Benny Jay: The Artist — a Critical Review
With less than a week to go before the Oscars, I see The Artist.
As film critic for The Third City, I have no choice.
Got to see all nine best picture nominees before they give out the awards. With The Artist I’ll have seen five of the nominated movies. That means I’ll have – hold on, bear with me while I do the calculations — four to go.
If my math’s correct.
Uh-oh, not sure I’m gonna make it….
The Artist’s playing at the smart people theater. The smart people theater is where only smart people go to watch their movies. So that means The Artist must be really good. Plus, all the critics love it. Also, my sister loves it. Well, that’s got to count for something.
I’ve decided that with all these people loving it, I’m going to love it, even if I don’t.
Starts off pretty good. It’s got John Goodman. I love John Goodman. Especially in The Big Lebowski. I particularly love it when he goes: “Shut the fuck up, Donny!”
“V.I. Lenin. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!”
Only for some reason John Goodman’s not talking in this movie. His mouth’s moving but no words are coming out.
Come to think of it – no one’s talking.
“Is it my imagination, or is no one talking?” I whisper to my wife.
“Shhhh….”
I can see she’s really into the movie. So I let a few minutes pass before I whisper: “Is anyone ever gonna talk?”
“Shhhhh….”
Yeah, she’s really into this movie.
I watch some more. Still no talking. Start thinking about the things I’d heard about this movie.
I knew it’s in black `n white. And it features a dog. And, now that I think about it, I vaguely recall hearing something about no talking.
The dog has more lines than John Goodman….
Twenty minutes later and still no talking. It hits me – if they haven’t started talking by now, they’re probably not going to talk at all.
Big blow for me. I love talking. As a general rule, my favorite parts of the movies are when people talk to each other.
For me, watching a movie where no one talks is like taking a two-hour drive in a car with someone who doesn’t talk.
I did that once. Drove from Chicago to Kenosha with this weird dude who never said a word. Thought I’d lose my mind.
On the other hand, I once endured a five-hour Greyhound bus ride from Skokie, Illinois to Green Bay, Wisconsin sitting next to a girl who never shut up.
Plus, she was a pro-life fanatic. Kept talking about the rights of unborn fetuses. Drove me crazy. So you get it either way.
Still not talking in this movie, by the way.
My mind wanders. Start thinking about Jeremy Lin. Been thinking a lot about Jeremy Lin these days. Bet they do a bit about him on Saturday Night Live. Maya Rudolph’s hosting Saturday Night Live. I love Maya Rudolph. I wish she was in this movie. But then she wouldn’t be talking either.
Before you know it, the movie’s over. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” my wife says.
Then she explains everything that happened.
You know, maybe we should make her the film critic.
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Benny Jay: Adventures in Grocery Shopping
On Sunday morning, I go grocery shopping at the Jewel with my wife. What can I say — I live on the wild side.
Start in the produce section. I hate the produce section — it’s so boring.
My wife, on the other hand, loves the produce section. She’s one of those produce section junkies you see squeezing the cantaloupes.
I tell her: “We’re in and out of here — five minutes tops!”
Ignoring my directive, she dispatches me to the dairy section to buy the milk. Says it’s a tough job, which only I can handle.
On my way to dairy, I get distracted by the lady who’s cutting up pieces of fish to serve as samples.
Ask her if she watched yesterday’s Bulls game.
She says her husband watches sports, but she tries not to pay attention.
Not sure how to respond. Other than — Mr. Husband, I feel your pain.
Make my way to the dairy section and get the milk.
Bored out of my mind, I take out my cell phone and call one daughter. No answer. So I call another daughter. No answer. Figure they’re asleep.
Occasionally, you see cool things in the cereal aisle….
So I start texting everyone I know who cares about the Bulls to ask: What about those Bulls?
No answer.
Everyone must be sleeping.
Wander through the cereal section, hoping to find a Wheaties box featuring a picture of a basketball player.
Alas, nothing but some auto racer.
Find my wife in the aisle where they keep canned tomatoes. Talk about a boring aisle.
Hang out in front of the mustards. I’m looking for Mister Mustard, the world’s greatest mustard. Yet, they don’t sell it at the Jewel.
They used to, then they stopped.
Why they stopped I don’t know — it’s one of life’s great mysteries.
To be fair — Trader Joe’s doesn’t sell it either….
Here’s another thing they don’t sell at the Jewel — matzoh.
I guess they don’t realize there are Jewish people in Chicago.
For fun, I ask a clerk: “Excuse me — where’s the matzoh?
“The what?” he asks.
“Matzoh….”
“What’s matzoh?”
“You know, it’s like a cracker.”
And here I pretend like I’m kneading dough — even though matzoh has no dough — in the hopes that the visualization will help him figure out what I want.
He looks at me as if to say — when were you discharged?
“It’s a Jewish thing,” I tell him.
Oh….
He sends me to the ethnic-food aisle, where I wind up looking at cans of Cantonese noodles and tortilla shells.
Cause, you know — Chinese? Mexicans? Jews? What’s the difference?
At the checkout line, I start reading the Sun-Times that’s in a rack by the counter.
Only to get into a mini argument with a grumpy old man with bad breath, who says I’m keeping him from getting at the papers.
“Why don’t you buy it?” he tells me.
You know, like he’s a Sun-Times stockholder.
Try to think of something witty to say as a rejoinder.
Come up with: “I have a subscription.”
Which, I think we’ll all agree, is not very witty.
On the way home, my wife makes me carry the groceries, as I try to think of something witty that I might say to that grumpy old man. In case I ever see him again.
I’m sure it will come to me when I least expect it.
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Benny Jay: Who is Jeremy Lin?
In my increasingly desperate desire to find someone, anyone, to talk to about Jeremy Lin, I strike up a basketball conversation with my mother.
Jeremy Lin’s the basketball player who’s become an overnight sensation for the New York Knicks.
My mother’s not shown the slightest interest in sports since she occasionally went to college football games back in the 1940s.
Our conversation goes like this….
Me: How `bout that Jeremy Lin?
Mother: Who?
Me: The guy on the Knicks.
Mother: I thought you liked the Bulls.
Me: I do.
Mother: I forgot — do they play basketball or football?
So ends that conversation.
Here’s the thing. Though I’m a lifelong sports fanatic, I find myself living in a world populated by people who couldn’t care less about sports.
So much of my time is spent desperately searching for people to talk to me about things like — Jeremy Lin.
Over a romantic Valentine’s dinner, I ask my wife about….
As you can see, it’s been a hard go. So I decide to change my approach. Instead of talking to people about Jeremy Lin, I’ll search for people who know who he is.
It’ll be like a sociological exploration. A scientific study of how famous a sports guy has to be before a non-sports fan hears of him.
Oh, this is gonna be fun.
I start with my wife, who, by the way, might be the only person in the world who knows less about sports than my mother.
“I’m going to give you a name — and I want you to tell me who that person is — okay?”
“Okay,” she says.
“There’s no right or wrong answer. If you know — fine. If you don’t know — it’s also fine. Okay?”
“Okay….”
“Who is Jeremy Lin?”
“Who?”
“Jeremy Lin.”
Long pause. Then she says: “I don’t know.”
Jeremy Lin….
Another long pause while I wait for her to ask: Who is Jeremy Lin?
Pause lasts a little longer.
Finally, I realize — she’s not going to ask who’s Jeremy Lin. She doesn’t really care who’s Jeremy Lin. She’s probably already figured he’s got to be some stupid sports guy or why else would I be so eager to talk about him.
After a few more seconds of silence, I break down and tell her who Jeremy Lin is. I always break down at times like this in the hopes that it will prolong our sports conversation just a little bit longer.
“Jeremy Lin,” I say, “is a basketball player for the Knicks.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
And so ends the conversation….
The next day — Valentine’s Day, coincidentally — Lin scores 27 points, including the game winner at the buzzer.
Out of my mind with desire to talk about it, I raise the subject with my wife.
Over dinner at a real nice Mexican restaurant. Where my wife’s drinking tequila. Apparently that helps get through the conversations about sports.
“Did you hear the latest about Jeremy Lin?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Jeremy Lin.”
“Who’s Jeremy Lin?”
“That guy I was telling you about yesterday.”
“Oh….”
Long pause.
Then she says: “Should I get the chicken or the steak?”
Sigh.
Well, like I said, it’s not easy being a sports fan in my universe.
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Benny Jay: Crying at the Grammys
It’s Grammy night at the Benny Jay house and everybody’s crying….
Starts early when the host, LL Cool J, says a prayer for Whitney Houston, who died the night before.
It continues when they show footage of Whitney singing I Will Always Love You.
And it picks up when Jennifer Hudson pays tribute to Whitney with her own version of I will Always Love You.
Then it takes a break when Nicky, the dog, starts barking. Not sure why she’s barking. But it’s loud and we can’t hear Jennifer. So everyone bellows: Shut up, Nicky!
Like shouting’s ever stopped her from barking.
We get on a tangent about how Jennifer Hudson should have won American Idol.
Which starts an argument between my oldest daughter and me over who won it the year Jennifer didn’t. My daughter says Fantasia and I say—no, it was that that fat guy.
Whose name I can’t remember.
Ruben Studdard — the guy I was trying to remember….
I look it up on the Internet and turns out my daughter’s right. Damn, I hate when that happens.
Then the crying starts up again when they pay a tribute to Glen Campbell by singing Gentle On My Mind, which is one of those great old songs I keep in the back roads by the rivers of my memory.
The crying continues when Glen Campbell takes the stage to sing Rhinestone Cowboy. Cause I remember when he was young, as opposed to an old guy fighting Alzheimer’s.
We’re all a little nervous he’ll forget the words, but he doesn’t. So it’s tears of jubilation as opposed to sadness.
Glen Campbell back in the day….
The crying stops as we break to eat the chicken my wife cooked.
All together now: Dang, that girl can cook!
Back to the crying….
They show Clarence Clemons on the screen — one of the great musicians who died in the past year. We all love the big man.
Then my daughter—probably verklempt from all the crying — breaks down cause her load of laundry’s still not dry after going through a second cycle in the drier.
To which I say: “Why are you crying over laundry?”
And she gets mad at me cause “you don’t understand — you never understand!”
And my wife, comforting my daughter, agrees that I’m an insensitive brute — like every man everywhere.
Then they team up to blame me for the still-damp laundry cause I didn’t empty the lint trap.
Cause, you know, push come to shove — it’s my fault!
I tell you, people, it’s not easy being the only man in the house.
Then we forget about the laundry and start crying when Paul McCartney closes the show with Golden Slumbers.
Cause once you start crying it’s hard to stop. Plus, I wish John Lennon could be on that stage.
All together now: “Golden Slumbers, fill your eyes, smiles awake you when you rise….”
And when it’s over, we dry our eyes and agree – great night at the Grammys!
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Benny Jay: Brian Scalabrine and Golda Meir
Whether I want to or not, looks like I’m going to have to wade into the great controversy now sweeping Bulls nation — does Brian Scalabrine look like Will Ferrell?
But first, some explanations….
The Bulls are the professional basketball team in Chicago….
Brian Scalabrine is the big redhead who generally rides the Bulls bench….
Will Ferrell is a very funny comedian….
Hey, I take nothing for granted in my effort to help our more sports-challenged readers follow the news….
A few days ago, Ferrell attended a Bulls game, giving sports writers the opportunity to write he looks like Scalabrine.
Even though the two look don’t really look a like.
Well, they’re both white. But, by that standard, you might as well say Scalabrine looks like Golda Meir.
Oops, time for another explanation: Golda Meir was a short Jewish woman who used to be the prime minister of Israel.
Now, I happen to be eminently qualified to wade into this raging controversy on account of the fact that I have an almost supernatural ability to pick out look-a-likes.
Not bragging, just speaking fact. Everybody’s got to be good at something. I might as well be good at this.
It was I, for instance, who years ago pointed out that Danny Ainge, a white man who played basketball for the Celtics, looked like Diann Burns, a black woman who reads news on TV.
You might as well say Scalabrine looks like….
I took a lot of heat for this — as visionaries often do — from a certain old friend we’ll call Jeff Spitz.
Cause that’s his real name.
Eventually, Mr. Spitz called to confess: “Benny, you’re right. Danny Ainge does look like Diann Burns.”
Sweeter words were never heard.
My guess is that the sports writers who say Brian Scalabrine looks like Ferrell probably picked this up from Scalbarine’s teammates.
If so, I think I know what’s going on here.
Most of Scalabrine’s teammates are black, as are most of the players in the NBA.
I think even our most sports-challenged readers know this.
My man Frank Coconate, just cause they’re both Italian….
At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, a lot of black people have a habit of lumping all white people together, especially when it comes to basketball.
Not blaming them — since lots of white people think all black people look a like, whether they play basketball or not.
But back to the basketball thing….
Back on the playgrounds in the `70s, white guys could count on black guys calling them Pistol — as in Pistol Pete Maravich, the greatest white player of that time.
Unless the white guy had red hair and freckles, in which case he was called Opie, a tribute to the kid played by Ronnie Howard in the old Andy Griffith show.
But saying Brian Scalbarine looks like Will Ferrell, just because they’re both white, is like saying Jeremy Lin — the sensational guard for the New York Knicks — looks like the waiter who served you your egg foo young at the Orange Garden.
Which, I think we’ll all agree, makes the best egg foo young in Chicago!
As everyone knows, Brian Scalabrine looks like Michael Rapaport, the actor from Zebrahead and Small Time Crooks.
Two movies you just have to see.
Anyway, I’m glad I could settle this raging debate. Like I said, I’m an expert in this department. Saying Brian Scalabrine looks like Will Ferrell is what happens when you let the rookies run the show.
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Benny Jay: How to Walk a Dog — Chapter One
As an expert in dog walking, I’ve decided to write a book called: How to Walk a Dog.
I plan to sell tons of copies and use the proceeds to buy a little red sports car and move to an island on the Caribbean.
So here we go. Chapter One — never talk to strangers while walking a dog.
Generally, I try not to talk to anyone, except myself. In fact, I often pretend I’m Terry Gross interviewing me as I walk the dog.
Terry Gross is the super-smart radio personality on NPR who interviews other super-smart people, most of whom are famous.
My goal in life — other than buying that sports car and moving to the Caribbean — is to be so famous that Terry Gross would interview me.
Sample pretend conversation while walking the dog….
Me being Terry: So what’s it like working with King Conundrum?
(King Conundrum’s the group of actors we do podcasts with.)
Me being me: Fantastic. Though Jus Buckingham can be a very temperamental.
Me being Terry: Really?
Me being me: Yes, once he threw a coffee cup at Joel Reitsma. He’s an artist – sensitive as shit.
Me being Terry: Ha, ha, ha — that’s so true….
If things go right, Terry Gross will interview me on her show….
For a change of pace, I’ll use a British accent.
Me being Terry: What’s it like working with Milo?
Me being me only with an English accent: He’s a fookin’ drunk.
Actually, that was an Irish accept. But you get the point.
Another lesson about dog walking — don’t talk to people who love dogs.
Here’s why….
The other day I’m walking the dog and this lady stops right in front of me, bends over, so she’s face-to-face with my dog, and starts a conversation.
With the dog!
Which means she’s really having a conversation with me cause my dog can’t talk.
You know, cause she’s a dog!
And she’ll ask what’s it like working with Jus Buckingham?
In a sing-songy voice, like she’s talking to a five-year-old, the lady says: “And how are we today?”
And the dog says nothing. Cause — she can’t talk!
Then the lady says: “And what’s your name?”
Awkward pause, while I consider whether I should answer. As a rule, I don’t like talking for my dog to people who are pretending to be talking to my dog. But it would be rude to ignore her, so….
“Nicky,” I say.
“Oh, Nicky,” says the lady. “You are so smart.”
You know, like it was Nicky, as opposed to me, who actually did the talking.
“And what kind of dog are you?” she continues.
“A mix,” I say, pretending to be Nicky.
“Oh, you are a mix. A little lovely mix.”
Meanwhile, Nicky’s sneaking peeks at me as if to say: Who the fuck is this lunatic and when will she leave so I can go back to smelling the piss that other dogs have left on the flowers?
“And how old are you?” the lady asks.
“Eight,” I say.
“Oh, you are so cute. Do you know you’re cute? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Long pause. Not sure what to say. I think — what would Nicky say?
I figure Nicky would want to be polite, so I say: “Thank you.”
“You’ll have to come over sometime to play with my little doggie,” the lady says.
Like that’s ever gonna happen.
Well, that sums up Chapter One. Caribbean island here I come!
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Benny Jay: Super Bowl Chili
They had a Super Bowl this year, so I guess I had to watch it.
I watch every Super Bowl every year.
Well, actually, I missed the one in 2004 cause it fell on my wife’s birthday.
The family went to a musical–a local production of Guys and Dolls. We came home to discover the whole world’s talking about Janet Jackson exposed breast.
I’m like–You gotta be kidding me! Finally, something vaguely interesting happens in a Super Bowl and I miss it!
Then and there I vow to never, ever miss another Super Bowl on the remote possibility that something vaguely interesting might happen again.
Thus was born the great Super Bowl compromise, in which my wife agrees to exempt me from birthday celebrations that fall on Super Bowl Sunday.
Leaving her free to celebrate those birthdays with her girlfriends at a male strip club in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
Girls just gotta have fun….
I miss Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction cause….
Not sure who I want to win this Super Bowl, a perennial problem.
When it comes to football, I love one team–the Bears. And I hate another–the Packers. The rest I don’t care about.
So when the Bears are in, it’s Go Bears! And when the Packers are in, it’s Fuck the Packers!
Speaking of which….
Fuck the Packers!
Just getting the jump on next season.
After much consideration, I choose the New York Giants cause they have a guy named Victor Cruz who dances the Salsa whenever he scores a touchdown.
Which, I think we’ll all agree, is vaguely interesting….
Watch the game at Cap’s house. He makes enough food to feed an army: Jerk chicken, barbecue ribs, flank steak, spaghetti, and greens.
Plus, my wife makes chili and corn bred. I’m not bragging, but my wife makes the world’s best chili.
I was watching Guys and Dolls….
“Fellas,” I announce. “This is the year, I pace myself….”
“Good idea,” says Cap.
“I’ll eat a little here and a little there so I don’t get stuffed.”
“Excellent plan,” says Norm.
The Patriots kick off and I eat some spaghetti. The Giants throw the ball. And I eat some jerk chicken. Then something else happens and I eat some chili. Then, fuck it, I go back to that Jerk Chicken. Can’t stop eating that Jerk Chicken!
Then, on my way to the bathroom, I sneak a chunk of cornbread. On my way back, I sneak a little more.
Damn, that corn bread’s good!
Victor Cruz scores a touch down: Yay, whee, whoo!!!!
But just as he starts to Salsa, the camera cuts to Eli Manning running off the field.
What the fu!!!!
Finally, something vaguely interesting and they cut away from it!
I’m so upset, I eat more Jerk Chicken.
Halftime! Get to see M.I.A. give the finger to someone, not sure who or why. But just vaguely interesting enough to almost make up for having missed Janet Jackson’s breast.
To celebrate, I eat more chili.
Giants win. I should be happy. But….
I feel sorry for Norm who lost money betting on New England. As the Giants celebrate, Norm moans: “I hate those mutha fukas.”
I try to console him by eating more chicken, flank steak, chili and corn bread.
Not sure what one has to do with the other….
Later while walking the dog, I’m booming some big-time flatulence. The dog looks up as if to say: “Look, dude, you got to cut back on the chili!”
Good thing the Super Bowl only comes once a year.
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Guest Blogger:
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The Third City Makes a Correction. Written by Benny Jay. Read by Joel Reitsma, Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, No Blaise and Benny Jay. Produced by Joel Reitsma for King Conundrum Productions.
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