The Sick Day Movie

As I transition from one phase of my career trajectory, I am also departing from direct service work with children into a more administrative office based role. My parting gift from the wee ones was a 101 degree fever. [Note: Children are walking petri dishes.] I've, thus, been pretty much confined to bed. Most sick days I can get by on whatever is on t.v. or by catching up on some shows I've missed. When I feel really miserable, though, there are a set of stand-by movies I always turn to. These films wrap me in a blanket softer and tighter than I could ever find anywhere else. Throw in some toast and soup and I'm well on my way to recovery. I look to these movies almost as a prescription; I try not to mix it up or bother with other flicks because the consequences could be dire. Case in point:

One time while delirious with an even worse fever (103 degrees I thing, the whole thing is still a bit fuzzy) I settled on a television marathon of Jurassic Park III (2001). They just kept playing this movie on repeat, and I couldn't move or think straight, so it seemed like a good idea to keep watching. Cut to the next night. In addition to hardly being able to sleep due to the cold, [Bonus: It was bronchitis!] I was super stressed out because I was taking two Praxis exams the next day  for my teaching certification. As I tossed and turned, all I could think of was "Poor Billy, he's never going to pass his Praxis. He didn't have any time to study!" What should have been dreams or (even better) the oblivion of sleep, was instead wrought with concern for my friend, Billy. Who's Billy? A fictional character from Jurassic Park III of course. I mean, how was he supposed to study for his Praxis exam if he was running from dinosaurs all weekend?

There is no way he'll be allowed to teach Secondary English in the state of Pennsylvania.

The thing about being sick is that it puts me at my weakest, making me incredibly susceptible to suggestion and immersion in a world. The above example demonstrates why I stick to a select few films when trying to lift my spirits when coughs and medicine try to get me down. Apartment Therapy had a pretty nifty post on this subject last year. My list is pretty short. It's hardly even a list. It's just two movies.


The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)
[Note: It should go without saying, but I'm talking about EE; Extended Edition for the uninitiated.]

Send that nasty cold to whence it came!

Pretty sure I can say most of the lines from this movie. That's part of the beauty of it; I can fall asleep and wake up at any point and know exactly what's happening and none of it will ever be confused with reality. When I was in high school, I along with three of my friends who camp out in someone's living room and have a marathon of all three Lord of the Rings Extended Editions. It usually spanned over two days and we hardly ever finished. The point is that this is a movie that  warms the darkest depths of my soul. With a soundtrack that serenades like a lullaby, and as lush a landscape as is possible on the planet Earth, everything about this movie is a like a dream.

By the end of this movie I usually feel ready to go on a quest, or at least dance by myself in my room. This is usually quite difficult since I'm (more than likely) still sick though in much better spirits.

"They're Taking the Hobbits to Isengaurd" pumps in the background.

Sabrina (1954)

Just shut up and gaze at Audry Hepburn. I SAID, GAZE, DAMN YOU!

Is there anything more perfect or soothing than the melancholic drawl of this Audry's voice? No. There isn't. It's a scientific fact that Audry Hepburn's voice has the same sonic resonance as steeping chamomile tea. In fact, in addition to being required to be the subject matter wallpapering 40% of all female college dorm rooms, movies staring Audry Hepbern are prescribed for most minor ailments in the state of New York.

Okay, so those might not be "medical facts", perse, but it's all totally "true". Never is it more true that in Sabrina, a Cinderella story where Cinderella actually grows up in the palace, gets an old French Baron instead of a fairy godmother, then realizes she's actually in love with Prince Charming's brother. To summarize in a single word: perfection.

Seriously. Perfection.

There are a hand full of other movies that make the cut for my Sick Day Movie List, but those are without a doubt the top two. If you're still feeling miserable after these two doses of cinema magic, you probably have a terminal illness, in which case I won't make a snarky comment. If you don't have a terminal illness and you still feel awful, then you're as soulless as a Nazgul and there's really nothing I can do for you.

I'm not really a Bogart fan.

The Father's Day Post

The extreme belated nature of this post is due to the fact that dads are hard. Dads are especially difficult for adult daughters. Dads also become a behemoth within most Latin cultures. So it took me a while to write an appropriate tribute to my behemoth Latin dad. (Seriously, this post started out as four pages single spaced before I managed to pare it down to something close to a coherent statement). 

As a young child, I definitely hung out more with my dad than with my mom. My parents took on those two very classic roles of "mom" as disciplinarian and "dad" as fun one. I was, without a doubt, a Daddy's Girl. This was both a good and a bad thing. My dad has always seen his role in my life as my protector. In recent years he hasn't quite known what to do with himself since I no longer live with my parents and can't really benefit from his attempts at protecting me. These "middle years" between middle school until the present has been like pulling teeth when trying to have a real conversation with him. I'm calling them "middle years" because I've felt a definite change more recently. Talking is getting easier as we move into this next stage. I think he's starting to believe he did a good job in rearing me.

All the things my father has taught me can be categorized as Defensive Evasion. I mean that in both the physical and psychological sense. The psychological defense mechanisms I've picked up from him have been somewhat unintentional on his part. Like him, I can be very good at hiding my emotions and am somewhat uncomfortable sharing them when I'm upset. This is a general trait from his side of the family, a quality that I can best describe as Victorian in nature and probably stems from the very era. As criollos (Puerrtoriqueños descended exclusively of Spaniards) his side of the family is white with the bitterness of fallen aristocrats (which, in many ways, they are). Bitterness aside, my father an I both tend to seek solitude when distraught; we burrow up in the fox holes of our minds.

Zorro is the Spanish word for "fox". Thus enters our masked hero, secretly Diego de la Vega, son of the wealthy Don Alejandro. Diego returns home to the small town of Los Angeles to find much has changed in the way of corruption and damsels in distress. He has been in Spain being educated by the greatest minds and swordsmen of Europe, and what better way to apply those skills than in righting the injustices of his beloved pueblo. Donning cape and cowl he tears a new one on The Man with his trusty steed Tornado. The authorities dub him El Zorro, and are outraged by the ways in which he constantly outsmarts them, slipping away to his alleged "fox hole." Laying the ground work that would reemerge as Batman in more contemporary fiction, (it was, in fact, the movie the Wayne Family went to see the night Martha and Thomas Wayne were murdered), Zorro has swashbuckled his way through film, radio, novels and comics. He even got his own telenovela (Spanish language soap opera).

Telemundo is way more amazing than you'll ever understand. Unless you actually watch Telemundo and do understand, in which case you're ready for I have feminist rant and death grudge against the network as a whole which will ruin your love of most Spanish language television.

A vacation to Disney World I took with my parents when I was eight is the first thing that comes to mind when I attempt to identify memories involving my dad. My mom passed out as soon as we returned to our hotel room. It was late; we had gone to see the fireworks show on Main Street at the Magic Kingdom. My dad and I weren't ready to go to bed, so we started channel surfing. By some great miracle or another, we came upon The Mark of Zorro (1940). At this point in time I hadn't seen this movie before. My dad, on the other hand, had been raised on it. As a Puertorriquen kid in the Bronx, I didn't grow up with many role models I could identify with. Sonia Soto Mayor has only recently became a Supreme Court Justice. All I had to look at were Maria and Luis on Sesame Street. Granted, when I was very young, Sesame Street was basically all I ever watched, so this was a pretty good deal of cultural affirmation, but once I started watching things other than PBS children's programming, I noticed there weren't a lot of kids or adults on TV who had names like Lopez or Cruz.

Understanding how empty the pool of role models was for me might help you imagine what it must have been like for my dad. Born in Mricau, Puerto Rico, he grew up in the 1950's and 60's at the 90th Street Housing Projects in Manhattan off of Amsterdam Avenue. Go five blocks farther Southwest, and you can literally be where West Side Story is set. (Fun fact: I was never actually allowed to watch West Side Story growing up. Sort of like how a lot of my Thai friends were never allowed to watch The King And I. Both are fairly racist and mostly cast with white actors in "brown face").

This is how my dad walked to school with his brother and Eric Estrada*.

The thing about Zorro, is that even though he was created by some white guy as an American Scarlet Pimpernell, even though the character was played by a white actor, even though the movie is in English, Zorro still feels like he's ours. By "ours" I mean all Latino kids. Zorro was one of the only Hispanic heroes kids of my dad's generation were ever allowed to have. While he is Mexican/Californian, in a sense the time period is so far removed, with a few climate and wardrobe changes he could have just as easily been Puerorriquen. Indeed, the story goes that my great-great grandfather was one of three brothers who migrated from Spain to the Americas in search of their fortunes; one to Puerto Rico, one to the Dominican Republic, and one to Mexico. I'm sure there are some Chicanos (folks whose ancestors settled the West when it was still Spain, then Mexico, becoming Americans as land was annexed) who share my last name. With how rare of a name it is, we're probably distant cousins.

We stayed up until 2am watching this black and white movie. It was the latest I had ever stayed up and was mesmerized for all of it. I definitely have a lot of the memories from that vacation that are marketed by Disney, of fun theme park adventures and what not, but this is one of the most powerful ones I have of time spent with my father. Watching movies is kind of our thing. It's how we spend time together. As I've mentioned in an earlier post, it's easier to let the screen do the talking than trying to engage in meaningful connection in the real world. Sometimes you just want things to be easy.

On the physical side of Defensive Evasion, my dad has purposefully attempted to instill a certain set of skills in me. Once I started taking public transportation by myself (also right around the time that I started wearing a real bra) he taught me how to fight. Rather, he taught me how to defend myself. In addition to teaching rudimentary lessons on how to make a proper fist and an understanding of how torsion in the body works, this consisted of three simple rules of fighting.

Rule # 4: Always wear awesome pants.

First rule of fighting: Always have your shoes tied. It sounds silly, but it's a completely real thing. More broadly, this can cover the general rule of sensible footwear. [Note: This is not to say a lady shouldn't wear heels if she doesn't want to, but assess the situation; if there's a chance you'll be walking a good ways or if a fight might break out somewhere, stick to flats. This may also just be a New Yorker mentality.]

Second rule of fighting: never fight when you're angry. Anger consumes all your senses, making you helpless. This is a great rule to live by, whether or not engaged in a physical conflict. By detaching from anger in a situation it becomes easier to see solutions to challenges on a logistical level. It also becomes easier to spot the root of conflict. I think this is why I'm so solution oriented.

Third rule of fighting: use your environment. There is no such thing as a dirty fight because the only time you should be fighting is if you are defending your life or the lives of those you love. This rule, combined with the fact that my dad is also an amateur inventor, has made me particularly adept to McGyvering my way through life.

One thing I never picked up from my dad, something I desperately wish I could bottle and keep, is his overpowering optimism. I'm a fairly optimistic person, but my dad's optimism defies my own understanding. He manages to approach any new endeavor as if he knows success will follow, as if he doesn't know what failure is. The thing about my dad is that he does know what failure looks, feels, and tastes like, but none of those failures have ever been able to diminish the the triumph of his hope and faith. He persists, tenaciously. His conviction cuts like a blade across your the shame of your indifference. Believe me, it leaves a mark.

* The part about Eric Estrada is true. Only instead of school it was theater classes in the church basement.

The Time I Corrupted Children with Transformers - or - How Do We Transform Our Society?

I have worked with kids throughout my professional life, both as a paid staff member and a volunteer. I care about youth and their development. Recently news of budget cuts in the School District of Philadelphia have made national and international headlines. The cuts have forced principals to deliver pink slip notices of termination to a little more that 3,700 district employees. These employees are not all core curriculum teachers (math/English/social studies/science) but rather key individuals who make schools functional- assistant principals, nurses, councilors, music and art teachers, secretaries, and mid-day staff who monitor lunch rooms and hallways. I actually cried the other day because my powerless rage had fully taken hold of me.

That being said, whatever role I've had around kids, I take it seriously. The thing about working with kids is that even having fun with them is can be terrifying and exhausting. If you're a parent or already work with kids, you know this. For the rest of you, just know that any seemingly innocuous activity in this world is wrought with peril. A simple stroll to the playground is really a scene from Predator (1987), only instead of invisible aliens hunting intergalactic prey, it's pedophiles. A romping session in the gym is the perfect time for a child to decide, "Hey! Back-flipping off of that giant pile of gymnastics mats is a great idea!" It isn't. And the tears, paperwork, and emotional trauma that follow are my issue to deal with before telling parents that their kid just dislocated his shoulder.

Enter Michael Bay's Transformers (2007). I won't say when this incontinent of corrupting youth happened, although it clearly occurred after the film's release to DVD. I'll point out that I love this movie. I remember going to the movie theater with my dad and my uncle to see it. My dad was basically humoring me and his younger brother but ended up loving it as much as us and the rest of the crowd. How can you not?! A live-action remake of a beloved 80's cartoon! Did I mention it's about ginant alien robots? It's a movie without many surprises and is completely satisfying if what you're looking for a is a festival of explosions and corny jokes. Why wouldn't it be perfect for showing to the young'uns, many of whom were under the age of six when it came out? SO MANY THINGS.

The Autobots are ready to do some damage...to young minds.

The movie starts with some soldiers in a nondescript desert talking about how much they hate sand and want to go home to a presumably sandless land. Then one of the soldiers starts cursing in Spanish. There are no subtitles, but I and several of my students spoke Spanish, so I immediately panicked. Once this string of profanity was over I chalked it up to an assumption of the ignorance of mainstream American audiences; there weren't any subtitles, so obviously no one in Amurrica would understand it. Surely the rest of the movie, in English, would be safe for K-6 ears.

"¡Carajo cabrón!" Translation: PG-13

The thing about the the Transformers DVD is that the actual, physical DVD is marked with silver on grey writing, making it somewhat difficult to read, especially when you're rushing out the door to get to work on time. So difficult, in fact, it makes the marking "PG-13" look like "PG". Apparently numbers are hard to read when written in silver.

Writing on me in silver is a swell artistic choice. It symbolizes how this DVD is "more than meets the eye." It will also make you unable to properly read my rating.

About twenty minutes into the movie the late and great Bernnie Mac makes an appearance as a hustling, fast talking used car salesman attempting to sell a busted rust bucket (one of the main characters, alien robot Bumbble Bee the Autobot, in disguise) to our young hero, Sam, (Shia LeBeuf). At one point he said "Bitch-ass" and I just disassociated from the whole situation. I went to my Happy Place in my head and completely escaped the trauma I was imparting on my kids.

RIP the greatest cross-over performer since Desi Arnez.

All the other staff members found this hilarious. So did I, after a certain point, but initially I was mortified. I was the one who had sellected this DVD and thus I was the one responsible for any kids who may have ended up damaged or spewing curse words. This was on ME. I shouldn't forget to mention that there were, in fact, many DVDs avaliable on site for the kids to watch. I went out of my way to try to get a movie they hadn't seen before. I felt like a total ass. The other reason I was so mortified is because this ISN'T THE FIRST TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED TO ME. Earlier in my career with kids, my supervisor thought it was a good idea to show a group of middle school students Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001). I won't get into a detailed plot, just know that there was at least one scene with male and female full-frontal nudity in a whore house. Granted, that time I wasn't the person who made the movie choice, I was the teacher present and showing said whore house scene to the kids. I wasn't held responsible but I did feel responsible. Fear of lawsuits aside, there is a certain level of urgency felt to "get it right" with kids, especially other people's kids. Most of our adult behaviors, beliefs, and skills are cultivated in youth. Damaging a kid's phsyche at the age of eight could impact whether they graduate from high school at eighteen, seek abusive relationships at twenty, or rob liquor stores at thirty!

Don't worry; I will write an entire post about this movie at some point.

Midway through Transformers, we stopped the movie for Snack Time. I already had a plan to go back and say "Oh no! The DVD was somehow damaged since we left for only 30 minutes! Guess we'll have to watch something else." But my supervisor popped by during tha time and told me not to worry about it, that they had probably seen worse stuff on tv or with their parents. Fortunately for me and sadly for society at large, this is more than likely true. In light of the school district's recent Doomsday Budget (the name of NOT a movie title but the actual name being given to the SDP's 2013-2014 Fiscal Year Budget), I have also realized there isn't a real need to sweat the small stuff like what I may have allegedly and accidentally exposed children to. The real trauma of their youth will be the fact that they are being denied a quality education.

I guess my rage has felt powerless simply because I haven't sought to take action. I see so many of my peers march, protest, write letters, sign petitions, make phone calls, all for what? A news spot here a, an op-ed there, but most of it feels like we're preeching to the chior. If We The People cared about kids as a nation, this wouldn't be an issue. Too often do people think of the problems faced by the most disadvantaged is the problem of those people or of those kids. The thing is, they are our kids. This budget doesn't need to be a "doomsday" scenario if we, collectively, as a city and a country, don't want it to. I'm grapeling with how to shake people out of their complacancy. I'm also grapeling with how much I can feasably do. My mindset has often been that the work I do is itself an act of social justice, but do I have the energy and time to do more? Mor importantly, how can I inspire and convince people who definitely have the energy and time to do more? We have the power to transform our world, but since the great movements of the 1960's so much faith in the process of social change has been lost. Where's our "allspark" gone?

Why Ben Hur Frustrates Me and Could Be More Thematically Nuanced- A Proposal for Remake

It was only a matter of time before I missed a week let alone two! I'm sorry audience (if your really even exist). It was a super crazy couple of weeks for both good and bad reasons that I'm sure I will illuminate at some point. Or never. Definitely one of those two. That being said, if you're actually reading this blog on a weekly or semi-regular basis, would you mink clicking that wee "follow" button? I'd like to get a sense of how many people I'm letting down if I ever have to skip a post again.

It was also only a matter of time before I started tearing apart a beloved American film classic. Go big or go home, right? As far as pop culture is concerned, the best place to find such a worthy film to rip to shreds is the American Film Institute's list of their chosen top 100 films of all time. I started my quest to watch all 100 of these movies a couple years ago. I've seen about 75 of them so far! It's mainly the depressing epics that have me dragging my heels with it, but I'm pretty sure I'll get it down before the end of this year. There are plenty of movies on this list that I find flawless, but plenty more that leave me wondering what business they have being on the list at all. Then, there are those that are great movies, but could be so much greater. Within this final category is where Ben-Hur (1959) sits.

Shit's about to get epic.

I'll start of by saying what I've already mentioned, that Ben-Hur deserves its place on the AFI top 100 list. It is an awe-inspiring feat of flim making. There's so much that this movie does right. If you need an epic Jew, who better than Charlton Heston? Right? Also if you want to see how epics were staged before the use of CGI, I'm fairly certain Ben-Hur sets the standard.

[Now come the spoilers.]
Now, as the title of this post suggests, I have a few, arguably minor gripes with this movie. Minor gripes that I believe could make MAJOR improvements on a thematic level. Quick synopsis: Judah of the house of Ben-Hur is a Judean prince (sort of). His best friend from childhood, a Roman named Massala, returns to Judea as the region's Tribune (a military governor). He asked Judah to reveal the names of Judean rebels seeking to cause rebellion. Judah says he don't know no stinkin' rebels, and if he did he wouldn't betray them. Later, some tiles accidentally fall from Judah's roof, killing a Roman governer. Judah is charged with murder and insurection by Messala and sold into slavery while his mother and sister are tossed in prison/dungeon. Years later, Judah returns to Judeah as a Roman citizen and chamption chariot racer (obviously). He wins the chariot race of the decade, effectively killing Messala in the process. Also, at the end Jesus dies.

Let's start right at the very beginning. Once the Overture ends, text appears that reads "A.D. 1." I think I litterally face-palmed the first time I saw this. A.D. stands for "anno domini," Latin for "in the year of the Lord" (Lord as in Jesus Christ). The thing about using A.D. in Ben-Hur is that it takes place before Christianity was the state religion of Rome, before Christianity was a religion, before anyone named Jesus was recognized as Christ. The guy that said temporal reckoning is based upon dies at the END of this movie, so the notion of AD at the start of it doesn't make sense yet. I suppose "CKRF" wouldn't have made sense as a date to modern audiences, but I'm sure something could have been concocted along the lines of "Februarius in the 17th year of Caesar Augustus" just to give a better sense of context for the story.

Another thing that bothered me was how unvillainus the villains were. The supposed villains of this epic are Romans, essentialized in the film's personal conflict as Messala. The thing about Romans in this movie is that they just aren't vile enough. Messala becomes the only real villain of the film due mostly to his pride via his inability to admit he wrongly prosocuted Judah. The best way to describe all other Romans inthis film is as beurocratic bullies. Sort of annoying overall, but hardly a reason to start a revolution. They just seem like people who work at the DMV. Messala does wax poetic about the superiority of Roman order, but the soul of imperialism (i.e. the real and systematic form of injustice in Palestine at the time) never fully manifests itself. Instead, the personal conflict about pride falls into clearer focus that overarching themes of opression and justice. I think there was a huge missed opportunity to parallel Romans to the British occupying Palestine at the time of the film's release. I suppose something that overtly political wasn't really done in mainstream Hollywood productions in 1959.

Name: Joseph. Place of Birth: Bethlehem. Marital Status: Married (2nd marriage/ widower)

Perhaps my greatest frustration with this film is the unrequited romantic undertones in the relationship between Judah and Messala. They never make out and it makes me feel cheated. The mezuzah on Judah's house gets more action than either of these guys. Again, I'll concede that this was not permissible in 1959 if a filmmaker wanted to get a picture shown, and probably this wasn't the intent of the story's creator, but it sure as hell is the vibe you get watching Charton Heston and Stephen Boyd eye-fucking each other. This would have made for some excellent cultural drama as well! While the Israelites fully frowned upon homosexuality, Romans are well known for drawing a somewhat fuzzy line between what was and wasn't taboo sexual behavior. It would explain Judah's postponing his marriage to Esther (his own sexual reluctance) and Massala's exceptionally strong vindictive prosecution of Judah (his hurt for being romantically slighted by someone he thought was his best friend [and in Rome "with benefits" is implicit]).

"I hear the water in Arkansas is very hard."*

My further aggravation is due to the lack of research done to represent cultures contemporary of that era. Arabs didn't exist yet. At least, not in the sort of Islamic sheik fashion they are historically imagined today. "Arabs" are mentioned in certain translations of the bible, but this was in reference to many different "desert dwelling" peoples. They were more of the proto-grandaddy Yarab peoples, mainly Nabataeans. More specifically, Caliphs and the Caliph status structure didn't exist yet. So why does Judah travel around with one for a quarter of the movie? Point is, there were plenty of other cultures surrounding Judea at the time. It was the flippin' Roman Empire- everyone from the known world could travel to any other part of the know world at any given time! Open a history book and sort your shit out William Wyler!

Ultimately, this is a film about the futility of vengence. This is made evident by the how even after Massala's death, Judah feels empty and unfulfilled. It's also about the spiritual imprtance of forgiveness (of others and self) as a means of redeption. This is how this Jesus character (allegedly) fits into the plot. At the end of the movie, Judah becomes convinced that this Jesus dude is the messiah. For me, this takes Judah down a notch. It angered me that his conviction melted away so easily. Judah doesn't say this aloud at any point, but like most characters played by Charlton Heston, he tells us all we need to know by the gleam of his teeth. While it does fall in line with the reckoning of Christian scripture, that through the Passion (the act of Christ's crusifixtion), Jesus converted thousands of people on the spot. Within that narrative, it's plausable that Judah could have indeed become a believer in spite of the three other times throughout the film he crossed the path of the supposed Christ and didn't believe. Yes, many believe the Passion to be "the greatest story ever told, however it isn't the most cinematically climactic end to Judah's tale. It makes everything he has done throughout the movie pointless, as it should. If that's true, though, what did we just spend the last two hours doing? I ended up feeling a little like...

One of my best friends explained to me that this all follows the formula for 19th century christian sentimentality, which was super popular in the US at the time (and I guess still is). She just turned in her masters thesis on 19th century American literature, so I try to trust her in these matters, even when I'm spiting mad, even when we're discussing Ben Hur.



You just think you're soooo great. Just because you were the #1 best selling novel in theU.S. from 1880-1936.



And thus do I propose Ben Hur be remade, yet again, to fit modern audiences. While I'm sure many of the suggestions I've implied will make many people angry and cry "scralige" as many did/do with The Last Temptation of Christ, these slight changes will make this movie a) more historically accurate, and b) more copellingly nuanced. Also, I would be happier as a movie-goer, and really my satisfaction is paramount here.

*I am not above quoting True Blood.

The Mother's Day Tribute

Bring on the nostalgia.

It was my mom who took me to see my first movie in an actual movie theater. We went to the American Theater in Parkchester, in the Bronx. I was two years old at the time. Before this, I'd been exposed to television, mostly Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. The American is one of those tiny movie houses that looks exactly as it did in the 1960's, with wrought iron framing to its chairs (the "new seats" advertized in the marquee are from 1975). My mom had gone to that same movie theater as a kid. Back then, there had also been The Circle Theater, a couple blocks away, but The American, larger in size and more centrally located in the neighborhood, stood the test of time (while The Circle became a Lucile Roberts gym). She took me there to see The Adventures of Milo and Otis (1986). Even though this movie came out before I was born, they often showed older movies at a discounted rate.



Note: The Mr Pizza to the left is also still there. Their pizza is baller.



    

 
Keen to not be one of those parents who brings a crying kid to a movie, my folks eased me in to the process of sitting still for a long period of time in public with a couple local restaurants. Once it was clear I wasn't going to throw a fit while I waited for pancakes to arrive at our table, I guess they assumed I was ready to sit in a dark with popcorn. According to my mom, I was completely mesmerized by all 76 minutes of the film. I was particularly fixated on the birthing scenes, in which Milo and Otis become parents and the audience watches a litter of kittens and puppies being born. I started miming this scene with my hands once we got home, making a circle with one hand and pushing my other hand through it. "They went floop!" I would say as my hand/kitten was born. At this point, my mom thought it was as good a time as any to explain where babies come from. Yes, when I was two.

It was, thus, at the age of two, I began to understand the world with a more solid grasp of where I came from. A sense of origin and an understanding of self are definitely two things I've gotten from my mom. It's a somewhat archetypal thing, the idea of Mother and Birth as the place and time of origin for all things, from people to the universe in certain myths. In my case, I suppose it's genuinely true. My mom has always been the one of my parents who has been keen to educate my on my family's cultural history, on the truth behind things my dad would rather have remain as skeletons in the closet. For this I owe her my thanks.

The other major thing I owe to my mom is the skill to loaf around. I say "skill" because there's a right way to do it and a wrong way to do it. Being a slovenly couch potato every day of your life is both physically and mentally unhealthy. Every now and again, however, it's perfectly healthy to stay in your pajamas all day and watch movies.

I also say "skill" because I've learned that some people don't know how to enjoy doing nothing. I've meet several people who have told me they find it difficult to watch movies because they either can't stay focused on one thing for so long or they don't see loafing around as productive. These are ludicrous claims as far as I'm concerned. Ether that, or a tragic result of our society's diminishing attention span. The thing about loafing around is that it actually is productive. Rest and "zoning out" are good ways to recharge, to empty mental space for new challenges and information. To this day, when my mom and I take off from work to spend time together, we rarely go out and do anything other than groceries. Precious time is usually spent snuggled on the couch or in bed watching something mind-numbingly feel-good like Kate and Leopold (2001) or Julie and Julia (2009).



We're going to be here for a while.



I should also thank my mom for recognizing the type of kid I was- an introvert. A lot of people mistake introverts for being people who don't like people. An introvert is actually someone who uses a lot of energy during social interaction, whereas an extrovert gains energy from social interaction. There's a fantastic TEDTalk in which Susan Cain explains this in detail, especially the ways in which the power of introverts can be leveraged. Another way to look at it, and how I look at it as a professional educator, is that at the end of the day some kids need a ball and some kids need a pillow. Guess which kind I was (no matter how much I tried to deny it).

I'm awake. I swear. Naps are evil! I....! zzzzzzzz

So, belatedly for Mother's Day, and every day, I guess, I'm thankful my mom successfully taught me the art of loafing. I've since found friends who have also mastered this art and have been able to pass it on to those who feel insecure being "unproductive". To those of you still unsure about the validity of staying on your butt all day, I challenge you to find copies of your two favorite movies, sit back with a snack and someone you love. You may be surprised at how the day seems to disappear with seemingly nothing accomplished. Just remember, you're accomplishing a lot of things your mind and your body have been needing for a while.

What Christian Social Workers Wish Was Legal- Black Snake Moan

[Note: Sooooo many spoilers.]

The thing about life is that is doesn't always go as planned. Not a huge revelation for most of you reading (I hope), but this week's ruminations on film is a written testament to this. I had all these plans to write about my feelings about the 1956 remake of Ben Hur. It should be noted my many, deep, and conflicted feelings toward this film are part of why I began this blog. I was set with screen shots, gifs, and snarky remarks. Then Black Snake Moan (2006) happened.

Yes, this movie happened to me.

I say "happened" because it fit into a strange pair of experiences that happened to me in the same evening. I also say this because the story and performances are more than a little traumatizing in the way only truly spectacular film can be. While I'm not sure I agree the all of the message this film  seems to be putting forth or all the artistic choices made by the director Craig Brewer, it worked for me as a piece of cinema that was both entertaining spectacle and thought provoking art. I'm still trying to unpack and process the MANY things that happened in this movie. One of the reasons it's particularly difficult is because of the ways in which the entertaining spectacle aspects of it smash against the thought provoking art portions of it. Never in my life have I seen another film in which the tone of the story was in such stark contrast to the images it presents. For example, take a look at two posters that were used to promote the film:

        

 
One poster looks like something you might come across while watching PBS. The other looks like something you might find in the special section of the video store (if video stores still existed). Not only they imagery, but note the different tag lines: "What ties you down will set you free," vs. "Everything is hotter down south." Without a doubt, the marketing of this movie is a dman shame and probably part of the reason it didn't even come across my radar when it was first in theaters.

[Note: Remember those spoilers I was talking about...?]

Now what is this film even about? With the two sets of imagery duking it out above, it's hard to tell. Basically, this movie plays out like a guide to the Stockholm Syndrome approach to healing. A righteous, religious, black man, Lazerous (Samuel L "Motherfuckin" Jackson), finds a messed up, nymphomaniac, white chick, Rae (Christina Ricci) on the side of the road. He takes her home, cleans her up, then chains her up when she tries to get away, because damn it, her healin' aint done! She's got a poison inside her, like his wife who left him for his brother, and it needs to be sucked out! Exercised like a demon! Over the course of nursing her back to physical and mental health, Lazerous returns to his God-given gift of blues guitar and manages to nurture a budding relationship with the town's pharmasist. At a certain point, Rae doesn't even need to be chained up; she stays and lets herself receive the care he gives. Wouldn't ya know it? They end up healing each other.

Save my soul with your devil music! The irony will be heartwarming!

Things are not nearly as cut and dry as all that. As I said earlier, there's still a lot I'm still working through in my head about this film. One is this contradiction in images and messages. Another is its handling of race and religion. The casting and performances also gave me a lot to think about. At this point I should probably talk about the thing that happened to me right before I went to watch this movie at a friend's apartment. Religion happened.

I had planned to pick up my laundry by 8:50pm since I thought the laundromat closed at 9. In the short walk between my apartment and the laundromat is a house of nuns. No, not a Convent. That's down the street from the Nun House. Elderly Sister Sheila came upon me on the street as I approached the corner. As usual, she was bright-eyed and had something very important to tell me. Also as usual, she had virtually no recollection of who I was. We have met a couple times, but Sister Sheila is a little bit colorful in the way that only those sort of perpetually happy elderly folk with selective memories can be. Perhaps she vaguely recalled my face, but she doesn't know my name nor when we met. I'd like to imagine she knows I'm a member of the parish congregation, but I think I'm aiming too high.

"Have you seen the chapel we have inside?" she asked excitedly. I had, in fact, been inside the Casa de Nun. I explained that I had seen the chapel but aparently I was wrong. I had only been in what used to be the chapel in the 1950s. There was a new one I needed to see NOW.

Surprise! You're about to get kidnapped!

Sister Sheila took me by the elbow and began to pull me up the stoop to the porch of the red brick Victorian house on the corner. I still had my laundry in mind; I wasn't quite sure when the laundromat closed for the night and was worried if she started telling her tales from forty years ago (as she's known to do) I would have to leave my clothes in the the dryer over night. Also, all the clean underwear I possessed was currently in said dryer. Things could have quickly become dire. I supposed I could have politely told her I couldn't stay and briskly walked away, but I believe sometimes the universe puts detours in your way for a reason. The Quest Structure in general assumes detours and distractions are part of achieving an overarching goal. Many spiritual leaders, from ancient Vikings to Niel Geiman, assert that what you do in unexpected situations have karmic outcomes that can be rewarding or damning. With this in mind, I let myself be abducted.

Once inside, we went farther back into the house, past the space I thought was the chapel. As it turned out, the current chapel is actually located at the rear of the house in a newer addition that looks hyper modern, and a little out of place in comparison to the rest of the house. Sister Sheila began giving me a personal tour of the chapel's highlights. I was invited to touch an elaborate wood carving of the Stations of the Cross that had been made and gifted by "someone who lived right on this very block!" We also took some time to admire a beautiful Coptic papyrus painting from Egypt.

After this quick and intimate tour of the private chapel inside Nun Haven, Sister Sheila walked me back to the sidewalk where she had briefly kidnapped me. Just before we said good-bye, she said to me, almost as an afterthought, "The light on the porch is always on. We need people to feel safe." As I went on my way, I tried very hard to make sense of what had just happened.

To my supreme fortune, the laundromat closes at 9:30pm and not 9pm as I originally thought. As I gathered up my clothes I received a text from a friend. "Black snake moan nowish at our place if you want to join!" I did want to join! Black Snake Moan was one of the movies I had been meaning to watch for almost a year. I first learned about it when I googled "under-rated movies." It appeared in a list here and has since been on my personal list of films to see.

Not going to lie, I think my somewhat personal and incidental religious experience that evening impacted the eye with which I interpreted the religious themes of the movie. I thought it was heavy-handed and righteous. That could just be a cultural issue- as a filthy papist from the north east, I have trouble taking certain strands of Protestantism seriously, particularly evangelical strands. As someone who works in the non-profit world, I also find it upsetting when religion is the sole way a problem is resolved in works of fiction.

I'm not sure if watching this with a group of people was better or worse for fully appreciating it, but I'm all about ongoing commentary, and that gets a little weird when you're by yourself. At one point in watching, one of my friends asked if it was directed by Quinten Tarrentino. It wasn't, but for a moment I'd wondered the same thing. We both thought this because so many of the shots had a super pulp style to them. Some of the shots looked like the were ripped from Planet Terror or Grindhouse. The retro bluesy soundtrack, both electric and acoustic, also echo Tarrentino's current thematic fixations, as well as his sometime collaborator, Roberto Rodriguez' style. It's easy for your mind to make these connections when there are shots like this:

And this:

The thing about this movie that's in stark contrast to a Tarrentino or Rodriguez wet dream is that it's not a wet dream. While a woman's body and female sexuality are prominently featured on camera, it isn't the point of these shots. These actions and behaviors indicate something greater about the character and the story, rather than being the object story and characters are mapped upon.

As for performances, I have a lot of feelings about the lead roles. My strongest feeling is that Christina Ricci needs to be in more stuff. Rather, she needs to be in more stuff that lets her show the breadth of her talent. Who knew she could do damaged and sultry? In the same role no less! It's more than a little upsetting how her character was advertized, but I'll save my diatribe on that for another post.

The other major take-away from this film is that if there's anyone I want to have around when I'm having a psychotic break down, it's Samuel L "motherfuckin" Jackson. Now, whenever I feel I just can't deal with whatever's happening in life, I just imagine him holding my face and telling me "You're going to get your shit together. And I will. And I do. And this line from the movie has become a catch phrase among my group of friends. He's been quoted a couple times saying he believes the role of Lazerous in Black Snake Moan is his best performance, and I can't disagree. You know the way Julius says he plans to retire at the end of Pulp Fiction (1994)? Imagine checking in on his character 30 years later. That's Lazerous. With a character that intense, it's easy to create a caricature, but he plays the role with sincerity and and truth.

Get off my lawn... and repent!

Then there's Justin Timberlake. I just... The thing about Justin Timberlake is that I want to like him in this role. He's not bad, perse, he just not beleivable. Southern boy trying to make it big should be easy for him. I mean, he's from Tallahassee, right?  I think he's just too much of a pop star for me to take him seriously in this role. It may not have been the best choice for a film debut. I mean, Mark Walberg didn't start in film with roles like Micky Ward in Fighter (2010). Heck, in his first film appearance, he played himself. Private Tommy Lee Haywood in Renneaisance Man (1994) was the first time he played a role that wasn't Marky Mark. It was a more believable leap from Calvin Klein underwear model to endearing army recruit in a comedy. Half way through the movie I re-cast JT's role with Jake Gyllenhaal in my head. That's really all I can say on the matter.

I'll cry YOU a river!

Further concerns I had, in addtion to the issues of marketing, I think the dealings with race in this movie are more than a little problematic. Rather, for a film whose storyline presents unrealistic miracle redemption, racism the one morally shamefull quality that is never healed or redemed. In the story's climax, I found myself wondering "Are we just going to fly past the fact that Justin Timberlake just called Samuel L. Jackson a Nigger (with a capital fucking N and a hard "R")...? Okay. I guess we are." Five minutes later, Lazerous is the best man in JT's wedding. Maybe this was all part of the sort of mainstream racism present in the world of the story, like how Rae wears a union jack on her t-shirt through 2/3 of the film. Or like Lazerous' reason for not going to the police when he found her on the side of the road (fear of being charged with her assault "just for being black in the area"). Maybe we're supposed to assume or hope there's a missing scene where the characters work shit out. Still, for a film attempts to address issues graphically and head-on, race was confusingly side-swept.

One thing I'm definitely going to need to side-sweep myself, just for the sake of time, is sound in this movie. It is out of hand AMAZING. Not just the soundtrack. SOUND itself is spectacular. I'm honestly shocked this film wasn't nominated anywhere for sound. What I was hearling throughout the movie just as intentional as what I was seeing and deeply impacted my understanding of the world and mental state of the characters. Much like my thoughts on sexism, I'll be saving my feelings on sound in Black Snake Moan for another post. There's just too much to say.

To review, I wasn't planning to write about Black Snake Moan this week. I wasn't even planning to watch this movie. But sometimes, like a nun on a mission, life and happenstance take you places you never thought you'd go. It's possible that redemption is what lies beyond detours one willfully follows, or maybe just a great evening of mind-blowing cinema with friends. Either way, I highly recommend indulging distractions- they may help you on your quest or at least give you puzzles to unpack as you continue questing.

Wes Anderson and the Cult of Nostalgia

[Note: Even though this is about Wes Anderson, this actually contains some spoilers for Midnight in Paris, a film directed by Woody Allen, which has nothing to do with Wes Anderson... Or does it...?]

Quiz Time: Is this a Wes Anderson movie or a Hans Christian Anderson book?

In Midnight In Paris (2011) Owen Wilson's character,  Gil, writes a screenplay about a man who works in a "nostalgia shop." A nostalgia shop, as Gil explains, is "a place where they sell old things, memorabilia." What does this have to do with director Wes Anderson? Didn't Woody Allen direct Midnight In Paris? Those are both sensible questions.

The thing about Wes Anderson is that he IS a nostalgia shopkeeper. 

You know Wes Anderson from his "quirky" and "off-beat" movies that scream "stick a bird on it," like Rushmore (1998), The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), The Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), and Moonrise Kingdom (2012), to name a few.  Like a lot of (let's call them) auteur filmmakers, he tends to collaborate with the same actors, writiers, and crew on many of his movies. Among actors and writers, this mainly means Jason Schwartzman, Bill Murray, and college chum Owen Wilson. Can you imagine the crazy shenannegans of these two strapping Texans in their college days? Probably not, since they were most likely closed away in a dark room writing Bottle Rocket (1996), which Owen and brother Luke went on to star in.

What's located in his nostalgia shop? Lots of wood paneling, patterned fabrics, and a lingering scent of the French new-wave (I hear they don't use deodorant). It's a bit like a temple or an occult shop. Among Puertorrican communities, we call this a botanica, a store serving the needs of Santeria religious practices. Wes Anderson's occult is the Cult of Nostalgia. Watching one of Anderson's films is like seeing an old, weird movie, except you're there on opening weekend, in the 70's, and there's no chance to see it again except in theaters because VCRs haven't been invented yet. If you were alive in the 70's, then this literally triggers all the warm fuzzy memories you have of that time. If you weren't alive then, it triggers all the warm fuzzy idealized images of that time.

Much like the French Renaissance courts recalled Europe's Middle Ages, (as a pastoral canvas covered in fair maidens and knights errant), Wes Anderson draws viewers into a soft, primary-colored sense of security, then dashes it to bits with its severely messed up course of events. [Seriously, reread Sir Gawain and the Green Knight- twisted business]. In fact, it seems like The Knight Errant tends to be the protagonist in all of Anderson's films, or at least the character who drives most of the plot. This would also explain why all of the female characters in his films are either prizes in love triangles or in need of a champion to joust away conflict. In fact, the main conflict in each of Anderson's films tends to be about courtly or fraternal love, the two main themes of those nostalgic tales of knights and damsels. It's safe to say that Anderson's nostalgia shop also contains a copy of Mallory's Le Mort d'Arthur, Chrétien de Troyes' stuff, and some of Marie de France's leis. Furthermore, much like characters in Aurthurian legends, actors tend to pop in and out of scenes in these flicks, as if jumping out of the wings of a stage. The presence of lots of doors, windows, and hatches facilitate these actions.

They were all out of shining armor, so I grabbed this.

Speaking of doors n' such, lets talk about the sets and locations this guy uses. Often when watching one of Anderson's movies, I find myself wondering, "When are these stories set?" Occasionally it's made apparent, but often audiences need to look for clues. I find myself picking apart the environment looking for hints, thinking things that I haven't thought since my intro set design class in high school. Things like, "it's before t.v. but after vacuum cleaners, they use metal buckles instead of plastic clasps." Each set and location work for each shot work as a projection of each character, telling much more than dialogue or any kind of non-verbal acting could do. This is not to say his characters are shallow or can't stand without the set. The very opposite, but only because the associations our minds make to the objects, colors, and textures included in a shot evoke certain story lines in our minds. Sets and characters are a single thing, working together to tell a single story rather that providing a place for a story to take place, creating a tapestry (to use the medieval comparisons I made earlier)- a seamless mis en scene. [Note: Jeez, that sounded pretentious.] You could say his shots are 3D in the sense that they project out their intent rather than build in and on top of characters and plot. On a literal level, shots are constructed like old school Disney frames, with different depths illustrated and layered on top of each other for a single image. The result is a lush, textured, fathomless world that speaks clearly for itself; dialogue, at times, seems incidental.

Do you even care what anyone is about to say? No! Because Bill Murray in those pants!

[Note: Here Be Spoilers! Beware!]

The notion of a nostalgia shop in Midnight In Paris is meant to signal a disengagment with the present. Gil was so unwilling to confront many of the issues in his life, that he chose to inhabit a romanticized the past, specifically the 1920's. As one would expect from Woody Allan's m.o., all the authors he idolizes (and reasons he wishes to live in their era) are revealed to be tragic, petty, and unfulfilled. But wait, doesn't that make them all the more cool? No. It doesn't. It just makes them looser dill-weeds who probably just need a hug, but eew, they reek of smoke and alcohol. The huge irony is that the people who live int he 20's idealize the Belle Epoque, the period stretching from the 1870's until the start of WWI. Of course the people of the Belle Epoque idealize eras farther back, and so on, presumably until early man who thought, "Man, living in trees, those were the days! This whole bipedal business is just a departure from real living."

Not only am I not sure what year it is, it's unclear what movie I'm in!

Gill eventually finds balance between admiring the triumphs and aesthetic of the past while living fully in the present. By letting go of obsession with a constructed fantasy, he is able to confront the personal and professional crises in his life. Nostalgia becomes a savored retreat rather than something wrought with the longing of addiction. But what of dear Wesley? More importantly, what of his nostalgia shop? Is it just a place for him to hide from that all too awful present reality? Are we just watching a man work out personal trauma and inability to cope as it literally plays out on the silver screen? Possibly.

As it turns out, dear Wes Anderson's personal life filters into his films quite a bit. He too used to base plays he produced as a kid on well known works of fiction (much like the main protagonist of Rushmore). Wikipedia also tells me that he believes his parents' divorce was the most defining moment in his and his brothers' lives, (much like the siblings in The Royal Tenenbaums). There's also a lot that can be said about his obsession with larger than life father figures, (Bill Murray in virtually all of his films), but I could probably go on for another six paragraphs on that alone. As far as I can see, however, the process of working his shit out via cinema is working. Certainly working financially. Really, he should turn to his parents and say:

If the Brothers Anderson are still working through the trauma of their parents' divorce, partially stuck in a place in the past, it would explain dear Wes' Cult of  Nostalgia and certain aspects of his film making I find most enjoyable. The thing about Wes Anderson's movies that I love is that they take kids as seriously as kids take themselves. I don't know how you felt about all the deep and profound thoughts you had as a kid, but for me they certainly weren't adorable, fleeting, or insubstantial. I hated when adults thought I was "cute." It felt patronizing. Maybe that says more about the kind of kid I was than children in general, but it definitely points to the fact that kids feel they aren't taken seriously nearly often enough. When you're a kid, shit matters! And why shouldn't it? If you've only been alive nine years, then an hour is like two days in adult time. In this way, it's been asserted that Charles Schultz's Peanuts characters have been a huge influence in Anderson's films. (Especially their wardrobes). Maybe this is an underlying factor of any unsorted emotions. Maybe no one took seven-year old Wesley's input all that seriously. Maybe, if someone had just listened, we'd know a very different film maker.

So the next time you see Wes Anderson, give him a hug. Tell him "Ya' did good kid," with a Texan accent if possible. Let him know you're here for him. Here to listen. Say "Thanks for sharing," when he's done talking, then check in a couple days later. Only do this if you're willing to accept the consequences, though; he may start writing his first thriller.

Good night, Wesley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.

"Reflections" On A Near Death Experience- or, Why Mulan is the Last Movie I Want to See Before I Die

  

The thing about rice is that a single grain can tip the scale. In any given situation, the smallest of details can drastically impact an outcome. This is sometimes referred to as the Butterfly Effect. Sometimes you go right when you could have gone left. This could change the rest of your day, or even the rest of your life. If you decide to buy your groceries in the morning you might miss meeting your future wife because she buys her groceries in the afternoon. Hell, one little detail could change the the course of human history! Based on a typo, an army could attack when they were supposed to retreat, resulting in a victory and promotions of every officer. You might board a charter bus to New York for a bachelorette party that lasts the whole weekend. With the flap of a butterfly’s wings, that bus may never arrive.

 

This last Saturday, I was supposed to attend my friend's bachelorette party in New York City. She, two other friends, (one of whom had flown across the country for the weekend), and I all booked tickets on the same bus to get from Philly to New York. The bus pulled out on time at 2:00 pm from 30th street and JFK Boulevard in Philadelphia. Right around 3:30 pm the four of us were remarking how we were making really good time and would probably reach our destination earlier than expected. This was not the case.

Around 3:50 pm the front right-side tire blew out on the highway, half a mile south of Trenton. I heard the boom of the tire and people screaming as the bus veered right. I looked up just as we slammed through the guardrail and went careening down a steep ravine. Glass showered down with a roar from the entire right side of the bus. I then assumed the position you have read about on every airline barf bag, covering my head and putting it as close to between my legs as I could. Just as it felt as though the bus was going to tip over, we came to a stop, slamming into some trees that were too well rooted to be smashed through. You can read about it here.

Thankfully, of the 50 people on the bus, no one sustained major injuries. I only have a few superficial cuts. Only one person had to be carried off of the bus by paramedics. Two of my friends needed to have x-rays taken but neither of them broke any bones. One of them has a scratched cornea.

I won't mention which bus company it was, but if your first name is Usain and you've won a gold medal, you may want to consider suing for character defamation.

The thing about near death experiences is that they tend to put the rest of your life into perspective. You learn and rediscover a lot about yourself. I, for instance, reaffirmed that I tend to put the well being of others before myself. This was how I staved off the onset of shock before reaching the hospital; by making sure that other people were okay, my mind didn't have time to ponder why blood kept dripping into my eye or why my friend was wiping my face. Once I was by myself in an emergency room, (my friends taken in a separate ambulance), I started shaking and my heart rate sky rocketed. I'm pretty sure I broke at least one blood pressure machine (it was beeping like crazy and they asked me if I was wearing three long-sleeved shirts). I also learned that I'm either overly confident or a born survivor since at no point did I think I was going to die. I'm not saying I was ever certain I was going to live, my mind merely didn't process such large ideas in those moments. During the ordeal, I was only thinking ahead by about 5 seconds. My thoughts went something like, "I'm going to cover my head...I'm wet. I guess I need to swim... We're actually on land. I should stand." Even when I thought the water bottle that had poured on me was a river we had landed in (it wasn't) it didn't cross my mind how ludicrous it would have been to start swimming from a crashed bus. Overall, I learned that my instinct for self preservation is much stronger than my sense of fear or logic.

After recovering from these sort of events, you start to judge the things in your life you thought you valued as compared to the things of actual worth. The fact that I forgot to drop off my dry cleaning the day before suddenly didn't matter as much as the fact that I couldn't remember if I'd said "I love you" the last time I spoke with my parents. A self assessment commenced. How well do I know myself? Do I say "I love you" often enough to those I do love? Do I do the things I love on a daily basis? That brings me to Mulan.

Among things I love are movies. At the top of that list sits Mulan (1998). If you’re unfamiliar with Mulan, then I’m really sorry for you. You’re missing out, not just on a musical gem and the context of this post, but on a cinema gold. What other animated, female-driven film includes cross-dressing and kung fu? It should also be pointed out that before this point, most of Disney's female lead characters were either princesses or animals. It's hard for me to identify with royalty and four-legged creatures. Though Mulan is a character of legend, she is firmly placed in as historical a context as Disney is willing to put on screen. More than that, she’s a warrior. With a queer, feminist round-house kick to the patriarchy, Mulan decidedly shook things up in the Disney canon and lodged itself deep in my eleven year-old psyche and my current world view. 

There are a couple of things that make Mulan my absolute favorite film of all time. First are the deep levels on which I connect with the main character and central conflict. At its core, Mulan is a father-daughter relationship story. It's about each trying to do right by the other and, despite their best efforts, coming up short every time. Not gunna' lie- this hits pretty close to home. While my relationship with my dad is now slightly better than the one between Mulan and Zhou, I am the daughter of a Latin dad, and in certain lighting machismo doesn't look much different than the ancient male manifestation of the Five Constant Virtues. When this movie came out, it was like watching an animated, Asian version of my dad.

Daughter, why don’t you know your place?! Can’t you see we have bigger fish to fry? Giant, Hun-shaped fish! The individual doesn’t matter! It is only through fulfillment of our roles in collective action that we can defend our homeland from the corrupt forces of the foreign West! Yes, am I still talking about Huns!

The personal conflict  in the film comes to a head with the uber emotional ballad Reflections. Using self-reflection and literal image reflection, Mulan tries to understand the contradiction between what she sees inside herself (what her full potential is) and how the world (more importantly her father) sees her. Faster than you can say “ugly duckling with daddy issues”, Mulan flips the bird to sense and follows her gut, deciding to steal her father’s armor and conscription notice to masquerade as his son in a military battalion.

Is it raining? Is she crying? Or are you just balling your eyes out? All three? Got it.

My second major love of this movie is the look of it. The opening credits start as a water color painting on rice paper, fermenting into the setting of the film, but that quality of bleeding color never really leaves the images. The way smoke and fabric move in this movie is also phenomenal. I could spend a whole paragraph just discussing the flags! I mentioned earlier that cross-dressing and kung fu are what make it awesome. I argue that cross-dressing and kung fu ALWAYS make movies better. When done correctly, of course. I have always loved the beauty of choreography, particularly in martial arts, something my dad and I have bonded over. In fact, movies are one of the main things my dad and I have consistently bonded over. It's easier to let stories and emotions happen in a performance, to watch people's relationships unfold and grow, and to envy a world where people can just pummel each other with fists if the situation deems it appropriate. It's certainly easier than doing the work of trying to have a conversation with the person next to you.

Well gee. That might have been a moment of clarity.

As for the cross-dressing, well isn't that just a very literal way to make your outside appearance reflect your inside one? It's vindecating to see Mulan do as well, even better, than the guys she's training with. I challenge you to find one eleven year-old girl who wouldn't be satisfied to beat all the boys in all the games in gym class. Even though her true gender is a secret, Mulan is still a "She" who succeeds physically and intellectually in a hyper-male dominant environment. I could  go on about ebbs and flows of feminism in Disney movies, (and I'm sure I will at some point), but even on a superficial level, it makes for some great dramatic irony and one very awkward bathing scene. Crazy hijinx!

More than anything, Mulan taught me that I, individually, value. My weirdness will pay off and others will benefit from it. My oddball time to shine is going to happen (or has happened) and it will feel like I've trained my whole life for that moment. It will at least feel like there was a very elaborate montage depicting my development to that moment. I may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I am someone’s shot of whiskey. It also taught me to value my instinct. Mulan thought of immediate needs and simple solutions instead of what society deemed appropriate. Ultimately this what saved her, her father, and all of China

So just do you, 'aight? You'll die satisfied knowing you did.