It’s been one of those days. You know what I mean—nothing major is wrong, yet the universe seems to be conspiring to make everything about eight times harder than needed. And so the day seems about eight times longer than usual.
Happily, I’m finally home and ready to put this day to bed. To reset my buttons, I’m relaxing with Dame Judi and Mrs. Henderson Presents.
Judi Dench is Laura Henderson, an approaching-seventy society widow in the late nineteen thirties. Bored with widowhood, she buys The Windmill, a dilapidated theater in London. With her stage manager, Bob Hoskins, they hit upon a plan to one-up the competition: instead of featuring vaudeville dancers and singers, they institute a review—nude figures present a stationary tableau while a clothed singer warbles. (The girls must remain still at all times to elude the decency laws; their theater license relies on a comparison with art museum nudes.) [This movie might be an interesting inclusion in a study about the gaze and objectification of women and women’s utilization of objectification.]
While Dench and Hoskins struggle for authority in the show, Hitler invades France. The song selections get more patriotic, the audiences get more soldierly (is that a word?), and eventually the world explodes as the bombs fall closer and closer to the theater.
Such a good movie—blows the clouds away. What about you? What’s your sure-fire method to start over in a better key?