The Dream Dress vs. Sweatpants

I thought I was going to a party tonight. It has been canceled. I was actually quite relieved, as a shopping excursion yesterday (meant to infuse my wardrobe with a cooler-than-usual factor) ended rather pathetically. I tried to keep track of how many clothes I tried on. I think it was 51. Or 52. I bought nothing.

I wasn't all that upset about it, just a little weary. And then I went home and raided my closet and actually discovered a couple of combinations that could have made me look semi-fabulous.

At some point in my evening at the mall, I thought I found my dream dress. It was a blatant ripoff of my favorite frock from the Fall 2008 RTW (ready-to-wear) lines. Le Chateau isn't Michael Kors, but it was so close.

This is the runway version of the dress.

It made me look like a slightly overweight linebacker in drag. Pretty impressive, really, as I don't typically categorize myself as such. So I'm glad I tried it on. I'm no longer wondering, "What if...?" Of course, this doesn't mean I've given up on the Kors dream. Just the cheap version.

(The dress, without the belt, is $1895.00. Yes, I looked it up. The belt is $395.00.)

I love fashion, despite all the shopping frustration I endure. I saw Clueless twice in theatres. For the clothing. And for that fancy closet/wardrobe-software system. I still like plaid skirts because of it. And I saw (and own) The Devil Wears Prada, again, because of the clothes (and the post-school, pre-life-crisis issues so wonderfully explored). I know some girls consider cute leading men as eye candy. I think I prefer Chanel.

Speaking of Chanel (types the seque queen)...

There's a bio pic coming out. About Coco Chanel, not Karl Lagerfeld (the current art director for the House of Chanel). And Audrey Tatou is starring, which I love, as she's gorgeous, French (as opposed to an American butchering an accent) and actually resembles the icon.

Head on over to MovieZen for more.

Here's my favorite vintage Chanel look in recent memory. Because it's very Audrey. Hepburn, not Tatou. I would chop off my hair if I had that face too. And/or if I were paid millions to do so. Or thousands. Or hundreds. Or dozens.

It's raining. Again. I'm in sweats. And I'm comfortably a fashionista in my own mind while typing this in old pink slippers that need replacing.

It Happened Tonight: Nothing

It's pouring, contrary to yesterday's forecast of this evening. This is why weathermen scare me. They smile their perfect cheery smiles, look me in the eye, and lie to me. Sociopaths.

I thought I was going to a party tonight. But apparently, had I gone, I would have been the only one there. So instead of shooting the breeze with John Malkovich right now, I'm sipping tea and getting ready to watch the final Canadian Idol performance show (for my cute little Idol blog) before heading off to bed.

The plan is to maximize on sleep tonight. Because, tomorrow, for the first time in my 25 years, I'm going to an event that doesn't even start until after 11. On a weekday. I may be insane.

But would you risk the consequences of sleep-deprivation for a late night with Matt Damon? See, I would. And so I shall.

I really should watch a movie at the festival, instead of just hanging out with those who make them. Last year I watched I'm Not There, mesmerized by Cate Blanchett (and completely enamored with the casting choices of Bale and Ledger pre-Dark Knight). The year before, I saw my own name flash on the screen during the end credits before donning my Sleeping Dogs trucker hat (I heart swag) and catching up with a crew I have not seen since. And then there was Harsh Times. I just sat there alone, terrified of the man who would be Bruce Wayne. Not a fun one, folks. I'm sure I've seen more, but my brain is failing me right now. How rare.

Speaking of casting (I rock at the segue. I actually steered a conversation with "Speaking of calcium" last week), there a hilarious rumor started last week about Cher being cast at Catwoman in the inevitable Dark Knight sequel. But, hey, I bought Blanchett as Bob Dylan. So, really, I'm gonna stay out of this one.

Read the buzz over at MovieZen. (Cher has since denied this. But actors are like weathermen. They lie.)

And I'll blog again once Benicio Del Toro and I are besties.

Link-tastic

Happy Wednesday, all.

I should be writing right now. I mean, yes, typing this does constitute as writing, but I'm not exactly making money with these words. And so the almighty paycheque must dictate priority.

So while I'm researching eco-chic weddings, I'll leave you with a fun little trip though cyberspace....

MovieZen

You know the drill. Head on over for my summer box-office wrap-up. I didn't see many flicks this summer (shocking, I know), but I didn't need to. The Dark Knight was amazing. Iron Man was surprisingly great. Indiana Jones was fun. And Wanted boasted some very creative gun violence. What more could I demand of the theatrical experience?

The Daily Pump

The Toronto International Film Festival is coming. Tomorrow, in fact. As prep for such an event, I've posted about footwear greatness at the Venice Film Festival. Toronto may be a little less glamorous, but it will be exponentially more amazing. I promise.

project wedding

Just in case you're following my writing career, my first wedding-planning articles are up.

Creating the Perfect Seating Chart
How to Budget Your Time at Your Wedding

More shall follow, I assure you.

Great Covers

And for fun....
(stolen from the perpetually awesome this is reverb...)


SeeqPod - Playable Search

Just Say No

I've never done drugs. This is why.



Well, I'm off to be productive now....

Waltzing Matilda

Last night, A Knight's Tale was on. I didn't let myself watch it. Instead, I went to bed at 9:30 and still barely made it out of bed this morning.

I find Heath's movies a little awkward to watch. There's something too compelling about them. Every whispered declaration of love burdens me. Every death scene chills me. And yet I find it so hard to turn away. Maybe I'm fascinated by what we leave behind. Or mourning for things that will never be.

There are photos floating around cyberspace of Heath hanging from a noose. They're stills from his final film. The film he was shooting at the time of his death. I feel as though the images are too personal for me to look at.


When I heard that Jude Law, Johnny Depp and Colin Farrell were all donating their paychecks from The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus to Matilda Ledger, my heart melted a little. Okay, it went to mush.

She's the most adorable little mini-Heath. And she doesn't get to grow up with a daddy. She wasn't even in his will. But the three men stepping into his unfinished role knew Ledger's heart and took care of her on his behalf.

Read more at MovieZen.

Christopher Plummer is in Heath's last film. Which is another reason to see it. If you weren't already sold on the idea.

Maybe I should have a will. Who wants this blog?


image source

Stratford Indulgences

I just finished eating the most decadent chocolates from Rheo Thompson. I can't come up with an appropriate description of the creamy, semi-sweet richness. You know those Aero commercials with women moaning ridiculously over vending-machine chocolate? Yeah, well, if the ads were about the few morsels I just ate, they would be about a very real slice-of-life moment. Just one bite makes me speak in iambic pentameter: "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

I spent the weekend in Stratford. Three plays in two days. I've gone every summer for the past five years now. And every summer it's the same: I go with my dear friend whom I met in Stratford when we were students of Shakespeare. We eat garlic fries. We stay at our favorite bar until last call. We shop for chocolate.

We've established a tradition that will have us returning annually until we're little old ladies, sitting on Balzac's patio, sipping lattes and discussing the new crop of talent's interpretations of Shakespeare.

As we were leaving today, we saw a super-slender women in a tailored dress walking past the shops wearing the most extravagant hat. It had some sort of ornamental flourish. Either flowers or feathers. It was hard to tell from where we were. She had this classy French air about her. This year, I wore dresses in Stratford. Perhaps I'll wear hats next year. I need to embrace a little more Europe in my personal style.

French Women Don't Get Fat is being adapted into a film. Yes, it's a diet book. Or lifestyle tome, if you want to be specific. There is no plot. But because I admire looking at croissants and stylish French women, I won't completely write off the Hilary Swank vehicle just yet. Mean Girls was based on a work of non-fiction. And it was brilliant. Head on over to MovieZen for more.

I doubt they have a Marble Slab in France. If they did, French women would get fat. And get happy. Double dark chocolate, peanut butter, cherries. In a Butterfinger waffle cone. I would do the Parisian wine-and-cheese thing as long as there was room for homemade ice cream.

P.S. Audrey Tatou is my favorite French woman. She is welcome to go hat-shopping with me in Stratford next summer.

Dynamic Duos

My brain is a little fried today. I haven't been sleeping well, and I have way too much on my mind (although I don't think the lack of sleep is related to the brain activity, oddly enough). I highly recommend the playing-piano-after-midnight solution to insomnia. No, it doesn't put you to sleep, but there's a rawer form of creativity spilling from your fingertips when there's no alertness barrier.

So the piano and a late night is my new favorite duo. The sum is greater than its parts. Although the parts are pretty darn fantastic on their own.

Kind of like Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams.

Don't roll your eyes. I know, I know, Ryan is supposed to be my fake boyfriend. But he and Rachel were meant to be together. I'm totally on Team McGosling.

But when it comes to power couples, Leonardo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese take the cake. I don't remember really caring for either until they started working together.

I posted about some great actor/director pairings over at MovieZen. And yes, Bale made the cut. As did a shout-out to my dead boyfriend Jimmy. 'Cause a favorite is a favorite. And I'm comfortably transparent about such things.

The Art of the Brain-Fart

I noticed this morning that an anti-shine product I dabbed onto my face, in its French translation, says "anti-brilliance." So I blame cosmetics on the following.

Apparently you should not blog on no sleep. Your brain starts to jumble facts and you end up misinforming the entire blogosphere, crediting the wrong writer with awesome work. So I apologize to Randall Wallace, whom I adore, for saying that William Monaghan wrote Braveheart. He didn't. If you can stomach my error, I waxed otherwise poetic about Mel Gibson's acting comeback over at MovieZen.

I suppose after 24.99 years of being perfect, I was bound to screw up at some point. And there it is.

At least I'm not the only professional blunderer out there. I've read some hilarious entries in the past. Some intentionally incorrect for the sake of attracting attention (controversy is a great way to build traffic and get commenters going), and some just babbling on without that filter I like to call "a brain." I won't point out any specific insanity, although naming The Love Guru as one of the top movies of the summer might be part of it. Seriously.

Brain-farting is not limited to cyberspace. This morning, for example, as I was eating breakfast in front of Canada AM, a political analyst said the most brilliant thing I've ever heard at 6:45 a.m.:

"Only 20% of women in the House of Commons are women."

And then she went on to complain about how women are mocked. Yes. I wonder why.

Later, at work, I noticed that someone from one of our international offices had confused Marilyn Manson with Charles Manson. So I suppose it's a worldwide phenomenon, this absence of smarts.

The problem with momentary intelligence lapses is that you have to live with your gaffes when you come to. It's probably easier on the psyche to be dumb all the time than to have to neurotically recover from humiliating errors that point to your humanness.

So I will amend, but I won't delete.

And yes, I know what a couple of you are thinking. This is coming from the girl who will never live down saying "for all intensive purposes." Thanks, guys.

Bye-Bye, Bernie

Bernie Mac died. So did Isaac Hayes. And now there are rumors that Paul Newman is on his deathbed. I never know how to process deaths of the famous. Because I never knew them in the flesh. They will continue to live on my screen as they always have. Theoretically, nothing will change.

And yet it's different. There's something more definitively past tense about the Ocean's Eleven franchise. The Shaft theme song conjures up a little more nostalgia. And one day (soon or not), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid will be just a little more bittersweet.

And I know straight lines, in any human designs
We live the same lives, in different times
And I thank the supreme being, for giving me eyes
And the days that I had for living, and now I'm laughing 'cause I can't find tears to cry

And even the Sundance Kid would find it hard to shoot his way out of this hole I'm in (x2)

~Sam Roberts, "Sundance"

Read my Bernie Mac post over at MovieZen. His life was short, but it was full. Not many at the age of 50 have 30 years of marriage, a grandchild, and a legacy of art and love to leave behind....

Nia & I: Darlings of the Danforth

It's Taste of the Danforth weekend. And once again, I'm leaving town. My absence is tradition.

My grandmother's birthday always coincided with the Greektown festivities; even though she's gone, the family's still hanging out. As much as I love baklava dripping off my napkin and down my arm in the hot sun, a barbecue with toddlers I rarely see is something I just can't pass up.

Because I live with the Greeks, it's impossible to walk down the street without seeing signed photographs of Nia Vardalos in the windows of small family-run restaurants. She's the hometown hero. And not only did she make a spectacular splash in Hollywood a few years ago, she did so by embracing her culture rather than melting into a cookie-cutter romantic-comedy sweetheart.

I should probably watch her breakthrough flick again. Firstly, because I'm inspired by Nia the writer. By the fact that she created her own material. She wanted to create and perform, so she wrote a one-woman show. And Tom Hanks (and his lovely wife) happened to love it. Just as I'm sure he'd love this blog.... But I could also justify a viewing as wedding-article research. With my new writing gig, I've embraced a new nuptial radar. It's actually quite fun to think about the weddings of others. Fictional planning has a lot of freedom in it.

Over at MovieZen, I posted about Nia's upcoming project. She's making a comeback, and hopefully not of Connie and Carla proportions. No offense to David Duchovny.

Read it here.

And then eat souvlaki on my behalf.

Underrated Part 1: James Marsden

James Marsden doesn't get enough love from the critics. I blame it on his prettiness. It's hard to take someone's talent seriously when they are genetic-lottery winners. But he doesn't deserve to be lumped in with the nothing-behind-the-eyes pretty-boy club home to Paul Walker and Brandon Routh (who, coincidentally, was Lois Lane's preference over Marsden in Superman Returns. The guy can't catch a break). The man has acting chops. And singing ability. And since my friend literally bumped into him when he was filming Hairspray in Toronto, we're now closely connected in the whole degrees-of-separation game that has recently been scientifically proven. Sheesh, I could have told you that.

Thanks to the McGosling phenomenon, everyone forgets he was the great guy left behind in The Notebook. He was Cyclops. He was Prince Charming. He was the only redeeming factor in 27 Dresses. He'll be leading-man material yet. As he ages, his physical perfection will transform into something a little more rugged and worn and manly and Clooney-esque. And everyone will be shocked that he can act. Beauty is blinding, the poor man.

There are rumors of a Hairspray sequel. We are not amused. Check out MovieZen for the details.

His Hairspray solo is below. I love this movie. I love the entire cast. Maybe even Travolta. And I love that the actors can actually sing. Lip-synching is too easy. And tone-deafness should not be overlooked just because the actor's famous.

And if you need proof that he (and the rest of 'em) can actually sing, he performs the song live here.

Defying Gravity

I want to be Idina Menzel. Not because she's married to Taye Diggs. But because she was Elphaba, the woman who would be the Wicked Witch of the West. And in case you have forgotten, I consider Wicked to be a perfect slice of Broadway genius. I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat. Especially the above song. And it still makes me feel like a 9-year-old. In a really good way.

And now there are rumors, not surprisingly, of a film adaptation. Because everything gets adapted. You'll probably see On Her Toes hitting cinemas in the next decade.

I'm a little torn about the idea. I'm all up for spreading the "Defying Gravity" love, but I don't want studio execs screwing it up, casting Miley Cyrus et al to appeal to a younger crowd. Check out my MovieZen post for my thoughts.

P.S. Do you not absolutely adore Kristin Chenoweth? She completely deserved her Emmy nomination for Pushing Daisies.

P.P.S. I miss acting. And tonight, I'm almost craving the stage.

Fictional Ink

Another blog post about tattoos. This really should stop. And it will. Soon. But a viewing of Wanted put ink on my mind. And once I learn to curve bullets, I'll head out and permanently brand myself.

I am woman enough to acknowledge Angelina's gorgeousness. I am. But in Wanted, she is so painfully thin that I almost don't believe she's capable of holding a steady gun.

Angie, eat something. Please. No, I'm not trying to sabotage you out of envy. Mr. and Mrs. Smith is an example of your optimal stunningness. Go back there. You have three daughters now. Set an example.

But I digress. Back to tattoos.

Over at MovieZen, I count down my favorite tattooed characters. Or at least my favorite tattoos on fictional characters. Unsurprisingly, Guy Pearce takes the top spot. Because Memento was probably the first film that blew my little chronological mind. Fortunately, the reel operator noticed early on that he was playing a flipped version of the movie and corrected the error before confusing me further. It's one thing to see a movie that's backwards. But one that's backwards and inverted (I consider it inside-out) is a little too much for me.

I had a roommate one summer who wanted a tattoo of a squashed bug on the bottom of her foot. Brilliantly painful idea. With a little bit of pointlessness thrown in.

"I've Got a PhD in Horribleness"

The story of a low-rent super-villain, the hero who keeps beating him up, and the cute girl from the laundromat he’s too shy to talk to.

I'm addicted. My affection for Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog has reached a level of ridiculousness. Have you been watching? The first two acts are now available online. The third is coming on the 19th. And then it will all disappear at midnight on the 20th. It's a magical blog, really. And I expect you to be watching it.

• I enjoy seeing NPK (Neil Patrick Harris) embracing the lab coat again. But with goggles this time. And singing.
  

• I appreciate the laundry obsessiveness. Although Hollywood makes laundromats far sexier than they really are. My life as a laundress was rather non-eventful in the romance department. Although I did sit on a machine and eat ice cream. So I almost understand. But a song about laundry day? I'm sold.

• Nathan Fillion is a genius. I would claim him as I do Bale and Gosling (picking the underrated actor before he hits it big), but Joel introduced us, so I can take no responsibility for my fandom. I would be a cowgirl in space if it meant fighting alongside him. And I would bake him a pie in a heartbeat.

• Whedon is also a genius. If he and Abrams collaborated, the planet would explode.

• I use the word "genius" too often. But it's not my fault that a handful of them got together and made cyberspace significantly cooler.

• I would totally watch a Broadway version. I would even camp out for tickets. Just to hear NPH sing: "And Penny will see the evil me / Not a joke, not a dork, not a failure / And she may cry, but her tears will dry / When I hand her the keys to a shiny new Australia"

And because I'm psychic (or a Google queen), I predicted the awesomeness/horribleness over at MovieZen. (I wrote the post almost two weeks ago. I sensed it was coming.)

The Wonder Twins Have Arrived!

And Brangelina fans rejoice.

Side note: I don't think I'll ever mesh my name with someone else's. I mean, what if I fall for a Fred? Fredine? Nafred? Uh, no thanks. Of course, if I'm famous, I won't have control over the matter....

So Angelina had her babies. Time stopped for the briefest of moments. And then news outlets went crazy. Because this thing called birth is new. Or at least long-awaited. It's like the sequel to Children of Men. Knox and Vivienne are somehow the hope of our planet.

I find it hilarious that magazines have to tell us that there's a wedding trend. Or a get-skinny trend. Or a baby trend. Because I'm quite certain that marriages, diets and childbirths are a reality in every season of every year, among the famous and non-famous alike.

But if you call Brad Pitt "honey," following trends isn't enough. If you're part of the elite superstar class, you must up the ante. Which is Oscar winners get married multiple times. Starlets compete for the most-emaciated award. And when the A-list get pregnant, they go for the multiple.

Check out MovieZen for my twin watch.

Hot Wheels

I don't typically take pictures of vehicles. My cool-car radar is often in a state of malfunction. But yesterday it kicked in. I saw a cool car. And so I snapped away.


I'm not sure why they're spending so much money promoting a flick that will break a pile of records regardless of publicity stunts. But I quite enjoyed checking out Bruce Wayne's ride. Unfortunately, the Caped Crusader was not on hand. I checked.

Do I want to see The Dark Knight? Maybe.*

*Maybe = YES.

(Check out my MovieZen entry on the parenting priorities of The Dark Knight's cast.)

I caught a screening of Wanted last night. Highly recommended for those of you who are over the age of 18 and appreciate watching gunfights of creative awesomeness. (And you don't mind rodents being used a weapons. Or having fate dictated by weaving looms. I kid you not. It's an action film about weavers.)

I am James McAvoy's character. Before he discovers he's an assassin. I'm still the stuck-in-a-cubicle version.

Inspirational quote of the night:

Six weeks ago, I was ordinary and pathetic, just like you.

~James McAvoy as Wesley

Go see it. Or wait for Batman. Whatever floats your brooding-hero boat.

Six Degrees of Me

I can play Six Degrees of Separation with any actor, not just Mr. Bacon. And sometimes, I can even connect myself.

(A walk down blogging lane would remind you that Gene Kelly and I are thisclose.)

Read and be amazed.

• I studied playwriting and screenwriting with Judith Thompson. Judith wrote the play Perfect Pie. And then she adapted the screenplay.
• Rachel McAdams starred in the Canadian gem of a film.
• She went on to make out in an abandoned building with Ryan Gosling.
• Gosling played on Denzel's football team.
• And Denzel is on a mission to assassinate the president. President Bale.

Check out my entry at MovieZen for the details.

And no, I didn't choose the sweaty shirtless pic. So stop judging me. Yes, you.

Whatever Happened to Colin Hanks?

Bud Brumder: A writer? What do you have to write about? You're not oppressed. You're not gay.

~Orange County

I'll admit it. I loved Orange County. Because it was a smart teen movie disguised as a dumb teen movie. Because Colin Hanks had the everyman approachability of his father without being, well, his father. Because, at 19, I was not allowed to have a crush on Tom. It violated my nine-year rule. And my no-married-men rule.

Also starring in Orange County is Schuyler Fisk, Sissy Spacek's daughter. I'm slightly fascinated my the spawn of Hollywood's A-list. Specifically the talented, non-rehabbed ones. You know, the Bryce Dallas Howards. Even the Mariska Hargitays. But not Kate Hudson. I don't think we would be friends.

And new on my radar is Mamie Gummer, Meryl Streep's daughter. And as is the trend, I've blogged about her over at MovieZen. So go read it. And then when she becomes famous in a year or so, you can claim you anticipated such a rise to stardom.

Mr. Burke: Now, when I say "Romeo and Juliet," who comes to mind?
Dana: Claire Danes?
Mr. Burke: That's right, Claire Danes. Who else?
Chad: Leonardo DiCaprio.
Mr. Burke: Right. Who else? Well, you know, someone else was involved in that movie who, in some ways, is as famous as Leonardo DiCaprio. And his name is William Shakespeare. And some great movies have been made based on his plays: Hamlet, West Side Story, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Waterworld, Gladiator, Chocolat....

I. Am. Canadian.

It's still Canada Day, but in my little world, it's over. And it was good.




And now I'm sleepy. Because sleepovers are novelties when you live alone.
And now I'm sunburned. Because talking in the sun without pausing for the SPF was a brilliant idea at the time.
And now I'm full. Because all cakes should be made out of ice-cream sandwiches, chocolate sauce and Cool Whip.

And all is well.


If you head over to MovieZen, you will be reminded that our holiday is but a blip in the week of Northern Hemisphere holidaying. With the July 4th weekend (which oddly starts with a Wednesday release) comes Will Smith. And Hancock. And a lot of people will go. Because it's common knowledge that Big Willie is Mr. July. And we probably shouldn't mess with that.

Although I will. Wanted, anyone?

But not until I get some sleep.

S-s-s-s-smokin'

I don't smoke. Except when I'm on fire. Which is rare. Because I'm like Mitch Hedberg:

I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

But Matthew Broderick smokes. Which saddens me, as I don't really want to think about Ferris Bueller's lungs looking all sad and black and non-cool. And even worse, he recently revealed that he and his wife, the always fashionably quirky Sarah Jessica Parker, may be raising a little smoker. Stop it, Ferris. Stop it.

I rant a little on this parenting disaster over at MovieZen.

And for those who adore Ferris as much as I do, here's a little tribute. Very Requiem for a Dream.

Scary. Just like smoking.

Seth Rogen Is Not Christian Bale

I'm one of those movie fans who generally knows nothing about the comic book yet still eagerly shows up for the superhero movie of the month. I figure that if the movie's any good, it will be stand-alone. It shouldn't expect that its audience has a massive amount of background knowledge. At the same time, it should satisfy those friends of mine who know in excruciating detail the characters and story lines that are being brought to life.

Which is why I'll never adapt a comic book. Too much pressure. Too many people to satisfy. And too many people unwilling to be satisfied.

I loved Iron Man. Even though I knew nothing of Tony Stark prior to sitting in my seat. Ditto with Hellboy. Seriously. Rent it. And I think everyone who knows me (even as a most distant acquaintance) knows how I feel about the upcoming The Dark Knight. It's the reason July exists.

I know nothing about the Green Hornet. So I have no expectations for a movie about him. I do, however, know who Seth Rogen is. And, well, he's not exactly Robert Downey Jr. (who looks stunning considering a history of substance abuse that should have stripped him of any physical beauty. Lucky man). Or Bale. Or even Maguire. But he's signed on to write and star in the film adaptation of the masked crime-fighter. And I'm simultaneously confused and intrigued.


Head over to MovieZen for more. Because you love me.

But maybe not as much as I love Batman.