Movie Review: Hail, Caesar! (2016)

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

Movie Review: Hail, Caesar! (2016)

Written by: Joel and Ethan Coen, Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen

Starring: George Clooney, Josh Brolin, Scarlett Johansson

Letter Grade: B-

Hollywood in the early 1950’s was a place of glitz, glamor, and spin. The studios carefully guarded the reputations of their stars and measured every move they made to maximize appeal and profits. It was also an industry overcome by the Red Scare. Somehow, Hail, Caesar!, the newest entry in the Coen Brother’s illustrious oeuvre, is somehow simultaneously about all of this, and none of this.

Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin) has a busy life between his days and nights as head of production for Capitol Studios and being the“fixer” of his celebrity’s missteps, all while trying to hide his smoking from his patient wife and going to confession every 27 hours or so. He gets more than he bargained for, however, when one of his starlets (Scarlett Johansson) gets pregnant while unmarried, and the biggest star in Hollywood (George Clooney) is kidnapped off the set of his latest film by a group of Communists, who demand an exorbitant ransom. What follows is a madcap romp through the Golden Age of Hollywood, complete with a dance number that, while silly, would make Gene Kelly himself proud.

At its best moments, Hail, Caesar! is a fun, smart satire of Hollywood and the mentality of the 1950’s. The dialogue sparkles and the one-liners fly quick and land perfectly. The best example of this is the amazing Ralph Fiennes, whose part is small but hilarious. He is easily the best part of the film, even when he is making you question your pronunciation of even the most mundane words.

There is also a charming, laugh-out-loud funny scene where Mannix interrogates a diverse group of religious leaders about the portrayal of Jesus on screen to make sure they will not offend any group.

If these scenes represented the film as a whole, this would be a solid A+ Coen Brothers comedy, and I would be able to wholeheartedly recommend it. Unfortunately, that is not the case. There’s very little drama in this film, and even less depth or actual stakes. This film is so light you can practically see it float. And therein lies the problem. Large chunks of the movie drag between jokes, or anything interesting happening. It’s slightly bloated and over-long for what it is, and this means the ending feels like it’s supposed to mean something to you as an audience member, but it’s impossible to decide what you’re supposed to feel or learn.

There is also annoying voice over narration that adds nothing to your understanding of the plot, and overall just seems tacked-on and pointless. If the writing quality was a little more consistent and sharper throughout, rather than just in brilliant patches, it wouldn’t have been deemed necessary.

Of course, the acting on all levels is great. Everyone nails their roles beautifully, they just don’t add up to anything worthwhile. It feels like a film that wants to say something, but doesn’t quite know what that something is.

If you love old Hollywood, the Coen Brothers, or snappy dialogue, Hail, Caesar! is worth checking out. It’s enjoyable and beautiful to look at, and much of the comedy is genuinely hilarious. But, the jokes is where it stops. It doesn’t go for the throat. It pulls its punches, and never really seems to skewer or pay homage but finds some odd, unsatisfying middle ground. There is no question it is the work of great filmmakers, it just isn’t the best work of the masters. Perhaps from less capable hands, we wouldn’t expect as much and would be willing to accept Hail, Caesar! on its face. But when you are Joel and Ethan Coen, for better or worse, we as an audience demand… just more than this.

Light Year by Sarah Hohman

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

It had been too damn long.

The thought kept pounding through Jill Silver’s mind as she struggled up the small but surprisingly steep hill. The ground was frozen solid beneath her feet, but there was no snow yet to blanket the gray world in a layer of soothing white.

As she reached the summit of her own private Mt. Kilimanjaro, she paused for a moment to look around and take in the natural beauty of the valley she was now master over. Stretched out beneath her, almost to the ends of the known world, was an ocean of barren brown trees mixed in with sporadic explosions of dark evergreens, their bare branches reaching for her like hundreds of eager servants bowing to her every command.

Growing up, she used to pretend this hill overlooked Narnia itself, where the White Witch had made it always winter but never Christmas. Or sometimes, she would imagine it was Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest, or King Arthur’s Camelot. She would spend hours up here alone, having grand adventures no one else would understand, not as a damsel in distress waiting to be rescued by the hero, but as an equal and a warrior in her own right.

Today, that same feeling came swelling back in full force.

No question about it, she decided firmly, contentment settling over her body down to her blood and bones. It had simply been too damn long since she had been home.

Since they had been home, she realized, for some reason suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone on the journey this time.

Pulling her coat tighter around her body, Jill turned around to see what was keeping her sister. Maggie was just coming up over the crest of the hill, looking miserable.

“I just fell fifty times coming up this stupid hill,” Maggie grumbled as she drew closer, shouting to be heard over the howl of the wind. “No big deal.”

Maggie wiped her now mud-encrusted gloves off on her jeans while also taking in the view, though she was clearly far less awed and impressed by it than was her sister. Jill’s eyes fell on a good-sized fallen tree branch on the ground nearby, a perfect sword. It took every ounce of her will to not pick it up and start slaying dragons right then and there.

“At least Chicago has proper heat,” Maggie muttered. “And public transportation. And Uber.”

“Come on. Let’s go, Complain-y Pants,” Jill teased gently, nodding towards their destination just a few yards beyond. “It’s right over there.”

Maggie looked where she was indicating, the frown deepening on her face. “I know where it is. And I’m not a Complain-y Pants.”

“That’s what Mom used to call you when we were kids.”

“No, that’s what Mom used to call you!”

“Either way,” Jill shrugged, pushing ahead towards the large slab of granite marking the spot on the ground. “Would her majesty like to clean herself in a royal finger bowl before we continue? There is a dress code for this event, after all. ‘Formal Attire’, I believe the invitation said.”

Maggie immediately stopped fussing with her gloves, frowning sternly at her younger sister. “You’re not funny.”

“Oh, I am hilarious.” Jill waved her sister’s glare off carelessly, turning back to face the onslaught of icy wind. “Keep moving. Mom will appreciate my jokes.”

“She never did when she was alive.” Maggie’s words were almost lost, carried away by the infinite howling around them.

Jill simply snorted in reply, unperturbed by the mild jab. “That’s just a lie, and you know it.”

Now Maggie was smiling, too, as the shared memories began coming back.

Cold days, colder nights.

Sledding.

Hot chocolate.

Snowmen.

Typical Vermont childhood, almost idyllic in its simplicity.

The women pressed on towards their goal: an old elm tree, standing tall and stark against the barren world around it. Beneath the tree, under the protective branches that seemed to reach out to embrace it, was a single gravestone.

Jill reached it first, but Maggie was only a step or two behind. She slipped her gloved hand into her sister’s as she came alongside her, both of their eyes locked on the name on the grave before them.

MARGO GRACE SILVER

For an endless moment, neither of them spoke. Their lips parted in silence, but nothing needed to be said. Jill squeezed Maggie’s hand reassuringly. Maggie smiled and returned the gesture.

It would be obvious to anyone watching the scene that the two were sisters, even through the disguise of winter attire. They both shared the same soft blond hair sticking out from under their hats and the same sparkling brown eyes that wrinkled in the corners when they laughed and flashed with the fury of Hell itself when they were angry. They both shared their father’s thoughtful expressions and their mother’s surprisingly husky laugh and sharp wit. And in this moment, they both shared the same look of utter loss and heartbreak.

Jill spoke first, addressing the tombstone directly.

“Hi, Mom,” she whispered, finally dropping Maggie’s hand and giving a small wave. “We’re here. Sorry it’s been a while since we’ve stopped by.”

“A year,” Maggie corrected her without any real malice in her tone. As always, she simply had to keep the record straight. “It’s been a year since we’ve stopped by. To be exact.”

“It’s been a year for you,” Jill countered instinctively, that old knee-jerk argumentative streak rearing its head. “I’ve been home almost every weekend.”

“Yeah, to help Dad out. You haven’t been up here to see Mom in a year. Since we came together last time. Dad told me he hasn’t been since then, and I know you wouldn’t come here alone. None of us would.”

Jill opened her mouth to argue further, but closed it again when she realized her sister was right.

Damn her.

“Sorry it’s been a year,” Jill amended begrudgingly, turning back to their mother’s grave. “Dad’s going to come later to see you, don’t worry. We demanded he let us come first. Alone. You know, girl time.”

“We miss you,” Maggie added quickly, as if she had to get the thought off her chest before she exploded. “You’ve been gone for three years today, and that’s just too long, Mom.”

“Too damn long,” Jill murmured in agreement.

Both of their voices were beginning to crack, though neither of them acknowledged it. Inhaling deeply, Jill searched her mind and heart for everything she had kept bottled up for 365 excruciatingly long days.

“There’s so much going on I want to tell you about,” she said finally. “I’m going to be graduating soon, and I can’t believe you won’t be there to see it. God, I can’t tell you how many times I reach for my phone to call you, and sometimes I even dial–”

“You still dial her?” Maggie asked, surprised. “I thought I was the only one.”

“Every once in a while I will,” Jill admitted, wiping a frozen tear from her cheek. “I’ll scroll through my contacts and see her picture and click on it… I don’t know if I forget, or if I just want to forget… but I always drop the call before it connects. I don’t want to know who has the number now. If anyone does.”

“Don’t worry about it. I do the same thing.”

The women smiled at each other, a moment of sisterly bonding passing between them. Jill relished it. They hadn’t bonded like this in so long. After all, it hadn’t just been a year since she had been back home. It had been a year since she had seen her sister or her father.

Even as she had the realization, she couldn’t believe it.

There was ten years of age difference between them, Jill was twenty-one and Maggie was thirty-one, but that had just always made Maggie seem like a second younger, cooler mother to Jill. Growing up, they were inseparable until Maggie went away college. Even though they had their moments of petty sisterly squabbling, the love had always run deep between them. But now, Maggie lived in Chicago with her husband and new baby, and Jill attended college in Boston. There was a world between them, or at least half a continent. And now their mother was also gone, which somehow meant staying close was harder than ever. They had lost the adhesive that bound them together as a family.

“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch this year,” Jill murmured. “School is crazy. And then I had that internship over the summer–”

“I understand,” Maggie cut her off, refusing to shuffle all the blame to her younger sister. “You’re not the only one capable of making a phone call. I could have made more of an effort… I should have made more of an effort. But, with Kyle and now Sienna… well, you know how it goes.”

Maggie sighed quietly and let the thought just drift off into the ether, regret bridging the distance between them.

“Yeah, I know how it goes,” Jill finally agreed without much enthusiasm. Her eyes were drawn away from the tombstone for a brief moment, resting instead on the bare branches. In a few months, they would be covered in buds and fresh green life, but for now there was nothing around them but gray, cold death.

Finally, she looked back at her sister. “Remember when you would get me into R-rated movies?”

Maggie laughed. “Of course I remember. Mom and Dad freaked out when they found out. Tried to ban us both from all movies for the rest of our lives.”

Jill laughed, too, and for a moment they both could hear their mother echoing through their voices. “Yeah, that worked out real well.”

“I haven’t been to a movie since.”

“Me, neither.”

Maggie rubbed her gloved hands together rapidly, trying to produce some warmth. Her breath spread in a white cloud before them, reminding them of how cold they were, as if they could possibly forget.

“Let’s get back home,” Maggie suggested. “Mom will understand. She always said we’d catch our death of cold if we stayed up on the hill too long.”

“Okay,” Jill agreed, though she hesitated before actually moving. “I don’t want it to be another year before we see each other, Mags,” she said finally, her voice hushed and serious. “I don’t want it to be a year before we talk again.”

Maggie had already turned back to go down the hill again, but she paused when she heard her sister’s words. She slowly turned back around, unsure of what to say.

“Of course it won’t be another year,” she assured Jill, without much confidence.

“We said that last year at Christmas.”

“Did we?”

“You know we did. We promised to Skype, to Facebook, to see each other over the summer.”

“I know, I know,” Maggie agreed sadly. “We suck.”

“I don’t want to suck,” Jill told her firmly. “I want to be sisters. Like we used to be. I still need you, Mags. I don’t care if you’re thirty and old and you have a kid or whatever. I still need you to hug me sometimes and tell me everything is going to be okay. Okay?”

Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She finally grabbed her sister up in a warm hug, a hug that could make them forget winter for that brief moment.

“You will always be my sister,” she whispered through the wind. “And I will always be here for you. And it won’t be another year. It can’t be another year, because that’s just too damn long.”

Jill nodded in agreement, burying her face in her sister’s shoulder. “Too damn long.”

What is an UpWrite Lady, Anyway?

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

You’ve heard the term now, you’ve seen the title of our website, maybe you’ve seen the hashtag on Twitter.

UpWriteLadies.

So, at this point, you might be asking yourself what, exactly, is an UpWrite Lady?

It’s a perfectly logical question, one I’ve spent the better part of the last few months thinking about.

Finally, I’ve come to some conclusions.

In short, the answer is… you.

You, just the way you are right in this moment, embody everything that is the philosophy of UpWriteLadies.

You’re here, at this silly little website that’s the result of years of work and toil of two women who are writers, and you’re not here because we’re so amazing.

You’re here because you’re amazing.

Even if I’ve never met you, I know you’re amazing because you’re a writer.

And being a writer is hard. On every level, it’s hard. It’s hard to start something new, it’s hard to finish something old, it’s hard to edit, hard to revise, hard to know when it’s the best it can possibly be.

You’re a writer, not because it’s always fun or enjoyable or easy, but because you’re compelled on some level to write.

Even if no one ever sees it.

Even if you’ll never be satisfied with it.

Even if it’s inconvenient and painful sometimes.

Still, you write.

Perhaps you write scribbling on a notebook during your lunch break from a retail job you hate.

Perhaps you write on a laptop in a coffee shop, the smells and sounds of the busy world around fading into nothing as you lose yourself in your keyboard.

Perhaps you write only in your mind, outlining your great novel that will never be completed.

The point is, you write.

Wherever, however, whenever, you write.

You don’t give up.

You don’t turn it off.

You don’t think it’s silly or pointless, because even if no one reads it just the act of writing itself is cathartic and healing.

You write for the joy of finding just the right word, just the right sentence, just the right description. You write because you can express yourself so much more eloquently on the page than you can in person, when you don’t have the opportunity for endless edits to get it just so.

And that’s why UpWriteLadies exists.

Writing is one of the most solitary things in the world you can do. Unless you’re in writer’s room on a sitcom or working with other reclusive, introverted people on a project, writing is all internal. It’s quiet. It’s lonely.

It doesn’t have to be lonely!

We at UpWriteLadies exist because Amber and I understand everything you’re going through. We understand what it’s like to procrastinate and put off writing because it’s just so much easier sometimes. We understand that all the good things in this world, family and friends and beauty and pain and everything in between, needs to be talked about. It needs to be expressed, and you are the one who needs to express it.

And we want to give you a place to express it.

We want to give you a place to be honored and encouraged, to be praised and lauded, and to praise and laud others who so richly deserve it.

There isn’t enough positivity and enough joy in this world. Maybe we can’t change the world, but we can change this corner of the Internet.

Our corner of the Internet.

Your corner of the Internet.

We can’t do it without you.

Because you’re amazing.

  • Sarah

Short Story Submissions Now Open!

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

Great news! UpWriteLadies is now accepting short story and non-fiction submissions for our first submission period.

We will accept all submissions for March publication up until 11:59 pm PST on February 25. We will contact the winners for a profile, and Sarah will publish her pick for winning story (along with review and profile of the author) on the FIRST FRIDAY in March. Amber will post her winning pick (along with review and profile) on the THIRD FRIDAY in March. We will open the contest again for April, so if your story is not selected this time around, do not fret! Resubmit! We encourage it!

Please review our updated submission guidelines for more information. All submissions should be emailed to Upwriteladies@gmail.com.

Please share and forward this page to all women writers you know! We’re hoping for an amazing turn out!

Also, don’t worry! This Friday, Sarah will publish a short story she wrote on this site to give you an idea of the quality of writing we are looking for. Amber will publish one at a later date, as well.

Thanks!

– Sarah

Reasons Not to Write

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

There are a thousand reasons not to write.

You’re tired. After all, you’re working full-time, or juggling two jobs, or going to school full-time, or working and going to school. You’ve got kids, or you don’t but hell, even just taking care of yourself can be exhausting.

It’s Tuesday night, and the dryer’s acting up again, and you forgot to buy pasta sauce on the way home so now you have to figure out something else for dinner.

It’s Wednesday morning, and it feels like you’re catching that cold that’s going around. You want nothing more than to curl up in bed with some tissues, and cough syrup, and catch up on the DVR.

It’s Friday afternoon, and your friend just texted, and you were supposed to write for an hour when you get home, but she wants to hit up happy hour, and you two never go out anymore, and what does it hurt anyway, you can always write tomorrow.

It’s Sunday afternoon. You finally get to sleep in a little, which you never do, and then you make breakfast, and you start to clean the kitchen because, let’s face it, you’ve been busy lately and it desperately needs it. Then you notice how dusty the shelves are, and the floor needs to be vacuumed, and oh yeah, you need to run to the store for damn pasta sauce, and before you know it, it’s dark outside and Downton Abbey is coming on, and you’re in your pajamas and can barely keep your eyes open.

I get it.

I’ve been there.

Hell, I’m still there.

Writing is exhausting. It takes time, yes, and dedication, of course, and the actual physical process of writing or typing a story. But it takes so much more than that. It takes the brainpower to imagine a world and breathe life into characters. It takes energy to lead those characters through plot points and life events and challenges and then sit back, ready to transcribe what happens next. You have to see them. You have to hear them. And the fact that this is all happening in your own head is a drain on your resources.

It’s all well and good for writing experts to tell you to set aside an hour or two every day for writing. ‘Must be nice,’ you think. ‘Must be nice to have so much free time.’

But there’s a reason it’s a common piece of advice.. You have to carve out the time to write. You really do.

Sometimes the ideas will be there, and the time will fly. You might miss the bus, or be late for a conference call, or forget to eat dinner. Those are the good times.

But they’re not all good times.

Sometimes, there’s nothing more loathsome than writing.

It’s a chore.

And a burden.

And yet another item on a crowded to-do list.

The blinking cursor mocks you. Your exhausted brain is empty. The blank page is a testament to how much of a failure you are. You’re out of ideas. You can’t think of a single sentence to write. How do people do this?!

Well, those are the bad times. You’ll get through them, just like you got through the good ones.

You see, much like brushing your teeth or washing the dishes, writing is something you should do every day. But we’re human, and sometimes we let it slide.

Just make sure not to let it go too long. Give yourself a break, or two, but not three. Never three.

If you don’t brush, you get plaque and cavities and gingivitis. If you don’t wash the dishes, you run out of bowls and forks and glasses (plus, that oatmeal has fused with the pot and they are one now). If you don’t write, you haven’t written. It’s that simple. If you don’t write, you’re not a writer.

So if writing calls to you, if you can feel it in your bones, if it stirs your very soul, then you must be a writer.

There are a thousand reasons not to write, but you’re a writer so you don’t need any of them.

  • Amber

Where Does Inspiration Come From?

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

Both as a writer and as a stand-up comedian, the question I get asked most often is definitely, “Where do you get your ideas from?”

That question always gives me pause, because I never quite know how to answer it in a fully satisfying way. The simple truth is I get my ideas from anywhere, and no where. My ideas are born of 31, almost 32, years of human experience. My ideas come from observing my friends and family, from thinking about how life should be in contrast to how it is, to asking myself ‘what if…?”, or simply because something makes me chuckle.

But all of that is just a beginning, because the cold, hard truth of the matter is that inspiration isn’t as simple as a spark. Not really. Not the good inspiration, anyway. Not inspiration that lasts long enough to inspire others.

Of course, any artist has moments of clarity. Moments when the Muse just seems to flow out of your pencil or paint brush or even your computer screen, and for that brief moment in time you are one with your art. It’s almost as if it’s being dictated to you and you are just a humble scribe, etching the image of the very face of God in some small way.

It’s amazing, isn’t it?

But, that’s not inspiration.

That’s a jumping-off point, and if that brief, fleeting moment of ecstasy is all you have to motivate you to create, to write, to dance, or to breathe, you will not get too far in the creative process. That is the high, but not the drug itself.

Inspiration is work.

Inspiration takes time and effort, especially when it comes to writing.

Real inspiration comes from hours of staring at the same sentence for hours on end, fretting over where to place that comma or period. It comes from debating what a character would do with a valued friend, passionately defending your view while listening to theirs. It comes from closing your eyes and forcing yourself to see something the way a character would see it, whether or not you happen to agree with it.

Real inspiration comes on the fifth or sixth draft, when suddenly you see everything you’ve worked on for months in a whole new light. A light that makes it all suddenly click somewhere in the back of your brain.

But, that click wasn’t handed to you on a silver platter.

You earned that click.

You earned it by battling through the blank page and the mocking, blinking cursor. Your earned it by refusing to back down when you couldn’t find the right word. You earned it by forgoing sleep, by turning off the TV and Internet so you can hear your own thoughts above the din.

You earned it, and that’s where the inspiration comes from.

  • Sarah

Welcome to UpWriteLadies!

Posted on by UpWriteLadies

Welcome to the first post on UpWriteLadies.com, a website designed to help female authors connect with each other and share their work.

Our goal is to support emerging and established writers in their search to find an audience, and to help connect an audience looking for good writing with some of the best writers in the world.

Every month, we will be sharing two stories submitted by our readers on our site. Our goal is to share one fiction and one non-fiction piece, but of course this will depend on what submissions we get. Sarah will pick one piece each month, and Amber will pick one. On the second and fourth Friday of each month, we will post the winning selections right here, along with a personal written review and a profile of the author.

We will also be posting our work, as well as blogposts about writing, art, current events, and anything else that we think might interest you.

If you want to participate and submit a piece, visit our Submission Guidelines page for more information.

Thanks, and keep writing!

  • Amber and Sarah