Archive | Book Matters

Casting ‘He Wanted the Moon’

At the risk of sounding callous, Hollywood has always clamored for sagas about mental illness, especially when they’ve been books first. “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “Girl Interrupted,” “Silver Linings Playbook,” “Sybil,” “Ordinary People,” “I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can”: The list goes on and on. It’s not that all these movies are great (though I’m certainly fond of them). It’s that they possess all the key elements of a classic Hollywood weepie: Hero faces dark night of the soul; hero lives to tell the tale. But what of the hero who doesn’t live to tell the tale? Very few movies to date have told those stories, no doubt because they don’t offer the inspirational endings that fill multiplex seats. Continue Reading →

What We Owe to Mike Nichols

Mike_Nichols_1981_a_pWhen Mike Nichols died in 2014, the news was met by such an enormous outpouring of grief that it’s surprising that, in the eighteen months since his passing, the director’s cinematic legacy mostly has been overlooked. As is the case with the late, great Robert Altman, it’s as if no one knows how to approach Nichols’s immensely varied – some might go so far as to say uneven – body of work. Continue Reading →

The Mystery of Fungi

I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them.

I keep flashing on this quote from Thoreau’s The Maine Woods and then on this painting by Egon Schiele, and marveling over the splendid catastrophe that is human intimacy. I think it is because I bought wild mushrooms today at the greenmarket, and as I sautéed them with sherry and olive oil and shallots and thyme, I was struck by their great mystery. What hyperobjects fungi are, even in containment. And I thought of how everything wonderful and terrible about sex–that loud secret, that subcutaneous clamor–can only be viewed through this lens as well. I considered all this, and I considered the mystery of the bodies that I crave, and then I folded the mushrooms into a pretty risotto and poured myself a glass of wine. Middle age answers few questions but grants us the dignity of detachment. Sometimes.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy