You Can Skip This Oscar Pick

Hunter McCracken and Jessica Chastain in The Tree Of LifeI should apologize ahead of time for this review. I am in a snit, a tizzy, a bit of a funk and maybe even a little jealous. It’s all because I watched The Tree Of Life as the final missing link in my Oscars viewing. That’s two hours and nineteen minutes of my life that are gone for good, evaporated.

Nominated for Best Director, Best Cinematography and Best Picture, I was certainly intrigued. But I should have listened to my inner critic who remembered the handwritten sign at the Main Theatre (when the film played there for about a day or two) “Refunds for The Tree Of Life will only be given within the first ten minutes.”

I will do my best to summarize the movie so you don’t have to see it. Sean Penn is the grown-up son of a 1950s Brad Pitt. He gets on an elevator because he’s depressed or distracted about something but apparently it’s not about the upcoming 15-20 minutes of the universe’s creation. Imagine an impressionistic view of the Big Bang, moving forward through the outer reaches of the galaxy coalescing into earth. Then water, volcanoes and plant life happen. It all culminates when a weird looking dinosaur runs up and puts its foot on another dinosaur’s face, off and on for a minute or two.

Then it gets weird. Brad Pitt is married to Jessica Chastain (the cool white lady who’s ostracized in The Help) but he’s a bully to his kids. So Chastain gets to alternate between floating in the backyard, sitting around looking ethereal and fighting Pitt physically or psychologically. And she basically does it all without talking.

Three young unknown actors play their children; at one point Penn and his younger self show up in the same scene (SPOILER ALERT: it’s in Eternity, but I had to look it up online because it just looked like a bunch of the actors at a wrap party). The time-space continuum is abused so badly, it files for a restraining order and eventual imprisonment for director Terrence Malick.

Throughout the movie, a quiet voice whispers existential questions that are supposed to sound profound and lead you to knowing in your gut why a boy blows up a frog or sneaks into a neighbor’s house and steals her nightgown only to release it in a nearby river. At the end, the earth gets consumed by the sun and Sean Penn gets off the elevator and looks up at either his office building, a tree of life or the closing credits. We think even he’s glad the film’s over.

Like the Main Theatre, Netflix had its own warning ahead of time. It told us to turn up the volume on our BluRay player so we could hear all the subtle nuances. Consider this blog entry my own version of a warning. You will more than likely not finish watching it. If you do, you’ll probably hate it.

But I could be wrong. Obviously some people liked it. Word has it that Malick spent years working on this movie in various iterations. At one point he had a bunch of it shot in IMAX and spent millions on complicated CGI scenes. Supposedly he would only share certain bits and pieces of it with the studio until they demanded a coherent beginning and ending. Obviously their demands were never met.

For a film that purportedly ruminates on the meaning of life and spirituality, it feels like the director was simply trying to pull one over on all of us. I got the impression that the beautiful IMAX scenes were shot for one movie (which had no beginning, middle or end) and that the Brad Pitt scenes were for an entirely different movie which was only halfway done. Forget the Sean Penn scenes altogether; they appeared to be part of yet a third short film called either The Architect Rides The Elevator or A Man In A Suit Goes To The Desert.

For all my bashing of this film, I think Jessica Chastain did a wonderful job and was the highlight of the movie. The three unknown boys were also really good at playing the roles of three unknown boys. The cinematography, too, is fantastic but without a storyline or a point, it’s wasted.

This is where I get jealous. If I had access to 30-40 million dollars and some high wattage stars, I just know I could do better. I’d start with Chastain and Pitt eating waffles and arguing about WWI. They’d be joined by an overworked Penn in a waitress gown and they’d yell until they lost their voices. We’d title it War Hoarse. I’d even offer to pay back the audiences after 20 minutes instead of just 10.

Yes, you can call me a Philistine. You can say it’s poetry or I’m too dense to get it. I love movies though. I understand time warps as they occur in the wonderful Midnight in Paris or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. To prove my love to you, my annual Best Of list will follow in this space very soon.

But this film made me feel bad about myself. That just shouldn’t be. How come I didn’t like what “everyone” else loved. I think everyone is being hoodwinked on a massive scale. I honestly believe the Emperor is parading around without so much as a stitch of underwear and the Academy thinks he’s wearing Gucci. At least the devil wore Prada.

Said Sean Penn to the magazine Le Figaro, “A clearer and more conventional narrative would have helped the film without, in my opinion, lessening its beauty and its impact. Frankly, I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing there and what I was supposed to add in that context! What’s more, (director Terrence Malick) himself never managed to explain it to me clearly.”

Tip Off

Photo by ace photog MARCI CURTISI‘m not saying it’s because I did the ceremonial opening tip off, that the Troy Colts destroyed their opponent, 47-28. But I’m not saying it’s not.

You can tell by the fierce intensity on the girls’ faces that this pretend jump ball was all business. I really didn’t quite understand the concept, having only seen people throw out the first pitch in baseball and maybe an honorary coin toss in football. In hockey do they do the same thing, then get the puck outta there?

But when Taylor’s friend Nicole asked me to be part of the honorary festivities for Cancer Awareness and said I’d be introduced as someone who beat the Big C, I thought, “heck yeah.”

Actually, it took a little convincing from Marci since I didn’t feel like being a poster boy. “Sometimes, it’s not about you Rodney,” she said. Seeing my daughters smiling and recording me in the stands, I knew she was right.

I was pleasantly surprised by the lady ref who lent me her pink whistle, in honor  of her friend who battled breast cancer. But when she coached me on the finer points of ball tossing, I was certain she was mistaken. Look, I’ve covered enough basketball games to know they throw it underhand. Sure enough, when the real tip happened, the ref did it the way I remembered.

I may have slam dunked cancer, but I’m not beyond feeling ridiculous for looking ridiculous. My horizontal stripes notwithstanding.

Each of the girls were playing in honor of someone they knew who were battling or had fought cancer. It was amazing to watch them run onto the court as the announcer read off their loved one’s names. And with the way they put a beat down on their opponent, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be any disease trying to play offense against the Lady Colts.

Photo Safari

Snow ladder photo by Rodney CurtisWhen Pal Farina and I decided to head up north, we didn’t plan on it being the snowiest night of the year so far. Granted, “snowiest” is a bit of a misnomer since we’ve seen about as much of the white stuff this year as has Florida. The mountains in the Sunshine State may have even seen more.

It took us forever, driving to Oscoda and his in-law’s place on the lake. But a man’s weekend awaited us. It turns out real men alone in the wilderness spend their time making and eating Rice Krispie treats and napping a lot.

But they also go out for a tramp in the winter wonderland. We found a tramp, but he didn’t want his picture taken. Still, Farina and I being photo editors by training, had fun snapping stills in the snow.

The snowmobilers whizzing by us probably felt the same way we did; with all of three or four inches, we should probably make hay while the sun shines. It’s crazy; by this time there’s normally a few feet. Those that deny Global Warming should take a look outside today on this, Michigan’s 175th birthday. Or they could explain the houseflies showing up in January, but I digress.

Snowfall on cedar by Rodney CurtisMostly our trip — and this blog entry — was about photography. And although our images weren’t earth shaking, they were fun to make. Art is as much about the process as the final product. Too often we forget the joy of making the picture as we rush to get them posted or published. I was fortunate enough on this journey to sit back and play. I used a point-and-shoot, an iPhone and my regular professional Nikon. It was a blast.

Frozen beach by Rodney CurtisThere’s something about the bracing cold and the crispness of the day that brings out colors, textures, tones and definitely snot. I hope to see more snow before winter ends, even though we like to complain about it when it shows up. It seems unnatural without it. Pictures of dead grass, dry leaves and your neighbor’s trash on your lawn just aren’t as pretty without a nice white covering.

Oh, and before I forget; Happy Birthday Michigan. What do you get for a state that has everything?

Sun setting on Huron photo by Rodney Curtis

Comfort Food For Thought

Chocolate mousse and whipped cream photo by a hungry Rodney CurtisWe’ve been eating a lot of chocolate pudding around here these days. If January is a disease, pudding is the cure. Even though this particular January has lacked the snow and cold of its predecessors, it’s still the first month of the year and remains guilty by association.

My wife, who’s been Weight Watching, slurps down the sugar-free/fat-free version of Jell-O. I mix my mousse medley with whole milk and spray canned whipped cream on top (Note: there’s no sadder sound in the universe than the anemic sputtering of an empty can, burbling out its final spew).

The daughters go back and forth between whose they like more. The winner loses and has to make another batch. Thankfully, we have that high horsepower KitchenAid stand mixer I got for Christmas. I say whip it. Whip it good.

Whatever it takes to make it through the month is acceptable. Comfort food is as good a thing as any, although I yearn in my soul for Grandma’s chocolate pudding with those lovely skins on top. I fear this generation growing up behind me will never get to experience things like pudding skins, Jiffy Pop, peanut butter and marshmallow spread in a jar and Marathon bars.

I guess that’s a good thing. My daughters have cared about their health forever. I don’t remember even hearing about “health food” until I was a teen and that meant, basically, drinking 2% milk and maybe a Tab. You could still accompany that with a peanut butter/marshmallow sandwich as long as it was on whole wheat.

Thankfully, we’re far more enlightened about food these days (my pudding paragraphs earlier notwithstanding). But in these bleak and battering days of January, I care as much about eating healthy as I do about that cruise ship captain who abandoned ship.

I have a secret though. I’ve stumbled onto a store that sometimes sells retro food items and every now and again I’m instantly transported back to the 70s. I can’t tell you where this is (Nino Salvaggio) but my latest finds are Five Alive juice and Quisp cereal! Oh yeah, that definitely deserved an exclamation point.

January is more than halfway over and I can type this note while lying under the covers, dreaming about macaroni and cheese. God, I sound pregnant; I just Googled “Whatever happened to Oscar Mayer Smokey Links?”

I have a pair of those all-spectrum lights that are supposed to elevate your mood. They’re still in a box under my bed though; I think Kraft and Kellogg’s might be better suited to the task.

Oh look, the sun just rolled into view for a few minutes. I think I might just mix up some soft pretzel dough and enjoy the blue sky. Anyone know a good recipe for gooey melted cheese dip?

Reading this to Marci just now, she asks, “I can tell you’re Jonesing; did you eat lunch yet?”

What do you think, babe?

Activism's Cost

It’s 4:07 a.m. and my daughter is a limp dishrag.

Still, she’s using a phrase like, “I’m trying to figure out the opportunity costs of not turning something in.” She may not have said that exactly, but it was very close. I don’t have a recording of our conversation.

While I stumble back to bed, she refuses something to drink or a bite to eat. Not enough time. She’s been answering questions, texting and sending out emails all dealing with our mayor here in Troy.

Maybe you live somewhere under a rock and haven’t heard what’s been going on. Personally, I’d like to join you there. Do you have wifi? The rest of you will understand. Our city’s mayor just seems to keep on offending people.

This time Skye heard her say something incredibly offensive. The mayor claims it was something a bit less offensive. Semantics. The last time I saw her, she was literally hiding from a television news camera and sneaking out of City Hall. The mayor, not Skye.

The last time I saw my daughter, she was slumped over from tiredness and needed a supportive hug but no food or drink. What a vastly different picture. Her grades will suffer. So will her health. How can I sleep now while she’s upstairs plugging away?

I am reminded of a story from when my lovely daughter was a little girl. On a playground in North Midland, some older boys were saying naughty things about a random girl that Skye had just met. That made her mad. She marched over to the boys hiding behind some trees and told them she didn’t appreciate their comments.

Those boys were bigger and stronger, but they stopped and listened.

This story from the distant past — when my girl couldn’t have been more than four or five — comes rushing at me as the perfect analogy. I’m sorry; I don’t mean to put too fine a point on it. The boys stopped and listened. My daughter has always been this way.

It’s not because she has family members and good friends who are gay. It’s not because she is working for a group of grown ups who put her up to this (as the mayor claims). It’s not because she wants any “fame” from this (name a college that actually wants a rabble rouser on their campus). It’s because somehow, somewhere her mom, her sister and I instilled an anger in her for what’s wrong in the world.

I apologize to her for that. Openly and honestly.

If she could have just let a comment slide, the way she’s let several others go, her math test later this morning may not kick her butt. Maybe she could sleep another hour or two instead of looking at me like I’m Voldemort when I suggest it.

But she couldn’t let something go. I’m to blame too. I mentioned it on facebook as well and the maelstrom began. Look at me, maelstrom, I’m using words like my daughter.

I’m leaving this note up on my computer screen, thinking she may glance at it between now and school. But I hope to sneak back upstairs and find her catching a few winks. And then, just for a moment, I’ll be reminded of the little girl who showed up nearly 18 years ago after a tumultuous birth. She stayed in the hospital for a few weeks afterward battling E. coli in her blood.

I guess she’s always been a fighter.

Hours later, while fixing eggs for breakfast, I feel a huge hug from behind. Tears rain down on my back as I’m told, “I’m happy you support me so much. And it makes me feel better that you don’t mind that I fail my math test.”

Sarcastic sigh, for right now, she’s my teen daughter again.