Reality Bites (1992)

I WAS TOLD THERE’D BE NO MATH ON THIS EXAM.

by Bailey Kennedy

I watched Reality Bites for the first time two weeks before graduating college, huddled with my roommates on the giant gray suede LoveSac in our living room. Up until that point, my life felt like a carefully plotted course consisting of various milestones, eventually depositing me at the best college I was accepted by. The closer I came to stepping into my cap and gown as the days wound down, the more lost I felt. It was the right movie for me at the right time—when Lelaina tearfully says that she thought she’d be someone by 23 and Troy responds, “honey, the only thing you have to be by 23 is yourself,” I felt instantly tranquilized.

We meet Lelaina, Vickie, Troy and Sammy swigging beers and celebrating on a rooftop post-commencement ceremony with “School’s Out For Summer” by Alice Cooper blaring in the background. Leilana, the budding videographer, records the festivities and captures testimonials. Sammy’s life goal? “My goal is to like, get a career or something.” Vickie’s collegiate experience has culminated in the ability to recite her social security number at warp speed. Troy is a few credits short of a degree in philosophy and broodingly rejects the importance of going back to finish it out.

Lelaina’s grainy footage of the group’s giddiness gives way to the rhythms of post-degree daily life. Troy loses his job at a corner store for stealing a Snickers bar and moves into ‘The Maxi Pad’ with Lelaina and Vickie, forcing the sexual tension between Lelaina and Troy to the forefront, ebbing and flowing between bickering and flirtation. The scales become tipped toward the contentious when Lelaina takes up with Michael, an earnest but cheesy executive at an MTV-esque station.

Lelaina is fired from her job in grand fashion after feeding inappropriate cue cards to her morning TV news host boss. She collapses into herself, becoming an extension of their living room couch and racks up $300 in charges dialing a psychic. As irrational as this seems, a tiny part of me recognized her search for external answers to internal problems, hoping for some kind of deus ex machina. In Lelaina’s case, Michael swoops in like a yuppy fairy godmother: he showed her documentary to people at his network and they want to buy the footage for a show.

The premiere party rolls around and to her horror Lelaina finds that her thoughtful documentary about the growing pains of Gen X has been stripped down into a Real World-esque reality show. She and her friends have been edited within an inch of their lives to fit into tidy compartments: apathetic bad boy, overachiever, party girl, and resident gay. Lelaina rushes home in tears to find Troy alone in the apartment. The chemistry they’ve been dancing around their entire friendship finally reaches the surface and they sleep together.

The morning after two friends consummate palpable tension there’s the sensation that a particularly challenging equation has been put to bed, a sense of relief and momentary peace. That is, until the Troy in your life makes a hasty exit off stage left. Troy panics and drives a wedge between them just when Lelaina thinks the pieces have finally fallen into place. After a blowout fight, Troy disappears for some time to visiting his dying father, unbeknownst to Lelaina. He reappears in her front yard after a week long absence, at the exact moment she is rushing out to track him down and find him.

My last year of college I’d been nursing the wound of a breakup that ended with him dropping out of school and moving fifteen states east without trading a single word before he departed. Not that at that point a conversation about his leaving would have made it less mentally and emotionally devastating than hearing it through the grapevine. As the days wound down to graduation I was feeling his absence in my life, and perhaps this is why Reality Bites hit me so hard at the time: Troy came back for her.

Years later, I’m a little disgusted by my buy-in to the Troy deus ex machina story line as the solution to Lelaina getting her bearings. I can appreciate the message that love is what anchors us in moments of uncertainty, carrying us through the chaos of building the framework of who we will be, but in my experience the Troy’s of the world don’t come through with a grand gesture. My 22 year old self, though, ate it up: it only confirmed the recurring fantasy wherein my best-friend-turned-boyfriend came back for me. But now I wish Lelaina hadn’t found her center in Troy. Troy was the type of guy who inevitably wouldn’t uphold his end of the bargain, it was only a matter of time.

Don’t wait for the sound of his car in your driveway.

Bailey Kennedy is a writer and rehabilitated closet romantic living in NYC. She made this Reality Bites Spotify playlist just for you.

American Splendor (2003)

ORDINARY LIFE IS PRETTY COMPLEX STUFF.

by Liz Shannon Miller

My dad grew up in a small town outside of Cleveland, Ohio, and when we would go back to visit his family, the smoky gray skies always struck me, a girl used to California’s plethora of sun, as weirdly exotic. It’s a quirk I’ve never kicked, to be honest; a part of me will always wish I lived in London. Cleveland, of course, is not London. But it’s not surprising that one of the truest voices in alternative comics came from there, even if, as documented in American Splendor, it happened in part by accident. Cleveland has a flat quality to it, a certain lack of culture, that leaves ordinary life standing out in sharp relief.

Which is where Harvey Pekar comes in.

American Splendor is about a man who, thanks to a little bit of good luck, is given an international platform with which to share the truth of his existence. Pekar, a writer of comics not about superheroes but rather about himself, has a talent for observing life as it happens all around him, and that talent fuels not only his work, but also Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini’s half-biopic/half-documentary of the same name.

Splendor, the comic and the film, is above all things observational, even as it grows increasingly meta in its storytelling — the scene where Paul Giamatti and Hope Davis (as Pekar and his wife Joyce) watch a theater adaptation of Splendor, is what officially takes us three levels down the rabbit hole, but the entire film is actually based on the collision of reality and dramatization.

“Are you gonna suffer in silence for the rest of your life, or are you gonna make a mark?” animated Harvey lambasts live-action Harvey, just before he decides to put pencil to paper and take his first stabs at writing a comic - a medium few at that time realized could be literary. But it’s not the Real Harvey who gets this lecture, it’s the fictional one played by Paul Giamatti. That’s the sort of movie this is, where ultimately it doesn’t really matter.

And by blurring the line between fiction and non-fiction, the result is a sense of the ordinary writ large, the “average man” found to be a misnomer. Because everyone has some sort of inner life; everyone has thoughts and feelings. It’s for want of an instrument of some sort that every person on earth isn’t an artist. The instrument is the key.

The film makes a point of giving some of the credit for Pekar’s career in comics to his early friendship with Robert Crumb (“who also had a movie made about him,” Pekar voice-over notes dryly at one point) — without Crumb’s artwork and reputation in the alternative comics scene, Splendor the comic might never have come to pass. And while Harvey Pekar, without his artist collaborators, might have found some other form of artistic expression, would it have been the kind that led to guest appearances on “Late Night With David Letterman”? Even somewhat mocking guest appearances?

Years ago, my love affair with comics synchronized with my public library’s investment in trade paperbacks, and one of the books I devoured was “Our Cancer Year,” the Pekars’ brutally honest retelling of Harvey’s struggle against lymphoma. But reading it didn’t do what Splendor the film does — show us the making of that book, accompanied by Joyce’s pledge that by making a comic about Harvey’s cancer while he progressed with the treatments, they would be so consumed by documenting that it would be like it wasn’t really happening to them.

Because that’s what happens when we document; when we stop living our lives so that we can note the details. The idea of “capturing a moment” means that we’ve made it separate from ourselves. That’s what Pekar did with his comics — that’s how he made the ordinary into art.

Liz Shannon Miller is a writer and pop culture enthusiast based in Los Angeles.

Tiny Furniture (2010)

I’M REALLY MATURE, BUT EVERY TIME I COME INTO YOUR ROOM I WANNA SLEEP IN YOUR BED.

by Letitia Trent

With all of the various reactions to Lena Dunham’s series Girls (from adoration to hate to claims of class blindness and racism), it is useful to look back at Dunham’s film Tiny Furniture, a movie that, in 2010, created a mini-version of the uproar that Girls has caused today. I remember the mixed reviews of the time—the film was either pointless or brilliant, hipster faux-art or performance art, narcissism or unblinking honesty. Dunham is a figure that seems to either enrage or delight people, leaving very few in the middle who haven’t figured out what to make of her. This is curious, as her general demeanor, both on film and in interviews, is of a kind of impermeable cheerfulness that makes her seem able to take any criticism with amusement and even agreement. She doesn’t seem to be able to take anything to heart, which probably helps when the goal seems to be to film the body and experience in sometimes excruciatingly real detail.

Tiny Furniture, like all of Dunham’s work, is intensely self-referential and autobiographical. Dunham plays Aura, a recent graduate from a Midwestern college (like Dunham) who movies back home to New York to live with her mother, Siri, an artist (played by her real-life mother, the artist Laurie Simmons), and her younger sister, Nadine (played by her actual sister), a lovely and accomplished high school student who Aura clearly feels inferior to, particularly at this liminal time in her life when things seem to be ending just as Nadine’s life seems to be beginning. This curious trio creates the most interesting tension in the film, though two male figures, a cynical YouTube sensation (if only in his own mind) and a crush-worthy, asshole co-worker, complicate Aura’s already unfocused meanderings. Her two closest friends, too, reveal what Aura is town between: should she be like the proudly entitled, reckless, and untrustworthy Charlotte (played by the delightful Jemima Kirke) or like her friend Frankie, who seems to have managed to figure out how to live “real life” post college?

Aura’s relationship with her mother, Siri, is one of the most curious relationships in the film. While her relationship with Nadine plays out delightfully, it is rather expected—-Nadine is exasperated by her sister’s desire to take up all of the attention and the air in the room with her complaints and miseries and eventually blows up when Aura, not wearing pants (her usual state), crashes Nadine’s high school party. Siri, though, seems to approach Aura with a wary distance. Laurie Simmons is not an actress, and this shows—her line readings are cold and stiff—but somehow this works. It gives you the sense that she is trying to keep Aura at a distance, to give her space.

The “plot” of Tiny Furniture isn’t really the point, though. The point is Aura’s flailing, which, despite the depths it gets to (spoiler alert: unprotected sex in an enormous pipe in the street), always seems somehow, essentially, OK. Although it would be fair to call Dunham a bit of an exhibitionist, she’s the best kind of exhibitionist—she shows herself pants-less, pudgy, her hair messy, her lipstick inexpertly applied. She seems to have no vanity, no need to show herself in the best light possible—she is genuinely curious about humiliation and exposure and the ways that the audience reacts to seeing things that are often not allowed to be seen on film. This un-embossed failing, all done with a sort of cheerful affability that makes it seem like anything can roll off of Aura and leave her untouched, is what really connects for certain viewers (and this viewer in particular). Many of us have had the fuck-ups and sexual humiliations and moments of complete doubt that Aura has, but she seems to be able to go through these experiences and purge them completely once they are over. Aura’s impermeability is inspiring.

You could say that Tiny Furniture is the ultimate “white people problems” or “rich people problems” movie, and it is: most people do not have the luxury of padding around their parents’ immaculate New York apartment as they figure out how to be an artist. But, as a person who grew up in a trailer without indoor plumbing, I relate to Aura, too: these in-between moments of life, when an old self is passing away and a new one has not yet materialized, are incredibly painful and incredibly rich for mining. I am glad that Dunham has the bravery it takes to show us this moment.

Letitia Trent is a writer and poet living in Arkansas.

Baby Boom (1987)

GOING UP THE COUNTRY (BABY DON’T YOU WANNA GO)

by Elisabeth Geier

What exactly is it about Diane Keaton that she always looks so easy, breezy, beautiful, even in the most ridiculous power suit? In Baby Boom it’s all shoulder pads and pussybows, patent leather belts and one particularly memorable jumpsuit. Other corporate comedies from the Baby Boom-era (Working Girl and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead) are perhaps objectively better films, but their fashion doesn’t quite hold up (Don’t Tell Josh Charles,Early 90’s Delivery Boy Chic Does Not Stand the Test of Time). Though clearly dated, the style in Baby Boom continues to work, simply because Diane Keaton can wear anything and look timeless.

In Baby Boom, successful New York businesswoman J.C. Wiatt (Keaton) inherits a baby from a distant relative, is passed over for a promotion (because of the baby), breaks up with her boyfriend (because of the baby), and leaves her apartment in New York for a farmhouse in Vermont (an environment deemed more suitable for the baby). There, she meets a handsome country veterinarian played by Sam Shepard, starts a baby food business, and succeeds on her own terms, damn it! It’s all very pleasant, very Nancy Meyers. It’s also glaringly of its time – remember, shoulder pads and shiny belts? Still, plenty translates to present day: the dual challenge/thrill of being a woman in a male-dominated workplace; the struggle to balance one’s personal life with work; the necessity of redefining success as life throws you a curveball (or, say, a baby). Not to mention the everlasting dream of meeting a country veterinarian who looks like Sam Shepard, talks like Sam Shepard, and grabs you and kisses you against a truck like Sam Shepard. Excuse me, I need a moment.

Last summer, I moved to a small farm in Oregon, and suddenly Baby Boom was on television all the time. The film was not a huge success in 1987, but it’s somehow become a cable staple ever since, one of those movies that pops up in regular rotation on WE: Entertainment for Women. My first month in Oregon, I was unemployed, living alone, flush with pinot noir from the winery up the road, getting buzzed and finding Baby Boom on cable once a week. My place is not quite so rural as J.C.’s cozy farmhouse in Vermont; there are several good-sized towns within a twenty-minute drive, and Portland is just an hour and a half away. But my life here is solitary enough that I sometimes go days without speaking to another human. I sometimes take too much solace in familiar movies on TV.

Isolation does strange things to a girl. It was not long before I started to see myself as Oregon’s J.C. Wiatt for the 2010s. I cannot pull off the J.C. Wiatt look, but I’m living a passably J.C. Wiatt life. Except instead of leaving a high-powered job in New York City for a small business in Vermont, I left doggy daycare in Chicago and headed west. And instead of a baby, I have several mammalian pets. Maybe the comparison is a stretch. But I have dealt with mysteriously dead animals, fallen tree limbs, and brown water running from the tap. I have experienced the frustration mirrored by J.C. Wiatt as she screams at the plumber/mayor of her small town. She talks to her daughter about the potential success of their baby food business; I ask my dogs, “who misses Chicago? Who can’t wait to be a city dog again?” And just like my gurl J.C., I have cried in front of strangers in embarrassing places, more than once, because I do not recognize myself in this setting, in this place I reluctantly chose.

The fantasy of Baby Boom – the fantasy of most Nancy Meyers films – is that a single woman in possession of a good fortune will be in want of a satisfying personal life, and girl will get it, likely in a beautifully-styled kitchen. The protagonist is always successful in her chosen career. Her hardships are never truly, objectively hard. She will always meet a kind, understanding man who initially disrupts but ultimately supports her journey towards Strong, Independent Womanhood. Before he kisses Diane Keaton for the second time, in her perfect country kitchen, in her perfect country house, Sam Shepard asks her, “Do all men make you nervous, or is it just me?” She tells him, “all men make me nervous except you.” But she says it so nervously. And then they make out in front of an open fridge.

I have met three country veterinarians since moving to the farm. The first was a recent vet school grad who made a house call to castrate the llama. She was half the llama’s height, maybe a third of his weight; I did the brute work of holding him down while she handled the delicate task of removing his gonads. The second was a no-nonsense woman who took one look at my muzzled, growling dog and said “I don’t think so, tough guy.” The third was a Wilford Brimley lookalike, red-faced and bald, who spit on the tip of his digital thermometer before inserting it into the anus of my ailing goat. This man was blunt but not unkind, and when he finally said, “We don’t often perform thousand dollar operations on fifty dollar goats,” I wasn’t upset, just resigned. Of course not. Why would we do that. Why would we invest money, time, and energy in something with little to no value, in the end?

The answer, I guess, is that it’s worth the effort to take care of the creatures you love, cost and trouble be damned. For J.C. Wiatt, that creature is a baby who disrupts life as she knows it and sends her on a perfectly-accessorized journey of self-discovery and eventual success. For me, for now, it’s a llama, a dog, and a goat. I realize this is a ridiculous comparison to make; baby ≠ barnyard pals. We work with what we have. I have this place where I live, these animals I love, and this primal urge to take care of something that needs me, and in doing so, take care of myself.

A few months ago, I met my oldest friend’s first child, a girl so dark-haired and bright-eyed she belongs on a baby food label of her own.

“Look at you, so comfortable holding a baby,” Michelle said.

“It’s like, evolution,” I said. “Babies are made to fit against us just right.”

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “Evolution.”

When J.C. Wiatt first meets her baby, she holds it at arm’s length, unsure where to put the frilly thing. By the end, she has her daughter slung against a hip, nestled in that spot that evolved for just that purpose. J.C. Wiatt has evolved to fulfill every role. She can hold her daughter in one arm and take care of business with the other. She can bust balls in the boardroom and stammer like a girl when Sam Shepard: Country Veterinarian looks her in the eye. She can have motherhood, companionship, career, and a fabulous wardrobe. It’s all so predictable, so pleasant, and so cliché. And from my too-empty farmhouse in Nowhere, Oregon, it’s desirable as hell. Pass the pinot; let’s scan the channels one more time.

Elisabeth Geier writes and teaches in Oregon. Her favorite part of Baby Boom, besides the Sam Shepard kissing scenes, is the montage of country shopkeepers shaking their heads.

Reviews as Other People: Star Wars

At the suggestion of his therapist, Darth Vader agrees to sit down and discuss the events of Star Wars publicly for the first time. Chris Cantoni transcribes.

I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I’m not like that anymore. It’s been… it was a long, long time ago. [Long pause] You know, I was just so angry back then, like, all the time. I walk in, the first time you see me and I’m dressed in all black? And where’s the first place I always go? Choking a man to death!  That was so typical back then. Anger, anger, anger. You know, I used to- this is terrible to admit, but there was a time when I needed to choke a guy just to get out of bed in the morning. There was one morning, I choked the guy bringing me breakfast, and when two guys came in to take him away, I choked them too! I’m sitting in bed sipping orange juice and using the force to crush a man’s windpipe because that was the only way I could feel alive. I’m not proud of it. Well, except Admiral Ozzel. That guy was as clumsy as he was stupid. Should have done that one sooner, honestly.

I guess it all goes back to daddy issues. Growing up, my mom always loved to tell people I was immaculately conceived. [Imitates mother] “Oh, that’s my magic son! He was born from space!” Give me a break! She got drunk one night, started spouting off about midichlorians. I don’t even know what that is! Sometimes I would ask her about it, but she’d always change the subject. She never brought it up again. Who knows, my dad might have been some spice trader or a ship designer, or just some barfly. It doesn’t really matter when all the other kids actually DO things with their dads. [Deep voice] “Wanna play some space-catch, son?” No thanks, dad! You weren’t there! Sure, I had a natural gift for mechanics, but so what? Heading out every morning to work on my pod racer,  “Hey dad, can you hand me the hydrospanner?” Oh wait, you can’t! So all day I’m building droids just so I’ll have someone to talk to. It was pathetic! But there goes my mom, prattling on about virgin birth, like the aura of my dad will make up for something.  Thanks a lot, mom, may she rest in peace.

So, some guy comes along and wants to help me grow, show me my talents, of course I’m going to follow him. The Emperor filled that gap, you know? Father figure, to a T! You think it’s great that your new dad is the ruler of the galaxy, but talk about hard to please. Nothing was ever good enough! After I survived the attack on the Death Star, you know what the first thing he says to me is?  “Do you know how much that cost?” Can you believe that? None of this “I’m glad you’re ok, I was so worried, I hope that watching millions of your own men BLOW UP hasn’t permanently scarred you!” No. Just a long lecture about how irresponsible I had been letting the Death Star blow up. Uh, excuse me, “DAD,” but the last I checked, I didn’t design it with a massive flaw, now did I?! Honest to God, that’s what he said. And then any time I want to talk to him, he’s got to appear as this giant floating head? What a power trip! You can’t pick up the phone and call like a normal human interaction, it has to be a big production every time. Like, I’m a person too, man! I have feelings! Oh, but you’re a big floating head so I guess that makes me your servant. 

I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Life was hard, that’s all I’m saying. You ever try to make out with a girl while wearing a terrifying breathing mask? It doesn’t happen. And without the mask, well… lets just say I never got asked to Sadie Hawkins, you know? 

And then there was Leia. You know, I get her locked up in this cell at one point, and I’m going to torture her, but I don’t know it’s my daughter. And there’s a sexual thing going on, where I’m like… enjoying it in a weird way. She’s my naughty prisoner or something. And then I find out it was my own daughter the whole time? Woke up in a cold sweat a few times after that, I’ll tell you what.  My therapist and I, we’re still trying to unravel that one. It was just a fantasy, but… [Shutters], I don’t even know. 

Women are tough, man. Sure at first they love the mask, the deep voice. They think it’s “sexy”. But once a girl sees your true self, you see her true colors.  [Chuckles] I came up with that. My therapist said something about how I was using it to put up walls. Well, he doesn’t look like a pickled egg, now does he! He said that was me putting up more walls. How many walls can a guy have, you know? [Chuckles] I’m working on it. He’s done good, my therapist. It’s just hard, you know? The whole thing with Luke, I mean, HEA-VY! [Long pause]

Interviewer: Do you want to talk about it?

[Several minutes pass. Vader takes a long drag from his cigarette] I cut off my own son’s hand. [Sighs] God, that’s hard to say. It feels… it feels good though.  Getting that off my chest. The worst part of it was- you know what the worst part was? …. [Sniffling], the worst part was right before I did it I thought “now you’re gonna know how it feels.” Can you believe that? [Crying] I’m sorry, I’m still working through stuff. 

That really ate at me. Long after all the force chokes, leading the evil empire, long after I had put that stuff behind me, I couldn’t really face that.  Kept seeing it. In the middle of using the force choke on some guy who spilled coffee or something, BLAM! I’m seeing my son crying, his stub arm tucked away.  It was awful. I mean sure, the Emperor had me chasing my son across the galaxy, right? But I knew. I knew! And I did nothing. My friends all pat me on the back and say “He was a monster. You did a good thing.” And I just think, yeah maybe, but I had the mask, I was marching around the galaxy, maybe I was the monster, you know?  

 

Reviews as Other People: 21 Jump Street (2012)

IN WHICH I ATTEND THE SXSW PREMIERE OF 21 JUMP STREET

by Hunter S. Thompson

I arrived in Austin already pretty far gone, and staggered off the plane into a smell cloud of barbecue, the need to vomit sneaking up on me like a friend I owed money. By the time I got to the cab stand, the line stretched on forever with exiles from normal society and sunlight. Your standard SXSW attendee mix.

The sharp moist wind snuck under my coat, and a gangly beast with an iPad walked down the line, the text on the screen offering free rides into town.

“Are you an investor? A VC?” he asked the crowd.

“You bet your ass I am,” I said, and ended up in the passenger seat of CEO Scott Mitkas’s Suzuki Reno.

“We gamify friendship and transform it into a social experience for tablets and mobile,” he jabbered while I rolled the window down. Taco stands and tract houses whizzed by. I could almost smell the wet scent of damp grass. I almost fell asleep.

The red carpet started in two hours, the movie in three, and in five minutes I was supposed to meet up with Albie, an old pal I’d met at some convention or another and just kept seeing everywhere you’d least expect him. No clue what the SOB did, but he was always a good time. Of course, I had yet to figure out where his hotel was, but figured my new friend Scott would be a help in that.

“Oh, I have no clue. Let me Google it. While I’m at it — can I get your business card?”

Threw myself out of the car on Cesar Chavez, just far enough from the convention center for peeks of civilization to emerge — a public library, a few idle bums, distinguishable from the hipsters by their lack of badges. I pulled out my phone, texted that SOB Albie to meet me at the theater, then called the lady in charge of getting me into the flick.

“Were you supposed to be on the list? I have no record,” she said. And that meant she didn’t think she could get me into the screening, never mind the exclusive interview my editor had promised me she’d promised him.

“This is a big deal, this movie, and you do not want to piss my publication off,” I told her.

“And what publication would that be?” she asked. Smart, this one. I hung up immediately.

Figuring that I’d be better off dealing with the gals on the ground, I followed Albie’s instructions on how to get to the Driskill Hotel, weaving my way through the plaid-wearing drunks on the street, trying to ignore the country rock blasting out of the bars on 6th.

At the Driskill bar, Albie was surrounded by a pack of girls — a group I pulled him away from soon as I figured out that they were all tech bloggers, and married. “Man, it is good to see you, man,” he said.

“When did you start drinking today?” I asked him.

“You mean, have I stopped yet?” I ordered tequila on the rocks, to catch up.

The place was elbow-to-elbow, and the night’s entertainment quickly became two site founders in skinny jeans slamming down Shiners and shouting about privacy rights for users. They used words like “strategy” and “monetize” and I’ve never laughed harder as I put yet another shot on their tab.

“Where do you want to go next?” Albie says, but it’s a thick girl with short hair next to him who answers.

“You vs. Cat!” she chants, her friends nearby echoing her, and Albie gives me a nod. I figure, what the hey, I don’t know what the contest is but my odds against a feline have to be pretty good.

And I’m wrong about that, it turns out — damn Buddy’s a killer at this iPad game they’re showing off, beats me three rounds out of three. But the drinks are free and the crab cakes miniature in this second floor office, and watching girls squeal over a fluffy cat hitting a screen with its paws is damn fine entertainment when you’ve had enough of Friskies’ whiskey.

Eventually, though, I figure it’s time to get down to the theater, dragging Albie away from the tuna tartar and down to where the stars of this cockamanie remake are gonna get their photos taken. I squeeze onto the red carpet between two skinny things, boy and girl, clutching Blackberries, and hand Ablie my camera so he looks official.

The skinny kids shoot me dirty looks. I wonder where in Texas can a fella get his hands on some police-grade Mace in a hurry. Any corner store oughta stock it, you ask me.

The PR vultures in black don’t notice I’m not official, and with Albie barely holding up the right end of the camera, I start interviewing the lower class of celeb they make slink down the line first. Sitcom phoneys and little brothers of big stars look confused by my questions. I guess tonight they weren’t expecting to be debriefed about Syria.

“Is the entire experience of South By Southwest a Symbol of Hollywood’s ability to corrupt an authentic moment?” I ask some girl from some show about an office. She just keeps walking.

“Am I slurring?” I ask Albie.

“Yes,” Slim Jim says next to me, and I don’t remember much else until it’s time for us to start filing into the theater, and it turns out the same lady I spoke to on the phone is working the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson, but you really aren’t on the list.” I once again wish for mace, but at that point Albie topples over.

“We have nothing more to discuss, then,” I say, picking up Albie and running like hell.

We end up twenty blocks north, sprawled on the lawn of the Texas State Capital, passing that bottle of Jack from the cat party back and forth, talking shit about movies based on TV shows and Hollywood phonies and the whole fucking mess of it, this remake culture, where fart imitates art and every writer ends up borrowing someone else’s voice.

The stars are out. The rain has stopped. “Keep Austin weird!” Albie shouts at the Capital dome. My eyes slip shut.

The only thing that Hunter S. Thompson has in common with Liz Shannon Miller is that neither of them have seen 21 Jump Street. Liz tumbls here.

Reviews as Other People: Wanderlust (2012)

Subject: A movie you might like p.s. CALL YOUR MOTHER!!!

to: mydarlinggrownupdaughter@aol.com
from: mommamia@rocketmail.com
4:17pm (7 hours ago)

SWEETHEART,

Tried your cell (2 calls 2 texts) but I guess it’s not on, or perhaps you’re too busy to respond to your dear old mom?!!? I went to the movies today, with Zelda from work. You remember Zelda, she had gall bladder surgery last year? She says hello! She picked the movie – Wanderlust. I hadn’t heard of it, but Zelda said she saw the poster on her walk the other day and it looked cute. Jennifer Aniston is in it. I love her on Friends! The male star is Paul Rudd, who you may remember was also on Friends, as Mike, Phoebe’s husband. That was such a funny relationship. I never thought Phoebe would settle down, but then she met Mike, which I guess proves it can happen for anybody. So don’t give up hope yet sweetie, HA HA HA HA.

I don’t quite know what to say about Wanderlust, but it seems like the kind of thing you might go see. You’ll probably like it much more than I did. You always like such strange things. It’s about a woman and her husband (“Rachel” and “Mike,” can you imagine if they got married instead?!) who leave New York City because they can’t afford their tiny apartment. At the beginning I thought it was going to be about them moving to Atlanta and making a new start, but the movie takes a big detour as the couple takes a detour (hahahaha, I should review movies! Watch out, Siskel and Ebert!) to a commune. The commune is full of Phoebe-types who smoke drugs, play acoustic instruments, hold “truth circles,” and go potty with the door open.

The first big sign that this was NOT the movie we were expecting from the poster was when a naked man appeared on the screen. What’s that called? Full-frontal nudity? It was full side-al and full back-al, too! Did I ever tell you about the time your father and I ended up at a nudist resort in Sedona? We thought it was just a nice couples retreat, but none of the other couples wore clothing. I don’t want to go into too much detail, let’s just say there’s a chance you’re not our natural child. JUST JOKING SWEETIE!! But we were invited to “join” another couple in the hot tub. Of course we didn’t do it, though to be honest, and I don’t know how much you want to hear about this, but I guess it’s e-mail so I can ramble on if I want, the hot tub invitation was a little bit tempting. As you know, your father is the only man I’ve ever been with, and frankly I do wonder sometimes what I’m missing. Of course, he’s an excellent lover, I’M SORRY, but it has to be said.

Speaking of free love, at one point in Wanderlust Paul Rudd and Jennifer Aniston agree to try it, and Jennifer sleeps with a man on the commune (spoiled you alert!). I don’t know who the actor was. He had a beard and long, brown hair, and he was in wonderful physical condition. Do you know who I’m talking about? The actor with brown hair and lovely arms? His character was very odd, but he did a great job saying all his lines. I predict he will become a big star, and as you know, I’m a little bit psychic. Which reminds me, I had a dream the other night that you were in a horrible skydiving accident, so please avoid airplanes for a while, okay hun?

Wanderlust was a bit more crass than I was prepared for. Maybe it’s just not my kind of humor. There was a lot of language, and sex, drugs, loud music, and naked bodies all over the place. And perhaps most offensively: terrible child actors. They’re cute, but I just hate to think of their lives in Hollywood. What kind of parent puts their kid in the movies? I’m glad we started you early on piano lessons and swim team. Of course I wish you had stuck to either one; you might have more options now that you’re grown. BTW how is the job search going?! I’m not nagging, I’m just asking an honest question, don’t get upset. Do you need any $$$? I’ll send you a check FOR ESSENTIALS ONLY. Marijuana is not an essential!!! Not that I didn’t puff once or twice in college, myself. Okay, and in Sedona, but THAT’S IT.

I did laugh out loud twice during the movie. The first was when a horse unexpectedly stuck his head in a bedroom. You know how much I love to see animals in unexpected places! The second was when Alan Alda turned up as the “elder statesmen” of the commune.  What a lovely surprise that was – I had no idea Alan Alda was in this movie. He is still so handsome. Unfortunately, the director or make-up people did not do a very good job styling him. He looked VERY old. I know what you’re thinking, but he is not really that old. If Alan Alda is old, that makes me old, now don’t you say a word.

Do you remember when we used to watch Same Time, Next Year during Dialing for Dollars on KTVU? I loved watching afternoon movies with you when you were little. You were so bright and sweet then. Where did we go wrong? HA HA HA just joking, I love you, my darling only baby in the whole world! Alan Alda was wonderful in that film.

He was wonderful in Wanderlust, as well, but he could have been on screen a whole lot more for my taste, and honestly, they could have shaved his neck beard or let him stand up once in a while. I will say that his motorized scooter looked fun and relaxing. I’ll have to get myself one of those some day – BUT NOT YET! YOUR MOTHER IS STILL YOUNG AND VIBRANT!

Anyhow, Wanderlust just didn’t make much sense to me. The story didn’t have any story, that’s how Zelda put it. A lot of things happened, but it’s hard to point to one major point. I guess it did have a message about finding your place in the world. There is a running joke in about Jennifer Aniston’s character believing she can fly, and Paul Rudd telling her he believes she can fly, too, if she can just get her act together. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but her character reminded me a lot of you! One good line in the movie was when Paul Rudd told her “it’s hard being married to somebody who’s still trying to pick a major.” You know I love you very much, but I do wonder if it’s time for you to settle on one profession. Maybe you just need to spend a month at a commune!!! Not that Wanderlust makes it look like a good idea, except in the end maybe it is? Spoiled you alert again! Anyhow I’m sure it’s easier to get along in life if you look like Jennifer Aniston. I wonder what kind of moisturizer she uses, do you know?

Do you remember the episode of Friends when Rachael is helping Ross move his couch and he keeps yelling at her to pivot? “PIV-AHHHT! PIV-AHHHT!” Now THAT was funny!!! Maybe the writer of Wanderlust should have spent more time watching Friends. Zelda owes me one, that’s all I can say. Can you imagine a sweet old lady like that choosing a dirty movie like this? I told her that next time, I choose the movie, and it’s going to be rated PG-13 or below.

I LOVE YOU,

Your Mother

Your Mother wishes you would call more often. Elisabeth Geier thinks you should probably just do it already.

Reviews as Other People: American Psycho (2000)

DON’T TOUCH THE WATCH.

by Patrick Bateman

There is a film based on me, my life, and it scrapes the line of frightening realism and imaginary hopes, dreams, wishes, that I can’t have, will never have, am not capable of having. The film is American Psycho and is directed by a woman named Mary Harron, who I can only assume is hideous based on how good her film is, which I’m reluctant to admit.

I am played by an actor named Christian Bale whose abs are almost as good as mine; his have better shape but mine have better definition. His hair color is all wrong but his eyes are just right. He talks like I do, with deliberate cadence, and I appreciate that. His Evelyn is played by Reese Witherspoon, a short actress who in no way compares to my Evelyn. Mine is taller and has nicer breasts and a face that is far more pleasant. My Evelyn looks like the actress who played Courtney, but younger.

Today on the The Patty Winters’ Show, Patty Winters interviewed a woman who makes sweaters out of her own hair. I wish that Luis looked as clownish in my life as he did in the film. It’s deplorable that the real-life Lewis is handsomer than his fictional counterpart, and it’s injustices like these that bring me to rip flesh from human bodies and braid the muscles together.

The scene in which I murder is Paul Allen is ridiculous. I am a far bigger fan of Huey Lewis and the News than the dialogue leads you to believe. The great thing about killing black people is how angry they get. The best parts of my Huey Lewis manifesto were brutally slashed, like the hooker I found on 5th avenue and 9th street. I took her upstairs, threw rigatoni in a pot, and didn’t wait for it to finish cooking before shoving it down her throat. As she was choking I put on Whitney Houston’s debut album, “Whitney” to create a gentler ambiance. Then I slammed her head against my steel counter — the hooker, not Whitney Houston — and laughed at the sound her head made when it split open, because honestly, it was just hilarious.

I wouldn’t fuck the actress who played my secretary with a knife.

My exploits in the film don’t come close to the excitement of my real life adventures. Every day I am uncertain what I will do, or say, or where I will go. I could snap or I could stay calm, and it’s this feeling that separates me from everyone else, because I look forward to either emotion and I genuinely appreciate my version of the human experience. Yesterday I saw Donald Trump in an elevator and I told him I liked his tie, but it was a lie, and I am overwhelmed with shame. Towards the end of the film I am running naked, bloody, with a chainsaw, and I felt a sensation of pure joy, as it was a moment that I will always treasure and was captured perfectly.

Ultimately, though I was entertained, I am not impressed with the film overall and I wish the actresses were hotter. Today I looked in the mirror and saw mice running across my face. I do not know what is real and what is not anymore. Maybe it’s all real. Maybe it’s all fake. I breathe, I blink, and most of the time that is all I can handle. I am autonomous. I am not here.

This review has meant nothing.

Patrick Bateman dictated this review to A. Rose, though she is otherwise in no way at all affiliated with him. You can find more of A. Rose’s writing at her site.

Reviews as Other People: Shakespeare in Love (1998)

Reviews as Other People: Sex and the City 2 (2010)