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Today's absolutely tropical 50 degree temps inspire me to shed several layers of winter shielding built up over the cruel, tyrannical reign of the Polar Vortex. I blame the booze and apologize to any onlookers who were traumatized by said shedding. Thankfully it's only a second offense.
Not much could survive this Arctic blight that has beset our land lo these last three months, so let's be grateful that Film Forum's Complete Hitchcock and MoMA's Auteurist History of Film and Vienna Unveiled are the lone series still scurrying about foraging for food and shelter. The Londonesque quest for fire be thus;
We've made it to the third month of this relatively still-new year. Aside from losing, at an alarming rate, some of the most beloved talent the movie industry has ever known, I'm hoping we've all made it through this miserable, grim, dank and dour winter thus far with only mild wear and tear. Is the irony lost on all but me that last year at this time, when Bergman was screening on a seemingly weekly basis, the weather was so much less Bergmanesque?
Another Oscars ceremony in the books, the awards handed out, the gift swag absconded with, the Vanity Fair after-party crashers repelled by champagne cork fire. All in all I gotta say it was a pretty fair affair, and not the usual case of the undeserving lauded for work almost instantly forgotten (I'm looking at you, THE KING'S SPEECH). While a batch of my own personal picks went unrewarded (the nommed Chiwitel Ejiofor, the un-nommed BLUE JASMINE), most of the actual winners turned in some of the most meretorious work of 2013 (McConaughey, Spike Jonze's Original Screenplay upset). So for a change I'm not livid. I'll channel my anticipatory disgust toward the weather instead. Grrr.