[Movie review: Julie & Julia]

Mick Jagger. Sir Winston Churchill. Hervé “Tattoo” Villechaize ** **(“Da plane, boss. Da plane!”)

These are just a few people I am convinced that Oscar-winning actress Meryl Streep could no doubt play with both an uncanny accuracy and a great deal of fun.

She certainly gathers all the right ingredients to capture the singular joie de vivre of iconic author and TV chef Julia Child. Then with a little shake and bake here, some tender loving care there and a liberal dose of buttery delight all over, she serves it all up to perfection. Streep as Julia is an absolute feast — for the eyes, the funny bone and the heart.

Unfortunately Streep’s Julia is not the only thing on this cinematic menu. The movie is, after all, based on two books — Child’s memoir My Life In France and Julie Powell’s 2005 book, Julie And Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously. It is an interesting idea to intertwine both books in one movie and if the idea is to use one to contrast with the other, then the idea works — just too well for its own good. After all, whatever contrasts with “delightful” — like “deadly dull” or “borrring” or “pain in the butt” — is not good news for the viewer.

Julia’s adventures in post-war Paris with her husband Paul the American diplomat are as rich and vibrant as Child’s personal outlook on life. At one point she’s openly wondering what to do with herself. Paul simply asks her what she is most good at. “Eating,” is her outrageous but accurate reply.

When the laughter has subsided. it’s not a huge jump from there to taking on the male establishment at Le Cordon Bleu school of cooking where Child’s fiercely competitive nature kicks in — to gales of laughter in the now famous onion-chopping scenes.

This in turn leads to Child collaborating with two other women to write a huge cookbook for American woman on French cooking — which eventually became the legendary Mastering The Art of French Cooking. The story turns to the huge obstacles faced in trying to get such a book published. There’s also a look at the long reach of the gathering political gloom as the McCarthy era begins to unfold back in the U.S.

All this would be great if we didn’t have to keep cutting away to get back to the more modern story of Julie, played by Amy Adams. Julie is portrayed as a rather vapid, self-centred young woman living with her husband Eric in Queens, in a  tiny old apartment, above a pizza parlour. Julie is a thoroughly modern woman desperate to finally, for once in her life, actually see something through to its conclusion. The project becomes cooking all of the recipes in Mastering The Art of French Cooking in one year, and blogging about her efforts. Her eventual celebrity status has publishers falling all over themselves to publish her story as a book, and literary agents dying to be her guide to sudden fame and fortune, which certainly contrasts with Child’s experiences decades earlier.

But the contrast that really divides the two sides of the movie is the contrast between “lovable” and “not even likable.” Streep’s Julia is so lovable, I found myself constantly wanting to get back to her story. Adams’ Julie is so unpleasant, in an odd, deliberate way, that I began to resent her and her story as an unfortunate intrusion. What really threw me was how Adams, who exuded such natural charm as the princess-out-of-water in Enchanted, could play someone, in my mind at least, so utterly charmless.  (I hated her character, though my wife Mariette thought she wasn’t that bad.)

On its own, I think Julie And Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously would have made for a rather tepid and frustrating romantic comedy. There are some funny bits, usually involving dropped pans and spilt food. And some tender bits, involving the husband feeling as if he’s losing his wife to her strange ambitions and obsessive cooking. But served as it is here, it would be a rather depressing tale over all.

As a full-length feature, Julia’s story might have proved a little thin, or short, but as the scenes we do get illustrate, it still would have been glorious fun.

I can’t blame screenwriter/director Nora Ephron for combining the two stories. It must have seemed a natural fit, with one story underlining the other. And I am well aware of the artistic adage that without dark there is no light. But I don’t need a burnt hamburger next to my filet mignon to remind me how super the filet has turned out.

A couple of special mentions: Mary Lynn Rajskub, better known as the socially awkward Chloe on the TV series 24, is quite funny as Julie’s friend Sarah. Stanley Tucci is excellent as Julia’s husband Paul. One of the more delightful aspects of that side of the movie is the wonderful, loving, even sensual relationship between Paul and Julia. After all, tall, big-boned, ungainly, and squeaky-voiced Julia is hardly anyone’s candidate for a sexual fantasy. Yet Streep makes her so real, so well rounded, so natural, that she is touchingly sensual, as well as funny and charming. And Tucci completes the picture, making them highly believable as a loving, sexually active couple.

All this and more make Paul and Julia the people you want to hang out with in this movie — and perhaps even in real life if they hadn’t been from another time period. As for Julie and her husband Eric, well let’s just say I’d rather go downstairs for pizza than eat at their apartment.

Do note, however, that no matter how dreary I found the Julie half of the film, it is still definitely worth enduring for every glorious moment we spend with Julia in her world. It’s just a bit like having to eat some despised vegetable to get to enjoy one’s rack of lamb. The latter certainly removes any bad taste from the former.

So if you are the least bit intrigued, or inclined, do not miss Streep and company in Julie & Julia. They’re a real treat. Bon appetit!

[FICTION]

“So you never saw the car following you?”

“What car?”

“The black car that followed you all the way out from the city.”

“I didn’t see any car. But then I wasn’t looking behind me.”

“Well, you were definitely followed by someone in a black car.”

“Why would anyone follow me?”

“I happen to know, for a fact, that the person who followed you intends to kill you.”

“But who? Who followed me?”

“I did.”

Chicken nuggets are the fool’s gold of fast food.

Horns were invented by cavemen trying to make fart sounds.

Dang-blast-it, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Last week it was the discomfort of badly sunburned arms, which have finally faded and stopped hurting. This week it’s some kind of flu bug or something that’s given me an upset stomach, to go along with the regular aches and pains.

During the first half of the week, I was pretty tired, which I figured was from enjoyable but tiring babysitting endeavours Sunday — lots of playing on the floor with granddaughter Rachel, carrying her around (and she is getting big), pushing her in her cart and other stuff.

However, while resting to overcome the fatigue, I noticed my stomach was slightly unsettled.

And then came the surprise. The other night I was just sitting there, shortly after dinner, and I was hit with a sudden wave of nausea. Which actually wasn’t the surprise. One of the many lovely side effects of the cornucopia of medicine I take is occasional sudden waves of nausea in which I feel like I’m going to throw up. But I never do. I just have the fun of constantly feeling like I am about to. If it goes on long enough, it leaves me wishing I WOULD throw up, just to get it over with. But the best thing is to just sit very still, or lie down very quietly, until it passes.

But there was something different this time. The feeling was more intense. And suddenly I realized that for once it was the real thing and if I moved a muscle, things could get messy.

Fortunately Mariette noticed me sitting there frozen in place, staring straight ahead, afraid to move even an eyeball. I forget what she asked but I somehow mumbled, without moving my lips, “I eed a ay-sin.” Being a nurse she understood my medical shorthand and scooted out to the kitchen and returned with a plastic basin. And non too soon. The mere act of taking it and placing it in front of me was enough to trigger …

Well, you’ve been there. You don’t need a description.

I was quite relieved to discover that though violent it wasn’t voluminous, and thus quite easy to control and confine to the basin which made clean-up a snap. The round of dry heaves was no fun but at least everything that did come out came out just the one hole — if you “nose” what I mean. 😉

After the quick cleanup I drank some water which triggered a second round — again one of the least unpleasant and least messy episodes of barfing I’ve ever endured.

But I’ve been existing on dried crackers and toast ever since, though I think I am about to try some soup.

Now don’t worry. Not every post is going to make reference to health issues, or why I’ve taken a whole week to get around to posting again. But there’s a certain reality to all this, a context that not only may help people understand factors at work here, but also prove to be something they can relate to. I may be the only one crazy enough to talk in public about puking, but I bet I’m sure not the only one who has been through something like this. 🙂

Rachel in push cart.

One thing about this great kid, she likes playing as much as grampa does. Which reminds me. Right from the start we were all given our choice of what we wanted to be called as grandparents. Now Miche’s mom chose Ma Mere in honour of their French ancestry. Forgive me if I can’t remember for sure, but I think her dad chose Pa Pere or perhaps it was simply Poppa. I’ll have to check on that.

With her French ancestry on her father’s side, Mariette qualified for Ma Mere as well, but chose instead to honour her Dutch ancestry on her mother’s side and chose Oma. I have some French ancestry, as well as Scottish and Ukraine, so I went with the simple Canadian mongrel style of Grampa. It seemed much shorter and easier to pronounce than my other choice, Oh Wise And Omnipotent Elder.

Anyway, here are a few more recent pictures:

NOTE: Had to drop a couple of captions for technical reasons,

then gave up when next caption kept altering its style and layout,

as in the no-sunscreen pic below. (sigh)

Those who know me know that brevity is not my forté. Knowing how to get letters with French accents is a forté. Knowing exactly when to use them, not so much.

But I digress. As usual.

It’s obvious my philosophy is why use one word when several will do. Why use one sentence when many can be more fun. After all, who wants to go to all the trouble of getting online to read only one sentence? Those in the back shouting “I do! I do!” — get thee to Twitter!

Of course I’m also on Twitter, which is quite funny when you think of it. Mr. Motormouth limiting himself to 140 characters? Heck, I have burps than run longer than that. Besides, for me, Twitter is a bit of a chicken/egg thing — nobody follows me because I don’t go anywhere and why should I go anywhere if no one is following me?

There. That’s it. A brief thought that came to me moments ago while lying in bed and since I was getting up anyway, I decided to come down and dump it here while it’s fresh. Needless to say, a few words, even an extra thought or two, got added along the way. But this is still pretty brief for me, right? I hope you’re not disappointed coming all this way just for this. For those who packed a snack, hoping to perhaps settle back for another long one, sorry. Maybe next time.

A heartfelt thanks to all who took the time to post a comment. Considering how great these comments made me feel, I LOVE this blog already. 😀

How could I have been so stupid? I don’t know.

I certainly know better and I even received a visual reminder, which I somehow ignored.

There I was at my granddaughter’s first birthday party last Saturday (Aug. 8 — ironically, my late father’s birthday). On hand were a bunch of adults, one pre-teen and two kids — one almost three and the other about to turn one year old in three days time.

The party was being held in advance so my son and his wife could stage this daytime BBQ party in the backyard of their new house on the weekend, when more people could attend, and in a more leisurely manner.

Despite advance warnings of rain for that day, it actually turned out to be one of the all-too-rare sunny days of this mostly overcast, terribly wet summer. I don’t get out nearly as much as I used to and I certainly hadn’t been out in the sun for any period of time this summer. So I never even thought once about applying sunscreen, even though I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. (My favourite red one, which I am seen wearing in almost all pictures of me this spring and summer.)

It was a great party.

However, at one point I was down on one knee “chatting” with the birthday girl, Rachel, when her dad came along and began liberally applying more sunscreen to her arms and hands and legs, and neck and seemingly everywhere. And I’m thinking to myself, “Yes sir, with the sunscreen and her special pink hat with the big number 1 on it, she is certainly well protected from the sun. What a good, smart dad she has.”

What I SHOULD have been thinking is what a stupid grandfather she has.

Even later, I’m sitting in the bright sun, and I’m teasing my brother-in-law Richard about his very white legs. “Hey, Mariette. I was just looking at Richard’s legs and that reminds me, we’ll have to get a turkey for Thanksgiving.”

I SHOULD have been thinking of my own very white legs. I DID think to myself that I didn’t have to worry about my legs, because I was wearing jeans. I had thought of wearing shorts but I didn’t want to tempt the weather gods AND I figured my legs might burn, since this would be their first time this year exposed to the sun. Duh! What about your exposed arms, dummy?

Sitting out there, we even noted over and over again how bright and how very hot the sun was. I cherished every little breeze and even visited the shade from time to time.

Still, I somehow never twigged to how exposed I’d left myself.

When we did get home, after four great hours outdoors, I went to lie down, only to discover I couldn’t get comfortable. Now I’m quite familiar with leg pain but suddenly my arms were hurting as well. I got up and finally looked at them and realized they were bright crimson from where my sleeve ended, down to the knuckles on the back of my hands.

OUCH!!!

I came downstairs to be informed that our son Travis, who was up from Toronto for the weekend, had just discovered that the top of his knees were also crimson.

Unfortunately, despite applications of moisturizer, my arms are still almost as red, and just as sore, days later. Today, they’re somewhat faded, itchy from time to time, and still a bit painful when touched.

At first, looking at them earlier this week, I couldn’t understand why they didn’t hurt even more. Then I remembered that for the chronic (constant) leg pain I suffer, I take a slow-release painkiller, one in the morning, one at night, that’s supposed to last 12 hours. (They don’t seem to last quite that long but I get by. Fortunately I also have another, quick-acting pill for what we call breakthrough pain — pain that suddenly exceeds the usual pain levels.)

So obviously these painkillers were helping reduce the pain from the sunburn as well as the leg pain. (Maybe even disguising, a bit, how serious the sunburn was?) Now my family knows I am very conscientious and careful with these painkillers, due to the fact they’re pretty heavy duty. Sometimes though, even I find myself acting a little weird. For example, when I’d wake because of increased pain in my arms — no doubt from all the tossing and turning I do — I WOULDN’T take a quick-acting painkiller because this breakthrough pain was not from my legs. Breakthrough leg pain is primarily what the painkillers are for, at least in my mind. I’ve been chided by doctor and spouse in the past for being overly conscientious. I was probably being a little dumb again. Pain is pain. But that’s just the way I am.

Besides, as another bit of dumbness, I have this “serves me right” kind of feeling for being so oblivious as to have not even contemplated the obvious: Sunscreen is essential when out in the sun.

So, a week later, I still have this all-too-vivid reminder of just how stupid I was last weekend.

Now I’m not looking for pity. Having people feel sorry for me — I don’t even feel sorry for myself — is not my purpose here. But if this serves as a warning to others to NOT forget the sunscreen — now that we actually have some sun — then my suffering will not be in vain. (Thank goodness I somehow knew enough to wear a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect my face and ears and neck. Had I burned my face, it would really hurt to smile like this.)

My youngest son Tyler kindly set up this blog structure for me here on this domain created by my oldest son, Travis. Tyler even put in a sample name to demonstrate how the title would look. I think he might have been having a little fun with me. “Bill’s Braindump: And what a dump.” Thanks son, but no thanks.

(“Braindump” vaguely brings to mind a Dylan line of which I can’t quite remember the specifics. Anyone remember — or clever and non-lazy enough to look up — that early Dylan line, something about needing a dump truck (steam shovel?) to clear my head?)

Anyway, I tossed a few ideas around in my head for a day or two and came up with the current title, “Surfacing: When things floating in my head finally wash up on shore”. I like the word “surfacing,” the idea of rising out of something, slipping free of something that is perhaps even holding one back, or holding one down. Of course it is also the title of one of my all-time favourite albums by the Boomtown Rats, Sir Bob Geldof’s long-lost band, which gave us such classics, as I Don’t Like Monday and Someone’s Always Looking At You.

But it’s the floating in my head part that is the most appropriate. It’s a pretty obvious statement to say that all writing originates in someone’s head. What people may not realize is that it tends to rattle around in there before finally being released, also known as being committed to text. (I’d have said, “committed to paper” except we’re in the digital age and these very words may never actually touch paper, being displayed on computer screens only. I am not the kind of person who needs a hard copy of everything.)

For me, unless facing a hard deadline, writing works best when I am in the right mood to write. It often takes just the right combination of physical, mental, emotional and psychological energy. Perhaps something that could be summed up as a positive mood with the power of effort and concentration to match.

Alas, for years now, it has been a lot harder, due to health reasons, to find that magic combination. Which is why I do so much writing — in my head — in bed, when I’m more often reasonably relaxed, compared to other times. I’ve thought of bringing the laptop to bed, but it’s too large and heavy and the physical exertion would probably increase discomfort levels, cancelling out the reasonably relaxed part.

I’ve even tried writing on my hand-held PC but that process is very slow, with lots of correcting, trying to tap on tiny letters on a tiny on-screen keyboard using the stylus. It slows me down so much and takes so much concentration, that I end up with very little for a lot of effort. Did I mention how tiny everything is? And how old my eyes are?

So I write and rewrite and bounce things around my head and hope that I’ll soon find the right moment to sit down and finally type it out. Let it go. Find relief by finally dumping stuff that’s been going around and around in my head, sometimes driving me a bit crazy. Especially when trying to achieve the mental calmness required to have a chance at sleeping. Hmm. “Finally dumping this stuff.” Maybe Tyler’s suggested title wasn’t that far off, after all.

Anyway, this is all by explanation of how it’s taken me this long to launch my blog when I was so excited to start a week ago.

Between the chronic pain in the leg, and the nasty sunburn, (see Sunburn), it has not been a good week for getting decent sleep or finding the proper mood or energy to sit and type away, until late this week.

You might say I’m finally surfacing from a bad week. And this may serve as a warning about possible future bad days and/or weeks when it might take me a while to write something new on this blog.

Still, I’m approaching this with a positive spirit. One thing writers like more than writing is being read. One thing they love more than being read is being enjoyed, having their efforts appreciated, somehow touching a reader in a meaningful way, whether it is to provoke thoughts and feelings or simply trigger a small chuckle.

My ego — so necessary to a writer — leads me to write this blog. I do hope you enjoy reading it.

Welcome to my new blog. I can see that you’re excited already. Well, sit back, take a deep breath and relax. You’re making me nervous.

(There, for the first time I managed to resist adding , which I often use to underline that I was only kidding. Not only do I think I probably use those little action brackets — — too much, but I seem to be the only one still using them. So it’s probably time to put them to rest and hope my writing is clear enough to indicate when I am kidding, and such — which is most of the time. <LO.)

For a long time I didn’t think I would write a blog. For one thing, it seems somewhat clichéd with supposedly everyone and his dog writing one. (Heaven forbid, what if I can’t draw as many readers as someone’s dog?) Secondly, I, especially with online endeavours, have always preferred to be out in front of the crowd instead of following.

Even more importantly, I am not what you would call a self-starter. (Cue the sound of an engine cranking — rrrowe, rrrowe, rrrowe — without turning over. That’s an all-too-familiar sound to Canadians who try to drive in winter.) In fact I am a chronic procrastinator. For years now I’ve planned to try and overcome that defect, but just haven’t got around to it yet. So if people come to the blog again and again and find it hasn’t been updated, are they going to keep coming? Those who know me know to be patient. But I’m sure I sometimes try the patience of even my most loyal fans.

Still it is these fans, friends and family, who have been encouraging me to start a blog. My sons even noted that my posts on Facebook were rather long, often two or three paragraphs compared to everyone else’s one or two sentences. (I wonder what they would have thought of my epic-length posts on the Canada & Friends Forum on Delphi, and before that, Prodigy?)

So, here goes.