Well, not actually me...but something I wrote, which is even better.
Yesterday I received an email from Julie at iVillage informing me that they were going to be featuring my post about (Un)Happy Endings on their website in their "Buzz in the blogs" section. (which I have captured above with my just learned 'print screen' skill, to save for posterity).
Because I was doing laundry last night, I didn't check my email until this morning. Which means that I didn't learn the happy news until just now, at which point I raced over to ivillage.com to make sure this wasn't one of those weird email spoofs that would eventually ask me to send my personal data to claim the $438 million that had been left to me by a little old lady in Kenya/South Wales/Isle of Mann to be distributed to widows and children or as I saw fit.
But it wasn't. It was the real thing. This represents the first time something of mine has actually been published! (I'm not counting the time I started a literary journal while I was teaching in Baku, Azerbaijan, and unabashedly inserted one of my children's stories in amongst my students' work. That doesn't really count, does it.)
Oh, about that laundry that kept me up until 11:30pm? I'm leaving tomorrow for a trip out west....remember the fact finding trips I'd planned to take to find my mountain home? Well, I'm pleased to say that I'm actually doing one this weekend. I'll be back next Tuesday with lots of photos and a full report on what I found.
See you when I get back, have a great weekend! (and thank you, iVillage.com!)
I started thinking about this topic last week, found myself arguing both sides of the dilemma and one day lead to the next, and before I knew it, a week had passed and I had still not reached a conclusion. So rather than contemplate any further, I've decided to post my preliminary thoughts and see where it goes from here. Hence the 'Part One' moniker in the post title.
The impetus for this topic is the book I'm currently reading: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski. This debut novel was over ten years in creation, currently #4 on the New York Times bestseller list, and an Amazon pick for June. At over 500 pages it is a sprawling novel of a boy and his dog, strongly influenced by Hamlet. It is a wonderful read. And being the impatient reader that I am, in lieu of turning to the last page to see how it ends, I began reading reviews on amazon.com to see what other readers had to say. The consensus is overwhelmingly positive, but nearly each review mentions the sad ending that becomes inevitable as the novel remains true to its ancestry, i.e. Shakespearean tragedy.
When I came across the first scene that foreshadowed what depths that unhappy ending might take, I found my progress stopped in its tracks. Rather than racing through an engrossing read as I would do normally, I now find myself dragging my feet, almost dreading the end of the book, not because it's such a wonderful read (which this book is) or that I love what the author has created (which I do), but because I love the main character so much that I don't want to experience the inevitable tragic ending.
All of which brought up my contemplation of why unhappy endings are used in literature, why they are so difficult to stomach, why we want or need happy endings in literature, and what that says about our approach to life.
If we begin with the premise that literature is a vehicle to explore the different paths that life can take, perhaps unhappy endings are a warning of the consequences that arise when certain decisions are taken. So an author becomes the oracle warning us away from the siren's call of temptation. Yet, these endings are hard to stomach because we as readers want to cheer on the hero, know that he will overcome the challenge, that the innocent will either be protected or ultimately achieve justice. Unfortunately, life is not always so tidy, I suppose literature reflects that reality. Is tragedy somehow cathartic?
When we come across an unhappy ending, our beliefs are challenged and the randomness, the sometimes unfairness of life is confronted, which makes us uncomfortable. We find happy endings much more satisfying, I believe, because they reflect the hope with which we live our own lives. We want to believe that no matter how difficult our current circumstances that in the end all will end well. Hope is the steel that strengthens our spines, that gives us the courage or means to carry on when circumstances seem bleak. We look for that in the literature we read as an affirmation of our beliefs.
I'm still not entirely satisfied with this argument, so I welcome your thoughts on the subject. Are there certain topics in literature that you avoid reading because they cut too close to the bone or offend your view of life? How do you react to books with unhappy endings?
At lunch time, I got a call from my friend, who suggested we meet for lunch at the market. When I arrived, he wasn’t there. Instead I was met by Katerina’s friend. I did a double take and found myself scanning the surroundings for my friend’s presence, before I approached. He was not within sight. I vaguely remembered this woman from the picnic the summer before. She’d come with her husband and their young son, a toddler with sun-streaked hair, and blue striped swimming trunks that hung low on his chubby little hips and caused him to waddle.
The usually crowed market had thinned out in the growing cold of the winter afternoon. We wove through the sparse clots of shoppers in silence, each of us uncertain of where to begin this uncomfortable dialogue. She told me that my friend asked her to meet me. To tell me what she knew of Katerina and Tom.
“Was she in love with him?” I asked.
Petra instinctively bowed her head as we walked into the shade of a pavilion. “She was too young for him. I told her from the start.”
I nodded my agreement, but I wanted her to answer my question. “Perhaps she had a school girl’s crush on him?”
Petra turned and looked at me sideways, “Well she was still a schoolgirl in some ways. Her parents sheltered her from many realities. She had some experience with boys her own age, but not with men. Not like him.”
“Did you ever see them out together?”
“Not until the end. She said he was very careful at first. He used to come to the casino on the nights she worked. He would come late and sit at her table. He would ignore her. He wouldn’t talk to her, but he would look at her when she wasn’t watching. Sometimes he would come with friends, American men visiting the Embassy for some short stay. He would introduce her as if he were showing her off, saying the Embassy hired only the prettiest Russian girls. Of course, this attention made her very nervous. She knew that she jeopardized her job by working there. But he never said anything about it at work. But she sensed it was something he would hold over her.”
I tried to imagine Katerina during this time, tried to recall if I’d ever noticed this interplay between the two of them. I don’t think I had. So he had succeeded. I’d never heard gossip either, and the Embassy wives were frequently a lively source of gossip.
“They dated for a long time,” I said.
“More than a year,” Petra replied.
“How were they getting along before her death? Did she say that anything had changed?”
“He told her that he was making arrangements for her to go back to the United States when his tour here was finished.”
“As what, as his mistress?”
Petra gave me a sharp look. “You are very provincial. We don’t use such childish descriptions, they had a relationship. Were you friends with Katerina?”
I stopped and watched Petra as she continued walking ahead. I was taken aback by her question. It was true that I had never been close to Katerina, our friendship was the type of casual office acquaintance that one developed over time. Did I ever invite her out for dinner? No. We saw each other daily at the Embassy, occasionally at evening functions. Even when I’d been invited to the dacha, it had had more of the flavor of a tourist event rather than of actual friendship. Still, Katerina’s death was a shock. I felt the loss not only because it was violent and untimely, but because it implicated someone from the Embassy in an act that was not only criminal but reprehensibly selfish.
Petra had walked ahead, now she turned and looked at me before coming back to where I stood, “You know, he spoke to her parents. He would pay for her to go to college in WashingtonD.C. They didn’t know about the relationship, but they must have suspected. Whatever reservation they might have, they would be thrilled that she would be given this opportunity. It was more than they’d hoped for.”
“How did Katerina feel about going to the States?”
“She was very happy, of course.”
“When was this announcement to her parents?”
Petra thought for a moment, “A week before she died.”
“Did anything change between them during that last week? Did Katerina tell you about an argument or any tension between them?”
“No, she showed me a college application and catalogue he’d given her. She was very excited.” Petra stopped walked and turned to me. “I have to go now, but you must stop your amateur investigation before someone gets hurt.” She began walking toward the market’s exit and but turned as if she’s forgotten something. She raised her voice only enough to make herself heard, “If you think that he had something to do with her death you are wrong.”
I've been doing a lot of reading lately. Getting back into the habit of reading nightly before bed, plowing through book after book and lining up what's to be read next, has reminded me of how much pleasure I derive from certain authors. Last week, running across two authors I had not encountered in years brought back fond memories of who and where I was the first time I read them, and became the impetus for this post and a future one that is in the works.
First, in the July issue of Gourmet magazine, I ran across a brief (I thought too brief) article commemorating the books and journals of MFK Fisher, an author and pioneer of food writing, memoir writing, and living well. Just one look at the picture above gives you a good sense of the woman, a glass of wine in one hand, and a backdrop of stacks and stacks of books. This is a woman who clearly found her place in life. From the smile on her face, we can tell that she knows it, too.
My first encounter with MFK Fisher was when I was in my early twenties, I was living alone in a big city, it was a rainy afternoon and I was in a bookstore. There I found The Gastronomical Me staring at me from a shelf of books. Part memoir, part exposition on the sensual pleasures of cooking and enjoying a well cooked meal, it was my introduction into the genre of food writing. Yet, it was also much more than that. MFK Fisher always wrote about her life in relation to food, not just the meal she prepared, but who was there to share it with her, what was going on outside the kitchen or dining room window as well as within her own thoughts.
MFK Fisher was born in Albion, Michigan in 1908, but is better known, through her writing, of her life in France and then in California. So while she was writing about food, she was also chronicaling her own life. In How to Cook a Wolf she wrote of how to cope with war-time rationing while trying to put a meal on the table. Her style of writing was spare, practical, but with an appreciation of the beauty of preparing a meal for those you loved.
Here's a brief biographic clip on MFK Fisher that I grabbed from YouTube. It will provide you with a visual sense of the author, as well as a recording of her actual voice. As with the picture above, the video gives you a sense of her pleasure in being at the table and among friends. She was clearly comfortable in her own skin.
There are authors who seem to more than simply write books, they become the embodiment of their books, or perhaps more truthfully, through their incredible writing abilities, they are able to create books which are embodiments of themselves, of their uniqueness as individuals. I think it is this talent which makes them singular voices that are not only memorable but iconic.
I suppose, one sign that you've really made an impression is when your portrait ends up in the National Portrait Gallery....but I would guess that what is even more valuable to MFK Fisher is knowing that her legacy is in the words that are imprinted in the hearts and minds of her readers, how she was able to share with them her view of the world.
I become a political junkie every four years during the Race for the White House. As a lifelong Republican, I'm generally cheering on the guy in the elephant suit. This year, not so much.
Part of my obsessional behavior during this heated political season involves checking certain political blogs such as the Drudgereport and The Huffington Post , sometimes several times a day to read the latest headlines and gossip from the political trail. Occasionally, I'll even leave a clever comment or two (ha!) on these sites, expressing my 'fair and balanced' view of things.
Since no good deed goes unpunished, The Huffington Post has culled its comments sections, amassed one huge mailing list of Interested (irritated) people and sent them an invitation to become journalists! (Can you imagine the reporting emanating from the type of people who actually leave some of those comments? Reporting live from Mars! Hilarious!) On the other hand, I think it's a brilliant idea to let the inmates take a crack at running the joint....it certainly riffs on this year's theme of grassroots politics. Which I think has been a breath of fresh air....
I wanted to share the email I received in the event any of you would be interested in participating as a journalist. This is clearly the election of a lifetime, there is a lot at stake for our country in terms of our domestic economic policy and international relationships going forward. Who we elect will truly matter this time.
Here's their invitation, join in if you want to be heard!
Hi,
It's the electoral race of the century. Political maps are being redrawn, and rules are getting rewritten across the board. Fundraising records have been broken. The candidates are even comparing the sizes of their email lists.The mainstream media is tripping over itself to report on every last press release and campaign announcement. But do any of us REALLY know what's going on? With you helping from the frontlines, the Huffington Post can change campaign coverage.
OffTheBus is HuffPost's citizen-powered and -produced election site, and we're depending on readers like you to tip us to what's going on or, better yet, to write up the stories you think should be covered.WOULD YOU HELP US? JOIN HUFFINGTON POST'S OFFTHEBUS. Click here to sign up.
Chances are you're a political junkie. That's why you got involved in HuffPost's community as a commenter. But why stop there? By becoming a member of HuffPost'sOffTheBus, you can publish op-eds and news stories to the Huffington Post. You get first-hand access to editors. The best citizen reporting is cross-posted to the politics page and homepage.
Or, you can jump into our collaborative reporting assignments, like our Superdelegate Investigation or OffTheBus Party Map.
GET PUBLISHED AT HUFFINGTON POST. Click here to sign up for OffTheBus. Last October OffTheBus members dropped in on Sen. BarackObama's Nationwide Canvassing Day from more than two dozen locations. Hours later every observer independently relayed to us that the economy, not the war, was the voting issue. Twenty-four hours later we reported on the significance of the economy, beating the mainstream media to the punch by a few weeks.As our numbers grow, the same collaborative reporting model that got HuffPost'sOffTheBus the scoop on the economy may tell us a lot more about what's happening nationwide.YOU GAME? JOIN HUFFPOST'SOFFTHEBUS. Click here to sign up.Best,The
Saturday night I caught the 2002 movie Drumline on VH1. It's set on a college campus in Atlanta and does for marching bands what Hoosiers did for basketball. It's one of those wonderfully inspirational movies that reminds you of your university days when the future was wide open, when you stood on the verge of your future and learned that with a lot of hard work, obstacles could be overcome and your wildest dreams would come true. Needless to say, the movie brought back fond memories of my own college days and the joys of working together on a team (in my case the swim team) and the lessons learned in the course of chasing big dreams (some of which I'm still chasing).
This film had all of that along with two other touchstones: an autumn setting and old school music. There's a pivotal scene in the film when the band director discusses the inspiration current artists have gained from the music of Earth, Wind and Fire, a band of trailblazing talent. Which of course sent my fingers flying to YouTube to find my favorite EWF song....which also happens to tie in with this whole college days nostalgia / autumn theme we're developing here....
I love the month of September. It's the start of my favorite season of the year, a time that signals the beginning of the end of the hot and humid summers of South Florida and the promise of the glorious dry sunny winters. It is my New Year's. It is the time that has always heralded new beginnings.
Is it any surprise that my favorite Earth Wind & Fire song is........'September'! This song's fabulous beat and blasting horn section just puts a smile on my face and reminds me of all those September New Year's of the past: starting college, moving away from home, beginning a new swim season, moving to New York for my first job, going overseas for the first time. Its old school uptempo inspires me with hopeful thoughts of all the Septembers that are on their way...like this one.
So enjoy every moment of this beautiful summer, but listen to this and dream of what's to come. I hope it inspires you too!
Just because he is here doesn’t mean I have to let him in.
I stop three feet from the door and stare at him.
“Open the door; I want to talk to you.”
I shake my head no. I look down and realize that my hands are balled into fists. My heart thuds against my ribs; the blood pumping through my ears makes it difficult to hear his words. So I just continue to stand there and shake my head. CNN is still playing in the background; they’re doing a story on anarchists in Seattle. I just hope they don’t break the store windows at Nordstrom’s.
Tom bangs the glass with his fist rattling it in its casement. I jump and then take a step back. I know the door is locked. But the sliding glass doors behind me, leading to the deck are not. They are in fact, open, to let in the cold mountain air. He looks over my shoulder and notices this fact, but he has also calculated that it is too late to take that route. It is the one he should have used first.
“Why are you here?” I say too loudly through the glass. Tiny bump rise and pucker my skin like a cactus.
“I’ve come for the journal.” he said.
His face looks the same. Handsome, self-assured. His dress is more relaxed, he wears a leather bomber jacket, under which I know there is a shoulder strap holding a gun between the flannel shirt and the worn brown leather. He had on faded jeans and Timberland’s. Being Stateside has done him no harm.
I shake my head in an exaggerated pantomime, “I don’t have it.”
“This is ridiculous,” he shouted. “Open the damn door.”
“I want to meet in a public place,” I counter.
Tom rolled his eyes, he pulls a cigarette out of this jacket and lights it with the lighter I recognized from the Marine Ball. “Will you bring the journal?”
“I’ll meet you in town, there’s a coffee counter and tables on the far left side of the grocery store. I’ll meet you there.” I turned and walked over to the sliding glass doors and locked them. When I turned back to the front door, Tom was gone.
I pulled into the parking lot, and headed for the store.
“George, will you put this in the vault?”
George looked at the book I held in my hand, but made no move to take it. He looked into my eyes and then headed for the back room. I followed.
He stopped in front of the large black vault and I made a point of turning my back as he began turning the dials. What I was doing was purely selfish. I knew that after searching my place, this would be the next place Tom would come. It was almost laughable to put the journal in this safe and imagine it hidden. I didn’t care. I was willing to play monkey in the middle as long as I could. The journal had come back to me unbidden. As with the return of a precarious lover, I would do anything to keep it near until I could figure out why.
When I heard the handle drop and the door open, I turned back. On the top shelf were stacks of twenties in neatly bundled paper wrappers, this surprised me because George made a daily trip to the bank with the cash from the register. On the second shelf was a row of books, by the titles and the signs of age on their spines, I guessed these were valuable first editions. Which made sense. On the bottom of the vault was a large steel lock box with a formidable looking electronic lock on the top. Now George took the book from my hand and I figured he would put it on the shelf with the other books.
“Thea, would you be so kind to turn around again?”
I followed his directions without comment. I heard him grunt from the effort of squatting down and then I heard the slow but certain tapping on the numeric pad of the rectangular box. He stopped as soon as the lock clicked open. I heard him move some heavy muffled sounding objects around and then close the lid. When I turned back, George was closing the vault door, spinning the locks, and testing the handle.
I followed him back to the front of the store.
“George, thank you,” I said. “I’ve got to meet someone right now, but when I get back, I’ll explain everything.”
He looked at me, but the frown on his face conveyed either his disapproval or his disbelief.
I left the store and drove to the grocery store. It occurred to me that I should have taken the journal to my safe deposit box at the bank. At least there I would have had direct access to it. I hit the steering wheel and quickly checked the traffic in my rear view mirror, maybe there was still time to go back to the bookstore, retrieve the journal and take it to the bank. I was beginning to doubt myself, in the excitement of the moment I was clearly making tactical mistakes. Wildly, I swung the truck around in the middle of the street ignoring the horns from the oncoming traffic. This would only take a minute I told myself as I turned back into the bookstore’s parking lot and ran to the front door.
The grocery’s parking lot was half-full when I reached it thirty minutes later. There were snowdrifts around the metal barriers where they usually kept the carts. As I got out of the car, I took off my coat and threw it across the front seat. I was flush with excitement. I hated that my privacy had been violated. I wanted this conversation to result in Tom’s immediate departure, and yet, I was glad that we were having this meeting, here, so far from Moscow. I wanted to see him, to sit across from him, look at his face, feel the old rush. I was relieved that this meeting was finally taking place. It’s always better to know the whereabouts of an enemy. Still I was rather giddy with fear and familiarity.
Tom sat at one of the tables near the door. I went to the counter, ordered a latte and a cranberry scone, and then joined him at the table. There were several others in the store, it’s the largest grocery store in town, actually only one of two in town. I wanted the meeting here because not only were there a significant number of people passing through the cafe, they were not lingering, so while I had the advantage of being in public, it was unlikely that our conversation would be overheard.
“You’ve changed your hair color,” Tom said. “It looks good.”
It was clear that I was not the only one entertaining cheerful banality as a strategy. This simple exchange provided a well of relief. It was still safe to imagine that we were two old colleagues who shared nothing more complicated than an overseas assignment. Certainly we looked relaxed. Tom sat back in his chair, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his head tilted to the side as he smiled.
“Change is good,” I said.
“Is that what accounts for the new name?” He leaned forward, reached for his cup of coffee and then leaned back and sipped it. “How do you live here year round, don’t you get bored?”
“I like the quiet.”
He shook his head, reached for his cigarettes, and then reconsidered. “You work in a bookstore, right?”
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “Why don’t you come back overseas. Shit, you could fly back with me if you wanted.”
“Back to Moscow?” I asked.
“You liked it there didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“So come back,” he said. “You’ve done your time in purgatory. Come out and rejoin the rest of us.”
“I’m not sure I like the rest of you.”
He chuckled and leaned forward. “I thought you found us irresistible.”
Did I miss that life? Sure. The sense of belonging to something integral and important. But that was illusory. A play each of us was invited to enjoy for our short tenure within the body of the corporate organism. It was only after our departure, after we observed how quickly our position was filled, with no ripple of interruption, that the illusion was seen for what it was and left a queasy feeling in our guts. I suspected that even the outgoing Ambassador experienced this vertigo.
“So, are you leaving tonight?”
He sat back, “Actually, I’m thinking of sticking around through the New Year.”
Three weeks. It disturbed me that he was here for a day.
“It won’t be easy to find a place at this time of year.”
“I’ve already rented a ski house for a few weeks.”
“Your wife should enjoy the skiing.”
“She is,” he said smiling. “She’s in Aspen.”
“You’re still in Moscow?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“I get around.”
“But they don’t need you right now,” I said. Did they know he was here? It would be simple for him. To say he was one place and actually be somewhere else. He had friends who would take care of little things like that.
“Did you bring the journal?”
“I already told you, I don’t have it.”
“Is it at the bookstore?”
“The journal was lost in Moscow,” I said.
“Or did you drop it at the bank?”
“The journal was stolen from me.”
“I think someone has found it.”
“Who?”
“You.”
I stared into the cup in my hands. “Look, what happened there is finished. You of all people should be glad of that.”
“But it’s not if that journal still exists.”
“I don’t have it.”
Tom smiled. “You’ve always been a terrible liar. But just for the sake of conjecture, what would you do with it if you did have it?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You don’t plan to use the information it contains?”
“For what?”
“You were very angry when you left,” he said.
“I came here to get away from all that.”
“You picked a nice place.”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” I said. “If you want to ski, go join your wife in Aspen.”
“I don’t think she’d like that.”
“Why?”
“We’re divorced.”
I rolled my eyes, “Good for her. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”
He grabbed my wrist. His fingers were warm, burned as they tightened around my wrist. “I can’t do that.”
I twisted out of his grasp. “Why not?”
He stood suddenly and pushed his chair in. He took a card from his wallet and dropped it onto the table. “Here’s where I’m staying. If you have any problems in the next few weeks, call me.”
“The only problem I have is you.”
“If you give me the journal things will get better.”
“Which suggests that if I don’t, things will get worse.”
“They will.”
“And will you be the cause?”
“I am not the one you should be afraid of.”
I watched him walk out the door and into the parking lot. He was quickly lost in the early winter darkness and the cars that now filled the lot with shoppers, picking up supplies for dinner.
I looked at the card that he’d given me. In my mind, I located the address and knew that later, I would drive by the house. I crumpled the card and dropped it into my empty coffee cup, threw it away, stood, and then walked over to the line of shopping carts, pulled one loose and made my way to the back of the store. Grocery shopping had always been meditative for me. I dropped a loaf of sourdough rosemary bread in the cart, a wedge of brie, and thought of apples. I rolled through the meat section, bypassing the steaks and stopped in front of the seafood counter. A couple pounds of Alaskan King crab legs and I could invite the neighbors…I’d need champagne to really set the tone. Maybe I’d make it the center of a New Year’s Eve party, invite the neighbors, ask George to join us.
I drifted back to the meat counter and selected a petite filet mignon and at the last moment had the butcher wrap up a second one. I thought I might pick up a bottle while I was in the store. Maybe two. Just in case I needed sustenance. I needed to speak with George, to try to explain my actions this afternoon. Maybe I’d swing by the store and pick him up, invite him for dinner at my place. I checked my watch and then pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I dialed the shop’s phone number. There was no answer. I tried his cell phone and it went straight to voice mail. My only comfort was that George would have left the shop before my conversation with Tom had ended.
This is the trailer for the next James Bond film, due November 7, 2008and it looks like a sexy, psychological thriller in the best old school Cold War tradition. I can't tell you how many years it's been since the prospect of another 007 movie did anything but put me to sleep.......however, after you watch this preview I hope you'll agree that Santa Claus is bringing presents a little bit early this year...and November really should arrive after July!
This easy dinner combines two of my favorite dishes, fried chicken and spinach with garlic. Best of all, it's quick and very tasty!
Let's start with the chicken. I butterfly chicken breasts and dredge them first in flour flavored with salt and pepper, an egg wash that I thin with a tablespoon of water, and finally, pankobread crumbs, which add an extra crunch.
Then I fry each cutlet in a few tablespoons of olive oil, which provides the incomparable texture that you just can't get by oven baking, but which the minimal use of a healthy oil makes possible.
While the cutlets are frying, let's get started on the spinach which takes just two minutes to throw together. As you can, I'm using baby spinach, lots of garlic, and chives which I added simply because I had them in the fridge and because their subtle flavor adds another layer of taste to the dish.
Everything is thrown together in the bottom of the pot with a couple tablespoons of olive oil and allowed to quickly saute. The sultry flavor of the dark greens add a delightful counterpoint to the crunch of the chicken cutlet.
Once everything is done, you can plate it right from the stove. It's the perfect dinner when you come home and want a delicious home cooked meal without the hassle.
P.S. Coming up this week, two posts before the 4th of July weekend: 1) Chapter 24 of the Glass mystery, and 2) a verrrrry toe-curling trailer for an upcoming movie.
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