Sports columns generally generate more heat than light, which is fine: We'll settle for either right now in the Northeast, after a snowstorm left us without heat, light, phone, gas, news, water and peace of mind for five days and counting. I'm not thinking clearly as I sit down to write -- longhand, with a crow's feather, in sheep's blood, on the tanned hide of a dead squirrel. But for some reason the whiteout that led to the blackout has me thinking of the NBA lockout.
Here's a tip: If you see one austerely hopeless movie this year about a father and son wandering through a junk-strewn postapocalyptic wilderness as they struggle to fight off demons of fear, madness, and starvation, not to mention roving bands of cannibalistic killers, then by all means make that movie "The Road."
I had big plans for my first maternity leave, the nine blessedly unencumbered months I'd spend away from my teaching job. First, of course, I intended to love, care for, and play with my baby. But no way was I going to become one of those goo-goo-ga-ga new mothers who can't think of anything but their child. While my son napped -- I was counting on long naps -- I'd rent films and watch the news. Most of all, I would read books: glorious novels, gorgeous poetry collections, spellbinding biographies.
SLICES OF LIFE: So I'm walking in midtown yesterday listening to "Lost Along the Way" by moe. on my iPod. And there lo and behold is the Bear Stearns building. It's gray and grim. There's this pervading gloom in the air. Then I hit JP Morgan's headquarters, the old Chase building and folks going in there are walkin' fast, looking down at their shoes. Not a happy time all around. Except. Except, I truck over to Fifth and suddenly, SMILES. Why everyone here one block away is all-aglow. Shopping and having a blast. What gives?
In "No Country for Old Men," the Coen brothers' masterly film of Cormac McCarthy's 2005 novel, a professional killer lugs around an ungainly contraption, a pressurized air canister with a strap, a hose and (at the end of it) a metal prod. It's the kind of stun gun they might use in a slaughterhouse.
For a festival celebrating its 60th year, the Cannes Film Festival proved mighty frisky. Sure, a handful of the 21 international titles in competition were dolorous arthouse tush-testers - but enough films pleased, entertained and touched a viewer that Cannes 2007 turned out to be memorable.