The Outsiders I had never seen Coppola’s film of The Outsiders , for a number of reasons. It came after Coppola’s great period, and it seemed almost painful to watch a bad film from that great director. Also, I am averse to nostalgia of any kind, especially that of the 1960s (how grating was Across The Universe ?), a period by now mythologized into something that can be nowhere near its truth. There are, of course, exceptions, such as the Coppola-produced American Graffiti , but these films are usually set in a specific time and place as opposed to celebrating that time and place. Or perhaps there is no hard rule separating a nostalgia piece from a period piece, only a filmmaker’s restraint. In any case, the examples of ‘60s nostalgia pieces far outweigh the period films. I needn’t have been so skeptical of The Outsiders . It avoids nearly all of the pitfalls of a film of this type in its depiction of the lives and characters of a small group of rough kids from the wrong side of the tr
Popular posts from this blog
Now I am happy returned to my home, fleeting as it is, let the faithful be rewarded. Here is an update. (And let us rid ourselves of Dick Cheney, at least in this space .) My budget flight with Air India gave me some pleasant surprises. It was the largest airplane I had ever been on, a 747 with an upper deck, accessed by a staircase we passed on the way in. At long last, a flight with first class, which I had begun to suspect only existed in the movies. After some research into first class, because I couldn’t believe that executive class was the best thing there is, I discovered why people dedicate their lives to making money. It’s a different world up there, where people sleep comfortably and drink and eat gourmet meals and probably don’t even feel turbulence. That reminds me of a line from 100 Bullets , in which a bartender asks a slumming pub-crawler how it feels to move through life without any friction. I, of course, will be relegated to coach for a long time yet, but since I hav
A sandalwood post turns in a lathe as a smooth, muscular hand presses fine grit sandpaper into the recess between organic curves. Wood dust floats and warms in the afternoon sunshine of a cedar-planked workshop. Almond shells dapple the floor, islands in the sawdust sea. All will be swept up for kindling in the fire later to heat the soft cheek and vibrant beard of the woodsman as he cups a hot mug of tea, jojoba aroma rising in the steamy air. He eyes the wood that will be the table where his love will sit, where his love will be.