...In which our heroine reviews "The Wrestler"

Despite it being Parents Weekend, Kathleen and I made the trek up to our very first film festival last night. The Chicago International Film Festival started Thursday night, premiering with The Brothers Bloom and last night The Wrestler was one of the sold out shows.

Without giving too much away, The Wrestler is Darren Aronofsky's newest film. It stars Mickey Rourke as a washed-up wrestler, Randy "The Ram" Robinson, whose former glory has now faded, and spends time in the small-time, hardcore wrestling circuit, trying to relive times gone by. He's estranged from his daughter, Evan Rachel Wood, and is trying hard to make a spark with someone else past their prime, a stripper played by Marisa Tomei, who just for the record looks fantastic for someone in their 40s.

That's all I'm giving away in terms of plot because it's better left as a suprise. I was admittedly a little worried by the premise of pro-wrestling, but that worry all faded away once the film started.

You can't talk about this film without talking about how utterly brutal and wonderful Mickey Rourke is. He was the famous bad boy heartthrob before my time, so my reference point for him is of the half-crazy character with the messed up face. I loved him as Marv in Sin City and this film makes you feel even more sympathy for that kind of pathetic brute character. He's just so heartbreakingly pathetic and at heart, a decent guy, that it makes his struggles incredibly difficult to watch. Again, without giving too much away, I will be shocked if his name doesn't come up around Oscar time.

The Wrestler is a huge departure for Aronofsky in terms of content and style. Gone are the lush images and dreamscapes of Requiem for a Dream and The Fountain and in their place is a highly brutal film, shot by a documentary crew Aronofsky hired to get maximum realism. No more montage sequences of shooting up or visits to Mayan ruins. Mickey Rourke looks like shit now, and Aronofsky uses lots of close-ups to not shy away from this.

In a lot of ways, The Wrestler was my favorite Aronofsky film so far. It was more relatable, more about character than style, more intimate and moving. I felt so totally drained at the end I couldn't even cry. The year's other films are going to have to be pretty damn great to be better than this. But you'll be able to see for yourself when it rolls out in December.

And to put icing on the cake, Aronofsky (right) was at the screening and did a Q&A after. He's the dork you'd expect, and was very complimentary to the world of wrestling and the talent of Mickey Rourke. He talked a lot about Pi, Requiem, and The Fountain being one chapter of films, and this movie starting the next. I totally agree. I just wish Aronofsky would have brought his lovely and talented wife Rachel Weisz along so I could gawk.

...In which our heroine presents her random 5.

Autumn Sweater- Yo La Tengo
Yo La Tengo is a little too noisy for my taste most of the time, but I like this song. I heard but not saw them play it at last year's Lollapalooza. I think the first time I heard it was with Isaac in Odin's Word, as I heard a lot of songs for the first time.

Honey White- Morphine
I acquired this song after the 'rents saw the 2/3 of Morphine still alive on tour with Concrete Blonde. Morphine has an interesting jazz section and the saxophone section always kicks ass. Lead singer Mark Sandman (great name) also has the infamous distinction of being one of the few musicians to ever actually die on stage. Speedballs are bad, kids.

Letter to Memphis- Pixies
This was a part of the "Kate needs every Pixies song ever recored on iTunes" binge at the beginning of the month. It's one of the better songs on their most mediocre album, Trompe le Monde, but still not as good as anything on Surfer Rosa or Doolittle.

Good- Better than Ezra
I remember exactly which WOXY tape this was on--it also featured Live, Dinosaur Jr., and the Smashing Pumpkins. I remember the first time I heard it, on a seventh grade bus ride. I remember the exact point in the song where my tape used to skip. Sigh.

Straight to You- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Here's my inner Goth getting out once again. I started listening to Nick Cave and his very Bad Seeds sophomore year and got really into their moody blues (ha). This is one of the more cheery songs by the band, especially they have an album entitled Murder Ballads.

...In which our heroine is amused.

The Big McCain: Mark it Zero



Oh, now the Beasties are in Dayton. Godamnit, first The National and the Breeders, then Sisters of Mercy, now the Beasties with Sheryl Crow and Ben Harper all after I leave. And on the day before Halloween. I am perturbed.

...In which our heroine is quite the domestic.

After nearly two months here, the role set in our room has become apparent. This means I cook the majority of the time. As it turns out, I find myself really enjoying cooking on a regular basis.

I haven't been doing a lot of fancy stuff, but it's better than Ramen. This weekend I made barbeque chicken and garlic potatoes Friday night, enchiladas Saturday night, and the one I'm most proud of, my very first batch of biscuits and gravy Sunday morning. I do have some Kentucky blood in me, as my Sunday brunch turned out better than expected.

When I was at home, my mom always did all the cooking, no questions or hesitations. She enjoyed doing it, and I would mostly just watch. Now that I'm forced to make stuff on my own, I've found that I retained a lot more of her methods than I would've ever thought. Okay...so I guess she does know what she's talking about in the kitchen.

Cooking is calming for me. Whenever we roommates cook, it's an adventure. Motown, Micheal Jackson, and dancing are absolute musts. We've been trying to teach the boys how to cook, but I think its hopeless. (Kris wanted to cook individual portions of spaghetti for the five of us in a sauce pan.)

The only original thing I've come up with is a variation on something that Cassie's boyfriend JR made back in the summer. It's called Hot Apple Pie:


1 gallon of apple cider
1 gallon of apple juice
2 cups sugar
1 cup brown sugar
A jar of cinnamon sticks
A sliced orange
Cinnamon to taste
1 bottle everclear (optional of course, but hey, I'm in college. You can use vodka or rum also.)

Bring apple juice, cider, all sugar, cinnamon, and cinnamon sticks to a boil in a large pot. Once boiling, reduce heat and skim off impurities. Keep the mixture on low and drop sliced oranges on top to infuse. When ready to drink, add alcohol. Recipe can be halved or drank cold.

Hot Apple Pie was a big hit Friday evening and is a good fall/holiday punch. The kids around here enjoyed it quite a bit and the full recipe makes lots of leftovers.

...In which our heroine puts it on shuffle.

No organization to today's post, just a lot of odds and sods:

• The Beastie Boys are playing shows in Wisconsin, Virginia, and Minnesota in support of the upcoming elections. DAMNIT. And they have lots of cool special guests.


• PG Porn, from James Gunn and my future husband, Nathan Fillion. Don't worry, it's just porn without the boring sex part.


• Everyone's favorite Golden Girl, Betty White, calls Sarah Palin a crazy bitch.


• The AV Club's list of embarassing early celebrity crushes. All I have to say in Val Kilmer in Batman Forever.


• Angelina Jolie is the most beautiful person on the planet.


• Making of Zack and Miri: Money Shots


• Kathleen and I bought tickets for the Chicago Film Festival to go see Darren Aronofsky's latest, The Wrestler, which stars Mickey Rourke. There were lots of other good choices at the fest: Let the Right One In, Synedoche New York, Zack and Miri, The Brothers Bloom, but we limited ourselves to just one film since tickets are $22. But Darren Aronofsky is going to be at the showing (!) and the film is generating quite the buzz.


• I'm officially out of the pointless freshman seminar, New Millenium Studies. It turned out that AP Euro had given me the credit for that class and me taking it now was absolutely worthless. I'm officially sophomore status. HOLLA.

...In which our heroine shares.

A certain pseudo Greek warrior I know has asked for the posting of certain pieces of my creative writing. Here's the first thing I'm proud of that's not in the drafting stages. The prompt was to write about someone not in our family that we've known for our entire lives. Enjoy or ignore kids.

She still spells my name “Katy.” Even when people called me Katie, they certainly never spelled it like that. I wish they would have, it’s more unique. Maybe Ava recognized my uniqueness and I just never caught on, at least until now.
Ava lives across the street from the house which was once home to my father, grandmother, aunt, and great-grandmother. Now it is only home to my aunt and grandmother. Ava has been alone a long time, outlasting her husband by at least twenty years. So it made sense that she was always a presence in my life, seeing as I did a lot of my growing up in that tiny, hot house on Wicklow Street.
I don’t know exactly how old Ava is. She is into the latter half of being an octogenarian but still drags her trash to the street every Sunday, and until a few years ago, mowed her own lawn. She is tiny, shorter than even me, and wears her pants all the way above her stomach, right beneath her breasts, always with a belt. Angels, crosses, and other religious relics always dot her collar—pins and necklaces mostly, the kinds you order out of catalogues or are sent to you for donating to various missions.
I wish I could tell you how she smells, but I’ve never encountered anything or anyone that smells like her. A mix of mothballs and Old Spice, only with a sharper undertone, it hits you when she clutches you tightly for a hug, squeezing your ribs to the point of discomfort.
Ava likes to talk. A lot. She speaks in a high, shaky Kentucky drawl. Her stories begin with some horrific tale of one of her brother or sister’s children. Or grandchildren. Or niece. Or hairdresser’s second cousin. The story will begin coherently enough, but soon, she begins to throw out so many names, go on so many asides, that within a few minutes I don’t know what she’s talking about anymore. No one understands her stories, which she tells at great length, especially at the holidays, which she spends with us because her family only takes her out when they want her to pay for all of their meals.

But we all listen. We might go get a drink and come back and she’ll still be talking, scarcely noticing the interruption, but we keep listening. We listen because she is family to us. Not of blood, but certainly of bond.
For every holiday, I and my three cousins get an envelope from Ava. A dollar at Halloween, five for our birthdays, ten at Christmas, all from her husband’s pension and social security. The little she has, she gives it away to us, who aren’t really children anymore, but she still puts stickers on the envelopes. Ava never had children so we acted as surrogates.
Every envelope is the same: “To my friend Katy. Happy Easter. God Bless. Love, your friend Ava.” The writing has started to get a little shaky, sometimes illegible. Most of the time, I don’t open them right away. Of course it’s partly because I know already what’s inside. But the past few years, it’s because I wonder how many more envelopes I’ll get from Ava. She’s old, no contention about it, and I’ve grown up from Katy to Kate.
But I don’t look forward to the first holiday when I won’t get the small stationery envelope with wobbly black handwriting and religious stickers.
When Ava passes, my childhood will truly, permanently be over. No one will ever call me Katy again, just Kate or Katherine. Those names aren’t very unique, and they certainly don’t come with a crisp dollar bill.

...In which our heroine gives a diner's tour.

I am a broke college student, and therefore when I eat out, I eat cheap. It isn't that much different then when I was at home, but since Waffle Houses and Steak n' Shakes are nowhere to be found, I've had to use my navigational skills:

Closest to our building, in the same block actually, is the South Loop Club. I won't pretend like this place is anything special, because it isn't. On the weekends, the bar part is pretty happenin' with the thirty-five and up set, but the real magic is in the takeout food part. Instead of going into the bar, you walk to the carryout counter and watch your food get cooked. The fare is simple--burgers, hot dogs, gyros, and fries--but there are some more exotic choices like swordfish sandwiches.My personal favoriete there is the brat, which comes with a huge helping of fries for $4.50. Oh and then there's the fact that the SLC serves food until 4 AM, which is beyond awesome, especially since it's a two minute walk.

In one of the trendier neighborhoods, Belmont, we have Clarke's Diner, which is 24/7. I've only been there once but the atmosphere is very high energy. We were there around 2 Saturday night and it was filled to capacity. It attracts much of the CCC crowd, and patrons who need somewhere to go after the bars close. Clarke's has a ginormous menu with tons of breakfast choices, and huge portions. Kris and I split an omelette, which came with potatoes and pancakes, for $9. They also have a big dinner menu and apparently, amazing gyros. Seven of us ate there and the total bill was $57 with tip. So cheap for Chicago.

And finally, Katydid's personal favorite: White Palace. When my mom was here two weeks ago, we ate there for dinner Saturday night and breakfast Sunday morning. I love diners, and White Palace is like Waffle House on steroids. Even on a packed Sunday morning, we were able to sit down in less than ten minutes. For dinner I had a patty melt, fries, and chili and the next morning, I had french toast (which was delicious and tasted like it was soaked in essence of Cap'n Crunch) eggs, and sausage. Both meals were $7. Mom had a huge chorizo omelette with potatoes and toast, also for $7. White Palace is been in the same location since 1939 and the waitresses are perfectly sassy. There is also a decent movie with James Spader that takes place partially there, which is the only reason I'd ever heard of the place. It's a new favorite however.

***

I haven't really talked to Matt since I've been here, but he texted me today to tell me to listen to his--shock--own radio show on Bearcast Radio from 4 to 6. So Emily and I did and he played us a lot of cool songs (Radiohead, The Black Keys, The Raconteurs). He was talking to me without saying anything. It reminded me of the scene in The Virgin Suicides when the boys call up the Lisbon girls and play them music over the phone. Those tones of home, Matt's monotone voice. And just for a moment, I missed home.