My Review of ENEMY: This movie was filmed so that it looks like a bad, yellowy Polaroid from the 60s. Everything, including Jake Gyllenhaal, is brown. It’s shot in Toronto, and our city never looked more depressing – reminded me of my childhood. I found it very humorous, but then I laughed throughout FINDING LLEWYN DAVIS. You can’t just put JAWS music behind a film and say it’s a suspense, suspense doesn’t actually work that way. This movie could also be called, OVER-REACT MUCH? The acting is great, the over-reacting funny, the audience burst out laughing several times. Much discussion was generated after the film and by the time we got half-way home we had the plot figured out to our satisfaction, thus we have become hipsters. I’m not going to say what we figured out because that would ruin the movie for you. This is not a small screen movie, I’m betting you’d turn it off after 15 minutes. At the theatre you’ve paid, so you’re forced to watch it. Was it worth it? I’m a hipster now, so yes!
This walking thing is not child’s play. After downloading a pedometer to my cell phone I proceeded to pound the pavement, the lumpy, ice and snow covered payment. I walked to the library, I walked to work, I walked to a couple of evening meetings, I took the stairs, I went for an afternoon walk with a pal and her dogs. My friends, I walked!
I was proud of myself for clocking almost 7,000 steps rather effortlessly on Wednesday despite it being one of the coldest days of the winter. It was a 300% improvement over my previous feet up on the ottoman routine.
On Friday night, I dreamed I was receiving a foot massage – a deeply tender foot massage. On Saturday morning when I slipped my foot into my boot, I felt a pain that jolted the dream into my awareness. I walked gingerly all day feeling as if I had a fallen arch. Ever had one of those?
Last night when I got home, I began to give the old tootsies a massage and lo and behold, there protruded an angry purple bulge on the sole of my foot. Of course, I instantly diagnosed a combination embolism/plantar fasciitis, which would most likely require amputation. That’s if it didn’t reach my brain and kill me by morning.
Today I hobbled in to the walk-in clinic. The professionally trained physician’s diagnosis: hematoma. Now before you go Googling I’ll tell you his diagnosis resulted in a referral to a plastic surgeon. That’s if the hematoma doesn’t resolve itself in a couple of days, which the kind doctor seemed confident it would.
He asked me if I’d been doing any unusual activity and I realized, yes! I’ve been walking! To further impress him with my fitness prowess I told him about the pedometer. He rather promptly sent me on my way.
I looked up hematoma when I got home. It’s sort of a bulgy bruise. And that’s exactly what it feels like. I’m hanging up my walking boots for a couple of days. And when the hematoma heals I’ll be experimenting with the next part of Getting in Shape for Free: Fitness Videos from the Public Library.
Stay tuned. And walk safely!
I love the Academy Awards. It’s live TV and anything can happen on live TV. For example, I howled when Melissa Leo dropped her grateful F-bomb. And I still quote Sally Field, “You like me, right now, you like me!” I watch the Oscars for these spontaneous live TV moments. And also, I love movies.
The list of Best Picture nominees is lengthy this year but I managed to see all of them on the big screen (except Captain Phillips, which ironically, was a pirated version). I’m not into predictions, because that would mean I’d have to pay attention to Holly-politics and celebrity gossip, neither of which is of any interest to me. These reviews and prize awards are based on my own ignorant and biased opinions.
Let’s start at the top with American Hustle, my choice for Best Motion Picture. I love the irreverent, fast moving, and continual twisting of relationship skirmishes. This movie mesmerizes me: the characters, the pace, the costumes, the plot, the settings, the soundtrack, the hairdos! And I can’t take my eyes off Christian Bale; in my humble opinion, the Sir Laurence Olivier/Daniel Day Lewis of our time. I’m awarding Mr. Bale the Oscar for Best Actor.
Captain Phillips. Suspenseful and heart pounding but the usual dollop of USA propaganda spooned out by Hollywood. Some barbaric enemy, in this case skinny East African Muslims aka Somalis, have the audacity to rob innocent Americans transporting food relief and clean water. We know the Americans are innocent because isn’t that Walt Disney captaining the ship? These Somali simpletons never heard of ‘no man left behind’ and they sure get their come-uppance. Am I cynical? You bet I am.
I looked forward to Dallas Buyers Club because of the trailer, and the first half of the movie lives up to the promise. But then Matthew McConaghey steps out of his entirely believable and sympathetic character and right before my eyes becomes the arrogant, lizardly, sleaze ball I imagine him to be in real life. For me, the movie should end [SPOILER ALERT] when a certain character dies. Jared Leto, not to mention any names, shares my award for Best Supporting Actor.
Gravity triggers my fear of heights throughout, which makes for an exhilarating, on the edge-of-my-seat experience. So absorbed in technology as I am, Gravity reminds me of my lack of appreciation for the elemental stuff of life: water, human contact, love. The best part of the movie for me is Sandra Bullock’s big teardrops flying around the screen in 3D.
People say you either love Her or hate Her. Not true. I just find Her boring. The extended shots of pale Caucasian eyes and shots of Mr. Waistypants lying in his bed listening to an off camera voice, put me to sleep. Admittedly, I saw the late show on a full stomach, so who knows what my opinion might be at a matinee. The consciousness theme interests me mildly but requires too much speculation about what Scarlett Johansson is doing in the off-camera ethernet. Like the characters in futuristic Los Angeles, I feel manipulated (pun intended) by this movie.
Several movies this year sport the parent as alcoholic story line (see Saving Mr. Banks and August: Osage County). And in Nebraska Bruce Dern does a very good job of playing an alcoholic in denial. The film’s authenticity is smirk-smirk humorous and I award the Best Supporting Actress to the wonderful June Squibb as Bruce Dern’s long suffering wife. Shot in black and white Nebraska is artsy and ho-hum. Next.
I enjoyed Philomena very much. The story of a child ‘given up’ for adoption is intriguing and heart wrenching, and nun bashing is always an interesting subject to explore. Philomena is not going home with the golden statue but Judi Dench is! She’s superb. She eats up the camera. Best Actress 2014, mark my words, it’s the year of the old lady.
12 Years a Slave is so realistic I can barely stand it. The scenes seem deliberately drawn out so as a viewer I can feel the interminable duration of those long years of torture. I came away wondering, yet again, how could people have been so incredibly cruel? I hope no one can say they ‘enjoyed’ this picture. It is very good, great acting, cinematically accomplished, but oh so painful to view.
Debauchery. That’s a theme? What are we, ancient Romans? Word to the wise, do not see The Wolf of Wall Street, as I did, with your seventeen-year-old son. The endless parade of blowjob jokes, depraved extravagance, the joy of drugs, okay, okay, we get it, debauchery. I would be remiss if I did not take note of Leonardo’s inebriated crawl down the stairs of the country club to his car, simply the highlight of the movie. And he does do an incredible job appearing in every single scene of a three hour movie. A shared Best Supporting Actor to Jonah Hill who creates a complex and charming character. Wonderful job, Jonah.
And that’s it, folks. My Oscar preview reviews and awards. One thing before I go, as usual the Academy overlooked one of my favourite movies of last year, The Way Way Back. There are a few performances (Steve Carell, Sam Rockwell) in that wonderful flick that deserved Academy Award nominations. Boo, Academy. Let me know your opinion of this year’s contenders and about any other great movies the Academy missed in 2013.
Yesterday I came up with a whole new chapter for the book I’m working on (How to Live on Nothing and Have Everything). It’s called, Getting in Shape. CAUTION: This material is untested.
I found myself believing the horseshit that if I only had money I’d get in shape; I’d join a gym; I’d hire a personal trainer; I’d take classes. The reality is that all I get from this false belief is fatter.
Therefore, number one on my list of Getting in Shape (for free) is WALK. It seems obvious enough and easy, hell, I’ve been walking since I was a toddler. So yesterday, I had fifteen minutes to kill before meeting a friend for lunch. As I walked down a short street to Lake Ontario, the sun shone and the unfortunate homeowners chipped at the ice on their sidewalks. I descended to the deserted, windswept beach and crunched my way across the treacherous leash-free zone for dogs and their intrepid owners, to the next street over.
I’d forgotten about the set of stairs leading up but there was no turning back now, and besides, taking the STAIRS is also on my list of Getting in Shape (for free). Thirty, or so, steps later, winded and with heart pumping (nice cardio!) I paused at the top and took some photos. Then off I went to meet my friend at the restaurant (my thighs were actually burning from the street’s slight incline).
Holy out of shape, you say! Yes, I am. That’s why I’m working on it (for free).
How about you? How are you staying in shape this winter?
My manuscript Fred’s Funeral is looking for a publisher. It’s a generational story told in three voices covering the century of Fred’s unfortunate life. The family history of three tenuously connected characters is explored through memory and perception, letters home, and overheard conversations.
For Cindy, Fred is Grandpa’s shell-shocked older brother lurking around at family gatherings. Cindy fears that any noise might crack open his grenade of a head.
For Viola, Fred is a nuisance of a brother-in-law, frightening the children and threatening her controlled and righteous way of life.
Fred himself is a boastful young man who weathers the hellish conditions of WWI with barely a bruise until later, when stress fells him, later when his courage falters, later when he cannot abide the noise of ordinary existence, the pressure of domesticity, or the expectations of a family that cannot possibly understand him.
Fred’s Funeral transports the reader to 20th century small-town Ontario, to our grandparents’ living rooms, to the shores of our childhood summers.
This book addresses the plight of the returning soldier. A man who has given up his life for service to his country. A man who forever re-lives the hell of the battlefield. A man banished from his family, tucked out of sight, institutionalized away where he can’t bother the rest of us. Sadly, this story requires our participation, and only our understanding can give it a happier ending.
Agents and publishers, please contact me for a look at Fred’s Funeral. Photos and letters such as the following are available for inclusion in the book.
in a fathomless pond
reeling in six today
piscine quicksilver so easily
dragged from depths below
The water tranquil
mere ripples across the deep
a verdant vast pool
of whispers and secrets.
I pull them gasping
breathe into them
they don’t die
dancing in the pail
spider web tails.
I write their weight
and tip it
to be caught again.
At the fish & chip shop
I watch the greasy cook
smoking in the kitchen
the pimply limp girl says,
that’ll be fourteen ninety-five
and I believe her.
Published In Chatterboxt Poems, 2011
If I were to lose my nouns now
as many women do
what would become of my poetry?
It would blow into nothingness
a silent storm waving beyond air-tight windows.
But I am blessed.
As the hormones rearrange my brain
and life, my nouns stick to me
like magnetic poetry on the refrigerator.
I am still able to summon a fleet of words,
flutter them down onto papers
like fighter jets to air-craft carriers.
I am not bereft
just melancholy and moony,
wishing for certain aspects of the past to return,
I am still forging on with my flotilla of nouns
feathering and peppering the words in my arsenal.
I am still bleeding, breathing, scribbling
in the heat of this aging, flashing,
summer in winter.
I am hot with the change,
sleeping long and longing for a safe hearth
a peaceful heart
comforted in the scrawny arms of my cats
I’ve begun building a house out of gingerbread.
I did not love you well enough
or deep enough.
I held back,
And now regret
rains on me
for there are no further years
to fill with opportunities
for sunny affection
or daisy days.
I took care.
but I did not love.
I crack open and leak
from these wicked eyes
because I hate myself
for my lukewarm neutrality.
Why did I withhold?
I know the answer,
but wish not to reveal it,
for it sounds like blame,
but I was taught it.
There are no fences.
It slips into my blood
like a snake into a river.
I am flooded with a gnawing gloom
a distracted inertia
a sore this and aching that.
like flotsam on the shore
like heat baked sand.
between the remorse
and the grief
of losing you.
Losing you now
I can’t recover.
And to love
Once upon a time
I grew a rose
but snipped its buds
in their rolled and soft perfection.
I prefer the unbloomed rose
before it opens
to drop its petals.
These bushes sag,
burdened by their aging beauty
it is too much!
And too plentiful for me to look upon too long.
of the mistress of this house,
with shiny parked Mercedes,
secure enough and loved enough
she needs not
risk the thorns
shears in hand
and sweaty cotton gloves
to offer her own
a clutch of roses?
there are the peonies.
It sinks in today, I’ve been dumped!
I fought this sad truth for so long; made excuses for my own and his bad behaviour; dismissed the obvious as unhealthy doubt. Ha! Today I laugh. I’ve been dumped!
Yesterday I felt unloved. I envied everyone alive because I thought you were more loved than me. The one I hung my hopes on, and whose specific love I need, is gone.
I am not asking for pity. He left me; he had his reasons, and none of them was me. What is pathetic is I persisted for so long. But believe it or not, this is an improvement. I once clung to hope about an ex-boyfriend for over ten years, right through marrying Mark.
I have no time to waste. I am almost a half-century old. I have much to give and I am open to everything. I am the rose bush in full bloom, almost obscene in my aging beauty, Ha!
From Chatterbox by Sandy Day