the best parts: Ray

Who is Jamie Foxx and what has he done with Denzel Washington? This man just topped my list of Best Actor nominations for his performance as Ray Charles and, in my humble opinion, is guaranteed the win, barring something magical from Leonardo DiCapprio in The Aviator [editor's note: since posting this entry, it has been determined that Leo poses no legitimate threat]. It was one thing for Foxx to steal the show from Tom Cruise earlier this year in Collateral, because, let's face it, I would praise Babe the Talking Pig next to Cruise, but running away with a beautifully written and powerfully directed biopic like Ray takes some balls. Taylor Hackford, director of such middling fare as An Officer and a Gentleman and The Devil's Advocate, outdid himself with a script and honey colored direction. Foxx took that opportunity to act and sing and be like Ray Charles. He builds an utterly complete characterization -- not an impersonation. He made me forget all about Howard Hughes.

the best parts: This is the second star turn for Jamie Foxx this year; feel those wrists; "Georgia on my Mind"; lots of women, but Regina King stands out as a woman worthy of being Foxx's leading lady.

Welcome... again

For those of you just joining me from my previous location, welcome. As you can tell from the posting below, I've been sniffling and dripping snot all over the keyboards too much to post many movie reviews, but be assured that they will be returning shortly. I've just seen THE AVIATOR, THE HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, ANGELS IN AMERICA (on DVD), CLOSER and RAY. I'm sure you are dying to know what I think... Even if you're not, let me force a couple of predictions on you for Oscar time:

BEST...
Picture: The Aviator
Actor: Jamie Foxx (RAY)
Actress: Kate Winslet (ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF A SPOTLESS MIND)
Supporting Actor: Thomas Hayden Church (SIDEWAYS)
Supporting Actres: Either Cate Blanchett (THE AVIATOR) or Natalie Portman (CLOSER)

I'll get back to you on my choice for Best Director. My heart tells me it's Martin Scorcese's year, but my head knows that Hollywood loves Alexander Payne.

My Very Special Christmas

On Alaska Air Flight #7 from Newark Liberty Airport back home to Seattle, I shared my row with a lovely family of five. Mother, father, two girls and a little boy. Daddy and the boy were next to me, and while the elder slept, the younger tossed and turned and hacked and wheezed, occasionally turning to say, "Daddy, I don't feel real good." I had just spent five days with my family in the bitter cold of New York City, happily entertaining my germ-ridden nephew and his newborn sister. I managed to stay healthy and sane. I felt fine and brought back plenty of pictures to prove it (pics posted here). But I would be undone by a six hour trip home in a jet propelled incubator, trapped by the window by not one, but two members of the Brady Bunch... one sister (we'll call her "Jan") swapped places with little Bobby for a while, and she was no picture of health herself. By the time we landed at SeaTac, I felt dirty and scratchy and my throat was dry. I begged my boyfriend to rush us home -- and not to kiss me! -- so I could shower off as much of the Brady Sickness residue as possible.

A week later, I am downing little cups of Robitussin and cursing the Brady's. They ruined and otherwise perfect Christmas in New York. We even had snow! Not exactly on Christmas Day, but closer to a White Christmas as I've had in over two decades. My father taught my nephew how to throw snowballs while my sister-in-law looked on in horror. The entire family bundled up for a trip to the Botanical Gardens to see Thomas the Train (LIVE! for heaven's sake!), reminiscing along the way about years gone by, when Christmas was warmer and our fingers didn't feel like they were going to freeze off. There were fewer presents, mostly because we all came long distances to see each other, but also because we didn't want TSA agents confiscating the knife sets, automatic pistols and bondage gear we would have tried to smuggle through security. Instead, we exchanged scented soaps and picture frames. All things we could add to our homes without adding clutter and remember fondly, "Hm, oh, yeah - Abi gave me these. Sweet."

When it comes down to it, the highlights of the trip were all about chilling out with the family -- not the diseased and dysfunctional Brady's on Flight #7, but my own growing family. I held my neice Annie for the first time. She's only two weeks old, but we got along really well. My two-year-old nephew Cal held my hand while we walked across the street to the Children's Museum, which means he trusted me. At the top of the list was lunch at an honest-to-goodness New York diner. Gut busting deli sandwiches, real kosher pickles and a neurotic mensch of a waiter who went on about his poor cats. For dessert, I ordered a Black and White cookie to go. I shared a piece with Cal, who had never had one before. We both like the chocolate side the best. That was fun.

the best parts: Finding Neverland

Johnny Depp is almost, but not quite, as pretty as Julianne Moore, and he shares her talent for filling the quiet spaces between words with great moments of acting. He is in peak form playing J.M. Barrie, creator of Peter Pan, in FINDING NEVERLAND. Unlike many of Depp's other roles as a Circus Freak with a Heart of Gold, this story concerns a stagnating writer who finds inspiration in the ample bosom of Kate Winslet and goes on to create an enduring classic. I am not ashamed to admit that I was envious... only in my version, I would find inspiration on the nicely hairy pecs of Jude Law. Depp plays the stoic man-child well. Depp plays well with children. Some of the children are pretty good, too. Winslet does the femme fatale thing in a very dignified manner.

the best parts: being blown away by that Peter kid (Freddie Highmore -- soon to be seen in CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY); the backyard performance of Peter Pan; Winslet making me cry; the increasing respectability of Depp; the handsome bitchiness of Julie Christie; It's just a good story -- Hollywood used to do a lot of those.

All about Low Maintenance

So I posted an update to my website telling my adoring fans that I have abandoned the arduous task of updating that page for this quiet little spot on Blogger. I'm all about low maintenance -- that's my credo for 2005. If the lawn needs mowing, get a lawn boy! This cutie pie is plum tuckered... managing two departments at the premiere Crate & Barrel in the Northwest is a lot of work during the holidays, and, frankly, I don't need the extra cheese on my burger. My plate is full. No more. Blogger is easy-peasy pudding pie. Love it.

One can only hope that my adoring fans are bright enough to follow the like I provided for them. In the past, there have been... shall we say... disappointments. Not to worry. They will come.

Next on my list: mail Christmas packages to NYC; finish Christmas cards; see Christmas movies; write movie reviews.

An inch from my toes

Sometimes, I write offline. Yes, it's true. I take pen and paper and write the old fashioned way. There are days when all I can muster is a Judy Blume diary entry. On better days, a coherent editorial rant emerges... or maybe a quick character study. The entry below falls somewhere between the two. The precipitating event was a brief walk from the store where I work to lunch across the street. I was nearly run over by a dreaded, oil-sucking, SUV/minivan type thing. The driver scared the shit ouf of me, and then I just got pissed... She'll get hers, don't you worry.

Yeah, I know, it's a pretty minor event, and I don't know why I feel the need to share it. Just read my bio - I have a thing about seeing my name in a by-line.
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"Bitch, you're supposed to stop! Roll over the line in front of me, will you? Had you revved your engine a little harder and a little later, I'd have gold paint smeared across my blood-stained jacket and I'd be chewing your tires furiously before they crushed my skull.

"Watch where you're going next time, you pill-drained, vodka-soaked bottle blonde. Just because your life isn't as fabulous as your "Special Edition" bright and shiny minivan, don't expect any sympathy from me. My life sucks knowing you almost ran me over. I survived by the grace of a callous god who let you escape with your bad fortune and good taste in tact. Chances are, you will sleep it off in front of the television -- Ellen and Oprah will pass you by, but perhaps you will catch the end of a Very Special Dr. Phil just in time to see a room full of overprivileged, undersexed housefraus lamenting their own unsatisfying minivan lives. You will weep empathetically, "Thank you, God! I am not alone!"

"But you will remember nothing of me. The near miss that impacted my day will be lost in the haze of an afternoon. I'll remember, though. How can I forget?"

Pillow talk

I begin again. To begin the beguine, whatever that means, cha cha cha. I had... no, I *have* a website perfectly able to accept my own posts, but I haven't touched it for months. Writing and formatting and rearranging and archiving my old posts was just too much for my weak soul. I was crushed into silence and I take my own silence personally. It's a damned good looking site, too. I may share it with some of you someday. Right now, it's just taking up some digital space on Earthlink's servers.

So here I am, fluffing a pillow on my own blogspot and crawling under the covers with that short story or article or essay or movie review I haven't written yet. That's all I need -- to get comfortable with my writing again (aGAIN). Comfy and cozy.

Poke me if I start snoring.