“THE SECOND BEST MARIGOLD HOTEL” is aptly named. You’ll wish you were watching the first, but this will do in a pinch. Like the sequel to the best one released in 2012, it’s a sometimes happy, sometimes sappy take on getting old without giving up. The plot revolves around the opening of another hotel, since business is booming at the first Marigold. Indian actor Dev Patel is back again as the young hotelier Sonny Kapoor, and he’s as ditzy and endearing as ever. He is also getting married, and his wedding plans are woven throughout the other 15 or 20 subplots involving everyone else. Imagine a year of daytime soap opera stories — think The Old and the Restless — packed into two hours.
The cast, most of whom were in the first film, is full of frankly old actors (although oddly enough, not one of them wears glasses). Some of them make aging look like fun and others make it seem scary. On the fun side is Evelyn (Judi Dench), who at 79 has started a whole new life in India. She has just landed an exciting job that requires frequent travel around the country, and is involved with Douglas (Bill Nighy) who, besides being sexy, handsome, funny, sensitive and available, has a motorcycle. Beat that for an old lady’s fantasy!
Those two are still in the hand-holding stage, but the rest of the gang is horny as hell. (Perhaps it’s the hot climate or the spicy food.) One who’s not is British transplant Mrs. Donnelly (Maggie Smith), who instead of a love interest has been given all the best lines, which she delivers with a tart tongue and imperious expression. But hers is a sad tale sounding the film’s only sour note. (Poor Maggie was chosen to play the one character who really does act her age.)
The best part is the setting: India sparkles, and there is not a beggar to be seen anywhere. Ditto anyone getting diarrhea from the food, which was at least touched on in the first film. In this version, India looks more like Miami Beach, all bright lights and glittering restaurants. Except for the occasional elephant on the street you can hardly tell it’s all taking place in one of the world’s poorest nations.
Richard Gere has been added to the cast, but not so’s you’d notice.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap!”*In an e-mail, writer Andrea Rouda notified MLB that the name of her blog has been changed to Daily Droid.
IF YOU ARE BRAVE ENOUGH to face a possibly bleak future, you might be able to sit through “Still Alice” without becoming deeply disturbed or downright depressed. Concerned with the ravages of Alzheimer’s, in this case the early-onset variety, it offers little besides watching actress Julianne Moore win her well-deserved Oscar for this year’s Best Actress.
A sappy musical soundtrack and intermittent flashes of gauzy old home movies accompany Julianne’s seemingly quick slide from a beautiful, articulate and brilliant Harvard University professor into a non-functioning, pants-wetting amoeba who can barely form words. Her husband, played by Alec Baldwin in a virtually non-speaking role, is around but just barely. He seems quite unconcerned with her illness and is instead focused on his own career, spending much of his time answering emails in his computer. Young actress Kristen Stewart of vampire fame plays one of the children and turns in the film’s only other worthy performance.
Unless you are Julianne’s mommy, or maybe Kristen’s, there is little to recommend this movie other than personal reasons. I chose to see it because my own mother had this very disease and died at age 62. According to the film, there is a 50 percent chance of it being passed on to the children of those who have it. Thankfully I am already way too old to have early-onset anything.
–Andrea Rouda Frequent MyLittleBIrd contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”*In an e-mail, writer Andrea Rouda notified MLB that the name of her blog has been changed to Daily Droid.
Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan in 50 Shades of Grey. / Universal Pictures
THERE ARE SO MANY reasons I will not see this latest blockbuster movie raking in tons of dough for its lucky author I don’t know where to start. Here are the top five:
1. I’m jealous. I self-published a novel many years ago, just like that lady did, and it went nowhere fast. So I’m pissed that she now has made more money than God on a piece of trash, at least by all accounts.
2. I have read several reviews of the film and according to reputable sources it is also trash, allegedly boring and annoying. I already have enough of that kind of thing in my own life.
3. Since my recent bout of diverticulitis I cannot eat popcorn, and sitting through a dull movie that runs just over two hours without it is unthinkable.
4. I’ve never heard of the male lead and thus my interest in seeing him, be he nude, dressed or in footie pajamas, is zero. If we were talking that French guy Richard Gere murdered in “Unfaithful” (Olivier Martinez) or James Gandolfini, even dead, I might reconsider.
5. I strive to remain outside the herd at all times and thus avoid being trampled to death like those poor people at the Wal-Mart every so often.
–Andrea Rouda MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
*In an e-mail, writer Andrea Rouda notified MLB that the name of her blog has been changed to Daily Droid.
DESPERATE FOR A diversion not of my own making, I opted for two hours watching a movie I’d never see if there weren’t three feet of snow everywhere and more coming. Spy movies have never been my thing, but this one definitely puts a new spin on an old genre, dumbing it way down to comic-book level. (Think James Bond meets Archie and Jughead.)
It’s worth your time if you enjoy a rousing, blood-spurting fight scene or two — or three or four, or maybe more — I pretty much lost count. And without giving anything away, you should know going in that many, many heads explode (quite colorfully, I might add) and one unlucky fellow is dissected in a most amazing way that you will long remember, possibly while trying to fall asleep tonight.
The action of “Kingsman: The Secret Service” revolves around a super-secret spy organization that exists to right the wrongs of the world. If it were real, they would surely go after ISIS. Alas it’s Hollywood, and so they just go after one crazy billionaire. Played by a lisping Samuel L. Jackson in jeans, a baseball cap and love beads, he’s bent on saving the world by ridding it of the humans he believes are a “virus” infecting our planet. Sound thinking, one might agree, but his methods are unsavory and require all but his chosen people to die in horrendous ways.
Enter the Kingsmen, a band of under-the-radar miracle workers in well-tailored suits who can each kill hundreds of bad guys yet remain unscathed, thanks to their ingenious weapons and excellent training at the Kingsman Institute. To help explain the convoluted plot, we meet the new recruits and watch them go through their paces. One in particular is a young tough from the wrong side of town but with a good heart and “natural abilities” who ends up being the best of the best and looking a lot like the young Matt Damon. Many others, including Michael Caine and Colin Firth, do not fare as well.
It’s bloody. It’s funny. In fact, at times it’s bloody funny. If there’s a lot of snow where you live and you want in from the cold, go see it.
— Andrea Rouda Frequent MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap!”
Richard Gere and Diane Lane play lovers in chick flick, “Nights in Rodanthe.”
I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT it would be fun to write a really catty review about a really bad movie, but having high standards I almost never see any. So, recently snowbound with my husband out of town and my Cabin Fever reaching epic proportions, I rented a chick flick that I knew Mitch would never watch under normal circumstances. Armed with a box of Kleenex and a bowl of popcorn, I was good to go.
Released in 2008, “Nights in Rodanthe” stars Richard Gere the way God intended him: driving a Porsche, grey hair, white shirt and jeans, and no bags under the eyes yet. It also stars Diane Lane who is always beautiful and fun to pretend to be, especially her hair. The action takes place on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where our family spent many happy summer days when our son was young and adorable. What’s not to love?
Everything. Like, there’s a hurricane brewing, and the Rickety Inn (not its real name) where the two stars meet is already halfway in the ocean, and that’s on a clear day. Literally, it sits in the water, built up on stilts out of what looks like balsa wood, making you think maybe a strong sneeze could do some considerable damage, so you know at the outset it’s going to get it but good. It takes a pretty hard beating during the hurricane, but the next day there’s like one broken shutter and a skateboard flung onto the sand. Oh please.
Next, she’s on the verge of divorce and he’s already divorced, his wife having left him even though he’s a sexy and brilliant surgeon because he’s being sued for a wrongful death. As for Diane, her husband wants her back, her teenage daughter hates her and her nerdy, 10-year-old son has severe asthma. They each have terrible problems that are very upsetting to both of them. But since they meet in a romantic setting, of course they fall in love, and naturally they have sex–the kind where the audience has to watch her unbutton his shirt, button by button, and then watch him unzip her dress, etc. I went and got some cereal. (I had finished the popcorn long ago.)
Diane decides to leave her husband because she has finally found her soul mate. Richard feels the same way except he has to go to South America first to patch things up with his estranged doctor son who runs a clinic in the jungle but he’ll be right back so they can start their new life together. In fact, he can hardly wait! They exchange sappy love letters keeping the flame burning, and Diane starts getting better-looking just reading them, and Richard starts getting along great with the son he treated like shit when he was growing up, and guess what? Richard dies in a mudslide in South America.
Did not see that coming! I sobbed for the last 15 minutes, maybe you heard me.
— Andrea Rouda MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap!”
KEEPING IN MIND that war is hell, see this movie if you have a perverse hankering to witness just how bad that can be. This particular war takes place in modern-day Iraq, showing you in grim detail how your life can suck if only you would enlist in the military. There are guns, tanks, helicopters, grenades and lots of sand and men in goggles. Faces get shot off. Bodies drop in the dirt, spurting blood onto nearby buildings like those old Spin Art paintings from the ’60s.
As my husband so poetically put it, American Sniper is a dick flick. Anyone going for the purpose of seeing current #1 heartthrob Bradley Cooper might as well stay home since he is nowhere to be found. Instead we have his beefed-up doppelganger with a toned-down intellect and a Texas twang. As former real-life Navy SEAL Chris Kyle, in this based-on-a true-story story, he’s quite good with a rifle. In fact, he’s legendary. He’s a legend in his own time, which is why he earned the nickname Legend, a fact we hear repeatedly in case we missed it the first few times.
Our hero also has a civilian life which he gets back to every three or nine months. His new wife (Sienna Miller) is pretty, patient and pregnant most of the time. In several scenes we see her chatting happily with Chris on her cell phone about trivial matters on the home front while he, in Iraq, has a kill in the crosshairs. Eventually we see her screaming into the phone as she hears the gunfire and puts two and two together. (Personally, I would have hung up immediately.)
The esteemed Clint Eastwood directed but I’m not sure he had a lot to do, since all the scenes looked pretty much the same: Soldiers wearing camouflage and gas masks riding in tanks or hunched over, aiming rifles into crappy-looking shacks. There are no big thrills, memorable scenes or profound monologs. The enemy is anyone wearing a curtain on his head. Most of them get shot, usually by Chris since he is so darned good at it.
I guess the title says it all. What did I expect?
–Andrea Rouda MyLittleBIrd contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap!”
ALONG WITH SNOW, sleet, black ice, freezing rain and power outages, winter brings with it many charms, not the least of which is the common cold. Despite its bad reputation, and depending on the severity of symptoms, catching a cold can be as good as a Florida vacation. Better, in fact, since you’re guaranteed to lose a few pounds instead of gaining five, there are absolutely no bugs and you won’t have to apply sunscreen. Best of all, you can have a bad time and say so without disappointing anyone, including yourself. My current cold started three days ago with a subtle sore throat. It was annoying but nothing I couldn’t handle, allowing me to still perform all my regular chores and not only show up for meals but cook them. By the next morning things had gone downhill –or uphill — and I was beginning to sneeze occasionally. As my husband prepared to leave for a short business trip, I assured him that I was fine. I went to the bank, the grocery store and the post office, engaging in meaningless small talk at all stops. My cats still received their usual first-class treatment, with me opening and closing all doors when summoned, scooping litter and conducting numerous treat sessions.
That night I felt bad enough to take some Ny-Quil which rendered me dead to the world until it wore off at 3:30 in the morning. Fortunately I was unable to get back to sleep and so was able to watch back-to-back infomercials for Suzanne Somer’s age-reversing potions and the Total Gym exercise system guaranteed to get me into “the best shape of my life.” (I am excited to start looking younger as soon as I can stand up again.)
Yesterday I finally hit pay dirt: I was way too sick to keep my pre-op appointment for next week’s scheduled cataract surgery! In fact, the nurse I spoke with said we’d have to cancel the surgery too since “the cold going around these days lasts three or four weeks.” I promised to reschedule when I’m feeling better or when Hell freezes over, whichever comes first.
With my calendar cleared I was free to cough and sneeze — a great way to tone your abs when done correctly — and watch movies all day. I opted for a Tom Hanks festival, starting with Cast Away which made me feel a lot better — at least I wasn’t stranded on a desert island or Helen Hunt wondering where her career went. Then I watched Philadelphia, blubbering through most of it from a combination of my worsening symptoms and the horror of AIDS.
This morning I’m still sick but two pounds lighter. It’s 7 degrees outside and I don’t have to go anywhere. My husband returned last night which is nice, especially since he stopped on his way home to pick up some ice cream for me. That was so thoughtful. Still, this morning I suggested he make dinner plans for himself this evening since there’s no food in the house and I won’t be cooking, although I might make some popcorn for my afternoon movie.
–Andrea Rouda
MyLittleBird contributor, Andrea Rouda, blogs at “Call Me Madcap!”
TRY AS I DO to get in and stay in, I am always out of the loop. For example, I am not sure when it happened or why, but I don’t like yoga. To be honest, I don’t even really like yogurt all that much, although I eat it once in a while with no ill effects. But yoga truly makes me sick. I know you don’t eat it, but things you don’t eat can still sicken you.
Just the other day I tried another yoga class, perhaps my 15th over the last 10 years. I keep trying since it’s all the rage and friends say it’s relaxing, and since I suffer from anxiety and high blood pressure I do what I can.
This latest attempt was at a new yoga studio just three miles from my house, with freshly painted peach-colored walls and lots of comfy pillows strewn about the polished light wood floors. It was all very feminine, sort of like being in a Tampax ad. Still, even though the teacher was supportive and the dozen or so other students were quite friendly in a serious and somber sort of way, I felt like a dumb cluck doing all those dog poses and sun salutations and whatever else.
“Relax the tongue. Relax the jaw.” I hate all that forced relaxation shit. It just makes me tense. And I feel stupid in those tights and with everyone looking the same. (I was the only one wearing socks, and it caused a bit of a stir.)
It’s that whole “cog-in-a-wheel” thing. Maybe when yoga falls out of fashion, I’ll start going.
–Andrea Rouda
MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
Michale Keaton in Birdman. / Fox Searchlight Pictures
HERE’S WHAT YOU NEED to know: “Birdman” is a great movie. See it and you will likely want to see it again. Michael Keaton gives a searing, Oscar-worthy performance as a mentally disturbed actor clinging to the last shreds of his fading career. Twenty years after achieving stardom as the title character in a series of vacuous blockbuster hits, he’s producing and directing a play starring himself and a motley collection of fellow thespians. Edward Norton plays a big-deal star who is next in line as craziest actor and potential Oscar winner, brought in after someone else literally gets knocked out of the play.
Also on hand are Birdman’s fragile, fresh-from-rehab daughter (Emma Stone) who apparently hates him, his ex-wife who still cares but not enough to save him from his manic self-hatred, and his best friend and straight man, the newly slim Zach Galifianakis, who is just as good playing serious as he is playing the fool.
Only the audience hears the chastising voice in Birdman’s head, the one telling him how much he sucks. And he’s not alone: All the other poor souls who earn their living as actors also suck. Each one of them is a quivering mass of insecurities, desperate for self-validation from an adoring audience and terrified of a bad review from an acerbic theater critic from the Times.
Although the subject matter is dark and dangerous, with suicide always an option, somehow it’s all a blast. Neurotic actors–this one sleeping with that one and that one cheating on the other–along with hysterical pregnancies, physical fisticuffs and venomous backstabbing add up to a rollicking good time for the viewer. The action takes place this minute, on Broadway, with a fascinating look at the world of the theater, both inside and out. The dim, narrow corridors, the glow of the footlights and the crowded dressing rooms suddenly give way to flights of fancy as Birdman reclaims his former super-persona and flies over Manhattan’s taxi-clogged streets or struts through crowded Times Square in his underwear due to a slapstick mishap.
Yet another wild element adding to the party is the score: It’s edgy and jumpy, jazzy and eclectic, keeping you moving in your seat like you just downed a double espresso. And every so often it’s cheekily in your face, with one of the musicians, drums and all, stuck right in the middle of things. He’s in the movie, not in the play, even though he’s right there in the play. Don’t ask what’s real and what’s imagined, just watch it and have fun.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda, who blogs at “Call Me Madcap,” is a frequent MyLittleBird contributor.
Rosamund Pike and Ben Affleck in Gone Girl. / Twentieth Century Fox and Regency Enterprises
THIS FILM SHOULD have been titled “Gone Boy,” the boy being Ben Affleck, Oscar winner for the fabulous “ARGO” a few years back. In his place we have that other Ben, the one who looks like a frat boy past his prime and turns in lackluster performances one mercifully soon forgets. (I’m looking forward to that.) But since he neither directed nor wrote this one he is to be congratulated and remains in my good graces.
Simply stated, “Gone Girl” is not a date movie. In fact, if you are already considering marriage this will surely talk you out of it. A close look at the hellish relationship between a beautiful nutcase and her philandering husband, there is little to recommend it other than some solid performances from people you’ve never heard of before and likely won’t ever again. It’s grisly, creepy and suspenseful, with plenty of Hitchcockian twists and questions to keep you guessing: Did he kill his wife, is she dead or just missing, and why did any of them sign on to this film are just a few.
And then there’s gay actor Neil Patrick Harris playing a straight guy, which is always fun to watch. To say he’s memorable in his one very explicit and very memorable sex scene is an understatement; in fact if you’re the sensitive type, you may never have sex again. Let’s just say it rivals the horse-head scene in “The Godfather” and leave it at that.
The roller coaster plot is demanding, so you’d best go to the bathroom beforehand. Even paying strict attention, there are a few loopholes you could justifiably slip through and wonder what the heck is happening. The eponymous gone girl (played by Rosamund Pike) might give a great performance but I hated her guts from the get-go and never did learn her real name.
Also of note was the appearance of the Magical Negro, a ploy we haven’t seen for a few years. Played by the newly slimmed-down Tyler Perry as a respected and lovable celebrity lawyer who saves Affleck’s ass, it was quite refreshing. By the way, Mr. Perry now looks quite smashing and if you ask me should be the new spokesperson for Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or however he did it.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
Kristen Wiig and Bil Hader portray dysfunctional siblings in The Skeleton Twins.
THERE MUST BE some some sort of pact between paid movie reviewers and Hollywood film producers to make sure audiences will flock to the box office, which would explain all the lying. How else could the critic at Rolling Stone describe “The Skeleton Twins” as “hilarious”? It is not only not hilarious, it is not even plain ordinary funny. In fact it is downright bleak and depressing, so don’t go in a bad mood. Just so you know, it’s about Suicide (with a capital S), although it touches peripherally on pederasty, sexual addiction and estranged families as well.
The story revolves around a pair of fraternal twins–they are not skeletons but they do have skeleton tattoos, which matters not one iota to the plot– who are totally screwed up and hate their mother, as well as themselves. Offspring of a suicidal father, one of them is gay and was molested as a teen and the other is trapped in a loveless marriage and engages in random, meaningless sex at every opportunity. They both try and fail at suicide which is really a drag — for them and for the audience. The fact that the sick siblings are played by Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader, two former “Saturday Night Live” comics, is the only reason to see the movie. They are great fun to watch together and obviously have a lot of fun being together. That’s nice for them, but meanwhile, what are we supposed to do?
To be fair, there are other cast members who act their hearts out, too. But the tale told is a thin one, literally full of sound and fury signifying nothing. There is one memorable scene where the twins lip-sync an ’80s song like they did back in happier times, and that’s surely fun to watch. But it only lasts like a minute and a half and then you’re back to Kristen Wiig mopping up dead goldfish from the kitchen floor.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
IF YOU WERE an ardent fan of the late actor James Gandolfini, you might want to skip “The Drop,” his final film. As Marv, he’s Tony Soprano minus the power, charm and underlying sweetness. Well beyond his glory days, Marv lives a sad life. A cynical loser who runs the neighborhood drinking hole he once owned years ago, he shares a shabby apartment with his spinster sister and kowtows to the slick, foreign thugs who are his bosses. All this has turned him into a bitter and very bad dude, a part he plays stunningly and convincingly. But Marv leaves a bad taste in your mouth which Gandolfini, being dead, will not be able to eradicate in future performances. If you think you can handle it, get ready for a dark time.
This is a sober story about evil deeds, mob money and wasted lives. Rife with bad guys, some worse than others but none of them good, even the detective nosing around seems untrustworthy. In the middle of everything is a pit bull puppy that steals your heart, especially since he’s the only good guy. Believe me, you will want a pit bull by the end of the film. In fact, you’ll wish you had one for protection until you get home; this movie has the creep-you-out factor that makes one leery about leaving the theater.
Set in some part of Brooklyn you’ve likely never visited, the plot is nothing if not confusing. You never know what, exactly, is going on, just that it’s definitely illegal. The star of the movie is someone I had never seen before (Tom Hardy), who is either a superb actor or heavy into anti-anxiety meds. As Bob the bartender, he is nice until suddenly he’s not nice — in a big way. Despite that, he remains endearing. His low-key love interest is a worn-out woman (played by Noomi Rapace, best known for the Swedish version of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo“), who once cut herself with a potato peeler a few years back, causing visible scars. “I was high and didn’t like myself very much back then,” she explains. (Big surprise.)
There is no music, or at least none that you notice, and the silence heightens the unrelenting tension. People get shot, severed body parts are involved. There is blood and a fair amount of cigarette smoke. Summing up: If you enjoy sharp cinematography of horrific deeds carried out by bleak characters muttering ambiguous threats in barely audible tones, this is your movie.
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
EACH SATURDAY of my childhood, my parents and sister and I visited my paternal grandparents in their home near Coney Island, the Brooklyn landmark. As I recall the place, it was ornately over-decorated in what I call “Early Godfather.” Crammed with comfortable furniture with lots of fringed cushions and potted palms in all the corners, the dining room was completely mirrored–all four walls. Those mirrors greatly amplified the huge feasts we had there, seemingly into infinity, like those milk cartons with the missing child shown on the side of the carton, showing the carton with the picture of the missing child on the side, again and again.
After an ordinary brunch worthy of a bar mitzvah celebration, in nice weather I would run up to the roof and watch the enormous Wonder Wheel spin around and around. After many hours the visit would be declared over and our family would take our leave and drive the few miles to the amusement park for an early dinner and a few thrills. I lived for this.
While my mother and my sister stood by holding our coats, my father and I rode all of the scariest rides: The Cyclone, the Thunderbolt, the Tornado, the Wonder Wheel, even the Parachute Jump which I probably should have skipped. I was only four, and it seems to me that any ride where you have to take your shoes off is too extreme for children.
Next we hit the Steeplechase, sort of a private club within Coney Island where the rides were really dangerous. Rumor had it that the young daughter of the actual designer of the actual Steeplechase ride had died on opening day by falling off a faulty electric horse and being electrocuted on the spot. Naturally this story made the ride all the more popular.
When my father couldn’t possibly take one more thrill, we’d head straight for Nathan’s Famous for some all-beef kosher hot dogs and French fries and, in a time-honored family tradition, eat until we couldn’t breathe, our signal that the meal was over. After dinner we hit the pinball machines, the Throw Things at Bottles and Win a Stuffed Animal games, the Fortune Teller. One particular Saturday, however, something new was added to the mix: I got kidnapped.
The old woman had been following us for several hours, or perhaps several weeks. What I clearly remember is my mother letting go of my hand for a moment to put mustard on her hot dog. When her hand took mine again I took it unquestioningly, eager for the next adventure. We had gone several blocks before I realized that the hand I was holding was the next adventure. It wasn’t my mother’s hand at all. Instead, it belonged to a babushka-wearing crone missing a few teeth who looked just like the witch in “Hansel and Gretel.”(I’m drawing a blank here– how were they saved?)
What happened then is hazy. (Not important, according to my shrink, who was so excited to have uncovered this buried memory during his first and only attempt at regression that he almost called the American Psychiatric Association right then and there to apply for a medal or something.) The old lady took me home to her tiny hovel in the shadow of my friend, the Wonder Wheel. Somehow I did not cry, knowing even then that she was not playing with a full deck. The next morning, after a fitful sleep on top of a pile of old newspapers, we went out for a walk and I easily escaped.
Never looking back, I ran fast and far, the tears finally welling up. Despite this event pre-dating the Amber Alert by decades, the local police had been on the prowl all night. Very quickly I was spotted and taken to a nearby precinct where the nice police sergeant called my parents. They appeared in minutes for our tearful reunion.
My mother never got over it. Her daily mantra became, “Don’t talk to strangers.” This of course proved impossible advice to follow much of the time, like when, at the age of 30, I traveled alone to Europe. (“But Ma, I gotta eat!”) Still, when I became a mother myself I fully understood her terror, not to mention her shoddy parenting style. My own son, now almost 27 and living like a nomad here and there, has never once been kidnapped.
I WOKE UP feeling normal. As always, I walked downstairs to feed the cats, but alas, there was only one cat. And one husband, already awake and coffeed. I asked, “Have you seen Lurch?”
The husband said, “Yes, I saw him a few minutes ago at the back door. I did not let him out.”
I then went looking for Lurch, who never misses breakfast. I looked in all his hiding places. I looked in spaces he could not possibly have squeezed into. I looked in the basement despite its locked door.
I asked the husband again, “Are you sure he is inside?”
“Definitely,” was the reply.
Bracing myself for a dead cat, I searched every nook and cranny: under the beds, behind the shower curtain, on the top shelf of the coat closet. Inside the oven, behind the fridge. It was getting boring. But then, for some reason I walked onto the screened porch and Lurch came running towards the house from the backwoods with that, “It’s about time, I’m starving!” expression.
The husband stood by his claim. Nobody else lives with us. That would leave me, and I know I didn’t do it. Or did I?
–Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda, who blogs at “Call Me Madcap,” is a frequent contributor to MyLittleBird.
LAST NIGHT, WALLOWING in my grief over the death of comedienne Joan Rivers, I fired up my Netflix and watched an acclaimed documentary about her. “Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work” was made in 2010 by people I never heard of and likely you haven’t either so I won’t bother to name them here. When you watch the movie, which you should, you’ll find out.
Several things are amazing about this film. First and foremost, the photography is incredible, with a sharpness and eye for detail that puts you right in the middle of things. Whether it’s backstage with Joan and her pre-show jitters, in her limo whizzing through traffic, or hanging out in her ridiculously grandiose, eye-poppingly decorated enormous penthouse apartment, you’re there. And Manhattan never looked better, topping even Woody Allen’s customary fairy-tale take on the the worlds’ greatest city. Here it’s gritty, throbbing and yet appealing; you want to be there.
As for Joan herself–who knew she was so nuts? I loved the woman dearly and was a huge fan of her stand-up comedy, feeling a kinship to her for several reasons. She, too, was born in Brooklyn, a Jewish Gemini who said whatever the heck she wanted without fear of reprisals. The difference between us, besides more than a dozen years, was that she craved fame and I would rather die than have my name in lights, or anywhere actually, other than on a check made out to me. But Joan needed the spotlight, the attention and the constant adoration so much that she seemingly gave up all normal life. At 75, her age in the film, she schleps all over the country, flying to nowhere towns in the middle of winter, catching a red-eye here and there to spin her same shtick over and over at tiny nightclubs and huge 4,000-seat theaters, pitching stage productions, hoping for a TV commercial, in fact, hoping for anything at all.
She was in it for the gold and the glory, but mostly because she had no choice. She was addicted to fame, that much is clear. As she said, “I’m a performer. That’s what I am. It’s my life.” And what a life she led! It looked horrible to me, as it surely would to many people, but Joan seemed to be happy as long as her appointment book was full. The one moment of normalcy was during a scene where she and her young grandson were cuddled together in the back seat of her limo, holding hands and making small talk. That was nice. Other than that her days seemed like a living Hell of never-ending makeup sessions, nudgy meetings with her agent, business manager or assistant and frustrated phone calls seeking a gig from potential employers, all punctuated by a few unpleasant moments with her only child Melissa, herself a piece of work and starting down that bizarre road paved with plastic surgery her mother had pioneered.
The movie is fascinating and incredibly watchable, with only one cautionary note: It will cure anyone of their aspirations of a career in comedy. As Melissa says, having grown up mired in her mother’s career, “All comics are damaged somehow.” This movie is an extreme closeup of that truth. I’m still sad that Rivers died in such a horrendous and unexpected way, but after seeing this film I am less sad. Maybe she truly is in a better place now.
–Andrea Rouda MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
HONESTY IS NOT ALWAYS the best policy. This is bad news for me since I suffer from truthenalia honestoliosis and, like someone with Parkinson’s, have little to no control over my responses. Just today I blew a potential writing job because I told the truth. I had hooked a possible freelance gig, and after several amicable emails were exchanged, the person doing the hiring asked for my honest feedback regarding the website for which I would be writing. I said it was riddled with errors which I would be happy to fix, but in its present state the site was amateurish. He never wrote back.
This got me thinking about the whole honesty thing, and in a flash of insight I realized that honesty is for losers. No wonder I wasn’t hired by L.L. Bean! When they asked me to name what I liked best about their store, I said that it was open 24 hours and I could go there if I had trouble sleeping. The other people all said things like they like the quality of the merchandise (ha) or they like the friendly return policy (it’s stupid) or they appreciate the helpful sales staff (so not true).
Going out on a limb, I will state that most broken marriages would be intact if only those involved had lied more often and more convincingly. So as a public service for all you newlyweds out there, here’s a bit of advice you should follow if you want to keep things together:
The following questions must always be answered with an emphatic “No!”: 1. Do you think I’ve put on weight? 2. Should I have a facelift? 3. Is this outfit too young for me? 4. Should I take cooking lessons? 5. Are you sorry you married me?
The following questions must always be answered with a resounding “Yes!”: 1. Do you still find me attractive? 2. Do you like my new haircut? 3. Did you pay that bill (mail that letter, make that appointment) I asked you to last week? 4. Did you remember to change the oil in my car? 5. Are you listening?
I have been married for 28 years, by the way.
— Andrea Rouda Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap”
ONCE IN A GREAT WHILE a movie comes along that makes all the other movies around look bad. “Boyhood” does that. In fact, after you see it you’ll likely wonder just what the heck all those other movies are doing with their silly car chases, their zombies and vampires running around eating people and those exploding space aliens in body armor, when really all they had to do was show us a life being lived that isn’t ours and we’d be happy to sit there, rapt and enthralled, for two hours and forty-five minutes that go by in a blink of an eye. In that way, too, “Boyhood” is just like life.
Alas, unlike most ordinary lives and most ordinary movies, there’s a gimmick that’s got everyone talking: Director Richard Linklater shot the film over a dozen years, using actors who showed up for a week of work despite whatever else was happening in their off-screen lives. So we see them aging authentically instead of just pretending to under a distracting layer of Hollywood makeup. Naturally it’s quite convincing, being real.
Besides the boy of the title — who we see morph from an adorable, mop-topped six-year-old into a bearded 18-year-old starting college — his mom, dad, sister and a few chosen friends and relatives all get older, too. There are no spinning classes or facelifts down at this level of society, where paying the bills and drinking too much are the biggest concerns. Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke play the parents who had two children together but shared nothing else. He’s a lovable, ne’er-do-well wannabe musician and she’s a struggling single mom who keeps marrying the wrong man as she tries to better herself while putting food on the table. It’s hard to decide which one of them gives the more soul-baring performance.
There is not a false note anywhere. Linklater’s script is flawless, with dialog by turns sad and funny and sometimes dull, just like real life. The soundtrack is a mix of songs we’ve all heard before, just like everyone has. Over and over we see that our lives are not all so different one from another, yet one or two little tweaks here and there can make or break us: A poor marriage, a bad job decision, and the train is derailed. Then it’s over. As Arquette bemoans in one of her finest scenes, “I thought there’d be more.”
This is a movie that demands — and deserves– repeated viewings. Personally, I can’t wait.
— Andrea Rouda MyLittleBird contributor Andrea Rouda blogs at “Call Me Madcap.”
I LOVE BREAD. It is said to be “the staff of life,” whatever that means. I think it’s from the Bible and while I have never read the Bible, still I hear things. Mostly from my husband who is a Bible freak–he loves it and is always quoting it, although often incorrectly. Anyway, I love bread.
The thing is, bread is a poor food choice if you want to lose weight, which I have wanted to do since age 12. Not that I’m fat, but I’ve never been thin, and so since that’s a goal I usually steer away from carbohydrates like pasta, rice and potatoes. But bread–I simply cannot start the day without it. If I can’t have my morning toast I don’t want to live. I gave up eating bagels and muffins years ago, but a decent piece of whole grain toast is something I can tell myself is healthy. It’s covered with something nutritious like almond butter which is loaded with fat, but I’m pretty sure the bread itself is the demon.
Recently I switched to something called Udi’s Gluten Free Millet-Chia bread. It was an impulse purchase at the local health food market I cannot explain. I have never been one of those mung-bean people. Yes, I owned Birkenstocks long ago, but never wore those flowing, tie-dyed skirts or hippie beads. And God knows I have certainly never gone bra-less in public. Still, the bread jumped out at me and so I brought it home.
That was about a month ago. Since then I have had a slice of it every morning. I have also lost five pounds without changing anything else in my regular diet. Go figure. Besides its magical properties, it is delicious and toasts well.
— Andrea Rouda Read more Andrea Rouda at Call Me Madcap.
LAST NIGHT, WALLOWING in my grief over the death of comedienne 
