I recently moved to Chelsea. We have a sweet little apartment; it’s cute and quaint and cozy, blah, blah. The roommates are doing a very nice job with decoration, and if I were more social and less aesthetically-challenged, I’d try to lend a hand beyond signing a check to pay my share. Alas.
I really love the neighborhood, though. I’d become very well-versed on the ‘hood about 10 blocks south, and now my knowledge has expanded northward. It’s nice.
I get off the train each evening, and as I hobble up the subway stairs, I’m greeted by some beautiful faces. Those of some transvestites that congregate near the entrance of my subway station.
Every time I’m met with their painted mugs, I smile, exchange a couple pleasantries and I’m on my way, skipping along the street towards my home. And every time, I can’t help but think of one of my embarrassingly favorite movies. (“Embarrassing” because it’s twisted and weird; I made Mama G watch it a while back, and she just shot back with a sigh and “Oh, Morgan, you’re so warped.”)
I wrote about it before in passing, how it was one of the movies I saw at my old $7 cinema and how it was one that altered my view on films fundamentally. There have been plenty of those, but I’ll never shake this one as a milestone in Morgan’s movie history.
It’s “La Mala Educacion,” or, “The Bad Education” for the American Exceptionalists among us. It stars Gael Garcia Bernal as a wanna-be actor who’ll do anything to sell himself for a role. Anything, it seems. Abusive Catholic priests, cocaine habits and homosexual scenes abound. It’s so, so good.
It’s by Pedro Almodovar, so I suppose it really doesn’t need my accolades.
I just plucked it from my DVD rack, and Peter Travers has: “A Rapturous Masterwork! ****” Yes, sir, you are a shill; but he’s pegged it right this time.