Last night, Vegas and I went to see Little Miss Sunshine.

I'm not sure whether I wanted to laugh or to cry (from either/both happiness or/and sadness), but mainly I spent the whole film hoping it would never end. I am hopelessly in love with it, and wish I could have the experience of seeing it again for the first time all over again.

I can't say anything else to do it justice. And that's saying a lot.

So here's the funny thing: yesterday, I saw Marie Antoinette.

And I liked it.

So there.

Also, the theater was not exactly packed, but somewhat crowded nonetheless. I was sitting by myself (I like seeing movies alone) with two empty seats next to me. A middle-aged guy showed up and sat next to me, which irked me even though I was aware he didn't have many options. I know I don't deserve more than my fair shaire, but I like having space.

But then the guy's hand started sort of sliding over to my seat. I don't know how many of you remember my experience during "In the Mood for Love", but I'll sum it up by saying it involved an empty theater, me, and the wacko sitting next to me. A wacko wacking like wackos would. I am still a little traumatized by that event and get a little hypersensitive about personal space issues in cinemas.

So when my neighbor's hand started crawling, I tried to make it clear that I knew what he was up to and wasn't having any of it. I shifted sharply in my seat and said, "Excuse me," in an authoritative tone. He quickly put his hand back on the armrest, but a few minutes later it was back on my side of the seat, but this time it was sitting like a dead fish, palm up next to my thigh.

I decided it was time for a mild confrontation (the movie hadn't started yet, we were just watching advertisements and pre-official movie previews). I turned towards him quickly and with purpose, and that's when I realized he was ASLEEP. Which would explain why his hand had been invading my space by dangling, not so much by actively seeking. Suddenly, I was struck with a much more awkward dilemna: do I wake him up and let him know that I don't mind if he sleeps in the cinema, but could he please do it while leaning the other way?

I opted instead for another sharp movement, hoping he would wake up and be a little embarassed at how much space he had consumed. I jerked, he sat upright, and we both resettled into a better position.

And then he promptly fell back asleep.

I realized I wouldn't be able to enjoy the movie if I spent half the time worrying about what his hands were doing, and I started looking for seats I could easily access. Right at that moment, the lights dimmed and the movie started.

As the credits rolled, I wondered what I was going to do, while my neighbor perked up. As the actors' names flashed across the screen, I scanned the audience for spots, and then the title popped up and I knew my chance to make an out was over.

"Merde!" muttered the guy next to me, "Excuse me," he said, getting up and jogging his way out of the cinema.

Problem solved. My sleepy neighbor was just in the wrong theater. I guess he really WAS tired.

So then I had three seats to myself: ideal viewing situation.

After a particularly difficult day at work, I decided to empty my brain of any substance whatsoever and go see "American Dreamz."

It was bad. Very, very bad. Bad in ways that made me cringe.

For example, I blinked repeatedly when we saw the terrorist training camp on the Afghan-Pakistani border where everyone spoke English with a generic Middle-Eastern accent.** Sure, sure, it was a comedy, so it's all for fun anyway. But I didn't find that aspect particularly fun, especially since the whole master plot involved a poor young Afghan who just wanted to sing Broadway show tunes, but was asked to strap a bomb onto himself instead. Again - I'm taking comedy too seriously. But in order for me not to do so, the actual shtick has to be funny on SOME level, and this just wasn't.***

Hugh Grant, meanwhile, is sitting dangerously on the fence seperating the young and attractive from the old and creepy. I know he's not actually all that old (46?), but I do think he's too old to be putting the moves on Mandy Moore. They didn't even bother covering up his wrinkles. I normally find his wrinkles sort of cute, but something has shifted in his face and I just don't think he can pull of the The Typical Hugh Grant Character anymore.

And as for the whole presidential side-story: meh. First off, if they're going to make such a fuss over the presidential aspect to this whole gig, they should follow through and make him have a reasonable role at the end of the film. For all of the bruhaha they made over his "enlightenment," he could have had some glorious moment of coolness/intelligence at the end. I won't give away the ending (EVERYBODY DIES!!! Aha hah ah ahah. Ok, just kidding) but I wasn't impressed with the president's realization that he doesn't have to be Dick Cheney's - er I mean, the Chief of Staff's - mignon.

Overall: not a good film. It's summer now, and I still have my unlimited movie pass. I have a bunch of movies I haven't discussed here, and I'm thinking about doing a sub-site (like with the books) that I update once in a blue moon. If I get around to it, I'll update them there.

Do any readers in France know if An Inconvenient Truth or The Heart of the Game will have a public release in France? Both are documentaries that premiered in Cannes, and have been released in the US.

** For a course I recently took on Islam, the professor asked us to think of Hollywood portrayal of Arabs (granted, muslims and Arabs are not the same thing, but he needed a jumping off point, which was, in fact "What is the difference between Arabs and muslims?"). It was rather shocking - something I had considered before but found far more disturbing once I added the collective input of 30+ other people. I saw a movie-montage once (if anybody knows what I'm talking about and could find it, that would be awesome) of all of the Arab villains over the years. It was rather startling. And of course, I realize that Afghanistan is not actually part of the Arab world, but whatever... that doesn't matter to Hollywood. I guess not even to most Americans, as the stereotype is the same throughout the Middle East, and I'd be willing to bet most Americans think that Afghanistan is Arab anyway.

*** I think for this sort of humor to work, it has to be a Leslie Nielson film. Maybe the problem with "American Dreamz" was that it just wasn't campy enough. Or it was extremely campy, but only sporadically. With "The Naked Gun" and its cousins, you never dare take the film seriously, if even for a minute. "American Dreamz" didn't pull this off, just almost, and the combo makes for a bit of a mess.

I might - maybe - have gotten a little weepy when Cameron Diaz's character in "In Her Shoes" realizes how much her big sister protected and loved her as they were growing up. I do believe there were some tears forming in the bottom right corner of my right eye (always the first side to go), and for that I can accurately be called "lame" until at least February, 2006. As embarassing as it is, the whole emotional reaction is pretty funny because three minutes later I couldn't even stand the cheese anymore and I made gagging sounds as e.e. cummings was recited by a supposedly dyselexic Cameron.

But still. That sister-bonding scene sort of got to me.

For that, I sort of recommend the movie. Plus, old people with a sense of humor are funny no matter what lame shit Cameron is doing. I chuckled a lot.

And a side note? Don't go to Arabic after only sleeping for three hours. I embarassed myself a whole lot today, which was... well... embarassing.

I'm over it. Ok, no I'm not. Good night.

Just saw the best movie since La Mala Educaccion. Which I saw sometime before this summer, so this is the best movie since at least six months ago.

Great, wonderful, fabulous: In America. Rent it as soon as you can. To talk about it would be to ruin it, so just trust me on this one, mmkay?

PS I also saw Maria Full of Grace yesterday in the theater. Two pretty intense, hard-hitting films back-to-back. Oddly, I'm in higher spirits now than I have been in weeks.

PPS Just updated the flicks page again. Man, was I falling behind.

Kathypath and I got the unlimited movie pass at MK2. We have thrown quite a party at the Parisian cinemas. In the last week we have seen:

Diarios de motocicleta (The Motorcycle Diaries) - everyone must up and see this movie, right now. I thought it was beautiful, inspiring, wonderful. I might go see it again in a week or two, actually. It was that good. I don't think there is any movie I have ever intentionally seen twice in the theaters. Really. Go see it. Go! Now!

Memoir d'un saccage - This is a documentary on the collapse of Argentina. While the beginning was fascinating, after about an hour of learning about privatizing the national petrol company, I wanted to leave the theater.

2046 - Everyone told me this was going to be a great, fabulous, wonderful film. But um... not so much. No. At first, sure, it was kinda interesting. But it dragged on for soooo long. I guess people thought it would be fabulous for the big names (directed by Wong Kar Wai and starring Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung of "In the Mood for Love" fame) but wow. Was I ever bored.

Dodgeball - What can I say? I laughed. And contrary to most of these dumball films, I actually felt it gained momentum towards the end instead of getting a little stale and old. But I think, deep down, I'm a sucker for Ben Stiller.

Uncovered - Nothing you didn't know about the Iraq war. I thought it was worth the time because I was able to match names to faces. I've been reading about a lot of people over the years without ever seeing them, so now I know Paul Wolfowitz (sp?) is not an attractive man.

Shark Tale - You know what? I sorta thought the pixar/rap mix was interesting. I was pleasantly surprised by this film. I laughed. I didn't like it as much as my all-time favorite (Monsters Inc - and side note: I have yet to see Shrek) but it was worth my time and money.

This weekend, we are off to see:

1. Genesis (can't find it on IMDB)
2. Wimbledon
3. Outfoxed

Who needs tv when you have unlimited movie passes?

Kathypath and I just watched "Coming to America" this evening, which in French is called the equivalent of "A Prince in New York." Just doesn't have the same ring. Anyway, it's a very good film in that funny 80's kinda way. Still, we were amazed at how many people - now famous - had small roles in the film. The most excited of which include:

Eriq La Salle (Daryl, the Soul Glo guy)
Cuba Gooding Jr (he's getting his haircut in the barbershop)
Samuel L Jackson (the guy who tries to rob McDowell's)

It's trippy to see Eriq La Salle at that age, and Cuba is what, like 14? What a cutie!

One more thing: I think I watched that entire movie with a smile on my face. Haven't seen it for at least ten years, but damn, it's funny. I also realized that a lot of random quotes I say, without necessarily remembering where they're from, are in fact from that movie. It was like coming back to the homeland. Or something.

I went to go see "Sept ans de mariage" ("Seven Years of Marriage") just now. Great film. Funny, anyway. The premise: Alain, married to Audrey (for seven years) has sexual fantasies and finds he can't have sex with his wife anymore because...well...he just doesn't know. Still, he doesn't want to cheat on his wife, and, when he goes to see a psychologist (also his friend), he is encouraged to ask his wife to participate in bringing his fantasies to life. He hesitates at first (as his wife is rather high-strung), but eventually suggests a few ideas to her. They are poorly received, but gradually Audrey starts to develop fantasies of her own, and the couple begins to explore their fantasies together. Of course, this is funny material because these people are in their 40's, and that's just automatically funny. From watching them nervously go into sex shops to dressing in leather catsuits, the meat of this film is really based on their sexual evolution as a couple.

The film is not at all "dirty" - the sex is never shown - but the scenes leading up to whatever sex the couple has are absolutely hilarious (discomfort in the sex shop, flirting with girls, Audrey buying hot lingerie, etc). Overall, the film was tastefully done, considering the subject matter.

The point of the film is really that nobody is too young to change, and that with an open mind and a bit of curiosity, the couple was able to discover new things about themselves (not just sexually) and improve their marriage. Audrey starts off uptight and stressed out, and due to her sexual liberation and, eventually, psychological liberation, she also manages to stand up to her mother, to people at work, and to her husband.

So I'm walking out of the theater at the end and I'm thinking, "Whoa, thank God I don't have to worry about being an uptight and stressed out mid-40's type just yet. Thank God I'm young and fun and goofy still. Yay." (this was not in reference to sex, but more just in reference to how Audrey was so stressed out at the beginning and closed off to ideas, and to how much work it took to get her even remotely interested in trying something new). With the evening sun blinding me as I walk out of the theater, I declare, "Yeah! I'm young and carefree and I'll stay that way forever!"

And right then, a guy comes up to me and says, "Hi, did you just get out of a film? I was wondering if you would be willing to take a survey?" (they do this all the time on my street corner.)

Due to my newly appreciated easygoing, open nature, I smile at the guy and say, "Sure, no problem."

Relieved, he returns my smile and says, "Wow. Great. That's nice of you! Ok, here we go...how old are you?"

"I'm 23."

Pause.

"Oh. Sorry! I'm afraid I can't do the survey; you're too old. That's too bad. Thanks anyway," he says cheerily and goes off to find his next subject.

Ouch. Young and carefree my ass. That shot me right back down to reality. Too old? WTF?

I took my last final today. Relieved, exhausted, void of any capacity to reflect on much of anything at all, I went to a café at Odeon. Beforehand, I stopped by the cinéma Cinoches and noticed that "In the Mood for Love" was playing.

As I am obsessed with Chinese, I thought, why the hell not? The showing was in an hour and a half, so I swung by the cafe and finished my book on Burma (From the Land of Green Ghosts - an excellent, excellent autobiography that gives a good historical perspective on modern-day Burma/Myanmar). I pulled out my Arabic textbook, but just as I was about to get overwhelmed, it was time to head to the movie.

I wandered over slowly, bought my ticket and stepped into the theater. Parisians may or may not be familiar with this miniscule cinema, holding about 50 or 60 seats. The entrance is directly off the street, which I realized as I walked in is something I have never experienced before. Cinemas always feel like they are down in basements or hidden in back corners, but this one was right there : one step, you're off the sidewalk, another you're in front of the door, and another, you're in the cinema. Kinda kooky, really.

I was the first one to show up, and I sat square in the middle, two seats in from the aisle so that I could leave the seat on my right for my coat.

A young guy in his 20's, tall and handsome besides the fact that he was wearing shorts, walked in. I was glad to see hiim because I was a little worried that I would be the only person in the theater, or that even worse, the other person would be a sketchball. Young Handsome Guy looked normal, and I found his presence reassuring rather than worrisome. It's always a risk when you go to these rinky-dink theaters for random afternoon showings.

Seconds later, the film started, and I settled back in my seat. The cinema used one of those old style projectors that made the clack-clack-clack noise as the wheel turned, and left scratch marks up on the screen. Honestly, I don't believe I have seen a film like that since Ms. Orlyn showed us solar system and sex education movies in fifth grade. Somehow the turning sound of the machine went well with the ambiance in the hole-in-the-wall theater, and it even complimented the film in a rather quaint way.

All was fine and well, and I was enjoying the movie immensely. I always forget how much I love foreign - and by foreign I mean anything not American, British, French or Australian - cinema. And for some reason I always see blockbusters with friends, whereas the quiet, foreign films I tend to go to on my own. It's more pleasant that way, I feel. "In the Mood for Love" was turning out to be no exception.

But then halfway through, a new guy opened the door. A burst of sunlight and the sounds of traffic came in with him, and I couldn't help but wonder if he had paid his entrance or not (there's a little window in front of the door to the cinema, but when I first swung by and checked the movie times, nobody was there. In other words, the entrance to the movies is not exactly patrolled, and as long as not seeing the entire film is ok by you, you could technically walk into either of the two movie theaters without being stopped). The guy stood at the entrance for a moment, I suppose allowing his eyes to adjust, and then took a seat two rows behind me.

Weird, I thought, but thought little else.

Until he got up and sat next to me.

(About twenty minutes in, I had gotten extremely cold and had put my coat on, leaving the seat next to me emtpy. He chose to take it.)

Now remember. There is me, a young guy about four rows in front of me, and this new guy. Something just felt off. Of all the places to sit, you should never choose the seat right next to the young girl alone in the cinema. You just shouldn't. There were rows and rows of empty seats, plenty of seats along the aisles, at least five smack-in-the-middle-of-the-theater possibilities.

But no. The weirdo always has to sit next to me.

I love going to movies by myself, but I always have a moment of paranoia that I am going to get stuck sitting next to some old guy that likes to put his hands on strangers' knees. Or maybe some creepazoid who likes to tangle his legs up in those of the girl next to him, and then chalk it up to accident when she looks at him crossly or makes some move to call him out on it.

Or, as the case may be, it might be some fuckwad who likes to jerk off in the middle of a somber, beautiful Chinese movie about love. Or so I'm guessing.

So this guy sits next to me and my heart starts pounding. What the fuck is this freak thinking? You don't just sit next to someone in an empty theater. That's just not something you do. I tell myself to calm down, to stop being so paranoid, that I was overreacting. And by this point five minutes of the film have gone by and I have hardly even realized what has been happening on screen. I look over at the guy and he is looking right at me. And I notice that his jacket it on his lap, his left hand under his jacket. And he's just staring.

And I decide, you know what, I might be a paranoid freak, but normal people don't just sit down in a seat next to a girl seeing a movie alone on a Thursday afternoon and then STARE AT HER. And in the end, I don't really care if this guy thinks I am a paranoid wacko, because I certainly think that he's an absolute freak and that's enough of a reason for me to avoid him if I can.

So I move down a seat. Really, the options in that theater are rather slim as there is only one way of exiting the row (the other side has no aisle, it backs right up to the wall), which he has managed to block. He glances up at the screen, perhaps a bit surprised by my manoever, but it's not long before he's back to staring at me.

By now I'm not even enjoying the movie. And I'm afraid to try and get out of the row because God only knows what this guy will do as I try to leave. I'm having visions of him grabbing my ass or making me sit on his lap. Meanwhile, he keeps covering his mouth from his right arm, biting down on his sleeve to suppress any sort of noise he's going to make. Any sort of yelp, I'm assuming. It's at this point I decide he really is jerking off, and I literally want to hit the guy.

(It's about now that I remember how thankful I am that I am not alone in the theater. One person can make all the difference.)

Luckily, he suddenly bolts out of the front of the cinema and heads to the bathroom. I'm not even going to question what his interests were in going there, although I think it is by now quite clear.

I snag the opportunity and squeeze out of my row, taking the first seat in a little seperate side row with only two chairs that is right next to the exit. I hurriedly put my coat and purse down on the seat next to me. Pleased with my change of scenery, I watch the rest of the film in peace.

The guy comes back after about a minute and a half and looks around dumbly, realizing I have left the row. He sits back down and watches about three more minutes of the film before getting up again and leaving out the back exit for good.

Obviously, he hadn't come to watch a movie. Unfortunately, I had.

This Saturday, I'm going to head out after my morning class to see a movie I have been waiting to see for the last three years. It's a documentary on Noam Chomsky, and I haven't been able to get my hands on it. By miracle, it is showing in Paris. I don't know how many Chomsky fans there are in this city, but I'd be willing to bet that the film will show in another small, grungy theater with only a few people in the audience, in a similar situation as today. I just hope that it being a Saturday will attract a few more people to the theater.

I'm taking today's tiny-theater/weirdo-in-the-audience experience as a freak event. I'm not going to let it stop me from seeing afternoon movies by myself. I am, however, going to consider strategic seating each time I enter a new theater, and am going to think twice about being the first one in there. My new rule: at least three people in the theater at all times.

So after today, I'm a little more sketched out. But still, I'm not going to give up seeing this documentary. NOBODY better fuck up my happiness at finally being able to see this film.

Then again, maybe I am just misinterpreting how much sex appeal Noam has.

In preparation for the upcoming insanity that will take place on my street (my house happens to be encircled by movie theaters) come May 16, I re-rented "The Matrix" yesterday. That way, when the crowds are all making it difficult to get back to my house because "Matrix Reloaded" is making its grand début, I'll be right up to date. I don't think I'll go see the flick right away, but the Boy is a big fan and it's so hard to drag him to the cinema anyway that I'm thinking I'll snag the occasion as an excuse to go eat sugared popcorn (they have that here and it beats the pants off buttered). Plus, even though I am SO SICK of the ads (they're really badly done for such a high-tech movie), I am pretty excited to catch the sequel.

I just have one question about the film:

How many drugs did those guys take to come up with that story?

I have another question. Why does Trinity have to be so annoying? "I love you, Neo. I love you..." Blah. The movie was good when it was all hard and green and fast-paced and violent. Why ruin it with some cheesy skinny-ass girl with badly slicked-back hair breathing lovey-dovey statements to her man's body while he himself is still stuck in the Matrix? And come on. Do you think her kiss would really save him? What an unappreciated moment of girly bullshit.

The Oracle is my favorite character in the whole flick. Well, The Oracle and Tank. I hope he makes it to Reloaded. He's got a great smile.

I also like the whole humans-are-viruses/humans-live-off-their-own-unhappiness bit. Nice slant, Wachowski brothers.

Does anybody speak Polish? I'm wondering what "ski" means. Because when I went to see "The Pianist," I noticed that everybody's last name ended in "ski" in the credits list. I figure it means "son," just like how in English last names you have so many Johnsons and Michaelsons and all like that because those people's names, at base, are from "Son of John" and "Son of Michael" and the rest. So maybe the Wachowski Brothers are the sons of Wachow. The skis of Wachow.

I once came up with a sci-fi story similar to the idea behind "The Matrix" a few years ago that I actually started writing, but then gave up on when the process got difficult. I'll have to pick up some William Gibson novels or something because I have never read sci-fi. I don't really feel right just up and writing a whole sci-fi novel without ever having read one, you know? I should educate myself on such matters, first.

But my book is going to be kick ass whenever it does actually get done. I hope nobody says I'm just copping off the Matrix, because I had the idea long beforehand. I can't tell you what it is here, because who knows who's reading this thing and is going to steal my idea and then write the book before I do and then accuse me of plagiarism when I finally write my own and get it published. Yes, I am paranoid.

My book idea is Matrix-like, but not exactly the same. I'll get cracking on it again when I am done with finals, which are Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday of this week.

I don't actually think it will get published, but I have recently discovered that speaking in the future or near-future tense (as opposed to the conditional or in hypothetical phrases) and in affirmative sentences ("My book is going to kick ass" instead of "My book would kick ass" or "Were my book to kick ass") really does do a lot for the power of believing in personal projects. So my book will be done sometime. I'll just have to write it up, first. You'll like it. I know you will.

On a side note, all of Parisian transportation is on strike. I find it fun and exciting, and am praying that my Saturday final gets cancelled because of it. How great would that be. How great that WILL be. Then I would go to Arabic class instead, calmly and with a smile on my face. Or wait, then I WILL go back to Arabic class instead, calmly and with a smile on my face.

Let's see what the future holds.

Second side note, Mom's wallet was found on some random street about a ten minute walk from my house. A little boy found it and then handed it to an American woman that lives in his building. She then called my mom at work (card in the wallet indicated as such), and I am to call this American chick tomorrow to see if we can't arrange for me to pick up the wallet. It's reassuring to know that there are still nice people in the world, willing to go that extra mile to call some American lady at the office to tell her they found her wallet.

I'm off to cram for my finals. Again. If I were Neo and I just found out I had super powers and was just living in the Matrix, well, I'd find a way to stop the exams just like Neo can stop bullets.

I treated myself to a movie tonight. I was feeling terrifically glum. I really don't get glum often, and when I do, I am bordering on disaster.

I know the mature way to handle glumness (is that a word?) is to stop and ask myself why I might be so glum, and then to suck it up and feel glum for awhile until it passes. But honestly, I prefer evasion. Escapism. Nothing wrong with it as long as you're not using drugs or alcohol to do so. Regularly.

The glumness always, without fail, sets in when I have far too much time ahead of me, alone, with nothing in particular with which I wish to fill it. So yes, maybe it's true, maybe I am just filling my life with small, useless activities to avoid confronting the deep-rooted depression that surfaces whenever I am forced to pause for a moment. That could be true. But you know what, I really don't care. Because if that's the case, it's really fucking deep/ I mean, it's way the fuck down there. And there's no chance I'm going to look that far inside of myself regularly enough to get in touch with it.

So today I had a panic moment of impending glumness. Already I posted about the smog this morning. And then I went to class and the teacher's friend had died. Then I went and got some tea because I didn't have any money to do anything else, so I just sat with my tea and stared. And then I came home and read about the war and wanted to curl up in bed. My homework was unappealing. My concentration level was low. I was tired and bored and had nobody to talk to. That tends to make me glum.

And so for the first time in my life, I just up and decided to go to an evening movie by myself. I've done this before during the daytime. Somehow it seemed so much more odd to do it at night.

It was superbly entertaining. I settled into my seat, only two down from a woman in her mid-sixties that was also in the theater by herself. I found that reassuring. I streched my legs, and giggled ad the advertisements before the film (they have ads and previews here befoehand, but more ads than previews). Mostly, I pondered why I don't go to movies alone more often.

Then a big fat man came and sat next to me. Of all the empty seats. He smelled like booze. Everytime he wanted to change positions, he had to sort of life himself out of the seat entirely because his body took up the entire seat. I had to lean to the far right to avoid the imposing mass on my left. And he must have burped his boozy breath my way at least thirteen times throughout the movie.

That's really not appropriate behavior.

But still, I had a great time. One piece of advice: if you're in a glum mood, and you're thinking a movie might cheer you up, just don't go see "The Hours."

However, I have officially declared this week Crazy Movie Week due to my realization that going to movies randomly is an excellent form of entertainment. I regularly forget how much I enjoy going to the cinema. Who cares that I didn't even like the movie? I still had a dandy time. So later in the week, I will go see "25th Hour," "The Magdalene Sisters" and "Y Tu Mama Tambien" (going to movies here is cheaper than renting them sometimes. A daytime showing costs me four euros, and an evening showing is set at 5.50 with my student idea.)

Dp you have any other suggestions for Crazy Movie Week?

So I went to go see 8 Mile tonight. It's all part of my recent realization that I actually like Eminem. Or maybe my recent acceptance, because I think I actually realized it awhile back.

The movie was ok. Borderline good. Not Oscar material or anything, and certainly nothing mindblowing, but cheap, quality entertainment. Perhaps sort of the 2003 rap version of the dance classic Footloose? Although we all know Footloose kicks far more ass.

But here's my issue with the film. Because I have to find an issue in everything. Here it is:

We all known Eminem's character, Rabbit, is going to be dissed 'cause he's white and wants to rap. That's a given. And we all know that he's a guy that suffers and deals with mad shit and rises above it. Otherwise he wouldn't be our hero.

So we watch him oh-so-heroically deal with plenty of shit throughout the film. A lot of things go wrong. Tensions build between rival rap groups. Oooo....

Now, we are in the final scene. In the past few days, Rabbit has had his girlfriend cheat on him with a so-called friend, has gotten a black eye from being beat up by rival rappers called "The Free World," is stressed from domestic problems and fights with his mother, and is busting ass just trying to save up enough money to cut his own record. We're all feeling for him at this point.

Nonetheless, somehow Rabbit has gotten up the courage to "battle" against "The Free World" in what proves to be an interesting test of wit and rapping down at the local freestyle contest run by Rabbit's friend, Future. Rabbit decides to partake, and yeah, he gets dissed for being white, with clever(?) references made to "Leave it to Beaver" and Vanilla Ice. But Rabbit stands his ground and rises above the imaginary borders that seperate him from both his enemies and the supporting crowd attending the battle through his unique and rather amusing rhymes.

After coming out victorious (of course - I'm really not giving anything away here) after two rounds of head-to-head freestyle "battles," Rabbit is confronted with his arc-enemy (arch? - French is fucking up my spelling) Papa Doc, a member of the all-black-leather-wearing "The Free World" and former freestyle champion. It's time for Rabbit to rap like a madman and prove to the world that he's not ashamed of who he is, where he comes from, and where he's trying to go.

So far so good. And Rabbit's little freestyle about who he is (references to trailer trash, getting fucked over by the gang of Papa Doc, and his girlfriend's infidelity) is not bad. But then he gets to dissing Papa Doc for coming from the other side of 8 Mile (a road divided by class lines) and the insults are as follows:

- his real name is Clarence
- he went to a private school
- his parents are still happily married
- etc (fill me in if you can remember others)

So I was laughing at the time. 'Cause hah! That's really funny that a rapper would try and be badass while he comes from an upper-middle class suburban family that could afford to send him to private school. Look at him trying to be badass now, cause where he comes from just PROVES that he's not! Ha ha ha.

And then I thought to myself, "Wait a sec. Isn't that just as wrong as thinking that Rabbit can't rap cause he's white? Or that because he's white, he didn't grow up with some of the same fucked up shit that the other rappers did? Or that because Papa Doc had money, or went to a private school, that he can't rap? Or know about hardship himself as well?"

So didn't the whole film just erase that whole don't-judge-me-til-you-know-me-and-the-shit-I've-been-through not-so-hidden message it's been working so hard to get across to the thick audience?

I saw Will Smith in an interview once. He came from a fairly wealthy family, went to a private school, and, when he first started rapping, was accused of not being "black enough" by some of his so-called peers in the rap industry. And his answer was, "To me, black does not mean ignorant. To me, black does not mean uneducated. To me, black means black." I liked it.

Sure, I'm some suburban white girl from the suburbs of Detroit who happens to listen to and feel deeply touched by a lot of rap music. I knew the name of, lyrics to, and producers of 95% of the songs on the 8 Mile soundtrack (and I can also attest to the fact that they did a good job of respecting the 1995 date - the songs they were listening to in the car were indeed the songs of the moment. I only know that cause I was 15 in 1995, and I remember the songs of that particular moment ridiculously clearly). And I disrespect anybody who thinks that because you're white, or because you haven't grown up in the ghetto, or because you don't smoke mad weed straight to the head, or because of x or because of y that you can't "get" rap music or that you have no business liking it.

And I sorta feel like, you know what? 8 Mile was, in the end, just promoting another stereotype. Sure, it's wrong to think that Rabbit (and obviously the parallel is to be drawn directly to Eminem) can't rap 'cause he's white, but it's ok to think that Papa Doc can't rap cause he didn't grow up in the ghetto. What's up with that?

Even though I had that horrible experience of listening to a rather blunted (by blunted I mean those guys were fucking high as hell) De La Soul interview on NPR recently, at least I respect them for saying, "We grew up on Long Island. We don't know shit about growing up in the ghetto. We're not going to glorify a place to us that seems dangerous and scary and not a great place to live. So people accuse us of not being 'hard' enough. You know what? That's ok." I liked that, too.

One more note on "8 mile" - Rabbit's group/gang is called 33 1/3 ("thirty three and a third" is what that is supposed to look like), but the crowd shouts "313" or "Three One Three!" and the group kinda uses that as their call. I would just like to point out that this is the Detroit area code, for anybody who wondered where the name came from. Alright.

PS The film just does not work in its subtitled French form.

The best quote from a movie, ever.

Said by Janeane Garofalo's (sp?) character in Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion: A neurotic, chain-smoking ex-high school freak turned millionaire (Janeane) tries on a dress in Romy (Mira Sorvino) and Michelle's (Lisa Kudrow) co-owned chic, upscale women's fashion boutique.

"This dress exacerbates the genetic betrayal that is my legacy."

Went to go see Bowling for Columbine last night. I had to laugh. In a theater full of French people, everybody was watching a documentary that took place, for the most part, in Michigan. I recognized the news reporters, the accents, the Michigan Militia, the landscape, the names of cities, etc., etc. However, I am pretty sure that those around me did not. I couldn't help but wonder how my reaction to the film must have been different than theirs. It was, in some ways, too bad that the portrait of Americans, and of Michigan for that matter, had to be so horrific. I suppose Mr. Moore had to do so in order to get his point across. I just hate to picture the conversations going around the Parisian cafe tables following the film, and I hope that Americans weren't all pinned as being robbing, theiving, gun-crazy, racist, terrified, power-hungry, uneducated fools obsessed with violence.

I read in a review of the film that Moore's basic statement is that America is the best and most wonderful country in the world, but it is riddled with problems (gun control was just the most-discussed among many). But in all honesty, America comes off simply as riddled with problems, and Canada takes the honorary seat as best and most wonderful country in the world.

I also would like to know what the NRA/gun-toters/gun-toting sympathizers have to say about the film. Maybe American readers living in the US could comment on that. French journalists have not really given equal weight to both sides of the same story, and it would be interesting to hear the how the side France has silenced reacted.

At any rate, excellent film. Every American should be required to see it. If I were an American Government high school teacher, I would show it in my class.

I might just have to go see it again.