» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

2007 MTV Movie Awards – Part 1

jelewis8 — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 07:03:43 +0000

If you ever have occasion to go to an awards show put on by one of the many companies in Hollywood, including but not limited to the Oscars, the MTV Movie Awards, the Golden Globes, or Satan's Top Ten Celebrities of the Year Awards, here's a little advice I have to offer, based on my recent experience attending the 2007 MTV Movie Awards.

Ready? Here it is.

Don't attend.

I'm sorry to be so rough on these masturbatory gatherings Hollywood likes to put on every year, but like free movie screenings, the trouble, heartache, and anger that result from one's attending, or even desiring to attend, make for a sunburned neck, bitter cynicism and jaded commentary, and a messed up chi like you wouldn't believe.

I was invited to be a seat-filler at the MTV Awards show, which I thought might be fun and interesting, and at the very least, would result in many celebrity sightings. My initial fear that I would also be subject to many sightings of Lindsay Lohan's vagina was certainly one of the selling points in the argument against attending, but it was a calculated risk. I took the bait and agreed, throwing my hat into the ring and my Sunday afternoon into the toilet.

I've spent better time on a toilet, actually, so I'm not sure that's a fair statement.

We left the house at eleven–the show was in Burbank, you see, at lovely and handsomely overpriced Universal City, another self-congratulatory Hollywood amusement, by the way–and we needed to be there by noon. "Noon Sharp!" the email, the phone call, and voice mail all assured us. "Don't be late! Don't bring your cell phones, pagers, stereos, iPods, pets, candy bars, Oedipal complexes, or death wishes to the theatre, or you will be turned away!" These were stern warnings. To be sure we would not lose our coveted seat-filler positions, we emptied our pockets of anything resembling self-respect and marched to the check-in area, where a small crowd of MTV poster children were gathered like hens in a Tyson defeathering pant.

Side note: This year's women's fashion is apparently meant to emulate hippie parachutes or giant fruit costumes with holes cut out for legs and arms. I saw one girl wearing what looked like Cinderella's pumpkin coach. If there is one piece of advice I can offer the ladies this summer it is this: if you can possibly help it, try not to go outside whilst wearing these abominations. And have you considered the benefits of bras, or did you just fool yourself into thinking bad fashion choices plus gravity wouldn't get the best of you?

We arrived, were shuffed into line, and inched forward to the tent where the decision was made by the MTV gods to allow you passage or deny you in front of the chatty Cathy's already lucky enough to be selected for "Most likely to be mistaken for actual hams" award. These are the hopefuls, the dreamers, the ones who either grew up out here without a family connection, or came out here thinking they could try to sleep their way to the top, or at the very least, watch a lot of The O.C. and practice their emo hipster moves on their friends.

Check in was not the rigorous process we had imagined. Had we been terrorists wanting to fight against the depravity and complacency of the Great Satan, several hundred wannabe celebrity buttlickers would have disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fake Vera Wang outfits.

Whereupon we were placed in a line, a very strict line, a line that the MTV flunkies were diligent about patrolling every ten minutes or so, a line that soon grew seven abreast, still distinct and uniform in its way, defining the "have nots" from the "almost ares" and the "Dear God help us pleases." We were in the "Almost Ares" line, which was mostly males since all the females were pulled from our line to be put into the "Casted" line, which is MTV code for "another line, but with mostly poorly-clad females."

We stood in line for roughly two hours, whereupon they began shuffling lines forward little by little, around a building, through a hedgerow, down a red carpet, through some metal detectors, and then next to the theatre, again, MTV flunkies stressing the importance of the sanctity and integrity of the lines.

Another two hours went by. A line moved forward. The crowd gasped. Perhaps this was salvation from the sun and the heat and the ever-present din of teenage and twenty-something harpies and jock-boys talking enough hot air to add to the global warming threat. Then nothing moved for quite some time…

More tomorrow, when I complete my cynical and enraged account of my visit to the 2007 MTV Movie Awards.

Airport Citrus

jelewis8 — Fri, 16 Jun 2006 06:30:26 +0000

I’m in Blacksburg for a day and a half before heading back to Richmond for the John and Vanessa Nuptial Extravaganza (I’m counting on well stocked liquor supply to tide me over until I’m overcome with utter fascination at the spectacle of two people coming together for tax purposes). Oooh, that was cynical, wasn’t it? I haven’t slept in two days, not counting the light plane dozing I did during the brief moments that I wasn’t being asked if I wanted anything to drink. In one three hour journey I was offered drink choices thrice, which would have thrilled me two years ago, when flying seemed like more of a heroic journey than it does now. Now it’s just a way to spend an entire day on an airplane. More cynicism! I just can’t help it. When life hands you lemons, most people say make lemonade. I say toss ‘em back, via a batting cage pitching machine. Toss in a few random grapefruit, call it Citrus Payback for all the times life’s sat you down in an airport terminal with a three hour layover, wishing you had the foresight to install a WEP decrypter program to access the airport’s wireless internet signal. It’s not life’s fault you don’t think ahead. But it works to blame it all on life, since pretty much anything that happens or doesn’t constitutes life’s jurisdiction.
No, in truth, I still like travelling, though less so now than when I was younger. I have to work harder at having fun. One way that seems to work is to dress up in a nice outfit. Not talking tie here, though that’s classy, especially if you’re not a business person. But a button-up shirt, nice pants, shoes, combed hair. It adds a bounce to your step, and a buoyancy to your spirit that is immediately crushed as soon as one enters the Zone of the Soul Beaters, aka Transit Security. Going through security these days is like getting drunk on cheap vodka. You don’t really remember going through it, you just know you had a really bad headache afterward.
The nice thing about air travel is the plane dimensions continue to expand almost exponentially. On my connecting flight from Salt Lake City to Atlanta, we didn’t board a plane: we mounted a luxury cruise liner with wings. I think there was a fountain made of gold in the back, near the flight attendants’ station, and there was a guy in the lavatory to hand you mints as you left. It was glorious. Oddly enough, they forgot to serve a meal on this particular cruise liner, but I suspect that it wasn’t because they lacked the meal. I just think the plane was too big for the wait staff to completely cover by the time the flight had completed. In fact, if it wasn’t for the 3X liquid refreshment inquiries, I would have guessed they forgot how to even find us. But go Delta for having the guts to stick a 4 billion ton piece of welded metal up in the sky to see if she floats. She does, moderately, and it only uses a sixteenth of the world’s oil supply to power it.
I met a nice girl in Atlanta who was a life insurance case manager, in town for some new software training. We discussed her frozen yogurt and the computerized, futuristic trashcan that whirred gratefully every time someone inserted their garbage into its open mouth receptacle. I could almost imagine it wiggling in ecstacy from the pleasurable act of receiving my air travel detritus. She was still in school, for psychology, but she didn’t really know what she wanted to do. I felt better about being unemployed (moderately) but having a clear defined life path. I told her that it would come in time, and in the meantime, she should try and enjoy her job as much as possible. I don’t know if that was very sage, but it seemed sensible. We shook hands and agreed with each other that it was pleasant to talk. Then she left to hang out with her friend. It was the kind of encounter that you wish could last longer, if for nothing else than the simple human connection, the act of talking with a total stranger rather than passing through, as I most often do whenever I’m at the airport. I enjoyed it, which probably says more about me than this post implies, but it was a simple pleasure that I wish had been longer. But that’s life for you. Sometimes, among the lemons, you get a milkshake. You don’t throw those back, but tip your hat at the kind gesture, savour a few spoonfuls, and then get your bat ready to knock those inevitable lemons out of the park.

Family Science

jelewis8 — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 16:24:49 +0000

I have a sunburn that would make lard on a southern griddle hold out for just one moment longer out of a sense of camaraderie. It’s one of the more bizarre physiological sensations to experience heat emanating from your skin in waves, but when I looked at my shoulder in the mirror I had to rub my eyes twice to make sure the heat distortion wasn’t a cataract.
It wasn’t a cataract.
The weekend was a solid one, more surprising and interesting and generally acceptable than I was expecting. Over the years I’ve gained a family cynicism that borders Ted Kaczynski-like mania, mostly due to the fact that my family is more volatile than a shot of bourbon in a housefire, and that goes for almost any arena you might think of. Politics, religion, musical tastes, relationships; all are deadly combat zones with about a 100% casualty rate and a take-no-prisoners policy on all sides that usually leads to some of the world’s finest fireworks not made in China. Einstein’s E=mc² describes the behaviour of light, but perhaps more appropriately describes the immense energy field surrounding any given Lewis family reunion.
So it was that I was expecting a weekend of fun family mayhem. The attitude was misplaced, however. Maybe age has tempered everyone in the upper echelons (though I hardly believe that myself). Perhaps it was the indolent weather, the invitation of the pool or the shaded lounge patio; whatever it was, I don’t recall an incident or argument that wasn’t made in jest and play or that didn’t end as quickly as it had begun. In short, the usual science got turned on its head for a day. Blessings and wonders will never cease, it seems.
My car lost another portion of its anatomy on Sunday as I was driving home. The AC compressor unit decided to lose any semblance of operational bearing and began grinding, metal to metal, like some sort of horrible industrial mating ritual, screeching out a sound that can only be described as “deathlike”. I drove it the rest of the way home not knowing the problem (I got it diagnosed and…fixed…on Monday) and worrying that with every cycle the blue book value was dropping by two dollars. Needless to say, it’s not so good that my AC is gone, but to fix it means dropping more money on it than the car is legally worth. The funny thing is, since buying the car five years ago, I’ve only used the air conditioner a couple of times.
Mostly I prefer the open window. I think it’s my rebellion against a society inured to the idea of an outdoors. Climate control for our houses, our offices, restaurants, gymnasiums, theatres, indoor gardens, and rock climbing facilities has rendered us forgetful of what it’s like receiving hot blasts of humid air and wiping away the sweat as it pools into the small of your back and the underside of your legs.
So it goes…

Mothballs and Deep Throat

jelewis8 — Thu, 02 Jun 2005 19:39:52 +0000

So Deep Throat was not that Jerry Hardin guy from the X-Files after all, but a second in line at the FBI named Mark Felt. The press is trumpeting the glory call of old time triumphs–the takedown of an American President, whose perfidy as Commander in Chief came to define the beginning of the 1970′s and increased the public’s distrust of government. That the press uncovered such diabolical happenings, and that Deep Throat’s anonymity was kept secret for over thirty years is a badge the press places upon itself as yet another example of why the 4th Estate is so desperately needed to counter the encroachment and deceptions the government purposefully sows.
My increasing apathy and cynicism at the state of the world leads me to point out that Felt was simply annoyed at Nixon for being passed over for a promotion, and thus his contact with Woodward and Bernstein wasn’t out of some moral or patriotic duty, but rather out of spite and retribution. Some press hero.
Eh, not that it really matters to me. I have about as much affinity with the original Deep Throat as I do with the porno of the same name (hint, not a lot, in case you had to ask). I come from the generation whose mind is more on the latest iPod release than whose cover is being blown in some uranium yellowcake scandal. I suppose years down the road some of us will still remember the name Valerie Plame and know what that means; I’ll actually be one of them, oddly enough, though my knowledge of the case is, even now, somewhat fuzzy. Will my generation also remember the Iraq war as the war that, details aside, overthrew Saddam Hussein?
I suspect that history is being shaped, and has been since before the war started, to paint it in rather a more subtle light, one that doesn’t fall quite as kindly on the overthrowers. Oh sure, Saddam’s a monster and all, but what about due process? What about sovereignty? What about blood for oil? These are the questions that will resonate in text books, and teachers will give knowing glances about the room at the young, impressionable kids learning all this stuff for the first time as they talk about Bush and his controversial policies, his questionable win of two Presidential terms, the war in Iraq and Afghanistan that killed hundreds of thousands of civilians.
This is how history is remembered, and like Woodward and Bernstein and the remainder of the media whose watchful eye on events has certainly done its part in structuring viewpoints, the media will congratulate itself years from now, when democracy has indeed become firmly rooted in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. They’ll write articles remembering the good they did in exposing the truth in places like Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay. And well they should. For who among us wants to remember the bad, the horrible, the extremes of human error and waste and scandal? It’s necessary to remember it all as well as we might, for the obvious reasons that repetitive history would otherwise teach us.
Certainly it behooves us to have that record, however spotty and jaded and coloured with specific lenses. Smart people can sift through the whole chest and find faded, flattened flowers inside books, letters from home, drawings from the kids. The press sees the dust and mothballs and mouse droppings as an indication of our collective condition. When you’re pawing through your history chest, what do you see?

A Valentine’s Day Massacre

jelewis8 — Mon, 14 Feb 2005 20:59:24 +0000

Today, the obvious holiday with some unobvious advice. Those of you who still believe in true love might not want to read this. I am partially joking here, but partially not. I walk a fine line on the whole love issue to begin with, and Valentine’s Day tends to tip me over the edge into oblivion. Trust me, there are worse places to be than oblivion. But if you have a stomach for cynicism, and dislike the huge stage play that is V-Day, then you might find some wisdom here.
Read on, at your peril/leisure.
Valentine’s Day isn’t a bad holiday, if you like the idea of remembering a Roman who became a martyr because he wouldn’t renounce his Christianity by eating chocolates shaped like hearts, buying roses by the dozen(s), and purchasing cards that simper out sentiments of faux love delivered by fat cupid babies, all in the service of someone whom you’re unlikely to even be with six months down the road.
Am I bitter? You bet I am.
Valentines is the worst holiday foisted upon the world, if for no other reason than the simple fact that it gives Hallmark an excuse to sell cards with the worst kind of love poetry ever conceived by man. In just over two hundred years, we’ve come from the heady Romantic writing of British poets like John Keats and Lord Byron to drivel that hardly passes for English.
The long slow march of decay in a society can be measured in part by the quality of its holidays. To its everlasting disgrace, Valentine’s Day, above and beyond any other holiday, is responsible for the degradation of the idea of respect. Take the Valentine card from the nineties that reads: “With a friend like you on Valentine’s Day, who needs a big, hunky guy bearing chocolates?” The business suit clad fellow with the flashy smile and carrying a huge box reading “Candy” strolls toward the back of the card asking the same question. Only it’s a huge joke for him, because hey, he’s the big hunky guy, and you’re the big fat loser.
Rhetorical as this card is, and as punchy, what is this really saying? That a girl’s feelings can be bought with Switzerland’s only other major export that isn’t cuckoo clocks. That a stand-up guy like you is only as good as a card that implies that you’re no good at all. That you are, in fact, a loser; this card simply validates that fact.
So I was pleased to wake up to a grey day that promised rain (it has since started raining, cold and dreary and perfectly apropos). The weather perfectly matches my antipathy for this most cursed of holidays.
Lileks posts a particularly saddening Bleat about his dog Jasper’s bout with hip dysplasia. It’s a condition I know enough about from my work at the Veterinary Hospital back a few years ago to know that I don’t wish it on any animal, even ones I don’t particularly like (goats, for instance). It’s a reminder of the fleeting nature of life, and how quickly decay comes, even despite our care. I look at Rufus, my cat that’s not really my cat (for which I still owe a story), and see her gazing at me through sleep-slitted eyes, and I wonder how much longer she has. I don’t even know how old she is or how long cats live in general.
How depressing that we measure life in quantities of years, as if it is the definitive ruler of things. The saying “Time heals all wounds” is the motto of a trickster. Wounds are marks of life. At the end, it’s not wounds you succumb to–it’s time. Time doesn’t erase our earthly pains, it just stops them from becoming, forever.
Perhaps that is a thought for Valentine’s Day. Today’s cards and hearts and candy and roses might be tomorrow’s painful romances and tragic loves. And I suppose it is those things, among others, that help us know we are still alive and kicking. So this year, take the time to do Valentine’s Day right. Forget Hallmark. Forget the sexy lingerie or the candlelit dinners. Ignore the shiny plastic smiles and the quickening of your breath as you hold the hand of your lover. Deny the sweet shop your money. Give no member of the opposite sex (or the same, for that matter) the once-a-year rhetorical card of playful cupidean desire. Reject the sentiment of high school romance. Spoil the moment with a well-timed movement of your head as she/he moves in for the kiss.
“I can’t,” you say, and they look at you in confusion. You draw back, letting go and leaving them empty-handed and broken-hearted. “It’s Valentine’s Day, the day of love and life, of sharing and being shared, of caring and giving and being true.”
“Yes,” they cry out. “Come back!”
But don’t you answer. Don’t say a word. They’ll remember it for as long as they live. And they’ll know they’re alive as long as they recollect when you broke up with them, on that grey and rainy Valentine’s Day.

Curb Your Enthusiasm

jelewis8 — Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:15:10 +0000

I just bought season one of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the HBO half-hour comedy show created by and starring Larry David, creator of Seinfeld and real life inspiration for George Costanza.
Curb Your Enthusiasm is acerbic humour at its finest. Where Seinfeld positively reinforced our love of nothing, CYE savagely bites the hand that fed it, spitting out a half-hour universe where life is laden with unspoken cynicism, where misspoken comments decide the course of a man’s life, and ‘nothing’ becomes ‘everything’ in the worst way.
Yet it’s a playful, understated cynicism that’s likeable because Larry David is such a lovable loser. He loses in ways that make us cringe, and yet we secretly can’t wait for his next screw-up, because along with that loser sensibility is David’s impeccable sense of why bad situations are funny. As is appropriate, David finds himself in an ever spiralling web of self-inflicted awkwardness, usually the victim of a harmless misunderstanding that becomes small-minded vindictiveness at the hands of the people he surrounds himself with.
Much of the show is unscripted, improvised around a set of plot guidelines that dictate the action and dialogue. David plays himself, as does his friend Richard Lewis. Other regular cast members include Jeff Garlin as his manager, and Cheryl Hines as his wife. Episodes are sometimes rounded out by other real life people including Jerry Seinfeld, Julia Louise-Drefuss, and Jason Alexander.
The first season DVD box is a two-disc set comprising ten regular half-hour episodes plus a one-hour “mockumentary” that follows Larry David’s return to stand-up comedy. The first episode comes with commentary by David, Hines, Garlin, and director Robert Weide. Additionally, there is an exclusive 30-minute interview with Larry David, conducted by Bob Costas.
Curb Your Enthusiasm isn’t a show for everyone. It contains R-rated language at times, and its humour does not translate for everyone. However, for fans of Seinfeld, it’s a must-have box set that will exasperate and amuse time and time again.
? Encoding: Region 1 (U.S. and Canada only.)
? Color, Closed-captioned
? 10 episodes plus the one-hour special Larry David: Curb Your Enthusiasm on two discs
? Commentary on episode 1 by Larry David, Jeff Garlin, Cheryl Hines, and director Robert B. Weide
? Exclusive 30-minute interview with Larry David, conducted by Bob Costas
? Number of discs: 2
? ASIN: B0000E2PVR
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