As both I and J., my gracious host, were felled with colds, it was a fairly media-heavy Thanksgiving. However, there were also artichokes and champagne and sushi and J.'s splendid cat to complain that we weren't playing with him enough, so it wasn't monotonous.
The Italian Job aired on the bus between New York and Boston. Moderately entertaining caper film with some funny bits (mostly provided by Seth Green) and a pleasing lack of bloodiness. The very end pushed my suspension of disbelief just a little too far, though--why wouldn't the Ukrainians just shoot everybody and take all the gold?
8 Mile I've been meaning to see for ages, as Eminem and I seem to be the only white people who grew up inside that boundary since the riots. As J. is a big, if mostly ironic, fan, we rented it. Quite a strong entry in the rock-coming-of-age genre, not to mention a hilarious look into Eminem's fantasy adolescence in which he wasn't just an asshole. The cinematography was accomplished, and, yes, Detroit really does look like that. "Lose Yourself" is still a great song. Whoops, there goes gravity...
We then took a break to watch "Shattered" and whatever the Angel episode of that week was. J. was very bitter that I harshed her mellow with the SV ("Why did we have to watch it on Thanksgiving?!?!" "To give thanks for good TV! Not to mention that the breakup finally seems to have taken!"). The Angel episode did not give me any reason to regret having dropped the show in S3. I was actually mildly intrigued when I heard about the shift in premise, but what a giant lot of unsympathetic prats. I know Jenny-O thinks "Angel is a jackass" doesn't really qualify as an analysis, but I stand behind it. However...wooooo, LINDSEY!
The next day, we watched Trouble in Paradise, a pre-Code Lubitsch (The Shop Around the Corner, remade recently as You've Got Mail) comedy which I'd seen a couple of times at the Brattle but was thrilled to recently discover has just been released on DVD. It didn't clean up as pretty as the same company's Third Man release, but given the age of the print, I'm sure they did the best they could. It's about a pair of lovebird jewel thieves and their elaborate scheme to defraud a rich and charming young widow of some of her fortune. This is a sparkling and effervescent comedy, perhaps a trifle twee, but a darn good time, and boasting fantastic period sets and costumes (if you look carefully, you can see that Mme. Colet's fox coat sports not only the tail of the fox, but also the head--yikes!). It makes you regret American cinema's deliberate self-infantilization. In some ways, our film still hasn't recovered.
We wrapped it all up with a Brattle viewing of Casablanca, which I have seen so many times that I now mostly absorb it as a glorious dream sequence of gorgeous silvers and shadows rather than an actual plot. Except for that last scene, of course--who could fail to register every word and expression there? I'm as fond as ever of Victor Laszlo, on whom I imagine Commodore Norrington was modelled.
On my return, I caught the 1 am showing of "Hereafter," of which so much has already been said I don't think I need to add much, except to express my heartfelt appreciation of how this season has taken the somewhat stodgy material of S1, tightened the drama, increased the spark between the characters, and chased genuine drama and humor without stumbling into camp. I love my Leaguers.
Posted by Sarah T. at November 30, 2003 09:47 PM | TrackBack