Yes, that’s a still from Next Stop Wonderland, the film that taught me to love Hope Davis (not that I needed more than about 10 seconds’ worth of persuading). As my beloved Brazilian friends have since taught me, she is the very essence of saudade.
(For the musical equivalent of same, click here and purchase the most beautiful CD imaginable. If Hope Davis could sing, this is how she’d sound.)
And what is this…er, horse hockey about my not liking ice hockey? Art it ain’t, but way cool all the same. Besides, you promised to take me to a game, remember?
I’d spank you for your impertinence, but I’m too busy laughing at those awful logos. Besides, I just this second woke up, and must now turn instantly to the task of reviewing four different shows for this Friday’s Journal. In reverse chronological order of my having seen them, they are: Taboo, the Boy George-Rosie O’Donnell spectacular (which I saw last night), Bright Ideas, Fame on 42nd Street, and the revival of Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker. All in one column, yikes. It’s like the straight line of a bad Broadway joke: what do Taboo and The Caretaker have in common. I dunno, what do Taboo and The Caretaker have in common? (Insert punch line here.) Rimshot. Isolated titters.
I’ll be done circa noon, unless my head explodes, at which time I’ll turn to the task of blogging in earnest. See you then.
P.S. No show tonight! I may hang with a musician friend who claims never to have seen High Fidelity or Casablanca. That can be fixed….