Sunday, January 22, 2006

Free pass

It's now down to two people: Big Hands Ice Cream Man and Train Boy. Don't rush into anything, Lily. Play it cool. Patience is virtue and Oprah's never wrong ... except when she's raving about books written by frauds (details, details).

The problem with getting to know BHICM better is his employment at Ben & Jerry's. I don't really want to see someone who could potentially be a barometric witness to my weight gain:

"Woah, woah there. Maybe we should slow it down. Real down. You're starting to resemble Star Jones after a month of intensive butter basting."

There's no problem in Train Boy though. I watch about 6 movies a week, and he happens to work Saturdays (always approaching me with that smile of his, a boy band grin from the friggin' manuel).

Which was the case yesterday when I saw Cache. Browsing the Internet for viewer comments, many found it pretentious, slow, boring, and thus, essentially French. I assure you, it's not. There is no soundtrack, the only sounds are diagetic. But you get hooked from the first uneventful frame to the next. It's not a thriller though it is advertised as such. It has no recognizable narrative structure, but critical of the fake intellectualism rampant in the middle-class. The movie's a splice of life starting with a catalyst, but ending ... An ending? I watched it with an audience that felt cheated. "It wasn't satisfying," said one lady in the lavatory. I suppose auteur works never are since they are distictively unfamiliar. I can't say for sure what Haneke was intending to show, but whether it's a comment on the Algerian War, post-colonial repercussions, or the relationship of the West with the world, I was very happy with the movie. It felt like I was looking out the window of a car: the pastoral strip was itself the purpose of the trip, and not the destination. Cache was, if nothing else, thought-provoking; a fait accompli with a paradoxical design.

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