Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

The Oscars Show Didn’t Have to Suck so Bad

This type of title is getting to be a habit with me, but really, it’s not like the Academy doesn’t have a year in which to plan the show.

THE HOSTS: In a ham-handed attempt to attract a more youthful audience, Anne Hathaway, 28, and James Franco, 32, were picked to co-host. She emphasized her ability to be very bubbly, very skinny, very flirtatious, and to continuously change her size 6 outfits (according to answers.com). She leaned towards her co-host or hugged his unresponsive arm in desperate non-verbal attempts to shift him out of his catatonia – but he refudiated her. Debate raged this morning among my elder fitness students about whether Franco was stoned or just rude. In any event, he kept his unpleasantly stiff body and unfocussed eyes turned away from his over-smiling co-host – and his audience for that matter.

The only discernable qualification these hosts had for their roles, in retrospect, is that like the bulk of show's cast of characters, they are white. Both hosts easily managed to avoid the pitfalls of being witty, clever and/or interesting. They weren’t “youth” – they were “the 50s.”

Just a quick Puke Award for her in an ill-fitting tux with sparkly extreme stilettos and him unhappily dragged up as Marilyn. Never were two images more unfortunate. Was this meant to pass as a bit of modern gender bending? Jack Benny was much better at it.

Apparently Franco didn’t even turn up for the big celebratory after-party he threw at some new bar he owns – and didn’t even let the event planners know he was skipping town. Someone buy this guy a scholarship to charm school.

THEIR BETTERS: In just two minutes, Billy Crystal showed them how to do it. He was funny and raised the energy level of the audience immediately. My posse and I were screaming at the TV for Billy to stay and finish the show, to no avail. We’d also take Whoopi or Ellen back. Just give us someone who actually knows how to MC and can make it fun.

THE PRODUCTION: Some of the canned bits were pretty good. But even where the production was impressive, the talent was distasteful. The memorial section, for example, was stitched together nicely, but did we have to have Céline Dion singing in the background?

SPEECHES: The British acceptance speeches were generally written, rehearsed and delivered with wit and fluency, while the Americans fluttered around as if they had just received news of their nomination in the middle of a drinking jag. The disingenuous “who me?!” reactions were, well, embarrassing. I’ve been a fan of Melissa Leo’s since “Homicide” days, but after her flighty speech I’m over her. Hey people, you’re all dressed up sitting at a front table for a reason: you might be called upon to say a few words. Get your shit together.

LIVE ACTION SHORTS: The hands-down inarguably worst of the five live-action short films won the Oscar. Go figure. Check out my review here.

THE RED CARPET: We made the horrific mistake of starting our Red Carpet viewing on E! where we suffered serious WTF? attacks in reaction to the excruciatingly insipid, sexist commentary. What a relief to find Robin Roberts and Tim Gunn on ABC. One felt bad for Annette Benning whose husband Warren Beatty babbled incoherently while she was trying to be glamorous.

CLOTHES: Do you remember that brief window – just a few years during the height of the feminist movement – when there were many ways to dress for awards nights? Some women wore tuxedos, some pant suits, some dresses. That is no longer, it seems, an option. Everyone was in a ball gown – not even one set of pants, let alone a shorter dress. Everyone wore grotesquely foot-binding stilettos and every woman was girly. Not a punk, not a dyke, not a non-conformist of any sort to be found. A sliver of Jennifer Hudson turned up with some oddly shaped globes revealed in her deep cleavage. Cate Blanchett upset the commentators with an odd dress built around a bulls-eye highlighting her chest.  Will no one rebel? Must dress-up always mean serving as a walking ad for certain over-priced jewelry and clothes designers?

POLITICS: There were two mentions of union workers in acceptance speeches and one reminder by the director of Inside Job that none of the Wall Street criminals were serving time: that was as political as it got. No Native American gal accepting on behalf of Brando. No red ribbons – or any other color as a matter of fact. No mention of Wisconsin, of the war on women’s rights, of spontaneous democracy in the Middle East and north Africa, or high unemployment, of… well, anything real.

GENDER AND AGE: I spend more and more of my life muttering “men, men, men” no matter what is going on: television, movies, politics, sports. As opportunities in this country contract, women are being pushed into greater invisibility. But with movies it has ever been so. To end this piece, here are just a few select figures (published prior to yesterday’s results) from William Briggs, Statistician to the Stars!, to put things in context. The whole piece, comparing Best Picture winners to the most popular pictures, is worth reading:

  All but one of the Oscars for Best Picture had a leading actor. The only one missing a man in the leading role was the picture All about Eve, starring Bette Davis. ...

  On the other hand, there were 32 years, or 39%, in which no women appeared as leading actress in the film that won the Oscar.

  The same disparity was found in the Most Popular picture. Only one movie did not have a leading actor, and that was the cartoon Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs!

  However, plenty of flicks (20, or 24%) made money without leading actresses...

  The median age of Oscar winning men was 38… For women, the median age for winning the Oscar was 30, while for the best picture it was 28.

  There was only one Oscar winning movie with a leading actress older than 50: Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy…

  The old—get it?—adage that once a woman pushes past 40, her chances of appearing in a major motion picture drop precipitously. Men are allowed to age and still be considered worthy of watching.

Film Review: Oscar-Nominated Live Action Shorts (2011)

This year’s live-action (ie not animated) shorts are splendid, as follows (reviews and a couple of trailers):

Na Wewe (Belgium). This is my personal favorite although I’m not convinced that it will win the Oscar, not the least because of its sophistication. Nw Wewe means “You too” in Kirundi. It takes place on the border between Rwanda and Burundi and is, ostensibly, about the conflict between Hutus and Tutsis. But really it is an exciting 19 minutes full of action, vivid characterization and exploration of the complexities of identity. This fast-paced slice of conflict ends with an ironic giggle.

 

 

 

The Confession (UK). I suspect that this one will take the Oscar and it is quite a gripping 24 minutes that, in its own way, places the Catholic Church in the role of indirect murderer. A class of 9-year-olds is being prepared for their first Confessions and one boy Sam can’t really identify any sins from the sample list they’ve been given by the priest. He’s stressed about having nothing to confess. His best friend Jacob decides to help him remedy this affliction – this clean conscience – and in the process their innocence is forever lost.

Wish 143 (UK). David is dying and at 15 he is approached by a dreams-come-true charity. He doesn’t want their proffered day at Disneyland – he wants to lose his virginity. Neither the agency nor his only friend, the priest, fancies playing the pimp. In the end, he gets what he needs.

The Crush (Ireland). An 8-year-old schoolboy has a serious case of hots for his not unappealing teacher, despite her engagement to a local lout. Young Ardal Travis decides to challenge the dickhead for Miss Purdy’s hand and demands a duel to the death. The thing is – Ardal actually knows what he is doing. The film is kinda cool, but is more slice than life.

   

God of Love (USA). Raymond Goodfellow has a combo lounge act – singing and hitting bullseyes with his darts. When he gets a packet of darts that puts him in the position of Cupid, he begins wreaking havoc on those around him. This is probably the weakest film of the set, a student project that felt a bit adolescent.

 

 

 

 

Theater Review: The Importance of Being Earnest

One of the insufficiently highlighted treasures of the Boston area is the wealth of student theatre productions. I’ve discovered this because Sheriden Thomas of the Tufts drama faculty invites me to the productions she directs. (Full disclosure: I met her and her partner when, years ago, they took a few dance lessons from me.) How impressive that she has pulled off a slam-dunk with her present show, Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest at the theater-in-the-round Balch Arena Theater, Feb17-19 and 24-26. This is, after all, an ambitious project with its British accents, three separate locations, complex wit and generous length.

The story is a complicated weave of misunderstandings and deceptions overlaid with the characters’ innocence, hypocrisy and true love. When wealthy young people with a decided lack of serious values become entangled, we know that they will eventually sort each other out. After all, Wilde’s approach of clever farce is no basis for anything but a happy ending.

Jack/Ernest Worthing (played with tight energy by freshman Adam Bangser) has established a troubled but entirely imaginary brother in town so that he has a regular excuse to leave his country estate to hang out with his rather dissolute friend Algernon (Ian Burnette with looks and attitude entirely suitable to his role). Algernon too has an imaginary invalid friend he has installed in the country as an escape valve.

Despite his hazy birth credentials  - he had been found in a bag at Victoria Station, Jack/Ernest is wooing Algernon’s cousin Gwendolen (played by the commanding Lara Vancans) but faces the resistance of her snobby, cynical mother Lady Augusta Bracknell (wonderfully played by Melis Aker with high drama and great timing.) Gwendolen knows him only as Ernest, a name to which she is attached to a silly degree.

Switching location to Worthing’s country manor, a curious Algernon has snuck out of London to meet Jack/Ernest’s ward Cecily, a beautiful teenage flower (played with delightful confidence by Tali Cornblath). He claims to be the bad-boy brother “Ernest” – about whom it turns out she has long fantasized. They become betrothed in a matter of minutes, but complications arise when Jack returns to the country to declare “Ernest” dead, unaware that Algernon-as-Ernest has claimed his ward’s feelings.

An often-ignored scene involving a lawyer and a cop is a terrific addition to this production, just one of the directorial decisions that make this show so much fun. Solicitor Grigsby, Esq. (played with imperious, fierce elegance by Alexandra King) has come to collect “Ernest’s” unpaid club dining bill and is about to arrest Algernon/Ernest when young Cecily implores her guardian Jack/Ernest to cover the bill – which in fact he himself had run up.

All deceit and secrets are unraveled in the end and love triumphs. We the audience have not been asked for much in the way of emotional commitment, just a love of language, a willingness to laugh and a readiness to float around their irresponsible, inconsequential world of privilege. We’ve been allowed to enjoy the dramatic period costumes, not the least the striking hats of Lady Bracknell (spouting grass) and Jack/Ernest (a top hat as big as his torso). The sets are remarkable, using the theater-in-the-round setting to greatest advantage.

In a conversation with actor Alexandria King at the opening night party, she described the extent of the commitment of these drama students – the long daily rehearsals on top of their class load. King loved working with Oscar Wilde’s material and having the benefit of support from the drama department professionals. She is hoping for an acting career – despite the obvious perils of such a dream – because, she said, “After all, we only live once.”

Wilde would most emphatically agree with her although he was careful to keep expectations low. That is why he is happy to contradict the subtitle of the play, “A Trivial Comedy for Serious People” with its final dramatic line: "I've now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of being Earnest".

Catcaller Form: The Child of the Insult Calling Card

The Riot Magazine has put out a fabulous Catcaller Form that starts with this explanation:

“Hey, Mister! Sounds like you’re interested in me. So I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, just to get to know you better!”

It continues with some bittersweet humor, nailing the feeling women have who are the object of these unwelcome “attentions.” Click here to view this short but sharp form on theriotmag.tumblr.com/.

It reminds me of a business card – at that time referred to as a “calling card” – which my feminist collective put out in about 1970. We would hand the card to men who harassed us on the streets. Since it was the period of explosive growth in the women’s movement and a parallel virulent backlash from men, we had call to use them a lot. I have one somewhere in a box, but today I’ll have to paraphrase.

You Have Just Insulted A Women
This card has been treated with a chemical.
Sixty minutes after you touch this card,
your penis will fall off.

FIVE THINGS I LOVED AT THE FETISH FAIR FLEAMARKET

For several years and for varied publications I have reviewed the annual Fetish Fair Fleamarket (FFF). Both the weekend-long winter FFF and the one-day summer FFF are organized by NELA (New England Leather Alliance), a highly respected civil rights group for kinky people. There are many dozens of workshops and a renowned marketplace. This year I attended as a civilian, so I was less interested in weaving a story than in enjoying myself. Here are my five favorite impressions from last weekend’s FFF:

1. FREE THE GARMENTS
The FFF takes over a whole hotel, giving people a holiday from the alt-sex closet – or rather from hiding their favorite rags in the closet. People get to wear their lovingly constructed outfits – from the expensively attired leather or latex crowd to the flowing, tutu, lacy types. Women of every shape and age – and a few men too - sport a bounty of corset-induced cleavage. It’s a wonderfully snuggly sensation to be surrounded by so much amplitude. A personal highlight? I wore a very non-kinky but quite bright black and red satin jacket from China with a high stand-up collar and at least five generous women complemented me. If you could only see the context – all these gloriously dramatic sexy people – you’d understand why I was over the moon.

2. THE PUBLIC AREAS KEEP IT LIGHT
The atmosphere is playful and respectful. Bathrooms are gender-neutral with explanatory signs posted outside establishing a trans-friendly environment. For people-watching alone, the entrance fee is worth it. Bootblacks are glad to service your shoes. A short confident dominant leads her giggling collared submissive around the hotel on a leash, stopping a moment for a kiss. A poly family clusters around one of their members as he tries on some ass-less chaps. A budding domme gets a lesson in wielding a whip from a volunteer as her friends cheer her on. In the bondage lounge you can sit and watch or try out a knot or two.

3. ACCESS IS ASSUMED
The FF is clearly welcoming to the kinky members of the disability community. I saw perhaps a dozen people using wheelchairs or crutches or a white cane integrated in the scene. For example, one striking woman in fetish gear rested her stiletto-heeled boots on the foot supports of her wheelchair.

4. HARASSMENT-FREE ZONE
Security is effective but good-humored. A dramatic gender-bender in a flowing silver sparkle wig is perched at the top of the escalator and if someone ascends without the requisite blue wristband, they are guided right back down the descending moving stairs. A beefy guy with a thick pewter nose-ring checks again at the entrance to the retail market. A young reedy woman – a canvas of piercings and tattoos – checks at the exit door to the stairs. As far as I could see, no one was able to crash the event. It was truly a kink-safe space. Negativity was prevented in the coolest possible way by the hottest possible volunteers.

5. THIS AIN’T NEWBURY STREET
Overflow vendors spilled out of the big halls where some of the booths are nearly the size of a store into individual hotel rooms transformed into shops. What’s available to buy? You can stock up on lube; learn the finer points of floggers of which there are infinite weights, lengths and styles for sale; and explore the world of electricity play equipment. There are dozens of designers making their own corsets and latex nurse outfits and leather dildo harnesses. Vibrators, clit pumps, nipple clamps, blindfolds, cuffs, harnesses, chain mail shirts, talons, jeweled collars, stainless steel cock-rings and 5-finger vibrating gloves are everywhere to be found. Photographers will provide you with a glamour shoot. Painters offer portfolios of erotic images. Authors are signing books – some erotic fiction, some how-to do one fetish or another, some on the legal implications of being a player. This ain’t Newbury Street, but this is one rich gathering of artisans, artists, craft folks and leather workers who are deeply entrenched in the community and trying to eek out a living from the world they love.

Hard to believe that he and I are from the same planet

Sometimes I see something that is so totally outside my own experience, so counter to my every desire, so unimaginable a spare-time activity - and yet it is still the choice of another human being. In that case, I can only share it with you.

 

Film Review: The Fighter

Part of the magic of The Fighter for people around here is that the film has been made by local folks using a local location in a story about local people who are still around, still ‘characters’ in Lowell. In fact, when Christian Bale was on stage accepting his Golden Globe (both Christian Bale and Melissa Leo won for best supporting actor), the guy he was playing, Dicky Eklund, lived up to Bale’s characterization by pushing his way up on stage to hog the limelight. It was life imitating art imitating life.

As someone who boxed in the 70s when there was literally no such thing as a girl in a boxing gym (I had to take private lessons), I sure love a good fight flick. The Fighter is one that deserves its flurry of nominations and awards.

It’s also a film about family – showing what an excruciating and passive/aggressive institution it can be. The Fighter highlights the crazy mixture of secret favoritism with the suffocating “us against the world” ethos that is dumped on individual family members.

Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg) is the up and coming fighter being coached by his brother Dicky (Bale), a drug-addled former neighborhood fight hero. Their mother (Melissa Leo) is his manager but because she vastly prefers Dicky over Micky, she doesn’t really have Micky’s interests at heart. There is an unfortunate chorus of some seven sisters, each of whom is less appealing and dumber than the next – and this is a huge, irritating flaw in the film. They look painfully out of date; they are indistinguishable, always presented as a squawking babble; and they have no role to play other than as further evidence of the matriarch’s despotic reign. (When, I ask in an aside, is this gang of Boston film boys going to write some decent parts for women? Yes, yes, I mean besides mothers.)

Micky has a daughter he seems to adore and a difficult relationship with her mother. Dicky has a son, who seems to live with the mother and sisters but appears entirely unattached to any particular woman. He seems more like an accessory for Dicky than a dependent.

The fight world is authentically described – from scruffy local gyms with coaches trying to help the kids to the big stakes machinations of criminals and businessmen (usually the same people). Lowell felt just like Lowell. And the acting wasn’t bad at all. Bale was pretty stupendous. Wahlberg displayed an emotional range from A to A, all confusion and eyes-in-the-headlights, that apparently reflects the character he is playing. Melissa Leo is subtle, delusional and strident in turns. And Amy Adams (at last I know who she is) does her best as Micky’s girlfriend to protect him from those who are just using him. Mickey O’Keefe, the Lowell cop helping to train Micky Ward, is played wonderfully by himself.

If you cannot bear seeing someone onscreen being punched about and bleeding and dazed, then you should either close your eyes during the fight scenes or stay home on this one. If you’re looking for a poignant family tale, there isn’t anyone here you are likely to deeply care about. It’s a good swiftly moving film with some terrific scenes, not the least when Dicky is in prison. Of the few Academy Award nominated films I’ve seen so far, it’s up there at the top of my list with The King’s Speech.

Don’t Stick Me On A List. No. Really. Don’t.

In these times of democratic revolution in Egypt, accelerating right-wing insanity in Israel, and vile legislative attacks on USA women’s self-determination, I end up signing a lot of online petitions. I pick and choose among the gazillion petitions – and often follow the example of trusted friends.

But, hey, progressive organizations! Signing your petition does not mean that I want to sign up for your listserv or newsletter. I’d rather spend my time in online activism than in unsubscribing again and again (I’m talkin’ to you Credo, to you MoveOn, etc) from your assumptions that I’ve made a permanent commitment to you. Quit clogging up my inbox.

Same goes to people I have one-time contact with in a specific context. I am an activist in the National Writers Union, for example, and find that when I am in touch with someone from within my role in the NWU, they grab my email and stick it into their group grab-bag. I end up getting everything from prayers (I’m an atheist) to business pitches from writers who do landscaping on the side (I live in a rental mid-rise and the closest I get to agriculture is the apple sauce my country friend gives me.)

This is not to say that I don’t receive a massive number of e-newsletters and listserv postings. In fact, I actually produce a few myself. It is just to say that I don’t want to be taken for granted. I’ll select my own, thank you. Quit co-opting my email address without my consent or… Or I’ll write a blog complaining about it.

THE MRI DIDN’T NEED TO SUCK

It’s been well over a year since I somehow sustained what seems to be a rotator cuff injury. Initially the pain was so acute that months of constant naproxen wasn’t controlling it. My chiropractor sent me to my GP who thankfully shot it full of steroids, reducing the pain enough that I could stop cradling the arm and wishing I could just put it in a protective sling.

There have since been exercise regimes, useless physical therapists, repeated chiropractic sessions and then finally a second shot of steroids. The acute phase passed into chronic limitations.

Finally I was referred to the ortho-surgeon who sent me to have this MRI, that strange magnetic imaging done in the kind of tube which causes claustrophobics to have to dose with sedatives, but which reminds me of an iron lung, something I was just talking about with my cousin Bob the other day.

Quite reasonably informative instructions had earlier arrived in the mail. They included a list of no-nos that were repeated by someone calling from the clinic a few days ago and then again by a form I am given upon arrival. Metal and MRIs apparently don’t get along so they ask – all these three times – whether I’ve got an aneurysm clip (luckily I don’t even know what it is), shrapnel, a penile implant or tattooed eyeliner – and those are just four of the couple dozen of points on the checklist.

Contrary to the pre-visit info’s promise that “When you arrive for your exam…a technologist will review this information with you and answer any questions you may have regarding your MRI,” I am put into a dressing room to strip off (no metal at all: not bra fasteners, snaps, eyelets) and promptly taken in for my MRI. No discussion, no opening for questions, and shamefully, no introductions.

I am made to lie down while the offending shoulder is isolated and wrapped by the technician, a pillow is shoved in an awkward way under my neck and NoName tosses some fat padded headphones onto my head in a lopsided manner. She thrusts a panic button into my hand and I am told some music will play in the headphones. Slam, bam, thank-you ma’am and the mechanism begins to suck me into the pipe.

“Hey,” I say, nervous at the idea of something about to be pumped into my eardrums that is not in my control, “don’t put the music on high volume.”

“Tell us when,” one of them says, beginning at a reasonable level and hiking it up in speedy increments before I can even respond.

“We’ll start now. Stay still for two minutes,”-  I have no idea which of them is speaking – and a clanking rattles my body like a giant hostile vibrator.

“Okay in there?” at the end and I quickly say, “No.” They pull me out. I complain that the headphones are impossibly uncomfortable and the pillow in just the place to strain my back. NoName rips the headphones off my scalp and hastily shoves two earplugs in the general direction of my ear-openings. My pillow is pulled down a bit better on one side but not the other and, wham!, I’m rolling back inside.

One earplug falls out within the first few seconds and the other is kinda resting there doing nothing when the rattle, bang, clank  of the machine begins again.

At the end, I speak up again and luckily they hear me. Sick of me, they roll me back out. “The ear-plugs aren’t plugging.”

“Do you want the headphones again?”

“Okay, but so that they are comfortable and without music.”

NoName shoves them back on. This time they’re very tight and have folded my right ear in half. “My right ear,” I say and NoName snaps it open for a second with sighs of exasperation. It lands back over my ear and in I go.

For twenty or thirty minutes I am left with my own thoughts, wrapped in this clanking, clacking magnetic tube, the music still blaring despite my request. A little dust ball settles into my nostril, nestled among my nasal hairs and tickling me. But I’m not allowed to move. I try to breathe out through my nose to see if that dislodges it, but it only highlights my sense that there’s something stale and nasty in the air I am being forced to breathe. My neck is half-cramping, my shoulder is aching and I’m starting to lose feeling down in my hand.

Finally, it is over. I’m slid out, the headphones are snatched from my ears by NoName while the technician has an uncharacteristic moment of pity. “Do you want a hand getting out?” I grip her hand and sit up, dizzy and sore.

“Go back and get dressed,” NoName barks, waving vaguely to the right as I stand dazed at the doorway. I dress and make it to the parking lot, sit in my car for a few minutes and then gingerly return home. My blog is my revenge.

My recommendations to these people:
•    Introduce yourselves.
•    Explain what’s coming and answer questions.
•    Check if something you’ve applied (like headphones) or placed (like pillows) is in the right place before you start the procedure.
•    Listen to your patient.
•    Be a bit on the nice side (Yes, I’m talking to you NoName and technician.)

P.S. I told my senior and elder fitness students that I had an MRI on Saturday and they said, On the weekend?? Are you out of your mind?