Feb 06 2012
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FINE! I liked it. The Human Centipede 2 (A Review)

Last year, (somehow), we decided that it would be an interesting social experiment to watch The Human Centipede after the Super Bowl.

Obviously, we had to watch the second one this year.

I am a person who likes to be prepared before I get metaphorically punched in the face with bad art house torture porn, so I came to the party prepared with the knowledge that the HC2 was not only more violent and even more graphic, it was also basically made as a big “fuck you” to the critics of the first film.

I really enjoy that mentality. “You criticize my film? Here’s the SAME MOVIE BUT 1000 TIMES WORSE.”. I respect that. It’s ballsy, hilarious, and completely explains most of what happens.

So. It was awful to sit through. I actually discovered something about myself– I can’t sit when watching graphic violence. I have to stand. I think it’s something with my fight-or-flight reaction. I’m mentally preparing to get the fuck out of there in case some shit goes down.

We sat through the entire movie (I stood) and when it ended, there was a tangible combination of guilt, disgust and absolute triumph and not having thrown up. I think we all needed a shower as well.

I came home and thought about what I’d just seen (repeatedly, because SOME THINGS YOU CAN’T UNSEE) and I realized– for all of its faults, failings,and OH FUCK moments, on some level, this movie is absolutely genius.

Yes, the plot is ridiculous: Super-Creepy Creepmaster McCreepypants is obsessed with The Human Centipede and decides to try and create the original doctor’s “master plan” of connecting 12 individuals into one ass-to-mouth masterpiece. Spoiler: he does.

The tongue-in-cheek (or is it butt-to-cheek SEE WHAT I DID THERE) plot is so self-referential and masturbatory that I accepted it, without question, because why the hell would anyone NOT become completely obsessed with the Human Centipede and decide to make his own using kitchen tools and a staple gun?

That’s it. That’s the whole plot. There’s not really any sort of b-story where Chandler can’t get to the drycleaners on time and so Joey and Rachel are going to be late to dinner or anything, it’s just….some pasty fat guy doing terrible, terrible things to much more attractive people.

But let’s start there. First off, the movie’s protagonist(?), Martin, is a psychotic, anti-social, maybe retarded, pasty, sweaty, beady-eyed, balding creep-o with weird creepy fingers. Literally everything about him is unsettling and slightly off (including his underwear– BA BOW!), but there is still (and I still haven’t figured out if this is just fucking brilliant acting or me making this movie way deeper than it needs to be), something about his portrayal of the character that makes you feel bad for the guy. He’s cutting apart buttholes and part of you still wants him to succeed because you’re given just enough of his backstory to want to give him a hug (and some serious fucking therapy). And then you start wondering when it was, exactly, that he snapped and start wondering about the guy who works at the gas station across the street.

That’s the brilliance of it. The natural pity we feel gets thrown the fuck back in our face less than 20 seconds into the film,but you spend the entire movie thinking “is he actually going to do it/get away with it/make it out?”

It’s the Hannibal Lector Technique: The less you know, the more you want to understand.

Another particularly brilliant choice was the complete lack of dialog from Martin. Sure, he cries, laughs, screams in frustration, does a couple of awkward dance moves and kills the fuck out of like 15 people, but he NEVER SAYS A GODDAMN WORD. He. Just. Stares.

Creepysauce.

So Martin decides to make a human centipede and does it. That’s basically the rest of the film.

Many critics were aghast at the level of extreme, graphic violence depicted in the film. I’m not going to lie, it is absolutely awful to sit through. Just about every awful thing that you could imagine happens in this film and sometimes twice because FUCK YOU is why.

Jake, who can sit through the most violent of horror films without batting an eye and is directing goddamn Titus Andronicus, nearly puked on the sofa a couple of times, and I spent many moments buried in his sweatshirt so I didn’t have to watch.

I’m not going to turn this into a soapbox debate of what connotates a good or a bad movie, but I will say this.

How many movies have you seen where you watch it, figure out the plot 20 minutes in, wait for the inevitable romantic ending/robot fight ending, shrug, and forget that you saw it three days later? I’ve seen tons of movies with Jake, and we still occasionally have that moment of “Did we see that in the theater? I think we did. I can’t remember”.

I’m not saying that The Human Centipede 2 is going to share a box set with Citizen Cane and Gone With the Wind any time soon, that would be too awesome  to ever actually happen.

What I will argue is that where the Human Centipede 2 comes through is that it drags the audience kicking and screaming in to a realm of absolute, undeniable visceral response.Yes, the movie is disgusting. Yes, it’s spectacularly violent, bloody, rapey and questionable for small children and born-again Christians to watch, but I’ve never sat through a movie that made me actually sweat before.

I am notorious for my “this is just a stupid movie” response. I was forced to watch Passion of the Christ in high school because “to understand the power of Easter, we have to understand what Our Savior truly went through”, and I sat there the entire time going, “Oh, hey, that’s the hot guy from The Count Of Monte Cristo”. It is difficult, if not impossible, for me to suspend my disbelief long enough to enjoy a film, and the thought of “there’s obviously a blood pack up his sleeve” occurred to me during this film exactly 0 times.

Yes, there were times when the “LET’S SEE HOW RIDICULOUSLY VIOLENT WE CAN BE BECAUSE FUCK YOU, AUDIENCE” got a little extreme. [Put your own poop joke here], and yes, I am still looking into ways of bleaching my corneas,

But I liked it.
Mom will be so proud.

Now, I will say the ending (which I looked up on Wikipedia afterwards and they said the same thing so I know I’m right), is purposefully ambiguous. There is nothing more infuriating than an ambiguous ending. I won’t spoil it in case any of you sick fucks reading want to see it, but there are two options on how to interpret the ending.

Wait, I’m going to, right now. Here I go.
Don’t read this part if you want to be suprized.
Darth Vader is Luke’s father.
Why are you still reading, I thought you wanted to be suprized.
Fine.

The movie ends with Martin cleaned up in his work uniform and sitting back at his computer, watching the end credits of The Human Centipede. This implies ones of two options: Option A: Since before the whole “make a centipede” goes down, we see him sitting in his work uniform starting the film, it can be interpreted as “He just imagined the whole thing”. Option B: He got away, cleaned himself up and is back to the drawing board on how to make it possible.

I’m going to rant here and say that I fucking HATE “It was all a dream” endings. They are the worst cop-out cheap-o bad-writing stupid endings ever and completely invalidate everything you just say through.

Earlier today, I had the realization that in the end, in this rare case, it doesn’t matter. Why?

If the movie ends with Option A, then holy shit, this guy is seriously, seriously fucked up and he is ON THE STREETS and WANTS TO ATTACH YOUR MOUTH TO A BUTT. Also, I JUST WATCHED THIS WHOLE @%”*($&#%* MOVIE FOR NOTHING AND I WANT TO THROW UP.

If the movie ends with option B, the see above.

Well played, Human Centipede.

Well played.

 

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Jan 28 2012
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Playing Lavinia

I’m sure most of my regular readers (hey Facebook) know by now that I’m going to be playing Lavinia in the Prenzie Player’s 2012 production of TItus Andronicus, (Shameless self-promotional details are at the bottom of the page).

I found out I was playing Lavinia in September, and (admittedly) I had over-researched the character by June. There was just something fantastically interesting about the character, and something about the challenge of the vulnerability and pain the character goes through really fascinated me.

With the childhood experiences that I had, it’s just really weird that I’m cast as Lavinia. Don’t worry, I wasn’t raped or anything, but my mom is the sole prosecutor of all rape/molestation/pedophile cases for Rock Island country, so growing up, I was raised in this stringent household of absolute victim’s rights and respect for these women. I remember coming home to the dining room table covered in boxes, and when I finally made the connection that each one of those boxes represented a rape victim, it just devastated me that so many “bad” people were out there in the world. Now I’m playing, really, the quinticential “rape” victim, and the silencing that Lavinia goes through, both metaphorically and literally has been really hard for me to deal with.

My instinct is just to go tell my mom so she can put the assholes in jail. Doing research on the show, it’s been eye-opening to see the level of silencing that sexual assault victims have in our country. In my little world, every victim has a voice, but really, that’s almost the opposite of what is true.

Jan 11 2012
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Juicing…

I would like to begin by saying that I hate the term “juicing”.

It’s annoying. “Oh, are you ‘juicing?” “Did you juice today?” “What’s your juicing goal?” I don’t know, what’s your solid food goal?

Every time someone sees me drinking my (delicious) breakfast/lunch of homemade juice, I get asked about my “juicing lifestyle”.

I don’t have a juicing lifestyle. I just decided it was high time to start eating vegetables, and this seemed like the most practical way to do it.

I watched the documentary “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” and it was fantastic. I started looking into juicers that day, but it wasn’t a financial possibility until my wonderful boyfriend bought me a juicer for Christmas. We decided to start trying to eat a little healthier and get a little more exercise, but that was it.

I also did a ton of research before I plowed right in, because I didn’t want to wind up with more health problems than I started with. The problem is, it seems to me, that there is a lack of what I shall call “moderate” juicers, who enjoy a glass or two during the day, but don’t make it their life’s goal to subside solely on juice.

I learned early on that an “all or nothing” approach was not going to work for me. Why? One, because I lived for about 6 years in an eating disordered all-or-nothing mindset and it. doesn’t. work. Eventally, I became so fixated on what I wanted/couldn’t have because it’s was “going to make me fat” that about 4 foods were “safe” for me to eat. Sending myself down the same path of deprivation is a very simple thing to do, and the “juicing lifestyle’ promoted on the internet is one, that, I’m sure for some works wonderfully, but for me, it’s too easy to fall back into old habits.

I also just really like steak. Steak with crusted with garlic butter and parmesean cheese with a side of rosemary roasted potatoes. And as much as I love my veggie juice, carrot juice is not a medium rare steak fresh off of the grill.

Making healthy choices is distinctly different task for me. I still struggle to see any difference between moderation and deprivation: In reality, there is no such thing as a ”bad” food, there are just foods that should be eaten less often and in smaller amounts. Sometimes foods! (I’m sure Big Macs and DoubleDowns could be listed as “bad foods”.) However, that is far easier said than practiced, especially with our busy schedules and after-rehearsal late-night dinners.

Do I feel better since I stated drinking juice? Yes!
Have I lost weight? Shit yeah.
Does it taste good? Actually, it’s really good. And I’m super picky.

Am I going to become one of those obnoxious youtubers trying to convert everyone I know to juice cleansing? No, because I’m not a hippie.

Do I consider myself as “juicing”? No, I consider myself as someone who is actively taking steps to better their own health one small choice at a time. But that takes longer to say.

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Dec 13 2011
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Grad School….

There is something terrifyingly satisfactory about thinking about the future. One one hand, you’ve got…well, every possibility in the world. On the other, you’ve got everything you have, right here and now. And sometimes, those two worlds are incredibly different.

It’s like a venn diagram with no intersection.

Writing my statement of purpose has been a terrifying adventure into “real life”. It’s getting a taste of a completely different new life, and knowing that there are still a huge number of variables that need to fall into place before anything happens.

I’ve been working on my statement of purpose for ….a long time, and it’s still not exactly right. It’s getting close, but there are so many possibilities of the stories I could share, the reasons I have for following my passions, the hopes I have…and it’s frustrating as hell because I don’t know what they’re looking for or if what I choose to say will sound exactly like every other hopeful applying to the same school.

But here’s what I’ve got so far. The ending is crap, don’t judge me.

THE PROMPT: 

In an essay of 250 – 500 words, state your purpose in undertaking graduate study in your chosen field. Include your academic objectives, research interests, and career plans. Also discuss your related qualifications, including collegiate, professional, and community activities, and any other substantial accomplishments not already mentioned on the application.

My desire to continue my exploration of classical theatre and my determination to better myself through a focus on classical acting comes down to one terrible Midsummer.

It was a really bad production. Most of the show had been slashed and rewritten to accommodate an impossible time limit, the actors were mostly drunk, there were no lights, costumes or set, and the audience was jammed into a tiny tent with an incredibly loud waitstaff while the show went on–outside– in the pouring rain. And I, with bright blue hair and more raw enthusiasm than actual skill, was Helena.

We were a group of passionate (and very broke) actors who had aspirations far beyond anything we were actually capable of, but we were determined to pull it off. And while the end product may not have been entirely extraordinary, it taught me more about myself and what fuels my passion for acting more than any other role I have ever undertaken.

It was an intensely challenging, frustrating and, I found, enthralling process. With only two weeks to pull the entire show together, I found that the faster and more chaotic things got, the more the text and language became the calming focus and drive behind my work. I dove, wholeheartedly, into exploring the mathematical patterns and meticulate word choice that lent such absolute, simple beauty and honesty to every speech.

Before Helena, I had acted in a number of Shakespearean plays, but this was the first time that something “clicked” so well and so entirely. I attribute much of this to the two-week intensive verse and text workshop I took with Andrew Wade. Not only did this expand my knowledge on the importance of verse and text work, it also marked my first contact with someone who got to “do Shakespeare” every day. That, more than anything is what I wish to achieve my own life— the ability to follow my passion for Shakespeare’s work every day and share that enthusiasm with others through both performance and outreach education.

Since then, I have leapt at every opportunity to further my knowledge and experience in classical acting. I realize, of course, that a well-rounded classical actor’s training is not just confined to Shakespeare. I have been lucky enough to have opportunity to explore various theatrical techniques and schools, and what attracts me to the [grad school I am choosing] is the dualities between a modern, physical focus and classical technique and theory.

In January 2011, I had the incredible opportunity to perform my own verse at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. While my style may be far from Shakespearean, this experience only intensified my desire to encompass a deeper understanding of performance technique and to continue to grow as an artist.

Elia Kazan, the Tony-Award winning director of the revolutionary Broadway productions of “All My Sons” and “Cat On A Hot Tin Roof” once said that to be a successful creative artist, “[..you’ve got to see] how much you have to know and what kind of a bastard you have to be. How hard you have to train yourself and in how many different ways. All of which I did. I’ve never stopped trying to educate myself and to improve myself.”

The sum of my experiences thus far is eclectic and varied. I have written, directed, performed, worked production, designed and taught. However, where my true passion lies—where I wish to improve and educate myself, is in where I truly feel my passion—classical acting.

 

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Dec 08 2011
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A Year

So, apparently, it has nearly been a year to the day since I bothered to update this blog. How embarassing for me.

Although, in a way, I suppose it’s a good thing…sort of.

This year has been a ridiculous rush through a million changes, experiences and events. I’m pretty happy with out things have turned out.

At some point, I will start updating on a more frequent basis, but for now, while theatre is owning my soul, I will be thankful for the opportunity to be busy and grateful for the stories I wil be able to share…whether or not they ever made it onto my blog.

Dec 22 2010
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Poetry

Dear Cosmo –An Open Slam

Dear Cosmo

I’ve been having a little trouble recently, and I was hoping that you could help
to begin, see, my hair isn’t as long or as flowing as the models twixt your pages
and I couldn’t help but notice that Manic Panic Shocking Blue isn’t listed
on the hottest hair colors of the season, so I guess
I must be doing it wrong.
I read with great delight the 50 newest ways to please your man, and the funniest thing was
that nowhere did I see anything about being there for him when he’s sick, or helping him through the last level of Mario Brothers or showing any semblance of a personality, but I tried swirling my tounge
around the base of his penis,
and I guess he seemed to like it.
Next month I’m going to Washington DC
because I won a big deal scholarship
and I just don’t know what to wear–
Maybe you could help.
Exactly how much skin do I have to show to prove that I’m a woman?
How much cleavage do I need to cover in shimmer powder to prove that my words have power?
What shade of fingernail polish says “Pleased to meet you, Mr. President, it is an honor to be here today performing for you”?
I suppose “Magnetic Red” will have to do.
Last week, my boyfriend didn’t want to have sex with me, which, according to you,
means that either he’s depressed or I’ve gained weight recently
which I have, so I guess it’s all my fault.
See, I decided finally that it was better to gain a little weight and stop shoving my fingers down my throat after every meal
but I guess I can’t be happy
unless I look just like them, which is fine
except they’re so small
and my dreams are so big
that I don’t know if they’ll fit into a size 0.

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Dec 17 2010
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Why I Dye My Hair Blue

There was a night last February that I very vividly remember. Jake and I were sitting on the couch and he was talking about an ex-girlfriend of his that had something called “Synesthesia”. I’d never heard of it. Jake went on to explain that his ex had this thing where she saw colors for different letters, like A is “red”, B is “green” or whatever….

I remember looking up at him and going “But that’s stupid—A is yellow”.

It was in that moment that my understanding of my perceptions on the world shifted forever.  Hours of research later, I have come to realize that some things that I take for granted in every day life are things that most other people don’t understand.

I have always attributed certain colors to certain letters, but more than that, different combinations of letters and words create different patterns of color in my mind.  A lot of people ask me why I read upside down. I am a FAST reader—but especially when I am reading something especially “vivid” (Shakespeare, for example, is just absolutely gorgeous—and the colors always work out. more on that later), I get so distracted by the colors that I get lost in what I’m reading….so I discovered that if I turn whatever I’m reading upside down, I am able to focus less on the colors and instead on the text. I’ve gotten really good at reading upside down–I can read about as fast as I do right side up, but it eliminates the distractions and makes me focus.

It turns out there are like a billion types of synesthesia—pretty much any sense can be “crossed” with another to create a synethestic response. I know that I have the color/letter one, but I also have the color/music kind…which is both awesome and supremely frustrating–if I could have one wish, it would be to be able to share the magnificent colors I experience behind my eyes with the people I love. Last year, for our first date, Jake took me to see the Chicago Symphony play the Rite of Spring. By the end, I was openly weeping–not just because of the music, but because of the incredible picture I got to witness inside of my head.

There are a few works that are particularly fantastic, but it makes sense. Beethoven’s 9th, for example—oh, man. But most scholars think that Beethoven himself probably had this, so I kind of like the idea of him writing music to look at something pretty. What is so awesome about synesthesia is that 100 different people with this will give you a 100 different versions of what the 9th symphony looks like behind their eyes–and they are all right. It’s completely random and always, always beautiful.

The problem is that I see sound most of the time–not just with music. With music it is much more pronounced, but, for example, at parties or in large groups, sometimes the noise and the color can be overwhelming. If a sound or piece of music is particularly powerful, I sometimes will get a “Feeling” with it as well–Lincolnshire Posy, for example—is this gorgeous, rich blue and it feels like the ocean.

I also get freaked out by large things—(insert joke here…done? okay. good)–they “feel” wrong. Things like wind turbines and water towers are terrifying to me.

A lot of people ask me why I dye my hair blue. I usually give them a stupid answer, but the truth is….I’ve figured out how to shade my hair into different shades of blue…and if you look at me from the front, my hair is my name in “synesthesia-ist”.

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Dec 10 2010
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The (crappy) Rug Poem

This was going somewhere, but I lost it. I’m trying to write more, so suck it.

 

I bought you a rug
to cover the hardwood of the entry
because it was getting scuffed and scarred and walked all over
and I knew how it felt

I laid it out
gently and taped it down
so as to let it settle right
like my mom would say

and you came home
and you noticed
and I pretended like it was no big deal
but I didn’t tell you
was that that rug
represented the last 20 dollars in my bank account
but I wanted you to have it
because that’s how I show you
everything you must already know
by offering you everything I have
like a little kid with crumpled dandelions in her fist
shyly scuffing her feet
over a plain brown rug

 

Lesson: stick to slam.

Dec 05 2010
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Poetry

Shakespeare For A Minute

There was this minute
right between the rough draft and the final copy
somewhere
when I was Shakespeare
I was Shakespeare like a sonnet like hitting and running 14 times
the words just sort of spilled forth, in pentameter anyway
page after page but the only thing they said was
I love you.
I was Shakespeare then, and Ginsberg and Marlowe and even JK Rowling
I was literature and poetry and every corner of the earth
conspiring to say just these two words
I was Mozart with a t in the middle and Beethoven and every power of the globe
Just waiting
breathless
terrified of being close but finding that the safest place
I know is that spot right between your shoulder and your chest
where my head fits, just right
and I was Shakespeare in that moment
I was every stupid love poem and story ever told
I was fighting through the grey and finding my way out
slowly but surely, all because of you
and oh god was I Shakespeare, writing reams inside my mind
trying to remember exactly what I said,
Willing myself to write but choosing instead
to enjoy the warmth of your arm
around me, willing you to stay there
just like that, perfectly preserve the moment
like you can never do on film,
streams and reams of consciousness flying at the speed of light
my socks falling down below my knees and wondering
if this is going to last
like Shakespeare wondered maybe
if anyone would come
pacing and waiting and hoping until suddenly
I was Shakepeare in that moment.

 

Or something. Don’t screw and slam. lessons learned.

Nov 22 2010
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Out of Late-Night Chats and Headlights

I was sitting backstage, trying desperately to think of the saddest thing I could think of before I had to go do my big emotional scene, and I realized something.

I’ve seen a lot of sad things in my life. I’ve seen my dad die of cancer and I’ve seen the repercussions on my mother. I can replay his funeral like some sick home video in my head, minute by minute, starting at the funeral home. We were trying to decide between an open and closed casket–my dad had lost most of his hair, but my mom I think wanted closure–give people something to see, instead of just a box–and so we met with the funeral director before the ceremony to decide what to do.

What they don’t tell you about embalming is that sometimes it can go horribly wrong. Our funeral director managed to fix my dad’s face, but he couldn’t fix his hands. My dad had these big hands. Rough, gentle, gigantic–but when he opened the casket, my father’s hands had withered into these shriveled things—and I couldn’t look at his face– I just kept starting at his hands and I just kept thinking “this isn’t my dad this isn’t my dad this isn’t my dad”…and it’s stupid, but in that moment, I convinced myself so thoroughly that that man in the casket wasn’t my father that when we arrived at the church for his funeral, I was surprised.

And still, I was sitting there,  unaffected, replaying these scenes in my head, time ticking by before my stupid entrance, and I thought to myself–”okay, Catie. What’s the most horrible, awful, terrible thing that you can imagine happening to you right now?”.

And I realized, in that moment, that the worst thing I could imagine happening to me is waking up without you next to me.

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