Spotlighting

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Have some time on your hands, say six hours or so?  Would you like to learn a little Italian as well as some recent Italian history?  Well then, queue up The Best of Youth and prepare to be dazzled.

The film, originally a mini-series on Italian television, follows the lives of two brothers, both brilliant and quite different in temperament, Nicola and Matteo Carati.  The story begins in 1966, as the brothers  prepare for exams and a summer of traveling the continent with their friends.  Life takes a turn, however, when the idealistic Matteo discovers a young woman named Giorgia victimized by electric shock at an internship.  Rather impulsively (a theme for him), he takes her from the hospital and the brothers embark on a journey to bring her home.

When the plan goes awry and Giorgia is taken by the authorities, the brothers, rather than resume their voyage, part company, both literally and metaphorically.  Matteo abandons his plans to become a doctor, joining the army and later the police, while Nicola travels to Norway, then back to Italy to help with the horrible flooding of Florence.  It is there that he meets and falls in love with Guilia, a pianist with violent communist leanings, while becoming a psychiatrist.

It is a story full of love, heartache, laughter, and surprises, exploring the bonds of family and friendship through the lens of forty years of Italian history (so much I didn’t know!).  A marvelous look at the beautiful people, landmarks, and landscapes, it is a story that will stay with me for a long time.

Seriously.  I cannot think of a single movie, book, or bit of musical genius to highlight, so, instead, poor grammar, random thoughts, and silliness will rule this post.

Bridget and I went to the Bagdad last night to see what could, quite possibly, be the worst film I’ve ever seen in a theater.  I won’t glorify its distasteful and utterly stupid badness by revealing the title, for that would amount to free advertising.  Anyway, about one third of the way through, I leaned over and whispered to Bridget, “Do you want to go to Goodwill?”  Were it not for the fact that she was midway through a glass of wine, I think we had some serious potential for an early exit.  Now I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever actually left a theater before the film was over.  I don’t think so; Buddy, have we?  However, this does remind me of the time I saw Henry and June at the Mayan (it’s so Aztec like) in Denver.  I observed a couple leave early for quite a different reason.  If you haven’t already seen it, rent it and you’ll know, too.

After the Bagdad, we went to Powell’s, and I bought books I hope to enjoy.  Please think good thoughts because I have had some duds this summer and haven’t finished any of them.  Here’s hoping these will satisfy:  Bergen Evans’s Dictionary of Quotations, Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, and Christoper Buckley’s Losing Mum and Pup. If the latter is anything like the raucous and witty good time of Thank You for Smoking (film version – I never read the book), I think I will like it, despite the slightly morbid subject matter.  In any case, it will be fascinating to read about what it was like to have William F. Buckley as a father.  I remember watching him on television (Firing Line) as a child, rapt.  I never understood a word he said (then, not now, I’ve grown up some), but, boy, did I love to listen to the man speak.  He certainly had his own way.  Here’s a link to a good example – Buckley in His Own Words.

What more can I tell you? A decaf Americano with heaps of half and half at the Fresh Pot after a satisfying book search (in which there was much discussion about who will buy the book with the cool cover AND remember the conversation if a divorce is ever required) and romp on Hawthorne with one of your best friends in the world is a marvelous way to end an evening out.  Marvelous, I tell you.

Oh, yes!  Thanks for the comments on the new blog header.  I thought it was about time I showed our actual red roof, and I liked the light that evening, so there you go.  Have a super weekend!

I lead a very privileged life.  The kind that makes me want to shout from the rooftops in ecstatic joy at all I have: a perfect-for-me husband who is as handsome as can be, a great circle family and friends, a lovely home, cute and cuddly cats, and cinematic gems like The Brothers Bloom.

It’s the variety of story that made me fall in love with the art of film making in the first place: beautiful cinematography and that magical combination of wit, suspense, humor, and yearning.  It doesn’t hurt that one of my long-standing movie star crushes, Mark Ruffalo, plays one of the leads, or that people fall in love, either.  I’m a big fan of love, but I think you knew that already.

The Brothers Bloom are con men from way back, childhood, in fact, weaving the quite literary Stephen’s droll tales into brilliant, theatrical cons of world renown.  The problem, as there always is one, is that Bloom, Stephen’s sensitive younger brother, has never liked the game and wants out, for good.  This isn’t the man he wants to be.  Longing to write the story of his own life, he leaves Stephen and their pyrotechnic expert of a side kick Bang Bang to be alone.  They find him months later and convince him to do one last con.

What ensues is a sweet, tender, hilarious, and nail-biting adventure as Stephen, Bloom, and Bang Bang engage the naive and wise hobby-collecting Penelope.  Globe trotting, the story grows more complex and unpredictable, as Bloom falls hard for Penelope, and the brothers are threatened by their former teacher and arch nemesis, The Diamond Dog.  It had me on the edge of my seat, in delight and trepidation, wondering just who was conning whom.

Writer and director John Hughes died yesterday.  He had a heart attack while out walking in his Manhattan neighborhood.  I hope that there was some comfort to that, in walking around the city that is home, dying surrounded by the familiar.  If I were able to choose, I think that would be a pretty good way to go, don’t you?   Then there is the enviable way that Nico died, while out riding her bicycle.  I wonder if she was singing, when suddenly it felt like she was flying, E.T. style, out of the beautiful day to day and into the sweet hereafter.  Until it is our time, I suppose we’ll never know.

I am digressing, however, for this post isn’t about dying or flying, but the films of John Hughes.  Boy did I love his movies!  When I originally started writing this post, I included details from my favorites and why they were so special, but that somehow tainted the magic of  the stories I return to again and again.  So instead, I leave you with my favorites (one might surprise you!) and your own precious memories to conjure…

If you are anything like me, you probably seek familiar comforts in times of stress, the pleasures that feel most like home: certain foods, music, books or movies.  As you might imagine, after having my body go through such upheaval and pain, combined with the emotional baggage of requiring so much help from others, this week has been a giant one for comfort seeking.  I’m listening to lots of Iron and Wine, eating knox blox like I did when I was a kid (though now they are a healthier, fruit juice version), and moving through my favorite movies in our collection, Cold Comfort Farm being at the top of the list.

It is a wonderfully witty film about a young woman living in 1920’s Britain.  Both of Flora Poste’s (Kate Beckinsale) parents have just died.  Since she is the sort of woman who isn’t accustomed to regular work (with no desire to try, except to write a novel at age 53), and has a small income from her parents’ estate, she would rather find relatives with whom to live until she gets married.  She sends out piteous letters, hoping to find just the right match, for she’s also seeking a family that’s a bit of a mess, one she can get back into shape.  The letter of response that sounds (and smells) most promising is from her cousin Judith on Cold Comfort Farm.  “We must atone for the wrong done to your father, Robert Poste’s child.”

What ensues is a hilarious romp in the countryside,  filled with a wide variety of kooky characters and scenarios.  First, there is cousin Judith, the writer of  the letter.  She is a gloomy sort, obsessed with her beautiful, libertine son, Seth.   Then there’s cousin Amos and his rather peculiar brand of hellfire and brimstone preaching, shouting,  “There’ll be no butter in HELL!”  to his quivering brethren.   The next of the lot is Aunt Ada Doom, who saw something nasty in the woodshed and refuses to come out from her room, save one very serious occasion each year.  There’s also Adam Lambsbreath, who’d rather use a twig than sully a beautiful dishmop, as well as Rubin, the one who really ought to be running the farm.  Flora uses her particular brand of practicality to make each of their dreams come true while also introducing the concepts of family planning and afternoon tea.

The silly and sometimes outrageous story is only enhanced by the often wickedly clever dialogue.  Here’s just a few of my favorite lines:

“In fact, when poetry is combined with ill groomed hair and eccentric dress, it is generally fatal.”

“It is bad to be dewy eyed among smart people, but you can always secretly despise them.”

“I saw something nasty in the woodshed!”  “Sure you did, but did it see you, baby?”

“Oh Charles, you do have heavenly teeth!”

Oh, such comfort on Cold Comfort Farm!  Thanks for never letting me down.

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