by Dana Starr
Dame Helen Mirren could NOT possibly need money; however, that's the only thing that comes to mind while watching her latest movie entitled Winchester. I really need to speak with her financial adviser because I've got a bone to pick with that person.
The woman who slept with Liam Neeson for many years in real life, and who portrayed Queen Elizabeth II, Detective Jane Tennison, and Mrs. Tingle (to name but a few fantastic characters) does NOT need to be wasting her time in schlock like the movie I just slept through. I did my dead level best to stay awake, and I was even hopped up on caffeine due to the fact that I've drank a gallon of Coke today; nevertheless, I slept through the middle part of the movie (that's called "Pulling a Paul"). I could NOT keep my eyes open for love nor money nor Helen Mirren, whom I adore. I also adore the recliners at Tinseltown on 82nd Street in the LBK.
I took my bra off in the bathroom and stuffed it in my purse before entering the darkened (mostly empty) theater. I then proceeded to my designated recliner, kicked my shoes off, stretched out, unbuttoned the top button of my jeans, turned my phone off, and eagerly awaited the beginning of the ghost story. The only thing that would've enhanced the experience would've been if the recliner had been like the recliners at Glamour Nail Salon. Those recliners heat up and vibrate and massage and pulsate and throb and knead and whatnot and it's heavenly.
The paragraph you just read is one thousand times more interesting than the movie. I kid you NOT. I love a good ghost story, especially when it's based on actual events. Winchester is NOT good. It is loud. Spirits constantly knock over heavy furniture and slam doors and break mirrors and I can't believe I slept through all that damn noise.
Dame Helen plays the widow Winchester who hired construction crews over several decades to build (24/7) a monstrosity of a house in California. That part is really true. It actually happened many, many years ago when ladies wore long dresses and cinched their waists and piled their long hair on top of their heads. In other words, they didn't go out in public and take off their bra and shoes and lay down and unbutton their pants. They also didn't vote or take birth control pills or curse like sailors, but I digress.
The house I live in right now is scarier than the house Sarah Winchester lived in. She only had to deal with spirits. I've had to deal with crooked contractors, clueless plumbers who can't fix toilets or faucets or sump pumps for love nor money (lots and lots and lots of money), incompetent electricians who can't fix dock lights or fluorescent lights for love nor money (lots and lots and lots of money), a foundation repair company that has raised my foundation THREE DAMN TIMES and still can't get it right, a hot tub from hell, a garage door that sounds like 58 barking St. Bernard dogs, a microwave that turns itself on, and the occasional possum/squirrel/raccoon/demon in the attic.
Sarah Winchester ain't got shit on me.