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But You Can Call Me "Cookie" |
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Yes I’m like Han Solo,
CARTER
BENTON doesn’t say anything, but raises his eyebrow as if to imply, “I’m so happy to see that you can get it up. Uuh, I mean, get up.” CARTER
BENTON says nothing, but raises his eyebrow as if to say, “Cookie, don’t play innocent with me.” CARTER
BENTON
BENTON stands behind CARTER, maybe a little too closely. He seems to have forgotten about tying the gown. CARTER
BENTON
CARTER
(Okay, okay, I’ll stop now. I’m sorry. I’m done. Really. I know I’m evil. I’m stopping. No more.)
“I’m sorry I keep mentioning what everyone says in their journals, but that’s why I like reading them. Everyone’s so thought provoking and interesting.” ~ Me, after seeing The Insider
This weekend, I went and saw The Insider, and spent 30 minutes dissecting Tamar’s view on the movie and explaining stee’s theory on Pacino’s Hoo-Wah quotient. We also talked Oscar, and I cited stee and Diane as journalers who agree with me that Three Kings should have been in the running for Best Picture (personally, I think it’s better than the four other nominated films that I have seen). Then I went to Barnes and Noble for an hour and read Breakfast at Tiffany’s because Beth recommended it (excellent; much better than the movie, I must say). I also stopped by my favorite used CD store and while I was looking for Boingo CDs, found a promotional CD for Big Head Todd and the Monsters for $4 and couldn’t resist it. Thank you, Dana. I even had a dream last night (involving getting married to a guy who I met in a brothel whose name I didn’t know and moving to New York) where I was thrilled to bits to be living near Kate, so I could finally meet her. Then some other journaler who I did not know showed up at my new house and told Charlotte I had been making fun of her wedding, and I saw my journal advertised on the back of the subway. You’re scaring me, you guys. You’re infiltrating my life. Could you quit being compelling, intelligent people for just a few minutes? Thanks. Much obliged.
As a whole, I didn’t think The Insider had the world’s best script. However, it was undoubtedly well acted and well shot. The cinematography is what kept the film from dragging, because at times the action was slow, but you always felt as if something was going on because of the interesting shots. The acting was wonderful across the board. Pacino was appropriately reined in, Christopher Plummer was brilliant and my god, Russell Crowe. I fell madly, irrevocably in love with the character played by Russell Crowe. Every time he’d do that little gesture where he pushed his glasses up his nose, my insides twinged. Truly a virtuoso performance. Tamar had some interesting things to say about the wife in this movie, and how she had the rug pulled out from under her when her life started to fall apart. But upon careful consideration, I have to say: I don’t think the character’s actions were understandable. I think she was a selfish, spoiled woman who stopped loving her husband long ago. She had her head totally up her ass: everyone in the audience caught on that he got fired before she did, because she insisted on being in denial about the whole thing. She didn’t offer comfort or ask why: her first thought was of herself, her money, her house. I saw little evidence that she actually loved him. I saw a classic example of parents staying together for the sake of the kids. Their tender moments revolved around their kids (hand holding during the asthma attack, for example.) And he didn’t even bother to confide in her about the interview—at that point you knew it was a lost cause. Anyway, thanks Tamar for providing me with something interesting to think and talk about. Overall, an absorbing and solid film. Grade: B+.
There’s bad news about Bruce. For those of you who have just tuned in, Bruce is my high school sweetheart and gay ex-boyfriend. He is also the most generous, kind hearted, sweet, loving person you ever want to meet. His boyfriend Phil is the luckiest guy on earth: Bruce is a gourmet cook, an excellent housekeeper and works three jobs (hotel management, food service and retail) and is praised to the skies for his work at each one. I can’t say enough about Bruce. He is universally beloved. He is funny, smart, a good dresser, a good dancer. He loves Disneyland. He’s the best guy I know. Along with Abby, he’s the person that makes me feel the most like a mother bear. Bruce is like a younger brother to me—brings out all my protective instincts. When he first started dating Phil and bought a house with him, I didn’t approve. There was something about Phil that didn’t sit right with me. He seemed like kind of an asshole, to tell you the truth. Before Bruno became Public Enemy #1, it was Phil. The first time I met him, he threw a temper tantrum because someone at a restaurant asked him to take his ID out of the plastic. He then didn’t tip the waiter at all (not the same guy who asked for ID, by the way) leaving the rest of us to cover the bill. It went downhill from there. Marcy finally said that she suspected Phil would be the type to cheat on Bruce. I darkly agreed. Cut to: a year or so later—a year or so ago. January 1999. Bruce and Phil and Danielle and I took the greatest vacation of our lives to Walt Disney World. Danielle had warm feelings for Phil, and I started to warm up to him myself. For the first time, I began to appreciate that his rudeness was sometimes just his peculiar sense of humor, and maybe I shouldn’t hold it against him. I was dreading the vacation with Phil, and emerged from it having erased the battle lines between us. We were finally friends. The next month, Bruno entered the picture. Suddenly, Phil seemed like a perfectly wonderful guy in comparison. His flaws were forgotten. I was lulled into a false sense of complacency. Because this weekend, Bruce found out that Phil has been cheating on him, deceiving him and systematically lying to him. I can tell that Bruce really wants to believe that Phil is sincere when he claims “we fooled around before, but the sex only happened once” and cries and apologizes and carries on. But there’s been something a little troubling, a little “off” for the past few weeks. A suspicious friendship between Phil and this other guy. Phil talking about selling the house to get them out of debt, then moving into his parents house without Bruce—at the same time, claiming that all he wants to do is spend more time with Bruce. Phil has been talking out of both sides of his mouth, which was obvious before Bruce found the condom and caught him in the lie. Bruce is so sweet, so trusting. He’s the last person on earth who deserves this. And what breaks my heart is that he really wants to believe Phil when he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, please don’t leave me.” He wants to believe that Phil is sincerely regretful. You know what I think? The only thing Phil regrets is that he got caught, and for that, he’s a moron. This other guy, from what I hear, isn’t worthy to lick the soles of Bruce’s feet. And I am so sorry that my instincts and Marcy’s instincts about this guy were right. I am back to square one in my opinion of Phil. No matter what happens, I don’t think he’s worthy of Bruce’s trust anymore, and he sure as hell isn’t getting mine. Fuckwad.
And to end on a happy note, congratulations to Diane on the birth of Sophia Siobhan. My sister’s friend is named Siobhan and I’ve always liked that name. My middle name is also Irish (Colleen) but I like Siobhan much better as a middle name. Middle names should be a little wacky. And Sophia is a great name, too—and popular these days, it seems. Hoo wah! |
What
I'm Reading:
The Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Time still. I haven't had time to finish it.What I'm Writing: Grad school essay, and retyping a paper on poetry.
Tesla coil blue.Journal Quote of the Day: "I like it all, as long as you mix it up and serve it with lots of stories, a little dialogue, and a lively writing style that gives me a good sense of who you are.Random Tidbit: "I have to be outrageous here because I'm competing with naked women. I'm not sure how long I can keep readers from looking at the girl with no pants on, sitting on a llama. At some point you have to say something inflammatory, like, 'I fuck raccoons.' " |
