JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

1. I used to roll my eyeballs and snigger every time I saw the trailer. “They’re going to restart the sun with a bomb?!” Having seen Sunshine, I’m still not sure the science is solid (Can you really restart a dying star with a Big Bang-type chain reaction?) and if it is, whether the math is right (Can a nuclear payload the size of Manhattan island do the trick?). But Sunshine evokes a sense of wonder at the unknowable vastness of the universe, so you agree to ride over potential holes in the fabric.
2. Director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland don’t waste time with explanations (which might remind us of aforementioned holes). Sunshine takes us straight into the middle of the story: It’s the last 35 million miles of their trip to the sun. No tearful goodbyes or scenes of earthly devastation. That ship is the only world we moviegoers will know, so every procedure becomes a matter of life and death. It’s very intense.
3. “Why would they name the ship Icarus? Isn’t that tempting fate?” Because Nostromo was already taken? I would’ve named the ship the Kubrick. Or the Carl Sagan.
4. What I really like about Sunshine: Despite the emotionally-charged atmosphere, the characters make decisions based on dispassionate logic. Many sacrifices are made, but no one makes a big deal out of it, and no one regards her/himself as a hero. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. No Ben Assfleck yelling, “I love you, man!” as Bruce Willis goes to his death.
6. The cast: one Irish, two American, one Japanese, one Australian, one Kiwi, and two Chinese. And the mainframe, a descendant of HAL.
7. So Danny Boyle has two distinct periods: the Ewan MacGregor-dark comedy period of Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, and the Cillian Murphy-science fiction period of 28 Days Later and Sunshine. In between, The Beach, which began his collaboration with Alex Garland, and Millions.
8. Marry Cillian Murphy, and fool around with Chris Evans. What is it with Chris Evans and flame? He’s also the Human Torch.
9. And there are jokes! Hommages to 2001, Alien, Aliens, Solaris, and many other movies set in deep space. But not Armageddon, Deep Impact, or The Core (which was set inside the earth, but belongs in this group; they are united by their sheer stupidity).
10. Murphy’s character is named Robert Capa, which was the name of the late Dick Baldovino’s favorite photographer, so I kept remembering Mang Dick, who was one of my Carl Sagans.
I’ve wasted my life! I should’ve gone into physics, then someday I can save the world!

We were wandering aimlessly around Power Plant on a Sunday afternoon when
we spotted a Blackberry lying on the floor outside an underwear store. I don’t know how long it had been lying there, but people were ignoring it pointedly. They were giving it a wide berth, as if they didn’t want to seem interested in other people’s property, or they suspected a prank instigated by a TV show.

I don’t know about you guys, but I love a mystery. Riccardo had read the complete Hardy Boys and I’d read all of Nancy Drew, so we decided to play Hardy Girl and Nancy Boy.

“Looks like it was clipped onto someone’s belt and it fell off,” I said, examining the faux leather case. “Which would make the owner male, heterosexual.”

“It could’ve fallen out of someone’s handbag,” Riccardo pointed out. “Making the owner male, homosexual.”

“I do not approve of wearing gadgetry on one’s belt,” I declared. “Unless one is the Batman, preferably Christian Bale.”

“But I approve of handbags,” said Riccardo, who will someday marry a white handbag.

A thought flashed in our heads simultaneously. “What if the owner is cute?!” we chorused.

“Like…like Alain Delon circa 1967,” I said, palpitating but not forgetting to pronounce the name Alaaahn. I had just seen Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Samourai, so at that moment he was my standard of beauty.

We wandered into a shop to look at handbags. “He should’ve called by now,” I said.

“Maybe he hasn’t realized his Blackberry is gone,” Riccardo said.

“Maybe he’s alone and can’t borrow a cellphone to call his Blackberry.”

“I notice that people with Blackberries also carry a cellphone.”

“Maybe he has to go home and call us from there. In any case, I don’t think I want someone who clips stuff on his belt,” I said. “It’s so Dilbert.”

“Wait,” Riccardo said. “What if it’s a girl?”

“No!” we chorused.

We decided to walk to Cantinetta across the street and have an early dinner. “If the phone rings, how do we know it’s the owner?” I wondered. “What if it’s someone else and he thinks we stole the Blackberry?”

“Then he can tell us whose Blackberry this is,” Riccardo pointed out.

“What if he told everyone he was out of town for some illicit activity and we inadvertently reveal that he’s in town after all?” I do write for a living.

“If he doesn’t call soon, we could look at his directory and ask his friends who he is,” Riccardo suggested.

“Then we can ask them to describe him,” I added helpfully.

The owner was taking too long for someone who had just lost all his notes, directories, possibly his entire life. At least as I assume that’s what the Blackberry contained. After we had ordered dinner, the Blackberry rang. Riccardo pushed it towards me.

“Answer it,” he said.

I pushed it back. “No, you answer it, cause you’re a guy. If it’s his girlfriend calling and a girl answers, he’d be in trouble.” See how considerate I am.

“Assuming it’s not his boyfriend calling,” Riccardo said. We looked at the caller ID. “That must be his name.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “It could be the friend whose phone he’s using right now.”

“Hello,” Riccardo said. “Yes, we have it. We found it outside a store.”

“Women’s Secret,” I piped up. “Hey, what if he’s a transvestite, and he was in the store buying lingerie?”

“We’re in Cantinetta,” Riccardo told the caller. Then he gave directions to the restaurant. “He doesn’t know where Cantinetta is, so he’s not from this neighborhood.”

“How will he know whom to look for?” I asked. “Did he ask for a description?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“That’s odd. I don’t like it when people don’t get in the spirit of things. Maybe we should’ve demanded a ransom.”

Through the glass we spotted a middle-aged man in shorts walking towards
us. “Don’t be him!” we cried. “Not you!” Fortunately he walked right past us.

Another man, also in shorts, crossed the street and approached the restaurant. “That can’t be him!” I said. “It would ruin my movie!” At this point anyone who was not Alain Delon circa 1967 would be a massive disappointment.

Chus arrived from work. Aesthetics is a demanding trade; he sometimes works on Sundays. “We found a Blackberry!” we told him.

“Maybe the owner’s cute!” Chus said.

Five minutes later a guy walked into the restaurant. Early 20s. T-shirt and shorts. Generic-looking. He headed straight for the Blackberry on our table.

“Is this yours?” Riccardo asked him.

“Yes.”

“When did you realize it was missing?” I asked him.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“Where was it?”

“It was clipped to my belt,” he said.

“Never wear stuff on your belt,” I admonished him, for his own good.

The owner of the Blackberry just stood there. “Well,” he said, “Thanks.” Then he practically fled.

“He didn’t even give us his name,” Riccardo noted.

“He didn’t even ask for our names,” Chus added.

“He didn’t even insincerely offer to buy us a round of drinks,” I said. “I would’ve bought us a drink. Not only are we helpful, but we’re also extremely clever.”

Young people today are so uncouth.

“I thought he was cute,” said Chus.

I snorted. “That was not Alain Delon.”

“That was not a Goyard handbag,” said Riccardo.

In any case we got a story out of it. In the Hollywood version it will star Christina Ricci (the forehead), Peter Sarsgaard (the hairline), and James MacAvoy (because Claudia Cardinale wouldn’t do it).

After that fuss over the chocolate sculpture of Jesus, here’s The Ultimate Guide to Chocolate, including a brief history, an account of the search for the highly-prized beans of Chuao, Venezuela, and a taste test involving a 12-year-old consumer, a food critic, and a chocolatier who was former head patissier with Marco Pierre White. This is how they rate Britain’s favorite chocolate:

Consumer: It’s really sweet, really milky, nice and soft in your mouth.
Critic: In a sane world it would be prosecuted as an offence against humanity.
Chocolatier: It’s the pits—I’d rather eat the wrapper.

Saffy the art critic kissing Blur, originally uploaded by Koosama.

Why you should wander into your friends’ houses when they’re on a cleaning binge: I snagged two paintings—Blur by Jesus Lozada, and a diptych self-portrait by Leo Abaya.

Blur (mixed media, 18″x 18″) seen above being reviewed by Saffy, was painted and exhibited in 1997.

There’s a fascinating piece in The Atlantic that involves Filipino OFWs in Saudi Arabia. The Kingdom in the Closet by Nadya Labi (a Filipino-Moroccan writer based in New York) is about being gay in Saudi Arabia, where sodomy is punishable by death but gay life flourishes anyway. Several Filipinos are quoted in the story. Unfortunately the article is available online to subscribers only. Some excepts:
“Marcos, a 41-year-old from the Philippines, was arrested in 1996 for attending a party featuring a drag show. He spent nine months in prison, where he got 200 lashes, before being deported. Still, he opted to return; he loves his work in fashion, which pays decently, and the social opportunities are an added bonus. “Guys romp around and parade in front of you,” he told me. “They will seduce you. It’s up to you how many you want, every day.””
“When I asked Jamie, the Filipino who says he gets followed down the street by
Saudi men, whether he was gay, he answered, with a high giggle, “Obviously!” But he has paid a price for his flamboyant manner. He used to wear his thick black hair down to his shoulders, concealing it with a baseball cap in public, until recently, when he ran into a man in a shortened thawb at a coffee shop. The mutawwa asked for his work permit. Even though he produced one, Jamie was shoved into an SUV and driven to a police station.
““Are you gay?” a police officer asked after pulling off Jamie’s cap and seeing his long hair. “Of course not,” Jamie said. He challenged the cop to find a violation, and the officer confirmed the mutawwa’s report that Jamie was wearing makeup, dressing like a woman, and flirting. After spending a night in jail, Jamie was taken to mutawwa’in headquarters in Jeddah, and a mutawwa interrogated him again. When he tried to defend himself, the mutawwa asked him to walk, and Jamie strode across the room in what he considered a manly fashion. He was eventually allowed to call his boss, who secured his release. Jamie cut his hair— not out of fear, he says, but because he didn’t want to bother his boss a second time.”

Hala, sige! Lumayas kayong lahat at magsiksikan kayo sa Boracay! At huwag na kayong babalik! I love Manila when it’s empty. No traffic, no noise (manageable levels of pasyon sung to the tune of Boom Tarat), cleaner air. I make this suggestion every year at Lent; no one ever listens to me, but I’ll say it again: Let’s barricade Metropolitan Manila so everyone who went on vacation can’t return to clog it! If they want to come in, they have to present a Manila visa. Which doesn’t exist so they’re barred forever nyahahaha!