Travis D'arby's Open Salon Blog

I'm All Out of Laughs: It's Time to Get Serious, America

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 09:02:10 -0500

Lead with a joke. This refrain is as familiar as “Hey Jude” to the speechwriters and bloggers out there. But you know what? Call me a conscientious objector because I refuse to participate in these set up and punch line times. While Slate has declared atheism to be America's last taboo, I have actually found my social life is more hampered by my inability to deliver a joke if you spotted me Raquel Welch, the pope and a lifeboat than it is by my unwillingness to follow the religious precepts set down by Bronze Age goat herders.

Where once we looked to our leaders to guide us, we now expect only to be entertained. To get elected, our politicians must bow before and kiss the ring of the court jester, as Sarah Palin did with her doppelganger Tina Fey on SNL or Michael Steele with his puppet on “The Daily Show”. Being a good sport is now more valued than forming a cogent thought in the political realm.

Even election to the highest office in the land does not stop the pandering, whether it is Barack Obama riffing about bowling like a Special Olympian to Jay Leno on the Tonight Show or that Master of Improv George W. Bush hilariously looking for weapons of mass destruction under the oval office desk. As long as you avoid that cardinal sin of taking yourself too seriously, you can bomb whatever Middle Eastern nation you want back into the stone age and still get re-elected.

As children, crossing your fingers meant you did not mean what you were saying. But as adults, all we require is the assurance that you were “only joking" as Tracy Morgan proved last summer. You can be a major television star today, tell an audience you would stab your gay son to death then have your boss write a two-part apologia that watered down your original remarks and made gays seem like hypersensitive drama queens in the process. Great work if you can get it but since our elected officials are now more concerned with showing they can take a joke than create a job, you’re probably going to stay f**ked for a while.

Is it any coincidence that the world's fastest growing nations are also the ones least associated with levity? India’s most popular comedian Aziz Ansari hails from South Carolina while China has but one lone comedy club to entertain its 1.3 billion citizens. While Indians celebrate their technological innovators, we demonize ours for being "bone-achingly boring" like Mark Zuckerberg's much maligned SNL appearance, which left one prominent blogger begging for a shot of cyanide after a mere 30 seconds of Zuckerberg screen time. No wonder Indians get Infosys while we get over 13 million people watching “Rob”.

Americans once led the world in architectural marvels like the Sears Tower and the Empire State Building. But today it is Middle Eastern nations like Dubai who dare to pierce the heavens with their 2,700 foot Burj Khalifa skyscraper while we Americans build statues to sitcom characters.

While Egyptian women courageously protest police brutality, their sisters here in the United States are too busy tweeting about their desire to get beat by Chris Brown and transforming a movie about Bridesmaids who shit in sinks into a feminist cause to give a damn.

If America were as serious as these countries, perhaps we would be experiencing a sixteen percent annual GDP growth rate as well. But alas, we have instead chosen to become the Monty Python version of Camelot: a silly place whose rate of growth lags behind even that of Cameroon.

New Year's Eve: The Loneliest Night of the Year

Wed, 29 Dec 2010 13:12:24 -0500

One of the benefits of aging is losing almost all interest in appearing cool. But on one night every year, those old high school insecurities return in full force. Silly as it sounds, the dropping of a big red ball makes me feel like an awkward teenager all over again. Even though New Year’s Eve combines my three least favorite things, people, parties and booze, I melt like Jack Twist around Ennis Del Mar every time this holiday nears. To steal a line from Brokeback Mountain: “New Year’s Eve, I wish I knew how to quit you.”

In thirty-three years, I've had exactly two memorable New Year's Eve nights: one clean, one sordid. Two out of thirty-three. Michael Jordan is more likely to hit a baseball than I am to have a decent December 31^st.

My personal favorite came as the world rang in the new millennium. I visited a friend in Canada and we spent the night playing sardines—a Canadian variation on hide & seek—at his church. I made like Anne Frank sixty years before me and hid in the crawl space of the attic as if my life depended on it. Regular people are as scary to us shy folk as Nazis are to Jews. Actually being encouraged to hide from strangers on New Year’s Eve was every introvert’s wet dream come to life!

The sordid tale came in 2003 when I went on a blind date that turned out much better than Kevin Broccoli's. The girl and I were feeling it; and she was sharing a hotel room for the night with her best girlfriend. What could be better?

You're probably thinking ménage à trois right about now but remember this was 2003, the era of Freedom Fries when it was hip to hate the French. Not wanting to be mistaken for a Francophile pervert on our first date, I thought better of broaching the double your pleasure scenario. Instead, as we headed back to the room, I jiggled the handle of the hotel meeting room door and it opened! Needless to say, I'm sure the maid would agree we did something even more perverse than a threesome on the meeting room table that night.

As for those other 31 years, I think the repealed "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy should be reinstated for New Year's Eve reminisces.

Last year the wife and I went on a double date. The other couple came down with a case of the Cinderellas and ditched us at 11:35pm. Unless the couple's fairy godmother intended to turn their Mercedes back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight, I found their behavior to be inexcusably rude.

The year before we went to an English themed pub: midnight came and went with hardly a peep from the crowd. This place felt as dead as a strip club on a Tuesday night where the emcee implores the crowd to make some noise for the ladies.

In 2007 I had the bright idea of taking the wife to a movie on New Year’s Eve. Even though I’m a matinee person by temperament, I waited around all day for the 10pm show so I could be a cool person out on the town. By the time Sweeney Todd slit his last throat, I had hit REM sleep. Now I’ve sworn off the late show. Why should I wait until some arbitrary time and pay for a premium ticket on the off chance strangers might mistake me for cool?

While others do shots on New Year's Eve, I contemplate a shotgun blast to the head. I have a very acute case of seasonal affective disorder that occurs on only one winter's night of the year.

This New Year's Eve has the potential to be the worst yet. A local casino is hosting a free concert by Three Dog Night. What happened? Bread was too baked to play?

I'm not sure which is worse: staying home watching Ryan Seacrest or ringing in the New Year to "Joy to the World (Jeremiah was a Bullfrog.)"

Shoot me now please so I do not have to decide.

Facing the Fear of Skiing

Mon, 8 Mar 2010 15:03:06 -0500

While many fears are based upon irrational beliefs, my fear of skiing was built upon dozens of falls and an inability to stop. As a midwesterner, I went into the sport with a cocky attitude. If people could ski down Aspen Mountain at over 100mph, how difficult could it possibly be for me to skill down a hill?

A lot harder than I ever thought.

I made my first mistake at check-in. When asked to identify myself as a skier I chose class III advanced even though I had never skied before in my life. After all, this was just a damn hill, how hard could it be?

The rental guy handed me a pair of long, narrow and unwieldy skis that towered over my head. Next I headed over to the learning center for some lessons. While the other five in my group struggled with the basics like how to stand, I quickly grew bored. Finally after an hour the instructor demonstrated the snowplow method of turning and stopping for us. We each tried it out. It sure seemed easy enough on the bunny slope.

But on the real downhill? A more foul method of stopping and turning than the snow plow has yet to be invented. The method is unwieldy, cumbersome and when viewed from above on the chair lift as graceful as a Master P two-step on Dancing With the Stars.

I chalked up my first day's failure to growing pains. I figured everything would magically sink in by my next trip and I would be skiing like a sober Bode Miller. I even invited a girl I had a crush on to go skiing with me.

She accepted.

Unfortunately.

If anything, my skiing actually grew worse. I even managed to ram into a pole. No injuries were suffered except a bruised ego and no second date.

After these twin debacles, I stayed off the slopes for five years. I always planned to give skiing another try but the excuses kept piling up. The thought of being cold and miserable plus the distinct possibility of breaking one's leg while uninsured kept my ass planted firmly on the sofa during those crisp Midwestern winter afternoons.

I finally worked up the courage to give skiing another try last month. It was a decidedly spur of the moment decision. We got a rare snow (our area averages 18 inches a year, the rest is man-made) so I decided, what the hell, I'll give the fresh powder a try. I popped in an instructional DVD I bought several years ago, watched about ten minutes of it, got bored, then left.

But those ten minutes were all I needed. Any more than that would have crammed my brain with too much info.

Keep your skis parallel and turn with your hips.

I repeated it like a mantra during my ninety minute drive, begrudingly identified myself as a I-beginner on the rental form and accepted the short, baby skis that barely grazed my chin with a frown.

I even practiced on the baby slope before heading for the big time.

By the end of the day, I had worked myself up to Black Diamond level with nary a fall.

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But still? I was only skiing on a hill. I needed a bigger challenge. Like an actual mountain for starters. Jackson Hole lured me like a siren with its ski-in, ski-out package. I could fly there for $269, take a shuttle to the resort and at the end of the day literally ski right down to my hostel.

But to go from a 300' vertical drop to a 4,160' drop? That would be like going from stock-boy to CEO in one fell swoop. I needed an in-between.

That's when I discovered Snowshoe Mountain. The east coast was enjoying an epic snow year so why not go somewhere within driving distance? I could always sleep in my car to save on lodging.

I arrived last Thursday afternoon. The more successful I became, the more my fears grew. I somehow skied down 1,500' vertical drops with moguls and steeps of52% and lived to tell the tale.

Not a single crash. How could this be? The sensation of hurtling down a mountain on a pair of narrow skis is one of impending doom. There is danger at every turn. First from the skiers down below one must dodge. A mother had the bright idea of filming her five year-old on a slope called the Black Widow. Did the name not suggest this might be a bad idea?

I successfully dodged them both, thank God.

Ever see videos of bicycle delivery guys weaving in and out of city traffic? That's what skiing feels like to me, only multiply the speed by a factor of four, replace the cars with skiers and put the street on a 45 degree angle.

The laws of physics dictate a crash. But one never came so it seemed as though I were tempting fate somehow.

Visions of broken legs and high speed crashes filled my dreams at night.

Until yesterday.

When I had my first humdinger of a crash. It was an Olympic worthy roll down a mountain replete with flying ski.

And I survived it unbruised.

Through failing I overcame my fear. While ski crashes look horrific on your television screen, I can honestly say they feel no worse than a paper cut. It may sound odd and counter-intuitive, but much like quantum physics, it is true.

And might I add, that I am now hopelessly addicted to the downhill? This year's beginner is next year's ski bum.

All We Are Saying is Give Women Directors a Chance

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 10:02:38 -0500

Only four women have been nominated for best director in the eighty-two year history of the Academy Awards. Is this sexism? At first glance it seems to be but a Google search for best movies directed by women will show a paucity of classics to be had. There is not a Citizen Kane, The Godfather or a Pulp Fiction amongst the lot. Does this mean directing is better left to the guys to do?

Hardly. Men are simply given more opportunities to helm Hollywood movies than our better halves. Only ten percent of the 600 films reviewed by the New York Times last year were directed by women, and most of those were obscure releases that never made it to a theater near you. Even this award season's critical darling The Hurt Locker maxed out at only 535 theaters--a typical wide release shows at over 3,000--and never cracked the box office top ten.

Much like the NFL prefers to recycle failed white coaches like Norv Turner and Wade Phillips instead of hiring qualified minorities, Hollywood producers are much more comfortable hiring good old boys who are suspect directors instead of giving women a chance. Take the case of actor-producer-director-writer-hyphenate-hog Warren Beatty. Here is what uber-producer Robert Evans had to say about his good buddy:

"How many pictures has Warren made in his career? Twenty-one? How many hits did he have? Three! Bonnie and Clyde, Shampoo, and Heaven Can Wait. That's batting three for twenty-one. In baseball, you're sent back to the minors for that."

And if you're a female director responsible for even one flop, you suffer a fate far worse than even a bumpy bus ride in the Carolina League. They send you down to TV. And not a classy The Office style show either. I'm talking way down. According to Jim down. That's exactly what happened to Penny Marshall, director of such feel good classics as Big and A League of Their Own. After Riding in Cars with Boys failed to recoup its budget in 2001 (it cost $48 million and grossed $29.7 million), she literally received no other offers save that execrable Jim Belushi vehicle.

Even after being responsible for two of the most notorious flops in history--Ishtar and Town & Country respectively--Mr. Beatty never had to suffer such indignities. In fact, he is still held in such high esteem that he gets the luxury to turn down parts other actors would kill for, like that of the titular villain in Kill Bill.

Admittedly directing a classic like Reds will earn you some slack, but even a studio hack like Renny Harlin, whose only success is directing part two of the indestructible Die Hard franchise, keeps getting more second chances than former baseball drug addicts Daryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden and Steve Howe combined.

Dollar-for-dollar, his 1995 production Cutthroat Island is the biggest bust of them all. This $92 million dollar high-seas adventure only earned back $10 million dollars worth of its production cost. Think Hollywood tightened the purse strings on director Renny Harlin's future pictures? Think again. The next year he made The Long Kiss Goodnight, which only earned back $33 million of its $65 million budget. Six years later he was given a $72 million budget to direct the Sylvester Stallone formula one epic Driven. This time he lost $40 million for the studio. After three colossal flops, you would suspect Mr. Harlin would never work in this town again, right? Wrong. Today he has five more pictures under his belt and is on post-production on a sixth.

While these hacks keep getting work, a talented director like Patty Jenkins--who directed Charlize Theron to an Oscar victory in 2003's Monster--has yet to land a follow-up theatrical gig. The Hague needs to look into these crimes against humanity.

Women certainly have all the intangible skills necessary to direct a movie. Both surveys and research show that women are better at multi-tasking than men, which is a necessity on a movie set. Women also make up 82 percent of public school teachers and what is a director but a glamorized teacher with a bigger budget? Each must manage a classroom or set filled with combustible personalities, interpret a textbook or script for the class and cast, and all the while convey clear and concise instructions so that everyone stays on task. Answering to the principal and parents for flagging test scores is just as stressful as explaining to the producers and investors why you need to re-shoot that climatic scene in your costume drama.

So where should Hollywood look for its next batch of directors, aside from our public schools? Looking in front of the camera is usually a good place to start. Kevin Costner, Mel Gibson, Robert Redford and Clint Eastwood have all gone behind the camera and won Oscars for their work. Unfortunately Hollywood actresses are rarely afforded the same opportunities to direct as their male counterparts. Only Barbara Streisand has helmed multiple big budget productions. Haven't actresses like Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman and Julia Roberts earned a shot at directing their own movies by now?

Television is a second place to look. Robert Altman, Steven Spielberg and Ron Howard all got their start on the boob tube. Karen Gaviola has directed two critically acclaimed episodes of television's most cinematic show Lost. Remember "The Whole Truth", the episode where the imprisoned Ben (Michael Emerson) finally convinces the survivors of Flight 815 that he is hot air balloonist Henry Gale, who lost his wife in a crash? She is the one who directed him to one of that show's most memorable performances. Each episode of Lost is a mini-movie already, so why not give her a chance to helm the real thing?

Cop Out opens today. It's the Bruce Willis/Tracy Morgan 48 Hours knock-off that is seemingly played during every Olympic commercial break. Who did Hollywood hire to direct this big-budget action comedy? None other than Indie darling Kevin Smith, who once admitted:

"Right after Jersey Girl came out and kind of underperformed, I was just like, 'I got no business making large-budget movies.' I should always make movies that cost less than 10 million bucks... I just don't think somebody like me should be in charge of big-budget movies. I'm too interested in dialogue, and dialogue and big budgets just don't blend very well."

As Cop Out's 13% on the Rotten Tomato meter attests, Mr. Smith is well aware of his limitations as a director so why not hire someone who has successfully manned big budget comedies in the past, like Fast Times at Ridgemont High's Amy Heckerling or Wayne's World's Penelope Spheeris?

Blaming Academy Award voters for failing to recognize female directors is like blaming sportswriters for failing to name an African-American as coach of the year during the first 70 years of the NFL (hint: there weren't any until Art Shell in 1990). How can you possibly recognize those who are not even given the opportunity to succeed in the first place?

My Most Underrated Actor: The Thousand Faces of Amy Ryan

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 10:01:17 -0500

When called upon to name my most underrated actor, several names came to mind: Don Cheadle, Greg Kinnear, Mark Strong and half the cast of Lost to name but a few. Narrowing it down to one seemed impossible. Why not make it a Top 10 list? Everybody loves those right?

Then it dawned on me. How underrated can an actor be if his name comes instantly to mind? My actress is such a chameleon that you remember the characters she creates instead of her persona or even her name. She's the antithesis of such Hollywood scene chewers as Jack Nicholson and Al "Boo-yeah" Pacino, who seemingly play themselves in every movie. While her name may lack the cache of an Angelina Jolie, her superb performances make up for her anonymity.

This actress first came to my attention (or so I mistakenly thought at the time), when she made a seven stint guest appearance on The Office. Joining an established sitcom is like being the new kid in school. Both actors and new kids will get accused of stealing, whether it's another actor's scenes or another student's significant other. It takes a while to win the trust of teachers and fans as well. You can expect sarcastic barbs from the snarky shop teacher and message board vitriol from fans who blame you for their favorite character's diminished role. If you're Ted McGinley, your name even becomes Internet shorthand for show-killer.

Rare is the actor or student who can ingratiate himself into the in-crowd despite missing out on those years of camaraderie and inside jokes.

Amy Ryan is one such thespian. Her turn as Holly Flax--the dorky new head of HR at Dunder-Mifflin--was every nerd's wet dream: a beautiful, quirky blonde who did one mean Yoda impersonation. Her performance won both the respect of Internet cynics like me and that of her co-star and on-screen soul mate Steve Carrell, who used the occasion of the 2009 Emmy Awards to plead for her return.

The first rule of acting is you're only as good as your scene partner. Ms. Ryan proved this truism every week as her brilliant comedic timing elevated the performance of whomever was lucky enough to share the screen with her. While much has already been written about her chemistry with Carrell, I actually preferred her scenes with Brian Baumgartner--who plays Kevin the dimwitted accountant. By season five, I had grown tired of his shtick. But Ms. Ryan mistaking his slowness for mental retardation added a new comedic dimension to his character.

It's rare to find a new actress this talented so I googled Ms. Ryan. Judging by her comedic chops, I expected to find a background in The Groundlings or perhaps Second City but in reality Ms. Ryan is a classically trained actress who graduated from New York's High School of Performing Arts.

Then came the shocker. I already knew Amy Ryan. Unbeknownst to me, she had also delivered my favorite performance of 2007, when she played Helene McCready--a white trash, drug-addicted welfare mom in Ben Affleck's Gone Baby Gone. This performance was about as far from the lovable Holly Flax as one could get and earned Ms. Ryan a much deserved Oscar nomination.

As I researched this post, I unearthed yet more hidden performance gems delivered by this chameleon. Remember the prostitute who knew too much from Changeling who showed Angelina Jolie the ropes at the psychiatric ward? That was Amy Ryan yet again.

Versatile actress that she is, Ms. Ryan also plays women on the right side of the law as well, most notably Port Authority Officer Beadie Russell on The Wire. Her discovery of thirteen corpses in a storage container set the season two plot into motion.

As you can see from the pictures, Ms. Ryan is indistinguishable from one role to the next. While other character actors make you wonder where you've seen their face before, Ms. Ryan's ability to totally transform herself with just a mischievous look and a dimpled grin sets her apart from the competition. Contrast her with Charlize Theron, who spent hours in the make-up chair, sported prosthetic dentures and fried her hair to transform herself into a serial killer in Monster. Amy Ryan can achieve the same result with just a harrowed look. If that's not great acting, then I don't know what is.