Hot-Tub Time Machine actually has some pretty great moments.
1. One character is a lapsed musician who gave up on his rock and roll dream. When he goes back in time and is reunited with his band, he realizes he can totally steal songs from the future and claim them as his own. Given the chance to claim any song ever written after 1986 as his own, what does he choose? Jesse's Girl by Rick Springfield. Hell to the yes.
1a. Rob Corddry's character eventually does the same thing with Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue.
2. Crispin Glover, best known in my family as the guy who played the dad in the Back to the Future franchise, has a cameo as a one-armed bellhop. It's so meta!
2a. How pumped were YOU when the opening sequence on the Oscars referenced Back to the Future? Answer: SO pumped.
3. The last scene of the movie features an "OMG THIS IS THE FUTURE" montage accompanied by Same As It Ever Was by the Talking Heads. I have a soft spot for filmmakers who aren't afraid to score the obvious songs, because oftentimes those songs are obvious for a reason, you know?
Man, I love working for an institution that lets me borrow and watch movies like this for free. I can almost convince myself it's an act of cultural edification.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Sunday night breakdown.
After a day spent in the woods I came back into town for some serious culture. It began with a visit to Wolfe Island, and reminded me why Kingston really is the best town around. A ten minute walk from home and there you are on the ferry, gliding past Fort Henry and the Thousand Islands in the distance. Twenty minutes later and you're in a teeny tiny town hall on the island, lit by Christmas lights and listening to the Great Lake Swimmers playing for you and a hundred of your new best friends. And the best part is, you're doing it for an amazing cause, the Waterkeepers. Oh, and Sarah Harmer is on your ferry, driving her incredibly shiny hybrid car.
Yep, pretty much an ideal Kingston Saturday night.
My houseguests and I woke up bright and early on Sunday with the intention of running a race, but since one of us had left one of her running shoes back home in Almonte and it was pouring rain, we decided that we'd do ourselves even more good by having breakfast at Pan Chancho.
Stuffed with grilled corn salad and lemon currant rolls I spent my day in a state of happy burrowing, and watched movies in a vain attempt to catch up with the zeitgeist. I am notoriously behind on cinematic viewing, because I am too cheap to go to the theatre, and even too cheap to rent things; I prefer to wait till the library buys them and then wait till my name comes up on the reservation list about ten years after the movie's original theatrical release, which is why it took me till just today to see Julie and Julia. MAN was this movie ever disjointed. I know a lot of critics already noted this when it was released, but this felt like two different movies, one quite charming (Meryl Streep's spot-on performance as Julia Child, the beauty of Paris in the 1950s, the sweet sexy relationship she shared with her husband, played by Stanley Tucci, whom I find incredibly attractive for some reason--I blame Big Night), the other just so annoying and trite (Amy Adams' shrill and unreasonably, unneccessarily worried civil servant-slash-blogger stereotype, complete with a one-dimensional marriage and an apartment that's supposedly really crappy but actually looks amazing and unaffordable). I absolutely loved the Julia plot, her joy and her intelligence and her incredible life. I loved the notion of someone completely defying social expectations and getting by on her own merit and passion. But I just wanted to reach through the screen and punch Julie in the face.
I actually really liked Julie Powell's original book, which was one of the first one-year-project-turned-blog-turned-book dealies; when it was published in 2005 I was just starting out in both the library and blogging worlds, and her story gave me a lot of hope for my own quasi-literary future. But I think the sheer volume of the blog-to-book products since then has sort of worn the shine off the apple. Not to mention the fact that they really cleaned up the Julie character to a degree where she completely lost her edge and her fullness. Julie in print was goofy, witty, and crass, swilling gimlets and dropping loads of F-bombs. But the script seemed to suck all that out of her character, stripping her of the ballsy, shirty attitude and leaving nothing but a sort of neurotic pile of sad garbage crying on the kitchen floor next to a burned boeuf bourgingon.
I also admit that I skipped over the parts in the book describing Julia Child's life; I found them trite and poorly researched, probably because I'd just finished reading Child's own memoir, My Life In France, and it was hard to read an overly simplified version of a life after having heard the story from the memory of the woman who lived it, I guess. I was relieved to see that Norah Ephron based the script on Child's book as well as Powell's, and I think the reason I loved the Julia plot so much was that it reminded me of the memoir, which everyone really must read. On the page, and in her own words, Julia Child just seemed so full of life and buoyancy and wit, and she lived with such conviction. I promise this book will make you feel better about something.
Really though, the most embarrassing thing is that I totally cried at the end when Julie visits the Julia Child kitchen at the Smithsonian and tells a photograph of Julia Child that she loves her and places a cube of butter down on the shelf in front of the photo like some bizarre voodoo housewife ritual. It's probably a sad testament to my flaky emotional state that butter makes me cry. Anyway, that little bit of catharsis might have made the whole viewing worth it. Nothing like a good irrational sob from time to time, especially after two hours of delicious food footage.
And just to come full circle, here's Kingston's favourite son making a mess of Julia Child.
Yep, pretty much an ideal Kingston Saturday night.
My houseguests and I woke up bright and early on Sunday with the intention of running a race, but since one of us had left one of her running shoes back home in Almonte and it was pouring rain, we decided that we'd do ourselves even more good by having breakfast at Pan Chancho.
Stuffed with grilled corn salad and lemon currant rolls I spent my day in a state of happy burrowing, and watched movies in a vain attempt to catch up with the zeitgeist. I am notoriously behind on cinematic viewing, because I am too cheap to go to the theatre, and even too cheap to rent things; I prefer to wait till the library buys them and then wait till my name comes up on the reservation list about ten years after the movie's original theatrical release, which is why it took me till just today to see Julie and Julia. MAN was this movie ever disjointed. I know a lot of critics already noted this when it was released, but this felt like two different movies, one quite charming (Meryl Streep's spot-on performance as Julia Child, the beauty of Paris in the 1950s, the sweet sexy relationship she shared with her husband, played by Stanley Tucci, whom I find incredibly attractive for some reason--I blame Big Night), the other just so annoying and trite (Amy Adams' shrill and unreasonably, unneccessarily worried civil servant-slash-blogger stereotype, complete with a one-dimensional marriage and an apartment that's supposedly really crappy but actually looks amazing and unaffordable). I absolutely loved the Julia plot, her joy and her intelligence and her incredible life. I loved the notion of someone completely defying social expectations and getting by on her own merit and passion. But I just wanted to reach through the screen and punch Julie in the face.
I actually really liked Julie Powell's original book, which was one of the first one-year-project-turned-blog-turned-book dealies; when it was published in 2005 I was just starting out in both the library and blogging worlds, and her story gave me a lot of hope for my own quasi-literary future. But I think the sheer volume of the blog-to-book products since then has sort of worn the shine off the apple. Not to mention the fact that they really cleaned up the Julie character to a degree where she completely lost her edge and her fullness. Julie in print was goofy, witty, and crass, swilling gimlets and dropping loads of F-bombs. But the script seemed to suck all that out of her character, stripping her of the ballsy, shirty attitude and leaving nothing but a sort of neurotic pile of sad garbage crying on the kitchen floor next to a burned boeuf bourgingon.
I also admit that I skipped over the parts in the book describing Julia Child's life; I found them trite and poorly researched, probably because I'd just finished reading Child's own memoir, My Life In France, and it was hard to read an overly simplified version of a life after having heard the story from the memory of the woman who lived it, I guess. I was relieved to see that Norah Ephron based the script on Child's book as well as Powell's, and I think the reason I loved the Julia plot so much was that it reminded me of the memoir, which everyone really must read. On the page, and in her own words, Julia Child just seemed so full of life and buoyancy and wit, and she lived with such conviction. I promise this book will make you feel better about something.
Really though, the most embarrassing thing is that I totally cried at the end when Julie visits the Julia Child kitchen at the Smithsonian and tells a photograph of Julia Child that she loves her and places a cube of butter down on the shelf in front of the photo like some bizarre voodoo housewife ritual. It's probably a sad testament to my flaky emotional state that butter makes me cry. Anyway, that little bit of catharsis might have made the whole viewing worth it. Nothing like a good irrational sob from time to time, especially after two hours of delicious food footage.
And just to come full circle, here's Kingston's favourite son making a mess of Julia Child.
Friday, June 4, 2010
there's no secret handshake. there's an iq prerequisite, but there's no secret handshake.
Thanks to an article on the only website I really read, I was thinking a lot about Reality Bites last night. Judging from the comments on the article and the article itself, it's one of those movies that polarizes the women of my dumb, self absorbed generation, in more ways than one: You either love it (and in this case, "it" includes Janeane Garofalo's amazing bedroom, Winona Rider's hair and clothes and WHOLE BEING, Ethan Hawke's greasy beard, the dance in the gas station, the whole idea that growing up is pretty fucking awful and you're basically going to sell your soul as soon as you leave the hallowed halls of your overpriced college...you know, that stuff), or you hate it (and in this case "it" means the reductive, oversimplified plot/characters/themes, Ethan Hawke's greasy beard, the incredibly obvious dichotomy set up between Hawke's hipster doofus archetype and Ben Stiller's quasi-capitalist douchebag, et al).
I get that. But I also fall firmly into the former camp.
I've seen this movie so many damned times, in so many different living rooms and basements and bedrooms. I bought the soundtrack through the Columbia Record club back in that brief period when a whole generation of people were still duped by that little money grab (we still have an Anthrax CD that was mailed to us after we neglected to send back the little form with the "for the love of god, don't send us an Anthrax CD and then bill us for it" box ticked off). I was a teenager when Reality Bites came out, and I longed for those awful, confusing years of my early twenties, because they seemed like they'd at least be more independent than the awful, confusing years of my adolescence. I fell in love with Ethan Hawke (I know, I know. I even READ HIS BOOKS, you guys. I had a problem.) and dreamed of the day when I'd have a job to be fired from and my own apartment and philosophical dilemmas with actual, tangible heft. I think that's my favourite element of this movie, the struggle to just live your own life and be your own self while having no idea how to do it, only a general sense of what you DON'T want.
It's also the thing that creeps me out about this movie as an adult who is now older than its heroes and heroines. When you're on the far side of twenty-five, you start to realize that you're likely never going to feel one hundred percent satisfied with your life, that you're rarely going to have all your ducks in a row, although most of the time you'll have enough of them lined up to stave off the urge to curl up in the fetal position and unplug the phone forever. But until that dawns on you, you sort of freak the hell out constantly and convince yourself you're never going to get it right. The stakes are so absurdly high:
Lelaina: I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 23.
Troy: Honey, all you have to be by the time you're 23 is yourself.
Lelaina: I don't know who that is anymore.
Troy: I do. And we all love her. I love her. She breaks my heart again and again, but I love her.
Oh MY. As a teenager I loved that part. The emotional subtext, the self-doubt, the intensity of every exchange. As an adult, I still love it, but I also feel so relieved to be past it. It also reminds me of Demi Moore's line in St Elmo's Fire, another post-college classic, where she says, "I never thought I'd be so tired at 23." When I turned 23, I felt pretty much the same way (melodrama!), but now that I'm nearly 30, I feel like I'm on the other side of that constant struggle. And it feels good to look back. It really does.
I get that. But I also fall firmly into the former camp.
I've seen this movie so many damned times, in so many different living rooms and basements and bedrooms. I bought the soundtrack through the Columbia Record club back in that brief period when a whole generation of people were still duped by that little money grab (we still have an Anthrax CD that was mailed to us after we neglected to send back the little form with the "for the love of god, don't send us an Anthrax CD and then bill us for it" box ticked off). I was a teenager when Reality Bites came out, and I longed for those awful, confusing years of my early twenties, because they seemed like they'd at least be more independent than the awful, confusing years of my adolescence. I fell in love with Ethan Hawke (I know, I know. I even READ HIS BOOKS, you guys. I had a problem.) and dreamed of the day when I'd have a job to be fired from and my own apartment and philosophical dilemmas with actual, tangible heft. I think that's my favourite element of this movie, the struggle to just live your own life and be your own self while having no idea how to do it, only a general sense of what you DON'T want.
It's also the thing that creeps me out about this movie as an adult who is now older than its heroes and heroines. When you're on the far side of twenty-five, you start to realize that you're likely never going to feel one hundred percent satisfied with your life, that you're rarely going to have all your ducks in a row, although most of the time you'll have enough of them lined up to stave off the urge to curl up in the fetal position and unplug the phone forever. But until that dawns on you, you sort of freak the hell out constantly and convince yourself you're never going to get it right. The stakes are so absurdly high:
Lelaina: I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 23.
Troy: Honey, all you have to be by the time you're 23 is yourself.
Lelaina: I don't know who that is anymore.
Troy: I do. And we all love her. I love her. She breaks my heart again and again, but I love her.
Oh MY. As a teenager I loved that part. The emotional subtext, the self-doubt, the intensity of every exchange. As an adult, I still love it, but I also feel so relieved to be past it. It also reminds me of Demi Moore's line in St Elmo's Fire, another post-college classic, where she says, "I never thought I'd be so tired at 23." When I turned 23, I felt pretty much the same way (melodrama!), but now that I'm nearly 30, I feel like I'm on the other side of that constant struggle. And it feels good to look back. It really does.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Notable/Quotable
I'm easily overcome these days. Here are a few of the lines I've been stuck on.
You can't eat for eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours a day--all you can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy.
--Faulkner (always a ray of sunshine), quoted in the epigraph to Working, by Studs Terkel.
We sit there and we joke, "Wouldn't it be reat if we could just take this handful of plugs and just yank em? ... Like I said, you get so tense...If we could just pull em. Disconnect them and see what happens. You accidentally disconnect somebody, which happens quite often. You don't do it on purpose, although there are times when you feel you'd like to do it.
--Frances Swenson, Hotel Switchboard Operator, in Working, by Studs Terkel.
"He's a very charming drunk. It was somebody's birthday party up here and he had quite a bit of whiskey and he was quoting Yeats poems and he was crying."
"He was? He weeps?"
"But in the sweetest way."
--Mia Farrow and Judy Davis in Husbands and Wives by Woody Allen.
DISCUSS.
...Seriously, though, I've started reading again. Studs Terkel is blowing my work-obsessed mind. And I've nearly run out of Sex And The City reruns to borrow from the library (I think I'm a Miranda, trapped in a Carrie closet), so I think I'll turn back to fiction once I'm through Season Six. Promise.
You can't eat for eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours a day--all you can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy.
--Faulkner (always a ray of sunshine), quoted in the epigraph to Working, by Studs Terkel.
We sit there and we joke, "Wouldn't it be reat if we could just take this handful of plugs and just yank em? ... Like I said, you get so tense...If we could just pull em. Disconnect them and see what happens. You accidentally disconnect somebody, which happens quite often. You don't do it on purpose, although there are times when you feel you'd like to do it.
--Frances Swenson, Hotel Switchboard Operator, in Working, by Studs Terkel.
"He's a very charming drunk. It was somebody's birthday party up here and he had quite a bit of whiskey and he was quoting Yeats poems and he was crying."
"He was? He weeps?"
"But in the sweetest way."
--Mia Farrow and Judy Davis in Husbands and Wives by Woody Allen.
DISCUSS.
...Seriously, though, I've started reading again. Studs Terkel is blowing my work-obsessed mind. And I've nearly run out of Sex And The City reruns to borrow from the library (I think I'm a Miranda, trapped in a Carrie closet), so I think I'll turn back to fiction once I'm through Season Six. Promise.
Friday, February 12, 2010
"I lettered in shot-put." --danny zuko
Dudes, I hate the Olympics. I hate the nationalism, the capitalism cloaked in sportsmanlike conduct, the feats of strength, the heartwarming tales of overcoming adversity, the drug dogs at the airports (okay I guess that last one doesn't really affect me, but still). The fact that I have to be subjected to this garbage during the darkest of dark winter months makes me want to barf and then die. Hyperbole be damned: I hate them so much. I treat them as a personal affront. Any televised sporting event brings back repressed memories of not being able to do a somersault in gym class and of being asked to manage the field hockey team instead of actually playing (although that one was actually a blessing in disguise--time off school without physical exertion!). I can't handle this kind of emotional pain right now, folks. It's just too much for me.
With that in mind, here are a few things you should watch instead of watching people hit each other with sticks (that's a sport, right?). I've tried to think of the least sporty programming of all time. It wasn't hard.
1. Big Love. I am currently addicted to this show. The weirdness of polygamy and Utah/Mormon society hooked me, but the amazing character development has kept me watching. Also, not a sport in sight, since the FLDS crazies believe women's menses may be interrupted by physical activity. Furthermore, any reason to listen God Only Knows over and over again is fine with me.
2. Me and You and Everyone We Know. While Miranda July, the writer of this zany, hipster orgasm of a film, once penned a short story about secretly offering swimming lessons to the elderly in her living room using a bowl of water to simulate immersion in a pool (you must must MUST read it, and you can find it in her book No One Belongs Here More Than You), this movie is a sports-free zone. This is the story of an artist/cab driver and her alternately boring and ridiculous life, which spokes out like a bicycle wheel into the worlds of the people around her.
3. Casablanca. Much as I despise Valentine's Day, I always get a little bit sentimental around this time of year. I saw this movie for the first time in a highschool English class, but I don't think I really appreciated it till I saw it on the big screen for the first time a few years ago. I'm always surprised at how funny it is. Bogart is fucking dry, man. And who doesn't love a good unrequited love story? If you don't get a little weepy hearing As Time Goes By, you have no soul.
Now let's never speak of the Olympics again.
With that in mind, here are a few things you should watch instead of watching people hit each other with sticks (that's a sport, right?). I've tried to think of the least sporty programming of all time. It wasn't hard.
1. Big Love. I am currently addicted to this show. The weirdness of polygamy and Utah/Mormon society hooked me, but the amazing character development has kept me watching. Also, not a sport in sight, since the FLDS crazies believe women's menses may be interrupted by physical activity. Furthermore, any reason to listen God Only Knows over and over again is fine with me.
2. Me and You and Everyone We Know. While Miranda July, the writer of this zany, hipster orgasm of a film, once penned a short story about secretly offering swimming lessons to the elderly in her living room using a bowl of water to simulate immersion in a pool (you must must MUST read it, and you can find it in her book No One Belongs Here More Than You), this movie is a sports-free zone. This is the story of an artist/cab driver and her alternately boring and ridiculous life, which spokes out like a bicycle wheel into the worlds of the people around her.
3. Casablanca. Much as I despise Valentine's Day, I always get a little bit sentimental around this time of year. I saw this movie for the first time in a highschool English class, but I don't think I really appreciated it till I saw it on the big screen for the first time a few years ago. I'm always surprised at how funny it is. Bogart is fucking dry, man. And who doesn't love a good unrequited love story? If you don't get a little weepy hearing As Time Goes By, you have no soul.
Now let's never speak of the Olympics again.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
that's the one-second time travel machine i told you about.
Last night I couldn't sleep, so I watched The Science of Sleep, the next best thing. Seriously, I think this is one of the most overlooked movies of the last ten years. I've seen it a few times and everytime I watch it I pick up some new esoteric existential question. It's in three languages and you hardly even notice the transitions. It's visually mind-boggling. It unpacks a lot of the issues Michel Gondry obsessed over in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (maybe my favourite movie of all time): the tricks our minds play, the tricks we play on each other without even knowing it, all the time unconsciously feeling like it's the best thing, like we can't live without someone, like it's the only option, all the time stuck in our own minds, unable and unwilling to tell dream or memory from reality. Also, I defy you to not fall in love with Gael Garcia Bernal when you watch him in this opening scene.
The little dance he does while playing the keyboard around 1:09 is particularly endearing.
Also also, for a wannabe crafster like me, some of the effects are like sweet sweet porn:
Optical illusions as flirtation: Genius.
I have a bit of a lady crush on Charlotte Gainsbourg.
You must see this movie. Really.
The little dance he does while playing the keyboard around 1:09 is particularly endearing.
Also also, for a wannabe crafster like me, some of the effects are like sweet sweet porn:
Optical illusions as flirtation: Genius.
I have a bit of a lady crush on Charlotte Gainsbourg.
You must see this movie. Really.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
how to fight loneliness
I watched Grey Gardens on Friday night. It was maybe not the best movie for a gal trying to prove to herself that she is completely comfortable with holing herself up in her apartment for days on end. Anyone who has seen the movie knows what I'm talking about, but here is a particularly amazing clip of Little Edie to force the rest of you to watch it ASAP:
I was really moved by the whole big show. I'd recently read a review that called it a terrifying portrait of codependence, but I don't know, maybe I'm as crazy as the Beales, but I didn't see that. I saw the sad aftermath of privileged lives, and the difficulty of growing up beautiful and full of promise only to completely shit the bed on all expectations, and the most fantastic costumes this side of a Wes Anderson movie. Seriously. Except that they aren't even costumes. You almost forget that these women are just LIVING THEIR LIVES and that these amazing props and outfits are just the old things they drag out and put on for the film crew. Okay, fine, so they're putting on a little show, that's for sure. Little Edie especially is obviously into being filmed. But it's not like they left the house to buy any of those things--they're the artifacts of this practically unbelievable life.
...if anyone needs me I'll be letting a raccoon eat the drywall in my place in the Hamptons and listening to old records. And wearing a floppy hat.
I also watched Steel Magnolias, and took a lot of incoherent notes about how play-like and deep it was, and then I dissolved into a teary mess when Julia Roberts died, and then I ruminated on how maybe it was the high point in all the lead actresses' careers, and then I decided I'd spent too much time thinking about Steel Magnolias for one lifetime. But I will say this--for a truly horrendous example of how Wikipedia is destroying research prose, read this article.
Particularly illuminating is the Title Significance section. Also, the TOTALLY EXCITING NEWS that Mayim Bialik, aka television's beloved Blossom, will be starring in the off-Broadway revival.
You can thank me for all that later.
I was really moved by the whole big show. I'd recently read a review that called it a terrifying portrait of codependence, but I don't know, maybe I'm as crazy as the Beales, but I didn't see that. I saw the sad aftermath of privileged lives, and the difficulty of growing up beautiful and full of promise only to completely shit the bed on all expectations, and the most fantastic costumes this side of a Wes Anderson movie. Seriously. Except that they aren't even costumes. You almost forget that these women are just LIVING THEIR LIVES and that these amazing props and outfits are just the old things they drag out and put on for the film crew. Okay, fine, so they're putting on a little show, that's for sure. Little Edie especially is obviously into being filmed. But it's not like they left the house to buy any of those things--they're the artifacts of this practically unbelievable life.
...if anyone needs me I'll be letting a raccoon eat the drywall in my place in the Hamptons and listening to old records. And wearing a floppy hat.
I also watched Steel Magnolias, and took a lot of incoherent notes about how play-like and deep it was, and then I dissolved into a teary mess when Julia Roberts died, and then I ruminated on how maybe it was the high point in all the lead actresses' careers, and then I decided I'd spent too much time thinking about Steel Magnolias for one lifetime. But I will say this--for a truly horrendous example of how Wikipedia is destroying research prose, read this article.
Particularly illuminating is the Title Significance section. Also, the TOTALLY EXCITING NEWS that Mayim Bialik, aka television's beloved Blossom, will be starring in the off-Broadway revival.
You can thank me for all that later.
Friday, March 20, 2009
weekend warriors
Oh boy you guys, it's going to be a big weekend around the First Avenue homestead. I'm talking documentaries on DVD, cheap read wine, overdue library books big. Here's the first of what I hope will be many weekend plan posts, just to give you a richer picture of just how exciting my life is.
Here's what's on the list for this weekend...
The Collected Short Fiction of W. Somerset Maugham Someone mentioned Up At The Villa to me the other day and I realized I'd never actually read anything by Somerset Maugham. The literature nerd in me died a little.
Hero Type by Barry Lyga I just finished Barry Lyga's amaaaaazing book, Boy Toy, which is an incredibly powerful, sensitive story about abuse and sexuality and the horrors of those things for a teenage boy. He writes about the psychology of being a boy like no one else. I can't wait to start his latest.
Steel Magnolias. Another piece of fallout from my drunk Oscar night ordering binge at the library. THIS IS A VASTLY UNDERRATED FILM. I don't think I've seen it since I was a teenager and I am so stoked to have a good old fashioned weepfest. Possibly Julia Roberts' greatest work, which isn't saying much.
Speaking of Julia Roberts, she is hilarious in this interview.
The Tracey Fragments. I read this book last year and it was so messed up. Anything that opens with a girl wrapped up in a shower curtain is okay with my books. Also, anything with Ellen Page.
This might be the last somewhat chilly weekend of the year. While I welcome spring with the wild, unbridled enthusiasm of a SADS sufferer, I will also kind of miss the readymade excuse to hunker down that is an Ottawa winter. I am an expert burrower. Alone time is the cause of, and solution to, all of my problems, and I am totally okay with that.
But enough about me. What are you reading this weekend?
Here's what's on the list for this weekend...
The Collected Short Fiction of W. Somerset Maugham Someone mentioned Up At The Villa to me the other day and I realized I'd never actually read anything by Somerset Maugham. The literature nerd in me died a little.
Hero Type by Barry Lyga I just finished Barry Lyga's amaaaaazing book, Boy Toy, which is an incredibly powerful, sensitive story about abuse and sexuality and the horrors of those things for a teenage boy. He writes about the psychology of being a boy like no one else. I can't wait to start his latest.
Steel Magnolias. Another piece of fallout from my drunk Oscar night ordering binge at the library. THIS IS A VASTLY UNDERRATED FILM. I don't think I've seen it since I was a teenager and I am so stoked to have a good old fashioned weepfest. Possibly Julia Roberts' greatest work, which isn't saying much.
Speaking of Julia Roberts, she is hilarious in this interview.
The Tracey Fragments. I read this book last year and it was so messed up. Anything that opens with a girl wrapped up in a shower curtain is okay with my books. Also, anything with Ellen Page.
This might be the last somewhat chilly weekend of the year. While I welcome spring with the wild, unbridled enthusiasm of a SADS sufferer, I will also kind of miss the readymade excuse to hunker down that is an Ottawa winter. I am an expert burrower. Alone time is the cause of, and solution to, all of my problems, and I am totally okay with that.
But enough about me. What are you reading this weekend?
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