I rented a movie recently and scored. My track record is spotty, at best. I often wonder why I bother. But this time I was enthralled. And watched it again the next night. And hared off to the library the next day for the book.
Turns out I had this book on my TBR list all the time. My list is a messy affair, scribbled in a notebook haphazardly. After reading a review, I had scratched in there "Notes From A Scandal" by Zoe Heller. [It was short listed for the Booker Prize in 2003]. And promptly forgot all about it.
Until Cate Blanchett's face turned up on a movie with a vaguely familiar name. Cate B and Judi Dench were inspired choices for the leading roles. And Bill Nighey is hysterical as the cuckolded husband. Usually I like to read a book first. Then, when I get around to seeing the movie, I'm a bit let down. Because I have formed my own picture and the movie doesn't measure up.
Except for this one. I don't think I could have imagined the characters more perfectly than Blanchett and Dame J portray them. The story is about an affair between a teacher and one of her pupils. But the real story, the underlying, unstated story, is about lonliness, and the lengths people will go to to deal with it. Sometimes its not the story that lures you in so much as how it's told. Zoe Heller is masterful.
Which came across in the movie.
Which lured me to the book.
Which did not dissapoint.
She is sly, tart and wickedly funny. I highly recommend both book and movie. But which to tackle first? I'm afraid you're on your own there. I'd almost say I enjoyed the book more, having Cate Blanchett's and Judi Dench's portrayals in mind. But a movie can only portray so much. At the end of the day the written word rules. Here is a case where movie and book compliment each other perfectly.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Monday, May 14, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Molly Bawn, Film Critic
I'm not much of a movie buff. With the OC away, there are days I don't even turn on the television. But our local movie rental joint keeps wooing me, with phone messages to say they haven't seen me in a while, and they miss me, and if I come in soon they'll have a free rental for me. So, as a big- hearted gesture [wouldn't want them pining away], I went to see what was available last weekend.
Usually the new releases are wiped out. Usually I get in there and suffer instant "deer -in -the headlights" syndrome. Can't recall anything I've read, good, bad, or indifferent, about any of the films. Usually I walk out in desperation with duds, or nothing at all. Not this time though.
I got the last copy on the shelf of The Departed. I was vaguely aware that it was in the running for best Picture at the Oscars. And I got The Illusionist, just because it sounded interesting.
Well.
They won't be calling me to judge the Oscars any time soon. I was appalled to hear that The Departed won best picture. Boo. Hiss. It was horrible. Even if it did have a good story, as my son said. How can you pay attention to the story when you're gasping at the brutality, when people are getting their heads blown off, and you can't hear the dialogue for the gunfire and the cursing?
We get this kind of movie because it's supposedly what the American Public wants. Count me out as a member of the AP then. How can we hope to achieve world peace when violence is our favourite form of entertainment? How can we expect young people to sound civilised when cursing is so glorified? Call me a cantankerous old prune if you like, but I find it dismally depressing, and instead of taking a bow, Martin Scorsese should be ashamed of himself, and slink off into a corner.
The Illusionist, on the other hand, was the best few hours entertainment I've had in ages. I was mesmerised from start to finish. The king's English instead of cursing . Some violence, but so well woven into the story that it didn't make you leap out of your chair in horror. And such a clever, unexpected twist at the end! Add to all that, superb acting, beautiful music, stunning costumes and a little romance. Sigh. At least someone out there is still making movies for us old fashioned types.
Usually the new releases are wiped out. Usually I get in there and suffer instant "deer -in -the headlights" syndrome. Can't recall anything I've read, good, bad, or indifferent, about any of the films. Usually I walk out in desperation with duds, or nothing at all. Not this time though.
I got the last copy on the shelf of The Departed. I was vaguely aware that it was in the running for best Picture at the Oscars. And I got The Illusionist, just because it sounded interesting.
Well.
They won't be calling me to judge the Oscars any time soon. I was appalled to hear that The Departed won best picture. Boo. Hiss. It was horrible. Even if it did have a good story, as my son said. How can you pay attention to the story when you're gasping at the brutality, when people are getting their heads blown off, and you can't hear the dialogue for the gunfire and the cursing?
We get this kind of movie because it's supposedly what the American Public wants. Count me out as a member of the AP then. How can we hope to achieve world peace when violence is our favourite form of entertainment? How can we expect young people to sound civilised when cursing is so glorified? Call me a cantankerous old prune if you like, but I find it dismally depressing, and instead of taking a bow, Martin Scorsese should be ashamed of himself, and slink off into a corner.
The Illusionist, on the other hand, was the best few hours entertainment I've had in ages. I was mesmerised from start to finish. The king's English instead of cursing . Some violence, but so well woven into the story that it didn't make you leap out of your chair in horror. And such a clever, unexpected twist at the end! Add to all that, superb acting, beautiful music, stunning costumes and a little romance. Sigh. At least someone out there is still making movies for us old fashioned types.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
It's All About Love, Actually
Home again ,Home again, Jiggety jig. To find that the calendar apparently didn't stand still in my absence, leaving me barely a week to get it in gear for Christmas. Wrote and mailed a couple dozen cards and went with Youngest Son to find a Christmas tree. Intended to bake tonight, but was feeling a little grinchy, and virtuous about above modest accomplishments, so rented a movie and vegged in front of the telly instead. But not just any movie. I've noticed in many blogger profiles that "Love, Actually" crops up regularly as a favourite movie. I've been curious......
Nothing compares to the luxury of having the house to yourself, abandoning the "should do's" for an evening, and giving yourself over to total immersion in a sloppy love story. They're the best kind, right? There just isn't anything tidy and unsloppy about love or about life. I sniffled and sobbed and empathised freely at all the sniffle- and sob- inducing parts, without fear of masculine ridicule [the cat doesn't count].
It turned out to be a very Christmassy kind of movie with a great cast. Emma Thompson is an awesome actress; of course I bawled when she found out that the beautiful necklace she'd thought he'd bought for her, was actually for her husband's secretary. And what woman, no matter how practical and down to earth, doesn't sometimes daydream of being thought beautiful, instead of damned with the"faint praise"of being adequate? Hugh Grant is no Laurence Olivier, but he is easy on the eye, and reminds me of my Britboy, whose current English lass's name also happens to be Natalie!
And I realised why I've been feeling Grinchy. Christmas is supposed to be about love, n'est pas? But where is it? It's not apparent in the horrendous hordes of cranky drivers; nor in the endless snaking lines at the post office; nor yet in the obnoxious, shouting , mind numbing ads on tv, exhorting us to buy more, more, more. That's easy enough to take care off, and I do--by clicking the "off" button. The commercialization of Christmas gets me down. What happened to the little baby in the stable in Bethlehem? He hardly gets a look in any more. If anything, the other guy, the one with the horns and the pitchfork and the pointy ears, has the upper hand, as greed and materialism spin out of control.
As I watched and empathised, I marvelled at how wonderful movies are. All the problems and misunderstandings are cleared up nicely and tidily in the appointed two hours and thirty five minutes. I, unfortunately , am left with my still-messy, unsorted-out life. I can't afford to hire the best scriptwriters in the land to write my lines for me . I have to blunder through scriptless, adlibbing [and not well] as I go. A bull in a china shop looks dainty by comparison.
Gradually the grinchiness melted away. Pictures from the past month flitted through my head; SIL on the basement floor, rolling around with his Daddy-adoring sons, our grandsons; my DD making sure a delicious and nutritious dinner was ready and waiting for her boys, big and small, on the evenings she had to work; both doing a loving and conscientious job of raising their sons ; Oldest Son and his family, same thing, different style--home after a long day at work, not to a comfy chair and slippers and oblivion, but to work of another kind, being there for bathtime and storytime and climbing-all-over-Daddy-time, and soothing tears and calming tempers, and rocking over-tired little people to sleep, just barely sooner than he falls asleep, exhausted, himself; my California Girl, handed back to me after talking to her older brother -- brave words not quite hiding the tremor in her voice that tells me she wishes she weren't quite so far away, so she could see her siblings, and niece and nephews once in a while; my DIL, as happy and excited as her children in their wide-eyed wonder when she turns the Christmas tree lights on; the OC all spiffy for his office Christmas party; and YS, there to meet me at the airport, whisking my bags into the boot; the marvel of everything looking so nice in the garden and the house, due to his TLC while I was away.
Such a cheerful positive, happy movie. It cheered me right up and made me realise that love is all around us, actually.
Nothing compares to the luxury of having the house to yourself, abandoning the "should do's" for an evening, and giving yourself over to total immersion in a sloppy love story. They're the best kind, right? There just isn't anything tidy and unsloppy about love or about life. I sniffled and sobbed and empathised freely at all the sniffle- and sob- inducing parts, without fear of masculine ridicule [the cat doesn't count].
It turned out to be a very Christmassy kind of movie with a great cast. Emma Thompson is an awesome actress; of course I bawled when she found out that the beautiful necklace she'd thought he'd bought for her, was actually for her husband's secretary. And what woman, no matter how practical and down to earth, doesn't sometimes daydream of being thought beautiful, instead of damned with the"faint praise"of being adequate? Hugh Grant is no Laurence Olivier, but he is easy on the eye, and reminds me of my Britboy, whose current English lass's name also happens to be Natalie!
And I realised why I've been feeling Grinchy. Christmas is supposed to be about love, n'est pas? But where is it? It's not apparent in the horrendous hordes of cranky drivers; nor in the endless snaking lines at the post office; nor yet in the obnoxious, shouting , mind numbing ads on tv, exhorting us to buy more, more, more. That's easy enough to take care off, and I do--by clicking the "off" button. The commercialization of Christmas gets me down. What happened to the little baby in the stable in Bethlehem? He hardly gets a look in any more. If anything, the other guy, the one with the horns and the pitchfork and the pointy ears, has the upper hand, as greed and materialism spin out of control.
As I watched and empathised, I marvelled at how wonderful movies are. All the problems and misunderstandings are cleared up nicely and tidily in the appointed two hours and thirty five minutes. I, unfortunately , am left with my still-messy, unsorted-out life. I can't afford to hire the best scriptwriters in the land to write my lines for me . I have to blunder through scriptless, adlibbing [and not well] as I go. A bull in a china shop looks dainty by comparison.
Gradually the grinchiness melted away. Pictures from the past month flitted through my head; SIL on the basement floor, rolling around with his Daddy-adoring sons, our grandsons; my DD making sure a delicious and nutritious dinner was ready and waiting for her boys, big and small, on the evenings she had to work; both doing a loving and conscientious job of raising their sons ; Oldest Son and his family, same thing, different style--home after a long day at work, not to a comfy chair and slippers and oblivion, but to work of another kind, being there for bathtime and storytime and climbing-all-over-Daddy-time, and soothing tears and calming tempers, and rocking over-tired little people to sleep, just barely sooner than he falls asleep, exhausted, himself; my California Girl, handed back to me after talking to her older brother -- brave words not quite hiding the tremor in her voice that tells me she wishes she weren't quite so far away, so she could see her siblings, and niece and nephews once in a while; my DIL, as happy and excited as her children in their wide-eyed wonder when she turns the Christmas tree lights on; the OC all spiffy for his office Christmas party; and YS, there to meet me at the airport, whisking my bags into the boot; the marvel of everything looking so nice in the garden and the house, due to his TLC while I was away.
Such a cheerful positive, happy movie. It cheered me right up and made me realise that love is all around us, actually.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)