Everyone Else tells the story of Chris and Gitti, a couple taking a week in the Mediterranean at Chris’ wealthy parents’ vacation home (“They’re not wealthy,” Chris insists at one point, “they just bought the wrong size pool.”) This is the kind of film where slow and patient observation reveals reality for what it is. Chris and Gitti surely know the terms of their relationship, and we see them pivot awkwardly around these definitions of their personality that cause strife in their relationship.

Naturally, I fell asleep in the first five minutes (I was tired), but awoke with a poof after some fifteen or twenty minutes. This is merely stated to note that I haven’t actually seen all of this, but the remainder of the film was riveting in the way it observed some groan-inducing scenery. There were some holes in my understanding that are addressed (and thus I am in the dark) in the third act (the story of Chris’ niece learning to be upfront and outgoing about her dislike of people, and the reason why Chris and Gitti are avoiding Hans, a more successful architect than Chris and a former classmate).

That said, I came into the film during a conversation where Gitti (Birgit Minichmayr) and Chris (Lars Eldinger) were in bed, speaking to each other frankly about the biggest differences in their personalities (she is outgoing, wants to discuss the particulars of everything, and isn’t particularly pretentious, whereas he is more insular, intellectual and quiet). After running into Hans and his successful designer-wife at the supermarket, the two couples begin to circle each other in some spectacularly awkward scenes. The difference between the high-minded couple of Hans and Sana and Gitti are established almost immediately, and the world of success represented by this couple is incredibly appealing to Chris. Lines are drawn, and they seem to exclude Gitti altogether.

Liars sit in chairs.

Gitti’s final salvo is a bit of a mystery – I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, or what we’re expected to think throughout the sequence. Is it clear to Gitti and Chris equally that they are breathing? From my perspective, I was somewhat shocked by Chris’ behavior. But with every patient second during that final scene we begin to wonder what we have come to know about these two characters. When we are finally given a hint as to what the nature of this particular reconciliation is, the film is over. Mercifully, in some respects.

Revanche opens with the reflection of a forest in a pond, the trees pointing to the bottom of the frame, and it’s here that the story starts and ends. It begins in the dark, something drops into the water and the concentric circles agonizingly meander outward until they are gone and the water is still again. What’s astonishing to me about this film is how it starts upside down, intentionally cliched in nearly ever way, so much that the first thirty minutes (with exception of the golf scene, which seems awkwardly placed) foretell not an ounce of where the story ultimately heads.

And yet nothing is presented as a ‘twist’ or significant shift in tone (though there is a definite shift upward, literally: the trees pointing upward); rather, everything builds upon what comes before and is logical. It’s so refreshing to see a film be logical, realistic and still surprise. At the start, we meet Alex, Konecny and Ursula – Alex is a handler or flunky or something for Konecny, who owns Ursula’s contract, who just happens to be an imported Ukrainian prostitute. Alex falls for Ursula, and they enact a secret affair. This part of the film plays like a standard thriller, but as soon as they head for the countryside, filmmaker Götz Spielmann begins to play with big themes like isolation, redemption, revenge and guilt in what can only be described as a pastoral framework.

Now, where did I put my keys?

And to speak of the last third of the film is to ruin some of its most majestic moments, but there are a couple moments that deserve a little scrutiny. When a cop and his wife are arguing in their home, and the quarters are cramped and hostile (the same place the wife has just had a conversation previously about her husband’s inability to conceive with her mother following an unsuccessful and (apparently) miraculous pregnancy), they take their argument outside and suddenly they are minor players in a much bigger scene, where Alex watches them from afar. It’s a minor argument, repeated, but it sends the wife on a path the leads directly to Alex and what’s left of Ursula. At this point, in many ways, she becomes the film’s protagonist, manipulating the ex-con Alex into giving her the only thing that might give her husband a bit of solace.

It’s a surprising conclusion, if only because it lacks a degree of cynicism (and yet, how they use each another) one has come to expect from ‘thrillers’ and is actually redemptive (unlike Haneke’s The White Ribbon) in a wholly satisfying and human way. The film ultimately returns to the ripples of the pond from the start of the film, and while we do not know what it was that made such a splash in the start, we have a pretty good idea now (there are a couple options). And the distance from which we view this action, the trees pointing upward now, lacks the excruciating slowness of the beginning. After the splash, the wind blows quickly and the pond returns to normal.

Okay, so I have sort of fallen off the horse of blog updating – it was a good tool in the beginning, but as my writing spread out across multiple avenues (notebooks, mainly), it became more difficult to press on. An excuse, I know. But I’m still on target, though the quality of what I have written has declined significantly since I ran out of outline (I didn’t run out so much as drift away). I suspect this is okay, as a lot of the drivel I’ve produced over the past two weeks will have some good ideas embedded within it. And okay, when did I forget how to actually write about things that happen? Everything is so expository and dialogue (did you know North American English dictates that I spell this without the “ue”? I had no idea. Thanks, spell checker!) and meaningful action.

Anyhow, I am here to tell you for these last few days of writing, I will attempt to recommit to this. Takeaways from this years NanoWriMo: it’s really not that arduous to sit down and write every evening. And while I haven’t been as precise and meticulous about it the last two weeks, it’s still not dragging me down. I still get to do what I want after. And if I feel like writing longer, I can do that too. Amazing. Why don’t they teach that in grad school?

Also, I shall be transitioning back to infrequently written movie reviews. I just saw “Paths of Glory”, “House” and “The Secret in their Eyes” in the last week, and they’re all great and deserve prostelytization.

A fifth of the way there, I soldier on. I am a little behind, having taken the weekend off to read a book about connectivity, which is increasingly becoming the central metaphor in this book. It actually ties everything together quite brilliantly (imagine!). I had been looking to Eugene’s screed as the central metaphor, and I hope he doesn’t take umbrage at my having shifted directions slightly (no longer is it the central metaphor, but rather a symptom of connectivity). Nevertheless, without him, I don’t think my brain would have been sent down in this direction. And it’s been awhile since I’ve felt the need or compulsion to write about something a little bit prescient (dated already, because it has been acknowledged).

Here are some quotes from E.B. White about New York:
“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. …Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. ”

“New York blends the gift of privacy with the excitement of participation; and better than most dense communities it succeeds in insulating the individual (if he wants it, and almost everybody wants or needs it) against all enormous and violent and wonderful events that are taking place every minute.”

The third one there is the rub of connectivity, by the way. And he didn’t even have an iPhone. The latter part of the sentence is winning.

Random sentences:

It would not occur to him that it could have just happened. That there wasn’t enough time yet to process and put into motion all of the convention of previous life when things were not quite so connected or immediate.

The grief, such as it was (not really grief, but rather the hope for it) would come on in waves.

When Thomas came home, the missing island was indicative of an absence, but its loss was not immediately clear to him. It had been such an eyesore, such a disappointment to him, that its absence signified a momentarily disconnect with her absence; in fact, it was kind of a relief.

But even Thomas knew he was too caught up in trying to trap her, to embarrass her back into commitment; this he understood completely: their relationship was over, but what he did not understand was why and how it had come to an end, and these are the questions he pursued with the dog-eared determinedness of a police detective overcommitting to the job at the expense of everything else. I

He felt alone and confused and scared of a day when he no longer felt loss, or empathy, or devotion. “It would have to be enough,” he would say each morning. And upon leaving the bathroom, he would towel off his face, gingerly patting dry his sore eyes before turning to his legs and arms. The rest of the morning would be easy.

Okay, today’s output was a little lame. I was stepping out of the outline for what amounted to freestyle writing, of which most of it is likely nonsensical, and was becoming a little disturbing toward the end. Less of a writing bubble than yesterday, and I am looking forward to returning to that part of the story. This part I stepped into today is definitely the weak link, but it’s also the part that addresses the central part of the story most directly. Maybe that’s the problem. When in doubt, obfuscate!*

*not good writing advice

Random sentences:

The text scrolled along.

It was a continual battle against the wedge.

What a terrifying moment that would be, due to its possibility despite being entirely unreasonable.

But there was something about the increasing presence of everything ageless in his life that unnerved him deeply.

The social revolution had a status update.

(oy.)

Okay, never before expressed but here uttered: here’s what I love about writing. There’s that outrageous philosophy I first heard about in high school that knowledge falls into definable categories: (1) You Know What You Know, (2) You Know What You Don’t Know, (3) You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know. That’s it – that’s the entirety of the human experience right there. Either you know, you’re aware that you don’t, or you don’t. This was taught to us by an earnest gentleman on stage with what I remember to be red hair, but it could have been floodlights (at convocations at Cloquet Senior High, seniors and juniors got to sit in the balcony), who stated the beer tastes like piss because it’s fermented (people). Believe me, this part has stuck: beer still tastes like piss. Bourbon on the other hand tastes like old wooden houses, and big moustaches ready for twirling, or damsels tied to train tracks, or burnt toast soaked in water with smoke dancing in your skull.

But I digress: today, I stumbled into category two with force. I do know something I do not know, and hello re-orienting experience, it’s pretty good.

Random sentences:

The air was frigid, which he liked, and the walk along the park before the hustle of the day takes over was something he treasured. He would greet warmly anyone it seemed worth greeting, which was everyone.

She staggered briefly, and only after its right foot collapsed, and it tipped over onto its back, did Chris realize how small it was.

It took on an unknowable certainty: “I wouldn’t have felt it if I didn’t notice.”

Hopefully, he reasoned, he had appeared parched and irascible, the same impression he had given to everyone else on the street.

Faith was easy: it was a choice.

He admired her infinitely for this, the fact that without God, his goodness was just the same – Chris, nee, Christian’s goodness – was that of a wallflower to which the whole question of faith was an incendiary: was he just as good, just as kind and loving, as her without the very reason for His kindness and/or Goodness?

And there was no irony whatosever he could detect in the fullness of his feeling. It was insanely pure and good, and it gave his faith a reassurance he could not find elsewhere, in intellect or reason because it was simply full and wonderful.

Okay, so that wasn’t that bad. It didn’t go as quickly as yesterday, but it also wasn’t as dense. I felt myself letting up a little and loosening the reins. More dialogue today, which is relief. It’s nice to have people talk – structure becomes less of a constraint and you get a little more breathing room. I was kind of hoping to get around 4,000 words total today, but as of right now I am just too distracted by the election. It’s difficult to get into a scene when you’re obsessively refreshing the New York Times. How is it people’s memories are so short?

I’ll probably write a little more tonight, and maybe get the fancy ajax counter set up. There’s just so much you can say about the current state of a grocery store in New York fuckin’ City.

Random sentences:

They have no marketing!

Any Joe would do, she insisted, it was just that the lines were a little more bearable at this one.

“On the bright side, I cannot believe this granola is so cheap. And let’s see, if I make $150 an hour, that makes it cost just $103.45. I guess it has dried cranberries.”

It occurred to her that the significance of his retracing her route through the store was likely a sentimental calculation on his part, to show how similar they were even though they had drifted apart.

Random sentences:

The art was an abstraction; that part was easy for him.

This was not the thing she desired above anything else, rather it was a concession, but to what she did not understand except to accept the tumultuous unravelling of her emotion, the inability to precisely say what she meant, or more precisely, what she wanted.

(except to accept, ew!!!)

He would value in his work a promise of ability, or desire, like a freighter coming into the harbor with a singular destination, he misunderstood – principally – the difference between a finale and destruction.

(say what?!)

Fear not, I will make some kind of pretty ajax counter to keep track of this countdown. But not today! Not today!

I went through a period last year when I attempted to find the perfect writing solution. I desperately flailed from program to program, from Open Office to Microsoft Word, Ulysses (I liked the name), Write Room and even a alpha release of OmmWriter that crashed so bad my only recourse was to take a picture of the computer screen with my cell phone and retype it as best I could.

For the last NanoWriMo, I eventually settled on Scrivener. (My choice for templated writing remains CeltX, which is an incredible alternative to the likes of Final Draft.) The best part of Scrivener is that a huge release is right around the corner (November 1st, a preview for NanoWriMo is available here. A relatively unstable beta of the upcoming Windows version is available here as well — and okay, that’s not the best part: the best part is the outlining, and the index cards, and the ability to x-furcate your work into manageable pieces that will magically compile at the end of an arduous process).

My writing has since been more productive, albeit I have been looking for another excuse to distract myself from productivity. For awhile it was the chair. (I settled on a balans, designed by Norwegian Peter Opscik in 1976, now produced by Varier).

Balans.

Scrivener 2.0 is going to be great. It syncs to a directory of your choosing, which allows you to easily sync to your Dropbox. This will allow you to maintain an updated version across computers, and even update on the fly via your no-doubt several i-or-A-Devices and sync the changes right back into your original document. This is an extremely powerful feature that would be heightened by something like iA Writer for the iPad (I don’t have one yet). But even PlainText for the iDevice will sync back to your Dropbox and allow you annotate, update ideas or even update your base text on the fly.

Sometimes I find my obsessive nature regarding technology and writing to be a hindrance (no, really). But I am also looking for new ways to get my ideas down, so that I can hold onto that fleeting moment where I know I have something. This has been a progressive attenuation of options and pathways toward productivity, and I am sure when I enthusiastically declare to my friends that they can use Scrivener and Dropbox and Plaintext and it will all make them more productive, I look a little foolish when I haven’t been insanely productive myself, but hey – these things take time. We were told in our orientation at Sarah Lawrence that “Writers often peak when they’re older.” Ahem. I’m thirty. What, that’s not enough?

Okay, so I am upending my blog for the month of November, because I have decided to try to do NanoWriMo again. Last year, I think my half-hearted attempt led to about 45 aimless, frustrating pages about politics in Minnesota in Fall of 2002. It’s a project I haven’t touched since last November I think.

The difference this time is that I think I have a really good idea, and I am going to marshall the resources of my blog to maintain momentum. I think I’ll even use Twitter (which is still stupid). But as you can see, with this oncoming sea change, I’ve decided to hit my blog over the head with a hammer and move things around and add some rounded corners, because everyone knows that rounded corners are an important component of websites this day & age.

I am not sure what I will write about my writing, except that I am going to try and put a little something on here every day to gauge where I am and what I have done. And of course, some kind of word counting widget because I am really taking this seriously, seriously?.

The cool thing about this theme is that there’s a lot of room to play around in it, and I fully expect post November and even running up to it a little that I will try to write about things I watch. It’s an important writing exercise, and one that I have failed at ever since Eugene & I went to Minnesota. This was a very good trip, and with the stress and alarming ridiculousness of work lately, I have been thinking back on what a good time it was. Sure, there were a few moments of despair: the feeling of getting flanked by mosquitoes every night, the frustration of the first few moments we set into Gunflint Lake to paddle, with the wind whipping across the lake, pulling our canoe in the opposite direction as we attempted to right our way. But all in all, it was hard work and we made it, and even though the part of the Boundary Waters we were moving through was mostly burned down recently, even the spareness of the landscape was comforting.

Here is a picture of our route, which I know is duplicated from just two posts ago, but I’ve overlaid in four separate colors the route we took. I am not sure of the exact portages, as I know we missed a couple here and there and probably took a couple we hadn’t originally planned on, but for the most part we were able to navigate and know where it was we were. I finally felt like I got to relax a little there, and the past two months I have been thinking about it, and hagiographing moments where we worked together, paddled along, and didn’t flip the canoe over (I did that part on my own).

Our route: we started on the lower right, in Gunflint Lake. Midway through the second day, we began to fantasize about ice water and fresh lemonade. On our way out, in Grand Marais, we ate at a fish stand and the ice cubes did not disappoint. Nor did the Root Beer Lady.