Franco Nero Rides Again

Mexican Revolution Buddy Flick, 1968.

I’m so excited about the free Italian films offered to the people of Los Angeles as a gesture of aesthetic good will, starting yesterday, through February 25, that I’m typing this post with my thumbs on my new smartphone.

(It capitalizes the first letter in a sentence, a habit I usually find annoying but now am grateful for since it saves me thumbstrokes. Also the letter I preceded and followed by nothing.)

I’ll be going back to the Chinese 6 later today to catch 20 Cigarettes at 2. And I’m even delaying leaving LA tomorrow long enough to catch Dario Argento’s Stendhal Syndrome at 10 am. But I get ahead of myself because now I’m on Pamela’s grubby keyboard, a circumstance which will perhaps clarify as you scroll down and pick up the onerously thumb-typed backstory.

I ditched my LA friends (I had to capitalize LA myself) and even passed up a screening of Suspiria with Argento in attendance plus Joan Collins, which frankly might have been too much for me, to spend the night in bucolic Costa Mesa and my laptop’s dead because I forgot to pack the cord. I’m hoping to email this screed from my android to Pamela’s computer. She’s currently off teaching yoga in a rehab center.

Pamela thoughtfully tied her dog up so I could walk to my car through the yard and past the chainlink fence in her absence. She doesn’t think of Rocco as a vicious killer, she never speaks of him that way, she just doesn’t think it’s safe for me to walk from the guesthouse to my car with him loose in the yard.

It’s not really a guesthouse but a one-bedroom cottage. She refurbished it after the last tenant left and likes having some place to go to get away from the Antique Roadshow & Thriftshop Castaway Dustorium of the Dispossessed Objet she calls home, so it was available for me to sleep in, so I drove down, even though I really wanted to be in the audience for the 10:15 pm showing of Sergio Corbucci‘s Django, a film about to be remade famous by Quentin Tarantino‘s soon-to-be-released remake.

I slept so soundly, like I was in the country. Must be the size of the trees.

I’ll be sitting at her computer anyway because I’m determined to show her how to cut and paste, a task she finds mysterious even though her dear son’s in IT, so she can’t send me a url but only the command to google a topic and I’m indolent.

(it waits for the space after the m in I’m to capitalize the I. And it won’t capitalize the first letter after a parenthesis, just in case. How indolent!)

I thought this was a fascinating (decimating, suggests my keypad) topic but now I’m not so sure. The process is so laborious (covetous) and my concerns so trivial.

(It won’t go back and capitalize an initial I if you insert the period after typing a few more words. It lacks hindsight. It’s pretty stupid, this smart phone. And I sound like one of those fatuous product reviews.)

What I really want to write about, the whole reason I’m using this keyboard to email myself — or perhaps Pamela, that’d save a step, since we’ll be on her computer — is the Los Angeles Italia Festival which, incredibly (incredibile) is throwing a free Italian film festival at Grauman (Brahman)’s Chinese or as close as it could get, on the second floor of the wraparound Hollywood & Highland, at Chinese 6. Having stumbled on a day-of write-up in the LA Times, after having tasted the vulgar charms of the otherwise excrescent H&H earlier in the week buying bras at Victoria’s Secret, I decided to try to squeeze in a free flick before motoring down to Pamela’s. (add Pamela’s to dictionary.)

Widescreen, albeit digital, spacious, with firm red plush seats with drink-holder armrests, and only a few dozen diehard freebie-chasers in the house for Sergio Corbucci‘s wildly diverting 1968 spaghetti western, The Mercenary, starring Vanessa Redgrave‘s life partner, toothsome Franco Nero, at 12:30 on a Sunday.

Where is everybody? What’s wrong with this town?

Los Angeles Italia Festival, February 19-25, free films at Chinese 6, Hollywood & Highland, Los Angeles. 

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