[the following is an account, transcribed directly, unedited, from my notebook of our flight to Paris last November. spelling errors and other unsavouries have been left intact for the sake of the historical record. to meet this ape in arms, fyi.]
i am willing to believe it is somewhere in the vicinity of 1am, and we are (doubtless) suspended, hurtling, over the Atlantic ocean, and i, having just swallowed a lemon pip, am covered in whiskey.
we depend upon the goodwill and spirit of bonvivance of the French (authorities) to forgive our Stoogelike and affected blubbering and shrugs of perplexity regarding the whereabouts of the 1.75L of Jameson our boarding pass confirms we purchased at the duty-free, but are inexplicably no longer in possession of.
“it’s…it’s…twenty..times. two hundred. no, two fifty.”
“twenty times two fifty.”
“no, it’s two hundred, it’s…twenty packs of ten cigarettes”
“no, it’s ten packs of twenty cigarettes”
“that is the SAME number”
“ever heard of THAT, campbell?”
brendan has just bought two hundred cigarettes off the flight attendant. the same flight attendant who, just as improbably, owes hal 4€.
consistent with the reviews, Julie&Julia is flattened by the general uninterestingness of of the Julie Powell/Amy Adams portions, which in Ephron style but lacking even the wit of usual Ephron fare, draws the energy out of the Child/Streep’s story, which is given shorter screentime shrift. all along one has the suspicion that Julie Powell’s story lacks the dramatic momentum to sustain an entire film, whereas the cursory and extranarrative/temporal/diagetic portion of My Life In France feels robbed/barred from occupying the necessary space to breathe and swell its lungs to requisite capacity capacitating its merits.
downpressed by 30 Is The New 20 malaise – inspired by Julia Child – decides to write blog (who cares) – blog becomes book – book – book becomes the movie you’re watching
downpressed by midlife expatriate malaise – is Julia Child – begins cooking in her late 30s – enrolls at the cordon bleu – writes groundbreaking cookbook introducing and cementing reputation of french cooking in american culture – becomes landmark TV cooking personality/icon
HAL IS NOW COVERED IN CLUB SODA. (fact check – tonic water)
hey, and apparently it ends before julia child gets her tv show. boring.
external temperature -52° C, airspeed: 918 km/h, landspeed: unknown.
Hal wishes it to be known we are now west of Greenland.
i refer to think of us in relation to the Hebrides.
Brendan wishes it be known he is listening to Angel Witch.
Hal, on inspecting the 200 pack of Marlboro’s: “there’s not much literature on this.”
“The Laws Are Not Applicable Over The Waters.”
We Are Now Watching Land of The Lost (which apparently exists?)
(there is a certain class of movie which i suspect only exists on airplanes. Land of the Lost and Speed Racer have such a distinction)
[note: much of the following consists of quotations from Land of the Lost]
THERE ARE HUGE AMOUNTS OF TRANSDIMENSIONAL ENERGY OUT THERE WAITING TO BE DIVERTED.
i’m in control, and i don’t have to go back to feelings.
THIS, instead of Death In Venice . . . i keep thinking i’m hearing the TWIN PEAKS music.
OKAY, CURRENTLY IN OUR PARTY:
…congratulations, you have just given murderous primates the power of fire.
YOUR LOYALTY IS NOW IN QUESTION!!!
DAY 2, 0600h, ZULU TIME.
Breakfast, at a glance, 8h20 paris time – wretched.
the top of what i assume, through the cellophane grimly, to be a (nonspecifically) “fieldberry” muffin, is clinging, defoliated/detatched [unclear] from the cakebody proper, to its packaging.
no curious marzipan (no ital/suisse sweet cheese?) turnover for us.
just weak tea and this. a fitting upbraid for the state of the soda and Jameson-sodden carpet beneath us.
jus de tomate?
well, thin tea, muffin and tomato jus, for free isn’t so bad.
this is, in fact, a goodly can of tomato juice.
the “Blonde In Pink Who Loses Her Wallet” is inspiring a newfound respect for Juste Pour Rire in me. the key/genius lies in its tremendous, disproportionate technical complexity, and stands remarkably/singularly as a JPR gag that does not reveal itself as such (qua _______? …..per se!) at the climax of the joke/pageant/performance/process.
Hal: “i just stood in the line for 15 minutes at the bathroom because this kid pissed his pants and the stewardesses tried to address this by stuffing napkins in his shoes . . . he’s not wearing any pants . . . i don’t want to watch this abomination [indistinct] . . .”
“when the plane lands we’re going to SHAME THAT KID like you’ve never seen a shaming . . . “