Nazis: what a bunch of bastards

Tonight there was finally a viewing of Gloomy Sunday, which wise old cinema guy at The Cloisters (every home should have one, at least if I'm not on hand to recognise C. Thomas Howell and spot the significant common denominator between the films Batman Forever and Tomb Raider*) informed us (after asking us thoughtfully if the air conditioning was all right) has been on in New Zealand now for 119 weeks, both in Christchurch and Auckland. That's a lot of weeks. The movie has now taken a million dollars in New Zealand, and that success in our country alone has been enough to convince distrubutors to just release it in the U.S, well after it was actually made. To which my queston is: why? It was certainly a very good movie. But it was not 'greatest movie ever' sort of material I would have thought, just very good. But merely very good does not explain why, as old cinema guy told us, 200 (unconnected) people turned up last week midweek to try and see one particular session of the film, this presumably in week 118 of release in N.Z (as the theatre in which it is currently showing seats 11, many were disappointed). Apparently they are thinking of shifting it to a bigger theatre again. Madness! Well good on it, I suppose. I can only think there's some kind of huge snowballing reputation for the movie here, and everyone who goes to see it tells someone else that hasn't to go do so, and what with the population size of Godzone, we've all been told to go see it or 'heard that it's good' about 27 times each. Well, don't let me break any trends or anything. Go see it, if you haven't (and I know most have). It's good. Another film proving that the Nazis were really a lot of complete and utter sub-human wankers. But also proving that not all Germans were Nazis. But in addition, that some of the Germans who were not Nazis were nonetheless still bastards. And that they were slightly reminiscent of Thom Yorke (I thought). Anyway point is, well made, depressing but in some ways uplifting (like The Pianist), twist at the end, all good.

Further to this subject, The Cloisters is cool. It won't be my first viewing locale choice for Terminator 3, just for example, (the rights to show the film probably cost more than the entire building) but that makes it good in other ways. The little cinema is very small (about the size of a large bathroom), but it has the most comfortable seats of any cinema in Christchurch I think, it has a bar and you can take glasses in, and there is wise old cinema guy who wears a bow tie, obviously loves film, and stands in the doorway shining his torch in case you can't find your seat on the way in or the door on the way out, neither of which can be more than 3 metres away from you at any given point in the room. Most importantly, the whole place positively reeks of non-corporatism. It's funky, and reminds you movies are good, just as occasionally showing up at the Rialto with bugger anyone else about and talking to the enthusiastic guy that runs the place about how great Dr Strangelove is reminds you why films are good. Shame about that whole gigantic Hollywood machine really - but hey, even that creaking behemoth has its shining moments.

And look, I started a blog without rambling on about how it has been too long since my last blog, etc. Somebody once told me that a rule of letter writing was that you should never open a letter with any kind of apology about how long it has been since the last letter...but then she also told me that I was going to hell, with the fire, and the brimstone, and the devils with pitchforks that HURT me, (glaben) so it's hard to know what credence to give any of her advice. Actually I think she was probably right about that one, (letter-writing, not going to hell, I'll just repent on my deathbed) and so I'll try to continue to avoid it in future. Don't expect me not to mention it at all, mind you - just not at the start...

Well, my ankle hurts less (than before), after hurting more (than usual). No doubt things going ping! unexpectedly when I was simply running around attempting to fill in at outdoor soccer on Saturday is come-uppance or karmic payback for my ongoing hassling of my many leg-injury-plagued companions of days past, and indeed days ongoing. However, I hope to be back amongst the running and the kicking in fairly short order, although looks like I'll be missing the planned marathon Thursday, and the Karate tournament Friday. Damn all the luck. Damn all the luck of missing out on quite a few hours of entertainment on Saturday night as well, due to being at the After Hours medical centre for 3 hours checking if things merely had gone ping! or if they had, more seriously, gone snap! It certainly felt as though they might have done at the time, but I'm glad it was a case of a somewhat mysterious and doctor-baffling, if minor, ping! in the end, for to put 'Cause of broken ankle: running along. Not falling down in any way' on the ACC form would have been pretty embarrassing. Getting around town on crutches is not all it's cracked up to be, or maybe it would be more accurate to say it is all it's cracked up to be, since I can't really see anyone have reccommended the idea in the past. Crutches hurt your shoulders and your arms and perhaps worst of all your working leg, as if to even things up somehow. I have a new found respect for Long John Silver (and he floored someone by throwing his at them as well I seem to recall, before giving them a good stabbing. Despite this I was not about to pick any bar fights, and decided that imbibing vast quantities of alcohol was probably a bad idea too, since as Tim pointed out, I was 'falling-down-drunk' before I even had my first beer). The biggest test came when James and Teena unknowingly (not their fault, either; I thought we were at the entrance too, and the fog around the river was that thick that I could barely see Teens in the back seat of the car) dropped me off on Salisbury Street to go to Will's flatwarming: I hobbled up to discover unyielding gates and signs that read 'Main entrance on Peterborough Street'. By the time I had crutched(?) myself all the way round the block to the main entrance, I felt I had probably done as much exercise as the 60 minutes of soccer I had missed out on after subbing out injured would have provided. The next challenge was making it through the door of Will's building without allowing it to close again after he buzzed me in: this was a complicated exercise that involved all 4 limbs on the door at various points, and a crutch dropped in such a way as to come to rest between closing door and groin, which was a tad uncomfortable. By the time I reached Will's apartment on the 6th floor (thank God the lifts were working) it was if I had just finished filming the pilot for a revival of The Krypton Factor (Dougal Stevenson: "Good work with the door and crutch to the crotch, Ben; now can you tell me which of these shapes rotates to form a portrait of the incumbent French Prime Minister, while naming all the states in America in reverse alphabetical order?") But I made it. All in all after that it was a good time with conversation with people I haven't seen for ages and a selection of tasty cheesy commestibles, and later on, unnecessary if entertaining abuse of Tim by someone named 'Mavis'.

Well, I might stop this at this point, since I was attempting to get to bed 'early' tonight in order to get up tomorrow and go to university in order to do the work I have told my supervisor I have already done (this is my motivational technique). But I will leave you with this thought I had from last night, inspired by thinking about the music video to 'Peaches' by The Presidents of the USA which I downloaded: providing they are not arriving to kill you, and indeed sometimes even if they are, there is no situation that is not improved by the arrival of ninjas.

Right then.

*Both featured a U2 song that was probably the best thing about the movie.