honestly. First up is probably a migration of a couple short stories i have floating around the web, as well as the last long-forgotten blogprov that is long overdue (and got shafted with the whole Bar Exodus thing).
EDIT: Three old writings have been entered and backdated.
Mark's Story
Singles (1992)
To Be Asian
KANE
I've changed the front page a little, Mr. Bernstein. That's not enough - There's something I've got to get into this paper besides pictures and print - I've got to make the "New York Enquirer" as important to New York as the gas in that light.
LELAND
What're you going to do, Charlie?
KANE
My Declaration of Principles - Don't smile, Brad - Take dictation, Mr. Bernstein -
BERNSTEIN
I can't take shorthand, Mr. Kane -
KANE
I'll write it myself.
BERNSTEIN
You don't wanta make any promises, Mr. Kane, you don't wanta keep.
KANE
These'll be kept. I'll provide the people of this city with a daily paper that will tell all the news honestly. I will also provide them -
LELAND
That's the second sentence you've started with "I" -
KANE
People are going to know who's responsible. And they're going to get the news - the true news - quickly and simply and entertainingly. And no special interests will be allowed to interfere with the truth of that news.
[archive: This is one of the first or so blogprov's that I attempted. I think it stands out as one of the better ones, at least in terms of plot. I edited it a little just because it lacked in ways I recognize now after writing more.]
Turkey gristle and macrame: How to dress your cat.
Terry stared at the monitor in disbelief. On the screen was an ebullient middle aged hostess whose smile looked like it would crack if she tried any harder. The woman had on a cooking apron and smock that was neatly trimmed with flowery embroidery and a nametag that read “Sally”. Below on Sally’s table was a cat dressed in a bright pink macramé sweater. Terry turned to the sound engineer beside him and asked him to turn up the volume on his soundboard and caught the last fragment of Sally’s frantic paragraph.
“And as you can see, Mr. Fluffykins just adores his little garment, so I went ahead and made him a new winter wardrobe.”
She swung open a closet behind her which displayed a variety of sweaters, from puke green to a very lovely yellow smiley face number. Terry yelled into his headset to cut the feed, but no response came. He fumbled around with the back panel on it and discovered that the battery had died. “Jesus Christ, that fucking psychopath”, he screamed, realizing his unfortunate luck too late. He was positive that this was the end of his career in broadcasting. He’d be lucky to get a job on public access at 3 in the morning. He could only stand in horror as his host sank deeper into a scented candle and decorative insanity.
“Finally, I know all you wives out there are wondering if there are more interesting ways to spice up those leftovers. I know I have. And with Mr. Fluffykins help, I’d like to show you. Behind me I’ve already preheated the oven to 350°. Now the first step is to generously baste your cat, just like I’m doing here, and then take your remaining turkey gristle and weave it into the macramé. The cat may struggle a bit. Don't get discouraged, as this is all apart of the joy of cooking! If you like, try and tie some of it around the ankles and tail, for a more classy presentation. Remember, just because they’re leftovers, doesn’t mean they have to look like leftovers!”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” cried Terry. He ran out of the booth towards the stage. The crew looked on in a dazed stupor, safe in the knowledge that it wasn't their asses on the line. The winding hallways and human traffic proved difficult for Terry, whose sense of direction was modest at best. Finally, the doors on the set burst open, with Terry flailing his body at Sally before she could place the kitty tray into the oven. The crew snapped back to attention, and quickly cut to 10 minutes worth of commercials. Mr. Fluffykins stared emotionless at the scene of the lumpy chef and her curmudegon producer rolling around and finally being dragged away by security. The cat paused to think, then set about the the long, arduous task of eating the turkey from the sweater.
[ARCHIVE: Another female POV. I think I just kind of associated female characters with authority in regards to love. I've always put a little of myself into my stories, but this one was the most blatant, expecting the little tweaks to protect the innocent. I have a penchant for trying to find 'artsy' photography shots. I toyed with the idea of majoring in criminology and/or film. My family owned a Jeep, and I lived in Merced, CA, the gateway to Yosemite. And of course, Stephanie's thoughts mirrored my own at the time. I was thinking of an old high school crush and whether I would ever see her again. For the record, I never have, but I still think about her once in a while.]
We had finally reached the top, and it was now time to go through with it. My legs shivered not from fear but nervousness. It had been four years since I saw him last, but in my mind I was even younger than that, only fourteen. I willed myself not to run away. I would not pass up this opportunity.
All his life, he had planned to climb to the top of Half-dome. When we were children, our families out together on a collective camping trip, he would point out the glacier-made peak and say "One day, Steph, I’m going to climb to the top, and look down on the entire forest, and I’m gonna stay up there until I can see the sunset."
I would give him a questioning look and ask him why that was such an aspiration. "Because the world is beautiful, and I want to see as much of it as I can at one time!" At this I would giggle, then he would pinch me for laughing at him, and we would end up chasing each other until dinner time.
Alex had a certain eye for what he considered beautiful. The framing, the color, he knew exactly where to look upon an empty street so that you paused, the art of the moment washing over you. He never worked with people, despite the number of girls falling over themselves to pose for him. It was always the stray mutt, the abandoned boat next to the highway, the singular tree on the Stepfords' lawn. The only person he ever took pictures of was me.
It was game for us. Me, watching my kid sister on the jungle gym. Alex, somehow getting within a foot of me and snapping the shot before I noticed. I would whack him on the shoulder, chiding him for deviating from his modus operandi. A boyish smile, an absent-minded ear scratching, a flippant response, "I don’t shoot only non-people things, I shoot only beautiful things."
A single sentence would send me into a euphoric whirlwind for days. Heart-shaped doodles in my notebooks, promptly ripped apart within a week when I saw him talking to Sandy Goldstein. I tried to act aloof, to act cold and angry, but it would melt away with a boyish grin, an absent minded ear scratch.
And then the crush, so important and life-consuming, was filed away like so many other memories. Junior year we had different crowds and talked little. Senior year, even less. After graduation, he moved to Chicago, while I went to school down in Berkeley. He didn’t come back for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or Spring Break. He didn’t come back for the Summer, nor the following year or the year after that.
Years passed. I earned my degree in Criminology (and a minor in film). Two weeks before I started graduate school, I was back in Fresno visiting the parents and packing up things. Dad sprung a surprise on us, asking us to help christen his new Jeep. He pleaded for one last family camping trip as if we would have turned him down. One last time, before Kelly went to college and I settled into my apartment in Berkeley, we sang in the car and we took pictures next to the Redwood rings.
We made it to our campsite in the late afternoon; Mom insisted on setting up the fire well before dark. A group of people came up the hill to greet us, the Bates, our campmates from the past. We traded hugs and handshakes, "My-you've-grown"s and "Still-got-hair"s. "Hey, where’s Alex?"
"Oh, he’s off doing his own thing. He set out to hike up Half-dome just after lunch."
I reached the peak as the sky reached its reddest. He was sitting, his feet dangling off the sheer edge. I looked at him and wondered how somebody who was so important to me could seem like such a stranger now, and in that instant I resolved to change that.
Slowly, cautiously, I made my way to him, inching myself forward until we sat side by side. In front of us, an ocean of green forest rolled over gentle hills. The sun kissed the horizon, splashing hues of rose and crimson across the sky. "It’s a beautiful view up here," I breathed.
He paused for a second then turned to face me. With a boyish smile, he absent-mindedly scratched his ear. "It is now."
[ARCHIVE: One of the first times I explored a female point of view. Definitely not the last, though]
I've never understood precisely how non-dairy creamer fit into this world. More than half of all Americans over the age of eighteen, that's 107 million people, drink coffee daily on the average of three and a half cups per person. And while there isn't anything inherently wrong with it, caffeine can have addictive qualities when consumed in large quantities when consumed for long, continuous durations.
Every morning that I woke up in my mother's household, there was the smell of coffee. It was there while I stood outside the bathroom waiting for my brother to get done. It was there while I feverously blow-dried my hair. It was there while my sister and I fought over who would drive to school that day. Coffee was the smell of home. Of comfort. Of Mother.
Mom couldn't survive the day without coffee. Four daughters and two sons sapped her energy before she could take a break. She had one of those stainless-steel-and-rubber numbers with the no-spill cap in her hand at ever hour of the day. We used to joke that the cup was actually a battery and if you took it out of her hand, Mom would deactivate like a robot.
The funny thing is that as much as she needed it, she never shared her passion, even when we reached high school. She would deny us, explaining that "...you drink too much coffee and your teeth will turn brown. Then we'll see if Bobby will want to go out with you then." This in turn would make Paige mad at me, misinterpreting Mom looking at me while she spoke as an admission on my part that I had in some way conspired to steal her crush from her. How horrible a sister I was!
Mom knew this would cause trouble but continued to do this for years, substituting whatever boy Paige was swooned for and I could care less about. Finally, I got fed up and confronted her about it. "Mom, why do you keep doing this You know that I don't care about Jack," (Jack being my sister's Flavor of the Month,) "Why do you keep making up stories that I'm trying to do Paige harm?
Mom set her coffee down on the table, keeping both her hands wrapped around it for warmth. "Ginny, do you remember what I say about non-dairy creamer?"
Rolling my I eyes, I replied. "You tell us that coffee is too good to settle for less then the real thing." I was trying to avoid inter-sibling warfare and she was testing me on her supposed virtues of coffee.
"That's right. There is never a reason to settle for less than the real thing. You remember that," she nodded mysteriously, and then took a sip. And it was then that I realized what she was doing. The squabbles, the constant defending on my part, the piece-by-piece deconstruction of every fault and flaw of every boy was not for my benefit. I didn't need to tell myself why these boys weren't right, my sister did. Because deep down, she knew that her standards were also higher then these substitutes.
So, ladies, raise your lattes and join me in this toast to the bride-to-be. Paige, it's been a long wait, but your coffee is finally ready.
[ARCHIVE: This blogprov ended up being very affected by my then-current emotional state. I like how I managed to write my way out of being the abuser. It adds a pitiable dimension I wouldn't have accepted had I been responsible for the act.]
Dorey was always fairly indifferent. But standing over her battered frame and tear-stained, lifeless eyes, I remembered why I used to love her. We had met through mutual friends. She had a certain pluck about her. Not too perky, not too sarcastic, perfectly complemented by her Chucks. We became fast friends, half facilitated by her relationship with Robert, my roommate. We shared a lot of common interests: indie rock, graphic design, British humor. This was good, because Rob didn’t have the same hobbies for the most part. Sure, they were lovey-dovey, gagtacularly so. But when it came down to doing stuff together, there was always a bit of a tension, and having a third party around helped to ease that.
It was very apparent that she liked to party, while he did not. He liked to stay home and rent movies. She liked big, loud rock concerts. There was middle ground, but often it was the case of one humoring the other. They really were from two different ends of the spectrum. And in the middle was me.
I was the mediator. The best friend. The counselor. I heard the best and worst about both of them. And despite my counseling to the contrary, I was always the one that knew the most. There was no communication of the inner frustrations, the hidden insecurities. They were just left on me, simultaneously vital and volatile fragments, like keys to the kingdom. So when they split up, it was me that had to pick up the pieces.
For the most part, Rob was okay. He moped for a bit, but after a week he was fine. So fine that he actually started talking shit about her. This made it interesting when listening to her sob on about how much she cared about him. And foolish me, I did my best to comfort her, to be a good friend. It was me who got her to start going out again, to start having a good time without him. And because both of us enjoyed these little experiences, they were more fun. So it was that rather then Dor and Rob, it was Dor and Ian. Which is where it all went wrong.
I saw that I could make her happy, and I wanted to do so. But when I got worked up to tell her so, she threw herself at another man. Another man who did not like dancing, had little love for cats, and could care less if music ceased to exist in the world. Another man that was neither like myself nor herself. Once again, I was robbed of my chance. So I hid away from her probing words, from her party invitations, and especially from her phone calls. To my credit, she didn't pursue strongly. It was less than a month later when we stopped talking altogether. Like the rest of her life, like Rob before me (whom she had long since stopped talking to), I became a memory, whereabouts unknown.
I saw her once more before the last time. By then I was living in New York with a couple friends. We passed on the sidewalk, me clutching a messenger bag full of articles to turn in, her with a cell phone to her ear. Our eyes locked for seconds at a time, unbroken by changed paths or bystanders walking in between. But when we passed, no words were spoken, no expressions were exchanged, no indication that the other existed.
The last time I saw her was in an alley. It was past last call, and I stumbled out to try to find a taxi. As I made my way to a busier intersection, I saw a familiar pair of Chucks next to a pile of trash. Moving several bags, I saw her there. Her throat and arms was bruised, her eyes watery and bloodshot. She was once again an unnoticed, sad girl, tossed aside by an uncaring man. And in that moment, every love-sick feeling I had for her welled up and sank my heart into my stomach, deep where it would lay until I was eighty.
Shedding no tears, I put the garbage bags back on top of the body. I ended up walking all twenty blocks home that night.
[ARCHIVE: This review actually got published, the editor even thought it was great.]
Written for the September 30th, 2004 edition of the JHU Newsletter.
In the far flung year of 1939, the people of Gotham City live happy and healthy lives, working by day, enjoying the company of their families by night. But unbeknownst to them, their fair city is threatened by menacing mechanical monstrosities. Unstoppable, invincible, unreasonable, the armies of Dr. Totenkopf crisscross the globe, stealing materials with sinister surgical precision and then vanishing. But fear not! Up in the sky is the champion of the common man, ace flyer Sky Captain and his air pirates! Along with ace reporter Polly Perkins, his scientific sidekick Dex Dearborn and Capt. Franky Cook, the fate of the world rests on their shoulders. Go, Sky Captain, fight for everlasting freedom!
A throwback to the old radio and movie serials of yesteryear, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow hits you like a breath of old, recycled air: stale to some people, full of intrigue and wonder for others. First-time director Kerry Conran started the film in his own one-man studio with a single computer to his name. His goal: to make a film that, aside from the actors and incidental props, was entirely computer-generated. Along the line, Paramount Pictures decided to finance his dream, turning an independent film into a blockbuster production.
And what a production it is. Like a mad scientist, Conran lifts set pieces and sequences from the best stories of decades past, stitching and massaging the numerous sources into one cohesive whole that is simultaneously familiar yet fresh. Nostalgic but polished, Sky Captain handles like an old Max Fleischer Superman cartoon, right down to the reporter love-interest. The futuristic technologies of the robots are bright and streamlined, the complicated and unimportant inner workings hidden behind broad sheets of flawless steel. Every shot is color treated and softened until it resembles a faded, grainy film print. Retaliation against the robots is shown with bold, iconic silhouettes of machine gun fire. Even the antagonist Dr. Totenkopf is played by former screen legend Sir Laurence Olivier (who's been dead for more than a decade!).
But the source of the film's charm its most apparent fault are one and the same: its reliance on the classic stories, both real and fictional. The Empire State Building could be mistaken for the real one in New York, until a zeppelin (the Heindenburg III) docks near the spire. Polly's narration of the advancement of the robots on Gotham City is an easy homage to War of the Worlds. Even the monstrous lizard-like silhouette in the photograph of a Japanese skyline hints at a continuous world shared by these narratives. The movie positively soaks in the juices of its predecessors.
While this self-awareness works from a visual and audible sense, it causes the narrative to falter a bit. From the proper perspective, one might forgive the fairly straightforward the plot: good guy fights bad guy, love interest falls for protagonist, the hero saves his buddy and then gets saved by buddy, scheming evildoers chew the scenery over the obligatory menacing chord. From a general view, the lack of twists and unforeseeable dramatic moments can be disappointing. By the end of the movie, the audience is so antsy for a surprise that they would wholeheartedly endorse a supporting character, any of them, in stabbing our hero in the back.
Thankfully, the crisp dialogue and favorable acting go a long way towards making the movie enjoyable. On her own, Gwyneth Paltrow (as Polly Perkins) is somewhat flat. It is all too apparent that she's delivering her lines on an empty stage in front of a blue screen. Something in her chemistry with her Talented Mr. Ripley co-star Jude Law (Joe "Sky Captain" Sullivan) brings her delivery above standard. Law does his own character justice, equal parts competent, loyal, tested and dashing. The conversations between former sweethearts Perkins and Sullivan ripple with palpable tension.
Likewise, Giovanni Ribisi (Boiler Room, Saving Pvt. Ryan) delivers a solid performance as Dex Dearborn, so much so that it feels like the character is constantly being held back and never given a proper moment to shine. But surprisingly it is Angelina Jolie (Tomb Raider; Girl, Interrupted) who steals the scene. Potentially a cliche character, Franky Cook is instead a strong female lead, formidable for her talents and, while attractive, never a cheesecake "bad girl." One wonders what might have been had Jolie been given more scenes to work with.
The anachronisms of Sky Captain are its most distinguishing features. A movie so intent on mimicking movie serials that scenes and pacing wraps neatly into fifteen minute segments. For many, it's a great romp in the history of (fictional) scientific adventuring. For more, it's just a pretty-looking popcorn movie. There are far worse movies to spend money on and few as potentially eye-opening. The future of the film depends on those with an appreciative eye on the past.
3.5 (out of 5)
This movie is Rated PG
[ARCHIVE: As I stopped writing emo blog entries, I started writing emo stories. Go figure. I switched the genders, but the story is basically a paper-thin allegory for what was going on. Hell, even the names were rooted in our names (or nicknames). I do like the world "mythology" I sorta made up for it, especially considering it was conceived and fully drafted within the span of three hours.]
Lucia sat in stony silence, the minute rise and fall of her tunic the only indication of life in the withered husk she had become. Her waterskin had long since gone dry, empty and shriveled like her stomach. Yet she made no move to drink from the river outside, to eat the berries that grew just outside the cave. She had long since lost herself in her own psyche.
In her mind, she could see it happen, as vivid and tangible as the day it had happened. She had thrown the runes, like she had done so many times before. People came from lands across the mountains to seek her advice. Young in face, her wit was ages wiser, and many times her self-spun parables and heart-felt advice was enough. But more times, parties persisted, and she would throw the stones. The runes that her father had treasured above all else, so that even when highwaymen robbed their carriage blind of their gold and iron he had hidden them away, sewn inside the belly of an ailing mule so decrepit that the bandits would not think to waste the time to sell it.
They were magic stones, impossibly strong yet deeply etched with the letter of the Elderlands. Some were cold to the touch, some always warm, others could keep no single color for a whole day. Her father called them runythe, the shattered remains of the weapons welded by the gods in their quarrelsome youth, discarded as they turned away from impulsive wrath. They were heavy in the hand, yet never sank to the river bottom, nor did they follow the current. The runythe were of the world yet strangely different.
It had been her childhood friend, a daughter of the mettlesmith that had asked her to throw the stones. Tyrissa had appealed to her sense romance and, when that failed, had wrestled her to the grass until she had agreed. The recent war had brought many tribes through their village. They would make camp on the outskirts, rest their horses and themselves for the night. As was common, the young men would seek to pass the night by the side of a local common girl.
It was one of these, a young nightsmen by the name of Crysurik that had unexpectedly stolen the heart of the mettlesmiths daughter, she who was as much a man as her admirers, sometimes more so. An oddity, for the nightsmen were known not for their strength but for their stealth. There were tales of entire enemy camps quietly overwhelmed by no more than three nightsmen, dispatched in their beds, at their posts, in front of their dinner. There was no honor or regard in their ruthless ways, only a grudging respect of their skills.
Lucia threw the stones as Tyrissa chanted his name, stumbling over the syllables in her own excitement. They careened against each other, ricocheting off each other but never leaving their unseen border. When they finally came to rest, Lucia did nothing but stare at the ground, the words of the stones clear as a spring river. Tyrissa had shaken her from her trance, eager to hear their verdict. Smiling, Lucia had told her friend, that Crysurik would one day live in her home. Exuberant, the mettlesmithe's daughter had laughed and ran off to tell her sisters.
Alone, Lucia looked back down at the runes on the ground. She had not told her friend the entire reading. Like a storycloth, the runythe proclaimed, "YOU WILL LOVE HIM AND HE WILL SUFFER FOR IT."
The stones had never been wrong, not about the sex of the ranger's baby, not about the fires that would have destroyed their village had they not prepared. Yet as she examined herself, Lucia could see no such indication within herself. She knew nothing of this boy, save for what Tyrissa had told her, and even that had been amusing at best. Even when Crysurik had returned to live in the village in permanence, Lucia saw only a war-battered youth, useless for the menial but necessary farming tasks.
Months passed and Lucia learned to control her trepidation. Tyrissa had pursued him in the subtle, giving way that was like all girls except herself. Crysurik, on his part had responded, if for no other reason than his loneliness. He had never been entirely at ease within the hunter's circle; his nightskills were limited to men alone it seemed. Tyrissa alone talked to him about things other than the war and the hunts. It was not unusual to see them walk over to his home and then hear the laughter as they joked like children until the middle-night, at which time she would hurry home and be scolded by her brother. And then one evening, the middle-night came and went, and still Tyrissa did not hurry home.
She had come to know Crysurik then, when Tyrissa would drag him with her everywhere. They were not uncivil to each other, but their friendship seemed to revolve around her friend and his lover. He was akin to the tribesman that had come to learn the eldertongues from her father. They spent time in each other company, and they were courteous, but nothing more.
And then one day, Tyrissa left. As a mettlesquire, she was apprenticed to a traveling smith. It was uncommon enough for her to choose this lifepath, but to have her lover come with, especially when he had no marketable, peaceful skills...
So he stayed behind. And Lucia, out of habit, would look out her window in the evening towards his house, expecting to hear commotion she was not a part of. So she quickly noticed that, with Tyrissa gone, Crysurik did not come out much at all. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was duty that motivated her to talk to him. Whatever the reason, she found herself outside his door with a paisley pie one afternoon.
It had been extremely awkward. Her repeated apologizing for disturbing him, for overcooking the pie, for asking for a glass of water, was surpassed only by his own, for the state of his home, for overcooking the boar, for only having one cup. When they were not mumbling pardons, they sat in uncomfortable silence. When they were not silent, they were talking about Tyrissa.
Two weeks the scene repeated itself, clumsy conversation and silent dinners. Then one day, Lucia arrived to find Crysurik in high spirits. He had received a letter by messenger. It was from Tyrissa. Then night overflowed with jest and cheer. And in the midst, he had taken out a lyre and played. He was awful. She had laughed, but he took no offense. He knew the meagerness of his talent and played only for his own enjoyment. It was strange to see such a pursuit in a nightsman, but it was the first time she had seen him enthusiastic in something he was terrible at.
Time spent after that went by more easily. They began to talk about many things; his training, her father, his first horse, her last trip to the markets. They began to be real friends. Lucia began hosting dinners at her own home, opening up a wider range of foods for preparation. Evenings stopped being a duty and instead became something to look forward to. Then one night, Crysurik failed to come by for dinner. He indulged in a mid-day slumber and did not wake until the middle-night. But Lucia did not know this. All she knew was that she had prepared a nice meal and he had not even mentioned that he would be late. She smoldered as he thought of reasons she would be tardy. Different scenarios flashed through her imagination: he had made friends with the village men and was out drinking with them; he had gone out hunting and pursued his prey too far to return by sunfall; Tyrissa had returned home and they were enjoying each other's company after her lengthy absence.
At this thought Lucia halted mid-pace. Although she had rarely experienced it she could recognize the embers that burned in her heart. It was jealousy.
When Crysurik visited her home the next day, he found a cold dinner, upset bedding and no sign of the sole resident. He spent the rest of the day worried until Tyrissa returned in the middle-day. She explained that Lucia had no doubt left at the behest of a noble; a woman of her divinity was always in demand, so it was quite possible that she had been called upon to make haste.
After reading this from the runythe, Lucia swallowed them. They did not score her insides, nor did they leave her stomach. They simply existed inside her, sustaining her with life without good health. She felt no remorse in denying the world of the relics. They had done much good in the world through her, but she could taste nothing but the bitterness of their last prophecy. She traveled far, far away, walking forever away from her village. She walked where few tread, and she walked on still. She walked until at least her legs were weak.
And there she settled inside a cave. Tired yet not drowsy, Lucia sat and tried to wrest control of her thoughts. She thought of her father, she thought of the musical caravan she had seen on her tenth birthday, she thought of the way the grass outside her home swayed in the wind yet never grew past her thighs. She thought about everything she could so that she would not think of Crysurik. And when she could no longer stop it, she thought of nothing but him. And in her withered body, her heart sank. She had run from herself, from everything that she had.
Strange then, that by running away, by trying to deny the future she foresaw, her every action brought her closer to fulfilling it.
[As a story itself, I think it was accurately critiqued for not representing the "he will suffer for it" part of the prophecy.]
[ARCHIVE: I think I was a bit too close to the film to write this review. I come off as a mewling fanboy. But I really did think the movie was this good.]
Andrew Largeman has a problem. It's not his acting career, which has had its ups and more-recent downs. It's not his mother's death, bringing him back in his native New Jersey for the first time in nine years. It's not even the micro-migraines, tiny storm-clouds in his head, that he suffers from. Large's problem is his inability to feel happy, sad or... anything at all. But then, being on mood medication for fifteen years can do that to you.
In his directorial debut, Zach Braff (Scrubs' John Dorian), takes us on a ride through the landscape that is/was Large's life. Like a guided tour, we interact with his childhood (his father), his adolescence (his old friend Mark) and his present (love interest Samantha). The quirky nature of New Jersey is amplified by Large's reconnection with his emotional state, resulting in a sometimes unbelievable, often bizarre but always honest film about coming to terms with life. Most people will write this off as art house fodder, and they're right. Braff reaches for subjects not often covered by films and does so without the crutch of scientific absurdities (cough Eternal Sunshine cough). Instead, the lunacy of reality takes center stage. Without explosions.
Cinematically, Garden State is a very strong first try, if not without its kinks. There are beautifully framed shots that take your breath away. Something as innocuous as children holding hands while crossing a street pop out as if works of art. Once or twice the camera is rough, a jerky pan here, an uninspired crosscut there, but quite often it is spot on. The shot lingers long enough on Sam (Portman) and Large's quietly uncomfortable stare to make the audience really crave an answer to what, exactly what is it that silences them so? The forthcoming payoff is that much more hilarious.
Best known for a comedic role, Braff delivers a superb performance, conveying his lines with a subtle nuance that brings meaning to even the most neutral looking of expressions. I's a shame that he never really stands out since he's surrounded by such a talented supporting cast. Ian Holm gives a great bit performance as the father, wringing razor sharp bitterness from only a handful of lines. Natalie Portman, as compulsive liar Samantha, is a joy on screen, exhibiting a wide range that is overlooked by other egocentric directors (cough Lucas). She acts like she's happy and you believe it. She tells you she can laugh at herself and you know it's true. But the scene-stealer is Peter Sasgaard, who brings to life Large's chum Mark. Easily an unlikable character, Mark could have been the typical amoral jerk, robbing graves and abusing store-return policy. But Sasgaard plays the role with such confidence and identity that you entirely accept him, faults and all. He might be shady, but he's not a bad person.
If there is a weakness, it is the film's reliance on seemingly disjointed scenes. As was pointed out to me, one can easily feel like one is being subjected to a collection of tenuously related scenes. Only in subsequent viewings can one begin to draw out a cohesive whole to the film. But even if this is true, the initial sense of mellow contentedness of a single viewing is worth it.
Garden State is another one of those quiet small-budget films that might have been overlooked if not for the pedigree of its talent. Yet there are no compromises made; it is what it is. Few movies have straddled the line between art-film direction and high-quality production like Garden State does. Hopefully, it will be remember with the likes of Almost Famous rather than forgotten like Singles.
4.5 (out of 5)
This movie is Rated R
[ARCHIVE: Iambic pentameter is truly the height of pretentiousness.]
Now hear: I am an honest man as one
who ever held for his profession in
a public office. And a patient man
as ever that which saw himself the charge
of teaching youths with scholarly profession.
Noble, yes, as much as he who thought
to entertain within his heart the thought
of finding for himself companionship.
And handsome... here as handsome 'cept for all
the gifts that God bestowed upon myself
as well as those which give my peers their sight.
'Tis not within my mind to waste my time
at folly and at sport for that which won't
nor shan't (excepting can't) be won because
of measures that by Grace of God are mine
to call my own. As bound by this, my own
mortality and flesh, I live as one
would sure expect of one who is as I;
my mind, my stock, my disposition; glad
to have the time which fate as granted me.
Let no man judge my deeds, excepting he
that fell upon ill fate as I to break
commandment yet did find within himself
integrity enough to strike his own black heart
to dumbness, living all the rest his days
a shadow life, forever silent whence his crew
in jest or earnest t'will ask his thoughts upon
the very thing he once did fill his nights
and days and every hour, both waking,
sleeping and between. Alone may he
be fit to criticize my enterprises,
base as they may be, but still as faint
and subtle, enigmatic as the ether.
The time has come to draw the sword from out
my chest, as cleaved into that depth behested
so with mine own thoughts, and wretch'd inside
by mine own hand, protested all the while
by my better self. To 'xtract so deep
a cut as this, that I have worn so long
and proud, beheld alone within my mind
is trauma, plain and true. A poet such
as I doth know that art comes all the quicker
from a gash you nurse without intent
of healing, but with mind to keep it broached
so as to feed upon one's own distress,
A sick and parasitic bond from which
a man can gleam a mockery of poise.
What good, this self-devouring? What end is reached,
by this self-masturbation? Even this,
my "secret mind," demands an audience.
No, better now to cut the quick and stymie
future pains, despite prospective loss
of art, of voice, of prose which speaks to kin.
What worth the gains of other's praise
If she, the muse, is lost all days?
[It deviates a little, true, but so do most IP examples.]
