Considering all the glowing reviews, considering my natural favorable leanings toward sci-fi, animation, the unusual and innovative in general, considering that my friend Theresa e-mailed me to be sure I didn't miss this gem, I sat back in my comfy $5 (senior and first-showing rate at my local Kent Triplex) theater seat fully expecting an experience of perfection in cinema.
I was not disappointed. And then I was. And then I wasn't. Testament to the power of "Wall-e" I noted that not a single patron in my line of sight got up to leave once the credits started rolling. Personally, I always stay through the credits, if only out of respect for all the unsung folks who make our movie experiences possible, but most people rush out the moment the first one starts a-rolling. (And even here most folks left about halfway through them.)
The film is a work of art. Unequivocally. It has its innovations, most notably the lack of dialogue for much of the film. Nevertheless ... I thought the plot was sorely lacking with the portrayal of our future selves pitifully pandering (to the political left) and simplistic. Actually it's that unremitting reduction to an absurdly blissfully unaware future brought on by a blissfully unaware present -- and an overbearing big, bad megacorporate consumerist culture -- that really gnaws at me. Such treatment brings to mind WWII-era films in which the hero glares at the enemy and snarls "You dirty Jap" or some such, as if that explains all Evil in every guise everywhere. Well, what is a cartoon but caricature anyway. Sure. But it doesn't have to rule out all nuance, does it? Couldn't the heavy hand be lightened a bit? Can we have some innovation in outlook as well as artwork please?
Still, the larger story ... of heart and hope over comfort and complacency and even in the face of unremitting hard work ahead ... draws me in. The true experience of this movie is, I suppose, visceral. It will speak to your core. And it's gorgeous.
Perfect? No. But mighty mighty close.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Funny Story
Magazine junkie that I am, I could not resist, on one of my recent long walks in Manhattan, checking out the month-old Magazine Cafe on West 37th Street.
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Alicia and Andy visit India
I know neither Andy nor Alicia, but I came across this blog and really enjoyed reading it and looking at the photos. It was like ... well ... I don't have to visit India now 'cuz Alicia and Andy have done it for me.
Really nicely done: entertaining, informative, personable, lucid. Sheer delight.
Really nicely done: entertaining, informative, personable, lucid. Sheer delight.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
At the Movies Cubed
The last three films I've seen have all been winners, true gems, a paragon of perfection each in its own genre. More than entertainment, they each earn what is in my mind the highest of accolades, a sentence that reads: seeing this movie will change your outlook; it will change your life; it will change you. for the better.
Young@Heart
I was attracted to this for all the wrong reasons: the knitted guitar in the advert caught my eye (in the film, nobody knits, much less knits a guitar), and it was opening night, filmmaker to be in attendance. I thought it might be fun; I was afraid it would be too cute. Well, yes, it's fun, but it's serious, too. And, no, I wouldn't call it cute. Not at all. What it is: real. stereotype defying. unblinking. creative. inspiring. death defying. true. And fun, oh my goodness, is it fun! The DVD to be available later this year promises even more. Believe me, you will want more. If you'll be in the Boston area on June 20th, you can even catch the group in concert at 8 pm at the Somerville Theater in Somerville, MA. Tickets available right here.
The Counterfeiters (Die Falscher)
Do not go to be entertained; this is not entertainment. Holocausts, alas, continue in various parts of world to this day, but the one we all mean when we say The Holocaust you would think would have been poked and prodded and examined from every possible viewpoint by now to the point of exhaustion. Still, as happened with me during the infamous "events of 9/11", when yet again the horror is shown, I must watch it again and again and yet again. Tired of it? Nay, rather, for my taste you cannot repeat it enough times. And so of course I had to betake myself to see this Austrian retelling of the role Jewish prisoners played in Germany's attempt to destroy Allied countries' economies by counterfeiting their currencies. So you think you know going in what the story will be. Yes, it will be that. It will also be other ... and it will be more. And if you learn, later, which character is the person who wrote the memoir the film is based on, you will have something to always wonder about. What's true? What's right? Is the hero the person you think it is? Are there ever heroes, really? Well? My advice: steel yourself; see the film.
Before The Rains
A heartbreaking story in a lush and lovely environment. Sajani, lovely, married, works as a servant in the home of Moores, a handsome, powerful, married Englishman in India just before the end of the Raj. They indulge in an illicit love affair that ends ... it is inevitable ... in tragedy. But this is not just a morality tale by any means; read Sajani as a stand-in for India itself, read India as a stand-in for any occupied country you could ever name, and admiration for the art of "fiction" grows. At least it did for me.
The friend who recommended "Before The Rains" to me commented that she didn't "think there was a frivolous anything in that movie!" Amen. And ditto for all three.
Young@Heart
I was attracted to this for all the wrong reasons: the knitted guitar in the advert caught my eye (in the film, nobody knits, much less knits a guitar), and it was opening night, filmmaker to be in attendance. I thought it might be fun; I was afraid it would be too cute. Well, yes, it's fun, but it's serious, too. And, no, I wouldn't call it cute. Not at all. What it is: real. stereotype defying. unblinking. creative. inspiring. death defying. true. And fun, oh my goodness, is it fun! The DVD to be available later this year promises even more. Believe me, you will want more. If you'll be in the Boston area on June 20th, you can even catch the group in concert at 8 pm at the Somerville Theater in Somerville, MA. Tickets available right here.
The Counterfeiters (Die Falscher)
Do not go to be entertained; this is not entertainment. Holocausts, alas, continue in various parts of world to this day, but the one we all mean when we say The Holocaust you would think would have been poked and prodded and examined from every possible viewpoint by now to the point of exhaustion. Still, as happened with me during the infamous "events of 9/11", when yet again the horror is shown, I must watch it again and again and yet again. Tired of it? Nay, rather, for my taste you cannot repeat it enough times. And so of course I had to betake myself to see this Austrian retelling of the role Jewish prisoners played in Germany's attempt to destroy Allied countries' economies by counterfeiting their currencies. So you think you know going in what the story will be. Yes, it will be that. It will also be other ... and it will be more. And if you learn, later, which character is the person who wrote the memoir the film is based on, you will have something to always wonder about. What's true? What's right? Is the hero the person you think it is? Are there ever heroes, really? Well? My advice: steel yourself; see the film.
Before The Rains
A heartbreaking story in a lush and lovely environment. Sajani, lovely, married, works as a servant in the home of Moores, a handsome, powerful, married Englishman in India just before the end of the Raj. They indulge in an illicit love affair that ends ... it is inevitable ... in tragedy. But this is not just a morality tale by any means; read Sajani as a stand-in for India itself, read India as a stand-in for any occupied country you could ever name, and admiration for the art of "fiction" grows. At least it did for me.
The friend who recommended "Before The Rains" to me commented that she didn't "think there was a frivolous anything in that movie!" Amen. And ditto for all three.
The Munkee is Baaaaack
Duly prodded and scolded by my friend Theresa, who noted that I've been neglecting the Jungle for almost a full year now, I have seen the error of my errant ways, followed the breadcrumbs back to these wilds, and am proceeding today, as faithfully promised, to resettle in here in the Blogosphere.
Beware.
(The above is a warning to myself alone. You need have no fear.)
So, where have I been and what have I been up to since last July?
For one thing, I joined the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, then proceeded to take little advantage of the membership. It's relatively nearby and I was newly into getting out and about and walking everywhere, so I thought I'd be visiting the Garden lots and lots in all sorts of seasons. Didn't happen. However, I have been there recently, for the Cherry Blossom festival, and then to the annual plant sale.
The Gardens is a lovely oasis of peaceful communion with nature, a blissful aside in a raucous urban setting. Except during the occasional jazz concert held there, which I have attended quite happily with Joe. And except for the Cherry Blossom festival, which this year, the first one there I've attended, was overflowing with booths and people and booths and people and tents and, just when I thought I'd accepted all the people and noise for the happy festival it was of course supposed to be, after I'd admired the cherry trees all in full blossom on the Cherry Esplanade, eaten the $4 slice of scrumptious cherry pie (while *fenced in* on the Esplanade as it was strictly forbidden to take one's slice to eat in peace elsewhere), after I'd frowned at the rock music coming from the Japanese Garden, I came upon the Worse Abomination Ever: loud, raucous, totally inappropriate -- they call it music -- by the fountain inside the main gate.
I hurried out, escaping into the innards of the MTA, where any raucousness is at least entirely appropriate to the environs.
And then last week I returned to the Garden for their annual plant sale. Many joyous plant lovers amongst much -- totally appropriate -- activity. I sighed relief. And I bought some flowering plants for my sunny east-facing windowsill: a miniature rose and a lantana. Plans are to get larger containers and soil, transplant them along with the marigold and impatiens I'd bought earlier this spring, and put them out on the terrace. These, for me, are ambitious plans.
Next up at the Gardens: Members' Rose Night, June 4, promises wine and cheese at the Cranford Rose Garden. The date is duly noted on my cell-phone calendar. Let us hope any music provided is appropriate to the setting.
Beware.
(The above is a warning to myself alone. You need have no fear.)
So, where have I been and what have I been up to since last July?
For one thing, I joined the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, then proceeded to take little advantage of the membership. It's relatively nearby and I was newly into getting out and about and walking everywhere, so I thought I'd be visiting the Garden lots and lots in all sorts of seasons. Didn't happen. However, I have been there recently, for the Cherry Blossom festival, and then to the annual plant sale.
The Gardens is a lovely oasis of peaceful communion with nature, a blissful aside in a raucous urban setting. Except during the occasional jazz concert held there, which I have attended quite happily with Joe. And except for the Cherry Blossom festival, which this year, the first one there I've attended, was overflowing with booths and people and booths and people and tents and, just when I thought I'd accepted all the people and noise for the happy festival it was of course supposed to be, after I'd admired the cherry trees all in full blossom on the Cherry Esplanade, eaten the $4 slice of scrumptious cherry pie (while *fenced in* on the Esplanade as it was strictly forbidden to take one's slice to eat in peace elsewhere), after I'd frowned at the rock music coming from the Japanese Garden, I came upon the Worse Abomination Ever: loud, raucous, totally inappropriate -- they call it music -- by the fountain inside the main gate.
I hurried out, escaping into the innards of the MTA, where any raucousness is at least entirely appropriate to the environs.
And then last week I returned to the Garden for their annual plant sale. Many joyous plant lovers amongst much -- totally appropriate -- activity. I sighed relief. And I bought some flowering plants for my sunny east-facing windowsill: a miniature rose and a lantana. Plans are to get larger containers and soil, transplant them along with the marigold and impatiens I'd bought earlier this spring, and put them out on the terrace. These, for me, are ambitious plans.
Next up at the Gardens: Members' Rose Night, June 4, promises wine and cheese at the Cranford Rose Garden. The date is duly noted on my cell-phone calendar. Let us hope any music provided is appropriate to the setting.
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