I have an intensely negative attitude towards therapy. Maybe it was reading Freud's writings on hysteria when I was too young, or hating anything having to do with expressive schlock. But recently I've discovered another answer: Animaniacs.
My little brother brought the first season of Animaniacs home with him last week. When I was younger, it was my absolute favorite show. I credit it with teaching me a lot of things: U.S. Presidents, Gilbert & Sullivan, geography, unhealthy popular culture obsession. But apparently, it also managed to teach me a laughably bad attitude towards psychiatrists. In the first episode we are introduced to Dr. Scratchandsniff, a bald German with an unseemly, large head. He works for the studio, and tries in vain to effectively babysit ("cure") the Warner Brothers, and their sister. He uses stupid puppets, asks questions like "What's on your mind?" (Yakko answers, "My hat?") and is totally incompetent. He also runs around with a net most of the time, and rips out his own hair. This, I do believe, is my first ever impression of what a therapist did. No wonder.
Thanks, Animaniacs, for my bizarre factual knowledge and my lifelong resentment of therapy. I appreciate it.
8.14.2006
8.11.2006
Movies about fucked-up people.
I am a big fan of movies about people who are more emotionally incompetent than I. This explains my early summer Bergman obsession, and also why I like John Hughes movies. Those people are adolescent though, so they have an excuse that I no longer feel is valid for me.
Last night I rented Match Point. It was directed by Woody Allen, but you wouldn't know it. The characters talked at a normal pace, and other than the self-obsession, and boring amounts of sexual intrigue, it wasn't much of a Woody Allen movie at all. For one thing, I could finish it, which hasn't been true for any movie he's made since Everyone Says I Love You (which was excellent and adorable).
The movie is shot like a current, bland romantic comedy, including beautiful actors, product placement (Ralph Lauren, Cartier), jaunts to all the touristy places in London (the theatre, the Thames, the Tate Modern, Buckingham Palace) as well as elaborate mansions in the English countryside. The people spend most of their time being gorgeous, but since this is a Woody Allen film and he doesn't much care for pretty people, they are therefore painfully boring and clearly destructive. And continue to be that way, for the entirety of the film. It was a brand of torture-- wanting to watch pretty people do awful things that weren't quite awful enough to be turly interesting. And it lasted for two hours. It totally confounded me. I have no pity or connection to any of the characters, who relied only on their good looks and stupidity, yet I didn't particularly want to stop watching. It was absolutely bizarre. I attribute it to my love of these types of movies when they are a little better written and with a slightly less attractive cast, but I'm probably just making excuses.
Oh well. I would probably enjoy soap operas if I managed to start watching them. That is a sort of amazing realization.
Last night I rented Match Point. It was directed by Woody Allen, but you wouldn't know it. The characters talked at a normal pace, and other than the self-obsession, and boring amounts of sexual intrigue, it wasn't much of a Woody Allen movie at all. For one thing, I could finish it, which hasn't been true for any movie he's made since Everyone Says I Love You (which was excellent and adorable).
The movie is shot like a current, bland romantic comedy, including beautiful actors, product placement (Ralph Lauren, Cartier), jaunts to all the touristy places in London (the theatre, the Thames, the Tate Modern, Buckingham Palace) as well as elaborate mansions in the English countryside. The people spend most of their time being gorgeous, but since this is a Woody Allen film and he doesn't much care for pretty people, they are therefore painfully boring and clearly destructive. And continue to be that way, for the entirety of the film. It was a brand of torture-- wanting to watch pretty people do awful things that weren't quite awful enough to be turly interesting. And it lasted for two hours. It totally confounded me. I have no pity or connection to any of the characters, who relied only on their good looks and stupidity, yet I didn't particularly want to stop watching. It was absolutely bizarre. I attribute it to my love of these types of movies when they are a little better written and with a slightly less attractive cast, but I'm probably just making excuses.
Oh well. I would probably enjoy soap operas if I managed to start watching them. That is a sort of amazing realization.
8.01.2006
A Pitchfork Villanelle.
Well, I got back this morning from the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago, completing my three urban music festivals in as many weekends. Of the three, Pitchfork was by far the best. Because I have to write an article for the newspaper on it, I decided to interpret my feelings here in a villanelle instead.
Ah, The Cool is Good? (In the Heat)
a lame villanelle
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Hipsters filed into the dusty diamond Union Park to see
Again! The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.
And despite the heat, they all still found a lovely, peppy thrill
while buying ethnic food quite cheaply, and sitting under trees.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Large sunglasses and shitty dye-jobs, beer all spilled
On boys with concave chests and American Apparel tees,
The same orange dress from H&M, same bands on the bill.
And water was cheap, and toilets gross: a good time with no frills
And nobody making awful talk, lots of posters to see.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Danielson was cute, Mountain Goats sang about awkward kills,
Spoon was true, CSS were paper dolls, Jens orchestral twee—
The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.
When Diplo rocked the tent so steam swum upwards, though no hills
Decorate the city, there still was a loud longing reaching, light and free.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Despite, because of the same orange dress, the similar bands on the bill.
To top it off, I just got back from seeing Sleater-Kinney. I'll write on that tomorrow.
Ah, The Cool is Good? (In the Heat)
a lame villanelle
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Hipsters filed into the dusty diamond Union Park to see
Again! The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.
And despite the heat, they all still found a lovely, peppy thrill
while buying ethnic food quite cheaply, and sitting under trees.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Large sunglasses and shitty dye-jobs, beer all spilled
On boys with concave chests and American Apparel tees,
The same orange dress from H&M, same bands on the bill.
And water was cheap, and toilets gross: a good time with no frills
And nobody making awful talk, lots of posters to see.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Danielson was cute, Mountain Goats sang about awkward kills,
Spoon was true, CSS were paper dolls, Jens orchestral twee—
The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.
When Diplo rocked the tent so steam swum upwards, though no hills
Decorate the city, there still was a loud longing reaching, light and free.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Despite, because of the same orange dress, the similar bands on the bill.
To top it off, I just got back from seeing Sleater-Kinney. I'll write on that tomorrow.
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