VERTIGO'S WITNESS
I am feeling the pain of diappointment, and the only thing I can do is go the movies. Automatic said take heart. There will be other dates. U2 will rise again and make that journey to Chicago. But all I see is red. Pain and fury at the same time. Not only did these arrogant pre-salers make it impossible to snag any tickets for Bono and company's visit in May, but they care so little about what they hold in their hot little hands, that they were already trying to unload them on ebay before I even had a shot to get them themselves. $1000 a pop. Can you believe it? And I thought Ticketbastard themselves were bad. I mean, I am a fan, but I'm also unemployed. Can I get a witness?
So The Aviator was in the cards for me instead. And Million Dollar Baby. Drowning my sorrows in celluloid. Both very excellent films and deserving of their nominations. (Including Mr. Eastwood, who I had unknowingly belittled earlier) Even though Scorcese is my favorite director in the entire world and little Leo and Cate Blanchet were captivating, and this 3-hour opus on Howard Hughes was unbelievable and technically stunning, it somehow lacked the heart of Million Dollar Baby. The Aviator made me say, "wow, do I love Marty, and isn't he such a genius." Whereas Million Dollar Baby made me say, "ouch, that kind of stung, I've got to seriously start thinking about the fraility of life." See the difference. (Warning: Million Dollar Baby is sort of depresssing. Good, but depressing. And a lot better than Mystic River, in my opinion.)
Anyway, I was in the bathroom at the CineArts complex in Evanston, IL. Between the two films. Emptying my bladder of all that Sprite. I was the only one in the room at the time. I thought. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement in the mirror. I finished my business and turned to see what it was. I felt kind of creepy. Like I was in a Peter Weir movie or something.
Well, squating on all fours, in one of the stalls, crouched and huddled, staring out through the crack of the door was a boy. Just staring. Like some Sixth Sense or Ju-on sort of thing. I pushed open the door the rest of the way, because he wasn't doing what he was supposed to be doing in the stall, and I thought he might need some help. And, at the risk of being accused of some crime, I felt I should intervene.
He said, "Hi".
I asked him if he was okay.
He said, "yes, could you please shut the door - I'm waiting."
I asked him if he needed anything.
"Please leave me," he uttered plainly. Just this flat statement. Very adult. And very creepy.
I left, but I felt like I needed to do more, so I got the manager of the CineArts complex to check it out for himself. I was going to wait around for him to go in and then come back out, only to say there was no kid - nothing. Kind of had that feeling. Like maybe I saw what I wasn't really supposed to see. Maybe the whole ticket fiasco and 3 hours with Mr. Hughes' deteriating mind and undigested kettle korn was doing a job on me. But I just went into the next movie and let it wash out of me. That whole thing was just too weird for explanation. And to think, I could of gone to see Hide and Seek.
So The Aviator was in the cards for me instead. And Million Dollar Baby. Drowning my sorrows in celluloid. Both very excellent films and deserving of their nominations. (Including Mr. Eastwood, who I had unknowingly belittled earlier) Even though Scorcese is my favorite director in the entire world and little Leo and Cate Blanchet were captivating, and this 3-hour opus on Howard Hughes was unbelievable and technically stunning, it somehow lacked the heart of Million Dollar Baby. The Aviator made me say, "wow, do I love Marty, and isn't he such a genius." Whereas Million Dollar Baby made me say, "ouch, that kind of stung, I've got to seriously start thinking about the fraility of life." See the difference. (Warning: Million Dollar Baby is sort of depresssing. Good, but depressing. And a lot better than Mystic River, in my opinion.)
Anyway, I was in the bathroom at the CineArts complex in Evanston, IL. Between the two films. Emptying my bladder of all that Sprite. I was the only one in the room at the time. I thought. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement in the mirror. I finished my business and turned to see what it was. I felt kind of creepy. Like I was in a Peter Weir movie or something.
Well, squating on all fours, in one of the stalls, crouched and huddled, staring out through the crack of the door was a boy. Just staring. Like some Sixth Sense or Ju-on sort of thing. I pushed open the door the rest of the way, because he wasn't doing what he was supposed to be doing in the stall, and I thought he might need some help. And, at the risk of being accused of some crime, I felt I should intervene.
He said, "Hi".
I asked him if he was okay.
He said, "yes, could you please shut the door - I'm waiting."
I asked him if he needed anything.
"Please leave me," he uttered plainly. Just this flat statement. Very adult. And very creepy.
I left, but I felt like I needed to do more, so I got the manager of the CineArts complex to check it out for himself. I was going to wait around for him to go in and then come back out, only to say there was no kid - nothing. Kind of had that feeling. Like maybe I saw what I wasn't really supposed to see. Maybe the whole ticket fiasco and 3 hours with Mr. Hughes' deteriating mind and undigested kettle korn was doing a job on me. But I just went into the next movie and let it wash out of me. That whole thing was just too weird for explanation. And to think, I could of gone to see Hide and Seek.
posted by The Passenger at 1:49 PM
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