Yes, it’s pretty hilarious now. But for some reason, it really fascinated me at the time. Maybe it was the pink shirt or the audacity of those pants (what is that fabric?!), or the carefully cultivated facial hair or the groovy aviators. Those are all pretty stunning. But I think what really grabbed me was the setting: there he is, in the middle of nowhere, with just his sheet music and his guitar. There’s nobody around for miles. He might even be stranded — he could starve to death out there. But does Dennis Coffey give a fuck? No. Because he’s goin’ for himself now. He looks totally serene and relaxed, almost as if he knows a secret we should all hope to find out someday.

It’s a picture of freedom.

That cassette popped into my mind last week. I had a “rejection letter” of sorts, for a small post I had written about the short film The Sea Is All I Know (I ended up posting it here on my own blog instead). I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the post myself, but I was happy enough with it, and it did what I wanted it to do: it captured the mood of the film and gave it a little publicity. I wasn’t blown away by the film, so I didn’t want to spend a lot of time and energy talking it up — but I didn’t want to pick it apart, either, because I respect what it’s trying to do (and it’s a pretty good debut effort for the writer-producer-director). I also didn’t want to give too much away, because it’s a 28-minute film that relies on visual imagery and strong emotions; there’s not much of a plot, nor any character development to speak of, and those things are pretty much beside the point anyway.

But I’m not sure why I’m explaining all that now — I guess because I don’t want to seem bitter or cranky. I do want to get this across: I did not explain myself when I got the rejection email (which scolded me for not covering “themes” and “motifs” and for not providing a “synopsis” — college flashbacks, anyone?). Instead, my gut reaction was “take it or leave it,” and that’s what I told the editor to do. I felt, with a clarity and force that I don’t often feel about my writing, that the post was fine just the way it was — mine just the way it was — and that “publication” was not worth the revision and formalization and snootification that was requested.

“Worth” is a tricky term when you’re writing for the internet. It’s sometimes hard to feel that your writing is worth anything at all, because a lot of writers don’t get one penny for their online words. My friend Dorothy Snarker will be the first to tell you that we can’t continue to let this happen — that if we write for free, we shouldn’t expect to be respected — and she’s right about that. So when I do write for free (which is almost never these days), I expect to at least get the payment of leaving my words intact. If you’re not going to give me a check, you should give my voice free rein, even when it goes down the “wrong” road. (This is why I’m not mad at the Huffington Post, for the most part — it gives writers a vast platform for no pay but also with few restrictions and often no editing, for better or for worse). When your words aren’t worth money, your time and effort become even more valuable, and your instincts become sacred.

So when I told the editor that no, I wouldn’t be discussing themes or motifs and wouldn’t be putting one more second into a handful of paragraphs that simultaneously mean not very much and a whole lot to me, Dennis Coffey’s visage floated into my mind’s eye. I realized I was goin’ for myself.

I hope I’ll do that some more in 2012. It’s the sort of resolution that resists definition, because it’s about wearing your garish pink shirt while you play your guitar in a goddamn pasture, if that’s what you want to do. It’s about the kind of serenity and confidence that come from listening only to your own voice, whether you’re singing sweetly or croaking and clanging. It’s the only thing Dennis Coffey and I can really claim as our own.

P.S. Just to be clear, I am not talking about AfterEllen.com. Both Karman Kregloe and Sarah Warn were always more than happy to let my words speak for themselves, and they defended me from overzealous editors more than once. (And they even paid me!)

P.P.S. I don’t mean to imply that editing is always bad. There’s nothing better than a good editor. I wish I’d had one handy to remind me to make this particular point.

The Sea Is All I Know, a short film by lesbian filmmaker Jordan Bayne, is transformative as a whole (if not at every turn). I’m reluctant to say that it’s "about" assisted suicide, because it’s really about love, sacrifice, nature, god — a lot of things at once. (It’s much less "about" assisted suicide than, say, the heavy-handed Million Dollar Baby.) And despite encompassing so many vast subjects, the film is stripped-down and quiet, imparting the stillness of death even as it captures the shock of loss.

Melissa Leo and Peter Gerety play the estranged parents of a terminally ill adult daughter. That’s pretty much all you should know about the plot. The facts of the film don’t matter half as much as the feelings: the worlds of pain that Leo holds in her dark eyes as her thoughts turn inward; the helplessness that washes over Gerety as he stares out at the susurrous sea. In the hands of such gifted actors, these muted moments do more to convey the heightened pitch of the situation than any sob or scream ever could.

Writer-producer-director Jordan Bayne intentionally kept the film’s universe small, peeling away layers and background until she was left with the truth of her story. In a Q&A session after the screening I attended, Bayne noted that she never thought she had a feature film on her hands. That might be her real gift: the ability to sound out the borders of her landscape. The film never strays far from the anguished atmosphere that its characters are breathing in and buckling under. But the goal isn’t claustrophobia — just clarity.

Bayne made the film for Leo, and that’s the other key to The Sea Is All I Know. An Oscar winner at the top of her game can be trusted with such potentially heavy material — trusted to take us into the depths of what she’s experiencing, yet protect us from getting too overwhelmed to make sense of it. Even when the dialogue gets a little clunky, Leo doesn’t disappoint. She’s marvelous — a marvel.

But Leo’s virtuosity won’t help you reach any conclusions about the tough subjects in this film, though I did walk away with the reassurance that love can give me the courage to transform one moment of life into the next. And knowing that is probably knowing everything.

Jordan Bayne and Melissa Leo
Photo: Carme Boixadera

When I’m starstruck, I usually just can’t think about things like taking pictures or making recordings, but I did record most of the audio of the event (minus the first 10 minutes or so). Download and enjoy:

Tina Fey at Union Square Barnes and Noble – Audio – April 8, 2011

It was a thrill to be in her whip-smart yet adorable presence. When I went up to get my book signed, I was shaking and giddy.

She is cute and tiny in person, and her big brown eyes are warm and lovely. (Sorry; they didn’t let us take photos close up, and at that point I really was way too starstruck to sneak one — but @Girlports snagged a shot of Tina’s bi-curious shoes.)

I will say, however, that it was very obvious that Tina would have preferred to have been just about anywhere else. She’s made it clear that she thinks of herself as a writer first and a performer second, and that’s the vibe she gives off: “They’re making me do this. Please just go read the book.” That writer-ly shyness is one of the many things I love about her.

And you really should just go read the book! It’s a fantastic read, full of gems and insight and hilarity. Just like Tina Fey herself.

Click for the complete PDF — you must!

I don’t know what I like best: the carefully crafted punny lede, the mention of Anna Howard Shaw, the turns of phrase (”fiery, though ladylike”; “vivacious young socialites”) — I love the whole thing.

And I’m happy to be reminded of the many little and big ways in which women (and “fiery, though ladylike” newspaper reporters) have changed the world. We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats — womankind, arise!

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Darren Aronofsky’s new film Black Swan asks many questions, but they all fold and flourish into one: how far is too far? As the blossoming star of a production of Swan Lake, ballerina Nina (Natalie Portman) follows her art and passion to the edge of sanity, and possibly beyond. That’s a fascinating enough premise, but Black Swan offers much more. The film itself rushes headlong to the precipices of illusion, camp, horror, and every sort of sensory delight. Its triumph is that it goes only just that far — far enough to thrill but not to fall.

I’m not going to comb over the plot of Black Swan, because the plot is no more or less important than the cinematography, soundtrack, acting, lighting, and every other element that makes a movie visionary. For me, that’s really the key: Aronofsky gets his clear, strong vision across, so effectively that you’re not quite sure what’s happened to you but you’re pretty sure you liked it. That delicious disorientation is what Nina herself experiences. She’s not exactly a reliable narrator, so it’s impossible to say what really happens in the movie. It’s almost irrelevant to say what’s real, because a Black Swan delusion is much richer and infinitely more rewarding than the everyday truth.

"Rich" is not a big enough word for the visuals of this film. Exhortations such as "sumptuous" and "dazzling" apply but don’t quite describe — you really have to see it to believe it. From the careful control of the black-and-white costumes and sets to the explosion of sound and sight that is Nina’s final performance, Black Swan floods your senses and fills your mind, daring you to breathe or move. This is what the medium of film aspires to: a conquering, a transporting, a fullness — a complete life that is completely different from yours.

That flung-open window into the life of a dancer is a big part of my appreciation for Black Swan. I’ve never wanted to be a ballerina. Grace and poise aren’t exactly salient characteristics of mine, and there’s music in my soul but not in my shoes. But I’ve always admired professional dancers, in part because I’m stunned by the agony of their art. No matter how good you are or how hard you work, physical pain and the inevitable heartbreak of aging are always waiting in the wings. Black Swan exposes that brutality and even relishes it — this is the price, it suggests, of transcendence. The only way out of the physical form is through anguish, and when Nina gets there, she’s bloodied and bruised but glowing and alive.

Dancers (or at least the cinematic version of them) do seem to have cornered bliss, in the form of that brief glimpse of perfection when all the elements come together. The body moving through space suddenly also gives form to rhythm and time, floating on the upswing of a violin bow and pirouetting on the pulse of the tympani. Black Swan captures that soaring, and I’m not sure it could have done so without Natalie Portman. From her first moment on screen, she is a ballerina, as fragile and lithe as you’ve ever imagined a swan or a princess. More important, she shimmers with the serenity and strength of an artist who has finally come into her own. Forget Queen Amidala and V for Vendetta. Here she’s finally the natural-born actor we’ve suspected she was all along — and she’s probably ready to meet Oscar.

Also impressive is Mila Kunis as Lily, a less traditional (and much less repressed) dancer who reflects and distorts Nina’s talent and drive. Lily is both foil and savior to Nina, and Kunis’s performance makes you want to know more about the dark, deceptive anitheroine — even as it makes you fear her. But she’s not merely an opposite; her character is complex rather than stereotypical, adding a layer to the message that nothing is quite as it seems and never so simple as it first appears.

Like Lily, the other female characters in the film also seem two-dimensional at first, but they shed their stereotypical skins to reveal more. Winona Ryder and Barbara Hershey play a fading diva and a domineering mother, respectively, but despite flirting with All About Eve and Mommie Dearest (Swannie Dearest?), Black Swan retreats from melodrama. This is not a chick flick; it seems to flip off the very idea and laugh mercilessly at anyone who’ll suggest it.

Black Swan toys with sexual politics, but it’s more interested in internal struggles than power plays. Vincent Cassel is both appealing and revolting as Thomas Leroy, the seductive artistic director of Nina’s company, but he is ultimately powerless. So is everyone else who attempts to control Nina. She is under (or appears to be under) assault at every turn, from her mother to strangers on the subway to her director-mentor, and each foe is equally showy and finally ineffectual. Do your worst, Nina says: I’ve already hurt myself more than you ever could. In her world, no predator is as threatening as her own quest for perfection. Art has already roughed her up and left her raw. What more can man or woman possibly do?

This is probably a good time to address the sex scene between Kunis and Portman, if you can call it that — which I don’t think I can. Their encounter is white-hot, intense and hungry and beautiful in a way that we all want sex to be, but it’s both more and less than sex. Lily is largely responsible for this because she both surrounds and eludes Nina; she is a variation of the classic bad girl, fully there when she’s ready for you and entirely gone when you’re ready for her. (The variation — hallelujah — is that the "you" is Natalie Portman.)

The flickering space between satiety and hunger is where Black Swan lives. Lily and Nina are mirrors of each other, but in a cracked way. When Nina confronts a mirror — in various forms and in many places — it’s not the rising-above moment of A Chorus Line or any of the other traditional moments in front of the typical mirrors of a hundred other shows and movies about dancers reaching their peak or facing their decline. For Nina, each mirror is a revelation (maybe even a Revelation, with four horsemen riding Ambition, Sensuality, Mortality, and Mom). She can see what she wants — even what she is — but it is foreign to her, out of reach in a mystical and maddening way.

Mirrors are the method of Black Swan. When buttoned-up Nina finally lets go and dances with Lily at a nightclub, it’s as if Nina has stepped through the looking glass to the other side of what dancing is. If there’s an antidote to her grueling, almost ascetic life of mother-induced abstinence, trainer-tended health, and Tchaikovsky-enclosed expression, it’s sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Nina and Lily, though not exactly opposites, are a collision of matter and antimatter that can only produce a void. Nina flings herself into it, and the explosion is suffusive and transformative.

And as Nina transforms, so do we. Black Swan takes the viewer on a thwarted journey. Watching it feels like being frozen at the height of a daring leap, being deprived of the victory of sticking the landing and solving the puzzle. We’re never sure whether Nina is changing or being changed. The glory and pain of art mix with that special Aronofsky brand of paranoia and add up to a shattering and unmooring. We’re released, but we’re lost. We’ve learned that the human psyche is fragile, and that breaking through is the same as breaking. The art of dancing — any art — offers so much, but it burns to touch perfection. Nina can’t hold on to it, and neither can we. We feel the loss of it immediately, the lack of its purity and intensity. Black Swan understands and embodies art: it’s a walking shadow that struts and frets, takes flight and then crumples in a heap. It’s the only moment that counts, and when it’s over, you know you’ve been blessed and cursed.

I started out with only one Black Swan question, but I guess the film has a second: if this is too far, what exactly is the point of holding back? Nina rejects the ice-cold, deprived white swan queen and leaps forward. She dives deep and emerges into the fullness of her darkest, unfettered id. When she takes the stage, the crowd clamors for more — for too much, beyond what she can give — and Nina knows that here and now is perfect and the dancing and the music are sublime. Her black swan soars, and she hitches a ride. If her final shot is a mad smile, a grande jeté, and an open wound, it’s enough. It’s everything. Black Swan will take you there if you let it, and I’m glad I played along.