And then some

R&R

You'd think people who travel would wax and wane about the historic monuments, the food, the shopping and the hotels they stayed in. Coming from the Third World, I am always speechless with awe when I take public transport on roads without potholes, see cobblestoned streets that are clean, with dustbins everywhere, and can sit on a pavement cafe and drink my coffee exactly the way I like it. I enjoy everything from the politeness of boutique staff who do not pounce on me the minute I enter and then hover, to enjoying a McDonald's that actually has beef burgers. And yes, I'm not ashamed to say I think Big Macs hit the spot where love resides. I have fun at the supermarkets where you get produce that look like they didn't die yesterday and are part of the Walking Dead cast today, including all the candy that's so good it's bad for you. I am grateful to even temporarily be part of a crowd that the government works to make comfortable, for the most part, hell any part at all.
So here are some things that made me smile recently, and it wasn't my usual rictus.
As you can see, I don't ask for much.

A weakness

Fira, Santorini

Warming radiators, ultimate luxury

Greek honey that tasted like toffee, to swirl with yoghurt 

Fira square

A rainy day, Athens-style

Cute packaging

Seriously? An Angry Birds table at a burger place in Athens

Streets, Athens

Ruby Woo, where are you?

Rude shock while watching Discovery: Saw a couple of women archaeologists who looked like they had just been unearthed themselves. Would a touch of lipstick have hurt? A few lashings of mascara? An Ed Hardy Tee perhaps? What, they have more to think about, like the WORLD, than make-up? You must be thinking about some other world, not the one we live in.

Oscars and unfair things

The Oscars this year was unexpected. There was real emotion in the air, not the fake chatter that often mimics the profession the show celebrates. There was Patricia Arquette asking for equal pay, and Meryl Streep shouting Yes! from the front row. There was Inarritu pleading for decent behavior towards immigrants from a country OF immigrants. There was Graham Moore winning for Best Adapted Screenplay for “The Imitation Game”, saying:

“Alan Turing never got to stand on a stage like this and look out at all of these disconcertingly attractive faces. And I do. And that’s the most unfair thing I think I’ve ever heard. So in this brief time here, what I want to use it to do is to say this: When I was 16 years old, I tried to kill myself, because I felt weird and I felt different, and I felt like (I) did not belong. And now I’m standing here, and so I would like this moment to be for that kid who’s out there who feels weird or feels different or feels she doesn’t fit in anywhere. Yes you do. I promise you do.”

In a world filled with unfair things, this moment of honesty was not just moving but highlighted the most absurd facet of human civilization, this ostrich-in-the-sand outlook about an issue that has been around since the dawn of our benighted species, is still apparent in nature and is nobody’s business but that of the parties concerned, except when there’s paedophilia or something involved. You see, those who don’t rail against gay love can at the same time be activists against real evil. Didn’t know that, did you.

This weird problem with homosexuality will one day go the way of the Berlin Wall but until then, people will die, not just be ostracized and bullied and sneered at, and for nothing but other people’s perceptions.

Anti-Racism seems another lost cause if it is still being fought against in, of all places, America. It seems so basic but even in a country which is so good at PR that many still believe it stands for justice, in a country like this, racism is endemic in 2015. So when Common and John Legend sang ‘Glory’, we all wept. (Aside, for Mr Inarritu: Yes, in a country of immigrants, other immigrants should be made welcome, but this is only true if you are a White immigrant, Aryan white.)

You can’t even argue about why racism makes no sense; religion makes no sense but who has ever won an argument over it with the faithful?

What was shocking, in terms of Oscar glory or lack thereof, was Michael Keaton losing Best Actor to Eddy Redmayne, (marvelous I grant you but hasn’t Daniel Day-Lewis already been there, done that?). He didn’t leave a trail of stars which will never reappear the way Keaton did in “Birdman”. But you know, a world filled with unfair things…..

Now onto what really mattered, the dresses. Yeah, sorry, this is the most one-sided, unfair thing of all because men are just boring in matters sartorial.

BEST-DRESSED

Jennifer Lopez in Elie Saab, looking like a statuette herself in those golden hues with accompanying blushing tones.

Scarlett Johansson in Versace, with green stones around her neck that looked ocean-gathered and a hairstyle that hinted at wild, wild child.

Jennifer Aniston wearing Versace that was so simple and elegant and perfect for her because it glowed and showcased a real woman’s body, which really is what Aniston is all about, realness. This is a woman who is so warm that she saturates everything around her, even hugging Emma Stone in gleeful abandon. Can’t imagine another actress on the Red Carpet doing something like that.

Gwyneth Paltrow, who consciously coupled with Ralph&Russo and looked pretty-out-of-orbit-in-a-good-way in pink.

Lady Gaga’s performance (and interaction with What-a-Dame Julie Andrews) was the talk of the town, rightfully so, (um, I thought she was a performer not a singer), but dear me, that Alaia dress. Like someone had dropped miles of heavy material in a corner of the room which then took on a life form. About as bad as the curtain Chloe Moritz wore and the origami wrapped around Viola Davis. Tut tut.

But the last two words on my mind are simply: Ed Norton. What a way to play; his “Birdman” piece was virtuoso. Also, I would date him.

Birdman Rising

Every so often, a movie will come along that works like a magic sequence for its once-forgotten star, and for the unique message it carries. It happened last with Mickey Rourke in ‘The Wrestler’. The same Mickey who made films that went into the archives they were so damn good; ‘A Prayer for the Dying’, ‘9 ½ Weeks’, ‘Wild Orchid’, even ‘Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man’. And yet, circumstances and bad judgement stuttered his career until Darren Aronofsky came along.

Michael Keaton found Alejandro González Iñárritu in the same serendipitous way. ‘Birdman’ isn’t without its flaws, but the claws it rakes through your heart is what you will take away with you, and it will throb dully for years to come.

The movie is about a forgotten movie star who is trying to make a mark in theatre. His cast is made up of a young, arrogant Brando type whose talent and hubris battle for supremacy, actresses who are struggling for a foothold in both his and the audience’s memory, and a daughter and wife who still love him despite his self-obsession. What makes ‘Birdman’ a movie that people are talking about is how cleverly this cast plays its parts. Ed Norton is sublime. He’s always been the kind of actor who looks like a dreamy poet but who can bring a coldness out and place it before your frightened eyes in an instant. While you tremble, not knowing what will come next, he can either soothe your fluttering pulses or crush your hopes. ‘Birdman’ is better than ‘Fight Club’ and ‘The Hulk’ in displaying Norton’s powers, you hate and love him in equal measure and no one displays narcissism better than he does. An actor playing an actor is about as difficult a thing as you can imagine, and if it wasn’t for the blazing meteor that’s Keaton, you would remember no one else, even with the towering Naomi Watts and Emma Stone around.

It’s Keaton’s baby, though. As Riggan, he is broken, angry, bewildered but will not give up, so will either be Sisyphus or a phoenix rising. Riggan is aware of the importance of marketing, so understands how to play his part, both personal and professional, but self-doubt is his real exacting mistress, one who whispers in the dead of night, “Honey, your best days are behind you, only I’m here, now.”

It’s not that Riggan doesn’t see what the world is and what he has become, but his vanity, that oh-so-crucial part for those whose lives revolve around being someone else and believing they can do that better than the next guy, is both crippling and well-founded, an uncomfortable pairing at the best of times.

A clever one is when Riggan’s daughter Sam (Stone) shows him the power of social media and life as a reality show (which is the real enemy of actors and celebs and ordinary Joes; talk about losing the plot when it comes to figuring out what actually matters in your daily grind and what is a circus), more relevant today than it was when Keaton was making his mark with ‘Batman’ and ‘Beetlejuice’.

So what is the flaw in Iñárritu’s genius? It’s subjective. I loathe open endings. For God’s sake, isn’t my life’s open ending bad enough? I don’t want to be subjected to it in the movies. The last scene of ‘Birdman’ is maddening. What really happened? and damn your metaphors.

But I would still encourage everyone to see it. Its genius is that this is not just a movie with a tragi-comic story well told, but an expose on human frailty and its hardcore steel twin, the visual emotional mirror to our actual twisted DNA. I think this is what makes our species ultimately a thing to admire. It’s ‘Birdman’ that makes you believe we possess it.

Say Sorry, but not for this

Benedict Cumberbatch apologizing for using the phrase “coloured people” is as absurd as it gets. First of all, he was talking in the defence of black people who can’t find work in the industry as easily as white people. And if the term ‘black’ which is preferred to ‘coloured’ isn’t even more obnoxious a term, I don’t know what is.

I remember Oprah saying years ago that she found the ‘nigga’ used by coloured/black guys offensive and Terence Howard trying to convince her that the term ‘my nigga’ was a term of endearment. She wasn’t buying it. Like I don’t buy into the suffocating political correctness of the times we’re living in. You know what’s really offensive? That we see humans in terms of colour first, and their humanity or lack thereof, second. Be judgmental by all means, (is there a more loathsome lot than the people who say, “I’m not here to judge”? What are you here for, then? If I wanted a teapot for a friend who will only soothe and not speak the truth, I’d buy one), but judge others for their acts, not the phrases they use in speech or in books or in cartoons.

Speaking of which, this entire ‘free speech’ thingy is so depressing – because it depends entirely on who’s delivering it. In America, Seth Rogen and Michael Moore have been ostracized for saying ‘American Sniper’ sucked big time. If you read what Chris Kyle has written, and you don’t shudder, irrespective of class, creed and country of origin, you need a padded cell, my friend. In Texas, they have a Chris Kyle Day instead.

How does patriotism and dishonesty merge and so few see it happening? How can so few lack the courage to accept what is wrong with their country and try to fight against it, no matter how unpopular it makes you. Not even God occupies a place impregnable to criticism. Unless you follow a very strange God indeed. Then again, I follow @TheTweetOfGod and he does no wrong in my book, so mea culpa.

The dangerous thing when some lines blur is that the lone voices that attempt to be raised will be extinguished one by one, either through 50 lashes a week or by people saying after seeing ‘American Sniper’ that all they want to do is go out and kill as many ‘ragheads’ as they can find. Come to think of it, that's not patriotism, or dishonesty, it’s deep-seated neurosis.

The Theory of Men

It’s a pity that not one but count ‘em TWO people were snoring in the cinema hall half-way through The Theory of Everything about one of the greatest thinkers in the cosmos. This is less a reflection on humanity and more a sad glance towards director James Marsh. An homage to the dude who tackled the concept of Time and you are responsible for making it lag? I wouldn’t want to be you, James, any time soon.

I understand the movie wanted to focus on the relationship between Stephen and Jane but where is the work this man is renowned for? You can’t give me a clichéd image of cream swirling in a coffee cup, yes, yes, brilliant morphing into the Milky Way, and even present the dynamics between the Hawkings as the most milk-and-water bilge running down the drain, and expect me to be satisfied.

But the extraordinary portrayal by Eddie Redmayne lifted this experience to the realm of unforgettable, it has to be said. There is just one scene where I think Marsh showed a certain grasp of his subject matter, and that’s when Stephen/Eddie uncoils at a lecture and imagines an act as simple – and undoable, for him – as bending down to get a pen and return it to its owner. It’s a point where you see both how Eddie transformed himself for this role and how Stephen suffers every single day.

Charlie Cox was wonderful, the emotional suffering he presents almost matches Stephen’s physical one (almost, because nothing can ever do that).  I’ll never forget Firdaus Kanga asking Hawking, “What do you think is the best thing about being disabled?” And Stephen replying, “I don’t think there is anything good about being disabled.” You want to believe there is some reason for the fresh horrors that rain down on your head every other day, but you know what, there isn’t. It’s all a random collision of matter and circumstance, much as the beginning of the universe that Hawking has roamed to its farthest reaches in his mind, while his body has remained so cruelly tethered.
So unfortunate, then, that all this movie showed me was 1. The smartest men are seriously dumb when it comes to women, and 2. Harry Lloyd is hot.

Sweeter than sweet

Sticky notepad I found while browsing at Landmark, made in China, cheaper than a cup of coffee and gives much more lasting pleasure.

My personal pearly gates

I was possibly one of the worst students any teacher could ever have, not because I was boisterous but because I was not. I remember coming to life only to do my makeup before break so I could slink around but at least look half-way decent while so doing and my favourite History teacher telling me and my best friend C: "Please, girls, please, just once can you pay attention? And how many times have I told you no eating M&Ms in class. Sheba, put down that mascara!" Most of the time I would "waste time in idle behaviour" as my English teacher would rant, (although my favourite was when she wrote on the side of an essay, "Stop varnishing the gloss with your language and give me the facts!"), but there was one more time when I came alive, and that was when the subject was Philosophy. Don't ask me why. I have always had a rich inner life to make up for my non-existent real one, and there's something about the subject that makes me feel... richer. So when I came across these two books, I lit up for a brief, shining moment as the saying goes. Better to enter a kingdom of Heaven right here, right now, wouldn't you say?

An ill wind

The first thought that crossed my mind when I read the Oscar Pistorius saga was how obvious the loopholes were. Which woman, ever, locks the bathroom door at 2am? I mean, ever? Which man, ever, goes to see what the noise is in the middle of the night without checking to see if his lover is safe beside him in their bed? Ridiculous.

At the end of the day, whatever the reason for killing someone, whether it's a hit and run, whether it's “mistaking them for an intruder”, you have to pay the price for it. Even if it is a nominal price, you have to pay it. I wouldn't call 10 months in jail nominal by any means, a full 5 would have made some kind of moral sense. But from the first minute that poor legless Oscar (the whole drawing thing depicting him crawling across the floor was a gross appeal for sympathy, to say the least), entered the South African courtroom manfully trying to hold back his tears and the judge asked him if he would like to sit down, everyone knew which way this wind would blow.

It's blown by, and poor legless Oscar, being white, forget famous, will live his life. With “mercy” from the court. If he had been black, poor, nobody and had killed his white girlfriend, well, that shitstorm would have ended with a lethal injection.

Moral of the story: If you're beautiful or if you're white, you'll be up and running on planet Earth.

Not Expendable

There are two kinds of Hollywood royalty, the Meryl Streep section in private boxes, and the Sly Stallone backbenchers. A little of the former goes a long way, but there's unlimited fun to be had with the latter and The Expendables 3 shows why that is.

Age, as older people figure out, is just a number. When seated at a table with lean, muscled men in dark Levi's and leather jackets, lounging with cigars and heavy tumblers of golden liquid, looking capable of gunning the bad guys down on the streets with just a look, well, no one's going to ask them for IDs. What's the movie about? No idea. Perform what the usual arms of the government cannot, transport some heavy-duty material from some banana republic, shoot a lot of people, throw some betrayal into the mix and there you go. It's adrenaline-inducing with the added charm of being one of those movies where many of the actors are real friends in a kind of heavy-duty, members-only club that is impossible to penetrate.

Things to note: The motorcycle stunt which goes vertical, stunning. Mel Gibson, (who straddles both groups of Hollywood royalty, by the way), watching his amoral representation of the character Stonebanks you're amazed at what the man from Braveheart is capable of. Antonio Banderas' comic timing is great, Jet Li's presence is weird and the young 'uns are like faded sepia photos; sometimes, experience is not expendable.

The script is execrable, “Drummer's in the house”, “Let's mow the lawn”, “Christmas is coming...But it's only June”, although when Lee Christmas is Jason Statham, all can be forgiven.

And when it all comes with a guaranteed HEA, as romance novelists say, what more can you ask from a movie when it gives you a vacation from your life?

Thanks for the Knick, Steven

Knickerbocker Hospital, turn-of-century New York, is not the place you want to get admitted, overrun as it is by a coke addict, a brilliant black doctor who is not allowed to practice and a manager up to his neck with debt collectors. Then again, there's no place better if you get the right man at the right moment. When directed by Steven Soderbergh, how can this new show on HBO Hits be anything but brilliant. The energy, the colours, the twisted characters and best or worst, the practice of medicine in all its blood and gore (warning: you need a strong stomach to watch this), by people who are obsessed with their profession makes The Knick a precursor to Grey's Anatomy. Where it differs from Grey's is not in the baring of bones to show the skeleton of human ailments, both physical and spiritual, but in the fact that you give a damn about the people at The Knick. You feel for each one, flawed as they are, because they struggle to rise above what they seem to be.

Clive Owen plays Dr John Thackery, a cold yet committed soul with a monkey on his back that grows heavier by the day. Algernon Edwards (Andre Holland) runs an 'informal' clinic for coloured people in the basement, politics and egos clash on a regular basis and well-to-do former lovers arrive with syphilis. Good stuff.