On Christmas day, I felt a bit sick. Christmas night, I vomited more than a bit. The upside to feeling sick and not being able to sleep was that I got to enjoy a late night Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon.
December 26th, I got up early, felt yucky, and went back to sleep after having a cup of coffee. At 12:15pm, Abby came in and asked me if I was still planning on taking the girls to see Despereaux. Of course!
The Tale of Despereaux was better than I expected, but not quite as good as I had hoped for. It features beautiful animation and backgrounds and is truly laudable in its portrayal of virtue, but it fails to be fully satisfying due to some hasty plot developments and quick plot resolution. I honestly felt cheated. The world that was created and presented to us was more than rich enough to be inhabited much more fully than was done. Still,
Despereaux was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but not substantive enough to want to revisit.
By evening, I was starting to feel much better and was even able to eat some. I started thinking about other movies that I could see. If one film made me feel better, maybe a steady diet of the same would heal me completely. I quickly booked a double feature at the local megaplex, arranged for babysitting from the grandfolk, and took my lovely bride out for a night at the cinema.
First,
Gran Torino. By far, my favorite Clint Eastwood film so far. I don't know what Eastwood's personal beliefs are, but here he has made the most honestly pro-Catholic film in recent memory. It beats the proverbial hell out of Gibson's Passion. Not only does it feature the most clearly positive portrayal of a priest this side of Karl Malden's Father Barry, but, also, the character of Walt Kowalski becomes a shining example, appropriate for this Christmas season, of light in the darkness, ultimately called to play out a passion of his own. It is Eastwood's genius (and, of course, to the credit of screenwriter Schenk) to set this light in the heart of a man who uses every racial epithet you can think of (and probably a few you've never thought of), drinks too much, smokes too much, feels too little, and is generally an equal opportunity crank. The film almost feels like a loving pair of middle fingers, one pointed at a world that has forgotten the Good News of reconciliation (and the moral and family obligations that that brings), the other pointed at a Church that may have a hard time digesting a film (and, by extension, a world) with so much surface obscenity.
Next,
Slumdog Millionaire. This is the film that finally taught me to hate a certain narrative device. I now firmly declare that I instantly hate any film that uses any sort of flashback device to present the viewer with a frame (or sequence) from earlier in the film to reinforce whatever sequence was just presented onscreen. I am not stupid. Most of the audience is not stupid. Please, Danny Boyle, you can trust us to remember something that you showed us an hour and a half ago. Don't show it to me again. Please, don't. That was my plea. All in vain. Besides that pet peeve,
Millionaire was frustrating in its presentation of this boy winning a magic ticket out of a slummy life. I'm sure that there's an interesting movie waiting to be made about a slumdog, maybe even one who becomes a millionaire, but this isn't it. I enjoyed
Millionaire enough to see what charms it has, but not enough to be won over by them.
Now, it's Saturday, and I'm plotting a way to see either
Doubt or
Benjamin Button before this vacation is over.
Finally, Brandon, I've now seen all of
Flight of the Red Balloon, and I do think that you need to revisit it. Maybe it is overrated, but that doesn't keep it from being quite good.
