Saturday, May 22, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Paris, Je t'aime
Paris, je t'aime is a vair, vair lovely foreign film that we started watching in French class today. It's composed of a series of short vignettes centered on love. Each vignette had different actors in it and was directed by a different person. It mentions various types of love: parental love, love and loss, weird relationships that make you tilt your head and say, "wtf?", language-barrier love, the kind of love between a husband who decides not to leave his wife after finding out she has terminal leukemia and re-falls in love with her, and something involving a mime. I've been thinking since I got home about what my vignette would look like if I were to direct one.
~~~~
It would take place in one of artsy arrondissements (boroughs) of Paris. A young woman, pretty. A young man, kind and charming. She's a journalist; he's an artist. Her articles and investigative journals make her content, but art is her passion. They assign her to interview street artists. They meet each other. He looks her in the eyes, genuinely willing to hand her her story. A smile spread across his face as he stops his world to dictate a well-mannered and well-meant "merci". Somehow, all her notes are lost and a follow up interview is arranged. She watches him work. The brush strokes show what he's learning, the colors show what he loves. "He's not perfect," she notices, "the painting lack depth and shadowing levels." But he's perfect to her.
A flashback.
Her childhood: smart, well-liked, pleasant-looking. But inwardly, she has no self-esteem. She classifies herself with people 20,000 leagues under the sea of her potential.
Back to the present.
He fits her.
He finishes his painting and turns to her. She snaps a shot of him with his masterpiece. He stays to talk. They talk for 20 minutes. "Is twenty minutes a long enough time period to fall in love?" she wonders. She accepts that it has to be, that she's crazy, that they're soul mates.
She walks away with a smile.
A day later, his art show. He sees her and the artsy group of people that surround him fade away. In a West Side Story type fading, radiant smiles are exchanged along with a few words. She gets a call from her editor: a new story, another job. She leaves and promises to return, knowing she can't.
A few months later, he contacts her editor, asking for her address. He shows up at her door, packed for a vacation, and tells her he's leaving for America. Art is calling him. To sculpt, to paint, to design.
A silence.
Then a kiss.
A different kiss, not like the kisses in the other vignettes. It's not a kiss of lust, of desperation, of secrecy. It's a kiss of true love. It's a kiss that understands and promises to return. But this kiss, unlike the false hope the woman gave the man, will keep its promise.
~~~~
My vignette would be about a couple who fall in love at first sight. Neither of them really believe in it beforehand, of course. But then, after meeting, they're changed. They stop doing ritualistic single-like things that they used to. They change for someone they may never see again, but that they're in love with.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. Is it better to know that someone like that is out there? Or is it better to forget about true love and settle into true like? I think I would rather know. I would rather know even if I could never be with that person. I think I would sleep better at night knowing I did something right, that there's someone out there fighting for me just as hard as I'm fighting for them.
~~~~
It would take place in one of artsy arrondissements (boroughs) of Paris. A young woman, pretty. A young man, kind and charming. She's a journalist; he's an artist. Her articles and investigative journals make her content, but art is her passion. They assign her to interview street artists. They meet each other. He looks her in the eyes, genuinely willing to hand her her story. A smile spread across his face as he stops his world to dictate a well-mannered and well-meant "merci". Somehow, all her notes are lost and a follow up interview is arranged. She watches him work. The brush strokes show what he's learning, the colors show what he loves. "He's not perfect," she notices, "the painting lack depth and shadowing levels." But he's perfect to her.
A flashback.
Her childhood: smart, well-liked, pleasant-looking. But inwardly, she has no self-esteem. She classifies herself with people 20,000 leagues under the sea of her potential.
Back to the present.
He fits her.
He finishes his painting and turns to her. She snaps a shot of him with his masterpiece. He stays to talk. They talk for 20 minutes. "Is twenty minutes a long enough time period to fall in love?" she wonders. She accepts that it has to be, that she's crazy, that they're soul mates.
She walks away with a smile.
A day later, his art show. He sees her and the artsy group of people that surround him fade away. In a West Side Story type fading, radiant smiles are exchanged along with a few words. She gets a call from her editor: a new story, another job. She leaves and promises to return, knowing she can't.
A few months later, he contacts her editor, asking for her address. He shows up at her door, packed for a vacation, and tells her he's leaving for America. Art is calling him. To sculpt, to paint, to design.
A silence.
Then a kiss.
A different kiss, not like the kisses in the other vignettes. It's not a kiss of lust, of desperation, of secrecy. It's a kiss of true love. It's a kiss that understands and promises to return. But this kiss, unlike the false hope the woman gave the man, will keep its promise.
~~~~
My vignette would be about a couple who fall in love at first sight. Neither of them really believe in it beforehand, of course. But then, after meeting, they're changed. They stop doing ritualistic single-like things that they used to. They change for someone they may never see again, but that they're in love with.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. Is it better to know that someone like that is out there? Or is it better to forget about true love and settle into true like? I think I would rather know. I would rather know even if I could never be with that person. I think I would sleep better at night knowing I did something right, that there's someone out there fighting for me just as hard as I'm fighting for them.
Twilight
Before you start judging me about the fact that I'm posting about the "teenage vampire saga", hear me out. I have a strong love/hate relationship with the series. The order in which I prefer these books are as follows:
1. Eclipse
2. Breaking Dawn
3. Twilight
4. New Moon
I'll preface this by saying that I'm a closet fan. I hate how entrancing this series is. I abhor that I couldn't put any of the books down once I started them, including New Moon.
Also, I'm Team Jacob. I have nothing against the vampires; I don't consider the Cullens to be "blood-sucking leeches". Edward sounds gorgeous, I'll admit. (I say "sounds" because the movies are awful representations of the books.) And this sounds cliché because it's the same reason my fellow teammates worldwide give for not liking Edward: he left. My reasons are different, however. Those other girls say that if Edward truly loved Bella, he wouldn't have left her there alone. I do realize Edward's concern. He realizes that his 'family' sucks, literally. And Jasper really, really wants to suck Bella's blood. Here are the things I don't understand. First of all, why the monkeys would he choose Bella? Why the monkeys would ANYONE choose Bella? C'mon! She's boring! Everything about her exudes "damsel in distress". She's not the main character; she exists to make Edward look amazing and make Jacob look like a desperate idiot. And Stephanie Meyer succeeds in this. Second of all, if Edward is really almost a century old, shouldn't he know that his family will like the smell of Bella's blood? I'm not even a legal adult and I knew that. Thirdly, he's with Bella because she smells good. Way to build a strong relationship there. Lastly, Edward leaving was a little too relevant in my own life at the time that I read it. Last summer, my '09 Senior friends and friendliers left for college. It was hard to see them go, especially the ones that said they would leave. The literally dismissal wasn't as much of a shock or a disappointment as the figurative one. When people that you love so dearly leave for bigger and better things, you have to accept it and encourage them. But when they stop contacting you, it's difficult. I guess that's why I like New Moon least.
I like Eclipse best for the sole reason that Edward and Jacob have to share a tent. It's the best scene ever. That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
1. Eclipse
2. Breaking Dawn
3. Twilight
4. New Moon
I'll preface this by saying that I'm a closet fan. I hate how entrancing this series is. I abhor that I couldn't put any of the books down once I started them, including New Moon.
Also, I'm Team Jacob. I have nothing against the vampires; I don't consider the Cullens to be "blood-sucking leeches". Edward sounds gorgeous, I'll admit. (I say "sounds" because the movies are awful representations of the books.) And this sounds cliché because it's the same reason my fellow teammates worldwide give for not liking Edward: he left. My reasons are different, however. Those other girls say that if Edward truly loved Bella, he wouldn't have left her there alone. I do realize Edward's concern. He realizes that his 'family' sucks, literally. And Jasper really, really wants to suck Bella's blood. Here are the things I don't understand. First of all, why the monkeys would he choose Bella? Why the monkeys would ANYONE choose Bella? C'mon! She's boring! Everything about her exudes "damsel in distress". She's not the main character; she exists to make Edward look amazing and make Jacob look like a desperate idiot. And Stephanie Meyer succeeds in this. Second of all, if Edward is really almost a century old, shouldn't he know that his family will like the smell of Bella's blood? I'm not even a legal adult and I knew that. Thirdly, he's with Bella because she smells good. Way to build a strong relationship there. Lastly, Edward leaving was a little too relevant in my own life at the time that I read it. Last summer, my '09 Senior friends and friendliers left for college. It was hard to see them go, especially the ones that said they would leave. The literally dismissal wasn't as much of a shock or a disappointment as the figurative one. When people that you love so dearly leave for bigger and better things, you have to accept it and encourage them. But when they stop contacting you, it's difficult. I guess that's why I like New Moon least.
I like Eclipse best for the sole reason that Edward and Jacob have to share a tent. It's the best scene ever. That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
Thursday, May 13, 2010
New York, New York
You left Boston at 11 a.m. It should only take two and a half hours to get to New York City from there. However, thanks to some unbearably fresh Bostonian Clam Chowder, your Pops has the barfs. You finally get to the City at 5 p.m.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
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