When Even the Director Doesn't Think You're Hot

This is basically a necropost in anticipation of some upcoming renewed blogging activity. I don't know why I didn't post it when it was written, and it's been quite a while since then. But on rereading, my feelings remain the same, so here goes:
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 So, if you've looked at my Twittering, you know that I've surrendered at last to the overwhelming lure of a new 40 inch flatscreen TV. With HD and DVR. With three separate remotes and no clue how to do anything. And after marveling at the sheer amount of human genius devoted to allowing me to count the number of sequins on Vanna's dress, I faced the inevitable bounceback: 100 HD channels of nothing to watch.

So I dial up the old On Demand and what is there? Very little for which I have any demand. But at last I settle on Mrs. Winterbourne (1996, Richard Benjamin), which I remember as one of those cheesily enjoyable movies that provide an agreeable way to kill 2 hours without danger of exercising any brain cells. But the movie was neither as fun nor as pleasantly mindless as I thought.

I've never read the original Cornell Woolrich novel I Married a Dead Man (note to self: put on BookMooch wishlist), but I have seen the first film version No Man of Her Own, and I think it's safe to say that Mrs. Winterbourne has lost something in translation. Not only have the screenwriters half-heartedly turned it from a taut noir thiller into a big-misunderstanding-wacky-hijinx romantic comedy, but they have gone out of their way to make Connie unbelievably young and innocent, when it really would have served the plot better to make her a little more rough around the edges, a little more in need of the redemption that the Winterbourne family offers. And look, I don't hold it against Ricki Lake that she's no Barbara Stanwyck. I mean, who is? But plenty of actresses could have done a creditable job in the part -- just look at Sandra Bullock in the basically-not-dissimilar While You Were Sleeping. Ricki's either flat or over the top -- she just drags the film down, making her very good co-stars Shirley MacLaine, Brendan Fraser, Miguel Sandoval, and Loren Dean work all the harder for very little reward.

But none of that is what I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about Ricki Lake's clothes.

They are tragic. They are heinous. And not just in a this-is-the-'80s-what-can-you-expect kind of way, either. (I was surprised to learn this movie was made in the '90s. It just has that '80s feel about it.) No matter what the decade, these clothes are epically bad.

It doesn't make any difference what part of the movie we're talking about, either -- whether she's a plucky teenager leaving home; homeless and pregnant in New York; wearing the expensive clothes of the rich girl she's replaced; or spending the Winterbourne largesse on a few new outfits -- Ricki's wardrobe is uniformly floppy, droopy, too long, too dark or too pastel, and intended to cover every inch of skin. (At least when she flees Jersey, her skirts only reach her knee, but she wears black opaque tights to make up for it.)

The kicker is when some icy WASP girls make fun of Connie for her big Jersey hair (not that big) and loud makeup (not that loud, although: cool it with the purple eyeshadow). They don't say a word about her dress, although it could use a few: it's a long, drab white tent covered with a matching duster, completely colorless and shapeless. Shirley MacLaine whisks her off for the inevitable magical makeover -- and she emerges with a $29.99 fat girl's bob* and a long, droopy pastel pink-on-pink suit with about 17 layers to it, entirely colorless and shapeless. This is enough to make Brendan Fraser fall in love.

In the whole movie, Connie only gets to wear one remotely pretty outfit. At her engagement party, she has a sparkly purple gown with a boned corset that actually displays her rack and shows her waist. When lowlife Steve remarks, "Not for nothin', Connie, but that's a good look on you," he's not wrong -- or he wouldn't be if the dress weren't inappropriately floorlength and equipped with an unnecessary jacket to prevent her from God forbid showing her arms.

I initially thought that the costume designer was a talentless hack who should be horsewhipped and drummed out of the corps forthwith, but it turns out that she may have done one or two OK little projects, so I must place the blame elsewhere. And then it hit me.

Now, I know absolutely nothing about the backstory of this production. I don't know how it came to be made, how Ricki Lake got cast, or how Richard Benjamin got involved. But it's clear to me now that Benjamin didn't want to work with Ricki. He thought she was fat and unfuckable, and that since he didn't want to do her, neither Brendan Fraser or anyone would or should want to do her. So his directions to the costume department, stated or unstated, were: "Keep her covered." (This also explains the almost entire lack of love scenes -- an odd omission for a rom-com, n'est pas?)

I also don't know much about where this movie falls during Ricki's dramatic weight loss story.** The only details I could find, at IMDB, said that she'd already lost 125 pounds but "they" made her lose another 20 before filming (which: figures!). Now, I think it's fair to say that in this movie, Ricki is certainly not Hollywood slender; she might even be a little chunky. But she was a very pretty girl before she lost weight, and she's a very pretty girl at whatever weight she is here. With another director, and better clothes, I think more people would have seen that. 

*I have a fat girl's bob. I like it and it works for me. But I'm not a 19-year-old lady of leisure with nothing to do but fit in with the millionaires and/or snag a man.
**Yeah, I kind of hate her for selling out and spreading her if-I-can-do-it-anyone-can-do-it bullshit, but I have to admire her. However she did it, a woman who's lost that much weight and kept it off for more than 5 years is literally a freak of nature.

I Defy the AFI

It's no use getting too bent out of shape about the lists published by the AFI. Tastes differ; also, they're an institution that depends at least partly on donations and they're not above pandering to certain films because they were popular or made a lot of money. But their broadcast last night of the 10 Top 10 was very badly done (each segment way too short, then wasting time on recaps; dubious experts), and I have to take issue with some of their more egregious choices:

• Titanic on the list of epics? ONE OF THE WORST MOVIES EVER MADE, PEOPLE.
• Moonstruck and Sleepless in Seattle in romantic comedies? These horrible, horrible films are better than Bringing Up Baby or My Man Godfrey or even Victor/Victoria? Don't make me laugh (they sure couldn't).
• The Usual Suspects? Good movie, but a better mystery than The Thin Man or The Big Sleep or Notorious? I don't think so.
• Both versions of Scarface on the gangster list? That's just lazy.

And whose idea was it to trot out Kirk Douglas? I'm sure whoever did it kidded themselves they were doing something very noble, but I found it just sad and exploitative.

True Dreck

I used to have a razor-sharp memory for everything I had read or watched, but as time goes on I find myself losing my grasp on the details. So, as it now often happens, I remembered that I really hated the movie True Lies, but not why. Thus, having nothing in particular better to be doing last night, I watched it again.

And then I remembered. Because this is the movie where THE HERO (Arnold Schwarzenegger) thinks that it's a fine idea not only to abuse his position as a Government agent to spy on his wife (Jamie Lee Curtis) when he thinks she's having an affair, but also to kidnap her, throw her into a cell, interrogate her, and threaten her with torture and exposure. And who also thinks it's fun to torture and humiliate the man she's involved with. And who thinks it's sexy to then force her to pretend to be whore and make her dance naked for what she thinks is a stranger.

And not only does she not think he's a sick bastard, she LIKES IT. And then proceeds to torture and humiliate the other guy herself a little more at the end.

With good guys like this . . . .

As a side note, the whole conjunction of Arab terrorists/planes/tall buildings takes on a whole new resonance in the post 9/11 world.

You know, I've always kind of despised Tom Arnold. The fact that he's pretty much the best thing in this movie is deeply depressing.

Long Overdue Post #2: Does the Wind Get Tired Out There?

This post also got started and lost in the shuffle a good while ago.

I watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington almost every time I run into it. There's a lot to admire in this 1939 Frank Capra classic, notably the acting from almost everyone involved: Jimmy Stewart as the idealistic young Jefferson Smith; Jean Arthur as Clarissa Saunders, the hard-boiled secretary who's transformed by Smith's sincerity; Claude Rains as stately, silver-haired, but corrupt Sen. Joseph Harrison Paine; and Edward Arnold as smooth-talking political boss Jim Taylor; not to mention Thomas Mitchell, Eugene Pallette, Harry Carey, and Jack Carson. The dialog by screenwriter Sidney Buchman is snappy and often very funny, as when drunken urbanite Clarissa tries to repeat what Smith has told her about the plains she's never seen.

In outline, the plot is simple. Naive young publisher Smith is appointed as an interim senator for his state, in the expectation that he won't get in the way of the Taylor machine. In the person of Sen. Paine, the machine is trying to engineer passage of a bill to construct an unnecessary dam on land owned by a Taylor advocate that will (somehow) enrich Taylor, Paine, and others. By chance, Smith decides to sponsor a bill asking the government to buy that same land to sponsor a boys' camp (you know it's 1939 when all the sincere speeches about kids growing up to respect each other never consider that some of them could be, you know, girls). Taylor tries to buy Smith; when that doesn't work, he decides to smash him by showing that Smith, not Allen, owns the disputed land. With coaching from Saunders, the disgraced Smith provokes a confession from Paine, brings down Taylor, and clears his name.

It's fine, rousing stuff. But despite my recognition of its good qualities, I've never loved the movie the way so many other people do, and it's taken me a long time to figure out why. I think it's a series of three interlinked problems. First, Smith does a terrible job of defending himself. Sure, the Taylor syndicate blindsides him with the forged contract, but if there is enough time for a trial with three different handwriting experts, there's enough time for Smith to try to expose the connection between the landowner and Taylor. But it looks like he doesn't even try; nor does he try to tell his story and ask for time to prove his allegations when he has the chance and it might do him some good.

That failure leads directly to his desperate filibuster, which is the second problem. For most people, I think, this is the highlight of the film: a lone man, battling the forces of corruption arrayed against him, with nothing but his voice and ability to stay on his feet. And I must admit it's genius when, hands deep in the negative telegrams Paine has trucked into the Senate chamber, an all-but-spent Smith turns to him and rasps, "I guess it's just another lost cause, Mr. Paine." But the whole idea falls flat for me. Smith really does nothing with his opportunity except assert his innocence again and again. It's no wonder his fellows turn their backs on him, if he can't summon up a shred of proof. He says he's trying to reach the people in his state, but again, what does he offer them except hollow assurances without evidence?

The third and biggest problem, though, is that he wouldn't need much evidence if he simply applied a little logic. Taylor's whole scheme depends on the fact that owning the land on which the dam will be built will bring in a huge profit. Would that not be equally true if Smith owned it? Why would he bother trying to con schoolboys out of nickels and dimes for a camp if he could sell the land to the Government for an enormous amount? It's so OBVIOUS, yet neither he nor anyone else ever points that out.

Honesty and bravery and patriotism and good intentions are all great qualities in their place. But I like my heroes, and my elected officials, to have a few smarts as well.

Long Overdue Post #1: Mystery 101

I started to write this post quite a while ago, and for some reason never got around to finishing.

By coincidence, the same night I watched To Catch a Thief (1955, Alfred Hitchcock), I also happened to finish Lisa Scottoline's Dirty Blonde. At first glance these two works, one of Hitchcock's most famous movies and a better-than-average paperback thriller, would seem to have very little in common. But actually they share a very important characteristic. They both violate the principles of good mysteries in not playing fair with the audience.

To Catch a Thief is the story of former jewel thief John Robie the Cat (aging though he is, Cary Grant is still one terrific hunk, although he's never looked less sexy than in the striped shirt and red bandana he wears at the beginning of the movie). At the start of World War II, he escaped from a French prison when the Germans bombed it, and he and his fellow prisoners became heroes of the Resistance. Now, 10 years after the end of the war, Robie lives in a huge villa on the Riviera where he raises flowers and grapes, and his cohorts toil away in a restaurant one of them owns. Suddenly, somebody begins duplicating Robie's crimes, and both the police and his old buddies think he is responsible. He must catch the real thief to clear his name, before the police lock him up or one of his pals decides to kill him.

One of the old gang, the wine steward Foussard, has a daughter, Danielle. Her age is never exactly made clear, although from dialog it appears she's supposed to be under 20. We meet her several times: first, she drives Robie away from the restaurant in a boat. She flirts with him, exposits the whole story of the prison and the Resistance, and taunts him with his wealth and the comrades' poverty. Next we see her at the beach at Cannes, where she flirts with him and taunts him some more. The third time is at the funeral of her father, who has been killed in a trap set for Robie; Danielle blames Robie for his death. But Foussard can't, as the police want people to think, have been the cat burglar himself, because he had a wooden leg.

At the climax of a dramatic rooftop chase, we see Danielle for the last time, when Robie rips off the mask of the burglar to reveal her. He shouts: "I figured it was you the night your father died! He always got you to do his legwork, even during the war when you were a kid."

And that, my friend, is cheating. Robie knew something that the audience was never told. Nowhere in her three prior scenes did we ever get a hint that Danielle was part of the wartime gang. Indeed, the scene on the boat is clearly played as though the whole thing is a story she has heard, not something she lived herself. It would have taken only a line of establishing dialog to make it clear. Even a bit of business at the restaurant, where Foussard sends her to fetch something from a high shelf, would have laid the groundwork. But Hitchcock (and screenwriter John Michael Hayes) didn't want to chance spoiling the surprise ending: in opting for the cheap twist over the carefully hidden clue, Hitchcock robs the audience of its satisfaction in the solution of the mystery.

Dirty Blonde, a mostly successful return to form after a couple of disappointments from Scottoline, tells the story of Cate Fante, a newly appointed federal judge with a penchant for picking up guys in sleazy bars. After ruling against Richard Marz, a writer who has sued Hollywood producer Art Simone, Cate is shocked to learn that Marz has apparently killed Simone and then shot himself. Marz's friend Detective Russo, however, believes Cate is responsible, and soon he has leaked her secret sex life to the press. Dumped by her boyfriend, made a citywide laughingstock, and with her job in jeopardy, Cate begins to search for the truth. She's supported only by her loyal secretary Val, her oddball clerks Emily and Sam, her best friend Gina, and new love interest Det. Nesbitt.

I've always liked Scottoline's books, but she has a habit of telegraphing the bad guys very early. I thought she had done it this time too -- a fellow judge called Meriden. I sat confidently through Cate's determination that the killer was Simone's former assistant (for a lawyer, Cate has apparently very little acquaintance with what constitutes evidence). Sure enough, right on cue, there is Cate in her deserted office at night when in walks Meriden. But no, he isn't the nut with the gun -- it's Cate's Goth chick clerk, Emily.

Emily who? you may be asking yourself. We haven't seen nearly as much of her as we saw of Danielle. Our only real view of her is way back in Chapter 5, when she and Cate talk about the case. Cate says something about Marz's dream and Emily responds, "My dream is to pay off my student loans. I have trailer trash dreams." Then we get a few fleeting glimpses of her being worried how Cate's troubles are going to affect her job. That's it until the final confrontation, when she confesses that she was being paid to pass information on to Simone. She shot him because he threatened to tell Cate about it, then set up Marz's suicide to make it look like he'd done it. She says, "I followed him to dinner and I shot him. I had to. My family depends on me. You remember that day, when we talked about people and their dreams? This is their dream. I am their dream."

Now, I don't mind having my expectations confounded. I like it when I pit all my cunning against an author and she still outwits me. That's the intellectual pleasure a good mystery provides, the tingle you get when you look back and say to yourself, "Of course! THAT's what that meant." But that kind of challenge depends on the author's bravely hiding all the clues in plain sight, not burying them by the dark of the moon in a cave on the far side of forever. No strike that: it involves actually PROVIDING clues, which Scottoline has signally failed to do.

As with Danielle, even a very little more information would have been sufficient to set the stage. Scottoline could have given us even a hint of the pathetic pride Emily's parents have in her, just the suggestion that Emily is so desperate for money she'll do anything to get it. But no, there's nothing like that, and without it, the girl's exposure as the murderer is completely random -- it could just as easily have been some bum off the street for all the sense it makes. It's as though we see the Man Behind the Curtain unmasked without ever seeing the great and powerful Wizard of Oz at all. And that's not just cheating, my friend. That's bullshit.

As You Might Have Expected

Keeping up my movie diary has become more of a chore than a pleasure, so I'm giving it a rest until further notice. If I've got an observation about a movie that's absolutely dying to be made, I'll make it. Otherwise, you can just imagine me watching Notorious and Now, Voyager for the kajillionth time each.

Movie Quote of the Day #5

Well, I feel for you, but I'm consumed by apathy.

Walter Brennan, Bad Day at Black Rock

OK, I Lied

There won't be any Movie Diary for April because . . . well, in the spirit of the Blues Brothers (which I did just see and will be on the list for May if there is a May), I'll let Joliet Jake explain:

Honest . . . . I ran out of gas. I, I had a flat tire. I didn't have enough money for
cab fare. My tux didn't come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from
out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood.
Locusts. IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD.

Oh, for Pete's sake. I blew it off. There! Are you happy now you made me admit
that?

Movie Diary March 2008

I saw some movies this month. Damn if I can remember them all. Here's some lightning reviews of the few that come to mind. Those seen for the first time are, as always, in green.

1. Murder Must Advertise (1973, BBC). My favorite of the Winsey adaptations. Unfortunately, Ian Carmichael doesn't appear to his best advantage in that Harlequin costume. It's supposed to make him look sexy and dangerous. It doesn't.
2. Upstairs Downstairs Season 3 (1973, BBC)
3. All About Eve (1950, Joseph L. Mankiewicz). Pretty much fabulous, except for Bette Davis's "you're not a woman without a man beside you" speech. George Sand is devastatingly effective in what's probably his best role ever.
4. The Rake's Progress (Sidney Gilliatt, 1950). Boring and sexist with unredeemable anti-hero.
5. High Wall (1947, Curtis Bernhardt). Robert Taylor is hysterical (and not in a good way), Audrey Trotter bland and wholesome, and Herbert Marshall sexily wicked in this stupid story.
6. The Cobweb (1955, Vincente Minnelli). A Freudian field day in the plushest asylum ever built. I love how the heroic doctor Richard Widmark gets to have an affair with social director Lauren Bacall and that's OK, but his spoiled wife Gloria Grahame (ravishingly sexy) has a couple of drinks with clinic director Charles Boyer and she's an OMG slutt!!!11!
7. The Lady Vanishes (1939, Alfred Hitchcock). Not the master's best work. I did like Paul Lukas as the villainous doctor.
8. The Girl with Green Eyes (1964, Desmond Davis). You know, I'm really over these earnest British social dramas of the '50s and '60s. Lynn Redgrave provides some much-needed levity.
9. Gaslight (1944, George Cukor). Charles Boyer basically gives a textbook illustration of stalking and psychological abuse. Angela Lansbury steals the film as slutty housemaid Nancy.
10. Bunny Lake Is Missing (1965, Otto Preminger). Creepily effective thriller, with uber-creepy Keir Dullea. If only they didn't say "Bunny" quite so often.
11. The Blue Gardenia (1953, Fritz Lang). Oh right, lady. Go out with the disgusting womanizer and let him get you drunk and take you home with him. Then, when he turns up dead, burn your new dress that your roommates have already totally called you out on. *snort*

Don't know why I fell down on the job this month. I'll try to be more on the ball in April, I promise.

Movie Diary February 2008

Movies seen for the first time are in green.

1. Sense and Sensibility (1995, Ang Lee). OK, now this is how you do Jane Austen. Masterpiece Theater, are you paying attention? For me the only false note is Hugh Grant (dearly though I love him); he's simply too stiff, even playing a character who's kind of a stiff guy.
2. Quiz Show (1994, Robert Redford). I've heard some doubts cast on its literal historical accuracy, but this movie remains an absorbing and entertaining study of ambition, celebrity, greed, and family. Ralph Fiennes is perfect as the aristocratic Charles van Doren, who is equally proud of, burdened by, and not sure he measures up to his famous surname.
3. Caesar and Cleopatra (1945, Gabriel Pascal). Talky, stagy version of the George Bernard Shaw play is taken from his own screenplay, perhaps to its own detriment. Cleopatra is throughout portrayed as stupid, venal, and incapable of ruling without masculine guidance -- neither her sexuality nor her power is self-directed. Also, Shaw's in-jokes about the British probably went over better with the Victorians for whom they were written. Nevertheless, Vivien Leigh is so luminously beautiful that one can almost forget what she's saying, Claude Rains is worldly-wise as Caesar, and hunky Stewart Granger gets to show off his calves as Apollodorus.
4. Upstairs Downstairs Season 1 (1971, ITV). See post to come.
5. Upstairs Downstairs Season 2 (1972, ITV). See post to come.
6. Little Big Man (1970, Arthur Penn). Unlike many movies of the late '60s-early '70s, this one holds up beautifully. The thoughtful, funny script skewers (even if it can't kill) all the Wild West cliches John Ford and his ilk ever perpetrated. Dustin Hoffman gives a bravura performance as Jack Crabbe, with notable contributions from Faye Dunaway, Chief Dan George, and Richard Mulligan.
7. The Goodbye Girl (1977, Herbert Ross). Worth watching for Richard Dreyfus's hilariously bad gay Richard III, but lord, Paula (Marsha Mason) makes me tired. She's a whiny, clinging, unliberated shrew who defines herself by redecorating her apartment for each new relationship. Get a grip, lady!
8. A Raisin in the Sun (2008, Kenny Leon). It's no shame for an actor to fall short of Sidney Poitier -- I mean, seriously, who doesn't? But Sean Combs (Walter Lee Younger) in this made-for-TV production of the recent revival of Lorraine Hansberry's classic play is so pathetic, so lacking in every way, that he sucks the life out of everything around him. The rest of the cast, though flat, is at least competent (but Tony-worthy? I don't think so). Without passionate and intelligent performances, Hansberry's lines have never sounded so insipid and sententious (and the changes by screenwriter Paris Qualles add nothing).
9. Pride and Prejudice (1995, A&E). Yes, Masterpiece Theater, this is also how you do Austen. Thank God you had sense enough not to try and mess with this perfection, because I'd have to cut you. As many people have said: Colin Firth, yum.
10. A Man for All Seasons (1966, Fred Zinneman). Ponderous, pompous costume drama based on Robert Bolt's award-winning play about Sir Thomas More. Although featuring fine performances from Paul Scofield, Leo McKern, Wendy Hiller, and others (not to mention a luminous cameo from Vanessa Redgrave), the film never really comes alive. Maybe it's just me, but More comes off not so much as a man of principle as a guy hiding behind sleazy lawyer tricks.

There Is No Justice, Oscar Division

I don't pay a lot of attention to the Oscars. Most of the time I haven't seen all the nominees, and the Academy has a history of selecting stinkers as often as masterpieces (The Greatest Show on Earth over High Noon and The Quiet Man, anyone?). But I can't let this pass without comment:

From the Philadelphia Inquirer: "The Bourne Ultimatum, the lightning-paced thriller, won three statuettes, for editing, sound mixing and sound editing."

Excuse me? The movie wasn't successful on any level, but these are three categories in which it particularly sucked. The split-second editing ("lightning-paced" is code for "attention-span-of-a-gnat-with-ADD") heavily contributed to its overall incoherence, and the sound was at all times MIND-NUMBINGLY FUCKING LOUD.

Way to reward these guys for exactly the things they did wrong, Academy.

Movie Quote of the Day #4

There is an endless supply of white men. But there has always been a limited number of human beings.

Chief Dan George, Little Big Man

Movie Diary January 2008

Movies seen for the first time are in green.

1. That's Entertainment! III (1994, Bud Friedgen and Michael J. Sheridan). This one is filled with some pretty great outtakes, deleted scenes, and other never-before-shown stuff. The split-screen showing of the two different Fred Astaire takes was amazing -- like he was dancing with himself.
2. White Heat (1949, Raoul Walsh). I was surprised to learn this film was made so late, because it breathes the spirit of the '30s. Of course, it belongs to James Cagney as Cody Jarrett, everybody's favorite psychopath. But check out Virginia Mayo. I've always had a soft spot for her because my grandfather had a bit of a thing for her back in the day, but she's scorching here as Jarrett's equally amoral, if a tad less dangerous, gun moll wife. It's also incredible that Margaret Wycherley, Jarrett's icy-eyed Ma, is the same gentle, resigned woman who sighed over Gary Cooper in Sergeant York.
3. Topper (1937, Norman Z. McLeod). Sparkling fun with a top-notch cast, although I do confess to a slight dip of interest when Topper (Roland Young) and Marion (Constance Bennett) are on their own, without George (Cary Grant) or Clara (Billie Burke) around to play off of. Am I the only one who thinks that butler Wilkins (Alan Mowbray) has a thing for Clara?
4. Topper Takes a Trip (1938, Norman Z. McLeod). Somewhat less sparkling, somewhat less fun, with 95% less Cary Grant. The story annoys me because it depends on completely undoing the happy resolution of the first movie.
5. I Married a Witch (1942, Rene Clair). A charmer teaming Fredric March, Veronica Lake, and Cecil Kellaway, with support from Robert Benchley. I won't hold it responsible for the horror that was Bewitched. Regarding the epilog: isn't it astonishing that having a 7-year-old daughter turned them both into stuffy 60-year-olds?
6. Angel and the Badman (1947, James Edward Grant). This is the kind of early role I like John Wayne in, before he became a caricature of himself. As rough hombre Quirt Evans, he's good-humored, relaxed, and quite startlingly sexy in this uncharacteristic Western about the virtues of nonviolence. Gail Russell is dewy fresh as the Quaker girl who gets him to change his ways. There are also great contributions from Olin Howland as the name-dropping telegraph operator and Harry Carey as the patient sheriff (although the attempt to tack on his catchphrase as the film's last word is the single wrong note in the fine script).
7. Emma (1996, Douglas McGrath). Not the worst Jane Austen adaptation I've ever seen (much less so, now that I've watched Masterpiece Theater's Persuasion and Mansfield Park [see post January 29, 2008]), but not nearly as good as the Kate Beckinsale version. Gwyneth Paltrow is fair as the titled and entitled heroine, although I was continually distracted by her first attempt at an English accent, which seems to consist mainly of drawling the first part of a word and then closing her teeth on the rest of it, and her scrawny collarbones (please! eat a sandwich!). Juliet Stephenson, though, is fabulous as the pushing Mrs. Elton.
8. The Pink Panther (1963, Blake Edwards). Dated and not as funny as I remembered it. That makes me sad.
9. The Mayor of Hell (1933, Archie Mayo). Interesting little picture about a gangster (Jimmy Cagey) who becomes head of a reform school. Typical that the nurse (Madge Evans) is the one with all the ideas, which include such modern notions as self-government, but she needs a man as a figurehead. I'm not usually one for Jewish stereotypes in movies, but I did enjoy Sidney Miller as the reformatory shopkeeper. The black stereotypes (Allen "Farina" Hoskins and especially Fred "Snowflake" Toones, as his father), not so much.
10. The Clock (1945, Vincente Minelli). Sweet and touching romance between an office clerk (Judy Garland) and a soldier heading off to war (Robert Walker). Many memorable parts, including the sequence where they deliver milk and then go home with milkman James Gleason; the wrenching scene where the lovers, who don't even know each others' last names, get separated in the subway; and the lovely scene where they make their vows to each other. Both Garland and Walker are achingly young and vulnerable.
11. Juno (2007, Jason Reitman). I was pleased and surprised to discover that this movie really is as good as all the hype. The whole cast is top-notch, and I especially appreciated seeing Allison Janney in her first substantive post-West Wing work. The script is tough and tender without being sentimental, and I liked the way it dealt with ambiguities in situations and relationships. My only quibble is I would have liked to know more about Paulie (Michael Cera). And I didn't care much for the music, although my sister loved it.
12. Footlight Parade (1933, Sidney Bacon). Snappy backstage musical with choreography by Busby Berkeley and banter, crooning, and hoofing by Jimmy Cagney, Joan Blondell, Ruby Keeler, and Dick Powell. What more could you really ask for?
13. Park Row (1952, Samuel Fuller). It's 100 years of newspaper history and cliche compressed into 83 minutes in this tale of crusading editor Phineas Mitchell (Gene Evans) struggling to maintain his paper's integrity in the face of his ruthless rival (Mary Welch). But of course, she's only fighting so hard to get his attention, because after all what woman would really care about his silly old newspaper anyway?
14. The Fighting 69th (1940, William Keighley). Ah, all the old Irish stereotypes (male division), neatly tied together in one patriotic parcel. Tough-talking Jimmy Cagney turns yellow, then redeems himself, under the guidance of saintly Father Duffy (Pat O'Brien). Not my cup of tea.
15. Four Daughters (1938, Michael Curtiz). Sentimental soaper about Midwest music professor (Claude Rains, looking about 20 years too old to have daughters in their 20s), his four titular girls (real-life sisters Priscilla, Rosemary, and Lola Lane, plus Emma Page), and the men in their lives. Jeffrey Lynn is engaging as Felix, the guy all the sisters fall for, and May Robson fun as formidable Aunt Etta. I have mixed feelings about anti-hero John Garfield: his performance is terrific, but his character Mickey isn't a rebel without a cause, he's a whiny kid who needs to be slapped and sent to bed without supper. I also have problems with Anne, the youngest sister at the center of the story: she marries the wrong guy for the wrong reasons; why are we supposed to find that admirable?
16. I See a Dark Stranger (1946, Frank Launder). Comic thriller about a naive young Irish girl (lovely Deborah Kerr) who begins working for the Germans during WWII. Trevor Howard is less boring than usual as the English officer who falls for her. Wouldn't seem very promising material for a comedy, but it really works.
17. The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club (1972, Ronald Wilson). If I got my love of science fiction from my dad, I got the mysteries from my mother. Dorothy Sayers' tales of Lord Peter Wimsey were one of her favorites that also became mine. Mom and I watched this BBC miniseries about a suspicious death in a quintessentially British gentlemen's club during its original airing, and I haven't seen it since. The sound quality of the Acorn Media DVD is abysmal, but that detracts only a little from the pleasure of seeing this witty, engaging, and literate adaptation. Ian Carmichael is not as handsome or young as Lord Peter should be, but he's nonetheless delightful. John Quentin and Vivian Heilbron are quite touching as the shell-shocked George Fentiman and his supportive wife Sheila. Also found it fascinating, in that British way, that the plain and dowdy Ann Dorland (Anna Cropper) wasn't noticeably less attractive or well-dressed than Wimsey's avant garde lover Marjorie Phelps (Phyllida Law). Kudos go especially to the set designers for lavish attention to period details, from the stuffy confines of the Bellona Club to the seedy gentility of the younger Fentimans' flat. Ditto for the costume designers for such articles as Lord Peter's full-skirted Oriental dressing-gown.
18. Clouds of Witness (1972, Hugh David). The first of the great BBC Wimsey mysteries, this one offers Lord Peter (as he says in a later book) the choice of hanging his brother (David Langton) or his sister (Rachel Herbert). The casting in this one is conspicuously bad in places; in particular, Anthony Ainley and David Hargreaves are all wrong in their small but crucial parts as Lady Mary's fiance and lover, respectively. However, Judith Arthy truly shines as the tragic Mrs. Grimthorpe -- one can see why the Duke would risk the gallows rather than imperil her -- and Georgina Cookson is terrifyingly polished as the chilly Duchess. Once again, the sets and costumes are fabulous.
19. A Morbid Taste for Bones (1996, Richard Stroud). Not all blasts from the past are happy ones. I gave this series another chance because I thought I might have been too severe on it back in the day. Nope; still hate it. Derek Jacobi is completely miscast as Brother Cadfael, and the screenwriter and director seem to have willfully misinterpreted Ellis Peters' writings. Never again.
20. Persuasion (2007, Adrian Shergold). See post January 29, 2008.
21. Mansfield Park (2007, Iain B. MacDonald). See post January 29, 2008.
22. The Enchanted Cottage (1945, John Cromwell). Precious and predictable film of disfigured (but not really) flyer Robert Young and ugly (but not really) maid Dorothy Maguire. OK, the proposal scene where Maguire tells Young that even the ugly have dreams of being loved made me cry, but other than that this is a boring, rather stupid story.
23. Portrait of Jennie (1948, William Dieterle). This is another one of those movies I liked better when I was younger and less cynical. This time I was put off by the movie's airy-fairy mysticism and religiosity. And it's not that I ever really dislike Jennifer Jones' performances, but they're all the same, with that breathless thing she does to indicate innocence. I always keep hoping that the gallery owner Miss Spinney (Ethel Barrymore) will turn out to be more important to the plot than she is.

What, Did Exxon Get "Theater" in the Divorce?

Dear Masterpiece Theater,

It's only out of love that I have to ask: what the fuck is wrong with you?

I'm not going to get into your new credits, which frankly I barely noticed and don't really care about. And I won't make unfavorable comparisons between Gillian Anderson and classic hosts Alastair Cooke and Russell Baker, although I will say that the red curtain behind her clashes with her hair; cream or a light yellow would set it off beautifully.

No, it's your content I'm pissed off about. You start off your new season with probably the most exciting idea ever, the complete oeuvre of Jane Austen, and then you go and eviscerate -- eviscerate -- Persuasion and Mansfield Park (I only saw a few minutes of Northanger Abbey, so I'll reserve my rage on that, if any, for another time).

Both adaptations, crammed into an inadequate 90 minutes, are rushed, superficial, and completely manage to skip the important points and emphasize the trivial. Austen's books are not about the plot, or at least, the plot can't be understood without the nuances of personality, behavior, and social convention that make up the lives of the characters. The infinitely superior 1995 version of Persuasion, though only 17 minutes longer, had time to build up the social milieu in which the story took place, so that the viewer could understand what a shocking and unlikely thing it was that Captain Benwick should marry Louisa Musgrove, or receive the full import of Mrs. Smith's news about Mr. Elliott. In this version, one hardly knows who these characters are or cares what they do, and that diminishes the impact of Anne and Wentworth's coming together. And rewriting Wentworth's letter -- one of the finest love letters in all of English literature -- was another supremely stupid choice.

The again totally superior 1999 film of Mansfield Park, although it errs in making Fanny too lively and clever, too much like an idealized Austen herself, at least takes the time to set the stage of Fanny's childhood, including the malice and cruelty of Mrs. Norris and the neglect of Sir Thomas and the whole Bertram family. This background allows us to understand why Edmund means so much to her and why she distrusts the motives of the smooth-talking but shallow Crawfords. Your new version makes it seem like she fell in love with Edmund simply because there was nobody else better around and rejected Henry because she saw him kissing Julia. And Mrs. Norris barely figures in the story, so when she is banished at the end, what kind of comeuppance is that for her?

In short, it's not enough to simply call characters by the names Austen gave them, have them address each other as "sir" and "ma'am," and dress them up in pretty clothes. Although, if you're going to depend on externalities like that, it would help if you got them right. A young lady like Anne Elliott would never career through the streets of Bath like that -- the whole source of tension after Anne receives Wentworth's letter is that her movements are constrained by propriety and politeness, the whole social world seems to be conspiring to keep her from him. And a young lady like Fanny Price would never walk around with her hair loose like a schoolgirl; putting your hair up when you reached the right age was a Very Big Deal.

Speaking of characters like an idealized Austen, what crack is your intro-writing staff smoking? Jane Austen did not identify with Mary Crawford. You may think she had all the best lines, but Austen couldn't have registered her disapproval more clearly if Mary had shown up wearing a sign saying, "Don't be like this, young ladies!"

Just when Frontline is confirming the not-very-new-news that kids don't read books anymore, why are you giving them -- us -- these Cliff Notes versions of great books? One of the fabulous things about Masterpiece Theater has always been that you had the leisure and the scope to tell stories as they needed to be told, however long that took. I mean, you could spend six entire episodes on the inconsequential The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard, and you can't spare a full two hours for some of the best books ever written?

Come on, show; you're better than this. We rely on you to be better than this.

Sincerely,

Muse of Ire

Movie Diary November-December 2007

Movies seen for the first time are in green.

1. The African Queen (1951, John Huston). Well, just one of the best movies ever made. Exciting, funny, touching, and thoroughly entertaining. Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn at the peak of their form.
2. The Wizard of Oz (1939, Victor Fleming). Well, another classic that can't really be any better. My favorite part is when Bert Lahr sings, " 'F I Were King." Yes, the flying monkeys still creep me out.
3. The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming (1966, Norman Jewison). This is the movie that made me fall in love with Alan Arkin when I was young. A great cast, a sparkling script, and a refreshing message.
4. This Sporting Life (1963, Lindsay Anderson). Turgid drama starts out unpleasantly and goes downhill from there.
5. Stage Fright (1950, Alfred Hitchcock). Hitchcock and Marlene Dietrich? I was so there. Unfortunately, I was so out of there when the hero insisted on behaving like an idiot within the first five minutes of the film.
6. City for Conquest (1940, Anatole Litvak). Jimmy Cagney plays the sap for so-not-worth-it Ann Sheridan. With Donald Crisp as the world's only honest boxing manager, Arthur Kennedy as a George Gershwinesque composer, and an amazingly good-looking Elia Kazan as a hood.
7. Inherit the Wind (1960, Stanley Kramer). In college, I actually met one of the men who wrote the play on which this is based. He was a pompous windbag, but this is an interesting, though preachy, film nonetheless. I love Gene Kelly as the cynical H. L. Mencken stand-in. Why didn't he get to do more straight drama?
8. King Kong (1933, Merian C. Cooper). Despite the outdated special effects, the original is still the best, although we really didn't need to see Kong battle every prehistoric creature on the island and oh my God somebody make Fay Wray stop screaming. Still, the scene with Kong battling the planes on the Empire State Building remains one of the most affecting in cinema.
9. Green for Danger (1946, Sidney Gilliat). Police inspector Alastair Sim enlivens this conventional whodunit in a rural English hospital during WWII.
10. The Edge of the World (1937, Michael Powell). Worthy but dull look at the depopulation and abandonment of a remote Scottish island.
11. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger). Charming, eccentric story of English soldier Roger Livesey, his friendship through two world wars with German officer Anton Walbrook, and his three loves, all played by Deborah Kerr.
12. The Catered Affair (1956, Richard Brooks). Bette Davis is terrific in an extremely uncharacteristic role in this earnest drama from a Paddy Chayevsky play about working-class New Yorkers. I regret I didn't get to see the seond half -- maybe I'll Netflix this.
13. The Women (1939, George Cukor). Fabuluous production of the Clare Booth Luce play, with star power to burn. Despite her ridiculous eyebrows and stagy gestures, Norma Shearer plays the wronged wife with grace and dignity. The message, feminist for its time, doesn't hold up today, but the sparkling dialog certainly does.
14. A Night at the Opera (1935, Sam Wood). Inspired lunacy. Stayed up just long enough to see the famous stateroom scene, which is good cause it gets rid of most of that pesky singing.
15. The Captain's Paradise (1953, Anthony Kimmins). I laughed in places, but the whole thing is so slimily sexist I'm ashamed of myself. Although Alec Guinness gets his comeuppance for not letting his madonna be a whore and vice versa, the leering hero worship of his first officer and the roguish way in which he escapes at the end robs it of any moral force. And I still want to know why his uncle came out from England to talk to him.
16. Whiskey Galore (1949, Alexander Mackendrick). Story of 50,000 cases of whisky shipwrecked on an island wrung dry by wartime shortages has comic possibilities, but starts off too slow. Got interrupted midway through and never went back. As always, enjoyed Joan Greenwood; also starring a very young Gordon Jackson.
17. Ratatouille (2007, Brad Bird). Cute, but I couldn't get over the inherent grossness of a rat in the kitchen. My sister and I had to close our eyes any time Remy's relatives swarmed. Subplot about Linguini's inheritance and the rascally Skinner seemed unnecessary and contrived. Some stunning animation, particularly the sequences where Remy is swept through the sewers. Peter O'Toole grand as always.
18. The Incredibles (2004, Brad Bird). Amazing, well-written animated feature about displaced superheroes. Great voice work by Holly Hunter, Craig T. Nelson, and Samuel L. Jackson, but I loved loved loved Brad Bird as superdesigner Edna Mode.
19. Talladega Nights (2006, Adam McKay). Started out well, but then OH MY GOD THE PAIN MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP. I will confess I liked that they named the kids Walker and Texas Ranger. Sacha Baron Cohen as rival driver Jean Girard has the funniest French accent since Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau.
20. The History Boys (2006, Nicholas Hytner). Surprisingly touching and effective film about a group of working-class boys prepping for Oxbridge entrance exams and the two teachers struggling for their souls. What impressed me is that the film doesn't side with either the love-learning-for-it's-own-sake professor (Richard Griffiths) or the just-give-the-right-answers coach (Stephen Campbell Moore), but allows them both to be partly right, to have their own strengths and flaws. Frances de la Tour, who looks like a downmarket Diana Rigg, gives one compelling but out-of-place speech about women in history. My sister and I have continually quoted this movie to each other ("Ici un hopital en Belgique." "He loved werds. He loved LITrachure.")
21. Notorious (1946, Alfred Hitchcock). Hands-down, my favorite movie of all time. Damn, Cary Grant is sexy when he's surly.
22. Casablanca (1942, Michael Curtiz). Well, it was just "give Muse a present" night at TCM as they unrolled three of my faves. Dynamic, sexy, taut, and suspenseful from start to finish, with Humphrey Bogart in the role he was born to play. And quotable? The whole move is one big quotefest.
23. Now, Voyager (1942, Irving Rapper). Yes, again. Now shut up and pass the tissues, please.
24. Night Nurse (1931, William A. Wellman). Interesting early Barbara Stanwyck effort, with Clark Gable in a rare, very sexy, villainous role. You know it's pre-Code when the happy ending involves Stanwyck's bootlegger boyfriend getting Gable anonymously rubbed out.
25. The Shop Around the Corner (1940, Ernst Lubitsch). The original and still the best of the clashing-coworkers-who-secretly-yen-for-each-other flicks. Tough and glamorous Margaret Sullavan holds her own with strong and stubborn Jimmy Stewart. Frank Morgan also does a great job as the store owner.
26. In the Good Old Summertime (1949, Robert Z. Leonard). Transplants The Shop Around the Corner from Budapest to Chicago, shedding its charm and wit as well as any pesky controversial topics like adultery and attempted suicide. Judy Garland and Van Johnson just can't hold a candle to Margaret Sullavan and Jimmy Stewart.
27. Wild Boys of the Road (1933, William A. Wellman). I could see its good intentions, but I just wasn't held by this story of teenagers riding the rails in the Depression.
28. A Christmas Carol (1938, Edward L. Marin). Boring, not very faithful version of the Dickens classic. Reginald Owen is no Alastair Sim.
29. Meet John Doe (1941, Frank Capra). Intermittently effective Capracorn about the plight of the average guy (Gary Cooper!) during the Depression. Barbara Stanwyck is at her best, sexy, ruthless, but vulnerable, and Edward Arnold is quietly menacing as the shadowy financier controlling the operation. Setpiece in the middle, where a fleeing Doe confronts the scale of the movement he's started, really drags down the film. Walter Brennan, of all people, gives a surprising cogent definition of karma burden.
30. Young Mister Lincoln (1939, John Ford). Dull courtroom drama whose only twist is that the lawyer hero happens to be Abe Lincoln. Despite Henry Fonda's earnest effort, no patch on the infinitely superior Abe Lincoln in Illinois.
31. Roberta (1935, William A. Seiter). Incognito Russian princess Irene Dunne sings, and sings, and sings -- including that well-known Russian folksong, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." Other than that, this is a cheerful and likeable movie with some early Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers sparkle.
32. A Christmas Carol (1984, Clive Donner). Clunky remake tries to delve more deeply into Scrooge's psychology, not entirely successfully. George C. Scott is no Alastair Sim either, but he does OK with what he's given. Also features appearances by David Warner (was he really ever that young?) and Roger Rees (gee, he was pretty).
33. The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938, Michael Curtiz). See my earlier post re: Errol Flynn in tights. I just love how Claude Rains purrs his lines.
34. The Charge of the Light Brigade (1936, Michael Curtiz). Snoozerama tries to recast the disastrous Crimean War battle as a triumph. Errol Flynn should have stuck to tights.
35. How Green Was My Valley (1941, John Ford). Beautiful, evocative story of Welsh coalminers. The ever-solid Donald Crisp is impressive as the patriarch Gwilym Morgan, and Maureen O'Hara is stunningly beautiful as Angharad. I'm just mad that Mr. Gryffudd (Walter Pidgeon), who turns away Angharad's love, is presented as a martyr, when he's really a moral coward.
36. It's a Wonderful Life (1946, Frank Capra). See post to come.
37. Meet Me in St Louis (1944, Vincente Minelli). Like the youngest Smith sister Tootie (Margaret O'Brien), a really schizophrenic movie: half winsome and half gruesome. Where was Anna Freud in 1904? because that kid really needs a shrink. However, Judy Garland has never looked more beautiful, and the songs are glorious.
38. The Bourne Ultimatum (2007, Paul Greengrass). The Muse ultimatum: stop making these lousy movies. Boring, nonsensical, and LOUD.
39. The Namesake (2005, Mira Nair). Visually stunning but overly long saga of Indian-American identity clearly suffers from the filmmaker's love for, and inability to prune, the source material. Film should have started with Gogol's high school graduation. Good performances from Kal Penn, Irfan Khan, and Tabu.
40. Stranger Than Fiction (2006, Marc Forster). Much to my own amazement, I really enjoyed this strange examination of reality vs. construct, of cause and effect. Emma Thompson shows great courage in appearing, for most of the movie, like shit; Dustin Hoffman and Queen Latifah are both likeable, although he's mannered and she's dramatically unnecessary. Like many movies set in New York, takes place in a fantasy Manhattan where literature professors and novelists who haven't published in ten years have huge, airy, light-filled offices and apartments.
41. The Prisoner of Shark Island (1936, John Ford). Worthy drama about Dr. Samuel Mudd, imprisoned for helping John Wilkes Booth. Put me right to sleep.
42. Up the River (1930, John Ford). Moderately entertaining caper picture about cons who escape to help a pal stay on the straight and narrow. Brash Spenser Tracy and tasty young Humphrey Bogart in early roles.
43. A Raisin in the Sun (1961, Daniel Petrie). Dated but intense drama of black Chicago family and the American dream. Sidney Poitier's performance as the weak, frustrated Walter Lee is incandescent. And is that really Louis Gossett Jr. as the stuffy George Murchison?
44. A Star Is Born (1937, William A. Wellman). The original Hollywood fairy tale. Interesting effort, but outshone in every way by the 1954 Judy Garland version.
45. Small Town Girl (1936, William A. Wellman). Girlfriend, I've said this before: noone blames you for wanting to get out of your boring-ass town. But you don't have to marry some drunken, emotionally abusive (though pretty) asshole to do it. Just buy a train ticket to Boston and get a job!
46. Over 21 (1945, Charles Vidor). Thought this movie, based on Ruth Gordon's play about her experiences as an Army wife in WWII, would be fun, but no.
47. Theodora Goes Wild (1936, Richard Boleslawski). Small town authoress (Irene Dunne) writes sexy novel, attempts to maintain secret identity, meets asshole publisher (Melvyn Douglas), mix-ups ensue. Yawn.
48. Miracle on 34th Street (1947, George Seaton). See post to come.
49. The Cutting Edge (1992, Paul Michael Glaser). Ah, vintage '90s cheese, nice and ripe. She (Moira Kelly) is a spoiled princess figure skater; he (D. B. Sweeney) is a macho hockey player. Will these two crazy kids be able to get together on the ice and off? If you don't know, you haven't seen many movies, but it's all enjoyable nevertheless. Toe pick.
50. Tenth Avenue Angel (1948, Roy Rowland). Hokey piece of crap about sad sack New York tenement girl (Margaret O'Brien) whose faith is restored by seeing a cow kneel at midnight. No, I'm not making that up. Young Angela Lansbury is a knockout, though.
51. I Remember Mama (1948, George Stevens). Sweet, sentimental story of Norwegian immigrants in turn-of-the-century San Francisco. Maybe it's the accent, but Irene Dunne has never seemed more natural and less affected to me. Barbara Bel Geddes, on the other hand, with her breathless, Bambi-eyed innocence, drives me quite crazy.
52. The White Cliffs of Dover (1944, Clarence Brown). Everybody's got a stiff upper lip in this story of Britain during the two World Wars, especially American Irene Dunne.
53. Scaramouche (1952, George Sidney). Even Stewart Granger in tights could barely keep my eyes open. I thought it was creepy that the hero never told Janet Leigh that they were siblings, but then they turned out not to be siblings after all. That was creepier.
54. Red River (1948, Howard Hawks). Oh really, Carrie Fisher? You think John Wayne ever made a movie where he didn't think he was the hero? Think again.
55. The Corsican Brothers (1941, Gregory Ratoff). Utter yawnsville.
56. The Gay Divorcee (1934, Marc Sandrich). Sheer delight, although Fred Astaire does come off as creepily stalkerish in this as some of his other early roles. No matter what the stars are up to, however, the real comic duo in these films is always Edward Everett Horton and Eric Blore. Alice Brady has just Irene Dunne's sniff and giggle, but in her it's supposed to be obnoxious.
57. Shall We Dance? (1937, Marc Sandrich). Another great one from Fred and Ginger. Of the many great bits, I particularly love when Ginger's little dog gives up on their ostensible walk of the deck. I also really like Jerome Cowan as Ginger's cheerfully amoral manager (although he is kind of a schmuck, at that). Strange to recall how much effort hotels used to put into policing their guests' sex lives.

How to Have a Happy New Year's Eve Despite a Raging Sinus Infection

Hot tea with lemon, a shot of blackberry brandy, and a full evening of Fred and Ginger. Thanks, TCM.

Happy New Year, everyone. Back with more posts when I'm recovered from the plague.

Am Not!

No, silly, it's one of those original Star Trek minidresses. Very fetching, especially with the fishnet stockings and black leather boots.

Your Score : 85 credits
You're an extreme sci-fi geek! You're probably wearing your very own homemade TRON costume right now!

	I received 85 credits on The Sci Fi Sounds Quiz How much of a Sci-Fi geek are you?
Take the Sci-Fi Movie Quiz canon s5 is

Movie Quote of the Day #3

Rose: Esther Smith! Nice girls don't let a boy kiss them until after they're engaged. Men don't want the bloom rubbed off.

Esther: Personally, I think I have too much bloom.

Lucille Bremer and Judy Garland, Meet Me in St. Louis

Oh, Goody

December is Irene Dunne month at TCM.

Is it January yet?

Movie Quote of the Day #2

I couldn't see straight or think straight. I was a fat-headed guy full of pain. It tore me up not having you.

Cary Grant, Notorious