By now, we have all learned about–and, I hope, mourned–the passing of Roger Ebert. The first film critic to win a Pulitzer Prize for criticism, he was also a keen-eyed social critic and a lot of fun to follow on Twitter. Ebert’s life has already been eulogized here and here and here and…if you hit Google, you’ll find plenty more. That is a conversation to which I cannot add.
But I can say thank you. He was funny and thoughtful and eloquent and could write like a total motherfucker (I really need to sit down and study his style). He once said about movies, “It’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it is about it.” Cool. Which is why I need to thank him, not just for his work as a film critic, but how he went about co-writing one of the greatest camp/cult classics ever spawned from human minds, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.
It is not a sequel, indeed.
Actually that’s true, it’s not a sequel. It has nothing to do with the book or movie Valley of the Dolls. Written by Jacqueline Susann, the original Valley was a (theoretically) serious, soapy peek behind the showbiz curtains to a world full of chemical dependency. It’s kind of a melodramatic nightmare, complete with swelling organ music and tight close-ups of tear-stained actresses having drug-addled fits, but it was crazy-successful. Apparently, Fox initially asked Ms. Susann to write a sequel and then gave her script the finger, turning it over to Russ Meyer (king of the low-budget sexploitation flick) and his good friend, Roger Ebert. Why they did that? No one knows, and years later even Ebert admitted it was kind of a miracle. It couldn’t be a “sequel” because Jacqueline Susann sued 20th Century Fox over the Meyer/Ebert work, claiming it was so tawdry she didn’t want there to be any connection between her work and theirs.
Whatever, lady. Get over yourself. Their film was better.
It is a murderous, violent, drug-addled flick filled with boobies and eyelashes and self-important people. And it is hilarious. Ebert said that in the six weeks it took to write the movie, he and Meyer spent their time laughing maniacally. Part of the reason this film works so well, though, is that Meyer directed his cast as though it was a serious script. It’s the same reason the character Lina Lamont works so well in Singin’ in the Rain; Jean Hagen knew Lina was someone who would take herself seriously and so playing her straight would create the comedy. This is what Meyer banked on, and the clash of straight performance and WTF dialogue and situation makes us watch BVD with our head tilted a full 90 degrees, as though we are the dog confused by the ceiling fan. As an added bonus, Meyer and Ebert gave the world an impressive list of memorable lines, most notably “This is my happening, and it freaks me out!”, decades before Austin Powers ever uttered it.
(These clips? Probably not safe for work or small children. Consider yourself warned.)
Or this, uttered by the soon-to-be-future-ex-Mrs. Russ Meyer, Edy Williams.
And God knows I need to drive across the country with a map superimposed over my face, singing about “The Gentle People”.
BVD gave the world Ronnie “Z-Man” Barzell. Fast forward to 2003 and it becomes strangely, creepishly prescient that the walking freak show-drug swilling-gun (and, eventually, sword!) slinging-murderous record producer was modeled after Phil Spector.
Only perhaps without the bizarre pyramid-shaped breast buds.
I promise, people, if I find a video clip where Z-Man utters the immortal line, “Ere this night does wane, you will drink the black sperm of my vengeance!” I will without a moment’s hesitation post it. Because really, folks. Roger Ebert wrote that. You hear someone say that, you know that shit’s about to get real.
That’s what BVD is, and that’s what makes it a great movie. It may be dated and cartoonish and bear the marks of rampant substance abuse, but it does so completely unapologetically. That’s how this movie presents itself. The dialogue is often ridiculous and the plot is absurd, the camera work is pure camp. And this movie is all that, joyously. It’s one of the best movie experiences I’ve ever had.
So farewell, Roger Ebert and thanks for the crazy ride. You will be missed.
Hooray for the flea market find! There I was, looking for some kind of book that would craptastically inspire me and…voila!
How many joys can one dessert gelatin provide?
Now, I am like you…or many of you, anyway…in that I am disturbed by the concept of Jell-O, particularly when there is foreign matter suspended in it (no offense, Bill Cosby). Peaches. Tuna. Olives. I’m not making that up; there is a recipe for a Nicoise salad in this book. Nicoise. Salad. The thought of it makes me want to stab myself in the brain, though I suppose I should admire the Jell-O peoples’ recipe sensibilities. If you gelatinize fish, please use the lemon Jell-O. Once you accept that as a possibility, there’s nothing that stops a person from putting inedibles in the Jell-O. Panties. Key rings. For Mardi Gras they can produce a Jell-O King Cake. Who’s got the plastic baby? (Mardi Gras people…you know you want this. Call me.) So an entire book dedicated to the concept of the artistry of Jell-O?
Nightmare fuel.
Which is precisely why I’m so thrilled to share this book with all of you. For the record, I have the entire thing scanned so if there’s something I post that you want more information about…I’m here to help. I would be curious to know why you wanted more info. Not that I would deny you that info. Just, you know. Curious.
I need to preface this first Jell-O recipe with a story. When George and I went to Savannah, we went in the summer. It. Was. Hot. It wasn’t just hot, it was (literally) “Do not go outside, the air quality is too poor” sort of hot. C’est la vie. One day while we were out in the city we saw a lovely little cafe (whose name escapes me, which is too bad because their food was fantastic) featuring gazpacho as their daily special. Must eat! Must have! I adore gazpacho. It was the pick-me-up we both needed considering the weather. Delightful. Cool, refreshing, a little spicy, rich-yet-light, tomato-y, crunchy. It was a delicious soup for sure, but this one sticks out in my memory because it was so perfect in its ability to refresh and delight. What it was not, was encased in a lemon-flavored gelatin, getting slimy in the southern summer heat.
PAY ATTENTION, PEOPLE! THIS IS A BOWL OF GAZPACHO EMBEDDED IN LEMON JELL-O.
Mmmm, a heaping, giant bowl of lemon Jell-O. And onions..
Here’s the recipe, if anyone’s interested. Do bear in mind: that gazpacho is solid. SOLID.
Next, let me introduce you to the Jellied Fresh Vegetable Salad. It’s a salad that’s primarily made from lemon Jell-O, boullion, and sour cream. And then you add in things like celery and radishes and cucumbers, or–as I like to think of these ingredients–actual salad.
Really, it’s a salad.
Because I, for one, am anxious to eat my vegetables only–and I mean ONLY–when they are cleverly disguised as a milk glass lighting fixture.
Mmmm! This lamp looks delicious!
Part of the kitschtastic allure of Jell-O lies in its ability to mimic other things. The lamp shade is a great example, but here are a few more.
The black and white Jell-O, for example, echoes the lines in the hostess’s dress. It makes me feel like she is one with her tablescape.
La gélatine est très chic.
I like how the hostess is positioned as though she’s coming out of the trifle dish. And, props to the progressive nature of Jell-O, showing a mixed-race party in 1973. After all, it was only ten years before that George Wallace was standing in the schoolhouse door, blocking integration efforts at the University of Alabama. Fair play to Jell-O!
This next picture? Doesn’t have the same sort of social implications.
Ding dong! Creepy couple calling!
He: wearing the traditional creepster trench coat and smiling like he’s just bitten off his lower lip. I think he’s a LIT-tle too anxious to throw his keys in the swinger’s bowl. She: standing like she’s doing a pee-pee dance, and holding a gelatinous dessert that HOLY MOTHER OF GOD matches her outfit. Who’s the more tasty dish; her, or the Jell-O? Coffee, tea or me, baby?
~~~musical interlude~~~
Ahhh, Teena Marie. Safe travels into the Great Beyond.
Once you’ve stopped your crazy swinging lifestyle, Jell-O can be there to make your Happiest Day Ever even more super-duper extra-special.
A glass of wine, a loaf of salmon-dill Jell-O mousse, and thou.
(Cue the swelling music.) OooOOOoOoOooo. Nothing says love like standing in a grey, windswept, empty churchyard (who did they make all this food for, anyway?) in front of a variety of tart-n-tangy Jell-O meals. Family, take note: IF I were to marry again (unlikely, as I’m pretty comfortable with the notion of “one and done” and George is in no hurry either) and IF we were to decide that the wedding feast should be prepared by family and IF you guys settled on a Jell-O based menu? Yeah. We’d be fighting. #consideryourselfwarned
And finally, for the holidays…
Know what? I’m just going to let this one speak for itself. BEHOLD! The festive joy that is…JELL (…Jell…jell…) O! (…O’…o…)
These are a few of my least fav’rite things.
So seriously, this is the sort of party that finds the hostess drunk in the kitchen at the end of the night, clutching a bottle of cooking sherry and crying about her lost youth, while her cousin starts yelling at the aunt who never loved her and somewhere, a boy child either tries to pop a wheelie on his bike off the roof of the toolshed and biffs, crashing into the neighbor’s prized rose bushes OR “accidentally” lights a rag in the garage on fire and can’t get it to stop.
Good times.
That’s a party I’d like to be at.
They’re right. There are indeed multiple joys to be found in Jell-O! I only had to consider the possibilities.
It’s kind of difficult for me to comprehend what must have been the utter travesty that was a full set of My Great Recipe Cards. I only have maybe…maybe…a quarter of the set (and I’m betting that’s an incredibly low-ball estimate) and still, my pitifully small handful of cards is a veritable treasure trove of foodie nightmares.
I’ve already blogged about some of the cards in the set earlier this week, but the cards are like a train wreck. You know what I mean. You can’t stop picking at that scab. You can’t stop poking your tongue into the cavity you just found. In this case…I can’t stop looking at these cards. I try, and I try. And I fail every time.
With no further ado…
Hobbit: The other, other white meat.
I am admittedly suspicious of rolled meat that is intended to be eaten as an individual packet. Primarily it’s because they tend to not cook very well; the seam where the meat ends overlap are often undercooked, the back of the meat is overdone, and the middle either disappears of its own accord (it oozes out) or doesn’t quite meld into harmonious stuffed goodness like you might want it to do. So. Imagine my horror at the thought of wrapping meat into a package that all-too-uncomfortably resembles gnarly big toes. In sherried cream. Hobbit’s feet: a special meal for that special someone.
And by “special someone” I mean, you know. Sauron.
This mockingly calls itself “corned beef”.
Corned beef, the card says. But we know better. This is clearly a raw thigh muscle topped with jelly and sage and poisonous holly berries. I like the black mortar and pestle standing just to the right of the meat; it confirms my suspicion that some sort of black magic went into the preparation of this…ummm…dish.
Derp! Don’t they know? Red meat shouldn’t wear pink. It clashes.
I so appreciate that the gravy for this meal is made with Pepto-Bismol. Because seriously, folks. Eat this and bad times are at your doorstep.
Editor’s note: I’ve noticed there’s a lot of beef in the pictures I’m posting. National Beef Council, it’s nothing personal. It’s just what I have on hand.
Sirloin Roast of The Drowned God
Game of Thrones nerds, I know you’re with me on this one. For those of us not unapologetically obsessed with the books, then I’m sorry to point out that this looks like it’s been draped with wet hair. Or maybe fishing nets. Because what is dead may never die. Though you may certainly try to kill this with fire, which would do everyone around you a favor.
Yeah, just with a schmear.
For those cooks who lack adequate knife skills and can’t control when they cut themselves, may I present: the ubiquitous, congealed “red sauce”. Disguises any and all kitchen accidents and ensures mealtimes won’t be delayed.
Hey, wait! This doesn’t look so bad.
Nope, nope, you’re right. This doesn’t look so bad. Corn patties, would probably be delish with salsa. A vegetarian option in the mid-80s, before vegetarianism was more readily acknowledged as a lifestyle choice. Pretty progressive, actually, right? Until you read the serving suggestion on the back.
Oh. I see.
And finally:
Angriest. Eggs. Ever.
When my boyfriend looked at this card he said, “Whoa, this looks like it would bite a person back.” Indeed. The first thing I thought of when I saw this (man, I am busting out my full-on nerd pedigree for this blog; I’m so deep in the nerd closet I get dressed in Narnia) I thought of the Harry Potter Monster Book of Monsters. And with just a little bit of tinkering…
Perfect.
That’s if for this set, I think, for now. I’ve exhausted what’s truly disturbing and/or funny about them. And I’m kind of relieved to lay them aside for now, since they have a tendency to put me off my feed. But! Don’t worry. There’s more of the craptastic in store. Because I? Am a giver.
I remember being completely fascinated by my mother’s set of Betty Crocker recipe cards when I was but a wee paisley. At that point in my life I was in the running for the title of Pickiest Eater: Anything Not a PB&J, but those cards…there was something about them that always drew me in. I would look through them and reject them on principle. Onions? No. Peppers? Gross. Mushrooms? HA HA! HA HA! HA HA! All I had to learn was that they were a fungus and then? Profoundly no with an irritated hand flip for good measure.
But those cards…they were shiny and…well, shiny…and they held the promise of exotic meals that I’d never heard of and probably wouldn’t have eaten anyway, often presented curiously. Who in their right minds would put spinach in a clear glass trifle dish?
Wee me deemed this an elegance fail. Nothing personal, Betty Crocker. from davidstable.com
Spinach was something that was meant to be hidden away in the darkest recesses of our unholy present, never to be spoken of again. Betty Crocker people, you so crazy! And just to be clear, despite my current infatuation with the kitchen, I didn’t care one bit about cooking at that point in my life. Who knows why I found them so mesmerizing? I just did. I’m not sure if my mother got them in the mail (it could be that someone gave them to her, and it’s not as though she was consulting me on her cooking choices at that point in my life) but I do remember climbing up to the top of the fridge to get my tiny little meat hooks on that plastic box with the clamshell cover.
And so I lust for a set of my own. The other day, my boyfriend and I were trolling the aisles at our local and amazingly awesome flea market when we stumbled upon an incomplete set of not-Betty-Crocker. The cards we found were from My Great Recipes, circa 1984-1988 but you know what? Still craptastically satisfying. The foodie revolution had not yet begun except, perhaps, for Alice Waters‘s small corner of northern California and so much of the food presented largely originated out of cans and bags. Food photography has also come a long way since 1984, so there’s a lot of cheesetastic, era-defining food horror contained in a relatively small amount of cards. And the pack I found was only a–one, singular–dollar. You can’t go wrong with that.
Thus, without further ado…a completely biased sample of the My Great Recipe card set. There will be more to come as I work my way through the cards. Prepare brain bleach.
Mmm, appetizers!
Apparently, deep in the confines of this hallucinatory green nugget of Astroturf, there lives some boiled, shredded chicken breasts. Two things: the only time I’ve willingly eaten boiled chicken breasts is when I was so sick I could only handle a bland diet. Yeah! Where do I sign for more memories of the stomach flu? And, they want you to wilt spinach, then unfurl it. Which is sort of akin to unfurling wet tissue paper. It CAN be done, but more likely than not will require a scanning tunneling microscope so you can successfully move the spinach atoms without tearing the leaves.
Remind me never to bring this to a barbecue.
Charred forearm of a burn victim, served with broiled fatty tumors. It’s what’s for dinner.
Aloha, chicken!
The good people of Hawaii should stage a revolution in response to this…this…”chicken aloha”. First of all, this recipe is an express ticket to Diabetesville, since it involves pineapple chunks in syrup, yams in syrup, and an unreasonable amount of currant jelly. Would you like some chicken with your sugar? And at first I couldn’t figure out the name (no matter how much you try and argue differently, Hawaiian is not made by pineapple alone) until I remembered, “aloha” can mean both “hello” and “goodbye”. So I think it actually means “goodbye, chicken” and “hello, whole roasted juvenile pelican“. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s in the pan.
Even I’m at a loss for words on this one.
Hi. My name is Hannibal Lecter. For my dinner this evening, I would like to order a half-cup of mayonnaise served on a cross-section of human ass, please.
Rare.
Thank you.
Ummmm…
Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the slabs of granite left over from your countertop installation, served with soothing river stones and watercress?
Erhmm…
Ooh, tempting. But no, I’ll take the crusted meat that’s been left out to dry for three days, topped with your phlegm and melted plastic reduction.
Savor the flavor.
And for dessert, perhaps some sliced grapes with welts? Sitting in a pastry crust and covered with slime? Perfecto!
True story: I was visiting some friends for a long weekend, with a (now-ex) boyfriend. He was going out to the store and wanted to know if I wanted anything. I asked him to get me some fruit, I wanted fresh fruit, I needed to at least try and counter some of the effects of a weekend house party with something healthy. And something like this? Was what he brought back, only that version had kiwifruit, too. I’ve been laughing about it for years.
I hear the cries for mercy. And there’s only so many of these I can look at at one sitting. So we’ll call this quits for now. Just remember, there’s more coming!
The fake entertainment news world was rocked today when it was discovered that Forrest Gump, beloved American cinema icon, has been spying for the Chinese for the last 19 years. Their relationship, forged during Gump’s goodwill ping-pong tour, has called into question the security of countless members of the US clandestine services worldwide. Said one top official who requested anonymity, “When he showed his ass to President Johnson, I thought it was just another example of his hokey, simplistic perspective. I had no idea he was symbolically telling the president that he could stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
Gump, who fled the country before authorities could catch up with him, is believed to be hiding out in the Tian Shan mountain range, along the section that borders China and Kyrgyzstan. It is rumored that Gump took the role of informant because the Chinese government offered him a complete medical insurance plan, including both eyeglasses and dental.
My name is Forrest Gump. You can call me Comrade Gump.
And in a surprising development, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire executive producer Nina Jacobson announced that Jennifer Lawrence, who portrayed main character Katniss Everdeen in the first movie of the The Hunger Games franchise, has been released from her contract, effective immediately. All Lawrence’s scenes are being re-filmed or re-edited to accommodate Lawrence’s exit.
The production team did not believe Lawrence had the emotional muscle to handle Katniss’s devastating return to the arena in an unprecedented second entry as a tribute. Says Jacobson, “As a member of a close, tight-knit family, Jennifer has led a relatively stable life and has never had to explore the themes of profound betrayal and bloodthirsty competition that Katniss faces in Catching Fire. Unfortunately for our filming purposes, Jennifer doesn’t have a place dark enough to go to in order to capture the inherent brutality–violation, even–that Katniss experiences as she re-enters the Arena. We wish her all the best.”
The celebrity selected to replace Lawrence is Alana Thompson, also known to reality TV fans as “Honey Boo Boo“. Johnson explains, “Honey Boo Boo, first featured on the show Toddlers and Tiaras and then spun off into her own series, Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo, is the embodiment of a survivor. A veteran of the blasted, predatory hellscapes of both reality TV and the child beauty pageant circuit, Honey Boo Boo has entered the Darkness in ways only whispered about in unholy times. She has shown not only that she can navigate her way through shark-infested waters, but that she can eat the sharks as well. We’re very excited for the opportunity to work with this bright young star.”
Principle re-filming with Ms. Thompson has already begun, as Lionsgate Films still targets a November 2013 release.
May the odds be ever in MY favor, y’all!
And that’s all the time we have today for Fake Spoilers! See you next time.
Ailsa’s travel theme this week at Where’s My Backpack? is “gaudy”. The good people of Merriam-Webster define gaudy as: ostentatiously or tastelessly ornamented, OR marked by extravagance or sometimes tasteless showiness.
OK. Much as I thought. I mean, I know what I consider to be gaudy but I struggled to define the concepts of “tastelessly showy” vs. “elaborate”. So it’s subjective. So be it.
Of course, there are those things that one would hope would cross the line for everyone. Welcome to East Rutherford, NJ. This is a few scant miles away from where my boyfriend’s family lives, and we go see this house every Christmas.
Hi there.
They must have taken pity on the neighbors…or been cited by the FAA for distracting lights and a disruption of flight patterns…but I am SO. Not. Kidding. When I say: they’ve toned it down. A LOT.
Bear in mind, the light strands hanging down the house all flicker, like they’re running water. Yeah.
Whenever I go somewhere–and this is totally true–I always keep a half an eye open for decorating ideas. Maybe someone will have some way of hanging sconces I never thought of before, or they’ll have interesting window treatments, or maybe they’ll have priceless artwork nailed to their ceiling.
The Map Room, Vatican City.
Because you can never have enough paintings in gilded frames and top-of-the-wall statuary in a room. I actually had to scoot to the end of this room and out the door because it was too much of a sensory overload for me.
Next stop: Chateau Chenonceau. Chenonceau, in the Loire Valley in France, is the embodiment of elegance. As a building, its lines are graceful and clean. The decor is gorgeous, clearly extraordinary, all showing exquisite workmanship and refined taste. Even the working 16th-century farm is tres charmant. But there is this one thing. It’s right there, in the corner of the drawing room.
Louis XIV
Well, hellooo, Mr. Fancypants. I don’t know what I find the most gaudy about this…the frame? The hair? The giant, kingly cuffs on his velvet jacket? The look on his face like he smells something bad? Though I suppose when one’s reign as the king of France lasts for 72 years, over-the-top becomes the new normal.
Really? I think it’s the hair. *killing me*
And finally, our last stop is very near to me, in beautiful downtown Williamsport, PA. I was doing a little shopping, thought I’d drop by the shoe department and WHAM! These purple beauties nearly leapt out of their box and right onto my feet.
Do we like the sexy-poo shoes?
They are, perhaps, one of the worst pairs of shoes I’ve ever seen. Gaudy doesn’t quite begin to cover it; words fail, I think, which is why I had to try them on. Could you really appreciate the horror of these shoes without seeing the grape-colored organdy snakes start to coil up my leg? Holy pockets! I can’t believe I survived.
Go check out the rest of the gaudy at Where’s My Backpack? There’s some truly awful-yet-great stuff to be seen this week!
And remember, kids: if bad taste were outlawed then only outlaws would have bad taste, and that’s just no way to make the world go ’round.
My boyfriend, who I think may be clinically insane, was so profoundly inspired by my post about cooking with soup and the majesty that is a Meat-Shell Pie that he has set the recipe to music.
It’s chock full of oo-ooo’s and alludes to the wonderous Kitchen of the Future, and (if I may be so bold) is kind of genius.
Mmmmm…MMMM!
OK, so maybe “The Musical!” was a little over the top but it’s still a song about a pie with a shell made out of meat. And that’s pretty tasty, no matter how you slice it.
Remake This! is a response to the incomprehensible choices Hollywood has made in terms of movies that it has remade recently. Total Recall? Footloose? Let Me In? These remakes were unnecessary, and seem to be an unbelievable waste of money, when there is an entire legion (and I mean that in the “embodiment of evil” way) of cinematic dumpsterpieces that may become worthy, viable movies in their own right, with complete revisions and a bit of spit and polish. Hollywood…call me.
Dig that crazy grey streak! Ahhhh, that’s some old-fashioned monstery good times.
The opening premise for The Bride is the same feminist nightmare as The Bride of Frankenstein, in that the monster needs a mate and so, Herr Doktor (God only knows why, but the casting director thought Sting was the man for this job) kindly creates one for him. Here ya go, buddy! Have a lady! Vajayjays for everyone! However, the monster’s matedness is short-lived since said Bride (played in prime 1985 fashion by an enormously-haired Jennifer Beals) is just toooooo beeeyoooootiful to give to the monster (played by the ever-fantastic Clancy Brown, and more on him later) and so, the good Herr Doktor decides to keep her for himself. For, you know. Inventory purposes.
The things I watch for your reading enjoyment, I swear.
Seemingly unaffected by the loss of both assistants (Timothy Spall, who Harry Potter fans know better as ”Wormtail“, and a purple-haired grande dame Quentin Crisp) in the fire that breaks out in the tower after The Bride’s reanimation, good Herr Doktor Sting becomes protective of The Bride, renames her “Eva” and declares her to be his “ward”. Meanwhile the monster escapes the fire, falls in with a midget and heads to Budapest to join the circus. That’s pretty much all I’m going to say about that particular part of the storyline. So. The Good Herr Doktor tells fellow upper-crusty friend Clerval (Anthony Higgins) that his new and lovely ward, “Eva”, came to him after being found naked and amnesia-y in the woods, and he plans to teach her to become a modern woman, intelligent and free and proud. Which, for those playing along, sounds amusingly (disturbingly?) like the plot of My Fair Lady, another festering blight in the face of feminism.
Two things:
1) Re-imagine the lyrics as, “Why can’t a reanimated corpse/be more like a woman” in this song, and it’s pretty much spot-on. And they even have a ripoff of the “Eliza screws up the small talk” scene starring Veruschka as the Countess, who along with Quentin Crisp makes this movie one of the most iconically craptastic movies of all time.
2) My Fair Lady fans, I know this is tough for you to hear but you’ve really got to face it. That movie sucks. I know, I know. I’m stepping on your beloved memories, I even had a friend tell me that my saying MFL was a stinkbomb was like I punched her in the stomach. I watched it again a scant few weeks ago, to double-check my perspective. So. If someone can explain to me whywhywhy Eliza Dolittle goes back to the emotionally vacant, bombastic control freak Henry Higgins, I’ll listen. But bear in mind, not even George Bernard Shaw thought that was an acceptable ending when he wrote Pygmalion in 1912 (underline underline underline) and thus a full 52 years before the film version of MFL.
Anyway. I digress.
Despite the fact that this movie (I’m going back to The Bride, not My Fair Lady, as I realize my statement does require clarification) is really not very good, it’s developed a bit of a cult following and while my next statement is entirely unfounded on anything except what I believe deep in the pits of my inky black heart, I think it’s got to do with Clancy Brown‘s performance as Frankenstein’s monster. Clancy Brown, for the uninitiated, is an American treasure, a fine character actor who brings his A-game to Every. Single. Thing. I have ever seen him in. Want someone to play a vicious, power-addled cop? A supernaturally creepy preacher? A money-hungry crab? Clancy Brown is your guy! His resume is an enormous cross-section of genres, ranging from film to TV to voice work, though I stand behind my assertion that his role as The Kurgan in The Highlander elevates him to one of the greatest movie villains of all time.
Yes.
I’m sure the question has now become, why would I want to reimagine this story and see it remade, if I think it’s a feminist nightmare and a miscast, crappy movie? Good question, but here’s why: there are some things they’ve done exceedingly well, starting with the casting of Clancy Brown. One of the things they get really right in The Bride in relation to Mary Shelley’s book Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus is the humanization of the monster. He was most certainly wretched and undead and in the chapters told from the doctor’s perspective, an abomination the doctor regretting foisting upon mankind almost as soon as he was reanimated. But in the chapters told from the monster’s perspective, he was also a sad and lonely creature with legitimate emotions and heart, struggling to understand his place in the world. Frankenstein… recognized his human origins and his dreams and ideas in a way the horror movies never do (with the possible exception of the monster’s portrayal in The Monster Squad), and left the reader wondering who was, truly, the monster. Was it the creation? Or was it the creator? In The Bride they continue to explore the monster’s humanity, especially as the good Herr Doktor grows increasingly sexually obsessed with Eva and switches from benefactor to near-rapey Herr Doktor Creepenstein.
Plus, they end up in Venice. What’s not to like about that?
The Bride is pretty glum, thanks in no small part to Sting’s atonal, uninspiring acting job. For real: as an actor, he’s a really talented musician. ’nuff said. Though he can’t be the fault of The Bride‘s downfall alone, no no. The script is terrible. It’s moody, it tends to plod rather than unfold. The characters are cartoony rather than horror-y, and the timescale is indecipherable. It’s hard to tell if this takes place over six months or five years. So here’s my pitch: Rom-Com! An updated, romantic comedy version should be at least a bit more vigorous (as in, it should have a pulse), so bag gloomy Dr. Stingenstein and get someone with a tendency towards evil mania. Two words for who should play the once and future Dr. Charles Frankenstein: Russell Brand. Close your eyes and imagine him shouting “It’s aliiiiiiiiiiiive!” and you’ll know that I’m more right about this than I’ve ever been about anything else in my life. Keep Clancy Brown, of course, because with makeup it won’t matter that he first played that role 28 years ago and he’s brilliant. And make Clancy Brown the straight man if you’re worried about him being funny, though if you’ve ever watched Spongebob Squarepants and listened to Mr. Krabs, you know he’s got the comedy timing, too. As for the part of The Bride, you need someone funny-funny-funny. My first pick is Rashida Jones, though I’d be willing to give a listen to Rose Byrne (though I’d worry there’d be too much Get Him To The Greek association with Russell Brand to allow this movie to exist on its own) and/or Mila Kunis (though I’m the least sold on her, unless she starts speaking Russian).
Clancy Brown — from listal.com Russell Brand — from thefilmstage.com Rashida Jones — from rottentomatoes.com
Here’s how I see the opening in the proposed remake: they’re on the set of some horrible show, like Say Yes to the Dress (refuse to link to it, sorry, but here’s a story from someone who went to the SYTTD store and hated it) only since one can’t steal their copyright, it would be Get Down With the Gown. Their plan is to reanimate the corpse on national television during Sweeps Week but of course, the reawakening/immediate marriage doesn’t go well. The electricity needed for undead reanimation is attracted to the metal in the mannequin holding the proposed gown and jumps across the set, ultimately burning said gown and the surrounding studio to bits.
Zany hijinx and wacky misadventures ensue!
The monster, escaping to the wilds of New York City, discovers that his superhuman strength and preternaturally long arms make him a natural to become a bottle-flipping flair bartender, and he becomes a hipster darling, eventually dating troubled paparazzi magnets like Schmindsay Schmohan. The Bride, having been rescued from the fire and with no memory of it, has been whisked away to Herr Doktor’s home in an apartment overlooking Central Park, where she studies voraciously and secretly becomes a computer mastermind. Upon discovering the real nature of her relationship with the doktor, The Bride hacks into his accounts and transfers all of his money into her own private holdings, except for the smallish but significant amount of money she funnels into a group fetishizing nun pornography. After alerting the media to his nun fetish, she calls some friends and organizes an extravagant girls’ night out on the Doktor’s dime. While out with her friends, The Bride walks into the monster’s bar, and it’s his last night working there before taking time off for his impending wedding to SchmiSchmo. The Bride thinks flair bartending is a silly skill and is unimpressed, but stays because her friends are having fun. After copious shots she tells the monster she just left “Doktor Chuck” and, through further conversation, she and the monster realize their innate connection. SchmiSchmo comes in and flies into a jealous rage at the sight of the monster and The Bride talking. However, she severs any emotional connection she might have had with her fiancee when she tries to pick a girl fight with The Bride who, like her fellow monster, is supernaturally strong and, unlike her fellow monster, learned how to fight from watching professional wrestling, Mexican-style.
The two lovemonsters head to the airport and take the first flight to anywhere which, because this is a romance, is Venice. Because Venice, that’s why.
Not surprisingly, the Christmas season and its attendant need to shop has found me, once again, at the mall.
It pains me. Not the Christmas season, mind you. I live in Christmasland at home, and spend a full month making cookies and candies and watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeerand figuring out which family members I’m going to travel to see during the holidays. It is the mall that pains me. While I am admittedly not a tremendous fan of the mall after years of retail employment, it still isn’t the presence of the mall itself that causes me agony. It is the selection of “festive”, “holiday”, “seasonal” clothes presented to women as viable clothing choices.
Grumpy Cat offers his opinion of women’s clothing this season. Photo from funnyjunk.com
In this edition I don’t even delve into things like shoes, as I was so preoccupied with the horror that is the clothes. They provide plenty of grist for this mill. As always, these are taken at major chains, and all the clothes are prominently displayed on feature tables or end caps and racks, not tucked onto some bar on a back wall, away from most prying eyes.
There seem to be a few unfortunately prevalent themes in this season’s clothing choices, including a weird reinterpretation of ’80s-style fashion, capturing some of the neon and none of the innovation that made ’80s clothing so noteworthy. I’ll ease you into things. We’ll start with this.
This is not how you show you {{{heart}}} the ’80s.
A grey cotton knit, scoop neck, V-back shirt with a neon yellow lace back insert would have been a mistake back then, and it’s a mistake now. Quick! Get me a functional neutral in a casual knit! And then pair it with an example of the most washed-out neon lace you can find! Because then you can have a double-win; world’s most unattractive color AND a shirt with a split personality, as it is now neither casual nor dressy. Excellent.
Speaking of split personalities, this two-tone sweater is one I’m having a hard time figuring out. I believe that it’s pigment-dyed,
There was a matching neon-yellow sweater folded next to this one, but the color didn’t come across on camera quite as well. It was even more hideous. You’re welcome.
Though considering how stiff and unyielding this material was, it could be shellacked.
Another ’80s trend that refuses to die is colorblocking. It’s something I always find vaguely problematic because for some sick, sick reason, designers cut the horizontal lines across the widest parts of clothing, so you look like you’ve got giant shoulders or hugely wide hips. Nice. Thanks. Like I don’t have enough issues. But this?
Let me count the ways in which this colorblocking is a mistake.
Seems like a recipe for social discomfort. Colorblocking that bisects your boobs is one (poorly executed) thing, but when that’s combined with material that doesn’t breathe and is guaranteed to make your pits extra-sweaty and laden with stench? Double trouble. In every sense of the term.
Layering was super-big in the ’80s (how many popped collar-Izods can you wear?). So were animal prints. So were zippers. If you had any sort of ’80s sensibility, you’d be able to put them together so that God willing you could look all cool and rock star-like, and end up looking like this.
Cyndi Lauper, showing us what ’80s trends were all about. Photo from weheartit.com
NOT like this.
Neither bad-ass nor fashionably tasty. Poor misguided shirt!
When you think of ’80s fashions, you think of the funky, layered, bangley-spangley, ripped and zippered and lace petticoated rock star clothes. But among the power elite (or those who fancied themselves as such, there was a suiting trend.
This sparked a trend for monochromatic dressing, and in the current flaccid resurgence of ’80s clothing, there has been a nod to the concept of the monochromatic.
The opposite of power suiting.
Unfortunately, this monochromatic palette makes one look like a giant stalk of celery.
But not every article of unfortunate clothing was ’80s inspired. As it is cold out, vests are trending.
Mini-giraffe print microfleece. It doesn’t matter to which ethnicity you belong; wearing this will always make you look like you’ve got some kind of skin disease.
Geometric microfleece. Feels as bad as it looks.
Wait…what the…?
I just want to point this out: this is a hip-length sweater vest with a fur-trimmed scalloped edge. Oh. Holy. Crap. But it doesn’t quite match my favorite vest…
Shiny! Pink! Quilted! What could be so bad, right..?
People, people, people. This looks like you’re wearing a prop of a zombie’s lunch from the set of The Walking Dead. While I’m all for celebrating your inner youness and am no stranger to perhaps ill-chosen fashion statements, I am at a loss to understand how looking like a happy meal for the undead is either attractive or boosts the self-esteem.
Since this is the holiday season, embellished clothing is all over the place. I know I’ve already railed about the misery that is appliqued clothing, but it keeps showing up and I feel bears repeating. Every. Time.
Please. Explain.
I mean yes, sure, cardinals are lovely. Hang a picture of them in your kitchen, get a decorative holiday plate. I have one. But for the love of all that is holy, you don’t see me strapping my decorative cardinal plate to my chest and wearing it outside, do you?
SQUIRRELS?
Glum paisley.
As someone profoundly interested in the state of paisley, I have to say…this is the grimmest, saddest paisley ever. As the bib. On some sort of weird, ersatz Germanic-looking puffed shirt in the thirty-year-old color palette in dusty rose and sage. My bedroom was these colors about 900 years ago. I changed that color scheme for a reason.
This is what the greeters wear at the Christmas store in Hell.
They. Are. Puffy. I know I’ve returned to the cardinal theme again but here’s the deal. The embellishment? Is done in puffy paint. PUFFY PAINT. So they’re slightly tacky and smell a little funny. There’s no saving the idea of this image; it is entirely unattractive. If it were on a decorative plate, I would break it.
Whosoever may be designing shirts festooned with seasonal fancies of this ilk, heed my words: you are hurting America. Nobody feels great/sexy/confident in clothes that look like this. This is “I give up” clothing for women who have lost their sense of selves and are aching for some miniscule level of self-expression, even though these shirts give tacit approval to mom jeans and white sneakers. Please stop. If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for your country.
And finally, you can’t have the holidays without a little luxe, a little ruffle, a little sparkle, a little shine.
What is it with the attached clothing? Can’t people be trusted to layer for themselves?
Meet the pink shirt’s even more bland yet weirdly offensive cousin.
It’s not just that I dislike attached clothing (because I really DO dislike attached clothing), but from a practical standpoint, bear this in mind: these clothes are made from mixed-weight materials, which will wash differently, wear differently and eventually lose shape, differently. It’s just a matter of time before one part of this shirt poops out on you and you have to throw the whole thing away. If you had two separate pieces, you could care for them as their material requires. They’d last longer, stay in shape better, and waste you less money in the process. Just sayin’.
There also seemed to be a common idea amongst designers as a whole that it would be in the public interests to present goods that were puffy and orangey, as though they thought to incorporate the following design ideas into an article of clothing, with a little sparkle for some zazz.
And…GO!
Hmmmm….not quite.
Bingo!
I adore Gossamer the Monster. But! I’ve never wanted to look like him. Or like a tricked-out car. Or like a set of louvers. Think before you buy.
Remember the Seinfeld “puffy shirt” episode? (Full disclosure: I’ve never seen a full episode of Seinfeld, but he so permeated the culture that even I know of “puffy shirt” and “soup Nazi” and “the bet”. And I digress.)
There’s a very good reason to not want to look like a pirate. How about…like a shimmery pirate?
Ooh, just like an angel.
I was hoping to find a shirt that will make me look billowy. I long to billow. The only way this shirt is an appropriate clothing option is if you’re posing as lead angel for next year’s Christmas cards. Puffy shirts–and more importantly, peasant shirts like this one, when you look at the cut and the rope collar tie–are supposed to be simple. Of the people. Peasant-ish, if you will. It’s not that you can’t reinterpret a shirt, but sparkled and faux-glammed like this? Just doesn’t make sense.
I was also hoping to find a turquoise microfiber jacket with faux snakeskin trim.
Check!
I honestly don’t think I need to say anything more about this.
So, when putting together your look to wear to the holidays, when everyone is tarted up and you spend time with friends and family you haven’t seen all year, may I recommend NOT wearing a heavy-weight cardigan that’s been dipped in a Hefty bag?
What-huh?
Unless, of course, you’re planning to wear it with these leggings.
*headdesk*
Because this brings the sexy.
I looked up figures and they vary wildly, but the one that was somewhat in the middle-ish said that American women spend $118 per month on clothing. Times twelve months, is $1,416 per year, and times 65 (I figure an woman who lives to 80 starts buying–or at least directing the purchase of–her own clothes when she’s 15 or so) means she spends $92,040 on clothing alone, never mind other methods of beautification, like makeup. Ladies, please. Times are tough, money is tight. Spend your money thoughtfully, and remember these things: ’80s fashion went out of fashion for a reason. Vests can be difficult to wear, so consider them carefully, especially if they look like intestines. Cardinals are lovely, but not necessarily on your shirt (St. Louis baseball fans exempted from this, particularly during sporting events). And all that glitters is not gold, and is not guaranteed to make you look like a million bucks. Try things on first! That should eliminate 90% of most purchasing mistakes.
I could go on; I will, eventually. But for now I say, caveat emptor! And, happy mindful shopping!
Or at least, ONE person is laughing. Long and hard.
I rarely, if ever, look at Parade magazine…you know the thing, right? The kind of kitschy magazine that’s inserted into your Sunday paper? Occasionally I’ll pick it up if I’ve had a particularly poor week absorbing celebrity gossip, or if I’m looking for a reason to continue drinking coffee and reading in bed on a Sunday morning, or if I feel like I need to re-confirm that I have no use for either Ken Jennings and Marilyn vos Savant.
Today, I picked up Parade magazine. The cast of The Chew was on the cover and, while I’m not a great fan of the show (largely because I’m just not a talk show fan), I like the individual cast members and am always curious to find out what Mario Batali is cooking. I flipped to the page for the Chew Thanksgiving recipes (a girl’s got to bring a side dish, after all) and…
Holy Jesus.
God in Heaven.
What the..?
What. In the world. Is this.
The thumbnail sketches pictured above were done by Riccardo Vecchio, a stylized portrait/sketch artist who has worked for a variety of media outlets. Some of his work is interesting and kind of loosely cubist. These are not those works. I don’t know if Parade contracted him and he forgot about them and put them in as a rush job, or if he subcontracted these sketches to his 11-year-old niece, but they are among the worst of the worst I’ve ever seen. While they’re all dismally bad, my personal favorites (in that “Holy crap! These are awful!” sort of way) are the sketches of Michael Symon and Clinton Kelly.
Celebrity chef Michael Symon is amazingly gregarious. He’s got an open and generous smile and an infectious laugh, loves food and life, is a monster chef and has two insanely successful Important Restaurants in Cleveland.
Hence my lack of understanding for him being drawn to look like a cross between sad-eyed character actor Vincent Schiavelli and Sling Blade.
Reckon I’ll make you some beef cheek pierogies, mmm.
And Clinton Kelly, the debonair, handsome and all-around fabulous co-host of both The Chew and What Not to Wear (among other things) ought not to be drawn to look like the love child of Jackie Mason and a hobbit.
“Personally, I don’t mind a good cry,” says Kelly, which is good news because this sketch is certainly cry-worthy.
Word.
Maybe I opened the magazine expecting too much on a beautiful Sunday morning. When I initially reacted with shock and horror, a friend tossed out a reality check and reminded me, “Nothing says “It’s the 70s!! Inside, 10 Great Recipes With Cool Whip!!” like Parade.” And he’s right. And maybe I shouldn’t expect anything more than mediocrity from them. But they could at least pretend to have editorial integrity. I looked at them again, and again, and every time I did the needle scratched on the record in my head.
The emperor has no clothes. Riccardo Vecchio is laughing all the way to the bank. The proof is right in front of you.
