top ten {FILMS} ~ 2010

1. BLUE VALENTINE

2. ANIMAL

KINGDOM

3. BLACK SWAN

4. TOY STORY 3

5. 127

HOURS

6. THE GHOST WRITER

7. DOG

POUND

8. THE KING'S SPEECH

9. WINTER'S BONE

10. the social network

A Riveting Aussie "Kingdom"

From Vito and Michael Corleone to 'Jimmy' Conway and Henry Hill, classic characters like these have been ingrained in our collective psyche as representations of irrepressible control and power in organized crime. They did all of the 'taking' without any of the asking, and feared no one. To them, family was sacred, and their survival and longevity within their violent world depended almost entirely on that crucial bond. However...when these families saw their authority crumble, their intransigent bonds failed to remain intact, and an inner upheaval occurred when influence from the outside world seeped in.

Such is the predicament that Aussie director David Michôd hones in on in the excellent Animal Kingdom. His directorial debut, it is an uncompromising and gripping story about the weaknesses that people in control try to hide and the shades of evil that surface when that power is lost. Michôd focuses his attention squarely on the lives of the Cody family and how their barriers slowly break down once their criminal exploits catch up to them. The brothers - withdrawn Darren (Luke Ford), drug-addled Craig (Sullivan Stapleton) and disturbed, elder Andrew (Ben Mendelsohn) - see their dealings deteriorate as the cops begin to tighten their grasp. At the center of all this, seventeen-year-old nephew J (newcomer James Frecheville) moves in with the family and is thrust into his uncles' violent schemes, all the while an honest cop (Guy Pearce) tries to coax J out of the family's downward spiral. Michôd delivers a strong and assured hand in scrutinizing the more intimate dynamics of a crime-driven family, rather than their public manifestations. The film is not about sociopathic gangsters pulling off 'the perfect heist' or indulging in excesses of wealth and drugs. Instead, it focuses on the after-effects of these situations: the botched crimes they try to evade and the paranoid undercurrent that plagues their isolated domestic life.

While the film's American trailer markets it as a run-of-the-mill mobster drama, the Australian trailer perfectly captures the unsettling and tense mood that Michôd maintains throughout the narrative (even using Air Supply's "All Out of Love" in a refreshingly different way). Kingdom's strong suits derive not just from its realistic and grounded approach to the material, but also its potent performances. Pearce adds a recognizable face into the mix as the moral figure in the story, whereas Jacki Weaver oozes a calculating, sinister persona as the Cody family's resourceful matriarch. Under tightly-controlled pacing, the story's familiar genre elements are re-oriented to focus on new territory within that world, unraveling deep layers about the characters' psyche and in the process showing us that, yes, even gangsters can be weak and vulnerable, too. It is a kinetic and absorbing film, and assuredly cements Michôd as a filmmaker to watch for.

Animal Kingdom is currently playing at Cinema Village (22 East 12th Street).

ny summer.

Sweaty Delicious

It's official. New York City in July has been pure scorching hell.

You walk around through the streets, and all you see are uncomfortable people trying their best not to move as much so as not to sweat through their clothes. It's disgusting, I know. That's how this city is during the summertime. The humidity is unbearable, especially for someone like me who's not very fond of the heat. I grew up in warm Puerto Rico but never really got used to its year-round hot climate. One of the reasons I chose to study at Syracuse University - besides its great Communications school - was the fact that I'd be able to experience an entirely different environment to that of my own upbringing.

New York summers can truly aggravate and infuriate people very easily. Within the context of a given everyday routine (going to and from work, for example), the heat can become the main instigator in ruining one's commute. You feel sticky, tired, and not very clean. You try to avoid eye contact with people so that they don't notice what a sweaty mess you are. Then, when you do get to your destination, you're in dire need of a change of shirt and feel like a grimy outcast when the air conditioning at work barely cools you off. Overall, it's just an awful situation to be in.

However, in a different environment, these same unbearable conditions can also bring about a surprisingly enjoyable time - even if you feel like your skin is melting off! This summer has already delivered record-setting hot days, yet they've been accentuated by the plethora of activities this city has to offer. Not only have the warm weekends enabled me to enjoy the boroughs in their "full splendor" (so to speak), but they have also coaxed me into indulging in excessive amounts of food...

I attended the Coney Island Mermaid Parade with my friends Evan and Eleanor about a month ago, and it made for quite a beautiful and bright afternoon. After we watched the procession of half-naked men and women in mermaid regalia, my stomach began to growl loudly, so I proceeded to slither past the crowd in front of Nathan's and bought myself two hot dogs. Given the hot weather, I downed the food with a very cold PBR (a surprisingly expensive one) in a matter of seconds. The two hot dogs definitely staved off my hunger, but minutes later when we left the boardwalk, I realized that I was still unsatisfied and the blistering sun was taking its toll on me. Thus, I followed the "dogs" from Nathan's with an ice cream cone and a few bites of a funnel cake Eleanor had ordered. By that point, the ice cream had totally revitalized me and cooled me off; I was as pleased as I could be. Still, my friends wanted to get more food, so we took the subway to Metropolitan Avenue and had a bountiful late lunch at Fette Sau, an unbelievable BBQ spot nestled in an inconspicuous driveway in Williamsburg. The place exudes a bare-bones 'Americana' spirit - wooden picnic tables and local beers served in jars - as well as a laid back and communal, family-friendly vibe. Surprisingly enough, I ate a hefty amount of food there (pulled pork with bread rolls and potato salad) despite having already eaten a lot just an hour before. The cold Coney Island lager I drank definitely complemented the delicious food, and the overall experience was doubly enhanced because the place itself was a great "find."

Weeks later, Eleanor, Evan and I made another trip to Brooklyn on another pitch-perfect-yet-humid Saturday, this time to see the Andy Warhol exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. Before going in, though, we crossed the street to Washington Avenue and had lunch at The Islands, a cramped Jamaican food joint with the tastiest jerk chicken I've ever had. After struggling to understand the servers' thick accents - and waiting a while for our orders to be ready - we took the food and sat outside the museum, where we enjoyed the jerk chicken along with rice and beans, curried goat, and an incredibly refreshing ginger lemonade. Once we saw the Warhol works, we strolled through Prospect Park and hitched a subway ride back to Astoria, where we spent the evening at Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden, drinking Krusovice (Czech) beer and yes, eating more food - potato pancakes and dumplings.

Throughout these days spending time around the boroughs, the weather was relentless in making every inch of my body feel sluggish and grimy. The less I thought about how sweaty I was, the better...yet, in an odd way, the very act of being outside all day and trying delicious new food around the city turned the uncomfortable aspects - i.e., the blistering heat and the constant sweating - into a somewhat playful obstacle to control and endure. In a rigid schedule, the hot summer climate in NYC becomes anti-productive and affects one's sense of comfort and social interaction. An office setting where there's no air conditioning (while it's 100 degrees outside) can quickly shift from being a dynamic working environment to an awkward and alienating one where everyone turns bitter and puts off work to pout by their lonesome.

Then - when that routine is no longer in effect and we delve outside to enjoy our surroundings, the suffocating heat is not a dire impediment anymore because it falls in tandem with the "fun-ness" of the adventure itself. Sitting at an office cubicle with no A.C., I would've probably eaten the bare minimum for lunch so as not to move as much and become even messier. Outside around the boroughs, however, my atttitude was similar to that of a young kid playing in a backyard - grimy, unkempt and totally unrestrained to do (and eat!) anything.

Summertime - in this city in particular - does that to you. I mean, seriously - where else can a mild-mannered twenty-four year old binge on hot dogs, ice cream, pulled pork and potato salad while also being able to eat authentic Jamaican and Czech cuisine located a few miles apart?

Could L.A. ever pull this off? I don't think so. It's not sweaty enough.

i _____ L . A .

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a fervent East Coaster. My mom was born here in New York City, and my dad met her while she was studying at Manhattanville College. While I lived in Puerto Rico during my childhood and adolescence, I still frequented New York a great deal - at a minimum, five times a year. Even in those moments, when I was still in school, I knew that New York would eventually be my next home. Then as my college graduation unfolded and most of my friends made the brave trek to the West Coast, I stubbornly remained loyal to the Big Apple and moved here right after I finished school. Months passed, and as I enjoyed what the city consistently had to offer me, I still kept in contact with my friends in Los Angeles - always trying to get as much of a feeling for what their "West Coast experience" was like. However, at no point was I even entertaining the idea of moving there. I merely wanted to get a sense of the L.A. mindset without enduring the aches and pains of experiencing it myself.

About two months ago, some L.A. friends called me up one weekend as I was leaving my evening job (so, around 2:30am) and, in an oddly endearing sort of way, their drunken ramblings convinced me to finally travel to the West Coast and, yes - experience it for myself. I booked round-trip tickets for a five day trip, and about two weeks ago, I finally made it over there.

I arrived at LAX on a rather breezy Thursday afternoon. As I walked out of the airport and looked at my surroundings, I felt like I was back in Puerto Rico - except that it wasn't a stuffy ninety degrees outside. With my friend Matt's address jotted down, I relayed it to the cab driver and off we went. I reached Matt's apartment and realized that all of my friends were at work, and I didn't have any keys to his place. Deeming it the perfect opportunity (and time of day) to go out and explore, I asked the cabbie to give me a sense of how best to reach Venice Beach. He told me to walk west, and so I did...

With a bag in each hand, I strolled through Venice Boulevard, past Venice High School (the one Danny and Sandy went to in Grease), tattoo parlors and Mexican eateries. At one point, after having been walking for over fifteen minutes, I decided to check again to see if I was still heading the right way. I spotted a very thin middle-aged woman leaving her house and I approached her for directions, asking what the best way to reach Venice Beach was. The woman - holding a jar of iced coffee and slurping it through a straw - nonchalantly pointed in the direction I was heading towards and walked away. I hastily continued on my path and tried to quicken my pace, unsure of how many miles I had left. Then, about five minutes later, I heard a voice calling me.

"HEY! Do you want a lift?"

I was bewildered. What random Los Angeleno was offering to pick me up in the middle of the day? When I turned around, I realized that the stranger was, in fact, the coffee-slurping lady - now driving a beat-up pickup truck. She informed me that she was, after all, going the same direction as me; in turn, I reluctantly accepted her offer and got into her car. At that moment, my "East Coaster conscience" yelled inside my head, outraged that I'd ride with a random person, but I simply ignored it and took the situation for what it was - an L.A. experience.

The woman - a West Coaster for over 30 years, she told me - dropped me off at the main boulevard to the beach and I profusely thanked her for the ride, but she merely chuckled to herself and said that it had been no bother. The woman's airy disposition and generosity surprised me, especially because I've lived for over two years in a city that follows a starkly opposite pace. I spent the afternoon laying on the beach - soaking in the sun rays - and walking along the boardwalk, witnessing the various grungy dudes and girls that clamored for spare change as well as the well-put-together men and women that offered prescription slips for medical marihuana. To me, the people in and around Venice Beach make the hipsters in Williamsburg look like Mormons. Hipsters are all about putting forth a specific image of themselves (regardless of whether it's genuine or not), whereas the young people in this beachside area truly seemed like the real deal. Be they exchanging drugs on the sly or "turning tricks," they were definitely not trying to be covert, yet in doing so, they gave the area its eccentric flair.

The following night, I took part in a Scavenger Hunt throughout all of Los Angeles. To the group of friends I tagged along with, it was just something fun to do, but to me, it was the perfect way to discover and engage with the West Coast scenery. From midnight to seven in the morning, the empty highways and neighborhoods paved the way for easy access from one end of L.A. to another, as we relentlessly followed clues and zany instructions to earn as many points as possible. It was a manic and exciting seven hours, and, although we didn't come close to winning (almost dead-last is more apt), we had an excellent time traversing the nightly landscape together.

Throughout the five days that I was in L.A., my friends made the case for me to make the move there. They showed me other aspects to Los Angeles that I never took into account and also shed light on its particular allure. Despite everything that I was witness to during my trip, what encapsulated the city the most for me was the Good Samaritan who gave me a lift to Venice Beach. If that same situation had happened in, let's say, the Midwest, it would have been a different scenario. The woman would've probably been overwhelmingly selfless and would've even gabbed on about her family life. However, in Los Angeles I noticed that everyday people follow the beat of a different drum - they're accommodating without being totally straightforward about things. Unlike New Yorkers, they carry a very lackadaisical attitude about their daily routines - be it leisurely or professional. Whereas people in NYC are upfront about their feelings and will not mince words with you, Californians seem to retain any judgments they might have and, instead, exude a nonchalant approach that is more receptive...

...which brings me to this post's title. The laid-back attitude in Los Angeles - although surely refreshing to many people that live there - is nevertheless one that carries a deceptive aura. The town is bright and sunny year-round, with attractive people galore trying to make business deals while working on their tan - and there's never a palpable sense of urgency or importance in whatever people undertake. In L.A., work ethic is interconnected with leisure (and vice versa), while NYC falls more in tandem with a Darwinistic mentality: work hard by your own merits in order to survive, and then enjoy a leisurely life. Thus, like the "coffee-slurping lady," Los Angeles is easygoing and approachable but refrains from showing more character and emotion than it needs to.

By this parameter alone, I don't love or like L.A., nor do I hate or despise it. It is, to put it simply, a uniquely frustrating yet oddly tempting place to be.

When No One's Watching...

I have an unusual work schedule. Early in the evenings, when people are arriving home from work, I'm usually starting the day off, taking the subway to my night job shift. I do work during the day, but whatever it is that I'm working on, I tend to do it from home. Over the past several months I've also been writing a short script, and I've tried to balance my schedule as best as possible to leave a couple of hours a day to brainstorm story ideas. I always aim to keep a calm work environment in my apartment, but sometimes, no matter how focused I am, I still perceive an uneasiness around me (the neighbor's blaring television, construction work outside) which, inevitably, leads to a great deal of irritation.

About a month ago, I reserved an entire day for scriptwriting. I had to work at night, but for the entire day, I planned to have no distractions and no pressing engagements to deal with. However, at the last minute, I had to contend with the fact that the cleaning lady was stopping by the apartment in the afternoon, and so, I had to find another place to lay low and write. This was an ideal moment for procrastination. My inner voice tempted me - It's a lost cause, buddy. Just go to a matinee showing before work. You can write some other day. I carefully weighed this option. After all, I didn't have a lot of time on my hands before my evening shift. How much writing could I realistically get done? At some point I realized that I wasn't going to make it to the film and had to settle for roaming around the city looking for something to do. Since I've been trying to restrain myself on weekly expenses, I did not want to do something that would make me squander money easily, so I opted to spend my afternoon brainstorming ideas at Barnes & Noble.

When I arrived at the bookstore, I immediately headed to the cafe, where people were doing the same thing that I had in mind - looking for some peace and quiet. I swiftly snagged a table and plopped down with an iced coffee, a muffin and my notepad. However, curiosity got the better of me very quickly, and my gaze began to drift towards the people around me. Most kept to themselves, studying or eating a snack - but then I noticed a few that stood out. Next to me, a balding short man with a gray beard - wearing a brown suit and glasses - chatted with a thirty-something young woman. As I watched the bespectacled man, the voyeur in me immediately perked up. The man was only a couple of feet away, yet he had no idea that I was scrutinizing his rapport with the woman. Was he her father? A close family friend? Maybe a college professor, desperate to get into her pants? Perhaps he invites her on these supposedly platonic "coffee dates" to talk about her graduate work on Nietzsche, but deep down he just wants to ditch his dull, overweight wife - who doesn't even find him sexually arousing anymore - and delve fully into a torrid affair. My mind quickly let loose a variety of case scenarios, all of which made me feel surprisingly giddy that I was relishing this so much. I couldn't stop jotting down notes, one right after the other. Although I wasn't working on my script revisions at that moment, I was still nevertheless coming up with new, totally irrelevant 'character situations' that could serve as fodder for future story concepts. The scenarios I imagined in my head were unrealistic, but my imagination conceived them because, to me, it fit with the pair's demeanor and body language.

As the "college professor" and his "desired female companion" carried a low-key interaction, I re-directed my attention towards other tables throughout the cafe, to other people reading magazines and writing on their laptops...until I spotted a young man and woman passionately arguing with each other. The man, dressed all in black and looking like a beat poet, gesticulated wildly with his hands as the woman locked eyes with him and tried to calm him down. She never withdrew her gaze - always staring into his eyes with concern and compassion - while he looked everywhere except into her eyes. What I found most surprising about their very dramatic interplay was that no one reacted to them at all. There was palpable tension between the couple, as if he were concealing something from her and was trying to disregard it by feigning outrage. In return, the woman was oddly calm and in control, and exuded a great deal of power just by her demeanor alone. Once again, my imagination ran wild - what were they arguing about? Why was the man lashing out at her so angrily? Why was the woman so calm and collected? These questions kept recurring in my head like a mantra. Perhaps one possible reason why the man behaved this way was because he truly believed in what he was arguing about. He had no qualms about gesticulating like a maniac in front of total strangers because, to him, he was 100% in the right about the opinion he was expressing to the woman. He was going to protest and bicker as much as possible, judgmental people be damned. The louder he argued, the more genuine and truthful he probably thought his words would sound. On the other hand, the woman seemed to be very aware of her surroundings and barely responded to the man's entire rant. She wasn't in the mood to pontificate - only to exude a silent resolve and a cool demeanor.

I spent over two hours sitting at that bookstore cafe. At no point during those two hours did I feel the least bit bored or disinterested. A day that began with me having a procrastinating attitude about my work resulted in a surprisingly productive and enriching afternoon. Not only did I effectively come up with new story concepts to toy around with, but I did so by simply watching everyday people do ordinary things. It made me realize that, when all creative vestiges dissipate, it's useful to forget whatever illusory idea you're "chasing," go straight to the dramatic source and just observe people in their own environment.

Now, if I could just focus on my script from here on out...

Film by Day & Music by Night

The sun was out for most days at the end of April, and what did I do? Watched films inside a darkened theater! Yes - as Spring enthusiastically arrived in the city, I planned my schedule around the Tribeca Film Festival, catching at least a movie a day and balancing it out with my evening job. Despite constantly fighting back sleep - as well as any enticing notions of a day in the park - I highly enjoyed my visits to the festival. The hustle and bustle around the theaters - plus the fact that most days were sunny and warm outside - enlivened the festival's atmosphere. What was most satisfying about this year's experience was that I was able to view as many films as I wanted (for free), and that is definitely a luxury that I never get to have in this city. There were several strong features, but these three were the stand-outs for me:

The Disappearance of Alice Creed (UK; dir. J Blakeson) ~ Two men - irascible Vic (Eddie Marsan) and his partner Danny (Martin Compston) - kidnap a young woman (Gemma Arterton) and demand a hefty sum of money from her rich father. However, as tensions rise inside the claustrophobic apartment they're secluded in, secrets are revealed and allegiances are weakened. Director Blakeson pulls off a surprisingly satisfying "kidnapping thriller" and slyly evades most conventional devices akin to this sub-genre. All three principals deliver strong performances (especially Marsan as the volatile 'leader' of the duo), and although certain plot revelations are not wholly effective in execution, they still manage to keep the tension engaging.

{Noteworthy} ~ the film has one of the most absorbing openings I've seen in a while; a very taut montage that shows the disturbing dedication and professionalism that these two men apply to their plan.

The Killer Inside Me (UK; dir. Michael Winterbottom) ~ based on a Jim Thompson novel of the same name, the film has already caused quite an uproar on the festival circuit for its brutal depiction of violence against women. The 1950's-set "noir thriller" centers on small-town deputy sheriff Lou Ford (Casey Affleck) and the sociopathic nature that rages within him as he involves himself with a local prostitute (Jessica Alba) and evades suspicion of his actions from acquaintances and his fiancee (Kate Hudson). Like Thompson's novel, the film is told through Ford's perspective as he narrates about his misdeeds and disturbing mindset while he superficially tries to maintain an upstanding persona in the community. Winterbottom executes a twisted, 'slow-burn' narrative that unsettles more due to its desolate atmosphere and expressionistic cinematography rather than its controversial scenes (which, yes, are very graphic, but also very faithful to the book). It is by no means an easy film to like or approve of, but that's what Winterbottom aims for: to disturb the viewer by luring us into the protagonist's sadistic mind. And you know what? He succeeds completely.

{Noteworthy} ~ the stellar cast. Besides Affleck, Hudson and Alba, the film boasts perfect roles for Elias Koteas, Simon Baker, Ned Beatty and Bill Pullman, all who deliver rich, dramatic performances.

Dog Pound (France; dir. Kim Chapiron) ~ the winner of the Best New Narrative Filmmaker prize (and deservedly so), the film is a stark look into America's correctional facilities for juvenile delinquents, and follows three teenagers inside one such prison as they face constant physical abuse by other jailed youths and endure harsh reprimands by the guards. The film kept me gripped to my seat from the first shot to the last, not only because of the raw and no-holds-barred approach that director Chapiron undertakes in his material, but also in the authenticity of the characters and story. The attention to detail and realism depicted within the enclosed environment - as well as the simplicity of the dialogue - further add to the narrative's true-to-life sensibilities. Although Chapiron employs some customary "prison film" elements into his story, his keen sense for characterization and dramatic conflict elevate the narrative to a gripping level. On the whole, it's a visually-potent and socially-relevant film with one of the most realistic presentations of brutal youth violence in recent memory.

{Noteworthy} ~ the impressive performances by the three principals (Adam Butcher, Shane Kippel and Mateo Morales) - who manage to show both vicious rage and heartbreaking vulnerability in their respective roles - not to mention the rest of the cast, most of them nonprofessional actors.

While I did spend the entirety of my days at the festival, I always opted out of the evening activities because I had to go to work every night. However, on my night off, my friend Gabriel invited me to catch Rodrigo y Gabriela at Radio City Music Hall. It was Gabriel's birthday and he had a spare ticket to give out, so I happily tagged along with him. After having watched a Colombian film that same morning at the festival (Blood and Rain, a solid, assured drama), I was more than excited to catch this talented musical duo from Mexico City. As expected, they did not disappoint. The raucous crowd inside Radio City - both young & old - fed off Rodrigo and Gabriela's charismatic, energetic vibes, and it made for quite a rollicking good time. Here's a taste:

A Worthy "Secret"

About two weeks ago I went to see "The Secret in their Eyes" (El Secreto de sus Ojos) - this year's Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language Film. Since I had already seen Michael Haneke's "The White Ribbon" and Jacques Audiard's "A Prophet" - both excellent films in their own right that also competed for the Foreign Film prize - I wasn't feeling that enthused about "Secret." After all, I was one of many 'film snobs' that were shocked and disappointed that this film beat Haneke's and Audiard's. Now that I've seen the Foreign Language winner, however, I can firmly attest that it is, indeed, a very effective and gripping romantic drama.

The film (directed by veteran TV filmmaker Juan José Campanella), spans over twenty-five years and focuses on the grisly rape and murder of a young woman - a case which a dogged criminal investigator (the always excellent Ricardo Darín), becomes committed to resolving. The murder occurs in 1974, at the same time when Darín's Esposito begins working for the newly-appointed Assistant D.A. (Soledad Villamil). Soon enough, the investigation gets hastily resolved and forgotten by everyone except Esposito, who - decades later, and now retired - decides to write a novel about the case, and in turn, re-connect with Villamil's Irene, whom he always had a deep love for. The film presents a sprawling story that weaves a police procedural/"thriller" with romantic elements. At its essence, Campanella's narrative deals with the impermanence of time and the struggles we endure for love despite all the insurmountable obstacles. "Secret" does not necessarily 'reinvent the wheel' in its plot construction, but it does provide top-notch performances from the cast (particularly Darín, who's been perfect before in Nine Queens and The Aura) and an equally-gripping story with a realistic socio-political undercurrent. Despite the nonlinear structure, Campanella executes a fairly conventional plot in how he addresses and presents his story. However, in one particular chase sequence through a soccer stadium - with Esposito and his alcoholic partner (Guillermo Francella) running after a murder suspect - Campanella employs masterful camerawork by covering the entire chase in one kinetic, free-roaming shot (similar in style and approach to this film's opening).

While I don't wholeheartedly agree with the Academy's decision to bestow the Best Foreign Film Oscar to this film, I can nevertheless understand why they did so. Oscar voters tend to opt for safer, audience-friendly choices over gutsier fare (last year's "Departures" winning over "Waltz with Bashir," the criminally-overrated "Life is Beautiful" winning in '99) and, while this year was no different with "Secret," the film still deserves the acclaim it's gotten. It is a potent narrative that keeps you engaged throughout, and one that continues to herald the strong and assured filmmaking in Argentinean cinema.

"The Secrets in their Eyes" is currently playing at the Angelika Film Center (18 West Houston).

I Bleed Orange, After All

The majority of people in my life know that I graduated from Syracuse University's Newhouse School, yet many of them are unaware that, when my ''college search'' began, Syracuse was not in my purview of top university choices. The reason behind this was because my middle brother graduated from its School of Architecture in 2004 and, having gone to tour the campus when he was applying, I had already witnessed first-hand its not-so-pleasant surroundings and gloomy weather (and knew full well of its intense winters). However, after my top two choices - Ithaca College & Fordham U. - didn't pan out, I interviewed with the friendly Admissions people from Syracuse and consequently took the plunge, deeming it the best fit for me.

I honestly cannot say anything bad about my college experience. Most of my strongest friendships were cemented in Syracuse, and they've truly become an intrinsic part of my life. We all came to share common inclinations because of how well we bonded while studying the same (or similar) concentrations. In doing so, we consistently went out and did most activities together - from enjoying 'indie' concerts on campus to frequenting bars downtown - and it enforced our union even more. We were all, in effect, a big cluster of a family forged by our mutual interests. However...when it came to college sports (i.e. Syracuse basketball and football games), I was always MIA. This wasn't because I disliked the teams themselves, but in fact due to my own particular personality...

Throughout my entire life, I've never had a passion or interest for sports. Nothing. Zilch. While growing up in Puerto Rico, my mom placed me in different after-school sports in hopes of finding which one could be my 'calling,' but none of them ever stuck. Although I did end up in a swim team for over eight years, any other sport was - to me - a waste of time. Flash-forward to present time, and I'm still very much the same way. At Syracuse, every time I saw throngs of college students, 'townies,' and families decorated in orange regalia and heading to a game, I was usually walking in the opposite direction.

As shocking as it may be to some, let me put my aversion to sports in simpler terms: In my four years of college, I NEVER WENT TO A SINGLE BASKETBALL GAME.

At Syracuse, though, I could more or less evade the crowds and commotion from the games and focus on things that truly interested me. Now, living in New York City, I've found that it's a bit harder to brush off talking about Syracuse sports, primarily because of its endemic nature here on the East Coast. Whether they're Syracuse alumnus or not, lots of people living in New York state follow the Orange faithfully, be it during football season or the NCAA basketball games - and it's this latter sports season which recently exposed me to this world that I ably evaded during my college years - that of the obsessively die-hard 'Cuse fan.

About a month ago - in the midst of the NCAA season - my friend Jamie invited me to see a Syracuse game at a bar in midtown Manhattan. When I arrived at the place, there were many people decked out in orange t-shirts and baseball caps - while I stood out with a gray hoodie and blue polo shirt. I greeted Jamie and we talked for a while until her friend Megan joined us to watch the game. Like Jamie, Megan is also a Syracuse alum, but this was my first time meeting her. Right off the bat, she tells me that she is indeed one of those 'Cuse fans - and she proves it by showing me the blue & orange socks she was wearing, plus informing me she has 'Cuse basketball memorabilia adorning her cubicle at work. I was already liking this girl - more so because of how friendly and funny she was - but I knew that I hadn't yet seen her "hardcore phase"...

The rest of Jamie's friends soon arrived and we congregated in a corner to watch the game with pitchers of beer in hand. What followed was a tumultuous clash between Syracuse and Indiana's Butler University. Throughout the entire game, I felt as if I was conducting an ethnographic study on sports aficionados in their natural habitats: witnessing a varied display of pure emotions being poured out in unabashed glory. While Jamie's male friends mostly kept things on an even keel - with only sporadic crude yells and the occasional expletive - others, particularly grown men who should've long gone abandoned this behavior, tended to immerse themselves in violent screaming and tantrum fits. As all of this went down, I would occasionally glance at Megan and see her with a grim face - our college team's failures visibly represented in her demeanor. One minute, she and I could've been laughing about something, but then in the next, her facial expression would change dramatically - as if she had just learned that her entire world was coming to an end. What struck me about Megan was not so much the fact that she was sad at Syracuse's effort in the game, but rather the manner in which she reflected this to the people around her. Whereas others in our group would lash out at the plasma TV in random bouts of anger, Megan would simply shake her head solemnly, like a mother disappointed over a child's behavior.

The ending to the game, as we all know now, was unfortunate. Butler pulled off a very surprising win over the Syracuse Orange, and that shocking feeling was truly felt inside the bar once the game concluded. Most people hustled out of the place almost immediately, while others remained in their seats and silently drank the rest of their beers. As for Megan, she swiftly turned to me, uttered a sad "Nice to meet you" and walked out the door without saying goodbye to anybody. Afterwards, as I left the bar with Jamie, I kept trying to understand the passionate display of sports allegiance I had just witnessed. How can a person invest so much of oneself - time, affection, scrutiny - into something that is so trivial and, yes, unpredictable? Even more mind-boggling to me - how is a fixation on the ups & downs of a given sport lead you to feel more connected with - and valuable to - the institution that the sport embodies?

Players do what they're trained to do, and do so because they are fulfilled by the dynamism of the sport and of the games themselves. Sports fans, realistically speaking, have no input that directly affects this process, yet they always act as if they do have a say over matters.

After having read a book about Alabama's Crimson Tide football team and their obsessively-loyal followers (a great, insightful read, by the way), I've come to better understand the reason why certain people latch themselves so strongly to a team that can, at any moment, crush their spirits only by losing a mere game. This 'Cuse fanaticism I had just experienced was a clear representation of this, yet, despite grasping better the feelings behind this behavior, I still couldn't see myself devoted to such a concept or idea - especially in this case so endemic to my alma mater. It's one thing that my younger self in Puerto Rico didn't take part in sports because of their lack of zest - but why not now? When people as agnostic to sports as I am still wear their orange shirts to watch 'Cuse games, mostly out of an innate sense of pride and loyalty?

Now, several weeks after the NCAA games finalized, I finally understand that passion. Because now, as we speak, Syracuse students that are about to graduate in May are facing a challenging fight of their own: to "take back Commencement" (as their chants defiantly affirm) and remove JP Morgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon as their graduation speaker. Not only have my friends and acquaintances voiced their concerns strongly about this tone-deaf selection, but they've gone much further and undertaken a ''grass roots'' protest of sorts: enacting an online petition to oust Dimon, loudly championing their cause in the middle of the QUAD and even placing this fight in the national spotlight - with many blog sites (like this one) reporting on it.

For the first time in a long while, I'm jealous that I'm not at Syracuse anymore. In this current dilemma - with a new roster of graduating students facing down one of the men who's had a hand in fracturing their future and millions others - I think I could surely feel comfortable letting out an angry rant on campus. This is a fight I'm more than happy to rally behind. Even if students don't get their desired result in the end, they've already gone above and beyond as a communal group - they've shown an institution that they have a powerful voice, and one that won't be shut out for the sake of corporate interests.

This makes me feel proud to be a Syracuse alum. It makes me want to yell energetically, lash out, and yes - maybe throw a tantrum or two.

It seems like I bleed Orange, after all...

Can You Hear Me Now? ~ I Don't Want To

About six weeks ago, my iPod passed away.

As many of you that have gone through this can probably attest to, it is a downright annoying predicament. Also, like many of you, I use my iPod wherever I go. When I jog, I always rely heavily on music so as to energize myself through the work-out routine. When I go to museums, I also take solace in my music playlists; they enable me to more fully enjoy the artwork and, quite simply, be in my own world when I'm appreciating them.

Now, that meditative aspect of my life is no more. At least for the time being.

I will surely buy another iPod very soon - a cheap, simple one - but, for the past several weeks in which I've been devoid of "on-the-go" music, it's been a bothersome experience. Now when I take the subway, I'm exposed to random strangers' rants - from the trivial to the insanely idiotic - not to mention having to withstand subway performers making my ears bleed with their music (I'm looking at you, ranchera singers). Given that I haven't had an iPod to save me from the surrounding noise, I've been reading a lot on my commute in hopes of blocking out as much banal jabber as possible. What I've realized these past weeks is that, when I don't have an iPod to envelop me in my own 'bubble,' every single thing in my environment vexes me:

A man chewing gum loudly, and popping it every other five seconds? Yes.

Young Hispanic kids bragging about the 'b*tches' they like in school? Oh sí.

A lovey-dovey couple raving about "Jenny's upcoming bridal shower"? For sure.

I truly don't want to know about people's private lives. Unfortunately, music - that which centers me and helps me ruminate about my own preoccupations - is now absent in my commuting life, and I'm forced to take part and listen in on other individuals' personal matters. However, the cases mentioned above aren't that bothersome for me. After all, people have every right to converse and rant freely in public places (and I'm just the guy who has to deal with it).

The ones that I truly have an issue with are people who go to both extremes - who enjoy talking on the phone about very intimate matters or unbelievably banal topics. These people are forcing us - the public - to be witness to their conversations because they refuse to have these phone dialogues in their own private space. Why do they want to inflict other people to listen to their insecurities and issues, when in fact we all have problems of our own that we appropriately keep hidden from everyone? We do not need to know that you just had a nasty fight with your girlfriend, or that a co-worker of yours was calling you childish names by the water cooler. Things like that, I tend to rant about in the privacy of my own home - or perhaps walking on the street when no one's around. But when I'm packed like sardines with overweight people inside a stuffy subway car? No. That's reading/iPod time, baby.

The other day, I was doing laundry at a neighborhood laundromat and this girl walked in talking on a hands-free cellphone. She had her earplugs on and her phone was inside her coat, and she was conversing animatedly with a friend of hers. I was trying to read a script on my laptop as my clothes tumbled and twirled in the washing machine - but her constant presence in front of me and her vivacious speaking style kept distracting me. Her animated rant was so noticeable that I even managed to form a pretty accurate characterization of her just by conversation topics alone! Throughout her 30min+ conversation, she talked about Broadway shows and auditioning for producers, so I immediately had her pegged as a recent Musical Theater college grad now actively trying to land a gig somewhere. Her very public outpouring of details about her life annoyed me, yet I couldn't extricate myself from analyzing her as she kept gabbing on to her friend.

I desperately wanted to finish doing my laundry so that I could evade her for good. Then, as I tried blocking out her voice, she started enumerating recent movies and her likes and dislikes, singling out Up in the Air as one that she loved. Then, when she mentioned The Wolf Man, she suddenly went on a tirade, repeatedly stating that she loathed it and reiterating this in overtly dramatic ways - the signs of a true Musical Theater spirit. At one point - when she was referring to her sentiments after seeing the film - she uttered this doozy of a line:

"I want my money back, and a personal apology from Benicio Del Toro."

The phrasing alone is funny. This girl was so turned off by this weak, inconsequential horror film that a decent reimbursement for $12.50 wouldn't be enough to satisfy her. Benicio would have to fly over to JFK, take a cab to Astoria and find this girl, and tell her, "Lo siento mucho por 'El Hombre Lobo.' " At that point, my vexation towards this girl dissipated, and I started to chuckle out loud inside the laundromat.

People love to talk everywhere and about anything, no matter how private or inappropriate. In some respect, they want to show other people that they have a life - not only relay the fact that they're going places but that they're doing so by interacting with others, regardless of whether it's in a positive or negative way. In reality, people's lives are - quite simply - incredibly dull, but by reiterating its fragments out loud, people make themselves feel known, like productive members of society.

As for me, I'm fine with being just a small cog in a big machine. I keep my agenda and destination hidden from everyone else. I don't even know what my plans will be tomorrow, so for now, getting my "on-the-go" music back and reading my book will suffice....

la isla.

"Terribly, Happy" is Crazy Good

Boy, what a pleasant surprise this was. During a film season like this one with dumbed-down stories, squeaky-clean characters and criminally-overrated Oscar contenders - from the moderately good (Up in the Air) to the cliche-laden bad (The Blind Side) and an atrociously ugly one (Precious) - it's a true treasure to find a film like Terribly Happy, one that's anything but conventional and breezy.

The less you know about the film before seeing it, the better. However, the story in effect revolves around a cop with a checkered past who's relocated to a small Danish town outside Copenhagen to serve as local sheriff. Despite the town's oddball citizens - who aggravate the newly imposed cop - the town is calm enough that nothing much ever happens...that is, until a domestic abuse situation between a married couple draws the cop inwards and forces him to deal with the weird townspeople head-on. Although the trailer doesn't invite that much allure, the film itself is an excellent manifestation of subverting audiences' expectactions with plot and character. At no point do you perceive where the narrative is going, nor who the protagonist really is. All we get are allusions to his past actions and, as the story progresses, glimpses of his true inner nature. Director Henrik Ruben Genz toys with neo-noir conventions in a very assured and satisfying manner: while the first act of the movie follows a more standard approach to the genre, Genz slyly shifts gears at the onset of act two and injects the story with clever twists and a darkly comedic tone, not to mention a rich and complex leading character that consistently surprises throughout the narrative. What is most satisfying about the film is that it is never overwhelmed with forced quirky noir tropes for the sake of unconventionality. Instead, out of its ingrained 'thriller' parameters, it leads us towards presupposed outcomes which covertly deviate into darker - and weirder - unconventional areas.

Tired of being disappointed by mediocre "Oscar-caliber" films? Don't want to waste $12.50 on a film that advertises Julia Roberts & Bradley Cooper falling in love, when in fact the latter turns out to be gay? Then the answer is this: Terribly, Happy is currently playing at the Angelika Film Center (18 West Houston Street).

Snubbed by a Rose

What I'm about to speak of isn't of much importance to me, but it's still something I want to publicly share - a situation I had last month that ties in to the incoming February 14th commercialized holiday....

One particular evening last December, I was finishing work at my part-time job and decided to kill some time browsing through random clips on YouTube. Ever since I was younger, I've liked to watch certain movie trailers over and over and be engaged with how each project was marketed and how they're able to stir up emotions in the viewer. On this specific night, however, I caught this trailer, which provoked great discomfort for me - not only because the premise and execution of it is downright obnoxious and superficial, but also because that damn song kept repeating in my head for hours. Since I was hopped up on numerous cups of coffee, I started going through a "mental rant" in which I tried to validate the overall message that the trailer posited:

{Beautiful people have lousy Valentine's Days, too! Even if they all have chiseled bodies, perfect smiles and dynamic, assertive careers - they still go through heartbreak and rejection!}

That, in a nutshell, is what this trailer exudes in its plot and in its all-too-perfect roster of characters. As I left work, I chuckled to myself at the superficiality of this movie. After all, it is very obviously 'packaged' to make lucrative business at the Box Office come Valentine's Day weekend (given its high-profile, ridiculously good-looking cast). Are we supposed to believe the trite concept that 'love is around the corner' for all people, and that random encounters are indeed fateful? Not a chance.

I got on the subway and rode it all the way up to Queens, standing next to the door throughout the trip and trying to rest my head to quell my drowsiness. Once the train crossed over to Queensboro Plaza, I opened my eyes and noticed a tall girl sitting in front of me. She repeatedly glanced in my direction but I thought nothing of it. However, once we went inwards into Queens, I could tell that her fleeting looks were no accident. At one point, I sauntered over to her side to move out of the way for the exiting passengers and I ended up standing next to her. I glanced down and noticed she was reading a pamphlet written in Spanish. On the next train stop, when the doors opened, a shivering cold breeze swept into the cart, and the mystery girl turned to me and made a comment about the freezing wind. There it is, I thought. She gave me an opening! For the next few minutes, I chatted with her about her Spanish literature (she had recently traveled to Spain and spoke the language well) and our fondness for Astoria. I rode with her for one more stop after mine, and at that point she asked me for my name. I gave it to her and she gave me hers - Rose.

Once we exited the station together, Rose waved me goodbye and proceeded to walk away, but I didn't move an inch. I walked up to her and blurted out an invitation to meet up sometime in the near future. She immediately accepted and I added her number to my phone. As I sauntered back to my apartment, confident and proud of my 'suave' deed, I thought back to the irritating trailer I had seen an hour before. Hmmm...perhaps there is some truth behind it. After all, I had not sought Rose out, but instead we were brought together by a chance encounter - a random meet-up in the subway. Two days later, before my trip back home to PR, I called Rose and checked to see if she was interested in having dinner with me when I returned from holiday break. She said "yes" and even asked me if I could bring her a postcard from the island...

Cut to a week later. I arrive back in NYC and call Rose to see if she's available for dinner. She amicably informs me that she's busy working, but that I should check back with her in the coming days. At this point, I sensed something was 'off,' but I didn't dwell on it. Then, when New Year's Eve arrived, I texted her to find out what her plans were, and she once again told me she was working that night. I casually told her to let me know if she wanted to meet up in the coming weeks, and in return, Rose replied with a dry "Happy New Years!" text. No allusion whatsoever to my invite. As soon as I received that text, I deleted Rose from my phone, and to this day, I haven't heard back from her.

What was that all about? Well, it really doesn't matter to me. She was, after all, just a random girl in the subway. However, it does intrigue me somewhat, for the fact that my views on what that trailer conveyed shifted almost 180 degrees just because of my casual interaction with a flirtatious girl. Earlier that night, I had fervently panned the trailer's superficial and sappy makeup and wholeheartedly rejected its message. Just two hours afterwards, however, I almost fully believed in the idea it was selling. Am I that gullible that my viewpoints on something can shift so rapidly because of a pleasant but fleeting experience? She was just a girl riding the subway! There was no sign whatsoever that Rose and I had anything in common, yet by the end of the night, I didn't find that cheesy trailer so cheesy (or inane). Albeit for a brief moment, this film was able to win me over just because a random girl had flirted with me and asked me for my name in a public place. For that split second, I was Topher/Ashton/Taylor - a guy who just so happened to meet a cute girl in a random way. However, once Rose subtly brushed me off, that 'bubble' burst. I reverted back to my original viewpoint and recognized the reality of it all: that love on Valentine's Day (or any day, for that matter) isn't about a cinematic encounter between two people in which time and space are inconsequential and in which both people immerse themselves in each other's dashing, polished good looks. In realistic terms, it's simply all about sharing common interests with someone you like or care deeply for.

Because, really...a flirtatious girl in the subway, more often that not, is just that. What should validate this commercialized holiday is the notion of companionship and shared interests (as opposed to a co-dependency between couples to enrich superficial needs). After all, picture this:

You're pushing eighty and having "early bird dinner" with a loved one at a restaurant. A waiter brings your partner a strawberry cheesecake, and you immediately reject it and tell the waiter, "I'm sorry, but he/she can't eat this. He/she is allergic to strawberries." By that point in time, superficiality is no longer prevalent. All that persists is a strong link between two people...

...and that is something Garry Marshall can NEVER take away from you.

queens.