Just A Girl in Flip-Flops

I really wanted to love Up in the Air, starring the fabulous George Clooney and adorable Anna Kendrick, but I felt it was lacking something.  In a lot of ways, it was like a mediocre first date. It was nice, and I enjoyed it well enough, but is it really something to get excited about? Something that I want to see again?  I’m still not sure.

The Jason Reitman directed flick tells the tale of Ryan Bingham (Clooney), a downsizing expert that lives out of a suitcase, traveling the United States to perform layoffs for corporate hot shots without the balls to dismiss their own employees.  Bingham aspires to be a be a motivational speaker, and encourages people to cut themselves free of possessions and people alike.  “What’s in your backpack?” He asks.  “Do you feel how heavy it is?  It’s weighing you down… it’s slowing you down… moving is living… We are sharks.”   Bingham is a man with no ties to anyone and no purpose for his life – save one feat: earning 10 million air miles. Ryan Bingham’s boat is rocked by the addition of Cornell graduate Natalie Keener (Kendricks), who has the lofty goal of revolutionizing the industry by instituting terminations through iChat. With his goal of 10 million miles at stake, Ryan, however begrudgingly, allows Natalie to shadow him on his tour of terminations.  Natalie challenges Ryan’s views on relationships and people, and encourages Bingham to pursue Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), a similarly minded corporate type that he hooks up with whenever their flight paths cross.  Ryan finally lets another person into his life, only to find that Alex has a husband and children at home. He does, however, begin to reconnect with his family and learn to value his relationship with his much younger shadow, Natalie. Still, with his goal of 10 million air miles under his belt, Ryan finds that his life, his future, and any sense of purpose (you guessed it) is completely up in the air…

The chemistry between Clooney and Kendrick was undeniable, and their playful bickering made the film for me; however, with Kendrick grounded and fading into oblivion during the latter part of the film, the plot fell flat.  When Ryan showed up at the Chicago home of Alex, it seemed predictable that she would shatter his heart. It was also predictable when Ryan donated one million of his air miles to his sister’s honeymoon clause. And it was predictable that he found himself alone and (one more!) up in the air.  As he eventually admits, life is really nothing without a co-pilot.

I did enjoy the irony of the film. It was interesting to find that the people struggling through their terminations were the ones with the most to live for. Without his life on the road, it quickly became apparent that Ryan Bingham had nothing to live for.  In this economic climate, it was a fitting message; employment is not the measure of success in life -  relationships are.

I would give the film four out of five stars – just because I adore George Clooney and Anna Kendrick.  Up in the Air is definitely not the best film of the year, but I would be happy enough (at this stage in my Tour de Oscar) for George to take home the Oscar for best actor in a leading role; I’d be even happier if Kendrick took home the award for best actress in a supporting role.

Monday, the Nominations for the 82nd Academy Awards were announced.  As a film enthusiast, I was excited to see that the nominees for Best Picture encompassed a broad array of genres, messages, and media.   This year the following films vie for the Academy’s highest honor:

• Avatar, d: James Cameron, with Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, Sigourney Weaver, Stephen Lang, Laz Alonso. 20th Century Fox, nine nominations, $598 million, released Dec. 18.

• Up, d: Pete Docter. Pixar / Disney, five nominations, $293 million, released May 29.

• The Blind Side, d: John Lee Hancock, with Sandra Bullock, Tim McGraw, Quinton Aaron. Warner Bros., two nominations, $238 million, released Nov. 20.

• Inglourious Basterds, d: Quentin Tarantino, with Melanie Laurent, Brad Pitt, Diane Kruger, Eli Roth, Christoph Waltz. The Weinstein Co., eight nominations, $121 million, released Aug. 21.

• District 9, d: Neill Blomkamp, with Sharlto Copley. Sony, four nominations, $116 million, released Aug. 14.

• Up in the Air, d: Jason Reitman, with George Clooney, Vera Farmiga, Anna Kendrick. Paramount, six nominations, $73 million, released Dec. 4.

• Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire, d: Lee Daniels, with Gabourey Sidibe, Mo’Nique, Paula Patton, Mariah Carey. Lionsgate, six nominations, $45 million, released Nov. 6.

• The Hurt Locker, d: Kathryn Bigelow, with Jeremy Renner, Christian Camargo, Brian Geraghty, Anthony Mackie. Summit Entertainment, nine nominations, $12.7 million, released June 26.

• A Serious Man, d: Joel and Ethan Coen, with Michael Stuhlbarg, Richard Kind. Focus, two nominations, $9.2 million released Oct. 2.

• An Education, d: Lone Scherfig, with Carey Mulligan, Peter Sarsgaard, Emma Thompson, Alfred Molina. Sony Pictures Classics, three nominations, $9 million, released Oct. 9.
  
  **From Alt Film Guide

I’m thrilled to see that Disney has been nominated for Up, which I found painfully beautiful in parts. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced an animated film that so completely enthralled me. But I am yet to see Avatar.   Equally, I found District 9, to be one of the industry’s most pleasant surprises last year.  I can scarcely recall what I expected, but I found the film to be very powerful and compelling.  The film was entirely gripping – so much so that a man in the showing I attended had a panic attack – and brought new life to the sci-fi genre.  I am, however, ashamed to admit that I am yet to see the rest of the nominees.  Thus, I’m embarking on a tour of films this weekend with the intent to see as many of the Best Picture nominations as I can.  This is partially in preparation for our next Kindlings event, Faith and Film: The Best Pictures of the Year, but also because  – with the exception of Basterds – I think each film looks as though it has an interesting or challenging message to communicate.  I will update with reviews as I see each.

A friend and I once discussed a listing she found whilst looking for a school in the yellow pages.  Her family had just relocated from Alaska, and was exploring various educational options in the Seattle area.  The listing of interest was – and I could not make this up if I tried – Hooray For Me, a preschool (and possibly Kindergarten) in our vicinity.  I’ll be honest, I doubted such a place actually existed until one day I  wandered the Alderwood Mall and saw a large group of preschoolers. Each was buddied with another child, holding hands; each wore a red shirt with two hand prints, emblazoned with the words Hooray For Me!

I feel like one of those hooray for me kids. I have recently become a real university student and have eagerly embraced this new season with optimism. Hooray for me! I wander the campus with wide eyes, embracing its bigness and drinking it in with the same star-struck eyes as the hand-holding children. And, at times, I stop, consult my schedule, glance anxiously around as I gather my bearings, and feel like I’m wearing a bright red shirt – although mine would say “I’m new here,” instead of  “hooray for me.”

Higher learning is no stranger to me. I went through a year and a sprinkling of community college, as well as two years at Bible college. Thankfully, most of my credits satisfy requirements at my university and I’m simply continuing, albeit in a new direction.  I was, however, not entirely prepared for this new chapter.

Perhaps it’s simply the label. University.  It seems much more important than any prior schooling. Perhaps it’s the sticker price. $18,000 a year. But whatever reason, the label or price, I feel the importance of my education acutely. Actually, this may be the first time that I have truly, deeply cared about my education.

For the first time in a long while, I feel challenged and stimulated at school.  I realize that I wont easily pull the answers from thin air – especially not in biology; shudder – and that I will have to devote myself with vigor if I intend to excel. Yet, I feel very alive and excited as I explore this new chapter. The reason, I am convinced, is the fact I’m being forced from my comfort zone and forced to better myself. I cannot stagnate. I cannot idly swan through the experience, unchanged. I know I will emerge from this experience with more than a degree.

Hooray for me.

I don’t know why I remember the juice incident, yet it is one of my most vibrant flashes of memory – and possibly one of the earliest.

They say you should never cry over spilled milk, but this was juice – apple, to be exact. Strangely, I cannot remember spilling the juice, just that the juice was spilled and I was to blame. At the time, I was three – maybe four – and, no doubt, caught in a whimsical dance across the kitchen. The juice likely lapped precariously close to the lip of the cup; it probably trickled down atop my fingers, leaving a trail of sticky sweetness.  The warning signs should have caught my attention, but instead I continued the dance.

Similarly, I cannot remember the tumbler slipping through my fingers. My imagination renders images of the cup dropping through faltering fingers, floor bound, pulled by an invisible string. Perhaps I was too absorbed in the dance to notice.

Try as I might, I cannot recall the sound of the tumbler striking the floor, nor the following splash as the juice scattered.  The cup bounced, fleeing the scene of the crime, but I didn’t notice until much later.  Obviously, it doesn’t matter because I can’t remember the color of the cup or its size, although it must have been big because the juice pooled widely all around me, forcing me against the cool, blue kitchen cabinets. Trapped.

There is, however, a lot I do remember.

The hot tears burning at my eyes and streaking wildly downwards to join the juice? I remember that. The scalding scarlet flush that seized my face, which I hid in my hands? I remember that too. With crystal clarity, I remember the weight of the shame and disapproval, so heavy I wished I could melt into the juice and disappear. If only I could have been invisible, I might have run away and waited until my mommy and daddy came back. Instead, I cowered against the cabinets surrounded by my mess.

The towel I was handed felt cold between my hands. It was nearly as big as I was, and I couldn’t quite get a firm hold on it. It flopped whichever way it pleased, evading my tiny grasp. Trying my best, I mopped at the puddle, but it was no use. The juice fled its assailant, chasing after the cup. The more frantically I worked to contain the mess, the more it spread, the more it turned the floor into a giant, sticky sheet of fly paper, sickeningly sweet and yet somehow fatal.

With new fury, the disapproval spilled forth. I had made the mess and I couldn’t clean it up.

It was hopeless.

I was hopeless.

The towel was taken from me and I was sent away.

In the BC era – that’s Before Canada, I could easily send  over 10,000 texts in one month.  My texting was unlimited, my friends were in my area code, and it seemed the best way to stay connected.  At any given time, I could carry on simultaneous conversations with my coworkers, best friends, boyfriend, and the youth from church -  without missing a word.

Today, having moved to British Columbia, I seldom text. There is one primary reason for this:

To text the people I had in the States, I would be charged $1 per message. Thus, I was hardly shocked when I read that Kelly Osbourne ran up a $5,600 phone bill during her stint on dancing with the stars.  Unlike Kelly, my resources are limited, and Canada offers no real alternative my my 3,000 minute/month, unlimited text plan.  (As an interesting side note, my 300 minute/month Canadian Telus Mobility plan costs more than my previous 3,000 minute/month T-Mobil cell phone plan! And I have to pay an additional $10 for unlimited texting.) Was I to continue calling and texting my friends south of the border in the fashion I had before, my phone bill would make Kelly Osbourne’s look meager. While you cannot put a price on friendship, you have to draw the line somewhere…

I say this as a precursor to a single fact:  I’ve developed emotional distance between myself and my cellular phone. My phone is no longer a communication device between myself and a social network. It’s a device on which I receive work calls, family calls, and facebook updates. Most of the time it’s switched off and stowed in my purse. I don’t use it to stay connected to a network of friends anymore.

I was shocked to find myself irked when a guy with whom I had a casual lunch – a guy I met only once previously – began to text me. It felt awkward to have someone insert himself in the minutia of my life.  Questions like “How’s your day?” or “What are you up to?” felt so foreign coming from a stranger.  While this guy is perfectly nice, he’s not someone that I’ve know since the first week of high school, someone I’ve worked with for three months, or someone I’ve been dating for ages. He’s just a guy I’ve met twice – and it felt intrusive having him pop up in my inbox.

That must sound hypocritical from a classic Twitter narcissist. I alert the world whenever I buy a latte, drive to work, see a funny sign, spill my latte, argue with the photocopier at work, turn to my latte for comfort… But none of the things I post on twitter are personal. They’re projected from my little electronic soapbox to the entire world. Twitter, I feel, cannot be described as social networking. Tweets are a self-centered, 140-character exaltation of self.  They do not build relationships. Since following him, I have not learned anything about who Levar Burton truly is, nor have I learned how Jessica Simpson really felt when a coyote carried off her Maltipoo pup. And although Britney Spears follows me on twitter, I wouldn’t call us friends.

However, having a textually active relationship with someone is like carrying them around in your pocket. They say things to you and, as social protocol dictates, you must respond; it’s a conversation. It’s a conversation that you carry on – although haltingly – without any real beginning or end. You’re in constant contact with that person. Of course, textual relationships get more serious with your best and closest friends or your significant other. In those cases you’re in constant contact. You swap pictures and ask, “Does this shirt make me look fat?” or “Which shoes?” or “Look what I bought for us to eat!”  Such conversations allow you the feeling of always being with the people you care about most. This is probably why I sent almost 5,000 text messages while my boyfriend was at Disneyland for 5 days in the summer of 2007.

Call me old fashioned, but texting means something to me! I could never just text someone that I wouldn’t literally carry around in my pocket. The amount I text is generally proportionate to how much I care about someone. I think becoming textually active prematurely just creates false intimacy with someone you really don’t know.

Thoughts?