If I Were Still in Grad School

I have the greatest fondness for the Critical Studies courses I took in film school, and especially for the insane papers I was given license to write for said classes.

For Prof. Drew Casper's Hitchcock course, I explored Hitch's use and subversion of Cary Grant's public persona. This was hugely enjoyable, not least because it allowed me to a) watch Notorious over and over and over again and b) rail at length against the fiasco that is Suspicion. God! Just saying the name of the movie makes me angry all over again. It's a perfectly good, even chilling piece of suspense -- it even has a haunting scene involving a staircase, as in Notorious -- but with one glaring flaw.

Someone convinced/bribed/forced Hitchcock to re-edit the end of the movie, on the grounds that the American public did not want to see Grant as a bad guy. Result: You waste two hours of your life watching a movie that STRONGLY IMPLIES that Grant intends to kill his wife, and then see the whole thing go pouring down the drain when it ends with heavily doctored scene of the two actors, apologising to each other for all the previous two hours of misunderstandings, and agreeing to go forward in marital bliss.

(I say "heavily doctored" because each actor delivers the crucial lines with the back of his/her head to the camera -- the better to conceal that whatever's being said, it isn't what actually came out of the actor's mouth when they shot the scene the first time.)

Almost as enjoyable, but utterly indefensible as a serious critical studies paper was my James Bond paper, exploring the motifs from Thunderball borrowed/misappropriated by the BBC production team behind the mid-60s seasons of Doctor Who. This involved multiple viewings of Thunderball and a grainy, US-format videotape of a DW episode entitled, I believe, The Silurians.

I realize that might sound insane, but the production team actually admitted they had, in fact, based the Third Doctor and his various toys on James Bond, so in many respects, this paper was far more factual and academically valid than my Grant paper.

Film school is far, far behind me now. (Er, by which I mean it's been about a year since I graduated. Whoo hoo! Fourteen months of MFAhood!) But I still feel the urge, now and then, to hole up with a pile of books and a couple of DVDs and whip off 12 pages on some intersection of high and popular culture. In recent weeks, the list of possible papers has been stacking up in my mind, so I'm making a blog post of them, the better to inspire topic-hungry scholars everywhere:

Dollhouse vs. A Doll's House - Joss Whedon a) is a graduate of Wesleyan, with b) well-documented feminist beliefs (see: Buffy the Vampire Slayer), and c) has eyes. Therefore, there is zero chance he has not read/studied the ur-feminist drama, Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. In this paper, we will explore the thematic commonalities between the two works, including the female protagonist who is underestimated by everyone in her world, the rigid institutions around both Echo and Nora that will not allow them to grow into full personhood, and the explicit debt each woman owes and is endeavoring to repay by "serving" in one or more roles within the existing power structure.

Becker vs. House - Two likeable comic actors, two surly misanthropic medical doctors. One is a monster hit, one is a little-respected sitcom now enjoying a belated popularity in syndication. What the hell?

From Fast Ball to Sleaze Ball: The Evolving Dramatic Personae of Ted Danson - The same guy that America scorned when he played a surly misanthropic doctor, now enjoying critical acclaim for his turn as an utterly corrupt pump-and-dump CEO on Damages. Is it the silver hair? What the hell?

Jack Lemmon: Stinking up the Joint Since 15 Seconds After Filming Wrapped on The Apartment - Yes, agreed. Jack Lemmon was amazing in his early films. And then he ossified in a horrific caricature of his earlier performances. So much so that I believe Mamet deliberately cast him in Glengarry Glen Ross because Lemmon's terrible, overly-mannered acting was the only way to show the audience exactly how rote his character's salesmanship had become.

Richard Dreyfus: The Anti-Jack Lemmon - Unlike Lemmon, I think Richard Dreyfus has delivered a lifetime of smart, unique performances. (Not counting his laugh, which is always the same, no matter what movie. But I can't hold that against him. A man's laugh is like his sex face -- it's not really the kind of thing he can change.)

(Mom, if you're reading my blog, now might be a good time to stop.)

But in 2009, there is an unthinking tsunami of critical admiration for Lemmon that he does not deserve, primarily because so many of his early films are considered classics. While Dreyfus, who has turned in marvelous performances in so-called fluff, such as Jaws, What About Bob? and Moon Over Parador, enjoys no such acclaim. I call bullshit -- it's high time we recognized Richard Dreyfus for the unique American talent that he is.

Quint's Indianapolis Monologue: A Critical Exploration - Yes, since you ask, I did see Jaws on HBO last week. So what? My larger point is still valid, i.e., as a piece of dramatic storytelling, Quint's monologue is without peer. It segues seamlessly between the drunken scar comparisons that come before, and the boisterous singing that comes after. It explains Quint's maniacal determination to bring down the shark, and it reminds the audience -- who hasn't seen anyone eaten for almost an hour at this point -- exactly what the worst case scenario is. And, of course, it sets up the dramatic irony that is cruising towards Quint in about 20 minutes time.

Getting High Off His Own Supply: Why You Never Want to See the Words "Written and Directed By" in the Opening Credits of Any Movie, But Especially If the Next Words Are "M. Night Shyamalan," "Paul Haggis" or "Charlie Kaufman" - I also saw The Lady in the Water on HBO last week. It was not a good experience. In the Valley of Elah made me so angry it gave me a headache.

And I cannot pronounce the world "synecdoche," so I'm throwing Charlie Kaufman in there for good measure.

I Made This! (NSFW!)

If we're Facebook friends or you follow me on Twitter, or we otherwise know each other in one of the 9 million forms of acquaintance that exist in this modern age, then you already know about this, and I apologise for bringing it up again.

The AMC website calls this a "minisode." It's basically a 4 1/2 minute sketch, using the characters from the original dramatic series "Breaking Bad." I believe it is wholly, entirely awesome, but just to hit some of the essential points:

* From the very beginning, the show was determined to make these minisodes only if it would throw a little work and/or cash to the various aspiring writers/assistants on staff.

* I had given up all hope of getting to write one, and on the last day before we wrapped for the holidays, I got a call from a producer, telling me to bring in a finished draft when we started up again in January.

* I got a lot of great feedback on that script, and then the whole thing was thrown out because the cast, subject matter and setting needed to be "more edgy."

* So instead, we went with this, which is many things, but most especially, it is more edgy. If by edgy you mean dirty.

* The whole thing is covered by the WGA, which means that, thanks to last year's writers' strike, I now can tip my baby toe in the warm pool of milk and honey that is the Writers' Guild of America. But only my baby toe.

* One Saturday back in January, MG & I drove out to watch them film this, and I have probably never had more fun in my whole life. (Previous never-had-more-fun-in-my-whole-life: Staying up until 2:30 a.m., watching the final day of shooting on Season One of "Mad Men.") Our cast is so incredibly talented and they were so generous with their time and ability. They took a script written by a writers' PA and worked with the same focus and energy they bring to every episode. I am beyond grateful.

* There is one minor gaffe. If you watch it more than once, you'll probably spot it the second or third time through. I'm not just saying that to drive traffic. Although it would be awesome if these things got a bajillionty hits apiece. (And that goes for all of them -- the other four minisodes are written by my fellow assistants, and they are EVEN FUNNIER than this one, so go watch them on www.amctv.com now!)

J'adore

In time for Valentine's Day, a brief list of things of which I am especially fond:

* Clementines. These things will be the death of me. Whose bright idea was it to sell them by the crate? Do you know how many of these bastards I can eat in a sitting? Do you know what that does to my digestive tract? You know what, forget I asked.

* Wasabi crackers 'n peanuts. Spectacularly addictive. The packaging insists that they're "baked not fried!", as if that somehow means they're not still junk food.

* Wasabi tuna poke from Bristol Farms. It is probably a leading cause of over-fishing, and I have to stop buying/eating it, but it dumbfounds me that that $8 buys you 6 oz of red, tender tuna tossed with sesame oil, wasabi and seaweed. I don't know how authentically Hawaiian it is, but if this is any indication of the food there, I am suddenly a lot more interested in visiting.

* Roaring 40's Blue Cheese. Grab a chair, Stilton. Put your feet up, Gorgonzola Piccante. I have found the domestic, artisanal blue cheese of my dreams.

* "30 Rock." You complete me, Liz Lemon. The Generalissimo plot line and the line "But first, I would like to admire picture of your grandchildren." The callback to Liz's Mexican cheese curls. Your scrappy determination to squeeze every last product-placement dollar out of America's advertisers, if it means hanging around long enough to become a certifiable hit.

* "Damages." The women on this show are so strong, I cannot help suspecting that they're written via the "Sex and the City" method, wherein all the female characters are actually men, but for a few details of names and pronouns. Even so, I do not care. Also, I do not want and will never own a Cadillac, but I freely admit that otherwise, this show could sell me anything. The gracious good taste of Patty's offices; the witty clothes; the gorgeous, gracefully-aging beauty of Glenn Close and Marcia Gay Harden. (Although I think someone went after MGM's with a syringe full of Botox late in the season, because from scene to scene, her brows alternate between normalcy and a yanked-up arch that says "I can't feel anything north of my nostrils.")

* Rye. This is what happens to you when you work on "Mad Men" for any length of time. The fumes coming off the various early-evening tumblers are so enticing, with notes of vanilla and cinnamon. Eventually, you have no choice but to buy your own bottle. And then you are in terrible, terrible trouble, because it is amazing. About a thousand times smoother than bourbon, and tragically, worth every penny of its insanely steep price.

* Timely car repairs. Even though I had to rent a car to accommodate the brake shop's lack of Saturday hours, it gave me tremendous pleasure to drop off the Honda this morning, and get the follow up call that all is well, and that I am in good time to have my brakes replaced. This comes as quite the relief, since the service guys at the dealership have been pushing to replace the front brake pads replaced for the last year 12 months, and I was *almost* positive that they were fishing for extra repairs, but then again, you don't want to rip up your rotors just to prove a point. It also gives me an extra jolt of pleasure to use a highly ethical local guy and not the boobs at Honda of Santa Monica, who charged me $105 to fix my driver's side window in such a way that it actually was far, far worse and would not shut at all.

* Michael. Between triking over to the brake shop to pick up my car key before they close (see: lack of Saturday hours) and keeping me stocked with espresso and milk for my morning fuel, he takes such amazing care of me, and I am so grateful to have him in my life. He is my Lemon Pepsi.