Before we get started today, I have to tell you that I'm having trouble readjusting to life in LA. See, I couldn't take my car (his name is Stewart) back home for Thanksgiving, so I drove my mother's car while I was at home. Problem is, my mom's gear shift is a lot less delicate than mine, so I had to quickly remember how to operate her car. This wasn't tough, as I learned to drive a stick in that vehicle, but today I found myself in a world of hurt trying to drive my own beloved Stewart to work this morning. I'm serious. I stalled out four times, nearly gave myself whiplash trying to merge lanes, and accidentally honked at some lady when I was trying to shut off my turn signal. I still don't know what that was about. Fortunately, this is LA, where everybody already hates everybody else anyway, so honking is just par for the course. The point is, I seem to have forgotten how to properly finesse Stewart into a smooth ride. And given my all-around choppiness today, that may be a life metastatement.
Anyway, I did other things this past week that were more fun than driving a stick shift, believe it or not. For example, on Sunday night, Pussy Galore and I decided to catalogue her unfortunate sexual history and rank her paramours, E!-style. And, okay, it looks juvenile on the page, but it was an amusing lark brought on by the fact that her current gentleman friend actually asked where he placed in her record books. Like, why would you do that? Anyway, we sat down at a diner one night, created the list, and then polled the customers and waitstaff with questions about the critical flaw that eventually secured each guy his place on The List (sample question: which is worse -- surprise anal penetration, or oral sex with teeth?) and then we would see how their choices matched up with the official List. As a point of interest, I think you'd be surprised by how many people opted for choice A of the sample question.
But that's all neither here nor there. The other thing I did was visit the local cinema and flash my opinion around all over town like I was the shit. I love the movies, I do, but I'm so broke-ass now that going is a luxury I can rarely afford. Thusly, when my parents offer to foot the bill, it is an opportunity I simply cannot pass up. Henceforth, I here submit my reviews for your approval.
Die Another Day
The Bond film franchise is much like 007's own perennial Astin Martin; just as Bond always drives the same make, his films are all of the same basic construct -- expensive drinks, expensive toys, haute couture, femmes fatale, derring-do, a megalomaniacal ubervillain, and the unflappable cool of our favorite Brit superspy. However, much like the car, each film comes with its own modifications, designed to make it that much sleeker and more apropos.
Die Another Day is no exception to that rule. Bond's latest drink is the Mojito (don't fret, the martini's still around), he's got all-new toys, nice suits, a serious arsenal of dazzling FX (excepting this assy parasurfing sequence that looks like it was air-lifted from a Pepsi commercial), and yes, there's even a megalomaniacal ubervillain. But something's different about this Bond, and it's not just that wacky, out of place, trance-style opening number by Madonna, or the fact that Pierce Brosnan's age is starting to show in a less flattering manner than Sean Connery's did. This go 'round, Bond's cool flaps.
It is giving nothing away to say that the film opens with Bond's capture, and that the aforementioned weird-ass theme song bumps out over a strange montage of fire-and-ice maidens undulating while Bond is tortured in the background. The film itself kicks in as we are introduced to a post-torture 007 who looks more like a squirrel-eating hermit who belongs on a commune in rural Montana rather than Her Majesty's secret service. This time, 007's mission is closer to home, and it makes for interesting viewing. Thumbs up.
8 Women
I love me some French cinema. I'm not sure if that's just because it's French and I like to be an esoteric film snob, or if that's because French is a damn sexy language and I have the libido of a jackrabbit. Probably a bit of both, really. Anyway, that changes nothing. 8 Women, from director Francois Ozon (2000's critically acclaimed Under the Sand) is a fun, frolicking romp that has everything. Murder! Secrets! Singing! French Chicks! Murderous French Chicks Singing About Their Secrets! And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
The plot of 8 Women centers around a household (of French chicks, natch) thrown into confusion and fear when they discover the master of the house murdered in his bed. They are snowbound, cut off from society, and quickly beginning to suspect each other. And each of these amazing women has a Deep, Dark Secret to hide from the others.
Danielle Darrieux glows as the family's addled matriarch, Catherine Deneuve is incomparable as Gaby, the icy widow, whose brittle control snaps only when the sensuous Fanny Ardant, as the deceased's sister Pierrette, slinks her way in and shakes things up. Virginie Ledoyen is luminous as eldest daughter Suzon, Isabelle Huppert is a hoot as the neurotic, repressed Aunt Augustine, and the dangerously sexy Emanuelle Beart (who looks only about 26 of her 37 years) almost made me swear off men forever as the haughty, naughty maid, Louise.
One by one, each woman gets her turn to express her deepest fears, feelings, and desires in song, and each one is a confection to be devoured with relish, but this is not the "musical" Americans are familiar with. Each number is staged with an impromptu self-awareness that only heightens the surreality of the film. This is not a new tactic for Ozon, whose 1999 film Water Drops on Burning Rocks featured its cast breaking out in a spontaneous dance number, choreagraphed to a German samba (!), and it works like a charm to keep the mood light while revealing the true complexity of the characters. Well, except for that first number, which is a catchy tune, but doesn't reveal jack. All in all? Thumbs way up.