A Year Late and Three Months Short

Last year when I moved to the soggy northwest, this 'burg was abuzz with gossip about various indie films that had made the arduous journey from Redford's Sundance all the way out here.

Among the flicks, the pasty locals were raving about was The Station Agent, which I just rented on DVD. The film chronicles a self-contained, quiet guy who finds his way to hicksville, New Jersey when he inherits an abandoned train station. A local latches onto him hell bent on becoming his friend and a depressed, SUV-driving artist flings her self at him. In fact, several pretty blondes -- among them Dawson's Creek alum, Michelle Williams -- fall all over him. Playing the lead is New York stage actor, Peter Dinklage, who has a lot of people falling over him. See, he's a dwarf and only 4'6". What kept my jaw on the floor all the way thru was the fact that he does more with a raised eyebrow or a heavy sigh than a thespian like Kevin Spacey does with his whole elastic body. Smoldering Dinklage puts phenomenal depth and regret into his character's haulting lines and sorrowful glances. He does what every male lead aspires to do: he's riveting to watch, he's sexy and you can totally buy into all the blondes dropping at his feet. In short, he makes Ralph Fiennes, Tom Cruise and the rest of the alpha-male leads look like monkeys.



So I've jumped the Peter Dinklage fan wagon a year late, but that's okay. Lucky New Yorkers caught him on stage in November in Shakespeare's Richard III ... as the lead. It gets better. He's doing a pilot TV drama up the road in Vancouver, I think. Just when you thought the American leading man had been thoroughly usurped by every Ralph, Colin and Damian in England's Equity along comes a pure charmer sneeking in under the radar.

* * * * *

In uber-bizarre news, I discovered this weird crap from three months ago about Paris and its catacombs. Apparently, the idiot locals who brave raw sewage and flash floods to fathom these holes are called cataphiles and there's secret societies within sects as was demonstrated when the Paris Metro Police found a complete subterreanian theater complete with wet bar and some creepy note. Aren't the bars above ground enough for those smug frogs?

AND, finally, in the midst of "discovering" all the catacomb stuff three months late, I discovered this other blogger. Yes, there are others who journal on-line. Bloggers who blog in a way that makes me wanna go cry or something. This person(s) in Melbourne, Australia, he knows HTML and he's not afraid to use it. I feel sooo inadequate ...

-- Mz M. - Livin' large on whiskey sours and rain

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