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Last night Jan and I watched Something’s Gotta Give: Jack Nicholson, Diane Keaton.
Jan loved it, kept saying, “You’ve got to admit, it’s cute.” Translate: I know it’s a chick flick, but. I kept my mouth shut. But this next morning I have to share a thought. A common denominator for chick flix slid into my head like butter melting on toast. Box office relates to a shared pretense that all is well in this world. Discrepancies between theory and practice are more aparent than real. God’s in his heaven, merit ascends, white people are right to have big houses in the Hamptons. Authorities don’t lie. Myth and truth mesh. There’s no Jesus suffering on the cross.
That’s my point. I’ll add stuff as a scrapbook over time.
By the mid-‘Eighties I was proclaiming to the spheres that Jack Nicholson is a national treasure. He cannot overact, cannot be overused: a little chub is fine. (Maybe I especially relate to him because we’re the “same” age: he’s a year older: we’re both from NY … Witches of Eastwick, bravo bravo, was 1987 … He was fifty(ish), that worked. The tub having heart attacks in Something’s Gotta Give is mid-sixies: that’s a little bit different, and we’ve seen it before: so many times.
Diane Keaton: she was one of the girls that Woody Allen used to get, from a time when I didn’t object quite so strenuously to Woody Allen being near any girls of any description …
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