Review: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Serious Kick-Ass Moviegoing

WARNING: This post will contain spoilers because I'm a Pott-head and I can't contain my Harry Potter enthusiasm long enough to shut my hole about the juicy bits. It's just something we'll all have to deal with.

Usually I read what critics say about films I'm dying for because I can't resist a sneak peek into what I'm about to see at the multiplex. I'm one of those people who can't help but read spoilers about TV shows (I'll never forgive myself for reading about what was in the hatch before the season premiere of Lost this year), and I always find myself jealous that I can't put my two cents in about what I think about things.

But as I figured out last week, I am a critic now. So buckle up, here we go.

I saw the latest installment of the story of The Boy Who Lived in all its glory on IMAX. Go see it on IMAX, you guys; you'll thank me.

Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sees the school playing host to an ancient wizarding competition -- The Triwizard Tournament. Exchange students from two other wizarding schools come to Hogwarts for the year and one "of-age" student (in the wizarding world, that means 17) from each school is chosen to compete by a Goblet of Fire that spits out the names of the chosen students. In a suspicious turn of events, Harry Potter's name also is chosen, despite the fact that he is only 14. Due to a binding magical contract, however, the Goblet's choices must be upheld, and Harry begins his newest adventure.

Goblet of Fire has a decidedly dark feel to it -- darker than Azkaban had -- although director Mike Newell, the first Brit to direct a Potter film, knows just how to translate J.K. Rowling's British wit from paper to celluloid. This film has a very lived-in feel to it, and one can tell that Newell knows a thing or two about being a teenage schoolboy in Britain.

The details are what makes Newell's film special. Ron wears a knitted sweater with a big "R" on the front on the train ride up to Hogwarts, a little piece of continuity from the earlier films when we learned his mom knits him one every year for Christmas. Early in the film, Harry walks into what looks like an ordinary camp tent but sees, once inside, that it's the size of a house. At this, Harry says, "I love magic!" with such wonderment and earnestness that you can tell Newell also loves -- or at least respects -- the limitless magical world Rowling has so lovingly created. Details like these do not go unnoticed and give the film credibility as a part of a series in addition to being a quality film in its own right.

Newell's finest achievements come in the way he portrays the interactions of the students as they jump headfirst into their teens. Goblet of Fire is the funniest of the Potter books mostly because of the introduction of a Herculean task for the teen boys: finding dates to the Yule Ball. Although many details from the book had to be shaved down because of time constraints, the awkward dialogue about girls that made the book so memorable is still intact. In a particularly humorous scene in which Harry wants to ask his crush Cho Chang to be his date, Harry remarks that girls always travel in packs: "How are you ever supposed to get one on her own?" he laments, while an even more befuddled Ron registers a look on his face that is one part hopeful and two parts terrified.

These moments of levity are not just enjoyable, but necessary; despite the everyday antics of teen life passing by as if there is nothing out of the ordinary going on at Hogwarts this year, we are never allowed to laugh long enough to forget something sinister is upon us.

The film begins ominously in one of Harry's dreams, as we slither into Harry's subconscious alongside Nagini the snake making her way to her master, Lord Voldemort, who is living in an old mansion plotting dark and evil things, as he is wont to do. We see him kill the caretaker of the house without a hint of remorse, and Harry wakes up breathless in a cold sweat, the rest of us panting along with him in anticipation.

This dream sets the stage of continuity for the remainder of the film; Harry will have it over and over again, as he tends to do, and we'll finally see the dream end not with waking in a pool of sweat, but in a real-life showdown with the Dark Lord and the senseless murder of one of Harry's classmates.

Ralph Fiennes is phenomenally wicked as Voldemort, and Hollywood should let the man play baddies more often (think Schindler's List) because he clearly gets a kick out of it and rocks the whole film when he gets to be the villain.

Speaking of fabulous actors rocking their roles, it's becoming clear that the kids in the Potter series still are no match for their big-name, grown-up co-stars who play the motley crew of adult wizards in the film.

Alan Rickman continues to delight wickedly (if a bit too infrequently) as Potionsmaster Snape, with his monotone menace and greasy glares. Robbie Coltrane sadly is limited in his screen time as lovable Gameskeeper Hagrid, although the scene in which he dresses up to impress Madame Maxime, headmistress of one of the visiting schools, itself is worth the price of admission.

The best new castmember award must go to Brendan Gleeson for his twitchily paranoid portrayal of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Mad-Eye Moody. I can't wait to see him steal the show in Order of the Phoenix.

The always-wonderful Maggie Smith and Miranda Richardson, who had her breakout role in Newell's Dance With A Stranger 20 years ago, also turn in excellent performances in sadly scaled-down parts.

Despite the excellent performances by the adults, the younger actors have only gotten better in this fourth installment, although they flounder at times.

Rupert Grint (Ron) truly embodies the overshadowed, downtrodden best friend of the famous Harry Potter and seems to be emerging as the real star of the younger bunch in these films. It's a true compliment to say that I could not have imagined Ron when I was reading Goblet of Fire years ago any better than he is portrayed by Grint in the film.

Emma Watson (Hermione) is nothing if not earnest, and as the youngest of the three lead actors, it is a testament to her potential that she never fails to deliver heartfelt emotion when asked for it, even if she overacts at times. She's got a beautifully expressive face, and the camera captures her wonderfully. So often in this grim chapter of the Harry Potter saga, things would have fallen flat without Watson's shot of emotion to bring integrity to the script.

I love him to death, but Daniel Radcliffe still seems to struggle a bit with the admittedly gargantuan task of bringing Harry Potter to life. I applaud him for his considerable effort and commitment, but he's still not quite there yet. It will be interesting to see him in Order of the Phoenix, because I think he might just come into his own in that one. Part of the problem with Radcliffe is that Harry is just so iconic and I love the character so very much that no one could possibly live up to the Harry Potter I've imagined for myself. He sometimes just seems a little too -- and I'm sorry to say it, but -- wooden.

However, I have to give Radcliffe kudos for owning the scene in which he comes back from the graveyard clutching the Triwizard Cup in one hand and Cedric's lifeless body in the other. When Dumbledore tries to pull Harry off of Cedric and Harry throws himself on top of Cedric's body wailing and sobbing in protest, the weight of seeing Harry trying to protect the boy in death in a way he could not protect him in life makes this the most powerful moment of the film.

It also marks a pivotal point in the series in which Harry Potter loses whatever is left of his boyish innocence and grows up in a single moment, having faced the wickedest evil there is with no one to shelter him from the blow. Radcliffe nailed it. And good for him. It must be terribly difficult for him to be so young and to carry so much responsibility on his shoulders for these films; with this scene, he did not disappoint.

It's core is dramatic, but Goblet of Fire also is a thrilling action film. The action sequences are awesome, particularly the scene in which Harry must battle a ferocious dragon. Admittedly I am naiive when it comes to special effects and CGI, but swear I couldn't tell the boy wasn't really outflying a fire-spewing dragon on his broomstick. Only the geekiest of film nerds will be able to find fault with the effects.

And so another chapter of the saga of Harry Potter has been brought to the screen. We have been set up perfectly for what is to come. Harry definitely no longer is a timid boy out of place in a world of wizards, and Hogwarts no longer is a safe haven for him. It's time for Harry to turn 15 and to begin to understand the gravity of his situation and how to cope with being the only wizard who can deliver his entire race from evil. He will start to stew in his teenage angst and to question and resist authority instead of respecting it outright -- Goblet's Dumbledore is no longer infallible, and Harry sees that as a sign. If Dumbledore, the only wizard Voldemort ever feared, does not know how to recognize, to face, and to battle the Dark Lord, Harry really might just be on his own.

Who else loves Neville?!? pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Right Back Where We Started From

*WARNING: This post contains minor spoilers for the November 17 episode of The O.C. Read at your own risk!*

Now, this is how they do it in Orange County, bitch!

The O.C., man. It is Back with a capital B. Not that I'd ever dog on my fave guilty pleasure, but these past few episodes have been weaker than Seth's noodle arms.

I think this is mostly because they've all been about Marissa, who sucks. But then again, isn't everything always about her?

It wouldn't be as bad if Mischa Barton wasn't such a horrendous actress. But a corpse has more life in it than she does.

A corpse also is much healthier looking than Mischa Barton, but that's beside the point.

OK, OK, I get it. She's a bag of bones because Hollywood puts so many pressures on...waah, waah, waah. I don't care. She's creepy looking. I mean, have a carrot stick or something, please. I'm not even asking you to start out with anything terrifying like a sandwich, just eat something.

There is a scene from season one where Mischa has to eat a Hershey Kiss. It is comedy gold. I'm not sure if the writers intended it to be, but I like to think that there's a chubby chick who writes for the show who made the final decision on that scene. Mischa Barton can't even flip through a magazine convincingly on camera -- something I'm sure she's done plenty of times in real life -- so to see her try to pop a piece of candy into her mouth, it is priceless. Once the chocolate hits her tongue she registers the only emotions I've ever seen from her that were believable: unadulterated disgust and horror. It's hilarious. Seriously, try to check it out. It's in the Valentine's Day episode from Season 1.

Anyhow. I'm not here to pick on Mischa Barton (OK, I am a little bit). I'm here to sing from the rooftops my song of glee that The O.C. was freaking awesome last night for the first time in what seems like forever.

We had Kirsten throwing a big fancy party! We had Julie returning to glory as the only rightful manipulative bitch in Newport! We had Sandy being virtuously self-righteous! We had Seth acting charming and geeky instead of selfish and bratty! We had Summer remembering why she loves Seth to begin with (uh, mostly because he wasn't being selfish and bratty anymore)! We had the return of Chino Ryan! And last but not least, we had Marissa in mortal peril, which meant the glorious possibility that they might be killing her off! Hip, hip, HOORAY!

The only thing The O.C. was missing that could have returned it to its former glory was Ryan in a wifebeater doing gratuitous pull-ups. But there was a close substitute. 'Cause Ben McKenzie, bless his biceps, went mental on a punching bag while wearing a shirt and slightly loosened tie. Bravo, Ben. Bravo. I hope they signed your punching bag to a multi-episode contract.

Of course, Ryan was letting his anger out on the punching bag so as not to let it out on Volchek, in the process using his head and not his fists for once, which set up my favorite scene of the night.

Marissa was like, "Ryan, you've really changed."

Only, as I've mentioned, Mischa Barton isn't even as good an actor as the lead in your local elementary school's performance of Little Red Riding Hood, so she delivered the line while making a face like she was having a tough time pooping.

And so I screamed at my TV, "Yo, Marissa! It's called personal growth. You should give it a try sometime because you're still the same self-centered spoiled little bitch you were in the pilot!"

I did love Ryan's reaction to her, though, when he gave her this look that conveyed exactly: "I am totally and completely exasperated with your selfishness, you humorless little whiner, and -- writers willing -- I'm going to dump your bony ass in Episode 8 for someone smart, funny, supportive, and stacked. 'Cause, um, have you looked at me lately? My kicky new haircut upped my hot-factor by about 50 points and my abs are cut from glass now that I've been using this punching bag to get out my frustrations over what a complete and total bitch you are instead of self destructing. Being from Chino is so the new water polo team, so step aside, Stretch. I'm out!"

Seriously, Sandy's old eyebrows (I am so disappointed he has started to control them! Note to Peter Gallagher: We love them; set them free!) and Ryan's steely eyed glares should do an episode of Celebrity Deathmatch to see who would be champion of having a conversation without using any words. I think the eyebrows would win, but only by -- what else? -- a hair.

And somewhere in the background you can hear the faintest rim shot...

Anyhow, back to it. Ryan is freaking hot. Gobi hot. Habanero pepper hot. The radiator in my old Honda hot.

He needs to dump Skeletor already. I mean they make her dump him every other freaking week just because she's in a bad mood. I think it's his turn to do the dumping.

I have no idea if Ryan actually will get to toss Marissa out on her tailbone, but I hope that the writers at least will let him hook up with Casey. That'd be awesome. And you know Ryan could totally pull Casey. Not to mention she's from public school! So she's easy! (Note to Ben McKenzie: I also went to public school.)

Anyhow, Ryan definitely needs a better girlfriend (note to the producers: I am available!) and poor Ben McKenzie needs a better actress to work with.

At the very least, Ryan and Ben both deserve a competent lover (and so do I, so note to the producers and Ben: I could catch the red eye, no problem). Because, seriously? He has it down. The face touching, the slow pull-away kiss, the ease with which that boy can unhook a halter top. It's fucking poetry, man. And I have to believe that's not all just good direction, but that it comes from Ben McKenzie's own delicious personal arsenal of ways to make a woman melt in his mouth.

I think Ryan's steely looks would beat out Sandy's brows for sure if it was a contest to see which one could undress a woman faster without using hands. Because I swear, sometimes Ryan just looks at the camera and I feel the hooks on my bra pop open. It's fantastic.

That's it. I need to be on that show.

How cool would this be: Next week on The O.C., the smoldering transfer student from (sort of) Philadelphia impresses Ryan with her quick wit, her fine ass, and her ability not to purge after lunch. He looks at her the way Marissa eyes a piece of pizza when she thinks no one is looking -- hungrily -- and dons his finest tank top in her honor.

You'd all tune in for that, I know you would!

Totally willing to do nude scenes: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Toilet Humor

Some people have a fear of going to the bathroom in a public place. I am not one of those people. This is mostly because I go to the bathroom a lot and, seriously, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

The bathroom in my office building is hot as the Sahara, crawling with 5-inch-long cockroaches (this is not hyperbole, either - ask my colleagues), and has crumbling asbestos tiles on the ceiling.

OK, I can't prove the asbestos part, but I'd not be surprised if I showed up for work tomorrow and the whole building had been condemned.

On my 52nd ounce of water so far today, I had to take a mean piss. So I grabbed my keys and headed out to the bathroom. I let myself in, peeked cautiously around the corner for unwelcome roaches, and checked the stalls for other people, because, I'm sorry, but I had to pass a little gas, too. And I'm a considerate bathroom user.

Anyhow, I went into my normal stall - and by that I mean the only stall in which I have never seen a roach and that doesn't have a missing asbestos tile above it - and locked myself in to take care of things.

My usual stall might be roach free, but unfortunately in order not to deal with roaches, I have to deal with a wonky lock. I mean, the door locks, but you have to make love to it a little bit first, and even then if you pull or push the door hard enough, the door will swing open even if you don't turn the thingie (I have no better word, sorry; it's not really a knob, but you know what I'm talking about) to unlock it. The door and the lock just don't quite line up right. Kind of like how the stars were clearly not lining up right for me today.

And for those of you who aren't very good at picking up literary clues, this lock description is called foreshadowing and it will be important later.

Anyhow, I manage to use this toilet no fewer than six times a day (I told you I go a lot) and it stays locked well enough, as long as no one goes tugging on it, which no one usually does. Because, who in their right mind would tug on a closed bathroom stall door?

Anywho, I took my pee and passed my gas and was about to wipe (sorry for getting so personal) when someone entered the bathroom. As it turns out, it was the cleaning lady. The same cleaning lady, might I add, who has been cleaning this bathroom for at least the past two years and probably much longer than that.

I decided I'd stomp my feet just to give her fair warning I was in there, because usually she'll leave and come back if someone's doing their business.

STOMP STOMP!

I commenced wiping and I heard her checking the other stalls instead of leaving, which I thought was odd.

STOMP STOMP STOMP!

I figured this would adequately alert her to my semi-naked presence.

I don't remember much after that.

Because the next thing I know, she's yanking on the door to my stall and I froze. I could see the lock giving way, but there was nothing I could do about it. The door was too far away for me to reach it.

I don't know if I called out to warn her of what she was about to do. It was like one of these terrifying dreams where, try as you might, you just can't scream for help.

On one particularly forceful yank, the door to my stall swung open and there I was, snatch to face with the cleaning lady.

"EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!"

I think that's the exact noise that escaped me.

I guess it was lucky I had shaved over the weekend? I did that thing you see in movies when a person suddenly finds his towel fell off unexpectedly and I pulled my knees up and crossed my arms in front of me to try to reclaim my modesty. It truly was cinematic, and I can only hope that it was captured by security camera somewhere.

"OH GOOD LORD," said the cleaning lady, apparently stuck by "car-wreck syndrome" because she just kept staring at me, even though she should have wanted to look away.

Let me reiterate that she should have looked away, but she just stood there gape-mouthed, staring at my partially naked junk.

She did eventually pull herself together and made unintelligible mumblings while she tried to close and lock the door, but of course it didn't close or lock because, as I said, it doesn't line up right unless you fiddle with it.

It is my own opinion that the cleaning lady should have known about the wonky lock after a minimum of two years cleaning that bathroom, but who can say for sure? I'm certainly not going to seek her out and ask her.

Then she said, "You should lock the door!"

And I thought to myself, "Oh no you didn't! We're gonna' make this my fault? Are we? Oh I do. not. think. we. are."

But I actually said, "I should lock the door? Really? I did lock the door! Maybe you shouldn't yank open a closed bathroom stall door when someone is stomping their feet to warn you they're in there."

And it was at that moment I noticed the tell-tale white wires leading from her face to the tiny silver iPod clipped to her belt.

And right here I have to ask, how come the cleaning lady has an iPod and I still don't? I guess that part is my own fault.

Anyhow, she's all, "Oh CRAP. I didn't hear you!"

And I was like, "Well, uh, can you at least TURN AROUND, please?"

And so she did me one better and fled the bathroom to leave me in peace. Or as much peace as you can be left in after someone just violated you by throwing open the door to your bathroom stall while you were taking a whiz.

I just sat there at first, stall door wide open, stunned from exposure, taking in what had just transpired.

Eventually, though, I pulled up my pants and my dignity and headed over to the sink to wash my embarrassment down the drain.

That security video better not end up on the internet: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

Can't You Smell That Smell

I so smell like college today. And I kind of feel like college today, too.

I’m wearing my old-school college perfume, Laila. This particular bottle was purchased for me by the Nicest Boyfriend I’ve Ever Had, who would have done literally anything for me (people say that all the time -- that someone would do anything for them -- but I don't think it's ever really true, except in this case), and who I dumped the week after he told me he loved me and gave me said bottle of perfume and a diamond bracelet for my birthday.

I realize I have just villainized myself!

But in my defense, I was rebounding from breaking up with the Meanest Boyfriend I've Ever Had, who discounted my feelings at every turn, made fun of me, and threatened to leave me whenever I expressed unhappiness with our relationship, but who I insanely loved like that was the only way to continue to get air into my lungs.

Regardless, I wasn't ready for a nice boyfriend. Or any boyfriend. And also there is more chemistry in English class than there was with me and the Nicest Boyfriend I’ve Ever Had. But that's a whole other post. So don't hate me just yet.

I’m here to talk about the perfume. And a sweater. And hopefully this will be a lot less boring than it sounds. Just go with me.

Rapidly returning to my point, I have worn Laila perfume here and there since college, but for some reason today it smells exactly as it did on me in college and it's really weird. Like, if I didn't know better, I'd swear to God I’m standing around Missy's and Brooke’s apartment waiting to leave for Darwin's because of this smell. Maybe I just put too much on? (Who, me?) But you know how smells are. They transport you to wherever you were when you first remember smelling them.

In college I also used to wear this giant, warm, kelly green (when kelly green and I both were not at all fashionable) wool cable knit sweater to class just about every day all winter because I used to wear it over my university food services uniform because they were the same color. Why I thought the whole same color thing was a good idea, I don’t know, but even though I wore it all the time, I never had that sweater cleaned. Gross, I know, but if I was po' enough to be working for university food services at the Slocum snack bar, serving scooped-out bagels with extra cream cheese to the tanorexic sorority-girl/fashion design majors who ate there, I certainly was too po' to pay a dry cleaning tab. But the sweater never smelled bad, it just smelled of Laila perfume, as wool tends to do if you spray it enough times with enough perfume. In fact, wherever that sweater ended up, I bet it still smells like Laila. And so I have bestowed upon all of you the secret to having nonsmelly woolen sweaters: douse them in perfume. You can thank me later.

Anyhow, I still have a point. And the point is that I recently trick-or-treated myself to an amazingly soft kelly green cashmere-angora fitted cable-knit sweater, which is serving today as my grown-up fancy version of the old-school college sweater even more than it would otherwise 'cause I just happen to be wearing the old-school college perfume.

Another point is that I am a lot more fashionable and much cuter now than I was in college because instead of a huge, itchy, wool, men's sweater found on a clearance rack, I’m now wearing a tailored, buttery, cashmere, women's sweater bought for full price. Oh, and I guess I have a lot more money now, too. But I think taste has more to do with it than money.

Yet another point is that Laila perfume always, always smells awesome on me and I should never wear any other perfumes, ever. Those of you who have been lucky (unfortunate?) enough to perfume shop with me in the past (you know who you are) know that I have an absolutely terrible time picking out something new, and you should remind me about Laila next time a trip to Sephora is suggested.

I mean, there's even a "blind smell test" involved, in which I force my shopping companion to hide the identities of the paper strips I’ve sprayed with perfume "finalists" and hold them under my nose to see if I can tell which is which just by smell. What that has to do with whether I will like a particular scent, I have no idea. But it's part of the routine. As is the "last-minute contender," which involves me picking a bottle at random after I’ve spent the better part of two hours trying to choose between two perfumes (one is always 212 by Carolina Herrera, too; maybe I should just freaking buy that already?) and declaring that I absolutely love the last-minute bottle and must now add it to the agonizing perfume-choosing process.

Then I always leave with whatever bottle isn't the 212 and I’m always woefully disappointed.

But I’ve lost the point again (maybe that’s what this post should have been about, how I can’t stay on topic). The real point is that I feel like a misplaced version of myself today because I smell and feel like I should be 21 and wearing that awful green wool sweater, but I look like I’m, well, still on the good side of 30, but wearing a Bizarro-version of the green sweater.

It’s weird, OK? And it's causing my internal feng shui to de-feng. Or de-shui. Or whatever.

All I know is that as long as my current self still smells like my college self, I might as well take advantage and try to snag myself a couple of frat boys out at the bar tonight, even if the only frat boys I can attract at my age happen to be in their 40s now.

One thing remains the same whether I’m my college self or my current self: if I get drunk enough, I won’t care.

Hey bartender, pour me a Stoli razz and ginger. And make it a big one.

Who's got my first round? pilarrrgh@gmail.com

P.S. As an aside, this post began it's career as an email to Laura and Brooke and ended up being promoted to its current glory as a full-blown blog post. Way to be upwardly mobile. Also, the spellckecker changed all mentions of "Laila perfume" to "Labial perfume" when I ran it on this post, which is a great example of how a totally unfunny thing like a spellchecker can be totally hilarious if the stars all line up right.