Last night I watched Soldier's Girl, a made-for-television movie about the life and death of Pfc. Barry Winchell, which stars Troy Garity, (Jane Fonda's son) as Winchell, and Lee Pace as Calpernia Addams, the transgendered performer who was his partner. Winchell was bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat in 1999 by Pvt. Calvin Glover, 18 years old at the time, in what many newspaper reports then called "a possible hate crime," even though it obviously was one. He was attacked in his sleep, by the way.
It is not bad film, though it is not any great work of art -- despite exellent performances by Pace and Garity. My question is why, when we have films where someone falls in love with a transgendered person, do they never seem to know? It is as if Hollywood, or whoever is controlling movies these days, is willing to make a love story (which Soldier's Girl most certainly is) but they are not willing to make a QUEER love story (which Soldier's Girl even more certainly is.)
Near the end of the film, there is a sex scene where Barry performs oral sex on Calpernia -- tastefully shot, of course -- where she throws her head back in surprise, as if to say to the viewing audience "He is pleasuring my male genitalia, finally. I am rapt. He loves the whole me." (Calpernia has since complete sex-reassignment surgery and is living in California, working in health services.)
What seems missing from all the movies I've seen about transgendered people (am I forgetting any?) is that they never address the fact that their partners are, in some way, attracted to them precisely because they are transgendered. This is not to say that they are freaks, or kinky, or interested in any sort of subversive sexuality -- most people who sleep with transgendered individuals have a completely vanilla sex life. But then again maybe it is.
What we have are films about love in the cleanest sense of the word. "Straight" boys falling for wacky, sharp-tongued queer boys who want to be girls. Can someone please make a film about a guy who know's he's queer, has an interesing world view, and then falls for the trans-girl?
Tall order, I guess.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Ken Park
I snapped at my boyfriend on Saturday for no reason. I can be snappy at times, but I've usually got some rationale for it; this was simply uncalled for. Further evidence that grief puts you completely out of your mind, so that often you wake up feeling like a stranger. It's like a morning fog that never burns off.
Last night I finished watching Larry Clark's much-hated, and wrongly-vilified second film "Ken Park," which is unavailable on DVD and was never released commercially*. It's not terrible, not boring and not over-done. It's a nice blend of what seems to be almost documentary-style footage of teenagers sitting around doing nothing -- smoking cigarettes, bitching about their parents -- and yet the conversation will turn, suddenly the writing becomes measured and calculated. It's good screenwriting.
*Ken Park is decidedly not for everyone.
Last night I finished watching Larry Clark's much-hated, and wrongly-vilified second film "Ken Park," which is unavailable on DVD and was never released commercially*. It's not terrible, not boring and not over-done. It's a nice blend of what seems to be almost documentary-style footage of teenagers sitting around doing nothing -- smoking cigarettes, bitching about their parents -- and yet the conversation will turn, suddenly the writing becomes measured and calculated. It's good screenwriting.
*Ken Park is decidedly not for everyone.
Monday, October 10, 2005
On Talking
I've started to wonder sometimes if people are tired of hearing me talk about Meg. Because it's in my head at every moment of the day (mostly) it's difficult to determine how much I'm really talking about it and how much it's just me thinking that I've been talking about it.
Last night, some friends of mine cooked a lovely dinner for Mario and I: big red-leaf salad, good bread, penne with local-made sausage, a zucchini/eggplant parmesean. Lovely. And before we sat down I just started talking about it: "I guess you want to hear about all the Meg stuff?" These friends had plans to drive to Northampton for one of the memorial services, but were unable to make it at the last minute. So, naturally, I feel like it's my job to translate the experience of the memorial services, and all the details of Meg's life, and many people want to know the details, often the exact logistics, of her death: where was she riding, what kind of truck. "Now, what happened?" they ask uneasily.
And because I've told the details so many times, talked about the orange spray painted lines on the pavement which marked the trucks wheels, told how I held my hand on the concrete where her head was, I find myself just dumping it all onto people, throwing it all out at the wrong speed.
How like me to be worrying about other people in a time like this.
Last night, some friends of mine cooked a lovely dinner for Mario and I: big red-leaf salad, good bread, penne with local-made sausage, a zucchini/eggplant parmesean. Lovely. And before we sat down I just started talking about it: "I guess you want to hear about all the Meg stuff?" These friends had plans to drive to Northampton for one of the memorial services, but were unable to make it at the last minute. So, naturally, I feel like it's my job to translate the experience of the memorial services, and all the details of Meg's life, and many people want to know the details, often the exact logistics, of her death: where was she riding, what kind of truck. "Now, what happened?" they ask uneasily.
And because I've told the details so many times, talked about the orange spray painted lines on the pavement which marked the trucks wheels, told how I held my hand on the concrete where her head was, I find myself just dumping it all onto people, throwing it all out at the wrong speed.
How like me to be worrying about other people in a time like this.
So Many Movies....
Run....don't walk....to see the Capote. It's elegant, heartbreaking, complex, and superbly acted. I smell Oscar....
Also saw, Proof and Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit, which are both films worth paying money to see.
Also saw, Proof and Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit, which are both films worth paying money to see.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Farther v. Further
I learned today that the current preferred usage indicates that farther be used as an indication of physical distance, for example: "The granary is a few miles farther." And further should be used in instances of a more metaphysical nature: "Your question might require further examination."
Last Meals
Ted Bundy: burritos, mexican rice, salad
Gary Gilmore: steak, bread & butter, peas, cherry pie, coffee, milk
Timothy McVeigh: 2 pints mint chocolate chip ice cream
Karla Faye Tucker: banana, peaches, salad, ranch or Italian dressing
from Dead Man Eating
Gary Gilmore: steak, bread & butter, peas, cherry pie, coffee, milk
Timothy McVeigh: 2 pints mint chocolate chip ice cream
Karla Faye Tucker: banana, peaches, salad, ranch or Italian dressing
from Dead Man Eating
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Writer's Job
"This is bear fur," Becky said, as we waited in Alessandra's van outside her mother's house, also the house Alessandra grew up in, for her to return from delivering medication, and speaking for a moment to her brother, who cares for their mother. The clump of fur was attched somehow to the dashboard, and I touched it, brushed the back of my fingers against it.
It was exactly how I knew bear fur would feel: rough, thick, dry but water resistant. "How do you know what bear fur feels like," she said. And I tried to explain this, although I don't know how successful I was, but I told her "That's my job as a writer. To have already anticipated everything that might be, to have already translated those sensory experiences."
It sounds huge, impossible, and maybe overly self-confident, but that's what I love about what I do. Even if I don't know the truth, even if I've never really felt bear fur before, I can imagine what it's like, and if I say it in a way that you also feel it, understand it, can visualize it, what difference does it make?
It was exactly how I knew bear fur would feel: rough, thick, dry but water resistant. "How do you know what bear fur feels like," she said. And I tried to explain this, although I don't know how successful I was, but I told her "That's my job as a writer. To have already anticipated everything that might be, to have already translated those sensory experiences."
It sounds huge, impossible, and maybe overly self-confident, but that's what I love about what I do. Even if I don't know the truth, even if I've never really felt bear fur before, I can imagine what it's like, and if I say it in a way that you also feel it, understand it, can visualize it, what difference does it make?
Us v. Them
What happens now is, apparently, you begin to separate the people who know from the people who don't. For example, I'm standing in line at the bank today and I realize that the people in front of me, and all the nice ladies behind the counter, have no idea that what I'm thinking about at that moment is Meg Meg Meg, all the time, without stopping.
Obviously, everyone in the line at the bank today is suffering through their own lives as well -- maybe divorces, or cancers, or drug additions, or what have you. And I suppose what hit me hard today is just how alone you are when something like this happens. People tell you to lean on your family and talk to your friends. But what it all comes down to is what you do with the mechanics of your own mind.
And I can stand in rooms and in fields hugging people who knew her, and who know best what I'm going through. But all we can do is look each other in the eye, and wish one another the best of luck.
Obviously, everyone in the line at the bank today is suffering through their own lives as well -- maybe divorces, or cancers, or drug additions, or what have you. And I suppose what hit me hard today is just how alone you are when something like this happens. People tell you to lean on your family and talk to your friends. But what it all comes down to is what you do with the mechanics of your own mind.
And I can stand in rooms and in fields hugging people who knew her, and who know best what I'm going through. But all we can do is look each other in the eye, and wish one another the best of luck.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Some Things She Left Behind
Imagine all the things you leave half-done in your house if you're planning on coming right back. I cleaned out a big pot of something Meg was in the middle of eating when I got to her apartment on Friday afternoon. Something with squash and millet. She hadn't even unpacked her bag from when she was visiting me in New York.
On Saturday night, all of us standing around the bonfire with our hands out, like at communion, Meg's sister Laura walked around the circle and gave each of us some of Meg's ashes. I brushed my finger around in them for a moment, feeling the smoothness and the tiny bits of bone. I wanted to taste them, but I didn't. Then we all leaned in close to the fire, with glowing orange faces, and tossed her in.
My friend Alessandra drove her van up to Northampton and so we were able to fit Meg's writing desk into the back of it, which I'm now using as my dining room table. We also brought back a rocking chair she had painted hot pink, which Becky took, and a box of other small items that I took for myself (her pale green Remington ten forty typewriter, a book or two, a screen printing stencil that reads 'Leevil' she made for me, more little things,) and for some other people, things I'm sending soon in the mail: scarves, small boxes, trinkets.
On Saturday night, all of us standing around the bonfire with our hands out, like at communion, Meg's sister Laura walked around the circle and gave each of us some of Meg's ashes. I brushed my finger around in them for a moment, feeling the smoothness and the tiny bits of bone. I wanted to taste them, but I didn't. Then we all leaned in close to the fire, with glowing orange faces, and tossed her in.
My friend Alessandra drove her van up to Northampton and so we were able to fit Meg's writing desk into the back of it, which I'm now using as my dining room table. We also brought back a rocking chair she had painted hot pink, which Becky took, and a box of other small items that I took for myself (her pale green Remington ten forty typewriter, a book or two, a screen printing stencil that reads 'Leevil' she made for me, more little things,) and for some other people, things I'm sending soon in the mail: scarves, small boxes, trinkets.
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