Monica Davis

You might recognize me as Bikini Clubber #1 from Showtime's 'Dexter'

[monicalorandavis]

The last date

I met “Lee” at a singles event I’d learned about from TikTok. I was unimpressed with the selection of men there so I drank too much. I rolled my eyes at the small talk happening around me. My friend and I kept getting separated and I clung to the wall, drink in hand. 

I made friends with a lovable lesbian who took a shine to me. “Lee” took a photo of my friend and I on his phone. Then he sent it to me so he’d have my number. I knew he was doing this as a ploy. Too awkward to let it happen naturally. Or maybe he thought himself clever. I allowed it because he was fat and harmless. He was tall and had nice eyes and I don’t care much about fatness. So maybe, I thought, I could give this one a shot.  

The text the next morning confused me.

“I hope I didn’t offend you.” 

Then another one:

“So sorry if you’re upset.”

I was panicking. I had no recollection of being upset, offended nor did I have this mysterious number saved. Then,

“You seemed drunk and I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Enough now. I asked what the hell was going on. Lee told me I had ordered him to kiss me but he refused because I was drunk. This I did not remember. If this was the guy I thought it was, I would have done no such thing. Probably. 

Frantically, I texted my friend. She didn’t recall any such behavior so I responded to Lee, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please explain.”

To this, he responded, “Oh in that case, let’s drop it!” 

I was thrown off. Was this another scheme to get my attention? He succeeded. Before I knew it, he asked me out but that night was my birthday party. And I was casually dating a few other people at the moment. I dared not invite him. I was already feeling guilty about not inviting the man I was sleeping with (and sad about the other other man I was sleeping with who had not wished me happy birthday). 

At any rate, Lee asked me out the day after my party but I didn’t want to go to the event in question. (Some car show downtown that had a corny Instagram flyer.) But he wasn’t discouraged.

Over the next few days, he asked me out many more times to random events that all sounded very adult dodgeball league. Not bad, per se. Just...suburban. I turned my nose up and refused. I don’t like meeting strangers over shared interests. I don’t like activities. When it comes to dates, especially first ones, I expect a dinner and my meal to be expensive and paid for.

After two weeks of these pseudo date invitations, I told him, “If you want to go out with me, you need to ask me out on a proper date. None of this group crap.” And he, maybe embarrassedly, agreed this was an appropriate course of action. 

He invited me to see “Everything Everywhere All At Once” and I said yes. But even this proved difficult. 

He canceled the first time to watch a college basketball game with his friends, and, I, trying to be amenable, allowed this because I too am a basketball fanatic. But after the game, when I asked if his team won, he admitted he was not much for basketball. The game was just “very exciting” and he thought it better to watch with his friends. I was in disbelief. He was very apologetic. 

Was I missing something? The lovable lesbian from the singles event shared that Lee was feeling nervous because I was sexy. This seemed logical. I am very sexy.

My texts turned cold. I responded with one word answers and he got the hint, scheduling the do-over and procured tickets. I forgave him. All the other men I was dating had fizzled out. Plus, with so many of my friends in relationships, I decided that in order to be in a relationship, one has to be easygoing.

The day of our movie date, Lee showed up half an hour early and started texting me, “Hey are you hungry?” He was prone to a barrage of texts so I didn’t know where this was going. I was about to get in my car to head to the theater. I didn’t have time for a meal before the movie. I replied, “I ate a little while ago but might be hungry after the movie.” A little presumptuous that I'd even want to hang out after but I had to admit, I admired the forethought. 

I could not have guessed what he said next. He replied, “I spotted an Indian buffet across the street and the aromas called me over.”  Repeat: Indian buffet minutes before a movie date. It’s giving cheap. It’s giving fragrant. It’s giving strange.

I am gobsmacked. “Do your thing,” is all I could text him. I am in my car, boiling with rage, headed to the Landmark on Pico when I should be driving off a cliff into the Pacific Ocean. This is my rock bottom. I am running into the house fire. But I can not stew in this tikka masala spiral for long because Lee follows up with, “Hope you’re not getting fancy because I’m not.” As if I’m the one who needs a note on how to dress. As if he would be wearing a tux to an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. I immediately texted my best friends with updates.

“This man is getting Indian food before the movie. And told me he isn’t ‘fancy’. He is a psychopath, correct?” 

Each of my friends was too stunned to respond without sarcasm. “Monica, this man is going to murder you.” 

“I know,” I responded. But it was too late. Maybe murder was what I wanted after all. 

When I arrived into the lobby of the theater, Lee was nowhere to be found. I went to the restroom to cool off. When I exited, I spotted him. He was wearing a melange of mismatched gray hues. His grey sneakers were cheap and beat up. His grey beanie was too small for his head. His stomach poked out from underneath his henley that was a size too small. The only thing that wasn’t grey was the bag across his chest that was “full of snacks” (his words). I wanted to leave but he hugged me, cloaking me in an envelope of oniony body odor. He paid for my popcorn and a glass of wine and I followed him into the theater. I was in shock. He reeked and was perspiring nervously. Sober now, I could see that this man was a bumbling oaf. I had been charmed by it in my drunken madness but now, at 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I was scared someone would recognize me with him. I sunk into my seat. Just then, his phone rang. It was his mother. He answered.

They talked for several minutes and I sarcastically said, “Tell her I say hi”. That needlessly confused her and she needed minutes of explanation. After too long, he ended the call and we were able to talk. He became inquisitive. I was asked many deep questions I didn’t see coming. During a trailer for the A24 psychodrama, “Men”, he asked suddenly if I was pro-choice. I replied curtly, “I’m pro-abortion,” and he dapped me. I rolled my eyes. What was I doing here? I looked to the exit. 

But then the movie swept me up. I felt myself softening towards him on account of the quality of the film. It was emotional and visually stunning. I realized this date was a metaphor for life: the twists and constant disappointments. I cried and so did he. When it ended, we filed out like everyone else and I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I felt high with creative energy. I had high hopes that this date would be good. I’d put on makeup and a clean pair of jeans. Maybe I was being too harsh on him. Maybe he would take me to lunch and that’s when I would meet a handsome stranger. I could turn this day around with the right attitude. I just knew it. 

He asked if West Hollywood was far and I said not really. Turned out, he didn’t have a car and was headed to a business meeting. He asked if I wanted to come along. The audacity startled me and I said yes. My day was free and I couldn’t think of a lie. The drive took 15 minutes or so and he seemed suddenly ashamed that it was taking so long. But as we talked, I realized, through another interview session, he was very serious about settling down, as I was, and that was a good thing.  

He asked me about my parents and I asked him about his. When we arrived at the location of his meeting he pointed out a bookstore nearby and begged to go inside like a child. I love bookstores so I needed no convincing. Once entering, he treated the bookstore like a grand adventure and pointed out many different displays that we needed to discuss. I was entertained. He read me a poem and asked that I read him one too. Then he bought me a book and we met up with his business colleague for a few hours and it was lovely. Everything turned out to be much more normal in the presence of a third party. It settled his constant questioning and he conducted himself in a professional manner. But he still sweated in a concerning way. I assumed it was from being in the presence of such a beautiful woman as myself.

Many hours later than I expected to be done, I headed home but not before he asked to see me again. He was quite literally blushing and I hated to admit that I’d actually had a good time in the end. His business colleague was sort of cute and maybe I could see him again one day. I agreed to another date with this strange, sweaty, poorly-dressed, onion-smelling man.

While Lee was certainly the oddest man I’d gone out with, I was unprepared for the second date he suggested. He invited me to sunbathe at his friend’s house who he was house-sitting for. I had the afternoon free and this seemed like good material. He warned me it was a long drive, deep into the valley. I needed some sun and had reading to do for class. Plus, I deserved some pool time. I started on my trek optimistically. If Lee turned out to be the man I ended up with this would be a wonderful story. But when I arrived, I had no service and Lee made jokes about there being cameras in the bathroom. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up. I was one hour from home at a stranger’s house with a man I barely knew. And now I had no cell service. He was not handsome enough to make serial killer jokes. I don’t think he was even handsome enough to be a serial killer. Ted Bundy he was not. More John Wayne Gacy. But JWG killed plenty of folks too. I guess serial killers come in all forms. 

No matter. I had just driven straight into his web. This could get bad fast. I started thinking how to get out of there. I was aware of everything he said and kept a mental log of it. I recounted every turn I had made on the way there. Worst comes to worst, I could beat him in a foot race.

The weather proved to be on my side. It provided a lovely excuse to leave quickly. The wind caused a commotion and I couldn’t do much sun bathing. I needed to get out before it was dark. Just in case, I started writing my obituary in my head. I knew this scenario was sketchy. I could be found dead in a stranger’s house wearing a blue bikini. Sensing my anxiety, Lee started throwing money at me which is all it takes for me to drop my guard. He offered me many cannabis treats and edibles and ordered me a burger. I sent a text to my friends in hopes it would reach them in time. I made sure my location was turned on. 

When the food arrived, Lee put on some Disney+ show and started massaging my very dry feet. He leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his nose running. I was sure at this point, God would be merciful and let me die of a heart attack right there with this man’s runny nose dripping on me. But no, I had to pull away from him and excuse myself. I decided that, yes, murder was my punishment and let myself make out with this man. Before I knew it, he was all over me but my mind was light years away. 

After several minutes, he suggested we go upstairs and I agreed. That’s probably where the knives were so I might as well make it easier on him. The last thing I wanted was his heaving body flopping around as he fumbled with weapons. Giving him some dignity afforded me a little dignity in death, I surmised. The march upstairs was slow but I was stoic. He undressed and the sight of his naked body arrested me. 

This was not my fate. Something was wrong. With him. With this picture. I didn’t go to the gym six days a week to be murdered by an Indian buffet man with a runny nose. I was a beautiful, insecure, personal trainer with poor judgment but I was hot, god damnit. I realized the only way out of this was to play nice. We hooked up a little longer and I looked into his sad eyes. I tried not to bristle when he touched me. He told me he had suffered a sex-induced injury to his penis that effectively broke it. I knew this was my opening. He was vulnerable. I moved for my clothes. In one movement, I was up and heading downstairs. He mumbled something about the sunset and was on my heels alarmingly fast. He took me to some rock outside and put his arms around my waist. He could choke me to death at any moment. 

I thought about all the men I’d dated and how lucky I’d been. I could make it out once more, couldn’t I? I deserved one more shot. I looked at the sun slowly fade behind the hills and thought about my fading shot at freedom. Now or never. He opened his mouth to say something rude. I forget now what it was exactly but it was an effort to keep me there. I was now hip to his bag of tricks. “Negging” or another manipulation tactic the Pick-Up Artist advised. I didn’t acknowledge it and threw my things in a bag, making sure to take all the goodies he gifted me.

My feet hit the dirt road before I’d even put my sandals on. I bee-lined for my car. But again, he was faster than I expected. He was walking alongside me, practically running. I hopped in my car and he leaned into the door jamb. He kissed me sloppily and I slammed the door. I was making a U-turn before I exhaled. 

Ten minutes later, he called. I had left my sunglasses on the table. I would not be coming back for them. I could not think of anything I wanted less. They somehow seemed tainted by his having them. 

I got home 40 minutes later, speeding recklessly. My heart was beating so fast my chest was sore. I would not see Lee again. I could not be trusted to date anyone again. So now, I don’t date anyone. And frankly my life is very good. For years, my life was a disaster with sprinkles of humorous anecdotes. But at what cost? I wouldn’t die for this life. I didn’t deserve to die because I was in pursuit of one more good story.

My last two dates were with a man who I was initially charmed, then, repulsed by. In hindsight, that’s the story with all of them. I needed to fix the thing inside me that was broken, searching for connection with any weirdo that was interested. 

[monicalorandavis]

Everything Everywhere All At Once

See it.

[monicalorandavis]

Charles Douglas Johnson

It's my grandpa's birthday today. Many years ago, when he was alive, and it was my birthday, he'd send a card with 5, maybe 10, bucks in it and scribble something along the lines of, "Buy yourself a cheeseburger.” I would laugh and think, “How does he nail it every time?” 

When we were younger, my little sister and I spent the summers with him. I say it this way even though, in actuality, we spent only about 3 or 4 summers with him. This is a truth I admit to myself, and now you, because I think remembering the truth, even when you’re sentimentalizing someone, is very important. Then one summer, without any indication of his declining health we didn’t visit. Then he had a stroke.

But before the stroke, we had a lot of fun. No, I did. My younger sister was scared of him.

He hated that my younger sister and I never played outside. I’d venture a guess and say that he hated many, if not most, things about us. We were so annoying and stupid and obsessed with TV and had all these inside jokes and favorite lines from movies that we’d repeat ad nauseam - to think about it now seems like some torture my parents exercised upon an old man without any consideration that he was spending some of his last good years with two children who needed to be in an institution, not their grandfather’s care.

He hated us so much so that he forced us to camp in his backyard once. He forced us to. He left us a tent to assemble, a cooler with some hot dogs in it, a grill, and a black and white TV. He even made us a sign for the event and pitched it next to us, Camp Crockett. He was so proud of himself. He snapped a photo then wiped down his mustache with his first finger and his thumb like he always did when he would feel himself grinning. He never liked letting on that we were being funny. Oh, how I miss that. The refusal to give us an inch. (A gem, this man.) That evening, he locked the doors to the house and bid us adieu. 

That night, it started to hail. It was startling. My 7-year old sister and I, 11 at the time, panicked. We poked our fingers through the tent, and to our surprise, the tent disintegrated just there where we’d poked. Then, rain and hail started coming in through the holes. We were city kids. Born and raised in LA. We had no survival skills. I was sure that he was testing us. I wanted to pass the test so I figured we'd just have to sleep through the hail and soggy tent floor. She complained but I insisted this was normal. We'd probably get a cold, or something worse, but we'd survive. We were tough. We had hot dogs and a black and white TV. 

One good thing about being a city kid is your delusion. If you’ve been robbed, you’ll be ok. But then, minutes later, he appeared, in a rain jacket, his hat, holding a flashlight, with a faint look of concern plastered across his face. He told us to get inside at once. We, of course, did as we were told and left our things behind. We didn't talk about the hail or the tent in the morning. But they’d already been packed away. I figured, maybe he'd felt bad about the whole thing. But it was best never to discuss it. I was a good sport. I was the one who saw little green snakes in the backyard once and didn't scream. I could take anything. We ate our breakfast like normal.

There was another time at my grandpa’s house during that summer, or any other summer, when I ripped an ice cube from my tongue like the scene in Dumb and Dumber when Jeff Bridges’ tongue got stuck to the ski lift pole. I had seen the film already, obviously, and pressed an ice cube to my tongue to see if it would, in fact, stick. When it did, I panicked and went to rip it off, only, it didn’t budge. I tried to rip it off again and then felt the buds on my tongue peel away from the cube bitterly. It was slow motion. I had to stop a tenth of the way down. It was just too painful! 

I gathered my strength and courage and steeled my nerves to rip it off in one go. I remember calming myself down and then doing it, sitting in the upstairs TV room. But I immediately tasted the fresh tang of blood fill my mouth. This was more blood than I’d ever tasted before. Something was wrong. My tongue was bleeding too much. Not profusely, but, a lot. I didn’t have a towel nearby but the decorative pillow on my grandpa’s couch was the closest thing to me so I grabbed it. In a panic, I licked the pillow and saw a fresh streak of red blood across the back of its yellow canvas surface. My eyes widened and the cold realization of impending doom swallowed me whole. I was too terrified to confess. I flipped the pillow over and raced downstairs to my room and slammed the door. 

I don't know what he assumed happened but I never brought it up. He never confronted me about it and the anxiety of holding in that secret gave me a short fuse. A few days later, when I was brave enough to check the same yellow pillow I’d sullied, it was still stained with my guilty, now mud-colored stripe of blood. I assumed he hadn’t noticed it yet. But he must’ve at some point. Was it a week later? A few weeks later? A few months later? 

Nevertheless, he must’ve known it was me. He knew I must’ve done it. Who the hell else would it have been? He had no friends. He had no other visitors. But, for whatever reason, kindness, understanding, compassion, he never shamed me for it. 

I never forgot about the pillow either. Years later, when my grandpa was not speaking but still living in that house with his crazy second wife, “Mrs. Mitchum” who he used to call his “roommate”, I checked the pillow again. It was clean. Somewhere along the line he’d seen it and fixed it. He’d fixed it and never punished me. He figured it was best not to ask. And that feeling of blind forgiveness never left me.

And now, only now that I remember the pillow and its return to clean yellow, untainted, unstained status, I think of my grandpa and his sly smiles to himself when I would crack a joke. I imagine, when I’m really feeling hopeful, that we were there for him during those times in his 70s because he wanted to spend his last good, mobile, active years of his life with us. Had he asked my parents for that time? Had he been the one all along to ask for time with us? Perhaps my parents never offered us up after all. Maybe my parents hadn’t tricked him. Maybe he was acutely aware that things were slipping and he wouldn’t have much more time to show us around and take care of us. And I don’t think he would’ve dared to take us on as his wards if he wasn’t in fighting shape. Oh grandpa. What did I ever know?

He was always trying to toughen us up. I recognized his efforts but had no interest in participating. On several occasions, my grandpa would take us to the lake he enjoyed walking around but my sister and I were too lazy to walk with him. We insisted that he should leave us behind at the jungle gym because no kidnapper was crazy enough to take us. We were always right. No adult even looked twice at us. We were trouble and any pedophile could see it from a mile away. 

But then, one night, my grandpa left us at the jungle gym and the sun set. We were swinging on the swings and my sister dismounted but screamed before hitting the sand. She was prone to fits of dramatics so I brushed it off. But then, she continued to wail and scream and flail her body in possessed circles. She wasn’t joking. She got a fly stuck in her eye but was too hysterical to bring herself to verbalize the horror for several minutes. By the time she caught her breath, my grandpa was racing our way. He started asking me what was wrong in agitated barks as he approached. I had no clue but was sure it couldn’t be that bad. She hadn’t fallen on anything. She wasn't bleeding. She looked fine. Her eyes were shut tight and she was crying. I couldn’t see anything unusual. Plus, it was now dark. My refusal to admit something was wrong only made her cry harder and derail her from her ability to use her words. She was maybe 8 (tops) at the time. Finally, he was able to still her small body and place a hand on her shoulder and pry open her eyes. 

There it was. A thick black fly, caught in her bottom eyelid. He peeled it out with a delicate swipe and she choked back snot. It was embarrassing and I wasn’t even the one crying. He was trying not to roll his eyes but I could tell he was sick of her histrionics. Even after the fly was out, she continued bawling. He clapped a hand too hard on her back to hurry her into the back of his truck and the aggression of it made her cry harder. Such was their way. He couldn’t stifle his judgment of us. We were soft. I knew this. She knew it. But she was too little to change. She needed to be soft. She was allowed to be soft still. 

He couldn’t get a grip on her sensibility. She was, for all intents and purposes, too sensitive and too emotional. No child, despite their age, should behave this way. He asked one time if she was “retarded” because she missed my mom so much that she started to cry after dinner. In hindsight, he would’ve been canceled but, he was from a different time. I think those sort of questions were OK then.

I would put on a brave face to show him I could be trusted. Yes, my little sister was weird and cried all the time. But I, I would prove to him I was a wise and dependable soldier.

He was my most favorite person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, is the thing. 

He was so funny and yet, so intimidating. He’s funnier than you’re imagining, by the way. You’re thinking of his funniness in jokes. But it was in his eyes. That stare. You won’t ever understand because you’ve never felt it. 

He thought I was funny too and that made me feel good. Ever since I was little. I could tell he thought I was special. He asked one time if I wanted to be a singer because I was singing Britney Spears’ “Sometime” in the car. I must have done an alright job because when I scoffed that I could never be a singer he jibed, “Well, I don’t know what the hell else you’re gonna be.” And that felt right. He was always right. I wish I was always right. 

But not everyone can be right all the time. In fact, very few can. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing just one. But, I wonder, if everybody has that person. I hope so. Everybody deserves their North Star. The one who sees them and yet, they bend themselves into pretzels to impress. 

I wish I could tell him that the world he left was a little less racist, but I don't think that it is. I wish I could hear him laugh or sing or play the same melody on the keyboard. I have somehow, somehow forgotten the exact tenor of his voice and it makes me so, so sad. You think you'll never forget those things but then, suddenly, you do.

I told myself when he died that I would think about his voice every day so I’d never forget but it ended up hurting too much so I stopped. And then the memory slipped away in the middle of the night. 

But, if I’m being very honest, in between each vertebrae I still feel it. The electricity it used to spark. The sound of his keyboard plugging into the wall would make me climb up the stairs to his TV room. Late at night, some creative bug would nip at him and he’d tap at the keys and I’d sit on the stairs and watch him play between the metal bars of the stairwell. My butt planted just a few stairs away from the landing of the upstairs TV room, just feet away from the pillow I’d ruined. 

He’d warm up and play the same chords he always played. Then he’d look at me and sing a few bars of the same song he always sang. He’d go on like that until he allowed himself to really sing out. His voice floated in the air like a cloud. Warm like summer. 

Then I’d go up and sit on the floor underneath him and watch him like a star. I, his biggest fan.

Oh grandpa. Wherever you are. I hope you buy yourself a cheeseburger. 

[monicalorandavis]

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is one of the best films I’ve ever seen

If you thought J.Lo’s snub for a Supporting Actress nod at The Oscars was outlandish then buddy, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” being shut out is unlawful. God damn is this movie a revelation. 

I find solace in this: great films don’t always win Oscars. We like to believe that excellence is to be rewarded but not always. Great films are often overlooked for their commercial counterpart. (Have you watched “Titanic” recently? Mehh...) It’s a cliche now that the Academy often rewards actors after totally getting it wrong at previous years’ ceremonies (Denzel won in 2002 for “Training Day” when he should’ve won in 2000 for “The Hurricane”, and the list goes on). So perhaps, justice for “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” will come down the line. Maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ve given far too much power to awards. All this external validation would make a Buddhist monk bristle. So, in an effort to take a page from said (completely hypothetical) monk, we must simply love something because it is good. Let go of the prize. The prize is in the doing. The prize is in the thing itself. And so I must love “The Last Black Man in San Francisco”. Yes, I’m a year late and for that I’m very, very sorry.

In my defense, it slipped through the cracks. Hear me out. So much so, the lack of publicity raised some questions on the internet (not enough questions that I actually watched the film but we’re moving on!!!). What’s worse is that it did absolutely everything right, winning Best Director (for first-timer Joe Talbot) at Sundance and a Special Jury prize for a Collaboration category. It was even picked up by A24. Yes artsy powerhouse A24 who’s got all the sad-girl faves of the last decade or so: “Mid90s”, “Eighth Grade” and “Ladybird”, just to name a few in recent memory. “The Last Black Man” should’ve soared. But I wonder if it was too good for across-the-board success. I know, I know. “Too good” is a fake thing we say to our friends who are single for ever and ever and I know this because I hear it all the time. But, really. In this case, it might be real. I wonder if this film fell victim to its own brilliance.

Sometimes works of art come to be that are so beautiful and rare that they go by undetected. Invisible in plain sight. They’re too shiny to see. Our eyes are not yet trained to see those colors. It’s true, you know. The Icelandic language has 45 words for green. So perhaps this was the case with Talbot’s masterpiece. We couldn’t quite see it yet. And now I will contradict myself by attempting to describe something you’ve never seen before and make you love it too.

It is a ballet of performance and sound. Images break-dance then freeze down to slow-motion tableau’s when you least expect. All while a masterpiece soundtrack plays. The film does not need such beautiful music. The music is the icing. No, even more superfluous, it is a beautiful, ripe, red cherry atop an already soaring picture. Indeed, the film is gorgeous on its own. Its charms inherent to the inherent charms of the city it depicts. The songs of “San Francisco” shine in such a way that I was compelled to study the person responsible. And to one Emile Mosseri, sir, you did that.

You don’t realize how much you know a place by the sonic landscape until sights are taken away. And here, and partly because we have a character who’s lost his sight, the filmmakers turned the volume up on San Francisco’s phonic touchstones. Those textures that make San Francisco a world-class city. The clanging trollies and humming ships at sea. Soft waves lapping constantly in the background and homeless people singing and musing to themselves. We all know San Francisco but somehow, we all got stuck with the old San Francisco and forgot to visit. I don’t think we know how bad things have gotten for regular folks in the last decade. Yes, Silicon Valley has changed the landscape but, did we know that it demolished whole neighborhoods? Generations of black people are gone, extinct. Well, as the film’s title suggests, just about. 

And it is interesting, isn’t it, how we love the things that push us away. (Cats spring to mind.) We love inanimate things in this way, as well. And for those who know San Francisco, and old San Francisco, the city is romantic, lonely, and, a little depressing. It’s in the fog and the water and the bridges and the trolleys. It belongs in a different time. It is no longer in that time. It is a figment of our imagination. But the fog persists and the filmmakers capture the dreamy texture of those billowy ground clouds. 

How it obscures things just two feet in front of you. And how frightful it is in a city like San Francisco full of cliffs and sharp angles. It’s a scary, high-up place. It’s a crowded, haunted, smelly, drunk place. Part city, part water. It’s a dangerous place. Earthquakes and fires. And it’s all anchored in this aching sadness that I long for, that the characters long for even while they’re standing in the center of it.

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” takes those feelings and presses it against a story of friendship, a complicated, unusual friendship that doesn’t look like friendship stories we often see in movies. No, instead we get “Mont” and “Jimmie” (played by Jimmie Fails whose own family history inspired the script), friends who represent very different sides of old San Francisco archetypes: the artist and the skater. The California version of the comedy/drama mask.

This story felt like a daydream. More accurately, it felt like Jimmy and Mont’s daydream that I got to watch. And in the way we all imagine we get to observe our crushes when they’re unencumbered with performing for us, we see their soft parts. The secret parts. I think that’s why this movies breaks my heart again as I write this. We see nostalgic skater, Jimmie, lose his house and his family’s legacy. Playing the Sam to his Frodo is Jonathan Majors as Mont, acting his ass off in a role that needed a damn parade (but again, we release such expectations). Tender, strange, soulful, defiant, Majors is the actor of his generation. There is no one more equipped for the role of brave theater geek. Small but strong, strong-featured but sweet, the man possesses the sex appeal of another classically un-handsome sex symbol in the likes of Willem Dafoe or John Malkovich.

So, what’s the point of all this? Gentrification is bad? Things change? You can never go home?

Well, duh, that. Those. This. It’s all bad. It’s all changing. Home is an idea and you can never go back. 

But also, what if friends are home? That’s the case for Jimmie and Mont. Safety in the isolation, chaos, and danger of being the last of your kind. But having each other. 

The isolation of being a man and having such limited emotional language. The compounded loneliness of being stuck in an armor of masculine limitation.

Jimmie and Mont are everything to each other and, while the images of the film are so epic and stunning, these two are unable to tell the other because in their world it would be too vulnerable and too strange to share such tenderness. They are each other’s rock and yet, because men don’t necessarily have the tools to communicate such vulnerabilities, they lean on each other silently, stoically amidst the world crumbling. It’s a beautiful, poetic, (dare I say) masculine story that offers a universe of emotion in all the unsaid. Why is it when things are quiet do we think so deeply? I don’t know. But this movie makes you travel inside its heart and think things about friendship and gentrification that are not heavy, intellectual thoughts as the title might suggest. 

No, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is about running towards the thing that hurts you and allowing your heart to break again.

[monicalorandavis]

“Miss Americana” sucks.

I don’t know who needs to hear this but your queen is bad. Swifties, do better.

A political icon she is not. A blond, good-natured songwriter she is. With flying colors. Colors of a LGBT flag? Girl. I guess.

I don’t like my gay icons moderate, but therein lies Pete Buttigieg’s whole entire appeal and he fared surprisingly well so you can ignore all of this. America is the land of moderate popularity. 2020 the year of the fence-rider. Look at Joe Biden for chrissakes...

I won’t spoil any of “Miss Americana” because although I don’t love the film or the subject, one thing I do protect is the sanctity of a viewing experience. Y’all are entitled to that. Plus, at this point, if you wanted the whole thing spoiled there are enough op-ed’s on Vulture to make your eyes bleed.

I will start and end with the singular political act documented in the film, Swift’s long-awaited, overly-publicized tweet against Marsha Blackburn for the Tennessee Senate race in 2018. It was considerate, well-researched and pointed. It was not incendiary. It was respectful. I respect her for doing so. She incurred some blowback from the Right. Trump said he liked her music 25% less. If you’re rolling your eyes, me too.

So let’s really talk since people want to act like the girl was really being risky. Umm, how? In the grand scheme of the woman’s career, she is the first artist whose four albums have all sold over one million copies in the first week on the Billboard 200. She is breaking records. She is still snatching trophies. Objectively, you have to admit, she is doing just fine. She didn’t burn a bra on stage. She didn’t cry “Fuck Marsha Blackburn and the racist, homophobic horse she rode in on” like she could’ve.

Nor do I think she needs to go that far, especially considering she’s just only dipped her toe in the political pool (at the age of 30 which is a whole other discussion). But, the rest of the film takes a turn towards this “We are the resistance” angle and I missed the part where that all happened. Resistance??? Implying protests, strikes, organizing, activism, sit-ins...

I saw one tweet, just one, where she urged people to register to vote and vote against Blackburn and after all of that, Blackburn still won. I agree, the positives were many. Youth voter registration ballooned immediately. But, now imagine, if she’d used her voice two years prior in 2016. Could she have impacted the election of Trump? I’d say yes, even if just slightly. And for that, I hold her accountable.

I am happy Taylor Swift found her political voice but I’m not above holding people to the fire for past silences. No more silence. No more passivity. It’s dangerous. And I expect more from any “resistance”, honey. This is white feminism at its finest and it’s, frankly, very boring.

[monicalorandavis]

I went out with a famous man and it was bad.

I’m not going to do the thing where I tell you everything up until the point that you know exactly who I’m talking about in hopes that it saves me a modicum of decency. I’m not sparing you his name out of decency. The opposite in fact. I’m scared - particularly when it comes to the possible ramifications to my career in the “biz”. I’m also not going to say that this was an intense affair because, girl, we went out twice. It wasn’t serious. We didn’t even kiss. We hugged at the end of the night after he walked me to my car. And then, that exact same thing happened at the end of the second date. That’s it. We don’t keep in touch. We ain’t friends.

I would’ve let the whole thing go but he’s stayed in the Twittersphere on a near constant level with some malarkey here, there and everywhere. And now, here I am, about to chime the fuck in.

So, a little context. The man in question, let’s call him “Jack”, is a writer and comedian who has been successful and widely recognized as such for the last twentyish years. I’ve been to his house and it’s big and expensive and poorly decorated and covered in dog hair. The sort of house I’d imagine a much younger man dwelling in, but, that’s not important. He’s got money and although he’s not traditionally good-looking, he’s got a certain swagger that wealth affords you. I’m not a looks girl, so it didn’t bother me. 

Now, he hasn’t been able to shut up and keep those Twitter fingers silent so he catches a lot of heat for some pretty wild opinions on wealth. He’s pro-wealth. In Trump’s America, that puts you in a pretty weird position. One that most Hollywood types avoid like the plague, in spite of their own bloated bank accounts. I guess you could give it to the guy for being honest but then again, he could just not say anything about the wealthy because they hardly need any defending. They are not the ones getting screwed left, right and center. They’re the ones who rigged the system in the first place. So, no Jack, your opinion is not welcome.

In the context of the present entanglement Jack has found himself in, he’s a snob and it’s boding poorly for the guy. Turns out, 2020 is not the year of the snob. It might very well be the year for the common man. Bernie might win (I said “might”). And that in and of itself is a bit of a triumph. Not so, if you’re Jack.

In Jack’s world, the rich should be treated, according to his tweets, and to a certain extent, the conversations we shared, “fairly”. But, in this present moment, in this America where many people beg for spare dollars for life-saving surgeries on Go Fund Me, fair is a construct. There is no fair. The poor are not afforded fairness. In fact, the poor deal with constant disregard for a fair wage. Their paychecks go to that evening’s dinner whereas the rich earn, and save, and create opportunities for their future generations. The whole system is, in fact, wholly unfair. By nature of being born with wealth, or white, you have a leg, or two, up from the rest. People don’t like hearing that. They like believing they’ve earned it all. But wherever you are on the issue of privilege, it exists.

This is where I come in: I had to say something having had first-hand experience with Jack who is perhaps the weirdest person I’ve ever spent time with (and I went to Berkeley where my professors ranged from very likely the next Unabomber to full-blown Fascist). Jack is someone I’d describe as “smug and uncomfortable”. And I use uncomfortable in all senses of the world. He made me uncomfortable but, also, this is a man who’s very deeply uncomfortable with himself. Turns out money can’t buy you chill.

At the sake of being petty, Jack had a very, very odd physical disposition. He’s slight, his eyes are watery and he seemingly suffers from near constant allergies to the point that he was left rubbing said eyes compulsively. Lastly, and most unusual, Jack suffered from a condition known as Robert Durst-itis - he burps uncontrollably at the faintest hint of confrontation. Yes, I sat across from a man who burped uncontrollably for a good 15-20 minutes, then stopped, then did it all over again. It smelled dreadful and I was too polite to leave, and frankly, I was too stunned to move. I have never, nor imagine, will ever be in that situation again. It was like seeing someone cut open and staring inside of their dysfunctional digestive tract. It was real life “Operation” except this man was discussing the sorry state of comedy and I smiled and nodded. My mind was in twelve different places at once. I’d seen “The Jinx” on HBO. I’d loved it. But we all remember that final moment when Durst is being hit with evidence implicating him in the murders. It went viral because of the burps. It was his only defense, as if his body recognized defeat but presented one last line of defense - a parasympathetic response to the confrontation. It was a skunk spraying at its aggressor. I was stuck at one of my favorite bars with a man who physically disgusted me. His only acknowledgement of the burps was a casual, “Doctors don’t know what it is”, but my mind leapt at the worst possible scenario. I was sitting across from Robert Durst and instead of running away, I thought to myself, “maybe this guy will read my script.”

WHAT??!?!

In the end, the burps were gross but I was grosser. I was willing to endure what should be by all accounts the un-endurable. And for what? The smallest chance that this man I respected would like me enough to take a shot on me. To just give me a little of his time and extend that olive branch that could change my life. And, he didn’t. We walked out of each other’s lives and I would’ve loved to have left the whole thing in the past. But when he decided to avenge the cause of rich-bashing, I needed to pipe up. This is somebody who does not have the decency to keep breath mints or gum on him, let alone stop burping, how dare he talk about fairness!!!! To make matters worse, the dude was a world-class mansplaining hater of all things current. He hated everything on TV and everything I loved. He thought everyone had copied his show - and spilled all the tea about his famous friends. 

I needed to say something because, in more ways that one, Jack sort of sucks. But so do I. Only difference being, I accept it. I don’t hide behind accolades and famous friends. I own my relentless social climbing. It’s part of the gig. It’s the worst part of the gig.

 I like to let myself off the hook because rich white men still run this town. We are all guilty of placating them. But, I don’t like it. And I certainly won’t allow another man, no matter how powerful, burp (figuratively or literally) in my face again.

[monicalorandavis]

The official list of people who should win at the 2020 Oscars

Every year, every single year, there are the winners at the Academy Awards who spring up on that stage and feign shock and awe at their surprise win and we all politely clap (yes, we, the viewing audience included) when we know that the award should’ve gone to Glenn Close in ‘The Wife’! (I’m looking at you, Olivia Colman! Give Glenn her things!!!!)

So, in honor of the ones who deserve their things, I’m going rogue with a people’s choice edition of the Oscars. The committee (me) has been highly selective and factored in many different considerations when coming to our decisions. Again, this has been a tough year for film and performances. So many strong characters and not enough awards. Please read on for the official winners of the Oscars selected by me.

Best Supporting Actor:

Kevin Garnett, Uncut Gems. Now, did we all see the same movie because all this talk about Adam Sandler this and Adam Sandler that seriously overshadowed the real breakout of the film, Kevin Garnett. So natural and easy on screen, his performance was delivered with the same grace with which he played. This is a man so athletic, so natural in his body that I fear his ease in the role tricked audiences into taking it for granted. No, it is not easy to act across seasoned, professional actors. But KG made it look effortless and in a role that required grit, hostility and a quiet intimidation he got overshadowed by his own cool reputation. But I recognize you today, sir. Job well done.

Best Supporting Actress:

Jamie Lee Curtis, Knives Out. May Mrs. Curtis never put her knives away ever again! We’ve been craving big bitchy energy (hence why Jennifer Aniston is finally collecting her awards this season for her work in The Morning Show.) But there is no one who plays entitled, rich bitch like Jamie Lee. She was riveting and hilarious in a role that felt pared down in the face of a lot of Chris Evans. Not complaining, just saying we could’ve done with another epic dressing down moment by the scream queen herself. She left us wanting more. And that’s from a woman of Hollywood elk. You’d think (wrongly) that we’d seen everything she can give. No, no. She knows the score. For the sake of us all (me, especially), she needs to be in every movie, all the time.

Best Actor:

Timothee Chalamet, Little Women. A beautiful and sensitive portrayal of a character who can quite easily come across creepy or cloying. The Laurie of yore (famously played by Christian Bale) is now his own man with a unique love story full of tenderness for Jo, then subsequently, Amy. Bale’s marriage to Amy in the 90s version of Little Women left me feeling sorry for Jo. The reveal of Laurie’s marriage to Amy was a gag for the ages that Jo takes poorly. (Not, my baby sister!!) But then again, she turned this man down brutally...not important. This time around, Chalamet gives us dimensions. Layers! He turns in yet another sensuous (yes, honey) performance that has left me besotted with the young actor. It’s uncomfortable but so is unrequited love, Ms. Alcott!

Best Actress:

Jennifer Lopez, Hustlers. Of course. The pride and joy of the Bronx didn’t even earn a nomination at the real Oscars but in this world where I reign supreme, she’s a winner, baby. Her turn in Hustlers was gorgeous and nuanced. It is extraordinary to make a thieving, manipulative con woman such a grounded and compassionate character. But what does J.Lo do? JUST THAT. She has never been more charismatic and I am so happy to give her this honor. It is also the great honor of this academy (of me) to promote Ms. Lopez to the status of ‘actress’ and not ‘supporting actress’ because we must recognize the role that was Ramona. She was supporting nobody. They were all in support of their rhinestoned queen. We, the lowly audience, got the chance to live in Ramona’s world so let’s put some respect on the performance puh-lease.

Best Documentary:

Beyonce, Homecoming. Yes, the film is by and large performance footage of both weekends of the now famous Beychella. And what footage it is! Now, concert films tend to repel Oscars consideration. Yet, I award the highest recognition to Beyonce for Homecoming because it is pure artistry on every inch of that stage from the band, to the design, to the choreography. It is a treat for the eye, ear and spirit. For those of us who weren’t lucky enough to experience it in person we have Netflix to thank. Homecoming has forever raised the bar on concert films.

Best Screenplay:

Shia Labeouf, Honeyboy. This film was my favorite movie of the year and while the acting was wonderful, the story is the secret weapon. We wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t Labeouf’s own story. It has the potential to feel very after school special. But Honeboy somehow defies preconception which is especially surprising considering we’ve known Shia Labeouf since he was 13. We should know his story. And in a way, we do. But, we didn’t know the why. The foundation of him, the roots start as all ours do - with our parents. (Call your therapist.) Disney made sure to hide Labeouf’s father, and with reason. He is an elusive, abusive, alcoholic with a crazy man’s penchant for (underage?) women. But, in the rarest sort of self-expression, Labeouf bares his soul, and his father’s soul, in the most brave storytelling of the year.

Best Director:

Alma Harel, Honeyboy. The fact that Alma Harel was nowhere in the mainstream Oscars conversation is such a disgrace because rarely has a film held aesthetic and emotion so equally in its grasp. Honeyboy was an absolutely dazzling film that tore apart a father-son dynamic so tortured and fraught it felt like some gonzo cinema verite-meets-Big Brother hybrid that I didn’t know I needed. Harel’s crisp storytelling compounded so much story and whimsy into a 90-minute vehicle and in a year of overly-long, bloated yarns (The Irishman) it felt like a special feat to carve such a spectacular treasure in such a short amount of time.

Best Film:

The Google Black History Month commercial - Wow. The jury was unanimous here. Lots of great contenders but the Google Black History Month commercial slid right in there at the buzzer and the cultural impact of it has rocked the entire country. It’s indisputable. A beautifully constructed 2.5 minutes of film making. Truly stunning. Hats off again to Google. Keep up the good work and we expect big things from you in the future!

[monicalorandavis]

J.Lo and Shakira’s halftime show was good

I have watched it and rewatched it and taken my time to mull it over. The verdict is: I thought it was good. I didn’t think it was “OH MY GOD, cancel my plans I must learn this choreography immediately”-good and I’ve been there before.

In fact, four years ago when Beyonce performed at the half-time show with Bruno Mars (and Coldplay), I did need to shut my life down and recuperate. I was shook. Beyonce, you see, invoked another era and still thrived in the present. She, like the very best artists, hearkened back feelings, moments, nostalgia of yore and challenged it with the full toolbox of the culture at present. She was a Black Panther and an alien and everything in between. I am not even a die-hard Beyonce stan like that but as far as Super Bowl half-time performances go, we’re all still waiting for anyone to top her.

I know, I know, Prince sang in the rain and his two dancers somehow managed to avoid devastating catastrophes on stage. Guitar solos, sex appeal and, again, all that rain. I don’t know how it happened either. Prince was a beautiful pixie-sex-god. Simple as that. Don’t overthink his contributions to the culture. His sex appeal exists in a different realm than the physical. We do not yet have the words to describe the colors he painted with. So, no, I will not compare Beyonce’s performance to his. Beyonce is many things, but she’s firmly, confidently a woman. Meaning she’s of this world, not fairy land, so we can not explain away her drive or success as coincidental. She is the hardest working woman in show business (though J.Lo appears to be right behind her). But she is a woman nonetheless. All of her hard work is pounded out step by step, day by day, meal by meal, soundcheck by soundcheck. She’s a craftswoman and, in addition to her talent, I believe that’s why she’s the queen. No one can outwork her and I love a work ethic. I believe we all do.

And that brings us back to the matter at hand, the halftime show was good. They clearly worked hard on a dazzling show. No if’s and’s or but’s about it. Anyone denying that is either racist or sexist and I won’t engage with a third option.

Let’s now take a moment to address the blow-back from the right wing (who, I fear, is being stupid on purpose at this point), J.Lo and Shakira have beautiful bodies that they’ve clearly spent decades toning and gyrating and choreographing with. I will not tolerate any bad-mouthing about their overt sexiness and lack of taste. I hate America’s prudishness when it comes to our female artists. Especially when we’ve promoted Britney Spears since she was 17 talking about ‘Hit me baby, one more time’. It always feels like we take greater offense when the women being discussed are non-white (yes, I am citing the Janet Jackson nipple-gate scenario). We (the larger “we”, not me personally) applaud the Victoria’s Secret fashion show but now we want to condemn these beautiful women, over 40, for loving their bodies and showing them off on the biggest stage of their careers? Make it make sense. Is it because they’re Latina? Or have thicker thighs than those models? Or is it because they seem totally self-possessed and in charge of how they present themselves? Do we hate women being in charge that much? How is one sexiness acceptable and the other isn’t?

The Victoria’s Secret fashion show appears on CBS. That’s as basic cable as it can get. I wonder if it boils down to the Super Bowl being a “family-friendly” show and the VS fashion show is explicitly sexier. Perhaps these critics were just caught off-guard and they hate surprises! (But just take one look at the asses on some of these players in those see-through pants and tell me that the whole premise of the NFL is not the lovechild of a horny Grindr executive! I dare you.)

Plus, to the point about J.Lo and Shakira being half-naked, they better be! They are athletes and athletes get hot! (We don’t expect tennis players to cover up.) Of course they wanted to show off what they’ve worked their entire lives for. Nobody gets in that kind of shape on accident. Plus, it felt right to showcase their athleticism on America’s greatest stage surrounded by other athletes for the world to see. To dance that hard and work all that hair and appear to be having the time of your life is grueling! They pulled it off swimmingly. Dare I say, joyfully??

Now, where the show falters for me is this, it did not shock or stun or educate me. And I know the last one sounds funny but let me explain. I do not need live performances to give me an education in a classic sense. But I do like art, and that includes cheesy half-time shows, to reveal something of the artist. So in that sense, I do look for some emotional or spiritual education to take place. Show me something I don’t know, if you will. Give me some reveal, some baring of the soul. And, I don’t think anyone can say we got that.

Yes, J.Lo referenced ‘Hustlers’ with a gorgeous pole-dancing number which I adored as a political statement to the Oscars (a real, ‘How you like me now?’). And, Shakira played guitar and the drums and did some very cool Afro-Latino dance moves that broke from her tradition of wacky inflatable tube man gyrations. We could say her performance felt very global and that felt cool. And yes, most overtly, little kids sang in cages. They might’ve been Cinderella-inspired beautiful, shimmering, easily-escapable cages...but, didn’t we want more?

It’s not J.Lo or Shakira’s job to stick it to the man at the most watched television event of the year. But I did leave the performance really craving a more biting indictment of our country’s hypocrisy. Remember, this is the year after every artist under the sun (except Adam Levine) refused to perform the half-time show as a show of solidarity with Colin Kaepernick. In spite of the NFL’s hardest-hitting attempts at addressing police brutality with some pointed commercials, no NFL executive or spokesperson made a statement in regards to it. They left all the explanation to the families of the victims of the violence. And needless to say, those people were black. Because, as always, we expect black people to solve racism.

So, I think you’ll excuse me for expecting a heavier hitting political statement. Is it unrealistic? Yes. But so was Beyonce pulling off a Black Panther inspired performance in the face of the NFL and entire country. I wanted to love, love, love the half-time show and I certainly enjoyed it. I mean, how could I not?! They’re both so gorgeous! And fun. And cool. God, I’d love just one day with either of their hair stylists but amazing hair simply can not make a political statement on its own. And I wanted juuuuust a little bit more.

[monicalorandavis]

‘Outlander’ is very horny

 Ummm...so y’all were going to let me go on and on about Tobias Menzies being the hottest piece of British ass since Colin Firth and not tell me about ‘Outlander’???

Wowwwww...

Well, fair enough. You horny old dogs have been hogging it like General Mills cereal tabs but I’m here to tell you, time’s up, bitches!

I’ve seen all of one episode and I’m balls deep in this shit, hoe. Time travel and horny English people?! Yes please!

Tobias Menzies and Caitriona Balfe have some very fiery chemistry that makes me feel creepy as fuck which is always a good sign that horniness is a-comin’!

Picture it, the year is 1945. England has been ravaged by war. Husbands and wives have been torn apart but after years of violence, they reconnect. And so we meet our protagonists (though things go afoul pretty damn quick).

Twenty minutes in to the episode and these two horn dogs can’t keep their hands off each other! It was like Gosford Park meets American Pie! And I didn’t hate it! Even better, my main man Toby M gets down on his knees in an abandoned castle and you can basically hear the lonely women of the world collectively gasp. And when I say, Tobias is getting jiggy on his lady’s post-WWII vajay, I mean he gets jiggy. Plus, we know that thing ain’t trimmed. He’s going full ass weed whacker on it and I ain’t mad at him. Let that be a lesson to us all, men ain’t scared of hair. That’s grown man shit. I’m never trimming another pubic hair. You heard it here first.

‘Outlander’ is definitely the horniest show on television and I’m mad at all you fantasy freaks for keeping it to yourself.

[toyslug-blog]

[monicalorandavis]

The Water Dancer is a salve for a broken country

The Water Dancer is so good that I believe it can fix America. No matter where you stand, or live, this country is hanging on by a thread. We’ve needed solutions since 1619 when the first African slave was brought to our shore. Instead we’ve avoided the wound that slavery inflicted. It’s too late for state-sanctioned racial sensitivity seminars. Politicians are not to be trusted on such matters. The most radical option is the only option. We need art.

America is (and has been) a dangerous place for people of color. The police are antagonists and Congress is useless. We need a spiritual overhaul. (And I am using the following pseudo-Christian language loosely so forgive me. My intention is not to isolate anyone.) The healing has to start on a personal level, at a cellular level. We need God. And I don’t really mean God god. We need something good, and big, and something we can all believe in. God is convenient that way. He’s up in the sky, the sky we all share and look up to and out of ourselves. We need something unifying like art. We all listen to music. Everyone laughs and cries. Art is God by proxy. It is our nonverbal expression that cuts to the core of us. And while, to the rest of the world, Americans are not known for our intellectual arguments, I argue that “The Water Dancer” plays into that great American heart center that makes politics in this country so volatile. We are people full of feelings. So many feelings. Lucky for us, this is a book with the power to heal.

And you might think that we’ve moved past books. Do people read anymore? True, we’ve moved on in so many other areas of life and entertainment. We can watch movies on our phones. But, reading, like much of our consumption of entertainment in the last year, is private. It isn’t too far removed from how we spend our time already. 

Reading provides a mirror and a window. It presents characters unlike us but united in a human fabric so much so that we are them. Our own experiences color the character’s decisions. To extricate yourself from the person about which you’re reading is antithetical to the fantasy of reading. Books teach us about ourselves by teaching us about other people.

Perhaps the move away from reading, and the larger consumption of media through our phones has dwindled our capacity to consume longer narratives. But I don’t feel that the damage is irreversible. It is perhaps the exact metaphor for the damage racism has caused. All is not lost. Yes, America has carried on its racist legacy too long. We are doomed if we do not act. We are on the verge of being a people we will not like. But Americans have many ideas about their benevolent destiny. We are soon to be lost from the idea we have of ourselves. Or perhaps not.

So how is it that one book, and one man, provide the salve for America? I’m not nearly smart enough to give you the entire argument. Nor should I. But I must implore you to read The Water Dancer. It is your civic duty. But I will lay out a couple of the finer points that have stuck with me since I finished the book three months ago. (It has taken me some time to get my thoughts in order.)

One, America has disrespected black Americans for centuries and as a result our country is broken. No more senate hearings or long-winded debates will fix it. Ta-Nehisi Coates writes of the pivotal story of America, slavery, the inciting incident - as a disease of forgetfulness. In The Water Dancer, Coates juggles multiple storylines, and timelines, deftly. He writes of a two-class system, the “quality” versus the “tasked”, and while these terms might rub rough in the mouth, they conjure up the same broken system of today. The psychic power in Coates’ storytelling lies, with all good things, in the in-between’s.

Between the stories of cruelty and separation, is a Marquez-inspired, metaphysical story of teleportation through memory. And before you can scream sci-fi, let us first establish, Americans are suffering from widespread memory loss, be it purposely or not. The memories of slavery are simply too painful to live in regularly. This is a story beyond genre. It’s an all-encompassing, sweeping story. It’s sci-fi but it’s also historical fiction. And now that I’ve totally bored you, let’s push on. The magical realism up Coates’ sleeve is one I’ve yet to see and hope to see more of. Coates writes of the metaphysical capacity of memory and he uses water as the conduit. Kaboom.

Yes, water, the scene of so much crime against the African American, as it has been the pathway, the passage, and then more recently, the segregated pool with its lack of access and subsequent stereotypes - that place is the only location charged with enough ancestral wattage to summon the power to travel groups of people safely out of slave lands. That sounds confusing and impossible. But, slavery seems sort of confusing and impossible now too. And yet...

We need metaphysical stories. We need fables. We need slave super heroes. That is why “Django” felt so important and “12 Years” felt so expected. (And yet, there seems to be only one slave narrative that we reward with awards and accolades.) I won’t spoil all the fun of the teleportation travels because they are fantastic and soulful. And, most of the fun comes from who we get to meet along the newly-imagined Underground Railroad. To spoil that would ruin the occasional surprise of hope along the journey.

Now, the second point, and, I guess, larger argument for “The Water Dancer” is that it is not a shaming tome. It is not an indictment of white people (though I don’t know if they deserve such generosity. Coates is a more enlightened being than I.) It holds white people and black people in its palm and pokes at either, revealing how we, belonging to our groups, subjugated each other to a system that benefited neither. White people, “the quality”, were privileged in their position, avoiding manual labor and brandishing discipline with whips and cruelty. The quality subjugated the tasked through years of degradation to the point that the tasked stopped fighting. That is the part slaves played. They could have revolted every day, but then again, they could’ve been lashed every day. While their responsibilities in the system are certainly not equal, they play a factor. And then there was a third option for the slave. Run away.

A life on the run, hiding in free states, leaving loved ones behind and never being able to sit still long enough to get discovered, all that constant running and constant anxiety proved to be its own set of chains. But this was the only option for tasked people who wanted more. Mothers left children. Husbands left wives. Slaves faced terrible decisions for the chance of a better life. Just the chance. It was horrible and sad and we are not so long removed from the trauma. To expect black people to move on from a tragedy when entire family lines have been lost to never be repaired is not only disrespectful, it’s unrealistic. Slavery was abolished and white lawmakers asked former slaves to be superhuman. We’ve penalized being normal, feeling beings (I believe because slaves were never supposed to be seen as such).

What did we expect would happen? This is the natural outcome. Disorder. Unease. Tension and resentment. Black people do not owe their former masters’ forgiveness. Some are gracious enough to provide it. But expect it, you should never. It is not yours. Forgiveness is the highest gift from any person. It is, in effect, spiritual gymnastics and we are not all limber or athletic enough to go there. Yet, The Water Dancer is full of forgiveness.

To backtrack slightly: I did say black people participated in the system, too. But, in many respects, they had to to simply stay alive. (That or flee and that guaranteed nothing.) To be a “good” slave, meant that you, the slave, obeyed your master. In so doing, white people suffered. That little exchange, be good or be punished was the sacrifice to black (and white) people.

Let’s go deep. White people’s integrity was lost in this system. That is not some holy, esoteric ill. To put it plainly, their moral fiber was compromised. The slave owner suffered greatly from their barbarism though it be their own. MIddle-class white families participated in every day, commonplace violence. Men, women and children fancied themselves “good white people” all the while owning other human beings. Even if they didn’t beat, rape, starve or maim their slave, they diminished another human’s life continuously, every day, every second. Down to the smallest detail. A slave lived a life without a choice. What does that do to a person? 

On the other side, to be a master of a man was to be emboldened as that man, or woman, or child’s God, in a sense. You fed, clothed, housed and ordered them around, all the while, maintaining a firm grip on discipline and decorum. You were feared. And after generations of such cruelty, your grip on morality suffered. You could not be fully Christian, as many defended themselves to be. You see, to be feared was a handicap to the white man. They have been made inhumane with their own actions. Their inherited legacy and DNA has been mutated and bent to explain gross acts of violence (just as African Americans’ DNA has inherited the pain of slavery). White Americans are no longer what they could’ve been. Their wounds have resulted in a manipulated sense of power. Their compassion, their grace, their eternal goodness and humanity has been violated. And they did it to themselves. They participated in their own moral corruption. That is their burden. The tasked fed into the system, however slightly, to protect themselves. They witnessed the firsthand degradation of their masters’ humanity.

And now that we’re all involved, let’s talk about the present issue at hand. How to right this wrong? We could start with reparations.

No, I don’t think that will ever truly happen. It would become an overwrought “proving” system of blackness. There would be measurements and rigamarole and the money would be delayed and the bureaucracies in place would be as shitty as the DMV. But what we can do is promote black art. Without conditions. Let it be taught during all months of the year. Let’s stop fearing the psychic damage it does to us. We are all mature enough to speak about this open secret. Black people were slaves. White people owned them. Was that so hard? I don’t believe so. Let us finally go to the hurt places and repair them so that we can be better. Let us use the gifts of those smarter and more creative than us to be better.

I think Ta-Nehisi Coates knows the way. No pressure, sir. But I think you’ve written the book that we needed in 1619. Now if you could only teleport a copy to the shores of Virginia...

"The Water Dancer” might be the most seminal book of our country’s history. We, black and white, are united in a shared legacy of torture and bondage. Cry as we might, we are not color blind. We were never color blind. There are things to atone for. 

And if I haven’t convinced you yet, black people teleport. And they teleport through fucking water by summoning their memories - and if that’s not a big middle finger to every racist “black people can’t swim”-ass clown from the Mayflower to the present, then I don’t know what is. He served us magical realism on a platter with a gravy made from the ancestors. Let us listen to artists now. Aren’t we tired of fighting?

[monicalorandavis]

I watched all of Netflix’s ‘The Circle’ and I don’t hate it

Are you ever so disappointed in yourself that you have to do a full overhaul of your life experiences, spiritual practice, weight, food allergies and dental records to reconcile your choice in television program? Where did things go wrong, Monica? When did you become an insatiable Cookie Monster for trash reality TV?

I’d say it started around The Mole. No one watched that show but it really lit a fire inside me. Then VH1′s slew of celebrity dating programs tipped me over the edge. “Flavor of Love” then “Rock of Love”, then those shows had spin-offs. “I Love New York” might have been the nail in the coffin. There was no looking back after that. I’ve loved reality TV ever since. I’m less keen on competition reality shows (no “Survivor” hive around here, sorry). But, I have to draw the line somewhere.

Fast forward, it’s 2020. Netflix is taking a stab at reality competition shows and though it’s not completely my brand, I click “The Circle” with no expectations. What is this show where the players are sequestered in isolated apartments? Is this a show or a social experiment? Are we going to watch people go crazy? I can’t say that didn’t discourage me...

So the so-called “social media competition” begins. Eight strangers arrive and present themselves to the other players or they choose avatars to compete with. Pretty quickly, the players who have chosen avatars fumble to keep up the facade. But not all. In fact, one player, “Rebecca” goes all the way to the top 5, duping the sweetest, most popular player, Shubham, the entire way - even (at times) to Shubham’s detriment! Poor Shubham. He had no idea. Not even her weird stabs in the dark at what menstruation entailed nor her overblown Victorian professions of love for another player she’d known for a day. Rebecca was a weird caricature of a man’s idea of womanhood. It was offensive and silly and I’m mad at everyone who believed she could even exist as a real human woman. (Not Ed though, he called bullshit and I am Ed hive for life.)

But, “The Circle” also presents very, very compelling cases in identity politics. Some overweight players enter “The Circle” as fit, good-looking contestants replete with down to earth, pithy profiles. “Adam”, for example, was a hot, blond male model who was actually being played by a nebbishy, bespectacled married 30-something. His attempts at flirtation were, to put it mildly, horrific. He came across as a horned-up psuedo predator. The female contestants, with the exception of fake “Rebecca”, ran in the opposite direction. And the sad part is, had “Adam” just been a normal, nerdy, awkward guy he would’ve endeared himself to everyone in the way Shubham had. This was not a competition about looks no matter how hard the fake profile players tried to make that case. The players who thrived were the ones who created early ties to each other. Sadly, “The Circle” was a lesson in in-group bonding. Players who joined later never stood a chance. They were picked off for other reasons but when pushed the influencer who blocked them relented that loyalty was most important. They had to look out for the people who had looked out for them.

So, in the end, spoiler alert, “The Circle” was the mafia-- I mean, was about loyalty. Leave it to the Italian-American, Joey, with his Jersey accent and guido bravado to win the whole thing. Which is funny considering he entered the competition as a cartoon version of a Jersey Shore cast member. He was so, so obnoxious and hyper-masculine. But by the end of episode one you realized, “Oh, this is a little bit of an act. Joey is very sweet.” This was a guy who loved his mom, compromised his weird distrust of “Rebecca” to stay cool with his best-friend Shubham and hustled his way into the $100,000 cash prize.

[monicalorandavis]

‘Cheer’ on Netflix is a shot of adrenaline to the heart

Cheerleader or layman, the show ‘Cheer’ on Netflix, which debuted just two days ago (Jan. 8), will make your body pulsate with nervous energy. That might dissuade you (and if you have a heart condition you should sit this one out) but this is what sports do to us. They make us cheer and scream and punch the air and, sometimes, we cry. Such is the story of ‘Cheer’. This motherfucker makes the Superbowl look like rec league racquet ball. Baby, this is high-stakes television and I want more, Netflix.

Yes, ‘Cheer’ is a sports show. But it is also the spiritual journey of the co-ed cheer team at Navarro Junior College in Corsicana, Texas. We follow the team (initially comprised of 40 members) through early practices all the way to the national championship in Daytona, Florida months later. By Daytona, the Navarro squad is whittled down to their strongest 20 athletes (though by the end, all of their finest performers have incurred the most devastating injuries and have been crushingly replaced). In every single episode the thudding of bodies to the mat remind us that cheerleading is a blood sport. These kids are putting their lives on the line for a sport that has almost zero career opportunities. Sure it has its “professional” team, touring team, and limited coaching opportunities. But those are few and far between. For almost all competitive and college cheerleaders, their career ends before they ever earn a dime from the sport they’ve devoted their entire lives (and sometimes family’s savings) to.

But to go into this show with judgments on the politics of cheer, or the politics of female-dominated sports is distracting from the artistry and dedication. Don’t let the unfairness of society at large discourage you. These athletes deserve your attention. They’ve worked their entire lives for it, in fact.

Let’s start from the beginning..

Through a feat of especially skilled storytelling (and editing), we learn about the individual members of the squad first. We endear ourselves to them one by one. Some are, obviously, more interesting than others. La’Darius has had it rough but is talented and soulful. Lexi is a rebel with tumbling skills to die for. And Jerry is a sweet, perfect angel with a heart of gold who performed at a competition the same day his mother died. By and large, you are struck by the extreme dedication of these college students. And then (right on cue), we meet their captain--

Monica Aldama, commonly referred to by the informal and simultaneously terrifying “Monica” is uttered with such reverence and fear I did not know who (or what) to expect. Surely, she’d look terrifying. She’d have mean, sharp eyes and big pageant hair. But instead, she appears slowly, patiently. Her appearance is...slight. Flat-ironed. Quiet.

Hmm...

Not a monster. Nails are manicured. Her family seems nice. Husband supportive. Things are not adding up here!

Then we watch the team practice. And oh baby, it goes from 0 to 100 real quick.

We see the impossible “pyramid” of doom and watch flyer after flyer plummet to a career-ending injury. One by one, loyal replacements step into their fallen teammates’ position, walking the plank. Some crack under the pressure while others rise. This is drama. Take note, Miss Rhimes. (Grey’s Anatomy could never!)

Through blood, sweat and tears, this crew works their asses off. They go full-out when their backs go out. They throw basket tosses in spite of labral tears. No, it’s not safe. Yes, they’re ignoring explicit medical orders. But such is the cost of excellence. Monica will not accept anything less. Neither will her athletes.

I’ll say it: Monica is an ice queen. Super competitive and smart. She’s creative and she’s a numbers cruncher. She’s added every stunt purposefully to maximize the total point potential of the routine. And her mantra is “no deductions”.

I’d posit Monica might catch some legal flack for her conduct on the show. She pushes her athletes way beyond what is kosher. One base with a rigorous extracurricular life on other competing teams blows his back out despite Monica’s warnings to skip the other team’s performance. He doesn’t listen and arrives to practice in debilitating pain, unable to walk. She makes him perform anyway. It’s hard to watch. The squad looks petrified but worried for their teammate. As he writhes in pain, the camera follows the expressions on his team members’ faces. Right on the brink of opening their mouths to speak up their eyes dart to an unconcerned Monica and they continue right back into the routine. It’s stunning. Her control over them is deep. Some kids express that the disappointment of their parents would hurt less than disappointing Monica. She is feared and revered. Sparse with language. (And even more sparse with hugs.) These kids bend over backwards to please her. And the line they all walk to serve her, in spite of injury and setback, is perhaps the strongest bond in the entire show.

Say what you will about cheerleading. These people are athletes. They deserve their things. They deserve a chance to be taken seriously. They deserve to be recognized and given the opportunities that other athletes receive. But they don’t. And even still they push on, sacrificing their bodies, social lives, grades.

I don’t want to spoil any of the major plot points of the show because each episode (and especially the finale) is a satisfying exploration of human will. Some people step up and others crumble. The only difference being their belief in themselves. It is profound and devastating. “Daytona” is perhaps the best series finale I’ve seen in a year. It is certainly the best performance from a sports team that I’ve ever seen.

Fucking hell, ‘Cheer’ is good.

[monicalorandavis]

Tobias Menzies is the new Colin Firth and that’s final

Tobias Menzies, English star of stage and screen, is a complete snack and if he heard that he would stare at me blankly and walk away disrespectfully.

And I would be soaking wet.

That man - quiet, face lined with judgment, tall - is a divine creation of my deepest desires. No, I don’t want an affable, good natured man with his giggling and knee slapping. Yuck.

Send over a stern, brooding shell of a man who cracks a smile only at my funniest jokes. That way I know I really earned it.

Give me that sweet, sweet relief attained only from the toughest customer.

Now, the psychological toll of all that effort is steep. I don’t really want to work that hard for a man’s approval. But this is my imagination, and in here, he and I really hit it off.

The man of my dreams used to be Colin Firth. That tall drink of repressed water wears the hell out of a suit and has such a heavy seriousness in his eyes my mind races with sexual curiosity. Don’t even start with me if he wasn’t your number one crush after watching Bridget Jones’ Diary. Obviously, Hugh Grant is a floppy-haired louse and if you fell for it then I pity you!

Tobias Menzies has risen to the top of my spank bank by being tall (I’m basic), being English (I have a type) and being quiet (take note, fellas).

Now, the kicker. He is single.

Back in the day that would be coded language for gay but in all my research this does not seem to be the case with our boy, TM. In fact, his affair with Kristin Scott Thomas in 2005 led to the actress’ divorce from then-husband, Francois Olivennes. And Kristin Scott Thomas ain’t no dummy. She’s a baddie herself and she broke up a whole 18-year long marriage to get a taste of Toby-Tobe!

So, having collected all the evidence I have one final question, should I drop everything and just move to London already??! If anyone else has any access to Tobias Menzies and wants to help me shoot my shot, let’s make this happen.

[monicalorandavis]

What do we all think of ‘Die Hard’?

I had never seen ‘Die Hard’.

“It’s Christmas, and you’ve never seen ‘Die Hard’? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Nothing”, I reply. Even though the answer is much more complicated.

People take ‘Die Hard’ very seriously. To be honest, I felt like I’d seen it before. It’s referenced constantly. Hans Gruber and John McClane. Bruce Willis’ bloody feet walking across glass. The flying through the glass window, Bruce suspended in the air...Did I really have to watch the movie to get it?

I’m biased.

When it comes to “classic” American action movies, my repertoire is limited. There are a number of 80′s faves that I completely missed. Something about big budgets, dumb plots and studly dudes with bulging biceps and snappy one-liners forces my eyes to roll without my control. It’s been that way since childhood. I don’t want to be a snarky pessimist but it’s simply in my nature to hate on macho crap. I can’t fight my biology. And “Die Hard” sort of started the modern action movie. I went into it with preconceived notions.

Fast forward, it’s Christmas. My trip to India had to be canceled due to visa troubles. From across the room, ‘Die Hard’ winked at me flirtatiously from the On Demand home screen. Bruce Willis is pretty cute...

Click.

The movie opens. We’re on a plane. Bruce Willis is throwing around flirty stares and sexual heat everywhere. It’s discombobulating. Is this why guys are so into this movie? Does everyone want to fuck him?

The movie begins and we’ve gathered some basic information about our protagonist: John McClane hates California and he and his wife are in a weird place. California is representative of his romantic stagnation. It is the place his estranged wife has pursued a new life. She’s an 80s career woman, trying her hand at independence and reinvention. John hates it. As a result, every new agey, alternative, pseudo-spiritual stereotype about kooky Californians is thrown into the pot early on.

The action gets started quick. John gets off the plane and into a limo driven by a charming young gentleman named Argyle. While I don’t love how stupid and girl-crazy Argyle is, he’s cute and sweet and we like him.

John, for whatever reason, is attending his wife’s office Christmas party at a ridiculously successful Japanese firm located in Century City. As an LA native seeing the Los Angeles of yore was fun. Seeing outdated social commentary less so...

Lowkey, ‘Die Hard’ is terrible. It’s sexist, poorly acted and gratuitously flashy. Explosions and fight sequences are nonsensical. People die when they shouldn’t and others refuse to perish. The consequences to violence seem totally arbitrary. But I think I’m judging it too harshly. I must be. How can everyone else love it so?

Then again, this is a theme to my life. I hated Britney Spears when she first came out. I assumed The Spice Girls would never make it. Harry Potter had no appeal to me. And now, I love all those things. Maybe in twenty years, ‘Die Hard’ will mature in my heart and mind. The unnecessary sexual tension between everyone won’t bother me anymore. The bad acting will become part of its charm. The weird Japanese commentary will still be weird but maybe camp? Does racism ever become camp? Am I misunderstanding camp like all those terrible straight people at last year’s Met Ball?

Probably.

Is ‘Die Hard’ my terrible Met Ball theme?

What do I care if I hate an American treasure?

I guess in the end, the truth is I don’t care. The movie is...a movie. Performances by Reginald VelJohnson aka Carl Winslow and Bruce Willis are rather strong. But not strong enough to save a movie that offers so, so little emotional depth. I would’ve loved a better actress in the role of Bruce Willis’ wife. It would’ve provided some depth. But what is this? Why am I pretending like anything I say will influence anything people already think about this movie?

‘Die Hard’ is terrible. You will continue to love it.

[monicalorandavis]

‘Back To Life’ is not ‘Fleabag’ but there can be more than one female-led, British comedy

News flash, buddy: there are lots of cool British lady actors/writers/funny people with good ideas and television shows these days. ‘Back To Life’ is a pretty good one and deserves to be measured on its own merit and not just its Britishness.

But we Americans are feeble-minded and lazy. This a scientific fact. Just look around. We are not doing great. But, for whatever reason, we seem to bandy about a lot of influence when it comes to the show business.

Hollywood, my hometown, is still the taste-maker on a global scale. Sure we’ve got the studios and the history. But I wonder if we should be pointing our attention to grandmammy England, our former landlords.

Whatever they’re doing across the pond (free healthcare) seems to be doing wonders for their creative juices. Not in a long while have I felt that female-led (and created) comedies had such unique perspectives. Daisy Haggard’s debut creation, ‘Back To Life’ is shocking in its subject matter and the lead character’s childlike rebellion. Daisy’s Miri Matteson refuses to shrink herself after returning to society after an 18-year prison stint.

Now, spoiler alert, Haggard’s Miri Matteson is a convicted murderer and you could get lost in the moral dissection of her character if you’re a judgmental squarepants. But, it’s not necessary to pick her apart. Primarily becuse she does such a good enough job of pulling focus to her emotional handicaps. She’s totally hung up on a sleazebag ex-boyfriend. She’s bratty and combative at work. She’s quick to throw tantrums and even, sort of, shouts a woman to death...

But! Just imagine going to prison at 18 and returning to society completely missing the advancement of social technology, travel, dating, shopping and a million other things. Now imagine, trying to play it cool that you have no idea what the fuck is going on. You’d be doomed. Just like Miri.

I, myself, love a flawed female lead. It is relatable because she is me. I am her. We are we. I am basically a walking accident waiting to happen. Try as I might to avoid calamity, I do fancy myself a free spirit and I get into trouble from time to time. Miri is of the same breed and she won’t apologize for her past, no matter how grizzly you might think it is.

I won’t completely spoil the ending of the show because the series is short and you can crush it in an afternoon (like I did). The final episode is a master class in pacing. Reveal after reveal after reveal can get chaotic in a life like Miri’s but the chaos feels natural. Not one note of her terrible luck is forced. She has been burdened with a shitty group of confidants and yet, I have a feeling she’ll be ok.

[monicalorandavis]

Let’s all quit fucking around and give Renee her Oscar for ‘Judy’ now

I am several months late to the ‘Judy’ party. But due to a trip getting cancelled last minute I’m having a staycation instead of a vacation. (Tomato, tomahto!) Needless to say, I’ve got time on my side and I’m watching movies, baby. Time for Judy Garland, baby. Because that’s showbiz, baby!!!

I regret even joking about the razzle dazzle of show business because for Judy Garland show business, the very business she adored, also destroyed her. And that whole journey through the dark, twisted roller coaster of entertainment is sort of the thesis statement of this whole thing.

“The biz” was a cruel bitch to the greatest entertainer of all time. Her nic-name was Miss Show Business for crying out loud and yet when we meet Zellweger, playing the title character in ‘Judy’, she’s in the final year of her life, struggling to keep a roof over her children’s heads. She’s gaunt, exhausted, addicted to pills, alcohol and can’t manage to meet a decent man to save her life.

And instead of nitpicking every wrong choice that led her there, director Rupert Goold allows us into the plodding sojourn that was Judy Garland’s final tour in England. She’d lost custody of her children to ex-husband no. 3 and finally went across the pond where her fans were still willing to pay top dollar for the Hollywood legend. 

But when she gets to England we peer into the sheer loneliness that encompasses the lives of the super famous. No friends to share dinner with, kids thousands of miles away, and vulturous men always lurking on the sidelines. It’s grim and bleak and you can’t imagine things ever getting so bad. And yet they were. But, again, and I have to stress this because some power of Judy Garland compels me to underline this as a fellow woman in the arts, this is not the story of how Judy Garland ended up broke. It’s the story of how she tried her damnedest to make enough money to get her kids back because we actors are tryers.

She was a relentless performer who tried. Over and over again. She tried and tried and tried. She tried to put on a good show every night and we watch Zellweger lose the battle to those cloying pills and that seductive martini until she quite literally falls on her face. No, she doesn’t pretend like it didn’t happen. She gets up and is booed off stage and she barks back. And then she gets fired and gets word that her children want to stay with their father in Los Angeles. The final twist of the knife. Zellweger delivers that final conversation to her youngest daughter with aplomb and grace. The Judy Garland we wanted to know - Judy Garland, the mother. Tortured, flawed, generous and loving. A sensitive, soulful singer who had to fight for every scrap of dignity she ever got.

And I kept finding myself wanting to change how things turned out. She was so, so good. So talented. So kind. So willing to give herself to the audience, to new friends. She deserved more.

In one scene, that gives me chills to even think about, she asks two male fans to dinner and they can’t believe their luck. Only after dragging Judy Garland around the streets of London all night in hopes of a meal do they agree to host her at their home just blocks away. She obliges graciously and, of course because a living legend is in your home, they totally ruin the meal. And she couldn’t be a more gracious guest. She eats the terrible, soggy eggs, then, sings while her new friend plays the piano and, then, comforts him when he crumples into a ball of tears, overcome by this grand situation he finds himself in. She knows, and we know, that these two men are gay and the point is not belabored or sentimentalized. Instead, Goold treats us, the audience, like grown-ups with enough context to understand how important Judy Garland was to the gay community. She was their patron saint. Be it all the struggle, the pain under the surface and the resolve to put one foot in front of the other and sing her heart out in spite of it all. A metaphor for being gay, perhaps. Her life and legacy meant something to the community and still does. (The Stonewall Riots occurred on the day Judy Garland died and I think it played no small part in pushing things over the edge that fateful day.)

What a fight it was to be Judy Garland. A star who’d been spit out by Hollywood. Any actress over 40 will tell you their version of the story. And maybe no one understands that today quite like the star of ‘Judy’, Miss Zellweger.

I don’t think Renee Zellweger’s ever been better. She fucking soars. She sings her ass off (and I didn’t know the bitch could sing, not like this). In some instances, the resemblance is so striking between Zellweger and Garland it baffles the mind to reconcile that you are not looking at the original Judy, herself. Somehow, Zellweger completely transforms even the expression in her eyes as if the thought process, or the experience, or perhaps even the torment, is the same between both starlets. How else can an actor arrive at the exact same place as the person they are imitating? How do you achieve not just a version of a person, but the person, themselves?

I do not know what spiritual voodoo Zellweger achieved (move over, Christian Bale!). But this performance is an achievement of the highest order. I imagine Garland herself, at times her toughest critic, would be thrilled to watch the film even in its hardest moments.

Because Judy, and I suspect Renee, are consummate performers. Completely engrossed. Not engrossed. Obsessed. No, not obsessed. Addicted...

Judy Garland was completely addicted to the stage. Yes, Lady Gaga coined “I live for the the applause” but that’s only because she did her homework. Any diva in training gives their respect to the o.g. Judy Garland devoted her entire heart and soul to her performances. Often to her detriment, and to the detriment of those around her.

To be so completely talented, I imagine, is a curse to the performer. And when you’re a mother, a curse to your children. The performer’s gift has the power to kill them. It can drive them to the brink of self-destruction. The pressure and the anxiety of not performing at the same level again and again, night after night, drove Judy to the brink. The pills and the booze became absolutely necessary.

Years ago, I recall news stories about Renee Zellweger suggesting addiction and anorexia. She had wasted away, rumors swirling of drug abuse chased her - she’d been branded with a scarlet letter.

And then, I saw her in person, in Santa Monica. I was inside a Barnes and Noble bookstore (a rare occurrence nowadays in the era of dwindling brick and mortar). She was skin and bones. I barely recognized her. She looked...deranged. Her eyes were bulging nearly as much as the veins in her neck. I didn’t know why she was so distraught but my eyes fixed on her like a cheetah staring down a gazelle. She was just on the other side of the glass, and then she locked in on me. Suddenly, she was the cheetah. She stared at me, then a sour look fell upon her and she dashed away. I was shaken. I had never felt so judged by a famous person before. I had never shared such a fraught moment with a star of her caliber. But then, I wondered, maybe she hadn’t been looking at me at all. What if the glass was opaque and she wasn’t staring at me at all? What if she was looking at her own reflection that whole time? Could it be that she stared at herself that way, with that loathsome look in her eyes?

And now my heart breaks because I do believe she saw herself. She saw something in herself that she couldn’t stand and she fled from the reflection. Just like Judy would’ve ran. Just like Judy.

I’ve asked so many questions and I apologize but I must ask a few more:

What if Renee Zellweger doesn’t win an Oscar for ‘Judy’? Oof. Yes, I remember that she won for ‘Cold Mountain’ in 2004 but it was sort of payback because she’d been nominated for ‘Chicago’ in 2003 and was a shoe-in (but lost) and even that had been a sort of a gimme nom since she’d been nominated in ‘02 for ‘Bridget Jones’ Diary’ and lost even after she stole the entire world’s heart.

In a parallel way, Garland was famously snubbed for a ‘Star is Born’ in 1955 when she gave the performance of her life and lost to the quintessential Hollywood beauty, Grace Kelly. After a lifetime of comparisons and cruel remarks about her looks, it had to feel like a stab to the heart to lose to the pretty girl, the princess. Poor Judy. She just wanted to be beautiful and thin. But instead she was talented and charming. And that’s not to say she wasn’t beautiful and thin, she just didn’t fit the stupid, totally arbitrary model of beauty. And she eventually wasted away to a skeleton. Why did we do that to her? Why do we do that still?

I don’t know. But I do know that Renee Zellweger should win this god damn Oscar.