We passed a milestone in parent-child relations a couple weeks ago: Kate and I saw a non-animated movie we both enjoyed pretty much equally. It was “The Last Mimzy,” and I have to specify “non-animated” because the Pixar and Wallace & Gromit movies live in a class by themselves. But they only make one or two of those a year, and in between we have lots of weekends and school holidays to fill with moviegoing.
“The Last Mimzy” seduced me in spite of being science fiction, not one of my favorite genres. It was probably the Buddhism themes, that and Rainn Wilson. And while no one would mistake it for “The Departed,” it was no “Princess Diaries,” either.
So, heartened, I’m looking for our next mother-daughter movie date, and am sticking a tentative toe into PG-13 territory. “Dreamgirls” was PG-13, and wonder of wonders, all the sexual references were couched in language that flew miles over the head of my 10-year-old: “You’re knocking off the skinny piece,” in fact, may fly over the heads of many mothers of 10-year-olds. But PG-13 is the realm of the snickering adolescent, and I have to be wary.
I want to take her to see “Year of the Dog,” but I’m wondering at the rating. The reviews are little help (“suggestive references” is all I can find), and there’s no review yet on Common Sense Media, which sounds like it should be one of those sorts of websites, but isn’t. Very …commonsensical, in fact.
Any suggestions for cinematic entertainment as we explore the vast wastelands of Tweendom? You know where to leave ’em.
Have to cut this short today. It’s perfect bike-riding weather, and have a lot to do before heading out to Ann Arbor, where Miss Laura Lippman is reading at a bookstore in my old neighborhood. I get to buy her NYT best-seller, “What the Dead Know,” and perhaps have dinner with her — aren’t you terribly, terribly jealous? (You should be — I’m thinking we might eat at Zingerman’s.)
The tragedy at Virginia Tech this week has provoked lots of deep thinking about What It All Means, because when you’ve got endless airtime to fill, deep thinking is the only alternative to replaying the same five minutes of videotape you’ve played 28 times before. And newspaper columnists have of course weighed in, because we are the world’s leading experts on the Meaning of Everything. We are the FIGJAMs. (“Figjam” is allegedly a nickname given to professional golfer Phil Mickelson by his peers. It stands for “f — I’m good, just ask me.”)
Figjams — I love it.
Alicublog makes a good point: If the Virginia Tech shootings cannot be blamed on guns, well, they can’t be blamed on words and pixels, either.
Fifty-one degrees! Hosanna. I’m out.