That makes two of us. It’s hard to imagine a better film, though it could never be watched again. My cousin and I get lost in the plot a few times—maybe the whiskeys before and tall boys we snuck in were overdoing it, but we couldn’t be stopped. Oh, my credit card. Is greed good? Is Gordon Gekko a Jew? Does our young hero’s name really translate as Shia the Beef? Protégé, do not forget, of Indiana Jones. The title baffled me, then: Raiders of the Lost Ark. And what did it mean, Romancing the Stone? Because there is an eros in alchemy? Fusion as MacGuffin. When the tokamak is up and running at last we shall achieve a thread-count that is functionally infinite, and those sheets will be stamped with a graph on which a curve approaches the limit. How much liquidity do you need to get at least close enough to spit on the Real? Too big to fail. “There won’t be any history.” “The British, the Arabs, the Chinese.” I get how skyline shots are shots of people. But you can’t shoot that clipper-ship Gehry building in Chelsea without getting Bayview prison in the frame. You can’t shoot Wall Street without Ground Zero, the presence exerted by a hole is the one trope Oliver Stone comprehends. You chase the alligator, you get to wear the boots. Douglas is dying, even as he shimmers on the screen, the whole hexis of slicked-back hair and the cigars that killed him. He calls speculation “malignant,” “a cancer.” His daughter he’s named Win. Mine likes bubbles, too. So what’s on the walls at Goldman? We get Saturn Devouring His Children— Kirk, old titan-father—some Haring, one of those Richard Princes with a masked nurse. Art adorns. Tulips. “The game between people”—word. We're bills, buildings, atoms, bubbles, paintings—always together, ever apart. It’s so, so good, remember, Kathleen Turner has finished writing the book, and she goes out to the street and he rolls up through the midtown canyons astride his sailboat. [Quote some Tennyson here]. I sincerely hope he lives through year’s end.
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