Do go and see this movie. It’s a documentary about backup singers for acts like the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Sting. These women discuss their love for music, their fears and triumphs, their desire for careers of their own. It’s an interesting study of success– how we define it, what it means to “make it,” whether or not we let others determine our worth. And it’s also a movie about passion– passion for singing and music, indeed, but also passion for living and honoring that bit of wildness that exists inside all of us. That little animal we call talent that yearns and craves for something. Our gifts that need to be fed and cared for.
My cousin Kyana and her collaborator Novel Idea have created “Naked Layers,” a film that explores the body and vulnerability and nudity and space, and it’s so remarkable. I emailed Kyana after watching it and told her how I was nodding and crying and laughing while watching. Everything she discovers and discusses have been on my mind at one point or another, and it’s art like this that makes me feel less alone in the world. I recognize myself and the world in what they’ve created.
You can learn and see more of the project here.
I discovered Gregory Crewdson by accident. I was wandering the aisles of the Strand bookstore with twenty bucks to spend, and I picked Twilight off the shelf because Rick Moody (a favorite of mine) wrote the introduction. I lost hours looking through those photographs. Mostly shot on location in Pittsfield, MA, his photos portray seemingly ordinary people and places. But there’s always something something slightly disordinary, too. Open car doors, light shining from the basement, wandering wildlife– Crewdson locates and foregrounds the beauty and curiosities of suburban landscapes, and the effect is simultaneously calming and chilling.
I am fascinated by narratives of family and home, and particularly stories of domestic disturbance. Where are those moments of intrusion in our lives? What happens when there is a violation of a seemingly safe space? Crewdson photos offers some possibilities, but like most of the good stuff, his work poses more questions than it answers.
Gregory Crewdson: Brief Encounters is a documentary chronicling the ten years it took to complete “Beneath the Roses.” If the film comes to your city, do check it out! I was able to catch it during a week-long run in Los Angeles, and I can’t recommend it enough.
As a side note, I love everything about this picture. But the woman is definitely my favorite part. Her face, her hands, and the way the dirt brushes against her cellulite make it possible for me to look at this photo for hours.
I went to see Side Effects on Sunday and it was an entertaining two hours. One of the highlights? Peter Friedman. You know his face, you’ve seen him in a bunch of stuff, he’s one of those guys who’s kind of in everything (he played the neighbor, the one you just knew was gonna get some limbs chopped off by crazy Jennifer Jason Leigh in Single White Female), and I just think he’s really great. He’s a New York actor (another thing I liked about Side Effects– so many New York theater actors onscreen), and I first saw him onstage a few years ago in After the Revolution at Playwrights Horizons.
He always seems to be living when he’s acting. He doesn’t feel like an actor man delivering lines, he feels like a fully realized human being going through an experience. He interrupts himself, he laughs, he scratches, he wants something from the other actors around him. When I watch him act, I say “Oh, I know that guy” or “Yup, I do that, too.” Sanford Meisner taught that acting is the ability to listen and respond, and I could watch Peter Friedman do it endlessly.
Foolish Heart, Steve Perry
Biggest Part of Me, Ambrosia
How Long, Ace
Strange Magic, ELO
Strawberry Letter 23, Brothers Johnson
If You Could Read My Mind, Gordon Lightfoot
Wishing on a Star, Rose Royce
Do It Again, Steely Dan
Sailing, Christopher Cross
Lotta Love, Nicolette Larson
I Just Got To Be Free, Minnie Ripperton
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, The Band
Dancing in the Moonlight, King Harvest
The Darktown Strutter’s Ball, Alberta Hunter
I see New England, summer, late 1970’s. I see bicycles and wraparound porches with swings on white houses at the end of a street. I see the families that only come up for the summer, martinis, crossword puzzles, wood-paneled station wagons with cloth seats. I see bare feet and men in short shorts and ice cream and cousins visiting from out of town and embarrassing photos. I see dogs without collars. I see halter tops that tie above the belly button and beach umbrellas and a job at the restaurant on the pier, the restaurant that always smells like fried clams, even in winter, I see moms with too much time on their hands. I see girls with ideas, girls with agendas, girls lying in the sun eating fruit. I see fireworks. I see a family fight through a picture living room window. I see a motel room off Route 22, I see a gray morning. I see pastels, ginghams, ribbons. I see hair pulling, teeth gnashing, learning to smoke, learning to drive, kissing, I see sitting on the hoods of cars. I see one sibling teaching another how to dance, packages in the mail, I see being excited to get back home.