The Apartment
Quite by coincidence, I found myself in bed on a chilly night with a bit of a flu after another week of slugging it out in the mobile media trenches, juggling interviews at the likes of NBC and Fox and cranking on editorial deadlines. Scrolling through the list of serial killers, supermodels and ghost hunters on my Tivo, I was pleasantly surprised to find not one but TWO Billy Wilder flicks on tap – “Some Like it Hot” and “The Apartment.”
In light of our current political scandal, there’s something tres apropos about watching Jack Lemmon pimp out his “Apartment” – and his soul – in one of the sweetest, saddest NY movies ever made. Life for an ambitious Upper West Side bachelor working in Midtown hasn’t changed much in 40-some years. “I’m in bed already and I’ve taken a sleeping pill,” says CC Baxter, before throwing a trench coat over his pajamas and clearing out so his higher ups can have their way with his domain. The sight of Lemmon sitting on a Central Park West bench in the middle of the night is just one among many, too many scenes, zingers and insights that capture the neverending New York hustle and make “The Apartment” an enduring classic.
Shirley MacLaine’s character may seem a bit dated, “melodrama-wise”, until one considers the Myspace confessions of Manhattan’s Downtown It Girl Du Jour – “Kristen.” If you’re not careful, as our former Governor learned this week, “In the end, you wind up with egg foo yung on your face.”
The best last line in cinema may very well be “Nobody’s perfect,” at the end of “Some Like It Hot”, but the final moments of “The Apartment” come pretty damn close. Lemmon greets MacLaine at the door, a popped bottle of champagne foaming in the threshold, the dashed misfits sit down for a game of cards on the couch and he tries to make her acknowledge his obvious love for her. Cute and coy as any heartbroken pixie can be, she turns to him and says – “Shut up and deal.”
Cue music, fade out…
Xmas Flick – The Ref
You know what I’m going to get you next Christmas, Mom? A big wooden cross, so that every time you feel unappreciated for your sacrifices, you can climb on up and nail yourself to it. – The Ref, 1994
This is one of my favorite Holidays movies. Ted Demme traps Judy Davis, Dennis Leary and Christine Baranski in Christmas flick ghost written by Sartre. It’s so NY, it takes place in Connecticut. And it’s so good, that it reminds you of how much fun it was watching Kevin Spacey come up back in the day before he got all creepy and serious. He actually has some of the best zingers, but Leary, Davis, Baranski and crew get their fair share. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Whatever you do, “Don’t encourage her Mary. No one wants to listen to her misery.”
Sparkle Motion
While we’re in a manic mood swing and camping it up on YouTube, here’s one of my Homo 101 favorites from Donnie Darko. I can’t wait to drop this in the next company meeting. It might go a long way to explaining why my numerically-dyslexic ass can’t put a sound Profit and Loss chart together.
Love Hurts…and maims…and kills…
But mostly it hurts. Case in point: Boy meets boy. Boy dances with boy. Boy loves boy. Boy kills boy. Boy misses boy. Invisible Engine features a series of Gay Friday TV “web-isodes” revolving around a tortured love affair between Jason and Michael from Friday 13th and Halloween. If these two can’t make it work, with all that bloody honesty between them, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Love, like sequels, slips into overkill over time. Below, a peek at the couple of the day. Happy Halloween, freaks!
Love (and Gunfire) is in the Air
Critics be damned – one of my favorite flicks turns 40 this month. Arthur Penn’s bloody, comic fashion play, Bonnie and Clyde starring Warren Beatty and newcomer Faye Dunaway, was just the subject of a big old article in that newspaper of record , the NY Times – A.O. Scott gushed and squirmed as profusely and squiggly as any of the billion “squibs” used in the climactic blowout.
The final quick cuts between Dunaway and Beatty awash in slow-motion gunfire were also recently featured as part of the screening series at McCarren Park Pool in hipster ground zero, Williamsburg. All the girls still struggling to get their Jane Fonda “Klute” look down now have to contend with the indelible images of Faye in her proto-Prada outfits, “au naturel” makeup and ginger bob. (Chinatown is this Faye Gay’s other fave – but don’t get me started.) Beatty as impotent, metrosexual Clyde was rocking conflicted chic long before any of the current crop of emo boys’ parents were even born. Expect overnight makeovers on the L train.
Yet another remake of the story is on the way, but really – who could possibly fill their heart-shaped bullet holes?
Counter Culture Clash
Memorial Day Weekend. Planes, trains and automobiles. Careful what you wish for.
Last night, I lost one of the company phones in a cab in the middle of the night. I was up til dawn fretting the consequences, changing passwords, etc. The 4 hours of sleep I did wrangle were Xanax-induced.
Continuing on a pharmy note, my Atripla meds were due for refill. I used Duane Reade’s auto-dial system which yesterday guaranteed it would be ready today. When I called to confirm, it turned into THAT Julianne Moore scene in Magnolia, every pill-poppin’ sissy’s wet dream.
“I need this to live, I’m not here just for fun. How, in all of Manhattan, you can’t handle this with 24 hours notice? Why have a Duane Reed on every corner?! It’s not like you haven’t done this before!” I stopped short of exclaiming, “I could die on the dancefloor!” The doc put me on hold, and miraculously came back with a fresh batch.
I skipped buying a camera, because I was already cutting it close. I picked up the laundry, showered the sudden 90-degree sweat off of me, and raced out to CPW to flag a cab.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself jockeying for a ride with a bunch of backpacking hostel-hoppin’ Swedes and single white yuppies. A couple of them got into it, so I walked down a few blocks, only to fight with cab drivers who pointed at the clock and exclaimed, “Garage” like it explained everything. Finally, I found one, and of course, he was more talkative—and curious about my sex life, and ethnicity. I threw him a couple of bones in the rear-view mirror, hoping it would get me to LaGuardia faster.
When I finally got there, I learned the real meaning of NWA, and it’s really NOT NorthWest Airlines, folks. From the counter to the gate, it was an unrelenting cascade of miscommunication and misdirection. By the time I realized their ineptness was threating my departure, it was too late. After dashing through the gate, bouncing from one line to another, the doors closed and the FIRST plane took off. When I raised hell at the counter, I was told it was because I was late, ignoring the fact that had they let me check myself in using the E-ticket kiosk as I always do, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time and been technically late in the first place. But, it’s impossible to argue with a kiosk printout. Or an ornery staff. So I accepted the standby spot for the next flight. When the 2 hours were finally up and I approached the line again, I was told there was no room, again because they had overbooked. A family of 3 before me was actually split up. Mother and screaming child boarded while indignant, stoic father waited among the exasperated. Thinking I could just hop the next flight for sure, or be switched to another airline, I approached the counter again, only to be told “That was the last flight to Detroit for the day. You have to re-book for tomorrow. Here, call the number on this pamphlet, they’ll help you.”
Since these clowns clearly were not the answer, I called the 800-number, and went for broke.
“I travel all the time for business, and I’ve never had such a horrible experience. I’m a reporter and I’m due to cover a major music event in Detroit. There’s an entire crew already there who can’t move until I get there. This could cost me and a lot of people a lot more money than it already has. I expect to be put on the next flight, at no cost, if not upgraded at rebate.” Every time it came back to the late time-stamp on the network, I foamed through the same story—again. Finally, I was transferred up the chain to a supervisor named Karen, who listened politely, put me on hold briefly and came back with a confirmed seat—for tomorrow, Saturday!
“It’s 8:30pm, you don’t have another flight to Detroit, your hub?! Who owns you? Can you transfer me to Delta? I’ve been here for hours now, and I’m not sleeping here overnight, in hopes of catching a standby spot at 6am, either.” Since that was clearly as far as I was getting on this mission, I took my 5pm confirmed seat assignment. I’d be missing King Britt and Matt Dear, but really, on Saturday it’s all about Moodymann, and that doesn’t get jumping til 10pm.
I called Anna who was already in Detroit, because I had to somehow persuade the organizers to let her pick up our badges early, which were in my name—without my credit card or license. When I got home, there was an email from an actual person with a name at DEMF headquarters, confirming the will call process. I immediately emailed Jason and found his number. As I was typing and rambling and name-dropping into the answering machine about the airline fucking me over, Jason picked up. “I was just heading out when I heard the machine. What’s going on,” he asked. “OK, what’s her name and number? OK, I’ll make sure she gets these.”
I texted Anna that everything was sorted, that I’d land by 8pm and that she could grab the tickets early so she wouldn’t miss anything.
As I finished beaming all this info into the universe, another email rolled in. A pre-DEMF party, featuring, of all people Baby Ford (my other reason for hauling ass to the mid-dash-west to disco), in a rare NYC performance tonight. Too late. I had already popped another Xanax and was headed down the hall to Terre’s to hang with him and Jared and T’s new business partner in the paper jam. We toked and wobbled down to Broadway for midnight Ben & Jerry’s – “plain chocolate and strawberry, please.”
I came home, installed the air-conditioner in the bedroom, took a shower, and thought about how all morning I had been pining to just stay in bed and not have to deal with any of this today. When will I learn to keep my psychic mouth shut? Perhaps when it’s not telling me to do what’s best for me. Tonight, it was clearly about sharing a couple of scoops with the J & T, and not about haunting the “Ghostly” Motor City…
