Tenth Musee

Friends, if I do nothing else for you this week, let it be this:  Do not watch Evening if you can help it.  If you have a choice between, let’s say… waterboarding and renting Evening, I’d seriously give it some thought.

Or, alternately, if you are riddled with angst over your squandered, pathetic, life of feculence and you’re looking for a film to slit your wrists by, I’d say Evening is a fine choice.

This morning I was up very early, so after zipping down to Starbucks for a white peppermint mocha (swoon!), I curled up on the couch with my coffee to get my bearings before beginning my workday.  I figured I’d see what was on In Demand (pay-per-view, whatever).  I remembered Evening being in the theater this summer and while I’m not usually one for the extra schmaltzy chick flicks (I’m a romantic comedy sort of girl), I figured I’d give it a go.

About half way through, I would have gnawed off my own arm to make it stop, but fortunately, that’s why we have remotes.  I stopped it and ran to Home Depot for some wall anchors (I also hung some cabinets today) and once that was finished, I figured I should just man up and finish it.

I hate to say it, but I couldn’t wait for Vanessa Redgrave to buy the farm so I could move on with my life.  Skip this movie. You have been duly warned.