This Woman's Work

The solemnity of today required a little humor.

And by solemnity, I'm not just talking about a major car repair that took two days to complete and more money than I want to think about, I'm talking about the tragic news that the final Beetle that Volkswagen will ever make rolled off the assembly line today.

Can we just have a moment for my first car - a '66 blue Beetle - and its place in shaping who I am today? I mean, what kind of world are we leaving future generations if no more Beetles are being made?

RIP, Bug.

Add in that Mac's still a bit jet-lagged since her return from Scotland, and neither of us was feeling up to anything heavy tonight. So when trying to decide what movie to see, "Late Night" beat out other films such as "Shaft" and "Last Black Man in San Francisco," which would have required more brain reserves than we had.

Truthfully, I wanted it for Emma Thompson and she wanted it for Mindy Kaling, so we were a match made in heaven.

We started at Goatocado since she'd never been (eating at their food truck didn't count) and I'm such a fan. I'm embarrassed to admit that we ate indoors, a fact attributable on my part to all the walking I'd had to do in the hot afternoon sun and on her part to having been at work since 7 a.m.

She surprised me by ordering the ramen - which I'd never even noticed they had on the menu - while I did my usual Californian: flatbread stuffed with black beans, apples, corn, greens and avocado with a chipotle/pineapple dressing, which I proceeded to wolf down as if I'd been on the run all day. Oh, wait...

Then it was on to Criterion to see a film about sexism in the workplace, ageism, double standards, affirmative action and, central to the story, the dumbing down of entertainment in the YouTube/Twitter age of short attention spans and disdain for depth. Why have Doris Kearns Goodwin as a guest when you can have the latest YouTube sensation?

And while any one of those issues is enough to cause apoplexy, at least they were dealt with in a clever, comedic manner.

Better still, it was a comedy written by Mindy Kaling (whom, it turns out, Mac follows on Instagram) who had firsthand knowledge of being a woman in a male-dominated writing staff from her time writing for "The Office."

Only a woman writes a line like, "My Spanx have cut off the blood supply to my head" or "I am a 56 year old woman who's not had a baby and never seen a superhero movie." Need more proof? Only a woman would have her character bring cupcakes to her first staff meeting on her first day of work.

Not to go too far with this estrogen tangent, but both Emma and Mindy's wardrobes (and shoes) were also fabulously unique, albeit in completely different ways that any one of the seven - count 'em -women in the theater could appreciate.

Because of course it was a female audience, although I'm betting I'm the only one of them who's never seen a superhero movie.

Or, more importantly, had a window box full of plants in the back of her blue VW bug.

One of the Bohemians

I'd be lying if I said it was only about the opera.

Despite the cultural smorgasbord I call my nightlife, the truth is I've only been to the opera a handful of times. But I also figured that my firmly-established role as a documentary dork would be more than enough to carry me through my lack of deep opera knowledge.

Well, that and the movie started at the right time. That was the real clincher. My goal was to catch a film at Movieland, specifically a film that would end around the time that the fireworks were starting up at the Diamond, practically next door.

Kind of brilliant, right? Or, at least efficient, which is one of my trademarks.

So after perusing the movie offerings for Independence Day, I settled on "Pavarotti," director Ron Howard's ode to the man known as the "King of High Cs." And no, I didn't know that about him before seeing the flick.

Those drenching thunderstorms that arrived as I was getting up from my heat nap afternoon was giving way to evening had me wondering if fireworks were even going to happen, especially after the Flying Squirrels announced a delay of the game start time. The way I figured it, at least I'd get a documentary out of my Fourth of July evening.

It's not like I was going to stay home to celebrate independence. So I drove through massive puddles to Movieland and found a parking space facing the Diamond, just in case because I am nothing if not optimistic.

I could have guessed that the audience would all be in my age bracket and they were, mostly couples. The upside of that was how quietly respectful everyone was during the film, with none of the usual talking and looking at cell phones that seems to be the new movie-going norm.

Because my knowledge of the big man (and opera, in general) was scant, this was the ideal documentary for me because Howard seemed to be making it for non-opera types like me. Why else include a charming scene of Pavarotti soaping up, singing in the shower? Or provide a plot synopsis of the operas he was shown singing?

Opera newbie or not, I loved getting to see all the vintage photographs and performance clips, not to mention the fascinating interviews with his first wife and three daughters and, eventually, the other ridiculously younger woman who became his second wife.

All I can say is, no women age as well as Italian women (that skin! those bones! that style!) so maybe we need to take a lesson from them on lifestyle choices.

Although I vaguely recall the Three Tenors phenomena in the '90s, somehow I had no clue about Pavarotti and Friends, his extensive charity shows with the rock world that lasted over a decade and made Princess Di a close friend and major fan. Seeing him sing with the likes of Bono, Sting and Dolores O'Riordan (RIP) in his hometown of Modena, Italy was pretty cool, even if opera snobs did disdain them.

What shone through the entire film was how robustly the singer lived life, gathering friends wherever he went, schlepping suitcases full of Italian food when he toured and facing stage fright every single time he performed (his standard comment just before taking the stage was always, "I go to die."). And I gotta say, the young Pavarotti was quite good-looking, his smile oozing charisma even as he got old and obese.

Before the film ended, I began hearing the pop-pop-pop of fireworks sounding close enough that they could only be coming from the Diamond. Since I hadn't been sure if they would happen at all, it was a nice surprise, albeit one that I hadn't expected to hear until after the movie ended.

Unfortunately, the Flying Squirrels had decided to postpone the game, which allowed them to start the fireworks at a ridiculously early 8:30, thwarting my plans for a doubleheader.

Which means when I walked out with a new appreciation for Pavarotti's voice and legacy, all was quiet at the Diamond. The only saving grace was the more traditionally-timed fireworks display just starting at the Carillon, so I took the scenic route home hoping to catch what I could of their explosions in the sky.

For the record, I saw no evidence of the rockets red glare you-know-who was talking about, but that could have been because the army was busy celebrating when they took over the airports in, what, 1775 or 1814?

Oh, say, can you see to read a history book, Mr. President? A real patriot would.

Go Where You Wanna Go

The thing about going to a documentary is that it always means I have homework afterwards.

I'd been eager to see "Echo in the Canyon" since I first read about it in the Post. As a major fan of that Laurel Canyon sound - the first album I ever asked my parents to buy me was the Byrds' Greatest Hits - I was understandably looking forward to an in-depth look at one of my favorite periods in musical history when, as David Crosby put it, "We were putting poetry on pop radio."

Then Jakob Dylan got in the way.

I get it, he was executive producer plus he was the onscreen talent interviewing the luminaries - Roger McGuinn, Steven Stills, Brian Wilson, Graham Nash, Michelle Phillips, David Crosby et al - who created the folk-rock music that changed everything that came after it. But one thing I did not go to see was him and assorted contemporaries (Beck, Regina Spektor, Cat Power) performing songs by the bands being featured.

Can you say vanity project?

In what was his last interview before he died, Tom Petty is the one "contemporary" musician who made sense in this context. It was great hearing how he'd been introduced to the Laurel Canyon sound: by answering a trivia question on the radio and winning a prize of the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds," which blew him away. When Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys played his hometown of Gainesville in 1967, he went, only to realize that it didn't get any better than what he was hearing.

So to have to watch Jakob and his posse singing the Byrds' take on the Goffin/Carole King-penned "Going Back" instead of the actual Byrds doing a much better job strikes me as, well, pandering to a younger audience. Given the decidedly older bent of tonight's audience at Criterion - what you might have thought was the target audience - I'm betting not a single person preferred to hear Fiona Apple doing "In My Room" over watching a vintage Beach Boys clip of the song.

Translation: too much 21st century posturing and not enough 20th century magic.

What did grab me was seeing old clips of these bands playing, mostly on the TV shows of the day. There was Buffalo Springfield playing "For What It's Worth," complete with Steven Stills in a ten gallon hat and Neil Young in one of his buckskin fringed jackets. Groovy, man. And the exquisite harmonies of the ridiculously young-looking Mamas and the Papas took my breath away.

Stills talked about the song "Triad," a Crosby-penned tune that got overruled for inclusion on "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" album because it was about a menage-a-trois. "Crosby was like Brando. He had no borders," his bandmate says before Crosby insists there's nothing wrong with a threesome or the French wouldn't have a word for it.

I'm here to tell you that looking at how cute the young Crosby was, I'm sure he had zero problem finding female companionship.

It was fascinating hearing how musicians would show up at each other's houses to play a song they'd just written or were working on. As several musicians pointed out, there couldn't help but be influences absorbed given how frequently get-togethers developed into jam sessions and song try-outs.

So while my reasons for going to see the documentary were twofold - to escape the ungodly heat and finally see a more in-depth look at how folk-rock developed - I came away knowing I need to know more.

For one, the initial inspiration for even making this film came from the directors seeing a film called "Model Shop," which was shot in Laurel Canyon in 1968 by a French director who felt burnt out making movies in his homeland. So now I definitely need to see that.

Plus I really must do deeper dives into some of the bands featured so I can better hear the cross-pollination that went on during this period. The Beatles said the Byrds were their favorite band, "Sgt. Pepper" was a direct reaction to "Pet Sounds" and everyone thought Brian Wilson was a once in lifetime musical genius, better than Mozart. I've got a lot to learn.

For what it's worth, we music nerds love a good homework assignment.

Like the Lark at Break of Day

It was a night for not letting truth get in the way of a good story.

A rainy night at that, for, what, the third or fourth night in a row? That's not a complaint, mind you, because I've been really enjoying these wet, beachy days. Today's was followed by a fine soggy night to spend in Stratford-on-Avon watching Shakespeare's final three years unfold at the Criterion in "All is True."

Which, for the uninformed (which was me before seeing this), was the original title of "Henry VIII," the play that was being performed when the Globe Theater burned down. That's also the point at which this particular film begins, with Will, his theater gone, vowing never to write a word again.

Directed by Kenneth Branagh and starring Kenneth Branagh as Will, which made it catnip to someone like me (I thought his "Much Ado About Nothing" was a masterpiece and saw it twice), the film also boasted Judy Dench as his wife, Anne Hathaway, a non-too happy wife given her husband's prolonged absences in London over the past 20 years.

Safe to say that Will wasn't getting an invitation into the marriage bed (which is the second best bed because, of course, the best bed is in the guest room...so Puritan) anytime soon.

Although he may not have  minded given that the film posits that Will's true love was the Early of Southampton, for whom he wrote all those sonnets and dedicated them to "the fair youth." Magnificently played by Ian McKellen, the conversation between the two men in front of the fireplace was a master class in poetry as they recited Sonnet 29 to each other, the difference in their ages and stations in life making for completely different interpretations.

I'm not too proud to admit that I would have sat there and listened to those two actors read sonnets for two hours. I love hearing poetry read aloud.

The film was a gorgeous escape, the soft-focus scenes of rural England's meadows, ponds and fields making them look almost magical in a Monet-in-England kind of a way. Just as dazzling in a different way were the many interior scenes lit solely by candlelight and fire's glow, although all I could think about was how limited your reading time must have been when flame provided the only illumination.

Even if the story hadn't captured my imagination, and it definitely did, it was beautifully shot that it could be appreciated solely as eye candy.

For me, one of the most thought-provoking scenes occurs while Will is gardening and a fan approaches. What he asks of the great playwright and poet is, "How did you know? to which Will asks, "Know what?"

The fan's answer? "Everything."

It was a light bulb moment. How did this man who'd never traveled and had limited life experience - he couldn't have known that many complex, compelling people on which to base characters - dream up the fantastical plots and myriad people and locales that went into his plays?

Let's face it, most of us don't know a King Lear or even an Ophelia type. Or perhaps 21st century denizens are just less complex than Jacobeans, who knows?

Nobody knows, just like nobody knows what Shakespeare did in his final three years besides spend them with his family. Maybe his imagination gave out or his brain just needed a rest from all that writing.

I'm telling you, it could happen.

Double Lives

How many words are too many words? Turns out that depends on the ears hearing them.

When Pru and I set out to have a mini-French Film Festival, it was purely for the sake of two things, namely popcorn for lunch and the usual French movie tropes: attractive people talking about intellectual things while smoking, drinking wine and bedding lovers. The only thing missing in this one was a woman in a dress on a bicycle, so we had to make do with a couple on a Vespa headed to the beach.

Good enough.

The problem was we'd chosen the first screening of the day and the woman running things at Criterion Cinemas wasn't quite ready to be open for business. Oh, she took our money for tickets and popcorn with no problem, but was the butter machine turned on? To my dismay, it was not. And to Pru's horror, she hadn't even set out the shakers of popcorn salt, so she had to go digging for those.

When it's your lunch, you want it just the way you like it.

Hardly surprisingly for a subtitled movie on a weekday at noon, we turned out to be the sole occupants of the theater. Our only complaint was that while generally the previews are geared to the type of film the audience has come to see, instead we suffered through previews for action-packed shoot-em-ups like "Dark Phoenix" and blockbusters like the upcoming "Star Wars" flick, neither of which held the least bit of interest for me.

Beau will undoubtedly drag Pru to the latter, but that's her problem. Tant pis, babe.

After all, we were there to see "Non-Fiction," a French serio-comic look at the state of the publishing industry, a subject near and dear to my heart. It didn't hurt that the film starred Juliette Bincohe because Pru and I are both big fans. The eye candy of Guillaume Canet - whether getting into his boxer briefs after a tryst or wearing a scarf with just the right touch of je ne sais quois - didn't hurt, either.

The film's French title was "Double Lives," which turned out to be a far better descriptor than the dumbed-down American title. Because, of course, these being Parisians, everyone had a lover on the side. When the couples weren't trysting, they were having dinner at each other's houses and discussing the state of the digital versus print worlds while sipping wine and eating pastries from the local patisserie.

Honestly, it doesn't sound like such a bad life.

But we were about halfway through the film when Pru observed in a loud voice (not a big deal since no one else was present), "Is it just me or are these people boring the shit out of you?" Honestly, they weren't, but obviously I also have a bit more of a stake in the discussion than she does, given what I do for a living.

Affairs aside, the movie was a pretty relentless critique of how technology is changing everything from literature to art and human interaction to the political scene and of course I'm going to eat that up in a way that most (cell phone-using, tablet-carrying) people wouldn't.

Let's put it this way, when a character refers to Twitter as the "new form of haiku," I'm the one who cringed. And frankly, a world without libraries isn't one I want to inhabit, despite a Millennial character assuring the Boomers that every book would be online. No, thanks.

Fortunately, not long after her comment, things got juicy when people began ditching their lovers toute suite. One got a necklace as a farewell gift, while another asked for the promise that their affair wouldn't become fodder for his next book (as he was known to do). Seems that the French liked to end their affairs in a tidy manner.

The last scene took place at a beautiful seaside house with waves crashing on the shore, whole grilled fishes for lunch and Canet's publishing house not being sold to a digital conglomerate after all (whew!), satisfying our desire for one final scenic French locale and a reassurance that all is not lost yet in the battle against technological domination. A laugh out loud-worthy inside joke about Juliette Binoche only made it better.

"We must choose the change, not suffer it," one character says of the techno revolution affecting modern life, becoming my hero.

Safe to say that Pru and I prefer a French take on the state of contemporary life to an American one, especially when it comes from attractive and articulate people.

As for me, I'm continuing  to choose the Luddite life. It saves me the suffering of Twitter as haiku.

Let's Groove Tonight

The rules are different on a girls' night out.

Mac and I were eating at the counter of Galley Go To when she spotted the chocolate/chocolate cake on the other side. Since our pizzas hadn't arrived, we wasted no time in walking around the U-shaped counter to inspect the cake up close. And I'm not going to lie, the coconut cake sitting directly next to the chocolate did give us a moment's pause.

But then Mac decided the matter, announcing, "Nah, I want chocolate cake" and that was that.

Once we were eating our pizzas - the usual Bianca for me and Popeye's for her - she pointed out that we needed to finish soon so we'd have time to eat the cake before we left for the movies. That's when I had to remind her that we were going to see a movie about a middle aged woman looking for love, so there was no reason we couldn't eat our cake in the theater before the movie began.

All I'm saying is, I can't imagine they ever threw any women out of a certified chick flick for eating chocolate cake. I think it's in our Bill of Rights or something.

When we walked into the theater, we were the only occupants. Once we finished our cake, Mac asked if I thought anyone else would come. My best guess was we'd see 2 to 3 middle-aged women. As if on cue, two such women walked in a few minutes later. Next came a couple, surprising us both since we hadn't expected any men.

The final arrivals were a gay couple, bringing the final totals to 5 middle aged women and one straight man. Close enough.

"Gloria Bell" was a remake of Chilean director Sebastion Lelio's film "Gloria," except set in Los Angeles and starring a still gorgeous 60-year old Julianne Moore. Even in the film, a character can't help but ask if she's had work done and she's flattered, but says no. That she's gone on record in real life as saying aging is natural and she'll never have plastic surgery should make her a hero to all women.

Role modeling aside, I liked many things about her character, but probably none so much as her unshakable romantic optimism and her love of dancing as often as possible.

It was gratifying to see that I'm not the only one similarly afflicted.

So while she's certainly not the only woman of a certain age who still loves dancing, the world she inhabits has a leg up on mine because in hers, there's a club frequented by only middle aged people with nothing but good '70s and '80s music played.

Believe me, if such a thing existed in Richmond, I'd be a regular.

And between her nights dancing and her daily singing in the car (it is L.A., after all), that meant a whole lot of music from my youth. I'm talking songs like "Love Is In the Air," "Never Can Say Goodbye" and "September," along with the iconic dance floor anthem "Gloria."

Let's put it this way, there weren't many songs played that I haven't already danced to. Repeatedly.

But my favorite thing about "Gloria Bell" (besides John Turturro, of whom I'm a big fan) was how un-American a film it came across as. Since I hadn't seen the original, I had no clue how things would work out, so I was continually surprised by how the director handled a scene or outcome.

Like life, there were no easy answers and opening yourself up to love at middle age is bound to come with more than a few surprises and at least a little baggage.

Walking out of the theater after everything was not tied up neatly Hollywood-style, I heard my name called from across the parking lot. It was a guy I know, a regular movie-goer en route to see "Transit" and curious about our choice. Guessing what we'd seen, he said his conclusion had been that "Gloria Bell" was a film only enjoyable to middle aged women.

I didn't bother reminding him that gay men seemed to enjoy it, too, a fact he should have realized since he's getting a chemical peel tomorrow and will be unable to be out doing reviews for the next week.

Meanwhile, Mac took issue with the film's depiction of technology, informing me afterward that if a man won't stop calling you, all you need to do is block his number. Can't relate.

That aside, allow me to suggest to middle aged women across Richmond that chocolate cake pairs beautifully with "Gloria" and a girlfriend.

On Looking Like a Badger

Nothing like a good anachronistic costume drama on a soggy night.

As many times as I'd seen the previews for "The Favourite" at Movieland over the past few months, I wasn't expecting the movie I finally saw tonight. The preview, like so many, didn't really convey the film's essence, instead using snippets of scenes that suggested a period romp with some "Mean Girls" action.

Not even close.

Instead, it was an absurdist take on history (politicians holding indoor duck races, royals pelting a naked man with rotten fruit for sport), full of modern-day dialog ("No pressure," said no 18th century person ever), pathos (a queen who keeps 17 rabbits in her bed chamber to signify the 17 children she miscarried or were stillborn) and crazy fish-eye camera lenses that made the palace feel like a claustrophobic fun house.

Also, lots of vomiting due to drunkenness, binge eating and poisoning. Oh, yes, and a hand job. And granted, the opulent costumes were pure eye candy, even if no 18th century royal ever wore a dress covered in large polka dots.

And that doesn't even begin to touch on the stellar performances of the three women who star in the film - Olivia Coleman, Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone - all of whom got Oscar nods. If only one can win, my full support goes to Coleman who manages to convey all the contradictions of the Queen's personality, loneliness and ailing body without losing the humanity of her as a flawed woman.

Not to be overlooked is how utterly refreshing it was to see a movie with so much girl power, not to mention that all the male roles were in service of the female characters.

Mac had seen the film with her Mom on Christmas Day and told me that her Mom had found the film to be a downer. I'm guessing she wasn't the only one because when the final scene dissolved to black tonight, there was  stunned silence in the nearly full theater.

The guy behind me turned to his date and said, "No way," as if disappointed that things hadn't been wrapped up in a more happily-ever-after manner. This is satire, people. Do we really think that Queen Anne said, "I like it when she puts her tongue in me?" No, no we don't.

Besides, every now and then, it's good to be reminded that bad behavior is its own punishment.

Driving home, I realized that with tonight's movie, I've now seen four of the eight Oscar nominees for Best Picture: "The Favourite," "BlacKKKlansman," "Green Book" and "A Star is Born," although how that last one got in there, I'll never understand.

Give me a good satire with bite, bossy women and heaving breasts any day. That's entertainment.

Love is a Bohemian Child

I have two just questions, at least for right now.

Who changes their clock in the middle of the night? And will this slow death by snow ever end? Three days in and it feels interminable.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was inexplicably certain my bedside clock had stopped, so I checked another clock and reset it in the dark. Only once I got up and began making breakfast did I realize that I'd mistakenly set my clock half an hour ahead.

And, believe me, a snow day doesn't need to start any earlier than it already does, if you know what I'm saying.

While the snow didn't prevent me from walking, it definitely slowed down the process to the point that a four mile walk - usually an hour-long endeavor - took an hour and 20 minutes. A lot of that had to do with my inability to walk at my usual speed because of un-shoveled sidewalks, unexpected swaths of black ice when walking in the street to avoid icy puddles and detours due to enormous mounds of plowed snow deposited on sidewalks.

Pedestrians become secondary when it comes to snow removal.

Still, I was out of the house and seeing signs of life, so that at least was progress and there are worse ways to spend the afternoon than writing to the accompaniment of the sounds of snow shifting and melting outside. But after spending the last two nights at home, I also made a deal with myself that if got enough work finished, I was going to cut out in late afternoon to go indulge my inner documentary dork.

Besides mixing things up a bit, it was a chance to prove I could stay home three nights in a row and I know I have friends who doubted I could.

It was hardly surprising how uncrowded the Movieland parking lot was, not to mention finding only three other people in the tiny Criterion Cinema where I was seeing "Maria by Callas: In Her Own Words."

Two of them were older and obviously on a date, but they'd both lost the ability to whisper, so their frequent exchanges were loud enough for me and the other loner to hear every word. And he was one of those men who felt the need to explain every preview to her as if she hadn't just seen it with her own eyes.

Red flag, honey, cut bait while you can.

As for the documentary's subject matter, Maria Callas has interested me since the whole Jackie business. Back in those days, my family had subscriptions to three daily newspapers and I recall quite clearly that the Washington Daily News, an afternoon tabloid-format paper, always had the best juice in it.

So when they ran a piece about Onassis' plans to marry JFK's widow, they didn't stint on the fact that it broke Callas' heart because of their long-time relationship. It may have been the first time I'd ever read in a newspaper about a woman having an affair, so it piqued my curiosity and stuck.

Years later, I picked up "Maria Callas: The Woman Behind the Legend" by Arianna Stossinopolous at one of the library's used book sales and learned a lot more about the diva. So it only took seeing the previews to tonight's movie once to know I needed to come back and hear the story of her life in her own words.

Because that was really the cool part of this non-traditional documentary. Director Tom Volf chose to only use interviews of Callas, along with home movies, filmed performances and press footage with an occasional overdub of American opera singer Joyce di Donato reading Callas' letters aloud.

Letters to people like Grace Kelley. Letters to Onassis. Letters that explained exactly where her head and heart were at any given time.

So without a talking head in sight, the story truly felt like it was being told by Maria herself, in all her perfect make-up and fashionable splendor.

An added bonus of the film was the extensive and dated footage of Europe, meaning I go to see Athens and the Acropolis in 1937 and Paris in 1963, neither much resembling the crowded metropolises I saw in the 21st century.

Pushed into a career in opera by a demanding stage mother, Callas talked repeatedly about a woman's value being in having a family and children, but that wasn't the hand she'd been dealt. "Destiny is destiny," she tells the interviewer. "There's no way out."

To add to the vintage vibe, some of the old footage had been colorized, giving it that over-saturated '50s look where yellow, orange and red reign supreme and blue is tough to find.

It was obvious how much of a Callas fan the director was because of the multiple live performances he included, and not just a snippet, but the entire aria. Seeing her perform onstage made it easy to see why her acting skills had been touted, along with her voice and technical skill.

But like with that long-ago Daily News, I reveled in the details of her love affair with Aristotle Onassis, whom she referred to as "Aristo," but whom she always described as a friend, not a lover. Tellingly, she said that Aristo made her feel "liberated and feminine" and that he was more than happy for her to take a break from a demanding career that had begun at 13 and never let up.

As a side note, I'd only seen photographs of Onassis in his late '50s and early '60s, but seeing him in his '40s revealed that he'd once been a very handsome, if very Greek-looking, man.

Everyone may know now who worships at the altar of divas, but back when Callas returned to New York City, her hometown, to sing after having been gone for seven years, it wasn't all that much different. A CBS correspondent roams the long line of people waiting to get into the Met, asking them why she's worth waiting all day to see.

All three men asked responded with praise and deference to the magnificent woman they idolized and, without profiling anyone, I'd guess that every single one of them was a gay boy. Slender, attractive and absolutely enthralled at seeing their heroine, they positively fawned as long as the CBS microphone was held in their face. One said he expected the ovation to be "standing and last 30 minutes."

 That's a true fan. Adorable.

But also of note was what that before there were rock stars, Maria Callas was an opera star of the rock star magnitude, the kind greeted at every airport and train station where she arrived with a gaggle of paparazzi hanging on her every word, at least when she deigned to talk to them. Performances sold out overnight when her name was announced as part of the cast.

And yet, the sad part was she didn't get the family and children she craved nor did she get the one man she truly loved, even if he did go back to meeting her in secret after marrying the world's most famous window.

It's like she told David Frost, "There are two people in me. I am Maria, but there is Callas that I have to live up to." Helluva trade-off to be considered the finest operatic female voice of the 20th century.

There are two people in me, too, but since I'm not the finest anything, I get to do whatever I want, even when it's not what others expect.

Destiny, shmestiny. Like Emerson said, the only person you're destined to become is the person you decide to be.

I'm shooting for liberated, feminine and almost always hungry. I like to think it's enough to keep me out of the diva category.

At the Orange Bird

Believe me, we didn't set out to attend a school fundraiser.

After a week, Mac and I had plenty to talk about and a need to be entertained, so the plan was dinner and a movie. But when we arrived at Branch and Vine, we found a sandwich board welcoming diners to a fundraising night for Mary Munford Elementary School.

I mean, it's not like we were denied entrance or anything. It simply meant that a percentage of whatever we paid for our meals would end up in the school's coffers. Neither of us had any problem with supporting a good cause, even if we had no dog in this fight, so we stayed, despite tables covered in crayons and coloring pages.

The owner came over to take our order, leading to a discussion of grapes when he listed out his wine by the glass options, ending with Nero. "Nero?" Mac asked and before he could answer, I clarified that he meant Nero d'Avola and suggested she try the Sicilian wine because it's delicious.

Clearly the owner appreciated the help because he went on to lament how when he was coming up - you know, back in his day - the wine choices were Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. "And maybe some white Zinfandel," he concluded sagely.

At moments like that, you just smile and nod. Just bring the wine, please, sir.

As always, their sandwiches hit the spot. Mac had arrived jonesing for Giustino's pizza, but we had insufficient time to score a Southside pie and make it to the Criterion Cinemas in a timely manner, so I'd suggested a carb substitute. Both her Cubano and my turkey/Gruyere/sliced apples/tomato jam sandwich benefited from superior bread (my baguette, her ciabatta) and satisfied her itch.

Mine had the added bonus of Thanksgiving notes given the combo of turkey and sweet jam, which could just have easily been cranberry sauce, while the side we shared of sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts also tasted like it had roots in the holiday.

As we were finishing up our meal, more families showed up to have dinner for the cause, so at least we'd timed our visit to finish before the serious rugrat onslaught began. And if that sounds insensitive, just remember that Mac and I donated to Mary Munford this evening and you didn't.

Tonight's movie, "Green Book," was inspired by the true story of classical black pianist Don Shirley and Italian-American Tony Vallelonga, who was hired to be the driver for his 1962 tour of the South. The Green Book of the title is the handbook that used to be printed up advising black travelers where they could legally stay and eat without fear of reprisal.

It's especially galling to learn that it was still being produced as late as 1966.

Mac and I were both intrigued by the film after seeing previews since A) neither of us had heard of Shirley and B) we both became huge fans of Mahershala Ali after seeing "Moonlight" together. That it took place in an era that was both culturally fascinating and appallingly racist only made it more interesting to us.

Both the lead actors' performances were strong, but as with any period film, I made it my mission to look for continuity details that rang true and false.

Red and blue mailboxes, women wearing gloves and furs at parties, smoking everywhere, insisting that safe drivers use the "10 and 2" position on the steering wheel? All correct for the era.

But referring to Shirley as a black man rather than a Negro (or worse) or using the phrase "being black while traveling?" Sorry, those are both pure 21st century dialog and not a bit true to 1962. And no one, I repeat, no one in the Bronx, had all white lights on their Christmas tree in 1962. Period.

Both of us were surprised that the car driven had power windows, but Mac felt sure that it was only because it was a Cadillac. But my ignorance is rooted in life experience: I didn't have power windows on my car until 1998.

As for scenes at fancy events of tables covered in champagne flutes, well, it rubbed me the wrong way. It was somewhere after the mid-1950s that champagne coupes began giving way to flutes, but flutes didn't reign supreme until the '80s, so it seems unlikely at best that these places in the Deep South would have been ahead of the curve on the best glasses in which to serve Champagne.

The film had plenty of laugh out loud-worthy lines, too, such as when Tony is asked if he's a cop. "Do I look Irish?" he responds belligerently. But the one that tickled my fancy most was, "She has terrible grammar, but she's a nice person."

I know, I know, it's hard to imagine any redeeming qualities in a person with poor grammar, but apparently it can happen.

Driving home discussing what we'd just seen, we realized we'd both reached the same conclusion during the movie. We wanted to learn more about Don Shirley, this musical prodigy who'd played with and written symphonies for major symphony orchestras, but whose name was completely unknown to us. What if I've flipped past a Don Shirley album in the dollar bins at my local record store and missed a golden opportunity?

Maybe it's for the best. I like to think that the dollar saved instead went to help fund a grammar worksheet for some deserving youngster at Mary Munford.

Just doing my part any way I can. Nice people and terrible grammarians know it's all about the kids.

Live in the Moment

Imagine a woman writing out installments of the story of her life for others to read, complete with aliases for real people.

I know, I know. Unlikely as it sounds, there's a surprisingly eager audience for those kinds of stories. So when I saw that "Colette" was playing at the Criterion tonight, I messaged a fellow literary fan for company, hearing back, "Ooh, that sounds right up my alley."

Nearly 20 years ago, I'd read all 500 pages of Judith Thurman's "Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette" and closed it still wanting to know more. And, to this day, I've never read any of Colette's writing, a glaring omission I could begin to address by seeing this film.

Total absence of humor renders life impossible. ~Colette

Judging by the decent-sized crowd for an early Monday evening show, lots of Baby Boomers were curious about the bisexual writer who'd ghostwritten the "Claudine" books about her life for her husband's publishing company and become the toast of France with her openness and unorthodox attitudes.

But I was just as taken with her need to write, a point driven home when Colette acknowledges that she didn't write because he told her to but because she couldn't stop herself. Putting one's life down on paper allows memories to be forever recalled because no matter what you're certain you'll remember, it won't be as much as you think.

Most of my life I've kept diaries or journals, and now, this blog. As hard as it would be to recall all the times I've had to verify a date or place (or band or person) on my blog, there are nearly as many times someone else settled their own question by searching the blog.

Can't recall when you saw me at the Elvis Costello show at the National? Looking it up on the blog tells me it was April 24, 2010. Last time I was at Lakeside Tavern? September 23, 2014. Look it up.

Colette's novelization of her years at school, or introduction to Paris or menage-a-trois interlude provided fodder for the reading public and perhaps incited more than a little envy, but they also gave voice to a different kind of woman. That she's such an astute observer of the people around her only make her writing more compelling for those who enjoy a good observation or opinion. After all, you don't get nominated for the Nobel prize in literature for nothing.

You can do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.~Colette

Pru and I both loved everything about the film, from costumes to dialog to performances, and that's not the popcorn talking, either. But we're also those nerds who got back to my apartment and promptly began poring over my copy of "Secrets of the Flesh" for the dozens of old black and white photos of the people the movie's characters were based on.

There was Colette at 15 in a hammock, or in drag in 1910.

Our curiosity rewarded us with several images that had become entire scenes in the movie: Colette being carried in on a palanquin supported by men in the barest of black briefs at a theater party, Colette and her transgender partner working out on their backyard gym.

This is what nerds do after seeing a satisfying costume biopic.

What a wonderful life I've had! I only wished I'd realized it sooner.~Colette

Flashing back to a conversation Pru and I had had yesterday about her new cookbooks - one by Frida Kahlo, another by Monet - I pulled out my own piece-de-resistance, Toulouse-Lautrec's "The Art of Cusine," a book I bought in the '70s, as much for its Lautrec illustrations as for the straightforward recipes.

Ever the chef, once the book was in Pru's hands, she made me the audience as she read preparations that either caught her eye or made her sick at the prospect of executing. Things such as, "In order to make the chickens immediately edible, take them out of the hen run, pursue them into the open country, and when you have made them run, kill them with a gun loaded with very small shot."

Not a snowball's chance in hell either of us would have managed that, but it's eminently entertaining reading.

For galantine of preserved goose, she read, "Take the bones out of a goose fat enough to die of it." I'm not even sure what that means.

For squirrels, the instructions read, "One must use no spice of any kind which might entail the risk of taking away from the animal its exquisite nutty flavor." This, I suppose, explains its inclusion in Brunswick stew.

Of English Channel Bouillabaisse, the author wrote, "This bouillabaisse is only a pale reflection of the bouillabaisse of Marseilles since it lacks rascasse and the Mediteranean rock fish which makes both its basis and its savor." So why, Pru and I wonder, include this recipe at all?

And don't get us started on Quails in Ashes: "At the end of September, beginning of October, after you have killed some fat quail, pluck and empty them." For the record, "emptying" birds is part of every recipe that involves them, perhaps because "disembowel" is such an unpleasant word.

We couldn't stop laughing. The cookbook's era overlaps with Colette's, but she and Willy had a housemaid, so it's doubtful she ever had to worry about stewing eels or skinning a rabbit. And let's face it, writing about your life is way more interesting than cooking calf's liver with three slabs anyway.

And if it's not, I suppose I'll never know. That's enthusiasm talking.

Striding up That Hill

Out of countless quips that had me doubled over in laughter, surely this was the best line of the weekend: "Roundabout. Dig it!"

Commentary followed by directive, Yes, sir.

Since I last blogged Thursday, I've been to six restaurants - Metzger, Dinamo, Lee's, Adrift, The Walkabout and Willaby's Cafe - not including the one that shall remain nameless because I was reviewing it.

Of note was the brisket at Metzger, our kickoff to soup season at Dinamo (fish soup and matzoh ball soup) with a side of travel planning, a server named Karen at Lee's ("Open since 1939!") who referred to me as "this lovely lady," the mystery man taking notes at Adrift who wouldn't tell us why he'd come to Irvington 29 years ago or what's kept him there so long (and I asked), tequila and dancing at a dimly-lit Australian Outback-themed pub to the classic rock ramblings of Right Turn Clyde and a waterfront seat for what is still one of the best crabcakes on the Northern Neck at Willaby's Cafe.

Our only food miscalculation was in not having a slice of pie after lunch at Lee's, but I'd foolishly followed the lead of the large man in the booth next to us who, when asked about pie, patted his ample girth and declined by saying, "Nah, I think I'll save today's dessert for after dinner."

That's all well and good until an hour later when you want to kick yourself for not just going ahead and scarfing two desserts in one day.

I was supposed to have seen two movies, but "Psycho" in Chimborazo Park never happened because the organizers opted to show "Monsters, Inc." instead. Why, you wonder, especially after I'd donned fleece leggings jeans, two shirts, a sweater, gloves and a jacket had they let us down? Because "Monsters, Inc." had been the scheduled film a week earlier when Hurricane Michael blew through and they'd had to cancel. 

Judging by the crowd of couples, not families, around us, I'm going to go out on a limb and say we weren't the only ones looking forward to Hitchcock, although we were the only ones who packed up our chairs, blankets, wine, bourbon-laced coffee and took the party to Pru's porch a block away instead.

In addition to bow tie-tying lessons, it was there that Beau decided to delve into the origins of When Mr. Wright Met Karen and Pru repeatedly insisted to him, "You broke her!" when she wasn't giving a Power Point presentation about my past and my proclivities ("She would never!"). Meanwhile, the menfolk sipped single malt Scotch and those of us with no circulation mainlined Grillo while availing ourselves of the porch's heat lamps.

Beau and I weren't shy about saying yes to slices of Pru's freshly-made peach clafoutis, even if I am allergic to peaches. Moaning with pleasure as he ate, Beau also insisted it would make an ideal breakfast food when warmed, not that everyone is as dedicated to that meal as he and I are.

They must not wake up hungry every single day like I do.

What Mr. Wright and I did manage to see was "The Old Man and the Gun," purportedly Robert Redford's final acting role and a fine (and true) yarn that highlighted the excellent chemistry between Redford and Sissy Spacek while telling the story of a string of '80s bank robberies perpetrated by what became known as the "Over the Hill Gang."

The film opens with a caveat: "This movie is, also, mostly true." So while it wasn't a documentary, it at least came out of real life and we all know how much that appeals to me.

Exactly once I was mistaken for a Cubs' fan, mainly due to the over-sized sweatshirt I had on for warmth on my morning walk through Irvington. The thing is, I've learned that that logo is also an excellent tool for identifying guys from the south side of Chicago since it seems to get a sure-fire reaction in Virginia. 

At least three or four times, there was protracted discussion of indulgence and specifically, why, at this stage of life, it's perfectly fine to operate in such a mode. In other words, if you're going to mention interest in a piece of art located in a place you've never been, chances are someone is going to think it's a splendid idea to make plans to see it.

A file folder naturally follows and next thing you know, a plan is in place.

The past two weeks since we returned from Athens have been a sort of no man's land, not quite back to pre-travel status quo - witness I only walked once last week - with three road trips this week alone. I keep expecting life to settle down to something approximating normal, except I'm not exactly sure what that is anymore.

Hence the lapse in blogging.

But given how wildly happy I am, I'm not sure that I need to. It's enough to wallow in it, play catch-up with work and reading my stack of Washington Posts in between and look forward to whatever's next. Dig it?

This blog post is, also, mostly true.

On Not Paying Attention

You have to be awfully distracted to get the date of a movie wrong.

I could defend myself by saying that after years of attending regularly, I know that VCU Cinematheque is usually held on Tuesdays. But that doesn't tke into account that I checked online earlier today to verify that the Byrd, not the usual Grace Street Theater, was the venue.

It was, but somehow I missed the date.

So after accomplishing everything on my to-do list - walking, writing, editing, shopping, interviewing, handing off - I hi-tailed it to the Byrd, only to find an empty box office and closed doors because a private event was in progress.

(sound of record scratching)

Out comes manager Todd, saying how nice it was to see me. What about VCU Cinematheque? He looked at me, asking, "L'Avventura?" Yes, yes, the Michelangelo Antonioni film I was so eager to see.

"That was Sunday at 1:30," he said, trying to make it sound like an error anyone could make. Oops. And just to make sure I didn't pull the same bonehead mistake next month, he reminded me of another Cinematheque Sunday screening in October.

But I am nothing if not adaptable, so while I'd really been looking forward to a 1960 Italian cinema classic, I punted.

That meant going back home, doing some more writing, some hemming and finding a small, arthouse movie at Criterion for later. Ciao, Italy, and hello Britain.

But just to keep my streak going, I bought my ticket  for "The Bookshop" and promptly walked into the wrong theater, sat there for ten minutes and finally figured out that if no previews were showing, I must be in the wrong place. Because theater 4 and theater 3 are apparently not interchangeable. So I moved to the correct theater where I find I am the sole occupant. Probably best.

"When we read a book, we inhabit it," the film begins. "And the story keeps playing in your head." Tell me about it. I couldn't stop replaying "Loving Frank" after my girl crush began it and recommended it to me last month. After reading it, I was so caught up in the story that I peppered her with my thoughts for weeks, at least until she finally suggested we have a book dinner, the better to discuss it in depth.

Meanwhile, this sweet, little film involved smelling books (c'mon, who doesn't?), discovering Ray Bradbury and books delivered in brown paper packages tied up with string. There were multiple long takes of the sea, grasses blowing in the wind on the point and rain on cobblestones.

And you know what? Bill Nighy made it all worthwhile, never more so than when he kissed our heroine's hand. It was just the thing after a couple of ridiculously busy days.

Now that everything's done, I can finally take a deep breath and relax. I'm good to go.

His Intellectual Trophy

It's not like you have to be head over heels in love to appreciate an unexpected romance.

Back in 2009, I went to see "Julie and Julia" expecting to come away with a fuller picture of how Julia Child became Julia Child. Instead, I was captivated by the love story between Julia and Paul Child and how devoted to each other they were, while the storyline about Julie was downright annoying.

The movie sent me straight to Chop Suey in search of a used copy of  Child's "My Life in France" so I could read more about how their romance and relationship began and flourished. I reread it five years later just to remind myself about that kind of love because I hadn't experienced it yet.

Tonight's film choice, "RBG," at the Criterion was based on nothing more than being a documentary dork and wanting to have a fuller sense of Ruth Bader Ginsburg's legal accomplishments. Really, that was it. That her life contained a major love story was a complete and utterly wonderful bonus to learning how she changed the legal landscape for women in this country.

And while I vaguely recall those landmark gender disparity cases she argued as a lawyer in the '70s, when you look at them in hindsight, it was a remarkable entity she was knitting together to enlighten the all-male Supreme Court about the realities of being a woman in a weighted society.

I'm sure my Mom would have been even more impressed with the fact that the Notorious RBG lived by her own mother's cardinal rules: Be a lady. Be independent.  In many ways, those two things were mutually exclusive during the first few decades of RBG's career.

But where I fell hard for the well-executed documentary was with her romance with her husband Marty. RBG was up front about why she'd been so attracted to him after a string of first dates that never turned into second dates: "He was the first boy I ever knew who cared I had a brain."

Can we just have a moment of gratitude for all the men astute enough to be drawn to a woman's brain back in the dark ages of the 1950s when women were expected to excel at housekeeping and motherhood, not forming opinions and reading law? And RBG wasn't shy either about saying, "Meeting Marty was the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me."

Call it mush, if you must, but I call that pure romance.

Clinton was downright blunt about considering her for a Supreme Court nomination, saying that he'd known within 15 minutes of talking to her that he wanted that mind on the nation's highest court. The interesting part was that, despite her legal accomplishments and days on the DC Court of Appeals (a feat accomplished because President Carter was determined to put women and minorities in judicial positions - go Jimmy, incidentally the first president I ever voted for), her profile was too low and her demeanor too reserved for her to be on anyone's short list for a judgeship.

Enter Marty who began a campaign for her to at least be considered and, lo and behold, she winds up in Clinton's sites, allowing her the opportunity to wow him with her keen mind. And I think we all know Clinton appreciated a good mind, even if he was, shall we say, distractable.

The documentary tried to unpack RBG's lofty place in popular culture usisng millennial lawyers and even her own granddaughter gushing about what a role model and brilliant thinker she is. But, of course, it's bigger than that. The Notorious RBG is cool in a way few 85-year olds could ever hope to be.

Which reminds me of a screened porch discussion I was having with Pru and Beau the other night after a sensational meal at Lucy's (snapper with the texture of lobster in a coconut/ginger sauce with jasmine rice and matchstick green beans and red peppers, oh-so tropical-tasting) and seeing the Golden Girls-esque "Always a Bridesmaid" at Swift Creek Mill Theater.

Favorite line: "I just want to met a man who hates all the same things I do!" Good lucky, honey, that's harder than it sounds.

And on that night, Pru was looking at the big picture, inquiring of us, "Is this the coolest you've ever been in your life?"

Beau didn't hesitate, announcing that he was most definitely at his coolness peak (have you seen that swoop?) and frankly, this is probably as cool as I can ever hope to be after so many years as a nerd. Maybe not full-on cool, but at least less non-cool than before.

But when I turned the tables, her disdain was immediately evident when I asked if this was her coolest period.

"Uh, no!" she said with all the conviction of someone who'd been breaking rules and breaking bad for decades, while Beau and I had been ensuring that we never colored outside the lines.

And RBG's been exhibiting her brand of effortless cool even longer than Pru.

Legal accomplishments aside, I'm even going to say that her storybook romance with Marty alone elevated her into the cool kids' club. Let's face it, most people never get lucky enough to meet their person, so when it happens, it's automatic cool cred.

Which means I may have a shot at cool after all. Thanks, brain.

The World Just Shrugs Its Shoulders

According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other half. ~ Plato, although it was Aristophanes' idea

I don't even know how many months I had to wait to see this movie, but I do know I've been seeing previews for it at least since summer.

It's not just that it's winter - a season I detest - but also it's my mood, which has been lower than I'd care to admit the past few months, so late on a Friday afternoon, I used it as a reason to stop working and visually escape to sunny Italy.

Better to focus on the setting since, let's face it, there's no way I needed to see a love story.

The last minute decision to go see "Call Me By Your Name" happened  at 4:23, when I looked at the Criterion schedule, saw that it had finally opened that day and was playing at 4:30 and made the split second decision to go. Even though the theater is barely 2 miles from home, I knew I'd miss the previews but could just make the movie.

It was enough.

What I wasn't expecting at a late matinee was a nearly full house once I got inside the theater, which is how I wound up in the second row just as the film was beginning. Yes, bucolic scenes of the Lombardy region in northern Italy were just exactly what my bruised spirit needed right about now.

The setting aside, everything about the movie had a European feel: the languorous pace, the casual conversations about sex between parents and child, or even the offhand depiction of sexual attraction. It was all so refreshingly un-American, un-Hollywood-like.

Even the film's title, a reference to that Plato quote, presumes a certain level of literacy on the part of the viewer. I can always appreciate presumption of intelligence.

For someone like me who remembers 1983, the year the story is set, it was a delightful reminder of a time when men wore shorter, attractive swimming trunks (and not those hideously unflattering board shorts), young people traded books and made reading recommendations to each other (and some of us weren't happy when our books weren't returned) and sunning yourself counted as a pastime.

And in a scene where the young people are dancing outside at night and the Psychedelic Furs' "Love My Way" - one of the summer's big songs - starts playing, it's positively transporting for those of us who remember dancing to it.

Everything about the film was swoon-worthy: the scenery, the coming of age story, watching first love unfold, the sprawling, unhurried outdoor meals, even the abundance of fresh fruit from nearby trees.

I don't know how a person who'd never been to Italy could have left that theater without a newly found passionate desire to do so. I've only been once and walked out wishing I could teleport.

But when all was said and done, the most powerful scene in the movie, the one that will resonate for some time to come for me, was the one in which Elio's father explained why he needed to allow himself to feel hurt for as long as it took...even if it was a lifetime.

We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing, so as not to feel anything, what a waste!

Because my first true love arrived post-30, I was as destroyed as a teenager when it didn't ultimately work out. One thing I knew for sure was that I was not going to be cured of it quickly or easily - a realization a much younger person might not have had - which in many ways only made it a heavier burden to come to terms with.

I'm inclined to think that being cured of the hurt and pain of losing someone you love isn't possible and likely not desirable. In the immortal words of Jens Leckman, "You don't get over a broken heart, you just learn to carry it gracefully."

It's the graceful part that's the challenge.

Johnny Danger Says Welcome

Sometimes a documentary dork has to settle for a fictional film.

If she's smart, she'll find one that might as well be a documentary (albeit one with Willem Dafoe in it), given the non-actors and alternately charming and wrenching subject matter: "The Florida Project."

I'd seen previews for it at the Criterion a couple of times, but had no intention of going back to see it until review after review began raving about what a masterpiece it was as an observational look at an under-represented demographic in, of all places, Florida.

Granted, my exposure to Florida is limited, with two vacations having taught me the little I know of the alligator (which, for the record, I ate while there) state. What sticks in my mind are little details: the Econo-Kill taxidermy shop, tiki bars and dancing to "Brick House" on New Year's Eve.

Telling, isn't it?

Tonight's film revolved around a trashy, unfit mother, a seedy lavender-colored hotel in the shadow of Disney World and a foul-mouthed 6-year old enjoying the myriad pleasures of childhood - spitting contests, setting things on fire, trying to find the end of a rainbow - despite those handicaps.

Like a documentary, it was often painful to watch. Midway through, I began questioning why I'd chosen a film that raised such difficult and hopeless scenarios.

What about all the teen-aged mothers too immature to properly parent their children? What about the no and low-income women who scrape by doing whatever they have to do to pay rent? What about children who see things daily that they can't possibly process?

And what about all the people who don't have a good-hearted motel manager like Dafoe's character to cut them slack when rent is late and chase potential pedophiles off the playground?

The movie's strength was in how compelling it was to watch - and not just the cinematography, which was absolutely gorgeous -given the way it was shot from the perspective of a kid who doesn't realize how dire her Mom's situation is or how lackluster her living situation might seem to others.

What was interesting to me was how differently the film was affecting me from the woman sitting a seat away. When mother and child go on a spending spree using money from selling stolen goods, the woman cheered them on, laughing at their extravagance, while all I could think about was that there were bound to be repercussions, so why be so foolish as to blow the cash? Rent's due weekly, you idiot.

Then when Social Services shows up to launch an investigation about Mom's parenting skills, the woman beside me began to cry, whereas I'm thinking, hallelujah, finally the child will get to drink something other than soda and not have to scam tourists with Mom anymore.

Which, I suppose, is a roundabout way of saying that "The Florida Project" affected me just as strongly as a documentary about a child in a grim situation would have and that's really saying something.

It's saying that Florida may be a sunny, colorful place for a vacation, but I wouldn't want to be raised there.

Duh. Documentary dorks don't do Disney World.

Small Popcorn, Lots of Butter

I know why friends might not want to go to the movies with me: it's the movies I choose.

Tonight it was "Lady Macbeth" and while I suppose you could say that technically it was a chick flick, bodies (adult, child and equine) piled up like it was a Tarantino movie.

In either case, it was most definitely an adult movie and all four of the adults who showed up tonight to see it were of an age and not necessarily one you'd want to admit to.

On the other hand, it was very much a favorite genre: a period drama. It was set in England during the 1860s when women were literally tied into corsets and buttoned by a maid into long sleeved full-length nightgowns (except when your new husband demanded you take yours off and face the wall so he could pleasure himself).

Just looking at the layers of garments plus a hoop skirt frame made me uncomfortable.

As a film geek, my interest was piqued by "Lady Macbeth" because it was a first time effort for the director, the screenwriter (from an 1865 Russian novella) and the first major role for the actress who played Katherine, the lead, and I have a hunch we're going to see a lot more from all three once they do a more mass-appeal movie.

In one of the director's most brilliant strokes, the film has no music, so there are never any audio cues telling you how you're expected to feel. It was completely refreshing to feel so unsettled.

For a feminist, the film was an uncomfortable reminder of a time when a man could buy his shiftless son a wife (along with a tract of land so poor a single cow couldn't graze on it) and harangue her about her wifely duties despite the son having zero interest in her. A time when a husband could forbid his wife from ever leaving the house, even for a walk just to take the air, as a means of control.

Like Shakespeare's "Macbeth," there's non-stop scheming, conniving, killing, lying (and little lamenting), always with an eye on the long game, in this case, Katherine getting to live with her stableboy lover (who reminded me a lot of the singer Tom Jones, right down to his occasional smirk) in the husband's house.

Given the time period and the setting, I was impressed at the number of black actors and actresses in the film and not just as servants. Whether it's colorblind casting (hooray) or a nod to historical accuracy, I can't say, but rarely are period dramas set in England not all white affairs.

Then there's lust, which plays a huge role in the story and as the balance of power shifts between the two, the viewer has to decide who's taking advantage of whom.

I'm not going to lie, some of the violence was difficult to watch (not ashamed to just close my eyes), but in its own way, so was Katherine's evolution from wronged bride to master manipulator. Seeing blood on her hands and white nightgown only drove home the comparisons to the Scottish play.

By the movie's disturbing end, all I could think of was Lady Macbeth's words: what's done is done.

As long as you can live with yourself, honey.

I'm just sorry I couldn't talk anyone into joining me so I could discuss what's done in a little more detail.

Chemistry of Romance

I'm as contrary as the next woman, but I couldn't quite figure out who to root for at first.

When it's a story about a middle-aged couple bored with each other after 30 years of marriage, it's only natural to want to see them each end up with their younger lovers, right? Why keep plodding through a relationship that's grown tepid when you can start fresh with someone new who doesn't know you as well...yet?

Because why wouldn't I cap off a Memorial Day afternoon eating crabs by myself in the back yard with a movie that takes an unabashed look at screwed up grown-up relationships by acknowledging that romance and sexual attraction continue unabated into middle age?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, I had every reason to go because "The Lovers" was directed squarely at adults, an authentic comedy that was played for the familiar notes of reality rather than easy laughs. That it starred a 62-year old Debra Winger as Mary and Broadway actor/playwright Tracy Letts as Michael turned it into the most fascinating kind of character study.

Watching the two of them go from happily unfaithful (Michael tells his girlfriend, "I was just tired of all the bullshit" about why he strays) to re-finding their attraction for each other amounted to a master class in acting, especially watching cold-hearted Mary melt with the attention and PDAs of her real love.

And once that happened, watching how much passed between them without words was as romantic as having poetry read to you (or written about you).

Almost immediately, they're cheating on their paramours with their spouses, an absurdist premise if there ever was one. But it also oozed romance because they're not just lusting after each other, they're firmly back in love with each other, or at least acknowledging that the love never really left, it was just buried under duty, routine and ennui.

Even Michael's girlfriend notices a difference, telling him, "You're so light and cheerful and nice! I love when you're like this!"

Needless to say, he didn't admit what had put the spring back in his step.

One of the sweetest scenes involved Michael sitting down at the piano after decades of avoiding it to play and sing (not particularly well, but that wasn't the point) a Madness song to Mary.

I never thought I'd miss you
Half as much as I do
And I never thought I'd feel this way
The way I feel about you
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day
I know that it's you I need
To take the blues away
It must be love, love, love
It must be love, love, love
Nothing more, nothing less
Love is the best

How often does a film tackle the nitty gritty of middle-age relationships - why we plan to leave someone we love, what makes us choose to stay and what urges lead us in both directions - and deliver a classic '80s ska song?

Spoiler alert: I rooted for Mary and Michael, not the lovers. It must be was clearly love.

Lean In When It Gets Uncomfortable

If Martians were to drop in on Richmond lately, they could be forgiven for thinking of our film scene as diverse.

Never in my life can I recall so many films by and about the black experience. Just in the past couple of months, I've seen "Moonlight," "Fences," and "Hidden Figures" and I added two more over the past 48 hours.

For an overview of the country's racial conversation, Saturday Mac and I went to see Ava DuVernay's "13th," which VCU was screening as part of their Common Book program that has the entire campus reading and discussing the same book, Bryan Stevenson's "Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption."

Everyone was instructed to take a copy of the book, but Mac and I decided to take just one and share, a good call because she's already halfway though it.

She'd conveniently shown up with a small copy of the Constitution, which we used to clarify what we knew about the 13th amendment.

"Notice anything wrong with that?" she asked. Um, yea. Basically, slavery was abolished for everyone except criminals, making the mass incarceration that followed effectively the new Jim Crow.

Besides horrific and telling statistics - 1 in 3 black men will go to jail, while only 1 in 17 white men will - the documentary made the case for how every President since Nixon has furthered an agenda that involves mass incarceration of blacks. How that happened was laid out for us.

We've got 5% of the world's population but 25% of its prisoners.

If that isn't enough to get your blood boiling, how about this? Before "Birth of a Nation," burning crosses had never been part of the KKK's M.O., but when director D.W. Griffith used it for its striking cinematic value, the KKK adopted it as part of their insanity.

Oh, and just to add insult to injury in the film, the evil black man who eyes the young woman with bad intentions was played by a white man in blackface.

One of the documentary's strength was the well-chosen talking heads from author Bryan Stevenson to Angela Davis to Newt Gingrich to Henry Louis Gates, with one of the most compelling being author Michelle Alexander, who wrote "The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the age of Colorblindness," a reality that began with convict leasing after emancipation.

Laying out the case for how capitalism factors into this (companies like Verizon and Aramark make ridiculous amounts of money by servicing prisons), as does politics (look up ALEC to find out how politicians and corporations are in bed writing legislative bills that perpetuate the prison industrial complex) and, let's be real, racism.

It was impossible not to cry during a segment about a young man who was wrongly accused of a crime and deliberately chose not to take a plea because he wasn't guilty and wanted to make a stand. He spent three years in prison enduring beatings before being released due to lack of evidence.

On camera, he looked sweet and shaken by what he'd endured, all of it unnecessary. But it's when the voice-over says that a couple years later, he committed suicide that tears and sniffles began in the auditorium. Absolutely heartbreaking and not even all that unusual.

Mac and I walked out of there shaken and disturbed, as we should have been, by what we'd seen.  So naturally, tonight we headed to Criterion to see "I Am Not Your Negro," a look at race relations by way of one of the most literate black men of the 20th century on the subject.

Using the first 30 pages of a book playwright, poet, novelist and social critic James Baldwin began and didn't finish before he died, the film uses words from that manuscript read by Samuel L. Jackson to frame a look at race relations using TV and film footage from the Civil Rights era, along with footage of Baldwin on Dick Cavett's TV show and at lectures and debates at various universities.

Listening to him make a case for how the races were portrayed by Hollywood (black men like Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte were not allowed to appear sexy so as not to offend white sensibilities), in government films, ads and training films while watching such things was both revelatory and upsetting.

What was striking was how Baldwin's words transcended time and sound just as applicable to today's race conversation as they did then. "The world was never white," he says, reminding me of a cartoon I'd seen on Facebook earlier.

A white man and a Native American are listening as the radio announces that for the first time, non-white baby births have exceeded white baby births in the U.S. "Second time," the Native American says. Boom.

Tonight's film ended with Baldwin making the case that as a nation, we'll never get our act together until we deal with race and inequality, a fact of life that's not going to go away until we have hard talk and changed behavior.

Over Garnett's coconut cake with chocolate frosting, Mac and I agreed that between Baldwin's words and Haitian director Raoul Peck's chosen visuals, it was too much to process in one viewing.

That's undoubtedly a good thing because it provides incentive to experience it again and reconsider the talking points Baldwin so eloquently stated throughout the film.

Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.

Truth in a time when we couldn't need it more.

I Think We Have a Topic for Conversation

For a Sunday spent entirely in my own company, it was a surprisingly satisfying day.

Not just because I knocked out the last minute deadline I was given to compensate for someone else's writing sloth, despite it taking up my entire afternoon and missing out on an invitation to see a play with a friend.

We intend to walk and take in an exhibit later this week instead.

Not just because I wrote a chatty and inquisitive four-page letter to answer one I got Friday, part of a correspondence recently begun to enjoy thoughts and questions in handwritten form.

Surely no one could be surprised that a Luddite like me could have a letter fetish.

Not just because I saw possibly the most simultaneously gorgeous and moving film I've experienced in years - "Moonlight" - which should be required viewing for every adult in our country now that we live in this terrifying post-apocalyptic Trump world, but a film that was also an open-ended storytelling wonder, unwilling to be tied up easily or neatly. Like life.

I did have the tiniest regret at having no one to discuss it with afterward, but I'll find someone who's seen it.

Not just because I can always count on the Washington Post to appeal to my wide-ranging interests once I get past the depressing front page news, as it did today with a travel piece about walking the Cotswolds, a book review explaining why playwright Eugene O'Neill was a terrible husband and a first-person piece about why being open, indelicate and downright impolite about your vices helps combat social pressure to relapse.

The struggle is real.

Not just because of enjoying at top volume my latest album acquisition - the National's "Alligator," an especially groovy chartreuse disc - scooped up at Steady Sounds yesterday, moments after the last Smurf passed as the Christmas parade ended and they bravely opened their doors to the masses.

When I first saw them in 2006 opening for Arcade Fire at Constitution Hall, they played a lot off that album and it's remained a sentimental favorite, one I now own on vinyl.

No, I think even an extrovert could be satisfied with a solitary day after a week soaking in the pretty wonderful things the people in my life have been telling me lately.

Like the email saying, "I have a bazillion questions about you I'd like to ask," or another complimenting me saying, "You are my best go-get-some-culture date!"

And probably the best of the best, "I need my Karen fix," like I was heroin or something.

With apologies to Roxy Music, life is the drug I'm thinking of.

Good Day Sunshine

Sunscreen, it always comes down to sunscreen, doesn't it? Other than forgetting to reapply it, I have no regrets.

There's no shame in planning an evening around a walk. Remember, today's 92 degrees felt like 98, which is why I took a quick two-mile walk this morning, threw in the towel and headed home to be productive.

Hired mouths needed brunch! Groceries needed purchasing! Dresses needed hemming! Restaurant reviews needed writing! Gardens needed watering! Newspapers needed reading! All this and more was accomplished.

But around 5:30, I ate an ice cream cone and started bargaining with myself.

A plan was in order. I'd only done a couple of miles, so my body was calling out for a longer walk once things cooled down and what could be more brilliant than putting a two-hour air conditioned movie break in the middle of a four-mile walk?

So I grabbed my hat and was out the door walking to Criterion by 5:45, at once blinded by the late afternoon sun and wilted by its intense heat. My brilliance in planning had not extended to considering the idiocy of walking two miles west at this hour.

But we persevere for art, do we not?

It hadn't been tough to select a movie after finding that a screwball romantic comedy directed by playwright Arthur Miller's daughter Rebecca and starring Greta Gerwig, Julianne Moore and Ethan Hawke was playing. "Maggie's Plan" had it all: dense, literate dialog, an academic setting and characters who are as drawn to each other's bodies as their minds.

But then first world problems kick in - can a woman conspire to return to his former wife a man who no longer woos her? - and it makes for a fascinating look at the sell-by dates on relationships, which we all know are rarely as happily-ever-after as we might pine for.

The walk home was practically perfect, the sun setting behind me and the worst of the heat replaced with breezes, a moon and briefly, a firefly landing on my arm.

I'd made a good choice with the movie. Only with women writing and directing do audiences get female characters saying things such as, "Am I so capable I don't deserve attention?"

I can assure you that rare is the capable woman who doesn't deserve attention. And even capable women forget their sunscreen occasionally.

But they at least have a plan to get out.