RAVE - Mesrine: L'Instinct de Mort

I don't prefer foreign-language films to English-language, but the foreign-language films we see are usually special ones, and by "special" I mean outstanding.

Amo and I donned berets and dark glasses and saw Mesrine: Killer Instinct (or, L'Instinct de Mort as they say in Montmartre), and it was sensational.

The basic story, of a small-time criminal who escalates to Public Enemy No. 1, is based on the true story of Jacques Mesrine, and is better made, more intense, and MUCH more exciting than Johnny Depp's Dillinger equivalent.

Vincent Cassels is a great actor, and is teamed with a group of equally convincing French unknowns, except for one Monsieur Depardieu, looking heavier, nastier, and weirder than I've ever seen him.

The story starts in 1960 with Mesrine in the French Army in Algiers. This is where he learns his basic moves, and quickly puts them into use back in civilian Paris, working for the 'boss' Guido (Gerard Depardieu). The violent action is intense throughout, as Mesrine plies his trade from France, to Canada, and then into the USA. 

This is where part 1 of the 2-part film ends. We're hoping to see part 2 this holiday weekend, and I'm really looking forward to it.

RAVE - Two Weeks In Tuscany

While I recorded these musings day by day, I can't be assed to post 14 separate entries. So, here they are in one big lump.

Saturday, August 7 - we arrived late afternoon, after flying from London to Florence, picking up our rental vee-hickle, a surprisingly nimble Ford Galaxy 8 seater. We had rented Casa del Saraceno in (turned out to be 7 miles outside) Anghiari, in Tuscany. The house was a restored 100+ year old villa, with infinity pool and a magnificent view over forested valleys. That first night we dined on Italian comfort food (pizza, pasta) in Anghiari, and congratulated ourselves on finding heaven.

Sunday 8th ... OK, so pretty much every day from here on involved some hours in and around the pool, and a drive out in the evening to a local (but of national / international standard) restaurant. This evening however, we had Lawrence's special BBQ, which was of equally high standard.

Monday 9th ... We worked out that one or the other of the dogs that live on the farm down the lane has stolen one of our swimming pool balls each night, and this morning deposited in return a ratty pair of bikini bottoms. Needless to say, we won't try throwing those around in the pool. After returning from dinner in Anghiari, I fell asleep while everyone watched Harry Brown (starring Michael Caine), on the DVD player in our house. Therefore, the movie shall remain review-less.

Tuesday 10th ... Pavey, her sister Rippy, and my other sister-in-law Beverley strolled down past the ball-snatching dogs to another small farm. This one allowed visitors to watch the goat milking, and buy goat's milk and cheese. Later we drove the 40 miles to regional jewel Cortona (where Under The Tuscan Sun was filmed). Cortona, like almost every Tuscan town, was built on a hilltop and fortified in the 13th century. As such, they're all picture perfect. After lunch, Vivek surprised everyone by proposing to Rippy (he had brought the ring with him), so we hot-tailed it back to our villa and broke open the champagne.

Wednesday 11th ... Today was supposed to be a golf day, but instead we had breakfast in Arezzo, in the shadow of a church housing frescoes created by Piero della Francesco, whom many credit as the first artist to properly render perspective. I peeked in, but the recently restored frescoes were off limits to the public, so I got my butt hauled up and down the hills on which Arezzo is built. We had lunch at the excellent Logge Vasari (www.loggevasari.it), on Arezzo's Piazza Grande. Not that it matters in light of Vasari's architectural masterpieces scattered around the square, but I had gnocchi with a king's ransom's worth of white truffle shavings. Later that afternoon, I managed to fall asleep pool-side. Lawrence and the others legged it inside when there was brief thunder and the threat of rain, hoping that yours truly would get wet. Fortunately, my inner survival instincts kicked in, and I woke up and spoiled their fun. We had dinner in Anghiari at Piazza Baldacci, and now I'm thinking "did we really do and eat all that in one day?"

Thursday 12th .... We've now encountered spiders, giant grasshoppers, 1"-2" black scorpions, and so many assorted bugs it's like an entomologist's paradise. The crickets (cicalas, or cicadas) are louder than 747s. An unbelievable dinner at 2 Michelin starred Ristorante da Alighieri (www.daalighiero.it) in a 14th century cellar in Anghiari. I remember the chicken liver salad, gnocchi with truffles, pork with port reduction, ricotta soufflé with truffles, bisquit with wine, panacotta, and espresso teamed with Brunello di Montalcino and a syrah with an unpronounceable name.

Friday 13th ... drove the 1.5 hours into Florence to meet Krish at the airport, and get our Il Duomo fix. Weather wet, to say the least. Brollies and plastic covers, so not much time spent admiring Fillippo Brunelleschi's handiwork.

Saturday 14th ... back to Florence to drop newly-engaged Rippy and Viv at the airport. I'm dog tired at end of 2 days of driving.

Sunday 15th ... Dinner at the fabulously elegant Ristorante Fiorentino, (www.ristorantefiorentino.it/Ristorante.aspx) 10 miles away in San Sepolcro, More pasta and tartufo (truffle), and more Rosso di Montalcino.

Monday 16th ... Enjoyed Perugia and Assisi, the latter being made famous by St Francis of Anaheim, it being Disney-perfect. Dinner in the main square of Assisi, then what felt like a long drive back on the world's least lit freeway. Bloody Italians! They build some of the fastest cars you can buy, and then make it virtually impossible to drive them on their bumpy and poorly-lit roads.

Tuesday 17th .... another one of Lawrence's BBQs, washed down with the last of the champagne and gallons of Montalcino.

Wednesday 18th ... Why is there nothing to report today? Because I had a brain fart and missed the entire day. I thought we had 3 days left after today, but it turns out I've got one day less than expected. Where did that day go?

Thursday 19th ... The aim of most vacations is to relax so totally that one forgets time. Trouble is, we did that too literally yesterday, missed an entire day (don't know how). I said "only two days left" and was corrected by a chorus of "no, tomorrow's our last day!" boy, was I disappointed. Dinner at Nene in San Sepolcro, which epitomized the Italian nightlife experience: outdoor restaurant, curbside medieval walled city, sipping Limocella while 4 generations of local families stroll past, several times each way. That way you get to see the hot, the not, the cool, and the upturned collar sporters, the Maseratis and the scooters, the non-trendy tees and the never-trendy sweaters around the neck, the hotly-debated man bag (is an over the shoulder man bag more, or less manly than a man's clutch bag, and should a man be banned from Man's Club for having either?), and a million other things to gawp, gloat and gossip about.

Summary

For a country with more antiquities per capita than anywhere else on earth, Italy does a great job of preserving, presenting and co-habiting with 2,000 year old Roman, 800 year old Etruscan, and 300-500 year old Renaissance works. It's the 1-5 year old stuff that lets them down ... the newer architecture is uninspired, even drab, the roads are sub-standard, and they're still making and playing Europop!

The food is fabulous, but maybe not as fabulous as they think. The quality of what they serve is unquestionable (none of the "What! They eat that?" you get in France or pretty much anywhere in Asia), but they lack in variety. The claims that "here we serve traditional Arrezoni dishes, completely different from the Umbrian food they serve in the next county" is, in my opinion mostly marketing BS, albeit marketing BS perfected over 2,000 years. Strangely, it reminds me of that tee-shirt with the Amish guys saying "let's ride on over to the next valley and kick some Mennonite ass!" One more food fact: while truffles are wonderful (and I must've eaten a sack-full in the past 2 weeks), after a while you've just had enough damned pasta, salami and bruschetta, and you start craving all the other dishes available in most other countries but curiously absent from Italian towns. It's probably the same trying to get sushi in Shreveport, Louisiana, but I'm only generalizing.

Another potentially inappropriate association, prompted by the "you CAN have too much of a good thing" sentiment is that viral email / image from a few years ago picturing a hot model with the caption "No matter how hot she is, someone, somewhere is just sick of her sh*t".

There are no discernible traffic rules, on road or sidewalk. It wasn't until I moved to the USA that I realized the English subconsciously walk to the left, while Americans subconsciously walk to the right when passing in a corridor or on the sidewalk. Italians don't seem to have worked that out yet.

Finally, a Tuscan hilltop forest in summer is just like land that time forgot, or Jurassic Park. Whenever some scary-ass creature lands on your gently suntanning leg, another even scarier hairier monster straight out of John Carpenter's The Thing buzzes past trailing a banner that advertises "appearing tonight, in a bed near you".

Which reminds me of the true high points of the vacation:

1. Elbows resting on the edge of the infinity pool, blasting wasps with water pistols, trying to come up with more original quotes than "I'll be back" in our best Austrian knucklehead accent.

2. Spending time with Lawrence. It doesn't matter whether he's winning dominoes by a whisker, or I'm thumping him at scrabble, no sooner do we end 2 weeks together than I'm anxiously planning another week, or two, somewhere else.

RAVE - Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

From the ridiculous (She's Out Of My League) to the sublime (The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo).

This is a combo movie and book review, seeing as I read the book on vacation and saw the movie on the flight back from that vacation.

It's rare to see a Swedish movie at all, let alone one this good. And before you wave Ingmar Bergman in my face, I mean "lately, it's been rare to see a Swedish movie this good".

First of all, the book AND the movie are terrific: interesting, exciting, absorbing, convoluted, and rewarding. However, a lot of the complexity is taken out of the movie, a couple of Blomkvist's romantic entanglements were dropped (poor man), and many of his Vanger family encounters too (lucky man). These don't necessarily detract from the movie, but when you're in that unusual situation of simultaneously enjoying book and film, it can, as Shakespeare used to say, discombobulate one.

The story's pace takes some getting into - it's not for those people like my brother Lawrence, who "hates books where they dodge around from character to character every other paragraph", but otherwise it's framstående [that's the word to use if you're ever in Stockholm and want to say "outstanding"].

For those of you that care, the film is sub-titled. Despite that, it'll be hard for the English language version, starring Daniel Craig and Rooney Mara, to beat this original.

I can't find fault with either medium, and look forward to reading and seeing the rest of the trilogy.

BTW - the Dragon Tattoo itself is a minor detail, rather than an integral part of the story .. this is no Dan Brown novel.

RANT - She's Out Of My League

Hell, I don't watch this kind of mindless film! But when you're on a 10 hour flight your options are restricted.

Back down to earth with a bump, movie-wise, this is an inoffensive little film, offering absolutely no risk of strained muscles from rolling around laughing uncontrollably.

You all know the plot, so I won't cover it (and it's not worth covering anyway), but why oh why do producers pick English people to swagger on with dreadful American accents, when there are thousands of perfectly good and available American actors?

In this case, for some inexplicable reason they got Brit-cop Trevor Eve to play the hot girl's dad. It was such an unimportant role, any American could've done it.

It wasn't until the credits rolled that I realized how Trevor Eve got picked for the dad role. He IS her dad in real life ..... Alice Eve plays "hot" Molly.

I would've been disgusted if I'd been tricked into seeing this at the movies, but nodding off with it during a flight is just acceptable.

RAVE - The Disappearance of Alice Creed

Another gritty Brit kidnap crime flick (is that alliterative enough for you?).

The story starts off very slick, with a crisp and efficient grabbing of the eponymous Ms Creed, bundling her into a van, whisking her to a safe house, handcuffing her to a bed, taking proof pictures, getting rid of their "work" clothes, sending a ransom email, and keeping her hydrated.

Everything's progressing according to plan, but then things start to crack (as they have to, otherwise there wouldn't be a film).

There are only 3 characters in the film, which (when done properly) adds to the intensity. Standing out is the slimy and threatening Eddie Marsan.

The film is totally engrossing, with completely believable characters, dialog and storyline. There are more twists than a corkscrew, and I'm not going to tell you about any of them.

Review - Cemetery Junction

Who knows if this will ever get US distribution, even though it was directed by, and features Ricky Gervais.

Set in 1973, it tells the story of a son who wants out of the factory job he shares with his Dad (Gervais).

And being set in 1973, it features lots of smoking and a great soundtrack that includes T.Rex, Bowie, Northern Soul, and Led Zep.

It has a very un-Gervais-ish vibe, a very measured pace, with Ricky's character way in the background, in an understated role as the permanently be-vested Dad. There's no humor from him; he leaves that to the main characters and their sloppy friends.

There's one marvelous line, reminiscent of that time capsule comment in Hot Club Tim Machine, where trying to establish whether they have indeed traveled back in time they ask one party-goer what color Michael Jackson is. "Black, of course" was the answer, and they groaned having learned their fate.

The Cemetery Junction line? When walking in on one character listening to a Vaughan Williams LP, they tell him to "Stop listening to music made by poofs. Listen to some Elton John!"

I'm not sure if I'm pleased or saddened to know there's a real place called Cemetery Junction, near Reading, west of London.

RAVE - The Thick Of It

One of the great things about flying British Airways or (as we have just done for our trip to Italy, via the UK) Virgin Atlantic, aside from the Chicken Korma is the in-flight entertainment.

Instead of cheesy films guaranteed to put you to sleep, plus yet more episodes of Friends, 30 Rock, and [insert dull, formulaic American sitcom here], we got great comedy: Inbetweeners, Only Fools and Horses, Live At The Apollo, and proper gritty indie British movies that haven't seen the light of American day.

First of several cracking programs I saw was The Thick Of It, the wittiest and most acerbic comedy you could wish for. Set in and around Whitehall, where the UK political scene boasts some of the smartest, the stupidest, and in this case, funniest people.

Blisteringly foulmouthed, the show even employs a "swearing consultant". One of his roles is to pen the complex and creative insults used in the show. Now THERE'S something to put in your resume.

The handful of Americans that may have seen a version of it will have done so through the movie In The Loop, which is also highly recommended by this wannabe swearing consultant.

RAVE - Papito

Ignore the cruddy image ... the place looks a LOT more welcoming now that it's finally open. 

"Gourmet Burrito Restaurant" is a new classification on the food scene. In order to find out whether it's the equivalent of realtors re-naming South Central Los Angeles as South LA, or a genuine quality niche, we cut along there this evening.

"It's only 2 blocks walk" my wife says, as I reach for the car keys. The fact that it's actually 3, and they're almost vertical doesn't register as a valid complaint, so a brisk climb it was.

Papito is yet another Chez Papa venture on Potrero Hill, which explains the initial shock of hearing staff speaking French in an otherwise Mexican eatery. Perhaps "gourmet" is a little overstated, but it was definitely a cut above whatever you can get on Valencia Street.

An intimate (19 seats, inside, and a few more outside), very warm atmosphere, match the excellent tacos, burritos and quesadillo small-ish plates. Tacos are $8 for 2, and because we wanted to taste as many varieties as possible, we have 6 between the two of us. The chicken, duck confit, skirt steak, and pork were fabulous; the fish and shrimp tempura were not.

Papitos rounds out an already extensive range of great eateries on 18th St atop Potrero Hill.

RANT - Pretentious wine ordering "tips" from GQ

This collection of windbag "tips" from GQ wine columnist, Alan Richman, is so patchy one wonders how reliable is the rest of his writing.

The "15 Tips for ordering wine in a restaurant" are available here, but I also include them in order to save you time, and add my "total amateur" opinion (in italics).

1. The sommerlier pours. You sip. You hesitate. Good move. Never say yes to a wine until you're sure it's sound. Try it a second time. A third, minutes later, if you still have doubts. Like sex on a first date, you'll regret it if you're not sure.

It's sommelier, not sommerlier, so Mr. Richman doesn't proof read that well.

Second, you don't taste the wine in order to check if you like it; you check to see if it's fresh (i.e. not tainted, or 'corked'), and if it's at your required temperature. It's the same with the meal: how churlish would it be to order your food, taste it to see if you actually like it, then return it if you no longer fancy it. Probably as churlish as our tipster.

Third, what a complete ass you'd be if you made the sommelier hang around for "minutes" while you fart around and decide if you like the wine or not.

2. So much should not be asked of a waiter: Stock market tips. Medical advice. What wine to drink with your meal.

If you're not on a Richman-esque expense account, chances are you regularly eat at restaurants that don't have a formal sommelier, so asking your waiter whether s/he knows the wines well enough to make recommendations is the logical move.

3. With most wine-by-the-glass programs, restaurants try to recoup the price they paid for the bottle on the first glass they sell. Try to order a half-bottle instead. The virtue of ordering wine by the glass is that the restaurant should allow you a complimentary taste.

Riiiight, why not cut down your choices to the two wines they have by the half-bottle?

4. Here's what you do with a cork when it's presented to you: Nothing. No sniffing, please. If it has printing on it and the bottle is expensive, check to see that the information on the cork coincides with what's on the label. If not, you might have a counterfeit.

In some restaurants, the sommelier or waiter will sniff the cork to see if the wine is un-tainted. In that case, it's pretentious to re-sniff the cork yourself. If the staff does not sniff the cork, you could do so in order to give you a hint about the wine's freshness before tasting it to confirm.

And I wonder how many times our tipster has received counterfeit wine in a restaurant worthy of his time and review.

5. Save the slurping and gargling for Napa Valley tasting rooms and morning mouthwash. Try not to turn the stomachs of your guests with primitive rituals.

Funny that you'd make the sommelier wait for minutes, but draw the line at employing tasting room methods.

6. If you're ordering in advance for an important business dinner, don't forget to make certain the wines you select are in stock and available in sufficient quantities.

7. Make sure the wine you order gets to the table before the food. Wine without food is fine; food without wine is a disaster.

Ask a teetotaler or driver whether the statement: "food without wine is a disaster" is a solid opinion, or just BS. I think you already know.

8. Don't be intimidated by huge, clunky, leather (okay, naugahyde) wine lists. They're your friends. If they've been around awhile, and most have, they almost always have beautifully aged bargains hidden away.

Of course, the quality of the paper and binder have absolutely NO bearing on the wine, and neither does the picture on the wine label.

10. Decide if you love vintages or producers. Sommeliers love producers. They're met them. They dined with them. They consider them infallable, even in terrible years. I love good years, full of surprises from unknown winemakers. You get wines that taste of a moment in time, not of a high-tech cellar.

"They're met them"? Another slip in the proof reading department. The rest is a fat generalization.

11. When tasting, don't allow the server to pour so little that it barely wets your mustache. This advice applies to men and women alike. When drinking, beware of servers who fill your glass to the brim, then announce that your bottle is empty and you need another one. That's not service; that's hard-sell.

A restaurant that slips up on the "don't overfill each glass" rule is unlikely to a) warrant a GQ review or b) have wines that are worth tasting.

12. If you've been brought the wrong vintage and you accept it after a taste, you have to pay, even if you believe the restaurant has done you wrong. If the server accidentally brings a more expensive wine than the one you ordered, you should be charged the price of the bottle you requested. Warning: Not everybody agrees.

Er, reading the label before tasting might help you avoid the faux pas of accepting the wrong vintage.

13. If you call and get permission to bring your own wine to a restaurant, always ask the amount of the corkage fee. In a few Manhattan restaurants, it has soared past $100.

14. I don't care if the restaurant is pouring Chateau Latour into Minnie Mouse mugs, don't walk into a restaurant carrying your own wine glasses. It's more pretentious than wearing a monocle and spats.

I wonder why it's necessary to state this. Who on earth takes their own wine glasses to a restaurant?

15. Don't be a big shot. Nobody can get everything right when it comes to detecting problems in wine. Can you identify sulphur, volative acidity, brettanomyces, and/or T.C.A.? That's why sommeliers exist. If you hate the wine you've ordered and can't articulate why, don't be afraid to ask for help.

But whatever you do, don't phone Alan Richman :)

RAVE - Centurion

Unlikely to appeal to the Breakfast at Tiffany's crowd, but nonetheless a solid entry into the Blood 'n Guts division.

For those of you who thought that Gladiator was a nice start, and the cable series Rome, and Spartacus were good upgrades to that, Centurion is excellent, especially if you like your Bronze Age action bloody.

Set in Northern Britain, the Roman army has been stalled for 30 years by the troublesome Picts. See, you couldn't understand a word a Scot said even in 117 AD.

Guerilla tactics employed by the McShiftys disperse a Roman army, and stragglers try to leg it down south where there's central heating and decent food.

Tight action, and did it say it was BLOODY?

RAVE - The Kids Are All Right

More than just the acceptable face of chick flicks, this was genuinely heartfelt and moving.

Annette Bening and Julianne Moore are basking in their lesbian marriage, with a Daughter and Son be-sprogged by Mark Ruffalo's deposits at a sperm bank.

The kids want to meet up with their biological pops, and merriment, travails and tears ensue.

There are several stories going on here. One is about Bening's and Moore's relationship. One is about Ruffalo's bohemian lifestyle and loves. Another is about the daughter's imminent move to college. They all come together to make a great family story and there, I've gone and done it. I've written a "nice" review devoid of innuendo and sarcasm.

The film deserves that.

By the way, don't take your mum to see it. Julianne Moore gets her kit off yet again, and works it!

REVIEW - Hot Tub Time Machine

I know I'm a few weeks late getting to see this film, and I don't normally bother to review films on cable - even Pay Per View, but ..... there are far too few movies about time travel, and this one's a great excuse to play some great 80s tunes.

Having said that, what on earth is John Cusack thinking of? Surely there are lesser actors better suited to delivering fart jokes and generally slopping around in a post Animal House vein.

And unfortunately, the 2 best jokes are in the trailer. 

The somewhat surreal, "it must be some kind of hot tub time machine" is trumped only by the line, when the guys realize that traveling back 30 years leaves them in a position to invest in ideas they already know work, "we could combine Twitter and Viagra: Twittagra!"

As Frankie Howard used to say "quite titterful".

RAVE - Ozone Thai

I'm being a little generous in giving Ozone a RAVE, not because it wasn't a great meal, in a great space (the old Jack Falstaff on 2nd Street), but because most Thai restaurants serve the same basic dishes and flavors, and they're nearly always great.

They're also nearly always as good when grabbed as take-out, and I'm sure Ozone will be used for that by us in future.

The Tom Yum soup, spring rolls, crispy tofu, shrimp rolls, fish cake, shrimp satay and delicious sauces got the evening off to a perfect start, and then it was a trough full of those other Thai staples: Chicken Pad Thai Woon Sen, Beef with Broccoli, Green Curry, and so on.

Faultless, but an unexceptional victim of the uniform excellence of Thai food.

RAVE - Skool

Either Blowfish is hemmorhaging staff, or they've got a lot more people holed up in that place than we can see. 

Two Potrero Hill restaurants have recently been opened by Blowfish alumni. RocketFish is so-so, but Skool promises to be the real deal.

Not exactly a sushi place, but definitely fish-oriented. And where RocketFish is somewhat of a letdown, Skool is inviting and inventive enough to make it.

The Albacore Tuna special starter was the BEST we've ever tasted. No, that's a lie .. tuna just landed from a sport boat, seared and served at the bar in our Fiji hotel was the best, but this dish from Skool was probably the best possible from a new restaurant on a chilly night in San Francisco.

Oven Roasted Ankimo, i.e. Monkfish Liver. I definitely wouldn't have ordered this if I'd known it was fish liver, albeit beautifully prepared in little medallions looking just like Foie Gras. The cinnamon-spiced mushroom mélange underneath the Ankimo was perfect.

Eryngii Fries, which are fried Oyster Mushrooms, and were dee-lish-us.

Veggie Coca, a flatbread covered in Pesto Trapanese, tomato, mushrooms, greens, feta cheese and a fat, organic egg on top. Fresh, fresh, fresh.

Sauteed Black Cod, very fresh and crisp. Very simple too; her ladyship said she could've made it at home. That's not a criticism, just an observation. Hell, it was "only" cumin marinated Monterrey Black Cod with baby Bok Choy and tomato pineapple salsa. Piece 'o cake!

Rock Shrimp salad - Ginger Apple Sautéed Shrimp in a Coconut Milk Reduction with Edamame, Roman Beans and Crème Fraiche, doesn't sound like it needed any more flavors, but it did need seasoning.

Skool is waiting for its liqor license, so take a bottle of wine with you, and enjoy.

If you can't find the place, see their web site.

RANT - Predators

The dastardly beasts from Alien, The Thing, and Predator are still numbers 1, 2, and 3 monsters, in my book.

I think I'd place them in reverse order though.

The monster from Alien is probably the better piece of art, and when it debuted, beat the crap - physically and scareworthily - out of your Wolfmen, Vampires, and assorted nasties.

The popped-off, upside-down head that sprouted huge spider's legs in John Carpenter's The Thing was arguably the most original, but a sharp blast from a flame thrower put proper paid to it.

The bad-ass predator is not only nasty to look at, it's got moves. It fights intelligently, can flip into invisibility, and is a bona fide warrior.

No doubt you've got your favorites, the ones you love to hate.

Anyhow, back to planet X, where Adrien Brodie and a bunch of other unlikely protaganists are deposited and told to go forth and make mayhem.

This movie sucked, stank, blew, bombed and bewildered.

No explanation of who they were, why they were dumped on this planet, what the beef was all about, what the hell Laurence Fishburne was doing when he showed up unannounced, mumbled a bit, and then got killed.

Maybe I should have said ** SPOILER ALERT ** before telling you of Fishburne's brief and pointless appearance, but that spoiler can't harm a film already riddled with pointlessness.

And Brody, you should be ashamed of yourself. You briefly soared, in the Pianist and The Singing Detective, but now you're sunk.

RANT - Europa League Football

Will someone tell me where Molde is? I thought not.

I've no idea where Elfsborg or Teteks hail from either, but the former put 5 goals past the latter yesterday.

It must be just as bad for European football fans:

"Wo ist Bangor City?", or

"Dove diavolo è Motherwell?"

Why do I ask? Liverpool are playing Rabotnicki Skopje today. If they lose or draw, I'm going to have to find something worse than a RANT!

Here's a typical scene from their (tee hee) stadium.

Such are the vagaries of playing in the Europa League. Not only do you lose out on all that lovely money gushing in from the Champions League, but you have to play against teams your Dad's never heard of.

Should Liverpool squeak a win against Rabotnicki today, no-one will know whether they've just achieved the footballing equivalent of climbing Everest, or beaten a team of under-fifteens from the spinal injury ward of a provincial Russian hospital.

RAVE - Alfred's

One word. Old-School.

Any restaurant named after an obviously elderly gentleman (do YOU know anyone young named "Alfred"?), is clearly old school and proud of it.

Alfred's, triangulated by downtown, Chinatown and North Beach, is a decidedly old fashioned steak house. Everything you'd expect of a stuck-in-the-50s steak place: the predictable cuts, the predictable sides (spinach, mashed potatoes, broccoli), the leather booths ... must be proud of its heritage. 

Alfred's is. And deservedly so.

The place was traditional, unpretentious and wonderful. A bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin made sure the Boneless Ribeye (Gareth's) and the Filet Mignon (mine) were washed down smoothly and expensively.

We held back the babes with sharp sticks at Wayfare, a new bar and restaurant nearby where we enjoyed digestifs, and then home for what was still an early night.

What an all around sensible and traditional evening.

RAVE - The Extra Man

Deliciously weird. 

In fact, weirder than anything I've seen Kevin Kline in. He's usually just annoying, and his movies are a bit hit and miss. All except a Fish Called Wanda, and the the good bits weren't necessarily of his making.

KK is an impoverished New Yorker, living in a tiny, flea-infested flat, reduced to applying boot polish to his ankles because his socks are thread-bare.

He advertises for a room-mate to help cover his expenses. Enter, Paul Dano, another actor known for his weird looks and ways (remember him in There Will Be Blood?) 

Everyone was weird in that one, and I'm still having to pay for dragging Gareth and Amo to it. I thought it was great, but then .....

From the first meeting, when Kevin Kline's fruity bachelor interviews Paul Dano, to the closing tune - T.Rex singing "Dandy in the Underworld", this film is a intellectual riot.

My only other known reference to "Dandy In The Underworld" is the autobiography of Sebastian Horsley, an English weirdo who had himself crucified in the Philippines, just to see what it was like. Anyhow, I digress, mainly because he was an artificial weirdo, unlike Kline and Dano who seem to achieve it on autopilot.

Added to the general mayhem, we have John C. Reilly speaking in a hilarious high-pitched voice, 

Together, they escort elderly, rich women around New York. Hence, the "extra man" role.

And did I say it was weird? And funny?

RANT - The Oxford Murders

I already knew it was impossible to watch Elijah Wood in a movie other than LoTR without thinking of Frodo; and it's even worse if he's cavorting on a bed with a female co-star and the wimpy hobbit springs to mind.

I hadn't realized that it was equally impossible to watch John Hurt without thinking of Elephant Man or Alien.

With these two in The Oxford Murders, it meant something WAS actually happening, even if it was only in my mind, and not in the movie itself.

The film was a crushingly dull, sleep-inducing re-hash of every episode of Inspector Morse, with some Fibonnaci and Foucault thrown in there in a vain attempt to make it interesting. It didn't work.

The main story - of a serial killer in Oxford - was  not well-enough delivered to counter the deadly dull investigation into an elusive mathematical problem by the Hurt-Wood combo.

Math was dull at school, and remains dull to this day at Chateau Page.

RAVE - Salt

After reading a couple of completely misleading reviews on IMDB.com, I was not expecting too much from this film. Some ass had said "nothing much happens". 

Now, I'm not a fan of Angelina Jolie's bloated lip look, and don't equate her with stunts of any kind - let alone the ones in this movie - but the action was non-stop, in a Bourne-ish kind of way.

Plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing, lots of pouting from Mrs. Pitt.

As in other films of this type (and perhaps a necessary evil, to keep the adrenaline flowing), some of the action defies the bounds of logic and human endurance. Jolie leaps from fast-moving truck roof to fast-moving truck roof; Jolie jumps down elevator shaft 2 floors at a time, and doesn't even get dirt on her white shirt; Jolie tackles 5 CIA agents - each individually capable of holding down a job, one assumes - and comes out on top; you get the picture.

There's an element of suspended reality in every one of these Bourne / Mission Impossible type movies, so maybe Salt didn't go too far. Interestingly, the Salty script was written for Tom Cruise. When he turned it down, it was re-written for a female lead and Jolie stepped up.

RAVE - LOOK OUT!

BEFORE

AFTER

While some of you may have missed this earlier today, no doubt the skipper of this yacht off the coast of South Africa wished the whale had done the same.

This is one of those moments that absolutely cries out for a 3LA (three letter acronym) like WTF, probably with a couple of exclamation marks.

WTF!!

Of course, exclaiming won't get you very far. Nothing short of a "teleport now" button on the steering wheel would prevent the inevitable.

RAVE - Keane at the Fox

Mumblings over Mehserle and Medical Marijuana were interrupted briefly for an amped up boy band with fans so rabid you'd think they were campaigning for or against those M's.

Tom Chaplin's voice is great, provided he sticks to his range ... nothing too deep or he'd bust his dramatically slimmer gut.

For me, Keane is like lobster ... many rave about it, but I don't crave the taste. Or maybe they're more like polenta ... inoffensive, but why do chefs see the need for it?

But wait, this isn't a restaurant review, it's a brief, non-emotional review of last night's show at The Fox Theater in Oakland, where Pavey, Gareth and I peered over the 50/50 Asian and white crowd. Not many of Oakland's finest here, because while Keane aspire to deep and soulful status, they appeal to a mainly keyboard-centric pop market.

They were excellent when they cranked it up a bit and Chaplin tried his Freddie Mercury moves on, but they're much better known for their melodies.

Replete with a bassist, to give their sound a bit of oomph on stage, they showed why they're so admired; more accessible than a cheap hooker, but nicer.

So nice, in fact, that vocalist Chaplin does a damned good impression of landowner Ralph, from the Fast Show (aka Brilliant, here in the USA, where most of the humor must be impenetrable).

RAVE - Lazy Ox Canteen, LA

There must be something about landing at an airport, being whisked away by your host to a hot restaurant and diving into a boisterous and fabulous meal. We did it a few years ago into Hong Kong for New Year's Eve, and we did it last Friday night into Burbank.

Our hosts were George, Cecille and Perry. The restaurant was the Lazy Ox Canteen, in Little Tokyo, downtown LA.

Aside from the noise (way past "11"), the vibe was appropriately energetic, the food was exciting and the company was marvelously wonderful (or maybe it was wonderfully marvelous).

It's hardly worth looking at the menu on the Lazy Ox web-site, because I can only see one item - the hand-torn pasta with sunny side egg, brown butter and fines herbes - that was on the menu last Friday. That was one of my favorite dishes, but had to compete hard with the luxurious chicken and duck liver mousse, the crunchy and succulent fava bean salad, and the scrumptious pork confit in tomato soup while every other dish (the Sea Bream, Yellowtail, even the Romaine Salad) had more going on than a Brazilian carnival. And I mean that in a good, good way.

Believe it or not, some of us had space for dessert, and were rewarded with Butterscotch, Blackberry Crumble and Rice Pudding that put the dent in decadent.

REVIEW - Rocketfish

There's been a lot o' buzz up here at altitude on Potrero Hill about new sushi restaurant, Rocketfish. Set up by former sushi chef at Blowfish, and occupying the prime space of the former Lingba, all was set for a bona fide happening.

We left it a couple weeks before venturing in, primarily, according to Mrs Page, so they could iron out the unavoidable newbie wrinkles and I could go there without ranting like a madman about some otherwise minor setback.

Well, either their wrinkles are deeper than expected, or the place has peaked at a disappointingly low threshold. 

While we were hoping for Blowfish v2 we've ended up with a place that has about as much (i.e. as little) pazzaz as Moshi Moshi, Live Sushi and Umi (all close by, with a combined atmosphere of lunar proportions).

Our appetizers were dull, our sashimi and rolls were just fishy, rather than tastily fishy.

Eggplant something or other, virtually tasteless and completely grey.

Goma Tataki black sesame-crusted Ahi Tuna salad: outstanding, and I don't mean that ironically.

Young yellowtail sashimi: far too fishy for me, not melt-in-your-mouth like the yellowtail we had earlier in the week at Blowfish and Yoshi's

"Special" Rocket roll: whose only special feature was it's raw fishiness.

Tempura combo: tiger shrimp, zucchini, sweet potato, pumpkin etc. A life-saver, after the mostly dull rolls and sashimi.

The only saving grace, and I don't really care about or judge a restaurant by this ... the price was good, at around $80 including a couple drinks. Equivalent price at Blowfish would be $30 more, but the food would have been twice as good as Rocketfish.

RANT - When is a Virgin Not a Virgin?

Another news item today: "Many of the olive oils lining supermarket shelves in the United States are not the top-grade extra-virgin oils their labels proclaim, according to a report from the University of California, Davis. Researchers analyzed popular brands and found 69 percent of imported oils and ten percent of domestic oils sampled did not meet the international standards that define the pure, cold-pressed, olive oils that deserve the extra virgin title". The full article can be found here.

But before you shoot off and read that piece, why should this perpetration of factual anomalies warrant anything more than a "Duh" from us?

Frankly, I'm not sure I've seen anything less than a "triple-pressed, cold-filtered, turbo-charged, extra extra virgin - in fact, so virgin it's never even seen someone of the opposite sex" olive oil in years.

Of course, this is all a load of marketing bollocks. I'm reminded of an old friend at Informix who used to introduce me by saying: "and now, Philip Page, Marketing Director (and as we all know, marketing exists just to add value to the facts)".

He was also the person who, in one presentation said "why use a picture when a thousand words will do", so he's eminently quotable.

RANT - Bargain Basement Warriors

Here's something that Bay Area commentators have been anguishing about for weeks: the sale of our local excuse for a basketball team, The Golden State Warriors.

Amo and I were talking just last night about how Larry Ellison (the 6th richest man in the World, and head bully at Oracle), might be the next Warriors' owner, and how his inimitable style might benefit that team of lanky losers.

Waddyaknow (sure to appear in next year's Oxford English Dictionary) even though Ellison made the highest offer, the Warriors' owner decided he'd rather have someone, er, perhaps less "inimitable" owning his team.

Right now I think I'll park this thread, seeing as I find it hard enough to repel the advances (read: criticism) from the world's 9,645th richest woman (my gorgeous wife), let alone those of The Right Honorable Lord Ellison.

It'll be interesting to see if the new owners decide to ditch Oracle's sponsorship of Oracle Arena, the Warriors' stadium, in favor of someone who hadn't just lost their bid for ownership.

One subtext to the subtext is that one of those new owners said today "I am incredibly excited to have the opportunity to be the next steward of this storied NBA franchise. This is my dream come true".

Now, in England we often use that term "storied" to mean "pain in the ass", as in "they've been through so many ups and downs, trials and tribulations, there are tons of stories told about what a pain in the ass they are to deal with".

Prezactly!

RAVE - Blowfish

If I posted every time we ate at this place the blog would start to smell fishy. 

I've said before that Blowfish is my favorite sushi restaurant in the City. Until we ate recently at Tsunami in Mission Bay, Blowfish was STREETS ahead, in my view, of anything else in the sushi department. Now it's maybe just a couple car-lengths ahead.

Blowfish waiters are hipper and better than the nondescript staff at other sushi restaurants. No-one else does the techno music and Anime on several screens like Blowfish does it.

When it comes to the food - I think the crispness, freshness and inventiveness of Blowfish's sashimi and rolls outdoes the rest.

I know you can look at comments on Yelp or Fodors and you'll get diametrically-opposing views from various posters. You get that with all restaurants, but arguably sushi brings out the extremes more than other types of food.

For this pasta-loving, stoli and mojito, indie-music fan, a night at Blowfish, munching on cold, dead fish, listening to techno and sippin' Asahi is right up there with a date with Halle Berry.

And before I offend Halle, my mum and my wife, I'll quit analogizing while I'm ahead.

RAVE and RANT - Dwele and Sushi at Yoshi's, Oakland

My previous couple of posts have mentioned our Scottish guest this weekend, and when planning our 3 days of male merriment, I focused on good food, good wine and jazz. Alright, good music.

While scoring big on the food front - Anchor And Hope, Axis Cafe, and Hog Island Oyster Co., I was finding it difficult to come up with an appropriate jazz experience. By "appropriate" I wasn't expecting Miles Davis, but I didn't want to settle for a house band.

Stephen's and my old haunt, Jazz at Pearls, is now unaccountably closed. Not being a committed jazz follower, the only other places I could think of were Yoshi's in San Francisco's Fillmore district, or the parent Yoshi's in Oakland.

When Pavey heard that R&B smoothie Dwele was playing in Oakland, "we" decided that was where we were going for our jazz. Stephen, Simi, Pavey and I had a so-so sushi experience before filing into the intimate venue for the 10.30pm show. Before I focus on the music, Yoshi's is definitely not worth visiting for its sushi restaurant. There were tasty offerings in the Hamachi department - sashimi, carpacchio, and in rolls - but the rest was several rungs down from Blowfish, Tsunami or any number of San Francisco's sushi restaurants. Shambolic goings on at the front desk set the scene for what was a fun meal from the company perspective, but as I said, sub-par from the food angle.

Anyhow, cut to the music, which was - even for this R&B non-believer's ear, top notch. My differently-motivated fellow revelers LOVED the show, which was exactly what I was aiming for, so job well done.

RAVE - Hog Island Oyster Company

Was it the sun, or the waterside location on San Francisco's Embarcadero? Perhaps it was the easy-on-the-eye-ness of the passers-by who were perfectly dressed for that sun. Maybe it was our waiter, who was a great host and more camp than a row of tents. Could it be that having oysters two days in a row was getting to me?

It surely couldn't be the company? Age-less but centuries-old friend Stephen, who despite having spent years in England (where I first met him), more years in California (where I continued trading obscenities with him), a couple years in Australia, then time in Cincinnati and now Salt Lake City, still speaks in his native Scottish accent, is here with us this week-end.

Anyhow, Rob Roy and I had a shellfish-bashing, Chablis-slurping lunch of Bluebeard proportions, and yea, it was good.

RAVE - Anchor And Hope

Annoyingly-named (for me), but completely absolved by the fabulous-ness of the food.

How can "Anchor And Hope" be an annoying name? 

Because the Islington, London pub after which it's presumably named is called The Hope And Anchor. It's a subterranean club where bands like The Stranglers and The Sex Pistols got early gigs. I saw a fresh-faced Billy Bragg perform there long before he became angry and famous. My host and fellow cruise-about-London-and-marvel-about-how-the-other-half-drink pal, Roger also introduced me to Man at that same Hope And Anchor.

Anyhow, back to the plot. Every time I have to say "Anchor And Hope" it sets my teeth on edge.

The Anchor (grrrr) And Hope (grrr, grrr) is a seafood-centric, but meat-friendly place with an initially cold vibe (all that black and white tile) that quickly warms up. The quality of food, the friendly staff, and the buzzing crowd all help to raise that temperature.

The 5 of us were divided into those who wanted lashings of raw oysters (Stephen and me), those who wanted to "try one just to see what they're like" (Pavey), and those who on this occasion wanted them baked rather than raw (David and Felicia). Consequently, we tucked into our preferred oyster delivery systems and then our Fish and fantastic rosemary-flaked chips, Ahi Tuna, Pork Loin, Lobster Roll and Hanger Steak.

A mammoth selection of rare and interesting beers rounds out the menu, and perfectly complements the rest of the excellent menu.

RANT - World Cup jokes, at England's expense!

So it's excellent news that it's an all-European final, although I'd have preferred an England versus Isle of Man final, thereby guaranteeing (I think) an England victory.

To add insult to injury though, I'm now getting told jokes by American work-mates, at the expense of England!

To wit ....

What's the difference between a tea bag and the England soccer team?

Answer: a tea bag stays in the cup longer.

Har-dee-bloody-har.

RAVE - Four Lions (preview)

This is the first time I've posted a review for a movie I've not even seen yet, but take a look at this preview and tell me whether you:

a) think it's going to be a hoot

b) kinda like the premise but know you're unlikely to be able to see it if you don't live in the UK

c) don't think that terrorism is something that should be made fun of

d) can't understand a word of what they're saying

I'm a definite a), worry about b) and c), and will resort to interminable rewind and replay if I'm partly d).

This is Chris Morris' first directorial role. Until now he's responsible for a barrage of mostly patchy stuff on radio, although he has a huge following based on those radio and TV shows in England.

I've seen other people liken this to the Monty Python paradigm - where "endless hours of tedious and only occasionally funny lines on TV" were tightened up by the strictures of 90-minute movies. Personally, I loved those "endless hours" and found them truly original and very, very funny, but that didn't stop me from loving the Python movies too.

"Four Lions" plays on the English football team's "Three Lions" logo.

RANT - Love Ranch

Tough one this.

On the one hand, it stars Helen Mirren, co-owner of a brothel in the desert outside Reno, Nevada. So far so good eh? 

The other co-owner is Joe Pesci, who yet again trots out his foul-mouthed, whiny New Jersey schtick. I have no idea why so many reviewers welcomed him back to mainstream cinema. He can't act! He just delivers his lines in the same way he's been doing for years. He starts off the movie trying to shake the "New Jersey" badge off, talking in some less regionally-specific accent, but as the movie goes on he slips back into the old groove.

And why, in a movie that features Helen Mirren all boudoir-ish am I bothering to go on about an ugly, short-arsed hack in a bad wig?

That, and the fact that despite being set in a knocking shop with Pesci having invested in a boxing heavyweight title contender, while being pressured by the IRS, makes this a difficult one to judge. You'd think there's plenty going on to keep the viewer captivated.

But there isn't.

Maybe it's because we saw a late show, finishing after midnight on a hot, hot day.

Nah. It was just too consistently slow, and for me Helen Mirren's first dud for some time.

RAVE - South American "stars" dumped out of World Cup

So much for the "experts" who proclaimed earlier this week that "South American teams now dominate the World Cup".

Netherlands overcame Brazil, Germany thumped Argentina, and today Spain showed Paraguay the way home. All that's left now is for the Dutch to send Uruguay packing, and it'll be an all-European final.

What we've learned - and I hope I'm not being unfair here - is that the further south you go for your football, the more gesticulating, protesting, diving and writhing you employ.

It was shocking to see how, once they weren't ahead, the Brazilians turned dirty and ugly. It was also a salutary reminder to the flashy Latin American teams that fancy skills are nothing if there's no disciplined team play.

It also meant my chances of winning the ESPN web competition are blown away, seeing as I predicted a Spain versus Brazil final. Shows what I know.

RAVE - Tsunami Sushi

There are 2 Tsunami restaurants in San Francisco, one on Fulton and Divisadero, the other on 4th and Berry, right by the Giants' ball park.

We went to the latter for dinner last night, and found it a decent competitor to Blowfish, my favorite sushi place in the city.

There are a couple of spots closer to where we live on Potrero Hill - Live Sushi and Moshi Moshi, which I've written about and dissed in earlier posts. Those places focus solely on the food, and don't bother much with ambiance or entertainment. I'm not saying I'd go for atmosphere with nasty food, but Blowfish and now Tsunami make sure all of your senses are addressed.

Having said that, Tsunami's not perfect.

Service is desperately patchy. Our waiter introduced herself by saying it was her first week, so set our expectations accordingly. That didn't account for us waiting 10 minutes at the front desk to get seated at a table that had been empty the whole time, waiting a further 10 minutes to place our order, and a yet another 10 minutes before our drinks came. 

While they specialize in Gin (which is somewhat unusual), Sake (as do many sushi restaurants), and Whisky (they're owned by the same people that own the Nihon Whisky Lounge), I asked if they had vodka. Our waiter said "yes" so I ordered a Stoli Martini. She came back a few minutes later to say they only had Ketel One. I don't normally like that brand, but aside from the perfectly-cold but thimble-sized martini glass it came in, I enjoyed it.

The one person behind the bar was sporting a cast on his left wrist and thumb, so was clearly laboring when it came to fixing drinks.

I don't know how long this place has been open, but after writing the above I saw a couple of other reviews that also dinged them on service.

The food was excellent taste-wise, although it perhaps relied too much on the various sauces that were doused over and around the rolls, and lacked the crisp execution for which Blowfish is renowned.

All in all, a solid second behind Blowfish, and we're sure to visit Tsunami again.

REVIEW - Mockingbird update

The Northern Mockingbirds that have nested in the little tree on our deck have successfully hatched, which has upped the ante in the "who really owns this deck?" debate.

The birds have gone from doing what they're named for, projecting a wide range of calls that often mimic other bird calls and assorted noises borrowed from the neighborhood, to sounds that suggest "Red Alert!", and grow to "BACK OFF HUMAN!" the nanosecond I venture out there with my triple espresso.

Sure enough, there are two chicks with gaping mouths that look to account for half of their overall size, so the hatching was successful. This means that the parents are occupied in an apparently permanent cycle of catching bugs and depositing them back in the aforementioned gigantic beaks.

They clearly can sense that Mrs Page is the easier target, because every time she goes out there either [and now I'll slip seamlessly into ornithological lingo] the daddy bird or the mommy bird swoops down and grabs at the "Small. Hand Wash Only" tag Pavey always seems to have stuck out from her tee-shirt. General merriment ensues, with the birds switching to "Ha! Got the bitch!" calls, me snickering and Pav waving her arms about like she's just been set on fire.

Meanwhile, our cats persevere with their distinctive "Look, there's another bird" sounds. Those sounds are so unusual we asked the guy at the SPCA what they meant. He said they loosely translate as "I want to kill you, bird", but he was only a Saturday volunteer and wasn't sporting an "I speak cat" badge, so who can be sure?

No doubt the newly-hatched chicks will have found their voices in a few days, and I'll be back with an appropriate rant.