I’m sure there’s some sensible reason that the Brooklyn DMV is in the Atlantic Center shopping mall, but I can’t imagine what it is. Take the escalator up to the second floor, squeeze past the guy selling watches for $10 at the top, and you have Old Navy on the right and the Department of Motor Vehicles down the hall to the left.
One side is full of people who can’t figure out what to do waiting in line for people who don’t know what to tell them to do, and the other, well, never mind, actually.
I’m out for a non-driver’s license. I always think they should make you fail the road test before they give you one. Like this: stop at red and you get your license; run through red and you have to take the test again; hit the light and you get a non-driver’s license. “OK, this one sure can’t drive. Next! Sir! Sir! Step out of the vehicle, don’t make me shoot.”
As soon as I set foot in the place the computers go down. Then they tell us the computers are down statewide, and Albany is presumably trying to find that guy who knows how to fix everything. So much for six points’ worth of identification and proof of birth.
Off to the movies. An afternoon at the DMV lets a lot of air out of a guy’s day, and even at matinee prices Secret Window doesn’t exactly rush in to fill the vacuum. It’s a fine movie – not as in Fine Art, but as in “Howya doin’?” “Oh fine.” Johnny Depp could have done this in his sleep, and it’s a credit to his work that he didn’t; the rest of the cast is uniformly dressed, shoes and shirts and pants, socks and hats and everything. Not one of them turns up even once awkwardly missing any clothes. Oh, they also walk around and talk and drive cars and stuff.
Last night I was entranced by Sylvain Chomet’s Les Triplettes de Belleville, which is great fun. It’s tender, twitchy, visionary, and vibrant, and has the virtue of overcommitting through every second of its creaky, scattered length. It peaked, to these sentimental eyes, in its first 15 minutes, creating strange and distant non-verbal relationships of amazing complexity between its main characters; with all the invention and wild lunacy that followed, it was never quite as touching again. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ll agree that Finding Nemo was a better Oscar® choice than this gem, though the Triplettes got totally ripped for best song. Come on, you know as well as I do that Return of the King didn’t even have a song. Oh yeah? Fine, sing it then.
I rest my case.