It’s nearly a universally-understood expression. A magazine hits newsstands, the model or actor looks way too thin, and fingers get pointed. There have been too many cases of photo anorexia lately, and as a result, Adobe’s humble little program has developed a nasty reputation for fraud and body-image quackery.

But it’s not actually Photoshop’s fault at all, no more than a scalpel can be at fault for malpractice. The problem lies with the art director. That red grease pen—with its power to prescribe, alter and heal—has given a few of us a god complex. Now, when Kelly Clarkson complains about the distortion of her own image for a magazine cover , the editor dismisses the complaint, claiming only to make Clarkson “look her personal best”.

In the 80s and 90s, Cindy Crawford nearly trademarked the mole. Now, any little fleck and discoloration is viewed as a cancer and burned away. Modern editors and designers have become numb to perfection, and some have begun seeking new highs—larger doses of symmetry, new extremes in length or uniformity.

Photo alteration has become such a valued skill that some Photoshoppers are becoming famous themselves. Pascal Dangin is considered by some to be the number one retoucher in fashion today. Over thirty celebrities keep him on retainer. The New Yorker has put together a great piece on Pascal and the world he operates in.

Dangin is, by all accounts, an adept plumper of breasts and shrinker of pores. Using the principles of anatomy and perspective, he is able to smooth a blemish or a blip (“anomalies,” he calls them) with a painterly subtlety.

As usual, The New Yorker could take note from Dangin on the whole “subtlety” thing, but they aren’t far off. A good retoucher understands when to improve and when they’ve stepped too far into the Uncanny Valley. And if you’ve ever personally watched one work, they really do use the pen and tablet the way an artist uses canvas and brush.

It’s not all so bad. Photo doctoring, in small doses, is an accepted part of our culture. All over the country, retouchers are curing school portraits of all manner of ailments—Acne cleared up, boogers removed, teeth whitened and eyes brightened. Wedding photographers are taking “bridezillas” from perspiring to smiling in a few clicks. Advertisements, the photos of food in your menus, the sunsets on that travel brochure–Photoshop has been an essential part of quality control in print production for years. It’s not necessarily to manipulate our perception either. The printing press can be an unforgiving tool, and some doctoring is necessary to ensure the image makes it onto paper in one piece. So, don’t blame Photoshop every time some unscrupulous editor decides to trim 50 pounds off a model. Retouching is a little like any other prescription: Healthy in small doses, poisonous in large.

Retouching: Bringing smiles to people's faces, one click at a time.

Away we go, with functional and randomly aquired attire.

That might explain why this photo looks so weird to me. These people look NORMAL. I mean, they seem to be enjoying themselves, but the hair and beards aren’t helping them much. The outfits were thrown together, half of the pieces need to be thrown away or burned, and this couple’s only concern seems to be for their own comfort. Just like in real life.

I just watched Away We Go and Sunshine Cleaning almost back-to-back this weekend, and the characters and costumes really stuck out. Sure, our old friend advertising has always been a little too pretty for its own good (with a few amazing exceptions), but even Hollywood normally doesn’t take the realism this far. Why would a producer shell out  over a million for a beautiful face and magnetic onscreen presence when the artsy-fartsy director is just going to hide it all under glasses and a $10 haircut?

Someone was paid a lot of money to make these people look normal.

Don’t get me wrong—I loved all these characters. So much of their story can be seen in the “imperfection”, and not many of us “real people” have a wardrobe stylist correcting our color/pattern choices each morning. Real people wear the socks and tie their kids gave them on their birthday—vibrating, unmatchable colors be damned. Personally, I roll with jeans, t-shirt and a hoodie 300 days out of the year (I don’t even own a suit), so I have no fashion stone to be casting here.

The first time I saw “anti-style” like this was in very strange and amazing movie called Being John Malkovich. Supposedly Lance Accord, the cinematographer, was almost fired when the producers saw how disheveled and ungroomed the cast looked in dailies. I remember being completely taken aback by the movie myself. I was so unprepared for the visual “dirt” on display I could barely watch the movie without squirming in my chair.

Again, this doesn’t represent how I view people in real life. I hope it does, however, illustrate how overperfect TV and film usually is: Put a normal-looking person onscreen and people are blinded by the contrast.

Scott Buckwald has been the prop master on a variety of popular movies and television programs, including Race to Witch Mountain and The Prestige. Recently, Buckwald spoke with us about his experiences as a prop master for AMC’s hit show Mad Men. He discussed what life was like in the early 1960s, when Mad Men takes place, and the lengths he had to go to to source and create authentic period props for the show.  He also talked about TV and movie props generally, and his personal experience as a collector.

This really is an amazing interview, and from Collector’s Weekly of all places.

I’m a big fan of Mad Men (like most people in this industry). It’s a great show to sit back and enjoy, but as I watch, I’m often too aware of the characters and the story as constructs of writers and actors. I imagine the show’s staff in present-day offices, fleshing out tales of cigarettes and typewriters with the help of Starbucks and PowerMacs. These writers use suspense and surprise the way anglers use dynamite. When Don Draper’s life becomes dull or serene, I’m aware the show is just lighting the fuse atop a big pile of cruelty.

However, it’s a huge testament to the art department that I rarely step back and think about the set design or costumes or props. Sure, half the thrill of the show is holding up the 60’s pallette and comparing it to the present, but rarely do I think, “Man, that brand of beer hasn’t existed for 30 years. Who made the prop?”

A couple years ago, I did work for CAPS57, a manufacturer of packaging prototypes (you can find the print ads in my portfolio). In a few months I learned more about “heroes” and “comps” than most do in a lifetime. Each piece is hand-crafted by artists, and it takes time. To imagine the sheer scale of work that must go into every scene of Mad Men is mind boggling.

Anachronism = hate mail? Probably.

Where the Wild Things Are is a heavy little movie. Really heavy. Younger kids might walk away from this movie a little shaken at the themes. If you are the kind of parent/guardian/babysitter/au pair who feels the need to shelter your children from life’s little emotions, this is not the movie for you. However, as Jonze himself said after the film ended, this is not a kids movie. This is a movie about kids.

Our hero, Max, deals with all the helplessness and disappointment that comes with being six years old. After getting into a heated fight with his mother, he runs away from home and disappears into (what I’m assuming is) his own imagination: A forest populated with beasts with personalities only a child could concoct.

The movie immediately gets into exploring emotions like rage, heartache, jealousy, love, wonder and awe. The relationships between the monsters and Max were almost senseless at first, but on closer inspection, they are perfectly in line with the logic available to a six-year-old. The play, friendships and conflict will remind most of the viewers what it felt like to be young and helpless and aching for control over the world around them.

I couldn’t actually tell you how successful the movie was in this regard. The audience ruined the first half of the movie a bit. Spike Jonez and Catherine Keener were in the theater for the post-show Q and A, and our little hero Max answered questions before the movie began. This turned out to be a little bit of a problem: The audience—enamored with the celebrities present—began laughing and ooh-ing and ah-ing even before the first word was spoken onscreen. (”Spike, I love your movie, it’s so great! Listen to how hard I’m laughing—this is all for you!” Something like that.) It took everyone nearly 45 minutes to settle down and really enter the movie. I couldn’t watch the film without being overaware of the theater, the people around me, and the nervous energy boiling up in the room.

Also, it didn’t help that my wallet was digging into my ass all night. The seats at the Music Box can be unforgiving.

All in all, the movie was good, and it hit the nice emotional high note I was waiting for. It’s probably not a story you’ll understand in the first few minutes of leaving the theater. This film took a while for me to ponder—I was happier when I did, anyway—and I guess that’s a mark of something great deeper in the writing. Dave Eggers helped write the screenplay, so it can’t be too shabby.

I’ll just say this: Adults should not ignore this movie, and if you want to spark a real conversation with your kids about life and growing up, this would be a great flick to see. If you are expecting Toy Story 2 with more fur, you’d best stay home.

I’ll repeat: I felt better after going to Julius Meinl and writing in my Moleskine. I just officially became a stereotype.

Well, I hope I do better than Kenny Powers, anyway.