A Toast to Family

There’s no better time to eat, drink, and be merry than Thanksgiving—provided you can get past the family histrionics. We think that’s where the drinking comes in. So ditch the cranberry sauce and get yourself through the holidays with this tart, cran-apple martini guaranteed to loosen those sour faces. We got it from the authors of Sexy City Cocktails. They call it a Pilgrim’s Progress.

Get your martini shaker and fill it with ice. Now pour in the vodka, sour apple liqueur, and cranberry juice. Shake that thing like the Mayflower on the stormy Atlantic and strain the passengers into a cinnamon-rimmed cocktail glass. Garnish with a green apple slice and serve. Repeat until you are cranberry sauced.

Now banish the kids to the basement, gather the grownups around the television, turn on the parade, and hand them all one of these treats. Let it sink in for a few minutes, and then ask what everyone is thankful for. If this drink makes them forget your mother-in-law’s constant stream of criticism for a while, it just might be you.

Pilgrim’s Progress

2 oz. vodka
1 oz. sour apple liqueur
1 oz. cranberry juice
Ground cinnamon
Green apple slice

Shake liquids over ice and strain into a cocktail glass rimmed with cinnamon. Garnish with apple slice.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.

That’s How We Roll

Oh, the things I could tell you, NakedCity readers. I have been to South Dakota with the ICT Outcasts—Wichita’s own roller derby girls—embedded with the team at every step of the way. I ate with them, slept in their rooms, and watched them prepare for battle. They accepted me into their pack, and I’m now a party to secrets that would make righteous mothers everywhere cover their daughters’ eyes in shame.

They live by their own rules, and I mustn’t say too much. I can’t tell you their real names—or what they do for a living. They might be your child’s fifth grade teacher, but if I rat them out, my only warning will be the sound of skates on asphalt.

* * *

The trip started, as all truly scandalous things do, on a quiet residential court. Our hostess, who skates under the nom de guerre Senderflyin, even had a sizable collection of porcelain figurines on display.

Roller Derby is a little like hockey for punk-rock chicks and third-wave feminists, so I was not expecting Precious Moments. I asked her about them. She handed me a beer and began to casually tell me about her other collection, the one she keeps in the top drawer. She told me about the party they had recently, when the girls wrecked her house and scattered her toys around.

“Someone decided to wear the strap-on, and then they decided to put whip cream on it. And then the dog—not my dog, someone else’s dog—was licking it. Are you—you’re recording this!”

Of course I was.

* * *

Delicate sensibilities are not ideal in the fan of roller derby. The guiding qualities are an appreciation for speed, violence, and strong women.

The goal of the game is simple: Both teams skate around the course together in a tight pack. A player from each team, called a jammer, tries to outpace the pack and lap them as many times as possible—scoring points for each girl they pass. The other girls’ goal is to knock down anyone necessary to hinder this process.

The women dress to offend and titillate, in torn schoolgirl skirts, tiny shorts, fishnets, and elbow pads. They skate under fearsome pseudonyms. They get into fights.

Karmic Recall put it best.

“Fuck sitting there checkin’ how my skates are gonna be on the concrete; I better go see if the penalty box is gonna fit my ass.”

* * *

Allow me to paint you a picture: The trip from Wichita to Sioux Falls lasts a little under eight hours. We left Wichita around 2:00, with seven of us crammed into a silver Durango: a dominatrix, a biter, a local radio personality (who shall not be named), a sleepy lesbian couple, two chihuahuas, one very thin photographer, and one strategically over-dressed writer. When planning to come into contact with a group of violent femmes, it’s smart to wear a tie.

On the way, the girls told me about themselves, and we talked about the game. They scoffed at those who see the theatricality and dismiss the sport or question their dedication as athletes.

“It’s really involved,” Sender told me. “A lot of people think it’s just girls skating round the track. There’s a lot of rules, regs, penalties—there’s a lot of stuff going on behind the scene.”

Karmic offered me a belt of Rémy Martin from her flask.

“Like I said, you’ll see the ones who are just out to go to the bar and say, ‘Look, I’m a roller girl! Ooh, look at me!’ But you’ll see the ones who are out there, downtown-Judy-Brown, man.”

Even playing each other, Sender said, “We still walk away with bruises.”

We passed through Omaha, and they told me about the vicious beating they took there from a team that plays dirty. There are still hard feelings.

“They took us, and they made us harder, because it ain’t no pussy sport. It is not,” Shuggie Shevelle said. “And at that time I had glamorized roller derby. After that—not quite so much.”

* * *

The Sioux Falls Roller Dolls had us over for lunch before the game. It was an instant success for three reasons: They had a whole kettle of the best soup anyone had ever tasted, they also hated Omaha, and they loved derby.

“Unfortunately my knee is injured right now, so I’m not skating, and it’s killing me,” a girl called Collision told me. “But I love derby. I absolutely love derby. We always talk about how we have so many different kinds of women, and we all clash and we all butt heads, but we all—you know what i mean?—but we all love each other, and it’s—. I just love it.“

Sender agreed.

“This is one sport that’s—we’ll work with anybody, we’ll take anyone. You have a mohawk, you got long flowin’ beautiful hair—we’ll take you. You got prudes, or you got the freaks that will show anything—we’ll take you. We’ve got something for anyone. I think that’s why it’s so appealing to women. Because they’re so strong.”

A group of the Dolls asked me to explain what ICT meant.

“We’ve been trying to figure this out forever.”

I was curious about motivations, so I asked the ladies what made them strap on skates and start wailing on other chicks.

A girl called Hollie-cidal Maniac answered me laconically, “I like to roller skate.” The girl next to her laughed and said, “I like to wail on other chicks.”

Does all of this seem a little tame, standing around eating soup? Well maybe I can hint at where the phrase “strap on” led them. It turned out that someone is a sex toy distributor.

“That’s going to be in our contract from now on: Must bring strap-ons, at least one.”

* * *

The arena normally sees use for cattle auctions. It was cold and it smelled like cow, but the bout was sold out. The teams got ready in tents set up behind the bleachers, carpeted with astroturf for traction. The Roller Dolls girls left Easter baskets with Ace Bandages and lip gloss.

The girls were in battle mode, but they were still excited about the lip gloss. They wore black and gold jerseys, with gold makeup and glitter that we picked up at Wal-mart that afternoon. The rest of the outfit is different for each teammate. The interesting thing about this sport is that, no matter what a woman’s body type is, she’s in your face about it. Sender wore skin-tight gold shorts. One of the girls on the other team skated in neon green panties.

Karma goes in for psychological intimidation. She paints her face with warpaint, and spent two hours getting her hair put in a mohawk. She had to put a helmet over it before the game started, but not before a fearsome introductory lap brandishing an aluminum baseball bat.

Before they went out, the girls all joined hands for a prayer, even Jesus H. Christie, who’s an atheist. The American flag was brought in by a Marine color guard, seeming very out of place, and the national anthem was sung by a woman in overalls with a sign on her ass that said “Whoop-ass Cleaning Company.”

* * *

Finally the girls from both teams came out. They sailed onto the track, led by Atomic Butterfly, an amazon with long, blonde hair screaming out behind her. She may have kind of a pretty name, and her hair is lovely, but I would not want to stand in her way. Soon there was a whole swirl of half-dressed ladies in black and pink and yellow. Watching them skate around the track at high speed is really impressive. They look like dancers pumping their legs to make the turns.

There were some nice legs out on the track in fishnets and high socks that night, and I must admit I found them a little distracting when trying to focus on the action of the game. It must be maddening to try to keep score. The action seemed to move incredibly fast, especially from the front row. The only person easy to focus on was a jammer on the outward end of her orbit, skating out by herself. Everyone else was a chaotic mass of flailing limbs and punk rock attitude.

That chaos turned against us. Our girls just kept spilling onto the ground. Thrown into the audience even. Not good. Roller Derby is a bitch-eat-bitch sport, and the Roller Dolls were a wall of women on wheels. No jammer could get past.

“I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m sacrificing my body to the floor,” Sender told me during a break. “That’s why we drink afterwards—so we can’t feel the pain.”

Wichita has been a team in transition too long. They hadn’t played another team in some time, and it showed. The Dolls were fast, and they hit hard. After two half-hour rounds, the game ended in overwhelming defeat, but spirits stayed high.

“We just got our asses handed right to us. Both hands,” said Butterfly. “But man, they’re some good girls; you can’t be mad about this.”

* * *

The party started immediately. Pabst Blue Ribbon started making its way around. Pizza appeared to feed hungry athletes.

“There’s nothing like getting your ass kicked and then being handed a tallboy,” Jesus H. Christie exclaimed. “It’s like going to hell and then being transcended into heaven.”

The real party was waiting for us at the Red Eye Bar, located conveniently next door to our hotel. There was what passes for a hot DJ in Sioux Falls. It turns out most of the derby girls are as nimble on the dance floor as they are on the track. It also turns out I’m even worse at limbo drunk than sober.

I can’t tell you much else. I can’t tell you who took their shirt off. Or what color their underwear was. Or who’s amazing talent the military must never know of. Or who got cornered by a randy lesbian who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or even who won the late night onion eating contest. The roller girls take their omertà very seriously.

I can tell you the after-after party was incredible. And Omaha sucks.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.

Beautifully & Wonderfully Made

They call it a church without walls, but it’s really a church without a ceiling.

They meet in the courtyard behind the Historical Museum. The buildings around them make excellent walls—the yellow stone of the museum on one side, cold cement on the other, with ivy clinging to the bottom. A gazebo, with its graceful point, serves as both pulpit and steeple. People mill around a line for coffee and tea, talking and laughing. The sound guy is checking the speakers and mic. Others are finishing the setup for the fellowship meal afterwards. Things are running late because they forgot the ladles. It’s really just like a church. But there’s no ceiling.

It’s an important point, because most of the congregants of Church on the Street are homeless or on the edge of homelessness. Walls abound for them, but there aren’t enough ceilings.

* * *

I heard about Church on the Street through my friend, Brenna Powers. Brenna has been the church’s main pastor since it’s founder, Mike Young, died of cancer a year ago. I interview her and another acquaintance, Cliff Bragg, an assistant pastor, at the Donut Whole, where we discuss the destitute and the hollowness of the modern church experience over donuts. Writing about the homeless is apparently replete with symbolism and pathetic fallacy.

They fill me in. Young and others created Church on the Street to minister to the people on the margins in Wichita. They meet every Sunday at 12:30 in Heritage Park, even in the foulest weather. As much as 90 percent of the churchgoers are people in physical need. They come for the human fellowship, the spiritual message, and the free lunch and hot coffee provided. Brenna and Cliff are quick to explain that it’s a church, not a charity. It’s a spiritual community seeking to follow the example of Jesus by living among those who need help the most.

“It’s a church that fills the needs of its congregants. Like any church does,” Brenna explains. “No one who goes there consistently, goes there to get their feeling of charity. Maybe initially, but not anymore.”

Cliff goes on, “It’s not like the Lord’s Diner, where people volunteer to come help for a week. We want people to come in and get involved—establish roots, grow deep. And in the process you serve each other. So you’re not serving the homeless, you’re serving each other. So it might be that there’s a homeless person in line one day serving us.”

* * *

I go three times, and each time the weather gets worse. The first Sunday, there’s a lot of snow on the ground, but the air feels like spring. A family with several younger children is shoveling some of the slush away. Purple buds peek through the snow melting snow on the trees. Water is dripping everywhere, and I’m wearing too many layers.

Someone greets me right away when they notice my notepad, and before long, I’m sipping carefully from a styrofoam cup of scalding tea, while Brenna and Cliff introduce me people. They’re setting up the food line to my right—ham and beans. After a brief service, everyone will dig in. “We keep it very short because we know how hungry they are,” Cliff tells me.

I’ve come on an unusual day. Cliff is going to talk to the church about some problems that have been brewing. There’s been some normal church acrimony developing—judging and bickering—and some problems that spring from the unusual demographic—threats and under-the-radar dealing. This is especially worrying. The police have been very respectful of the church, but that won’t last if they start getting called in to deal with drug sales and brawls.

“I’m not coming here to condemn anyone. I’m standing here because I love you so much. I’m not standing here in the snow for my own health. I come here because I love you so much,” Cliff tells the crowd. “You were beautifully and wonderfully made by God. I don’t care what anyone says.”

He’s standing on the steps of the gazebo, talking to a loose assemblage of about 50 people. “I’m going to establish right now, if it hasn’t been done before, that this is church. This is not a park. For two hours, every Sunday from now on, this is church.” There are people in nice clothes (many of whom are homeless) and rags. I see a man in a suit, people in jeans, men in layered sweatshirts underneath filthy coveralls, and a girl in boots that are not practical for snow.

“This place is holy. And by holy I don’t mean sinless! I don’t mean struggle-less! I don’t mean that people come in here and have their crap together! That means people come in here who are like me who know that they are so messed up that they need something bigger than them to help. They know that they can’t do it on their own.” There are people of every skin tone. Adults and children. The diverse crowd and the message of love could be a touching TV moment if the real need in these people wasn’t so raw.

“This is one of the easier ministries I’ve been a part of, because no one is hiding their brokenness,” Brenna tells me. “Any love is falling on a very hungry soul.”

Cliff wraps up a moving sermon—“God loves us. And I think that’s good enough”—and the downtown bells go off with magic timing. Normally they are not so lucky. Everyone moves on to the ham and beans.

* * *

“You know how some people are livin’ for Friday? It’s the end of the workweek, and they can’t wait till Friday. We can’t wait till 12:30 on Sunday. And we live our week that way. This started Friday about noon—the cooking.”

I’m talking to Stubby, a board member of Church on the Street. He’s also the president of the local chapter of the Diakonos Brotherhood, a group that’s integral to the church. They’re a motorcycle ministry made up of born-again broken souls. There are five guys in the Wichita chapter, four of whom are recovering addicts. They wear black leather vests with Jolly Roger patches and answer to names like Sweat Hog and Hollywood. “They’ve all been to hell and back,” Brenna tells me.

“One person you can reach and keep from being hungry tonight, or take somebody to treatment and have them not go to sleep fucked up or drunk—it’s all worth it,” Sweat Hog tells me. “Save one human being, that’s what it’s about for us.”

The brothers were doing this kind of work before Church on the Street came along. After they connected with the church, they jumped right in to help. They drive around a rebuilt school bus full of clothes and supplies—the Cool Bus. Barrels of clothes get set up on the sidewalk outside the park, and people can look through and take what they need. Once a month they do the cooking and Roger, their chaplain, does the message. “It just takes the load off Church on the Street,” Stubby says.

Crucially, their attitude helps make the church approachable. It’s easy to see that guys like them wouldn’t be involved with a group of holier-than-thou prigs. That’s important to Stubby.

“You know, I’m a recovering addict. I’ve been clean 17 years. Up to that point, never did anybody approach me in this fashion. And it makes me think, I could have saved myself years of misery had somebody done that—even planted a little seed.”

* * *

It’s Diakonos’ Sunday this week. Palm Sunday. I just came from my church’s service, and the contrast is stark. The wind is biting cold, and by the time I leave, my toes will be numb. There are no children waving palm leaves, only naked branches on the trees in the courtyard. I left a special cantata service early to meet Marc, my photographer. We sit in his car until it’s time to face the wind.

Marc sets off photographing everything while I talk to people. They’re unloading a large cross from the Cool Bus. Roger made it this week, and the plan is for one of them to stand holding it up it in the middle of the courtyard every Sunday. Marc and I observe a wonderful, postmodern occurrence. A Hispanic man (brown like Jesus) takes it from them and, unselfconsciously Christlike, bears it on his shoulder to it’s own Calvary, mercifully nearby. Marc discovers his name is Cruz (Cross).

It turns out that the Diakonos brothers are champion barbecuers. Everyone eats the best barbecued chicken I’ve ever tasted.

* * *

I ask Cliff and Brenna whether they consider the Church on the Street a part of the Emerging Church movement—a general trend among younger Christians to move away from traditional church institutions toward a more forgiving, practical theology and social justice concerns. Cliff is quick to dismiss affiliation. “No, not at all. No way. We’re not trying to be a part of any church movement.”

“We’re not a movement, we’re not a charity, we’re not an organization, we’re not trying to pioneer anything. We’re not trying to do anything. We’re just living life. And we happen to do that with people who have been abandoned or happen to be neglected,” he tells me. “When Jesus was alive, he just lived among who he was around. Nothing profound about that, except that we happen to be doing it with a group of people who have been marginalized. No one pays attention to them except when it’s charitable.”

I have to laugh to myself, because Cliff and Brenna have been rattling off points from the emerging church manifesto the entire interview. Defining the church as a fellowship of people, not a building; living within the world; focusing on physical needs before spiritual ones; shunning hierarchy—from my outsider’s perspective their group is textbook emerging church.

It reminds me of the Absurdist playwrights: Brilliant playwrights working independently, all exploring similar themes, using similar forms. Added together, their work was the most important movement of the 20th century. But when someone first noticed the similarity and named the trend, they all flatly denied being Absurdists. They said they weren’t interested in being part of any Movement.

I point out to Cliff that they needn’t be part of an organized faction to be part of a larger trend. “Okay,” he says. “So what? Are you gonna pick up a spoon and help serve or what? I don’t think any of us care.”

* * *

Easter is both cold and wet. The rain keeps people away. Everyone who does show up huddles around the gazebo to keep dry. At the moment this gazebo is all the building they have. They’d like to find something—they’re getting more food donations, and they don’t have anywhere to put them—but they’re leery of a mortgage. They want people who donate money to know it’s all going to the needy and not to pay for some building.

“We’re kind of hoping that someone will give us one,” says Brenna.

They do dream about opening a shelter, where they can have Bible studies, and showers, and kitchens, and a hostel-type setup for people to help take care of themselves. “That’s why we’re maybe even looking for a place that’s run down, so that it can be a community project, where the homeless can come fix it up and say, ‘Look what we’ve done. This is our sanctuary.’ That’s our dream.”

Worship will always take place outside, though—or at least, huddled under the gazebo. In the meantime, they’re focusing on bringing people into the embrace of their spiritual family. When Mike Young was grooming Brenna to take his place, he told her, “All it takes is compassion. You start from that.”

Her spirits cheerful, despite losing her prepared message to a puddle, Brenna delivers an Easter sermon that speaks to her family’s world—about a Jesus who people wouldn’t see because he wasn’t mighty. About a God who cares about people’s hearts, not their clothing or possessions.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.

Look Where We’re Pointing

You walk into the Apple Store and look around for some help. You know you want a new laptop, but you’re not sure whether you need the cute, little one or if you need to spring for the big, powerful one. Suddenly a large glass panel on your left flickers to life. A translucent girl in hipster glasses and an Apple Genius t-shirt says “Hi, there!” and beckons you over. Intrigued—she’s pretty cute for a digital projection—you step over to the glass.

“Welcome to Apple. I’m Lisa, the automated concierge agent. What can I help you with today? Do you need to make an appointment for help at the Genius bar? Or would you like me to help you find a new Mac or iPod? Or I could call over a sales clerk to help you.” She spreads her hands in front of her and the options she mentioned appear as text floating in front of her. “Just point at what you need.”

You point at the option that says “Shop for Laptops” hovering over her front. The menu disappears and leaves you pointing at her breasts. “Watch where you’re pointing,” she says with a wink, “My iMacs are up here! I can show you any of these laptops, or I can ask you some questions to help you figure out which one is right for you.” As the latest MacBook models appear floating beside her, you think to yourself—is the computer flirting with me?

Welcome to the future of retail. (It’s a utopian future. That’s why we finally have an Apple Store.)

It sounds like a scene from Minority Report, with interactive advertisements calling your name and talking to you about your last purchase. But the technology for automated sales kiosks already exists and sees limited use in Europe and Asia. Now IMG is trying to make it take off in the US.

NakedCity took a tour of the IMG offices in Old Town and got to play with the model they use to demonstrate at conventions and have had on display at Final Friday events.

It’s simple, really. Instead of an expensive and fragile touchscreen, an image is projected onto an ordinary sheet of glass. A bar overhead runs the length of the glass and uses cameras to track your hand movement. You don’t touch the screen—it wouldn’t do any good anyway, it’s just glass—you gesture in the air, and the cameras interpret to move a virtual mouse.

IMG is the sole US importer of the tracking bar, and they’ve developed the kiosk setup we played with for clients. But the hardware isn’t the story, and it isn’t what really gets them really excited. Merely pointing at a screen is a flashy trick that will get this technology noticed. But there’s nothing amazing you can do with gestures that you couldn’t do similarly with a touchscreen or a mouse. The software is just interactive video and Flash like you use on websites. You’re moving a “mouse” with your finger.

The groundbreaking idea here—the thing that’s really going to impact your life—is the content of the programs being run. It’s putting interactive computers, with human faces on them, into your daily life. Within 10 years, advertisements will call out to you on the street. Your bathroom mirror will light up with weather reports and morning news, just like JARVIS in Iron Man. When you get lost in the mall, an interactive map will lead you to the food court. And Lisa will help you decide that the entry level MacBook is powerful enough for you after all, saving you $600.

And IMG will be the ones giving these digital people faces and personality.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.

Literary Fraud

People judge you by the books you read. Especially that girl you just brought back to your room. One look at your back collection of Maxim, The Game, and your World of Warcraft strategy guides and the liaison is over. You could man up and get some class—you know, expand your horizons by reading something worthwhile. Or you could hide your real bibliography and buy a bunch of used books to pretend you have an actual personality. We hunted through Book-a-holic to find three ready-made collections for you.

THE READER

You’re so brainy and sardonic. You could talk for hours about the history of literature and the Enlightenment. Obviously you know about stuff like wine and art and politics.

She sees Candid and Emerson and Melville on your shelf and knows that you’re an intellectual heavy hitter—all she knows about Moby Dick is “Call me Ishmael.” A Vindication of the Rights of Women reveals that you’re concerned about philosophical issues like equality and social justice. Try wearing a “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt.

The book that makes you approachable: Candy Girl, the autobiography of Diablo Cody, former stripper and the screenwriter of Juno. “Oh good,” she thinks. “We liked the same movie! I must be smart, too. And if he likes strippers…”

Your go-to move: Russian lit. Get a couple classics in Cyrillic. Then memorize some sexy phrases in Russian so you can pretend you studied it when she asks. Tell her, “Anyone can study French.”

THE POET

Oh! Your passion burns like fire! The feeble shell of your body just can’t contain all the art that’s inside you. Poetry is in your soul. You read Shakespeare and do theater. You like artsy, French New Wave movies. You fill up notebook after notebook with your deep thoughts and poetry. You listen to bands so cool that no one in Wichita has heard of them.

Plays and books on theater tell about your life on the stage. Poetry and epics reveal your romantic soul. Make sure to have PBR or absinthe on hand. Try to hide anything that looks too expensive.

The book that makes you approachable: Little House on the Prairie. It’s nostalgic because she read it as a child. It’s not poetic or dramatic. It’s just silly with red state values.

Your go-to move: Poetry, dummy—read her poetry! Bookmark something romantic or sensual, and be as earnest as you can. Try some Pablo Neruda or be daring and go straight for “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.” Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…

THE GURU

You are an enlightened soul. A feather floating on the eddies of the cosmic current. You see the light of the divine in all things, and you yearn to share your love. You must do yoga and love things like green tea, vegan cooking, and farmer’s markets.

Zen classics tell her about your search for inner truth in a world of suffering. Books on Western philosophy let her know your wisdom isn’t merely limited to the East. Don’t forget the incense.

The book that makes you approachable: The Tao of Pooh. Winnie the Pooh as a metaphor for The Way? Clearly you have a sense of humor.

Your go to move: Tantric sex books. Find an old copy of the Kama Sutra. Leave Tantric Awakening lying around. Bookmark a particularly intense passage with a post-it note. Then let her propose trying some of it out. A good Buddhist knows that chasing after desire only leads to suffering.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.

It Never Came Here

“It Never Came Here” was a short-lived column with the goal of boosting Wichitans’ exposure to indie cinema and art films.

Brick

Film is the most accessible art-form of the 21st century, and we’re letting ourselves get left in the prairie dust. So, we at NakedCity are dedicated to providing you with this monthly session of indie indoctrination:

We don’t live in an artistic wasteland. Wichita gets prestigious art titles like There Will Be Blood and Atonement. But there are so many other brilliant movies that never come here. They don’t have big-name production companies behind them, or Oscar-level attention. They’re made on shoestring budgets by directors who have to fight hard to get their vision made. Its hard for these films to get mainstream distribution—if they play here at all, its a blip at the Palace Premier—so we want to bring them to your attention.

This month, we want you to watch Brick, the stunning feature-debut of writer-director Rian Johnson. The 2005 Sundance Special Jury Prize winner is a mashup of two well-worn genres; it’s a film noir that takes place in a Southern California high school. Think, “Down these mean halls must walk a senior who is not himself mean.” Raymond Chandler does The Breakfast Club.

Tough loner Brendan (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), is frantically contacted by his ex-girlfriend (Emilie de Ravin). She left him for the wrong crowd, and now she’s in trouble. Big trouble. She mentions the word brick, but before she can say what’s wrong, she hangs up in a panic. Brendan sets out to find her, and before long he does—face down in a drainage tunnel.

So, like Sam Spade, he sets out to delve the sticky details of who and why, striding deep into the sewage and taking more and more physical punishment the closer he gets to justice.

It could be ridiculous, but it’s riveting. All the usual noir roles are there in ways we’ve never seen before. Brendan’s legman is the school nerd, “Brain” (Matt O’Leary). There are femme fatales—the rich and beautiful head cheerleader (Nora Zehetner) and the seductive drama queen (Meagan Good)—and the weak-willed men they use—the quarterback and the punk stoner. There’s a goth drug lord, “The ‘Pin” (Lukas Haas), and his poorly controlled muscle (Noah Fleiss).

The movie has a hyper-real quality to it. When you’re in high school, your trivial problems seem this serious. Fitting in is a matter of life and death. Johnson takes the juxtaposition seriously, and that’s why it works. It never delves into shtick. Gordon-Levitt manages to sound tough delivering gems like, “Still picking your teeth with freshmen?” and “She knows where I eat lunch.” He gets beaten as hard as Bogart or Nicholson. The ending is The Maltese Falcon on a football field.

It’s not a perfect film. The dialogue is peppered with 1940s crime slang. It enhances the effect most of the time, but sometimes it’s a little alienating. Between the slang and the muddy sound quality, you may find the dialogue hard to understand at times. Don’t stress out—like most mysteries, the plot loops around like a stunt pilot on hallucinogins. Noir is about the experience.

Now go experience it.

Originally published in NakedCity magazine.