“oops,” says area Pride.

For the record, I try really hard not to be a pretentious ass. Assery is the dominate currency of our generation and, being the good lil Marxist that I am, I see it as prohibitive of our true potential.  That said, there’s only so much a girl can do avoid the conditioning of 6 years in the cloistered halls of L’Academie (that was for Meredith), investing herself in indie music and film, and reading — READING! of all things — the classics and their critics.  I’m just starting to watch Flight of the Concords because “I knew about them, like, forever ago” and people I don’t think are very funny think it’s hilarious. So, I put it off. But then someone I do think is funny had the DVDs from Netflix. And you know what? It is hilarious.

Even though I’m conscious of it, I put much too high a premium on being the first to be into something.  And once I’m into it, I’m only into it as long as not too many other people are.  Even typing that hurt, but it’s true. I’ve allowed myself little deviations (see the entry on the unironic awesomeness of the Ghostbusters franchise, for one), but even then, I wonder if I allow those for myself because it’s always cool to be a little uncool.

I became aware of this flaw sometime ago and I like to think I’ve made some considerable strides in repairing it, but it takes just as long to uncondition as it did to condition. I have noticed that when it comes to discussions on taste, I am more comfortable in my opinions — namely because they are my opinions.  Deciding to abandon a beloved subject just because it has become too popular is just as bad as becoming a fan for the same reason. In fact, it might be worse –  at least bandwagoneers have the excuse of recent exposure. 

So, all in all, I’ve been quite pleased with my de-elitizing. I’m chillaxin’ at work, listening to whatever I loaded onto my iTunes here a couple of years ago, and suddenly I hear this song I really, really like. And I begin to think, “Wait..is that? Is that THE SHINS?” And of course it’s The Shins, I just didn’t recognize it right away because it’s off Wincing the Night Away, which I hardly listened to because, I’d been “into The Shins for, like, ever” by that point. I was so over it. Consequently, I’d been missing out on a good spin for, what, a couple of years? Way to prove your point to…no one. Including yourself. Woooo!

However, I stand by my assertion that Zack Braff is not so great. And Garden State sucked. That’s not the hipster vitriol talking, that’s just aesthetic discernment.

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adventures in netflixing: lars and the real girl

Nota Bene:
I live in Waco. We get no good movies. So when a movie I want to see is released, I have the following options: 1) drive to Dallas, 2) drive to Austin, 3) pray someone at the Starplex Galaxy made a mistake and gives us the movie for about 6 days by accident (I’m looking at you, King of Kong) or 4) stare longingly at all the glowing reviews from sources I trust, and patiently wait for Netflix to bridge the gaping void between Waco and cultural enjoyment. Most likely, Netflix it is. That does mean, however, that these titles will have been out for so long that my responses won’t really be reviews.  Just reactions from an enthusiastic Jenny Come Lately.

Lars and the Real Girl
dir. Craig Gillespie
Release Date: 12 October 2007 (limited)

 

About a month before watching Lars and the Real Girl, I watched and subsequently felt uneasy about Love Me, Love My Doll, an hour-long documentary on Real Dolls (as featured in LatRG) and the men who, well, love them.  Thanks, BBCAmerica!

If you go to the Real Dolls website (which I did just now), you will find the following disclaimer:

“I understand that when I gain access to this site, I will be exposed to visual images, verbal descriptions and audio sounds of a sexually oriented, frankly erotic nature, which may include graphic visual depictions and descriptions of nudity and sexual activity. I am voluntarily choosing to do so, because I want to view, read and/or hear the various materials which are available, for my own personal enjoyment, information and/or education. My choice is a manifestation of my interest in sexual matters, which is both healthy and normal and, which, in my experience, is generally shared by average adults in my community. I am familiar with the standards in my community regarding the acceptance of such sexually oriented materials, and the materials I expect to encounter are within those standards. In my judgement, the average adult in my community accepts the consumption of such materials by willing adults in cirumstances such as this which offer reasonable insulation from the materials for minors and unwilling adults, and will not find such materials to appeal to a prurient interest or to be patently offensive.”

 I haven’t moved past this screen. It’s not because I find it unappealing to my prurient interests or to be patently offensive… Actually, I think that’s exactly why I haven’t moved past this screen. And I feel a little ashamed about that.  The chunk of brain that spends it’s time convincing the rest of me to be hip is revolting against what must surely be some latent evangelical hang-up. We’re sexual beings, man, let’s embrace it. “Unwilling adults” are the new squares.

But when it comes to sex $10,000, customized sex dolls, I’m having some trouble being cool with it.  I’m working my way toward empathy, but the execution makes me feel all wrong and lopsided inside. Two consenting adults can and should do whatever they want. Even one consenting adult has a whole (but, I guess, limited) universe of fun little possibilities. But there is something about a human-shaped toy that troubles me. What the disclaimer is getting at is that if you have any sort of problem with plastophilia, then don’t go gawking at those who don’t. Only it said it more salaciously.

The Real Dolls website and Lars and the Real Girl actually share a central theme: community. Hang with me for a second. In LatRG, Lars struggles with profound isolation and social defeciencies.  He is incapable of connecting with his community, so he creates his own social training wheels: Bianca. A Real Doll. Also, a parapalegic missionary. So great. Anyway, once Lars’ brother and sister-in-law realize that Lars is suffering from a pretty profound delusion, his brother’s first concern is — to quote Cat Power — “What will the community think?”. Dagmar, the kind and endlessly patient town doctor, tells him (and I’m obviously paraphrasing here): the community will think Lars is crazy, and they’ll think you’re crazy for humoring him, but as compassionate human beings we really don’t have much of a choice. In the end, the community has nothing but love and support for Lars and, in a sweet little glimmer of hope that made this realist’s heart thaw a bit — Lars responds by joining the community. 

The Real Doll disclaimer addresses some similiar issues. It’s not much of a disclaimer, really; it’s more of an affirmer: “My choice is a manifestation of my interest in sexual matters, which is both healthy and normal and, which, in my experience, is generally shared by average adults in my community.” And who doesn’t want to be an average adult? (digressive hint: me and probably all the rest of the average adults). Yet, I felt the men profiled in Love Me, Love My Doll, the dolls were not a hobby or a healthy sexual interest, but an alternative to community. The bizarrely “there-there” nature of the disclaimer supports my impression. If you have to keep telling your customers that they’re normal, healthy, and acting in a reasonable way, I begin to think you’re selling something that most people “in the community” would find troubling. In almost every case, these men were angry at the people who had come in and subsequently out of their lives.  After years of desperation, silicone seemed like the better choice.  It’s difficult not to watch the program and feel pity for these men. But it’s also difficult to watch it and feel like what’s happening is okay. These men don’t have problems in their relationships with their dolls: they’ve created wax women with obscenely submissive personalities.  They feel they’ve found a loophole. Evidently, socialization is one area of life where it doesn’t pay to cut corners. It has sunk each man deeper into isolation, with only a 125 lb stigma to keep him company.

The point when we realize Lars is going to be okay is not when he says, “Wait, a minute! Bianca never speaks!”, which is probably because Lars never arrives at that point. We know he’s going to be okay when he and Bianca start having problems. People and conflict are inseperable, even if the “people” part involves someone who is maybe just a touch imaginary. Lars learns to embrace the whole of the social experience.  After imagining acceptance, he is compelled to imagine rejection as well, otherwise he’d be just as lonely. Unlike the dolls of Love Me, Love My Doll. Bianca isn’t a placebo. She’s a genuine cure. And the illness isn’t self-satisfaction, it’s finding one’s place.

 

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Adventures in Netflixing

Lars and the Real Girl came in yesterday. I’m Not There just shipped. Huzzahs all around. I plan to post some sort of response to every Netflix title I receive, so this should make for a helpful start.

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