—–

Steve Carell is Cal, a California suburbanite long and happily married to his high-school sweetheart, Emily (Julianna Moore). Driving in their car one night, out of nowhere, Emily tells Steve that she has slept with an amorous coworker (Kevin Bacon), and that she wants a divorce. Cal is devastated, but he dutifully moves out of the house they share with their two kids and into a soulless bachelor apartment. Beset by loneliness, he makes a few feeble attempts to pick up women at an upscale singles bar. His hilarious lack of success at this draws the attention of an observant pickup artist named Jacob (Ryan Gosling). Jacob is strictly into one-night stands—actual romance is never on his menu—and he volunteers to give Cal a studly makeover, starting with his clothes (“Be better than the Gap”) and especially his footwear. (“Are you in a fraternity?” he asks, checking out his new protégé’s puffed-up Nikes.)

Soon Cal is scoring—most uproariously with a love-starved high-school teacher named Kate (Marisa Tomei). Meanwhile, back at Cal’s former home, his 13-year-old son (Jonah Bobo) is lusting after the family babysitter, an endearingly gangly 17-year-old named Jessica (Analeigh Tipton). But Jessica is in turn crushing on Cal, who’s still making occasional household visits. At the same time, a young law student named Hannah (Emma Stone, sharp as always) is slowly submitting to the come-ons of the chick-magnet Jacob, who for the first time is feeling the stirrings of something other than lust, in a place other than his pants.

Read full review here.

—–

Tonight’s gunna be fun.

Any more bar name ideas, please leave here.

There will be an update on how the project is coming. I want to thank all the interest in investment, and will have the plan together very soon!

Tonight:

Monica Crowley!

Steven Crowder

Jason Bonham!

Yeah, it’s a “chick flick” and I’m sure the film did most of its initial box office due to the popularity of its male lead, Channing Tatum.  The ladies love them some Channing Tatum.  He seems like a nice enough fellow; he’s a believable actor.  Aside from the fact that, watching him, I’m constantly reminded that I really need to work my core (we actors are a generally insecure and superficial lot), what’s not to like?  I first saw him in the excellent “A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints” and the guy impressed me.

In “Dear John,” Tatum plays Staff Sergeant John Tyree, a Green Beret who meets and falls in love with Savannah Curtis (played by Amanda Seyfried), while home on leave.  

Savannah is a pretty and intelligent young woman with a solid set of values.  She doesn’t drink, smoke or sleep around and seems at ease in her own skin.  She is confident, compassionate and gives freely of her time and energy to her friends and the larger community.

John, while his family life has been challenging, has overcome a troubled past and has become an honorable, though sometimes volatile, man… a warrior.

I sat back and thought, “Wow.  What a nice couple of kids.”  Weird, huh?  I chuckled to myself when I realized that I’d gotten so used to snark, that I’d just been sucker punched by “nice.”  What the hell were these people trying to pull?

The story follows the couple through their early courtship and then multiple separations due to John’s military commitments.  Further complicating things are the attacks on the World Trade Center and the subsequent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

There were many things I liked about this film and I’d like to lay them out for you in the hope that you’ll get out and see it before it disappears from theaters.

First and foremost, I was pleased by how SSG Tyree and the military in general were portrayed.  This film got it right.  John and his fellow soldiers demonstrated their professionalism, teamwork and commitment.  Further, as far as I could tell, the Special Forces were accurately portrayed as to their mission and how it is implemented (i.e. training of foreign troops, etc.).  I admit that, hailing from the Marine Corps, I’m not extremely well versed on the Army but everyone looked squared away.  Key military advisor, Gavin McCulley, did nice work.

Secondly, if I had a teenaged daughter, I’d certainly approve of her being exposed to characters like Savannah Curtis.  Savannah is keenly aware of the challenges facing those around her and does what she can to help.  She doesn’t complain about the unfairness of it all or about others’ inaction.  She takes action.  Savannah also succeeds where John has struggled in making a connection with his father, a quiet man who seems to have lived his life as an undiagnosed autistic.

That brings me to my final point.  Autism is another thread that runs through “Dear John.”  John’s father is played by the wonderful Richard Jenkins, who first caught my eye in the brutally funny “Flirting with Disaster.”  His portrayal of Mr. Tyree was of great interest to my wife and I.  As parents of an autistic child we often wonder what the future might hold for our son.   There is also a young boy in the story played by an autistic actor by the name of Braeden Reed.  He reminded us so much of our own son and we both were quite moved by his performance and by how naturally his autism was presented.  Kudos to Phil Blevins, Executive Director of CarolinaAutism.org, who was a consultant on the project.

I’m glad that someone tipped me off to “Dear John.”  Consider this my tip to you.  The folks who made this film understand the concepts of duty and commitment… not just to our country but also to each other. 

I hope you’ll check it out.

It’s no secret that Hollywood considers themselves to be much more “open-minded” about sex than the average bear. I’m sure they’d have no problem with the GLSEN endorsing the act of inserting one’s fist into a partners orifice to a group of 14-year-olds. Afterall, everybody does it… Right?

As a matter of fact, Hollywood rarely ever gives the evil eye to any sexual practice, no matter how freaky it may be. It seems that to the Sean Penns of the world, the more perverse the sex, the better. They’ve sauntered so far down the “freaky sex dungeon” trail that “fisting” has literally been left in the rearview mirror as mere child’s play.

When I really think about it, it seems as though the only kind of sex at which Hollywood will ever choose to poke fun… is the kind that occurs within marriage.

Don’t you watch the movies? Haven’t you listened to the stand-up comedians?  The day you tie the knot is “the day your sex life ends.” According to sitcoms and romantic comedies, it’s a scientific impossibility for married couples to enjoy playful romps in the bedroom.

Correct me for being naïve, but isn’t married sex supposed to be the best sex of your life? Shouldn’t your life-partner provide you with the most sexually gratifying experiences you’ll ever have the pleasure of knowing? Afterall, your wife or husband is supposed to be the person you love more than anyone on the planet. Given that mutual appreciation and (hopefully) an unparalleled level of communication, how could the sex NOT be amazing? What is marriage, if not an institution designed to cultivate bonding/closeness on every level, including physically?

Considering that Hollywood lampoons the institution so much, what does that say about their views on sex? It would almost make it seem as though their practice of it is animalistic and void of… dare I say it… love. Surprising, isn’t it? The industry that prides themselves on being at the cusp of all things “true love” has no real comprehension of it for themselves.

Sliding down the slippery slope of perversion seems only natural for leftists. Many of them have a moral void in their souls, so they try to fill it with anything else they can. Not only that, but they try and appoint/surround us with people that will cause us to do the same. Rather than reach to anything greater than themselves, folks like Sean Penn clasp at more fame, excess and beautiful women. Or in some cases… It’s just a fist.

Now doesn’t that sound fun?

The time has come to introduce Karen to Akira Kurosawa. The time has come to introduce Karen to the single most important movie in my life, the film that shaped my consciousness, the film that turned me from a directionless yeshiva student into a rabid film fanatic, a screenwriter.

Yes, The Seven Samurai is playing at The Thalia, New York’s’ classic movie theater on Broadway between 94th and 95th Streets. I’ve invited Karen to see it with me. Keep in mind, this is 1976, ancient days. There are no videos, no DVD’s, no personal computers, and hard to imagine, no internet. To see a classic film, you must rush to Manhattan, to one of the revival houses, and hope that the print they screen is half-way decent. And with Japanese films, the biggest problem is the subtitles. Frequently, they are illegible.

As we stand on line to purchase tickets, Karen quizzes me about the film.

“What’s it about?”

“Courage and loyalty in 16th century Japan.”

“Does it have a… plot?”

“Oh, yes, several very strong plots running parallel to one another. Don’t worry, it’s a foreign film, but you’ll find that all the emotions are completely familiar.”

Karen looks a bit skeptical. By now she knows me well enough to recognize that my take on reality is not all that real.

“How long is it?”

“We’re incredibly lucky, Karen,” I enthuse, “This doesn’t happen very often but we’re actually getting to see the original three-hour version! Isn’t that great!?”

Karen smiles, but her smile is strained.

I’m not worried. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that once the film gets going she’ll be caught up in the magnificent imagery, in the classic story-telling, in the heroic, tragic characters. Once Karen imbibes this film, our relationship will be sealed.

The house lights dim and chills run up and down my spine as the opening shots of The Seven Samurai thunder across the screen. Karen is at full attention, her spine is rigid, she sits straight as a pilaster, like a proud Japanese princess.

A half-hour into the film Karen is:

Oh

My

Gosh

idly toying with her split ends. I am incredulous, in shock, awash in a psychic pain that I never knew existed. How is this possible?

Slumped in her seat, Karen is the portrait of a a bored student. My heart is actually pattering in my chest at twice its normal rate. I am twenty-five years old and I’m pretty sure that I’m having a massive heart attack.

A few years ago, I told a friend that I could never love a woman who didn’t love The Seven Samurai. Not only did I say it, but I believed it.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” says Karen, “I need to take a break.”

“There’s a break at the hour-and-a-half point,” I lamely point out.

“I need it now,” Karen says quite evenly with no hint of rancor.

Karen exits to the lobby.

I feel like committing hara-kiri.

In the dark, I gaze at my beloved and outnumbered Samurai warriors; even unto death they maintain their orthodox code of honor. There is something very Jewish about these men and their stubborn refusal to give up their way of life. This film has changed my life, made of me a screenwriter, a writer with a vision.

What to do?

The images no longer cohere for now I see Karen, nine-years old, on the day she first transferred from Yeshiva Ohel Moshe to Yeshiva Flatbush, the day I, also nine-years old, fell in love with her; now I see her leaning against the chain link fence during recess, pressing her linen handkerchief against unnaturally pale lips; there she is, years later, when we meet in Summer camp and exchange a few awkward sentences; and again I spot her at a high school basketball game. Karen has no idea how I feel. What am I saying? She has no idea that I even exist.

This life of mine can easily slip into utter catastrophe.

Karen’s image splits and flies away; there she is, up on the screen in full close-up. I love her, have always loved her. And this moment, this film, this decision that I’m about to make will define the balance of my life.

The Samurai speak of Bushido, the soul of the warrior, the perpetual struggle to maintain honor and dignity, the fight to recognize your true inner-self. I catch a glimpse of my Bushido. It’s in danger of being crushed… by yours truly.

I bolt from my seat and follow Karen into the lobby. Sitting on a bench, she looks sad.

“I know how much this movie means to you,” says Karen.

“It doesn’t matter,” I respond.

And it doesn’t.

In a moment of perfect clarity I have gone from being a boy to a man.

Morally, I have matured, been forced by this honest and most unpretentious of women, to reorder my priorities.

I took another young lady to see The Seven Samurai and she told me that she adored it. “It’s fantastic,” she gushed. But in the darkness I felt her boredom, sensed her incredible yearning for the film to end. She was just saying what she knew I wanted to hear.

Karen cannot lie. Karen is constitutionally unable to say that she admires something when she just plain doesn’t like it.

To this day, when I slip the DVD of The Seven Samurai into the player, Karen beats a hasty retreat.

This night, this moment, I understand that admiring or despising The Seven Samurai—any movie—has nothing to do with the guts of a relationship. If you look closely, it’s just superficial aesthetics.

Admiring or disliking a movie or a book or painting or a song or whatever—is not a reliable indicator of the strength of a relationship.

Love—real love and lasting relationships—are built on shared values.

Karen knows how important this movie is to me. But because this film is so central to my life she cannot bring herself to pretend that she likes it. In fact, the way I feel about The Sound of Music is how she feels about The Seven Samurai.

I bid goodbye to The Seven Samurai.

We do not stay for the rest of the film.

We exit the theater.

“You wanna know how it ends?”

Karen smiles. “Not really.”

Walking along Broadway, Karen searches my face for some indication of what I’m feeling, some hint of what my reaction is to her reaction.

As we walk away from the movie theater, I discover that I feel lighter, unburdened, and gee-willikers, I’m grinning hugely. I smile because at long last I’m able to bid goodbye to my youth. Karen’s perfect scrupulousness, her Female/Jewish/Samurai personae has, as I have long suspected, compelled me to become not just a man—but a better man.

Head on over to my mini-series in Seraphic Secret to learn How I Married Karen.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech