"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.

top ten {FILMS} of ' 09

1. M O O N

2. ThE hEAdLESS WOMAN

3. SIN NOMBRE

4. THE HURT LOCKER

5. THE ROAD

6. A SINGLE MAN

7. A SERIOUS MAN

8. Fantastic Mr. Fox

9. Up

10. AN EDUCATION

Welcome Home

I'm writing this within the confines of my home back in Puerto Rico. If I look out my window to my right, I can see the ocean. That's very comforting to wake up to, let me tell you. I wish I had this sense of peace and tranquility back in NYC. But of course, I don't. However, I think I wouldn't feel this inner calm if I spent all year long living here in my native island. This composure that has swept over me is due to one thing, and one thing only: I'm on vacation. In these past 10 days, I couldn't stop day-dreaming about my incoming trips to the beach, the deliciously greasy Puerto Rican food I would eat, and the overall lethargic state I would heartily adopt during my stay here. How I got here was inconsequential to me, just as long as I had plenty of time and days to swim in the ocean, get a tan, eat and sleep. Like any marathon runner, I didn't care for the race itself - I just wanted to reach the finish line and feel satisfied. Oddly enough, what proved a mentally-taxing experience for me, was, indeed, the process of getting 'home for the holidays'...

I was working my late night shift on Monday evening, and so, since I usually leave work around 2am, I had decided not to go to sleep and instead pack my suitcase and watch TV before my 8am flight. Subways weren't running so frequently, so I hitched a cab and I arrived at JFK a bit earlier than planned - around five in the morning. When I got there, however, a line of people equivalent to one you'd see at "Disney World" greeted me - throngs of couples and families anxiously waiting to go past Customs and reach their terminal. The line moved rather briskly, but these two young boys a couple of feet in front of me made the wait seem eternal, as they would not stop crying their eyes out. Their Nuyorican mother, who accompanied them and was visibly resigned, kept asking them to stay close to her, but the two kids consistently kept roaming in-between people, with one of them in particular plummeting on the floor and crying loudly, tears streaming down his face. At five in the morning, this was one scenario I did not want to encounter. The people around me kept staring incredulously at the mother and her young boys, and one older woman even volunteered to help out the young mother and carry one of her bags to the front of the line. As people looked on, I kept my mouth shut because, at this given moment, I did not want to be associated with this loudmouthed Hispanic family. Harsh as that may sound, I felt sheepish having people of my cultural background behaving in such an unrestrained, obnoxious way. I was running on fumes, what with zero hours of sleep, and I didn't have the patience to withstand these children's tantrums...

I ably deflected them and passed Customs. When I reached my gate, I plopped down on a seat and drank yet another cup of coffee to keep my spirits up. As I surfed the Internet, however, my efforts to stay focused and do some work on my laptop were thwarted by a walking cliche of a man: a moustached, middle-aged Hispanic individual sitting a few seats nearby who couldn't stop guffawing with a pal of his. What the hell could be so funny at five in the freakin' morning?, I thought to myself. I tried to listen to music and focus on whatever I was reading on my computer, but "Mr. Bigote" - with his pearly white teeth beaming every time he howled - kept disconcerting me. The man's jovial mannerisms, coupled with the blaring PA announcements overhead of a woman speaking Spanish very loudly, made me wince over how exasperating my surroundings were. I felt like Alex from A Clockwork Orange: unable to close my eyelids while being subjected to unpleasant voices and people in front of me.

Finally at one point, the waiting passengers settled into groups and people started congregating in front of the gate, waiting to be called in to board the plane. I began to gather my belongings in hopes of reaching my seat on time, but at that moment, a Puerto Rican man in a wheelchair appeared next to me. He quickly started talking to me, and I politely replied back and conversed with him. He told me that he had missed his original flight to PR and didn't know if he was on the "stand-by" list for the current flight. After exchanging a few words, the man suddenly offered his cellphone to me and asked if I could contact his son. He was confused as to which flight he was boarding and couldn't accurately talk with any of the attendants around. As I talked to the son on the phone, I realized that his father, the older man, was very incapacitated to be handling all of this flight mix-up. Although I did not want to abandon the frail man, I was also not under the best mindset (cranky, sleep-deprived, etc...), and I needed to take care of my own travelling issues. While we waited for an attendant to show up at the gate, the old man revealed to me that the reason he was in a wheelchair was because he had suffered a stroke last May and had been hospitalized ever since. His son, who lives in Connecticut, had dropped him off at the airport and thought he'd easily catch the flight to PR, but the father's vulnerable mental state and frail health prevented him from fully making sense of his flight situation. As soon as I saw a flight attendant at the front desk, I approached her and reminded her of the wheelchair-bound man, reiterating the fact that he was unattended and needed assistance to get home. I then walked back towards the man and wished him luck with his holiday travels, hoping deep down that his son would return to the airport on time and help him out...

I boarded my flight and settled into my seat. Now I could doze off and spend the next three hours sleeping! Then, as soon as I closed my eyes, I heard a whimper. But definitely not a human whimper. I turned and looked around, but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary....until the yelping started, and then I realized that people had actually brought small dogs into the plane! Several American tourists were laughing among themselves at the sheer absurdity of it, obviously surprised at such a scene. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore this kooky behavior as much as possible. It would only be a couple of hours before I arrived home and I wouldn't have to deal with all this craziness...

My mom picked me up at the airport in Isla Verde, and I immediately ranted about all of the situations I had encountered. As I mentioned each one, she chuckled to herself and shook her head, but it didn't faze her much. You're not used to all those things anymore, she told me, as if yelping dogs inside airplanes were a common airplane routine. I'm not sure whether the owners of the dogs were Hispanic, but still, on a general level...has it really come to this? Are people's (*but specifically in this case, Puerto Ricans') behavior when traveling that predictable already that even the zaniest act is deemed ordinary, or normal? Most people are eccentric when they travel, but I have always known my 'people' to be a rambunctious kind (much more so than others), and this experience traveling home to PR opened my eyes once again to these idiosyncrasies of ours, so much so that it caught me off-guard and in turn made me restrain myself from showing my own 'Puerto Rican-ness.' All these taxing scenarios have now become a misconstrued representation of a certain part of my culture. However, despite indeed being flawed projections of who my 'people' truly are, they also conversely evoke a sense of familiarity and nostalgia from my upbringing, and pinpoint to me the realization that home is always within reach.

That's sort of nice. I think.

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.