And, yes, as a matter of fact, I have! Not as many as I’d like – magazines and falling asleep mid-page can do that to a girl. As can watching a bunch of losers being batted into a pool by a mechanical arm. Or seeing how long a slew of idiots can stand being hung from the ceiling in their underwear….. But hey, that’s summer TV. Which is why I’m talkin’ bout books. Even if you’re not a huge reader, in summertime it’s hard to resist the lure of the page. After all, how many times can you go see The Hangover?

OK don’t answer that. But when you’ve had your fill of Mr Chow and the boys, and you’ve admitted that Bruno was boring and that you actually liked The Proposal, then it’s library time. Besides, 500 Days of Summer isn’t out yet…..

Here’s a small list to get you through the rest of the season…..Or at least a couple of weeks…

The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill – I actually read this one last summer. Maybe I blogged about it back then too. Whatev. It’s worth a double take because it’s awesome and devastating and impossible to put down – or forget. It’s historical fiction at its most brutal – and most stunning. One of those books you read in two days. And you cry. And you discuss with everyone else who’s read it. And rave about it to those who haven’t. And then they buy it. And read it in two days. And cry. And discuss…And so on. Required reading.

The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway is another one. Historical fiction? Check. Well written? Check. Read in a weekend? Check. Brutal? Devastating? Brilliant? Check, check and check. Part character study, part thriller, part morality lesson, it’s a love letter to a city torn apart during our lifetime… as we watched it on the news.

If you like deep and brooding, then The Outcast by Sadie Jones is for you. Set in 1950’s England, join our anti-hero on his hellish journey to prison and back. Innocence lost. Troubled times. Terrible crimes. Or maybe not. Like our main man, you’ll find yourself heartbroken as you look for love beneath the darkness. There’s something familiar about this book, whether in the telling, or the tale, but in a good way. Think Ian McEwan….

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell isn’t the most brilliant book of all time, but it’s extremely readable. A young woman learns she is the only surviving relative of an aunt she never knew existed – a woman who didn’t play by the rules, who was ahead of her time. While it’s tempting to simply file this away under “women’s fiction”, it’s much more than that…
And it’s by the woman who wrote After You’d Gone, so how bad can it be? (If you haven’t read that one, grab some kleenex and start)

Is this more like a winter reading list? Is it getting too heavy for you? Had enough of the depressing stuff?

Sunnier times can be found in I Love You Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle. The author was one of the writers on The Simpsons and Beavis and Butthead. Need I say more? The book opens with the class Valedictorian giving his graduation speech… and announcing his love for the most popular girl in school. School’s out, so wat’s he got to lose, right?? With snappy dialogue and genius coming-of-age moments, it’s no big surprise that this one’s coming soon to a theater near you. The book’s hi-larious. The movie? Who knows…

The Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell is more of a conversation piece than a thumping good read. Those who like Mr. Gladwell, like him a lot. And no wonder. He dissects pop culture and makes you feel like a smartypants as he articulates things you never knew that you knew (does that make sense?) This is great for idle party chatter. Or dates.

10 Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer had all the gals talking last year. Except me who had to wait for the paperback version. Again, “women’s fiction” to be sure, but resonated with, erm, some people as it’s about a group of moms who ditch their promising careers to stay home with their kids. Of course, one day they “wake up” to find their kids at school and themselves… erm… lost in their own mundane lives. If that sounds at all familiar, then give it a whirl, if only for the “hey! I-know-her/she’s-me” moments.

Last, but by no means least, make sure Bitter Sweets by Roopa Farooki is in your cottage bag. This one’s an intricate, inter-generational story about an Indian family. A family whose very foundations are laid on lies and deceit. These folks aren’t grifters exactly, more like “spicers”, whose stretching of the truth will catch up with them, eventually. This one’s a fun, clever, soap-opera of a novel. Perfect for summer. Or any time.

Enjoy……

YOU DIDN’T?!?!?

Oh, poor souls, you missed out. You really did.

Disclaimer: I am not, by nature a daytime TV person. Never have been. When the sun goes down, that’s a different story – the remote comes out. But I have too many guilt issues with daytime telly – unless I am severely under the weather or there’s some hideous ambulance-chasing newsflash I can’t turn away from. Reruns of sitcoms, maybe Ellen, OK. But Oprah? Very, very, rarely. I did watch the cast of Friends goodbye show, but that’s about it.

See, when it comes to Ms Winfrey, I’m not a fan. In fact, she kinda bugs me. I kinda liked Fat Oprah. And Sophia-from-The-Color-Purple-Oprah. And I can appreciate and barely stomach Do-Gooder-Friend-of-Nelson-Mandela-Oprah. But thin-, marathoned-, and star-f&cking Oprah? Not for me. Too condescending. Too Benevolent Ruler of Minivan Moms in audience. Too earnest. Too annoying.

BUT I put it all aside for today. I got over my aversion to Oprah and to daytime TV for today. I really let myself go to the edge of the couch for today….For today was DREAMGIRLS day.

Yes, it’s true. DREAMGIRLS has arrived. Ish. More specifically, it’ll arrive at your local theatre on Christmas day. The lucky ones in LA and NYC will, as always, get it sooner, as will a handful of other selected spots (please please please let Toronto be one of them) (I know, it probably won’t) (if you don’t ask, you don’t get) (why am I having a paranthetical conversation with myself) (because I can)…

My Euro friends, you probably don’t even know what DREAMGIRLS is, let alone when it’s coming. So you can just read along, safe in the knowledge that a damn fine show has been turned into a supposedly damn fine film and that you can – and should – book your tix AND your seats in advance.

So there they were: Beyonce, James Foxx, Anika-something-or-other, Ed Murphy and my fave, Jennifer Hudson. Her god-fearing (and spouting) ways aside, I love her. And so did the audience. She got a longer standing O than the Mighty Murphy. More whoops than the other folks combined. Rightfully so, folks, rightfully so.

For the eight of you people who didn’t watch American Idol a couple of season back, she was one of the 3 divas. Fantasia, someotherchick, and Ms Hudson. She sang the Dreamgirls’ showstopper (do I have to spell out everything? “I am Telling You I’m Not Going”). She was the first of the best to be booted, but baby, look at her now! Word on the street (and on the web) is she’s the one to watch. As it should be. She was Effie on Idol and she’s Effie now. Jennifer Hudson? The new Jennifer Holliday.

Beyonce (and, parents, it’s pronounced Bee-yon-say, not Bee-Yawns) was, as always, a real lady. Babydoll Pajama dress aside, she was poised, stunning, and modest. A glamorama movie star ’til the end – complete with costume change. And, yes, she sang. She sang the one song that didn’t come from the original soundtrack. Y’know, the Disneyfied, lyrically-on-the-nose, lame song: the Oscar song. B’s pipes were so outstanding that she actually gave some life to a truly lame tune. Now that’s star power.

There was the other chick, the Tony award winner whose name escapes me. She plays Lorell. The one no one really gives a shit about. But she gets a solo, and a paycheck and gets to be on Oprah, so let’s not pity her.

Moving on.

Jamie Foxx. Talented? Yes. Hot? Yes. Somewhat runty? Kind of. He described himself as shiny. That says it all. Shiny good and shiny bad. And then they played some clips of him as Curtis. Clips he was proud of. Clips in which he sang all his own songs. May I remind you that he did no such thing in Ray. And maybe that’s good thing. ‘Cuz I’ve got two words for you: Weak Link. Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure his performance will be stellar. But a balladeer he ain’t.

Now, was it me, or did Funny Murphy seem kinda sad? Cliche, I know, the sad clown and all, but he did. He seemed out of sorts and kind of down. Maybe Eddie finds Oprah annoying too. Or maybe he’s just whipped by Scary Spice. Whatev – the few sound clips of him as James Thunder Early? Erm….smoking!

I first saw Dreamgirls when I’d pulled my braces off at sleepover camp so I could go home and call a boy I liked. I was that kind of girl. His number turned out to be unlisted (loo-hoo-ser), but I got to go and see Dreamgirls. And then I saw it again on Broadway. I’ve had my mother quoting it to me for years. I’ve sung every breath of every song in countless car rides. I’ve participated in (and nearly wrecked) an amateur production of the thing. I’ve cast the movie in my head and – I don’t mind bragging – pegged Beyonce and Jenny Hudson long before the producers even did. I even watched The Oprah Earnest Show to get a glimpse of the Dreamgirls Dreamteam. Along with a handful of other diehards, I’ve been waiting for this moment for 25 bloody years, so please, forgive my excitement.

And now, I pass that excitement on to you, loyal readers. Let the countdown begin:
One month, five days…

And of you believe that….

That’s right kittens, after sitting out last year due to newborn babe (and accompanying heft and angst) I’m back in the green room. Sorta. Gone are the heady days of lounging backstage at the Galas. What? You call it skulking around, I call it lounging. Tomato/Tomahto. Anyhoo, those days are done, replaced by the wealthy big game hunters who pay to play with the stars. Or stand near ’em, cuz their handlers have become ever so ferocious, protecting their charges from the flashes of unathorized cameras. But whatever, I can still share, right?

So sit back and relax, cuz this might take a while. Ladies and Gents, I bring you the First Annual Mother of All Mavens, Not-even-close-to-the-red-carpet, All-singin’, All-dancin’ Revue Review.

AKA the who’s nice, who’s rude, and who’s loaded with tude report. With a slice of cinema on the side.

First off, saw a Brit Flick called Confetti. LOVED IT! Hilarious and completely improvised. Took ’em 6 weeks to shoot, yet 6 months to cast. Well worth the wait because these actors are GENIUS. Anyone who is married, was married, wants to get married or – hell, knows anyone who is/was/will be married should go go go. Opens later this fall. Remember: C-O-N-F-E-T-T-I. The little flick that could…

Unlike Volver. Sorry Pedro, but I was unimpressed. Sure I liked the film, but I wanted to love it. Problemo was Penny. She was just too hot to handle. Seriously, her beauty was distracting. The camera loves this gal. Little Pia was there in person and, while obviously pretty, I hate to break it to ya boys, but she’s certainly not the robobabe she is on-screen. Go figure.

On the other hand, a man who IS a robobabe (in a farmhanded kind of way) is Brad Pitt. But y’know what? I kinda felt bad for him. The stage was lined 3 deep with snappers (hee hee) and the second Brad set foor on stage the place turned into a rave. They should’ve warned us. We’re talkin’ seizure-inducing amounts of flashbulbs. They should’ve warned Brad too ‘cuz he became a deer in the headlights. Poor guy. And he’s quite slight, not nearly as hunky as expected. Beyond the pretty face was the movie itself: BABEL. Now we’re talking magnificent. It was un-f&cking-believable. Run, don’t walk. Intense and brutal and amazing and and and. Can’t praise it enough.

Oh, and after it was all over? It was like being at a boyband concert. Deafening screams, chants, the works. Ole, ole, ole Brad Pitt indeed. We found ourselves outside with the greatest access ever (basically outside his car. Yes, his car) (we’ll take what we can get, thank you). But my Man and I decided to just take it in stride. And leave. Why stoop to such levels of stalkerazzi? He’s just a guy after all…

Unlike Jude Law.

He’s my fave. Topper on my List. That List. And he. was. there. last night. But wait!Before we get to him, I must tell you we saw Christopher Guests eagerly anticipated oscar spoofer, For Your Consideration.

Two words:

Wha happened?

Loved Waiting for Guffman. Adored Best in Show. Amused by A Mighty Wind. Wouldn’t consider Consideration. I hate to be the one to tell y’all, but it sorta sucked. Yes it was amusing, of course it was. But the subject matter was ripe for the pickin’ and they barked up the wrong trees. Think of any metaphor for DISAPPOINTED and you’ll get my drift. Kudos, however, go to Kitty O’Hara. As always, she stole the show. And Fred Willard wasn’t bad either. But the rest of the gang? Solid “c”: Coulda done better.

Jude Law. Jude Law Jude Law Jude Law. J-u-d-e L-a-w.

In a flick called All the King’s Men. With Sean Penn, Kate Winslet, Mark Ruffalo, Anthony Hopkins, Patricia Clarkson and James Gandolfini. Star-studded? Whatev, wake me when it’s over. Or so said my Man. And he had the right idea.

Flick was a heavy handed snoozefest that went like somethin’ like this: narration by the gorgeous and talented Mr Law. Screaming speech by Crazy-haired Penn. Plot, plot, plot. Shot of cross-lined rural road. Dramatic music. Shot of car/train/truck nearly missing camera. More narration by the gorgeous and talented Jude Law. Another screaming speech, etc. And repeat. Over and over and over.

Swing and a miss.

And the kids themselves?

Sean Penn? Surly, as you’d expect. Princess Buttercup? Gorgeous. Might way 100lbs on a bad day, as you’d expect. Jimmy Gandolfini? A brute and boor, as you’d expect (come on, people, he could go either way) Mark R.? Divine. As you’d expect. Kitty Winslet? Eyebrows aside, a stunner – and also quite tiny. As you may not expect.

And Jude? I could barely look at him. Magnifique! But he’ll be making another appearance later this week. As will I. As you’d expect. Hopefully I’ll muster up the mustard to actually look at him for more than 2 seconds. Or not. Stay tuned for all that…And more!

Come summertime, while they’re busy taking holidays or making Christmas-time release masterpieces, we’re stuck with a slew of shlock. Aside from some family fun flicks, it seems all that’s out there are duds, suitable only for the dreaded demo: boys 8-18. Boys with a penchant for no-brainers. Boys with silly, gross-out toilet humour sensibilities. As for the rest if us, it’s like it or lump it. For the most part.

Like everybody else, I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean. Unlike everybody else, I went kicking and screaming. We all know Johnny Depp is hot. But Johnny Depp mincing about in drag? More like luke warm. Yeah, he’s funny. Yeah, he’s still watchable, eyeliner and all. And yeah, he does a mean Keef Richards. But I still didn’t want to go. The charms and derring do of ‘Lando Bloom were no match for the enormous pain in the butt that is Keira Knightly. Yeah, she’s gorgeous (open-mouthed smiles aside). Yeah, she’s British and yeah, she – or her agent – has good tast when choosing roles. But she’s the next Winona. And is that a good thing? You tell me. Alas, I went and we watched and yo ho ho and swashbucklers forever. It was a summer flick. And that means ish.

Want another example? The Brothers Wilson. What were they thinking, doing such lame-ass pics? More importantly, what was I thinking? I fell into the it’s-a-chick-flick-but-how-bad-can-it-be trap. The one that gets you every time – ‘cuz they’re always THAT bad. I confess, I saw both My Super Ex-GF AND You, Me and Dud-pree. And to make matters worse, I went for the back-to-back double header! I snuck into the second flick, so at least I didn’t have to pay. But karma has a way of paying you back: the freebie, like it’s paid-for counterpart, blew. Sure the Wilson boys are hot. And their ladies were hot. And after all the gushy interviews I wanted to look for signs of chemistry between Ms. Hudson and O. Wilson. (there was none with Matty D. Not a drop…in interviews or on film) And now that Katie is newly single, who wants to bet she goes for the gold? Or the – ahem – butterscotch? Crow or Stallion: who would you choose?

But I digress.

Kiddie flicks and stoooopid boy humour aside, there are a small handful of pics worth leaving the patio for. But the only one I’ve actually seen is Scoop. Y’know, the not-so-new Woody Allen flick? Finally saw it yesterday. A matinee. What a truly fine bit of afternoon delight it was. Re-ow!

In two words: Hugh Jackman.

Hugh Jackman.

Hugh Jackman.

Hugh?! Who knew?! Beneath the board-treading Wolverine lies something truly divine: Hugh Jackman. My gal pal and I were breathless at the sight of him. And who wouldn’t be? Charm? Check. Passable Anglaisy accent? Check. Clothes that look magnificent on and off his crazy cut chiseled bod? Check check check. The man is the definition of tall, dark and handsome. Plus, he’s sex on a stick. He turned us into drooling, slobbery fools. He turned us into lovesick teens. He turned us into….BOYS!

The movie was good, don’t get me wrong. It was delightful and de-lovely. Not the most complicated of flicks, but so what? Totally worth seeing. Even aside from ever-so-hot Hugh. Woody was less pervy lech and more funny fatherly. Grandfatherly, but who’s counting? Throw in some Scarlett for the boys and everybody’s happy. It’s sharp and funny and set in London. Add it up and it’s well-worth the price of admission.

And have I mentioned Hugh Jackman? Apparently, the more mature ladies have known about the Jackman charms for years. Not me. I didn’t get it. Not at the Tony’s, not on stage, not in that cheesy Meg Ryan flick, and certainly not with all the facial hair.

But girls, it’s all about Hugh. That’s the real scoop.