The anticipation builds

A reader wrote that my post on the Oscars inspired her to have an Oscar party this year. One has to let go of one’s individual sensitivities here and not mind that an invitation was not forthcoming. Keeping a blog reader happy is far more important that attending to one’s own social needs. Let me show my generous spirit and pass on a few tips to make her evening a complete success:

1. don’t hand out ballots and ask people to vote. The winner will make a complete idiot of her/himself. They will regret their behavior the next day and you will regret having had them over: a lose-lose situation;
2. don’t serve dinner beforehand. Many people like the preshow more than they like the Awards. You’ll be serving goat cheese soufflé as an appetizer and half your guests will already be glued to the TV;
3. don’t invite people who really are into the ceremonies: they’ll keep telling everyone to be quiet and a quiet party is no one's idea of a success;
4. don’t withdraw into yourself and read legal briefs so that everyone can see how cool and, ergo, bored you are with the ceremonies; that kind of boredom is contagious and you’ll soon have yourself a slumber party.

Oh, I could go on. Fact is, these parties are far less fun than seeing people in a non-TV context. But, if you must spice up your own viewing pleasure, go for it. And don’t invite me. I’m already committed. I’m baking up a soufflé, I have a stack of briefs to read – the whole bit.

Spring fever

As my afternoon went to coaching a group of law students in their moot court competition prep, I missed the chance to grab something for lunch. These events lead me to conclude the following:

1. I am really seriously nuts about my students (not all of them). When I listen to them speak, I see a future that is filled with their talent and humanity. I can’t wait ‘til my generation (and those before) steps aside from the legal profession, to be replaced by these guys.

2. I am really seriously nuts, period. Because I was running so late with everything, I decided to treat myself to a cup of coffee at Ancora. This is an indulgence because I cannot otherwise justify spending $3 for a latte that I can easily make in my office (and I have the fridge, the burner, and the stove-top little moka to do it, too). Since it was such a gorgeously spring-smelling day, I was rather upbeat and chipper in my slow meander toward Ancora (via parking lot, grocery store, post office etc.). At the entry to the coffee shop, a guy was sort of loitering, chatting up various customers as they were coming and going, in the most friendly of ways. Eventually he left, and I remarked to the sellers rather slyly “my, he was excessive!” And they smiled and nodded (sales people will agree with anything you tell them) and I left. And of course it struck me that I should not speak of “excessive” since I had just minutes ago spent a great deal of time explaining to a store clerk the virtues of buying fresh basil in February (he seemed genuinely interested), and telling the postal clerk that the stamps in Poland almost always have great artistry to them and this, in turn, opened the door for a number of other reflections on differences between the two cultures (the Hilldale postal clerks are extraordinarily patient with stories of this nature perhaps due to the fact that the average age of their customer tends to be 94 –prime time for story telling). Okay, it had not gotten to the point where I was accosting virtual strangers with conversational anecdotes, but still, I decided I should be more careful or else my mother’s predictions about the decline in the mental health of all our family members (she exempts herself I believe, which is good: we need to have someone keep the records of our demise) will have turned out to be true.

Movies for the week-end

If you're one of those who has requested email updates of NYT film reviews, you will have gotten the following capsules of what this week-end offers:

Passion of the Christ: After a horror-movie beginning, complete with demons, menacing music and creepy camera moves, Mr. Gibson settles into a long, relentless contemplation of torture, maiming and execution. His stated goal was realism, but the emphatic musical, visual and aural effects — the first nail is driven into Jesus' palms with a sickening thwack that must have required hours of digital tweaking — make the film a melodramatic exercise in high-minded sadomasochism. In spite of concerns about the anti-Semitism of Mr. Gibson's portrayal of the Pharisees, the movie is more grueling and unnerving than outrageous or offensive. For a movie made out of such evident religious conviction, it seems utterly lacking in grace.

Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights: This reimagining of the recklessly melodramatic 1987 original is packed with flashy, taffeta silliness, and a desperation for a sweaty PG-13 sexiness so laughable that the cast members deserve Oscar nominations for getting through the picture without cracking up.

Twisted: The greatest mystery in this laborious, nonsensical thriller is why the director Philip Kaufman bothered to lend his talents to such mediocre studio hackwork.

I suppose it is not inconceivable that the producers will try to salvage some good words from those reviews, if only for the future DVD rental market, which is often driven by reviews on boxes. For example, you could truthfully quote (without even changing the meaning much):

Passion of the Christ: “Mr Gibson settles into a long…contemplation. [E]mphatic musical, visual and aural effects.. a melodramatic exercise.. a movie made out of …evident religious conviction.”

Dirty Dancing: HN: “Packed with flashy…sexiness… The cast members deserve Oscar nominations...”

Twisted: “The greatest mystery…thriller… The director Philip Kaufman lend(s) his talents...”

Not exactly catchy slogans, but if you’re a dazed customer who has just spent 3.5 hours staring at countless DVD boxes trying to decide what to rent, it all kind of blurs together anyway.

The senior citizen in the parking lot

How old is my truck?
It is so old that I need a key to open the door (though I never lock it--what for?), but I don’t need a key to start the ignition (I don’t know how this happened but it seems these days I can just turn it on, much like a light switch).
It is so old that I bought one of the first models at the inception of this particular line of trucks, and I am still driving it even though after a long and happy history, the line has been discontinued.
It is so old that no one asks me to pick up prominent visitors at the airport anymore for fear that I will be driving them in THAT TRUCK.
It is so old that I’ve stopped ever going to a drive-through car wash. I’m afraid that the brushes will cause the sides to collapse on me much like a deck of cards and I’ll be devoured by the steely swirling monster bristles.
It is so old that… okay, enough. It is old. But I have no reason to discard it. It starts, it moves, it doesn’t guzzle gas. Can one demand more of a vehicle?

There is the image issue. I remember many years back when I drove some law students to the court house, one said “uh, we always sort of pictured you driving a SAAB.” I felt that to be a complement and it was disturbing to know that I had shattered a classy myth. From there, it is but a small drop to appearing for class in clothes that belong to the last decades, having vinyl furniture in your office, and generally exhibiting a loss of pride in the aesthetic presentation of oneself and one’s surroundings. I’m keeping up with the other stuff so far, but I’m on alert for signs of decline.