Friday, July 25, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Here's the tagline for this movie---ready?
"There's only one thing more frightening than murder...high school."
Really, that's all you need to know to deduce that it was made in 1987. Why were people in the 80's so fascinated with high school? (I say, hypocritically, with a printed off e-mail from my high school crush that I can't bear to throw away.)
Hiding Out was on Showtime last weekend and I was in heaven. I have a weakness for Jon Cryer. Not only because of Ducky--although it goes without saying that the character will live forever in film history--but also because I have a soft spot for cute, neurotic and slightly cocky underdogs a la Michael J. Fox.
So here's the plot of the movie: a successful stockbroker witnesses a murder and goes on the run, taking refuge with his cousin and pretending to be a high school student while he hides out from the mob. A really great performance by Jon Cryer as a 30-something guy (or maybe 28? I was trying to figure out what they could get away with) who unwittingly inspires the student body and falls in love with a high school senior after she writes a paper about how big of a crook Nixon was.
Best scene ever: Sitting in class as the grumpy history teacher berates the high school beauty (Annabeth Gish) for having the audacity to say such things about the old lady's hero, Nixon, Cryer guffaws and looks around for some shared sense of disbelief at her idiocy. The joke is, he's the only other one old enough to remember.
Yeah, it gets a little creepy sometimes thinking that the love story is probably statutory rape, but I'm pretty sure they never actually do the deed during the movie. And Cryer is incredibly boyish. That makes it okay anyway. Right?
91 stars in all it's 80's-montaging gloriousness. Netflix it immediately.
It's so not fair that a grumpy (not even) two weeks can ruin a whole month. And I'm still on the path of misery, since I said I was going to go to the gym today and I still didn't do it. I suppose I still could, but that might put me in a better mood and I'm so cranky I can't imagine being in one. It was a little under two weeks ago that I got back from a really great vacation in Florida and wish I was still there.
July is usually one of my favorite months. Nice and hot and you go on vacation or you think about vacation and you sometimes even do things you don't usually do, like outdoor concerts or playing frisbee. You get to wear sundresses! And sandals! And sunglasses (RayBan tortoise-shell wayfarers--exciting!) And at night when it cools down a bit you roam around the city and it's different and you love it and you think it will never feel the same again...but then the very next night when it cools down it does, and that's an even better feeling.
This is the first July that I've started to feel old. Not old old. But you know, like that shelf on your shoulders now holds a lot more stuff. And then yesterday after 8 hours on my feet at work I noticed that my heels were dry. This morning when I shamefully (vainly) confessed to Joe he joked, "Uh-oh, do you need a ped-egg?" Ew! No way!
The point is, it's not something I ever had to worry about. For one thing, for seven years I lived an hour from the beach where the natural wonder of sand kept my soles youthfully soft. (I miss the beach.) But now I get it why they do all that buffing and lotioning and heel waxing in a pedicure, and not only do I get it but I friggin' need it. I remember my mom complaining about this fact of nature, buying fancy lotions to rub on her feet, but it was one of those things I only half-heartedly listened to. Advice I didn't need.
July, you jerk. Or maybe, it's just New York. All that walk, walk, walking around and then walking around some more. When it's hot I'd rather kill myself than descend into the smothering heat of waiting for the subway underground. Ick. I miss the Julys of my youth, driving around the midwest in my oil-slurping old jeep with the top off, playing stupid cat-and-mouse games with idiot rednecks, laughing it up like we were so above it all, and most of all, that long drive home alone, through the cornfields and the crickets and up the gravel driveway to my house where everyone was asleep, and I'd turn off the engine and walk inside and the stars would be so crazy up there and bright like hell.
Aw jeez, it's 70 stars for the difference of 8 million more people and 10 years later.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Hurry up, guys. Go see it while it's up.
But first--our deepest apologies. We reviewers have been a little behind on the blog lately. I wish I could use the excuse that it is summer and there's stuff like sunburn and mosquitoes and finding illegal Tennessee fireworks to deal with...but I know that you know this neglectful streak has been going on since December. Some day we might get our stuff together and start posting more regularly, but for now we're irresponsible. Sorry.
I had to return for a brief bit to share with you the little project Joss Whedon (of Buffy fame...even though I was never a fan of the show...or, for that matter, anything else he did like Angel or Firefly--granted I never saw it, so maybe I would have been) took on during the writer's strike. With Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion, and Felicia Day in the main roles, Whedon's penned a "unique little epic" of a musical, told in three parts and available online for one week. Acts I and II have premiered earlier this week, and Act III premiere's Saturday, with everything going offline on Sunday at midnight. They will later be available for purchase on iTunes.
But trust me, go see them now. NPH is fantastic. Completely and totally hilarious and darling and I love him so much. You won't be disappointed...but you will if you miss out.
One billion stars.