The Year In Camp

Oops, I did it again (outed myself, that is!) My 2007 "Best of Camp" list is out, too...

http://mattzollerseitz.blogspot.com/2007/12/2007-six-camp-highlights-and-one.html

Monkey Town 4th Annual Porn Week

“Attempts to tease out connections between fine art and commercial pornography. Previous programs surveyed works by fine artists that are sexually explicit compared to works by pornographers striving to be artistic, and also works by fine artists who have crossed over to directing commercial porn. This year presents a mini-festival of porn produced by directors based in New York City, combined with live presentations or performances by the directors.”

For a complete schedule of events visit: monkeytownhq.com

My Favorite Martian

A merry Mosey Christmas to drama queen Roxanne. Glad to see you broke a leg!



The following review courtesy of Robert Martinez:

It’s said that hopes and dreams never die – especially not during Christmas. If anything, hopes, dreams, and emotions of every stripe get amplified during the holidays. This can be euphoric, if your life is going swimmingly. But what if you’re living in dystopia? This is the theme explored in Don Arrup’s play, “Requiem for a Holiday Dreamer,” recently staged at Theatre 54’s Shetler Studio and produced by Falconer-Unheard Productions. The play, which takes place in a hospice for dying children, revolves around events set in motion by the protagonist Tupeg. Along the way Tupeg will be accused of child molestation, a plan for murder will be hatched, and a U.S. Marine will lose his pants.

Tupeg is longing is for a woman that he’s never stopped desiring over the years, a social worker at the hospice who feels nothing for him save revulsion. Having made a beeline to the hospice on hearing of her husband’s death, Tupeg isn’t exactly the most likable of characters. But, he is honest, and he does impress the one resident at the hospice who hasn’t left for the holidays, a wheelchair-bound girl named Mosey, with his honesty. Mosey, in turn, will impress Tupeg with her spiritedness, and her willingness to find the fun side of things despite the bad hand life has dealt her.

Tupeg’s honesty is also directed at his audience. Tupeg bridles at cities dying of neglect, mealy-mouthed public figures, and the emptiness of a population so caught up in its holiday shopping spree that it can’t be bothered to tend to the likes of people like Mosey. A certain emphatic opprobrium is reserved for those politicians who bray “Support our troops,” while doing nothing for them when they return home. The play is an angry indictment of hypocrisy in America, and of how that hypocrisy also gets magnified during the Christmas season.

There’s only a four-person cast, but the performances are first rate. Tupeg is played with forceful world-weariness by Mr. Arrup, while Roxanne Kapitsa plays Mosey with a spirited blend of childlike hopefulness and all-too-early cynicism. Patricia Aleman plays the part of She, the woman Tupeg longs after with passion and energy, but one wishes that her character had more depth, some more insight into her psyche that makes her rage understandable. Christian Carroll, as the Marine, brings pathos and gravity to the role, despite having taken the part on short notice.

If there’s a flaw to “Reqiuiem,” it’s that it sometimes gets a little too castigating. The dialogue holds up extremely well, but sometimes is weighed down by its own melancholy, with phrases like, “infinite darkness” emphasizing the despair the characters feel, though that despair is plain enough to see. Aside from this, Mr. Arrup has written a fine play that, in the end, does have a hopeful glint. The characters don’t all get what they want (except maybe for Mosey), but they find that on Christmas, sometimes, you do get what you need.

Inside The Actor's Flat

English actors are kicking our ass. It’s like watching the NBA play the local, high school team. Whether it’s the modern-day craftsmen of RADA like Ralph Fiennes and Clive Owen or the fearless, “school of Mike Leigh” greats like Gary Oldman and Tim Roth, it’s merely a choice between the breathtaking artistry of Gielgud versus the hair-on-end fire of Olivier. And we’ve got – Sean Penn.

It seems centuries ago now but there was a time when American acting was the gold standard. There was Brando, of course, and De Niro and Pacino in the 70s – actors who electrified the screen with their intensity even when their characters held absolutely still. They could speak ten lines with a gesture of the wrist, a nearly imperceptible nod. Now it’s the Brits who are putting us to shame. From the youngish and wild like Tim Roth and Daniel Day-Lewis, Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton to the older and wiser Ray Winstone and Sir Ian McKellen, Vanessa Redgrave and Helen Mirren. (Even the walking time bombshells like Clive Owen and Daniel Craig – whose ridiculously good looks serve as a foil to their infinite skill – can act circles around our thespians. Where’s our Warren Beatty?)

When Javier Bardem saw “Raging Bull” he wasn’t sure if De Niro was an actor or a real-life boxer. All he knew was that he wanted to be De Niro – not just “an actor” but De Niro. He wanted to achieve that shamanistic level where two souls – actor and character – merge. And it shows in Bardem and his European colleagues. They settle for nothing less.

"Rolling Stone" Rocks!

The “Correspondence” section of this week’s “Rolling Stone” magazine includes an edited version of my response to “JT Leroy: The Famous Writer Who Wowed Bono and Courtney Love – But Didn’t Exist." Here's what I really wrote:

Great reporting, though I wish Guy Lawson hadn’t overlooked the real issue beneath all the surreal drama. The “story” is not Laura Albert so much as the visceral, personal overreaction her “hoax” evoked in those who should know better. Between MySpace “friends” and Britney blogs we’re given the false sense that we truly know – own – our objects of adoration. Sadly, I guess it’s inevitable that dysfunctional celebrities also would buy into this myth, believe an otherwise obvious dream sprung forth from a mentally ill woman desperate not to disappoint. (After all, if the emperor wears Abercrombie & Fitch, he must exist.) The glitterati didn’t “know” JT Leroy any more than I know Courtney Love. They were simply fans – behaving like spurned lovers when the fantasy they collectively helped to create turned out to be just that.

The Blue Compass

Time: Noon
Date: Tuesday, 12/11/07
Place: Regal Union Square Stadium 14, NYC
Movie: The Golden Compass

The moment Daniel Craig as Lord Asriel appears onscreen I grab Jimmy’s arm, rudely interrupting his popcorn munching.

“Oh, shit! I’m totally fucking turned on already. Aren’t you?”

Any scene in any movie in which this fine piece of rough trade appears immediately takes on sexual overtones, and pretty soon I’ve got a parallel porno running in my head.

“Well, he is a handsome man,” Jimmy concedes between kernels.

I take out my reporter’s notebook. 'Daniel Craig is entrancing as Lord Asriel, the buttoned-up uncle of heroine Lyra Belacqua, played by the ballsy child actor Dakota Blue Richards.'

This is pretty sick of me to be searching for a pornographic subtext in a kids’ pic. Look at the way he owns that body – no way he’s not a phenomenal fuck.

'When Lord Asriel saunters confidently onto the perfectly manicured grounds of Oxford’s Jordan College you half expect to see Harry Potter and his Hogwarts cohorts rush out to greet him.'

Breathe. Concentrate on his nerdy outfit. He’s not showing any skin so calm down. He’s wearing a sweater. A tight sweater. I’ll bet he’s hot under all those lights. I could worshipfully lick every drop of sweat from that muscular chest all the way down to those thick calves. If the camera cuts to his riding boots my stadium seating will catch fire.

'Everything from the British, pseudo-royalty costumes to the CGI “daemons” who act as companions/alter egos in this fantasy set piece is perfectly coordinated, like watching a fine-tuned army engaged in military drills.'

Even Lord Asriel’s CGI leopard is starting to look sexy. Meow. Shouldn’t there be ice bears around here somewhere? I can’t take this. I tap Jimmy’s arm.

“Fuck, man! Don’t you just want to drop to your knees and suck him off – or is it just me?”

“Hmm.” Jimmy ponders, munches his popcorn. “No, it’s just you.”

'This can’t be good.'

But it isn’t bad. For my G-rated review of “The Golden Compass” visit The House Next Door at:

http://mattzollerseitz.blogspot.com/2007/12/magic-8-ball-golden-compass.html

The Cure for the Wintertime Blues

Sing to the tune of “My Favorite Things” (I wish I knew which fabulous queen wrote this!)

Big dykes with small dogs and butches with kittens;
Diesels in tall boots with chains on their mittens;
Femmes in their lipstick with rings in their nose;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

Men who can cook and make great apple strudels;
Women who think and can sure use their noodles;
Some who like dressing in black leather clothes;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

Men in tight dresses with gold lame sashes;
Makeup and high heels and long false eyelashes;
Men who have muscles and men who wear hose;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

REFRAIN:
When the right wing
Spews its hatred
And it makes me sad,
I simply remember the gays that I know
And then I don't feel - - - so bad.

Doctors and nurses and students and teachers;
Soldiers and singers and actors and preachers;
Lawyers who fight in the courts with our foes;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

Nieces and uncles and sisters and brothers;
Parents who live with significant others;
Brave sons and daughters who let their love show;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

Young politicians with courage and vision;
Leaders with guts who can make a decision;
Those in the closets and those on the go;
These are a few of the gays that I know.

REFRAIN:
First Anita, then it's Limbaugh,
It just makes you mad,
But always remember the gays that you know and then you won't feel - - - so bad!