29 November 2010

Spin Potter: The rest of the story

This post is part TWO of Don't Make Eye Contact. (See previous post below.)

So I decided I could take "I'm going to see it again," in more than one way.

My first instinct was "Well, you're not going to go see it a second time if you HATED it." Right? Too much information already.

But I decided that this doesn't necessarily mean she loved it. It just means she probably didn't hate it. I can live with that. Look at me embracing ambiguity.

I choose to believe that she wasn't exactly sure what she thought of it. Close one.

I went to see HP and the DHs Part One last Sunday.

After an exclusive brunch of biscuits, granola parfaits, crab omelet, some form of potatoes and a mango Mimosa I went to see HP.

I tried to go in without expectation of any sort. I've read the book once. Listened to it, probably three or four times. Discussed the intricate plot twists and therapy inducing turns countless times.

As with all HP movies I knew it would, could never contain it all. There is no way to include every thing. It's too bad but it's true.

When I left the theater after about half of the credits, I wasn't sure how I felt. I realized that I may be in exactly the same boat as my friend at work. I may need to see it again to really know what I think, how I feel.

But you know me, I'm happy to tell you what I think until then.

I didn't hate it.

It felt like a lot to take in.

I was not overly distracted by the places where it deviates from the written version.

There were some scenes and portrayals that I loved.

And at least two scenes that caused eye-rolling and deep groaning.

But mostly I didn't hate it.

I know this might not sound like a rave, but don't be so sure. I was actually quite impressed with how loyal the script and the director seem to cling to the book. I'm grateful. It must be easy to warp and twist and morph and cave purely for the sake of ticket sales. I didn't see this. Good for you, millionaire movie maker types.

The movie is about magic folk but more than once I remember thinking, why aren't they 'magicking' that glass of water or chandelier bomb. But it was fleeting and not overly disappointing. Mildly, but not overly.

I like this movie. I think. I'll need to see it again to be sure. I want to take it in.

One thing is sure. In spite of the fact that it is filled with characters capable of magic, this movie is not magical. It just isn't.

But to be fair neither was

C of S,

P of A,

G of F,

O of the Ph

and H-B P.

They vary in their quality of story telling. Each movie. Their deviation from the books, or not. Their trueness to the characters, or not.

But the only one that was truly magical was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. It will never be the same. HP virginity. Sorcerer's Stone.

The Dursley's, the Hogwart's Express, Hagrid's hut, Dumbledore's beard, the Griffindor commons room, the Quiddich field. It was never again, pure and untainted after SS.

That movie was magical in a way I've never felt before or since. And I'm not optimistic about the future.

Was this the way people felt when they first saw The Wizard of Oz or Gone with the Wind?

Well wait a minute, I did go see Star Wars A New Hope seven times in the theater so maybe lightening does strike twice.

28 November 2010

Don't make eye contact!

HP Spoiler Alert!

Can I tell you that there is a traffic jam of topics going on in my head? It's bumper to bumper but no one is getting any where. And every vehicle is honking its horn.

The new Harry Potter came out about ten days ago. I knew I wouldn't go see it the first day. I don't think I've ever gone to see a 'big' movie on its first day.
The risk with said strategy and this HP movie was that I'd potentially hear something before I did go see it. I took precautions. Evasive maneuvers, as needed.

I wanted no preconceptions. None good and none bad. Each a curse in its own way.
You hear someone mention that they weren't crazy about a movie and you walk in skeptical, anticipating disappointment and probably about to get it.
You hear someone mention that they really like a movie and you walk in with expectations that might not be met.
I find this second curse worse than the first, if I have to choose.

I work for a library system. Harry Potter is big in Libraryland. There are a slew of followers in the building where I work. For the last ten days, I haven't been able to look them in the eye. I've actually put my hands up on either side of my face like the blinders on a horse as I walked past so I would see no irritation nor exaltation in their eyes.

Because people at work refused to wear signs indicating whether they've seen the new movie or not, I had to be pro-active.
"Have you seen it yet?" I call out at the first sight of someone heading toward me in the hall.
If the answer is 'No,' we're probably all good unless they decide that I need to hear what they've heard from their thirteen year old nephew. To which I avert my eyes and raise my hand, which is the Unofficial American Sign Language sign for Shut up about Harry Potter movie reviews! This was relatively effective.
If the answer is Yes, I go into sensory lock down. "Don't say anything!" I implore. "Not good or bad. Don't tell me. Don't look at me!" I hold my hands up to my face and shun their scowl of bewilderment. For the most part this was enough.

The last HP movie viewer I came across just before Thanksgiving holiday weekend is generally a nice person. I like her. I walked around the corner without my guard up, mind elsewhere, when I ran right into her.
"Hi Barbie."
"HAVE YOU SEEN IT?" A little panicked.
"Yes," she started.
I covered my face and quickened my pace as I begged:
She said "Okay, okay I won't say anything."
Whew, disaster averted.
And because I really do enjoy talking to her and am grateful for her respect of my wishes I tell her "By this time next week, I will probably have seen it. We'll talk about it then okay?"
"Okay," she chuckles. Then just when I think I'm in the clear she says "Plus I'm going to go see it again anyway."

What was it the Wicked Witch of the West said after she was hit with water......?
"I'm melting, melting. Melting."

18 November 2010

What is black, white and red all over?

My life is exhausting. This makes no sense on the surface.

I am not in a knitting club or a quilting circle.
I am not on endless committees at work, in the community or in church.

I'm not in a book club or taking a gourmet cooking class.
I work less than forty hours a week.

I am not back in school to finish my degree.
I do not volunteer at any local worthy cause. Unless you count dropping things off at Goodwill.

My children are grown, for the most part. They do not require nor desire constant supervision, intervention and/or personal commentary on my part.

I have no pets.
No discernible hobbies.

I am not addicted to such energy black holes as....
....exercise (whew, dodged a bullet there!),
....World of Warcrap or any other MMORPGeewhizwheredidthelastyeargo games,
or preposterous, holy-shit-get-a-life reality television shows like Dancing With the Has-Beens.

(You'll notice that Big Bang Theory, Harry Potter and dark chocolate are not on the above list of what I'm not addicted to, but try to keep in mind that we aren't talking about what is not on that list. We, and I use this term loosely, are focused exclusively on the points that support my pulpit here.)

I am quite clearly not busy writing blogs all the time. (Although I might be addicted to starting new blogs...but probably not.)

I do not travel; I rarely vacation.
I do not go to plays or the symphony.
I don't club hop nor clutter hoard.

As much as I'm enjoying the compilation of things that are not sucking my time into the great unknown, my point here is that my life is exhausting. And it makes no sense on the surface.

Without all of the above distractions, addictions, compulsions, recreational activities and bona fide past times, how can I be exhausted every single day?

I wake up exhausted.
I climb out of bed already overwhelmed and defeated.
I feel this heaviness in my bones but I look around my life and daily existence for evidence of being over committed or like Bilbo Baggins "sort of stretched, like butter, scraped over too much bread" but it does not add up.

I'm not talking about a physical fatigue, although there is that. This exhaustion is emotional, spiritual and from somewhere within. The origin of which cannot be seen with the naked eye but I am still pretty sure I know what it is.

I am not living my right life. That's the cause.

I know this. It's one of those 'truth' things. I am just not. This is not my right life. I sure of this. I've sensed it for a good long period of time; yet it is still the case. What the hell is that?

There is no organic, genuine life energy in living the wrong life. Instead there is manufactured, artificially salved, forced and phony social energy and facade that we produce because it's expected of us in public, but it's a forgery of our true heart and love and intuition. And it is exhausting.

Are you life weary?

The wrong life is always going to be a bad fit. We may learn to live with it but we'll know somewhere inside, no matter how much practice we've had ignoring it. The wrong life requires constant tugging and twisting and readjusting like a pair of jeans two sizes too small.

If we insist on hanging onto our wrong life with both hands, for whatever well-intended and oft-rehearsed reason we might cling to about what a 'good' person does, who a good parent is, what 'successful' looks like, we will only struggle and scramble and squirm and waste away.

In a backward attempt to fill the empty cracks of our wrong life, we'll smoke, shop, drink, consume and participate in any other superficially soothing and instantly gratifying activity sold to us on the web and cable television as attractive and admirable. And often we hold up our wrong life as some sort of honorable self sacrifice for the sake of those close to us: kids, parents, toy poodles.

But when we throw the pursuit of our right life under the bus in martyrdom for the sake of others, everyone and everything suffers.

A little preachy today, huh? It's okay. Some of my very favorite people on the planet may read this and feel stabbed but I'm really just talking to me.

My life doesn't fit and I'm getting so tired of trying to MAKE it work.

There, I've said it.

So what is black, white and red all over?
My clothes closet.

As much as I hate it, I had to go shopping recently because I was frankly running out of things to wear and the weather was turning COLD. So in the store, I walked around searching, scoping, scooping and gathering an arm load of clothes to take with me into the dressing room when I looked down at the pile I carried and realized it was all black, white or red. ALL. Solid or patterned. But all black, white and red. An image of the clothes I already had in the closet at home flashed across the screen of my mind and I knew...quite clearly, I'm in a fashion rut.
So to step out of my comfort zone, I bought a skirt that was not black, white or red.

It's beige.

Step back!