How many ships?

There is a scene in the movie “The Last holiday” where one character asks another if the ceiling above them ever made her want to cry. The first character saw it for the first time, the second one saw it every day. By the end of the movie, character Two was seen staring up at the ceiling with tears in her eyes. Something really beautiful does exactly this, it attracts the eye, and fires up the mind.

Last week I had dinner with “the girls” from work, at a Thai restaurant. During this dinner, a beamer was projecting a Victoria’s Secret fashion show on the screen above our table, so apart from the (really quite excellent) food we had a constant viewing of more or less desirable flesh in more or less fabric to occupy us when not eating or discussing the food or the fashion.
During dinner, at several points, a certain amount of envy was expressed towards models in general and specific Victoria Secret models in particular. For reasons far, far beyond my comprehension.

I strife to live my life based on a guiding principle of beauty. I try to write, sketch and talk in a way that evokes a harmonic ideal, I like being around attractive people, and on the whole, I think I manage to inject at least a little of my own idea of beauty in my normal circumstances.
As such, it is quite pleasing to me to be working in a department filled to the brim with really quite attractive women. As a result, at my table during that dinner was a group that by rights would have send the girls on the screen scurrying to the bathrooms to vomit some more out of sheer insecurity. If Rainer Maria Rilke was right and beauty really is the beginning of terror that we are just able to endure, I work in an environment that is just one application of mascara and a swipe of lip-gloss removed from chaos. And yet these girls profess insecurity when compared to someone whose main goal in life is not to trip while passing Anna Wintour (who doesn’t do Victoria’s Secret of course, but that is hardly the point).

Then, earlier this week, I was having a discussion with another one of the “girls”, who wasn’t at the dinner, about attractiveness, or more specifically, about whether I had ever seen anyone so beautiful that the mere sight moved me to tears.
No, I haven’t, but I did know immediately what she meant. I know the feeling of having your heartstrings tugged by the sight of a face so incredible that it just makes you want to sit down and have a good sob.

And not just because it isn’t fair to the rest of us that there are people that look like they’ve stepped out of an airbrushing studio moments earlier, or out of a sense of not measuring up.
Certainly, I think it IS unfair that I have to fight the resilient forces of the evil pimple kingdom on a daily basis where some apparently roll out of bed and are given a quick firing in the kiln of porcelain-skin, but that is not, I think, the reason one gets emotional over something pretty. Given the fact that the “girl” in question here has a passport photo that would launch at least a good 500 ships and in real life tempers these good looks with a wicked brain (worth an additional 400 ships at least) and perky attitude (and another good 200 ships, maybe adding a rowboat or some such for good measure) that would slay a lesser man, I don’t really think jealousy was at the base of her reaction either. I think her response to seeing this beautiful boy comes from something far more meaningful, for all its’ ostensible superficiality.

Beauty like that moves us because we instinctively feel it has to, has to, mean something, and it is saddening that it probably does not.
God knows I am not a religious man, but I hope and pray in my moments of weakness that the sight of a striking face implies a plan, that the beauty alone means that there is a reason for that beauty. For if results like that come solely from the happenstance collection of a father’s nose and grandmother’s eyes into a whole that defies understanding than there is something seriously wrong with the world.

Studies show we associate good-looking people with pleasing character aspects. Show 100 people in the street a picture of a good looking man or woman, and a picture of a not-so good looking man or woman, and kindness, compassion, sweetness, sense of humor and suchlike are mostly attributed to the attractive person, whereas the lesser peon gets burdened with “mean”, “misery” and more descriptions that can at best be called less than favorable.

Again, this is because we feel that the looks alone should mean something more than good genes, should mean something other than sheer good luck and a good moisturizer. We see ideals behind the beauty, never mind if all that is really behind those sparkling eyes is just a litany of boredom, and never mind if all that this beauty is destined to become is a faded shadow of itself in years to come.

And that, really, is what lies at the base of our obsession of beauty. The direct, intuitive assumption that it cannot last, that it has to be, in some way, fleeting. As such, the limited availability alone ups the value of beauty to its’ logical extreme. The most beautiful girl in your class will turn into a no more than usually attractive woman after school, the bartender with the great smile and the brown eyes will grow bald and wrinkly. This means that the fact that they are gorgeous now is only more important, and more poignant. One of my brother’s friends was born an incredibly ugly baby, growing into a teenager so heartrendingly beautiful the only real option seemed to be to freeze him now and let it just be done with. Because this freezing never happened, he continued to grow into a normal face in the crowd. What good his beauty then, if nothing ever came of it?

There are those, and I am one of them, that say that beauty is its’ own reward.

Not for the carrier, but for those around it. For as much jealousy, hatred, and misunderstanding it can inspire, it also inspires love, joy, music and those lost and stolen moments in time where everything, for a split second, makes a little bit more sense. This is worth the occasional tear, and it certainly makes it worth the efforts of genes or gods to maintain beauty in the world.

Stripes at 00000, for I have found my most beautiful one (that would be Boyfriend, yes), and need no other,

Kevin

I really didn’t, but I will.

“Would you like to be the one to declare Heath Ledger’s last movie crap? Especially with the whole Oscar-thing going on?” were the words Housemate had used to get her boyfriend to wait a little while to see what the reviews for “the Dark knight” would be. She was telling me this last Saturday while we were walking into the theatre to watch this very same movie.

And well, no, I would in fact not like to be the one to do so, even though I am traditionally not so afraid of my opinions differing from the norm. Not that her boyfriend is a sheep, far form it, but traditionally he is a little less (intentionally) rattling than I.
That being said, I’ll stand out on that most precocious of ledges and declare my heartfelt opininon: It sucks.

It does, it really does. I am sorry but it does. Yes, I will admit that Heath Ledger has his character down pat, and his mannerisms and stance convey a deep, deep creepiness that gives a person goose bumps. Facially, there is no creepiness. Yes his tongue moves freakily, and yes he looks freaky, but the look is mostly make-up. Well done make up, but to rely on make-up doing the trick for up-close acting is, in my opinion, a tad sad. Getting an Oscar for doing so is an insult. Completely different topic.

Saying that Heath out-acts the movie is not a stretch, he does. Then again, this is like saying that carrots are better at being carrots than potatoes.
Heath might not have been a tremendous actor, I feel he died too young for objectivity to decide, but the other actors in this movie “perform” with such a lackluster disregard to what they are trying to accomplish that if this performance is what gets the boy his posthumous Oscar I am going to submit to the academy the video of my own personal elementary school Christmas musical, as my own Oscar can’t possibly be far behind. After all, clearly all one has to do is do slightly better than a rasping, awkward and uncharismatic Christian Bale, and I think I reached that level of acting well before my voice changed.

“Batman: the Dark Knight” could have done better. There is a list of actors that have proven themselves in a great many movies previously, the Batman-series as a concept easily lends itself to a deeper-than-average interpretation, allowing for a nicely layered view of the superhero-genre, and there are many perspectives to the series that have not yet been wasted by earlier camptastic installments.
However, it does not do better. Sure, Michael Caine is charming as always, and Maggie Gyllenhaal does well enough, apart from the strange moment of bursting into song, but the rest of the cast, from Aaron Eckhart to Gary Oldman, phone in their performance, sadly resulting in an impossibility to really feel for any of the characters anything but a slight, but noticeable, aversion.

The movie, at first glance, doesn’t do much wrong. It is a little bit predictable (par for the Batman-course), and it is a little bit boring in it’s set up (again par) but really it shows some snide disrespect for previous movements. A joke at the expense of Tim Burton’s thematically and stylistically far better “Batman” really set of a chain of “too bad they went this way” moments. Even tacking the piss out of the original series is a bit sad, one would hope a movie that is flaunted and hyped like this one deserves to be treated so on it’s own merits, and not just because it can make fun of other movies so they look bad. This is a block-buster movie, NOT the lead-cheerleader in high school that only rules because she can put down those less fortunate.

All in all, the movie lacks the entertainment value, plot and refinement (it has Eric Roberts for goodness’ sake) to be good, and it lacks the ability to laugh at itself to be so bad it becomes funny. It was just boring, sad, and a little bit insulting (as it can apparently laugh at everything else quite easily).

As a comparison, Housemate and I watched “Catwoman” the next day, and found it almost refreshingly entertaining. And that movie also sucked. If a movie can’t easily outshine a bad spin-off of it’s original concept, maybe that’s a sign that the movie should be taken out back and shot.

A disappointed,

Kevin

Funny Games U.S.

Those that have heard me speak for any length of time have almost certainly heard me utter the opinion that one should have opinions and principles roughly the height of a stepping stool. This way, the constant getting on and of a not particularly high horse can have somewhat of an aerobic positive effect.

However, there are some opinions I hold dear, and will defend to a -if perhaps not the- very end. I will grant you that there are not many, but there are at least some. I believe that there is no situation that asks for snapping one's fingers for service, and that berating wait-staff or chefs should be done only after any opportunity for spitting into food has passed. I believe there is no excuse for cruelty to animals, and that you should never kick something unable to kick back. I believe a lot of things.

Among my slightly less vehemently guarded measures of life is the fact I really do not approve of pirated or otherwise illegal copies and performances of music, books and films. This is not a principle I usually uphold all too strictly, I prefer to watch a “real” DVD to a pirated one and will not swiftly buy a ripped copy of a CD, but I do have a play list on youtube of my favourite music videos, and I do not have all those on CD or otherwise. A little hypocrisy goes a long way in these matters.

That said, my long-held opinion that watching a pirated movie detracts something from the experience has been giving a polish and shine this weekend when I had a chance to watch Michael Hanake's remake of his own movie “Funny Games”. Having first watched this as a down-loaded version and now in a official movie theatre, it gave me some measure of comparison. Granted, the down-load was of bad quality, but still, that goes some way to proving my point, actually.

Some context is required for understanding the really quite large differences between the two viewings. I had heard of the classic original version only in a far away way. The remake drew my attention because it stars the actor that seems destined to play me should my life ever warranted filming, Michael Pitt. But upon reading up on the movie, it seemed a good start to a night of thrillers and horrors. The story, a well-to-do family terrorised by a pair of polite, handsome but insane young men, allows for interesting ruminations on politeness and a good meditation on trusting your neighbours.

Watching this movie in a room filled with movie-buffs and in bad quality did not do well for the experience. The shocks and thrills seemed second-hand, and open for mockery, and it all seemed done before and made one feel tremendously blasé.

Watching it, however, in a movie-theatre, surrounded by people who do not analyse every movie to it's bitter end, and in a much better quality, suddenly the movie seemed to change. Much like showing your town to tourists will make you see the town in a whole new light, I saw this catalogue of displacement in a whole new light. Along with my co-watchers, I suddenly found the chance to wonder what I would have done in similar situations, and I bristled with them at the atrocious cheat perpetrated halfway through. Suddenly, the movie's implications became personal, the occasional breaking of the fourth wall more than a clever trick, a personal indictment.

For those who do not know the original or the remake, the story is simple, a family on holiday is trapped in their house with two psychopaths, who bet them the family will not be alive in twelve hours time. Simple, and we have seen it before. The psycho's seem polite and genteel at first, but so did Hannibal Lecter, and it doesn't hit home immediately. But the two also make use of the insular community of friends and neighbours they seem so easily and obviously to belong to, suddenly bringing the danger much closer to home.

The original is known as a classic, the remake, by the same director, with much the same dialogue and scenes, might not, but if it doesn't it is only by virtue of it's status as a remake. Viewed as a separate entity, the acting is mostly very well done, the subdued, actually never shown, horrid violence is wonderfully portrayed still, and the menace remains as true now as when this movie was made first.

I can advise any body to go see this, but there is a certain requirement for a willingness to discuss them movie and it's themes afterwards, so I advice bringing a group of argumentative friends, and adjourning to a good bar swiftly afterwards. And stocking up on eggs.

Back from the dead, I promised to do better this time,

Kevin

Royalty Schmoyalty, Esther had niet mogen winnen

Gisteren, zondag, werd ik gevraagd of ik vandaag, maandag, het leuk zou vinden om aanwezig te zijn bij de finale-uitzending van de show “de grootste royalty kenner van Nederland”.

Omdat dit me inderdaad wel leuk leek, en het wel leuk was tot de uiteindelijke finale, heb ik nu drie dingen die ik vanavond even moet doen, die ik normaal niet of niet snel zou doen, en waarvan ik er nu al eentje aan het doen ben.

Dit blog-je is in het Nederlands, namelijk, een taal die ik in mijn schrijfsels eigenlijk niet vaak gebruik, maar omdat dit toch een Nederlands programma was en is, en dit stukje (volgens mij) gelezen moet worden door zo veel mogelijk Nederlanders heb ik nu mijn normale voorkeur voor het Engels even overboord gezet voor mijn moerstaal. Dat was 1.

Nummers 2 (twee) en 3 (drie) zijn in volgorde van belangrijkheid het feit dat ik nu het risico loop een vriendin van mij te beschamen, en het feit dat ik de uitkomst van dit programma ga verpesten.

Voor mij is de immer beringbaarde Marc van der Linden de grootste Royalty-kenner van Nederland in minstens gewicht, maar deze kwam voor deze uitzending niet opdagen.

Wie er wel kwamen opdagen waren de zes winnaars van de voorrondes, en zes “professionele” royalty kenners, mensen die van het uitpluizen van koninklijke leventjes hun beroep hadden gemaakt, zogezegd. Uit deze twee groepjes van zes werden twee winnaars gehaald, een “professional” en een amateur. Deze twee werden dan als goede kemphaantjes tegen elkaar opgezet voor de titel GrvN en de, toch heel mooie, trofee. Dit alles aan elkaar gepraat door de toch al niet zo te vertrouwen Bert van Leeuwen en een man die ik nog nimmer eerder had gezien, en wiens naam mij dus ook direct ontschiet.

Sinds ik Bertje eens heb zien vals-spelen bij een van zijn andere evangelische quizjes heb ik die man al niet meer vertrouwd, en laat ik het zo zeggen, het werd er vandaag niet beter op.

Maar goed, wat gebeurde er. De amateur-kandidaat, Ieneke (als ik dit verkeerd spel, Ineke, sorry, je bordjes kon ik niet lezen, ik zat achter je), bracht het met een enorme kennis van het koningshuis tot de finale, waar zij het mocht opnemen tegen de Pro, Esther Wolswinkel, redactrice van het blad Vorsten. Nu ontzeg ik Esther zeker niet dat zij ook een redelijke kennis van het koningshuis bezit, maar ze had niet mogen winnen. En ze won wel.

Ze won, omdat Bert tijdens het stellen van een vraag aan de twee niet helemaal begrepen had wat de regels waren, en een goed door Ieneke beantwoorde vraag daarom uit het programma moest mikken. Wat gebeurde er? Ieneke wist het antwoord, en zoals geïnstrueerd drukte zij dus toen de vraag was gesteld, en gaf haar antwoord. Echter, omdat ze blijkbaar “wat vroeg drukte, voor alle antwoorden op scherm stonden” werd deze vraag niet meegenomen in de uiteindelijke score.

Toen Esther dit later echter nog een keer deed, kregen we een tweede takeje om te voorkomen dat het er aanstaande woensdag uit zag alsof ze zo vroeg drukte. Ieneke werd gevraagd om vooral maar niet mee te drukken want dat zou “niet eerlijk zijn”. Esther's punt telde wel, Ieneke's punt zullen we buiten de studio nooit meer over horen, confetti werd afgevuurd en we moesten allemaal maar heel blij doen dat Esther had overwonnen.

Ik snap dat je als professionele royalty-kenner moeilijk kan verliezen van een amateur, maar echt, dit is wel een heel lege overwinning, en als ik Ieneke was zou ik dit ook zeker niet over mijn kant laten gaan. Ik verwacht een woedende uithaal naar Bert aan tafel bij Carlo en Irene en wat traantjes tegenover Loretta, Ien, je hebt het verdiend.

Dus, voor iedereen die woensdag, op koninginnedag, dit programma gaat kijken, weet dan dat de echte winnaar door een heel subtiel trucje niet als winnaar uit de bus kwam.

Met vriendelijke groet,

Kevin

Style: Confidence vs confidentiality.

One could, if so inclined and willing, draw a rather direct line between personal style and a certain measure of self-confidence. After all, expressing personality to a certain extent smacks of going against the grain, of “showing off”, which is something not lightly undertaken by those lacking in self-esteem. Also, one who is uncertain their stomach should ever see the light of day is not swiftly going to bare midriff, no matter what fashion says about this.

A counterpoint to this of course are those whose stomach really should not see the light of day, and who nonetheless pour themselves into tops so tight that showing copious amounts of flesh is nigh unavoidable. The line “just because you can get into it does not mean it is your size” springs to mind once more. These people cannot be said to be lacking in self-confidence, they can even be said to be slightly over-abundant in that specific regard. Most of them can also be said to be overabundant in the regard of stomach-and-lower-back-flab, but this is an unsavoury subject, and should best not be mentioned.

Now I am in no way harping on those with a little more body to carry around than usual. I myself cart a goodly amount of extra me around right in front of what I maintain are good abs if only you could see them through the flab, and as such would not deny anybody the right to be well-insulated. In fact, I find a little curvy or a little huggable a very attractive thing in any human being, and would as such only applaud anyone who wants to show off a little bit of curve or brawn.

But there is a line between showing what you’ve got and no longer showing your belt, and somewhere on that line does looking confident turn into showing what should be hidden, confidential.
The too-tight legging, the jeans that “hug” so low you are showing thigh between underwear and actual jean, the shirt so high or so tight it leaves nothing to the imagination, including the number and placement of chest-hairs, they are all examples of saying a little too much, of showing a little more than people who you don’t really know should know.

Clothing, traditionally, remains a way of showing off, showing what you have, and as such should be used to their best and fullest. It should not be used, however, to give people an intimate glance into your body’s personal life. Clothing, more than anything, allows a wonderful option for hints, for mystery, for hiding those bits that should only be revealed when a winning personality and good humour have made sure the other party won’t run upon reveal of aforementioned bits.