Small inspirations from 30,000 ft
I have definitely reached the age where I no longer secretly hope to make friends (or find love) on airplanes, where four glasses of red wine at high altitudes is not as much as it used to be, and where pilots (and politicians for that matter) look more the age of suitors than fathers.
And after eight hours of cramped confinement in cattle class I wish I had some divine musings to bestow, either induced by altitude inspiration or the enforced navel gazing that is long haul flying. But, as it is Friday, I am not too troubled by wilful trivolity, or an in-flight entertainment review for any weekend cinema goers:
Volver. One to watch if subtlety or a semblance of plot are not important. Or maybe I was just insulted that Penelope Cruz needed a prothetic ass to make her look like the rest of us if we never ate another carb, ever. And when not distracted by musings over whether J-Lo could have done a more natural job, I was wondering if the occasional shots of windmills were a Don Quixote allusion to illusion. But after two hours I began to think that was giving Almodovar too much credit (Open across London cinemas already. Previews Oct 7 at the New York Film Festival. Official NY opening Nov 4).
The Devil Wears Prada. Should have been named 'The Devil Drinks Starbucks' for the film's clinching sell-out to Seattle's Satan. Meryl Streep is the sole reason to watch this film. But, it must be credited, that most of the time this feels like enough.
Trust the Man. Presents itself as a funny insightful Manhattan relationship comedy in Woody Allen mode, but morphs into a phony Hollywood romcom. In this New York, no crisis is insurmountable and no downtown restaurant is derived of product placement. Don't be insulted.
Back on Monday with a report from the weekend beat in NYC.
City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction" to resume next week.