I’ve followed Rachel Zegler on YouTube for years (aka I knew her before you did).

You already know what today is just by the sheer existence of this post. It’s been a YEAR. Another year. Where does this sense of obligation come from? Every year spare a couple, I rush to my laptop on Oscar Sunday to bless you fine people with some words on a blog. Who even has a blog anymore? Me, apparently. This would probably be better suited to a TikTok if I actually wanted to reach an audience. But the thing is, that is not the purpose. Never has been. This is purely self-serving, as is nearly everything in my life because I am a selfish hack, a single twenty-something *based in Brooklyn*, and honey, she’s never looked better.

But seriously, I was up last night facing a bout of anxiety because of THIS. The guilt that I saw a fraction of the films up for awards this year. The guilt that I didn’t watch all of the Best Picture nominees. The guilt that I hadn’t written on here in a year. Then a spiral about my guilt, my shame, my failure, my inability to follow through and commit to the things I want blah blah blah blah blah. Because of this stupid, stupid awards show. God, I am unbearable. God, I need a therapist.

But here I am, nonetheless. And maybe that’s something. Was hoping to give you a laugh. Boy did this derail fast. I just turned on tick, tick…BOOM! and suddenly I feel better. Time stamp says I’m 4:39 in and my eyes have already welled with tears. Oh no, I’ve watched it before. If you know anything about me you know I’m an annoying theatre person (was gonna say “kid” but alas I’m not a kid). They’re singing “Happy Birthday”, you just want to wake up and cry. This movie is perfect. I am so so pleased with movie musicals of the last year. Maybe that will be a good segue.

Here are the 2021 movies I saw in no particular order though actually they are probably very close to being in the order that I saw them because I’m using my AMC app to help me (#AList #HeartbreakFeelsGoodInAPlaceLikeThis) and I likely have an undiagnosed mental disorder that is anti-“no particular order”:

1. Shiva Baby
2. In the Heights
3. Black Widow
4. Dune
5. Last Night in Soho
6. He’s All That (lmaoooooo)
7. tick, tick…BOOM!
8. House of Gucci
9. Licorice Pizza
10. Love Hard
11. West Side Story
12. Don’t Look Up
13. Clifford the Big Red Dog
14. The Power of the Dog
15. Drive My Car
16. Nightmare Alley

I feel like that’s it…who knows. Wow, what a sad list. Honestly, I spent a good chunk of last year watching old seasons of Survivor and I’m not mad about it.

So what am I supposed to say? Go see the musicals. tick, tick…BOOM! and Spielberg’s West Side Story are some of the best movie musicals out there. Musicals are so hard to get right on film, and these are exceptional. House of Gucci was utterly chaotic yet I fell asleep in the middle? I’m pretty sure Jared Leto committed some sort of hate crime with his acting. I had higher hopes for Last Night in Soho and Licorice Pizza and they both let me down. Shiva Baby…was that 2020 or 2021? Idk. It’s excellent, amazing, wonderful, funny, extremely anxiety-inducing. Go see it. I’m dying at the fact that I watched Clifford the Big Red Dog before The Power of the Dog. Very on brand. Couldn’t tell you which I enjoyed more. Don’t Look Up was dumb and…what’s the opposite of nuanced? Whatever it is, it’s that. Nearly all of these movies were too long. There were other movies I really wanted to see that I just didn’t get around to (Red Rocket, The Worst Person in the World, C’mon C’mon, the list goes on), and maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.

Anyway, another year without predictions, but another year writing to you on Oscar Sunday. Here’s hoping you’re all well. I know I’m not (kidding…sort of).

xoxo,

C

Oh, tonight?

For the first time since 2015, I will not be posting Oscar predictions. Usually, today would be filled with frantically trying to finish them before the event started, but I’ve seen a very small fraction of the nominees. The title suggests that I forgot, but that’s not entirely the truth. Please, in it’s place, accept this piece about “the movies” that I wrote a few weeks ago, and catch me on Twitter tonight.

—

Today I went to the movies. I’m mad at myself because I wish I could find the words right now to tell you how much I love the movies. And movies, too, but specifically the (in italics) movies. The event of it all. The getting to the theater early ordering too expensive popcorn oh just a little bit of butter and why not an Icee squeeze past the other patrons whisper through the previews turn my phone on airplane mode movies. Over the years, it’s become a religious practice. Most certainly this analogy was made before me, but I find so much spirituality in film, the theater a chapel. This month marked one year. One year without so much. One year without the movies. For me, one year without the (in italics) movies, and, I’m ashamed to say, one year without movies.

I haven’t really watched anything new. The Oscar nominations came out today and I realized I hadn’t watched a single film in the Best Picture category, which, with regard to the last several years, is an anomaly. I give a lot of my hours to the Academy, a lot of my money to Ms. AMC (A List baby), and a lot of my soul to the likes of A24, Annapurna, Focus Features, the rest. In the last year, I made almost no effort to watch anything I hadn’t seen before. This thing I had relied on for perspective, for education, for art, for love, for life – I shut it out for a year.

With a quick Google search, I saw that the Angelika was open. I love the way that sounds by the way. I say it out loud, enunciating each syllable. An-gel-i-ka. One of the first theaters I went to in New York, situated on the corner of Houston and Mercer. A one-time escape from a snowy day when my mom visited and I insisted we watched Lady Bird together and she took her shoes off because they were drenched. A viewing of If Beale Street Could Talk between me and Molly that I almost missed because I was microwaving bacon when I realized I was going to be late and urgently shoved it into a Ziploc and took it in a Lyft from Greenpoint. The place I saw Saoirse Ronan.

The Angelika was open, so on this Monday after Daylight Savings, I bought a too expensive ticket to a movie and bought a too expensive popcorn (oh just a little bit of butter but no Icee) and cradled myself in those sacred seats. And the thing about theaters too, almost all of them, is that once the movie has started, they feel so deliciously the same, a fantastically mundane hiding place. Once inside, you could be anywhere, but this anywhere is singular. The screen is big, the room is dark. Pressed into the cushions, the lights went down, and I cried. And I laughed, and then cried again when I heard strangers laughing with me.

Maybe 10 others were scattered throughout the auditorium, I saw them come in. But it hadn’t hit me – how it would feel to experience something together, live and out loud, for the first time in a long time. When it was over, I’m not lying when I say I almost genuflected. Not on purpose, but by instinct.

On the M train home, this man belted “Good Morning Baltimore” and I watched the lights of the Lower East Side and then the rest of Manhattan stream out of the tunnel from Essex to Marcy. I resisted the urge to sing along, to grab his hands and tap dance in my dirty AF1s and thank him for his performance, for his art. It’s not the same no, but it’s here. And isn’t it amazing, I thought as I wrote this down, to have lost an hour on Sunday only to have gained all of this by Monday. It’s been one year, yes, but at least it’s not so dark today.

—

Just after I wrote the title, I looked at my phone to see a text message asking if I wanted to watch the Oscars tonight. Life’s funny that way, isn’t it?

Moments, alone and together, in New York City

The envelopes hold handmade masks. Of course, I already knew that. Mom called two days ago to say they were on their way. We divvy them up. One for me, one for Molly, one for Gina. We each put them on, giggling. We didn’t think it would come to this, but someone seemingly (and probably rightfully) glared at me today on Bedford. I assume it’s because my face was bare. I hold up my phone to take a picture with the new gifts. Then, I look in the mirror, only my eyes and forehead poking out. I take the mask off.

My phone informs me that I’m well over my app time limits. Once again, I note that I’m the one that set the limits, and I could turn them off. I don’t. I check the Amazon app every half hour to see if I can snag a coveted delivery slot from Whole Foods. Score! A day later, but it’s happening. When the following morning comes, I spy the man with my groceries out of my window. I’m the kind of person that fervently watches the delivery tracker. If you know me, that likely makes a lot of sense. When I open the door, he exclaims, “I’ve got some goodies for you!” He actually used the word “goodies” and I’m elated. He hands me four bags. “Have a blessed day!” He smiles, I smile. Warmth floods my cheeks, my chest, my body, my soul. I tip him $10.

On a Friday night, I Zoom – a verb that was not in my vernacular before March – with my college friends. No time like the present for a party. Perched on the edge of my bed, I open my wheezing MacBook, the one purchased with my high school graduation money, and it chugs along on the laundry hamper. I’m so excited, I even dressed up. Maybe in an effort to revel in the nostalgia of happy times, I decide that I am going to consume varied forms and plentiful amounts of alcohol.  It does not bode well for me. My hangover comes in waves of grief and is treated with a long, long walk in the sun.

I sing chants in my room at a computer screen. I bought a lamp last week and, after fidgeting with the bulb, it brings a glow to my room. Molly’s urged me for ages to get “ambient lighting.” Though I hate to admit it, she was right. It helps. I light a candle, the one from Target that’s a perfect dupe for the expensive Anthropologie one. The priest on the screen stands in front of the altar at St. Francis Xavier, my parish. I try to remember the last date I was there. I promised Mary, the woman I greet after mass nearly every Sunday, that we would celebrate her birthday together. I put it in my Google Calendar. It was on March 29th.  I don’t know how to contact her. I hope she’s well. The priest begins his homily, and I take a deep breath. He reminds me, reminds us, that we are together, even when we are apart. That now, more than ever, we are called. I hear myself whisper Amen. No reaching for hands across pews, across aisles. I cry during the Our Father.

Brooklyn has been my home for going on three years. Bed-Stuy at the beloved JVC house on Jefferson, then Greenpoint on my own, now Williamsburg with Molly and Gina, of whom I am endlessly and eternally grateful while in isolation. The G train runs through all three neighborhoods and serves as my chariot to Queens. It’s still running, I think, but now my two legs are all I have. I haven’t used any mode of transportation in almost a month. I’ve left North Brooklyn once, maybe twice. We live on a fairly quiet street, but I’ve noticed a deeper hush in recent weeks (aside from the dastardly helicopters whose origin is unknown). Daily at 7 pm, New Yorkers across the boroughs clap and cheer for healthcare workers as a way to express gratitude. My roommates and I take it upon ourselves to liven up our silent street. On the roof, we holler into the blue sky. We spot a woman on a neighboring roof. She throws her arms in the air and yells, too. “Dance with me!” she shouts from above. We look at each other, beaming. My breath catches, and we’re alive again. Tossing hair, flailing limbs, crisp air, sun lowering into an oblivion of orange and pink. Our laughing and singing to the music playing out of an iPhone breaks up the monotony of silence. The monotony of anxious thoughts, flourishing in the close-quarters of my own head. The monotony of being alone, of loneliness. We’re not alone, not really. We dance.

 

 

 

The 92nd Annual Jellicle Ball (if only)

I want to preface this by saying the “L” key on my laptop doesn’t work. Every time I type a word with an “L” in it, I have to paste it in. And re-copy and re-paste depending on capitalization. Has it been like this for months? Why yes of course. I’m nothing if not consistent in my ability to address and overcome all obstacles in the least efficient way possible.

The best day of the year is here. As in the Oscars are today, February 9th, and I think it is becoming clear that not only must I post these predictions day of, but must wait until the very last minute to even write them. Or think about them. No no, that’s not all true. I’ve had lively discussions with co-workers and listened to a few podcasts and wave every time I’m in an AMC and they thank the A-Listers during the previews because I am one. This all makes me more than qualified to be your favorite film critic. Also the Oscars came v early this year (not that it would’ve changed anything if they were weeks later). Did I see The Irishman or Ford v Ferrari? No. Who has the time? Did I pay to see Cats on two separate occasions? Yes. Am I sorry? HeLL no.

Sooooooooo let’s just get into it, shall we?

^ denotes favorite nominee according to personal emotional appeal

* denotes who I think most deserves to win (and therefore who I would vote for if I were a member of the Academy)

Bolded nominees are those I think will win.

Best Picture

• 1917
• Ford v Ferrari
• The Irishman
• Jojo Rabbit^
• Joker
• Little Women^
• Marriage Story
• Once Upon a Time…In Hollywood
• Parasite*

As previously noted, the only ones I did not see of these nominees were Ford v Ferrari and The Irishman. Tbh I don’t know if I’ll ever watch them. The ones that made me cry the most were Jojo Rabbit (the two young boys in this movie deserved noms because they are so damn good but we’ll get to the garbage fire of the acting nominees shortly) and Little Women for obvious reasons but mostly because Greta Gerwig is my God.

Parasite is one of the best executed films I have ever seen and I would be absolutely over the moon to see it win. 1917 was brilliant. It was. But…there’s just something…like…*sigh* another war movie? Really? I’m tried of what we consider an “Oscar” movie. It’s inherently white and cis and male and showy and I’m done with it. I really really loved 1917. But I want new stories.

Also we might as well get this out of the way now, I hate Joker and I hate that it’s nominated. I think after I first saw it I thought it was ok and since I have grown to severely dislike it (thought “hate” might have been too strong of a word but I’m not gonna delete it sooo).

If 1917 doesn’t win, Parasite will.

Directing

• Bong Joon Ho, Parasite*^
• Sam Mendes, 1917^
• Todd Phillips, Joker
• Martin Scorsese, The Irishman
• Quentin Tarantino, Once Upon a Time…In Hollywood

Could not really care less about the last three. Tarantino’s movie was a big to-do and was good but not as good as a lot of the movies I saw last year. I could probably easily replace the last three directors with others. Gerwig? Wang? The Safdie Brothers? Shults? Aster? Anyway I’ll just go now. Thought Parasite was phenomenal, would love to see Joon Ho win. I think the Academy will give him Screenplay ~as a treat~ but not give him Directing or Best Picture.

We all know and love what Mendes did with 1917. Mesmerizing and awe-inspiring. As with Best Picture, if he doesn’t win, Joon Ho will.

Actress in a Leading Role

• Cynthia Erivo, Harriet
• Scarlett Johansson, Marriage Story
• Saoirse Ronan, Little Women*^
• Charlize Theron, Bombshell
• Renee Zellweger, Judy

Didn’t see Harriet or Judy. I love Cynthia Erivo and always will and she has the best Tony performance of all time and you can watch it here. As with, I think, every acting category this year, the nominees to me are just kinda meh. I don’t have a lot to say about them and, frankly, am running out of time.

As always, Saoirse is my everything.

Actor in a Leading Role

• Antonio Banderas, Pain and Glory
• Leonardo DiCaprio, Once Upon a Time…In Hollywood
• Adam Driver, Marriage Story*^
• Joaquin Phoenix, Joker
• Jonathan Pryce, The Two Popes

I’m realizing now that because of the time issue (your girl’s gotta get to church), I cannot name all the other people and movies I thought should’ve been nominated. But I’ll choose one. Where the hell is Adam Sandler for Uncut Gems?

Actress in a Supporting Role

• Kathy Bates, Richard Jewell
• Laura Dern, Marriage Story*
• Scarlett Johansson, Jojo Rabbit
• Florence Pugh, Little Women^
• Margot Robbie, Bombshell

You are supposed to hate Amy in Little Women and Pugh is so wonderful though with her tiny feet and her mannerisms that an audience member can empathize with Amy. What?! I love Dern though and I’m a little torn with the who’d I vote for but again, we’re on a time crunch.

Actor in a Supporting Role

• Tom Hanks, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
• Anthony Hopkins, The Two Popes
• Al Pacino, The Irishman
• Joe Pesci, The Irishman
• Brad Pitt, Once Upon a Time…In Hollywood

The only  one I saw was Once Upon a Time so, uh, yeah.

Writing (Original Screenplay)

• 1917
• Knives Out
• Marriage Story
• Once Upon a Time…In Hollywood
• Parasite*^

Really glad Knives Out got a nom here. Just a great fun movie.

As I said, Bong Joon Ho’s ~treat~.

Writing (Adapted Screenplay)

• The Irishman
• Jojo Rabbit*^
• Joker
• Little Women*^
• The Two Popes

I was feel like I have to choose but this is MY post so I’m not going to. #reckless #helpme

Maybe I’ll make more predictions in the moment on IG, who knows, but I think this is the shortest one yet and I’m going to leave it like that because as Judy Garland would sing, “I don’t care!”

Here are the 2019 films I did really care about (besides Cats obvi) in no particular order:

• Booksmart
• Little Women
• Jojo Rabbit
• Midsommar
• Uncut Gems
• Honey Boy
• 1917
• Waves
• Hustlers
• Knives Out
• Parasite
• Good Boys
• The Last Black Man in San Francisco
• The Farewell

xoxo and see you tonight,

C.W.

 

 

I am a sweaty pirate, first mate on the M train.

August is a restless month. I feel restricted, confined within my own skin. Sweaty skin. Sweatier in New York City, it seems, than anywhere else (though I know those in D.C. would rightfully argue theirs is the worst of all). The concrete jungle radiates heat and humidity, especially underground while waiting for subway trains that always seem to take too long. I fidget with my hair, my face, my clothes. Dab drops from my upper lip, pinch the tresses off the nape of my neck, shake out the long, silk sleeves that I’ve, for some godforsaken reason, decided to wear today. Did you know silk shows sweat more easily than any other material? I don’t know if this is a proven fact or anything, but disguising the evidence dripping down my chest and back is a nearly impossible feat in this vintage blouse that may or may not make me look like a pirate. And I’m trying my best to get some air as I look back and forth from the tracks to the countdown clock to the tracks to the front-facing camera on my phone to the countdown clock. Do I appear as pathetic as I feel? And how much longer do I have until the AC of a train car provides salvation? The J, supposedly, will arrive in 2 minutes, but the M will roll up in 10. Guess which one is mine.

The train is slow to come, as is the conclusion of this month. For me, August, not December, represents the end of a year. Or maybe the end of a year is not quite right, but the end of…something. A significant period of time or moments. The closing of another chapter. Or maybe just a year. I’m not sure, I feel so disoriented by this endless summer.

Forever stuck in the cycle of a traditional Midwest school year, I eagerly await September for a new start. Just the whispering of cooler winds excites me. Nothing sends a sly grin across my face faster than the first signs of an early evening chill.  I call it bonfire weather, and can almost smell the burning wood in the air, recalling scenes of homecoming football games, soccer practice, rural highways with the windows rolled down, the bricks on the mall at Creighton. But a recent Instagram post informed me that those rickety bricks framing 24th street are now gone. Renovation. And I’m not in school. And I don’t live in the Midwest.

Do I still get a fresh start?

Back in my body

Admiration, at least for me, often presents itself in a frustrating fury of envy toward another person for their truest and most authentic convictions. I am jealous of people with strong beliefs; beliefs that manifest themselves into actions that seem to provide a certain sense of assuredness. These beliefs do not necessarily bring outward success or failure, but rather contentedness in the person who has them, a person who was once lost and now is found.

I am rarely sure of anything, particularly at this moment in my life. I am often lost. I am dissatisfied with nearly everything. Oddly enough, I am at times proud of this. Some part of me trusts that dissatisfaction means I am above the superficial tasks of the world and believe in more for myself than what I currently have or have had. But then again, I am known to ruminate in my anxieties over achievement, or lack thereof. Which leads to confusion which leads to isolation; one big ball of anxiety curled up in a room with four walls and a window that faces the too-close building next to mine.

This rant, mostly, derives from my recent obsession with Maggie Rogers. I eagerly awaited the drop of her debut album, Heard It in a Past Life, and have had it on a constant repeat since its release. I’ve also scoured interviews with Maggie (as if we’re on a first name basis, ha) because she’s…fascinating. The way she sees the world blows my mind. And it makes me jealous in regard to my own inabilities to convey myself. Maybe even in my inabilities to understand myself. Because of course a person will have difficulty conveying oneself if she is not even sure what she’s trying to convey. Then, I get mad, because why would I ever let myself feel anything malicious toward this amazing creator and nothing I am saying makes any sense and blah blah blah. It’s all as dumb as it sounds.

A couple of weeks ago, Molly and I were walking near Union Square Park when we started talking about our new idol. We spoke about her with deep admiration. We wanted Maggie to be our friend, because we already saw her as such. She’s honest, willing to be vulnerable, and dances the way you would want all of your best friends to dance: wild, carefree, and without shoes on. We started recounting something Maggie said in an interview recently about realizing her own power. When she was younger, she would tell her crushes that she liked them. She wouldn’t keep her crush to herself. Yet, she was invincible. No one had the power to hurt her, because she put all of her feelings out in the open. This terrifies me.

On Valentine’s Day in the 2nd grade, I sent a Spongebob-themed secret admirer card to the first boy I ever liked. And when there was even the slightest rumor that the card was from me, I was mortified. No one could know. Yet, I could have avoided all of the anxiety by simply not sending the card at all. This is how I continue to live my life. Putting myself out there in the most minute way, trying to hide myself, until I am certain there will be a positive reaction, a favorable result. At least, maybe when it comes to love and spirituality and all the vulnerable gushy stuff.

But, Maggie Rogers, man, she puts herself out there to the world! And in this way, no one can touch her. Maggie does admit, though, that after the Pharrell video, she was feeling lost. She was going through something new and she didn’t know how to handle it. But now, she says she’s “back in my body,” the title of the final song on her album. The way she speaks to her fans and the way she speaks in interviews is so joyful, but she really seems to have found joy. Again, no one can tough her. This is where my jealousy peaks. I want to know that feeling. The feeling of being “back” in one’s own body.

Where would “back” take me? I feel constantly on the edge of being just there, but acknowledging that I’m still on the outside. I know where my passions lie, but I don’t know what to do with them, or how to let them mold me. I keep saying I need to discern, but when I try, nothing happens. When will I hold the kind of convictions Maggie does? I want to be sure, mostly just of myself.

Anyway, it’s Ash Wednesday and this has been a rambling moment of incoherent thought with Caitlin. I feel as if I should edit this, but I don’t particularly want to in this moment.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Happy Lent.

C.W.

wtf #TheOscars

THERE’S NO HOST. Now that we have that out of the way (seemingly the only thing that matters according to my Twitter notifications), let’s get not excited for the Oscars because, seriously, wtf. Just a big ol’ all around double u – tee – eff. This is *~the Academy~*. In a world that is crumbling, I need to rely on something, but *~the Academy*~ is seriously failing me. But really, what do I expect? Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten more picky pretentious about films, maybe it’s because the Academy is still stuck in it’s old ways. It’s probably both. Regardless, the Oscars have been losing viewership for a while now, and this year is clearly going to cause even more destruction. I don’t even want to watch, and I thrive on this sort of thing (“thing” being a conglomeration of a sinking ship, a room full of mostly losers and a select few winners, and any place Timothée Chalamet is present). Alas, the live-tweeting and predictions must prevail! So, if you want a host, just look to my Twitter feed. #thirsty #pleasedontunfollowme #Kony2012

Let’s get this straight: the movies nominated kind of low-key (high-key?) suck. Ok, they don’t suck, but you cannot convince me that they were the best movies of the year. No way, no how. I watched Green Book a couple of nights ago and just, like, what? I can’t even write effectively at the moment because I am so confused. We live in a world where Moonlight, a PHENOMENAL movie from the astounding Barry Jenkins who should be nominated for wayyyy more awards for If Beale Street Could Talk, took the biggest prize a few years ago and now Green Book is the hit of the year? A movie with zero nuance about racism that is clearly directed by a white man? Nevermind that it just completely misuses the talents of two really great actors. Really, way to take like five thousand steps backward. I’m out.

Rather than me continuing my tangent onward (and because I am lazy AF), please see this article from The Hollywood Reporter for a fairly accurate depiction of how I feel toward this years nominees.

Well, I guess these are my predictions? Honestly I don’t even care and I’m just fed up so this is super halfhearted. Like, I’d maybe rather do my taxes? Can’t believe I even took the time to write this. This is so sad and pathetic. Thank you and goodbye.

*Read until the end for my favorite movies of 2019*

^ denotes favorite nominee according to personal emotional appeal

* denotes who I think most deserves to win (and therefore who I would vote for if I were a member of the Academy)

Bolded nominees are those I think will win.

Best Picture

• Black Panther
• BlacKkKlansman*
• Bohemian Rhapsody
• The Favourite*^
• Green Book
• Roma*
• A Star is Born
• Vice

I don’t feel too strongly about this, hence three choices as “most deserving”. As I’m writing this, the only film in the Best Picture category I haven’t seen is Vice and I’m fairly certain it won’t have an impact on these current standings.  Where is If Beale Street Could Talk, by the way? That was the best film of 2018, IMO. If Roma does not win, Green Book (barf) likely will. I should say, I guess, that Green Book was fine. It was a decent enough film. But it was not great. It did not make me think critically or want to talk about it after. It just existed, and that’s all.

Also, I must say, please go see Roma in theaters if you have the chance. I saw it at IFC and I think it makes a massive difference in terms of experiencing it as cinema. I enjoyed it very much. And wept.

Best Director

• Alfonso Cuarón, Roma
• Yorgos Lanthimos, The Favourite^
• Spike Lee, BlacKkKlansman*
• Adam McKay, Vice
• Pawel Pawlikowski, Cold War

And we’re back to the way the U S of A likes it, all male directors! Barf once again. If I could’ve added a white male director though, I would’ve liked to see Bo Burnham up here. Or Jonah Hill. Directing kids is pretty impressive, and directing kids who did such freaking fantastic jobs in their respective films is both an accomplishment on their part and on the director for capturing the purity and vulnerability.

I’m enthralled with Lanthimos. He takes massive risks and they work. The Favourite was a masterpiece, and a lot of that is due in part to his genius. Brava.

Also, I’m still waiting to see Spike Lee in Fort Greene.

Best Actress in a Lead Role

• Yalitza Aparicio, Roma
• Glenn Close, The Wife
• Olivia Colman, The Favourite*^
• Lady Gaga, A Star is Born
• Melissa McCarthy, Can You Ever Forgive Me?

This is a pretty impressive list, to be honest (though I really wish Elsie Fisher had been nominated for Eighth Grade and Toni Collette had been nominated for Hereditary). The only one of these that I have not seen is The Wife and I’m sure Glenn Close was great in it. She’s like Meryl, she’s great in everything, except she has NEVER won an Oscar and has been nominated a thousand gazillion times. Which is likely why she will win here because the Academy loves giving Oscars to people after a long long wait, even if it was not for their best performance. Sigh. Also it is important to note that I was once on stage with John Legend and I was too focused on taking pictures of Glenn Close clapping for me while she was in the audience to even notice John Legend was like two feet away from me. Because Close is the true legend (lol get it lol I hate myself).

Olivia Colman is a freaking STAR. I loved The Favourite, I loved her in it. Give her all of the awards. If Close does not win, I think Colman will. I know, I know, boo hoo Lady Gaga won’t win (and she doesn’t deserve to. She gave a decent performance in a decent movie. Does she or A Star is Born deserve an Oscar? No. But hey, Bradley Cooper will still choose her even in a room of 500+ Academy voters that did not).

Best Actor in a Lead Role

• Christian Bale, Vice
• Bradley Cooper, A Star is Born
• Willem Dafoe, At Eternity’s Gate
• Rami Malek, Bohemian Rhapsody
• Viggo Mortenson, Green Book

Snooze fest. I’m not even going to pick here because I just don’t really care enough. I love Willem Dafoe, but I haven’t seen At Eternity’s Gate yet. I have a feeling I’m going to like Bale as Cheney (especially since he thanked Satan for inspiration at the Golden Globes).  Hoping to squeeze Vice in before tonight. My friend Jack described Vice as some sort of liberal joyride, so I’m looking forward to it. I’ve heard Malek’s been campaigning like crazy and a lot of the voters like him, so he’ll probably win. If he doesn’t, Bale likely will.

Best Actress in a Supporting Role

• Amy Adams, Vice
• Marina de Tavira, Roma
• Regina King, If Beale Street Could Talk*^
• Emma Stone, The Favourite
• Rachel Weisz, The Favourite

I have so much to say here, another solid category. Females in Hollywood are really doing phenomenal work, and have for years, and it’s honestly disrespectful to see how much better they are in the nominations this year than their male counterparts. Please see this tweet for a visual representation of this statement.

Another woman who deserves a freaking Oscar at this point: Amy Adams. She is tour de force and should have so many Oscars at this point and also nominations for films she was not nominated for and I will save this rant for another time because I have to leave for church in a couple of hours and have a lot to do before that include finish writing this but UGH. Like we’re all talking about the fact that Close has 7 nominations and no win (yet), but Amy has 6! This is a TRAVESTY.

ALSO I think that actors are a hugely significant part of what makes a film really great and the fact that all three leading women from The Favourite are nominated says something. PAY ATTENTION, PEOPLE! Lanthimos is amazing and directed these incredible actors so well. The Favourite is really a prime example of the kinds of films that I want to be nominated and win.

All of that being said, I want Regina King to win, I would vote for her, and I think she will win. I repeat, If Beale Street Could Talk was probably my favorite film last year and King gave an incredibly beautiful performance and I look forward to seeing her take the trophy.

Best Actor in a Supporting Role

• Mahershala Ali, Green Book
• Adam Driver, BlacKkKlansman
• Sam Elliot, A Star is Born
• Richard E. Grant, Can You Ever Forgive Me?*^
• Sam Rockwell, Vice

HAHAHA wow I was so unamused with writing about more white men (aside from Ali, of course) that I literally FORGOT to do Best Actor in a Supporting Role and am writing this post-publication. It’s all in the edits, babyyy.

Yeah, well, here you go. Thought Grant was good. Ali will win, just because he’s a superb actor in general. That’s it.

Best Original Screenplay

• The Favourite*^
• First Reformed
• Green Book
• Roma
• Vice

Glad to see First Reformed here. I didn’t see it, but would like to and have heard great things. Big Ethan Hawke stan. Hoping to see him on Broadway with Paul Dano (whom I love very much). If The Favourite wins here, the Academy will see it almost like a consolation for not winning director or best picture. Sad that it works that way (see last year with Jordan Peele winning for Get Out, which is maybe the biggest robbery for best picture in recent years). If The Favourite doesn’t win, Green Book might? God, I hope not.

Best Adapted Screenplay

• Ballad of Buster Scruggs
• BlacKkKlansman^
• If Beale Street Could Talk*
• Can You Ever Forgive Me?
• A Star is Born

And though we know at this point how I feel about If Beale Street Could Talk, I think I would vote for BlacKkKlansman. Again, I think this is one of those “consolation” things. Like Spike Lee is probably going to get robbed for Best Director, an award he should definitely have received by now considering his magnificent body of work, so they’re going toss the movie a bone here and give it Best Adapted Screenplay. Which it deserves. But Lee also deserves the recognition for direction.

Best Cinematography

• Cold War
• The Favourite^
• Never Look Away
• Roma*
• A Star is Born

I’m torn between Roma and The Favourite. Both movies were so visually beautiful, but very different. I’ll be pleased if either wins.

My Favourite Films of 2018

• If Beale Street Could Talk
• Eighth Grade
• The Favourite
• Mid90s
• Never Goin’ Back
• Roma

Honorable mentions: American Animals, The Death of Stalin, Hereditary

Welp, here’s hoping next year’s awards are bigger and brighter, because we all know tonight is going to be booooooooring (wow, I am just a pool of pessimism right now).

Bye,

CW

Upon re-reading, I see I’ve used the word “decent” quite a few times and I see now that it is the most fitting word to some up how I feel about these movies. Just kind of “meh”.

02/25/2019

Welp, the only think I managed to truly predict was how much of a disappointment this was. Truthfully, I think the program was presented well. I didn’t mind not having a host at all. Thought the performances were delightful. But as for the winners…ugh. Also, this is maybe my worst year yet in terms of actually predicting things. 6/9.

Before the party

My room’s still a mess and it smells of a Christmas candle and red nail polish (sure, you can’t smell that it’s red, but I want you to know that it’s red). My half-unpacked suitcase is strewn open next to the radiator. I changed my outfit approximately three times after going to two separate Targets this morning and riding the train back to Greenpoint empty-handed. A half a bottle of gin is on the shelf and it’s likely to be gone by morning. A party awaits and I’m in a navy dress listening to Maggie Rogers. Floral boots rest near the door and will soon dance through and far past midnight, trotting the transfer of trains and up steps of an apartment in Bushwick. There’s a rooftop that will fill with friends who won’t mind the rain, because the new year calls and we’re in New York City.

I normally hate the new year; a physical embodiment of time passing, of what has and has not been. A deeper recognition that my bed is still unmade, that I ordered takeout instead of preparing my own meal, that I didn’t find the perfect dress. That perfection is unattainable. This becomes exceptionally apparent on December 31. I haven’t properly prepared for my rebirth, my revival, the new year.

So maybe I will leave the bed unmade, I won’t rush to put the clothes back in the closet. I’ll let my lipstick smudge just a bit and my curls frizz with the rain. Because I’ll be in a fur coat. I’ll be in my favorite floral boots. I’ll be surrounded by laughter and love and music that we’ll play loudly because there aren’t apartments below or above us to bang on the door and ask us to quiet down.

And I won’t quiet down, either. I’m finally recognizing how to step fully into the sun, to reach that self-realization. To let the room shift from clean to messy and back to clean within hours. To learn how to cook and learn how to search for Postmates coupons. To address what I actually want, and let myself make mistakes on the way there. I think I’ll get a tattoo, I think I’ll write something and have it published, I think I’ll finally take those improv classes. Or, I won’t. And that’s ok, too. The only person I can disappoint now is myself, and I’ve actively chosen to love that person instead. It’s been a long time coming, after all.

I should leave soon, and I think I will make my bed at the very least, only to mess it up again when I return.

Thank u 2018, next.

C.W.

Somewhere after a beginning, New York City, NY

Every part of my life thus far has had a definitive beginning and ending. There’s some sort of term limit, an expiration date.  I started high school, I ended high school. I started college, I ended college. I started JVC, I ended JVC. And each time I embarked on a new start, I did so with the knowledge that an end existed and when that inevitable end would occur. A red circle surrounding the date on the calendar. Days to cross off. Almost always, I knew the next chapter, too. And the next. But now…a start with no distinct ending in sight.

This sounds almost bleak, calling forward that tired analogy of not being able to see the light at the finale of a dark tunnel. Driving and driving – or running and running if you’re the type – with only hope to hold onto. I can promise you, I have not entered the ever-foreboding, dark and dismal void. You don’t need to worry about me. Scratch that, you can still worry about me, for my anxiety and all of its treacherous glory maintains its firm grasp, but it does not derive from the “unknown” and “unending”. In fact, this state of being is quite nearly comforting.

The unknown provides a unique form of liberation that I have never experienced. In this moment, it seems evermore evident that I can be anyone, do anything. Mostly, I think, because I live in a city full of people also keen to this not-so-secret secret. They’re all out and about trying to be anyone and do anything.

Though I don’t mean to bash the Midwest, I find myself often feeling that I did not know these kinds of people there. I thought they did not exist, perhaps, but of course this is not true. I simply convinced myself that the Midwest resembles security in sameness and one job you’ll have for the entirety of your life. The corresponding image is that of four confining walls, whether of a prison cell or an office cubicle, you tell me. Nevertheless, likely a thought primarily conceived from trepidation and longing. It’s easier to leave a place you loathe, even if that loathing is falsified.

So here I remain in the place I left for. In grand ol’ New York City. Among dreamers and phonies and a character on the train who calls himself the “Jolly Cat”. In the soup. A dense, murky soup.

In favor of transparency (as opposed to the soup), I feel intimidated writing about New York. It is a city tirelessly written about, by the kinds of people who move to the city for the very purpose of being writers. People from far and wide, past and present (and inevitably future). I won’t even begin to name them as there are far too many. The ones you know achieved grand success (success in the way we generally see success, that is), and the ones you don’t achieved something else, though we may likely never know what exactly that “something else” was, is, and will be.

And the city itself, as with time and its people, is moving, growing, and changing always. E.B. White in his tiny, mighty book “Here Is New York” recounts the ability to write about New York as the following: “To bring New York down to date, a man would have to published with the speed of light – and not even Harper is that quick.” New York itself seems have its start, of course, but no end in sight.*

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve come to know as “New York luck.” When I first moved here, I became enthralled with another line from Mr. White’s book: “No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.” Conceptualizing “will” and “luck” together put my mind on the fritz. How does one will herself to be lucky? By entering the Hamilton lottery every day, I suppose. That one seemed to work out. I found myself on the receiving end of a lot of luck. And a whole lot of…not luck. After finishing my year with JVC, I think I’ve nearly figured it out. “New York luck”, as I’ve come to define it, is something seemingly lucky evolving from the seemingly unlucky.

A quick story: in September, a man stole my purse at a bar. Somehow, though I had no idea what he looked like, Molly and I managed to race through a tightly packed crowd, spot him from a window, push open the emergency exit, and demand my purse back. The purse he shoved inside of his pants. I’m not making this up. So, was it lucky I got my purse and all it contained back? Sure. Did this luck only present itself after something vastly unlucky occur? Absolutely. This is New York luck.

Critics often cite that in literature, film, etc., artists attempt to paint the city more as a character rather than a city. It is dynamic and challenging, its monstrous presence unyielding. And I’m never quite sure what she’s going to bring me at any moment, but I am certain that something, good or bad, is always on its merry way. My willingness to accept these things, though, is in fact the willingness to be lucky. To allow both the good and bad into my life and see what becomes of them. Because in a city that exists as a powerful entity, I often have no power.

This is a revelation for me, to both recognize and accept my powerlessness and let go. Because in this “powerlessness”, I find the will to be lucky. A will to respond with a particular kind of forgiveness and resilience rather than self-destruction. A will to move on, to push through. To lose my purse, and get it back. Or not. To live my lowest lows and highest highs. To break, but rebuild. To think of myself as someone who can be anyone and do anything. To give and take and give and take with grace and with faith. Until the ultimate liberation.

There is no apparent end in sight, but there is a great light beckoning me forward, shining in the skyline from the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade, on a stage in the East Village, and in the eyes of 11 million inhabitants packed into five boroughs. And a willingness to be lucky. Here is my New York.

C.W.

 

* Actually, the end is when Amazon lays roots in Long Island City. Jeff Bezos – thank u, next.

Spirituality, birthdays, and eyebrow waxes on 63rd and Lex

Tonight, I am making the conscious effort to begin my 24th year in the act of writing. When I was in Omaha a few weeks ago, Molly noted, “You haven’t posted anything on your blog in a while. I know because I check.” Well, Molly, you’re a stalker. This I know to be true because you also once told me so. And I will never let you live it down. But nonetheless, you are right. And this time, it’s more than forgetfulness or getting caught up in other things. I’ve been actively avoiding my keyboard, my journal, and the notes app on my iPhone (even from the depths of a bar bathroom and multiple gin and tonics deep). It wasn’t contempt that led me astray, it was dismay.

Since closing a major chapter of my life, I’ve been committed to not reflecting, not thinking about the meaning of endings and beginnings, not texting, not calling, not writing. Because in this way,  I won’t miss anyone or anything. My mind will remain clear because the complicated can’t cloud my rationale about the past, the present, and the future. And if I don’t write, I don’t think. That’s that.

Unfortunately…and fortunately, that can’t remain that. And I can’t become the human I want to be if I live in a constant state of denial and resistance.

My birthday is tomorrow today, and lucky for me, Benefit Brow Bar offers FREE eyebrow waxes within the week of your birthday. And you KNOW your girl loves a good eyebrow wax (tangent: I once made a boy on my freshman dorm floor drive me to get my eyebrows waxed because he was the only person I knew with a car). And though this in itself seemed like a magical experience, the woman waxing my eyebrows became a savior of sorts. My eyes closed, her hands picking and pulling at my face, she quietly spoke after brief conversation surrounding living in New York and church, “You know, this might sound a little out of nowhere, but I can tell this is going to be your year. I can feel it. You know, you might have faced some disappointment, and things might not have gone how you planned them, but this is not the time to give up on your dreams and your high expectations. This coming year is going to be your best.”

Whoa. WHOA. All I could say is, “I hope you’re right.” And she responded, “I know I’m right.”

And somehow, I believe her.

Now’s not the time to avoid what makes me happy, what makes me feel my fullest self, what makes my heart leap out of my chest and my eyes water. I’m stepping into the sun, and I’m letting it envelop every part of my being. Freshly waxed eyebrows and all.

Bring it on, 24. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Oh, and nice to see you all again. Visit often, I’ll be around.

C.W.