a kaddish for captain jack sparrow

Okay. So. Another Pirates of the Caribbean came out today. And I had absolutely no plans to see it. But we happened to be in the neighborhood, and there wasn't a line, and there were plenty of tickets, and the timing was right —

There were also plenty of good seats. Bad omen, right?

Good news: We sat through the whole thing, right down to after the credits for what we expected to be there. And because we sat through the whole bleeping thing, we never ever ever have to watch it ever again.

Bad news: So. Another Pirates of the Caribbean came out today.

Worst news of all: This could have been a very interesting movie. Daring, even. Having something to say, even. Would that be such a problem for Disney or the American mainstream audience? Hey Disney. Guess what? We can handle it. Trust us. We're not fully and entirely morons.

I have to say this:

Don't-get-me-wrong, I-love-Penelope-Cruz-how-could-you-not? And yah, there's plenty of chemistry to fill the screen. But she's got to hold all the female energy for the entire movie. I mean, the only other women of note are lovely killer mermaids with nothing else to do but kill, mope or cry. But 'chemistry' is not enough to hold what feels like an outrageously long movie (or maybe it was just slow). Nor are pyrotechnics, nor the usual bunch of fighting and escape stuff, nor is Geoffery Rush enough this time round to save us from the wobbly Jack, no matter how pretty he might be. Surely by the fourth of these movies, a touch of character dimension might finally reach the screen?

But there is a story in this tale somewhere. And maybe someone was brave enough to write it. And maybe it ended up on the cutting room floor. And maybe it was just inked out of a script. And maybe it's just all my imagination.

So. Yah. There are these pirates. And they're after yet another kind of treasure. Usual greedy stuff. And fending off the Empires.

But they put a missionary in the movie. And while he's a super good and noble character through and through — they made him fall in love. With a pagan, no less. And believe me: he does not convert her.

Now, doesn't that sound promising?

And they put 'the Spanish' in the movie. Fighting for the righteousness of the church (and God) to overcome (read: destroy) the forces of evil (read: pagan). Well, okay now.

And they put 'the British' in the movie. Fighting for the glory of the Crown. And the Brits doing the usual attempt at expropriation of resources from as many corners of the world that they can garner. Hmmm.

But the rest is pretty much crap.

And when this hits home viewing (of whatever your denomination), I'd say just start somewhere in the latter middle, and just keep going from there. And speed-dial through all the yelling and the screaming. There's just nothing to fuss over or savor here at all. And nothing worth seeing twice.

But that missionary is of interest. I wondered what 'they' would do with him. Had the time come at last to expect a Christian holy man savior in a Disney family/kiddie movie? Or would they show him to be as self-serving as everyone else? How could they keep him goody-goody and still have him be compelling? And what does he do with his faith? That part had potential.

The missionary's end is worth the wait. The powers that be must have thought long and hard about what to do with him without inducing the vomit factor of being too pro-church for a pluralistic audience.

And what the Spanish do with pagan treasures. That too is worth the wait.

The Brits, of course, are just-being-Brits.

And the pirates are, of course, just-pirates.

Don't sit around and wait for Pirates 5 to go into any depth or tell a worthwhile story. There were lots of great stories (lost opportunities) that could have been told about the pirates of the Caribbean. And about the Spanish and the Brits. Real stories that are stranger than fiction. Sephardi pirates, enraged at the Spanish for the reconquista, expulsion from Spain, and forced conversions to Catholicism, for example.

And yah, the rivalry between pagan rites and monotheism.

But you know, if you really want any of that, the place to find it (and a whole lot more) isn't another Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but BSG. The reimagined Battlestar Galactica (and its prequel Caprica) do justice to all the larger issues — monotheism and paganism; colonialism and hedonism; strong women and men who can weep and moan; sex, violence, and pretty faces, and great music which morphs into a key plot device — BSG does justice to these and more without once blinking or turning away.

If you want an actual satisfying story, and one that delivers salvation beyond the grave, I'm still with BSG.

Oh. And spoiler alert, if anyone cares:

The missionary gets saved. It's nicely done.

a kaddish for perfection

When I lived in the foster home, before being rescued by the tzaddik's intercession, there was more than one uncomfortable moment. I suppress them as best I can, but every once in a while one of them pops back up without permission and without apology for the intrusion. Like a jack-in-the-box wound way too tight, one of those memories stuffed way down came exploding out uninvited last night.

We went to see Black Swan. And this is not a movie review.

But let me get the movie bit out of the way with, hm, let's say three points:

a) this is a hard movie to watch
b) this is a hard movie to watch, and
c) this is a hard movie to watch ... if you've ever done ballet.

Or if you've ever done anything that you care about.
Or if you've ever become obsessed.
Or — and it's this last or — that led to the unwanted and heavily suppressed memory.

Or —

But let me start from the beginning.

So. Foster home. Nice, generous family with way too many kids on their hands. But only two girls, and we were very very young. And Mrs. Foster wanted to do the right thing by us, and so she sent my foster sister and me to ballet class. Not just that, but she sewed our little pink costumes all by hand, right down to the tutus. There's a picture of us to prove it. I, of course, look mortified. The deer-in-the-headlights look. I think I was all of three and a half. Maybe four tops.

And at the end of the year there was to be the performance of our little life-time. Weren't we excited? Our teacher made us do 'it' —whatever 'it' was— over and over. I don't remember any of it. Suppression, remember? But this one thing came back to mind. My foster sister and I were to perform a duet. And just before we went on to the stage, our teacher stared into our eyes severely and said:

"Remember, this is a performance. It has to be perfect."

And we got into position on the stage. And the music started. And the lights came up and focused on us. And we were facing each other. And I took a glance to my left, and saw a dark room with all these grown-ups that I couldn't see. And they were staring at us. And when the right note manifested, we began to move. And J, my foster sister glanced into the darkened audience as well. J lost her focus, and our little dance crumbled.

And we stopped, terrified. And the music kept playing. And I whispered with horror, "you made a mistake!"

And we both started crying.

And all those unseen grown-ups in the audience started to laugh.

And I never danced again.

Now. I'm a mom. I've been to these horrible things when my own kids have had their little recitals. And I've sat there hoping that my own little trauma would stay stuffed deep inside that tightly wound box. And now I know that we must have been adorable. Just like my own kids were adorable. And that those grown-ups must have been parents. But none of them were my parents. And with my kids there was another big difference.

My kids' teachers had a very different message for them:

"Have fun with it."

Just that, nothing more.

So. That last point about the movie last night:

Or—

this is a hard movie to watch ... if you're committed to perfection.

Which is not quite the same thing as obsession.

Black Swan is all about perfection. And that real perfection requires a modicum of imperfection to be just right. Too much technical precision feels wooden. It feels boring. And our eye strays anywhere else it can to escape. We need a touch of insanity in our art. We need to have fun with it. We need to be unpredictable and wild — without losing our form.

A painter friend of mine painted stencils on my ceiling and made every single repeated geometric a slightly different color. "The eye will not move, otherwise," he proclaimed. "It will have no reason to move if they are all exactly alike." What made his murals perfect was his carefully crafted imprecision.

Even Islamic art purposefully includes a flaw somewhere in the piece — saving 'perfection' for Allah alone.

And my horn playing partner in our kaddish in two-part harmony knows this as well. And somehow I too managed to stumble upon the liberation of imprecision along the way. And I embraced it.

I teach this way. It's one of the ways I use to keep it fresh. I forget words — and students find them. Find words that work, or might work. And the words they find are fresh and new, and the ideas get to change with the words they find. And we have, suddenly, a new angle to explore.

I tell them to have fun. Have fun with it. I don't think they believe me.

Black Swan has a perfect moment in it. When technical precision and ecstatic abandon merge — and everyone experiences the transcendence of that moment. The dancer. The audience. The audience watching the film. Everyone, at the same time. It's perfect.

With the usual consequences.

gratuitous misogyny: the soylent network poets society

Soylent Green came out when? This is something I can know instantly, isn't it? 1973, as it turns out. And people reduce the film to those four words:

Soylent Green is people.

But that was never the appalling thing about Soylent Green. That was just good recycling. With the benefits way outweighing the costs. I never had a problem with that part. So much for the punchline. The pollution depicted in the film was brilliant. You could reach for your inhaler just watching the screen, it was that bad.

But the worst thing by far depicted in Soylent Green was exactly the same thing that I saw depicted tonight at the movies watching David Fincher's The Social Network.

Don't get me wrong. Aaron Sorkin's screenplay is perfect. Jesse Eisenberg gives exactly the performance he's hired to give — he's got the broody/despicable/pathetic guy down pat. With the casting of Eisenberg, the real Mark Zuckerberg doesn't stand a chance in the sympathy department, does he?

From my point of view, Soylent Green, The Social Network, oh, and Dead Poets Society — and a whole lot of other other-people's-favorite films — are all the same horror show.

School boy movies have even more in common. The smart-boy thing. The wannabe envy. The struggle to make it into the inner circle. To be accepted. The privileged oppressing the less privileged. The underprivileged/socially inept/ethnic guy breaking through the barriers that keep him oppressed.

Oh, and the reward of getting laid.

This latter appears to be the primary function that women play in these films: a repository for sperm. Though I'm not even sure if the smart-boys care whether their aim (or timing) is particularly accurate. And they're certainly not out to please anyone but themselves.

What makes all these movies unbearable isn't the precious dialogue or depiction of boy-brilliant angst (with an occasional milli-second of male sensitivity thrown in, though not, I should add, in The Social Network).

No, what makes them unwatchable is the women-as-furniture thing.

Gratuitous misogyny.

Soylent Green was explicit in this. Women were depicted quite literally as furniture that come with the apartment you (male) rent. In 1973 when the film came out, this was something no one seemed to even notice — it was so ubiquitous not only in film, but in our daily lives. Ms. magazine first appeared on the stands in 1972 and just the title attempted to convey the idea of women not being any man's property. Clearly the Soylent Green 'future' hadn't gotten the message yet.

But neither has The Social Network.

I'm not mad at the film, per se. I think what enrages me is that the depiction of women in this film may well be correct. That these young men with the big ideas still perceive women as perks and playthings, no different than say, drugs, alcohol, loud music and dark clubs with flashing lights. Slithery women populate The Social Network just as they populated Dead Poets, Soylent Green and god knows how many other movies. We should make a list. Or maybe not. It's too depressing.

Granted, The Social Network provides a sole female voice protesting the treatment of women. But it is drowned out by every other female voice in the film just fine with bimboification. With not being the brilliant innovator but the door prize.

I remember seeing Dead Poets with a group of friends when it came out in 1989. And over dinner afterward, they raved about it, how great, how sensitive, how well played... And I sat there grumpy, seething and enraged — that sole voice at the table that couldn't stand the film for what it did to women. They hadn't noticed.

Well, the movies haven't changed much, have they?

1972,

or 1989,

or 2010.

I'm still watching the same bloody scene played out again and again — with reviewers clearly not watching the same movie that I'm watching. Not seeing the same thing that I'm seeing.

But nowadays, when I go to the movies, I'm sitting next to someone who not only sees the pattern, but also feels the outrage.

In other words, these days, I'm sitting next to a woman.

And she's a filmmaker.

So watch out...

mary poppins meets fatal attraction and other adorable stuff

When R was very little, her sitter brought over one of those sweet little Disney films to watch together. It was around the time when she was seeing movies for the very first time. And even as a small child, she was apparently paying close attention to the tube.

I came home ready to take her out in her stroller, maybe to the park, maybe just a walk. She loved being zoomed along the bumpy hills, and she had particular favorite bumps for her zooming. Her great desire at the time was to learn how to fly, and she thought that if I pushed fast enough, she might lift off someday.

But not this time. When I went upstairs to collect her, I found that my precious daughter had made herself a collar from part of one of my shoes, and had wrapped it around her neck.

"Ladies don't go out!" she proclaimed, and refused to go out into the world.

Her plan, like in the movie she was watching, was to not leave the house until she had had puppies. Lady and the Tramp did that to her after one viewing.

Now, maybe that's adorable to somebody, but I had never seen Lady and the Tramp before. So R and I sat down and watched the movie together. In this revolting little horror movie, 'Jim Dear' gets 'Darling' an adorable puppy. 'Darling's face is never shown until the end of the movie, after she's given birth to a child. These are the humans in the movie. Then there are the dogs...

R kept her eye on the female dogs. She paid no attention to the males. There was Lady, who as we have seen, is supposed to stay inside. And there was the sultry Peg — the seductress of the streets (played by Peggy Lee), who ends up at the Pound, about to be euthanized any minute for roaming free on the streets with the boys. Great message to little girls: good girls stay inside; bad girls go out in the streets and get themselves murdered. Even a three year old can get the message in one viewing.

But just in case little girls have missed it, there's Mary Poppins to the rescue. This time, it's the mother who's out on the streets. Horrors! And her children are in desperate need of a nanny. Good nanny stays with the kids. Bad mother is out on the streets. No one ever remembers just what mother is doing out there, but guess what — she fighting for women's right to vote. Bad mommy learns her lesson, however, and at the end of the movie, she tears off her suffragette banner, turns it into a kite, and stays home. Problem solved. Lesson learned.

Around the same time, I happened to see Fatal Attraction, which was all the rage scaring men half to death. But the real horror of the movie is this: Fatal Attraction is just another repackaging of the Lady and the Tramp / Mary Poppins motif — but for the older set, just in case the message didn't get through when we were little girls.

Here too, there are two main female characters — the good woman who stays at home, and the bad woman who goes to work. And here too, vivid, and graphically explicit, the evil working woman gets her due — this time (if I remember it correctly) she is done in directly by the sweet homemaker herself.

Scary movie, yes, but not because Glen Close is terrifying. No, scary movie because it's no different from the lesson little girls can get from horror shows like Mary Poppins and Lady and the Tramp. But it's these latter movies (the adorable ones) that are all the more frightening than films like Fatal Attraction — precisely because we don't notice what they're doing to our precious daughters!

R gave up her longing to fly — but she found another passion: After the Lady and the Tramp fiasco, she started analyzing what she saw on the tube. She was still three at the time. Suddenly, she refused to watch Sesame Street, proclaiming that it was "just for boys." There were no girl-puppets for her to identify with, and worst of all, Big Bird was a cheat.

Big Bird a cheat?

"Big Bird has pink legs, but he's still a boy," she complained. She was incensed by this. It was a real betrayal. Even the color pink had been usurped.

At the moment, my daughter is trekking the Gobi Desert, so I guess she survived Disney. She still pays close attention to the tube. And when she sits me down and orders me to watch, I do just that. Strange as it may sound, I learned my outrage by my daughter's side. She did not, as convention might have it, learn her outrage from me.