Batman Begins is unequivocally worth your time. The blend of realism, fantasy, drama, comedy, and blockbuster does more than just promise a little bit of something for everyone; it allows you to actually emotionally engage with the characters and the story, while still having a hell of a fun time, without feeling like you've whored yourself out for the evening to the tune of $7.50. (Davis Theater, suckers.) Kudos to Christopher Nolan, who earns substantially more of my esteem with each new project he touches. The performances are stellar, with the possible exception of Katie Holmes (perhaps you've heard of her?) who, as David Edelstein so brilliantly points out in Slate, comes off like "a know-it-all student council president." But Christian Bale impresses as always, Liam Neeson just keeps getting better with age, Tom Wilkinson continues to prove himself a chameleon par excellence, and the unassailably hot Cillian Murphy slips into his evil genius role (and American accent) with guffaw-provoking zeal. (The good kind of guffaw-provoking.) Bonus points for cool Chicago landmark trainspotting.
The mix tape event at Quimby's on Saturday night was super-fun. (I got an actual mix tape in exchange for the CD I brought along—how hot is that?!) Sean Carswell's reading from Barney's Crew had me cackling like a madman (mostly because it reminded me of several friends' humorous tales from their own tours of duty in the land of manual labor), but Joe Meno's short story about an ill-fated tryst with The Office Girl (from his forthcoming collection Bluebirds Used to Croon in the Choir) was, hands down, my favorite of the evening. It was sharp, witty, poignant, and shot through with a shimmering thread of romantic urban melancholy. (**Sigh** Are you taking notes? This is the way I could describe most of my other "hands-down favorites" in myriad other media.)
I went back to my summertime blonde hair this weekend, but, considering the way I've been styling it all crazy spiky/poofy, now I think I kind of look like Jim Jarmusch. Jim Jarmusch is hot, right?
EDIT: And the Paris Hilton award goes to: me, for the inadvertent yet unironic use of the word "hot" in all three of the preceding paragraphs.