The Groomsmen
Ed Burns’ film, “The Groomsmen,” was a constant punchline over the course of three or four pre-Tribeca planning meetings at work last week. I wasn’t making the jokes, though, or even laughing; I pre-ordered my tickets the moment they went on sale.
Apparently, Burns’ brand of heart-felt, New York-centric talkie isn’t in my colleagues’ wheelhouse. Apparently, “The Brothers McMullen” isn’t ironic or hip or jaded enough. Apparently, a handsome, hard-working guy who maxes his credit cards to realize his filmmaking dreams then goes on to marry a supermodel and call Robert Diniro “Bob” is worthy of their derision, or at least avoidance. Apparently, my colleagues shoot better films (and record better CDs, and write better books).
It’s in my wheelhouse, though. I had a press credentials for the festival, but still spent $40 for to tickets to the premiere of “The Groomsmen.” I happen to think the dude’s allright.
The film was great. It’s a story any thirtysomething guy can relate to: five guys work their shit out over a few beers in the days before one of their weddings. It’s real, and deep, and simple, and meaninful. Like life. Like a Woddy Allen film through the lens of a Queens kid. With a supermodel wife.
And what a cast! The film stars Burns, John Leguizamo, Jay Mohr, Matthew Lillard, and Donal Logue. Mohr’s hilarious; he steals the show. Leguizamo’s great, stretching our expectations of him. Logue’s terrific, bristling with anger. And Lillard better than he’s ever been. He’s the heart of the movie. It’s a great collection of male actors doing some great work.
And there are no b.s. camera tricks. Burns is a straight shooter. There are some copter shots, and cranes, but they don’t feel like gymnastics. It feels like a film.
I’m not really sure why my co-workers would mock the guy, or his efforts, or his achievements. I guess they’re bummed they haven’t achieved whatever it is they’d hoped to achieve. Or maybe they’re more head than heart. Or maybe they don’t go to the movies to feel good, or don’t want others to. I dunno.
In some way, my colleagues’ derision just makes me feel more and more like I’m not made for my job. I’m a hopeful guy, an optimist. I like a happy ending. I don’t mind a good tearjerker. And I’m a pretty big fan of anyone who has a vision, and works towards realizing it. I admire guys like Ed Burns, or “Clerks” writer/director Kevin Smith, or authors like David Eggers. I don’t hold their successes against them. I don’t hold their handsomeness against them. I say, Good for them! Go get ‘em! Make some good art! I mean, even at its worst, it’s better than the other pap Hollywood or Madison Avenue spews out. An, yunno, I like to count myself in their company. Maybe not yet, but I’m workin’ on it.
Tell Me Do You Miss Me
In the fall of 1996, in a fluorescent-lit cubicle deep within Rolling Stone’s Sixth Avenue offices, my editor, Matt Hendrickson, asked me, “Do you know Luna?”
I lied.
Three nights later, Chris and I were stage right at the band’s downtown show, bobbing, swaying, and smiling to its “full-tilt, cosmic radio clamor.”
“Though frontman Dean Wareham’s deadpan delivery and perpetual straight face were little indication,” I wrote in my review, “Luna’s shimmering guitar pop shone brilliantly Saturday night, illuminating the bleak and twisted landscape Wareham navigates with such svelte.”
The band’s “Sideshow By The Seashore” was our anthem that fall, its trance-inducing drone and slippery lead soundtrack to our new home in New York City. No song better represented our spacey, awed sense of the place. Drawing on the Velvet Underground, but with a 90s sense of ironic detachment, Luna served up enough “alternative rock” for me, and enough trippy noodling for my brother.
When we cut a video Christmas card for the folks back home in Iowa, “Sideshow” was or first choice of music.
Then I painted your face
On a twenty-dollar bill
But it isn’t legal tender
And I think about you still
And all the comfort in words
Provide no comfort
We can all go mad together
That’s what friends are for
And when I needed a title for my sophmore CD, I borrowed from the band’s “Moon Palace.”
Words you don’t understand
Are all makin’ sense tonight
It’s hard to think straight
When you’re feelin’ so great
Only wanna get out of your head
I’ve followed the band since. I have all of their albums. But for me, that was their nadir. When I read that Luna was performing its farewell show at Bowery Ballroom last winter, I — regrettably — stayed home.
That farewell show, and the tour that preceded it, is chronicled in a new documentary, “Tell Me Do You Miss Me.” I saw the premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival tonight. I was sitting next to Jesse Eisenbergh, just across the aisle from Dean and Britta (who were seated behind Edie Falco). I stole glances at the couple throughout the film. Dean sank deep into his seat. Britta grimaced and squirmed, clutching Dean’s sleeve like a mooring.
“You start a band off with your friends when you’re young,” Dean says in the film. “And to think you’re going to be in a band together, and maintain a close friendship, and also be in business together, and travel together… the whole thing, it’s a tall order.”
Dean Wareham wears his thirteen years of Luna in every worry line, every wrinkle on his otherwise youthful face. Over the course of seven albums, the band hovered just below the pop culture radar, but never broke through. Fast approaching forty, and with little to show for their efforts, they run themselves aground. Tonight, they were forced to re-live that slow-motion shipwreck in 16:9 Technicolor. It is a beautiful mess, all melancholy sighs, last laughs, and — of course — swirling guitars.
Not only have I failed to break through; I’ve failed to register a blip on the radar. Still, Luna’s story resonates with me. With every lost highway, every load-in, and every anonymous greeting, I share the band’s sense of defeat, and loss.
In the end, as the droning guitars build to crescendo, Wareham twitches, then deadpans his final refrain…
“Say a prayer… for you and me.”
“Say a prayer… tell me do you miss me.”
I do, Dean. A thousand times — you, me, us — I miss it all.
Kettle Of Fish
I’ll admit it (though it probably won’t come as much of a surprise): I’m a sucker for romantic comedies.
Given the right mood on the right rainy Saturday, I’ll pause (for the three hundred and twenty-sixth time) to watch Harry run through the streets of New York to find Sally (“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”).
I might even sit a spell to root for Melvin’s grumpy, bungled pursuit of Carol (“Some of have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad.”) when TNN runs “As Good As It Gets.” Again.
Heck, I’ll even pop on my copy of “High Fidelity” and watch Rob pine for Laura — even though Iben Hjejle doesn’t begin to approach Nick Hornby’s vision (“She’s got one of the best all time laughs in the history of all time laughs, she laughs with her entire body. She’s loyal and honest, and she doesn’t even take it out on people when she’s having a bad day. That’s character.”).
I like to let love rule. I like witty banter. I like to laugh, and cry, and find a happy ending. Who doesn’t?
I was not one to quarrel, then, when Abbi selected “Kettle of Fish” as our first (and her only) Tribeca Film Festival screening. Something, it would seem, appealed to the synopsis as she poured over the festival guide a few weeks ago…
A lifelong bachelor (Matthew Modine) confronts his intimacy issues when he sublets his apartment to a fetching biologist (Gina Gershon). His heartsick fish and his wise best buddy are on hand to provide perspective.
I can’t imagine what it was.
Matthew Modine filed in. Gina Gershon sat down (hubba hubba). The lights dimmed, and we were off…
Matthew’s breezier than he’s ever been, though maybe just a few years too mature for the part (which became especially apparent when he said during the Q&A afterwards that he’s been married for twenty-six years). Gina plays beautifully against type as a “frog biologist,” complete with British accent, librarian glasses and tussled hair (hubba hubba).
There’s a lot of set up, a lot of talk (which I’m not knocking: I’ll take Woody Allen any day), a fair amount of uneven acting on behalf of the supporting cast, and a healthy dose of cheese. Director Claudia Myers said she was inspired by ’50s screwball comedies. There’s a whiff of that here. But her characters don’t go quite far enough. And the whimsy is lost when she veers into Nora Ephron territory.
What makes “Kettle of Fish” such a triumph is that — despite everything (and everyone) that is working against it — you’re pulling for them. They’re likeable. You want it to work out. You want a happy ending. (Or at least you want it to end badly so that Gina Gershon knocks on your door!)
“Kettle of Fish” is (forgive me) neither fish nor fowl. It’s neither full on, feel-good Hollywood schlock, nor gritty New York City art film. That’s ok, though. There’s room for compromise. Given a little thinning (Ms. Myers is clearly in love with all of her footage, but — here I go again — something’s gotta give), and the unflinching eye and relentless tinkering of, say, a Harvey Weinstein (or “Harvey Scissor Hands,” as the industry likes to refer to him), the pacing can be remedied. And Ms. Myers, Ms. Gershon, and Mr. Modine will have their happy — dare I say, their Hollywood? — ending.
Favorite Things, Volume I
I’m getting a little tired of writing about adjusting to life without the rock ‘n roll fantasy, and you’re probably getting tired of reading about it. So I’m starting a new series: Favorite Things. Could be a song, a movie, or a pair of shoes. These are the things that make me happy.
I love New York City. I love that it’s an island, separate from the rest of the country. I love that it’s full of culture and chaos. I love that it’s a great experiment in diversity, and that, for the most part, we pull it off. I love that it’s loud, fast and in your face. I love that it reaches for the sky, and sleeps in the gutter. I love the opportunity and the possibility.
But there are days when it’s just too much, too fast, too ruthless, too relentless. These are the days (nights, usually) when I hear Lou Reed sing “Romeo Had Juliet” and think, ‘Right the fuck on.’
I’ll take Manhattan in a garbage bag
With Latin written on it that says
It’s hard to give a shit these days
I walked out of the office Tuesday night and slammed into a wall of shuffling, gawking tourists. Just a few steps from the NR, there was a huge clot of bodies standing, staring and screaming in front of The Palace Theater. Apparently, Elton John was in the house. Which apparently means that tourists are allowed to lose their minds and stop traffic.
I dropped a shoulder and thought, ‘It’s hard to give a shit these days.’
Sometimes I look around at the JumboTrons, the fashion billboards, the flashing lights, the Naked Cowboy, and think, ‘This is it. This is the end.’ We’re more interested in the box office than the Oval Office. We’re more interested in the stadium than the statehouse. We’re more interested in what’s going on with Paris Hilton than what’s going on in Paris, France. Lou knows.
Manhattan’s sinking like a rock
Into the filthy Hudson what a shock
They wrote a book about it
They said it was like ancient Rome
“Romeo Had Juliet” was on my the pre-show playlist at the “Almost Home” CD release party way back in 2003. It fit the theme. The album (you’ll recall) begins with the song, “California,” and concludes with “New York.” Moreover, it’s a transcontinental love story that burns bright, then ends badly (even if it ends exactly as it should).
The perfume burned his eyes
Holding tightly to her thighs
And something flickered for a minute
And then it vanished and was gone
Lou Reed covers it all in just 3:09. And sounds cool doing it. Cool like Rivington come four a.m. It’s a little dangerous, and a little dark, and tough to tell the truth from the lies. And at the end, you’re not really sure if the sun’s gonna come up after all.
Do/Don’t
I have a fair number of single female friends. Not a ton, but enough to hear a nightmarish dating story or two now and again.
Now, I’m not a pro or anything. I haven’t actually been on a ton of dates. But I do know at least a few things about how to treat a lady (though one or two might disagree). So, as a service to you fellas (the three of you who check out my site on the regular), I thought I’d share a few pointers.
1- Do walk on the outside.
2- Do hold the door.
3- Do listen.
4- Do have a plan.
5- Do walk her to her door.
6- Don’t mention your credit rating.
7- Don’t talk on your cell phone.
8- Don’t discuss past relationships.
9- Don’t say, “My mom says…”
10- Don’t get hammered.
Oh, one more:
11- Don’t blog about it.
That’s sure to bite you in the ass.
Come to think of it, those are some pretty decent rules to live by whether you’re dating or not.
Consider it a freebie.
Better Days
It was a little disappointing to wake up from a fantastic dream only to find that everything was exactly the same as the night before.
In my dream, Iowa looks like Ireland. I’m in a small cottage on the edge of a huge and stormy lake. There’s a small town nearby. I am on vacation. I am excited to find this epic slice of wild beauty, and have it all to myself.
I wake to my alarm at 6:45. I am alone in bed. The sky is blue, but the lake is gone.
‘Shit,’ I say to no one at all.
Showering up, brushing my teeth, splashing on Aramis, it’s all battle armor to defend against an unfliching, uncaring city. People talk to themselves here. People yell at each other here. People bump into each other, jostle and jockey for a place in line.
Worse, it’s Tuesday, a non-entity of a day. And all this normalcy is killing me. No oceans, no mountains, no rock shows, no plumes.
I turn from the mirror to head downstairs, and spot a shaft of sunlight stretched across the hardwood floor. If I were a kitten, I’d roll around in it. But I’m just a man, so I pause a moment, take it in, and head to the office.
Toll House Vs. My House
I ate an entire batch of Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies on Sunday. With skim milk, but still.
I read recently that the average age for a man of my generation is expected to be 77-years-old. (I’ve also read that the average age for a man of Ethan’s age will be 100, which sucks for me, but is great for him, and couldn’t happen to a better guy.) Being that I’m pushing thirty-four and all, well, mid-life has been top of mind.
Sure, I run marathons and triathlons. And sure, I generally eat pretty well. I’m not that large (though I often feel like I am). But I’ve wrestled with pot. I’ve wrestled with nicotine. And I do love ice cream and beer.
When my mother called last night to tell me that her best friend, Suzanne, had died, well, it got me thinking. Is it about the instant? Or all time? Is it about ice cream? Or longevity?
I hope that I’ve relished the moments in my life. I certainly have the last ten years, as I emerged from the haze of adolescents and drugs. Honestly, even at my worst, I always paused to appreciate beauty: friendships, vistas, sweets.
It’s not like I hadn’t considered my achievements, or my legacy, prior to this loss, or recent statistic. And frankly, I don’t have much to show for 34-years-old. Sure, I’ve released a few records. Maybe I’ve written a good song or two. And maybe those songs or this site have moved a few souls or altered a few lives (I’m not being narcissist; I’m just hoping based on the periodic email). But let’s be honest: my day job’s not doing much to enrich the deep and simple dialogue.
So I guess the next chapter is about the good works, and the legacy: the Mr. Rogers documentary, the book, and perhaps — no, definately — most importantly: the children. My children. My faceless, nameless, genius, excellent, loving children.
Because Suzanne achieved a lot. She was a great teacher, a great spirit, a great friend, and most importantly — and most lastingly — a great mother. Michael, T, Daniel and Becca are a living, breathing legacy to that. That’s the greatest expenditure of a lifetime of all.
Strangers
A recent U.K. poll about life changing books revealed that most men name Camus’ “The Stranger,” while most women name Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice.”
Existentialism vs. romanticism? Disconnection vs. relatedness? Is this really how we boil down? Does Mars vs. Venus hold water?
I guess it says something that I’ve only read “The Stranger.” And liked it.
Last night was one of those rare “Guy’s Night Out.” No, no, not strippers and scotch. Beer and burgers is more our speed. I met up with Chris and Mark at Hi Life around 7:30, and talked and laughed and tackled these and other major subjects until the wait staff started stacking chairs. I kept thinking, “I have to write about this!” But, no thanks to the four Stella Artois, promptly forgot just about every detail.
But in so much that our “Guy’s Night Out” relates to the aforementioned poll, I can tell you that we very likely confirmed the premise therein.
Chris is, of course, my brother, Jen’s husband, and Ethan’s dad. Mark and I, by contrast, are in our mid-thirties, unwed, and childless. Mark laid it out straight up, and I agreed.”
“Listen man, you’re my hero.”
“Yeah man,” I said (two beers in), “You took the leap of faith.”
And what a leap of faith it is. Assuming you’ve figured out all the interpersonal stuff with your intended, you’ve gotta tackle all the cultural b.s. Like the ring.
“I might as well have handed a fist full of hundreds to a perfect stranger,” Chris said. “I mean, you just gotta do it. It doesn’t do any good to think about it.”
Then he thought about it.
“I dunno where I saw it,” he said, he voice growing louder by the second, “but it was an ad for Harry Winston or something that showed a woman’s hand and said, ‘Is your daughter in law’s bigger than yours? Let’s talk.’ I mean, that’s just fucking ridiculous!”
I went to so far as to defend the concept — I think a gold band makes a lot of symbolic sense — but a ten k diamond? A thirty thousand dollar wedding? Where on earth does the impetus for that opulence come from? Jane Austen? Madison Avenue? The Prom? Mattel?
Maybe it doesn’t matter. A friend recently said to me, “It’s her day, man. Do whatever she wants.” I understand the impetus. But I don’t think it makes sense.
It seems to me that one’s wedding, and the negotiations therein, set a precedent. Are we a couple that collaborate? Do we value one another’s feelings? Do we compromise?
I wanna be all of the above.
So I guess it’s ok that men and women are different, and that we respond to different literature. Heck, it’s probably even a good thing. So long as we’re not strangers, and so long as a man can resolve his prejudice against De Beers, and a woman can reconcile her pride about a sparkly rock, well, I guess we’ll all be just fine.
E
Used to be that Chris would hand Ethan the phone and he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Walking uptown on Amsterdam Avenue tonight, though, the conversation evolved. Significantly.
“Hi Ethan!”
“Hi Uncle Ben-be-ben!”
Now, even the worst day in the anals of bad days is remedied by “Ben-be-ben.”
“How are you?”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Are you eating supper with daddy?”
“Daddy put peas on da table!”
Everything’s exciting when you’re two-years-old. How awesome is that?
“Is mommy home yet?”
“Mommy coming hoooome now!”
“Was she on an airplane?”
“High up in the sky!”
“Were you on an airplane? Did you fly high up in the sky to Grandpa and Nana¹s?”
“High up in the sky!”
“I saw a picture and you were on a bike. Did you learn to ride a bike?”
“Yeeeaaaah. I fell down and bump my head. Daddy put ice on it.”
1045 days on earth, and the kid understands cause, affect, and remedy. Genius.
“Ice is good for bumped heads. Is the bump ok now?”
“Bump is all gone!”
“Good! Ethan? Tell mommy and daddy that you miss Uncle Ben-ba-ben, ok?”
Silence.
“Ethan? Ethan? Hell-ooooo?”
“Hey dude.”
My brother.
“Classic case of a toddler’s short attention span: I put some crackers in front of him. He handed me the phone, and started eating.”
Fair enough.
Woke Up This Morning At 11:11
I’m not sure how I feel about all these September 11th films.
The trailer for “Flight 93″ debuted in theaters a few weeks ago. People were having a tough time with it around the New York City. They felt ambushed, scared, traumatized all over again. We rolled it out on the site a few weeks ago, and we’ve already been pitched on ideas for “World Trade Center,” Oliver Stone’s contribution to the ouvre. So the dialogue had already begun around the office.
In general, it seems like those of us who witnessed the whole thing first hand — the sirens, the smoke, the smell — are keeping the whole thing at arm’s length. Angelinos, in contrast, seem to have no difficulty with it. Why would they? It was just another sunny day in La La Land.
My friend James is a big deal Hollywood agent. He called me on September 12th to see if I was ok. He was pretty shaken up, and pretty pissed off at his colleague¹s apathy. He told me how sad he was driving into work. He ran into another agent in the lobby who said something like, “Whassup, dude? Beautiful day, huh?” And James was like, “What’s wrong with you, man?” With all these September 11th films, I’m kind of wondering the same thing.
I was living in Hell’s Kitchen on the morning of September 11, 2001. I heard the first report on the radio. I was on my way to the post office to drop 300 “Crash Site” post cards into the mail. I watched the smoke rise from the Twin Towers from the top of 56th Street, still thinking it was an accident involving a small plane. On the NR they were announcing “a police investigation at the World Trade Center.” When I climbed out of the subway to find 14th Street crowded with pedestrians, eyes aloft, mouths agape, I knew something was up. I took off my headphones and heard Bob Edwards speak the word “terrorism.” Then I watched the first tower fall in silent slow motion. I stumbled over to my office on 8th Street where we watched the second tower fall, then fled uptown, clinging to the West Side Highway the entire way. ‘Worse comes to worse,’ I figured, ‘I can swim for it.’
I’ve felt a little territorial about the whole thing ever since, like September 11th was ours alone. If you weren’t here, you’ll never know. And all the flags and yellow ribbons and “Never Again” bumper
stickers I see in the Midwest only make it worse.
I mean, I know it was an attack on America, and on the American Dream (or whatever). But the fact it, Ground Zero was (and is) fifty blocks from where I’m calling. It’s my neighborhood, not yours.
That GWB twisted the whole thing into an attack on Iraq, man, that just makes it even worse.
But let’s not go there. Let’s stick with Hollywood and give Washington, D.C., a pass.
For now.
So… Hollywood wants in. I get it. It was a dramatic day, to be sure. Let’s be honest: it looked like a Hollywood blockbuster to begin with (Planes flying into skyscrapers? Who, besides Industrial Light & Magic would have thought that one up?). It’s ripe for storytelling.
For me, though, it’s too soon. Maybe it will always be too soon. I dunno. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
