I love movies. I always have. I remember my very first encounter with a movie theatre with a scrolling marquee of bulbs as big as me. I was less than five and they were showing Disney’s “Cinderella”. My parents must have pinched pennies until they bent double in order to snag my sisters and I seats, popcorn and the notion that somewhere, among all the chaos of the world, lies a happily ever after, a prince and some really great shoes.
At the time I was too young to be distracted by the “Why, that just couldn’t happen!” aspects of the film. I learned some twenty years later that it is absolutely impossible to befriend a mouse living in your wall boards as they are not cute, or endearing and you will likely resort to murder—and the closest you will come to that pumpkin coach is a spiced latte in October.
I don’t claim to be an expert on film, although I did totally call it on “King’s Speech” and “Argo” and have now added “Boyhood” to my collection of “I’m pretty sure this film is getting an Oscar nod” movies.
My family finds me less than capable of being a film critic because I tend to fall asleep. Often before the opening credits have finished.
I blame that on the fact that I get up very early to tend to an elderly dog with a weakening bladder, throw blankets over shivering daughters who think it’s cool to leave all the windows open to capture the night sea air, and solve all the problems of the world before venturing out into said world by 8:00am. It’s a taxing venture to say the least. So, when a movie is mentioned at 8:00pm, I know it’s the equivalent of a dose of warm milk with a Nyquil chaser and I simply succumb to the Slumber Fairy and I sleep.
But, I have been fortunate to catch a film every so often in the middle of the day and seen it to those fleeting words “The End”. What I tend to focus on is less story and far more distraction. The cynical voice in my head chimes in with “Wait a minute — that can’t happen!” That’s the film critic I’ve become, the one who finds the flaws that hide out like Waldos in horizontal stripes in all the dark corners of the film.
So, grab your popcorn and settle in. Let’s head to the city that doesn’t sleep —
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
My favorite film evvvveeeerrrrr….
Who doesn’t love this film? Audrey Hepburn?
Please. She defines grace.
Holly Golightly, while amazingly beautiful and enviously thin, is unemployed — yet she snagged a New York apartment, has awesome dresses and alligator shoes? I’m a little confused.
Then I find that the way she does it is a once a week visit to a dude in prison who pays her a hundred bucks to (unbeknownst to her) tell the underworld (in code) where the drug cartel plan to drop the next load.
Good enough, but one visit to the guy pays for one alligator shoe. What about rent (not to mention the other shoe)? Garbage pick-up? Cab fare? The darling little sleep mask? The electric bill? Smokes? The vodka for the party where Meg Wildwood shows up with two rich guys in tow? And c’mon, are you really going to tell me that Holly snagged all those dresses at Goodwill? Even her powder-room proceeds can’t clothe her in the manner she’s obviously become accustomed.
Then in a most creepy way, Jed Clampett shows up to whisk Holly back to Texas. Texas? She’s got an English accent — Holly Golightly can’t be from Texas!
Then there’s George Peppard, pre-Banacek, a handsome bachelor with a thing for Patricia Neal–whom in today’s world, would be far more likely featured in one of those scary “Why you should never smoke” commercials than a Maxim Coffee ad. He’s a catch who, too, lives in New York as a kept man on a meager advance from a book that ranks low on Amazon.com and is print-on-demand at three bucks a pop.
But it’s fun and romantic and reeks of soggy cats and soggier boyfriends with great kisses and happily ever afters. Audrey Hepburn did Cinderella one better, she brought sturdier shoes. Alligator trumps glass every time.
Cinderella stories have been around a long, long time. It’s just the shoes that change.
I think I’ll sleep on that—in search of the next story with distractions right around the bend, complete with a happily ever after.
While I’m no Siskle and Ebert, they’re in that great viewing room in the sky, you might just have to deal with me.
Did I just hear you yawn?