Get Up On, Vol. 1

"Breaking Bad" on AMC. Holy crap, you are an awesome show. I can love you with the pure, untainted love of someone who has not seen your next seven episodes beaten out on white boards. "Breaking Bad" is like the smoking hot Argentinian who hooks up with your on-again-off-again Significant Other when the S.O. studies abroad for a semester. You'll get back together when the S.O. comes back next September, but in the meantime, it is very flattering to realize your Significant Other has such awesome taste -- and is also so personally attractive that the S.O. can attract the attention of smoking hot Argentinians.

(In this metaphor, "Breaking Bad" is the smoking hot Argentinian; "Mad Men" is the sophomore at Bryn Mawr; AMC is the junior at Yale you met last summer when you interned at HBO; I am the roommate who buys bottles of Ballatore with my older sister's ID and happily sits up all night discussing whether AMC looks more like Kyle McLaughlin or Scott Bakula.)

"The Sarah Connor Chronicles" on Fox. If I were a Titaness, I would eat this show to hide it from my angry Titan spouse until one day it will spring, full grown, from my brow and be the most beloved of all my children. Wait, I think I'm combining Athena and Zeus. Never mind. Two bad ass ladies! One kinda mom aged! One kinda teen aged! Both frickin' bad ass! Both brunette! Awesome! (Also, if you notice, really deft structuring of the show so that we always have at least two ongoing threads -- John in high school, Sarah investigating SkyNet, plus an overarching ethical question. Love!)

The New Orthotics in My Shoes. The old orthotics were pretty good. I haven't wracked up my knees since I got them. (Except for that two mile walk on a beach full of pebbles in Ireland, but no orthotic was going to protect me from that.) The new orthotics are like sex on my feet. I put them in my shoes and suddenly there is the most delicious support underneath my arches, like wee brownies are carrying me through my day's errands. Also, these orthotics are made from hard plastic with purple felt lining, and probably won't fall apart in two years like my previous vinyl 'n foam 'n fiberglass pair.

(Anyone who tells you that nobody walks in L.A. is a liar. Because I did not wear a pair of orthotics to shit in 29 months by sitting behind the wheel of a car. )

Taking the 10 to the 405 to Sunset. I am pretty embarrassed I did not think of this sooner. But thanks to an invite to some joint @ La Cienega and Sunset, I decided to mix it up, and what do you know? Fast, easy shortcut to the mid-west side. Huzzah.

Almost Being Done with "Eclipse." I don't know when I've been more bored by a young adult novel. As of this morning, I've skipped over three hours with no regrets. Most lame development ever: Irresistible Bella wants to get it on with her sexy vampire Edward, but he's holding out UNTIL THEY'RE MARRIED. And I'm not talking about the dark gift. I'm talking about the sweaty, moan-y gift. Although Edward is also hoarding the dark gift until after the Big Day. Basically, nothing awesome can happen until they're married. P.S. The author is a Mormon. Coincidence? I think not.

(P.P.S. I have nothing against Mormons, except that apparently they write horrifically tedious young adult novels. I feel like I bought a ticket to "Cloverfield" and got tricked into watching "Pilgrim's Progress." But then I feel the same way about C.S. Lewis, so there you go.)

(P.P.P.S. Sorry for the excessive metaphoring. I promise, my next post will be completely literal.)

I'm 100% Positive the Strike Will Go Until June*

Yes, I was wrong about last night's "Project Runway." I was positive that this week's challenge would be a return of the popular make-an-outfit-from-the-stuff-in-your-apartment. I was way, way off.

But I've never been happier to be wrong. For one thing, it reminded me that I can't predict the future, and proved that "Project Runway" can still surprised and delight me. (Oh, brother, can it! Between the Sweet P/Rami show down and the Kit/Ricky debacle? Delicious!) Ricky, btw, doesn't really bother me, but I admit, I have no idea why he's still on the show. I think it has to be a question of story arc. This wasn't his week. There wasn't a moment or a dramatic reversal that would justify taking down the Moistest Designer.

In a similar vein, rumor has it that the DGA has negotiated a deal with the AMPTP, and is now in talks with the WGA to see if they can be brought on board. My first thought is that this will never work, but again, I would be delighted to be wrong.


Which brings me to today's piece of Advice for the Aspiring Whatsit** Who's Thinking of Moving to L.A.:

Let Los Angeles surprise you.

When you start talking about moving to L.A., you'll hear a lot of conventional wisdom on the subject. My beloved Chicago Improv Network routinely bursts into brief storms of Why-Los-Angeles-Sucks-Balls-and-I-Would-Never-Move-There. Traffic, heat, smog, blah blah blah.

The city has some drawbacks. Every city does. But every city has its perks, if you let yourself see them. If you don't, you'll never be able to think of that place as home. (It's the same principle by which we fall in love with vacation spots. That pang of regret as you're leaving, and the brief, crazy thought of moving back there permanently? Both signs that you've noticed a few of that place's unique perks.)

Hands down, my favorite thing about L.A. is the light. It's the light of Richard Diebenkorn's Ocean Park paintings, hot, bright and shadowless for four to six hours every day. It makes whites shout, blues glow, oranges burn. It forces me to wear sunscreen, sunglasses and sometimes even a hat, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I'm also fond of the utterly unmidwestern plant life here, including a weird, spirally bush we call Gilliam Shrubs because they look like something out of Monty Python, and the wonderfully car-friendly terrain. After a month out here, the streets of Chicago look like the narrow alleys of a medieval Italian mountain town.

But in the end, you have to find your own favorite things -- but at the same time, you'll find your own way of thinking of Los Angeles as your home.

* I'm hoping glaringly wrong predictions comes in threes. Or at least twos.
** I came out as a screenwriter, but I can't think why this advice wouldn't help an actor, director or whathaveyou.

Rejection

It gives me no pleasure to say this, but the world does not need another meticulous dramatic English language adaptation of "Persuasion."

I am very sorry to put it so plainly, but really! I cannot see that this newest arrival has any advantages over the 1997 installment. Indeed, I find Anthony Stewart Head the most agreeable performer, and generally speaking, I do enjoy Miss Austen's works.

But to cast aside the earlier version with Mr. Ciaran Hinds? It is not to be borne! And to what end? It is a truth universally acknowledged among readers of "Persuasion" that Captain Wentworth is a sailor, a profession that cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly. Just so! Mr. Hinds is the very picture of a seafaring fellow, his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree. (All this quite aside from the gentleman's efforts in the theatrical vein, which are a delight to behold.)

As if it did not give offense enough to cast aside the earlier work, with its many advantages, the newer version casts Rupert Penry-Jones as Captain Wentworth. A man of such pleasant countenance as might have never known a single spray of salt nor an hour's bright sun!

Good heavens! I cannot think what the world is coming to. It puts me quite out of heart.

I Am Kate's Brain

Even though it's the kind of delicious tidbit that inspires many a bumper sticker and novelty t-shirt, it is, alas, a myth that human beings only use 10% of our brains.

I'm surprised this didn't get debunked much, much sooner. On every medical drama, when a doctor checks out a CT scan or an MRI of the brain, the screen is always lit up like a Christmas tree. If we were only using 10% of our brains, the screen should look like the terrain outside a jet window when you fly over Utah.

(Note to readers who may be actual doctors: Okay, maybe the CT or the MRI doesn't track brain activity, but one of those things does, because I saw this documentary on addiction, and they were totally looking at a picture of a guy's brain as he thought about doing crack. And it was lit up like a Christmas tree. So even former crack addicts use more than 10% of their brains.)

Anyway, I knew this already because my brain works even when I don't want it to. This start years ago, during a family viewing of an Agatha Christie mystery. Half way through, I proposed that the murderer was a female character who killed her victim for giving her TB (I think. Or maybe cholera) and causing her to miscarry her one and only child. I was, I think, twelve or thirteen at the time.

I was right.

Since then, it's been the rare hour of television that can completely stump me. My best hope is to have a small drink before turning on the TV, so that I'm working at a disadvantage. After that, there's surfing-and-watching, which distracts me just enough that I don't pick up all the clues. Then, too, there are the people who can bring it every single week. My first day as an intern on "Mad Men," I walked around the room reading the white boards, with my jaw hanging open in disbelief.

(That's right. I knew in March that Peggy was pregnant. And did I say anything? To anyone? I did not. I didn't even tell my MOM. Because I don't believe in spoilers. And also because I signed a confidentiality agreement.)

Sadly, the strike has stripped me of all my usual favorites, and I am reduced to obsessively watching "Project Runway." It used to be that I would never see the challenges coming. It used to be that I delighted in the surprise reversals and unexpected rivalries. Now, unfortunately, my brain has too much time on its hands. Even as the trailer is running for the following week, I know what's coming.

I knew last week would be a candy story challenge. I actually thought it would be Dylan's Candy Bar, but that's because I forgot that Project Runway doesn't deal with one-shot stores owned by Ralph Lauren's daughter. Rookie mistake.

This week, I knew it would be prom dresses. I knew. And I knew the models would be teenage girls.

And alas, I know what next week's challenge will be as well. I wasn't even trying to figure it out, and it snapped into my head. Stupid brain! This is one of my few remaining pleasures and you had to ruin it for me! That's it. We're going straight to the bathroom to do a couple shots of Nyquil until you learn your place around here.

I won't spoil it for anyone else, but just for posterity, I will "inviso-text" it below. So if you want to see my guess, or come back next week and see if I'm right (which I'm hoping I'm not), highlight it with your cursor.

SPOILER ALERT! READ NO FURTHER!




Next week's challenge: Making an outfit from materials found/taken from the contestant's apartment.

Formal Announcement

I like "The Wire." Every episode or portion of an episode I've ever seen has been astonishing. But at this point, I've seen, at best, 2% of all the episodes ever made.

Also, despite my frequent attempts to catch up on the show, every video store in a ten mile radius has had every single DVD, from every single season, rented out since late November.

Therefore, I am formally announcing that I will be Tivo'ing "The Wire," with every intention of watching the entire final run once I've managed to see the earlier four seasons. Any conversations you may need to have with me about the "The Wire" and how great it is will have to wait until then.

Thank you for your patience in this difficult time.

History Will Judge Us by Our Chorus Lines

I had some pistachio gelato earlier this week that had so much dairy fat, it actually crossed into butter territory. It wasn't like eating a stick o' Land o' Lakes, but it was more like that than a bowl of ice cream.

Anyway, it's at times like this that I think it's important to remember that the best rules are there to help us make good decisions.

I just saw "Enchanted," and I think it's time we instituted a law requiring musicals to feature equal opportunity bands of merry dancers. Maybe it's because just last night I saw "Ferris Bueller," with its now archaic "black people getting down" sequence. You're in downtown Chicago, people of all races and creeds are attending this parade, listening to Ferris/Lennon belt out "Shake It (Now Baby)", but for some reason, the entire crowd of synchronized dancers is made up of black people. Who are dressed like extras from "Good Times," even though all the white people are in suits.

Point being, I couldn't help noticing that in "Enchanted"'s Central Park sequence, the adorable, "my gracious! I'm not a bad dancer for an octogenarian!" elderly people were all white, and boogie-ers were all dark-skinned. Also, I call a moratorium on angry, sassy black women in various civil service positions, i.e. bus drivers and postal workers. I remain, as ever, fine with angry, sassy black female Supreme Court Justices and brain surgeons. Although I fail to see why, in all the world, only Shonda Rhimes ever steps up to this particular plate. (I'd like to give partial credit to Aaron Sorkin for casting Edward James Olmos as the Supreme Court nominee pulled over for drunk driving in that one episode of "West Wing," but then he kinda slid hopelessly into "Aren't white guys, like, the best?" with "Studio 60" and "Farnsworth's Whatchamagig.")

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to lie on the couch and nurse my cold.

Down the Rabbit Hole of Awesome

We saw Jack Gerber off to Joshua Tree yesterday morning, and then spent several hours flopped in a heap. It was fantastic to have Jack stay with us for the holidays, but we'd been in such complete host mode that we hadn't given any thought to what we'd do he left. After some laundry was put away and some Rice Krispie treats were made, I put one of our last Xmas movie rentals in and sat down with a gin and tonic to watch "The Last King of Scotland."

About an hour into it, MG announces that "Ball of Fire" is showing at the Aero at 7:30, in a double bill with "Twentieth Century." Good bye cozy night at home, hello brisk-if-somewhat-drunk walk to the Aero.

Over two years ago, I had a professor rave about "Ball of Fire," and I've been trying to see it ever since. There's a reason why it was hard to track down -- it came out on DVD this May, but before that, the last release was a VHS tape in 1998. And now that I've seen it, I can see why it is so fondly remembered.

Billy Wilder screenplay, Howard Hawks directs, Barbara Stanwyck shows some leg, Gary Cooper learns fisticuffs, Gene Krupa whips off two drum solos and a slew of old Hollwood contract players fill out the cast. (Henry Travers, the bulbous-nosed angel Clarence from "It's a Wonderful Life;"Oskar Homolka, the shifty husband from "Sabotage;" S.Z. Sakall, the plump, white-haired head waiter Carl from "Casablanca," as well as Leonid Kinskey, who was Sacha the bartender. And those are just the ones I recognized.)

The script itself is a model of hilarious elegance -- surprisingly so, considering it wasn't originally a stage play. The gold standard in this category would be "His Girl Friday," which clocks around with the efficiency of a Swiss watch. But my God, "Ball of Fire" takes this principle to an entirely new level, right down to the perfectly timed return of the garbage man. It has to be seen to be believed -- which is easily done, considering Amazon now has it on DVD for $14.99.

Less elegant but possibly even funnier (God, is that possible? Sure the fabric of space/time cannot contain more funniness?) was the second feature, "Twentieth Century." Are you sitting down? Okay. Howard Hawks directs; screenplay by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur (as in "His Girl Friday") with uncredited punch up from Preston Sturges and Gene Fowler. Carole Lombard is hilarious and essentially topless for all but the first scene (the film opened in 1934, i.e., before the Hayes Code drained the filth and gratuitous nipple shots out of movies.) And? And? You want more? Yes, you do. And very wise you are, at that.

John Barrymore knocking it Out. Off. The. Park. It's a role that walks the razor's edge of self-parody, but Barrymore locks into character and does not come out for so much as a nanosecond of the entire film. Everything that hasn't worked in the last four Jim Carrey movies, the last eight Robin Williams movies, plus miscellaneous seconds of Adam Sandler and Billy Crystal's careers? Look ye to John Barrymore in "Twentieth Century" to find the solution.

How can a mortal man narrow his eyes and hiss "You... ameoba!" without imploding at the contained hilarity? I don't know. How can one human being deliver the line "The iron door is closed!" four times in one script and yet, somehow, make you laugh harder every time? The mind boggles.

The script, in all honesty, is more ramshackle than "Ball of Fire," but I don't mind, and I don't think you will either. It's another must own, and yes, Amazon.com has "Twentieth Century" too, for $12.99.

The WGA is still on strike, so I will point out that, of course, none of the guys I mentioned above -- Hecht, MacArthur, Sturges or Wilder -- gets dime one from these DVDs. But then, neither does any other writer whose work was produced before 1960. The WGA members sacrificed those payments in order to get the studios to pay residuals on all future projects. That's almost more astonishing that John Barrymore's performance in "Twentieth Century." Thousands of writers (and actors, and directors) giving up all right to compensation for past work, so other people could get paid in the future.

It's All About Perspective

I watched an early third season "Grey's Anatomy" last night. (I think. Unless this is their fourth season. Which, if true, boggles the imagination.)

I'd like to think that my "Grey's" spec captures some of the energy and lightness of touch of the original, but I'm guessing not, considering I'm 0 for 5 in the big TV spec contests this year. (Disney, thoughtful folks, sent me my ding letter the week before Christmas.) And I don't have it in me to go back and give it another polish, so there's some sadness to the realization that the ship has sailed.

Anyway, my point is, I never thought I'd watch another episode of "Grey's." Last season, with the canceled wedding and this season's arrival of Lexi Grey broke me. I couldn't take any more.

But as it turns out, I am weak. And as it becomes clear that I will not see any new television until, MAYBE, mid-June, I'm starting to make accommodations. Like watching shows I previously considered unwatchable. And, very likely, catching up on "The Wire" before it's January premiere.

It's the same principle by which I put off doing laundry all day yesterday, only to despair at 5 p.m. when the power went out. Not just in my apartment, or my building, but the whole block. (A question I still haven't answered: If the power goes out and my car's in the garage, how do I get it out? And in the event of nuclear attack, does that mean we're gonna die of radiation poisoning because we can't get out of town? Confidential to gloomy protagonists: Don't bother leaving a comment about all the ways we'll die before getting a car out of the garage becomes an issue. Just... don't.)

I started to make various back up plants to accommodate our newly blacked-out condition, and then just as I was about to leave for the movies... the power came back on. I tell you, I did that laundry like it was one big soapy holiday.

Also, That Frostbite Gag Went a Little Too Far into Gag Territory

I met a writer @ the Barham Gate picket last week who's working on some stuff for "The Red Star" comic book. I had never heard of "The Red Star," but the phrase "industrial magic" had me intrigued.

I got the first volume, issues 1-9, for Christmas, and bought the first half of volume 2 yesterday. And it is very, very good. It's a re-imagining of the 20th century if sorcery had been part of the industrial revolution. (I'm guessing that's the back story. I don't really know.)

It opens with a beautiful young Soviet officer (a Sorceress Major) named Maya, riding the cemetery train out to visit the grave of her husband Marcus, who died nine years ago in the state's crushing defeat in Al'istaan. It's Russia, and Afghanistan, and the collapse of the Soviet Union, only utterly different. And utterly delicious.

If I have one complaint, it's that the first installment opens with one brilliant wow idea, and then fails to really deliver on the promise of that idea. But it's still extremely inventive and awesome. Just not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe.

Speaking of things that are not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe: "Pirates of the Caribbean" is dead to me. I don't watch movies so I can walk out wondering how it will all end up. I watch moves so I KNOW how it all ends up. Suspense and cliffhangers are for television and the second installments of trilogies, dudes.

Boo to that. And also boo to picking Orlando Bloom over Johnny Depp. Although about an hour in, I did think "Orlando Bloom is the Cary Elwes of 2007" and by the third act, he showed up in full on Dread Pirate Roberts gear, down to the black head scarf.

(There are also a handful of dreadful anti-feminist implications in the final half hour of "Pirates of the Caribbean 3," which I will not touch with a ten foot pole. If you manage to write Keira Knightly into some kind of bad ass pirate queen role, and then leave her half naked in a dress on a beach, anything I might say on the subject would be wasted on you.)

Juno What? Jit Wasn't Bad.

I read the "Juno" screenplay before seeing the movie, and full disclosure, it made me eat my own heart with a grapefruit spoon. Funny, smart, original, on paper "Juno" is everything I've ever aspired to be as a screenwriter.

I was prepared to see the movie, and much like the first time I saw "Finding Nemo" or "O Brother Where Art Thou?", realize that someone already had the career of my dreams and despair that I would ever find my own spot in the sunlight. (Television very rarely fills me with such hopelessness, maybe because I realize that with so many hours of original television per year, there's always another shot at greatness. Movies are far dicier -- they take so much time and money, it seems there's just a finite number of chances to get it right.)

I liked "Juno" a lot. I probably shouldn't have read the screenplay before hand, but I couldn't help myself. A number of references went right over my head, but the ones I got ("Thundercats are go!") made me laugh. Even so, probably my favorite thing in the whole film is Paulie Bleeker's mumbled reply to Juno's claim that he's really cool and he doesn't even try. "I try really hard, actually."

Being me, I had problems with the film even so. (You may remember that the thing that dumbfounded me about "No Country for Old Men" was my complete inability to see something I would have changed or tweaked. I didn't like the ending, but I have no idea how to do it differently.)

Mainly, I didn't know what I was hoping for. Or, more precisely, I didn't know what I feared would happen. Juno is so capable, so steady, nothing seems to shake her. Even when (to avoid spoilers) the fates turn against her, it's hard to see what the problem is. She comes from a stable family, her stepmom already has maternal feelings towards the unborn child, and in her small Minnesota town, she's earned exactly one dirty look, one snide remark and a wide berth from her classmates. She reports that everyone makes fun of her behind her back, but we never see it, or the impact of that mocking on her ego. She's bulletproof.

Somehow in the course of making a movie about how a plucky heroine gets herself in a jam and manages to triumph, the writer and director managed to soften all the hard corners and rough spots of the jam, so it no longer seems like such a big deal.

Which, to check in for a minute with reality, is nuts. Teenage, out of wedlock, still a junior in high school pregnancy, is an extremely big deal.

I was, for all intents and purposes, vacuum sealed like a can of Hills Bros. coffee from birth until well into college. And I mean, well into college. But even so, the spectre of unplanned pregnancy loomed large through all four years of high school. What if this innocent flirtation blossomed into actual dating? And what if dating blossomed into necking? And what if... And right about then, I'd start working through exactly how screwed I would be if I got pregnant.

The disappointment of my teachers, the judgment of my peers, the awkward moments in health class. How would I take gym? What about the PSATs? The ACT? The SAT? The AP Exams? The upcoming production of "The Foreigner" that I was supposed to stage manage?

And that was just in the time it would take me to carry the trash from the back door to the alley.

So what I'm wondering is, how do you spend six months writing a screenplay, and a couple years making the resulting movie, and never touch on any of this? No one Juno likes and/or respects ever judges, criticizes or rejects her for the decision she makes. In other words, no one ever *tests* that incredible resolve and fortitude -- in fact, considering the comfy snuggly world she moves in, I'm not sure where that resolve and fortitude comes from. (Note, by the way, that even though her biological mom has ditched out on her, she's welcome and loved in her dad's new family -- and not spending her life traveling between the two households.)

Look, it was a sweet movie and I enjoyed it. All I'm saying is: If you're going to tell a story that, frankly, many millions of teenage girls have lived first hand, you might honor their suffering and experience by at least touching on some of the crap they had to deal with and yes, overcome. Otherwise, it's like opening "Saving Private Ryan" with shots of twenty soldiers skipping off a troop transport and up a garden path through a rose garden to have a little tea party before heading in country.

Eff You, Frank Capra...

Just saw "It's a Wonderful Life" with MG... and cried through almost 40% of the film, starting with the tearful scene of revelation with Mr. Gower and lingering through the walk to the car.

Okay, WHAT did Capra do? I don't get it. How can you put together a two-hour, by-the-numbers black and white classic and wring me out like a dishrag? How?

I don't get it, I don't like it, and if I ever meet Capra in the great beyond, he and me are gonna have words.

And Don't Even Get Me Started on Hoagy Carmichael

I've seen "To Have or Have Not," hmmm, a dozen times. Maybe more. There's not a single good thing in the whole movie -- it's just a chaotic shambles. Ernest Hemingway hams it up in the source material, William Faulkner drinks his ass off as he wrote the script, Howard Hawks cribs major swaths of "Casablanca." And yet I love it so.

I love 19-year-old Lauren Bacall. Slim isn't the word. She's a size 0 by 2007 standards, and since it's 1943, she comes across the tallest drink of water to ever wear heels. I don't think any 19-year-old has ever been so glamorous or knowing before or sense.

Humphrey Bogart's earning his paycheck and checking out Ms. Bacall's rack whenever he thinks the camera isn't looking.

Walter Brennan is nailing what, conservatively, might be his 900th rummy role. He's got this crazy jittery walk and insists on asking people "Was you ever bit by a dead bee?"

But above all, I love the dialogue. Rich, campy, over the top and wonderful.

"You know how to whistle, doncha Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."

"A dead bee can sting ya just as bad as a live one, 'specially if he was mad when he died."

"Sometimes I know just what you're thinking. And sometimes... sometimes you're just a stinker."

No One Talks About the Icy Speculum of the Marketplace

I am totally fascinated by the recent wave of bloggers and columnists scratching their heads and wondering what it means that two different 2007 movies feature pregnant ladies who decide not to have an abortion.

What's happening to this country? Does this mean it's cool to get knocked up by accident? Can we expect a spike in unplanned teenage pregnancies? Etc.

Yes, yes, all fascinating. Except for one thing: If you want to make a movie about people dealing with the fallout of pregnancy, you need someone to be pregnant.

And that's why the protagonists in "Knocked Up" and "Juno" don't have abortions. The characters justify their decisions in various ways, but that's really the bottom line. The same principle obtains in "Nine Months," but I don't recommend watching it to verify my claim. Just take my word for it.

The very, very bottom line is that film is a visual medium, and a lady doesn't get babylicious until the fourth month. Your best visual gags will take place between months six and nine -- when you are way, way past the point of no-return, abortionwise, both medically and culturally. Bump=baby.

I know I'm teetering on the edge of becoming an insufferable old bore. Two and a half years of film school has turned me into the narrative equivalent of the irritating economics major I worked with in New York, who insisted that taxes restrain economic activity. I hated his smug ass then -- and still retain a lingering hatred for Princeton alums as a result -- but I concede, he had a point. Not one worth extrapolating into the WSJ's stated policy of No Taxes Ever For Anyone, but a point nonetheless.

But just as reduced income will limit spending, it is also true that if you want characters to deal with a situation, you have to put them, irrevocably, in that situation, whether it's pregnancy or an office tower being held hostage by terrorists or a plane full of snakes. You have to deal with all the possible exits, and block them off, one by one.

And that, really, is the only reason why no one has an abortion in a movie about pregnancy.

This Can't End Well

I'm only ten minutes into this week's episode of "Project Runway," but this three trends/three person teams concept?

OMFG.