"Gettin' Loose, and Killin' Time" -- More Pertinent, "Avatar" and "Youth in Revolt"

So, three weekends, three different high school friends staying at the old Chez Grice. Lots of Texas music has been played; the other two Brooklyn roommates have been roped into dinners and late-night foretelling of what may come to be: embarrassing. I promise we're not from the deadlands of ... Waco? We're not.

I hereby state, and hope, that no Texan come within 50 feet of our domicile, for fear of a mass exodus to Austin. Agreed? Agreed.

And, Randy Travis doesn't want to whine away on my computer anymore. I know it, err, I feel it -- as Texans do.

How 'bout a little Clint?: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mc-1uPnMnPY

Back to movies:

"Avatar" was maybe one of the most hyped up, fell-on-its-face films I've seen in recent movie history. I would never air it publicly, but I saw Titanic 9 times in the theater (I was 14 yrs. old!) so, I'm so ready to be Cameron's pawn. But, Avatar was so bad that I couldn't even stay awake while they were getting love-y and ... swinging around floating mountains should make any lady put down her swords -- my swords were still up, and it just wasn't good.

The dialogue in "Avatar" is so bad, it's almost offensive. When Sigourney pops out of her little chilled preservation box, you want to smack her for her abrasive stumbling around for a cigarette; when the meatheaded Sully, wheelchair in tow, narrates to you in his beef-heady way ... it's all you can do to not puke into your (requisite) popcorn.

Youth in Revolt -- to come.

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!

Dallas Cowboys, District 9, Robin Williams -- Nothing in Common

Like a little angel, my Favorite Food Critic, and former-colleague (and one of the few fine folks I miss from Up North), sent me a note sometime last week to the effect of:

"Lady Grice, big news: your old employer ["The Blerg"] has sprung for a big trip down your way for my column. Any interest in going to the opening Dallas Cowboys game on Sunday? See the new stadium?"

"I'm sorry, I just read that aloud to my brother," I began in response, "I believe he must've swallowed some mosquitoes just now -- he hasn't picked up his jaw from the floor. Are you serious?"

"Tell Brother Grice he's welcome to come, too."

So, Brother and Sister Grice took another trip, flying past little tiny Texas towns until we came upon that snobby city 4 1/2 hours to our north. Dallas.

Food Critic had to be driven to an anonymous-looking building to get the tickets; we drank cocktails from glass cowboy boots. It was an unforgettable trip.

(Thank you, again.)

I won't lie and say I'm the hugest football fan; every Friday night growing up was spent at my high school stadium, but the moment I'd sit down, I'd swing my feet around the bleachers in an about-face to talk to my buds -- always ignoring the game in full.

But even I knew how big a deal this whole Dallas event was, and how Bro G would appreciate the weekend. So, we went, we ate, we saw, we cheered, we swam, we toured, we ate...and ate, and ate.

And then we saw those old Cowboys let the Giants shame them.

Dawson wouldn't have wanted Tony Romo's life this weekend, I'm sure.

A whole month (to the day) since the last post. I don't even remember how to write on this old bloggle.

Leeeeettt's see. I was bogged down with a bunch of editing (I know so much about Texas teaching standards these days ... fun stuff, she says, lying through her teeth.), but I've managed to keep up the movie watching.

"District 9" -- I was so late in the game on that one. Mama Grice saw it and told me that she didn't care for it because the aliens were "ugly"; for some reason that deterred my better judgment for some time, delaying my viewing for well too long.

I really, really enjoyed that film. It felt a lot like the "28 Days Later"/"28 Months Later" movies, which I liked perhaps too much. It had the same sort of realistic-feeling special effects, not ruined by slap-you-in-the-face CGI bologna that's wrecked so many could-be/would-be good movies. The social allegories were also welcome, and a fun twist on traditional sci-fi fare.

And I really adored the South African government agent Wikus Van De Merwe (Sharlto Copley), who hopefully has more up his sleeve.

Importantly, for the past several weeks, that movie has inspired me to speak in clicks and twitches (a la the alien "Prawns") -- something that might've been frowned upon before this film's arrival.

My Friend and I were at a movie loss recently and decided to head to the Houston Angelika to see a more indie-trendy film and stumbled upon Robin Williams' recent "World's Greatest Dad" ... hmmm.

Williams plays Lance Clayton (great name for this role), a somewhat depressing yokel of a man who's a creative writing teacher -- who's never published a thing. He's the single dad of a jerk teenager whose ... "extra curricular activities" are rather unsavory; his teacher-girlfriend toys with his heart. Etc. When a tragic (ahem) event takes his son's life, Lance is suddenly thrust into the public eye -- which leads to some counter-intuitive outcomes.

It's good, but not great. It feels as though writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait needed just a few more months of tweaking to make it a little funnier, poignant, dark ... something. And, perhaps a few more months to find a better actor to play the son's character (Daryl Sabara).

Towed Cars, Cousins -- "Inglourious Basterds"

"Hey, it's family," he said, as he slid over to My Friend the piece of paper that showed he'd knocked off 40 bucks from the car-towing fare.

Nothing like a big, hulking man -- in the middle of Nowheresville, Houston -- telling your Bud that he was once married to your cousin, through some bulletproof glass, no less.

The humiliation only topped off the saddest Movie Night ever.

It'd been planned in advance: "Inglourious Basterds," Friday night, 9:30 pm. My Friend, his brother, another, and I were meeting with already-purchased tickets to go see the film; I'd been awaiting this day for months. For the past few weeks, I've been marching around like a little idiot mimicking Brad Pitt's "We gonna be doin' one thing, one thing only: Killin' Nat-zi's." I couldn't've wiped the grin off my face all week if I'd tried.

Well, turned out that one of the friendos got mixed up and didn't buy his ticket in advance; they were sold out. Didn't seem to make no never mind -- we could see the 10:30 showing, after all. We exchanged tickets, played some Big Buck Hunter at the theater arcade ... but, I knew.

I knew that after having eaten at the restaurant next door, where Friend and his Brother left their cars (allusion to the "car-towing" start of this), on top of my predilection for falling asleep in ANY movie after roundabouts 8pm, I was in trouble.

For all my talk and anticipation for this movie, would I make it?

Short answer, "no."

Halfway through, I felt the magnetic forces of the eyelids; had I toothpicks, I'd have shoved them in there without regard for permanent damage to the old eyeballs.

I'm doing a double feature tomorrow ... after Friend's glare jolted me awake (I hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep), I made it through most of the movie, but I feel I missed some good plot points worthy of revisitation -- and, Lord knows I'll watch "Inglourious" 200 more times in the next couple years, just 'cause it's Tarantino.

One great takeaway from the first half hour, though, reminded me why I can't hate myself for being a cliched Tarantino-lover.

It's his ability to write-in conversational bits into the most intense situations; just like the Coen Bros., he reuses his formula, so that the written patterns are undeniably recognizable in all his films ... they're inimitable without feeling too worn or overdone.

Fooooooor instance, during the "Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals." end scene in Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction," he has Jules and Vince discuss (after having experienced "Divine Intervention" via dodging bullets as they fulfilled their hitman duties) why we attribute dirtiness to pigs and not, say, dogs, while by logical standards the two species aren't exactly cleanly. In "Inglourious," Tarantino starts it off with the awesome, awesome Christoph Waltz delineating the difference between rats and squirrels ... one animal is seen as a disease-carrying, awful nuissance of a creature, the other's a harmless tree-dweller.

I just like his style, s'ppose. Tomorrow, I'll get a fuller feel. I got 2 hours annnnd maybe 12 minutes of Inglourious on Friday (out of the 2 hrs and 33 minutes) ... tomorrow'll be better.

When we all toddled out of the theater that night, me half-asleep and the others beat as well, the cars were gone; next morning, we made our way to where they housed the errant vehicles ... and that's where I was met with a double-take, a stare and a "Are you Morgan? I'm your cousin." He's been running the tow-truck place for ten years he said.

Ahhh, ahhh.

Sometimes there's nothing to be said for full-on humility.

Twiddle, twiddle in JFK; Airplane! and The Terminal

"Does my displeasure please you?" I asked, my three huge bags tottering tenuously in the SmarteCarte that held them.

"Of course not, mijita, never," defended Mama G. "You just have to look at it as a good thing."

A good thing. How, praytell, can being stuck in JFK for a good ... oh, another 8 hours, be a good thing?

"Well, didn't you say you needed to send off that story by midnight tonight? Now you're stuck! You have to finish it and send it off. So, go find somewhere you can be by yourself and finish it, and send it off."

"MAMA! I'm in the loneliest airport known to man, in Terminal FIVE, of all places; you want me to make lemonade? Where is your sympathy?!?"

"You don't need my sympathy. This is good for you. Go and finish your story."

"I can't even get a little bit of sympathy, you awful woman?"

"No, you don't need it."

"You know, I haven't shaved my legs in several days and the hairs are staring at me, menacingly; I'm wearing shorts and now I'm going to have to lug THREE huge bags around with me as I try to talk to strangers, as they stare at my legs, I'm sure -- still, nothing?"

"No, you should've gotten up earlier. And you should've shaved your legs."

"I got up at 7am! For an 11am flight. There was a lockjam in Lincoln Tunnel! I even tried to get Brother to check-in for me online (Brother G, I'm changing my password, don't you worry. I've been down the Internet Rat path before, and I don't want you to see what I say about you in my emails.)."

"Mijita, just go write your story and stop worrying; we'll come pick you up."

"You better."

"We will."

"11:47pm. I know y'all'll be late."

"We won't!"

"You will."

Sigh, "Mijita."

Sigh, back at you.

A couple good airport movies:

This scene in Airplane! was one of my earliest memories of being so comically entertained.

The Terminal -- not super great, but good premise.

Texas, My Texas ...? And, "The Orphan" -- a Sicker, More Modern "The Good Son"?

Yesterday evening, I made my way to Crooklyn; I had to drop off some things to Margaret Sandwich, since my airline is charging 75 bones, just to take on extra luggage, per bag -- no matter how small (Mine are small.). I suppose they don't recognize quarter-life crises as reasons to store more of your junk on board. Sigh.

So, I went off to Crookville with my big, blue duffel bag (the only thing I took to Colombia) and miscellaneous other things to put under Ms. Sands' bed in Crookway Heights; we both decided it'd be a good thing, to ensure I don't just waste away in TX and the South for the rest of my ever-dwindling years. I said I'd definitely come back by end of July -- if only to gather the rest of my belongings.

Enter a little man we'll call Charley Fatz. He'd just been stumbling around, having entertained another School Friend for the evening, when he stopped by and interrupted our watching of TBS, quietly.

"You're going back to TEXAS?!" He's from San Antonio (Texas).

"Just for a bit! I'm going to tool around the South for a bit, work on my writing, you know ... explore!" I felt a flush come over my face.

"You're never coming back."

Despite the slurring of his words, it shocked the s.h.!.t. out of me.

"Shut up, of course I'm coming back. Margs always goes home! For months!" I tried to defend myself, and pointed at her as a ripe example.

"Yeah, but, she's always coming back. You're not coming back."

So upset.

This morning, he said, "You got upset by me, a drunk man!? Come onnnnnn."

Of course I did. Man, oh, man -- I took it so hard. He even threw in other examples of friends (Texans) he knew who'd called it quits and went home and got married; ha, one wishes. I made Ms. Sands laugh yesterday, telling her of a date I went on the night before where the friend said:

"I don't mean to be ... forward. But. You don't seem to be much into worrying about guys. What's wrong?"

"Ummm, what? I don't know. Wait, what?" I picked up my butter knife and started sawing the edge of my table ... slowly, slickly.

"I just mean, are you just not that into guys? All my girl friends ... that's all ... well, it's all they talk about."

Internal: Oh, Lord.

"Are you into girls?" he asked, with a furrowed, intense brow.

"No. Umm, I need to go."

So, back to Mr. Fatz, it's all thrown me for a clichéd loop. He views it as a weakness, my going home; obviously I have those thoughts and I rationalize them away by knowing (thinking) it'll all do me some good to be home with Brother and Mama G (and the Rat Child) for a bit ... and it'll be cheaper.

I just want to take an adventure. (Run away?)

Internal monologue, over. I'll leave with a preview I saw the other day that shocked some good sense into me, movie-wise.

Orphan trailer...it seems like a more awesome "The Good Son":

"There's something wrong with Esther."

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.