Moot Point

Oh, so Alex and I saw Superman Returns yesterday. And you know what bugged me the most?

It wasn’t the fact that people saw fit to bring their (obviously) under-5 year-old kids to an action movie that started at 8 — meaning that it gets out at 10:45, which the theatre could have told them. And then, that they saw fit to let them talk, continuously, throughout any scenes which didn’t feature flying. Seriously? Also? Do a little research. While there was nothing in the movie that would, like, damage a child, it was somewhat dark and slowly paced, with at least one major plot point that would go right over a junior kindergartener’s head. (I think parents should be able to decide what their kids should see, don’t get me wrong, but this isn’t about that. This is a fact of kids. Don’t take them to a movie for grownups that ends after ten o’clock at night.)

It was basically everything related to Lois Lane. I really like a lot of stuff about the movie: I liked Parker Posey, I thought Sam Huntington (who was Luke on the first season of Veronica Mars) was pretty great as Jimmy Olsen, James Marsden was his good, non-superhero self, Frank Langella was fine as Perry White, Kevin Spacey was even tolerable (The Usual Suspects was good but I haven’t forgotten K-Pax) and I am a pretty big fan of Brandon Routh’s performance. He wasn’t all up in my grill, but he’s charming and Clark is just a little bit goofy. I could get over how no one seemed to notice that Superman and Clark came back the exact same day after a five-year abscence.

But then there’s Lois. Lois Lane is supposed to be the epitome of the modern woman. She’s supposed to be smart. She’s supposed to be tough. She’s supposed to be remotely believable as a woman who can string together sentences and steal the heart of freaking Superman. So they cast Kate Bosworth, who is twenty-three years old, even though her character is supposed to be both a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and to have a child that is four years old (with, bizarrely, the nephew of the editor of the paper). She must have started college when she was like 12. But maybe I could have forgiven them casting the youngest, gossip-friendliest, it-girlest, prettiest actress they could find despite her not suiting the character in the least. I realize Superman’s girlfriend isn’t exactly a feminist icon — if anything she’s the opposite: an archetypal fast-talking career dame who always claims she can take care of herself but actually always needs saving by Superman, the big strong Christ figure — but they at least usually made her seem actually smart. Margot Kidder? I believed. Also, you’d figure if they were updating the story, they’d make it less sexist, not more so. But no. I hated her on sight when they showed her at a press conference asking “feisty” questions like “If this is so important, how come there’s only one network here?” During the PR lady’s presentation which is just bad manners. I knew we were in trouble when her first line in the Daily Planet office was “How many ‘f’s in catastrophic?” …which, no. Her apparently Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial (even though she’s supposed to be a crack investigative reporter, but whatever, we’ll let that one go) is entitled “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” And you see? It’s a metaphor for her denial about her true feelings for Superman. Because she can only write articles that win awards when she’s sad because her boyfriend ran off. Which, ugh. The clincher is when Lois Lane, professional, award-winning journalist asks her boyfriend “Can you talk to your uncle for me?” because she didn’t like her assignment. Puke. Even Teri Hatcher wouldn’t pull that shit.

I hate to harp on a comic book movie for the total lack of nuance in the love interest, but the movie’s as much about Lois as Superman. Her “emotional” “conflict” takes up about half the running time — and it seems longer. If you’re going to bring Superman into the twenty-first century, Bryan Singer, why couldn’t Lois Lane come?

So I was so excited about my new computer that I forgot to eat dinner. I’m not the kind of girl that forgets to eat dinner.

Also, the next entry in the World Cup follies: today, there was a girl on the subway in Brazil colours with a fucking whistle. Which she blew. On the subway.

So Rachel’s gone home for now. It was wicked-great to have her staying here, but we wound up staying out late on a few too many school nights. Like, Wednesday at Sara’s, where we experienced first-hand the magic of time-shifting and drank Boone’s (I don’t think I even drank Boone’s when I was a teenager!). The added benefit of time-shifting was that we watched CNTM and Big Brother on the Calgary affiliates, so I got in some Calgary newscaster-preview nostalgia.

Brenda: “Gord Gilles!” “Nirmala Naidoo! (formerly Nirmala Naidoo-Hill)!” Everyone else: “…”

Or Thursday, where were the victims of false advertising at O’Grady’s. (Their $3 drink night? Apparently actually a $3 drink period-before-10 PM gouge-fest. I mean, charge $4.50 a drink if you must, but don’t tell me you’re charging me $3 and then switch it up after I’ve paid cover.) And had to hang out with Queen’s people. Now, I’m not trying to run down Queen’s people or the audience of the Jack Kerouac Knapsack Band, but I can’t remember the last time I went to a bar and saw a sea of guys who looked so…preppy. And bland. All the guys were wearing striped golf shirts or short-sleeved button-downs that were like a size too big, with baggy knee-length shorts and some variety of sport sandal. Many had baseball caps, some turned “hilariously” back or the side. I overheard one inappropriately overdressed girl counsel her friend that eating “one solid meal” every day really isn’t enough and aforementioned girl was losing a lot of weight really fast and that she shouldn’t starve herself while I was in the bathroom. Kev (of the possibly soon-to-be-defunct website) made it out though, so that was fun.

Even Friday, our “relaxing night in” turned into “get half-sloshed on Malibu and 10 year-old tawny port and get our asses kicked at cards by Alex’s sober Grade 10-aged brother.”

Saturday we introduced Rach to the magic of fish sandwiches (from the Fish Store on College? perfect summer food) and then saw her to the bus. We saw Prairie Home Companion, which had its moments, but I didn’t love it as much as I thought it would. The cast is one of those cream-your-pants great ensembles — Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilley as singing cowboys? Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin as aging singing sisters? Maya Rudolph? Kevin Kline? The Lohan? — but there was almost too much cast or something. I think a lot of the weaknesses were in the script. Like, it’s behind-the-scenes realism, but then you also have the Virginia Madsen character, who…well let’s just say she was hammering the mortality theme home a little hard. I get what they were doing, but I don’t need my movies to tell me their deep secret themes, Garrison Keillor.

Then we got burritos — highlight: a girl loudly demanding a “halibut quesa-DILL-a”. Which, to be clear, is not a menu item at Burrito Boyz. (Burrito Boyz, incidentally, gets second place in the Toronto burrito-off. Its hugeness and ample guac would have edged it into first if not for my beloved yam option at Big Fat Burrito).

We went home, were full and I fell asleep before 11:30.

Yesterday Alex and I went swimming, made pad thai and listened to the honks.

HOT: My new haircut.

NOT: My new phone.

Haaate. More on that.

HOT: Heirloom tomatoes, $2 a pound.

NOT: Dragonfruit, super-bland. Overripe?

HOT: Makin’ muffins. Yum.

(Alex took that shot, and he took a second one because it was off-centre, but I think that the way they’re reflected against my pot is cool.)

NOT: How my phone broke and I could buy a new cheapo phone from Fido for less than it would cost to get it fixed. Unfortunately, it was aforementioned ugly-ass phone.

HOT: Homemade Indian food: we made rogan josh (a little liquidy, but tasty) and raita.

NOT: Whimsically stocked Loblaw’s didn’t appear to have PC brand naan, which we’ve been led to believe actually tastes like naan.

HOT: Tickets for Camera Obscura! In July!

NOT: Fido’s stupid policy of not letting you buy the cheapo phone using your “Fido dollars” in store, but shipping it to your house. By UPS. Which attempts delivery 3 times during business hours, then makes you go get your stuff. Fido’s customer service policy is apparently “pawn people off on the first available person, even if you have to tell them total utter lies, like that you should call UPS without a tracking number.”

HOT: We went to Cinematheque for Zizek! this weekend. It was pretty great. It was only playing this weekend, but if you like our man Slavoj, it’s definitely a good time. Affectionate, but not fawning.

NOT: Stupid World Cup. Stupid flags and stupid honking and guy who stopped his car in traffic to retrieve a fallen plastic flag. I just don’t get it.

Smoking HOT: Rachel! Coming! Here! Two days! Yay!

I keep promising myself I am going to be a more prolific blogger, but the fact is my life is pretty boring.

My parents were in town this weekend. We hung out, saw aunts, ate food.

Sunday I went to visit Alex and we went for a walk around north Yonge Street:

I tried on dresses at the Mendocino outlet, which sucked, and talked myself out of a beaded tank top that was $25 marked down from $200, which is a great deal, but seriously, do I need to own a tank top that valuable? Also, it was too ornate for day, and I don’t really go out that much at night to places that require beaded tops.

Then, we went to Club Monaco and I got this:

And to Vortex, and I got this:

Then we ate barbecued salmon that Alex’s mom made and then we went to my house and dyed my hair. When I say “we” dyed my hair, I mean, that I dyed my hair while Alex put on my new CD and patiently pointed out dye-less spots in the back. This was so much easier when I had shorter hair. We were going to watch Brazil, but we realized it’s actually really long. Way to rent the extended director’s cut, Brenda!

Soon, I am getting this.

Other than consumering, the whole weekend was pretty uneventful. Work is just…work. It’s something I try not to write about on the internet, because, well, stupid. I can’t really complain, except when I do, but you know, I’m not cut out for this kind of thing — I mean, I can do the work, and I’m good at my job, but it’s really not what I’m supposed to be doing with my life — and there’s literally nothing new for me to learn to keep things interesting. I’ve toyed with like, signing everything Washington Irving, just to keep things interesting, but with four people in the office, I think my petty rebellion would be caught out pretty quickly.

I think I have another case of ennui. Ah, middle class afflictions. “I just bought a silk shirt, my parents are buying me a computer, my decently-paying job isn’t exciting enough, and my diamond shoes are too tight.” Whine whine, just do the stupid dishes.

First, Souvenir of Canada: I pretty much felt the same way about this one that I did about the book, which is basically that Coupland generalizes about his experience way too much. Early in the movie, he says “Like most Canadians, I grew up in a ‘guns and ammo’ house.” Really? They did? I mean, the not-so subtle secret is that the whole thing’s really about his relationship with his father, who the book is also dedicated, but the thing is? When you make a book and participate in a movie and make a crazy art house about defining Canada and you define Canada as “your Caucasian childhood in suburban Vancouver with a dad that hunts,” I think you lose a lot of people. I mean, Quebec gets one lip-service sequence, Toronto gets an overhead shot, Calgary gets mentioned once, Saskatchewan’s a bleak stop on the Trans-Canada, and the only mention of any of the Maritime provinces is when he flies over Newfoundland. The only minority that’s mentioned at all is Native Canadians, for which he does get points, because he doesn’t play it off like it’s not an issue, but also doesn’t get bogged down in liberal guilt handwringing.

That said, there was a lot of things to like about the movie, if you’re a Coupland fan. For one, in between the frustrating generalizations and homogenizing, he does get at some things about being Canadian. There are little funny things, like the wicked French names (Meli-Melo), and stuff. The best parts aren’t the prepared voiceover bits, but seeing him put together Canada House and the stuff with him interacting with his family. While I do enjoy his (admittedly inconsistent) writing, I always assumed (mainly based on the Fred MacMurray-looking author’s photo he used for like 10 years) that he was this weird scary recluse guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to the arts, but he was surprisingly ordinary and mild-mannered. If you’re not a fan, the movie isn’t going to make you one, but if you like Coupland, it’s definitely interesting.

(Side note: I can’t wait for the new book to come out in paperback; I can’t really justify buying a hardcover when Alex and I collectively own dozens of books I haven’t read, but Microserfs is his best work by far and he’s back in that weird insular male society thing he does so well.)

Next, Hard Candy. I vaguely remember noticing that it came out, but it totally slipped under my radar until Dan told me I should see it. Then Alex told me Josh also recommended it. I literally can’t think of two people I know more different than Dan and Josh, so if they were both recommending it, I reasoned, this is a film to see.

And I can see why. About 90% of the film takes place in one house and features just two actors. I realize it was low budget, but with those kind of constraints, directors get all Hitchcock and are all “look what I can do with my constraints!” (Aside: The Hitchcock movies where he sets insane artificial plot constraints, just cause he can, like Rope and Lifeboat even suffer for it; he revisits the “one-set” setup in Rear Window — slightly less rigidly, as we do sort of get out the apartment — and that’s the only time he gets it right and it seems organic.) But with Hard Candy, you aren’t really aware of all this until you realize that Sandra Oh has like four lines, and she’s billed third. The whole thing’s just so tight and tense and fierce, and Ellen Page? Is amazing. The other guy’s really good too, actually; he seems so ordinary, it’s hard to hate him, even though you know he’s bad news. And Alex and I walked up Yonge St actually having a conversation about moral ambiguity after the movie. (Stemming from a lame guy’s weak “He’s a pedophile, but the filmmaker makes me feel bad for him?” conversation when we left the theatre.)

Finally, I watched the first Canada’s Next Top Model, and I have to say, there’s potential here. For one, I like Tricia Helford way better than Tyra already (because she seems to be grounded in reality, dresses well, and oh yeah, doesn’t think she’s Oprah). Plus, the girls seem at least as pretty as a lot of the Cycle 6 contestants on ANTM (hello, Gina? Or Furonda for that matter?). Also, though he seemed a little full of himself “deigning to visit the colonies” or whatever, Jay Manuel actually seemed way more likeable than he does on ANTM. His glamour shot when Tricia Helford introduced at the panel was really ooky though. Still, he was more on point on panel than Jay Alexander’s ever been.

Issues:

• Jeanne Beker? I don’t actually think she was bad, but I really don’t like her back from when she had that column that was all about her life and buying her daughters thongs and stuff.
• They cut Sylvie? Seriously? I hated her “I’m too good for this” personality. It’s one thing to be laidback about your personal appearance in general, but when you’re on a TV show about how you want to be a fashion model, which is necessarily a looks-based industry…you’ve gotta play the game. But, if it’s a modeling competition, it does not bode well that they cut one of the best models on the first pass.
• I couldn’t tell if the regular art director lady can actually do anything, since this week was all the Jay Manuel show.
• Their photoshoot theme was “rockstars” and like, some of them seemed to have characters and some didn’t but the whole thing was really unclear. One of the makeup people asked Sylvie “Do you feel like Blondie?” which is not actually a person. The Asian chick was supposed to be Yoko Ono, and this girl was apparently supposed to “represent 70s punk rock.” I mean, I get that it’s not only a reality show, but a Canadian reality show, it’s not going to have cred, but it’s more about being clear about the challenge. Were they supposed to be channeling someone’s essence? Were they supposed to just take good pictures? We need to know.

I’ll watch for a couple more weeks, by which time I’ll probably decide it sucks, but will be so hooked I’ll wind up watching the whole season anyway.