Dancing Brave

Georgia Fool

This will surprise exactly no one, but Georgia Rule is really, really, almost impressively terrible. I can't decide what's sadder: that Dina Lohan thought Lindsay was going to win an Oscar for this based on the script, or that she thought Lindsay was going to win an Oscar based on her performance. Of course, whichever one she meant, that she voiced this certainty at ALL speaks to the mighty fine judgment of that woman.

I can't believe how much LiLo has f'ed up her career. I saw it all happen, and yet it's still so unbelievable to me that she's gone from Mean Girls to being so totally D-List. It just goes to show that when the world is your oyster, you'd better bloody not take it for granted. Or, to put it more bluntly: Kids, don't be asshats.

Pea Soup I Don't Hate

My mother-in-law is visiting this weekend, which has been fun -- she's very relaxing company, much like her son, so there's none of that stereotypical Monster-In-Law nonsense where she comes in and says, like, "Your hair is looking nice, considering," or, "Your house is much cleaner than I expected," or, "Kevin looks skinny -- does he not like your cooking?" Instead, I love her. She's so warm and nice. I scored in that respect.

And so, since we're taking her out to dinner for Mother's Day, I decided to cook last night. Kevin grilled on her first night here and all I had to do was steam some cauliflower, so this was my turn. For Christmas, Dad made up a little binder of some of his favorite recipes and kitchen tricks -- including three recipes for creamed spinach of varying degrees of difficulty, including "Creamed Spinach: Delicious," which reads solely, "Go to Fleming's [a steakhouse chain they love] and order some." Contained therein is a recipe he calls Smelly London Fog but which we usually refer to by its more literal title, "Cod In Pea Soup." That's what I made.

Now, I know how weird that sounds. The first time I heard about it, I envisioned whole peas and bits of fish floating around in a broth, and I gagged, because a) I don't even like peas, so the entire idea of pea soup -- especially once you slap a piece of fish into it -- sounds like fresh, green hell to me, and b) I generally hate fish, although cod and its ilk are usually fine because they don't taste like what they are. This is more like a fried piece of love in a creamy puree, the kind of meal you need more bread to enjoy because bending down and scraping your tongue against the plate isn't encouraged in polite society. Essentially, the soup is (or can be) so thick and creamy it could almost work as a dip with toasted baguette slices, and you plop a piece of breaded white fish into the middle. I almost wanted to photograph it, but I am no Grant or Carol; however, this was one of the few times where I got the plating just right, as opposed to my usual "Looks Like Crap But Tastes Good" approach to serving food, so I probably should have indulged the whim.

Here's what you do: Bring a pint of chicken stock to a boil and then -- according to my Dad's recipe -- "bung in a packet of frozen peas." When they're tender, take them off the heat and run them through a food processor. I do this in batches, by spooning out the peas bit by bit first, then slowly adding the liquid and letting the Cuisinart whir until it's relatively smooth. My Dad's recipe continues, "Because this will not work, you should then run it through a fine mesh strainer, pressing the mushy bits with the back of a ladel or whatever's handy, just to make sure all the good stuff is squeezed out." I had relative success with my Cuisinart, though. It was smooth enough; I like a bit of texture in this dish, but even so, this was fairly successfully pureed, so I skipped the strainer step and put it all straight back into the pot. Bring that to a boil, and add "as much heavy cream as you fancy" -- for me, maybe half a small carton? -- and an indeterminate amount of sherry (my Dad is apparently the Rachael Ray of our house). I can't even quantify how much I put in; I just poured a little in there, and since "a little salt and pepper wouldn't go amiss," I threw some of that in too and stirred it up, and then kept it simmering until everything else was ready.

I sprinkled some sesame seeds onto the baking sheet that goes with my toaster oven and prepared to toast them -- if you do this step, either do it way in advance or do it right at the end because they only take a minute or a minute and a half. Also, watch them, because they go from blonde to black in almost no time. We went through four tries before they were golden brown. Start small and keep toasting in tiny increments (you could do this in your oven, too, obviously) until you catch them right when they're caramel-colored. It's hard. Kevin had to devote almost all his energies just to completing this step. There was much cursing. If you do multiple attempts, like we did, remember that the hot pan contributes to them toasting even faster each successive time. It took us two batches to realize that.

Anyway: I dredged three 5-ounce pieces of halibut (cod or sea bass, or any flaky white fish, would work too and the recipe originally DOES call for cod, but they all are delicious with it) in egg wash, flour, egg wash again, and then breadcrumbs. I heated a bit of oil in a pan that I spritzed with Pam for good measure, then fried the fish for about seven minutes total, with the soup still simmering next to it. To plate, I spooned the soup into a shallow pasta bowl, placed the fish on top of it, sprinkled some toasted sesame seeds, and then added a drizzle of sesame oil because the recipe promised me it would "look like you really know what you're doing."

DELISH. If you're still sitting there feeling skeptical, trust me, I know where you're coming from, but you're wrong. I can't impress upon you how much I hate all the green vegetables that are the best for me (broccoli, peas, etc), and yet this dish is GOOD. It's also really hard to screw up, because you can just add more cream and a drizzle more sesame oil and nobody will notice anything else. But boiling the peas in chicken stock gives them a nice richness of flavor that is far less gross than I imagine when I envision eating a spoonful of them in their regular form. Now, if only someone would discover that cream is magically heart-healthy and not at all fattening, I would eat this all the time.

We also played some Scrabble, went to the Getty, and watched The Departed. I thought it was only okay -- without spoiling it for those who haven't seen it, some of the cat-and-mouse stuff was all right, but I thought the storyline with the girl was kind of dumb, was a bit bored by what I felt was lazy dialogue (it felt like, "When in doubt, use the c-word, or the f-word, or better, BOTH!"), and got distracted by the bits on which the story hangs that involve really unrealistic text-messaging during times of crisis. I mean, I'm pretty sure that Jack Nicholson would NOTICE that the dude in his backseat is shifty-eyed and punching words into his phone when he's not supposed to be. I also thought Jack Nicholson was sort of terrible. I know he was a good actor in his day -- I've seen Chinatown and One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, so I get that Jack Of Yore had skills -- but that doesn't mean I have to like him NOW. It doesn't give him a pass, so I have to admit it: I'm sick of his schtick, and "schtick" is really what it's starting to feel like. He's approaching Pacino levels of intolerable for me. Okay, not QUITE that bad -- I REALLY think Pacino is drastically overrated at this point in his career -- but seriously, I was never able to buy the menace in Nicholson's character because half the time his scenes were so overplayed. And the last shot of the movie was a tiny bit on-the-nose for me. I didn't hate it, definitely didn't love it, don't really need to see it again, and got bored when we hit the two-hour mark and it was still going.

Of course, I freely admit I am not the arbiter of taste when it comes to movies. More and more, I like to be idly amused or emotionally engaged in a weepy way, maybe even both at once, so this kind of film is almost never going to satisfy me completely, although I did WANT to like it. Oh well. So that we have full disclosure, I almost cried at P.S. I Love You when I saw it on a plane -- although I know it's not a good movie either, the soundtrack is great, and all I could do was sit there and think how totally screwed and depressed and inconsolable and inert I would be if anything tragic happens to Kevin. Hence, the tears. But the fact remains I was, at least on some level, more moved by that than I was by The Departed. You may revoke my membership to the human race now, if you like. I guess right now, for whatever reason, I don't dig Films With A Capital F as much as I do regular old movies. So while y'all are partaking in Things Of Quality, I will be watching Center Stage reruns on Oxygen while I slather myself in pea soup.

Bless You, HBO

The greatest thing about any given morning when you're working at home -- aside from the commute -- is the discovery of a movie on cable that you haven't seen in a long time. Usually, you learn pretty quickly what's in rotation, and get into habits of certain movies that you'll screen several times a day or a week in different-sized chunks, so it's rare that one of these channels coughs up something fresh. In this case, it was The Princess Bride, one of my favorite movies of all time and one which I can -- and do -- quote with abandon. The other day while I packing for Fashion Week, I busted out with, "What I wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak," and then was sad when I realized I was alone and talking to myself.

Having said that, there is always a part of this movie where I go, "HOW DOES SHE NOT RECOGNIZE HIS VOICE?" You know how it goes -- she's blindfolded, Westley is going up against a Sicilian when death is on the line, and she has nothing to do but focus on what's happening and who's speaking. And she can't somehow figure out that the person fighting for her is the same person who murmured "As you wish" at her all those times. Okay, I know she thinks he's dead, but COME ON, lady. Wouldn't it at least take you back? Make you suspicious? Has she not seen Days? And then of course he spirits her away and he's only wearing a partial mask, but the mustache apparently renders him totally unrecognizable despite the fact that she can SEE his eyes while she's describing Westley's as being "like the sea after a storm." And I keep wanting to yell, "HE IS RIGHT THERE, HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THIS YOU SILLY PERSON?" And then I remember I'm thirty and not thirteen.

So I'm thinking Princess Buttercup might not be the brightest bulb.

But I love it all anyway. I remember when, in ninth grade, my friend Heather and I first learned that the six-fingered man was married to Jamie Lee Curtis -- with whose perfect A Fish Called Wanda we were similarly obsessed -- and it BLEW OUR MINDS. I get sad that Andre the Giant is dead, that Cary Elwes doesn't really act that much any more and that we never got married as I so meticulously planned (although I made out better, in the end), and that Mandy Patinkin is supposedly such a crazy asshole. Just before I went into my office to look for something I told Jessica, "I swear on the name of my father, Domingo Montoya, I will find that stupid DVD."  I MIGHT have thought to myself earlier, upon noticing we are low on peanut butter, "HELLO, my name is Heather Cocks. You ate my peanut butter. PREPARE TO DIE." Because I'm fixated again now. Apparently this is how I roll.

Maybe Your Boyfriend Changed Your Ringtone As A Joke

While the rest of the trailer for One Missed Call appears a modicum less ridiculous, it loses me in the first few seconds when the creepy music kicks in and then the first line we hear is a girl breathily twittering, "That's... not... my... ringtone."

I can't wait until this ushers in a new era of horror flicks that feature other exciting new technologies -- like, say, when a girl plugs in her Nintendo Wii and goes to her little parade of self-made avatars and then gasps, "That's... not... my... Mii." And then she gets beheaded by the nunchucks controller.

They're ALL Pretty Cute Grown-Up, Really.

On Sunday night, four of us went to see the new Harry Potter movie, since we're all tingly with anticipation over the last book. My fondness for the series is revealed by, among other things, the fact that I didn't italicize "Harry Potter," as if he is a real person appearing in an autobiographical film.

Anyway, skip this post if you are: a) Jen, b) someone else who hates/is bored by Harry Potter, or c) haven't seen the movie and don't want to know.

Okay. I actually really liked the film. Much was made -- in a denigrating way -- of it being the longest book and the shortest movie, but it only owns the latter distinction by three minutes (Prisoner of Azkaban is right there at 2 hours and 21 minutes). In that time, a pretty clear story arc develops, and for how naturally dark this film is I think that if it had come in much longer, people would be complaining about THAT. I had been doubtful that changing adapters would be a good idea when tackling dense, complex material like the fifth book -- this is the only movie to be penned by someone other than Steve Kloves -- but it was handled so well that I'm actually concerned about going back to Kloves for the sixth film, as I think he (although maybe abetted by the director; I don't know) made a muddle of parts of the fourth.

Anyway: They sweep you rather briskly through the beginning, but do a nice job throughout of showing Harry's inner turmoil, angst, sense of isolation, and frustration in a way that doesn't make him hateful (in the book, he's a furious, resentful mess a lot of the time, which works for me because it's so natural to what anyone would feel if they had been similarly burdened, but which might be onerous to sit through on screen). I am thrilled they cut out Quidditch, which to me is the most expendable part of most of the later books. And they even made Grawp cute and not an annoying representation of Hagrid's increasingly irredeemable stupidity. His inability to grasp the reality of situations kind of ruins the character in Books 4-6, but in the movies he's still relatively likable, so yay for the ever-brilliant Robbie Coltrane.

Some of the visuals are great, and the casting (with the possible exception of the woman who played Mrs. Figg, who I thought was kind of off) remains excellent. Especially Imelda Staunton. She completely carries the character of Dolores Umbridge, who is the most hated villain in the entire series, and that's saying something considering she's up against some dark wizards. And, it must be said, Daniel Radcliffe looks pretty freaking good. It feels very pervy to admit that, since I've watched him grow up on screen, but it's really just empirically true. The D.A. storyline also plays very, very well. Harry got a haircut and some biceps and he's really a bit of a dish. Tom Felton and Rupert Grint's respective trimmed coifs also work, while we're on the subject.

My BIGGEST problem, though, is an issue I've had ever since the third movie, and that is with Michael Gambon's portrayal of Albus Dumbledore. I know it's impossible to follow Richard Harris, who so perfectly embodied my vision of the character, but Gambon's Dumbledore seems like too much of a 180. He's not imposing -- much less formidable, more scattered and aggressive, and less calm. Some of the dialogue in books five and six is hilarious because you can tell Dumbledore remains so serene even when he's driving a clever knife into the heart of his verbal sparring partner. It's impossible not to picture a serene old man with a mischievous smile playing on his lips, a twinkling eye, and a calm delivery that scares the bejeesus out of you when it DOES turn forceful because it's such a surprise and you know, therefore, that he means business. But with Gambon, they've wiped out Dumbledore's quirky eccentricities and just sort of turned him into a tense, almost cranky Dumbledore, who lacks that gentle humor and grandfatherly vibe. He does not play at ALL like the only wizard Voldemort would ever fear. He appears paranoid rather than wise. And the movies don't help in this recharacterization by removing a lot of the quirky stuff he does -- like conjuring a squashy chintz armchair for himself at Harry's Ministry hearing. It's like they've changed his personality to fit the actor, and I don't think that was the right choice.

As for the rest, they're all fangirl nitpicks. I know it's annoying to compare stuff to the source material ALL the time, so I'm trying to restrict it to stuff I think they could've dealt with easily:

1) A pet peeve of mine is when things change just for the sake of change -- like, the dementors aren't hooded and mysterious any more, which seems strange as they are specifically described that way throughout the book series and are in fact spookier that way, and the rendering of talking to Sirius in the fireplace changed and is actually a little more distracting to watch. Also, the depiction of the Patronus charms isn't as clear -- at first I thought they'd skipped making Harry's a stag altogether, but then when the D.A. gets around to conjuring theirs, I realized it just didn't show that clearly.

2) I didn't care for the way they changed the ending. In the book, Harry never hands over the prophecy, but in the movie he is coerced into giving it to Lucius, who then drops it of his own accord (which I so don't buy). Also, the Death Eaters do a lot more proactive cursing at the kids in the book; several of them try to use the summoning charm on the prophecy (their lack of attempts at that in the movie is actually kind of jarring, like, "Um, you're wizards, why are you content to ASK him for it and then WAIT for him to decide?"), and Voldemort does try to invoke the Killing Curse against Harry. In the movie, though, the duel is played down somewhat -- Sirius even opens his fight by punching Lucius, which seems weird to me -- and I don't THINK Voldemort ever chokes out part of the Killing Curse, unless I missed it. He just monologues at Harry a bit until Dumbledore comes along and saves the day. The moment Voldemort possesses Harry is really well done, but it's also not made totally clear that he's doing it partly to tempt Dumbledore into thinking he can kill Voldemort by killing Harry). Bascially, that climactic stuff in the Ministry of Magic is a part of the book I find so striking and engrossing, and I imagine it'd be hard to render all that chaos on the screen, but it's one area where I did feel it was pared back a tiny bit too much.

3) I thought the Tonks character got swept under the rug -- I love her in the book, but the good-natured exchange where she grumbles about how she hates her first name got bastardized into a snotty, "DON'T. CALL. ME. NYMPHADORA," which... dude, if it's quick in the book and it's more fun that way, why change it? They tried to give her a wink here and there but without much to do her character just didn't come across at all, and it's too bad because I think she's cool.

4) I should not be having thoughts like, "Man, Voldemort is kind of hot even without a nose." Because he's EVIL. But knowing it's Ralph Fiennes under there and seeing him in a suit in one of Harry's hallucinations... well, look, I'm only human. This is not a complaint so much as a chance for me to overshare.

5) I sort of missed them seeing Neville's parents in St. Mungo's. I know stuff had to go, and they patched the hole pretty well, actually, but I love Neville and so I kind of wanted him to have a bigger heart-tugging moment. Still, I'm actually pleased they kept it in, because I imagine it's a sign he will remain important in Book 7.

For all my bitching, though, these are small nitpicks, and I was still moved by the story. I laughed -- a lot more than early reviews indicated I would, actually, so a pox on them -- and I was touched by the Harry and Sirius scenes. In all, I think it's my favorite of the films, with the possible exception of Azkaban just because Alfonso Cuaron did a great job transitioning the visual language and universe of the film into a darker, older, more sinister place, just as that book does.

In sum: I am a dork. And as I'll be traveling next week when the book comes out, don't doubt that I've already looked up the locations of no fewer than three bookstores that will sell me an English translation. OH YES.

Bits and Pieces

Earlier this evening, I might have been waiting for The Perfect Man to come on HBO, because we just saw Chris Noth at the bar we went to for Jessica's birthday shindig, and we had been joking about walking up to him and complimenting him on that very sensitive portrayal of a dude who does the crossword in pen. Which of course made me want to relive every creepy moment of him voicing over the contents of fake love letters Hilary Duff was writing to her own mother. [Don't follow my lead by watching it yourself. It's not worth it.]

And I might have turned to that channel 20 minutes early to catch the end of Follow That Bird, an old Sesame Street movie. And I might have paid pretty rapt attention to the entire thing.

Big Bird was my best friend when I was young. I had a big cuddly stuffed one that was also part-hand puppet (you could put your finger in the back of his skull and make his beak flap, which is terribly invasive now that I see it spelled out in print like that) and he went everywhere with me. His neck eventually snapped so that his head lolled lazily against his chest at all times, and his feathers were matted and dirty, but I would not give him up for anything. And watching this movie made me want to give him a big old hug. Him, and the others: Grover, the Count, Oscar, Snuffy, Cookie Monster, all of them.

I also might have been laughing out loud. There's a bit where the prison guard keeping Big Bird captive is taking a nap, so people are trying to steal his keys to free Big (which is what they're all calling him, which is... weird. Was Big really his official first name?). Cookie Monster pops up behind him to watch the action, and upon noticing a box of cookies cradled in the dude's arm, gives him this very sympathetic little pat on the shoulder along with a knowing head nod that totally conveys, "Yeah, I've SO been there." I completely cracked up. As I did later, when Maria tries to explain to the social worker that Big Bird doesn't need to be placed with a bird family because they have just as great a community-family made up of all kinds of people. She goes, "We have people, we have cows..." at which point the cow goes, "Well, she's right about THAT." I don't know, I just burst out laughing. It's what I do when muppet cows talk.

As Jess and I subsequently discussed, the folks behind Sesame Street and The Muppet Show were so brilliant at little moments that were just as funny for adults as for kids, but in different ways (something Pixar, among others, has picked up on pretty well, but nothing beats the original). She pointed me to a whole video on YouTube of a Monsterpiece Theater segment entitled "Twin Beaks," a total parody of Twin Peaks that would go way over the head of its official target audience but right squarely AT the head of said audience's parents. Enjoy.

Then drop by here, just because it says it all with a finesse that "MMM Bop" could only HOPE to achieve.

---

So, long story short, there has been some unrest at the Green Bay Packers' headquarters this past week. But my favorite part of the entire thing is Head Coach Mike McCarthy's quote about how it's all calming down:

"I'm just glad the firestorm's over," McCarthy said. "I'm glad to put away the hose. I say that as a fireman's son."

Well, phew. I was going to question his ability to judge whether the fire was out, but now that I know he's a fireman's son -- and he's, you know, seen things; fiery things -- I can rest easy.

Eye-Eye, Cap'n

Ugh. I'm currently on antibiotics and I am getting the best -- read: worst -- of the predicted nausea and headache side effects. It's such a thrill. Nothing makes me want to come to work more than the constant urge to vomit plus a jackhammer having an orgasm in my head. Hoo-RAY.

Anyway: We saw the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie this weekend; since I haven't seen the first one, I had nothing to compare it to, and so was not as disappointed by it as some were. It had issues, for sure, but it was fine, and all the people I was with agreed that while the first one was better, this one had good elements in it despite being overlong and possessed of a few unnecessary indulgences and odd plot issues.

It was in that movie theater in Sherman Oaks, though, that I learned a very important lesson about my love of pirates: It is largely predicated on them being clean, imaginary pirates. There are a lot of things about pirate realism that I don't care for:

• There is a reason they all wear eyepatches, which I learned needlessly in an early sequence in the film, and which is making me die inside every time my mind flicks backward to wonder about it (as I have a sixth sense about this stuff sometimes -- but not always, Joss Whedon and Buffy, so thanks a whole lot for THAT -- I had turned away moments before Things Happened).
• That same reason is why there are artificial eyes, which was reinforced to me by Mackenzie Crook's character, the existence of whom I knew about prior to going in -- but I didn't think to ask anyone which person I should look out for when it came to the wooden-eye shenanigans.
• I do not care for filthy, yellow, rotting teeth. The sight of them, fake or not, makes me ill.
• Ditto fingernails.
• Maggots are not my favorite thing. And while I think the character I thought was maggot-riddled might not have been -- it was a different gross affliction -- it did remind me that nobody loves a maggot.
• Pirates and their fantastical sea-bound friends are, as hinted at above, somewhat prone to gross afflictions.
• There is no way those people smell good. No way.
• I don't like goo. Or slime. Or slimy goo. Particularly if I am to believe that slimy goo has a foul stench. And the whole mystical pirate realm does carry with it, the movie claims, a very strong chance that you will run afoul of someone oozing slimy, stinky goo.

I could go on, but suffice to say that parts of the movie were difficult for me to sit through without squirming. My oddly on-point sense of smell may contribute to that (I am always the first one to smell garbage), because if there is anything in a movie or TV show that even hints of being pongy -- through direct mention or simply ambiance -- I immediately feel like I can whiff it myself.

So, even though I'll eventually catch up with the first film and the forthcoming third, I took away from my weekend a very important epiphany, and that is that imaginary pirates are the best ones. In my world, those tasty rakes flip up their eye patches to reveal a perfectly healthy peeper unmolested by the ravages of battle or the sea; they are simply covering it up for effect. They also have private showers.

Incidentally, it was something of a rough weekend for me with regards to ocular hijinks. During Deadwood, a planned fight began between two characters, and early on I got a flashback to that Buffy episode and Nathan Fillion's intentionally wayward thumb (oh wow, that makes me sick just writing it), and so I said, "I don't trust this show," and buried my head in Kevin's chest like a four-year old. I peeked up after a while when things seemed to turn safe, but then grew bored with how infernally long the fight was, so I turned away again.

And then, the screaming. Oh, the screaming. Kevin jolted.

"Uh, you were right to... oh, man, you were DEFINITELY right to look away," he said. And then, for lack of anything to do to help since my eyes were already shut, he very sweetly covered my ears.

Not that it actually shut out the screaming. I can still hear the screaming. It wouldn't stop.

Finally, Kevin shut off the episode, promising to finish it later to let me know whether I could pick up the last half later or whether this would rear its head again. Apparently it's okay, and I can watch the last 20 minutes or so. But we will not talk about what happened -- I still don't know the specifics, and I don't want to, or it will actually give me nightmares.

Tangentially, may I just say what I hate in these situations? I really, really don't like it when I mention to people, "There were some parts I couldn't watch, because of my eye fear," and they reply, "Oh, RIGHT, the scene where __________," and they fill in the blank with all the graphic details I so fervently avoided. People, STOP. Don't say it out loud. It makes me twitch and then I can't fall asleep at night. I'm begging you!

MAN. Life is rough for someone with this particular phobia.

Miss Scarlett

The other night, I idly watched In Good Company, starring Lauren's boyfriend Dennis Quaid and the man who once briefly watched Lauren make out with her own hand, Topher Grace.

It also stars Scarlett Johansson, and I have to say, I just don't quite get her as an actress. She has lovely skin, but her voice is just so dead and atonal to me, and she seems a bit one-note. She played a character that was supposed to entice Topher Grace out of his shell simply by Being There, and my problem was that I just don't find her believably captivating, charming, or life-changing. Oddly, that was the exact problem I had with the book Girl With A Pearl Earring -- everyone was somehow drawn to this girl, but she was humorless, priggish, and boring, and I couldn't understand her appeal -- and so I find it highly amusing that ScarJo ended up playing that part in the movie.

Ghost World, I liked, and ScarJo's acting style worked well enough for that character -- atonal droning works for the disaffected, in a way -- and I haven't seen Match Point, for which she got praise. But she also got good reviews for In Good Company, and... yeah, I didn't get it. Didn't get it at all.

And I didn't care for Lost In Translation (found it dull, lifeless, and often paceless, and am bothered that the script won an Oscar because about 80 percent of the movie existed on the actors' faces), and a lot of that has to do with the movie pivoting on a similar trust that Scarlett Johansson is just that compelling, which is an idea I just cannot buy no matter how hard I try. There's no life in her eyes. Or her voice.

So... yeah. I'm not there yet with her, I guess.

Not-cho

I want to second Catherine's low opinion of Nacho Libre, which was easily the worst movie I've seen in a long time.

Jack Black is funny, I would say almost always. And he does what he can with this, but really, there is not much to be done with the pointless scenes in this draggy, paceless drudge of a movie. Lucha Libre is ripe ground for something clever, but this completely misses. Completely. I don't think there are any actually funny lines in the movie -- just Jack Black and Hector Jimenez mugging and speaking in exaggerated accents so they can elicit giggles with the amusing way they deliver unfunny lines. And that just means that you're spending the entire movie looking down on the main characters and rolling your eyes at how ridiculous they are, forgetting to turn the corner and start rooting for the (allegedly) plucky little guys because you kind of can't. They just seem foolish at all times.

And, seriously, how many fart/poo jokes did there really need to be? Several scenes begin with Jack Black loudly finishing up on the toilet, then emerging from a stall. There are farts everywhere, which are so painful and awful and misguided that I honestly feel like they added them in post to try and make some scenes funnier -- like, "Hey, you know what would make this rule? If he farted before he fell. Put it in!" Stupid.

Sigh. I'm disappointed. I haven't seen Napoleon Dynamite, but I don't really care about it (loathe Jon Heder, edited to add: as an actor; he does seem like an interesting person, from interviews), so I didn't really have any expectations to manage based on that alleged pedigree. It was all on Jack Black for me, and sadly, there's really nothing more he could've done. This thing was too dreadful for him to resurrect.

Yep -- Still Sucks

I don't know why I insist on torturing myself with things I hate, but as I sit here waiting for my bitch to get home, I've turned on Phantom Of The Opera. And I am once again blown away by the horror.

Jessica put it best when she pointed out that it all feels like the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. All the extra aggravated blocking doubly detracts from what plot there is. But most of all, I'm floored by the awfulness of some of the singing; the acting is not great, either, but MAN, in this climactic scene, the dude who plays the phantom is all crazy and off-key and terrible and it's sucking whatever emotion might have been found right out of the scene. Raoul is greasy and weak. And Emmy Rossum... good LORD, that girl's voice is fingernails across a chalkboard. You know how much less rich your voice sounds when you plug your nose and then listen to it inside your head? That's what I feel like I'm hearing. And if THAT is her Movie Voice, her head voice must be driving her insane right about now.

I'm shocked, truly. From the ten minutes I saw once before, I was equally startled, and so this time I was daring it to be different, but no. Say what you will about Andrew Lloyd Webber and his often overwrought scores, but there's definitely plenty of opportunities to ham up the emotion and go overboard, yet Emmy Rossum's voice is as thin and reedy as can be and carries absolutely none of that. She actually subtracts feeling.

Ugh. It's ... yeah, I keep coming back to "shocking." And the damn thing just ended with this really stupid and melodramatic ending that is a blatant attempt to try and convince you that you were moved by all this hoo-ha, when really, all I thought was, "Oh, good, she won't be singing any more -- now WHEN will this old dude get off the screen?"