Yearly Archives: 2013

Movie Review: The Great Gatsby

When you go see The Great Gatsby, make sure you stick around after the ending. Once the credits finish rolling, spoiler alert, the camera cuts to Thanos, the purple guy from the very end of The Avengers. He’s still smiling and laughing and getting his evil plans all in order for The Avengers 2.

That was a funny joke, right? Yeah, it’s just that, I’m not really sure how to write up a review for a movie like The Great Gatsby. It’s easy when I really like something, when I really don’t like something, or even when I think something is just really boring. That’s something to say, and I can say it, and I can try to make little jokes here and there.

But did I like The Great Gatsby? I don’t know. I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t totally boring. It’s kind of hard to make heads or tails of what’s going on, mostly because everybody that went through any sort of high school in the US, even if they didn’t do any homework or study for a single test, just by sitting in English class we’ve all sort of absorbed The Great Gatsby, the lighthouses, those big eyes on the billboard.

It was the symbolism of the novel, those little things that I forgot about, that after I had seen them on the screen, I was like, oh yeah, I remember my teacher from junior year going on and on about this scene or that scene. And the movie had about the same subtleties of a high school English teacher saying, “Remember that billboard. Remember those eyes. It’s going to be on the test,” every time they’d zoom in on an image, trying to distill what worked for the novel into wide-angle camera shots.

The movie was very cartoony. It reminded me of 300, the same kind of all-CGI background. This isn’t a critique, just an observation. Because, like I said, the story is so familiar, any Gatsby movie is going to wind up being an interpretation of sorts, and I guess I’d have to say that it was kind of cool, seeing the whole over-the-top 1920s depicted in over-the-top big studio movie special effects. If only I had gone for the 3D.

The acting was fine, with one exception being Tobey Maguire. For some reason, whenever I see this guy in any film, I can’t shake the jazz flute emo scene from Spider-Man 3 out of my head. Also, one time I saw this video clip totally out of context, Maguire was being harassed by some fan who wanted a picture, but he totally overreacted, slapped this guy’s camera out of his hands onto the ground. Maybe that guy deserved it, but I don’t know, you’re a celebrity, you’ve got to learn how to keep those impulses a little more in check.

Which really has nothing to do with The Great Gatsby, but like I said, I really don’t know what else to say. It was big. Everything was loud. There were some weird hip-hop music scenes in the beginning of the movie which didn’t exactly add to the whole 1920s feel. I thought the score got better as the movie progressed, they’d take modern songs and have them peppered throughout the movies as if they had been performed by bands of that era.

And again, it wasn’t a bad movie. The story made more sense to me than it did in high school. Maybe I should have been paying better attention in class. Maybe the director of this adaptation really dumbed down the plot. Or maybe it really was a faithful adaptation of a great American novel.

It’s not a love story, not really. It’s about wealth, power, life, how the drive of ambition, the American dream on steroids, it’s about wanting something, getting it, not feeling fulfilled, and wanting it even more knowing that the closer you get, the further it eludes your grasp. That’s the whole lighthouse thing, right?

I kept wondering as I watched the movie, are high schools still going to be able to teach The Great Gatsby? Are the teachers going to tell the kids not to watch the movie, “Trust us, kids, don’t think you can just watch the movie and be prepared for the test.” Because I think you totally could have just watched the movie and aced any Gatsby test. If I had a time machine, and I sent a copy of this movie back into the past, to when I was in the eleventh grade, would it have worked? I can’t be positive, but I want to say yes. Also, I’d send back a copy of this review with a note to my English teacher. It would say:

Dear Mr. Anselmo. Look at this whole eight hundred word document that I’ll eventually write about The Great Gatsby. Come on, you’d be lucky to get eight hundred words about anything from any one of your students. Just the fact that I’ll eventually think about all of the stuff you’re teaching right now means that sooner or later you’re going to get through to me. And so please consider upping my grade. I’m looking at my high school report card right now, and I’m really hoping that the letter grade is going to change in front of my eyes. Please. See you in the future, Rob G.

Earth Day was a huge bust

I keep thinking about Earth Day, about how I didn’t do enough, how I wasted it. I wrote about it. I picked up a ton of trash. Well, not a ton, but some. I picked up some trash. The world just needs so much more healing. I could have helped to heal it so much more. Just a little bit more healing would have been a little bit toward a long way of long term healing, renewal, growth.

Like, I had this idea about buying some water filters, you know, the ones that you put in a pitcher and you run your tap water through them and the water gets purified. I thought, OK, I could like buy one, or three of them, because I think they come in three packs. One pack of three filters. I could buy it and throw them in the East River. Do you know how disgusting the East River is? Very disgusting. It smells like, well, I don’t even know exactly how to describe it. But it’s not pleasant.

So I thought, you know, maybe this would be me doing me part, a very small part, hardly noticeable at all. But I’d be filtering some water, even if just a couple of drops. What if, in the future, like generations from now, there’s some dying child who might survive if only he or she had a couple of drops of clean water? Like, I know it’s probably unlikely, but there has to be a line between dying of thirst and not dying of thirst, and what if that line was just those drops that I’d be saving?

But then I thought, no, because what about the plastic filters? After they finished purifying all of the water that they could filter, the remnants of their spent shells would just add to the pollution. What good is a couple of drops of clean water if just downstream, that little piece of plastic gets picked up by a seagull? And the seagull might carry it out to the ocean. And once that seagull drops it in the ocean, I don’t know, there could be like an otter or a manatee, and it might try to eat the filter. And it would choke and die. Did I really feel like shouldering that potential responsibility?

I didn’t. I returned the filters. I didn’t have a receipt, because I’m very environmentally conscious, and so every time I buy something at a store, even before the clerk has a chance to say, “Hello,” I tell him or her, “Listen, I don’t need a receipt. It’s a huge waste of paper. There are just too many paper receipts out there, littering the sidewalks, filling up the landfills. Do you guys have any paperless options? Something green, something eco-friendly?” and usually I never return stuff, but this time it was kind of a pain in the ass. The clerk had to get a manager, the manager was reluctant to refund my money, I had to go into my whole no-receipt philosophy, and I was halfway through explaining how long those receipts take to biodegrade before the manager was just like, whatever, here’s your money, please leave.

And I’ve been feeling kind of off ever since, like, man, I wish there was more I could do for the river, for the earth. That’s when I had this thought, this brilliant idea. I could buy a bunch of fishing lines, and instead of a hook, I could attach the water filter. And so I’d cast out the lines and keep them in there for however long it would take for all of the filtering properties to be used up, and then I could reel them in and dispose of them properly.

So I’ve been kind of in a funk, wishing that I had thought of this idea on Earth Day, not weeks after Earth Day. If only I could have really taken advantage of the holiday, people might have been like, “What are you doing?” and I’d be like, “Oh, you know, it’s Earth Day, so I’m doing my part to help clean up the water.”

But then I went back to the drug store and I started looking at the water filters, but the box didn’t say what type of plastic was used for the casing. I took it to the register and asked the clerk, “Excuse me, do you know if this plastic is recyclable? Is it BHP free?” and the clerk wouldn’t even talk to me. She just stared at me, unwilling to even try to help me help the world, which she’s a part of. I’d be helping her out too.

Man, it’s tough being such a lone environmentalist. I can’t wait for the global shift in consciousness that I keep reading about online. Until then, I’ll just have to keep my head down, try to forget about what a bust this Earth Day was, do some research on sustainable water filters, just keep trying to make a difference, spreading the word, you know, any way I can help out, help the planet.

Get out of the bike lane

The Queensboro Bridge links Midtown Manhattan with Long Island City. I cross it every day on my bike to get to work. There’s a dedicated lane, totally apart from traffic, for pedestrians and cyclists. It’s wide enough for everybody, so on a purely theoretical level, there shouldn’t be any problems. But there are always problems.

People don’t know how to follow the rules. This dedicated lane has a line drawn down the middle. On one side, there are stenciled images of people on their bikes, on the other side, ones of people walking. That sounds simple enough, right? People on their bikes are riding fast, and people walking or running, not as fast. Terrific.

But it’s like, maybe twenty five percent of people on the bridge at any given time are either not understanding this very clear line of demarcation, or they understand it, but they’re thinking to themselves, fuck this line. I’m not going to get bossed around by a line. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.

I know it’s really lame for bike riders to complain about people being in the bike lane. Even though it’s true, it’s a tired argument, and Fred Armisen made fun of this trope at length on Portlandia. But come on, why are you going to walk in the middle of a bike lane? Riding downhill, bikes are flying. It’s like some people are thirsting for a collision.

And so every day I cross the bridge and there are always at least one or two people doing their thing, walking in the bike lane. Most of the time it’s … whatever, it’s annoying to me, but I’m not going to do anything. Normally there aren’t tons of people in the way, and it’s really no big deal for me to do a little swerve and avoid that guy with his head down (looking straight at the stenciled bikers spaced twenty feet apart) with his headphones on, or texting on his cell phone.

I really try to prevent myself from getting annoyed. I know that it’s crazy, that there are a billion people in this city, and I can’t let myself get upset at stupid trivialities like this. If I indulge even one urge to yell to somebody, “Hey man, this is the bike lane,” as I zip by, even if it does do something, which it most likely won’t, there’s just going to be somebody else doing it five minutes later.

And so I just try to stay calm, tell myself that I don’t have any control of this world, of other people, that this is probably like a metaphor for life, for my existence on the planet, me trying to do my thing without getting all bent out of shape about other people doing their thing.

But sometimes I’m not so patient. Every once in a while I will yell out, “Bike lane!” at some clueless pedestrian. Sometimes I’ll try the passive aggressive route, cutting right in front of the walker just inches after I pass. Did you feel that gust of wind when I passed? Yeah, that’s because you’re in the wrong lane buddy. You’re going to get hurt. I’m going to get hurt.

The lanes aren’t there arbitrarily. They’re an attempt at maintaining order, at facilitating the bridge crossing for a large number of people using different methods of transportation. Why do some people ignore it? It’s like life, why are some people just so opposed to everything?

“Hey, maybe things would run a lot smoother if we did it this way.”

“You think you’re smarter than me? Don’t tell me what to do! You can’t tell me what to do! This is America! I’ll do whatever the hell I want!”

The other day I was crossing and this guy and girl were walking their bikes, taking up the entire bike lane. And as I was trying to cross, there were other pedestrians going the other way in the pedestrian lane. And so I actually had to come to a stop because there was no way for me to pass. I made eye contact with the guy in the bike lane and that was all it took to set him off as he got instantly super aggressive.

“What the fuck are you looking at, bitch?” he screamed. And so I probably should have just ignored this and pedaled on, but I responded to the aggression with my own surge of adrenaline. I shouted back, “Get out the bike lane, you’re in the way!” His response to that was to throw down his bike and start walking toward me. I didn’t want to throw my bike down, but I didn’t want this clown to think that he could scare me away, so I placed it down, but did it with dramatic zeal.

“What are you going to do, beat me up?” I said, wildly mimicking his chest thumping and arm flailing, “You’re going to be a tough guy?” at this point the girl he was with started pulling at his arm, and me, having absolutely zero interest in getting in an actual physical altercation with a complete stranger, I picked up my bike and continued my ride to work.

It was pretty stupid. That guy could have been nuts. He could have totally attacked me. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. I felt like an idiot on the rest of the way over. What if he punched me in the face? What would I have said to my boss if I showed up to work all bloody and bruised? “Sorry boss, you see, this guy was walking in the bike lane, and we got into a fist fight …”

I just don’t see why we can’t at least try to follow the rules sometimes. Not every line is a challenge to your personal liberty, an invitation for something to be crossed. There are a lot of people on this planet, and sometimes these rules just help everything to run a little smoother.

The Great Gatsby? Or the Greatest Gatsby?

Why make a Great Gatsby movie? It’s 2013. I’m not trying to say that anything old doesn’t deserve to be made into a movie. And who knows, maybe it’ll wind up being a great film. But it just seems like such a joke. The Great Gatsby? The same book that every high school junior is supposed to read? The same book that lulls every high school junior to an early bedtime as they flip open to page one and attempt to start their required reading? They’re seriously making a Great Gatsby movie?

The Great Gatsby, probably thanks in no small part to its ubiquity on every single high school syllabus in America, it’s transcended literature. It’s like the Bible. Nobody actually reads The Great Gatsby. You’re supposed to, sure, but at this point, it’s been around for so many years, every single generation of students passing down the same worn paperback copies. It’s an ancient source material that’s rarely accessed directly.

No, I don’t even think most of our teachers have read The Great Gatsby. Go ahead teachers, tell me all about how small-minded I’m being. But take a look in the mirror and try to tell yourself that you’ve read the whole book. No, not just the selected readings you’re assigning to your students. I’m talking like every page, the stuff that’s not on the test. Reflections don’t lie.

The truth is, you go to high school and you listen to your English teachers talking about The Great Gatsby. When the lesson plan is a little thin for that day, teach might pull that trick where you go around the room, everybody taking a turn reading a paragraph, feeling bad for that kid who really, really doesn’t want to read out loud, but the teacher’s like, “Well, I could always give you a zero for class participation,” and so he has to sort of stutter along, sweating profusely the whole time, not looking anybody in the eye for the rest of the week because he’s just imagining them, laughing at him behind his back, ridiculing what had to have been his botched pronunciation of the world “irrecoverable.”

And then nobody thinks anything more about Gatsby until it’s time for the test. When I was a high school student, that meant going to a bookstore and buying the Cliff’s Notes, showing up at school the next day where the tech savvy kids were like, “Bookstore? What are you a noob? Sparknotes has this stuff online for free.” Today you can just go online and probably search for the most common Great Gatsby high school test questions, memorizing everything you’ll need to ace the exam.

I never read the whole thing and I got through high school English just fine. In fact, I was on the honor roll. I’m not bragging, I’m just pointing out that The Great Gatsby is this great American joke. This is what we’re passing off as high literature, in what members of Congress would tell you is the best education system in the world. Blah blah blah Jay Gatz. Blah blah blah Daisy. Something about lighthouses on opposite forks of Long Island. Swimming pools filled with champagne. I get it, how decadent.

And now a major motion picture? Starring Leonardo DiCaprio? This can’t be real. It shouldn’t be. Entourage already made fun of the whole idea, with Vinnie Chase starring in a Scorsese adaptation of Gatsby. We’re pushing here past art, past life. We’re at life imitating art imitating life. Doesn’t anybody remember when they did that whole season about the Aquaman movie? They weren’t suggesting that a big studio make an Aquaman movie. They were making fun of the whole big movie business. But it’s like Hollywood didn’t get the joke. Everybody’s laughing at them and they’re just like, “Hmm. The Great Gatsby. That sounds terrific. Get me DiCaprio on line one.”

I’m kind of getting carried away here, but over a decade after Gatsby was published, F. Scott Fitzgerald set out and moved to Hollywood to try his luck as a screenwriter. Despite his best efforts, he left after two years with barely one film to which he was loosely accredited with helping to write. What I’m getting at here is, just because something works in a book doesn’t mean it’s going to work in a movie. And I feel like this is blatantly obvious with The Great Gatsby. It needs a rest, from high schools, from movie screens. Perhaps generations from now somebody will be able to look at it with a pair of fresh eyes. Again, maybe I’m totally wrong, maybe it’ll wind up being a great movie, maybe Fitzgerald’s story about class and wealth and the 1920s will resonate with today’s audiences. But I doubt it.

That’s the best part!

In my house growing up, it was a common trick amongst my parents, my grandparents, any adults really, to try to convince us kids that something undesirable was actually “the best part.” One of us would experience a natural aversion to something, to anything, and instead of being like, “yeah, sorry you found out the hard way, that sucks,” the answer was always, “What are you talking about? That’s the best part!”

Like chocolate pudding pie. My grandmother always made it. So did my mom. The graham cracker crust, the whipped cream on top. It was an almost perfect dessert. Almost. But I could never just dive right in. Because after the pie chilled in the fridge to solidify, to set, it would always develop this thick skin on top. Whereas the rest of the pudding was smooth and consistent in texture, this skin was hard, coagulated, nothing at all what you’d expect out of a pudding.

So after I’d be given my slice but before I could bury it under a pile twice its size of whipped cream, I’d get a butter knife from the kitchen drawer and start performing my carefully practiced chocolate pudding pie surgery, a skin-ectomy if you will. I’d have to be ever so careful, keeping my instrument precisely parallel to the table, to the crust, so as to extract the skin and only the skin, leaving as much delicious pudding as possible. Depending on how long the pie sat in the fridge, this task might range in difficulty from pretty easy to moderately challenging. Thick skin was easy to pull off. Any thinner and it might start breaking apart in clumps. Nothing was worse than thinking I had removed all of the skin but after a couple of bites coming across a crumb of that pasty, hardened goo top layer.

And every time I’d go through my routine, I’d have to sit there and be heckled by all of the adults. “What are you crazy? That skin is the best part!” I never understood this line of reasoning. Did they think that I was that stupid, that I’d fall for the most rudimentary reverse psychology? It’s like, well I don’t like it, but everybody else is claiming to like it, so I guess I might as well like it too. What, are they just teaching me to blindly conform to whatever anybody else is doing? How was this logic supposed to play out if I saw people smoking cigarettes? “You don’t like emphysema? That’s the best part!”

Besides, and this is how I know everybody was full of shit, if I were in their place, if I were the adult watching a little kid eat a piece of chocolate pudding pie, and if the skin really were the best piece, I’d gladly watch that little kid peel off that top layer. I’d wait for the successful skin extraction and then I’d take it for myself. “Oh you’re not going to eat that? Here, give it to me.”

Nobody ever ate my leftover skin. If it truly were the best part, somebody would have made a move for it. People should have been fighting for it, my extra skin, all of my discarded pizza crusts, those hard crunchy burnt parts from the corner of the lasagna tray, that pool of colored milk after I finished eating all of the cereal. But aside from my grandmother or grandfather occasionally finishing the scraps off of my plate – and I feel like that was more of a survival instinct left over from the Great Depression than it was an actual enjoying of food – all of that stuff went straight into the trash.

I’m an adult now and I pride myself on eating anything. And so now I eat the crust, I eat everything. I don’t want to be picky and I don’t want to miss out on anything because of some irrational likes and dislikes. Maybe my parents and my grandparents were trying to instill upon me a lesson, that it’s easier to go through life without being too selective, without trying to control all of the tiniest aspects of every single dish.

But I still won’t eat that pudding skin. I’ve come pretty far, but I’ll never be able to do it. I look at the pudding, the top layer, that’s what glue feels like, like other gross stuff. And I just hear everybody’s voice in my head, “That’s the best part!” It’s not the best part! It’s the worst part! Stop lying to me!