There’s something hugely joyful about reuniting with my mail-order John Wayne Red River brass belt buckle. The fact that I’m happy to once again have it in my possession means, of course, that I’m just as much of a racist swine as Wayne was during his lifespan, and has nothing to do with my loving the 1948 Howard Hawks western (which, as the buckle points out, was actually shot in ‘46).
If there’s one thing that today’s director-writers don’t seem to want to do and generally avoid doing for the most part, it’s letting the audience put two and two together. (The seventh screenwriting rule according to Billy Wilder or more precisely Ernst Lubitsch). Most filmmakers don’t like the idea of Joe and Jane figuring stuff out — they’d rather just spell it out in so many words.
I’m driving back to Connecticut this afternoon, having spent almost a full week at Jett and Cait’s home in West Orange, hanging with the dogs and trying to keep warm. A balmy 45 degrees now…unseasonably mild temps for the next few days.
I have a few posts in mind (more on A Man Called Otto, a riff on the origins of Weimar era anti-Semitism, Billy Wilder’s screenwriting wisdom) but not until I’m back in Wilton, I guess.
Meanwhile I’m suffering from a slightly acidic stomach and popping Pepto Bismol chewables every hour or so. I don’t like this — my health has been perfect my whole life.
