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.
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.
31 January 2014
Cousin-Friends
Just before Christmas, my younger cousin, Rebecca, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s healthy and energetic, and she has a perfect, beautiful 16-month old little boy, Charlie. Rebecca and I probably weren’t the closest as children; her brother Rob and I are the same age, so our interests were typically more aligned. Rebecca is two years younger than Rob and I, and even though that age difference is practically non-existent now, it seemed more significant then. We became much closer during college though, so much so that our Grandmama spoke often about how happy it made her for us to be friends as well as cousins. We christened ourselves “cousin-friends," and well, I could never have imagined how meaningful and important that hybrid relationship would become, not only with Rebecca, but also with my other cousins with whom I am blessed to share friendships. Of course, I’m sure Grandmama knew; hence, her happiness.
Rebecca shares many traits with our Grandmama, and mostly, it’s the ones that I strive to emulate but never quite master: her reserved determination, her limitless kindness, and her ability to turn just about anything into a story. My most favorite memories of our college years are the times she cooked spaghetti (with Worcestershire sauce) and the time that we played Chinese fire drill in front of the Alabama Theater so that I could parallel park her car. These may not seem like major life events, but let me tell you, mention either of them to us, and I guarantee we’ll laugh… a lot.
Rebecca had a double mastectomy the day after Christmas, and just this week, she had her first of eight biweekly chemo treatments. I am in awe of her strength and positivity, though I suppose I am not really all that surprised by it. She’s always been the funny one, the sweet-spirited mischief maker, the little girl who always wanted to make people laugh and who grew up to become a young woman who always manages to find the good in everyone. Since her diagnosis, Rebecca has spoken frequently to acknowledge the power of prayer and to ask that her friends and family join in praying for her healing; she has repeatedly voiced her confidence in God’s ability to heal. She doesn't complain, and almost never mentions fear or worry, and to me, this has been perhaps her greatest testimony.
Ephesians Chapter 3 has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It was written by Paul while he was in prison, and during this time of struggle, Paul writes not about his physical suffering but instead about God’s righteousness and faithfulness. Isn’t that incredible?
I haven’t figured out God’s ultimate purpose in putting Rebecca through this awful ordeal — putting all of us through it — and it’s probably not for me to know or understand anyway. I am certain, however, that I have learned a lifetime’s worth of lessons about grace, gratefulness, faith, courage, and humility.
"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."
I love you, Becca.
Rebecca shares many traits with our Grandmama, and mostly, it’s the ones that I strive to emulate but never quite master: her reserved determination, her limitless kindness, and her ability to turn just about anything into a story. My most favorite memories of our college years are the times she cooked spaghetti (with Worcestershire sauce) and the time that we played Chinese fire drill in front of the Alabama Theater so that I could parallel park her car. These may not seem like major life events, but let me tell you, mention either of them to us, and I guarantee we’ll laugh… a lot.
Rebecca had a double mastectomy the day after Christmas, and just this week, she had her first of eight biweekly chemo treatments. I am in awe of her strength and positivity, though I suppose I am not really all that surprised by it. She’s always been the funny one, the sweet-spirited mischief maker, the little girl who always wanted to make people laugh and who grew up to become a young woman who always manages to find the good in everyone. Since her diagnosis, Rebecca has spoken frequently to acknowledge the power of prayer and to ask that her friends and family join in praying for her healing; she has repeatedly voiced her confidence in God’s ability to heal. She doesn't complain, and almost never mentions fear or worry, and to me, this has been perhaps her greatest testimony.
Ephesians Chapter 3 has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It was written by Paul while he was in prison, and during this time of struggle, Paul writes not about his physical suffering but instead about God’s righteousness and faithfulness. Isn’t that incredible?
I haven’t figured out God’s ultimate purpose in putting Rebecca through this awful ordeal — putting all of us through it — and it’s probably not for me to know or understand anyway. I am certain, however, that I have learned a lifetime’s worth of lessons about grace, gratefulness, faith, courage, and humility.
"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."
I love you, Becca.
The Goldfinch
by Donna Tartt
Donna Tartt's first novel, The Secret History, is one of my favorite books ever. I've read it probably a dozen times, and as I type this, I realize that I am suddenly gripped by the urge to read it again. I was sorely disappointed in her second attempt, The Little Friend, to the point where I didn't even finish reading it. As such, I was somewhat guarded in my excitement leading up to the release of this, her third novel.
The Goldfinch is about the adolescence and early adulthood of a boy orphaned by an act of terrorism (I'm giving away some of the plot here, but not so much that it'll be any less devastating when you read it for yourself). There are guardianship woes and frequent changes in setting, enough so that you don't get bored by the surroundings, so to speak. His story becomes entwined with that of the title piece of artwork, and mayhem ensues.
On Goodreads, I rated it 3 stars, but as I said there (and the rest of this is taken directly from my Goodreads review), I think that if half stars could be awarded, I'd have rated this book 3.5, which is to say that it's very good but could have benefited from a more active editor. There are pages upon pages upon pages that are so perfectly written that I want to read them again and again. And then there are the last 100 pages, which I think could have been condensed into perhaps ten.
Tartt is gifted with description. I felt the dampness and old money of New York just as vividly as I felt the glaring, blinding light and heat of Las Vegas. I enjoy that that action is told from the perspective of someone whom we can't really trust because he has been, essentially, plastered since adolescence, first with grief, then culture shock, then drugs and alcohol. I appreciate Tartt's indulgence of this perspective and that she's skilled at changing the facts just when I think I've grasped hold of them.
She's just as gifted with pacing and detail, self-indulgent allusions notwithstanding. Tartt is well-read, exceedingly clever, and quite smart...and she really, really needs for her readers to know that, I think. The novel is littered with quintessentially English exclamations like, "Well done, you!" and references to "tinned crabmeat" and "pyjamas," which reveal what I believe to be the author's embarrassment of or uneasiness with her Mississippi upbringing. There were times when I wanted, truly, to throttle her and say, "Listen, Donna, we both know this isn't how Americans -- let alone Southerners -- speak or spell, regardless of their wealth, education, or social position."
More often, though, I felt a kinship borne primarily of our Southern-ness and apparently shared obsession with the BBC. After all, how would I know that Brits use "tinned" in place of our more colloquial "canned" if I didn't spend a great deal of time reading P.G. Wodehouse, watching "Fawlty Towers," and inhaling everything Julian Fellowes produces, both on screen and in print.
In short, this novel falls somewhere between The Secret History and The Little Friend, though considerably closer to the former than the latter.
Donna Tartt's first novel, The Secret History, is one of my favorite books ever. I've read it probably a dozen times, and as I type this, I realize that I am suddenly gripped by the urge to read it again. I was sorely disappointed in her second attempt, The Little Friend, to the point where I didn't even finish reading it. As such, I was somewhat guarded in my excitement leading up to the release of this, her third novel.
The Goldfinch is about the adolescence and early adulthood of a boy orphaned by an act of terrorism (I'm giving away some of the plot here, but not so much that it'll be any less devastating when you read it for yourself). There are guardianship woes and frequent changes in setting, enough so that you don't get bored by the surroundings, so to speak. His story becomes entwined with that of the title piece of artwork, and mayhem ensues.
On Goodreads, I rated it 3 stars, but as I said there (and the rest of this is taken directly from my Goodreads review), I think that if half stars could be awarded, I'd have rated this book 3.5, which is to say that it's very good but could have benefited from a more active editor. There are pages upon pages upon pages that are so perfectly written that I want to read them again and again. And then there are the last 100 pages, which I think could have been condensed into perhaps ten.
Tartt is gifted with description. I felt the dampness and old money of New York just as vividly as I felt the glaring, blinding light and heat of Las Vegas. I enjoy that that action is told from the perspective of someone whom we can't really trust because he has been, essentially, plastered since adolescence, first with grief, then culture shock, then drugs and alcohol. I appreciate Tartt's indulgence of this perspective and that she's skilled at changing the facts just when I think I've grasped hold of them.
She's just as gifted with pacing and detail, self-indulgent allusions notwithstanding. Tartt is well-read, exceedingly clever, and quite smart...and she really, really needs for her readers to know that, I think. The novel is littered with quintessentially English exclamations like, "Well done, you!" and references to "tinned crabmeat" and "pyjamas," which reveal what I believe to be the author's embarrassment of or uneasiness with her Mississippi upbringing. There were times when I wanted, truly, to throttle her and say, "Listen, Donna, we both know this isn't how Americans -- let alone Southerners -- speak or spell, regardless of their wealth, education, or social position."
More often, though, I felt a kinship borne primarily of our Southern-ness and apparently shared obsession with the BBC. After all, how would I know that Brits use "tinned" in place of our more colloquial "canned" if I didn't spend a great deal of time reading P.G. Wodehouse, watching "Fawlty Towers," and inhaling everything Julian Fellowes produces, both on screen and in print.
In short, this novel falls somewhere between The Secret History and The Little Friend, though considerably closer to the former than the latter.
02 October 2013
Crêpes
I'm probably the only person I know who goes on vacation and looks forward to cooking, but with the schedule I keep at work and all of my various volunteer activies, I do very little cooking when I'm home. In addition to just frankly wanting to avoid the mess, it just plain isn't practical to cook for one person. I enjoy cooking, though, and it is typically relaxing for me, so I was excited to get to make some stuff while I was in Cape Cod.
The most exciting were these crêpes, which I made using Martha Stewart's recipe for Simple Crêpes. For the filling, I used ricotta cheese, which I topped with two separate fruit mixtures made from pears and bananas mixed and heated with dark brown sugar, butter, a tiny bit of salt, and vanilla.
The most exciting were these crêpes, which I made using Martha Stewart's recipe for Simple Crêpes. For the filling, I used ricotta cheese, which I topped with two separate fruit mixtures made from pears and bananas mixed and heated with dark brown sugar, butter, a tiny bit of salt, and vanilla.
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| Banana Crêpes |
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| Pear Crêpes |
I finally found a mascara I don't hate.
And here it is: 'Cils d'Enfer' Maxi Lash Mascara by Guerlain. Before I finally found it, though, via a Sephora sample, I was forced to endure two weeks using Marc Jacobs Beauty Lash Lifter Gel Volume Mascara, which somehow managed to make me look like I had perhaps four eyelashes, all of them shorter and straighter than my mascara-less natural lashes. The Guerlain doesn't quite live up to Chantecaille, but it's half the price and close enough.
30 September 2013
October is Infant & Child Death Awareness Month
I hate the title I just gave to this post.
But, it's true. October is, in fact, Infant & Child Death Awareness month, and for that reason, I invite you to visit The Miss Foundation's website to get more information about this incredible organization of which I find myself so blessed to be a part. And while you're there, I'll also ask you to consider making a donation to help fund low-cost bereavement counseling, family information packets, crisis intervention, and other life-saving services for families that depend on MISS. You can click on the badge to the right of the screen, which will take you directly to MISS's website, where you'll find a link for donations. They're tax deductible. :-)
If you'd like to spread a bit of awareness of your own, then just visit this site and feel free to choose the badge you like best to use (for free) as your Facebook timeline photo, or your profile pic for Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or whatever your preferred social media site happens to be. And share the page with your friends so that they can do the same. Hugs and love.
But, it's true. October is, in fact, Infant & Child Death Awareness month, and for that reason, I invite you to visit The Miss Foundation's website to get more information about this incredible organization of which I find myself so blessed to be a part. And while you're there, I'll also ask you to consider making a donation to help fund low-cost bereavement counseling, family information packets, crisis intervention, and other life-saving services for families that depend on MISS. You can click on the badge to the right of the screen, which will take you directly to MISS's website, where you'll find a link for donations. They're tax deductible. :-)
If you'd like to spread a bit of awareness of your own, then just visit this site and feel free to choose the badge you like best to use (for free) as your Facebook timeline photo, or your profile pic for Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or whatever your preferred social media site happens to be. And share the page with your friends so that they can do the same. Hugs and love.
18 June 2013
Mascara
Chantecaille Faux Cils Longest Lash Mascara
I was in Barney's a while back and bought a couple of things, and I got a sample of this mascara. I fell in love almost immediately, which means that I was fairly well traumatized when I found out that it costs $70.00! On to the next mascara...although I fully intend to ask for another sample very soon.
Givenchy Noir Couture 4-in-1 Mascara
Last week, I went to Sephora, and this was the mascara recommended to me by the child in clown makeup who latched onto me when I walked in. I found the brush terribly intriguing, but Givenchy has been known to do this to me before: catch my attention with something shiny, i.e. a strangely-shaped wand, and then completely disappoint me when it comes to everyday use.
Such is the case, yet again. This mascara makes my eyelashes clump together like crazy. "Separation" was the one specification I insisted on when I listed off the attributes I look for in a mascara; it's more important than lengthening or volumizing for me because my eyelashes aren't short or thin. They are, however, prone to clumps, so I need a mascara that won't exacerbate that. Moreover, even if I wanted lengthening or volumizing, I'd prefer DiorShow over this Givenchy because to be honest, I didn't even observe any noticeable lengthening or volumizing. It mostly just colored my eyelashes brown and then made them stick together. It didn't curl or anything.
I was in Barney's a while back and bought a couple of things, and I got a sample of this mascara. I fell in love almost immediately, which means that I was fairly well traumatized when I found out that it costs $70.00! On to the next mascara...although I fully intend to ask for another sample very soon.
Givenchy Noir Couture 4-in-1 Mascara
Last week, I went to Sephora, and this was the mascara recommended to me by the child in clown makeup who latched onto me when I walked in. I found the brush terribly intriguing, but Givenchy has been known to do this to me before: catch my attention with something shiny, i.e. a strangely-shaped wand, and then completely disappoint me when it comes to everyday use.
Such is the case, yet again. This mascara makes my eyelashes clump together like crazy. "Separation" was the one specification I insisted on when I listed off the attributes I look for in a mascara; it's more important than lengthening or volumizing for me because my eyelashes aren't short or thin. They are, however, prone to clumps, so I need a mascara that won't exacerbate that. Moreover, even if I wanted lengthening or volumizing, I'd prefer DiorShow over this Givenchy because to be honest, I didn't even observe any noticeable lengthening or volumizing. It mostly just colored my eyelashes brown and then made them stick together. It didn't curl or anything.
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