One Dress
A Myth

When a girl is born,
layers of her soul are stripped off
and sent into the atmosphere.

The lady-shaped shadows
flutter out into tailors’ workshops
and textile factories, into

closets and shops
where garments dangle, bodiless
skins. Like dress patterns,

the cross-sections of soul
crinkle as they meet fabric, pressing
themselves into being.

There comes a time
in a girl’s life when a gown is needed.
She will be married,

or will attend a grand
dance or party. There is only one dress
for her, and it waits

for her to select it, to
occupy its fabric as muscles stretch flesh.
If she chooses the right

dress, that one dress
lined with her soul, she will know it
by her anatomy’s instant

and perfect alignment.
She will know that she has been formed
in order to fill it out.

Image Credit: Kimberly Brooks, “Janie Bryant,” Costume Designer for Mad Men, 24 x 32 in. Oil on Linen.
Kimberly Brooks is a painter and new media artist, and is represented by Taylor De Cordoba in Culver City. Her most recent exhibition, “The Stylist Project,” is a series of portraits depicting well-known stylists and trendsetters. In addition to creating visual art, Brooks is the Arts Editor for the Huffington Post, has published many essays and interviews, and gives lectures at universities and museums. To see more of her work, visit http://www.kimberlybrooks.com

Early on in Bret Easton Ellis’ “Imperial Bedrooms” (his long-awaited sequel to his debut “Less Than Zero”) this old Hollywood joke is shared between characters. Not because it’s funny, but because it offers a hint to the novel’s central theme: the Screenwriter’s Sexual Revenge. A theme that could have been used in so many effective ways to further the narrative Ellis set in place 25 years ago… but ultimately falls flat.

When I was maybe 16 or 17 I randomly picked a copy of “Less Than Zero” off the Barnes & Noble shelf in my hometown. The bright yellow spine beckoned me like a moth to flame, and the title was so very cool. The red and blue colored sunglasses on the cover didn’t promise much, but a quick glance at the back reeled me in. It was about sex, drugs and rock n’ roll set in Los Angeles. That’s all I needed to know, because I was already entertaining notions of moving out to Hollywood after graduation.

Little did I know that the novel I was about to read was already a cult sensation, having spawned a popular movie by the same name starring Robert Downey Jr. It centered on an apathetic, bisexual college student named Clay returning home to decadent L.A. for the Christmas holiday, and followed his downward spiral around the dirty drain of hedonism before leaving it all behind once again. With its blunt style, and casual approach to shocking content, it cemented Bret Easton Ellis as a literary force to be reckoned with. Hedonist. Misogynist. Nihilist. Love him or hate him, it was the spring-board for a prolific career that has produced controversial works such as “American Psycho”, “The Rules of Attraction” and “The Informers” (all adapted into half-baked, but mildly entertaining cinematic versions).

With each subsequent novel, I became more and more immersed in his bleak, twisted universe – a dark dimension disguised as a sexy party where “hope” and “love” are considered vulgar apparitions. His protagonists are superficial, addicted, oversexed and indifferent to any emotions including their own. College students, Wall Street serial-killers, fashion-model terrorists, socialite vampires and mid-life crisis movie producers – all damned by their own infinite appetites for lust and greed. Scathing, gross and sometimes hilarious, his body of work comprised a colorful Rubik’s Cube of doom, which could never be properly aligned no matter how much you read between the lines.

And at just about the time I thought I had him figured out, when it seemed his bag of tricks would finally become deflated and dusty, he tossed 2005’s “Lunar Park” our way, and completely turned his own world up-side-down – and my head effectively inside-out. This brilliant novel was about a writer named Bret Easton Ellis who is haunted by a book he wrote called “American Psycho”, who becomes a family man in the suburbs in some half-assed attempt to reconcile his relentless demons. Self-deprecating to the point of satire, the novel then miraculously shifted gears from horror story to a bittersweet redemption plot. When I closed that book, I was flooded with conflicting emotions, but none of them were negative. The impossible had happened: I was genuinely moved by the coldest writer in modern American fiction. It seemed as if Ellis had finally turned a corner of some sort. In short, he had elevated his own game.

Oscar Wilde once said “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” For Wilde there were actually many things he considered to be the WORST things about life, but this quote in particular rings true in this town, in this day and age, in the entertainment industry specifically. I mean, with TMZ, the tabloids and paparazzi, not too mention The Emmy’s, The Golden Globes, and The Academy Awards—one thing is for certain—actors LOVE to be talked about and recognized. But with every good piece of press, there is that possibility that there can be bad press as well. Like anything in life, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles. So when a few weeks ago, I was instructed to pull a perfectly thoughtful and positive review of a play because the company practices “safe” theatre, I was and am bewildered.

The definition of safe theatre, according to the theatre banning my review is this: a place where actors can perform with the understanding that there will be no reviews whatsoever, therefore allowing them the comfort of knowing that nothing unpleasant or otherwise will be noted, documented or published about their performance. What’s more, advertising prior to the show is strictly prohibited in the world of safe theatre. Now hold on just a minute. If this was a workshop, rehearsal-type of performance no reviews or advertising would make sense. But this performance ran every weekend for about a month, not too mention there was a $15 strongly suggested donation at the door. This show had all the signs of being a normal performance, yet no one was to know about it and no one was to review it. Something fishy seemed to be going on.

I figured I’d ask a couple theatre folks from around town to see if they’ve ever heard of this kind of enforced censorship. First I ask Jane Whitty, an administrative intern at The Antaeus Company in North Hollywood Arts District. Whitty admits she has never heard of a theatre company making the choice to ban reviews, though she does know actors who have made personal decisions not to read the reviews of the shows they are in. I thought Whitty made a perfectly valid point by stating: “as with all art, you can’t improve without a great deal of (ideally constructive) criticism and critique. To deprive a performer of that, in the name of protecting them from negative feedback, seems misguided.” Rochelle Perry, a member of Write Act Repertory Theatre in Hollywood claims Write Act welcomes reviews for fully produced productions though understandably asks that the press not review workshops or staged readings. Meredith Lockwood, also of Write Act, agrees that reviews should be held for preview or tech nights, but beyond that, Freedom of Speech should reign.

Growing up, I remember a certain drama teacher who didn’t believe that the arts should be judged since there was no way to rank an actor like there is an athlete. Needless to say, it didn’t stop her from holding a drama competition at our school every year where there were awards and favorites, and yes, poor little hearts and dreams that were shattered and broken. Let’s face it, most of us can tell good acting from bad so why not recognize those who excel as actors? When I was young and foolish (oh wait, still am) and an aspiring thespian, I wanted to believe acting was a part of my soul, like I HAD to do it or else I would just waste away, completely unfilled. Now I realize that there could in fact be a slew of other occupations out there for me and maybe, just maybe, I only liked acting because of the pats on the back I’d receive after a show. Maybe there was a little something wrong with me like my parents didn’t praise me enough as a child or something and I needed to hear that I had done well onstage. I think maybe a lot of actors are this way—sensitive, fickle, creatures with low self esteem. So, I can almost understand the idea of “safe” theatre or at least see how it can be beneficial to ban reviews in hopes of keeping actors sane and focused. But what I really like to think is that actors perform because they are artists who revel in the idea of creating life onstage (or in front of a camera) and sharing it with the real world. Every good play should have a story, a message, and it’s an actor’s duty to communicate this message with humanity. At the same time, the audience plays a role by choosing whether to absorb the message or reject it—be delighted by it, or disgusted. Be touched or concerned or want to discuss it for hours with other theatre goers after the curtain drops. Or even write a reflective review! It doesn’t matter HOW the audience reacts. It only matters that the opportunity is there for the taking—for theatre to impact, touch, and affect the lives of all who encounter it, one way or another. When a theatre company takes money from the public but denies audience members the right to discuss the play’s merit in a written review, then the purpose of theatre is diminished, therefore rendering the play, the actors, director, and entire crew’s efforts seemingly useless.

What are your thoughts? My ears are open to any critiques.

Lindsay’s arrest on July 24th 2007 for drunk driving was an unwanted punch-line to an already overlong joke. Before my current “glory days” at Forth, I was a cheap entertainment journalist, desperate enough to do a stint at the National Enquirer but contemptuous enough to piss people off and not keep the job for longer than a month. I never DID publish a single word with them, and in hindsight getting paid to sit at a desk in their corner and pretend to look busy was the easiest money I have made so far. Back in those days, I was hungry for dirt, worms and all, and my research into the ’07 Lohan case yielded some shocking revelations. Revelations that a sorry excuse for a rag like the Enquirer could not comprehend.

If the Santa Monica Police Department’s blood-tests of the troubled starlet were true, it would indicate that she was not only above the legal blood/alcohol limit and had traces of cocaine in her system, but that she also shares the same basic DNA of “Periplaneta Americana” …also known as the American cockroach. Such insight suggests genetic tampering for “youth retention” purposes, or perhaps some extraterrestrial origin that we are too afraid to contemplate. Either way, this information spells trouble, as Lindsay’s resilience could render her indestructible to the penal system, tabloid criticism, and worst of all, fire and pitchforks.

“We’ve tried everything,” said an anonymous source working at the undisclosed treatment center Lohan was located in ’07, “Electro-shock therapy, synthetic cerebral injections, even exorcism.”

Exorcism?

“Well, yes, a priest was called in and performed a seven hour purification.”

And the results?

“He packed up his things and shook his head.”

If such reports were true, if she was really locked up in some secret facility in the outskirts of the Utah desert region, and if she was really beyond the helping hands of science and Jesus… the question for 2010 is: what now? At 24 years-old, Lohan has already been to rehab three times, faced two DUI arrests and served approximately 84 minutes in jail. Her recent 90-day sentence is either the poisonous crescendo to a cursed life, or the set-up for a sordid porn to be shot on prison guard’s iPhones — maybe both. How long will this poor fair-skinned creature be left to wallow in such heartbreaking conditions? Would you let your dog suffer this long? Or would you take pity and finally have her put down, the humane way? Here’s a glass of warm milk, Lindsay, good girl Lindsay, drink every last drop Lindsay…

“Just look at her mug-shot,” James Butts, chief of the SMPD told me in a phone interview after her ’07 arrest, “Look at her expression. I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of mug-shots in my day, but this one really stands out.”

How so?

“Just look at how her eyes are pleading to us. Her eyes are begging us, please, please world, please believe in me. Don’t give up on me yet. I am a mixed-up little girl and I have a lot of love to give…” Butts cleared his throat and resumed a professional tone, “At least, that’s what I see.”

The jury is out on whether Lohan is, in fact, mortal, or if when she dies she will simply implode and instantly re-appear in some other terrestrial form, like a jellyfish or a cloud. Reincarnation is NOT the prevailing theory at the local church, as His Eminence Roger Cardinal Mahony attested over the phone. As the archbishop of Los Angeles, Mahony speaks for nearly five million members when he says, “Nonsense. This girl is flesh and blood. If we burned her at the stake, she would very much catch fire and not come back.”

Could Lindsay have been sent among us to be punished for all our sins?

“If you are insinuating that this troubled young woman is the Second Coming, I am afraid this interview is over.”

Well, if God’s first and only son was a poor carpenter who partied at weddings and hung out with prostitutes, is it really such a leap in logic that perhaps his only daughter might come in the form of Lindsay Lohan?

“My son, there is no redemptive quality within that girl. If anyone has sent her among us, it was the devil.”

Brittany may have shaved her head and flashed her hot-pocket all over town, and Paris may have released a porn and done her stint at prison, but all of these things seem to pale in comparison to Lohan’s current state of affairs. She has remained in the unflattering limelight long after her peers have all but faded into irrelevance. Perhaps Brittany and Paris were mere test-patterns, perhaps Lindsay is the devil’s TRUE magnum-opus — as the Archbishop would attest — his David or Sistine Chapel of cocaine sluttery. It is true that Lohan is not the first and only celebrity train-wreck to hit rock-bottom. Robert Downey Jr. is no stranger to the Man Downstairs himself, but Downey is removed from Lohan by one slight distinction: he can act, and act well, whereas Double L has freckled cleavage and… that’s about it. Watching the verdict being laid down on her on CNN was like watching an anguished baby seal realize that the club looming over her head is not for providing shade, after all. Her pathetic balling showed signs of some base instinct still kicking around her addled head, a tiny echo of an ember of the little girl who once had a bright future in front of her and has no idea how it all went wrong.

Surely if the actress was a 24 year-old black male, none of this would have happened. She would have been maced, tasered, arrested and thrown behind bars back in ’07 faster than she can do a bump in the bathroom at Hyde. Her privileged stature has gotten her this far, and how much mileage is left in her withered karma is hard to say. It is the opinion of this humble journalist that the collective media perform a “Lohan Blackout” effective immediately. No more reports, articles, pictures or sound-bytes. No updates, interviews, rumors or hearsay. Maybe, just maybe, if we all ignored her she would cease to exist… poof …out of sight, out of mind. The real question remains: how can we expect Lohan to overcome her addictions when WE are incapable of overcoming our own? Can it be that we are all locked into some kind of sick, symbiotic relationship from which there is no escape?

Deep thoughts and heavy questions on a topic that has as much nutritional-value as a worm’s semen. But in 2010 America, worm-semen can be quite the lucrative commodity, and a strung-out 24 year-old girl the perfect target for our sins.

FROM: the Desk of Marco Mannone / Executive Editor @ Forth Magazine

TO: the Desk of Richard Verrier / Los Angeles Times

RE: “Screenwriters Find Work is Dwindling” (July 3rd article)

Richard,

Just read your sharp piece “Screenwriters Find Work is Dwindling”. Shedding light on this topic is like pushing a vampire into the sun… Executives and Greedheads around this town tend to burst into flames when they’re told they should Respect their writers. After nearly a decade of sheer desperation, 2010 has proven the most lucrative year for me yet as a paid, working screenwriter here in L.A. The catch is, my checking account is still running on fumes and I might have to siphon gas from some fat-cat’s Lexus in order to drive my car off Mulholland Dr.

photo by Marco Mannone

That I’m on the verge of turning 30 and that I’m still without representation shows some kind of resilience on my end, I think. Two projects back-to-back have found their way to me this year, both where I am receiving sole credit. The first was financed by a millionaire living in Arizona and stars a handful of well-known television actors, the second is being financed by a millionaire in Canada and I am currently neck-deep in revisions (awaiting feedback from the director is the only reason I even have the time to write this now). Without belonging to the Almighty Guild I have been compensated mostly with peanuts and loose-change, but both films stand a fighting chance to see some kind of distribution in the not-too-distant-future. My point is, while Guild writers working within the Studio System might be falling on hard times, there is an underbelly to this story about us non-Guild writers who are like rats clinging to the cables of billion-dollar cruise ships by our tiny, pink paws. Instead of going for the all-you-can-eat buffets, we are surviving on the crumbs left behind and making the best of it.

These despicable “one-step deals” that are holding writers hostage are not limited strictly within the Studio System — although within that system it is even more heinous because of all the Big Money being swapped around like bodily fluids on a constant basis (you would think they could afford to feed the Idea Men a bit more). Working in lawless international waters as I have been, I can attest that the one-step deals are also common in the field of Independent Filmmaking. Treatments and First Drafts are essentially lumped together as one, and Revisions and Subsequent Drafts have no distinction whatsoever. This is easier to stomach where I’m coming from, because even though the movies are being funded by millionaires in the ether, the fact remains these are private investments with a single risk shareholder for each, not to mention I am not entitled to any legal rights without belonging to a union. Sadly, a gun-for-hire is a gun-for-hire big or small, and when it comes to the quality of even Independent Cinema, you get what you pay for.

My advice to your readers (other than finding themselves a millionaire with money to burn) would be to abandon the Studio System altogether in favor of (true) Independent Cinema, and pool together their precious resources — however limited — to create their own mafias. To hell with the Big Bastards. If they think they can fleece the writers of this community for everything they’ve got, let’s see them regurgitate the same tired material on their own. What they are too greedy to realize, is that these one-step deals which save them money up-front are actually doing the Studios a disservice in the Back End, because “finding a movie in a second or third draft” is precisely why so many films coming out are half-baked turkeys ripe with Salmonella. After all, this total disregard for Originality and Risk Taking in the industry has proven to be so hugely successful (sarcasm) this dismal summer season, which is the worst since the 90′s.

Mind you, the Guild writers are also to blame so long as they choose to stay in these abusive relationships. Wallowing around for another black-eye is nothing less than masochistic, and if they have any sense whatsoever, they would secede and create on their own. This is precisely what I am doing now with a script intended to be shot on a shoe-string budget called “Mark & Tom” — the short film version of which will be screening this month at the L.A. Shorts Fest, a fine venue for us semi-young filmmakers still full of piss & vinegar to showcase our passion for originality… along with our general disdain for a failing system beyond repair.

With Fervor,
–
Marco Mannone
Executive Editor / Forth Magazine
www.forthmagazine.com