Anthony Hopkins: "The Father"

Well, we liked "The Father." It's unusual. It's about a man who requires regular care (at least according to his daughter). The man has become forgetful; he is always misplacing his watch; he can't remember which country a loved one lives in; he sometimes feels that his dead mother is alive.

A new, young aide arrives; the father is moved by her beauty and becomes flirtatious. He claims to have once been a professional tap dancer. He wants a glass of whiskey.

But, also, the young aide reminds the father of another relative, who is clearly dead. ("Where is she?") This memory seems to trigger some anger--and the father lashes out. ("What's with your inane little laugh?")

Meanwhile, the father's advocate, Olivia Colman, smiles bravely through tears. No one on the planet is better at feigning the-brave-smile-through-tears.

Anthony Hopkins is so brilliant in this movie: difficult, charming, vulnerable, frightening, savvy, calculating. He finds the dignity in his character; he doesn't become cartoonish. And the writing matches his performance: It's a thrill to try to determine what is real and what is imagined, where and when a certain conversation might have happened, what is a memory or a dream, which face belongs to which player in the father's real life.

This is a movie to watch with Kleenex. Recommended.

P.S. Sondheim's "Follies" is the subject of three pieces in the NYT this week. "Follies" turns fifty years old this month. I appreciate the writing--which celebrates my favorite (I think?) Sondheim musical. The critics point out that Sondheim's parody songs ("Losing My Mind," "I'm Still Here") are actually stronger than the work Sondheim was parodying (Gershwin's songs, Arlen's songs). These pieces in the Times overlook some masterworks from the show: "The Road You Didn't Take," "In Buddy's Eyes," "Could I Leave You?" and "You're Gonna Love Tomorrow." Since high school, I've been especially moved by "Could I Leave You?" -- a detailed, Joan Didion-ish declaration of war. A woman considers her faithless husband. "Could I leave you?" ....She proceeds to take apart several small words, such as "you":

Your shelves of the world's best books....

And the evenings of martyred looks...

Cryptic sighs....

Sullen glares from those injured eyes....

Jokes with a sting...

Quips with a sneer...

Passionless lovemaking once a year....

The speaker looks at the verb "leave":

How could I leave....when I left long ago, love? (I had an affair.)

And, "leave" can take *many* direct objects:

You could leave me the house....

Leave me the flat....

Leave me the Braques and Chagalls and all that....

You could leave me the stocks, for sentiment's sake....

And ninety percent of the money you make....

Finally, the speaker looks at the word "could," and she admits it reminds her of her Divided Self:

COULD I leave you? Yes...

WILL I leave you?

Will *I* leave you?

Guess.....

Love, love, love that song.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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