happy holidays.

OK, one more post before 2014!

The last month of 2013 has been a whirlwind, hectic and hellish, as I'm sure it's been for many of you. The highlights--poking through mountains of work, holiday shopping and tending to certain health issues--have been my holiday card "photo shoot," and screenings of Oscar contenders at theaters all over Hollywood--the Director's Guild, the Paramount and Fox lots, etc. So much fun!

And I think it's a pretty good year for film. No 2007, mind you, but still some interesting choices. Let's take a look.

All beach photos by Gerald Olson. Except this one by me.

We had a fab time with the dogs on our Christmas photo shoot. We drove up to my "private beach," a Coastal Access just south of Point Mugu. The weather was gorgeous, the sky majestic, the day magical.

The infamous dinner scene begins.

Screening season kicked off with August: Osage County. I was very excited to see it after reading this review.

Mother Of God. This movie should have been called Two Divas Battling it Out for Another Oscar Without a Director in Sight. Give it five years, and August will joy the Gay Camp Pantheon, taking its place alongside Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and Mommie Dearest. I did enjoy how Julianne Nicholson quietly stole every scene from her co-stars and Juliette Lewis's light, humorous touch.

Is there a more beautiful sight?

Next up was Fruitvale Station, which actually came out over the summer. Dying to see this one, too.

I heart Michael B. Jordan. In pretty much anything.

Unfortunately, we were disappointed. Fruitvale Station is the kind of movie that has you sobbing at the end--mostly because you know it's based on a true story. Then you wake up in the morning and say "Wait just a minute," when you realize the entire film was a set-up designed to make you bawl your eyes out. I did love the Oakland setting, and Michael B. Jordan will always live in my heart as Wallace from The Wire--but not so much in this Wire wanna-be.

Merry Christmas from Malibu.

After a grueling beach photo shoot, it was time for lunch, so we decided to check out the new Malibu Farms, which opened a couple of months ago at the end of the Malibu pier.

So delicious! Local, farm fresh food with an ocean view--this is living, my friends. Next up at the movies? Inside Llewyn Davis. 

Now THIS was a film. Oh, Lord. The kind of experience that's just the opposite of Fruitvale Station. At the end, you're like "Well, that was nice...no No Country for Old Men...but nice." Initially I chalked it up to being one of Coen Brothers quieter, slighter films.

Oscar Isaac, I would follow you anywhere. Including to Chicago in a sub-zero winter.

And then I couldn't get the damn movie out of my head. The gorgeous cinematography, the period New York City details, the humor and the music, the stunning beauty of Oscar Isaac, the somewhat inscrutable John Goodman set piece. I’ll never forget this film. As if the Coen Brothers are lauded enough, this is my favorite of the season. So far.

While seeing Inside Llewyn Davis, Gerry and I thought it would be OK to bring Isabel over to play with Gerry's pups, Mason, Curious and Mio. However, while we were gone, Isabel somehow managed to escape the apartment--and make it all the way across congested Third Street to Beverly and La Jolla. A fun few hours that was. A kindly gardener found her hiding under some bushes, tied a big rope around her and called me, so it was all OK in the end.

But it was ironic, because a plotline in the movie included –SPOILERS AHEAD—the titular character losing a cat in Greenwich Village and it finding its way home on the Upper West Side.

“Oh, that only happens in the movies,” I said to Gerry. He replied, “Oh no, that can happen.” Gerry’s faith really got me through the harrowing experience that day. Within five minutes of realizing Isabel was gone, he had whipped up a flyer and posted a Lost Dog notice on Craigslist. And when I went out trolling the neighborhood looking for her, he had said a little prayer to find her. I went to sleep that night with my dog back in my arms, grateful to have a friend who had hope for me when I had none. 

I took a little break from the movies to actually attend real-live theater with my friend Vivian. We were excited to attend the opening season of the new Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills. Man, it was swank. The theater and the production were both gorgeous, while the play, while a bit slight, was charming.

Photo via latimes.com

Parfumerie is a lesser-known work by Hungarian playwright, Miklos Lazlos, that inspired the classic films The Shop Around the Corner and You’ve Got Mail (ugh—I just referred to that grammatical abomination as a classic film—shoot me). The sets were over the top, the lush period costumes matched them in color, the actors (Richard Schiff, Ayre Gross, Deborah Ann Woll) were A-list, and it was Christmas themed! Fun times. I can’t wait to go back in February for Noel Coward’s Brief Encounter.

Solomon Northrup plays a mean fiddle.

Moving on with movies. Last Saturday, Gerry and I attended 12 Years a Slave, which we were—understandably—hesitant to see. It was a difficult yet moving experience. The exquisite acting and filmmaking helped to (somewhat) alleviate the unrelenting brutality of the action. And though it seemed not so much about one man’s journey as about packing every horror of slavery into two hours, which had a desensitizing effect by the horrific climax, the performances of Chiwetel Ojiofor and Lupita Nyong'o kept the film grounded in humanity.

On the Fox lot.

While I’m not sure that 12 Years a Slave would get my vote for Best Picture this year, it definitely gets it for Best Actor And Best Supporting Actress. Academy? Pay attention here.

The other thing that happened on Saturday is that my grandma died, at 2:59 a.m., in her sleep, just a few blocks away from her home in Minneapolis. The breast cancer that had gone into remission had returned and metastasized throughout her body. The tumors in her lungs and brain finally sent her to sleep forever. 

 

On the one hand, I was somewhat relieved. She was 90 and who wants to live past then? Life becomes just someone chewing your food for you and changing your diaper.

But she wasn’t just my grandma. She was my soul sister, and I loved her dearly ever since I can remember her.

She was the true matriarch of the family, six feet tall and astoundingly beautiful, even in her golden years. She could be the life of the party, and she could be terrifying. For better or worse, she was a force of nature. She bore nine children, the last two twins (when she was my age—43 years old), one who was severely affected by Prater Willi Syndrome, 17 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

 

That’s all I really want to say here about a woman who really was like a walking Russian novel. There’s so much more to the story, but this is a blog for God’s sake. I write this all now on Christmas Day as I fly home for her funeral.

So, it's the first time I'm back home for Christmas in a long, long time. I'm looking forward to sharing lots of memories and little drama with my family--and maybe even seeing a few more movies.

That's all for now. I hope you have a fab holiday, and I'll see you in 2014!