1. One-and-a-half (oversized) thumbs up for Villa Incognito.
The best part about my new, longer commute is the dedicated reading time. I have cruised through more books since we moved than in the previous several months combined. Last night, I finished Tom Robbins's latest offering, Villa Incognito. If you are a Robbins devotee, as I am, it is nearly impossible not to enjoy his work, and V.I. offers a characteristically salacious, surprisingly twisty, and deliciously literate romp.
Villa Incognito will not rank among my favorite Robbins books; it is hardly Cowgirl-esque, for example. But when I placed the next book from my ever-growing stack by my purse to take to work today, I felt a whisper of sadness that I would no longer spend 40 minutes each evening with Robbins's crazy-quilt of quirky, sexy, and impossibly endearing characters. Robbins's books always seem to incite this type of withdrawal syndrome in me, and I often don't realize just how much I enjoyed one of his novels until after I've finished it. In any case, for a rollicking good time, click here.
2. Two thumbs down (because they're still scratching my head) for Ocean's Twelve.
I loved Ocean's Eleven and its motley (but, in several cases, smoking hot) band of thieves. But I walked out of the sequel alternating between muttering in confusion over the impenetrable plot and fuming in anger that we'd paid full price for such a lazy-ass bit of acting and film-making. I couldn't offer you a plot spoiler if I wanted to, because I have No Idea what happened in this movie.
When I wasn't closing my eyes to escape the excruciatingly bad camera work (dark! shaky! unfocused! weird angles!), I managed to absorb the following: Brad Pitt is oh-so-pretty (almost as pretty as David Carr. Have you been watching the Houston Texans play mediocre football this season? Who cares if they're from Texas. Who cares if they kind of suck. The quarterback. He's so pretty!!). George Clooney clearly phoned in his cameo-like performance. Matt Damon deserves higher billing for showing a wee bit of effort. Julia Roberts (whom I can't stand as a general rule) reveals her inner comedienne while rendering a deliberately terrible imitation of herself. Catherine Zeta-Jones was far sexier - and more recognizable - before she went all South-Beach-waify on us.
And none of this is worth your ten bucks. If you must see it, wait until it lands in constant rotation on TNT, because you'll need the commercial breaks to try to figure out what the hell is happening.
Comments