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Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

John Cazale





John Cazale was an important actor who appeared in exactly five movies. You have almost certainly seen him in at least one or two of them.


To wit: he was in “The Conversation” with Gene Hackman, and in both “Godfather” and “Godfather II” (as poor doomed brother Fredo), and in “Dog Day Afternoon” (as sad-sack gunman Sal), and in “The Deer Hunter.” All five of these movies were nominated for Best Picture. Three of them won.


John Cazale was peculiar-looking, but strangely sweet, with a gigantic forehead. He was dying of cancer when he appeared in “Deer Hunter,” and the producers were thinking about replacing him, but Meryl Streep (who was his romantic partner at the time) threatened to leave the production herself if Cazale got booted.


And what would “The Deer Hunter” have been without John Cazale or Meryl Streep?


Strange how such a short career can make such a big impact. I mentioned him to someone recently, and she said: “Oh, he was amazing. He was in so many movies!”


“Only five,” I said.


“Only five?” she said, crestfallen. “It seems like he was in so many more!”


It does indeed.


Thursday, October 20, 2011

I hate purses: or, The lost art of conversation, and why it will probably remain lost

Hopper


 “I hate purses,” Apollonia sighed.  “That’s why I have so many of them.  I have a compulsion to buy them, and then I hate myself for buying them, and then I buy another one.”  She buried her face in her hands.  “It’s a sickness.”

 

 

“Do you have a pencil?” I said, pulling out my pocket diary.  “That particular gem is too perfectly twisted to go unmemorialized.  It needs to be written down.”

 

 

“You’d better not put that online –“

 

 

“Too late, babe.  Once you’ve said it out loud, it’s public domain.”  I mimed a butterfly springing out of my mouth and fluttering around the room.  “It’s everywhere now.”

 

 

“Great,” she grunted.  “You’re a regular Hedda Hopper.”

 

 

“I take that as a compliment,” I said.

 

 

“Except," Apollonia said, her eyes glittering, going in for the kill, "that she was more attractive than you.”

 

 

And this is how we spend our idle moments.

 

 

It’s a pity that this witty banter is lost; that’s why I like to note it down. 

 

 

And, kids, who even remembers Hedda Hopper anymore, except for Apollonia and me?

 

 

Happy Thursday.

 

 

(If you think of it, send Apollonia your old purses.  She hates them.  And, by that, I mean she loves them.)