Review #17 - 1969 (1988)

From The Bard at Netflix:

"Two college buddies and their families deal with the sad consequences of the Vietnam War. The two small-town teenagers learn through love, death and war what friendship and freedom mean in America. Filled with upheaval and protest, 1969 was the year that split the world apart but brought a generation together."

So, I'm sure you will think this is egocentric and more than a little unbalanced - but I am very possessive and proud of my personal stats. My name is Tina - I love that name. I don't know a lot of other people named Tina. When I do hear about someone else named "Tina", I get irritated that they are using MY name. Even better - my real first name is "Katherina", and NOBODY has that name, baby. All mine.

My birth month is September. September is the perfect month. It's still a little warm, but not too warm, and a little cool, but not too cool. You get to go back to school in September and wear your new school clothes and use your new Pee-Chee. I like the way it sounds when it rolls off your tongue. Say it with me, little chickens. September. That's my month.

My birth date is the 23rd. I am partial to the number 23. I like the way it looks when you write it. It's double digits, which everyone knows is better than a single digit. They even made a movie about the number 23 with Jim Carrey a few years ago. This, of course, is concrete evidence of the superiority of the number 23. My number, baby.

I was born in 1969. Still in the 60's. We went to the moon in '69. We weren't yet in the musically tragic 70's. Bryan Adams sang a song about the Summer of '69, and it was a really cool song, now wasn't it. Being born in 1969 means you grew up in the 80's, and well that was just frickin' awesome.

So....a movie about my year. Must be wonderful, right?

1969 features Kiefer Sutherland channeling Hogwarts with his droopy hair and glasses; Winona Ryder, looking like she has for 20+ years, and RDJR, who portrays a guy named "Ralph". Excuse me, RALPH?

I will pause a moment while we all remember the Cheech and Chong "His name is RALPH, man!" routine.

This average film would be pretty forgettable, were we not in a war in Iraq, and were I not a mother who has had to send her son off to war. There's a scene where Kiefer's brother, a Marine, gets put on a bus by his dad, bound for his deployment to Vietnam. Believe it or not, I almost forgot that I had actually LIVED that scene until it was halfway over. I was sitting here, drinking Diet Dr. Pepper, and thinking - "wow, how hard to let your child go like that." Then the lightning bolt smacks me, and I remember, "hey, you stupid idiot, you did that exact thing not 5 months ago." Which led to the inevitable case of Mommy Guilt.

Of course, the boy comes home in a flag-draped coffin, just like we knew he would. You can probably imagine - that's not a mental picture I wish to dwell upon.

Our hero's memorable moment is when he OD's on LSD and starts flopping around on the floor in his underwear with his eyes rolled back in his head. Actors seem to employ the "eyes rolling back in the head" thing a lot. Whenever I see it, I think "man, that must really, really hurt", as opposed to what I should be thinking about, which is the actual scene.

My review? If it was an essay, I'd give it a C-, so I guess we'll go with a 7. Not a BAD movie, but not terribly GOOD, either. Kinda like generic Jello.

DQ Therapy

Well, the word is out. I officially told someone outside of my office that my husband and I are basically separated (even though we still live together, and will continue to, for those of you who care).

I anticipated that this would probably happen this year - hence my initial blog post telling you, my dear reader, that this year was going to be bad - but I didn't think it would be so soon. I figured I still had months before complete marital collapse.

There's a strange sense of relief in telling someone outside your immediate circle that your life is in the toilet. And you probably think this sounds weird, but there's a calm that has come over me since I stopped wearing my wedding ring. No more need to pretend, no more facade to pack around like Aunt Ruthie's old dresser.

My friend and I met at our usual therapy location - Dairy Queen. I ate a burger and fries and sucked down a Dr. Pepper like it was 110 in the shade. Must be the lack of junk food in my life lately...it was pretty darn good. Or maybe it was the company. Sheila - you rock.

Now I have details to address. The practical aspects of living together without living together are daunting. I don't have the energy or desire to think about that right now. I'm just going to ride this trans-fat wave for a few more hours, and maybe we can talk tomorrow. Good night, dear reader.

A Dark Day

Today was a dark, dark day. At 5 a.m. the Academy Award nominees were announced. Our hero was snubbed yet again.

How can you win a Golden Globe for a role, and not even get NOMINATED for the Oscar, I ask? How? And HELLO? The Soloist too? Geesh. What's a guy gotta do to win an Oscar in this town?

All I know is, I saw Sherlock twice (I even PAID to see it one of those times) and I didn't see Avatar - don't care to.

So take that, Little Gold Man.

Review #16 - Game 6 (2005)

From our friends at Netflix:

"Lengendary scribe Don DeLillo wrote this fascinating film about a New York playwright, Nicky Rogan (Michael Keaton), who's immersed in failure. Unable to ride the coattails of success no matter how hard he tries, Nicky distracts himself from his endless career woes by obsessing about those of others -- namely, the perpetual underdogs of baseball, the Boston Red Sox. But Nicky can't sit out the game of life forever. Michael Hoffman directs."

So, when you read that little synopsis, what do you think? I'll tell you what you think. You think, "Man, what a lame snoozer waste of cash." Bear with me, chickens.

First of all, this movie is set in 1986. Michael Keaton (g*d, I love him, don't you?) is a Red Sox fan. Ya'll recall the 1986 World Series? I don't follow baseball, and even I know what happened in Game 6. So this is our backdrop.

RDJR plays theater critic Steven Schwimmer, the bane of the existence of every theatrical schmoe within 100 miles of NYC. He's a total freakazoid hermit-type who lacerates everyone within reach of his pen, and he's about to go see Nicky's newest play. Nicky spends his day dreading the review and anticipating the upcoming Sox game...work in his down-and-out buddy, daughter, estranged wife, lots of taxi cabs....

I won't spoil it for you, because you should rent this one. I loved it. Loved it loved it. Don't let Netflix fool you. This is a really, really funny film, if you are into quirky weird movies. Which, as you certainly know by now, I pretty much am.

It occurs to me that I, your humble correspondent, AM Steven Schwimmer. Reviewer extraordinaire - cloaked in anonymity. RDJR most certainly hasn't heard of this blog (yet), but I would imagine that, at seemingly random times of day, a few keys are stroked in a land far, far away - and a dark shadow passes over his artist soul and gives him a little shudder. My, my, he thinks. Whatever could it be? Perhaps he brushes it off, with a small shake of his head and self-deprecating tip of the chin. Or...perhaps....like the beating of a heart buried under a floorboard...it tasks him....

Or not.

This one is an 8.