Pardon My French

More than 30 years after the Manson Family Trial, I read “Helter Skelter.” I was 16 years-old and this true-crime thriller was a magnetic, almost unbelievable melodrama that opened my eyes to the hidden darkness in the universe. An example of the power of the written word–how tedious, dedicated reporting can shape public opinion– “Helter Skelter” was instrumental in my decision to pursue journalism.

I’m still a little shamelessly obsessed with reading everything Manson-related that I can get my hands on. I guess that’s why you can understand why I’m a bit “excited” about going to see the documentary “Manson” with my fiance’ this week.

I had never heard of it, so I looked it up: “Manson” is a very old, rare film that explores the history, beliefs and mind-sets of those involved in the brutal Tate-LaBianca slayings. Apparently, a team of filmmakers spent time at the Manson Family “home,” Spahn Ranch, before the trial. When the film was about to be released, it was banned because it had potential to affect the family members right to a fair trial.

My friend Chris tipped me off to the fact that the documentary is playing in L.A. at The Silent Movie Theatre on Fairfax.

Here’s Cinefamily’s description of the movie:
“This feature doc has the urgency of a breaking-news telecast, the emotional complexity of a sudsy soap opera, and the deep, dank evil of a classic chiller. The ‘Helter Skelter’ murders shook the nation, ending the era’s Summer-of-Love vibe; this dynamic Pop Art portrait of the Family members’ head-spinning motives — told in their own words — is an incredible delineation of the facts for the uninitiated, and an unparalleled, fetishistic footage pile for the hardcore fans. The secret weapons: co-directors Robert Hendrickson and Laurence Merrick’s stockpile of guerilla 16mm evidence of goings-on at the Spahn Ranch, and the unprecedented intimacy they acquired with key players throughout the life of the Family. For the first time, you the viewer will immediately get why people become so obsessed with this entire sprawling mindfuck of a true-crime saga. Gutsy, beautiful work.
Dirs. Robert Hendrickson and Laurence Merrick, 1973, 35mm, 83 min.”

We’re going to try and go see it tonight. If this plan fails, though, there’s another showing tomorrow night. Can’t wait to check it out.

“He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature, fiction and nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, in the end it always comes out. He would write it because he felt he had to.”
― Stephen King, “The Shining”

When I was little, I used to climb out of bed after I had been tucked in for the night. I’d tiptoe my way down the hallway, across the kitchen floor and crouch down behind the sofa in the family room of my parents’ house, where they would sit and watch movies.

Most of the time I would get caught and immediately be sent back to bed. Occasionally, though, I’d luck out and have a chance to stick around for awhile, feel like a real adult. Peering out of this hiding place, I had a knack for catching a movie’s most unforgettably terrifying scenes.

There’s that moment in “Terminator 2: Judgement Day” (1991) when the T-1000 Terminator skewered young John Connor’s foster parent with his newly transformed sword arm. Or in “Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan” (1982) when Khan inserts his hungry alien worms into the ears of two terrified Star Fleet crewman.

Most notable of these traumatizing moments was when six-year-old me managed to catch that unforgettably famous moment in “The Shining” (1980): While a similarly aged boy named Danny rides his tricycle around the hallways of The Overlook Hotel, he comes upon the ghosts of murdered twin girls. His mind receives flashes of their horrific, bloody murder as they beckon him to play with them “forever and ever and ever.”

I can’t specifically recall this moment giving me nightmares, but it definitely scared me and stayed with me for years. It scared me so much, in fact, that I didn’t end up watching “The Shining” in its entirety until I was about 20 years old. With it’s impossibly high ceilings and labyrinth-like corridors, The Overlook Hotel feels infinite. I realized somewhat recently that the movie feels like it’s shot from the perspective of a six-year-old boy and it puts me in the mindset of a child. It’s still, at this point in my life, a very scary movie.

My “Shining” tee

I recently fell down something of a rabbit hole and have consumed as much “Shining” related material as I can get my hands on: we went to the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at the LACMA, we watched the subjective documentary “Room 237” and I actually read Stephen King’s “The Shining.”

I really enjoyed the Kubrick exhibit: looking at his photos (I didn’t know that he was a photographer before he was a filmmaker), reading letters he had received/written, learning more about reaction to his more controversial films (”Lolita,” “A Clockwork Orange”) and even seeing some of the props from his films.

Actual prop from “The Shining” on display at the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at the LACMA

Actual “The Shining” costumes, on display at the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at the LACMA

“Room 237” explores different theories by different authors, professors, filmmakers and other “experts” about the hidden meanings within the film “The Shining.”

The majority of these theories were, in my opinion, embarrassingly far-fetched. Without totally ruining for anyone who hasn’t seen it, here are two example theories: 1.) The movie is actually about the Nazi Holocaust 2.) “The Shining” is about the “true story” of the moon landing. (Some conspiracy theorists believe the 1969 Apollo 11 mission to the moon was faked and the televised event that the world saw was actually created on a sound stage by Stanley Kubrick in collusion with the U.S. government.) The doc made a few interesting points that intrigued me, but I overall didn’t exactly walk away from “Room 237” feeling especially enlightened.

The book was an all-together different experience. Just as I was beginning to read “The Shining,” a handful of different people had given me their own opinions on the book vs. the movie. “Oh the movie’s much better.” Or “The book is wayyy better.” As I finished reading it last night and when I snapped it shut, I had a feeling that I had just consumed a completely different piece of art. I knew this would be the case—but this particular instance of a book vs. movie was especially profound: In few ways are King’s “The Shining” and Kubrick’s “The Shining” actually alike.

That being said: This book was very scary. It was well-written. I really enjoyed it.

I do have some comments, though. What really stuck out at me as I read was how startling it was picking up on the strange differences in attitude in 1970’s era King (who I understand when he wrote this was suffering from severe alcoholism)– he’s blatantly sexist/racist in his third person omniscient descriptions. I’ve read a few more recent King books in the last few years and I feel that he doesn’t come across the way in his later, more modern works.

What I got out of “The Shining” was something very different than I anticipated: This book isn’t really about a haunted hotel and a little boy with psychic abilities. At its core it’s a very dark comment on domestic violence and the impact it has on families. On a surface level I can break it down like this: 1.) Wendy is a victim the entire book and the only time she exhibits any kind of strength is when she has to be there for her son, Danny. 2.) Jack just “isn’t himself” when he’s intoxicated by the power of the hotel—similar to how he “isn’t himself” when he’s intoxicated by alcohol. 3.) Danny has a sixth sense ability—he’s not clueless to the problems his parents are having and suffers as he foresees the destruction of his family.

I’m glad I finally felt brave enough to read it. Very dark, interesting and inspiring stuff.

I’m a little sad that I’ve reached a stage in my life where my whole day can be made by a single internet video.

Lizzy Caplan stars in what is apparently an actual commercial for a fashion company, but it’s so fraught with self-loathing, it’s the best kind of parody.

What isn’t there to love about this? It projects lots of ideas that I often find my own generation of privileged white kids constantly projecting–namely the importance of nostalgia, unfocused creativity/artistic direction (anyone else notice the fact that everyone is an artist?) and manic pixie wonder. I love the pastel colors, the gauzy close-ups, the random props. The French minor in me also really digs this sort of allusion to 1960s French fashion ads.

Thank you for this, Lizzy Caplan and Viva Vena!

FASHION FILM from Matthew Frost on Vimeo.

There are 2,400 brass stars embedded into the sidewalks of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. That’s why, when I first started working at Hollywood & Vine, I was surprised to see that Audrey Hepburn’s star was positioned just outside the door of the building where I work. Call me a Southern California weirdo, but I couldn’t help but take it as a good omen that a monument to my idol was nearby.

Why am I barefoot, you ask? Because blisters are the worst.

Today is the 20 year anniversary of Audrey Hepburn’s death. Rest in peace you beautiful, classy and kind-hearted lady.

You know how you’re not supposed to ever just STOP taking certain kinds of drugs–namely mood altering substances?

I unintentionally stopped taking a prescription medication over the holiday and the results of this have been…. Well, in a few words: Strange? Trippy? Inspiring? Something along those lines.

I’m prescribed an anti-anxiety/depression drug called Citalopram (the generic form of Celexa) and I’ve found that after the initial adjustment period, that have effectively put me more at ease.

My doctor warned me when I began taking them back in April of 2011 that it’s not a good idea to just abruptly stop taking them. If I no longer felt that the drugs were necessary, I would need to be gently weaned off to avoid hostile side effects.

I should probably preface this story by saying that I haven’t had the best of experiences with my pharmacy. I have only stayed with Rite Aid because they’re right across the street from my house. Even when the wait lines are impossibly long or they’ve forgotten to refill my prescription, I’ve stuck it out because I’m some kind of big, lazy bum.

Last week, I received a text message from my pharmacy informing me that my refill was ready to be picked up. When I arrived at the pharmacy, I was informed that no, my medicine actually wasn’t ready. They actually had no idea what I was talking about or who I was. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. My choices were to A.) Wait 15 minutes or B.) Come back the next day.

Because I’d spent the majority of my day running errands, I decided that the best thing for me to do for my tired bones and hungry belly in that moment was to just heave a heavy sigh and come back tomorrow. After all, I still had one pill left, so really there was no harm done.

Naturally, I forgot to go back the next day and when I remembered the following day, the pharmacy was already closed. The holidays combined with my forgetfulness meant that things went on like this for five-ish days.

Yesterday marked day 6 without Citalopram in my system. I woke up and felt inspired—which, honestly, this had been the first time I’d felt this way in at least two years. I wake up feeling like I could actually create something worth creating and without forcing it.

As the day wore on, I noticed that I began to feel very jittery, like I have too many cups of coffee—even for me. I was very uncomfortable and ended up picking up my drugs right after work and thankfully, these symptoms seemed to improve shortly after I took my pill for the day. Still, I couldn’t shake thinking about my morning and how I had felt. It was so nice to wake up and feel creative.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming very vividly and often. For the last two nights I’ve awoken with strange feelings that I can’t quite place. For some reason, these mind movies have given me a will to write.

Tuesday Night:

For much of my childhood, up through my adolescence, my life was structured around swimming. I was a competitive swimmer and so weeknights were dedicated to swim practice and the weekends, swim meets. The sport was for a long while my passion, but later came to be an ongoing commitment I couldn’t quite weasel my way out of. Mom called it “my anti-drug” and by the end of high school, if were it not for the social aspect, I’d probably have dramatically referred to it as my own special breed of slavery.

At age 25, I haven’t hopped into a pool with the intention of swimming across it in many a moon. But last night, I dreamt of being at my high school’s pool: the very same pool I practiced at even as a child.

Looking back on this sequence, I’m surprised by how well my memory was able to recall the facility: The accordion folded bleachers and beamed ceilings. The tiled floors and bricked walls, each in shades of sponge cake yellowish-browns that made the 1970s era deck look eternally dirty. The echoing sounds the gutters would make when few were around and no one was actually in the pool.

In the dream, swimming across the pool took much longer than I remembered, but I made it happen with the same strength and grace I used to possess as an intensely trained 16-year-old swimmer. It was a time before I wanted to abandon the sport all together and I still thought the way my painted fingers entered the water at the top of a stroke was beautiful.

I showered in the locker room with a group of unfamiliar girls. Just like we did it back then, everyone kept their bathing suits on and we borrowed each other’s shampoo, conditioner and soap. Half the showers didn’t work when I was a child and they didn’t in this dream, either. We shared. We were a team and we acted like it.

Suddenly, I felt compelled to study the unfamiliar faces around me. I realized in that moment that something was off and I felt strange. I had been trying to blend in, but the smallish group that was there knew that I didn’t belong. I was not what I seemed: a 25-year-old woman in an unsophisticated teen’s body. I realize that I’m expected to coach and to lead them, but it just isn’t right.

That’s when the mass mounds of rainbow suds and bubbles pile up around me.
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Last Night:

I’m in a Canadian hotel, a place that’s already seen it’s glory days. It’s known to me then that the actor Tim Curry frequents the place and is something of an attraction. People from all over come to dance with and take pictures with him.

From my bulky coat’s pocket I pull out a series of postcard sized photographs. One of them is of my father and his friends when they’re young. They’re all in their bathing suits, some are wearing snorkeling gear, and they’re all posed under a running shower head. Tim Curry is off to the left side of the frame. He’s completely dry, standing outside of the shower, positioned in some kind of “Thriller” dance pose.

Wandering around the hotel’s lobby, I see rows and rows of aging, framed photos. Some of them are even in black in white. In these photos, people are smiling and laughing, raising their glasses in celebration. The photos appear to have been taken inside of a fancy train car. A party-hardy Tim Curry is in many of these photos. Many of Jim Henson’s Muppets appear in others.

There are lots of bizarre statues and works of “art” throughout the hotel and Tim Curry is taking large groups on tours to see it all. For a while I follow then, but soon realize that Tim Curry and I will never meet.

I begin attempting to navigate the hotel on my own, but locating the exit turns out to be difficult. Though no one has told me, I understand that there is only one way to leave the hotel. I have to take a very specific path in a particular order.

While I attempt to figure out how many times I should I take the elevator up and down, which hallways I should take, which statues I walk by, I notice this small room. Inside is a statue that has been inspired by Tim Curry, a surrealistic take on his “Rocky Horror Picture Show” Frankenfurter role. Here I have flashes of Curry posing near this statue, cheesily grinning at a mob of photographers. Because their cameras are so massive, they all resemble cameras with legs.

I ask a man in an elevator to help me find the exit, but he’s lost, too. Instead of sticking together, though, we go our separate ways.

When I am finally able to direct myself out of the hotel, the landscape is different. I’ve apparently come out the back way and there’s a large, unkempt building across the parking lot. The building is protected by large fence that’s covered in orange rust.

The fence has a Victorian look to it, as there are lots of interesting swirls and shapes in the metal work. A tree’s branches are wrapped up in the metal. It’s such an interesting sight that I reach for my phone and take a photo of it.
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What does it all mean, you ask? I don’t know. You tell me.

I guess I’m just pleased that the vividness of these dreams got my brain juices flowing. At the same time, I’m sure you can understand that they also scared me a bit. Until I see Dr. Howard again, back on Citalopram I go.