So you sit down to write and look what happens: Shh. “The Godfather” baptism scene is coming on AMC. I need to watch it for the seven millionth time.
Look at baby Sofia, playing the infant. So beautiful, hands like little starfish. Let’s see if I can spot a detail I missed the first 6.99 million times. …OK, here’s one: All the anointing, all the hands laid on other bodies — this I never noticed before. Cicci gets a barber’s shave with hot cream, the baby gets the holy oils, Moe Greene’s masseur rubs him down with…probably witch hazel, back then. No faggy essential oils in the ’50s.
Michael Rizzi, will you be baptized? I will. I still get a chill.
The good-vs-evil Mafia montage is a cliché now. Done well, as David Chase did with the season-ending “Sopranos” episodes, it’s an homage, but mostly it’s just a cliché. But like the song says: The original is still the greatest.
As always, when I watch a little Godfather, I wonder what happened to Al Pacino. How did Francis Ford Coppola rein him in? His whole performance is delivered via the eyes, and look what happened when you took those away, made him a blind man — “Scent of a Woman,” that’s what.
It’s just as well cable TV delivered, because I have little for you today. The steady lengthening of the days is no longer a rumor — “be home by dark” gets Kate 45 minutes more freedom than it got in December, but, perversely, spring seems further away than ever. Fourteen degrees at the moment, bright sun, a glacier-glasses sort of day. I’m working on a piece that’s a real bolus, and every find-new-motivation strategy I deploy just feels like procrastination. Time to put the modem in the freezer.
But there’s plenty going on in the world, just the same. Out for discussion: Is Hillary finished? I’m especially interested in hearing from you Buckeyes, as that’s the next battle, and it’s make-or-break for her. Here in Michigan, the dumb-ass Democratic party is trying their best to start an insurrection; the power players are trying to figure out a way to deliver the now-you-see-’em-now-you-don’t — all of Michigan’s perhaps-mythical delegates — to Hillary. The very hint of such a coup makes Alan kick the baseboards and vow to vote for McCain if they even dare to think such a thing, but then, he voted for “uncommitted” in January. I guess I don’t have a leg to stand on, having chosen a strategic Romney vote last month.
What is rickrolling? (This baby is not played by Sofia Coppola.) The Church of Scientology, rickrolled. A more clinical explanation. I used to dance to that song in aerobics class. Not as bitchin’ly as the original Rick, however. Ha.
I don’t care how Barack Obama talks, as long as he can pronounce “nuclear.”
Time to return to my bolus. Sigh.