Classic romantic comedies follow this scenario: the hero and heroine begin as adversaries but are irresistibly drawn to each other; they overcome a series of obstacles and recognize that they belong together; their willingness to change—to discard the prejudices that kept them apart—denotes their growth as human beings and shows that they deserve each other.
Her house was a three year old’s drawing of a house—two windows on the second floor with two below to flank the door. On the porch a pair of supermarket tube and webbing chairs in case a guest or two dropped by plus one where she could lean way back, a coverlet across her knees when fall was in the air or she felt ill.
The shades she always kept exactly so, the ones above just low enough to hide her on her way to bed, the ones below up high to let some daylight in. Now that the house is empty as a drum, they’re every whichway like an old drunk’s stare, and somebody’s pinched the supermarket chairs.
Sweet Jesus, forgive me all the days I spotted her in one of them and slunk behind the trees across the street. A caller on her porch for all to see she would have rated with her trip to England on a plane, or winning first prize for her grapenut pie, or the day that she retired from the Inn and they gave her a purple orchid on a pin.
Or having some boy ask her to dance, or being voted president of her class, or some spring morning with her room all warm and sunlit waking up in Spencer Tracy’s arms.
You’ve gone AWOL and only Jesus can bring you back, not this poem that I began with the lie that we can overhear your laughter, not hubris or tears and rain. You are an ocean who’s left the nest of earth I thought you’d promised not to. The sky who folded up your blue tent and took off.
What remained, they packed off to flame. Before the day we sat to make your legend in the church, I could almost feel your curious, dare- devil spirit peel itself from the wall of death like a cartoon character and bop out to explore. So tell me what you learned. Is it possible to breathe astral, heavenly air?
And tell me. Was it worth it?— all that sturm und drang you pitched against our brother Death who’d rather work in secret—swelling, hemorrhage, collision of blood cells, collusion over charts, snarled traffic of the body, roads under construction, accident, the rampage of doctors to prevent the clever kleptomaniac from winning as long as possible. He could only steal your body. Which I miss, it’s true, oh god, true. The screen door you banged every afternoon, now silent.
The French film Caché (“Hidden”) is a stylish thriller tiptoeing around a psychological drama that lurks inside a political allegory. This is typical of the work of Austrian writer-director Michael Haneke (Code Unknown), who enjoys presenting confrontational films in which seemingly normal folks leading normal lives turn out to be not very normal at all. Caché, which won the Best Director Award at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, stars the enigmatic Daniel Auteuil and the luminescent Juliette Binoche as Georges and Anne Laurent. He hosts a television talk show about books; she is a writer who works in publishing—until an anonymous two-hour videotape interrupts their lives.
Adopting the approach of most movies made about the life of the notorious pleasure seeker, Lasse Hallström’s Casanova isn’t a biography but a free-form embellishment. It treats Casanova as a legend, a symbol—like Zorro.
My good neighbor of long standing said to me, You know, I think that old nursery rhyme, Row, Row, Row Your Boat, is the golden key To a successful life. Remember how it goes?
Oh yes, I said, but what about all those folks Whose boat is leaking, and their oars have Battered blades and split handles that pinch Their palms and splinter their fingers at every stroke, And as far as they can see downstream, There is crashing white water, great boulders And perhaps a fatal waterfall ahead?
Ah yes, he sighed. I pray for them every day. I pray earnestly that they can swim—that they Know how to swim, he said, pouting his lips Thoughtfully and nodding his white head. Yes, they must know how to swim.
Religion is often on display in professional athletics, with the exception of the National Hockey League. The few hockey players who are open about their faith buck a tradition of reticence or downright distrustfulness toward religion. Unlike professional football or basketball, many NHL players come from Canada or Europe, where the culture is much more secular and religious faith is closely guarded. There is also the suspicion in hockey that a person of faith might be too soft a player. Some hockey clubs make chapel services available, but far fewer than in professional basketball (Boston Globe, April 5).