The Reader

The Girl begins her "one-or-two-weeks-a-month in-Canada" gig next week, so we thought we'd head up the hill to the cabin for a long weekend where instead of 102 it was 67. It was a perfect day at 6400 ft. We've got our routine down so that it takes us right at a half hour to move out of the truck and into the cabin. Moving the other way takes a bit longer, laundry, dishes, that sort of thing.

We lounged around, my putting some notes and emails together for the *^%#@ attorney and her out on the deck, reading, she won't say what "Oh, just some junk novel".

After meatloaf (the meal, not the artist) we watched The Reader. Loathe as I am to accept a contrived coincidence/hidden disability as a plot device, this is an excellent movie. The direction and screenplay are very good, and the cast has not one mis-step. Ms Winslet has not been on my best actress list, despite her apparent contract stipulation that she gets to take her clothes off in every film she's in, but she has the walk, the gestures, the furtive glances of her character down perfect.

Having said that, and I know it's "art" or "literature", but I detest any attempt, regardless of how roundabout, to elicit sympathy for anything or anyone involved with the nazi era in Germany.