I actually did more this weekend than sit around waiting for tows and feeling sorry for myself. On Sunday, while working on Christmas cards, I watched a couple Favorite Movies.

First Ladyhawke, which I hadn’t viewed in a while. I think that, of all the movies I’m especially fond of, Ladyhawke has to be the cheesiest. It’s not just the jarring musical score. It’s also the stilted dialogue. And the odd costumes. And the fact that we’ve grown accustomed to impressive CGI in our fantasies nowadays, and this production doesn’t measure up. And the plot holes you could ride a war horse through (why, for instance, after you’ve spent a whole day and nearly gotten yourselves killed capturing Etienne [in his wolf form] in a pit, do you just let him go the following morning?).

But the silly thing works. Mainly because the cast is absolutely top-notch. Rutger Hauer in his prime, when he’d freshly dropped his Dutch accent and made himself sound like Kirk Douglas, and was very nearly worthy of the sound. Michelle Pfeiffer at her most luminous (though I could have done without the short haircut). Matthew Broderick when he was still amusing. Leo McKern doing that Leo McKern thing. John Wood as a crazy, evil bishop (though the script—oh, what an innocent age that was—made it clear the Church had rejected him). Even Alfred Molina when he wasn’t famous yet.

And then I watched Scrooge, the musical production with Albert Finney. It’s part of my Christmas tradition to watch three different versions of A Christmas Carol, and this is first in the rotation.

It has many flaws, notably the weakish songs (though I’m quite fond of “December the 25th,” and “Thank You Very Much” always pleases). Tiny Tim makes me want to vomit, but all Tiny Tims do that.

On the plus side, it’s got Albert Finney, young and vigorous but doing a creditable old man. The screenplay benefits from highlighting the failure of his marriage engagement, which focuses his whole character arc.

And it occurred to me on this viewing that the big (rather overblown) production ending actually grafts the climax of the Gospel story of Zaccheus onto Dickens.

Can’t do better than that.