Keitel and DeNiro are still at it, here, still dusting up. What’s that first scene of Mean Streets all about? Recall: Keitel starts from sleep, sits up in bed (taut in his wifebeater), gets out (crucifix on the wall), crosses to the mirror—what’s gotten into him? Back to the bed, gets in, lays back, his head hits the pillow as: Boom-ba-Boom-Boom— “The night we met I knew I needed you so…” Ronnie Spector’s voice, once heard, ruins him forever, and us, too—it’s the popular itself, the ecstatic everywhere sound poor Jesus never heard, or maybe He just wasn’t listening, “Be My Baby” surely played at the Annunciation.
Erica and I are cracking up—turns out the name “Focker” sounds like a swear, and it kills us every time someone says it. The plot involves an ex-spy (DeNiro) with a genealogy traced back to 1643 who keeps unflagging watch over gay/feminine/infantile wandering-Jew Stiller. Jessica Alba (Machete) plays the year’s second or third viagra rep—it’s hard to keep track. All right, Father, we know you’re still virile, we know your giant focking thingy rules the world.
Knock knock, Who’s there?, Owen, Owen who?, Owen Wilson, Oh Christ why didn’t you say so, man, get in here, bro, I’ve been worried about you, I’m here for you, I get that stressed-out, headachy feeling too, looking at the city and thinking, how long till the damn dirty bomb goes off? But you made it this far. I get it—a pit in the world’s cheek, half-freed already from the chunk of luscious melon that’s all’s between you and getting spit. Hold on a little longer, bra, what’s magical about a pavilion is that it’s temporary, momentarily grand, suggestive of ruin even as it shrugs ruination off, it comes down somewhere and goes up somewhere else. Blue Valentine next week…at Angelika…
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