Inside Llewyn Davis (Creative Blog Title, I Know)

I arrived in the movie theater to see the Cohen brother's most recent film, Inside Llewyn Davis, as would an over-the-top, obnoxious sports fan stepping into the stadium to watch their favorite team play. I donned my imaginary foam finger and a flyer saying "go, Joel and Ethan!" I wanted to like the film so  badly that I broke my one moviegoing rule- have bare minimum expectations.

I blame the overly-affective marketing. The trailers showcased the best elements of the movie, including the most gorgeous song on the soundtrack (a beautiful version of "Fare Thee Well" written by Bob Dylan and preformed by Oscar Isaac and Marcus Mumford). I hold this song in a special place in my heart, as it helped me greatly in the coping of the recent loss of my grandfather. That being said, the rest of the songs fell far short of the quality of the previously mentioned tune (in my oh-so-humble opinion, anyways).

Brief plot summary: (trust me, it will be as there's not much to tell) Llewyn Davis lives in New York, bouncing from couch to couch as he doesn't have a place of his own as a struggling folk musician. He is attempting to break out as a solo artist but with no success. Eventually he toys with the idea of returning to work as a fisherman and give up his musical aspirations. He also finds out some surprising news from a special lady in his life and tries to deal with that as well. That's the basic recap.

I love the Cohen Brothers almost as much as I love Wes Anderson, and that's a lot of love. But I don't think they filled their own legendary shoes this time around. Generally, the public go to see films to escape and live vicariously through the adventures of others. This filmgoing experience simply made me never want to live the life of a struggling folk musician. Though many of the Cohen brother's films tag along at a slow pace (especially in comparison to the GO, GO, GO high speed stockpile of Hollywood movies today) this one was almost unbearably slow- we're talking snail gliding at its most leisurely pace through molasses. I seldom do this, but during Llewyn Davis I kept trying to catch the light at just the right angle on my watch to see how much time had passed and about how much was left to go. Not exactly what I look for as a filmgoer.

The plot had more loose ends than an unraveling sweater, and consisted of a whole lot of, well, absolutely nothing happening. I kept waiting for the slightest conflict or even plot twist, to no avail. I take that back- there were some rifts in the plot- maybe the issue was too many unresolved conflicts. Will Llewyn succeed in the music world? Will his one night stand have his child? Will he ever decide to get his own feline companion? Who knows.

My favorite cast member

Yet comedic moments and other saving graces made cameos throughout the story- I laughed out loud several times (except at the jokes from the trailer I had seen dozens of times) and fell quickly in love with the feline star of the film. Yet even in other Cohen brothers films that on the surface appear to be about "nothing" I always feel I get something out of them. I'm still not sure that Inside Llewelyn Davis provided this for me. It is a melancholy, slow-paced film, so if that's what you're in the mood for, I say go see it!

Run from the Fire, Bilbo!

What a wonderful world J.R.R. Tolkein concocted for all of us to enjoy. L. Frank Baum's lions, tigers and bears don't even compare to Tolkein's hobbits, elves and orcs. Whether it be via the pages of The Hobbit or the his other literary works or reflected on the silver screen thanks to the imagination of Peter Jackson and everyone else contributing to the films, his creations have already enriched my life immensely. I will never forget when I first laid eyes on an orc on the big screen in Chicago, against my will, twelve years ago. I am so glad I did.

I'm not sure how to sort all my jumbled thoughts about the second installment of the three Hobbit films. Starting with Bilbo's entourage, the dwarves journeying to The Lonely Mountain, feels appropriate. I wish that Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the vertically-challenged bunch, were a more likable little guy- his cocky attitude paired with his tiny stature make it difficult to take him seriously. My reaction when things go wrong for him isn't to feel pity, but rather to point and laugh in his face. The other dwarves make up for this, however, but I can't help marveling at the lack of consistency among their appearances. It seems like Jackson stole a page from Walt Disney's notes when he made Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Some of the dwarves look completely cartoonish with bulbous noses and hairdos that would be more appropriate in Who-Ville whereas others look completely normal save their short statures (example, the sexy Fili). The dwarves are undoubtedly a lot of fun to adventure with, even if it is from the comfort of a movie theater seat (though we all know how "comfortable" those really are now-a-days...). I most enjoyed the oh-so-famous scene where they escape from their captivity among the elves by riding in barrels down a raging river chased simultaneously by orcs with metal jutting out of various parts of their bodes and elves that get really pissed when their captives escape (and I thought white water rafting was intense...).

Generally, two dimensions are plenty for me when I go to see a movie. Therefore, I expected to be completely unimpressed by my 3D screening of The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug. I get freaked out enough when things jump out at me in 2D, on a flat surface- things literally jumping OUT AT me in 3D put me on the verge of a heart attack. You can imagine my relief (or can you?) when Peter Jackson, generally the king of overdoing things, went more subtle on the 3D front. Yes, yes, he "threw an orc head" at us on one occasion, but other than that left the gimmicky stuff to a minimum- a giant bee "coming right at you," etc. etc.

My favorite characters, hands-down, are Gandalf and Bilbo. Strangely, the star hobbit of The Lord of the Rings films, Frodo, pissed me off to no end. He was such a wuss and always causing trouble for everyone else. I bet Gandalf instantly regretted the choice of entrusting the ring to such a little cry-baby. Yet it makes sense that he would, after seeing how incredibly brave of a hobbit Bilbo was. He must have figured due to their sharing some DNA, Frodo would be just as brave. Well, we all know that one trait that did not make it through to future generations. Back to the point: Martin Freeman completely aces his portrayal of Bilbo. He is lovable, you root for him, he beautifully demonstrates his changing character after discovering the ring... spot on with the casting there. As for Gandalf... well I have loved Ian McKellen from the moment I set eyes on him as Gandalf the Gray all those years ago. Watching him get beat up by Sauron and his minions in this film is worse than watching an adorable puppy get kicked in the snout.

I'm sure you are all just dying to know about the oh-so-mysterious dragon, Smaug, and whether or not Peter Jackson got his appearance "correct." I mean, how hard it is to make a CGI dragon look big and terrifying? Better than his looks was his voice- one that is becoming more and more familiar- that of Benedict Cumberbatch. I guess he decided between acting in the Sherlock series and playing Khan in Star Trek among many other films, he figured "hey, why not do the voice of one of the most famous dragons ever written about? I've got time for that." Well, I'm glad he decided to, and you'll see why.

The film was truly fantastic. A little long, but no surprise there. Ed Sheeran singing the song during the closing credits was the icing on top of my beautiful Hobbit cake. I am madly in love with that sexy, British redhead singer so it was, to say the least, a pleasant surprise to hear his silky, sultry voice singing about the plight of the dwarves. Even if just to hear that song... go see The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug. Oh, and don't worry ladies, Orlando is looking just as sexy in this film. 

Appropriately, This Series is Catching Fire

If little orphan Annie thought she had a "hard knock life", she clearly didn't know about Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games. Annie spent a couple years in a slightly sub-par orphanage surrounded by supportive friends before being adopted by a billionaire business titan with a heart of gold (though he may seem a bit gruff at first. Yeah, that is "hard knock" all right. Katniss grew up impoverished with her mother and sister barely surviving in a run down house, then is chosen by the corrupt government to fight to the death in a rigged arena amongst other kids. After reigning victorious, she thinks she is off the hook until the evil president threatens to kill her family because she unintentionally initiated an uprising against him. Then, to really stick it to her, the president makes her return to fight for her life a second time. I'd pick Annie's life situation in a heartbeat.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire was cinematically pleasing. I'm unsure if it was intentional or not, but in the scenes in which residents of the corrupt Capitol were present, their faces were blurred- namely in the scene with the individuals creating the arena for the hunger games. This blatantly embellished the soulless, evil nature of those creating the environment in which children are forced to kill each other.

The acting substantially improved from the first film to the second. The addition of Philip Seymour Hoffman to the cast greatly contributed to the quality of the movie. Even Katniss and Peeta, played by Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson, amped up their already impressive acting talents. I normally am not partial to liking Elizabeth Banks, who plays Effie in the films, as she gives off a conceited vibe in magazine and television interviews. However, even she managed to worm her way into my heart with her portrayal of the eccentric Effie. The young actress playing Prim, Katniss' little sister, bothered me to no end in part one of this trilogy. Thankfully, it seems she took some acting lessons and she no longer rubbed me the wrong way (wow that sounded dirty...). Long story short, the acting was substantially better.

Sometimes our fleeting memories can be a blessing. The reason I fancied part two in The Hunger Games film series substantially better than part one is likely because I forgot so many details from the book, and therefore was unaware of what was left out and changed. I was no less happy about the characters created by my mind while reading the books being torn to shreds, but it seemed slightly less upsetting as I had adapted after the first film thus eliminating the shock value. I also appreciated that while the running time sounds daunting at 2 hours and thirty minutes, not for a second did I feel bored.

Yeah, your life really sucks Annie

Katniss has actual troubles

Dollys and Pistols

When I heard Christmas carol following Christmas carol this morning on the “all Christmas music (oh wait, I mean HOLIDAY music) all the time” station, I noticed how antiquated and, let’s face it, politically incorrect the lyrics are at this point. I mean, if “the wish of Barney and Bim” (first of all, who names their kid Bim? Oh wait, I just looked it up and it is actually Ben. Never mind.) is to have a “pistol that shoots,” well, it’s probably going to be tough luck for them. It will be this pistol-less Christmas that kills their magical belief in Santa Claus.

In the song "Up on the Rooftop", "little Nell,"one of the children waiting for Santa, wants a doll that can open and shut its eyes. Wow. No kid today has that basic of demands from the jolly man in red. In this technology-dominated day in age, the doll better be opening and shutting its eyes as the bare minimum. If those lyrics were updated to refer to the modern kiddo, they would be asking for a robotic dolly that convincingly imitates the real thing. Dolls that can talk and go for a walk, the hope of Janice and Jan (where are these names coming from??), seem a little more realistic.

At least the dolls in "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" toddle and coo. This brings me to another irritating aspect of Christmas song lyrics. "Toddle" and "coo"? Who is using these words? I have never heard them uttered in someone's daily diction. On another grammatical note, only during the holiday season can the word “mistletoeing” ever be accepted as a verb without grammarians rolling over in their graves. Any other time of year, using "mistletoeing" could get you shot on sight by the literary police (they are a violent bunch).

I did not realize until this moment how many girls in Christmas carols want dolls. Janice, Jan, little Nell... I can't imagine their modern feminist counterparts are too happy with this blatant stereotype.

Not just the children have strange demands in Christmas songs. Asking to "bring us figgy pudding" comprises two entire verses in "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." That constitutes a pretty strong desire to chow down some figgy pudding, which last time I checked is no longer a marketable staple in holiday cuisine.

Okay, okay- I realize I am getting a bit nitpicky about something as basic as Christmas lyrics. But when you hear different versions of the same songs over and over, you tend to have far too much time to reflect on their content. So much time, in fact, that there may come a part two to this blog.

Seems a bit more realistic as a modern girl's Santa request

A Marriage is a Plot with Many Twists

Little Zs swirled around my own bored head as I attempted to verbally describe the plot of The Marriage Plot to an inquirer asking what the book I was reading was about. There's really no getting around it- the synopsis makes the Jeffery Eugenides novel sound like a total snore-inducer. Maybe it will be less so in blog format. Here goes:

Madeline, a 22-year-old Brown University student is about to don her cap and gown and graduate with a degree in English. Initially, she planned to move in with her boyfriend, Leonard, after graduation while applying to grad school. Yet they recently broke up leaving Madeline without plans and heartbroken. On graduation day, she happens to run into a university friend, Mitchell, who we later discover is and always has been madly in love with her. He is about to head off to India, seemingly missing his chance with his true love. Madeline also learns on graduation day that Leonard, who she believes is her one true love, was committed to the psych ward. SPOILER ALERT she skips graduation to go see him where he confesses he wants to get back together, so they do. The plot switches viewpoints between Madeline, Mitchell and Leonard, who it turns out is a manic-depressive. The story follows their intertwined lives and their changing relationships after departing the Ivy League.

Man, I can feel my brain cells dying of boredom and my fingers melting into the keyboard just from writing this. Hopefully your cells are hanging in there and I can not be held accountable for making my readers brain dead.

If the plot were easier to summarize and sounded more enticing, it would be far easier to give well-deserved kudos to this novel. Something about the most basic desire to know who Madeline ends up with, Leonard or Mitchell, and following along with Mitchell and Leonard through their prospective struggles make it a well-worthwhile read and page-turner. Eugenides truly makes his readers feel for his characters- I pity Madeline for loving and desperately trying to help a manic-depressive, yet also pity Leonard for being one and admire him for attempting to overcome it. I felt myself rooting for Mitchell during his journey abroad and quest for religion. He never ceased to love Madeline.

There are comical parts, some raunchy sex scenes (definitely not for kids) and beautiful scenic descriptions all sprinkled amongst truly engaging prose. A good, page-turning book here!

Still Confused About Time

About Time entertained me more than most of the films I have seen in theaters recently, so before I list the negative aspects which will undoubtedly appear to negate that previous statement, I'll hammer out the good stuff. Maybe that is backwards logic, however; that would be like starting dinner with your favorite food and ending it with your least. I don't want to leave a lingering, nasty sentiment on your mental taste bds, but I am going to try it this way anyhow. It's my blog, not yours. Sorry, that was a very rude digital comment.

The filmmakers and authors out there selecting time travel as a topic need to sit down at a conference table (or at a long table at a coffee shop, since they seem to frequent those), pass around some donuts and coffee, and make some concrete decisions about the technicalities concerning venturing backwards, forwards, upside down and any other theoretical movement through time. As a reader/moviegoer, attempting to keep all of the rules and regs their exceptions straight does nothing short of give me a throbbing headache. I don't like popping Advil mid-movie. Right when you think you know the technicalities like the back of your hand, they throw you an illogical curve ball. I like a curve ball if it will win the World Series for my home team, but not right when time travel starts to make sense.

When the father (who is never named, but fabulously portrayed by Bill Nighy) in About Time informs his son Tim (played by one Domhnall Gleeson, aka Charlie Weasley in Harry Potter) that the men, and only the men, can travel backwards, and only backwards, in time, I nodded and jotted these two rules in my mental notepad. I felt that was easy enough to follow.

Then, my whole mental note was brutally ripped to shreds by the evil screenwriter when every time the son travels back in time, he later travels forward to get back to the original moment from which he traveled. What is this? Some kind of confusing exception? Was I supposed to simply forget about the aforementioned conversation where it was explicitly stated that, while backwards time travel is entirely acceptable, forward time travel defies the laws of physics? It wouldn't have been as bad if this forward traveling occurred only once- maybe the son discovered a rip in time-space allowing him to do so. As if these multiple occurrences weren't enough of a head-scratcher on their own, imagine how I felt when explicitly-stated rule number two, that only men can travel in time, was broken as well.

Ok, so here was the takeaway regarding time travel rules by the end credits: the members of Tim's family with a Y chromosome can travel back in time unless they are holding hands with a female in their family (or is it any female? That was never clarified). They can never travel forwards in time unless it is to a place from which they already traveled back. These two rules and rule exceptions alone caused so many questions to creep up for me. I would list many more confusing rules that came about, but it would mean listing spoilers and I know how panties-in-a-knot people can get about those.

I will end on a positive note after all, the note of D flat. There's a little musical notation humor for you. But seriously, About Time leaves its viewers with a beautifully positive message to mull over. There is one particularly touching moment in the film, the kind that makes sensitive individuals reaching for the packet of tissues that may or may not exist in their pocket or purse or at least lift their shirt sleeve to their watery eyes. Tim's father doles out a touching piece of advice to his son. He tells him to use his gift of time travel to live each day twice: the first time, he instructs him to live the day complete with the stresses on which we normally dwell, and the second to go back to the start of that same day and only notice the little beauties which we typically overlook. What a nice piece of advice. I'm still confused about time travel, though...

I guess they also have to put on their best constipated face when they travel in time

Hugo, You're Going to Need a Bigger Can of Bug Spray

If I had read the book prior to seeing Ender's Game, I think I would have been extremely disappointed. A few days after, I came across a copy and decided to peruse the first chapter only to discover inaccuracy after inaccuracy of the film version in comparison to its literary counterpart. The first, and perhaps most noticeable flaw, is that Ender at the commencement of the book is six years old. The only way the actor portraying Ender, Asa Butterfield (I laughed out loud for a significant amount of time when I found out that was his name), who played Hugo in last year's blockbuster, could be accepted as a six-year-old would be if he were one with a serious hormonal imbalance. Otherwise I'd put him at nine- eight at the absolute youngest- or 12 at the oldest. This inaccuracy seems perfectly reasonable to me, however; it is bizarre enough in text to have a six-year-old doing the mature things that Ender does. The director explains his casting choice than I ever could in this interview from the LA Times: 

"We tried actors from age 7 all the way to age 14, and the younger actors, even though there were some really good ones, it was very hard to find an actor that could be both awkward and shy and withdrawn at the beginning the way Ender is, a bit of an outsider, and yet by the end come through with this moment where he says, “You lied!” And this roar comes from this boy who’s now a man and literally stops someone like Harrison Ford in his tracks. Some of the younger kids would go, “You lied!” [in a high-pitched baby voice], and it just didn’t work. And I was sweating. Fortunately when Asa came in, I think we caught him just at the moment when he was on the cusp of becoming a young man, but he’s still a boy, and we shot in sequence, to help him and frankly to help us, because he grew 2 inches even while shooting. The challenges were all a bit more daunting than we probably realized when we started…. We needed a highly intelligent actor who’s also intrinsically compassionate and empathetic, because you can’t really fake that, and is slightly geeky because he’s not a jock, and yet is believable as someone who can throw a punch when he has to. I think we were just very lucky to find Asa, who is highly intelligent, genuinely humble and could do the physical work in the wires, because we also had to do put these kids into wires, and they had to do gymnastics to achieve the stuff we needed for zero gravity — a lot of demands for a young actor."

The smallest details irk me in films these days. One detail that I'm sure hardly anyone else notices is when casts are so overly diverse that it is no longer believable. I'm all for the whole melting pot, ethnic and gender diversity, let's love and hug everyone thing, but not when it becomes so obvious that it becomes the main focus. In the scene where Ender departs Earth in a shuttle to head off to the battle training space station, blue-eyed, extremely Caucasian Ender is seated among Indians, Asians, African-Americans, white kids with every hair color you could imagine...so many ethnicities it is overwhelming. So, we have this over-the-top level of diversity, yet some of the children fall into the most blatant stereotypes you can imagine. Example: the two bully characters are burly, chubby, piggy-eyed and not-too-bright boys (picture in your mind's eye Crabbe and Goyle from the Harry Potter movies, if you've seen them). The Indian boys are academic geniuses, and the Hispanic boy is pushy, overbearing, has an unbridled Napoleon complex, a thick accent and his dialogue is sprinkled with Spanish profanities ("Que pasa, pendejo?"). To be fair, these blatant generalizations may be accurate to the text; it just happened to be something that stood out like Larry the Cable Guy in a yoga class. 

Like ripping off a bandage, it's time to get the unpleasant but necessary aspect of writing a brief plot summary out of the way. Earth is in turmoil (when isn't it these days?) after barely surviving an alien invasion. To avoid a future encounter with the Formics (the name of the giant bug-like species that nearly wiped out humanity), a division of the military is bringing children to a battle school in space to train them to be merciless warriors. However, the head hanchos of this division still seek a leader for the kiddie army. This is where Ender Wiggin comes in. This is an underdog story in a sense- Ender starts off as a lanky, shy wallflower and the third child to his parents. Apparently, all of future Earth will be pulling a China and limiting the amount of kids couples can have. Since Ender's older siblings showed promise for being the prophesied leader but eventually failed, his parents were allowed to have a third kid. 

After years of observing his personality, demeanor and overall actions, Colonel Graff and Major Gwen Anderson (Harrison Ford and Viola Davis, respectively), decide that Ender is the child they wish to mould (aka corrupt) to be the leader of the child army and bring salvation to the world by defeating the insect army. According to Colonel Graff and the others observing the Formics, time is running out as the enemy is planning an offensive maneuver against Earth. Dun, dun, dun! No time to lose! So much suspense, and all that. Thus, after informing him that he is the "chosen one" so to speak, Ender heads off to space for training. Throughout his formative experience, he learns of corruption among the militant leaders, grows and develops just as you'd expect in a coming of age tale, and discovers the importance of peace in a war torn world. 

Wow, that felt worse than your typical bandage removal- that bandage was one of the heavy duty, sweat proof, water proof, acid rain proof, apocalypse proof (that is a lot of proofs) ones sealed with superglue to the arm of a hairy caveman. Ok, maybe I am being a tad dramatic. Cinematically, Ender's Game is laden with engaging and stimulating visuals. The CGI folks did a surprisingly good job of adding emotion to the dark, beady, orb-like eyes of the insect-like Formic queen to the point. I could almost empathize with the alien's plight to the point where, if I saw that insect in real life, I may put away my can of Raid (I felt the need to tie in my blog title. Accomplished.) after beholding such eyes. 

I'd say wait for Redbox for this one, unless you are seriously inclined to see Harrison Ford with an atrocious haircut on the big screen. 

Not your best look, Harrison

Public Restroom Faucets

Easily one of the most irritating devices with which the typical person comes in contact every day is the public restaurant faucet. You would think that with so many variations of this piece of plumbing they wouldn't make you want to rip your hair out to the extent they do. This blog is dedicated to berating the models of faucets out there in public restaurants.

1) The Automatic Laser Faucet
This offender number one may not have ended up on my most-hated list if it actually worked. Instead, I swear I can hear it laugh a maniacal robotic cackle as it makes us all look like idiots flailing and waving around like we are suffering from an epileptic seizure.

We all know how well this a$$hole works....

2) The Never-Stays-On-Long-Enough Faucet
This faucet can be a subcategory of any of the other faucets. This little gem leaves your hands soapy and requires that you restart it about six times too many. I want to meet whomever the timer is based off of. I imagine it is some pouty little kid who refused to sing the recommended mental song "twinkle twinkle little star" while washing his or her hands as it takes that long to kill some germs.


3) The One Temperature Faucet
Of course, the one, unadjustable temperature is never an ideal lukewarm- it is always searing hot and risks singeing the skin off your hand or so cold you could swear an ice chunk just hit your palm. Does its designer not realize that public restaurant users like OPTIONS? I'm assuming he/she wasn't an American consumer.

Come on, we like OPTIONS, one temperature faucet!

4) The "You Have to Continuously Push it So it Stays On" Faucet
Who ever thought this model was logical? This one is actually an offender that could be placed in multiple categories- it usually only has one push button that you have to hold down the whole time and has one, unadjustable temperature. Of course, it also never stays on long enough so it is one of those as well. This one should probably jump to the spot of public enemy number one for being so unbearably awful. It makes almost as much of a fool out of its user as the laser faucet if not more so. I assume I am not the sole user who has tried to hold the button down with my elbow while pretzeling my arms around to get my hands under the stream of water. We all know how well that works (about as well as trying to lick your elbow. Elbows are just useless...).

I hate this thing more than I can express

Simply atrocious design

There's my little rant about public restroom faucets. Up next: a rant about public toilets and soap dispensers. Just kidding- although those are also irritating.

Enough to Say About Enough Said

Rotten Tomatoes let me down like a bad friend the other day when I trusted its 95% review of Enough Said to the point I was willing to drop $8.75 (the "discounted" matinee price) to see it in theaters. I suppose Rotten Tomatoes cannot be solely blamed for the over-rating of this film. I let my guard down and raised my expectations which, in retrospect, was a grave error on my part. I should continue to expect the worst of the worst as I have previously- a tactic which allows the complete evasion of disappointment.

Okay, okay- maybe I am getting a wee bit dramatic (like a 15-year-old girl whose mother just forbade her from going to prom with high school senior jock Shane Jackson after she discovered that he got busted with pot at the last football game). There were redeeming factors sprinkled among the array of average cinematic elements. My already well-established lady crush on Julia Louis-Dreyfus (is she related to Richard Dreyfus? Or is his spelled Dreyfuss? I could look it up but I am too lazy to bring my hand all the way to the search bar in the upper right corner) somehow managed to grow more than I thought possible. Her perfect portrayal of Elaine alone in Seinfeld was reason enough to watch every episode of that show. Something about her charming, over-zealous smile, quirky sense of humor and radiation of self-confidence is immensely endearing- characteristics that she carried over well from the role of Elaine to the role of Eva in Enough Said. Okay, lesbian moment over. Sorry about that, guys.

How could you not fall in love with this quirky, sexy lady??

Quick plot summary: Eva (Louis-Dreyfus) is a divorced, self-employed masseuse with clients ranging from elderly men with bad breath overly excited during her massages to chatty-Cathy Momzillas who never shut up about their children and social lives. One evening, she accompanies her Australian therapist friend (Toni Collette-actually, her character might be English in this movie) and her husband to a party where she meets a new client, Marianne (Catherine Keener) and a man named Albert (James Gandolfini) with whom she briefly converses about how they both have daughters about to head to college and both find no one at the party attractive (though clearly, Albert wants Eva as he asks Australian therapist's husband for her digits later. Whatever, I'm getting nitpicky). Anyway, he calls Eva and she agrees to go out with him even though he is a bit "flabby" and not attractive in the "traditional sort of way" (in other words, he has a beer belly and a receding hairline). She takes awhile to warm up to him, but their first date is enjoyable for them and enjoyable to watch as well- I found myself awkwardly laughing out loud during those scenes (but at least I was in good company and not laughing alone to the distaste of the rest of the audience). The conversations between Eva and Albert during the first half or so of the movie are immensely entertaining and one of the best saving graces of the film.

Eventually, as their relationship progresses, so does Eva's relationship with the client she met at the same party at which she met Albert. The two ladies begin discussing the fluffy topics that ladies typically discuss- their former marriages, their current relationships, their daughters and jobs. Most notably, Marianne rambles about how awful her ex-husband is. This may be a spoiler, but I'm pretty sure they give it away in the trailer so I'm just going to say it: Eva's female client ends up being Albert's ex-wife. Plot twist! Didn't see that coming! Eva doesn't know what to do since she allegedly values both relationships and also wants to find out more about Albert's shortcomings although in doing so, she simply poisons her own mind against him. Do they end up together? Do they not? I won't give that away because then there really wouldn't be a point in seeing it even when it comes out on Netflix.

Much to my displeasure, the writers interwove a strange, unfinished plot thread through the tapestry of the main events of the film, and the fact that they left it hanging irritated me just as an actual thread hanging off a tapestry (or off a shirt- that is a more realistic scenario) would. Chloe (Tavi Gevinson, who looks exactly like a young Michelle Williams), the friend of Eva's daughter Ellen (Tracey Fairaway) has some mommy issues and therefore spends all of her time trying to bond with Eva, much to Ellen's displeasure. However, every time Eva attempts to remedy this situation with her daughter by spending more time with her, Ellen just broods and holds a grudge like your typical 18-year-old would and doesn't even make an effort. Eventually, Chloe's mom gets mad at Eva for "stealing her daughter" and then we never see either of them again and the writers leave it at that. Does Chloe ever end up with a better home situation? Does she make up with Ellen for "stealing her mother"? Who knows? I hate loose ends.

No resolution for their relationship...

Speaking of the younger characters in the movie, when Eva and Albert's relationship begins to blossom substantially, he introduces her to his 18-year-old daughter Tess (Eve Hewson). Tess is horrendously, irritatingly snobby, a personality which I see as completely unnecessary. I suppose it is to show the effect that her parent's divorce had on her personality, but all she did was bother me and make me want to slap her hard in the face. Her presence in the film is necessary, however; she acts as a McGuffin (some film class knowledge rearing its head there) which is a means of driving the plot forward.

Despite its flaws, on which I perhaps focused too much attention, Enough Said is worth seeing once it comes out, but perhaps not the overly-generous 95% rating from Rotten Tomatoes. Maybe I will think twice before trusting that site again.

Double Reflection Mirror and Easy Chairs

This being my last night in Costa Rica calls for reflection on the past weeks. I realize I already reflected in a prior post, but there must be some kind of double-reflection mirror, and it is into one of those that I'm looking.

Work at the nursing home changed my entire perspective on life. Raul, the man who bit and spat at me, was homeless for years living with a pack of dogs who waited patiently outside the nursing home doors hoping he would rejoin their group but never did. What a heartbreaking story. 

I learned to give more thanks than during opening prayers on Thanksgiving for living in the United States and not San Jose. The street vendors there do so out if necessity and desperately attempt to sell knockoff clothing for cheap to scrape by. It reminds me that every day for me is a day in paradise. Even  if I try harder than the Little Engine that Could (shouldn't it be WHO could, since the little engine is personified?) I will never miss being blasted in the face with exhaust from busses (my poor pores are still clogged with black soot), almost hit by cars due to a lack of right of way for pedestrians, sharing rooms with geckos and cockroaches, and walking in terror of being mugged at all hours, day and night. 

I made truly lifelong friendships and got a minor glimpse into how many compassionate people there are in this world of ours. My roommates hailed from different parts of the United States, Canada and Australia and each earned a coveted easy chair in the sitting room of my memory. Okay, I suppose it is a little bit pretentious to assume that an easy chair in my memory is coveted. There are a limited amount of chairs in my imaginative sitting room (do people still have sitting rooms anymore? I imagine if so, they are now for people to sit and mess around on their various social media devices. The art of the conversation is undeniably dead. Sorry, that was a cynical little side note) and sometimes my memory chairs get backordered. It can be worse than Home Depot, I swear. No one wants to deal with the chair ordering people in my memory. Wow I need to quit elaborating on this analogy and move on.

Naturally, you meet all kinds while traveling, and not all acquaintances I made became inhabitants of the easy chairs in my memory. Few, but still some individuals I met get to sit in the uncomfortable, filthy seats with backs that pitch forward and too little leg room on the long distance bus of my desperate attempts to forget.

I won't dwell on the negative. I've been fortunate enough to meet sloths, monkeys, agoutis, tropical birds, green sea turtles, and other exotic creatures (I feel okay leaving centipede off the list), zipline through a tropical rainforest, visit volcanoes and beaches on both coasts of Costa Rica, help the less fortunate, and realize how much I have to be thankful for. Wow, that was cheesy. I hope none of my readers have lactose intolerance to words....

Devoted Reptilian Mothers

Trivia time: what's the best way to start off a trip to Tortuguero National Park? A good ol' rush of cortisol pumping through the body. That was a joke, for anyone having issues detecting my cyber sarcasm. I understand that they adhere to a different schedule here, Tico time (that is to say, arriving fifteen minutes is the norm). However, when the travel agency through which I booked my tour tells me to be somewhere at 6, I'm not going to risk it. So there we were, waiting at 5:50 AM. 6 rolls by, nothing. 6:15, the anxiety begins to set in, 6:20, I'm on the verge of a panic attack. Finally, the tour company arrived at 6:30. A foul mood instantly befell me. It was only after the five hour journey to my hotel that my spirits lifted and my woes poured in the form of sweat from my skin's new exposure to humidity. 

Tortuguero National Park houses good mothers and mothers that would immediately bring social services banging on their doors. The former- the green sea turtle. What a woman. Witnessing first hand just what they go through to bring life into the world gave me a memory to hopefully calm me down as I dig my nails into my future husband's hand as I'm in labor. After swimming mile after mile to reach the beach on which they were born, they scuttle slowly and discreetly about 100 feet up the shore, dig a nest for their enormous reptilian bodies, and only then does the real work begin. Crossing her metaphorical fingers that a jaguar or poacher doesn't rip her exposed head and flippers off in the process, Miss Sea Turtle lays a good 100 or so eggs deep in a hole she dug with her drill-shaped tail. This lasts about 45 minutes and to witness it in real life fills you with an emotion that no nature special could dream of capturing. After the egg laying, she spends at least an hour flopping about to bury the eggs to really try and deter predators from eating her young. She flops about and all wanted to do was help her- ease the process along, and all. We were instructed specifically not to. Eventually, she charged on out of there like a greyhound from its box at the start of he race and rushed as fast as her flippers would carry her back to the ominous dark waves.  

This reptilian Mom of the year repeats this process four to five times a year. Thankfully for her and the male, she has a special sperm-storage pocket so consummation only need occur once. I say thankfully for the male because if it doesn't kill him, it severely weakens him. In these four to five egg laying sessions, she deposits about 500 eggs. Guess how many survive? If her intense amount of work didn't bring tears to your eyes, perhaps the fact that only 1% of every 1000 baby turtles survives. Now that is one depressing, Zoloft-inducing statistic. 

This hard-working lady was on her way back from hours of work when she was mauled by a jaguar. Now she is a rotting carcass serving as potential for vulture food. Sad.

The bad momma? I forget the scientific name of the bird, but she is better known in Costa Rica as "la mala chica" or, the bad girl. She's earned this name by making a nest, laying her eggs, and bouncing outta there, leaving the papa in charge. All the feminists on the boat tour hooted and hollered their appraisal at this fact- you go, girl!

I don't have kids! I'm off for cosmos with the ladies

And So it Ends...

The tone of this blog is about to get more emotional than the end of Marley & Me (no idea why my mind just went there since I haven't read it... maybe Old Yeller is a better example. Apparently I've got depressing dog literature on the brain). Now that my time as a volunteer is officially filed away in the file cabinet of life, (that metaphor sounds way too administrative- a completed chapter in my autobiography? Better...) I can begin to reflect on my experience. As the memories formed here in Costa Rica play out in my mental movie theater like a highschool graduation slideshow, I recognize them as trying times and life lessons brought to life by unforgettable characters forever earning a place in my heart.

Some things I won't miss. It scares me that showering with cockroaches, spiders and geckos no longer phases me. I can't wait to throw toilet paper in the toilet again (here, it all goes in the trashcan), go through a day without rain, hang up wet clothes and have dry ones mere hours later, be able to control hot and cold water in the shower, and breathe air uncontaminated by black bus exhaust thick as fog. I'm yearning for the ability to have the right of way as a pedestrian and not be terrified riding in a car like a young child yearns for Santa on Christmas. If I see another grain of white rice I will scream. But these "problems" are first world problems- mere discomforts. Witnessing first hand the often times atrocious unsanitary conditions and complete lack of patient privacy at the nursing home here quickly catapulted me from my cushy little life and into a completely different reality. I desperately want to know the secret of the nurses and other staff at the nursing home. How could they look at a suffering old man screaming as they cleaned his wounds and smile kindly at him while stroking his back even as he tried to hit them? I told one of the nuns that she was a saint and she merely laughed off the compliment saying it was simply her duty.


My last day at the nursing home was, sorry for the overused adjective, bittersweet. The hardest part, leaving Sor Isabel, wrenched my heart. Here was this little lady dressed in white who barely knew me and clearly, as could be seen in her eyes, cared for me. She took me by the arm and walked me to the door- the theme from The Hulk, that emotional song The Lonely Man, played on a loop in my mind as we strolled arm in arm- my final walk through the halls of the nursing home. As she left my at the door, she hugged me with immense strength and told me to be careful in this scary and dangerous world and thanked me profusely for my help. Tears welled behind my eyes as she turned and departed from my life forever.

Living the Frogger Life

Costa Rican drivers play their own version of Frogger called "Hit or at Least Attempt to Hit Thus Scaring the #%^* Out of the Pedestrian". Yeah, I admit that game title could use revision- for that reason I am staying away from that industry. The scoring system seems pretty basic- hit a pasty American, 10 points. Hit a ballsy Costa Rican, 5. Wobbly old Asian lady with a dog tucked under her arm? 100 points. You get double points if you ambush them by turning a corner without a signal super fast as they attempt to cross thus making them scamper in terror to avoid your bumper.

My life in a nutshell...

Hailing from a city where pedestrians rule the roost to the point of pushing drivers to the brink of insanity, I find it impossible to adjust to a place where the opposite is true. My naive mind likes to think the cars won't actually hit me, but I'm not so sure- they've pushed the boundary so much its more terrifying then the cinematic love child of The Exorcist and The Ring. The other day my mind switched back to United States mentality and I stepped in front of a taxi thus incurring the wrath of the driver who didn't hold back his feelings and laid on the horn while actually driving closer to me. Not an obituary I want- Marisa died suddenly last weekend, squished on the bumper of a red San Jose cab. Silly gringa American....

Tied neck and neck for which is scarier are riding in a car in San Jose and trying to cross the street. I learned that following stray dogs or sticking with packs of locals are the best ways to ensure a safe passage across the road. From living a life on the street, those canines developed a keen sense of street-crossing knowledge and I trust them far more than I do myself. Almost every car ride I take here has me white-knuckled in the back seat, digging my own nails into my palm. I is similar to riding a Disneyland roller coaster except you are far less sure of your survival. Last night, the rain cascaded out of the sky onto the taxi driver's windshild as he stopped behind a huge truck carrying poorly secured lumber in bumper to bumper traffic on the highway on a hill so steep he had to use the parking break (they drive manuals here) so as not to go careening backwards. My life flashed before my eyes as I recited a few Hail Mary's. Thankfully we survived that one...Next time, I may not be so lucky.
 

Crema de Rosas

The late Billy Mays would have been the perfect man to endorse the favorite product of the staff at the Cartago nursing home: crema de rosas.

Ah yes, I can hear his migraine-inducing bellows now: "Billy Mays here to tell you about an exciting new product in healthcare! Crema de Rosas does it all! Got a bleeding open sore? Scaly dry skin making an alligators look like a baby's bum? Blisters oozing multi-colored pus? Even dry eyes are no match for this multi-purpose cream! As if that weren't good enough, this cream smells overwhelmingly like the perfume of an oblivious elderly woman who can't tell she is surrounded by a cloud of it! Call now!"

Despite my lack of medical training, I still possess the common knowledge that one should not put dry skin ointment on an open, bleeding wound and then cover it tightly with gauze in order to really vaporize any chance that some healing air could enter thus helping the formation of a scab. We wouldn't want that, now would we?

Maybe the whole "use one product forever to cure any ailment" is a Hispanic culture thing. The use of crema de rosas as an ointment, lotion, antibacterial (despite its lack of antibacterial properties ), dry eye cream and more (nothing would surprise me anymore- maybe it's a toothpaste, too) triggered a memory of fizzy tabs in Spain. When I studied there, I found that the doctors suggested fizzy tabs, like Alka-Seltzer to alleviate any reported symptom. I went in for a brutal sore throat and cough combo and left with a box of fizzy tabs. My friend clearly had the flu and guess what she was plopping into her glass of water at dinner? Bacterial infection, fungal disease, merciless virus, sore muscles, joint pain- these magical fizzy tabs apparently took care of it all. You could have knocked me over with a feather I was so surprised they didn't cure my illness (sarcasm). About as surprised as I am every time a patient's bandage is peeled away an the wound looks the same, if not worse, than when previously treated. I am no less than profoundly grateful for US healthcare. 

Rain, Rain, Get the **** Away From Me

The first few pages of Life of Pi descibe the tranquil life of the sloth. At one point, the author notes that sloths forever have a smile on their face. My heart did a somersault as I read this- that smile beheld by my own eyes is forever ingrained in my memory thanks to my time here.

On a completely different note...

For some reason, seeking shelter during a torrential downpour seemed the perfect time to keep writing my blog. Perhaps because the possibility I will be stuck here forever seems more and more likely. Every time there is a slight break in the cascade of water, I put my foot in a "ready to walk" position and the downpour begins anew. It is as if Mother Nature is cackling at me and relishing in the fact that today is the day I am sans umbrella and raincoat. 

Having grown up where it doesn't rain, I am still a complete rookie when it comes to this climate. Until now, living in a place where it rains every afternoon on cue, I did not realize the strength of my passionate love for a dry climate. There are so many things I wish I had been warned about prior to my time here. 

For instance, I wish that the packing list bestowed upon me by my volunteer organization placed "umbrella" at the top. I can only assume its absence altogether is just an inside joke amongst the employees wanting to mess with us. "Raincoat" would also have been a nice addition to the list, as well as "patience" for dealing with the seemingly endless storms. Patience could also come on handy for waiting on clothes an shoes to dry in a humid climate. 

When my shoes get wet here, there isn't a chance of wearing them the next day, or even the day following. Stuffing them with toilet paper and placing them in the windowsill doesn't even seem to speed the process. And hanging laundry to dry? Yeah, you won't be wearing those clothes for almost a week. At altitude in dry air, it's more like two hours. Yet there we use dryers, and here clothes lines. 

This intense rain scoffs at umbrellas and "waterproof" raincoats. I feel moronic attempting to stay dry against such odds. Yet attempt I must- for example right now...