Another Way of Living

Because of its strict property boundaries, I don't live in Reston, but I walk on its trails, buy strawberries at its farmers market, and take yoga at its community center.  

For many years, I haven't known where I live: My mailing address says Herndon, my kids attended high school in Oakton, and I commuted from Vienna.  You could say I live in the suburbs of northern Virginia, but for a person who cares about place, that's always rankled.

Since the pandemic, though, I've been gravitating to the place that suits me best, and that is Reston, a community founded and developed by Robert E. Simon (hence Reston) 60 years ago. Last night I watched a film made to celebrate the town's 50th anniversary: "Another Way of Living: The Story of Reston, VA." 

To say it makes me proud is an understatement. It roots me, inspires me, makes me want to move a mile away just to live in Reston officially. I probably won't do that. But I'll walk its trails with more awe than usual. 

(The Van Gogh Bridge in Reston's Lake Anne. More on the film in future posts.)

Noise or Music?

I'd been itching to watch the movie "Amadeus" ever since I heard Mozart's Requiem in Kentucky. Last night I had the chance.

Though the score is the star of the show (mostly Mozart), one passage of dialogue stood out, when Mozart convinces the emperor to show an opera based on the play "The Marriage of Figaro."

“In a play if more than one person speaks at the same time, it's just noise, no one can understand a word. But with opera, with music... with music you can have twenty individuals all talking at the same time, and it's not noise, it's perfect harmony!”

Simultaneous conversations that produce beauty not cacophony. Perhaps we should be singing out all our national disagreements. A strange thought ... but maybe an interesting experiment?


(Photo: Wikipedia)

Desk Envy

I really can't complain. I may not have the desk of my dreams, but it's not bad. An apple-green table of a desk, only slightly dented and worn (a lopsided heart carved into the middle, a few splotches of salmon-pink paint in one corner, souvenirs of the girls who once used it).

True, it does not overlook the Atlantic Ocean, or the Front Range of the Rockies, or the harbor in Oban, Scotland. But it does have a lovely view of the backyard, the main street of the neighborhood and a corner of the woods beyond. 

My perfectly-fine desk doesn't keep me from having desk envy, though. And last night I experienced a full dose of it while watching the movie "Something's Gotta Give." It wasn't my first viewing of this film, but it was the first time I had desk envy watching it. 

Instead of focusing on the budding romance of Erica the playwright, I zeroed in on her writing space. The broad expanse of the (mahogany?) desk, the perfectly placed lamp. The windows! Oh, my gosh, the windows! And the door, open to sea breezes.

I keep telling myself it's just a movie set. But still...

Binge Watch

Right now I can use the excuse of recuperation, but I do it anyway. Binge watch, that is. Immerse myself in a show, viewing a couple episodes (or more) at a time. Biking around London with a team of nurse midwives or suffering through the latest scandal of the Royal Family — while also enjoying the sumptuous interiors of Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle.

It's fun! It's immersive. But it's also addictive, the high fructose corn syrup of entertainment diets. After an evening of binge watching I feel as I do after Thanksgiving dinner: stuffed but not nourished.

There must be something in our psyches that cries out for the tidy narrative arc: the setup, the conflict, the resolution. And when that's artificially stimulated, when I'm left hanging to the point that I have to watch more (even though I know the next episode will leave me hanging again) at some point I need a palate cleanser: a nice, simple, self-contained film. 

(Photo: Wikipedia)

On Film

I heard about it even before I arrived. The van driver who brought me to this place gave me a mim-tour of the area on the way: the marina, the ferry and the main drag downtown. 

Most of all, he pointed out the movie locations for "An Officer and a Gentleman." Turns out that almost all of the 1982 film was shot in Port Townsend: the parade ground, the lighthouse, the military barracks, the motel, the beach.

Since I arrived here last week I've been trying to watch the movie. Last night I succeeded. And yes, there were most of the scenes I've been seeing on my walks around the area, all lit up on the screen. I'll experience these places differently today.

On Location

On this Labor Day I'll continue my past few days track record of doing pretty much nothing, which is all I've felt like doing. But I have been able to read and watch movies, especially one film I'd been thinking about while we were in Edinburgh — "Chariots of Fire," which won the Academy Award for best picture in 1981 and is a favorite of mine.

I learned that many of the scenes were shot in Edinburgh locales, including an old church (are there any other kind there?), an elegant eatery, and up in the Salisbury Crags near Arthur's Seat. 

It was doubly fun to watch the movie realizing that I was right there only a few days ago. Kinda dorky, I know. But entertaining, just the same. 

(For "Chariots of Fire" fans, Harold and Sybil enter Cafe Royal through the revolving door that's in the foreground while a band strikes up "Three Little Maids From School.") 

Power Broker Workout

I wanted to watch “Turn Every Page” as soon as I heard about it last year. The film about the editor-writer relationship between Robert Gottlieb and Robert Caro seemed smart and funny. Gottlieb’s recent passing at age 92 moved the documentary higher on my must-see list, and last week I finally got around to watching — and rewatching — it.

In fact, I can’t seem to stop seeking out clips of the film and thinking about it. Probably because it takes me back to a time when, as the trailer says, “publishing was a religion.” I came of age in that time, working as a magazine editor in New York, and it still seems like the way things ought to be.

Early on, one of Caro's editors shared a piece of advice, something that would sustain the young investigative reporter, "Turn every page," the editor said, exhorting him to be thorough. Caro did turn every page, and has continued to, searching through every box of documents, interviewing every subject. Now he is 87 and racing against the clock to finish the fifth and final volume of his LBJ biography series.

The greatest effect the movie has had on me is that I'm finally reading Caro's first masterwork, The Power Broker, which won the Pulitzer Prize. For me, the imperative is not turning every page but turning any page. My edition of this tome is 1,246 pages and weighs almost four pounds. Holding it up and reading it is putting my arm muscles through their paces. I'm calling my reading sessions the Power Broker Workout.

It's Barbie!

My first one had a bouffant hairdo, not the iconic ponytail. But I loved her just the same. 

I'm talking about Barbie, of course, the doll being celebrated in a new feature film directed by Greta Gerwig.

In honor of the film and of the Barbiemania sweeping the country, I picked up this beauty in the basement. She is, like all my daughters' dolls, much loved. 

Her hair is matted and her dress is stained, but she is the most intact and presentable Barbie I could find. Many of her buddies are missing arms or have short haphazard haircuts. (The fact that dolls' hair doesn't grow back was a fact my kids couldn't seem to grasp.)

Yes, we have heat domes, indictments and droughts this summer. But we also have ... the Barbie movie. 

Memorial Day Movie

I briefly tried watching the National Memorial Day concert last evening before switching to the Memorial Day Marathon on Turner Classic Movies, where I found a film I'd never heard of called "Hell to Eternity."

This 1960 movie tells the true story of Guy Gabaldon, a Marine who was raised by a Japanese family and who singlehandedly and peacefully took 1,500 prisoners on Saipan, aided by the Japanese language he learned as a child. 

It's a rare film that depicts the incarceration of Japanese Americans in internment camps during the war and features Japanese actors playing Japanese characters. Also, while there are plenty of combat scenes, the movie ultimately glorifies not the fighting but our common humanity. 

Not a bad way to see in Memorial Day 2023. 

(From left, actor Jeffrey Hunter, the real Guy Gabaldon, and actor David Janssen from the set of the film "Hell to Eternity," courtesy TCM.)

Quiet Victory

I had a couple other potential posts lined up for today, but I will interrupt my "regularly scheduled" (as if there's anything scheduled about this blog!) programming for just the tiniest of rants about the Oscars. 

As usual, I stayed up till the end, enjoying what I thought was an unusually touching crop of acceptance speeches. As expected, "Everything, Everywhere, All at Once" swept the awards.  

This is where the rant comes in. I actually watched this film, wanting to see what all the fuss was about, and I can appreciate its manic energy and the sweetness of its message. But this multiverse martial arts film left me completely cold — and bored. I figure it's generational — my film-loving millennial enjoyed it very much — but I hope it's not indicative of a new trend in film, ones that I can barely stand to watch.

Luckily, I had slipped off to an actual theater yesterday to see "The Quiet Girl," an Irish movie up for Best Foreign film. It didn't win — the magisterial German remake of "All Quiet on the Western Front" deservedly nabbed that one — but I walked out of the theater with my heart stirred and my soul enlarged. As long as a few movies still do what movies used to do, I'll be content. 

(Above: the empty — I mean completely empty throughout the entire film — theater where I watched the old-school movie "The Fabelmans.")

 

The Christmas Special

In preparation for family visiting since last week, I did something I seldom do around the holidays: got ahead of the game. Christmas cards are written and mailed. Cookies are baked. Gifts are purchased and (almost) wrapped. 

While there may be trips for last-minute items, for the most part I have a little more time than I usually have. I won't say I'm caught up, but holiday preparations are flowing along at a slightly more leisurely pace than they usually do. And that means I can linger at the breakfast table and work in a walk here and there. 

When I was young I remember Mom sighing this time of year, saying that if only she could finish all the buying/wrapping/baking, she'd have time to settle down and watch one of those Christmas specials on TV. I think what she was wishing for was time to savor what she had created — the ever-elusive pause before the chaos of Christmas Eve and Day. 

It's still dark outside, but so far I'm the only one awake. I'm about to stream a holiday movie. It's my Christmas special. 

Chariots of Fire

It's pretty corny, but I did it anyway, played "Chariots of Fire" on my i-pod as I made my way down the beach yesterday. I was looking for an inspiring piece, one that would pump up the pace a bit, and that one did the trick. 

There was the familiar opening salvo, the electronic pulses, the melody itself. In my mind's eye I saw the 1924 Olympic athletes splashing through the surf, recalled their stories, their motivations for running, each of them different, each of them their own. 

While I can't claim any speed records I did feel the thrill of that music. And since I was running — well, mostly walking — on a beach then, too, well ... you get the idea. It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was a movie-lovers beach walk.


(A still from the beach-running scene in the film "Chariots of Fire," courtesy Wikipedia.) 

Raft of Hope

When I wrote yesterday's post I hadn't yet realized that I'd missed the biggest Oscar news to happen in years. Bigger than when Moonlight's Best Picture award was momentarily and mistakenly given to LaLa Land in 2017. 

When Will Smith slapped Chris Rock to defend his wife against one of Rock's jokes, he ignited a storm of controversy that hasn't let up yet.

What I thought not just after watching clips of that episode but often throughout the three-and-a-half-hour show is how the Oscars —and the world, too — have changed in the last couple of decades, how things have grown darker, starker and meaner. 

At times like these I remind myself of what art can do when it's at its best: how it salves wounds, promotes understanding, draws us together.  What Ralph Ellison wrote of the novel can sometimes be applied to other arts: "[It] could be fashioned as a raft of hope, perception and entertainment that might help keep us afloat as we tried to negotiate the snags and whirlpools that mark our nation's vacillating course toward and away from the democratic idea."

A raft of hope! ... I'll cling to that. 

CODA

Before last week the word coda primarily had a musical meaning for me. It was the part of a piece I looked forward to most: the ending. And not just because I might want a piece of music to end—perish the thought!—but because I enjoy the big bombastic finish. 

But last Wednesday, I looked up the Oscar Best Picture nominees to see which ones I'd missed that I might still be able to see ... and there was CODA. I read a review. I watched the trailer. I was hooked. I even signed up for Apple TV in order to watch it (and I have notes to myself all over the place reminding me to cancel Apple TV before my trial period runs out). 

It was worth the effort: I finally had a pony in this race. I was pulling for CODA to win last night, enough that I crept downstairs and turned the TV back on not once, not twice but three times after trying in vain to fall asleep before the winner was announced. 

There will be talk this morning about how this was Apple TV's movie, how Apple beat Netflix to become the first streaming service to boast an Oscar Best Picture. There will be analyses of how business models are changing. All of this is worth talking about. But in the end, it's all about the story, whether we're listening to it around an ancient campfire, watching it in a modern multiplex or streaming it alone on our home computer. CODA has a story that lifts us up — and that's what we need most right now. 

Oscar Season

The Academy has spoken and we now have 10 Best Picture-nominated films to rent, stream or (gasp!) see in a theater. 

I think I'm ready for that last one. It's been more than two years since I've entered a darkened auditorium, slunk down into my seat and let the world slip away.

By now there will be a new protocol: tickets purchased in advance, assigned seats; that was already happening but has become more regimented, I imagine. Masks will be required. Perhaps the concession stands will be closed. No popcorn? That would be a hard one to swallow, but not a deal-breaker.

It's Oscar season. Omicron is waning. Whatever the lay of this new land, I'm willing to travel it. 

Viva Italia!

Like many people these days I find myself relying on streaming entertainment more heavily than I would like. This has become a winter-time occupation, slowly supplanting my race to watch Oscar-bound films in theaters since so many of them are available online.

As we enter our third year of pandemic-enforced staying-put, I'm gravitating toward films that feature faraway climes. Films like "Under the Tuscan Sun." I read this book years ago, even own a copy of it. I happened upon the movie a couple days ago, looking for something to watch while exercising in the basement. 

What a vision! I don't mean the sexy Italian guys ... I mean the gorgeous Tuscan countryside. There is the walled city of Cortona, the Amalfi Coast marvel of Positano. There are the tall, skinny Italian Cyprus trees, the olive groves, fountains and love of life that flourish in this sunny land.

Oh, I know there are gray days in Italy, too. It's not the garden of eden. But right now it looks like it to me. 

Photos: courtesy Wikipedia, alas I have no recent Italy photos of my own

Picketing

When you've seen a movie as often as I've seen "It's a Wonderful Life," the lines you may not have noticed on first or second viewings pop out at you later.

One of the exchanges I noticed this past December, during my umpteenth watching of this holiday classic, happens when Mary sees George Bailey walking back and forth in front of her house, presumably getting up the nerve to knock on her door. "Are you picketing?" she asks, in a lovingly jocular way that would come to characterize their relationship.

I think of that line often as I walk Copper, an old doggie whose idea of a long stroll is making it one driveway down and back. First we turn right out of the driveway. After a brief mosey on that side of the yard and a careful sniffing of the planter at the foot of the mailbox, we turn the other way and stroll over to the forsythia and its band of encircling liriope, where there are more sniffs to be had, long lovely inhalations, as if Copper was about to swill a fine wine.

Sometimes we repeat this backing and forthing several times before we go inside. Does it feel like picketing? Absolutely! All we need is a sign: "More meat, less kibble!"

Exorcist Stairs

Even watching the trailer sends chills down my spine, so I will probably not be watching "The Exorcist" this Halloween. But tonight I will be attending class right next to the "Exorcist Stairs," the Washington, D.C. landmark where the movie's final scene was filmed. 

In this scene, Father Miller, who's attempting to rid the 12-year-old Regan of the demon, falls from Regan's window down these narrow steps to his death. According to Culture Trip, the stuntman assigned this task had to fall down the stairs twice to perfect the scene. 

I found the stairs a couple weeks ago after walking past them earlier in my rush to get to class. But once a classmate told me where they were, I made a point to walk them the next week. 

I'm happy to say that I did not fall. But I did huff and puff a little. And I definitely felt a sinister vibe. The stairs are steep and creepy, just as billed, and apparently, if you try to count them, you'll never come up with the same number twice. 

Beethoven's Seventh

An open door, a world of light — and a piano. Scarcely a day passes that I don't play it, or wish I had. To touch the keys and realize, I own this thing, I can walk over here and pound out a Brahms Intermezzo or a Bach Prelude whenever I want — well it's been months since I bought this piano but it still thrills me. 

Writing about the playing is something else entirely, though. That's because music is the other, the part that can't be pinned down by precision. It flows where the words won't go. 

A few nights ago, I found a book of music I'd forgotten I had, transcriptions of orchestral works, including the second movement of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, which I took out and played. 

This was a piece popularized by an impressive scene from "The King's Speech," but whenever I hear it I will always remember the University of Kentucky's Piano Institute the summer before my junior year of high school. There was a young assistant professor there who taught music theory, and for one class he had us sit in a dingy room in basement of the Performing Arts building with big clunky earphones on our ears and our heads down on our arms listening to this music. 

I can’t remember now what lesson we were to take away from that experience. All I know is that in the darkness and with the earphones, the soft dirge of the opening chords built slowly to the crescendo at the piece’s midpoint in a way that made my heart fill near to bursting. And somehow, the other night, I was able to capture a bit of that feeling again ... on the new piano. 

Small is Beautiful?

It was a different kind of Academy Awards ceremony last night, but I still watched the whole thing. Set in L.A.'s Union Station, the nominees and their guests sat around little tables, as if at a supper club. All of which made the event seem warmer and more intimate, though admittedly strange, without the usual glitter and fuss.

With no host and no big song-and-dance numbers, the event focused our attention on what matters most: the awards themselves and the people who receive them. Though a few recipients went on too long and there were the usual political diatribes, I enjoyed the relatively unscripted moments. You could tell people were speaking to a small audience (only 170) from the way they talked. 

By now most of us are ready for a return to normalcy, watching movies on the big screen — something Frances McDormand urged us to do when she accepted her Best Actress award — and maybe even the four-hour-long extravaganza every year that honors those films. But the performances at this year's Oscars make a case for small over large. 

(Info booth at Union Station, pre-transformation. Photo: Wikipedia Peetlesnumber1