I have to say I’m getting really sick
of the Olympics and can hardly wait for them to be over. There’s so much I don’t
want to see and it’s almost impossible to locate what I do want to see. Mike
Tirico keeps saying that we’ll soon see Lindsey Vonn perform her magic on the
slopes and then she never seems to get there. And, yes, I’m mainly interested
in only what the Americans are doing and not so much what the other nations are
doing. And the Americans have been pretty disappointing. They’re too slow or
they fall or they just can’t finish. Is this team less capable than those in
the past or have so many other nations simply gotten better? I suspect the
latter. The same might prove true in two years when we have the 2020 Summer
Games. Meanwhile, I click off each day until we get to the closing ceremonies
next Sunday. Then NBC and the other networks can get back to the shows I really
want to watch.
Several nights ago, when we didn’t
want to watch the Olympics and all other channels had scheduled only reruns, we
rented The Florida Project. This was
a film that got much critical praise, even an Oscar nomination for Willem Dafoe
for best supporting actor. Most of the reviewers called it powerful in its
realistic depiction of its socially disadvantaged people living in the shadow
of Disneyworld. The word “charming” shows up on many reviews. I’m bewildered. I
didn’t find much of anything charming or heartwarming or praiseworthy about
this film. I kept waiting for magic to happen and it never did. Here’s the
setup: It takes place in a semi-sleazy motel near Disneyworld’s Magic Kingdom.
It opens with two bratty children, Moonee (Brooklyn Prince) and Scooty
(Christopher Rivera), screaming brattily just for the joy of screaming. Then
Moonee, the lead brat, decides they should go over to an adjoining motel where
from the second story balcony they can spit on a ratty blue car below. Why? It’s
never clear why she decides to do anything. I went to Rotten Tomatoes and read
some of the reviews to see what I seemed to be missing. Nearly all of the
positive reviews said essentially the same thing—that The Florida Project was both charming and saddening in its portrayal
of the semi-down-and-outers who reside in the garishly purple Magic Castle
Motel. Charming? Not for me. Saddening? Yes, on so many levels I don’t have
room for them all. The film is a two-hour lesson in irony, the ironic
connection between the false magic of Disneyworld and the seaminess of the
Magic Castle Motel. It might as easily been called The Nevada Project, substituting the false glitz of the Vegas Strip
and the seamy underbelly of the roach-ridden motels on the edges of the old
Vegas. Then there’s the irony of parenting and child-rearing in a normal
household compared to that of most of the motel residents, especially that of
the young mother Halley (Bria Vinaite) and her 6-year-old daughter Moonee.
Halley makes ends meet (sort of) by panhandling (selling knock-off designer perfume
to visiting tourists or wealthy patrons of more upscale motels nearby),
begging, stealing and reselling the goods stolen, and even hooking occasionally
when ends don’t quite meet. Meanwhile, Moonee and her running mates are free to
gallop all over the place doing their Little Rascally things, like begging for
enough money to buy an ice cream cone to slurpilly share, or sneaking into the motel’s
forbidden power room to switch off the power to the entire motel (Oh, you
little rascals!), or journeying to the forbidden abandoned apartment buildings
waiting for demolition where they smash windows and mirrors and whatever else
is smashable and then set a fire in one building before fleeing home to the
Magic Castle (Oh, you little rascals!). At other times during her day, she goes
to a fast-food place to pick up throwaway food handed out by Halley’s friend and
fellow Magic Castle resident who works there, picks up a bag or two of bread
handed out by a volunteer group, and accompanies her mother on her perfume sales
trips. It’s as though she’s being home-schooled by a mother who doesn’t seem to
know where her life is going, home-schooled in all the ways she will need to
know when she grows up to become her mother, and the beat goes on. Maybe I’m
being too harsh on Halley and Moonee and The
Florida Project but I still don’t understand why this film is garnering
such praise. All right, what about Willem Dafoe’s role? He’s the motel manager and
surrogate father figure for the children and their parents. I also see him as a
sort of elder catcher in the rye Holden Caulfield who protects the children
from any perverts who get too close to them. He cares for the motel and its
inhabitants. And he does it well. But I can’t see why his acting is deserving
of a best supporting actor nomination. I think maybe The Florida Project has angered me in the same way that Beasts of the Southern Wild angered me
when Quvenzhané Willis was so praised for her portrayal of that strange little
girl in a devastated Louisiana. I pretty much hated that highly acclaimed movie
from 2012. And now Brooklyn Prince will be hailed as the next great child star.
I can almost hear Sean Baker, the director, telling her just to act as bratty
as she can for the entire movie, and at the end, when Moonee needs to show some
emotion in a full-face shot, he probably stood in front of her and told her to
sob just as hard as she could until she can work up a tear or two. God, what a
grouch I’ve become.
Several nights ago, when we didn’t
want to watch the Olympics and all other channels had scheduled only reruns, we
rented The Florida Project. This was
a film that got much critical praise, even an Oscar nomination for Willem Dafoe
for best supporting actor. Most of the reviewers called it powerful in its
realistic depiction of its socially disadvantaged people living in the shadow
of Disneyworld. The word “charming” shows up on many reviews. I’m bewildered. I
didn’t find much of anything charming or heartwarming or praiseworthy about
this film. I kept waiting for magic to happen and it never did. Here’s the
setup: It takes place in a semi-sleazy motel near Disneyworld’s Magic Kingdom.
It opens with two bratty children, Moonee (Brooklyn Prince) and Scooty
(Christopher Rivera), screaming brattily just for the joy of screaming. Then
Moonee, the lead brat, decides they should go over to an adjoining motel where
from the second story balcony they can spit on a ratty blue car below. Why? It’s
never clear why she decides to do anything. I went to Rotten Tomatoes and read
some of the reviews to see what I seemed to be missing. Nearly all of the
positive reviews said essentially the same thing—that The Florida Project was both charming and saddening in its portrayal
of the semi-down-and-outers who reside in the garishly purple Magic Castle
Motel. Charming? Not for me. Saddening? Yes, on so many levels I don’t have
room for them all. The film is a two-hour lesson in irony, the ironic
connection between the false magic of Disneyworld and the seaminess of the
Magic Castle Motel. It might as easily been called The Nevada Project, substituting the false glitz of the Vegas Strip
and the seamy underbelly of the roach-ridden motels on the edges of the old
Vegas. Then there’s the irony of parenting and child-rearing in a normal
household compared to that of most of the motel residents, especially that of
the young mother Halley (Bria Vinaite) and her 6-year-old daughter Moonee.
Halley makes ends meet (sort of) by panhandling (selling knock-off designer perfume
to visiting tourists or wealthy patrons of more upscale motels nearby),
begging, stealing and reselling the goods stolen, and even hooking occasionally
when ends don’t quite meet. Meanwhile, Moonee and her running mates are free to
gallop all over the place doing their Little Rascally things, like begging for
enough money to buy an ice cream cone to slurpilly share, or sneaking into the motel’s
forbidden power room to switch off the power to the entire motel (Oh, you
little rascals!), or journeying to the forbidden abandoned apartment buildings
waiting for demolition where they smash windows and mirrors and whatever else
is smashable and then set a fire in one building before fleeing home to the
Magic Castle (Oh, you little rascals!). At other times during her day, she goes
to a fast-food place to pick up throwaway food handed out by Halley’s friend and
fellow Magic Castle resident who works there, picks up a bag or two of bread
handed out by a volunteer group, and accompanies her mother on her perfume sales
trips. It’s as though she’s being home-schooled by a mother who doesn’t seem to
know where her life is going, home-schooled in all the ways she will need to
know when she grows up to become her mother, and the beat goes on. Maybe I’m
being too harsh on Halley and Moonee and The
Florida Project but I still don’t understand why this film is garnering
such praise. All right, what about Willem Dafoe’s role? He’s the motel manager and
surrogate father figure for the children and their parents. I also see him as a
sort of elder catcher in the rye Holden Caulfield who protects the children
from any perverts who get too close to them. He cares for the motel and its
inhabitants. And he does it well. But I can’t see why his acting is deserving
of a best supporting actor nomination. I think maybe The Florida Project has angered me in the same way that Beasts of the Southern Wild angered me
when Quvenzhané Willis was so praised for her portrayal of that strange little
girl in a devastated Louisiana. I pretty much hated that highly acclaimed movie
from 2012. And now Brooklyn Prince will be hailed as the next great child star.
I can almost hear Sean Baker, the director, telling her just to act as bratty
as she can for the entire movie, and at the end, when Moonee needs to show some
emotion in a full-face shot, he probably stood in front of her and told her to
sob just as hard as she could until she can work up a tear or two. God, what a
grouch I’ve become.
Countdown: I
have to confess that I haven’t been entirely honest about my health. My
countdown has been somewhat rapid because I’ve been battling a bug, not the flu
bug because I’ve had no fever, nausea, or aching joints, but a bug of some kind
that has me with a deep congestive cough and sinuses that keep me blowing and
blowing. The countdown will resume, I hope, at a slower pace once I get rid of
the congestion. Why do I still feel like I’m skiing on a downslope that keeps
getting steeper and steeper? Because I’m in a Catch-22 trap—the more I just
sit, the weaker I become, the weaker I become, the more I just sit. This
decline is only physical, not mental. I still have almost all the marbles I’ve
always had. But the activities I was able to do only a month ago without
exhaustion I’m now unable to do unless I sit down for five or ten minutes to
get my heart rate down and my oxygen level up. I won’t really know where I
stand until I can finally stop the coughing and congestion. Soon, I hope.
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