Storming out of a screening of Clerks II, movie critic Joel Siegel hollered "This is the first movie I've walked out on in thirty fucking years!" Gosh, I wish I had that option. Unprofessional, but feels so good.
I'm no movie critic, and when Richard and I watch something together I'm amazed by the stuff he sees--he used to work in film and tv. (The glamour jaw-and-name-dropping moment of my life came when his old friend Andy Davis called me and asked whether he should cast Annette Bening or Sigourney Weaver as the Warden in Holes. I went with Sigourney and made history.) Whereas I tend to miss as much as I see--it all goes by so quickly.
We saw The Lady in the Water the other night and he assured me I didn't miss much, though. It reminded me of the kind of book I've wanted to walk out on for the past thirty fucking years--the kind where it seems like the author is making it up as he or she goes along. Like a sculpture you try to finish by just slapping more and more clay onto it, rather than carving away at what you already have. When I read that the movie began as a story Shyamalan told his kids at bedtime (a genesis often stated for celebrity children's books, too) I shoulda known it would be trouble. As Zena Sutherland told me Ursula Nordstrom used to say, "you could read your kids the telephone directory and they'd be happy."