The knocking on the cabin's door was slightly muffled by the strong wind running beside it. Mrs. Bledsoe had an incident when she was a child that resulted in her always sleeping practically fully clothed. She remembered the story briefly as she rose, paused and waited for the pounding to begin again.
She hated referring to the portal as the 'front door.' Sure, it faced where she put her car, but it was a sliding glass that resembled the back door of her house in Colordo Springs. But here, it was the main entrance. With the curtain drawn, she could11 only see the outline of a man rapping away.
Without a chain on the door, all she could do was pull back the curtain some and hope he was not strong.
He was not. He was bleeding.
"Get in here! Oh my goodness!"
The young man held his side as if a violent apendisitis had taken away his lower right half. She signaled to him to her chair and pushed her laptop and several binders to floor. Lowering them softly to the pages that had been discarded there prior she realized she was not helping the poor youth.
She had him bandaged better then she remembered.
There was a pause where it appeared both caught their breath.
"Phone?"
"Oh no, there is none, I'm sorry. See, I come up here to get away for a bit, but, well, I have a car--let's get you down to Estes. THey have an emergency room."
"No, just hold on."
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really. But, I don't, I'm afraid I might forget," the wound was superficial, a scratch. He was panting some upon entry, but he gained control quickly, respectfully. But his skin was still flushed. He still looked to the windows more than at her.
"I was with, I was with this girl. And she wanted to drive up here, you know, see the mountains. And, crap, seriously, you are not going to buy this at all, but, like she made," he smiled at something beyond her," a freegin picnic. A picnic! Sandwiches and everything! And, fuck, I started eating, we watched some deer go by and," he stopped and looked out the window.
"Look, we need to get you do a hospital, make sure you're okay."
"Fuck, no, we can't, it might be too late."
"Too late?"
"She poisoned me! I burped, see, burped of all things! Over a freegin' bolongna sandwich. And when my chest, I don't know, sizzled, I knew something wasn't, I guess, right. I thought it was heartburn, but no, no, NO," he began to tear up. Beneath his red hue, the face was paled.
"What happened to you?"
"I puked! And it was all blood and pink stuff!" She stepped back and he moved his leg to the side, revealing a wet portion of his jeans that revealed technically nothing. Other then something wet happened there.
"I ran, I just ran and started chasing me, and, like, the poison was still part way in. I ran and she jumped on my back. I fell and there was a fight and..."he looked again to the outdoors.
"What, oh dear God, what?"
"and, um, are you alone?"
This one did not have the intent I was supposed to have used....that I had an unreliable narrator and I was to have him do most of the talking. But I noticed my setup took longer then the actually presentation. ARGH.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
3 AM Epiphany Writing Exercise 2
Calm yourself. Remember the rules. No, you can't hit them--that's illegal, tho their own parents do it repeatedly. No it doesn't matter that he chucked his pencil at your head. All for merely pointing out that he hadn't turned in his homework again. No, you were not going to give him an A. Earn a grade you want in this classroom.
Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?"
And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale.
Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about the whole thing.
Laugh.
Do it again and again.
Smile.
And hope.
Dress and don't mumble, but value the potential of the day. Hope again he is not in third period, but know he is afraid you will retialate. So smile big and mention his love for Halo 3, his only supposed friend. Ask lotsa questions, but mostly towards him. Teach verbs. Review nouns. And make many, many notes in your journal about the futility of remember pencils for a writing class and homework as a teaching tool and not busy work requested by parents.
And then mention to yourself that this is the onset of burnout and you really need another job. Then do the vicious cycle, the one where you talk yourself back into teaching. Pondering is permitted--dreams will help you survive just a longer then most.
Wait for the weekend and then smile bigger then you ever could, remembering that there are those who believe that it helps. Agree with them as you realize the aggravations built your house and fed your puppy. And paid for the wedding and helps keep the smile on your husband's face.
Remind yourself of the wonderful good that sits right before you that somehow escapes you in times you need it.
Return to work with this temporary fix and keep your calendar nearby to count towards summer.
Use the summer to your advantage. Get physically fit, eat right and do all the things recommended you do for handling stress. Use the open time to imagine the awards you might recieve but don't deserve and all the applause you once heard in the back of your head.
Remember those Kevins and Erics who did not throw the pencil, but said thank you. Remember the alumnai, now entering their early lives and remembering youu as being part. Try not to cry, but allow it when the time is free.
And then calm yourself again.
In this exercise, I was to create an entire five hundred word piece containing only imperative commands/sentences. Hope it worked.
Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?"
And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale.
Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about the whole thing.
Laugh.
Do it again and again.
Smile.
And hope.
Dress and don't mumble, but value the potential of the day. Hope again he is not in third period, but know he is afraid you will retialate. So smile big and mention his love for Halo 3, his only supposed friend. Ask lotsa questions, but mostly towards him. Teach verbs. Review nouns. And make many, many notes in your journal about the futility of remember pencils for a writing class and homework as a teaching tool and not busy work requested by parents.
And then mention to yourself that this is the onset of burnout and you really need another job. Then do the vicious cycle, the one where you talk yourself back into teaching. Pondering is permitted--dreams will help you survive just a longer then most.
Wait for the weekend and then smile bigger then you ever could, remembering that there are those who believe that it helps. Agree with them as you realize the aggravations built your house and fed your puppy. And paid for the wedding and helps keep the smile on your husband's face.
Remind yourself of the wonderful good that sits right before you that somehow escapes you in times you need it.
Return to work with this temporary fix and keep your calendar nearby to count towards summer.
Use the summer to your advantage. Get physically fit, eat right and do all the things recommended you do for handling stress. Use the open time to imagine the awards you might recieve but don't deserve and all the applause you once heard in the back of your head.
Remember those Kevins and Erics who did not throw the pencil, but said thank you. Remember the alumnai, now entering their early lives and remembering youu as being part. Try not to cry, but allow it when the time is free.
And then calm yourself again.
In this exercise, I was to create an entire five hundred word piece containing only imperative commands/sentences. Hope it worked.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The 3 AM Epiphany, Exercise One
I'll go into details of the exercise at the end, for my own purposes.
The coffeehouse near our place has everything a writer like myself could ever need to create beyond our own doors. It has coffee, foremost, and, even for it being a chain, it lists a terrific set of flavors and wonders. Aztec Mocha, a wonderul concoction of cinnimon, chili powder and chocolate, takes the bitter hum of java to new, beautiful levels. I treat myself daily here, wondering over sometime after CBS Sunday morning signs off and the responsibilities of the day begins.
Daily lesson plans take priority, so those are brought up long before any creative-ness hits the brain cells. That act itself creates a sense of completeness that makes the creative process have a much sweeter reward--the reward that all the writing I'm doing is not limited by the confines of my own life encroaching. How many authors have stopped what they are penning because they realized the catbox needed emptying, the dishwasher needed to be cleaned out or the stack of papers in the suitcase needed to be graded? That was the creation of my own demise.
The coffeehouse and the ensuing schedule there helping eliminate that, even if briefly so.
So my briefcase filled, the drive is almost instantenous, the coffee arrives in my hand and my paperwork finds a table home, even if only for a few hours in the morning. The schedule rounds itself out with journalling (usually a list of ailments in my life of things that are bothering me, so they, too, don't hold my creativity back) and then the continued contrivance of whatever tales suits my fancy.
My writing has been flurishing lately, and one cannot fathom as to why. The pens has always been in my pockets, the imagination has always been full. But it is now, here before my 38th birthday, that my brain finds it's niche.
Fate? Hope pushes itself to the front of my head on that one.
Okay, so my best friend gave me this terrific book of great writing exercises. I figure it to be a terrific way to keep this blog going. I'll let him know, I'm sure he'll be on my only reader! Still, the exercise was that I had to write in the first person. The catch? I can only use I twice...no more. I needed to create about 600 words, but this blog doesn't offer that as an option. So I'll have to count it at home, when I return from here.
It will remain unedited. I hope you don't mind.
Peace!
The coffeehouse near our place has everything a writer like myself could ever need to create beyond our own doors. It has coffee, foremost, and, even for it being a chain, it lists a terrific set of flavors and wonders. Aztec Mocha, a wonderul concoction of cinnimon, chili powder and chocolate, takes the bitter hum of java to new, beautiful levels. I treat myself daily here, wondering over sometime after CBS Sunday morning signs off and the responsibilities of the day begins.
Daily lesson plans take priority, so those are brought up long before any creative-ness hits the brain cells. That act itself creates a sense of completeness that makes the creative process have a much sweeter reward--the reward that all the writing I'm doing is not limited by the confines of my own life encroaching. How many authors have stopped what they are penning because they realized the catbox needed emptying, the dishwasher needed to be cleaned out or the stack of papers in the suitcase needed to be graded? That was the creation of my own demise.
The coffeehouse and the ensuing schedule there helping eliminate that, even if briefly so.
So my briefcase filled, the drive is almost instantenous, the coffee arrives in my hand and my paperwork finds a table home, even if only for a few hours in the morning. The schedule rounds itself out with journalling (usually a list of ailments in my life of things that are bothering me, so they, too, don't hold my creativity back) and then the continued contrivance of whatever tales suits my fancy.
My writing has been flurishing lately, and one cannot fathom as to why. The pens has always been in my pockets, the imagination has always been full. But it is now, here before my 38th birthday, that my brain finds it's niche.
Fate? Hope pushes itself to the front of my head on that one.
Okay, so my best friend gave me this terrific book of great writing exercises. I figure it to be a terrific way to keep this blog going. I'll let him know, I'm sure he'll be on my only reader! Still, the exercise was that I had to write in the first person. The catch? I can only use I twice...no more. I needed to create about 600 words, but this blog doesn't offer that as an option. So I'll have to count it at home, when I return from here.
It will remain unedited. I hope you don't mind.
Peace!
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Something I pounded out at the coffeehouse
I have no idea where this is going...correction, I have an idea, but this was not what I intended....figured it was time to post something after four months!
Roger had developed a love and hate relationship over the years with the gawkers beyond his second story apartment's window. He was old enough now to know that life is much more complicated the older you get and no where near the black and white friends your childhood brought. He learned he loved his family; but liking was still up for discussion.
The people outside his window were annoying him. They came by day and night and just stood there, failing to whisper at what they stared at. He supposed that he could move his computer away from the window and close the curtain more often. And, even though he hated the smell of smoke, he loved his cigarettes, so the location in his bedroom was maintained. He could smoke, chat online and stare at the annoying passersby.
He knew why they were there. He admitted to himself, long after, that the house across the way was, in a sense, why he also stayed at the window. When he first got the job downtown, a nightly cruise of gawking at the Star home brought the apartments to his attention.
Roger was a writer. He had written much but published nil. This did not stop him. In fact, online chatting, a form he considered writing, kept him socially active, even if in passing.
That and the gawkers.
"Yep, more, this time a single one, a blonde, just like the rest," he said to himself. After realizing he had said it out loud, he feigned a glance to the ground to pretend he was talking to a nonexistent cat.
He felt the blonde woman glance up at him in the twilght. The Indian summer had run longer then was expected, but the time change had brought the shadows a wee bit earilier. Experience had taught him that anyone south of his window could hear pretty much anything he said.
It made recent visits with Kenneth a bit more quiet then one would expect.
The Star house deserted since the early evening, watched the exchange with a lone lamp in the wooded living room.
The blonde put her hands on her hips and slide them down into her pockets glancing to the second story window.
A car passed and Roger grasped a view down onto the street at the wandering stranger.
He knew her.
The Thursday night, normally a doorway to the impending weekend, changed in character. He could not remember how he knew her. Her looks, no matter how commonplace, resembled a memory--if only for a flash. He started to light a smoke. No one was in the chatrooms he frequented anyhows.
He stood and decided to leave the desk lamp on. The streetlamps were less personal on the dark street below.
He climbed the wood steps slowly, hoping secretly that the young woman was who he thought she could be, a colleague who could chase the night. All his histories had been erased from this town he grew up in; recent interactions with locals fruited little.
The orange and red light of his sparking lighter illuminated his face more then the street around him and the front porch. A swinging bench had been added when the home was built in older times--if history was correct, his builiding was created at the same time as the Star home across the street--in the early 1900. And the timeline was still somewhat evident. The bushes had groomed themselves into borderline trees before the porch's rails. To sit on the bench and smoke would have afford him more privacy then his apartment window.
He elected to merely lean on the column.
She was still there, only a few yards across the tar.
He exhahled and aimed his head high.
The Star house was a marvel of stereotypical haunted hosues. Built a hundred years ago, the only modern intrushions were a satiellie dish on the steep green roofs and an airconditioner attached to the rear kitchen. In the daylight, as the same as this night, the stained and beveled glass clean as to be considerred new, shone like pictures into the interior. It made gawking inevitetable. People could see as far back as a servant stair from the front parlor. An old television broke the view, but reflected the gawkers from it's angled screens.
The house was the only reason to visit downtown, in this area. No map found a listing of it, but the locals know about the Star house. In the 30s, a young bachelor moved in and used it to board travelors. Business never ended until discoveries of several corpses on the Fountain Valley, a short walk away. In fact, the paths encouraged gawkers to stroll along the creek, depositing them here.
The home's notoreity increased ten fold when a group of hippies moved in. In this conservative location at the edge of the mountains, the churches needed a reason to begin their barrage of discontent. Following a series of disaapearances, the house found itself in the news again--the hippies killed for cash and their habits.
Roger knew more about the house then expected. He had planned on writing a fictionalization of events inside. This dream ended when his mother sent him a copy of the book written by a guy he knew in high school.
So it was more then chance that he would end up here, off of downtown, near the house of ill-begotten fame, trying, desparetely to write.
And find a life.
The girl stopped and looked up the street.
"Looks innocuoous enough," she stated, looking back at the second story.
"Me or the house?" She smiled and her teeth matched the whiteness of her eyes. The dark erased the edges off of her face. The smile he could define. The rest was a blur, more visible if you looked off to the side. The streetlamps, either by design or accident, bracketted the house, but cast shadows before it.
"Cute, funny." She changed her facing and a kick of wind blew in the opposite direction, carrying smoke towards her. He fluttered his hand in front of face to aid the disipation of gray matter.
Roger had developed a love and hate relationship over the years with the gawkers beyond his second story apartment's window. He was old enough now to know that life is much more complicated the older you get and no where near the black and white friends your childhood brought. He learned he loved his family; but liking was still up for discussion.
The people outside his window were annoying him. They came by day and night and just stood there, failing to whisper at what they stared at. He supposed that he could move his computer away from the window and close the curtain more often. And, even though he hated the smell of smoke, he loved his cigarettes, so the location in his bedroom was maintained. He could smoke, chat online and stare at the annoying passersby.
He knew why they were there. He admitted to himself, long after, that the house across the way was, in a sense, why he also stayed at the window. When he first got the job downtown, a nightly cruise of gawking at the Star home brought the apartments to his attention.
Roger was a writer. He had written much but published nil. This did not stop him. In fact, online chatting, a form he considered writing, kept him socially active, even if in passing.
That and the gawkers.
"Yep, more, this time a single one, a blonde, just like the rest," he said to himself. After realizing he had said it out loud, he feigned a glance to the ground to pretend he was talking to a nonexistent cat.
He felt the blonde woman glance up at him in the twilght. The Indian summer had run longer then was expected, but the time change had brought the shadows a wee bit earilier. Experience had taught him that anyone south of his window could hear pretty much anything he said.
It made recent visits with Kenneth a bit more quiet then one would expect.
The Star house deserted since the early evening, watched the exchange with a lone lamp in the wooded living room.
The blonde put her hands on her hips and slide them down into her pockets glancing to the second story window.
A car passed and Roger grasped a view down onto the street at the wandering stranger.
He knew her.
The Thursday night, normally a doorway to the impending weekend, changed in character. He could not remember how he knew her. Her looks, no matter how commonplace, resembled a memory--if only for a flash. He started to light a smoke. No one was in the chatrooms he frequented anyhows.
He stood and decided to leave the desk lamp on. The streetlamps were less personal on the dark street below.
He climbed the wood steps slowly, hoping secretly that the young woman was who he thought she could be, a colleague who could chase the night. All his histories had been erased from this town he grew up in; recent interactions with locals fruited little.
The orange and red light of his sparking lighter illuminated his face more then the street around him and the front porch. A swinging bench had been added when the home was built in older times--if history was correct, his builiding was created at the same time as the Star home across the street--in the early 1900. And the timeline was still somewhat evident. The bushes had groomed themselves into borderline trees before the porch's rails. To sit on the bench and smoke would have afford him more privacy then his apartment window.
He elected to merely lean on the column.
She was still there, only a few yards across the tar.
He exhahled and aimed his head high.
The Star house was a marvel of stereotypical haunted hosues. Built a hundred years ago, the only modern intrushions were a satiellie dish on the steep green roofs and an airconditioner attached to the rear kitchen. In the daylight, as the same as this night, the stained and beveled glass clean as to be considerred new, shone like pictures into the interior. It made gawking inevitetable. People could see as far back as a servant stair from the front parlor. An old television broke the view, but reflected the gawkers from it's angled screens.
The house was the only reason to visit downtown, in this area. No map found a listing of it, but the locals know about the Star house. In the 30s, a young bachelor moved in and used it to board travelors. Business never ended until discoveries of several corpses on the Fountain Valley, a short walk away. In fact, the paths encouraged gawkers to stroll along the creek, depositing them here.
The home's notoreity increased ten fold when a group of hippies moved in. In this conservative location at the edge of the mountains, the churches needed a reason to begin their barrage of discontent. Following a series of disaapearances, the house found itself in the news again--the hippies killed for cash and their habits.
Roger knew more about the house then expected. He had planned on writing a fictionalization of events inside. This dream ended when his mother sent him a copy of the book written by a guy he knew in high school.
So it was more then chance that he would end up here, off of downtown, near the house of ill-begotten fame, trying, desparetely to write.
And find a life.
The girl stopped and looked up the street.
"Looks innocuoous enough," she stated, looking back at the second story.
"Me or the house?" She smiled and her teeth matched the whiteness of her eyes. The dark erased the edges off of her face. The smile he could define. The rest was a blur, more visible if you looked off to the side. The streetlamps, either by design or accident, bracketted the house, but cast shadows before it.
"Cute, funny." She changed her facing and a kick of wind blew in the opposite direction, carrying smoke towards her. He fluttered his hand in front of face to aid the disipation of gray matter.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
A journal entry "Monster"
He hated the label, "monster," but he could understand why they called him that. He saw the papers; he knew the routine. They refused to meet with him, discuss what he figured out was the most important--deciding on an agenda that worked only for them.
Yet he was the monster.
He exercised as they did. He ate at thei same restaurants. And he practiced his ability to love just like everyone else. They let the fucking homos do what they want--even gave them their own television shows.
But not him.
There was a time, when he was younger, he would sit on the stoop in front of his house and have a cricket or a cicada taped to teh pavement. They never cried out as used his mother's twizzers pull it's legs in opposite directions. It did not weep. Instead it merely appeared annoyed at the procedure and tried to pull away.
And he wondered, why don't humans do the same?
He practiced with his subjects. He told them what we was going to do, but they protested. They were the lonely ones--wassn't this what they wanted? Attention until they died?
The latest report in the newspaper labled him Marlowe Monster for his use of hookers on Marlowe street. But these women had already given up on their lives. He was just helping them die faster then their lifestyle would allow.
Yet he was the monster.
Yet he was the monster.
He exercised as they did. He ate at thei same restaurants. And he practiced his ability to love just like everyone else. They let the fucking homos do what they want--even gave them their own television shows.
But not him.
There was a time, when he was younger, he would sit on the stoop in front of his house and have a cricket or a cicada taped to teh pavement. They never cried out as used his mother's twizzers pull it's legs in opposite directions. It did not weep. Instead it merely appeared annoyed at the procedure and tried to pull away.
And he wondered, why don't humans do the same?
He practiced with his subjects. He told them what we was going to do, but they protested. They were the lonely ones--wassn't this what they wanted? Attention until they died?
The latest report in the newspaper labled him Marlowe Monster for his use of hookers on Marlowe street. But these women had already given up on their lives. He was just helping them die faster then their lifestyle would allow.
Yet he was the monster.
Movie Review: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Ah, what be said about Harry Potter that hasn't been said already. I love the kid, frankly, seeing how he gets kids gett so riled over his printed page. I wish my students could do the same. My kids can't read their own names a majority of the time.
But even they know Harry. The books and movies go beyond a tremendous success. They connect with audiences on a different levels. Here, we remember that time in our own lives--starting with such promise as we are young and starting out to when we leave to the adult world, when reality has moved in and shoved ideals to the back.
Such is the journey of Mr. Potter; such is our jouney with him. The time of this movie is when we realize the wonderment of the world around us becomes oh-so-much smaller. Harry's friend has died in the last movie; but the world he livees in refused to believe him when he says that Voldemort, the nememis of this tale, did it.
It's like when adults refuse to believe their children's dreams or visions for the future. We die just a little; Harry's is emphasized by the size of the picture.
It is a hard picture to watch. It is complicated for those of us not familiar with the book. The pages appear to be up there as much as possible.
But it works. Surely, the magic is gone, but if a person has followed the story in some manner, it is truly complete. And a bit frightening. Even sad.
The movie also hit me on a chord it did not intend. The plight of American public schools under the tyranny of this current administration. In this realm, schools are judged from outsiders and of course, negatively--giving polictics a reason to shut them down and use them for their own devices.
Harry is accused by the ruling class of his world, the Ministry of Magic. He is believed to be lying and that the school is up to something--so they'll send their own emissary a terrifically evil acted Imelda Staunton's Dolores Umbridge--to deem the school worthy of closure. Then they won't have any more doubters born from the location.
So she arrives and then has shake the tree. She tells them everything is wrong (it isn't) and that they just ahve to take and pass their exams to the elimination of everything else (sorta like state testing--to the exclusion of everything else...). I do not know if author JK Rowling had intended to make that message, showing the stupidit of No Child Left Behind, but it was there for this teacher.
Making me appreciate Mr. Potter's storylines just a bit more.
Is it a good movie? Not for those outside. Inside? I think you'll be more that satisfied.
But even they know Harry. The books and movies go beyond a tremendous success. They connect with audiences on a different levels. Here, we remember that time in our own lives--starting with such promise as we are young and starting out to when we leave to the adult world, when reality has moved in and shoved ideals to the back.
Such is the journey of Mr. Potter; such is our jouney with him. The time of this movie is when we realize the wonderment of the world around us becomes oh-so-much smaller. Harry's friend has died in the last movie; but the world he livees in refused to believe him when he says that Voldemort, the nememis of this tale, did it.
It's like when adults refuse to believe their children's dreams or visions for the future. We die just a little; Harry's is emphasized by the size of the picture.
It is a hard picture to watch. It is complicated for those of us not familiar with the book. The pages appear to be up there as much as possible.
But it works. Surely, the magic is gone, but if a person has followed the story in some manner, it is truly complete. And a bit frightening. Even sad.
The movie also hit me on a chord it did not intend. The plight of American public schools under the tyranny of this current administration. In this realm, schools are judged from outsiders and of course, negatively--giving polictics a reason to shut them down and use them for their own devices.
Harry is accused by the ruling class of his world, the Ministry of Magic. He is believed to be lying and that the school is up to something--so they'll send their own emissary a terrifically evil acted Imelda Staunton's Dolores Umbridge--to deem the school worthy of closure. Then they won't have any more doubters born from the location.
So she arrives and then has shake the tree. She tells them everything is wrong (it isn't) and that they just ahve to take and pass their exams to the elimination of everything else (sorta like state testing--to the exclusion of everything else...). I do not know if author JK Rowling had intended to make that message, showing the stupidit of No Child Left Behind, but it was there for this teacher.
Making me appreciate Mr. Potter's storylines just a bit more.
Is it a good movie? Not for those outside. Inside? I think you'll be more that satisfied.
Movie Review: Hairspray
A time existed, not that very long ago, when musicals did more then bring tourists to New York City. The pop standards, still found on the occasion internet radio, were brought the public in these small wonders. Songs covered almost every allowable topic--but mostly the important stuff, you know, love. And people would pay to hear the songs they could hear for free on the radio (or the internet) and maybe sing along.
That was the power of the musical.
It never really went away, either. The sixties brought Hair, and ability for the audience to understand what the boomers were going through; the sevenites brough A Chorus Line and the audience could understand teh angst of very show before them. The message, of course, was neatly tucked away behind a delicious hummable tune of happily rhyming words or powerful, emotional ballads. All approachable by the wiling ear.
That, too, was teh power of the musical.
Broadway is an interesting place--using audience's knowledge to drag them back to teh Great White Way and justify their ticket purchase by using a topic they are already familiar with--movies. I can't say this is a bad thing. It means, finally, the tourists are returning. And sometimes, jsut sometimes, the musical improves on the source movie.
Look at The Lion King. Decent Disney flick, not classic. But the playwrights took it to a new level and made it a celebration of the stage using cultural references and puppest that the audience had never experienced before. Children were aware of the Disney label going into the house; they left with the potential that musical theatre carries.
Which brings us to this review--Hairspray. The origianl movie I saw in my teen years. A tale from my personal fave, Jon Waters, it mocked the world in which I lived in.
And what teenager can say no to being against the establishment?
In this case, a daily, early 60's television dance program had fully white dancers bopping to fully white music. But the times hadn't changed. African Americans were marching for equal representation. A young, portly young lady, named Tracy Turnblatt decides she wants to buck the scene. She is not the standard of television beauty; and her friends are black. She was going to get on that show and shake everything down.
It was Waters at his best. It used the medium of film to carry a heavy message in a wave of comedic commentary.
The movie could have been iimrpoved on.
But some dancers and musicains saw tehree was a chance to improve. They made it into a musical in NYC in 2002. It was a hit. THe message was sstill there and still strong, but it was easier to digest. Now it was mixed in with the same ditty tunes that helped carry the message as the audience exited humming.
it was only a matter of time before a movie was made.
And it's a good one. For the same reasons as mentioned.
It is, quite possibly, the best movie of the summer. It is very hard to contain this movie. The smiles are broad on the actors as much as on the audience--ironic, considering the messsage--one about intergration and racisim. But I do believe, we, as a people laugh together better than fight.
And here is a bit of a movie to do it. No violence, no sex (however, a TON of inneundo) make for a movie that truly a whole family can attend.
It works, not only for the reasons above, but because the cast really are having a good time. You have John Travolta, in drag no less, practically screaming "watch this!"; you have terrific newcomer Nikki Blonscky celebrating her role with all the energy of a cheerleader on a pot of coffee. She's happy she got the role in the movie--dammit, we should be to.
And we are. I think of it of a friend who loves computers. The dude lives, breathes and eats PCs. He can talk about them forwards and backwards, perhaps even upside down. And he's so excited when he talks about them--you can help but be caught up--even if you don't know what the heck he's talking about.
Such is the strength of her performance. Such is the strength of the entire cast.
I loved it. It will become a guilty pleasure, that's for sure.
That was the power of the musical.
It never really went away, either. The sixties brought Hair, and ability for the audience to understand what the boomers were going through; the sevenites brough A Chorus Line and the audience could understand teh angst of very show before them. The message, of course, was neatly tucked away behind a delicious hummable tune of happily rhyming words or powerful, emotional ballads. All approachable by the wiling ear.
That, too, was teh power of the musical.
Broadway is an interesting place--using audience's knowledge to drag them back to teh Great White Way and justify their ticket purchase by using a topic they are already familiar with--movies. I can't say this is a bad thing. It means, finally, the tourists are returning. And sometimes, jsut sometimes, the musical improves on the source movie.
Look at The Lion King. Decent Disney flick, not classic. But the playwrights took it to a new level and made it a celebration of the stage using cultural references and puppest that the audience had never experienced before. Children were aware of the Disney label going into the house; they left with the potential that musical theatre carries.
Which brings us to this review--Hairspray. The origianl movie I saw in my teen years. A tale from my personal fave, Jon Waters, it mocked the world in which I lived in.
And what teenager can say no to being against the establishment?
In this case, a daily, early 60's television dance program had fully white dancers bopping to fully white music. But the times hadn't changed. African Americans were marching for equal representation. A young, portly young lady, named Tracy Turnblatt decides she wants to buck the scene. She is not the standard of television beauty; and her friends are black. She was going to get on that show and shake everything down.
It was Waters at his best. It used the medium of film to carry a heavy message in a wave of comedic commentary.
The movie could have been iimrpoved on.
But some dancers and musicains saw tehree was a chance to improve. They made it into a musical in NYC in 2002. It was a hit. THe message was sstill there and still strong, but it was easier to digest. Now it was mixed in with the same ditty tunes that helped carry the message as the audience exited humming.
it was only a matter of time before a movie was made.
And it's a good one. For the same reasons as mentioned.
It is, quite possibly, the best movie of the summer. It is very hard to contain this movie. The smiles are broad on the actors as much as on the audience--ironic, considering the messsage--one about intergration and racisim. But I do believe, we, as a people laugh together better than fight.
And here is a bit of a movie to do it. No violence, no sex (however, a TON of inneundo) make for a movie that truly a whole family can attend.
It works, not only for the reasons above, but because the cast really are having a good time. You have John Travolta, in drag no less, practically screaming "watch this!"; you have terrific newcomer Nikki Blonscky celebrating her role with all the energy of a cheerleader on a pot of coffee. She's happy she got the role in the movie--dammit, we should be to.
And we are. I think of it of a friend who loves computers. The dude lives, breathes and eats PCs. He can talk about them forwards and backwards, perhaps even upside down. And he's so excited when he talks about them--you can help but be caught up--even if you don't know what the heck he's talking about.
Such is the strength of her performance. Such is the strength of the entire cast.
I loved it. It will become a guilty pleasure, that's for sure.
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