As a kid, I spent countless hours drawing up maps of imaginary civil wars, feuding statelets marked by jagged lines on printer paper. I’d have these make-believe polities fight, draw arrows to signal invasions, and mentally play out cartoon versions of on-the-ground violence. When I wasn’t doing that, I’d spread playing cards across bedroom and hallway floors, shaping units and formations out of twos and tens, sorting armies by suit and value (I learned to play poker when I was... Read more
I’ve lounged the beaches from San Juan to Cinque Terre, but I prefer a brisk. day and a thick jacket. No sunblock for me. Outside my window at this moment, snow is stacked a half-foot high. Soon my dogs will beg to go out (bellies full of snow as they are. At least they had fun). My Slavic skin isn’t made for intense heat and direct exposure; my complexion (and my mood) fare better with early nights, deep darkness, and... Read more
I have become a man, undertaken a solemn duty impressed only upon film critics, fathers, and husbands. These reviews are read by fewer people than live in the Falklands. I have no children. My wife brought me before the audiovisual altar to drink deep from the cup of her childhood. I watched The Devil Wears Prada (2006). David Frankel (directing) and Alina Brosh McKenna’s Anne Hatheway and Meryl Streep-driven adaptation of a novel about publishing, fashion, and the gosh-darned American... Read more
Toward the end of writer-director Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous (2020) the teenage Rolling Stone reporter and the band he’s been following for most of the movie suddenly hit an electrical storm while flying around on tour. The mood, tinged by regret and failure before they leave, swings back to joviality only for the storm to coax confessions out of the imploding band. They hate each other. Each lets the others know they’ve slept with their wives and girlfriends. William Miller... Read more
Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole (1951) effects a miracle. Its protagonist, Charles Tatum (Kirk Douglas), is a low-down scoundrel, a reporter (but I repeat myself) fired from eleven positions across nearly every American market. His crimes run the gamut from boozing to adultery, though what’s never gotten him fired is his eye for scandal and his talent for embellishment. Now, he finds himself him Albuquerque, working for a newsman whose office is plastered with signs that remind reporters: “TELL... Read more
Life is filled with mundane, almost invisible negotiations. Some are external: who is going to take the dog out? Does this shirt look nice? What’s the timeline on getting this done? Who’s going to send the email? Did you remember to order the cat litter? If not, I will. Others, shaded, internal: did I leave the candle burning? When will I have time to pick up the dry cleaning? Am I busy that day? Do I want to tell them... Read more
Ten years ago, two friends and I holed up in a cabin in Woolwine, VA, a town whose claims-to-fame are three covered bridges (one of which was destroyed by a flood in 2015). We hailed from suburban New Jersey. At least two of us called red sauce “gravy.” Poorly planned, as a trip composed of late-teen and 20-year-olds would be, we arrived during a frigid, barren winter. Aside from getting found out the first time we stopped for a hot... Read more
Curses are a nasty business and generational ones infinitely more so. It’s easy to call a catastrophe or two bad luck, but when enough ill has befallen you over a short enough period of time, it won’t be long before you start calling Eugene from Hey Arnold! (1996-2004) fortunate. Today, we call this natural enough reaction “depression” or “generational trauma,” but these more enlightened monikers were not available or only in their infancies in the long-haired 80s and 90s, when... Read more
Trying to write about Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander (1982) leaves me feeling a bit like Moses coming down from Horeb (or Sinai; take your pick). It blinds me, reduces me to ash and dirt and filth. The movie says what it says. Any attempt to reduce it to mere words is a betrayal, a bit of flim-flam best left to a monograph, if left to anything at all. Yet I’ve got this silly promise, an engine for self-improvement (or... Read more
George A. Romero’s Martin (1977) does for the vampire film what Night of the Living Dead (1968) did for the zombie flick. Here, there is demystification. Just as Romero’s more famous films avoid Haitian witch doctors and talismans with mystical powers, so does Martin reject any of those old, bloodsucking stereotypes. Martin (John Amplas) himself spends hours calling into a radio show, laughing at the idea that he has a seductive hypnotic stare, that garlic can stop him in his... Read more
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