Home stretch...

About 10 minutes left in the shift.

Assassination Tango got mixed reviews at our place last night. Natalie really didn't like it. I thought the idea of mixing milongueros and murder in one film to be intriguing, but could not shake the feeling that portions of the film were more documentary-like than drama.

Natalie seemed more aware of the older-man/younger-woman gimmick than I was, too. And although I can't say I was consciously identifying with Duvall as the story line had him hit on a younger woman (who, it turns out, is his girlfriend in real life, according to IMDB), I did notice the trick, just as I noticed it when watching Six Days, Seven Nights and Entrapment.

I wonder what's behind it? Sure, I guess most older men may find the concept of becoming sexually involved with a younger woman appealing (although the involvement in Tango is flirtaceous, not sexual, though I may be putting too fine a point on the difference), but at the same time, the idea cannot help, I think, but be off-putting to younger men and basically all women (except for a small segment of young women who, perhaps, are open to the prospect of dating an man old enough to be their father).

All of this presupposes, of course, that I have any idea of what I'm talking about, which is not a lead pipe cinch, in any case.

Cheers...

milonguero: A person whose life revolves around dancing tango and the philosophy of tango.

Getting closer to the goal...

I pared the Big Assignment down to just under 3000 words remaining, which is encouraging, and threatens a sweet payday in January.

I also finished Patricia Cornwell's All That Remains, and I continue to be impressed with the writer's versatility. What appeared to be formula after the first two books has turned instead into something more, though some features remain constant. This is not your basic Agatha Christie or Ellery Queen, which followed a definite set of rules that, in retrospect, seem somewhat stilted and contrived.

(I don't think I've ever encountered a person who, in real life, sported the surname "Ellery," but that probably carries more the stigma of being a personal problem on my part than anything else.)

I am playing Assassination Tango in the background, while I bake a leg of New Zealand lamb. The variation on the basic theme that I have superposed is a Spanish sound track with English subtitles. It is probably not an earth-shattering revelation, but I understand very little of what is going on without referring to the subtitles. I get the feeling that perhaps, with a long enough exposure, that might become less and less the case.

What is it with me and languages? Why do I launch myself at them, in some vain attempt to learn something, if even a mere scrap of patter?

I took French for seven years in junior high and high school, and was awarded some prize at the end of that time for an achievement that escapes my understanding. I took Russian in college, and worked in-country after graduation. I used to be completely helpless in German, but found some sort of treacherous footing while translating chess tracts for my own amusement (there are few things more... intense than the German writings of Emil Josef Diemer or Gerhard Gunderam on the subject of the Blackmar-Diemer Gambit... or each other's analysis).

And yet, my first experience with a foreign language was in sixth grade, with "Miss Smith," who very naturally assumed that all of us, to the last boy and girl, would elect to learn Spanish in our future academic careers, and (wisely) decided to have us all buy a copy of something called See It And Say It In Spanish, which I recall running across some time ago, all yellowed and falling apart in its cheap paperback binding.

I use Spanish at the store, mostly. My major accomplishment to date is to make change in Spanish. It actually impresses some bystanders, and I have yet to hear any complaints from our Hispanic customers.

I guess part of my fascination with languages is how it sets me apart from my fellow citizens, who generally could not give a good tinker's hoot about exerting themselves in the least to parlez the other person's lingo. It fits in nicely with my almost perverse policy of never, ever letting the other guy (or gal) see me sweat over something served at the dinner table.

Some people, you see, love to see the queasy reaction of Americans to, say, caviar (fish eggs), or kefir (sour clotted milk). I try to make sure my reaction is one of enthusiasm. You won't find me turning green at the thought of consuming nearly anything that people eat, although I am sure that a nemesis of some gastric kind may lurk somewhere in the shadows.

Talking about food, it's time to check the lamb.

Cheers...