Star Wars III
No, I wasn't excited about the final installment of SWIII. Especially after the reviews I got from people I trust. No, not good reviews. Not at all. So I went into it with lowered expectations. And that was a very good thing. Hey, SWII was pretty awful too - completely wooden acting, totally unbelievable love story (because those two have absolutely no chemistry), and other annoying characters. So I went into this one knowing that there really wasn't anywhere to go but up. But I did find the same wooden acting (from people who are supposed to be good!), and the same implausible love story - except now they're pregnant, and other annoying characters. However. This installment I found that I wanted to pay attention. That part was good. I was interested through the entire movie. I'll give them credit for that.
Of course, maybe that's because I was mellowed by a couple of glasses of sangria. I didn't think they got me even tipsy, but since I saw the guy pour the alcohol into the first ones I drank, I'm guessing it was actually in there. I was probably also soothed by the popcorn, because they actually served it in a big bowl like we have at home. I felt a little bit like we were on the couch: movie screen's a bit small, the stadium seating is a bit like the couch without pillows, and I got to snuggle up to the boy. All of those things probably made it so I liked it a lot more than if I'd had to wait in line for 5 hours and pay $10 a ticket and done the regular LA movie watching grind.
Instead, even though the performances were wooden (well, except for Ewan's - I just ... like him. Can't help myself), and the bouncy ball of Yoda seemed a little too tongue in cheek, and the "cameos" of Chewy & C3PO were, frankly, sorta annoying, I didn't come away with an intense hatred for the whole thing. I left the theatre with a kind of "eh" feeling. A kind of a shrug. The kind where I'd say it wasn't half bad.
Dime Store Magic
Cut to today, because I can, where I got to devour a book that was exactly what I wanted it to be. Dime Store Magic isn't going to win critical awards. It's not going to hit best seller lists. And, unless you're into the whole vampire/wherewolf/witchcraft genre (gee, my flist? us? into that? never!) you probably won't have heard of Miss K. Armstrong's books. But, since I happen to relish a main character that doesn't simper when she's assaulted, that may act immature but tries to learn from her mistakes, that's actually a HER instead of a him (I do, actually, like reading female main characters. It is a preference. I'm not afraid to say it, there's something good about it), I enjoy her books. It's like indulging in reeces peanut butter chocolate cups every once in a while instead of dark dutch chocolate. Fun. Worth the money.
Sometimes I feel obscurely guilty about reading books like this. There's no lyricism to their prose. It's not high literature. It's a story that starts with a central issue and just piles on one crisis after another until you've made it through a couple hundred pages like a whirlwind and you're out the other side and reading the epilogue before you know it. No time to put it down, no time to stop, just read read read until you're done. I feel like I should be sitting down with the classics, or prepping for school by reading more Japanese authors.
But then, I realize, I'm on summer vacation. I'm supposed to read fun and slightly mind numbing fiction. So there.