La La Land

Because everybody is a film critic (and a food critic) these days.

(Spoiler alert: don't read on if you haven't seen La La Land and intend to.)

I've heard that there is speculation that La La Land may win Best Picture.

No.

It is a pretty film. It is a cute film. It is unique. And refreshing. I applaud the courage of the producers and writers and cast and crew for creating something that could have been easily dismissed as unpopular.

Did I like the film? Yes. I even teared up at times. That's what it caters to do. It is a chick flick. I'm a chick. (I categorically detest rom-com, though.) Actually, it's a chick and gay dick flick. My apologies for the stereotype. Heard it on the radio. Not in so many words. I'm sure there are those who fit the demographics but don't love musicals. I'm sure you exist.

But Best Picture? No. (I am not saying it won't win. Because it's a white industry. I am saying it doesn't deserve to win.)

I can see that Ryan Gosling is charming. I can understand why women swoon over him. Props to him for learning the piano in merely three months. He pulled it off impressively. And the recent speech at the Golden Globes thanking his wife Eva Mendes? Genuine and sweet as heck. But I have not been attracted to Ryan Gosling. Not even in The Notebook. There. I've said it. Blasphemy, I'm sure.

But the sadness of Ryan Gosling's character at the end of La La Land got me. That's right. I'm attracted to sadness. Always have been. Of course it had to be a sad ending. Sad endings make for the best love stories. If Gosling's Seb would've married Emma Stone's Mia, that would have been boring. The parallel universe of what could've been (or should've been, if you're that kind of a romantic) was perfect because it was bittersweet. And that knowing nod and smile - that IS the perfect ending. Thanks for comin'. It doesn't matter what happens for the rest of their respective lives.

You can tell that the actors literally just took dance lessons. Great effort and heartfelt performance, but there is better on Dancing with the Stars (and I don't even watch that show). The rise and fall as they waltz is totally lacking. (There is some grace.) The tapping is barely adequate. Mad skills they are not. If you've seen Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers... I am sorry but their contemporary counterparts don't even come close. But they are pretty and young and easy on the eyes. And they are trying. And I do find the acting to be quite good, especially Stone's.

Then there is the scene of the lovers' first fight. The way the dialog escalates is unbelievable to me, it feels so staged. Also the fact that the argument takes less than five minutes, and all of a sudden the bird in the oven is burnt beyond recognition, triggering the smoke alarm? They literally just sat down at the table! So the bird would've burnt anyway. Seb took all his time planning this surprise dinner, and the bird would've overcooked within minutes of Mia walking in? Nah. Don't buy. That is poor writing.

The cinematography is... nice. You get to see L.A., and L.A. is always nice to look at. Big blue sky, palm trees, landmarks... they all stir nostalgia and sentiments of adventure. Shots at the Griffith Observatory are visually pleasing. But no one scene is particularly breathtaking or groundbreaking.

When I think Best Picture, I think life-changing, a film that compels you to reevaluate your perspectives of the world, challenges your values, makes you a better person even. Is that too much to ask? La La Land, while highly enjoyable, is not even a believable love story. We see a white guy hook up with a white girl, we don't question. What do they have in common? Examine the broken pieces, and you will conclude: no wonder they didn't work out.

All this said, boy, Ryan Gosling really rocks a dark suit with a skinny tie. And I still have no desire to fuck him.

Trimmin's & Fixin's

I have a handful of fond childhood memories with my mother. Don't get me wrong. I had a happy childhood, one that is envy-worthy even. I have tons of happy memories of the four of us: my parents, my brother W and me. But involving solely my mother and me, those are far fewer.

One of those memories is my mother clipping my nails. I would feel so pampered. She was meticulous about it. Truth is it was rare when I felt she was poring over me, focusing on just me. She was a career woman and I needed more attention than she had time. These moments are much cherished.

The best part is toenails. The sensation of her digging into the corners attempting to get all the crud out - if that isn't love, I don't know what is. It was guilty pleasure too, just borderline erotic and as close to incest as one gets without actually committing.

Years later, one summer my Mom is visiting at W's, and we're all hanging out in the living room. Elsie is clipping OC's toenails. Tirelessly, just as my mother did. OC just sits back and takes it all in. In fact he is so relaxed he appears to be sliding off the sofa any minute. I reflect on a mother's love and how I could not fathom the depth and vastness of that selflessness.

My mother then comments along the same line, that it was so special Elsie was doing this. Taken aback, I blurt, "You used to do the same for me. Don't you remember?"

The smile freezes on her face. Awkward. She doesn't remember. And she admits so.

Mom is sensitive about the subject of forgetfulness as she ages. So I drop it. But I can't help but feel hurt. This act of bonding - did it not mean as much to her as it did me? Obviously not, right? Then anger sinks in. I already have so few mother-daughter memories. By not remembering, she has taken one away from me. It is as if it never happened.

This line of thinking is illogical, of course. And it can't be always about me, now can it?

Few more years go by. Another summer, my mother is diagnosed with lymphoma. We are an ocean apart.

It was a difficult time. Difficult for my mother as she (and her side of the family) are notorious worrywarts and negative thinkers (who happen to have a long family history of cancer - a little correlation there?) When she can't relax, she can't relax. She thinks of the absolute worst. When I come home a little late, she doesn't just wonder. She envisions gang rape, torture, and my mangled body tossed off a cliff. She can't help it. When she hasn't heard from someone in a while, death is the first thing on her mind. Not because she is in her late 70's now and of course death is on her mind. This goes way back.

And difficult for my father, her sole caretaker who is older than she. Even before she became ill, he cooked and cleaned and did all the dirty work around the house. I found out just recently that, before my late grandmother, my mother's mother, promised my mother to my Dad, she sat him down to have a talk. It went something like this according to my Dad:

My grandmother:
Look, K (my mother's name) ain't ever gonna cook. She ain't lifting a finger. You understand? If you won't accept this, I can't let you have her.

My father, crazy in love, agreed. And he has kept his word ever since.

They have had only each other in their empty nest for decades now. I shudder to imagine the fear of losing the one person you see day in and day out, depend on, the only one you have loved all your life.

Between September and November, my mother had 3 rounds of chemo. All things considered, she did well. There were inevitable effects. Could be worse.

Not being able to be there for her was the most difficult part. She assured us it was for the best. Her doctor had advised against visitors at all costs to avoid infection and complications, since her immune system was so compromised.

A strong, independent, whip-smart woman all her life (except for the little things like not being able to make real food and asking about a kettle "How can I tell when the water is boiling?"), my mother would comfort us during this time. We did try to comfort her as best we knew how. Not sure it made a difference. My mother is not easy to convince. She would say things like, "What if the 3 rounds are not enough?" I reminded her to focus on one step at a time, and to view the treatment sessions as milestones. The concept of living in the present is foreign to the woman. She's a planner. This went against every grain of her nature.

But she did it. She conquered. She retested and is now cancer-free.

When I visited during the holidays, she hadn't had that last consultation yet. Nobody knew if she was in the clear or not. She felt fragile, apprehensive. But I could see that glimpse of hope, her allowing herself to entertain the better what-if's. I tried to stay positive for her. I refused to think too far ahead. What's the point? I argued.

One evening during my visit, I find my parents having one of their little squabbles in the dining room. My mother is trimming her fingernails. Her fingertips have gone numb from the chemo, apparently a common side effect. It can take months for the sensations to return. This makes it challenging to trim one's own nails, we find out. Doesn't help that her hands are - she still is - weak in recovery.

My mother reaches out to my Dad for assistance. My Dad is reluctant at first. "I'll miss and cut your flesh..." My Mom insists that it is unlikely, that it is child's play. My Dad acquiesces, but gingerly.

"You are not getting close enough!" My mother criticizes.

"I'll cut you if I try to get closer..." My Dad repeats. This goes on.

"Let me give it a shot," I volunteer.

I feel the flesh of my mother's fingertips with my left hand, and guide the nail clipper along. I ask questions. Am I too close? Doesn't hurt, right? Is this short enough?

She always wants shorter. "See? This is easy. I told you," my mother quips, addressing my Dad.

Secretly I was filled with love and pride in this act of reciprocating the favors she did me decades ago. Oh, the circle of life! And pleasantly surprised I didn't suck at this nurturing task even though I had never been anyone's caretaker in my life.

"Are you sure you want shorter?" I ask one more time. "This is pretty short already."

"Yes, shorter." My mother replies. "Next time I'll be on my own again."

She didn't mean to, but my heart broke a little.