1 CORINTHIANS 13:11

 

My fascination with the convertible model of the Bentley automobile goes back nearly three quarters of a century. The dream took on even greater significance when, at 21 years of age, I was finally given the opportunity to drive one.

It was the fall of 1959. Then a recent graduate of the University of Southern California, I was working in the MGM mailroom, my first job in show business. I had been married since that January of my senior year and the upcoming Labor Day holiday provided enough time off from my new job to allow my new bride and me to take advantage of an invitation to come to Seattle, for a weekend visit with her paternal grandmother and her uncle’s family, the Langs of Washington State.

It was at Seattle’s posh Olympic Club where my wife’s uncle arranged for my introduction to the oyster. Later, I was taken on a tour of the family car collection. It was an impressive assemblage and the beginning of a great weekend.

For three straight days, when I was not pounding back the mollusks, I sat serenely behind the wheel of Uncle Richard’s 1959 Bentley Continental convertible. My love affair with the Bentley automobile goes back to that long-ago holiday in the Pacific Northwest.

In the decades that have passed I have owned a ‘57 T-Bird, a ‘65 Mustang convertible, a 3.8 Jaguar sedan, a couple of roadsters by Mercedes, the phenomenal Phaeton by Volkswagen, as well as a rare luxury sedan hand crafted by esteemed German racing car driver, Erich Bitter. They were fine cars, but all paled in comparison to the memory of that Bentley in Seattle.

Forty years after that initial exposure to the Lang automobile collection I was on the cusp of purchasing my own Bentley convertible, a 1998 Azure. The cost of that magnificent creation was well into six figures. That gave me pause… such an acquisition would put a major dent in my savings account. I was newly retired. Ensconced on my tropical Island paradise, there was no denying that a lot of money was going out with little coming in.

My middle daughter wanted to know why I was having such a tough time with this decision, and why I had selected her as my consultant on the subject.

I explained that this was a lot of money to come out of savings… and life-long dreams aside… such a hefty withdrawal could impact her (and her siblings) eventual inheritance. Her response was quick, and to the point:

“Dad, if you can buy a dream for money… you should do it.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

Months later, as I drove, top-down in the silver Azure, on Main Street in the resort town of Solvang, California, my daughter, who was following in her own car, was heard to say to her younger sister, “… Look at Dad. He’s in his own parade.”

Could be the slogan for my life… 

Except for now, as I find myself parked at one of life’s true benchmarks: I am seriously considering giving up my car, the last of my Bentley acquisitions: a Midnight Emerald Bentley GTC.

Of equal impact is the decision that since I am 86 years of age, there is no rational reason to replace it. It is not that I am not as good a driver as I was… a point I will grudgingly concede. Still, I am a better driver than most… certainly superior to the drivers of my adopted State of Florida, who are (arguably) the worst in the entire country.

It is not the driving… it is the seeing. Not the eyesight (which admittedly is not as sharp at night as it used to be), but what is bothersome is the stiffness in my neck which prevents me from turning my head enough to overcome the built-in blind spots when the top is raised on my vintage 2007 convertible.

There are possibilities I have considered: a new car, for instance. Unlike my aged classic, the current models all come with bells and whistles that compensate for blind spots, no matter what the cause. Those built-in cameras, complete with sound effects that let the driver know what is in the next lane, or even if the car is near anything… or anybody… or any place where it should not be. This new technology has the potential to solve my everyday driving issues.

But what kind of a new car? In the 21^st century I have driven nothing but cars by Bentley. I am spoiled by the interior appointments, the luxurious leathers, and wood combinations created and installed by the finest craftsman in the world. There is the weight of the car and its power. The smell of it. The sound of its engine. I am just not going to be happy in a Buick.

A day never goes by on city streets or the blue-lane highways of my many road adventures, that I have not received a thumbs-up from some youngster in an adjoining vehicle, a guy on a motorcycle, or someone standing on a corner. At more than one gas station, grown men have been known to give me a little salute while I busied myself pumping fuel into my magnificent machine.

Over the years, women have handed me their business card as I waited, top-down, for a light to change, or while idling in a parking lot. That happens less frequently than the thumbs-up affirmations, but still, it has occurred more often than you might imagine.

And so, we are once again talking six figures, and for what? Six more months or so of driving? At 86, I do not think I am looking at six more years.

And what about giving up driving altogether? In the era of Uber it is a viable alternative. I tell myself that it will be all right. That I can… must really… make that accommodation. I remind myself that adjustments are my long suit.

Still, dreams die hard. So, just in case there is a change of heart on my part, and you see me tooling by in my Bentley with the top down, humor me with a thumbs-up, or a wave. Of course, should the top be in the raised position you might want to think about taking a defensive posture, giving the Bentley… and me… a wide berth.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

 

WHY THIS NIGHT?

 

I do not believe that a week ever went by on Cagney & Lacey where the saying “God is in the details,” was not uttered. It might have been on the set itself, in an editing bay, or in the writers’ room. It was more than a mantra. It was our philosophy.

No one seems to know who originated the phrase (a Google search indicates it was first used in the 19^th century), but the consensus is that it preceded the also well known “the devil is in the details” which, as you might imagine, means something else altogether.

It was director Ray Danton who introduced me to “God is in the details” as a reminder of the importance of paying attention to the seemingly “little things” that went into making up the whole.

It has been over 30 years since Mr. Danton passed away and I cannot think of one week since then when I have not said… or at least thought of… that phrase and applied it to some task with which I was involved.

I mention this because Passover, a rather important Jewish holiday, is about to unfold. Some believe, and I certainly agree, that it is the most important of all the many celebratory events in the Jewish religion because on this night… as opposed to all other nights… Jews gather to pay attention to some seemingly rather minute details and to take some time between food courses to explain… especially to the youngsters at the table… just why this is being done and why this night is so special.

The joke is that it all boils down to “they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat.” But it is the minute details of this traditional evening filled with symbolism… told over and over again, generation after generation, for literally thousands of years, where religious and not-so-religious Jews have sat down together, over some not-so-terrific food dishes, for no other reason than to pass on this history to their offspring.

Never underestimate the power of education. Pharaoh and the ancient Egyptians are gone, the Philistines no longer exist, ancient Rome is no more, the Nazis also have all but disappeared, but the Jews live on.

There are Jews who are Republicans, Jews who are Democrats. Dramatists can be Jewish, as can comedians. So too with scientists, mathematicians, plumbers, taxi drivers. My mother used to say, “when you’re in love, the whole world is Jewish.” A good thing too. It enabled me to marry a shiksa (all right, two shiksas) and have the wonderful, extended family which I so enjoy. Also, in the spirit of attention to detail, I should include that the reference to not-so-terrific food dishes does not refer to the brisket, which nearly everyone likes.

For those who might miss a movie reference in this writing, I considered a paragraph about Jews in Hollywood, but my estimated finishing time for that would take us closer to Christmas. Instead, let me focus on Cecil B. DeMille’s motion picture, The Ten Commandments, and be done with it. And why not? Even though Mr. DeMille was rumored to be a more than closeted Jew, he did have my wife’s grandfather (Neil S. McCarthy) as an attorney. Pay to watch the flick, which by-the-way partially tells the story of Passover, and a few of those pennies dribble down to the family. As they say, “it couldn’t hurt.” Available on Prime Video and Apple TV.

Lest it go unsaid, I take this time and space to wish all my readers… Jews, and non-Jews alike… a zissen pesach (have a sweet Passover).

 

Barney Rosenzweig

FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC

In my experience, there are few places on the planet to visit that seem more foreign to an American than the Island of Japan. I will readily concede African safaris are certainly a unique… almost otherworldly… experience, while a trip along the Nile can be a memory for a lifetime, and the islands of the South Pacific often seem to be frozen in some fabulous tropical time warp.

But, for being someplace where a Westerner will invariably feel strangely out of place, I would put Japan and its greatest city, Tokyo, right up there as a challenge to anyone who claims to easily adjust to any unique environment.

The new-to-me MAX series Tokyo Vice illustrates my point. You may or may not be captured by its story, or even its leading characters, but there is no question of the verisimilitude this series brings to your television screen of a very foreign culture in our 21^st century western-leaning society. I found myself fascinated by the show’s ability to capture that aspect of a stranger in a strange land … and for now… at least through the first half dozen episodes, that alone has kept me watching. I would bet it might be enough for you as well.

Moving westward, this season the most talked about of all foreign locales in the world of television must be Russia’s Moscow of one hundred years ago. Showtime’s A Gentleman In Moscow (now streaming on Paramount +) has begun its limited run to generally enthusiastic press.

I do not review many books, but several years ago, mid-pandemic, I wrote a rave for this Amor Towles first novel set in the aftermath of the Russian revolution with the caveat that it would not be easily adapted to film. I then added, “but with the right cast I would stand in line to see it.”

“The right cast…” Easy for me to say.

I envisioned a mustachioed George Clooney in the title role with a supporting group of actors that might come close to matching his star power. The gentleman of the book’s title is a Russian nobleman. Who better than a member of Hollywood’s royalty to essay such a role?

Instead, Ewan McGregor got the part. He is a fine actor. A perfect find for the naive innocent in Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge. I have seen him bring that same wide-eyed, boyish quality to many roles since, but that “thing” does not serve him well in this venture.

Add to that the Hotel Metropol… every bit as important a character in this drama as is the gentleman himself. From what I could see, the set and the “dressing” of that set are spot-on.

“From what I could see…,” I am sorry to report, Director Sam Miller has not done an adequate job of displaying this Moscow showpiece for the mysterious, beautiful, and opulent palace that those of us who read the book anticipated with glee.

There is a shorthand going on here between what is on the page and what director Miller puts on the screen. This is a potential love affair of a project where foreplay is an essential ingredient. That does not happen in this film. Characters pop in and out of the limelight, or into one another’s arms, without the benefit of anticipation or, all too often, an adequate introduction.

Sure, go ahead and have Count Rostov and Anna Urbanova impulsively tear off each other’s clothes in her bedroom at the Metropol, but Mr. Director… you would be wise to take a leaf out of Norman Jewison’s chess playing sequence of a sexual/sensual tease between Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway in The Thomas Crown Affair before having them touch one another. Trust me, the audience and your movie would all benefit.

Wishful thinking. I am not going to go on too much longer. So far, I have only seen the first two episodes of this limited series of eight segments. I will keep watching and may well report on this (I am sure) well-intentioned mini-series in the future. In the meantime, take my advice… please. If you have not already read this magnificent book, contact Amazon, order A Gentleman In Moscow, and read it. You will thank me.

Finally, there is the more familiar TV convention of Nine Perfect Strangers to which I am a late arrival. This 2021 limited series is yet another collaboration between writer David E. Kelly and superstar Nicole Kidman, delivered to your home via HULU. It may be the most excruciating of the litter, bringing the phrase “guilty pleasure” to a new low. Kelly’s slip from grace since his days creating Picket Fences, Ally McBeal, The Practice, and Boston Legal is a precipitous one. Reminds me, as if I needed the nudge, to commend myself once again for walking away at... or, at least, near… the top of my game. In contrast, Mr. Kelly has, in my view, stayed too long at the fair.

There are, I am sure, fans out there for Kelly’s Lincoln Lawyer, Love & Death, Goliath, and Big Little Lies, but not one hour of any of those compares with any hour episode of his long-ago Boston Legal series… and Kelly used to knock out twenty-two of those a season.

Speaking of shoddy work. One of my own debacles was a short-lived series for ABC called Fortune Dane. It is unworthy of your time should it even be something you could find in today’s streaming world. I only mention it here because of Carl Weathers who played the title role in that show. He passed away recently, and the world is a poorer place for that.

Carl was a gentleman and one of the smartest actors with whom I have ever had the pleasure of collaborating. He caught me on the downside of my own creative days, and he managed it with barely a whimper. I never apologized enough to him when it would have counted, and now it is too late.

While on that train of thought… condolences to Tommy Troupe whose spouse, Carole Cook, played the recurring role of Charlie Cagney’s gal pal in Cagney & Lacey. Carole was a terrific comedienne, an exceptionally talented woman, and always fun company.

“Fun company” also pretty much describes the multiple years of episodes on HBO of Curb Your Enthusiasm. This is the last year for the series and in salute of its auspicious run, I have gone back to season one/episode one to re-visit, in its entirety, this very easy to watch sitcom starring Seinfeld creator, Larry David, as himself. Fans of this series will not find it hard to imagine that the series holds up fine and it remains fun to watch.

Richard Lewis, who was often featured in the series as Mr. David’s best friend, should be added to this in memoriam list as he recently passed away at age 76. Way too soon.

Barney Rosenzweig

THE DEARTH OF MUSIC

 

If you are among those who thought the musical theatre suffered an irreparable blow with the demise of Stephen Sondheim, let me introduce you to This is Me… Now, a visual extravaganza for Netflix, conceived by and starring Jennifer Lopez. It is a major music video that advances the form in at least in one sense… taking it from being a visual interpretation of one “song” to an entire album of “songs.”

Note the quotation marks on “song” and “songs.” I am of the wrong generation for this kind of music… or, for that matter, this kind of choreography.

I am not too old, however, to appreciate J.Lo’s looks, her body, or her sensual approach for this work that she has chosen. It is just the pretense that this whole Superbowl-halftime-thing is an actual art form that has me shaking my head in despair.

Let’s go back. The art direction (meaning, in this case, the sets), spectacular. Decent special effects, an all-star supporting cast in stuff that borders on the silly, and J.Lo, soaking wet, scantily clad, rolling around in the muck and mire. Folks used to get arrested for this kind of thing.

Not too deeply buried in this display is J.Lo’s homage to Hollywood, her childhood fantasies, and her advocacy for psychotherapy. It is an odd movie… even with a lot of credits it only (mercifully) runs for just over one hour. It is a long time to watch anything with one’s jaw open, but I found a remedy for that.

Immediately after completing the 60 plus minutes on Netflix, I quickly switched over to YouTube where for more than an hour and a half I watched film clips from old Hollywood musicals until happily satiated.

Fred & Ginger, Gene Kelly, Doris Day, Rita Hayworth, Cyd Charisse, Robert Preston, Shirley Jones, Debbie Reynolds, Danny Kaye, Fosse & Verdon. Now… that’s entertainment. And a cure for just about anything, including This is Me… Now.

It was NOT the musical that took me on my recent trek to New York City. I went there to see Tyne Daly in Doubt, the play by John Patrick Shanley. Health concerns took my friend and former colleague out of the play but there was no abandoning the trip. My long-time pal, Joe Feury, was displaying his most recent art work as a benefit for Ukraine and I was bound to show up for that. You want to talk about star-crossed… Joey’s beautiful and Academy Award winning spouse, Lee Grant, took a fall at the event and fractured her hip. Not to worry. Lee has been doing Pilates and Yoga for years and, as a result, is recovering faster than any of us believed possible. Of course, dinner at their home had to be canceled so what with no Tyne Daly on stage and no Lee Grant at home there were nights to be filled and, predictably, we chose the musical theatre.

Too bad. It meant missing two apparently great straight play presentations, Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People and a Shanley play that I have never seen but have been told is terrific, Brooklyn Laundry. It proves, once again, that even so-called pros at the game need to do their homework before launching into the Big Apple.

The musical theatre did allow me to catch up with last year’s Tony winner, Kimberly Akimbo… a worthwhile couple of hours spent in the theatre with a couple of stand-out performances from Victoria Clark and Bonnie Milligan and one of the more understandably dysfunctional families ever presented on stage.

And then there was Days of Wine and Roses… admiration of this (I think) ill-conceived venture may depend on one’s level of musical education. It far exceeded mine, forcing me to now confess my lack of appreciation for the discordant. Remember Henry Mancini’s Academy Award winning theme song from the 1962 motion picture of the same name starring Lee Remick and Jack Lemmon? Well, fuhgeddaboudit. You will find nothing so melodious in this stage version featuring the often-fabulous Kelli O’Hara and the always-reliable Brian d’Arcy James.

Both these folks can sing, and the composer seems to know this by allowing them a pretty note at the end of each “song” which they are allowed to hold long enough for what I suppose is meant to be some kind of dramatic effect. That one final note is the closest you will get to a melody the entire evening.

The play is one hour and forty-five minutes and there is no intermission. The reason for this is at least two-fold: first, it is an easy bet that liquor sales would be way down during any interlude at this show and, I would guess of even greater importance, is the suspicion that if there were an intermission, half the audience would not return for the second act.

So far two musicals back-to-back and I cannot remember two notes that could be strung together from either or both combined. That was also true for our third musical, but at least Water For Elephants had its moments of promise… not so much in the musical idiom… but it was, I thought, staged beautifully, and performed expertly. Kudos to the director, especially with the stampede sequence near show’s end. Unlike the movie of the same name, this newly opened show is a fine theatrical tribute to the excellent Sara Gruen novel of the same name.

Finally, my wife and her gal pals all but dragged me to The Notebook… based on the super sentimental motion picture starring Gena Rowlands, James Garner and a then very young, and new to all of us, Ryan Gosling. I never read the book, but I remember the movie had its impact even on someone who usually thinks of this kind of thing as rather treacle-like.

There are no great songs. No “Some Enchanted Evening” or “If Ever I Would Leave You”… and that is a shame because they would really work here. Still, the music that is there serves the show and its characters well even if it will not make the “Ah, yes, I Remember it Well” song list a few years hence. It is okay. The show works. And there is not a dry eye in the house (including either of mine).

It was a good night in the theatre and a lovely surprise for me. The first actor on the stage, the show’s leading man… is Dorian Harewood, one of the stars of my long-ago series, The Trials of Rosie O’Neill. I have not seen Dorian in over thirty years, and it was a thrill to find him back on Broadway.

There was another self-serving benefit for this old guy. For years I could not go to a Broadway show without seeing an actor up there on the stage that I had worked with either on Cagney & Lacey or some other show of mine. The mini bios in the Playbill almost always had a mention or two of an actor’s credits which included a show produced by me. That hasn’t happened in a long time… one of the disadvantages of living too long.

I confess, it made me feel a lot more relevant to see the bio of the number one actor in the play… there in the number one position in the Playbill… and among the listed credits of which he was proud, The Trials of Rosie O’Neill.

After the show, the crowd at The Notebook’s stage door proved too difficult for me to navigate and so I missed congratulating Dorian in person. On the plus side, there was, in that sizable and enthusiastic crowd, proof positive just how entertaining this show is.

What a concept. But apparently it is not as obvious as one would think. The very basic, fundamental thing… no matter who you think you are now… is to make sure that if nothing else, a show must be entertaining… should be on page one of every producer’s notebook.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

 

HAIL TO THE VICTORS

If you laid some money down on this year’s Academy Award presentations you had to walk away with most of the cash in the betting pool… assuming your ballot was based on what was written here.

To begin with there was Robert Downey Jr., Emma Stone, Cillian Murphy, Oppenheimer, and Poor Things, followed by the skunking of Scorsese’s ode to a partial history of the Osage Indians in Oklahoma’s early 20^th century (Killers of the Flower Moon), and the Leonard Bernstein flick, Maestro.

One-trophy winners from the ultra-popular (and successful) Barbie, The Holdovers, and American Fiction validated the under-achieving mentions they were given in this space over the past several weeks.

Finally, it must be conceded that Zone of Interest far exceeded my expectations with a win for best sound and “Best International Feature Film.” Honest, it wasn’t… no matter what my granddaughter Greer has to say to the contrary.

The Academy show, hosted by Jimmy Kimmel, was good, not too long, and Ryan Gosling all but stole the show with his Ken bit from Barbie. I could go on, but there is an empty suitcase that needs to be packed for tomorrow’s trip to the Big Apple and a few Broadway shows about which I have yet to get excited.

More on all of that to come once I return to the balmy breezes of my warm island.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

LIFE AND ART

In the grand cosmos of filmdom, if asked about a movie portraying one of history’s horrific tyrants, readers of these columns might well gravitate to Chaplin’s The Great Dictator. Perhaps Broderick Crawford’s Willie Stark in All The King’s Men, maybe Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland, or Ian McKellen’s Richard III.

Here in Miami, what many refer to as the capital of Latin America, it could readily be understood if the despot who came to the forefront in such a poll was Augusto Pinochet and his nearly 17-year reign of terror that visited Chile in the last century.

Put that story in the hands of an inventive filmmaker who elects to tell this tale in a stylized motion picture, making the dictator even more of a monster than first realized. Imagine: what if Pinochet were a 250-year-old vampire… one who quite literally and figuratively was sucking the blood out of his countrymen?

You could then, if you were enough of a visionary, amplify all of that by taking on the cinematic styling of the films of the German expressionists of the silent era, then bring it all up to date with the reveal that the mother of this horrific monster is none other than the Iron Lady, England’s Margaret Thatcher. Do all that, and you will find yourself smack in the middle of El Conde… one of the more surprising motion pictures of this… or any other year.

Do not make of this review more than it is. This picture is not for everyone. Still, it is a lot more than I ever thought I was getting into when I naively sat in that darkened room to see Pablo Larrain’ s brilliant piece of political satire.

You may know of Larrain from such Academy nominated films as Neruda, Jackie, Spencer, or No, but you will have to wait a long time to see him top this latest work. El Conde can be screened on Netflix in the original Spanish; steel yourself.

Also from Latin America is the Academy nominated feature, Society of the Snow… the story of the Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashed while attempting to cross the Andes mountains. This is a true story of heroism, sacrifice, and the will to live, magnificently and emotionally recreated by director J.A. Bayona and his wonderful ensemble of young actors. Once again the viewer finds himself in Chile, this time with a straightforward narrative that emulates a great documentary. Once again, your Netflix subscription proves its worth.

Golda, a motion picture starring Helen Mirren, presents this reviewer with some problems of objectivity and memory. It was not that many years ago that I hoped to produce the play Golda’s Balcony by William Gibson with actress Annette Miller. Someone else got the privilege of mounting the play in New York with Tovah Feldshuh where it had a record-breaking run. There was also the version of the same events written by my friend Renee Taylor in her An Evening with Golda Meir.

Both Renee’s version and playwright Gibson’s were, in my judgment (and to the best of my memory), far superior to this motion picture, directed by Guy Nattiv from a screenplay written by Nicholas Martin.

The failure here is one of simple storytelling. There is a vast amount of stuff that makes up the life and times of Golda Meir and this skimpy flick doesn’t even attempt to scratch the surface.

The film focuses on events in and around the Yom Kippur War of 1973. It assumes, more than fifty years after the fact, that its audience will know who Moshe Dayan is/was, and what this once dashing figure meant to millions of Jews all over the world. “The fog of war” takes on even greater significance in this overly confusing depiction of events. None of this, I hasten to add, is Helen Mirren’s fault.

Ms. Mirren is always interesting, and I will forever be grateful to her for the kind words she has often shared with her public about the influence of my series, Cagney & Lacey, on her own career. It is not because of her that this movie is as flat as it is. Even great actresses need dialogue and, if memory serves, both Ms. Taylor’s one woman show, and Gibson’s play relied heavily on memoir material that is in the public domain and therefore available to screenwriter Martin. Some of that material could have been… should have been… in this movie.

Golda Meir was one fascinating woman but most of that came through her great wit… unfortunately, little of that comes through in the screenplay of this motion picture which, if you must, you can see on Amazon Prime or Hulu.

As to wit and political savvy, nearly two years before he died in a Siberian prison camp, a documentary was produced featuring Alexei Navalny, the Russian opponent of Vladimir Putin. It is also on Amazon Prime and Hulu and you should see it.

The 98-minute documentary clarifies… assuming you had some doubt… just what it was Mr. Putin had to fear from this charismatic, camera-ready individual who believed his destiny was to confront the current corrupt regime in “Mother Russia” and to ultimately engage the country in a debate about its future.

The film also reveals shocking details of the plot to assassinate Navalny… shocking, not only in its purpose but in the stupidity of the perpetrators. It also predicts (naively) a brighter future… one, which we now all know, Navalny did not live to see.

True, the film does not go so far as to show Putin, cape unfurled, flying over Moscow in a quest for blood before sunrise, but this is, after all, a documentary, not  political satire. Besides, who among us really knows what happens in the Kremlin after dark?

 

Barney Rosenzweig

THE LONG AND THE SHORT

 

Sometimes, when the big things in life let you down, it just might behoove you to look for the smaller things to help bring you up.

Did someone ever say that? Dunno. But the bromide came to me as I watched the final two episodes of the latest edition of the heavily bloated limited series, True Detective: Night Country.

I had written of my disappointment in this latest incarnation of the classic Max (formally HBO) series but somehow felt assured … even read somewhere… that this sinking ship of a series would be righted in the end with the last two episodes helping to make sense of the wasted hours of watching Jodie Foster trudge through the tundra in this truly thankless role.

Mercifully, there were only six episodes of the Night Country edition of True Detective instead of the usual eight. And the last two episodes were better. But not “better” enough to make much of a difference. If you have not started this limited series… don’t.

Moving on to the “smaller things” of the week… two motion picture Academy nominees in the small picture category: a documentary, The ABCs of Book Banning and a short work of fiction, Wes Anderson’s The Wonderful World of Henry Sugar.

You can see the book banning doc on Paramount+ and I can assure you it is an admirable piece of work which deserves your attention and will warm your heart. The film takes less than 30 minutes to do all the things… and more… that lesser works may strive for and never achieve. And I was not surprised to learn that fellow octogenarian, Sheila Nevins, who for years famously headed up the extraordinary documentary division of HBO, was responsible for producing this gem.

Wes Anderson’s film can be found on Netflix and is a minor hoot that begs the question, who puts up the money for this kind of mini movie? An all-star cast, a clever production design, and all for a film that is 37 minutes long. The answer to my query is “nobody,” as this mini movie with its nomination from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in its “tiny” category is, in fact, one of four stories in a quartet of such yarns by Roald Dahl.

I will not scrutinize this particular “gift horse” too carefully. Its 37 minutes are… well, delightful… and, even though it will not make up for the hours of bleakness spent at home screening the Alaska-based True Detective: Night Country, it is… after all… something. Is it kosher for a section of a quartet to be singled out as … well, a singular little movie? In the words of Norman Lear’s grandmother: “Go know.”

Meanwhile, Acorn TV and/or AMC (via Amazon Prime) have now delivered the final episodes of Monsieur Spade. I am not sure if I am more disappointed that the series has ended or by writer Tom Fontana’s design for the closing, bringing as he must, all of the mystery’s loose ends to some kind of conclusion.

This is a very nice series that, in my judgment, deserved a better ending. Still, I rank this homage to one of America’s great fictional detectives high above the True Detective mess that is Ms. Foster’s Night Country.

And last, but… well, last… is Ryan Murphy’s latest edition of Feud. This one is Capote Vs. The Swans, a tale of Manhattan’s social elite, the so-called Swans of New York society, and their fascination with the flamboyant literary genius, Truman Capote. There will be eight episodes of this limited series; I have seen the five chapters Hulu has released so far.

It would be easy enough to pass off this glitzy, ultra-superficial melodrama as “guilty pleasure” (for, indeed, that is what it is) but Naomi Watts, as Babe Paley, takes on her leading role, imbuing her character with such poignancy and humanity, that it lifts the entire project into something much more than this viewer thought possible.

It does not hurt that the recently deceased Treat Williams plays her philandering husband, the former CBS chieftain, William S. Paley. Williams and Watts combine to present a flawed but loving couple… culminating in a scene together, accompanied by the Perry Como rendition of “It’s Impossible,” that should be remembered at Emmy time.

I am not convinced episodes six through eight will be able to top what these two actors have already done, but you can bet I will be watching to find out.

There you have it. The long and the short of it, in the year’s shortest month… even with this year’s enhancement of an additional 24 hours.

Happy Leap Year!

 

Barney Rosenzweig