Quickly, Now

And that’s the thing, you know: I’m so full of love. But when I can’t funnel that love into a person, an individual I adore who sends me over the moon, I turn that love to things, to places, to single moments. New York, cigarettes, long baths. All this love manifests into the mundane, sitting and waiting until he comes around. And I hope he hurries.

Lana Del Rey: Controversy is a dish best served 'meh'

So everyone's favourite source of faux vintage glamour just released her (much anticipated?) music video for National Anthem, a song that I had no idea existed until yesterday (then again, I only know/like/mildly enjoy about five of her songs, but more on that later). The gist of the video, for those of you that could give a shit but need something to talk to your grandkids about, is this: it's an ode to the Kennedy's, or in Anthony Mandler's (the director's) words a "loss of innocence" (deeeeeeeeeep). In the video, Del Rey plays both Marilyn Monroe and Jackie O, while rapper/terrible rap name enthusiast A$AP Rocky plays JFK himself. I know what you're thinking, it's so damn EDGY to use an inter racial couple to portray one of the nations most beloved twosomes. WHOA you guys, did you HEAR that? Aren't you just REELING at the thought? Just kidding, you're actually asleep at your keyboard because that's not edgy at all anymore (we have a black first family you guys, this isn't 2001).

 Before I get to my thoughts on the video (but I'm sure you've already figured that part out, due to my thinly veiled distain), let's get a little history about LDR and I. The day after Lana bombed on SNL, yours truly was all over that shit. This was my generation's Ashlee Simpson meltdown, and I was not going to miss this pop culture gem that will no doubt be replayed on VH1 years from now on a 'Best/Worst of the 2010's' reel (disclaimer, I don't watch VH1 because I don't possess cable, but a brain instead).

 You have to understand that most of the time I'm too busy discovering shit from 2 - 5 years ago ('Skins you guys!!! SKINS!') to take a peek outside and figure out what is going on NOW, so this was finally my chance to be the authority on something current. I was (secretly) ecstatic at my new position in the verbal pop culture hierarchy of knowledge. Water cooler, here I come . . .

Like everyone else, I had a few friends that defended Lana's actions on SNL 'Look at this youtube clip of her on *insert late night talk show here*!! She nailed it!' they cried, desperate to save their dear collagen filled angel from the grave she had dug herself. I laughed in their faces as I shamelessly started internet fights, gleefully revelling in the stress I caused in their fandom circles. Remember that scene from Disney's Sleeping Beauty where all those creepy demon things are dancing around a fire made of pure evil? I was one of those demons, that fire was various comment sections. I am not proud of this #dark time in my internet life, but I can't deny that it was fun and helped me let out some pent up angst in my personal life. Sorry, internet.

Moving on, I was given the opportunity to cover Ottawa Fashion Week for a friend's blog. There, not one but TWO designers, in the span of three days, used LDR songs in their shows. Perhaps it was my psyche giving in to poor taste, or maybe it was the over priced pino grigio that I had soaked myself in, but I found myself (gasp) ENJOYING Lana's desperate crooning. I came to a slight epiphany then, under the overtly bright lights, surrounded but Ottawa's fashion elite; THIS is what Lana Del Rey is for. No one was pretending to be authentic there. Everyone was wearing an outfit they picked out weeks ago, two pounds of make up, and the collective wealth in the room could have feed a small village for weeks. While trendy and current and NOW, everyone was faux, contrived, put on, invented, yearning.

Perhaps Lana isn't self aware enough to realize it yet, and far be it for me to tell her what she is, but to me, Lana is an invention. No one is born into an instagram filter. No one ejects from the womb with such puffy lips and such nostalgia for a time they missed by fucking DECADES. Make no mistake, Lana's look, songs, subject matter and thematic obsessions are not authentic. They are an attempt to appear in tune with a time and a style that is both beyond and above us regular plebes. Regardless, I downloaded five of her songs, listened to them for about a week, and promptly forgot about them. Why? Because her music and general style is disposable; it says nothing new or interesting. It is quickly consumed and forgotten about. It tries extremely hard to be interesting, mysterious and classic, but fails somewhere along the line and remains a half baked musical attempt that will sit, stately, in the year 2012.

Which brings me to National Anthem. My problem with the video (finally) is that whether or not Mandler, Lana or A$AP is willing to admit it, it was meant to be slightly controversial, or at the very least 'new' ... a contemporary take on this story. The problem is, it isn't. At all. Maybe it's because I don't have a lot of personal sentiment surrounding the Kennedy assassination/love life/etc, but the inter racial angle didn't make me gasp. To me, it was just two kids playing dress up, and someone's quirky dad just happened to film it and mess with the colours afterwards in iMovie, trying to regain the days of his experimental video youth. The Kennedy's are arguably the most romanticized first couple in American history, thus rehashing their rise and fall is stale. Perhaps if I was 13 and knew nothing about the world post 1990, I would be interested. Perhaps then Lana would have attained her goal of appearing deep and interesting. The references are played out and are far from smart or clever. No one is stroking their beards approvingly, everyone is sighing.

 The 'performances' here are another issue. A$AP does his best early 2000's Snoop Dogg impression while wearing polo shirts (oooooooh, contrast) while Lana ... well. Lana pouts and poses her way through the whole thing, until the end where she has to recreate Jackie's heart wrenching reaction to her husband getting shot in the head. She does as terribly as you would assume. Mandler explained in an Skype interview (which is apparently a thing now?) that the whole video was leading up to the moment when we see the tortured look in Lana's eyes: "It was always about seeing it through her eyes, seeing this kind of castle crumble in the moment, and that shot where she's coming up out of the car, and the pain in her eyes." Keep the 'pain' part in mind when you watch the video. Do you see pain there? I see a rejected Juilliard audition tape. I think even the most seasoned actors would have a hard time convincingly portraying that moment, let alone Del Rey.

 You may object to this criticism due to the fact that Lana is in fact, NOT an actor but an artist. My answer to that objection is that if you're not an actor, don't try to recreate one of the most important fucking scenes in US history.

The only thing I'm left with is that, at the end of an MTV article about the video, it is mentioned that one has to admire the effort that went in to making the thing. All I have to say is, just because a kid spends hours smearing his own feces around in the name of creating a contemporary take on a Picasso, no matter how much he tried you're still left with a shit smeared canvas.

Time

Can you feel it?
Time is passing. Much more quickly than it did in the past. When you were a kid, the years were few and far between, big events that took what felt like a lifetime to get through. New Years Eve happened suddenly, out of nowhere it was another year, but that didn’t mean anything. Not to you. You just kept being basically the same size and having basically the same friends and the future was just a phrase. It wasn’t happening, it wasn’t coming. You just were. You existed in every moment.

Now the years are flying. They’re sprinting and jumping and rushing through the tunnel of my life like a subway. I used to ring in the New Year at my uncle’s Chinese restaurant, allowed for just one night to stay up unthinkably late. Now I get drunk (hopefully) somewhere fun (hopefully) with people I like, who also like me (hopefully) and if I’m really, extremely, ridiculously lucky, the person I love will be there too, and (hopefully) we can sleep together after. I can stay up as late as I want to, I can never sleep, but for some reason this doesn’t seem as important anymore. Everything you thought you would do as an adult turns out to be a myth of sorts.

Change is supposed to be good. It’s sexy to like change, it’s full of youth and god damn life to have the ability to embrace change and make it your friend. I have a hard time with change. I cling to things too much, things that at the time, I didn’t even like that much but now seem cosmically important. I am constantly dissatisfied with my present.

This is it. I’m at that age. You know. I just turned twenty. This is my peak. At least physically and socially and culturally. This culture is made for people my age. The fashion, the television, the food, the cities. Everything is targeted to young people. It didn’t used to be like this, there used to be a nobility to being older. Thirty and Forty year olds enjoyed running things, being the center of attention. I’m not quite sure when the change came, but slowly and surely things switched. Thirty is considered old now. The powers that be have decided for us when it’s acceptable to be cool, and it’s now.

I’m having a hard time coming to terms with it. With the idea that these are the best years of my life. Everything might be downhill from here. I’m going to continue to ingest too many fats and inhale too many chemicals and expose my skin to too many rays and it’s going to catch up with me. This is like the calm before the storm. I’m still relatively young now. My skin is still tight and my body still moves when I want it to and I’m still desirable. Eventually I’ll slow down and sag and halt and creak and be ignored. I feel like that time is coming too soon. The years aren’t as sporadic as they once were, they happen all the time now. I wake up and it’s a new month, I was asleep for the old one. I look behind me and realize that the seasons changed without me.

The future is more tangible now, and that’s scary. I’m here, it already happened. But it’s also still ahead of me. Closer then before. Right in front of my finger tips when I reach out. A couple more years and I’ll be there. Then. Now.

Coming Home

There are certain problems that go along with moving eight hours away from home ... and another hour and a half away from your original home. One of those problems is that when you're done being angry at everyone and everything, it's no easy task to just go back, to blend in, to make it like it's the good old times again. Because it's not the old times again. It's something new and unfamiliar. All the sudden you all live in different cities and know different people. You pay rent and have sex and go to bars like it's no big deal. Because really, it's not ... until you realize that you're doing all these things without each other.

I realized this coming back home for christmas. For the first time in a long time, all of my old high school friends were going to get together for a belated christmas-esque dinner and drinks. Everyone was going to be there, a rare occasion that happens maybe once a year. Everyone except you, that is. But that's okay. Seeing you again would have put me on edge. I would have been stressed out, I would have had more to drink, I would have tried too hard. So maybe the silver lining is that you were in the States, so I didn't have to think about you too much. The keyword there is 'too much', because deep down I wanted to see you again.

Anyways, I was the first to show up. I had bought a 40 (or was it a 60) of gin, because it was all my (new) small town's liquor store had in stock. I felt foolish, especially since everyone ended up bringing wine. I lost my taste for wine after this past summer, when I had far too much of it far too often. I was a beer person now, but beer didn't seem appropriate for what was a 'family dinner' of sorts. So gin it was, though it was equally out of place.

Slowly the old gang trickled in. We all looked the same, for the most part, which was kind of reassuring. It made grasping at old straws easier. We all laughed and talked about our crazy roommates, who had a drinking problem, which people from our high school were already pregnant...all the cliche shit you think is just for the movies but actually ends up happening.

Eventually, sitting all around the table, we ate, drank, laughed, remembered, predicted, and soaked each other in. There was something endearing about how easy it was to joke with them again, how fluid the conversation was. I was fearful of long pauses that thankfully never came. Looking around, I thought of all the other times that we had sat, drunk, around this same table. Who was there, how we had looked, what we had said, how we felt, what the occasion was. For a moment I was on the outside looking in, happy that after all that time and all those miles, we were still sitting at that same table.

Later we watched a slide show of pictures one of us had compiled of times we had spent together this past year. They were sparse, mostly occurring in the summer time. Some of them though, were individual ones of us snatched from our facebook profiles, of us away at school. It was jarring, seeing each other be ourselves with other people, strangers. I realized that I would never know those moments. Unlike in high school, I wouldn't know all the details of that night. I would be unable to remember them later and make you laugh, because I wasn't invited. My life was somewhere else now, as was yours. That moment was yours and someone else's. Not ours.

When the music came on we didn't dance. No longer were we excited to be drunk, drunk off the sheer thrill of having obtained alcohol. We weren't as lively or as silly or as naive as we had been. Our bodies required a certain setting and social pressure to dance, and this was not it. When the music came on we did not dance.

At the end of the night I crawled into our hosts bed, along with another friend and tried to fall asleep. I wondered how often this would happen. How many more times we could come here and have it be this comfortable. How many more times we could fall asleep in each others beds and cover ourselves in each others blankets and feel at home. I could feel us slowly becoming adults. I was quietly drowning in nostalgia and dread at the same time. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wanted to be back in high school. I wanted to have stupid house parties were we all drank coolers and hugged and talked about it for weeks afterwards. I wanted to be close again, both geographically and emotionally. I wanted this to be a weekly event, not an annual one. I wanted more than anything to wake up and go to the local diner for hungover brunch and then go our separate ways, but still see each other on Monday.

But as I write this I realize that can't happen. Time moves ever on, and moves all of us with it, in all different directions. I'm having a hard time grasping that. See, no one gave me a crash course in growing up. No one told me that I would see my parents as people with flaws, that I would see my friends drift away, that I would feel myself getting older. But it's all happening regardless of my preparedness. So I'm left running to catch up, saving nights like that in a box for when I'm old, and trying to put on a tough face like the rest of you. I'll miss you guys.

Let's Try Something Different

Untitled

Everything decays
Everything crumbles
Everything breaks down

As it always has (around you)
The difference is
I can't feel it anymore (around you)

This pillar I'm standing on keeps rising up
growing, soaring, leaving
Farther away from the turmoil of your earth
soggy & dark & dank & dead

The pillar rises on - made of stone
I am made of stone
Hard marble, smooth granite
Protecting and coating, fixing and mending
Isolating me

A splendid isolation

I don't want to come back down, this facade might snap, might crack
And the last thing I want is to let any bit of you in

So I'll stay up here
while you die at sea level
crumbling, decaying, breaking
Bringing it all down with you
because it's all you have

But not me
Not anymore
I'm too far gone, too high up
Up in the air.

To your diseased fingers, I am
untouchable.

Chloe Barker on a Monday Afternoon

Chloe Barker sat drinking away her problems in a white, middle class condominium in a pristine beach town in the middle of August. What the pristine beach town did not know, however, was how much Chloe hated it. It was completely unaware that Chloe wanted to write all over it with paint, and then burn it all down, preferably while she was naked and shouting anarchist ideology about the terrible bourgeoisie. It’s probably a good thing the little town had no idea, because it would make it very sad. And there is nothing worse than a depressed tourist destination. That’s why Chloe saved all the depression for herself. That’s why Chloe drank wine with ice cubes on a Monday afternoon.

As she sipped the sadness, she realized the irony of her situation. While she hated her mother for trying to drink the pain away, she was attempting to do the exact same thing. Jesus Christ, Chloe did not want to become her mother. She did not want to adopt the characteristics and catch phrases of the failure in the next room. But luckily, her mother was currently in bed, passed out at five in the afternoon (as per usual). So Chloe concluded that she still had a leg up on that sloth she called her mother.

Chloe had an inkling, though she realized how juvenile it was, that she might perhaps be adopted. Unlike most people, Chloe had not cultivated this idea as a child or as an angst ridden, perturbed teenager. It had only recently dawned upon Chloe that she could, potentially, be adopted. It was well known that her mother had had a difficult time conceiving...countless hormone treatments and trips to expensive specialists had been regaled to her many times....a passive aggressive guilt trip, Chloe supposed. ‘I went through THIS MUCH to birth you, and LOOK AT HOW YOU TURNED OUT’ was the subtext to each conception horror story. Anyways, the moral of this paragraph is that who is to say that her parents didn’t turn to adoption in their quest for offspring? It’s totally plausible. They had the money and the desire. And who white people in ‘love’ with money and desire can buy and achieve just about anything. Even an emotionally defective hand me down kid to call their own. That’s some branch of the American Dream, right?

The sun was too bright on Chloe’s back.
The wine was too bitter on Chloe’s lips.
The world was too heavy on Chloe’s shoulders.

Chloe closed her eyes.

Me & Wanting to be a Ghost

Around 365 days ago I wanted to be a ghost.
I wanted to turn into mist. To leave the small dirt encased town I had been merely surviving in and putting up with for so long and disappear to a big, nameless, anonymous city so I too could become nameless and anonymous.
I wanted to slip out of people's consciousness and stop existing in the present tense. I violently needed to abandon everyone and everything, because I felt like I had already been abandoned. I only needed geography to catch up to me.
When the time came I packed my small, retched life into big boxes and left. For good, I said. It was a grey day when I spit on the place that had so many times spit on me and took off without any apologies or goodbyes or explanations or reasons. As I watched that shack of a house, my prison, disappear behind me, the relief of being gone forever washed over me, but didn't mask the resent I still had deep inside.

But even the best laid plans do not always work, and I did not entirely become the shadow that I thought I so desperately wanted to be.

And I'm kind of happy about that.

I'm happy because it's exhausting to hate an entire place. So instead, over the course of 365 days, my hate boiled down to just one individual.

I'm happy because I figured out that growing up doesn't always mean blowing away. And even if it does, there's always a train back to where you started.

I'm happy because instead of feeling chained by my past, I feel reassured. There's something peaceful about knowing that everything that has happened can not be undone, for better or worse.

I'm happy because the people I still talk to and see from back home are my friends, so it is easy to forgive. I'm happy because despite my slight departure from life, we are still friends. And we are young, which is something I've missed feeling. I've missed singing at the top of my lungs and sticking my head out of sun roofs and remembering old times and dancing terribly and laughing too hard and living with the people who have shaped me the most.

So yes, I am happy. Which, in the end, is what I actually wanted. I just didn't know how to get there.

Him.

( It's so hard to write about him without feeling cliche and cheesy and ridiculous and idiotic. But I'm going to try anyways. It's not very original, it's not very clever, but it's something. )










I love him.
I love him when he's just waking up. When the grey morning light creeps in and pokes at his un-spectacled eyes.
I love him when he's about to fall asleep. When I can feel his wonderful body slowing down, and giving in to dreaming.
I love him when he's standing next to me, making perfect omelettes for un-perfect little me.
I love him when he's sitting across from me at a tacky restaurant on the side of the highway.
I love him when we skate along the canal at 11 at night.
I love him when we walk through the camp grounds at 5 in the morning.
I love him when he wears his leather jacket in the winter.
I love him when he wears his jorts in the summer.
I love him in 140 characters.
I love him in 10 page letters.
I love him when we drink coffee together in over priced cafes.
I love him when we drink beer together beside impromptu fires.
I love him when we're holding hands.
I love him when we're wrestling.
I love him in Ontario.
I love him in Saskatchewan.
I love him when he whispers into my ear.
I love him when he screams into a microphone.
I love him when we're watching foreign films in an old movie theatre.
I love him when we're watching 1990's spiderman in his dorm room.
I love him in his purple saturn.
I love him in a white and red bus.
I loved him yesterday.
I love him today.
And I'll love him again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow....

I Hate The Idea That...

Girls are so much more complicated than guys. Everyone has this idea that men are simple and only need sex and food and sleep, and women are infinitely intriguing creatures that will forever be a mystery. Fuck that, that’s reverse feminism. At the end of the day, we’re all fucked up human beings that have flaws and a subconscious and a tangle of thoughts that cloud our mind. Some of these thoughts are small, some of them big and unanswerable. I want to be a secret, a paradox, an enigma, a perplexity because I’m a human, an individual, not because I possess a uterus.

PS I have a tumblr. Sorry, blogger. www.everydayislaundryday.tumblr.com

Shadows of our Formal Selves

Seeing you again was like seeing a ghost, some mist from my past that was back again to remind me of who I used to be, of what I used to be.

Sneaking peeks and avoiding glances all night, we never said each others names or talked to one another, out of fear that verbal confirmation that we knew each other would send this facade we had silently agreed upon crumbling.

No, we never acknowledged each other despite the fact that everyone else knew about us, and our cliche sordid past full of luke warm trysts in stolen, half forgotten nights.

It was less than a year ago that you picked me up on the side of the road and whisked me off, driving too fast for this small town, our hearts beating too fast for this small town.

There had been many nights that had been like this, but you immediately realized that this one was different. As I cried and trembled in the passenger seat, we both realized just how broken I was.

I fumbled over words, trying to contain them despite the fact that the dam had all but burst. My emotions spilled over. I talked for the thousandth time about how I was dangerously and violently frustrated at being in this cage. About how I felt trapped and suffocated. About how, if I didn’t get out soon, if it turned out that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side, I would die. We both knew that this wasn’t a threat, it was a fact.

You parked in the abandoned lot near my house, and then, for the thousandth time, you thanklessly brought me back down and explained why life was worth it. As I sat shaking, you did what you had always done for me in my moments of defeat. You reassured me that it was this town, it was like an anchor, that the longer I stayed the deeper I would sink. You told me that once I got out, I’d be alright. Everything would be alright.

But would we be alright? Despite all that had happened between us over the years, you said yes, that you would always be my crutch. That we would be there for each other in ways that other people hadn’t been able to. That bonds like this didn’t break.

But a few days later, over stale coffee, I couldn’t admit to either myself or to you, that I had made the most mistakes, that I could have been better, that I knew what I had been doing, that I didn’t want to share you, that I had been the one to run us into the ground.

A week later, I left for good.

And now, months later, here we are again. In the same town that almost killed me, amongst the same people who knew about us but really didn’t, acting as if we have never met each other before.

I suppose, if you would listen, I would tell you I am sorry. But perhaps I’ll never get the chance, perhaps you’ll never know. Perhaps we’ll both continue on, as shadows, as ghosts, as mist, aging until our bodies catch up to our souls. Perhaps that’s life, but I don’t really know.

After all, it was always you that could explain these things to me.

Me & Francesco's: Does Growing Up Mean Selling Out?

This coffee shop is infested with adults. These are the worst possible kind of adults, too. They’re not old and curmudgeony and bitter to the ways of the world. They’re not 40 somethings that are taking a break from their lives of soccer practice and PTA meetings and mandatory sex for a quick latte to numb the pain. Those are the adults I can handle. While they’re full of shit just like everyone else, I can at least sympathize with these old bastards a little. They have been in the game long enough that any and all light inside them has worn out, leaving a husk that I can put up with for a few hours.

But no, these are the worst kind of adults: young adults, a term so paradoxical that it almost betrays the amount of terrible nonsense that these packages of faux-enthusiasm contain.

They’re all fresh out of college: done with being the vagabond artists that they once were, ready to be a part of the norm. Armed with bullshit degrees, they’re all to happy to be off into a bullshit workforce, smiles wide and ready. They prattle on about their prospective new position working for Corporation Incorporated, doing Office Job #472, boasting about how their parents are so proud. I bet. Finally, Suzy took out her piercing and is getting a ‘real job’ (whatever the fuck that means). How does it feel to be just like everyone else now? Apparently, it feels pretty damn great. But not quite great enough, judging from the at home enhancement of their tans and teeth. Keep reaching Suzy. Keep reaching.

These people don’t seem to care about making a difference. For some reason, any and all creative desire for change and revolution has been replaced with power suits and pony tails, all too-perfect and too-perky to be real. With style plucked straight from the pages of Drones Weekly, they adorn themselves in the same overpriced shit as a thousand other desperate 20 somethings, all living, breathing commercials for The GAP. Two blouses and a pair of pumps later, welcome to the rest of your life. Business Casual: The New Everything.

Never mind the fact that mere years ago, they were touting the merits of ethically made clothes and picketing outside of malls, bursting at the seams with a desire to re-design the system. That’s gone now, replaced with fantasies of business meetings and blackberries. They’ve abandoned their dreams of changing the world for a dream of driving a sedan during their hour long commute, ideas of carbon footprints long behind them.

The pair of friends sitting in the window at the front is busy patting themselves on the back for getting promoted within their company. Congratulations, you’re still one of thousands, but now there’s a few people below you on the totem pole of bureaucracy (never mind that you’re eons away from ever cracking management, the impossible to reach summit). Let the accomplishment wash over you in the form of a no foam, no fat chai latte. You deserve this, trooper.

Do those 80 hour weeks seem all worth it now that you got a corporate mug and a slightly bigger cubicle? We all know that success is measured in the amount of shit that you have on your desk, so keep it up until you’ve gotten that complimentary potted shrub you and your idiot co-workers have been drooling over for months. That’s the dream, isn’t it? The perfect desk accessory means a perfect life. Or so the higher-ups tell you. They’re not distracting you with meaningless trinkets and titles, they’re encouraging you to be a better you. Because obviously, they care about you. You’re not just a number to them, you’re a friend. At least that’s what they told Todd, right before the canned him and 300 others during the layoffs. Wonder whatever happened to that bailout money...in unrelated news, your CEO has a new yacht.

I guess that the reason why these people bother me so much is that I can’t tell if I’m looking into a mirror or not. My biggest fear is to become one of these dolts, one of millions that are happy to slowly die under fluorescent lighting as long as it means that they can fill up their houses with shiny, high priced stuff before they finally kick it. If six years down the line me and my friends are commiserating about commutes over coffee, I’m going to jump in front of the first sedan I see.

Me & Woody Allen

Everyone romanticizes themselves.

Some more than others, but at the end of the day, we all have this idea of ourselves that is fairly rosier than reality. I feel like for most of us, we fancy ourselves as characters in a Woody Allen movie. Especially us, the college kids. The one that toss words around like 'avante garde' and 'troubled' and 'fundamentally'. It is this demographic that would like to see themselves, would like to be the very absent-minded, intellectual, complicated, romantic failures who say terrible, witty things and make reference to old Swedish films. Who have neurotic tendencies that come across as endearing, who are old souls, who write novels, who seem 'above it all' and live in severely cultured cities where they see a therapist twice a week to deal with the weight of their own genius.

Sadly, there is a problem with this illusion comes about when you realize two things: firstly, these characters, these fantastic pillars of taste and knowledge and modern living, are in and of themselves idealized versions of Woody Allen, the creator himself. We're constantly trying to make things come out perfectly in art because it's really difficult to do that in life. The characters you see, especially the male leads, are Allen's romanticized versions of himself, brought to life through snappy dialogue and celluloid. The difference between me and Woody Allen, is that Allen is able to project his romanticized self to an audience, who then accept, fall in love with, and eventually aspire to be that version of Allen, even if they don't realize it. Basically what I'm saying is, Allen gets away with it, where as, I don't.

The second epiphany is that ironically, almost brutally so, the characters that Allen creates wouldn't even know who Woody Allen is, let alone go to see his movies. Except for perhaps Woody Allen himself, and even then I'm sure that he probably wouldn't enjoy them, and would go on about how the main character was unlikable.

Woody Allen in 'Annie Hall' would have fucking hated 'Annie Hall'.

Me & My Dad & Bob Seger

It’s 10 AM on a Thursday morning in Ottawa. As “Main Street” by Bob Seger plays in the cafe, the memory comes flooding back of the last time I heard this song...


A few nights before Christmas last year, Dad dragged me down to our seedy and centipede infested basement in Woodstock to show me what he’d been working on for weeks. Past all the boxes that had yet to be unpacked (and possibly never would be) was Dads make shift workshop...a downgrade from our previously spacious garage that was all his.

Amongst all the half taken apart (of half constructed, depending on how you looked at it) speakers and other audio equipment and tools that littered the small space, was a fully operational turntable, complete with an equalizer and a set of speakers. The entire ensemble sat proudly in the middle of all the works in progress, turntable on top of equalizer, speakers on either side. A set up that was obviously meticulously planned.

The whole thing looked like it belonged in the 1970‘s. Vintage grills adorned the speakers, while the equalizer had blue accents and silver knobs. The wood on everything matched...maybe it was Maple or something, I can never remember what different types of wood look like. I do remember that it was all the same type though, and that it looked really nice, all of it uniform and intentional. It almost looked like it had all been made from the same tree. One tree, one perfect system, one little family of equipment.

As Dad began to tell me the different features of the thing, turning knobs on and off as he went, I listened with curiosity and genuine impress at what he had made. I always knew that Dad was good with this kind of stuff, but to make a something that works out of nothing is a concept that is entirely beyond my comprehension or ability (something that was always painfully obvious growing up). Admittedly, I only understood a portion of what he was explaining, but it didn’t dilute my intrigue.

It was around this time that Dad dropped a Bob Seger record onto the thing to christen it. Seger was one of Dad's all time favourites, and therefore, I had a soft spot for Bob, too. Funny how the music our parents listen to stays with us no matter how old we get. We either loathe it for the rest of our lives or love it, and for me, it's the latter. From The Who to Peter Gabriel, I always loved whatever Dad played.

The opening chords started in, loud and intentional, distinct but with that warm tone only vinyl paired with an excellent system can achieve. It was at this time that Dad told me that he wasn’t going to sell the set like he had planned on. Instead, Dad said, he had made the entire thing for me. Merry Christmas. As Main Street filled the basement, I realized that this was one of the first times in a long time that we had something that we both enjoyed, and that we had both found something (finally something, after seventeen years) that we could do together, bond over, enjoy.

And so it was that despite all the fights and the tears and all the phone calls that never got made and all the missed visits and the general bullshit that had gone on over the years, here we were, listening to that dusty Bob Seger album in the basement of a house that had never felt like home to me, and never would...but at least for half a second, it felt inhabitable, and almost warm.
The record revolved and the speakers did their job, and for at least two minutes, we were father and daughter, at peace for a little while, even if that peace would only last for a moment.

I imagine that maybe moments like this are common for ‘normal’ parents and kids, but for me, moments like this don't happen, and it’s one of the few good memories I have left of Dad and me.

Me & The Toronto Star: A Writers Rant

So today I was skimming through the Toronto Star, and I came upon a piece that faired to be (dare I say it) potentially interesting: Robert Cribb, a columnist for the Star, was sent to take his six year old daughter out shopping to your average little kid stores (H&M, Gap Kids, Joe Fresh, the Lollipop Guild's Factor Warehouse) to show the differences between the clothes that little girls like...and the ones that their fathers would have them wear.
Okay, I thought to myself, this can go either one of two ways: they'll make an interesting piece of out something that could be nothing; show how little girls are obsessed with looking older and older while their fathers would have them stay young (and then subsequently look at how some older women try to dress younger...coincidence?). Or they could go for something explosive and analyze the little girls crop top choices and show how perhaps, we're allowing our daughters and little sisters to become too sexualized at a young age. That, or they could do a cop out and make it a Three Stooges-style fluff piece that could have it's own laugh track for every time a 'Oh no! Alexandra wants a mini skirt but Dad doesn't like it! Oh Dad, you just don't get fashion!!' moment occurs.
Guess which angle they went with?
Now, I'm not saying that I expect A LOT from the Star...but at the same time I'm not saying that they're anything from an established and well read publication...what I AM saying is that by going with the later option, making this almost-interesting story into a cringe inducing mish-mash of clashing pants preferences between a father -daughter duo that is as generic as it is unoriginal, the Star has made me loose a little respect for it. Why? Because they didn't take it far enough.
As I've mentioned before, I feel that our jobs as writers, columnists, journalists, etc is to make people think. After reading this story, I can honestly say that the only thought it inspired was something along the lines of 'I really have to go read something with substance' (so I guess you could say that through literary inaction, the Star DID kind of make me think by pushing me to read something GOOD, but I really don't think that's the goal here).
The Star had a perfectly good opportunity to present the public with something really worth discussing, something that I don't think enough people are talking about, and that is the sexualization of little girls, and specifically the psychology behind it all, from the marketing of it, to it's sources, to the mind set of the poor tots themselves. Perhaps that's a large area to cover, but at the very least they could have published a snippet of it, along with a link to their blog so readers could further read about it.
Personally, I believe that if you're going to do something, you shouldn't do it half assed. You should go all out, go all the way, and push things to the greatest extent that you can take them to. This is what the Star failed to do. When faced with the decision to create something intellectual or something that was pure people-pleasing at it's core, they took the easy route, knowing it wouldn't require too much effort, and they wouldn't get any heat for it later (imagine the angry letters the editor would get if we even from the H&M loving Moms if for a second it was insinuated that perhaps a mini skirt the size of a napkin isn't the most decent thing for a first grader to be wearing).
Now, I just have one thought left for the Toronto Star. I don't want to have to be literally crude and put everything down to it's simplest form and appeal to the lowest common denominator of readers....but since that's what the Star seems to like to do I have no choice:
Dear Toronto Star, please commence in 'growing a pair' and get back to me when you're ready to do some REAL journalism.
Thank you, and I hope you enjoy your recently acquired audience of people with an elementary school education.

(If you want to read the Star article that's under fire, click here and prepare to be horrified).

Me and My Philosophy: Making You Think.

So I have a personal philosophy when it comes to writing. I feel that many people think that for the most part, a writers job is 'easy' or could be done by anyone, but for me I don't think that statement could be farther from the truth. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to coherently and eloquently translate their thoughts, philosophies, ideas, etc into written word that can not only be read by other people, but that can be truly absorbed and taken into consideration. And that's where my philosophy stems from: the fact that if you are a writer, your job isn't necessarily to write, it's to make people think.
Today, we live in a world where not enough people think for themselves. Because of the internet, we have an endless myriad of sources to get our ideas from, and while this is a great thing (imagine the digital think tank we've created), this also means that people have gotten sloppy when it comes to forming their own opinions. After awhile, people stop researching events and people for themselves, and rely on bloggers to get all their information and opinions from. And while I'm not trying to degrade blogging by any means, I am saying that there is a dark side to the fact that we have so many sources from which to draw from, which is where the problem lies: there are so many places to get knowledge that people stop hunting and settle for just one.
Now, I'm not trying to say that I wouldn't be honored if the only blog you read was mine. On the contrary, that would be outstanding, but at the same time, I would only hope that my reading my blog, you weren't just taking everything I saw and repeating it when certain subjects came up.
I feel like this happens a lot, that people are starting to become opinion parrots, taking what someone else researched and thought of and making it their own idea as well. This is a problem.
In order for the world to work, we have to have a society where everyone has an opinion that is based from their own philosophies, ideas, research, experience, and beliefs. When you take someone else's opinion and allow them to think for you, you're really taking away your own worth as an intelligent, thoughtful human being.
At the end of the day, you might not agree with what I say. You might think that I'm completely and utterly wrong, and that I'm somewhat of an idiot, or a liberal, or a neo hippie, or anything from the book of conservative insults that people tout with them and whip out whenever confronted with something new(zing). As long as what I said inspired you to write your own rebuttal, or do your own research, or watch a documentary on the subject, as long as what I said inspired you to think,that it sparked an original thought to pass through your head, then I consider that the biggest reward to what I do. I will have considered my piece a success, my job well done, and my philosophy achieved.

Just Thought You Should Know....

So in case you are infatuated with what you see here, I thought that you might be interested in my other blog Collectively Chloe. It's essentially just a mish mash of my sketches and photographs that I naively label as 'art'.
Check it out here, and enjoy!

Just a Quickie...

Just thought I should let all of you know that yes, my annual Oscar Wrap-Up piece is coming! I just have to find the time to finish and finesse it. Thanks for your patience as we all say goodbye to another award season!

Golden Globes 2010!

So by now the Golden Globes have come and gone and all that's left are the remains of a pretty interesting awards show. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the GG's are the award shoe equivalent of dipping your toes into the water to test it: this is just the beginning, and it's a sign of what's to come. So let's get right down to the winners (note that I'm only going to cover the film categories...if I did tv I'd be here all night...)Oh and before I begin, let me say that Ricky Gervais was a bloody brilliant host. Just his one joke of 'I like a beer as much as the next guy...unless the next guy's Mel Gibson!' was worth watching the entire show for. Let's hope that Baldwin and Martin can live up to it when they co-host the Oscars together in February. MOVING RIGHT ALONG!

The Cecil B. DeMille Award
Martin Scorsese
I can honestly say that the introduction/tribute that DiCaprio did for this was truly one of the most heartfelt things that I've ever heard. DeNiro's was also good, but there was a quality to DiCaprio's that just screamed 'you are my hero'. The following video and speech by Martin himself was also great, and you can watch all of it here (sadly the DeNiro part is cut out).

Best Motion Picture - Drama
Avatar
Wow, who saw this one coming, right? It seems to me that the Golden Globes is the award show that's catered to the audiences of the world, and the Oscars are the award show for the true film lovers and critics. That being said, it's easy to see how Avatar beat out The Hurt Locker for this one, which shocked both no one and everyone at the same time. If you know your film, you know this should've gone to something else, and if you're a casual movie goer, you were content to see James Cameron hit a home run once again. Speaking of Cameron, his acceptance speech was far from the 'King of the World!' stint he did at Oscars when he won for Titanic. Seems Cameron (as apparent after thanking the whole room for making such great art) had quite a few slices of humble pie during his hiatus.


Best Performance by an Actress in a Motion Picture - Drama
Sandra Bullock (for The Blind Side)
Can I be the first to say that I am so sick of hearing about this film? While it is true that yes, I haven't seen it, I hate the type of movie that it is. You know the kind that I mean: the feel good movie that can appeal mildly to critics and veraciously to audiences? The 'based of a true story' up-lifter on the list that captures the hearts of housewives? Yeah, that's the kind of movie that this is. I would've liked to have seen Gabourey Sidibe win for Precious, but hey, why shine light on a movie about a young black girls struggle when you could shine light on an already highly advertised movie about a white woman that graciously lends her time and help to a struggling young black man? Oh I'm sorry, was that too political?


Best Performance by an Actor in a Motion Picture- Drama
Jeff Bridges (for Crazy Hear)
The dude abides! Yes I know that joke has been tweeted about a thousand times over but I just had to say it too. Sadly I haven't had the chance to check out this film yet, but from what I hear its simply amazing. What can I say? Out of the group of nominees, I'm happy to see Bridges win this one.


Best Motion Picture - Comedy or Musical
The Hangover
Okay let me start by saying why the hell are musicals and comedy's tied in together in one category? I can kind of understand that not many musicals get released per year, but really? We're talking about two completely different genres! Don't believe me? Nine (based off of the classic Fellini film 8 1/2) is a film about a tormented artist, and it was up against It's Complicated, a 50 and up sex comedy. Really? No one else sees anything wrong with that? Okay, moving on: what else can really be said about The Hangover? It's hilarious, and a must see of 2009. Really, even my dad saw it and just had to tell me about it: 'Hey, have you seen that movie The Hangover? It's hilarious! Well....it's kind of vulgar...I don't know if I really want you seeing it...but it's sooo funny!'
Thanks Dad.


Best Performance by an Actress in a Motion Picture - Comedy or Musical
Meryl Streep (Julie & Julia)
Well, T Bone Streep has done it again! And I must say that this one really is well deserved. Maybe it's because I'm a total 'foodie' but I fell in love with this movie. And it's not just the fantastic story (of Julia Child, that is. In my opinion, Amy Adams' plot could've been totally cut out) but it's also the fact that Streep completely becomes Child herself, it's completely uncanny. In her speech, Streep said 'I portray so many great women, that I get mistaken for one myself.' I beg to disagree, Ms.Streep.


Best Performance by an Actor - Musical or Comedy
Robert Downey Jr. (Sherlock Holmes)
My man Downey! Now I hate to say it, but I'm a bit biased on this one because it's a fact that I am in fact, completely in love with Robert Downey Jr. I know that I'm supposed to have journalistic integrity and all that, but everyone has their kryptonite. But here's where my heart is torn: my other (not so guilty) guilty pleasure is the incredible Joesph Gordon Levitt, who, coincidentally, was also nominated in this category for the indie darling of 2009, (500) Days of Summer, the turned on it's head, realistic rom com that captured the hearts of thousands (my review of it will be up soon!) So you can understand that I was both over joyed and depressed when Robert won over Joesph. But with his acting ability, I'm sure that Gordon-Levitt will get his gold in the near future.


Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role in a Motion Picture
Mo'nique (for Precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire)
Now I'm one of those people that read the book, and judging by that alone, Mo'nique must have given her all in order to do this role right (and judging by her award, I'm guessing she did, and she did it right). I have yet to experience the film for myself, but I'm sure that it will completely move me when I do. I'm almost emotionally physc-ing myself up for this one, because I know there will be tears. And lots of 'em.


Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role in a Motion Picture
Christopher Waltz (for Inglorious Basterds)
Tarintino's bloody, twisted, World War II epic has yet to capture my imagination, but I have to say that I am so excited to see it. There are two camps of people on this one: the ones who love it for the dialogue-rich sequences that show case Quentin's knowledge of film, and the ones that hate it for that. I'm interested to see where my opinion will land.


Best Animated Feature film
Up
To the surprise of absolutely no one I was thrilled by this. While I love Wes Anderson's old school take on stop motion animation in Fantastic Mr.Fox (a story that I read when I was a kid) my heart will forever be with Up. In case you didn't already know my thoughts on this, I am of the opinion that this is not just one of the best animated films of all time, it's one the best films of all time. Period. Full review here.


Best Foreign Language Film
The White Ribbon (Germany)
Now I can honestly say that I hadn't heard about this film before last night. Last year, I had a little bit of knowledge of a few of the films nominated, but this one is completely (mind the pun) foreign to me. But from the small clip and brief overview that was made last night, I am genuinely interested in seeing it. Germany on the brink of World War I with kids? Genius.


Best Director - Motion Picture
James Cameron (for Avatar)
Again, this came as a surprise to no one and everyone. Most people thought that at least either this, or best motion picture would go to the Hurt Locker, but no, it seems that the world has gone Avatarded (sorry) for Cameron's latest outer space epic. Like the governor said 'If you haven't seen the film, the numbers show that you're pretty much the only one that hasn't'. My review here.


Best Screenplay - Motion Picture
Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner (for Up in the Air)
I have to say that this is one of the movies that I'm excited to see. I love everything else that Reitman's done, and I have yet to hear something bad about Up in the Air, so this is definitely on my 'to do' list. I think that quite a few people were surprised that this one didn't go to Inglorious Basterds, though. Surely Tarintino would win something for his version of WWII right? Well, wrong. Apparently.


Best Original Score - Motion Picture
Micheal Giacchino (for Up)
Yes. Yes yes yes yes. I'm so happy about this, despite my love for Karen O, because the music for Up is, simply put, brilliant, and fits the film to a tee. The best example of this is the other day, when I was writing and had the score for Up playing in the background. At one of the sadder, heavier parts in the music, I had to stop writing because I was so over come with emotion. Tears welled up and I almost cried just from the MUSIC. Awhile later, when I pulled it together, the films main, cheery film came on and I felt a huge sense of elation that I haven't experienced in a long time...all from just a few notes strung together! Re-watching the film also made me see how brilliantly the music fits it. As I sit here typing this, I'm listening to it right now, and I'm still feeling that sense of elation and joy. Only a true genius could do this, so my hat is tipped to Giacchino for creating something that could evoke this kind of emotion.


Best Original Song - Motion Picture
The Weary Kind (theme from 'Crazy Heart')
What can I say about this? I haven't seen the movie, I haven't heard the song! I'll get back to you when I have a good idea of what the other contenders sound like!


So that's it! Those were the 2010 Golden Globes! Were you happy with the outcomes? Sad? Enraged? Tired beyond all belief because it's 12:30 and you're writing a blog about what happened last night? Oh wait, maybe not all of those apply to you....but anyway, the point is that the HFPA put on a damn good show every year, and they manage to make a great jumping off point for this whole crazy time we call Awards Season. Next stop, The Oscars!

I'm feel UP from watching Disney/Pixars Up!

So as you can tell from my older review of Wall E, I'm kind of a Pixar fan girl. Now, I'm not so much of a fan girl that I can't accept when Pixar makes some not-as-great-as-usual films (Monsters Inc. and Cars wasn't their best, and when I say that I mean it was good, but it isn't their usual level of awe-inspiring great), but for the most part I have accepted that my heart belongs to Pixar, and that every year, a part of my pay check will go towards supporting their work, be it by buying a movie theater ticket, a DVD copy, or dare I say it, soundtracks and knick knacks from their films. And just when I thought that they couldn't out do themselves due to Wall E's pure awesomeness, they come along with a film that I truly and honestly love, and is what I consider to be the best film this year.

Up is one of those films that is just amazing, in the true sense of the word. It has appeal to almost any audience you can imagine, and has so many layers that I could write a whole paper, or novel, on the gravity that this film has. The animation is stunning, the characters

are developed and lovable, the story is timeless, the dialouge is pitch perfect, and the score fits perfectly with the feel of the movie. This is one of those rare gems that will make you laugh, cry, miss your childhood, look forward to your golden years, and make you step back and see a new perspective on life. And all of this from an animated movie about a house floating away on balloons. Well that, and so much more.

When I first heard reviews flooding in from last years Fantastic Fest that within its first ten minutes, Up had audiences sobbing, I was skeptical. I like to think that I'm one of those stone hearted cynics that, when it comes to movies, you have to do a lot to make me care, and do even more to make me cry. So I was surprised when I found myself bawling during the opening montage that portrays the marriage and lives of Carl and Ellie Fredricksen. This single montage is one of the most moving, emotional, beautiful things that I have ever seen portrayed on film, and that sequence alone deserves every award out there to give, and should be seen by everyone at least once in their lives. I honestly have a hard time putting into words how amazing this part of the movie is.

The plot is as follows: af

ter the death of Carl Fredricksen's wife Ellie (aka the love of his life) he has been living a grouchy, hermit lifestyle in solitude, alone in his beloved house. When face with the threat of being kicked out and moved to an old folks home, Carl uses his ex-balloon salesmen skills and riggs up thousands of colorful balloons to his house, in an attempt to fly himself and his house to Paradise Falls, the one place where he and Ellie always wanted to go, but never got to. And thus the adventure ensues from there, introducing characters like Russel, the lovable little kid that unintentionally joins Carl on his adventure, Dug, the talking dog and Kevin, a colorful tropical bird.

Now with that last sentence I know what you're thinking: talking dogs? Great. But please bear with me, these aren't your usual Disney like talking dogs. These dogs use dialouge that actual dogs would use if they could talk, not some smart-alecky sarcastic quips made up by a writer. I may not be making a lot of sense here, but trust me, the talking dog thing isn't a comic relief shtick and it never gets annoying or juvenile.

Which brings up yet another great thing about this film: the movie isn't juvenile. This movie refuses to talk down to kids, and uses a very grown up story in a kid friendly medium (animation) to teach kids (and adults, teenagers, and seniors alike) a very important lesson about life and love. I don't want to ruin what it is by saying it, but its something that can be lost on some people in this day and age.

The characters as I mentioned before are fantastic, and you'd be hard pressed to find a person that didn't instantly identify and fall in love with them. Carl is your jaded, old neighbor with a heart of gold that loves a lot, Russel is you when you were a kid: over active, loud, energetic and has a soft spot for animals and the wilderness. Dug is the outsider of his group who can't seem to do anything right or fit in, but eventually finds his place. Ellie is that person who walked into your life and changed everything, the loud adventurous person that made you come out of your shell...the list goes on and on, but as I mentioned before, all of them are lovable, relatable, and above all else are developed so well and have so many layers to them that they seem realistic and will win you over.

The animation in this film is your regular Pixar grade quality stuff, meaning that it yet again impresses and looks gorgeous. The sequence of thousands of balloons exploding from Carl's house is a triumph in this medium: they're vibrant, translucent, they float and move like real balloons and just like you were when you were a kid, you're captured by them and can't take your eyes off them for a second.

I've seen this film about five times so far, and I've teared up every single time. I've also shown this film to about six people and each of them have walked away loving it just as much as I do (its interesting to note that each of these people is from a different age group, ranging from teenagers to small kids to adults). To say it once again, all of these things show that this is a perfect, truly great film. I believe that this is the single greatest film I've seen all year, and deserves a spot in the various lists of the greatest movies of the decade. With the Academy Awards expanding their Best Picture category to 10, it is also possible that Up might get nominated, which would not only be well deserved, but would be a great win for all of animation in general. If you haven't seen this film yet, I can't suggest it more highly: you must see this film.

Avatar: A Movie Review!

So it's been awhile since I've done a movie review, but with the new year fast approaching (happy soon-to-be 2010 by the way) I thought that I should return to form and start spending my time in a dark, crowded movie theater sitting behind some crying kid, and wedged between two popcorn loving families that apparently have no sense of the word 'personal space' (or 'personal hygiene', if you want to get right down to it). Thus it is that I usher in the first of many movie reviews to come, in preparation to what I like to call the most wonderful time of the year: Awards Season! But enough of that, on with the review!

If you've seen a movie lately (lately meaning sometime within the last 20 year

s) then you've inevitably heard of James Cameron, director extroidinare with a career that shows for it: Terminator, Aliens, The Abyss, and most notably, Titanic are some of the many films that Cameron has made over the years, and has made them great, and when I say great I mean highest grossing film ever made great, 11 Oscar wins great. You know, that kind of great.

But in order to understand his latest success, Avatar, you have to go back a few years Cameron's Titanic days, when he announced in 1996, a year before Titanic hit theaters (see what I did there?) that he would begin working on a film tentatively titled Project 880 as soon as this whole Titanic business was over and done with. Hot on the heels of Titanic's splash with the movie-going world (the puns are too easy) , everyone was waiting in anticipation to see what else Cameron has up his multi- million dollar movie making sleeve. In 2006 though, he had to explain the delay of 880 was due to the fact that he was waiting for technology to catch up with his vision. Pretty ostentatious, but considering that this is the same man that built a camera specifically to be used in filming 3D and CGI movies, this only made

audiences more excited and interested in what was sure to be another ground breaking film that would provide an impressive notch in an otherwise amazingly well-notched belt.

And then the first trailer came out for Avatar (the name now changed from 880). Audiences were suddenly split in to two camps, those that thought the movie looked terrible, and those that were still excited to go and see it despite many of the complaints being toted by nay-sayers: the plot is basic and cliche! That CGI doesn't look all that impressive! Where's my groundbreaking CGI battle scenes between aliens and humans?! The Na'vi aliens don't look real at all! This looks like Dances with Wolves mixed with Smurfs! This is Dances with Smurfs! I want building excitement over the past 12 years back!

The list went on and on until it was time for Avatar to be unveiled to audiences

(after yet another delay, the movie was only just released in December as opposed to May to allow for more post-production editing, complex CGI work, and to allow more theaters to install 3D projectors to further give audiences the wow factor). And were they wowed! With an opening day total of 27 million, and a total of $642,993,860 wide so far, its well on its way to being just as successful as Titanic. But now for the actual critique:

When I went to go see Avatar, it was at Gallery Cinemas in Woodstock, which is not equipt with a 3D projector, so I saw Avatar in plain old 2D, and I can still say that it was mind blowing. I was one of those people who was skeptical after the first trailer, taking the story at face value and considering it un-original and done before, but trust me, you haven't seen it done like this before, you haven't seen anything done like this before.

Yes, the whole 'military and government are here to destroy some planet and its

people just for some rocks beneath the surface but oh yay, the bad guys turn around and become good guys to save the day' thing has been filmed before, but it hasn't been filmed by James Cameron, and that is what sets this movie apart from every other. Well that, and the ground breaking CGI work.

In the middle of the movie I had to stop and remember 'This is an entire world that was made from nothing Someone in a tiny studio spent weeks making that rock: giving it form, texture, making it interact with every other rock, plant, animal and being in this world in a realistic way' and the fact that there are millions of rocks, leaves, plants, animals, vines, etc in this film that look, act, and move realistically to the point that you thought they were real, is damn impressive to say the least.

And not only did you believe they were real, you felt for them. You were concerned for the Na'vi people, you felt their pain every time something horrible happened to the planet that they loved so much, every time a tree was crushed, a leaf burned, an animal killed, you wanted to cry along with them. This is the kind of emotional connection that some directors can't get audiences to feel with live action movies, sets and characters, let alone for an entire world built from a computer, and that in itself shows how amazing James Cameron is at doing what he does: he made audiences feel sorry for a bunch of computer generated aliens made from nothing but pixels and color, and feel a sense of unadulterated hatred for the bad guys, aka the real live actors portraying humans. That by itself deserves an award.

As for the rest of the movie, it was pretty good. The Na'vi people look realistic and their language, culture and world is unique and something that audiences enjoyed finding more about during the duration of the film. The main character, Jake Sulley, is likable, relatable, and everything else you want your main protagonist to be, while the bad guy general is every bit as rotten to the core as he needs to be: by the end of the movie, you hate him more than you've hated anything else that came from a movie, and when the moment finally comes for him to be overthrown, you'll want to cheer in your seat (and forget all about the cheesy dialouge this guy spouted throughout the whole film). The final battle is in a word, epic, and in 3D would look amazing between the explosions, aerial dog fights with machines and birds, and the heated struggle on ground level.

And while the story is a bit, well, cliche, you're not going into this thing for the story: you're going in to it wanting to be amazed, to see something that you've never seen before, to experience what James Cameron has been wanting you to experience since the 90's when he first envisioned a world that would capture your heart and imagination. And if you go into the film with these goals in mind, you will not be disappointed.