It saddens me to say that I have found yet another flaw in "The Last Seduction." First I rewatched "Every Girl Should Be Married," its polar opposite. Then "Last Seduction." Spoiler: At the end, when Mike's lawyer says he believes him but there's not a scrap of physical evidence to back up his version of events, all Mike can think of is the name on the apartment building's doorbell. A while ago I had wondered about the fake Trish letter. He wouldn't've shown it to Bridget, because he doesn't want her to know about Trish, but maybe it doesn't exist anymore--and a good graphologist would be able to distinguish between Bridget's imitation and Trish's genuine hand--because he destroyed it upon receipt. Then there's Trish [her]self: and avoiding a capital murder charge is sufficient reason to expose your accidental marriage to a man, isn't it? Anyway, the bit of physical evidence I thought of yesterday he might still have had in his wallet, the note on which Bridget wrote their fake names together, backward.
But it's still a brilliant movie.
I am aware that no one thinks anyone else's pet or child is as engaging as the owner thinks. Especially when someone says that their pet is the sweetest, funnest little guy ever, but then doesn't let the pet socialize because she's petrified he might get squashed in the crowd and she doesn't particularly want him shitting on anyone either.
With that said, Blake is such a joy.
The setup: I was sitting downstairs on the couch, feet on the ottoman, with Blake's crates--wooden four-sided boxes RDC knocked together in 1993 to hold stereo components now serving as occasional tables--alongside, short end to short end, between ottoman and chair. On one crate was an oatmeal box serving as a buddy cave, on the other, the buddy tray (vegetable chow, spinach, apple slices, seedballs) and my water glass (from which he also drinks).
Blake was in his box, preening or singing or just hanging out, when something--not a phone call or a sneeze or the heat snapping on--startled him and he ran out of his box, onto the crate, toward the next crate, which didn't abut the first in perfect alignment. He didn't see that, and so fell, wheeling a bit just like Wile E. Coyote before dropping (fourteen inches) to the floor.
I howled. Presently he pranced into view, bobbed his head, and clucked at me. I apologized, picked him up, and kissed his belly. I love my buddy.