Dance. it. Out!

[Note: Once again, I've been slacking on writing posts. Well, it's not that I've been putting off having to blog; it's just that there hasn't been anything worthwhile to write about. I prefer to blog on a sporadic basis about things that matter to me, rather than to bombard people with daily (or weekly) posts about trivial, rambling nonsense. I'm using this blog as a meditative tool to vent about my life but also to promote certain things within the city that make me happy. That entails my posts being sporadic but also having some substance to them - as opposed to them being very frequent and going on rants about "why I think winter is neat." But I digress...]

Jeez Louise...I've had a nightmarish ten days. I've been trying to juggle my 3 (!) jobs as best as possible for the past two weeks, but it's truly been getting to me. I really shouldn't be complaining about being busy with work, and I'm not. What I am frustrated with is the lack of consistency in my life. Sometimes I spend several consecutive days without much work, the weeks passing me by at a sluggish pace. Then in other instances, I barely find time to actually sit down and eat a home-cooked meal, instead relying on various snacks and leftovers to push me through the days...

I've recently felt a lot of pent-up frustrations deep inside and, for a couple of days, the feeling kept gnawing at me. I would be home doing laundry and the very act of carrying my heavy bag full of dirty clothes angered me a great deal. I've had tantrums boiling deep down, but I realized that letting them out would just come off as immature and fruitless. My lack of sleep - given my late-night job and my days spent doing work at home - has also been a factor in my bad mood. After a suffocating and hectic 10-day "job-balancing act," salvation came in the form of a concert last Tuesday - Norway's duo Royksopp, who played at Webster Hall. Before going in to the venue, me and my friend Jamie had a couple of drinks and talked about the best concerts we've been to in the past. A difficult question to answer, yes, but an interesting one to think about. What is it about a given show that truly makes it great? The band's performance? The mood you're in, or the company you're with?

Whereas I easily affirmed that the best concert I've gone to is Daft Punk at Coney Island ('07), Jamie had a harder time to come up with a solid reply. However, once the Royksopp show got underway, my "best of" list definitely shifted, and I can honestly say that this one was a spectacular concert. Like Daft Punk two years ago, this concert was the last show of their tour, and they did not disappoint. Once the encore came in, the duo kept at it for another good 30-40 minutes, and me and Jamie couldn't stop dancing. That night, all the inner rage I had felt in previous weeks dissipated as I moved rhythmically to Royksopp's beats. I emptied my mind out of all preoccupations and simply thought about nothing. I didn't care about the work that awaited me the following day, or about my lack of full-time employment in general. I cared even less about how silly I probably looked, waving my hands around as I gleefully jumped and gyrated all around. At that moment, for two hours straight, no problem or worry dampened my spirits. Jamie probably felt the same, as she also grooved like a madwoman throughout the show, but as for myself, I honestly cannot remember the last time I felt so blissfully happy or free. The feel-good rhythms of the DJ duo, coupled with the positive vibe of the crowd around us, made the experience a highly enjoyable one, and, like a soothing body massage, the dancing relaxed my whole being and relinquished all of the issues that were plaguing me.

Now I'm back to reality, of course. I still feel an overwhelming feeling of frustration that is difficult to ignore or fend off. However, at the Royksopp concert, I was made aware of something that, as cheesy as it sounds, I find very satisfying: the true power that dance can have on the human psyche/soul. Sometimes, all it takes for one to feel better about oneself is to "dance it out": to let go of decorum and constraint and simply let loose.

Here's a sampling of the excellent Royksopp concert, in order to give a hint of what the experience was like:

Care for this "Devil"

While a certain ultra-low budget horror film has been making quite an impact at the Box Office (with a sequel in place, and bringing certain filmmakers out of 'retirement'), another one has been quietly flying "under the radar" and should be getting much more traction and attention.

Ti West's House of the Devil is an excellent homage to 80's horror films, but more specifically, a 're-branding' of the aesthetic of these genre movies. Although the plot may seem conventional (teenage babysitter all alone in eerie mansion), West's use of ambience and characterizations make Devil into a unique gem of a horror film.

West unabashedly presents stylistic 80's flourishes (freeze-frames, a kitschy musical score) but never talks down to his audience like many "slasher films" of that decade tended to do. He orchestrates the horror through mounting tension and character dynamics until he unravels everything in a spectacular, horrific climax. After having been overwhelmed by despicable horror films that relish in one macabre sequence after another in a loud, obnoxious way (I'm looking at you, Jigsaw), it's refreshing to see one that takes its time in emphasizing the protagonist's creepy surroundings and actually caring for the actors' performances. In this case, West provides the film with cult actors Tom Noonan & Mary Woronov as the creepy couple living in the mansion, and they're pitch-perfect in the roles. Also look out for Dee Wallace (aka Elliot's mother in "E.T.") at the beginning of the film, as 'the Landlady'.

For all those in dire need of a good "horror film fix," swing by the Angelika (18 West Houston Street) to catch this nifty flick.

An Audience "Under the Influence"

I've been somewhat MIA for the past two weeks (occupied with my various jobs, applying to full-time ones...), but this weekend I knew I needed to write about a particular film screening I went to yesterday.

I got my "film snob" fix last night when I caught John Cassavetes' 1974 masterpiece A Woman Under the Influence at the MoMA. Many people may read this and think, "Okay, Jose, we get it. You go see artsy films in museums and fraternize with turtleneck-wearing, uber-intellectual filmgoers," but that's not really 100% true. Yes, I go see films at the MoMA a lot, but it's more due to the fact that I have a museum pass that gets me in for free, and in this specific case, they were screening a film that truly impacted me when I first saw it in college. I had rented a cheap, grainy version and watched it one weekend during my Freshmen year (and yes, this is how I spent most of my nights my first semester in college). I'm not ashamed to say that I cried a couple of times throughout the movie, and sat transfixed at the raw emotions and affecting performances that Cassavetes presented. After that night, I Netflixed all of his movies available on DVD and soon bought and read a biography of his (Marshall Fine's Accidental Genius, which I highly reccommend). To this day, A Woman Under the Influence has continued to enthrall me every time I see it, and so, when I saw that MoMA was not only screening it, but also having Gena Rowlands in person to introduce it, I immediately jumped on the chance and bought my ticket.

I arrived semi-early, about 45 minutes before the screening started, in order to stay in line and get a good seat. However, as people started congregating outside of the theater - and the line grew longer - people began clamoring to go inside. A MoMA security guard came over and was completely unaware of how the line had been formed, and he proceeded to start an entirely new line with the people at the tail end of the main line, thereby angering every single person (myself included) that had arrived early and had been waiting for over forty minutes. The minute the guard set up the new line, people started clamoring - "Where's your manager?! I need to speak to your manager NOW!...No, you weren't here before, we're not doing that!....", even to the point that an odd-looking British man yelled "You're a FOOL!" to the guard for disregarding our protests. As the yelling died down, we all made the most of it and incorporated ourselves into the new line, while I chuckled to myself at the sheer ludicrousness of what had just happened. This was, after all, a screening of a John Cassavetes film - one of the most obscure, artsy, marginal filmmakers that ever existed - and people were behaving as if they were at a town hall health care debate.

Finally, we were let inside, and after I chatted with the person next to me - also a big Cassavetes fan - the lights dimmed and in walked Gena Rowlands, with the entire audience giving her a standing ovation. She thanked everyone present for attending and introduced the film in an affectionate way, deeming her experience shooting the film "the most beautiful" in her career.

The movie deals with the disaffected marriage between Mabel (Rowlands) and Nick (Peter Falk), and how he struggles with her troubling behavior and tumultuous mental state. Cassavetes painstakingly scrutinizes their interactions in long, sometimes taxing scenarios, with the scenes themselves delving into an array of contrasting emotions. One minute, Mabel is having a laugh with Nick and his work buddies, and in one split second, she embarasses one of them and is crudely yelled at by Nick. What's always astounded me by Cassavetes' narratives is the realism he injected into his characters' expressions and idiosyncrasies. Although the actors' behavior all seem improvised, they mostly followed Cassavetes' thematic "blueprint," which blended his ideas with those that the actors contributed to the material. The social climate presented in the film has shifted greatly since the movie's release (i.e., the gender clashes between Mabel & Nick regarding her illness), but it nevertheless amazes me how well Rowlands' and Falk's performances have held up. The movie is raw and uncomfortable, but startlingly real in evoking restrained, hidden emotions.

For those interested in catching this newly restored landmark film in American independent cinema, head on over to the MoMA (11 West 53rd Street). It'll be screened there 'till Friday, October 30th.

college.

My Best Frenemies

Picture in your head a group of your closest friends. The ones that are indispensable, always hear you out - and also put you in your place when you get a "big head." You may have ten years invested in the friendship, or perhaps just ten months, but there's a palpable, close link between each other. It's not a rocky rapport or a fleeting bond, but something steady and enriching. These friends of yours, despite living far away from you, still remain in active contact with you and call you up to see how you are (regardless of whether it's your birthday or not...)

Now, of that cluster of great friends, how many of those did you really, really like when you first met them? How many of those buddies were somewhat obnoxious on the first impression? Did any unnerve you a bit when you started talking to them? If you've had the same experience as I have, then you've probably thought about these questions before. But don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining about the friends I have. I've actually been missing these people a great deal since I graduated college (when they all moved out to the West Coast), and so recently I've been thinking back to when I first crossed paths with them in such a misconstrued way...

In two separate situations, two girl friends of mine have told me that their initial impression of me was negative. Last year, my friend Becca revealed to me that, during a class we took together in college, she disliked me for actively participating in daily discussions. Although we sat next to one another, we never talked, and every day after class she'd complain about my "know-it-all" attitude to her housemate. Then, at one particular party, she came up to me and confronted me. We spent the night talking and dancing, and we quickly "clicked" and became friends, probably because she realized that her perception of me had been flawed.

Another girl friend, Mollie - with whom I lived with for an entire school year - told me soon after we moved in together that she straight up didn't like me when a mutual acquaintance of ours introduced us. She had mischaracterized my "jokester" nature and sociable demeanor as being self-involved and obnoxious. My personality has apparently been misinterpreted by a couple of my friends, but I have to admit that I have also formed incorrect opinions about most of them.

Case in point - on my first day of freshmen orientation in college, I had to attend a group meeting with fellow Communications majors. I didn't know anyone there, so everyone pretty much kept to themselves. Ten minutes into the meeting, a tall black-haired dude with black glasses walked in somewhat awkwardly and looked around for a seat. As everyone stared at him, he very ably made a wise-crack about him starting college on the wrong foot, and his affable nature clearly came through, making others laugh and smile. Yours truly, however, thought to himself, "Geez...who's this jackass? Who does he think he is, making everyone laugh like that?!"

That tall guy, Steve, ended up becoming one of my closest friends months after this initial encounter. He is very much one of those type of friends I categorized in the first paragraph above, yet my initial reaction to him was unabashedly narrow-minded and brash. So, much in the same way Becca and Mollie had misconceptions about me, I also had misconceptions about them (and Steve). These three people are some of the best individuals I know, but their upstanding true selves weren't enough to override my powerfully immediate "first impression" of them.

Why do we behave this way when we meet our "eventual friends" in situations like these? I think it's because their initial behavior and quirks resemble so much our own that we're instinctively wary of embracing their familiar personality, thereby putting our guard up as a defense mechanism. We're allured to, yet also somewhat threatened by, their innate quality - whether it's charming introversion or unabashed sociability - because they exude something identifiable to us. Either they remind us of ourselves ("Who do they think they are?! There cannot be someone else like me. I'm unique") or they show us the kind of person we aspire to be ("How do they pull that off?! What a guy/girl!"). That love/hate vibe we initially feel upon meeting our "eventual friends" becomes the link that cements the rapport. We immediately note their weaknesses because they're similar to ours, whereas their strengths make us want to get to know them better. The result therefore ends up being a satisfying one, if anything for the fact that people can start off disliking one another because of certain quirks or attitudes - and then have those same qualities be what endears them together...

Well...this is only on those lucky and very rare occasions. Usually people like this do end up being total dicks.

A "Fat" Slice of 1970's America

I always get excited when I "discover" an underrated or overlooked film, and today I saw a really good one - John Huston's Fat City, which is being screened at Film Forum. Released in 1972, it was considered to be a bona fide 'comeback' for Huston (a legendary director in his own right, what with The Maltese Falcon and The Asphalt Jungle, among others), and it was also warmly received at that year's Cannes Film Festival.

The story deals with two boxers - an alcoholic "has been" (Stacy Keach) and one who's just starting out (a very young Jeff Bridges) - as they cross paths and try to reach the same goal of success inside the ring. Whereas the elder boxer is desperately clinging to the shred of life he has left, the young one has his whole career in front of him but is not aware of the harsh obstacles that may loom ahead. Huston relishes on the consistent moments of silence between characters to reveal more about their inner frustrations and anger, and opts to hone in on absorbing character drama through Keach's interactions with "Oma," a boozy young woman who gets involved with him, excellently played by Susan Tyrrell. Her fluctuations between bouts of hysteria and silent, emotional breakdowns add a nice touch to the conflict, whereas Keach himself delivers a soulful performance as the aimless, tortured boxer.

Fat City will be playing at Film Forum (209 W. Houston St) through October 1st. Otherwise, you could watch it online (with limited commercial interruption) right here.

Zzzzzzzzz....Ouch!

Ever since I was little, I've had certain dreams that keep popping up in my sleep every so often. I think we've all experienced these in one form or another, and they reveal a lot of insights about who we are. Whether it's dreaming about going to school without any clothes on or having one's teeth fall off, these scenarios seem to come about due to the given circumstance we're experiencing at that moment in time. The "being at school stark naked" dream usually happens during our childhood or adolescence - alluding to youth angst - whereas the "losing one's teeth" dream usually implies a feeling of insecurity we might be harboring inside. It's interesting to me how we all come to share these somewhat universal dream scenarios. Of all the crazy, ludicrous things our subconscious can bring up when we're asleep, these particular "situations" keep recurring in our heads over the years. The dreams are zany and outrageous, yes, but they represent concrete preoccupations - things that impact or worry us on a habitual basis. Be it teen angst or low self-esteem, we're constantly struggling with these daily experiences, and they end up influencing what we think about when we sleep.

However...what explanation is there when our dreams aptly deal with situations or things we haven't experienced, or aren't familiar with?

I can remember when I was around five or six years old, I would dream of kissing a certain girl I liked from school. At that point in time, I had never been kissed before, yet the dreams perfectly encapsulated the full feeling and emotion of locking lips with someone. When I did have my first kiss, I realized that my childhood dreams had been completely "right on the money." How could this possibly be?! How did the dream so minutely capture the feeling and tone of that situation when in fact I hadn't experienced it yet?

Obviously as we grow older, our dreams turn more serious and mature in subject matter. Scenarios start revolving more around concrete ideas rather than silly actions...yet still - in whichever situation - every single "life rite" I dreamt about when I was younger, that I was not yet exposed to, ended up validating itself once I did go through it in real life. If we're able to concretely feel and undergo varying positive emotions (physical love? the exhilaration of skydiving, perhaps?) in our subconscious before we get to experience them in real life, then, can it also ring true for negative feelings?

For example - we've all had twisted nightmares in which we're being chased by some crazed lunatic or we fall off a ledge and plunge to our death. I myself have had numerous dreams where I'm stabbed or shot by a psychotic stranger. I always feel excruciating pain when I endure these dreams; I can barely breathe and I'm incapable of waking up. If I dream about falling from a tall building, I always get a hyperventilating feeling in my stomach and I force myself to open my eyes before my body hits the ground. Although these are extreme situations, my insecurities and fears (of the unknown, of loneliness) are brought forth and personified; they're issues I can grapple with and relate to because I struggle with them every day.

Still, if these dreary scenarios manifest themselves in my mind in almost the same way as my pleasant ones do, then by this correlation, am I supposed to infer that if I do get shot or thrown off a building in real life, it'll corroborate what I felt in my dreams? How can my dreams accurately make me feel a type of love (or pain) that I've never experienced before?

People can argue that we infer most of it from popular culture (what films/TV/literature tell us about how certain things feel like without us having to undergo them), yet there still is that very powerful, tactile and sensory connection in our subconscious that makes the "dream experience" a visceral one. It's one thing to watch a film or TV show about a guy getting shot, and somewhat come to terms with how that would feel....and it's another thing to actually feel like you're in that person's situation and undergo that feeling of having your arm be blown off or something. Your mind somehow decodes the essence of the experience and relays it inside a dream in a way that alludes to a given situation in your life.

Mind-boggling as it is, I just hope the weirdo who threatens me with a gun in my dreams never appears before me "in the flesh."

However, having my "secret affair with Natalie Portman" dream become a reality wouldn't be bad at all...