1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 15: Welcome to the dollhouse

I was in college when I first saw Todd Solondz’s Welcome to the Dollhouse. I didn’t enjoy it one bit. All the terror of middle school (or junior high, as it’s called in the movie) came crashing down on me again.

My friend Hoku viewed it with me. Welcome to the Dollhouse turned him white as a ghost.

(His middle school years were harder than mine.)

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Dawn Wiener (Heather Matarazzo) may not be quite at the social bottom of her seventh-grade class at Benjamin Franklin Junior High. But she’s close enough to the bottom that when she tries to commiserate with a classmate who’s just been pounded by bullies, he tells her, “Leave me alone, Wiener Dog!” and runs away.

Dawn wises up after that incident. Never again does she try to aid the powerless. Instead, she toadies up to the powerful and berates and bullies her sixth-grade hanger-on, Ralphy, and her much younger sister, Missy.

Bullying Missy is a mistake. Missy may only be in early grade school, but she knows how to work the system like one of the popular kids.

Her parents always side with her against Dawn. One of the smartest things about the movie is how it shows the adults reinforcing the social hierarchy that keeps Dawn and her older brother, Mark, from breaking away from their peers’ contempt.

Mark directs his efforts toward getting into a good college. This, he supposes, will enable him to finally climb the ladder above his popular, arrogant classmate, Steve Rodgers. Meanwhile, he toadies up to Steve.

Dawn’s strategy is another variant of: If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. She throws herself at Steve.

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Dawn has little going for her, but, astutely, the movie recognizes that someone will find something about her to like.

Enter Brandon (Brendan Sexton III), whose home life is even more troubled than Dawn’s.

This isn’t a movie in which goodness triumphs. Brandon’s reserves of courage and sensitivity don’t carry the day. They’re buried very deep, and the situation is further complicated by his mean streak.

But the fact that Brandon is the tiniest bit hopeful about life, and that Dawn is the person he chooses to share that hopefulness with, suggests that there’s hope for Dawn, too.

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I said I didn’t enjoy my first viewing: it was too painful. But time makes even this sort of pain enjoyable.

The movie is filled with acid humor. It’s all in the details, which I don’t want to ruin. But I can give hints.

Dawn’s and Missy’s rivalry is exquisitely lifelike: the tones of voice, the backstabbing, the parents’ failure to administer justice. (What’s arguably the most horrific scene in the movie has to do with how the parents distribute slices of chocolate cake.)

Then there’s the movie’s use of the vernacular. Certain characters are just learning to swear. They combine their words like hilariously ill-matched fashion accessories.

As in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the most grotesque, syrupy scenes are set to famous passages of classical music. These are juxtaposed against the garage rock riffs that punctuate angrier scenes.

This juxtaposition is paralleled in one of the subplots. Mark recruits Steve Rodgers to play guitar and sing in his garage rock band. Mark’s instrument in the band is the clarinet. The result is the auditory equivalent of spoiled milk.

This movie isn’t nice. But middle school isn’t nice. Families aren’t always nice. Life isn’t nice. This is one of the best movies of the year.

Jacob & sons

One month after our wedding, Karin is getting me to listen to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

Way way back many centuries ago
Not long after the Bible began
Jacob lived in the land of Canaan
A fine example of a family man
Jacob!
Jacob and sons
Depended on farming to earn their keep
Jacob!
Jacob and sons
Spent all of his days in the fields with sheep

Jacob was the founder of a whole new nation
Thanks to the number of children he had
He was also known as Israel, but most of the time
His sons and his wives used to call him “Dad”
Jacob!
Jacob and sons
Men of the soil, of the sheaf and crook
Jacob!
Jacob and sons
A remarkable family in anyone’s book …

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The Argentinians, weary of their title drought, are profoundly interested in winning this Copa América. Without any nonsense, they defeated the USA 4–0 in the first semifinal.

The reigning-champion Chileans obviously don’t wish to relinquish their title to the Argentinians, their sworn enemies. They beat Colombia 2–0 in last night’s semifinal.

This second semifinal, in Chicago, was interrupted for a couple of hours by a t-storm that stretched across Illinois and Indiana. Due to this storm South Bend was briefly under a tornado watch. Karin & I huddled together in our apartment and prayed not to lose our lives or our property or our cat. (It would’ve been all right, though, if our rickety outdoor staircase had been blown away. We wouldn’t have minded being given a new staircase.)

Here is a video of the game and of the storm, and here is a decent write-up.

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The group stage of the Euros has ended with some upsets. The new 24-team format ensures that most of the penultimate-placed teams qualify for the knockout stage. This, in turn, has resulted in guaranteed safety, after just two games, for many of the leading nations, which has caused them to switch off their brains during their closing group games, which has caused them to draw or to lose those games. And so now we have a very lopsided knockout bracket.

One one side are Germany, Slovakia, Italy, Spain, France, Eire, England, and Iceland. This is the strong side of the bracket. All of the favorites, minus Belgium, are on this side (and the Belgians have given a lackluster performance so far).

On the other side of the bracket are Belgium, Hungary, Ulster, Wales, Portugal, Croatia, Poland, and Switzerland. Most of these teams didn’t even qualify for the 2012 Euros. (The Portuguese got to the semifinals then, but now they look awful.)

I admit I’m enjoying this.

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Do you ever wonder how the characters of Good Will Hunting turned out? Here Ben Affleck shows what happened to Chuckie after he grew up.

Our demise

The best moment of the Copa América occurred at the end of the group stage. Raúl Ruidíaz scored with his hand, allowing Peru to knock out Brazil.

The Uruguayans also were KO’d during the group stage.

In last night’s quarterfinal, we Ecuadorians were beaten by the U.S. (as foretold in Ecclesiastes 9:11). To their credit the gringos did what they set out to do, which was to station nearly all of their players close to their own box.

(Remarkably, the gringos were able to get away with doing this at home. Their fans were even willing to applaud them for doing it.)

Still, we created plenty of chances. Most of them were wasted by Énner Valencia. We also earned a few set-pieces, one of which we converted (set-pieces are crucial when the other team is stationing nearly all of its players close to the box). But we deserved to have more free kicks than the referee gave us, as well as at least one penalty kick. After one especially bad no-call, Coach Quinteros justly insulted the referee’s mother.

In the game’s last minutes we performed an experiment. Our left-back, Walter Ayoví, moved into the center of the field, where he carved up the U.S. with his passing. The Argentinian commentators were in awe. “Walter Ayoví with your 37 years, we love you!” they exclaimed after the game ended.

Portage

On the 3A and the 3B, the Portage Avenue routes, the bus makes many stops. Some are planned; others occur when necessary, e.g. when there’s too much swearing. “Profanity is not acceptable,” says the driver into his microphone.

Grizzled men protest their innocence.

“My bad,” says an old lady. “I said fuck.”

The bus starts up again; the bantering is resumed; the bus stops. “If you continue using that language,” says the driver, “I’ll throw you off the bus.” The crowd giggles. Camaraderie.

Two men sit down next to me. “Relax,” says one. “It’s OK to be seated next to a black man.” (On the bus I’m not unused to this sort of challenge.) I glare. They laugh. “Just messin’,” they say. We fist-bump.

“I don’t care if you make fun of me,” I tell them. They pretend not to hear.

“What are you reading?” they ask. I show them An Experiment in Love by Hilary Mantel, who’s twice won the Man Booker.

Solemnly, they nod. Respect.

Some drivers are less patient than others, and so I always make sure to thank them; this has put me into their good graces. Still, it’s not surprising that the driver who’s kindest to me is another puny white guy. When I disembark, I thank him, and he warmly says: “Take care.”

As I step out onto the pavement, I have a vision: a banquet hall (a warehouse) with many tables at which are seated the passengers and drivers. I hear my name called out: I’m summoned to the podium. I’ve been chosen as the MVP. The MVP of riding the bus.