Doubt: A Review

"You haven't the slightest proof of anything"...."But I have my certainty."

"Doubt," starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Meryl Streep, was remarkable. Both actors brought stellar performances to the table in a highly charged drama about the search for truth, and standing up for that which you believe to be true. The story unfolds around the passing observation of a somewhat peculiar incident involving Father Flynn, fueling suspicion and rage within the headmistress Sister Beauvier, and ultimately doubt in his defense. Through volatile and impassioned dialogue, we come to understand how powerful a conviction can be, particularly in the absence of evidence. The beauty of this movie is that we never really know if Father Flynn committed a crime. This, in my view, is not the point of the movie, but rather, how we arrive at such an accusation. Is instinct enough, or is proof necessary? Does it matter if others believe you, or is your own personal persuasion enough?

The scenes develop amidst the backdrop of various issues that defined the 1960's Catholic church: gender inequality between the priesthood and sisterhood; the role of the church within the student's (and family's) life; and in general, conservative versus progressive values. Ideologically, Sister Beauvier and Father Flynn each want to lead the church in a different direction, and this is the foundation that allows a simple suspicion to quickly become a life-changing allegation. Ultimately we are forced to question whether Sister Beauvier is acting on her own behalf or on that of the church.

Both actors do a phenomenal job of delivering profound and convincing performances, with a tang of humor. Expect an Academy Award or two from this movie.

Magical Thinking: A Review

Magical Thinking: True Stories by Augusten Burroughs

Being that this is my fourth Augusten Burroughs book, there's never any doubt that I will be completely entertained, from start to end. And "Magical Thinking" is no exception. Through a series of short essays, Augusten portrays his typical witty self through his standoffish humor and matter-of-fact account of personal events. He writes for himself and cares not who he offends, telling his story the way he sees things, no matter how disturbing or perplexing. His style is crude, yet heartfelt, and the more I learn of him through his memoirs the more I want to meet him in real life; see if he's really the complex, yet lovable personality, I've come to know.

This book, more so than previous ones, actually propelled me to laugh out loud on multiple occasions, sometimes causing my eyes to well up. Not just a soft chuckle, but a hearty I-can't-believe-he-just-said-that type howl. The truth can be painfully funny and Augusten does a fantastic job of bringing light to the more awkward moments in his peculiar life.

The opening line does a fantastic job of setting up my expectations from the get-go: "When I was seven, I was plucked from my uneventful life deep in the darkest Massachusetts and dropped into a Tang Instant Breakfast commercial. It was exactly like being abducted by aliens except without the anal probe. I was a lonely kid with entirely imaginary friends. I played with trees." Captivating and hilarious: I will read on.

He has an acute skill for choosing and arranging words in such a precise way that an idea or feeling I once thought indescribable is now clear and exact. He elevates vague subtleties into meaningful and defining ideas, such that I ponder how one can so perfectly express, put to paper, how he feels. How I feel.

If you ever felt like you were a crazy person, "Magical Thinking" will reassure you that we're all truly screwed up, and if you can turn that into bestseller novel you've got a talent, a remarkable one yet.

View all my reviews.

Three Chairs

Why are there three chairs with their legs cut off? 

Are they nailed to the ground, or can I grab one and run?

It looks like a waiting room, but outside on a stoop?

So desolate and bare, who might actually sit there?

Young children in the summer licking cold italian ices? 

Or old women sharing gossip in the middle of the day?

I see three chairs and wonder why are they there?

Alone and unoccupied, the past faintly glimmers by.

Late for Work

I woke up today hungover and groggy, turned to my side and saw the alarm clock: 11:30 am. "SHIT!", I yelped. I was late for work.

I don't use the word "yelp" here to dramatize the story. I actually shrieked and jumped out of bed like an arrow, standing half asleep in the middle of my room. For about half a minute I stood frozen, feet glued to the ground and head cocked to the side, trying to figure out what day of the week it was and where I was supposed to be. The room was silent and I was focused, eyeballs quickly jerking left and right - the only sign of mental exertion. 

It was like a scene out of The Matrix - as if time slowed down and I was about pull some sort of freak move out of my pocket; leap into the air and kung-fu kick some predator's ass out of my 10x10 Queens bedroom. Except there were no evil villains...I was just a confused, still-a-little-bit-drunk crazy man, trying to figure out the day of the week.

"What the hell!" I cried, now mildly frightened that I've made no progress. My attention is momentarily captured by the blinking red light emitted from my BlackBerry. "It's totally my boss," I thought to myself. "I am royally fucked". 

The incoming message is not from my boss; a temporary relief ensues. I manage to make my way into my mobile calendar and unearth that today is Saturday: I do not need to be at work. That in fact yesterday was Friday, I drank myself stupid until 3 am and now I'm sleeping it off. And that my heart is racing not because I'm dying but because I'm a complete ass.

I drop back into bed and pass out. Late for work I'm not.

A Look Inside

I'm a very introspective person, always aware of my most acute thoughts at any given moment. I used to think this was a gift, as if I'd been given a special lens through which to see the world; as if time slowed down for me, and I was one of the lucky few made privy to the intricate details of their own life. While others just live, I also absorb and reflect, contemplate and analyze. This esoteric and highly pretentious view has always made me feel privileged, fortunate to have access to a rare view of myself and others.

However, that lens has become more of a magnifying glass over time. Awareness has evolved into obsession. I'm overly conscious of minor details and I question things that don't matter. I notice tonal inflections and facial expressions and wonder what colleagues really "meant by that". I probe and nag myself for resolve, utterly unsatisfied until I've found a temporary (and superficial) answer that allows me to move onto the next task at hand. I'm indecisive.

I search through cartons of milk in the dairy section until I've found the cheapest one. I compare brand names and contemplate the benefits of organic, which I then trade in for the one with the latest expiration date. I replace it with that which has the lowest percentage of fat content, and switch out the liter for the half gallon. I proceed to checkout and lie to myself that the mental distress involved resulted in the perfect purchase. I enter my apartment and wonder why I didn't get the chocolate soy.

Why do I care so much about milk? Why am I even still thinking about it? Do others care so much about the milk they buy and are they as indecisive as me? This paves the way for my self-induced cycle of discontentment, restlessness and shame, and applies not only to the dairy aisle but many facets of my life.

For Augusten Burroughs (author of Running with Scissors): How does one write so openly and honestly, particularly about the more challenging moments in their life? How is one able to expose their weaknesses to the world - that part of ourselves we often fail to acknowledge out of fear that such an acknowledgement makes it real? If writing allows us to see in ourselves that which we hide from, how do we reconcile and evolve?

A Frame of Reference

A view of the Chrysler Building outside of the Gramercy Park Hotel, facing north, peering above an awning hung by two perfectly parallel wires. I find this shot compelling, but in a subtle, delicate way. The building is flawlessly erect; grounded and unmistakable. Intercepted by two striking wires, slicing through it like a quick paper cut to the flesh. They frame our beloved steel icon, unapologetically providing us the lens through which we will observe the building.