| thoughts from a cunning linguist | |
I went to see Kill Bill yesterday in Philly--not exactly a book, but worth reviewing anyway. If you haven't seen it yet, don't "meander further into the bush"; run do not walk to the nearest movie theatre. It's a kick-ass film with a very interesting limitation. I've got more to say about it below...
Usually I don't find violence amusing. But I have to give Quentin Tarantino his due. I was laughing out loud at parts of this film. And it's not like he's parodying violence. Nope, you're supposed to take it sort of seriously. But the soundtrack is so great that you can see some comic relief in the radical discrepancy between what you're hearing and what you're seeing. Uma Thurman, code name Black Mamba, is out to kill every member of an elite death squad that was sent to kill her on her wedding day (she was also pregnant in the white dress). Somehow, she survived and she's got a death list. Two of the people on this list bite the dust in Kill Bill, Vol 1--the second volume is set to be released in February, I think. The film is a stylized representation of violence, a veritable homage to Hong Kong cinema. And the best part is that there are literally kick-ass women here. It's great to see women seeking revenge and really taking charge. We've had a bit of a drought when it comes to female action heroines (Xena notwithstanding).
But why is it that "the child" must always feature as the cornerstone of and the limit case for female revenge? Black Mamba's out to get "the crowd" because, presumably, they killed her unborn child. She balks at killing one of her enemies when the enemy's child shows up from school and throws the whole wrestling, breaking glass, throwing knives at each other scene into relief. Female revenge seems to be sponsored by the block parent program. I just wonder if there could ever be any other reason why women might want revenge and why vengeful women might stop at killing their enemies. Now there would be a stroke of genius that could work hand in hand with his brilliant filmmaking techniques.
I'm constantly amazed at how often I get mistaken for being male. My friends can't believe it either. I'm not that butch. But it's happened three times in the last week and twice today.
The first time this week was on Monday when I was on the subway, on the way to the airport to return to New Jersey. It was rush hour and the train was really crowded. I was squeezed in among the people with my suitcase. At one stop, a man got on the train. He seemed to be drunk. He started striking up a conversation with a couple of people, first asking them for money, and shortly after ranting about how "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve." I heard this, but was not acknowledging it. Then he looked at me squarely and said, "Hello, you big bugger!" It took a minute for this to register, but he had clearly mistaken me for a gay man! Luckily, my stop was next, so I quickly got off the train and moved swiftly through the crowd to transfer to my next train.
My first encounter today took place in a McDonald's. Having been bombarded by the "elephants" for the last day or so, I was craving easy, fast food, so I slunk into the McDonald's for my french fry fix. As I was sitting down to eat, I noticed a man having an exchange with a woman across the store. I saw her give him his tray and he was trying to convince her to visit a particular website. She wasn't terribly interested and walked away from him. Then he came over to me and started to talk about how he didn't much care for women anyway. He was clearly talking to me as if he expected me to agree that women are fickle and not worth bothering with. I got this strange glimpse into a bizarre form of male comraderie.
Shortly thereafter, I was on my way home and decided to stop at a used furniture store (I'm in desperate need of a bookcase). I was just walking around the rather packed and disorganized place, when one of the deliverymen walked through. I bought most of my furniture for my New Brunswick apartment at this store and recognized him. I've had a my hair cut shorter since then, though, so he didn't recognize me. Instead he complained lightly about how there wasn't much space to walk around, saying "You know what I'm sayin', brother?"
I wonder what it is that makes it so clear to my friends that I am female, but so indicative to some strangers that I'm male?
An old friend of mine to whom this often happens, too, one explained her reaction to it this way: she didn't mind one bit. What bothered her more was that people often recognized their mistake and then started apologized all over themselves for having made the mistake to begin with, as if recognizing her masculinity had been insulting. I think she has a good point here.
If you've never heard of or read Olivia or Olivia Saves the Circus, (a) you're missing out on real pleasure and (b) this blog entry will mean nothing to you. So get thee to a book store, find the children's book section and be prepared to laugh. Olivia is the world's most fabulous pig. And as of today, there is a new Olivia book: Olivia....and the missing toy, which I, of course, am dying to own.
Olivia is drawn by former New Yorker cartoonist Ian Falconer. The books so far have been drawn only on black, white, and red (with shades in grey and pink)--the new book introduces the colour green. What is so fabulous about Olivia is her wit, her independence, her curiosity, and her flare for the dramatic. Olivia rocks. I'm waiting with bated breath for the newest Olivia to arrive on my doorstep. Yay!
I have to admit it: I've always been one of those Atlantic Canadians who hates Toronto. Maybe I'd heard too many jokes about the "Newfoundlander who went to Toronto and..." Or maybe it had something to do with being born in a Montreal Canadians family and knowing that the last time Toronto won the Cup, there was only black and white television. A lot of it was the Toronto-centrism of Canada (events in Toronto make the front page of national newspapers while Atlantic Canadian news only squeaks in on page 8 or something). And as usually happens when one approaches a situation knowing already what one is going to think about it, during my few visits to the city, all my dislikes were confirmed. I found that it was all concrete and steel, with not much character and rude people.
But bushwhacking changes everything. I'm back now from my most recent trip to Toronto where I had quite an amazing time with Dr. Fem, celebrating her birthday. We shopped a bit, had tea in a cozy Vietnamese tea shops, ate great Chinese food, went to a really bad queer play (the Queen of Sheba and the Grand Poobah would be proud: we walked out), and hung out with Dr. Fem's very cool dyke friends.
Now I have to wait another six weeks to see her again and it's back to counting weeks and sleeps. This time, my excursion north will take me to Sudbury. Double the bushwhacking pleasure.
...or at this rate, half a sleep. I'm in an essay-grading marathon, trying to get all my work done before I head off to Toronto tomorrow night to see Dr. Fem for doctoring of all sorts.
5 essays to go (out of 44--and I only got them yesterday). Gotta pack. (No, not that kind of packing. Although...) Gotta prepare my classes for tomorrow afternoon (at least it's two classes that are the same); send off forms to the student loans people (or else they'll try to take money from me and fail); get my immigration documents in order for my return to the land of Freedom Fries (that'll be Monday).
What's a Bush Whacker to do when there are only 24 hours in a day?!