phoenix

OF SPORTS, BADMINTON, SWEATPANTS AND OTHER LURID LOCKERROOM TALES

2005-03-19T13:39:00.000+08:00

Sports, I've realized, makes me happier than, say, masturbating (not that I do it anymore). You see, I've never been anything other than the intelligent obedient son that I was made to believe. For years, I'd watch the school jocks knead their balls in their rough hands before exchanging hard sweaty rounds of strength display. One time, one of the boys invited me over to observe, having noticed me all starry eyed watching them play. So, I obliged with such tingling eagerness, it was as if the world has just turned into a candy store. The following day, I dropped by the changing room to see if that boy was there to teach me a few kneading techniques. Indeed, he was. In his navy sweatpants. Just the sweatpants.

It must have been due to this profound encounter that I've carried over to this day, a fixation for navy sweatpants. The boy was natural with sports clothes as he was with teaching dorks about the great many ways to hold a ball. For three languidly momentous, joyous, earth-shaking hours, he taught me, not just how to throw a ball with maximum speed, but how to hold a bat as well. He'd position himself in my back, raising my arms to the level of my chest and gently guides them from side to side. In the minutes that we were skin to skin, I could feel his musk rubbing into me, his pelvic sinews firm on my skinny ass. His hands were rough as they were gentle. So was his voice.

Too bad it had to end. The corps commander cannot just be seen too privately that way with another boy. But from that time on, my fierce determination to hold a ball, and anything that remotely resembles it, has taken peak. There was just a bit of a downslide in college after a classmate unintentionally hit my face with a ball during PE--twice. Once on the face and another, on my abdomen. I thought, to humiliate myself like that is simply not worth it.

Shuttlecocks, however, are an entirely different affair. Learning to strike them as they drop on my zone is adrenaline rush like no other--especially if the guy on the other side is wearing navy sweatpants. Badminton's a test of both strength and quick calculation. Each time a shuttlecock swooshes in, I'd swing on it as though I were that boy in highschool, swinging his baseball bat to the loud cheers of the bystanders. Sigh.

Now, into my 6th game, little rookie (that's me) has improved quite remarkably that the members of the club has coined a term in my name--the "james technique". That is, as the shuttlecock begins to drop, tiptoe, raise the racket, allow the wrist to take power from the forearms then, strike. And it's not only my measly skill in holding rackets that people have noticed. Lately, they've taken a fancy at making quick glances at my legs as well. Honestly, I dig it. Hihihihi! It's mostly the only reason I feel victorious even after a round of misses and faults.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS

2005-03-11T19:22:00.000+08:00

There is nothing more tragic than death in food. To drown one's children in a sudden pang of dementia is worth a year's wrath. But the abrupt demise of say, 30 Boholano children after downing cassava cake is pure inconsolable grief. How, in the innocent of gesture as filling hunger with food can innocence itself end too soon? It is, according to a friend, not only tragic, it's ironic. Unforgivably ironic, I added. People, especially those in famine-stricken countries such as the Philippines, live entirely by food. It is therefore, ironic that in yesterday's bitter events, eating had brought not life but death. 30 of them.

To rub salt on their wounds, the grieving families whose children have perished in the food poisoning face slim chances of remuneration. Vindication is futile, unless poisoning the culprit itself becomes an option. The woman whose cassava cakes had poisoned the children was in no better state than most of the victims and their families. In fact, her's has just dipped even lower. As a result of yesterday's unfortunate mass poisoning, she now faces prolonged famished times ahead.

Indeed, there are no happy endings here. As is the common fate in god forsaken places such us ours. We are lucky if we live the years, weather storms that often last a lifetime and wake up seeing the light of day.

2005-03-05T13:19:00.000+08:00

I have very recently engaged-- and lost-- in a wager over who's to bag this year's Oscar Best Actress trophy. Eric, who, of late, has texted me over the 5 peso I owed him for losing the bet saved his hopes for Hilary Swank (Boys Don't Cry) while I rooted for Annette Benning. I was quite certain over Benning's chances this year, having been robbed once before for her performance as Carolyn Burnham in 1999's stark suburbian tragedy, American Beauty. Of course I was proven wrong. As if by deja-vu, Swank, still playing to her strength in Clint Eastwood's Million Dollar Baby as a 32-year old boxing hopeful, took poor Being Julia's Benning by the chin to her inevitable sanguinous knockout.

Not that Swank deserved it any less. She put on a realistic performance as presuasively as she had put on that Guy Laroche dress to dazzle us into believing that she had the right pulchritude to hang that dress over. As Maggie Fitzgerald, a woman whose drive to knock down life's punches took her to the boxing ring, kocking off other women's teeth, she was divinity personified. Sublimely, she carried all her character's pains, hopes and little joys to the hilt without so much as faltering in her fake midwestern accent. Like Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot, Gangs of New York), Swank possesses the magic to dissolve into her character, fitting into her character's skin as though Maggie has been someone she knew all her life. Thus, she had us wincing as she cushioned her opponent's punches with her face or applauding as she swung the final blow to her opponent's mandibles. And ultimately, she had us welling with grief as she faught her paralysis by asking Frankie ( Clint Eastwood) to perform euthanasia on her.

Never has acting been so sincerely done since 1988's The Accused. It was by her earnestness in seeing Maggie Fitzgerald come alive that I applaud Swank. The same reason probably, why the Academy picked her for the second time over Benning. And certainly, the same reason why I bow down to Eric's chosing Swank as this year's sterling consort to the golden statuette.

Eric, drop by the house sometime and claim the loot.

2005-03-02T19:17:00.000+08:00

1. My impish desire to be CA’s Andy Rodick has me limping for 5 days running. Last week, in an effort to bulk up some pecs for the summer, I took what’s left of my hardihood to the badminton court and challenge my officemates with a game of racket-and-shuttlecock. It was heightened euphoria! Unfortunately, I must have twisted my ankle at some point in the game (didn’t notice it) because my right foot had begun to hurt and swell so badly I could hardly place it firmly on the ground. So, Andy Rodick’s back to sitting on the bench while the rest of the gang gets to display their stems in court and I can’t. I swear, my almost hairless legs were a pair of whopping hit!

2. Jamie Foxx’s portrayal of music legend Ray Charles may have wowed the critics into hailing him best actor at this year’s Oscars but the statuette should have aptly gone to someone else. While staying faithful to Charles’ idiosyncratic vocalizing, Foxx’s portrayal is far less complicated—and easier--than those played by actors whose characterization had to be culled from scratch. Foxx only had to view past footages of Charles and impersonate him with controlled consistency while others take it from pure sensitivity and skill. My choice: Don Cheadle, for Hotel Rowanda.

3. I’m feel sorry for Annette Benning for having lost twice to Hilary Swank. This year’s tense bout was déjà vu to 1999’s equally taut race between Benning then playing a diva-esque lordly wife in American Beauty and Swank who played the gender-bending Teena Brandon in Boy’s Don’t Cry. As if by tragi-comedic fate, Swank, this time playing a boxer (for Million Dollar Baby) drives an upper-cut to Benning’s Callas-like theatrical farce in Being Julia. Sadly however, even if Swank was to lose it this time, the Oscar would still be handed to someone else. To Imelda Staunton for her moving performance in Vera Drake.

4. Brad Silberling’s adaptation of the children’s gothic book series, Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events attempts at becoming the new face of the Tim Burton genre—movies that are dark as they are quirky, harrowing but fun. In this movie however, Silberling misses the target by a long shot. Snicket’s was often deadpan, gothic in feel but was almost devoid of humor. The supposedly sinister Count Olaf becomes all too looney owing to Jim Carrey’s attempt at putting his plasticky brand of humor into the character. In fairness however, the movie offers panoramic sets and admirable visual effects.

THE DEVIL IN WHITE ROBES

2005-02-24T19:01:00.000+08:00

During the 80s, we were a genetic anomaly blamed largely for the proliferation of AIDS. Now, more than 20 years later, we’ve progressed to something even worse. Devils. So the Pope thinks. And thus, on with the hunt.

Ours is a society of circus freaks. Of labeling and of judging. We spend hours yakking about the person next to us, labeling him according to his color or speech and idiosyncrasy. Anything strange about him, whether interesting or otherwise, is always treated with either disgust or amusement, as though he is a two-headed dog. Years of evolution have made man out of apes, and yet, as if by irony of nature, we’ve remained as apes as we once were. With our Pope as the alpha male, that is.

But then again, to be human is not without its farts—err--farce. None but God has the thorough understanding of things. Thus, occasional lapses in judgment such as homosexuality being a genetic disorder deserves a bit of a blind spot. But to reignite another mêlée on us is nothing short of unforgivable. What's next? Hamleting? We've had trouble with the church once before but none surpasses the malignity of this one. Hah! Like the church can't use a little dusting off themselves. What with all those men garbed in black caught vigorously sucking joysticks in backalleys. Not to mention that priest (whatsisname) who have just won himself jailtime for molesting a child every after congregation! And they have the nerve to call us Devils?!

Poor us. With the Vatican’s hateful opinion of homosexuals everywhere, we have officially been lowered to the level of the banal, the perverse and the debauched. To say that we are evil is to justify the Larami killing and a host of others before it. To tag us as un-Christian is to animalize faith. If there was anyone in the world who should bestow sympathy on us, it should be the Pope himself. After all, he personifies God and embodies his soul. Is bigotry of God’s. It’s of the devil’s.

IN FOCUS: SIDEWAYS

2005-02-23T19:37:00.000+08:00

Sideways is bereft of physical grandness, yes, but what it lacks in wide locales, it compensates in complex characterization bouncing off claustrophobic zones, which in this case, works effectively well. Not that a poignantly intimate story like Sideways needs lofty sets or ostentatious costumes in order to work. Like all small-scale visionary ideas told in taught narratives, Alexander Payne’s allegorical ode to male-bonding and fine booze stands firmly on its creative pizzazz without necessarily having to harp on malignity and pretentious criticism (remember Fight Club?).

In fact, putting his characters in a microcosmic environment works remarkably well with his audiences, at least, on the intellectual level. Emotionally, the film does little to invoke it until the story catches up on the characters’ undoing in the end. Payne’s greatest gift is after all, not in melodrama, or in dragging the character’s drudgery until the audience is too incensed to sympathize. On the contrary, his genius is in spinning metaphors and ironies into fine jabs of acerbic storytelling.

In Sideways, as in Election¸ the characters take centerstage. In the former, Miles, played sensitively by Paul Giamatti, is an introvertedly depressive failed author with a knack for fine pinot noir. Thomas Hayden Church, on the other hand, plays Jack, a derelict television mainstay who at present does voice-overs for commercials. As Jack’s impending marriage looms closer, Miles takes him on a drive down California’s winery for a week of booze and golf.

Here, Payne moves us closer to his characters as they alternately nurse their follies, pretenses and in Jack’s words, “plight”. Miles is hopelessly conflicted. He equates well with pinot, that species of wine grapes which in his words “are very hard to grow” but sweetens as it ages. He desperately wants to relish life’s sweet aftertastes but has lost the drive to do so. As a result, he plunges ever deeper into his depression.

Jack knows he’s a loser. But unlike Miles, he chooses not to apologize for it. So, he drinks to it, without finicky distinction or selection. In his mind, all wines are the same. They are painful to swallow but trickles down in rushes of sweet streams down his throat. So, he stays afloat. This is where Payne draws the distinction between his main characters. The one who elects to embrace life as it truly is, reaches the finish line first and gets to live it at the same time.

But Miles, for all his paroxysms, deserves our sympathy as well. Thus, Payne steers the movie up the garage with Miles a lot wiser than Jack. The latter’s incorrigible skirt-chasing gave him a broken nose and his disgracefully naked sprint home has Miles’ guiltily guffawing. For once, Miles feels sorry for someone who fares better at all of life’s endeavors than him. He is whole because in Jack’s words, “you had your seatbelt on”.

Thus, Payne. He’s Sideways had us raving, gleaming with sympathetic wonderment. Such a small film with enormous soul is tragic when missed but jubilant when imbibed, since it crosses between fluid forthright introspections. Between the characters’ frailties and those of ours. This does not happen in Phantom of the Opera.

Reminiscing Solomon

2005-02-18T19:39:00.000+08:00

If Constantine was worth anything, Keannu would have been it. But no. Solomon was. If my Religion 11 serves me right, Solomon was the wealthy royale known widely for his blotchless faith and sterling wisdom. His sound resolve to a raucous custody conflict between two women assured him a soft spot in God's heart.

However, his seemingly perfect disposition was too delicious an opportunity to pass up for the horned one. So, for the nth time around, he scaled the heavens and lured the winged one into "wagering" over Solomon's faith. "Just don't kill him," He says staunchly. That day, the doors of the skies closed in on Solomon. His wealth perished as quickly as the patronage of his people. And as he collapsed down to dry earth, his body leaking with pain and illness, he began to wonder. When the devil finally appeared to regale him into changing sides, he smiled and told him to go to hell. And as swiftly as it had submerged into pungent sores, his life rose again into bliss.

Constantine's premise parallels that of Solomon's. In the movie, the heavens and the flipside of it took earth for a test. Goodness will be our redemption. Servility to worldly vices however, will be our long bath, eternally, that is, in the lake of fire. Sounds improbable enough, if not ridiculous. After all, this was lifted from the "holy" pages of teenagers' picture-d bible--the comicbook. But for once, let's descend down from our high pulpits and indulge, gratuitously, in the preoccupations of the baboons. Will He?

No. But He could--and still win. We are borne in the image of Janus--with duality and faces facing the north and the south. We can see, sense and may choose to indulge in darker, in more mischievious callings. We can choose to run our business in ruinous glee and debilitating wretchedness. But, what wastage would it have been if we were allowed to be borne in His image, only to be the devil's morsel for dinner. God is smarter than the devil has given Him credit for. He knew that with the gift of reason, is the curse of doubt. And with the latter often stronger than faith, the devil will be in his rockers wanting a piece of the action.

So, God, according to a religious friend of mine, designed us (primarily) to choose order over crease, spot or sense the slightest disarray in the scheme of things and abhor the presence of dirt in each other's feet. He gave us a good sense and understanding about the order of things, a good measure of discernment over and above the recurrent failings of humanity. Ergo, the devil can lure us occasionally into the thrilling dark, but like the 7 blindmen, we will seek the eventual lifting of it because light is and always will be what life will tricke down to. The devil has no chance

CONSTANTINE, JUST CONSTANTINE

2005-02-17T19:11:00.001+08:00

The rooster season has arrived in throes for Warner Brothers. Its adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera has little of the musical’s avid distinction or of its tormented characters. The music soars with luminous poignance and sensuality but the noticeably lack of mystery flair eventually pushes the Phantom into the opera’s darker recesses.

And now, another one of Warner's adaptations, Constantine has failed to let loose all hell on the box office. Even with Keannu Reeves' recent rise in marketability owing to his monastic successes as Neo in the Matrix Trilogy, Francis Lawrence’s big screen take on the comic book Hellblazer has to brave plodding of scenes, lackluster acting, loose storytelling and wanton lack of thrill.

Constantine follows the travails of globetrotting paranormal renegade John Constantine as he buys his way into heaven’s approval. He's tittering close to life's edges as cancer eats into both his lungs. The angel Gabriel (played by Tilda Swinton) promises him all of hell’s paroxysms. So he wheels around town, in Los Angeles mostly, exorcising people from demon infestations, hoping that in the end, God would look upon his crusade with blissful admiration and finally opens his doors for him. In so doing, he stumbles upon Gabriel’s little tryst with the devil. A wager over the salvation—or damnation--of mankind.

Constantine, its environs, its characters, its absurdity are the sins of pulp. Thus, this, and the scent of comic book crap, should have awed the senseless public into raving it as the chantry of all biblical tabloid stories told. But audiences merely grunted and left. Keannu Reeves can’t act, the special effects were few and far between, spine-tingling suspense was drowned in boring scenes and the image of hell was, if at all, unimaginative. Even the supposedly scary scenes wind up snoozing to Satan’s deplorable cameo.

Technically, this is bowel discharge. Senseless and without doubt, comparable to The Punisher in creativity and deftness. At least the Punisher was all bulked up in delectable muscles.

Grade: ** of the 4 *

CONSTANTINE, JUST CONSTANTINE

2005-02-17T19:11:00.000+08:00

The rooster season has arrived in throes for Warner Brothers. Its adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera has little of the musical’s avid distinction or of its tormented characters. The music, poignant and sensual, soars with Webber abandon but the noticeable lack of mystery eventually pushes the Phantom into the opera’s darker recesses.

And now, Constantine has failed to let loose all hell on the box office. Even with Keannu Reeve’s recent rise in marketability owing to his monastic successes as Neo in the Matrix Trilogy, Francis Lawrence’s big screen take on the comic book Hellblazer has to brave plodding of scenes, lackluster acting, loose storytelling and wanton lack of thrill.

Constantine follows the travails of globetrotting paranormal renegade John Constantine as he buys his way into heaven’s approval. He titters at the edge of life as the cancer metastasizes in both his lungs. The angel Gabriel promises him all of hell’s paroxysms. So he wheels around town, in Los Angeles mostly, exorcising people from demon infestations, hoping that in the end, God would look upon his crusade with blissful admiration and finally opens his doors for him. In so doing, he stumbles upon Gabriel’s little tryst with the devil. A wager over the salvation—or damnation--of mankind.

Constantine, its environs, its characters, its absurdity are the sins of pulp. Thus, this, and the scent of comic book crap, should have awed the senseless public into raving it as the chantry of all biblical tabloid stories told. But audiences merely grunted and left. Keannu Reeves can’t act, the special effects were few and far between, spine-tingling suspense was drowned in boring scenes and the image of hell was, if at all, unimaginative. Even the supposedly scary scenes wind up snoozing to Satan’s deplorable cameo.

Technically, this is bowel discharge. Senseless and without doubt, comparable to The Punisher in creativity and deftness. At least the Punisher was all bulked up in delectable muscles.

ROMANCING THE PHANTOM

2005-02-15T20:46:00.000+08:00

It did't matter that I was dateless. That I accidentally queued for ABS CBN's Valentine smoocher, Dreamboy (the ticketgirl had to ask me if I was to really watch it) or that I had to sit between horny couples petting their way into the entire musical. Moviegoing, after all, is by itself, a heavy copulation of the senses. Its mounting emotionalism swathes the viscera like wild pelvic thrusts, sending my body into feral, volcanic convulsions. Its soft yet striking visuals, like those of velvety lips, flutter ever lightly along my inner thighs. And the score? Its the ultimate, breath-y climb to the zenith of it all. The point in which the body suddenly breaks apart in a thousand happy pieces.

So, Valentines, unlike the past ones gone unnoticed, was not entirely a lonely affair. It was however, mostly to the enchantment of the music, fluid as it was haunting, phantom-like, in swift mobility as it gradually towers into dizzying crescendo and dies ever so sadly in the crux of my awe. This was Andrew Lloyd Webber in strikes of masterful notes, in love-swept songs that can drive Eminem into such tumescent frenzy, he'll be sure to sing Sarah Brightman for his next album. This was genius Webber in Phantom of the Opera.

Unfortunately however, Joel Schummacher's version is nowhere near what Webber has once put up in London's West End. Apart from the commendable art direction and acute cinematography, this film would have been sure to scratch the earth's or the viewers' dark memorial recesses. Why? Because Schummacher had to rely almost entirely on the music (and the musical's legacy) because of his apparent need of amor for or knowledge of the genre. His anemic adaptation proved what insiders have suspected all along: that he has fallen ill of that which has earlier afflicted fellow director De Bont--a series of downtrodden cinema owing to creative bankruptsy. Phone Booth was as damp as a puddle drying up while Veronica Guerrin was plain pulpit fiction. In a way, Webber has suffered the same malady as well. Only an obtuse person would gamble on Schummacher--or on De Bont.

Phantom of the Opera suffers from underdeveloped characterization, be it that of Christine's supposed gradual deascent to confusion and despair or that of the Phantom's tumult and unrequieted love for the young Christine. While the 16 year old Emmy Rossum playing Christine embodies the latter's youth and endearing presence, Patrick Wilson playing the dashing Vizcount des Changy is, if anything, drab and unsolicitous to his character. As a result, his Raoul shrivels dully into Rossum's engaging Christine. In fairness to him however, his diphtongs is perfect, so is the rest of his phonetics. He speaks with such clarity, his words are impossible to miss. Neither can anyone miss his lethal debonaire looks. Truly, he is Adonis in all his humanly glory. And the phantom (played by Gerard Butler)? Well, he has kept half of his face hidden for most of his scenes, making his work twice as ineffective as those of Raoul's. His eyes remains as blank as they are and never, not even once, in the film did I feel the phantom's mystery taking over me as the musical once did.

And no, the jerky fan dancing and flamencos are more reprehensible than they are fun. What's the spanish folk dance doing in a 17th century masked ball? Only a baboon has the stupidity to confuse one for a waltz. And speaking of baboons, Minnie Driver looks just like it in this film. Not that Maria Callas (who was Webber's inspiration for Carlotta) looked any better.

Grade: ** and 1/2 of the 4 *

VALENWHAT?

2005-02-12T16:15:00.000+08:00

So, it's St. Valentine's day on Monday. So what? What's in a day? Nothing. It's people rushing to the MRT station to catch the 7 o'clock ride to wherever they have an appointed to. It's lunch at the local burger joint, with the rest of the blue collars with mismatched outfits and badly crumpled shoes. It's a slow, lazy, non-essential walk home--in my case, with accidental stops on my fave shops. Life, as we know it, ambles forward like it always has. Does it have to change because the local department store is offering 30 % sale of all valentine items, including that cuddly teddy on the fifth aisle? No.

Ok, so, I don't have a date? What date? Doesn't have a boyfriend, you mean. So what? Am I complaining? Am I watching Serendipity on HBO? No. Not necessarily because I don't believe in serendipitous circumstances, but because I happen to despise the movie. Who wants Kate Beckinsale? Kate who? It's the season of romance and in-theater fucking, and I am too ashamed to walk in without someone in tow? So what? Am I going to die because I am one instead of two? As if!

If you must know, I have a date. Uhm. On Monday. With no less than the president of the Commonwealth Institute, a private school along Taft. Nope, it's not candlelit, silly. It's an appointment for an interview. Yes, those where the interviewer examines your resume and asks you a few difficult questions like: "Why did you almost flunk Math?" Obviously, I was not good in it, was I? Same goes with Chemistry. It's English teaching post and not Math or Chemistry, is it?

Sumptuous lunch to follow, with my officemates in the office. We'd go tin-pan raucous about my newest "Kiss, Momoy" antic--with a hedious baboon-ic pucker to boot. There was everyone's favorite "tikoy" before that. See, my Justice each gave us a box of tikoy last week. For those non-chinese, tikoy is a pasty, biko-kind of delicacy, sort of like a rounded mass of glue. Tastes like that if uncooked. Since I don't know how to cook it, I asked an officemate to cook it for me.

"Mommy, lutoin mo naman ang tikoy ko."

"Ha? Ba't mo gustong maluto yan? (we start to giggle)"

Atty. Hani butts in.

"Ay, masarap yan pag matigas! (apparently referring to a refrigerated tikoy)"

"Kita mo na? Dapat hindi malmbot ang tikoy. Lutoin para tumigas."

Everyone begins to laugh.

Atty hani says, "At mas masarap pag sinawsaw sa itlog."

"Sige, ako na ang magluluto diyan sa tikoy mo at nang ako ang unang makatikim."

"Ay ang daya mo, Atty Hani. Gusto din naming matikman and tikoy ni James!"

"Heh! Dadalhan ko naman kayo eh."

"Wag mo ubusin!"

"At tatawagan natin ang badminton club at nang matikman din nila ang masarap na tikoy ni James."

Valentines? Why fancy dark corners for two when I can have many in the open? Valentines, it's for the guillible, I tell you. For the soap opera types who relish the appallingly untalented Kris Aquino humiliate herself in the farcical Hiram. It's nothing but a silly excuse for people to wear red. Or, in my case, yellow. Yellow for...I don't know what yellow is supposed to stand for. I guess..resignation? Withdrawal? Either way, it's yellow for Monday.

THE 30TH BLOCK

2005-02-08T19:19:00.000+08:00

To those who do not know it yet, its Eric's annual turn at turning a new leaf on Saturday--if only he choses to. Yes, he turns 28--or ist it 29?-- on the 11th. And as he ambles closer to the 30th block, I am left with wonder, will I ever be as lonely and anxious as I am when I finally reach the 30th gate which opens to the 40th? Will I already have accomplished enough, such that if suddenly a car runs me over, I would still feel happy enough to leave Earth and find my quiet corner in heaven--or hell?

This is one of the curses of humanity. The limitations of time, of feeling and of forecast. But this of course is one of its adventures as well. Everybody would stop living if the future is at one's bidding. However, if one is to remain blind over the delights and depression of the future, he would aspire to live the present fast to last for the next day. In this way, he would be as hard driven, motivated and forever excited about the predilections of life and its very essenceas as he would be about his potentially happy existence in the days to come. He will cease to ask the "What Ifs" more than once a day.

But then, we are but slaves of circumstances. Really. We have very little resources to fill it, live it, stretch it to its limits, to challenge it. We are never assured the lasting of time in order to survive the challenge we impose on ourselves. Like I said, a car can run us over, or a bullet could drive in our heads, or a nasty nightmare could snuff us up without us having to wake up to scream. If a car runneth me over, I certainly would hope that my mother would not feel so devastated by it. She would be the first to slip into insanity if it should befall upon me. God forbid!

The 30th block, as Celine Lopez calls it, is the precursor to that anguish-ridden moments in life which the brat columnist of the Philippine Star talks about in her column. The time in which we start feeling more lethargic than we normally allow ourselves to. The time when depression is likely as death and happiness is more often based on counting past blessings instead of those we can inspire in the present. Celine Lopez calls it the "Should haves, could haves, would haves". Its the stop before the 4oth which she fondly calls the "What If" moments.

I still have not planned out my life for the next 10 years. I am no Tom Ford afterall. Still don't know what's to come and what to do with it when the first few streaks of line appears on my forehead. I would still be gay of course. But there's no telling if by then, my stop will be on sight, whether I would have achieved my goals and spending holidays in Sardinia or in Santorini or Florence.

So, for Eric, is the toast to life that's brimming with boys and toys and supple skin and libidos the size of Texas. Here's to his fun, his flare, his politics, his art, his theather, his love, his bolog which he forbids me from seeing. Saturday shall be all about the intelligent boy who dreamed of becoming a lawyer (like moi) and becoming the Congressman of his mountain tribe. Here's to his aspirations. To his happiness most of all.

Cheeers!

A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT BUT WORTH ATTENDING NEVERTHELESS

2005-02-06T19:45:00.000+08:00

Amelie was Oscar's foreign bet last year--as was everyone else's. It catapulted Jean Pierre Jeunet to the heights formerly exclusive to foreign-based auteurs like Truffaut and Amenabar. But will the golden hands that weaved the whimsical Amelie be as adept as they once were? Early critical buzz of his second ode to love, A Very Long Engagement has landed the film a spot in the recently concluded Golden Globe Awards. But as the red carpet rolled open to usher in the Oscar season, Jeunet's A very Long Engagement was nowhere in sight. Why the snob?

Because it lacks anguish. Worse, it lacks melodrama. Engagement envisions sweeping love themes and golden scenes comparable to Victor Flemming's titanic Gone with the Wind. Naturally, one would expect a flighty love story with matching musical accompaniment that rises to dizzying crescendo as Mathilde (Audrey Tautou) and Malech (Gaspard Ulliel) lunge into each other's arms. But all that Engagement actually manage is little more than an attemp at persuading the audience that there really is genuine love between the two major characters and that one should begin leaking once Mathilde limps between places in France to follow the whispers of hope and love.

Also, Jeunet failed to build up a love story just as it failed to conjure the romantic chemistry between Tautou and Ulliel. We see very little of Mathilde and Malech in the beginning of the film that there is simply too little time to feel engaged in its romance. The rest of it is interjected in between past and current scenes, something which when repeated more than twice annoys rather than glorifies. And then Mathilde had to scurry around France, her panicky image sliding in between disjointed sub-plots and lengthy play-backs. Not that the plugging in of numerous sub-stories are slipshodly done. No. A true filmmaker is as much a genius in the editing room as he is outdoors shooting his scenes. Just when we thought Jeunet had completely lost track of the main story, the sub-stories all spin into place, thus, completing the puzzle just in time.

But filmmaking is not often about camera techniques, albeit most critics will be off their rockers with more inventive use of film. In Engagement, Jeunet had meant his wide angles and dolleys and panning to conjure a grand scale movie about love, but forgot about that which is the most important in all things--soul. In essence, this film is deficient of anguish in moments when it needs it ( imagine a polio-stricken woman out to follow the dictates of her heart when all else tell her that is was no hope for it) and love when from the beginning until the end, it is a journey supposedly replete of it.

Even so, A Very Long Engagement is a rendezvous worth attending. Its sterling use of golden hue in drapes of lush vegetation is panoramic achievement reminiscent of On Golden Pond. With a story which is more or less congenial as it is neither flimsy nor overtly emotional (remember Serendipity?). Tatou is not bad either, (albeit I am convinced that Juliette Binoche could have played Mathilde better) well, if only she would stare with less mischievousness, she would have been perfect. And oh, Jodie Foster co-stars, does a daring love scene with Benoit and faked her French superbly as she had once fooled us with her English twang.

Grade: *** of the 4 *

THE AMERICAN TRAGEDY

2005-02-03T19:09:00.000+08:00

“America positions itself as the moral arbiter of the world, it pronounces on all the virtues of all other regimes, it tells the rest of the world whether they are good or evil. No one else does that. America singles itself. And so the gap between what it says and what it does is blindingly obvious—and for most of us, extremely annoying.”

--Newsweek

About time that someone finally spills the rotten beans on good ol' America. How its congenial words are but pleasantries ( to distract the listening public) while it forks its neck with its feet. Not for long. Someone lissom is bound to notice the monkeying. And while the nations watch cautiously at the tun of events, the watchdog bites to awaken the dragon that has been snorring on for too long. The tides have yet to shift directions with the wind. But there is no point or time waiting. The time is now.

Over the last century, America has the world's approval by a poke. It was Mr. Congenialtiy, running to an undergdog's rescue whenever a bully wrecks chaos in the playground. But all the trouble of being everyone's buddy is not without a hefty price. Companionship, as the nations realized rather belatedly, is not at all free. And it is the word "free" that was to be their eventual caging and America's most lucrative irony.

In his inaugural speech, Bush tickled everyone's fancy by mouthing the words Freedom and democracy with remarkable hyprocrisy. He said that the only way in which the world can attain and preserve peace is by guarding freedom from those who refuse to honor it. But words are only as good as the actions they inspire or in America's case, as monkeyish as the mouth that speak of them. Indeed, America sided with authoritarian Putin about the mounting Chechen conflict and admonished Taiwan for shaming communist China. It seems, freedom is only worth a nation's ability to accomodate political favors for America.

Indeed, America has a lot to be concerned about. The perennial threat of Muslim terrorists is one, its dwindling popularity in the neighborhood is another. It's playful duality has caused nations to feel disconcerted, abandoned and betrayed. Some have learned the risk of walking out. Will the theater finally empties? God knows, if America loses on the annual popularity contest, it will resort into collaring nations to win back favors and God knows what else. Like its being a sucker for favors is not bullying enough as it is. And what of peace? For now, it'll remain a sweet notion for an ideal world, an abstract moment in a heart's goal for equanimity, a target in which we remain unable to shoot, an elusive wood nymph, an answer blowing in the wind.

NO BRAINERS

2005-01-29T17:09:00.000+08:00

ZITTY TIMES ARE HARD TIMES

As if my being lonely in the metropolis is not trouble enough as it is, the gods in charge of maintaining my derisory appearance took AWOL, giving the gods in charge of wrecking havoc plenty of time to creep in last night to...well...wreck havoc--of all places-- on my face. They thought a bean-sized zit would be a funny good way to wake up with. On the contrary, I woke up shaking with horror. Normally, I would just examine my face less when I spot a hedious bump on my face. But this one's different from the others I have had the misfortune of dealing with. It could have just sprouted at the back of my ear, or on my eyebrows well hidden from view. But this one had to sit prettily on my nose. Yep, on my nose. Now, I walk around looking horribly like Rudolph the red nosed raindeer! Like anyone would bother to check out someone with Rudolph's nose. What a week it's going to be!

MEETING THE FOCKERS WITH DESIREE

Desi's arrival took me by surprise. She dropped by my office without much of a signal as a phone call. I was midway to Madonna's Cherish (we were having a small party for an officemate) when Apple told me that a woman was outside the door looking for moi. Turned out, a woman from a distant past had just gotten off the plane from Thailand to give me a surprise hug. Yes, Desiree Bandal has finally waved goodbye to the land of plastic surgery and AIDS. Rumor has it that she is staying for good.

So, on Saturday that week, I joined her for lunch and thereafter, we drove down to Florida to Meet The Fockers with Gay (Ben Stiller) and the rest of the Byrneses. They were a vivacious bunch, I tell you. Eccentric sex therapist Mama Focker resembles quite like that Zeigfeld girl from Funny Girl. This time however, we didn't get to marvel at her funny antics and melodious streaking. Instead, she plays wifey to an equally eccerntric lawyer-turned househusband played satisfactorilly by that altophobic autistic geriatric bat in Rain Man.

The meeting was, if anything, disastrous . Of course, there would not have been the slightest point in meeting the Focker folks if it had to run smoothly as Gay initially hoped it would. Daddy Byrnes found the Fockers too eccentric and outlandishly demonstrative of their affection for each other. And so, preempted--or prompted-- by his desire to wring their necks, the family convergence took a major cataclismic dive--starting from the Focker chihuahua being flushed down the toilet by the Byrnes cat to the Byrnes toddler blurting a profanity (ass! hole!) for his first word.

Sure, this one's got the giggly buttons all turned on to an average notch. But meeting the Fockers would have been best appreciated if it were arranged differently as the first time we got to meet the parents. We've felt the hilarious misadventure of Meeting the Parents so much that having to witness Meet the Fockers cut in the same caper made the entire experience too predictable--a deja vu, so to speak--to be the side-splitting escapade it had promised to be. As a result, the toilet humor and plastic banters sounded pitifully deadpan. Awww...

Moreover, The foibles of each character are too well-thought of that we could easily envisage (yii!) what's to happen to each of them even before the major conflict actually happens. Like I said, we know Gay by heart that it is not at all algebraic to tell as early as seeing the Focker ad on the entertainment page that tumescent Dad Byrnes will eventually find the Fockers just as idiotic as Gay himself.

Grade: **1/2 of the 4 *

GARNER ELEKTRA-FIES

Six days after meeting the Fockers in Florida, I have decided to pay another acquaintance of mine a visit. She's been my ultimate guilty pleasure since Alias debuted years ago. She simply was the consummate ass-kicking firecracker that every feminist has been drooling over since Ellen got hacked off the air for being brutally gay. I have since promised myself to be her only major fan--and see all her appearances whether on TV or the big screen. Yes, even with the cold reception of her latest movie Elektra, I still lined to see her do what she does best--kick ass--in red.

I have to admit (sorry about this, Jen) that Elektra, the spin-off of last year's Ben Affleck starrer Dare Devil, didn't veer far from the creative limitations that caused Dare Devil to fizzle in the box office. Like Ben, Jen wore body-hugging red and performed graceful calisthenics while wielding sharp-looking blades in a movie that had little cinematic value. She had fabulously bouyant hair but had boring one-liners as well. She was lissom and always the action-babe that we have come to love her for, but she had wasted it on a run-of-the-mill fantasy-action flick in which the protagonist spun out of her shady past (e.g. Batman) and came to side of and fight for the defenseless in the end.

Like Fockers, Elektra was a refurbished cinematic idea. It's concept of good rising over evil has been ruminated once before. The only innovation worth keeping from this experience is the starring of a hard-edged woman who, for a change, kicks ass to save a guy and her kid from a powerfully evil organization called The Hand. We don't often get to see that everyday.

And of course, Jennifer Garner herself. She's the jewel who refused to be outshined by all the impressive computer generated imageries which, to my mind, was her real competition in the movie. A red corset and an adroit pair of hands were all it took to save this piece of no-brainer film from becoming an instant relic that it really was.

Grade: **** for Garner

THE DRAMA CONTINUES

2005-01-21T18:07:00.000+08:00

The Dream

I must have been obssessing about my getting fired way too seriously that even in my sleep the drama remains as real as ever.

Last night, I dreamed that my boss called me over the phone and growled over my "having" unleashed his well-kept secrets into the public. I could see myself sweating profusely as I tried to worm my way out of his accusations. I told him that I had no hand in it. That I hardly know who he was, let alone his dealings while in office. But he was irrresolute, undaunted and ever the harmfully deranged Ivan the Terrible that he has become. Then as the phone clicked, the room fell away and there stood he, grunting, the mad bull. His horns were those of hard steel. Then, appears his wife, a cone of dripping ice cream on one hand. "I swear, I heard your tears touch the ground," she said while licking off her blemished fingers.

And as sure as I was of dying, I bowed low, waiting for the horns to pierce through my tender flesh. A harsh, raspy, maniacal laugh shook the room instead. When I looked up, he was himself again. His toad of a body shaking as he stifled a surge of giggles. "I was only kidding," he said rather contentedly. "I was not going to fire all of you." And the room fell away once more, to reveal the waking morning*.

Giggly 12

Some critics call it a "fake jewel passing off as a real diamond". I call it "jewel" nevertheless. It sparkles quite remarkeably in ways that its predecessor had had, sure, but Ocean's 12 dazzles in sillier, more understated wit, more upbeat humor and adroit story telling. If you think Soderberg has completely fallen off with the appalling Full Frontal, think again. In Ocean's 12, he resurrects with a flashier, fresher yet undoubtedly maverick-y flick that allowed the the fab 11 to charm us once more; to pilfer and saunter their way into our approval, igniting desirous sighs and giggles on the way.

In Ocean's 12, Terry (Garcia) pays everyone a surprise visit. Each one sending all of them to a complete panic-driven frenzy. As Terry stumps the deadline ( a week to scurry for the millions plus the bulked up interests they have thieved from Terry years back), the fab 11 slip off to Europe to try on old tricks. This time however, the antics prove a long shot as Europol's Isabel Lahiri (Zeta-Jones) intercepts their every move--including that in which Tess (Roberts) passed off as a very pregnant Julia Roberts to get passed security! As the time limit tick-tocks to a hault, Danny (Clooney), Rusty (Pitt) and the rest of the gang fidget and skulk inside an Italian prison cell--hoping for that ultimate ploy to work before the clock finally brings Terry with a hatchet in hand.

Indeed, 12 brings Soderberg back into view. It likewise resuscitates 11's sterling martini moments: the light-hearted humor (Danny asks everyone whether he looks 40); the brilliant color palette that adds zing into the scenes; the convivial narrative plus the classic Soderberg quick cuts. And yeah, 12's twist in the end guarantees to blow everyone away. 11's was zany, 12's twice that, with the added blessing of some nice calisthenics from french ingenue Vincent Cassel.

Grade: *** of the four *

Dear Dya-mes,

2005-01-16T17:35:00.000+08:00

This is what I've done so far. I hope you like it. If you have any more requests, just email me na lang okay? And by the way, I forgot how to fix the tagboard but I promise to get onto that soon. I had the same problem but for some reason, I forgot how I fixed it (Duh!).

I love you! It was great talking to you. Take care okay?

Love,
KKMas

SERIES OF MISTAKES

2005-01-12T20:13:00.000+08:00

I think my life is a series of wrong choices. For instance, I knew since I was 12 that I wanted to lead a highly creative life, one that would take me to high glittery places--in the runways of Milan, Paris and New York, to befriend bitches like Madonna and Anna Wintour. But, I allowed myself to be lead away from that goal. After highschool, I took up journalism (my Mom thought this was a good pre-law course) in Silliman instead of UP where I was accepted as Iskolar ng Bayan. Thereafter, instead of pursuing a career in design, (a friend who used to work at Penshoppe as a designer phoned me and told me they were scouting for designers) I allowed myself to be steered off-course again. Thus, another 4 years in law school.

I don't know, the gods must have been in cahoots with my Mom in all this because they allowed me to pass the bar. So, Manila. It's not Milan or Paris or New York, but it's a metropolis nevertheless. I thought, well...if it was not meant to be in those places, it might as well be here.

More than 8 months later, my employment as a court attorney is tittering on the edge. Is this another crossroad? Is this the right time to change course and finally, drive down the path that I was meant to lead? I don't know. It's harder to choose when there are four or even more choices to choose from. Each, with a promise. Each, as dangerous and as uncertain as the other. What to do? I don't want mistakes on this one.

THE ROOSTER, THE BOSS AND THE FIRING LINE

2005-01-11T17:35:00.000+08:00

The chinese predictions are correct then. At least, on my side of the pond, it is. Before 2004 bowed out for 2005, the Chinese orb-watchers have warned the public about the economically bitter, barren lives we are about to face in the next year. What with the symbolic rooster spending its life scratching the earth for a peck--"isang kahig isang tuka" as they say in Filipino.

I thought how mighty silly, if not "cretinous" these forewarnings are. Roosters, collectively chickens, are among the most productive in the animal kingdom. They lay six to a dozen eggs per squatting! They may not be as cute as the hawks when it comes to diving for a morsel but chickens are widely adored for its devoted parental styles. Surely, these can't be an omen for something as gruesome as not having a meal on the table when the stomach lurches for a meal!And if symbolism be the measure of their significance to us, roosters crow to signal dawn. To beckon and invite hope and prosperity in.

Oh. But the torrential tsunami which has claimed 160,000 lives across the pacific seems to have proven me wrong. And just today, the office has just been made aware of our boss' design--more like intent--to fire us all. Yes, to expell us all into non-employment exclusive of course of his wife (the personal assistant), his daughter (another personal assistant--who doesnt do anything by the way, other than come in late and text all day long) and his niece, who happens to be one of his attorneys. The rest of us--it's sayonara, Changi!

This happens when your boss is suddenly gripped with panic and cold paranoia about imagined "insiders" trying to "sabotage" him. The likelihood of insiders doing him in is of course 1 is to 100 in ratio. You see, late October, an open letter was circulated around the court of appeals accusing him of amassing ill-gotten wealth by way of extorting money from wealthy people who have pending cases in his office. This, according to the letter, was the reason why he was able to purchase condo units both in Manila and Quezon City, hide millions of pesos in bank accounts etc. In two days time, he was summoned to the Supreme Court to explain such allegations. Legally, mere allegations hold no water in any proceeding. But this, apparently, has made him increasingly irritable, accusatory and worse, paranoid. He now thinks that one of us has leaked certain "delicate" informations to people outside of the office. Even the defective lock of his chambers was seen as an act of sabotaging his otherwise, spotless reputation as a legalman!

WHEREFORE, in order to appease his otherwise tormented soul, he has decided on discharging us all, leaving only those with whom he can really trust. This of course, if effectuated, will invite unnecessary attention from nosy observers, spread curious speculations and worse, will fortify that he has in fact, committed graft and corruption because his firing us would mean he's hiding something, the contents of which is decidedly destructive to his reputation. Wrong move. It is just our fervent wish that this will dawn on him before he brings the axe down on us this February--his taking a leave off, perhaps to think things over.

There, the prospect is bleak, if not scary. It's hard to scurry for jobs these days. Retrechments are almost as often as fashion changes. Pity, I have learned to really like this office, the staff, the food trips and yeah...even the boss. In fareness to him, he doesn't strut around like his balls are the remedy to people's legal problems. He kids a lot, gives even when generosity does not call for it, sings pretty well, munificent to us and to many of his friends. Considerate. Until now.

Well...how are your days--these days?

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

2004-12-14T20:30:00.000+08:00

Oh, it's absolutely here. There's no point denying it. By the time it hoots by, our wallets will be pounds lighter but our hearts, tons heavier. I am referring of course, to the season of joy, of hope, of peace and of unprecedented spending--Christmas.

For me, though, it means home. Where my--or our-- heart truly resides and hopes to rest. Manila is one gargantuan of an experience, it turns out and my curiosity has since been plucked bare by moments riveting and chilling and shocking and interesting. But after a while, it becomes almost like beer. A bottle or two chill, strum up lethargic nerves and stoke the spirit to a heightened crescendo. But another round of it intoxicates and inspires the guts to lurch.

And it takes only a good cup of capuccino to pummel the residues of intoxication to a pulp. By the time the coffee is over, the eyes begin to see it for what it truly is. A bawdy come-hither with nothing to offer but danger. I am one of the few lucky ones who have been allowed a spot in this jungle of a place--because I fought. The others, they sleep on the streets under a constantly shifting sky. Other's slither through the night to seek survival from prowlers whose happiness resides in cheap thrills. Christmas does nothing to them.

And so, homeward shall I be. Christmas is a much-needed haitus from self-deprecation that this place so stirs in me. I know that the holidays have been repackaged as a self-motivational guide to spend more. But inspite of the thousands of pesos I have spent for Christmas this year, I am hoping that I could bring myself and others to believing that Christmas can mean so much more. More than the usual promises of hope, of happiness, of peace. Now more than ever, it must mean home. Christ found a home in Mary's womb. And He found a home in us. Let this season therefore, be the celebration of our finding home in faith and in love, and in each other's companionship and warmth.

Merry Christmas And A Very Homy New Year!!!

THOUGHTS ON DEATH

2004-12-12T14:17:00.000+08:00

I have initially contemplated on writing about DEATH but the subject proved to be quite difficult to put in words. Why death? It's the next best topic to discuss other than life or sex. While life is easily seen and felt, death isn't. There's no telling when the blade swoops down on us in one swift rush. A friend once told me that we are all dying from the time we are born. On the hindsight, she must have been right. And now, while I am only 26, hot* and young, I believe that the appropriate time has finally emerged for me to look at it on the face. It's ugly as hell and grinning.

Three days ago, I have been diagnosed with Highblood pressure--hypertensive, as the doctor would like to call it. She said it's a bit premature to call it that because the unusually high pulse rate and the whopping 180 over 100 BP may just have been triggered by stress, emotional and physical. She chided that it may come to normal once I have calmed down. I left the clinic with an even lighter head and an even heavier feet. Now, you've done it! I told myself. You would be lucky if you reach the age of 30.

Eric thinks I was being OA when I texted him about it and the probability of departing at a very young age. I thought so myself--at first. But the throbbing fear of collapsing on the street dead cold kept running across my mind. I pity myself whenever I think of myself, in a luminous presence, looking over my dead body about to be lowered down six feet under. Then I laughed, on implse, about how sullenly I have been obssessing about dying while a colleague of mine, Al, is out partying and engaging in sweaty intercourse with people he meets over the net. Talking about miserable, moping James.

But I am still standing. Hope I get to maintain the stance for another 50 years. You see, I still have much to accomplish in this lifetime. I have been just a a layer for 6 months. Barely just on the freedom stage...barely just begun. Can you feel my anxiety now? Sigh.

******

Anyway, Lauren Hill's That Thing is playing as I am writing this text. Her rendition is delightfully original, there's simply no better way of describing her but "Goddess". Alicia Keys and Inida Arie are indebted to her. She started the hippest trend in the music scene today--mixing Aretha with Tupac with Billy Holiday in one glorious song. And Keys, she's nominated for 8 grammies this year. Usher got 13. And they are all below 30. And what of me? I am a 26 year old hot lawyer who got grabbed in a gay bar. hahahaha!

******

It's 13 more days before Jesus Christ finally gets another shot at rebirth. The latter kept me wondering, if we slip into the great beyond, what are the chances of us finding our way into someone else's vaginal canal? In college, I used to find reincarnation a silly reprieve for those desperately searching for the minutest truth about the existence of life after death--and have miserably failed in finding a relic thereof. I thought, those orange-garbed skinheads in Thailand and India are talking pure shit*. Revived as an earthworm? I would rather much remain suspended in the unknown than be the bait in some kid's fishing line. What a miserable painful way to re-die. I can just imagine me saying to the trout,"Hey! Stop right there!I used to be a lawyer in my past life! I demand that you close your mouth right now before I sue you for murder!"

But now, as His rebirth draws nearer, I can't help but think about Birth all over again. Would it be possible for dead people to find their way back into the living? In the movie, rebirth was for those desperate fools who have forgotten how to live. It's a delicious illusion which, on Anna's part, turned into a delusion and ended in a nervous breakdown. Ouch!

The answer probably lies in faith. If we were to adapt William Barrett's definition of it, belief in the unreasonable, perhaps, we could find solace and affirmation in the buddhist views on life . Maybe, if this lifetime was far too hard or far too unvalued by the bearer, God would give him another shot at life. To enable him to see what it is that he missed to notice and thus, the chance of rectifying his underdeveloped concept of life is better pronounced.

I don't know really. Whe a man feels flummoxed, he hardly sees the simple. Instead, he slips into the madness of endeavoring to simplifying intricate concepts which he possesses very little understanding of. Thus, the caveat. This is nothing more than mere contemplative attempt at understanding something which Einstein failed to explore in his lifetime. I have no illusions of understanding it myself. So, do believe me when I say that this is not an article about death. Conjecture perhaps but certainly not death. In the mean time, I'll leave you with ...

*walay magbuot if I see myself as hot.

*Yuck! pardon the term. I am so unprolific right now that even my vocabulary refuses to come out.

KIDMAN GIVES BIRTH SPARKLE

2004-12-10T19:06:00.000+08:00

But it's Nicole Kidman. She has since blown us away with her deliciously murderous portrayal of a delusionally ambitious small town reporter in To Die For. Even with the less than mirthful welcome of her Birth, Kidman nevertheless, gives us the lowdown on how it is to be Bette Davis in a lethargic film--to turn on the fierceness in her eyes and give a pointy performance equalling that of Davis' in Jezzebel.

But first, Birth. The film rollics in miscalculated directing that it not only misfired the intended box office draw, it likewise disappointed the critics. The story's premise was likeable enough to be interesting. In fact, it gave the movie the sharp wallop it needed to bring the audience's attention glued to the screen--for a while. What if someone close to your heart comes back from the dead in the person of a ten year old boy? Take away the ghoulish atmosphere of it and you get a film expectedly chilling and romantic at the same time. The drift-off becomes apparent however, when the mystery refuses to soar as the disconcerting one-liners and short underdeveloped scenes weigh it down. If not with the curious identity of the child and Kidman's commanding presence onscreen, the film would have been a totally wintry blow.

Birth's story opens with the sudden demise of Kidman's character's husband, Sean. It seems that for ten years after his departure, Anna has not been able to fully resurfaced from her grief, such that it took her that long to contemplate remarriage. Then, as though by some wicked trick of circumstance, a ten year old boy, named Sean appears during her mother's birthday party, asking for an audience from her. He tells her surreptitiously that he is Sean and warns against marrying Joseph. She initially shrugs off the idea of her busband's rebirth, but as the boy's keen knowledge over her past shakes up her misgivings, she finally decides to fall into her own illusion--or delusion--that her husband has truly resurrected from the dead.

The plot thickens as Anne Heche's character arrives in Anna's household with a shocking revelation in tow. She was Sean's (the husband) lover and had entertained the idea of giving Anna's love letters to Sean as present during the former's announcement of her remarriage. Before she however, did the unthinklable, she took to the bushes and there buried the letters . Unknowinlgy, the boy, Sean, followed her into the bushes and upon her return to the building, scavenged the letters and read them.

With such a fascinating plot, one wonders why the director wasted time in seemingly ordinary scenes, in characters that are numerously unnecessary, in less than cunning drive-through into the twists and turns and most of all, in a despondent revelation of the film's supposedly dramatic unraveling of the loop. Birth was obviously meant to be a classic take on the mystery genre: cold, distant with a singular twist reminiscent of 50's Gasslight. But it ended up with no harrowing lingering effect that so often pervades after watching a decidedly smart thriller like The Sixth Sense. No peculiar emotions drawn out from the audience either. Neither was there warmth.

Apparently, the filmmaker has much to loose in this movie. But it manages to prevail over the audience's displeasure when Kidman's sterling portrayal of a torn-up woman smolders the otherwise cold screen. No stupor plunges too deep when she walks in on the frame, lithe and fragile, teary eyed and all tousled up confused. She had Anna understood to the minutest of her conflicts, such that she dissolves onscreen only to re-shape as the central character, wasted and fallen in her immaculate while bridal gown.

words and the things that they remind you of

2004-12-04T14:12:00.000+08:00

Here's a nice Q and A that I lifted from another's blog. It's one of my newfound joys--lifting interesting articles from people's blogs.

what is your greatest fear? dying infamous

what is the trait you most deplore in yourself?being scared all the time

what is the trait you most deplore in others?stupidity

what is your greatest extravagance?clothes and accessories, shoes

what do you consider the most overrated virtue?friendliness

what do you dislike most about your appearance?my hair

which living person do you most despise?Donatella Versace. Her unapologetic gloating is sexy for a while but it gets annoying whenever she starts saying that she's the best thing that's ever happened to the fashion industry. Yuck!

which words or phrases do you overuse? I see

what is your greatest regret?When once upon a stupit time, I tried being reckless (like everyone else back then) and the repercussions which came in tsunamis were more than what I bargained for.

which talent would you like to have?piano and violin playing.

what is your current state of mind?uncertain

what is your most treasured possession?my sanity

what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?When one finds himself with bloody wrists.

what is your favorite occupation?watching movies and being drawn by the illusion of pretense.

what is your most marked characteristic?sketching on pages of books (when I was in gradeschool); fault-finding (when I was in highschool); bitching (when I was in college); biting off Aliakhbar's head (when I was in lawschool)

what is the quality you most like in a man?swift intelligence and di-matatawarang sexiness. Politeness too I find irresistible.

what is the quality you most like in a friend?one who has the same sense and sensibility as I have; for instance, if I felt like I am in Mars, he would say, "Earth to Mars, come in..!"

what do you most value in your friends?indulgence

how would you like to die?in my mother's arms

what is your idea of perfect happiness?being able to understand and accept the likelihood of failing

If I Could be Anybody Other Than Myself

2004-12-02T18:03:00.000+08:00

If I were...lifted from Aldwyn's blog. I like answering this type of thingie--for lack of better term for it. What's it called anyway? The if-I-were kind of thingie? Anyway's here's what I would be if I were given the fascimile chance of being something or someone other than myself.

If I were a month I would be: December because its festive and people are genuinely happy even for just a while. May is good as well because its my birthmonth and it's summer, which means, all sun and no rain!
If I were a day of the week I would be: Friday because the following day's all spent sleeping
If I were a time of day I would be: 12 noon because its lunchtime, break from all the woes of work
If I were a planet I would be: Saturn because its the only planet in the solar system with a hoop accessory
If I were a sea animal I would be a: lionfish, pretty but deadly
If I were a direction I would be: East
If I were a piece of furniture I would be a: bookshelf
If I were a historical figure I would be: Julius Caesar
If I were a liquid I would be: soda water
If I were a stone, I would be: an emerald, my birthstone.
If I were a tree, I would be: mahaogany, great for wooden furnitures
If I were a bird, I would be: a falcon, fastest diving velocity among avians
If I were a tool, I would be: an anvil and drop on unsuspecting baboons! Ouch!
If I were a flower/plant, I would be: a lavender colored Kattleya
If I were a kind of weather, I would be: sunny
If I were a mythical creature, I would be: the sexiest centaur
If I were a musical instrument, I would be: a paino
If I were a land animal, I would be: a lion in winter
If I were a color, I would be: electric Blue
If I were an emotion, I would be: happy
If I were a sound, I would be: the sound of the lark
If I were an element, I would be: gold
If I were a song, I would be: How Do You Keep the Music Playing
If I were a place, I would be: Florence, Italy
If I were a material, I would be: gas tank?
If I were a scent, I would be: musky, rrrrr!
If I were a word, I would be: determination
If I were an object, I would be: a sex object, ngarsss!!!
If I were a body part I would be: brain and the penis
If I were a facial expression I would be: seductive
If I were a shape I would be: polygon
If I were a number I would be: 10! 10 littel indian boys!!!!
If I were somebody else I would be: Jawaharlal Nehru

From the Bench and Back

2004-12-02T14:55:00.000+08:00

This is my desperate attempt at returning to writing, like it matters more than fahion designing. It has been a good five years now since I have written something of consequence and I think the moment has come to find out if my mien for expressing thoughts in words has, in fact, finally left me for good.

On Oliver Stone's take on the sword-and-sandal genre: ALEXANDER: starring Colin Farrell, Jared Leto, Angelina Jolie, Val Kilmer, Rosario Dawson and Anthony Hopkins.

It matters really not whether the movie, entitled Alexander, has been cut according to fine extensive research by historians. In fact, the baboons in the audience failed to see past through the boy-hugging and boy-loving that pervaded throughout the movie. A she-baboon from the audience who apparently could not contain her grief, gasped, "Alexander the Great was gay?" I was tempted to reply, "Yes, he sucked cock. Big time!" In the end, the entire experience redowns to an excruciatingly humiliating festival of fools and follies and Stone, with all his magnanimity to raise the film to the heights attained by his predecessors, will forever be remembered as the harlequin who threw a chi-chi soiree.

The problem with moviegoing nowadays is not so much as to the proliferation of movies hyped as masterpieces. The snooty neanderthals who attend them and find fine content therefrom are an even bigger offense to the senses. A tragedy, a friend once quipped, triggered by lack of decent education, misguided approbation of the media and the sullen fact that some people have the misfortune of being born with brains the size of a peanut. In fairness to Stone, his attempt at reliving the moments of Alexander's luminous life reigns brighter than most of the movies released this summer. Unfortunately, he fell short of nicking into the skin of his overexpectant fans. Worse, the pundits thought he had humanized Alexander too much, that it was almost as if he had overestimated his capability to create a life-sized depiction of history's "mythical" hero that was Alexander.

What this film lacks is Stone's ought-to-be genuine understanding and love for the character. How he must have risen from the dust like a god and swipe his sword across fields of men. How his clever mien and military genius must have inspired awe and affection from his generals and his people alike. Instead, we see nothing but protracted, non-revelatory, repetitive scenes of Alexander engaging in hedonistic partying and thereafter, in sudden upsurge of drugged rage, engage in bitter and at one point, fatal, altercation with his generals. Alexander's rise to sterling fame in ancient Greece and Macedonia was good enough a myth, a legend as Stone himself labels it that it ought to start and end a highly charged epic-biopic. And yet, the film lacks the heightened, awesome, magical appeal that legends are made of. In fact, the only time that the screen lights up with excitement was when Alexander flattened the Persians to the ground. Even this part of the movie is merely a slim reminiscence of Gibson's "Braveheart". It failed to show swift Alexander riding like the wind across deserts of sanguinous men.

All however, is not lost. Stone may have lacked the fervor to see ancient Macedonia's high gentleboy ride successfuly into his sunset, but he was passionate nevertheless. Performances from his actors were well directed , such that they prevented the film from sinking down lower. Farrell's blonde locks was a parlor distraction but he was tenacious enough to carry the central character's more poignant moments in the movie. So was Jolie, who play's Alexander's mother, Olympias. But it took a single scene and a pair of wide beautiful eyes to almost deflect Farrell's presence onscreen. Jared Leto, who plays Alexander's apple of the eye and general, delivered the most heartrending performance of the movie. In one particular scene, Leto's character Hephaistion, asked Farrell's Alexander whether the latter has in fact loved anyone other than his dream of conquest. As he mouthed those lines, his eyes went crystalline with tears, and out radiated therefrom such virginal sincerity that it pierced everyone's mouth shut. The audience, including the lowly baboons, felt a sudden sense of "justice" and for once in the entire film, they were silenced and convinced that romance between men can be as winning as those between a man and a woman.

It is apparent that Stone's Alexander will not rise above mere attempt and it is to the scoffing of Alexander's glory that his memorial film failed to ressurrect and perhaps, immortalize him through spectacular visuals. It certainly cannot rival Minghella's romantic flare in The English Patient and neither will it achieve the gritty realism of Gibson's Braveheart. Scott's Gladiator and Wyler's Ben Hur will remain kings of the spectacle genre and what of Alexander? Well, poor he, he got lost somewhere between Macedonia and India.