Movies – Page 3 – Rant and Roll

The sky’s the limit

Hey chickadees.

I cannot believe that it is already Friday. The mind boggles.

I took this snap of the sunrise yesterday morning:

I seem to have developed a rather large obsession with the sky, in all of its variations, which has manifested itself in an insatiable need to take dozens and dozens of photos of everything from mid-day cloud cover, to startlingly brilliant sunsets.

But in all honesty, my favourite will always be the sorbet coloured striations that divide up the early morning, and patch together the early evening skies.

Always.

Fry-Up Time!

Tom Hanks.

So I watched Sleepless in Seattle for the first time the other night and I have to say it wasn’t half bad.

Despite never really warming to Meg Ryan, I’ve always loved Tom Hanks – in particular 1980s/1990s Tom Hanks.

Sure, I haven’t been that a big fan of his work post-Y2K scare, but nothing will ever take away from the majesty of his early stuff.

(Except of course, for Joe vs. the Volcano. What broke acip trip was responsible for that hot mess?)

Erm, right. So what I’m trying to say here is that while I don’t go to see any of his newer stuff, I certainly do love to dip my toes in his more seasoned pool of material.

For instance, I always, always laugh my face off while watching The Burbs. Yes, I understand that this movie is completely daft and terrible, but nothing will ever stop me from falling over during the scene when the weirdo neighbours drive their garbage to the bottom of the driveway and anytime Mr. Hanks goes absolutely bonkers.

(Which is pretty much the entire film. See the below video for details.)

I will never stop laughing at pretty much every scene in Splash, I LOVE That Thing you Do (and still know every single word to that song), and A League of Their Own is, well, in a league of its own.

Remember kids: Avoid the clap.

It’s sound advice!

Anyways, I was thinking about ole’ Tom as the end credits to Sleepless were rolling, and I was trying to figure out what it is about this actor that I like so much.

M put forward the hypothesis that so many women (and dudes too) love Tom Hanks because he’s a normal human being. He’s not stereotypically “hot”; he’s not ripped, or suave, or an Adonis in human form.

He’s attainable.

Women (and men) can actually see themselves with him.

Men (and women) can see themselves being friends with him.

While I’ve never thought about Mr. Hanks this way, I can see his point.

However in my case, what really does it for me, is the fact that Tom is the absolute master of the hilarious angry yell.

Even when he’s pissed off, he’s bloody entertaining as heck. Seriously, check it out:

Ohhhhh, I die.

Next!

Elevated discourse.

So it’s no big surprise around here that I am massively in love with my cat and will pretty much do anything for her because of how nuts I am about her.

However, of late I’ve really started to notice just how barmy I sound when I talk to her.

(And just how barmy I sound even typing out those words.)

But it’s true. I’ll be walking around my house, jabbering on like a monkey in a tree, regaling Nymeria with details of my day, when I’ll just start telling her over and over again how beautiful she is.

Eventually I’ll transition to complimenting her on how good of a job she is doing of cleaning her paws, how awesome that last yawn of hers was, or how impressed I am that she jumped up on the windowsill with such grace and agility.

Sometimes I’ll just pick her up and do nothing save mutter “beauty cat” over and over and over again. (Sometimes for variation, I’ll make those words into some sort of three syllable nursery song.)

I’m seriously waiting for the day when she’ll turn, look at me and say, “Look lady, is it possible for you to stop talking to me like I’m some kind of simpleton?”

But until that day…

Ten kilometers go!

So I made the executive decision to sign up for the Fall Classic 10k race.

It’s on November 19^th, so it’s bound to be raining, and freezing – but I think I have managed to coerce a number of my amazing pals to also run, so I am really looking forward to a massive post-race hang-out fest.

(Hopefully somewhere warm, and dry, where people won’t be turned off by our non-stop laughter.)

When I signed up to race, I had to enter my estimated finish time, as the two individuals with the closest guesses will win a New Balance prize pack.

I submitted a conservative forty-two minutes, but I’m hoping to run it faster than that. However, I don’t know how the rain or cold will affect my race, so I figured I would rather be safe than sorry.

My comedic genius of a friend Alannah just entered: I’m done when I’m done.

Brilliant.

Also, I think she may have made herself an automatic shoe-in for the prize!

Humour and brains, folks.

Humour and brains.

(If I was a zombie, this is what I would put as my “ideal match” in the zombie classified ads.

…

So that’s all she wrote folks.

A very merry weekend to all of you fab chaps!

I hope it’s absolutely smashing.

Mixed Nuts

This weekend was as jam packed as an unopened jam jar.

It was a really great mix of time spent with friends and family, excellent food, and of course beauty, brilliance and hilarity.

Here are a few highlights from the past two days:

Brilliant brunches.

Bean Sprouts.

Smoking smokers.

Post-Prometheus chai.

Dream House.

Dream lunch.

Super dog.

Secret messages.

Yesterday was Italian Days along the length of Commercial drive. Luckily the rain stayed away and we, along with M’s sister V, her partner J, and his parents E (alias Darth Gruyere) and C, walked the length of the street, taking in all the different sights, sounds, and smells the festival had to offer.

It was a really lovely way of spending an afternoon.

(Though next time we are really going to need to get our mitts on some cannolis. And by some, I mean all of them. And by mitts, I mean mouths.)

On Saturday night M and I went to the pictures and took in Ridley Scott’s latest oeuvre – Prometheus.

Going to the movies is always a bit of a trip for us because we pretty much never go anymore.

Like, ever.

This is a bit strange because at the beginning of our relationship you would be hard pressed not to find us in a movie theatre at least once a week. (M was even a projectionist at two of the local independent theatres in the city during his undergrad.)

Now, we maybe take in a film twice a year at most.

I suppose we’ve just lost that interest. That spark.

(Perhaps we’re just waiting for the mother load of a movie to blast us back to our former selves? We’re not sure.)

Either way, this trip we did not hit pay dirt.

My tweet that night summed up how I felt (in under 140 characters) about the film: I LOVE Alien/Aliens, but – there’s a reason why they’re separate movies. Trying to make both at the same time just doesn’t work. #prometheus

If you want a much longer take on how I felt about the movie, please read this absolutely brilliant and gut-busting hilarious review by Henry Rothwell.

It’s magic.

And (in my opinion) bang on.

In terms of tough mudder: t-minus less than two weeks to lift off!

Yesterday I had one cracking run. I completed 15.4 km in 1:08 – one of my fastest runs to day. And that was after running 12 km on Saturday, combined with my circuit strength training.

I’m feeling really strong, and goodness knows the callouses on my hands are forming personalities of their own.

I can’t really tell you guys how stoked I am to drive up to Whistler and see what the course has in store for us.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – I, under no circumstances, believe that this is going to be a walk in the park. I know full well how greweling the entire experience is sure to be.

But heck if that doesn’t make me any less excited!

I am ready to get my mudder on, and get it on hard.

Tonight Mr. M and I ate farfelle with vine ripened tomatoes, kalamata olives, fresh basil, and paremesan cheese. We watched Sunshine.

It’s still cold, but things are slowly changing.

When you’re moving this fast, they’re bound too.

Love, actually

So I know it’s all the rage to slag-off love and put down romance (and proclaim Valentine’s day to be nothing more than a consumerist, wallet measuring contest, etc., etc.), and it is very well known amongst those who know me, and those who read this blog (or both) that I am pretty direct about what I abide, and what I don’t, but – I just can’t get behind this movement.

Because I love love.

LOVE it.

So, all’s I really got to say is:

You hear that haters? TO THE LEFT!

What’s that you say? Relocation isn’t something you’re interested in? Well then, because I’m not a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll give you a second option.

In order to banish these bummed-out blues of yours, all you need to do is watch one film, and I promise you that it has the power to change both your mind and heart:

The magnificent, magical, mesmerizing tour-de-force that is Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain.

If you let it, it will change your life.

After a week of where every day began by lugging my sluggish, bedraggled body out of bed, folding myself over the frozen porcelain of my tub, and standing under the searing stream of my shower – steaming my eyelids open as water pooled around my ankles (think the way you do to envelopes, when you’re not supposed to see their contents) – this movie pretty much saved my soul.

If you have never seen it, I recommend that you run (not walk) to your closest video rental store (erm, do these even exist anymore?) and rent the crap out of it.

You will not be disappointed.

Unless of course, you detest the accordion, because then, well, we may have hit the one and only snag.

No! I cannot say that. Because even if this was the case I would still recommend this film, because I am of the mind that even those who are intolerant (wrongly so, might I add!) of this fantastic instrument will still appreciate the soundtrack – a score that is beautiful and haunting and romantic and sublime.

Just listening to the beginning notes of the first song makes me want to dance in the middle of cobble-stone streets, kiss under water-stained, moonlit bridges, and ride bicycles with baskets filled with fresh herbs, sunflowers, and one (very) well behaved cat – don long, flowing skirts, and fitted, cap-sleeve blouses, and take round the world trips, – drink wine by the gulp, and cafes by the sips.

Alas…

Also, I have also decided that my favourite word in the French language is ronfle. (This, to be fair, is not so romantic. But still awesome.)

To spring, or not to spring, that is (Mother Nature's) question...

In the spirit of adventure and intrigue, on Saturday afternoon Mr. M and I threw caution to the wind, and went on the hunt for escapades and exploits a-plenty.

We started off on Commercial Drive, walking the length of the neighbourhood, stopping in at the fine art and clothing vendors along the way.

We had run pretty hard earlier that morning, so when it came time to eat, we decided to have lunch at the absolutely delish La Grotta Del Formaggio.

Oh my goodness.

Seriously people. GO THERE.

What I love so much about this establishment, is that it is like stepping into a time warp. I’m pretty sure the layout of the store hasn’t changed much in close to fifty years (and I’d wager a guess that the same can be said for the management) – the shelves are stocked with everything you could possibly imagine: dozens of different brands of olive oil, biscotti, dried pastas – a veritable smorgasbord of good eats!

Their sandwiches are also to die for – chose your bread, topping, meat (and if you don’t want meat, you get extra cheese!) and then they toast it up for you in jiffy.

We found two seats outside, sat down with our sammies, and just watched the world go by, stuffing our (very happy) faces with roasted red peppers, and eggplant, artichoke hearts and jalapeno havarti.

That’s another thing that’s so great about this part of Vancouver. The people-watching is tip-top and fabitty fab (aka DA BEST.) The range of individuals passing you by is mindboggling, and it’s unlikely you’d witness such diversity in many other areas of town.

Also, since I am incapable of walking the Commercial corridor without visiting the (always) taste bud tickling Fratelli’s baker (seriously my friends, it is a sensory overload and a half heading into that establishment) I made sure to make a quick pit stop while M was waiting for our paninis to toast.

After finishing up our first course, we set to work on this box of treats:

Due to rampant and soul-crushing indecision (and one massive, massive sweet tooth – or is it many, many sweet teeth?) I couldn’t decide on what to order, so I ended up buying a whole swathe of treats, of different sizes, shapes and varieties.

I think overall, my favourite was the red velvet cupcake, and M gave his gold star to the pistachio cake.

Next we continued on our merry way, ever on the look-out for a used edition of either Mind Trap or Trivial Pursuit.

Mr. M wants to play Mind Trap with his students, whereas I want Trivial Pursuit so we can play it every night for the rest of our lives. I’m a little unclear as to why I find playing this game pretty much the most humorous thing to do ever, but there you have it.

Needless to say, the end goal of this mission did not come to fruition (we are still on the hunt – so heed this search flare (or request) my fellow weirdos: if you know of where to procure good quality, used trivia games, do tell (but also consider letting me know ifncode, just to, you know, appeal to my geekiness.)

Okay, I feel as though I’ve fallen quite a bit from my introduction on the brilliance and beauty of love to some strange tangent about board games and nerdiness (one and the same?).

If I can't have Trivial Pursuit, I'll take this awesome sauce desk.

Soldiering on.

Remember how last Monday I wrote about a dress I tried on at Zara and my feelings towards it hadn’t really disappeared and the fact that I hadn’t purchased it was kind of sticking in my craw? Well, I considered taking Mr. M to the store for a second opinion, but before we even made it halfway there, we made a strange, and rather off-the-cuff pit stop at The Bay.

Now, The Bay has recently decided that it is Holt Refrew Part Deux, so I can’t go in there too often lest I begin to convulse compulsively and just start shouting (at no one in particular): Who do you think you are kidding with this crap?

But as long as I make it to the third floor in relatively stable condition, I am good to go (and not bait for the men in the white coats.) Anywho, to make a long story short, I ended up trying on and purchasing this majorly cute BCBC dress for twenty dollars!!!

(For serious, this may be the most proud I have ever been of a purchase in my life. Plus it has little stars and planets all over it! And pockets! My head explodes with happiness just thinking of it.)

I should also say that I really, really love clothing from BCBG. I know a lot of it can be pretty kooky and out there (two characteristics I should never judge, lest I break all the glass houses with all the stones) but most of their pieces are so beautiful my heart beats faster just thinking about them.

And here I was, purchasing one at an eighty-five percent markdown.

Bliss.

Which, I feel I should point out, probably wouldn`t have happened, had it not have been for a love-fuelled adventure, inspired by a love-filled movie.

So there ya go.

Haters gonna hate, but this lover is gonna rock her discount frock – until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.

I read the news today, oh boy

I try to live my life free of binaries.

That they exist I am sure – that our entire social (nay global?) make-up is dependent on them I am convinced.

They are malleable, overarching scapegoats, (or get-out-of-jail-free cards) that limit the scope arguments, constrain the parameters of research, and stop each and every one of us from ever diving into the very deepest depths of self-analysis.

And try as I might to do away with them, they are almost impossible to get away from, let along ignore.

Because boy do we love them:

Black-White; Good-Bad; East-West; Heaven-Hell; Rich-Poor; Madonna-Whore

_Device Memory_home_user_pictures_IMG00200 — Spring has sprung, but my spirits have sunk.

The reason that I am thinking about this, is because the events of the world have got be feeling pretty blue.

Seriously dudes, I am bummed out.

If I have to hear one more time about how Syria (or Somalia, or insert “disaster-prone war zone here”) is on the brink of a humanitarian crisis, I am going to go ballistamungus (my code word for BAT SHIT CRAZY.)

On the BRINK of crisis?

If these catastrophic situations are looked at (by zee experts) as teetering on the verge of collapse, well then, I think their rating system is just a tad out of whack with reality.

No joke, I really want to get on the blower with the UN and have the following exchange:

United Nations (UN): Hello, United Nations.

Ethel the Dean (EtD): [thinking to myself] Woah, that was easy.

UN: Hello?

EtD: Yes hello! I’ve noticed that lately, your organization has been reticent as-all-get-out about describing the situation in Syria as an actual humanitarian crisis. This whole “will-they-won’t-they” game you seem to be playing has got me awfully curious.

UN: Oh?

EtD: Yeah. You see, I’m wondering what actually has to go down in that country for you to determine that it is undergoing a legitimate crisis, you know, in your expert opinion.

UN: Erm…

EtD: Because you guys also have a pretty solid track record of not doing squat when it came to other emergency situations – most notably (off the top of my head) in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia – so I’m wondering what’s got to give, for the Syrian people to maybe receive a little love from either Ban Ki Moon, or if he’s too busy, maybe Navi Pillay.

UN: […]

EtD: I mean, isn’t it time that we all just come out and said it? That your organization, as a global actor, is basically impotent, incompetent and incontinent?

UN: […]

EtD: WELL, CAN’TCHA?!

I assume that at this point I would be hung up on. But you get the picture.

Urgh.

(p.s. that’s a really long video, but it’s one of my all-time faves. Plus I’ve been feeling super Daffy-esque today.)

Adding to my overall malaise, is the overwhelming sense of unease I got from watching the film “Inside Job” last night with Mr. M.

If I wasn’t sure that Wall Street, government, and academia is dominated by a small, incestuous group (of heavily recycled) money-hungry sociopaths, well, I definitely am now!

Plus, I cannot even begin to describe how heartening it was to read this morning on the metro that Vancouver is getting its very own edition of The Real Housewives franchise.

That sound you’re hearing is me barfing in the CEO of Bravo television’s shoes. Oh, and my heart breaking.

Also, the hoof steps of the horses ridden by the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

What a swell crap-storm of cacophonous bile! Bring out the conductor and play on maestro!

To try and lift my spirits out of the giant dumpster of doom, when I arrived home from work today I decided to make my terrific, and tantalizing banana bread.

Bananas! In pyjamas! Are baked into this bread...

I have a couple of recipes that I would classify as old hat (but in a non-pejorative sense) – more so that I’ve made them so many times that I have committed them to memory.

When Mr. M and I first moved in together, I couldn’t cook for the life of me, and the only recipe book we had was “Loneyspoons” and The Joy of Cooking. Often times the only ingredients we had in our pantry fit the bill for the book’s banana bread, so I became an expert really quickly.

We never had anything for The Joy of Cooking. Seriously, who cooks squirrel?

(As an aside, M received the The J of C from his parents as a high school graduation gift and he would like to reassure them that we have used it many, many times since its appearance of his bookshelf.)

Oh yes, we have no bananas...except we do and they will make something delicious!

Anywho, my banana bread is pretty healthy in comparison to other recipes, using yogurt instead of oil, and it doesn’t call for too much sugar and butter.

Plus it tastes bloody good.

Two summers ago, I got many of my work mates hooked on the stuff, and would often have to parcel out the goods a little at a time in order to ensure that everyone got a chance to have a piece, lest the greediest goons took all of it on the first go (or plating).

(In my opinion, it’s that little pinch of cinnamon I’ve added to the ingredient list that just might push it right over the edge.)

So coming home, I quickly assembled my ingredients and got to work.

I was all excited to listen to some sweet, sweet CBC as I worked, but unfortunately the news proved to be far too depressing for me to make it longer than three minutes.

Instead, I settled (and by settle I mean happily took part in) a hilarious conversation with M that revolved around photographs, dish towels, cat food and sushi orders.

What proved even more delightful was that the outcome included some tasty, tasty treats from Okonomi sushi, just up the street from us.

Now we are sitting down to another night of Netflix documentaries – tonight we are watching “This Film is Not Yet Rated.”

I know that the subject matter will probably make me think, cringe, laugh, squirm – but hopefully not cry.

But even if I do, I just need to remember that it’ll be okay.

Because there’s always banana bread, sushi, and fake phone calls.

Not necessarily in that order.

And maybe, one day, not necessarily fake.

These close encounters

I. Am. Officially. Exhaustified.

I understand that this photo is darn weird and sort of Jawa-esque, but this all has a purpose...

If today wasn’t enough to erase any remaining vestiges of the weekend from my mind, I don’t know what possibly could.

Stress was had, and I had all of it.

I would also probably argue that the dice (that were to determine this fate of mine) were loaded from the start – this fatigue did not stop and start with my workday, but much, much earlier.

You see, it began with a truly crap night sleep (especially when it definitely should have been an excellent, dead-to-the-world type repose what with how wonderfully busy, and chock-a-block full of whimsy and weirdness, the weekend turned out to be).

However, yesterday afternoon Mr. M and I made the sleep-altering choice to go see The Woman in Black.

Looking for a good five-word review of the movie?

DEAD VENGEFUL WOMEN ARE TERRIFYING.

Yeah, yeah, the film wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but ask a million and one questions about X plot holes or Y character motivations – but gosh darn it – I spent the majority of the time either watching through my fingers or crammed into M’s elbow and, or armpit.

Question:

Why the flipping heck do old Victorian toys have to be so bloody scary? Who, in their right mind, would actually give their child a toy that looks positively possessed?

Repression must do terrible, terrible things…

Including, for one: scaring the ever living daylights out of me.

Ooof. Just walking around Metrotown after the end credits had rolled, I felt completely off kilter – as if the film had knocked something loose inside of me that I couldn’t quite put back into place.

There is something to be said about horror movies that explore psychological ills, or metaphysical (paranormal?) phenomenon, versus the old slasher, teen-virgin, never say “I’ll be right back BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW YOU WON’T!” trope.

Ghosts are simply scarier.

I think the most frightening movie I’ve ever seen is probably The Ring (or Ringu – it’s Japanese predecessor), with the Exorcist as a close second.

I was in grade eleven and two friends and I went to the Friday night midnight show; it was playing at the old Varsity movie theatre (a little freaky on its own, with or without the introduction of tormented, well-dwelling psychopathic spirits). I lived ten blocks down the street from the theatre and walking home at two thirty in the morning was probably one of the creepiest sojourns (or you know, ghost tour) I have ever taken, or hope to ever again undertake.

CIMG8762 — I actually do a pretty good "Ring-girl" impression. You should see me crawl out of a TV screen.

It probably took me an hour to finally make it to my front door because I was moving so slowly (also, I was walking smack dab in the middle of the street, for fear that if I strayed too close to the property line hedge growth, invisible hands would grab at my flesh, tear at my hair, and suck out my soul – imprisoning me until the sky burned red, and the seas ran dry.)

Or something equally as brutal (you get my drift, I’m sure.)

Zero winks were caught that night. ZERO.

Any time where you can think to yourself, “It might be true” is just a recipe for disaster for not only myself, but for the man for whom I’ve pledged my troth.

M can drive himself (and therefore, by proxy ME) completely bonkers, working himself into a frenzy, mulling over the one million maybes he and I attach to this genre of storytelling (or reality? That’s the problem, we can’t ever just tell ourselves its fake, and magically make it go away.)

The Japanese version of The Grudge is called Ju-On (very scary, not to be trifled with – watch only with all your lights on, in the daylight with a minimum of one other person, whom you can be sure will not leave your sight for the next twenty-four hours. What’s that you say? You’re a fully functioning human being who isn’t affected at all by this silly stuff? Carry on then. You lucky bastard.) and this word has actually become a permanent fixture in M’s and my vocabulary.

Something a little creepy happening? Unexplained phenomena making you paranoid?

That’s some crazy ju-on shit right there.

It has a two-fold effect. 1.) It’s a very accurate way of assessing and describing the situation, and 2.) It brings some much needed levity to the occasion, making it much harder to find a need to jump under the covers of your bed for the long-term foreseeable future.

Or something like that.

Cats are really good at warning you about evils spirits. And snuggling. They're good at that too.

So as you can see, last night (or should I say early this morning) I wasn’t channelling Rip Van Winkle, but instead refusing to look in the bathroom mirror as I re-filled my water glass for fear that alongside my reflection would be a pissed off widow, ready to banshee shriek my eardrums into nothingness.

Ugh, even just typing those words makes my heart pump a little faster.

So, the million dollar question is: why, if these movies make me feel as though my lifespan has been drastically altered (for the worse), do I watch them?

Why indeed?

I’ve always liked horror movies. Even though they scare the ever living daylights out of me, I’ve never shied away from watching them.

I suppose I like the adrenaline rush. I like to ask myself what I would have done in those circumstances, in comparison to the characters on screen. I like cramming myself into Mr. M’s arms one second, and then jerking away (or jumping under a blanket) at the very next.

It’s in its own way a sort of feat of endurance. Similar to a day at work, when you are stressed and under the gun, and the need to perform is palatable – all your senses, your brainpower, your problem solving capabilities are working in overdrive – you feel alive, you feel accomplished, you feel drained, and exhausted when it’s over.

You may even feel a little out of sorts.

And all you need to put yourself together again is a good night’s sleep.

I know I’m going to try again tonight.

But then again…it could be real.