Last night, sans costumes but with glee in our hearts, a troupe of friends and I descended upon the Senator Theater in Baltimore to see the latest (and least) of the Harry Potter films. Despite some admittedly cool special effects, I still give it a Boo and Hiss. This thing reads like a made for TV movie, which isn't too surprising given its director's curriculum vitae. Entertaining? Eh, I guess. But I'm spoiled. I want a cinematic oeuvre, not a freakin' Lifetime movie. I'm serious, if Ray Fiennes gets any hammier in his Voldemort role, he is off my Celebrity Boyfriend list for good. Where is the artful music? Where is the dramatic sublety? Where have you gone, Alfonso Cuaron?
No half-ass plot treatment will dampen my joyful geekdom, however. This kind of disappointment calls for threats and lofty vows of righteousness. And food.
Hence the first Harry Potluck Dinner. This Friday, a small but dedicated group of disgruntled Rowling fans will converge on a D.C. apartment to drown their sorrows in mugs of Butterbeer (I'm working on a recipe. Oh, it'll happen.) and enjoy a buffet of tasty foods with ridiculous, dorky names like Lord Voldetart, Crookshanks of Lamb, and Tuna Lovegood Kabobs. The cheese factor is off the charts, and it tastes like vindication.
C and I are working on a particularly saucy gem: Chocolate Frog (legs). A grill and a lot of Oaxacan mole will be involved. Smug cinematic criticism will be served on the side.
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