P.S.

I wanted to see P.S. (2004) when it was in theatres, way back in the day, i.e. Hamilton, a lifetime ago, a.k.a. when I didn’t live with my parents. Sigh.

In P.S., Laura Linney plays Louise, a calm divorcee who works in the admissions department of Columbia University’s Fine Art Department. She hangs out too much with her ex-husband and the woman that she claims to be her best friend (Missy) is a morally-deficit wannabe adulteress who lives a long-distance phone call away. Not far enough.


Her polite and orderly life hiccoughs when she receives an application from F. Scott Feinstein (Topher Grace). Louise is stopped short by his handwriting and use of language, which is identical to her high school boyfriend, a boy named Scott Feinstein. Scott was killed in a car accident when he was eighteen.

She immediately calls F. Scott in for an interview and is shocked by the similarities between her Scott and this F. Scott, especially their shared likeness. The painting samples that F. Scott brings in are beautiful, and although the dead boyfriend worked more in abstracts, F. Scott’s paintings are close-up snapshots of mundane but intimate moments. The paintings are the work of Bryan Lebeouf.

P.S. is not a reincarnation movie. It’s shouldn’t be compared with P.S.’ contemporary Birth (2004), which also marketed itself as a mystical second-chance for a broken-hearted woman (with a rudimentary understanding of the complexities of reincarnation). In Birth, the “reincarnated” lover is 10. In P.S., he’s in his mid-twenties. Therefore, a sexual relationship is not creepy/illegal.

In this film, the rebirth is not that of the young lover, but of the abandoned woman. Louise was literally and figuratively living under a blurry image of the late Scott. Scott sits on a pedestal, and it isn’t until a conversation with her best friend that we find that she shouldn’t have been so quick to canonise.

Laura Linney is spot on, as usual. Her Louise’s life is usually so controlled that her sudden recklessness rejuvenates her. She’s passionate, but also controlled so that at any moment of elevated stress, she is likely to boil over. Where did this woman come from? Why had I not heard of her until recently?

No, the sole reason I watched this movie was not because Topher Grace is on my husband list. Which he is. It didn’t hurt, though. He was featured in the March 2006 Vanity Fair, where he was dubbed “The New Tom Hanks-Jack Lemmon-James Stewart” (pg306). That’s a tall order: the attractive in a non-threatening way, funny and sensitive leading man. I think he disappears into this characters more than those three other actors. He turned heads in Traffic (2000), although well-intentioned, bored me to death in Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (2004), and impressed me all over again in In Good Company (2004). Please don’t think of him as only Eric Forman.

P.S. is the kind of small, intimate character film that I love to fall into from time to time. It reminded me of The Squid and the Whale (2005), another brilliant Linney movie.

The Seven Year Itch.

As the school year comes to a close, and we turn our thoughts to summer vacation, the desire for a “good summer movie” once again rears its head. While there are any number of films that glorify summer and its advantages, The Seven Year Itch (1955) focuses on the more unfortunate aspects of the season; the heat, the upset in routine, and the horrible isolation that comes with working while the whole world seems to be on holiday.

Yet, underneath all this, there is the promise that, in summertime, the lovin' is easy!

Directed by that ultimate American auteur of the breezy comedy, Billy Wilder, this film has all the style, sophistication, and, above all, laughs that one would expect. Starting off with one of the cleverest title sequences pre-Woody Allen’s Bananas (1971), the film then swings into a delightful mock-documentary story of the pre-Columbian Manhattan native men sending their wives to the cooler lake country for the summer, and then chasing after the pretty single girls left on the heat-soaked island. This, of course, sets us up for the basic plot of the film. The Seven Year Itch captures the yearly ritual of the Grass Widower (or “summer bachelor”), a phenomenon well remarked upon in the middle of the last century (and very likely still a way of life for many in the smog-infested urban centers of North America).

Our hero, such as he is, Richard Sherman (wonderfully played by Tom Ewell, reprising his successful turn on Broadway in the original production of this George Axelrod play), has been happily married for seven years, and he has a lovely wife (Evelyn Keyes) and a rambunctious and typically obnoxious son (Butch Bernard). Sending his family away to the cool comfort of the cottage country, Richard plans on two months of drudgery on his own in Manhattan at the publishing company where he works. Above all, he swears, he will not fall into the madness that consumes his longer-married brethren, who see nothing but cards, wine, bad habits and, especially, dames while their spouses are out of the city. Richard, feeling above his sex and society, is determined to lay off the cigarettes, the booze and the junk food while his wife is away, and feels smug in his ability to mind his manners without a “keeper.”

This is, of course, until a single and friendly bombshell (played by icon Marilyn Monroe) moves into the apartment upstairs, and he discovers that he may very well be entering what his psychiatrist-author client, Dr. Brubaker (played by legendary Austrian comedic actor Oscar Homolka), calls the “seven year itch,” a mysterious condition that, during the seventh year of marriage, makes men become so overwhelmed with the urge to roam that Richard may not have any choice but to cheat!

What happens is for you to find out, but the ensuing temptations and struggles are played out with the sort of sly cosmopolitan tweaking that only Broadway and Billy Wilder (of 1960’s The Apartment fame) could create. In the 105 minutes of this movie, middle-class morality, the health craze, class divisions, psychoanalysis, gender barriers, the publishing/ advertising industry, and self-help fads are all sent up in the most delicious of ways. Most of all, the film highlights the dangers of letting imaginations fly out of control (when all the hero can see is the dangers of smoking)!

The picture is strengthened by the appearance of a few true greats in the world of character acting, such as the indomitable Donald McBride as Richard’s Grass Widower boss (“I wasn’t to bed last night, and I may not go to bed tonight!”), the endearingly annoying and angular Doro Merande as the dour vegetarian restaurant waitress and nudist (yes, this film is a bit ahead of its time!), and, especially, the always-wonderful Robert Strauss as the smarmiest superintendent this side of my last living quarters.

The Seven Year Itch is adorned with a cracker-jack wit, and dressed in some of the best lines to be found of its period (the one that really gets us every time is, while taking a long, forbidden puff, Richard sighs, “Oh, all those lovely, injurious tars and resins!,” and sounds like he is positively soaking in the process of mortgaging his future for a moment of perfect heaven). With always-surprising dream sequences, a charming score, an attitude towards its subject matter that is never crude or cruel, and a new take on the old problem of “roving eye syndrome,” this film is a sure winner.

Despite some staginess in having the character talk to himself throughout (which actually works well here), and some colour saturation issues, The Seven Year Itch is one of the few movies that I can honestly predict will be as fresh fifty years from now as it was when it was made.

This film was produced by 20th Century Fox, and is now readily available on DVD via the “Marilyn Monroe Diamond Collection,” but don’t let that turn you off. I have never been a Monroe fan of any standing, and I certainly favor Tom Ewell in this film (in his greatest role), but the ultimate ice cream blond is about as good as it gets in this film. She literally sparkles in this picture, and is as sweet and likeable in this as her later characters were dumb and sad. For the acting, writing and direction, as well as a general atmosphere of good fun, I can’t recommend this picture highly enough.

Rent it, and enjoy! (And stay away from wine, women and song this vacation season, or risk ending up like poor Richard, who needed a vacation to recuperate from his summer!)

Match Point.

I like Woody Allen movies. Even when they're not considered his "good ones," I appreciate the Woody Alleness of them. Items that usually appear on his ingredients list: interconnected family members; distinctive soundtrack; ex- and present lovers; New Yorkiness; sometimes throw in a body; recurring actors including my favourites, Alan Alda, Diane Keaton, and Allen himself; and, of course, that font. That comforting, familiar font.

I was told that Match Point (2005) didn't seem like a Woody Allen Movie. I was both intrigued and wary. I was told that not only was Woody not acting in the movie, there was also no other actor in the movie acting like Woody in his stead.

"They" were right. Besides the crackling soundtrack and a couple of sharp, throwaway comments that were casually blurted a frame before a scene change, this had all the wit and sting of a Woody Allen movie without reeking of flop sweat and an analyst couch. And it's set in London! Gasp! (London or New York, it doesn't matter, because Allen knows cities, and their pace.)

In Match Point, Jonathan Rhys Meyers is Chris, and wears many hats. He is introduced as a tennis pro at a posh London sports club. Names are dropped. He's played Agasi. His first student, Tom, introduces Chris to his mother, father, sister, and fiancee. Chris then plays the boyfriend as he and Tom's sister hit it off. Tom's fiancee is Nora; Scarlett Johansson. She's an American. She's a chronically unsuccessful actress. She is luminous. She is loathsome. She is insecure and falling apart, but in a foreign, American way. She's like a crumbling wall held up with a layer of chicken wire. Chris is captivated.

Tom and Nora break off the engagement, but not before she and Chris begin an affair. Chris still marries Tom's sister, and Tom marries another woman. Time moves along surely. Chris' life spirals out of control, and we watch him scramble.

Chris, as a main character, is not open to the audience. Not to say he is inaccessible, but he doesn't invite us into his plans. Usually, there are clues to what a character is thinking, or going to do. Watching Chris is like watching an opaque person in real life, on CCTV: we do not know what he is thinking but can only watch. Sometimes there is a panicked crack in his facade, but usually, we just didn't know. Instead of being put off and alienated by this, I found myself all the more captivated.

So now is Woody Allen protesting pablum movies? I suppose he's never been interested in spoon-feeding his audiences. It's just that this one is particularly tasty. It's no wonder critics were so excited about this Allen offering. It's a Woody Allen movie in the best sense of the meaning: distinctive without being derivative. It's available April 25th on DVD, and prepare to be surprised more than once.

Holly From The Block.

Holly is more than the sum of her parts. Those close to her often wonder if she is the reincarnated embodiment of a person from an earlier time. Not caveman times, but Vaudeville times. I sometimes get the distinct impression that Holly is disinterested in the 21st century and would have much more entertained a century previous.

This driven blur of contrasts entered my world in the autumn of 2003. Black trenchcoat. Black boots. Black hair. Black humour. Who is this mystery woman? We were both students at McMaster University, both in a two-year thesis-based MA program, but she was a year ahead of me. She seemed to have her feet planted while I was in over my head.

In her office, amongst her Dead Sea Scrolls textbooks and Hebrew conjugation charts, sat a monochrome photo of a dapper and brooding Humphrey Bogart. That was the moment I should have known what I was up against. A movie buff. No. Not buff. Connoisseur. A movie buff wouldn’t name her cat Fritz. Holly is a movie connoisseur.

Holly is also another Maritimer. She is from the North Mountain of the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia. Not the South Mountain. John, her hetero life-partner, is a PEIslander! A countryman! At Dalhousie University in Halifax, Holly got her first degree in Comparative Religion. She dabbled briefly in criminology before moving with John to Hamilton in 2002.

Holly’s Irish-Jewish roots are spelled out all over her sleek, long black hair, fair complexion, and bright eyes. She sees all. “Can I tease? Can I comfort? Can I advise?” Those who care for her are cared for in return ten-fold.

Heaving three sighs of relief, Holly, John, and Fritz turned their backs on Hamilton and moved to Waterloo, Ontario in August 2005. There, Holly turns heads while successfully pursuing her PhD in Film, Religion, and World Domination.

Holly steadfastly maintains her other blog and contributes to other discerning sites upon request. She has been a creative writer from an early age, winning awards as a schoolgirl with her short story “Gefilte Fish and Mulligan Stew.” (or the other way around?) She is also an encyclopaedic source of early-20th century entertainment and generally an old-school good taste barometer.

Our differences make our friendship stronger. I love Shaun of the Dead (2004). She loves Frankenstein (1931). We can’t decide which one is Felix and which is Oscar.

Catherine from Away

It has been my pleasure to know Catherine for three years now, and the fact that it has been eight months since we lived in the same town and we are still close friends is, given my track record with correspondence, a testimony to how loveable she really is.

A statuesque and blond shikse goddess, Catherine is my exact opposite in many ways. But right from the first, she and I had a bond. Though both of us were doing graduate work in Religious Studies, we both lived and breathed movies. Our film collaborations in the past have mostly consisted of much discussion and the occasional crashing of a Fellini flick, but now we have finally put our passion to constructive use. It is both fitting and enjoyable that the lady who introduced me to blogging is now a partner in my latest internet venture, and I have high hopes for this hobby-project.

For example, that it may land us both lucrative jobs in media…? (All serious offers considered. Please leave your name and website url in the comments field, and specify which of the two astounding critics you mean to address.)

Catherine holds a graduate degree in the social scientific study of religion from McMaster University, and enjoys yoga, knitting and photography. She is also a dab hand at cooking, especially when this involves various combinations of rice, beans and corn. Aside from some of the most … interesting tastes in music of any of my friends, she is also a fine critic of film and fiction, and has a wide understanding of contemporary films and pop culture. First and foremost, however, Catherine has at her command the best grasp of CBC lore and procedure of anyone I know, and is one of those rare birds called a “True and Proud Canadian.”

Catherine is currently a freelance writer and also works in an art centre on Prince Edward Island, where she religiously takes long drives along the wonderful landscape and has constant adventures with her cat.

I am pleased to bring my interests together with hers, as they both contrast and compliment each other very well, and I anticipate that I shall learn a lot about reviewing from this born critic (and I say that with all affection).

I am proud to present my colleague and sister in film-buffdom, Catherine, who, even if she weren't as wonderful as she is, would still have my undying gratitude for she has been my main supplier of Charlie Chaplin books, and this is a gift that truly keeps on giving.

Welcome!

This site came into being at 11.30am (Ontario time) and 12.30pm (PEI time), on April 20th, and was born out of a love affair of two women and the art form known as film.

Long may it reign!