Sorry, Dana, will edit.

No problem.

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I was going to watch "The Awful Truth". I'd started it, but I also started looking Cary Grant up on the Internet. And got sucked into this and spent way too long reading this instead.

Sorry about that last post - apparently my wireless keyboard went wonky.

So yeah, watched Constantine last night. I've not read the Hellblazer comics, so I just know of John Constantine from encountering him as a walk-on in other comics. I think the movie would've worked a lot better if they'd had someone in the lead role who wasn't a pretty boy like Keanu. I couldn't believe Keanu was a 30-cig a day smoker, or emotionally scarred; but also the noirish sensability called for a more Bogartian tough-guy lead.

And some chemistry between the leads would've been nice.

But otherwise, yeah, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it would be. Partially that's because it didn't try to be a Movie, just popcorn entertainment, which it definitely did well. The effects were really good, and Tilda Swinton rocked the house.

John Constantine is supposed to look like Sting, so I have no problem with the pretty.

Gene Shalit being weird about Brokeback Mountain. And GLAAD being MAAD.

Spidra, thank you so much for the Cary Grant autobiography! I've just spent the last hour and a half reading and reading and annoying Hec and Emmett with one excerpt after another.

What a lovely, sad, exciting record of his childhood and youth. Hardly any Big Stories, just anecdotes, one small sketch after another: hanging up his stockings at Christmas, his own everyday stockings, black or gray with a little white band just below the knee; the magic-lantern party with tangerines and nuts and blancmange; his cousin's Italian beau with the beautiful new motorcar from which Archie was banned after he scuffed the back of the front seats with his boot-heel; his father's garden, with daffodils and a vegetable patch and wild strawberries; the warnings from his schoolmates that anyone who liked daisies was a pansy and anyone who picked dandelions would wet the bed.

The day his mother wasn't there when he came home from school, and all the days after, and his not learning until many years later that she'd had a breakdown and been sent to a sanitarium (he didn't see her for twenty years, and she didn't recognize him at first). Volunteering as a Boy Scout to help in the Great War, and standing on the gangplank handing life preservers to boys scarcely older than he, about to cross the Channel, and seeing the moment of blank fear in each one's eyes. Wandering the streets on the night of the Armistice, when everyone was out walking restlessly but no one was celebrating; every family in town had lost someone, and the town was too relieved to sleep but too full of loss to be joyful.

Hanging out at a local theater and spoiling a magician's illusion with clumsy spotlight management. Walking around town with his father the night after his first professional performance, just talking quietly and holding hands. Crushing on a vaudeville dancer during his troupe's visit to New York, buying her a violently gaudy and inappropriate winter coat for Christmas, and then losing his nerve and never even succeeding in touching her hand. Deciding to become a talking actor, haunting the vaudeville circuit, and modeling himself after Zeppo Marx.

And endless generous little digressions about this or that director or actor or friend of his father's, amazed and delighted at people's talents and strength and kindness.

Just utterly wonderful. Thank you so much, Spidra!

You're welcome, JZ. As I said, I got sucked into that and had to turn the TV off because it was clear I wasn't going to have time to watch "The Awful Truth". It's very interesting to me to see the vulnerability of people we admire. Their admissions of insecurity, failures, etc. make it easier to deal with my own. You figure that it's just part of the human condition.

Wow. It sounds like I'll have to read that book.