I recently had the opportunity to write for a great site run by two of the greatest guys I know. The site is called Film Informants ( https://www.facebook.com/FilmInformants) and I would highly recommend checking it out if you're a movie enthusiast. A big thanks to Adam and Jeremy for giving the opportunity to clog up their awesome blog with my snarky ranting. I appreciate the opportunity and as always, you guys rock. Anyway, this is what I wrote:
I'm a movie fanatic. Comedies, dramas, documentaries, I love it all.
But for quite some time now I've been noticing a disturbing trend. Hollywood has gotten, for lack of a better word, lazy. The movie industry is becoming less and less creative and no one even cares. And it shows.
Practically everything these days is a remake of a classic, in hopes of marketing the same story to a new generation, otherwise known as utilizing a billion dollar budget on a stale story performed by sub-par actors. Everything from The Karate Kid, to Footloose, to 21 Jump Street have been remade over the last couple of years, and they never hold a candle to the originals (Replacing Ralph Macchio with Jayden Smith?! OH the humanity!). It recently made news that Michael Bay took on the project of remaking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which put him squarely in the number one spot on my hit list as I have no doubt that he will take a classic staple of my childhood and turn it into nothing more than creepy CGI turtles blowing shit up. I honestly cringe at the thought of all of the great movies that will someday be remade into limp reproductions of the amazing originals. I'll put it this way, if Michael Bay (or anyone else for that matter) decides to redo "The Breakfast Club", I might never watch another movie again as long as I live.
There's also been an increased interest in making books into movies, though this has been, for the most part, considerably more successful than the remakes. 2011's 'The Help' was, in my opinion, one of the best book-to-movie adaptations I've seen in awhile and it managed to pull in a respectable 169 million dollars domestically. This, of course, is a small number compared to the hype-machines that are Twilight ('Eclipse' was it's highest grosser, bringing in 300 million domestically) and The Hunger Games (393 million domestically and still going strong in a dollar theater near you), which honestly may have been one of the worst book-to-movie adaptations I've ever seen (Come on! They didn't even explain the rules of the games! I adored the books, but I'm sorry, the movie broke my literary heart and I could probably go on about my disappointment forever. Don't worry, I won't). But book adaptations, no matter how successful they are or aren't, still seem like a bit of a cop out to me. When you begin with a book, the story has already been written for you and there's usually a decent following so just add a spoonful of hype and a dash of Zack Efron and you have a recipe for a successful movie, insofar as "successful" means teenage girls will flock to it and it will make a respectable amount of money.
Hollywood's third and final tool to avoid doing any actual work is the wide wonderful world of sequels. Despite the fact that it's been ten years since Men In Black 2, they're back with Men In Black 3. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm guessing it involves gooey, creepy looking space creatures, erasing memories, and clever Will Smith one-liners, much like its predecessors. Okay fine, I'll probably see it, but only because I'm a child of the 90s and therefore can't resist the temptation of spending a couple of hours with Will Smith (what IS it about that guy??). With the upcoming releases of Ice Age 4 and Madagascar 3, it's obvious that creatively, Hollywood isn't doing much better in the kid's department. In other words, when in doubt, just continue with a story that you already know people like and will pay to go see. Success!
Maybe I'm just cynical, but when you take all these things and couple them with the fact that a movie costs around $12 per person unless you go before 2 PM, it doesn't exactly make me want to sprint to the movie theater for just anything. A worthwhile movie needs a well-written plot, decent actors, nice cinematography or at the very least, a shirtless Bradley Cooper. Not to mention the fact that for us, actually getting out and going to a movie is a rare date night and involves finding a baby sitter and engaging in beauty regiments that don't involve sticking my wet hair out of a car window and letting nature do all the work. So it has to be worth it and frankly these days it's usually not.
If I sound bitter, it's only because I am. I remember the good old days when I anxiously bit my nails throughout the Oscars because I wanted all of the movies to win, as opposed to these days when I either a) Have never even heard of the nominated movie or b) Have no desire to watch the nominated movie. I miss going to a movie and wishing I could immediately watch it all over again as soon as it ends. I miss the days when a trip to Redbox didn't feel like a tedious chore of sifting through hundreds of straight-to-DVD choices before I realize that I am wasting my time. Most of all, I miss the days of not sounding like a 90 year-old reminiscing about the "good old days" when it comes to film. I just miss the excitement of a great movie, one that doesn't need to be the top story on every talk show to convince me I want to go see it. I just want to see something that lives up to the expectations I have for it. I want to see something that isn't a slightly different version of a movie I've already seen, a crappy adaptation, or yet another sequel. I want to be impressed. Actually, I just want to see something that doesn't suck.
Come on Hollywood, is that so much to ask?
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The Boob Heard Around The World
Let's talk about boobs. Specifically, these boobs:
Unsurprisingly, I have some thoughts on what has now undoubtedly become one of the most controversial magazine covers of all time, but before we get to that, I want to share a story with you guys.
When I was pregnant with Layla I, like most women who are pregnant with their first child, was thrilled and excited about all of the things I'd be able to do, including breastfeeding. I read every baby/parenting book I could get my hands on and spent nine months preparing to transform myself into the best mom ever. I figured I would breastfeed for at least a year and then make my own baby food. I hadn't even laid eyes on my baby yet, but I wanted to do everything in my power to give her every advantage possible, beginning on day one. All of my books said "breast was best", so breast it was.
Unfortunately, it turned out that nature had other plans.
I'll spare you all the specifics, but after three weeks of trying to breastfeed, trying different pumps, teas, ointments, herbal remedies, positioning the baby at every angle known to mankind and endless consultations with various (often frustrated) lactation specialists, I was diagnosed with lactation failure, a condition in which you physically can't produce milk no matter how hard you try, that effects about 15% of women in the United States. As a die-hard perfectionist and overachiever, the word failure clung to me like a bad smell. I started Layla on formula (because frankly, a kid's gotta eat) and would cry every time I fed her. So much for being the perfect mom. She was brand new and I felt like I had already failed her. Shame doesn't even begin to cover what I felt.
As is the case with most things in life, my defective boob situation got worse before it got better.
I was one of the first of my friends to get married and have kids and as a result found myself pretty isolated and invariably privy to the random moms of the playground, doctor's office and grocery store, women who would physically shudder when they saw a can of formula, whom I later dubbed "the Boob Nazis". I was years away from the tight-knit group of mom friends I have now, years away from sympathetic ears and examples of both breast and bottle feeding done right. Back when Layla was born, I was more or less on my own and the Boob Nazis of the world had no qualms about telling me how wrong my choice to not breastfeed was, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a choice. And I heard everything from "you're just being lazy" to "I would rather leave my baby with a serial killer than feed him formula" (yes, someone actually said that to me. To my face. But that one was so ridiculous that I had to laugh it off). The cruelest comment was hurled at me when Layla was about nine months old by a woman at the park with three kids crammed into a two-seater stroller who, when I tried to justify the bottle I was feeding my baby said "It's shouldn't be called lactation failure. It should be called motherhood failure". That one, I'm sad to say, I didn't laugh off.
By the time Ben came, I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't change my own personal biology and that was okay. If I woke up one morning and decided that I wanted to be six inches shorter, people would tell me that it was impossible and I was crazy for thinking I could do it, so why should my ability (or lack thereof) to breastfeed be any different? It had taken a few years, but my skin was thicker and my resolution was strong. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I no longer felt like a walking target, I was no longer treated like one.
So, by now you're probably wondering what that long rant had to do with the cover of Time Magazine and here it is. Within the first ten seconds of seeing the cover of the magazine, a line from one of my favorite songs popped into my head; "The steel-eyed, tight jaw say it all". In other words, the look on her face is defiant, challenging you to disagree with her, encouraging you to compare yourself to her and find yourself lacking, a Boob Nazi at her finest. The title underneath her ("Are you mom enough") is frankly the icing on the shit cake. It implies that this woman who is parading her child across an International magazine is a better mom because she continues to selflessly breastfeed her child.. I don't think she is a better mom and I definitely don't think her actions can fall into the selfless category anymore. In fact, I think that, if anything, she's exploiting her child for the sake of pushing her own agenda. Breastfeeding is fantastic, but at a certain point it doesn't really benefit a child anymore, not to mention the fact that it's just plain creepy to see someone who's old enough to write their name and ride a bike on a magazine with a mouthful of ta-ta. I question exactly how much she was thinking of her child by agreeing to be on this cover. Did she stop to think about how this will literally follow him around for his entire life? If he ever runs for a political office, this will definitely come back to haunt him. When he gets married and his best man gives a speech at the rehearsal dinner, $100 says he shows this picture. He'll be teased at school and ridiculed for God knows how long. And for what? So she can prove she's super mom? Ha!
My bottom line is this: Motherhood is not a competitive sport and I am so incredibly sick of seeing it treated like one. Showing someone up, outdoing someone, or telling a perfect stranger in a grocery store or park that they are a failure as a mother because they aren't doing things the way you did them is simply not okay. I'm deeply offended by this magazine cover, not because of the act of breastfeeding itself, but because it facilitates the debate that this is a black and white, right or wrong issue. It's not. In fact, I challenge Time Magazine to do an alternative cover, with healthy, active bottle fed kids. To acknowledge the fact that lactation failure exists, or that parents who adopt have to formula feed or that how you feed your baby is your choice (because it is a choice, Boob Nazis of the world) and what really matters is that you are a loving, caring parent who is taking care of your child to the best of your abilities. The lesson that took me years to learn is that as long as my kids think I'm a good mom, that's enough for me.
I am "Mom Enough" and my kids, not what they drank as infants, are the proof.
When I was pregnant with Layla I, like most women who are pregnant with their first child, was thrilled and excited about all of the things I'd be able to do, including breastfeeding. I read every baby/parenting book I could get my hands on and spent nine months preparing to transform myself into the best mom ever. I figured I would breastfeed for at least a year and then make my own baby food. I hadn't even laid eyes on my baby yet, but I wanted to do everything in my power to give her every advantage possible, beginning on day one. All of my books said "breast was best", so breast it was.
Unfortunately, it turned out that nature had other plans.
I'll spare you all the specifics, but after three weeks of trying to breastfeed, trying different pumps, teas, ointments, herbal remedies, positioning the baby at every angle known to mankind and endless consultations with various (often frustrated) lactation specialists, I was diagnosed with lactation failure, a condition in which you physically can't produce milk no matter how hard you try, that effects about 15% of women in the United States. As a die-hard perfectionist and overachiever, the word failure clung to me like a bad smell. I started Layla on formula (because frankly, a kid's gotta eat) and would cry every time I fed her. So much for being the perfect mom. She was brand new and I felt like I had already failed her. Shame doesn't even begin to cover what I felt.
As is the case with most things in life, my defective boob situation got worse before it got better.
I was one of the first of my friends to get married and have kids and as a result found myself pretty isolated and invariably privy to the random moms of the playground, doctor's office and grocery store, women who would physically shudder when they saw a can of formula, whom I later dubbed "the Boob Nazis". I was years away from the tight-knit group of mom friends I have now, years away from sympathetic ears and examples of both breast and bottle feeding done right. Back when Layla was born, I was more or less on my own and the Boob Nazis of the world had no qualms about telling me how wrong my choice to not breastfeed was, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a choice. And I heard everything from "you're just being lazy" to "I would rather leave my baby with a serial killer than feed him formula" (yes, someone actually said that to me. To my face. But that one was so ridiculous that I had to laugh it off). The cruelest comment was hurled at me when Layla was about nine months old by a woman at the park with three kids crammed into a two-seater stroller who, when I tried to justify the bottle I was feeding my baby said "It's shouldn't be called lactation failure. It should be called motherhood failure". That one, I'm sad to say, I didn't laugh off.
By the time Ben came, I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't change my own personal biology and that was okay. If I woke up one morning and decided that I wanted to be six inches shorter, people would tell me that it was impossible and I was crazy for thinking I could do it, so why should my ability (or lack thereof) to breastfeed be any different? It had taken a few years, but my skin was thicker and my resolution was strong. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I no longer felt like a walking target, I was no longer treated like one.
So, by now you're probably wondering what that long rant had to do with the cover of Time Magazine and here it is. Within the first ten seconds of seeing the cover of the magazine, a line from one of my favorite songs popped into my head; "The steel-eyed, tight jaw say it all". In other words, the look on her face is defiant, challenging you to disagree with her, encouraging you to compare yourself to her and find yourself lacking, a Boob Nazi at her finest. The title underneath her ("Are you mom enough") is frankly the icing on the shit cake. It implies that this woman who is parading her child across an International magazine is a better mom because she continues to selflessly breastfeed her child.. I don't think she is a better mom and I definitely don't think her actions can fall into the selfless category anymore. In fact, I think that, if anything, she's exploiting her child for the sake of pushing her own agenda. Breastfeeding is fantastic, but at a certain point it doesn't really benefit a child anymore, not to mention the fact that it's just plain creepy to see someone who's old enough to write their name and ride a bike on a magazine with a mouthful of ta-ta. I question exactly how much she was thinking of her child by agreeing to be on this cover. Did she stop to think about how this will literally follow him around for his entire life? If he ever runs for a political office, this will definitely come back to haunt him. When he gets married and his best man gives a speech at the rehearsal dinner, $100 says he shows this picture. He'll be teased at school and ridiculed for God knows how long. And for what? So she can prove she's super mom? Ha!
My bottom line is this: Motherhood is not a competitive sport and I am so incredibly sick of seeing it treated like one. Showing someone up, outdoing someone, or telling a perfect stranger in a grocery store or park that they are a failure as a mother because they aren't doing things the way you did them is simply not okay. I'm deeply offended by this magazine cover, not because of the act of breastfeeding itself, but because it facilitates the debate that this is a black and white, right or wrong issue. It's not. In fact, I challenge Time Magazine to do an alternative cover, with healthy, active bottle fed kids. To acknowledge the fact that lactation failure exists, or that parents who adopt have to formula feed or that how you feed your baby is your choice (because it is a choice, Boob Nazis of the world) and what really matters is that you are a loving, caring parent who is taking care of your child to the best of your abilities. The lesson that took me years to learn is that as long as my kids think I'm a good mom, that's enough for me.
I am "Mom Enough" and my kids, not what they drank as infants, are the proof.
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