I'm a political faker and again, thank god THE MAGIC FLUTE (71) is over.

I was watching Obama pick brackets on television over the last couple of days and let me tell you I was excited. President of the United States of America picking his fucking brackets just like an everyday Joe. I didn't actually see Obama on Jay Leno but again, President Obama not just sitting on his high shelf, ensconced in the Oval Office, no, here's our President talking to Jay Leno like a regular old celebrity. Excitement, coursing through me, I suddenly realized as excited I am about all this big-TV hoopla, I'm pretty much a dullard in terms of what Obama is actually doing as the President of the United States, and if he's doing it well at all.

And I'm not shitting on Obama at all, I'm shitting on myself. I told myself during the election that I was going to get myself political. I was going to follow the news about what Obama was doing in terms of the country, the world, the economy, the environment - I was pumped to be a part of the change and new world we as Americans were entering.

Of course, inauguration came and went and it's almost two months in to Obama's Presidency and as always I know almost nothing about what he's doing or how well he's doing it. Nope, I'm just sitting at home, a little boozed, cheering about the fact that he filled out a bracket. And I don't think I'm alone in this. I'm sure if you polled the people who voted for Obama, you'd quickly find that the pre-inauguration clamor has faded off in to the the type of political inertness we've come to accept as normal in America. I browse the New York Times in the morning to see what President Obama is doing, but if somebody asked me his stance on say, well, anything I'd probably fumble and give a sort of "shit if I know" type expression.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, uh, well, shit, I don't really know. I'm half asleep after eleven hours of work and this was the idea that popped in to mind. Obama makes me smile because he's always on television fulfilling my need to see a President engage with pop-culture on a more consistent basis, but when it comes down to it, I'm a huge political faker. And this is, er, something I'd like to change.

You know what else I'd like to see change? How bored I am with the last, er, five films in The Criterion Collection. I'm obviously not as huge a film scholar as I thought, because from Cocteau to Scorsese to Ingmar Berman, I've been nearly asleep at the wheel for the last five films. The Magic Flute (71) is no exception either.

Oh no, this is a Dutch operatic adaptation of a Mozart composition, a Dutch operatic adaptation of a Mozart composition filmed to seem like its actually being portrayed on a theatrical stage. It's also two hours long. I tried, extremely hard to like this film, I did, I mean it. But at the end of the day I'm very obviously two things: one, an uncultured boor who can't abide the la-la-las of intelligent music like opera and two, excessively bored by melodrama. I found myself drifting in and out of this film more than any other in the collection. I wasn't outraged at it's pretensiousness, I wasn't baffled by it's strange plot, and I wasn't turned away by it's atrocious images - nope, I was just completely uninvolved.

The only character/subplot that I enjoyed, but didn't so much understand, was the romantic lusting of Papageno, the bird-catcher who gets drawn in to Pamino/Pamina's quest to, well, find each other. He's obviously the groundling fare, the broad, sexual, laugh-out-loud comedy intended to please those who can't stand sitting and watching two hours of opera about fucked up love. That being an exact description of myself, I really like his storyline. He was jovial and entertaining, quite good at singing, and was a welcome break from the plodding doom and gloom of the rest of the film. Also, Papagena, his lady love, was a startlingly attractive woman and it certainly helped me get through several moments in the moving.

One final thought and then I can bury this film for good, somewhere dark and deep in my churning brain: Scandanavians have some sort of strange fascination with suicide as it seems like every character, Papageno included, tries to off themselves in the name of love. It's strange, and I wonder if the blandly friendly facades of my Scandanavian friends hide deep, dark, suicidal thoughts.

At the end of the day, I'm just glad we can all move past this one.

Monday: What Comes Next pt. 3

Not even two seconds of THE MAGIC FLUTE (71)

Well last night, hot and sweaty over the fact that I'd posted one hundred times on this here blog I decided to celebrate by immersing myself in a literal whirlwind of Criterion goodness. Because my desk is almost entirely useless to me now, I'd seat myself on my uncomfortable, and soon to be gone, futon and burn through The Magic Flute (71), then take a breather, have a beer, and shoot directly in to Le Million (72). It's a short one, so maybe I'd have time to dig in to Kevin Smith's sketchily deemed-classic Chasing Amy (75) before the sweet arms of sleep wrapped themselves around me.

I was psyched, a big Criterion nerd-out to ring in the big 100 post.

Then the phone rang and a good friend of mine from high school was interested in a hitting up a local, movie-themed taphouse for some beers and nostalgia. I waxed back and forth, sipping on a cheap can of crap beer or four, before agreeing - I'd be home slightly early and I'd certainly polish off The Magic Flute (71) before drifting in to slumber.

Three dark beers later, I'm sprawled out, face crushing my already warped glasses, Scandinavian opera singers serenading me to sleep.

Long story short, I didn't do a lick of Criterion watching last night. Hell, I've got a little over a week before I depart Seattle indefinitely, this might happen a bit.

Keep reading though, I'll try to keep it entertaining.

Post 100 and THE MAGIC FLUTE (71)

Wow. One hundred posts. That has to be something to celebrate. It's taken me nearly four months of almost-daily posting to reach this point and to say that I'm a bit proud of my tenacity and actual dedication is an understatement. I've started quite a few blogs in the past (Haiku Filth, an unnamed blog that Tom Cruise Sanders and I started about local shows in Portland, and, uh, other ones) but all of them have careened to the wayside after a while, victims of laziness and self-conscious, and very true fear that no one was reading them.

Criterion Quest is different though, and I'll tell you why. Every day I wake up and I know that no matter what I'm doing for the day, be it writing, making coffee, running, dressing up in a golf outfit and shaving a mustache and then throwing a frisbee blindfolded, I have a movie that not only I want to watch but I need to watch. I have a goal, a dim, dim light at the end of a very very long tunnel and I can't help but be excited to at least have a few faceless friends (that's you guys) joining me on the journey. And I know, people aren't always excited about my dissection of an early French silent film, or my bitching about my cold, but I get the feeling that those who read this little endeavor of mine are actually enjoying it and that, coupled with my obsessive and near life-long need to watch every Criterion film before I die has kept me going.

I hoped you've enjoyed reading these first 100 posts, because I've certainly enjoyed writing them. Here's a tip of the hat to the first 100, and a delicate curtsy to the next 100.

Thanks for sticking around.

I always connected Ingmar Bergman with dark, weird films about the intricacies of relationships, filmed in stark close-ups with some of the great Scandanavian actors of their time. I always imagined that his movies would be difficult to plow through as they'd be so emotionally wrenching you couldn't quite bear to go on. I've always thought that Ingmar Bergman (the absolute darling of The Criterion Collection) was a brooding man, his works filled with fucked up people and their terrible decisions.

I certainly never imagined that Ingmar Bergman was in the field of making smiley, silly adaptations of Mozart's The Magic Flute (70). But, it turns out, he is.

The Magic Flute (70) was put in the old computer last night when I had a bit of free time between shirking responsibility, packing, and drinking and boy oh boy was I surprised. For some reason, I'm sure I'll never figure it out, Bergman decided to film an actual theatrical version of the opera, with all the cheesy, hammy facial expressions, bargain bin costumes and overdone light work, we've come to love out of theatre. Thus, this tale of a Prince searching for his unknown lady love with the help of a bird-catcher and a pair of magic flutes and a trio of smiling boy spirits is almost humorous in its adaptation. I found myself actually this film as it progressed, drawn in to the odd theatricality of it, laughing out loud at some of the choices made by the actors, especially Papageno (Hakan Hagegard) and his strange, strange facial padlock.

It's why I love the Criterion Collection, they bring to light these films from directors you pigeonhole in to one category, films that utterly change the way you think about the film, the director and his whole filmography. For a giant film nerd like myself, it's actually very exciting.

I've got no idea where this film is going, but for the first time in two weeks I'm actually fairly excited to find out.

Thursday: The Magic Flute (71)

Just under two weeks and THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST (70) finally bites the dust.

I sold my first piece of furniture today. A huge bookshelf that in the past has held my disgusting collection of books I haven't read was pawned off to the good Ross ... something or other. And it is both satisfying and just another sign of how completely different my life is about to become.

I'm at just under two weeks before I pack up all of my belongings and hit the road and let me tell you I am a ball of conflicting emotions. Excitement, happiness, sadness, nervousness - nearly every emotion I could have crackling through my body right now is pretty much gut punching me on a daily basis. My room is a cluttered mess of books and clothes all needing to be taken somewhere for sale or donation. My social calender has to the potential to be fuller than it has, well, ever as my friends and foes from across the Seattle spectrum are checking in one last time before I hit the open road. My computer, my sweet sweet desktop computer that has treated me so well in the years past has been sold to my equally transitory brother. And most exciting of all Alex, sweet Alex, just purchased an avocado colored desk to fill the space of a sea-faring chest and to give me a bit of room to write and collect my thoughts. I could not be more excited.

I'm sure this will be the main source of all my blathering as the week(s) proceed, so please bear with me, I'm a little nervous and I tend to ramble when so.

As much nervous energy might be coursing through me right now, I was finally, FINALLY able to power through the last hour and ten minutes of Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ (70) last night. It's a strange film, way too long, and paced in a way you might call glacial and my biggest fault came with where Scorsese chose to focus his attentions. The title of the film, The Last Temptation of Christ (70) describes the final forty minutes of the movie and Jesus' choice not to stay on the cross, but instead to succumb to Satan's offer of living the life of a normal man. Thus, you see Jesus having a child, you see Jesus getting old and raising a family, and of course you see poor Jesus' sweet little world falling prey to Satanic forces. My question is why did Scorsese feel the need to spend two hours prior to this showcasing the life and times of Jesus? I wanted more of this final temptation business, what Jesus' life as a man was like, but instead I got treated to a humanistic portrayal of the Son of God ... that took me almost two weeks to finally get through. Nonetheless, I'm grateful that I made it through this film and even more grateful that I can mark another Scorsese film seen.

I'm still in the midst of a long haul here folk, but after Bergman's opera, it starts to look up a bit.

Tomorrow: The Magic Flute (71)