"So we beat on, boats against the current"

Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

Directed by Wes Anderson; Written by W. Anderson & Roman Coppola

Starring: Jared Gilman, Kara Hayward, Bruce Willis, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Frances McDormand, Jason Schwartzman, Tilda Swinton, Harvey Keitel

Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom fits perfectly into the auteur’s oeuvre: it’s vibrant (featuring Anderson’s trademark love of bold primary colors), witty, subtle, meticulous, fun, emotionally bittersweet, and most of all: sublime. Anderson, even with films such as Rushmore and The Darjeeling Ltd., makes it seem that this is the most fun he’s ever had making a film - it shows in the way he pulls out all the stops and tries anything & everything imaginable. With a 1960s New England island community, the host of a most serious boy scout camp that is run by Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton), Anderson provides a fantastical, youthful tale of burgeoning love between two 12 year-olds, Sam and Susie. The two, like Romeo and Juliet, are not supposed to be together, as they come from completely different backgrounds and their families don’t want them together - this follows event that kicks off the plot of the film: the two escape their respective environments of captivity, Sam running away from camp, and Susie running away from the Bishop household (parented by a brilliant and humane pairing of Bill Murray and Frances McDormand), rendezvous at a meeting spot in order to live a life together, a life away from places and people that don’t understand them. Bruce Willis delivers one of his finest performances as police Captain Sharp, a lonely and lovelorn man of the law in charge of the hunt for the two missing children. The island is in turmoil, and all the while a hurricane makes its way towards the island, as we are told by our narrator, Bob Balaban. Every performance in the film is finely nuanced, and be on the lookout for Jason Schwartzman (in a scene-stealing role), as well as the wonderfully talented group of boys that play the scouts. However, the stars of the film are the two you’ve never heard of: Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward. These kids are phenomenal. Gilman’s Sam is awkward, yes, but he’ll have your heart from the beginning of the film, and your sympathy for him only grows as you learn more about him. Maybe it’s a male prejudice due to her outstanding beauty, or maybe it’s because I could relate to her the most, but Susie (Hayward) was the most interesting character in the film - Anderson enthusiasts will see her as a young Margot Tenenbaum. The love that develops between these two quickly-maturing individuals is a delight to witness - We’ve all been where they are. Some of us are still there. The script by Anderson & Coppola is incredibly sharp, delivered with great care by the actors. Wes Anderson is one of the best American filmmakers to both write and direct. Ever. His direction in this film is masterful. Never before have I seen the pangs of youth captured in such a way. He makes an adventure out of the tumultuous days of longing and discovering, identity-building and embarrassment. His use of closeups brings us even further into this wonderful island-world that’s been created. With all of the colors and textures firm in place, each frame becomes a piece of still art - pause a scene in any of Anderson’s films and stand in awe as you notice just how much goes into every frame. The mis en scene in his films is like no other. Robert Yeoman’s cinematography is exactly what you would expect from his collaboration with Anderson - you’re going to get a beautifully lit shot and an aesthetic equivalent to an 8-Ball. Alexandre Desplat, who’s provided the music for The King’s Speech and The Tree of Life, delivers another astonishing score. The music, especially at the climax of the film, does what film music is supposed to do: it envelops you, consumes you in this fictive world. I couldn’t recommend this film to you any more. It simply is a must see. And if this is your first Wes Anderson film, then I recommend going to Rushmore next, then continue with The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic…, and then The Darjeeling Ltd.. Save Bottle Rocket for last - It’s his rawest film. Moonrise Kingdom is a beautiful, beautiful film; one that had me on the edge of my seat from beginning to end. It was a spectacle of film work, and an honor to see in theaters. Please, do yourself the good deed of seeing this film, and make sure to reserve a special spot in your heart when you do.

Started it off by getting that J O B at Books A Million. 

Blackly, she was folded on the windowsill,

A sphinx in her own right,

Against the dying of the summer light,

Being born into the summer night –

No rage, just a sage,

A sage with eyes closed not too tight.

Outside were blue jays bluer than blueberries,

And cardinals that could fool a doctor

Into thinking that it was soaked in blood –

There weren’t any wounds, only a flight

Waiting to be caught,

Not for naught, but to get away from the cat

Folded on the windowsill.

Unbeknownst to the jay, the cat couldn’t tell

A blue jay from a blueberry:

Her eyes were shut, blackly against the angle

Of sunlight like blood oranges bloody after a fruit fight.

Somehow there wasn’t noise, not a purr,

Just something on a bed watching to make a word –

A troubled and sore lexicon being stirred

Like the banks of the Rubicon,

To encourage something never…

Sitting under a tree in the calm solitude of spring,

I, with tousled hair and dirt bled into my knees,

Changing the light denim to a dark color not learned yet,

Held a shoebox that held a lizard – something green that scurried

Like a lime rolling off a kitchen counter.

I poked holes in the box, tiny holes in the shoebox lid,

Not to give the lizard air – I didn’t think the lizard was wanting –

But to give the scaly saint some stars to pray to.

If the box was dark inside, the way the refrigerator was supposed to be

Before I opened it, then the inside of this box was dark, too.

And who wouldn’t want stars?

I love waiting for the sun to clear the stuff off of its desk and leave the room

So that the stars may enter and begin to speak – in light of course,

Light that was older than me, older than the lizard.

Regardless of age, I just wanted to give this lizard the same feeling

That I felt every night…then maybe the lizard wouldn’t want to run away.

Maybe the two of us could sit in the backyard, both without a box to confine,

Me, with pants so blue, and the lizard something like green sublime,

And just look up at the stars in the sky.

Maybe there aren’t any stars.

Maybe it’s just the collected dust on the top of a shoebox,

Falling in, trickling bit by bit, the way light sometimes does,

when someone has punctured the lid. 

The only thing your cunt will ever give birth to is a lifetime of regret.

And, of course, the poison that you used to castrate me

was a poison that haunts – it treats my brain like a playground,

my veins a graveyard in which to smash the bones over my bones

just for the pleasure of a sexless echo.

To say you were a siren would mean that your voice could seduce,

but I’ve deduced that it’s more akin to plates thrown in the middle of the night,

when the breaking of glass brings back all too familiar memories.

You brought out the arson in me, and the first thing I want to torch

are the images of you – a child unworthy of dedicating

Dylan’s breaking of a woman to.

Let the memories become ash in the air that I no longer have to breathe.

Let the memories fossilize in that deep Jungian abyss for some other

poor fool to subconsciously pick up – I pity the soul to come that will suffer.

Baby, this isn’t anger. This is fire, and the next time is now.

You treated me like life-support.

Fuck love. It was need. And I didn’t need you.

I didn’t need Purgatory’s share of pity.

But you got it anyway, your way, because that’s what little girls get: their way.

You wanted to sacrifice my cock to the alter of Tragically Ruined,

ruins that you frequent and patronize – even a section there is named after you –

and there was so much guilt that eventually the Sun gave up reaching its zenith,

and the sharks stopped swimming in the sea.

There were words – but I never, ever did mean it,

I’d rather be face down in Normandy.

Thanks to you I’ve been canonized as a saint – I can finally remove

the nails from my palms, the thorns from my skull.

I can step down and stand up until the blood dries,

until the fruit flies

find the pulp of my fire too rich, too full,

and finally drop dead in the groove.

The idea of sharing a bed with you

brings to mind trench warfare

and Armistice Day?

It’s not far away. It’s nowhere,

Leaving me not so much black, as you did blue.

Memories of you will end in fire,

The vacuum of your cunt in ice,

There was never any desire,

The phantom of which has burned in fire.

And I would rather perish twice

Than say you resembled a mate,

Though destroying myself in ice

(To masturbate) 

Is just as nice.

I’ve discovered solace in The Sopranos. Though it’s been five years since the show has ended, I’ve decided to make it the third television drama (after LOST & Mad Men) to make a commitment to (isn’t that what TV is, a marriage contract?). I just finished watching the third episode, and I can safely say that I’ve been hooked since the Pilot. I used to watch some of it with my parents back when it first aired on HBO (coincidentally, the show premiered on my 8th birthday), but they quit watching it after the first two or three seasons. I don’t think that’s going to be the case with me. 3 episodes down, 83 to go! There should be no reason for me to not finish it before next March when the 6th season of Mad Men premieres…

Where posting a picture of Michael Fassbender’s dick gets you 20,000 likes/reblogs, and spending 20 minutes to write a review of a film with Michael Fassbender gets you nothing.

There’s so much going on right now - my head’s been an onion. Growing in the ground. I have no problems making important decisions, and I definitely know what I want. It’s only that I’m not an irrational thinker and so with every decision I make I’m looking at the how it affects the present and future; every other life in my life. (A tinge of hubris. A dash of Faust. A couple of ounces of Oedipus and all that Greek tragedy.) I could never blindly walk and yet there’s so much emotion wanting to burst; a voice screaming that it wants! It wants!  For the first time in my life I have to be selfish. I have think of what’s best for me. Instead of Kurtz shouting, “the horror, the horror!” he’s shouting, “the guilt, the guilt!” 

I hope dear YHWH, I hope!  that I’ll have this job at Books A Million by the end of the week.

I have to set my schedule straight for the Fall: Possibly 19 hours, nothing above a 400 level class, although…I’m beginning my Honors thesis - for which I still have to finish reading Henderson the Rain King, Mr. Sammler’s Planet, Humboldt’s Gift, & The Human Stain (which means that I only have a month and a half to do so). Did I fail to mention that I’ll be taking a class towards the end of July entitled Southern Literature & Film. Add on to that for the summer: this History research project in which I’m transcribing advertisements of runaway slaves in Antebellum Mississippi newspapers from microfilm. 

I should must be graduating this time next year. The first in my family to go directly to a University, let alone finishing in exactly four years. 

Let Adonai be praised that I have an apartment settled.

And then there’s the GRE, for which I have to register, prepare, take, and ace before the end of November - Yale and Princeton would like their scores sent in by early December. Oh, yeah, I’m applying to Yale and Princeton. 

I want! I want!

I need a car. Truly, I do. “I’ve always relied on the transportation of friends.”

This semester I’ll be assuming the position as President of Sigma Tau Delta, the International English Honor Society, of which I’ve been a member the past two years - serving as V.P. last year. Also, I’ll begin a run as editor for the Catalyst an undergraduate research publication.

Relationships? Who should have time for relationships?  Who believes in angels? I do. Fools do. So, I’m waiting for someone. When a name makes you smile, you better make damn sure you keep that name within earshot.

I miss home.

And yet, never before have I felt such a great desire to be create Rome from ruins.

I want! 

The Dream…that’s what I’m living for. It’s the dream that Jay Gatsby died for. The dream that George (…Virginia Woolf?) failed to achieve; wallowing in that failure. The dream that Don Draper suffers to fulfill. The dream that left Frank Wheeler reeling in pain. It’s the dream to be a self-made man. I want to be more than “the advertisement of the man,” I want to be the man. Not just an image. A man with passion in his heart, goodness, too. Most of all: Love. A man who lives because he “needs the eggs,” but also because he sees that there is beauty in the chicken. I want to profess because this heart knows has no other intention. Profess to chickens because I need the eggs. And because to not do so would be absurd. Absurd. 

“Where you’ve nothing else, construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.” 

I would like to be alone with someone, to share these ceremonies with in the quiet of New England, where my heart lies.

I stayed up till 5 am reading and finishing Roth’s American Pastoral (I tackled about 200 pages yesterday; couldn’t stop), and I must say that it is one of the most powerful novels I have ever read. These characters (their pains and sufferings, and the facade of their lives) are truly living and breathing people. Roth gathers an incredible and real family that strives to be *the* American family - unaware of just how terrible they fail. The fall of The Levovs isn’t due to one member’s shortcomings; it’s due to impossibility of achieving the American Dream and America’s determination to keep it an impossibility. The capitalist machine that has produced the Levovs - enticing them with everything they could have - is the same machine that rips them apart. The postwar years leading up to the radical 60s and the aftermath of the Vietnam War serve as the backdrop for the decline of these dreamers, and as we see throughout the novel everyone is in the slow process of waking up. What they see when there eyes are open is anything but pretty: it’s antiwar bombings in suburban towns; race riots in ghettoes; America’s bright young boys dying in Southeast Asia. The Levovs are not allowed to be happy in America because *no one* is. American Pastoral is a meditation, a lamentation, on everything that America used to be, everything that it should’ve been, everything that it isn’t. This novel is angry, bitter, betrayed, confused, hurt, and so desperate for order in a time of ubiquitous chaos. The Levovs are just as susceptible to these pains as any of our families here in America. Of course the suffering in the novel is universal - Roth is masterful at grabbing everyone’s attention - but the suffering has a distinctly American tinge. This leaves us with the question: “What on earth is less reprehensible than the life of the Levovs?”

The earth spins on its axis.

The earth revolves around the sun.

The solar system spins inside a galaxy that hurdles

through blackness like a discus thrown eons ago –

No one remembers why it was thrown or who threw it.

It just spins.

He is the only one left with the park bench,

brown as crumbling oak found on the trees that surround,

cluttering, clustering, and inquisitive as family members

that are only seen on High Holy days.

Even the wind pushes them back – branches like arms

and fingers that pinch at cheeks and tousle freshly-combed hair.

He only wants there to be stillness, for all of the spinning to cease.

Knowing that everything gyrates through the dark

causes him to sit with the park bench,

as if they were allies in a war against motion,

against uncertain rotations,

against the flailing of child-arms creating a whirlwind in a backyard.

Sedentarily sublime, the man and the park bench are.

No wonder we die: all of our energy is spent fueling the Milky Way.

Just so it can turn, we give up our lives – each of us a drop of oil.

Did anyone ever ask where this galaxy is going?

Maybe there’s a way to get off at the next stop

and transfer to another galaxy, one that stays put.

That’s if this thing even stops at stations…

Maybe it forces nebulas to become hands waving goodbye outside the windows?

He imagines that he’s watching the galaxy travel through the universe,

and it’s the same as what the dead look like when they’re walking:

Partially frozen and blackly finding a footing,

surprised that there’s even fuel to burn when nothing exists inside

(Then again, stranger things have happened).

Nothing is strange enough to cause Galactic Movement to palpitate.

Nothing is strong enough to provide the man with the park bench some company.

Seventeen blackbirds circle overhead in a cacophony of wings and beaks.

One of them even has a tuft of yellow on its belly.

Currently:

Henderson the Rain King - Saul Bellow

American Pastoral - Philip Roth

On deck:

Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention - Manning Marable

Mr. Sammler’s Planet - S. Bellow

The Human Stain - P. Roth

Humboldt’s Gift - S. Bellow

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay - Michael Chabon

Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa

Now they know I’m a Marxist.

It’s Bloomsday, the only holiday in existence for bibliophiles. Created in honor of that titan of 20th century literature, the polyglot extraordinaire, the post-Irish Catholic who wrote of the very essence of Ireland: James Joyce. Named after Leopold Bloom, the protagonist of Ulysses (*the* novel of the 20th century), and chosen because the novel is set on June 16, 1904. 

I ask you to pick up some Joyce (read “The Dead;” a few pages of Ulysses; maybe start A Portrait of the Artist like you always said you would), enjoy a pint of Guinness, and maybe even learn a language or two.