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Talk about a “camp”-y movie. Actually, that’s the problem with this movie — it isn’t camp. It is just dumb, brutal pornography. Didn’t quite make it to the end on this one.

The biggest thing to hit the internet in quite some time is The Diggs’ concert film. Check out the link & download/stream your favorite tracks. Mine, right now, is either It’s Just Like You Say or Sibling.

What’s up with the uni-brow?

Fantastically observed tale of innocence shattered. A diplomat’s young boy is witness to things he shouldn’t be when around his favorite domestic. The scenes (and sharp Graham Greene dialogue) are just glimpses from a not-quite-comprehending perspective. A little section toward the end bogs down in police procedure, but overall this is a stellar piece of work.

Holy technicolor!! While “Black Narcissus” struck me as obnoxious, this is utterly charming. There’s something about a “backstage story.” Can an artist be true to their craft, yet still have a life? Not according to this movie. The ballet-break in here puts “American in Paris” to shame. Hot stuff, heartbreaking and Moira Shearer, who died 20 days ago at age 80, was a stone cold fox.

As I thought it might, upon second viewing I upgrade The New World from the B+ I gave it to an A. Sometimes a work of art is such a shock to the system that you need a second exposure to fully realize what is going on. So much of Terrence Malick’s magic is visceral, non-verbal. . .so all I will say is: I really, really like this movie.

You can get this nifty banana slicer at Cereality.

The great Adam Levbarg paid us a visit from Los Angeles, with his lovely female companion Eva. Here they are with Adam’s Brooklynite sister Missy.

Here are some of the insane fancy chocolates Ann got at Marie Belle in Soho. The passion fruit and earl grey are very tasty. Not so much the saffron. Although I recognize the design elements, I think I prefer Leonidas for specialty chocolate.

Not grape juice. Not grape soda. Grape drink.

Ann at Mona’s. Just taken last night!

That weird building on 9th Ave and, like, 15th. I could probably look it up in one of my books to find out its name and who designed the add-on and maybe even some groovy fact about it. But that dedicated to blogging I am not.

Brokeback Enterprise.

No one asked for this, but here I am during the recent snowstorm.

Missy marvels at how many mushrooms there are!

Finally — a step by step of what actually goes down at Cereality.

There’s “Woodstock,” “Gimme Shelter,” “The Last Waltz,” “Stop Making Sense” and now this, he said with just a hint of humility. The Diggs represent all that is right with underground rock in New York today, and this documentary captures their performance and their essence in an orgy of cinematic excellence. More info on where you can get your own paws on a copy will come soon.

Extremely odd story of a 35-year old man who, for reasons no doctor can figure out, loses all of his memory. He remembers how to walk and talk and swim and sign his name — though the signature is so bad and he can’t make it out to learn what he is called. Turns out he *used* to be a fairly obnoxious stock broker who retired at 30 to “take up photography.” Now he has an adult mind, but the eyes and ears of a precocious child. “I just discovered this terrific band — The Rolling Stones!” Old friends who have a lifetime of experiences with him are strangers, now he’s making new friends. Doctors think his memory will come back eventually. What will happen when the old identity starts interacting with the new one? The movie discusses fascinating themes of heavy philosophy, but the story doesn’t really go anywhere after the initial premise. Filmmaker Rupert Murray does a good job masking this with unusually arty photography for a documentary. Very watchable.

Alain Delon’s “Robert Klein” isn’t exactly a collaborator in Nazi-occupied Paris, but he isn’t going out of his way not to profit under the Vichy regime either. Then one day a beaurocratic error (or is it?) confuses him with a Jewish Robert Klein who nobody can seem to find. Klein has to go undercover to find Klein and “clear his name.” Sorta Garden of Finzi-Continis meets Brazil with some Eyes Wide Shut in there, too. Most remarkable is the day-to-day of Vichy Paris, down to the doctors who would examine your teeth and head to see if you are actually of hidden Jewish stock.

Nam June Paik died about a month ago. It took a mention in an Anthology newsletter for me to hear about it.

. . .to take someone else’s photoshopped Cheney pic, but I’m particularly fond of this one. Something about that bouncy lawn thingie. You can also click here for a particularly unfunny song about our friend Dick.

You can also click here to get more specific on just what a great sportsman our great vice-leader is.

A surprisingly winning ensemble piece set at a wake. The early (and very funny) scenes of intense flippancy in the face of a patriarch’s death eventually build to an emotional understanding at the end. Some of the subplots are more interesting than the others, but all of the performances are good. Much of this is laugh-out-loud funny. Eventually this will make its way to art houses and it is worth your time if you like ensemble comedy.

I gave Gaspar Noé the benefit of the doubt with “Irreversible,” but now I am starting to think the man simply has noé talent. This is a film of pretentious crap — for a while I really thought it was supposed to be a comedy, then I realized it was serious. The premise is like “Taxi Driver,” but the result is “Taxi Driver” filtered through incompetence.

I fully endorse the well-reviewed Cafe Asean on West 10th between Greenwich and Patchin Place, under the ominous shadow of the Jefferson Market Courthouse. You kinda forget how spooky that thing looks at night.

Anyway, Asean is a “fusion” restaurant of various South Asian cuisines. All I know is that it was awesome from the plum wine to the wild mushroom dumplings to the coconut chicken to the red peper flank steak. And not that expensive, all things considered.

We then ambled through the West Village, passing the Northern Dispensary and the 55 Bar, to the Lucille Lortel Theater. The show was called the Wooden Breeks by Glen Berger. It was a good play — a surreal scottish town with a lighthouse keeper who has never left the lighthouse, a tavern-owner who refuses to sell alcohol, and a gravedigger who is also a graverobber. Wackyness ensues when a travelling saleswoman comes with bells to attach to coffins in case of accidental burial. The costumes, lighting and minimal props are extremely innovative. But, as is so often the case, the damned thing is about 40 minutes too long. I recommend the play, but, you know, it’s a play, so get ready for a little ass-ache along with the delights of stagecraft.

Almost mildly entertaining.

100% engaging from first scene to last. A “working class noir” concerning a family of truckers looking to exact righteous revenge with the first delivery of golden delicious apples from Fresno to the mob-controlled San Fransisco market. Much like honey and “Ulee’s Gold,” I think it will be some time until I am able to eat an apple without thinking of the characters in this film.

“I know it sounds trite, but we could tour The Bridges of Madison County.” — Martin Prince to Bart Simpson, Milhous van Houton and Nelson Muntz prior to getting beat up. According to my mother, this is one of those very rare instances where the movie is better than the book. I don’t doubt it. The story is very simple and during the occasional voice over the prose is, frankly, quite bad. But it’s the performances. I don’t want to sound like People Magazine or nothin’, but the chemistry between Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood is striking. It’s hard for the rugged, well-spoken, craftsman/artist Clint Eastwood driving down Rural Route 2 not to touch the bored Italian-native housewife in all of us. You don’t need a hankie at the end of this one (esp. if you are watching at 1 am) then you’ve got some problems.