Seeing "Magic Mike" on the hottest day of the year

Since it was over 100 degrees again today, I decided to spend the hottest part of the afternoon in a dark, air conditioned room: a movie theatre. I went to see “Magic Mike” with a good portion of the female population of the greater Winston-Salem area. I don’t think I’ve been in a room with that many women since my last convocation at Salem College.

Let’s get something out of the way first – I’m very over the reaction women seem to be getting when they tell people they’ve seen or are going to see “Magic Mike.” The smirk, the wink, maybe the rolling of the eyes, as if to say “OOOOOOOOOOh, of COURSE you are, you slut with no taste in Film™.” Seriously, the guy at the ticket window acted like he was selling me a ticket to an actual strip club. I’ll have you know that I’m doing a terribly serious research project comparing and contrasting how Steven Soderbergh composes ensemble shots from “Che” to “Magic Mike,” so lay off.

Okay, okay, that’s not true. I’d have gone to see “Magic Mike” no matter who directed it. And why not? It looks like fun, actors I like are in it and it’s getting a lot of buzz. Your average multiplex is full of movies that guys line up to see for the sheer spectacle even though they know they’re not going to be any good story-wise (and I say that as the only woman in my showing of “Prometheus” in IMAX 3D). And unless you’re the one guy who’s never ever once said something like “I don’t care if Natalie Portman’s a good actor; she was so hot in ‘The Professional’ when she was 12” (ew, by the way), you have exactly no room to make fun of “Magic Mike” or anyone who goes to see it. And what’s with this “man card” business that seemed to sweeping Facebook this week? As in, if you’re a straight guy who goes to see “Magic Mike,” you lose your “man card.” You boys have cards? How fragile.

What’s sad (other than the self-esteem level of too many of my male friends, apparently) is that “Magic Mike” is a better movie than it’s getting credit for. What you see in the trailer is just about every bit of stripping in the movie. It’s actually kind of dark. As in, “drug dealers threatening people” dark. That one scene with the pig – if you’ve seen it, you know what I mean – should be shown in high school drug prevention lectures. Basically, if all you want is to look at some naked men, stay home and surf the ‘net, because this is an actual movie with plot and character development.

Soderbergh is an interesting director, in that every one of his movies feels different. I just saw “Haywire” last weekend, which, like “Magic Mike,” has a backstory. Soderbergh saw MMA fighter Gina Carano and thought she was cool, so he developed a movie to showcase her (as opposed to casting a waifish starlet to play the lead). It was while making “Haywire” that Soderbergh learned of Channing Tatum’s past as an exotic dancer, which inspired “Magic Mike.” And don’t forget his second unit work on “The Hunger Games.” I love that he just does whatever interests him, regardless of the whining of the fans who want him to just make “The Limey” over and over again (and I say that as someone who loved “The Limey”). It’s very refreshing to see at least one director in Hollywood who doesn’t say “Second unit? Stripper movie? Bitch please, I have an Oscar.”

And I think this is a better movie because he directed it. I had a few quibbles of the “Why does Mike live in an awesome beach-front house if he’s so poor?” variety, but I really enjoyed it. I want to see it again just to catch all the supporting-character-in-the-background stuff I missed the first time. Honestly, my only complaint was the women in the theatre today who started hooting and hollering the second the lights went down (Matthew McConaughey CANNOT HEAR YOU), but at least they shut up once it became clear that no one was going to give them a lap dance.

I predict lots of screenings full of 200 women, six gay men and two well-adjusted husbands, followed about six months from now by many Facebook status updates along the lines of “My wife made me rent ‘Magic Mike,’ and it actually wasn’t half bad.”

You think you're hot? Tell that to your car.

My car-care tip for a ridiculously hot upcoming weekend (I've heard this before and it sounded crazy, but I tried it today and it totally worked)...

If your car is starting to get too hot - the engine, not the passenger compartment, as indicated by that gauge near the speedometer - turn on your heater full blast. I know, I know, this is the last thing you want to do when it's 100+ degrees outside. It will be unpleasant, but way less unpleasant than breaking down on the side of the road.

Here's the theory: Your car's heater works by drawing from the heat produced by the running engine. (This is why it takes a few minutes for your heater to start blowing hot air when you start your car in the dead of winter.) If the engine is too hot, running the heater will help dissipate that heat faster, cooling the engine.

I know that it sounds counter-intuitive, but it worked, at least for me today. I was almost home from work when I noticed that the temperature gauge needle was just past the halfway mark. I turned on the heat and, within a minute, the needle had dropped several notches.

This is definitely a temporary fix. If your car is overheating on the regular, there could potentially be major problems that you should have checked out. But, for most of us, overheating is just the product of a running machine on a hot day. If you can, pull over and let the car cool off - DO NOT try to uncap the radiator. Check your coolant level. As I tried to tell the woman with the stalling-out Cavalier in High Point yesterday, running the AC too hard can mess with the car's idling RPM and cause it to stall, so lay off on the whole "leaving the car running while I run inside for a minute" thing. Consider slowing down - I know, I know - in city traffic.

It's going to be a hot one. You will sweat, accept that and get over it. So take it easy and be kind to that machine that gets you to work every day, okay?

Darrell Issa's selective outrage

The Internet doesn't need more virtual ink spilled on the ATF's "Fast and Furious" program, Rep. Darrell Issa's long-running investigation of it or the Obama Administration's response to that investigation, so I'm not going to take a lot of time here.

I just wanted to say, read this. Contemplate the BS quotient of a comment like "Who authorized this program that was so felony stupid that it got people killed?" from a guy who's genuinely worried about any infringement on Arizona's ability to sell teenagers $20,000 in assault weapons per month without batting an eyelash. Further contemplate that the national organization that's allegedly devoted to responsible gun ownership has successfully lobbied against creating a national electronic database of gun purchases. Feel free to look up any and all comments Rep. Issa may have made back during the Bush presidency about the faulty intelligence that got us into the Iraq War, an act of felony stupidity that got thousands killed. And then form your own opinion.

Sandusky and silence

I’ve been trying not to follow the Jerry Sandusky trial, which went to the jury this week, too closely. I read way too much about the charges when the grand jury report first came out, and I don’t really want to know anything else until the jury comes back (hopefully) with a guilty verdict.

But I did see that one of Sandusky’s adopted sons has now come forward saying that the former Penn State defensive coordinator also molested him. The Sandusky case appears to be what inspired this Jezebel post about why victims of sexual abuse or assault don’t report it, immediately or ever – by RAINN’s estimate, less than half of these cases are ever reported to law enforcement.

People who don’t have a lot of experience with this usually respond to that stat by slapping their foreheads, because how can the cops go after a rapist or molester if the victim never says anything? I know that because I used to be one of them, until I was raped. It's just not that simple.

Unfortunately, reporting a sexual assault doesn’t really solve anything most of the time. Also according to RAINN, of those 40ish percent of rapes reported, only about 5 percent will result in a felony conviction. In my case, it took the cops in BFE, Virginia, almost three months to question Asshat in person (that’s his official name now, btw), and another two to get around to informing me they weren’t going to prosecute him. But they really encouraged me to spend my own money to go after him in civil court, which was super helpful.

I came forward without any illusions that Asshat would wind up in prison for what he did. My best case scenario was that I’d get it on the record, so if he did this again at least the investigating officers would know he had a track record. When the Commonwealth Attorney in Washington County told me they weren’t going forward with my case, what was devastating wasn’t that I wouldn’t get justice; it was knowing that Asshat could pull the same thing a week later and the officer investigating that case would have no idea that he’d done this before.

And at least I didn’t have to deal with friends and acquaintances gossiping, speculating as to which of us was more credible. And at least I was an adult, not a frightened kid who’s not sure whom it’s safe to trust. At least I know for a fact that I did everything I could to keep this from happening to someone else – it was the system that caved. It's awful that the entire system of catching this type of criminal puts so much responsibility on people who are often too fragile to handle it.

But, that said, if something like this happened to me again, I don’t know what I’d do. On one hand, I want to tell anyone who’s been sexually abused or assaulted to tell someone… but I know that I’m basically telling them to buy a scratch-off lottery ticket.

At least Jerry Sandusky’s going to jail. Sometimes that ticket hits, I guess.

Worth the wait

This is my nephew Alex and I checking out the best race car in the history of the world (hyperbole alert) at Charlotte Motor Speedway in March. We were there for the Vietnam Veterans Homecoming, which was held in the infield.

Alex and I discovered racing at the same time. He's actually kind of the reason I started watching NASCAR. Just over 10 years ago, I was babysitting Alex one Sunday afternoon. Even as a baby, he was obsessed with Hot Wheels cars and pretty much anything with a motor. I was looking for something to do, and even though my family had never really followed NASCAR, I did grow up in North Carolina, after all. I'd gleaned that races happened on Sundays. Newsweek had also recently run a profile of Dale Earnhardt Jr., and I'll admit I was kind of curious. (Which probably makes me the one person brought to the sport by Newsweek.)

That was the April race at Talladega, which Dale Jr. won. Maybe if he hadn't, I'd never have watched another race again, I don't know. But I identified with this guy who wasn't that much older than me, who grew up not that far from me, and I was hooked.

Alex, too. This is the one thing he and I share that neither of us shares with anyone else in the family. It sucks that today, when our driver won for the first time in four years (almost to the day), Alex was up in the mountains at church camp. When Dale Jr. took the checkered flag, the first thing I did was to text his other aunt, who's volunteering at the same camp this week, to ask her to find him and tell him what happened. I couldn't bear him not finding out for another week.

It's hard to explain to people who aren't sports fans why some of us do care about the outcome of a game so much. From the outside, it can look so frivolous when there are starving children in the world. Being a sports fan is an outlet, a form of entertainment, sure. But it's also a way to connect with people, some of whom you wouldn't even have occasion to speak to in any other setting. I may not remember who finished second in that Talladega race 10 years ago, or even how Dale Jr. did the next week. What I remember is watching that first race with my nephew.

Hopefully he won't miss the next one, because it won't be another four years. Dale Jr. and his team have worked so hard to get themselves back into contention, and I know they'll be back in Victory Lane soon. And I love how appreciative Dale Jr. has been of the fans who've stuck with him - 30 percent of all NASCAR fans, reportedly.

I know of two in North Carolina who are thrilled tonight, and who can't wait for the next one.

Tinker Tailor Engineer Tease

(Big long movie rant coming right up…)

Would you believe that a quiet, almost oppressively hushed Serious Movie with a capital SM and one of the most literally giant movies of the year left me feeling exactly the same way?

Here’s a not-fun feeling: seeing a movie that you were really looking forward to and thinking, “Well, that made no sense,” or “Damn, that could’ve been so much better with a few small changes.” Because I love movies and because of this “Yeah, sure, I’ll go along with that just to see how it pans out” side of my personality, I tend to enjoy nearly every movie I watch. So, if I finish a movie and immediately pinpoint exactly what didn’t work for me, then that movie has serious flaws.

Last Monday I saw “Prometheus,” and the next night I finally got “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy” from Netflix. On the surface, these movies couldn’t have less in common with one another. If I hadn’t seen them both within two days, I probably wouldn’t even have picked up on the fact that many viewers (myself included) found them hard to follow – and that viewers who disagreed think we’re fracking morons. Judging by the conversation on my favorite movie blogs, the opinion on “Prometheus” is more evenly divided, maybe even more weighted in the “this makes no damn sense” camp. But, man, do NOT read the comments on the “Tinker Tailor” Rotten Tomatoes negative reviews if you have self-esteem issues.

Since I don’t have self-esteem issues, I’ll be glad to tell you exactly what I didn’t like about “Tinker Etc.”

I love big, serious, complicated movies that don’t give you easily marked bathroom breaks. That “Tinker” is big and complicated is one of the main reasons I wanted to see it, along with its excellent cast. I loved “The Constant Gardener,” which, like “Tinker,” is based on a novel by John LeCarre. So please don’t tell me that I didn’t appreciate “Tinker” because I’m an idiot American who prefers my movies Bruckheimer-pureed and fed to me via sippy cup.

“Tinker,” set in the early 1970s, follows a retired British intelligence agent who’s looking for a mole in the top levels of the Secret Service. It’s all very Cold War/trust no one, and Gary Oldman is simply a joy to watch. But I had a terrible time following the plot. Back up in the first paragraph, I referred to it as oppressively hushed; it’s so quiet that it’s almost suffocating. It didn’t surprise me to learn that it was directed by Tomas Alfredson, whose 2008 film “Let the Right One In” I just saw, coincidentally, a few weeks ago – and I didn’t like it either, for a lot of the same reasons.

My problem with “Let the Right One In” – it’s a very interesting coming of age/first love story in which one of the young people happens to be a vampire, and it manages to avoid “Twilight”-ish melodrama – was that I had trouble telling where I was. Okay, literally, I knew that I was on my couch. But filmmakers have spent the last century developing a language to communicate all kinds of things to viewers, such as where we are in place and time, or something like “pay attention to this character.” Most five year olds could tell you that a montage means “time’s passing.” Rules are made to broken, but chucking certain film rules can also be incredibly disorienting, and in this case kept me from engaging with the characters.

But “Tinker”  gave me the same problem. I can’t tell which characters are in this scene because the camera isn’t close enough and it’s too dark. A major character fracking DIES and, if you happen to blink during the single (filmed from the other side of Grand Canyon) shot, you just completely miss this, I guess. I thought that character was dead and we’re just seeing him in flashback, but oh, here he is talking to Gary Oldman about something that just happened in the movie-present. We’re 10 minutes from the end of the movie and I’m still not totally sure of the names of at least three major characters.

The story isn’t that complicated. It’s just put together in such a way to keep the audience at arm’s length. Which is a perfectly valid filmmaking choice (no doubt intentional given that “Let the Right One In” was shot the same way). But for me it was just too much. There’s detachment, and then there’s not being able to differentiate between major characters. And the flashbacks were so poorly handled. That might not bother me as much if “Out of Sight” hadn’t *just* been on TV the same night when I got home from work. (Now that’s a movie that keeps you oriented. Also see “Traffic.”) And no, I don’t buy that the flashbacks are sloppy on purpose to muddy the timeline, because “Martha Marcy May Marlene” managed to pull that off without making me want to punch my TV.

Maybe by the time I got to “Tinker” I was just not in the right place to deal with its blanket of murk. (And super-tiny-subtitles. What’s up with that? Fincher did the same thing in “Zodiac.” Are large fonts considered anti-intellectual or something?)

Now, “Prometheus.” Let’s start with something nice. It’s the most gorgeous film I’ve ever seen. One review wrote that “Prometheus” is probably the first movie where 3D was an essential part of the viewing experience, not just an add-on gimmick. I’d agree with that. I saw it in 3D IMAX , and I can’t imagine seeing it flat. It cannot be overstated – some of the most beautiful, intricate images I’ve ever seen on screen.

I wish that as much work had gone into the story. “Prometheus” is related to the “Alien” movies, though it’s supposedly not a direct prequel. It’s directed by Ridley Scott, who directed “Alien” (still my favorite of the series). That’s part of what bugs me. I’m going to be harder on “Prometheus” than on something like “Alien vs. Predator” because, c’mon – you’re Ridley fracking Scott, and we grade on a curve here.

But “Prometheus” makes no damn sense. I don’t know who among its director, producers or two credited writers is responsible for this, but “Prometheus” is just a poorly told story. Of the creative team, I single out Damon Lindelof because his is the body of work I’m most familiar with, having been a hard-core “Lostie” back in the day. “Lost” is still one of my all-time favorite TV shows, and I’m apparently the only person on the Internet who thought the finale was one of the most perfect I’ve ever seen. See, I loved the characters on “Lost,” where (from what I can tell anyway) the fans who were most into what it all MEEEEAAANS!!! were the ones who thought that the ending was a letdown.

“Lost” shows that you can spin off in all kinds of crazy directions as long as you have a core of characters who are (lacking a better expression) root-for-able, who relate to each other in compelling ways and – above all – who act with a consistent internal logic. A character doesn’t have to act the way you personally would in a given situation. But a well-written character became the person the audience is watching because of specific influences in his or life. Once we see enough of someone – even just the right few seconds – we know how that character is going to react. One of my favorite examples of this is Jean Smart’s character on “24,” whose first scene has her plunging her head into a sink of water because she didn’t like her hairdo. Right away, you know this lady is capable of all manner of crazy.

“Prometheus” has a wonderful cast, but the actor getting most of the praise is Michael Fassbender, who plays an android named David. Fassbender really is wonderful here, easily the most interesting presence on the screen. That’s partly because he’s a gifted actor, of course… and partly because he’s got the only well-written character in the whole movie. David’s the only character whose inner life the audience gets to see. Oh, right, we see that one archaeologist’s dream. But, for me, “She’s got broadly defined religious faith, just like about 6.8 billion other people on her home planet” isn’t the same grade of interesting as “Wow, this robot’s obsessed with ‘Lawrence of Arabia.’ What’s that about?”

Aside from David, most of the other characters are indistinct… and completely stupid. I’m not talking about horror movie-stupid where the prom queen just can’t hear you screaming at her not to go in there. I’m talking about “I’m a scientist on an uncharted planet, and I was all cautious and terrified 30 seconds ago, but this here alien wormy thing is so cute I think I’ll kneel right down and chat with it” stupid. I’m talking “might as well be a different character from scene to scene” stupid. Its characters lacked the narrative unity of those in, say, “The Hangover.”

It’s axiomatic in fiction writing that you never have your characters act just because you need X to happen. Action comes from character, not the other way around. If you want your characters to head a certain way, then write them differently; don’t force them to act out of character just so you can get to point B.

I can’t point at any one thing and say “Damon Lindelof wrote that,” but there are definitely shades of “Lost” here, in the form of big, mythological questions that never get answered. Maybe that’s just his style, or maybe it’s a case of Sequel-itis (“We’ll address that in part two”), but either way I’m over it. As with “Tinker,” I can appreciate that what I didn’t like is the result of a deliberate choice by a filmmaker, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t like it. And now for the REAL rant:

I like ambiguity. I even appreciate it. But, quoting someone I heard recently on this subject, there’s a space between Total Ambiguity and Let Me Spell It Out for You, and that middle ground is called Story. And I might be willing to give “Prometheus” the benefit of the doubt if I hadn’t used up all my “let’s go with it” points on six seasons of white rabbits, three-toed statues and fracking temples when all I REALLY cared about was whether Jack would ever make peace with his daddy issues.

I’m not directing this personally at Lindelof, because – again – I don’t know how many of these choices were completely his. But, in general, this trend in sci-fi toward “ambiguity” is looking more and more like “Even I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.” Is anyone else tired of this? “Hey, Professional Writer, where were you going with XYZ?” “Why don’t YOU tell ME?” Screw that. You’re the professional. You get paid to make these choices. I don’t want to think my favorite writers are throwing darts at a board covered with words like “Random Animal” and “Something Egyptian” and leaving it to their audience to crowdsource the story – but damn. Y’all aren’t making it easy for me.

And the hell of it is, I really liked “Prometheus.” I even want to see it again. It’s an amazing ride, as long as you don’t think about it too much afterwards.

***SPOILERS***

And maybe people who have more patience than I do will enjoy debating whether the Engineers really did think of humans the way humans think of their androids, and they created us because they could and tried to destroy us for the same reason (which is what I took away in the “theme” department).

***END SPOILERS***

But as a movie-lover, all I want are two things: Make choices. Put the camera closer. Oh, I thought of a third thing – Make the subtitle fonts bigger.

29 vs. 31... and wanting the good things

Okay, so I could not remember when I wrote this post, so I googled the name of the blog and the title of the post, and my post from 2009 was the first result. I'm not sure whether to be flattered or freaked out.

Even a little more freaky... I wrote that when I was 29 (and, oddly enough, in a relationship), and now I'm 31 (for two more days, anyway), which means I officially fit the "29/31" Garfunkel and Oates paradigm. And just in time for my birthday the internet thoughtfully provided competing lists of reasons why I'm not married yet, one of which is blatant click-bait and the other of which is actually a reasonable look at a set of circumstances that I, as a job/student loan-holding, home-owning single lady of nearly 32, can relate to.

(Oh, why spoil the fun? go read 'em both. One's all "You're a slut," and the other's very "Marriage? I'm supposed to deal with that right now? Dude, I HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW." It's pretty easy to guess which one made me say "Yep" out loud.)

But, things do bear reflecting upon. My birthdays don't stress me out, and maybe that's weird. If I were a character in a romantic comedy I'd be flipping out because I'm about to be OMG 32 (!!!) and I'm not yet married with child(ren), but for me this week is more "I'm alive, gainfully employed and still awesome! Yay!" I don't understand people who get depressed by their birthdays. It beats the alternative.

No, my life's not perfect. Whose is? There's having an idea of the person you want to be and making concrete plans to reach that goal, and there's kicking yourself because you're not that classmate or that co-worker or that perfect stranger who - guess what - has problems, too. I suppose the important thing is to keep moving.

When I make lists of ways I'd like to improve my life, it's always things like "Save more money," or "Get more exercise," or "Be nicer to the people below me on the org chart," or "Mom was right about it being easier to clean a little every day." It's not "WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A BABY???"

Kids are awesome. Husbands, too. I have friends with both, and they all seem quite happy. I don't know if I might want either for myself in the great Someday, but I'm sure convinced that I don't want either one right now.There's just too much work that I need to do on myself first.

So, when I look back on my "price of admission" criteria, it's true that I wonder if I'm not passing up the perfect non-bigoted, intellectually curious guy (who might also like car shows) because the timing just isn't right for me. It's a worry, sure. But then I realize that there's one thing that 29-year-old me left off that wish list:

I need a fighter. I'm kind of a punch-thrower (usually figuratively) when it comes to the people I care about, and I've realized that I need someone who's the same way. I look at the way you act when you're trying to date me casually and I think of how you're going to act when we've been married a decade - and that means that I want to see you fight for me. Fight with me sometimes, sure, but mainly I want to know that you're on my side. The guy who's going to nail me down before God and the State of North Carolina for all time has a pretty secure sense of himself, and he doesn't scare easily. He takes chances, and he risks looking like a fool. He gives hugs. When he wants to talk, he picks up the phone, dials my number and holds the phone up to his ear, for frak's sake. (Seriously, when did this all-text, all the time BS start???)

But the main difference between me now and me a few years ago is this: I'm okay with being alone... at least, as opposed to being with someone who doesn't appreciate me for who I am. That's not an easy thing to say or to think about, so I'm not going to get all rah-rah girl power on you. This isn't a man/woman thing. It's a human thing.

Most of us who've been around awhile know how awful it is to be in a serious relationship with someone who doesn't love or respect you. If you're pitying me because I'm single, then, in a sense, you're wishing that awfulness on me. You don't have to do that. I promise, I'm cool. Yeah, we all want to be with someone. But that doesn't mean I want to be with just anyone.

I'm working on my birthday, because of this demanding job that I happen to love. I'll be with my family on our birthdays/Father's Day, because of this incredible family I'm so fortunate to have. I'm good. And, if the right Johnny Cash-appreciating, liberal, laid-back guy who's cool with me occasionally screaming at NASCAR drivers happens to fit in at this point in my life... well, that's good, too, I guess.