Been feeling overwhelmed by my Netflix obligations lately: my guilt mounts when I see those red envelopes gathering dust on top of the piano. I joined Netflix six years ago, and have the La Grande Bouffe plan — eight at a time. Once, I used to be on a movie-a-night regimen: retire at nine, and comfortably tuck in a movie before hitting the pillow. But no more. There's life to live.
For years, my Netflix queue has had about 490 movies in it. (The limit is 500.) Every time I make some progress whittling it down, the new releases page appears Sunday morning at the Netflix site, and that Sisyphean boulder starts to roll down the hill again. But: the weather's turning cooler, and staying indoors to fire up a DVD is an attractive option when the mulberry tree in my front yard is drooping from the weight of snow on its limbs.
So, before I ask you what titles are at the top of your Netflix queue, here are the ones perched atop mine:
Veronica Mars: season 1, disc 1
Eroica (Andrzej Munk)
Andy Warhol's Flesh (Paul Morrissey)
House By The River (Fritz Lang)
The Virgin Suicides (Sofia Coppola)