In a good way. Check it out:
silla-viento-peces from nick dangerfield on Vimeo.
I'm trying to come to grips with the fact that there's never enough time to say everything I'd like to have said.
But maybe there's something beautiful about that. Maybe certain things are better left under-said, or unsaid entirely.
That way, there's always more. More to say and more to hear.
Sometimes, enough really is more than enough.
Wes Anderson makes movies that know they're movies and aren't afraid to let you in on the secret.
I like that.
If you haven't already, get out and see Fantastic Mr. Fox. It's one of the most clever, well-crafted movies I've seen in a long time.
The writing is understated and witty, the design is impeccable, and somehow, even though they're stop-motion puppets, the characters are superbly acted--Really sort of mind-blowing.
Kudos Mr. Anderson. Now take a bow and get cracking on the next one.
We're getting some great buzz and reviews! But don't take my word for it--Check out what the critics have to say:
In This Week
UVU Review
Daily Herald
Convinced?
Well then come see the show:
October 22-November 7, 2009
Noorda Theatre
7:30 p.m.
Midnight Shows on October 30th and 31st.
For tickets call 801-863-PLAY or
Buy Tickets Now!
Or if you're in the mood for something else, there is a lot of great Halloween theatre in the valley this year. I recommend:
Frankenstein--Mortal Fools Theatre Project at PTC
Little Shop of Horrors--Hale Center Orem
Sweeney Todd--ARTE at The Castle
See you at the show!
After so many thousands of years wandering the plains and living in huts out under open air, we have returned to the caves.
We build impossibly steep mountains and hole up in them; Stack our spaces one on top the other.
We keep out wind, rain, animals, air and even our old friend fire. Ghosts of Bon hide in flourescents, cheap incandescence; nothing to warm our darkness but the feeble zapping buzz of micro waves.
We dream of blue spark cinders--the dying of a distant flame. Only a long since memory long lost forgot. Whispers of smoke rising.
But I think it's a valid point.
After Reynaldo died, he dreamed he was a cat.
Or rather, he dreamed that he had been a cat having a dream about being Reynaldo.
It was all very confusing, but when he woke up, he knew that something must change.
He knew this because the cat's dream of being Reynaldo had been so utterly and hopelessly boring. So boring, that even a housebroken calico, content to do nothing but lie in the sun while switching his tail and dozing off every few minutes had found his dream of being Reynaldo rather dull and pedestrian.
Things were making both more and less sense as Reynaldo was coming around. Someone was shining a flashlight in his eyes and asking him questions that he wasn't quite able to discern--in fact he was having a hard time piecing together more than two or three words in a row. And yet everything seemed so clear. So much clearer than they had been in a long time.
He realized that he was staring at the ceiling. He pinched and then blinked open his eyes several times before he noticed that the ceiling was moving. The white tiles and humming florescents streaked overhead just quickly enough that he had a hard time focusing on them before they left his field of view. They turned a corner and he realized that it was he, and not the ceiling overhead that was moving. He straightened the fingers of his right hand and felt the cool metal frame of the hospital gurney he was apparently being conveyed upon.
This is one of the most exciting and challenging projects I've worked on in a long time and I'm loving it. We open this week!
Head over to The Grassroots Blog for more info!
So I was at the park, rehearsing with Grassroots, when I get a call from someone saying they had found my lost notebook--turns out I had left it somewhere else in the park at rehearsal the day before. (I hadn't even realized yet that it was missing)
So I'm glad I wrote my phone number in the front of my moleskine and glad that someone was kind enough to track me down. That note book is the only hard copy evidence of the last three years of my life.
Crickets = the official arrival of summer. The most heavenly insectoid hallelujah chorus You'll ever hear.
Sometimes I'm not sure what to do with my life, but then I come here and everything changes...
If there is any place in the world with some magic left in it, it is here.
My latest project:
The Grassroots Shakespeare Company
Check it out!
and
find us on facebook!
I believe that some of the most beautiful and worthwhile things in life cost just a little bit more. Almost always they come with a high price of personal sacrifice and hard work--but sometimes they require a selfless sacrifice from many.
As I heard about all of the tax protests earlier this week, I couldn't help but think of this girl in Ohio and all of the hard work she has put in so that she can have just a little ray of sunshine in her life.
The truth is, our tax dollars often fund the arts. And if we get all bent out of shape over paying taxes and demand cuts--the arts are often the first things to go. The one small piece of beauty in this girl's life will be the first thing to go.
So please, before we all get in a huff about things, let's stop and consider what we'll be losing as a whole, as a society and as a culture, if we allow the selfish demands of our individual pocketbooks to take control.
Watch: Ohio Serenade (come on, it's only eight minutes long)
Your thoughts?
(But please, if you care to comment, at least take the time to watch the short clip in question.)
Dolores lay quietly weeping in bed--her warm tears filled the wrinkled corners of her eyes before cascading down the sides of her face and into her thin white hair matted on the hospital pillow.
An angel had been sent to comfort her, but Dolores continued to feebly press the red call button she held tightly clutched with both hands. She was convinced that the majestically beautiful messenger at her side was yet another one of her frequent hallucinations brought on by advanced dementia.
Often, she knew when she was hallucinating and would quietly close her eyes and hum until the visions departed.
She clicked the red button again.
She was afraid of yielding to the dementia, but seeing that she was alone, she licked her dry lips and ever so softly exhaled the question:
"Why are you here?"
The angel said nothing, but smiled gently and gazed back at her with kind eyes full of understanding. She was surprised to see that the angel was beginning to weep.
"You pressed the call button?" came the reply from the foot of her bed. "What can I help you with?"
It was the nurse. Her cheeks were flushed red after being outside in the cold on her smoke break.
"Is my daughter here yet?" asked Dolores, her eyelashes still wet and glistening.
The nurse only looked puzzled and cleared her throat. Her mouth frowned.
Just after the nurse left, the angel knelt at Dolores' side and whispered something so softly and delicately in her ear that she could scarcely make it out. The tears continued to roll down the sides of her soft leather cheeks and she clutched the red call button with both hands.
Robert grasped the stainless steel railings glimmering in the bright afternoon sun and hoisted himself up onto the diving board. The artificially blue pool water below heaved and rippled as it swallowed the scrawny pink body of the the boy who had just sprung from the low dive beneath him.
Robert remembered how his grandmother had taught him about Jesus--about how he had walked on water. She said he had done all of his miracles by the power of faith.
She drew him up into her arms: "If you believe enough," she had whispered in his ear, "there's nothing you couldn't do."
He took a few steps forward and found himself precariously suspended high above the water, gently bobbing up and down on the warbling tip of the board.
He wondered if he could put one foot in front of the other and walk off the edge without falling.
He closed his eyes; felt the wet grit of the board beneath his feet, the smell of chlorine, and the sound of splashing which seemed so, so far below him.
He stretched his arms, lowered his head, bent his knees, and pressed his all of his meager weight down into the board before allowing it to rebound and return the energy he had lent it. His legs became pistons as they straightened--hips, knees, ankles, arches, toes. Finally, he felt his feet leave the sandpaper surface.
And then there was silence. He hung perfectly suspended between the rippling blue crystal below and the bottomless depth of the sky above. Everything slowed, and for a split second, he understood.
It was only after he opened his eyes again that he realized he had been falling.
He hit the water in a flailing crash before it engulfed and cradled him in it's quiet heavy blueness. It pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. And there beneath the surface he continued to float--suspended between the horizons.
Last night I dreamt I was a ghost inside your house
admiring you invisibly
--unable to speak, feel, touch, or be heard.
But then you noticed the sandy footprints I had tracked inside the house
and threw me out.
My time in the hospital was kind of a blur. The light grew and faded over and over again--like a tide that washed in and out of my small bay of a room.
I tried to read. Tried to memorize my lines--but everything is so hard to hold onto when you're being held by the warm, foggy blanket of narcotics.
I was there four days.
Andrew came to visit me. Carl. Ashley. Amy and Clark dropped by in the middle of the night and I thought it was a dream. Renae and Cory came several times--so nice. My mom flitted in and out. I don't think she likes hospitals.
They moved me to the sixth floor on the second day. That night there was a man yelling in the room next to mine all night long--but he seemed so far away that I barely lost a wink.
They took seven screws out of the left side of my ankle, and kept two in on the right. And the plate of course. It looks like some sort of shallow strainer spoon--polished silver and full of holes. The sort of souvenir spoon you'd get from visiting a colony on mars. They gave me the jingling artifacts in a plastic ziploc bag with a label that said: "Hardware--left ankle"
Apparently, some people try to sell used implants on the internet to people in third world countries who can't afford new. But not to worry. I don't plan on giving anyone else my infection any time soon.
I'm feeling much better, but the bad news is, they're worried about the wound becoming infected again so they sent me home with an IV pump.
Yes, a pump. I will be attached to a clear plastic bag full of Nafcillin via a battery-powered pump that I will have to tote around with me all the time, everywhere I go. It will be pickling me with antibiotics round the clock for the next six weeks.
My fridge is now stocked with said bags of antibiotics--a new bag every day.
I will change out the plastic tubing that is now attached to my arm every three days, and once every five days or so, a nurse will come and put a new hole in my veins for the medicine to flow in through.
If the flow were reversed on my pump, it could quietly and efficiently drain me in a matter of hours. Luckily, I don't think the pump comes with that option. I'd hate to think that I was secretly attached to a robot mosquito--you never know where they've been.
I'm trying to be optimistic about this. I'm getting surgery again in the morning. I can't sleep. I thought maybe writing a list of pros and cons would help clear my head.
CON:
Being cut open.
PRO:
Anesthesia.
CON:
Pain.
PRO:
Pain meds.
CON:
Pain meds.
CON:
Four day hospital stay.
PRO:
Spring break extension. Sort of.
CON:
Hospital gowns.
CON:
Peeing in a bottle.
CON:
Hospital food. Jello.
PRO:
I'm getting my plate out.
PRO:
I'm going to ask if I can keep it.
PRO:
Visitors. (Hint Hint)
Did I miss anything? Let me know if you think of anything else. Or, better yet, come visit me! I'll be listed in the hospital directory.
Busdriver like the
Boatman
ferrys souls across the Styx
Seats meant for two
hold only one
--everyone alone.
Winter garb
hoods and scarves
and fingerless mittens
hide
all but a few patches of cold pale skin.
Greys and blacks and
dark navy blues
Walking funeral shrouds.
The only color of the day: a thick-skinned
blood orange
bright rind peeled back to reveal
deep purple bruised flesh
savors sweet fresh red wound:
Things that remind us we're alive.
Blank page:
a wall standing firm resolute unyielding
unwilling to be scaled, toppled, tunneled under,
or made to disappear.
Only can we try in vain to cover it's expansive surface with thin scratches and fading scribbles
--like pencil marks on the pyramids.
Upon this towering mountainous frighteningly white and pristine
unadorned imposing monolith
must we pin our pithy tacks.
(which sometimes defile or desecrate that beautifully clean untouched, unspoiled space)
Sometimes our best attempts fade and peel with the paint
sometimes fail to stick
but every now and again our scrawling black lines give the illusion of spreading cracks,
the impression that we have somehow found a chink in that white perfect solid surface.
(But the wall spreads out as far as the eye can see in any direction and is far taller than the sky)
There is no filling it, seeing over it's highest towering top, or any amount of cracking to ever make it weak.
there is no other side.
It is tomorrow
and the ocean
the canvas and the stage
it is a handshake or a whisper
(the space between your lips before you breathe)
: It is the everstretching edge of the horizon on a globe.
(Let it never be our past)
Punch Drunk Love
After seeing so many movies over the last few years with twist endings, I kept waiting for the turn while watching this one. It never came.
Turns out it's just an ultra-surreal romantic comedy that in the end isn't all that romantic or comedic. But it was a real piece of eye candy at times. I loved the oversaturated colors and quirky art direction. And the only element that rivaled the visual quality of the piece was the sound. I watched it wearing some pretty great headphones and I don't think I've ever really experienced a movie with that caliber of aural finesse. The whole movie was finely tuned to take full advantage of the stereo effect (I can only imagine what if would have been like in Dolby surround) which created so many subtle textures and spaces. And the accompanying score from composer Jon Brion was phenomenal.
W.
I was really looking forward to seeing this one. I had heard that it received mixed reviews for a couple of reasons--conservatives didn't like it because it doesn't shy away from exposing Bush's Bushisms, and liberals didn't like it because it didn't give Bush the roasting he deserved.
While you might hope that this sort of a balance to reveal a subtle and nuanced portrayl of a complex character, you'd be sorely disappointed.
Josh Brolin gives a great performance as Bush, but the writing he was given doesn't really delve any deeper than the cartoonish phrases and cowboy exploits that we've already seen from the real Bush after enduring eight years of his misunderestimations on the news.
Sicko
Of all the movies I've seen recently, this one hit me the hardest. After breaking my leg last November and undergoing major surgery, my medical bills topped out at over $15,000. Luckily I've got great insurance and so I won't have to shell out hardly anything out of pocket--BUT, unluckily, my insurance coverage runs out at the beginning of next month, leaving me to wonder, how in the world would I have ever been able to pay for my desperately needed care if I had not been covered?
Costs associated with healthcare are now the number one cause of bankruptcy in the United States and this film takes a good long look at why that is. Michael Moore is an incisive and witty commentator on the state of things as he travels the globe comparing different systems of healthcare. I was both entertained and deeply moved as I watched the stories of so many americans struggling to make ends meet in the face of tragic circumstances. If you take the time to see one movie from this list, make it this one.
Coraline
The amount of artistry and attention to detail that went into making this film is just staggering. Even before the movie actually starts, I'm blown away by the credits and titles.
I was really impressed too by the way the director chose to use the 3D effect as more than just a gimmick--but a way to further the story and add to it's depth. (No pun intended...ok, maybe it was) Everything in the real world for Coraline is washed out, dull, and compressed. This makes her journey into the alternate world behind the door all the more vivid and rich. The sets become deep and expansive--full of wonder and in Coraline's case, danger too. If you haven't seen this one yet, make a point to go--it just won't be the same outside the theatre.
Buffalo '66
This movie took awhile to grow on me but I can't stop thinking about it. The characters were so honest and believable--several times I felt like I was intruding on a really private moment. Sort of uncomfortable and hypnotic all at the same time. The cinematography was really beautiful--full, rich, grainy unabashed pre-digital film stock, shot mostly with natural and existing lighting.
Vincent Gallo was electrifying on screen and it is evident that he was just as powerful off as he wrote and directed the piece.
The comedy was painful--uncomfortably funny. I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh, or cry, or cower in fear with the characters. I don't know if I've ever seen anything so emotionally complex.
Paper Moon
I can't believe I've never seen this one before! Instant favorite. Ryan O'Neal is fantastic, as was Madeleine Kahn--but neither was as pitch perfect as Tatum O'Neal who delivered hands down the best performance I've ever seen from a child actor. The story was clever and the dialogue witty and original without ever becoming trite or corny. Director Peter Bogdanovich paints a charming and naturalistic portrait of the Depression-era Midwest without being overly-sentimental or sugary. The film style is raw and fits the period beautifully with richly contrasting black and white tones and long depth of field focus. I really don't know if there's anything I could fault about this movie.
Your thoughts? Have you seen any of these? Any others you might like to reccomend?
More than anything I loved the look and feel of this movie. The staggering attention to detail was evident in every frame.
Even though the movie is set in 1940's Hollywood, most of the action takes place in Barton's dilapidated art deco hotel from a previous era. The deco greens and oranges created an atmosphere that was both hot and humid and oppresive, but also moldy and decaying.
John Turturro's performance was subtle and nuanced. He was nervous and neurotic but always realistically so. On top of his superb general characterization, the emotional weight demanded of him was immense and he was pitch perfect in delivering.
John Goodman was terrific and terrifying as Barton's neighbor turned psychopath. He's the kind of actor that can really draw an audience in and earn their trust--which makes it all the more impressive and conflicting in the mind of the viewer when we realize that he was never who we thought he was.
I always love seeing Steve Buscemi even in smaller roles. He just seems to pop up everywhere--and in this movie he literally did just that. In his first entrance in the film he pops up out of a trapdoor behind the hotel counter to check Barton into his room. He was the hotel's only visible employee and a perfect reflection of it's pale and sickly condition.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around the concept of the film. As far as I can tell, it's both a post-modern noir buddy-film period piece and a tragi-comic metaphor about the creative process and our relationship to creative works as viewers.
In any case, Barton Fink won the Palm D'or prize, Best Director, and Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival in 1991--but grossed only $6 million at the box office. So if you're a film critic, you'll probably love this movie. And if you're someone who loves blockbusters, you probably won't.
Surface:
stretched out like the taut liquid skin
on a rippling body of water.
We float
just above
hovering over the depths
watching people, times of day, lights streaming through leaves
splash.
surface and submerge.
Sometimes wishing we could drown in the depths of memory
or bathe in the quiet of a moment.
We pass--
like leaky lifeboats with our hands stretched out almost falling in
fingers barely brushing.
There is no tide.
No waves.
This morning I woke up
hungry
the kitchen was cold.
I looked down and found my feet warm
standing in a puddle of sunlight.
Life is good. I'm back on my feet and can do almost everything I could before.
It's funny, I've never been much of a runner, but ever since the accident I have this incredible urge all the time to run.
But I can bicycle again and I'm loving that. I took a ride in the rain earlier today and it was so clean and cold and refreshing.
This week has been great--Have been looking forward to the inauguration for months and it didn't disappoint. Loved the music, the poem, the new president--so fitting.
Back in rehearsal for Twelfth Night--hadn't realized how much I had missed that cast.
Spent most of the afternoon on Thursday with a good book in the library.
Saw 'Defiance'--and really liked it.
Posted the parts for our Shakespeare play in my Youth Theatre Class on Friday--the kids were jazzed.
Ate at Cucina in Salt Lake earlier today--had the chicken curry salad. Perfect.
Stopped by a birthday party tonight.
Went grocery shopping with my brother.
Church, and home for dinner with the family tomorrow. Should be relaxing.
I hope it keeps raining. Such a nice change from the snow.
I think I'm done with romanticizing my life. Not because anything traumatic or difficult has happened to me--but because it feels more honest to. At least for now. Things can still be beautiful and exciting without being spun, composed, or put on a pedestal. I'm ok with that.
Today I went in for production photos for Twelfth Night. I realized that I'm really bad at posing. It's one thing to suspend disbelief and live in an alternate reality while acting on stage, and another thing entirely to try and project a contrived appearance in front of a camera.
"I'm sorry, I'm not so good at posing" I said right before we began the shoot.
"Oh that's fine, everyone has been making silly poses so you'll fit right in" replied the photographer.
I don't think she understood what I was saying.
"You're a little stiff" she said after awhile.
Part of the problem is these nervous tendencies I have. Some people bite their lips, or get sweaty palms, but my reaction to stress or nerves is a little different. I smile. I get this big, goofy grin on my face that won't go away. And if I try to make it go away, it just ends up looking ridiculous like I'm trying not to laugh. I have blown many an audition because I was so nervous that I couldn't quit smiling. I'll be attempting a somber or angry piece and the director just thinks I can't take anything seriously because I can't wipe that smirk off my face.
But it did serve me well as a missionary--everyone thought I was the most cheerful person they'd ever met, when in reality, talking to total strangers just made me really nervous. And so I smiled. And to be fair it did become true in the end--it's difficult to wear any sort of facial expression for any amount of time without it rubbing off on your psyche. I suppose if there's any nervous habit to have, this one is as good as any.
I had a girlfriend once who could see right through it. Whenever I'd get upset with her, I'd start smiling--because confrontation makes me nervous--and she'd know what I was really feeling.
In any case, my nervous smile did not serve me well during the photo shoot. I think in the end I got two expressions on film: the smile, and this sort of blank look that I can achieve if I clear my mind and steady my nerves. But I'm ok with that--I think that was honest.
So I have this bad habit of not going to sleep until I'm good and tired--which rarely happens when I'd most like it to.
Earlier today I had a migraine. I can always tell when they are coming--I start to get this weird pressure behind my eyes accompanied by this sinking feeling. Then it becomes a race--if I can get to a couple of Excedrin within about twenty minutes, I'm usually in good shape. If not, then it's a good dose of full blown nausea and hypersensitivty to light, sounds, and smells. I have no idea what causes them. Thankfully, I don't get them frequently at all--in fact I can't remember when the last time I had one was. And luckily, if I can choke down a couple tylenol and lie down in the dark for awhile I usually have it beat in about an hour. My heart really goes out to those people who get migraines for twelve hours. Misery.
That was all a roundabout way of saying that I had a nap and so I am not yet tired.
A few thoughts:
I hate spiders. BUT, I am perfectly willing to coexist with them provided that they are not over a certain size or speed. (ie I will let the little green house spider do his job in peace, but the large swiftly darting hairy monstrosity had better hope he's faster than I am) Also, there is a zero tolerance policy in terms of arachnid invasion of personal spaces. Spiders of any size or type will by squished on site if found in my bed, shoes, or dishes.
Secondly, Did you know that Avocadoes are sometimes called Alligator Pears? I love that. So fitting. But also, the name 'Avocado' comes from the aztec word 'Ahuacatl'--which means Testicle. I don't love that. I think I'll stick to calling them Alligator Pears.
Lastly, I got a new crockpot for christmas. All last semester I saved money by buying cheap and delicious soup ingredients in bulk and making giant batches of stew. (That's kind of a sick phrase though 'giant batches of stew'? Sick. Who would want to eat a batch? Or stew? Gross.) But it actually is really great. Most of the time. And I love cooking so, two birds with one stone, right? (That's not a soup. At least not one I've made)
In any case, I am shamelessly soliciting your help blogworld. Do you have any great soup recipes that you would be willing to send me? If your soup is selected as one of the lucky winners to be made in my crockpot, I may even invite you over for a bowl. Fair?
