I reviewed a book with a really long title: The Intellectual Devotional: American History: Revive Your Mind, Complete Your Education, and Converse Confidently about Our Nation’s Past. You can read it on Curled Up With A Good Book.
December, 2007:
Lame Movie Review: Margot at the Wedding
You know, sometimes, I’ll see a biography about a writer, or attend some literary event that inspires me to write. I’m gonna go home and write, I think. And then it turns into that diet you’re going to start tomorrow (which I am, by the way). So I see this movie about a writer and I think that thought, again.
Then I come home and pop in the rest of Deadwood. Actually, I guess I also came home and wrote, because here I am.
I must be some sort of movie snob, because I scoffed at the people around me in the theatre this evening. I and everyone else in the theatre won free passes to this pre-screening either through the local newsrag or radio station.
Now, I’ve grown to expect the regular rudeness of people refusing to shut up during the movie, kinda like the slang word that insidiously works its way into the standard dictionary. Please note I did not say “accept”, I said “expect”. It’s not OK, yet people keep doing it, and noone will tell their neighbor to shut up because they might get shot. It seems like everybody complains about it to the point it’s become part of every other stand-up comedy routine, so why are people still doing it? These are the commentators who must inform the person next to them AND me, every epiphany they have. Like screaming babies on an airplane, I always have the misfortune of being seated directly in front of these people.
I suppose I shouldn’t have expected more out of a bunch of people who won free passes, and I’m talking about Sacramento people here, not L.A. people, not people who make any habit out of seeing independent films, which this was, to behave themselves like the adults their photo IDs claimed. They responded like a bunch of ten-year-olds, as if they hadn’t seen a bare butt before (titter titter giggle giggle), or a pig’s hoof in the trash (“ewwwwwww”).
And need I mention the groaning and clicking of the tongues, when the credits rolled leaving them all hanging, for some reason expecting more? The woman behind me whined, “Well, I’m really disappointed. I mean, the acting was OK, she’s normally a really good actress, but what the hell was that?”
This is precisely why I’m amazed that the Bodies Exhibit is even in this ignorant town. There was at least a 60 minute wait to get into the exhibit in New York, and that was after it had been in town for 6 months. I expect we can waltz right in next week to an empty room, save for the odd nonSacramentan, or forced elementary school field trip, except for the children of THOSE parents who have refused to allow their children to see such filth and debauchery. Let them play their violent video games or stay up all night watching The Sopranos, but real blood and guts? Ewwwwwwwww.
See? I told you I was a snob.
By the way, I thought the movie was fantastic. A brilliant character portrayal in the writing and in the acting. The dialogue was original (to me anyway) and refreshing. Not like that horrid excuse for a TV mini series I caught the first few minutes of last week - that abortion of the Wizard of Oz, what was it? Tin Man? P.U. to the cliche fumes coming off of that one. Anyways (as they say in Deadwood), Margot at the Wedding is character heavy and plot light (a warning to you Hollywood blockbuster fans out there).
Celebrity Sighting: That Guy from Entourage
The great thing about blogs is that the posts are listed in descending order, so you can get right the latest post first and not waste time scrolling until your fingers bleed just to catch up on your favorite goings-on at Nanny Goats in Panties. The bad thing about blogs is that I can’t mention a celebrity sighting in the morning post and then in the afternoon post start off with “Later that same day, we had another celebrity sighting” because you would have no fricking idea what I’m talking about because you hadn’t gotten to the part of the first part, right? Plus, I’m waiting until the next day to even post it, so you may be even further thrown off unless I pre-date it so that it makes some modicum of sense.
In any event, it is with great trepidation that I begin (which is no longer the beginning, of course, thanks to my babbling on and on and on and so forth) this post with: “Later that same day….
My morning cohorts and I hook up with our friend Amy at BB#1, since BB#2 has yet to exist and BB#1 is more geographically desirable.
ANYWAY…..
It is I, this time, who recognizes an approaching celebrity and announces it to the table. “Is that Jeremy Piven walking in?” after which we get somewhat excitable and think half the people in the place are sure to be celebrities if we could only recognize them. Amy thinks she recognizes a guy in the corner from some soap opera. Erin thinks she recognizes Jennifer Coolidge, but it my claim on the Piv that is the only firmly established ID and therefore officially acknowledged sighting. Some of you with HBO may recognize Mr. Piven from Entourage as the notoriously aggressive agent. Others may remember him from Ellen.
And with my quota of celebrity sightings for the month met, I wouldn’t expect any more until after Christmas if I were you.
Celebrity Sighting: One of the Baldwins
So there we were at hip buckwheat pancake central, aka John O’ Groats on Pico Blvd., bemoaning the cost of elder health care, and discussing the possibility of getting state jobs or UC positions that after a minimum number of years employment - BOOM! - you’ve got health care for the rest of your life. State of California is 10 years. UC Davis Med Center: 5. But anyway, who gives a crap about that? The only reason you’re reading this post at this point is to find out who in the hell we saw while masticating on eggs, bacon and a stack o’ starch, unless you can tell which Baldwin is pictured at right, in which case, you’ve probably chosen to move on with your life and get back to what it was you were doing before lollygagging your ass over here. If not, then you are in luck because while I would have been no help to you, Erin was with me and she, of the Hollywood radar, instantly recognized him.
It was Billy Baldwin. Or William Baldwin. The one who is married to Chynna Phillips (for an in-depth rant about people’s moronic choices of name spelling of their children go here). Backdraft? Flatliners? Anyone? Not the one who was married to Kim Basinger? The one with the perpetually stoned eyes. The one with the puckered duck lips. The one with the swoosh hairdo. OK, so they all look like that.
