If I were a movie critic I’d be chronically behind the times. I shy away from movies that are popular. I don’t think I’ll ever see “Avatar” or anything labeled “Shrek.” It took me years to get to “Titanic.” Too damned successful.
However, I’ve watched Roman Polanski’s “Carnage” four times in the last couple of weeks. I recall some coolness from critics about it when it came out, but I think it’s a tour de force. It has the Aristotelian unities that come from good stage plays (Yasmina Reza’s in this case).
Four characters within the confines of an apartment and hallway rip each other to shreds (psychologically) in less than a day. I get hilarity-bends over the entire spectacle. I don’t want to examine too closely my propensity to laugh when things are going to hell.
It’s trite to call “Carnage” a dark comedy. It’s better than that. Jody Foster, as “Penelope” (“Darjeeling” to her husband Michael), can ape an engine gunned to the limits of the nuts and bolts that hold it together as well as any actress I know.
Cristoph Waltz, a hunk with a Dick Tracy chin, is masterful as the corporate pettifogger constantly running interference for his Big Pharma client on the cellphone from, yes, hell again.
Kate Winslet (“Doodle” to her husband the pettifogger) exudes edgy class, and suffers his callousness with winces (and hurling) until she doesn’t any more.
John C. Reilly mimics a “mitigator” to the point that he can no longer keep his shirt on, by which time he’s snarling “I love you” to his mother and sucking a cold stogie.
I liked the movie. You might.
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
EthicalDative 
Stud Bird
I’ve spent some of my life working with (for?) adolescents. We were told their behavior and dress, especially the parts adults liked to fret about, were attributable to hormones. I don’t know. Hormones weren’t my field.
However, I think of my students and the choppy seas they navigated when I hear a certain bird in my neighborhood. I don’t know his name. He may be a she. Bird’s aren’t my field either. But the song I hear conjures for me a young stud bird just entering his lovesick prime, a cocky dude, not quite sure of himself, but definitely on the make.
Here verbatim is his call:
Are ya ready? Are ya ready? Are ya ready?
I’m heeeeeere! I’m heeeeeere!
Are ya ready? Are ya ready? Are ya ready?
I’m heeeeeere! I’m heeeeeere!
Repeat a zillion times. He does.
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)