Wednesday

I'd planned on seeing two movies yesterday. They were showing three good ones, but I've been trying to limit sitting on my ass to merely four hours straight. Also, I don't like watering down each movie's impact to that extent. Movies I've seen before wouldn't suffer, but I'd never seen the Man Who Would be King* or Cleo from 5 to 7 (Cléo de 5 à 7; Agnès Varda, 1961),* yesterday's later show. Because of this, and because I didn't want to skip another dinner, I opted not to watch Brazil (Terry Gilliam, 1985),* scheduled between the other two. Good reason: this was the cheesier Hollywood happy ending re-cut that works better as a curiosity compared to the way Brazil was originally intended. So, after the Huston movie I had a three-hour break for dinner and my very good Shirley Jackson book. I also thought I'd window shop for a laptop-sized shoulder bag (everybody in the district has a courier bag. I want to be just like them even though my computer will fit into a purse). I was in the mall when I discovered that Cleo..., is too long to make the last train home afterwards. How long does it take to walk an hour-long midnight train route? I wasn't planning on finding out. Scratching Cleo... made me wish I'd watched Brazil, but also meant I could get home early. This was when I realized I'd left my phone in the theater. Brazil was half over, of course; but the ushers hadn't located the phone, so I got to further stew over my bad decision while searching for it myself beneath the screen. I didn't find it. I had to wait with my book for the damn movie to let out anyway--then someone turned it in. [Cavin]