Hanna.

Sophie: “She’s like M.I.A. I found her. She can’t speak English. She’s from Sri Lanka.”

Hanna: “I’m from Germany.”

Sophie: “Oh.

Sophie: “I think I’d quite like to be a lesbian. One who’s like a supermodel. But we’d only hold hands and I think I’d probably marry a man.”

Hanna: “What?”

Sophie: “Hanna! You mentalist!”

Hanna: “Should I let him go?”

Sophie: “As opposed to whatttt?!”

Genius. 

That most of her dances actually involve a kind of ineptitude probably helped. The most conspicuous dancer in Café Müller is a bit-part: a figure in an orange wig who teeters around in pink heels, doing a tiny, self-conscious routine for the men. Meanwhile, two other dancers dressed in nighties fumble across the stage barefoot behind her, their eyes shut and arms outstretched, stumbling into walls and chairs, which male dancers move out of their way in a protective panic. In the black-and-white footage of this piece in Wenders’s film, Bausch, who originally performed the part of the sleepwalker soloist, looks terribly thin and pale as she shuffles about, circling her arms around her head and shoulders as if they are possessed. In a voice-over, she explains that, after trying the piece just once, she suddenly lost the knack. She searched in vain for a way to get back the same feeling she had experienced the first time—something, she knew, was missing—before realizing that, during her second attempt, she had been looking down, rather than straight ahead, under her closed eyelids. It’s a strangely inspiring thought—that the real dancers are the ones who head straight into the darkness, apparently determined to give themselves a black eye.  [The Paris Review]

This article made me think of this excerpt from a past post

"My attention to this award show [Critics’ Choice Awards] was cursory at best. After Octavia Spencer won and stated during her acceptance speech “…glad to have a job that pays…” in front of an audience of Hollywood’s moneyed elite, I felt my temperament shift unfavorably toward ‘the man’ and envisioned the weary field slave gazing longingly at the front porch of some White family’s antebellum Charleston plantation as Massa and Madame and little Elizabeth and Thomas sipped sweet tea their mulatto brewed.

And then I thought of a conversation with a friend regarding Shame and how difficult it would have been for Steve McQueen to cast a Black man. Even though the character’s expereince may be facsimile to that of some Black men, most audiences would have had difficulty allowing a Black actor’s artistry and truth to transcend his Blackness

Last autumn [Viola Davis] told the Observer: “We’re made up of so many different pieces of a puzzle as human beings and I find that when you’re a black character, you only have maybe seven puzzle pieces to work with all the time… Really all you have is funny, strong, sassy, dignified, wise, and that’s pretty much it.”

The man expects us to only be amused by Girlfriends or to only be “dignified” and “sage oracles” on film; relegated to Mama Odie, when really Seinfield and Portlandia tickle our fancy just the same and WASPy and whimsical cokewhores aren’t out of our experience. Don’t disenfranchise us! We demand the right to be cokewhores on the silver screen too! I Just Want My Pants Back is hilarious to us too. 

Thank you based God for Kerry Washington and Zoe Kravitz and Zoe Saldana and Donald Glover and even Damon Wayans Jr. and then also Rihanna. 

Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer won Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress, respectively, for their performance in The Help at last night’s Critics’ Choice Awards. The Artist won everything else and George Clooney bobbed his head in merriment [tipsy] throughout the entire show as he figured he would clench the win for Best Actor for his performance in The Descendants. He did. Then he chuckled some more. 

My attention to this award show was cursory at best. After Octavia Spencer won and stated during her acceptance speech “…glad to have a job that pays…” in front of an audience of Hollywood’s moneyed elite, I felt my temperament shift unfavorably toward ‘the man’ and envisioned the weary field slave gazing longingly at the front porch of some White family’s antebellum Charleston plantation as Massa and Madame and little Elizabeth and Thomas sipped sweet tea their mulatto brewed.

It got too real.

Then I read Black Enterprise’sWhy Your Support of ‘Red Tails’ is Important for Black Hollywood" and turned the show off. It’s no matter. My favorite part of award season is watching Joan Rivers and Kelly Osbourne banter during Fashion Police.  

Kelly: “Tilda Swinton looks striking. It’s her.

Joan: “She looks like she’s been sent from the future to deliver a very important message.”

Kelly: “Joan!”

Joan: “Fine! Well at least she’s reticent and self-possessed in stature. You can always tell when someone thinks they look good. It’s in the eyes. I can’t tell Tilda a damn thing.”

After reading Angelina Jolie’s cover-story in the October 2011 issue of Vanity Fair, I mused of her screenwriting/directorial debut “In the Land of Blood and Honey,” “Such the affectual global citizen.”

W./E.,” co-written and directed by Madonnapremiered Wednesday at London’s Odeon Kensington theater and I thought-bubbled “So Madonna, such the olden romantic who’s also British sometimes.”

Flaccid orchids, erect orchids, Patti Smith, erect phalli, flaccid phalli, svelte women, Andy Warhol, cultural arbiters, eroticism, Blondie, color-void. 
Stylized, naturally. 
In a nutshell, this was Robert Mapplethorpe. His photography. 
Thus naturally, Hollywood’s very own fluid connoisseur, James Franco, the thespian, performance artist, scholar, deconstructionist, et al… has been casted to depict the American photographer in an upcoming biopic. 
The L Magazine harbors my embattled appreciation of the Franco, compiling a list of artists he is more suited to portray. Naturally. 

Flaccid orchids, erect orchids, Patti Smith, erect phalli, flaccid phalli, svelte women, Andy Warhol, cultural arbiters, eroticism, Blondie, color-void. 

Stylized, naturally. 

In a nutshell, this was Robert Mapplethorpe. His photography

Thus naturally, Hollywood’s very own fluid connoisseur, James Franco, the thespian, performance artist, scholar, deconstructionist, et al… has been casted to depict the American photographer in an upcoming biopic. 

The L Magazine harbors my embattled appreciation of the Franco, compiling a list of artists he is more suited to portray. Naturally.