Irony

Confession: I can't get through a Kurosawa movie. Samurai movies just don't move me, unless they're updated in priapic, toe-worshipping, 70's chroma-chromic Tarantino-vision. Or, lose the kimonos, drop the Hanzo sword, slap on some chaps and six shooters, (keep the questionable facial hair) and "YEE-HA! we got ourselves a picture boys!"

Give those seven samurai Colt Model 1861 Navy revolvers and pit them against The Ugly in some nameless border town, or slot a post-coldwar double-talking ronin in a Frankenheimer-helmed (Mamet-doctored) joint and you can count me in. I know this disinterest weakens my movie-lover cred. But while my favorite story device is a Rashomon, actually watching Rashomon is more effective than Tylenol PM.

So it's with shame and downcast eyes that I find myself ready to return The (unwatched, 3.5 hour-long) Seven Samurai today, but I don't have an envelope. Netflix's advice: "...you may send your DVDs to P.O. Box 49021 SAN JOSE, California 95161."

oink...?