When the terrorists drove the two big jets into the World Trade Center in New York the morning of September 11, 2001, I was living in San Francisco, about two blocks from the SF Federal Building. After the attack, sirens went all day and into the night even in San Francisco, so far from New York. My building was evacuated at least twice on the first day and I don't remember how many times on the second day after. I was very afraid of every aircraft I saw flying (not many fly over San Francisco in ordinary times; the "City" long ago burdened the outlying suburbs with the noise), but there are always a few, and there were one or two on September 11.
On September 12, I drove to SFO (San Francisco International Airport), dumbfounded by news reports that the airports were closed and all air traffic was suspended. Hard to believe, imagine, accept. I had to see for myself. I went to a little strip of parking spaces just to the west of SFO, where I had parked many times to watch the big jets taxi up and depart. The strip was closed with those orange cones, very primitive, but they kept me out. Today, eight years later, the little strip is heavily wire-fenced off and has never again been accessible to public parking.
It was just a little thing, that parking strip, but its closing-down was the first sign to me of how far-reaching the acts of September 11 would be. At the very least, I am no longer allowed to take admiring pleasure in seeing the great jets line up and soar away, symbols of engineering power and aeronautic achievement.
Now we are asked in California (and elsewhere) to be sympathetic to the Islamic peoples, to accept their very different beliefs. Right. Which beliefs? The ones that no one in the American press articulates. That Islamic law will prevail worldwide? That our U.S.A. will go down in fiery dust and ashes exactly as the World Trade Center went down? That the state of Israel will be annihilated, that Islam will be served?
No.
We need to keep on keepin' on, our Islam-supporting national administration notwithstanding. Give me liberty or give me death, or don't tread on me, or in God we trust, the words don't matter. We need to remember our heritage. And we have to hang on to something.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION
FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION
Movie (2006), 86 min
Director: Christopher Guest
Screenplay: Christopher Guest, Eugene Levy
Christopher Guest, in his so-called mockumentaries, has a way of taking some minor slice-of-life drama and blowing it up to full-scale satire, as when he followed the denizens of a small town playing in a community production (“Waiting for Guffman”). Guest doesn’t exactly make fun of small people. He just puts them up there on the screen in all their absurd, vainglorious reality and, in the course of things, gets many laughs out of me, along with a sense of recognition. I’ve known all his people, somewhere.
“For Your Consideration” felt different from Guest’s earlier movies. It seemed almost a parody of itself, in that the screenwriters dragged out all the satirical clichés of Hollywood filmmaking: The agent (Levy, as Morley) who ignores the client until the client is rumored to be up for an Academy award. The director (Guest, as Jay Berman) leading his actors in a circle to get them thinking together (or something). The talented, experienced character actress (Catherine O’Hara as Madeleine) grasping for recognition against all odds and blossoming when she thinks maybe she’ll be nominated for an Oscar. The interfering story consultant who wants the film being made within the film and titled “Home for Purim” to be broadened to reach a wider audience, meaning switching “Thanksgiving” for “Purim” in the title. We’ve seen all this before.
But we haven’t seen Christopher Guest do it, and his hand with an ensemble cast is sure. The totally corny “Home for Thanksgiving” scenes are played out soap-opera style, with Yiddish tradition decorating the table, and Berman directs the players in a giving way, but is always in control of what he’s getting out of them.
When Madeleine hears that there’s Internet buzz about her role, her efforts to find out more are simultaneously sad and hopeful. Could she really get nominated? She asks one of the film crew to look on the Internet for her, “just if you have time, it’s nothing big,” while we know it’s bigger than big, it’s everything. In a 30-year career she’s had little recognition, and one of the film-within-the-film screenwriters patronizingly suggests it’s time to teach. But Madeleine is onto the buzz, moreso as two other actors also get mentioned as “possibles.” The film picks the art of hype and pre-awards spin into tiny pieces and spits out all of them in an angrier way than Guest usually treats things.
This isn’t my favorite Guest picture (that would be “Waiting for Guffman” or maybe “A Mighty Wind,” which spoofed the folk-music world I loved in the 60s). Still, it’s fun to see all these people trying so hard to get somewhere. It’s also sad to watch as ambitions evaporate even as the actors try to pump up the steam. Dreams die hard, these actors seem to tell us; but life would be pretty stupid if we gave them up completely.
Movie (2006), 86 min
Director: Christopher Guest
Screenplay: Christopher Guest, Eugene Levy
Christopher Guest, in his so-called mockumentaries, has a way of taking some minor slice-of-life drama and blowing it up to full-scale satire, as when he followed the denizens of a small town playing in a community production (“Waiting for Guffman”). Guest doesn’t exactly make fun of small people. He just puts them up there on the screen in all their absurd, vainglorious reality and, in the course of things, gets many laughs out of me, along with a sense of recognition. I’ve known all his people, somewhere.
“For Your Consideration” felt different from Guest’s earlier movies. It seemed almost a parody of itself, in that the screenwriters dragged out all the satirical clichés of Hollywood filmmaking: The agent (Levy, as Morley) who ignores the client until the client is rumored to be up for an Academy award. The director (Guest, as Jay Berman) leading his actors in a circle to get them thinking together (or something). The talented, experienced character actress (Catherine O’Hara as Madeleine) grasping for recognition against all odds and blossoming when she thinks maybe she’ll be nominated for an Oscar. The interfering story consultant who wants the film being made within the film and titled “Home for Purim” to be broadened to reach a wider audience, meaning switching “Thanksgiving” for “Purim” in the title. We’ve seen all this before.
But we haven’t seen Christopher Guest do it, and his hand with an ensemble cast is sure. The totally corny “Home for Thanksgiving” scenes are played out soap-opera style, with Yiddish tradition decorating the table, and Berman directs the players in a giving way, but is always in control of what he’s getting out of them.
When Madeleine hears that there’s Internet buzz about her role, her efforts to find out more are simultaneously sad and hopeful. Could she really get nominated? She asks one of the film crew to look on the Internet for her, “just if you have time, it’s nothing big,” while we know it’s bigger than big, it’s everything. In a 30-year career she’s had little recognition, and one of the film-within-the-film screenwriters patronizingly suggests it’s time to teach. But Madeleine is onto the buzz, moreso as two other actors also get mentioned as “possibles.” The film picks the art of hype and pre-awards spin into tiny pieces and spits out all of them in an angrier way than Guest usually treats things.
This isn’t my favorite Guest picture (that would be “Waiting for Guffman” or maybe “A Mighty Wind,” which spoofed the folk-music world I loved in the 60s). Still, it’s fun to see all these people trying so hard to get somewhere. It’s also sad to watch as ambitions evaporate even as the actors try to pump up the steam. Dreams die hard, these actors seem to tell us; but life would be pretty stupid if we gave them up completely.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
SECONDHAND LIONS
SECONDHAND LIONS
Movie (2003), 111 min
Director: Tim McCanlies
I have an old friend from high school days to thank for recommending “Secondhand Lions” to me. He sent me the text of a speech from the movie (more later) and remarked that this was “a wonderful movie, by the way.” I thought so, too. But . . .
Let’s get it out of the way right here at the top: The critics panned this movie. One of them called it “dramatically false and disturbingly dangerous” (Peter Howell, Toronto Star), and another said the film was “pretty appalling, and it’s boring” (Stephen Hunter, Washington Post).
So that’s out of the way, and I’m going to beg to differ. Yes, this story, about an adolescent boy, dropped by his irresponsible mother into the care of two eccentric great-uncles living on a Texas farm, is preposterous. Firing shotguns into the air to threaten unwanted salesmen? A fortune in the cellar? The Cockney Michael Caine playing a Texan? Yes, some of it seems preposterous.
For me, though, the movie came across as funny and sweet, with two deans of the acting world (Robert Duvall as Hub and Michael Caine as Garth) carrying off their roles with a lot of strength and maybe dignity, too. The old uncles are sitting on a lot of money. Whether the money came from their youthful shenanigans in Morocco, with the French Foreign Legion, or the money was stolen from Al Capone, we never find out.
When Walter’s mother Mae (a high-wired, chatty Kyra Sedgwick) leaves the boy (Haley Joel Osment) with them, the two men are reluctant to take him on. But they allow Walter to stay, sticking him out of the way up in a high tower of the big farm house they occupy. When Walter sees Hub out by the pond at night he thinks Hub is sleepwalking. But, as Garth eventually tells, in story form with flashbacks in the style of silent movies, Hub is actually looking for his lost love, Jasmine, a desert princess who died in childbirth many years before.
Beyond the stories, Walter sometimes finds life with the uncles entertaining and sometimes surprising. They shoot at fish and salesmen and build an airplane, take up skeet shooting, and adopt an old lion cast off by a circus. The secondhand lion fits right in with the old uncles, who are still proving their aggressive claims to manhood in their own secondhand lives.
I did say the story was preposterous, especially with its claim to a worn-out lion living in a cornfield, but I found the movie engrossing and fun. The crisp editing gave the movie a fast pace (I’m puzzled how the critic could call it “boring'), and the beautiful cinematic take on the Texas land and character was evocative of the place as it was a long time ago, and may still be somewhere back in Hill Country.
Toward the end, in a wonderful speech he likes to give young men who are about to grow up and face “reality,” Hub tells Walter that “sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good. That honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power, mean nothing. That good always triumphs over evil.”
For some reason, “Secondhand Lions” put me in mind of a many-times-great uncle of mine, who died at the Alamo. His name was William Barret Travis. Some people said he was crazy, but nobody ever said he lacked courage. Travis probably held to a code very much like Hub’s.
So what if this movie might or might not make real sense? I believed and enjoyed seeing it all.
Movie (2003), 111 min
Director: Tim McCanlies
I have an old friend from high school days to thank for recommending “Secondhand Lions” to me. He sent me the text of a speech from the movie (more later) and remarked that this was “a wonderful movie, by the way.” I thought so, too. But . . .
Let’s get it out of the way right here at the top: The critics panned this movie. One of them called it “dramatically false and disturbingly dangerous” (Peter Howell, Toronto Star), and another said the film was “pretty appalling, and it’s boring” (Stephen Hunter, Washington Post).
So that’s out of the way, and I’m going to beg to differ. Yes, this story, about an adolescent boy, dropped by his irresponsible mother into the care of two eccentric great-uncles living on a Texas farm, is preposterous. Firing shotguns into the air to threaten unwanted salesmen? A fortune in the cellar? The Cockney Michael Caine playing a Texan? Yes, some of it seems preposterous.
For me, though, the movie came across as funny and sweet, with two deans of the acting world (Robert Duvall as Hub and Michael Caine as Garth) carrying off their roles with a lot of strength and maybe dignity, too. The old uncles are sitting on a lot of money. Whether the money came from their youthful shenanigans in Morocco, with the French Foreign Legion, or the money was stolen from Al Capone, we never find out.
When Walter’s mother Mae (a high-wired, chatty Kyra Sedgwick) leaves the boy (Haley Joel Osment) with them, the two men are reluctant to take him on. But they allow Walter to stay, sticking him out of the way up in a high tower of the big farm house they occupy. When Walter sees Hub out by the pond at night he thinks Hub is sleepwalking. But, as Garth eventually tells, in story form with flashbacks in the style of silent movies, Hub is actually looking for his lost love, Jasmine, a desert princess who died in childbirth many years before.
Beyond the stories, Walter sometimes finds life with the uncles entertaining and sometimes surprising. They shoot at fish and salesmen and build an airplane, take up skeet shooting, and adopt an old lion cast off by a circus. The secondhand lion fits right in with the old uncles, who are still proving their aggressive claims to manhood in their own secondhand lives.
I did say the story was preposterous, especially with its claim to a worn-out lion living in a cornfield, but I found the movie engrossing and fun. The crisp editing gave the movie a fast pace (I’m puzzled how the critic could call it “boring'), and the beautiful cinematic take on the Texas land and character was evocative of the place as it was a long time ago, and may still be somewhere back in Hill Country.
Toward the end, in a wonderful speech he likes to give young men who are about to grow up and face “reality,” Hub tells Walter that “sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good. That honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power, mean nothing. That good always triumphs over evil.”
For some reason, “Secondhand Lions” put me in mind of a many-times-great uncle of mine, who died at the Alamo. His name was William Barret Travis. Some people said he was crazy, but nobody ever said he lacked courage. Travis probably held to a code very much like Hub’s.
So what if this movie might or might not make real sense? I believed and enjoyed seeing it all.
Friday, September 4, 2009
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PETER SELLERS
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PETER SELLERS
Movie (2004), 122 min
Director: Stephen Hopkins
“Does your deug (dog) bite?” That was Inspector Clouseau’s question to a hotel clerk, pronounced in Peter Sellers’s classically silly could-be-French accent. As “The Pink Panther” rolled on, I laughed as Clouseau was told no, the dog didn’t bite, whereupon the dog bit him. “But you said your deug does not bite.” And the clerk says, “But that is not my dog.” I’m not sure I have the quotations right, but the exchange goes something like that.
That is the silly Sellers I remember, engaging in typical British slapstick scenes with deadpan delivery and sudden shrugs of thwarted surprise. Sad to say, the Sellers in “The Life and Death of Peter Sellers,” supposedly the “real” person, is not very funny at all.
Sellers is played by Geoffrey Rush, who does a fantastic job of picking up Sellers’s cadences and vocalisms. He’s also great with the frantic rages and volatilities that make this movie hard to watch. But nothing is very enjoyable here. Sellers seems to have disappointed, enraged, or hurt just about every person we see: Blake Edwards (John Lithgow in a wig, I read), Stanley Kubrick (Stanley Tucci), first wife Emily Watson (Anne Sellers), and second wife Britt Eckland (Charlize Theron). All the angst plays against bits of charm and generosity. As a person Sellers is hard to figure.
We never see sources for Sellers’s volatility. Where did something go so wrong for him that he could treat so many people with so much cruelty and so little regret? He is said to have grown up in the theater circuit, where I suppose there was little stability, and is shown in the movie to have a twisted relationship with his mother, but nothing gives a clue to the origins of his lack of confidence. The one scene where he thinks Sofia Loren wants an affair with him does hint at delusions and at the wild, off-center reality he must have created for himself.
Though I can’t say I enjoyed this movie, I did like the run-through of Sellers’s career, from early radio days all the way to “Being There,” where the story ends. The Sellers movies were part of the stuff of my early adult life and it was fun to try to remember where I saw each of them and what I thought at the time.
Note that the cinematography is stunning, and the sound track is full of songs that evoke the years through which Sellers lived and performed. If you’re in or near the twilight years, you’ll see and hear a lot of your cultural history on the screen. That's worth a video rental, no?
Movie (2004), 122 min
Director: Stephen Hopkins
“Does your deug (dog) bite?” That was Inspector Clouseau’s question to a hotel clerk, pronounced in Peter Sellers’s classically silly could-be-French accent. As “The Pink Panther” rolled on, I laughed as Clouseau was told no, the dog didn’t bite, whereupon the dog bit him. “But you said your deug does not bite.” And the clerk says, “But that is not my dog.” I’m not sure I have the quotations right, but the exchange goes something like that.
That is the silly Sellers I remember, engaging in typical British slapstick scenes with deadpan delivery and sudden shrugs of thwarted surprise. Sad to say, the Sellers in “The Life and Death of Peter Sellers,” supposedly the “real” person, is not very funny at all.
Sellers is played by Geoffrey Rush, who does a fantastic job of picking up Sellers’s cadences and vocalisms. He’s also great with the frantic rages and volatilities that make this movie hard to watch. But nothing is very enjoyable here. Sellers seems to have disappointed, enraged, or hurt just about every person we see: Blake Edwards (John Lithgow in a wig, I read), Stanley Kubrick (Stanley Tucci), first wife Emily Watson (Anne Sellers), and second wife Britt Eckland (Charlize Theron). All the angst plays against bits of charm and generosity. As a person Sellers is hard to figure.
We never see sources for Sellers’s volatility. Where did something go so wrong for him that he could treat so many people with so much cruelty and so little regret? He is said to have grown up in the theater circuit, where I suppose there was little stability, and is shown in the movie to have a twisted relationship with his mother, but nothing gives a clue to the origins of his lack of confidence. The one scene where he thinks Sofia Loren wants an affair with him does hint at delusions and at the wild, off-center reality he must have created for himself.
Though I can’t say I enjoyed this movie, I did like the run-through of Sellers’s career, from early radio days all the way to “Being There,” where the story ends. The Sellers movies were part of the stuff of my early adult life and it was fun to try to remember where I saw each of them and what I thought at the time.
Note that the cinematography is stunning, and the sound track is full of songs that evoke the years through which Sellers lived and performed. If you’re in or near the twilight years, you’ll see and hear a lot of your cultural history on the screen. That's worth a video rental, no?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATOO
THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATOO
Stieg Larson
Vintage Crime, 590 pp
A person writing a review of “The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo” on Amazon said, “a million Europeans can’t be wrong.” First, I give you the bureaucrats of the European Union. Next, I give you this stupidly long book, so popular in Europe that it’s sold a million copies there.
A local friend lent me the book, raving about how good it was, and I dived right in. I dived right in to an opening third or so of the book—I won’t call it the opening third of the story, because the story is so thin there—that left me numb with boredom. First Larson introduces a huge family in backstory, but absolutely no one does anything whatever, so I couldn’t keep the names straight, and almost no action occurs, except for riding on trains and eating at a cafe. Most tellingly, I didn’t care what the names were.
You probably know that the story is about a financial journalist searching for the long-lost niece of a Swedish industrialist. So you can remember, the journalist’s name is Blomkvist. Blomkvist gets sued for libel by another big industrialist, who wins the lawsuit, so Blomkvist is free to move to someplace far north in Sweden to settle into a cabin and investigate. Somewhere too late in the book we meet Lisbeth Salander, a weird girl with a knack for computer searches, and it is she who sports the dragon tattoo. Everywhere along the way Larson throws in long, meandering backstory, or sidestory, or whatever his exposition really is, to the point where I just wanted to stop reading.
But . . . the local friend raved, didn’t she? So I slogged on. There’s no one in this book to care about and there’s no one in it who is intrinsically interesting at all. Salander should be an empathetic character, but Larson keeps turning her colder, emptier, and more self-haunted. It’s impossible to care about her. Blomkvist falls into bed with most women mentioned, but I never could see exactly why he’s so attractive. Couldn’t care about him either.
Along the way are some chilling, sadistic sexual assaults, along with backstoried murders, clinically yet somehow almost salaciously described. Turns out there’s a serial killer, somewhere out there in the clichés with which the prose is littered. I won’t spoil the “story” by saying any more. Just be aware that there’s some graphic sadistic content here. A commenter on the Internet said that the original title (in Sweden) was “Men Who Hate Women.” Reading about the exploitation and use of women in this book makes it clear that the Swedish title had much more meaning. The girl with the dragon tattoo is an accessory who does amazing research and takes some amazing actions on her own, but she isn’t exactly a heroine. Blomkvist isn’t exactly a hero either.
If this commentary doesn’t hang together very well, I believe it’s because Larson’s long book had little glue in it. Nothing stuck.
I wondered where the editors were when this nearly 600-page tome went to formatting. Sleeping. Downsized. Non-existent. Somebody should have cut a third to a half of this wandering example of literary junk. To be fair, the book has gotten many favorable reviews: raves, in fact. Well, just beware.
If I had it to do over, I woudn't have bothered to read this one. If you simply must, do borrow it from the library; don’t pay a nickel for the many hours of boring “huh?!” reactions you’re in for from yourself. But, just in case you enjoy extended expositional suffering, here is a link for your convenience:
Stieg Larson
Vintage Crime, 590 pp
A person writing a review of “The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo” on Amazon said, “a million Europeans can’t be wrong.” First, I give you the bureaucrats of the European Union. Next, I give you this stupidly long book, so popular in Europe that it’s sold a million copies there.
A local friend lent me the book, raving about how good it was, and I dived right in. I dived right in to an opening third or so of the book—I won’t call it the opening third of the story, because the story is so thin there—that left me numb with boredom. First Larson introduces a huge family in backstory, but absolutely no one does anything whatever, so I couldn’t keep the names straight, and almost no action occurs, except for riding on trains and eating at a cafe. Most tellingly, I didn’t care what the names were.
You probably know that the story is about a financial journalist searching for the long-lost niece of a Swedish industrialist. So you can remember, the journalist’s name is Blomkvist. Blomkvist gets sued for libel by another big industrialist, who wins the lawsuit, so Blomkvist is free to move to someplace far north in Sweden to settle into a cabin and investigate. Somewhere too late in the book we meet Lisbeth Salander, a weird girl with a knack for computer searches, and it is she who sports the dragon tattoo. Everywhere along the way Larson throws in long, meandering backstory, or sidestory, or whatever his exposition really is, to the point where I just wanted to stop reading.
But . . . the local friend raved, didn’t she? So I slogged on. There’s no one in this book to care about and there’s no one in it who is intrinsically interesting at all. Salander should be an empathetic character, but Larson keeps turning her colder, emptier, and more self-haunted. It’s impossible to care about her. Blomkvist falls into bed with most women mentioned, but I never could see exactly why he’s so attractive. Couldn’t care about him either.
Along the way are some chilling, sadistic sexual assaults, along with backstoried murders, clinically yet somehow almost salaciously described. Turns out there’s a serial killer, somewhere out there in the clichés with which the prose is littered. I won’t spoil the “story” by saying any more. Just be aware that there’s some graphic sadistic content here. A commenter on the Internet said that the original title (in Sweden) was “Men Who Hate Women.” Reading about the exploitation and use of women in this book makes it clear that the Swedish title had much more meaning. The girl with the dragon tattoo is an accessory who does amazing research and takes some amazing actions on her own, but she isn’t exactly a heroine. Blomkvist isn’t exactly a hero either.
If this commentary doesn’t hang together very well, I believe it’s because Larson’s long book had little glue in it. Nothing stuck.
I wondered where the editors were when this nearly 600-page tome went to formatting. Sleeping. Downsized. Non-existent. Somebody should have cut a third to a half of this wandering example of literary junk. To be fair, the book has gotten many favorable reviews: raves, in fact. Well, just beware.
If I had it to do over, I woudn't have bothered to read this one. If you simply must, do borrow it from the library; don’t pay a nickel for the many hours of boring “huh?!” reactions you’re in for from yourself. But, just in case you enjoy extended expositional suffering, here is a link for your convenience:
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
JULIA & JULIE
JULIA & JULIE
Movie (2009), 123 min
Director: Nora Ephron
Young Julie Powell (Amy Adams) sets herself the challenge of cooking all the recipes in Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” blogs about her progress and setbacks, and after a year completes the task. In a parallel story set in the 1950s, Julia Child (Meryl Streep) goes to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, learns to cook the way the French do, and with partner cooks begins her book, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.”
I wanted to see much less of Julie and much more of Julia. It hardly needs saying that Streep comes across with the real Child’s high-pitched good cheer, skill, and determination. And she is funny, as in one scene where she breaks a flipped omelet (I think it was an omelet), says, “You’re alone in the kitchen, you can salvage anything!,” and proceeds to fix the broken omelet. In a recent piece on ABC, that scene was repeated from Julia Child’s real TV show, and it was just as cheering to a cook like me; I am always breaking (and patching together) flappable things like omelets and pancakes (excuse me, I should be making crepes).
Julie, the blogger, comes across as so self-centered and thoughtless that I wanted to kick her. Nora Ephron, I suppose, is good at this sort of romance, but the sex between Julia’s husband Paul and Julia seems rich and fulfilling, whereas Julie and husband Eric (Chris Messina) are drab by comparison. Eric is a saint, putting up with the so-called melt-downs when Julie flubs a recipe, but he doesn’t like being called a saint. Eric is the only really likeable thing about the Julie side of the story. What’s weird is that Julie works in an agency dealing with 9/11 victims, listening to horrific stories from survivors or relatives of survivors, and once in a while she weeps lightly over a story; but a burned stew is a catastrophe worthy of one of her “melt-downs.”
Spare me. I loved Julia Child in the 1960s and followed many of her recipes. Some were triumphs. Others, such as my version of osso buco, were among the worst kitchen productions I’ve experienced, at home or dining out. So I’d much rather have seen a movie called “Julia.”
The sound track was full of great tunes from the periods (the 1950s in Paris for Julia, the 1990s-2000s for Julie), but it was instrusive as can be. The sound editor damped the volume just in the nick of time when dialogue interrupted him/her, with abrupt cutbacks that bothered me.
But, all that said, the movie held my attention from opening credits to closing, and I left the theater smiling. Paris looked so beautiful, the food looked so tasty, Eric and Paul were such quintessentially nice guys, Julia was such a bon vivant, and the dinner parties looked like so much fun, that I wanted to go right out and socialize, over food, naturally. All in all, the movie was a pleasure to see and experience.
Wait for the DVD, though, so you can fast-forward the Julie side of the story, unless you enjoy watching the lovely Amy Adams gazing less than soulfully at her computer as she recites her blog while typing it. Ugh.
Julie Powell’s book, on which the film is based:
I can't determine when the book was first published, but the blog was started in 2002.
Movie (2009), 123 min
Director: Nora Ephron
Young Julie Powell (Amy Adams) sets herself the challenge of cooking all the recipes in Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” blogs about her progress and setbacks, and after a year completes the task. In a parallel story set in the 1950s, Julia Child (Meryl Streep) goes to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, learns to cook the way the French do, and with partner cooks begins her book, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.”
I wanted to see much less of Julie and much more of Julia. It hardly needs saying that Streep comes across with the real Child’s high-pitched good cheer, skill, and determination. And she is funny, as in one scene where she breaks a flipped omelet (I think it was an omelet), says, “You’re alone in the kitchen, you can salvage anything!,” and proceeds to fix the broken omelet. In a recent piece on ABC, that scene was repeated from Julia Child’s real TV show, and it was just as cheering to a cook like me; I am always breaking (and patching together) flappable things like omelets and pancakes (excuse me, I should be making crepes).
Julie, the blogger, comes across as so self-centered and thoughtless that I wanted to kick her. Nora Ephron, I suppose, is good at this sort of romance, but the sex between Julia’s husband Paul and Julia seems rich and fulfilling, whereas Julie and husband Eric (Chris Messina) are drab by comparison. Eric is a saint, putting up with the so-called melt-downs when Julie flubs a recipe, but he doesn’t like being called a saint. Eric is the only really likeable thing about the Julie side of the story. What’s weird is that Julie works in an agency dealing with 9/11 victims, listening to horrific stories from survivors or relatives of survivors, and once in a while she weeps lightly over a story; but a burned stew is a catastrophe worthy of one of her “melt-downs.”
Spare me. I loved Julia Child in the 1960s and followed many of her recipes. Some were triumphs. Others, such as my version of osso buco, were among the worst kitchen productions I’ve experienced, at home or dining out. So I’d much rather have seen a movie called “Julia.”
The sound track was full of great tunes from the periods (the 1950s in Paris for Julia, the 1990s-2000s for Julie), but it was instrusive as can be. The sound editor damped the volume just in the nick of time when dialogue interrupted him/her, with abrupt cutbacks that bothered me.
But, all that said, the movie held my attention from opening credits to closing, and I left the theater smiling. Paris looked so beautiful, the food looked so tasty, Eric and Paul were such quintessentially nice guys, Julia was such a bon vivant, and the dinner parties looked like so much fun, that I wanted to go right out and socialize, over food, naturally. All in all, the movie was a pleasure to see and experience.
Wait for the DVD, though, so you can fast-forward the Julie side of the story, unless you enjoy watching the lovely Amy Adams gazing less than soulfully at her computer as she recites her blog while typing it. Ugh.
Julie Powell’s book, on which the film is based:
I can't determine when the book was first published, but the blog was started in 2002.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)