Thoughts on Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom

I almost forgot that I had seen Moonrise Kingdom (written by Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola) last weekend, Wes Anderson's latest quirk of a film.  My boss saw it and came in the next day, very adamant that I must see it because, he said, and I quote: 'I left the movie and thought, this is a script Melissa would write.'

It's true, my boss has seen me come in with some very strange proposals throughout the years working at the 'toy factory.'   Perhaps the most eye-brow raising character, an ocean wave monster (but, really, not such a monster, just having fun wiggling through the ocean, just misunderstood, as any wave would be.)  And, so, now apparently I have a reputation for a Wes Anderson brand of weird.

I love the premise of the film. Two young misfits, one a restless orphan and Khaki scout stuck at summer camp, the other a misunderstood girl who sees the world through binoculars and fantasy books, run away together just before the biggest storm in history.   

It's classic Wes Anderson, the entire film choreographed with a perfect staccato rhythm, characters who speak only what's on their mind with expressionless faces, each shot strategically and geometrically framed.  After a while I got a little tired of the rhythm of speech and the story went to such a ridiculous place, I, personally, couldn't stay with it.  But, I guess when you take a film to such an extreme weird, this is what you allow for: total suspension of disbelief.  It was fun, in a way, but I just found it a little tiresome.

To be honest, I love the trailer (below) SO MUCH that I want to suggest you just watch the trailer instead of spending money on the movie. But I also think the first twenty minutes and the two main characters are wonderful and might inspire some middle grade writers out there (or really any writer writing characters) so I can't say it's not worth a little escape to the theater.

Has anyone seen Moonrise Kingdom?

You Are

The always honest, always intelligent Meg at Write Meg! wrote about jealousy and the way social networking sites like Facebook allow us to see into more lives to measure ourselves against. Her post spoke to me because I have always struggled with that (have expressed it many times here.)  I've gauged my progress against others (particularly when it comes to publishing), desperate to catch up, feeling so far behind where I want or need to be in many aspects of life.  I still feel behind. I don't know if that feeling will ever go away. But, recently, I have been just a little more accepting about where I am (that is to say, behind.)

Over the past two years, there has been a lot of construction work on my train, the F train.  It often leaves me stranded on weekends, forced to take a bus that sits, stalled in traffic, along a very crowded Smith Street.

Once, I stood next to a couple I think of often.  The woman was frantic about needing to get somewhere or maybe just wanting to and there were loud sighs and glances at a watch and a lot of what is happening and why are we sitting and wouldn't it be faster if we just walked?  I understood her frustration.  If I had someone to voice my concerns to, I would have whined just the same.  But her companion was perfectly calm.  'You are where you're meant to be," he said.

That's easy to say. Perhaps, harder to believe.  Or maybe not. Maybe it really is as simple as that?

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Coney Island / Playing From Memory

He sat at the old upright, drenched in sun, on a too-warm January day, just below the Coney Island Museum.  The fractured story of a place hummed above him.  He played from memory, just as we did, running our fingers along the slide of banister, drumming the floorboards, peering into the coin-operated telescope of time.

Maybe I have an urge to play an instrument I can not fit in my apartment.  Maybe I wish I was not at work but on Coney Island's beaches or riding the rickety Cyclone.  I don't know. But I think of him today.

Read it, Read it, You Have To

There is no more room in our bookshelves so I haven't been purchasing books (but I'm rethinking this, one more can't hurt right?)  I wait, impatiently, for new titles from the New York Public Library. Specifically, Richard Ford's Canada, Laura Moriarty's The Chaperone, and Jeanette Winterson's Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?  I don't think I'll get them any time soon.  It's more likely, I'll be reading them 6 months from now.  There are a few others on hold but no word... (I feel as if I'm in a library blackhole.  Where are the books!?)

I'm currently reading a book that I've stopped and started five times.  It was clutched in every palm on the New York City subway two years ago. I'm drowning in it, wondering how on earth I'll ever get through.

I have an epic long to-read list and I just feel it's failing me, over and over. I have read so many books these past few weeks where I close the last page and think quick, on to the next one.  I just haven't fallen in love.  Sometimes I haven't even fallen in like.

I'm reading book blogs, book reviews, feeling meh, about everything.  Feeling that I can never quite understand how the reviewer truly feels.   Where are the books where there is no logic, no rhyme, no reason?  It's different than like.  It's different than, oh, yes, that was a good book.  It's even different than that was well written.  I'm talking about pure, inarticulate, head over heels in love books where you just scream Read it!  Read it!  YOU HAVE TO.

So I'm reaching out to all of you.  What's your Read It, Read It, You Have To recommendation?  What's your I will pay you to read this book book?

Since it's only fair I reciprocate, here's three off the top of my head, without thinking: Three Junes by Julia Glass, Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.

So, what say you?  

Obanos, Spain

It was the round-abouts that sent us veering.  You couldn't drive the miles on all that newly paved gray without coming to the ease of a circle. To go straight required taking the bend of a half-moon and sometimes it felt that having to curve at all meant drifting away entirely.

So we followed sturdy signs to empty villages, parked on silent streets, watched backpackers jab the pavement with poking metal poles.  They travelled El Camino de Santiago, or the way, we later heard it called by the Canadians who rolled their eyes, believing that the trek had become too popular because of a film we'd never heard of.  I made a note to find the movie, to see it, to understand what was so compelling that people were desperate to take the ancient pilgrimage through a place we thought we'd simply stumbled upon.

Everything in Spain felt vaguely yellow and grey but Obanos was lemon, steeped in sun, hung out to dry against all the blue above.  It was a version of the Old West, hazy and vivid at the same time, with the smoke of dirt under our feet but, no, it wasn't dirt at all, just hot, smooth, yellow stone that looked like dirt that had been kicked up under hooves and there was the clip-clop sound of nothing or was it the swing of a saloon door but, of course not, because Obanos is stern masonry and brick and one medieval bell-tower that did not ring its fists at the sky.

We walked so as not to disturb.  Peeked around the painted angles of each home. Passed the lipstick red blossoms in thick clay pots.  Dared not follow the creep of technicolor vines.  There was just one home in rounded, Easter pink.  It's arched windows and painted shutters slipped down the slope, made way for lush, eager green.

In my mind we saw no one or we did but it was like looking through.  Like having to take a turn to go straight.  Like knowing you were somewhere that never saw you.

For more Spain posts, go here. 

First

Yesterday, we left our cubicles for an endless meeting.  On the status of our business.  On the future of our business.  What sits at its core.  I couldn't sit still.  My mind wandered. I looked out the glass windows at my city's skyline, a city gasping for air.  The heat here is extreme.  It's trapped between buildings.  It hovers over concrete.

Afterwards, we sat in a windowless room.  We were put in groups, told to come up with ideas.  We were given prompts and tasks, post-its and markers.  There were facilitators and easels scrawled with notes. I don't thrive in these situations. Being told to think leaves me empty.  In my opinion, this is not how good ideas are generated. But there was no choice.  Ideate or bust. (Or look out the window.  Oh. Wait.)

As a warm up to the idea vomit that would ensue, we were challenged to think of a child's 'firsts'.  The first day of school. The first time riding a bicycle.  These kinds of milestones.  Eventually, it became tedious. Isn't everything, in it's own way, a first?  First birthday party.  First movie.  First pancake even.  (I wondered, in all this ridiculousness, how dark we could take it: 'First time I was picked last in gym class' 'First time I realized Daddy didn't love with me'  but, no, this is not what anyone wanted to hear.)  And so our facilitator, our fearless hunter and gatherer of ideas!, asked us to think of our own firsts.  Not then.  But now.  What firsts do we still have yet to experience?

This is, perhaps, the only time I chimed in before retreating to my wallflower status: My first Safari! I shouted.

I don't know where that came from.

But out it went and I'm thinking, still, about firsts.  This, to me, is worth thinking over.  Not for five minutes.  Not to plaster on a giant notepad so we can say we've accomplished something rather than actually accomplish it (Look!  We wrote it down! We are masters of innovation!)  A concept to actually sit with.  The possibility of first.

In Touch

Last September I had posted about balance in our digital lives.  Lately, I have felt the pull of the digital universe and I think it's time to find ways to step aside.

Yesterday, my mother asked me if I was in touch with an old friend.  Well on Facebook, I replied.  What does that mean? My mother asked.  I did not know how to answer.  I am able to follow this person's life, to rattle off statistics.  I am not in touch.  

This afternoon, I hit a breaking point.  It had been maybe my 100th scroll through my Facebook news feed that day (or maybe...that hour.) Very little had changed from the last time I checked.  Perhaps another baby photo appeared for me to quickly smack a 'like' button.  

I didn't know what I was looking for, what kind of connection I was trying to make.

It is a death sentence, in the toy industry, to make what is called a 'watch-me' toy.  A toy that may be technologically advanced, that may cause oohs and ahhs but, in the end, does not allow for any sort of real interactivity, any real play.  I am starting to think that Facebook, for me, has become a bit of a 'watch-me' toy. 

So, I've decided to lay off Facebook for a while.  I'm not using it well and I'm not sure what I am gaining from the hours I clock there, scrolling through.  I love a lot of people. I email with them. I talk to them on the phone.  I meet them face to face.  These connections feel truer, deeper.  I gain a lot from them.  I think it is enough.