If the hour we started was uncivilized, surely the hour we ended was.
For weeks now, I'd had plans with Pru and Beau for dinner at Secco followed by a screening of "Double Indemnity" at the Byrd. When I messaged Beau asking what time they'd be picking me up, his response was, "Ridiculously early at 4:45."
I patiently explained that it was Thanksgiving Eve and thus rules of civility don't apply. Plenty of people were starting happy hour mid-afternoon. I invoked the beach, where happy hour starts anytime you like, but he said the beach doesn't count. Also, it should be noted, he was the one who'd made the reservation.
A few hours later, he notified me that Pru was under the weather so it would be just us two. "You down with that?' he wanted to know. As long as you can provide sufficient conversation, I sure am.
We got to Secco just as the sun was setting at the ungodly hour of 4:54 and before they officially opened, but the owner was gracious enough to let us inside the warm building (where the staff was doing last second prep) rather than waiting outside in the suddenly frigid air.
Once seated with our coats checked, Beau realized he'd left his phone in his jacket, making it easy for us to qualify for Secco's unplugged happy hour, although we had nothing to put in the lidded box on our table, which is where customers are supposed put their devices to qualify. It was all window dressing anyway since Beau's smart enough to keep his phone pocketed when he's with me.
To assuage his concerns about the early hour, I suggested we begin with a civilized glass and not rush into ordering like senior citizens at a Golden Corral. Given that it was a holiday eve, I opted for festive with Hillinger Secco Sparkling Pinot Noir Rose, while Beau couldn't resist an offering from the Secret Stash chalkboard, Ostatu Rioja Blanco, with which we both were quite taken.
Normally, that's the point at which he'd pull out his phone and take a picture of the label so he could reference it later for purchasing purposes. With his device unavailable, he had to settle for me writing it down with a pen on paper, to him the equivalent of a chisel and stone tablet.
Glasses in hand, the likes of LCD Soundsystem and Steely Dan playing overhead, we were easing into civilized effortlessly, if I do say so myself.
Now that his job requires frequent travel, he has plenty of out-of-town restaurant stories to share, including one about a former theater being converted into a restaurant. And while the decor and set-up impressed him, the food didn't compare to what he eats in Richmond all the time, forcing him to acknowledge Pru's prior explanation that we're spoiled because Richmond is such an outstanding food town.
Our server, young and fresh-faced, won our affection for allowing us to determine the pace of our evening and eating. When I mentioned his beautiful skin, guessing that he moisturizes daily, he admitted he did. "And I got a facial mask this afternoon," he shared, surprising neither of us. Beau says he'll be happy with how his skin looks when he's his age.
Once we'd finished our wine, we looked the menu over for our next selections, deciding on an old favorite, Chateau de Roquefort Corail Rose, for me and Steininger Gruner Veltliner Reserve for Beau. The nose on his made me wish for a dozen oysters to magically appear in front of me.
That was the cue that we needed to get serious with the menu and as we bantered about what we wanted, I reminded Beau that like Pru's immortal comment about choosing a wine, "Why would we ever leave the Loire?" in my world, the question is, why would we ever leave the starters and small plates?
Indeed, we began ordering, choosing roasted carrots that got the star treatment with smoked beets, fermented honey, the nut and spice mixture known as almond dukkah, housemade rye crackers and the mildest goat cheese we may ever taste. We followed that with a special of rabbit soup that we both loved, as much for a clear broth heavy on shallots as for the abundance of rabbit, not to mention carrots and pea shoots on top.
Because 'tis the season, we went with a roast squash tostada, fried corn tortillas layered with salsa macha, hummus, cabbage and sprinkled in pepitas. Overlooking the fact that it was a main course, we got mushroom potstickers, which announced themselves with a heavenly aroma of black garlic dashi and were accompanied by roasted pumpkin under a flurry of sprouts.
Replete with savory and having discovered a mutual fondness for butterscotch, we moved on to a decadent butterscotch pudding with whipped creme fraiche and candied pecans that was only made better with H & H 5-Year Madiera to sip along side it.
I'm here to tell you that no matter how uncivilized we felt walking in, full civility was restored by the time we took our final sips of Madiera. Good thing, too, because the classic film noir we were off to see at the Byrd was more about brassy dames and malleable men than civilized behavior.
Manager Todd introduced the Billy Wilder-directed film (I'd had no idea), explaining how Raymond Chandler had done the screenplay from James Cain's novel, which probably explains why Fred MacMurray said "baby" at the end of every sentence to Barbara Stanwyck.
Shut up, baby. Good bye, baby. I love you, baby. Every time he said something like that, the millennial couple sitting next to me went into fits of giggles. For that matter, there was plenty of inappropriate laughter at some of the more dramatic moments in the film, as if certain audience members had no familiarity with acting norms circa 1948.
Personally, I loved Fred's easy-going California charm, like when he's offered iced tea when he really wants something stronger ("Unless you got a bottle of beer that's not working"). Holding the glass up to look at it, he muses, "I wonder if a little rum would get this up on its feet?"
Oh, I bet it would.
Turns out Beau enjoyed it, too, and not just because neither of us had seen it before. It was atmospherically shot, surprisingly dense with loads of '40s humor and revealed California before it was the hip state. Besides, it's on AFI's list at #38 of the 100 Best American Films of all time, so we got to check off a box.
As we're walking back to the car, Beau commented what a fun evening it had been with such a fantastic meal and fascinating movie, as if it were over. Instead, I rang Holmes and Beloved and we landed there shortly after procuring holiday pecans for Pru's yams.
I should've known better than to bring another old soul to choose records with Beloved because she and Beau were soon knee-deep in "Moonglow." That changed when Beau got up to peruse Holmes' stack and asked ever-so-casually, "Oh, do you have any Mungo Jerry?"
Sure, the band name was familiar, even a hit song, but who asks for Mungo Jerry and who has it? Well, a few minutes later, we found out Holmes did when he returned from a back room with an album in hand and put it on. The sound of kazoos filled the man cave.
"Thanks for suggesting this," Holmes said to Beau. "I didn't know I had it." While this should have led to incredulity, it instead led to a conversation about the power of alphabetizing and jokes about the Dewey Decimal system.
Part of the blame for that undoubtedly goes to the Whispering Angels Rose then being poured into Holmes' mother's short champagne coupes as we listened to Bob Thompson's orchestra and chorus on a fabulous 1960 album, "Mmm, Nice!" that provided the ultimate party soundtrack.
Rose may also have been the culprit in discussing Beau's ring tones, one of which is from a Muhammad Ali commercial for D-Con, which Beau mimicked for us until we were laughing (so hard Beloved was in tears) at how spot-on his Ali imitation was, right down to inflections.
Imagine, if you will, the whitest of men, one who moisturizes, wears bow ties and has a fabulous swoop of hair, intoning, "I don't want you to live with roaches!" and sounding, for all the world, like the heavyweight great.
That led to Beau showing off other ringtones, until Holmes tried to compete by pulling a miniature toilet off a shelf and pushing its tiny handle down for a ridiculously loud flush sound. Game over.
And we were up on our feet, like rum-spiked tea. As in, back to a complete lack of civility. Time to go home, Gracie.
Showing posts with label chateau de roquefort cotes du provence corail rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chateau de roquefort cotes du provence corail rose. Show all posts
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Eventually Everything
Have you noticed that InLight is the visual cousin of the Folk Fest?
Who doesn't go? For eight years now, people from all over Richmond have made it their business to be anywhere the one-night extravaganza happens - Broad Street, Grace Street, the Canal Walk, Monroe Park - and see what light-based art awaits them.
Then they go and put InLight in the museum's sculpture garden and bam! Even more people are going to feel comfortable coming to see what the fuss is about.
Add in streets being closed for the VCU homecoming parade and it took a record-setting 20 minutes to go the two miles from Jackson Ward to the VMFA tonight.
Crazy. Sounds like this place is getting a little too big for its britches. Since when do I have to build in time to allow for traffic? Hello, this is Richmond?
Meeting my friend on the steps to the Boulevard entrance, the first words out of her mouth were, "I didn't recognize you. Your walk doesn't match who you are." She seems to think I appear to walk with purpose in contrast to having a laid-back personality (her words). She lopes, I march, according to her.
Early as it was, the museum was already jumping when we headed up to Amuse and a bird's eye view of the sculpture garden abuzz with last minute activity. Hell, I'd seen an artist setting up before noon this afternoon and the exhibit didn't open until 7.
A night like tonight is a seductive reminder of how lucky we are to have Amuse in the VMFA. From the moment we arrived until we left to go outside, it was like being part of a big party with strangers, but all celebrating the same thing: yet another standout happening in River City.
Moira and I seized the moment, beginning with Cava studded with multi-color cordial-filled jello shooters (baby's first Jello shooters, so a baptism of sorts for her), a cheese plate, oysters and some major dishing. Adulation was discussed and better phrasing sought. D.C. and the Renwick beckon.
Looking around the dining room, it was easy to tell that people were jazzed about the evening. I, for one, am thrilled any time the museum is willing to stay open until midnight.
Properly fortified, we headed outside after a sigh-worthy stop to see "Nightfall: Prints of the Dark Hours," and ogle 400 years of print-makers' ability to convey so much with line and rubbing. Yankee Stadium at night took her breath away.
Then light beckoned.
Perched in the sculpture garden, the view looking inside the brightly lighted interior abuzz with activity made Richmond look urbane, sophisticated and art-loving. We could have been a picture postcard.
From the people milling around the Best Cafe deck next to the glowing red Chihuly reeds to clusters of people, drinks in hand, on Amuse's balcony of ipe (a Brazilian hardwood I learned about from a British carpenter later), a visitor would likely think, wow, seriously epic place.
Meanwhile outside the museum, scads of people were patiently traversing the walkways to see the two dozen installations. Less than half an hour after opening, "Problem Piece," the installation in and around the Confederate Memorial Chapel, had a line down the walkway that turned the corner and turned another.
Last time I saw a line like that for art was for "Disrobed" at Gallery 5, an all nude show.
I'm inclined to think that all the fuss the Sons of Confederate groups raised only served to pique public curiosity. Unintentionally, they succeeded in getting probably hundreds more people to see a chapel they'd have never seen otherwise without their bellyaching.
Personally, I thought the installation was brilliant, from the cinematic lights outside shining a literal light on antiquated attitudes or the unexpected soundtrack once inside the once-sacred space, it definitely challenged your take on it.
From further away, "Dielectric Bridge" looked like a dazzling beacon of light, but once on it, the light effect was dim and less dazzling, like being in a wholly different place. Truly beautiful was "no_places_nostories," which involved a collage of colorful media images projected onto the 1936 facade of the VMFA.
"Object-Orientalis" was provocative and political, using women's bodies as symbols, but isn't that what Eva Rocha does best? I saw a bit of Bohyun Yoon's "Glassorganism" performance, watching the sounds made with the glass bottles translate to visual imagery.
Where I saw the Big Mouth Singers game, Moira saw electrocardiogram images. Go figure.
Coming back down from the highest level of the sculpture garden, we followed a barely-moving pack of people making their way along.
Kid #1: It's like a prison death march.
Kid #2: That was the worst joke.
Kid #1: It wasn't a joke.
To set the record straight, they were ten years old, tops, albeit jaded and politically correct ten year olds.
Around at the front, trying to understand "Circuit," I overheard a woman complaining to her husband. "It's like the Greek festival, it used to be fun but now it's too crowded. It's no fun being herded."
It is fun seeing so many people with alcohol in hand, the first year it's been a part of the InLight experience, legally anyway. It's less appealing seeing a big table set up for ID checks and bracelets like just another beer fest.
My thoughts exactly, so I did what any self-respecting iconoclast would and temporarily abandoned InLight for the museum. Taking a break on a low-slung chair, I had an ideal view of the passing parade, which included some familiar faces - the former restaurateur, the retired PR queen and world traveler, the gentleman farmer.
Back at Amuse, I joined Homes and Beloved for a glass of Rose and an offbeat chat with the carpenter from Manchester named Rhett (because of course a British woman is going to name her son Rhett a dozen years after "Gone with the Wind" comes out), who has taken a shine to Holmes and is rabidly discussing the Beatles, the Damned and the Sex Pistols.
I am brought into the conversation. Most unexpected question? "Are you heterosexual?" Aren't I?
There is banter, talk of a northside pool where the membership is chiefly reprobates and outlaw types, as well as lively discourse on why 30-year old males are not yet men. Rhett and Holmes discuss the wearing of Chuck Taylors post-30 and sing snippets of a Captain Sensible song to each other.
After a great deal of happy talk, we adjourn to Holmes' pad for Corail Rose and a short record-listening party before walking the block back to InLight and finding the crazy Confederate protesters just outside the entrance.
Out of the way, losers, we've got art to see.
Making my way around for the second time, only this time with male company, I finally make it into the chapel, see a few pieces I missed on my first round and make the most of the lack of crowds at 11:30.
For the first-time visitor, the disappointment is that some pieces are already turned off and abandoned. It's a shame because it seems lame to cut out before the official ending time. It's wonderful not being herded; it's unfortunate not to see everything still fully lighted.
You don't see any of the Folk Fest acts skipping their last set, do you? Frankly, my dear, we're a big town now. We can stay lit 'til midnight.
Who doesn't go? For eight years now, people from all over Richmond have made it their business to be anywhere the one-night extravaganza happens - Broad Street, Grace Street, the Canal Walk, Monroe Park - and see what light-based art awaits them.
Then they go and put InLight in the museum's sculpture garden and bam! Even more people are going to feel comfortable coming to see what the fuss is about.
Add in streets being closed for the VCU homecoming parade and it took a record-setting 20 minutes to go the two miles from Jackson Ward to the VMFA tonight.
Crazy. Sounds like this place is getting a little too big for its britches. Since when do I have to build in time to allow for traffic? Hello, this is Richmond?
Meeting my friend on the steps to the Boulevard entrance, the first words out of her mouth were, "I didn't recognize you. Your walk doesn't match who you are." She seems to think I appear to walk with purpose in contrast to having a laid-back personality (her words). She lopes, I march, according to her.
Early as it was, the museum was already jumping when we headed up to Amuse and a bird's eye view of the sculpture garden abuzz with last minute activity. Hell, I'd seen an artist setting up before noon this afternoon and the exhibit didn't open until 7.
A night like tonight is a seductive reminder of how lucky we are to have Amuse in the VMFA. From the moment we arrived until we left to go outside, it was like being part of a big party with strangers, but all celebrating the same thing: yet another standout happening in River City.
Moira and I seized the moment, beginning with Cava studded with multi-color cordial-filled jello shooters (baby's first Jello shooters, so a baptism of sorts for her), a cheese plate, oysters and some major dishing. Adulation was discussed and better phrasing sought. D.C. and the Renwick beckon.
Looking around the dining room, it was easy to tell that people were jazzed about the evening. I, for one, am thrilled any time the museum is willing to stay open until midnight.
Properly fortified, we headed outside after a sigh-worthy stop to see "Nightfall: Prints of the Dark Hours," and ogle 400 years of print-makers' ability to convey so much with line and rubbing. Yankee Stadium at night took her breath away.
Then light beckoned.
Perched in the sculpture garden, the view looking inside the brightly lighted interior abuzz with activity made Richmond look urbane, sophisticated and art-loving. We could have been a picture postcard.
From the people milling around the Best Cafe deck next to the glowing red Chihuly reeds to clusters of people, drinks in hand, on Amuse's balcony of ipe (a Brazilian hardwood I learned about from a British carpenter later), a visitor would likely think, wow, seriously epic place.
Meanwhile outside the museum, scads of people were patiently traversing the walkways to see the two dozen installations. Less than half an hour after opening, "Problem Piece," the installation in and around the Confederate Memorial Chapel, had a line down the walkway that turned the corner and turned another.
Last time I saw a line like that for art was for "Disrobed" at Gallery 5, an all nude show.
I'm inclined to think that all the fuss the Sons of Confederate groups raised only served to pique public curiosity. Unintentionally, they succeeded in getting probably hundreds more people to see a chapel they'd have never seen otherwise without their bellyaching.
Personally, I thought the installation was brilliant, from the cinematic lights outside shining a literal light on antiquated attitudes or the unexpected soundtrack once inside the once-sacred space, it definitely challenged your take on it.
From further away, "Dielectric Bridge" looked like a dazzling beacon of light, but once on it, the light effect was dim and less dazzling, like being in a wholly different place. Truly beautiful was "no_places_nostories," which involved a collage of colorful media images projected onto the 1936 facade of the VMFA.
"Object-Orientalis" was provocative and political, using women's bodies as symbols, but isn't that what Eva Rocha does best? I saw a bit of Bohyun Yoon's "Glassorganism" performance, watching the sounds made with the glass bottles translate to visual imagery.
Where I saw the Big Mouth Singers game, Moira saw electrocardiogram images. Go figure.
Coming back down from the highest level of the sculpture garden, we followed a barely-moving pack of people making their way along.
Kid #1: It's like a prison death march.
Kid #2: That was the worst joke.
Kid #1: It wasn't a joke.
To set the record straight, they were ten years old, tops, albeit jaded and politically correct ten year olds.
Around at the front, trying to understand "Circuit," I overheard a woman complaining to her husband. "It's like the Greek festival, it used to be fun but now it's too crowded. It's no fun being herded."
It is fun seeing so many people with alcohol in hand, the first year it's been a part of the InLight experience, legally anyway. It's less appealing seeing a big table set up for ID checks and bracelets like just another beer fest.
My thoughts exactly, so I did what any self-respecting iconoclast would and temporarily abandoned InLight for the museum. Taking a break on a low-slung chair, I had an ideal view of the passing parade, which included some familiar faces - the former restaurateur, the retired PR queen and world traveler, the gentleman farmer.
Back at Amuse, I joined Homes and Beloved for a glass of Rose and an offbeat chat with the carpenter from Manchester named Rhett (because of course a British woman is going to name her son Rhett a dozen years after "Gone with the Wind" comes out), who has taken a shine to Holmes and is rabidly discussing the Beatles, the Damned and the Sex Pistols.
I am brought into the conversation. Most unexpected question? "Are you heterosexual?" Aren't I?
There is banter, talk of a northside pool where the membership is chiefly reprobates and outlaw types, as well as lively discourse on why 30-year old males are not yet men. Rhett and Holmes discuss the wearing of Chuck Taylors post-30 and sing snippets of a Captain Sensible song to each other.
After a great deal of happy talk, we adjourn to Holmes' pad for Corail Rose and a short record-listening party before walking the block back to InLight and finding the crazy Confederate protesters just outside the entrance.
Out of the way, losers, we've got art to see.
Making my way around for the second time, only this time with male company, I finally make it into the chapel, see a few pieces I missed on my first round and make the most of the lack of crowds at 11:30.
For the first-time visitor, the disappointment is that some pieces are already turned off and abandoned. It's a shame because it seems lame to cut out before the official ending time. It's wonderful not being herded; it's unfortunate not to see everything still fully lighted.
You don't see any of the Folk Fest acts skipping their last set, do you? Frankly, my dear, we're a big town now. We can stay lit 'til midnight.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Hopelessly Devoted to You
Tonight turned out nothing like I expected it to.
I watched one of my moon flowers open.
There was the unexpected invitation to a friend's house where we shared a bottle of Corail Rose and discussed feminism, anacondas and mens (plural intended).
Best of all, she shared with me egg rolls and cheese smuggled in from Bermuda.
I was sprayed with perfume for what was perhaps the first time in decades. Mmm, I smell like a girl.
On the way to our next stop, she observed, "You know, we're not going to meet anyone who knows what Rose is."
Point taken. I drank 1800 and she had Ketel 1 on the rocks. The female bartenders glared at us both.
Of the first two gents who tried to be friendly, from Chester and Hopewell respectively, one was wearing a t-shirt that read, "Don't Bro me 'till you know me."
The other one had the audacity to put his tongue on my friend's hand, causing her to warn him, "Don't lick me like you know me."
It was the first time I ever slow danced with a girl. It's better than you might think.
Best compliment of the evening: a man walked up to me and said, "I had to talk to you because you have the beautiful hair."
Why is it the wrong mens always say the right things?
So that you know, my plan tonight was to watch "Grease" outside at Quirk Gallery.
For the record, I definitely qualify as a beauty school dropout.
I watched one of my moon flowers open.
There was the unexpected invitation to a friend's house where we shared a bottle of Corail Rose and discussed feminism, anacondas and mens (plural intended).
Best of all, she shared with me egg rolls and cheese smuggled in from Bermuda.
I was sprayed with perfume for what was perhaps the first time in decades. Mmm, I smell like a girl.
On the way to our next stop, she observed, "You know, we're not going to meet anyone who knows what Rose is."
Point taken. I drank 1800 and she had Ketel 1 on the rocks. The female bartenders glared at us both.
Of the first two gents who tried to be friendly, from Chester and Hopewell respectively, one was wearing a t-shirt that read, "Don't Bro me 'till you know me."
The other one had the audacity to put his tongue on my friend's hand, causing her to warn him, "Don't lick me like you know me."
It was the first time I ever slow danced with a girl. It's better than you might think.
Best compliment of the evening: a man walked up to me and said, "I had to talk to you because you have the beautiful hair."
Why is it the wrong mens always say the right things?
So that you know, my plan tonight was to watch "Grease" outside at Quirk Gallery.
For the record, I definitely qualify as a beauty school dropout.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday Satisfaction: Subtitles and Sex
The UR campus is a long-time nemesis of mine and since it was my destination tonight, I thought it wisest to stop at Secco beforehand for a glass of wine.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
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