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The first thing we did back in Milan was to have a long lunch by the Giardini Pubblici with Albert S., a Nigerian Aristocrat who relocated from England to Italy in the mid-90s. After lunch he suggested we see a movie. When we got to the theater, Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby was the only English-language film playing, a full year after its American release no less, but Albert couldn’t have been more thrilled. His only time in the states was a semester at Talladega College, and he has only fond memories, as is evidenced by his sizable contributions to the school’s collection of Angolan artifacts. So there was no stopping him from marching right up to the booth and ordering tre biglietti, per favore. Read our full reviews after the jump!
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We watched A Prairie Home Companion last night, but to be perfectly honest, I was drifting in and out throughout the film. Olive and I set off for a bicycle tour of Tuscany next week, and the lower-body training is exhausting. I also had one or two Rob Roys with dinner, which didn’t help matters. But from what I saw, I don’t think I missed much. Click below to read our full reviews.
Well three packs of Dramamine and two overboard backgammon sets later, we’re back from a month of tall ship sailing along the coast of Brazil. There were a lot of things we missed. It’s practically impossible to make ice cubes on a sail boat, and the South Americans still haven’t mastered the art of brunch. But we missed watching movies most of all. So we decided to jump right back into it with a two-hour-plus Terrence Malick film, The New World (see our reviews after the jump).
It was the day before we were to leave for South America, and I [Cliff] was in a sour mood. Albert Stevenson had thrown a party the previous night, and I hadn’t been invited. I don’t consider Albert to be one of my closest friends by any means, but he’s one of my oldest, and sometimes that’s enough. More than enough to be invited to a party, anyway. Olive assured me that it must have just been an oversight on Albert’s part, but I wasn’t so sure.
When I’m really upset, nothing calms me down like a long cruise down the East River Drive, beginning on 125th street going all the way down to the Battery, so we called down to the garage to bring up the Jag. Olive came along, of course. She doesn’t drive herself, but she enjoys the ride just the same as I do, sometimes more. My favorite section is the view of Roosevelt Island, and the stretch past East River Park by the Williamsburg Bridge. But the snub was still bothering me on our way back uptown, so Olive suggested that we see a movie, something mindless. We ended up settling on 300. Read our reviews after the jump.
