by James Tuttle
I was just going through the arduous task of deleting today’s Facebook friend requests when I decided to flip on the TV to make the process less tedious and what should appear on the screen but a little gem called Say Yes to the Dress: Bridesmaids. The episode was about half over, but I already had a really clear idea of what was going on courtesy of the very descriptive title. Anything that says “bridesmaids” is bound to be an overflowing bounty of estrogen and ego.
Luke Guldan is not a bridesmaid and can have any haircut he wants.
In one salon, a lovely African-American bride-to-be was having trouble achieving clarity on what she wanted her bridesmaids to wear and the bridesmaids in question weren’t really helping because they basically complained about everything. I have to say that, when it came to a shiny burgundy number with a cape thing attached to a huge cluster of fabric flowers on the back that the bride just adored, I was on their side.
TUTTLE MODE | THE COLLECTIONS
by James Tuttle
The 84th Annual Academy Awards went down a few short blocks from here the other day, distracting me from important cultural happenings like Mob Wives and RuPaul’s Drag Race. The Oscar experience is a bit different when one lives in Hollywood because, while you might get together with some friends over cocktails in Manhattan or watch it wrapped in a Snuggie (please don’t) in Iowa while snow falls silently outside your window, it becomes fucking Kosovo up in here!
Fitness model Eddie Griffin missed the Oscars. Maybe he was sleeping in. (Photo: Rick Day)
Police cars heavily patrol any streets that haven’t been barricaded, helicopters buzz buildings and tow trucks descend upon unsuspecting cars parked in the way of the limo routes that will be whisking celebrities to the Theatre Formerly Known As Kodak. The constant hum of the Goodyear blimp hanging overhead makes even running to the local market for an onion into a surreal experience.
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | REVIEW
by James Killough
It would not be wrong to describe Terrence Malick’s Cannes Palme D’Or-winner The Tree Of Life as a two-hour-fifteen-minute ad for a fictitious Calvin Klein “Existence” perfume, brought to you in part by the Museum of Natural History, the Pritzker Architecture Prize, and the Episcopal Diocese of Waco, Texas.
Tree is for lovers of films with no conventional plot like Baraka and Godfrey Reggio’s Qatsi series. In other words, smoke a hefty spliff, stack up on the muchie rations and prepared to murmur “wow.”
The ubiquitous walking-into-the-sunlight shot that seems to have pleased the Cannes jury so much. Step away from the shrooms, Mr. De Niro.
I wasn’t in Cannes this year, and per my earlier post it is unlikely I would have seen the rest of the films in competition even if I had been, but I can understand why awarding the Palme D’Or to this caused so much controversy. It’s beautiful, yes, but it is not great cinema by my standards. And this is coming from a huge Terrence Malick fan. It isn’t even intellectually stimulating from an esoteric spirituality point of view. But, after all those years in India and with the Sufis, I’m really jaded that way.