Too Long

It's been far too long since I've taken the opportunity to write, and once again I must dash off before taking adequate opportunity to write. Suffice it to say that life abruptly picked up speed, and now I daily chase my tail. I'll be back, hopefully before the end of this year, or even this day. :->

Parenting and Stress

Just watched an ABC "Medical Minute" report that makes use of dubious statistics to suggest that parents are less prone to stress than their offspring-free counterparts.

1 - The test involved 33,000 adults, yet claims to be nationally representative. On what planet?

2 - While the report does note that parenting is not necessarily a bulletproof shield against mental depression, it does suggest that being a parent with a strong support system may help. Please note the qualification: "with a strong support system".

3 - There is no consideration of which is the cart and which the horse: Is being a parent a way to strengthen one's mental immune system, or are people with sound mental faculties more likely to undertake the great adventure and challenge that is parenting? I'm of the opinion that people who are prone to depression are less inclined to take on more baggage (in the form of a baby) than their healthier peers.

Of course, this is all about tendencies. There are plenty of unstable parents and well-adjusted, child-free adults.

This is such a non-story.

Targeted Audience

Today's film offered for consideration is The Sweetest Thing (2002), clearly intended as a fluff piece from conception through execution. It is fair to say that this film is even more of a vacation from deep thought than Blades of Glory, another recently reviewed comedy.

The movie that does spring to mind for me by way of comparison is Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion (1997), a film characterized by one commentator as a bimbo movie. Though the two films have radically different philosophical points of view, (i.e., "messages",) they share the fundamental premise of heterosexual girlfriends at play, complete with outrageous road trip sequences. The male characters ultimately valorized share the characteristics of sweetness and of impressive financial success. Beyond that, the tales diverge significantly.

The Sweetest Thing (TST) features Cameron Diaz, Christina Applegate, and Selma Blair (Legally Blonde) as San Francisco roommates who are successful career women by day and active nightclub scene players by night. They are presented as sexually active thirty-somethings who evidently lack any behavioral boundaries whatsoever, even as it becomes increasingly evident that they are quite rigidly confined by the relational boundaries they have established in order to survive "the Game" of easy sex and casual relationships.

According to comments posted on imdb.com and supported by the two supplementary shorts included on the dvd, this film is not intended as a serious work with any deep message. That certainly seems to be the case, for the conversion of the party girl played by Cameron Diaz to a vibrant young woman looking for love (in all the wrong places) requires some serious suspension of disbelief. Evidently all that is required is a comedy of errors supplemented by a seriously lame self-help book's pronouncements. There are no consequences for her prior behavior, no wake-up call to clean up her act. What one does see is Christina Applegate's character coming to see the light through observation of her friends' follies. Of course, as she is a lawyer, one might arguably ascribe to her a greater ability to learn by observation than is evident in her friends.

Overall, the film has an Animal House entertainment quality to it without the invitation to root for any underdog. Yes, the raunchiness has its own form of appeal, but rooting for older mean girls still isn't quite as satisfactory for me as rooting for underdogs. Not even The Punisher (Thomas Jane) requires satisfaction from these women of privilege. Beyond the entertainment and the invitations to snicker, that little detail keeps nagging at the back of this viewer's consciousness.

One Week Later

Don't rush me; I'm slow. It's taken me a whole week to come to what should have been an obvious observation about the whole Albus Dumbledore uproar, but I think I've finally got it:

A dear, sweet young man of my acquaintance and I were discussing the final book when I asked him if he'd heard the latest buzz out of NYC. Upon being told that the author had declared unequivocally that Albus Dumbledore had been gay, he said, "I don't know what to do with that information."

Now, if this bombshell was intended as a test, then there can be only one obvious answer, elusive though it seems to have proven to the many commentators eager to declaim throughout this past week. We readers, if we have learned anything from this series as we have traveled along the road to maturity with Harry Potter, should do as Harry did upon learning of his mentor's clay feet: ignore it. It's a matter of fact vs. truth, and the truth of the matter is that Albus Dumbledore was an excellent headmaster and educator who instilled in Harry the knowledge, values, and mindset necessary to accomplish the task at hand when the time came to do so. All the rest is interesting but ultimately irrelevant.

So when one discusses Dumbledore's sexuality, it is a matter of tangential interest only, not pertinent to the narrative that has so gripped the attention of the world and fired the imaginations of an entire generation (and a half) of readers. DD's private life, like that of the other faculty members, is no one's business but his own. The only adult whose personal life is relevant to the narrative is that of Severus Snape because it underlies his every choice and action. Even Tom Riddle's personal life does not merit scrutiny, (if only because he never really had one).

That said, I'm not sure that even Rowling has the right to declare Albus Dumbledore absolutely gay. While he clearly had a youthful infatuation with a fellow wizard, there is no evidence that he continued to pursue such interests in later life. I prefer the idea that AD had a habit of loving individuals, regardless of station or gender identification. Again, it's all of tangential interest but ultimately irrelevant.

Next Flick

I was really looking forward to watching The Holiday (2006), a quiet film billed as adult and sophisticated, starring Jack Black, Cameron Diaz, Jude Law, and Kate Winslet. The premise is that two young women experience disappointment and disillusionment in love, go on the Internet to seek escape, and end up agreeing to exchange abodes for two weeks during the Christmas season. Diaz is a high-powered type-A personality who makes successful film previews, while one must assume that Winslet is a highly effective editor at a publishing company, as her character has so little else to offer in the way of either personality or skills. She is, in fact, rather reminiscent of her character in Titanic, that oppressed rebel awaiting the right man to crack her out of her semi-self-imposed societal prison. Diaz remains rhythm-free, which continues to be amusing, sort of.

Jude Law plays the dashing and very sexy brother to Winslet's character. It is he who sweeps Diaz off her feet, breaking her out of her ice princess prison. Jack Black, on the other hand, was much more effective as a romantic interest opposite Gwyneth Paltrow in Shallow Hal (2001). One suspects he was misdirected here. Such an assumption, of course, does detract from the actor's credit as well. Too bad.

I wanted to like this film. I certainly like the cast, which is why I selected the film in the first place. Unfortunately, Black's character in particular left me worse than cold. I ended up wishing that the filmmaker had simply let Eli Wallach stand as more than man enough to fulfill this foolish girl's emotional needs. He certainly held his own, even stealing a couple of scenes, in my humble opinion. Unfortunately, the commercial need to pair off all the young 'uns left me wishing I'd saved myself the trouble of watching.

Narratively, I suppose one might laud the film for having everyone settle for the modest country abode instead of the lavish L.A. mansion, if only the choice weren't so unpatriotic. Ah well...

Further HP Reflections

(also posted elsewhere)

As previously mentioned, this past Friday J.K. Rowling announced to her predominantly high school audience at Carnegie Hall in New York City that she had always perceived Albus Dumbledore as gay. The initial reaction was stunned silence, followed by tumultuous applause. That response has had a chance to echo across the Internet and around the globe throughout the weekend. Like many, I have been mulling over the ramifications of this most recent pronouncement, and this is what I have concluded:

After my initial glee that Rowling had punctuated what she'd asserted has been a fifteen-year-long plea for tolerance by identifying Albus Dumbledore, beloved headmaster of Hogwarts, as gay, I began to think about the repercussions in light of the revelations in the final volume, specifically with reference to the memories of Severus Snape, salvaged through the ever-quick wits and resourcefulness of Hermione Granger, in conjunction with that always Johnny-on-the-Spot, Harry Potter.

- According to Snape, Dumbledore has really been more of a Machiavelli than a proper mentor to Harry. His intent had always been to use the boy as a sacrificial tool, a weapon against Voldemort when the latter returned.

- According to what we learn of Albus Dumbledore from his brother Aberforth, the former was always a very secretive fellow, a trait learned at their mother's knee. He never said what he really meant. Albus tells Harry in PS/SS that he most desired a warm pair of socks. In DH he tells Harry that he declined the job of Minister of Magic for fear of his tendency to abuse power. What he chose instead was to stay and work at Hogwarts, a school full of pretty young boys... (Rita Skeeter and the Roman Catholic Church, anyone? Or even the latest round of smut now being thrown at the educational community because of perhaps 4% of educators who have proven predator track records.ctual

- Like that poor fellow in Mel Gibson's Braveheart, Albus Dumbledore gets thrown/blown off a tower, thus plummeting to his death. Now, not all cinematic gays die this way, but many do die, and violently.

Ultimately, Dumbledore is bright, witty, and gay. He is admirably talented, far beyond normal, average folk, in fact, but he is also doomed to die unfulfilled. He is unworthy to serve as Messiah; he is only good enough to be a forerunner, and a flawed one at that.

Finally, and this is actually tangential to the whole Dumbledore thing, Rowling has named Harry's younger son Albus Severus Potter and left him with a fear of being sorted into Slytherin. Am I the only one who has noticed that the poor little fellow's initials are A.S.P.? What kind of chance has Rowling left him? Auwe!

Contrasts in Romance

Today's odd pairing compares and contrasts a quiet little independent production titled, American Pastime, brought to my attention in the preview section on the dvd, Letters from Iwo Jima, with the commercial hit, Blades of Glory. Each features physical conflict but ultimately examines brotherhood, family, honor, and love.

American Pastime is an independent film by Japanese American Desmond Nakano featuring familiar adults juxtaposed with relatively unknown younger performers. The fathers in particular turn in performances worth noting, as played by veteran Japanese performer Nakamura Masatoshi and Gary Cole, the former star of the television series, Midnight Caller. What disturbs me is that Nakamura-san is the only performer of Japanese ancestry in the featured nuclear family. As with Memoirs of a Geisha, the use of other ethnicities seems preferable to the casting of authentic Japanese for roles written specifically for Japanese. Now why is that? Even, perhaps especially growing up in the western portion of the U.S., the filmmaker should be sufficiently familiar with the visual differences among Pacific ethnicities to be disturbed by this, (though I have also heard that a number of Japanese Americans disassociated themselves from their race upon release from internment, sadly.) In any event, the result is that the protagonist is very much an older version of the hip younger son in Flower Drum Song, who also loves baseball and jazz and all things American. That said, the depiction of life in the Topaz internment camp is specific and evocative. The general tone is more in line with that of the nissei who enlisted with the 442nd and won fame and respect for all Japanese Americans in some of the bloodiest and fiercest fighting in Europe during WWII than other films dealing with the internment of the JA's might seem in more strident independent films I have seen. What comes through is a whole lot of love: love of baseball, love of jazz, love of family, love of community, romantic love, and affirmative movement from selfish love to love of self that is self-respect sufficient to radiate to others.

Then there's Blades of Glory, a Will Farrell/Jon Heder headliner put together by Ben Stiller. With credits like that, there is only one kind of film to expect, and that is what one gets. This film also moves from selfish love to love of self that is self-respect that can radiate outwards to include others. Unlike the protagonist of American Pastime, whose lone wolfish ways are arguably attributable to political and societal forces alone, however, the protagonists of this film, both the lone wolf and the pretty boy, can claim the lack of adequate home support. The former is an orphan who grew up on the streets, while the latter is an orphan plucked from obscurity by an entrepreneur who clearly sees him as product, not progeny. Where AP has two blood brothers, the younger of whom learns from his elder, BoG brings together two antithetical orphans who learn from each other, one to be more outgoing, the other to be kinder and gentler, or at least moderately more considerate. Ultimately this film is an affirmation of the American sensibility: independence and spontaneity tempered by consideration and cooperation, just a little bit.

And everybody gets the brunette. Now how can one argue with that sort of ending?

P&P Revisited

It's been not quite two years since I first watched the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice on the big screen. Now I've had a chance to review it on my little laptop monitor, and evidently the passage of time and shrinking of screen size have done wonders for my appreciation of the film. Of course, I could quite possibly simply be suffering from fatigue and ennui...

Life in this new location that was once old and familiar has revived my awareness of nonverbals, which has, in turn, altered my perception of the latest film version of P & P. What I noticed this time around was a whole lot of speaking glances and telling looks, particularly on the part of MacFayden as Mr. Darcy. His character is clearly stalking Elizabeth around the halls and dance floors, long before he ever gets around to saying anything. She, in turn, seems to be all too aware of his animal magnetism, right from the get go.

A viewing of supplementary materials on the dvd revealed Brenda Blethyn discussing her character, which in turn explains why I find her so much less irritating this time around. Blethyn understands the mother not as a mere comic device but, in fact, as a fully fleshed, ambitious, hard-working mother who schemes without remorse in order to fulfill her social responsibility of providing for the five daughters she has borne, a formidable task in rural eighteenth century England. As such, she does not hesitate to use every asset available to her, from prodding her sedentary husband into fulfilling his social duties to plotting her own daughter's ill health with an eye on the weather. While we may view her as silly, even dangerous from the comfort of our 21st century vantage, cultural translation indicates that this is a woman who could give any contemporary multi-national CEO a run for his/her money in terms of scheming and utilizing limited resources to the best advantage, vapours included. And yes, she is dangerous.

Again attending to nonverbals, I cannot help but feel for Miss Mary Bennett. She would have made an admirable spouse for the erstwhile Mr. Collins, and this portrayal clearly indicates (at least to me,) that she pines for him silently. That said, Charlotte Lucas is clearly better able to manage the fellow, and it is probably better for all concerned, from his parishioners to his patron, that it is Charlotte and not Mary that Mr. Collins brings home to Rosings Park. Clearly this is a man that needs a firm hand managing him. Equally clearly, the actress playing Charlotte matches the actor playing Mr. Collins better than Mary might have.

One thing about Charlotte that has always bothered me and did so again upon this viewing is that she is clearly the source of the gossip that brings Lady Catherine down upon Elizabeth near the end of the tale. While this proves to be the machination by which the author brings the two erstwhile lovers together, nevertheless it does seem some kind of betrayal of friendship that Charlotte should convey such information to her husband, knowing full well that he will immediately run to Lady Catherine with it. One might argue that Charlotte is attempting to protect a beloved friend from a man believed to be loathed, but it is also Charlotte who must be the source of information about Lydia's "infamous elopement"; how can that have been the act of a friend? Of course, we do know from Charlotte's own lips that she is not sentimental and never has been. Still, it seems a poor kind of friendship that she offers in sharing such ill gossip about her best friend's family matters.

Having viewed, pondered, and written about this tale, I feel an overwhelming compulsion to read the original again. Of such stuff is really great literature made. :-)

(Right after Blades of Glory and HP again... ;->)

Flags and Letters

Still loving Netflix and all that it is providing, I have been festing, which has proven to be an unexpected feasting, perhaps because of all the hype that has surrounded the films I have most recently viewed.

Clint Eastwood has spent his professional career in Hollywood creating an iconic image that embodies the definition of tough, cool, and macho. He is all that seems to be Californian: rugged, independent, indifferent to the laws of man, more willing to shoot than to talk. Somehow I tend to link these characteristics with John Wayne and Ronald Reagan, neither of whom could actually act, except perhaps off-screen. Of course, they both have airports named after them now, and Reagan went on to become president of everything for which he ran, including the country.

Eastwood in his maturity has chosen to turn his lifetime of experiences and talents to filmmaking. I don't know why I can't remember that I like his work as a director, but there it is: every time I am faced with the prospect of watching one of his films, I find myself reluctant to begin, then completely seduced when I finally get around to doing so. The first time this happened to me was with Unforgiven, which I must have rewatched for a month while trying to wrap my thoughts around all the ideas packed into it. Such has been the case with my latest encounter with Eastwood-directed films, two this time: Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima.

These two films really should be seen together, or at least consecutively, and they should be viewed in the order listed above. One should not be seen without the other, though each stands well enough on its own. If Americans were willing to sit still long enough and, more importantly, theater managers willing to allocate such a lengthy time block for anything not sf- or fantasy-related, these films would have been one amazing epic. That said, there is great wisdom in having made them two separate films, if only because of the fact that doing so produces such an effective reflection of the sentiments of that era as well as the mood of present times, thus highlighting an essential part of the tangle of problems at the core of intercultural conflicts.

Flags features the American grunts who were singled out by a chance photo to serve as the unifying focus of fundraising in the U.S. during some of the darkest days of World War II. Eastwood's presentation of the events is such that one is invited to note not so much the conflict between nations as the conflicts of class and race, both within this country and within the military attempting to present a monolithic image to the world. The societal chasms depicted are not so much generational as experiential, falling between those who have seen action and those who have been in the heat of the action; between those who have been in a war zone and those who have only heard and/or read about it back home; between those running the war and those running in it or from it.

Ryan Phillippe, who caught my attention in Breach and Crash, is again featured, this time as the med tech who should be a noncombatant but must kill in order to attempt to heal, then must play the hero taking credit for the achievement of others.

Adam Beach, whom I first saw in the beloved Mystery, Alaska, turns in a great performance as the continually underappreciated and misunderstood Native American. His narrative stream may be dismissed by some as maudlin or overly dramatic, but that just goes along with the whole idea of the plight he represents as being too easily overlooked and dismissed.

There are a number of other familiar faces. T2's Robert Patrick flits by, as do other action film fellows seen a hundred times before. They are Eastwood film types, filling out military roles with aplomb.

This movie, however, spends as much time on the civilian side as on Iwo Jima, to its benefit. This is a war movie that takes us home, where so many of the fellows will never go again.
What I particularly like is the way it puts me in mind of the works of Kurt Vonnegut, whose wartime tales tended to leave his protagonist loose in time, flashing forwards and backwards between memories and distortions of reality in present time with less attention to chronological sequencing than to thematic connections. The resulting film blew me away.

Likewise, Letters moves between memories and present realities, more for the purposes of characterization than narration. The framework of the film is an archeological discovery, and Eastwood very kindly remembers to complete the connection at film's end, (unlike some other, less adept tale tellers who shall remain nameless here).

Letters is filmed almost entirely in Japanese, featuring English only in three brief encounters near the end when American soldiers are encountered, and in one brief early flashback. Again, the focus is more on the differences between leaders and followers, between traditionalists and modernists, between those who have had experiences in battle and those for whom battle, let alone war, is a relatively foreign experience. What one has had and values vs. what one has to lose is key to differences in attitudes.

Ultimately, the most sympathetic character proves to be a simple grunt who, like "Doc" in Flags is more of a noncombatant than an actual "soldier", and whose attitudes and actions serve as the most pervasive (if not the only) cultural bridge for viewers. As "Doc" waged war primarily with his med kit, so Saigo waged war primarily with his shovel. This baker turned ditch digger is the vehicle through which Western eyes are invited to appreciate and understand that the "enemy" were not so different from us. His enemies are not the foreign invaders but rather the abusive and vindictive superior who is always using him as a scapegoat and all-purpose whipping boy. All Saigo wants is to stay alive and return home to his loving wife and the daughter he has never seen. Though Western viewers may tune in to see the unarguably gorgeous Watanabe Ken-san, one cannot help but come away agreeing that "I like Saigo."

A friend noted that there is greater pathos with the losing side; whatever the reason, Letters is the superior film. Though both films depict the perversion of patriotism as an ideal, each also shows very personal pictures of the men in the trenches. There is great nobility and tragic loss depicted here, both high and low. These are companion films that each new generation really needs to see.

California Inferno

California, land of outrageous special effects spectacles, does not require great imagination, though it certainly seems to abound in the stuff. No, reality supplies plenty enough for starters.

Friday evening a couple of the big rigs that are such an irritatingly common sight on the highways and byways of this great nation collided. Not content with colliding, they did so in a tunnel traversing a mountain pass. In the brief eighth of a mile during which they were out of the gently falling rain, they managed to instigate a domino effect. By the time they were done, the visuals were pretty spectacular, along the order of the original Terminator movie, complete with flames shooting out of both ends of the tunnel and a lovely smog cloud blanketing the adjoining valleys to this day.

When I watch Hollywood spectacles, I often forget what it is to live in Southern California. Life during the brief two years I spent there was much like living inside a movie, with the daily news pretty much like that. The question was never whether or not anyone had been shot but rather how many had been shot. The question was whether the shooting was a drive-by or stationary. The question was how many millions of dollars in damage had been done. The question was how long the flames would burn and how many hundreds of firefighters and rescue workers were involved. The answers were more along the order of research for future reference rather than asked with any sense of awe or wonder in the more traditional senses.

Now that I'm back in the land of eternal liquid sunshine, my sense of normalcy is readjusting. Here the normal freeway speed is 35 m.p.h., with mainland drivers sticking out like sore thumbs as they tear out their hair and wait for fingernail polish or paint to dry. Here the Thunderbirds perform one week, the Blue Angels vie for attention the next. The military presence here is a palpable reality with fireworks and infernos something from which they seek rest, not reminders. The question is not military or civilian, but rather, which branch of the military? Here the concern is whether or not a proposed interisland ferry service will jeopardize the whale population, as opposed to Southern Cal's concern over potential traffic snarls because the I-5 has been lit up by the "lifeblood of the nation", i.e. trucks.

So - fire or water? rain or snow? heat or cold? heating or air-conditioning? trucks or boats (or airplanes)? fruit or vegetables? potatoes or rice?

But it's not a world of dualities, so I'll take noodles, thank you very much, and you can keep your flames and your quakes and your politics and and and ...

I think I need some lunch.

Caregiving

Recently I've been watching Clint Eastwood's recently released trilogy of WWII films, specifically the first two: Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima. I'll go into detail about the films in another post, but for now I merely mention the fact because reflections on a character in the latter film, Saigo, made me realize something about how I'm spending my life right now.

A caregiver is like a baseball outfielder or a soccer (football) goalie in an essential way: when things are going well, life is easy and the workload is light. Life is, in fact, more of a spectator sport than a heated fray. When the action gets serious, however, the caregiver, like the outfielder and the goalie, is the last line of defense and, therefore, the most vital in the moment. There are gathered the greatest forces, there is required the greatest effort, there is the most to win or lose. Everyone else on the playing field has had their shot. If the ball gets past the last defender, it becomes the province of the world at large, moving on to a higher plane (the upper decks of the bleachers, as it were), and is no longer in the hands of the players.

When all is said and done, a caregiver can win a few, lose a few, but ultimately the ball will leave the field. That's just the way the game goes. In a game of inches, it's just a matter of paying attention at the right moments - or not; and sometimes it's just out of your hands, and there's nothing you can or could have done to make a difference. It is what it is.

(Does anyone know who said that last line recently to popularize its use?)

Fact-Based

My mother passed away in February 2001. We buried her on the 16th. Two days later a story broke in the news about the arrest of a man who had been a mole in the Intelligence community for over two decades. I vaguely remember something about the incident, but evidently my attention was elsewhere at the time.

Recently I was abruptly reminded of that period in my life in the oddest way: the date struck me as I was watching the dvd of the recently released film, Breach, starring Chris Cooper, Ryan Phillippe. Laura Linney, Gary Cole, and Dennis Haysbert, among others. The casting alone would have caught my attention. In fact, I do believe that the cast was the reason I initially borrowed the dvd, and I was not misled, as has been the case on other occasions.

I love pretty much anything and everything Chris Cooper does. He has the same kind of quiet presence that David Strathairn has, or perhaps it is simply that both gentlemen never cease to surprise, impress, delight, and challenge my thinking with the roles they play. In this film, Cooper plays a man we, the audience, know to be a consummate liar and national traitor, yet he manages to convey an innate dignity and worthiness that incites admiration while simultaneously managing to emanate a sense of creepiness. As we come to understand the depths of his depravity and treachery, the camera progressively reveals his clay feet. You can see Cooper's character getting increasingly wound up and distrustful, even as he wants desperately to believe that the relatively naive young man in his outer office is simple and trustworthy. I found watching his descent riveting.

Ryan Phillippe, on the other hand, has often left me cold in the past, Crash notwithstanding. This time I found him very effective as the ambitious younger employee bucking for agent status. Ironically, whereas I have generally found him to be too arrogant to be able to contain himself, this time he was almost too capable of subsuming his ambitions in service of the Greater Good. Overall, however, I found his moral dilemma sufficiently engaging for my viewing satisfaction.

Laura Linney can do no wrong, at least on screen. I don't know that it is so much perfect casting as just another superlative performance from an extremely talented and intelligent artist. Whichever is the case, Linney delivers as Phillippe's dedicated superior and supervisor in the sting operation for which the latter is recruited. I particularly like the editorial choice to leave her softer scenes on the cutting room floor, (or at least relegated to the "Alternate" and "Deleted" dvd offerings). Her character makes the most sense as a stern, no-nonsense agent whose dedication to her work is not overwhelmed by overzealousness or undue earnestness, yet who manages to convey all of that in a way that is palatable, or at least free from the more customary gag-inducing reflex.

And who doesn't have the protagonist's reaction when Dennis Haysbert appears on-screen? He doesn't have to be there long to project that ineffable presence. 'Nuff said.

Now, one of the things I really enjoy about today's dvds is the supplementary materials. I was fascinated to see the real Eric O'Neill and to learn that, contrary to the claim at the end of the film that he has been working in the D.C. area as a lawyer, he has, in fact, been shopping the narrative of his adventure around Hollywood for some time now. Phillippe's characterization was surely much more troubled by excessive earnestness than the original on which it is based, yet one might also pass off the bounciness of said original (O'Neill) to the euphoria that must surely accompany the completion at long last of bringing to life on-screen such a life-changing experience.

As I feel my language control to be fairly nonexistent today, I shall stop here... for now...

Odd Juxtaposition

Continuing my vidding kick, I've just been taking films in the order they arrive at the house. Recently this created a very curious sequence, much like catching a double- or tripleheader at the local plex might do.

Wild Hogs

This is a movie featuring four established actors supported by equally identifiable supporting performers. The result is better than the unexpected casting initially suggested when I first watched the previews for this film in theaters.

Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H. Macy, and John Travolta play four mid-life suburbanites facing standard mid-life crises.

Allen is a dentist who has somehow lost the spontaneous edge that once made him "the Golden Knight" in his now long gone college days. Being married to Jill Hennessy, who looks like an only slightly older, more relaxed version of her Law-n-Order Claire character, doesn't help him. His son clearly thinks his father is a stodgy old man; consequently, the lad prefers to play hoops with his friend's father, who can dunk. His wife practically has to kick him out of the house to take the time off to go on the proposed road trip. The payoff, of course, is that he regains his self-esteem and wins his son's regard in the process. Unfortunately, all that esteem comes from getting into a fight with biker toughs. Entertaining as it is, I'm not sure that's a message that children in search of role models really need to receive.

Lawrence is an aspiring writer who has taken a year off from plumbing. Now that his year is up, his wife wants him back on the job. Clearly she rules the roost while he commands no respect from either his children or his live-in mother-in-law. His first client, a convenience store clerk, also deems Lawrence's character below himself in the scheme of life. The proposed road trip is a perfect escape for him. Unfortunately, he needs to lie to his wife in order to take it. It does buy him the time to reclaim himself, so that by the time she discovers the truth and comes storming after him, he is able to stand up to her and retake control of his marriage, or so we are led to believe. Unfortunately, this is probably the weakest of the narrative threads, even as Lawrence's character has some of the best sight gags. The intended message is that a man who can stand up to bikers should be able to stand up to one shrill shrew of a wife. That's not a great message.

William H. Macy's character walks a fine line between the kind of person mass media has taught us to fear and the kind we love to mock: he is a computer geek afraid of human intercourse, except with his suburban biker buddies. Macy plays his geek ingenuously, keeping the innocence and naivety clearly front and center and avoiding all but one suggestion of the online predator, which is intentionally played for laughs. His reward in the end is that he gets Marisa Tomei and masters his bike sufficiently to appreciate the bikini-clad beauties of Southern California while his friends finally fall down.

John Travolta has been cast in far more heroic roles than his fellow castmates. It is therefore no surprise that he is cast as the nominal leader of the group at the beginning of the film, or at least as the instigator of the road trip, though the audience is also presented with a clear view of his character's clay feet as well. This man who seems to have everything - a successful business and a supermodel wife - is actually bankrupt in the wake of his wife's departure and divorce. There is a lovely symmetry in watching this character's descent and dissolution as Macy's character grows into belated manhood. Reasonably, these are the two actors better known for their dramatic turns than their comedic roles, though they clearly do both with equal facility.

This film is an unqualified success at entertaining. The pace is excellent, the music fits like a comfortable old glove, and the faces are of old friends. Stephen Tobolowsky and John C. McGinley as the sheriff and highway patrolman respectively are familiar faces, if not names. For fans of Mystery, Alaska, Kevin Durand is a pleasant sighting, (though his resume reflects more television series work than film work).

As villains go, Ray Liotta plays this one a bit too flatly and heavy-handedly for my taste. He has shown much finer layers in some of his other work, but that may simply be a consequence of this script. There really isn't much room for him to demonstrate layers; he is simply asked to be a stock villain against whom the others may flail. Unfortunately, when he does finally get a chance to do some texturing, he doesn't. Ah well...

At least he gets to call one of the original Wild Ones, Peter Fonda, dad.

There is an ongoing homophobic riff throughout the film, overtly with McGinley's highway patrolman, less noticeably yet more consistently between Travolta and Macy, with the geek giving evidence of uncomfortable comfort in his own skin that way while the seeming stud is the one who is always squirming away. Again, there's a mixed message that is pervasive throughout the film, widely accepted as the norm in society, and just a little bit disturbing upon reflection.

Apocalypto

Mel Gibson's most recent offering, in contrast, is a very deliberate attempt to convey serious drama amidst the grand epic sweep of the great Mayan civilization in its death throes. It being a Mel movie, however, there are inevitable bits of locker room humor and the occasional nod to homophobia, Mel being an ardent and active espouser of the heterosexual lifestyle as the only sane, noncomedic choice among heroic warriors.

Like Wild Hogs, Gibson's Apocalypto quickly turns into a road trip, though the latter film involves more enforced travel than intentional meandering. Along the way would-be warriors are tested, with only one emerging a mature man by film's end which, coincidentally, also arrives at ocean's edge. Since Apocalypto is intended as a serious film, the failure of companions to meet each test encountered successfully results in death, in contrast to Wild Hogs, where failure merely results in decreased stature until all are equals instead of hierarchically situated.

As Gibson's film is more ambitious, the costumes and sets are much more lavish. The attention to detail alone makes this a film worth watching, despite the fact that sometimes the camera lingers a little too long on sets and scenery for the good of the narrative. Every stratum of society that has been discovered through painstaking research is meticulously depicted through costumes, accessories, body decorations, and assigned societal roles, making acting moot for many of the cast. Unfortunately, the few whose roles actually do require acting in addition to makeup, wardrobe, and placement are not always quite up to the task, a fact detectable despite the exclusive use once again of a language not much in use these days (Mayan). There is, of course, the possibility that I am not quite up to snuff on the topic of the eyes wide open school of acting...

Character-wise, Apocalypto shares with Wild Hogs the presentation of immature men who, through life or death confrontation, progress to a clearer sense of self. One senses, however, that the protagonist of the former film experiences significantly more growth than do the four riders in the latter. Sadly, the protagonist of Apocalypto retreats into the still free forest on the brink of invasion, exploitation, and destruction, whereas the Wild Hogs, who also return to their native habitat, i.e. the suburbs, arguably sustain a new lease on life (though a true cynic might see suburbia as just another beachhead for invasion, exploitation, and destruction of civilization as only an urban dweller can understand it).

One positive that both films share is the depiction of strong women, marginalized though they be in these male-centric narratives. Seven, the very pregnant wife whom Jaguar's Paws, the protagonist of Apocalypto, conceals in a well during the initial attack on the village, proves to be an able and fit mate and mother. Though clearly frightened, she presents a brave front for her young son, Turtle's Run. As the days pass, she finds creative ways to deal with exigencies that arise, from stitching up her son's gash with insects to gathering water for drinking to making a valiant if ultimately futile attempt to climb out of the well. She even manages to stay afloat and give birth amidst a torrential rainstorm while her erstwhile husband is pussyfooting around with deadly killers who have tracked him across two days, a Fugitive-esque waterfall leap, and limb-sucking bogs. What I don't get is why she is still required to wait for her husband to finally rescue her. Of course, this is a Mel movie.

If you're into cool weaponry, this is a great film to watch. In addition to extensive research of existing records, the weapons master who got his start in films working on Gibson's first hit, Braveheart, is back. He incorporates not only what exists in records, but what is plausible based on the materials available. Stone slingshots, obsidian-edged swords, and darts created on the spur of the moment from handy frog venom that are then shot through a giant rolled up leaf are among the weapons at hand. Of course, cool weapons mean creative blood spurting, another trademark of a Mel Gibson epic action film.

Ultimately, these are two films aimed at those interested in getting the testosterone flowing. There are some pretty cool stunts in each between long waits of scenery and narrative. Ostensibly, growth and maturity are achieved. One can always hope.

Finally Got through This Flick

Previews have a way of setting up expectations of what is to come, both in the theater and on tapes and dvds. Such has been the case with this next film. The horrific nature of the majority of previews caused me to postpone the actual viewing of the main feature for much of this week. Violence I can handle; horror not so much. So those previews gave me a funny feeling...

Premonition

Sandra Bullock made a decision not to be the next Julia Roberts, an accusation leveled against her in her early days when Roberts took a brief leave of absence from the limelight, (as she is once again doing now). Bullock's perkiness and willingness to please are, of course, the primary reasons she was so dubbed, along with the vacuum created when Roberts went into seclusion after her abortive engagement to Kiefer Sutherland. (Yes, I know way too much trash trivia for my sanity.) Once Bullock had achieved sufficient acclaim on her own merits, she began to work primarily on less upbeat projects that allowed her to give that million watt smile of hers a well-earned rest. Unfortunately, when she's not smiling, she does glum really really well, even when she's just going for serious. Ah well... She is getting more balanced as she matures...

Bullock is four years older than her co-star, Julian McMahon, son of a former Australian prime minister, and there are shots where she looks it. (As I said earlier, she does glum really well.) That said, the narrative itself is an interesting, if not particularly thought-provoking, piece. It takes its time leisurely unwinding, allowing the viewer to share in Bullock's character's confusion and increasingly conflicted feelings. When the story is finally laid out in its entirety, there is more a sense of relief that the film is over than rejoicing that the mysteries are solved. Hm... that doesn't seem like a good thing, does it? Oh well...

Bullock marries McMahon who buys her a house. Years later we learn that they are a suburban couple with a house, a mortgage, and two kids - what'd we expect? Hm... The setup for his infidelity is not great, while its revelation is fairly standard issue: mistress behind a tree at the outskirts of the burial. Do we still have expectations? The makeup sex is so tastefully suggested that the endshot pregnancy is almost a surprise. almost.

The surprise is a one-stringed affair, an explanation of premonition as presented by a Roman Catholic priest. What else did I expect? ah well...

Yet Another Review

It's been a very peaceful, mellow, blogging and vidding day with nothing but intermittent thunder showers to penetrate my reveries. This next dvd is one that I had eagerly awaited but failed to catch in theaters. Well, that is now rectified.

Fracture

Sir Anthony Hopkins, that knighted British talent whose American roles have been so very gruesome, seems to have hooked up with some of the brightest young talents America has to offer. He first came to my notice in the horror genre when he worked with Jodie Foster in her early adulthood. Since then he has worked with Julianne Moore, Edward Norton, and now Ryan Gosling in a similar role.

Fracture is a film that features Ryan Gosling in a role reminiscent of Keanu Reeves' turn in Devil's Advocate in that Gosling is a rising star in the prosecutor's office with a high conviction rate who is plucked from relative obscurity by the head of a highly successful private firm that specializes in the defense of wealthy clients of dubious morality. This film, however, focuses on the relationship between the ADA and the accused, rather than between the young lawyer and a high-powered head of any firm. As with Edward Norton, Hopkin's character takes pleasure in playing mind games, always seeming to be several steps ahead of his youthful adversary until said youngster bottoms out, has an epiphany, and is finally able to turn the tables on the old master. It's very much in keeping with the standard narrative skeleton on which so many martial arts films have been hung over the years. As with martial arts films, the pleasure comes not from the narrative, but from the characterizations, the stratagems employed, and a few really great unexpected moves. As morality tales go, it's pretty conventional. For viewing pleasure, Hopkins is his usual chilling self, and Gosling is great.

The dvd is also a pleasant surprise. It is enhanced for viewing on a computer, complete with website connections and supplementary materials. The alternate and deleted scenes make this viewer grateful for the eventual editorial choices made, as is usually the case. It's frightening to watch how easily the film could have taken some very bad turns.

More Vidding

From longtime favorite to more contemporary fare, Netflix continues to satisfy.

300

One of my favorite all-time tales is that of the 300 Spartans and their amazing achievement against seemingly impossible odds. I particularly like the fact that as much of their success can be credited to brains as to brawn and heart. Of course, it didn't hurt that the narrative served as the basis for one of my favorite sword-and-sandal films, originally released in 1962.

Recently Frank Miller produced a graphic novel recreating the drama and glory of that epic struggle at Thermopylae for another generation. As it did during the Vietnam era, the tale that inspired the comic and now the film extols a defiant gloss in the idea of sacrifice for glory, even as it illustrates the seemingly senseless waste of valiant souls while corrupt politicians attempt to reap profit from war.

This film version of that pivotal conflict struck me more as a preview of a potentially exciting video game, with wave after wave of opposing forces culminating in a gargantuan monstrosity each time, than as a smoothly flowing narrative. Still, it does promise to be an exciting game, with some Brad Pitt as Achilles-type moves in the bargain.

What I particularly dislike is that King Leonidas's wife is presented as lacking her husband's evident moral fiber, at least by conservative American standards. Though we are told that the men of Sparta have been taught to lie, cheat, and steal in pursuit of ultimate victory, somehow the queen's willingness to surrender herself to the politician who so openly opposes her husband strikes a false chord for me. The fact that she takes his life and reveals his treachery on the Council floor does not diminish the fact that she seems to have been willing to surrender without protest, had he kept his word. Though Leonidas is later seen to kneel before Xerxes before attempting to assassinate the invading king, the fact that Leonidas had always planned to attempt an assassination makes his kneeling more acceptable than Queen Gorgo's initial surrender, since her murder of her attacker seems reactionary rather than premeditated.

Similarly disturbing to me is the depiction of the invading forces as all ethnic minorities and deformed or mutant beings, though perhaps that former casting is more rather than less accurate. Still, it smacks of the sort of racism so evident in Tolkien's work, as so much of epic and empire too frequently do.

The fact that the accompanying 700 slaves and servants are minimized adds to the heroism of those who sacrificed themselves, even though it takes the film further away from historical accuracy.

Less disturbing to me is the sometimes evident use of computer graphics in the film. Personally, I like seeing all those rippling abdominal muscles.

Random Video Reviews

Trying this again, having lost it all late last night...

Babette's Feast (This has got to be one of my favorite foreign films. )

On a lonely windswept coast of Jutland live two spinster sisters, daughters of a deceased minister who have dedicated their lives to tending to their father's dwindling congregation, many of whom have already joined their spiritual shepherd in the hereafter. The young men who were attracted to the parish by the beauty of the daughters have grown up and moved on for the most part, taking the young women with whom they eventually paired off with them. Those left behind are aging, quarrelsome, and cantankerous.

When the daughters were younger, each had attracted the attention of a stranger who had passed through the small rural town while briefly retreating from the more hectic pace of urban life. One of these strangers sends to this quiet coastal town a friend in flight from the violence of civil disorder in Paris. This woman is taken in by the sisters and provided room and board in exchange for shelter. She proves to be modest, thrifty, shrewd, hardworking, and an excellent cook.

Years later, the second stranger returns himself, intending to verify that he made the right choice in his youth. Though he has risen to the rank of general and married a handmaiden of his country's queen, he still questions his youthful decision to forego pursuit of one of the sisters in exchange for pursuit of worldly ambition.

The young man who was once a silent suitor has become a pompous and loquacious general, but it is precisely because of this that the congregation members, the sisters, and the audience are able to learn of and appreciate the first suitor's gift of the modest woman who appeared so humbly as a refugee many long years ago and is now an integral part of the household and community.

The woman who now so quietly and efficiently runs the household was once one of the premiere chefs in all of Paris, an artist capable of turning any meal into a spiritual lovefest. When she wins the lottery in Paris, she takes the opportunity to practice her craft one last time by preparing a true French feast in celebration of the late minister's 100th birthday. The sheltered villagers fear the upcoming feast as they watch the arrival of the mysterious ingredients, which allows the audience to appreciate more fully the challenge before Babette, the chef. The contrast between expectations and actuality is wonderfully portrayed. From the fearful warnings and pleadings of the sisters to the quarreling the villagers cannot resist even as they approach the special meal, we see the allegorical human condition. As Babette toils and sweats in the stifling and primitive kitchen, we see the change come over those dining on unknown delights. There is a possible parallel with Jesus in the grave on Saturday, toiling to prepare spiritual delights for ungrateful mortals. This is the last feast Babette will prepare in this lifetime, reminiscent of Jesus' Last Supper with his disciples before his descent into death with no hope of respite until after his resurrection.

The general's narrative proclaims the greatness of Babette's achievements to an unresponsive audience that nevertheless is quietly yet surely altered for the better because of the fine meal laid before them. In the end, there is peace, reconciliation, unity, and singing under a starry sky.

Personally, I liked watching all the food preparations. :-)

New Toy! er... Tool...

Behold!

If you click on the title of this post, you will be taken to a picture of the latest member of my little family. if you hold your mouse over the far right selection, "Desert Sand Mica with Taupe Interior," you will see Sandy Sienna in all her glory. Yes, I do like to name my vehicles, though this is the first one to receive a female name.

Yesterday was delivery day when I was finally able to pick up my new baby. She has running boards on each side to assist my aged father as he attempts to step into the vehicle. After all, if it were not for him, I do not think that I would have chosen such a car. Certainly no one who knows me would have guessed that I would select such a vehicle, including me. Ah well... It holds both wheelchair and walker easily while still leaving ample room for other things, which is the primary point, after all. Better yet, there is a functional radio that I can set low enough so that Dad cannot hear it, though I can. Best of all, there is an mp3 player plug for my ipod. :-)

When I popped open my cell phone to share my delight in my new acquisition, I was laughingly reminded that I delight in big ticket items, parsimonious though I may sometimes seem in smaller things. Well, with my fading eyesight, if I can't see it, what's the point? Of course, I suppose I could settle for less digits and decimal places... Hm...

Of course, now that that is settled and the old cars are moving on to other homes and incarnations, I have nowhere to drive my beautiful new toy until Dad's next doctors' appointments. See, that's why I was able to demonstrate restraint and not sign up for the optional moon roof or dvd player. After all, as a driver on Honolulu roads, when am I going to be on the road long enough to watch anything? And if I'm the sole driver, what would I be doing watching anyway? It's not like an audio input after all...

And the moonroof: okay, here in Hawaii no one except a tourist would actually want all that sunshine pouring into the vehicle in the middle of an 80s or 90s degree day. What do you think all that heavy tinting is for anyway? The moon, now, that's a different story. It might be nice to have moonlight flowing into the car at night... or not... eh -

So here I sit, dwelling lovingly on the wonderful attributes of my brand-new automobile, peacefully sitting in my overcrowded garage gathering invisible dust on its beautifully camouflaged coat of desert sandiness...

So why did I want a new vehicle again? Who, me? excited about big-ticket items? No way --

Still Mulling Over HP

The term "vol" is French for flight + de (down or away from) + mort = death, so the former French teacher named her arch villain flight from death, which makes perfect sense.

The question arose again today, how many horcruxes were there altogether? Reflex suggests seven or eight, depending on how one thinks. Logic dictates the following breakdown:

1 - diary
2 - ring
3 - locket
4 - cup
5 - tiara
6 - Nagini

These six were intentionally made by Tom Riddle, whose query asked about splitting one's soul into seven parts. Reasonably, he'd need to keep the seventh part within himself in order to hold it all together; otherwise, he'd be no better than those kissed by dementors (not that he was anyway).

Accidentally, Lord Voldemort, (who actually became LV by beginning his flight from death when he committed his first murder of Moaning Myrtle in the Girls' Bathroom over half a century earlier,) split his soul into an eighth part when he sadistically killed James and especially Lily Potter. Before he could kill the littlest Potter, he'd already turned the child into a seventh horcrux.

To sum up: seven horcruxes, eight pieces of soul. Unfortunately for ambitious Tom Riddle, he overshot his intended goal. One wonders if missing that lucky seven is what really caused him to crap out...

Who has Vegas on the brain?

A Random Thought

RE: Harry Potter

One might wonder at Harry's willingness to give Tom Riddle so many opportunities to repent his evil ways when the latter is so clearly without remorse and, therefore, beyond redemption. If, however, one looks back to the beginning of the final volume as Harry is preparing to depart Privet Drive for the final time, one sees Harry come to the realization that his cousin Dudley, whom he has long believed to be beyond hope of humanity, has had a change of heart since that fateful night two summers ago in that dark alley bracketed by the dementors of Delores Umbridge. If Dudley, despite being the spawn of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, can experience such a change of heart and turnaround in personality, surely anyone has like potential. All that is required is a dementor-like experience to shake one out of one's complacency.

So what do you suppose would have served a like function for Tom Riddle, and how late in life might it have occurred and still been effective? When was it just too late for the love potion child, or is prenatal chemical interference just damage done too early?

Liquid Sunshine

Liquid sunshine is a term used in Hawaii to describe the phenomenon of rain falling from a sunny sky. It's a refreshing if puzzling occurrence, leaving one to wonder where the requisite cloud is or was. Yesterday I experienced a different kind of rainfall.

It was a hot, sunny day, which is the norm here. It was, therefore, perfectly logical that I had taken refuge in a properly air-conditioned environment with windows for walls. As I looked out of Jack-in-the-Box, munching away on my daily dose of highly salted high caloric grinds, I noticed that there was a large pool of liquid forming under my car, and that the pool was being fed by a fast-flowing stream from what appeared to be the underside of my car. Now, the logical conclusion for most is that the condensation from my air-conditioner was relieving itself in natural fashion. The only problem with that theory is that the air-conditioner in my car gave out over a decade ago, (did I mention that my vehicle is of 1991 vintage?) and that it had not held any freon in years.

Fortunately, I have access to all sorts of roadside assistance. Soon enough, Dad and I were headed for an auto repair shop. Hours later I was explaining the absence of freon to yet another male in doubt as to my gender's auto I.Q. At least I and my auto were released gratis as we were sent on our way to yet another repair shop.

At the next shop I had the great good fortune to encounter a knowledgeable representative who kindly recommended I not throw good money after bad by submitting my antique to further diagnosis, which would requirement an automatic charge of exorbitant proportions, labor being what it is. He told me what I'd heard before: time for a newer model.

So it was that Dad and I limped home in our once proud but now humbled vehicle. It's been a great car, and I love driving around the island in it. In fact, that's exactly what I've done, which is probably why time and salt have taken their toll. Ah well...

Money, like water and other auto fluids, flows on, rain or shine.

This Day

Today is Labor Day here in the United States, and in truly American fashion, we honor those who daily labor by the sweat of their brows, the aches in their backs (and other body parts), and deftness of their hands by desisting from such pursuits in favor of more recreational pursuits, or so the theory goes.

In recent years retailers have chosen to use this day as yet another opportunity to pursue filthy lucre. It's time for one of the biggest car sales of the year, a golden opportunity for buyers to purchase this year's models at the lowest prices they are likely to see before said vehicles are declared "used". It's also an opportunity for dealers to showcase next year's models, (though if they're available now, how can they be new next year?) Of course, the dealers are trying to clear inventory before the bulk of next year's models arrive, before they truly have reached their year-end sales and it becomes a buyer's market rather than a seller's.

The same holds true for other commercial markets. Clothing stores attempt to clear their racks of summer attire as they begin to stock up on autumn and winter wear. (No sense delaying the latter, as fall will have fallen if one will but blink, I think.) Even supermarkets are eager to unload fast-ripening fruits and vegetables (read that "rotting") under the guise of offering Labor Day picnic supplies.

Curiously, software and hardware dealers have jumped on this unloading bandwagon preparatory to restocking for the winter season. Perhaps everyone is sharing truck space as the giant trucks wheel across America safely and efficiently ahead of potential road closures or at least slowdowns in the coming months.

As a consumer, I welcome sales, though I hate bottom of the barrel merchandise. Perhaps I need to reconsider my perspective, as the bottom of the barrel still has more substance than the barrel-less...

So on this day in which we honor those who labor by desisting from lucrative labor in favor of avocational labor (yardwork, gardening, housecleaning, cooking, mending, pre-winter preparations,) and look with anticipation to enjoying family and friends over cookouts with relish, I rejoice in the simplest of pleasures: sleeping in and having this opportunity to blather as I ramble through my disjointed thoughts.

Bright Light Bright Light

It's been blazing bright and smoking hot here for what seems like forever. In fact, it's so bright that I can't make anything out through the haziness hanging like a veil over everything. That's its own kind of fogginess, I guess... It's actually cooler with the west-facing front door shut in the afternoons, despite the significant decrease in oxygen flow. Ah well...

My "N" has decided to go on walkabout. I didn't even know I had an Australian keyboard. Ah well...

Finally finished the Deathly Hallows "quiz" I'd so eagerly volunteered to write back in July. I'd desperately wanted to finish before August did, but some things are just not meant to be. So the thirty questions somehow became 210 - brevity is not my long suit. Ah well...

My mind is turning to mush; can you tell? This really is just blather. I'd rather be talking about Harry Potter...

I'd been perusing the book, looking for grist for my million question quiz, when I noticed Dumbledore's comment that he'd actually been counting on Hermione to slow Harry down. I confess that thought bothered me, as it seems to me that Hermione is the one who kept Harry moving every time he bogged down. Am I off-base with that thought?

Then there's Ginny. I have been waiting for her to present herself as an awesome witch capable of taking on the world, a true kindred spirit to Lily Evans and thus a fit mate for Harry. Instead, I find that she is a lovestruck girl willing to wait for her boy to become a man, as is the ever so talented Hermione. Everything these young women do seems intended to further their men's ambitions. What's up with that?

I really don't understand Hermione, aside from so many of us expecting her to wind up with Ron in the end. He's a worthless sod if ever there was one: callow, shallow, slow on the uptake, manipulative and exploitative when it comes to his relationships with females. It must be in the nonverbals. After all, I adore Rupert Grint, who evidently "gets" Ronald Weasley, but the way the character is written, I'd shoot him as soon as look at him. Hm... too American? Ah well...

Speaking of American, am I alone in thinking that Rowling wrote a classic Western showdown at sunrise (instead of sunup, cuz the symbolism just works so much better that way...)? There's Harry, mysteriously reappearing after having been taken for dead, jawing away while the sun rises. There's a flurry of motion, a loud bang, and the villain is dead. The crowd goes wild! Yep, every Saturday matinee, every Western, every Star Wars episode - all right there on the same page. Is it my imagination? I think not.

(Hm... does that mean that I disagree or that I truly am not thinking? Hm... mushbrain, indeed...)

Y'know, I'd missed the part where LV got KO'd by the first A-K he tossed at Harry back in the Forbidden Forest en route to Harry's version of King's Cross Station. I'd wondered what Bellatrix was doing cooing over him... yeah, that was strange without the understanding that the dude had hit the dirt, if ever so briefly... Talk about slow learners!

Yep, definitely rambling today.

Say hey, why don'tcha?

Beware What You Wish

Okay, who said, "Up the Aricept"? Suddenly coherence and initiative are back, if not the legs and muscle tone to back it all up. At least this is making my meanderings easier, since we are conjoined these days...

Ah well...

So, when I said coherence is back, I wasn't referring to mine; surely you noticed that...

Another Day

Another day, another adventure.

When one is newly hatched, one sleeps, eats, poops, and repeats the process. Teeth come and go, for such are the vicissitudes of life. When one is at the other end of the journey, en route back to the Eternal Womb from which all life and matter originally sprang, one sleeps, eats, poops, and repeats the process to the best of one's waning abilities. Teeth go, alas, for good. Such is life.

This morning's crunchy cereal will have to have been the last such experience. Returning teeth to their Maker means an end to crunchy goodness, according to the learned dental doctor. Hm... what does that mean for the erstwhile cook? True, oatmeal is good for the cardiovascular system, but what about other meals, other needs for dental sensations?

For the doctor who hands out pens inscribed, "Eat candy; keep dentists employed," one can only proffer a bag of chocolate macadamia nut cookies.

So much for spending the morning cooking. So, too, the afternoon, in the aftermath of the realization that there is no chicken broth anywhere to be found in this house. How is that possible? Did not a case come in from Costco just last month? Oh wait, that was across the water in another state, another world, another life...

This ramble should be on the Foggy page, for that is what this day has been. Ah well...

Up the Aricept please.

One Week

It's hard to believe that one week has passed since Dad returned home. Things are falling into a routine that becomes more comfortable with each passing day. As he did when in the hospital and in rehab, he gets stronger and more alert each day. The other morning I awoke to find that he was returning from a solo trip to the bathroom. Needless to say, I freaked. He said he hadn't wanted to disturb me...

The first couple of days I'd been feeling a little trapped, but it then it dawned on me that I'd been told only that I should never leave Dad alone, not that I had to keep him locked up. Since then we've been trying to get out of the house at least once a day. I say trying advisedly. The first day we tried just didn't happen; he wasn't moving fast enough yet. That was okay. The next day was a success. We have now been out three consecutive days, mostly to the local drugstore and/or marketing.

At first we were limited to what Dad could hold in his admittedly tiny lap. I started watching others hobbling about with various and sundry devices until I realized that young mothers pushing strollers were whizzing about the markets. Those modern strollers come fully equipped, much like the minivans those ladies drive. What I need to do is equip Dad's wheelchair with some handy dandy bags, pouches, carrying containers. Enlightenment is a wonderful thing... (I try not to rush through life...)

At first I was missing television dreadfully. The rehab center had just installed a brand-new hd flatscreen during Dad's last week there, and I'd gotten spoiled again. Now, however, we are once again getting the daily paper delivered. Dad spends much of his waking hours reading through it, getting just a little bit further faster each day. It's great to see the progress he's making, from recounting cartoons to discussing issue-oriented articles.

I miss my cats, especially Max, but I sense that this is the right place for me to be at this time. I just have to work on juggling and taking others into consideration a little bit more than I've done in recent years. Hm... I may have to grow up a bit after all. Ah well... If Harry did, I guess I can, too. ;->

Day 3

No, you didn't miss the first two days.

It's been a long week, and this has just been the beginning. Dad was scheduled to come home on Wednesday, but that got pushed back till Thursday. Friends appeared out of the blue and offered much needed help, without which nothing would have gotten done. It's amazing how enervating and paralyzing emotional attachments and half-forgotten memories can be.

Finally, mid-Wednesday, the hospital bed arrived. The place was as prepared as it was going to get. A brief, unwarranted celebration that nevertheless went on too long left this poor fool groggier than intended Thursday morning - the morning of Dad's release. A quick couple of hours slid by as last minute touches and realization of things yet to be done flitted through this porous brain. Then it was time and past time for the pickup.

Dad was so ready to be released. He'd been ready all week, truth to tell. Still, there was paperwork to be signed and last minute checks to be executed. A promise to return for the flowers was met by panic from the staff. There were demands that "Papa" not be left alone in the car -at all. There was a demand that they be called, a promise that the flowers would be brought out. When the call came, there was only one flower brought out. The other had been discarded as dead. The leftover shaving cream had been ignored. There were no extra support materials to be had. (Have I mentioned how much I dislike the day shift's attitude?)

Then we were homeward bound. Everything was like new. Disorientation was nearly complete. A month can be a long time, especially when one has not been conscious for all of it...

Home proved less ready than anticipated. The changes were shocking, yet still inadequate. The floor was too clear yet not clear enough. There's just no pleasing some folks. Food was overly abundant, though this morning's breakfast was too small. Sarcasm evidently not appreciated...

Never leave him alone, they said. That can be a trifle wearing. Try staying with someone, anyone, for twenty-four hours. Try remaining attentive and anticipatory. Go ahead; try it. Healthy people drive me to drink with that much attentiveness. Try someone in need.

And yet, this is my choice. This is something I know I have to do. We'll see how the succeeding days go...

In the Name of Security

No, this doesn't upset or anger me at all! (Click on the title for the link to the article to which I am reacting.)

I guess I should pay more attention to the news. I had no idea that these sorts of ideas were even being bounced around. If this is an improvement, I don't even want to know what was being considered initially.

When I was a child, I thought nothing of providing my name, age, I.Q., and shoe size upon request to whomever asked. How else were adults to know who I was as I made my way through the wide, mysterious world?

Those days, however, are long gone. No longer a child living with implicit trust in the wisdom and infallibility of those ostensibly in charge of my safety and wellbeing, I live instead in fear of identity theft. The very information that once assured my safety now seems a broad gateway for malicious thieves to steal what little there is of my sense of self. There's something twisted about such a perversion. Why should one's name, date of birth, and gender be such dangerous tools in the wrong hands?

In great strength inherently lies great weakness. If this information links me to all that I have amassed, (which I admit ain't much,) then it also serves as the key for those who would relieve me of my worldly burdens. I use "the" with great intent, as there are no other options, as I see it. Burdens, I say, because my worldly goods have become burdens in need of care and concern. Of course, stripping me of these burdens will not free me in any way that I desire at present either... Therein lies the dilemma. This is not a matter of to have or not to have.

Fortunately, I do not place my whole sense of identity in my possessions. Unfortunately, evidently my government does. Ah well...

Hello from HI

So here I sit in sunny Hawaii, hunched over my recalcitrant keyboard trying to get back into blogging, all because Siri, a most respected poster from the now sadly defunct HPForums, was kind enough to remind me of life online here. Thanks, Siri! :->

My cable modem here sucks big time, but I intend to resolve that later this morning, just as soon as the local company opens and I can effect an exchange, hopefully to a superior piece of equipment... Still, I've been bubbling over with thoughts, so here we go -

The evening of July 20th I was sitting in my father's hospital room, mulling over my intended strategies for obtaining a copy of HP: DH, when an innocent, unsuspecting family friend walked in to visit Dad and let drop that there was a copy on reserve at the local bookstore. With no reservations whatsoever, I foisted myself upon my unsuspecting victim and caught a midnight ride down to the store. Foolishly, we arrived at 12:20 instead of 12:30, so I had to wait in line while the store staff worked feverishly to service the long lines of eager customers. Those of us unwilling to await midnight had the dubious pleasure of watching others more beforehand walking away with their noses in books. More disturbing, perhaps, was the sight of those driving away reading... Oh wait, that kid was riding shotgun...

Finally I had the book in my hands. Back at the hospital the Security Desk fellows gave me grief over my obsession, but I didn't care: I had the book.

Upstairs, however, Dad had his revenge. Every time I started to read, he'd call me, his auditory "call button", for help. Every time I found my place again, he'd call again. It was a long short night that left me ever so slightly exhausted and frustrated.

Fortunately, Dad proved to be exhausted, too, and slept through Sunday almost without a stir. It was a bit of a turning point for him, and once I'd had a bit of a nap, I was able to read unimpeded, finishing around 4 p.m. Sunday afternoon. I make no apologies for the delay, and I have to say, it was a great read!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the final installment in J. K. Rowling's seven-volume epic bulding-romans, (sp?) is a satisfying fulfillment of the fifteen years of teasing and tormenting the author and we readers have enjoyed. I am, however, glad that I came in halfway through, as I don't know that I would have stayed so long, had I been there at the beginning. (Something to do with age and time of life, I think.)

Like the Israelites wandering for forty years in the wilderness, like Jesus in the desert for forty days, like Odysseus en route home for ten-and-a-half years longer than anyone else, Harry and his friends are sent on the road to finish their growth and education. It is for them what the formerly traditional world tour was intended to be for Elphias Doge and Albus Dumbledore in the previous generation: a journey physical, mental, psychological, and spiritual dimensions wherein that crossing from childhood to adulthood is effected, wherein physical demons and personal demons are encountered and, hopefully, conquered. This is, in fact, precisely what happens. Harry faces off against Nagini in the form of Bathilda Bagshot, Ron faces his greatest insecurities against the Hufflepuff Cup horcrux, and Hermione faces off against intellectual challenges, conflicting emotional loyalties and desires, and (offstage,) her own locket horcrux, appropriately enough with Ron by her side and Gryffindor's Sword in her hands. Most important, perhaps, Harry faces off against the mental link between himself and Voldemort, learning to use it and yet to block it at need. Does this latter mean that Rowling advocates the use of evil in the battle for good? Hm...

I like that Ron gets his own personal struggle, albeit offstage. He chooses recklessly, experiences immediate regret, then gets to spend a fair portion of (again appropriately) the winter months struggling to return, to regain the privileged footing he once held so lightly.

Dumbledore is tumbled from his pedestal but, like Ron, allowed a return to grace. I like the balance of perspective, the blending of humanity and fallibility and ulterior agenda with the idealism that fuels everything. The whole dead/not quite dead sequence reaffirms my earlier thought that Rowling is a 21st century Inkler, in the tradition of Tolkien and Lewis, who sought more contemporary ways to retell the tales of sacrifice and salvation rooted in Christianity and in Greco-Roman mythologies preceding it.

Dobby may not be a screen favorite, but his is a poignant storyline. Harry's manual labor on Dobby's behalf echoes of other scenes dancing just on the periphery of my memory at the moment... More later, if I remember...

I like Kreacher this time around.

Percy the Prat returns. His explanation is succinct, which is good. Such a jerk doesn't deserve a lot of page time, though I can't help but be pleased that he returns, if only to affirm Molly's and Arthur's parenting skills.

It was as sad to see Fred dead as it was funny to see George after the loss of his ear. Fred, Lupin, and Tonks all got short shrift, but that's pretty true to life, as death goes...

It was great to see the teachers finally getting to strut their magical stuff, and I do hope they get decent film time as the sequence is really more visual than verbal, but what I loved best about the Final Battle of Hogwarts was Molly, followed closely by the cameo of Neville's Grams climbing through the hole.

Gotta love Molly Weasley's battle scene with Bellatrix. We've been seeing her potential all along, and this is proof positive that there is no greater wrath than that of a mother whose offspring are being threatened, never mind scorned women. I particularly liked that Bellatrix, like Sirius before her, died as much from overconfidence and underetimating as from anything else. It seemed fitting.

Neville ascending is awesome. I particularly like the irony that Voldemort gets taken out by the one-two punch of both boys that might have fulfilled the prophecy, suggesting that he was doomed from the get-go, no matter which lad he had targeted. Neville takes out Nagini, and Harry is Voldemort's final blow. I particularly like that Harry is relatively passive, that evil is its own destroyer.

That reminds me, I like that every single horcrux is destroyed by someone different, so that no one person really deserves all the credit:

Diary = Harry
Ring = Dumbledore
Cup = Ron
Locket = Hermione
Tiara = Crabbe (the idiot)
Nagini = Neville
Harry = Tom Riddle

Note that it's all a combined effort of Gryffindors and Slytherins, the two most active Houses of Hogwarts. As Phineas Nigellus says, Slytherin does, indeed, play its part as a positive contribution to the ultimate triumph of Good over Evil.

Speaking of Slytherin, I love that I was right about Snape but hadn't figured it all out completely. I had suspected that when Petunia said, "That awful boy!" she might have been referring to Snape rather than James, though I couldn't figure out how that might have been possible. I also suspected that Snape had had a thing for Lily, as indeed, all the boys evidently did back in the day. I just wish Snape could have had more page time, but as usual, this just wasn't meant to be his story. Poor guy, always getting upstaged by Potters...

Last, but certainly not least, I want to know more about Albus Severus, who has already won me over. Curiously, the next-gen James is no more interesting to me than the original was. I wonder how she did that...

So what do you think? ;->

Back Again: HP5

I'm briefly back from Hawaii, whence I must soon return. Meanwhile, my tail and I are chasing each other, but I have carved out a little time for really important things, like HP. :->

So today I finally fought through jet lag and my normal summer malaise to get up in a timely manner, get in my once customary workout, get cleaned up, then get myself over to a local plex. Pumping with adrenaline from my morning workout, (sporadic though it was,) I slid into line at the box office at precisely 11:30 a.m., the listed starting time for the showing I had targeted. I still managed to catch most of the previews, all of which I loved, (unlike those preceding Ratatouille, most of which I loathed.) I think Steve Carell (sp?) will make a perfect 21st century Maxwell Smart, and I'm very psyched about the upcoming Bourne Ultimatum. I'm even excited about the upcoming Disney offering, Enchanted, now that Patrick Dempsey is finally old enough to play a romantic lead in a frothy comedy, and what's not to like about mocking animation in real life?

But about the actual HP movie...

I loved the music-free opening, though I was a little startled by how butchered the Privet Drive segment proved to be. I can understand the need to tighten the story, and in many ways I think the writer made some judicious choices. I even think he does some very plausible foreshadowing of how Book 7 will (or can) conclude, and he does so in several places.

As I sit here reflecting on my first viewing experience, I can't help but feel that it was more like watching a slideshow book report than the actual narrative. I think I filled in quite a bit from memory, though I'll have to consult those of my acquaintances who only watch the movies to determine whether or not they feel that the narrative actually hangs together the way that it is presented. I'm going to make time to watch it again in IMAX, after which I'll blog how, if at all, my impressions change.

For now, here are some brief first impressions:

- Ginny got more camera time than Cho, which I thought was a bit much as foreshadowing goes...

- The Tonks/Lupin storyline was nowhere in evidence, despite Tonks' facial freak show at supper.

- Snape was pretty clearly more good than evil.

- Imelda Staunton is clearly a more powerful old meany than Dolores Umbridge.

- Where the book dragged, the movie felt rushed - just can't please some folks, I guess. ;->

So what did you think?

Is It Still Vidding?

Is it still vidding if one is actually watching a dvd? Eh, who cares?

Recently watched two movies: Because I Said So and Music and Lyrics.

Because I Said So was a serious disappointment. While I wasn't necessarily expecting to be bowled over, I didn't expect to be so actively and aggressively turned off by the characters. Diane Keaton is far too effective as the interfering mother, and Mandy Moore is too much of a useless pillow for the comedy to be appreciated. The situation just isn't funny, admittedly perhaps because the shoes fit too well. Tom Everet Scott, so likable in That Thing You Do, is neither sufficiently evil nor sufficiently desirable for his role. Seriously, what's wrong with being wealthy and urbane? Sure. Gabriel Macht's character is the stereotypical perfect knight errant, but his turnaround is hardly credible, more wish fulfillment. About the only thing I enjoyed was the history that Stephen Collins and Diane Keaton bring, and that's not the responsibility of the script writers, who absolutely suck. I hate when a good cast is discovered in a really bad or badly butchered final cut of a movie.

, on the other hand, was actually better than I expected, probably because I watched it with such low expectations. While I love Hugh Grant movies in general, Drew Barrymore's work often leaves me cold. I tend to find her performances puerile and too old school, as in overacted. This time around, however, she was fairly well restrained, almost to the point of being comatose. She needs to strike that happy medium silly, as soon as she catches up with him...) Hugh Grant was a lovely parody of an 80s has-been. He does seem to have been taking pleasure in shaking his hips on-screen since they first got loose in Bridget Jones' Diary. The biggest problem with this film, I think, was the insipidity of the song on which the protagonists work throughout the film. Ah well... Kinda like Studio 60, the product under examination (show and song) is not up to the caliber of the vehicle in which it is discussed. Ah well...

Gotta find me something good to watch.

Did see Jim Carrey's The Majestic on television yesterday, which is a movie I dearly love. The mistaken identity is handled beautifully, with assumptions nicely balanced against inherent honesty on both personal and public scales. Now that's a script worth writing, reading, and producing. I'm just grateful someone did all three.

Tail

Some dumb blonde, too old to qualify as a bimbette, too flat to be categorized as a bimbo, felt an evidently irresistible urge to tailgate me this morning as we passed through a school zone. She didn't even have the excuse of being preoccupied by a cell phone conversation to explain (not justify) her attitude. Perhaps she had a hard morning getting out of her house. Perhaps someone else had been pushing her around recently. We still each of us have the ability to choose consciously whether or not we allow inertia to pass through us and on to others.

Harumph!

The incident did have the positive effect of reminding me that I actually prefer to drive alone and in silence. There's a meditative aspect to driving that way that actually causes me to be a trifle resentful when I have a chatty cathy in my vehicle, much as I also take pleasure in the insanity of a road trip with convivial companions.

Breathing Lessons

One of the many homepages I have set up has daily lessons on esoteric topics. Today it wants to teach me how to breathe. More precisely, it provides instructions in the execution of exercises designed to expand lung capacity. That's all well and good, I'm sure, but as I have spent much of my life attempting to breathe less deeply in order to avoid certain inevitable odors that shared living spaces make inevitable, the suggestions seem counterintuitive. The final flurry of suggestions includes joining and participating in a marching band as the player of a wind or brass instrument. Unfortunately, the opportunity for such an activity seems to be past for such a one as I. Ah well... Playing trumpet always did leave me feeling light-headed and winded anyway...

Gotta Go

One more summer, and then I must go. I think I'll close down these blogs when I do, for I do not anticipate having either time or easy access. It has been fun, but now, I fear, I must be done.

Rough Out There

Traffic's rough out there today. Another semi has flipped over, though this time no bridge or overpass has been destroyed, even though another truck was taken down in the flipping. Should we feel grateful that there was merely a traffic snarl for half the working day? Should we wonder that there have been major traffic jams on three separate primary arteries this morning? Can there be any correlation or is it all just coincidence?

A couple of years ago I would have hypothesized that the drivers here just aren't used to so much sunlight, and that may still be true for some, but surely there are other, better explanations for such widespread poor driving.

- A local story broke yesterday regarding the bribing of student workers to change grades at a respected community college. Have workers at the Department of Motor Vehicles been similarly tempted?

- Now that the days are lengthening, are people being tempted to stay up later, get up earlier, and thus suffer from increased sleep deprivation as they continue to drive longer and longer commutes to jobs that pay well enough for them to participate in the lifestyle to which they wish their children to become accustomed? (Good luck navigating that sentence.)

- Now that colleges and high schools are in full swing in the graduation season, are those celebrations spilling over into the roadways with late night party-goers mixing with early morning commuters?

- Or is this all a consequence of a well-coordinated conspiracy, to be milked for maximum political gain?

Whatever the reason(s), traffic is rough out there.

Drive safely. Ride safely. Arrive safely.

Adjectival Differentiation

Yesterday's news kept featuring this teaser about an article out of Chicago addressing the advancement of pornography into mainstream American society over the past thirty years. Both television and several Internet news sources featured the lead prominently amongst their leads. Ultimately, it became a story I could not avoid reading.

One question that struck me as I read was the difference between sexiness and blatant sex. That's a line that seems to have become blurred in the minds of many young women in particular, (not that it was ever really clear to everyone). When I was growing up in sex-repressed America, sexiness was easy to identify. It everything to do with titillation and the tease. Today sex seems to be served up on a platter as an appetizer-free entree. Where, pray tell, is the appeal? I know very few people who enjoy a meal without either an appetizer or a dessert. Even tv dinners included both, paltry though they were.

Without the tease, there can be no sexiness, only a kind of sordidness that may or may not satisfy one party, but surely not two, and is not the act of sex intended as a duet that is at its best when all participants are satisfied?

Danger Will Robinson

Danger, danger, everywhere I turn. Today the FDA in its infinite wisdom has posted a warning against any and all toothpaste manufactured in China. Earlier this year Peter Pan peanut butter and its generic Wal-Mart counterpart, products of the fine U.S. state of Georgia, were recalled. Prior to that and since then there have been ongoing recalls of domestic pet foods containing tainted ingredients, all ostensibly originating in China, though many brands were processed in Canada. I guess it wasn't enough that our food supplies have been undergoing genetic engineering; now good old fashioned foods are being tainted as well. It's enough to put a person off food and to restart the whole anorexia nervosa and anorexia bulimia trends, which should make those warring against obesity happy enough. Is it any wonder that some people can get so very obsessed with the subject of consumption?

Of course, ignoring the topic doesn't seem very intelligent either. After all, willful consumption of materials with the potential to rot the brain or simply kill seems foolish in the extreme. Remember ignorance? Now there was a blissful time. People grew food, cooked, ate, lived, and died. It was all a cosmic cycle, all part of a Great Design. Now there are so many masters of their own destinies that there's a veritable traffic jam of life as people try to navigate uncharted waters following neon billboards filled with pop wisdom in lieu of trusted road maps, the latter of which have fallen into disrepute and therefore by the wayside).

Ah, come on, give me a chance - I know I can fit another cliche in there somewhere.

The National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) is now addressing the language of teens: text messaging. In the same newsletter is noted the fact that Shakespeare and other classics of literature are getting less class time as teachers shift curriculum emphases in a desperate attempt to stay relevant. So not only is the next generation receiving validation for the new forms of communication they are creating, they are also being denied exposure to older ideas, thus guaranteeing a newer, wider generation gap, in addition to the cultural, economic, and educational gaps duly noted within contemporary American society.

I'm just saying...

S3 Revisited

Been thinking about Shrek as a trilogy since Sunday evening, which is interesting in itself, since I would have thought that Pirates offered more food for thought - or not. Ogres, after all, are like onions...

Just had to watch the original Shrek when I came home, partly because of the movie critic who stayed up late, then didn't much like what he saw. As I rewatched the first installment, I was forcibly reminded of just how awesome and inventive it was and still is. The original is a throwback to the early days of animation when all sorts of social and political commentary was slipped in for attentive adults, much like the original fairytales and folktales. Those were razor-edged tales, meant to give offense in return for offenses that had been taken by the writers. Such tales were later watered down and sanitized in order to please the masses and offend as few folk as possible, defanging them, if you will. (The same has been done to virtually all creative manifestations of rebellion, the most recent example of which is the co-opting of rap music.) But I digress, as usual...

The first Shrek was a classic love story coupled with commentary on self-esteem and self-confidence, even as it mocked the classic conventions. The second installment continued the development of the protagonist's self-image and extended the lesson to include trusting in the power of love. There were lovely riffs on in-law relations as the characters moved from the single life to wedded bliss. This third episode continues the original ideas of self-esteem and self-confidence, though this time the focus moves away from a fairytale character, albeit to one who has achieved animation stardom. It's a bit of a rehash, even as it reflects the passing of the baton from one generation to the next, arguably a new idea for this vehicle.

I've always liked all the allusions slipping in and out of the Shrek movies, but I have to agree that this third turn is only almost as delightful as its predecessors. Maybe I just don't like the whole high school scene, or maybe Charming just doesn't hold his own as a villain for me. I do like the idea of laughing him off as a good way to deal with him, but somehow that left him a little more than short of oomph.

Still, I like the idea that Lord Farquaard was short, Fiona's father was a frog prince, and Cousin Arthur was once a boy nicknamed "Wart", at least according to T.H. White. There's a certain symmetry to it all...

Still thinking...

Movie Madness

Ah, I do enjoy turning a doubleheader! This morning started out bright and early, or foggy but early, as the case may be. Be that as it may, though it started slowly, this has been a good weekend for watching movies.

First up was Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World's End. Now, I'll be the first to confess that I lack the visual acuity of virtually everyone I know, including the blind dog down the street, but I do have an eye and ear for inside jokes and casual allusions, as well as an appreciation of character development and narrative geometry. My overall impression of PotC3, then, is that a relatively slow start eventually picked up speed and actually did a beautiful job of bringing many seemingly casual bits full circle through the trilogy. I particularly love the use of language and vocabulary as part of characterization and sly digs. Visually, there were some awe-inspiring moments and an amazing attention to detail. Some might suggest that the narrative detail provided was more than the pacing could handle, but I don't see the need for everything to be a headlong rush, except that that is what we as audience have been conditioned to expect from any Bruckheimer production.

Next on the docket was Shrek the Third. Offhand I'd guess that the target audience for ST3 is actually perhaps five years older than that of PotC3. The latter is, after all, still courtship, whereas the latter is post-marriage mentoring in preparation parenthood. In each film the older though still youthful mentor gives way for the next generation, sacrificing glory and the limelight for the greater good. In each case the honor is dubious: becoming the immortal captain of the Flying Dutchman vs. becoming the high profile ruler of the fairytale land of Far Far Away. The difference, of course, is that Jack Sparrow yields reluctantly whereas Shrek actively seeks to sidestep the honor. It's actually kind of fun to think of the parallels as Mike Myers vs. Johnny Depp and Justin Timberlake vs. Orlando Bloom. For the females, of course, Keira Knightley is the clear winner over Cameron Diaz in terms of significance to the plot and in screen time. As far as characters go, Fiona is delivered of three babies, a numerical triumph over Elizabeth's one child. Mathematically, Fiona produces in one round the most Elizabeth will be able to produce, ever, given that she only gets one swiving per decade. Kinda daunting, that thought... Still, both films were fun romps, each in their own way.

A third film that has recently come my way is another Chow Yen Fat vehicle: The Curse of the Golden Flower, a historical drama set in the Tang dynasty that inspects and dissects the black corruption concealed beneath the opulent facades of the royal court. Gong Li is as gorgeous as the rest of the scenery. Chow Yen Fat, in contrast, is such a dark and villainous looking fellow beneath his makeup that it took me awhile to recognize him. Together they epitomize the point of the narrative. The narrative skein is as intricate and complex as the chrysanthemums woven by the royal ladies, and as multi-layered. You want corruption, this film has it: infidelity, incest, bribery, betrayals, polygamy, poisonings, plots within plots within plots. I only wish I could understand more of the Chinese being spoken, as that always adds yet another layer to the subtitled films I watch.

More, I want to see more.