The Fredösphere

We saw Holes last night, a movie that delivers pure cinematic satifaction.  I'm not being sarcastic; I loved it.

I suppose it helps that the source material was a kids' novel, and therefore on the short side.  I didn't feel the loss of any key material.  (Louis Sachar converted his own novel into the screenplay; Ayn Rand did not have as happy an experience in a certain movie I've seen ten times.  [BTW look for Sachar in a cameo as Mr. Collingwood.])  Oh, if I had to quibble, I'd say the various plot elements got resolved a little too quickly at the end, but otherwise, it was perfect.  It manipulates your emotions in a way I don't mind; unlike My Big Fat-Free Greek Salad Dressing or whatever you call that movie we saw last week, which was fun but a little too manipulative.  Or maybe I liked Holes because the manipulation was not exclusively aimed at those of the female pursuasion.  Call it a Mr. Holland's Opus without the embarassing music.

As we watched the credits scroll by, we saw lots of familiar names:  Sigourney Weaver, yes, Henry Winkler, yes that was really him, Jon Voight, one of those actors you've seen everywhere but can't remember where, Tim Blake Nelson, I'm sure he was in O Brother Where Art Thou, Eartha Kit ... Eartha Kit!  Batwoman!  The chick who sings Moon River on this album!  (Go there and have a listen.)  A brilliant casting move.  She's got the voice and looks that are sultry and spooky; perfect for a fortune teller.  And even now, in her 70s, she's still got that certain confidence -- call it a feminine swagger -- that is attention-getting and that some men find exciting.