A friend of mine told me a few weeks ago she had won a $25 gift card at her apartment complex Christmas party and officially invited me to go to the movies with her as her guest. At that time there wasn't anything playing that either of us wanted to see. Last Friday I called her and asked if the invitation was still open, and she said it certainly was. I suggested we go see Slumdog Millionaire. There was a long pause, and she finally said she really didn't want to see anything so intense; such movies gave her bad dreams at night, but she'd checked the paper and maybe we could go see The International.
Well, I'd never heard of it, but it had scenes in Milan, Berlin, Istanbul, and in the Guggenheim in New York, and she'd really like to see it. So---we went today. It is very much in the James Bond genre, and I'd give it a 9.8 on the 10 pt. intensity scale. Don't know how she's going to sleep tonight. . . .
There is probably more truth in the movie's far flung story than we or any country would like to admit and very little travelogue which is what I think my friend anticipated. And given today's bank failures one starts to wonder . . . it will make you think in spite of yourself.
If you go to this movie: take a pint of blood, tubing, and a needle in case you need a transfusion before it's over.
If you go to the Guggenheim: take an automatic weapon; you may need it, and it seems to be the thing to do.
If you are looking for a new sex idol: CLIVE OWEN, trust me on this (though they didn't seem to include a razor in his knapsack).
If you want a couple of hours of bloody (literally) adventure: go see The International.
