… and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, well, except for Jake the cat chasing a catnip mouse.
Me? I’m finishing up some last-minute baking and watching Christmas movies. There are a lot of great films based on a Christmas theme. You know, like It’s a Wonderful Life:
Treacly? Yes, yes it is. But then Capra’s genius lay not in his subtlety, but in his optimism.
And then there are the not-so-greats, like Santa Claus vs the Martians:
Unforgettably craptastic.
But some of my favorite Christmas films aren’t really recognized as being holiday-centric. And a couple of my other faves… well, the theme is undeniable but they don’t make for the most traditionally heartwarming viewing.
Want to know my top five fave Christmas movies? Read on after the cut… and remember that neither of the above films is on that list.
Once upon a time in a galaxy about ten miles down the road, I worked for a film festival. I was young and foolish then and had no problems working 72 hours straight hopped up on Chupa Chups, sleeping in the bathtub in the hotel suite that served as the center of command when I had a chance.
After several years of nonsense (and when everyone else moved from lollipops to cocaine) I quit, and from that day to this, I’ve seen maybe a dozen first-run films in the theater.
However, fate and fortune, not to mention being jerked around by the office of the Mexican Consular General for half the day until I nearly cried in two languages, conspired against my anti-filmic ways and I found myself at an art house double-feature. The menu consisted of Pedro Almodovar’s new film “The Skin I Live In” and “The Way” starring Martin Sheen.
The Almodovar flick couldn’t have been more effed up if it came with its own anti-gravity vibrat…personal massager, but “The Way” was touching, gently funny and although I Do Not Cry In Public, something got in my eye several times and it absolutely ruined my makeup.
It’s the story of a buttoned up father who, upon learning his estranged son died the first day into a pilgrimage along the Camino de Santiago through France and Spain, decides to complete the pilgrimage for his son, scattering his ashes along the way.
He reluctantly takes on a handful of traveling companions, first and for our purposes most importantly, “Joost from Amsterdam.”
Yorick van Wageningen plays jovial Joost, the mountainous Dutchman –think a lumberjack in the off season– who is walking the 800km way to lose a few pounds to fit into the suit he needs to wear for his brother’s wedding. Throughout the film Joost provides good-hearted comic relief and despite his desire to drop weight, he gladly, gleefully partakes of local lamb and fresh goat’s cheese and every simple gastronomical pleasure the road offers him. He’s never portrayed as a glutton, just a bon vivant with an appetite for everything, including food.
The peregrinos (pilgrims) are well over half way through their months-long trek when it’s revealed Joost’s wife doesn’t want to sleep with him because he’s fat.
There is a scene where good-natured Joost looks at himself naked in the mirror as he sits down to a beautiful tray of room service, delivered on the one indulgent day of their journey. Watching him cry in frustration and shame…well, something got in my eye again. I think the mold is going around.
I won’t ruin the end of the film, I know how people on the internet are about spoilers, but I cannot recommend this film enough. Watch the trailer and then see it for yourself.
As autumn creeps in and the weather turns colder, there are few things I love as much as curling up with a good movie or two… or even three. And after a long day, I love having something to laugh at.
So here are some of my favorite comedies in no particular order, in case you’re looking for a source of a few good giggles anytime soon.
It has several ardent admirers, but even the intoxicated appreciation of the Toothless Vagrants Local 310 could not hide the sad truth: While I’ve got plenty of boom boom up front, I am noticeably lacking in the posterior pow.
When I was in Mexico not only was I surrounded by Latinas of all shapes and sizes, sporting big, bouncing backsides (many trying to catch the attention of my Hot Latin Boy and giving me the stinkeye when he was clearly not having it), one of the villas up the street had been converted into a plastic surgery recovery house where, according to my neighbor, 8 out of 10 of them were there for butt enhancements.
I reminded myself that as a rule, I do not have body issues and Something Must Be Done before I drove myself insane.
I couldn’t reasonably change how it looked and besides, there was nothing objectively wrong with it.
It’s not that nice perky bubble, but it’s strong, firm and still relatively young. Sure there’s cellulite but, I’ve had cellulite since the fourth grade. That dimpled ship sailed before glasnost and it’s not coming back. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
The only thing I could really do is change the way I felt.
In the movie version of this story there would be a montage of hilarious yet endearing moments of me consciously trying to bond with my backside, possibly with a Sonny and Cher soundtrack but what really went down is this:
Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus) is a 1959 masterpiece from French director Marcel Camus that sets the Greek tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice in a shanty town outside Rio de Janeiro during the dizzying days before Carnival. It’s a beautiful piece of cinema, but what stuck out –literally and figuratively– were the behinds.
They were aspirational.
The extras were women from the local favela and samba schools and they all walked around with this amazing regal walk, carrying their rumps like royal orbs, especially the older, fatter women and especially while they were dancing.
I needed to learn to samba.
One night, I prevailed upon one of the waiters at the only restaurant in my village to take me to a place in a nearby town that offered the Brazilian export and we went, I in my white dress and he in approximately six gallons of Aspen cologne.
The club was loud and there were chickens in the parking lot.
They did NOT serve gin and tonics.
Gentle reader, I do not think it will surprise you when I say I am not the finest samba dancer in the state of Baja California. Frankly, I wasn’t all that surprised myself. I WAS surprised I was so actively, aggressively bad.
I am a good dancer. The steps looked easy. Surely it couldn’t be that hard.
Ha.
Again, in the movie version I’d go from hapless gabacha to samba queen in the span of a few minutes, thanks to the instructive caresses of my sexy Latin waiter and we’d realize, despite our social and economic differences and his flagrant abuse of drug store fragrance, we were Meant To Be Together.
Meaningful exposition of self.
Jump cut to bedroom scene.
Slow fade to black.
What actually happened was this:
“YOUR BUTT IS IN JAIL!”
“WHAT?”
“YOUR BUTT. IT IS IN JAIL! LET IT GO!!”
“NO I ALREADY HAVE A DRINK!”
“PUSH YOUR BUTT OUT, LOOSE! LOOSE!!”
”WHAT??? TEXAS!! I DON’T THINK I’M DOING THIS RIGHT!!”
And then somehow –and honestly I have no idea how– it happened. I found my inner Brazilian butt.
No one was surprised as I when things started shaking ’round the back 40. Maybe I was tired or maybe it was cachaca margaritas, but I started channeling those broad-beamed broads from Orfeu Negro and it felt so good, so strange and wild and not even remotely Episcopalian that I couldn’t help but let those months of ugly self-talk steam out of me with my sweat.
(French theatrical trailer for Orfeu Negro. Seriously. Watch it.)
I was still the worst samba girl in the club, my waiter friend, while admittedly very sexy, still smelled like my first boy/girl dance circa 1992 and no amount of magical thinking is going to give me one of those fantastic Latin backsides, but that’s not the point.
The point is I made friends with my body, with a part of my body I wasn’t –even if was just a very short while– especially fond of.
I didn’t do it through external praise or by changing what it fundamentally (ha) was. I did it by finding a way to make “LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!” trump “Look what I don’t have!” and if I can do it, you can do it; and if you can do it, why don’t we all start right now?
Now I’m going to watch Orfeu Negro again…the big samba scene is coming up and frankly I still need a few pointers.
Next time I don’t want to scare the chickens.
PSSST: Do you follow @missplumcake on Twitter? If not, today might be a good day to start. I’m answering readers’ questions all day. Personal, professional, just keep it (moderately) clean! –ed.
Greetings my little firecrackers of love, how’s every little thing? Me, I’m great. I’ve never spent the Fourth of July outside the United States before…surprisingly it’s not QUITE as big a deal here. It reminded me of the time I was in Ireland doing one of those double decker bus tours of Dublin (we were tired, okay?) and the tour conductor seemed to take less than a warm and tender view re: the English Reformation I –as the World’s Most Glamorous Anglican ™– know and love.
Anyway, it’s Tuesday which means it’s time to find out What Miss Plumcake is…
Manolo the Shoeblogger is not Mr. Manolo Blahnik. This website is not affiliated in any way with Mr. Manolo Blahnik, any products bearing the federally registered trademarks MANOLO®, BLAHNIK® or MANOLO BLAHNIK®, or any licensee of said federally registered trademarks. The views expressed on this website are solely those of the author.
