To feeling as to sight? or art thou but a
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
— William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Well, Shakespeare, he’s in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells
Speaking to some French girl
Who says she knows me well
— Bob Dylan, Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again
Movies that have meant something to me include The Godfather, Five Easy Pieces, On the Waterfront, To Have and Have Not, The Postman Always Rings Twice, The Day of the Jackal, All The President’s Men, School of Rock, Goodfellas, Walkabout, and Mulholland Drive. Ask me on another day, and I might give you a different, if overlapping, list.
Along with the words of William Shakespeare, PG Wodehouse, and Carson McCullers, and the words and music of Bob Dylan and Lucinda Williams, film is the golden thread that runs through my life. I remain captivated by some of the performances of Marlon Brando, about whom I have an enduring obsession, and of Jack Nicholson, among others — not their entire outputs, but those moments committed to celluloid that encapsulate something real, unexpected or exhilarating about the human condition.
I endlessly re-watch those films, mostly made between 1940 and 1980, that I first saw as a teenager — when, I suppose, my adult tastes and interests were crystallizing. American Hustle re-invigorated my interest in film and gave me confidence that Hollywood can still make real movies — and Amy Adams strikes me as the most interesting actor working in Hollywood.
I watch Casino over and again, beguiled by its verisimilitude, dialogue and performances — even if I think Robert de Niro has a surprisingly limited range. I like everything Billy Wilder ever directed, and also the early, funny Woody Allen films — and am still happiest at the movies, where all bets are off, and all dreams still possible.
FATAL VISIONS 