Wednesday, April 13, 2011
So we're watching "The Fighter".
And I'm getting really annoyed that Christian Bale won an award for this role because he's a caricature.
He's "doing" the character. The acting, I can see it all over the place. I can't turn my head without bumping into a performance. "And now we are doing a blue collar wise guy! And now we are doing an accent! Look at us, we are very skinny and say 'heroin'. Somebody hand us our award!"
We're watching Amy Adams, who is doing just fine.
But you know, I don't like Amy Adams.
Can't say why. Some people just rub you wrong.
And then Mr. V makes a remark regarding her, and something--I don't remember what--tips me off.
"You're liking her, aren't you?" I accuse. "You're liking Amy Adams."
"She's a redhead. I can't help it." His pathetic defense. "What is your problem with Amy Adams?"
"I don't like her funny little voice. Or her pointy little nose."
"You have a pointy little nose," he mutters into his brandy glass.
I'm loading Indy into her carseat, I turn on the ignition, and the radio blasts.
We both startle.
I turn it down.
"Maybe the leprechaun did that," says Indy.
"Maybe," I agree.
"Or maybe," she says, "It was Michael Jacks."
By which she means, of course, that Michael Jackson has been creeping into our minivan at night to play impish pranks with our stereo volume.
I would like to point out that I like January Jones precisely for her funny little voice.
And her icy, Teutonic gaze.
And her restrained until it is inappropriately expressed moxie.
And because I parent just like her.
At some point this stopped being a conversation about January Jones and became my love letter to Betty Draper.
I love you, Betty Draper.
You get that groove on.
I am Vesuvius and it's just my people are Nordic. And then I took a xanax.