Fraters Libertas

You Had Me At Hello

Yesterday I referenced the awful new Tarantino movie 'Kill Bill.' Specifically, its beginning, as summarized by the blood lusting Star Tribune reviewer:

The film opens with three great inside jokes and a shock cut to a battered, gasping Uma Thurman that hits like a Louisville Slugger to the ribs. ... The unseen Bill, wiping the blood from her face with his handkerchief, murmurs tender nothings, then shoots her in the head.

Note to Hollywood auteurs, if you want my attention and respect for your artistic vision, respect my human sensibilities and don't start your movie like that. Now I doubt impudent and nasty Quentin cares one way or another what the audience thinks. But I think perhaps this is something Sofia Coppola understands.

This afternoon I saw her new flick "Lost in Translation." It's terrific. A funny and sad look at the toll familiarity (with spouses, with the routine of our lives) takes on us and the sacrifices inherent in the choices we make (no matter what those choices are). The tone is nonjudgmental, although judgments are made. The performances by Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray are top notch, particularly Murray, with his understated and nuanced parody of his real life public image. It loses its pacing about three-quarters through and has a hard time finding an ending, but overall its a real charmer and receives my unqualified recommendation.

And it was the opening scene that riveted my attention and told me I found the right movie to see. No women were battered, beaten, or executed. Instead of trying to attract me with violence towards women, it attracted me with something a little bit more, well, attractive about them. Without getting too explicit, let's just say it involves the lovely Scarlett Johansson and something pink and see-through, covering something soft, curvaceous, and absolutely perfect. Furthermore, let's just say Sofia Coppola chose to tastefully begin the movie with an end. And my undivided attention and respect for her artistic vision were cemented (for all time).

For those of you still not understanding what I'm talking about, I refer you to the often times hilarious Jim Treacher. His blog today reviews an article in Slate about a fashion trend relevant to this discussion. And if you don't get this hint, you might as well go see 'Kill Bill,' since you may not have human sensibilities anyway.

Now, I enjoy looking at a woman's bran-canyon peeking out of her trousers as much as the next straight dude or gay lady, and I like reading about it almost as much.

Why can't you people just let me get a semi-wood thinking about two succulent hams rolling around in a tight denim sheath? Huh? Can't a man have one small moment of happiness without being dragged into your bullsh*t, you f*cking bastards?!?