Remember in December, when I gave everyone in my book club a nice moustache? What do you mean, "no"? What do you mean "sometimes I live my life and don't remember your every detail, June"? Whatever with you. At any rate, it's nice to see they're still being used to the fullest.
I had book club again last night, and what I like about book club is how intensely and passionately we dissect the book. Last night it was, "Did you read the book?" "Yeah, wasn't it great?" Then we discussed lipstick.
I went to the bathroom of our hostess, Hibiscus, and she had 2,047 lipsticks from Ulta in there. When I came out I said, "Hibiscus, I'm headed over to Ulta. You need me to pick you up a lipstick?" I'm fun that way.
"I know," said Hibiscus, "Isn't it awful?" But really, I'm one to talk. Every purse in my closet has at least one lipstick, so if I change purses I won't be lipstickless, god forbid. I also have two at my desk at fake work and several on my vanity.
But then two book club members said they only have one lipstick and buy it over and over again. This shade is L'Oreal's Broadway Bronze, and if I ever mention her again, guess what this chick's new blog name will be?
The other person at book club who only wears one shade ALSO wears L'Oreal in Mica, which in case you were worried sick I've worn before and it's a nice color.
I wonder what it means about us psychologically that some one us just find one lipstick and stick to it, while the rest of us are like Prince's mother: She's never satisfied. Also, why do we scream at each other?
Two people who did not scream at each other this weekend were Ned and me. Enclosed please find a photo from us at dinner with some friends, wherein Ned feigns interest in whatever I'm saying. I'm probably running down my lipstick shades for him.
Was it "wear your hair like a Cocker spaniel and get half off dessert" night? What gives with Ned's hair? BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, funny. ...MY hair. What gives with MY hair? I leave the house thinking it's okay, then I see a picture of it and it's always saying, "BLAAARRGGGHHH!!!!" It's always having some kind of fit, my hair. It's always over-the-top HEY LADYYYY! Jerry Lewis hair and never dignified Sir Ian McKellan hair.
Anyway. The other thing we did this weekend was go to a movie. I know that is shocking information, as Ned and I never GO to a movie. I think since I met him we have not gone two weeks without seeing some (incredibly depressing) movie together.
Someone mentioned in the comments that we should have some sort of movie corner with Ned, not that we all stand on some corner like common prostitutes. On the other hand, how else we gonna keep ourselves in lipstick? Anyway, I mentioned to Ned that you'd seemed interested in talking movies with him, so when I got home last night he'd written a little review of what we saw yesterday, which was the horrifically sad movie Amour:
And if you watched this preview just now and thought, "GodDAMMIT. This day was going fine and now I want to KILL MYSELF," welcome to my world. Welcome to every movie Ned wants to see.
So without further ado or lipstick, here is Ned's review of Amour. We need a little name for Ned's reviews if we continue with these. What can we call it?
June has asked me to write reviews for some of the movies we see together. While I cannot promise to be as dedicated as June, nor to bring the same quality that she does, I thought I'd go ahead and give this a shot. So without any further ado, the movie we saw today was Amour, an Austrian film starring Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva as husband and wife Georges and Anne.
If you've never heard of either of these actors, you'll be relieved to know that they are French, and nobody else has heard of them either. I took two years of French in high school, but I cannot remember why the French have to make George plural. And as French actors, they speak a lot of French in the film, so if reading subtitles isn't your thing, you might consider giving this one a miss.
Nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Foreign Picture, Best Original Screenplay, Best Director and Best Actress in a Leading Role (she'll win), Amour tells the story of Georges and Anne, retired music instructors who live a quiet, sophisticated life somewhere very Frenchy. Anne suffers a stroke early in the movie, and the rest of the film concerns her declining health, his attempt to care for her, and the resulting changes and challenges in their relationship.
This is not at all a sentimental view of aging and dying, but rather an open-eyed, brutally honest depiction of end-of-life issues faced by absolutely everyone eventually. There isn't really any relief in the film either. No hint of recovery, no light moments to lift the mood, just a slow, inexorable march towards the inevitable. Spoiler alert: She dies.
This unblinking look at the increasing indignities and humiliation suffered at the end of a life lived well make this a film not fit for everyone. Me, for example. But if you have a good mood you need to get rid of, think you have this whole life thing figured out, or are just too goddamn smug for your own good, this might be a movie for you.