Fritinancy

Cruz-a-palooza

My neighborhood movie theater has been screening Penélope Cruz vehicles on two of its three screens, and I've finally seen them both. (Just in time, too: they're both going bye-bye tomorrow.) In Elegy, adapted from Philip Roth's novel The Dying Animal, Cruz plays a 24-year-old graduate student with a mysteriously thick accent for a character who supposedly emigrated from Cuba when she was 11. In Woody Allen's Vicky Cristina Barcelona, she's a pistol-packing Spanish painter with beeg crazy hair and beeg crazy temper. Stereotype? ¿Qué es ésto?

Several items of note:

1. Elegy's director, Isabel Coixet, is from Barcelona. Elegy is her first movie set in New York.

2. Woody Allen is from New York. Vicky Cristina Barcelona is his first movie set in Barcelona.

3. Patricia Clarkson plays supporting roles in both movies.

4. Each movie has an erotically charged scene set in a photographic darkroom, apparently for no other reason than to bathe Ms. Cruz in red light. I mean, who the heck uses a darkroom nowadays? (Both movies are set in the present day.)

What are the odds?

P.S. You want reviews? Elegy is watchable; it stars Ben Kingsley, who's never less than interesting, and Dennis Hopper has a nice turn. (Don't blink or you'll miss Debbie Harry—yep, from Blondie—looking sad and unglamorous in a small part toward the end.) As for VCB, what a waste of celluloid and Gaudí architecture. I haven't liked anything of Allen's since Mighty Aphrodite; my favorite of his films remains the underseen Sweet and Lowdown, with Sean Penn. (My name is Nancy, and I'm not an AnnieHallic.) I think I'll just turn the microphone over to GQ film critic Tom Carson, who retitled the movie Vicky Cristina Barcalounger and whose review is titled "A Woody for Scarlett"—as in Johansson, one of the stars (the blonde one):

What you may or may not share is [Allen's] ardor for Johansson, whose performance has left some luckless inflatable toy collecting unemployment. Fond as I was of her in Lost in Translation and Ghost World, the sad truth is I’ve dealt with telemarketers who had better command of their vocal moues and overall dramatic presence. Yet that’s clearly just why Woody’s smitten with her. He doesn’t treat her as a professional, and by now only the IRS would beg to differ.

Electile Dysfunction

Is there a 12-step program for campaignoholics? If there is, don't tell me about it. I'm having too much fun with stuff like this:

Schnaufblog parses the Bristol Palin pregnancy announcement, in particular this sentence: "We have been blessed with five wonderful children who we love with all our heart and mean everything to us."

The relative clause after children contains a coordination structure. What causes the ungrammaticality (at least I think the sentence is ungrammatical, not just odd) is that who is an object pronoun in the first part of the sentence, i.e. one could also say whom ("...five wonderful children whom we love"), and a subject pronoun in the second part of the sentence, i.e. one could not say "...and whom mean everything to us".

Conjugate Visits points out that although Sarah Palin's husband, Todd, works in "blue-collar" fields, he ain't "working class":

He's an oil production manager and a commercial fisherman. But class-wise, his income helps put the family well outside the group that's often called "working class" and that struggles to get by in today's economy.

Over at Slate, Paul Collins examines why John McCain can't stop saying "my friends":

Is this a doctrine of pre-emptive friendship—immediately declaring crowds won over with an oratorical "mission accomplished"? Perhaps, but McCain's friending is a strategy that hearkens back to classical rhetoric.

Or maybe just to mid-20th-century musical theater.

OMG, Sarah Palin has a blog! Well, "Sarah Palin" does. And she has so much to share:

I just have to say that I love the comments! :)  Outside of my rock (hi- todd!) there is no one else offering me this kind of support as I set out on this journey to become the second most powerful person in the world.  Keep it coming, it is great!  In alot of ways, I feel like Tom Joad in that movie East of Eden.  I am out there for you.  When there is stuff that is bad, I will be there to help. 

Something tells me she isn't talking about this comment from someone named Hillary: "Get over yourself, chiquita, and don't give up your day job." (Via Very Short List.)

There's a link from "Sarah"'s blog to "Bristol and Levi's wedding registry" at JCPenney.com. I totally have dibs on that awesome Bowler Camo Diaper Bag.

Previously on the Palin Channel.

Profile THIS

I hate filling out those chirpy "My Interests" profiles for social-networking sites. What am I, Playmate of the Month? Usually I just ignore them. Would that I had the wit of The Assimilated Negro, who subverts the whole exercise and turns it into a poem of protest.

I admire that blog title, too. The author ("a moneylancing writer," according to his more straightforward profile) frequently refers to himself by its initials, TAN, which works perfectly. In fact, it's one of very few acronyms this anti-acronymista feels good about endorsing.

And the blog itself? Very nice indeed. Good stuff on "the negro hipster," Claire Huxtable, the mysterious whitening of Beyonce Knowles, and the music of Nas and Common. And do not miss An Open Letter from a Black Guy to His Average-Sized Penis. I started to quote from it here, but then I couldn't figure out when to stop quoting. Or laughing. Just go over there and read it yourself. (Okey-dokey pokey! Had to get that in.)

Discovered in Orange Tangerine's blogroll.

Quote of the Day

"It's hard to get rich on grammar, though you can get thin trying."

-- Martha Brockenbrough, SPOGG* blog

___

* Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar

Quote of the Week

"I'm feeling more than a bit xenophobic these days," writes Roy Peter Clark in Poynter Online, "and I'm blaming it on the movement to outsource newspaper copy editing services to India."

 

I need copy editors to know that Eva Longoria is not the wife of Tampa Bay Rays baseball phenom Evan Longoria.  I need them to know that a Florida cracker is not something you eat, and that it may or may not be offensive to some readers. I need a Rhode Island copy editor to know that you don't dig for clams; you dig for quahogs, a word of Indian origin -- American Indian. I need copy editors who know that Jim Morrison of The Doors went to St. Pete Junior College, that beat writer Jack Kerouac died in St. Petersburg, Fla., but is buried in Lowell, Mass. I want them to know that Lakewood High School is different from Lakewood Ranch High School. I want them to know that 54th Avenue North in St. Petersburg is 108 blocks north of 54th Avenue South. ...

 

I need copy editors who are more than comma catchers. I need them to be language masters, the last line of defense, the standard bearers of what my newspaper stands for, my safety net. I want to be able to walk up to a copy editor's desk and say "great catch, thanks for saving my ass." Must I now learn the Hindi word for ass?

For a slightly different opinion of the usefulness of copyeditors, see Times (U.K.) restaurant reviewer Giles Coren's letter to the subeditors who--horrors!--removed a vital indefinite article without checking first with His Authorship. (In the U.K., copyeditors are called subeditors or "subs.") Via Editrix, who, like Clark, invokes the "saving your ass" argument and adds: "What those copy editors need isn't a lecture from you. What they need is a raise and an attaboy now and then."

What We Write About When We Write About Fashion

From the chapter titled "Fashionspeak" in The Meaning of Sunglasses: And a Guide to Almost All Things Fashionable, by Hadley Freeman:

"Homage" is probably the most well known bit of fashionspeak. A conveniently trussed-up word for "blatant copy," it can be used without the niggling fear of litigation, and it has a soothing sheen of intellectualism, suggesting that the designer spent long, noble hours in some dusty library, studying the technique of his forebears and then respectfully weaving it into his own work, as opposed to desperate plagiarism due to a dearth of new ideas. So, for example: "Marc Jacobs's homage to Courrèges was perhaps a little over-literal." Thus, it becomes a criticism in a compliment inside a totally daft remark, showing the kind of linguistic ingenuity that would make Derrida bow down in respectful awe.

It's overstating just a tad to say that Freeman rips the lid off the fashion industry, exposing the seamy side of the pretty-peddling biz, but she does have a merry time making shish kebab out of sacred cows. Cast an eye over some of the other chapter titles in this slim, witty book:

Accessories: going to hell in a handbag

Blouses: not so librarian now, are they?

Coats: stuck at the nexus between dull and stressful

Get: fashion that girls do and boys don't

Jacobs, Marc: genius or what?

Ruffles: from French ingénue to Bozo the Clown

Vanity, and the joys thereof

Freeman is deputy fashion editor London's Guardian newspaper, where she writes a fashion advice column whose tone of brisk authority--not to mention her command of the dependent clause--is seemingly belied by the author's photograph, in which she appears to be about thirteen and a half.

(Post title: homage or what?)

Cintra and the Red Soles

Cintra Wilson on the impossible shoes of Christian Louboutin:

The Christian Louboutin boutique is a small, low-key spectacle, dominating a black-and-chrome storefront on Madison Avenue. Imagine the footwear wing of Frederick’s of Hollywood, if it had tottered away to seduce the Wonka factory: wall-to-wall red carpet, mirrors, disco sequins and modular Lucite cubbies all showcasing a loopy series of variations on lickably shiny, nosebleed-high hooker pumps (the cheap American cousin of which is commonly known, in fetishistic eBay galleries, as “the Pleaser”).

Hence, the mystique: Louboutin pumps look right at home in the rarefied air betwixt chrome poles and mirrored ceilings, only they are around $900. This makes them not hooker shoes, but merely French.

I have mentioned the fabulous Cintra before. She just keeps getting better. Any week in which one of her "Critical Shopper" pieces appears in the Times Thursday Styles section is a good week in which to be alive.

Photo of Christian Louboutin pumps from Kuwait-Style.com.

He Writes Funny

When you title your blog IWriteFunny.com, you'd damn well better deliver. Fortunately, Aaron Weiss does. This spot-on parody of the Cook's Illustrated writing style, for example, made me--a Cook's Illustrated devotee--laugh out loud:

In my first effort to produce a reliable boiled water, I began with a cylindrical steel container, or “pot” as often called for in traditional recipes. Placing the pot four inches away from the flame, the water did eventually come to a boil, but it took six hours. This might have been acceptable in our grandparents’ day, but many of us no longer have so much time to spare. I then moved the pot closer, a mere two inches from the flame. Indeed, the water boiled in just three hours – a big improvement.

(Hat tip: Karen.)

But it was the Swiftian flair of My Year of Cannibalism that had me rolling on the floor:

I know what you’re thinking. How did I get enough fiber? My cholesterol must have gone through the roof! But I developed a system.

First, it is important to eat at least five servings of vegetarian per day. If you can eat vegans, so much the better, but they can be a little bland so you need to alternate them with someone tastier, like pastry chefs. When I need a buzz I choose men with large beer guts. On special occasions I like small children. They don’t offer a lot in the way of nutritional value, but their young and tender muscles are like butter. I do not eat actual butter because it comes from cows, and that’s just wrong.

Because Weiss is a sustainable kind of guy, he has a locavorian angle:

Try to eat people who live within 50 miles of your home. They will not have to travel as far, which will reduce your carbon footprint while eliminating theirs.

And he works in "manivorous," a most excellent man-word. And you know I love me some man-words.

Boilerplate

Some of the funniest writing in the New York Times appears at the very end of movie reviews, in the italicized ratings information. Like this, from a two-thumbs-down review by Jeannette Catsoulis:

“Under the Same Moon” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). It has bad white people, hard-working brown people and morally ambivalent people of mixed race.

I've long believed that boilerplate copy represents an excellent opportunity--usually overlooked--to connect with an audience. If you can add something interesting, amusing, attention getting, or just plain human to the standard text, why pass up the chance?

For example, here's the setup message I got when I downloaded Google's Web Accelerator:

Privacy Policy. Please read this carefully. This is not the usual Yada Yada and is different from the Google Toolbar Yada Yada you may have seen before.

To be sure, most readers probably click right past that paragraph. But those who spend just three seconds reading it are rewarded with a smile.

By the way, have you ever wondered where the term boilerplate comes from? Here's what Wikipedia says:

The term dates back to the early 1900s, referring to the thick, tough steel sheets used to build steam boilers. From the 1890s onwards, printing plates of text for widespread reproduction such as advertisements or syndicated columns were cast or stamped in steel (instead of the much softer and less durable lead alloys used otherwise) ready for the printing press and distributed to newspapers around the United States. They came to be known as 'boilerplates'. Until the 1950s, thousands of newspapers received and used this kind of boilerplate from the nation's largest supplier, the Western Newspaper Union.

C-Day Diversions

Light a fire (but don't burn wrapping paper--all those bad dioxins!), sharpen a pencil, and dive into Jon Carroll's 26th annual Christmas Quiz. It's as challenging as ever, but Away With Words readers will have an advantage with Question #1. Answers will be posted tomorrow (Wednesday) in Jon's column on SFGate.com.

Wired Magazine senior editor Adam Rogers explains to NPR's Liane Hansen the naughty-nice algorithm, the meaning of Santa's HELPERs ("Heavy Equipment Light Package Emergent Response"), and other tongue-in-cheek high-tech secrets of "C-Day."

Maybe you, like me, observe this day with a movie or two, followed by Chinese food. In that case, get into the spirit by watching "Christmas Time for the Jews," a two-minute animated video from Saturday Night Live. Yep, that's Darlene Love on vocals. (Via The Boomer Chronicles.)

Finally, this enchanting thought about Christmas from the New York Times editorial page:

A stranger, an extragalactic visitor wise enough to look past all the shopping, might be forgiven for thinking that this is the festival in which we celebrate the magic of sleep.

After all, what other holiday do we attend in robes and pajamas?