At the movies, part 2

Now, Bill Condon's "Kinsey" is a good movie. (But in all fairness to Kevin Spacey and "Beyond the Sea," Alfred Kinsey is a much more interesting character than Bobby Darin.) Kinsey, as portrayed by Liam Neeson, is depicted both as a scientist and a man in the film, and it's fascinating to watch his dual aspects play out. Kinsey is presented with a question he doesn't know the answer to, and works to find those answers, backed by substantive proof. Isn't that what a scientist does? But it's later revealed that it wasn't just scientific curiosity that drew Kinsey to this field of study. Thanks to his puritanical preacher of a father (played by John Lithgow, in what could be seen as a follow-up to his role in "Footloose"), Kinsey lived in repression. Studying sex allowed him to address something he had always denied.



Of course, studying human sexuality is a bit more complicated than cataloguing gall wasps. As the film details so well, the sexual habits and tendencies of men and women can't be simply categorized. You can't encourage people to indulge their every sexual urge and curiosity - sleeping with (or as Peter Saarsgard says with such venom, fucking) members of the same sex, or other people's husbands and wives - and not expect sociological consequences. Plus, there's an X-factor called "love" that can muddy up the whole dynamic. (And if that sounds corny, it's my fault as a writer. Go see the movie and decide for yourself.)

Condon approaches this material with just the right touch. It's serious stuff, but you have to laugh at it too. What's more funny than watching a total nerd (complete with bow-tie) suddenly get laid regularly because he's studying sex? And from a modern point of view, it's also hilarious to be reminded of the restrictions and bafflingly misguided beliefs people once lived with. But in the end, this is a story about a fascinating man, one who not only tries to bring knowledge to the ignorant, but realizes he's also helping people become comfortable with aspects of their personalities that society told them needed to be hidden. Kinsey fights for what he believes in, because he knows he's providing a valuable service, despite the skepticism, prudishness, and elitism he's faced with throughout his career. Liam Neeson depicts all of that in his performance.

Every actor in this film is fantastic. Laura Linney is great as Kinsey's wife, Clara. But that shouldn't be a surprise, because she's terrific in everything she's in (even a so-so movie like "Love Actually"). Think about it: your square husband has told you he wants to study sex and because you believe in your husband, you support him, even if you're more aware of the consequences than he is. Linney makes it very believable. (I might be in love with her.) And Peter Sarsgaard does his usual top-notch job, too. (I might have a man-crush on this guy. But I admired his work long before his full frontal nudity in this film. Really. Go see "Shattered Glass" or "Garden State.") His character approaches this field of study with an almost-predatory curiosity. But in the end, he might've lost the most. Maybe even more than Kinsey, he represents the arc of this story.

The only thing I didn't like about the movie? Neeson doesn't do his own singing and dancing as Kinsey. Don't worry, my dad didn't laugh at that joke either. So it must not be that funny.

At the movies, part 1

I wasn't planning on seeing Kevin Spacey's "Beyond the Sea," but my dad won tickets to its opening night at the Michigan Theater in Ann Arbor, courtesy of WEMU (thanks guys - Dad's a big fan). Spacey's Bobby Darin tribute has been getting brutalized by the critics, most of whom dismissed it as his "vanity project." But I've always liked Spacey, even in terrible movies ("Pay It Forward"), so I figured it was worth a try. (Also, the ticket was free.)



Immediately after the movie, I thought the critics were far too harsh. Maybe Spacey was too old to play Darin (he's 45, Darin died at 37), but his energy on-screen seemed to make up the age difference. (I also liked the in-joke at the beginning of the film that addressed this very topic.) What most impressed me was Spacey's passion for the project. This was very obviously a story he wanted to tell, a role he wanted to play.

Was it arrogant of Spacey to sing Darin's songs, rather than lip-synch over the original recordings? I don't think so, especially considering that Darin didn't have as distinct a voice as, say, Ray Charles. Besides, as an actor, if you want to play a singer, why shouldn't you actually sing, if you can? And Spacey can sing, maybe even better than Bobby Darin. (Roger Ebert said as much on his TV show.) On the way home, my dad said he actually preferred watching Spacey perform as Darin over watching Darin himself. (And considering Dad's old enough to have seen and heard Darin in his heyday, I'll believe him.)

But the more I think about it, something just isn't right with "Beyond the Sea." To me, it wasn't the performance; that was the best part of the film. But I'm not sure it was a very good movie. In any biographical film, time is going to move too fast. Everything has to fit within that two hour frame. But Spacey never really takes the time to show or explain why a film about Bobby Darin needed to be made. By resorting to storytelling gimmicks like having the adult Darin interact with his childhood self and incorporating musical sequences into the narrative ("Well hello, Miss Sandra Dee!"), Spacey seemed to realize that Darin's life just wasn't that interesting. And when he addresses things that did actually happen, such as Darin's political beliefs changing him into a denim-wearing hippie folk singer, they're almost too comical to be true.

So I guess I agree with the critics - to a point. I still think most of them were too mean regarding Spacey's singing and dancing ability. (Considering my own deficient abilities in those departments, maybe I'm just easily impressed.) Spacey's passionate performance deserves admiration. It just isn't enough to make a mediocre story into a great one. But damn, I'm whistling "Mack the Knife" a lot when I walk around the house...

Still some free time to kill

©2004 Universal Press Syndicate

Okay, I get it! I'll get to that readling list I was blabbing about at the beginning of my holiday break. Sheesh. I thought I'd get some reading done...

(And Happy New Year, Bill Watterson, wherever you are.)

College football hangover (and boo$ter$)

I should be worn out on college football at this point, but Selena Roberts of the New York Times has written an intriguing two-part series about the boosters behind several programs over the last couple of days. How much influence, how much control do these wealthy, power-hungry contributors exert over their beloved football teams?

At Auburn, one booster (who has contributed millions of dollars) has interviewed coaches without the consent of the athletic department and has organized movements to hire and fire them, as well. He also appears to be bankrolling the team chaplain who counsels the players.

Who helps fund the multi-million dollar salaries head football coaches are now earning, such as the $14 million deal Urban Meyer received to leave Utah for Florida? Or the 10-year, $26 million extension Mack Brown got at Texas (even before beating Michigan in the Rose Bowl)?

I'm sure it's naive to think that this hasn't always been going on, but the money invested in these football programs is reaching mountainous heights. And when people are contributing millions of dollars, they won't be content to just sit back and let a coach and athletic director do their jobs.

New Year's Day football: The highs & lows

Tate to Holloway, all the way, for a game-winning touchdown for Iowa in this afternoon's Capital One Bowl vs. LSU. (And no, I don't get anything from Capital One for using its name - though maybe I should. How about a dream date with David Spade where we fight off all those interest rate barbarians, and then he pays off all my credit card debt?) A 56-yard bomb of a throw, a wide receiver left inexplicably wide open by LSU's defense, and a 30-25 victory.

from sports.yahoo.com

And all that after I was screaming at the TV, cursing Iowa's terrible clock management that cost them at least 10 precious seconds and a chance to win. Then quarterback Drew Tate found Warren Holloway for his Hawkeye miracle. And I probably haven't jumped that high in almost 10 years.

Four hours later, however, Texas place-kicker Dusty Mangum (there's a Texas name, if I ever heard one) ruined the Casselberrys' New Year's Day with his 37-yard field goal at the end of the game that gave Texas a 38-37 win over Michigan in the Rose Bowl.

from ESPN.com

The above photo says it all. Here's essentially a re-enactment of the whole game: Texas quarterback Vince Young decides to run, no Michigan players can tackle him, Young scores a touchdown. It happened four times. Michigan's linebackers looked slow and grabbed air every time they tried to stop Young. His four touchdown runs, to go along with his one touchdown pass, overshadowed a terrific performance by Michigan's wide receiver Braylon Edwards, who scored three touchdowns of his own. If it weren't so infuriating to watch, maybe I could've appreciated how comical it really was.

Oh well. As my sister said, "at least one of [my] schools won." Except I never went to school at Michigan. I'm just an Ann Arbor boy. Back to Iowa City, home of the victorious Iowa Hawkeyes, in a few days. I never thought I'd miss their local news, but I'd love to watch their sports coverage tonight.

Happy New Year!

©2004 Aaron Mcgruder

To quote my mother this morning, "Is it Saturday today? It feels like a Sunday!" I think I know what she means. Sunday is (usually) a day off before the work week begins, and New Year's Day is a holiday before the year to come.

I'm not much for resolutions. Like Huey from "The Boondocks" up there, I feel like I'm always resolving to do better and strive for more. (And like with New Year's Resolutions, I seem to often fall short.) But it's natural to look at a fresh new year like snow that hasn't been trampled upon yet and evaluate where you've been and where you'd like to go. So if that's what a resolution truly is (rather than "lose weight," "be less negative," "swear less," "be kind to others," and other stuff I probably won't do), I'll do that.

©2004 Bill Amend

I want to make sure the opportunity I've created for myself at the University of Iowa isn't squandered. I want this venture to be worth the time, effort, and money that's been invested in it. I've never been more excited about life and I want that feeling to continue. And I hope to soon be in a position to help my parents as they've helped me for so many years, more years than they should've had to. (And believe me, after spending the last two weeks with them, it's become clear that they're gonna need help from me and my sister eventually.)

These holidays have also reminded me how important my friendships are. I'd drifted apart from some of my friends back home over the past few years, but I've learned that there are no hard feelings that spending some good time together can't fix. We've known each other too long and been through too much to let some distance and life changes dissolve what are still some very strong bonds. I will work as hard as I can to maintain those ties.

Now let's watch some football! Go Hawkeyes! Beat LSU! Go Blue! Beat Texas! Happy New Year, everyone. 2005 is going to be a good year for all of us.

How did the animals survive?

One of the most interesting sidelights to the southern Asia tsunami tragedy - though it feels a bit strange to be writing (and reading) about sidelights to this awful story (120,000 deaths and counting)- is that many animals in Sri Lanka somehow managed to get to higher ground and avoid the tsunamis. No animal corpses have been found among the dead. Did a "sixth sense" enable these animals to sense the impending tidal waves?

According to Christine Kenneally in Slate, "animals have sensory abilities different from our own, and they might have tipped them off to Sunday's disaster." Maybe they heard the quakes before the tsunamis reached shore. Or sensed ground vibrations (known in the scientific community as Rayleigh Waves).

Interesting stuff. So if you live near water and see your dog running for the hills, maybe you should follow him or her.

R.I.P., Jerry Orbach

My friend Matt was first with the news yesterday afternoon, e-mailing me about Jerry Orbach's death from prostate cancer.



I haven't been a regular "Law & Order" watcher in years, but its endless reruns on cable are a dependable stand-by whenever there isn't anything else interesting on TV. And I always enjoyed the quips from Orbach's character, Det. Lennie Briscoe. A cop scene on the show didn't seem complete until it was wrapped up by one of Briscoe's one-liners. (Dana Stevens wrote a nice tribute to them and Orbach in yesterday's Slate. One nice example: After finding a university ID on a murder victim, Briscoe said "She can forget about midterms.") From what I've heard, the show isn't the same without Lenny Briscoe, and many fans seemed to be hoping for his return (despite him moving to a new "L&O" spinoff, "Trial By Jury.")

I had no idea Orbach was originally a song-and-dance man until a few years ago. It's difficult for me to imagine the grizzled Lenny Briscoe lighting up Broadway in "The Fantasticks," "Annie Get Your Gun," or "Chicago." (I wonder if a musical episode of "Law & Order" was ever considered. Probably not. But Jesse Martin was in "Rent," wasn't he? And if he hasn't already, I'm sure Sam Waterston has a showtune within him, just waiting to be released.)

You'll always live on my TV set, Jerry. Here's to you.

The tsunami death toll

from DigitalGlobe.com

I'm not sure what to write regarding the massive devastation earthquakes and tsunamis have wrought on southern Asia. Each day, the death toll keeps climbing. I stop and look at the headlines every time I pass by a newspaper vendor, and then shake my head. Those numbers (77,000 as I write this) are almost impossible to comprehend. The Red Cross says the deaths could eventually reach 100,000.

Several photos of the damage can be found online, including some of bodies washed ashore, which I'm ashamed to say I couldn't resist looking at. They're awful.

Where was this at Christmas?

I found this via the Brian Michael Bendis message board at imagecomics.com. (Bendis is one of my favorite comic book writers, and his forum is a fun place to discuss all kinds of pop culture.) Here's the link to the article, but I think you have to register with the St. Paul Pioneer Press's website to read it, and I remember that being a pain in the ass, so I'll just try to include all I can here.

According to Richard Chin's story, a Hawaiian inventor and his Iowa business partner have created an underwear called "Flat-D, the flatulence deodorizer" that "[deodorizes] gassy discharges or groin and menstrual cycle odors." Put another way, these undies prevent your farts (and, well, other things, apparently) from stinking.

A man named Brian Conant got the idea for Flat-D while performing chemical warfare training drills as a member of the Hawaii Army National Guard. During the drills, he wore a protective suit lined with charcoal fabric and whenever Conant would let one rip while in the suit, he noticed his natural gas didn't smell bad. (Maybe you want to hold those farts in during chemical warfare drills. Just a thought. You never know what can happen when certain gases mix.)

Inspired by his gassy wife who wished for an underwear that could hide the odors, Conant created the stink-preventing underwear and patented it. Eventually, the patent found its way to Frank Morosky of Cedar Rapids, IA (land of corn and pork, mind you), who'd harbored similar hopes for fart-shielding charcoal underwear. It must've been like that moment in the old Reese's Peanut Butter Cups commercials where the guy with the chocolate bar collided with the dude eating out of a jar of peanut butter. Synergy!

So the next time you find yourself surrounded by gassy relatives (And of course, it's never you - it's that Uncle Ed who likes the bologna or your lactose intolerant Aunt Millie), hopefully you'll have prepared for the occasion and ordered something from flat-d.com. (Seriously, check it out. And look at the earnest expression of the physician in the top left corner.)

Manga or (wo)manga?

Manga (Japanese comic books) got some attention in today's New York Times. I don't know if this is a regular or recurring feature in the Times, but this is the second article on comic books I've seen from George Gene Gustines recently.

According to the article, "manga sales were $50 million to $60 million in 2002, and climbed to $90 million to $110 million in 2003." Wow. After reading that, my first question is why American comic books don't pull in anywhere near that kind of revenue. (Or do they? I seriously doubt it. I don't have any sales figures on hand, unfortunately.) I'm sure there are several "no, duh" answers that aren't occurring to me this early in the morning, but I think my viewpoint is too localized (a forest-for-the-trees kind of thing) to really figure out what's going on. (And American publishers like DC and Marvel are probably scratching their heads, wondering what the hell to do, too.)

The biggest reason for that discrepancy in sales seems to be female readers. Again from the article, "Manga often celebrates strong female characters in adventure yarns or stories focusing on love and relationships." Walk into a comic book shop and it's doubtful you'll see too many American comic books cater to that demographic. As I'm sure you already know or may have guessed, it's a nerdy sausage fest in there.

So maybe manga vs. American comic books is apples vs. oranges, but I'd love to see this rising tide lift all the boats. (Two cliches in one sentence? I can hear my writing professors wince.)

Writing won't get me chicks - or will it?

I'm a week or so behind on posting this; it must've gotten lost underneath all the snow. (And as a result, I'm not sure the link works anymore. Sorry about that.)

Yet again, I'm reminded I'm not nearly as smart as I think I am. Another scheme has been foiled - again. (Curses!) Curtis Sittenfeld, a Iowa Writers Workshop alum (who's written some great essays for Salon) with a novel on the way, exposes the true, shallow agenda for many of us writers:

"...they had become writers in order to attract women. I believe the word they used was 'babes,' as in, I'm in it for the babes."

Well, yeah. I mean, why else do a book tour? To sell books? Oh, I suppose. But whenever an author of any acclaim visits Iowa City for a reading, I wonder if he is hoping to score with young, nubile college girls. (And notice I said "he," not "she." As Sittenfeld also writes, "has any woman writer -- ever, anywhere -- had a groupie?") Hell, that's why I went back to school...

But the essay reminded me of something I should work on this semester, besides putting together portfolios, and sending out clips, resumes, and cover letters: My look. Apparently, the "slobby-cool aesthetic" is in vogue; "the slacker rock star literary guy who shows up in his AC/DC shirt and hasn't washed in a couple days," according to Sittenfeld. I think I can pull that off. Though I'm more of the "prefers to wash regularly and still dresses like a 12-year old - or acts like one when he is forced to wear a suit and tie" image.

On second thought...

All that nice shit I said about snow an hour ago? Forget it. Trying to be a good son, I volunteered to drive my mother to work at the University of Michigan hospital, so my father wouldn't have to navigate through the snow-covered streets. What I should've done, however, is drive his battleship station wagon. My little Honda Civic was having mucho trouble trying to push itself uphill through the snow. It wasn't happening without me building up some major momentum. So unless I had a mile's worth of steam heading toward a not-even-steep incline, I was getting stuck. I managed to get out of most of these clogs by going in reverse, then putting the pedal to the floor to slowly inch forward. What is usually a 10-15 minute drive turned into a 45-minute slog, either because of getting stuck or having to take different routes to avoid hilly roads. (Ann Arbor certainly isn't, say, San Francisco, but it has more hills than you might think.)

I'm gonna attack that white shit with the snowblower later on. And hope that the city has the streets cleared by the time I have to drive back to the hospital to pick my mother up. (Or maybe I'll volunteer my father for the return trip.) In the meantime, I ain't leavin' the house. There could be lots of blog entries today...

Oh, the weather outside is frightful...

©2004 G.B. Trudeau

It's been snowing pretty heavily since midnight or so here in Ann Arbor. I'm no meterologist, nor do I have a ruler handy, but I'd be willing to bet we got 2 inches or so by the time I got home from the bar. Forecast says we're getting 5-8 inches by noon today. If Christmas weren't this week, I might complain about it. But when the white stuff coats the ground for the first time, untouched by tire tracks or footprints, unsullied by dirt and auto exhaust, it's beautiful to look at. (Maybe I can snap a photo later on.) Even better when it's nice and quiet at night.

My appreciation for snow was renewed by my buddy Pete, who lives in Austin, TX now. Ol' Petey hadn't seen the white stuff in a couple of years and was thrilled to have it crunch under his feet as we looked for a late-night munching spot. (But not too thrilled by the frigid temperatures, eh cowboy?)

Another thing I love about the snow is that it means I'll get to use my parents' snowblower. I LOVE THAT THING. A household chore has never been so much fun - especially when I "accidentally" spray passing cars.