Yesterday I had an odd run. I didn't feel all that well and the knee that I stupidly smashed up this summer was feeling a little tighter than it has in the last few weeks. I wasn't going more than five miles and I was on one of my stock runs (from work up into Central Park, turning around at the garbage pickup spot along the bridle path). The weather wasn't even very notable: just a nearly setting sun and cool but not cool enough to be invigorating. I consciously started out slower to try to let the knee loosen naturally, I don't very much like to run slow. It was one of those runs that seemed to exist solely to provide me and excuse to write down "4.5" and "C-" on my paper.(1)
But then about a mile into the run something happened. My legs started behaving as though they belonged to someone else. They just loosened up and felt instantly more powerful. I was running high and picking up my feet with no effort. I honestly had to deliberately slow myself down because I didn't trust this sudden feeling of power.
It doesn't happen often but it happens often enough. The sensation of your brain being disconnected from your legs, of your legs taking over and dominating, dragging you along for the ride, is completely sublime. I won't say it's why I run in the first place, but it is definitely one of the reasons I run now as a 28 year old likely past the point of ever seriously racing again. It's maybe the one thing more than any other that addicts me to running.
I saw Chariots of Fire for the first time maybe a little more than a year ago. It was an ok movie but nothing really special and nothing that terribly inspired me to want to run any more than another movie. But it did have the single best explanation of running that I've ever heard. A woman (she's a singer) is talking about how she loves singing, and asks her companion, one of the main protagonists of the film, if he also loves running. He responds: "I'm more of an addict."
This is it. This strikes to the very heart of the relationship a runner has with his avocation.
Sure I like running a lot, but I'm more of an addict. I don't love it. There are those primal physical responses my body gives me that force me back to the sidewalks and the dirt paths, cause me to cross through levels of pain and discomfort in a curious but faithful attempt to reproduce the magic. Not to aggrandize the effect, but it can't be altogether different from a coke-head's mindless pursuit of another snort; no matter how many bad hits he suffers, he keeps clawing back.
I suppose there are some people who love running, that not everyone must be like me. But I have known enough over the years to suspect that in fact the connection many have is less emotional and more psychological and of course physical.
1. Yes, I keep a log. No, it is not much at all like the kind you see a recreational marathoner or a serious collegian keeping. I used Excel to print out three months' worth of calendar per printed page. Each day's box is just big enough to fit in a notation for the run's length, the letter grade I give to it, whether I worked out at all that day, whether I did leg exercises, and whether I did abdominal exercises. The best day possible, would contain these notes started from the top left and going clockwise around the square (assuming a six mile run): 6, A, A, L, W. It's a quick way for me to keep track of my fitness and of course an easy way to stay focused on being fit. I devised this system back at the turn of the year and made up calendar blocks for the whole year, but only followed along for about the first four months, before restarting with it in September.In five-plus months of logging runs, I've never given a run a grade of A. I've only ever given made two or three A minuses. I've also never given any Fs either. Until I get into better shape, the good- or badness of my runs is still rather limited.
Showing posts with label RUNNING. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RUNNING. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
A Nice Run
(As promised, here I am going to talk briefly about something nice.)
A city as big and populated and well-known as New York, so much so that a lot of its imagery is little more than cliche at this point, can still amaze. I'm going to say thank you now to Red Hook for giving me something different to see, and doing it so close by.
Yesterday I started a run near dusk, planning to head toward the harbor waterfront and then south into Red Hook for a little bit, then return home. I did this, sorta, only my mind was in just the right place so I got swept up in the sights and I went farther than expected. A lot of times when running I glaze over and simply cover the appointed ground, but sometimes my eyes are wide and my course is spontaneous and any turn can be exploratory.
I ran south as close as you can get to the water (which, until you've gotten through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens and into Red Hook, is not that close. Good-sized chunks of land that look no better than parking lots separate the road from the water) until starting to zig-zag westward until coming onto Imlay Street. This is a very unattractive street but in my state it was so barren and desolate that it became fascinating. The very long continuous warehouse running along the west side of the street for a while impressed me. In my horribly gentrified way, I wondered what it would be like to live there, turning one of the upper floors into a huge flat. Think of the sunsets, at least.
Continuing south and west as the darkness started to come in earnest, I think I had a little sense of freedom, the kind a city-dweller gets when confronted with openness or aloneness for the first time in a long while, just running along the blocks, seeing no one, warehouse after factory passing empty and quiet, the sidewalks getting rougher, Brooklyn seeming to keep jutting farther and farther into the still-unseen water. What must it be like to spend parts of your day or even your life in that corner of the borough, so obviously unlike so much that surrounds it (what's the antonym of aloof?). Does any of that industrial footprint see honest use anymore? I finally took a right turn on Wolcott Street and got very near to the water next to what might be a Snapple factory. There was a chain link fence that I stopped and stared through just about 15 feet from the powerful water. I was standing just across a narrow channel of harbor from the bottom end of Governor's Island, so the currents were fairly imposing, almost as much as the large sharp rocks lining both shores. This is not some place I'd want to take a swim. And yet the scene was at the same time very peaceful, and the view was certainly stunning. Straight north up the channel was a perfectly framed image of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. And out across the harbor, with little Governor's Island acting as a shield, whatever quicker pace might be represented by downtown Manhattan was totally drowned out and spread thin and wide across the entire harbor, absorbing itself into the shores of Jersey and Staten Island.
Finally I turned from my trance and for the first time on the run, headed away from the water. I was close to the bottom of Red Hook and decided to keep following the curve of land, into more and more desolate surroundings, which is why it was so odd to see, on Van Dyke Street, a very small sign and driveway (yes, a driveway) leading off to a place selling key lime pies. Maybe they're imported pies from Europe, I don't know. Straight off the boat, you know.
A few blocks further, near the corner of Conover and Reed, after having not seen another human for probably ten minutes, I improbably came upon a youngish woman carrying grocery bags. To my shock, I discovered a full-size Fairway market around the corner of Reed Street. With a full-sized suburban parking lot and everything.
Just a block or more away from the Fairway, on the other side of yet another big long warehouse on a pier, there was an inlet coming right up to an open chain-link fence that offered me a clear view of the waterfront scene. In the deepening dark and stagnant water it was entirely decrepit except for the odd sight of perhaps ten large and expensive-looking private boats. Like a marina in Connecticut, only amidst the Red Hook wasteland.
At this point, I was just a block or two away from having the whole scene open up thanks to the brightness of Ikea. Here though I made yet another surprising discovery: Ikea did an amazing job of revitalizing the waterfront behind their massive store. There is grass and a little waterfront parkways for walking or biking or whatever. They even left the massive docking machinery on the long skinny piers (hell, it may even still be in use). I ran and weaved my way along the water all the way to Columbia Street, stopping once to be almost confused by the low buildings out a few hundred meters across the water. I knew it was too close to be the rest of Brooklyn, but it seemed way too far away to be a pier. Lo and behold, after I got home and checked a map, but there is a huge hook-shaped pier at the bottom of Red Hook. It was too dark for me to tell if the pier was itself red, but I'd like to think that it must be.
Anyhow, I meandered home along a more familiar route, enjoying the cool air of early fall, even if that air conspired with my warm sweaty body to chafe my nipples. The point is that I spent maybe 45 minutes and traveled no farther than about 1.5 miles (as the crow flies) from my apartment, and yet I was able to feel like a little kid exploring new places.
This is a thing that I'm sure most New Yorkers take for granted. Our city houses 8 million people, and has been crowded for many many years. So there are experiences--both to be had to be remembered--all around in every corner of every neighborhood on every foot of land. You just can't get that in many places.
So thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks Red Hook.
A city as big and populated and well-known as New York, so much so that a lot of its imagery is little more than cliche at this point, can still amaze. I'm going to say thank you now to Red Hook for giving me something different to see, and doing it so close by.
Yesterday I started a run near dusk, planning to head toward the harbor waterfront and then south into Red Hook for a little bit, then return home. I did this, sorta, only my mind was in just the right place so I got swept up in the sights and I went farther than expected. A lot of times when running I glaze over and simply cover the appointed ground, but sometimes my eyes are wide and my course is spontaneous and any turn can be exploratory.
I ran south as close as you can get to the water (which, until you've gotten through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens and into Red Hook, is not that close. Good-sized chunks of land that look no better than parking lots separate the road from the water) until starting to zig-zag westward until coming onto Imlay Street. This is a very unattractive street but in my state it was so barren and desolate that it became fascinating. The very long continuous warehouse running along the west side of the street for a while impressed me. In my horribly gentrified way, I wondered what it would be like to live there, turning one of the upper floors into a huge flat. Think of the sunsets, at least.
Continuing south and west as the darkness started to come in earnest, I think I had a little sense of freedom, the kind a city-dweller gets when confronted with openness or aloneness for the first time in a long while, just running along the blocks, seeing no one, warehouse after factory passing empty and quiet, the sidewalks getting rougher, Brooklyn seeming to keep jutting farther and farther into the still-unseen water. What must it be like to spend parts of your day or even your life in that corner of the borough, so obviously unlike so much that surrounds it (what's the antonym of aloof?). Does any of that industrial footprint see honest use anymore? I finally took a right turn on Wolcott Street and got very near to the water next to what might be a Snapple factory. There was a chain link fence that I stopped and stared through just about 15 feet from the powerful water. I was standing just across a narrow channel of harbor from the bottom end of Governor's Island, so the currents were fairly imposing, almost as much as the large sharp rocks lining both shores. This is not some place I'd want to take a swim. And yet the scene was at the same time very peaceful, and the view was certainly stunning. Straight north up the channel was a perfectly framed image of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. And out across the harbor, with little Governor's Island acting as a shield, whatever quicker pace might be represented by downtown Manhattan was totally drowned out and spread thin and wide across the entire harbor, absorbing itself into the shores of Jersey and Staten Island.
Finally I turned from my trance and for the first time on the run, headed away from the water. I was close to the bottom of Red Hook and decided to keep following the curve of land, into more and more desolate surroundings, which is why it was so odd to see, on Van Dyke Street, a very small sign and driveway (yes, a driveway) leading off to a place selling key lime pies. Maybe they're imported pies from Europe, I don't know. Straight off the boat, you know.
A few blocks further, near the corner of Conover and Reed, after having not seen another human for probably ten minutes, I improbably came upon a youngish woman carrying grocery bags. To my shock, I discovered a full-size Fairway market around the corner of Reed Street. With a full-sized suburban parking lot and everything.
Just a block or more away from the Fairway, on the other side of yet another big long warehouse on a pier, there was an inlet coming right up to an open chain-link fence that offered me a clear view of the waterfront scene. In the deepening dark and stagnant water it was entirely decrepit except for the odd sight of perhaps ten large and expensive-looking private boats. Like a marina in Connecticut, only amidst the Red Hook wasteland.
At this point, I was just a block or two away from having the whole scene open up thanks to the brightness of Ikea. Here though I made yet another surprising discovery: Ikea did an amazing job of revitalizing the waterfront behind their massive store. There is grass and a little waterfront parkways for walking or biking or whatever. They even left the massive docking machinery on the long skinny piers (hell, it may even still be in use). I ran and weaved my way along the water all the way to Columbia Street, stopping once to be almost confused by the low buildings out a few hundred meters across the water. I knew it was too close to be the rest of Brooklyn, but it seemed way too far away to be a pier. Lo and behold, after I got home and checked a map, but there is a huge hook-shaped pier at the bottom of Red Hook. It was too dark for me to tell if the pier was itself red, but I'd like to think that it must be.
Anyhow, I meandered home along a more familiar route, enjoying the cool air of early fall, even if that air conspired with my warm sweaty body to chafe my nipples. The point is that I spent maybe 45 minutes and traveled no farther than about 1.5 miles (as the crow flies) from my apartment, and yet I was able to feel like a little kid exploring new places.
This is a thing that I'm sure most New Yorkers take for granted. Our city houses 8 million people, and has been crowded for many many years. So there are experiences--both to be had to be remembered--all around in every corner of every neighborhood on every foot of land. You just can't get that in many places.
So thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks Red Hook.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Re-Dedication, for real
A little more than a week ago, someone ran away from me in Central Park.
No, I was not wearing my rapist costume, aka my normal wardrobe. Nor was a offering children candy. I was running. And--here is where it becomes noteworthy--so was the other person.
My first year living in the city (2003+), I didn't have much money or many friends, so I didn't have as much to keep me from running more often. Also, I was closer to my competitive days and so naturally a little more plugged into it. Almost always I ran in Central Park. Two things used to constantly impress me: how many people seemed to run in NYC, and how slow they all were. For the latter, I should really say, how no one I ever saw was fast. Of the many many runners I encountered in the park, they were all no better than recreational, even the competitive-looking ones were past their prime (so was I, really). After a few months, I noticed that no one ever passed me in the park, or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean literally, I was never passed in the park. So after I made that observation, I would think about it and occasionally look around wondering if someone would pass me that day. It never happened. I remember one or two instances where I saw someone approaching fast from a tributary path and I upped my pace just slightly, enough to stay ahead of him. The streak continued. There were two other notable instances I remember clearly: one where a guy was certainly running faster than me, only he was going in the opposite direction so I didn't have to count it, and another where a woman was doing some kind of interval work around the reservoir and I popped up onto the loop just after her and she moved on ahead faster than me (I did pass her eventually, after she reached the end of her repeat and stopped to walk).
I can't remember exactly how long it was (at least a year) before someone finally passed me running in NYC, but it happened, though it remains to this day an exceedingly rare event.
But it happened last week. What makes it different is that the guy wasn't running fast and he didn't look fast. He was a gangly almost awkward dude running maybe 6:40 pace. Now, to be fair to myself, he passed me just after my turnaround point, before I had gotten back up to speed, and after he got ahead he didn't continue to make ground on me very much. The fact remains that he did pass me and he was running faster than me, maybe by about 12sec per mile. (Let's also make note that six-plus years ago, the phrase "before I had gotten back up to speed" never applied. I used to jump over three-foot solid barriers at high speed while barely breaking stride, for crying out loud.)
When I was running competitively in college, our long slow runs would check in around 6:40 pace. Sometimes a touch slower or faster, but that was the guideline. If, as often happened, I was running on an unmeasured route, I'd just divide the time by 6:40 to get the distance. So 6:40 was about the upper bound on my pace then (I only really got as high as 7:00 either in the dead winter or for the morning portion of a two-a-day). The lower bound for what I could still call a casual, easy pace would have been probably 6:00. 6:00 was a kinda quick pace, even for somewhat shorter runs, and even for my fellow college runners, but my body was pretty well suited for hitting a higher-tempo at a minimum effort, and I only sometimes clipped along at that pace for easy runs. (I gave this advantage back by being both an inconsistent racer and not having quite the distance threshhold of others.) Anyway, you could safely call anything between 6:15 and 6:40 my "effortless" pace.
The curious thing that I noticed in the first couple years post-competitive was that my effortless pace didn't really slow down any. Instead, all of my fitness seemed to be disappearing on the distance side of the equation. In fact, this continuance of ability to hold a quick easy pace stuck with me at least for a few years into my NYC residence. I noticed that after I'd have a little lay-off, or several weeks of very low volume, I would be able to come back and produce a 6ish mile run at my old easy pace of 6:40. I would struggle with slightly longer runs, and my "effortless" pace didn't dip much if at all below 6:40 like the good old days, but I could still roll.
So then as time passed and I continued to run with lots of inconsistency and little volume, my easy pace started to become 6:40-6:50, and then 6:40-7:00, and my ability to crank out 6 milers at that speed started to become inconsistent. Sure I could still do it often enough, but not every time, at least not with minimum effort.
Here we are now then, in 2009, almost exactly eight years since my last track race, and 7.5 years since my last competitive race, period. Now my easy pace is more like 7:00, with the random dip into the 6:40 range. I still have the uncanny ability to produce 6 mile runs in 6:40 pace with almost no effort, but those days are becoming less and less likely. A standard run for me now is 5 miles at just under 7:00 pace with some fatigue hitting after 3.5 miles or so. Half the time I run farther or faster or with less fatigue, half the time not. And every once in a while I get passed by a random guy.
What I'm saying after all that lead-up is that, at 28.5 years old, I think my inconsistent ways have finally started to chip away at all the wonderful foundation I built up through my college years. It's not just running, either. If I work out a little too vigorously, there is a chance I might aggravate a mild shoulder strain. I can't just roll out of bed and workout either; I need a little while to loosen up, especially my back. Most egregiously, though, I can't just take for granted a flat, ab-rippling stomach anymore. I'm not talking about just losing that youthful metabolic level either. I'm talking about paunchiness or spare-tireness. Even when I work out for a good stretch, I find it somewhat hard to make the mini-bulge go away from just above my belt line. I've turned into one of those dime-a-dozen guys from college who look great in a wife beater but only kinda good with a shirt off.
Maybe I'm nitpicking with myself and I should just be fortunate in my natural physical gifts. I can still get back on the workout wagon after some time off, and after just a couple weeks see real results. That's nice. But I've always held myself to pretty high standards, and I always want to continue to do so. I'm getting married in 2.5 months. I know it's almost cliche to get in good shape in the run-up to your wedding, but I want this to be more than that. It's not enough that I was once a pretty nice specimen. Sara never knew that me, so I want to get back as much of that as I can. And while I know I won't ever be able to race as fast as I did in college, I can at least look like I did when I was running like that.
Fitness has always been my goal. I never cared about stupid exercises that were more for vanity than for actual strength. Same with running: I haven't run an interval in years. But, at least until I get back to a great level of being, I'm going to let myself work just as much for appearance as for ability. I think it will take two more months of consistent work. Then, hopefully I can start rampin up the running. It's a little early, but with any luck I could be running genuinely fast again by next spring or even winter. And that gangly son of a bitch will be back to being something for me to toy with.
No, I was not wearing my rapist costume, aka my normal wardrobe. Nor was a offering children candy. I was running. And--here is where it becomes noteworthy--so was the other person.
My first year living in the city (2003+), I didn't have much money or many friends, so I didn't have as much to keep me from running more often. Also, I was closer to my competitive days and so naturally a little more plugged into it. Almost always I ran in Central Park. Two things used to constantly impress me: how many people seemed to run in NYC, and how slow they all were. For the latter, I should really say, how no one I ever saw was fast. Of the many many runners I encountered in the park, they were all no better than recreational, even the competitive-looking ones were past their prime (so was I, really). After a few months, I noticed that no one ever passed me in the park, or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean literally, I was never passed in the park. So after I made that observation, I would think about it and occasionally look around wondering if someone would pass me that day. It never happened. I remember one or two instances where I saw someone approaching fast from a tributary path and I upped my pace just slightly, enough to stay ahead of him. The streak continued. There were two other notable instances I remember clearly: one where a guy was certainly running faster than me, only he was going in the opposite direction so I didn't have to count it, and another where a woman was doing some kind of interval work around the reservoir and I popped up onto the loop just after her and she moved on ahead faster than me (I did pass her eventually, after she reached the end of her repeat and stopped to walk).
I can't remember exactly how long it was (at least a year) before someone finally passed me running in NYC, but it happened, though it remains to this day an exceedingly rare event.
But it happened last week. What makes it different is that the guy wasn't running fast and he didn't look fast. He was a gangly almost awkward dude running maybe 6:40 pace. Now, to be fair to myself, he passed me just after my turnaround point, before I had gotten back up to speed, and after he got ahead he didn't continue to make ground on me very much. The fact remains that he did pass me and he was running faster than me, maybe by about 12sec per mile. (Let's also make note that six-plus years ago, the phrase "before I had gotten back up to speed" never applied. I used to jump over three-foot solid barriers at high speed while barely breaking stride, for crying out loud.)
When I was running competitively in college, our long slow runs would check in around 6:40 pace. Sometimes a touch slower or faster, but that was the guideline. If, as often happened, I was running on an unmeasured route, I'd just divide the time by 6:40 to get the distance. So 6:40 was about the upper bound on my pace then (I only really got as high as 7:00 either in the dead winter or for the morning portion of a two-a-day). The lower bound for what I could still call a casual, easy pace would have been probably 6:00. 6:00 was a kinda quick pace, even for somewhat shorter runs, and even for my fellow college runners, but my body was pretty well suited for hitting a higher-tempo at a minimum effort, and I only sometimes clipped along at that pace for easy runs. (I gave this advantage back by being both an inconsistent racer and not having quite the distance threshhold of others.) Anyway, you could safely call anything between 6:15 and 6:40 my "effortless" pace.
The curious thing that I noticed in the first couple years post-competitive was that my effortless pace didn't really slow down any. Instead, all of my fitness seemed to be disappearing on the distance side of the equation. In fact, this continuance of ability to hold a quick easy pace stuck with me at least for a few years into my NYC residence. I noticed that after I'd have a little lay-off, or several weeks of very low volume, I would be able to come back and produce a 6ish mile run at my old easy pace of 6:40. I would struggle with slightly longer runs, and my "effortless" pace didn't dip much if at all below 6:40 like the good old days, but I could still roll.
So then as time passed and I continued to run with lots of inconsistency and little volume, my easy pace started to become 6:40-6:50, and then 6:40-7:00, and my ability to crank out 6 milers at that speed started to become inconsistent. Sure I could still do it often enough, but not every time, at least not with minimum effort.
Here we are now then, in 2009, almost exactly eight years since my last track race, and 7.5 years since my last competitive race, period. Now my easy pace is more like 7:00, with the random dip into the 6:40 range. I still have the uncanny ability to produce 6 mile runs in 6:40 pace with almost no effort, but those days are becoming less and less likely. A standard run for me now is 5 miles at just under 7:00 pace with some fatigue hitting after 3.5 miles or so. Half the time I run farther or faster or with less fatigue, half the time not. And every once in a while I get passed by a random guy.
What I'm saying after all that lead-up is that, at 28.5 years old, I think my inconsistent ways have finally started to chip away at all the wonderful foundation I built up through my college years. It's not just running, either. If I work out a little too vigorously, there is a chance I might aggravate a mild shoulder strain. I can't just roll out of bed and workout either; I need a little while to loosen up, especially my back. Most egregiously, though, I can't just take for granted a flat, ab-rippling stomach anymore. I'm not talking about just losing that youthful metabolic level either. I'm talking about paunchiness or spare-tireness. Even when I work out for a good stretch, I find it somewhat hard to make the mini-bulge go away from just above my belt line. I've turned into one of those dime-a-dozen guys from college who look great in a wife beater but only kinda good with a shirt off.
Maybe I'm nitpicking with myself and I should just be fortunate in my natural physical gifts. I can still get back on the workout wagon after some time off, and after just a couple weeks see real results. That's nice. But I've always held myself to pretty high standards, and I always want to continue to do so. I'm getting married in 2.5 months. I know it's almost cliche to get in good shape in the run-up to your wedding, but I want this to be more than that. It's not enough that I was once a pretty nice specimen. Sara never knew that me, so I want to get back as much of that as I can. And while I know I won't ever be able to race as fast as I did in college, I can at least look like I did when I was running like that.
Fitness has always been my goal. I never cared about stupid exercises that were more for vanity than for actual strength. Same with running: I haven't run an interval in years. But, at least until I get back to a great level of being, I'm going to let myself work just as much for appearance as for ability. I think it will take two more months of consistent work. Then, hopefully I can start rampin up the running. It's a little early, but with any luck I could be running genuinely fast again by next spring or even winter. And that gangly son of a bitch will be back to being something for me to toy with.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
It's been a long time so briefly at the top here I'll give you a free film review. High Plains Drifter, Clint Eastwood's second movie as a director, is a mid-seventies western starring Clint as the "Stranger," a character that is so obviously copied from his Sergio Leone roles that it's actually jarring not to see his mexican poncho. All the other trademarks are there: black flat-brimmed hat, skinny cigar, general mute stoicism. Aside from the simple joy of watching Clint do this familiar dance, I was quite disappointed in this film. It seemed to go out of its way to incorporate all the lame conventions of the western without adding anything. In fact, I didn't even finish it cause I realized an hour into it that it wasn't really necessary. This might have been fun for people who like westerns back in 1973, but I can't really recommend watching it for any kind of value. In 2030, would someone who generally enjoys romantic comedies ever go back and watch You've Got Mail for any good reason?
I've got a more formed opinion now of There Will Be Blood, of which I watched the first 90 minutes of again the other day. There are three things about it that are utterly extraordinary: Daniel Day-Lewis, the music, and the beautiful camera movements within virtually every scene that isn't simply static. DDay pretty much speaks for himself and unless you've been subjected to cold-war era psych treatments, his power emanates right from the first time you see him. To speak more (or really at all) on his performance is superfluous.
The music too was intensely enchanting even throughout my first viewing of the film, but I'd like to say that perhaps not enough has been made about how truly amazing it is because upon a second tour I found it often to outshine the verbal story it's woven into. I know the guy from Radiohead did it; let's hope he stays in the movie business cause he's a natural genius for it.
Finally, the camera action. This is something that I noticed initially but felt like maybe I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have, and so paid particular attention to the way Mr PT Anderson was technically delivering his images to us. I'd like to report that he did it phenomenally. through extensive movie-watching, I've come to realize that something I fundamentally love is an intelligent use of editing, or more specifically a conservative use of cuts combined with well-thought-out uses of pans and zooms between shots. Go watch some of the classics of Kurosawa for a visual course in what I'm talking about. Anderson seems to have done his homework in this regard, to the extent that several times throughout I found myself thinking about Kurosawa. He seems always to start on a general wide scene shot and drift forward or laterally across the scene so we can take everything in before finally settling on what will ultimately be important in the scene. Think of a shot where he surveys the land and the camps near the Little Boston well before finally bringing the derrick itself into the frame and zooming in, where Plainview is usually involved in the true action of the scene. Another specific example is when Eli is walking down to confront Plainview about where his church's money is. Instead of simply letting Eli walk into Plainview's frame, we follw from Eli's perspective as he walks along a pipeline and a vast lake of oil finally walking into where Plainview had been talking to some assistants. All the information that we see as Eli walks is important and stimulating. To top off this particular example, we get a beautifully framed shot with three men forming a perfect Kurosawsa-esque triangle, whose gap is of course filled by the entering Eli. This is the stuff that most people might not notice but most definitely adds to the overall experience of the film. If you are like me and do notice, then it moves everything to another level. My only nitpick is that none of this style seems very ambitious, innovative, or creative, so while it's certainly fine work, it falls quite short of being anything truly brilliant. Nonetheless, this is more argumentative and should not get in the way of your noticing the wonderful quality of this aspect of the film. So do enjoy.
(I'd like to finish off the last hour of the film again before passing a complete judgement (even though I'm quite sure the last hour will only serve to intensify my opinion), but the main problem I still have with There Will Be Blood is the character of Eli and/or perhaps also the actor Paul Dano. There is something quite seriously not right with this performance. I haven't yet determined who's at fault here: the writer for screwing up the dynamic of the character, Dano for screwing up the role, the casting director for hiring Dano in the first place, or Anderson the director for simply leading him to all the wrong decisions in playing the part. I suppose I can see how it might be desirable to have someone projecting extreme calm in the face of DDay's/Plainview's intensity, but in my opinion something is forced and awkward about Eli/Dano. It's uncomfortable, which I suppose would be preferrable if the film were an allegory, but of course I don't see that it is. It seems like someone made that decision somewhere along the line but then everyone just went too far with it. The entirely of this film is grandiose and intense and just simply large--all things that should be considered not only positive but essential to its quality; however, too much of the character of Eli is merely theatrical. (Again, I'll wait until I've watched it again, but this for me is exactly the underlying problem with the ending, that all of the sudden the foundation was absent from epic story, leaving only the bombastics.)
Some other things I've been thinking about:
1. What is a New Yorker? This is more a question for a first-year resident, but for whatever reason I've found myself considering it in the last couple weeks. My automatic reaction to this meditation is that I'm still not a "New Yorker." But is that true? I'm finishing up my fifth full year living in the city, and since I can't imagine moving out of my awesome apartment after just one year, I'm guaranteed to spend not just a sixth year here but also at least half of a seventh. That's quite a commitment to a place. I've got a somewhat tenured job here that has given me a rapibly growing 401k and a not-insignificant mutual fund. I've got an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the transportation system and the geography, both street- and ground-level. I've voted in local elections, choosing candidates ranging from our current mayor to the founder of the Rent Is Too Damn High Party. I've lived in three apartments in three somewhat different neighborhoods. I've seen businesses open and close and maybe I'm being presumptuous but I think at this point I can even accurately predict success or failure when a new one arrives. I've even adopted a local pro sports team (the Mets) and believe it or not, but when I find out someone like Charlie Villanueva is from the city, a curiously civic or pride-filled (perhaps also preposterous because there are 8million of us here) emotion causes me to root for him. So I guess what I'm trying to say--even though I can't stand some of the local accents, and I am still often amazed at the concentration of Irish and Jews here, and I can't bring myself to actually fold my pizza--is that maybe I've crossed the New Yorker threshhold.
2. Another line that I think I've crossed is a certain relationship line. I'm not experienced enough with this stuff to know exactly where I'm at or what's happened but I know that I was given a phone number by a rather attractive Asian girl this past weekend, and that this seemingly nondescript event made me think for two reasons. First, though I don't remember (I don't remember because it wasn't important enough to file the memories, not because I was too drunk to know what was going on) having any kind of flirty contact with this girl, apparently I was communicative enough for her to have the confidence to proffer a wholly unsolicited number. Basically, I've slipped into contented relationship mode so much that I don't even notice when an attractive chick is flirting with me, or even vice versa. The second, and personally deeper, issue is that when I realized what had happened, my reaction was not to be satisfied with myself or become arrogant or in any way emboldened, as would be the natural effect for most men. Instead, it occurred to me how happy I am where I am and how I've taken for granted the whole flirt/phone number/maybe-I'll-call-maybe-not/is-it-worth-it process of meeting people or escalating something or simply hooking up with a ho. I've taken for granted that I don't need to enter into this process and that I've already got the end result of such process, and I've got it as positively as I could imagine. So, while admittedly it can be a little exciting dipping into the lady pool, and there is a particular excitement that's possibly only at the very outset that of course I'm unable to truly recapture at this point, but it's much more pleasant to know that I don't really have to bother with all the crap that inevitably will follow. In fact, (though I'm even trying to overstate it) it would be hard to overstate the positive effect of this.
3. I don't know where it came from or how long it will last, but in the last two days I've strangely encountered a renewed desire to become a runner again. I don't know if--after immersing yourself in it as deeply as I did for several years--a person can really ever stop being a runner, but I do know that I haven't really felt like a "runner" for quite a while now. "A person who runs" is a better label. From time to time, I get serious pangs of determination relating to physical improvement. These can usually be sated through a few quality runs and a recommitment to regular gym visits. But this time it feels like a true and focused motivation for running. Though I don't know how disciplined it is, it's an excellent feeling and I'd like to see how long it will last. Rather, I'd like to see how long I can make it last. Proactivity.
4. I might make another longer post about this, but a man, acting without any consideration for other people, quite likely personally cost me at least $5,000 yesterday. That is a lot of money, enough to easily displace the displeasure I still have toward Chris Douglas-Roberts for failing to make uncontested 15foot shots and therefore costing me approximately $600. A couple missed free throws and spectacularly poorly timed act have likely conspired to make April 2008 the great month of missed financial opportunity.
5. On a lighter note, I've finally discoverd the joys of Fox Soccer Channel. I expect my Saturday and Sunday mornings/early afternoons will never be the same.
I've got a more formed opinion now of There Will Be Blood, of which I watched the first 90 minutes of again the other day. There are three things about it that are utterly extraordinary: Daniel Day-Lewis, the music, and the beautiful camera movements within virtually every scene that isn't simply static. DDay pretty much speaks for himself and unless you've been subjected to cold-war era psych treatments, his power emanates right from the first time you see him. To speak more (or really at all) on his performance is superfluous.
The music too was intensely enchanting even throughout my first viewing of the film, but I'd like to say that perhaps not enough has been made about how truly amazing it is because upon a second tour I found it often to outshine the verbal story it's woven into. I know the guy from Radiohead did it; let's hope he stays in the movie business cause he's a natural genius for it.
Finally, the camera action. This is something that I noticed initially but felt like maybe I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have, and so paid particular attention to the way Mr PT Anderson was technically delivering his images to us. I'd like to report that he did it phenomenally. through extensive movie-watching, I've come to realize that something I fundamentally love is an intelligent use of editing, or more specifically a conservative use of cuts combined with well-thought-out uses of pans and zooms between shots. Go watch some of the classics of Kurosawa for a visual course in what I'm talking about. Anderson seems to have done his homework in this regard, to the extent that several times throughout I found myself thinking about Kurosawa. He seems always to start on a general wide scene shot and drift forward or laterally across the scene so we can take everything in before finally settling on what will ultimately be important in the scene. Think of a shot where he surveys the land and the camps near the Little Boston well before finally bringing the derrick itself into the frame and zooming in, where Plainview is usually involved in the true action of the scene. Another specific example is when Eli is walking down to confront Plainview about where his church's money is. Instead of simply letting Eli walk into Plainview's frame, we follw from Eli's perspective as he walks along a pipeline and a vast lake of oil finally walking into where Plainview had been talking to some assistants. All the information that we see as Eli walks is important and stimulating. To top off this particular example, we get a beautifully framed shot with three men forming a perfect Kurosawsa-esque triangle, whose gap is of course filled by the entering Eli. This is the stuff that most people might not notice but most definitely adds to the overall experience of the film. If you are like me and do notice, then it moves everything to another level. My only nitpick is that none of this style seems very ambitious, innovative, or creative, so while it's certainly fine work, it falls quite short of being anything truly brilliant. Nonetheless, this is more argumentative and should not get in the way of your noticing the wonderful quality of this aspect of the film. So do enjoy.
(I'd like to finish off the last hour of the film again before passing a complete judgement (even though I'm quite sure the last hour will only serve to intensify my opinion), but the main problem I still have with There Will Be Blood is the character of Eli and/or perhaps also the actor Paul Dano. There is something quite seriously not right with this performance. I haven't yet determined who's at fault here: the writer for screwing up the dynamic of the character, Dano for screwing up the role, the casting director for hiring Dano in the first place, or Anderson the director for simply leading him to all the wrong decisions in playing the part. I suppose I can see how it might be desirable to have someone projecting extreme calm in the face of DDay's/Plainview's intensity, but in my opinion something is forced and awkward about Eli/Dano. It's uncomfortable, which I suppose would be preferrable if the film were an allegory, but of course I don't see that it is. It seems like someone made that decision somewhere along the line but then everyone just went too far with it. The entirely of this film is grandiose and intense and just simply large--all things that should be considered not only positive but essential to its quality; however, too much of the character of Eli is merely theatrical. (Again, I'll wait until I've watched it again, but this for me is exactly the underlying problem with the ending, that all of the sudden the foundation was absent from epic story, leaving only the bombastics.)
Some other things I've been thinking about:
1. What is a New Yorker? This is more a question for a first-year resident, but for whatever reason I've found myself considering it in the last couple weeks. My automatic reaction to this meditation is that I'm still not a "New Yorker." But is that true? I'm finishing up my fifth full year living in the city, and since I can't imagine moving out of my awesome apartment after just one year, I'm guaranteed to spend not just a sixth year here but also at least half of a seventh. That's quite a commitment to a place. I've got a somewhat tenured job here that has given me a rapibly growing 401k and a not-insignificant mutual fund. I've got an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the transportation system and the geography, both street- and ground-level. I've voted in local elections, choosing candidates ranging from our current mayor to the founder of the Rent Is Too Damn High Party. I've lived in three apartments in three somewhat different neighborhoods. I've seen businesses open and close and maybe I'm being presumptuous but I think at this point I can even accurately predict success or failure when a new one arrives. I've even adopted a local pro sports team (the Mets) and believe it or not, but when I find out someone like Charlie Villanueva is from the city, a curiously civic or pride-filled (perhaps also preposterous because there are 8million of us here) emotion causes me to root for him. So I guess what I'm trying to say--even though I can't stand some of the local accents, and I am still often amazed at the concentration of Irish and Jews here, and I can't bring myself to actually fold my pizza--is that maybe I've crossed the New Yorker threshhold.
2. Another line that I think I've crossed is a certain relationship line. I'm not experienced enough with this stuff to know exactly where I'm at or what's happened but I know that I was given a phone number by a rather attractive Asian girl this past weekend, and that this seemingly nondescript event made me think for two reasons. First, though I don't remember (I don't remember because it wasn't important enough to file the memories, not because I was too drunk to know what was going on) having any kind of flirty contact with this girl, apparently I was communicative enough for her to have the confidence to proffer a wholly unsolicited number. Basically, I've slipped into contented relationship mode so much that I don't even notice when an attractive chick is flirting with me, or even vice versa. The second, and personally deeper, issue is that when I realized what had happened, my reaction was not to be satisfied with myself or become arrogant or in any way emboldened, as would be the natural effect for most men. Instead, it occurred to me how happy I am where I am and how I've taken for granted the whole flirt/phone number/maybe-I'll-call-maybe-not/is-it-worth-it process of meeting people or escalating something or simply hooking up with a ho. I've taken for granted that I don't need to enter into this process and that I've already got the end result of such process, and I've got it as positively as I could imagine. So, while admittedly it can be a little exciting dipping into the lady pool, and there is a particular excitement that's possibly only at the very outset that of course I'm unable to truly recapture at this point, but it's much more pleasant to know that I don't really have to bother with all the crap that inevitably will follow. In fact, (though I'm even trying to overstate it) it would be hard to overstate the positive effect of this.
3. I don't know where it came from or how long it will last, but in the last two days I've strangely encountered a renewed desire to become a runner again. I don't know if--after immersing yourself in it as deeply as I did for several years--a person can really ever stop being a runner, but I do know that I haven't really felt like a "runner" for quite a while now. "A person who runs" is a better label. From time to time, I get serious pangs of determination relating to physical improvement. These can usually be sated through a few quality runs and a recommitment to regular gym visits. But this time it feels like a true and focused motivation for running. Though I don't know how disciplined it is, it's an excellent feeling and I'd like to see how long it will last. Rather, I'd like to see how long I can make it last. Proactivity.
4. I might make another longer post about this, but a man, acting without any consideration for other people, quite likely personally cost me at least $5,000 yesterday. That is a lot of money, enough to easily displace the displeasure I still have toward Chris Douglas-Roberts for failing to make uncontested 15foot shots and therefore costing me approximately $600. A couple missed free throws and spectacularly poorly timed act have likely conspired to make April 2008 the great month of missed financial opportunity.
5. On a lighter note, I've finally discoverd the joys of Fox Soccer Channel. I expect my Saturday and Sunday mornings/early afternoons will never be the same.
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