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"A
Few Words About Not Being Okay With Okay (Award Special)"
By
Schagle Barkdust
The Korean woman I've been after for two months now is actually Japanese.
Her husband was Korean, and I'm a white guy who is far too entrenched
in American culture to catch nuances like that. Maybe in my college days,
or when I worked in Turkey on that deep sea fishing boat.
Sorry, everyone. Rambling is just my way.
Sumi is her name, pronounced just like the expression sue me. She must
have thought I was cute or took pity on my cane or my hermit-like lifestyle.
I was invited to her apartment with some of her neighbors for an Oscar
night party. Luckily for me she's a movie buff, but on the down side,
I'd never watched an Oscars show in my life. I knew they existed and they
happened some time between the end of football and the beginning of baseball.
But…a party? I guess they'll celebrate anything these days.
She game a printout of the nominees and a wink. I was turned off that
I was having some kind of group date with her neighbors (some of which
are old enough to remember the first Oscar night), but I was happy to
get out nonetheless.
I had a week. The only movie I saw that was nominated was Michael
Clayton, because it was still playing down the street at the theater
with the girl with all the neck tattoos. She calls me "sweetie".
Bless her.
Needless to saw I got 4 out of 25 picks correct on my sheet, the party
was a dud, and Sumi spent the entire night gabbing with a 200 pound Croatian
woman who was the only person in the world who didn't know that she, in
fact, was a lesbian.
So, onto the movies and the Oscars. Michael Clayton was okay.
Okay at best. Boring at worst. I am so very tired of okay. I guess I'm
wondering why film seems so tentative these days. The comedies are weak
and the light dramas that could have a chance to be funny are just dry
and gutless. It's as is every one on the screen just watches as things
happen around them. The directors just walked out of a French film festival
and all they remember is how quiet and uneventful the scenes were. Some
movies do deserve silence. Most need all the tools we've spent 100 years
developing! Camera angling, sound and effects! Does anyone know how to
edit anymore? Sorry, again. Maybe there wasn't much to edit in the first
place.
Clooney played Michael Clayton and carried the calm, rippling waves of
the almost-thriller to the beach of the almost-impressed. I think I sound
snooty now. I did mention I'm having girl issues. At my age, I get cranky
pretty damn quick.
My point with these films and all the others my nephew sends me (and James
prattles on about) is that I want to love them! Wow me, please! As far
as this film being nominated for an Oscar, I have to wonder what the hell
doesn't get nominated. They should hand them out every other year or so;
or only give out a Best Picture when something stands out so far that
it can't be ignored. Because with so much caution and fearful filmmaking,
how is anything worth noting?
Pain medication plus lack of sleep plus restlessness plus the absence
of a good woman equals curmudgeon. The least I could get is a suitable
escape provided by my DVD player.
S.B.
March 2008
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A
disclaimer:
Truth be told,
I hate critique. I understand the necessity for review and the search
for the innovative; I just don't want to be the bastard who does it. So
I found someone to do it for me.
I bought a Christmas tree at Lowe's in early December. I had trouble shoving
it in my suburban white-bread minivan until a man came out of nowhere
and offered me assistance. I said "Thanks, man". We positioned
the base of the tree while I crawled inside to pull it in the van. The
rain was horrible that morning, but as soon as we were finished it stopped.
He struck up a conversation with me about holiday movies, and I, a person
who normally avoids strange conversation, chatted with him for at least
ten minutes about Jimmy Stewart, the Oregon State Beavers, snow chains
and the impact of Chuck Palahniuk on the Northwest Writing community.
With the every thought of my disdain for critique at the tip of my brain
I asked: "Ever been a movie reviewer?"
He said: "I've been a park ranger, a movie projectionist, a waiter
on a luxury liner, a crab boat deckhand, a lumberjack and a manager of
a Jamba Juice. Never written anything anyone has ever seen. Unless the
stuff in the bathroom counts."
"I need a nom de plume," I continued. "Someone to look
at movies and stuff and review them. It's what people want to read. I'm
trying to make it as a writer."
"Isn't that dishonest?"
"Maybe, but I really hate critique." I waited a moment. "And
there's no pay."
"There never is. Hell, I'll do it. I have time anyway. I 'm living
off my third disability in fifteen years. Lost my thumb." He lifted
his gloved hand and flopped the empty finger around like it was an annoyance
that it was ever there.
"Crab boat?"
"Jamba Juice."
"Gross," I extended my left hand intentionally. "I'm James…in
Oregon anyway."
"I used to be known by a few names. Call me Schlagle Barkdust."
"You got it."
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