Malibu ... Getty Villa

It's hard to beat sunset in Malibu, right? Meetings, or friends, or visits to the parents take me to Malibu once or twice a week. It's a nice respite to drive along PCH at sunset, grab some dinner and drinks, and just get out of the city. Malibu is slowly recovering from the fire that wiped out a church, one faux castle, and several dozen homes last year. There are blackened trees and chaparral all along Malibu Canyon as one would expect, but some greenery is sprouting nicely, along with an ersatz circus-like Presbyterian tent church that has been raised. There aren't a whole lot of churches in Malibu, but there are many empty lots with cement slab foundations exposing where once beautiful and expensive homes sat staring at the Pacific surf. The church, though, has the best view of all. Well, maybe Pepperdine has a better view ... if we're being honest.

Growing up where we did, we expected a serious brushfire every few years to sweep through our backyard and head down to the ocean, usually

pushed along by those Santa Ana winds in October. Behind our house was part of the Santa Monica mountains where we would hike and chase the cattle that used to graze on Bob Hope's land. The "cowboys" that showed up every few months or so riding their horses, would tell us that they'd give us a candy bar if we chased their "herd" for them back to their holding pen. We never got any candy bars out of our cow-poking days, but we loved it nonetheless. Can you imagine three or four 8 yr-old and 10 yr-old boys grabbing sticks and whacking those fat behinds of those beasts of burden, kicking cow-pies all the way back home, trying to litearlly (and liberally) cover the next guy in cow dung. Almost seems like two lifetimes ago, you know? Two very smelly, stinky lifetimes ago.

My folks still live in a housing development (39 years and counting) just off the canyon that leads to Malibu. When I was younger, my friends and I would regularly make a right instead of the left that would have/should have taken us on Mulholland highway to our senior year of high school. Instead, 8 minutes of driving that winding, serpentine road later, we were lying in the sun, listening to AC/DC's Back in Black with no one else in sight.

So, yesterday I spent the afternoon at the Getty Villa in Malibu, and there spied all sorts of couplings. The young lesbian couple (I think one woman was a local WNBA player) with one chica

very much into the date, and the other not so much. The enthusiastic half of this date whispered to her friend, "Look there," as she pointed to an older gay couple, "they're holding hands." Her entreaties were falling on deaf or perhaps inhibited ears. When they left, the enthralled 6'3" half of the date flattened their potato chip bags and laid them one on top of the other; her friend just smiled an awkward smile. I thought that was a bit aggressive, if you know what I mean, but sweet. The museum is a great place for a first or ninety-first date. One very well-known individual (50-ish male) was canoodling with a woman at the top of the amphitheater overlooking the entrance. They both were dressed as if they were going to present a paper at a conference. Maybe they were.

There were also dozens of foreign visitors with their families in tow. I always wonder what these well-traveled folks think about our L.A. museums. We're getting better, in my opinion, and Getty Villa is a great little collection of Greek and Roman antiquity. The must-see portion of the Villa, without a doubt, is J. Paul's favorite piece, for which he basically built the museum to house it, viz., the statue of Herakles. The Getty built a "temple" commensurate with the piece's value. Really, very impressive, I must say. Herakles was the Michael Jordan of his day, as any son of Zeus should be. He was depicted on many household items and items of commerce, which, of course, are today's antiquities. Some day -- maybe a million days from now -- Michael Jordan will be featured in the buff on some terracotta urn with his junk poking out for all the visitors to the Chilean Nacional Museo de Fine Arts to ogle (in a millenia or so, Chile will be immensely wealthy because the length of one's border will determine GDP, and then they'll be able to afford such prized pieces as the MJ "nude with junk out").

Before heading up the canyon to see my friends, I stopped -- as is my wont in my dotage -- at The Coffee Bean for a vanilla latte with an extra shot. I backed my MKX into the parking spot, and over the beep-beep-beeping of my rear bumper sensors, I couldn't help but notice Ryan O'Neal talking rather obviously with a much younger woman. If you're a (minor) celeb (these days), and you don't want to be noticed, don't have a disagreement with a person of the opposite sex, then take a call mid-sentence/finger-point and talk rather loudly on your cell, and then lavish public displays of affection. They eventually walked off to Pacific Blue for some make-up shopping, and I pretended I didn't see anything, as we Angelinos affect that we're-too-inured-with-Hollywood to notice such triflings as celebrities. Ryan, btw, just signed for a several episode story arc on the retread of 90210.

After walking contentedly with my extra-hot latte back to my ride, I encountered a group of young toughs standing in front of my Lincoln. "Yo, don't scratch the MKX!" I wanted to shout at the handful of attractive co-eds about to hop into their Prius. (Hey, this is Malibu, and young toughs come in all shapes and sizes.) I eyed the lot of the 19-20 year old females warily as I approached. I opened my door with all the swagger I could muster without spilling my latte and noticed Jennifer Tilly leaving Nobu with her gal pal and several shopping bags. I've seen Jennifer in Vegas, at the airport, and in

Malibu, and each time she is the epitome of the anti-celeb. Young Hollywood could take a note. Girl could care less about anything, except for maybe poker these days (btw, she was great in Bullets Over Broadway). The five young girls resembled a circus clown act and piled giggling into the diminutive Prius with reckless abandon, but then a thunderous roar next to them startled us all. "Hey, Felicity, why don't you ride with me?!" From two cars over a Ferrari California passenger door was thrown open, and young leggy Felicity jumped into the black Ferrari (my dream car, if we're still being honest), with young Adonis at the wheel. Needless to say, Dear Reader, going to college in Malibu has some very distinct advantages.

Anyway, yeah, Malibu is great. There was a "swell" working the California coast, so the surf was great and the beaches were loaded with wetsuit-wearing Barney's and Betty's. The Malibu market was packed with young families playing on the climbing frames and swings, and very expensive sports cars were driven off by young Greek demigods.

Share |

2009 Movies in Review

With so many year-end best-of lists demanding our attention, I thought FatScribe should also jump into the white noise of film criticism to provide one more (vapid?) voice evaluating the Top 20 films of 2009. (note: if you want to see how a pro does it, here's Roger Ebert's list.) So, here goes, my list of the best of the best for you, Dear Reader:

1. An Education -- This soon-to-be-classic film set in London stars Carey Mulligan as a school girl who falls for an older man (Peter Sarsgaard) and his charms and great taste in restaurants, music, and art. Education also stars Alfred Molina who should earn a best-supporting nom for his role as the coquettish girl's father. You'll love the soundtrack and the Edith Head-inspired wardrobes.

2. Star Trek -- "The Franchise" (as they call it over at Paramount) got a reboot from J.J. Abrams with a terrific script by writers Robert Orci and Alex Kurtzman. The story was taut and each of the new Spock's, Kirk's, and McCoy's performances were great. Almost $400million cume can't be wrong. Plus, Simon Pegg was in it, c'mon!

3. Fantastic Mr. Fox -- I'm always a sucker for Wes Anderson's latest offerings, and he's back with this adapted work from Roald Dahl's classic children's story. The stop-action film works for adults and kids alike, and it will be in our home collection for repeated viewings. George Clooney is great; I hope Wes's next project is live-action though.

4. In the Loop -- Amazing bit of film-making. Seriously. It is both hysterically funny and offensive (offensively hysterical?). For those of us that love public policy and the nasty, icky stuff called politics ("making sausage" never looked so pleasant thank you Mr. Bismarck), In the Loop is a must-see. Peter Capaldi and Tom Hollander (a FatScribe favorite) are terrific as British wonks who come to America to work the rooms in DC and the UN at the bidding of their Prime Minister's statecraft needs. One caveat: pound for pound, word for word, this script has more swearing per page than any I have ever read of seen.

5. A Serious Man -- The Coen Brothers are at it again. This film is a study of one Jewish man's world and examines if sleet or snow or crap storm of life will stop this serious man from his routine. Serious Man asks what a post-modern Job would do if faced with a cheating bitch of a wife and a borderline schizo brother (with a boil on his neck that never drains) routinely planted on his couch. Contretemps abound for this man, and the ending shot is just a gem.

6. Avatar -- This movie will go down as the most anticipated film of all time. It is a cinematic masterpiece that unfortunately is also coeval in its triteness and liberalness. James Cameron weaves a story of corporate (US military) bad guys who stumble headlong into a meta narrative replete with aboriginal innocents and a Gaea-Oedipus complex so profound it tries one's credulity. But ... the stunning visuals. The seamless motion-capture technology. The wonderful acting. My 12 yr-old leaned over to me during the show and said, "Dad, this is the most amazing film I've ever seen." I will see this again, but this time in 3-D IMAX. $800million box office and counting. Update: Avatar is the fastest film to hit $1billion (17 days). Only Cameron's Titanic can hold it back currently sitting at around $1.84billion box office.

7. Broken Embraces -- Pedro Almodovar is a stud. A gay stud to be sure, but a stud, auteur filmmaker nonetheless who just happens to love breasts. He has a thing for Penelope Cruz (and her breasts), and she shines in this movie like never before. Broken Embraces is three movies rolled into one giant carne asada burrito of a film. It's a film about a film being made, while also being documented by a jealous husband's son. It is certainly complicated (muy complicado), and in Spanish with subtitles to-boot, but if you love film as I do, this is one for the cineaste in all of us.

8. Bright Star -- Technically I have four foreign films represented here in my Top-10 if you include Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I just can't help myself, I am a film snob after all (as many of my friends will attest). This Jane Campion film is about John Keats and his (very) slow death by consumption and his one great muse. Abbie Cornish plays Keats's muse, and is another fine example of an Aussie actor that chews up the scenery with her most excellent chops.

"Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a  sweet unrest ..."

Almost sounds like an Almodovar dialog for Penelope Cruz, but alas, no, that bit of verse was Keats himself from his poem, "Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast."

9. Where the Wild Things Are -- This one is for my kids. I felt this movie was a bit too dark, but then again, the book wasn't the most sanguine either. At Johnny Rocket's eating a cheeseburger after viewing Wild Things, I asked the boys if they were moved by the movie. They both admitted that they cried several times during the intense moments. I love my boys for their honesty and honest emotions.

10. The Hangover -- Funny. Crass. Well-shot. The Director of Photography, Lawrence Sher (Dan in Real Life), did a terrific job here. He took what is typically handled with barely-a-care forethought for this genre, and lit each shot commensurate with a film of a much deeper storyline. The actors are great, and there is one scene where the dentist of the friends (The Daily Show and The Office regular, Ed Helms) wakes up and walks four feet before sitting down again. It was so painful to watch because it is just spot-on and reminded me of one all-nighter I had in South Beach that lasted 5 days. I laugh every time I see it. OMG! Forgot to mention: the raunchy B-roll shown in the ending credits does not receive the "Family Seal of Approval" nor my endorsement!! You have been warned. Todd Phillips (who also directed Road Trip, one film that had me laughing from beginning to end) just nailed this one, the highest-grossing R-rated film of all-time at almost $500million.

Honorable Mention

Me and Orson Welles -- Almost in the Top 10, but just shy. Never thought I'd ever write these words, but Zac Efron can act. Christian McKay channels Orson Welles scary good. I loved Citizen Kane (probably my no. 1 all-time greatest movie; right up there with It's a Wonderful Life), and this movie is set about 4-5 years before Citizen Kane was made. Richard Linklater (Dazed and Confused, Before Sunrise) handles this period piece with a deft touch and a sack full of love. Me and Orson highlights the behind-the-scenes shenanigans of Mercury Theater's newest play Caesar. It reminded me of My Favorite Year quite a bit.

District 9 -- If you haven't seen this movie, do yourself a favor and rent it. It rocked when I saw it the first time, and the second and third times I saw it dragging friends to see it with me. It is very violent, but so original (which is sorely lacking in Hollywood these days, the originality, not the violence) that it receives my imprimatur regardless.

9 (not Nine) -- This post-apocalyptic animated film was perfect for my two sons (12 and 9). They both were frightened and thrilled with the action sequences. It works on many levels, and the animation is fantastic. Worth it.

Extract -- Mike Judge wrote and directed this wonderfully dark comedy about the business world in the form of a business owner (Jason Bateman) who sets in motion the machinations that possibly end his marriage and his burgeoning business in one fell swoop. This is one film with Ben Affleck (since Good Will Hunting) that I didn't want to walk out on.

It's Complicated -- Alec Baldwin and Meryl Streep. Need I say more? But, I will. It's not great filmmaking, but it works for me. Shot in Santa Barbara, where everyone is rich with a cool job that they love, driving their hip cars, and all their kids are smart and off to very good colleges. This Nancy Meyers (Something's Gotta Give) film has her requisite production design quality on display, evincing homes that we all want to live in, framed with perfectly-aged actors acting their wonderful ages for all of us to finally realize it's okay to be paunchy, middle-aged, and beautiful. Like I said, a fun bit of celluloid escapism for the afternoon.

Inglourious Basterds -- Not my favorite director, but Quentin Tarantino can make a movie. It's historicism at its finest (a la Oliver Stone), where Tarantino imagines the "real" facts behind WWII and a band of Nazi-killing G.I. brothers.

A Single Man -- Will probably win an Oscar for something. Director Tom Ford has a terrific eye, and we can expect him to develop into a fine filmmaker if he wants it.

Hurt Locker -- Will probably win an Oscar for best-picture, but it's not my choice. Tension-filled film that has powerful performances as brought out by director Kathryn Bigelow. She's made a good one here.

Think I left one or more off of the list? I purposely left off two spots for your choices, Dear Reader ... leave us your pithy comments for 2009 films that should have been listed supra!

Share |

L.A. Rain

rain.

standing outside your car, maxwell playing on the stereo, doors open, arms up, and rain on your long eyelashes. sumthin' sumthin' lashes reaching touching

us.

sorry is not your word, moving on is your world, not looking back, save for that once upon a time story i see in your eyes. something of what could have

been.

still see you, still see us, at the museo de espana, arms up, dancing those sevillanas, around a forgotten reflection in the plaza pool. listening to

sam cooke.

Share |

1979 ... The Summer Between

Languid onshore breezes are blowing this afternoon here in Los Angeles. The palm trees, some 100 feet tall, grow with a certain katana blade shape because of these winds. As sometimes happens on windy days, I think back to earlier childhood times. It's the rustling of the wind in the fronds that sort of lulls me to daydreaming, and remembering, and ignoring the article I'm supposed to write (for JustLuxe.com); the one that sits on my desk, mocking me, waiting for another ham-fisted attempt by yours truly. What shook loose from the palm trees today, though, was a memory from 30 years ago. The summer of 1979 was an odd and ungainly one, transformative for me and my friends in a lot of ways.

This was the summer going from jr. high to high school. When bodies became long and thin, and parents worried a bit more about where you were, what you were doing, and more importantly, whom you were with. This was the summer/era of going from disco to punk, Carter to Reagan, from boyhood to wanting manhood. From innocent indolence to focused fury of pubescence.

Most of the time during the summer of 1979 I worried about being "big" enough to play football (my dad said I wasn't allowed to play b/c he thought I was too small. I can actually remember exactly where we were as I teared-up silently, staring out our Cutlass Olds). My core friends didn't play football, so I didn't perseverate on the topic too long because they wouldn't hear of it anyway. I was able to participate in the other things we were doing that summer -- like playing poker late into the night; camping out in backyards; swimming in pools and at the beach; joy-riding on my brother's Ducatti when my parents were in Europe; sneaking out and riding skateboards at 2am when my parents were sleeping in their room upstairs above mine -- and decided to let my body determine on its own if I was going to be able to make the team (which I finally would, thank God).

A huge pastime, obsession, constant reminder for us, as one could imagine, was girls. Just about anything to do with girls was on our minds: our best friend's sisters, their moms, the lady who gave out cookie samples at Von's Grocery, the Farah Fawcett poster (RIP -- the actress not the poster). We had several very mature freshman/sophomores who (unfortunately for them and fortunate for us) weren't old enough to drive and so had to stick around our neighborhood in the canyon that led to Malibu, nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains like a kitten in the crook of an avacado green couch.

One of the girls who received our affection and attention was the niece of a legendary rock band drummer (who would die the next year, as all rock drummers seemed to be doing back then). She had a sizable German Shepherd who needed to be walked every day, twice a day, on account of the rather sizable "her-shitza-poopoos" (as they say in doggie German) that her mom was getting tired of cleaning up.

Ms. Barbie, with her shock of auburn hair, would walk that dog up and around the hilly streets of our tract, and the half-dozen of us boys reported on her whereabouts as regular militia spying on enemy troop movements. Whether we were playing football, shooting hoops, riding our skateboards up the 10 ft ramp we built at the end of the cul-de-sac, or just sitting on the wall next to the pomegranate tree eating our purloined fruit, when she would sashay by, we would think up any excuse to make small talk with her. We even tried try to shake her hand with our purple stained fingers, and she'd just sort of laugh at us. Now that we were all good and embarrassed, she'd keep walking, telling her dog jokingly, "watch 'em!" Looking back to 1979, that was not a bad way for a matriculating 8th grader to spend a summer.

The other girl was Tammy. Tammy looked 23. When you're 13, and somebody looks 23 ... well, let's just say nobody ever talked to Tammy. Not even the next year when she became a water girl for the football teams. Tammy was TNT, nitroglycerin, and C4 all rolled into one sophomore ordinance shell. She was rarely around because the junior and seniors routinely picked her up to go to the beach. She'd wave, though. Just sort of smile, shake her blond hair, and flick her fingers in our direction. Either she was waving, or something was stuck on her finger. I think she liked being noticed, and was probably waving to us, even if it was a silent soliloquy of "so long, suckers." And we were. Suckers. For her and for Ms. Barbie.

1979 was the year that "Magic" Johnson won the NCAA basketball championship (and was coming to L.A. to start showtime) and John "the Duke" Wayne passed away. That year, 1979 and thereabouts, was weird because there was a couple of serial killers on the loose in Southern California. One was targeting women, and the other young boys. The police found the body of one 14 or 15 yr-old boy in a dumpster at the end of the street by where we rode our skateboards. I can't remember exactly the order of these events, but it happened something like this, I swear. We (3 or 4 of us) were riding in an old abandoned skatepark near the 101 fwy, and a creepster dude stopped his VW van and asked if he could take some pictures. Nick (who looked like Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) said "sure" and proceeded to take his shirt off like a total a-hole and ride around one of the bowls (looks like an empty swimming pool) working up a good lather of sweat. Greg and myself (and I think my little brother) immediately got out of the bowl and told Nick to "Come on, dude! We gotta go!!" Nick, thank God, eventually got out and came over to where the rest of us were standing with disbelief on our faces. We then ran like hell to get back home, thinking we saw that VW van at every turn and corner. That night I happened to tell my friend John about the creepy-creep; his dad (unbeknownst to me) happened to be on a special California task force looking for this serial killer of young boys. Before the next morning, every kid at that old skatepark had been interviewed by the task force, the vehicle identified, and the creepster photog taken in for questioning.

Turns out he wasn't the guy, but, thank God, they did manage to catch the guy. He was convicted and became one of the first murderers to be put-down by the renewed death penalty in California.

That summer was also noticeable for the slow, yet rhythmic death of disco (you could dance to it). People were actually spray painting "disco" with an exclamation on the bottom of stop signs, reading "STOP disco!" Music is such an important conduit for transporting us back to those sepia memories of our youth. I actually like certain disco again, e.g., KC and the Sunshine Band ("party hand" in the air, y'all!). That summer of 1979 also showed the remarkable growth of punk. Man, did I love the music of the late 70's and early 80's: The Ramones, The Police, Devo, The Buggles, The Talking Heads, The Cars, X, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Steely Dan.

Those awkward moments of junior high were about to become awkward years in high school. When the Ayatollah would toss out a Shah, and an actor would toss out a peanut farmer from the presidency. When the West would begin to face the challenge of radical Islam. The times were changing with Disco, the "Duke," and avocado green and burnt orange interior design colors all passing their stale dates. KROQ was becoming cool, yuppies were being born like litters of puppies, and interest rates were starting to come back down to earth. Everything was old, yet it all was new, too. Good ole 1979.

Share |