NY Film Escapades & Dreams

On June 25th 2016, I took a 29 hour escapade to New York city to see three movies, of which I was only able to see two due to timing and poor planning on my part: “Citizen Kane” (1941) at the Museum of Moving Image in Queens, and “The Puppetmaster” (1993) at the Museum of Modern Art • Film Center in Manhattan.

The following is a relatively chronological ordering of my thoughts.

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• Where on earth am I?
• Oh right, I’ve been on a bus for a bit over 3 hours, with a mild hangover. (I’m getting old.) 

• There’s something rather ironic about corporations endorsing #Pride when you consider the historical precedence decades before… but I digress. I need coffee, stat. 

• Thank fucking god for good coffee. New York, you’re not disappointing on the caffeine.

• Daily itinerary. Plus #DelawhereDuck. I hope I can see all three movies.
• There’s something about the mugginess and unapologetic grime of New York subways that makes me feel like I’m in the arteries and veins of a giant, breathing, metropolitan beast.
• There’s something oddly disconcerting and ironic to see advertisements for “Mr. Robot” while purchasing NY-MTA tickets. Just a bit ironic. And disconcerting. (A wee bit.)
• I’m quite good at this “make absolutely no eye contact” business. Is this my natural state of being? 

• You had me at Doughnut Plant.
• “Are you ok?” – that’s unexpected, a local asked me if I was ok. (Yes I am, thank you for asking!) Is my limp/ankle injury that bad?
• Central Park – quite fun to wander around without a sense of direction, plus seeing a troupe of LGBT parade walkers practicing is fun.
• Hot damn these squirrels have zero fucks to give.
• Shit I’m late.
• Shit where’s the subway station.
• Shit wrong way.
• Shit there’s some weird weekend schedule.
• Shit my ankle is screaming bloody hell but I don’t care I need to get my ass to MoMI.
• Queens is cool, but can’t dilly-dally – running late.
• Shit I’ve missed Bordwell’s talk. Quite sad about this.
• MoMI employees just gave me a free ticket to watch “Citizen Kane’ because I probably looked like a bit too pathetic to turn away. Thanks guy!

• Beautiful theater – loving the blue interior with the patterns. 
• Rosebud. (Finally watched it!… minus missing about 10-15 minutes, oops.)
• If Orson Welles can make “Citizen Kane” on equipment 100x the size of my phone, there is absolutely no excuse for poor filmmaking on my part.
• Super shit I’m running late to MoMA. 

• Well yes advertisement you have caught my attention.
• Shit where am I – oh thank goodness for helpful samaritans. (Back in Manhattan.)
• Run-limp-hobbling my way to MoMA film.
• My cardio is shit.
• My ankle is shit.
• Getting old is shit.
• MoMA film people giving me some attitude but whatever I already pre-paid for “The Puppetmaster” and I am GOING TO SEE IT SIR.
• Many escalators.
• I’ll pee after the movie.
• Shit I missed 20 minutes.
• My screaming ankle is totally worth the movie.
• This movie is like a dream – I’d even argue it’s more real than “real life” these days.
• Mark Lee Ping Bing is a master cinematographer. I’m so glad I got to watch at least one movie in this MoMA Film series, seriously.
• “The Puppetmaster” reminds me so much of Bà Ngoại. I miss her.
• Am I crying?
• I’m actually crying. 

• What a great movie.
• Why is the line for the bathroom so long.
• Well like hell I’m going to be able to make the 7:10 showing of “Three.” I’ll see it later.
• I’m hungry.
• Ramen time.
• My phone is about to die – time to mooch off of Starbucks outlets.
• I really should get a battery pack given how much I travel.
• Time to walk through Times Square.
• I just want into a standing cart. The vendor gave me a look that was mixed with bemusement and sympathy. I’m an idiot. (And I probably have a giant bruise on my left bicep.) 

• Watching Copa America: USA vs. Colombia in Times Square. Not too bad.
• There’s something disconcertingly capitalistic about Times Square that makes me feel very, very alone… in a good way, I mean. 

• There’s something even more disconcerting at being so aware as to when Times Square begins and ends. The juxtaposition is quite jarring.
• I’m thirsty. More drinks please.
• Last stop on the subway. 

• Hello “New Yorker” building.
• Back home we go, and back to dreams.

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The movie theater is my home – my home of dreams, imagination, and memories. While they may expire at some point in the future, at least I can revisit them in the remaining time that I have.

A Broth of Both

It’s my third time back in Vietnam and things have changed in the four year gap since I last visited. By the looks of it, helmets for scooters are now mandatory; old school J-walking gets you a ticket; there are more cars than ever as failing corporations try to salvage their remaining investments in developing countries, resulting in increased congestion in a country heavily designed with French infrastructure; Xe xích lô’s are now considered antiquities instead of classic transportation; buildings are being being torn down and rebuilt into sleek, modern buildings catering to Western tourists; foreign letterings and shops are becoming more prevalent, from 日本語 to Français to 한국어/조선말 and unsurprisingly, English. 

At the same time, things haven’t changed so much. Street vendors flood the streets with offerings from nước mía to cơm tấm; the streets are as amazingly chaotic as they ever were; the monsoon season is as brutally rapid and transient as before; people are still going about their lives per usual. In lieu of everything that has happened, everyone is living about their business regardless. 

Of all the things possible, this third trip reestablishes why I’ll never be fully accepted in either Eastern or Western culture by default of my own heritage and environment that I grew up in. 

My Vietnamese is rubbish – comparatively so. Listening and reading skills have improved and writing abilities are slowly inching upwards, but otherwise I tend to grunt tacit responses to questions, and by all means I know it’s bejeweled with a terrible accent. And it’s not my Vietnamese that makes me stand out – it’s my physical appearance too. I’m taller, stronger built, and my clothes are distinctly different than what the locals wear. 

But I’m Vietnamese too, a foreigner from abroad that shares the same ethnic roots with everyone here. This sets me completely aside from all other visitors and tourists who are distinctly non-Vietnamese (Americans, Englishmen, Germans, Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, the lot). I’m something else, a mixture of person fortunate enough to travel and someone who stems from the same bloodline of everyone here; I’m a amalgam of Eastern and Western hemispheres, a product of the Fall of Saigon in 1975, a somebody who’ll continuously bounce back and forth between two distinctly different cultures for the rest of my life. 

Is it a curse or a blessing? I’m more inclined to believe the latter, but realistically it’s a broth of both. Simultaneously I’ll be blessed to understand both schools of thought and cursed to never fully fit into either. It’s not a bad or good thing – it’s just reality. And who am I to blame my birthright for this condition? 

I live up to it – hell I embrace it. This is my life, and I’m grateful for it. 

It means that I’m lucky enough to be born into a life filled with endless support and love from family and friends; that I can empathize and sympathize with people from both culture hemispheres; that I have the sensitivity for culture humility and respecting differences; that I’m able to appreciate and learn from both Eastern and Western realms of thought, and perhaps have a distinct outlook unique to conventional ideas. 

It also means I’m unlucky to constantly experience misunderstandings, prejudices and self-mediated racism between both hemispheres; that regardless of my capabilities I’ll still be shunned in some form or a way either for my mispronunciation, my skin color, my background, my name or so on; that I’ll have a harder time finding a sense of community that doesn’t relinquish my own idiosyncrasies and feelings regarding my own heritage and upbringing. 

This is reality. It’s neither hot nor cold, good nor bad, happy nor sad – it’s pretty boringly lukewarm, in fact. But probably the best part of it all? 

I get to appreciate both the deliciousness of a breakfast croissant and a lunchtime bowl of steaming phở. So time to get on with life and love it for all its lukewarm brothiness – and I plan to live up to it well. 

Breaking Out of Suburbia

I have a confession: productivity was incredibly low post-Toy Story 3 writing. 

I thought long and hard for a good thirty seconds before realizing there was little to write about. I’d spent the entire weekend thinking about Pixar’s recent feat, taking notes on its production and laying out what I wanted to write and argue for. Beyond that I had nothing to muse or chew on. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Nil. 

And then it dawned on me – I had not bounced ideas for a few days. I’d been in the confines of my childhood home, back in the comfort of the suburbia I grew up in. It’s sunny, peaceful, quiet, clean, comfortable – the sort of environment old retirees love and aspiring minds suffocate in. 

Everyone drives everywhere here. The city is flat and spread out, a perfect example of urban sprawl. Bus lines exist, but most of its riders are from beyond the city limits. To the city’s credit, I’m seeing more people strolling and biking about than I remembered growing up, though perhaps there’s the possibility I wasn’t as observant before. 

Walking anywhere seems tedious and boring. The same old houses, the same old streets lined with pristine fences and walls, the same old look of a city planner who actively tries to hide the desert roots of the environment with imported grass and eucalyptus trees that barely mask the dry heat of the day. It’s all pretty looking – unnaturally in a sense, but pretty enough for those who enjoy it. 

These days, I spent most of the time in a place the complete opposite of here, this suburbia. I’m spoiled with people who enjoy mental dissonance as much as I do, who are willing to break comfort in pursuit of something well beyond the norm – progressive thought. The people are open to the idea of something different, enamored with it even. Everyone bikes and walks around, everything is within strolling difference, and wandering around will lead you to another hidden niche or gem. Sometimes it becomes overwhelming, caught up in so many ideas and thoughts and postulates – a mental overload in which I can’t chose between what I want to think about. 

So to be back here, back in the nostalgic familiarity of a environment – it’s always a bit strange. Old habits seep in, old memories play back, old friends are still here, and after awhile I can easily rescind back into the comfort of not thinking and simply relaxing aimlessly. 

It’s a narcotic-like state that’s hard to break, the resultant urban sprawl from a city planning dedicated to suburban perfection: a place devoid of cultural personality by insistence to adhere to a white white paint as opposed to a yellow white hue; churches claiming right to the true Jesus every few blocks, hoping to save as many sorry souls from the damnations of hell; the comfort of cleanliness due to hired out-of-town, hard-working first generation Mexicans who fulfill the city’s pruning and primping needs without so much a whine or whimper, ample and skilled at what they do to make a living and get by; the countless shopping plazas designed to keep every housewife happy with grocery stores and nail spas – it’s enough to deter anyone from trying to go beyond the sureness of career goals, enough to propel the restless into unwise rebellion, enough to break the greenest and most daring minds into submission after years of suffocating conformity. 

After awhile, this kind of environment makes you want to not think, to not challenge what is already in place. You want to, but somehow you can’t; your mind gets fuddled and fuzzled with the prospects of comfort, a reassurance of what has already been established and proven by those before you. It becomes intoxicating, a environmental temptation to simply stop fighting and just flow back into confines of safety and compliance. 

Of course, I have the gift of retrospect to get out of this rut – though unfortunately not in time to brainstorm something more interesting than the effects of urban sprawl. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hometown: it’s bittersweet, of course, from a mixture of childhood ventures filled with curiosity and happiness contrasted with teenage years filled with broiled resentment against the stifling effects of cookie-cutter mentality. I suppose that’s how it all goes, though, for those of us privileged enough to leave and return to our respective hometowns. 

But to return after the thrills of travel and experience, of seeing things beyond previously fathomed – it’s tough. Dealing with such differences in environment and remaining true to yourself as you’ve now progressed thus far – it’s not only difficult, it’s possible to relapse into old habits of thought, behavior and action. This is the real challenge so many have to overcome as a result of urban sprawl, to look it in the face and relinquish its gratifying rewards of cozy repose at the cost of mental stagnation. 

There’s a certain loneliness to dispelling comfort in the name of thought. But honestly, it makes it all the more worthwhile when after a series of bouncing ideas internally and externally, you eventually come up with something to say, even if it’s just a little bit. 

So thanks for the offer, suburbia, but I’ll keep breaking mold regardless.

Anthony Bourdain - World Citizen

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness – Mark Twain. 

Anthony Bourdain is one hell of a guy. 

Bone marrow, testicles, eyeballs, beating hearts – this is man who spits in the face of culinary reserve, a distinct individual who is unpretentious about what he likes or dislikes and wholly willing to look beyond preconceived notions. A classic world citizen. A revolutionary. 

Most travel hosts put on an act of advertisement. They go to a place, brief over some facts, find a glitzy place and bam – a show. And that’s what it is: a glossed over, boxed up product devoid of intellect or cultural empathy. Past their smiles and peppy personas and happy airs they are salesmen, milking money from human restlessness to traverse. They want you to go “oooo” and “aaah” and “woww” at their clipped version of life; they want you go desire something beyond what you already have, to escape to their white bread version of travel and culture. 

Not Bourdain. He grimaces, swears, smokes, drinks, insults without hesitation. He’s imperfect, flawed and unwilling to pretend otherwise. Comfort reserve is a foreign idea, and that’s what makes his show exceptional – the complete lack of ethnocentrism. 

When “No Reservations” first broadcasted in 2005, there was something immediately different about his presentation. Bourdain was the host, but he wasn’t the focus: the scenery, the people, the culture, and by God the cuisine – it’s shamelessly food porn, cinematography and all. Ingredients, preparation, technique – absolute desire. Scrumptious. Delicious. 

“No Reservations” is more of a documentary than a travel show. Bourdain makes no pretense of how he feels or who he is, something that so many travel hosts avoid. The “wow’!” and “amazing!” and “yum-o!” and “how bizarre!” – they’re nowhere to be uttered. He’s self-referential, self-aware of his own knowledge and lack thereof. 

Most importantly, he plays by the rules of the areas he visits. Breaking away from all comfort and familiarity, Bourdain dives into the heart of cultures: without the self-delusion of “exterior wisdom” he goes straight to what is true of the places he traverses to, to learn and narrate to us what is beyond our own notions of opulence. 

This is not a show – it’s an education, a grand execution in presentation and production, an unflinching look into normality that is specific to every culture and its respective history. 

It’s the kind of mentality that I, as an ethnic minority, can’t welcome enough. 

More than once I’ve encountered peers who express shock or disbelief at certain habits or tastes of mine. No shoes in the house? Different ways of preparing tofu? You don’t refer to parents by their first name? Sticky green rice and mung bean? Gigantic bowls of phở with meat bits and red with Sriracha chili sauce? Blasphemy! they’d say, or What the hell is that?!

It’s all fun and games, but when it comes to traveling and depicting different cultures, it’s this sort of reservation that renders international locales into caricatures, exotic freak shows that lure the otherwise apprehensive white bread loving individuals fortunate enough to even travel. By presenting what is normal and empathetic to others as something “bizarre” or “exotic,” the final product is invariably ethnocentric and shallow. 

I don’t watch Andrew Zimmern’s “Bizarre Foods” for this reason. The name and premise are big ethnocentric billboards, tag lines to entrance viewers into watching a “freak show” of ethnic cuisines and practices. Maybe he’s just trying to get viewers, maybe he’s just trying to make a name for himself, maybe he’s just trying to present different cultures with a different style – regardless, I can’t support a show that posits itself on such terms. 

Bourdain and his production team shares my sentiments, and it shows very clearly in how everything is shot and focused on. Bourdain is a narrator, a familiar voice that we come back to as the camera captures scenes of passing cars, working locals, colors of flora – a portrait of what we are unfamiliar with. The people, neighborhoods, cuisine – these are the stars of the show. In a sea of culture, history and emotions, Bourdain is no disconnected commentator nor guffawing, baffled visitor who “knows better” – he’s human, a individual who understands that these are people’s lives he’s presenting, that they too have incredibly human stories to tell and share. 

So toss out your nutrition labels and calories, your paved roads and air conditioning, your shopping plazas and towering malls, your PETA and McDonalds – in order to see beyond the familiar, you have to willingly disconnect yourself from the familiarity – the breaking point of ethnocentrism and gateway to world citizenship. It is the ultimate awakening to a greater understanding of our own mortal and universal condition of being human. 

Bravo, Mr. Bourdain, bravo. I’m sure you’ve Mark Twain quite a run for his money.