Putting Away Childish Things.

A Post-Presidential Inauguration Special Edition.







SEEN.







I saw the historic (lest this term be underused) inauguration of Barack Obama. Yes, I did. From afar. On a giant television screen (called a Jumbotron.) On the Mall in D.C. In the freezing cold. But still on a screen, which makes it a lot like watching a movie which is why I write here about lessons I learned while attending the swearing-in ceremony and the Youth Ball (Yes, it was for 18-35 year-olds but I'm not bitter, and I look 35ish.)





Lesson #1: Don't skimp on shoes.





January is typically not a good month for outdoor events unless you are a fan of skiing, snowboarding or ice fishing. Standing outside for 7 hours in freezing temperatures can break the will of even the most dedicated, patriotic American. I broke inside two hours. Literally, I lost the will to live (like when I watched the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still); I abandoned my friend (who was treated to a re-airing of the "We Are One" inaugural celebration); and I fled to the nearest warming station at the Smithsonian Museum. Well, not exactly. The main Smithsonian Museum was closed to the public (Huh? Yeah, I was confused, too.) Guess they didn't want the general population lining the halls and amputating our frostbitten toes. So, I went next door to the Smithsonian Museum of American History (Don't ask me. I don't live there.) While at the museum, I took a tour of Julia Childs' home kitchen. I also treated myself to use of a proper indoor bathroom not the port-a-potties that all the tough guys outside were suffering through. Eventually, I felt bad for abandoning my friend. ("Eventually" took about an hour if you must know.)




Then came the hard part. Facing the cold and finding my friend again through the additional 100,000 people who had arrived since I fled. When I finally reached her, she appeared to be a solid block of ice wearing an Obama button. That's dedication. The dedication of the tens of thousands of people who came to view an amazing moment in history was truly astonishing. I, too, was dedicated. About five hours in I was dedicated to the idea of thawing my feet out in a warm place again. I stuck in out though and what an experience. All of those people gathered together because they believe that not one man, but all of us can change the course of history. Amazing. What we could not change was the direction that the D.C. authorities directed us to get home.







Lesson #2-Everybody leaves at the same time.







Without my friend, I would still be standing in the Mall waiting for the Fourth of July celebration. Navigating Washington D.C. has never been a strong suit of mine. So, I followed her back to our hotel. In fact, lots of people followed her. If you would like to know what would happen in the event of a disaster at a huge event packed with thousands of people, I'll tell you. Gridlock. People as far as the eye can see stacked on top of each other like sardines. Yes, we were all sent to the same damn metro station at the same time. Good for the Inaugural Parade route, not so much for us. On the upside, we were all warm. And what better way to get to know your fellow Americans. Intimately.







Lesson #3-Volunteerism Ain't for Everybody.







A good friend of mine called me at the last minute with an opportunity to attend the Youth Ball, one of the ten events that the Obamas were scheduled to attend. The only catch was that I would have to volunteer to work the floor. Well, that's perfect! That's totally in the spirit the National Day of Volunteering that then President-elect Obama called for. Although spending the night standing next to a D.J. telling him when to turn the music on and off was probably not was Mr. Obama had in mind. Well, small technicality. It's the spirit of the thing. I was volunteering. Helping people out of the goodness of my heart. And the free hotel room. And the chance to see not only the President and the First Lady but also Kid Rock, Kanye West and Fallout Boy. What?! It was still, technically, volunteering.





Here's the thing. Giving to the poor is one thing. Giving to a bunch of 18 to 35 year-olds dressed in prom dresses (some of whom had clearly over-imbibed), well, that's an altogether different kind of charity. Standing in heels and a floor length dress for over three hours in a room that was approximately the same temperature as the Arctic Circle does not inspire the spirit of giving. True, the deejay was awesome (I know this because Rosario Dawson told him he was great, not because I have a clue about what he was playing.) True, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Still, 4:30AM to 1:30AM is a long time to be awake without chemical assistance, and I ain't no spring chicken. Next time, I think I'll write a check.







EATEN.





Are you kidding? You're going to be standing for hours! You're only bathroom option is a giant cylinder (non-flushing) shared by thousands of people. You don't eat. You don't drink. And you just hope you don't pass out from dehydration. Good luck to you. Don't bitch either. You coulda kept your whiny, liberal ass at home in L.A. where it was 90 degrees.







SHOP.





In honor of the most marketable president in the history of the United States, I say, shop, baby, shop. Street vendors, airport stores, 7-11s and, of course, online. You can buy Obama swag anywhere. Frankly, I'm surprised that economists haven't suggested exporting more Obama goods overseas to try and help boost our devastated economy. I mean, who doesn't want Obama paper dolls? You heard me. Get some.







FLY.





Just a little aside to celebrate the successful solo voyage of my luggage from Washington, D.C. to New York to Los Angeles. Where was I, you ask? Oh, well, I was bumped off of my flight home. I left D.C. three hours after my luggage. I went in the complete opposite direction through Atlanta. Ah, the joys of air travel. It ain't what it used to be. Just 'cause you have a confirmation that don't mean you get to board the plane. Not even if you get to the airport over an hour before departure time. Nooooo. You could be in for more turbulence in the airport than in the air. Well, at least my bag enjoyed the trip. It told me that not having to ride in the baggage compartment was a relief. Loved the complimentary nuts and beverage service and the in-flight television. Stop looking at me like that. Whatever. I can make up a story about my luggage's feelings if I want to. Yes I can, America, yes I can. It's probably the residual effects of hypothermia. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.

Old Love

Last Chance Harvey-Dustin Hoffman, Emma Thompson

SEE.

I know this is wrong but ever since Something's Gotta Give, I've been a little squeamish about...well...old love. (No. Not former flames. I mean "On Golden Pond meets Cocoon" love.)Look. I live in Hollywood. Whaddya want from me? We sacrifice our souls on the altar of youth everyday. If it's over thirty, it's over. (Hey! I'm almost forty so forget about calling me ageist.) In principle, I have nothing against a nice hand-holding sort of romance between Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson; but, as a viewer, I prefer to revisit my younger days in romance. What I remember of them anyway. I do not want to think about what happens to my dentures if I get slipped a little tongue. Seriously, a kiss is supposed to be beautiful and hot. Remember when Sarah Michelle Gellar teaches Selma Blair to kiss in Cruel Intentions. Oh, stop it! You know you don't want to see, oh, I don't know, Kathleen Turner teaching Meryl Streep how to kiss. (Maybe you do but you shouldn't admit it.) Old love is meant to be quaint and asexual. Seriously. I love Emma Thompson. I might even be willing to see her play one more Jane Austen character in love, but I refuse to see Dustin Hoffman caught in flagrante delicto.

Fortunately, I didn't have to. Apparently, the director was with me on this, you politically correct cowards. Despite the proliferation of Cialis commercials, we like to keep our more senior citizens properly clothed and relegated to the roles of "old codger," "crazy old bat with a small dog" or all-knowing earthmama or papa. (Don't look at me. I just work here.) We're only exposed to the briefest of kisses in Last Chance Harvey. Amen and thank you. Okay. You can hate me now. I know, I know. People over forty have sex. More sex than I do, I'm sure. (Please. Coma patients have more sex than me.) As painful as it is to watch Harvey Shine (Hoffman) struggle to find his place at his daughter's wedding or Kate Walker (Thompson) squirm on the outskirts of a too young blind date, it is also touching. (We older, single girls can truly appreciate the muffled crying in the restaurant bathroom.) For exposing this particular slice of humanity-being alone, out-of-place and still finding someone at any age-I thank you, old love.

EAT.

I don't know know where Kate and Harvey ate in Heathrow airport but I'm betting the food was a fair sight better than the Las Vegas Subway sandwich option I just experienced. I mean, the difference between airport eating in London versus say, Burbank, is like the difference between Harrod's and Walmart. (I can't help all the British stuff lately. I'll try to see a Japanese movie next, okay?) Anyway, I'm told that Gordon Ramsay, king of restaurant promotion, has a place called Gordon Ramsay's Plane Food in Heathrow airport. (I know. I've invoked Gordon Ramsay twice in less than a month. To Hell's Kitchen I go.) Check out www.gordonramasay/planefood, admire with ire the look of this place and explain to me why JFK/Dallas/LAX are the poor cousins of flight food fabricators. I'd fly through Heathrow on my way from L.A. to San Francisco for a chance at some of that airport fare. Europeans. Always have to do us one better.

SHOP.

Um, movie magic aside, the logistics of finding an appropriate dress to wear to a wedding reception that you have not been invited to...in less than a hour...in London...is impossible unless you are Emma Thompson shopping with Dustin Hoffman. That is why the people on the screen have costume designers to help them. Mere mortals such as you and me...well, it'll never happen that way. But just suppose there were a way to do it without the help of an entire movie crew. Voila! Peruse http://www.lastminutebridal.co.uk/ if you're suddenly inspired to matrimony in Great Britain. Of course, the true wedding capital of the world is Las Vegas so in the City of Sin, visit http://www.celebrationslvnv.com/. Just don't eat at the airport. Happy nuptials!

Missing the Mark

Rock 'n Rolla-Gerard Butler, Thandie Newton
Director-Guy Ritchie


SEE.


What is a "rock 'n rolla"? No, seriously, I'm asking. For whatever reason, when it comes to the non-Shakespearean British accent, I have real trouble following dialogue. I have the same problem with the deep South so it's not that I'm a xenophobe. Anyway, I have a feeling that if I had understood that first little bit of the movie, I might have seen my way clear to enjoying the whole thing. But, alas, that was not to be. If there is one thing Guy Ritchie does well, it's British gangster films. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Snatch. Swept Away (Oh, wait a minute.) With the possible exception of Matthew Vaughn's Layer Cake, no filmmaker can touch Ritchie's flair for the grimy underbelly of England. Sexy yet repulsive. Quick-witted but moronic. The clever with the cliche. Ritchie reveals it all with serious humor. Yet, despite his mad gangsta skills, every gangster film requires a worthy opponent to make the story interesting. Sadly, in this era of multinational corporations, global economic disaster, international war, and crimes without borders, the scariest "villain" Mr. Ritchie can find is-the real estate market. New world order, my ass.


There must be some sex trafficking, high-tech communications disabling, boy soldier recruiting warlord that Mr. Ritchie can import into the British gangland. I mean I understand that real estate is pretty scary now with most homeowners' mortgage payments being more than the actual value of the house but c'mon. It's just that I don't want the bad guy to be interested in going to open houses and tracking property values like I would be if I had money to buy a house. I mean I don't plan on smuggling drugs across the border anytime soon unless I remain unemployed. That's why I need the bad guy to do it. Yeah sure, there's gunplay and thievery foisted upon us to make this real estate deal-gone bad story a little sexy. Not good enough! I need good old-fashioned gangsta style action-not just going through the motions. Next you'll tell me the sequel will delve into the dark world of mortgage backed securities.


We should not take our movie villains and their motives for granted. Landgrabbers (the closest analogy I could unearth) are not villains just because they're greedy. They're villains because they're mean to grandma and grandpa, and grandpa has a heart attack trying to defend his shop. We don't care if the villains are mean to other villains unless those other villains are helping grandma and grandpa. We've really lost touch with villainy and it's enforcer-the villain. A villain is not villainous just because he sports an eastern European accent. He is not a villain just because he owns Kalashnikovs and wears black (Ever been to a club in New York for cryin' out loud?). A villain is a villain because the audience is given a glimpse of his/her soul, and all we see is an abyss. Otherwise, a villain is no more scary than a bank loan officer. And frankly, villains looking to buy buildings so they can drive the value up...well, they're just not that compelling to me.


Speaking of compelling, I like a good chase scene as much as the next guy but I need to feel invested in the outcome. I want Gerard Butler to pull through because he's awfully handsome, and I keep hoping they'll make a prequel to 300. The more movies I watch, the more I discover that you could blow away all of the characters, and I wouldn't so much as hiccup. Just don't care. Maybe the problem is that I've become more gangsta and gangsta movies have become more mainstream. Maybe that is the new world order after all.



EAT.


Okay, this bears no relevance whatsoever to the movie except that Gordon Ramsay is British and likes to swear; therefore, he closely resembles most of the characters in Guy Ritchie's movies. I don't really know what a "rock 'n rolla" is yet, but I suspect that a real upscale "rock 'n rolla"might eat in a Ramsayan restaurant just to show off a bit. So, when in gangstaland (also known as England) pay a visit to http://www.gordonramsay.com/ and good luck getting a reservation. A real "rock 'n rolla" don't need no stinkin' reservations anyhow (I think.)


SHOP?


Tattoos. I bet your scary bank loan officer still doesn't have a tattoo that says "rock 'n rolla" across his back. As far as you know. Anyway, no gangsta (or actor for that matter) is complete without a few tattoos. So bring something to bite and get your paint on. For authentic London ink, visit http://www.londonnet.co.uk/ln/about/tattoos.html. Perhaps, a few appropriately placed tattoos will aid you in closing your next gangstaland real estate deal. Couldn't hurt.

Brotherly Love

Slumdog Millionaire-Dev Patel, Madhur Mittal, Freida Pinto





Director-Danny Boyle





SEE!





It's hard to find humor in the movie theater this time of year. At least, it's hard to write about it. Sure I could go see Four Christmases but I actually like humor to surprise me. Sometimes I can go see a serious movie and laugh more than I would in a comedy. That didn't happen in this movie but I sure did smile a lot because it's just a smart film. Here we find a very clever telling of the story of a hard-luck Muslim kid, Jamal, who comes within one question of winning India's version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire before he is accused of cheating . (Because, as we all know, a poor kid from the slums, raised by a single woman, can't amount to anything especially if he has a Muslim name. Hmmm. This sounds familiar.) Moving on. Along the way, as Jamal demonstrates that answering game show questions isn't as hard as everybody imagines, we follow the tragic tale of love, poverty, savagery, family and hope.





And let me just pause here to say that Danny Boyle knows how to tell a story. Some of the other Oscar-bait movies of the season should take note. It's true that I had no plans to go to Mumbai before the recent bombings (and I'm sure not many Indians plan to visit L.A.), but what really struck me about this movie are the subtle and not so subtle digs at Western tourists (witness our precious bottled water being fished out of a "recycling" can, filled with tap water and served to...well...poor, stupid us.) Watching more from the perspective of native Indian orphans struggling to survive, you'll find that you side with the thieves, beggars and underpaid restaurant workers. That is a sign of directorial prowess and a strong screenplay, my friends. Hell, I'll drink your recycled water in a dirty bottle because your story is just that compelling. (Well, maybe not.)





Now what interests me more than the fleecing of unsuspecting tourists is the fact that across all cultural borders-a thug is a thug is a thug. Our hero's brother (whose twisted brand of filial love keeps our hero alive for better or for worse) is born with the cold resolve that permits him to, quite cruelly, abandon the girl Jamal loves because she might slow the brothers quest for survival down or, worse yet, come between them. You may think that makes Jamal better that his cold-hearted brother but, the fact is, one couldn't exist without the other. Jamal would most certainly be dead without the brutal street-wise ways of his gangster brother and everything his brother does is to protect Jamal-his mother's last request. This movie is marketed as a story of everlasting love that triumphs against all obstacles. Really, it's a story of love, hate and sacrifice between two brothers dumped into a callous world. In any case, it's a story worth seeing.





EAT.





Jamal is a "chai-runner" in a mobile phone company. Something tells me that's not as easy as going out for Starbucks but I could be wrong. Sure you could get chai tea latte at your neighborhood Starbucks or at the Starbucks across the street from your neighborhood Starbucks but it ain't the real deal. In honor of the chai-runner millionaire that we all dream of becoming, serve yourself a real Indian chai. Don't ask me how to become a millionaire. Visit www.indonique.com/chais.





SHOP.





Just as the end credits rolled I was thinking, "What this movie lacks is one of those absurd Bollywood musical scenes." Lo and behold, there it was. Think "Thriller" but Indian style and, oh yeah, you've got the picture now. This movie just has a little bit of everything. For the true Bollywood musical experience shop http://www.bollywoodstepdance.com/. Apparently classes are coming soon. You heard me. Maybe, you too, will be inspired to dance your way through a train station. Or, that may just be an Indian thing.