I try to think. I try to write. About the weirdest of my friends, the smartest of my friends, or the most endearing of my friends. Then I remember that my comments about them would be…

So I’ll stay away from them for a while, give them a bit of fresh air. At least they’re not the Bruno Anthony type. Not anymore.

If you’ll excuse me, last night I saw Strangers on a Train with my parents. Now you’re probably thinking, “Why did she entitle one of her blogs Strangers on a Train before she even saw the movie?” To this I’ve got nothing. Damn it, Sheriff. You caught me.

Here’s what I think about the film, about the characters, about the plot, and of course about the carousel:

First off, I learned not to shout “Mise en scene!” every five minutes. While directors, especially the good ones, choose to include important details in the set, it’s obnoxious to do that, and not EVERYTHING is mise en scene. But everything WAS spooky.

I want to start a book the way Hitchcock starts a movie–with shoes. First there are the shoes of amateur tennis pro Guy Haines. Then there are the shoes of psychopath Bruno Anthony. Before we even see their faces or their suits or their eyes, it’s all feet. 

I wonder if my mom’s the only one who noticed a level of intimacy between the two pairs of shoes. It was almost as if they were playing footsies. Later, during the carousel scene, which I won’t completely spoil, there was an even greater level of intimacy, only it was struck with violence and destruction.

I guess there was violence and destruction from the start, but it was masked well.

All I can say is, it will be a long time until I ride another carousel.