The hump that is Wednesday is the perfect time for me to talk about my weekend (and parenthetically mention the cute $10 Old Navy capris I got last night that happen to perfectly match the earrings Ruby got me for my last burfday!) Saturday evening Lean, Moxy, Oakie and I agreed to see Hot Fuzz. Lean said it’d gotten great reviews and I’d read a relatively-sunny blurb about it, which was enough to convince me to drop five bucks. Oakie said she’d heard the movie was great except for the last half hour. After seeing it, this made PERFECT sense in a nightmarish, PTSD kind of way. In my mind it was a light, dry British comedy but such was not the case. The humor was indeed very British and VERY funny but holy balls, it was one of the most violent movies I’ve seen in a long, long, long time – ESPECIALLY traumatic since I go to great lengths to avoid violent flicks because they make me extremely uncomfortable. It went from silly goofs and sophomoric one-liners to head-choppin’, blood-spurtin’, appendage-impalin’ madness in no time. And have I mentioned the violence because Oh My God, The Violence? (I do have to say that something about Simon Pegg, who played the lead, is deliciously sexy and Nick Frost’s character was hysterical, cute, and lovable.)
After the Fuzz, Lean, Moxy and I made a quick stop at the grocery store, noted how enormous the nearly-peak strawberries were, and then headed back to Moxy’s condo to chill and chat. The night air was cool and breezy so we sat on her cozy, awesome deck that overlooks a purdy lake. I found out I can swim in that lake, which is wonderful news because in Bloomington, I swam in Lake Monroe all the time but haven’t found an equivalently-hospitable body of water in Indy. Also note that Moxy has a paddle boat AND a canoe – good Lord, I’m giddy just thinking about all the water fun!
Across the lake from Moxy’s condo, a wild bunch of rowdy hellians were having a rip, roarin’ party. They drunkenly screamed and yelped, so I screamed back but my bubbly Diet 7-Up holler was nuthin’ compared to their Pucker-soaked shouts. Lean, Moxy, and I thought fondly of the days when we too partied like rock stars, fueled by little more than the promise of cold Bartles & Jaymes and hot co-eds. *wistful sigh*
On Sunday my intentions to “really get serious about organizing” resulted in naps and eventual emergence from the lair around 5 p.m. Maxine and I toyed with the idea of seeing the documentary Into Great Silence. It’s about the Grande Chartreuse monks but essentially has no score or narrative and instead comprises three solid hours of edge-of-your-seat scenes like “Brook Babbles,” “Cat Walks Across the Hall,” and “Monk Sits Very Still.” From a friend who saw it, I gathered it was interesting and meditative but something to endure. There’s no plot, conflict, or resolution – not even playful fisticuffs. It’s three hours of footage, wildly peppered with an occasional, brief explanation – as George might’ve dubbed it, a film about nothing. The friend who saw it said the guy who sat beside him in the theatre didn’t move a muscle throughout the entire movie. He didn’t cross his legs, scratch his ear, NOTHING – he sat completely still for three hours. Wow. While I think Carthusian monks are noble and fascinating, I didn’t think I could stand but so much avant garde, um, ‘ness. Instead we opted to see a darling French affair called Avenue Montaigne. It involves several different stories that eventually cleverly intersect. The characters are delightfully-flawed and endearing. Among others, there’s an adorably clueless waitress with distinctly Ellen-like mannerisms, an aging art collector with a secret, a soap opera actress desperate for the role of a lifetime, and a romantic but disillusioned concert pianist. The movie was a heart-warming pleasure complete with balsamic vinegar and stunning shots of Paris.
Throughout Avenue Montaigne, I was struck with how fantastically-average the French actors are. Of course they’re beautiful, unique, and spectacular but none subscribe to the unrealistically-perfect ideals of our American celebs. It was so refreshing to see real women with wrinkles and moles and hips and imperfect eyeliner who still manage to be lovely and perfect in their own ways. Good for the soul!
P.S. Get this: In 1984, Philip Gröning contacted the Carthusian monks to get permission to film his documentary. They apparently said they’d get back to him, which they did, but not until sixteen years later! Of course those wacky monkies aren’t bound by normal social constructs of time so to them, the timing of their response was not unusual, but that’s a long wait for us non-monk folk. Hee!