Sunday, February 04, 2007

Let Me Tell Ya About A Player I Know (It's Me)

There's little that provokes greater productivity in me than something that could be great, but just misses it. I can't resist the desire to tweak, to meddle, to try my hand, as it were. If I'm privileged enough to consume something truly superlative, or something staggeringly bad, I find that I just want to revel in it. But it engenders no particular aesthetic kineticism.

I mention this merely to explain (primarily to myself) my activities this weekend, in which I was aided and abetted by the advent of some real Minnesota cold. I've got a self-imposed deadline bearing down on me (it's an unofficial deadline: Spike Lee is coming to speak on campus this week, and at the meet-and-greet that I'll be crashing, I plan on boosting my shit. I can't decide if it's sad or admirable that I've finally acknowledged the necessity of hustling, but the fact is, I'm not trying to prolong the conversations I currently have, in which I say that I'm a writer-but-no-you-haven't-seen-anything-I've-done) and something in me--

Ok, let me stop right here, because just having that creepy-ass Guy Fawkes mask staring back at me from the computer screen is freaking me the fuck out. And I put it there! Gotdang! I finally peeped V for Vendetta this weekend, and family, I have to tell you: I was impressed. Not with the movie itself, per se, but with the fact that the cast and crew were able to work around someone wearing that mask and not start screaming. Maybe they did, actually. I don't know how long it took to film the movie, but I guarantee you that some scenes had to be restarted because the actors involved involuntarily pissed themselves after staring into that face. Have you seen this movie, kids? Props to Hugo Weaving for doing the damn thing, though. That dude is silky smooth, big forehead and all. I've not read the graphic novel from which the movie is [rather] loosely adapted, so I've got no issue with the ostensible flattening of the story. I love Stephen Rea's jowly Irish ass and I love Stephen Fry's towering, erudite ass, so I was predisposed to like this movie from the jump. And for the most part, I was entertained. I've got next to no patience with the Wachowski Bros (although, I must admit, I tend to be quite affectionate towards those items which reveal that the creator has read a little theory or a couple of issues of The Economist -- even if they don't deploy said knowledge particularly well. I feel the same way when I read student papers, much of the time. I just want to pat people on the head and say "that word doesn't mean what you think it means," or "nice try, but that's actually not what the Frankfurt School was about," or whatever. 'Cause it's nice when people try, family! And we have to start somewhere!

That is precisely the reason I find myself so entertained by Noah's Arc, I think. I mean, we can all agree that the acting and writing and fashion on that show is through, right? But we have to start somewhere. I'll take the soapy, slick over-the-top black queerness/queer blackness of Noah's Arc over having nothing at all. And Patrick-Ian Polk, the show's creator, at least seems marginally aware of some of the issues that complicate the lives of black gay men. Also, the men on the show are hot like fiyah, and I can't stop saying "booginas."

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