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Posts Tagged ‘Movies’

It struck me today that I need to change my perspective.

I am still thinking like an employed person. True, I still am employed, but not for much longer. In fact, I only have fifteen more days of employment; three business weeks before I am retired. Yet, when looking ahead and planning, I still, to a great extent, fall into the decades-long habit of planning around my workday responsibilities. Is it a school night? Then I can’t stay up ’til 2AM gaming with my crew. Am I on call? Then thank you, no, to the second whisky. How much will travel time eat into my week off?

Case in Point: Dune: Part Two.

For a long time, now, I have not enjoyed going to the cinema. Aside from the jarring juxtaposition of watching an adaptation of a Regency drama with distant gunfire and muffled explosions bleeding through from the multiplex theater next door, I find the experience over-loud, over-priced, and chock-a-block with people who are—more often than I care to admit—rude, inconsiderate, and entirely capable of ruining my movie-going experience.

So, though all my friends are raving about how good D:P2 is, I’ve been steeling myself for the long wait until it hits a streaming service and then comes out on disc (I’ll be watching the three movies annually, once I have them all at hand). I mean, why test my tolerance by braving the cinema along with the crowds that will also want to see it on any given weeknight or weekend day?

But today, I realized how silly and outdated that perspective is. In three weeks, I’ll be retired. Next month, there’s no reason I can’t’t go to the cinema mid-week, midday (along with all the other old folks). I might even get a senior discount. I’ll still have to contend with SFX sound bleeding in from the theater next door, but I’m thinking that won’t be as big an issue with D:P2 as it might otherwise be.

To be honest, I’ve missed the cinema experience, at least the way it used to be. My sister and I, ages ago, went in a gang to a “Weekend of Epics” in Petaluma, where we saw, back to back: The Bible, Ben-Hur, Cleopatra, and Lawrence of Arabia. It was an all-day event, over thirteen hours of screen time (plus intermissions and meal breaks). And it was a gas, because the only people in attendance were movie nerds who were totally into the immersion of watching old movies in a darkened theater. No teens on dates. No young couples with crying babies. Just folks who were willing and able to devote nearly sixteen straight hours to a movie-going experience.

I don’t ever expect to capture that feeling again, but if there’s even a chance of feeling a fraction of that magic, I’ll risk the disappointment.

k

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  • “Top 10 Reads for the Summer”
  • “The Best Games of 2023, Ranked”
  • “Twelve Items Every Pantry Must Have”
  • “5 Movies You Need to See”
  • “Seattle’s Best Restaurants”

There is no scarcity of voices eager to tell us what to do, what to like, what is good. “Listicles” abound, plastered with headlines shot through with words like “Best” and “Ranked.” But, “Best” according to whom? Who decides how these things are “Ranked?” Not me, for sure. Probably not you, either. But here’s the thing:

  • I’m enjoying a book my friend didn’t like.
  • The music I’m listening to is probably not on your playlists.
  • I loathe brie cheese.
  • A well-maintained and -manicured lawn is my idea of a crime against nature.

In other words, my tastes are different than yours, and yours are different than mine. And that’s okay.

My tastes in music, books, and cuisine aren’t better than anyone else’s. Yes, I was trained as a musician, have written novels, and have taught myself to be a better cook, but my personal likes and dislikes in these areas aren’t better. Obviously, they have been influenced by what I’ve learned, but they’re not better. “Better” presumes there is some Platonic ideal against which all others are found lacking, and while this might work for some objects, when it comes to things like sandwiches, it’s useless. There is no “best” sandwich. There’s just your favorite kind of sandwich. And there’s mine.

“Bestseller” doesn’t mean “best,” and it damned sure doesn’t mean you’ll like it. Neither do awards, kudos, upvotes, likes, retweets, or some stranger’s rankings.

Where there are quantifiable characteristics that can be evaluated, let’s compare and discuss them; we might learn something, see something we never saw before, and possibly modify our opinion. But when we’re dealing with the unquantifiable, when we’re talking about basic visceral likes and dislikes, we just need to chalk it up to personal preference.

I’ll enjoy what I enjoy, and you do the same. I won’t think less of you because you love brie cheese (though I may wonder how you manage it).

In short, I don’t want to yuck your yum.

k

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A lot of today’s pop culture cinema leaves me cold. Superheroes. Vampires. Zombies. Especially zombies.

What is it with zombies? I don’t watch The Walking Dead. I don’t get all fidgety waiting for the next zombie apocalypse video game. And I certainly don’t queue up to see the latest action-packed, gore-spattered, plucky regular-guys facing walls of crazed, offal-eating zombies.

Usually.

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I am a sucker for epistolary movies. Throw in ethnic food and cookery, and you’ll have me on toast points.

The Lunchbox (2013) stars Irffan Khan and Nimrat Kaur, and is the first full-length feature by director Ritesh Batra (who also wrote the screenplay and produced the film). Western movie-goers might recognize Khan from movies such as Life of Pi, Slumdog Millionaire, and The Darjeeling Limited, but most of his work–as almost all his co-star Kaur’s work–has been in Indian cinema.

The story is set in Mumbai, a place of contradictions and juxtapositions between old and new, modern and old-school. Ila (Kaur) is a young housewife who cooks a lunch for her husband every day and sends it to him using the city’s arcane but incredibly efficient lunchbox delivery service. One day, however, the lunch she prepares goes astray, and is delivered instead to Saajan (Khan), a middle-aged widower who works at an insurance office. Ila quickly realizes that her husband didn’t get the lunch she prepared but can see that whoever did get it, enjoyed it, and so in the next day’s lunchbox, she includes a note.

Thus, a correspondence begins, filled with food, secrets, dreams, and hopes.

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It seems to me that Hollywood–and entertainment in general–can’t come up with anything new.

Sequels. Prequels. Spin-offs. Reboots.

The so-called “summer blockbusters” are nothing more than tasteless CGI pastries injected with a gooey filling made of bantering superheroes, giant robots, zombie fighters, and sparkly vampires, all which we viewers scarf down while speeding past fiery explosions on our way to a happy ending. Every actor and action, from the abdominal beauty of the Spartan 300 to the hypnotically-slo-mo destruction of iconic American landmarks, is retouched and enhanced into a stylized pabulum for our plebeian appetites. There is no grit. There is no ambiguity. All is good and bad, beautiful and evil, plucky survivors and defeated foes.

Then, along comes Max.

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I wish my brain had an OFF switch.

There are times when it just gets in the way. I mean it’s thinking. All. The. Time. Thinking thinking thinking. Every damned minute it’s filled with thoughts, memories, comparisons, evaluations, judgments, decisions.

And there are times when it’s a real pain in the ass.

One situation in which it really gets in the way is when I’m watching actors do something I know in great detail. You know what I mean. It’s that part of the movie where the star sits down to a keyboard and supposedly starts typing in code/prose like a savant, but you know–from the position of their hands or the regular stadium-wave pattern of their fingers–that they’re just frobnicating, mindlessly tippy-tapping the keys while they utter their lines.

I have the same problem with actors who “dance” ballet or “play” a musical instrument. Few actors can fake it well enough to fool me. Hell, few can fake it well enough for me to suspend my disbelief. Especially painful (for me) is when actors pretend to play a violin, viola, or cello. My decades as a concert violist and my knowledge of the instruments make the tiniest misstep a glaring error, and it just pops me right out of the story (like when a character in a story set in Victorian England says “Okay.” Arg!)

And so, it was with great trepidation that I queued up A Late Quartet, the story of which centers on the members of a world-famous string quartet. (more…)

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In the world of Hollywood movies, the name Ishtar is synonymous with flop.

Ishtar, Elaine May’s 1987 version of a “Road to Morocco” type movie, stars Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman, and when it came out, it was an unmitigated flop, recouping only $14M of its $55M price tag.

The press that preceded its release was so bad that, despite its star quality and Elaine May’s impressive credentials (A New Leaf, Heaven Can Wait, Reds, Tootsie), I never went to see it, never rented it, and never even considered buying it.

Then, yesterday, I found this 27-year old movie available for streaming on Netflix. Curious, I queued it up.

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