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Aug. 21st, 2015 03:58 pm
The better half
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monshu! Despite how tired I was after entertaining his family Tuesday night, I had every intention of joining up with them again the next evening in Wicker Park for fancy vegan food. Then Wicker Park became Norwood Park and the restaurant became dowdy old Amitabul, which I have strongly meh impressions of from the days when it was still located on Southport. Even at rush hour, the RTA trip planner couldn't find a route which took less than 65 minutes and the taxi fare estimator put the cost around $36. I was so eager not to disappoint anyone that I even checked Uber (which I consider the pimple on Satan's glans of transport companies), but then I came to my senses and begged off.
Of course, by then it was too late for forging alternative plans, so I decided instead to grab some pie to heat up at home while I cleared a title off my NetFlix queue. I try to screen them well, so it's a rare day indeed when I find one so unwatchable that I seriously consider giving up a half hour in, so either I was in a far worse mood than I thought I was or No Way To Treat A Lady is just a special kind of awful. George Segal isn't entirely charmless, but neither is there much apparent reason for Lee Remick to pursue him so single-mindedly. The real puzzle, however, is why too-clever-by-half serial killer Rod Steiger sees him as a worthy opponent for a game of cat-and-mouse when it's basically dumb luck that bears him along. I love Rod Steiger--clearly I must to stick with him as he eats every piece of scenery within arm's length. But he doesn't have enough charisma to save this shambles of a script. (Not surprised Goldman didn't put his name to it.)
But of all this, what had my hand hovering over the remote was the atrocious performance of Eileen Heckart as the most embarrassing caricature of a Jewish mother this side of the Borscht Belt. (In retrospect, the smart thing to do would've been to put on closed captioning and watch her scenes muted.) The whole thing is such a mess of stereotypes (ethnic and otherwise), from Irish cops and priests to mouthy dames and flaming queens, but none of it prepares you from an amazingly ill-conceived confrontation between Segal and a midget confessing to the crimes which is played for laughs only there aren't any--not even from sheer nervous confusion.
Still, I didn't regret my choice. I regretted it even less when the Old Man stumbled in at 11 p.m. with a tale of woe of waiting nearly two hours in the unseasonable coolness to catch a cab back from the burbs. The whole business wore him out to the point where he spent most of the next day sleeping. I'll make it up to him tomorrow by riding the rails out to the Blue Line terminus and plunging into the maelstrom of Comic-Com with him. Then it's a day of recovery before the clean-up day for the out-of-towners.
monshu! Despite how tired I was after entertaining his family Tuesday night, I had every intention of joining up with them again the next evening in Wicker Park for fancy vegan food. Then Wicker Park became Norwood Park and the restaurant became dowdy old Amitabul, which I have strongly meh impressions of from the days when it was still located on Southport. Even at rush hour, the RTA trip planner couldn't find a route which took less than 65 minutes and the taxi fare estimator put the cost around $36. I was so eager not to disappoint anyone that I even checked Uber (which I consider the pimple on Satan's glans of transport companies), but then I came to my senses and begged off.Of course, by then it was too late for forging alternative plans, so I decided instead to grab some pie to heat up at home while I cleared a title off my NetFlix queue. I try to screen them well, so it's a rare day indeed when I find one so unwatchable that I seriously consider giving up a half hour in, so either I was in a far worse mood than I thought I was or No Way To Treat A Lady is just a special kind of awful. George Segal isn't entirely charmless, but neither is there much apparent reason for Lee Remick to pursue him so single-mindedly. The real puzzle, however, is why too-clever-by-half serial killer Rod Steiger sees him as a worthy opponent for a game of cat-and-mouse when it's basically dumb luck that bears him along. I love Rod Steiger--clearly I must to stick with him as he eats every piece of scenery within arm's length. But he doesn't have enough charisma to save this shambles of a script. (Not surprised Goldman didn't put his name to it.)
But of all this, what had my hand hovering over the remote was the atrocious performance of Eileen Heckart as the most embarrassing caricature of a Jewish mother this side of the Borscht Belt. (In retrospect, the smart thing to do would've been to put on closed captioning and watch her scenes muted.) The whole thing is such a mess of stereotypes (ethnic and otherwise), from Irish cops and priests to mouthy dames and flaming queens, but none of it prepares you from an amazingly ill-conceived confrontation between Segal and a midget confessing to the crimes which is played for laughs only there aren't any--not even from sheer nervous confusion.
Still, I didn't regret my choice. I regretted it even less when the Old Man stumbled in at 11 p.m. with a tale of woe of waiting nearly two hours in the unseasonable coolness to catch a cab back from the burbs. The whole business wore him out to the point where he spent most of the next day sleeping. I'll make it up to him tomorrow by riding the rails out to the Blue Line terminus and plunging into the maelstrom of Comic-Com with him. Then it's a day of recovery before the clean-up day for the out-of-towners.