From the same folks who gave me free passes to House of Flying Daggers and The Aristocrats, I got passes to a sneak preview of Tommy Lee Jones' new film and among others, winner of Best Screenplay at Cannes for 2005, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. I picked up the passes last night, and had a bit of a dilemma. I have an exam to write in a few weeks, so I really should be studying for that, but I hit a brick wall last night, and ended up deciding to see the movie tonight. I couldn't take Alison with me because she's in Mexico, and she also sent me an e-mail saying she might not be coming back. That's life, I guess. Hasta la proxima... I asked one of my co-workers to go with me, and we both liked it.
I had a super shitty day at work. It began promisingly enough with El matador by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs on the iPod, but went straight down the toilet before 9:00. I almost quit because I don't need the money so much now and I'm not feeling the love these days. I guess I dropped a hint when I mentioned to my co-worker that I'd rather be in Mexico right now, so at the end of the day, the coolest boss in the world reached into the bar fridge we have tucked away in Finance and pulled me out a beer. And, he didn't protest when I drank it right in front of him. I don't think I'll be making a habit of it though. My co-worker and I shlepped up to the theatre in the freezing cold. You know its bad when someone from the Midwest shivers.
Tommy Lee directed the film and used his ranch to film a lot of the footage. He stars alongside "hometown" boy Barry Pepper, and I coulda won some swag if I had shouted out his real hometown at the right time, but I wasn't raised in a barn and there's no way you're gonna get me to shout from the back row of the balcony just for a fucking t-shirt. The movie also stars January Jones who is the reason why my co-worker agreed to come along in the first place. She plays Pepper's lonely housewife, and doesn't really play into the plot very much except that she shtupped the dead guy, the guy that Pepper's character killed. That dead guy, Melquiades is played by Julio Cedillo who is constantly looking over his shoulder for la Migra, and its too bad he only appears in retro scenes because I would have liked to know more about his character. Oh yeah, Dwight Yoakam plays a slimy (maybe its the moustache) sheriff-type character who gets his conscience back at the last minute and disappears about halfway through the film. Levon Helm appears as a blind man with a death wish living alone in the middle of the desert.
Now the saddest moment of the film, for me anyway was when the fake horse fell off the cliff. This was during the second burial of Melquiades. The first burial involved the sheriff burying Mel against the wishes of Tommy's character Pete. The third burial happens toward the end of the film, and its all a little weird. It ends up that either Mel lied to Pete, or Pete goes insane, or Mel just gave Pete the wrong impression. I settled for the last choice.
There were funny moments in the film, some pretty funny moments actually. The film is essentially the story of a man keeping his promise to his dead friend, despite certain illegalities. And, the best part of it is that he forces the killer to help. Mike, Pepper's character is a border officer, or one of la Migra and he accidentally shoots Mel because he is trigger happy and just a little on edge while masturbating in the desert, during which time a bullet comes dangerously close to his Hustler magazine. Mike returns fire, and shoots Mel who was really just trying to protect his goats and shoot a coyote. Pete is bound to honour his friend's request and starts his research. Quite easily, a little too easily if you ask me, the identity of Mel's killer is revealed and passed back to Peter. Maybe because it happens in a small town in Texas, kinda like the little town my cousin lived in for a few years with her husband, kinda in a way like Mike and his wife, but news travels fast in that town.
In the beginning, Mike catches some run away migrants and he cracks the woman one across the face really bad. She gets her revenge later, twice. While he is off in Mexico helping haul a corpse to Jimenez, he flees and does what any rational person would do in the desert, he slides into a cubby hole, and is promptly bitten by a vibora, or a rattlesnake. Plot hole here, folks. In my highly educated medical opinion, Mike should have died but its not exactly discernible how long he is stranded in the desert, so I guess I'll give the Tommy Lee the benefit of the doubt on that one. Another problem with continuity in the film is that at the time Mike is digging Mel's body out of his grave in Texas, Mike is wearing flip-flops. Then, when they leave Mel's hovel to go to Mexico, Pete takes the boots away from Mike. Now, these could have been Mel's boots, but I just can't be convinced that Mike has the same sized feet as Mel. That being said, I'm not going to go to imdb and add it into the goofs section. It's an error, but its just a wee one.
Then comes the revenge. After being bitten by an apparently less-venomous-than-others rattlesnake, Pete literally drags Mike across the Rio Grande to a small town where they can seek folk medicine. Well, the healer happens to be the same woman who had her face smashed by Mike. At first, she agrees to not let him die, and to remove the poison. She does it, textbook field medicine but you don't actually see her suck out the venom. Only, there is no anesthetic. Just a hot knife, a severely swollen foot and a wad of cloth or something for Mike to chomp down on. Now, some folks in the balcony got squeamish but not me. I just thought pleasantly about that time Alison brought her knives over. Actually, the grossest part of the film for me was when Pete tried to comb the hair of the corpse, above all other gross parts. So did the healer really get her revenge? I guess not, because later on, she takes a pot of fresh, hot coffee and pours it on Mike who sits up immediately and gets his face smashed by a coffee pot. Then he goes outside and peels corn, and waits for Pete who is in the process of getting his drunk ass dumped by his girlfriend long distance-style. I feel it hermano.
They shlep the corpse out to Tostón, and ask for Mel's wife. This is the part where you discover that Mel was either very lonely with an active imagination, or he was a liar. Elevia aka Rosa denies knowing Mel, as does anyone else in the town and they all deny knowledge of a place called Jimenez. On the way out to Tostón, they come across some hunters and Mike starts to cry as he sees them watching his wife's favourite soap opera. This is one of the funny moments, I don't remember the others right now. Just to let the film geeks know, if they don't already - the guy who wrote Three Burials, Guillermo Arriaga appears as one of the hunters. Just when you think Tommy Lee Jones is insane, he remembers the description Mel gave him of Jimenez, and he finds it - a derelict homestead that somehow resembles the building in the Polaroid Mel carried with him. Pete forces Mike to clean up the site and to dig a second grave for Mel's third burial.
Throughout this process Pete softens up toward Mike (but not too much) and lets him out of the cuffs for the last scene of the film. Pete plants the photo of Mel on a tree and tells Mike to beg forgiveness. Mike says he doesn't believe in God, so Pete goes all Yosemite Sam on him, scaring the crap out of Mike who gladly begs for forgiveness and actually apologizes to Mel. Pete leaves Mike at the homestead with a horse, the horse that Mel had given him, and rides off into the sunset. Final words from Mike indicate that he has grown to understand Pete's actions, and empathize (I think that's the right word) with him.
My co-worker told me after the film that he wasn't expecting to like the film, but that it turned out much better than expected. I also felt it was good. Apparently its a film about alienation and other things, but there's quite a bit of emo crap in there, too.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Make it Suntory Time
Alison is in Mexico, but the yacht is still here and the weather decided to take a nasty turn. It's freakin' freezing here right now and Ali's sipping margaritas on a beach in Puerto Vallarta.
As we all know, Tuesday was Valentine's Day and I did something that I've never done before - I bought flowers. Not roses - my new favourite gerberas. This also happens to be Ali's favourite and she loved them. Of course it didn't help Monday night when she told me that she picked up an extra shift and wouldn't be home on the day. I had to rush down to Durban and get the florist to change the delivery. It was close, but I managed it, unfortunately the flowers looked painfully tired when I saw them after work. She dropped another bomb on Monday night, too. I don't normally watch 24, but it was on so we watched it over a weak spaghetti con funghi. I admit it, I messed that one up. We watched a little 24, then Ali turned to me and said, "He's like Bruce Willis". I'm not a Kiefer fan, but those who are love Kiefer. I wonder how my co-workers are going to feel when I mention that Jack Bauer is just the new version of the guy from Die Hard. I imagine they won't be very happy.
The next evening, we had Veuve Clicquot, another nice champagne that Alphonse introduced me to. My French is pretty good or as Alison would say, "fucking amazing". But that doesn't mean that a person who doesn't speak French on a regular basis will understand what you are saying. As I may have said before, Alison has a really good sense of humour so when I read the label "Veueve Clicquot du Pontsardin Brut", Ali started to laugh her ass off. She had a straight face until I got to brut, which apparently sounded to her like a nasty burp. When she was done laughing, she patted me on the back and said "Bless you". I just kept repeating the word until she couldn't breathe from laughter. She hadn't even sipped the champagne yet. We had an otherwise quiet Valentine's. In return for the flowers I received a chocolate monkey and some soy and nori flavoured crackers. I triumphantly announced that I couldn't possibly eat the chocolate because I was on a diet, but ate the monkey after taking Ali home because I was so hungry. Al told me she chose the monkey because she liked that type of chocolate which she eats every day. Whu?? I thought she is/was on a diet. Well, if she can lose weight by eating chocolate every day, then I dropping South Beach.
On Wednesday, I received a call in which Ali tried to tell me she was in Orchard St., which she corrected again and again because apparently I had complained about her r's. She started with a total absence of r's replaced by an elongated preceding vowel, but after about the fourth time she had it perfectly. We went back to the 30-minute cake place on Thursday because she was leaving the next day and she couldn't stay out late. Again, we had to put up with people who insist upon taking flash photos in restaurants. That's what I like about Alison's workplace - there's a discreet yet highly visible warning not to use cameras in the shop and it come with an illustration so that EVERYBODY can read it. I had a disappointing hedgehog cake, and she had a "fucking amazing" triple chocolate mousse. That is if you believe white chocolate is chocolate. It's chocolate like saccharine is sugar. It tastes kinda like what its supposed to be but its not. White chocolate is made from cocoa butter, not cocoa bean solids like other chocolate, but whatever. Its called white chocolate and I'm just one person. I can't educate the whole world. My hedgehog cake was disappointing in that it was vanilla cake (I rationally expected chocolate) and it was very dry. Alison didn't eat very much of her triple chocolate mousse, and despite my protest of being on a diet, I was forced to eat the rest of it. A good two thirds of it - the two thirds of the wider part of the wedge. She practiced more r sounds, totally mocking me by saying that it is only possible for her to pronounce an "american" r if she does the same arm movements that I was doing. These are the same arm movements that game show models use when they're trying to make a stackable washer/dryer set seem appealing, and the same movements I used when giving Sissy a guided walking tour of historic Quincy, California. Hmmm, it took longer to read the brochure than it did to take the tour of all eight buildings. We had no choice - we were stuck in that shithole and I was trying to provide a little levity to the whole embarrassing ordeal.
Last night I saw Lost in Translation starring Bill Murray, and Scarlett Johansson with Giovanni Ribisi and music by Kevin Shields. I remember that back in 2003, Shields was shlepping around the BBC trying to promote his new album. The stuff they played was good, but the kind of stuff you forget if you're not listening. This was also the first Scarlett Johansson movie I've seen. Is she supposed to a babe or something? Yes, she's fetching but I just don't see the babe that everyone tells me about. It didn't help of course to see that she had the same bum and the EXACT same legs as my ex-girlfriend. The triggers are rare now, but once in a while...
If you haven't heard, the movie is written, produced and directed by Sofia Coppola and is about an aging actor who is in Tokyo to promote Suntory whiskey à la Sean Connery and his friendship with a newly wed, bored-out-of-her-skull wife who are both staying in the Park Hyatt hotel. I heard nice things about this hotel before I even considered watching Lost in Translation, but now I may even stay there on my next trip to Japan. Probably just for a night though, because I prefer the comfort offered at traditional Japanese inns. Murray's character Bob is stuck in Tokyo, kinda like I was stuck in Quincy and he decides to make a go of it and tries to have a little fun. Sure, but wouldn't it be more fun if you could do that with a girl half your age? So Bob and Charlotte party around Tokyo while Charlotte's husband is off taking photos of a band. They check out house parties, night clubs, strip clubs and karaoke bars where Charlotte sings my go to song Brass in Pocket. Pure coincidence, I assure you. I've been singing that song at karaoke since about 1998, four years before principal photography and five years before the movie came out. Eventually, Bob has to go back to his real life in the States and leaves Charlotte behind with a whispered message that wasn't in the script and was part of a whole improvised bit including a kiss. I guess only Bob and Charlotte will ever know what he said. That's how it ends - Bob gets to go back to his wife and kids as Charlotte is left in the streets of Tokyo pondering what to do with her future and a degree in Philosophy.
As we all know, Tuesday was Valentine's Day and I did something that I've never done before - I bought flowers. Not roses - my new favourite gerberas. This also happens to be Ali's favourite and she loved them. Of course it didn't help Monday night when she told me that she picked up an extra shift and wouldn't be home on the day. I had to rush down to Durban and get the florist to change the delivery. It was close, but I managed it, unfortunately the flowers looked painfully tired when I saw them after work. She dropped another bomb on Monday night, too. I don't normally watch 24, but it was on so we watched it over a weak spaghetti con funghi. I admit it, I messed that one up. We watched a little 24, then Ali turned to me and said, "He's like Bruce Willis". I'm not a Kiefer fan, but those who are love Kiefer. I wonder how my co-workers are going to feel when I mention that Jack Bauer is just the new version of the guy from Die Hard. I imagine they won't be very happy.
The next evening, we had Veuve Clicquot, another nice champagne that Alphonse introduced me to. My French is pretty good or as Alison would say, "fucking amazing". But that doesn't mean that a person who doesn't speak French on a regular basis will understand what you are saying. As I may have said before, Alison has a really good sense of humour so when I read the label "Veueve Clicquot du Pontsardin Brut", Ali started to laugh her ass off. She had a straight face until I got to brut, which apparently sounded to her like a nasty burp. When she was done laughing, she patted me on the back and said "Bless you". I just kept repeating the word until she couldn't breathe from laughter. She hadn't even sipped the champagne yet. We had an otherwise quiet Valentine's. In return for the flowers I received a chocolate monkey and some soy and nori flavoured crackers. I triumphantly announced that I couldn't possibly eat the chocolate because I was on a diet, but ate the monkey after taking Ali home because I was so hungry. Al told me she chose the monkey because she liked that type of chocolate which she eats every day. Whu?? I thought she is/was on a diet. Well, if she can lose weight by eating chocolate every day, then I dropping South Beach.
On Wednesday, I received a call in which Ali tried to tell me she was in Orchard St., which she corrected again and again because apparently I had complained about her r's. She started with a total absence of r's replaced by an elongated preceding vowel, but after about the fourth time she had it perfectly. We went back to the 30-minute cake place on Thursday because she was leaving the next day and she couldn't stay out late. Again, we had to put up with people who insist upon taking flash photos in restaurants. That's what I like about Alison's workplace - there's a discreet yet highly visible warning not to use cameras in the shop and it come with an illustration so that EVERYBODY can read it. I had a disappointing hedgehog cake, and she had a "fucking amazing" triple chocolate mousse. That is if you believe white chocolate is chocolate. It's chocolate like saccharine is sugar. It tastes kinda like what its supposed to be but its not. White chocolate is made from cocoa butter, not cocoa bean solids like other chocolate, but whatever. Its called white chocolate and I'm just one person. I can't educate the whole world. My hedgehog cake was disappointing in that it was vanilla cake (I rationally expected chocolate) and it was very dry. Alison didn't eat very much of her triple chocolate mousse, and despite my protest of being on a diet, I was forced to eat the rest of it. A good two thirds of it - the two thirds of the wider part of the wedge. She practiced more r sounds, totally mocking me by saying that it is only possible for her to pronounce an "american" r if she does the same arm movements that I was doing. These are the same arm movements that game show models use when they're trying to make a stackable washer/dryer set seem appealing, and the same movements I used when giving Sissy a guided walking tour of historic Quincy, California. Hmmm, it took longer to read the brochure than it did to take the tour of all eight buildings. We had no choice - we were stuck in that shithole and I was trying to provide a little levity to the whole embarrassing ordeal.
Last night I saw Lost in Translation starring Bill Murray, and Scarlett Johansson with Giovanni Ribisi and music by Kevin Shields. I remember that back in 2003, Shields was shlepping around the BBC trying to promote his new album. The stuff they played was good, but the kind of stuff you forget if you're not listening. This was also the first Scarlett Johansson movie I've seen. Is she supposed to a babe or something? Yes, she's fetching but I just don't see the babe that everyone tells me about. It didn't help of course to see that she had the same bum and the EXACT same legs as my ex-girlfriend. The triggers are rare now, but once in a while...
If you haven't heard, the movie is written, produced and directed by Sofia Coppola and is about an aging actor who is in Tokyo to promote Suntory whiskey à la Sean Connery and his friendship with a newly wed, bored-out-of-her-skull wife who are both staying in the Park Hyatt hotel. I heard nice things about this hotel before I even considered watching Lost in Translation, but now I may even stay there on my next trip to Japan. Probably just for a night though, because I prefer the comfort offered at traditional Japanese inns. Murray's character Bob is stuck in Tokyo, kinda like I was stuck in Quincy and he decides to make a go of it and tries to have a little fun. Sure, but wouldn't it be more fun if you could do that with a girl half your age? So Bob and Charlotte party around Tokyo while Charlotte's husband is off taking photos of a band. They check out house parties, night clubs, strip clubs and karaoke bars where Charlotte sings my go to song Brass in Pocket. Pure coincidence, I assure you. I've been singing that song at karaoke since about 1998, four years before principal photography and five years before the movie came out. Eventually, Bob has to go back to his real life in the States and leaves Charlotte behind with a whispered message that wasn't in the script and was part of a whole improvised bit including a kiss. I guess only Bob and Charlotte will ever know what he said. That's how it ends - Bob gets to go back to his wife and kids as Charlotte is left in the streets of Tokyo pondering what to do with her future and a degree in Philosophy.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Bon Viaje
I learned some amazing stuff this weekend - in a way mind blowing. Alison is a closet Ozzy fan. She's got some rock ballad that Ozzy sings on her iPod, and then she's got an entire album of Ozzy singing live stored on there as well, but apparently she never listens to that. We were driving in the Jeep yesterday when War Pigs came on the stereo so I had to turn up the volume - not too much, but it behoved me. I told Alison it was Black Sabbath. Never heard of them. Ozzy Osbourne? Never heard of him either. And then she thought about it a little. Apparently Ozzy has a different name in Japanese. It sounds like his English name, but its so slightly different that it can be unrecognizable if you mess with the stress. I said his name a few times more and she finally recognized it.
She made me listen to her iPod, so I showed her some more popular stuff that Ozzy did with Sabbath. I whipped out the old guitar and played Iron Man even though its not my favourite, and I caught her bobbing her head. So the Jinx wasn't joking, it really is true. Then she started to play air guitar or something. It left me wondering what else she has on that iPod of hers.
The other thing I learned this weekend is that Ali is going to Mexico. A couple of weeks back, I showed her the yacht. We were walking on the waterfront on the way to work and I pointed it out. There she was, resplendent in all her glory, anchored in the bay -- because only suckers pay moorage. I row out a few times a year to check on it, hose off the bird poop, check for squatters - we have a bit of a problem with that here - make sure everything is ship shape and check the provisions. I don't use it nearly as much as I used to. I never was much of a mariner, but sometimes your parents won't listen. I guess I told Alison that nobody uses it, because she somehow got the idea that we're sailing it to Mexico the weekend after Valentine's Day. We'll have to talk about that. If only she could wait until summer, I might have a party or two. I was hoping to shmooze some financers for the film on the yacht, but of course it never came to that. Its just sitting there, majestic as always, but I can't necessarily sell it because It's not mine. It belongs to the family, its just in my care, hence the deck swabbing and supplying of Bombay Sapphire and olives.
She made me listen to her iPod, so I showed her some more popular stuff that Ozzy did with Sabbath. I whipped out the old guitar and played Iron Man even though its not my favourite, and I caught her bobbing her head. So the Jinx wasn't joking, it really is true. Then she started to play air guitar or something. It left me wondering what else she has on that iPod of hers.
The other thing I learned this weekend is that Ali is going to Mexico. A couple of weeks back, I showed her the yacht. We were walking on the waterfront on the way to work and I pointed it out. There she was, resplendent in all her glory, anchored in the bay -- because only suckers pay moorage. I row out a few times a year to check on it, hose off the bird poop, check for squatters - we have a bit of a problem with that here - make sure everything is ship shape and check the provisions. I don't use it nearly as much as I used to. I never was much of a mariner, but sometimes your parents won't listen. I guess I told Alison that nobody uses it, because she somehow got the idea that we're sailing it to Mexico the weekend after Valentine's Day. We'll have to talk about that. If only she could wait until summer, I might have a party or two. I was hoping to shmooze some financers for the film on the yacht, but of course it never came to that. Its just sitting there, majestic as always, but I can't necessarily sell it because It's not mine. It belongs to the family, its just in my care, hence the deck swabbing and supplying of Bombay Sapphire and olives.
3 Iron
Recently, I read an article in the New York Times about a Korean singer/actor who intends to take America by storm, and according to the article, has the entire philosophy of being Korean,hallyu behind him. Now there's nothing wrong with a little nationalism, but what I found amusing about the article is that there seemed to be a complete lack of recognition for other Asian stars who have developed fan bases in America. The singer/actor who goes by the name Rain and who sings a song with the same title (branding at its finest!), said that he wants to be the first Asian star to make it big in America. Well, he won't be the first depending on how you define "big", but if he means to be the first to hit #1 on the charts, he might have a point. But that just opens a whole new can of worms, I can just imagine the music geeks asking, "Which charts?"
It just so happens that I read about a Korean serial called Full House on another blog (a site I innocently thought was a site about battling stress) and about how much the blogger detests the romantic crap in the show. It was at about that time that I also read the article in NYT. I realized that this Rain dude was one of the stars of the show. Even though the Fstress hates Full House (in a loving kind of way), I kinda wanted to see it. I checked it out at imdb, but couldn't find any details. So... I went to the video shop to see if they knew anything, and left with something not so completely different.
One time at the video shop not so long ago, I saw a box cover with what looked like two guys trying to kiss with a woman standing between them. The title was 3 Iron. Mistaking it for a romcom, I read the description on the box cover and decided that it wasn't worth watching. I e-mailed a friend in Seoul about the film and she said that she had never heard of the film. That confirmed it, this film would have to wait. Well, so much for liner descriptions.
A few weeks ago, I started to hear a buzz about this movie. It played at Sundance or something and got some attention. Alison and I went out for indian and since the restaurant is two doors away from the video shop, we decided to pick up a movie. She let me choose, so I grabbed 3 Iron. We listened to the director's comments for the first few minutes while there was no dialogue. The director said that the movie was among other things, meant to show different types of architecture in Korea. Now that's my type of movie. Yumi would have liked it too, but though there were different types of architecture, there was nothing really mindblowing, just different types of cookie-cutter developments - some high density, some suburban.
As it happens, the two main characters don't say a word in the entire film until the last scene according to imdb, but I'm sure they are silent through the entire film. It turns out that this film (or its director) won a bunch of awards at the Venice Film Festival, and it was much deserved. There is some sadistic violence in the film, and apparently some nudity but I don't remember seeing any. It's a pretty good movie, even though the context is kinda lame. A dude who kinda reminds me of Hank, enters vacant homes and stays for as long as it takes him to get bored. He fixes stuff, or changes the way some things work in the house like clocks and scales. In one of the homes he thinks is vacant, he is discovered by an abused wife. He ditches the place, but goes back to stay with the wife, whose husband is away on a business trip. She decides to take off with the guy and they travel around staying in vacant homes. The plot is meant to show this guy as a master burglar, but he is caught not once, but three times at least. The first time, by the wife, the second time he is caught by a boxer who beats the snot out of him, and the third time they are caught by the relatives of the person whose flat they are squatting in. The tenant was discovered dead and when the relatives call, the burglar answers the phone but doesn't say anything. So naturally, the relatives come by to check up on grandpa and instead they find a strange man and woman eating jap che or something in the flat. The police come and are lead to a shallow grave where the tenant is buried, but the burglar is released because he never actually stole anything and the body was buried correctly. Well, he's let go but he's not set free. Instead, the senior officer takes a payoff and the prisoner is left in the hands of the woman's husband who starts to torture him with a 3-iron and some golf balls. The burglar is then committed to an asylum because well, for no specific reason, and the woman is released into the custody of her husband. And then the movie gets all philosophical.
Is he there, or is he not? Is someone standing behind you not there just because you can't see them? Is someone really living in your house when you're away just because you don't see them? After some cat and mouse with the asylum guard, the burglar escapes and begins mindfucking the people that (defended their property, did their job) crossed him in his game. She travels to the places she visited with the boyfriend, and I guess she decides what she really wants. He eventually finds his way back to the woman's home, and moves himself in. Everybody is happy. The husband is happy because he has his good little wife, and the wife is happy because she has her boyfriend, and the boyfriend is happy because he has his little game and his girlfriend too.
It just so happens that I read about a Korean serial called Full House on another blog (a site I innocently thought was a site about battling stress) and about how much the blogger detests the romantic crap in the show. It was at about that time that I also read the article in NYT. I realized that this Rain dude was one of the stars of the show. Even though the Fstress hates Full House (in a loving kind of way), I kinda wanted to see it. I checked it out at imdb, but couldn't find any details. So... I went to the video shop to see if they knew anything, and left with something not so completely different.
One time at the video shop not so long ago, I saw a box cover with what looked like two guys trying to kiss with a woman standing between them. The title was 3 Iron. Mistaking it for a romcom, I read the description on the box cover and decided that it wasn't worth watching. I e-mailed a friend in Seoul about the film and she said that she had never heard of the film. That confirmed it, this film would have to wait. Well, so much for liner descriptions.
A few weeks ago, I started to hear a buzz about this movie. It played at Sundance or something and got some attention. Alison and I went out for indian and since the restaurant is two doors away from the video shop, we decided to pick up a movie. She let me choose, so I grabbed 3 Iron. We listened to the director's comments for the first few minutes while there was no dialogue. The director said that the movie was among other things, meant to show different types of architecture in Korea. Now that's my type of movie. Yumi would have liked it too, but though there were different types of architecture, there was nothing really mindblowing, just different types of cookie-cutter developments - some high density, some suburban.
As it happens, the two main characters don't say a word in the entire film until the last scene according to imdb, but I'm sure they are silent through the entire film. It turns out that this film (or its director) won a bunch of awards at the Venice Film Festival, and it was much deserved. There is some sadistic violence in the film, and apparently some nudity but I don't remember seeing any. It's a pretty good movie, even though the context is kinda lame. A dude who kinda reminds me of Hank, enters vacant homes and stays for as long as it takes him to get bored. He fixes stuff, or changes the way some things work in the house like clocks and scales. In one of the homes he thinks is vacant, he is discovered by an abused wife. He ditches the place, but goes back to stay with the wife, whose husband is away on a business trip. She decides to take off with the guy and they travel around staying in vacant homes. The plot is meant to show this guy as a master burglar, but he is caught not once, but three times at least. The first time, by the wife, the second time he is caught by a boxer who beats the snot out of him, and the third time they are caught by the relatives of the person whose flat they are squatting in. The tenant was discovered dead and when the relatives call, the burglar answers the phone but doesn't say anything. So naturally, the relatives come by to check up on grandpa and instead they find a strange man and woman eating jap che or something in the flat. The police come and are lead to a shallow grave where the tenant is buried, but the burglar is released because he never actually stole anything and the body was buried correctly. Well, he's let go but he's not set free. Instead, the senior officer takes a payoff and the prisoner is left in the hands of the woman's husband who starts to torture him with a 3-iron and some golf balls. The burglar is then committed to an asylum because well, for no specific reason, and the woman is released into the custody of her husband. And then the movie gets all philosophical.
Is he there, or is he not? Is someone standing behind you not there just because you can't see them? Is someone really living in your house when you're away just because you don't see them? After some cat and mouse with the asylum guard, the burglar escapes and begins mindfucking the people that (defended their property, did their job) crossed him in his game. She travels to the places she visited with the boyfriend, and I guess she decides what she really wants. He eventually finds his way back to the woman's home, and moves himself in. Everybody is happy. The husband is happy because he has his good little wife, and the wife is happy because she has her boyfriend, and the boyfriend is happy because he has his little game and his girlfriend too.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
The Price of Fame
Some really freaky stuff happened Wednesday night on the way from Durban to the izakaya. I waited in Ali's shop for her to finish her shift, and noticed a guy chatting up the security guard for an especially long time, occasionally glancing over at me. The guy left just before Ali and I walked out of the store. He had parked his silver Mercedes right behind Baby and was standing out having a cigarette. He watched us approach and as I helped Ali into the Jeep, he rummaged in the boot of his car and got in the front seat. I could see through my rearview mirror that he was fixing a lens to a camera. He was a paparazzo, but how did he know that I would be at the shop? He was waiting there before I arrived. Did the security guard have something to do with that? Probably. I've seen the way that guy operates and its not good. But if the dude wanted photos of me, why didn't he take any of me when I was sitting at the table and he was standing right there? I quickly figured it out. He was waiting for Ali, he'd been there all day and wanted to get photos of the two of us together. He waited at his Mercedes outside, and started snapping as we drove away. The fucker was following us, the chase was on. I asked Ali if there was anything she wanted to tell me before I started breaking laws, and it turns out that back home Ali's family is kind of famous. Well bugger me! This guy was trying to get snaps for a scandal mag or something back in Tokyo, so I just took a deep breath and used my mad wheelman skills to lose this lens jockey. I ran a yellow light, and the fucker followed us through. Time to get serious. We tore down the road for about a half mile and turned down a one way street. Jeeps aren't racing machines, and we did our best to lose this guy, afterall Baby knows that a Mercedes is just a glitzy Jeep, and she wanted to show her flashy cousin that she also has some Daimler blood in her. The Mercedes stayed right on us, even following us down the one way. Buses coming straight at us across two lanes and Ali screaming her lungs out, Baby kept her cool and dove for the far third lane, cutting off a white Cadillac and dipped down an alleyway I didn't even know was there. The Mercedes was left boxed in by the Cad and blocking the two buses, honking and honking more.
That kind of makes me feel good about the fact that the movie is officially off. The creative vision started to get a muddled as K-Bear brought more and more people in, each wanting to change it here and there. That, I could live with but it all fell apart after it got really complicated. K-Bear wanted to put Trapeze Girl in the movie as the female lead, but up until he dropped that bombshell, I had the understanding that the female lead was a lock - no discussion. I had been in talks for almost a year with a certain BBC personality, having to concede to almost every demand which I was more than happy to do. She was looking to springboard to this side of the pond and we both thought this was the perfect opportunity. All that was left was an actual signed contract. Then K-Bear told me that Trapeze Girl had been "taking some acting lessons" and I just rolled my eyes because I knew what was coming next. Well, when I told my star at the BBC that she was going to have to audition against another actress, she said "I don't do auditions" and slammed down the phone or whatever it is you do with cell phones. So now nameless, the project is dead, and I'm left with about 3 hours of storyboards and about $50,000 in debt, most of which went up K-Bear's nose I might add.
No worries! I'm moving on to another project which will probably fall flat as well, but it's not a film so hopefully I won't have put up with more crap from K-Bear and friends.
That kind of makes me feel good about the fact that the movie is officially off. The creative vision started to get a muddled as K-Bear brought more and more people in, each wanting to change it here and there. That, I could live with but it all fell apart after it got really complicated. K-Bear wanted to put Trapeze Girl in the movie as the female lead, but up until he dropped that bombshell, I had the understanding that the female lead was a lock - no discussion. I had been in talks for almost a year with a certain BBC personality, having to concede to almost every demand which I was more than happy to do. She was looking to springboard to this side of the pond and we both thought this was the perfect opportunity. All that was left was an actual signed contract. Then K-Bear told me that Trapeze Girl had been "taking some acting lessons" and I just rolled my eyes because I knew what was coming next. Well, when I told my star at the BBC that she was going to have to audition against another actress, she said "I don't do auditions" and slammed down the phone or whatever it is you do with cell phones. So now nameless, the project is dead, and I'm left with about 3 hours of storyboards and about $50,000 in debt, most of which went up K-Bear's nose I might add.
No worries! I'm moving on to another project which will probably fall flat as well, but it's not a film so hopefully I won't have put up with more crap from K-Bear and friends.
My Own Private Izakaya
Monday was Baby's birthday. Call me what you want, but I'm a proud Daddy and my Baby is gonna get a party for her big day, even if she is a Jeep. According to the insurance papers, Baby turned 1 year old on Monday but she's really 3. We don't like to discuss the two years she spent neglected on the lot, serving as a target for incontinent sea gulls and racking up a whopping 24 kilometres, probably just driving around the dealership. She's now up to 3600, and has enjoyed covered parking for the past year, despite the occasional scratch thanks to some neighbours who refuse to park their great Mercury boat straight and who have the audacity to blame the scratches on their grandchildren who swing open the car doors caring not and thinking only of all the fun they will have at grandma and grandpa's house. I think not. I'm not saying anything, but even an idiot can correct a parking angle... They're my neighbours and they've made assurances, so I try to get along with them, but that doesn't mean that the dings will stop.
For Baby's birthday, we had chocolate caramel flan or something, and Chunky Monkey ice cream. It was scrummy, but technically I don't think it was a true flan. We didn't buy a gift for Baby, because that would be ridiculous but we went for a drive on Tuesday. Ali and I went to the north shore to check out Orange Peel's restaurant only OP was working in the dishpit that night and different people were working the front. She came out for a few minutes to tell me that I was a loser for having a party for Baby, and worked quick to come drink with us but we left before that. She fronted us the appies and the dessert, making us pay only for the house pad and the prawn rice. The appies were crab filled wonton which I ate 4 and Ali ate only 2, and the dessert was sticky rice with mango for Ali and deep fried bananas for me. OP is working like crazy to pay for a trip to Australia. I am secretly jealous, but I can only take one holiday at a time. Japan is next, Iriomote here I come! But also Ibaraki and maybe Hokkaido.
Wednesday I picked Ali up in Durban and went to a little place that I've been keeping secret for a few weeks now. It's not really secret, its been splashed all over the internet, but I haven't mentioned it before. There are three locations in my city and we always go to the same one because its close to home for Ali, plus we like one of the chefs. He's got this crazy do that reminds me of Kazushi Sakuraba. Of course I'm being facetious, but the staff are very welcoming and the food is always good. The dishes are small, meant to be like tapas but are very well priced. I told Ali about Sakuraba and was surprised that she knew him. Thinking I was talking to a closet wrestling fan, I told her why I liked Sakuraba. A smaller plucky Japanese fighter beat the crap out of a Brazilian legend and, despite my recollection, triumphed after about 2 hours of jumping, kicking and crazy ass punching. His debut performance at the PRIDE fights was so good, its a verb. Nowadays, Sakuraba has dropped the coif, and has put on weight to fight the bigger guys. Maybe when I get cable television again, I will watch more Sakuraba matches, but for now I can only copy his crazy style next time my neighbour scratches Baby.
For Baby's birthday, we had chocolate caramel flan or something, and Chunky Monkey ice cream. It was scrummy, but technically I don't think it was a true flan. We didn't buy a gift for Baby, because that would be ridiculous but we went for a drive on Tuesday. Ali and I went to the north shore to check out Orange Peel's restaurant only OP was working in the dishpit that night and different people were working the front. She came out for a few minutes to tell me that I was a loser for having a party for Baby, and worked quick to come drink with us but we left before that. She fronted us the appies and the dessert, making us pay only for the house pad and the prawn rice. The appies were crab filled wonton which I ate 4 and Ali ate only 2, and the dessert was sticky rice with mango for Ali and deep fried bananas for me. OP is working like crazy to pay for a trip to Australia. I am secretly jealous, but I can only take one holiday at a time. Japan is next, Iriomote here I come! But also Ibaraki and maybe Hokkaido.
Wednesday I picked Ali up in Durban and went to a little place that I've been keeping secret for a few weeks now. It's not really secret, its been splashed all over the internet, but I haven't mentioned it before. There are three locations in my city and we always go to the same one because its close to home for Ali, plus we like one of the chefs. He's got this crazy do that reminds me of Kazushi Sakuraba. Of course I'm being facetious, but the staff are very welcoming and the food is always good. The dishes are small, meant to be like tapas but are very well priced. I told Ali about Sakuraba and was surprised that she knew him. Thinking I was talking to a closet wrestling fan, I told her why I liked Sakuraba. A smaller plucky Japanese fighter beat the crap out of a Brazilian legend and, despite my recollection, triumphed after about 2 hours of jumping, kicking and crazy ass punching. His debut performance at the PRIDE fights was so good, its a verb. Nowadays, Sakuraba has dropped the coif, and has put on weight to fight the bigger guys. Maybe when I get cable television again, I will watch more Sakuraba matches, but for now I can only copy his crazy style next time my neighbour scratches Baby.
When is a Pizza not a Pizza?
I finally had time to watch a movie this week. Hadaka no shima is a silent (no dialogue) film that I saw bits of when I was young, but never saw the whole thing until last night. I always thought that the black and white film was done in the 30s or 40s, but the wardrobe threw me. The clothes are definitely from the 50s at the earliest, as is the car driving through the village. It turns out that the film was done in 1960 according to imdb, but 1962 according to the video shop.
The video shop also considered the film to be subtitled even though its a silent film. Before shlepping all the way home to find out it was the wrong film, I went back into the shop to make sure that this was the right tape, where I overheard the following comments from a third person to whom I hadn't even addressed my question: "The Island? The Japanese one? Oh, Gimmeabreak! How many could there be?"
Assuming that I was not meant to hear these comments, I ignored them, but could easily have responded with something like this: "Give YOU a break? You're sitting on a stool in the back, not umm... working. How much more of a break do you want from me? It's okay, lash out. I feel your burden. You know more about film than most people because you go to film school, and supplement your tuition by sitting on stools in video shops earning close to minimum wage. You subject yourself, albeit indirectly, to stupid questions from customers stupid enough to shell out six bucks for a VHS rental and sometimes, especially on a Friday when all you want to do is chat with your co-workers about the ratio of gays to straights at the last party you attended, it can all be too much to take". But, since I never attended film school, and since I don't know you, I'll assume that I've caught you on a bad day and that my big ears weren't meant to hear your comments anyway and not say anything.
That was Friday, but now for Thursday. Alison had a day off and I wanted to do something fun. One problem, I had class that night. Alison and I went out to campus because she'd never been there before and she wanted to see the nudist beach. I wanted to show her the rose garden. Apparently this place is the shit, but I had no idea where it is, and had only seen it in films such as Pardes starring the great Amrish Puri, Mahima Chaudhry, and Shahrukh Khan, and in an independent short called Capture featuring Mikka Dargel, Brent Stait, Tobias Slezak and Tom Jones (a different one). The weather wouldn't cooperate and its February so we nixed the idea of the garden, and I only showed her how to get to the nudist beach I'd first visited at the age of seven. Good times, good times. Instead we went to Raku, or at least we tried. In another life, there was a restaurant in 10th Ave. at Sasamat called Raku, but now its called Wabi Sabi and is run by a different team. We started with an Asahi for me and an umetini for Ali. A new challenge! One I accept with some umbrage because it requires a flavoured vodka. Flavoured vodka is like, number 4 on my list of Things that Shouldn't Be. But I will get some and experiment with the following recipe: Vodka + Mandarin vodka + Cranberry juice + Lime cordial + Ume (plum) wine + plum pickles for garnish. It should take a few weeks to get down, but this drink is delish. I'll skip the garnish though. Then we had whitefish carpaccio with yuzu pepper, and experimented with a tuna sashimi pizza. I still have to figure out what yuzu is, but I would like to eat more of it. The whitefish had a strong taste which tasted a lot like basa and it probably was, but I'm no expert. The tuna sashimi pizza was not a pizza. At least not a piping hot great round pizza that one eats in wedges. It was a thin crust (read canape) pizza served in five pieces with an architecture of avocado, tomato, and tuna sashimi spotted with sweet mustard on top. No cheese or pepperoni here folks. I'm just saying not to expect a pizza pizza, but to expect something more akin to the hors d'oeuvres the caterer prepared for your most recent cocktail party. I asked Ali if she like hamachi sashimi and she said yes. Seeing that she hadn't eaten any of the carpaccio or the pizza, we ordered sashimi. Ali ate two pieces of her "favourite", and made me eat the rest because I hadn't eaten enough pitusa kurakaa or pizza crackers. I told her stories of an "uncle" who used to be a sushi chef and used to plate free hamachi for my family when we'd come to the restaurant. I didn't understand why people like hamachi so much - to me it tastes rather icky. I asked Ali why, and she said "aburaga notteru" which basically means "all the fat inside". Then she nudged my stomach and said it again adding "moto moto" which means "by nature." I swear, if Japanese can be this easy to learn, I should be fluent in no time. I'll be visiting Wabi Sabi again soon to try more. It really is a wabi sabi place.
So after we left the video shop with the correct movie, Alison made okonomiyaki which I've been wanting to try for a long time. I washed dishes and made 2 manhattans on the rocks (no junk for Ali), while we listened to Pizzicato 5. She made enough okonomiyaki for 6. She ate for 1, and I had to eat the rest. We sat down on the settee with our drinks and watched the riveting open scene of a man and woman shlepping pails of water -- silently. Hadaka no shima stars 4 people you've probably never heard of: Taiji Tonoyama, Nobuko Otawa, Shinji Tanaka and Masanori Horimoto. Some of the scenes drag, but there's a reason for that. When I first discovered this film, I had a hard time understanding it. At first I thought it was a true story of a family living on a small island, and that the camera was only there to observe. Why else would a film made in the era of talkies have no dialogue? This classic man vs. nature conflict allows the viewer to ponder, and to put oneself in the place of any one of the four characters. The film ended sooner than I expected, and we totally forgot about the strawberries Ali had brought. I drove her home because she had to work this morning, and munched on some leftover okonomiyaki. Oishi!
The video shop also considered the film to be subtitled even though its a silent film. Before shlepping all the way home to find out it was the wrong film, I went back into the shop to make sure that this was the right tape, where I overheard the following comments from a third person to whom I hadn't even addressed my question: "The Island? The Japanese one? Oh, Gimmeabreak! How many could there be?"
Assuming that I was not meant to hear these comments, I ignored them, but could easily have responded with something like this: "Give YOU a break? You're sitting on a stool in the back, not umm... working. How much more of a break do you want from me? It's okay, lash out. I feel your burden. You know more about film than most people because you go to film school, and supplement your tuition by sitting on stools in video shops earning close to minimum wage. You subject yourself, albeit indirectly, to stupid questions from customers stupid enough to shell out six bucks for a VHS rental and sometimes, especially on a Friday when all you want to do is chat with your co-workers about the ratio of gays to straights at the last party you attended, it can all be too much to take". But, since I never attended film school, and since I don't know you, I'll assume that I've caught you on a bad day and that my big ears weren't meant to hear your comments anyway and not say anything.
That was Friday, but now for Thursday. Alison had a day off and I wanted to do something fun. One problem, I had class that night. Alison and I went out to campus because she'd never been there before and she wanted to see the nudist beach. I wanted to show her the rose garden. Apparently this place is the shit, but I had no idea where it is, and had only seen it in films such as Pardes starring the great Amrish Puri, Mahima Chaudhry, and Shahrukh Khan, and in an independent short called Capture featuring Mikka Dargel, Brent Stait, Tobias Slezak and Tom Jones (a different one). The weather wouldn't cooperate and its February so we nixed the idea of the garden, and I only showed her how to get to the nudist beach I'd first visited at the age of seven. Good times, good times. Instead we went to Raku, or at least we tried. In another life, there was a restaurant in 10th Ave. at Sasamat called Raku, but now its called Wabi Sabi and is run by a different team. We started with an Asahi for me and an umetini for Ali. A new challenge! One I accept with some umbrage because it requires a flavoured vodka. Flavoured vodka is like, number 4 on my list of Things that Shouldn't Be. But I will get some and experiment with the following recipe: Vodka + Mandarin vodka + Cranberry juice + Lime cordial + Ume (plum) wine + plum pickles for garnish. It should take a few weeks to get down, but this drink is delish. I'll skip the garnish though. Then we had whitefish carpaccio with yuzu pepper, and experimented with a tuna sashimi pizza. I still have to figure out what yuzu is, but I would like to eat more of it. The whitefish had a strong taste which tasted a lot like basa and it probably was, but I'm no expert. The tuna sashimi pizza was not a pizza. At least not a piping hot great round pizza that one eats in wedges. It was a thin crust (read canape) pizza served in five pieces with an architecture of avocado, tomato, and tuna sashimi spotted with sweet mustard on top. No cheese or pepperoni here folks. I'm just saying not to expect a pizza pizza, but to expect something more akin to the hors d'oeuvres the caterer prepared for your most recent cocktail party. I asked Ali if she like hamachi sashimi and she said yes. Seeing that she hadn't eaten any of the carpaccio or the pizza, we ordered sashimi. Ali ate two pieces of her "favourite", and made me eat the rest because I hadn't eaten enough pitusa kurakaa or pizza crackers. I told her stories of an "uncle" who used to be a sushi chef and used to plate free hamachi for my family when we'd come to the restaurant. I didn't understand why people like hamachi so much - to me it tastes rather icky. I asked Ali why, and she said "aburaga notteru" which basically means "all the fat inside". Then she nudged my stomach and said it again adding "moto moto" which means "by nature." I swear, if Japanese can be this easy to learn, I should be fluent in no time. I'll be visiting Wabi Sabi again soon to try more. It really is a wabi sabi place.
So after we left the video shop with the correct movie, Alison made okonomiyaki which I've been wanting to try for a long time. I washed dishes and made 2 manhattans on the rocks (no junk for Ali), while we listened to Pizzicato 5. She made enough okonomiyaki for 6. She ate for 1, and I had to eat the rest. We sat down on the settee with our drinks and watched the riveting open scene of a man and woman shlepping pails of water -- silently. Hadaka no shima stars 4 people you've probably never heard of: Taiji Tonoyama, Nobuko Otawa, Shinji Tanaka and Masanori Horimoto. Some of the scenes drag, but there's a reason for that. When I first discovered this film, I had a hard time understanding it. At first I thought it was a true story of a family living on a small island, and that the camera was only there to observe. Why else would a film made in the era of talkies have no dialogue? This classic man vs. nature conflict allows the viewer to ponder, and to put oneself in the place of any one of the four characters. The film ended sooner than I expected, and we totally forgot about the strawberries Ali had brought. I drove her home because she had to work this morning, and munched on some leftover okonomiyaki. Oishi!
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