Goodbye Mr. Newman

I’m certain I can’t add anything new to the Paul Newman conversation. And yet, I feel compelled to interrupt regularly scheduled blogging to make note of his passing. My world stopped for a moment when I heard of his death. I was at a park decorating for my son’s birthday party when my BlackBerry buzzed. I scrolled through my email while scattering confetti, and opened a message from one of my closest friends. The first line read, “There’s something about Paul Newman dying that’s very very sad to me.” Until then, I didn’t know he’d died, as I’d been devoted to cupcakes and treasure hunts for the previous 24 hours. The news winded me. It’s strange, really. I didn’t know him. I haven’t seen all his movies. I don’t even use his salad dressing. Still, I echo my friend’s sentiment that a world without him feels . . . different somehow.

Books Are Going To The Dogs

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve probably heard Oprah announced her (adopt a loud, deep, excited voice and show the whites of your eyes) NEW BOOK CLUB PICK! It’s The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. Oprah’s site describes the book as an “epic” novel about the “kinship between people and dogs.” Today I received an e-mail from Oprah, commanding me to “Show Us Your Sawtelle Dog!” The e-mail goes on to explain, “Author David Wroblewski wants you to create your own image of a Sawtelle dog so much that he won't even reveal what breed his own dog is! So, what does a Sawtelle dog look like to you? Is your dog one?” Apparently, “for generations, the Sawtelles have raised and trained a fictional breed of dogs,” described as having a “thoughtful presence.” I admit, I haven’t read the book. Ok, I admit I haven’t even bought the book. I’m still consumed entirely by I, Elizabeth (the English have won the war against Spain and now Elizabeth can concern herself with more domestic affairs, like executing those who don’t ask her permission before marrying. And she's getting old, so now I've started picturing Judi Dench. Go figure.). I admit I tend to cringe when faced with the prospect of settling in with a “dog” book. Ever since I had my first bout of deep depression after reading Where The Red Fern Grows, I’ve steered clear of the canine literary genre. I will read this book, though, if only because the entire world will be talking about it and I’d like to join that conversation. For the time being, however, having not read the book, I can’t say what a “Sawtelle dog” looks like to me (so, in an act of doggie-owner narcissism, I've posted a photo of my Husky, Misha). But I am interested in the question itself. No doubt this book will be made into a movie (first-time author, Oprah stamp of approval, animals and kids . . . I’m sure a script is already in the works). And if the breed of the dog is not revealed in the book, what kind of dog will be used in the movie? Dollars to doughnuts whatever breed is picked, people will be disappointed, having already created their own vision.

Cast Away

My older son is learning about homophones—words with the same sound but different meanings. What word describes both a shiny object you wear on your finger and the sound a bell makes? Ring. What refers to both a drink and the last name of a fool-pitying, gold-chain wearing, Rocky-punching, over-exposed 80’s cliché? Tea/T. You get the idea. So, it occurred to me as I was helping him with his homework, that the word “cast” has multiple meanings. According to dictionary.com, it means, inter alia (sorry, that’s a fancy schmancy law school Latin phrase for “among other things” that has become part of my lexicon): (1) to throw off or away; and (2) to allot a role to (an actor). When I started this blog, I intended to discuss the intersection of movies and books. “Cast” in “Cast That Book” carried the second meaning. But a book I recently finished has prompted me to explore the first meaning . . . to throw off or away. I’ve read a number of books over the years that I wanted to “cast” into the trash can, off my bedside table, out the window of a moving train. Lately, I’ve been lucky in my literary explorations; maybe because I tend to read books recommended by trusted friends or reviewers. I also feel safe dipping back into the well of an author I know and love, an author who has proved himself or herself to me before, an author like Pat Conroy or John Irving or Amy Tan or Barbara Kingsolver or…usually…Isabel Allende. Oh Senora Allende, how it pains me to complain about one of your books, especially after recently spending a glorious week immersed in Zorro. But complain I must. I just finished Portrait in Sepia, the companion book to the marvelous novel, Daughter of Fortune . . . and it was . . .uh . . . not good. That’s harsh, I know. I originally wrote, “and I didn’t enjoy it,” but that’s not accurate. I’ve “not enjoyed” my fair share of books, but still appreciated and even recommended them. Pillars of the Earth, in all its paternalistic and violent glory, comes immediately to mind. Portrait in Sepia, on the other hand, felt lazy and chaotic, the literary equivalent to making an entire second movie out of deleted scenes. It’s a slim novel by Allende standards, and yet it never seemed to end. I didn’t identify with any of the characters (thrown together like reheated leftovers), because none of them had a strong voice…even the narrator. In fact, the narrator was . . .well . . . boring. She was a witness to murder, orphaned, and stuck in a loveless marriage and yet . . . boring. She didn’t move the story forward; rather, the story happened to and around her. Further, the translation seemed clumsy. (The only good parts were, well, the “good” parts, if ya know what I mean….Allende knows her way around a fictional bedroom). Had I read this book first, I’m not sure I would have picked up another Allende novel, which would have been a travesty. If you are new to Allende, please, cast this book aside and pick up another (Daughter of Fortune, Zorro, House of Spirits). You’ll thank me.

Back On My Soapbox

Gwyneth Paltrow was on Oprah yesterday. She's got a smokin' post-baby body that she actually admits working hard for (2 hours a day, 6 days a week). She's got mid-length shiny blond hair, an infectious smile, warm eyes, and a calm yet energetic presence. And she loves good food. I ask you, my friends, why isn't she playing Elizabeth Gilbert in the screen adaptation of Eat Pray Love?! Don't get me started....

God Save The Queen Blanchett

I’m knee deep in I, Elizabeth by Rosalind Miles . . . which is to say I’m 280 pages into the hefty tome. I cannot put it down, not for yoga, not for movies, not for a walk with the dog. (I will not set it down in the house; I would not drop it for a mouse…) I might be enticed to set it aside if Colin Farrell showed up in my bedroom, just maybe. It isn’t simply that the book is interesting and beautifully written…it’s also that if I put it down for more than a day, I will have to start over. There are scads of Lords and Ladies and Duchesses and Dukes and Earls and Queens and Dowager Queens and Lord Protectors and Council members, and if I don’t sit court with them daily, I will forget who they are and why they’re important. To make matters even more difficult, as their positions change, so do their names. An Earl of Sussex or Essex or Fed-Ex named Bob might become Duke Wellington or Colonel Sanders overnight. This can get terribly confusing, especially for me, who for years thought John F. Kennedy and Jack Kennedy were two different people. I’m not so good with names. Thank goodness Miles includes a family tree at the beginning of the book. Above all the identity-shifting power grabbers, however, Elizabeth (whose name changes, as well, from heir to bastard to most honored sister, etc.) rises and shines. She is interesting and smart and beautiful and savvy. She has a knack for self-preservation that modern politicians can only dream of. And she looks like Cate Blanchett. At least in my head, she does. I saw the movie Elizabeth only once, right after I took the bar exam. As you can imagine, I was a little loopy, and the details of the movie didn’t stick with me, stuffed as my head was with the rule against perpetuities and exceptions to the statute of frauds. But apparently Cate’s performance made an impression. I haven’t thought about it in years, but as soon as I started reading I, Elizabeth, I pictured Cate Blanchett as the fair virgin Queen. Perhaps because she, too, is smart and beautiful and savvy. I applaud you, Ms. Blanchett, for embodying the role in such an indelible manner.

Perfection

Wow...I feel like it's been an eternity since I last wrote. In my defense, my 5 year old son broke his arm a couple of weeks ago and we've all been adjusting. He's in a hard cast, now, so I don't feel like I have to follow him around and shield his soft splint with my body. In fact, the cast is proving so durable, I wonder whether we should, as a prophylactic measure, cast all children's arms, legs and foreheads until they're about 7 years old and understand some basic things...like the laws of gravity, cause and effect, and corresponding action/reaction. Yes, I tend to be a bit overprotective of my children. I can't imagine what it would be like to try and protect my son as one of the last persons left on Earth after an apocalyptic event, like the father in Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer prize-winning novel, The Road. (See how I worked that segue?)

I read The Road earlier this summer, and I still find myself moved by it. I admit, I haven't read McCarthy's other books, so I don't know if all his writing is like this, but I was blown away by his stark prose. The language itself mirrored the landscape in the novel. And never before has the word "okay" been weighted with so much meaning. In case you don't know, The Road follows a father and son as they travel to the coast through the charred country, hoping to find food, redemption, some sign of goodness... The world is covered in ash, the sun doesn't shine, and there are roving bands of cannibals. (McCarthy never says what caused the apocalypse because it doesn't really matter, but I picture a meteor collision, like the one that did in the dinosaurs.) The father's lungs are giving out, but he presses on, teaching his son to be the keeper of the fire...the fire representing the goodness of humanity. They don't say much to each other, but their affection for one another is apparent, as is the father's single-minded desire to provide for his child and keep him safe, while also instilling in him a sense of dignity and honor. He wants everything for his son that I want for my sons, just pared down to the minimum for survival. He's not concerned that the boy play nice on the playground, make the right kind of friends, or eat enough broccoli--he's concerned that the boy not get roasted over a spit, take a human life, or starve to death. I could write an entire thesis on this book.

I'm not sure that I pictured the father and son as I was reading, but somewhere around the end of the book, I got it in my head that George Clooney had signed on to play the father. I was convinced I was right. And I wasn't upset. I thought, "I could see that. He'll need to dirty himself up a bit, but maybe this is his Oscar role . . . something to appeal to his intellectual side before he loses more brain cells in Ocean's Infinity." I think I may have even told people Mr. Clooney had signed on. He hadn't. I'm not sure he was even mentioned for the role. Where did I come up with that? I'm blaming it on the go fug girls, who mention their "intern George" so often he permeates my thoughts (although I suppose if I didn't refresh their blog approximately once every 37 minutes, maybe it would help). The point is, George Clooney is not playing the father. Instead, it's the best casting I can imagine...Viggo Mortensen. I'm so excited - though I'm not sure excitement is the proper emotion for a post-apocalyptic roving-cannibals film. But can't you just see it? One of the most still, present actors of our time in a stark, bleak drama with little dialogue...it's perfect. Think about it...he's played a quiet wanderer in charge of small ones before...a Ranger to be precise . . . and the result was Middle Earth nirvana.

Whoever cast him, give yourself a pat on the back. Was it you, Mr. Clooney?