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An Ode to Elisabeth Shue

I could easily name ten men whose acting has changed my life. Men whom I wish I could emulate. Men who I steal from, dream about, and return to their performances over and over again. But when it comes to women, I always struggle to name the actresses who exist on a similar plane of influence as the men.

I reach to Mike Figgis' Leaving Las Vegas when I have questions. Questions about the past, of filmmaking and shot choices, but also questions about myself and my future. Leaving Las Vegas is not considered a feel good movie. However, I will cue it up on my laptop, and inevitably get comfy in bed, allowing the tragedy wash over me. In a recent re-watch, curled up with my cat, escaping the unbearable summer heat, I realized, Elisabeth Shue might be my favorite actress.

For starters, we are the same height (5'4"). Think of your favorite actress in the 5’3”-5’4” range. They are leads of a certain type. Not models. Curvy yet strong. Being petite is an asset (or at least that's what I’ve been told). And within that petite frame there are angular features, high cheek bones, and a general warmth that radiates from their whole being. I mention all this because traditionally naming physical attributes helps an actress define herself. How do all these parts come together? Can a character use and move freely within them? So, with this in mind, I feel a natural kinship to Shue and how she approaches her characters, especially Sera.

In an old press junket interview, Elisabeth Shue describes her character as "a real wounded soul who is clinging to hope in the midst of a lot of desperation." That hope is the tenderness she feels taking care of someone else. Something we suspect she has not experienced before.

Shue has a subtle, almost sweet way of delivering dialogue. Not to imply that Sera is shy, on the contrary, she is strong as fuck, and she says everything that needs to be said. Just not in a loud or forceful way. She does not bite, she pours. When she says things like “so come" the syllables flow from her painted lips like vodka into a cup. Her words will burn on the way down but their delivery is smooth. Like when she is on a date with Ben, twirling her spaghetti dinner with a smile, she gets to the heart of things (his and ours) and asks "why are you killing yourself?" Throughout the scene, Sera listens, gently holding her cocktail straw. There is a blankness to her gaze, sharklike but not put upon. She is in love with him, and his drinking.

Something I also love about this movie is its use of light and the texture that non-LED power brings to the frame. The night scenes actually evoke sex. Glittering lights pop and real neon blazes against a fading sun without the bleeding ambient light of lamp posts or unnaturally bright headlights overpowering the beauty of the desert. I miss the warmth and freedom of not being constantly watched by machines. You could escape into fantasy. Or your demise.

To me, this quality helps the film age even more beautifully because this neon fantasy world is practically unattainable today. We are truly voyeurs here. We should not be witnessing this man kill himself with alcohol. But Sera, unlike us, is able to take him on. Not to fix him. She graces him with dignity. Even though she is ultimately using him herself.

In reflecting on of all this, I cannot help but think of my ex who first showed me this film. He told me to pay particular attention to Sera. How she spoke and held herself. He believed that Shue's portrayal of a prostitute was accurate, and not unlike my inherently "submissive" demeanor, suggesting that I try to emulate her. Not Elisabeth Shue the actress. But Sera the devoted woman. He had a habit of not separating real life from the fantasy of a movie.

This relationship ended many years ago, and I have come to recognize, in rather stark terms, that this man was never really my boyfriend or a partner, but my pimp, turning me out for his own benefit. A rather difficult thing to admit because I had devoted the majority of my twenties to this dynamic. And it can often feel quite confusing to still find solace in, and connection to, this film. But I do. I still believe that the character of Sera holds many qualities that I also exude. Not how it was prescribed to me -- a co-dependent submissive who will never doubt or abandon the addict -- but in her quiet strength and resolve to love fully and without judgement.

To him this film was instruction. For me, it is acknowledgment of the precarious situations I have found myself in, but ultimately, this film is a map leading me to a better future. Because in the end, like Sera leaving Ben's motel room, I walked out into the light of day, shaken but determined, heading toward a future where the dead of the past are left behind on decaying bedsheets.

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Films as Prophecy

Do the themes we encounter in art become our reality? Or is it just main character syndrome?

I sometimes think that I manufactured my adult life out of the films I absorbed as a teenager. I was obsessed with tragic love stories. Movies with drugs and dangerous sex. The perils of dating older men. Freaks who lived in attic apartments. Sadistic bosses. Thieves. Seekers and violent offenders. Codependency disguised as love. "Coffee and pie, oh my."

And the characters, inhabiting their alluring worlds, invited me into their wayward lives. Like animals in a zoo, I watched and studied their movements and behavior, wanting desperately to climb inside and transfuse the danger into my everyday life.

Candy (2006) was one of these films. Starring Abbie Cornish and Heath Ledger as Candy and Dan, this Australian indie checked almost every box in my hierarchy of cinematic needs.

They are beautiful together, Candy and Dan. Their entangled bodies fill the frame. Underwater in a public pool or in many beds. A new bed often acting as a stage for their ever changing states of being. It is an incredibly sensual, almost tactile film. You feel it in your gut as they use. And in your throat as they unravel and lose everything.

As a teen who leaned heavily toward the romantic, I idolized them, but especially Candy. She is an artist who becomes a sex worker to support their habit. She loves with abandon. She cannot quit him. But the scenes that captivated me the most in a recent rewatch were between Casper and Dan.

Geoffrey Rush's Casper is a father figure of sorts, and says to Dan "promise me you'll stop. Promise me you'll stop before I do."

Escaping from the world in a lonesome house, high on a hill, these two men indulge and satiate their addictions together. Casper later overdoses, and Dan discovers his body, sitting upright on the couch where they shared many a stoned night. It is a terribly eerie scene to see knowing that this would become Heath Ledger's fate just a few years later.

"I wasn't trying to wreck Candy's life. I was trying to make mine better."

Is art prophetic? Did a movie about addiction and codependency that I saw as a teenager shape my future?

I should've known, based on all the material I studied, but eventually, I walked into a relationship that took more than it gave, causing my sense of self to rot from the inside out. And like this movie's prologue, I dizzily rode the carnival ride, centrifugal force pinning me to every wall, spinning wildly out of control in pure ecstasy and as Candy describes it, extravagant delight.

Candy wasn't a warning, but an experience that created emotional pathways which continue to spark my imagination today. But just in the name of art. I have hopefully reassigned my darkest desires from tools of personal destruction to acts of great creation.

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Dreaming on Brokeback Mountain

I love the things that make me, me. Especially now as society's interests seem to be moving very far away from the elements that comprise my tastes and style.

After a monotonous day, I needed some culture, and purpose, so I went to see Brokeback Mountain. Back in theaters after 20 years for Pride and a quick celebration, I guess. The mostly full theater on a Wednesday surprised me. Other folks must also be looking for hope packaged in the past. Or maybe they were seeing the movie for the first time? It felt like a good mix of both as we laughed and sobbed in the dark, escaping the heat and the day together.

Leaving the tiny theater, movie titles above the door were pouring aging, yellow light onto the East Village sidewalk. I began walking west, toward the other Village and my train home.

The day's heat still lingering and sticky, I wandered from corner to street, taking in the night. The Webster Hall marquee proclaimed an AI summit. Young couples leaving the bright red billiards hall talking in clipped, barely emoted sentences about being low key excited for gelato. Their laughs irony filled and short, stumbling into the vastness of the city.

My mom took me to see Brokeback Mountain in theaters 20 years ago. I was 16 and instead of lying or sneaking into the rated R movie, I asked my mom if we could go together.

I was just starting to pay attention to Hollywood. What was coming out -- who was starring in what -- the gossip -- the lore ... everything about the magical land just beyond the 5 freeway intrigued me. I don't remember what it was about the movie that made it unmissable for me. Maybe I had seen the trailer enough times to sense that the picture, sound, and performances were all things that I'd really love.

Looking back, I'm pretty proud I had the perspective as a teenager to sincerely want to watch Brokeback Mountain with my mom. I don't know how she felt, sitting there with her teenage daughter, weeping into her popcorn over this forbidden love story. I do know that she will always encourage my curiosity, and say yes to big art in any form if her daughters are moved and inspired by it.

I was shaped by Queer cinema before streaming and Youtube. Going to the movies has always been an act of discovery and dreaming for me, so as I walked through the Villages on a random evening, I felt renewed. I thought how lucky I am to be on this path, the artist's way. And that I've always known how to find good art for dreaming.

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(500) Days of Summer

Summer is here. Well, somedays, she is fast approaching, and others in full retreat, giving way to cold rain and wind, only to emerge suddenly, and very beautifully, in all her glory. Maybe summer is never consistently here? Just something I dream about after a long winter? A fantasy of sunny days and balmy nights, when New York City is full of promise and adventure.

This is starting to sound like the 2025 version of Marc Webb's (500) DAYS OF SUMMER. I decided to rewatch it the other night, and of course, the timing (and the film) could not have been more perfect.

The movie actually came out in the summer of 2009. I had been living in Los Angeles and preparing to move to New York City in the fall. I was ready for The Big City. My dreams had quickly outgrown Hollywood, which sounds incredibly silly to admit, but I didn't see myself on the CW shows of the late aughts. Real artists go to New York, or so I told myself.

So in the summer of 2009, I was dreaming of my first fall in New York City, while falling in love with my last Los Angeles summer. Mostly because of this little "not a love story" movie.

My favorite LA hideaway (with the worst parking) was the Arclight Cinemas in Hollywood. I miss Arclight Hollywood now more than any other special place, lover, or friend. The Arclight was my best friend in those days, and the gateway to my absolute devotion to cinema.

(500) DAYS OF SUMMER sparked and consumed my attention that summer. I would ascend The Arclight's majestic steps to catch yet another screening of this sweet and perfect movie, then drive home to Santa Monica, taking only surface streets, chasing the sun and singing to the soundtrack blasting in my car.

I still feel connected to Tom. His belief in destiny and that true love is possible. How easily he gave up on his architect dream when things got hard. How he believed his dreams would finally come true when he found the perfect partner. How his fantasy partner never really existed. And the ultimate journey he was forced to take to find himself again.

Of course, I couldn't know this at the time, but I would experience my own version of Tom's journey. After almost sixteen years of living in New York, I still relate to his hope, his pain, and his eventual triumph, now more than ever. My 500 days are cyclical like Tom's. The time it takes to find love, to get a broken heart, and to come back to those original dreams. I've experienced many seasons of 500 days, and I think I'm just starting another day one again.

To be loved by summer is to experience life. I hope to continue counting days, and drawing perfect cities on my blackboard wall, actualizing my dreams ... but only to the beat of Vagabond by Wolfmother.

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This is not a sad girl post.

I’m waiting in the lobby of the Magic Johnson AMC and I want to talk about ambition.

Has ambition ever changed for you? Does it adapt to mirror your environment? Gone out with the tide? Or does your ambition keep blazing regardless of circumstance, or credit card statements?

I lost my ambition last year. And I think I'm finally finding ways to bring it back. One way is this blog. Writing about the films I love and/or see in theaters. I went to the movies a lot leading up to the holidays. Between the Robert Siodmak retrospective (which solidified my love for noir, more on that later) to Brando 100 at Film Forum, and all the awards season contenders, I spent more time alone at the cinema than I did at home, or on any kind of date. Being alone with strangers, voyeuristically enjoying each other's company in a darkened room for hours is my kind of fun. It sure beats reality, or confronting the necessary steps to getting out from under the great expectations I had set for myself almost 20 years ago.

If I'm being honest, the strikes took me out. Well, I needed an excuse to take a break from ambition for a while. I was paying way too much money for Zoom classes, pretending I had a career. But in reality, as soon as I closed my computer, I was alone. No one was calling. No one seemed interested. But I also wasn’t making it known that I wanted to be called. People actually had no idea where I was living … "New York … right? Or are you back in LA?"

Something that comes with vanishing ambition is the feeling of losing your voice. I had listened to far too many bad men and their "career advice" over the years that I didn't know where to turn next. And my accomplishments weren't quite living up to my expectations. And the disappointments kept accumulating to the point where I would hear people say the word DREAM and I would think … wow … I wish I still had those ... remember DREAMS?

So, how is this not a sad girl post...? Well, it sort of is, but I'm realizing that I'm running out of time for self pity. I'm not interested in being coddled or told all of my dreams will come true if I just keep "showing up." And I'm certainly not looking to be saved (gross). But I do know that I can't live this life in art alone. And sharing my work is good, for my own belief in my talents, but also, people need to be reminded sometimes. It's okay to shout "I exist! And I make stuff!"

Anyway, I saw Zoë Kravitz’s directorial debut last year and it left me shaking. She had an incredible amount to say in BLINK TWICE, using big strokes from her bold, primary palette. I could viscerally relate to being caught in a trauma loop with harmful men and the people who protect them. I'm also in search of the words and images to turn my experiences into cinematic art. My hope for the new year is that my ambition begins to fade into focus again. So, one movie at a time, I let go, and let the film gods take over. If she could do it, so could I.

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Boxing and Beautiful Losers

I can always count on Metrograph to lift my spirits. They lean slightly pretentious as far as third places go, but their film programming is quite good. And I love escaping to a neighborhood that even in its transplant takeover still feels like the New York I met 15 years ago.

I took way too many trains on a Sunday evening to catch FAT CITY (1972), starring a young but severely weathered Stacy Keach. I made it to my seat in the big cinema with the balcony just as the lights began to dim. Me and all the Conrad Hall obsessed film-bros were in attendance. I noticed the men's restroom line after the screening was significantly longer than the women's restroom line. I guess that comes with the territory of a John Huston boxing movie.

There is so much I could say about the film. But this is my blog, so I want to talk about boxing and beautiful losers.

I have an ancestral connection to boxing. My Mexican great grandfather was a welterweight champion. My Irish great uncle also boxed. I started boxing training five years ago, and I deeply enjoy feeling like a tough guy. My Mexican great grandfather was also an alcoholic. My dad remembers visiting him as a young boy for Sunday dinners in Fontana, California -- unable to feel his legs from years of excessive drinking, my great grandfather would ask my dad to punch his feet while he drank and shared stories from his boxing days. He experienced racism as crowds chanted to "kill that greaser" while he fought. He would cry remembering it. Then he would drink some more from the gallon of wine he kept on his bedside table and sing "Cielito Lindo" or recite Gunga Din for my father who took in all the beauty and the sadness of this once strong man.

FAT CITY is compelling to me in it's deliberate movement -- the camera seems to be constantly moving ahead while the characters struggle to keep apace. The opening sequence alone, with Stacy Keach's Billy Tully willing himself out of bed for a cigarette that he never manages to light, grinds forward in story and Billy's physicality. I can feel the hangover, the injuries, and the slow realization that the money is still gone, but maybe a drink could fix his problems.

I didn't realize how much I could personally relate to the film until I began to feel how familiar Billy Tully felt to me. I never met my great grandfather, but I know him through the stories, and my own relationship to lost dreams and boxing.

I'm also newly obsessed with Susan Tyrrell. What a performance. Talk about active and alive with clear needs, disgusts, and pain all bubbling up at once behind her eyes. A character that dreams are made of -- the opportunity for full abandonment of self and the deepest dive into an alcoholic woman's soul.

The scenes between Oma and Billy are boxing matches. Two heavy weight actors one upping the other to win the fight of their lives. I'm not sure big league actors still do this for each other anymore. But god a girl can dream. I want to get in the ring with the toughest motherfucker and go round after round with the relentless drive for truth in brutal, but wickedly fun to play, imaginary circumstances. Actresses still want that right? Or is it just me?

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Lynn Shelton's Movies

You know that feeling when you fall in love with an episode of television? Where everything just makes sense? The characters are their most selves because they are finally being seen by a loving and attentive eye? The lighting is perfect, and the room or airport or wrestling ring are shown in ways that seem new and effortlessly lived in all at the same time? Yeah. It's a nice feeling. And it's how I feel after watching anything directed by Lynn Shelton.

I never got to work with Lynn or meet her, but somehow, through her sensibilities captured on screen, I feel like I know her.

As a fun, little winter project, I'm going to watch every movie and every episode of television she directed. I want to learn from her, and celebrate her artistry. (finally, my IMDbPro account being put to good use again.)

Here are her movies:

We Go Way Back (2006) - Director, Editor, Writer

My Effortless Brilliance (2008) - Additional Camerawork, Director, Editor, Producer, Writer

Humpday (2009) - Second Camera Operator, Director, Producer, Writer

Your Sister's Sister (2011) - Director, Executive Producer, Writer

Touchy Feely (2013) - Director, Editor, Writer

Laggies (2014) - Director

Outside In (2017) - Director, Writer

Sword of Trust (2019) - Director, Producer, Writer

Of course I'll be watching every film in order, and report back what I find here. (I'm like already amazed to learn that she also edited and wrote most of her films. Genius.)

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"Your joy is defiant. Protect it."

I saw Dandelion (directed by Nicole Riegel) on a Tuesday afternoon this summer. It was July in New York, and the sun seemed to be constantly shining on steaming sidewalks. So, after a morning of running errands in the already oppressive weather, I decided to take a break and go to the movies. This is typically how find myself at multiplex's -- totally unplanned and during the middle of the day.

This wasn't a completely random decision -- I had read about the film online. I'm on the indie filmmaker side of Instagram, and knew there was a very small window to actually see it on a big screen.

There were about five of us escaping the muggy city heat inside the Kips Bay AMC.

After the screening, and back out into the heart of Midtown East, I walked to the 34th street bus stop, feeling refreshed and inspired.

Three films came to mind while I waited for the crosstown bus:

Once (2007), the latest A Star Is Born, and American Honey (2016).

Like every millennial sad-girl theater nerd, I played my Once soundtrack CD over and over again in the car. Repeating songs, singing badly, and of course, crying as I drove over the massive connecting freeways of Los Angeles.

Dandelion's soundtrack of original songs is incredible, and brings me right back 2007 and 2018. All the feelings of artistic ambition, desperation for love, and healing heartbreak.

Comparing this film to Once and A Star is Born isn't too original. All of these movies involve instant connection, tragedy, and music. How love and art can easily destroy one another.

Dandelion is also a Road Film. The rich colors and textures, as well as the romantic entanglement (although slightly less raw and messy) reminded me of American Honey. In a post by ARRI Rental Group, Dandelion's DP cited Andrea Arnold's films as a visual reference. I felt very gratified reading that while on my own road traveling home. Proud of my emerging cinematic eye. Even though I don't have a grasp on the technical language of filmmaking yet, I guess I am really learning something! Watching all these movies with appreciation and curiosity.

Of course, there is so much more to say about these films. I recommend them all. Watching them either together or apart.

My summer daytime filmgoing has given me a cool new sensation that I hope to feel again -- a colorful amalgamation of film images comes rushing toward me while the film in front of me slowly unfolds.

This is something I know I can only truly experience with a screen big enough to hold the film and my imagination simultaneously.

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DVD trailers were the coolest

The Notorious Bettie Page (2005) dir. Mary Harron

After seeing the trailer for The Notorious Bettie Page on Picturehouse DVD's for years, I finally saw the film in its entirety last year. But I already knew how the movie would sound. It's texture. Shot in gorgeous black and white, then switching into color, delineating the various phases of Bettie Page's life, the film feels lived in yet stylized. Similar to my other Picturehouse favorites.

Directed by Mary Harron (of American Psycho fame), the film is tight and beautiful, much like its subject. Made back when it seems adults went to the cinema to see sexy, grown up stories in humble packages, instead of the massive scale comic book epics we have today. The film's guest stars are also unmatched. Sarah Paulson as pinup photographer Bunny Yeager. Jared Harris and David Strathairn as supporting characters in Bettie's journey. These Indie cinema heavyweights pop up all over the festival films of the aughts. And it's delightful for me to imagine these gig-ing actors taking on character after character. Supporting themselves on the road with distinguished directors and subversive scripts.

I also love and miss the era when we could not skip the trailers. Even at home! Watching a rented DVD from Blockbuster or Vidiots or even the mailers from Netflix. Hashtag physical media supremacy!

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Could I be a Goth Angel of Death?

When inspiration comes my way, I gladly take it.

I was not expecting to feel excited about acting after seeing The Crow. I walked out of the IMAX with that familiar bodied feeling, the one I get when I witness a character come to life and immediately start mimicking their mannerisms.

I started doing this when I was about six or seven. I have a vivd memory of being at home after seeing The Lion King, yawning like a big cat, adjusting my posture to accommodate claws and hind legs, pretending I was the young prince of Pride Rock.

Now a newly anointed Bill Skarsgård fan, I'm absolutely fascinated by his approach into character. How does he get his eyes to do that ??? He was subtle and beautifully specific, which was extra impressive given the embarrassingly lackluster script. And I could totally tell he studied crows.

So, I left the theater and walked to the train, imagining his hulking, tattooed figure laid over me like a hand painted animation cel. I felt my eyes like his, big and all seeing, covered in black tattoo ink. And I moved with a new purpose, to enact bloody revenge ... or just to catch the 1 train arriving in 3 minutes.

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L.I.E.

I don't know why I decided to rewatch Michael Cuesta's first feature L.I.E. (2001) on a sleepy Sunday morning. It is one of those IYKYK movies. Now, most likely to be discovered in a DVD bargain bin, the film is a big flashing sign of early 2000s indie cinema buzz words like bleak, gritty, disturbing ... but L.I.E. holds an unusual place in my heart. And, for better or for worse, helped shape my cinematic taste.

You never forget the first movie or television series where you witness a character actor just steal scene after scene and runaway with the whole show. Brian Cox is one of those actors. And for me, it was two performances of his that I saw around the same time: Deadwood, where he plays a dandy-ish roaming theater troupe actor with a dangerous edge ... and L.I.E.

A very terrible person showed me this film. He had it saved in an almost cherished place among his DVD collection. I did not see the obvious red flags at the time. I just desperately wanted to be treated like a grown up, which meant to me, being able to handle heavy material and hold my own in late night discussions about sex and art. So, I watched the film as a willing and good student, walking head on into the darkness.

I have no memories of my reaction, or really having any conversations about the film. But while watching it again yesterday, I found myself clutching my chest, holding my breath, and feeling enormous dread in the pit of my stomach. Remember, this is a movie where Brian Cox's character, Big John, is an adult doing absolutely reprehensible things. And yet, when I watch the film, I still feel drawn into his world, simultaneously holding a quiet desire for Big John to rescue Paul Dano's character Howard, and for him to disappear forever.

I feel like this movie was shown to me to teach me something. About what, exactly? I'm not sure. I feel sad for my younger self who got inappropriately involved with people who presented themselves as art saviors. But what surprised me the most while watching the film now, is how oddly kindred I felt toward Howard. Over the course of this tumultuous story, he finds a sweet, inner strength. Transmuting his grief to help him state to his father at the end, in a very mature, matter of fact way, "don't ever fucking hit me again." This was Paul Dano's first on screen performance. And to me, his vulnerability and exceptional work makes this unsettling movie, watchable ... almost enjoyable.

You can totally disagree with me. Actually, please do. It is a fucked up movie. But those tend to be my favorite, and overall, L.I.E. is really great. An incredible achievement as a first feature. Artfully crafted with a very compelling and nuanced story. Similar in many ways to one of my all time favorite films Mysterious Skin ... but more on Gregg Araki another time.

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Elegy (2008) dir. Isabel Coixet

I used to ditch class to see movies at the Laemmle Santa Monica. Discount Tuesday's included a free popcorn, so skipping my Anthropology 101 class to escape into another world at my local cinema felt like a better deal. Seeing this film on a random afternoon as a moody teenager was groundbreaking. I had already been making plans to move to New York. Dreaming up a romantic life for myself as an actor in a big new city. This film seemed to embody a life I was hungry for -- real adults having grown up love problems. I loved how quiet and sensual every scene felt. And the soundtrack gave this film its beautiful mood. I bought the CD during the Virgin Megastore's closing sale on Hollywood Blvd. The piano adagios and languid jazz covers dominated my iPod. I would play the soundtrack over and over and daydream about being in a difficult love affair. Dreaming in soundtracks was big for me during my Los Angeles years. More on my favorite movie soundtracks to come ...

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“just another freak in the freak kingdom.”

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) dir. Terry Gilliam

I told a college professor, who taught my auteur director class at Santa Monica College, that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was my desert island movie. And that is still kind of true. At the time, I was studying acting at Stella Adler in Hollywood while taking random college film classes, so I was just being bombarded by the beauty and ecstasy of character work. Rewatching the film now, I can see how every department was deeply committed to making this movie. The cinematography, production design...everything. As for the acting, beyond the over told stories about shaving heads and cigar burns, their character thoughts and behaviors come for your throat. Never surrendering.

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10 Films that Shaped Me:

(volume one)

Mysterious Skin (2004), Brick (2006), Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus (2006), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Y tu mamá también (2001), Last Tango in Paris (1972), Kill Bill: Volume 2 (2004), Before The Devil Knows You're Dead (2007), Elegy (2008), Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998).

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#Freak4Freak

I'm rewatching Steven Shainberg's Secretary (2002) ... again. Every so often, this film scratches a very particular itch: a need to absorb "control, color, and connection" before moving on with my day. It's the Fourth of July. Holidays tend to stir up this desire in me.

Movies about control, or rather, movies where you can feel the director's control within the film, bring me a sense of calm. (I enjoy watching David Fincher movies when I'm anxious.) Secretary's BDSM theme is of course apart of that. However, I'm more interested in how the control of the camera makes me feel. The smooth, deliberate moves of a tracking shot. Or the perfectly crafted wide. Every angle, pop of color, and body position has something to say.

But I actually discovered Steven Shainberg through his second film Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus (2006). I was living in Los Angeles at the time, and I just happened to stop by Blockbuster after a class at Santa Monica College. Back when video stores were slowly dying, odd independent films just seemed to be everywhere on the rental shelves. The DVD with Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr. on the cover caught my eye. I'm pretty sure I was on a RDJ kick after having just seen the very fun, neo-noir Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (2005). He was in the middle of his pre-Iron Man indie renaissance, and I remember being intrigued by the mystery of this random video cover.

I was initially struck by the production design. The colors and character palettes tell so much story. When Diane first approaches Lionel's door. Deep blue hues colliding with her clean baby pink demeanor. All I wanted was to crawl into the film and drink tea in Lionel's decaying carnival loft. I've seen the film dozens of times now. And I still return to it pretty often, for the mood, the costumes, and to see Diane swept away again into a world of oddities and wonder.

I noticed this time, while watching Secretary again, that Shainberg likes to use water as a portal into his character's inner self. The bath in Fur, the pool in Secretary. Diane and Lee both submerge themselves into Wonderland, their fantasies. Not seeing with their eyes, but with their bodies. How this inherent darkness and desire is inside them. E. Edward Grey and Lionel Sweeney guide the women into a new world. Where they are fully seen and encouraged to create using their sensibilities that make them "a real freak."

These are really just #Freak4Freak movies. A hero's journey of finding somebody who's gonna match their freak. And isn't that what we're all looking for on a national holiday?

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Starting a blog in 2024 feels right, so here we are!

I love movies. I study films for fun. My dream is to make my own films one day. So here are some musings on Cinema, and the shots that inspire me.

"I don't know why I'm like this."

Secretary (2002) dir. Steven Shainberg