It’s hot. It’s 91 degrees. I managed to teach an English class which ended with a discussion of the elegant speaking style and good looks of George Clooney. He’s been doing interviews in Japan to promote Ocean’s 13, so he’s been on TV a lot here. My normally too serious student is suddenly all smiles and giddy joy as she talks about his appearance at the Academy Awards last year.

I had made a list of things to do, very ambitious. Instead, I went to the Navy base to pick up my US mail, found a Netflix delivery and came home to sit in the A/C and watch Amarcord. I should be studying Japanese, going out for a beer, something. I just can’t. Everytime I step out of the house I feel like the humid air is trying to throttle me. While watching the snow storm scene, I feel myself groaning. The Lawyer, who has been telling us about the history of the town, pops his head up above the maze of snow in the main square, and he gets pelted by a snowball. Too funny. Do you know what I’d give for a snowstorm?

I’ve been on an Ozu kick: A Story of Floating Weeds (Ozu, 1934, remade 1959), Tokyo Story (1953), Good Morning (1959). Now the Netflix queue is moving into Fellini: Nights of Cabiria (1957) and Amarcord (1974). I’ve decided that great movie directors are united in their affection for young boys farting. In Tokyo Story, the fart is practically a character. Amarcord is a meditation on the fart and the raspberry (and, of course, a deeply fond paean to the womanly ass and the breast).

Another great movie: The Burmese Harp (Ichikawa, 1956). Heartbreaking and glorious. The scene where the two platoons (British and Japanese) sing to each other in the fog while they delay the battle is one of the great moments of cinema.

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