So, in recent news of Waxing-land, our friend Brianna had an invitation to read in a poetry festival in Zagreb, Croatia, and we said GO (as long as I could tag along, as, er, a documentarian…).

So she went, and so did I.

This gave me an excuse to follow a small, multi-national coterie of writers around for several days, avoid being directly photographed (always), eat copious amounts of delicious food (yes please), gain a larger appreciation for homemade grappa (even the Italians in tow gave support, which says something good, I should surmise…), and (of course) hear some poetry – in several languages…

But mostly, I got to look…and now, I get to share.

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Well hello darlings, it’s been a little while.

Did you watch the Oscars a couple weeks ago? Did you swoon over some dresses and wince over others? It is, you know, tantamount to the Super Bowl for some of us, particularly those of us fond of sequins/sparkles, overwrought acceptance speeches, far reaching tributes, photo montages, red carpet mayhem,  [sometimes] painfully bad musical numbers and general Hollywood hijinks.

No longer a resident of Los Angeles, I think my non-proximity to the Industry writ large has actually caused me to be nostalgic for the whole spectacle, and thus, oh yes, I very surely watched the Awards, the pre-shows, and the post-shows, and read blog after blog after blog. Excessive? Maybe a little. But it only happens once and year, and besides, I have another good reason.

I’ve been sick. And thus, rather annoyed. A deathcold, really. Not fun, but not life-threatening – but just enough so that standing is a precarious thing, and walking about is unpleasant. I don’t like being sick and I like even less being sick just when the weather is finally getting nice, but sometimes it happens – particularly after flying, so I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of water, eating chicken soup, taking lots of vitamins, taking luxuriant naps and availing myself of the streaming feature on my Netflix account.

Which means, at least for me,…costume dramas, police/legal procedurals en masse (shameful? It depends on your definition), swoony embarrassing romantic comedies, feel-good girl movies (saw WHIP IT the other day, which was actually adorable and I wholly recommend seeing it), and last but certainly not least, a healthy dose of 1940s cinema, often but not always Noir.

Film Noir is something I’ve had a developing fascination, aided and abetted by a musicology seminar in college about the scores of Otto Preminger/Jacques Torneur/etc. films – and also by talking over wine and chocolate with Waxing Poetic’s very own Brianna Colburn, whose self-described ‘nerdy, perverse love’ of the genre was intriguing because in summary, black and white films about mob bosses, frame jobs, and low-life crime aren’t necessarily things I’d immediately associate with her. And then she said it was largely because of the clothes.

So… I watched LAURA, which, if you haven’t seen it (I hadn’t), is great. This is Netflix’ summary, which roped me in because if nothing else, watching pretty things (yay cinematorgraphy!) is a good distraction at any point:

Laura Hunt (Gene Tierney) has been murdered, and as New York City Det. Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews) investigates, he finds that everyone seems to be in love with her — and he, too, gradually falls under her spell. But things aren’t always what they seem. Otto Preminger’s classic mystery received four Academy Award nominations, including a nod for Best Director, and won the Oscar for Best Cinematography.

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Hello Loves. It has been a couple days. Sorry about that.

Normally, in these little missives, I’d like to interview/explore/investigate actual people or places that you might be able to interact with as well – but for today, I urge you all, especially if you need a break from psycho-sexual thrillers (Black Swan, which, I loved, but sometimes you don’t need implosion of the human soul, you know?) or on the other extreme, Nicholas Sparks’ weepers (which, again, COMPLETELY HAVE THEIR PLACE, and I am CERTAINLY NOT denying that I keep a DVD of “The Notebook,” as well as a packet of Theraflu in my nightstand drawer, lest I happen to be alone in the house…or just shameless…) or bro-tastic comedies (sure. The Hangover. Yes. Funny. Silly men, scary tiger, but really?) but instead need a …almost ‘grown up,’ all-purpose film (think movie-as-cashmere-blanket – you don’t necessarily NEED it but once you have it in your presence, at least for a little bit of time you’re just…grateful, pleased, and content). In any case, don’t let the mildly oblique title dissuade you – The King’s Speech is…wonderful.

And not just because Colin Firth (who, and I honestly ask of those, among you recall his early performance in the 1987 Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation of “The Secret Garden”? Because: oh yes, I did. And I swooned. And I still do) is in it.  Or Geoffrey Rush (a thousand baskets of peonies for you, dear Australian thespian), or even heroine of every Merchant Ivory movie I may or may not have watched from adolescence onward, Helena Bonham Carter, or because (swoon, part deux) Guy Pierce is in it… no.

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It’s 2011.  February, actually. Less than a month til Spring, at that. You seem to have found your way to the right place, though, if you’ve found me here.

This is Dannie, by the way (waves).

I’ll be reappearing every now and then on Proof going forward—it seems we ought to have a “consistent voice,” and I, or rather the ladies here…think I’ll do. We’ll have a riotous time, I promise.

To wit: Interviews with our squad, dispatches from our varied, wandering stars (abroad, stateside, and in between…), profiles of fans, faves, things which we love (editorial, tastiness, film, adventures, crafty projects + otherwise) and…oof. Lots more. Favorite novenas, perhaps. Hints of elsewhere, but here too. Deliciousness, there will be much of that. Read the rest of this entry »

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