Railey Jane Savage Says What

Writer, Typer, Armchair Commentator raileyjane.com

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JUNK FOOD: Heirlooms and Legacies

The Maltese Falcon. The Wizard of Oz. Lord of the Rings. The Red Violin.

These films all, arguably, hinge on the transfer of a thing to set the action in motion. A physical object functions as the central point of tension, around and against which the characters must demonstrate their capacity for change. Or not. Having a thing be constant so that the passage of time on screen is more impactful and more pronounced is effective, however hard to pull off. If you haven't seen it, The Red Violin will break your heart while making it sing.

But, rather than focusing on fictitious things right now, I am preoccupied with the legacy America is handing down to its daughters. I had never known a world without access to safe, legal reproductive health resources until Friday’s precedent-destroying decision pinged to our phones and stopped each of us in our tracks. Some cheered. Many wept. I took to my bed.

There is mania and vitriol coming from all sides as trigger laws have already taken effect in much of the Midwest and the south. Meanwhile, the Court’s decision has been roundly decried by four of the seven G7 leaders. Since 2019 Ireland, Argentina, Thailand, and Colombia have legalized access to abortion care. In 2022 the US went from being a world leader in equal protections for women (though with room for improvement), to setting the cultural clock back 50 years. Regardless of your opinion on abortion specifically, all Americans should be alarmed that the rights we have collectively relied on passing down to future generations are being questioned, and walked back. (Except if you’re a gun.)

Good luck to all those faced with impossible decisions. And good luck to all of us dealing with the fallout. Except for Justices Roberts, Alito, Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, Barrett, and especially Clarence Thomas. I do not wish them luck. At all.

I promise to return to movie chat soon, but my capacity to enjoy distraction is currently depleted.

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JUNK FOOD: Stuff I Consume to Feel Better

The Office Space

I lovelovelove [the American] The Office. Love it. However, I haven’t watched a single episode in about three years, and certainly not since Covid. When I was in my deepest, darkest depression the Dunder-Mifflinites were constant companions, and the razor-edged line between cringe and care helped me lean into absurdity while keeping hold of the sentimental stuff. I’ve sent fan mail to Rainn Wilson (“Dwight”) and Paul Leiberstein (“Toby” and a great TV writer). My first Amazon screenname was rejected because “PhyllisVanceVanceRefrigeration” was too long. I was out of work, but the crew of The Office helped make my time at home a little less grim. However, I don’t dare return to my touchstone because I really, really don’t want to find it has aged poorly.

And since its release in 1999, the show’s slightly older step-cousin, OFFICE SPACE, has only grown more prescient. And infuriating. And less and less satirical. Going even farther back, some American workplace films that cry for revisiting are WORKING GIRL (1988), NETWORK (1978), THE APARTMENT (1960), MODERN TIMES (1936). These are all great, and only some of them are stuck in time. Others—looking at you, NETWORK—continue to resonate in increasingly alarming ways.

But instead of ruminating on office culture and what Americans have been conditioned to view as ‘work,’ I’d rather wax nostalgic from the sanctity of my current workspace: I get to work from home most of the time, and it has changed my life. I am lucky enough to have a job that can be done remotely, which makes the workplace ‘perks’ of shared spaces, noisy neighbors, and motivational posters ring hollow. No, I will NOT hang in there, baby! So, while I do miss out on the unique relationships office culture can foster, I wouldn’t say I miss it.

Bonus #1: A red Swingline stapler signed by “Milton” Stephen Root – one of my all-time favorite character actors who, if you don’t know his name, I guarantee you’ll recognize from seeing his face in no less than three of your favorite movies or shows. For example, he plays Gaston Means in ‘Boardwalk Empire, which is how I knew I wanted to include Means as one of the con artists in my book, A Century of Swindles: Ponzi Schemes, Con Artists & Fraudsters (Chapter 6: Ways and Means).

Bonus #2: The last time I went to New York City (fall 2018) I spent a lovely afternoon in Central Park drinking bad wine with my pals. My phone was at 1% battery so I pleaded with my companion to use his to take this picture:

On the left is Ajay Naidu, who leads the vengeful charge against the jerk printer in OFFICE SPACE. Just to the right is his partner, Heather Burns, who MISS CONGENIALITY fans will recognize as Rhode Island’s #1 fan of April 25th and light jackets. They were walking their teeny-tiny baby through the park until they reached this wine bar, sat down wearily, and proceeded to chug two glasses (apiece) in silence… Stars: they’re just like us.

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Hello.

May the Fourth be with you.

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(Hello.)

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JUNK FOOD: The Rite Stuff

As much as I’d like to embrace the season and lean into my “spring awakening,” it doesn’t come naturally. I like blooming flowers and burbling songbirds as much as the next guy, but I can’t help thinking about the violence and trauma that comes with real transformation: the new is often only possible at the expense of the old. The buds on the trees are encouraging, but because they fill in the starkly bare branches left vacant by the demise of their leafy ancestors. The chirp of new chicks is sweet, but belies the extreme trauma of hatching from an egg. So, yes, I like spring, but I guess it feels inappropriate to focus on the bright without considering the dark.

Which is probably why my preferred brand of springtime acknowledgement aligns so neatly with that of Disney’s 1940 Fantasia. Specifically, “The Rite of Spring” segment, which pairs Stravinsky’s challenging score with an animated highlight reel of prehistoric life on earth. The music has a strange sound – like early traditional songs mashed with the blares and bells of (early 20th c.) modern technology – but is married with sequences about the earliest life on earth, and all the roiling violence that it wrought. Sure, I mean the T-Rex, but also the gushing lava and jutting tectonics and boiling seas that uniquely combined into a primordial soup capable of supporting organic life.

The premiere of Stravinsky’s “Rite” is itself an infamous example of the combustion that can come with making space for the new. When the piece was originally performed as a ballet in 1913 the audience was so crazed by the newness of the sound that they rioted in the theatre. Literally. “Rite” had a violent, uncooperative sound but ushered in a new age in music; Leonard Bernstein later dubbed it “The most important piece of music of the 20th century.”

Likewise, Disney’s treatment of “The Rite of Spring” highlighted the indiscriminate destruction that facilitates real transformation. The evolution of the creatures on screen is mesmerizing and enchanting, but their progress is only possible through violence and destruction. And, spoiler alert: the dinosaurs all die.

I think I return to Fantasia’s dinosaurs time and again because the segment captures the awesome march from the cosmos to the cretaceous, without glossing over evolution’s inherent destruction. And the bombastic dissonance of Stravinsky’s “Rite” remains my springtime soundtrack. I usually hum along (even though it’s difficult) because I am moved with gratitude that at least I didn’t have to claw my way out of an egg to sing my song.

Happy Spring, y’all. (Here's an historic recreation of the "Rite" premiere, performed on its centennial in 2013.)

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JUNK FOOD: Miyazaki. My, oh my.

By the time my sibs were born I was already a highly opinionated young person, so they were reared on whatever I happened to be watching at any given moment. A lot had changed in my life—new house, new dad, new sibs—but I remained thoroughly myself through it all. Un/fortunately for my siblings this meant they were exposed to fringy things from early on.

​And in the mid-90s, Hayao Miyazaki was not a household name in central New York. It wasn’t until 1999 that Studio Ghibli's films traveled from Japan to be released in American theatres, and 2001’s Spirited Away cemented Miyazaki’s spot in the global film scene. Somehow, in 1997 I had a dubbed copy of My Neighbor Totoro that was played at least weekly on our giant tube set. I loveloveloved the movie and couldn’t believe no one had heard of it.

Folks: This movie is a treasure. And an ideal gateway film to the rest of the Miyazaki catalogue. Though the story is about a pair of sisters who are befriended by a giant spirit of the forest, the themes speak to the heart of human experience: family, love, ecology, self-respect. And these themes are carried throughout Miyazaki’s films, and almost always through a girl protagonist. The girls in these movies are smart and resourceful as they are thrust into unexpected challenges on terrain both familiar, and strange. That is, we follow these girls through inflection points when they must retain their self-awareness as circumstances change around them; they tackle the unfamiliar to keep and protect their sense of self because, ultimately, the self is HOME.

I’m not animated (alas), but Miyazaki’s girls spoke to me across language, culture, and distance. My family had changed shape. I was in a new house. I was suddenly connected to tiny babies. But Totoro remained, and then became a shared touchstone for the grown fam. It would have been easy to feel lost in the shuffle during so much change, but I didn’t. And I wasn’t. I hadn’t lost anything through these changes but, rather, had gained a family group to love and share with.

And by the time my sibs had become highly opinionated young people themselves, I’d ask them which Miyazaki they wanted to watch. To which they would reply, All of them! But Totoro first.

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JUNK FOOD: Left Hanging

Valentine’s Day. Feh.

In elementary school the day meant taping paper bag ‘mailboxes’ to desks, walking around to drop a little prefab, foldable valentine in every kid’s box, all accompanied by endless streams of chalky-yet-desirable conversation hearts. By the fourth grade I was channeling my fussy crafty tendencies into personalized construction paper cards for the whole class, and then some. By eighth grade, I’d stopped.

I was proud of, and charmed by my hand-crafted cards, and so excited to hand them out. But middle schoolers are hardly known for their tact or compassion, so my enthusiasm was met with confusion, and derision. So ended my outward facing Valentine’s cheer. Ever since I have kept the pink-and-red pressure at arm’s length to help keep my head straight, and my heart unwounded.

Which brings me to Picnic at Hanging Rock, Peter Weir’s 1975 powerhouse breakthrough to the global cinema stage. I remember renting the tape (which I now own) from the library when I was 14—about the same age as the girls in the film. I didn’t know what to expect, and got more than I’d bargained for.

The plot sees a group of young girls travel from their boarding school to a local geological landmark on Valentine's Day in 1900. But once at Hanging Rock something unseen and otherworldly calls the girls away from safety, and only one of them returns from the field trip that day. Accusations and investigations follow, but do not bring satisfaction; the mystery surrounding the girls is never solved. The audience is left hungry and wanting more from the Picnic at Hanging Rock.

Weir didn’t think he owed the audience closure, so there wasn’t any. Things happened, and then things changed. So it goes.

The middle schoolers who were so bemused by my twee cards didn’t owe me an explanation, and I never got one. So it goes.

I have since developed my own Valentines routine (Star Wars + box wine) that all but forfends disappointment. So, in spite of the mystery change in my classmates, I guess the overarching message from those final cards I made for Valentines 1998 still holds true: My heart will go on.

Happy Valentine's, dudes.

Railey Jane Savage is the author of A Century of Swindles: Ponzi Schemes, Con Men and Fraudsters, now available. She was recently interviewed for WSKG’s Off the Page, which you can listen to HERE.

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Fans of true crime podcasts might get a kick out of this interview I did about my book, A Century of Swindles: Ponzi Schemes, Con Men and Fraudsters.

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JUNK FOOD: Fury Road, or There and Back Again

Every New Year’s Day we are encouraged to reassess our goals and priorities for the year to come. We are given the opportunity to pivot and reorient through our tabula rasa resolutions to perhaps, this time, resolve to become the people we’ve always wanted to be.

I saw Mad Max: Fury Road the night it came out in 2015. I was rapt throughout, but then bad-mouthed the movie all the way home. “It’s a two-hour car chase that ends where it started!” I shouted to my people, smug that I had stripped George Miller’s masterpiece to its core with one pithy dig.

To sum up the plot of Fury Road: It’s a two-hour car chase that ends where it started. Imperator Furiosa begrudgingly teams up with Max Rockatansky in search of a mythical ‘Green Place’ in their scorched, post-apocalyptic world. SPOILER ALERT: The Green Place no longer exists. So upon reaching their intended destination and finding it wanting they grieve, and then pivot, and then return whence they came to re/claim the space; the only way forward is back.

What seemed to me (at the time) to be a lazy, hemmed-in plot, has become one of my all-time favorite story arcs. A fierce woman tries to change her situation, encounters crushing disappointment, then reevaluates; she stops running and resolves to take up space where she is – to be at home in her home.

You’ll have surmised by now, dear readers, that I spend a lot of time ruminating and analyzing my thoughts and feelings. And historically I have, more often than not, used this analysis to impose distance between who I am, and who I want to be. It felt easier to wish that my brain worked differently and then beat myself up about it, than to embrace the chemistry I was born with. I’ve spent a lot of years looking for something outside myself to make me feel at home.

About five years ago, though, I made a shift. A pivot. I resolved to stop spending my time working against my momentum, and instead embrace my noggin for all its glorious imperfections. I stopped trying to run from myself. SPOILER ALERT: I made this commitment to myself while sipping Furiosa Mimosas and watching Fury Road on New Year’s Eve. And on January 1st I woke up resolved to be my own Green Place.

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Dead Man | Jim Jarmusch | 1995

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I am nobody.

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JUNK FOOD: The Mogwai variant.

The movie that best captures the complicated emotions surrounding Xmas is - in my haughty humble opinion - Gremlins. There’s snow, and carols, and Santa hats, and cookies, all of which ultimately take a backseat to unfolding disasters, and latent trauma. As the titular creatures wreak havoc on the teeny-tiny snowglobe of a town, our main characters each get a moment of reflection, of reckoning. We learn of deaths, desertions and disappointments that each character has masked under a pastiche of loud sweaters and prescribed holiday fare; just like Gizmo they each have a darker side that is barely kept in check. The holiday veneer becomes grotesque as even their thinly-veiled issues must take a backseat to the literal invasion of deadly organisms outside their doors.

Which brings me to Xmas 2021.

The holidays are tricky anyway for me as I think about those who are no longer here. But this year (kind of like last year) I’ll be remembering my people and trying to keep my chin up apart from my family. My gorgeous boyfriend and I have determined it is not prudent, nor safe to expose our respective families to anything outside their biomes—we’re vaxxed and masked, but Omicron don’t care—so we’ll be staying put in our stupid little house. So this year I’ll be missing the folks who are gone, as well as those I’m glad are still around.

The scary, tricksy Gremlins that beset the little Xmas town had one agenda, two action items: 1. Multiply. 2. Mayhem. I am predisposed to being super cautious, and have seen enough movies to know that there is no amount of fake snow, dubbed caroling, or bad dialogue that will trump a bad decision in the face of catastrophe. So even though I’ll be missing just about everyone this weekend, I’d rather stay put and hunker, than risk missing even more folks next year.

Happy Holidays, all. Here’s hoping 2022 is less dumb.

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Feeling those Friday vibes

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Still feeling ‘em.

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JUNK FOOD: Primo, Secondo, and Kummerspeck

Dear Readers: Hi, my name is RJ and I have food issues. [all: Hi, RJ.] These are compounded by trauma and loss I’ve been trying to process for the past ten years. For the first five of those years (and much of 2021) I used food to soothe my sad brain and weepy heart, and my body embraced this tack and very happily clung to the extra hundred pounds with which I was insulating myself. So, yes, I felt “better” but my coping mechanism clearly wasn’t a secret. Food was my comfort, and my shame.

My years-long deep depression took years to manage, and I am still trying to establish a healthy relationship with food that is separate and distinct from my mental state. I’m proud to report I had lost all that kummerspeck (German: “grief bacon,” or, mourning weight) pre-Covid, and have only backslid about 30 pounds from my svelte winter 2019 bod.

But the past two years have not been easy or kind to the 99% and these days my junk food movies are often accompanied by actual junk food, albeit homemade. The comfort and shame I’d felt from food in my deepest depression has morphed into pride, and anxiety over filling my house with bread, pasta, and pies; I make all these things and make them super well and then eat them. Even my gorgeous boyfriend and his hulking frame has had to say, Thanks but No Thanks, to yet another treat delivery, so I’m “forced” to eat the homemade pop tarts, or biscuits, or tagliatelle.

But the satisfaction of making the simple and delicious food is cut with sadness, and the complicated emotions that surround actually eating that food. Thanksgiving, of course, brings these issues to the front of my brain but this year I resolved to pepper my dishes with gratitude. Even though managing my mental health is extremely challenging, I have tried to cook and bake and eat the food with intention, and love; I no longer season with disappointment.

I will let Stanley Tucci and Tony Shalhoub say it better than I ever could in the dialogue-less final scene from 1996’s Big Night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oerP7FRMWa8

(For those interested in hearing me talk about something other than movies and my issues, I will be participating in a zoom reading on Friday, Dec. 3 @ 6pm from my new book, A Century of Swindles: Ponzi Schemes, Con Men and Fraudsters, hosted by the Lodi Whittier Library in central New York. Registration is required, which you can do HERE.)

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JUNK FOOD: Rosebud by Proxy

I had a nickname as a kid that resurfaced in college: Stuff Girl. My love for my things was evident, it seems, and only slightly less obvious was my compulsion to be prepared. Even as a young kid I would invariably be dragging a bag of stuff—books, blankets, toy horses, my rock collection: the essentials—because carrying the things seemed to keep the anxiety over being unprepared (and, by extension, irresponsible) at arm’s length. I would have rather cried in pain because my bag was too heavy than rage with self-loathing because I’d forgotten something I’d really needed.

I’m half tempted to unpack this. I don’t think of my childhood being financially insecure so whence this fixation on preparedness? But, like, fantasy preparedness; to this day my sisters make fun of me for, at one time, carrying both a lime and a golf ball in my purse. I don’t feel quite as silly, or quite as burdened these days, but I still wonder about Stuff Girl’s origin story.

I suspect it involves two famous acquisitors: Charles Foster Kane, and Baron Munchausen. I’m tempted to whisper “Rosebud” while carefully dusting a snow globe and call it a day, though the keyword in the Savage Stuff Girl version would be closer to “Baron.” I have held a deep fascination with the Baron and his Adventures for as long as I can remember but, unlike my other junk food movies, I do not regularly engage with the 1988 Terry Gilliam version these days (especially since learning about Gilliam’s case of foot-in-mouth disease). My memories of watching the tape and thinking about the story have supplanted the need for the physical VHS which, one could argue, is an appropriately meta response to the Munchausen stories about confabulation, misremembering, and not-so-subtle co-opting. In the basement of my mental Xanadu lays an aged videotape with a fading, handwritten label curling at the edges that reads, “The Adventures of Baron Munchausen.” Tucked invisibly inside the tape is Stuff Girl’s central worry that her needs will be a burden to others.

But Stuff Girl’s mental Xanadu is still standing and fire-free, thank you very much, and I’m finally comfortable with the number of physical things I own to help me feel prepared.

And, yes, that includes the Munchausen tape that I don’t even watch anymore.

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1978 Star Wars vaccination ad

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And also with you.

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Life imitates art.

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And I DO like it!

Uncanny.

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A serious case of the Mondays.