Breaking the Bloggle Hiatus and Remembering Paul Newman Two Years Later

When I awoke this morning, I had a most unusual feeling -- one I hadn't felt in months: I really want to write today.

Considering my short stories from the past few years have all but fallen by the wayside, as I sink ever quickly into the acknowledgment that I may never be a real writer, I figured that maybe I'd unlock the old bloggle and toss some words out into the Interwebs.

But, still, it was curious that I had such a hankering. I've been seeing more movies than ever lately; the past couple of movie weekends have included triple features. First, there was "Machete," "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World," and "The American." Then, "The Town," "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps," and "Easy A" (couldn't help myself on the last one).

And, a couple weeks ago, I wrote a few film reviews for Bloomberg, my old favorite place of employment. Yet, while I had -- as always -- much to say about the films, I thought maybe I'd outgrown the little bloggle (several of my jerk friends would be relieved!).

As I sat down to tip-tap away about how amazing Danny Trejo is in "Machete" and how I relished director Robert Rodriguez's racist treatment of my people (The Mexicans) -- and treatment of my other people as trigger-happy racists (The Texans); or, how disappointed I was with George Clooney for making me want to stick toothpicks in my eyes to stay awake during "The American"; or, how overrated "The Town" is, just as "Gone Baby Gone" (Affleck's directorial debut) was three years ago -- my Favorite Food Critic signed on and reminded me what today is.

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

But, somehow I'd forgotten the significance of today this morning, or how I felt two years ago when Brother G called to tell me the news. I was in such a sad place at the time, that the blow of my One True Idol dying made me more depressed than I'd have imagined.

From the morning of Paul Newman's death:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Thankfully, I'm much happier than I was two years ago, but as my all-time favorite "Cool Hand Luke" plays in the background -- the beloved scene where Dragline beats poor Paul into a pulp, but he won't stay down ... because he's Luke -- I'm sure I'll cry a few quiet tears throughout the afternoon.

And, for anyone interested, Roger Ebert's article on Newman is amazing. Upon reflecting on his obituary, Ebert writes:

I never really thought of him as an actor. I regarded him more as an embodiment, an evocation, of something. And I think that something was himself. He seemed above all a deeply good man, who freed himself to live life fully and joyfully, and used his success as a way to follow his own path, and to help others.

And, of his third meeting with Newman, he writes:

Never mind what happened in 1969. I'll dig up the old magazine and put it on the web site. Let's move forward to 1995, and listen very carefully. When I walked into his room, he said, "Aw...it's you again." The point is not that he remembered me. The point is how he said "aw..." Imagine it in Paul Newman's voice. It evoked feelings hard to express in words. The "aw" wasn't "oh, no," as it sometimes can be. To me it translated as, "Aw, it's that scared kid, grown up." Whatever it meant, it put me right at home.

Oh, no, the tears. At least it gave me a reason to write. Silver-linings.

Movies of the Year, Guess I'll Go Ahead and Do It

I don't like following in the footsteps of David Denby. I get it; we're both blowhards who tend to think our opinion means something. That said, what follows are some notable flicks that I likely saw while twiddling my thumbs and making sure that 10 fingers still exist. That is, there weren't a boatload of speakable movies this year (There was no "No Country for Old Men" or "There Will Be Blood") -- sad to say.

We end the decade on mediocrity.

Chin up, move forward --I'm refusing to look at DD's list, which is going to make this blindly hard:

The Informant!

No, this was nothing to write home about (Hola, Mama and Brother G!), but it was certainly a compelling film -- and one that deserves to be spoken of, given its sweet choice in movie ditties and voice-overs. Matt Damon had to pack on some pounds to play a Midwesterner; his efforts were duly noted, and appreciated, by this old Grice.

District 9

I said it once, and I'll say it again: this was a fantastic film. It looked silly in previews, a bunch of 28-Days-Later-esque zombies coming to sink their teeth into you; but D9 wasn't about that at all. It was/is a film about a manufactured problem involving racism amongst us humans, and second-class citizens, nicely named the "Prawns."

Zombieland

I don't really know what to say. I saw it twice in theaters; I have it queued to be sent to me ASAP. I've always loved Woody Harrelson -- Bill Murray was just an amazing treat, unexpected. This movie had laughs in all the right places -- Brother G and I just kept looking over at one another to make sure we'd gotten every reference --and, despite its name, it should become a comic classic.

500 Days of Summer

OK, let me go get my barf bag -- but, before I do so, I should admit that I fell in love with this movie quite readily. Joseph Gordon-Levitt ... his aspirations toward love are vulnerable-making, even in just watching the film -- I think it cracked the old Grice impenetrable spine. I'll still die (willingly) sad and alone, but JGL made me remember that some people consider that failure.

Julie and Julia

I loved this horrid movie! Meryl Streep, steeped in a cast that boasts Stanley Tucci and Amy Adams (of "Catch Me If You Can," "Enchanted," etc.), plays Julia Child, while Adams is JulIE --a notable difference. And we get to watch a young blogger (why, hello?) play to Julia Child's cookbook, making herself and her young husband's dishes every night.

3 stars.

Precious, Popular Science, Happy Thanksgiving

I strode on over to the Loews in Kips Bay today, pivoting my penny-loafers (I placed the pennies there myself) eastwards from the steps of my new office at Popular Science. I was en route to see "Precious: Based on the Novel PUSH by Sapphire."

I'd already heard things about the movie, sure, but I hadn't really read much on it. My old best lady friend from home, who's now a social worker in Houston, had told me how she and her co-workers had made a field trip out of the movie; on a planned group-outing, they'd opted to see this movie instead of growing merry at some Happy Hour -- and given her affinity for making me and others watch educational videos on the importance of psych therapy this summer (something I tend to find as rationally-acceptable as voo-doo dolls), I knew what I was getting into, sort of.

I walked into the theater a few minutes before showtime, and it was empty. I had my popcorn and Diet Coke in hand (go hard, or go home), and seated myself. In the next ten minutes before the movie began, only three bespectacled old women -- alone -- sauntered in and took seat before the big screen.

It's the day before Thanksgiving, I'm in a theater with three little old ladies who gave me quiet smiles as they passed me, about to see the most depressing (questionable) movie in a good long while. I was comforted by what my future holds.

The movie stars newcomer Gaburey 'Gabby' Sidibe (who's roughly my age, yet plays a 16-year-old) as a horribly neglected, abused, yet innately bright youth, Precious. At the film's start, we find she's about to have her second child -- by her own father. Her mother (played by Mo'Nique) routinely throws pans or glass projectiles at Precious's head or generally demeans her to an inhumanely degree (Mama G, take note!) She, Precious, is tremendously overweight, has hallucinations about being a lithe, light-skinned woman, and is just generally one of the most tragic figures of film in (my) recent memory.

Stylistically, I'm not sure if I loved the choppiness, the intermingling of flashbacks with blurred-in fascinations of what-could-be -- but, overall, it was a great tale to tell. I shed some tears into my popcorn, perhaps.

However, given my transient nature of late: Texas, NY, back to Texas, back to NY, new job, etc., I've been shedding tears like never before when I'm accompanied by my screens, silver or small.

When I was sick lately, I watched 34 episodes of Friday Night Lights; there wasn't one where I didn't have to sit up (weakly) and utter: "Grice, do not cry, you big baby. Do not."

I'm going to post my list of ... Lord, 20+ movies that I've seen lately, tomorrow. I'll just do stars-value. These old fingers can't type out all the thoughts!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Slice(s) of Grice, Episode 3: My Sister's Keeper

The above is quite boring, and perhaps more should be said on "My Sister's Keeper," but -- not really.

Well, must be up in three hours. For two times in one month, Papa Grice has unexpectedly come through bearing gifts: the first time was with his load of AP Physics, Chemistry and Biology books (teaching camp begins innnn 11 days, sigh); the second time was today with...a JOB.

Say what?

Starting tomorrow, I will be working on a contract basis for the University of Houston, writing grant proposals for a professor who is one of Papa G's clients. I spent all afternoon in the League City library (when I should've been watching movies on my back all day ... or working on my stories, I guess) researching what goes into these grant proposals. I'm a littttttle nervous. These things are super particular, require a lot of analysis and there's a lot riding on them.

May my writing juices not fail me in the coming week(s), dear gods. And, I'll be earning non-severance, non-dole dollars for the first time in ... FIVE months.

How depressing!

17 Again, Slice of Grice(s) Explanation, Orphan

Before wasting time making the Slice of Grice(s) episode yesterday, I should've thought to include the inspiration for filming the rambling mess: The Rat Child had ambled over to me at the computer as I brusquely preempted her by saying, "I have to get another page written!!" She'd been making routine visits to my "workstation," showing me how fat Jack the Hamster has gotten, or how relentlessly her lizard hangs to her shirt -- no matter how hard she shakes it around -- or how much money she just won on Webkinz (??????).

"Oh, well, I was just going to see if we could go see a movie," she began quietly, "At the Dollar Cinema? Grandma [my mom] said you're broke, but it'd only be three dollars. [inflation!]."

"She did, did she? She said I was broke!? Well, I am broke, but ... well, what would you like to see?" My eyes were flicking between my short story that was going no where and her eager face.

Her eyes lit up ... "Well, I really, want to see that movie, 'Orphan'? Have you heard of it???"

Ha, have I heard of it? Child, you know not to whom you speak.

"Not out yet. But, really, you want to see that?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, genuinely. "They showed a preview for it when I watched 'Untraceable' a while back."

"Who'd you see 'Untraceable' [awful movie] with?"

"I just watched it by myself on On Demand. It wudn't real good."

Oh, my God, you do share my blood.

"I'll check what's playing at the Dollar Cinema."

The only thing we hadn't seen was "17 Again," which is what she's describing in the video below. I ... I ... well, Zac Efron is quite a cute kid (though I learned that amongst 10 year olds, he's not really hot stuff anymore -- High School Musical is no longer en vogue), but the movie by no means can join the ranks of "Big," "Vice Versa," or "Like Father Like Son." In "Big," we had the Zoltar machine grant Mr. Hanks his wish to grow up; in "Vice Versa" some mysterious skull with transformative powers gave Judge Reinhold and Fred Savage their due perspectives; in "LF LS" Sean Astin introduces old Kirk Cameron to some "brain transferrence serum" ... in "17 Again," it's just an unexplained spirit soul guider. Pfft, someone doesn't have an imagination.

Today, I think I'm going to make her watch "Elephant Man" with Anthony Hopkins -- I don't know, so much to choose from. Mama G said to make sure she goes outside, "otherwise she'll just sit and watch movies all day."

Here's to enabling.

"The Girlfriend Experience," "Drag Me to Hell," "The Hangover," "Away We Go," Oof

In the past week or so, I've spent a good many hours in the theater ... two of those hours actually included company! I'd forgotten what that felt like. In order of viewing:

The Girlfriend Experience

The GF Experience is Steven Soderbergh's (Erin Brokovich, Traffic, Full Frontal, the Ocean's movies) new film about the life of a Manhattan escort and her physical trainer boyfriend, who is fully aware of his girlfriend's occupation. It takes place in the run-up to the 2008 presidential election, so much of the plot and dialogue centers on the financial crisis, Gobama, etc.; there are many scenes where she (real-life porn star Sasha Grey) is lounging about in her lingerie, as some awful financial clown jabbers away on his cell phone about his impending failure and losses.

Chelsea, our escort, has the cold, disconnected act down when it comes to her clients; she realizes that they don't want to know the "real" her (though, it's unclear throughout the film if there even is a real her), they pay her to be who they want her to be. Yeah, yeah, we've heard it before. She's also an obscenely good businesswoman, and Soderbergh shows her meeting with all sorts of straight business types who are helping her brand herself in various forms (one leads to an unfortunate meeting with a NJ website "reviewer" who provokes one of the only scenes where we see her show any real emotion).

All seems pretty hunky-dory until she meets one of her new clients and has an instant connection with him; we learn that though she seems astute in many ways, she also believes in some cooky "personology" and decides she needs to see where this connection goes.

She tells her boyfriend she's going away for the weekend. He doesn't take too kindly to that. After all, he argues, they've been together for a year and a half! They live together!! She's just going to throw it all away? Just like that?

Yes, she says. And so it goes on from there.

There are some major faults. The editing, oof -- it's very non-linear, which is fine, and often ideal for me. But it's no Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs-type of working backwards; rather, it's jumpy and often confusing. It's also unclear why it was so necessary to set it sooooo conscpicuously at the end of 2008 (also, what happened to "movies take foreeeever to make"??). There aren't really any insinuations that Chelsea's pushed to prostitution because of dire straits due to the financial crisis, but Lord knows they won't stop talking about it throughout the movie. Is the gross consumption on the part of her clients during these times supposed to be a criticism or reprimand? He never makes that very clear, if so.

Also, her boyfriend's role and character is very muddled. For all his whining about her abandoning the relationship, you want to punch him in his washboard abs and ask him what he was thinking in the first place? Not only is your girlfriend sleeping with a million other men with your approval, she's also crazy.

Ahh, the more I think about the flaws, the less I like it. Ms. Grey is pretty good, though a little too deadpan even for a cold-hearted, upscale hooker.

The Girlfriend Experience trailer (is pretty ridiculous).

Drag Me to Hell

Ahhh, I'd been wanting to see Sam Raimi's new scary movie since I first saw the trailer months ago.

Alison Lohman (Matchstick Men) plays Christine Brown, a middle-class young woman who grew up on a farm and who now works as a loan officer at a regional bank. She is vying for an assistant manager position and in order to beat out her competition, an annoying and unscrupulous newer coworker Stu (Reggie Lee), her boss tells her she needs to be able to make tough decisions, and, well, Stu, he's just so aggressive.

Enter a crazy old woman with a big, creepy eyeball, warts, and slime oozing out of her denture-full mouth; she's in desperate need of an extension on her mortgage payment. Having just been told she needs to make those tough decisions, however, Christine turns her down. The old woman begs, she pleads, she gets down on her knees and causes a scene!

Nope, no can do, old lady, but she's really sorry, she'd love to help if she could.

"You shame me! You SHAME ME!"

Well, we see where it goes from there. The old woman curses Christine; there's a scene where, having been told maybe sacrificing an animal might help kill this curse, Christine is found saying "Here, kitty, kitty..."; there are some pretty awesome fight scenes between the old woman and Ms. Brown; there are seers, a lot of speaking in tongues, etc.

I was balled up in my chair with my eyes covered for a lot of it, though you laugh at a lot, as well.

Lived up to my expectations, almost.

Drag Me to Hell trailer:

The Hangover

Doug's (Justin Bartha) getting married, so he and three of his buds are going to Vegas for his bachelor party. After a night of hard partying, they wake up in their $4,000-a-night villa unable to remember a thing after their initial Jaeger shot on the roof. Straight-laced Stu (Ed Helms, of The Office) has a missing front tooth; Idiot Alan (Zach Galifianakis) awakes with no underwear on and stumbles into the bathroom where a tiger awaits; and Pretty-Boy Phil (Bradley Cooper) tells everyone to calm down, all that matters is that they had a good time (he thinks) and they should now get a move on and get Doug back home to prepare for the wedding.

But Doug's not there.

The rest of the movie is just a silly series of stumbling onto clues as to the whereabouts of Doug, each clue unfolding a new crazy detail of their night. Stu married a stripper (Heather Graham), they stole a police car, bags got switched and they're being chased by Mr. Chow (the now ever-present Ken Jeong), etc.

It's too silly, and I had higher expectations for Todd Phillips, the guy responsible for Old School -- that probably says something (bad) about my taste and judgment.

Ed Helms was my favorite part, and it was nice seeing Mike Tyson sing a bit of Phil Collins.

The Hangover trailer:

Away We Go

I may have to head back to the movies today to redeem myself for seeing this ... my only excuse is, well, there aren't really any excuses. I'd seen just about everything at Union Square, save for Night at the Museum 2, so... anyway. (I knew I'd see this movie after I first saw the trailer...oh, weaknesses.)

Burt (John Krasinski ... or, better known as my love, Jim Halpert!) and Verona (Maya Rudolph) are about to have their first child; they live in the middle of no where near Burt's parents, but we quickly fiind that the 'rents have decided to up and move to Belgium. They've been planning to move for 15 years, but Burt freaks out because he and Verona had only moved there to be close to them. The parents are cooky and over-the-top, and don't understand their son's dismay.

So, Verona suggests they move. They draw up a list of places to check out: Phoenix, Tucson, Madison, Montreal, Miami. Every town they visit has a few friends or relatives where they could see themselves raising their child, and each segment of the movie begins with a white-on-black title shot announcing the new city. Allison Janney plays crazy (and insufferable) Lily in Phoenix; Maggie Gyllenhaal plays "LN" a weirdo new age philosophy teacher who doesn't believe in strollers and believes in parents and children sharing beds ... at all times; their college friends in Montreal can't have a baby, so they run a zoo of adopted children in their apartment.

It was co-written by Dave Eggers ("A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"), and the film is similar in spirit to that book (I think I'm one of the few people who didn't care much for it ...).

I will admit that there are moments when Mr. Krasinski is holding his lady telling her (lies) about his infinite love for her and how their love is different and, oh, he'll never leave her, yadda-yadda where--after suppressing the urge to throw my M&M's and Skittles at the screen--I looked left and right to ensure I was alone, then may have let a tiny tearlet trickle out. But only one.

But I'm moving! I'm having emotional turmoil. Hmph.

It was okay, overall.

Ahh, now that I've spent my morning on this for no reason, back to a short story involving a Manhattan woman and some trees (that look like "oversized brocoli florets") she's having hoisted to her roof. Page 11 ... aiming for 15 today. What am I doing with my life? Nothing useful, that's what.

Hello South, See You in Two Weeks ... and a Look at "Sin Nombre"

It was a big, long week, this last one. Three days spent in the theaters, five hours spent with a film critic in the Sony Pictures building, whose stories and experiences made me want to curl up in a little ball of unworthiness, a freelancing interview, annnnnnd my idea of tooling around the South for a bit is now going to be a reality, come the middle of June. Tickets are bought.

Per the last part, Mama G and Little Morgan Grice are coming with me.

I was rambling on the phone to Mother Grice, as I'm wont to do, about how I wanted to take this trip, how I hated being idle -- especially here in New York -- and how I thought it might be nice and kind of me to help old Brother Grice out by taking his little Heathen Child off his hands for a bit this summer by making her listen to me howl in the car along to whatever songs I'd like (the Grices take sort of a Top-Down approach to our pop culture sensibilities -- I was never allowed to touch the radio, so neither would she. Hmph.)

So, on I'm going about what towns I'd like to take her to, how I was made to go on a road trip through the South with Papa and Brother G when I was just her age (though, Back Then, Father Grice was so cheap that we camped most of the time -- even in the rain, where I nearly caught pneumonia ... a self-diagnosis). I also took one with Grandmother Grice and my Aunt, which is one of my enduring favorite memories -- a lot of swimming in eel-infested waters, driving golf carts, mimicking Southern drawls, listening to racist tales told by ladies of leisure, all the good stuff.

"Were you not even going to invite me?" said this voice which hadn't had a chance to speak for fifteen minutes, as I spoke so rudely of my upcoming Adventure.

"Ahhh ... What?"

"You weren't even going to invite me?!!!?" The shock, the horror.

"I ... I ... well, don't you have to work???" I said, falling back to my childhood mentality where She'd complain about finances, and I'd look up and say, well, why don't you just work more? This, from a spoiled child to a Mother who was already working 70 hours a week on her feet lifting and turning patients, feeding and caring for them, only to come home to this Worthless Rat of a child, me -- and even worse, my brother.

"Ooohhh, Burra [donkey girl], I should slap you. [Internal: I always used to outrun you when I heard those words.] I can ask for time off! Ahh, Mija, it could be an Adventure. [Ahh, Mama, I love your genes.] I've always wanted to take my time and go through the South, just wander and look at things. Remember when we drove to New York, but we had to go so fast because I HAD TO GET TO WORK, so YOU could live there and explore??? When you were 18, and I was an OLD WOMAN, whose BONES were already tired??? [I could sense the capitalizations -- and hear them.]"

"Do you want to come, Mama?"

I feel a little bad for Little Morgan -- when Mama Grice and I are together with her, oof, if we're tough critics of her when dealing with her separately, it's ... well, it's something when we're tag-teaming; I often think that I'm going soft on her just to counterbalance Mother G's iron fist -- that coming from someone who goes over Baby Grice's homework with her and stares at her with a furrowed brow and asks, simply: "Morgan, what's wrong with you?" Hey, just want her to be the best she can be. (?)

First stop will be Columbus, TX, which is pictured above. Every year from age 8 until ... 16, 17? we'd stop in Columbus on our way to San Marcus, TX for my piano competitions in the early summer; I'd had to go to the bathroom the first year, and Mama G accidentally got off on an exit too soon and we stumbled into this quaint, tiny town. For years, I'd claim with the utmost of certainty, that I was going to live there when I grew up; you could tell that everyone knew everyone and they were always hosting a big arts and crafts fair on the weekend of the piano tourneys, so I thought it was the greatest.

After that, I think we'll go tubing in the Hill Country, then off to my Grandma's place in the woods of Mississippi; she lives there in this beautiful little home, 9 miles deep into the woods, with her husband -- surrounded by her sisters' homes.

When she moved there a few years back, she filed for a formal changing of the name of her street (a street that isn't really a street -- it's a dust road in the middle of the woods) to Patriot's Way (Poplarville, Mississippi). She then adorned the last 3 miles of the 9-mile labyrinth of woods with American flags.

We have interesting conversations, and I started transcribing them a couple Christmases ago to use in my short stories; people often ask me if I have to do it in secret, her fearing that I'll make her look bad somewhere down the line.

Please, the woman will even recite, rote, it seems, the stories back to me to make sure I got every (awful, but great) detail right ... last time, she scurried her tiny little self upstairs to get a printout of an email she recently had written to my grandfather (her ex-husband, twice removed -- a man who left her years ago to move to Brazil with a woman one year older than my own mother ... who later had a son [my 11-year old uncle] who he named Charles, my own father's name -- and worthless Brother G's name, to be thorough -- which we all found out on an "It's a Boy!" card, Grandmother Grice included]). The e-mail contents were hilarious, and she made a copy of it for me, without my asking, so I could keep it and use it whenever I decided to write about it.

This could be as fun as the Colombia Adventure.

Oh, and the movies I saw were: "Sin Nombre" (jury's still out ... maybe a little too close to home, maybe great, maybe a little slow.), "Soul Power" (saw it with the movie reviewer, who I now have quite the crush on) and "Drag Me to Hell."

More on that, later.

A look at "Sin Nombre."

"A psychic once told me ... You'll make it to the U.S.A. not in God's hands, but in the hands of the devil."

"Rudo y Cursi," Gael and Diego ...Must. Move. Away. From. Idols.

It's really just rude of me to not write about "Rudo y Cursi" -- it stars two of my favorite men, and had I not gotten sidetracked by trying to write my own little fictions, I'd have written this up days ago.



"Rudo y Cursi" stars Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna -- think "Y Tu Mama Tambien" -- as brothers. They live and work on a banana farm in Mexico (if I didn't already have them as idols after my heart, their situation would be so similar to my family's that I'd not be able to resist ... anyway)

We have a voiceover narrator who comes on scene very early on. He has a gravelly voice, and his car just broke down, just down the way. The brothers help him push the heap of a mess a couple miles, down some dirt roads, and all's well.

We quickly come to know that he's a talent agent. Specifically, sports. Soccer, to be exact. The brothers are good at soccer.

They're told to fight for the position - Score and you get the position; block and you look good. What's a man to do?

There is so much ego, so much made-up rivalry, such despair in their downfalls. The narrator gets a bit annoying, but, overall, the movie's fantastic. It views like a short story that is well worth it. Highly recommend.

And, Gael and Diego?? I'd give two arms to be sitting between them both; of course, I'd be looking left and right the whole time, pinching myself to make sure I wasn't dead or dreaming -- but, holy moly, they are up there with PN.

End of First Online Netflix Project, Kramer vs. Kramer -- Back to Texas?

Finally, the end of the first Online Netflix Project -- the final movie that day was "Kramer vs. Kramer," (1979) a flick starring Dustin Hoffman, as Ted, and Meryl Streep, as Joanna. Both are Kramers, and they're going through a divorce, poor Billy Kramer (Justin Henry) has to handle his own little fate.



The reason it was such a bizarre offering from Lady Netflix, is because old Hoffman so resembles Francois Cluzet from "Tell No One" from the prior stop on the 'Flix project -- not just a little, in a "Oh, he kind of looks like..."-way; no, this is a straight God-uses-templates type of imitation.


Ted is a hot-shot at a New York ad agency; the early scenes show him bustling around the office, talking things up to his boss, grabbing drinks with the right folks, angling to "bring home the bacon," as he puts it -- this was the 70s, so you have to suspend embarrassment for overused cliches.

We flash to Ms. Streep, packing her bags in their modest Manhattan home -- she tucks in little Billy, tells him how much Mommy loves him. She's characteristically able to be cold-ish and detached; that woman has a way with coming off as unemotional, while still being striking and altogether endearing.

Mr. Hoffman has to assume the role of full-time dad, all the while his boss is pressuring him, asking for 120% in order to justify the promotion he's offering him; Hoffster is torn between trying to remain the man he was, an all-star, with raising his little boy. We don't see Streep for a good hour.

His priorities change, she resurfaces and wants her kid back, he balks, she sues, there are court scenes.

It's quite good, and you get to see one of the first "It's my fault." dialogues from a child regarding a parents' divorce. I'll admit some heart strings were tugged, and I very well may watch it again soon. It's a very real film, despite its overwroughtness at times.

If my fingers could type fast enough, I'd explain that the following day I watched 7 movies -- Revolutionary Road, S. Darko (shoot me, please, shoot me), Dog Day Afternoon (let me live forever, please, let me live forever), Batman Returns (It was suggested by Madame Flix, I had to), Angels and Demons (friend dragged me), Ferris Bueller, and The Graduate.

The next day, it was similar.

I think I'm moving back to Texas -- perhaps it's too much talking to Mama and Brother G, but ... I've been writing my own fiction a ton, annnnnnd, it just seems that my characters flourish there. Why sit and be lonely in NY?

I can watch my movies anywhere.

Kramer vs. Kramer can be found here online on Netflix.

Online Netflix Project Continued, New Love, Francois Cluzet -- "Tell No One"

Lordy, lordy.

A couple nights ago was my best friend from Home's fake birthday (it's today -- Happy Bday, Indian!!!!!), so it was spent traveling uptown and downtown and then waaaaaaaaaaaay back uptown to Columbia to congratulate him on finishing his second year of law school. (Congratulations, again, sir -- and cheers to many a day spent with you this summer in DC. Wahoo. End of congratulations.) Then I spoke with Brother G about the tribulations of his life; today, my head still hurts.

BUT, that doesn't mean I can forget to meander on the last two movies of the First Online Netflix Project.

Sweet Lady Netflix next suggested: "Tell No One," a movie I'd heard good things about, but I had no idea what it was about. Exactly what I like.

"Tell No One" (2006) is a French flick starring an extremely dashing François Cluzet, as a poor dear doctor whose wife was stolen and murdered after a romantic stint,

lakeside. Or, was she?

After being hit upside the head after swimming across a lake to go looking after his wife, having heard her screams, he falls back into the lake yet somehow manages to be found unconscious, comatose, on the shore. We don't get to see any of that, rather, we're placed eight years into the future, when he's become quite the chain smoker and has dizzying displays of alcoholism -- the man is in very bad shape, he lost his lady, after all.

Straight from a progressive Agatha Christie novel, it seems, he receives an email from an anonymous address, telling him to log onto a site at a certain time; but, be careful, "They" are watching.

Say what?

The email's subject line contains a message that only she and he would gain knowledge from (they've been a couple since they were children), but she's DEAD, so, who's playing these mean tricks on him?

He manages to log on after having to deal with some detectives he just can't shake; after all this time, they still suspect he's the murderer of his wife. When he logs on, the clouds part, the gods smile down sweetly and --

There she is, staring up at him from the entrance to some subway station, location unknown.

Well, well. Eight years, and now THIS? What's the poor man to do?

There's a ton of intrigue, a lot of Murder She Wrote, thugs, chase scenes, shoot ups, cover ups, found guns, smoking guns, fingerprints, lying fathers, oof. It was one of the better Clue, Crime, Mystery movies I've seen in a long while. Keep it up, Lady N'flix, I thought.

You can watch "Tell No One" online on Netflix here.

I really love this trailer -- it gives you a great idea of what the film is about ... to the point where you think to yourself it must be a failure, but it's not. It delivers -- and it's not my new, desperate love for Francois Cluzet coloring my opinion. I love watching him be chased, allllll hot and bothered.




Next up .......... a film starring the man who looks exactly like Francois! I couldn't believe it -- there I was, fantasizing about moving to France and finding my True Love, Francois, and Lady NF threw one at me starring his doppelganger. Dustin Hoffman.

God was so good to me that day -- but, I need more than gummy bears to sustain me, so time to leave my room. I've been watching "Martyrs" all morning, a great feel-good Sunday morning film.

My Online Netflix Project: Great for the Unemployed -- ("Let the Right One In," "Dark Days")

I conducted an experiment yesterday. It wasn't really a conscious decision; rather, it was only after I drowned in a movie pool's deep-end that I had the idea, posthumously. In 10 1/2 hours, I watched four movies. I had an online Netflix journey.

I awoke around 7:30am and decided I'd sit down to some online Netflix viewing, since sleeping more wasn't an option. My choice? "Let the Right One In," that Swedish vampire movie everyone (that's relative) has been talking about for, well, an embarrassingly long time, but somehow I keep missing.

After a stark film about Swedish vampires at seven in the morning, I'd have to be able to sleep! Oh, delusion.

"Let the Right One In" (2008) opens with a shot of Oskar's (Kare Hedebrant) reflection as he stares bleakly into the Swedish snow that extends forever; he looks like a character out of "Village of the Damned," with unnatural-looking white hair, and matching skin. He's 12-years old and he spends his days snipping out articles of heinous murders and unspeakable deeds, daily assembling them into a little book -- a little Death Diary, say. Since he's the target of a bully and two lackeys at school, he also spends much time plotting sweet revenge. A little boy after my heart.

He's lonely. His mother isn't much of a presence, his father lives somewhere in another town, where he entertains questionable characters, may be gay and may be an alcoholic -- the scene explaining their relationship is very vague, and a little hard to understand. But neither parent is particularly attached, and so, Oskar is lonely.

Then Eli (Lina Leandersson) moves in next door. She doesn't go to school, but she dooooesss come out at night to stand barefoot in the snowy courtyard ("Aren't you cold?" "I've forgotten how.") and look eerie. They strike up a friendship after she schools Oskar on his Rubik's Cube, and soon they are trading Morse code communiques through the walls.

Eli lives with a strange, pock-marked man who's meant to help her, lighten the load a little for old Eli. There's a great early scene where he uses this contraption (almost as cool as Chigurh's in "No Country") that he carries around in a box with him to vaporize some acid substance, before administering it to the patient to make him pass out; for the bloodletting, he has his whole system down! Turns them upside down to let it all drain out. The acid is key in another great scene later involving the old man.

There's a lot of blood, a look at the inside of a slimy face, one shot of some crazy-looking private parts, a sweet and subtle love story between our two bloodthirsty stars -- all the while being very, very thoughtful. It is pretty fantastic.

You can watch "Let the Right One In" here online on Netflix.

"Squeal like a pig!"



So. the 12-year olds came and went, and while my eyelids were fighting the good fight to close, I sought out some tooth picks to foist them apart -- I juuuuuust wanted to see what Netflix suggested for me; She always seems to suggest such sweet things.

"Dark Days." Oooohhhh, that sounds up my alley, I thought, characteristically.

"Dark Days" (2000) is a documentary by Marc Singer about homeless people who've spent years building shacks, cooking food, becoming a community, doing crack -- all the good stuff we terrestrial creatures do, but they've been doing these things waaaay underground New York City, in an abandoned railroad tunnel.

The first two-thirds of the film (which was shot with a 16 mm camera, on black and white film)follows half a dozen or so of these characters through their daily lives. They've all constructed these huts using things found upstairs, or, "on the streets," where we wasteful, slovenly nuts -- who pay rent and bills and value, oh, the moon -- have chucked out perfectly good plywood, pans, clothes, slow cookers, TVs, you name it. And, not only can they, in turn, sell these things, they can use them! Somehow, they're able to tap into some electricity, feeding off Mother Manhattan. Take that ConEd!

Every day, they surface and start their day of dumpster diving, during which a few of the characters seem really excited by their daily treasure hunt. Upon arriving to one empty can, a man tosses what little's left inside and says with a sigh, "Oh, don't you worry, things'll pick up." But it's not said with desperation, or fear that he'll go starving, it's his love of the game that's hurting.

It all didn't seem half bad (except for the rats), and there were times that I glanced around my little hovel and thought, well, if things don't pick up -- there's always this. Until the Bad Guys came: Amtrak was kicking them out. Sigh.

In the end, the documentary was certainly interesting and entertaining. Singer does a good job of mixing the sadness of the situation with the jokes, and each character's backstory was uniquely shocking and upsetting. One was a former convict whose daughter was later raped, dismembered and burned; one was a 20-something who'd been abandoned by his parents as a young child; and, of course, a few were down-on-their-luck crackheads -- a nice assortment. Singer's dedication to the documentary was also noble, driven by helping the community financially and eventually securing them all housing vouchers. Swell dude.

You can watch "Dark Days" on Netflix here.

Here is a particularly sad scene, as one of the characters talks about losing her two boys in a fire.



After "Dark Days," I'd already decided what I needed to do -- I let Her suggest another to me, so smart Ms. Netflix, and then another. Where would She lead me? To great things, that's where.

But my fingers hurt, so I'll ramble on those, later.