The cinetrix has been playing hide and seek from the heat these past two days. It will surprise no one to learn that she's had a lot of company in those dark, cool theatres she haunts.
It's still too hot to formulate anything even remotely cogent to say, so here are a few glancing impressions until the mercury falls.
Who Killed the Electric Car is a solid documentary, marshalling its data, talking heads, and telling archival footage as predictably as a pop song: verse, chorus, repeat.
What sets it apart from its nonfiction peers? Just how attractive those talking heads are. Big Auto marketed electric cars to celebrities, and California legislated them into its solution for the state's smog problems, so there are a lot of good-looking people for such a wonky subject. Just saying.
Oh, and Mad Mel Gibson, with full-on Saddam beard. When we weren't puzzling over people's curious pronunciation of "vehicular" as "vee-hic-yoo-lar," my pal Gerry and I tried to figured out what the hell the guy was saying. We think he had an electric car, but he also mentioned Batman, so, really, it's anyone's guess.
We followed Car with the singularly depressing The Death of Mr. Lazarescu. What a fucking great movie. At 150 minutes, it's just as long as Dead Man's Chest but seems to speed by.
Funny story. Alexander Payne chaired the jury when this Romanian flick screened in competition at Cannes a couple years back. He walked out. An Argentinian journalist stayed, fucking loved the story of Dante Remus Lazarescu's final hours, and button-holed Payne until he went back and saw the whole thing. And he loved it, too. So, if you were wondering why some obscure Romanian movie is storming these shores, that's why.
Today, hotter than the day before, promises I Vitelloni in less than an hour, so I should jet. But first the cinetrix should confess she beguiled the afternoon in the company of the other Dante, Hicks, and Randal Graves, vitelloni both.
Is Clerks II sublime? Hardly. But it's Smith's birthday today and, did I mention, hotter than balls out. What're ya gonna do?
And I have to admit I teared up--which is no mean trick given how much fluid I've lost to sweat today--when Randal defended his stretch at the Quick Stop thusly: "I got to watch movies, fuck with assholes, and hang out with my best friend all day."
Say amen, somebody.
