In lieu of anything else, I stayed up a bit to late watching DVDs and reading books last night. 2046 was the lightlight, The Machinist.

I've never seen a tragic romance done with a male protagonist before, but that's what 2046 is, a story of a writer in Hong Kong in the 60s who's unlucky in love, partly by choice. It was really quite good, maybe especially to me, but the viewer brings their own set of experiences to any cultural product and that's part of the deal. Anyway, if you can dig subtitles, I strongly suggest it.

The Machinist features an Auchwitz-skinny Christian Bale (I realize that's probably offensive, but it's the only thing I could think of whenever I saw his body... I hope he had some doctors with him on that project) in a smart and creepy sort of visual riddle. It was good opaque enough to keep me guessing until the end, which is always nice.

Finally, literature-wise, I finished The Normals, which has a strong middle, but is sort of mushy on either end. Not a good combination for any work of art, but still enjoyable in places. It must be hard to write novels these days, what with all the layers of self-awareness that one has to deal with. It's a problem facing anyone creative. I prefer to go at it stright up, either just make stuff that's unabashedly about me (and hopefully still interesting), or reach out for something that's almost spectacularly fictional. But I can see how other people get caught up in the necessity of addressing the post-post-modernity of the moment. Frankly, in my opinion, the less said about it the better.