Trompé Setsuled (setsuled) wrote,
Trompé Setsuled

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Oh Sweet Mystery of Life at Last I've Found You

I succeeded to-day in waking up at 8pm. Thank you, thank you.

Yes, I'm only too happy as another Thursday draws to a close. Although I tried to go to sleep earlier, I only managed to drop off at around 8am--and then I of course needed to awaken again at 10am. So out into the world I went, an ambassador of bad coordination and sticky eyes. I had a meal at Einstein bagels, and had serious trouble counting the seven dollars from my wallet to pay for it. My poor math abilities are grossly multiplied by sleep deprivation.

Not thinking about it a whole lot ahead of time, I decided to see Brokeback Mountain again in order to kill the time. I think one of the fun things about seeing Brokeback Mountain alone as a young man is that it makes you Obviously Gay and Possibly Tragic.

"One for Brokeback Mountain," I said to the 20-something male cashier, who, in response gave me an earnest look and said, "Hey, that's no problem." The guy who took my ticket even blessed me.

The first time I saw the movie was in La Jolla, at the Landmark, which exclusively shows foreign and indie films. The audience consisted of a lot of women, and one old man who I overheard talking about seeing Snow White when it was first released.

To-day, I was in Rancho San Diego at the big Edwards Meta-plex, or whatever they're calling them now. The audience, it being the middle of the day, was small; only about fifteen or so people. It consisted of older, gossipy women, who thankfully talked little during the movie, although several of them left and returned to the theatre throughout the movie like it was a football game. And they would always walk all the way across the theatre, in front of the screen, so that Ang Lee's beautiful mountain vistas were frequently accented by fluffy round-haired bespectacled silhouettes. A people impressively out of touch with their feelings, I noticed, as one woman even strolled past during Ennis's story about the old man he saw mutilated and murdered.

I stayed until the credits stopped. At the end of the row to my left, two old women also stayed in order to chatter for the duration. When I finally got up to leave, and I walked by in front of them, one of them said, "Oh, my god!" and they both stopped talking.


I was made extraordinarily, maddeningly happy on Monday. I went to see Match Point--and it was a great, unpredictable, thoroughly wonderful movie. I can't remember the last time a new movie has made me feel so happy. I can't remember ever being happier, actually.

Driving home afterwards, I couldn't stop smiling. Not because it was a happy movie, but because it was so damn perfect. And it was even better because I knew hardly anything about it going in. It's directed by Woody Allen, who says it's his best film. And although I've only seen four other Woody Allen movies, I think he could be right.

I could tell the audience behind me weren't terribly happy about it. A woman behind me said, "I guess it was entertaining, but there was no point." I can assure you people that there was as much a point to the movie as there was to Casablanca, Taxi Driver, or Ghostbusters. It was the uncomfortable grumbling of an audience who was undeniably at the edge of their seats for the whole movie--not a peep or rustle did I hear--even though the movie couldn't be neatly categorised or--worse--couldn't be categorised as a typical Woody Allen film.

First of all, the beginning of the movie almost brought me to tears by the fact that it had intelligent, complicated, and engaging dialogue. And then about halfway through the movie I was having the beginnings of a darkly strange cinema orgasm. My thoughts might have read something like, "Oh, Allen, what--what are you doing . . . I'm . . . not sure I like this . . . no, Allen, stop--stop! Oh, gods, stop . . . stop, stop, stop---aAHAHUh! No, no, no--yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! Yes . . . ah . . . ahhh . . . Ah, oh, Allen, mmm, I--I love you. I love yoooooou . . . "

Trust me. You want what I was having.
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