Glee. There are days when everything falls into place before you like a story: trains arrive in the station just as you get there, ten pages of novel flow out of you quicker than sweat in a steambath, , dinner was just what you wanted and cooked to perfection, you drink like a fish and never get smashed, every question you ask gets a positive answer -- Friday was like that.
My So-Called Prince Charming. There’s a sweet smart little fairy tale in Stardust, but it's buried beneath the trying-to-be-cute script and the mugging of Clare Danes (in a role that the young Michelle Pfeiffer once played to perfection in Ladyhawke) and Robert DeNiro (starting a pissing contest with Johnny Depp over who can do the campiest pirate ever). At moments the film has that Neil Gaiman feel to it, but I wanted to like it more than I did, and the cheesy 80’s power ballad over the credits made me walk out of the theatre with a bad taste in my mouth.
One Of These Articles Is Not Like The Other. Reading Martin Scorsese on Michelangelo Antonioni made me want to run out and see L’Avventura and L’Eclisse again. Reading Woody Allen on Ingmar Bergman made me want to microwave my DVD of Manhattan and read Scorsese on Antonioni again.
Blahs. And then are are days when you wake up groggy and stupid, nothing you read excites you and everything you write bores you, the more you think the more you realize that the verdict is still out on intelligence as an adaptation to the ape embryo, your dinner is as tasteless as overcooked pasta, every question you ask gets the reply "Why bother?" -- Sunday was like that.