Zach Braff's Garden State finally showed up in Austin. As much as I'd been looking forward to the film, I figured there was no way it would meet my expectations. But it was just awesome. Go see it now. Take your boyfriend. Take your mom. Take your dog. Just go.
Saw The Bourne Supremacy, and though I liked it even more than the original, I strongly recommend that you find a seat as close to the back of the theatre as possible; the car chases tend to be shown from a first-person perspective, so I spent most of the movie feeling like I was on the Tilt-o-Whirl after three bags of popcorn and a hot dog. (I do, however, have a history of in-movie motion sickness. It’s the reason that The Blair Witch Project got to me so well. About thirty minutes into that one, I was about ready to lose it, only I didn’t realize that I was motion sick…I just thought I was really freakin’ scared. ) The film is good, though, and Matt Damon is as dreamy as ever.
I finally went and saw Fahrenheit 9/11. As someone that usually agrees with Moore, I'm always in a half-cringe when I see his movies because I'm afraid he's going to go overboard and end up in StupidLand. (Ex: His support of the Wesley Clark candidacy.) But this flick wasn't half as heavy-handed as I thought it would be, and contained a lot of truly disturbing stuff. As a 9/11 conspiracy propaganda piece, the film wasn't nearly as frightening as Vidal's Dreaming War, but it did contain one of the most chilling revelations of the last decade. It seems that our soldiers are able to listen to CD’s in their tanks, piping the music in thru their headphones to supply a battle soundtrack. But that’s not the bad part. According to one tank commander, the most popular band for this particular purpose is Drowning Pool. I have no words for the sorrow I feel.
Anyway, it was well-done and I’m looking forward to reading some responses from the right later this evening. But as scary as Fahrenheit 9/11 was, it can’t possibly compare to the absolute terror I felt while watching Catherine Hardwick’s Thirteen. Dear God: Let me never, ever, ever, have daughters. Never. Ever. Nerver.
I put off seeing Thirteen for a long time because it was publicized as being co-written by a thirteen-year-old, who then became one of the stars of the film. This pissed me off, partly because it seemed like a blatant marketing ploy, but mostly because I was terrified of coming into contact with yet another piece of teenager-created fiction that was much better than anything I’d ever write. (A few years ago I was unfortunate enough to read Twelve, a pretty effing fabulous novel written by then high school senior Nick McDonell. I still haven‘t really recovered from that, which is why the only professional writing I’m able to do these days is catalog copy for a smallish Waco-based company that sells sex toys for farm animals.) The film is great, though, and completely succeeded in scaring the crap out of me. It combined my fear of needles and blood with my anxiety about raising girlchildren, and has made it nearly impossible for me to sleep tonight, which is why I’m posting at 4 in the morning. Thanks a lot.