New year, new leaf.

Apparently I haven’t had much to say.  I figured I should show up and say something, if for no other reason than to staunch the flow of emails and phone calls (thank you, by the way, does a heart good) checking in to make sure that I’m a) still alive b) doing fine c)you know, doing fine.   I am all of the above.  In spades. I just haven’t had anything to say.  I have no idea what that’s all about.  Mental holiday?  Dry well? Writer’s block?  Creative drought? I’ve decided not to poke at it.  I’ve also decided that it’s probably not good for me in the long run.

Here’s what else I’ve decided:  BORING.  Socrates may have said, “An unexamined life is not worth living,” but an overly examined life is only worth the examining for the person living the life, the rest of the world couldn’t give a rat’s ass.  Onward.

I haven’t been especially well read.  Or hostessy.  But that’s my goal for the time being.  It’s good to have goals.

David Fincher needs a dope slap.

I read all of Stieg Larsson’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo novels (3), and listened to them (unabridged – I recommend this, heartily, read by Simon Vance, liked it better than reading the books, which is unusual for me, plus, listened while walking many miles, Bo-NUS). I also saw the Swedish versions of the films, of which I approve.  True to books.  Two thumbs decidedly up.

Neither here nor there.  We can debate Stieg Larsson and the trilogy another day should you wish.  Whomever you are.

Saw the American version of the film on Friday after a serious control-freak meltdown over hallway paint color and the rapidly deteriorating condition of my home which you might notice if you aren’t, say, me.  Or nuts.  Anyway, emergency Must See A Movie Instantly Situation.  Plus, Daniel Craig, so couldn’t really go wrong.  Win, win, win all over the place.

And here’s the verdict: well played Hollywood, well played, indeed.  Casting: excellent, I’m not madly in love with the choice of Robin Wright Penn as Erika Berger, but I’ll sign off on that one because I might be biased against her because she has a weird clavicle (I swear, go see it, you’ll be driven to distraction by this thing, it’s bizarre.), and also because her half sister once gave me a tube of MAC Russian Red lipstick in San Francisco that changed my life.  Mood, tone, atmosphere:  excellent.  Loyalty to book:  very good, I am totally OK with the adaptations in the name of expedience.  I never once felt like I was sitting through something I’d read/heard/watched once, let alone three times before.  I was entertained, impressed, pleased, delighted, engaged.  Hoo-freaking-ray.

BUT.

HUGE, BUT.

What, the, holy, hell, was the opening sequence about?

I mean, of all the self-indulgent, directorial, B.S., pretentious, craptastic pieces of nonsense I have ever seen committed to celluloid (OK, digital whatever whatever), this takes the cake.  It had absolutely no relevance,  artistic, symbolic, nor thematic, to the movie.  Why, oh why, was it there?

Days later, I’m still pissed about it.

Also.  The song that played during the closing credits was completely inappropriate and sucked.

The end.

p.s.  happy new year.

p.p.s. if you’re looking for something to read, pick up the Tana French trilogy, In the Woods, The Likeness, Faithful Place.  In that order.