Losing it at the movies

If I could do anything other than my current work, (you know, wave a magic wand and make it happen and all that), I'd go into pictures. Either as a screenwriter or a director.

I like what today you'd call indie films. Quieter, calmer flicks that make you think or make you feel or do something other than show off special effects. Oh, I like those movies too. But, really, all they are good for is selling popcorn.

I like movies because it's so different from my craft. The written word is something else, sure. But films are visual. They bring with them a particular sensibility, and hence a unique power, of their own.

Walker Percy, I think in his novel "The Moviegoer," said that while other people have memories of dates and parties and how the weather was, they have the cat running underneath Orson Welles' legs in "The Third Man." One can relate.

Had a bad sinus headache tonight. So after spending the day with my buddy Shelton and his familia, I headed on home with the intention of reading Cormac McCarthy. But I fell asleep on the couch. So now I'm watching movies.

First up, it's an interview, actually, with film director Ingmar Bergman, who died earlier in the week. I've not seen any of Bergman's films, although I have "The Seventh Seal" recorded and put "Scenes from a Marriage" on my Netflix list. Fascinating stuff.

If I go a few rounds with insomnia again tonight, I've also got Eastwood's "Unforgiven" on DVD to watch again. Maybe not his best work, but darn good.

What's my favorite movie?

Oh, you get asked that, and I gather it's akin to trying to answer something like "Who's your favorite child?"

I don't know. "True Grit," for sentimental reasons. "Casablanca," just because. "The Searchers." "Dr. Zhivago." "Rear Window." And a bunch of others.

Can't do it. Like eating those potato chips, can't name just one.

OK, back to the flicks. See you on the flipside.