The Artist

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I don't know about you, but I'm awful at keeping secrets. The most mundane of facts-for example, whether my daughter's Carvel ice cream birthday cake will be in the shape of Fudgie the Whale or Cookie Puss-will gnaw at my insides like the embryonic creature in Alien if presented to me with the preamble: "Don't tell anybody."
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Our long national movie nightmare is over: the Grownup Movies Season is in full swing. I do hope you've been saving your pennies since last January to take advantage of November and December, when Hollywood studio execs wake up, look in a mirror and declare, "Wait a minute-we've been releasing crap all year! How in the world will we win any Oscars for that tripe?"
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