Afternoons With Mommy

Since the great migration is fast approaching, and the Lacan has been carefully, carefully read, I've decided to devote the end of my Boardman time to purer relaxation. Hence on long afternoons and evenings, Mom and I will drink white wine and watch her DVDs.

I might have my nose buried in a volume of Strachey or Johnson, she'll look over the ads and coupons or deal with the logistics of sending two sons to college, but the little TV in the kitchen will play work which makes her laugh, or wag her finger, or reach moments of emotional revelation or womanly hilarity she insists I pay attention to.

The Devil Wears Prada, which I took her to see back when it came out…strange to watch Vincent Chase and Patrick Jane as the not-as-important competitors for Anne Hathaway's affection…The Mentalist is also a little favorite of Mom's now, and I have to admit it's fun to spend an hour with a charming amateur detective who catches a killer without ever resorting to sexual psychology or forensic analysis. Meryl Streep is a master bitch (mistress bitch?), and Emily Blunt, oh, she's gorgeous, and I drool over her as Victoria Regina this fall.

Mamma Mia is too goofy, too slipshod, to be a good film, but oh, it's a hell of a lot of fun seeing the greatest actress in the world scamper through the hills of Greece singing ABBA while Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, and Stellan Skaarsgard try to sing ABBA. Very few people are in pitch, and the story falls apart worse than ever on the big screen without the theatrical razzle-dazzle, but remember, this is a way for middle-aged people to get tipsy and reminisce and sing along to "Dancing Queen" and "Waterloo" and the rest of it. Can you blame them?

Practical Magic is a clever take on female empowerment and solidarity. The metaphors are a bit on the surface and again, the plot lags when it should really be picking up steam (Aidan Quinn's arrival in town), but it's a charming story. Nicole Kidman was only more beautiful in Moulin Rouge and Sandra Bullock, the epitome of "likable," has rarely been more likable. And going beyond the witchcraft angle, the film honestly captures the dynamic between siblings, how you can hold opposite positions and argue and drive each other insane and turn little things into brouhahas and easily resolve major issues while going nuts over little things, but still be there for each other with a bond of love. (And Kidman makes a great drunk and Dianne Weist and Stockard Channing were born to play middle-aged witches.)

Diane Lane was nominated for an Oscar for Unfaithful. If they wanted to reward her for making something special out of a semi-potboiler, they should have given her then nod for Under the Tuscan Sun, one of the better chick flicks of the decade. For a film about a divorcee reinventing herself in her own new Tuscan villa…trust me…it is not fanciful, unrealistic, or overly weepy. Instead, the situations flow on a raft of verisimilitude, and Lane looks and acts her age, handling the comic and tragic with a mind of wisdom and whimsy and a heart of the more malleable irons. Even the tiny bit of wish fulfillment in the finale strikes the right balance, as the plot has been resolved in a way perfectly echoing Robert McKee's dictum to give the audience what they want but never how they expect it. And looking at Tuscany brought back so many memories.

Gilmore Girls. She's seen every episode, and all I can say is there are few pleasures in the history of television more enjoyable than watching Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel do their thing. And when Liza Weil joined in, it was Neil Young adding his voice to Crosby, Stills, and Nash…Paris Gellar is the one character on TV I would fall at my feet for in real life. Biggest regret that Amy Sherman-Palladino didn't finish the show? No chance of a purely comic spin-off based around the Stars Hollow denizens…imagine watching Kirk drive Taylor crazy week after week!

I even got Mom to watch Far From the Madding Crowd with me one night. EVERYONE NEEDS TO GET THIS DVD. The already beautiful picture and sound become sharper, more distinct, more entrancing in digital transfer, and having actually read Thomas Hardy, the themes and characters are all the richer. This is THE great lost gem of the 1960s, and it may have driven Mom a little nuts, but she stayed until the end.

Days like this will not come along too more often. I treasure every minute, and if I could get her to watch Cranford, things would be complete.