Release dates for
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008)
France 18 May 2008 (Cannes Film Festival)
Belgium 21 May 2008
Egypt 21 May 2008
France 21 May 2008
Morocco 21 May 2008
Argentina 22 May 2008
Australia 22 May 2008
Brazil 22 May 2008
Czech Republic 22 May 2008
Denmark 22 May 2008
Estonia 22 May 2008
Germany 22 May 2008
Greece 22 May 2008
Hong Kong 22 May 2008
Hungary 22 May 2008
Iceland 22 May 2008
Indonesia 22 May 2008
Israel 22 May 2008
Mexico 22 May 2008
Netherlands 22 May 2008
Norway 22 May 2008
Poland 22 May 2008
Portugal 22 May 2008
Russia 22 May 2008
Serbia 22 May 2008
Singapore 22 May 2008
Slovakia 22 May 2008
South Korea 22 May 2008
Spain 22 May 2008
Sweden 22 May 2008
UK 22 May 2008
USA 22 May 2008
Venezuela 22 May 2008
Bulgaria 23 May 2008
Finland 23 May 2008
Italy 23 May 2008
Latvia 23 May 2008
Romania 23 May 2008
Turkey 23 May 2008
Pakistan 30 May 2008
Japan 21 June 2008
Monday 19 May 2008
Wednesday 14 May 2008
Small town
The trees in the hills all burst into fresh bright vibrant green new leaves, throwing the dark leafed evergreens into relief.
Last week at the Plant Festival in my neighbourhood, I was accosted by two high school girls, thrilled to spot a foreigner. They insisted on taking my picture with Keitai mobile phones.
Yesterday I sat outside, but under shelter at Tully's, watching the rain they'd predicted come bucketing down. Moments before, one of those girls had passed, sat herself down and began searching for the photo she'd taken, to show a different friend she was with nicknamed Nago.
Before she found that picture, he showed me two more pictures of foreigners. The first, hilariously, was of two Mormons she introduced as Christians. I see them all the time, pairing up on some poor kid on his or her way somewhere, caught between the red man and an earful of Godspeak at the traffic lights.
The second was of Clare, in Tendo, and was equally hilarious.
Last week at the Plant Festival in my neighbourhood, I was accosted by two high school girls, thrilled to spot a foreigner. They insisted on taking my picture with Keitai mobile phones.
Yesterday I sat outside, but under shelter at Tully's, watching the rain they'd predicted come bucketing down. Moments before, one of those girls had passed, sat herself down and began searching for the photo she'd taken, to show a different friend she was with nicknamed Nago.
Before she found that picture, he showed me two more pictures of foreigners. The first, hilariously, was of two Mormons she introduced as Christians. I see them all the time, pairing up on some poor kid on his or her way somewhere, caught between the red man and an earful of Godspeak at the traffic lights.
The second was of Clare, in Tendo, and was equally hilarious.
Hair today
Eiko, one of my supervisors at the City Hall finally said something about my hair. Cut it. I want you cut it. But she wasn't the first.
Yesterday, little Shota-kun in 3-3 had the sheer bloody gumption to say outright, as we climbed the stairs seconds after arriving at school, 'You know you should cut your hair' (well, he said 髪きたほうがいいよ).
Yesterday, little Shota-kun in 3-3 had the sheer bloody gumption to say outright, as we climbed the stairs seconds after arriving at school, 'You know you should cut your hair' (well, he said 髪きたほうがいいよ).
Monday 12 May 2008
Gassan
The flyer for Gassan boasts April to July open months and pictures boarders and skiiers in t-shirts, in a nice glossy colour A3 fold-out. The snow is bright white and the sky, blue. It all suggests a rather lovely little spot- which winter sporter could resist the opportunity for such a novel experience, especially in a country where novelty is gobbled up like
Tugging on the boots, finding your gloves have stiffened and tightened without weekly use, not really bothering with gloves on the hill. Most novel of all, all that life bursting up and through what's usually a barren, white crispening of everything standing or laying. Spiders amble over dirty snow, in between reedy leaves peeking out. The snow shrinks back from clumps of green, the view is rich, not muted in a poor man's palette of blue and black and white and white.
But enough of all that. Skiing on Gassan was like skiing in the Afghan mountains. There are only four lifts, and of those, one is a chair lift. Two others consist of a thick metal rope, run round on a loop only when someone needed to go up, and not any other time. One manned by a single guy sat under a parasol. We hiked further up, into the cloud that shrouded the top. It was still bright, like someone was standing just, just beyond with a searchlight and a mist machine, or like we'd wandered off-set into the blanks between the tape ream stills.
We crossed a grand open bowl, scoring clear white lines with our tracks in the lead grey snow. We went down too far and looked to be heading down the wrong valley, so we hiked some more, and cut back across to the man sat under his parasol and the restaurant building. Inside there, I'd eaten a black pork maan (a doughball). The poster advertising them was hung sideways from the ceiling. I saw them in the hot glass cupboard and wanted one. At the counter, behind the counter, a guy and a girl both young looked on at a croquette in the deep fryer. Poked it a little. Picked it out, dropped it, giggled. 大丈夫？ 大丈夫そう。 大丈夫。 Is it ok? I think it's ok. It's ok. they exchanged, before pulling out a tannoy mic held together with black duck tape to announce the food order to the customers, sat one table away from the counter.
Friday 9 May 2008
Camping
There was a miscommunication and me Al David Jenny joined Jeff Dorrie Dyl Jess Jessie Becca at Oku-Nikkawa camp-site with no food to cook for dinner. Trains don't so much stop as hesitate at Oku-Nikkawa train station and there was a long mountain dirt track pocked with pot-holes, a pile of traffic and the dark between us and the nearest shops. So we piled into the only building apart from the house where the drunk farmer lived- the restaurant.
'Restaurant' is quite is quite misleading though, and to look at the place, I'm not sure anyone would call it that. More a mountain retreat with a side in selling food. A place where you never really get to drunk since there's no-one else around to see you drunk, least of all yourself in the toilet mirror or the bottom of your glass.
We caught them off-guard and they warned us it would take about an hour and 45 minutes til they could could feed us a hearty curry rice, steaming and wholesome grub on a drizzly night that'd shrubbed out the morning sunshine. They had to get another batch of rice on the go in the rice cooker.
We were welcomed by three Tokyoites, a mother and two children who sat peeling baby bamboo shoots into a cardboard box. There wasn't space to sit since the other tables were occupied- one surrounded by four country-types who cooked meat on a portable hot plate in front of them, the other strewn with empty Super Dry bottles and scraps of 竹の子(baby bamboo) shells, green, wet, scattered. It looked as if a large group had just left, although I think the smoking lady who took to Jeff immediately might have been solely responsible, judging by the lilt to her voice. The Tokyoites soon left, making way for us. Apparently they too were clientele, although we'd all taken them for proprietors or at least friends or relatives.
Two plastic trays of baby bamboo were thumped down in front of us, spilling sprouts like pencils rolling free. A squirt of mayonnaise for each tray and entreaties to eat, eat eateat please soon followed. There are places tucked away in cities too in Tohoku (north-east Japan), at which there's no need to order, instead sit back and await the food that is brought you, anything they have, or anything they want to give you. 山菜 (SanSai) mountain vegetables with bonito fish flakes and soy followed, then accompanied the rounds of bamboo.
In spite of a heavy night before and to spite the bad weather, inevitably it came to beer for us. One of the country types leaped to the chill to fetch us bottles of Super Dry and asked 1 2 4 5 how many. He ambled back along the narrow gloomy corridor- bitten into with stuff and piles of stuff and stuff collapsed on stuff on the floor- that reached away from our table and handed us our beers. A little later, he too bid the owners goodbye, apparently just another punter helping out.
Becca returned from a foray deeper into the restaurant in search of the lav having first found the owner's living room instead. Jeff strode to the table strewn with empty bottles, his hand was clasped between two, warmly, and he and three of the locals, or perhaps more transient Golden Week vacationers started up joshing one another in clipped Japanese I had no ear for. We all et up our curry. A grand old time was had.
'Restaurant' is quite is quite misleading though, and to look at the place, I'm not sure anyone would call it that. More a mountain retreat with a side in selling food. A place where you never really get to drunk since there's no-one else around to see you drunk, least of all yourself in the toilet mirror or the bottom of your glass.
We caught them off-guard and they warned us it would take about an hour and 45 minutes til they could could feed us a hearty curry rice, steaming and wholesome grub on a drizzly night that'd shrubbed out the morning sunshine. They had to get another batch of rice on the go in the rice cooker.
We were welcomed by three Tokyoites, a mother and two children who sat peeling baby bamboo shoots into a cardboard box. There wasn't space to sit since the other tables were occupied- one surrounded by four country-types who cooked meat on a portable hot plate in front of them, the other strewn with empty Super Dry bottles and scraps of 竹の子(baby bamboo) shells, green, wet, scattered. It looked as if a large group had just left, although I think the smoking lady who took to Jeff immediately might have been solely responsible, judging by the lilt to her voice. The Tokyoites soon left, making way for us. Apparently they too were clientele, although we'd all taken them for proprietors or at least friends or relatives.
Two plastic trays of baby bamboo were thumped down in front of us, spilling sprouts like pencils rolling free. A squirt of mayonnaise for each tray and entreaties to eat, eat eateat please soon followed. There are places tucked away in cities too in Tohoku (north-east Japan), at which there's no need to order, instead sit back and await the food that is brought you, anything they have, or anything they want to give you. 山菜 (SanSai) mountain vegetables with bonito fish flakes and soy followed, then accompanied the rounds of bamboo.
In spite of a heavy night before and to spite the bad weather, inevitably it came to beer for us. One of the country types leaped to the chill to fetch us bottles of Super Dry and asked 1 2 4 5 how many. He ambled back along the narrow gloomy corridor- bitten into with stuff and piles of stuff and stuff collapsed on stuff on the floor- that reached away from our table and handed us our beers. A little later, he too bid the owners goodbye, apparently just another punter helping out.
Becca returned from a foray deeper into the restaurant in search of the lav having first found the owner's living room instead. Jeff strode to the table strewn with empty bottles, his hand was clasped between two, warmly, and he and three of the locals, or perhaps more transient Golden Week vacationers started up joshing one another in clipped Japanese I had no ear for. We all et up our curry. A grand old time was had.
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