The movie was shown way, way back, 2003 in fact. My question is: Was there ever a signature campaign to erase the movie from the unsuspecting moviegoers' memory? Let me sign up!
* - *
The other day, I was so looking forward to a blissful sleep owing to a very relaxing spa. Well, I did manage to get some shuteye. It lasted for exactly an hour.
With bleary eyes, I got up from my bed and turned on the tv. I surfed and surfed until I came to HBO. I saw someone who looked like Dr Seuss, one of my all-time favorite cartoon characters, and early teachers, for that matter. I ditched the idea of going back to sleep and fed my sudden and unexpected longing for nostalgia.
Dr Seuss’ Cat in the Hat, that was the movie I was watching. I recognized Dakota Fanning, Alec Baldwin and Kelly Preston. Thing 1 and Thing 2, they were also there, but of course! And was it Paris Hilton in a disco-dancing cameo? Her appearance was so fleeting she was practically gone in the blink of an eye.
I think I caught two-thirds of the movie but I think I didn't miss much.
In one of the breaks, I frantically searched for and found the hardcover book from which the movie was made as I had zero recollection of the story.
What did I see?
Mike Myers was a rather podgy version of the tall and skinny cat I knew. Why, he was a total miscast and too mischievous for comfort. Dr Seuss was so famous and well-loved by kids because of the downright funny and catchy rhymes and the wonderfully nonsensical words. Myers, for his part, kept on blurting out inappropriate and at-times callous lines so totally out of the kids' league. The writers must’ve thought of mom & dad who watch with the kids. FYI Bloggie, the attempt at humor got wearisome in a hurry. (Yup, I'm single, so???)
Fanning and the other kid who played her brother looked so bored and tired that at various scenes they looked like they needed to be roused from stupor to speak their lines. I needn't say more.
The story? It was inserted with needlessly elaborate subplots. The kids’ mother - represented in the book by a slim leg whose foot was shod in a fancy pointed and beribboned black shoe – was fleshed out by Preston and was being pursued by a next-door neighbor played by Baldwin. The movie also sprung an overweight babysitter named Mrs. Kwan. And, not to forget, Preston’s boss who went by the lousy name Mr. Humberfloob - the writers probably thought Dr Seuss’ amazing ability to create very likeable out-of-this-world words rubbed off on them. Not in their wretched lifetime.
What the heck. I thought they needed to stretch the 61-page book of deceptively simple rhymes and eye-catching illustrations into something which was sustainingly entertaining, at the least. The end-product was pathetic, to say the least. The kids' lethargy must've been unconsciouly transmitted to them by the brains behind this lousy movie. The writers could have just as well incorporated other stories in the Cat in the Hat series. See? They could be found in the “I CAN READ IT ALL BY MYSELF" BEGINNER BOOKS. I won’t even discuss the lousy way they rendered the illustrations in the book. These imps messed up real big.
This is a child turning ballistic about the way the masterminds murdered her well-loved character and bedtime companion.
The grownup in me - my brain, I hope - considers Dr Seuss and The Cat in the Hat a classic children’s literature and for it to be rendered with incredible crassness is just so loathsome.
Thank goodness this lousy, lousy movie has not spawned a sequel.
It is really best to follow the advice of Dr Seuss' wise fish:
Make that cat go away!
Tell that cat in the hat
You do not want to play.
He should not be here
He should not be about.
He should not be here
When your mother is out.
The cat, of course, is Myers and the coterie of directors, scriptwriters and cinematographers responsible for this horror of a movie.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Catching Mishka
I have my own SIGNED copy now, of course, but more than three weeks after that blessed day, I still remember the funny incident attached to the autographed copy of Mishka’s cd in my hands.
It was August 31. I was with friends on our way to Belle’s going-away dinner when I received an SMS from James. Mishka was going to have a free miniconcert and cd-signing in a couple of days. What could I say other than the word free doing it in for me? I didn’t need to be wheedled.
September 2, the big day, came and I was still wrestling with James about cutting my driving lessons short so I could catch Mishka at 6pm. Well, there was no other way. And what about James? He cut his working time short so he could catch Mishka at 6pm. :-P
My driving instructor, fully aware of my plan, was so caught up he didn’t notice that we had to park by 5:30pm. Out of desperation, I broached the idea of him dropping me off in front of Tower Records at Glorietta. It was a no-brainer.
Running late, the MRT would bridge the gap between Point A and Point B the quickest. You could never guess, Bloggie, how fast I sprinted to the train station. Inside the coach, I was unmindful of the hot eyes surreptitiously eyeing my cell phone. James was letting me know how miserably late I was for the show. When the cabin door finally opened at the Ayala station, I made a mad dash out. You could never guess, Bloggie, my struggle as I bumped each person who sort of got in my way. I was right smack in the maddening rush hour traffic. Just great!
I reached Tower Records almost in a daze, failing to even comb my hair. Then I heard the familiar strains of God Bless the Child. It led me to the basement. The owner of the voice was indeed there, so young yet so very good at what she was doing. My bubble dream burst when James, his right hand covering his nose, blurted out, “Ang lakas naman ng pabango mo!” I didn’t care. At least a few spritz of Lacoste Pour Femme prevailed over the fumes, dust, and smoke which kept me company as I waded through the sea of humanity just to get to the venue.
After the show, I bought a copy of Mishka’s cd. I was not particularly proud of the cd being spanking new but then I thought it would be eternally insulting to present her with an unmarked copy – courtesy of James - for her to sign? Got it, got it?
With the cd on hand, I queued up for Mishka’s autograph. Hopeless shutterbug that I am, I brought along my digital camera to sort of immortalize the moment. When my turn came, I made her write my nickname before she wrote her dedication. You understand, Bloggie, that I have one of the trickiest nicknames on the planet. Yes siree, I spelled it out for her! I felt so cheap. Again, I didn’t care.
The affair finally wound up but James and I lingered some more. Why? She was still there! Poor James, I dragged him to where Mishka was sitting. I managed some incoherent ramblings that somehow fashioned themselves into a request to have another shot taken with her. She obliged.
I finally let up. Thirty seconds of her voice and a few photos were enough.
I couldn’t remember being so star-struck…well, there was the Sharon Cuneta incident back when I was doing the audit of a certain movie outfit.
But Mishka’s not even a pop star for crying out loud.
I promise to high heavens that I will restrain myself just please let me see and hear her perform again before I fly to Marrakech*. I promise NOT to be late, come what may.
* Marrakech is USA. Sorry. Dreams. :)
It was August 31. I was with friends on our way to Belle’s going-away dinner when I received an SMS from James. Mishka was going to have a free miniconcert and cd-signing in a couple of days. What could I say other than the word free doing it in for me? I didn’t need to be wheedled.
September 2, the big day, came and I was still wrestling with James about cutting my driving lessons short so I could catch Mishka at 6pm. Well, there was no other way. And what about James? He cut his working time short so he could catch Mishka at 6pm. :-P
My driving instructor, fully aware of my plan, was so caught up he didn’t notice that we had to park by 5:30pm. Out of desperation, I broached the idea of him dropping me off in front of Tower Records at Glorietta. It was a no-brainer.
Running late, the MRT would bridge the gap between Point A and Point B the quickest. You could never guess, Bloggie, how fast I sprinted to the train station. Inside the coach, I was unmindful of the hot eyes surreptitiously eyeing my cell phone. James was letting me know how miserably late I was for the show. When the cabin door finally opened at the Ayala station, I made a mad dash out. You could never guess, Bloggie, my struggle as I bumped each person who sort of got in my way. I was right smack in the maddening rush hour traffic. Just great!
I reached Tower Records almost in a daze, failing to even comb my hair. Then I heard the familiar strains of God Bless the Child. It led me to the basement. The owner of the voice was indeed there, so young yet so very good at what she was doing. My bubble dream burst when James, his right hand covering his nose, blurted out, “Ang lakas naman ng pabango mo!” I didn’t care. At least a few spritz of Lacoste Pour Femme prevailed over the fumes, dust, and smoke which kept me company as I waded through the sea of humanity just to get to the venue.
After the show, I bought a copy of Mishka’s cd. I was not particularly proud of the cd being spanking new but then I thought it would be eternally insulting to present her with an unmarked copy – courtesy of James - for her to sign? Got it, got it?
With the cd on hand, I queued up for Mishka’s autograph. Hopeless shutterbug that I am, I brought along my digital camera to sort of immortalize the moment. When my turn came, I made her write my nickname before she wrote her dedication. You understand, Bloggie, that I have one of the trickiest nicknames on the planet. Yes siree, I spelled it out for her! I felt so cheap. Again, I didn’t care.
The affair finally wound up but James and I lingered some more. Why? She was still there! Poor James, I dragged him to where Mishka was sitting. I managed some incoherent ramblings that somehow fashioned themselves into a request to have another shot taken with her. She obliged.
I finally let up. Thirty seconds of her voice and a few photos were enough.
I couldn’t remember being so star-struck…well, there was the Sharon Cuneta incident back when I was doing the audit of a certain movie outfit.
But Mishka’s not even a pop star for crying out loud.
I promise to high heavens that I will restrain myself just please let me see and hear her perform again before I fly to Marrakech*. I promise NOT to be late, come what may.
* Marrakech is USA. Sorry. Dreams. :)
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Grand musings on grandmommy
I don’t know what it is with orchids and garden plants that makes me want to wake up early in the morning to water them. As far as I know, the only thing that can effectively rouse me from slumber at an ungodly hour is a toss-up between finishing work-related deadline (i.e., the kind where the knife is about to drop, get it?) and catching a ride for the much-awaited out-of-town trip.
The exercise takes all of two hours. No kidding. And it does not get better. Each time I look, the pots feel like they’re going to crack from the weight of overgrown orchids and flowering plants, meaning, we will have to transfer the outgrowth to new pots yet again. It is a never-ending cycle; has always been this way for more years than I care to count. But no one seems to mind. Surely not me, more assuredly not my Inang. Gardening keeps her hale and healthy.
My main point on watering the plants is that it is always followed by an invariably lively morning talk with Inang over the usual fare of hotdogs, bacon, butter, strawberry jam, pandesal and coffee. This quasi-ritual I have come to enjoy over time, if only to tell me over and over again how resilient, courageous, revered, and funny Inang is, all at the same time. Possibly without her being aware of it, I have come to know, value and love her more because of this.
For one, because of her, I now know how I am related to my neighbor-cousins. Ours is one circuitous tree, if there ever was one - what with ancient stepmothers, half-brothers and half-sisters among the branches. Now, do I remember the fruits of the tree and the branch to which they belong? Come to think of it, at 87, Inang truly has a remarkably sharp memory.
Then, there are always these people who drop by from time to time to consult her on issues ranging from the mundane to those heavy enough to split a close-knit clan. For some reason, her advice seem to weigh a lot to them.
On another note, she is a one-woman charitable institution. I know a lot of people come to her to borrow money. She gives and gives even if at times she knows that the money is good as gone as soon as it leaves her hand. While at it, I also remember some hired hands who took advantage of her generosity and gullibility. She says it’s always better to give than to receive. I’ve known it since kindergarten but more than two decades later, the lesson still begs for my full appreciation, understanding and application. If anything, I guess I got the ‘gullible strain’ from her, of all things.
Still on another note, every time she cooks lunch or dinner for relatives, everyone turns up. It might be because she is, I think, the oldest in the clan. But then again, it might have more to do with the food spread on the table which, although mostly consisting of more or less the same fare each and every time, taste really, really, really good.
She just has this idiosyncracy that is truly her own and one that never fails to drive me off the wall.
She has this costly habit of reordering and/or changing things. By things, I mean any area of the house ranging from the garden, the kitchen, the bedrooms...or the house itself. It’s like this: after commissioning work to rework the kitchen, she somehow finds something lacking or wrong with it several months later. Rework on top of rework. You have to thank the heavens if the structure remains untouched after one year.
There are other equally fascinating incidents which I cannot quite remember in detail any longer. I just hope I have absorbed the lesson well, like the food I eat everyday. I mean, I don’t remember what I ate last month or last week but I’m sure I had my fill and it is now part of who, what and how I am. That kind of thing. :-P
p.s.
belive me, bloggie, when i say that as of today, a couple of hired hands are banging away at the back of the house to relocate the kitchen sink and the cupboard.
oh well.
The exercise takes all of two hours. No kidding. And it does not get better. Each time I look, the pots feel like they’re going to crack from the weight of overgrown orchids and flowering plants, meaning, we will have to transfer the outgrowth to new pots yet again. It is a never-ending cycle; has always been this way for more years than I care to count. But no one seems to mind. Surely not me, more assuredly not my Inang. Gardening keeps her hale and healthy.
My main point on watering the plants is that it is always followed by an invariably lively morning talk with Inang over the usual fare of hotdogs, bacon, butter, strawberry jam, pandesal and coffee. This quasi-ritual I have come to enjoy over time, if only to tell me over and over again how resilient, courageous, revered, and funny Inang is, all at the same time. Possibly without her being aware of it, I have come to know, value and love her more because of this.
For one, because of her, I now know how I am related to my neighbor-cousins. Ours is one circuitous tree, if there ever was one - what with ancient stepmothers, half-brothers and half-sisters among the branches. Now, do I remember the fruits of the tree and the branch to which they belong? Come to think of it, at 87, Inang truly has a remarkably sharp memory.
Then, there are always these people who drop by from time to time to consult her on issues ranging from the mundane to those heavy enough to split a close-knit clan. For some reason, her advice seem to weigh a lot to them.
On another note, she is a one-woman charitable institution. I know a lot of people come to her to borrow money. She gives and gives even if at times she knows that the money is good as gone as soon as it leaves her hand. While at it, I also remember some hired hands who took advantage of her generosity and gullibility. She says it’s always better to give than to receive. I’ve known it since kindergarten but more than two decades later, the lesson still begs for my full appreciation, understanding and application. If anything, I guess I got the ‘gullible strain’ from her, of all things.
Still on another note, every time she cooks lunch or dinner for relatives, everyone turns up. It might be because she is, I think, the oldest in the clan. But then again, it might have more to do with the food spread on the table which, although mostly consisting of more or less the same fare each and every time, taste really, really, really good.
She just has this idiosyncracy that is truly her own and one that never fails to drive me off the wall.
She has this costly habit of reordering and/or changing things. By things, I mean any area of the house ranging from the garden, the kitchen, the bedrooms...or the house itself. It’s like this: after commissioning work to rework the kitchen, she somehow finds something lacking or wrong with it several months later. Rework on top of rework. You have to thank the heavens if the structure remains untouched after one year.
There are other equally fascinating incidents which I cannot quite remember in detail any longer. I just hope I have absorbed the lesson well, like the food I eat everyday. I mean, I don’t remember what I ate last month or last week but I’m sure I had my fill and it is now part of who, what and how I am. That kind of thing. :-P
p.s.
belive me, bloggie, when i say that as of today, a couple of hired hands are banging away at the back of the house to relocate the kitchen sink and the cupboard.
oh well.
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