Thu 04 Feb 2010 |
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I love my book club. That's The Geez Louise International Book Club to you, bub. AKA "GLIB." And I beg to differ with Motoko Rich, who writes in the Times ("The Book Club With Just One Member"), that there is a "different class of reader" — people who are more serious about reading — who don't join book clubs. People who feel that "their relationship with a book is too intimate to share with others." HA! Actually, I don't beg at all. I loudly proclaim my right — and the right of book clubbies everywhere — to differ like hell! Our book club consists of the usual suspects: Louise (hence the Geez), Betsy, Sharon, Diana and me. We had Silvia, but when she moved back to Italy, we kept International in the title. Because we could. We are (or were) all involved with publishing — as writers, editors, consultants, and yes, even publishers. We all love books. We lived for them, literally.
But that was then, and this is now. I still stay up late reading, but I use a book light. Now that I think of it, though. . . flashlights were a favorite prop of Nancy Drew, whose books my company produced for over a decade, although she usually used it for detective work. Nancy very conveniently had no mother and a very indulgent father, so only Hannah the Housekeeper could stop her from staying up all night with her favorite novel. If Nancy had wanted to use a flashlight, Hannah would have brought some extra batteries and some freshly baked cookies. That women, bless her heart, was a real pushover. Now, The New York Times may think that my love for Nancy (shared by Justice Sotomayer, among many, many other prominent women) makes me unserious about reading. Unserious! Moi! You wouldn't say that if you saw my apartment . . (Go to Read More) The Secret in The Old Bookcases My home is crawling with books of every description, not just in the bookcases, messy and overflowing, but everywhere: on almost every flat surface, even the floor. They are as much a part of my life as the two M's: Martinis and Mallomars. More, even. Honest.
But other than rare editions, I like to share my books. Not just physically, although I lost track long ago of what I've given to whom. Sometimes I ask that the book be returned; more likely I don't. I love the idea that my books are out there in world, making new friends. And I really enjoy discussing books with the group. As an editor, Mathew Bucher, says in the Times piece, "I still read the book at home at night by myself with one lamp. (But) the next day it does enhance my experience to talk about it." Yes. Yes it does. Sort of agreeing, grudgingly, with Ms Rich for a minute: I do have a few books that speak to me in a way I cannot for the life of me explain: Aunt Julia and The Scriptwriter (beyond quirky), The Book of Common Prayer (I don't even know what the title means), White Noise (Well, that's an acknowledged masterpiece). And I do hesitate to suggest these books to the club because I'm not sure what everyone else will think. Maybe I will be hurt if they don't like them. Like they'd be badmouthing my best friend or something. What I really like is finding someone — by pure chance — who is equally enamored of one of "my" books. But rather than feeling "a twinge of "no fair, that's mine,'" as Rich says, I get very excited by the discovery that someone else loves the book I love, and I want to know why. When it comes to the books I love I can be truly clueless. Why this book? Why me? Could it be like love itself: inexplicable and mysterious? Well, hell, Valentine's Day is coming. Will any of these books be expecting cards? Meanwhile, I look forward to the next meeting of GLIB. Discussing, digressing, arguing, agreeing, figuring out which salad and/or sandwich to split (we meet for lunch) and yes, digesting, the food and the book. We don't do wine, but maybe we should. In vino veritas and all that. The insights might flow more freely. Or the disagreements. Oh well. As long as we talk about the book, I'm good. Although it's no secret that there's always a little girl talk (we're females) and gossip (we're human). The real mystery about my book club is how hard it is get these people on the same page. I mean, I know we're all busy, but really. Setting up a meeting and getting everyone to attend it is like organizing the Geneva Convention. But if you're out there, Sharon, I got Louise's email and the 9th is good for me, too. And yes, Diana & Betsy, we're meeting on the West Side this month. And just in case the lighting is bad, bring flashlights.
DO YOU HAVE A BOOK CLUB? WOULD YOU EVER? WHAT'S YOUR TAKE ON THIS? |
Like Ms Rich, as a child I read books by flashlight, or even the light of the radio. I knew there were secrets in those pages (They were!) that the grownups weren't telling me (They weren't!). The experience was all the more delicious for the naughtiness of it all.
I even have this first edition of Nancy Drew, signed by Mildred Wirt Benson, the intrepid original author of the series who didn't get all the fuss (she just wrote some books), and wanted to talk to me about why they wouldn't let her fly solo just because she was 92. Wotta woman. If Nancy was our fictional hero, Mildred was a real life role model.
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Bitter Patter
Friday the 13th
Came and went.
I bought a lottery ticket
And didn't win.
Reread
THE 13th FLOOR
To remind myself how lucky I am.
WENT FISHING!
Well, eating fish anyway.
And swimming, although not with the fishes in the Uncle Nunzio sense.
Back from the Caribbean.
But don't be TOO jealous:
My tan has already faded.
Besdies, before we left, I had to go through
THE ELEVEN STAGES OF PACKING
Which is not for sissies.
Just got a call from
(Gasp!) the dental hygienist.
Hasn't she read:
A DEVOUT COWARD
GOES TO THE DENTIST
Do NOT Google Santorum.
I warned you . . .
Just as I posted I WAS THE GIRL PHANTOM, I found a website called The Ghost Who Blogs about The Phantom comics:
http://falkonthewildside.blogspot.com
Writing Comics. . .
Was a small but wonderful part of my checkered career, and doing a post about it brought back a lot of great memories. If you know any other women in NYC who wrote — or are writing — comics, tell me how to get in touch with them.
I'm on a watching-old-movies kick these days.
Great way to lose yourself.
If you're lucky, you'll never be found.
REVIEWS TO PERUSE
I'm All Right, Jack:
"Jack" is not just all right, it's totally delightful and fresh as a daisy after all these years (made in 1959), with Sellers, although not technically the lead, giving the brilliant performance that launched him as an international star. He plays an all-too-zealous union leader and father of a blonde bombshell who falls for Stanley, the British Upper Class Twit played, also to perfection, by Ian Carmichael, who you might remember from the Lord Peter Wimsey series. The makeout scenes between the the Twit and the Bombshell are priceless. But what is Stanley doing in this working class atmosphere anyway? Working. And too well at that. Forced by financial circumstances too dreary to discuss, he gets a job in his uncle's factory and messes things up for the other workers by, well, working, and thus making his fellow employees look bad. The film takes a big shot at unions — but also at management: they are manipulating white-collar thieves who'll do anything for a buck. Or a pound. Except for the ones, like Major Hitchcock, played by Terry Thomas, who are just plain lazy and inept. Needless to say, Stanley foils everybody's plans, labor and management alike, to my great joy and delight. Oh, and on top of everything else, Margaret Rutherford plays dotty dowager Aunt Dolly. Delicious!
The Big Lebowski:
What can you say that hasn't been said before: brilliant, inspired, with some of the most memorable lines ever to come out of a movie, the most quoted being "The Dude abides." Oh yes. For anyone who hasn't yet seen the film, and it's now out in a special Blu-Ray edition if that floats your bowling ball. The Dude in question, played to perfection by Jeff Bridges, is an out-of-work pothead who is roughed up and has his rug destroyed by some thugs mistaking him for another, bigger, Lebowski. The Dude is really upset about this because, man, "that rug really tied the room together," which The Dude says with all seriousness and not a trace of irony, a great comic touch considering the condition his condition is in. Oh, and besides "Just Dropped In," all the music is perfect for the film. The plot, according to Wikipedia, which has been known to be wrong, is "loosely based on Raymond chandler's novel, The Big Sleep." Could be. But who cares. It involves a bowling competition, "the occasional acid flashback," a trophy wife, a group of German nihilists, a kidnapping gone awry, a mad millionaire and his lackey, in another great performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Actually, they're all great performances. Never a fan of John Goodman before or since, he is brilliant in this film. And so are John Turturro, overacting his little heart out, Steve Buscemi in a nerdy, needy role that makes you marvel at his star turn in Boardwalk Empire, and even the actors in the smaller parts, especially Julianne Moore and Sam Elliott. Elliott plays The Stranger (God? Everyman? The part of us that roots for the bad boy?) who elicits from Bridges the immortal words, "The Dude abides." Which prompts The Stranger to comment to the audience: "Don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals." We'll never know about the bowling trophy because there's never been a sequel to this 1998 film by the great Coen Brothers, and I hope there never will be. It just abides, as all great films do.
Prince of the City:
Okay, the criticisms of this movie are not totally unfounded: it's too long, and Treat Williams may have overacted a bit, although I found him so deliciously charming I couldn't care less, and there's one part concerning the Jerry Orbach character I just didn't understand. But get over it, The New Yorker, this is one powerful movie. And yes, Dog Day Afternoon it isn't, but what it? The DVD has a great special feature with Williams (I so want to call him Treat) and Sidney (what the hell: I once made a meatloaf sandwich for the man) that explains a lot about filmmaking in general and this movie in particular. Also, Sidney's views on good and evil, and how things are not so black and white as you think. I loved it.
Bad Day At Black Rock:
Recommended on TCM by Robert Osbourne as a film he originally had no interest in seeing, then loved it, and by Alex Baldwin, who pointed out the great actors in the cast, including Lee Marvin, Ernest Brognine and Dean Jagger. Well, after all that, I had to like it, right? I did. A lot. It was a Good Day On My Couch.
Behind the Scenes Stuff: Spencer Tracey was off drinking and wouldn't commit to the film until the producers (who wanted him desperately) told him that they had Alan Ladd, at which point Tracey grabbed it. He was perfect for the part, wearing a dark suit and tie the entire time in a western setting, pulling it off perfectly. Other than that "fashion statement," the film makes a strong case against racism: the hatred of the Japanese during WW2. See it.
Song of The Thin Man:
I usually like these frothy, silly, suave, utter unrealistic films from the 30s and 40s, with William Powell and Myrna Loy as the couple we'd all like to be — if only we had the looks, brains, money, a huge capacity for drinking and a dog like Asta. But this one was a stinker, rather than a stinger, or maybe a sinker, because it turned out to be the last, not to mention the least, in the series. Watch any of the others four sequels, but not this one: Even the pooch jumped the shark.
The Children's Hour:
It had its moments, and just looking at Audrey Hepburn makes life worth living, but mostly I kept thinking that the play, by Lillian Hellman, was so much better. It's about two young women runing a school for girls, who are accused by a hateful little brat of being (GASP!) lesbians. And although the closest we get in this 1961 production to using that actual term is the word "unnatural," it's enough to ruin their lives. A young Shirley McClaine is worth seeing in this, and James Garner, and Audrey Hepburn is, well, Audrey Hepburn. The rumor of the love that dare not speak its name is totally untrue — or is it? And I'll say no more, because you should see the movie for yourself, imperfect as it may be, as is Life Itself.
by martinis alone,
I like this blog:
grapesandgreens.blogspot.com
BITTER PATTER
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Comments
I have started the book yet, but I have downloaded it on my new Kindle. I feel like a bit of a traitor, since the book publishing industry has been very, very good to me. How does one balance loyalty and convenience??
Anyway, I digress. When is the#*&#! meeting?
Love your blogs!!!
I just saw performance of Paula Poundstone. She had us laughing about the Hardy Boys series.
Do you know where can I see that Paula Poundstone routine?
I enjoyed your post very much, because Nancy Drew books were one of the reasons I got hooked on reading. Someone gave me the whole set when I was younger and I read every one up to where they had been written. So many more have been written that I couldn't keep up with them.
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