'The Paperboy' is Ambrosia Salad as Cinema

am·bro·sia

 noun \am-ˈbrō-zh(ē-)ə\

Definition of AMBROSIA

1

a : the food of the Greek and Roman gods

b : the ointment or perfume of the gods

2

: something extremely pleasing to taste or smell

3

: a dessert made of oranges and shredded coconut

: an under appreciated American film released in 2012 aka 'The Paperboy'

'The Paperboy' is Ambrosia Salad in celluloid form.  A visual collection of various fruits mixed together with lashings of cream. A tawdry treat not everyone can stomach but for others it's a decadent, demented, delicious dish.

'The Paperboy' is pulp. It's Neo-Noir/Southern Gothic. It's contemporary Douglas Sirk and Tennessee Williams style storytelling. It's not that baffling or confusing to understand and it's not genre breaking. More to the point it's not that bad. So why was this film generally greeted with such vitriolic contempt by critics when it came out?
Set in the late 1960's all your favorite Southern swamp trash archetypes are represented. From the over sexed prison groupie and the over sexed sociopathic killer to the over sexed gay investigative reporter. I know I'm sounding dismissive, but there is a little more going on here than just the overt sexuality.  Sure this film is garish but it's about damaged people suffocating and acting out within the oppressive climate of homophobia, sexism, racism and class structure. Yes It's been done before and much better but this film is not the pariah it's been made out to be.
It's characters and subsequent performances are what I suspect freaked everyone out.
Nicole Kidman turns in a perfectly mental performance as does her pink cupcake frosted mouth. John Cusack is very upsetting as a sexually violent criminal that both Kidman and Matthew McConaughey's gay investigative reporter become enamored with. Yes there is an insane sex scene between Kidman and Cusack but it's in context is not gratuitous and in fact establishes in one unapologetic foul swoop the characters' relationships with each other in no uncertain terms. Besides what do you think happens during prison visits? Not that I'd know of course.
The infantile American media (here's just one idiotic review) squirmed and giggled itself into all sorts of shapes over this film. Yes, Nicole Kidman pees on Zac Efron at the beach because he was stung by jellyfish. But there are a bunch of other things going on in that scene and may I add, if you think Nicole Kidman is sexy then you're a weirdo to begin with.
This film is about Zac Efron's sincere understated performance. He does James Dean better than James Dean ever did. He steals this film from everyone and that's saying something. He's the Jell-O holding this southern treat together.

So to summarize this isn't a poorly made film by any stretch of the imagination. It's really not that challenging or difficult to watch and the performances are not ridiculous either. Human beings are complex and behave in frightening ways. They are often shameless and self defeating in their actions. If this film's subject is shocking to you then I suggest you get out more. If you think it's poorly constructed then you need to catch up with Crash (2004)

I went back for seconds, y'all

Am I Objectum Sexual? Is it Tractor Porn?

Every year I purchase a calendar for my office. I have been doing this for 14 years and there is a very specific type of calendar It must be.  A large glossy shiny wall calendar made by the good people of 'Silver Lining'. It's of tractors posing in various American seasonal landscapes. Each monthly tractor has his own brief synopsis. For example,
The 1957-62 Ford 541 "Offset" tractor
As its name implied, Ford's "Offset" tractor, model number 541 in the Workmaster line, featured its controls and drivers position relocated to the right side for an unobstructed view of implements, which were mounted below instead of behind this high-clearance machine. Ford 541 models were built from 1957 to 1962.
When I go online to order my calendar a rush of anticipation and anxiety runs through me. I swing from "I hope there's more Ford than John Deere models" to "What if the publisher stops making this calendar?" I panic as my Abandonment Schema hijacks my emotional wellbeing.  

I was recently introduced to the film Married to the Eiffel Tower and have been daydreaming about some of the tractors I've fawned over in a new way. Maybe I have, in my active imagination, had dalliances with almost all of these tractors during the years. But when I really think about it I'd give them all up without hesitation to marry the Hoover Dam. 
I love the Hoover Dam. He has all the qualities I want in a man. He's unpretentious, practical, consistent, amiable and enjoys entertaining guests, He is beautiful on the inside and when you explore his inner workings he's full of adventure and fun information. He can handle all my moods too. I can get dizzy staring into his gorgeous centrifugal themed terrazzo floors or I can mope around one of his dank cavernous tunnels. I'm a little intimidated by his presence but feel completely safe within his confines. He's a steadfast American Socialist and is located right in the middle of nature. He serves his community and is impressive to look at from every angle. He reminds me why I moved to the United States. I even respect his ex wife, the Colorado River. She's cool and nice to me but I understand why she loses her patience with him. It's been a complicated and volatile relationship.

Located just West of Lankershim and North of Delusional.

As I backed out of a clients driveway and into their sleepy cul de sac this glorious morning I took a moment to pause and wind down my car windows. It was then I was audibly accosted by an enthusiastic and cheery "Hello there!"
I looked back and to the left, back and to the left.
The lady, (pictured below) while maintaining eye contact with me the whole time, grappled with something inside of a colorful bag hanging over her opposite shoulder. She then enthusiastically pulled out her stuffed dead cat.
"My name is Betty and this here is Bones." I was shocked and instantaneously mesmerized.  My mind squealed to itself  "Kathy, this is fucking awesome"
Once lovingly tucked under her right arm she delicately placed her left index finder and thumb around the feline's flaccid paw and made the unmistakable gesture for me to shake hands with her cat. I hesitated for a split second but she reassured me. "It's OK. He won't bite." I could not argue with this.

I reached out my driver's window for Bones' limp paw.  As I did she explained to me she had requested the taxidermist keep Bones' right paw loose for the succinct purpose of him being able to engage in handshakes.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance Bones "I said politely.
"Say hello Bones" Betty cooed into Bones' ear.  He didn't reply and much to my disappointment Betty wasn't a ventriloquist.
"He gets to meet more people now that he's...well, you know.....like this"
"Naturally" I said.

Raiding The Closet Of My Imagination

I still enjoy playing dress up. This game have developed over the years but it's still rooted in the basic premise of fantasy storytelling through character development by ways of outfits and elaborate scenarios to help me to keep within the rules.

Rules are

-  I cannot change the story of an established mission once it's underway.
-  No make up is allowed but I can change my hairstyle and use wigs.
-  I cannot abort a mission if I become bored or dissatisfied with it.
-  No half assed efforts or conceding to mediocrity, such as "this will do" That's cheating!
-  Accessories are OK.
-  Only one mercy dash to the thrift store each game and one $5.00 purchase per mission.
-  Missions can be undertaken in any order.

Today's Game.

Outfit Mission 1. 
Important meeting at the UN during the Iran Contra crisis. I have my period and worry that I won't be able to bite my tongue when Oliver North jokingly orders me to "fetch him a coffee" They will all laugh. They always do.
Just hours before this meeting was to take place my office receives a fax from The White House  specifying President Reagan's wishes that "all females in attendance wear flesh colored pantyhose."
I scrunch up the shiny paper into a ball and throw it at my handsome young personal secretary. His name is Matthew.
Me: "Fuck that clown Matthew. I'm an Australian citizen"
Matthew: "Yeah, that guy is a dick"
Matthew knows I have my period because he tracks my cycle in his calendar. His girlfriend thinks this is weird. I agree. He has already surreptitiously placed a bottle of Pamprin, a travel pack of my preferred tampon and some L'eggs into my work satchel. I will notice these items during the limo ride from the consulate and call him from the car phone to thank him. He's the BEST.

Outfit Mission 2.
A second date taking place on the final flight of the Concorde out of New York with a man I have no intention of sleeping with. Although I'm determined to get a Birkin Bag when we get to Paris I will refuse all his advances. I feel a little guilty about my motives but I suspect he's a racist. I'll find out for sure during the flight. Besides he was rude to the cabbie and then gave him a $1.00 tip. He boasted to me that he always keeps some cash on him because he feels it's "important for men of his stature to always tip regular people." I think I'll sell the purse on ebay and donate the money to a women's shelter. This really makes me feel that what I'm doing is not prostitution but in fact a noble endeavor. Who's exploiting who? I don't know and don't care about such things these days if I really think about it at all.

Outfit Mission 3.
Final round of interviews for flight stewardess upon world's first Time Travel Machine owned and operated by The Nation of Monsanto (they bought the continent of Africa in 2022.)  I'm part of an underground resistance sabotaging the project from the inside.
My husband doesn't support me. He thinks I don't hear him when he mutters "terrorist" under his breath when I bitch at him for leaving the toilet seat up. It drives me nuts when he just drops the heavy seat down. That familiar thud of porcelain slamming against itself sounds like he's screaming out "FUCK!"
He always says the same thing too "It's 2037 for Crissake. When is someone going to invent a more efficient way of disposing of human excrement."
We live in Florida and he works for what is left of N.A.S.A. He's a bitter astronaut who drinks too much. He lost our Jupiter ranch home in a bet with a J4 Series robot. Whatever is left of our savings he gambles away on internet porcupine races. I really want this post. He will be taken care of when I die for this is a suicide mission.

No, I'm not posting photos of the final outfits. That would be weird.

Can I get some Dramamine on that Popcorn?

Five minutes into 'The Master' I accepted things were going to get intense and complex. Ten minutes in I had resigned myself to deference. 
I abandoned the popcorn I had only moments ago enthusiastically purchased onto the vacant seat beside me, pulled my cardigan in tight around my body as a child would a blankie then quickly surveyed my immediate area like one instinctively does when forced to cross a dangerous or busy street. Finally I tucked my knees up under my chin and assumed the position. It was every film goer for themselves. I'll make this brief.

P.T. Anderson is revisiting a familiar theme which is fine with me because he excels in navigating it (authority figures specifically within the context of parental roles.)
This is a character driven movie and as a result the performances are pivotal and to no surprise, due to the calibre of actors, tremendous. I felt lost at times and the narrative drifts off course as do the very troubled characters themselves. Being lost whether at sea or on dry land is a big theme here. This is an unsettling and disturbing film about unsettling and disturbing people doing unsettling and disturbing things. Although this is not one of his best films it certainly does not detract from the fact that Anderson is a great American director. 
If you're curious about the Scientology/Dianetics aspect (in the film the movement is referred to as 'The Cause'.) I see it this way. 'The Master' is as inspired by L. Ron Hubbard as 'Boogie Nights' was inspired by John Holmes. 

This is not a date movie or a film I would suggest you see with anyone you don't know well BUT if you choose to forgo the big screen viewing you will deprive yourself of a large part of this film's purpose and that is to overwhelm and confuse, much like the techniques of a cult would do. Phillip Seymour Hoffman's turn as The Master, Lancaster Dodd, is sufficiently creepy and narcissistic. Amy Adams as his seemingly perpetually 9 months pregnant wife is spooky and menacing. (think Rosemary's Baby). And Joaquim Phoenix's presence as the film's revolting central character Freddy Quail is compelling and unforgettable. I think a second or third screening is necessary to absorb this mesmerizing treat that is both rancid and delicious. After 2+ hours I needed it to be over but really didn't want it to end.
Ahoy! The credits rolled at S.S. Laemmle Noho 7 cruised safely into port.

I reclaimed the now stale cold popcorn and shoveled it into my mouth in a repetitive manner like the demented comfort food it was. 



*Dramamine

Nocturnal Omission

I was frantically running down an outdoor parking structure type spiral stairwell in an anti clockwise direction.  Frantic to either get away from the labyrinth like house or urgently searching for someone I simply had to find, it wasn't quite clear to me.
I felt a twinge of relief when I recognized the male figure further ahead of my path as the director Sam Raimi.  He had heard the loud echos of my footsteps and panting and was bracing himself, back against the metal banister, looking up to see what the source of all the chaos careening down upon him was.

He seemed pleasantly surprised as I approached to witness my small frame, but the closer I got to him I noticed his expression shift from one of benevolent amusement to paternal concern to then settling into utter bewilderment. "Slow down! Running won't get you there any faster" he said.  

I had to stop when I reached him because he was now deliberately blocking my path. I redirected my trance like gaze from my feet and the steps below me heavenward, and onto his face.  He looked aghast and grabbed my left wrist. "Why aren't you wearing a wedding band?!" he exclaimed.  I followed his gaze and looked back down to make the even more alarming discovery that I was in fact naked. 

I scrambled for an explanation to redirect his question and justify my urgency but all that came out of my mouth was an hysterical "You should produce a TV series based on the movie 'Westworld'.  Please, It's important." 
I tried to yank my hand away from his determined grip but he wouldn't let me go. 
He said in further astonishment "Kathy, you're not even wearing an engagement ring" I started to cry out of frustration "So what!" I shouted.  He released me from his clutch and I pushed passed him with my head down to focus again on building up the maniacal running pace.  He purposefully called out after me through his widespread palms, thumbs cupping his jawline "I'LL TALK TO THE PEOPLE AT FX"

There goes the imaginary neighborhood

I was tending to a dog's call of nature today in the neighborhood my dog eared 1991 Thomas Guide had labeled as North Hollywood. A few years have passed since I was corrected by one this neighborhood's more regal and established residents that the locals prefer visitors call the area by its proper name which he announced was "Toluca Lake Adjacent, Dear"

This cartographic flight of fancy stuck with me and from that point on I embraced all of the Tolucas. Toluca Woods, Toluca Terrace, Toluca Lake West and finally Toluca Pines (the nickname for the block I live on).  I even have an imaginary movie star who lives in the area. She resides in a ramshackle guest house out back of what was once Bob Hope's property. She's fabulous, cranky and if you catch her at a certain time of the afternoon tipsy enough, she'll tell you the sordid tale of how she came to blow the head honcho of Pepsodent in the master bathroom of the main house. Her name is Toluca Bankshot and she smells like a  dusty Camay soapbar.  This part of the San Fernando Valley has an eclectic cast of characters that easily rivals Hollywood, but what I saw today was a first for me.

 There were two women chatting away innocently enough on the sidewalk out front of a fence less property that had a lovingly tended garden. One of the women was around 30 years of age and her body was barely covered by a flimsy summer dress that I recognized from the store window of the Fashion Q located in what remains of the Valley Plaza Shopping Center. The other was older and she was dressed in an ankle length, long sleeve burka-esque inspired outfit complete with jeans as an un ironic petticoat, sneakers and  hijab. I'm explaining what they were wearing because this fashion juxtaposition got me wondering... who was really the more sexually objectified female out of the two of them?
From there my mind wondered into thoughts of what colored marabou robe the fading Ms Bankshot may be adorning today. Then I was crudely jolted back into reality.

The older of the women out of nowhere casually removed the pants from the 3-4 year old boy that was with them and then gestured, with a pointed finger, to the perfectly manicured front lawn to which they were standing beside. She then loudly directed him in an ancient language I did not recognize to, what I roughly translated as, "take a shit over there". The small child indeed took a dump as nonchalantly as any canine I had ever witnessed.  The woman never attempted to pick up her young charge's turd and so I assumed she'd been, what we commonly call in the business "caught short".  I enthusiastically called out from across the street "Hey Lady, do you need a poop bag?" Neither women responded to me despite seeing me wave to them the unmistakable blue plastic semaphore signal.

That child took a dump in North Hollywood. That would kind of thing would never happen in Toluca Lake Adjacent, Dear.