Time once again for a few favorites. This time it is films I like just because today I like them.
The More the Merrier (Charles Coburn and Jean Arthur were both nominated for acting Oscars, Coburn won)
Old Acquaintance (one of my favorite Bette Davis films)
To Each His Own (Olivia de Havilland won the first of her two Oscars, and John Lund in his first movie role plays two parts, a world weary pilot as well as a lovestruck young soldier)
The Male Animal (I didn’t know Henry Fonda could be so funny)
Father of the Bride (the Spencer Tracy version, not the Steve Martin one)
Another Man’s Poison (Bette Davis playing a not so nice mystery writer)
Possessed (Joan Crawford starred in two movies with this title, this is the second one and she was nominated for an Oscar for the part of a woman slowly losing her mind, plus I find the banter between Van Heflin and Geraldine Brooks priceless)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Watson, come here. I need you
Much of what we know of the dictionary writer, Samuel Johnson, is as a result of the uncommon biography, Life of Johnson, by James Boswell. Quoting actual conversations and including details Boswell personally observed, the biography was much more lifelike to the readers. Boswell was a friend of Johnson’s, they’d traveled together, wined and dined together and Boswell had years during which to observe the man.
I think having a biographer would be fantastic, but only when they do hold some admiration for the subject, even a fictional subject. I doubt anyone would have wanted to read about Sherlock Holmes if he’d been viewed by someone who described him as a show-off know-it-all. Instead, Holmes had a very dear friend tell the tales, a friend who did not shy away from pointing out the Great Detective’s foibles, the seven percent solution in which Holmes indulged was cocaine, the three-pipe problems, etc. Those bullet holes in the shape of a “V” on the fireplace wall weren’t done to honor Queen Victoria at a time when Sherlock was well rested and feeling his best, but during a time when he wrestled with internal demons. These excesses offset the “brilliant” deductions and give us, as readers of the stories, a much better view of a flawed genius who fought past his personal fiends.
I believe I’d best step up my efforts to add more interesting items to my to-do list and then begin crossing them off. Just in case I have a Boswell or a Watson out there. Somewhere.
I think having a biographer would be fantastic, but only when they do hold some admiration for the subject, even a fictional subject. I doubt anyone would have wanted to read about Sherlock Holmes if he’d been viewed by someone who described him as a show-off know-it-all. Instead, Holmes had a very dear friend tell the tales, a friend who did not shy away from pointing out the Great Detective’s foibles, the seven percent solution in which Holmes indulged was cocaine, the three-pipe problems, etc. Those bullet holes in the shape of a “V” on the fireplace wall weren’t done to honor Queen Victoria at a time when Sherlock was well rested and feeling his best, but during a time when he wrestled with internal demons. These excesses offset the “brilliant” deductions and give us, as readers of the stories, a much better view of a flawed genius who fought past his personal fiends.
I believe I’d best step up my efforts to add more interesting items to my to-do list and then begin crossing them off. Just in case I have a Boswell or a Watson out there. Somewhere.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Day of Old
There are, I hate to admit it, days when I feel old. Not Druid old, more like milk just past its sell-by date old. And, invariably, it happens when I’m faced with telephone technology. I’m a girl who still prefers rotary dial phones. I prefer to dial a number, not punch it. And the fact that my cell phone can not only take photos, but mini movies leaves me flummoxed. I have a very good digital camera and it took me an unbelievably long to switch from an analog to this digital camera, plus we have a video camera, so why do I need that technology in my phone? I do not need the ability to go online using my phone and I do not need to be able to send text messages from my phone. It’s bad enough to talk on the thing, let alone wear blinders to the world around me by focusing on which keys to hit to type out abbreviated questions and answers.
Let me repeat, it’s bad enough to talk on the thing. Granted, there is a certain giggling little girl somewhere in my brain that likes the whole sci-fi or Dick Tracy aspect of flipping the phone open and calling the Enterprise or headquarters, but the reception is no better than when the things first came out. Back when they were the size of a brick and usually came with their own little duffle bag.
I suppose I miss the time when people called one another to share news too urgent to put in a letter or called when they needed to hear a familiar voice. It makes me wonder about the technology that is to come. Will future generations long for the olden days when they used a cell phone to type out their answer to the question, “What are you doing now?”
As to what I’m doing now, I’m longing for days of old.
Let me repeat, it’s bad enough to talk on the thing. Granted, there is a certain giggling little girl somewhere in my brain that likes the whole sci-fi or Dick Tracy aspect of flipping the phone open and calling the Enterprise or headquarters, but the reception is no better than when the things first came out. Back when they were the size of a brick and usually came with their own little duffle bag.
I suppose I miss the time when people called one another to share news too urgent to put in a letter or called when they needed to hear a familiar voice. It makes me wonder about the technology that is to come. Will future generations long for the olden days when they used a cell phone to type out their answer to the question, “What are you doing now?”
As to what I’m doing now, I’m longing for days of old.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Pax Domestica
There are few things I find more enjoyable than a Saturday morning. Around our house it’s usually a pot of coffee then an agreeably late breakfast before getting down to the important stuff, read, watch something we’ve DVR’d or talk. Often, no matter what we’ve chosen to do, we end up talking. We’ve been known to recite so many passages out loud from the books we’re currently reading that the listener finally throws up their hands and says, don’t tell me any more, I’m going to have to read that one myself. We’ve also been known to take more than twice the broadcast length of a movie or television show to get to the end because we keep pausing the action to discuss what we think is going to happen. Is this respect even comedies become a kind of whodunit.
This post is a short one because we’ve just finished that pot of coffee and the agreeably late breakfast is about to start.
And after that? Well, we'll have to talk.
This post is a short one because we’ve just finished that pot of coffee and the agreeably late breakfast is about to start.
And after that? Well, we'll have to talk.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Love letter
I don’t know why I like snow.
It has something to do with no two snowfalls being alike.
It has something to do with being able to make things with it; forts, snowmen, snowballs, sled runs, etc.
It has something to do with cross county skiing between long rows of pine trees just before dawn when the snow if falling thick enough to make the landscape seem softly foggy and faintly blue.
It has something to do with the cold because I’ve always preferred cold, but also to the fact that if you get out in it and play around, you get quite nicely warm, but, unlike the summer, not too warm.
It has something to do with how snow looks at night, the luminous quality of a snow-lit landscape.
It has something to do with all the different ways it falls; thick and fast, slow and soft, or even, sometimes, almost sideways on the wind.
It has something to do with the sheer transforming beauty of a snowfall as well as the muffling silence.
It has something to do with memory, at least for me. Like seeing a place you’ve never been and finding it feels familiar. I think, oh, yes, I remember this. It reminds me of something I can’t quite name.
It has, unique oddity that I am, something to do with driving in it along completely snow-covered back roads. Perhaps the way the evergreens and bare trees hold the snow then, with a shiver, twitch it off. Or the way a dark red barn surrounded by evergreens stands out in the otherwise black and white landscape. Or even the way a snowfall will sometimes leave the road a black ribbon unfurling before me pulling me past houses with windows of soft welcoming yellow calling their owners home.
It has something to do with no two snowfalls being alike.
It has something to do with being able to make things with it; forts, snowmen, snowballs, sled runs, etc.
It has something to do with cross county skiing between long rows of pine trees just before dawn when the snow if falling thick enough to make the landscape seem softly foggy and faintly blue.
It has something to do with the cold because I’ve always preferred cold, but also to the fact that if you get out in it and play around, you get quite nicely warm, but, unlike the summer, not too warm.
It has something to do with how snow looks at night, the luminous quality of a snow-lit landscape.
It has something to do with all the different ways it falls; thick and fast, slow and soft, or even, sometimes, almost sideways on the wind.
It has something to do with the sheer transforming beauty of a snowfall as well as the muffling silence.
It has something to do with memory, at least for me. Like seeing a place you’ve never been and finding it feels familiar. I think, oh, yes, I remember this. It reminds me of something I can’t quite name.
It has, unique oddity that I am, something to do with driving in it along completely snow-covered back roads. Perhaps the way the evergreens and bare trees hold the snow then, with a shiver, twitch it off. Or the way a dark red barn surrounded by evergreens stands out in the otherwise black and white landscape. Or even the way a snowfall will sometimes leave the road a black ribbon unfurling before me pulling me past houses with windows of soft welcoming yellow calling their owners home.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Excuse me while I rant
I know way more than one person who has told me they need to be in the right mood in order to write. These are people who do not write yet call themselves writers. As in saying to me, “You and I are writers” or “we’re both writers.” Sorry, Charlie, but if you don’t write you’re not a writer and it would greatly please me if you’d stop lumping yourself in with me.
If you want to be a writer (or a painter or a violinist or a whatever), you need to do the work. Can you imagine telling your boss you’re only going to come to the job when you’re in the right mood? Can you imagine being a violinist who has to be in the mood in order to practice or give a concert? Now I can procrastinate with the best of them, but I still write and being in the right mood has nothing to do with getting my butt in the chair and my fingers wrapped around a pen or hovering over the keyboard. It’s like getting gas when the car’s tank is low. If I don’t do it, it’s not going to get done and I’ll be stuck where I don’t want to be. I suppose one of the things that does drive me to write, or to fill up the gas tank for that matter, is fear. Fear that I will be stuck where I don’t want to be when, with some effort on my part, I could have gone anywhere I wanted. In the case of writing, I might not get there, but at least I would have been on the way and on the way is so much better than never heading out.
To do anything properly takes an effort. It takes practice and practice and practice and the desire to accomplish something, then more practice. It takes dedication and then some more practice, but the biggest and best perk of doing the writing is that you can call yourself a writer.
I am a writer.
If you want to be a writer (or a painter or a violinist or a whatever), you need to do the work. Can you imagine telling your boss you’re only going to come to the job when you’re in the right mood? Can you imagine being a violinist who has to be in the mood in order to practice or give a concert? Now I can procrastinate with the best of them, but I still write and being in the right mood has nothing to do with getting my butt in the chair and my fingers wrapped around a pen or hovering over the keyboard. It’s like getting gas when the car’s tank is low. If I don’t do it, it’s not going to get done and I’ll be stuck where I don’t want to be. I suppose one of the things that does drive me to write, or to fill up the gas tank for that matter, is fear. Fear that I will be stuck where I don’t want to be when, with some effort on my part, I could have gone anywhere I wanted. In the case of writing, I might not get there, but at least I would have been on the way and on the way is so much better than never heading out.
To do anything properly takes an effort. It takes practice and practice and practice and the desire to accomplish something, then more practice. It takes dedication and then some more practice, but the biggest and best perk of doing the writing is that you can call yourself a writer.
I am a writer.
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