Goodbye Solo
I met ML Spinrad at Yali's on Oxford street in Berkeley yesterday. He walked in just as I was finishing a letter. Yes, an actual handwritten letter that I will stamp and post. Imagine.
We had talked of seeing a matinee, of an afternoon, for several months, and of the documentary "Tyson" in particular. The 2:50pm show at the Shattuck would be the realization of our long sought aims. On a Friday no less. Life is good.
Both of us were excited for this film, which examines Mike Tyson's life and career. His is an amazing story, with all the elements of the modern tragic hero: childhood poverty, getting bullied, the wizened, gravelly-voiced trainer, the superstardom, the riches, the divorces, the ear biting. You'd be hardpressed to make this stuff up.
But while ML was at the Walgreens buying candy, I went to the ticket window only to discover: no 2:50 Tyson. Seems the schedule had changed that very morning. Our perfect plan foiled? I looked at the listings; nothing seemed good. In fact, only one film was playing that we could make in time. The 2:45 showing of "Goodbye Solo."
Wisdom is a cool thing when you apply it. I've certainly received my fair share in my 39 years, but it's the applying it part that can prove tricky. Lately, though, I've been getting better at this one piece, the kind that involves moving along with what is, rather than dwelling (oh, forever the dwelling) on what is not. In this case: seeing Tyson. The show at 2:50 was simply not an option. Move along, says the existential traffic cop. No rubber necking, son.
I walked away from the window and back out toward the doors to await ML and deliver this news. My mind was running the options. What would be our next, best play? Though disappointment kept popping into my head--I was geared up for the Tyson film, big-time--I kept having this thought: maybe we were meant to see something else. Maybe we were meant to see "Goodbye Solo." It felt like one of those moments when you know you should order the tasty vegetarian dish instead of the chicken parmesan, and just in the nick of time you do in fact order the veggies. And they're fabulous.
"The gods have cursed us," I said as ML approached. He gave me a quizzical look. "No Tyson." He frowned and his shoulders dropped, but only a little. Then, he brightened. It was the slightest cloud and his sun simply melted it. He seemed to have already made his peace with the inevitable. For some people, wisdom comes easy.
"We've got 'Goodbye Solo' at 2:45," I said. "You wanna see that?"
"Sure. That's actually another one I was interested in." For some reason, even as he was saying this, I knew this was the movie we would see. And it would be good.
The gods, in fact, had blessed us.
Like the dinner menu, films can be a weird choice. Fascinating character study or not, I was lamenting the fact that we wouldn't see a film in which (I imagine) there are lots of scenes of men pummelling each other. In other words: violence. Sure, it's a documentary, and one about a person I'm genuinely interested in. I also like boxing. So, it isn't Terminator Salvation violence and explosions, but it's still mainly about violence, pugilism and aggression, both in the ring and the world surrounding it. These are not in short supply in our culture.
Like eating your vegetables, sometimes it's good to go with the quiet film, the thoughtful film. Not everything is supposed to be Indiana Jones. At least, not all the time.
As the previews finished (good grief, like 7 previews, enough already) and the film started, I had competing impulses: a jolt of disappointment that this wasn't Tyson, and a flash of hope that because of this twist of fate, we were actually about to see something special. Something, perhaps, we may not have seen if not for this showtime switcharoo. Something, moreover, especially for the long-awaited matinee experience, that would fall in line with what my man ML, with whom I've talked at length about beautiful, quiet films like "Half Nelson" and "Old Joy," and I had wanted all along.
And indeed, "Goodbye Solo" was terrific. I hesitate to say much more, although I included the link above to the NY Times review which talks a lot about the film. I hope not too much. What I must say however is how delighted I feel, how edified and inspired, when seeing a film of quality and truth and complexity such as this one by Ramin Bahrani. Kudos to you, good sir.
Films like this allow me to consider the human condition and our cultural milieu in ways that make me feel compassion, actually experience it, in a way the aggressive films, sci-fi, action and comedy included, that dominate our screens never can. I'm encouraged to consider heartache, joy, disappointment, jealousy, happiness, confusion, serendipity. That is, I'm encouraged to consider real life, while also receiving the benefit of a story. I'm not actually experiencing these things, I'm watching characters do it, ones I don't know and might never because they live in different cities and different countries, but, when the tale is done, I do know them, like I know myself, like I know people close to me.
Goodbye Solo. Indeed.
***
After the film, ML and I walked across town back to Rockridge and to George & Walt's for a few beers and the Lakers v. Nuggets playoff game. Midway through our first pitcher of Stella Artois, we were approached by two elderly couples who wanted to fill in the four remaining seats at our table. Of course, we said, happy to have you. We didn't think much of it, in fact, were happy to have them with us, partly because they seemed so happy that we'd been so pleasant and welcoming to them. They ordered themselves martinis, and for most of their stay, we talked at short intervals. But occasionally they'd ask us something, or we'd include them in a conversation we were having, or they'd ask the score, and the interactions were very friendly. I realized how rare it is to be in a bar like G&W's, especially on a busy Friday night with big-time sports on TV, with people their age. Their absence is really rather sad. As Donne suggested, their absence diminishes me. We are all diminished by the lack of true diversity, and whatever forces are in place that make it rare for suchlike mingling to occur.
They didn't stay very long, and when they got up to head across the street to Rustica for a pizza, we shook hands and heartily bade farewells. I got a glimpse of what the good life might've been for them in their time, how people may have interacted in bars. Perhaps not all people, but maybe the overall vibe was more congenial than it tends to be today. One of the gents, who had sat next to me and told us about going over to the other couple's house one afternoon many years ago with a suitcase full of booze, and who, he confessed to me, drinks vodka martinis now because he can no longer take gin, tossed a $10 bill on the table in front of ML and me. "The next one's on me, boys," he said with a bright smile.
Man, that was cool. Thank you, good sir.
We had talked of seeing a matinee, of an afternoon, for several months, and of the documentary "Tyson" in particular. The 2:50pm show at the Shattuck would be the realization of our long sought aims. On a Friday no less. Life is good.
Both of us were excited for this film, which examines Mike Tyson's life and career. His is an amazing story, with all the elements of the modern tragic hero: childhood poverty, getting bullied, the wizened, gravelly-voiced trainer, the superstardom, the riches, the divorces, the ear biting. You'd be hardpressed to make this stuff up.
But while ML was at the Walgreens buying candy, I went to the ticket window only to discover: no 2:50 Tyson. Seems the schedule had changed that very morning. Our perfect plan foiled? I looked at the listings; nothing seemed good. In fact, only one film was playing that we could make in time. The 2:45 showing of "Goodbye Solo."
Wisdom is a cool thing when you apply it. I've certainly received my fair share in my 39 years, but it's the applying it part that can prove tricky. Lately, though, I've been getting better at this one piece, the kind that involves moving along with what is, rather than dwelling (oh, forever the dwelling) on what is not. In this case: seeing Tyson. The show at 2:50 was simply not an option. Move along, says the existential traffic cop. No rubber necking, son.
I walked away from the window and back out toward the doors to await ML and deliver this news. My mind was running the options. What would be our next, best play? Though disappointment kept popping into my head--I was geared up for the Tyson film, big-time--I kept having this thought: maybe we were meant to see something else. Maybe we were meant to see "Goodbye Solo." It felt like one of those moments when you know you should order the tasty vegetarian dish instead of the chicken parmesan, and just in the nick of time you do in fact order the veggies. And they're fabulous.
"The gods have cursed us," I said as ML approached. He gave me a quizzical look. "No Tyson." He frowned and his shoulders dropped, but only a little. Then, he brightened. It was the slightest cloud and his sun simply melted it. He seemed to have already made his peace with the inevitable. For some people, wisdom comes easy.
"We've got 'Goodbye Solo' at 2:45," I said. "You wanna see that?"
"Sure. That's actually another one I was interested in." For some reason, even as he was saying this, I knew this was the movie we would see. And it would be good.
The gods, in fact, had blessed us.
Like the dinner menu, films can be a weird choice. Fascinating character study or not, I was lamenting the fact that we wouldn't see a film in which (I imagine) there are lots of scenes of men pummelling each other. In other words: violence. Sure, it's a documentary, and one about a person I'm genuinely interested in. I also like boxing. So, it isn't Terminator Salvation violence and explosions, but it's still mainly about violence, pugilism and aggression, both in the ring and the world surrounding it. These are not in short supply in our culture.
Like eating your vegetables, sometimes it's good to go with the quiet film, the thoughtful film. Not everything is supposed to be Indiana Jones. At least, not all the time.
As the previews finished (good grief, like 7 previews, enough already) and the film started, I had competing impulses: a jolt of disappointment that this wasn't Tyson, and a flash of hope that because of this twist of fate, we were actually about to see something special. Something, perhaps, we may not have seen if not for this showtime switcharoo. Something, moreover, especially for the long-awaited matinee experience, that would fall in line with what my man ML, with whom I've talked at length about beautiful, quiet films like "Half Nelson" and "Old Joy," and I had wanted all along.
And indeed, "Goodbye Solo" was terrific. I hesitate to say much more, although I included the link above to the NY Times review which talks a lot about the film. I hope not too much. What I must say however is how delighted I feel, how edified and inspired, when seeing a film of quality and truth and complexity such as this one by Ramin Bahrani. Kudos to you, good sir.
Films like this allow me to consider the human condition and our cultural milieu in ways that make me feel compassion, actually experience it, in a way the aggressive films, sci-fi, action and comedy included, that dominate our screens never can. I'm encouraged to consider heartache, joy, disappointment, jealousy, happiness, confusion, serendipity. That is, I'm encouraged to consider real life, while also receiving the benefit of a story. I'm not actually experiencing these things, I'm watching characters do it, ones I don't know and might never because they live in different cities and different countries, but, when the tale is done, I do know them, like I know myself, like I know people close to me.
Goodbye Solo. Indeed.
***
After the film, ML and I walked across town back to Rockridge and to George & Walt's for a few beers and the Lakers v. Nuggets playoff game. Midway through our first pitcher of Stella Artois, we were approached by two elderly couples who wanted to fill in the four remaining seats at our table. Of course, we said, happy to have you. We didn't think much of it, in fact, were happy to have them with us, partly because they seemed so happy that we'd been so pleasant and welcoming to them. They ordered themselves martinis, and for most of their stay, we talked at short intervals. But occasionally they'd ask us something, or we'd include them in a conversation we were having, or they'd ask the score, and the interactions were very friendly. I realized how rare it is to be in a bar like G&W's, especially on a busy Friday night with big-time sports on TV, with people their age. Their absence is really rather sad. As Donne suggested, their absence diminishes me. We are all diminished by the lack of true diversity, and whatever forces are in place that make it rare for suchlike mingling to occur.
They didn't stay very long, and when they got up to head across the street to Rustica for a pizza, we shook hands and heartily bade farewells. I got a glimpse of what the good life might've been for them in their time, how people may have interacted in bars. Perhaps not all people, but maybe the overall vibe was more congenial than it tends to be today. One of the gents, who had sat next to me and told us about going over to the other couple's house one afternoon many years ago with a suitcase full of booze, and who, he confessed to me, drinks vodka martinis now because he can no longer take gin, tossed a $10 bill on the table in front of ML and me. "The next one's on me, boys," he said with a bright smile.
Man, that was cool. Thank you, good sir.
posted by jdawords at 12:56 PM
2 Comments:
That was a pimp move right there. I want to grow up to be like that ol' dude.
the bottomless pocket - everyone's fantasy. although in our old age, we're gonna have to throw down a hundo to cover a pitcher. nice yarn brutha james
Post a Comment
<< Home