So now I have to write about Sunday when it is Tuesday. I'm hoping that I'll catch up entirely before the end of this vacation.

Sunday was a day of movies. There were three films playing at the Academy, and I wanted to see all three of them. Actually, I couldn't remember what they were, but I was pretty certain that I had stated interest in seeing them all, so just for fun I didn't look them up beforehand.

By the end, my head was pounding and I was about fainting from hunger as I forgot to bring anything to eat for the twelve hours that I was hanging about the joint.

The first film was The Talented Mr. Ripley.

It was okay. I'm not overly-enamoured of Matt Damon, and I knew pretty much every single thing that was going to happen, having seen the trailer. So I just stared at the screen for three hours, hoping that something, anything unexpected would happen. It really didn't.

I'm just never going to like Matt Damon. I don't think that he's a bad actor or anything, but he always plays these characters that need to be played by someone with charisma, and he really doesn't do it for me.

The second film was Any Given Sunday.

This film has just a crackerjack first hour--engrossing, exciting, introducing characters that you care about and situations that you get caught up in, and it has the quality of a truly great sports movie in that you care about the sport even if, in real life, you hate the sport, like Hoosiers and Breaking Away and Chariots of Fire. It also has a fabulous last half hour.

It's that middle ninety minutes where the problem lies.

Man, every sports movie cliche in the world is trotted out and treated as seriously as though we, the audience, have never heard them before. The performances are very good, particularly Al Pacino and James Woods and (bizarrely) Lawrence Taylor, who was so excellent that it never occurred to me that he was a real football player rather than just a big actor until I saw the credits. That notwithstanding, the movie cannot afford that dreary middle section, as no movie could.

And do you think that Oliver Stone could throw in a few more slo-mo shots of spiraling football passes. There were at least six. All taken from the exact same angle.

God I wanted to go home at that point, but I didn't know what the next film was and I didn't want to mistakenly miss out on something great. And I would have.

The third film was Man on the Moon. And it was transcendent.

I was a little suspicious of Jim Carrey, because I loved Andy and I am extremely familiar with his work and I was afraid that Jim would camp it up too much, but he was Andy, he really was.

Another way that you could tell that it probably wouldn't betray Andy's work was that besides the fact that it was produced by Bob Zmuda, Andy's partner in crime, and Danny DeVito, at least half the cast knew and worked with Andy.

It didn't really tell me much that I didn't know (except for one thing about the wrestling bit that came as a surprise) but it put alot of stuff in context. I always thought that he was funny, but I never really dug Tony Clifton. In context, though, he made perfect sense, and was very funny.

One thing, though. Why did they put Andy's cysts on Jim's face, yet not include Andy's throw rug of chest hair? I meant, Jim's only shirtless during the cancer scenes, so I suppose that it all could have fallen off, but then they should have shaved his chest and not left the small amount that Jim actually has. Down with body hair inaccuracies!

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Today's horoscope:
Remember to compliment what you appreciate among colleagues. Mutual support and admiration work wonders today.

One year ago today:
A small price to pay not to have to watch Robin Williams be all heart-warming.

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Last Updated Tues 21 December 09:23:09 1999