Fame, Capitalism: A Love Story, and Doma Cafe

Fame, a byproduct of Capitalism? Or just a thinly hatched remake of the 1980s film about life in the New York high school where you are only as good as your last pirouette. My criticisms of this film are many: Why wasn't there more dancing? Why wasn't there more plot? Why did the high schoolers look older than me?
Mostly I spent the 90 minutes comparing my own high school experience in the small town midwest to that of the precocious performing arts students. Fewer rap battles and recording contracts, more football games and teen pregnancies. The stakes were much lower, no one broke out in song at school assemblies. I don't think it ever occurred to me that those four years would make or break any future career. How nice to grow up in a pressure-free passionless bubble! Hopefully one with better dialogue and fewer parents who use "talk to the hand" as a diss. There is nothing wrong with movies like Fame, polluting adolescents with optimism, lessons in discipline. I just wish they would preach a little content.

Capitalism: A Love Story reveals signs of aging from Mr. Moore. Less stunts, more sonatas on the soundtrack. Even his confrontation with the General Motors guards seemed to be an expression of exhaustion, tired of his own antics. But he still knows how to push your buttons/your liberal conscience -- home foreclosures, corporate insurance greed, the Goldman Sachs White House...it makes you sick and angry. I left the theatre suspicious and feeling guilty. How can I help fix things? Can I boycott all the wrong doers? The banks, the products, the services? Impossible, to live in America is to constantly confront evils. Rather than the consumers choosing the best good (the essence of capitalism and the free enterprise system), we are forced to select the least bad. Is it time to pack America in for a more civilized nation? No says Moore, with his big belly and Eastern Michigan ball cap, this is our home and we aren't going anywhere.

Meanwhile, a great find in the west village, independent coffee shop Doma on Perry Street, serving up wine as well as cups of joe and mighty pastries, one of the few places left in Manhattan where you can sit for a long while without sneers or Starbucks. Maybe capitalism will make it a mainstay.

Movies I meant to write about

Okay, so it's been a busy month, lots of coffee consumed (new find: The Chocolate Shop in the West Village -- one of the best iced caps and peanut butter chocolate cookie combos ever experienced).

Some movies I have seen:

Julie and Julia -- Meryl and Stanley -- Oscars, here, take them. Meanwhile, a meandering narrative and too much exposition/characters, not enough drama. Where was the climax? Oversleeping the alarm? A miscommunication? If there was ever a PSA about not moving to the outer boroughs, here it is... But I was hungry the whole time.

Time Travelers Wife -- Another book that didn't adapt well. I admit I cried a lot (how could you not soulless people?), but it didn't mean anything, it was cheap and maudlin. McAdams gave a lovely performance reacting to a somewhat remote Bana and time traveling through eras where the scenery was suspiciously static. Chicago in 1979 vs 2001...same or different Hollywood? Even the Marshall Fields bag was identical. Unlikely. I felt bad for all the straight males pulled along by their weeping girlfriends. They were the first to the exit as the credits, but I was right behind them, embarrassed by my tears.

The September Issue -- the story behind The Devil Wears Prada, a documentary on Anna Wintour and the development of the September issue of US Vogue. An interesting glimpse into the crazed and perhaps excessive world of fashion, magazine publishing, but mostly on Grace, the creative director who I absolutely adored (what a trooper to put up with the whims of that woman)in her clogs and stellar vision. Maybe not the most fascinating doc that could have been created from this material, but not a bad addition to your netflix cue.