So I had my graduation today. Pretty painless: In and out in just over an hour, and I didn't even buy a new dress. Also, the guy who pinned my hood onto my robe was kinda cute. Or maybe I just thought that because he touched my hair, and I really need a boyfriend.
Anyway, I didn't fall down, and nobody noticed the instantaneous and extravagant cessation of my several days' nervous constipation mere minutes before the commencements commenced. Victory is mine.
Now to go out and drink cocktails and forget about Valentine's Day, and to you I say what my Aunty used to say to me: Get home safely and have a good ride.
Happy VD.
Friday, 13 February 2009
Actually Annoying Arts
Would that I were a deeper woman, that I might know all your awfulness, Vicky, Christina, Barcelona.
I always thought Woodie Allen got it. That he wrote to reflect the disparity between our feelings and the cultural frames in which we wear them, and in turn the anxiety caused by this disparity; That he kept it light because the undercurrent of emotion needs only the merest nod of recognition when you know (as everyone knows), that the things we say and do are not always indicative of the way we feel, or the power of our feelings, and that human communication is so complex that even having mastered it, we sometimes get it wrong, causing ourselves and those around us anxiety and pain, the catalysts of humour. All these years I thought that was what he meant.
It would seem I was wrong, as Vicky and Christina, two of the most insipid characters ever created, betray their creator's complete ignorance of, or contempt for, the depth of human emotion. Indeed in Allen's Barcelona he does away with society altogether, leaving us with the shit you clean off the side of your bathtub, and a bunch of Spaniards depicted as uninhibited, and unsocialized, and thus completely humourless.
Among other things conveniently forgotten are the following facts: Firstly, Barcelona, although it has some pretty buildings, is itself a rudder of Western civilization (and not a hippy art school), where everyone wears shoes (unless they're on the beach), and people get married, work in offices, drink bottled water and listen to rap music.
Secondly, some Spanish people may have some pretty narly beards, but their manners and customs are particular and engrained. By portraying them as wildly permissive and uncivilized, instead of people gently relaxing and breathing peacefully in a beautiful country recently strangled to within an inch of its life by a maniac dictator, Allen comes across as as insensitive and clumsy as the chinoed Americans he seeks to parody. And speaking of beautiful country? I'm 99% sure that at least some of this movie was shot in California. Thanks.
This film gets one star, bravely won by Penelope Cruz, who, it turns out, is kinda funny.
Anyway, Nick and Norah's Infinite Watchacallit is lovely and I just don't get the deal with Jose Saramago.
That concludes this week's Review. More later.
Besos.
I always thought Woodie Allen got it. That he wrote to reflect the disparity between our feelings and the cultural frames in which we wear them, and in turn the anxiety caused by this disparity; That he kept it light because the undercurrent of emotion needs only the merest nod of recognition when you know (as everyone knows), that the things we say and do are not always indicative of the way we feel, or the power of our feelings, and that human communication is so complex that even having mastered it, we sometimes get it wrong, causing ourselves and those around us anxiety and pain, the catalysts of humour. All these years I thought that was what he meant.
It would seem I was wrong, as Vicky and Christina, two of the most insipid characters ever created, betray their creator's complete ignorance of, or contempt for, the depth of human emotion. Indeed in Allen's Barcelona he does away with society altogether, leaving us with the shit you clean off the side of your bathtub, and a bunch of Spaniards depicted as uninhibited, and unsocialized, and thus completely humourless.
Among other things conveniently forgotten are the following facts: Firstly, Barcelona, although it has some pretty buildings, is itself a rudder of Western civilization (and not a hippy art school), where everyone wears shoes (unless they're on the beach), and people get married, work in offices, drink bottled water and listen to rap music.
Secondly, some Spanish people may have some pretty narly beards, but their manners and customs are particular and engrained. By portraying them as wildly permissive and uncivilized, instead of people gently relaxing and breathing peacefully in a beautiful country recently strangled to within an inch of its life by a maniac dictator, Allen comes across as as insensitive and clumsy as the chinoed Americans he seeks to parody. And speaking of beautiful country? I'm 99% sure that at least some of this movie was shot in California. Thanks.
This film gets one star, bravely won by Penelope Cruz, who, it turns out, is kinda funny.
Anyway, Nick and Norah's Infinite Watchacallit is lovely and I just don't get the deal with Jose Saramago.
That concludes this week's Review. More later.
Besos.
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