Gory title notwithstanding, I Want to Eat Your Pancreas is a strangely feel-good romantic tearjerker which I enjoyed a lot. True, it could have been even better sans unnecessary explanations and J-pop songs.
This film was screened as part of the cycle Japón se anima organised by Filmoteca Canaria.
And what if the actor who plays Digger in the eponymous film is the real Tom Cruise, as opposed to the annoyingly cute Mission: Impossible guy? Then there is this anecdote that applying “prosthetics” (read: beer belly) to Cruise used to take six hours, which subsequently, after protests by the busy-busy man himself, was “pared down to under an hour”. Could have been pared down to zero if that was his real beer belly. Just a thought. My point is, I liked this flabby-bodied version of Tom Cruise so much better than any other I’ve seen so far.
Among the supporting cast, I really dig Riz Ahmed as Dr. Ganesh. John Goodman is passable as the POTUS Compson, and there are many faces that look familiar but I can’t remember why. My biggest problem with this film — as it is with many others — is its length. Cut it down, I say. Take out the boring bits. Start with Digger’s awful monologue in (what the film’s creators probably think looks like) the European Parliament. It’s not funny.
In the days of my youth, Arrival was the only ABBA vinyl we actually had in our house. It was a perfectly legit reissue, its cover art almost identical to the “Western” one apart from the Cyrillic lettering АББА. It was loved and endlessly listened to and looked like this:
The times were a-changing. By the mid-1970s, the nomenklatura somehow came to view the contemporary Western pop as more palatable for the internal consumption than the contemporary Western rock. In a few years’ time, Boney M. were to visit Moscow. I remember — vividly — watching the original music video of Knowing Me, Knowing You on the Soviet TV. Money, Money, Money could be heard at every disco, often next to «Из вагантов». The ubiquitous Весёлые ребята did a Russian-language version of it called «Помню, помню» (with no money mentioned) featuring vocals by the very same Liudmila Barykina who sang on «По волне моей памяти».
Vladimir Vinokur made a parody of Money, Money, Money where he mocked not as much ABBA as a stereotypical military choir such as Alexandrov Ensemble. (During his army draft years, Vinokur used to sing in a choir of the Moscow Military District.) Here, he sports a ridiculos fireman outfit and presents his act as the ensemble «Огонёк» (i.e. “Little Fire”).
For me, the crown for the best cover of Knowing Me, Knowing You belongs to the great late Trevor Peacock as Jim in The Vicar of Dibley.
Happy 50th, Arrival.
Yesterday I went to Casa de Colón to see this documentary presented by Zua Méndez Vergara and Teresa Lozano Lázaro, aka Towanda Rebels. In spite of it showing almost exclusively “talking heads”, I’ve quite enjoyed the film.
I’d enjoy it even more if there was a bit more diversity among its protagonists who are, as it happens, all white, middle-class and Spanish. Women with non-European roots, immigrants, adult actresses and sex workers are conspicuous by their absence (and I think I know why). If I stayed for a subsequent colloquium, which I didn’t, I’d probably mention that.
The complete film is available here.
Some stuff that we saw this September. Sketches by Tamara.
Just like last year, all the free shows of the 30th (!) edition of TEMUDAS (10—26 September 2026) took place in Santa Catalina, so it was very convenient for us. This is what we’ve seen:
Goodbye, September.
John Coltrane recorded his first album as a leader in 1957, only ten years before his death at the age of 40. In this ten years, he — sorry for the cliché — changed jazz forever.
If I had to choose three of his albums to take to a desert island, it would be Blue Train, Africa/Brass and The John Coltrane Quartet Plays. Why? Because I can listen to them from beginning to the end, any day.
Happy 100th, Trane.
Blue Train (1958)
Africa/Brass (1961)
The John Coltrane Quartet Plays (1965)
“Detox?” The Champ scoffed. “Never detox. Retox! That’s the ticket!”
How come I never heard of Lucia Berlin? As usual, I discovered her thanks to our library. A book of short stories. Let’s give it a shot, I thought. And a hell of a shot it was! Every story is a little — or a big — treasure.
Most of the stories are, at least in part, autobiographical, whether the protagonist is called Carlotta, Dolores, Eloise, Lu, Maggie or Maria. She must have had a fascinating life. (In case you are reading this book offline, like I did, there is A Note on Lucia Berlin in the end.) And a wonderful sense of humour. In his introduction, Stephen Emerson writes:
What her work has, is joy. A precious commodity, not encountered all that often. Balzac, Isaac Babel, García Márquez come to mind.
What a company!
In her lifetime, Berlin published 76 stories. This posthumous volume has 43. So read it and you’ll read most of Lucia Berlin and will want more.
Doing everything wrong not only reassures them you are thorough, it gives them a chance to be assertive and a “boss.” Most American women are very uncomfortable about having servants. They don’t know what to do while you are there. Mrs. Burke does things like re-check her Christmas card list and iron last year’s wrapping paper. In August.
Try to work for Jews or Blacks. You get lunch. But mostly Jewish and Black women respect work, the work you do and also they are not at all ashamed of spending the entire day doing absolutely nothing. They are paying you, right?
The Christian Eastern Stars are another story. So they won’t feel guilty always try to be doing something they never would do. Stand on the stove to clean an exploded Coca-Cola off the ceiling. Shut yourself inside the glass shower. Shove all the furniture, including the piano, against the door. They would never do that, besides, they can’t get in.
Over lunch Ruth told me that she had started to feel old and in a rut so she had joined a support group. The Merry Pranksters, or M.P., which really stood for Meno Pause. Ruth always said this like it was two words. The group was dedicated to putting more zip into women’s lives. They focused on the members themselves. The last one had been Hannah. The group convinced her to go to Weight Watchers, to Rancho del Sol spa, take bossa nova lessons and then to get liposuction and a face-lift. She looked wonderful but was in two new groups now. One for women who had face-lifts but were still depressed and another for “Women Who Love Too Much.” Ruth sighed, “Hannah’s always been the kind of woman who has affairs with stevedores.”
Stevedores! Ruth used some surprising words, like heretofore and hullabaloo. Said things like she missed having “That Time of the Month.” It always was such a warm and cozy time.
“Open your door, Ms. Moran. This is Officer Wong.”
I stashed the bottle in the bookcase and opened the door. “Hello, Officer Wong. How can I help you?”
“Do you own a Mazda 626?”
“You know I do, sir.”
“Where is that car, Miss Moran?”
“Well, it’s not in here.”
