Brooklyn Bridge Leaping Session

Surprisingly few takes were needed to procure these photos — especially given that I was wearing quite a short and unwieldy denim skirt.

Still, when you have the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges and the Manhattan skyline in the background, taking nice photos isn't too hard.

Practising the ol' volleyball moves...

More Treats than Tricks

My feet are now starting to seriously hurt. I went running again this morning, this time in Central Park, which was full of runners getting in some last-minute practice before tomorrow's marathon. 

Unlike yesterday which was bright and brisk, today was very warm (22 degrees!), cloudy and muggy and by the time I'd done a loop at the bottom of the park with Dad before bolting up to 85th Street and back, I was feeling uncomfortably warm. 

There was just time for a quick shower before heading over to Grand Central to meet my party. This was easier said than done as the "friendship marathon" (a 5k race designed for the friends and family of those running in the real marathon) was proceeding up Sixth Avenue. In the end, I had to barge my way through or I could have been there all day.

We got the subway down to Brooklyn and after a brief walk around Brooklyn Heights, where there were plenty of good Halloween house decorations and costumes, before returning to the bridge. It was a bit busier than early on Friday morning (and on that freezing January day last time I was there), which led to problems when we tried to commandeer a section of the bridge for multiple photographs of leaps. 

It didn't help that some sort of amateur film crew were there, apparently filming or photographing two people holding an NYC subway map up, fully spread out and upside down. Still, they were equally amused by us and started taking photos of the crazy jumping Brits. After about 20 minutes, everyone had been captured airborne at least once and we could finish walking off the bridge into Manhattan.

Dad and I decided to leave Mum and her friends to it at that point and headed in a taxi uptown in search of burgers. I took Dad to the Corner Bistro, purveyor of the best burgers in Manhattan (top three, at least). It isn't a fancy joint and the five-line menu (bacon-cheese burger, cheese burger, burger, chicken burger, grilled cheese) appears on an old fashioned diner sign on the wall, in the dark, cosy West Village establishment but the burgers sure are delicious.

Energised by my lunch, I headed over to the Meatpacking district for some browsing in the edgy, cool shops there, as well as taking a wander along the High Line, an elevated walkway over old subway tracks, which goes from the Meatpacking to Chelsea and which has benches, lawns, trees and other foliage to make the walk more pleasant. 

When I returned to ground level, I walked onto Bleecker Street and crossed through the West Village, NoHo and the Bowery to the East Village. The Halloween displays in the posh shops were very impressive — Marc Jacobs had filled a whole window with small model skulls and Ralph Lauren had gone pumpkin mad.

I carried on uptown to Union Square and then the J. Crew on Fifth Avenue before getting the subway back to midtown for a little more shopping before I finally made it back to the hotel, threw off my boots and rested my aching tootsies. For once I really fancy a bath but my hotel only has a shower so that will have to do. 

Luckily I only have to go six blocks (plus two east-west blocks) to Shelly's, where we are going for dinner. I may still have to go barefoot or with trainers on beneath my glad rags; however, given the costumes most of the city has been wearing all day, I will likely still be the most normally dressed person in the restaurant.

Tonight, Tonight

Just as my shopping frustration is eased, so my pudding frustration must continue. New York has great puddings but also has great and filling main courses, which mean that I can rarely find room even for the most tempting of desserts. This evening we went to Del Frisco's, a huge, high-ceilinged chop house on Sixth Avenue, which, on a Friday night, was full of bankers. The waitresses, all beautiful, wore short black dresses, which made me, in my short, black, flouncy dress, feel a bit like a waitress but no matter.

Our waiter was a chatty fellow who took great pride in telling us that here they say tomaydoes. Thanks, waiter, I had been wondering all these years. He brought us a sampling platter of assorted, sauce-covered shellfish but I stuck to a couple of king prawns so I could save room for the main course, a delicious filet mignon, which was perfectly medium rare, as requested. 

In fact, the waiter insisted we all cut into our steaks so that we could check the meat was cooked to our specification prior to eating, which was impressive. I could hardly even manage any of the potato gratin or the creamed spinach but consoled myself with the views out onto the Rockefeller Building and Radio City.

After dinner, we hurried to Times Square for West Side Story. It was quite a fun production — certainly a very colourful production, with the Sharks dressing in flamboyant shades of purple, fuchsia and pink and the Jets in muted burnt orange, olive and khaki. 

The dancing and set pieces were excellent and Anita was particularly good, though it felt like there were too many fight sequences. I know it's West Side Story but there were too many same-ish fight scenes, anyway, which dragged on and left me with drooping eyelids towards the end of the first half. 

Usually in American musicals, the leads and other key parts will have very powerful voices but tonight, Maria and Tony seemed a little too tentative. The only song I really like from this musical is Somewhere, which has nothing to do with the Pet Shop Boys version that came out in 1997 but there was a good rendition of America tonight.

We had pretty good seats with a great view of the stage and, equally important, the percussion guys, who were sitting in two opposing boxes. Best of all though was the fact that the theatre (or at least the section in which we were sitting) only had odd numbered seats — there was not an even number in sight, which made me happy.

What a Heavenly Way To Rise

I should have known better than to complain about shops not having things in the right sizes because now my bank balance is seriously suffering. Still, excluding the serious shopping fail in January, it's been over a year since I've last shopped Manhattan and I have been on relatively good behaviour for the past few months, so I've probably earned it.

I started off more virtuously today, though. I woke at seven, with no evidence of jet lag, and was on the subway downtown by seven-thirty. The sky looked overcast out of my window so I didn't think I needed to race for the sunrise but when I got outside, I could see some gorgeous oranges and pinks peeking through the skyscrapers along 51st Street. 

By the time I got to Brooklyn Bridge, the sun had mostly risen but it was still a gorgeous morning — bright and sunny but with enough of an autumn nip to keep me at a reasonable temperature while running. 

I squeezed my iPhone into the pocket of my leggings (in case I had any navigational catastrophes, even though my route basically consisted of: run over Brooklyn Bridge, run through the park at the end of the bridge until Hudson Street, turn right at Christopher Street, caffeinate intensively at Joe, smile), which meant I could take a few photos along the way. A macchiato and a bagel halfway back to my hotel helped the wake-up process.

After a shower, it was shopping time. I decided to don my skinny jeans and head over to Williamsburg but I didn't do my research properly as the shop I really wanted to go to (Catbird) so I could buy one of their gorgeous, delicate gold necklaces, didn't open until twelve. I got there at just after ten and though I passed a happy half hour posing as a Brooklyn hipster at Verb, I decided as that the $4 round trip spent on subway fare was a sunk cost and as time was of the essence this weekend, I would head back to Manhattan.

I was particularly anxious about visiting more J. Crews to see whether I could find the jacket and cardigan I liked in my size. My wish came true as I found both in suitable sizes, along with some dark-wash skinny jeans for short arses in the store near Union Square (subsequently, I found the jacket in an even smaller size and was able to exchange it). My bank account duly emptied, I spent the next hour or two wandering instead, which was a much cheaper occupation. 

The Union Square greenmarket should really have been called an orangemarket this weekend as there were huge quantities of pumpkins of all sizes, colours and even shapes, lining every stall. In fact most shops in New York seem to have at least one pumpkin in their window at the moment and everywhere you go, people are talking about their costumes for tomorrow.

I met up with the rest of my party for lunch at Fanelli's, a favourite SoHo café. It was rammed and as we had to wait about 20 minutes in the crowded room, I was starting to regret having such a large J. Crew bag that seemed to get in everyone's way. Still, it was worth it when the food came. For once, I had neither a burger nor a club sandwich and decided to go for the festive option of pumpkin ravioli with alfredo sauce, which was delicious (even if I did have top pinch a few of Papa's yummy-looking fries). I spent most of the rest of the afternoon in NoHo and the Village. I managed to find a pretty, gold, star necklace at Edge Noho, an co-op of local artists and designers, flaunting their wares.

My feet were killing by the time I made it back to the hotel but there is no rest for the wicked as I've got to go out again in a few minutes for steak at Del Frisco's, followed by a Broadway production of West Side Story. I'm not really a huge musical fan but it should be fun. Isn't everything in this town?

Autumn in New York

My flight to New York this morning must have been my first ever transatlantic flight that arrived 40 minutes early. I was very happy — extra shopping time — and managed to get through immigration reasonably quickly and without too much surliness. Our taxi from JFK got stuck in the afternoon school run but I was still checked into my hotel before four and in J. Crew by 4:15.

It is so good to be back in Manhattan — the smells of pretzels and steam, the horns of frenetic taxi drivers, the crunch of autumn leaves in Central Park, the hustle, the bustle and the magic. My hotel, the WJ, is in Hell's Kitchen. I've never stayed there before and while it's not the smartest area in town, it's not too bad a place to stay and at only three blocks from the Rockefeller Center and eight from Central Park. I really can't complain even if my single room (with an actual single bed) is almost small enough for me to touch all four walls at once. Of course, I don't plan to spend much time here and anyway, the wireless is free, there's a copy of Time Out New York and an iPod charger, so all is well.

I have a feeling this trip might not be a shopping success. Having visited three J. Crews this afternoon, I found about four items I wanted to buy including a short, pale brown tweed blazer and a long, grey merino wool cardigan, but none of them came in the right size. 

Not to be put off, I decided to go to Lululemon, where I knew I would be able to find some new running kit (grey leggings, grey shorts with lime green trim and a zipped pocket to stop me losing my bank card/hotel key when running, and a turquoise running vest). I walked back downtown through Central Park, which looks at its most gorgeous when the trees are turning brilliant shades of orange, red, yellow and brown.

I was feeling pretty knackered by seven, local time, when I met my parents and their friends for dinner. We went to the Trattoria dell'Arte, an old family favourite of ours. I ordered a buffalo mozzarella margherita pizza, which was about 18 inches by 12 inches although, as the waiter reassured me, it was as thin as the paper on which it was served. I managed about a fifth, feeling guilty about leaving so much uneaten, especially given that the waiter's charisma was clearly going to waste on a party of English people who had been awake for a long time.

In the morrow, I'm probably going to test my new running togs by subwaying down to Brooklyn, running over the Bridge, grabbing some coffee at Joe and then heading back uptown. More J. Crews will inevitably be visited in what will, no doubt, prove to be a fruitless search for the items I covet. I'll probably cover SoHo and/or Williamsburg tomorrow afternoon. Maybe. Time is so precious I should really make a proper plan but I'm very tired and sleep beckons...

Surprise, Surprise

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 6

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2

Clive Owen sighted: 2

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

Each year at the London Film Festival, there is a surprise film event. You aren't told anything about the film — not even its genre and certainly not the name of any of the actors or the director — you just have to book and hope it's a good one. Last year, the surprise film was The Wrestler and the year before that, No Country for Old Men, so you have to assume that it will be a fairly safe gamble--maybe less so for someone like me who only goes to see movies of which there is a high chance of her liking.

The LoFiFest website describes the secret film as, "the hottest ticket in the entire festival" and so naturally it was sold out weeks ago, although the BFI has been releasing a few extra tickets each day for the past few days. Finding myself unexpectedly available this evening and finding that there were about three seats left (fairly good seats too — mine is fairly central and in the seventh row), I decided to go ahead and book before the BFI's Twitter feed led to those seats being snapped up, leaving me once again completely powerless to determine my evening's success.

It only occurred to be afterwards to check the blogosphere for people's guesses of which film it is likely to be. Both Where the Wild Things Are and Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film came up several times. Now, regardless of whether Sherlock Holmes was any good, at least I knew I would be able to enjoy the aesthetically appealing Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law (especially if they actually turned up at the end for Q&A). Where the Wild Things Are, on the other hand, is not something I wanted to see. It had pretty bad reviews, I'm not that interested in that kind of film (I don't care how dark it is; I'm not a big fan of fantasy or animation) and there's no one hot in the cast, although admittedly, listening to Spike Jonze talk about the film and his other work might be interesting. 

The film I really wanted to see was one no one mentioned (it may still be in production) — Shutter Island. I was in the mood for a dark thriller and or drama — and a combination of DiCaprio and Scorsese would have done the trick.

So, along I trekked to the now very familiar Vue cinema at Leicester Square. It was pretty rammed, presumably because people had just come from watching Eva Green arrive at the gala for her new film, Cracks (reading the description, I'm surprised I didn't spot that one before; I'll have to catch it when it goes on general release). It turns out that a) this wasn't my lucky weekend and b) you should be careful what you wish for. You see, when I go to the cinema, I go for the escapism. I go for the characters, the dialogue and, most of all, the story.

And what did I get? A sermon from the church of Michael Moore. Yes, that's right; the surprise film was Capitalism: A Love Story, except only two thirds of the title was accurate because while there was a whole lot of capitalism, there wasn't much love or story. 

Aged ten, Moore quite liked capitalism — at least, he liked living in his nice house and getting a new family car every three years and going to New York every other summer. This love story soon turned sour, of course, and the rest of the film was filled with Moore's usual emotive polemic filled with the usual shock tactics and the occasional bit of humour (I wish there had been more; it might have been easier to stay awake. At 2h10, the film could have been at least 30 minutes shorter given that it only had one point — capitalism is evil.

It's not that I disagree with the point Moore is making but I prefer to go to the movies to be entertained not to be preached at. It seemed an odd choice for the London Film Festival too — in the final scene of the film, Moore proclaims that he can't live in such a morally and socially bankrupt country any longer but that he isn't leaving, so he then puts a call out to the audience to go and mess with the system a little bit in their own towns and villages. Viva la Revolución! sez Michael Guevara. Zzzzzz... The song remains the same, sez Bex. Anyway, this message would presumably be better targetted at other individuals rather than people whose main common trait is that they love movies, but who am I to judge.

Capitalism: A Love Story had its moments and I did LOL a number of times but needless to say, I wasn't too devastated to hear that the director wouldn't be taking audience questions.

LoFiFest Part V — Chloe Review

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 5

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2

Clive Owen sighted: 2

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

The glam factor of the London Film Festival has certainly subsided as the week went on. There was no red carpet outside the Vue cinema in Leicester Square this afternoon for the screening of Chloe; no actors or directors introducing the film and taking audience questions; not even any free posh water and chocolate.

Chloe is a sort of Fatal Attraction meets Belle de Jour meets Tipping the Velvet, but doesn't seem sure enough of which of those it wants to be, or even who it wants the eponymous Chloe to be. Julianne Moore plays Catherine, a successful gynaecologist who enjoys her job, has a beautiful (if quirky) home and a great family in her husband David (Liam Neeson) and teenage son Michael.

Perfection soon unravels when David, a popular professor of music, misses his flight back home from New York on the night of his birthday when Catherine has been planning a wonderful surprise party for months. He misses the party and crawls back home after Catherine is already asleep. In the morning, she is angry all her efforts were wasted (even though he doesn't like birthdays) and after a little sniping, he stomps off back to the office, forgetting his iPhone. 

Sure enough, in comes a text message from some hot chick called Miranda thanking him for a great night. After an attempted interrogation as to what David really got up to in New York yields only a vehement denial that he missed his flight intentionally and that nothing happened in New York, Catherine decides to take matters into her own hands.

Conveniently, a few days later she bumps into a beautiful, young girl in the bathroom of a smart restaurant and after a brief, slightly weird conversation and then seeing the same girl, Chloe, sitting down with an older man in the restaurant, she surmises that Chloe is an escort and days later, arranges to meet with her in a bar where she unveils her plans. 

She will hire Chloe to casually stumble upon David, flirt with him, try to seduce him and see what happens. To see what he does. To see whether he would cheat on her. Chloe finds this set-up a little strange ("I don't usually see women on their own; couples, yeah, but not just women") but eventually agrees to go to David's usual café, pretending to be a student, and to see where things led, all the time reporting back to Catherine all the gory details.

And the details get pretty gory, from Catherine's point of view anyway — David kissing Chloe, Chloe jacking him off in a deserted tool room at the back of the local botanical garden and, later, the two screwing in a hotel room. The same hotel room where Chloe later tells Catherine all the details she really doesn't — and yet does — want to hear about the encounter that had taken place there hours earlier.

Catherine eventually breaks down and Chloe comforts her and a strange sense of tension descends and this is when the movie changes track. Chloe is a film about trust, above all else — Catherine doesn't trust her husband and yet she is willing to put a great deal more trust in this beautiful stranger. She never questions the accuracy of Chloe's tales of the liaisons dangereuses because Chloe is telling her what she wants to hear. She never questions whether Chloe might have ulterior motives and that the biggest mistake she makes bringing Chloe into her life, and her marriage, might not be that she couldn't handle the truth, after all, especially after Chloe bumps into Michael, Catherine's son, at her surgery one afternoon.

Julianne Moore is excellent in the role of Catherine but the characters of David and Michael are too bland, fading easily into the background. Amanda Seyfried, meanwhile, does a good job of looking beautiful but doesn't convince as the enigmatic tart-with-a-heart or the spurned woman. Perhaps that's part of the problem. At the beginning of the film, Chloe voices over that she can be whoever you want her to be — first kiss, 7th grade teacher, daughter — but ultimately, the audience has no idea who she is or where she came from. I would be interested to see the French film Nathalie on which Chloe is based; with Fanny Ardant as Catherine, Gérard Depardieu as her husband, and Emmanuelle Béart as the eponymous Nathalie, it sounds interesting.

On the plus side, Mychael Danna's score was great and definitely helped to add tension to the scenes in which it might otherwise have been lacking. There were also some great songs by a band whose name I can't remember — a band which Chloe recommends to Michael as one worth checking out. Unfortunately, until the film goes out on general release, I'm probably not going to be able to find out their name.