I’ve listened to Edith Piaf’s music for years, but not actively. I mean, if I heard it on the radio or a commercial, I’d know it was her voice, but I never paid it much mind otherwise. Then I saw La Vie en Rose last night on Netflix. Wow…what a life she led.

French actress Marion Cotillard was positively fascinating to watch; she carried the entire film. I’m obviously not alone in that assessment, as she won the Oscar for Best Actress for the role back in 2007.

Born into poverty, the daughter of a circus performer dad and an alcoholic mother who fantasized about being a singer, Edith was sent to live with her grandmother, who ran a brothel. She later joined her father in the circus, but returned to street life with him when the work dried up. Soon, she herself was performing on the streets for coins, and began to draw crowds. One thing led to another, and when she was taken in by a wealthy club owner who’d heard her as he was walking home one night, her fame was assured.

Then came one horrible tragedy after another. Though she was the most popular artist in all of France, and had taken New York by storm as well, she couldn’t escape immense sorrow and devastating personal choices. One particular 1949 event basically destroyed her for good, haunting her every thought until her death in 1963. It was both heartbreaking and captivating to watch; I recommend it highly to you, mes amis.

In French with subtitles, it runs 2:15, but you’ll never notice the length. You will notice, however, that even though Edith stood only 4′ 8″, the 5′ 8″ Cotillard completely pulls off the ruse of  “little sparrow,” as Edith was dubbed by her wealthy benefactor.  Cotillard  had some cinematic magic help, of course, but she managed to channel the frail, diminutive Piaf to perfection. Color me très impressionné.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give La Vie en Rose:

Wow. No Dumbledore, precious little Snape, no Hogwarts, no quidditch (thankfully), no Gate Nine and Three-Quarters. Was this a Harry Potter movie?

Yep. And how.

It’s been awhile since I finished the last book (2-3 years, maybe?), so there were several “Oh, yeah” moments during the film. I’d totally forgotten about Mad-Eye Moody coordinating Harry’s initial escape, for instance. And the reappearance of Kreacher. Details kept me hopping. It was like a big quiz for the Potter faithful. Remember this? Remember that?

Still, what captivated me was the distance the three young lead actors have covered over the last decade. Gone are the sheepish glances, the goofy, slappy repartee between Ron and Hermione. Things are serious now, and everyone means business because the future of the wizarding — and Muggle — world hangs in the balance. The three musketeers have much more to worry about than whether or not they’ll advance to the next year at school. In fact, they’re all three dropouts now. (Interesting twist on a story initially meant for pre-teens.)

For the first time in the film series, I felt pressing drama; real acting by the three leads. It was fun to watch. The writers also managed to deftly reinforce prior situations and details (in fact, Harry himself has to have things explained to him twice at times), so everyone’s on the same page early on. The ending point was brilliantly thought out. I can only imagine the crowds at the next opening.

There’s also a prescience that pervades the movie, and that gave me some periods of sadness. The end draws near, and I don’t want it to come. But I’ve already decided that when the series comes out as a set, I’m going to buy it to show my grandchildren. It will be kept on the same shelf as the Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Godfather series: a classic collection indeed.

I do look forward to the next film, though, when my favorite character (Severus Snape) plays a much larger role. I miss his pretty face.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I:

Kids, I tried. Honest I did. I even tried to laugh out loud. Alas, my forced guffaws slid off the couch and died a miserable death on the carpet. I still stand by my (albeit highly personal) assessment:

Will.
Ferrell.
Isn’t.
Funny.

The best part about the film (and the solitary reason for my not flipping the channel and watching the Texas/Texas A & M game) was James Caan. Of course, Bob Newhart was, well, Bob Newhart. Guy can’t play anyone but himself, which is fine.

But Ferrell. You guys, sheesh. I guess he’s an acquired taste. I insist on this because one does not immediately cotton to a face like his. Well, one might…but I’d question his/her taste in men. Maybe if I saw him play anything other than a bumbling, clueless fool, I’d feel differently. I think what makes an actor really appealing is diverse dimension. Ferrell — at least in the few movies I’ve seen of his — has only one. Gotta hand it to him, though: he’s sure cashed in on that one basic SNL-type character, dropped into a dozen different settings. I’ll bet he doesn’t have a mortgage, and I do, so I’m the big loozer. Somebody likes him, right? Who am I to judge?

It’s not that I can’t enjoy a silly, feel-good holiday comedy, mind. I like brainless funnies like A Christmas Story, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, The Santa Clause and Christmas Vacation. (In fact, The Santa Clause will always be special to me; it’s the last movie I ever saw with my mother.) It’s just…Ferrell. Ew.

Still and all, the story didn’t offend me. But a Christmas “classic” that people watch over and over and over? That’s a head-scratcha.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Elf:

Now hey — get that holiday shopping finished. I am definitely getting  it all done today. Easy to do when you shop from your office chair.

Happy weekend, fiends.

HBO’s much-anticipated replacement, of sorts, for The Sopranos premiered Sunday night, and the Thriller and I watched it. Interesting!

The story revolves around City Treasurer Enoch “Nucky” Thompson and his gang of Atlantic City thugs-in-training, beginning on the night before the 18th Amendment to the US Constitution took effect, banning the manufacture, sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages in America. (A blind fool could have seen what was going to happen afterwards. Have no idea what Congress was thinking.) And boy does it make for a juicy tale.

Seeing as how the series begins in 1920, the people we’d think of as powerful gangsters of yesteryear were in fact still just kids. One such flunky, making small-time deals and running errands for the big wise guys in hopes of getting in on some action was none other than a wide-eyed, 21-year-old Al Capone.

The series is based on a real person and real events. Enoch “Nucky” Johnson was a politician in Atlantic City at the time of Prohibition, and racketeered the gin joints, bordellos and casinos as a way to keep tourism coming to the city during the off-season months — as well as to get really, really, filthy rich. He personified what became known in political circles as “bossism.” He almost singlehandedly ran the city, and was treated like royalty.

In 2002, Nucky’s exploits were meticulously chronicled by judge and historian Nelson Johnson (no relation) in a book. A few years later, producer/director Martin Scorsese came calling, along with co-producer Mark Wahlberg. (Yes, that Mark Wahlberg.) They both thought the “story had legs,” so they procured the rights and started the journey.

The pilot episode was full of what Nucky said every man wanted: booze, women, and slot machines. Along for the ride, of course, comes intrigue, brutal violence and murder — and these were in no short supply in the premiere. The side characters are interesting as well, but the real star is erstwhile supporting actor Steve Buscemi (I loved him in The Big Lebowski, Con Air and Fargo), who plays Nucky with just the right combination of humor, geekiness, compassion and cruelty. It’s a good mix.

Boardwalk Empire airs on Sunday nights at 9, replacing True Blood, which is now on hiatus. It would be cool if they could continue swapping seasons.

Even though it’s not a movie, per se, I will cheese it. On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Boardwalk Empire:

Image credits: Home Box Office Inc.; The Heston Collection, Atlantic City Public Library

This isn’t as much a review as it is a comparison — and there really is none.

Several nights ago, we watched the new Clash of the Titans, with Liam Neeson as Zeus. Despite all the great CG action and the realistic-looking monsters, it just didn’t compare with the 1981 original (Liam Neeson compared to Sir Laurence Olivier? Who’s more Zeus-like, seriously?). But it neither starts nor ends there.

My main complaint with the new film is the “rushed” feeling. Characters are incomplete; they lack all form of human frailties and characteristics that initially endear. They all appear self-absorbed and shallow — very much unlike the people in the original. Do you remember actually feeling compassion for Calibos, knowing that what happened to him was not his fault? Could you blame him for being bitter? Wasn’t his love for Andromeda painfully obvious; his pain written all over his face? Not so with the Calibos in the new picture. He was heartless and cruel, and his appearance in the film was ancillary at best.

It seemed to me that the director/screenwriters tried to smash too much information into 90 minutes.

Then there was the ha-ha, wink-nod appearance of Bubo, the mechanical owl, that played such a huge part in the 1981 version. In an early scene, soldiers were perusing the equipment room, gathering weapons to take on their journey. One picked up what appeared to be the *actual* Bubo character, gave it the once-over, then decided it wasn’t important enough to take along. Ha ha.

Again, the niggling (I do love that word) annoyance for me was my waiting for something to make me care about Perseus and Andromeda. Thetis (Calibos’s suffering mother, played wonderfully in the original by Maggie Smith) doesn’t even make an appearance in the movie, which punches a huge hole in the plot:  Zeus’s ultimate selfishness and cruelty, helping the viewer identify with the humans turning against the gods. It’s hard to root for anyone. Blah.

Ray Harryhausen isn’t turning over in his retirement home, but I think he might be twitching a bit.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give the 2010 version of Clash of the Titans: