"Some people embrace the idea of a cheap date, like a walk in the park or a chat over coffee, to build connection. For others, it’s dinner or nothing — preferably with a $200 minimumspend.... Riding bikes side by side through the city, [said Chester Martin, a 33-year-old musician in Brooklyn], is a 'slightly more elevated version' of going on a walk. And in case his date isn’t in the mood to ride her own bike, he doesn’t mind putting in extra work. 'The person I’m dating now is of the size where she can comfortably sit in the Citi Bike basket,' he said. 'I’ll just grab a bike, she’ll sit in the basket and we’ll go literally from, like, Brooklyn to Manhattan and just talk the whole way.'"
1. The Citi Bike rental agreement says "You may not exceed the maximum weight limit for the Bicycle (260 pounds) or the basket (17 pounds), and You may not otherwise use the basket improperly.... You understand the basket is not a child seat." But do you understand that it's not a woman seat? And how much does this teeny tiny woman weigh? More than 17 pounds I bet, but who knows?
2. "Once upon a time there was a woman who very much wanted to have a little tiny child.... so she went to an old witch.... 'Oh, we can manage that," said the witch, "there's a barleycorn for you!...'... [T]he woman... went home and planted the barleycorn; and very soon a fine large flower came up.... 'That's a charming flower,' said the woman, and gave it a kiss on its pretty red and yellow petals. But just as she kissed it the flower gave a loud crack and opened. You could see it was a real tulip, only right in the middle of it, on the green stool that is there, sat a tiny little girl, as delicate and pretty as could be. She was only a thumb-joint long, so she was called Thumbelina...."
3. Now, I don't know how well Thumbelina would do in Chester Martin's Citi Bike basket:
4. Be careful, Thumbelina! Shouldn't the musician take better care of you? Is this merely a "slightly more elevated version" of something else you shouldn't be doing? Don't you deserve a bigger "spend"?
"Keri Butler, executive director of the Public Design Commission that voted to banish the statue, at first tried to block the press from witnessing its removal. Butler relented after members of the mayor’s office and City Council intervened.
The commission also attempted to vote on the statue’s removal without a public hearing on the controversial move until The Post revealed the plan. 'Removing a monument without a public conversation about why it’s happening is useless.... The original bronze statue, by sculptor Pierre-Jean David, is still on display in the Capitol Rotunda in Washington, DC. The plaster replica was gifted to City Hall by naval officer and Jefferson admirer Uriah Phillips Levy in 1834."
I'm giving this my "destruction of art" tag because I don't like tag proliferation and it's close enough, like when I used my "San Francisco" tag yesterday for a post about Walnut Creek. The Jefferson statue isn't going to be destroyed. It's not even leaving public display. It will stand in the lobby and reading room of the New York Historical Society.
And is that even the Jefferson statue anyway? It's a plaster cast, painted to look like the bronze of the original. The original statue remains in the ultimate place of honor, the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Is New York City taunting Congress, daring it to go after Jefferson? That doesn't really help the Democratic Party, and that's something I like. It might be something approaching principle. The fact is, Jefferson owned slaves, so why should government endorse him as a symbol of freedom?
The worst part of what New York did was to act in darkness and shame — having a commission decide with no public hearing and attempting to ban press coverage of the removal. It was all about symbolism, so they ought to be proud of their choice and eager to proclaim the principle that drove them to break the long tradition of the plaster Jefferson in City Hall.
Wrote Maureen Dowd in August 2012, in a column I'm reading because in my previous post, about Dowd's current column, I observed that Dowd had been writing about the movie business for a long time and wondered whether she'd ever gone after Weinstein. She quoted somebody calling Weinstein a "master" at avoiding bad press by "giving to liberal causes."
So let's see what press Dowd gave Weinstein in the heat of the 2012 presidential election. That column — which begins with the sentence I've used as the post title — continues:
“You can make the case,” Weinstein said of Barack Obama, “that he’s the Paul Newman of American presidents.”...
Paul Newman, Dowd explains, was aloof.
[T]he president does not think people should expect too much in return for paying $35,800 for an hour of his time, as they did at the Weinstein affair, or in return for other favors....
“[Obama] realized that he could stir crowds while also thinking to himself that it was all a game and posturing,” [said David Maraniss, author of “Barack Obama: The Story"]. “He is always removed and participating at the same time, self-conscious and without the visceral need or love of transactional politics that would characterize Bill Clinton or L.B.J. or even W., in a way.”...
“His [will] is cool and [Bill] Clinton’s is hot, but they burn at the same temperature inside,” [Maraniss] said. “So he does some of what he finds distasteful, but not all of it, and not all of it very well.”
By the way, 60 guests paid $35,800 for the dinner at Harvey's.
There's not a whiff of negativity about Weinstein in this old column, which is about Obama's cool lack of interest in being "a glad-handing pol." The phrase "a glad-handing pol" seems to relate more to going out among the common people. At Harvey's, Obama was ensconced with the beautiful elite. I have to go to a different NYT article for this:
Among the guests were Anne Hathaway, who played Catwoman in “The Dark Knight Rises,” the new Batman film; Jerry Springer, the talk show host; Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue magazine; Joanne Woodward, the actress and widow of Paul Newman; Aaron Sorkin, creator of television shows like “The Newsroom” and “The West Wing”; and Gov. Daniel [sic] P. Malloy of Connecticut.
Mr. Obama made sure to single out Ms. Hathaway, who was wearing “a silver dress with puffed sleeves gathered from the elbow to the shoulder, and a tight bodice,” according to a pool report by Dave Boyer of The Washington Times. “She’s spectacular,” Mr. Obama said....
In her black-and-cream miniskirt and black Balenciaga hightops, [Leslye] Headland was a magnetic presence with a throaty voice and a booming laugh. She had a Nicki Minaj ring tone, ‘‘Truffle Butter,’’ and several movie tattoos: ‘‘redrum’’ from ‘‘The Shining’’ on her lower back; a line from ‘‘War Games’’ — ‘‘The only winning move is to not play’’ — on her left forearm; ‘‘How would Lubitsch do it?’’ in script on her right. Harvey Weinstein, for whom Headland worked as a receptionist and assistant, calls her ‘‘wildly talented.’’
The President's head is on the block, and the First Lady has never
looked more radiant. As her husband gets dragged through the mud by
bone-headed Republicans, she glows. She looks as if she's traveling with
her own pink baby spotlight.
Here she is on the cover
of Vogue, looking Hallmark happy and Hollywood glamorous. Here she is
making the flashbulbs pop, with Harvey Weinstein and Gwyneth Paltrow at
the New York premiere of Miramax's ''Shakespeare in Love.''...
Last Thursday she repaid the generosity of Mr. Weinstein, the co-chairman of Miramax who is a big contributor to Clinton campaigns and the Clinton legal defense fund. As Alex Kuczynski reported in The Times, the First Lady went to Mr. Weinstein's premiere and spoke in praise of ''my friend Harvey.'' Sounding very Tina Brownish, Mrs. Clinton raved about ''the buzz'' around Miramax, and said the company ''has done a great service.''...
And now, I've gone and done it. Seen a movie. Because I love the book. Because I, like millions before me, imagined that I would, through the magic of movies, really get to see what heretofore I'd only half seen — in the mind's eye. In my mind's eye, before I went to the movie, I saw the movie and it looked more vivid and real and panoramic than what the book made me see in my mind's eye. But now, I have seen that movie, and I know that what I saw on the screen was so far less than what the book made me see in my mind that I feel like a fool for not already knowing well, of course!
There are so many shots I could take at this movie. Robert Redford is too old — 79, when Bryson, in the book, is 44. The script departs from the story in the book in ways that are stupid and in ways that would might have been delightful if the movie, as originally planned, had reunited Redford with Paul Newman. There was intentional resonance with things like this:
But Newman died, and Nick Nolte took his place, and while I was amused by the I-think-intentional resonance with this...
... I was annoyed by all the forced buddy-pic humor that replaced the relationship that Bill Bryson described in the book. I expected the film to have the 2 men talking a lot, though in the book, it's quite clear that the men barely ever talk. But the banter was either boringly stupid — not the people in the theater didn't laugh on every cue — or stupidly profound — such as looking at the stars and deciding that we are very small. If only you could look at the protons, you could decide that you are quite huge. Or just read Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything:" and he'll make you see it in your mind's eye:
No matter how hard you try you will never be able to grasp just how tiny, how spatially unassuming, is a proton. It is just way too small. A proton is an infinitesimal part of an atom, which is itself of course an insubstantial thing. Protons are so small that a little dib of ink like the dot on this “i” can hold something in the region of 500,000,000,000 of them, or rather more than the number of seconds it takes to make half a million years. So protons are exceedingly microscopic, to say the very least.
"In my mind's eye" comes from Shakespeare. Here's a block of text from another Bill Bryson book, "Shakespeare":
Just a small sampling of phrases originally found in Shakespeare’s works include flesh and blood, bated breath, tower of strength, foul play, foregone conclusion, good riddance, dead as a doornail, fool’s paradise, heart of gold, Greek to me, fancy-free, devil incarnate, one fell swoop, for goodness’ sake, vanish into thin air, play fast and loose, eaten me out of house and home, elbow room, go down the primrose path, in a pickle, budge an inch, cold comfort, household word, full circle, salad days, in my heart of hearts, in my mind’s eye, laughing stock, love is blind, lie low, naked truth, neither rhyme nor reason, star-crossed lovers, pitched battle, pound of flesh, sea change, make short shrift, spotless reputation, set my teeth on edge, there’s the rub, too much of a good thing, what the dickens, and wild goose chase.
Must I get back to my list of many shots I can take at the movie "A Walk in the Woods"? They added sexual things (even though the movie is generally overly, stupidly "family friendly"). There was a sequence — completely made up — with Mary Steenburgen as the owner of a crappy motel, and she tries to put the move on Redford after he comes out of his room to the motel office to ask for towels. He's wearing a nice bathrobe and leather slippers. Who, going out on a months-long hike, would put a bathrobe and slippers in his backpack?! In the book-world of Bill Bryson, there is absolutely no chance that he would be unfaithful to his beloved wife or even that he would amuse us with the slightest thought of being unfaithful to her. The sexual temptation scene was just squicky.
The movie complicates the relationship with the wife — perhaps to give the actress Emma Thompson something to do. It has her opposing the trip and trying to scare him with gruesome information about things that could go wrong in the woods. But Bill Bryson, the author, absolutely loves to find out about terrible things that can happen and to amuse use with the details. It's almost the main thing he does, but the movie transplants that aspect of his character into his wife, making her seem like a female stereotype — fussy, fretting — and making him seem alienated from her — and like more of a male stereotype.
The movie is full of shallow references to a fear of death and even begins with a funeral — as if Bryson's reason for walking is that he's freaked out about dying and needs to act — act! — before it's too late. And Redford must act. He must act because he's an actor. We must see his face on the big screen, which is not as it appears in my mind's eye, but dominated by those awful Chicklet veneers that have replaced normal teeth among the pretty people and topped with something I want to call a "wig hat." I did not enjoy spending 2 hours surveying the landscape of his face.
I thought I was going to get to see the landscape of the Appalachian Trail — all those fine and varied views from mountaintops and within forests. Where was the detail? Where was the cinematography? What is the big screen for? As I said, there are so many shots I could take at this movie. But this is the deal breaker. Show me the Appalachian Trail!
At one point in the movie, early on, somebody disparages the idea of walking the Appalachian Trail by saying you could see the whole thing in a 4-minute video on YouTube. That's quite a taunt to us movie goers! We're stuck here for 2 hours and had to pay $10, and I bet that 4-minute video on YouTube gives us a better vision of the trail. What the hell am I doing here?
Or is it just me? I'm not eating eggs this morning. I breakfast on peanut butter and sesame seeds. But I'm in the middle of a long email conversation about eggs (in which the question has arisen: Is the medium-boiled egg the height of perfection on soft-to-hard-boiled continuum?)
IN THE COMMENTS: Eric the Fruit Bat said: "The hard-boiled egg is God's way of telling anybody who will listen that you don't have to be a fat fuck anymore. Ever sit down and eat a bag of Doritos? Cookies? M & Ms? A six pack of beer? Of course you did, you fat fuck. But nobody, ever, in the entire history of recorded time, has ever plopped his sorry fat ass down in front of a TV set and scarfed down a dozen hard-boiled eggs. Nobody." That got me looking for the "I'm gonna eat 50 eggs" scene from "Cool Hand Luke":
And — while we're on movies — Saint Croix said: "Hitchcock hated eggs. He was a total egg-o-phobe. When feminists say he was a misogynist, I say, no, he just hated eggs. In To Catch A Thief, Grace Kelly's Mom stabs an egg with her cigarette. Dr. Freud! Calling Dr. Freud!"
Said Robert Redford, who also reports that when he was 18, studying art in Italy and France, the women there did not find him attractive.
So — if we can believe that — even the prettiest pretty boy may still fall within the shadow of the old adage "You're only pretty as you feel."
Now, after years of recognition as incredibly good-looking — he's 77 — he says:
"And I guess the nice thing about getting older is that you don’t have that [beauty] quite so much anymore. I never had a problem with my face on screen. I thought it is what it is, and I was turned off by actors and actresses that tried to keep themselves young."
That face is the only face we get to see in his new movie — "All Is Lost" — in which he's (apparently) the only actor. I've seen the trailer. He's lost at sea. Tom Hanks is also having lonesome, though not that lonesome, trouble at sea in a big movie this fall, and Sandra Bullock is alone in a space suit, bereft even of gravity in a grave situation in "Gravity."
It must say something about us that we're being presented with tales of rugged individualists far adrift from any foundation. Did we ask for that? It's what Hollywood decided, back when this fall's movies were given the go, that we'd need in the Fall of 2013. There's no reason to give much credence to Hollywood's notion of who we are right now. Hollywood thought we were the Lone Ranger and Tonto last summer, and the people said no. Perhaps the Lone Ranger isn't lone enough for our alienated psyches. He had Tonto. Where's my sidekick? the public that shunned "The Lone Ranger" might have thought. How can we identify with his loneliness when he has Johnny Depp?
Robert Redford famously had a sidekick, Paul Newman, in the 2 movies that made him seem to be even more handsome than the already-impossibly-handsome Paul Newman — "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and "The Sting." And Redford did have another movie in the works with Newman — a movie version of Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" (my second-most-listened-to audiobook). Newman died 5 years ago, but now the news is that it will be made with the not-always-completely-cute Nick Nolte. If you know the book, you may agree with me that Nolte seems more like Bryson's "Walk in the Woods" sidekick Stephen Katz than does Paul Newman.
But Bryson's Katz — despite the distinctively Jewish name — is not Jewish, as Bryson reveals in his memoir of childhood, "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid" (my most-listened-to audiobook):
Some years ago when I came to apply a pseudonym to one of my boyhood friends, I chose the name Stephen Katz partly in honor of a Des Moines drugstore called Katz’s, which was something of a local institution in my childhood, and partly because I wanted a short name that was easy to type. Never did it occur to me that the name was Semitic. I never thought of anybody in Des Moines as being Jewish. I don’t believe anyone did. Even when they had names like Wasserstein and Liebowitz, it was always a surprise to learn they were Jewish. Des Moines wasn’t a very ethnic place.
Anyway, Katz wasn’t Jewish. He was Catholic.
You've come to the end of this longish first-post-of-the-day, and maybe you're wondering, What are we supposed to talk about now? The issues are: beauty, aging, loneliness, sidekicks, floating adrift without foundation, the extent to which Hollywood may know who we really are, and Where's God?
The Seven in the name is believed to be a reference to David's football number when he played for Manchester United and England, while the Harper could be referring to Harper's Bazaar magazine or perhaps To Kill A Mockingbird author Harper Lee.
When I think Harper, I think "Paul Newman is 'Harper'" — a 1966 movie slogan. Here's 1 minute and 41 seconds of Paul Newman as Harper, confronting Lauren Bacall in a tiny festival of bad acting:
I remember seeing this movie at the time. I was 15. I remember having the realization that I wasn't as good at watching movies as the filmmakers expected you to be. I kept having that why is he going there now? struggle to keep up with the elliptical editing and thinking other people in the audience somehow knew. They got it. It was cool that Harper knew where to go next. You knew and he knew. But I didn't know. I blamed myself.
Hopper took some cool photographs in the 1960s — cool not just because he had access to some of the celebrities of that era (Paul Newman, Jane Fonda, Bill Cosby, Brian Jones, Tuesday Weld, Andy Warhol, etc.).
The main advantage of the Pre-Obit over the traditional obituary is the knowledge of reader and writer alike that the as-good-as-dead people are still around to have their feelings hurt. It was a travesty of literary justice that we waited until J. D. Salinger finally hit the delete key at 91 before admitting that Catcher in the Rye stinks.....
Bea Arthur (1922-2009) performed a grievous disservice to popular culture by uniting two equally dreadful but previously discrete American types. In her portrayal of loud, Bolshie Maude, Arthur taught every angry feminist to be a common scold and every termagant housewife to be Emma Goldman. Once Arthur had become respectable by dying no one had the nerve to title her funeral notice “The Taming of the Shrew.”
Paul Newman (1925-2008) was not, in and of himself, a bad person. But he deserved to be damned to his face for lending charm to the smirk of liberalism. And after he’d become an immortal only a heartless writer would have pointed out that for an entire generation of young people, Paul Newman is, mainly, a salad dressing.
The pattern was set in the 1930s and ’40s by Edward G. Robinson (“Little Caesar”), James Cagney, George Raft, Humphrey Bogart and Paul Muni — all small men who usually played tough and cruel. Sometimes camera angles obscured the physical facts — Robinson looked absolutely huge as Wolf Larsen in “The Sea Wolf” in what can be called, without irony, a towering performance — and sometimes the camera just didn’t care as when, for example, Cagney regularly beat up men obviously twice his size.
Slightly later came John Garfield, and the smallest of them all, Alan Ladd who played big in “The Blue Dahlia,” “The Glass Key,” “The Badlanders” and who more than holds his own against Ben Johnson and a tree-like Van Heflin in “Shane.”...
Famously slight Paul Newman displayed his chest and pugilistic abilities in movies like “Somebody Up There Likes Me,” “Hud,” “The Long, Hot Summer” and “Cool Hand Luke.” James Dean would have made the list had he lived longer. Now aging tough guy-short guys (by short I mean under 5-foot-9) include Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper, Robert DeNiro, Harvey Keitel, Al Pacino, Mel Gibson, Jean Claude Van Damme and Sylvester Stallone, who created not one but two iconic American males, Rocky and Rambo.
And these days we have a bumper crop of undersized super heroes — Tom Cruise, Tobey Maguire, Mark Wahlberg and Robert Downey Jr., along with the occasionally macho Johnny Depp and Sean Penn.
Is there something comparable for women? Maybe we could make a list of women who have fairly average looks who play beautiful women on screen. My favorite example of this is Bette Davis in "Mr. Skeffington," where the raving over Bette's beauty occasionally crosses the line into the laughable. No man could resist her:
Ah, yes! I remember laughing out loud in the theater when she comes down the stairs and a man exclaims "Fanny! You look beautiful!" And check out that death-bed dialogue: "A woman is beautiful only when she is loved." That's what the plain women in the audience — next to the hubbies they dragged to the chick flick — long to believe.
We knew he was dying, but it is sad to know he's gone. I'll have more in a few minutes, but here's a press report. Please talk about your favorite Paul Newman movies.
ADDED: To tell you the truth, Paul Newman is an actor whose movies I often avoided, for some reason. Even though I was a very frequent movie-goer during his heyday, I never saw "The Sting" or "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." I never saw "The Color of Money" or "The Hustler." Despite my law career, I never saw "The Verdict" or "Absence of Malice" or "The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean." Reading over his list of movies, it seems as though I have been going out of my way to avoid Newman's movies. I don't know why. I thought he was an excellent actor, and he was certainly as good-looking as a human being can be. Perhaps it's that when I was quite young, I saw "Hud" and "Harper" and just didn't understand the point.
I've seen "Mr. and Mrs. Bridge," "Sweet Bird of Youth," "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," and "Cool Hand Luke." When I think of Paul Newman movies, that's the one I think of first, the emblematic Paul Newman movie, "Cool Hand Luke":
"I've got the words of Mary, assuring me that I won't go to Hell."
IN THE COMMENTS: Ruth Anne Adams asks: "Is your misquote an Episcopalian mondegreen?" Misquote? Oh, yes, it's "Virgin Mary," not "words of Mary." Episcopalian? More likely, Beatles.
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