J-Lo glows.

Jennifer Lopez is the reason why American Idol remains a guilty pleasure for me. I don’t care much about the singing (or screaming) and the judging (much too kind).  It’s J-Lo’s glow that I love to see two nights in a week.  She’s more lovable now, warmer, more real. Even prettier than the time since burst into Hollywood.  Some say she puts on too much blush.  I dare them to be just as adventurous and put on green make-up.  Hindi nila kaya.  Only J-Lo can get away with it.

Before AI though, I had forgotten about J-Lo.  I think she laid low after marrying Latin superstar Marc Anthony.  Before marrying Marc Anthony, I had grown to dislike her.  Call it the umay factor, like having too much of halayang ube (jam made from purple yam).  She seemed too much in a hurry to reach iconic status.  She did awful films (Gigli, Enough, Monster-in-Law, Maid in Manhattan).  She was always on the red carpet in hideous Donatellas.  She’d be shaking her booty all the time on MTV.

But some of you may not know that she started out as a great actress, way before shacking up with Ben and P. Diddy.  The greatest onscreen chemistry from the 90s belongs to J-Lo and George Clooney, playing a marshall and a fugitive, respectively, in Steven Soderbergh’s Out of Sight (1998).  It’s a crime/action film that’s different from the usual that’d star Bruce Willis or Jason Statham.  The plot is not as important as what goes on between the two main players.  J-Lo and George get in on so believably.

Now that I like you again J-Lo, you must consider doing another film with George, who isn’t so bad himself at 50something.

Mourning Nina

With every passing of an icon, the world pauses dramatically, some reacting with greater emotion.  I remember a friend weeping when Jim Henson, the creator of Sesame Street and The Muppets, died in 1990.  I remember seeing fans of John Lennon going wild on TV when he was killed outside his New York apartment.  The hysteria that followed Michael Jackson’s untimely death is still fresh.  A gay friend predicts rainbow flags hanging half-mast, or even national flags in countries with huge gay populations, when Madonna’s time will come.

Nina Simone’s death in 2003 was the one that had an impact on me.   The ‘High Priestess of Soul’ was honest, vulnerable and passionate in every song she sang.  She sang the truth, sometimes quite indignantly since she was a black civil rights advocate at time when it was unpopular to be one.  She sang like she was channeling every part of her spirit to touch the listener.   

Listen to “I loves you Porgy”, her cover of “Here Comes The Sun”, "Ne me quitte pas", and be enthralled. 

The movies loved Nina! My fave Nina moment was in the pivotal heist in The Thomas Crown Affair remake.  Nina wails “Sinnerman” as dozens of men all dressed alike, like Magritte’s man in a bowler hat, red tie and black suit, scatter through the halls of MOMA to confuse the cops.

Nina the icon and Nina’s music figure prominently in Point of No Return, the La Femme Nikita remake where the troubled Bridget Fonda character would turn to Nina’s music for comfort; and in the underrated Before Sunset’s final scene between Julie Delphy and Ethan Hawke.  In both movies, art imitates a life full of love for Nina.

Here’s the Before Sunset link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMqePx7Kp3A&feature=related

Hitchcock the chic

Dug up this boxed set of Alfred Hitchcock’s radio broadcasts while I was sorting out my junk.  It’s quite interesting but it mustn’t be played while driving.   The suspense adds to the stress of city driving. 

Hitchcock’s longer film versions are more satisfactory.  I mustn’t write about the filmmaking legacy of one of the greatest filmmakers in history.   What is there to say about his style that hasn’t been said before?  So, if you love the movies, you must at least have Vertigo, Psycho, Rear Window and The Birds in your library.

What fascinates me as much as Hitchcock’s directing style is the styling in his movies.   His vivid aesthetic is evident in casting, set design and costumes.  The visuals are delicious to look at.  Yet always, you’d know that something ominous and perverse lurks behind all the elegant details.

Tippi Hedren in 'Marnie': beautiful and sophisticated, yet treacherous.

Tippi Hedren's look in 'The Birds' was so iconic that Mattel had to pay homage.
You must look as chic as Tippi when a flock of crows swoops down on you.

The coiff and Kim Novak in 'Vertigo'.

Hitchcock loved icy blondes, like Grace Kelly in 'Rear Window'.

The gorgeous bachelor's pad in 'Rear Window'

The house in 'North by Northwest'

Suffering from Thia Megia

Is there a term for engaging in certain things repeatedly that actually cause you pain and suffering?  It’s not exactly masochism because an essential feature of that condition is gratification.

That condition which has yet to be named afflicts me.  I read Carmen Pedrosa’s column even if it’s predictably full of hate. I watch this award-winning weekly local docu on cable which is self-indulgent and unnecessarily theatrical.  Anything with Jada Pinkett-Smith and Sarah Michelle-Gellar.  CNN newscaster Kristie Lu-Stout.  Books with vampires.  And, American Idol.

AI’s show last Thursday had 12 contestants sing songs that were hits on the year they were born.  Thia Megia, born of Filipino immigrants, sang Colors of the Wind, the theme from Disney’s Pocahontas.  Hers is a most beautiful voice.  Her tone reminds me of Joanna Ampil’s. Joanna did Miss Saigon and several West End shows and played Mary Magdalene in a Jesus Christ Superstar revival.  Her performance was way superior to the original, Yvonne Elliman’s.  There was nothing colorful about Thia’s Colors of the Wind.  

Thia was born in 1995, the same year Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill, Annie Lennox’s No More I Love Yous, Natalie Merchant’s Tigerlily, Brownstone’s If You Love Me, Madonna’s Bedtime Stories, and Janet Jackson’s Runaway came out.  I’m sure there were a lot more interesting '95 songs that AI had rights to.  But it had to be the boring Vanessa Williams song for Thia.

Thia, ano ba?  Please don’t make me suffer even more.  If you really have to do Disney next time, sing Belle’s song.  It’s more challenging for your vocal chops.

The Singularity

Today’s monthly share-in at the office was about The Singularity.   I had not heard of that term before because I was never a member of the local Star Trek Club.  But upon further explanation, it all made sense to me after seeing countless sci-fi films.

In 1983, Vernon Vinge, a sci-fi writer declared, “Within 30 years, we will have the technological means to create super-human intelligence.  Shortly after, the human era will be ended.”

Raymond Kurzweil, whom Bill Gates called "the best person I know at predicting the future of artificial intelligence", also predicted that in 2045 man would become immortal.  "By the mid-2020s, we will successfully  reverse-engineer the human brain.   By  the end of that decade, computers will be capable of human-level intelligence."

By 2045, Kurzweil estimates "that the quantity of artificial intelligence created will be about a billion times the sum of all the human intelligence that exists today.

The advances in science will allow us to manipulate our bodies and take charge of our own evolution".   

Pursuing Kurzweil’s theory, that means we can junk Darwin: alter evolution and reverse the ageing process.

It all sounds plausible especially if you think about the advances in science in the last few decades.  In the mid-90s, my cel phone weighed 2 pounds and was as big as a flat iron.  Jeopardy's latest champion was a computer.  There are 2,000 robots fighting in Afghanistan.   Google is making computers drive cars.  The iPad is a huge improvement over the first computer which weighed 30-tons, had 6,000 switches and 18,000 tubes, and occupied an entire room.

The movies have tackled artificial intelligence a lot since the era of silent movies.  But have they gotten it right?  In Kubrick’s 1968 classic, 2001: A Space Odyssey (written by Arthur C. Clarke), HAL the machine is fully independent and self-aware.  Trips to the moon and Jupiter are as easy as trips to Hong Kong.   It’s been 10 years since ’01.   Clarke’s vision remains a fantasy.

There’s one other sci-fi film shown in 1984 that says it all: 2010: The Year We Make Contact. 

Chuck was right in saying that perhaps scientists should just focus their energies on disaster-preparedness.  A great tsunami could wipe out the likes of HAL.  We welcome new and powerful gadgets. But wiring ourselves to be as super-intelligent and immortal as machines?!  It would be embarrassing to stop ageing by 2045.  Just caught Death Becomes Her on HBO for the nth time.  A scary thought.

Ang galing ng Pinoy!

A group of friends I know make it a point to catch at least one local cultural event every month – whether it’s film, theatre or a food festival.  I wish I could that.  Watch less TV and go for more art.  Feed the soul, eat out and drink less.  But there’s been a dearth of good Pinoy movies.  There’s more theatre, though, at the Rep, U.P. and the PETA. 

Unexcitedly I drove to faraway Q.C. to catch the final matinee of Caredivas upon the invite of a celebrity-friend who’s been wanting to try out the stage.  I thought it was another drag show.  I’m so glad I took a break from shopping for construction materials.

PETA’s Caredivas is a musical about a man named Chelsea and four other transvestites who work as caregivers by day in Israel in the time of infitada (the violent Israeli-Palestine conflict in 2004-2005), and then don their boa feathers at night in their desperate search for a club gig in Tel-Aviv.   Their struggle in alien land is familiar OFW territory.  It’s financial – the pressure to send money home on gay contract workers is greater than that on straight men (wala ka naming pamilya; baka mapunta lang sa panlalake ang kita mo!).  Emotional – aged Jews dependent on Pinoys for human connection that a sickly Pinoy mother is denied of.  Cultural – orthodox Hebrew views on homosexuality (it’s ok to be gay as long as you don’t act on your gay desires).  Romantic – it’s always complicated; love comes from unexpected places, in a park, with an illegal, homeless Palestinian pretending to be Jewish.

Much of this was told in song.  The music is original, raucous.  Every lyric, genuine and soulful, none of the pretense that’s forced to conform to a pentameter.  The best part was the ensemble.  The actors were so sensational, especially the lead Melvin Lee, Vincent de Jesus and Jerald Napoles, that the audience rushed to embrace all of them after the show.

Kudos to PETA!  You've proved how good the Pinoy artist is.  You've delivered again on your promise ‘to use theatre that is distinctly Filipino as a tool for social change and development’.  Let Caredivas also inspire local cinema to come up with fresh and relevant material. 

Mom's favorite topic

Mom did her usual rundown on who died and who would soon die when I visited her and Papa earlier today. As procedural as preparing an excessive lunch for one. The seamstress who did your sofa cover is gone. Your father’s favorite banker is dying of cancer. The hairdresser down the road died during surgery. I had to feign interest even if I didn’t remember who those characters were, and even if didn’t like talking about death.

But my folks do. They find themselves attending funerals with increasing frequency. That usually takes most of their social calendar. What else is there to share other than the latest plot twists in their favorite telenovela?

I don’t think the death talk is borne out of some anxiety about their own mortality. There’s pride that they can still enjoy their remaining years with their loved ones. They always boast of how well they’ve been eating and how diligently they take their meds. They talk about death a lot because they try to make personal sense of the loss of loved ones and friends. With each passing they evaluate their lives. Was the life of that departed as fulfilling and well-lived as mine ought to be?

This theme of death must end with a movie reference. Here’s a most memorable death scene from the 1990 French film, Cyrano de Bergerac, starring Gérard Depardieu.

Historians say that the real Cyrano died a banal death – some plank hit his head. But the playwright Edmond Rostand made it more dramatic. In the movie, the brilliant poet and swordsman who thought his shockingly large nose was reason enough for him not to be loved by the beautiful Roxanne, or even by the ugliest of women, took all of 30 minutes before he finally succumbed.

Cyrano: Let no one hold me up! [He props himself up against the tree.] Only this tree! [There is silence.] It comes. Even now my feet have turned to stone. My hands are heavy like lead. [He stands erect.] But since Death comes, I'll meet him standing. [He draws his sword.] And with sword in hand!

There’s no death like Cyrano’s in mom’s fave telenovelas.