Hey! Wackos! Leave Them Stars Alone.

In a world where everyone is increasingly becoming part of the fish bowl, some fish are definitely bigger than others. More and more kids want to stare at them, point, and go "Oooo! Aaaah! Look at that one!"

Robert Downey, Jr is one of the Big Ones. Few share his acting prowess, his back-story is compelling, and his recent triumphs are inspirational. I'll admit to being a fan. But I'm certainly not the kind of crazed weirdo (or paparatzi) who stalks celebs through the power drink aisle of the grocery store, trying to get myself noticed on the Internet by capturing a few annoyed, famous glares.

So the dude hangs out at the beach just like everyone else. BFD.

I don't want an autograph. I don't need a photo. I don't have piles of Iron Man merch in a drawer awaiting signatures and a quick sale on e-bay. I like to think I'm a different kind of admirer, one who shares a passion. I am a fellow student of Wing Chun Kung Fu.

Surrounded by movie posters from from film festivals, love notes from my kids, and articles on geography is the only picture of Mr. Downey I've ever displayed in my home. The May 2010 cover of Men's Journal is on my wall solely because the man on the cover has his guard up. It's a daily reminder, the way some people scribble morning mantras on the bathroom mirror or put notes on the refrigerator to remind them to eat less. It's time to train.

We all search for inspiration. I believe it is a human psychological need, a survival mechanism. Our brains tell us, Find the most successful animal and copy it. We begin with our parents, our caregivers, and other family members. We turn to that "cool" kid in school, a favorite super hero, or an Olympian. We dive into books about historical figures who risked everything to achieve some great aim. And, sometimes, our encouragement comes from pop culture media. All I can say is, choose carefully.

A positive role model is understandable. But there is also some twisted part of us that wants to tear down those same people we put up on pedestals. Santa Claus. The Tooth Fairy. President Obama. It's the part of us that wants to believe we are better than everyone else because it makes our tired, petty little hearts feel superior. "I'm better than that," you think to yourself. "I would never do what that person did!" Some of us read tabloid-style newspapers and web sites because we want to know that these rich, privileged people are no better than we are, that they suffer the same slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, that they sometimes act like dumbasses just like we do. And we can vilify them with impunity.

The typical, sneaky candid photos these tabloids rely on really turn my stomach. I can understand why Mr. Downey trains so hard. He has to find peace for himself and his family, in a world of diminishing privacy, amongst crazies who feel they deserve to own a piece of him because his face is splashed 15 feet high on a glowing movie screen.

Some nut job once faked his way into an interview with Tom Cruise, then squirted him with a water-filled microphone. It could just as easily have been acid. It could have been any celebrity.

Most of us enjoy a measure of anonymity on the street, especially if we travel outside our home towns. Imagine being followed by people with cameras and Flip vids every time you left the house. There is no privacy for celebrities in public. For the more successful, there's no privacy anywhere.

Before you start whining that you'd happily put up with all of that if you could make the kind of money these people make, remember the old adage that money doesn't make a person any happier. Prince Siddhartha Gautama (a.k.a. Buddha) knew it, and based an entire religious practice on the notion.

A good fraction of the money celebrities earn probably pays for lawyers, some of whom are charged with watching over the money managers who are supposed to keep that money safe. (We've all heard stories about those money managers, haven't we?) It also pays for the security necessary to be sure no one kidnaps your kids or breaks into your house looking for treasures to hock. It pays for the guards to keep away the real wackos, like the woman who stalked Paula Abdul and eventually committed suicide down the block from Abdul's home.

Is all that money really worth it? Tough call--you'd have to ask the person who earns it.

The reason we love celebrities isn't because we wish we had that kind of money. It's because we want to be loved. We want to be important. We think we know these celebs because we see their interviews and watch their movies and we think they'd want to know us, too, because Gee, if only Angelina Jolie knew that we're just so alike! she'd surely call us up to hang out, shopping in Beverly Hills.

Stop kidding yourself.

Yes, you're a good person, a lovable person. You're also a person with faults and foibles and skeletons in your closet, just like the rest of us. You have the right to be known and appreciated for who you truly are, by those that you want to know you. But NOT by everyone.

Celebrities deserve the same.

So the next time you see this guy and his wife buying groceries, give them a break, will ya? Wave hello and leave it at that. Go hyperventilate on aisle 5.

And paparazzi, I'd suggest you folks rewrite your "Code" before you end up on the wrong side of a restraining order. Or a roll punch.

Neither the money nor the portfolio are worth it.


UPDATE
6/5/10: Errrhm.... All that stuff I said about the Downeys and their privacy? I take it all back. After listening to Robert and Susan Downey on Howard Stern (this audio is reeeeally NSFW!), it's clear they don't give a damn who knows what. Holy smokin' canole.


Angela writes about surviving life with a little inspiration from her family at the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog. When she isn't practicing Wing Chun, she shares her training trials at From Basic Training to Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey. This is an original post to World of Words.

Photo credits (in order of appearance): Asif Akbar; Mark Seliger; X17online.com

Sherlock Holmes Review (Spoiler Alert!)

Watching weekend Tweets during the opening days of Sherlock Holmes, I noticed mixed reactions. So now that I’ve seen Sherlock Holmes twice, I wanted to share my own, detailed thoughts on this great movie and some of its best—and worst—moments. (Full disclosure: the film’s Fight Coordinator is also one of my martial arts instructors.)

Maybe it’s because we’ve had some Wing Chun Kung Fu training and knew what to look for, but the first thing my husband and I agreed upon right away was that the fight scenes were a lot of fun. My husband especially loved the way the audience was let into Holmes’ head with the slow-motion “planning” of each strike. Although I could see other audience members squirming at the slow-motion, full-contact shots—and these were, indeed, filmed full-contact—the brawl in the ring was one of our favorites, a scene which, according to an inside source, wasn’t even in the original script. When Robert Downey, Jr. advocated for the inclusion of such a scene, Fight Coordinator, Eric Oram, suggested Holmes would surely take as methodical an approach to his fighting skills as he does to the other bodies of knowledge he pursues. He called the bare-knuckled, no-holds-barred match Holmes’ “fight lab”. His suggestion paid off.

The script itself was good. While movies with great ending twists, like The Usual Suspects, are fun to watch, I prefer a script that carries me along with just enough of a hint that I feel like I’ve started to figure some of it out myself—that, “I got it, I called it! Dude, I called it!” moment that makes the audience feel smart is worth its weight in ticket sales for the groundlings. Yet the movie left enough unexplained that Holmes still had the stereotypical “here’s how it was done” moments, enough to keep hard-core fans of the original author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, from moaning in distress. (Keeping the fanboys and –girls happy seems to be Mr. Downey’s specialty, afterall.)

I thought the mysteries of the case fit Conan Doyle’s standard fare, the dialogue was true to what I’ve read of the books so far (well done all, going back to the stories for those geek-pleaser lines), and the details appeared to stick to the canon. The humor and timing were just right, though given Holmes’ strong sense of irony in Doyle’s original portrayal, I think the script could have taken even more without becoming a comedy. (Holmes, trying to convince Watson to help him pursue the case: “No girl wants to marry a doctor who can’t tell whether a man’s dead or not.”)

Granted, I’m no expert, but I happen to possess two amazing volumes of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes, (“upon [which] I can thoroughly rely”) containing four novels and 56 short stories, and filled with copious notes, diagrams, illustrations, maps, photographs, etc., and deeply-detailed analysis by the leading experts of the Holmes canon at the time of its publication (1967). The forefront of Holmes research has surely advanced in the 43 years since then (and the book as been updated, of course), but the historic photographs alone, taken of real places mentioned in the stories that now no longer exist, are priceless. I’m curious to hear what the Baker Street Irregulars and their ilk thought of the movie. I imagine them picking the story apart with the most fine-toothed combs, assuming as they do that Holmes and Watson were real people rather than characters in a novel. Then again, as long as they buy movie tickets and aren’t beating any real corpses, who cares?

The casting was wonderful in all the places that mattered. Robert’s amazing range securely held Mr. Holmes in a snug embrace, though he was (uncharacteristically) humble when discussing his portrayal in interviews. His accent (a point on which he was not humble) was as spot-on as he had bragged about. (It’s always nice when an actor lives up to the hype he creates for himself.) The only time I couldn’t understand him was when he was in his Carl Malden-with-an-eye-patch disguise, but that seemed to be primarily the result of the drunken street accent he was imitating (to get it right or to be understood—that is the question).

In one of my favorite scenes, Holmes semi-intentionally insults Watson’s soon-to-be fiancé; when she throws her glass of wine at him and Holmes is left to eat his dinner alone, he does not wipe the drink from his face. Rather, he calmly tucks his napkin into his shirt and cuts into his meat—his penance becomes the dinner’s emotional dressing. A classic Downey acting choice, that one simple omission delves into the deeper emotional conflict Holmes struggles with—he doesn’t want to lose his best friend to a marriage and is satisfied that he may have further driven a wedge between them, yet is self-recriminating enough to accept the hurt he’s caused Watson’s Mary (and, by extension, Watson) with a little self-flagellation.

Mr. Law was a perfect Watson, my reservations about his athleticism to the contrary. Though I never saw him as old, stupid, or bumbling, I initially believed he was more frail than he was portrayed in the film, due to his shoulder injury and bout with what may have been typhoid fever during the Afghan War. I’m still researching that one, but Jude Law himself effectively makes the case that an 1890s military man like Watson would have seen “some hardship” that surely would have toughened him up (see minute 2:12, onward). Both men could act their way around just about anyone, given the opportunity and the right script. And their chemistry was so thick you could chew on it. I’d wager they’re set to become one of the best screen duos in a very long time. If there was any fault in the film, it certainly wasn’t Robert’s or Jude’s. I wondered whether Irene Adler’s American accent fit the actual sound of the time, but on that point I know very little, beyond listening to the oldest “talkies” and a general understanding of the ways in which the sounds of a language can shift over time. I know nothing whatsoever about Adler from the stories, having not gotten that far yet in my reading. Rachel McAdams manages to turn her little-known criminal character into a vivacious woman far ahead of the time and place in which she finds herself. I do wish Downey and McAdams had offered us a few more intimate scenes—when she ends up in handcuffs I’m afraid I don’t care too terribly.

The other supporting actors did a fantastic job, for the most part. Lestrade perfectly fit the man I imagined from the stories—he looked and sounded as if he had leaped off the page. (I assume his literary partner, Mr. Gregson, was removed from the script from the outset to tighten things up.) And the gigantic Dredger was played with more heart than most oversized baddies. My father was a career officer, so I have a special place in my heart for Constable Clark (“Clarky”)—my favorite supporting character. Perhaps make-up could have given him a wee bit more color, though. Make-up also needed to decide just how to portray a healing cut on Holmes’ mouth. I assumed at first that it was the result of the hit he took during filming, but as I understand it now, the six-stitch injury he sustained was on the inside of his mouth. So the waxing and waning of his cut lip was an annoying distraction (continuity screw-ups tend to unsuspend my suspension of disbelief).

Guy Ritchie’s interpretation of Lord Blackwood is my biggest gripe. I had to agree with a friend of mine—he was not nearly menacing enough to fit the diabolical nature of the character. With little physical connection between him and those who assisted him in his intricate machinations, he seemed to float through frame after frame, looking anachronistic in his tight leather trench and half-slicked, half-shaved head. It was as if Guy Ritchie forgot which movie he was making. The rest of the period costuming was thoroughly Victorian—as it should be, given Oscar-winning costume designer Jenny Beavan (“A Room With a View”) was in charge—which makes Blackwood’s appearance clash even more. Given Beavan’s otherwise faithful dressing, I have to assume this was a directorial choice, one which I hope Mr. Ritchie will learn from before moving on to the sequel (which is already moving forward).

The arrangement of most of director of photography Philippe Rousselot’s shots showed his Oscar-winning talent (“A River Runs Through It”) and my favorite shot, hands-down, is one that begins tightly focused on a box that says “This Way Up”, then flips over into an overhead view of the chase scene between Dredger and Holmes.

The rest of my gripes were quibbly ones. For example, when Holmes and Watson jump out of the boat and head for the factory, they end up in water up to waist and chest, respectively—but once they’re in the factory, they appear perfectly dry. Adler and Watson pin the map onto the floor with heavy objects—twice. And how did Lestrade know where to find Holmes in that attic? Where was that attic, anyway? The same place where Holmes had been fighting in the ring? How Holmes knew about the glass knife held by Blackwood in the opening scenes was never explained. While it didn’t detract from the story, the fun of Holmes is hearing him show off what he knows and how he knows it. And the electrical device with which Holmes zaps Dredger frustrated the heck out of me—what the hell IS that thing?

And I hated the stupid crow that kept appearing at Blackwood’s crime scenes. Either Blackwood is a “magician” or he’s not. If he’s not, then leave the crow for an artistic statement in another film. In my opinion, the visual cue was distracting and sophomoric.

Finally, I noted a number of places where the trailers (both the first and second) contained scenes that were cut from the movie: The white-clad female victim from the opening scenes of the movie appearing to “fall” upward. Lestrade reproving Holmes for his methods. Holmes struggling with a scantily-clad Adler as he admonishes her to “Be a lady.” Adler’s line, “They’ve been flirting like this for hours.” (Was that last referring to Watson and the boatman, or Watson and Holmes? Was it taken out after the ridiculous homophobic flap began?) Changing the movie after the trailer’s been released is of course nothing new in the industry, but I’ve always found it annoying. And it speaks volumes about how the editing of a film has played out. I wondered whether the scenes with Adler had contained more of the sexual tension that would have added a deeper dimension to the relationship between her and Holmes.

Overall, I loved the film—along with enough movie-goers to give the inventive Avatar a good run for its money. I’d love to hear your reactions.

Happy New Year to all!

Photo credit: Warner Brothers Pictures and Village Roadshow Pictures

The Soloist: Channeling The Soul Of A Writer

There is a small group of people who shadow the streets of downtown Palo Alto. On Sunday mornings, one shuffles mind-numbingly slowly past the diner I've just left. Teeth missing, clothes clean but ill-fitting, he babbles in a barely-audible voice. I pass a woman who meekly asks for spare change, her wrinkled and flabby arm outstretched, styrofoam coffee cup held half-heartedly in her hand. I'm fairly certain they live in a nearby building. All of them seem to be suffering from one mental illness or another. Who are they? How did they get here? I often wonder. And, Am I really helping if I give them what they ask for?

I hadn't asked myself these questions in nearly a year, since the economy tanked and we stopped going out to eat on Sunday mornings. Now, I had begun to think about them in a whole new way.

***

With nervous breath, I approached the petite, graceful woman at the Christopher B. Smith Rafael Film Center to ask after the tickets being held in my name. It was a little late to worry that I'd forgotten to wear any jewelry or make-up. I hoped against hope that I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb amongst the assembled cinemarati.

The theater was still largely empty. At the front were two chairs, off to the side, set there in anticipation of the Q&A after the film. It was like being at Sundance all over again. And Joe Wright, Director of Atonement and Pride and Prejudice, was in the building.

So I sat in the front row.

Because the Rafael Theater is one of only a handful of its kind operating as a not-for-profit, the theater directors often solicit donations from media companies in order to keep this lovely, down-town San Rafael treasure functioning in first-class fashion. Now in its tenth year of operation, the Rafael has hosted many special screenings and events like the one I was attending this evening. My darling friend Tammy Lelie works for TV5, a French TV station in Los Angeles, one of the media companies the Rafael targets. Tammy wasn't able to make it up to the Bay Area on a Monday night, so she RSVP'd in my name. Only, I was in no position to promise anyone anything. I'm just a lowly writer.

I was there to see The Soloist.

My brother, Mac, slid into the seat next to me. A handsome and gifted musician with an insight I've always trusted when it comes to the world of sound, he had his own reasons for wanting to be here. I grinned over at him. At least one of us looked like a movie star.

Joe Wright stepped onto the stage to explain the film, a few feet from where we sat.

For those of you who know nothing about the movie's subject, you'd do well to visit Steve Lopez's website. The man is a penetratingly inspired writer, an L.A. Times human-interest columnist and the author of the book on which the film is based. (Even better, buy the book.) On the face of it, the movie is about one homeless, schizophrenic musical genius--Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, brilliantly played by Oscar winner Jamie Foxx. Channeling Beethoven with his two-stringed violin to the accompaniment of the street sounds of Los Angeles, Ayers entrances Mr. Lopez (intimately portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr.), who ultimately befriends and tries to help him.

If you want more details or insight, you'll have to hang on. There will soon be countless reviews by experienced film critics and analysts. I am neither of those. I'm not here to tell you that the film was touching and inspiring, engaging and informative, well worth your precious time and money. (It is.) I was there to support Mr. Downey, a fellow Wing Chun student. I wanted to see him channel a writer's soul.

Though there are many layers to the story, it was the writer's journey that touched me, most. I've struggled for a lifetime with my own writing and found that the creative process of wordcraft is not a subject generally treated with any kind of realism or depth in movies. The booming assumption that the movie-goer is looking for pictures, for action, has drowned out the written experience within the medium. Yet Mr. Lopez and Oscar-winning screenwriter, Susannah Grant (Erin Brockovich), manage to convey the sense of dialogue between writer and readers that Lopez reaches for in his column pieces.

It was easy to become drawn into his life--its loneliness, its humor, and its drive. And drawn into his search for the universal truths that the best writers, front-page or obscure, humble or self-obsessed, may eventually discover. While the written word can become a conduit into the human soul, sometimes it takes actors like Mr. Downey to bring them to life, give them sonorous wings, emote them and make them as real as L.A. traffic. Yet, it is the words within the script that are the genetic material from which the story springs.

Tell the world and they will listen, Lopez says. Ask, and they will respond. We are each of us desperate for connection, for exchange. As folk societies give way to popular culture, we invent ways to create new communities, even as the old ones crumble around us. We feel a sense of belonging, of purpose, of gratification, when we know that we've helped one another. Lopez himself finds a renewal of purpose in the emotional journey into Ayer's life, fueled by the love/hate relationship between he and his ever-present estranged wife and Editor, played with well-seasoned tenderness by Catherine Keener. (Many liberties were taken with this particular character, in the name of both story arc and privacy. The real Mrs. Lopez was not his boss, nor were they ever estranged, as far as I was able to discover.)

Imagery of Los Angeles from a distance punctuated the film. Such scenery usually pulls me out of the moment, as it generally serves up a feeling of alienation and anonymity. In this particular case, however, the pull-backs were done in such a way that I felt the interconnectedness of every element of the city, from a single pigeon to the interwoven tapestry of streets and highways and the buildings set between them. The form and function of a complex whole, the sprawled body of the city, relies on each person like my own body relies on its cells to survive.

As writers, we often wonder, Who is out there? Are they hearing me? Am I merely keeping myself occupied, putting food on the table? Or am I making a substantive difference? Having only just begun my public entry back into the written medium, I felt relief to know that words can indeed form connections like those Mr. Lopez has made between people who will likely never meet outside of his column. With hard work and a dose of courage, I can only hope that someday I will make that same sort of difference.

Lopez's journey begins amidst the backdrop of layoffs at the L.A. Times. At the end-of-film Q&A, one audience member asked the Director whether he decried the demise of print media that made such layoffs necessary. Mr. Wright responded that print could never completely disappear, but he "fear[ed] that less and less money will be spent on investigative reporters...searching the darker corners and not coming up with anything for years and years--until they discover Watergate."

I believe very deeply in the need for pioneers of all sorts. I am not brave. I am not willing to risk much when it comes to bodily safety. And I know I'm not alone. I need people like Steve Lopez in my life, people who can explore the cracks and shadowed corners of the world and come back with treasures to share. Stories of the human spirit, faded but glittering, magical in their uniqueness, and redemptive in their sharing.

Ultimately, the message is that each of us is our own person, no matter how flawed. I'm sorry. Did you hear that? Let me repeat: No matter how flawed.

Lopez eventually discovers what Ayers and many of the authentic cast themselves deeply understand: that no one has the right, nor, I daresay, the ability to change another. It must come from within--or not at all. The dignity and humanity of each and every human being, regardless of their mental state, is inalienable. The best we can do is foster the good in one another and be there for whatever lies in store.

In the filmmaking tradition of British Realism, well established in places like India, Mr. Wright drew twenty cast members from the Lamp Community facility that is shown in the film. All diagnosed with mental illness, "The Lamp Chorus", as Wright referred to them, spent four months in workshops before rehearsals began and worked closely with both principal actors and the Director throughout the film. Wright commented on the many misconceptions surrounding mental illness and homelessness, especially amongst the lawyers involved in the project. They generally felt, according to Wright, "that mental illness equals mental stupidity." And yet, he said, "These people understood better than the lawyers what sort of film we were making." One person apparently went so far as to claim that the Lamp Chorus members should be replaced with professional actors because "it was morally reprehensible to reward these people for the choices they had made."

As a body, the audience gasped at such a comment. Yet I wondered how far many of them would carry their new understanding after the film was over. How will I see those same people wandering town on Sunday mornings? How will the practical application of this new insight take shape?

Mr. Wright discussed at length his concern over the general agreement that medication will "cure" the mentally ill, without the understanding of what those medications do and how they alter not just one's state of mind, but one's entire personality. In one scene, a member of the Lamp Chorus explains in her own words why she wrestles with taking the Lithium prescribed to her. It takes away the voices in her head, she says--voices that comfort her and help her feel safe. As Lopez tries to find a way to put Ayers on medication that he feels would help his friend, he slowly comes to realize that medications aren't the only, or even the right, answer. While I personally do believe that medications are warranted in some cases, there needs to be a more realistic assessment of every individual. For Mr. Ayers, there is no cure--only a dignified acceptance of who he is.

Foxx's portrayal of Ayers is absorbing and humanizing, all the more so because he spent time both clandestinely observing and conversing face-to-face with the real Mr. Ayers, who often played throughout the day on the streets of Los Angeles, not far from where filming was taking place. Jamie Foxx has a strong classical training in piano, and is himself a gifted musical performer--learning to play the cello for The Soloist was not a difficult a stretch. He also claims to have had a childhood fear of mental illness, exacerbated by a college prank in which someone apparently slipped him a drug that caused him to believe he had indeed gone mad. The experience has enabled him to deeply tap into some of the same feelings and fears Ayers nearly drowns in.

Joe Wright's next film, Indian Summer, begins production next January. It's subject matter? The partition of India and Pakistan. Just a fluff piece, he jokes, at the audience's audible reaction. "I was wanting to learn something."

I stepped out of the Aroma coffee shop next door to the Rafael, still affected by the images and events of The Soloist. I was thinking about that man on the streets of Palo Alto. It's not my job to fix him. But it is my responsibility to respect him. He is as worthy as any of us. And he doesn't need a musical instrument to prove it.

We forget, sometimes, that it's okay to be ourselves. The rest of the world be damned. Write the words or play the cello or run the race that is yours to run. The world will catch on when its ready.

Note: All rights to the photo above are reserved by their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

This is an original post. When she isn't following Steve Lopez on Twitter, Angela also writes for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog, Basic Training To Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey, and her Twitter followers.