around election time- while the financially comfortable are free to participate in government if they want, it's an uphill battle for those who are scraping by. Back then, I suggested that Election Day be made into a nationally-observed holiday, and now I think something really ought to be done for jury service. Not a holiday, of course, but something that encourages service among people of every social class (there, I said it), not just those who can afford two weeks off. Perhaps an incentive for companies who grant their employees jury pay, I dunno. This way, juries really will be comprised of the defendant's peers, and not just if the dependent is well-off, either.

Do you have rock'n'roll? Can I buy it?

For those of you who don't get the reference, the title of my blog comes from Don Hertzfeldt's animated short REJECTED. This is seriously one of the funniest things I've seen in a long, long time. I originally saw it as part of Hertzfeldt and Mike Judge's anthology film THE ANIMATION SHOW, but it can also be found online at http://www.bitterfilms.com/. REJECTED was even nominated for an Oscar, for those of you who care about such things. For those who don't, don't let the Academy endorsement frighten you- it's so cool and warped that the nomination was almost certainly a fluke.

Also, WinMX rules. I downloaded a bunch of Leningrad Cowboys music and the sweet "Al Capone" song that I heard in Claire Denis' U.S. GO HOME, among other things. Of course, file-sharing is bad, immoral, etc. But it's also good for those of us who don't have gobs of money to spend on CDs. Therein lies the rub, etc.

For those who are hankering for more film reviews, I should be posting a short piece on OLDBOY in the next day or so, as soon as I'm able to watch it without being interrupted. I'm stoked to see it- I hear it's awesome- but I just haven't had time lately.

We don't need bells to worship God.

So I gave up caffeine a few months ago. Aside from the somewhat-astounded looks I get from people when I tell them, I've had no trouble whatsoever with it. I've become calmer, I think, and less prone to frantic or angry outbursts. And my body has been co-operative- up until recently, that is, when it has been rebelling somewhat. I've been getting tired more easily since I gave up caffeine, but lately I've found it difficult to sleep more than a few hours at a time, or when I have, it hasn't been a particularly deep sleep.

Which brings me to the point, the reason why I'm up at 9 in the AM on Sunday, my day off, complaining on my brand-spankin'-new blog instead of snoozing as I ought to be. This morning, around 7:30, the Catholic church down the block rang its bells. This isn't the first time I've been awakened by the bell-ringing, but in the past, it's been my bad luck rather than the early hour that was to blame. Sometimes the church is given to ringing the bells in the evening while I'm napping, and one time was especially rough since I was trying to sleep off a migraine. But this time I wasn't to blame- after all, it was 7:30 in the morning, an hour when quite a few people are still sleeping, especially on a Sunday.

Now Sunday, as most people know, is the day traditionally set aside by the Catholic faith (and others besides) as the day of rest. All good Catholics are to get up and attend mass that day, and aren't supposed to work. But what about the rest of us (the folks who celebrate Festivus)? I'm certainly respectful of all kinds of religions (unlike some people: see http://enews.earthlink.net/article/entguid=20041218/41c3b950_29e_67020041218314577160), and as a lapsed Catholic, with many family members who are active in the Church, I've got nothing against the Church or their God, even if we aren't exactly on speaking terms. And yeah, I'm certainly glad that Bess got into heaven- she went through a lot, after all. But come the fuck on. How many Catholics were still in bed when the bells rang? Chiming bells for the entire surrounding neighborhood to hear regardless of the hour (and yes, I'd maintain that 7:30 AM on Sunday is early) is just plain inconsiderate. To say nothing of the Freedom Of Religion Is Freedom From Religion crowd, who now have more fodder for their secular-centered arguments.

As for me, as soon as I'm able, I plan to enjoy the day of rest by resting. I hope the bell-ringer doesn't get any wild ideas.

I live in a giant bucket.

The Xmas season is in full swing, as we all know. Some people I know will ream me out for calling it Xmas, but really, what the hell does Christ have to do with it anymore? So anyway, I recently made my yearly trip to the mall to buy gifts for the family. Walking around, I realized how alienating the mall was for a guy like me, a guy who doesn't buy into the whole go-go consumer mindset. As I walked around this temple of commerce, I noticed that nearly everyone else was dressed in nice, un-faded clothes, wearing expensive fragrances, and carrying fancy cell phones and other assorted gizmos. I'm against the idea of carrying cell phones (a rant for another day), but what kind of got to me was the clothing/smelly-stuff issue. Thinking about it, I realized that I haven't bought a piece of clothing that wasn't socks, underwear, jeans, seasonal outerwear, or souvenir t-shirts in at least two years, and I've never spent any money on what might be classified a "fragrance."

This realization, combined with the fact that most Xmas music makes my asshole clench, made me quite uneasy. I didn't recognize these people, I thought. I don't see myself in them. They look like people I'd see on television, and I don't watch television. Are they the strange ones, or am I strange for not conforming to their ways? Is the fact that I don't wear fashionable clothes and drench myself in manufactured scents the reason I don't have a girlfriend or a well-paying honest-to-goodness-grown-up job?

And then I realized- these were exactly the thoughts I'm supposed to have, walking into a mall. The trend-based environment that was so suffocating to me is meant to produce anxiety in shoppers, in order to compel them to make guilt-based purchases lest they feel like they're behind the curve. Unfashionable behavior is the disease, and large-scale spending is the cure. Trouble is, if you think this way, you can never stop spending, since fashion is temporary, and next season is just around the corner.

Meanwhile, I'm dressing much the same way I did in high school, spending most my incidental scratch on DVDs instead of the clothes on my back, and I could honestly live the rest of my life happily without going inside a mall ever again. I know enough people who are also like this to know that I'm not alone in thinking this way. We may be a minority, but I'm fine with that.

Untitled 2

Claude Monet- Wisteria 1

Ludivine Sagnier tribute from December 2002

Movie stars are, by nature, larger-than-life figures. Once Robert Mitchum asked his wife why he was so famous. She answered something to the effect of "because your face is projected onto a 40-foot screen." A strange but natural part of being a true film lover is to find that a movie star, be they an icon, a character actor, or merely an up-and-comer, haunting your thoughts and memories. Pauline Kael once wrote an entire essay on Cary Grant. Bill Clinton, when interviewed by Roger Ebert, spoke about Casablanca and focused on how his greatest memory of the film was wondering what it would have been like to have known Ingrid Bergman. Ebert himself often mentions Catherine Deneuve in his work.

Sometimes I look at Hollywood today and shake my head- not merey because of the films themselves, but aso because of the less-than-stellar new crop of movie stars. I mean, Vin Diesel? Sure, the guy's got muscles, but where's the personality? The spark? The presence? Reese Witherspoon was interesting for a while, but then she started taking lead roles in big studio projects and lost much of what made her interesting in the first place. Yet these quote-unquote "new stars" command $15-20 million a picture to make forgettable dreck.

The problem, I think, is that they can't see past the money to the true root of movie stardom, which is to make a movie sing as only a real star can. It's not necessary to be drop-dead gorgeous to be a star, but it is imperative that one be unique, because if a star is unique then certain kinds of roles are unimaginable with any other actor, insuring a long and fruitful career. Of course, there is the danger of being TOO unique- Linda Manz, for example, gave two great performances then fell off the radar- but has anyone who has seen Days of Heaven or Out of the Blue ever forgotten her?

I've only seen the French actress Ludivine Sagnier in three films thusfar- Francois Ozon's Water Drops on Burning Rocks and 8 Women, and this year's My Wife Is An Actress. However, if my instincts are correct, I believe she could be an interesting performer for many years to come. She's not Hollywood-glamourous (her face is more girlish and open than conventionally beautiful) but she has a rare and completely credible appeal, both in terms of charisma and eroticism. On top of this, she engenders a great deal of audience goodwill with seemingly little effort, making this film lover, at the very least, curious to see what kinds of adventures she will embark upon during the course of a film.

In Water Drops on Burning Rocks, Sagnier takes what begins as a two-hander about a young man dominated by an older man, and causes an almost seismic shift in the film's tone. When she first enters the film, she is girlish, immature, pining after her romantic ideal with puppy-dog eyes and concern practically dripping from her oval face. Finally, when she has won her boyfriend back (if only temporarily), she blossoms. We see a smile finally alight on her mouth, and we feel as if she's earned the happiness. It feels completely genuine.

Sincerity, however, is merely part of her appeal. She also gives her characters a wondrous kind of avidness, a tendency to seemingly turn every small gesture or snippet of dialogue into a rhetorical question- saying, for example, "good morning" in a way that implies, "wonderful morning, isn't it?" The most basic expression of this in Water Drops can be seen when she wakes up in the morning, opens the curtains, and then turns around to look at her boyfriend in bed. The first time I saw the film, I was struck mainly by the balance of the innocent and the carnal in this scene, in how she was completely naked (and pleasantly nude too- how refreshing simply to see a nicely curved female body onscreen in an age of lanky, leggy stick-figures) while at the same time not altogether self-conscious about her nakedness.

What struck me on the second viewing was Sagnier's posture as she looked at her boyfriend. She stands up straight, arms behind her back, remininscent of a question mark made flesh, and without saying a word she conveys the thought, "so this is my future husband? I can't wait." With these seemingly simple gestures, her act of looking becomes an act of regarding, of beholding.

Having been thoroughly enchanted by this performance (even more so upon the second viewing of it), I was a bit taken aback when I learned of her limited screen time in My Wife Is An Actress. I viewed the film, which was pretty good but innocuous and kind of shallow, and I grew impatient waiting for her to appear. When she finally did, the first sight of her was worth the wait.

It's a silly scene, really, when we first see her. Yvan, the film's protagonist, has enrolled in an acting class and is improvising the blossoming of a flower. As he does this, we see reactions from the other students in the class, until finally we see Ludivine, sitting on a step, legs crossed, head cocked slightly to one side, a smile of great amusement on her face. Once again, she's won us over.

Because with Ludivine Sagnier, one never senses any bullshit. She's expressive in the best way, in that she conveys more than simple surface emotion ("now I'm happy... and now I'm sad") but rather allows deeper, more complex feelings to bubble up from a deep reservoir of emotional experience and instinct. In a later scene of the film, one that is supposedly a throwaway moment, we see her acting a scene with Yvan, and she acts out her character's breakdown. She lets out an anguished wail that's so emotionally specific it's almost chilling, and it nearly rips the fabric of the film in two- in the middle of the cuteness and the innocuousness, here's something REAL.

That Sagnier's character is quickly disposed of and forgotten by the story a few minutes after this scene takes place is a lapse from which the film cannot recover, falling back into its glorified sitcom patterns. And yet while the film might have maintained a better tonal balance with a blander, more forgettable actress in the role, I believe that the film is infinitely more interesting with her in it. Ludivine Sagnier is so eminently watchable, so guileless, so dare-I-say-lovable?, that I'd rather see her somewhat wasted in a film than to not see her in the film at all (of course, I'd rather see her used well, but never mind). Even if all I remember about My Wife Is An Actress was how much more I cared about her character than anyone else onscreen, it's more than I would've remembered otherwise.

Given Sagnier’s talent for seeming natural onscreen, it was still difficult to tell how she would fare in her second film with François Ozon, 8 Women. Here’s a film that’s nothing if not stylized, and while her older costars- such luminaries as Catherine Deneuve, Isabelle Huppert, Fanny Ardant, and Danielle Darrieux- came from a time when stylized acting was in fashion, it has fallen out of style recently. How would Ludivine fare?

I needn’t have worried. The character of Catherine, a spunky tomboy who isn’t yet of age to come out in society, would seem to be an odd role for Sagnier, but it actually fits her like a glove. She’s winning and pranksome, utilizing her young age as an excuse to cause all sorts of mischief around the house. She’s “mama’s baby” and “daddy’s little girl”, but remains just out of sight of the adult goings-on, holing up in her bedroom reading detective novels and awaiting her turn. At one point in the film, after her father is found dead, some vulgar accusations begin to fly, and Sagnier’s face lights up with glee- “finally,” she seems to be thinking, “I get to hear the good stuff!”

In another scene, Catherine shares a private moment with her older sister Suzon (Virginie Ledoyen), recently returned from college. Suzon tells her about her boyfriend, and Catherine can’t help but ask questions. Just like a younger sister, she can’t confine herself to questions like “what does he look like?” and Sagnier seamlessly segues from “is he broke?” to “does he have a brother” in a manner that doesn’t even feel like she’s changing the subject. When Suzon talks down to her, saying “I just want to protect you,” Sagnier pitches a fit, perfectly capturing the ways in which she believes the limitations which ostensibly protect her also keep her from experience life- in other words, the eternal curse of the youngest sibling.

For most of 8 Women, Catherine is a character on the sidelines of the action, as befits her status in the film’s society, but in the climactic scene, she is left front and center in the story. I won’t go into details, for those who haven’t yet seen the film, but much like her wail in My Wife Is An Actress, the way she gives her showcase monologue completely shifts the tone of the film as it heads into the home stretch. Unlike that lesser film, however, 8 Women is fully ready for it, and concludes gracefully, with Sagnier proving that she has the right to stand tall and proud alongside the legends in the cast. I’m reminded of another wonderful film with a cast full of greats, this one all-male: Glengarry Glen Ross. If the icons of 8 Women are like this film’s equivalent of Jack Lemmon, Al Pacino, Ed Harris and Alec Baldwin, then Ludivine Sagnier must surely be the film’s Kevin Spacey, a thusfar-underseen performer who holds the screen opposite the stars, primed for stardom herself. You get the feeling that this won’t be the last you’ll hear of her.

For what is a movie star anyway, but a face that colonizes your memory? Sure, Ronald Colman might've been a more bankable star in his day than Sydney Greenstreet, and Van Heflin more of a conventional leading man than Robert Mitchum, but who do we remember today? The great stars can't be duplicated, and they stick with us because nobody can play the roles they did quite like they did. I'm reminded of Paul Henreid's hesitation to appear in Casablanca because he thought that it could hinder his career as a bankable romantic lead. Well, as all romantic leads did then and mostly still do now, Henreid got the girl in the end, but with Bogart, Bergman, Greenstreet, Lorre, and Rains on board, who really cares?

Isabelle Huppert tribute from December 2002

A few months ago, when thinking about my yearly movie awards, the notion came to me that every year it seems that there is a figure somewhere within the filmmaking vocation who dominates my memory of that year. Sure, I hand out awards for great performances and noteworthy technical achievements, but what about someone whose greatness exceeds one specific award, someone whose contributions to cinema have achieved a breadth that transcends one single film?

So, going from this idea, I came up with the concept of the Cinematic Figure of the Year. Sort of my Most Valuable Player award. Like in professional basketball, my individual awards for acting, directing, writing, etc. might be like the honors for top scorer, best defensive player, and the like, but this award is for the person who rises above the rest by combining all the talents at his or her disposal.

Of course, sometimes one performance can be enough. Consider Daniel Day-Lewis, who hadn’t acted in five years only to return in Gangs of New York, giving a thundering performance by bringing one of cinema’s most epic and indelible villains to life. Or Jack Nicholson, who long ago seemed to have lapsed into self-parody, but whose turn in About Schmidt was just as indelible as Day-Lewis’, in a quieter way.

Then there are those did wonderful work this year in more than one film. The first name that springs to mind is Julianne Moore, who took her character in Far From Heaven and made her sing, with all the stylized grace of an old-Hollywood icon. Couple that turn with her sad-eyed performance (in an underwritten role) in The Hours, and she’s had a pretty darn memorable year. Another multiple threat was that dependable character actor Brian Cox, as a foul-mouthed screenwriting guru in Adaptation, Edward Norton’s recovering-alcoholic and self-blaming father in 25th Hour, and an absent presence in Red Dragon, a kind of symbol to show how far the Hannibal Lecter saga has fallen.

But why must it be an actor? Charlie Kaufman’s year was pretty damn good. His screenplay of Human Nature was clever, even while being undermined by cutesy direction, and Adaptation was even more bracingly original. Maybe Hayao Miyazaki deserved this award, on the basis of his Spirited Away, easily the year’s best animated film. A case could be made for Roy Andersson, the Swedish director of Songs From the Second Floor whose 25 year hiatus from films puts even Day-Lewis’ exile to shame, and who came back equally strongly.

Ultimately though, my choice came down to two actresses, both wonderful, both of whom gave more than one excellent performance this past year. First, let it be said that Meryl Streep is second to none as far as talent and esteem are concerned, as she proved in 2002 with The Hours, her best dramatic turn since The Bridges of Madison County, and Adaptation, which afforded her the opportunity to give a performance that felt completely new. As Susan Orlean, Streep was funnier, looser, and sexier than she’s been in a long, long time, and in light of such wonderful work in both films I was tempted to choose her.

However, when it came down to selecting the one person who I believe dominated my cinematic appreciation over the past twelve months, how was I to choose anyone but Isabelle Huppert? Due to the xenophobic American distribution system, her (count ‘em) three great performances in 2002 weren’t as widely seen as they should have been, but for me, and anyone else who saw her in The Piano Teacher, 8 Women, and Merci Pour le Chocolat, she was brilliance incarnate.

Of course, I’ve been aware of her brilliance for years, as has anyone who pays attention to French cinema. Huppert has been one of the screen’s most brilliant performers for a long time, and certainly one of the most inimitable, in films such as La Cérémonie, The School of Flesh, Violette, and many others. There are certain hallmarks of a Huppert performance (her enigmatic, unreadable facial expression; her buried and often dangerous passion), but it would be a mistake to call her range limited. On the contrary, few actresses are capable of such varied work, which can be attributed to the skill with which she uses the tools at her disposal. Like a skilled carpenter can build so many different kinds of houses with a hammer, nails, and wood, so Huppert can use her poker face and her buried well of emotions to give the world not only her nasty piece of work in La Cérémonie but also the vulnerability of Entre Nous.

The Piano Teacher made for perhaps the most daunting challenge of her career. So many films paint the motivations of their protagonists using broad strokes, so that they’re apparent to everyone in the audience, but director Michael Haneke, working from Elfriede Jelinek’s book, presents Huppert’s character, Erika Kohut, as an enigma. At the beginning of the film, Erika is cold and dispassionate about most of the things in her life. Her music, to which she has devoted her life, seems more an annoyance than anything else. She berates and insults her students, telling them flat-out how untalented they are, how they need to be serious about studying music. Does she really feel this way, or is this simply her way of asserting control over them?

Erika’s relationship with her mother (played by Annie Girardot) is no less mysterious. If Erika is stand-offish with her students, she is angry and antagonistic with Mother. One day, when Erika comes home with a new dress, she tries to hide from Mother, but Mother sees it, takes it from her and rips it. Erika, enraged, grabs her mother, ripping out some of her hair. What led to such a rage? Is it Erika’s submerged passion surfacing as a result of this loss of control, or has Mother so dominated Erika’s life that the only thing she can muster up any real feeling about is Mother? Perhaps the fact that Erika shares a bed with her mother can help us answer the question, but perhaps not.

One day, at a party, Erika meets Walter (Benoit Magimel). He is an engineering student who also plays the piano. They talk, and he is intrigued by her. He decides to audition at the music school where Erika teaches, and eventually becomes her student. She knows he’s talented, but doubts his seriousness. Regardless, that doesn’t stop her from pursuing him as a lover. We see why she might appeal to him- it’s not uncommon for a man to desire an icy woman, hoping she might warm under his gaze. Her reasons for pursuing him are trickier. At the beginning, she clearly dominates him, by controlling him sexually in a public restroom and then denying him release. But later, when she gives him a letter delineating the ways in which she wants her to dominate him, he recoils, disgusted, and we as audience members wonder whether or not she isn’t dominating him just as much this way. Throughout their time together, she is always testing him, first musically (as when she takes him to task for insulting Bruckner), then sexually. Does she really love Walter, but doesn’t know any other way to show it? Is she even capable of love? Does she merely want someone she can control the way Mother controls her? Or is it even more complicated than that- given her mother’s advanced age, is Erika looking for someone to take her place?

We never find out the answers, and the film certainly never tells us. But Huppert has figured out her take on the character, even if she isn’t sharing. She sees the performance in small, exact gestures, from the confident way she strides into a pornography shop to the casualness with which she reaches under her bed for a shoebox full of sex toys, hidden next to a pile of fashion magazines. In both instances, her matter-of-factness is disarming, but we never find out if she really is confident or if it’s simply a mechanism she uses to catch people off-guard. There are so many more questions this film makes me ask myself, but to try to answer such questions is beside the point. It’s a testament to the character, and to the skill and depth of Huppert’s performance, that there are so many questions to ask, and that these questions are more intriguing than any answer could be.

Merci Pour le Chocolat is merely Huppert’s most recent film directed by Claude Chabrol, with whom she’s worked a number of times in the past quarter-century. In this one, Huppert plays a Swiss chocolatier who may have killed her current husband’s previous wife. She is in the background for much of the film, which seems to focus on a girl (played by Anna Mouglalis) who may have been switched at birth with Huppert’s husband’s son. However, Huppert dominates my memory of the film, not only with her usual cold demeanor but also in the off-putting way she has about her while attempting to be ingratiating. What feels new about this performance is that aspect of it, in which she’s never more chilling than when being sincere.

The film also affords Huppert a final confession scene in which she gets to deliver a quintessential Isabelle Huppert line of dialogue: “Instead of loving people, I say ‘I love you’, and they believe me.” This line provides a key to the essential mystery of Isabelle Huppert, which is that you can never be sure where her characters stand on anything. A smile is somehow less than happy, tears may or may not be sincere, and what she says and what she means don’t necessarily jive. This is, I think, what makes her so fascinating onscreen.

After such intense portrayals, it’s tempting to view her turn in 8 Women as a mere romp, but that would be underestimating her (and anyone who knows Isabelle Huppert as an actress knows that underestimating her will only lead to trouble). In François Ozon’s wonderful ensemble comedy/whodunit/musical concoction, Huppert is first among equals as the spinster Augustine, younger sister of woman-of-the-house Gaby (Catherine Deneuve, regally elegant). She pulls out all the stops in her performance, turning all her knobs up to 11 as she gossips, spews out accusations, throws tantrums, and does all she can to hog attention, as younger sisters are so apt to do. In the wrong hands, the performance could’ve been a disaster, shrill and tiresome, but Huppert never steps falsely or tentatively, throwing herself into the role with an almost frightening conviction. She nails the role by virtue of going out of her way to sell it.

One of the things she gets exactly right is Augustine’s antagonistic nature. Older sister Gaby has snagged a rich husband and moved her mother (Danielle Darrieux) and sister into her home, but while Gaby may have not only economic and social but also physical superiority (“I’m beautiful and rich, she’s ugly and poor”, Gaby says at one point), Augustine makes it a point to assert her moral superiority. She is always the first to make accusations, and apt to fly into a rage when accused herself, at one point smashing one of Gaby’s vases after being accused of murder. She antagonizes everyone else in the house, casting a particularly critical eye on Gaby’s younger daughter Catherine (Ludivine Sagnier), who is spunky and tomboyish and doesn’t fit the younger-sister mold in the way Augustine would prefer her to. Feeling overlooked by those around her, she acts out with attention-getting tactics, such as a heart condition which may or not be imagined, and fits of sobbing.

And yet, as is so often the case in an Isabelle Huppert performance, there’s also a more vulnerable side. The one scene where this is put on display is in her musical number (all the stars of 8 Women get one), in which she sings of loving someone she can’t tell about her feelings. Sitting at the piano, speaking words of love, her voice becomes softer, more mellow, and then she begins to sing. Much of her song takes place with her face in close-up, which enables the audience to actually see the tears gradually welling up in her eyes (contrasted with her deliberately phony tantrum-sobbing elsewhere). When finally the tears fall from her eyes and down her cheeks, it’s a wonderful and privileged moment, as though she’s always had these feelings and has been waiting for the music to draw them out of her. This image lingers in the mind throughout the film, coloring the scenes where she has seemingly reverted back to her old frantic self, causing the audience to nod with the recognition that, yes, we know that there’s more to her than this.

What I think ultimately makes Isabelle Huppert such an asset to the cinema is two important factors: ballsiness and a sheer lack of laziness. The first factor is readily apparent in the roles she chooses, which are often sexually provocative and sometimes quite bizarre, but regardless of the nature of the role she throws herself into it fully, finding the character from within. Likewise, she isn’t afraid of characters who aren’t likable, which may hold her back from being a big box-office draw but also makes her a more interesting actress in that she can allow herself to be more complex and human.

The lack of laziness is even more rare, I think, but just as important. What I mean when I say that she isn’t lazy isn’t just that she puts a great deal of effort and energy into a performance- lots of actors do that- but that she goes out of her way to make each performance unique, not just in the small details but also the underpinnings, the questions audience members ask themselves about the character when the film is over. For all their seeming similarity in the broad outlines, Huppert’s three great performances in 2002 are ultimately very different and original, as is her recent supporting role in Les Destinées Sentimentales, in which takes a role with perhaps fifteen minutes of screen time, and instead of coasting as many actors would she creates a fully-functioning and well-seen character.

Among all the wonderful actors and actresses that are currently working, no name is a greater guarantee that I’ll be intrigued by a film than Isabelle Huppert’s. Her unique skill ensures that she will be able to shine a light into unexplored corners of her characters, even in films that wouldn’t seem to have a place for this. Most of the time, she plays the antagonist to the more beautiful women onscreen, even though she herself is quite beautiful, but I think that’s another thing that makes her interesting. She has a real-world beauty that doesn’t quite stack up against big-star glamour, which causes her to be underestimated. And as I said before, it’s not a good idea to underestimate Isabelle Huppert. I’m only hoping more people will see her great performances, not only from 2002 but from her entire career, as well as all the great ones to come, so that she’ll get all the credit she deserves for being a peerless talent.

It wasn't really the pronunciation that bothered me.