Last week I saw El Orfanato (The Orphanage), a stylish and original Spanish ghost story. The Orphanage is dark, eerie, disturbing, suspenseful, and genuinely frightening, without resorting to cheap cinematic tricks or gruesome special effects.

A professional couple buys the abandoned seaside orphanage where the wife grew up. The husband is a doctor, and they want to convert the building into an assisted living facility for special needs children. However, the couple's young son soon expands his circle of imaginary playmates to include one who may not be quite as imaginary as the others. There isn't a lot more I can say about the plot without ruining the film's intricacies, but if this makes you think of the Nicole Kidman vehicle The Others, rest assured it is a very different film. (This is not intended to slight the Kidman film, as I found it to be a well made and suspenseful story.)

One of the reasons the film works so well is by refusing the follow convention. Horror and suspense films tend to use certain devices and scenes as touch-points, occasionally due to the mythological underpinnings, but more often due to the convenience of visual shorthand. The audience understands that vampires don't like crosses, so it is easy to jump right into using that as a plot point. The Orphanage, on the other hand, works without any preconceptions. Mysterious things start to happen in the old house, but the viewer is trapped in the same confusion as the mother; we don't understand the rules, so anything can happen. There are a few sequences in the film where in a lesser effort we would yawn and wait for the obvious. In The Orphanage, we are creeping forward in our seats because we haven't any idea where the story will end up. Fortunately, it still obeys its own internal logic, playing on our innate human need to make sense out of the world around us. We identify with the characters' struggles, pulled into their crumbling world by our compassion and our shared need to know what is happening.

The non-narrative elements contribute significantly to the film's success, as well. It is visually stunning, with tremendous artistry in the art direction; for example, the house is clearly old, but with layers of modernity applied as a veneer over the implied history. The sound design is likewise effective and subtle, with the slow creaking of old timbers adding to the undercurrent of unease that suffuses the film. And the camera's slow shots of the desolate but strangely beautiful seaside contrast wonderfully with the claustrophobic interiors, with careful use of shifting focus to keep the audience is a state of uncertainty and uneasiness. It is a carefully crafted film designed to shock and disturb you, and it succeeds admirably.

This is the kind of film-going experience that I enjoy. I went into the theater knowing nearly nothing about it, except that Guillermo del Toro was an executive producer, it was in Spanish, and had a supernatural theme. I left having been thrilled, surprised, and delighted by my experience, and now — over a week later — I find certain scenes lingering in my mind, still haunting me. And isn't that, after all, what a ghost story is supposed to do?

Frankly, the idea of using the Hollywood stars to predict the future makes as much sense as using the astronomical stars, so I'm rather taken with Oscarology. Of course, having my "sign" be the Shirley MacLaine/Jack Lemmon classic The Apartment doesn't hurt any.

The Apartments are likable, easy-going, and accommodating... sometimes to a fault. They dislike confrontation, and will go to great lengths, even sacrificing their own comfort, to smooth over awkwardness and conflict. However, they also have affectionate and romantic natures, which often inspire them to be more courageous and principled than they might otherwise be. They are fond of games of chance, which they often form sentimental attachments to.

And speaking of the Academy Awards, I'm going to run my Oscar prediction contest again this year. Money's tight so there won't be any prizes beyond bragging rights for guessing the most winners. Should you be interested, the ballot is over here. I'll take the form down before the award show starts, assuming the writer's strike has been settled and the show does, indeed, go on.

At this writing my viewing of the nominated films is at an all-time low: three, to be precise, and that includes having half watched half of Transformers during lunch breaks at work. But I am on vacation next week, and hope to see at least three more films then.

The scruffy dark-haired young man approached me on the corner as I waited for the light to change.

"Hey man, I hate to bother you, but can you help me out? I'm starving."

His clothes were a little dirty but still almost fashionable, but his dark eyes looked hollow and more than a little scared. I reached into my pocket to feel around for the singles I'd gotten in change earlier.

"I've never been homeless before. It's fuckin' embarrassing. I can't find water, and I'm scared to sleep. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"If you don't mind me asking, what happened?"

"Domestic violence bullshit." I hesitated, money half out of my pocket. "My girlfriend hooked up with a new guy, so she made up some shit and got a restraining order to throw me out of my own apartment."

He must have seen my eyes, as a look of horror spread across his face. "No, no way, man! I might do some bad shit, but I'd never hit a girl. No, not ever, not even if she deserved it! Her new guy, I'd kick his ass if I caught him, but not her, not a girl!"

I believed him, or wanted to believe badly enough to accept the story. He took the two singles with a sigh, and shook my hand weakly. "God bless you, man, God bless you."

"Yeah, God bless you, too, guy."

I finished watching the new giant monster flick Cloverfield about an hour ago, so my stomach is starting to settle down. I wish I could tell you that the nausea was caused by the relentless suspense, or even by the grisly visual effects, but no. I'm just a victim of hand held camera syndrome.

For those of you who managed to avoid the hype, here are the spoiler-free basics. A bunch of Friends-like New Yorkers get together for a party. During the party a Godzilla-like giant monster attacks the city. We see the events through a Blair Witch Project-like "found videotape" made by one of the partygoers.

The creators wanted to do something to revitalize the city-munching monster genre, and thought that showing you the impact on the ordinary citizens would serve their goals. It is a good thought, and does provide an interesting perspective, but the "fog of war" also limits the information available to the audience, resulting in a somewhat frustrating lack of resolution to the bigger story.

I suppose it could be argued that the characters are the real story here, and that the monster attack is the equivalent of the WWII backdrop to Casablanca. But for that to hold water the audience would need to care about these annoyingly rich and beautiful adolescents, and that never really happened for me. Truthfully, in the gratingly long stage-setting scenes at the beginning I found myself hoping the monster would show up soon to eat some of these insufferable bastards. Fortunately, good things come to those who wait.

However, as much as I would love to write off the film as a disaster, it has its moments. The visuals are pretty good throughout, and the sound work was great. There are also a few bits in the film that are properly sarcastic, such as the scene where the severed head of the Statue of Liberty has come to rest in the street, and is promptly lit up by the flashes of dozens of camera phones. And thankfully, the monster itself is great, a good design executed in a way a guy in a rubber suit could never pull off.

Overall, it's okay. If the creators had resisted the temptation to go with the hand-held camera gimmick, and had made the narrative a bit more expository, it could have been one of the best giant monster films ever made. As it is, I suspect it will be better on DVD; extra features and commentary may stucco some of the gaps in the story, and being able to pause the film while you let your stomach recover from the shaking camera will be a blessing.

In my draft essay files I have a note titled "context". It is an empty note.

Sometimes I do things like that, hide a cryptic note somewhere and then forget that I even did it, or why. It is disconcerting, certainly, but I wish I could do it more often. I don't surprise myself often enough.

I watched David Fincher's Zodiac this week, and was pleased to find that it lived up to its reputation as a subtle, intelligent film. This is not really what I would have expected from a film about a serial killer, but that was my misconception. It isn't about the killer, or even the killings. It is an meticulous examination of the effects wrought on the lives of the people investigating the crime, both police and journalists.

The script provides the most accurate depiction of the tedium of real investigation of anything I've seen. The film resists the Hollywood temptation to over-dramatize police work; there are no car chases, nothing blows up, no breathless entrances to courtrooms with last minute evidence — even the few killings shown are handled in a rather detached, emotionless fashion. But this isn't a dull film — far from it. For two and a half hours I was enthralled by the evolution (and dissolution) of the characters, a testament to the acting of Robert Downey, Jr., Mark Ruffalo, and Jake Gyllenhaal. The gradual changes wrought on their lives by their investigation and involvement in the case is painful to watch, but nonetheless gripping and sad. Even the wrap-up to the story, handled through text epilogues, seems weary and worn down by the weight of the decades of seemingly fruitless research.

For those of you unfamiliar with the actual Zodiac killings, let me point out that this is not at all a feel-good film. Nothing is wrapped up neatly, and just as with most of life, it ends essentially unresolved. But if you are looking for a fascinating look at the investigation into a part of America's psychic landscape, this is a great place to start.

Sorry for the unexpected sudden break. (I was doing so much better there for a while, too!) One of my best friends called me with a medical emergency, and I spent a day escorting her through the health care system, and two days recovering from the experience. She's back at home and doing fine, though, for those who know Miss D, and now I'm trying to figure out how much work I can get done while I am ostensibly on vacation.

Elevator sign, Mount Sinai Medical Center

Anyway, if you've sent me mail and I haven't responded, that's why. I'll be replying as best I can this weekend.

Besides spending an inordinate amount of time on Fleet Street, I've been gulping down media like cold beer on a hot day. It's probably a combination of my desire to escape a few things going on the the physical world, a major post-holiday influx of new material, and illness-induced insomnia; whatever the reason, there a lot of shiny new stuff in my brain.

Sweeney Todd [2005 recording]; Sweeney Todd [1979 recording]; Hvarf/Heim; Heima; Popeye the Sailor: 1933-1938, Vol. 1; Popeye Vol. 2: "Well Blow Me Down!"; The Sex Club; Mort and Reaper Man; Twin Peaks; Mingering Mike; and at least another dozen CDs, DVDs, and books.

My media consumption would be so much easier if I limited myself to one of two narrow categories of choice, and disparaged and dismissed everything else. But then I would be an art critic, and nobody wants that.

Square America is your source for quaint and bizarre old candid photos. In addition to the strangeness, there are occasional gems like this:

In November of 1963 Martin Johnson took over 140 photos of CBS's coverage of JFK's funeral. I've edited them down to a small selection of 33 photos documenting both the assassination and funeral itself.

That was all you could do in the pre-videotape/DVR days. Great site, and a great feature.

I should provide something with a little more depth later, but for now, here are my capsule reviews of the three versions of Sweeney Todd I've seen.

• Broadway Production (1982): This DVD comes the closest to capturing the original Sondheim production in all its Grand Guignol splendor. It's dark and twisted, but retains a healthy leavening of humor, and the requisite gore is — in the finest theatrical tradition — implied rather than shown. The CD of the original 1979 cast recording remains my favorite.
• The current stage revival (as heard on the 2005 CD) reimagines the tale as told in a madhouse, and acted by its inmates. It's brilliant and intimate, bringing the horror into your lap if you are lucky enough to see it in a small venue. The orchestrations have been completely reworked in a more minimalist style, and are strangely compelling.
• The Hollywood blockbuster version directed by Tim Burton is, in my opinion, a masterpiece of film musical. While the quality of the vocal performances vary wildly, the acting performances are so strong as to compensate for most musical deficiencies. When combined with the amazing art direction and highly stylized visual design for which Burton is known, you ahve a great, if disturbing film.

Like I said, I'll try and write up some better reviews later. Seeing so many different versions has given me some food for thought.

• The Thai people have a culture rich in ghosts. They even provide houses for them!
• Derek Powazek — How to Write a Book in Three Easy Steps
• This is an important book for Americans to read, particularly this election year: Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here [full text], [Wikipedia].

This morning while I was feeding the cats on my porch I saw a guy walking down the sidewalk in an intense and measured stride. He was wearing a blue hoodie with his hands jammed in the pockets, and had an angry, frowning expression on his face. As he got closer I could tell he was talking to himself, getting louder as he approached. The first words I could make out were "...little girl better not push me... she'd better gimme that pussy...", and then continuing on in that vein.

My first thought was that this was domestic violence in the making, and I was glad he was walking it off. Then I noticed the cadence. No, he was just rapping along with his hidden iPod, and probably unaware of how loudly he was singing.

Some people have odd obsessions. I chanced across the sites of a fellow who collects photos of women doing ordinary things, such as:

• Babes With Books (women with books)
• Women With Wine (women drinking wine)
• Tea Birds (women drinking tea)

While the photos are generally innocuous, there may be an occasional image that is not workplace friendly, so use discretion. Some of the additional links on the sites are very much unsafe, I might add.

I am sure they were originally created to generate advertising hits, but they seem to be more or less abandoned now. I ask you, isn't this kind of thing the real reason for the Internet?

Sunrise over Haulover Beach

It was a quiet and contemplative start to 2008, even if it wasn't quite the restorative it's been in past years. Still, it's good to begin a new year with a symbolic gesture. I suppose you could think of this annual visit as my version of cooking black-eyed peas.