I took the day off Tuesday, writing not a single word of useful prose. Instead, I enjoyed an extended yoga practice, a perfectly pruning and exceedingly hot bath, and two very good streaming fil-ums (Why I like to hear and type this, I do not know, but it’s staying, for now).

The first was I Am Love with Tilda Swinton, object of one of my lady-crushes. The woman is a goddess, brilliant and beautiful, a style all her own, that certain je ne sais quoi that keeps me rapt. Which also reminds me of my latest man-crush on Michael Fassbender. I saw him last year in Jane Eyre and thought, well, isn’t he interesting? And those eyes! Then I heard him on Fresh Air and saw him on Charlie Rose and said, “Oh, yes please.” There’s nothing like an attractive man speaking eloquently of the work he loves. Indeedy.

Lest you get your knickers in a bunch lamenting my poor hubster and his wife gone off the rails speaking openly of her admiration of others, he’s got his own crush (and thinks Tilda’s pretty, too), and I wholeheartedly approve, on Emily Blunt, even putting her movies in the queue for him. She’s cute, smart, and a good actress. I would have liked to steal her Golden Globes dress, I might add. As well, I know for a fact he’d be over the moon at the chance to spend a day, week, or a month discussing everything tech with the Woz. So there. We’ve got our own good thing going, with crushes and silliness and all that jazz.

Anyhoo, enough of my digression, I Am Love is sensual and expressive, a very cerebral examination of a family that on the surface looks and acts the same as always but is roiling and changing and coming apart at the seams. Tilda plays Emma, a Russian plucked and inserted into a very bourgeois life (servants who dress her and wear gloves – can you imagine?) in Italy, speaking Italian and Russian (I told you; she’s brilliant). She is the mother of grown children, a good wife and cook, and a very stylish dresser. She is a master organizer, very much in control, planning parties and dinners with aplomb and ease. The slow unraveling starts and ends with a party, both of which look the same on the surface but are wholly different. Filled with exquisite food, immaculate homes, romance and infidelity and upheaval and picturesque landscapes, so very much at once. The score is fantastic and the cinematography some of the best I’ve seen. Molto bene!

Now to the Eames, Charles and Ray, who, like me, maybe you thought were brothers, instead of husband and wife, despite being fairly well educated on Modern Design. After the shame of my ignorance wore off, I really got into it, loving that the pair were so much more than really cool chairs. They made truly awesome animated fil-ums: puppets, stop motion, and drawn; collected ephemera, designed buildings, and worked, worked, worked, their minds like Vesuvius in a constant state of eruption. I loved their quirkiness, their manner of dress (so sweet and dapper), and how they truly loved everything they did, adding so much flair and panache to the world. Inspirational!

Without meaning to, this week I watched two films (or fil-ums as I once read in an Irish novel) that involved the murder of a child. What the h-e-double-hockey-stick kind of coincidence is that, anyway? Despite the rather gloomy subject matter, they were quite good and had me rapt.

In Bruges, takes place in, you’ll never guess, Bruges! Or “fucking Bruges” as Colin Farrell’s character often says. He plays Ray, a hit man who makes the rookie mistake of murdering a boy along with his mark. He’s in Bruges with his partner and sort of mentor, Ken (the brilliant Brendan Gleeson), while they wait for the dust to settle back in London. I’ve seen this fil-um touted as a comedy, and while there are some humorous moments, don’t go in thinking that it’s going to be funny. It’s actually very melancholy and quite beautiful, save for the end. Avert your eyes, for there will be blood, my friends.

As Ray fights their exile, forever cursing the city, and Ken embraces it, happily taking canal tours and exploring some of the oldest architecture in Europe, both struggle to come to terms with their chosen profession, a sincere loneliness, and, most importantly, the loss of the boy. They meet an assortment of characters: a caring hotel owner, an obsessive gun runner, a stunning drug dealer, and an opinionated dwarf (or midget, depending), each bringing out the essence of Ken and Ray, how they got to this place, and hope for something more. It is lovely and thoughtful in its brutality.

Troubled Water is Norwegian and tells two perspectives of the same event. The life of Thomas after his release from prison for murdering the boy, and Agnes, the mother of the murdered child. Each takes half of the film and merge in the end.

It is almost a thriller and definitely a meditation on forgiveness and reconciliation. How can you ever move on from something so horrible? Thomas tries to start fresh by becoming an organist at a church, his playing a mesmerizing gift. He likes the female priest, and her son, Jens, takes to him immediately, despite Thomas’s protests. Perhaps he is not evil?

Agnes obsesses about Thomas and what he might do now that he isn’t behind prison walls. Is she safe, her husband, their adopted daughters? Then there are the last minutes of her son’s life, never knowing exactly what happened. The truth sets them both free and has the audience (or maybe just me) gasping for breath.

I am not a fan of Formula One racing, the mind numbing sound of high powered automobiles traveling on winding, swirling, looping tracks of asphalt and concrete.  I’m afraid I land on quite the opposite end of the spectrum, the kill joy who watches in horror as I contemplate environmental degradation through the excessive use of fuel and rubber and who knows what else to make it all happen.

I am, however, fond of stories, in particular of those who have found precisely their intended métier, as the French would say, without equivocation or second thoughts.  The often brave men and women who hear distinctly the voice of God, Buddha, Allah, or perhaps a brilliant collection of cosmic dust, depending upon their persuasion, to move this way, along this path, despite the din of voices screaming otherwise.

Ayrton Senna was such a man, brilliant, charming, handsome, and a great knower of speed on macadam.  He found his passion early, behind the wheel of a go-kart, and would hone his skill over years and continents, through awful politics, pettiness, and ill conceived and implemented rules to dominate the sport, and win, win, win.

He was a gentle man, a patriotic Brazilian, close to God and his family, and an absolute pleasure to watch, behind the wheel, moving in ways I can hardly fathom, or speaking about that which mattered to him.

What great testament too, to the fine direction of the filmmakers to create such a touching portrait and have this naysayer on the edge of her seat with fascination and anticipation.  My soul was cracked.  Very well done, indeed.

Thank you, Bert, for the recommendation.

Bill Cunningham New York: Though my “uniform” might suggest otherwise, I LOVE clothes and fashion, and all the inherent juiciness of it.  Yes, I am “shallow” (in quotations because I don’t really believe it but lack a better descriptor) enough to spend the whole of a day reading a fashion magazine cover to cover, turning back pages I find inspiring or interesting.  I love watching people, well dressed or not, at least to my eye, and absorbing what they’ve got going on.  Is it something that fits my aesthetic that I hadn’t previously imagined?  What makes it work?  Oh jeez, isn’t that what that Tim Gunn guy says?  I love the courage it takes to try something outrageous, bold, or just plain different, probably because I lack it myself.

So now, imagine all of this in the hands of a humble, bicycle riding photographer who wants to share with everyone, namely Bill Cunningham of the New York Times, taking photos every single day over a period of decades.  The film follows Bill in his daily life, sleeping on a cot wedged between rows of filing cabinets of photos and negatives in a tiny apartment in Carnegie Hall (I didn’t even know this was possible).  The man lives for fashion, “I eat with my eyes,” mostly the on the street variety, and takes pictures nearly everywhere he goes.  He is earnest, beyond hard working (at 80+ he still works every day!) and impossibly kind, at least to those he photographs, the sort one wants as a friend and fashion consultant.

Adam’s Apples: Ivan is a small-town minister who “rehabilitates” men upon their release from prison.  He takes wearing rose-colored glasses to the extreme, patently refusing to see the truth before him, no matter how squarely it is presented.  When Adam, a particularly wretched Neo-Nazi, is placed with Ivan for the requisite 12-week program, he is determined to break the man, no matter the cost.  A strange, funny, and somewhat violent portrait of unshakable faith.

The Trip: I can’t say I really know who these men are, though they seem quite familiar, but goll-ee, I could watch and listen to them all the live long day.  In “mockumentary” style, the gentlemen play themselves, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, two longtime friends on a road trip to England’s finest restaurants and inns.  It was meant to be a romantic getaway for Steve, but his girlfriend leaves rather suddenly for New York at the last minute, so Rob fills in.  It is an odd and interesting mix.  It’s sometimes wildly funny, with some of the best impersonations I have ever heard, mostly of Michael Caine, Sean Connery, and Hugh Grant.  Then it’s a little gloomy and sad tale of middle age and being alone, all while exploring beautiful places and serving up exotic dishes at some very posh restaurants.  A lot like real life, I think.