Duke and I chat about our Christmas gifts. Oh yeah, it’s twu it’s twu.
And, if that’s not enough for ya, that ain’t all, kiddos.
In my reviews I reveal who takes his/her shirts off and who doesn’t? Truth.
And if all that doesn’t sate your soul and satisfy your cinematic curiosity, I actually give in depth analysis of three flicks.
“The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo,” during which critique I opine as to who plays the best Lisbeth Salander, Noomi Rapace or Rooney Mara?
“Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol,” during which I advise whether you see more groovy gizmos or more of Cousin Tommy Cruise’s bare chest?
“My Week With Marilyn,” during which I analyze Michele Williams transcendent take on filmdom’s most endearing and lasting icon, MM, which is, one guy’s opinion, the best performance by an actor this year.
I would have been much more positive about the latest Sherlock Holmes action adventure romp featuring Robert Downey Jr. aa the now pumped up sleuth, and Jude Law as his partner in crime solving, if . . . it wasn’t a Sherlock Holmes movie.
Guns, fights, explosions, chases, romantic trysts . . . they’re all to be found here. The only problem is none of that has anything to do with Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant creation.
So, I came with the thunder. I’m sure Basil Rathbone is smiling at my take on the affair.
“Young Adult” is a slyly cynical film, ostensibly about a gal who was Queen of the Hop in high school, and has gone on to seeming fame and fortune in the big city. She returns to the homestead to steal away her old prep beau. He happens to be happily married with a new baby he adores. Nothing happens as you expect it to, a good thing indeed.
The film is a brilliant if disturbing character study.
Listen up to hear why I find the movie and Charlize Theron’s performance among the best of the year.
There’s a regional theater in my town as I’m sure there is in yours. Or, at least you’ve got a Beef, Brew & Boards kind o’ place, at which, this time of year, the insurance salesman around the corner has been portraying Bob Cratchit for the last 23 Christmases running. One year he did it in a wheelchair with a broken leg.
And every year to make grannie happy, you schlep her and the kiddos to see what a great guy Bob Cratchit is. And to wonder how come the guy playing him looks older than Ebenezer Scrooge. And almost as cranky.
Anyway the whole “A Christmas Carol” thing started on December 19, 1843, when Charles Dickens’ now classic story of the season was first published. Read the rest of this entry »
I knew the Michael Shannon film — “Take Shelter” — was going to be some heavy eggplant.
Is he a paranoid schizophrenic? Or does he know something nobody else in his rural Ohio town knows?
So, after experiencing that intensity just weeks after seeing “Melancholia” and “The Descendents,” the Film Babe and I were looking for something, let us say, lighter. Froth would have been a good thing. But we weren’t going to devolve as far as that New Year’s Eve flick. (After all, we do have some standards.)
So we took in the “romance,” that was all the rave at Sundance, “Like Crazy.”
This week’s first historical factoid presents a vexing philosophical question. It deals with sexual peccadilloes and where our ancestors held them in days of yore?
First the fact. On December 12, 1925, in the bucolic burg of San Luis Obispo, California, the first motel opened. So, dad, along with mom and the kids could drive the Packard right up to the door of their room and get a pleasant night’s sleep, before heading on in the morning.
Or, it could be dad, along with the neighbor’s wife, driving the Packard right up to the door of their room, getting a pleasant night’s whatever, before heading back home in the morning as if he’d been on a business trip and she’d been visiting her sister Shirley in L A.
Motels did help increase car travel. And were a boon to those having secret affairs.
The question: Where did they have these quickie trysts before there were no tell motels? Read the rest of this entry »
Mmmmmmms the word — actually the letter — this week.
The movies: “Melancholia” and “The Muppets.”
Each is worthy of your time, though, as I talk about in the podcast, they come from opposite ends of the spectrum.
“The Muppets” remain as charming and disarming and fun as ever. Intelligent entertainment for the whole family. Great to have them back.
“Melancholia” is hard, mature moviemaking. Lars Van Trier, ever the provocateur, continues to push the emotive envelope. This film is not easy, but it is his best since “Breaking the Waves.”
The nation was a neophyte back in 1776. That said, college kids are college kids, no matter the era.
Football weekends. Sit ins at the administration building. Bad food at the Coop.
Back then there weren’t a lot of colleges, but there was William & Mary. And some dudes there needed a place to party, a basement with a big screen TV and a permanent keg on tap, rooms to sleep in on mattresses where one set of sheets lasted the semester. (Unless they changed them for the if come once they scored a hang out with that gal down in row in History of Western Civ.)
Thus, on December 5, 1776, the first social fraternity in the U.S. of A. was formed.
This time around there is actually meaningful edification in addition to my film review.
Martin Scorcese’s mesmerizing “Hugo” is my favorite movie of the year.
Listen and discover why.
Plus, in answering a question from my host Duke, I explain why it is that I’ve liked so many films in the last several weeks. It has to do with short memories and Hollywoodland’s culture of paranoia.
I just learned that Coco Robicheaux — artist, musician, voodoo hoodoo, Louisiana legend, spriit force — passed away a few days ago.
Though of Cajun ancestry — his given surname is Arceneaux — he was born in California, but was Louisianne through and through, and settled in the bayou.
His adopted name came from the legend of child named Coco Robicheaux, whose soul is captured by a werewolf.
I know little else of him. But I never missed his set at JazzFest. His music is soulful, full with mystery and bayou gris gris. It’s as if he and his band emerged from the swamp, covered in moss and muck, as if in some B horror film. Then would break out into a grizzled tune that would cut to the core of melancholy.
Tony Stewart just won the final NASCAR race of the season to nab the season title by catching Carl Edwards at the wire. Literally.
Americans have long had a fascination and love affair with cars and speed and auto racing. Open wheel or stock.
It didn’t start at Indy. Or with Junior Johnson and the stocks.
Auto racing in America commenced on November 28, 1895. The race was sponsored by the Chicago Times-Herald. It started in the Second City at Jackson Park. The finish line was in the metropolis of Waukegan, Illinois. The winner was one Frank “Leadfoot” Dureyea. He averaged a speedy 7.5 mph in the race, which took 7 hours and 53 minutes to complete for the winner. Read the rest of this entry »
There are certain disciplines which simply come most easily to lithe sub-teen girls.
Hula hooping comes immediately to mind. When the craze first hit way back in the yesteryear of my youth, it was the bane of my existence. I never could get the thing going and to stay up. Sally down the street would get a hoop spinning in the morning and not stop until she went to sleep.
Jumping rope is another. Though boxers, as well as those ingenues, are also excellent practitioners of the art.
All of which leads to this relatively useless bit of infomania.
On November 21, 1837, an Aussie by the name of Thomas Morris skipped rope 22,806 times. I assume it was without stopping. Read the rest of this entry »
Duke and I chat about our Christmas gifts. Oh yeah, it’s twu it’s twu.
