Movie Review: The Incredible Shrinking Man

One of the people I follow on Twitter is Roger Ebert. He is a very good writer, and is straight forward about his condition and how it affects his life. He has a way of writing that is clear, unpretentious, and sometimes so beautiful and honest, it is very touching. He can also be mildly obscene and funny too. His blog today was called the Incredible Shrinking Man, and dealt with the fact that sometimes, well, almost always, we shrink as we get older, and he has lost about 2 ½ inches of his height.

The Incredible Shrinking Man, filmed in 1957 and starring Grant Williams and April Kent, is one of those movies that has always stuck with me, a true horror film, so unbelievably scary it makes my heart pound even now thinking how afraid I was when I watched it back then. Here is a snippet from the movie – Viewer discretion advised!

Scott Carey (who is 6 ft 1 in) is on a boat with his wife, Louise, when he is surrounded by a peculiar mist, which turns out to be an atomic waste fog. Louise is below deck, rustling up some “refreshments”. Wasn’t that always the way in the 50’s? The womenfolk providing the vittles, while the guy stayed above board? But in this case, Louise is the clear winner, because she avoids the mist.

Six months later, Scott notices his shirts seem too big. He suspects it must be a dry cleaner malfunction at first and doesn’t think much of it. But he continues to get shorter, and lose weight, until he can no longer deny it. He’s shrinking. He is told that all of his cells are shrinking and there is no cure, he will always be the size he now is (about three foot tall at this point) but is given an antidote, which may halt it and seems to work. But the antidote stops working after a while and he continues to shrink.

He sells his story to the media, and so becomes a curiosity, with reporters lurking in the front lawn day after day. Finally, he lives in a doll house, and is accosted by the family cat, gets chased into the basement where he has to fight a spider to the death. In the end, he crawls through a square in a screen and the ending narrative says, basically, I may be small, but I still matter.

This movie is effective because many scenes start with a shot of Scott, and then pans away so you see him in relation to other people, furniture, etc. and you see how much smaller he’s become since the last scene. It’s shocking, done that way. The movie is funny in that 50’s way we laugh at now, but this movie is one that I have never forgotten, probably because it scared me so much when I was a little kid. It’s a great piece of film noir, I just had to share it.

Movies have come a long way, but this one still has impact, and, in fact, has a bit of a cult appeal. Even watching the sample here, made me feel the way I did back then. Scary!

BOOK REVIEW: The Quilter’s Apprentice by Jennifer Chiaverini

Reviewed by Sandy Nachlinger

How do you know if you’re a quilt addict? If you’re concerned that your quilting has gotten out of hand, ask yourself these questions:
Have you ever felt the need to cut back on your quilting?
Do you hide the extent of your fabric stash from your friends and family?
When you’re not quilting, do you think about it?
Do you buy quilting magazines, search for patterns online more than once a week, and bring the subject of quilts into almost every conversation?
Do you buy fabric obsessively, even though yards and yards of cotton cloth are already hidden in under-bed bins with more stuffed into the closet of your spare bedroom.
Do you carry an ad for a long-arm quilting machine in your purse? (The really good ones cost more than my first house!)
As soon as you finish one quilt, do you begin another?
Will any excuse send you to the cutting board, slicing big pieces of fabric into little ones? (perhaps a new baby, high school graduation, marriage, the first day of autumn, a lunar eclipse)

OK. I’ll admit it. My name is Sandy and I’m addicted to quilts.

So it’s probably no surprise that I jumped on Jennifer Chiaverini’s The Quilter’s Apprentice. This book tells the story of a young couple (Sarah and Matt), both of whom have lost their jobs. They relocate to a small college town where the husband has found employment with a landscaping company. His assignment is renovation of the grounds of Elm Creek Manor. When Matt takes Sarah to the job site, the owner (cranky Sylvia Compson) offers Sarah a job assisting her in getting the family estate ready for sale. Since Sarah’s job hunt has been unsuccessful, she accepts. In addition to paying a salary, Mrs. Compson agrees to teach Sarah to quilt.

As the women work on organizing the house and as Mrs. Compson instructs Sarah in the art of quilting, the older woman shares stories of her family and her life. They come to know and respect one another and in the process, Mrs. Compson comes to terms with her estrangement from her sister and other tragedies in her past. At the same time, Sarah learns to accept her own troubled history and look forward to a happier future.

I enjoyed the way Chiaverini wove the two women’s pasts together with the present day story. I could imagine the women, quilting side by side, as they shared confidences. The author’s descriptions of the details of the hand-quilting process fascinated me as a quilter, but I’m sure I would have enjoyed them even if I didn’t pursue that hobby. The quilting history she included was an added bonus.

I intend to read the rest of the novels in the Elm Creek Quilters series, and then start on Jennifer Chiaverini’s other books. By my count, she has written a total of twenty-three with another one on the way in November 2011, all of them related to quilting. And after reading descriptions of all those beautiful quilts in this book, I’m inspired to start a new quilting project myself.

I think I’ve discovered a new addiction in Chiaverini’s books!

Annual Women’s Wellness Weekend, more commonly known as Piggy Weekend XVIII

By Sharon Tillotson

Eighteen years ago our mutual friend gathered up six women she felt would make for a great women’s only weekend at her beach ‘cabin’ on a British Columbia recreation lake. She sent an invitation to attend the first annual Ladies of the Lake (the original LOL), otherwise known as Womens’ Wellness Weekend (or WWWI). It was a command performance in the invitees minds; who would turn down such an opportunity from our beloved classy friend. Most stayed the weekend, a couple only a few hours or one day. I barely knew one, but the rest I’d known for years. Four were from the host’s hometown, three, including me, a two to five hour drive away. 

In her inimitable style, the choice of friends was a good one. We were business owners, stay-at-home-moms, a teacher, banker, accounts manager and realtor. That first weekend, yours truly brought out a pub game called Pass the Pigs. It was portable, easy to learn and a ton of fun. I suggested to the early arrivers that we play a round while waiting for the rest, and after some arm-twisting they agreed. As the others trickled in and got settled we insisted they join in the fun. Each looked at us as if we were crazy. You want us to play what? Pigs? But it was obvious we were having too much fun and everyone was eventually hooting and hollering. Then our friend the realtor arrived. This gal loves to play bridge and put up the most resistance. I think we compromised and said we would play later if she would just play one game. I will never forget how she went from grumble to the most boisterous player in a very short time. She got so into it we ended up having competitions for the title of Porcine Queen. I confess I deliberately lost so I wouldn’t have to wear the piggy noses and ears we made from pink Styrofoam egg cartons for the winners, but the others were all good sports.

Alas, that set the tone for that weekend and all the upcoming ones. We kept the LOL and WWW designation for a few years, but try as we might we never returned to the elegance of that first invitation. It has become and I suppose will ever be the Piggy Weekend.

Who knew how much pig paraphernalia was out there – and trust me if it could be found, we did. Over the years we added so much stuff it is now packed away into boxes each year and stuffed into a closet awaiting our next invasion. Upon our arrival our first order of business is to decorate every nook and cranny with pink piggies. Early on someone brought out a pig that oinks most annoyingly every time one walks by. That thing will not die! The fabulous wax candle chandelier is accessorized with all manner of little piggies sitting, hanging and hugging. Scattered about are piggy soap, candles and ornaments. On one chest sits a set of seven rather vulgar female pigs in various states of disarray, sunning themselves in tiny striped canvas lounge chairs. Inside and outdoors stand ceramic and bronze ornamental sculptures. A giant stuffed pig rests in a corner. Pig string lights adorn the tree that grows through the sundeck. We have pig gilded drinking glasses and serving dishes. A very cute tea kettle we found used in which our host arranges flowers. We have made piggy cupcakes and found pig truffle chocolates to die for. At various times members have brought for each member: pig socks, slippers (more than one variety) and seven uniquely individual sets of pig night attire from La Vie en Rose, a boutique lingerie store out of Montreal (I kid you not). Throughout the year we use pig animations to add to the elegance of our emails. Apparently, with pigs, more is more.

We are still a core group of seven, though one member was unable to continue for personal reasons and we added a new friend several years ago who fits right in with our goofy group of ageing baby boomers. We always play at least a token game of Pigs.

I was the only divorcee at the time of our first gathering, although I had a new significant other. There has been one other divorce, but I hold the record at two and am currently the only single one. Both my former mates passed away at an early age afterward, so I just shrug and claim I’m twice a widow.

The bond grows stronger as time passes. Most of us have lost parents in those eighteen years. Our children are now all grown, some are married and a few have given us grandchildren. We’ve had illnesses and tragedies. A few years ago, our host lost her husband and two years after that the unimaginable happened and her 24-year-old daughter passed away suddenly while overseas. Each time we circled the wagons and grieved along with her. We are now happy to see her in a committed relationship. Life goes on…

This year our newest Piggy brought out the word game Quiddler. We loved playing it. We even used a couple of Kindles we’d brought and downloaded the English Oxford as our designated dictionary so we had one for each end of the table. One wonders what would have happened had we begun with that game? Would we be the Quidds? Would we have a bunch of little Quiddlets running around? Though far more civilized, I think we’d prefer to stick with our pigs – they are pink and cute and abundant. And just plain fun.

Piggies notwithstanding, we are envied the whole world over, especially by the young folk. We always tell them to assemble their own group. I highly recommend doing so. The opportunities are endless. A spa group, perhaps? Vegas, Sedona, a cruise, hiking, golf, punners or poets. Won’t matter, the end result will never be the same as envisioned. But as in our case, probably so much more…

As our fearless leader would sign off:  Snork.

Yours truly 2nd from left

 

Porcine Princess

forgive me, I wanted to have the pix side by side, but am a bit tech-challenged