JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Novak Djokovic

Andy Murray

We were rooting for Djokovic but then Murray started making amazing shots so we switched camps and then Djoker raised his game and he’s in Nadal’s head so we’d prefer that he be in the final and then Murray totally disproved our assessment that he lacks nerve and then Djoker revealed more weapons in his arsenal, and it was over, 6-3, 3-6, 6-7 (4-7), 6-1, 7-5 to the defending champion and world number one.

Midnight in Melbourne, full house at Rod Laver Arena, and no one had any intention of leaving till the match was over.

Whenever the Djoker uses the sweatband on his wrist to mop his face he reminds us of our cats’ grooming routine.

Djoker’s relief was palpable, and we understand if Murray got sulky.

At one point we were giggling hysterically from the combination of the lack of sleep and wonderment at Murray’s pinpoint passing shots.

We were knackered, and all we did was sit in the audience. Yup, that’s us in the front row in the bright green shawl, with our hosts from Lacoste. (It turns out the French do say “Ooh-la-la” when they are surprised.) We refused to wave at the camera, but our companions did.

The full report in the Philippine Star next week.

View from the 20th floor of the Grand Hyatt in Melbourne, 27 Jan 2012

Flew out of Manila at 9pm Thursday, landed in Oz at 7:50 am Friday (Melbourne is three hours ahead) to the news that The Fed lost to Nadal in 4 sets. Aaaaaaaaa we thought we were going to watch that semifinal, having (stupidly) assumed that the big match would be played last (Sorry, Djoker-Murray fans). On one hand we’re bummed that we didn’t get to see the Federer v Nadal; on the other hand we’re actually relieved not to see Roger beaten when he was looking so good in the earlier rounds.

Federites are all too familiar with the feeling of dread that descends as a Federer-Nadal match approaches. Well it’s lifted and now we can enjoy our trip.

Ryan, we owe you brunch in Paris, see you at Roland Garros. Congratulations to the winner of our Roger-Rafa crystal ball contest; please declare yourself as the wi-fi in our excellent hotel is expensive (charge per minute). Speaking of charges, looks like it’s safe to email us—we disconnected the auto email thingy in the BlackBerry so we won’t get hit with a P25 (!) fee for every single email we receive.

While we’re at it, could you readers vote on the winner for the Cruel Rejections LitWit Challenge? Our schedule is packed. Please post your votes in the Comments section of that contest, here.

So it’s the Djoker-Murray match we’re seeing tonight, then the women’s final tomorrow. Can’t complain, esp since we’re sitting in the sponsor’s box. Vive Lacoste! It’s so much easier to write up a match when you’re not having ten nervous breakdowns on your favorite’s behalf.

Going to boil ourselves in the shower (As Teddy-wan Kenobi likes to point out, an airplane’s atmosphere is made of recycled farts, even if you fly business class) then we’re off to the stadium.

Contraband, a remake of the Icelandic film Reykjavik-Rotterdam, directed by Baltasar Kormakur (who starred in the original) and starring Mark Wahlberg, Ben Foster, Giovanni Ribisi, Diego Luna, Kate Beckinsale.

A smuggler turned legit businessman (Wahlberg, mwah) is forced to do another run after his idiot brother-in-law (the guy who played Banshee in X-Men: First Class) gets into trouble with a nasty gangster. The gangster is played by Giovanni Ribisi (Where have you been?) who makes up for his relative puniness by being insane-scary. Diego Luna as a Panamanian gangster also gets to do insane-scary, but Ben Foster who could out-insane-scary them all has to play subdued-complex (We prefer scary mode). Kate Beckinsale is in two movies this week: you can see her killing werewolves in the latest Underground Underworld, or worrying about her husband in Contraband, and in both films she wears the same expression (Buti lang maganda siya). As always Mark Wahlberg is the calm center of the storm, the guy who makes the improbable believable.

Contraband is low-key and efficient, with some gripping moments and an interesting blues-rock soundtrack. We learned a whole lot about how to smuggle contraband by getting a job on an ocean liner. You don’t suppose the Costa accident in Tuscany…

Haywire, directed by Steven Soderbergh and starring Gina Carano, Channing Tatum, Ewan McGregor in a bad haircut, Michael Fassbender, Antonio Banderas, Michael Douglas, Bill Paxton.

A high-powered action flick in which a private contractor doing black ops for some shadowy government agency exacts revenge on the people who framed her. Essentially it’s about an attractive woman (Gina Carano of American Gladiators) beating the crap out of hot guys. No suspension of disbelief required: she looks like she could break them in half. Entertaining, yes, but why all the A-listers in a movie that, with the exception of Carano, could’ve starred practically anyone?

J. Edgar, directed by Clint Eastwood, written by Dustin Lance Black, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer, Naomi Watts, Judi Dench.

Clint Eastwood is a very cool cat. Early on he was the silent gunslinger in spaghetti westerns, then he was the vigilante urging punks to make his day. But since Unforgiven he has been engaged in taking American myths apart, and now he takes on J. Edgar Hoover.

Why should we even watch a movie about J. Edgar Hoover, an odious man who ruined many lives? Clint Eastwood, working with Dustin Lance Black who wrote Milk and an in-form Leonardo DiCaprio, digs up the villain and unearths a human being. He doesn’t make us like the man, but he lets us see how he could’ve turned out that way: a man so intent on policing his country from enemies real and imaginary, he polices himself into a lifetime of denial and unhappiness. (We love the Psycho reference.)

The movie is particularly good at portraying the relationship between Hoover and his protege Clyde Tolson (the beautiful Armie Hammer doing discreet-campy). J. Edgar is very matter-of-fact about its protagonist’s gayness, and it does not take the easy route of blaming his actions on his being in the closet. The action shifts seamlessly between decades and manages to encompass half a century of American history.

Screenwriter Black allows Hoover to spin his own myth, complete with Hollywood public relations campaigns, and then calls him out on his lies. If you want to see a complex think movie, this is the one; for escapism you have the options above.

When we get back from Oz we’ll see My Cactus Heart.

Tennis Mike (het): The Fed in 4. Runaway first two sets, cliffhanger in the third, a rout in the fourth.

Tennis Mike (gay): Mercedes Benz over Kia in straight sets.

Whoever posts the most accurate prediction gets a copy of Bossypants by Tina Fey. (Thanks, National.)

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Bonus question: What would you do if after the match the players throw their sweat-soaked towels and sweatbands at the audience and one lands right in front of you?

A. Grab it as a souvenir and never wash it (gross).
B. Grab it, bag it, send it to a lab to harvest available DNA (maybe hairs with the bulbs still on them) and have the player cloned. And then have the towel framed as a souvenir.
C. Shriek “Yucch!” and kick it away.
D. Grab it, send it to the laundry, then frame it as a souvenir.
E. Grab it, bury your face in it to inhale the player’s atoms (pass out here), then carry it around in a special bag wherever you go. (Get away from us.)

Illustration by Srinivass. In India, the power of disgust to improve villagers’ hygiene is being tested. Center of Gravity, a Bangalore agency working with Valerie Curtis, a disgust researcher, created skits including this role, Laddu Lingam; he makes treats of mud and worms and never washes his hands. Another character, Supermom, shows the proper behavior.

Read Survival’s Ick Factor by James Gorman in the NYT.

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Equilibrioception. Whether you’re slaloming down a slope or strutting down a street, this sense—otherwise known as balance—helps keeps you upright. Although vision plays a role in equilibrioception, the vestibular system of the inner ear is mainly responsible.

Interoception. When we take our internal perception into account, we have even more senses. These are linked to sensory receptors found in internal organs, such as those in the lungs that control respiratory rate.”

Extra Sensory Perceptions: Aristotle missed the mark when he named only five in Harvard Medicine.

Chinese New Year toy from our buffet dinner at Escolta

Either our famous person radar has gotten an upgrade, or everyone just stays at the Manila Peninsula. Tonight at 1840 we walk into the Pen after sitting in traffic for 45 minutes, and standing by the elevators outside Salon de Ning in a Panama hat, T-shirt, shorts is Edward Norton. He is scrolling through an iPad and asking questions of a bellhop, who goes to fetch something.

We’re early for our dinner reservation at Escolta, so we calculate the probability that we will run into him again standing alone by an elevator and figure it is almost zero. So we stop and address him. “Hello. Big fan. Are you lost? May I help you?”

Note how we leave doubt as to who is the fan of whom hahaha. Yeah, never address famous people as exalted beings, treat them like stray cats.

He says, “No, I was just asking for a keycard. But thank you!”

He is tall and thin and covered in blonde fuzz. He sounds the way he does in movies, and he looks like a Yale graduate student who’s going off to join the Peace Corps in a banana republic.

We’re not in the habit of taking celebrity photos, and anyway we don’t want to get politely turned down by another cast member of The Bourne Legacy only to find photos of him online posing with half the population of Metro Manila.

(Noel: When Renner said, ‘I don’t want to cause a stir’ you should’ve said, ‘I understand, Mr DiCaprio.’)

Later we report the Norton sighting to Noel who says, “Wow, inggit! He was my supercrush once. If he doesn’t watch it he’ll end up looking like the thin guy from Scooby-Doo.”

“That’s it!! He looks like Shaggy of Scooby-Doo!” But in a good way, of course.