Here's why I haven't written for a while

I'm going to assume that those who read my blog know that the crazy red-head shown here is my little bro, Catlin. Well, Cat came to town for a week, and for some reason, Canada let him back in. (Of course I'm kidding. The U.S. kicked him out.)

He's a crazy guy, but we had a great time going to dinner, watching movies, having Thanksgiving dinner, hoarking up phlegm on everyone's lawn and just hanging out. It was a bittersweet visit for me, making me simultaneously homesick for Canada and grateful for this little piece of home sleeping on my floor. Mostly I just had a great time talking and spending time together with Cherie, Dara and the rest of the Hampton crew. I suspect he had a great time too, although I'm sure he appreciated sleeping in his own bed.

Cheers to you little buddy. It was fun. And not a dry hump attack to be seen.

Stranger than Fiction.

In the latest Will Ferrell vehicle, Stranger than Fiction, life doesn’t imitate art as much as it is dictated by it. The premise, from the brain of newcomer Zach Helm, is a clever one: Harold Crick (played convincingly by Will Ferrell) is the protagonist, both of the movie, and of the story-within-a-story, that unfolds from the typewriter of novelist Karen Eiffel. Eiffel is played by the great Emma Thompson, whose brief narrative patches given in a lilting, buttery British accent, make you wish she narrated every book, or at least read you bedtime stories.

We laugh as Eiffel lays out the story that comprises Harold Crick’s life, while Crick is baffled by the omniscient voice who “speaks about me, and with a better vocabulary.” Here, Ferrell takes on his most mature role, imbued with a deep pathos and sympathy that arrives even before he starts to cry; possibly an onscreen first for Will. Notably absent is his trademark nude scene we all secretly love to laugh at. This is a grown-up Will Ferrell, reaching his Truman Show moment which set Jim Carrey free some years back.

Not surprisingly, the film has a literary tone, with crisp dialogue, believable characters and a touching love story. Some critics didn’t buy the chemistry between Ferrell and the always authentic Maggie Gyllenhaal (playing Ana), but few will fail to be touched when Ana offers Harold a cookie. Also, we shouldn't overlook Dustin Hoffman’s dark, understated humour as he plays a literary professor who confers knowledge on Crick, while bumbling in a meet-the-fockers, cutesy way.

It is no coincidence that Crick is an IRS agent, hinting at the most likely ending. For, of course, we are always taught the two inevitabilities in life are death and taxes. With Crick's fate seemingly determined early on (even in the trailers for the film), we are all left wondering, how will death befall this taxman?

Without saying too much, this was a Kauffman-esque, clever film with loads of heart, simple ambitions and a bitchin’ soundtrack. The film pokes fun at the elitism of the literati, explores death, life and love, and the role that art has to play in all of the above. With the eye-catching cinematography that will make you think of director Michele Gondry, you really could believe you were watching a Charlie Kauffman film. But no. This is Zach Helm. This is Harold Crick. And this is a great movie.

Remembrance Day

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Was Kazakhstan make benefit?

If you want to make coke-flavoured slushy spew out your nose (and I know you do), go see the new Borat movie, like Dara and I did, with friends Laird and Harrison. As long time fans of Borat (having owned the Ali G DVDs for a long time now), Dara and I were so excited to see the latest (and possibly last) work of genius from comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, at least in his Borat character. For those who get offended by Cohen's portrayal of Kazakhstan as being a backward society of anti-semites and trogladite prostitutes, or who deride his comedy as an attack on American society, I have this to say: this is satire people.

Satire is offensive because it challenges accepted notions of society, and shines an awkward light at the things we value. Borat plays an outrageous character who either repulses people with his behaviour, or finds acceptance, as when real people in the film advise him on the most efficient speed for running over a gypsi, or the best weapon to kill a jew. "Borat: The Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan," is not for the faint of heart. Desensitized young men like me who didn't cringe through most of "Freddy Got Fingered," found themselves covering their eyes during one or two key moments in the movie. Hilarious, yes. But disgusting.

Few people will question Sacha Cohen's brilliance: his ability to totally immerse himself in character, while thinking quickly on his feet. He is the epitome of quick-witted, and his brand of comedy, while being impossible to reproduce, will cast a long shadow for future comedians to measure themselves against. But this movie shouldn't be over-analyzed. At its heart, it is a simple comedy that will make you gush coke-flavoured slushy out your nose.


Side note, I just saw a preview for a new show about the Canadian Secret Service called "Underfunded." The only related agency I can think of in Canada is actually called C.S.I.S. (Canadian Security Intelligence Service), but it looked funny anyway. The agent takes the bus from place to place, and connects to the internet through dial-up. Might be funny.