My Problematic Fave: A juicy question with many answers: Catherine Breillat. Dollarama. Nina Simone's version of "I Loves You, Porgy" (it's not on Simone, she saves it from Gershwin, it's just the one I love). I would say Woody Allen's Husbands and Wives or Deconstructing Harry, but I think it's okay to enjoy those (so bleak and revealing, they are basically a confession), it's more problematic that I love Manhattan.
First Movie I went on a Date for: Sweet Home Alabama, a double date with my neighbourhood friend and two guys from another school we met hanging out (as teens do) after school hours at the playground. He thought I was crying during an emotional scene where Reese Witherspoon visits a grave in her hometown (A grandparent? Childhood dog?), but I was a cynical 14-year-old, and not then or now a Rom Com girl, and was trying to muffle my laughter.
My Movie/TV Character Style Icon: Julia Stiles in Hamlet, Kiera Knightley in Love, Actually, Satine in Moulin Rouge, Maggie Cheung and Nathalie Richard in Irma Vep.
The First Sex Scene I Ever Saw: I can't remember for sure, but probably Titanic.
… and it made me feel: Confused: it gave me absolutely no information on what sex actually is, only that there were certain signals I would one day understand (like the men who laugh knowingly when they see the fogged up windows). Also afraid: it seemed sex would always leave some trace, and you could not hide it from anyone. Also romantic: sex was fun and actually fine, no one was hurt by it or punished for it (although it did happen right before they hit the iceberg, but this was not a coincidence that my young mind internalized.)
Best Needle Drop: Most of the songs in Rushmore (but maybe "Oo La La" by The Faces the most). I didn't even know what those songs were when I watched it at 15, but I knew that they were perfect.
I Wish this Fictional Meal Existed IRL: This meal does exist, but I have never seen the timpano from Big Night out in the wild, and although it seems like something that is better in theory than in execution, I'm not sure I'll feel fully satisfied if I never try one.
Untouchable Classic that I hate: How do I even pick! Citizen Kane does very little for me (except Welles, who I find quite hot), 2001: A Space Odyssey is glacial and so British (I do think the scene approaching the monolith on the moon is fab), Bresson leaves me dry (a symptom, perhaps, of him casting actors because they're hot), I find Parasite shallow, I only like the scenes in Stalker before and after they go to the Zone, and I can't get past Jeanne Dielman's melodramatic ending (which became an irritating staple of art house film).
Celebrity I had on my wall as a teen
Frank Black Francis and Karen O.
My film/TV OTP is: I can't think of a time when I felt the ending of a film or show should have been different, I like when characters come together, I like when they fall apart.
The Reality TV Show I Would Win: I think it's obvious that my true place is not as a competitor, but as a judge.
DICK
I wake up late in the middle of my real life
and my superior clothes laid out
on a lunch tray like the Last Supper –
a cautious chemistry
among the food groups –
made of reheatable stuff - trapped
beneath a cellophane liner –
and me with my comrade
in another serpentine boiler room
You have no reach for places like these –
their architecture - their enigmas
You amble along them
without grace – seeking to rob
while we survive them
on rope ladders
and gym mattresses
discovering what you have
already come to know
about the cavernous
mid century corridors –
how pliable
their moments
how seismic
their echoes
And yet you can’t
locate even a day
of rest within them –
Yours are left -
littered like bygone picnics –
carefree sure – but costly
Ours are sealed in an aerosol can –
a pressurized payload
bound for asteroid belts
Still I chase you
like the Devil – impersonal
by necessity – and though I hope
you won’t – you bastards –
you have come to know
me well enough
to speak to me out of turn
Our disadvantage
is restlessness –
Don’t you understand?
It would not seem
that there is any nurturing
this misty weekend
We agree on one thing –
there is no use
in writing about it –
these papers will be recycled
as precipitation
in future scenes of guilt.
JEANIE
My iron-on fingernails
are of this suburb –
My dirty shoelaces
trace the water treatment
plants and itchy creek beds
by which I would escape –
the rash I’d keep
hidden in my neck
and the pit of my knee
Your grandmother knows
when you’ve been cleaning –
only child – we’ll find felt tip
markers at the drugstore –
we’ll make everything
all right again
As if I don’t notice the blue sky?
Duty-bound to diesel-soaked tides –
flaky metal traffic patterns –
the twin brothers of Wooly Willy –
Ignorant to the woods –
their morbid fascinations
As if I don’t long to engineer
some simple prestidigitation –
just to break up the humidity
But your fingernails are here –
The asphalt you loan to the linoleum
ensures your safe passage
anywhere else – and footraces
are fine for now – as long as you win
and make sure to see your rival
off the track – arm in arm
away from vindictive officials –
Anywhere is America after all
There are sticklers and that’s your family
who doesn’t deserve this mugginess –
not from strangers anyway
It’s only a cymbal –
the unilateral clamor
coming from the moon
down the hall – I’ve seen
the pulley systems
and evidence of other
simple machines mars
the porcelain we share –
He is a glamour of light –
untouchable – not his debris.
DUCK
If this were the burbling
drumbeat of mint green
gel pens on yearbook pages –
barnyard sounds like HAGS –
LYLAS – other square dances –
it would curl my upper lip
Cool your jets – you have
fairer fields to become –
to lace up your sport goggles
and use your athleticism
for a Crayola sunset
and untucked basslines
and other lights I only dream of
Your legacy is unfinished notebooks –
the coinage of your fervor –
your recklessness
You’re worth your weight
in t-shirts – another dresser drawer
folded up and kept as inventory
Everybody finds their groove
one day – You know who
said that? Me – somehow
in spite of all
the armies of brass
at our backs –
we wind up reciting –
using cue cards –
living less on subways
with fleet feet
and horn stings
as foggy mirrors
and boardwalk slang
and a road trip circling
another dangerous county
But one you’ve never been to!
With savory beverages to fortify
the aldermen – the surgeons –
the drugstore clerks –
the infirmed – the illicit –
they’re here to put out fires –
to solve problems, I mean
They keep jars of lollipops
in their drawers at home –
three for a dime –
they’ll turn your secrets
into guessing games –
your prickly succulents
into some sort of currency –
a fruit, that is –
a wreath of goldenrod –
a meter of peace –
but you have to show them
where it hurts –
you have to show them
that it hurts –
you have to show them.
DICK
I wake up late in the middle of my real life
and my superior clothes laid out
on a lunch tray like the Last Supper –
a cautious chemistry
among the food groups –
made of reheatable stuff - trapped
beneath a cellophane liner –
and me with my comrade
in another serpentine boiler room
You have no reach for places like these –
their architecture - their enigmas
You amble along them
without grace – seeking to rob
while we survive them
on rope ladders
and gym mattresses
discovering what you have
already come to know
about the cavernous
mid century corridors –
how pliable
their moments
how seismic
their echoes
And yet you can’t
locate even a day
of rest within them –
Yours are left -
littered like bygone picnics –
carefree sure – but costly
Ours are sealed in an aerosol can –
a pressurized payload
bound for asteroid belts
Still I chase you
like the Devil – impersonal
by necessity – and though I hope
you won’t – you bastards –
you have come to know
me well enough
to speak to me out of turn
Our disadvantage
is restlessness –
Don’t you understand?
It would not seem
that there is any nurturing
this misty weekend
We agree on one thing –
there is no use
in writing about it –
these papers will be recycled
as precipitation
in future scenes of guilt.
JEANIE
My iron-on fingernails
are of this suburb –
My dirty shoelaces
trace the water treatment
plants and itchy creek beds
by which I would escape –
the rash I’d keep
hidden in my neck
and the pit of my knee
Your grandmother knows
when you’ve been cleaning –
only child – we’ll find felt tip
markers at the drugstore –
we’ll make everything
all right again
As if I don’t notice the blue sky?
Duty-bound to diesel-soaked tides –
flaky metal traffic patterns –
the twin brothers of Wooly Willy –
Ignorant to the woods –
their morbid fascinations
As if I don’t long to engineer
some simple prestidigitation –
just to break up the humidity
But your fingernails are here –
The asphalt you loan to the linoleum
ensures your safe passage
anywhere else – and footraces
are fine for now – as long as you win
and make sure to see your rival
off the track – arm in arm
away from vindictive officials –
Anywhere is America after all
There are sticklers and that’s your family
who doesn’t deserve this mugginess –
not from strangers anyway
It’s only a cymbal –
the unilateral clamor
coming from the moon
down the hall – I’ve seen
the pulley systems
and evidence of other
simple machines mars
the porcelain we share –
He is a glamour of light –
untouchable – not his debris.
DUCK
If this were the burbling
drumbeat of mint green
gel pens on yearbook pages –
barnyard sounds like HAGS –
LYLAS – other square dances –
it would curl my upper lip
Cool your jets – you have
fairer fields to become –
to lace up your sport goggles
and use your athleticism
for a Crayola sunset
and untucked basslines
and other lights I only dream of
Your legacy is unfinished notebooks –
the coinage of your fervor –
your recklessness
You’re worth your weight
in t-shirts – another dresser drawer
folded up and kept as inventory
Everybody finds their groove
one day – You know who
said that? Me – somehow
in spite of all
the armies of brass
at our backs –
we wind up reciting –
using cue cards –
living less on subways
with fleet feet
and horn stings
as foggy mirrors
and boardwalk slang
and a road trip circling
another dangerous county
But one you’ve never been to!
With savory beverages to fortify
the aldermen – the surgeons –
the drugstore clerks –
the infirmed – the illicit –
they’re here to put out fires –
to solve problems, I mean
They keep jars of lollipops
in their drawers at home –
three for a dime –
they’ll turn your secrets
into guessing games –
your prickly succulents
into some sort of currency –
a fruit, that is –
a wreath of goldenrod –
a meter of peace –
but you have to show them
where it hurts –
you have to show them
that it hurts –
you have to show them.