United 93: The Impressions of a Former United Flight Attendant

I was in NYC on September 11th. I watched my sunny Brooklyn morning turn foggy as the dust, smoke and debris left a gray swath over my neighborhood. I met with friends at noon and saw the still-in-shock faces of the survivors, who'd walked down the trade center stairs to safety and didn't remember how they'd gotten back to the neighborhood. Once the authorities reopned lower Manhattan, I went back to work at a retail showroom 3 blocks above Canal Street. Every day I would go out to run errands. And every day, in the still-hot and humid days of late summer, I would come back with that awful smell still sticking to my hair, my clothes. I was not, therefore, in the thick of the disaster, but close enough to its edges to feel the horror of that day.

So, I was more than a little emotionally invested in the story of Flight 93. Not to mention that my viewing companion was a United flight attendant, and had worked with a crew member who perished on that flight. She also knew the intimate details of the crew's lives, having worked for the same company for many years. So, when I asked her, after we'd had some time to digest the film, her impression of the flight attendants' behavior, she had a very illuminating perspective. The following is published with her permission.

"I thought the depiction of the flight attendants was rather lame. Cece Lyles, one of the African American flight
attendants, was a former police officer prior to joining United. Anyone with a police background and 9 weeks of airline emergency training would surely have been cast in a more favorable and visible light. Sandy Bradshaw, the blonde....was on record as calling her family to inform them that the crew was brewing hot water in all of the available coffee pots so as to
throw the scalding liquid on the hijackers when storming the cockpit. I think they overlooked the flight attendant emergency response.

"The movie even showed the male passengers barking orders and commands to the flight attendants. My airline experience has shown that in similar circumstances, it is usually the other way around. Some business guys and even some type A guys all of sudden shrink when a major life threatening crises occurs at 35,000 feet. United flight attendants in the movie were sitting in the passenger seats crying. The truth of the matter is that those flight attendants were REALLY on the phones to the operations departments and to their families keeping everyone abreast of the situation. This is one of the basics of airline emergency training--communication with specific details. I think the movie got this part wrong. I think it was made from a very priveleged white male perspective. Plus all of the flight attendants on that flight were veterans who would've
responded without hysterics.. Some mysogonistic biases crept right into this piece.."

There you have it. Much was made of the passenger response to the terrorists. And rightly so. When civilians take up arms against aggressors, it's a wonderous thing. Standing up to tyranny of any sort is an heroic act in my book.

I would have preferred it if the story had been balanced. Seems a shame to highlight the accomplishments of some and not all, especially when they ALL gave their lives in service of their country.

Previews: United 93, The Da Vinci Code and Freeway

I've been viewing more than writing lately, so I've a backlog of dick flicks to discuss. Here's a quick run-down.

United 93

Why were all the trained female flight attendants at the back of the plane whimpering? Remember now, this is a fictionalized account of a story for which we'll never know the truth. Must remember to ask ex-flight attendant friend if she believed the depiction of these highly trained women.

The Da Vinci Code

As a reader of this blog might imagine, this film is very close to my heart. Any media that would deal with the sacred feminine is alright by me. But why, then, must the heroine of this film need so much leading around? She's a cop so she knows how to handle herself, sure. But there are no other significant female roles in this film, save Mary Magdalene but no actress plays her and her lines are read by a man.

Freeway

A friend has been wanting me to see this film for a long time. it is a fairy tale, based on Little Red Riding Hood, which as we all know is a parable about the perils of a young woman (young women?) exploring sexuality. Reese Witherspoon, who is not on my short list of actresses whose films I will likely see (I am blonde, you see, and have no sense of humor), was actually quite engaging in this film. OK, so I liked her in "Walk the Line," too. Keifer Sutherland was type-cast as the bad guy. Charlie Sheen would've done well in that role, too. But his presense in it would've killed the picture.

Expanded reviews to come...

Off Topic: Ramping Down

I hadn't recalled hearing the term "ramp up" till this week. And now it is in plague form. I am a carrier--a PROUD carrier--when it comes to language viruses. But I am now officially tired of the term "ramp up." I will look on Wikipedia for the etymology. But I suspect this is some sort of L.A. speak related to entering freeways.

V for Vendetta: D for Disappointed

I have never in my life been disappointed in a film's last 5 minutes the way this film disappointed me.

What ruined it for me? The last line uttered by Natalie Portman's character Evey: "Some people remember [the monumentally historic and world-changing events] of tonight. I remember the man."

In such a passionate film about absolute power and corruption in government, it is amazing that such a lame ending would suffice. Maybe that's why it got a March release and not a summer or fall. (Yes, the Critic's claws are showing.)

A man calling himeself "V" dresses up in a Guy Fawkes mask, a cape and goes around fighting for the innocent in the face of government corruption. And Evey is supposed to have some feelings of attraction for him?

OK, so he does have a really cool house--a cave really--that's decorated with outlawed works of art and antiquities that the government deems inappropriate for mass consumption. The mask is a bit freaky, frozen as it is in a premanent and eerie grin. But the cape and the rest of his suit are cool. Plus, he plays music on London's PA system when he blows stuff up. And he makes great eggs-in-a-basket. So what's not to like? I mean, what are the quirks that make this man a little more than an eccentric, a little less than a psychopath?

For one thing, he kidnaps Evey--twice! In each instance, he saves her. But he also tells her she can't leave. There isn't a lot out in the world for her at this point, now that she's been circumstantially linked as his accomplice. But she's not sure she wants to put her heart and soul on the line for this guy and his cause. She's not sure if he's sane enough to be the leader out of the darkness that is her country's current rule.

(CAUTION: SPOILERS AHEAD) The second time he kidnaps Evey, he makes her believe she has been kidnapped by the government. He tortures her. Let me say this again: HE TORTURES HER. He shaves her head and repeatedly asks, in the form of a suited and faceless (the lights are always bright on her face) interogater, where V can be found. She repeatedly says she doesn't know. The only thing that sustains her are letters from a woman in the next cell, written on toilet paper and slid through a crack in the wall. The woman is a lesbian, and had been a movie star. But she was arrested for being gay and, therefore we presume, a deviant in the eyes of the powerful. OK, this sounds inconsistent, I know. V finally releases Evey when she says she's ready to die, that she has accepted her fate. She wanders out of her "cell" and back into V's underworld.

In some sense, yes, she is free. She has been willing to die for something. And there is a great strength in that for her. Perhaps now Evey understands that her parents' deaths weren't in vain, having died for what they believed in. But at some point, Evey realizes that she can make a difference. This revelation, sadly, seems linked to her feelings for V. Stockholm syndrome is the well-known temporary condition which makes prisoners identify and sympathize with their captors. Was this a factor for Evey, or did she finally see her ruthless and corrupt rulers for what they are?

Whatever the case, she decides to help V bring down the government.

My companion at the film later called V an idea. So, why oh why if this whole movie is about the idea that the people are more powerful than their government, should the main female character tell us that she remembers the man? Why does she think of the man more than the idea? Was it the cape?

Herein is a fundamental issue I have with Dick Flicks: That an extremely powerful political message must be flavored with the spice of romance. Without it, whould I be any less touched by the film's humanity? No. Would I be less able to identify with the main characters? No. I don't want to believe that Evey's motivation was her love for V. I want to believe that she had to do what was right. Instead, Hollywood has relegated her to a ghetto in which only love and women reside, and in which only men must be admired for their courage. We saw that V was fallable and human and vengeful, and yet despite all of that, Evey thinks of him, the messenger, and not the message.

Of course, this is one of my fundamental problems with religion, too, that people are worshipped as much as the ideas that they bring.

OK then, I must be having a post-stoner moment: is V Christ?

Absent Too Long: The Critic Regrets

It's been quite a while. And though I've continued to see films and have feelings and opinions about them, it's been difficult to set aside the time to write about them. Why? I don't know. Maybe I was too shell shocked after Munich. Or maybe it's tiring reviewing films from the Dick Flick perspective. Honestly, it's like I'm always looking for something wrong or bad to say about films when I review them for this purpose.

Then again, I want to remember that there's a reason for this. There's a reason I was passionate about this topic, am still passionate about it. That's because the rampant sexism is still just that in the culture I see around me. Hollywood is still just as much a promoter of this reality as any other mass media. I couldn't possibly catch enough of what floats on America's airwaves to make a critical dent. So film is what I focus on. As misguided and as off-base and out of touch as Hollywood often is, even the worst films ("Honey" for instance, starring the Up-and-Coming-It-Girl Jessica Alba, was a-bys-mal) reach someone. Sadly, it's usually the least sophisticated viewer who would likely benefit from having their mind stretched a bit. I bet they'd like it, too. Imagine if your whole life someone was lying to you about what reality was, about your place in the world. Wouldn't you be as thirsty for the other side of the story as you could be?

I hope that continues to be my role here in movie-review land. I will do my best.

Munich: An Unsubtle Jackhammer

Though Tony Kushner co-wrote the screenplay--and it was excellent--this film is as manipulative as any Steven Spielberg has directed. On the Dick Flick scale (0 being lowest Dick Flick quotient and 10 being highest), I give it a 9.

Men are not solely responsible for war. Queens have sent men to war as much as kings (though if you go way back to the pre-Christian matriarchal belly cults, wars were infrequent). But war is where men go. Women have only begun fighting it onscreen very recently. And offscreen, women's experiences in the field are rarerly talked about, Teen P.O.W. Jessica Lynch's story notwithstanding.(Didn't that turn out to be another U.S. Army fiction, anyway?) So here is another film about what happens to men who believe in something and go fight for it.

Avner is a good man, formerly Israeli Army, son of an Israeli hero (who, like most heroes, is deeply flawed). Like father like son. Avner is tapped by no less than Golda Meir to avenge the brutal killings of Israeli Olympic Team members who perished at the Munich games. They were killed by Palestinians. And so the Prime Minister says that Israel must show the world it won't be pushed around.

Avner signs a form that makes him a spook: he no longer has health insurance, a pension, a salary or an official identity. His source of income now materializes in a box in a Swiss bank, though the Israeli government kindly sends his wife $1000 a month. He must also give up his family. This is a high cost, as his wife is 7 months pregnant. 'Cause, you know, if it was just his wife it wouldn't be any problem. But he's got a kid on the way, too. He sneaks away to israel for the birth. While in the hospital waiting room, he has a meaningful conversation with his mother about his father and how the patriarch abandoned the family. Just as Avner is doing. But it's for a good cause, right?

Avner and his team set out to assasinate all the men who were involved in the Munich killings. As they do so, they become more and more acquainted not only with one another, but with the true meaning of their assignment. Slowly, they reveal themselves as killers just as cold-blooded as those they hunt. The film becomes a morality play then. Whose morality is unblemished by the need for power or land, money or piety or patriotism? In this film, no one's is.

With the possible exception of Golda Meir, a classic Dick Flick characteristic is revealed: Women's characters are miner and minimal, two dimensional. The wife is a saint, apparently. We never see her get impatient about the fact that her husband has all but abandoned her. There is no hint that she might want to move on to a man who is more available, who actually shows up for their presumably new marriage (though, to be fair, if she did get this inkling, popular culture would relocate the film into chick flick territory). Most poignant is the first time they have sex once Avner returns. He seems to have a psychotic episode while he's in coitus with his wife, as though he is pounding out his anger on the inside of her womb. The most disturbing aspect of this is the moment after he climaxes and slowly returned to reality. She reaches up to touch his face and says, "I love you." There is no hint of horror in her voice, no pleading, no sense that she has just been treated like a blow-up doll, the sexual recepticle for his supressed rage. No, she is all patience and understanding. Excuse me, but this begs the questions: WHAT THE FUCK?

Avner's mother is a similarly flat character. She only knows she is proud of her son. He is horrified at what he has done, but his mother--perhaps the symbol of the Israeli government mindset--is only pleased. She's enjoying the sausage, never wanting to know how it was made. I understand this as a narrative tool, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. It points up the cultural falacy of man as protector of woman. Her "oh, that's man talk" reluctance to understand the toll of this protection is a fiction far worse, in my opinion, than most spun by Mr. Spielberg's movie hit machine.

My last annoyance with this film was its closing shot: A long, static frame of the World Trade Center standing sentry over the park in which Avner and his government nemesis have their last exchange. In typical Spielberg fashion, the point is not just driven home, but pounded into the skull with jackhammer insistence. I GET IT! I GET IT! When is it enough? When have there been enough eyes for eyes? I may not know the answer to that, but I do know that a jackhammer is an unsubtle way to deliver a message.

War of the Worlds: The Dickiest Flick

Let me first clarify something. I do not like Tom Cruise as a person. After his horrifying display of ignorance about the issue of post-partum depression and depressive disorders in general, I can honestly say I think he is a jerk. A big jerk. The only reason I saw this movie is because my video store owner, the lovely Mia @ Mission Video, gave me a free rental.

OK, to be honest, I really did want to see the film. Not because I thought I'd enjoy it, but because I couldn't wait to tear it--and Tom Cruise--apart. But what I find extremely annoying about him is that, despite my intense personal dislike, I still think he's a good actor. He is in the skin of the characters he plays and that takes talent and tenacity. If only he were like DeNiro, mute about the rest of the world and the rest of his life.

In WOTW, he plays a divorced dad, all into his own thing: his flashy classic Mustang, his looks. He is conceited and unthinking. (Cue music)...and it is the struggle for survival that brings him face to face with the things he loves most. Sniff. I know, I know! That Speilberg's a rutting genius.

First, let's get the hackneyed symbolism out of the way, shall we? See, it's not just War of the Worlds as in aliens-have-come-down-here-to-kick-our-asses. Oh, no. It's also about the war between like, Tom Cruise's character and his kids (who have no reason to trust their father) and the father and mother. She's all about stability, he's not. But in the end, his struggle for survival brings him face to face with the thing--yeah, OK, OK, you get the drift.

OK, here's a few more things...

1. Tim Robbins plays a disturbed man holed up in his home. As near as I can tell, he did a repeat of his "Mystic River" character, in voice if not in every other nuance. Like the disturbed man who grew from a kidnapped and molested kid in MR, Robbins' character this time is a deranged shut-in. He has ideas of using shot guns to protect the basement--into which he has invited Cruise and Cruise's daughter (flawless in the form of Dakota Fanning)--from the aliens (who have impenetrable force fields around their attacking tripods). But we quickly understand that he's not all there. I didn't really dig this section of the film. It seemed to drag on and on and all I kept thinking about was "Mystic River."

2. Dakota Fanning is the emotional center of the film (naturally, because she possesses a uterus--isn't that how Hollywood reasons?) But she does a great job. She is claustrophobic and depends on her brother to take care of her when they visit their father. As her brother decides to follow the army in their fight against the aliens she screams, "WHO'S GONNA TAKE CARE OF ME??!!" Clearly, it's not going to be her father. Way too self-involved. But when this girl cries, I totally believe it. Of course, it's pretty gut-wrenching to see an 11 or 12 year old girl cry.

3. OK, sure, Cruise's character redeems himself. But not through any fault of his character's own. More like because this cataclysmic event made it a necessity. Not really Cruise's fault. That one I can blame on Spielberg.

What makes this so intensely a dick flick is centering on Cruise's character, in this case, the arch-typical anti-hero. But it's just so much blah-blah-blah when it comes to having to escape from the aliens, having to protect his children. Once again, the story of a man is cast as universal. How do I know? Morgan Freeman's narration at the start and end of the film refers to "Man" and not "Humanity" or "People."

Of course, it could be that that section of the script is the only thing taken directly from the original radio play. If there was one thing they had to keep, why's it gotta be the sexist crap? I can just hear them now, Oh, we wanted to stay true to the original, but also make it very timely. That's how we chose to do it.

I guess, in that world, sexism is always in style.

Rize: The Ghetto Folk Dance

Documentaries are difficult to quantify as dick flicks. without Hollywood's cliche-machine pumping words out of mouths, there is much more humanity. So this review isn't about a dick flick. It's just about a film.

I cannot recommend David LaChappelle's "Rize" highly enough. It is the story of a dance called Clowning. My father, a modern dance pioneer, used to tell me that he loved break dancing because it was a true American folk dance. The same can be said of Clowning. It is born out of the African-America ghettos in Los Angeles, created first as an entertainment by Thomas Johnson (a.k.a.Tommy the Clown). He started by going onto the streets, pumping hip-hop out of the back of his car, and dancing in a clown suit. When folks would come out to watch, he'd hand them cards and tell them he was available for parties. Groups of kids began to follow him, and dance with him.

Eventually, as they grew, some of the kids branched off and created their own brand of clowning called Krumping. It became an outlet for anger in an urban landscape where gangs, drugs and death are all part of daily life. Krumping looks confrontational and sometimes violent. But according to the dancers, fighting is the last thing on their minds.

Because I grew up dancing, I understand how important it is as a form of self expression and release. But I also understand how important it is as a means of finding self. Though a career in dance was not to be, I will always appreciate the hours and hours devoted to class and rehearsals as a time when I was at my most creative and playful and happy. These things are the essence of childhood and not something easily found in inner cities. (Most of the schools in Watts, etc, stress athletics as a way out of the ghetto). But how else can you be creative and playful when your life is otherwise riddled with trauma? It is amazing what human beings can do with their anger and oppression. I wish the oppression wasn't there, but I am grateful that it finds such life-affirming outlets.

Wouldn't it be amazing if every person were encouraged to dance, to move freely and create with their bodies? At last experiencing a true emancipation of the mind, heart and spirit.

See Rize. Then go dance.