Laundry list

I never imagined I could be so at home in a completely new place as I was this past weekend with my beloved friend, Charlene. She made me feel welcome, in her home and in her town, and it was the most I've relaxed in a good many years. Thank you, my separated-at-birth other sister, for the vacation I so desperately needed.

Charlene, me, and Powder

From the moment Charlene approached me at the airport, and I burst into tears, I knew the trip was more than worth the effort. It wasn't the last time I wept on her, either, poor woman. Such relief at finally meeting my friend was not something I had expected, but I'm an emotional basket case anyway. Together we laughed, we cried, we squeeed. It was everything I wanted it to be.

Naturally, while I've been escaping from my escapism, events have continued to unfold in Jakedom. He's very inconsiderate sometimes.

Okay, I admit: the foremost development on this front isn't of Jake's doing. Jake Watch have officially announced their impending departure from the blogosphere. And this I had to read while in a hotel lobby, because contrary to what the hotel's online profile stated, there was not, in fact, wireless internet in every room. So there I sat, leaking from the eyes and sucking back snot as I read the kind well-wishings of JW loyalists whose names hadn't been seen around in many months. Jake Watch has been more than a destination; it is an institution, one that Jake and his "people" would have done well to appreciate while they had the chance. But hey, britpopbaby and Prophecy Girl weren't doing it for Jake, they were doing it for themselves and us. Nothing good lasts forever. I salute them.

Someone at San Francisco online alternative zine BeyondChron managed to echo all the frustration that has followed me since the first mainstream Rendition reviews appeared. Marc Norton, a hotel bellman by profession, writes

[T]hat is the point of this movie -- to make you think. That is exactly what all the luke-warm and negative reviewers don't want to do, and don't want you to do.

Yes, I said I felt somewhat unsatisfied by the film myself, but I can now confirm, having seen it a third time, that it does indeed get better with every viewing. It probably should embarrass me to confess this, but I still get a chill every time Isabella El-Ibrahimi shrieks at Corrine Whitman to just tell her that her husband is okay. True, some people get a similar chill when they hear fingernails scraped down a chalkboard, but the moment works for me, and I didn't think it would. Anyway, even if you skip Norton's review, please check out his link to an article from the New York Times about a real-life "war on terror" whistleblower whose efforts prove that perhaps Douglas Freeman's actions were not so far-fetched after all.

Let's see, then we had Jake and Reese attending a Halloween party in the most pathetic non-costumes imaginable. These are people with money. The lack of any effort on their part strongly suggests that either the invitation or the choice to attend came at the last second. That's always the way I want my party guests to be represented to the public at large. Hooray for Hollywood.

What else? Jake's getting down to work on Brothers, and now there's a whisper from Variety linking him to something called Nailed that would also star Jessica Biel. That title connotes such potential, I'm afraid to scoff. It's almost a wet dream unto itself.

Oh, then my internet provider irritated the hell out of me by failing to pick up the new DNS record for IHeartJakeMedia following their domain expiration a few days ago. I'm way behind on downloading Jake images, and that didn't help matters. Things are finally in place as they should be, but it will take me a whole weekend to catch up.

Jake hung out with Robert Downey, Jr. one night. Then he and Reese got video papped on a beach somewhere. Reese appears at one point to be picking something from Jake's teeth. Very romantic. In the past, such intrusive video would have set off my fiercest protective instinct, but the fact that they've probably been together for several months and managed to avoid such paparazzi run-ins for as long as suited their needs leaves me feeling somewhat less sympathetic. And I hate that I feel that way.

I want to continue to love Jake in the way I always have. More than want, I need it; it's something to occupy a dangerously obsessive mind, one that will turn to far less benign thoughts in the absence of this diversion. Most of all, I don't want to come here sounding like a bitter rejected fifteen-year-old, and I'm afraid that's exactly how I sound.


I can't swear off Jake right now. I fear it would literally kill me. Especially when photos like this one make my heart ache.

Photos: Peggy Mitchell, IHJ.

Departing

Remember, I'm going to be away for a few days starting tomorrow. So if I don't come in to post something, it's not proof that I've slit my wrists. Honest.

This is a poem I wrote for my very treasured friend, Charlene, back in April. I can't imagine anything more appropriate to leave you with while she and I meet for the first time and celebrate a friendship that we both owe to none other than Jake Gyllenhaal.




What does love mean?
Who decides when it's love
and when it's something else?

Can you tell me it's not love
just because I've never met him,
never had a conversation,
never stood in his presence?

Because I can't touch him,
can't hold him,
can't comfort him when things overwhelm?

Because I've never watched him walk away
and wondered if he'd ever come back?

Does love have qualifications?

Don't speak these other words to me--
infatuation, idolization, fandom, lust!
--and condescend to tell me that they describe what I feel

My love is as real as any other
A living, hoping, screaming thing

You cannot squeeze my feelings into one of your neatly labeled boxes just to make yourself feel better

So you, who say I do not love:
can you say to me that you do?
And how does it feel?

Do you think about him at the most random moments
(what funny thing would he say about this? or
I wonder if he's happy right now)?

Do you cry, and laugh, and sigh for him?

Do you wish him all the joys, big and small, that life may hold?

Do you marvel at the beauty of the human being he is?

Love and reason are strangers to each other
Rationality and emotion, only passing acquaintances

And all this pain,
and craziness,
and euphoria
that propels me through my waking hours
However irrational, however unreasonable
However misunderstood and derided by you
Is as precious to me as any secret
and as real as any truth

This is my heart
and it loves

Photo: IHJ.

Zen-less

Disclaimer: Anyone who feels they might be offended to read the honest, confused, irrelevant and disturbed reactions of a strange fan, please leave now. You won't like this. And you can't leave me nasty comments because registration is required, so you might as well move along.


Just when I thought my head couldn't get any more fucked up.

I've been battling a migraine for the past five days, and now I know why. It was the harbinger of abysmal, soulcrushing depression to come.

It's not like this is a complete shock. Except it is, in its way, because of all the denials. Except those denials weren't really denials, were they? They were carefully worded dodges, witty retorts and (in her case) intimidating refusals to answer bolstered by publicists crawling around on all fours during interviews. I have actually been telling myself for weeks that I would be relieved if Jake made a relationship public, because then, all the speculation would be over, Jake could go about his business and stop facing the irrelevant questions that reporters and talk show hosts had no right to ask. I thought I wanted this.

So why does it hurt?

Jake Gyllenhaal does not owe us anything, least of all any kind of insight into his private life. But for someone like me, who has staunchly defended his right to privacy and even suggested that some people were a little overeager to believe the tabloids, it's like a dirty trick. Hah! You tell people to stop speculating about me? Here's what you get: proof that those tabloids actually were right. Now I must resign myself to never doubting another bloody word I read attributed to US Weekly, People and OK.

I guess this means we should all be bracing ourselves for Brokeback 2?

Sigh.

What the hell, Jake? Don't you understand? You're far too special to be sharing yourself with another Hollywood type, no matter how respectable she may appear to be. You are supposed to be with me. Only me, forever. I'm the only one who knows how truly unique you are, who appreciates all your little quirks, who noticed the gray spot in your beard before you did, who dreams of you not because you're the most beautiful man in the world, but because you are sweet, and dorky, and funny, and warm, and sometimes a bit of a prick, and frequently can't articulate your way out of a paper bag, and more than anyone real in my life, you feel like a friend. See, I've only ever really loved my friends. I'm not one of those women who has friendships with one type of man but prefers another as a partner. I don't lust after the bad boy or the guy who treats me the worst. I might even be unique myself, because I don't know anyone else who has been alone her entire life, always the friend, never the girlfriend or lover. Never the lover. I can't be with just anyone. It has to be someone I love and trust. There have only been a few men who fit that description, and they were the best friends I ever had, but that's as far as it could go for them: friendship.

I am confused by fans I see online talking about jealousy over this, who clearly have partners in their real lives. If I had someone, I wouldn't fucking be here. Yes, Jake is talented, and I'd still enjoy his movies, but I wouldn't need him. And I do need him. He's my surrogate boyfriend, the lover I don't have, the fantasy man. That he's probably been seeing someone for months while I successfully used him in this fashion might rationally sound like a reason to relax, but I'm here to tell you it hasn't helped me.

I'm not particularly concerned with whether or not you like me. 'Cause I live to like you, and...and I can't like you any more. -- Duckie Dale (Jon Cryer), Pretty in Pink

I'm not an idiot. Just because he wasn't with someone else never meant that I had a chance, and yes, I recognize that fact. Nor do we have any guarantee that this is the last relationship he will ever have. And more than anything I want for him, I want him to be happy. My irrational reaction is my problem, not his. Why this should have any effect on my fantasies, I can't really say. It just does. Not being able to constantly escape into thoughts of being with him is a terrifying prospect to me. On my way home from work tonight, I honestly started to panic; my life is so colorless and flat and I have literally no clue what to do with myself, professionally or otherwise. Having filled every (oh, so many) hollow moment with contemplation of Jake in some form or other for so long, I can't imagine anything else suffusing me with that ebullient passion. Nothing's as easy as loving Jake.

Screaming girls

Here's yet another great interview with Jake from London, this time in the Daily Mail. Today's lighthearted gem of a quote comes in response to the question of who Jake would like to be stuck in an elevator with. He sidesteps this neatly, as we have come to expect, by instead talking about the crazy interview he did with Susan Sarandon for Moonlight Mile, a portion of which took place in the ladies' room of a Manhattan restaurant.

I discovered two things that day: that the floor in a woman's bathroom is colder than the floor in the men's. And, believe me, I've spent a lot of time on the floor of a men's bathroom so I should know!

What, was he standing there barefoot? Positively priceless, darling. Now we'll have lots of blog posts in the next week about Jake Gyllenhaal's intimate knowledge of men's room floors. At least he didn't say they were airport men's rooms.

I'm not going to discuss the other thing he discovered, unless someone really wants me to. Because I could, you know. I'm just trying to be polite to my innocent readers.

Apparently he either has managed to avoid exposure to the redundant and conflicting agendas of the worst offenders, or recognizes that they do not represent all of us, because he has kind words for his fans in general. And in case anyone still doubted it, Jake confirms that he loves that red carpet attention, so I hope our Xenia and Kate screamed their lungs out for him in Rome. I'd love to scream for him, too, but I'd prefer to do it in a more private setting.

All photos: IHJ.

Be nice to me

Yes, I'm going to talk about what I thought of Rendition.

First, go read this interview with Jake from the Telegraph, done while he was in London. On the one hand, it has terrific elements than any good interview should: description of Jake's posture, clothing (guess which well-worn, big-necked ensemble?) and oh god, voice ("gentle with dark undercurrents"--can I cut that phrase out and put it under my pillow?), evidence that the writer has actually done some research, and questions pertinent to the reason they're both there: Rendition. On the other, it's full of extraneous stuff; recycled facts from that research I just mentioned, and a completely unnecessary probing into Jake's sexuality that proves the interviewer is one of those people who...well, he's one of those people. Plus either transatlantic flight made Jake two inches taller, or this guy just guessed it wrong. Everyone does says he seems taller than they imagined.

So, Rendition.

I wish I could rave about it, say that it was unequivocally the best movie I've seen since Zodiac, but this isn't that kind of movie. I attended a Friday night showing and left the theater somewhat unsatisfied. Thinking it was probably due to all the pent up expectation, and the vaguely arctic temperature in the theater that made it hard to focus, I decided to see it again this afternoon. Besides, I really wanted another, undistracted look at Douglas Freeman. Hey, I'm nothing if not honest.

On second viewing, I did feel more involved in the story, but not as much as I thought I should have been. Maybe that's because I wanted it to be something it couldn't: a revelation. Unlike the majority of the intended audience, I have already read enough about the policy of extraordinary rendition and its purported place in the defense of national security. Rendition didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. At least this time, I did feel moved by several scenes, and my overall impression is that this is a movie that will grow on me with each additional viewing, much like Jarhead.

What I can enthusiastically endorse is Jake's performance. My bias notwithstanding, it's a Hollywood irony that while few critics seem to know what the film's motives were, the role of Douglas Freeman struck me as typical Oscar fodder. WDW was right in that this really is Jake's movie, despite its trying to be so much more. His is the character that makes the biggest connection, who reveals multiple dimensions to the audience. All the performances were excellent, but for me no one shone like Jake with his flimsy professional facade after the bombing and barely-contained self-loathing during the events that follow. More than anything else, what I walked out of that theater feeling this afternoon was an intense pride. As with most of his movies, the box office numbers will be irrelevant; Jake Gyllenhaal has proved again that he is a phenomenal actor, and he'll have work in Hollywood for as long as he wants it.

All photos: IHJ.