Movies and Such
Went to see The Reader today. I have to agree
with this assessment by Ron Rosenbaum:
"so much is made of the deep, deep exculpatory shame of illiteracy—despite the fact that burning 300 people to death doesn't require reading skills—that some worshipful accounts of the novel (by those who buy into its ludicrous premise, perhaps because it's been declared "classic" and "profound") actually seem to affirm that illiteracy is something more to be ashamed of than participating in mass murder... Lack of reading skills is more disgraceful than listening in bovine silence to the screams of 300 people as they are burned to death behind the locked doors of a church you're guarding to prevent them from escaping the flames. Which is what Hanna did, although, of course, it's not shown in the film."[19]
Kate Winslet tries so hard to make it look like she's intense.
And that's just that. You know she's acting. I don't want
to be thinking how an actor is acting--I want to think they
are the character. It seems to me the primary purpose
in choosing Ms. Winslet for the role was to give her an opportunity
to go around naked in quite a bit of the film.
So, a thumbs down from me for the film, and though Mr Rosenbaum
didn't think much of the novel, I have heard others say they thought
it was quite good.
A friend brought Religulous over the other night. It
was very funny. I am not sure it was supposed
to be very funny all of the time, but I thought it was.
I've never watched Bill Maher, but he strikes me as
rather Michael Mooreish. Rotten Tomatoes rated
it at 71%. It did inspire some conversation, and I certainly
got a few good laughs out of it.
Things are still strange. It takes time to process all of
the emotions surrounding weeks of your life devoted
to staying warm, getting food, living with your mom,
etc. There were things she said during that time
that she has never told me about. I can't go there
with those things yet. I am too vulnerable. Too in need
of good sleep and recovery time. But I'll not forget
what she said, how she said what she said, her
tone of voice, her body language.
It snowed earlier, but now it has stopped and I can see
the beginnings of a sunset through my back windows.
It looks lovely out there. Just enough snow to cover
the grass.
Time to go cook. Tonight's dish:
Roasted Pork with Oranges and Prunes
Marinate a 1 lb. pork tenderloin in apple cider
vinegar, olive oil, and cumin for about 30 min.
Cook the tenderloin in a cast iron skillet until
browned on both sides (about 10 minutes).
Put in a 400 degree oven until pork is done
(about 20-30 minutes).
Put 3/4 cup chopped, pitted prunes in a
medium bowl with 1/4 cup hot water
and let stand for 5 minutes. Add two
peeled and chopped oranges to the bowl.
Remove pork from pan and place on plate
to rest for 10 minutes or so. Add prunes
and oranges to the skillet and scrape up
any browned bits. Slice pork and top with
fruits. Serve with rice or couscous with slivered almonds.
(From Everyday with Rachel Ray magazine)
5 comments:
I just ran screaming out of the room.
Rachel RAY?????
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!
Sorry.
I don't have anything nice to say about her so, because my parents raised me well, I'll bite my tongue.
I haven't seen any of the movies nominated for Oscars this year. I have seen Mickey Rourke interviewed a handful of times. Gosh, I hope he wins. I hope he wins because he's flawed and fucked up and so utterly human. And he knows it. I saw him on Charlie Rose and he talked about how he understood how tenuous his comeback was, how at any moment, because he is who he is, he could fuck it up in the blink of an eye.
I don't think I've ever wanted anyone to win an Oscar as much as I want him to win.
Did you see his win on the Golden Globes? He thanked his dogs. That's when I thought, man oh man, do I like this man. He reminds me a lot of my dear dead uncle, Paul. He was also flawed and fucked up and utterly human. And he knew it. His nickname growing up was Butch, but he was the kindest, most fragile, loving human being I've known.
Maggie, just so you know, I have been coming here and reading but not commenting. It was partially a computer problem, which was solved. (Got a brand spankin' new laptop---what an odd transition from my clunky behemoth of a desktop that was almost 9 years old and grinding away and slowing down like a dinosaur.) It was also partially that I haven't had a lot to say lately. I'm like that. I can go for days without saying anything out loud.
I wanted to let you know that your post about your mother and you and the skates really...
man, I still don't have words for it. That moment between you and her reminded me so much of me and my father before he died. He was trying so hard to talk to me, to reach out, and I was just beginning to warm up to that possibility when he died.
I know you'll never love your mother the way you loved your father, but gosh, Maggie, keep that door open, okay? It sounds like she's trying.
Good to see you here, stranger.
All I can say about Rachel Ray is she's a damn good cook. I have cooked many of her recipes and they are up there with the best of the best. Unfortunately, I didn't get to cook the pork tenderloin. I opened the package and man, oh man, did it reek! I am taking it back to the grocery today so they can smell it and give me money back. That's the second one I have had to toss out.
My sister told me The Wrestler was a great movie and Mickey Rourke was the only choice for the part. The movie didn't come here (like so many movies--Milk comes to mind). I have to drive at least an hour to get to watch a decent film. Goes with living in a small town in the Bible belt.
Glad you got a new computer. You certainly got a lot of years out of your old one. I get a new computer about every 4 years or so.
I'm not giving up on my mom, Laurel. She gave up on me. And it's not that I loved my dad more--it's that he loved me and she didn't. He was easy to love. I accept the fact that her actions during the ice storm and power outage were indicative of someone who's giving you the best they can. The reality is that my mother will never love me as my father did, but I can't waste any more time thinking about it. And I don't have to live any more wondering if the day will ever come. Things are just what they are, and it saddens me, but I can't change her.
I am actually going by her house today for the first time since I took her home almost 2 weeks ago. I am going to get the skates and the marbles. And to look at a suspicious mole on her forehead that she is concerned about. I try really hard with my mom, but sometimes it backfires. So, I'm just staying low key and not letting myself get worked up about some of the things she does, which used to set me back for weeks or months.
Though I don't like to think about it, the reality of our relationship tells me we won't have that chance either to get to understand one another. But I do know this--I have tried. And in her own way, I see from time to time that she tries, too. That will have to do.
Time to go take back the bad meat and get my dad's things. I have a feeling it's going to be an emotional day for me. I am sitting her thinking of touching those skates and already imagining all the times his fingers touched them, laced them up, tied the laces in knots and slung the skates over his young, strong shoulders.
I still can't bear to look at pictures of him.
I can't say I know how you feel, since I don't ever recall sensing that my parents, individually or collectively, loved any of the three of us kids more than another. I was always aware that they loved each other a hell of a lot more than any of us. (grin) I was always jealous of that love. I don't know that I've ever felt that way about another human being, the way they felt about each other. So, my heart goes out to you, that you've always known that your mother didn't love you or let you in. And I apologize for my misunderstanding of the situation.
The skates and the marbles. How wonderful to have these tangible things connected to your father. I have an old flannel shirt--my father had, interestingly, as huge a collection of flannel shirts as he did silk ties, which I guess is a reflection of the dichotomy of his life, the strictly suit and tie business side, and the handy man who could and would fix anything and everything--was my father's favorite. I'm so glad I kept it. It seemed like such a silly thing to cling to at the time when my mother was cleaning out his closet. Now, whenever I put it on, I'm reminded of how large a figure he was in my life, both figuratively and literally (he was 6'4" tall).
After the first death, there is no other. I always return to that Dylan quote. I think there is one death in each of our lives that we never really get over. For my mother, I think it was both the death of her mother, and then, years later, her husband. Both were life changing for her. For me, it's my father. I just don't know that I'm ever going to get over the fact of his death.
Maggie, thank you for your friendship. It means a lot to me.
I meant to add that regarding the age of my dear nearly dead computer, I tend to wear shoes and coats and jeans until they're literally falling apart, I'll drive a car until it up and dies on me, and I guess the same goes for a computer.
I guess I want everything to last forever. Is that so much to ask? (smile)
Oh, Laurel, I don't think you misunderstood the situation at all. I think you know how you felt when you lost your father and how close your were to coming to know him when he left. I knew and know your comments were given openly and honestly and with hope that perhaps my mom and I could get there at some point in time.
And perhaps we will.
I got the box. I drove around with it in the backseat for some time before I came home. I cried in the drive thru line at Wendy's when I decided I didn't want to come home and eat.
I left it out in the car for hours, but I decided, late this evening, to go outside and get it out of the car.
And I opened it. And I cried and cried.
And I opened it again when my husband got home, showing him all the items, one by one, and then neatly packing it all in the crate again (it's not a box--it's a old wooden crate).
And then I put the crate in the dining room and tried to go watch tv, but that was useless.
I am not going to cry again tonight. I feel that now.
I am just going to try to sleep.
Thank you, friend, for your concern and your presence. I have missed you.
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