For all my talk about how I didn't want to see this film, about how staring at Bruce Dern for two hours couldn't be anything but aggravating, about how black-and-white movies in the year 2014 are pretentious...I loved it. In fact, it may be my favorite so far. Bruce Dern isn't the least bit annoying, and June Squibb is just precious and delightful.
The acting was so genuine, and -- yes, I admit it -- so very unpretentious, that I forgot what I'd been dreading about it. It made me miss my grandparents so much it still hurts. There is a calm and simple sweetness that pervades every second of this film; I watched all the way to the end of the credits just because I wasn't ready to leave yet.
I can promise it'll make you cry, more happy tears than sad ones. I can promise it'll make you appreciate your parents, even when they call you 12 times in a day to ask how to work their new iPad. I can promise it'll make you hate those sweepstakes idiots even more than you probably already do. I can promise that if you were raised in a small town, you'll find yourself yearning to move back there to raise your babies (this feeling may be more fleeting than the others; it was for me).
I can also promise that if you're under the age of 65, you'll be the youngest person in the theatre. I was -- by several decades.
Showing posts with label Movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Movies. Show all posts
02 February 2014
01 February 2014
The Oscars: American Hustle
I think we can all agree (at least, we ladies can all agree) that we'd watch a film consisting entirely of Bradley Cooper eating sunflower seeds for two hours as long as he occasionally gazed into the camera with those sky-blue eyes of his. Likewise, I think that most of us would agree that Jennifer Lawrence could read the ingredients list on the side of a granola box, and there we'd be, enraptured, screaming for an encore. Except it'd more likely be the ingredients list on a bag of Doritos, which is one of perhaps nine thousands reasons why we all want her for our best friend.
As such, I was completely devastated that I didn't love this movie. I was prepared to inhale it, hang on every syllable, and find myself so addicted that I wanted to watch it again immediately. That is not at all what happened. I left feeling a little bit confused, a little bit disconnected, and a lot let down.
I can't really pinpoint what went wrong. The cast list is impressive (except that I will admit that for as much as I loved Amy Adams in Junebug, I hated her at least twice that much in both The Master and Doubt, and for reasons wholly unrelated to the characters she was playing). The costumes are hilarious. Hair and makeup must have loved coming to work every day. And the premise was good, not the least reason for which is the whole based-on-a-true story hype that worked so well last year for Argo and Zero Dark Thirty.
Part of the issue, I think, is that where Argo and Zero Dark Thirty were perceived as accurate yet entertaining, docudrama-esque retellings of pivotal American events, American Hustle just feels kitschy...like a cheap and flowery retelling of a story without a hero. There's no one to cheer for in this film, and coming from a girl who prosecutes crime for a living, when you can't root for the cops, there's a problem. And if you can't root for the cops, you should at least be able to root against them (The Town, Training Day, The Departed).
I didn't love it. It's not Best Picture material. I don't know what else to say.
As such, I was completely devastated that I didn't love this movie. I was prepared to inhale it, hang on every syllable, and find myself so addicted that I wanted to watch it again immediately. That is not at all what happened. I left feeling a little bit confused, a little bit disconnected, and a lot let down.
I can't really pinpoint what went wrong. The cast list is impressive (except that I will admit that for as much as I loved Amy Adams in Junebug, I hated her at least twice that much in both The Master and Doubt, and for reasons wholly unrelated to the characters she was playing). The costumes are hilarious. Hair and makeup must have loved coming to work every day. And the premise was good, not the least reason for which is the whole based-on-a-true story hype that worked so well last year for Argo and Zero Dark Thirty.
Part of the issue, I think, is that where Argo and Zero Dark Thirty were perceived as accurate yet entertaining, docudrama-esque retellings of pivotal American events, American Hustle just feels kitschy...like a cheap and flowery retelling of a story without a hero. There's no one to cheer for in this film, and coming from a girl who prosecutes crime for a living, when you can't root for the cops, there's a problem. And if you can't root for the cops, you should at least be able to root against them (The Town, Training Day, The Departed).
I didn't love it. It's not Best Picture material. I don't know what else to say.
The Oscars: August: Osage County
Wow. I've seen Meryl Streep in everything from Death Becomes Her to The Bridges of Madison County, from Doubt to The Devil Wears Prada, and everything in between. I have never seen her like this. She is raw, mean, bigoted, selfish, and self-absorbed. She is brilliant.
A family emergency, which soon turns into a family tragedy, brings a family together in their small Oklahoma home town, and it doesn't take very long to figure out that these are family members who are quite happy to remain apart. Each of three sisters is complicated and struggling in her own way, which is of course exacerbated by sadness and their mother's illness and substance dependence. The film begins on a dark and heavy note, and though there are glimpses of levity (Benedict Cumberbatch and an organ featuring prominently in one of them -- but my fixation with Benedict Cumberbatch is a story for a different day), it mostly remains there for the bulk of the substantial running time.
I'm not a huge Julia Roberts fan, and I haven't really missed her since she moved to Taos, had a bunch of kids, stopped making romantic comedies, and apparently forgot that prairie skirts are ugly (I say that because she's wearing one in 80% of the photos I see of her in tabloids). That said, she was achingly good in this film, and I find myself hoping that she completely abandons any future films of the Oceans Eleven ilk in favor of more roles like this one. She also has incredible skin, which I fixated on for most of the movie because though there are close-ups galore, she is mostly makeup free.
A family emergency, which soon turns into a family tragedy, brings a family together in their small Oklahoma home town, and it doesn't take very long to figure out that these are family members who are quite happy to remain apart. Each of three sisters is complicated and struggling in her own way, which is of course exacerbated by sadness and their mother's illness and substance dependence. The film begins on a dark and heavy note, and though there are glimpses of levity (Benedict Cumberbatch and an organ featuring prominently in one of them -- but my fixation with Benedict Cumberbatch is a story for a different day), it mostly remains there for the bulk of the substantial running time.
I'm not a huge Julia Roberts fan, and I haven't really missed her since she moved to Taos, had a bunch of kids, stopped making romantic comedies, and apparently forgot that prairie skirts are ugly (I say that because she's wearing one in 80% of the photos I see of her in tabloids). That said, she was achingly good in this film, and I find myself hoping that she completely abandons any future films of the Oceans Eleven ilk in favor of more roles like this one. She also has incredible skin, which I fixated on for most of the movie because though there are close-ups galore, she is mostly makeup free.
The Oscars: Blue Jasmine
Since the Golden Globes, where Woody Allen received some sort of lifetime achievement award, there's been a great deal of discussion about his alleged sexual abuse of his adopted daughter, Dylan Farrow. I say alleged because although Dylan remains steadfast in her accusations, no charges were ever brought against him. I regretfully admit that until recently, although I knew in general that such allegations were made, I knew no specifics and generally took no position one way or the other. That is to say, I watched his films (and love Midnight in Paris) and gave no thought to the abuse Ms. Farrow maintains that she suffered.
That changed today. She penned an open letter that was published in today's New York Times. In it, she details not only the abuse, but also its subsequent physical and psychological manifestations in her life, and as an adult -- arguably free of the influence that her mother supposedly wielded when she was a child -- Ms. Farrow bravely and clearly names Allen as her abuser. Her words are concise and largely free of the vitriol to which I believe she's more than entitled.
So, about Blue Jasmine. It's lovely, and Cate Blanchett is stunningly broken and fragile. I found it to be an almost frame-by-frame modernization of "A Streetcar Named Desire," though Allen replaces Williams's allusions to promiscuity and sexual violence with an illegal white collar investment scheme. I truly loved watching it, which I suppose is nice, since it's the last Woody Allen film I'll be seeing.
09 April 2013
Argo
Book by Antonio Mendez. Film directed by Ben Affleck.
A book review and a movie review, all at the same time!
I saw Argo (the movie) last October when I was visiting my friends Brandy and John in Colorado. Brandy and I had planned to go and visit some mountains and some snow, but it rained instead. Everybody knows that rainy mountains aren’t nearly as much fun as snowy mountains, so we opted for a movie day instead. I am embarrassed to admit that I knew little to nothing about the Iran hostages prior to seeing Argo, so it was even more of a learning experience for me than it might have been to a more knowledgeable viewer.
I agree with the reviewers who thought that the manufactured tension at the end of the movie was a little bit tiresome, but overall, I loved Argo. The casting was perfect – especially Alan Arkin and John Goodman – and I agree with all those people who were dumbfounded that Ben Affleck didn’t receive a Director nod at the Oscars. I’m not generally able to pinpoint good directing as the reason I enjoy a film, but Argo is an exception to that. I suppose that Best Picture is a pretty good consolation prize, but in all honesty, I thought Zero Dark Thirty deserved Best Picture just as much as Argo deserved Best Director. Oh, well – I’m not in charge of either decision.
My mom and I were in DC last weekend, and while we were there we visited the International Spy Museum, which is across the street from the National Portrait Gallery. We weren’t able to go when we were in the District last summer, but we’d been told that it was a fun museum. At some point during the lead-up to awards season, I read that Antonio Mendez and his wife, both former CIA operatives, were on the board of the museum, which further intrigued me. In all honesty, I can’t say that I was all that impressed with the museum itself; I chalk it up to an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, my absolute inability to figure out the preferred direction of travel inside the museum, and the fact that way too many people (and too many children, in particular) were there. I eventually started following every exit sign I found and made my way to the gift store (I do love a gift store, y’all), where I found autographed copies of Mendez’s book Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History. I bought one for myself and one for my dad, who loved the movie as much as I did.
This isn’t the book that the film is based on. That’s The Master of Disguise, which was written after the operation was declassified in 1997. Mendez wrote Argo in 2012, after the film had already been completed. As anticipated, the book fills in all the details that the film glosses over. It’s an easy read, albeit lengthier than necessary (I found myself wondering whether Mendez had an ineffective editor or a page number quota that he couldn’t reach without pages and pages and pages of backstory). In any case, I loved learning about how CIA operatives are trained in forgery and disguises; it’s like Mission Impossible, only real.
In a nutshell, here’s what we learn from both the book and the film versions of Argo: the CIA is crazy smart; you can’t hide from them, but they can very effectively hide from you.
A book review and a movie review, all at the same time!
I saw Argo (the movie) last October when I was visiting my friends Brandy and John in Colorado. Brandy and I had planned to go and visit some mountains and some snow, but it rained instead. Everybody knows that rainy mountains aren’t nearly as much fun as snowy mountains, so we opted for a movie day instead. I am embarrassed to admit that I knew little to nothing about the Iran hostages prior to seeing Argo, so it was even more of a learning experience for me than it might have been to a more knowledgeable viewer.
I agree with the reviewers who thought that the manufactured tension at the end of the movie was a little bit tiresome, but overall, I loved Argo. The casting was perfect – especially Alan Arkin and John Goodman – and I agree with all those people who were dumbfounded that Ben Affleck didn’t receive a Director nod at the Oscars. I’m not generally able to pinpoint good directing as the reason I enjoy a film, but Argo is an exception to that. I suppose that Best Picture is a pretty good consolation prize, but in all honesty, I thought Zero Dark Thirty deserved Best Picture just as much as Argo deserved Best Director. Oh, well – I’m not in charge of either decision.
My mom and I were in DC last weekend, and while we were there we visited the International Spy Museum, which is across the street from the National Portrait Gallery. We weren’t able to go when we were in the District last summer, but we’d been told that it was a fun museum. At some point during the lead-up to awards season, I read that Antonio Mendez and his wife, both former CIA operatives, were on the board of the museum, which further intrigued me. In all honesty, I can’t say that I was all that impressed with the museum itself; I chalk it up to an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, my absolute inability to figure out the preferred direction of travel inside the museum, and the fact that way too many people (and too many children, in particular) were there. I eventually started following every exit sign I found and made my way to the gift store (I do love a gift store, y’all), where I found autographed copies of Mendez’s book Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History. I bought one for myself and one for my dad, who loved the movie as much as I did.
This isn’t the book that the film is based on. That’s The Master of Disguise, which was written after the operation was declassified in 1997. Mendez wrote Argo in 2012, after the film had already been completed. As anticipated, the book fills in all the details that the film glosses over. It’s an easy read, albeit lengthier than necessary (I found myself wondering whether Mendez had an ineffective editor or a page number quota that he couldn’t reach without pages and pages and pages of backstory). In any case, I loved learning about how CIA operatives are trained in forgery and disguises; it’s like Mission Impossible, only real.
In a nutshell, here’s what we learn from both the book and the film versions of Argo: the CIA is crazy smart; you can’t hide from them, but they can very effectively hide from you.
05 March 2013
Zero Dark Thirty
Forgive me if I take the long way around this film review.
I find that books are inextricably linked to my important life events. For example, I learned that I had been accepted to law school when I got home from the library at 1:30 a.m. and listened to a voice mail from the Dean. I was researching The Sound and the Fury and Absalom! Absalom! for my final paper in an English class.
And, I specifically remember that the semester I decided not to go to medical school, I was reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Maybe it seems odd, but it’s still one of my favorite books, and that’s probably because there’s this paragraph in which the narrator perfectly explains why she could never be a doctor. She’s looking at the Periodic Table – all symbols and abbreviations, impersonal and sanitized – and just sees, in that moment, that she can’t spend the rest of her life caring about it. I felt validated, inasmuch as I could feel validated by a fictional character in a book whose author committed suicide by sticking her head in the oven, I suppose.
The semester after that, I took five English classes, so thrilled with the prospect of being able to take classes that I actually wanted to take that I apparently forgot to consider what it would actually mean to read five books every single week for 16 weeks in a row. Now, admittedly, some of those books were just awful; in fact, I’m pretty sure that every book I read for my British Literature class was terrible, and made more so by the professor, an American man in his sixties who was educated at Vanderbilt, but who at some point spent like six months at Oxford and in that brief time, developed an affected British accent so thick that it barely diminished despite him spending the subsequent four decades teaching at Alabama. But I digress.
The World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks happened during my Shakespeare class in 2001. Literally, during. I left my classroom, walked out of Morgan Hall to my car, turned on the radio, and heard that One World Trade Center had collapsed. I remember that we were discussing Othello that day, which was notable because it is my most favorite of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I also remember that we were reading e.e. cummings in my Poetry class that met the next morning; I know because we were assigned to imitate a poem of our choosing every week, and I imitated a cummings poem when I wrote about 9/11.
A few weekends ago, I finally saw Zero Dark Thirty. I had put it off for a while, mostly because I just wasn’t really ready to deal with it. I finally had to bite the bullet because the Academy Awards were airing the next Sunday, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to watch a movie that long during the week. I think the reasons for my hesitance are pretty obvious, but at the same time that I worried about revisiting the trauma of that time, I was also a little bit anxious about the scenes depicting torture.
Those scenes in particular had gotten quite a bit of bad press and brought back all the conflicting feelings I had when the practices at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo were exposed during the summer following my first year of law school. My guess is that Kathryn Bigelow anticipated that her audience may take issue with watching something that intensely graphic, but that she wouldn’t risk being called a hypocrite by making a film about the hunt for bin Laden but not addressing the systematic methodology of torture used to extract information about him. She’s smart. And because she’s smart, she starts her film with 9-1-1 recordings from the victims in the towers; she uses their words, their fear, the moments when they struggle to accept their own deaths, to help us accept (justify? rationalize?) what we will see later.
I can’t really say much else about Zero Dark Thirty that hasn’t been said someplace else. I enjoyed it, despite all the time I spent with my hands covering my mouth, and all the tears I cried – some in horror, some because I am so proud of those who serve our country. It is a fantastic film, and really, so much better than The Hurt Locker. I loved Silver Linings Playbook, and I think that Jennifer Lawrence is a fine young actress, but Jessica Chastain deserved the Oscar for Leading Actress.
I find that books are inextricably linked to my important life events. For example, I learned that I had been accepted to law school when I got home from the library at 1:30 a.m. and listened to a voice mail from the Dean. I was researching The Sound and the Fury and Absalom! Absalom! for my final paper in an English class.
And, I specifically remember that the semester I decided not to go to medical school, I was reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Maybe it seems odd, but it’s still one of my favorite books, and that’s probably because there’s this paragraph in which the narrator perfectly explains why she could never be a doctor. She’s looking at the Periodic Table – all symbols and abbreviations, impersonal and sanitized – and just sees, in that moment, that she can’t spend the rest of her life caring about it. I felt validated, inasmuch as I could feel validated by a fictional character in a book whose author committed suicide by sticking her head in the oven, I suppose.
The semester after that, I took five English classes, so thrilled with the prospect of being able to take classes that I actually wanted to take that I apparently forgot to consider what it would actually mean to read five books every single week for 16 weeks in a row. Now, admittedly, some of those books were just awful; in fact, I’m pretty sure that every book I read for my British Literature class was terrible, and made more so by the professor, an American man in his sixties who was educated at Vanderbilt, but who at some point spent like six months at Oxford and in that brief time, developed an affected British accent so thick that it barely diminished despite him spending the subsequent four decades teaching at Alabama. But I digress.
The World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks happened during my Shakespeare class in 2001. Literally, during. I left my classroom, walked out of Morgan Hall to my car, turned on the radio, and heard that One World Trade Center had collapsed. I remember that we were discussing Othello that day, which was notable because it is my most favorite of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I also remember that we were reading e.e. cummings in my Poetry class that met the next morning; I know because we were assigned to imitate a poem of our choosing every week, and I imitated a cummings poem when I wrote about 9/11.
A few weekends ago, I finally saw Zero Dark Thirty. I had put it off for a while, mostly because I just wasn’t really ready to deal with it. I finally had to bite the bullet because the Academy Awards were airing the next Sunday, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to watch a movie that long during the week. I think the reasons for my hesitance are pretty obvious, but at the same time that I worried about revisiting the trauma of that time, I was also a little bit anxious about the scenes depicting torture.
Those scenes in particular had gotten quite a bit of bad press and brought back all the conflicting feelings I had when the practices at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo were exposed during the summer following my first year of law school. My guess is that Kathryn Bigelow anticipated that her audience may take issue with watching something that intensely graphic, but that she wouldn’t risk being called a hypocrite by making a film about the hunt for bin Laden but not addressing the systematic methodology of torture used to extract information about him. She’s smart. And because she’s smart, she starts her film with 9-1-1 recordings from the victims in the towers; she uses their words, their fear, the moments when they struggle to accept their own deaths, to help us accept (justify? rationalize?) what we will see later.
I can’t really say much else about Zero Dark Thirty that hasn’t been said someplace else. I enjoyed it, despite all the time I spent with my hands covering my mouth, and all the tears I cried – some in horror, some because I am so proud of those who serve our country. It is a fantastic film, and really, so much better than The Hurt Locker. I loved Silver Linings Playbook, and I think that Jennifer Lawrence is a fine young actress, but Jessica Chastain deserved the Oscar for Leading Actress.
25 May 2009
25 Random Things About Me
I was rereading some posts on Amanda's blog, and I was inspired to create a list of my own:
1. I have seen “Gone With the Wind” more times than I can count. My favorite time was at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham with Rebecca. I'm not sure if it's my favorite because the theater is so pretty, or because there were people dressed in antebellum clothes, or because Rebecca and I got lost trying to find the place and then got the giggles when she tried to parallel park.
2. I could listen to Nina Simone 24 hours a day and not get tired of hearing her sing “Wild is the Wind.”
3. I visit People Magazine’s website at least ten times a day.
4. I agree whole-heartedly with Sylvia Plath and Amanda: “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”
5. My favorite perfume is Burberry Classic.
6. My favorite part of a jury trial is closing arguments.
7. Lip gloss takes up most of the room in my makeup bag.
8. I am a graduate of the University of Alabama (not once, but twice), and though I know every word to “Yay, Alabama!” and will sing it at the top of my lungs whenever asked, I am, at heart, an LSU fan.
9. When I think about Alabama, the things I miss most (besides my family, of course) are oak trees, Southern accents, and people who open doors for me.
10. I am learning to crochet (well, re-learning).
11. I want to learn how to quilt…
12. …and speak Italian.
13. My guilty pleasure: Goop.com (Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle website).
14. Even guiltier pleasure: The Real Housewives of New York City. It's like watching a train wreck, and I'm pretty sure it makes me dumber, but it's so ridiculous I can't stop.
15. I really hate it that one must have a subscription to The New York Times in order to receive The New York Times Magazine.
16. I regret that I never learned to make biscuits from my Grandmama.
17. I get nauseated when I smell the Sun-Ripened Raspberry products from Bath & Body Works. I associate that smell with HealthSouth, where Grandmama went for rehab after she had a stroke.
18. It *really* irritates me when people confuse their and there, it’s and its, and you’re and your. If I ever kill someone, this will probably be why.
19. I have a specific writing-instrument preference: blue ink, rollerball, micro tip. Our office manager orders them special for me.
20. I am addicted to philosophy’s Microdelivery Peel. I use it about 3 times a week.
21. I talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day.
22. As much as I love being a prosecutor, I wish I owned a store. Preferably a gift store that is also a bakery. Although in this economy, it’s probably better that I don’t.
23. I don’t like ice cream all that much, unless I’m eating it at the store in Needham, with a little wooden spoon. Tastes different.
24. When I was little and complained of constant headaches, my parents thought I was lying and just trying to get attention. Turns out I was legally blind. They felt really bad.
25. I can’t wait to buy a house just so I can paint the walls. I’ve been surrounded by off-white walls since I was 16. I would also like a fireplace, although given that I live in the desert, that has more to do with wanting a mantle than with wanting a heat-producing object.
1. I have seen “Gone With the Wind” more times than I can count. My favorite time was at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham with Rebecca. I'm not sure if it's my favorite because the theater is so pretty, or because there were people dressed in antebellum clothes, or because Rebecca and I got lost trying to find the place and then got the giggles when she tried to parallel park.
2. I could listen to Nina Simone 24 hours a day and not get tired of hearing her sing “Wild is the Wind.”
3. I visit People Magazine’s website at least ten times a day.
4. I agree whole-heartedly with Sylvia Plath and Amanda: “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”
5. My favorite perfume is Burberry Classic.
6. My favorite part of a jury trial is closing arguments.
7. Lip gloss takes up most of the room in my makeup bag.
8. I am a graduate of the University of Alabama (not once, but twice), and though I know every word to “Yay, Alabama!” and will sing it at the top of my lungs whenever asked, I am, at heart, an LSU fan.
9. When I think about Alabama, the things I miss most (besides my family, of course) are oak trees, Southern accents, and people who open doors for me.
10. I am learning to crochet (well, re-learning).
11. I want to learn how to quilt…
12. …and speak Italian.
13. My guilty pleasure: Goop.com (Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle website).
14. Even guiltier pleasure: The Real Housewives of New York City. It's like watching a train wreck, and I'm pretty sure it makes me dumber, but it's so ridiculous I can't stop.
15. I really hate it that one must have a subscription to The New York Times in order to receive The New York Times Magazine.
16. I regret that I never learned to make biscuits from my Grandmama.
17. I get nauseated when I smell the Sun-Ripened Raspberry products from Bath & Body Works. I associate that smell with HealthSouth, where Grandmama went for rehab after she had a stroke.
18. It *really* irritates me when people confuse their and there, it’s and its, and you’re and your. If I ever kill someone, this will probably be why.
19. I have a specific writing-instrument preference: blue ink, rollerball, micro tip. Our office manager orders them special for me.
20. I am addicted to philosophy’s Microdelivery Peel. I use it about 3 times a week.
21. I talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day.
22. As much as I love being a prosecutor, I wish I owned a store. Preferably a gift store that is also a bakery. Although in this economy, it’s probably better that I don’t.
23. I don’t like ice cream all that much, unless I’m eating it at the store in Needham, with a little wooden spoon. Tastes different.
24. When I was little and complained of constant headaches, my parents thought I was lying and just trying to get attention. Turns out I was legally blind. They felt really bad.
25. I can’t wait to buy a house just so I can paint the walls. I’ve been surrounded by off-white walls since I was 16. I would also like a fireplace, although given that I live in the desert, that has more to do with wanting a mantle than with wanting a heat-producing object.
09 May 2009
The Soloist
starring Robert Downey, Jr. and Jamie Foxx
The Arizona Foundation for Women had a fundraiser on Thursday night. They raise money to fund lots of different projects that benefit women who have left domestic violence relationships.
Sure, it's a good cause, and sure, it's a great way to network with women in different careers, but the real reason I went is because the reception part of the event was held at Tiffany's, and there were door prizes. Sadly, I won none. I did, however, purchase a bracelet (well, my mom purchased a bracelet for me).
At any rate, following the reception, there was a private showing of The Soloist. I'll admit that I was tempted to leave before the movie (this was a Thursday night, after all, and work has been really hectic lately, and I was exhausted). But I decided to stick around, and I'm glad I did.
This is one of those based-on-a-true-story movies that is meant to be inspirational and uplifting -- and it is. Jamie Foxx's character, Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, Jr., was enrolled in Juilliard before his schizophrenia got the better of him, causing him to drop out, become homeless, and wander the streets of LA pushing a buggy full of various and sundry belongings. And a violin. And eventually a cello.
Robert Downey, Jr.'s character is a disillusioned journalist, looking for his next big story. He finds both a story and a friend in Nathaniel and quickly has to wrestle his own personal issues once he begins to feel responsible for helping him.
Yeah, sure, it's predictable, but I left feeling a little happier than when I'd gone in. And because I'm a softy, I'll admit that I cried a little bit. I laughed a lot, too, though...turns out that crazy people are hysterical.
The Arizona Foundation for Women had a fundraiser on Thursday night. They raise money to fund lots of different projects that benefit women who have left domestic violence relationships.
Sure, it's a good cause, and sure, it's a great way to network with women in different careers, but the real reason I went is because the reception part of the event was held at Tiffany's, and there were door prizes. Sadly, I won none. I did, however, purchase a bracelet (well, my mom purchased a bracelet for me).
At any rate, following the reception, there was a private showing of The Soloist. I'll admit that I was tempted to leave before the movie (this was a Thursday night, after all, and work has been really hectic lately, and I was exhausted). But I decided to stick around, and I'm glad I did.
This is one of those based-on-a-true-story movies that is meant to be inspirational and uplifting -- and it is. Jamie Foxx's character, Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, Jr., was enrolled in Juilliard before his schizophrenia got the better of him, causing him to drop out, become homeless, and wander the streets of LA pushing a buggy full of various and sundry belongings. And a violin. And eventually a cello.
Robert Downey, Jr.'s character is a disillusioned journalist, looking for his next big story. He finds both a story and a friend in Nathaniel and quickly has to wrestle his own personal issues once he begins to feel responsible for helping him.
Yeah, sure, it's predictable, but I left feeling a little happier than when I'd gone in. And because I'm a softy, I'll admit that I cried a little bit. I laughed a lot, too, though...turns out that crazy people are hysterical.
05 May 2009
12
--a Russian film I recently went to see.
Yes, it's in Russian, and yes, there are subtitles...and yes, it's an excellent movie. Premise: basically, a updated (and Russian) version of 12 Angry Men, a classic play that was turned into an Academy Award-nominated movie starring Henry Fonda and a bunch of other guys who I'd recognize if I saw their pictures but whose names I can never remember. Suffice it to say that it's pret-ty much impossible to graduate from law school without seeing this film at least once.
So, I found myself a little bored on a random Thursday and took myself to the movies. Of course, as my readership may imagine, no one else on the planet (well, not in Scottsdale, anyway) wanted to spend their Thursday night viewing a foreign movie about a Chechen kid accused of murdering his adopted father, so I was alone in the theatre, save for a *really* strange fellow, dressed in plaid wool pants, who sat in front of me and talked at the screen for about 45 minutes, before muttering something about Russian accents and storming out.
Great film; I highly recommend that all of you see it. Don't worry: the subtitles stop being annoying after about 15 minutes.
Yes, it's in Russian, and yes, there are subtitles...and yes, it's an excellent movie. Premise: basically, a updated (and Russian) version of 12 Angry Men, a classic play that was turned into an Academy Award-nominated movie starring Henry Fonda and a bunch of other guys who I'd recognize if I saw their pictures but whose names I can never remember. Suffice it to say that it's pret-ty much impossible to graduate from law school without seeing this film at least once.
So, I found myself a little bored on a random Thursday and took myself to the movies. Of course, as my readership may imagine, no one else on the planet (well, not in Scottsdale, anyway) wanted to spend their Thursday night viewing a foreign movie about a Chechen kid accused of murdering his adopted father, so I was alone in the theatre, save for a *really* strange fellow, dressed in plaid wool pants, who sat in front of me and talked at the screen for about 45 minutes, before muttering something about Russian accents and storming out.
Great film; I highly recommend that all of you see it. Don't worry: the subtitles stop being annoying after about 15 minutes.
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