On the Phone (Again)

Sometime last week, I hit the two-year mark of owning a prepaid cellular phone. I wrote here about making the switch from our monthly pay-ahead Sprint plan to a prepaid plan with Tracfone. I also wrote at the one-year mark (see here) to report that the switch was saving us loads of money. Now that another year has passed, the savings are even more impressive. So, I thought I’d write about it all again.

As a reminder, back when Melanie and I were with Sprint, we had one mobile phone and paid for the cheapest monthly plan that Sprint had to offer. After the myriad taxes and fees that get tacked on to the basic monthly service fee, we were paying nearly $50 per month for one heavily underused phone.

In January 2010, Melanie and I bought two new mobile phones with Tracfone. The phones cost us $20 and came with 200 minutes of prepaid talk time. To keep our phones active, all we have to do is reload each phone before it runs out of minutes and/or before the service date for that phone ends. Every time you add minutes to the phone, it adds 90 days to your service period. Thus, you are stuck buying more minutes every 90 days, even if you don’t yet need them, just to keep your phone active. On the other hand, if you need to buy more minutes after just 30 days, you’ll still be extending your original service expiration date by 90 days. The service days can accumulate, in other words. So, if you add minutes to your phone on 10 different occasions, even if it’s within 10 days, you’ll have added 900 service days to your phone. Anyway, when we activated our phones, we were given more than 90 days of service to begin with. I lucked out with literally years’ worth of time on my phone. Right now, I have 1,275 days (or 3 ½ years) left until my service expires, provided I keep my phone loaded with minutes. (Melanie didn’t get so lucky and has actually had to buy minutes just to extend her service date.)

Of course, the whole point of changing to prepaid cell phones was to save us money. Has that been accomplished? Yes, indeed. The more minutes you buy at a time, the cheaper each minute is. Thus, Melanie and I have typically bought 900 minutes at a time, which costs $80. It sounds like a lot when you’re paying for the minutes, but in my case, 900 minutes last nearly forever. I’ve reloaded my phone only twice since purchasing it, and as I write this, I’ve barely made it through half of the second batch of minutes that I bought. Adding it all up, including the initial $20 that it cost to buy my phone, prorating my minutes so as to be accurate in my estimate, I have calculated that my cell phone is costing me about $6.07 per month (not including tax, which probably adds about $.25 per month). That means that even if Melanie is burning through 450 minutes per month (which she’s not), we’re breaking even compared to our Sprint days. I honestly don’t know just how many times we’ve had to reload Melanie’s phone, but it has been at least a couple of times more than mine. Still, I’d be surprised if we’re spending even $20 per month for us both to have phones. It’s probably much closer to $15. I once again rejoice in our decision.

While I think the Tracfone service has gotten better over the last two years, it hasn’t been as reliable as Sprint. Nothing has been problematic enough to make us look elsewhere, but I’m happy to hear from anybody out there who believes Melanie and I could both have cell phones, with even better service, and pay this little for it. I’m not committed to Tracfone, and in fact I was quite pleased with Sprint’s service. It’s just that Tracfone has made more sense for us than anything else thus far. (Or is it that Tracfone has made more cents for us? LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!)

Movie Review: Real Steel

Real Steel
(PG-13)
Directed by Shawn Levy
Running Time: 127 minutes
Originally Released: October 7, 2011

* * ½ (out of four)

In the far distant future – the year 2020 to be precise – there aren’t any boxing champions. Not human boxing champions, anyway. The human version of the sport has gone extinct, with robot boxing now ruling the ring. Of course, the robot competitors are owned by humans, and depending on how fancy one’s robot is, it will require more or less directional input from a human during the fight. The most sophisticated robots can learn and adapt to their opponent’s fighting style, running mostly on autopilot, while a bare bones model must be remotely controlled from the sidelines. Regardless, human audiences love watching two bots get into the ring and fight to the virtual death. It is the human desire for total and mass destruction that has given rise to the robot boxing phenomenon in the first place.

Charlie Kenton (Hugh Jackman) is a former human fighter who, now that the robot leagues have taken over, manages robots on the amateur circuit. Charlie is something of a con man, or perhaps just absurdly optimistic, making bets he can’t afford to lose but typically does. It leaves him scurrying, continuously looking for a win while attempting to avoid the wrath of those he has swindled. Charlie also has an estranged 11-year-old son, Max (Dakota Goyo), who comes into his life after Max’s mother dies. When Max’s well-to-do aunt Debra (Hope Davis) expresses interest in adopting the boy, Charlie sees it as another moneymaking opportunity. He makes a backdoor deal with Debra’s husband Marvin (James Rebhorn) to sign over custodial rights for $100,000. Marvin agrees, on the condition that Charlie keep Max for the summer and thereby not upset the aunt’s and uncle’s travel plans.

It isn’t long before Max demonstrates a knack for robot boxing himself. The boy salvages an old-school robot from a junkyard and begins competing against more advanced robots, scoring a surprising string of victories along the way. Atom, Max’s robot, soon draws national attention, soliciting ire not only from Charlie’s past opponents, but from the team behind robot boxing’s most famous fighter, the undefeated Zeus, whom Max publicly challenges to a duel.

Real Steel is brought to you by director Shawn Levy, whose résumé includes Just Married, the 2006 reboot of The Pink Panther, Date Night, and the two Night at the Museum movies. It is safe to say that Levy specializes in making movies that are meant to have mass appeal and suffer because of it. Indeed, the list of unflattering adjectives that can be used to describe Real Steel is extensive: hokey, corny, formulaic, predictable, and uninspired, just to name a few. And yet for all of that, it is nigh unto impossible to watch the movie without rooting for Atom’s (and Max’s, and thus even Charlie’s) success.  It is also a surprisingly stunning film visually, and not just during the special effect-laden robot fight sequences that have garnered the film an Oscar nomination. Mauro Fiore, who himself won an Oscar for his work as cinematographer on Avatar, endows the film with absorbent colors and picturesque landscapes that help to elevate the film beyond its mediocre core.

Acting isn’t what this movie is about, so it is probably pointless to mention it as I am about to do. That being said, Jackman does an adequate job, as does Lost’s Evangeline Lilly as Bailey, the obligatory love interest who is also the daughter of Charlie’s deceased boxing trainer. Lilly’s role is excess baggage, but to be expected in a film that flaunts rather than flouts convention. Meanwhile, Goyo is neither as charming nor as grating as many child actors, though he would much more easily fall into the latter category than into the former. Viewers may be reminded of Jake Lloyd, the heavily derided actor who played young Anakin Skywalker in The Phantom Menace. Throw in a dash of Jodie Foster (both in terms of looks and in terms of talent), and you’ve got Goyo. It’s not a flattering comparison, but it’s suitable.

Real Steel is based on a short story from science fiction writer Richard Matheson. Matheson’s novels and stories have been adapted into numerous movies over the years, from Somewhere in Time to What Dreams May Come to I Am Legend. (Matheson has also written or co-written several screenplays, including Jaws 3-D and the Gene Hackman / Dan Aykroyd comedy Loose Cannons.) Despite its more prestigious origins, Real Steel ultimately plays out like a big screen adaptation of Rock’em Sock’em Robots—a none-too-ridiculous notion considering that a Battleship movie is set to hit theaters this summer. Though there is no official tie in with the 1960s game, I imagine those with a fondness for Rock’em Sock’em Robots will enjoy Real Steel more than anyone else could. Only a lightweight will be knocked out by the film, but there are worse ways to spend two hours.

Book Review: God, If You're Not Up There, I'm F*cked

Fair or not, as I read Darrell Hammond’s God, If You’re Not Up There, I’m F*cked, I couldn’t help comparing it constantly to Tina Fey’s Bossypants. Both Hammond and Fey are prominent alumni of the long-running NBC sketch comedy show Saturday Night Live, and their memoirs were published a mere seven months apart. While Fey’s book was modestly entertaining, it was a bit of a disappointment. It favored cute and clever witticisms over candor and humility. In contrast, Hammond has penned an absorbing, emotionally frank, and surprisingly educational memoir that lays its author bare in a manner that is both delicate and unflinching.

It is no surprise that Hammond’s time at Saturday Night Live should underscore nearly every chapter of his memoir. His record-breaking 14-year stint as an SNL cast member made him a household name, from college dorms to the most famous house of all, located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Indeed, Hammond’s impressions covered a veritable pantheon of political figures—Bill Clinton, Al Gore, Dick Cheney, Jesse Jackson, Arnold Schwarzenegger, pundit Chris Matthews, and even Donald Trump (who counts only because he briefly flirted with the idea of running for president). The man also famously performed as Sean Connery, Dan Rather, Ted Koppel, Phil Donahue, Regis Philbin, and scores of others. Hammond’s notoriety as the preeminent comic impressionist of this generation followed him everywhere, from Presidential black-tie soirées, where Hammond was invited to perform as Clinton alongside Clinton himself, to the psychiatric hospitals where, as a patient, Hammond still couldn’t escape the requests to appear in character.

Little do people know that Hammond’s penchant for imitation began as a child, when his impressions of Porky Pig and others formed the only positive link between him and his sadistically abusive, mentally-ill mother. It was a relationship that would germinate more than Hammond’s vocal talents, leading the comedian for most of his life to struggle with severe mental and emotional problems, and in turn with alcohol and a wide assortment of other drugs. Even more shockingly, Hammond’s psychological turmoil was frequently manifest in acts of self-cutting, a practice he engaged in often just moments before taking the stage and performing in comedy skits on live television. An amazingly persistent talent, Hammond nevertheless didn’t always make it in front of the cameras. More than once his appearances were cancelled as he was rushed from the NBC studios at Rockefeller Center to a hospital—one time in a straitjacket.

Hammond’s tome is a powerful one, with writing as dignified as it is gracious. It’s almost surprising that the book is a memoir for as little as Hammond makes himself the center of attention. In no way does he shy away from the details of his life, from his vast accomplishments and the wealth of professional respect that has come his way. And yet Hammond exudes an unwavering awe toward all of the talent with which he’s had the honor to have worked, a relentless gratitude for all of the wondrous occasions of which he’s been a part. At the same time, Hammond openly discusses his foibles and flaws. His matter-of-fact recounting of personal weakness is neither arrogant nor apologetic nor a plea for sympathy, it is just the truth. It is a pervasive and guileless honesty that commands the respect of the reader, even when a bit of the unsolicited sympathy does manage to slip in.

I would be remiss not to mention the expert way in which Hammond fuses informative passages into his tale. The knowledge the reader gains of everything Hammond discusses, from life in Hell’s Kitchen circa 1980 to law enforcement in the Bahamas, is staggering. A copious amount of detail is woven into the narrative, but it is done so seamlessly and succinctly that you’ll scarce realize you’re being educated just as much as you’re being entertained. Nowhere is this as true as when Hammond describes the inner workings of Saturday Night Live. Even the casual fan of the show will gain an appreciation for the controlled chaos that goes on behind the scenes. Hammond’s book should be used as a primer for anyone aspiring to join the cast or crew of SNL.

It is incredibly fitting that Hammond should conclude his memoir discussing his most recent adventure, playing Truman Capote in a stage production of the one-man show Tru. As Hammond notes, the stage is designed to make audiences feel as though they are sitting in Capote’s living room, effectively transforming the nearly 100-minute monologue into something of an intimate conversation between Capote and the individual viewer. Hammond’s book accomplishes nearly the same feat. By the time I had reached the final few chapters, I realized that I was reading every page as though poised on the edge of my seat, with Hammond sitting directly in front of me, talking to me personally, telling me about his life as if I were a near and dear friend. It donned on me then that Hammond, whom I felt had alluded me in the earlier chapters, had been there all along, but with such a quiet and pleasing demeanor that I had failed to appreciate his arrival, so caught up was I in what he had to say. Without my even realizing it, Hammond had befriended me through his stories. And I can’t think of a better compliment for the author of a memoir.

Parenting and Race

I recently wrote a post about adoption (see here). While it isn’t necessary to read that post in order to understand what I say here, this is a follow-up to and expanding of ideas already mentioned there.

Consider the following claim:

Ideally, children will be raised by parents of their own race.

Let us refer to this claim as the Symmetry Principle of Parenting, or SPP. Is SPP true? I can imagine some people reacting to SPP with disgust. Those people may see SPP in terms of what it (seemingly, but not actually) prohibits. That is, some will see SPP as carrying the following mandates: blacks shouldn’t raise white children, whites shouldn’t raise black children, Asians shouldn’t raise Hispanic children, etc. Though SPP does not actually entail any of these things, I can see why people might respond negatively to SPP. Something about it just doesn’t sound politically correct.

I’m not 100% committed to SPP, but I think it’s probably true. In fact, I think the implications of rejecting SPP are much more likely to be offensive than are any implications of accepting it. By denying that, ideally, children would be raised by parents of their own race, it seems to me that you are disvaluing race altogether. And that doesn’t seem right. I think most of us are comfortable saying that there is something special and unique about each race. Perhaps I am wrong, but my impression is that most (if not all) black people regard their black heritage as something to be proud of, as an inherently valuable part of who they are. I also assume that, no matter how in touch with black culture a white person may be, that person has only a superficial understanding of what it is like to be a member of the black community. Finally, I assume that the more intimate and complete the parents’ understanding of what their child’s experiences in the world are like—in one sense, the more capable of empathy the parents are—the better that child will fare in life. Now, I know this is not a black and white issue—neither figuratively nor literally, as there are more races than black and white—but I trust that my point is becoming clear. A black parent can provide things for a black child that a white parent cannot. To suggest otherwise is not only absurd, but insulting. It implies not only that race is of little consequence, which is just false, but (for example) that when it comes to raising a black child, any value a black parent might offer to that child in light of their common racial identity, can just as easily be replaced by the good intentions of a white person—a white person whose understanding and appreciation of black culture is necessarily both minimal and largely impersonal. Now, can that be right???

At this point, we might ask what the practical implications of SPP are. Perhaps nothing. We aren’t living in an ideal world, so it may not matter what’s ideal. The ideal might be unattainable, and we might be capable only of doing what’s best in a non-ideal situation. Without a doubt, it is better than not that a child be raised in a safe home by loving parents who can provide for that child, regardless of who is of what race. But if we accept SPP, it may imply that adoptive parents do children a disservice if they intentionally adopt outside of their own race for superficial reasons (e.g. to diversify, to be cool, etc.). And it might go beyond race. SPP can be extended from making a racial claim to making a cultural claim. If it’s equally true that, ideally, children will be raised by parents of their own culture, then it may be morally wrong (in some situations) to adopt a child from a different country. This is less obviously true, especially when (or, at least, if) adopting typically improves the life of the child. But again, when people adopt outside of their own culture primarily because it seems cool to do so, they should recognize that such a move may be detrimental to the child’s sense of self-worth and identity. It’s at least a possibility, one that I think merits consideration.

Side note: in writing this, I began to wonder just how many non-white parents adopt white children. More tellingly, I began to wonder just how many non-white parents would even want to adopt white children. I can’t help thinking that it must be a SUBSTANTIALLY higher percentage of white parents who adopt outside of their own race than non-whites. This almost certainly has a lot to do with the availability of adoptable children, and yet I'm not convinced that there isn’t more to it than that. I’m tempted to say that white parents are much more likely to take pride in adopting outside of their race, believing that it says something positive about their characters. Insofar as this is true, it irks me.

Movie Review: The Ides of March

The Ides of March
(R)
Directed by George Clooney
Running Time: 101 minutes
Originally Released: October 7, 2011

* * * (out of four)

Not everyone holds to the same ideals. As reflective human beings, we are sometimes forced to ask ourselves what price we are willing to pay if we are to keep our most cherished personal convictions intact. Less often do we consider what value such convictions hold for us in a world that treats them as mere commodities that can be bought and sold. The Ides of March examines both sides of this issue, imparting to viewers a cinematic cost-benefit analysis of personal integrity.

Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling) is a young press secretary working the primary presidential campaign of Democrat and current Pennsylvania governor Mike Morris (George Clooney). Stephen is ambitious, hard-working, and carries an impressive résumé for his age. But Stephen does more than play the game—he believes in his team, and he is driven first and foremost by his commitment to the ideals touted by Morris. If he didn’t believe in Morris, Stephen wouldn’t allow himself to be among Morris’ most fervent advocates. Harmoniously enough, Morris himself is a staunch idealist, so much so that his idealism has become one of his most controversial attributes.

Paul Zara (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) is Morris’ campaign manager. Across the way is Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), campaign manager for Senator Pullman, a Democrat from Arkansas. As the film takes place entirely within the scope of primary elections, Pullman is Morris’ main rival, making Tom and Paul archenemies. And then there is Molly (Evan Rachel Wood), an intern serving on Morris’ campaign whose fling with Stephen sets off a string of tumultuous events.

With an impeccable cast, it may be all too easy to deem The Ides of March a “powerhouse” film. But 90% of the film’s success can be attributed to Gosling. I’ve long been an unabashed admirer of Gosling’s work, and yet I continue to be amazed by his talent. With The Ides of March, Gosling reaffirms the power of facial expressions. Think of the way a pupil dilates to accommodate a shift in the light; with an equally effortless ease, Gosling conveys a precise and sudden change in his character’s emotions. Though the change is natural, fluid, and almost imperceptible to the casual observer, it speaks volumes as to what’s going on within the character’s psyche. Hate, disenchantment, anxious fury—with the gentle lift of a brow or the nearly indiscernible tensing of the mouth, Gosling deftly conveys all of these emotions, richly, in full force, and with all of the nuanced differences between them properly accounted for. It is highly impressive, especially when one recognizes just how similar these faces can appear.

The remaining cast is in top form, although lesser-developed characters sometimes hurt the film. A recurring theme in the film is deceit and betrayal. When a mask falls from this or that character and true motives or natures are revealed, it is hard to feel as shocked as one might had the decimated façade been more firmly established.

Incredibly well-acted and directed, The Ides of March is far from perfect. It’s a slow process, bringing the film to a simmer. Viewers spend nearly two thirds of the film convinced they’re watching a fairly straightforward, modestly entertaining election movie. Then, after nearly an hour of screen time and seemingly out of left field, things start to get interesting. Very interesting. The problem is that the movie then spends its remaining time steadily building to a rolling boil—only to come to an abrupt stop. In the end, it feels like a very extended trailer for a movie I still wish I could see. Put another way, the movie does a lot of gearing up without really paying off. The slow start only accentuates the jarring swiftness with which the film concludes, which may have been a deliberate and stylistic choice on the part of the filmmakers. Even so, I can’t help thinking that the movie stands in dire need of a cinematic haircut—taking just a little off the top would give it a much tidier appearance overall.