It’s lazy of me to re-post a review only 40 days after the initial but I’ve done lazier things on a drizzly Sunday while sitting in a cafe. Rupert Wyatt‘s The Gambler is opening four days hence (on Thursday, 12.25) and I can’t think of anything else to post before driving into the city in the light snow and rain…a not-very-friendly December day.

“I know what this sounds like but Rupert Wyatt, William Monahan and Mark Wahlberg‘s The Gambler isn’t as interesting or eloquent as Karel Riesz, James Toback and James Caan‘s The Gambler (’74). It deals faster, flashier cards, but it misses the meditative soulful aspects of the Reisz-Toback version, which is partly to say it takes no pleasure in occasional wins and the power and glory of that.

“The new Gambler is almost entirely about staring into the abyss. Character-wise it delivers a relentless obstinacy and a smug-punk attitude in Mark Wahlberg‘s gambling-addicted character, and story-wise it furnishes a constant cycle of losing and doubling down and then losing a whole lot more, and then borrowing from ugly Peter to pay even-more-terrible Paul and so on. And it blows off those charming tidbits of Fyodor Dostoevsky‘s philosophy that lent a certain spiritual élan to the ’74 version.

If you’re paying any attention to social attitudes and etiquette among 25-and-under GenYs and more particularly to those raised in liberal educated homes, it’s almost considered rude to refer to anyone being of a particular gender. It’s not quite verboten to say “boy” or “girl” or “man” or “woman,” but it almost is. This goes hand in hand with an absolute taboo on any hint of homophobia or a less than fully accepting attitude towards omnisexuality. Everyone’s everything, man…oops, sorry. I was talking about this with old friends on Saturday night and then an hour or so later this photo popped up and it seemed to fit on some level. The striking Shiloh Jolie Pitt, whose features suggest an amazingly even-steven splicing of Brangelina, wearing a male suit and allegedly wanting to be one of the guys and be called “John”, etc. Cool, whatever, go with the times, etc.

During yesterday’s visit to Saugerties I stopped by the fabled “big pink” house to pay respects and take a couple of snaps. I’m speaking, of course, of the legendary abode where Bob Dylan and The Band recorded the Basement Tapes in ’67 and from which The Band’s “Music From Big Pink” album sprung in ’68.

And I must report the truth, which is that “big pink” is a lie — it’s not pink but a mild rose mixed with beige. Pink is pink — an eyesore color for girly-girls. Shocking pink, punk-hair pink, pink underwear, Angelyne’s pink Corvette, Elvis’s soft pink Cadillac from the late ’50s. And then there is the realm of rose, which is a gentler, somewhat earthier, more natural shade. Mix rose with a bit of fleshy soft biege from the women’s make-up counter at Bloomingdale’s and you’ve got the color of “big pink.” I understand that “big pink” sounds cooler than “big rosey beige” and that’s cool, but someone had to tell the truth and I guess it had to be me.

“Big pink” house at 17 Parnassus Lane in Saugerties, New York — Saturday, 12.20, 12:20 pm.