An affectionate ode to the Robert Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken," as illustrated through explorations in music, fiction, film and, occasionally, fruit.
I hold these truths to be self evident: 1. When you're home alone and no one can hear you, it's fun to sing in your Cher voice
2. Ethiopian food looks like vomit 3. Jimmy Page is a god
Did I cram myself into a multiplex last October to see the theatrical release of Celebration Day? No I did not. Why? Because I had to work late each of the two nights it played here. Have I since purchased the DVD and watched it a thousand times? Again, no. And I'm not really sure why. Maybe I've been waiting for the perfect moment. I do that with music and movies sometimes—wait for a weekend when I don't have to shoehorn my spiritual salvation in-between scrubbing bathtub sludge and extracting blobs of Malcolm's ear wax from the carpet (he has an issue; let's leave it at that). But this is Labor Day Weekend! And...it's the first weekend in months when I don't have any "work from work" to slog through. I actually have three entire days to stay in my pajamas until two o'clock! Paint my toenails at midnight! Play with my new Bumble and Bumble Dryspun Finish and spend an afternoon as That Girl (that B&B stuff is the bomb, by the way).
So my big ticket purchase this holiday will be the DVD I've been waiting for, lo these long months. I've painfully refrained from watching YouTube clips. It'll be fresh and new. Even though I already know they didn't play "Achilles Last Stand" (my all-time favorite Zep song), I imagine it'll be akin to how devout Catholics feel when they watch the Pope speak at Christmas. Is the Pope getting on in years? Sure, but he still knows how to rock a stadium. Clear the furniture, people—I'm gonna boogie!
Don't you love it when someone turns you onto a new band...AND YOU CAN'T BUY ANY OF THEIR CDs IN THE U.S.??? I heard Michael Monroe on Sirius the other day talking about singer/guitarist Dregen of Sweden's Backyard Babies, which got me thinking "I've loved Hanoi Rocks and Michael Monroe for decades, and I've heard the name Backyard Babies forever, but I've never listened to them. Maybe I should?" Well, guess again, girlie—because you CAN'T! Not on iTunes. Not on Spotify (save for a few throwaway songs from compilation/tribute albums). And here's what you get when you look up most of their stuff on Amazon:
So, while I hunt this elusive Swedish band like the dirty dogs they are, here are some videos. And also the S.T. song from which this post gets its frustrated title.
And now that I've gotten The Vapors song firmly stuck in your head, click the pic and watch the trailer for Keanu's latest action extravaganza. As some of you know, Keanu and I met once back in 1989 when he was here in Orlando filming Parenthood. I had a friend of a friend who was a Production Assistant on the film, and she'd heard I had a classic schoolgirl crush. I'd just seen River's Edge and Permanent Record and had my sixth sense that he was going to be big. I also somehow knew that he was a gentle, intelligent, very guarded soul.
The P.A. invited me to the set where I waited outside for hours in the sun, nervously reapplying Maybelline lip gloss (I was only 19; I didn't know yet about high-end cosmetics), running lines in my head to ensure I wouldn't say anything childish or cliche. Of course when the moment arrived, I did both. I never got a photo. My sixth sense dropped the ball on that one. Doesn't matter. I can see it just fine in my head. The way he smiled down at me, holding onto my hand while he asked about my life with a quiet intensity. When people ask me what he was like, I say this: not only was he the nicest celebrity I've ever met, he was one of the nicest human beings I've ever met, period.
Over the years, I've felt a little protectively towards him. Wishing I could shield him from snarky publicity and snotty reviews. He's a good person. Lay off.
Maybe I'll bump into him again someday. We'll both be 25 years older. He'll have 25 years of stardom, travel and scars. I'll have the perfect shade of Clinique lipstick and patience.
And this time I won't take a picture on purpose. Because 25 years later, I'd rather have the words. P.S. If you're a cinephile like me, check out Keanu's documentary Side By Side, a fascinating look at the evolution of digital filmmaking.
When I was eight my heroes were Ace Frehley, Luke Skywalker and Kelly Leak (anyone who doesn't cry at the end of The Bad News Bears In Breaking Training has no soul).
When I was twelve, a new name got added to the list: Robert Redford. That's because I saw Ordinary People for the first time. Kind of an odd movie choice for a twelve-year-old, but I was always melodramatic. And a little melancholy.
That film completely changed my life. When I found out it had been adapted from a novel I had to read the novel. Once I read the novel I had to study the screenplay. And when I studied the movie, over and over, it hit me—people made up stories that sometimes got turned into movies. And when a truly beautiful and human director got a hold of it, it became a masterpiece. It spoke to me on painfully personal levels at the time, and in a lot of ways, was a friend. It led me to writing, and it probably saved my life more than once. Because it taught me how to ask for help. Is it rational to love Robert Redford for those reasons? Why not? Even if he hadn't also starred in and/or directed some of the greatest movies in film history AND fought viciously for the environment way, way before it was granola-hip-trendy, I'd still love him. Even if his singular achievement in life had been directing Ordinary People, and after that, he'd gone on to host a game show or open a hair salon in Canoga Park.
So, when I leafed through my new Entertainment Weekly tonight and found out he has a new movie coming out in October that's causing whispers he might finally win a Best Actor Oscar, I ran to YouTube to watch the trailer.
When I saw him in An Unfinished Life, I thought "How can he possibly top that?" His performance left me in one of my favorite states of being: emotionally emptied, like a giant box of Legos strewn across an Oriental rug. Watch this trailer. I think he's about to top that.
Where have I been? Sleeping, eating too many ranch-flavored rice cakes, obsessing over the stray kittens, and feeling way too exhausted from the heat to come up with an original thought worth sharing.
Mostly wishing I lived somewhere cooler. Somewhere like Scandinavia.
I've often thought I'd thrive in the region. I love fish. I enjoy wearing sweaters. And in the past decade, my man taste has morphed from witty big-haired Londoners (who I still want to be friends with), to mysterious artist types like Viggo Mortensen and Mads Mikkelsen. Mads first set my radar on red alert back in 2004 as Tristan in Antoine Fuqua's King Arthur. Who was that long-haired man with the bird? (Seriously...No woman should be expected to look at this picture and not start walking funny.)
I began to investigate. When he popped up as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale I was excited to see his star ascending, but prayed it wouldn't lead to schlocky Hollywood Spaghetti-Os. There was 2010's Clash of the Titans (which I've yet to see so I can't comment), and a possibly awful Three Musketeers movie, but aside from those two—he's mainly flourished outside of the limelight. Outside of America. Until Hannibal, which I can't watch because of my weakness for nightmares, but which I've heard from close friends and every critic on the planet is a prime time masterpiece. Being the journalist at heart that I am, I've been on a Mads mission of late, watching some of his Danish films via Netflix streaming and Amazon Prime. To say they've been a revelation would be like saying Havarti is better than Kraft Singles.
I was right, back in 2004, that he had a je ne sais quoi that made him riveting to watch. But it's not just his range of emotions—it's the way he controls his emotions that makes him one of the most fascinating actors working these days.
Let's all say a collective prayer that no matter how successful Hannibal gets, he never ends up on Jane Lynch's Hollywood Game Night (I apologize to any friends who love this show, but it's horrible), although it would be great to watch Mads use charades to get Kristen Chenoweth to scream"I know this! Hans Holbein The Younger!"
Here are two of my favorite films of his so far:
A ROYAL AFFAIR
AFTER THE WEDDING
And here's another I'm dying to see when it's released on DVD:
THE HUNT
I've also
discovered a series of Swedish movies based on popular crime novels (all of which I plan to read) by writer Liza Marklund. They're called Annika Bengtzon: Crime Reporter, but I can assure you–there's nothing Nancy Drew about them.
They're produced by the same people who made the Millennium Triology (the REAL "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" movies) in Sweden, and they're available via Netflix streaming. Be
warned: they're Pringles. You'll be in all weekend. Like the female characters in the Danish films, I love that Annika's character is strong, flawed and unapologetically real. And that she wears Converse sneakers instead of stilettos.
Will I ever get there? Perhaps. My mom and I have played with the idea of a vacation to Scandinavia for years. I haven't taken a vacation in five years. I think I'm due. Will I ever get there? To the ideological social oasis that I see progressive countries such as Denmark, Norway and Sweden embodying? I hope so, someday. Although, right about now, I'd settle for meeting a nice Nordic guy who believes in sustainable farming and doesn't ever ask me to wear tube tops.
