Bond 2012: SKYFALL

I remember when I learned that Daniel Craig was to play the coveted role of James Bond several years ago, my first reaction was: Daniel who? I never heard of the guy and when the poster was shown I shook my head and dismissed the actor and the franchise to ultimate failure.  Daniel Craig did not look like the former James Bonds. They all used to share Sean Connery's tall, dark and handsome features. All of them dashing, smooth, debonaire.  Daniel, on the other hand, is not even good-looking.  He is also shorter than the other Bonds, is bulkier and more muscular and has blond hair.  So as one of the earliest naysayers, my foot is stuck in my mouth as Daniel Craig rose up to the plate and became the most bankable James Bond in history, probably even outdoing the feats of Sean Connery, Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan. 

This movie, Skyfall, is set to become the highest grossing in the 50 year history of the franchise, and not surprisingly so.  The movie is great, the script intact and the cinematography superb.  I would like to commend its director Sam Mendes for doing a wonderful job at the helm.  The cinematography was also breathtaking particularly with the train crashing towards Bond in the tunnel and the fight scene on a Shanghai skyscraper. The actors themselves were very good at showing their vulnerability.  The script was almost flawless with a good injection of humor throughout the film.  This, in my humble opinion, is the best Bond film to date.

Since the first installment of Craig as Bond, the production behind the Bond series have intelligently transitioned to a more believable and more human depiction of the famous fictional English assassin.  They have done away with invisible cars, exploding fountain pens and weird disguises that fool no one.  Instead, the director has used Daniel Craig's eyes and sharp-lined mouth to make the viewers realize that Bond is not immortal.  Bond is a human being who hurts, who feels, who gets tired, who gets old.  It is with Craig that we have seen Bond tortured, wounded badly and almost die.  It is because Craig, despite not being good-looking, can pull off the hero-who-becomes-the-underdog-to-rise-and-become-hero-again stint. What's more, Craig is definitely believable to play the part.

The other cast members also performed very well.  

I am in awe of Berenice Marlohe, a French actress, who looked and played an Asian concubine/employee of antagonist Javier Bardem.  Not only is she stunningly beautiful, she was able to beautifully project deceit, fear, loathing and hope in rapid succession during her conversation with Bond at the casino.  Her hand trembled at the thought that Bond wanted to meet her boss.  She shook with fear, her mouth quivered as she told him: Be careful what you wish for.  And her eyes shone with hope when she asked him: Are you gonna kill him? 

Naomie Harris in the film, I think was confident and played the her role well as Eve a field agent who was mistakenly shot Bond as he struggled with another assassin on the train.  At the end of the movie, she is revealed to be the returning character Ms  Moneypenny, secretary to M.  In the Bond series though, her name is Jane not Eve.  I didn't think that she was as good as Marlohe in this film but yes she does have the better ass.  Yep, ass as in behind.  Go Ms Moneypenny!

Another great addition to the film is Ben Wishaw who played Q, a computer wiz who is at the helm of anything computer related within the MI6.  He played his character very well too, looking all dorky and unkempt but with the sarcastic verbose nature that all high-IQ nerds possess.  He was also able to project very well the short but plot-decisive virtual chess game with Javier Bardem.  

Judi Dench played her last role as M and will be replaced by Ralph Fiennes (aka Voldemort) in the upcoming films.  Both actors played their roles well although at times I felt veteran actress Dench looked stiff.  She did have to play a tough role though, to play an impassive and cold director of the MI6 who calls the shots and carries the burden of dead agents or failed missions at her behest all in the best interest of England.  I did expect more from her especially during her confrontation with Javier Bardem and during the opening scene when Bond was inadvertently shot by Eve upon M's command where she looked more lost than impassive. 

The most striking of all the actors though, including Daniel Craig, is Javier Bardem who was marvelous in his portrayal of Bond's nemesis as Silva, a former personal favorite of M, who was disgraced and eventually let go by the MI6.  He was portrayed as a power-hungry evil genius attracted to power and strength which birthed to his homo-erotic scene with Bond.  Silva returned as a devious and ruthless cybercriminal, fanatical in his desire for both revenge and acceptance from M.  His brilliance and cunning always put him a step ahead of Bond and the MI6 as he unleashed a wave of cyber and actual terrorism.  His portrayal of Silva in this film proves that his talent as an actor and his Oscar recognition is no fluke.  Plus, having a Penelope Cruz for a wife is a prize in itself.

This Bond movie has solidified the idea that in the world of espionage and covert operations, the concept of you-snooze-you-lose cannot be emphasized more.  This was also relayed by Liam Neeson in Taken when he confronted his former French friend at the dinner table with: That's what happens when you sit behind a desk for too long. You forget things! Like having a gun that's loaded and one that's not.  The skill and the instinct may be there, but the precision, dexterity and reflexes definitely slow down.  In this particular film, for instance, Bond retreated to seclusion and alcohol after his widely perceived death.  He returned a lesser assassin, who looked and moved like the shell of his former self.  And since I love David Morrell's (creator of Rambo) Brotherhood of the Black Rose book so much, I would like to imply again that between two equally skilled and deadly assassins in combat, the younger one always has a higher percentage of winning. The reason is the younger you are, the faster your reflexes are.  Bond, in this film, was shown as getting old with not-so-subtle hints of having him retired.  But, of course, like all protagonists, he persists and eventually triumphs over Silva and his goons but at the sad expense of M.  

As for the assassins themselves, it is clear that emotions and feelings are considered a great liability and bad for business.  The has been well-documented in the Bourne series and in Mr and Mrs Smith. Assassins are trained to kill without remorse, without doubt, with indifference.  But, no, like in all the Bourne series, Mr and Mrs Smith, Taken as well as the books of David Morrell, Daniel Silva, Frederick Forsythe and Tom Clancy, assassins are not without heart and at times risk their lives for that split-second moment of doubt or surge of regret or love.  This is the very first time in the history of chauvinistic, womanizing James Bond to have seen him at his most vulnerable.  For the first time since his parents' death, James Bond shed tears for his boss, M, Mom, the closest thing to a mother he had.  He openly wept for his love of country, his love of M and for his freedom from the dark memories of Skyfall.

P.S.  It seems that this movie can do no wrong.  Adele, the British vocal behemoth, who has inspired multiple eargasms with her soulful and bluesy vocals, has sung the hauntingly beautiful theme song of Skyfall, named as such.  Sometimes you just wonder if they made the movie just so she can sing its theme song.  It really captured the essence of the film.  I recommend that you watch it in theaters.  It will not do justice to this movie's perfection if you just download it and watch it on the small screen. 

Pictures II

Green Means Go

Shadow Over Apples

Orange Globe

Fruit of the Earth

Bounty

Shaded Beauty

Hiding from the Sun

And my favorite pic of the day:

Autumn Willow

Destination Anywhere

I have stumbled upon this documentary from one of the write ups of the opinion section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.  It's opening line is like an uppercut to the diaphragm: Imagine a nation where the #1 career choice is leaving the country. Yes, it is talking about us, the collectively heralded heroes of the present, the overseas Filipino worker. 

The Pen Artist

Funny, I only realized that after my puberty was over, there were only two things that persisted: (1) my acne and (2) the fact that my best days of impassioned writing was over.  Yes, I still do write poems and essays such as this every now and then.  But I know not how I managed to conjure up an obra maestra of letters and verses in one sitting.  Where once I could sit and write a love poem in less than half an hour inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe and Maningning Miclat, I am now resigned to squeezing my brain to write even a single verse for my wife or to type a blog entry that probably only a couple people will read anyway.

I did not know when I lost the passion for writing.  Its slow but inevitable death probably has started when my mom told me I will not take up Creative Writing at UP Diliman.  She told me poetry and short stories will not feed a family.  You will live and die by the poverty that the pen can only bring.  She told me to pursue my passion for the arts yet remain grounded in the fact that too many artists died starving before a Picasso becomes priceless.  Keep writing she said, but make it a hobby not a career.  Now that I think of it, she made sense but it did bring the near-death of my writing passion.  I don't think I would have been recognized as a great writer anyway, a good one yes, but not good enough to be great.  I don't think I can play with words as well as Patricia Evangelista or Conrado de Quiros.  My essays are pretty much decent, but even I don't think they are special.

Yeah, yeah and you give me the litany of believe-in-yourself-believe-in-your-dreams-keep-dreaming-and-someday-you'll-achieve-it bullcrap.  There are hundreds of thousands of people told to follow their dreams no matter what other people say or no matter the odds.  Almost all of them died with eyes wide open and skin pressed deeply against their ribs.  Those who didn't die chose a day job way different from their first passions.  To think of  it, how many people try and try again and fail to produce a Michael Jordan or a Michael Phelps or a Michael Jackson? There are literally thousands upon thousands of cabaret and bar singers who at one point in their lives really thought they stand out and that they would make it.  The world is hard on artists, that is a fact, and when the truth comes crashing down it dawns on you that you have been strumming that guitar for twenty years now, writing that novel for fifteen years now, or playing in some random rundown theater for ten years now and still the break that you were looking for is far from your grasp.  How long will it be before you realize that nobody listens to your songs anymore, or your graffiti which drew oohs and ahhs from way before remain that?  How long before reality breaks you down and poverty transforms your creativity to despair?  At one point in their lives, artists of pen or brush or song will struggle. 
Struggle and the triumph over it is what defines each artist and will engrave his legacy.

Ah, but how wonderful it was when I was an impassioned writer.  How I miss the magic that my heartbreak brought or my desire to save the world can do.  Pain is what drove me.  Pain of an unrequited love.  Pain of adolescent rebellion.  The passion that rages in your chest and flows in your blood to the ink of your pen.  Life seemed more... vivid then.  And now I just chill.  As I stare into this entry that wasn't supposed to be an entry, I wonder what drives me now.  Now that the pain is gone and the heartbreak has healed a long time time.  Where do I get that fire? Where do I get the itch to pick up a pen and write down a story or a poem so spirited my blood will roll again into my canvass of letters.  The moment is now.  The time is now. But like all has-beens do, I'd say nay and put off the obra maestra till tomorrow or until probably forgotten. 

GRANDMA

My former boss sent me a text last Friday.  She rarely texts me other than news about Grandma.  I smile when I remembered her.  She was my former patient at my old facility.  Her name is Marion Rapalee.  She was born January 20 or 21st (not sure) 1919.  She is ninety-three years old but claims to be two hundred.  It doesn't matter how many times other patients tell her that she can't be two hundred it's impossible.  She strongly believes that she is and that is that.

I never knew anybody who didn't like Grandma.  She was sweet and kind and always looks at other people with empathy.  I remember one day we were in the gym exercising, and another patient rolled in in a wheelchair.  Grandma asked her what happened to her.  She told Grandma that she missed the chair when she sat, slammed her butt on the floor and broke a hip.  Grandma came close and gave her a hug and consoled her: Oh you poor thing.  Later, we found out why she was so compassionate about other patients.  Grandma Rapalee was a nurse her whole life.  She told us (over and over) again that she had been a nurse for sixty-three years (this too cannot be confirmed but we all know she had been one for a long time.) 

Grandma was also a wonderful singer.  She told us she sang in the choir and in church.  Everybody would amusingly hear her singing her heart out along corridors or in her room.  When you don't hear her sing, it means she's sick.  She belts out Somewhere Over the Rainbow again and again.  Or Someday my Prince Will Come.  She also likes Elvis' Blue Suede Shoes, Love Me Tender and Can't Help Falling in Love.  But because of her dementia, she makes up her own lyrics to the songs, admit that she's making them up and we'd all laugh about it.  Something like: Someday, my prince will come; Someday, I'll find my love; And the moment that he comes to me; I will hang him up the old apple tree...

I remember the first few times we met.  We were in the parallel bars and I asked her if she remembered who I was.  She told me no.  I told her: Well, Ms Rapalee. I'm the mayor of this town. Her eyes widened and looking all surprised she asked me: You're not.  I said: I am, really.  She replied: Wow! Then suddenly looking disinterested said: If you say so! Then, we both cracked up.
What I didn't realize is that she truly identified me as the mayor.  And she would talk to the nurses and other residents about meeting the mayor.  In the dining room, she would loudly introduce me to her table-mates as the mayor of the town much to my chagrin.  The name stuck though and some of them started calling me Mayor in jest.  I started calling her Grandma when she told me she will adopt me.  Apparently, she told a lot of people she will adopt them according to her family.  I've seen her daughter and granddaughter visit her several times a week.  Both of them were attractive older women who are about as sweet as Grandma.  One day while she was doing her therapy at the gym, they came to visit her.  Grandma insisted that they take her home immediately without delay.  They told her: But, Grandma, you're too old to go home. Nobody will stay at home with you all day. We work.  You're two hundred years old remember?  To which Grandma replied: Two hundred's not old.  It's not like I'm two-fifty!  I burst out laughing again right then and there.

Three weeks ago, the same former boss texted me to tell me that Grandma is back on caseload.  She had bowel obstruction and they picked her back up after hospital discharge.  Grandma remembered the Mayor and the therapist (my boss) who's seeing her as my step sister.  I told her to tell Grandma that I miss her a lot and she better get well soon.

Last Friday, she sent me a text again.  She told me Grandma was on a decline since last week and they finally sent her out to the hospital in the morning.  She told me, Grandma passed at the hospital.  It broke my heart.  Funny, how that same morning, I heard Somewhere Over the Rainbow being played on the piano by one of the residents.  I thought of Grandma then, just as I am thinking of her now.  It is amazing how God plans our lives.  There are some people who stay in your life for a long time and not leave a mark at all.  And yet there are some who pass for the briefest of moments and leave an indelible print in your being.

I will miss Grandma so very much.  And I thank God for giving me her for even just a short time.  I know who I want to be as a healer.  I know who I want to be when I grow old and gray.  She must be making all the angels laugh up there and making heaven an even happier place than it's ever been.  So I bid her adieu, until we meet again, somewhere over the rainbow.

Click and View please

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oL4lzKCYDEw&feature=youtu.be

Certified Nursing Assistants

Today, Fiona, my boss who's an OT, and I went to do an in service for a pt who was referred by nursing for transfer training using a sit-to-stand lift.  This patient uses a Hoyer lift for transfers, meaning he is completely dependent in the transfer.  In attendance were maybe five or six CNAs (certified nursing assistants) (in the Philippines, we refer to them as caregivers) to check out the transfer technique.  After showing them how to do it, we were greeted by a straightforward response from them:  Transferring the pt through the sit-to-stand lift is cumbersome, inefficient and very time consuming.  It is not plausible, they claim, to use it on him cause it will just take too much time and there also would be a safety concern when they try to use it.

I understand what they are getting to.  They have to see many patients at a time and using the technique that we just taught is gonna take a lot more time that using a Hoyer.  In a way, I feel for them.  CNAs do the dirty job that the nurses don't do.  They are at the bottom of the pt care hierarchy: an RN is usually the unit manager and then you have the LPNs (licensed practical nurses) and then you have the CNAs.  The CNAs literally do the dirty job: clean up the pt, bathe the pt, dress the pt, change soiled clothes, feed the pt, get pt up and back in bed when needed.  They also get a measly pay, maybe several dollars more per hour than minimum wage.  What they do is physically taxing and I would not wonder why they would entertain thoughts of using the Hoyer on my patient right now because it is faster and convenient.  However, I also would want my pt to get better and that means I need him to have more active participation during the transfer which the Hoyer could not offer.

It is disappointing and sad when sometimes patients tell me that they have clicked on the nurse's call bell cause they need to go to the bathroom and nobody shows up until thirty or forty-five minutes later.  By then, they have already soiled themselves or have slid down on their wheelchairs from exhaustion.  Because of repeated instances, some of them no longer use the call bell and instead attempt to transfer themselves to the bathroom which eventually leads to falls and fractures.  They put the blame on the hapless and helpless CNAs.   Yes, like in every profession, there are good ones and bad ones.  But then again, maybe one or two CNAs are assigned for maybe up to ten beds at one time.  It is possible that while a patient turned the call bell on, the assigned CNA was helping another patient in the bathroom too.  But still they get the blame if they don't get out there and assist as soon as possible.  

It is a sad reality.  But we cannot always give the best care we want for our patients.  And, though, I would still insist on recommending the use of the sit-to-stand machine for toilet transfers with that particular patient, for now I would take time and appreciate the CNAs who were present there today.  At least they told us face front: We're not sure if we are gonna use it often with him, but let us at least try.  So for now, here is a hats off to my seldom recognized teammates in health care: the certified nursing assistants.