The Kid with a Bike - A Return

Due to a dear Colombian friend of mine (names have no place here), I've decided to saddle up and get back on the old blog horse. His entreaties rang true: "Don't you miss it?" I suppose I do.

So, well, I've seen perhaps 50 gazillion movies since I last wrote, but I'll highlight the latest one.
"The Kid with a Bike" -- directed by Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne

Yes, a foreign film for those few who don't like to read subtitles. It's worth it.

There I was, fully prepared to see this film alone, having had to drag my Friend from some Brooklyn/writer-induced gloom to the netherland that is IFC theater in Greenwich Village. Oh, I could feel through the phone how desperately sorry he felt for himself for having to get on the MTA and stand through a film he was not "in the mood" to see.

Poppycock, is what I'd say.

He came, we went, and afterward ... what do my bewildered ears hear?

Me: "So, what'd you think?"

"I thought it was great!" Brooklyn Sir exclaimed.

Don't distrust me when I suggest a movie, fool.

The story starts off simply, if sadly: an 11-year old boy is denounced by his father in the most inhumanely way. The kid doesn't really get it -- he thinks his dad's just on a break, or is away to make some money for home for a bit. Well, no. Dear old Dad just doesn't want you, the child quickly learns.

Enter a quiet, compassionate hairdresser from "just down the road," her empathy for the little boy supersedes any thoughts toward her own happiness. She takes him in ...

Yet, our little abandoned boy is still a terror, and she has to determine whether he's worth it.

In Time, Justin Timberlake: Cheated.

My bud and I saw "In Time" last night, the new Justin Timberlake movie. It was, perhaps, one of the worst movies I've ever seen. So bad that I now will probably see it again just to torture myself.

Story goes a little something like this: You pay for everything (from coffee to cab rides to hitmen) with minutes of your life. Or "minutes, hours, months" and then you grab hold of whomever you're paying's wrist and you exchange time through some Total-Recall-like function. AND, everyone lives only until they're 25 -- or, that's when everyone stops aging. So, some dude on the street will say, "How old are you?" "I've been 25 for the past 175 years."

WHAT?

It reminded me of a Christopher Nolan interview I read way back when, where he said that he thought of the concept of "Inception" when he was a kid. And I had the thought back then, "Uhhhh, yeah, when I was about 7 I was thinking about worlds upon worlds upon worlds, too. Why are you wasting my time?"

This was a horrific movie, and I never, ever want to see Justin Timberboots running around through the streets of a made-up town as if he were a real movie star. And, it was really sad because all the previews they played beforehand were of some great-looking action movies (new "Mission Impossible"!) that made you think that this stupid movie might be ok. It was not, those cheats.

I will have to see something good tonight.

That said, I will definitely be buying "In Time" because bad movies are also awesome movies. And watching people slump to the ground as a Timekeeper comes running toward them is never a bad thing.

Paul Newman, Revisited, Part 2.

I've been thinking a lot about it, and it's bothering me that I didn't mention in my last bloggle post a very big deal this past summer.

I went on a date in early June -- something Ms. Grice never does, or doesn't like to do. This boy took me to the Museum of the Moving Image. In Astoria, Queens! It was such a trek that I thought to myself, "Well, self, if this boy doesn't get that making me go all the way up here is a big to-do, we know where he stands."

However, I got there and holy Toledo. This was a palace. If I could've found a nook to sleep where I wouldn't be found, I'd have been sleeping there every night for the past 4 months.

Best part was, I ran up to the ticket-taker, and he gave me the paper listing out what exhibitions were on display.

The guy says: "Yuh know, it's Paul Newman week."

My jaw dropped down to the floor and I swallowed many mosquitoes.

"Ahbadabada, whaaaaaaat?"

"Yeah, we're playing The Hustler and The Color of Money tonight. For free since you already paid for your entrance ticket. [$10!]."

I felt like I had stumbled into my Heaven.

The date after half an hour of bumbling around said: "So, let's go get dinner?"

Me: "Uhh, no. Yeah right. Did you hear that guy? The Hustler AND The Color of Money?"

He looked at me curiously; I stared back, my Texas spine finally putting itself to use. "Nah, good to know you," as I furrowed my brow. "But, I gotta go see Paul."

In between films, I called Mama G and told her about my good fortune. She was so excited for me -- until I told her I gave up on a date. Then: "MORGAAAAAAAAN!!!!!"

Paul Newman, Revisited.

A couple weeks ago, I was tossing and turning in my bed, per usual, thinking about something inevitably inane. I was probably trying to think about the efficiency of euphemisms. Or something. All the sudden, something struck me. No, not "struck me" -- came hammering down on me like a ton of Anna Karenina-sized bricks.

What I remembered was that it was mid-September and: Yesterday was the third anniversary of Paul Newman's death.

If I'm honest with myself, and you, my lone reader, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Paul Newman. Maybe I'll watch a movie of his (my first born will be named Lucas); someone will joke about my love for PN, thereby reminding me; I'll glance at my a/c and see his handsome face smiling at me from an autographed still from Cool Hand Luke -- doesn't matter. Each and every day, something comes up where I'll stupidly reference a phrase from his movies or dote on him, just because.

I'll just re-post my first, initial reaction:

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.

Then, there was last year's post:

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.

And, now it's year 3 of no more Paul Newman. "Just passin' time, Boss."

Quadruple Feature: Final Destination 5, etc.

Just when I think that my existence sounds depressing enough on paper, I manage to push it just a little bit further. This weekend, I deigned to see four films in the theater on one bright (and thunderous) day, and I succeeded. A quadruple feature! It really loses its ring after "triple feature," I fear.

The day started like any other. I clumsily smacked at my face in the morning to make sure it was still there; I looked out my un-curtained windows to see if others were stirring across the building (always a good measure of what time it is in the morning); I yawned heavily, scooping any residual drool off my chin -- and thought: "Wait, no work today! Wonder what time the first movie starts?!" (10:45 a.m.) The West Village likes old people, or those who eat and sleep like they're old (me).

Now. Mama G wonders where she went wrong with me. Why, say, didn't I think -- let me go shopping! Or, I bet there's a great exhibit at _______. That Borders is going out of business, how 'bout some new books, Grice? Nope. Just movies. Can't change what we are, I s'ppose.

So, I saw: Final Destination 5 (yup); One Day (Nick Sparks knock-off); Harry Potter 77k (should've watched the last one again right before this one ... those names are so hard to keep up with); and, Clash By Night ('52 at Film Forum -- got to keep up with the hipsters).

Final Destination 5. Well, what can I say? After I saw the flick, I went to Best Buy and bought the four preceding films; I figured that if I were going to write anything about the movie, I might as well do my research since my knowledge had some gaping holes since my 16-year-old dreamy girl's crush on Devon Sawa in Final Destination (one), ca. 2000.

In this latest iteration on the same take of the first film's premise, a bunch of young 20-somethings are headed off on a corporate retreat; once they reach the suspension bridge that holds their wilderness-bonding in its grips, our protag, Sam Lawton (Nicholas D'Agosto) has a vision, err, a premonition, a feeling, a sense, a notion that something's off? Well, he sees the traveling bus toppling into the ether, his friends not spared by gut-splintering boat masts or neck-breaking falls -- all delightfully depicted on-screen. Perhaps it's his imagination. We don't know! We haven't seen any Final Destinations before this one!

I will say that this was the most enjoyable FD since the first one; I actually almost wish I'd seen it in 3D - the opening credits, which consist of a series of shattered glass pieces, cigarette butts, pieces of trash, etc. lobbed at you, probably would have been neat - and, there was one set of projectile lower intestines that clearly would have looked cooler in 3D than on my thankless 2D eyes.

The prize of the show was third-billed Miles Fisher, who plays the business-jerk kid amongst his friends, Peter. He's the guy who slaps you on the back and says "Good job!" all the while telling your boss that you're a lout. It's not giving anything away to say that he sticks around for a good 95% of the movie (such is the formula for FD), but, his charm and ability to channel a multitude of personae is very apparent here. I'd dare say, he's one to watch.

Most people on the gods' green earth have seen him here already as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho; or, here as Tom Cruise, the Crazy

And there's a newer installment of Mr. Fisher's inimitable charades: Saved by the Bell, Final Destination-style. Here's "New Romance," a studio-funded track that let MF and cohorts kill each other in a very Final Destination-way, while acting out our favorite themes of SbtB. Very catchy.

More on the yes-I-have-feelings, sigh. "One Day" later.