Pumpkin Seeds: 11 Shots to the Dome Edition
1. The Incredibles, in a word was, what the hell, INCREDIBLE! Seriously; like “the Oscar goes to…,” Best Picture kind of incredible. “The Oscar goes to…,” Best Director kind of incredible. “The Oscar goes to…,” Best Original Screenplay kind of incredible. It had more emotional depth than most live-action movies, and absolutely blows the doors off previous Pixar and Dreamworks efforts. To not be acknowledged as such would be an even bigger crime than the 1999 Best Picture award.
2. The preview of Pixar’s next effort, Cars, struck me as both an odd direction and incredibly boring. As it is quite possibly their last movie in conjunction with Disney, I wonder if they purposely went with a lesser concept to complete their contract, anticipating a new partner and saving their best stuff for the future? Because, really, unlike any of their previous films’ previews, Cars just looks dumb.
3. For the most part, I consider myself a pretty tolerant and non-prejudicial person. Politically incorrect jokes aside, I don’t typically judge anyone by whatever subgroup society has created for them, understanding that people are individuals and should be judged accordingly. That said, this morning, for the second time in the three years since 9/11, I got off of a train before my stop because there was a guy that was giving me the “looks like a terrorist” heebie-jeebies. He looked like a middle eastern Spike Lee, complete with facial hair and dorky glasses, wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a sweatshirt and carrying only a rectangular leather CD case. No CD player, mind you, just the case. And he was holding it close to his lap, tapping away nervously. And he was sitting right next to me. If he looked like anything but someone from the middle east, I would have probably found him merely annoying. If he’d looked the way he looked, but had a CD player to go with the case, I probably wouldn’t have paid him the slightest bit of attention. But he didn’t, and all the things that led so many otherwise sensible Americans to vote for George Bush three weeks ago flared up in my mind and I was convinced this guy was going to blow the train somewhere between the City Hall and Wall Street stations. So I got off the train at 14th Street, caught the next one, and braced myself at each stop, each delay, each announcement, not sure whether I was hoping more that I was wrong, or right. Because being right would have been traumatic, but being wrong meant I’d completely given in to the fear.