film & lit crit
went to see mail order wife this rainy sunday after brunch in dogpatch. thumbs up, from this movie reviewer who sees about two flicks a year in the theatre. i think this one was well-suited to the fake documentary format, seeing as it sometimes makes you forget you're watching a fiction. i liked it. am still thinking about it because it surprised me due to its realism (as i perceived it), viewed differently in the beginning than at the end. i felt sympathetic to most of the characters. it's playing at the lumiere in SF until tomorrow (thursday), then i guess it's going to kansas city?
in other bland and mediocre movie review news, i wrote a fluffy, navel-gazing blurb for the latest issue of kitchen sink. but the articles are superb, ranging from the intersex movement (have you read middlesex? you should), to an examination of costa rica's politics and environmental preservation, to a handy guide matching prescription drugs with the appropriate cinematic complement. plus there are drawerings and paintings and fiction and essays.
and speaking of essays and intersexuality (man, how this all ties together)... my roommate V has his father visiting this week. dad is a retired english professor in his late 80s who is widely read; he's spent his time here in studio four poring over the pink pages for concerts and plays to attend, then spending most evenings taking in the theatre, etc. at first i seemed to be an insignificant blip on his radar, and in fact he intimidated me with his vast knowledge and loud, stern voice – he's pretty blunt. but sharp at the same time, a ha! when we got to talking over coffee one of those first mornings, he was telling me about this famous travel writer, possibly the most famous of this century. lives in wales. paul theroux? i asked doubtfully. he couldn't live someplace as boring as wales. not pico iyer, who's not the most famous, and anyway who splits his time between SB and japan and how come no one i know has his phone number?
the dad couldn't remember the name of this famous writer, so we moved on to some other topic (actually he moved on and i nodded and learned). the identifying characteristic of this writer was that she'd started out as a man and is now a woman. she had lifetime gender identity issues, always thinking she'd been born into the wrong body, but she grew up and lived as a man and married. eventually she made the decision to begin hormone therapy and live as a woman and have the sexual reassignment surgery somewhere mid-career.
this story, chronicling a visit to morocco for the surgery, is four pages long in a book spanning fifty years of illustrious travel-writing essays she wrote, from 1950 to 2000, for major newspapers (the times of london and the guardian) and magazines. the book is called the world by jan morris (formerly james), and i was presented with this book as a surprise gift from the dad the next day. how sweet is that? in return i am treating him with homemade 8-grain muffins.
ow. that's my nose hitting the grindstone.
in other bland and mediocre movie review news, i wrote a fluffy, navel-gazing blurb for the latest issue of kitchen sink. but the articles are superb, ranging from the intersex movement (have you read middlesex? you should), to an examination of costa rica's politics and environmental preservation, to a handy guide matching prescription drugs with the appropriate cinematic complement. plus there are drawerings and paintings and fiction and essays.
and speaking of essays and intersexuality (man, how this all ties together)... my roommate V has his father visiting this week. dad is a retired english professor in his late 80s who is widely read; he's spent his time here in studio four poring over the pink pages for concerts and plays to attend, then spending most evenings taking in the theatre, etc. at first i seemed to be an insignificant blip on his radar, and in fact he intimidated me with his vast knowledge and loud, stern voice – he's pretty blunt. but sharp at the same time, a ha! when we got to talking over coffee one of those first mornings, he was telling me about this famous travel writer, possibly the most famous of this century. lives in wales. paul theroux? i asked doubtfully. he couldn't live someplace as boring as wales. not pico iyer, who's not the most famous, and anyway who splits his time between SB and japan and how come no one i know has his phone number?
the dad couldn't remember the name of this famous writer, so we moved on to some other topic (actually he moved on and i nodded and learned). the identifying characteristic of this writer was that she'd started out as a man and is now a woman. she had lifetime gender identity issues, always thinking she'd been born into the wrong body, but she grew up and lived as a man and married. eventually she made the decision to begin hormone therapy and live as a woman and have the sexual reassignment surgery somewhere mid-career.
this story, chronicling a visit to morocco for the surgery, is four pages long in a book spanning fifty years of illustrious travel-writing essays she wrote, from 1950 to 2000, for major newspapers (the times of london and the guardian) and magazines. the book is called the world by jan morris (formerly james), and i was presented with this book as a surprise gift from the dad the next day. how sweet is that? in return i am treating him with homemade 8-grain muffins.
ow. that's my nose hitting the grindstone.
posted by a wandering eye at 1:19 PM
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