I've Seen Parts #42

Wendy and Lucy - Wojnarowicz

Jul 30, 2021

Firstly, if you’re here because you’re doing a performance art/new media piece in which a web domain is randomly generated and then you’re required to operatically read everything you come across, or if you’ve suddenly come to on a Peloton bike in front of an elementary school class and this is on your screen, let me kindly direct you to the About page.

When I began this newsletter—which I was at first resistant to calling a “newsletter,” but certainly wasn’t about to call a “blog”—there was only one other piece of Substack output with which I was familiar. It seemed to me that the site offered an adequate, no-frills interface to hold the meager weight of my ambition as I put my silly little thoughts to words, so I went with it. Now, there are over half of a dozen Substack newsletters by writers, comedians, musicians, and other cultural commentators from whom I have requested to receive somewhat regular inbox content, and The New York Times has begun referring to Substack posts in its journalism. I am by no means claiming that I discovered Substack or that I have some imperialist flag-planting stake in it, nor do I intend to posit that I was even close to the cutting edge of self-published internet writing ((paying) Substack subscribers have doubled every six or so months since the pandemic began and blogging has been a thing since at least Sex and the City made self-reflection trendy). The captivating part, for me, is the fact that this space where I recount some of my earliest memories, others that I hadn’t thought about in years, and even some that I’ve never shared before has occupied its small corner of a platform that grows ever larger, reaches out still further to draw in more people hungry for the intimacy of an unmediated dispatch from the distant locus of someone else’s life. Even as my audience has remained mostly consistent, the sensation of taking part in a communal gathering of ideas buoys a sense of purpose that I was not expecting when I began this. I’m being sincere, and it’s most likely a result of this endeavor’s end drawing near.

I set up this Substack before I was even sure I’d carry it out; I made a plan to tackle each film in turn, drafted my mission statement, designed the logos, and experimented with the limited design features at hand (a significant dose of comfort for someone who read one book about the art of choosing in 2017 and hasn’t stopped thinking about it as a self-help manual since), all in anticipation that I might end up abandoning it to some squeaky drawer of false starts before it ever crossed other eyes. At the time, I was meant to be putting thought into action with my Master’s thesis—and I was!—I was unemployed, I was still struggling to acclimate to pandemic life, and I had just made a Letterboxd (another burgeoning platform) because I had spent the summer watching more movies than I ever had before (I was still struggling to acclimate to pandemic life). I don’t remember exactly what made me stop with my incessant deliberating, a character trait that makes me a likable supporting character, or maybe if I’m lucky the subject of a Tumblr-spurred appeasement B-plot, but never the protagonist. What I knew at the time was that I wanted to take stock of my cataloguing—not just of movies but of (non)experiences—and trace the strands of an unwoven narrative back to the knot that once secured them. Whether or not I travel quite that far, I’m happy I’ve had and made the time to live backwards.

Wendy and Lucy

dir. Kelly Reichardt, 2008

This film made me stressed and sad. For keeping pace with Michelle Williams and bearing the weight of my entire emotional investment, Lucy the dog is justifiably a winner of Cannes’s Palm Dog Award, the most anarchic and therefore best honor at the festival.
The 2020 pandemic summer, if you remember that, was a time when I spent many hours of many days outside in park (yes, singular) and witnessed so many dogs—some well-behaved, some with more “character”; some cute, some designer breeds; some old, some small enough to be powerlessly humped by others. What this made me realize, as I sat on a bench reading the seventh book that month, was that I was wasting away the most opportune time to get a dog, to plait together an indelible tether out of comfort and care, to develop an unconditional (sorry bell hooks) love. Alas, my roommate’s dog is not always a fan of other canines in her space, and also I had no income to speak of, so I most likely would have ended up in the circumstances of this film, which can be a cautionary tale.

Wendy Wu: Homecoming Warrior

dir. John Laing, 2006

I watched this on Disney Channel sometime around its premiere. I remember a fight in a warehouse space and also the dark interior of a suburban house at night. To jog my memory (a phrase that makes me feel forty-three), I did a goog of this and the mid-aughts style is so charmingly horrendous, an inexplicable pastiche, like sci-fi fashion in the same way that all Disney Channel Originals from this era reflect a sartorial aesthetic that I, personally, during my time as a teen, never witnessed in such mishmashed, ostentatious misguidedness.

We Need to Talk About Kevin

dir. Lynne Ramsay, 2011

I’d been meaning to watch this for a while and then finally did while my dear friend was visiting me in Boston. We got bagels and a little apple turnover, brought them back to my place, deliberated about what to watch, and then finally chose as our brunch-time entertainment this film where Tilda copes with the fact that her son (Ezra Miller, who choked a woman in Iceland) is capital-E Evil. I almost did archery as a child.

We’re the Millers

dir. Rawson Marshall Thurber, 2013

I have seen this 1.75 times on TV for reasons that can only be called apathy. For what it’s worth, this ensemble cast is remarkably well-crafted. Everyone knows that the true stars of family road comedies are the amicable and equally oblivious second family played by recognizable but rarely identifiable character actors that the primary family encounters in their travels and with whom they continue to cross paths until they somehow become entangled in whatever mess has been strung. The supporting matriarch in this movie is Kathryn Hahn, I’ve found in my research, which is almost enough to make me watch this for the second-and-three-quarters time.

We the Animals

dir. Jeremiah Zagar, 2018

I didn’t even know there was gay in this when I decided to watch it, which is rare (this one is a queeper). The director, I later found out, is an alum of the same institute of higher learning as I am, and I have had the source material (book) recommended to me multiple times but have still not read it.

What About Bob?

dir. Frank Oz, 1991

My dear friend was surprised I hadn’t seen this before, but one of my (beautiful, distinctive) blindspots is nineties comedies. While I am traditionally skeptical of the genre, this movie was a delight, and if someone had told me it was a loose farcical adaptation of an E.M. Forster novel I would have said, I can tell.

What Happens in Vegas

dir. Tom Vaughan, 2008

I thought this was a riot when I watched it (more than once) in my teens, and now I’m almost certain I’d be repulsed by much of it. This is not related to the movie, but Katy Perry’s “Waking Up in Vegas” was on the corporate playlist of my place of employment a few years ago and I heard it every day— I lived it: Katy Perry’s “Waking Up in Vegas” was on the corporate playlist of my place of employment a few years ago.

What Keeps You Alive

dir. Colin Minihan, 2018

I didn’t recognize this film at all by its title, and I wasn’t able to identify it until my dad was halfway through reading the plot synopsis. This lesbian psychological thriller was on his personal watchlist, a spasmodically-crafted selection that would perplex even the most virtuosic statistician assigned to identify some coherency in the list is comprised entirely of titles he hears about on NPR, reads about in Men’s Journal, appears in the “For You” category on Netflix, or descends into his line of sight by some other cosmic means of encounter. I remember nothing about the film other than a canoe and the ending, which I wouldn’t dare spoil here in case any readers want to watch it with my dad.

What’s Eating Gilbert Grape

dir. Lasse Hallström, 1993

My high school psychology professor used to hold up two DVDs and have us vote for which one we wanted to watch—something tells me this was not in the course syllabus. My class chose this one, and all I remember from this movie starring young Johnny Depp opposite an even younger Leo DiCaprio is the scene when their mother has to be removed from the house via crane because of her weight. Do we ever find out, really, what’s eating Gilbert Grape?

Whip It

dir. Drew Barrymore, 2009

Watched this with my family in one of the years of adolescence that has muddled together with all the rest. There is a scene with a pool in this, maybe. I would not be good at roller derby because my elbow is neurologically temperamental from when my sister pulled it out of socket in my infancy and I have weak ankles.

Whiplash

dir. Damien Chazelle, 2014

I might have seen this at a free university screening, but I also might have watched it alone on my McAir. The thing about this film is that I don’t like Miles Teller almost as much as I don’t like Ansel Elgort, who is not in this. One day someone will give Damien Chazelle a Jazz Award and he will go peacefully into retirement.

White Chicks

dir. Keenen Ivory Wayans, 2004

My friends made the decision that I needed to see this since it was my senior year of college and I hadn’t. Now I have!

White Crow

dir. Ralph Fiennes, 2018

This mediocre film about dance(rs), a genre that I find unusually alluring, as I’ve mentioned, was the last thing I watched with my $0.99/mo Starz subscription. xxox, RIP.

White God

dir. Kornél Mundruczó, 2014

The second film this week about a down-on-her-luck protagonist who is separated from her trusted canine companion. I’m not on this online publishing site trying to ruin a young girl’s career, but the dog far outperformed his teen costar in this film that asks: “What if Pixar’s Bolt was a gritty allegorical uprising film?” And of course by “allegorical,” I mean it’s about innate, untapped savagery and also the civilizing force of brass.

White Material

dir. Claire Denis, 2009

Denis’s tenth feature, White Material (2010), follows a white woman played by Isabelle Huppert as she attempts to keep her failing coffee plantation running amidst violent political turmoil in an unnamed African country. When asked if her own upbringing in colonial West Africa as the daughter of a civil servant influenced the film, Denis replied that the influence was only implicit, if at all, her perspective having been shaped by the circumstances of her childhood. This appears to be true, as the film foregrounds its politics while Huppert’s character is made a pawn to their whims—and she is largely an unsympathetic one. White Material functions as an example where the political is not a reflection of the personal but instead the very structure wherein the personal may reside, struggling to make a home even where it has no right to do so.*
*This has been excerpted from my MFA thesis proposal— did you like it? Subscribe below.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

dir. Mike Nichols, 1966

I made a McAir Matinee of this one day last summer. Unbelievable that this is Mike Nichols’s directorial debut. I forget, sometimes, that straight couples can be this riotous (or maybe they aren’t, and that’s what makes this stage-to-screen classic so exciting).

Widows

dir. Steve McQueen, 2018

I would like to see this again at some point because the first time I watched it I was coordinating with a boy I met online to meet for drinks, so I was predictably a bit distracted. Although, from what I remember, this cast is stacked, the plot is thick, and the tensions are high. I want everyone to know Carrie Coon is in this even though she did not make the poster!

The Wife

dir. Björn Runge, 2017

The cinematic site of the performance that tied seasoned actress Glenn Close with Lady Gaga-in-wig(s) at the 2019 Critic Choice Awards. I liked this film, but I wonder if we needed a whole 1.5 hours to remind us that women throughout history have been sidelined so that their husbands’ merits could be recognized. Yet, the film Colette would not be released for more than another year.
Continuing with my podcast production fantasy where I seat two fictional women at the table together to talk about love, loss, and the limits of their own patience, I would like Close’s Joan to chew the fat with Rampling’s Kate (45 Years). Pushkin Industries, I am available for offers.

Wild

dir. Jean-Marc Vallée, 2014

Forgive my conjecture, but this film might be the reason we have Big Little Lies today.
I have never really hiked, to be honest, but I would like to. I have walked, surely, and have walked far, sometimes even through areas that are wooded and on paths that are varying degrees of beaten. Maybe someday I will walk in a way that could better be defined as a hike.

Wildlife

dir. Paul Dano, 2018

The first time I saw this movie about being a child of divorce (something you are born with), I was a little late to the Brattle Theater, missed the first few minutes, and cried while sandwiched elbow-to-elbow between two strangers (<3). Highlights include: Carey Mulligan saying “You’re wasting your life standing there watching me, sweetheart” and Jake Gyllenhaal breathing new life into the word “boy.”

Wild Nights with Emily

dir. Madeleine Olnek, 2018

This was the first film I saw at the Kendall Square Cinema. I remember having something insightful to say about how this period film managed to evoke a contemporary sense of wit and humor within the context of nineteenth-century Amherst but I’ve since forgotten the nuances of it.

Willow

dir. Ron Howard, 1988

I watched this over the course of two or more nights with my dad and sister because, apparently, at two hours, it was too long for one screening. In fact, I might have been the only one left interested in finishing it out by the end. I was, at that point in my development, significantly invested in this genre and was nonetheless underwhelmed by the film.

Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory

dir. Mel Stuart, 1971

Most of the critiques seem too well-trodden to belabor here, so instead I’ll say I was a little bit afraid of this movie for reasons that I don’t remember. It’s interesting to me that Mr. Wonka was so intent on singling out the most scrupulous child to win his silly little game when his own fame and fortune are themselves built on moral ambiguity. The critiques are cresting, so I’ll move on.

Wind River

dir. Taylor Sheridan, 2017

Saw this at the Hamilton Theater one summer with my then-bf. It was weird to watch something so cold and then leave the theater and be hot outside. It was also weird to have a film take place on an Indian reservation with two white leads.

Wings of Desire

dir. Wim Wenders, 1987

Watched a little snippet of this in a screenwriting class, after which I didn’t have much interest in seeing more until I watched Paris, Texas. I recently streamed a silly little Brazilian show with my lover called Ninguém Tá Olhando (Nobody’s Looking) about shift-working guardian angels who have a lot to say about angels becoming human in City of Angels (1998, have not seen), but nothing to say about this film.

Winter’s Bone

dir. Debra Granik, 2010

“Winter’s Bone,” according to The Calendar, immediately follows “Cuffing Season.” I thought this film was good, ok? And J. Law is a talented performer—happy?

The Wise Kids

dir. Stephen Cone, 2011

Stephen Cone is the patron saint of being gay and young. I will singlehandedly canonize if need be.

The Witch

dir. Robert Eggers, 2015

The first time I watched this was probably alone on my McAir, which I regret, and when I saw it again, that was also not on a large screen in a theater setting. We can all agree that even the word “folktale” inspires a minor shiver or two, so a film that leans into the designation is rightly going to make me both terrified and desperate to live in a little house in the middle of the woods in Massachusetts. Maybe there I could just kick back and float around the fire with my girlies, unbothered and living deliciously.

Wittgenstein

dir. Derek Jarman, 1993

When Wittgenstein said, “a nothing will serve just as well as a something about which nothing could be said,” I clearly wasn’t listening because I am forty-two+ weeks into writing about every film I’ve ever seen in order to interrogate where the cognitive planes of memory and experience overlap to create the impression of identity, or something.
This chamber piece was engrossing in a way that chamber pieces are not always, and I love Derek Jarman.

The Wizard of Oz

dir. Victor Fleming, 1939

I was quite afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West, most notably in the hourglass scene. Also did she do that to monkeys? I should know because the prequel musical Wicked is one of the only Broadway shows I have seen. My junior-high chorus sand “For Good” at our concert and that was stuck in my head the other day. Something I have never seen is The Wiz, unfortunately, nor have I seen the movie about Oz with Mila Kunis.
I have a very low level of investment in this film as cultural capital, but I did once title some short fiction I wrote with a vague reference to a quote about home from this. I don’t mean to target this film specifically, but sometimes I wonder if standardized canons are just first-come-first-serve.

Wojnarowicz: F**k You F*ggot F**ker

dir. Chris McKim, 2020

The archival wealth of audio and visual resources makes this such a rich complement to everything that already exists on David Wojnarowicz and those in his orbit, even though the collaged presentation made me almost queasy. Of course it’s impossible to include everything, but the portrait of David himself felt a bit flat, under-explored, and even watered down—the firebrand is mentioned, lauded, but never really revealed to us. Nonetheless I’m grateful to have watched this, especially in the same space (childhood home) where I gobbled up Wojnarowicz’s written work, his biography, and everything Olivia Laing has had to say about him.
I first encountered Wojnarowicz while reading Laing’s The Lonely City, a book I am comfortable calling my favorite by an author I am comfortable calling an icon. I was enraptured by the life David led, the art he made to springboard himself into the consciousness of anyone who dared to look at it, and the tragedy that wrapped itself around him, loosely, like the blanket in one of the portraits taken of him by his one-time lover and permanent soulmate Peter Hujar, one of the many friends that died of AIDS before David himself did too. It is a rare and cherished instance when I am exposed to an artist whose chosen style, voice, or aesthetic—or intentional disruption of aesthetic—runs so divergently against my own and yet moves me and inspires me so profoundly. This is when a shared language is discovered—and I use language here for lack of a better word, because the communion incited is not directed by recognizable cues, signs, or symbols, but by something more innate, something more deeply buried that can be disinterred only if you know, reflexively, where to start clawing through all the dirt.

PLEASE share your own experiences with any of this week’s films in a comment—I’ll include my favorite in next week’s email for my millions of beautiful fans* to enjoy.

I've Seen Parts