These photographs showcase a classic Buick Riviera parked against a picturesque backdrop. The car, exuding vintage charm with its sleek body, gleaming paint, and distinctive rims, is from the mid-1960s, probably 1965. In the background, there’s a stately building with white pillars and large windows, framed by well-manicured lawns and towering trees. The scene evokes a sense of nostalgia, as if the car has traveled through time to grace this modern setting with its presence. The play of light and shade further enhances the timeless appeal of the image. And, yes, we really do have dark blue shadows in Southern California.
Well tie me to a cactus and call me Prickly Pete, it seems this Nick McDonell fella has ruffled some feathers with his new book that’s part memoir and part critique of the hoity-toity upper crust.
Now I ain’t one to judge a book by its cover or a bloke by his bank account, but it does raise my eyebrows a smidge that ole Nick lays bare how much moolah he got paid for scribbling his personal reflections, even as he aims to interrogate the entitled elite he was born into like a baby blue blood. Makes me wonder if his conscience is as heavy as his wallet after cashing that fat check.
From what I gather, Nick regales us with tales of his rarefied upbringing among the impressively pedigreed – schmoozing at Harvard, crewing on yachts, and mixing with Ivy Leaguers whose folks have more money than Scrooge McDuck. He winces at the memories like he’s swallowed a lemon peel, making sure we know his eyes are wide open now to the highfalutin hypocrisy of exclusive clubs and such.
But some reviewers grumble that Nick’s personal stories don’t pack much of a revelatory punch or dig deeper into the whys and wherefores of elite entitlement than a kid shoveling sand on a beach. Shoot, I reckon Nick’s just doing what a fellow naturally does when he wakes up one day and realizes the cherry privileged bubble he grew up in maybe wasn’t the whole pie. No sin in feeling conflicted about your gilded youth once them golden blinkers come off.
Yet the cynical side of me (and Lord knows I’ve nurtured that ornery cuss) can’t help noting that Nick is monetizing hisnewfound conscience just as surely as he’s milked his status since his diaper days. He may have left the plush parlors of privilege for the straight and narrow, but cold hard currency didn’t get left behind. The more things change the more they line the same pockets, or so it seems to this plain old tax-paying Joe.
But who am I to judge? A man’s gotta make his way and Nick’s found his – scribbling about the good ole boy networks with one hand while cashing their checks with the other. At least the public’s getting a glimpse behind the brocade curtain of the upper upper crust, even if Nick’s personal revelation seems more soft whimper than deafening bang. But there’s value in coming clean about your conflicted past, and in reminding the pedigreed that their privilege casts a mighty long, deep shadow. Here’s to more light finding its way in, and a few more conscience-scrubbings all around. Now where’d I stash my copy of The Great Gatsby?
End times . . . White moisture from a hurricane in California and gray smoke from the NW wildfires. Plus, the Los Angeles area just had an earthquake.
In the freshly uncorked trailer for Focus Features’ “The Holdovers,” we see the wine-rich reunion of director Alexander Payne and his muse of ‘Sideways’ fame, Paul Giamatti. But don’t raise your glass just yet. Whereas “Sideways” swirled with notes of bitter introspection and merlot-infused comedy, this upcoming affair seems, at first glance, to be a lighter pour, a nuanced blend of the idiosyncrasies of New England prep life and the velvety undertones of human connection.
As the camera pans, there stands Giamatti, with his signature hangdog demeanor, playing Mr. Hunam — a prep school professor who seems more suited to a Truffautian world of contempt than a snow-covered New England haven. He’s the instructor you avoid eye contact with, the one whose reputation precedes him, manifesting in the subtle tightening of the lips of both students and faculty alike. His winter sentence? Babysitting the left-behind students during the break.
Yet, as the snow blankets the old school grounds, so too does a potential warmth creep into Hunam’s heart. When Angus, a young ember glowing with a rebellious spark from a turbulent home, and Hunam find their lives intertwined, it becomes an almost Dickensian exploration of two souls converging in the frosty twilight. “I find the world a bitter and complicated place,” Hunam intones, every syllable dripping with Payne’s brand of weary wisdom. “And it seems to feel the same way about me. I think you and I have this in common.” Ah, a seasonal brew of Yuletide redemption.
For those expecting another Payne-esque cynical jaunt, “The Holdovers” promises something more — not just a road trip through vineyards but a journey of spirits amid the winter snow. One can’t help but anticipate a tale that, like a good wine, balances its bitterness with notes of unexpected sweetness.
What’s The Holdovers About?
In the freshly unspooled trailer, the school’s waifs and strays left behind during the Holidays get tagged as “the holdovers.” Isn’t it just the aptest term? Those leftovers of society, of family gatherings, those uncorked and unfinished bottles left on the periphery. Mr. Hunam, played with a gnarly gusto by Giamatti, is a kind of holdover himself – perhaps not so much left behind as consciously avoiding, a self-imposed exile from yuletide cheer. The prep school, usually a bustling Eden of education, stands bleak and desolate during Christmas, and here we find Giamatti’s character, grumbling and stumbling in his solitude.
But Payne, ever the alchemist of human relationships, doesn’t let the man wallow for long. Enter Angus, a tempest in the teapot of a 15-year-old, played with raw, frenetic energy by the fresh face, Dominic Sessa. The lad’s fire juxtaposes deliciously against Giamatti’s ice, and one can’t help but be reminded of a moody New England landscape, painted in chiaroscuro. Thrown into this mix is Da’Vine Joy Randolph, the school’s head cook, marinating in her own tragedy — the loss of a son to the distant lands of Vietnam.
There’s an art to blending flavors, both in cuisine and in life. This film, it seems, will dish out both — sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, and always richly layered. Would it be too cheeky to expect a cinematic feast? One waits with bated breath and a palate piqued for intrigue.
Details
Last year, Focus Features, with their discerning eye, clinched the distribution rights at the celebrated Toronto International Film Festival in an expansive deal with the mighty Miramax.
Payne, the maestro of nuanced human tales, draws from the inkwell of David Hemingson’s script, an undoubtedly robust foundation. And one can’t discuss the film’s genesis without tipping their hat to the powerhouse troika of producers: Mark Johnson, Bill Block, and Hemingson himself, with the keen oversight of executive producers Andrew Golov, Thom Zadra, and Chris Stinson.
Mark your calendars and prep your critique, darlings: “The Holdovers” graces select theaters in the culture hubs of New York and Los Angeles come October 27. If you’re not in those epicenters of art, fret not. A limited release is set for November 3, crescendoing to a nationwide curtain rise on November 10. While waiting, satiate your cinematic appetite with the latest trailer just a click away.
Picture this: Sinclair Lewis, the hard-hitting word slinger of the American novel and playwriting scene, so intertwined with his portable typewriter that he hauled the damn thing with him on his honeymoon in 1928. It’s like the guy couldn’t leave home without it.
You’d think his fresh spouse, the razor-sharp journalist Dorothy Thompson, would’ve called foul. But no, she just shook her head and laughed. Love’s strange like that, I suppose.
Despite the romantic allure of newlywed bliss, our man Sinclair managed to sneak in a little keyboard time. Yeah, he’d hole up right there on the steps of their caravan, a custom-built beast that stretched seventeen feet from bumper to bumper. They’d packed this metallic cocoon with all the amenities of a cozy bungalow—think snug living room, a fully-stocked kitchen, all the usual stuff. They were, after all, embarking on a summer-long odyssey through the rolling green landscapes of England and Scotland. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?
The caravan, it seems, was designed with everything a wanderlust-struck couple could need for a three-month tour. Well, almost everything. In a comedic twist of fate, the architects seemed to have missed one critical detail—no damn typing room! But when you’re Sinclair Lewis, anywhere can be a writing den. And that, folks, is how you churn out magic in the face of life’s charming absurdities.
Now, imagine this: You’re Sinclair Lewis, hunkered down on the steps of your caravan, churning out literary gold on your portable typewriter. And, let’s be honest, maybe these sessions were a welcome breather from the euphoria of newlywed life. A bit of solitude to refocus, reaffirm your commitment to the written word. Sounds like a slice of nirvana, doesn’t it?
Just as things were starting to get comfy, a curveball. A letter from a female fan lands in your mailbox, and boy, she’s got an offer that’s hard to ignore. She’s throwing herself at your feet, promising to play the role of your secretary. And she’s not just talking about typing up manuscripts and fetching coffee. No, she writes, “I’ll do everything for you – and when I say everything, I mean everything.” Now that’s dedication. You can practically hear her batting her eyelashes through the page. (One might speculate that her interpretation of “everything” might extend as far as topping off his whiskey glass.)
Dorothy Thompson’s response to the wannabe stenographer:
My dear Miss:
My husband already has a stenographer who handles his work for him. And, as for “everything,” I take care of that myself — and when I say everything, I mean everything.
Dorothy Thompson (Mrs Sinclair Lewis to you.)
And so it goes.
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