Seen: The Place Beyond the Pines (8/7/13)


After we saw The Place Beyond the Pines last night, we flipped through the cableverse for a couple of minutes before landing on Crazy, Stupid, Love, at the point where Ryan Gosling has Emma Stone in his house and is explaining his “Dirty Dancing deal-closing move.”


I thought about a comment a writer at Esquire had made about George Clooney five or six years ago, that George Clooney would never admit and maybe never realize that his work in Ocean’s Eleven was better than his work in Syriana, and he had the Oscar to prove otherwise anyway.

So I’ll say it: Ryan Gosling will never admit that the supposed “fluff” of Crazy, Stupid, Love is more profound that either of his films with Derek Cianfrance (…Pines and Blue Valentine) or Nicolas Winding Refn (Drive and Only God Forgives), or that his performance in CSL is the most enjoyable work he’s done.

That’s not to say he should stick to romantic comedy, one instinct complements the other–his work in the Refn movies is kind of minimalist and almost zombie-like, but it feels dangerous with all the mayhem around it, and that gives his lighter performances a crackle, just as his lighter performances make the heavier stuff easier to comprehend and associate with–it’s only that I fear that Gosling, like Clooney and Brad Pitt and Mark Wahlberg, tends to take himself and his movies a little too seriously, and tends to gravitate to films by directors who take themselves way too freaking seriously.

Case in point: The Place Beyond the Pines strives for Shakespeare, but in essence is nothing but “soap opera,” according to my wife, and she’s pretty on the nose.  Coincidence piles up, what should be almost Greek in dramatic depth feels like Days of Our Lives.  It’s worth seeing, if only because it’s gripping moment to moment, even if the viewer is constantly making allowances for the storytelling.

For example, the film shifts from Ryan Gosling’s daredevil motorcyclist/bank robber (yes, I just wrote that) to focus on Bradley Cooper’s young hero-cop/aspiring politician (um…yes).  Cooper is in the hospital after a shootout, and The D.A. (Bruce Greenwood) grills him about whether the shooting is justified or not, asking whether the perp pulled first, shot first, etc.  It’s interesting, but implausible: Cooper followed an armed perpetrator into a civilian’s house, the perp had a gun and was waving it around.  This is not the wild west, the shooting was justified.  So why the big question session?  To expose the melodramatic gray area of police and criminal?  To deepen the morally ambiguity of Cooper’s character?

Fine, but it rings false, as when later Ray Liotta takes Cooper to the house of the perpetrator Cooper’s killed and makes him stand there while he and some corrupt cops search the premises for cash they suspect the guy gave his girlfriend before Cooper killed him.  Cooper just got out of the hospital.  He still needs a crutch from where he took a bullet.  Why take him?  Because it’s dramatic.  It’s also hogwash and manipulative and unbelievable.

If you’re going to aspire to visceral and naturalistic filmmaking–and there are scenes–long tracking shots and motorcycle chases, as well as some excellent, subtle camerawork in quieter moments (a bedroom tiff with Rose Byrne and Cooper, lit perfectly, comes to mind, though the film is gorgeous consistently)–that show that Cianfrance has the goods–then you have to have your ducks in a row with the naturalistic details, otherwise it’s jarring.  …Pines reminds me of a couple of films by James Gray–The Yards and We Own the Night–both of which swing for Great American Filmmaking, but stumble under the weight of the storytelling.  Still, it’s a big movie, and I’m interested in other people’s opinions about its ambitions.

Swinging for the fences is never a bad thing.

Case in point, and a good counter example: Rust and Bone.

This movie is ridiculous.  It includes a killer whale trainer who gets her legs bitten off, a MMA fighter who helps her, their eventual love story, and a twist at the end that involves a character having to punch a whole in a frozen lake.

I was reminded of the film because both movies use Bon Iver’s “Wolves pt. I and II” in the closing credits.

The reason Rust and Bone works, aside from the fact that Jacques Audiard, who also made The Beat my Heart Skipped and A Prophet, two of the better films of the past decade, is that the events and characters (not to mention performances, specifically the two leads, Marion Cotillard and Matthias Schoenaerts) are invested with such conviction  that the result is moving and profound in a manner similar to the films of Douglas Sirk or John Stahl.

While …Pines pretends to be something it’s not–a serious, realistic film–Rust and Bone has the temerity to embrace the twists and turns of melodrama for the profundity it offers.  If anything, and for all its brio, what The Place Beyond the Pines suffers from is the slightest bit of trepidation.  Dare we go all out?  It hedges its bets, and hangs them on a police procedural framework that does it no favors.

Rust and Bone, unrestrained by such jitters, is all the stronger for it’s gonzo leanings.




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Done: 8/6/13

So, CrossFit.

Some background: CrossFit is basically regimented, group High Intensity Interval Training with barbell lifts, kettlebells, medicine balls, box jumps, etc.  Every day is different, and you don’t really know what you’re getting into until you get there (or look online, which I tried but it was too early and they hadn’t updated the site). 

It stresses short, high impact workouts (according to Seneca, the guy at CrossFit 1809, as few as five minutes and as many as fifty), with a short warm-up.  

The place is set up like the kind of Russian lifting barn you see shirtless, bullet-headed muscle milling about whenever Stallone, Schwarzenegger, or Van Damme need to discuss something with a Croatian crime lord in the back office.  There were no hissing pipes, and the lighting was flourescent track rather than one single, yellow bulb hanging from an exposed wire (natch)  but because I’m me and always have to pee, I used the restroom before I started and the facilities looked like a kill room, all white tile with a drain in the middle of the floor.  I’m not sure what business occupied the building before CrossFit did, but I’m glad I didn’t work there.


So far so good.  This is what I wanted.  No bullshit, no nautilus, no step machines, just a group of us and some mother-effing iron to throw around.  

Except, it turned out to just be me.  “Slow morning,” Seneca said.  I never caught his last name.  I think it’s on the site.  I wanted to ask if he was named after the famous Stoic essayist, but it didn’t seem to be the time or place.

We started right at eight with the warmup and some instruction.  Big surprise: I wasn’t doing squats correctly.  Another big surprise: I wasn’t doing kettlebell swings correctly either.  I was bending my back and using too much arm and shoulder.  Apparently, a true kettlebell swing relies on your hips and ass a lot more.  You hike it through your legs and then, rather than arcing the weight back up, you clench your ass and basically fuck it forward.  



That’s three years and thousands of reps (in gym parlance) down the toilet.  It’s not like I was completely off base, like swinging the kettlebell with my wiener or something, but it did make me realize why my lower back was always sore.  He said the new form will “utilize my quad power train” which sounds badass except he really means my hips, ass, and hamstrings.

The warmup was four exercises: jumping jacks, body-weight squats, mountain climber stretch, and jump squats.  Fifteen seconds of each, four times, no breaks.  

No problem.

I entertained the idea, driving to CrossFit, that I was basically going to slam dunk the whole workout, throw it down like a pizza crust and ask for more.  The trainer would ask me to train him.  I would start my new career as a CrossFit ambassador, a fitness savant.  


My wife calls this self-inflated egomania.  I call it a healthy growth-mindset.  

I can run eight miles, sprint up hills, bench 200 lbs, and do twenty pull-ups (not in a row, which soon became the problem).  The warm-up, while not grueling, left me short-of-breath and sweating, and the jump-squats–now that I was actually bending my knees like I was supposed to and dropping my ass as low as required–made my legs burn.  Not a good sign.

Next was planks.  No problem.  I began, settling onto my elbows but Seneca told me to get on my hands because it works on “shoulder stabilization.”  These are harder, and I had to really concentrate on the side planks lest I should roll over and lay on his feet like a shot dog.

OK.  Warmup over.  Bring on the meat.

The main workout consisted of three exercises, performed as a circuit, three times, with no breaks.  I was to run 400 meters, swing a 35 lb. kettle bell 50 times, then do something called “wall balls”.

Let’s talk about wall balls.  I hate when you read about or see someone do an exercise, either in a magazine or online, and it looks easy, and you think to yourself “I can do a hundred of those.”  Then you try it and it sucks.  Sucks with the strength of ten-thousand Dysons.  That is a wall ball.

It’s very simple.  You hold a large, twenty pound medicine ball in front of you, do a squat, then explode up and try to push/throw the ball up past a demarcated line (orange) on the wall in front of you.  You stand about a foot away from the wall.  No problem.  Except you don’t have to do it once.  You have to do it twenty times, and the ball comes back down and in one fluid motion you have to catch it, go into your squat, load up, and throw it again.  It’s basically a plyometric thruster, like I do with dumbbells, except I’m not throwing the dumbbells in the air because I work out in my basement and my wife would kill me if I dented the drywall.

I squatted and hurled the ball five times while he watched.  He nodded, told me good work and asked if I was ready.  


The first 400 meter run was easy.  The fifty kettle bell swings kind of kicked my ass, and the wall balls sucked.

“One down,” Seneca said.  Good time so far.  And it was, only three minutes and fifty seconds for the first round.  

The second 400 meters was kind of hairy, as I usually rested a minute or two between hard runs.  Not today.  However, as I rounded the corner to come back into the gym, Seneca was there, cheering me on.  It was sweet.  I am a thirty-six year-old man, alone except for a giant named Seneca who I’ve met exactly zero times before roughly fifteen minutes ago, and at that point his praise suddenly meant more to me than anything my wife has ever said.  I remember his exact words: “Keep it up.  Doing good.”

Fucking nectar.

After the kettle bell, the second time, I set the weight down and watched the clock for fifteen seconds.  No way I was running over to that wall again before I got two or three good breaths in.  At this point, once I made it over and had four or five reps behind me, the orange line was a pipe dream.  Now it was just about getting through the twenty reps.

As I stepped out of the gym for the third  and last time, I looked behind me and realized I was looking to see if Seneca was following me.  Why?  Because I knew if he wasn’t, there was a good chance I was going to run to my car and drive home.  But, there he was, so I ran the 400 again, and if I managed it in 1:40 the first time, this time I was lucky to get there and back in three minutes.  

Kettle bells again.  My ass clenching and unclenching, humping it forward.

And, finally, wall balls.  I stopped at seven and fifteen to breathe, but got through it.  

14:40 total.  The whole thing took less than 15 minutes.  I was sweating like I’d run five miles.  

Seneca was complimentary, and I was the second best time of the day (it’s Tuesday, at 8AM, so I didn’t break my arm patting myself on the back).  I noticed that the guy in front of me had an “RX” by his name.  I asked what it meant.  

“It means he did all of it with good form, and managed to make the prescribed distance on the wall ball every time.”  I nodded, and waited for him to put the letters by my names two.  He capped the marker and put it back on the table.  

Oh well.

We talked for a few minutes afterwards.  He’s training for the CrossFit Games and hopes to make regionals.  He showed me his “WOD” (workout of the day), which was ungodly.  One exercise said “weighted sled.”  Another said “walk on hands.”

He mentioned that he’d been doing this for a few years and started at 260 lbs., completely out-of-shape, but the teamwork and regimented approach was really a great motivator.  I couldn’t tell if that was part of the pitch; a success story is always a nice personal touch, but he didn’t give me any reason to doubt him and he seemed to legitimately enjoy what he does.

So I’m still alive, and because the whole week is free, I’m taking my wife on Thursday.  Is this for me?  I like that it’s only an hour.  I like the intensity.  The price is a bit steep, and will be the deciding factor.  Truth is, I like working out in my basement.  My son plays Wii and my daughter makes fun of me while I exercise.  It’s not CrossFit, but it’s something.

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Heard: 8/5/13

The Civil Wars: Their new album is an improvement over their last, as far as I’m concerned.  Same pretty harmonies, same sad balladry, but there’s so more oomph here, it’s harder, faster (those are relative terms–we’re still talking hipster-country here).  Word is the two principals are on the outs and have been for a awhile.  I thought they were a couple, actually.  They’re not, so the bonds of state and god aren’t present to keep them together.  Oh well, so maybe this is it.  It’s not Shoot Out the Lights, but it’s pretty good.

My favorite new band of the year is The Lone Bellow, who I listened to once in January, didn’t like because I’m a moron (most albums I really like are those I dismiss initially) but kept on my iPod until shuffle convinced me to give them another chance.  Good job, iPod shuffle!  They sound like Fleetwood Mac if Fleetwood Mac grew up in NYC, learned to love bluegrass and western swing, threw all their glitter off an overpass and replaced it with grit and sand.  Does that make sense?  Who cares!…0.0…

Also listening to:

Daft Punk

Chris Young: Neon

Kanye West: Yeezus

Kasey Chambers: Same Trailer, Different Park

Also, even though I think Prince could’ve written “Blurred Lines” during a particularly productive dump in say, 1986 (around Sign O’ the Times), it’s still a lot of fun.  Can’t get behind Robin Thicke.  He could shit gold bricks and the cure for cancer and I’d still think he looked like a jerk.  Hate the sinner, not the sin?

Tomorrow I will try CrossFit at 8AM.  I’ll report back, if I don’t chicken out.  I’m also going to try to include a recipe each week.  This week will be Hungarian Wild Mushroom Goulash!  My wife and kids will be so pleased.  I can already see their smiles…

I may try some Korean cooking too.  Since I haven’t eaten authentic (or even Ohio-based, pseudo-authentic) Korean food, I imagine the results will be similar to my first experience with Thai Cooking–it will be delicious because I know no better.  Ah, ignorance: you are the last true friend a man has.

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Read: August 4, 2013

Deliverance by James Dickey:


I’ve circled this for a awhile, but figured I’d never actually read it.  I knew the story, though I’ve never seen the film. 


I expected it to be pompous and full of hot air, and it is, with all the trappings of your typical manly survival narrative a la “…Francis Macomber” or Deer Hunter.  However, I didn’t expect Dickey’s novel to be a page-turner.  I assumed I’d pick at it for a few weeks and finally finished it, but a few spare hours later I was halfway done, and I stayed up until early morning polishing it off last Sunday.  It’s rare that a book with a reputation still has the power to carry one along like the best trash does, but there you go. 

 Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison:


Another book by an unrepentant man’s man.  After this week I’d be surprised if I don’t have double the chest hair and three times the pubes.  Three novellas in this one, including the title story.  I saw the movie twenty years ago, in small theater in Bowling Green while I was visiting my wife (then girlfriend) at college.  I remember mainly Brad Pitt’s hair (extraordinary) and Anthony Hopkins’s strange gargle of a voice after his character’s stroke. 


The story is hogwash, honestly, but I read that Harrison’s work should be taken seriously, so I dipped a toe.  “Legends…”  is the weakest of the three.  The first, “Revenge”, was made into a film with Kevin Costner and Madeline Stowe, but I never saw it.  It’s fun, fun, fun.  Bloody and sexy and full of Mexican sand and long comma-less sentences.  The second story, “The Man Who Gave Up his Name” is surprising, in that it’s a gentle story about lost suburban love, acute and affecting and a bit like the parts of John Irving that aren’t about bears, wrestling, and/or missing body parts.

Also Read:

The Map that Changed the World by Simon Winchester

The Destiny of the Republic by Candace Millard

Dracula by Bram Stoker

The Origin of Satan by Elaine Pagels

The Son by Phillipp Meyer

Nos482 by Joe Hill

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

I’m going to try CrossFit this week, so this may be my last post.  If I make it, I’ll report back.


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Seen (August 3, 2013)




For all the good I see in Jeff Nichols’s work, I can’t shake the fact that he doesn’t have a whole lot to say.  Shotgun Stories and Take Shelter were both expertly made and benefitted from Michael Shannon, who’s in Mud as well, in the kind of role Harvey Keitel got relegated to when Scorsese discovered Robert DeNiro (which is not to compare Scorsese and Nichols). 

 Perhaps it’s too much to expect that when a good story is told well, and the flyover states are represented as Nichols has, that something more than that is needed to really set a film apart.  He gets a great performance from Matthew McConaughey, for example–as a wanted fugitive who lives in a boat in a tree (it’s not ridiculous in the film)–by surrounding him with southern myth and grotesques (old-testament-religioous toughs, mysterious loners, trashy-hot beauties) rather than ask McConaughey to do something he can’t (play something other than Matthew McConaughey).     

 Fun, smaller performances from Reese Witherspoon, Sam Shepard (wish he took a whack at the script), and Joe Don Baker.  Great supporting performances from Ray McKinnon and Sarah Paulson, and both little boys are excellent (Tye Sheridan and Jacob Lofland).

 It’s basically a coming-of-age-on-the-Mississippi story.  The complications are simple, the psychology is careworn and predictable.  Compare the results to the work of David Gordon Green’s earlier work, specifically Undertow, to see what the film could have looked like.

 Orphan Black:


 Tatiana Maslany plays seven different roles (clones) in the BBC series.  She’s terrific–you can tell who’s who from her walk–and so’s the show.  

 So, clones.  Not a huge fan.  I guess I understand the uncanny pull of seeing your twin and the inherent complications about identity, etc. that would provide, but those are not necessarily complications I find all that interesting.  I really start to claw the walls when the scientific morality is debated–responsibility towards the clone created, what makes a human, what is consciousness. 

 Holy shit, get a room.

 The good news, for me, is that this show wears the philosophical ramifications of playing God lightly, and functions mostly as a kickass action series, the core mythology functioning mostly as a way of exploring the characters and driving the plot forward.

 I don’t know why I wanted more challenge from Mud and am happy with less from Orphan Black.  Oh well.

 Also watching:

 The Bridge


The Killing

Naked and Afraid (watching muddy, bare asses with my children is the most fun I’ve had this summer)

Ray Donovan

True Blood

 Breaking Bad starts in eight days.


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Truth or Dare

My daughters were trying to teach their six-year-old brother how to play truth or dare in the car tonight. They each demonstrated the protocol.
Eleven-year-old: “Truth or Dare?”
Eight-year-old: “Dare.”
Eleven-year-old: “Eat this Jolly Rancher from Easter.”
And so on.
Simple. Simple game, simple rules.
Eventually, of course, the game will turn into a confessional/peer-pressure-fueled gauntlet of embarrassing, compromising, vaguely sexual and/or overtly sexual acts that will end in tears, rumors, and the always-fun stress-induced eating disorder (can’t wait!) but at this point it’s still pretty tame and kind of cute.
Then it’s my son’s turn.
Son: Truth or dare?
Oldest Daughter: Dare.
Son (producing a Bic pen from his booster seat): Poke your eye out.
Oldest Daughter: Wait, what?
Son: Poke out your eye. The right one.
That was the end of the game. Needless to say we had a good laugh after we coaxed the pen from my son’s hand and convinced him that his dare, while certainly falling within the parameters of a “dare” so-to-speak, was probably too intense for such a casual game, especially with siblings.
“He’d do well in a Vietnamese POW camp,” my wife said.
“Or a Turkish prison.” I agreed.
Though his approach is more pure and honest than the way most middle-schoolers play the game, using the opportunity to commit acts of emotional terrorism on the weaker members of the herd and initiate the new member of the clique in the dark arts of middle school antagonism, it does make me wonder what’s going to happen when he gets to middle school, and at a party someone introduces Truth or Dare as the game of the hour. Will he have learned the proper gaming protocol, or will he jack it to eleven again?
My son: Truth or Dare?
Middle-school jerkoff: Dare, bro.
My Son: Slam your dick in the microwave.
Middle-school jerkoff: Slam my…seriously?
My son: We’re waiting.
I kind of hope it happens.

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I’m not ashamed to say I read most of my news off of Yahoo, which I realize is one of the shittiest places in the world from which to get your news.
I think it has to do with Yahoo’s insane need to try and take any and all possible reader-related factors into consideration when they put out a story. It has to be not-too-smart, not-too-scary, not-too-uninteresting. It has to be about what’s going on RIGHT THIS MINUTE, but it also has to be provacative enough encourage those who use message boards to post at least fifteen or twenty “useful” comments before someone throws in a homophobic or racist slur and the whole string becomes either self-righteous and unreadable or vile and unreadable.
Spoiler alert: the message boards never make it to 15 posts before this happens.
I understand that Yahoo news is crap. It’s called Yahoo News. Odds are, Bob Woodward is not champing at the bit to get a position there. But sometimes, and this is probably why I read it, there is an article that makes me wonder.
It happened again this week, in an article related to the odd story about the three women who escaped after ten years of captivity in Cleveland (actually, ten years’ captivity in a basement of some pervert’s house in Clevelend, not that ten years free in Cleveland is much better…RIMSHOT! MISTAKE BY THE LAKE! BURNING RIVER! THE INDIANS! Is this thing on?).
The article had nothing to do with the women, but about public outrage towards the psychic, Sylvia Browne, who told a mother of one of the girls that her daughter was dead. A year later the mother died, with Sylvia Browne ostensably to blame.
There are a lot of reasons to get angry at psychics: they’re con artists; they’re vultures, exploiting the grief and fear of parents and spouses for profit; they’re gadflies and pests who “volunteer” their services so vociferously when something like this happens that they can become a nuisance (the article does bring this up, albeit briefly), they usually abuse neckerchiefs are/or headscarves.
But the article, or at least the irate few the article covers, seem most upset that Silvia Browne was wrong.
That’s why they’re angry. Because she got it wrong. Are psychics ever right? I’ve never seen a psychic predict anything correctly (because I obviously have a shit-ton of experience with psychics and “their gift of second sight”…).
I told my father about the article, and he said it was like getting angry at weathermen (Weatherpeople? That a creepy Sesame Street skit. In Dayton they call the dude who does the weather a “Storm Tracker,” which hits the holy trifecta of being pompous, buffoonish, and innacurate). I don’t completely agree. The people that predict the weather are right A LOT. Like 80% of the time I bet. They’re right so often that the public gets legitimately pissed when they are wrong. If they say sunny and eighty-five degrees, and it turns out to be forty-five and raining, that dumbass is probably fired. But getting angry at a psychic because she was wrong? That’s like becoming disillusioned with pornography.
“You’re telling me that this man and this woman do not love nor probably even have lustful feelings towards each other and are performing for the viewer’s benefit? And that the situations, positions and shall-we-say endurance of the performers is more-than-likely a performance too and not indicative of what I can look forward to in my life? Shit. Well, at least the women are so naturally beautiful and so startlingly well-endowed that it makes me believe in a just, wise, loving and charitable God who…really? Serious?..that too, huh? My life has just become smaller.”
And…End Scene
Psychics are bullshit entertainment. Using one to find your kid or wife is like hiring Mark Harmon because he’s “so smart on NCIS.”
Call the police. Shitty police are better than really, really good psychics. But for the love of god, save your self-righteous rancor for more important things, like the Cool Ranch Dorito Taco at Taco Bell. That thing shouldn’t suck, but it so fucking does.

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