Cable TV — the “love stories” channel, no less — had “The War of the Roses” on the other night. What a strange and wonderful movie. I loved it when I first saw it and I loved it the other night, but I know a bit more about marriage and divorce than I did then. At the time it was first out, a friend was going through a split no less painful than the Roses’, only without the Staffordshire dogs. He saw it before me; I asked for the 10-second review. He thought a minute and said, “Very true.”
There are some wonderful moments in it. I especially liked Kathleen Turner’s expression when Oliver reads her the note he wrote her when he thought he was dying, a very nice bit of acting-with-eyes. Man, KT was a dish back then (and still is, I suppose). I love the way she filled out a dress in unexpected ways, with natural breasts and the teeniest bit of tummy, all drowned out by those fine gams. And Michael Douglas, a truly unlikeable actor with a real comic gift. Why did he make such overwrought crap like “Fatal Attraction” when he does so much better with lighter material?
Here’s something else: I didn’t understand fighting over a house and its contents then. I do now. Alan and I will stay together forever, bound by our child and our Audubon prints. And our looooove, of course. Can’t forget that.
Big doin’s here at NN.C. More on that in a day or two. In the meantime, I had lunch with reader Mindy today, who presented me with a Barbie ornament for Kate’s Barbie Christmas tree, which went up recently. I have such wonderful readers; I believe her last gift was a hand-knit cotton washcloth, for NN.C’s cotton anniversary. Since we’re approaching birthday number four, I guess that makes Barbie ornaments the traditional tribute.
I plan to keep her around until 25. Silver, you know.