So Bright and Delicate

I first watched Bright Star when I was alone and tired, munching on crackers and feeling deliriously out of my mind. I was half-submerged in a sea of blankets after returning from two parties that night, ready to fall asleep after making the half-hour trek in high heels back to my bedroom. It was exhausting, but I put this movie on and let it numb me to sleep. Of course, it was all in a very good way.

I hadn't paid any attention to poetry before I came to university. I used to be one of those people who refused to touch a poem because it was too naive, too contrived. That's all bullshit, of course. Read some of Shakespeare, some of the Romantic poets, and you'll understand why I've chosen to relentlessly love my major. 

Bright Star is a film by Jane Campion. It stars Ben Whishaw (pictured above, basking in some trees like it's nobody's business) and a raven-haired Abbie Cornish. Both are cited as incredibly young and gifted actors who present the love story of one John Keats and one Fanny Brawne with such beautiful and heartbreaking sincerity that it made me haplessly wish I had my own tragic love story, if only for the letters I would gain from it.

That's why I bought So Bright and Delicate: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne today. It gets me every time that he died at 25 while away from the love of his life. (What gets me more than that is how I keep going back to this film, despite my reservations of cynicism and bitterness about love.)

Watch this video below. Watch the film. Just watch it all, like I know I will be tonight.

To the Holidays

I've spent a good part of my break from school in anticipation of something - a deadline, a trip to the airport, a TV airing of Love Actually that somehow keeps evading me.

I have three deadlines to work to during the break. I'm welcoming the work, as strange as that is to believe. I've spent the better part of the past few weeks sitting and indulging in ten hours of Game of Thrones. As much as I love me some Sean Bean to go with my non-existent winter snowfall, I knew that the sloth-like behaviour had to come to a halt.

So now I spend a few hours of my day emailing, making phone calls and generally planning what I have to write about once all the interviews and research come together. It's at a much slower pace than what I'm used to, but at least I now get to quasi-pretend that I'm a working-from-home reporter. However, I don't have an office. Just yet.

Today I took a break from all that and vegetated in front of the television watching Home Alone as my mother attempted marzipan-glazed rolls. They were divine. I also went on a whirlwind foray into gift shopping for Dan's family before picking him up at the airport. Needless to say, it's nice to have him back.

The above photo is of my family on their first, presumably annual, Christmas tree hunt. They went on this wonderful adventure while I was in my cocoon of HBO and digestive crackers. This photo contains the most snow I've seen since the holidays began. Seriously - my backyard looks like it's desperately trying to be its Autumn self. I say thee nay. I want snow! (The good kind that you can watch from your family room window while you feel cozy and safe, not the kind that earns the name "Snow-pocalypse".)

Perspective

Verklempt: To be choked with emotion.

Restless

I have a class titled "Literary Nonfiction." We basically discuss New Journalism and all that comes with it. It's the class that made me read more Didion, more DFW and many more writers whom I would have never read otherwise.

Molly Young, being awesome and stylish

One of these bright authors is Molly Young. She wrote a review of Adderall in n+1 titled "Kickstart My Heart." The professor assigned it as the last reading of the syllabus. My hypothesis? He was giving a giant wink to the class: don't take Adderall, kids. It'll ruin ya.

She makes it sound so terribly appealing though. Reading through weeks worth of textbook in just under 72 hours? Absorbing information like a zealous sponge? Not getting distracted by Internet demons like Facebook, Reddit or 4chan? Yes, yes and YES.

At the end of the essay, Young breaches upon an epiphany: she never really learned anything. She didn't know what she hated at the end of her post-secondary career; she never discovered what she was good at. Perhaps this seemingly-pointless trudging through schoolwork does serve an ultimate purpose. Are we supposed to reach the light at the end of the tunnel? Is that light just supposed to blind us, making us declare, "Oh right, I haaate that"? Well, of course. We all hate lights in our eyes. Ask anyone pulled over by the cops late one Saturday night.

Despite whatever foray into Adderall or similar drugs you might encounter (Prozac, Ritalin, etc.), take a look at Molly Young's Tumblr here. She's not much older than me and I already feel like she's light-years ahead.

Then again, we can't all contribute to GQ or star in a Sleigh Bells video.

Hours

I've been spending a lot of my time on Reddit. It's pretty bad. I just spent the better part of the past two hours reading an old AMA (Ask Me Anything) by a former cast member of All That.
Other things I have been spending my time on:

1. Trying to figure out ways to limit time spent on timewaster websites. So far, only StayFocusd (for Chrome) has worked. Unfortunately, there's a loophole where you can switch off the extension on your browser entirely and - kaboom - you've just spent three hours on Facebook and Gmail for no good reason.
2. I've been indulging in food. I'm talking ridiculous gourmet coffees from my campus' coffee place. I'm too lazy to walk to the 'Bucks so I've been doing little things to my coffee - like coffee with a shot of peppermint or a chai latte with a shot of chocolate. Shots. They're great for you.
3. Studying. It's finals crunch time, which means I have degenerated into a caffeine-shooting, bloodshot-eyed monster who can only speak in ridiculous-sounding phrases like "Toilet am i shherrmerrrr???" or "I can totally pass this exam, right guys?" It's been a tough time.
4. Playing Pokemon Red. Somehow, I decided it was a good decision to download an emulator and some variation of Pokemon that I never got to play in my childhood scumbag years. It's been a wild three days, but I've gotten my Pikachu to level up. Which is amazing, all things considered.

Now that exams are coming to a close(ish), I figured I would write some random words here and pray that they made sense. Oh, and I also watched Breaking Dawn but I think we can all agree that it's a spectacularly awful movie and requires no real explanation other than my shouting that Bella and Edward (Belward, as it were) have REALLY TERRIBLE SEX.

That in itself may have made the whole movie-watching venture worth it. I haven't laughed like that since my terrible ex tried to befriend me. Ludicrousness at its finest.

Here's a song from a band I just started listening to today. It may make this entire rant worth it:

Home is Where the Skyline Is

This is a video of my home and everything I love about it. Until I saw the video, it hadn't occurred to me that I have seen Toronto at every time of day and night. You see, growing up just outside the city proper boundaries, I've been able to enjoy the city from a distance, and during limited hours. Sometimes I feel like an outsider, but most of the time that feels impossible.

Most of the time, I can't believe how I can feel so many different things for one place just based on the amount of light surrounding the tall buildings.

One summer night, I was sitting on a concrete bench by Nathan Phillips Square. None of the lights were on and I was happy that I wasn't alone. You could see other people sitting with their significant others on different concrete benches, only observable because of their faint outlines through the darkness. I didn't mind that we were surrounded by other people there. It was strange, how they would just melt into your peripherals because of the time of day.

I can't wait until I'm there again.

Serigraph is a Pretty Word

Other pretty words with which I've fallen in love this week: quintessential, verisimilitude, caffeine.

I've been getting very much of that last one lately. I remember last year I had this strange promise to myself that I would stop drinking coffee. Perhaps I was concerned for my health, or I just needed to prove to myself that I wasn't some dependent. In the end though, I caved. It was exam time and I couldn't bring myself to keep purchasing energy drinks and caffeine pills. (As you can see, staving off of coffee didn't stop any other harsh substances.)

I toyed with the thought of going sober again this Fall. No such luck. The pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks are too reminiscent of everything I love about this season. Also, the withdrawal period is terrible.

As I sit here in the afterglow of handing in my first big paper of the year, I present Eyvind Earle. A serigraph, as featured here, is basically silkscreen art. Maybe you'll recognize the style. He did many of the backdrops for Sleeping Beauty way back in the day.

These pictures make me wish I had enough artistic talent to prevent my room from looking like a barren wasteland. I need more things to put up on walls. MORE.

Distractions

I'm in that frame of mind where I always need to be doing something with my hands, with my mind, other than that damn studying. This is the product of yesterday evening's "studying" - a new addition above my little wall of necklaces. Hanging up my necklaces like that proved to be one of the best decisions I've made for my morning ritual. Now I can just grab and go. Sometimes I do end up tearing shit apart as I attempt to untangle all my unnecessary jewelry and then - oh, it seems I'm fifteen minutes late for class. That's not a new thing, unfortunately.

Today, I've gone on a bit of a downloading binge. I have the new Feist album as well as the Blue Hawaii album. Blue Hawaii is this little-known band that features the lead singer of BRAIDS, Raphaelle, as their resident songstress. She makes this album sound so beautifully beyond me. It's the little things.

Now I sit with a piece of cake, blogging and contemplating my next wall decor move. Maybe some more picture collages next to my gratuitously large calendar? 

Apparently, the quality of photos from my Blackberry isn't as terrible as I thought. Perhaps I shall upload more photos later.

And Another

Look, I know that growing up a child of the "hipster-is-more-knowledgeable-and-therefore-holier-than-thou" generation thing has disillusioned me from enjoying anything...mainstream. This isn't mainstream, though. At least, I don't think it is.

They're remixes and they make me kind of jollier than I was before listening to them. Maybe happiness is wrongful in the eyes of the hip portions of my generation. Are we all supposed to sit there mopey-eyed while some waif-like singer or another drawls out their pretensions and frustrations into a microphone? No? I didn't think so.

Given what I just said, however, a fair few of these remixes (okay, maybe all of them) are re-imaginations of the traditionally "indie" songs. Enjoy. 

Home (RAC Remix) - Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros

Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) (Jamie T's Lionheart Remix) - Florence + the Machine

Helena Beat (Rather Red RRRemix) - Foster the People

When I was home for Thanksgiving, I finally got to watch my first episode of Saturday Night Live in months. Ben Stiller was hosting which meant that there was a Zoolander appearance later in the show. It was awesome.

My point here is that Foster the People came on. I don't think that they're that incredible. I may have just been stupid-tired at this point. Being in a post-secondary institution does this thing to you where if you absolutely want to stay up, you can't, but on the nights when you're supposed to catch up on sleep and stuff, you just end up pulling an all-nighter for absolutely no reason.

Insomnia's a mysterious whore.

Floating

Unfortunately, I have an assignment due tomorrow on this book. I read it not too long ago (I suppose around the late winter, just when things were thawing out) and, because of it, Didion remains as a terribly interesting writer in my mind.

I have this propensity to enjoy minimalism. There's always so much going on in my mind, or in other parts of my life, that I'm attracted to the clean, the simple. The clutter-free. If my immediate surroundings are clear, then maybe everything else will follow, y'know? I think that's my thinking every time I scrub the kitchen clean at 1 am.

Point is, I like Didion. I don't mean to nod my head fervently as she traverses through the tragedy of her husband's death. I really don't. I admire her resilience, which is something that way too many of us lack.

Or maybe I've just acquired this new taste for minimalism and simplicity after working at the paper for the past month or so. You can ask the gray walls of my bedroom or something.

And if my hard sell on Didion still hasn't worked on you, please read this essay. This is the piece that solidified her as one of my favourite authors.

Things became unreasonably busy unreasonably fast. "I'm tired dude," my friend just said to me. Same here, man. I can't remember the last time I just sat and did absolutely nothing. My mind is always preoccupied with something, and I'm always moving on to the next-next-next thing.

Right now, though, I have my pumpkin spice latte and my golden yellow coat. It's autumn, and that means that the landscape will have some colour injected into it. I can't wait until I'm home surrounded by the foliage again. And my cat.

In the meantime, here is a song with which I will forever be in love. The band is BRAIDS and I will be seeing them live soon. Yet again.

Listening to this, I feel like I could last forever.

BRAIDS - Lammicken from Mark Webber on Vimeo.

Goodbye, Mr. Layton

I voted NDP in a riding where it didn't make sense to do so at all. I don't know what I was thinking, other than that I really liked what Jack Layton has to say.

I visited his Twitter @jacklayton. It evokes the same emotion as looking back on video reels of old speeches, shaky home videos and, in this day and age, the inactive Facebook of one who has passed on. What do we do with these Internet relics?

Perhaps looking on these mediums of communication, be it controlled by a PR agent or not, gives us some sort of view into that which is no longer here (excuse the cheesy writing here). It remains, long after the one we admired has left us.

The Good Winter

Bon Iver at Toronto's Sound Academy on August 8. (blogTO)

The first time I had heard of Bon Iver, I was sitting at my dorm room desk. There were Calculus 112 notes scattered everywhere (I was not looking at them), and a friend and I were chatting on MSN Messenger (remember that!) about new bands. I sent her some useless twee band. She sent me Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago.

She told me that he seemed a bit too mellow for her taste, that she'd probably end up dropping the band. At the time, I had to agree. Justin Vernon makes the type of music where you have to actively sit and contemplate, be it on a foggy drive through the woods or when you're lamenting a love long gone.

Vernon's story is a tale as old as time (at least for Gen Y). As it is typically told, he found himself facing some troubling issues in his life - the dissolution of a band (DeYarmond Edison), a breakup with a girlfriend (presumably Emma) and a bout of mononucleosis - and sequestered himself to his father's cabin in backwoods Wisconsin for three months. This was Vernon's version of "soul-searching," a term typically associated with a year partying it up in Europe and unwittingly contracting several STIs. No, what came about here was the most beautiful, the most devastating of albums to come in a long time: For Emma, Forever Ago.

 He likes cats!

It was my passive soundtrack to last summer. It would come up on my iTunes Shuffle here and there. I had never listened to it sequentially before, so all I heard were little snapshots. Images of black crows and shattered veneer. The sad crooning of what I assumed to be a bearded man (I assumed correctly). The album sat in my iPod for a long time before I really paid any attention to it.

This seems to be the case with Bon Iver. He had been gaining momentum on the indie scene, but never before has his repertoire been like it is these days. Justin Vernon has built up the name Bon Iver with such notable items as a collaboration with Kanye West on My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and appearances on Letterman and Jules Holland.

The new album Bon Iver, Bon Iver.

With the new release of Bon Iver's self-titled album, we can see that he is definitely a grower and not a show-er. This was a superficial joke my friends made about him, but it has much truth to it. Vernon doesn't seem to want to do anything to show off. In fact, his sweeping musical arrangements (like on "Perth") have nothing to do with showing off as much as they have to do with expressing what he feels - that was he feels is big and will envelop the listener as much as it envelops the one enduring that emotion.

(blogTO)

I went to his show at the Sound Academy in Toronto this past Monday. I won't able to do his performance justice. See, when I remember what happened at that show, I'll think about what it was like to stand in a still and heavy crowd, a place where it isn't so atypical to be less than ten inches away from a stranger's cheek. Vernon commented that they had "really packed us in there." And it's true. We were like that everywhere - on the bus from the subway, in line, and now engrossed in an audience who couldn't help but be mesmerized by a simple singer. It's this closeness that really identifies what Bon Iver is about. Justin Vernon has written about his darkest and most troubling times. In fact, the low-fi sound of For Emma is a key aspect that, yes, you could have this sung to you in a cabin in the backwoods of Wisconsin. Or through your headphones in the predawn light of a lonely bedroom. It's a sound that could be so easily lost in the cavernous venue that is the Sound Academy - a terrible choice for this kind of show. But Bon Iver, with the solo effort of "Flume" or the 4:10 all-out success "that's kinda about Canada", made it work. He really did.

To say the least, Bon Iver was the most-affecting and well-played show I've ever had the pleasure of attending. This was probably do in part to how I blatantly love him (can you tell?) but really, we should focus on the practical aspects. Formerly a single man on a stage with an acoustic guitar (an oft-seen sight for anyone who's frequented college open mics), Bon Iver has expanded to a nine-piece band. There was Justin Vernon alternating between an acoustic guitar, electric guitar, synthesizer and piano. He also had two mics in front of him, choosing one or the other depending on what vocal effect was needed. Along with him were the eight other musicians - guitars, violins, two (!) drum sets, clarinets, saxophones, trombone, trumpet - even a French horn for god's sake. This was a crappy venue, but the marvelous instrumentals and tight playing certainly made up for it.

Craning my neck the entire time (he wasn't kidding when he said it was packed), I caught glimpses of the entire thing. I didn't care. At shows for the musicians I've loved, I've always had the urge to dance and clap and generally make an asshat of myself. At Bon Iver I simply stood and listened, occasionally swaying with the surrounding people. I only needed to think, just as I do each time I listen to his music.

Sad Dogs are Sad

This is what I found today.

It’s from a site called Sad Etsy Dogs. Think Regretsy, but with…dogs.

I’ve noticed that there are more small breeds featured on this site than large ones. This leads me to believe what I suspected has been true all along: that people who own small dogs are, more often than not, crazy. I don’t know if it’s the person all along, or if the dog somehow made them that way with its incessant barking and unnaturally long dog life. In any case, I’ll continue with my dream of owning a large and cuddly Samoyed.

Oh, and there are cats on the site too, which just makes my heart glow.

Brb, sewing things together for my cat.

And from that site, I did a Google search on “dog collar bow ties” and found this:

I want it. I want it. I want it. (The bow tie. Also, the dog.)

I just realized that I dedicated an entire post to animals dressing up. Um.

In Hipstamatic

I am a child of the Blackberry, whether or not RIM is going under. Still, I can't help but take notice of this Hipstamatic photo essay called "The War in Hipstamatic" published by Foreign Policy. It's a compelling look at the war in Afghanistan (and its aftermath) through the lens of the world's most prolific smartphone in recent years. Suddenly, the iPhone's Hipstamatic app is not just a superficial tool to use at weekend parties. It's our looking glass into one of the most defining events of our time.

The Youth Electric

Now that I've finally gotten my shit together and started a Google Reader account, I've noticed an abundance of young people on this here the Internet. I know that I am technically one of them, and that complaining about this might be a tad hypocritical but please bear with me here.

I don't understand.

I keep up with a few fashion blogs and casually peruse a few of those Mormon housewife blogs. The latter are rather young, which would explain how they can keep up with their little children, bake a batch of gourmet cupcakes and somehow be aware of where to trawl for fabulous vintage clothing. I just, I don't... Okay. Whatever.

Some of those fashion blogs are run by high-schoolers or students who have just begun their post-secondary career. More than a few bloggers are hardly older than I am, and somehow they have found success on the Internet as they post their outfits that have been "thrown together" from the depths of their inherent fashion sense. They also attend fun-looking parties and manage to look effortlessly gorgeous all the effing time. Again: I just, I don't... Okay. Whatever.

To prevent this from becoming another generic rant-blog (those of which are most of the reason I stopped appeasing my Tumblr [i.e. cocaine] addiction), I shall post a story.

It was the 2000 Olympics, taking place in Sydney. It was a summer of watching the most athletic of the athletic race in oceanic water while discovering that summer sports were more diverse than I had ever previously considered.

One of the scariest realizations of my young life came when I was watching those gymnasts and their impossibly difficult routines. Most of the athletes were in their teens, not much older than I was at the time. Those cheesy pre-performance reels that talked about their humble beginnings and intense training careers? Yeah, those made me feel like shit as I sat on my living room couch stuffing another handful of Doritos into my mouth.

I bet she's not even allowed to have Doritos.

Even as a youngin', contrary to that prior image, I was relatively ambitious. I always raised my hand first, did extra projects, and basically did all that I could to be recognized by my superiors - the adults (this was before I realized that they too were flawed). At the same time, I always felt slightly inadequate. But isn't that what life is? Always feeling slightly dissatisfied with who you are or what you do?

I remember writing an entire (!) entry in my journal about the Olympics, about how I was a failure at 12 because I had not been awarded a gold medal at an overrated and somewhat-archaic international event. I thought that I needed to be so much more than just a kid. My thinking was always this: if you aren't the best, there's no use in existing. Cynicism doesn't get through to you when you're so young. Sometimes it's a bad thing.

I've kept remnants of that thinking as I've grown up. It's not the same anymore, though. My ambition has somehow evolved in that I don't have to be the best at the random things (like gymnastics) but I do have to be the best in what I'm doing.

Perhaps even my definition of "the best" has changed. Maybe I want success, but I want it to be recognized as exemplary. I want to be outstanding.

This is why I become so intimidated by these youth - the athletes, the fashion bloggers, the media moguls, the musicians and actors. I am not like them and I know that their success is beyond anything I can ever dream of.

Plus, it's pretty pathetic that I'm having an existential/quarter-life crisis about a bunch of people who might be slightly dissatisfied with their lives too.

When I Googled "quarter-life crisis," this is what I found.

Infini-music

Melting in the heat in this old house hasn't been helpful. Fortunately, Alex directed me to this lovely website, 8tracks. Whatever your fancy, select a bunch of tags and find a playlist that suits what you need. Right now, I'm listening to one called "Wake" which is currently playing a song by The Beatles. The funny thing here is, I've never quite been a fan of The Beatles. Now imagine if I hadn't heard of this site, my life would be devoid of this song. That's all well and good, to be perfectly honest, but I do enjoy how this site can let you discover new songs without any extraneous effort.

Hurrah for the Internet, I say.

I would write more, but this heat is making me want to melt into a pool of ice cream. That, and I keep thinking that the fan is doing itstypical rotations out of the corner of my eye when I know I locked it so it could bestow all its sweet lovin' on me, all on me.

It'll be better when I'm lucid, I swear.

In Love With a Fantasy

Instead of working on my 5000+ word essay that's probably overdue at this point, I went to watch Midnight in Paris, the new film by Woody Allen. In all fairness, I had to watch it for an article that I'm writing for my school paper.

My only encounters with Mr. Allen have been through Vicky Cristina Barcelona and videos of the final scene of Manhattan that my friend keeps frantically sending me with the message, "YOU REALLY SHOULD BE WATCHING THIS MOVIE NOW." (I still haven't listened to him.)

If I hadn't seen Vicky Cristina Barcelona, or even those last few shots that sweep the New York City skyline, I would have never understood what people meant when they said that Woody Allen "plays tourist." I think that's his strong suit - he shows the audience these beautiful images of cities that most of them have probably never visited. One of the memorable moments of Midnight in Paris is Gil's declaration that Paris is at its most beautiful when it rains. There's something to be said about a city that emanates its allure, even in the most sopping wet of conditions.

I've never been to Paris, though I'm seriously considering adding it as a rendezvous on my (tentative) way to Vienna next year. I think I romanticize the City of Lights too much, in a similar way to how I think New York City is everything it's cracked up to be. It probably isn't and, from what I've heard, Paris is just a city of litter and overzealous tourists.

Like Gil in Midnight in Paris, however, I'll always want to be there just like how he'll always want to be in the Roaring Twenties. People like us? We can't be helped.

Marion Cotillard and Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris

Anywho, I'm out of town for the weekend - gone to visit one of my favourite places to see some of my favourite people while I die of sweat and happiness. I'm watching Tree of Life tomorrow, so I'll probably have a page-long diatribe about dinosaurs and Sean Penn's hair curl. Until then!

In Which I Talk About Hands

While I wait for my Google+ profile picture to upload, here: 

Darwin Deez - "Radar Detector"

I first heard this when my sister and I were indulging in an underwear sale at American Eagle. Have you seen their patterns? So cute. And so cheap!

I usually dismiss music based on where I hear them. (Alternatively, 15 year-old me nearly had a heart attack of joy when H&M started playing Yule Shoot Your Eye Out as part of their in-store Christmas music.) But once I heard Darwin Deez, I could not keep myself from dancing. In fact, I still dance to this song. In my seat. In a library at school. At 1:30 in the morning, more often than not.

I realize that what gets me moving is this: hand claps. What is more joyous than a steady rhythm of happy hand clapping? Nothing! That's what!

In celebration of my blissful obsession with hand movements and palms forced together, here are some songs that feature clapping. Both of these have collectively been on my iTunes for over five years now. 

Tokyo Police Club - "Citizens of Tomorrow"

I would listen to this song on the way to school in the morning. I thought I was so cool when I went to HMV to buy their EP, not knowing that buying music from a mass distributor wouldn't be as cool or hipster as, say, digging around in Sonic Boom in downtown Toronto. Oh, lost youth.

Point is, the dystopian themes and eerie synthesizers in this song really make it stand out in my mind. I went to go see TPC in concert sometime in the spring and they had us clap along to this song. It was great, and I felt like so much of my lost youth's happiness was regained in those moments.

Also, the lyrics are bad-ass.

The xx - "Heart Skipped a Beat"

I paid no attention to The xx when I first heard them in the summer before going off to university. A few months later, with the help of my friends' heckling me, I gave the album another try. Granted, it's not something I could listen to over and over again in exact track order but, hey, "Heart Skipped a Beat" really caught my eye. Or ear, whichever. The clapping is a bit haunting and a bit jovial at the beginning - you can't really decide until that guitar comes in and you think, "Oh. This is a song about lamenting shit like broken hearts and slamming the door on your way out." Then again, my heart breaks and I slam the door every time my cat doesn't respond to my declarations of love. But what can you do, really?

Heartbreak!

A Night Felt

Notte Sento, a film by Daniele Napolitano

The rough translation of the phrase "notte sento" is "night felt." (Google helped me with that one, not my 8 or so years of Italian classes...) It features a girl, a boy, a train, and a night gallivanting around a beautiful European city - in this case, Rome. Shot with more than 4500 photographs, this short film really knows how to exhaust the hell out of a DSLR. Man, I don't even know if I've taken 4500 photographs in my lifetime.

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy in Before Sunrise

Notte Sento heavily reminds me of another, perhaps more affecting, film: Before Sunrise. Again, a girl, a boy, a train, and a night gallivanting around a beautiful European city - in this case, Vienna. It's directed by Richard Linklater (fun fact: he also directed School of Rock) and centers around a night-long conversation. It doesn't sound all that exciting right now, but I can tell you that this movie (and its 2004 sequel Before Sunset) are the most emotionally devastating films I've seen in a while. And if you suggest Blue Valentine as a choice contender for that title, I'll tell you something: if you see Before Sunset before Blue Valentine, the latter will feel like nothing.

A rather decent movie, but Williams and Gosling have got nothing on Hawke and Delpy