I recently returned from a weeklong vacation at my folk’s home in Indio with a very good friend of mine, where I relaxed on a couch across from a cathedral sized plastic Christmas tree, surrounded by my lovely, loud family, pushed a mile and a half every day under clear blue 65° skies and satisfied my next years quota of mercury by ingesting more fish than the entire cast of A Very Orca Christmas™ at Sea World™. It was by all accounts a great trip. For what it’s worth, here are some of my observations:

Homeland security: one embrace at a time

I’m not sure about the word quaint to describe the Palm Springs Airport, but when was the last time you got a hug from an airport employee who was happy to see you again. Let’s just say, if it was a Starbucks you wouldn’t have to order your venti half caff/decaf soymilk macchiato with a lemon twist and a touch of honey, they’d anticipate your arrival and have it waiting for you.

You are what you read

People are funny. Always being the last one off an airplane gives me a unique perspective into human nature. This time, as I was waiting to deplane, a well-dressed middle-aged woman passed me by with a brand-new hardcover book she’d found on one of the seats. She was trying to get the attention of the elderly woman in front of her whom she thought had left it behind by mistake. When the elderly woman said the book wasn’t hers, the middle-aged woman looked confused about what she should do. Appearing to be a fortunate find, my friend and I suggested she keep it as a sort of gift from the airplane gods. But instead of smiling and nodding in agreement — you know, in the spirit of the holiday — she held it slightly away, looked down at it over her nose and simply scoffed, as if it was the last book in the world she’d want to be caught reading. Instantly, my friend and I burst into laughter, we didn’t know the book, but judging by its cover (which clearly you shouldn’t do), it didn’t appear to be overtly pedestrian. It wasn’t like it was The Da Vinci Code or anything. Still, you gotta wonder, what does that book you’re reading right now say about you?

You are the exit you take

When you’re leaving the Palm Springs Airport you can take either the “Palm Springs” exit or the “to other resort cities” exit. There are no other choices. You’re either living large and heading to Palm Springs or you’re slumming it and going to one of those “other resort cities”. Don’t judge us, but we, of course, headed to the latter.

How to shop like an Englishman

When the front page story of the local paper is the grand opening of a Fresh N’ Easy store, you know you’re in an exciting town. Don’t get me wrong, I understand this particular franchise represents a new way of buying your food (according to the article, this is the way it’s done in England), but I think more than anything it legitimizes staying at home, relaxing on the couch and maybe even going for a float in the pool.

???

Despite 482 days a year of sunshine, there are no laws requiring solar panels on houses, supermarkets, mini malls or circus tents. Is it only me or does this strike anybody else as a little odd and perhaps even, oh, I don’t know… stupid. Don’t even get me started on lawns.

Magic hour on the red planet

No matter how desolate and uninviting the surrounding Mars-like landscape looks during the day, at sunset in the shadow of the snowcapped San Jacinitos mountains, you can almost understand what made people originally decide to settle in the desert. Assuming they came in the wintertime.

Adult supervision

My mother’s lunacy will forever make me laugh. The scene is this: we’re watching Knocked Up, the latest film by Judd Apatow, which while sweet and poignant, is also delightfully vulgar. Not a film my mom would like or get. That said, she’s seen it.

Now, here’s why you gotta love my mom; instead of leaving the room to go to bed (it’s late and my parents tend to retire early these days), she gathers her knitting stuff together, sits down in front of the TV and begins to tell us (mostly my sisters, because they’re mothers and I’m somewhat of a lost cause) how depraved we are for liking such a film.

Of course, we’re not going to take such critique lying down; a). because there’s a tradition of debate to be upheld with my mom, b). she will continue to inject commentary over an already turned down sound system that has been carefully calibrated so as not to wake up the children with our depravity and vulgar sense of humor, and c). she clearly doesn’t understand the genius that is Judd Apatow and must — even if it means delaying our pleasure for it — be made to see the light.

However, before we could even address this oh so crucial last point with an enthusiastic championing of the hit The 40 Year Old Virgin (because this is the obvious place to start), my mom says, “Oh, the grandkids and I watched that. We ordered it from On-Demand”.

What came next can only be described as a very brief yet very pregnant moment of shock, followed by a synchronized, “What!?” from my two sisters, who were clearly dumbfounded by our mother’s interesting sense of judgment. Laughing hysterically, my mom explained she turned it off when she realized what it was and the kids hardly saw anything.

But I had to ask her what was it about the title The 40 Year Old Virgin and the rating Unrated that suggested, wholesome kid friendly entertainment? Let’s go kids, hurry up and grab some Orval Redenbacher’s, that movie about the 40-year-old virgin is on.

By this time we were all rolling and my mom could barely catch her breath, but still you gotta wonder when it all clicked for her? I’m guessing somewhere around the description of the Baja donkey show, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what sort of questions the kids start asking.

The right exit

As far as families go, I only truly know this one, but every moment I spend with them feels like a gift. I’m thankful to no end that we’re able to get together as often as we do… even if it happens to be in one of those “other resort cities”.

Mele Kalikimaka me ka Hau’oli!

For a cinemaphile, I don’t get to the movies much anymore. Work, downtime in bed and now my workout schedule have made it very difficult for me to find the time. There was a period, however, when I went almost 8 times a month. I lived across the street from the now defunct UC theater and in any given week I might see films by Renoir, Billy Wilder, Kurosawa, the Coen brothers or the latest film from Hong Kong. These days, I’m lucky if I make it to the theater five times a year. And this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now the experience sort of feels like an event, and those once confounding Toyota sized boxes of candy even seem doable snack– ask me now if I want an extra 52 ounces of Coke for $.25 and I’ll hand you my own bucket.

That said, in the last 365 days I’ve seen three incredible films; Stranger Than Fiction, Once and last week, Lars And The Real Girl. And since “Lars” is still in the theater (though you might have to travel outside your zip code to find it), I thought I’d write something here in the hope that what I had to say might motivate you to seek it out.

Lars And The Real Girl, the irreverent (sorry, had to use it) comedy directed by Craig Gillespie and starring Ryan Gosling, is an absolute work of wonder. In many ways, given its premise, it’s a leap of faith by its creators. It’s a balancing act that never once tips into the unbelievable. In less capable hands, it’s at best A Weekend at Bernie’s and at worst A Weekend at Bernie’s 2.

In the spirit of not giving too much away, I’ll spare you a synopsis (you can get that by checking out the trailer). I will, however, address the elephant in the room and what I consider to be the film’s potentially problematic hook; Lars, the withdrawn protagonist, is dating a “love doll” named Bianca. The problem for the film here isn’t so much about solving Lars’ delusion (there’s your synopsis), but rather how to get us to care for Bianca. If we can this then their relationship feels “real” and the hook justified and earned. Otherwise, it’s a contrived plot device there only to get laughs and make the film feel more quirky and indie.

The responsibility for solving this problem falls largely on the shoulders of the actors, but not exclusively. Gosling’s performance, in particular, is brilliant. Funny, nuanced and deeply affecting, he unfolds the closed Lars with a quiet precision. There are no big moments or cliché epiphanies to this awakening; it simply happens. What’s most interesting, however, and why the film succeeds so magnificently, is this performance never overshadows any other. In fact, it’s the supporting performances which hold the film together — carrying the burden of Bianca and shaping Lars’ transformation.

This is a film that loves its characters. There’s an authenticity and attention to detail that’s present in even the smallest of parts. Gillespie and Nancy Oliver, the writer, understand nuance and capture those subtle gestures that — when noticed — color and demystify body language. How the eyes move after a flirtatious rebuff or the awkward hesitation that precedes a decision to physically comfort somebody.

Watching Lars And The Real Girl, I couldn’t help thinking of It’s a Wonderful Life. There’s a very Capra-esque feeling to it all (except, you know, with an anatomically correct “love doll” as a protagonist). And while there might be the temptation to misread the film as a nostalgic/sentimental championing of a small town way of life, I believe it’s much smarter than that. In fact, to look at it through such a simplistic lens would be to do the film a disservice. This is a rich look at our vast potential for love, caring, patience, forgiveness and understanding. It’s not didactic or preachy, it simply gathers you in with its humor and quietly carries you along.

Later, when you think about it, it seems unlikely to have worked at all, but magically, almost imperceptibly, it does. And in a way so profound and mesmerizing that when that last line in the film is spoken, you’re left dizzy with satisfaction and wanting it to go on.