WALL STREET: Money never sleeps
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WALL STREET: Money never sleeps

I liked this movie. Michael Douglas is at the top of his game: creepy, smart, likable, predictably unpredictable as slithery, unrepentant Gordon Gekko. I even like Shia LeBeouf. This current generation of 20 year olds adores him, and I sort of understand it–way more than I understand their fascination with Michael Cera.

The movie didn’t break any new ground. But it did portray the interesting tensions between the need to make money, the desire to make lots of money, the honor in work that pays enough but not lavishly, and the seduction of astronomical amounts of money, of MORE money, without end or purpose except in itself. These tensions are much in the collective consciousness right now.
One friend claims that derivatives trading is the root of the current economic wobbling. She’s a smart lady, so I tend to think carefully about what she says. “Nothing is created,” she says.
But I’m not sure it’s as simple as what is or isn’t created. Take pharmaceutical companies. They create things. They create drugs. And then they lie about their test results, test illegally on unwitting people in 3rd world countries, and go to extreme and slimy lengths to get their drugs approved by the FDA and to knock out the competition. Take the CODEX initiatives, sponsored by pharmaceutical companies.
Those initiatives are strangling Europe’s rights to buy vitamins, minerals, and supplements, initiatives which will surely sweep over the US because so many Americans are unthinking sheep who think that as long as we have a president of color, we will be okay. In fact, Obama is in bed with Monsanto–check out the way Secretary Tom Vilsack jetted around in Monsanto’s private jets. The point is: big pharma talks a good game, but what they really want is to prevent people from healing and treating themselves with vitamins. That might cut into big pharma’s profit$.
Is there any business more corrupt than big pharma? Other than big government? Americans have bought the line that “the business of America is business,” and, in so doing, they have set themselves up to be screwed. Because the government is big business, big pharma is big business, and they care more about their own agenda$ than about the welfare of human beings. The FDA, often staffed by scientists on temporary leave from their employers the pharmaceutical companies, is nothing but a shill for the chemical, pharmaceutical, biotech, and medical establishment companies.
But I digress. Back to the movie. Which is about the corruption rampant within business, even within ‘good people.’ It was a sweet notion that cold fusion might be possible and the evil empire shut it down because of that very real possibility.
I keep thinking about Martin Seligman’s work with positive psychology, and his notes on living a life of meaningful purpose, based on doing something we’re good at. But does that really mean that Susan Sarandon’s character has to give up her dream of affluence and return to nursing? Even though it’s an absolutely crucial field of work, and her character is obviously a wonderfully people-oriented soul.
Why have we as a culture given more monetary value to things like stockbroking and real estate than to nursing?
I know, I know, we can’t live without water, and diamonds cost more.
So is it human nature to devalue what we need, and to obscenely over-value what is essentially frivolous?
All questions provoked by the movie.
Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life
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Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life

My rascally and delightful middle daughter wanted some daughter-mom time, so we went together to see EAT, PRAY, LOVE. I haven’t read the book. The movie was charming, often poignant, touching enough to forgive the places where it was too facile. Julia Roberts was wonderful in the lead role. What could be more delectable than staring at creamy warm spaghetti carbonara, or more uplifting than watching a seeker wrestle honestly with the Guru Gita, or more heart-warming than watching love come to a supplicant studying with a Balinese priest?

It left me with a feeling of longing, for the quests I can not take. When Liz/Julia rented her apartment in Rome, I leaned over and whispered to my daughter, “That’s what women who aren’t mothers get to do.” Her big eyes widened: she hadn’t considered such a thing, hadn’t anticipated that I would articulate it.
So I had some envy, too. I had my oldest daughter twenty years ago, and my littlest is only 5. I will be almost 60 when she goes off to college! Here I am, with wanderlust in my soul and my passport always in my purse, just in case today I get to fly to Paris or Sydney…
Yet I have remained faithful to my commitment to be a present and caring mother. Not a perfect mother. That was never my goal. But present, loving, supportive, caring, involved: that was my goal as a mother. To be someone whom my children know they can depend on. When they’ve had mono and Swine flu and bad grades and drug issues, I’ve been there. When they need to hear a lecture about the importance of writing thank you notes or of following through on promises or of doing the right thing when their peers are operating otherwise, when they need to hear a pep-talk because the latest poor choice in guys has dumped them, when they need to hear that they are loved and valuable no matter what–I’m there. If they ever get Ebola or a divorce or need a kidney, I’ll be there, to nurse them or give them my kidney. I never had that kind of support so I made damn sure my children did. From me.
Of course, it matters little to them right now. The older ones are entangled in teenage stuff of great importance: separating, provoking, blaming, individuating. They want to assume adult prerogative without taking on the responsibility that goes along with it. They don’t want to think about the impact of their actions on the people around them. The little one is in that blissful “mommy is wonderful” stage, but she has a cussed independent streak ten kilometers wide. I’ve been around the block. I know where that will lead. They have charmed lives and don’t know it. I haven’t done everything right as a mother–why should I have to?–but I’ve been true to this commitment: to be there for them.
Which often means that I haven’t been able to be there for myself. There’s a kind of …noxious myth… toxic fantasy… of post-liberation feminism that women can have it all: sexy loving marriage, children, dynamic career, fulfilling friendships, self awareness, a full night’s sleep. How awful to scourge ourselves with this chicanery. Was this what our mothers and grandmothers intended, when they battled for us to have equal pay for equal work, and the right to choose which work we want to do?
I have made choices. Other things came second because my children come first. I have a friend who made zillions of dollars and is raising two kids; she is scornful when I say that I would have written more books if I hadn’t had children. But there are things in her life I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Let her turn her nose up.
So I’ve done what questing I can, internally. I’ve made the trips I can, abbreviated though they are. I’ve explored every possible avenue I can, under the constraints that I’ve taken on. Love is not merely a big oceanic feeling. It’s not just the deep erotic merging with a romantic soul-mate–though I enjoy both of those facets of love. Love is also the dignity of steadfastness. It’s waking up every morning to a daily grind of commitment and responsibility, and still finding something to laugh about and enjoy.
I couldn’t love a man that way, but I do love my children that way. And what I’ve learned is that I must love them that way without any expectation of gratitude or acknowledgment. Because chances are, no matter what a mother does for her children, they will not appreciate it. At least at certain stages of their lives. This is why I’ve come to revere the Bhagavad Gita: “Do the best you can and release the outcome.”
An old friend of mine periodically sends me emails… Meet me in Maine, meet me in Budapest. As if I weren’t married. As if I weren’t tempted. As if I didn’t enjoy my time with him enough to consider it rather wistfully. But it’s not even about him. If I ran off to Bali by my lonesome, would I find a hot young guy to get naked with in the water, or a soul-stirring companion like gorgeous Javier Bardem?!?
But this week, as my husband and my littlest daughter and the dog and I drove to Cape Cod, and the dog freaked out and my husband had to remove him from behind the car seat and doing so, ripped his (husband’s) fingernail completely off his finger, and so I had to drive, which became 8 hours in traffic with my daughter barfing and my husband bleeding profusely and criticizing my driving, I thought to myself, Good times. Would I trade this life for Eat, Pray, Love?
The answer was, Maybe. And then, later on, when my husband’s finger finally stopped oozing crimson goo and he kissed me and thanked me for my patience, and my sweet little one wove her arms around me and told me I was the bestest in the whole world, and we ran along the Cape Cod Bay laughing as the dog chased seagulls, and then when the aforesaid husband and daughter got into an indignant argument that tickled my appreciation for the absurd so I couldn’t stop laughing–the answer was: Maybe not.
The Time Traveler’s Wife, District 9, and so forth

The Time Traveler’s Wife, District 9, and so forth

Okay, so this blog page is just an excuse for me to post this photo, which contains a rather nice image of me. Considering that I’ve reached the age where it’s ‘flaunt what you’ve got left,’ I think I’m entitled. (That’s me on the far right, in the black wrap dress!)
Now, the movie which was the excuse for this party, The Time Traveler’s Wife. It was all one long 2nd act. There was no first act, and no third act. They can’t be together, they can’t be together, they can’t be together, he’s going to die so they can’t be together, and now he’s dead so they can’t be together. That’s the plot. The 2nd act. The entire movie.
Not that I minded. This was an enormously appealing movie. I mean, it’s about LOVE, how can you not love it? And Eric Bana is a stone cold hottie (I’m pretty sure my undies crept up under my armpits while I watched him), and Rachel Macadams is a world class beauty. They’re fun to watch. I thought their chemistry was good. I was suitably sighful at the end. Yep, good fun.
Just goes to show: who needs a 1st or 3rd act when you’ve got love, Eric Bana, and Rachel Macadams? Screenwriting classes be damned! Rules were made to be broken!
Now, terms of screenwriting. Let’s talk District 9. This was really well done. I wouldn’t call it ground-breaking like Bladerunner. But I would call it well structured, well acted. Compelling. I saw it at the upscale Loews 68th Street movie theater, the big one with the bas relief elephants and the red velvet curtains, and the jaded NYC audience broke into applause at the end.
District 9 was about justice. Not about love, though I won’t go into the effort it must have taken to make a cute little alien baby prawn who could cry, with heart-rending effect, “Father! Father!”
The transformation of the hero in District 9 was just that: a transformation. On many levels. Complimenti to the screenwriter and the director. We don’t get to see transformation very often in movies because, I suppose, studio execs think we don’t need it or else can’t handle it. Maybe it’s not even about them, but about the theater owners, who want plentiful butt$ to come fill $eats and buy conce$$ion$. Perhaps they don’t believe that transformation accomplishes that goal. But love and big stars will.
So why are so many of the really good screenplays and TV shows written by non-Americans? Did you see Torchwood: Children of Earth? It was excellent TV, the kind of first-rate writing I haven’t witnessed since M*A*S*H or Roots. We used to know how to write good stories, the kind that have values that suck in viewers. But now we’ve got love and big stars, so we don’t need good writing and strong values….
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Bill Murray in TOOTSIE, and what a novelist wants

Bill Murray in TOOTSIE, and what a novelist wants

Jeff the playwright, played by Bill Murray: “I don’t want a full house at the Winter Garden. I want people who just came out of the worst rainstorm in history. These are people who are alive on the planet… until they dry off. I wish I had a theater that was only open when it rained.”

Yesterday the mail brought me the return of IMMORTAL from a reviewer. She had emailed me a month ago saying that up to 200 people a day visited her book review website, and could she please have an ARC, an Advanced Review Copy. I responded that there were none left, but I did have a finished copy. I sent it on to her.
And it reappeared yesterday, with a note: “Although Immortal is beautifully written, I regret that I was unable to read it. As a former career nanny and mother of four, I’m just too sensitive to read about child prostitution and murder.” Her note was kind and it was a gracious gesture of her to return the book.
Part of me was disappointed: I am seriously promoting IMMORTAL right now. I am a new novelist and I am not just in the business of writing novels, I am in the business of selling them. Every review on the internet–or in print–builds my platform for selling copies. And earning $$.
But another part of me was pleased: my story affected this woman so deeply that she wouldn’t even finish the book! She put it down rather than confront what I wrote! In her turning away, she demonstrated the power of my words, characters, plot.
I think many artists have this deeply non-commercial instinct, where we care more about the impact on the audience than on sales. Where we want people to show up and be 100% present to experience our creation. Even if that means they’re dripping wet from a ferocious rain, or if they send a book back, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
That said, if you’re reading this blog, kindly go out and buy a copy of IMMORTAL for yourself!