foodie forever -- Part III

I haven't written about my last day in NYC because the sheer quantity of food and sugar that I ingested on Sunday was seriously obscene(not looking for a repeat performance any time soon). Before going on, I'm going to backtrack a bit to Dylan's Candy Store and Maltese puppies. Pictures are courtesy of Tiff, as always. We wandered by after brunch on Saturday and before our exhaustive tour of the Met. Dylan's boasts a candy staircase with hard candies displayed nicely under florescent plastic steps. Like all stores, this one was crowded with children and adults streaming towards the chocolate and cupcakes. Even though New York is teeming with people, it has a nice feel to it. The people are intense, but friendly at the same time (I think) and relatively well-educated.

Then we passed by a pet store with some adorable puppies, especially this Maltese that was begging for us to take it home. Although I'm not really an animal person, I wouldn't mind having a tiny ball of fur of my own. On the other hand, I strongly feel that people shouldn't have pets at all. It seems utterly cruel to force animals to live in a completely unnatural and superficial environment instead of being out in the wild. I felt terribly sorry for a set of miserable puppies that were going crazy and running up and down the walls of their cage. No, I'm not an animal activist...or an activist for anything.

On Sunday, we started off the day with brunch at Sarabeth's on the upper west side. I had some amazing salmon eggs benedict (what I usually order for brunch), a bite of the most amazing farmer's omlette ever, another bite of the softest fruit muffin with melted butter, a good amount of four flowers'' mimosa, and bread pudding and their famous 'chubbies' (chocolate cookies) for dessert.

After that extremely satisfying meal, we went by Beard Papa's and Grom, but were all too stuffed to feast on cream puffs and gelato (mmmm...gelato). Instead, we went to Levain Bakery, where we invested in a huge chocolate chip cookie that must have had at least a pound of melted chocolate chips embedded in the dough, a chocolate and peanut chunk cookie, and a rather disappointing rasberry twist brioche. Then it was on to Crumbs for red velvet and mocha cupcakes (which would be consumed about three hours later), and finally to Jacques Torres for an assortment of fine chocolates and cocoa powder dusted almonds.

Although I felt like I was going to explode, I still took part in demolishing some delicious, warm, and microwaved melted red velvet cake. We then went to Giorgio's in Gramercy (Italian is wonderful when you're already stuffed to the gills). For starters, we had some crispy calamari and artichokes as well as a beet salad with an interesting spice. Amy guessed rosemary and I guessed basil (she was correct). For our main course, we split a dish of divine glazed duck breast and another of linguini with lobsters and shrimp. The handmade pasta was al dente to perfection and quite lovely. I was positive that I was going to die at this point, but what sane person passes on dessert? we had a refreshing sorbet trio and their 'flagship' dessert of warm and gooey s'mores cake. After that, we went back to the hotel in Chelsea and collapsed. I didn't think that I would be able to eat again for at least a week (I was very wrong, as usual).

The very next day, I ingested another Jamba Juice for lunch and a Nathan's hot dog in the afternoon at Penn Station. Back at home, I ate dumplings, crabs and lobster, steamed salmon, hand-rolled noodles with pork and mushrooms, english muffins with cheese, bacon, and eggs, steamed buns with melted brown sugar in the center, fried flatbread, and much more over the next week...

gorging myself -- Part II

On Saturday, I started off with a smoothie from Jamba Juice. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that it was my first time there. For someone who professes to be such a foodie, I can't believe that I missed out on something so wonderful (maybe because it's actually healthy). Seriously, if I lived across the street from Jamba Juice, I would go there every morning, even in the middle of winter.

Brunch was at Jojo's, a nice cozy little place on the upper east side. I love restaurants that generally cater to an older crowd because they're calm and the decor is understated (and I'm on my best behavior). When eating, ambiance is not terribly important to me, but comfort is an added bonus. At Jojo's, the three of us shared six small plates: Tuna tartare with chive oil and gaufrette (wafer-like) potatoes; salmon with truffled mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts; hanger steak with gingered mushrooms, asparagus, and soy caramel sauce; cod with marinated vegetables; basil ravioli with Parmesan; and shrimp with salad and a tomato champagne marinade. We finished off with some sorbet. The food was excellent, especially the steak, salmon, and ravioli.

After our atypical brunch, we went to the Met. I was there last when I was ten and didn't remember a single thing. This time, I made sure to go through most of sections (skipping Medieval art and Cypriot art), with highlights in nineteenth century European art, Modern Art, and interesting exhibits in the Oceania wing. Of course, we topped off the whole experience with the lighting of the Christmas tree inside the museum. The lighting itself was masterfully done, with a bottom-up approach and a gradual shift from blue to white light for the nativity scene below the tree.

For dinner, we went to the East Village in search of shabu shabu. Shabu-Tatsu had an hour and a half wait, so we wandered down the street and found Sharaku, a nice little place on the corner that served hot pot. We started off with some sushi and sashimi and ended up cooking awesome tasting meat, vermicelli,and vegetables piece by piece in our pot (we take the process very seriously). I loved the peanut dipping sauce and the other, lighter soy sauce mixture.

We had to get dessert after all of that food, so we went to ChickaLicious. The place was very small (like most dessert places in NYC), but was pretty delicious. We got the tasting menu paired with wines. First, there was some sorbet to cleanse the palette. Then there were three desserts: chocolate cake, sweet potato souffle, and baked pear in parchment paper. I also remember some very good maple syrup ice cream on the side. Of course, the dessert wines were lovely (and strong), with glasses of port, sherry, and madeira that we passed around. Finally, we ended with petit fours, which were quite heavenly. The picture is courtesy of my friend Tiff and her iphone.


On our way back to the hotel, we stopped by Daydream, where we actually got a free ice cream because one of my friends submitted a name for it a few weeks ago (she did not pick daydream). Although it was clearly a Red Mango/Pinkberry wannabe, I liked Daydream much better because its ice cream had less of the traditional sour milk taste. The fruit toppings were quite good (I especially liked the pomegranate and rasberries), as well as the almonds. That marked the end of eating for the day and I felt comfortably full. Tiff later burned off all of the calories on the treadmill at one in the morning while zipping through two editions of wsj while I vegged out in front of the TV and watched CSI:Miami and WaT reruns.

eating until I drop

My motto is doing everything to excess. Moderation is for wimps and people with self-control. When it comes to food, everything else flies out the window...this might explain three days of non-stop eating in NYC last weekend (honestly, who else can hit three bakeries, a gelato place, and a chocolate shop all within two hours right after brunch?).

On Friday evening, I rolled into NY on boltbus ready to get a head start on my food orgy for the weekend. At around 7PM, my friends and I went to K-town, where we always make a pit stop at least once. Korean BBQ's always the way to go, especially in a restaurant with three foot high pumes of smoke leaping from the grill in the middle of the table. Our destination was Shilla and four types of meat for our BBQ, the standard beef bulgogi and kalbi, and pork and chicken as well. Of course, I always get the seafood pancake to start and enjoy all of the little dishes (minus the kimchi). Maybe it's because I'm Asian, but the food is just so satisfying (not that pasta isn't excellent) and homey.

After ingesting a week's worth of meat, we headed down the street to Koryodang, a Korean bakery, where I purchased some tiramisu and a scrumptious mocha cake that turned out to be 90% frosting and 10% cake. We then went across the street to Red Mango, where I gulped down my tiramisu surreptitiously while everyone else munched on overrated ice cream. Red Mango and Pinkberry are so hot right now, they'd actually be doing well in this economy if they were publically traded. As for myself, I'm not a fan of the sour yogurt taste and have avoided it since childhood, where I tried it in a liquid milk form. I confess that I do have mixed feelings about Asian pastries. On the one hand, it's great to eat something that's so airy that it's barely there and lacking the cloying, nauseating sweetness that's the hallmark of industrial-grade frosting. However, it just doesn't quite seem like a real full-bodied cake. Nevertheless, I loved the tiramisu and its liberal dust of cocoa powder on top and was indifferent towards the unbalanced mocha cake.

Afterwards, we went to Times Square and to the Charmin/Duracell store. The idea of promoting something like toilet paper is very strange because it's a commodity (same with batteries). Moreover, we belong to a culture where bodily functions aren't really discussed in polite everyday converation. The Charmin store had around 20 toilet stalls and a comedian with several helpers directing people to each stall. People stood in line to go to one of these 'special bathrooms' (myself included) while he made remarks including "drop it while it's hot" and asked a young boy if he could handle going to the bathroom by himself. The duracell store had bikes/snowmobiles that you could petal in order to generate energy. My conclusion: some products just can't be placed, no matter how good the advertising. Also, since Charmin and Duracell are the top competitors in their generic markets (besides Scott's and Energizer), I'm not sure that they needed more advertising. Nonetheless, it was fun and we finished off the evening with some Godiva truffles and turkish delight.

the thanksgiving experience: amtrak

On Wednesday morning, I took Amtrak back to my parents' as usual. My hectic one month contract theory class finally wrapped up, and I staggered onto the train completely sleep deprived to the point of not being able to nap on the train. So I did the next best thing: eavesdrop on the conversation in front of me while indulging in some emotionally draining short stories by Joyce Carol Oates.

The guy sitting in front of me was a total asshole. He was some 'bigshot' in the movie industry and completely full of it while misrepresenting himself as sensitive and nice. Of course, he was trying to impress the girl sitting next to him. A snippet of their conversation (the entire train could hear him):

"So, like, you know all the popular songs on the radio? That's all me. Yeah, like, I promote these new bands. You know how some people have like dirty laundry in their duffel? I have all these CDs in my bag that are the next hottest thing. They haven't even been released yet, but this band toured with Nickelback, and they're going to be like #1 next year."

I prefer 40 year old men who don't sound like 15 year olds. Maybe they think they get a free pass to be immature if they work in the entertainment industry. This guy spent four hours hitting on the woman next to him, buying her a beer, telling her that he was close to his mom, but not a momma's boy, or maybe he was a momma's boy, and his biggest problem was that he was too trusting of others and so emotionally vulnerable (I was trying not to laugh at this point). The girl seemed extremely sensible and refused to give him her phone number even after he gave her a CD that was going to be released next February.

In the middle of their conversation, this schmuck was in an area with no reception (frequently happens on Amtrak) and borrowed the girl's phone to call his office in order to strut his stuff. What followed was a long and particularly vile string of obscenities that made the ancient Roman Catholic priest sitting next to me wake up and look around dolefully. Maybe I am picky, but I prefer guys who don't try 200% at being cool, aren't stuck in their teenage years, not momma's boys, not oversensitive, and who don't party all night followed by beer and bagels for breakfast.

Near the end of my train ride, I did strike up a conversation with the Catholic priest sitting next to me. We talked quite a bit about psychology (of which I am completely ignorant), and I was surprised that he was so well read. He was surprised that I knew what the TVA was (we eventually branched out into the history of the US, of which I am slightly less ignorant). I generally get along well with older people. They're considerate and well-mannered, and don't have the need to prove themselves that many young people possess (myself included). So many people my age and a bit older are at a crossroads and not as self-confident as they would like to believe. To cover it up, so many of us walk around awkwardly with a brittle and slightly defensive air. I do believe in the saying 'fake it 'till you make it' to a certain extent, but sometimes I want to meet people my age who care about more than just their jobs and their coolness. Maybe I should stick to the old people. Or move to Europe.

the solace of bond

I was not able to resist seeing The Quantum of Solace on Friday, even while drowning in school (sort of like blogging at this moment). And yes, the reviews were spot on. The film itself was spotty in many places and not quite as introspective as its predecessor or its title might suggest. It held itself together much better than most action movies, although Bond movies generally fare quite well in that respect with the exception of Die Another Day and Never Say Never Again (who the hell casts Rowan Atkinson in a Bond movie?). The action scenes were plentiful and much too short. Contrary to popular belief, most Americans don't have ADD even if they are popping ritalin, and I resent movies that blithely assume otherwise. Even action flicks don't get a pass on that one. The plot was much less gripping in Casino Royale, the gadgets nonexistent except for a groovy touch screen that was less cool than CNN's on election night. Daniel Craig was excellent, perhaps even more so here than in Casino Royale. The rest of the characters were fine but nothing out of the ordinary. Once again, I seem to have shot myself in the foot with my high expectations.

Funnily enough, I don't actually remember Casino Royale except that it was good, the opening parcour scene was the highlight, and Mads Mikkelsen was the villain. Like Batman Begins, I don't think Casino Royale is terribly special. Granted, I love this new approach to James Bond (which hero/superhero hasn't gotten a makeover in the last ten years?) and the grittiness that's infused into every remake. Anyone who knows me knows that I love this Bond. Cold, efficient, acerbic, and rough beyond the edges. It's charming to see a softer Bond in Casino Royale brutally transform into a darker version of himself who's completely indifferent between killing and maiming his enemies. Both Bond films owe much of their credit to Daniel Craig, especially Quantum of Solace, which would have folded without him.

For the longest time, most of the population including myself couldn't figure out what 'Quantum of Solace' really meant. Of course, its literal translation is measure of comfort, but it's much more than that. It's the spark that is fundamental to any relationship, the bit of deep affection (different from love) that one person sustains for the other. And yes, people delight in extinguishing that quantum of solace in each other, not always consciously and sometimes without intention, but it happens nonetheless. Rip it away and the whole thing goes. The result is a deep sense of being broken beyond repair and feeling complete indifference and bleakness where hatred doesn't even exist anymore. Stepping back from my melodramatic soapbox, this movie is not remotely soulful and much less delicate than Casino Royale. However, I love the notion that Bond does regain his Quantum of Solace (I'm not sure that it would be possible in real life), and that idea alone makes up for many of the movie's other shortcomings.

I loved Olga Kurylenko's character Camille, although I couldn't exactly point to above average acting as the cause. Camille is just the right blend of toughness and vulnerability. She takes herself much more seriously than other Bond girls and tenaciously asserts her independence. And her hand to hand combat skills kick ass. I liked the idea of an emotional relationship between her and Bond rather than the requisite bed involved. The other 'Bond girl' (I shudder when I say that) was completely and utterly unnecessary, not to mention what must be the worst pick-up line ever...Moreover, I have to say that I wasn't a huge fan of M in this movie. She should be in the background because no scriptwriter in this era has ever written anything remotely decent for a female director in a spy organization (Pam Landy, Bourne, anyone?).

Quantum of Solace might have benefited from longer scenes. It was much too lean, even for an action movie. In that respect, Casino Royale was definitely better paced. However, there were a few scenes in Quantum that really stood out for me. The most vivid and absolutely stunning scene is where Bond and Camille walk through the desert. His dusty black suit and her black dress against the yellow-white background is stunning in a way that is both overwhelming and understated at the same time. There are only two colors (Thank God she's not a redhead), ochre and black, but the imagery is so paradoxical, rich and desolate at the same time. I would go back just to see that scene.

Goodness, I've realized that I've written a generally positive review about a movie that was only slightly better than average. What is the world coming to? Maybe I need to watch it again just to be clear.

heard today

Friend: We have so many things to do!
Friend: Like watching Bolt, and making dumplings.
Me: And read finance papers.
*pause*
Me: Sorry.
Friend: I almost threw up there.
Me: Yeah.
Friend: It's understandable.
Friend: Finance does that to people.
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Friend: I have a weird interview for some "Research Assistant to the Vice Chairman" position.
Friend: I wonder if that's the official title for "bitch". Seriously, it seems really sketchy.
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About Crusoe:
Friend: He has green eyes! But a faux tan. That's hard for me to deal with.
Me: Is that a deal-breaker?
Friend: I don't know. He's yummier than Craig.
Me: I thought green eyes = hot for you.
Friend: Dude, a face is more than the sum of its parts. Although green eyes are yummy.
Me: You are too funny today.
Friend: What?
Friend: I mean, I objectify men, but not usually that much.

solace in swimming

A friend recently pointed out to me that my blog is generally very predictable. To be extra special today, I'll combine two or more predictable topics.

First, I went swimming this morning...something that I've been looking forward to for two days. I haven't really been keeping up with my non-existent exercising regimen, so I was pretty happy when I jumped into the pool Tuesday morning. A few hours later, I received an email informing me that the pool was closed until further notice due to 'mechanical failure'. I was slightly disturbed and my brain went into hyperdrive...did they OD the place with chemicals? Did the filters stop working? Did I ingest something potentially deadly and the gym staff neglected to inform me to avoid widespread panic? Wednesday morning, it all became clear to me. Apparently the bulkhead broke (or something), and now the pool was standard 50M long course. Of course, this made me really excited and desperately wanting to try out the longer distance. The last time I swam in a LC pool was back in undergrad. The really awesome thing about swimming 50M rather than 25M is the feeling of covering more distance and for longer periods.

In all, it pretty nice just to have a change of pace once in awhile. I did about 2,300M total, a 500 warm-up, 300 swim, 100 pull, 100 kick. Then three 500s and a 300 cool-down. The emphasis was on my stroke and not my turns, which is pretty awesome. It also means that I can breathe better because I'm not turning every few seconds. I only attempted 50M backstroke, and it was a killer. Otherwise, I never felt like the other end was miles away. The only negative aspect was the the water temperature was about 10 degrees hotter than normal (maybe something else did malfunction), which makes cold-blooded creatures like me overheat and struggle to breathe (something that I do normally). Other than that, everything was just peachy. I'm still working on consistency, kicking, and futile attempts at butterfly. Apparently the kicking wasn't so good because I got out of the pool barely able to lift my arms over the head but walking just fine. It's so instinctive for me to bring my kick down to a minimum (5% capacity) over longer distances and power my way through with my arms. Maybe I'll increase the pace the last 100 or so, but the bulk of my work-out is upper-body.

After my sublime watery experience, I then went to King of Prussia for a suit. Apparently my body did some massive reconfiguration in the last three years (when I got my last suit), and I absolutely refuse to go to any more interviews in my fugly and ill-fitting pink-dotted black suit. Also, interviews matter a lot more to me now than back then. Times change. Circumstances change. People change. But back to my suit from the Limited. Is it possible for me to wear a size 8 jacket and size 2 skirt? Yes, but then I look completely unbalanced. I went up to a size 4 skirt in order not look like a complete upside down wedge. Side note: apparently bebe dresses fit me pretty well. Big boobs. Sizeable ass. Hopefully small everywhere else. I'll go to bebe again if I ever want to audition for Tramp-a-lot or Hoes in the Hood.

After wandering around looking at bags and trying on shoes (two areas which my brain is just not wired for), I gave up and went to indulge in Quantum of Solace with ugly sexy Daniel Craig. TBC.

almodovar tinged dreams

Most of my dreams are frustratingly normal, so imagine my surprise last night when I experienced loads of women running around on a bus, broken relationships, some useless man getting killed, and various scenarios repeating themselves. If I actually dreamed in color, I'm sure the Almodovar style garish pink-red blood would have played an integral role as well. When I woke up, I realized that my subconscious was telling me to watch Live Flesh (1997), where a bus features prominently in the first scene.

While solid, Live Flesh is not one of Almodovar's better movies. It is the only Almodovar movie to adapt the screenplay from a book, and it shows. From the first important scene (about ten minutes into the movie), I immediately knew what was going to follow in the next 85 minutes. Although it's possible that I've seen enough of his movies by now to predict the ending, I'm generally far from clairvoyant regarding movie endings. Obviously, this made this particular movie much less enjoyable. Something that Almodovar does well is plot twists and offbeat humor, both of which are diluted down in this movie. All of his movies carry familiar and small predictable components, but this was just ridiculous.

The major problem with Live Flesh is that the focus was on the men. Almodovar gets such amazing acting from his actresses. He coaxes so many emotions from women's faces, their bodies, and their dialogue. His women are nuanced, fiery, and absolutely beautiful characters. There's no such connection between the director and his actors. His men are generally cretins and two-dimensional: philanderers, drunks, and murderers alike. In Live Flesh, the men still satisfy all of the standard requirements but are thrust into center stage. The two female leads are atypical Almodovar women. They retain their emotional instability but also add passivity, weakness, and a penchant for failure into the mix.

Javier Bardem has been on my potential actor-to-watch list after Vicky Cristina Barcelona. He was good in this movie but not great. I have yet to see No Country for Old Men, which I'm absolutely dying to see. Penelope Cruz also has a short cameo in this movie, and she's definitely on my actress-to-watch list after VCB and Volver. The acting was fine and there was some humor in this movie, but it was less emotional and original than Almodovar's other works. Allowances must always be made for Almodovar movies, which often combine strange people, strange situations, and strange symbolism. The hero was mildly sympathetic and the heroine could as well have been a piece of cardboard, but I just can't fathom the progression of their non-relationship.

Live Flesh does exhibit some quirkiness, but the characters drag it down. Nonetheless, it possesses one of the loveliest love scenes ever. EVER. A few of the other relationshippy scenes are light and beautifully crafted, but the entire package falls short. I recommend Volver, which is everything that this movie is not. Pedro, please stick with empowering women among a backdrop of worthless men. Thank you very much.

appearance is everything

I was going to write something about the Philadelphia Orchestra or another Almodovar movie, but I've decided that worrying about my appearance should be my number one priority. I spend approximately thirty minutes on make-up, three to four days on shopping, and zero seconds prancing in front of my mirror each year. In fact, I sometimes take pride in wearing sweatpants and sneakers around this ultra-preppy Ivy League campus. But this is all wrong. Since I'll never again be as attractive as I am now, I should wear three inch heels, pluck my eyebrows daily, apply loads of powder and polish, and flirt scandalously with random men in bars so I can create some progeny before my eggs shrivel and my face looks like a wrinkled head of cabbage.

Seriously, I went to a small Halloween get-together a few days ago as a '70s disco girl. I paired a huge Afro with some Elvis sunglasses, a retro one-shouldered Express shirt, and some white jeans (the clothing was actually mine). People were suitably impressed. The good thing about looking like a bum all the time is that you really make a strong statement on the rare occasion when you look normal, or god-forbid, nice.

First, everyone loved the Afro. The only connection that I could find was that the wig was round and my face was round. For one evening, I looked completely different. I don't think I've ever styled my hair before and I've had almost the same haircut for more than ten years running. Hair and shoes are two things that I will probably never understand. I can do two hairstyles: ponytail and down. Go me. My hair is so flat and slippery straight that it will never curl. Period. And I refuse to get a perm and be left with some permanent kinky and coarse mess with the consistency of a rug. Then there's make-up and heels and a bag and an outfit and...ugh.

The old saying of "Don't judge a book by its cover" is theoretically correct, but lacking in several respects. It's highly unlikely that someone browsing in a bookstore is going to pick up a dull brown book over a snazzy blue leaflet with gold lettering. Of course, there are people who go to bookstores or Amazon with a specific title in mind, but considering the massive decline in reading each year, that population is sadly dwindling. I understand the motivation. We're all extremely visual. Substance is great, but it'll never be discovered if no one cares to take the first look. I'm not one of those women who oppose the idea of looking pretty on philopsophical terms, objectification and sexualization and blah blah, it's just that I've never really cared about my looks.

Now, a couple of us are planning to lose some weight, which is furthering my goal to look like an attractive young woman. Weight loss is something that I've never seriously contemplated, probably because I'm a huge foodie. The reason why I spend so little on clothing is because I prefer to eat out and eat out well. Also, since ice cream and chocolate are integral parts of my daily existence, dieting clearly isn't an option. On the exercise front, I'm somewhat in shape, although not what I would consider in good shape. I try to go to the gym every other day, but I probably need to go every day on this new plan. And I should run or do some land exercise...otherwise I'll suffer from osteoporosis.

On one hand, I do want to look pretty and cute (and I'm about to gag now). But... (there's always a but) I don't enjoy receiving attention. I prefer to be anonymous and relatively normal. No psychoanalyzing here, but there must be some reason that I panic and run when two nice guys, Mike and Bill, introduce themselves at a bar and hold out their hands for me to shake. I suspect (or know) that the reason why I'm so blase about my appearance is because this isn't something that I'm uberconfident in. In a few short months, I'll be out of my protective bubble and forced into the plasticky and shallow real world, so time to reinvent myself and find my style (I did not just say that).

Mad for Mads

I'm not generally a fan of actors who portray ambiguous characters and don't speak much English, but Mads Mikkelsen is an exception. I loved him in After the Wedding, where he was so quiet on the outside, but just an explosion of emotion on the inside. A few weekends ago, I saw Open Hearts and The Green Butchers, both solid Danish imports as usual.

Open Hearts was extremely difficult for me to sit through. In true Dogme style (directed by Susanne Bier), there were no frills or softness. The story is abjectly sad and somewhat similar in storyline to Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves (I couldn't finish that movie either). A young man gets run over by a repentant mother and becomes paralyzed from the neck down. His fiance is devasted and starts screwing the guilty woman's husband...etc. Even though the movie could possibly have been even bleaker, the subject matter was just too weighty. Seeing Mads cry didn't help either.

As a frequent American moviegoer, I depend quite a bit on special effects and the soundtrack. Nonetheless, I also enjoy 'realistic' movies such as The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Open Hearts was just too bleak and the characters too flawed and realistic. Even though all of the characters are essentially good people who sometimes make bad decisions, there's a sheen of rawness and ugliness over some of the scenes. I was really frustrated by Mads's character as well, who's somewhat of a middle-aged pathetic pansy. However, His wife is wonderful and the real hero of the movie in my eyes, who tries to hold her family together even while she's falling apart. The other woman is annoying as well. On one hand, she deserves some sympathy after her boyfriend falls apart, but then she goes and messes up the doctor and his family's lives. I guess I despise characters who have their cake and eat it too.

The Green Butchers is a dark comedy and completely different. I enjoyed this movie as well. Without the pyrotechnics and profuse sentiment that virtually lurks in every American film, the story was simple and flowed nicely. Although Mads's character is arguably worse in this movie, he was so over the top that it was funny. He plays a psychopath butcher who dreams of opening his own shop and eventually does. This butcher has overflowing reservoirs of self-pity, a receding hairline that redefines receding, and a propensity to sweat more than any other animal alive. His partner in crime is a young man who's perpetually stoned and makes a habit of killing small animals and preserving their bones dinosaur style. For anyone who's curious, the stoner's the sane one. One never really sympathizes with Mads, but he's absolutely hilarious, melting in puddles of his own sweat.

This movie is charmingly simple and accepting of its good but not excellent status. Maybe I've just watched a spate of horrible American movies lately (Max Payne and Bangkok Dangerous), but it just seems that European movies flow much better. So many action movies, comedies, and even dramas feel choppy nowadays with crater-sized holes in plot development and nonexistent scripts rife with stupidity. While the camerawork is undeniably better (for $100M more), so many fundamentals are missing. I enjoy watching European movies because they are more character driven, quirky, and possess a solid storyline and above average dialogue. This is not to say that I hate American movies since most of my all time favorites are Hollywood produced. Granted, having a meaningful conversation onscreen might be more difficult than creating a 50 car pile-up at the entrance of a nuclear reactor with F-15s flying overhead, but please make an effort. It'll cost less, too.