The Hurt Locker

kathryn bigelow in Venice. YEAH! welcome back girl.


``Hollywood Transgressor – this seemingly oxymoronic title perfectly sums up the tensions and contradictions that characterize Kathryn Bigelow, one of the most interesting action directors in recent film history and the subject of this essential anthology of critical writings. (what a nice present this would be!) On the one hand, Bigelow is firmly entrenched in the Hollywood establishment as a filmmaker who often works with big budgets, big stars, and big studios on projects that could be perceived as formula fare. Yet like Sam Fuller, Budd Boetticher, and other old Hollywood masters, Bigelow both satisfies and transcends the demands of formula to create cinema that’s ideologically complex, viscerally thrilling, and highly personal.''

my new guilty pleasure

it didn't take me long to start humming and squealing along to the above in the drive up to maremma. steve and flavio shamelessly bobbing heads in the front. naps (and her slightly frazzle cipolettina) doing the same in the backseat. what can i say. am a convert.

she still has it

the voice! hamlet 2 has had a few execrable reviews. but guess what. i am seeing it.

and how excited am i about THIS! charlie kaufman's debut with the one and only CK. yay

not getting any younger are we, dear...?

two of my tots are turning older and not any wiser this week.
am bullish on the three of us ageing disgracefully. eyes like moles. memories like sieves. hearts like badgers.

p.s. alberto, i don't think i can replace this fabulous green hoody. but in my mind, by posting it, i kind of have.

`the next garbo'

now now old thing. she MAY have been labelled as such. AND i know that you trecherously told le duc that Ahem you preferred her to the old grumpy swede (a quite unforgivable assertion that i COULD almost go along with.)

anyway. we love valli.



let's watch senso. paradine case. and the spider's stratagem. IMMEDIATELY.

Yes, we did meet, or no, we didn’t

A man (known only as 'X') approaches a woman (known as 'A')
and asks "Didn't we meet at Marienbad last year?"


it has been YEARS since so this little number, and i have to say it holds
the test of time very well indeed. as does delphine seyrig in coco chanel.
french at their pretentious best. best thing first thing on a monday morning.

charming

so how about it?
now that rocky virgins have had been deflowered?


folks: she was 29! (that would be susan sarandon when she did this).

should it be revisited?

thoughts about recasting of charles, julia and sebastian almost years on..?
trailer of the 2008 production:



one word to describe first impressions of the above: stark horror. abject fear.

for comfort, here is what we know and love from 1982:


feeling the need to settle down in maremma and rewatch it from start to finish. and SOB. and fall in love with anthony andrews all over again. clutching a teddy bear. snacking lovers' eggs. naturally.

epic weekend no. 3

EXHAUSTED!

with the ever trusty mina we picked up the boys and took off south.
jeb was wearing his beach cowboy hat
rom in fetching cut off checkered trousers.
maude was farty and stank up the car round the clock.

confident we would get to destination with luigi's trusted tom-tom and optimistic we would find suitable lodgings in gaeta at the last minute during peak season, the deluded foursome set off.
arriving after midnight, we wound up staying in a charming flat with an eccentric and her two dachsunds, with whom maude bonded instantly. the canine trio proceeded to piss and poo all over the flat to the complete indifference of the indulgent home owner. we could not have picked a better place to camp out for a night.

the next day, we stop en route to check out jeb's real-estate investment. a plot of land populated with ripe fig trees and 300-year old olive trees and a crumbling house that when completed will play an active role in future summers south of rome.

running a tad behind schedule, we are nevertheless determined and we take to the beaches by storm. it is a rather rapid scramble down the 300 steps, which took us to a sea of cock, cum and swinging couples. that is a mild exaggeration. emphasis on mild. rom kept his "hi guys" trunks firmly on. i stuck to my tits-out rule and was oblivious to prying eyes. little j overcame her initial unease and hydrated regularly. jeb acquired a fresh crop of freckles. sunburns all round.

one highlight for the road:
sprawled out on an elephant-print sarong, we stretch our limbs and lay on each other's laps. attempts to shake off sand are thwarted by maude's digging frenzy. substenance for the day is in a plastic bag of peaches and bananas. we took turns in reading out loud lady v's novel. a moving ritual that was brutally interrupted by gushing descriptions of snap peas (tasting of summer and sweetness...). we had to abandon our lofty literary pursuits in the search of grub. soz...

getting bendy

well might not be quite there yet. or even remotely close to touching toes or anything approaching grace and mastery. however am very much enjoying my little ritual with rom. which involves doing odd impressions of camels, dogs and fish and candles on a smelly mat. not to mention getting gently prodded by CK-lookalike teacher. admiring romolo's capsized turtle maneuvers and coming into my own in the lotus position (natch, what else). while rom enjoys his showers in the company of other naked men, i sip tea and wait like a good sweaty hag outside, making pleasant conversation with the staff. i proceed to forget little j's helmet in several venues (a fact that didn't escape the ever vigilant rom) and order water by the gallon with relish and mapping out august, bereft of yoga and so much more.
i won't be showering tonight.

sigh

``federer ci mancava anche quando era al massimo della grazia, figuriamoci oggi. e' vero, la bellezza del gesto de federer forse non e' indispensabile al tennis, ma lo e' nella vita. un mondo di soli nadal e' semplicemente superfluo. duro da raccontare.''

another in a long line of epic weekends

alas. photographic evidence is scarce since my camera died.
however.
a rather disagreable work assignment to cover a central banker IN A DUMP (SEE ABOVE)
(which involved slow-poke urine-scented trains and hitch hiking to reach)

turned into a handy excuse to spend a weekend in the town FKJ was born.
the still delightful bologna.

highlights included:
eating copious amounts of tortelli, lasagne, garganelli in ragu, cream.
end result: M to XL

getting lost in a city i profess to know like the back of my hand
end result: humiliation in asking locals who inquired where i was from

seeing one of my oldest friends, davide, a creature hard to describe.
the following sparse details may give an inkling to the personaggio.
1. he cuts his hair every two years
2. his clothes are cast offs and hand me downs from his father. hence his trousers are three-quarter length
3. he's purchased 15 acres of stunning countryside in the bologna hinterland. with rubble for a home. a horse shed and something resembling a chapel. on these premises he lives. stomping the stumpy earth and woodland barefoot, in the style of an urban yeti, living off the greens he's planted. no loos. a mattress. we spent the night sleeping under the stars and taking a shower with a hose in full view of the rolling hill and the boars in hiding.

end result: exhaustion, bliss, layers of dirt and grime. suspect insect bites.

i drove back to rome and feel armed and ready to take the rest of italy by storm this summer. roar.