Strangers on a Train (More Movie Madness...and Spoilers)

I'm adverse to black and white films. Probably because I'm a child of the 80s and thus unable to focus on anything that was not proven to cause epileptic seizures in Japanese school children. However, Alfred Hitchcock's film Strangers on a Train, was not just an all around fantastic film, but the dizzying pace and onslaught of surreal situations made me forgot that I was watching a movie that came from the 50s.

I really, truly enjoyed this movie. And after having watched Rear Window and liked it only "very much" because I thought it was a little soft on the gore, and a little heavy on the Jimmy Stewart, I'd like to say that Hitchcock delivers a superb cinematic masterpiece with this movie.

Why, you ask?

1) As you may have figured out, awkward sexual tension and strained relations as a result of that, are my M.O. And so when we have a character who's a bit of a homely hussy, that enjoys a ride through the tunnel of love with not one, but two ineligible bachelors (who doesn't?), you've already got me.

And as it turns out, Hitchcock also loves strange sexual encounters and other sorts of bad behavior. Let's face it, Miriam is ugly and as opposed to most movies where only pretty girls get laid, is a total tramp. I love that whole chasey-chasey scene at the fair where she plays coquette with Bruno Anthony. Just brilliant! Couple that with the fact that she's kind of a bitch and ruses to exploit her husband's celebrity status (as a tennis star?) despite the fact they were going to get a divorce and she's unapologetically knocked up by a different man, and well, we have the making of a fabulous villain.

2) And while we're on the subject of fabulous villains and sexual tension, Bruno Anthony is simply the the most relentless, difficult, and possibly gayest villain ever. What with his his Oedipal familial relations, his OCD-like behaviors and sexual ambiguity, Bruno Anthony is the perfect candidate for being the kind creepy-weirdo who you might meet on train and then find out he's killed your wife. Plus that robe he wears when relaxing at home - also fabulous.

3) Every character in this movie serves a purpose beyond entertainment. And while Guy Haines is not an exceptional character, he's the perfect door-mat for Bruno Anthony's sheer evilness. And as annoying as Anne Morton is, with her constant state of doe-eyed, half-open-mouthed anguish that makes me want to throw things at her, she actually makes great companion for Guy. Well suited for each other in their patheticness. Then there's the tenacious Babs. The uglier, brainier sister to Anne, who also may have a little crush on Guy. She's awesome in how she wants to help exonerate Guy and unabashedly cops a feel of Hennessey's no-no bits in the meantime (awkward). And what about that Hennessey? Why is he so considerate of Guy's feelings, its so weirdly paternal.

I can go on and on with this movie, that's how much I liked. Of course I love the ending with the carousel, which Hitchcock made seem as though people really got hurt (thank you). And the unsuspecting girl that was riding it - brilliant! While Guy and Bruno were fighting and the carousel was spinning faster and faster out of control, she was having a total blast!

Of course there were some inconsistency issues, like when they were looking at the map with the flashlight, or those tennis montages where there appears to be a glitch in the time/space continuum. Um, hello? But we can forgive this, since, as my partner so astutely put it, this movie was made in time when you had to wait for film to develop.

Anywho. Great movie. In fact, so great, I think it may just deserve a 10.

A short of a short

Before it was cool to be a teenage vampire, I had attempted to write a short story about a family of vampires that move to New Zealand in order to reinvent their lives. Here's a taste, so to speak...



Isobel stared into stopped time. Nothing moved. Like a world made of plastecine, with only Juliet hurrying in the background. A performer miming dismemberment. Juliet playfully snapped a finger at the knuckle and gasped with delight as a soft spray of blood misted the air.

Instinctively Isobel opened her mouth and instantly felt the wet warmth sprinkle her face. She was brought into the present as she savored the ruddy iron.

The door opened.

"Girls what are you doing down there?"

It was mother. Wide-eyed, the girls looked at each other across the torso, searching for an excuse.

"Its a coven!" Juliet yelled up in mock-innocence. "We're just making an offering!" Followed Isobel.

The girls sat motionless as they waited for their mother's response. Satisfied, Mother shut the door and turned her back to the basement. But she knew. The smell of the newly deceased was unmistakable. And it carried with it the quiet sadness that was only particular to murder.

You Can Count on Something Ordinary - Monday Movie...oh, whatever

The lameness of the movie poster says it all, but just in case...

I've been struggling to write some kind of commentary on the Oscar nominated movie You Can Count on Me (starring Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo). Clearly this is due to a compilation of emotional and psychological factors that prohibit a thoughtful response. The first being that I'm an emotional retard. The second being my "Its not you, its me" approach to familial dysfunction, and by extension, movies that portray the more banal moments of familial dysfunction. But wont as you are for some sort of review, I've turned to other people's completely unprofessional reviews, to which I shall comment on their commentary.

gbheron from Washington DC notes "Not all stories need a crisis for the characters to resolve or an issue to press to be compelling. Some stories are just slices of our workaday worlds, packaged and presented in such a way as to entertain us. " Which is why I'm so lucky to have my own workaday world to entertain me, and by entertain I mean bore me to the brink of tears. No gbheron, I'm almost certain that when I watch a movie I don't want to be reminded that I'm living a measly, pedestrian existence with 300 million other losers.

almaier from Canada states "Here, the characters think, act and talk like real people. They could be us. That's the genius of this movie." And while this business of acting like "real people" is the genius of this movie, it also happens to be the plague of my existence, since for me, the mundane familial situations that these "real people" are finding themselves in is not so much emotionally cathartic, as emotionally debilitating.

m_madhu, hailing all the way from Chennai India, muses "the characters are...just real people, with real failings and real weaknesses, real moments, real feelings, real warmth, real stupidity ... you can count on me is a simple story that is beautifully told. a romantic movie, a family movie, a warm movie about human relationships, the complexities and the tender moments in between." Seriously, kill me.

fougasseu from gay Paris "Something about watching and listening to these characters moving about inside the wreckage of their family, and seeing the story gently unfold, made this a remarkable experience." Really? Well, fougasseu, if you like to watch families listlessly fall apart whilst emotionally blackmailing each other and repeatedly yelling for no reason, feel free to spend the day with my family on any given holiday. And permitting that my father decides to attend this family function, be prepared for a truly remarkable experience.

I could go on like this for hours, especially since people the world over (who write reviews on IMDB?) really loved this movie. Which just goes to show that only family can fuck you up in a way that could make a magical and touching film like You Can Count on Me repellant to the point of dry heaving.

Mrs. Cleaver is a Slut

I was alerted recently by our dear Norwegian friend/lust object, Bård Edlund, to this telling piece of American psychiatry otherwise known as the "Marital Rating Scale—Wife's Chart," a test developed in the late 1930s by Dr. George W. Crane, as a means to give couples feedback on their marriages. And while a backhanded slap to the mouth is enough feedback for me, I guess some spouses need to see things in writing.



Of course I decided to go ahead and rate myself, just to confirm my suspicion that if somehow I was tele-ported to the 1930s I'd more likely end up cemented in a basement wall than in a partnership of marital bliss. And not to my surprise, I'm a bad wife, a very very bad wife - with 15 demerits and 7 merits. Naturally, flirting with other men threw me over the edge. And while i do also put my cold feet on my partner when he eventually decides to come to bed, I'm also a terribly sweaty sleeper, which while not on the list I believe earns a demerit, since as he states "who wants to sleep next to a wet rag".

kickette.com? it's a site I fancy

We sometimes forget that Fútbol players aren't just great athletes, they're also sex objects to be adored (i.e. shamelessly fantasized about in two's). For this reason alone we must thank the ever industrious team across the pond at Kickette.com, who work hard everyday bringing very important news on footballers and they're WAGs (wives and girlfriends, bitches, get a clue). And while it's no surprise that fútbol players love themselves some coke and hookers and/or random gold-digging socialite figures who can otherwise be confused as models or perfume spokespeople, it is always a surprise when David Beckham opens his fat trap and let's slip his quavering Kermit the Frog voice. But that's neither here nor there.

Ladies and genitals, let's have a hearty hulloh to Kickette.com - where it doesn't matter how you play the game, just who's fucking the people playing it.

Smells like Teen Spirit - Monday Movie Madness goes international

What you may not know, dear reader, is that I have a weak spot for teen flicks. And when these teen flicks are all about kids falling in love, making out with the wrong people for all the wrong reasons, and nerds avenging themselves in face of that evil which we will call 'High School', the few little heartstrings in the caverns of my chest are ever so delicately plucked. Which is why I was touched by the story of Sapphic love in Lukas Moodysson 'Show Me Love' (a.k.a Fucking Amål). And not simply because in the end love prevails, but also because it demonstrates, sans doute, the transnational suckitude that is being a teenager.

Without further ado:

1) Can one song ruin an entire movie? Yes, it can. Especially if it's Robin S's 1993 dance hit 'Show Me Love'. However, when the movie is set in Sweden one can make concessions. After all, we can't just blame the Swedes for their love of cheesy dance music. No, the Nordes in general (including Holland), have dubious tastes in all things cultural. Take Elin's boots as an example. But more broadly, such plagues as Ace of Base, Henrik Ibsen and death metal, whose fans, by the way, burned down churches that were centuries old, and even to a heathen such as myself is simply terrible, if not for the sheer historical consequences.

2) Other than that song, which we shall not name, the soundtrack was quite good. After all, a teen flick without punk music is like a prom without dirty dancing. Interestingly, as a teenager I was into big band jazz, which just goes to show how my prom turned out (or didn't turn out, for that matter).

3) This movie followed the standard teen flick formula that we all know and love. There's the bad kid (Elin), who also happens to be the cool kid that hangs with the "In" crowd. She comes from a broken home with absentee parents, is sexually active and likes to party. Then there's the good kid (Agnes), who happens to be the nerdy outsider, who mostly spends time at home. She comes from a seemingly healthy family with reasonable and understanding parents, and enjoys writing in her journal and staring at pictures of her crush. When these two characters meet, there is an initial conflict that then leads to a reconciliation and, after much emotional melodrama, otherwise known as "being a shitty teenager", at last leads to an alliance, breaking the stereotypical mold of high school life and reminding us all that to be truly happy we must remain true to ourselves. Normally, this formulaic plot is ridiculous, albeit insanely entertaining. And while I'm biased towards teen movies in general, I can say that Show Me Love is one of the better teen flicks I've seen and more closely resembles an actual "film". As opposed to its American counterparts, which more closely resemble a Lifetime movie on amphetamines. So basically, its a teen movie for adults. This is to say that on a scale of believability, its a notch above "Drive Me Crazy" and a notch below "Elephant" (although nowhere near the awesomeness that is "La Boum"). And speaking as an adult, that's a happy median.

4) I guess if your cool enough you can proverbially/literally and confidently come out of the closet in front of all your peers and everything will be ok.

5) Perfect ending -teenagers doing what they do best, talking about nothing important.

So there it is. My review of Show Me Love. The acting was above-par and the direction was solid (I think?). This movie deserves an 8.2.

When a Harebrained Scheme Goes Awray (or Monday Movie Madness)

This is the kind of movie that warrants investigation on the accuracy of what is being told. And now that I know the truth, I'm not sure which story I like better. The fictitious Bonnie and Clyde by Arthur Penn, or the real life Bonnie and Clyde...of Wikipedia.

What really struck me about this story, both the Penn and real-life version, is that the most interesting character is Bonnie Parker. Its as if she doesn't really fit into the story and yet she eclipses everything else within it. That said, from the minimal research I conducted, it appears that in real life, Bonnie Parker wasn't just a small-town girl looking for an out. No my friend. And if we can believe the wikipedia entry (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonnie_and_Clyde) that states that Bonnie was actually an honor roll student who, "excelled in creative writing, won a County League contest in literary arts,...[6] and even gave introductory speeches for local politicians", then we'd have to wonder why a girl would be so desperate to leave her rural home? It doesn't sound too bad. Kind of homey and all-American, which is quite nice really.

I guess the real-life Bonnie just imagined something different for herself. And I think Penn did a good job of showing this.

Here Penn paints Bonnie as a beautiful misfit, enveloped in a world of romance. A kind of Gilgamesh, unfurling towards the distant dream of immortality at the expense of her own. Clyde, on the other hand, just kind of floats onto the scene. A mediocre small time robber, who on top of being emasculated by his own impotence, is just a shadow compared to Bonnie. And perhaps Penn took a bit of artistic license there, but I like it.

However, what I like even more is the possibility that Bonnie purposefully jeopardized her future just for kicks. And I can respect that perhaps she was more imaginative than practical. And of course, I like to think that she never really loved Clyde, but rather that she used him as a vehicle for her adventures, whose motivations, by the way, we're still not fully informed of. After all, what can a petty thief bring a girl on the honor roll (besides down)?

1. Let's just get the most important bit out of the way - how ridiculously beautiful is Faye Dunaway? One can't imagine a better Bonnie Parker. And Warren Beatty, who is a supposed hunk, doesn't even compare.

2. Those little bumblefuck towns are creepy. If I grew up in one of them I'd be desperate to get out of there too. Or I'd probably be an inbreed, and thus wouldn't be able to tell left from right. Note: As an Armenian I probably am inbred somewhere down the genetic grapevine, which probably explains why I can't tell left from right.

3. W.D is an idiot, but his daddy sure is clever.

4. Fantastic death scene. You could almost feel it. And the way Bonnie just hung there like a leaky bag of jelly, brilliant.

At any rate, this is one of those movies that's good on film but better in hindsight. And I think the movie works best in tandem with the "real-life" story, thus the average rating is pulled up to an 8.5. Go Bonnie!

Is that a big gut, or you having a baby?

I've been living the past two months as if life has lost its luster. Balling my fists and cursing the heavens. That is until now. What with winter on the wing and glorious spring warming the outer mantle, life, my friends, seems slightly reinvigorated. It's no surprise, then, that we see a little more pregnant women waddling about. After all, humans, like most mammals, like to hole themselves up in the cold of winter and, for lack of anything better to do, fuck.*

Which, contrary to how well reasoned i thought this analogy was, has nothing to do with the story of the transgender male who is now carrying the baby of his wife. Because, as I realize now, this guy really had to work to get knocked up. I mean, after all, this isn't easy-peasy man on woman intercourse. No this is woman with turkey baster on woman in man, kind of intercourse. That aside, and for the sake of my analogy, I'm going to pretend like somehow this makes sense.



And it does. Kind of. It just takes a moment to internalize.

Here's the thing, I have absolutely no qualms with "transgender". In fact, I'm all for it. I say yes to it all; gender is a construction, biology isn't enough to ascribe social conventions en absolut, and absolutely, whatever it is that you have to do to better yourself, do it.

However, when I first heard of this story I said, No. No, No, No, No. I'm sorry, but you cannot have it all. You got to take your hormones, you got your breasts removed, and as if it isn't enough that you get to be a male, the favored of the human species, you also get to breed your own biological child?

Alas, I realized these prudish sensibilities were ridiculous. And now I say, "Work it out boy!". You do what you got to do to have your family. After all, there's all kinds of dummies breeding out there, and since the government won't mandate a (legitimate) eugenics program as they probably should, then I'll settle for a seemingly intelligent and thoughtful couple raising a child in a somewhat unconventional manner.

*According to the US census, the most popular month to have a baby is July, which actually means that people start mashing nasties sometime around October/Novemeber.

What's a strike without a protest?

I realize, in retrospect, that trying to figure out what makes the Argentinean tick through recounting my trip to Argentina was quite a lofty endeavor. Not because I can't solve the enigma that is their erratic personality, but because really, why bother. The fact of the matter is that I love the Argentines. I love their food, I love their accents, I love their sense of humor, I love their footie, I even love their nonsensical hairstyles. So trying to figure out why Argentines can be simultaneously wonderful and awful is like trying to figure out how Cheney can survive multiple heart attacks; both a fruitless and beguiling endeavor.

So as a means to wrap up the recount of my trip, and since I'm sure you're all dying to know what happened after we landed on Punta del Este and thoroughly oogled the natives like a plymouth pilgrim, I'm going to give you the highlights of the trip (in chronological order).

1. Thanks to a comedy of errors we miss the bus from Punta del Este to Montevideo, thus missing the ferry that takes us back to Buenos Aires. The main culprit of this debacle is the time difference between Punta and BA, or more specifically the fact that there is no time difference. Let's examine. In December Argentina puts in effect a "summer hours" daylight savings time (DST), pushing clocks one extra hour forward on the normal daylight savings time, thus increasing the amount of hours in the waking day. Punta del Este, on the other hand, does not have these "summer hours", and instead favors regular DST. To make matters confusing, Argentina is 3 hours ahead of New York under this new time, and Punta is ALSO 3 hours ahead of NY despite being under good ol' DST. However, and thanks to sleep deprivation, we assume that because Uruguay is so close to Argentina, that Punta is on Argentina's old DST. You see? But as we come to understand, it's wrong to make assumptions. And basically, for the three days in Punta del Este we were living on our very own make believe time. Which thinking about it now makes me feel somewhat renegade.

2.Once we finally arrive in Buenos Aires, we have to rush off to visit with the brother in-law, as his band is leaving on tour and he won't be around to bid us farwell when our sojourn comes to an end. The in laws live in a stately mini-mansion in a suburb of Buenos Aires close to the Rio Plata. The house was built by a Spaniard at the turn of the 20th century and has all the discombobulated features of a Cerevantes novel. Which is to say that, twists and turns of corridors lead to random enclaves with wooden ladders that lead to loft spaces and other sorts of dead-ends. It was acquired in the early 70's by the sister in laws family.

It's a beautiful place, as you can witness from these pictures. However, the in-laws are, as commonly referred to by family, "bohemian". Which is to say their kind of dirty. And because of this, the house is in various stages of disarray, with crumbling walls that breed strange molds and house pre-historic insects that make audible noises. That said, staying at the in-laws is a trying experience. And for a first worlder such as myself, I feel that a home should be a haven not a veritable camping experience.

Anyways, as the evening grew longer, we realize that the options were to make the harrowing trip from the suburb of Martinez, where the in-laws live, back to Buenos Aires via mass transit, or stay over the night. Naturally, I opted for mass transit, but my companion opted to stay the night. And of course, I lost this argument, despite having pointed out that the last time we stayed there I came home with head lice. Actually, and quite amazingly, I took these lice back to the US with me, and didn't even have to declare it. I amuse the notion of some kind of lice pandemic every time I recall this incident, but that's tangential.

So we're staying the night. And Fernando, the in-law, is kindly pulling the mattress from the foyer (yes, they keep a mattress in the foyer) into the living room. Well, I'll tell you, firstly, the mattress was stained in the way that can only conjure the image of a drunken bout of explosive diarrhea, and of course, it smells as if it were found in a thicket by the river. Indeed, it probably was. And secondly, as Fernando is pulling said mattress there appears, cowering behind, a beat up and emaciated white cat! To which Fernando states, "hm, that doesn't belong to us". And this cat is no joke my friends. It has one cloudy eye that is scarred half-shut, probably after getting into a fight with some other feral creature.

3. Its always the same when you leave in laws. Something akin to being sprayed with a fecal mist, that while invisible to the naked eye, makes you feel dirty, sticky and smelly. But despite that feeling, we make the journey back to BA with spirits high, what with the prospects of a decent shower looming in the distance. Plus I'll have to admit that I love to take mass transportation in any country, as that is most indicative of national character. Especially when mass transportation involves a bunch a people sitting in the back of truck in folding chairs with the back door open, like this:

That said, once we arrive safely in Buenos Aires, back at the flat, and into the shower, I begin to have an irritable sensation on the left side of my head. An hour later I notice several small bumps on my jawline, which thereafter, begin to itch and burn like the dickens. Naturally, I chalk this up to some sort of spider bite that I must have received while sleeping at the in-laws. And of course, I regale anyone and everyone about my horrific sleeping experience, showing off my bite as proof. Until, that is, someone mentions that this spider bite is curiously shaped like a teeth marks. In which case, my trash talk of the in-laws intensifies. Of course, we are leaving back to the States the next day, and I decide that waiting for rabies to incubate another 24 hours won't kill me, will it?

4. Did I say we were leaving the next day? I actually meant that we were supposed to leave the next day, which in Argentina means that you will most likely be leaving in two days. This is because Argentina's bureaucratic machine runs with kinks. And by kinks I mean robust protesters. See, Argentines LOVE a rousing protest. And in Argentina, there is plenty to protest about. For example, when the government runs out of money they cut off water and electricity. This is done using rolling outages, whereby one area of the city looses power or water for a bit (anywhere for a couple of hours to a couple of days) and then the outages move to another zone. Now, this seems kind of fair, no? After all, the Argentinean government isn't run by a bunch a savages (any more). Well, the citizens of Argentina don't think so. And they will go out of their way to air their grievances by protesting in their neighborhoods, effectively cutting off streets and creating traffic congestion.

Generally these types of protests work by being irritating reminders of the injustice at hand. And the government deals with the these nuisances much like one would a mosquito hovering above the bed while one tries to sleep - by ignoring it. And in the end, the only people who are affected by these protests are the other citizens who are just minding their business and trying to get home after a long day at the call center.

That said, the ariport strike that we had to endure at Ezeiza was more than ridiculous. It was downright insane, and if I may, a little frightening. The first day we arrived at the airport, we were greeted by 500 travelers crammed in the departures terminal. At that point I thought, we're not leaving tonight. And within minutes we learned that there was an airport strike. Apparently a couple of outgoing domestic flights were cancelled, and after waiting nearly 24 hours to get a flight, the passengers of these flights started to protest, which of course inside an airport is never a good idea. Enclosed spaces and protesting should be banned. At any rate, this protest got a little out of hand, as the passengers started to throw furniture and even rip computers out of the check in desks. The airport workers, fearing for their lives, ran out of the airport calling a strike. So you see, in this spectacular event, we were blessed with both a protest and a strike! At any rate, we went back to the flat where we were staying and waited until the next day, when we were advised to return to the airport to see if the plane would be leaving.

The next day comes, the airport is a little less crowded, except for the nearly 300 passengers who had to sleep at the airport and looked like shit for it. Including a good handful of passengers who somehow managed to get super-shit faced over the course of the night. There's no bar at Ezeiza, so who knows how that happened. At any rate, we entered the airport and immediately I get into some line. While waiting in this line for a good 20 minutes I tell my companion to go check out where this line leads to. Turns out this line is 30 people standing behind one guy who is all by himself looking up at the departures sign! Which just goes to show, humans crave organization, and when there is no organization, they will create it themselves. This revelation alone is enough to merit an extra days worth of travel. That said, we arrived at the airport at 6am, and got on the plane at 1pm. So in the end, we got to leave our beloved Argentina, but not without the trying aftermath of a protest/strike and having to rub elbows with smelly, disgruntled Argentines, pushy and rude Americans and a couple of very edgy Bolivian nuns.

5. After a total of 28 hours travelling we arrive back in the states and immediately I go to nearest infectious disease doctor. For all I know I may have the Dengue, although I am still suspecting a good ol' case of rabies. However, after being thoroughly inspected, and by that i mean, lifting my chin and turning towards the light, the good doctor proclaims that I have Shingles. So basically all of my trash- talk of the in-laws was for naught. Luckily, I have manners, and all of my bad-mouthing was done behind their backs so I didn't have to do anything silly like apologize.

So that's it friends. That's Buenos Aires over the holidays in my very little world. I hope you all learned a lot about something, and probably nothing about Argentina.

Festen, a yucky celebration

When a movie is well-rounded and plain ol' good, there's really not much to say about it. This is the case with the Danish film Festen a.k.a The Celebration. And even though this film didn't make me audibly laugh, cry or inspire fear, as we had hoped it would, It did spur the inklings of emotion that would earn a nod of approval from any therapist.

With that in mind, let's just say that the plot is brilliant. Here lies the story of a family secret that comes out during a large family gathering. So, as you can imagine, watching the drama play out is quite entertaining.

1) The way this film was shot was fantastic. I particularly like its gritty nature, which is reminiscent of a home video or perhaps like watching through the eyes of child.

2) The characters were well developed, which says a lot since there are about 4 or 5 important ones. Of course the mother's complacency was vomituous, and made me want to throw something at the TV.

3) I really wanted to know what the yellow speech said.

4) I also wished that the letter was less cryptic and more...I don't know, descriptive? I'm just a glutton for gossip.

And just because...

5) The fact that the Nords/Scandinavians/Teutons can speak English so well never ceases to amaze me. Anecdotally, I've never met anyone from this cohort that hasn't been able to switch from their native language to English with fluid ease. Perhaps its because English is a linguistic cousin?

6) In the same vain, Nords/Scandinavians/Teutons love to party, and boy do they know how to make a family reunion exciting.

So there you have it, a solid good movie. And for that I give it an 8.5.

Fútbol clip of the week, not really

After watching the Fulham v West Ham game, I realize that there's nothing better than watching two well-matched teams duke it out for that much needed point, even if they're just the little fish in a big pond. And for that I was going to post highlights of the game, becuase really, it was just splendid. However, it seems I was alone in my appreciation of this match and thus couldn't find any clips worth showing. But luckily for you footie fans, I will supply my completely arbitrary commentary for your pleasure.

Fulham put on quite a fight against the burgeoning West Ham. Alas, despite giving West Ham a run for their money, nothing went in the net. My advice to Fulham would be as such: scrape together whatever dough is in the till and purchase yourself a South American on the cheap. River Plate's Falcao, for example, would be a great candidate.

That said, Argentina is a fantastic resource for international teams, specifically in the UK, where they can add a bit of delicadessa to the thuggery that is British footie. The thing is, there's not much left of the Argentine greats. For instance, Palermo would make a great addition to a foreign team, but you can't have him without Palacio, and to break up that duo would be a crime. Then there's River Plate's Ortega, the aging gallego who's performance on the team has been consistently brilliant. And let's not even talk about Riquelme, who's tied to Argentina like a newborn baby to its mother (literally). None the less, there's a lot of newbies on those Argentian teams that can benefit greatly from globalization and a weak peso.

And if that doesn't suffice, one could easily snatch up a Brazillian. It seems they've become quite the crowd favorites with their little scissor kicks, look no further than Ronaldihno, KaKa and by extension, Ronaldo.

So get to it, Fulham.

Monday Movie Madness (on Friday) - Don't Look Now, it's a 10 minute sex scene

As per usual, spolier's below.

So I finally got around to watching Nicolas Roeg's psychological thriller, "Don't Look Now" - only to realize that I've already seen it! However, considering that I didn't remember that I'd seen it until I caught a glimpse of that wretched mini- killer running around in her little red mac (raincoat, for those of us who don't know 70s-speak or aren't British), it was just like watching anew.

1) I've never been to Venice, but it looks wet. And despite the fact that I have what I consider to be a Mediterranean look (read swarthy), I'm not too keen on water. On top of that, my acupuncturist told me I have a wet constitution, I happen to be a Leo, and I'm also a weak swimmer. In other words, the topographical location of this movie alone makes me uncomfortable. Myself aside, Roeg did a great job with the setting of this film. Venice has an all around creepy look about it, which makes the perfect backdrop for a psychological thriller.

2) Not that I'm any authority on child rearing, but I'm not sure I agree with the Baxter's leaving their last living child in an English boarding school while their off in Venice. I understand that Mr. Baxter needs to excavate a building in Venice, but what is Mrs. Baxter doing? Emotionally recuperating from her loss, I guess. But still, what about their son? He should be with his parents trying to assimilate to the bonanza that is life as the only child of bereaved parents, and not at some glorified orphanage (no offense if you went to boarding school).

3) Wow! Talk about an extended sex scene! I imagine Roeg in the cutting room pulling at his hair and yelling to his editor "More! MORE!...(then calmly) Now flashback" This movie should win the prize for most drawn out sex scene, and/or scene with most conventional looking sex, and/or sex scene with the most human-like horse...c'mon, doesn't Donald Sutherland doesn't look like a horse? Anyone?

4) That said, Sutherland and Christie play their characters to a tee. They both did a great job of showing the audience the various faces of mourning and how differently persons in a relationship might cope with the death of a child. I liked Sutherland's quiet reservation as opposed to Christie's more palpable sadness. And while I don't generally ascribe to gender roles, in the case of husband and wife their acting made sense. Plus I think they had great chemistry, it seemed as if it was easy for them to play a married couple.

5) The scene where Mrs. Baxter somehow convinces the Mister to sit in on a psychic session with the two sisters was brilliant. In this scene, towards the end of the old woman's psychic revelry, she goes into a kind of rapture and cries out some sort of premonition between pants and orgasmic-like affirmations. It was both fabulous and horrifying, and much like Bernini's the Ecstasy of St. Theresa, it inspires the kind of uncomfortable feeling that will make you want to go to church. As if being an elderly blind psychic isn't creepy enough!

5) The ending was well done and fairly believable considering the outlandish plot. I like the way Mr. Baxter dies (I imagine a hit to the jugular makes a bloody mess) and the mini-killer was kind of endearing.

This movie was solid and, well, good. Its the kind of film you take at face value, which I can appreciate. You just have to roll with the plot, and much like Sutherland's character, you have believe what you see without (over)intellectuallizing anything i.e. what a coincidence that their daughter died in her red coat and the killer happens to be a tiny Venetian wearing a red coat! However, besides the terrifying scene where Roeg shows us his take on septuagenarian ecstasis, the movie wasn't all that scary. In sum, this movie deserves a 7.3.

Monday Movie Madness - There Will be Blood, but there won't be entertainment

Let me pre-empt my Monday Movie Madness 2nd entry by saying that, as you may have realized, I'm not skilled in the art of movie reviews. So unless you're planning on seeing any of the movies that I review on this here blog, I would be wary reading the rest of my entry, since I may unwittingly give some of the plot away.

With that in mind, onward!

There Will be Blood was a BIG movie, with big ideas, about America's most important commodity, and yet, I left the movie theater with that feeling you get after gorging on sushi - you know, 2 hours and 45 minutes later you're hungry again. Put more succinctly, I was dissatisfied. And frankly, I was surprised that this movie came so highly recommended by many a person, one of which stated that it was "Shakespearian".

1) This movie could have easily been wrapped up in 90 minutes without losing any significant value. It was simply too unmemorable to be this long. And when there are a plethora of scenes that I visually can't recall, I get the feeling that they were simply fluff and filler. Out of curiosity, I looked up the director and I saw that this Anderson was the man behind Boogie Nights, which I loved, Magnolia, which I loathed, and Punch Drunk Love, which was so-so, and ALL of which were TOO long. So, I guess that explains that.


2) Maybe I've been jaded by the Bush/Cheney years, but Daniel Plainview isn't such a spectacular villain, especially when viewed in the historical time line of the United States. In fact, Anderson paints this man like he's just a regular Joe trying to make a buck. Yes, Plainview is unscrupulous and has little regard for humanity, but he's not exceptional to any other businessman. But maybe Anderson wanted to show the banality of capitalism? In which case he did a great job. But if this was Anderson's attempt to demonize early capitalism, then he'll have to try harder.

And a note to Anderson: if the latter is the case, it shouldn't be worth 2hrs and 45 mins of hard work. Especially when you're talking about capitalism in this great country, where Manifest Destiny and the Protestant Ethic form the most perfect union of exploitative prosperity. Frankly I've been more distraught after reading an Upton Sinclair novel.

However, maybe this isn't Anderson's message. Maybe this is me wanting Anderson to show capitalism for the evil agent that it often is. None the less, even if this is my subjective interpretation, the fact that Plainview ends up an emotionally destitute alcoholic is trite. I mean, a man who was a laborer, actively sought to expand his empire, and in the end built an immense fortune, does not tumble into life of inebriated disarray. No, this man breeds and bequeaths his fortune to his progeny; invigorating his empire and taking over the world!

3) Speaking of trite, its so timely and Hollywood to show religion as the ignorant and vulnerable masses who get exploited by big business. Its as if Anderson read Marx and thought, "well I can make a movie like this about the oil industry". Except this is the US, and we are not, and never were, a secularized country where religion is just the opium of the masses. Oh no, religion is our big business. And, as I stated before, in the US you can't have capitalism without religion. So chances are, if there ever was a Plainview, he was probably a religious man.

4) That whole Paul/ Eli Sunday ordeal was confusing. For a while I thought Eli and Paul were the same person. And almost as if Anderson had read my mind, he threw in that scene where Eli attacks his father at the dinner table, which rather than clarifying anything, further confused me.

5) Big ups to the scoring of this movie. I'm almost inclined to say that without the soundtrack this movie would have been disastrous. I loved how eerie and ominous it was.

6) Just a comment on my colleague who said this movie was Shakespearian - it's not. Shakespeare would never leave a message to be parsed. S/He'd have nailed that message in a coffin and buried it to rest.

Here's the thing about reviewing movies - when I left There Will be Blood I thought, "that was ok". But now that I've fully internalized what I viewed I realize that this movie is sub-par. There Will be Blood deserves a 6.5.

Look Mom, I swallow: A follow-up

So after spending valuable time and money, the fourth doctor in the saga of "Veronica's swallowing problem" determined that I will need to have more studies conducted. Phew! For a second I thought someone was going to diagnose me with something.

But when the doctor is young and tall, and "Just got off the plane this morning after biking through Patagonia", it's easy to forget that you may possibly have Eosinophilic Esophagitis, that pesky allergy of the esophagus. Which just goes to show, good looking people can get away with murder. Note to hospitals.

In any event, both the good doctor and I were in agreement that my problem is more likely psychological than physiological, but as he said, let's do a biopsy just to be certain.

So let's! Let's put little Veronica under sedation (the right way). And let's stick a lighted instrument down her throat and scrape out little chunks of her esophagus.

I'll let you all know how that goes.

Punta del Este ain't for sissies

After a bit of hobgobling around Buenos Aires, stuffing our faces despite the heat, and knocking back Cinzanos without shame, we decide that its time to make a move. And thanks to SunTime travel, in a day we were on our way across the Rio Plata to visit the friendly neighbor to the North, Uruguay. A country, as I've been told, that exists only to act as a buffer between the mega-powers that are Argentina and Brazil.

I've also been told that Uruguay, in this intermediary position, gets the good fortune of being neglected in the world's political/social forum, thus leaving it to its own devices. Which are in no way significant.









Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure Uruguay has something good to offer the world. After all, Punta del Este, a city located on the coast, sprawling with beaches and yacht clubs, has been called the Monaco of South America. But still, a harbinger of culture it most certainly is not. And if i can be frank, the only things of significance in Punt del Este are the beaches, which are reminiscent of the Mediterranean, and the boys, which are exceptionally nice. And young. And show off their sinewy limbs while walking shirtless in the streets. That's worth a trip to Uruguay.

You see, Punte del Este's biggest import is Argentineans. And not just your regular, run of the mill Argentines with their mulletesque haircuts. Oh no my friends, these folk are the upper crust of Argentina, who obviously come from the right side of the tracks. Blonde and blue eyed, with really great bone structure, and smokin' hot bodies.

But more than just the nyph-like appeal of these vacationing Argentines, what interests me is the fact that these argies are aesthetically different from the other argies. Mar del Plata, Argentina's big resort town, for instance, brings a more down-home kind of crowd. And I'm not just talking about the family Campinelli and some of their friends. No, I'm talking about an evacuation of 60% of the city of Buenos Aires in January alone. So, imagine if you will, hordes of dark skinned and dark haired Argentines. All sad eyes and sly smiles, bustling about with their "catarra-catarra", playing fútbol on the beach, no less than two feet from "prima Milli" and her girlfriends from secondary school. Blankets and towels practically on top of each other. And then compare that with the lackadaisical world of the buxom Punta del Este crowd.

I think what's going on here is work in tandem. For instance, money and good looks went up to Uruguay, where a little more dough can buy you the peace and tranquility of pi-pi-cou-cou Punta del Este. While the working class folk and the cabezitas negras went four hours South to the rocky shores of Mar del Plata, where space is tight but nice all the same. After all, every Argentinean deserves a vacation carajo!

Which is not to say that Mar del Plata is a shite town. Not at all. Its a beautiful city, with great jagged cliffs that jutt up against the sea. And indeed, while the people are darker, they are also ridiculously hot (Argentina is a genetic phenomenon). And they like to eat and drink and stay out late. And really, in the end, it doesn't make much difference. After all, Mar del Plata like Punta del Este, is the kind of place where it ain't summertime until you've drank maté on the beach at dusk, had yourself a meal on the dock, and witnessed a pack of 8 year olds reaking havoc in the streets at midnight, drunk with sleep deprivation.

Chinchulines, the real way

According to my sources, Chinchulines are typcially cooked by FIRST soaking the intestines in milk for about a half hour. Then the caca is flushed out using the sink faucet. AND, chinchulines aren't commonly cooked on the grill, but ALWAYS cooked on the grill.

So now we've cleared that up.

Monday Movie Madness - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

As you all know, I love the French in a way that can only be classified as an "unhealthy obsession". Then how is it possible, you ask, that a Francofile such as myself would not keep up on the latest Fraunch films. Well,this is because while I love all things French, I don't necessarily understand them. I know this sounds cliché, but all cliches hold some truth. And when it comes to French cinema, the truth is that the French simply love to examine the tribulations of human emotion. And consequently, the more one suffers, the more convoluted the plot, the more insufferable the film. And just in case you think I'm being pedestrian, let me throw out a few films as an example: Le Moustache, Jeux d'enfants (Guillaume Canet, hello handsome), that movie with the violinist that falls in love with the crazy person, and then the one about the con-man that falls in love with American journalist, anything Goddard.

That said, there's really nothing more splendid than going to the movies on a Monday at 2:45pm. Especially when you know that besides the handful of other extraordinary individuals who somehow managed to evade the drudgery of "work", everyone else is slaving away at a computer while you're watching French cinema. Yes, my friends, life is good. And after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the latest Julien Schnabel flick, I may even venture to say that life is a gift.

Or in the least I'd say, when life gives you shit luck, you should write a book about it. That way when everyone else is carrying on about their pitiful lives you can feel superior. Content in knowing that you have overcome a great deal of suffering and put forth a wonderful work of art that is tender and inspirational. And that kids, is a most gratifying feeling.

With that in mind, let's proceed with my completely arbitrary review of the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

1) Mathieu Almirac, France's answer to Andrew McCarthy only less creepy, and the second dreamiest French actor next to Malik Zidi, should win some sort of acting prize. Even with his eye all aflutter and practically popping out of his head, he still manages to be ridiculously charming and absolutely cute. Kudos to Almirac for making me think naughty things about a man in a vegetative state.

2) On that note, I love that Jean-Do remains saucy even in his vegetable-like condition.

3) Schnabel did an amazing job capturing the absolute horror of what it must be like to be trapped in one's body. And cinematically the imagery was all around amazing. The blurry faces and disembodied voices, the non-peripheral views, the flashbacks, the diving bell buoying in a vast sea of green and blue, were all perfect. The scenery was fantastic, with Breck looking desolate and bleak, all the while quasi-therapeutic. I really loved what he did with this movie. And thankfully Schnabel had the right mind to limit the gratuitous befuddling scenes to a minimum. Like when JD is on that pier like object in the middle of the ocean, yeesh, what's that supposed to mean?

4) Sometimes I got mixed up with the female characters. Perhaps my memory is bad or perhaps the females all looked somewhat similar, but sometimes I couldn't tell who was who. Like when they took their trip to Lourdes. I believe he went with the prettier nurse, not Henriette, but I just can't tell. I don't remember her having been so tall until I saw the Lourdes scene, but maybe that's because Jean-Do was always laying down. On second thought, did the trip to Lourdes even happen? And then there was that scene when JD was shaving his father, and at one point there was no shaving cream and at another there was. These are the kinds of continuity issues that my brain tends to harp on. However, I can overlook all of this simply because I understand that poor Jean-Do is living solely on memory, and if memory is anything, its erratic (and often fictitious), so it would make complete sense that images would be tangential and the dialogue circuitous. Applause to Schnabel, even I got that one.

In sum, this movie was excellent on many levels, and thus deserves a rating of 9.0. I was moved and entertained, which for someone like myself who has often been deemed cold and unresponsive further proves that this is a great film. I'd also like to note that despite being a simpleton, I understood this film. And even I can truly appreciate the notion that life can be brief and arduous, but beautiful all the same.

Food, Glorious Food: A Buenos Aires story continued

Turns out that all things good in Buenos Aires are ingestible. For instance, the "Super Vermicelli con Tuco y Pesto" from Pippos restaurant (located on Montevideo b/w Saramiento and Corrientes) will make your brain explode. Its that delicious. And the whole experience of slurping down a plate of homemade pasta amidst the work-a-day lunchtime bustle of the porteños; Half smothered with a pungent pesto sauce and half with a meaty bolognese, and you'll see what's what.

And let's not even begin to talk about Argentinean ice cream. It tastes exactly as you imagine a delicious ice cream would taste, except without the horrible realization that what you're really eating is made out of styrofoam. The "crema de fresas", strawberry ice cream, is exactly that. Strawberrys and full-fat milk, frozen. So good.

Then we have the "milanesa" made of beef, and of course the "milanesa suprema"made of chicken. Both of which go great with Ensalada Rusa. Then you have the pizza, more commonly referred to by the Argies as "pitzack". Entirely different taste then American Pizza, and with a thicker crust that's soft and buttery. There's also "facturas", the Argentinean answer to morning croissants. Yum.

However, Argentina also has foods that make a foreigner go, "Hmmm". Things that seem to exist without rhyme or reason. Take "faina". A bland, dry, flat cake-like substance, that the Argies put on top of their pizzas. Why bother, I ask, when the pizza is good on it's own.

Then there's "chinchulines". The lower intestines of the cow. Generally soaked in lemon and then doused in salt, and most commonly cooked on the parrilla. If you don't like being surprised about what might squirt in your mouth as you chomp down on your food, then chinchulines aren't for you. And while we're on this subject. I applaud the fact that Argentineans believe in eating every part of the cow, but really, if it smells like piss, it probably tastes like it too. And, well, piss tastes bad.

But of course, what takes the cake, chews it up and then barfs it out, are any, neigh all of the delightful dishes that mixes cream and fish. For instance, "Merlusa al Rochefort", one of the most disgusting things i've tasted in a long time, is served with a long, flat oily fish called Merlusa. Three or four of which have been rolled up, and covered with a cream sauce made of rochefort.

Now, imagine you take the sickening thought of that flavor explosion, and magnify it 10 times. That would become a dished loved by 3 in 4 Argentines, "Vittell Toné". A dish whose name betrays itself to anyone who is familiar with the romance languages. Vitell=Veal Toné=Tuna. Oh yes, dear friends, veal and tuna. Or rather, thin slices of veal, smothered in a sauce made of tuna and mayonaise, served cold.

Note the picture above. A table laden with plates upon plates of salads. You see, its dead summer on New Year's, so everything is served cold. Then you hear,"Don't give her any vegetables, she'll only eat the Vitell Toné". And you can't understand how anyone could think that the combination of meat and fish could be enjoyable in any way. Its frightening.

And just for good measure, I realize that I never mentioned the "Asado". Its a grill and meat. Nuff said. But for your viewing pleasure.
A typical asado.

Meat, Pharmaceuticals and Rock Nacional

I know, I know. I said I would write and I didn't. Which just goes to show that along with my firm belief in coupling ones vices, these kinds of empty promises will ensure my children at least 10 years of therapy. However, I'm not completely heartless. In fact, a part of that black little lump of coal that I call a heart really wants to make good on fallen promises. So I'm going to do what my parents always did whenever they ended up disappointing me - indulge you in ad hoc gratuitous gifts, which in this case, and basically because I'm cheap, will be stories of all the revelries, mishaps and banalities (that I can remember) of my trip to Argentina.

Firstly, I'd like to note that I'm probably one of the best travelers there can be. When flying I anticipate delays and discomfort, and thus am content with sub-par standards. I never argue with the stewards over there not being any alternatives to chicken for diner, I could care less when children shriek at the top of their lungs (poor things can't rationalize cabin pressure or turbulence), and I only roll my eyes when other passengers get up from their seats even when the seat belt sign is lit. However when flying on a plane full of Argentineans, my general placid demeanor slowly starts to ruffle.

The thing is, not yet minutes into the flight and already I've came head to head with the ever irritating, yet often endearing Argentinean character. Classified as bittersweet and plagued by unwieldy polarities in nature, the Argentine can be simultaneously charming and loathsome. While the passengers are loading into the airplane, I notice that the Argentines are incredibly flippant in respect to common courtesy. Their acts of benevolence towards fellow passengers, which while being manifold, are bristly and insincere. And when viewed as an outsider is an eerie reminder that if the plane goes down, the kindly act of allowing women and children to go first out the emergency exit is to ensure that their corpses can be used as comfy floatation devices.

You see, it’s no exaggeration when I say that I’ve never come across a culture that’s anything like that of the Argentineans. Say what you will about the French and their sang-froid disposition, or the tarty Italians, the English with their pomp and snobbery, and of course we horribly irksome and loud Americans, but the Argentines are a special breed that seem to have perfected the art of platitudinous discourse. And when coupled with their particular Spanish "sh-sh-sh" dialect, that somewhere along their ancestral history has acquired the off-putting dissonance of whiny cat, one begins to realize that it’s a wonder that Argentina continues to peacefully coexist in South America.

The truth is somehow the Argentineans have acquired a national bipolar persona, and I hope that through recounting my trip I can help uncover why this is the case. I imagine that it’s part of their pedigree that has resulted from being the product of a country whose illimitable Pampa allows for endless forays of the imagination and that also fosters a kind of desperation. A country with its jungles to the North, mountains to the West, the Atlantic to the East. It has the widest river, the largest street, the Southern most tip of the Americas. A country that was built by immigrants, with cities that have streets named "O'Higgins" and an airport named "Jorge Newberry". A dictatorship that spurred paranoia. Decades of monetary deflation that manifested ambiguous work ethics. And a general distrust of everyone and anything. A country where anyone kisses everyone when greeting. A society that is culturally progressive, harvesting some of the world's most revered literati, and yet remains politically antiquated. A people whose acrid complaints are copious and yet always told with a laugh. In short; The tristesa of the tango, the fanaticism of fútbol, the grisly "asado". Beloved Argentina.