The Reader

The Reader: Directed by Stephen Daldry, with Kate Winslet and Ralph Fiennes.

 At long last, Friday came.  What a Friday, at that.  Today was one of those Fridays that throws one back and forth against opposing walls, relentlessly.  One of those Fridays where you think to yourself:  “I do not want to be at work that long” only to end up being rushed, poked, redirected, then rushed and prodded again for much longer than you originally intended.  However, work is only one part of life, and thankfully only one part of any Friday, and therefore, only a handful of hours of today’s adventures. 

Today was a rather familial sort of day.  Saw my Mum–which was nice, despite the subtle burn of the almost constant feeling that she worries about me.  To a degree, it’s a warm thing: Mothers worry about their children, because Mother’s tend to love their children.  Only now and then is there a slight singe, briefly.  It has much to do with trust.  After being asked three or more ways, “What’s new?”, “What’s been going on?”, “Anything new happening”, I begin to wonder what sort of response is actually being hunted.  I say, “Not much is new.  Same old same old.”  I say, “Haven’t really done terribly much lately.  Just working, we did see a couple of movies…”  The same questions keep being asked.  Odd.  I think it’s because Mothers can worry too much, and don’t trust that in such a complicated world, a simple answer of “I’m fine” may actually sum things up very neatly. 

After visiting briefly with Mum, off to Parry Center, to visit my Beloved One’s eldest.  In quite remarkable spirits today, and admirable form.  It’s always good to spend time, touch base, and remind him of the fact that we’re here.  Largely, that’s the root and the rub.  But it’s wonderful when–on days like today–everything goes smoothly, and all of the time to be shared is very enjoyable indeed. 

After Parry Center, my Beloved One and I embarked upon our Friday date!  The #9 came just as we walked off Parry Center’s campus, and whisked us away to downtown without a minute’s wait.  Both a bit hungry, we walked around looking for something to eat.  Then we walked around searching.  Then we walked around begging to find something that would work: time limit before the movie starts, can’t spend all night.  Price limit, can’t elaborate upon that, ’tis enough said.  Energy limit: can’t walk around all night.  Patience limit: I’m getting tired of walking already.  We settled for the Starbucks kitty corner to the Fox Tower.  We behaved like naughty children at the tables outside, smoking a cigarette clearly within ten feet of the windows.  Hangable, these days!  Those ridiculous little “Smoke Free Oregon” stickers–the ones that are posted everywhere; the ones that were so hiddeously designed by the chief of the coalition for hiddeously designed government issue stickers–require cigarettes to be smoked ten feet from doors, windows, and/or general glass surfaces.  It feels so wonderful to break that rule!  Even more nourishing is the realization that you can break it without other people realizing that you’re breaking it.  Particularly thrilling this evening considering the wind.  I’m confident that my carcinogenic exhalations were carried in the breeze all the way to Salem, and into the State capitol, where they afflicted the freedom crunchers more intensely than a thousand lashes from invisible whips.  Well, I’m not confident, but hopeful, nontheless. 

 After Starbucks, we skilled across the street to The Fox Tower, to watch The Reader.  What a breathtaking example of the beautiful thing a film has the potential to be. 

I was originally drawn into The Reader because of Ralph Fiennes, and then the realization that the screenplay was written by David Hare, and the film was directed by Stephen Daldry.  I never really knew thoroughly what I was getting into.  Granted, I didn’t read the reviews, because I don’t particularly care for reviews.  But I did read a few summaries, which were elusive and unclear.  After watching the film, I’m tremendously thankful they opted not to spell everything out ahead of time. 

Wonderful cast, in addition to Fiennes.  Though, a note about him: it’s very difficult to not pick up on the fact that this is not his first film set against the backdrop of Europe during WWII.  There was Schindler’s List to name the obvious.  There was Sunshine which to this day ranks in the top three of my all-time-favorite-movie-list-of-all-favorite-movie lists.  I think historical pieces, or period pieces–or whatever name you wish to pin to the genre–can be terribly dull.  There are a very few that I’ve adored, some I’ve appreciated, and many I’ve wanted to sleep through, but failed, because of Insomnia.  Each of the period films I’ve seen in which Ralph Fiennes has taken a part, have been quite good indeed.  I find him rather the ideal sort of actor for those sort of films.  He is tremendously clear, and has a tremendous amount of gravity all of his performances.  He–acting students–is someone to watch intensely. 

Kate Winslet is unquestionably the best I’ve seen her in this film.  There’s a beautiful, brief, wordless moment that takes place at an out-of-the-way Church in the country.  There’s a rather modest church/children’s choir rehearsing, and the camera reveals Winslet sitting in one of the pews, absolutely ecstatic and excited by their singing.  But what’s wonderful is the modesty and simplicity of the choir.  It’s a children’s choir.  A country church’s children’s choir.  Rehearsing.  It’s not the grand, thundering, heavenly, hundred-strong professional choir of the music capitol of the world.  It’s a simple, modest, group of seven or so children singing, and she’s enraptured, like she’d never heard singing before.  Brilliant.  Tiny moment–you could blink and miss it, but don’t.  It’s brilliant.

Bruno Ganz–who I have an odd little soft spot for anyway–played an amiable, quirky, little law professor, with one of the greatest lines in the film.  I’ve decided not to quote it here, after already typing it in, then deleting it.  I don’t want to spoil it. 

All in all, start to end, the script, the score, the cast, all of it. . .  Beautiful.  Difficult, compelling story to tell, the sort that requires a level of craftsmanship and emotional maturity, and they all did it beautifully. 

If you want to see a movie that is the best of what movies can be, see The Reader. 

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

Come on, Friday

It struck me again today, as it’s struck me many times recently, how quickly the days roll by.  It seems I just started my new job at the sweatshop, as the designated typist, writer of emails, human resources guru, office-bitch, and fearless bodyguard against the corporate bastards.  {It’s not actually a sweatshop, and no, I’m not naming the company here.}  It may seem as though I just started, however, I did not just begin.  I’ve been at it since June, with about 30 Saturdays thrown in as well. 

As the weeks have packed in their fair share of intensity and head ache, my Beloved one and I have taken to having one little ‘date night’ a week.  Spend some time out in the world among each others company, carefree and meandering, taking in a small sampling of the simple pleasures.   

Typically we’ve been doing this on Fridays, after we visit her eldest at Parry Center.  Quite the nasty piece of work, Parry Center!  One of those places that serves a purpose and function, but leaves you with a strong inclination to take a magical pencil eraser and wipe it away, along with the need for such a place. 

Perhaps it’s an unfair thing, but one of the perks to having our little ‘date nights’ on Friday, is that it helps to shake off the residue that clings to one, after spending a few hours in a place like Parry Center. 

I think think this Friday we’re going to see The Reader.

The Hours, 2003, directed by Stephen Daldry.

It’s terribly difficult to find solid information about The Reader, a rather ambiguously advertised film.  However, its screenplay is written by David Hare, and it is directed by Stephen Daldry.  One of my favorite films, The Hours is the result of their teamwork, and if The Reader treads remotely into its territory, I’m quite sure I’ll flog it with all sorts of appreciation.  Ralph Fiennes and Kate Winslet are the primary cast.  Nicole Kidman had originally taken some part, {likely the one Kate Winslet won a golden globe for} but withdrew because of pregnancy.   Had she remained, it would certainly be treading back into the neighborhood of The Hours.  Also, had she remained, it would likely be a very different film. 

I have mixed feelings about Winslet.  Fiennes I’m all for.  I think he’s one of the most promising English speaking actors to come along.  Mixed feelings about Winslet, though, not that it matters terribly much.  She’d likely have mixed feelings about me, were she aware of my existence. 

I thought she did some marvelous stuff in Quills and in The Life Of David Gale.  I think that Titanic was quite overcelebrated, with exception of the fact that it had a wonderful score, before Celine Dion got involved.  She played Ophelia in Hamlet with Kenneth Brannagh.  I can’t remember anything particularly inspiring or revolutionary about her Ophelia; nothing I’d circle with a red pen in the Ophelia history book.  Yet, I suppose having a significant role in one of the more successful Shakespeare-On-Film ventures counts for something.  Brannagh’s 1996 Hamlet was nominated for four Academy Awards.

So, with Wednesday evening slipping out, and Thursday morning sliding in, I look forward to Friday.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

The Gun Seller

The Gun Seller, by Hugh Laurie.

I interrupt the viewing of the terrible film about corruption and espionage {which I officially gave up watching eight seconds ago when I began typing}, to bring you word of a wonderfully witty book about corruption and espionage.  There is–as you might have guessed, only if youre quite quick–a corruption and espionage theme for this evening’s blah-blah-blogging. 

The film grunting and scratching itself on the screen is Contract Killers which was released today at Blockbuster.  Terrible, insofar as I can judge, in terms of screenplay, acting, cinematography, and pretty much every other category that can make or break a film.  I certainly hope I have no friends, or friends of friends, or friends of friends of cousins thrice removed who had anything to do with its production.  How embarassing that would be.  {On both levels.  The, “Good God, how could I not have known?” level, and the “Everyone has these bad patches now and again, don’t call me I’ll call you–oops, forgot to get your number” level.}

The book I finished this afternoon, however, was downright delightful.  The Gun Seller, was written in 1996, by British actor Hugh Laurie.  I discovered it quite accidentally {sorry, Hugh} while looking for some of Stephen Fry’s stuff on the shelf.  The Gun Seller was a neighbor and popped out at me with its bright pumpkin cover.  Oddly fitting that, as Fry and Laurie have crossed more than a few paths in their careers.  The thing that persuaded me to pick it up and buy it, is that Laurie coincidentally plays the scruffy star of my favorite television show, House. 

There are a good number of cases of actors writing.  Writing a screenplay they want to do with friends, then directing it.  Writing memoirs.  Writing songs, because what they always really wanted to do was sing.  However, it just feels downright rare for an actor–or anyone who’s already found success in another arena, come to that–to publish a book that functions so well, let alone keeps my interest. 

It’s difficult for books to keep my interest and attention.  The Gun Seller joins the small list of other books that kept my attention, and treated it well.

What makes The Gun Seller work for me, is its instinctive and well paced balance of terrific, witty humor, and believable samplings of sensitivity at other moments.  Yes: satirical, yet sensitive, amazing!  More amazingly, all tucked smartly into a plot intricate enough to have come from Thomas Harris. 

The other, more shocking bit about Laurie’s first book, was that it managed to inspire me to do one of those things I’ve never thought I–or anyone else, for that fact–should do.  It makes me want a motorcycle!  Not a Harley, nor anything heavy and leathered like that.  Something smaller, slighter, zippier.  That is, perhaps, the real accomplishment of The Gun Seller.  The fact that Laurie came up with a character quirky enough to remind me oddly of myself.  Quirky characters do that, sometimes.  But quirky characters inspire us, and this quirky bugger in The Gun Seller inspires me to throw caution to the wind, and do one of the stupidest things one can do.  My cousin was paralyzed from the hip down after a motorcycle snafu.  Yet all of a sudden, I want to buy a bike and hop on and go, go, go, because of how wonderfully fun Laurie made it all sound, and how wonderfully well he wrote about it, and a few other stupid things I now want to try. 

After all, one can dream. . .

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.