Review
Film: At Home By Myself…With You
Director: Kris Booth
Writer: Kris Booth, Ramona Barckert
Runtime: 83 Minutes
Company: Pocket Change Films, Ltd.
Cast: Kristin Booth, Aaron Abrams, Raoul Bhaneja, Rosemary Dunsmore, Shauna Macdonald, Ryan Blakely, Gordon Pinsent
I do not like it when it’s bad.
I sometimes like it when it’s sad.
The shaky parts will make me green.
I’m talking about what’s on screen.
I have been attending this year’s Cannes Film Festival.
Of the movies’ merit, I have been quite skeptical.
So I try something each day that is different and new.
This one entitled “At Home By Myself…With You.”
In the theatre is where I sit.
Waiting patiently for a bit.
The movie I’ve chosen is going to start.
I wonder what will be my favorite part.
As I watch, I notice a thing.
The whole vibe of the film has a different ring.
This film is not like any other.
It’s like a Dr. Seuss novel played out for your mother.
What I mean by this is that it is written for adults.
With sexual references and witty insults.
But the style is playful, with narration and such.
There is animation too, but not very much.
The main character, Romy, makes herself known
And anyone can see the place she calls home.
A quaint little apartment, everything in its place.
Decorated neatly, a fun little space.
Irony at its best lies in her occupation.
Although she never leaves home, she’ll plan your vacation.
With every trip she plans, she changes the deco
To reflect on the country, where she will never go.
Romy is special because she has fears.
She hasn’t left her apartment in about six years.
To her apartment, she never says goodbye.
Because when she does, someone will die.
Because of mortal mishaps, her phobias are strange.
There is a fear of lobsters, opening boxes, kissing, and change.
To help her with her problems, she is aided by friends:
Her old lady neighbor, and some nearby handy men.
When Romy accidentally ventures into the hallway,
Her neighbor sdkjff dies and can no longer stay.
Romy’s long time companion and friendly performer
Is replaced by jsdnfjsdf’s nephew that would rather ignore her.
What ensues is a series of nonsensical proceedings
Between two distinctive people, their love story succeeding.
He assists her in conquering all of her fears…
A love story that entertains without drawing tears.
Booth’s performance as Romy is marked with flair,
Never losing her smile or the pigtails in her hair.
Her character development paints a perfect picture
Of a stubborn girl fighting with the wild person within her.
Dnsfs plays the nomadic but quirky new neighbor,
Whose style is marked with a callous demeanor.
His nonchalant tone and laid-back saunter
Draw feelings, from Booth, that seem to haunt her.
The story presented is quite simple to follow,
Unless you have issues, like your head being hollow.
But in case you need assistance, Gorden Pinsent is here.
He narrates the tale for all to hear.
The movie was made with pocket change donations,
Which I find quite impressive for such a creation.
The filmmakers literally collected nickels, pennies, and dimes
Which I am sure must have created some difficult times.
But with their innovation, they made the story a movie
And I am glad that they did; I find it quite groovy.
The style is similar to “Pushing Daisies,” you see,
But it create something magical, certainly unique.
They finagled their way into the festival
A little Canadian team made quite a spectacle.
I never would have thought that this was in store
When I left the theater, I just wanted more.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Experience
Dressed as a lowly college student, there was no way I was getting into the Majestic Hotel. But that night, the twelfth day of May in the year 2010, was special. Not only because it was the eve of my twenty-first birthday, but also it was the first night of the Cannes Film Festival. It would be the first time in my life that I would get the inside look at the Opening Ceremonies and the splendor that surrounds them. But that doesn’t come without a cost. I transformed into a brazen nomad that was determined to find a way onto that plush red carpet.
Once in Cannes, I whipped out my market badge like I was the FBI and there was a serious case that needed to be solved in the lavish restroom of the Majestic Hotel. That case involved the conversion of a trivial young woman into a convincing illusion of importance. I headed towards the restroom to change with two accomplices in tow. As I entered, I observed that the restroom was about the size of a small condominium, and I was surprised to see that the toilet seat was functional without the adornment of precious stones. I contemplated waiting for someone to assist in my wipe but decided these debonair people are too classy to be coddled like an infant or surrender to compulsory harassment. Don’t judge me, but I am not above it.
As soon as our fresh faces were applied and all dignity was abandoned, we fled as fast as any heel-clad females on a mission for eminence can. The less than brief stroll from the bottom of those restroom stairs to the sidewalk seemed like an extensive journey that would determine my fate. I don’t think I was breathing, and that probably has something to do with it. However, I am unsure of whether it was because of my dress or my nerves. I shouldn’t have had that last gelato and/or Nespresso, I guess.
I discreetly passed some photographers, acting as though they wanted to take my picture. Seemed to fool some of the paparazzi, except for the fact that my movement was less than graceful as I twisted my ankle several times. Nevertheless, I made it to the curb where I would then exploit myself for several hours with the aspiration of seeing some of the glamour. With this, I knew that I could never ever be a celebrity. I found the experience to be degrading. People laughed, pointed, snapped pictures, showed their friends, recorded, crossed boundaries, posed, wished us luck, blatantly stared, teased, harassed, and pretended to have tickets. The whole process was humiliatingly cruel. There is really no other way to discuss the feelings that I had about what I was doing other than to say that I felt like a whore for the industry. Some drunken woman even approached us and began to yell out prices, denoting our worth as sidewalk ornaments.
Granted the communication barrier becomes an issue, I must say that I love to meet people from other cultures. But this was absolutely not the experience that I expected to have with the people that were roaming the streets of Cannes. I was in everyone’s way; I didn’t know where I would go when I got the ticket. Everything was going by so quickly, but I just went with it. After many encounters with photographers, interviewers, and passersby, one man approached me. He stopped, pointed at me, said something in French that was probably unclear even to natives as it was mumbled, and handed me a ticket to Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. I did it! I don’t know what I did or how but I did it. I took the ticket, looked up at the man, and he was gone. I yelled “Merci!” in hopes that he would hear me, and thought to myself, “I got the Golden Ticket!” For the first time, I felt like I was lucky…which, if you must know, is quite unusual for me. Moments later, I made a decision to wait until someone else got a ticket to go into my chocolate factory: the grandiose theatre. I should have known to just go ahead and go though, which I do regret now, because I ended up rushing to the doors just minutes before they closed. Again, this was not going to happen without a fight. I had a ticket and I was not going to let anyone stop me. As I bid farewell to my fellow comrades, I ran (in heels, mind you) to the gated area to enter onto the red carpet…my adrenaline was flowing and I couldn’t believe that I was actually going inside! I had to plow through a crowd, and I must say that the people around me being plowed were not pleased. I pardoned myself before I reached the entrance ten feet from the carpet. I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place but I saw the floor, I saw tuxedos, and I saw Russell Crowe so I figured I could always just follow him…
I felt like I was in a labyrinth. Every other step required some sort of rite of passage. Now, at the gate, I was faced with several brawny men that looked like they could eat a small child. I presented my ticket, standing alone, breathing heavily, and hoping that I pass the test. All I needed was a ticket, right? I leaned forward to get a better look at the people that I had only every seen on a small television in my home. I felt so grateful for the fact that I was in Cannes, France at this event that I wasn’t quite sure how to present myself. “Don’t trip, don’t trip…” was all that I could keep saying to myself. If everyone else can do it, so can I.
The guards motioned for me to wait there, as if I was awaiting my test results. About five minutes later, which seemed like a century, they returned and waved me onto the carpet. The whole three minutes it took me to go inside was unquestionably surreal, but they went by remarkably fast. I will admit that looking back at all of the press and seeing the flashes of photographs and the smiling faces was quite a site to see.
I went inside and of course, the seating was scarce. I was on the balcony and I took it upon myself, as introductions were being made, to climb to the very top. Last row, seated next to a teenager that spoke absolutely no English, somewhat behind a pole…I made it to the show. I breathed a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed as soon as I sat on the grandly cushioned seat…I was in. Tim Burton emerged as the host and clips of his productions began and I reflected on the years of cinema that I have been exposed to, feeling delighted as I pondered my childhood and the enigma that we call imagination.
I just simply have a difficult time describing the feelings that I get now when I hear the chimes of the Cannes Film Festival tune, knowing that I was there and that I witnessed a momentous affair. And as the jury remained still, the curtains for the film divided, and Robin Hood began, I felt like a child on Christmas morning. Thoughts rushed through my head; I recognized that this was just the beginning of the Festival…the films contained in this event were merely a portion of the movies that existed before me, exist during my lifetime, and those that will exist for years to come. And I had a cherished revelation that a movie is not just a movie. This magnificent creation we call cinema takes you into someone else’s world; it allows you to see through a different mind’s eye, and you are engulfed for a short period of your life by a distinct reality. And what makes me the happiest is imagining the fact that maybe one day I could possibly return to the festival, not only to travel on the terrain of the earth, but also to continue exploring the worlds contained on screen.
Once in Cannes, I whipped out my market badge like I was the FBI and there was a serious case that needed to be solved in the lavish restroom of the Majestic Hotel. That case involved the conversion of a trivial young woman into a convincing illusion of importance. I headed towards the restroom to change with two accomplices in tow. As I entered, I observed that the restroom was about the size of a small condominium, and I was surprised to see that the toilet seat was functional without the adornment of precious stones. I contemplated waiting for someone to assist in my wipe but decided these debonair people are too classy to be coddled like an infant or surrender to compulsory harassment. Don’t judge me, but I am not above it.
As soon as our fresh faces were applied and all dignity was abandoned, we fled as fast as any heel-clad females on a mission for eminence can. The less than brief stroll from the bottom of those restroom stairs to the sidewalk seemed like an extensive journey that would determine my fate. I don’t think I was breathing, and that probably has something to do with it. However, I am unsure of whether it was because of my dress or my nerves. I shouldn’t have had that last gelato and/or Nespresso, I guess.
I discreetly passed some photographers, acting as though they wanted to take my picture. Seemed to fool some of the paparazzi, except for the fact that my movement was less than graceful as I twisted my ankle several times. Nevertheless, I made it to the curb where I would then exploit myself for several hours with the aspiration of seeing some of the glamour. With this, I knew that I could never ever be a celebrity. I found the experience to be degrading. People laughed, pointed, snapped pictures, showed their friends, recorded, crossed boundaries, posed, wished us luck, blatantly stared, teased, harassed, and pretended to have tickets. The whole process was humiliatingly cruel. There is really no other way to discuss the feelings that I had about what I was doing other than to say that I felt like a whore for the industry. Some drunken woman even approached us and began to yell out prices, denoting our worth as sidewalk ornaments.
Granted the communication barrier becomes an issue, I must say that I love to meet people from other cultures. But this was absolutely not the experience that I expected to have with the people that were roaming the streets of Cannes. I was in everyone’s way; I didn’t know where I would go when I got the ticket. Everything was going by so quickly, but I just went with it. After many encounters with photographers, interviewers, and passersby, one man approached me. He stopped, pointed at me, said something in French that was probably unclear even to natives as it was mumbled, and handed me a ticket to Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. I did it! I don’t know what I did or how but I did it. I took the ticket, looked up at the man, and he was gone. I yelled “Merci!” in hopes that he would hear me, and thought to myself, “I got the Golden Ticket!” For the first time, I felt like I was lucky…which, if you must know, is quite unusual for me. Moments later, I made a decision to wait until someone else got a ticket to go into my chocolate factory: the grandiose theatre. I should have known to just go ahead and go though, which I do regret now, because I ended up rushing to the doors just minutes before they closed. Again, this was not going to happen without a fight. I had a ticket and I was not going to let anyone stop me. As I bid farewell to my fellow comrades, I ran (in heels, mind you) to the gated area to enter onto the red carpet…my adrenaline was flowing and I couldn’t believe that I was actually going inside! I had to plow through a crowd, and I must say that the people around me being plowed were not pleased. I pardoned myself before I reached the entrance ten feet from the carpet. I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place but I saw the floor, I saw tuxedos, and I saw Russell Crowe so I figured I could always just follow him…
I felt like I was in a labyrinth. Every other step required some sort of rite of passage. Now, at the gate, I was faced with several brawny men that looked like they could eat a small child. I presented my ticket, standing alone, breathing heavily, and hoping that I pass the test. All I needed was a ticket, right? I leaned forward to get a better look at the people that I had only every seen on a small television in my home. I felt so grateful for the fact that I was in Cannes, France at this event that I wasn’t quite sure how to present myself. “Don’t trip, don’t trip…” was all that I could keep saying to myself. If everyone else can do it, so can I.
The guards motioned for me to wait there, as if I was awaiting my test results. About five minutes later, which seemed like a century, they returned and waved me onto the carpet. The whole three minutes it took me to go inside was unquestionably surreal, but they went by remarkably fast. I will admit that looking back at all of the press and seeing the flashes of photographs and the smiling faces was quite a site to see.
I went inside and of course, the seating was scarce. I was on the balcony and I took it upon myself, as introductions were being made, to climb to the very top. Last row, seated next to a teenager that spoke absolutely no English, somewhat behind a pole…I made it to the show. I breathed a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed as soon as I sat on the grandly cushioned seat…I was in. Tim Burton emerged as the host and clips of his productions began and I reflected on the years of cinema that I have been exposed to, feeling delighted as I pondered my childhood and the enigma that we call imagination.
I just simply have a difficult time describing the feelings that I get now when I hear the chimes of the Cannes Film Festival tune, knowing that I was there and that I witnessed a momentous affair. And as the jury remained still, the curtains for the film divided, and Robin Hood began, I felt like a child on Christmas morning. Thoughts rushed through my head; I recognized that this was just the beginning of the Festival…the films contained in this event were merely a portion of the movies that existed before me, exist during my lifetime, and those that will exist for years to come. And I had a cherished revelation that a movie is not just a movie. This magnificent creation we call cinema takes you into someone else’s world; it allows you to see through a different mind’s eye, and you are engulfed for a short period of your life by a distinct reality. And what makes me the happiest is imagining the fact that maybe one day I could possibly return to the festival, not only to travel on the terrain of the earth, but also to continue exploring the worlds contained on screen.
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