Monday, 1 March 2004
w00t! g33kz 0wnz0r3d teh 05c4rz!!11!
We geeks r00l: In a clean sweep at the Academy Awards, Peter Jackson and LotR: The Return of the King won in all eleven categories in which they had been nominated. Crossing over from my music loves, Annie Lennox's composition/performance won best song (if you missed it, you didn't stay for the credits). What a great combo.
I was glad to see that Lost in Translation won Sofia Coppola the best original screenplay, and that Sean Penn won best leading actor. I really liked both these nominees, and wouldn't have wanted LotR's success to have contributed to pushing them out completely.
It would've been great to see Johnny Depp win best leading actor, but the Academy surely took into account the success of the 300-pound gorilla of fantasy films. On the other hand, similar logic didn't apply to Benicio Del Toro, who didn't win the best supporting actor. Tough choice; Tim Robbins certainly earned it so I'm not too disappointed.
Funny that I pay attention to all this, since I'm really not a fan of the Oscars (or any industry awards ceremonies). No surprise, but I find them to be self-congratulatory fluff for what amounts to a rather incestuous king-making process. On the other hand, it's great to see so many good films come out in the last year and that so many made the list. Guess they got me, hook, line, and sinker.
Thanks to foreign distribution lag and my not going to the theatre as much as usual, I haven't yet seen a good half-dozen of the nominees. Gotta get cracking.
Wednesday, 3 March 2004
Paycheck
Disclaimer up front: just thinking about how I'd try and describe my reactions to Paycheck wore me out. You at least get the option of reading the rest or not.
Watching this film, I was overcome with the feeling that someone pitched making a "B" film with A-list actors. We'll overlook the question of whether Ben Affleck really merits being called "A-list." Uma Thurman and even Paul Giamatti could qualify.
Thurman's laboratory reminded me nothing more of some sort of mad scientist's playhouse. Explain to me again what exactly she does - besides play god. Sheesh, Woo! If your movie's black-and-white morality play wasn't already obvious enough in the storytelling then you need to fix it, not hang out flashing neon signs.
Being a geek means that I couldn't stop myself from choking on the holes in the movie's logic. Like: if Affleck could predict every detail of his future, that would mean he'd have to follow every possible "what if" (e.g. only by escaping death at the hands of the FBI could he board the bus; only once on the bus could he find himself in front of the law offices; and so on).
So that would mean that he'd have to be able to see potential futures as well as "the" future. If that's the case, then the machine is more of a Web browser for time, not linear story viewer. And if that's so, then war is not the only possible outcome of its being made public knowledge. Making me wonder why I should bother to care. QED.
Not that it really matters: suspension of disbelief is de rigueur in science fiction. I'm willing to deal with that. But do I also have to deal with cartoonish characters and a tacked-on happy ending? I mean, come on - the only thing missing from the "oh ha ha, I won the lottery" scene was a sitcom's laugh track.
A friend pointed out his biggest bone to pick: if Affleck repeatedly erases his memories, then he never learns during the lost periods of time. That could work for a while, especially since he's meant to be so brilliant (pfft, right). But this is high-tech - don't you suppose that after only a couple of years, he'd be outpaced by the technology he was supposed to reverse-engineer? Who would you rather hire: a cheap-but-brilliant student fresh out of university or someone who has five-year-old tech skills?
Small wonder that people are surprised that the US is losing jobs to off-shore outsourcing, if this film passes for common wisdom.
I don't know where to lay the blame: John Woo, Ben Affleck (and Uma et al., seeing as how they did say "yes" to this crap) or Philip K. Dick. I admit that I've never read Dick's short stories, so it's hard for me to say if they really provide good source material. But look at others: Minority Report is pure saccharin-coated Spielberg preaching; Total Recall is a fun Verhoeven/Schwarzenegger "things go boom"-a-thon; Blade Runner is just plain incredible.
Obviously there's at least some adaptability to Dick's stories (Blade Runner is famous for the amount of liberties it took). For any recipe, the final experience is in the hands of the chef in the kitchen and the service at the table. Unfortunately, it'd be a lot easier to send back a bad meal (or skip the tip) than to get back these two hours of my life.
2 / 5 : the only thing saving this from a "1" is that there's still room for much worse (because, believe it or not, I've seen worse - much worse)
Sunday, 7 March 2004
Reversal of Fortune
Proving that it is possible to have all the little things fall into place, this weekend was almost a complete recovery from last weekend:
- I ran into the guy who paid for the repairs in my apartment (the setup is too complicated to detail here). He was genuinely upset that the repair guys took so many liberties with my things, and told me to drop off a note listing everything so he could work it out with their company.
- I got my replacement SIM card for my new phone, a Sony Ericsson T610 (my impressions at a later date). My cut-off-from-the-world feeling is now over. Jonesing for a mobile connection is just so stupid, it's embarrassing.
- I had two totally bad-event-free evenings out on Friday and Saturday. Last Saturday was fun but ended on a too-sour note.
Also, a total of three hours of the weekend were spent working out. Any random stress floating around didn't even have a chance to take hold.
Wednesday, 10 March 2004
*Plop* Goes the ... Oh, Never Mind
I was going to entitle this entry "Saved from Myself." It was going to be self-congratulatory: having had an extremely draining two days, I'd decided to go to McDonald's (hiss) for a no-brainer, zero-nutritional-value meal.
The lines were waaay too long. (See, "saved from myself": I'm so clever.)
Instead I decided to make a nice little treat-myself-to-comfort-food meal and popped a pizza in the oven. (Is there anything sadder than a single-serving pizza?) After the prerequisite time spent baking, with extra credit given for my blabbing on the phone, I took out the piping-hot circle of ham 'n' cheese goodness.
And it. Fell. Right. On. The. Floor.
Today's lesson in applied aerodynamics and quantum physics is that the tastiest side of any food will land face-down on the floor and create a mess exponentially proportional to your eagerness to enjoy the Judas meal, possibly burning you while you try and wipe it up.
Wednesday, 17 March 2004
Springtime in Paris
The last couple of days have been beautiful, sunny days. Unusual for Paris at this time of year, the sky is clear and the thermometer hit 20 yesterday and 22 today (68 and 72 in Fahrenheit). Normally it's a choice: you get cloudy skies and warmth, or clear skies and chill.
Needless to say, it's been a treat. The city even smells good, like it was getting ready for some event. (You can hold your snarky comments about stereotypical French bathing habits.)
The air smells warm.
Unfortunately, not everyone is in a good mood. Islamic extremists fired off a letter to the French Prime Minister, threatening terrorist attacks in crowded places. Of course, when it's warm, everywhere gets crowded.
So along with chirping birds, budding flowers, and people out for a stroll, we now have security guards posted at the entrances to Les Halles (an underground shopping center near me) and CRS (national police) patrolling the streets in pairs.
Two things comfort me: One, there is some doubt that the authors of the letter even belong to a real group. Two, France has long had well-established plans in place to deal with this exact type of situation. No alerts named after colors you'd find in your kid's breakfast cereal, no runs on duct tape and plastic to seal your windows. Just pragmatic, practical cautionary steps - like the patrols and simple things like clear plastic bags instead of public garbage cans.
Scary, isn't it, how living with a threat is enough to make us find comfort in a pseudo-police state? Michel Foucault would surely have something interesting to say about it were he around to see this.
Or maybe, for once, he'd just enjoy the warm spring air.
Thursday, 18 March 2004
Big Fish
Tim Burton is a personal favorite of mine: he's silly, whimsical, and childish - all in the very best ways. Sometimes his best intentions result in a very bad movie (Mars Attacks!, Planet of the Apes). Other times, it's nothing short of pure genius (Edward Scissorhands, Beetlejuice). Few people can bring us simple joys like Pee-wee's Big Adventure with such relish as someone who's fully in touch with his "inner child."
Make no mistake, it's Burton's inner child who's at the helm of Big Fish. Bookended by a bigger-than life Ewan McGregor and a stately (and understated) Jessica Lange, life is viewed from the height of a child looking up - with all the distortion and exaggeration that implies.
Only Billy Crudup seems to miss out on the joke, at times resembling the one older kid who spoils the mysteries of Santa Claus, wanting so much to impress his younger friends with his adult "wisdom." But Albert Finney, the child hidden behind an dying old man's face, is ready to fight fire with fire. No wonder Crudup looks so upset: it's hard to be taken seriously when your own father is more open to living life than you are.
And that's the key: being open to living life, even if it means that "life" doesn't necessarily match "reality." We all need something bigger than us, something that we can look to for inspiration and guidance. Religions and their gods serve to inspire us as well frighten us. McGregor's Ed Bloom inspires; Finney's elder version frightens. As the once-devoted son, Crudup has been disappointed and shamed by the fallibility of his father - failings that are just as giant as any of the senior Bloom's purported achievements.
Is this film manipulative? Sure. Is it overly (and overtly) sentimental? You bet. But if Burton is willing to hide a prize in the caramel corn, I'm more than happy to work my way through it. Treats like Helena Bonham Carter (Best. Modern. Grimm. Rendition. Ever.), the sparkling Alison Lohman (who I never doubted for a moment will become Jessica Lange), and Burton's ever-faithful Danny Elfman's score aren't obstacles - they're prizes in themselves.
Like a conductor who knows his symphony as he knows his own heart, Burton works his ensemble cast through hamminess, sweetness, simplistic solutions and improbable feats. This was orchestrated in the same way only a classic fairy tale could be. Burton and his team kept coming at me, then backing down, only to reach crescendo when my guard was back down again.
By the end, sitting next to the hospital bed, my vision was blurring. With the elegiac sendoff that itself was bigger than life, it was all I could do to hold back the tears. So I didn't, and they came from both eyes. And from just about every other eye around me.
Few on Earth could ever take on the stature of a god. But for Burton, and for every single child who's ever lived, our parents have been our idols. If only for a brief moment, and even if long-delayed, we look towards the only people who could ever be greater than ourselves - and we see what we can become.
5 / 5 : for anyone who has ever looked to the unattainable, and for those who are already there
Girl With a Pearl Earring
What makes us who we are? Is it what we do, or how we do it? Or is it something beyond our control, or even immutable - a state into which we were born, living out our lives until we experience a single, final change?
These are metaphysical questions, and to be fair Girl With a Pearl Earring isn't attempting to answer any of them. But - tangentially, at least - it touches on each one.
Beyond that, I'm not quite sure how to look at this film.
Sure, it was fun to see Colin Firth as a brooding and moody artist instead of the bumbling guys with hearts of gold that I've grown accustomed from him (Bridget Jones's Diary, Love Actually). And make no mistake, Scarlett Johansson is on my list ...of favorite up-and-coming actresses. Not just anyone could rise to Bill Murray's level, yet that's exactly what she did in Lost in Translation.
But the importance of a film isn't really about what new roles it gives its actors, or how they do compared to their other roles. The problem is, it's otherwise a straightforward story: women's place in society (and their role beyond baby-making machines); growing up and the confusion it brings; finding one's voice, and harmonizing it with others'. There was really nothing in its rather brief time its reels unwound (95 minutes) to sink my teeth into.
I don't know, maybe it's because I was still recovering from having just seen Big Fish immediately beforehand. Maybe it's because there isn't meant to be more to the film - I never read the original novel, after all. I wouldn't put it beyond me to miss some sort of subtle subtext.
But am I missing something? Maybe not: sometimes it's all right to simply exist. Still, considering this was a period piece, that it had some good actors, interesting subject material and beautiful images, I left hungry. I would've hoped to come away changed - if only slightly, and certainly more than had I instead spent the same time sleeping in late.
2 / 5 : pretty pictures, nice cinematography, interesting contrasts (and similarities) with modern life - should I have expected more, or less?
Monday, 22 March 2004
Nothin' Doin'
Am I the only one who gets like this? Energetic, but more of a nervous energy than anything actually useful? I spent the whole day wanting to get things done, and just about as much time not getting them done.
So, the day pretty much devolved into plowing through my 1000's of mailing list messages and doing some administrative stuff for work. And instead of actually going home at a decent time this evening, I stayed on at the office. Why? My not-so-secret addiction: Freeciv.
I'm not really a game player, definitely not like my brother and absolutely not enough to keep myself from getting laughed at by the average 10-year old with a Playstation. But back in the day I loved Populous, in all its low-res, single-diskette glory. So I guess I'm predisposed to liking a game that gives me godlike powers.
Freeciv is basically the open source version of Civilization. The details aren't important if you don't already know what it is. Suffice to say, it's the kind of game that the geeks played in the dorm study room all night long. I never did understand it, and I definitely thought they were weird.
Well now it's just one more notch in my "ultimate geek" belt, I guess. If you ever see me bleary eyed in the morning, check the day. If it's not the weekend, I don't have a hangover.
Wednesday, 24 March 2004
Fresh ---, as in A Breath Of, and Other Puns
When I was younger and still at university, I used to treat myself to music whenever I'd made it over a hump. A midterm here, an essay there, sprinkle in a couple of finals - and presto! A pretty nice CD collection.
That's not to say that I rewarded myself for a job well done, which was probably just the teensiest of holes in my little party-of-one Pavlovian experiment. Still, that didn't stop me from doing it, or from enjoying the rewards - merited or not.
Well, two Thursdays ago, I wrapped up a long day spent conducting user tests (the two great tastes that taste great together: tedious and wearying at the same time! [1]). Not just the first day, mind you, but the third day in a row. I'm good at doing at least a couple or three things in life, but user tests don't appear to be one of them.
Air in concert at the Zénith de Paris
Anyway, the point is that I had tickets to go see Air for that very night. (Ironically, at the Zénith de Paris - part of the same collection of buildings as where I'd spent the whole day.) If I hadn't already bought them, I'd probably skipped the whole thing and gone to bed early. That definitely would've been my loss.
Air is a pretty, er, "special" kind of group, and I'm far from the best person to describe them or their sound. I guess if I tried to sum them up, I'd call them a modern electronica band heavily influenced by 70's mood (or Moog) music. Mix in the "French Touch" label (a dubious distinction that basically just means it's French and you can listen to it without your ears bleeding), along with a welcome lack of apparent egomania, and you have the two-man band (well... or the foursome who was on stage) that is Air.
I have all Air's albums save the last one, the tour's eponymous "Talkie Walkie." Despite that, I couldn't really say how I got started listening to them. They don't exactly inspire a fervent following: I've personally been far more interested in getting other bands' complete works. The audience was pretty laconic, which isn't that surprising for the French (not that I'm complaining - reduced crowd control compared to a U.S. show meant that I listened to Bowie from less than 100 feet, and I wasn't even one of the lucky ones). Not that Air's music would really inspire you to dance - and that's assuming you even have rhythm, white boy.
And yet, despite that outpouring of unrestrained ambiguity, it was a great show. I came out of it feeling surprisingly energetic and completely recovered from my day. Maybe it was simply what I needed after my week up to then, maybe it's the kind of show for ageing concert goers like me who sit their seats and sway to the beat. In any case, this was one geek who liked seeing more of his kind, on stage and rocking in front of a packed house.
[1] Ah, I shouldn't bitch and moan so much. User tests are pretty valuable and once you've recovered your wits, you really appreciate the results. Even a pretty limited group of users does a lot; with a few more, your recommendations almost write themselves.
Hey, kids! Here's a bonus: Besides snapping the low-res photos you see above with my new mobile phone (that Sony Ericsson T610 that I keep meaning to talk about), I recorded some really crappy sounding audio. The quality of these recordings was poor to begin with, and transcoding to MP3 only made it worse. Download at your (and your ears') own risk. Truly, these sounds redefine the meaning of "crap."
- Remember [226 KB] (missing most of the beginning)
- Playground Love (instrumental) [208 KB] (missing some of the beginning)
- Run [718 KB]
- Kelly, Watch the Stars [396 KB]
- Sexy Boy [626 KB]
- La Femme d'argent [480 KB] (grrr, too little memory to get the remaining five minutes)
Now you, too, can pretend you attended a live concert played in glorious Gramophone sound! Guaranteed to be illegal wherever anyone likes getting their undies in a bunch!
Thursday, 25 March 2004
Wow, Normally I Wouldn't Have Taken That "11" Thing Literally
Just a short while ago, I was witness to a power struggle between my neighbors. By "power struggle," I mean "shouting match." By "witness," I mean "couldn't avoid hearing shouting match through my door."
Your typical everyday passive-aggressive Parisian has nothing on this bunch.
My next-door neighbors, far from being the most quiet lot, were justifiably pissed off at my upstairs-and-across-the-hall neighbors. Loud music, enough to vibrate the walls, had been blasting out of Team B's stereo for a half an hour or so. This isn't the first time, true 'nuff. In the angry-red corner, Team A was righteously indignant because they apparently had their own evening cut short by their cross-floor rivals last Friday. At a relatively reasonable 1:00 AM, no less.
I say "apparently" because I wasn't around to "witness" that little exchange. In fact, I was far from being ready to even come home at 1:00 AM last Friday, having my lips wrapped around a pint of Guinness at almost exactly that very moment.
So it occurs to me: wouldn't the solution be so simple as that? Why not just get your loudness out of your system where God intended it to be gotten out: down at the pub, the one hosted by your favorite bartender. When said loudness out-getting is good and gotten out, then return home. Everyone who wants to be quiet, just skip the pub step (unless that pub-going deal sounds tempting - in which case, be my guest).
Maybe Hamas leaders and Israeli assassins could just go to the pub, instead of duking it out and taking innocent collateral with them. That Al Qaeda bunch might not be drinkers (their perfect religious adherence and all), but I bet they'd play one mean game of darts. And I her that ol' Georgie knew how to party with the best of them at one time - though that's certainly an unfounded rumor. Besides, the religious right (isn't that all of them now?) would remind you that it's a cardinal sin to besmirch Saint Bush's good name or question His Wisdom (or that of his Father in Heaven above).
Yeah, you're right: I'm just being silly. If not outright blasphemous, but whatever.
In the meantime, if you don't mind, I'll be pulling my own passive-aggressive move: wondering whether it'd be better to call the cops on you, or just pop down to the pub - seeing as how you won't be there and all.
Explain to Me How That Works Again?
So today our office got a new unbundled ADSL connection. It's almost twice as fast (downstream) as our old one, and we'll get a whole year's access for less than what we were paying for two months at our old provider. The only difference is that there's no uptime guarantee - but considering our old provider had more than one outage that lasted an entire business day, somehow the word "guarantee" doesn't mean a lot to me.
The point is, the new provider sent the modem over by courier once the connection was confirmed (nifty just-in-time service). I had it connected ten minutes later (even a geek has to eat first), took 20 to figure out the Web configuration (static IP via PPPoA, yuck; made a "temporary" setup so that our crufty 192.168/24 internal network can talk to the modem's 10/8 address space; turned off the modem's superfluous default services; blah, blah, blah). A bit under 45 minutes after we'd signed for delivery, our network was using the 1216 Kb/s connection as if nothing on the other side of the firewall had changed. For my final trick, I pointed our extranet's domain record to the new static address.
Tonight, washing it for dinner, I broke my third and last remaining drinking glass.