A Performance Diary: End of Year

November 27 – Rewatching When Harry Met Sally

One frigid Sunday afternoon I put on two pairs of long-johns to get myself to Bar Pitti for a friend’s birthday lunch. It was a nice lunch. I didn’t eat much of my rigatoni, which I regret, but it was a nice lunch. We laughed and we sang and then smoked some cigarettes, and then everyone left. I stood there smoking. The birthday boy stood with me; he did not smoke. I was the last one to leave the party, and even then, I wasn’t ready to go home.

So me and the birthday boy (Aaron) and our other friend (Phil–while I may be the last to leave, Phil is always the last one to join, so…) went back to Aaron’s house.

The heating in Aaron’s apartment was having problems, and it turns out Aaron’s dog doesn’t like me much. I like her very much—she’s my favorite variety of dog: tiny and fluffy. She took my enthusiasm as a threat, which is what most animals sense about me, too. Animals don’t like me much which makes me feel extremely unattractive (every beautiful woman I’ve ever met has been good with animals). Anyway: we sat on Aaron’s enormous couch and wrapped ourselves in blankets and someone lit a candle and we all looked at each other and said nothing and I felt relieved to be in the company of friends on a cold day who make me feel like I don’t have to say anything to be loved.

Aaron suggested we watch something. We scrolled. Scrolling usually means time to end the hang. So I said, “Whatever.” They said, “Whatever.” We’re all single. We need to hang out on a Sunday; that’s what being single’s for. We scrolled past When Harry Met Sally (1989) and we stopped scrolling. I don’t think we really discussed the choice. We all instinctively knew that the film must go on. We’re single, like I said, and we’re getting older. We’re romantics, maybe even dangerously so, so the choice to watch When Harry Met Sally couldn’t be discussed.

Those now-ye-olden credits came on, the perfect kind: black and white, juicy font, and a waltzing type of music—and I figured I’d leave in one hour. I’ve seen this movie too many times. This isn’t productive for me. I should be educating myself. It’s Sunday. I should read the goddamned newspaper. Or go to a real grocery store, not just the fancy bodega around the corner.

Me, Aaron, and Phil sat on Aaron’s couch and ate that movie UP. We licked the LID on When Harry Met Sally. We watched, and at the end we wept. I don’t know if Aaron wept in front of me and Phil, but he for sure wept when we left. 

Billy Crystal is of all the many meaningful rom-com movie characters I’ve grown attached to, by far–by far, THE SEXIEST. I was jumping up and down at the sheer CANDOR of that man in his lean, tight jeans! If Billy Crystal exists in this world, there must be some others like him. Sure, Harry is a “fictional” person… but maybe I’ll be able to find someone who graciously suits my obnoxiousness. That’s what I realized about Harry and Sally: his obnoxiousness fits like a final puzzle piece into her uptightness. Their flaws somehow get along with each other. I’d like to think that if Harry and Sally ate a pack of M&M’s, she’d like the red and blue ones, and he’d only want the yellow and brown ones. Y’know what I’m saying? I’m a sap.

I could practically see the pages of Nora Ephron’s script as the actors said their lines. That’s how good she is. I was surprised every time I laughed. That’s how good Rob Reiner is. I started thinking about which of my male friends this kind of thing could happen with, and I’ve got none so far, but you never know who will surprise you. Besides, I’m convinced that marriage and soulmates are for other people, people that are not me. This isn’t a sad thing but I won’t go further. You’ve heard enough.  

When Harry Met Sally (1989)

December 8 – A Screening Of Babygirl

I went to see a screening of Halina Reijn’s Babygirl (2024) at the Crosby. The Crosby is my favorite place to go, not for a screening, but for a midday outfit change (or worse). They have the nicest single-stall bathrooms this town has to offer, plus, for whatever reason- they let me in.

I dressed like a real baby-girl for the screening. I had hoped everyone there would know *I* was the real babygirl. An ex-boyfriend I’m not totally done grieving used to call me that—babygirl!—and it felt unfair to me that all of a sudden it’s the zeitgeist. When said ex used to call me that—yes, babygirl—I felt it was a lazy choice, embarrassingly pornographic, and maybe even kiddish, and definitely borderline insulting… so, YUP. It made me feel SEXY. Being called “babygirl” made me feel like the sexiest girl in all five boroughs.

I’ll admit that I walked into the screening of Babygirl a premeditated hater. I tend to crawl on my hands and knees for A24 movies. I love every single last one of ’em, I’m SORRY! (but, c’mon, so do you), and that’s been easy to feel, because most of the A24 movies I’ve seen lately have been directed by men. I haven’t directed anything. I’m not exactly a director yet; I’m not a director at all. I also don’t believe in being threatened by already-established geniuses. Being jealous of Halina is the same thing as being jealous of PTA, or Joan Didion, or Emma Stone, or any of the rest of the tops. Ya can’t be competitive with someone you have no business being competitive with. Or at least, not openly.

The first couple of shots of the film filled me with the same kind of excitement I used to feel as a kid, watching the Gracie Films intro (that glorious “shhhh!”). I couldn’t help but admit that the world I’d entered was already speaking to me in a new language. 

The jealousy kicked back in. There’s a very early-on scene of Nicole Kidman masturbating. For years I’ve been ragging on about how no movie has ever successfully produced an honest female masturbation scene. I vowed to friends, strangers, countrymen—anyone who would listen—that I’d be the first to do it. Well. Nope. Halina is the first. 

I don’t like handing out the term “brave” for anything really, but acting especially. But, man. Nicole Kidman is one brave mother fucker. She allowed Halina to shoot a scene of her character getting Botox. Halina is a genius for that scene alone. Everyone’s faces in the world we live in have changed, and yet no movie characters seem to be getting Botox, even though it’s clear the actors portraying the characters clearly are getting work done. As soon as that needle injected Nicole Kidman’s face, I forgot about Nicole Kidman. I was watching a woman on screen that I had never seen before. A woman who is a babygirl in the same way I’m a babygirl. (I’m talking emotionally, don’t get too excited.) There are just about 1 trillion more reasons why Nicole Kidman is brave for this movie, why her acting is daring and shocking and playful and absolutely addictive to watch but I’ll let you see the film yourselves.

Babygirl (2024)

Harris Dickinson and Antonio Banderas also gave heroic performances. Mr. Dickinson is a total alien. I don’t mean that he was performative or not totally believable—quite the opposite—his naturalism is so vividly subdued that it’s slapstick when it needs to be, but his performance wasn’t just stuck to that sort of “natural” kind of performance I keep seeing from good-looking young actors. He was itchy, and itching, and we never found out why or for what. I liked that his form of sexiness had more to do with the words he held back than anything he actually said aloud. Harris moved around with the perked-ears of a man on the hunt. He was consistently on this slick sort of hunt! Finally: Mr. Banderas. That special man has such an expansive heart. I don’t know him, but ya can just tell. I hurt when he hurt. I was impressed by how firmly he stood his ground and also how clear it was that he wasn’t begging for recognition. A lot of big actors who get put in supporting roles kind of suck the air out of the movie when it’s their time to “shine”? Or are, just like, clearly being assholic scene partners? Mr. Banderas is the opposite of that. He understood Halina’s story in a way that allowed him to insert himself into the quilt with ease, sincerity, and a truth so humanly total. 

The movie ended. I didn’t know why I was crying. The tears felt angry, but there wasn’t anything to be angry about.

Then came the most eloquent and transparent Q&A I’ve ever been to. So see-through, that it feels like I’m about to rat the ladies out. Halina and Nicole talked about the multitudes we women contain on our own, and the ways that it’s hard to be all of our many selves whilst in a relationship. They said it better than that; I’m summarizing. They discussed how many of the women they know have lied about their orgasms, continue to lie about their orgasms, or haven’t even orgasmed at all. (I recently wrote a movie in which these two sentiments are basically the two most major themes of the story, so. Bummer.) 

I put my hands up to my cheeks to cool them off. Halina and Nicole were suddenly saying things that the movie didn’t even say! Or, shit. The movie DID say those things—but without any words. The pain felt physical at this point. I had to get out of there. 

I ran out into Soho in such a bad mood that I cancelled my late-dinner plans and went to bed straight away. I could acknowledge that I was jealous, but the anger didn’t go away. I couldn’t shut up about the film. I kept forgetting who I had asked if they’d seen Babygirl—and found myself asking the same people two or three times over if they had already seen it.

About 10 days later, I realized why I was so upset. The film Babygirl—through another person’s life, and a different series of events—had allowed me to look at myself. Not just through Ms. Kidman’s character, but through all of the characters. All of their selves added up to a me that I had not yet seen represented on screen. The movie acted as a mirror, and in that mirror, I saw too much of myself. Too much of the old me, and too much of the me now, the me I don’t know how to like. 

The jealousy had finally completely drained. I finally felt a surge of inspiration. It felt great to be so charged-up in knowing that there’s a filmmaker out there like Halina.

Babygirl (2024)

December 12 – A Night Of Magic

I went with an old-new friend to see a four-hour magic show. By old-new friend, I mean that we’ve known each other for years, but haven’t hung out much. It’s funny how the years go by with people you’ve met at parties, and suddenly you’re decades’ old friends. It hasn’t been a decade with her yet, but I met her during a time of my life that now feels as if it belonged to an entirely different person.

We went to a witch’s house in Midtown. The witch is the one who used the word “witch.” The apartment building was a classically spooky walk-up near Times Square. Ringing the buzzer felt potentially fatal. The walk up the stairs felt no different. We were greeted by a wonderful witch’s assistant, who also doubled as a musician and somewhat of a cheerleader. The apartment itself was incredibly narrow. Its walls were lined with mystic-and-non-mystic literature. Thick and narrow rugs toppled over each other on the lilted floor (it felt like we were in a sinking ship for the entirety of our stay).

We were the last to arrive. Eight distinct-faced New Yorkers sat there patiently, all on fold-out chairs, waiting for us two latecomers to begin. The New Yorkers looked like they had been frozen and then preserved somewhere in the ’90s. The witch wanted me and my friend to sit apart. We did. We were handed electric-magic-wands and told to press a button on the wands in lieu of applauding. We all did a practice-press-of-the-button, and the magic-wands lit up. 

The way the witch worked was to explain the tricks as she was doing the tricks. By the tenth step of the trick, no one was able to follow along. My friend actually maybe was able to follow along, but I wasn’t. I didn’t learn a damn thing. And I didn’t want to. I had come to believe in magic.

One woman’s dead father spoke to her through a Bicycle playing card. A treasure chest menacingly punctuated the witch’s jokes by rattling all on its own. A man—a regular man, not a warlock—used his mind to move a coin down and off his arm. This witch was pulling out all the stops. Four hours went by. I felt healed not from the magic, but from the simplicity of the fun that I had had. 

Me and my old-new friend went to a bar and played darts. We whispered about magic and smoked our vapes and then walked all the way to my mother’s house together, where I’ve been staying. 

I didn’t expect to hang long, because my friend, like I’ve said, is an old-new friend of mine. But the chat we had that night, after seeing the magic show, was one of the most surprising conversations I’ve had all year. I felt understood until I felt intimidated, which would wrap back around to feeling understood, again. I cried and got embarrassed and then she cried (hopefully without any embarrassment). It felt like a good old fashioned playdate from elementary school. The kind of playdate that as a kid you don’t realize is actually just falling in love. We had spent half of a day together, Lydia and I. Walking, watching magic, and talking. I forgot how good it is to have friends. I forgot how wonderful it is to be single and to have many friends and I forgot how lucky it is not to have a crush on anybody at all. This old-new friend gave me more than a crush ever could. Perhaps the witch put a spell on me and this friend of mine. I don’t have a friend like Lydia. I don’t have a friend who makes me feel as uncomfortable and as seen in the way Lydia does. This old-new friend became somebody I want to wholly know, and is somebody I don’t know if I ever wholly will. The wonderfulness of it all was perhaps even spookier than any of the magic. 

Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.