Personal Memoir - Remembered Event

It was born out of a collective fury. That was why, in a matter of minutes after we found out what had happened, we had grabbed chalk (not finding any permanent markers) and a ladder and marched out. We wanted to make it known that it was not ok. We wanted to paint out our fury. We wanted to let it be known that, permission or no, we would communicate ourselves and our beliefs.

It was a Sunday night at around midnight; I was at a rehearsal in the “teatrito” of the Colegio, located in Chardon, the humanities building. I walked outside to go buy myself a snack and noticed that this guy that I couldn’t recognize was in the process of creating a mural. No big deal – murals are painted “clandestinely” all the time; in fact almost 90 percent of the time they’re done on the exact same wall that this guy was using. It’s a good location for a mural. It faces the plaza that all students have to pass through to get to the library, cafeteria or Chardon. The murals are usually of political nature, and they are respected for about two or three months before the university discretely paints them over, making the wall once again neutral and blank, as they prefer it to be.

I stopped for a second and sipped my root beer as I observed the latest painting and tried to discern its purpose. It wasn’t immediately obvious from my standpoint. There was a giant bleeding penis, along with the silhouettes of a man wielding a knife and a woman on the floor bleeding. All around these two images were messages of hate and violence against women – “Cut their clits!” “Beat the whores” and so on and so forth. Ahhh…it was an (obviously) ironic statement against the mistreatment of women. I appreciated it for a minute or two and then returned to my rehearsal.

Skip to the next day, and I was (not surprisingly) once again in the teatrito, spending time with my other theater geek friends. A friend of the group came to tell us about an incident that they had just seen happen. She told us, “S- has been arrested!”

“Ahhhh?!” (S was another acquaintance of ours)

She explained to us that he had spent last night painting a mural on the wall, but that when he had arrived to colegio that day at 7 in the morning it had been painted over, as if the mural had never existed in the first place. S got mad, and using spray paint, began a new mural. He did a hasty re-do of the giant penis (figuring that it had been this to cause the college authorities to erase it) and began writing a message next to it. It said, “My name is S. Last night, I painted a mural on this wall against violence towards women. This morning at 7 am it was already gone. This is a public college, and we are supposed to have the right to freedom of expression, but that is obviously not the case.” As he had been writing this message, college guards had come, ripped his spray paint away from him and put him in handcuffs.

For about two seconds we stood silently. I couldn’t quite believe that what she was telling us could be true. Then we all got mad. Fast. We moved quickly to get tools we could write with. What we found was multi-colored sidewalk chalk, so we took these and went over to the wall. I got even angrier when I saw that they had again painted over what S had done. It was ridiculous, maddening. In their apparent haste to make the university “respectable” (or whatever their goal in erasing it was) they had apparently painted over it with the first paint they could get their hands on – a white primer that was so thin it didn’t even do anything to hide the image. It was like a double insult. There was the penis that had supposedly been such a big issue, clear as day. They hadn’t even covered it, they had just made it perfectly clear that they would decide what we would and wouldn’t express.

We grabbed our chalk and began writing our own messages besides S’s message. The messages we wrote were about freedom of speech, of our right to express ourselves. They were messages about art and its function. Messages challenging those who would to silence us. Hostile messages. Furious messages.

The guards, who always seemed so slow to appear when something had been stolen or someone had been hurt, now seemed to materialize out of thin air. It looked like they had all been ordered away from their posts to deal with our peaceful little manifestation. We were writing on a wall, for goodness sakes. Writing! Not breaking, not fighting, not even rallying more people to write with us. Nevertheless, the guards told us to stop what we were doing because we were vandalizing government property. Largely we ignored them, but they insisted so we pointed out that it was chalk. Students wrote all the time on the “government property” with chalk to announce all types of events – why was that any different from what we were doing? They acted as if we were speaking a different language, and again insisted that we stop. It’s chalk, we said. The rain would wash it away in a few days.

A friend of mine who is hot-headed could not hold back and began a discourse. He said things that were very true, and extremely valid. He condemned those who would silence anybody else because they didn’t agree with their ideas, or their way of expressing their ideas. Students had gathered in droves, all three floors of the building were full of people straining to see what the commotion was. All of them cheered when he stopped talking, but the guards (and other university workers that had gathered, and I’m sure that even some students) called him disgusting. One heavily built guard wanted to hit him and was held back. At this point things began to get a bit out of hand. A friend pulled me away as I screamed at one of the guards. After, we were taken to talk to the man in charge of student affairs. He was very nice, friendly and calm with us, but not at all helpful. We didn’t think things should be left as they were, so late that night we got together to talk about what we wanted to do. What we decided on was my first performance.

The next day at 10:30 (it was a Tuesday and so there were no classes at this time) we walked out to the wall (still covered with what we had written) with paintbrushes and buckets filled with water. We decided on water because we did not want to give them any excuse to be able to arrest us. We began silently painting the wall with the water, pantomiming the act of writing. Pretty soon there were students, professors and guards surrounding us. Two of the guys from our group, one being my friend that had given his inflamed speech the day before, came out with fake guns dressed as guards. They began calling us freaks, disgusting, spitting on us. They said that we should know that the university was not a place to express ourselves or get ideas. It was a place where we would be taught to function “correctly”. Clearly we should be punished. One by one the two “guards” turned us around and lined us up. One by one they read us our crimes and proclaimed our sentence. Death. When we were all dead and silent, they walked away. After a second we all open our eyes, gathered our materials and followed.

It was an exhilarating experience. Performance is not quite like doing theater – in a performance, I am always myself, not a character assigned me. Doing this performance really helped me understand what performance was about and how it could be utilized. I realized that I could use my own passion to reach other people, that I wasn’t impotent. I realized that I could channel my fury, and any other stress or emotion, into action that could help me express myself.

Class Journal 2

I know, I know! I haven't been publishing my journal entries. I really deserve a slap on the hand for that. But I have been thinking about them!..and I have like four of them actually written out by hand. I've just never been really...technological. Which is pretty ironic since I actually have a job right now that is online, giving tutoring to kids. I never even learned how to type correctly. I pretty much use like 4 fingers to do all my typing. Pathetic, I know. I'm something of an anachronism I guess.

Anyway, I should really get to the actual writing part of this blog. Not the babbling I've been doing up to this point. Since we are working with memoirs, I wanted to write about an experience that I once had with writing when I was in high school. It was one of the ideas that I had but discarded, but I figured I could use it for a journal, so here we are!

Well, it all started in my junior year of high school. Since they had no teacher for the accelerated 11th grade English course that year, they had put me in the 12th grade "Advanced Placement" class. It was AP English Language, and on the first day my new teacher told us we would each be expected to write a book during the last quarter of the school year. It made me nervous to hear that - this teacher was known for her very high expectations. Finally, the last quarter of the school year came around and she gave us our schedule for how we should be working on our book. We were to think of her as our editor and hand in divisions of our book for her to edit throughout the few months we had. Everything was coming along really nicely for me, I was on schedule and my teacher seemed to like my ideas. Remember how I said I've never been technological? Well, I had been saving my book on my little USB that I carried around with me everywhere...just on my USB. Like a fool, I had not saved any backups anywhere else. One day my USB went missing. I freaked out and asked everyone I knew if they had seen it anywhere. For about two or three days I was in a constant state of either despair or extreme stress, and my throat always had that funny tight feeling like I was about to cry. Then one of my friends told me that they had seen some guy with it. I was elated, amazed that I was actually able to find it. Of course, I was a bit nervous about talking to this guy, but I really didn't care about that. I just had four days or so left until my project - the book that I had strained and sweat over for months - was due. I found him and asked if he had my USB. He looked at me, a bit embarrassed, and told me he did. I was so happy I almost kissed him. If he would just let me have my project, he could even keep the damn contraption I said. The book was all that mattered. He stood there silently for a few seconds, looking at me with shame and...was that pity? My hopes began to fall even before he said anything.

"I deleted everything on it," he said.

Ugh. It was like a glacier had run me over and flattened me out. It became a bit hard to breathe. My brain went into a shut-down, as if I was panicking. I just stared at him and tried to get some part of my body working again. Finally I just looked at him and told him, "Oh. Well. I guess this is my fault."

I told the story to my friends in my English class and they all sat back and looked at me in shock. They, better than even my best friends could, understood the kind of stress and pain I felt over losing my book. "That's it?!" they asked. "You just let him off the hook?!" I explained that yes, I was mad at him - he had done a mean and extremely inconsiderate thing by deleting someone else's hard work without a second thought. But, I sighed, in the end I had nobody else that I could blame except for myself. It was my responsibility to make sure I had my work, no one else's. I still had the hard copies of some of my work, after all.

One of my friends (I remember exactly who it was too. I had a crush on him.) looked at me really solemnly and said, "Do you want me to beat him up for you? I will."

That night I went home and dug out all the hard copies of my work that I had. Most of them were written all over with tiny little editing notes. There were a few chapters that were missing; those I would have to write all over again from scratch. I sat down and began typing. For three days, I was immersed in a world of words words words and the little tcktcktcktck-tcktck-tcktcktck of the keyboard. I went to classes, came home and sat down to type. For three days I lived on coffee and went with no sleep at all. My brain was exhausted and overrun beyond reason, but by the end of the third day I had my book, and even though I was practically dead, I was pretty impressed by myself. I was determined to have my book in on it's due date, no excuses. I had not been sure if I could do in three days what it had taken me a whole quarter to do, but I had managed somehow to pull it off, and was really proud of that.

Interest Inventory

Interest Inventory

1. What is your favorite activity or subject? Why? Your least favorite? Why?

My favorite activities are reading and doing theater because both are unlimited. I don't have a least favorite subject.

2. What are your best subjects? What makes them easiest for you?

My best subjects are probably lit and theater subject because they capture my interest the most.

3. What subjects are difficult for you? What makes them the hardest?

Any subject is interesting to me as long as it is presented in a way that captures my interest. What I mean is that if something just seems tedious, even if it is reading a book (and I really love reading) I find it really hard to bring myself to do it.

4. What subject makes you think and work the hardest? Why is it the most challenging?

Literature and theater are the subject that I invest the most time in and try to challenge myself most in.

5. Rate the following topics according to your interests (1 very interested, 2 somewhat interested, 3 not interested):

a) Dance- 1, b) Music- 1, c) Drama- 1, d) Sports- 2, e) Writing-1, f) Math- 2, g) Computers- 3, h) Science- 2, i) Social Studies- 2, j) Business- 3, k) World Languages- 1, l) Politics/Law- 1, , m) other interests ( visual arts -1)

6. What are your favorite games or sports?

Volleyball, swimming and dancing

7. If you could learn about anything you wanted to, what would you choose to learn about? Be specific.

Astology, the Beat Generation, history and styles of theater, history and styles of music, different religions (including dead religions), any language (including dead languages), any new instrument, skydiving, underwater diving, sword fighting, fencing....and many many many other things.

8. What are three things you like to when you have free time (besides seeing your friends)?

Read and write, spend time at the beach, walk on stilts

9. What clubs, groups, organizations do you belong to?

TeatRUM

10. What things have you collected in the past? What, if anything, are you currently collecting?

Books, postcards or posters with actors and musicians I like.

11. Have you ever taught yourself to do something without the help of another person? If so, what?

I taught myself to draw, and I taught myself to cook (and I'm still teaching myself)

12. If you were going to start a book club, what kinds of books would your club read?

Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs...and a lot more but I'm pretty tired of listing ^^;

13. If people were to come to you for information about something you know a lot about, what would the topic be?

Books, authors, and cooking

14.If you could plan a field trip for learning, where would you go? Why would you choose that place?

I would go to the library in Alexandria. But if it had to be real I would choose any country I haven't been to.

15. When you’re using the computer, what are you usually doing? Why?

Working or checking my e-mail. I don't like spending much time online, so other than the online tutoring I do I don't use the internet for much else.

16. If you could interview an expert on any subject, what subject would you like to talk to someone about? Who would you like to interview about that subject if you could?

I'd like to interview a director such as Anne Bogart, Augusto Boal, or Suzuki on their views of theater.

17. If you could interview one significant person from the past and one from the present, who would you interview? Why would you choose these two people?

I would choose Augusto Boal from the present, because he has managed to bring theater to the public in a way that gives people an outlet to express themselves without fear of oppression, it is a theater that makes people aware of their own voice and their own abilities and power to solve social problems. From the past I would interview Khalil Gibran because he was an amazing writer and person overall. His writings are amazing, and I would just really love to sit down and talk to him.

18. What careers are you currently interested in?

Right now, I am interested in continuing my life as a student. Hopefully I'll be able to get a doctorates degree in Theater. After that, I would love to work in anything in theater.

19. In my classes I prefer to work:

Alone

20. In school I learn best:

Alone

21. What helps you learn?

Reading and hands-on activities.

22. What makes learning more difficult for you?

If there is not enough interesting interaction.

23. Think of a great teacher you've had. Describe what made this teacher so terrific.

My music teacher from high school never acted like he was inherently superior to his students, yet he always had their respect. He listened to the students and I learned a lot from him.

24. What past school assignment or project are you proudest of? Why?

I don't know if I would say I am "proudest" of it, but one that sticks out in my mind is a project where I had to develop a fully functional roller coaster using foam tubing and a marble. The marble had to go all the way across the roller coaster without falling or stopping, and it had to come to a safe stop (by itself) at the end.

25. What project done outside of school are you proudest of? Why?

The plays that I have helped with, because I feel that they have all been worthwhile.

Personal Literacy Narrative

I don’t remember any moment in my life where I didn’t know how to read. I feel like just based on this fact, I can safely assume that my mind, at that time, was able to understand the significance of this new skill. I maintain the belief that the ability of written communication is what marks us as a superior species. Theologists say it is our belief in a “superior being”, artists say it is our ability to make art, linguists say it is our vocal communication system. I study literature. I say it’s reading and writing.

As I was saying, I don’t know when I began reading. I was a pretty sedate kid. I didn’t like the screaming games played in my kindergarten class. I preferred my own company to other kid’s. Yeah, I was a 5-year-old antisocial come mierda. More than anything else I loved to read. I used to go up and down whole aisles in my library looking for a book I might have skipped. I would go through whole sets every week. I became an accidental kleptomaniac because I had a problem parting with some books. Frankly, I was obsessed. I was also writing from a pretty young age. I would write letters to the tooth fairy or I would write songs that I’d invent. It’s pretty embarrassing to read these now, so I’m thankful for everything that has helped me progress as a writer. I’m grateful for those who supported and who support me by making me feel that what I write is worthwhile. I’m more grateful to a friend who once read my work and laughed in my face. She was the first person to ever tell me that she hadn’t liked what I wrote. Flippantly, flat-out, she told me it was cliché, badly-worded…just bad. It was a slap of reality, and I am eternally thankful for it. I’ve learned the value of a friend who will tell you the naked truth about yourself and your art.

But even more than a good critique is a good book. Books provide me with an unending source of potential. They allow me access into the minds of people that I otherwise would never have known. Ideas, styles, theories, insanities, experiences, worlds. It's like dreaming. A state of hypnosis comes over me whenever I read. I become extremely suggestible - strings of words disappear into all types of sensory hallucinations. It sounds like a type of madness because it is.

Writing is another type of madness. It involves creating a connection with your subconscious and pulling out strings of ideas and images, nightmares, fears, paranoia, experience, memories and fantasies. It is extremely difficult and most of the time just fucking frustrating trying to establish this connection. Sometimes you feel like you are there but then the words get blurry and meaningless when they cross the border from thought to paper. So right now, my main goal is to facilitate that connection between my conscious and my subconscious. I do exercises in dream retention - I make sure to write down my dreams as soon as I can (eventually I would like to manage to be lucid in my dreams and control them). Among this and other things, I do a lot of free writing. That is, you just write the first thing that comes to your mind, whether or not it seems to hold meaning. Maybe it sounds strange, but it's very effective.

Anyway. That is where and who I am as a writer. It's not much. But I am enjoying the madness.

Class Journal 1

Hmmm...Yeah maybe I'll work on those titles a bit more. So, this is my first class blog. Woo-hoo. We worked on writing about our names in class. It was interesting because I had never realized how my mom's maiden name corresponds really well with my love of water. Let's see...My next blog (which I will post right after this I suppose) will be the essay about my history or experiences as a writer. So hopefully that one will be a lot better than this...I think this is pretty much going nowhere. I'm sure I'll get used to this journal thing soon.

So I've had this blog for a while, but I never really got into it. Really I just made it for myself, pretty much as a digital archive of things I have written, drawn, painted, made, etc...but yeah I'm not a very big computer person so that really didn't work so much. But I do have some drawing exercises I've done up here...also a story that I wrote for one of my English classes. Hopefully I'll get around to putting up more. Well, not hopefully. Definitely...probably. Well see how it goes!

"Write a short war story without using 'Hollywood propaganda' "

That was what I chose to write for this semester's first English test. And here is what my mind churned out - a little ol' Natalie propaganda.

Johnnie Get Your Nape

Some guy - Morrison was his name I think – this guy, he sets himself on fire right in front of the Pentagon in ‘65. A protest against the Vietnam War; a symbol of the killings and burnings of innocent Vietnamese. But here’s the thing. This guy douses himself in what, gasoline? Napalm, the stuff we used in Vietnam – it’s a whole different ballgame from gasoline. Gasoline, you wash it off or maybe stop drop and roll, that thing they make little kids practice in elementary school classrooms. Napalm was designed to burn, and I mean really burn. First of all, you can’t wash off nape. Hell, nape burns underwater. It’s this sticky, gooky syrup-like mixture that sticks like if you had doused everything in crazy glue. And then once it’s lit it’ll burn for a long ass time, long enough to burn someone down to the bone. Not only that, but it gets hot - 800 to 1000 degrees Celsius, easy. Sometimes up to 1200 degrees. You know what else burns at 1200 degrees? Lava.

Now, at the same time this Morrison guy was burning himself, I was busy dragging myself and my companion – that is, my M16A1 assault rifle – through that god-forsaken jungle. I hated that jungle, and it hated me back. The dense growth, the watery fog that hung 24/7, the mosquitoes that swarmed around us, violently buzzing, “Get out, leave!” It was all there to the damn advantage of the Viet Congs. When we had to cross rivers, leeches stuck to whatever exposed skin touched the murky water. Rainbows of snakes hung in the trees, eyes following closely, teeth ready to sink into anything that got too close. The sound of birds flapping their wings made you cringe, it sounded like artillery. You shivered as you crouched in the mud, listening for the VCs that you knew were waiting to kill you from their endless hiding spots.

I enjoyed burning down that jungle. Places where the planes couldn’t get to, they sent us to burn using handheld flamethrowers. You let them rip and the flames exploded from them, bright and orange. They ate at everything. Trees, vines, bamboo – the sound of the animals panicking sounded like the laments of the damned, like hell had opened up. The smell of napalm and burned forest was something that I looked forward to.

Besides the jungle, we sometimes had to burn villages too. You saw old papa-sans and mama-sans, chink-eyed women and kids in these villages. Never any young men. Not a soldier in sight. But we burned the villages, just the same. We had to incapacitate the army any way we could think of. We wanted to leave them without cover, without food, without homes. We wanted the napalm and the rainbow agents to leave them with nothing, except the promise of a swift death.

Human screams are different from animal screams. With human screams you can hear the blame. That blame, it follows you. At night in my dreams, I heard the cries of, “It’s hot! It’s hot!” Thời tiết nóng! Thời tiết nóng!. Their faces, mouths open in terror and pain and eyes shut, morphed into my face burned down to the tissue, or at times to the bone.

To stop the dreams I started doing some of the shit they had around. When I wasn’t seeing any action, I smoked weed. It relaxed me, gave me a calm that you can only get by numbing the brain. Weed is one hell of a pain killer. First of all, it kills any physical pain you have; second, it deadens your brain, so while you still remember everything you’ve done, you’re so disassociated – it’s so far away from you, another world really – that it makes no difference one way or another. Later heroin became available. Heroin had the same effect as weed except multiplied, everything went slower, more calm, relaxed - but heroin was much better than weed. With weed you were never completely free from your self-hate, but heroin...heroin made you someone new. And heroin had the added bonus of the rush before the calm. That sense of riding high, of being above it all. The rush was the feeling of letting down your chains, your stress and your pain being lifted, the feeling of casting off your uniform and not being a soldier anymore. The rush was feeling that you weren’t a murderer anymore.

Then - after you’ve burned down all the jungles and all the rice patties. After you’ve smoked weed and you snort heroin and chase the dragon. After you burn down the villages in order to save them. After you’re done being a murderer in the name of justice, liberty, peace and democracy. After all that they send you back. Tell you you’re home. There, some people tell you that it has not been for liberty, or for justice. No one has found peace. They tell you everyone knows what you’ve done and no one approves. They tell you about Morrison and what he did. But you never get any punishment. They never make you pay for any crime. The dreams come back and they’re worse, and there’s nothing – no weed and no heroin and no nape to make it all go away. The place that they told you was home feels like being in that god-forsaken jungle again. Paranoid, shivering, you feel the eyes of hidden enemies watching you. Desperation creeps over you and you wish for the cool weight of a rifle in your hands. Always, always in the back of your mind you hear the wails of people being burned to death. The blame covers you and sticks no matter how you try to get it off. And it burns you to the bones.

Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

The title has nothing to do with anything, except for the fact that I am so gonna have that song stuck in my head all night. It's all my fault for showing my mother youtube, I suppose...dammit.

Anyhow, I got around to taking more pictures. Whee!

Here are some (pretty boring, heh) pencils


Yeah that last one isn't done. Never got around to wanting to finish it, meh.

This is Salty, the cutest pitbull ever ever. Awwwww...

Quick sketch of my friend Krisia (look Krisia! it's you! oohh...ahhh...)

This was done in ink.

Charcoal. I never want to look at another bodegon again...

Oh, and a pastel I found lying around.


I love color...I love it so much and I love to do pointless shit with it. I'm the kid that had to figure out a way to use ALL my crayons when I drew.



Yeah, two pictures of the same thing because I just like staring at it that much. Shocking, I know.

Artsy Fartsy

These are some of the bigger paintings/drawings I've done. I'll keep posting more as I get to scanning them. These were photographed digitally, hence the dates in red on them. Those aren't actually on the paintings themselves.


This is a surrealist painting I had to do for my art class last semester. One of my favorite songs is Lucy in the Sky, so I was inspired by it I think. I wasn't actually thinking about it at the time, but now whenever I see it I think of that song...if only I had given her kaleidascope eyes. Maybe one day I'll redo it, seeing as my other "inspiration" was my extreme lack of time to complete this.

This is an abstract landscape done in watercolors. It was based on a smaller pencil drawing I had done in art class in high school. I really like this because I used a lot of color and it came out very vibrant.

And this is a self-portrait I did in black and white charcoal on gray paper. The face is a little wide and I should have put a little more shadow/highlights on my face, but I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out over all. I did this in my senior year of high school (that's my school polo I'm wearing).

That's all folks. I'll try to scan some pencil drawings I've got lying around the house.

Memory and Movies

My memory is ridiculous. Short term, especially. I'll probably end up having to get tattoos on myself just to remember vital things. Your name is NATALIE. Do not under any circumstances eat Chef Boyardee! You are not currently married. Then I'll get that scratched out right after (if ever) I get married, and I'll probably put their name on my hand. Somewhere easily visible.

Anyway, before I go to the memory supplements via tattoo extreme, I figured I'd try a blog for various things that seem important to remember. Like movies! I love movies, yet I never seem to have any time to watch them. And then when I do I can't remember what I have watched and what people have recommended to me. Anyway, without any further babbling, here's a list of some of the movies that I have seen and enjoyed. There are some missing (I'm forgetting them). If anyone has any suggestions of something they think I missed or something I can't miss, do me the favor of posting it. Thanks!
π
A Beautiful Mind
A Clockwork Orange
Across the Universe
Airplane!
Ararat
Before Night Falls
Blood Diamond
Candy
Catch me if you Can
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Count of Montecristo, The
Dancer in the Dark
Dead Alive
Dogville
Donnie Brasco
Edward Scissorhands
Elephant Man, The
El Laberinto del Fauno
Elsa y Fred
Evil Dead
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Finding Neverland
Forrest Gump
Frida
Gangs of New York
Godfather, The
Golden Compass, The
Gone With the Wind
Grave of the Fireflies
Grease!
Happy Feet
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
James and the Giant Peach
Kill Bill
King Kong ('33)
King Kong ('06)
Kung Fu Hustle
Labyrinth, The
La Mala Educación
Last Emperor, The
May
Memento
My Fair Lady
My Girl
Mulholland Dr
Nightmare Before Christmas, The
Oklahoma!
Party Monster
Passion, The
Pee Wee's Big Adventure
Pirates of the Caribbean, The
Princess Bride, The
Pride and Prejudice
Pulp Fiction
Quill
Rebel Without a Cause
Red Violin, The
Requiem for a Dream
Robin Hood: Men in Tights
Rosemary's Baby
Sabrina
Saved!
Selena
Seven Year Itch, The
Shaolin Soccer
Shawshank Redemption, The
Silence of the Lambs, The
Sixth Sense, The
Sleepy Hollow
Sound of Music, The
Sweeney Todd
Threesome
Titanic
To Kill a Mockingbird
Tombstone
Trainspotting
V for Vendetta
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
Wizard of Oz, The
X-Men
X-Men 2: X-Men United
X-Men 3: The Last Stand