John Cazale *never* earned an Oscar nomination for a "Godfather" movie. People think this is nonsense. You can hear reverence in the voices of former cast-mates when they talk about Cazale. Who was this guy? Why is he important? He's rare for having appeared *only* in Oscar-nominated films. Both of the first two Godfathers, "The Conversation," "The Deer Hunter," "Dog Day Afternoon." That's his entire resume. His specialty was to portray weakness without judgment. So, for example, in the Godfather movies, he's a total mess--clearly--drunken, too pliable. Cazale doesn't sneer at Fredo at all. And he doesn't pity Fredo, or make Fredo a "type." He's simply a weak person on camera; he's so persuasive, you forget that he's different from the role he's playing. (I'm not sure the same thing is entirely, consistently true of Brando's performance.)
Cazale had ensnared Meryl Streep via Shakespeare in the Park. The two were doing "Measure for Measure." Meryl was a nun; Cazale was some kind of lunatic curate. There isn't obvious sexual tension in the script--from what I recall--but Streep/Cazale brought the tension. They sizzled. (You can see the poster for this show in "The Library," at the Public, a space in honor of Meryl Streep, paid for by Meryl Streep. The space was first to be called "Meryl"--but I guess this created too much potential buzz, i.e. an invasion of the actual Meryl's privacy.) Meryl and Cazale then did "The Deer Hunter" together--a performance straight men tend to cite as their favorite Meryl performance, perhaps because Streep is a docile wife in this role. (That year, "Deer Hunter" went up against another major Vietnam movie--one involving Jane Fonda--and the Jane Fonda picture took home a great deal of the "best acting award" glory. Unless you're Christopher Walken.)
Cazale died very early of cancer. Meryl nursed him till his death. Around this time, Meryl was also doing amazing things--rewriting the script of "Kramer vs. Kramer," for which she won her first Oscar, storming Broadway in "Trelawney of the Wells," teaming with Woody Allen in "Manhattan." Anyway, it's useful to focus on Cazale, when you're watching both early Godfather chapters--and amazing to think that this guy, such a chameleon, was not even among the many, many "Godfather" stars who won major recognition for their work, right after the movies came out.
***
I go on a journey.
Arnold Lobel's "The Letter" concerns Frog's valorous act. His beloved, Toad, is mired in despair. Toad never receives communication from the outside world. (Frog might observe that Toad is partly culpable for this state of affairs--given Toad's shut-in tendencies--but Frog wisely stays mum. Isn't Toad the character who refuses to get out of bed for an entire season, until spring is almost over? The character whose other moment of high drama is claiming he is "sick" and in need of a story? Does Frog ever get to host Christmas at *his* house? Do we ever see *Toad* venturing out on a snowy December day?)
Frog has a simple, cute idea for ending Toad's sense of isolation. He--Frog--will send to Toad some postal mail. A clever trick! Secrets and lies! Frog runs out--and, in the haste with which he plans his scheme, he makes a mistake. He entrusts the letter to the worst mail-carrier on the planet--the snail. (This may be Lobel's covert bitchy commentary on the low quality of the US Postal Service.) Frog had perhaps imagined that he would seduce Toad via this airy, valiant gesture--and that there would be wild love-making by sundown. But: no. The snail stalls and stalls. And stalls.
An inconsolable diva, Toad continues to show off his empty mailbox as evidence of the world's relentless persecution. Finally, Frog caves. He caves and tells the whole damn story. He even reveals the contents of the letter. ("I like being your best friend. From your best friend: Frog." Hot and heavy!) Toad is charmed; Toad understands that he is loved; and, like two characters in "Godot," the two creatures await the letter together (and, as far as I know, it never arrives, at least in the world of the story. We have to make inferences; we have to hope for the best).
This is a classic gay work of art, I'd argue, because it quietly rails against the madness and inefficiency of the world. (Think of David Sedaris describing his speech therapy lessons--"Peach Perapy.") Lobel's story relies heavily on subtext; when we say, "I never get mail," we are often really saying, "Please send me mail." When we say, "Just wait and there might be a surprise," we are often really saying, "Pull yourself together and stop whining." (Think of Julianne Moore in "Far From Heaven": "Oh, you're working late tonight? Many projects? That's not a problem. Not a problem at all!") And then the blend of empathy and subtle mockery seems particularly gay; Lobel loves Toad, who is, after all, a writer's act of self-portraiture; Lobel also sees that Toad is ridiculous. And that's all I experience when I read "Frog and Toad." The writer expels his various neuroses--at least for a short while--by making art. Tiny indignities become the stuff of deathless literature!
***
I go on a journey.
Arnold Lobel's "The Letter" concerns Frog's valorous act. His beloved, Toad, is mired in despair. Toad never receives communication from the outside world. (Frog might observe that Toad is partly culpable for this state of affairs--given Toad's shut-in tendencies--but Frog wisely stays mum. Isn't Toad the character who refuses to get out of bed for an entire season, until spring is almost over? The character whose other moment of high drama is claiming he is "sick" and in need of a story? Does Frog ever get to host Christmas at *his* house? Do we ever see *Toad* venturing out on a snowy December day?)
Frog has a simple, cute idea for ending Toad's sense of isolation. He--Frog--will send to Toad some postal mail. A clever trick! Secrets and lies! Frog runs out--and, in the haste with which he plans his scheme, he makes a mistake. He entrusts the letter to the worst mail-carrier on the planet--the snail. (This may be Lobel's covert bitchy commentary on the low quality of the US Postal Service.) Frog had perhaps imagined that he would seduce Toad via this airy, valiant gesture--and that there would be wild love-making by sundown. But: no. The snail stalls and stalls. And stalls.
An inconsolable diva, Toad continues to show off his empty mailbox as evidence of the world's relentless persecution. Finally, Frog caves. He caves and tells the whole damn story. He even reveals the contents of the letter. ("I like being your best friend. From your best friend: Frog." Hot and heavy!) Toad is charmed; Toad understands that he is loved; and, like two characters in "Godot," the two creatures await the letter together (and, as far as I know, it never arrives, at least in the world of the story. We have to make inferences; we have to hope for the best).
This is a classic gay work of art, I'd argue, because it quietly rails against the madness and inefficiency of the world. (Think of David Sedaris describing his speech therapy lessons--"Peach Perapy.") Lobel's story relies heavily on subtext; when we say, "I never get mail," we are often really saying, "Please send me mail." When we say, "Just wait and there might be a surprise," we are often really saying, "Pull yourself together and stop whining." (Think of Julianne Moore in "Far From Heaven": "Oh, you're working late tonight? Many projects? That's not a problem. Not a problem at all!") And then the blend of empathy and subtle mockery seems particularly gay; Lobel loves Toad, who is, after all, a writer's act of self-portraiture; Lobel also sees that Toad is ridiculous. And that's all I experience when I read "Frog and Toad." The writer expels his various neuroses--at least for a short while--by making art. Tiny indignities become the stuff of deathless literature!
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