Doris shines!

I went to see "Hello, My Name is Doris," last night, mostly because of the reviews Sally Field has been getting.  She deserves the raves.  I like to say it's the money shots that actually make the movie, and she has four in which she's going for the gold.  She plays a sixty-something spinster who develops a crush on a thirty-something art director who transfers into her New York office from the LA office.  Notice how I say crush?  There's a difference between falling in love and having a crush on someone.  A crush tends to radicalize your behavior, takes you into that realm where the illogical becomes norm, where the extraordinary becomes possible.  Max Greenfield, who plays John Fremont, the handsome man who steals her eye, is there for two reasons:  to look pretty, and for Sally to play off of, and the two of them do that very well.  They mesh in an odd way which works, and as a result there are perfect moments when the age difference disappears.

The script is not the best, however, and there are a lot of minor characters who are amusing, and interesting, and unfortunately, for the most part unimportant.  Had more time been spent on Doris and John, this film would have gone from being good to being great.  There should have been more scenes like the restaurant scene, and the one in which they walk side by side as he's pushing his bicycle.

I will say I was surprised by how often the LGBT community gets a mention.  There's a gay man in her office who talks about marriage equality and takes a date he met on Grindr to a Thanksgiving dinner.  Sally has a conversation with a teacher who only teaches LGBT students.  She also joins a Lesbian knitting group on a rooftop.  In fact, for a while I suspected her love interest would end up coming out.  This didn't happen, in case you're wonder.

Honestly, it would not surprise me to see Sally Field getting mentioned a lot during award season, since it's that sort of money shot performance.  Doris is a nice person.  You like her, you really do like her, and as a result Doris shines.

Crazy seems to be the hardest word

Since everybody in the free world seems to believe that Texas has gone totally loco (except Texans), I thought I'd write a little about 'crazy.'  Whether people want to understand this or not, our daily lives are almost completely controlled by neurotransmitters.  Our likes and our dislikes are all controlled by the sequence in which they fire.  My friend Steve will flat out tell you he's a dopamine junkie, he gets his kicks by running over 100 miles a week, every week.  He's a really nice guy, however when he says "I need to go run," nothing's going to stop him.
Complicating things is the fact that so many outside influences can effect these transmitters, chemicals (drugs and and cigarette smoke and alcohol) being one.  People become drunks or druggies because the things they ingest or inhale excite certain transmitters.  This is why many smokers have such a difficult time quitting, nicotine triggers a sequence of neurotransmitters their neurons like too much and they become addicted, at least this is how I see it.
Unfortunately, for us humans, there are so many outside influences which can effect the way these transmitters are working.  If Adele's "Hello" comes on the radio and you begin to feel a little melancholy, well, that's your neurotransmitters at work.  If you wander into one of those Evangelical Mega Churches and experience the lights, the sound (sing it baby, sing it!) and find yourself going crazy for Jesus, that's your neurotransmitters getting all holy on you.  Sanity is when those around you share the same transmission patterns.  Insanity is when, as in Texas, that group of patterns is out of sync with the rest of the world.

It also happens when Donald Trump opens his mouth and shit falls out.  In certain individuals those word turds tickle certain neurotransmitters into firing, and they like what they hear.  Are they crazy?  Hell yes.  Do they know they're crazy?  Hell no.  Now, I don't know which neurotransmitter it is that is sending his Trumplodites into such a frenzy, but I'm fairly certain it isn't dopamine, other wise they wouldn't be shouting out their "rah! rah! rahs!."  Hell no, they'd be too busy burning up treadmills at Planet Fitness with Steve.