MonkeyRant

Paul Giamatti (Sideways, Duplicity) is a fantastic actor and a joy to watch: he has perfect comic timing, an accomplished twitching smirk, and a matchless ability to depict vast depths of neurotic despair as if on cue. Just the thought of him playing an unstable theater actor who resolves to ease his suffering by having his soul extracted and safely deposited into storage (with the subsequent plot twist sending him to St. Petersburg, Russa to retrieve his soul when it is stolen) made me giddy with anticipation.

In some ways, the movie successfully delivers on its promises: Giamatti takes the main stage throughout the film delivering pleasantly off-key jokes and persisting in a state of endless agitation readily recognizable and appreciated by any inhabitant of New York City. The riffs on the chickpea theme are strikingly inventive and the seamless incorporation of ordinary everyday objects (phone book, New Yorker magazine) into the surreality of the plot is priceless. The director, Sophie Barthes, adopts a decidedly unhurried pace and maintains distance from her characters' providing fruitful grounds for comedy. Shot in accordance with the canons of the indie film, Cold Souls does not confront the viewers with emotionally charged climactic scenes, unexpected revelations or even a trace of a cathartic resolution, presenting ample opportunities to relax and savor the excellent acting and the originality of the idea behind the film. And of course there are more than enough literary references to delight in.

And yet despite the seemingly perfect concept the movie fails to form a coherent whole: at times it seems that Barthes is simply not sure what to do with her characters, there are quite a few "dead" spots during which you cannot help but want the actors to hurry it up. The film has a feeling of a sketch, an unfinished first draft for a great comedy. Katheryn Winnick is a strange casting choice for the role of Sveta, the aspiring Russian actress, since she clearly lacks the necessary language skills: her Russian is thickly accented and reminds one of the supposed Soviet spies in bad 50s movies about cold war and espionage.

There could be many reasons not to like Juno: some would be scandalized by its subject matter (teenage pregnancy), others by its possible right-wing agenda that pushes adoption rather than abortion, but these are not the reasons I went away disappointed.

From the original and mood-setting animation sequence of the opening credits through the first opening scenes, the moviegoer's expectations are set to align with other films that belong to the genre loosely described as a comedy about a weirdly cool teenager.

The teenagers not only clearly outsmart their clueless parents, but also able to intelligently discuss any topic, be it relative merits of a particular kind of slasher horror films or indie music, as well as display incredible depths of self-reflexivity. However, unlike "Ghost World" or films by Kevin Smith, "Juno" completely falls apart 15 minutes in and not because the lines that Ellen Page (June) dryly delivers are hardly believable, but mostly because they stick out as a sore thumb. The dialog feels stilted and awkward and the film never succeeds at creating a world in which the same lines could have felt candid and fresh. All characters except Juno are solely defined by their individual quirks (dog obsession, child-bearing obsession, failed-rock-star obsession) and are no more than cardboard cut-outs begrudgingly and clumsily dragging the film along. And while it's fair to say that seeing the world from the teenager's point of view tends to simplify everything to the point of slight idiocy, in order for this cinematic device to work, it needs to be offset by something. Usually, the balance is achieved by an inclusion of dark forays into social isolation, awkward teenage rage and self-involved desperation, but in Juno there is nothing of the sort. The major crisis that shakes Juno's foundation consists of her realization that not all couples last a lifetime - and how is this a surprise, given that her parents have divorced when she was 3?

When the simplistic happy-end finale arrives, it leaves no ambiguity to ponder, no coolness to behold or weirdness to remember. It ends as all conventional teenage coming of age stories do - with suburban boredom - and not a trace of anxiety to liven it up.

Spectators who favor big dramas and melodramatic excesses of Hollywood cinema will surely be disappointed by the absence of a climactic dramatic resolution that could have finally released the tension in the all-out display of tragedy. However, the ever-present feeling of dread hanging over the main characters never results in anything more than the deep sense of hopelessness.

The film takes an unflinching look at the drudgery and misery of life in the Soviet Romania, focusing on two friends and college dorm roommates: a more practical Otilia and pathetically helpless Gabita, who is pregnant (the length of the term being the title of the film) and needs an illegal abortion.

This is not a pro-choice film with, nor does it have a strong political undercurrent, rather it raises above the mundane and the horrifying in order to produce a compassionate masterpiece of responsible social analysis.

Having seen Steven Johnson's lively and a compellingly fascinating presentation on the topic of the book at the DUX conference, I was inspired to read his book.

Unfortunately, the 250+ pages of the book provide very little insight beyond a 30+ minute presentation. The writing style is not forceful or engaging, but rather dull and lifeless. The lasting feeling is that the author is attempting to make the book accessible to a group of smart 10 year olds by using short sentences, simple vocabulary and endlessly repeating the same ideas over and over again.

The initial excitement wears off after about first 50 pages and the impetus to persist would help you stumble through the drudgery of another 50 pages, but except to give up sometime soon afterwards.

Open any women's magazine to discover an article devoted to "losing extra pounds," "getting to your dream weight," or an inexplicable "eating healthy" next to a photograph of a toweringly tall model of anorexic appearance complemented by mile-long legs; an illustration that seems to imply that eating your vegetable would somehow aid in leg elongation.

The main governing principle in any sensible diet article presents a simplistic enough approach for even the most big-mac addicted vegetable detractors: lean protein is good, red meat is bad, good carbs, bad carbs, eat your vegetables and fruits, exercise, don't eat anything to calm stress, and only indulge in refined sweets occasionally. And yet the accompanying photos of surprisingly bleak and unappetizing salads remain wholly unredeemed by the fit and contentedly smiling female model on the adjacent glossy page.

Just why this ostensibly simple and rational approach fails is self-evident to anybody shopping for salad greens mid-January: conveniently pre-washed and plastic wrapped, these pale, flaccid creatures tasting of cardboard and normally complemented with equally unappetizing slices of rock-hard gray and juiceless tomato can hardly fit anybody's idea of a delicious meal, no matter the dressings. "Glamour" diets appear wholly unfamiliar with the concept of the seasonality, of food enjoying a role more significant than efficient fuel for the human body. Surprisingly oblivious to the effects of situating food and all related rituals and traditions in the realm of purely rational nourishment and completely denying its emotional comfort and its ability to reach across generations and culture barriers, they press on with valuable advise about cesar salad and fresh fruit salad. Doubtlessly, this season- and emotion-blind outlook further perpetrates the crisis instead of resolving it. For food devoid of emotion and respect for those producing it breeds all the numerous dysfunctions plaguing our society: obesity, proliferation of fast-food, and horrific conditions of animals at CAFOs (also known as a confined animal feeding operation).

To eat food lovingly prepared in one's kitchen out of seasonally available ingredients bought from a farmer at the local greenmarket is to restore the emotional connection that we so desperately need. By recognizing food as spiritual as well as nutritional nourishment, by rediscovering old recipes and sharing the food with those you care about, the strain of calories counting becomes unnecessary as the body regains the ability to regulate hunger and satiation. Enjoying each fruit and vegetable in its prime allows one to fully appreciate its unique flavor and - somewhat unsurprisingly - obviates the need to rally for the "right diet." Unlike the cardboard greens of the winter supermarket, a ripe heirloom tomato picked the day before needs no PR. As it turns out eating right only takes listening to yourself and treating food with due respect.

And thus after many years of alternating between accepting and rejecting confusing "popular" advice, engaging in calories-counting and even keeping a food diary, I think I have finally made my peace with food.

Honk if you love George Clooney. Honk twice if you agree that he happens to belong to the rarely observed category of men that - just like great wine - become better with age. Playing an aging "fixer" in a large law firm, an absent father, and a failed businessman, Clooney exudes charisma, but at the same time stays true to his characters' position as an underdog through the closing title sequence. I suspect that all men must hate him.

While it is hard to expect something as excellently written and directed with such an impeccable timing from Tony Gilroy - the tireless man behind the never-ending "Bourne" enterprise, this film is more than worth your while. The overall mood of the film is sombre (with great camera-work and the appropriately muted color-scheme), the witty comic relief exchanges are well-placed, and the dialog is forceful and fresh without feeling scripted. The director keeps the spectators on the edge of their seats, with the customary build-up at the end, but without resorting to a cliché closure. This is how movies should always be made.

After seeing Tony Gilroy's true might as a director, I dearly hope that there isn't yet another Bourne coming to a theater near you.

When it comes to enjoying some waves and some sun, New Yorkers have a few options. Unfortunately, in most cases a trip to the beach takes up the entire day. Unless, of course you are willing to take the Q train down to Brighton Beach. The area is filled with senior citizens (mostly of Soviet origin), other Russians of assorted ages and stages of assimilation, and a few desperate New Yorkers who apparently have no other choice. The beach itself has all the marks of a fine city beach: sunburned lifeguards and heaps of trash.

Want to get-away from it all? You have options.

Those lucky champs (or miserable souls, depending on your point of view) who own a car, might want to make a trip to Robert Moses Beach, about an hour out of the city. Its remoteness, coupled with car-only access provides for relatively reliable isolation and calm. Clean beach showers, lifeguards and ample parking makes for an enticing opportunity. Those wanting to use a body-board (let along a surfboard), beware - they're only permitted on the far left side of the beach.

If you are looking for an adventure, then Long Beach which, according to a life-guard acquaintance has the deadliest rip currents of them all might fit the bill. $18 package (from Flatbush LIRR station) includes a discounted beach admission.

New Jersey might possess less than stellar reputation among snobs of New York, but Sandy Hook provides a little piece of paradise. Search for a way to get there on the Internet, and the only option you'll find is the Sea Streak (departures from pier 35 and Pier 11 (8:00am and 11:00am), $34 round-trip, cash-only, extra for bringing bikes). A rip-off, given that Circle Line only charges $30 (departures from South Port). The bus shuttles meet the ferry, but there are several excellent beaches within walking distance. Beware of Gunner's beach if bathing in the nude might be too much to handle.

You are under 27, Jewish, never taken the birthright trip all your Jewish friends mention and eager to have a free vacation, see a new country, and make a few friends?

You might want to reconsider. Here's a list of several simple yes/no questions that will easily determine whether you are the right person for this trip:

1. Do you like random hook ups for sex or being roommates with people who do?
( ) Yes
( ) No

2. Do you consider visiting tourist traps when traveling "seeing a new place"?
( ) Yes
( ) No

3. Do you like long lectures in half-broken hapless English with kindergarten-level humor generously sprinkled here and there? Especially on topics that would probably be of little interest to anybody?
( ) Yes
( ) No

4. Do you consider two very short hikes, one 10-minute snorkeling session, and a soak in the Dead Sea an outdoor hiking adventure?
( ) Yes
( ) No

5. Would you enjoy spending Saturday trapped in a hotel with nothing to do and no ability to leave?
( ) Yes
( ) No

6. Would you rather waste your money or your vacation days?
( ) Money. I work and have very little time off.
( ) Time off. I'm a student/part-time/freelance worker and have no money, but plenty of time to waste.

7. When you take vacations, do you plan it yourself (or with several other people who are also going) or do you buy a pre-set tour?
( ) Plan myself
( ) Buy a tour


If you've answered "money" in question 6 and "plan myself" in 7, don't bother going, regardless of what your other answers might have been, though these questions might also get you thinking.

The trip is a boring, arduous undertaking with a rigid schedule, minimal time to explore anything, but plenty of time to listen to lectures. Your guide will stop the group mid-hike (sometimes as often as every 15-20 minutes), sit you down and talk until your ears bleed. It's not that big of a deal for those who came to the trip to hook up with each other or with the Israeli soldiers, because they will be so exhausted from drinking and having sex all night that they would fall asleep right away. However, your mileage might vary.

If you have any experience traveling in a small group or by yourself, picking and choosing where to go and what to do and if you are beyond the age of having too much free time but not enough money, you will most likely be disappointed.

And if you do go, behold this: I TOLD YOU SO!

Не говори GOP пока не перепрыгнешь.

First premiered at Sundance, "The Good Night" is opening in mainstream movie-theaters on October 5th.

There are at least a million different reasons why this movie should be seen. It is a striking romantic comedy that is as remote from everything associated with this mostly unbearable genre as can be. The movie is a directorial debut of Gwyneth Paltrow's brother, Jake Paltrow. Gwyneth herself and Penélope Cruz both grace the film with their excellent performances: natural and understated, yet comically screwball at the same time.

Main character - Gary (Martin Freeman) is increasingly dissatisfied with his marriage to Dora (Gwyneth) - a nice, but unexciting curator of an art gallery. To escape his depressing life, he turns to the help of a lucid dreams expert Mel, played by Danny DeVito, who delivers a superbly orchestrated comic performance. From there, the film playfully forays into realms of desire and love. It is at the same time an ironical study of the mechanics of love and a hilarious comedy with specs of outstanding dry humor, never descending into the characteristic nauseating saccharine style of the "romantic" genre.

Best of all, the director is kind enough to afford his audience a false feeling of superiority as they imagine they've seen it all and know where it's going... at least for a while.

Looking for perfect date movie? You just found it!

Потом поняв что дело дрянь,
В утиль снесли пальто
И превратили снова в ткань,
Добротную зато.

Из этой ткани сделал цех
Отличное пальто,
Но и по сниженной цене
Не взял его никто

Потом поняв что дело дрянь...

(c) не моё

Double decaf espresso, please!


???

What does a Washington DC based big oil industry conspiracy, overweight and bearded George Clooney, Pakistani immigrants leading a hopeless existence in an oil-rich middle-eastern country all have in common? You guessed it, they are all stuffed into a jumbled guilt-ridden mess that is Syriana. Characters blow up, characters are tortured, and children drown. There is so much going on that about 30 minutes in, a spectator gives up any attempts to parse the film's unnecessarily and unjustifiably disjointed narrative. Matt Damon playing an accidental adviser to a rising Arab prince and a father of an above-mentioned drowned child is rather bleak and uninteresting.

Do you want to see how Kevin Smith would remake "High Fidelity" if he did not know how to make good films? Then, this movie is for you. Directorial debut by Paul Soter showcases amateur editing, scripted dialog, predictable framing, and bad acting. The story is set in motion when a nerdy owner of a video store Neil (Cillian Murphy) meets Violet (Lucy Liu) - a nut case, meant to look adorably eccentric. The supposedly comic scenes of Neil and Violet's adventures drag on from there with no trace of subtlety, irony, or anything resembling originality. Surprisingly unconvincing performance by Liu delivers the final punch to the joyless conceit.

Unexpectedly touching and heartening, poignant and joyful at the same time, the film by Brazilian director Cao Hamburger tells a story of 12-year old Mauro, who is half-Jewish and full-on soccer fan. As a result of political unrest in Brazil, his parents flee, leaving him in São Paulo in the care of his grandfather and his eccentric Yiddish-speaking neighbors.

Though not quite a tale of "coming of age," the film somewhat borrows from the genre, first immersing the spectators into the pleasures and disappointments of Mauro's life and then closely following his right of passage from childhood into adolescence. The filmmakers skillfully incorporate both, light-hearted comic moments as well as emotion-filled dramatic arcs, but never fall into the trap of excessive melodramatic spectacle.

But all of that hardly matters, because, let's face it: it does not get much better than orthodox Jews dancing and singing in Yiddish intermixed with Portuguese to celebrate Brazilian soccer victory.

Jack (whispering): You have to understand that innocent people are dying. Tell me where the <weapon of mass destruction> is.
Suspect (nervously darting eyes): I don't know anything
Jack (SREAMING): WHERE IS THE <THE WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION>? TELL ME NOW!
<torture and screams>
Suspect (breathing heavily): <gives up whatever information he/she knows>


Now, I do not condone torture by any means, but for the first several seasons this turn of the plot worked well as a dramatic device and an entertaining one at that. However, replayed ad nauseam with all possible weapons (viruses, atomic threats, neurotoxins) this contraption became a boredom inflicting banality. Jack screams, suspects caves. Chloe uploads the schematics to Jack's cellphone. The US president is either a gullible idiot or an evil monster with a patriotic streak gone awry.

In the first several seasons Kifer Sutherland's character was an extra-smart, extra-cute, extra-observant and patriotic man. However, by season 6 he turned into a kitch version of himself: an indestructible superman-like hero endlessly repeating the same trite pieces of dialog in virtually indistinguishable circumstances. He even manages to have a second round of breaking into a foreign consulate. How stupid does one have to be?

By the way, did you notice that the most stupid people in "24" are CTU's security guards and CTU's "tacteams," who get killed left and right and who, apparently, are completely incapable of defending themselves, let alone anybody else?

Happy watching!

Having stood in the waitlist line for over 2 hours to get into the film, I sat through it to the final credits patiently hoping that the film will get better, more unpredictable, that somehow, an inexplicable turn of the painfully banal script would redeem my unprecedented stoicism.

However, the new film by Pavel Lungin, starring a cult art scene figure Pyotr Mamonov and an excellent Russian actor Viktor Sukhorukov failed to deliver on all counts: it was brimming with cliches (both, plot-wise and acting-wise). Dull and unimaginative down to the last scene and overloaded with pseudo-meaningful dialogs, it made me squirm time and again.

And although I am far from trying to denigrate the possible spiritual appeal that the film holds for some, its cinematic value is negligible.

The most bitter aspect of leaving your home is not having to pack bags (however annoying and bothersome); neither it is having to say goodbye to friends and familiar places. The most gut-wrenching of all is the inability to come back, the clear certainty the loss that can neither be replaced nor undone: everything will have changed by the time you come back. Of course some things remain: the buildings and streets, parks and embankments, despite many ridiculously absurd neon signs newly embellishing the old walls. The most ironic part of the visit turned out to be all about how much I myself have changed since I left almost 8 years ago.

Having heard from a friend that most of my former classmates have married and now have kids, I was least expecting to find them virtually unchanged. Fewer hairs for some and couple of more pounds for others could just about sum up the difference. And then there was the city. As a child, I was in awe of its tree-lined streets, riverside trails, red walls of the Kremlin, and the pretty main street. Despite the fact that I never knew anything else, I held a stone-firm conviction that I lived in the most wonderful city on Earth. Growing up and moving did little to persuade me otherwise. Once, my husband made a casual comment about how irredeemably provincial NN seemed to him and I remember being furious at him for such unforgivable faux-pa. When I got there, however, the city appeared decidedly small and dead-quiet. In two days time the twinges of nostalgia gave way to a entirely different feeling: I was feeling claustrophobic and homesick. Just like my classmates, the city hasn't changed, but its appeal no longer held any allure.

When I left I could have always come back. However, at some point along the way the possibility of coming back stopped being an option I particularly appreciate having

Крошка сын к отцу пришёл, и спросила кроха:

Daddy, Daddy, tell me the truth
And nothing but the truth
Am I a philistine?