Spitball Army

I loved Philomena, but The Magdalene Sisters is a harrowing, bolder & ultimately more vital film of the Magdalene laundries.

Another day off, another mid-day movie, another theater all to myself. Until, that is, the film started and an elderly man (yes, you wise-acre, older than me) came in and, unlike yesterday, sits behind me. He went all the way to the back row, in fact. His loud throat-clearing didn’t bother me at all, as I’m sure I’ve been on the giving end of that before. But, halfway through the picture, he fell asleep and started snoring: loud, prolonged snores just like my Dad used to broadcast when he’d fall asleep on the living room floor while watching Thursday night boxing. And the repeated roar of the Mumbai subway trains from the surround speakers weren’t stirring this guy. So I pulled an old trick – perfected many years ago on Dad – and shouted every time the snoring got out of hand. “SAAJAN!” I’d shout, or “ILA!” (the names of the two main characters in this Indian film, The Lunchbox). He’d snorffle each time, quiet down, then five minutes later start snoring again. He missed half of the movie and I had a wonderful doubly-entertaining time but, honestly, one of these days I’m going to get my teeth kicked in.

So, today, on a day off from work, and still needing to avoid sunlight due to last Friday’s PDT (photo-dynamic therapy – I think that’s the translation – for that skin stuff), I decide to take in an 11 A.M. movie. It wasn’t hard to understand why I was the only person in the theater, being a Wednesday morning, but just as the film starts, a fellow comes in and sits in the second row. No problem, I’m all about sharing. Then halfway through this latest Captain America adventure, Second Row Guy whips out his phone and sends a text. Then he does it again. And again. Man, that’s distracting, even when the movie’s a pulp fest. So I pull out my phone (no one behind me, of course) and download one of those flashlight apps I see people use. As if on cue, my soon-to-be victim starts texting. For the last time during that movie, I might add. It was an illuminating experience for both of us.

Card is titled: “Sea Lion Caves. Photo: H.A. Williams.”

Printed on back of postcard:

CT-417
SEA LIONS
At this basaltic headland on the Oregon Coast there is a huge marine cave, the home of some 1500 Stellar sea lions of all ages. Some bulls attain weights over 2000 pounds.
Color photo by H.A. Williams

Publishing information:

Smith-Western, Inc., 1133 N.W. Gilsan St., Portland, Oregon 97209

Poor Francis Phelan, cursed by his own relentless guilt.

The silver Toyota Corolla weaved from lane to lane in its own slow time, without signaling, as if the driver was oblivious to the fact that it was the morning rush hour. Its head and tail lights were off. On the rear window was a decal that originally might have read “Write your love in her arms,” but in the trafficky wet haze read “Write your love in her ar s,” as if the M had been scratched out purposely to broadcast someone’s overly candid opinion, or perhaps had simply been worn thin by the sun and flaked away. At the top of the trunk lid, directly below the rear windshield decal: a pink ribbon sticker supporting breast cancer research. Were the two messages connected? Breast and arse? I considered that if I asked the driver, she or he probably wouldn’t have had a clue, ever oblivious, and then the Toyota Corolla speeded up and cut off traffic in the passing lane, still without signaling and still driving dark, perpetually unaware.

A film noir morality play. From the atmospheric opening credits complete with foreboding music, to the “set-up” (which seems to harken back to 1936’s Reefer Madness, but with even more guns) through to the whiz-bang ending, Gun Crazy was a completely unexpected surprise.

This clip from TCM offers the opening credits and the “I told you so” Freudian framework for what is to come.