Thank goodness for the modern convenience of the cellphone. That 1970s Ma Bell princess phone ain't going to tell you that you've got a burlap sack full of crazy calling you 47 times a day. It wasn't really that long ago when we were completely in the dark about who is calling us. It's kind of magical. Now we have these little computers that will show the phone number of the stalker stabbing our furniture with a foot-long butcher's knife when we're not home, and it will even show a picture of the perpetrator. It looks a little like this:
Yikes. Anyway, no one in this film has a cellphone; and if those poor 1970s cellphoneless suckers could contact us here in the future, they would probably want to sign up for the unlimited data plan. That way they could continue being a disc jockeying man-whore, search the Internet for a new maid service, and keep dodging poor crap-balls-crazy Lucille Bluth's calls.
I watched Play Misty For Me on Netflix. Here's a trailer, and it's pretty groovy:
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