On Sunday, I will participate in the Bataan Memorial Death March (in honor of the soldiers who survived the original trudge through the Filipino jungle), a marathon for the crazy and the Enlisted. And probably the Enlisted Crazy. It goes the 26.2 miles around White Sands military base / missile range. The road isn't paved and often goes up and down hills and sand dunes.
I'm not running it. I thought I was cracked, but apparently there are people who are broken. I'm walking it. My buddy Jesse has done this three years in a row. He's not a runner. In fact there's a story (which he probably started) going around out there that he once smoked a pack of cigarettes while walking it. Anyway, he finishes about dead last every year (actually he finished 744 out of 745 in '07). Though I won't run it, I plan on finishing one place ahead of him.
Before you ridicule a man for walking a marathon, just think of the last time you walked 26.2 consecutive miles through the desert. Okay, the time your car broke down outside of Primm, Nevada, and you walked to Vegas doesn't count. There are no strippers and free drinks at the other end of this march. Which is unfortunate and they should consider that marketing ploy. I mean the soldiers who survived the original march would have appreciated it back in the day.
My only concern is staying burn-free and hydrated. I've packed my backpack like a champ. Surviving this means I get to post reviews of the second two Lubitsch Musicals next week.
Which brings me to my viewing of Cosi Fan Tutti on Wednesday night. "All Ladies Do It" as the English title goes. Going into depth about this flick would absolutely violate my PG rule on this site. Instead, I'll speak of it vaguely.
The director, Tinto Brass, has about a half dozen similarly-themed films available in the US DVD market. They're always about sexually-liberated women who would sooner share their love than share their pasta. Like Russ Meyer was aesthetically obsessed with the tops of women, Brass is obsessed with their bottoms. Normally in his films a naked female posterior makes the rounds about once every 5 minutes. In "Ladies", there may be more time with cabooses on screen than not. It's as if the last vestige of Brass's sanity vaporized and leaked out of his cigar smoke. Either he's on something or he's onto something...
Unfortunately, this is not one of his better films. (Note: Brass's productions walk a fine line between "films" and "movies". I'll admit I show a bias towards ridiculous European films over ridiculous American movies. Additionally, productions that show a lot of flesh are visually bribing me to call them "films" and often get their way.) This one lines right up next to Miranda, maybe a half cheek higher. The unrated Caligula, which was only partially his, is a nauseating wind blossom of Bacchanalian brilliance. And Transgredire has more flirty charm, prettier faces and places, better plotting, and darn it if it isn't sexier. It's still not what one would consider brilliant, but a little whiff of obsession goes a long way.