Old Man Camp

I am not planning on having children any time soon, if at all, but if I could I would like to adopt a small camp of old men as my children.  Usually when I see an older man who happens to strike me of the kind who might fit in my camp, my outward reaction goes something like this:  “Ohmygod, he is so adorable.  I want to adopt him.”  Meanwhile, my internal reaction is that my heart melts, my tummy aches a little, and the world slows to a snail’s pace.  (If you saw the old man in the movie Up, and have any kind of heart at all, you know what I’m talking about.) 

And if I didn’t have a fear of rejection and/or otherwise didn’t think the execution of it might not go quite as I envision it in my head -- this would include my camp of old men playing checkers and watching WPRK in Cincinatti reruns, entertaining me with funny stories of the good old days, and going out to breakfast at 7 a.m. (because that’s what old people do) -- I might consider making the proposal.  An added bonus – and I’m being completely picky here -- would include their insistence on helping me out with some light household chores like doing laundry and emptying the dishwasher. 

Today, during my morning workout, I spotted two perfect candidates for my old man camp.  They were decked out to the nines in camp-type attire just to walk the college track.  Five-foot-tall wooden walking stick?  Check.  Fishing hats?  On their heads.  Decorated t-shirts from some tourist attraction (location unidentified)? Keeping them warm.  Tiny, six-inch boombox (complete with handle) playing Roberta Flack’s “Where is the love?” You bet!  This last detail was what melted my heart into pure gold because of the beautiful dichotomy of two old-thyme Mainers not listening to some old-folky Conway Twitty or Shelby Lynne, as one would expect (which would’ve still been adorable and dandy, BTW), but rather taking their morning constitution jamming to some sweet old-school R&B.  These men knew how to do it right.  Let's just say it was a sight for sore eyes on a Sunday morning. Complete with smile and a friendly hello, Clifford and Lou (my invented names for them) were the men for me. 

You may ask why I don’t envision a camp for old ladies too, or even a co-ed camp, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure.  While old folks, in general, get my heart strings, I have always had a particular soft spot for the old men.  Something about their way just speaks to me, I suppose.    

So if you know of any old men who are adorable, good natured and fun, and are in need of a granddaughter-type figure, you know who to call.

Bill Cunningham's New York: Just watch this documentary already

“He who seeks beauty will find it.” – Bill Cunningham, Fashion Photographer for the New York Times

This past Sunday I watched Bill Cunningham’s New York, a documentary 10 years in the making, directed by Richard Press.  I am going to do this documentary no justice by trying how to articulate how moving it was, about how carefully the film seemed to capture the essence of who Cunningham is – as a person, a photographer, a New Yorker, and an American icon. Please just watch it, for heaven’s sake. Even if you have no interest in fashion, New York, American culture, or documentaries, you will inevitably be moved by this film, because ultimately, the aforementioned subjects are not what the film is about. It is instead about an 80-something-year-old with the kind of soul you see in so few people; about a man who withholds the kind of rare combination of talent, focus, tenacity, and humility while all the while being sweet, kind, and funny.  More importantly, the film is about a gentleman who leads such a sparse, simplistic life despite living amongst a culture of indulgence and excess, and rather than judging that life of excess in order to separate himself from it, he basks in it like the most courteous of voyeurs merely through the lens of his point-and-shoot camera.

Cunningham's irony is striking because, while uber-passionate about fashion, he dons the same uniform everyday: a basic blue coat, chinos, and a button-down or a suit if he has to attend an event. For dozens of years, he lived in a one-room apartment containing dozens of file cabinets, a couple outfits on wire hangers, and a twin-size mattress atop his filing cabinets.  Luckily, he had a communal bathroom down the hall.

Bill Cunningham is the ultimate ascetic -- a man who doesn’t have time for fancy fare and who hand patches the holes in his  poncho with electric tape. He has lived a solitary life despite being around people all the time, capturing urbanites in fashiony getup on the city streets.  When filmmaker Press asks if he had ever been in a romantic relationship and then baited about his sexual orientation, Cunningham responds that he has never having been in such a relationship. “I didn’t have time for relationships,” he says.

This fact alone demonstrates how unique his disposition on life is. Romantic love, desire, to be wanted seems to be such a basic, fundamental human need. I cannot imagine a life with that feeling, that impetus. And, I don't think that I'm alone in suggesting that most of us would feel less human if such a feeling or need didn’t exist, but just the same, I consider those who appear not to be controlled by that need to be in some ways more evolved than the rest of us.

Even though Cunningham leads such an ascetic life, he is remarkably courteous and good natured, calling the people around him “kids” and “lumberjacks.” Most illuminating about Cunningham is his lack of egocentrism for someone so talented, focused, and well respected in the fashion and journalistic community. In a world where egomaniacs rule – especially those who are deemed successful by society – I am always most touched by someone who is able to maintain a sense of humility in the face of great achievement. That can be no easy feat.

A particularly moving part of the film was when when Press asks, “Does religion play an important role in your life?” Cunningham hangs his head quietly, responding that religion has always been very important in his life. As someone who was raised Catholic (although I don’t practice religion now) I am always interested in how people of the world – you know, grownups with careers, fully shaped personalities and interests, and a working knowledge of science and society, can have such blind faith or perhaps, such a devotion to religion. And while I think spirituality is certainly a need for many of us, what is particularly intriguing is that someone as seemingly evolved and worldly as Cunningham – who, despite his entire sphere revolving amidst the avante garde fashion universe, admits to such consistently conservative religious practices. While much of it may have to do with his ascetic approach to life, and because he’s a product of his generation, it is nevertheless an interesting dichotomy.

I think the best documentaries tear away the layers of the onion piece by piece the way that Bill Cunningham’s New York did. Those are my favorite kinds.  Other personal favorites have been Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work and Capturing the Friedmans.  As these films reveal, much like in real life, no one is completely what they seem, even if they make every effort to share to the world that they are inside. Just the same, none of us are black and white.

Funny Isn't Always Better

I never used to like Joan Rivers. I thought she was obnoxiously annoying and rude, and was nothing more than a talking head on E! and the TV Guide Channel who looked like the lovechild of an alien from outer space and the Cheshire cat. I found her so repulsive that I always changed the channel whenever it was her turn to provide input on celebrity fashions at the Academy Awards. I simply had no use for her. Since watching A Piece of Work, the documentary that chronicles the life and career of her, though, I’ve changed my mind.

That’s the funny thing about documentaries, and to some extent reality TV. Our guards are more easily shed when all that teleprompting and hairspray is stripped away in the hope that we discover someone we can actually identify with on some human level, despite the fact that their lives may not parallel ours in any way.

Unlike my last post, ironically also written about a documentary, A Piece of Work did not receive criticism for being staged; instead, it showed a different side of Joan Rivers that had probably never been revealed on camera before, in true-to-form, conventional documentary format. We learn of Joan’s struggles as a female comedienne. We learn that her relationship with her daughter Melissa is genuinely tumultuous, as often mother-daughter relationships are. We also learn of her insecurities with Hollywood, aging, and her relationships, as well as the mundane things like her love of New York and penchant for formal design. Through all of this, we learn that Joan Rivers is actually a very sensitive person who shares the same kind of vulnerabilities that we all have, that underneath all that hard plastic there are flaws that are both endearing and real, which are what make her genuinely likable.

It was only out of consequence that I learned that I could continue embarking on my new pop-culture fascination of Joan Rivers through her reality series Joan and Melissa: Joan Knows Best?, which, while tinged with more humor than A Piece of Work was, is nevertheless an intriguing platform to watch and learn more about the “real” Joan Rivers.

A Study of the Other

They say that “I’m Still Here,” the documentary featuring Joaquin Phoenix’s transition from a film actor to a rapper, was a hoax. Casey Affleck, who directed the film and co-produced it with Phoenix, even admitted it himself, stating that the documentary was in fact a “fake.” I was well aware of this and the angry criticism the film received before watching it for the first time this weekend. Perhaps if I had watched the film thinking that it was a full-on documentary only to learn that it was a fake I would’ve been angry too. But somehow, despite the fact that I knew this, I still found the film riveting – whether by fictional or non-fictional standards – because of the film’s display of performance.



The notion of performing is paramount here, as Joaquin “JP” Phoenix is not only attempting to strip away his actor persona in an attempt to be authentically viewed as a rapper, but he is doubly performing in his capacity as an unkempt, coke-snorting derelict whose constantly anxiety-ridden state seems to be a product of smoking too much weed. Here, JP’s performance is flawless, albeit a bit ridiculous, and in character JP is posing as the kind of individual who takes himself far too seriously to even realize that he may be perceived as such. This is the image of someone who is choosing to not conform for conformance sake, not because he disagrees with conformance or the status quo, necessarily, but because he wants to be viewed as the Other, which he achieves in part by donning ill-fitting clothes, electrical-taped-glasses, pseudo dreads, a growing gut, and making philosophical statements about life that simply make him sound like an asshole.

While he is trying to be anything but, JP is a cliché. This is what I find perhaps most interesting about the film – the character study of someone’s forced lateral transition from critically acclaimed actor to rapper with street cred while simultaneously making a conscious effort to appear unconscious in making an effort not to give a fuck about life. We are all guilty of this in some way, although JP’s display of it is magnified, not as a cartoon blown out of proportion but instead in a way that is barely obvious enough so that it seems natural. His efforts to appear carelessly dignified are a mark of actually conforming in the sense that what is status quo appears to carry more weight to him than to those who participate in the status quo simply because that is what evolution intends us to do.

Despite this, JP cannot be shamed for attempting to take a different path; it’s just that his intents for doing so seem to be in vain. And while his choices in his current state do not make life easier for him – he experiences multiple strained relationships with both men and women alike, is publicly ridiculed by both the music industry and the acting community, and is on the brink of experiencing financial woes –all of this is something he seems to seek a strange solace because that means he’s successfully taken on the role of the Other, which bears more importance to him than his transition from actor to rapper.

While an obviously conscious effort, this is clearly a character trait that is inherent to who JP is fundamentally, and cinematically the film showcases this with skilled mastery. The movie opens and closes with similar waterfall scenes, showing JP’s progression through life. Musically, the film focuses on his rapping and various beats early on, only to transition to soundtrack music, in particular the emotionally driven track by new age pianist, George Winston. Where JP seems like a pathetic joke until the last quarter of the film, we come to identify with him toward the end, undoubtedly because of the challenges he faces with ridicule and non-acceptance in the face of seeking achievement. And, while he seeks some solace in this still because he has achieved the state of Other, we see that maintaining such a state is nevertheless alienating and lonely. For these reasons, I was quite taken by the pseudo-documentary, even if it turned out to be a hoax.