JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

I’ve invented a new way to gauge how much I like a movie. I measure how long it takes from the end of the movie to the time I can properly put my reaction into words. And I mean complete sentences, as opposed to “Wow” or “Holy crap”. It’s easy to mock a movie I hate, but a movie I like needs a bit more thought. One wants to accurately convey what she feels about it, and describing a feeling is harder than applying the rules of logic.

I’m going to call this The Floorage Index or TFI. TFI is directly proportional to Recovery Time (RT), or how long it takes for me to get up from the (metaphorical) floor. RT is the amount of time between T1—the end of viewing—and T2—the moment at which I can efficiently verbalize an opinion. I’m still working on the value of the constant.

The Floorage Index of movies I’ve seen recently.

Atonement. Recovery Time: 3 hours. Beautiful to behold, valiant effort, pales in comparison to the novel it was based upon. Which I really don’t mind. I find it comforting that the written word trumps the film adaptation.

Michael Clayton. RT: 6 hours. Much of the Recovery Time was taken up by the realization that George Clooney has acting talent.

No Country For Old Men. RT: 24 hours. Compelling, taut, bleak, the blackest comedy. I had to deal with the discovery that compared to Cormac McCarthy’s and the Coen Brothers’ take on the human condition, my world-view is close to Hallmark greeting card. That said, I’m not usually convulsed with laughter at the line, “Mister, you got a bone sticking out of your arm”, but here I was hysterical. I hope they win the Oscar, but you never can tell with those voters.

There Will Be Blood. RT: 48 hours. The movie makes good on the title’s threat. Weird, original, apocalyptic, wildly ambitious—the dream of industry and progress descends into a nightmare of madness and violence. It’s not for everyone, but if you want to see something new, something visionary, this is the one. I’d never seen a thrilling oil strike before this, and I’ll never hear the words “I drink your milkshake” again without repressing a shudder. And I don’t like dissonant, atonal music, but. . .wow.

Contracting Love, an interview with the makers of the indie movie Endo (opening on Wednesday), in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.  I recommend you read the print version where the Qs and As are clearly indicated. Online it sounds like I’m talking to myself. Which may have been the case.

It was pointed out to me recently that I am acquainted with someone who might be the next president. So I began searching my memory for anecdotes about Senator Mar Roxas. We had co-hosted a TV talk show called Points Of View with Cher Calvin and Mo Twister. Mar was pinch-hitting for Teddy Boy Locsin.

One Sunday, before a live broadcast, we were sitting in the dressing room looking over the sequence guides. Mar was humming a song under his breath, and then he started singing to himself: “And so you’re back/ From outer space. . .” Yes, he was singing the classic disco song, I Will Survive.

“Manong Mar,” I said, “That’s a gay anthem.”
“Naah,” he said. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s a gay anthem, I’m sure of it.”
“Really?” He did not believe me.

The following week I saw him at the studio and he said, “You were right!”

I once heard him sing You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling at a fellowship night. It was incredible. It was like that scene in My Best Friend’s Wedding where Cameron Diaz does karaoke.

Basket of Saffy.JPG, originally uploaded by 160507.

Saffron Sassafras Zafra Safin-Sprungli, who was born the year Marat her father won the US Open, wishes you a Happy Lunar New Year and reminds you to chew your tikoy thoroughly. Saffy has not had a bath in years, but for someone who only bathes in her own drool she always smells like freshly baked bread or something you buy at L’Occitane. She is sweet and cranky, usually at the same time. Click on the photo to see pictures of our readers’ cats reading books.

You think because you’ve seen Dirk Diggler and the rain of frogs, read the rapturous reviews, and expect greatness from Daniel Day-Lewis that you are prepared for Paul Thomas Anderson’s new movie There Will Be Blood. You’re not.

P.T. Anderson has the chutzpah to aim for Treasure Of The Sierra Madre and Citizen Kane territory, and the result is ASTONISHING. He is going for nothing less than a new narrative form. On his fifth attempt, he has made A Great American Movie.

And I love the ending. It’s weird, and it fits.

Now I have to collect myself, but you get my drift. First I’m going to listen to the Radiohead discography from Kid A onwards.

There Will Be Blood opens February 13 only at the Gateway Cineplex in Cubao.

Apparently the safest way to clean your ears is with your pinkie. How do you get the gunk out? (True, the gunk is probably imaginary.) And what if you have really long pinkie fingernails like bus conductors?

According to this report, a guy in Quebec died after puncturing his eardrum with a cotton swab. 

I’ve been told that cotton buds are dangerous, but I can’t not use them to clean my ears, I would feel icky if I didn’t. Same way I’ve been told that you’re not supposed to shampoo everyday (In Manila?! Are you kidding?!). My scalp itches just to think about it.