Sunday

I wrote something today, with my weekly free-writing group:

“If there’s one thing I don’t believe,” she said, “it’s ghosts.”

He knew that she was lying but said nothing, turned back instead to face the window where the writing had appeared. Out of habit, he pulled the pencil stub and notebook from his pocket. The letters were messy streaks of dark red paint, or maybe blood, and if any of the phones in this damn house had been working, he’d have already called in forensics. The red was smudged on the glass like a kid’s finger-paint, and there had to be at least a half dozen prints in there that they could match. That was sloppy, he thought, as he transcribed the message into his notebook. These ghosts, or whoever it was, were just banking on his not being able to call this in to the department anytime soon, or to do to him and Sarah what they’d reportedly done to everyone else who’d been dumb enough to spend the night.

“YOU’RE BOTH GOING TO DIE,” the letters on the dining room window pane said.

“I know I can’t explain it,” Sarah said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s the Joyce family. It’s not a haunting. There’s someone here, and they’re dangerous, but vengeful spirits they’re definitely not.”

He grunted a reply, still wishing absently for crime scene tape, blood kits and dusting powder, his badge and his gun. He didn’t believe in ghosts, wasn’t talking just trying to convince himself like he knew Sarah was. He believed in cold, observable facts. The house had a reputation, and had earned at least some of it — three people had disappeared here or nearby in the past year alone — but he didn’t believe half of what they said about it. He’d done the research just like Sarah, maybe even dug a little deeper because he didn’t have to pretend he didn’t believe in ghosts. He wasn’t even convinced there had been a Joyce family, not like they were depicted in the neighborhood stories, anyway. Inbred mutants at the turn of the century, their suburban house a bloody killing ground. It was all just a little silly, like something out of a bad movie, and there wasn’t anything so clear-cut in any of the newspaper clippings that he’d read.

And yet, someone was here, someone other than the two of them. And everything that had happened tonight — not just the writing, but everything else — proved if nothing else that someone was very hostile.

I am operating under the idea that forty minutes of bad writing — and even if this isn’t awful, it isn’t great — is better than forty minutes of not writing.

After the writing, we went to see Django Unchained. I’ll say this much for it: it isn’t boring. Jamie Foxx and Christoph Waltz are both quite good in it, as is the scenery-devouring Leonardo DiCaprio. I think Nathan Rabin’s review is probably the closest to my feelings about the film:

In the films of Tarantino’s revenge collection, a noble desire to cinematically right (or re-write) historical wrongs mingles with and mutates more problematic impulses toward exhibitionism, sensationalism, voyeurism, fetishism, and exploitation. In film after film, Tarantino combines aggressively combustible elements—racism, sexism, profanity, hard drugs, violence against women, rape, Nazi brutality, slavery—with the deranged delight of a mad scientist, then cackles with glee as he lights a flame and watches the magnificent destruction that ensues. Tarantino remains an entertainer above all else, so his lurid provocations are generally in service of the intense emotions he forcefully, confidently orchestrates. Part of his genius in manipulating audiences lies in creating immersive cinematic experiences so overpowering that they distract from the thorny questions about race, sex, violence, and representation his films pose without answering. For better or worse, Tarantino aspires to an experience more emotional than intellectual, more in line with the giddy, transgressive thrill he experienced devouring B-movies as a young cinephile than the more cerebral, less immediate charms of the arthouse. He straddles the line separating art and trash, but his allegiance clearly lies with trash.

I’m not sure I’d be quite as generous in grading as Rabin, but I agree with him about pretty much everything here, including the fact that Tarantino’s own return to acting in the film was, at best, ill-advised. It’s an interesting film, with some really great — or at least incredible to watch — moments, but I think it might be my least favorite Tarantino movie. That said, I’m generally a fan and liked Django Unchained, so…

Anyway, that was Sunday.