Chaos and more chaos. Tremendous, though feverish fun at Pedro Almodovar's Everything About My Mother, a gleefully flamboyant melodrama à la Douglas Sirk, dedicated to "Gena Rowlands, Bette Davis and Romy Schneider" and starring a whole bunch of smashing Spanish actresses. Standing ovation (yes, at the press screening), we're all sure we just saw the Palme d'Or.
Raoul Ruiz's Le Temps Retrouvé is long, long, long. Just under three hours. Furiously interesting at times, infuriatingly distant at others. Malkovich speaks and acts in French as if to the manoir born. No one reads Marcel Proust, but everyone rereads it. Call it a cultural idiosyncracy or, more bluntly, cultural snobbery. Somewhere on television, an anchorperson who'd make Downtown Julie Brown pass off as demure introduces the press conference for "Le Temps Retrouvé, the well-known masterpiece by Albert Proust". I give up, decide to skip Werner Herzog's homage (of sorts) to actor Klaus Kinski and go to bed to nurse a fever that's just gone up a notch.
Toy with the idea of typing my daily diary but somehow, my Jornada is lurking at me the way Bruce the shark eyed Robert Shaw in Spielberg's Jaws... Will we ever come to terms?
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