Let’s Not Mince Words: Run, Fatboy, Run

I recently discovered a "little wisdom" from an unexpected source: the English romantic comedy Run, Fatboy, Run from 2007.

If you’re anything like me, right now you’re thinking, "Ugh, a romantic comedy." If you’re anything like my husband, right now you’re thinking, "Ugh, a foreign movie."

I’m not a fan of romantic comedies, foreign or domestic, but the trailer for this one made me laugh. Then, in two swift steps, it was added to my Netflix queue and bumped up to the top position.

At the center of Run, Fatboy, Run is Dennis, a loser who decides to "get his girl back" by running a marathon. Dennis’ friends and enemies, including his landlord Mr. Goshdashtidar, encourage and discourage him in various ways. They bet for him and against him, buy him running shoes and evict him from his apartment, beat him up for quitting and give him a place to stay the night before the race.

Mr. Goshdashtidar is the most direct of Dennis’ frenemies. He rides a moped along next to Dennis; exhorts, "Run, fatboy, run!" and then swats his ass with a long metal spatula.

The very first time Mr. G. said those three little words and swung that culinary tool, I smirked and thought, "Yeah, tell it like it is."

I sometimes (read: often) get tired of evasion and euphemisms, of saccharine sentimentality and round about explanations. Why can’t we just say what we mean, get directly to the point, and speak with a purpose? We don’t always need a pat on the back and a sympathetic, "Oh, you poor thing," when what our friends are really thinking is, "Well, what’d you expect?" or "You set yourself up for that." Sometimes a swat on the ass and a gruff, "Run, fatboy, run!" are appropriate, helpful, even well deserved.

I’m not a boy, but I do need motivation for many, many things. Lately, I’ve found it a bit easier to do what I don’t want to do. I just let those three words and that metallic smack run through my mind. And then I get my ass in gear to do what needs to be done.

Roan Inish: Fiona's Heritage

They say the Irish live this magic realism, half-in and half-out of the dream world. The Irish say it themselves, in fact! They say it all over the place in The Secret of Roan Inish. This movie takes some very weird things as fact: shape-shifting, for one, as the native Americans call it.  In Irish lore, about which I know not much, there is this creature called the Selkie: a seal-person, something like a mermaid, only Selkies can shed their sealskin and emerge wholly human. Apparently, they are all very good-looking, too.

Fiona's grandfather's grandfather married one. That's why, though most of the Coneellys are blond as Fiona, once in awhile they "spit out a dark one." The movie is about a family thus affected, and yet this is not what got my attention at all. I just see plucky little Fiona, driving her family toward the happiness it knows, down deep, that it wants. This involves returning to the island. That's also what this movie is about.

Oh, and I see the island, too. Fiona wouldn't make half the impression on me that she does, if she were lifting and exhorting everyone in the direction of -- a mountain, say. No; it's the rocky beach, so much like beaches I've walked on, eaten homemade sandwiches on (as does Fiona), and wrecks of boats I've poked around. It's looking through curtains at a far-off light, sleeping safe in grandparents' house--it's familiar, this Ireland. Maybe I'd like to visit it.

Maybe I just wish I could go to grandparents' house and be eight, again.

Tink is posting late on Sunday, but it's still Sunday! Back to regular weekly posts, now!