The Great Nabob Is Appropriately Den-Like & Exotic for Jeremy Irons & the Last Lions"/>
The Dinner: Veggie samosas, chicken tikka, a lot of naan, and discounted import drafts at the Great Nabob, 819 Fifth Ave. N., 281-9850, QUEEN ANNE
The Screenplate: What's the most important casting decision involved in bringing a feature-length wildlife documentary to actual movie theaters? The fucking narrator. And in his lustrous and illustrious career, Sir Jeremy Irons, narrator of The Last Lions, has done a ton of fucking.Irons' prodigious 'tang-wrangling is no doubt attributable to his deep, sexy voice, which has its own Facebook fan page. Most humans boast one sensory form of fucking without actually doing so: eye-fucking. Irons might be the lone sentient being who walks the earth capable of voice-fucking his prey.
Fitting, then, that Irons lends his voice to a feature film about the most seductive of predators: lions. Given their ancestral relation to domestic cats, it is nearly impossible to resist the urge to squeeze them like we do the sweet little Quincies, Maggies, and Waylons of the world. But nuzzle an actual lion in the face and you're likely to get fucked--and not in the way Jeremy Irons fucks either.
The Last Lions is ostensibly a film meant to educate viewers about the decimation of the lion population in Africa in general and Botswana in particular. The message gets quickly conveyed, but it's not enough to hang a feature on. Thankfully, the plot unfolds in such an uncannily logical order--playing for maximum emotional ascents and tumbles--that you wonder whether the filmmakers stitched footage together out of sequence to make it so. It's such a compelling narrative that to go into further depth would be to play spoiler. We'll give you this: The main character, a widowed lioness named Ma di Tau with three baby cubs, gives Oscar nominee Jennifer Lawrence (Winter's Bone) a run for her money as the baddest-assed single mom of the year.
If Irons had read his narration live from backstage at SIFF Cinema, and subsequently wanted to repair to a nearby bar for a drink and some nibbles, he could do far worse than head to the Great Nabob. The spacious, dimly lit bar is inconspicuous, exotic, and mysterious, serving a short menu of Indian appetizers like hummus, veggie samosas, and chicken tikka, all of which were perfectly satisfying and very cheap during happy hour, which runs from 5-7 (seriously, bars of Seattle, if you care about customer service, extending happy hour to 7 instead of 6 is crucial) and offers $3 draft microbrews.