Sunday, March 13, 2005

I was going to title this post "Comedy is talking about serious things in a funny way" but I guess it went in the wrong direction...

I used to be quite the movie buff. Back when I had both Netflix (ah, those were the days) and the time to watch said flix, I would always be watching these old silent German films or Woody Allen and Coen Brothers comedies or indie fare or strange documentaries. But since the lazy days of summer, I’ve lapsed. I’ve seen a few theater-movies I’ve really liked this year (The Life Aquatic, Sky Captain, The Motorcycle Diaries, Napoleon Dynamite), but I’ve rented almost nothing.

On Friday night, though: Get Shorty. What a great movie. While I was watching it I remember thinking that it was almost on par with films like LA Confidential and Pulp Fiction; now that I think back on it, oddly little of the movie has stayed with me as terribly fantastic—rather, I just have the general impression of it being wildly entertaining. John Travolta made the movie, what a guy. And the humor was zinging—I can’t remember how many times I burst into laughter, at the minivan in particular (“it’s the Cadillac of minivans!”—I have to use that line sometime).



Film is such a great medium. For a brief time when I was in maybe eighth grade, I entertained the romantic idea of becoming a screenwriter-director when I grew up. I even started adapting my favorite book at the time for the silver screen, but I was soon quite disappointed to find that the book had already been optioned and a real screenwriter was adapting it. Darn.

But no movie for me last night, because I was enjoying my last few hours with my brother before he was to return to college. In older-brother-speak, that means me sitting with my book and later my laptop on one end of the sofa, munching on sweets, and him sitting with his laptop on the other end of the sofa, making fun of my sweet-tooth; the two of us ferociously battling out for music-playing rights out of our tinny laptop speakers: I play the Talking Heads, he plays Sigur Ros, I play Dylan, he plays Bowie, I play Amelie music, and he settles back in defeat. (I realize that that previous sentence was a grammatical insane asylum, but bear with me folks.)

(At the risk of becoming pathetically nostalgic, I’ll relay a story my brother told me last night. He and his friends had trekked into Boston for the evening, and they stopped in at the big Barnes & Noble bookstore just in time for a reading and signing by Orson Scott Card. They hopped in line and when it was their turn to meet the author, resident cut-up Ben started joking around. “You look really cute today,” he told Card, to a very unreceptive “Uhh that wasn’t really necessary.” As they were walking away, Ben commented in a voice loud enough for the author to hear, “Did you see how well his sweater matched his eyes?!” Card called out, “You’re treading a fine line, my friend.” To which Ben replied, “Omigod, is that a line from one of your books?!” Oh, snap. Hah.)

Anyway, my brother is currently carpooling with his roommate for the eight hour ride of nonstop-fun that it takes for him to reach his even-more-frigid-than-New-England college in northern New York. The household is already mellower with the lack of shouting matches between my sister and him. So it goes.

There are a bunch of things I intended to post about and I realize that my posting has been quite shoddy of late, but eh. It’s my blog, after all. And homework calls.

1 Comments:

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9:30 AM  

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