Netflixation
It's my new obsession, movies on DVD from Netflix. As if I didn't have enough to do and watch without this neo-mania, what with things I borrow from the library, obscurities sent to me by international collectors with a penchant for the little-seen, thought-lost, unheard-of. I joined the big N three months ago and just upgraded to a three-at-one-time plan. One goes back, two come in. Two go back, one comes in. From Werner Herzog to Laura Muscardini, Melinda & Melinda to Nanking, from the 1918 silent The Blue Bird of Maurice Tourneur to an early Ingmar Bergman, Thirst. From the Italian schlock-slasher The House With Laughing Windows to the Indian The Terrorist (uh-oh!) to Russian war epics. Each arrives in its thin red envelope. My tastes are as broad as a galaxy, and I flail about in a galaxy of flimsy red envelopes with windows to be aligned with a bar code upon return. What will today's mail bring me? I don't remember. Let me check my queue list. Good grief! It's Adored: Diary of a Porn Star, directed by and starring one Marco Filiberti. He could be lying in my mailbox now. There are 250 more titles on that list. I keep adding compulsively. Gotta stop. Must.