See. This. Film.

When G got home last night, I was all set to see Casino Royale. (I am a closet Bond lover.) At the last minute, we decided to see something else, as we realized that G's parents would probably want to see Casino Royale the day after Thanksgiving, and it would be a nice family thing for the four of us to do. Almost at random, I chose to see Stranger Than Fiction instead - and only by process of elimination. I didn't want to sit in a theatre full of kids, so Happy Feet was out. I wasn't up for gore and grisly, so the Prestige was out. G's not interested in Babel, neither of us are the least bit interested in Borat, and Candy's not playing near us. Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson were in Stranger than Fiction, so I picked that one.

I had just finished writing this. I was so. Freaked. Out.

Stranger Than Fiction is beautifully acted - Hoffman is delightfully irritating, Thompson is deliciously crazed, Queen Latifah is impressively reserved, and Will Ferret (sorry, Ferrell) can actually act. I never thought I'd be able to stomach that man onscreen, but Ferrell's Forrest-Gump-like portrayal of an IRS agent who realizes the inevitability of his imminent death was sympathetic and honest. I still can't believe it was him. It was like... seeing Jim Carrey in the Truman Show, or Robin Williams in Awakenings. He won me over.

Mostly, the film is about, well, as Emma Thompson puts it, interconnectedness. It's about the amount of control we may or may not have over the events in our lives - much like what I was writing yesterday. It's a good script, with good acting, and a good message.

When we got home from the movie, I made G read yesterday's blog post.

Later, in bed, I told him, "I love how you don't think I'm crazy. How you've never thought I was crazy."

"No more than everybody else is," he laughed.

And we slept.