jumpingfish

We sat in the dark theater at Alamo Drafthouse watching the big screen.  Trudy was eating her fish and chips and drinking a beer.  I was devouring a BLT sandwich and relishing the luxury of hot french fries and ketchup. We were there to see the Coen brothers’ True Grit.

This is my report, such as it is.

1. Mumbling

I hear the complaints are coming in that Jeff Bridges was mumbling, that his lines were garbled, that he was indecipherable. Hogwash. His was a brilliant rendition of Rooster Cogburn and a creative hat tip to John Wayne, who might not have garbled his lines as effectively as Bridges but was without doubt a mumbler extraordinaire.

Anyone who has trouble understanding Bridges delivery has trouble with accents in general and in my way of estimating isn’t from around these parts. I suspect that the complaints issue mostly from back East, where bloodlines and enunciation evidently runs purer and clear.

2. Staccato Phrasing

The dialog by the other characters was altogether of a different sort. We were often laughing at lines that by themselves probably didn’t warrant a chuckle. Yet the combination of the words and the staccato delivery made the whole theater laugh. Something like: “Hark, what light thru yonder window breaks—it is the dawn” meets J.R.R. Tolkein’s archaic-sounding English meets “Howdy pardner.”

They didn’t talk like that back then. I mean the rowdies in the hills with rotting teeth, scars on their faces and six-guns at their side didn’t talk like that. It was pure artifice. And it worked. Much like color in a comic book cell distorts reality for effect, much like Wham! Bam! Pow! is a worn cliche, the color and cliche of this dialog created an atmosphere for characters who were, in any event, bigger than life.

And there you have it. Hats off the the brothers Coen.

Not exactly traditional romantic fare for a Valentine’s Day, but fun was had by all. The beer and fries were great, we enjoyed the movie (especially the dialog), and it’s far too late for me to be up writing this, as I’ll be on the road early tomorrow.

So let’s call it quits, shall we?

“You didn’t really think he was going to step down, did you?”

My heart was black. I felt like a heel. How could I have let the cheering and the flags and the singing and chanting lead me to believe in change, lead me to believe that something good can happen there?

That was yesterday.

Today, on Friday, on the evening of the day of prayer, under the glowing lights of Tahrir Square, the square is packed. The people are jubilant. They are cheering. They are chanting. They are singing and screaming and whistling. They are jumping up and down. Cars are honking their horns. The flags are waving furiously back and forth.

Mubarak has resigned. The people have brought the regime down.

It is too early for tears, for there is so much work to do. Yet I am in tears. And I know I am not alone.

It’s 19 hours GMT, and Al Jazeera is covering live what is sure to be one of the great events of the early 21st century.  What amazing coverage. I had given up on journalism.

“After seventeen days of protest, excitement is growing.” And as far as you can see, they tell us, every street leading into Cairo’s Tahrir Square is packed, and still the people are arriving.

The cheering and clapping and whistling of the crowd sounds like a great football game. From this distance you can hear the joy in their shouts. And the energy. And the anticipation. And the hope. They are waiting.

“Yalla! Yalla!”

Bring him on. Let’s hear him say he’ll leave.

The room was glowing red.  Red balloons were hanging from ribbons from the ceiling. And there were red valentines. From back to front. From left to right, ribbons and balloons and valentines hung over the tables, dangling over the heads of the seated diners.

“One for dinner?” a waitress asked.

“Two,” I said. “My wife is outside on the patio.”

“Follow me,” she said as she grabbed two menus.

“Looks like Valentine’s Day came early,” I said to the manager as he walked by.

“It’s been Valentine’s Day since January first,” he mumbled.

“Ah yes. We live from one holiday to another.”

“Yes we do.”

The man walked up to the counter at the end of the long, warmly lit room. A couple was sitting in some overstuffed chairs in the corner, but otherwise the place was empty.

The clerks looked up as he approached. They had been talking and stopped as he got near. He smiled, but they just looked at him without returning the favor.

“Well, I’m not coming in for coffee this time,” he said.

This time. It had been many months since he’d been there. He tried not to let it show, but they were still not smiling, and he felt busted.

“I’m curious if you… Do you have any coffee grounds? You see I’m planting strawberries and…”

He felt like a panhandler: Need help. Will work for coffee grounds.

“Actually, we do have grounds,” one of them said. “But there’s this other couple…” and he held up his hands in a what-can-I-do pose.

“Oh I see. No, that’s just okay,” the man said, glad in a way that at least their grounds go to a good home. He smiled as he backed, up waving and then turning to leave.

“Do you want to stop at Starbucks?” his wife asked when he got into the car.

He didn’t want to. Somehow he felt a bit odd about the whole thing. He asked if she would. She said no. Maybe he’d try again on the weekend. The strawberries would have to wait.