On a bullet train ride from Shinagawa (Tokyo) to Hakata, I sat next to an older Japanese woman who had been sniffling during most of the trip. She had a mask around her mouth, and would politely bow whenever she had to cough or make a louder sniffle.
For the opening night of the Cannes Film Festival, Henri Behar granted my request to experience the red carpet paparazzi pit. Henri walked me over to area before the red carpet circus began, making sure both the photographers and security guards knew who I was.
Two years ago, my mother gave me half of all the jewelry she owned. Among the items I received was a beautiful string of pearls, a set of illegally made and rare tortoise shell earrings, a round coral ring that was purchased in Hawaii and a older, large sapphire ring that she claimed was a gift to me from its original owner, a lady whom I will refer to as Ms. N.
When the Golden State Warriors were still the San Francisco Warriors, they used to play at the Civic Center Auditorium. Their offices were on Golden Gate Avenue and Van Ness, a tiny building with a large sized “San Francisco Warrior” sign over the plate glass entrance.
(St. Francis Xavier church, home of my first confession)
Father Guetzloe ushered five of us into his tiny little room where his gowns and sacred chalice were kept. We lined up and waited our turn, although I did not know what we were doing. Perhaps there was instruction that I missed, which was entirely possible since I spent many days in first grade just concentrating on the blinds that covered our giant classroom windows.
(short hair fused with long hairpiece, during the one year we were asked to wear our hair long)
I once had long, thick, straight and beautiful hair until I was 9, when both my grandmother and mother decided that I would survive a humid Japanese summer better with a short cut. We went to the beauty salon, where my hair was tied back and chopped off with one swift stroke of shears.
If the big banks that brought down the economy could be reduced to human form, they might have the appearance of the six woman who compose the “Bitches Coven”. With large candles blazing with in the center of an old table, the women plot and maneuver the fate of a town subject to their entitled power and privilege.
(Ness Aquino and I at the bar in the Mabuhay Gardens. I was too young to drink.)
My father had watched “Amapola,” the weekend Filipino variety show on channel 18 hosted by Ness Aquino and Amapola, a local celebrity that wore a beautiful Fiipino dress and sang for her TV audience. The show was always simple, with Ness and Amapola sitting on high backed rattan chairs as they spoke in Taglish.
Pretty girl meets attractive boy by accident, and the two spend the night out in Rome while waiting for morning. This simple idea is so beautifully filmed and acted in “Notte Sento”, an Italian short film by Daniele Napolitano.
A note on films reviewed here
Published by Anna Pirhana on April 14, 2014When I offer film reviews through this blog, bear in mind that I do it for short films that I find appealing. In presenting these reviews to the reader, I do it with the intention of inspiring the individual to watch the movie. I am not offering film commentary.