Читать книгу Miami Manhunt - Johnny Diaz - Страница 7

Three stars.

That’s what I’m giving Miami Vice II: Back to the Beach. It’s not a bad movie with its muscular camerawork and steely blues and grays à la 2004’s Collateral. Like the first installment, it didn’t paint Miami in pastels or reek of ’80s’ vice. This movie is just unnecessary. Did we really need to see Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx running side-by-side through the streets of Miami chasing drug lords again? No, we didn’t. Did we need Michael Mann casting Miami as a bullet-riddled metropolis through gritty shootouts and inky skylines one more time? Nope! But Miami Vice opened at number one in the summer of 2006, grossing more than $50 million in its first weekend, and it held up modestly after that. It had good box office “mojo” (Sonny’s aptly named go-fast boat in the movie). And in Hollywood, if your movie makes a hefty profit (cha-ching!), you’re guaranteed a sequel. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Think: Basic Instinct II and a taut-faced Sharon Stone showing off what God (and, apparently, her plastic surgeon and Botox technician) gave her while she recites some truly terrible dialogue. That’s why I slaughtered the film in my review, commenting tritely, “Follow your basic instinct and stay away!”

Before I dissect any more movies, perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Ray Martinez, and movies are my life. Sometimes, my life feels like a movie. I can see the trailer playing in my head now. Coming to a theater you, The Miami Movie Critic starring Ray Martinez in his debut performance. The camera zooms in on me sitting in a mostly empty theater screening another movie just like I did this afternoon. So yes, I write 700-word critiques on the latest films for South Florida’s biggest newspaper, The Miami News. I attend at least three screenings a week at the new Carnival Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Miami or at the South Beach AMC theater on Lincoln Road, where I just caught Miami Vice II.

As the credits roll, I emerge from the darkness of the chilly theater into the buttery afternoon light of South Beach, my home. I light a cigarette, my fifth of the day. (I can’t seem to quit the evil weed.) Bronzed rollerbladers breeze by as I stroll back to my car. I’m heading to the News building across the calm glassy waters of Biscayne Bay that part Miami and Miami Beach. I want to get my review done today so I can relax with the guys tonight at Score (not just a place but a goal), but I’ll get to that in a minute.

Everyone thinks I have the best job in the world. Sometimes, I feel that way. Other times, I never want to see another movie again because it doesn’t leave me much time for off-screen romances. I have a passionate love affair with my craft, and I know most other movie critics have a love-hate relationship with their jobs. To understand what we go through you have to be a member of our club, but I’ll do my best to explain. My job, like a cigarette, is also my illicit lover; it seduces me and, at times, abuses me. My work also serves to distract me from dating other men, the same way my clingy Cuban family does, but I’ll introduce the Martinez clan in just a bit.

On a sun-dappled Miami day like today, when I screen a movie that is marginally entertaining on multiple levels, I have a lot to work with in my review, and that makes my job rewarding. I dash back to my cubicle on the fourth floor of the News building—a five-story, mustard-colored fortress anchored off the bay—and return to my computer screen, analyzing the plot, the lighting, the acting, and the pace of the film. Not that I can’t get sidetracked. Between sentences, I may catch myself gazing out the window at the colossal cruise ships docked at the Port of Miami, imagining how those metal vessels stay afloat. I notice how the sun glistens against the aqua bay water like a liquid carpet of shimmering crystals. It’s highly distracting, but that’s Miami, a tropical wonderland. If it were a movie, it would be called Pastel Paradiso because it overdoses on art deco. And I mean that in a good way. Like a tie-dye tapestry, the pale blues of the sky mix with the peach and candy-pink building tops of South Beach. Miami is a living, washed-out canvas of watercolors, and I wouldn’t want to work or live anywhere else. We could use more trees for shady respites, but that’s something a Metro reporter can talk to you about. I write reviews, not news.

So yes, this gig has its perks beyond my postcard office view. I watch movies for free and then write what I think. It doesn’t get any better than that. Well, it does. I also get to travel to Toronto, New York, and L.A. for movie junkets to interview stars and directors about their latest projects. In 2007, I interviewed Brad Pitt in New York City for Ocean’s 13, which for the record was the film equivalent of empty calories, but you didn’t feel like you were duped by Danny Ocean. Pitt’s rugged masculine sexuality mixed with his angelic beauty threw me off balance. I kept losing my focus, even dropping my digital recorder twice. When I replayed the 15-minute interview, (that’s as much time as you can expect from a big star), I noticed how much I stumbled over my words. How embarrassing or, as we say in Spanish, “Qué pena!”

So that’s one perk, the up-close (if not personal) chats with beautiful Hollywood actors that I wouldn’t have a shot with in this lifetime. And did I mention the fabulous views from work?

My fellow reporters and writers have critic-envy, and I can see why, but I earned my place at the News after years of freelancing and writing obits. Also, my little mug shot accompanies each of my reviews in the paper and online, which makes me feel important, like an authority. In Miami, it’s all about the scene and being seen, and having my Kodak moment out there helps in the status department and, occasionally, with dates. Only columnists get their picture in the paper, and I’m the only critic outside the sports and Metro departments who has his photo run with each commentary.

Racso, my straight, macho twin brother, makes fun of that photo all the time. He gets off on being my big brother (by four minutes, people!) and my biggest critic, especially of my pack-a-day smoking habit. He refers to me as “Miami movie boy” to his colleagues at Coral Gables High, where he teaches English and writing. He also makes fun of my blog, which is called “Rated R, for Ray.” (Hey, my editors came up with that.) Racso also thinks it’s really gay with its Art Deco, pink-colored fonts and movie reel images, but then he takes it back when he wants to tag along for the screening of a big blockbuster. (I got him in for free to watch The Da Vinci Code, and he bragged about it to his students and faculty members the next day.) I love my brother and he loves me, and despite our competitiveness and constant brotherly bashing, I know he’ll always have my back even if he doesn’t agree with all my reviews in the paper and on my blog. Speaking of my blog, I use that to respond to readers’ emails, of which I get plenty. That brings me to my next point.

That’s part of the downside to what I do. Everyone has an opinion about my opinion, and folks in Miami don’t hold back what they really want to say, tossing me rotten tomatoes via email in both English and en español. My mailbox swarms with some of the nastiest letters out there, but that’s understandable. People are passionate about the movies, whether they like them or not. Going to a movie and being whisked away into another world is a personal experience, and I know I wield a lot influence in that arena. When people see a movie after reading my review and disagree with my perspective, they blame me for their bad time. They chew me out with such comments as “You stupid idiot. Pirates of the Caribbean was great. What movie were you watching that night?” or “You should be rated R, for ridiculous. You thought United 93 was good? It made me want to leave the theater screaming. You owe me $8 asshole!” Hey, it’s hard out there for a movie critic, as the song goes from Hustle and Flow (which I gave four stars, by the way).

Speaking of Hustle and Flow, I almost got hit by a car just now as I was crossing Lincoln Road at Alton Road. I have to learn to control my tendency to start forming reviews in my head the moment I leave a screening. (I even do it during the occasional date.) As I wait for the light to change, I take a deep drag from my cigarette while cherry-red convertibles and sports cars with spinning rims zoom by me in a blur of mechanical purrs. Traffic grows worse by the day as more people move to our town, a mere ten minute drive to the News. Sometimes, I bike to work along the Venetian Causeway, which connects a series of residential islands with inspired Italian names like San Marco and Dilido. After spending hours in a movie theater a few times a week and being stuck behind a desk writing reviews, I savor the moments of sunshine and the Atlantic-whipped tropical vapor. It’s refreshing on a day like this even as I watch Miami morphing by the minute into a mini-New York of the South. In the distance, I see a condo development rising, another addition to the growing forest of sexy glass towers against the bay. Sometimes, it seems like there are more cranes than bodies in Miami. The city is a carnival of construction crews.

At the stoplight, a lunky Miami-Dade transit bus screeches to a stop, and I spot my old college friend Ted Williams. Well, it’s not really Ted but his photo splashed on the side of the bus. It’s a Channel 7 ad with Ted showing off his ultra-white grille, holding two thumbs up pointing to the station’s catchphrase, “Just One Station.” Some background notes on Ted. He’s one of my Miami buddies and a famous face in South Florida. Aside from this bus ad and the billboards off Interstate 95, Ted really does have a big head. He’s the region’s star news reporter, with the morning perkiness of Kelly Ripa and the edgy professionalism of Anderson Cooper. If you’ve ever visited Miami, you may have seen Ted. He’s the guy in the yellow raincoat holding on to the swaying coconut tree for dear life as he covers the latest hurricane. He also cohosts Deco Time, our snarky local version of Entertainment Tonight. Sometimes, he has me on the show to talk about the movies opening that weekend.

And thanks to his hosting duties on Deco Time, Ted gets to highlight the new nightlife offerings, gets me and our mutual friend Brian into the clubs for free. Not that Brian needs the freebies, but I’ll soon explain.

As the bus limps lazily along Alton Road like an old man with a cane and crosses Seventeenth Street, I wave goodbye to Ted’s big head. I finally cross the street and unlock the doors of my sea-blue Nissan 300 SX. Mother Nature must be in a bad mood because she has turned up the temperature a few boiling notches. It feels like ninety-something even though the beach breeze blows against my skin. My long-sleeved Gap T-shirt is quickly becoming sticky with sweat.

While watching Miami Vice II was worthwhile, I still have to see the bad movies, another con of my job. At least you, the moviegoer, can get up and walk out of a theater if you don’t like a movie. I can’t. I have to sit through two, sometimes three hours of a bad film, and that’s torture in itself for a lover of cinema who first caught film fever after seeing the first Godfather. But I digress. Oh, and another thing, it’s hard for me to go on a date to the movies because the theater is the last place I want to be after a week’s worth of screenings. Can you blame me?

That’s why I can’t help but look forward to meeting up with my two locas: Ted and Brian. We rendezvous every Friday night at Score on Lincoln Road to shoot the shit about our hectic lives. While we gab, we eyeball the younger hotties who are sprouting in South Beach like palm trees—and those new glassy condo towers. When you’re twenty-nine, you have more of an appreciation for sitting outside with your chicos, drinking a cocktail, and watching the man-flow of guys pour in and out of the bar.

While Ted and I have common journalism ties (we met at the University of Miami’s Communications School as undergrads ten years ago,) that’s where our similarities end. He’s half Irish, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He has natural dark, tanned skin and matching brown eyes, like his Portuguese forefathers from Cape Cod, and thick short-cropped black hair. The only white thing about him is his Colgate smile, a job requirement for TV. He’s also extremely cheesy with his sound bites, which he does on and off the air in his TV news voice. But he has a heart of gold, and I can always count on him to listen as I vent about my latest frustration with the paper, my brother Racso, or my unsuccessful attempts to quit smoking. (I’ve tried three times to no avail. Damn the nicotine!)

Speaking of Racso, I look just like the dude (we’re identical twins after all!). People also say we look like two different versions of actor Paul Rudd (most famous for playing Alicia Silverstone’s geeky love interest in Clueless.) But our distinct styles make Racso and me stand apart like Miami-Dade and Broward counties, similar from a distance but definitely not the same up close. While Racso and I both have light-blue eyes that reflect the South Florida sky and thick black straight hair, I spike mine up with Aveda products and keep it short while Racso wears his down and parted in the middle, like a mop. Racso has a more sculpted body, thanks to his home gym, and I’m telephone-pole lean from biking to work and around South Beach. In case you’re wondering, Racso’s name is Oscar spelled backwards, after our father. I was named after our grandfather Raymond, but everyone calls me Ray. Racso also calls me Gay Ray, ever since I officially came out to him in college.

It wasn’t easy coming out to my straight brother who always enjoyed talking about how much he liked women. I thought I did a good job of cloaking my invisible life from him until one spring night. We were out drinking in the Grove, celebrating the end of our first year in college when he asked me point blank, “Bro, are you gay? It’s okay if you are.”

I spat out my Corona, spraying the bar counter and our fries.

“Qué cosa?” I stuttered. I dated some girls in high school, but I knew deep in my heart that I liked men. Actually, I lusted for men. I just wasn’t ready to tell Papi, Mami and most of all, Racso who always finds a reason to make fun of me. The last thing I wanted to hear was him ragging on me for being un pato.

“Ray, it’s cool. I kinda sensed it. You never really talk about girls, and you’re into your movies and your writing. And let’s face it, your new friend Ted at UM isn’t the most masculine dude. He’s kinda girly, and you guys are always hanging out and giggling like two schoolgirls on the phone.”

And so that night, I came out to Racso. He listened as I told him about my secret crushes at Gables High. Rick on the track team. Dan on the football team. Jake at the school newspaper. Racso was surprised to hear that I had liked so many guys he knew from school. I remember sitting there at the bar, my nervousness replacing the warm buzz from my Coronas as I spilled my guts. But it was a relief too. Hiding took so much energy and effort. I always made sure my eyes didn’t linger too long on a cute guy if I was out with my brother and our parents. It felt good to share all of this with Racso even though he began probing me as if I were a Reese’s-loving alien from E.T.

“So you’re a homo-sex-ual,” he said, elongating the word and teasing me. “Have you gotten it up the butt? Are you a gay virgin?” Racso teased. And from then on, I decided that my twin didn’t need to know everything about me. My sex life remained private. I could share those details with Ted. It’s not that I don’t love Racso, but he didn’t understand why I was attracted to guys while he was drawn to women. (And he was a future educator at the time. Go figure!) I grew tired of explaining it to him. A few months later, he helped me tell Mami and Papi, who didn’t seem so shocked. They said they suspected I was different and they loved me regardless. But Papi had to add, “If this is what you are, we accept you. But we will not have a son dressing up as a woman and performing at La Copacabana on Calle Ocho.” Mami, in her Cuban dramatic fashion, stormed over to me, hugged me, and said, “Mi hijo, mi hijo!” and then gave me a long lecture about safe sex, as if I hadn’t known. It was awkward for those first few months, but then they realized I was still Ray, or as Racso began calling me, Gay Ray, which Mami and Papi never liked him doing.

My bro and I are both fair-skinned, and we both have the same amount of freckles dotting our nose and shoulders. Our propensity for sunspots harkens back to our pre-Cuban roots, back to Madrid, Spain, where our grandparents were born with milky white skin. We always stood out against our olive-skinned, tanned Cuban cousins and friends growing up in Coral Gables.

Fifteen minutes, two large armpit sweat stains and another cigarette later, I pull into the main parking lot of the News’s main offices. That’s Miami for you. A two-block walk in this soupy heat sends your pores into overdrive even if you’re walking under the awnings of local boutiques. I’m about to enter the massive lobby, home to two rising and descending escalators, when I feel my cell phone buzzing in my pocket. I whip it out. It’s a text message from Brian. I bet it’s about tonight.

Hey, we’re meeting at eleven tonight, right? Daniel’s leaving on a business trip, and that means I can find myself a hot Latin papi.

Brian is ready for another Miami manhunt tonight, which only happens when Daniel is in New York on business, where his printing company is based. To Brian, hot dark-skinned Latin guys are human catnip. He can’t wait to roll around with a Latino when his other lover is away.

I punch in a text message as I ride the escalator to the fourth floor.

Yeah, we’re still on for tonight. I just have to finish this review and answer some emails at work. I think you’re gonna like MVII when it opens next week.

Brian text messages back.

Cool. I can’t wait. See you later, man. I already emailed Ted. He’ll meet us after his Deco Time taping tonight.

How do I explain Brian? Where do I begin? He’s the craziest and hottest of our trio and the youngest at twenty-eight. He was born in North Carolina and dreamed of becoming a full-time singer, à la Josh Groban. Brian still dabbles with his music and occasionally produces demos when he can focus. (He has ADD.) He has light, sandy hair combed up with a matching goatee and dark blue eyes that remind me of the blue found only in rolling storm clouds over the Everglades. He’s 6’1” (about three inches taller than Ted and me), with an average build, yet he manages to nab all the Latin cuties. (It’s those piercing mysterious cobalt blue eyes, I tell you.) He has a wealthy Israeli entrepreneur partner that he’s been with for seven years. Brian doesn’t work because Daniel prefers that he oversee the renovations at their waterfront McMansion off the Venetian Causeway or at their condo in Chelsea. Brian also doesn’t work because he can’t stay focused on one thing at a time (the ADD, remember?). That may explain his boy craziness.

Daniel and Brian have this understanding that Ted and I have never understood. Daniel and Brian have an open relationship. They don’t have sex with each other (they lost that connection a long time ago), but they can have sex with other guys as long as they stick to one simple rule: no seconds with the same guy. And it works, they say.

With Daniel flying back and forth between Miami and New York, Brian gets to play on the side at their beach house. I guess I’m more conservative, like Papi and Mami and Racso with his college sweetheart Cindy. Our thinking is that if you’re going to want to be with someone else, then don’t be committed to your partner. Set him free and be single. Brian and Daniel seem happy, but Ted and I can’t help but think that one day, Brian is going to fall for one of his tricks, when he truly feels a passionate connection. When that happens, will Brian be able to leave his life-partner and all the good things their life together has to offer, like that slamming Land Rover and his Rolex watch? It’s almost like a gay version of Unfaithful.

It’s 6 p.m., and I have just filed my Miami Vice review. I decided to go with three and a half stars instead of my original three. The movie grew on me on my drive back to the office as I mulled over Michael Mann’s hypnotic use of his high-definition lens. He’s a cinematic virtuoso who uses rock-and-roll action shots to dazzle the viewer in this dark reupholstered version of Miami.

“Hey Patty, have a good weekend,” I tell my Arts editor as I pass her grand office. It’s down the hall from my tiny cubicle, which is covered in mini-mountains of DVDs under posters of the Godfather and Winona Ryder flicks. I grab my messenger bag and swing it over my neck as I head down the hallway, passing the mostly empty cubicles that sit under rows of ultra-bright fluorescent lights. I’m not surprised that most of the Arts writers are gone for the day, leaving the newsroom a ghost town on a Friday afternoon. The only people left here are the over-caffeinated and overstressed copy editors and designers who are getting to work on tomorrow and Sunday’s pages as well as our Web site.

“You too, Ray. I’ve only read the top, but nice Vice review. If I have any questions, we can deal with it Monday. Take it easy,” Patty says, returning to her computer screen. I finally get to leave this place for the weekend. I walk out of the building through the front entrance and hop back into my Nissan. I’m about to turn onto the Venetian Causeway with Miami’s small forest of skyscrapers filling my rearview mirror when I hear my cell phone playing the theme song to 2001: A Space Odyssey. I check the caller ID, and I see that it’s Racso, probably wanting to bug me about something.

“Hey, little brother! How was Miami Vice today?” he asks in his butch guy’s guy voice, which I don’t have. Mine is a little more sarcastic and whiney.

“Well, you’ll just have to read the review next week.” I approach the white Spanish-style tollbooth at the causeway and fly right through, thanks to my SunPass.

“Oh please! If I focus hard enough, I can probably sense what you thought. Let’s see. Hmmm. You kinda liked it. You thought it was entertaining, but you didn’t see the reason why it needed to be made, right?”

Damn it! My brother is good, really good at reading me, even from across town. I hate how he knows what I’m thinking. It’s like he has this twin telepathy thing that gives him a secret access to my thoughts and emotions, but it only works one way. He can sense me, but I can’t sense what’s going on with him. Why was he born with that ability and not me? Because of that twin ESP, he always knew when I was lying when we were growing up. It’s just another thing that makes Racso more special to our parents.

“Close but no cigar,” I tell him, passing Brian’s majestic house with the grand black gates on San Marco Island. I see that he’s home. His silver Land Rover sits in the driveway.

“Yeah right, Ray! You know I’m right. You just hate admitting it when I am. Listen Miami Movie boy, I need to know if you’re gonna be able to pick me up from the dealership tomorrow. My car is acting up again. Cindy is tutoring some students in the afternoon, and I think Papi and Mami are going to Abuela’s house in Kendall.”

“Yeah, I can pick you up. Call me when you get to Miami Toyota,” I tell him, passing all the island estates. “I still think you should get a new car. That Toyota Corolla is nine years old, chico.”

“Well, when I make the money that you make at the paper, then I can afford something nicer, but for now I’m on a teacher’s salary and I might as well be paid in magic beans. This Corolla will have to do. Thanks for giving me the ride tomorrow. Talk to you later,” Racso says

“No problem,” I say before flipping my cell phone closed, crossing the last island on the causeway, and hanging a right on West Avenue.

It’s 6:20 p.m., and I’m only a few blocks from my condo. I’ll have plenty of time to walk Gigli, my rascally black mutt of a dog named after a really bad J. Lo movie (admit it, you read my review and decided not to see it). I’ll have just enough time to drop by Puerto Sagua restaurant on Collins Avenue for a media noche sandwich and mamey shake and then take a disco nap before tonight. Once I walk inside my one-bedroom apartment and toss my keys on my kitchen bar counter, I start to think that maybe I should have given Miami Vice three stars because it really wasn’t all that good—but I know tonight with the guys will be.