I started the DVD and was finishing up a few tasks in the kitchen, so I wasn’t watching the TV for a few minutes. The volume was too low to clearly hear all the dialogue. Yet it was instantly obvious that this was a Woody Allen film, by the rhythm and tone of the dialogue. They were speaking a Woody Allen tune. Unmistakable.

I recommend the movie as a Paris travelogue. Seriously. It’s a cinematographer’s love letter to the city, and mostly gorgeous.

A fun little story with time travel twists. Kathy Bates’ Gertrude Stein was a delight.

So I wasn’t sure what to expect last week when I bought my ticket to see The Iron Lady. Except of course for Meryl Streep in an Oscar-nominated performance. Streep was marvelous. Jim Broadbent was adorable.

Not the typical biopic, this told Margaret Roberts Thatcher’s life story in flashbacks that were sometimes almost strobe-lit.

There was much melancholy. The aged Baroness Thatcher in twilight, more than a decade past her years as Prime Minister (1979-1990). Coping with life in early stage Alzheimer’s, bravely facing dinner guests, and talking with husband Denis. Who’s been dead for a few years. She finally gets around to clearing out his clothes, but it goes in fits and starts. Her daughter Carol is present, helpful, and kind, but the Baroness can only talk, fondly, about her son Mark – who is far away in South Africa and calls infrequently.

The cheerful stuff is served in flashback. Alexandra Roach is riveting as the young Margaret Roberts Thatcher. In geeky spectacles, Harry Lloyd charms Margaret – and the audience – as the slightly older Denis Thatcher. Streep’s middle-aged Maggie is fascinating. In graceful shorthand, the film shows us her strengths and the weaknesses that ultimately brought her down.

By the end of it all, I felt something like sympathy for Thatcher, and curious enough to start reading the biography.

However, my favorite take ever on high level British politics, remains the superb miniseries fictionalizing the post-Thatcher years: House of Cards, To Play the King, and The Final Cut. I may need to revisit them after I’ve finished the (500 page) Thatcher biography, as the antidote.

Charming – thoroughly.

Now I finally understand the appeal of those silent movie stars with the sleek black hair and pencil mustaches.

But – a bit too long. Several of the downhill-slide scenes could have been left on the cutting room floor, to the movie’s benefit.

And of course. I loved the dog.

Horses rule.

Love is strong.

Of course, I cried.

Did I mention, war sucks?

Hollywoodland is a fictionalized account of the June 1959 death by gunshot of TV star George Reeves. Reeves hit the fame jackpot as Superman on the hokey but fabulously popular TV series, but had been increasingly bummed by the blight that role had cast over his acting career. He poured a lot of alcohol over the hurts. But according to this movie he poured a lot of booze down his throat before, during and after his rise to the A list.

The single gunshot wound that put him out of that misery was, per the cops, a suicide. Or was it?

The case is explored by a seedy (and weedy, good Lord the man is so thin I kept wanting someone to hand him a sandwich) PI. Louis Simo (Adrien Brody) is a WWII vet in a general life mess. He catches a tip from a contact at the agency which had fired him, and starts looking into the Reeves death (hot off the presses, not a cold case) at the behest of the actor’s mother.

Did Reeves shoot himself? Or did someone else pull the trigger? The movie makes a plausible case for at least three scenarios. One is suicide. Another is that Reeves’ young fiancee plugged him. Or was he shot by men acting for a powerful Hollywood studio exec? The exec’s wife had been Reeves’ generous mistress but had been recently, unhappily, displaced by the young fiancee.

A strong cast (Ben Affleck, Diane Lane, Bob Hoskins, and Brody), good pacing, and all the elements of LA/Hollywood in the 50′s (corruption, violence, glamor, powerful studios, nonstop cigarette smoke, flowing booze, fancy nightclubs), kept the story interesting. I’m glad I finally watched it.

That outdoor fighting-the-elements stuff captures the imagination, although to tell you the truth it doesn’t keep my attention for long.

I saw a film about human survival yesterday, and it’s been on my mind ever since. It illustrates survival under conditions faced by millions of people, day in and day out. And don’t kid yourself that the constraints under which Albert Nobbs lived in 19th Century Ireland are all done and dusted and dumped in the rubbish bins of history.

Albert’s a waiter in a hotel. He stands, he waits, he serves. Up in his attic room he’s been stashing his earnings and tips away under a floorboard, keeping tabs in a small notebook. Waiting for the day when he can afford to rent premises and open a shop. A tobacconist shop where, he mentions to the hotel doctor, a woman can serve at the counter. The doctor replies, “Oh, so you’re thinking of getting married?” Albert is startled.

Albert’s upset when the hotel’s proprietor Mrs. Baker lodges a (house) painter, Hubert Page, in Albert’s room for a couple of nights. Thanks to a fleabite, Mr. Page learns (as do we) that Albert is a woman. The revelations aren’t done yet, as this tale of class and sexual identity unfolds.

Albert broke my heart. Her story is revealed, a tale of survival and loneliness. In her day and place, the options open to poor young men were limited – but vast compared to those for poor young women. At age 14, she donned a used man’s dress suit to get hired as waiter for a big event, and never looked back. I admired her for the guts to carry off the lifelong deception and live decently, and I grieved for her life of fear and stunted emotions.

And I adored Janet McTeer’s work in this film. (As does David Edelstein, on NPR, in a review with spoilers, I’m just warning you.)

We American women now just happily assume that the law protects our work, our property and our person. It’s news when the system fails someone. But those assumptions rest on a contemporary foundation; sometimes I think its concrete has barely cured. Unmarried women have only recently enjoyed anything like equal status under the law, much less in societal practice. To hold a job, to live independently, to own and control one’s money, property, and one’s body – those were the birthright of men, even poor men, but privileges rarely accorded to women, and never to ordinary middle class or poor women.

Think I’m being melodramatic? In Texas, in the early 1970′s, after my father died, I was deeded a small lot. I was a recent university graduate, working and supporting myself. And single. The deed was made out to “[my name], femme sole.” Yes. In my lifetime, a woman’s marital status was noted on real estate records, although a man’s was not.

The story in this film was long ago and far away, and fiction. But fantasy? Not at all. I’ve put in a request at the library for a book about cross-dressing in the American West, now that Glenn Close and company have got me thinking about how people live, how they manage to survive, and if they are lucky, to grab a bit of happiness along the way.

And now, the movie’s out. I saw it yesterday morning. Despite worries that it would deeply disappoint, I bought my ticket on its first day of release.

It was good. Of course, the actors didn’t look like the characters do in my reader’s imagination. But really, this group was pretty close for the most part. Katherine Heigl looks a little more high-class than the Stephanie Plum in my mind’s eye, but she brought the spunk and quickness that are Stephanie essentials, and she grew on me as the film progressed. Check her footwear. She’s in heels in the early scenes, and wearing dresses (!). Then she’s in jeans and boots – that’s the Plum we know from the books. Her apartment was wonderfully rendered, and they didn’t forget Rex. If they’d cut Rex, I would have demanded my money back at the box office.

Besides Stephanie and Rex, the absolute essentials here are Lula, Connie, Vincent, Grandma Mazur, two Very Hot Men, and at least one exploding car.

I can report that the film has the essentials. Connie and Vincent – check. Sherri Shepherd as Lula – check. More than check; there has to be a sequel just so we get more Lula time onscreen. I love Lula!

Grandma Mazur. Hmm. Debbie Reynolds as Grandma? Debbie’s less wizened and much prettier than I imagine Grandma M. to be, but she brings all the attitude. She grew on me. She needs to be in the sequel. With Lula.

Hot men – check. (Oh yes!) Ranger? Daniel Sunjata. Hot. Morelli? Jason O’Mara. Hot.

Exploding car – I won’t spoil it for you. But, OK. Check.

And there were – of course – snacks, bad guys, and bullets.

I liked it all. Not Oscar material, I’m sure. But a satisfying chick flick.

A friend tells me she saw a review on TV that panned it. The reviewer was a guy. A guy?

Oh, please. Don’t send a man to do a woman’s job. Like giving birth. Or reviewing this movie. Really, people, that’s just – silly.

Oh, Hugo. It’s magic. If you have to know, here’s a quick description from IMDb, which doesn’t even get to the magic stuff: “Set in 1930s Paris, an orphan who lives in the walls of a train station is wrapped up in a mystery involving his late father and an automaton.”

But, don’t quibble. Just buy your inner child a ticket, settle the 3D glasses on her nose, and yes, let her have popcorn if she wants it. Just be sure you get some napkins to wipe the butter off her hands. Then shut up and don’t mess with her enjoyment of the magic lantern show.

No wonder the film has 11 Oscar nominations. I may have to buy the DVD for my inner child, or at least take her to see it again. In 3D of course.

So it should be a cakewalk for me to read 35 books this year. Right?

Not so fast. I think I’ve fallen victim to electronic-induced multitasking attention deficit, adult onset (EIMADAO). Or something else, since I just made up EIMADO so I probably can’t actually have it.

I now have a shorter attention span than I used to, for reading books. Or less patience for reading escapist crap.  Or all of the above.

We’re well into the last part of January, and it’s time for a progress report on my 35 book assignment. I am not covered in glory here. I don’t think I can claim to have read a book if I haven’t read it completely. So I can’t claim those instructional books about the Nikon D5100 and Photoshop Elements 10, although by sheer size and weight they are very impressive. I’ve also dipped into nutrition books and cookbooks, and a couple of novels that after a chapter or two, I could not even pretend to want to finish. I’m also hanging out every few days with Listening to Your Life, by Frederick Buechner, which is wonderful company. It’s a book of 366 daily meditations, and I won’t be rushing to the finish line with it.

Which leaves me with this list of books read to date.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott. I did not rush through this book. I read it carefully, highlighted a lot (on my Kindle), quoted it at least once on facebook and more often to friends in conversations, and when I got to the end I started over at the beginning. To remind myself of what was in the first few chapters. Because I hadn’t rushed through it. See above. A keeper. Ten stars on a five-star scoring scale. A book I wish I’d read years ago, but I’m so happy I finally did that I forgive myself for the delay.

A Cry from the Dark, Robert Barnard. Barnard is one of my favorite writers of crime fiction, and has been for decades. He’s one of the few authors I still collect in hardcover. (The others include Peter Robinson, Andrew Taylor, and the late Michael Gilbert.) I still treasure the memory of meeting him at a signing at Murder by the Book several years ago. I’d read A Cry from the Dark a few years ago but enjoyed it more this time around. Bettina Whitelaw is now in her 70′s, and the successful author lives in London, a long way from her childhood in a dusty Australian outback town. When she’s targeted by intruders, it’s not known what they are after, or why. Is it related to her life in London or does it go back as far as Bundaroo?

Last Post, Robert Barnard. Eve McNabb’s mother has died. A letter addressed to her mother arrives, with no return address, and its contents strongly imply that her mother had an extramarital affair long ago. Eve tries to find out more about the mysterious letter writer, and her parents’ life. This leads her to an attractive policeman, to old people with memories and maybe axes to grind, and to a confrontation with the father she’d been told was dead. I’m still thinking about the final few paragraphs of this book. Cheap shot or masterstroke? Today I think the latter.

A Charitable Body. Barnard’s latest. Of course I liked it, because it features Charlie Peace and his wife Felicity. I had to suspend disbelief with a firm hand, but the unraveling of the Quarles family history in the last part of the book was clever.

Lessons from Madame Chic: The Top 20 Things I Learned While Living in Paris, Jennifer L. Scott. She was young, and impressionable, and tends to generalize too much. But I enjoyed this memoir anyway, for the “live well, avoid junk and clutter, and choose quality” philosophy. You can take that stuff too far, but at the time I needed to think about quality vs. quantity in my life and this book was helpful.

That’s all for now. Five books in 23 days? It will get me well past 35 books by December 31, but it’s not up to my usual pace at all.

Conductor Scott O’Neil narrated, and read excerpts from Mozart’s correspondence, between musical numbers. The first was the first movement of Mozart’s first symphony (composed when he was 8 years old), and the program ended with the fourth and final movement of his last.

They didn’t spare the horses – or the personnel – for this show. The Symphony Chorus was out in force, and there were guest artists: soprano (Christie Hageman) and pianist (Katie Mahan).

Because I’m a musical ignoramus, I can admit here that I needed reminding that Mozart’s life was so short. Even seeing Amadeus on stage several years ago at London’s Old Vic didn’t plant that fact deeply enough in my brain. It’s only natural. We had center seats near the front, the marvelous David Suchet owned. the. stage. as Salieri, and the pale dying Mozart faded fast from my memory.

Oh, back to the doings onstage Friday night at Boettcher Concert Hall, that strange. user-unfriendly, and annoying artifact of the 1970′s.

The music, a Mozart sampler, was by turns, grand, lively, sad, touching, complicated. I enjoyed all of it. I liked best the mournful piece from the Sinfonia concertante (K. 364), and the selection from the “Dissonance” string quartet. I was also fascinated by the pianist’s astounding horizontally striped dress. Fuzzy phone photo attached.

Let’s not forget the unsung efforts of the stagehands. While O’Neil was narrating between numbers, the black-clad men and women of the crew smoothly and silently rearranged, brought onstage, or removed, chairs, microphones, stands, and even the grand piano. So that each time O’Neil quit talking and turned back to the musicians to raise the baton, everyone and everything was in position and ready to go. Nice work.