June 8, 1999.

I was almost caught up with Canadian history last night. I had the end of the tunnel in sight. But then Dirk asked me to go see Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and I was sunk.

I'd wanted to see the movie for some time. Part of it is the pressure that lists of greatest movies exert...as if I had an obligation to myself to see everything or read everything considered a classic. Another part is that I like the simplicity of black & white movies, I like sassy female professionals and I like all the drinking and steak-eating. Finally, I find young Jimmy Stewart attractive. I'm not sure if it's a lesser function of finding Gordie Johnson attractive or vice versa, but there you have it. I'd like to be the smart alec secretary that ends up with him. Is that a geeky thing to say?

Anyway, it was great. Obviously. I suppose most people have already seen it, even in my generation. I loved the essentially unsentimental way it treated congress as essentially corrupt & awful, which shows what a cynic I am. I was a bit freaked out by how much the gap-toothed apple-cheeked governor's son looked like my cousin. He's got a bit of a speech impediment, and the scene where the actor is struggling with a speech was almost more than I could take. And the scene where the Taylor machine is running them off the road...brrr.

It could stand to be a bit more gender-inclusive in its' assumption that little boys are the leaders of tomorrow, but the great thing about thirties pictures is that any overt sexism is mostly balanced by the strong smart females. Unlike modern feminist polemic which forces you to choose between career and family, it seems clear to me that the Kate Hepburn-types may have gotten married, but they never had to dumb themselves down to do it. There's something resistant and tough in their essential core which I greatly admire.

However. Off on a feminist rant again; what poor manners. The point is that I had a good time. It was my first night off in what seems like ages, and it did wonders to refresh my spirits...

...until I woke up for class and discovered that half my face is all red & blotchy (I feel like Harvey Dent). I have a heat rash. I had to call my mother this morning for advice - the last time I had a rash I still wore black patent mary janes and wasn't allowed to touch the phone. It's a little unnerving. Not only do I feel like crud, but my vanity is wounded - it's hard to predict how attached you are to a certain vision of yourself until that expected veneer suddenly disintegrates.

Dirk has expressed a rabid interest in using his National Film Board contacts to film my commercial. We have a few creative differences: in my first draft, some people stayed behind at the tables to scribble in books, stare vacantly and sneer at the dancers. Upon consideration I felt that this was too much narrative for the Gap ad aesthetic. Dirk is convinced that half the humour will come from the cooler-than-thou reactions.

The good thing is that all of the dancers are real people, 2 of them are friends and I'm dating another. So if we get the NFB to agree, the only problem will be getting them into khakis.