Thursday, February 23, 2006

running commentary

On Tuesday night, I went to see Walk the Line with A., my new "cinema-friend". I met her at a party last summer and we immediately hit it off. Apart from being very funny and intelligent (PhD, impressive job, the works) she's one of those long-limbed, effortlessly stylish creatures with pale skin and naturally ginger hair that others (read: me) will never become. On top of all, she loves going to the cinema as much as I do, if not more.

As usual, I had to overcome my initial prejudices before I reluctantly agreed to see the film, rave reviews notwithstanding. I just had a feeling that I'd hate the music and it wouldn't be quite my kettle of fish. Again as usual I was proved wrong and found both the story (in particular the message that no matter how old or famous you are, you always remain the child of your parents and try hard to impress them) and the music very good. The protagonists, Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Whiterspoon sang surprisingly well. Professional qualities aside, I'm such a sucker for those slightly "mad" speckled green-brownish-greyish eyes of the triumvirate of Joaquin, Jonathan (Rheys Meyers) and Robbie (Williams). Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Next to us, or rather me, sat two elderly ladies. My guess is that they either aren't let out much or else were completely oblivious of their audible comments and sharp intakes of breaths. When Johnny Cash/Joaquin Phoenix got offered drugs for the first time, the lady to my right loudly exclaimed "Drugs!" in utter indignation. When (at that stage still married to someone else) Johnny makes advances to (equally married) June/Reese, they both went "Oh. NO!". When Johnny unexpectedly hits his head against a wall (I admit, it was neither a pretty sight, nor sound), my trusty commenter to the right let out a squeak worthy of a pig at the slaughterhouse. Somebody should have warned the biddies about the explicit content as in: there's going to be just a tiny bit more sex, drugs and rock'n roll in that film than in your average wildlife documentary.
It could have been worse, though. Those ladies could have been the smelly, mobile-phone-fiddling, noisily munching hat-wearing giants (2 metres tall with shoulders like a wardrobe) that usuall sit right in front of me but strangely enough didn't this time...

Lunch-break purchases: I made up for my slackness, expenditure-wise, by dragging FCN to ZARA where we bought a white blouse each and I also grabbed a long-sleeved black shirt and a tight-fitting black cardigan. Yep, basics, all of them so entirely justified.


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