Time and a quirky film

Forty-two years ago, two friends and I were talking about movies. I said something that has haunted me since.

First, a little setup. One of the friends was, even then, a movie snob. Except he would never call them movies. They were films. The other was decidedly less so, although he did and still does approach movies with more reverence and attention than I give them. I think his secret is watching more closely and analytically while still losing himself in the plot.

The first friend, the snob -- and he was a condescending person in many other ways, as well -- went on to study, teach and write about film.

Me? I usually just let a movie wash over me. Unless, over the years, I find myself drawn back to it. Only then do I start to notice the hows and whys, the lighting, the acting, the direction.

For example, I have gone back again and again to movies such as "Casablanca," most anything by Hitchcock except his early British efforts, movies in which Cary Grant plays Cary Grant, "Charade," "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," "How to Steal a Million," "Gone With the Wind," "Gosford Park," "Nashville," "The Best Years of Our Lives," "To Kill a Mockingbird," "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming," and "High Society."

That's not a complete list. Although it shows that my interests range wide.

But I digress.

Forty-two years ago, I told my two friends that I had seen and liked "The Sterile Cuckoo," a 1969 movie starring a then almost-unknown Liza Minnelli and directed by Alan J. Pakula (who would later direct "All the President's Men" and "Sophie's Choice").

They laughed and mocked my taste. They said my judgment was frivolous and unstudied.

Minnelli was nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role for "The Sterile Cuckoo." (She lost to Maggie Smith in "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie"). Critics said Minnelli's performance was commendable, but that the direction was flawed. I thought she was very young, talented, awkward, and gangly -- perfect for the part -- yet she had an un-self-conscious elegance and grace.

My opinion of the movie became a joke, and it continued over the years. I might say something at dinner or at a party, and one of those two friends would say, "But you liked 'Sterile Cuckoo'!" It always got a laugh, eventually even from me: I learned to play the non-sophisticate in their game.

Recently, one of the friends took the joke up a notch and sent me a DVD of -- you guessed it -- "The Sterile Cuckoo." I was nearly afraid to watch it. Would I still (gasp!) like it? Or this time would I look at it as a waste of time?

Eventually, I popped the DVD into the player.

Here's a slightly edited version of what I wrote later via email to the friend who sent it to me:

I think what I identified with at the time was the neediness in Minnelli's character. Always feeling like an outsider, unsure but determined to appear confident. A tendency to latch on to people. An inclination to exaggerate stories to make an impression. A lack of self-esteem. "Yeah, I know what that's like" was something I said to myself a lot on first seeing the movie.

But it held my interest 42 years later. Watching it today, I was still filled with compassion for the character and for the me that found something relevant in the movie in 1970.

It's quite a daring story for its time. Boy meets girl. Both are virgins. They have sex. In the end, he walks away. It's not a difficult plot. But remember the times and remember how young love was most often depicted in movies in those times.

Minnelli, about whom I knew little then ("Cabaret" hit the big screen two years later), demonstrated her remarkable presence and potential.

The male lead was as dull as dishwater.

Today ... well the movie is an artifact, not all that memorable but interesting as Minnelli's first major movie role. I am not at all embarrassed for having liked it a lot ... in 1970.

I'm glad that a movie that I liked long ago still holds something for me.

"The Sterile Cuckoo" has met the test of time. For me, anyway.

Snow again

When snow falls -- even as little as we had yesterday afternoon -- I stay home, where it's warm and safe.

Sometimes I build a fire in the woodstove just because watching the flames reminds me of my childhood, when snowfalls made everything seem somehow more special. My mom used to slow-cook a soup or a stew and make yeast rolls or cornbread, because she thought it warmed her family. She was, I think, correct.

Sometimes I do the same. You can get creative and make a soup or stew using most anything you have on hand. The secret is in the broth (a slow process) and the simmering of the whole concatenation all day in a big pot on the back burner. The aroma that fills the house is almost as good as the taste of whatever eventually comes out of the pot. Almost.

I stay at home because I don't like being on the streets and roads. What worries me is not my driving. I'm troubled by all the other drivers.

Richmonders don't know how to drive in the snow. Not even with as little snow as we had yesterday afternoon. Some don't slow down much. Most fail to plan ahead or anticipate what other drivers might do. There's a litany of things Richmonders don't know about safe driving when the streets are snowy or slushy or icy.

Yesterday afternoon, I had an appointment in Carytown, and it started snowing while I was inside. By the time I walked out 90 minutes later, snow covered the streets and was falling hard. You couldn't go six blocks without seeing some driver who had run into something, either another car, a ditch, a tree, or a lamp pole. Local police reported 60 snow-related accidents in three hours.

I made it home safely. But slowly.

I lived in a German mountain village for three years in the late 1960s. I learned how to drive in the snow and ice because the roads were snowy or icy all winter.

You can see a live image of the streets of that village, Bitburg, by clicking here. As I write this, it's the middle of the night in Bitburg. There's snow against the village gutters and the streets look icy. The temperature is 27 degrees.

Summers were glorious in the Eifel Mountains in Germany -- while they lasted. We always thought we were lucky if the temperature reached as much as 80 degrees on July 4. It reminded me a lot of the Appalachian region of Virginia. But the winters were cold. Very cold.

By the time I got home yesterday evening, it was dusk. The temperatures were falling further below freezing. It was good to walk into a warm house.

It was even better to have a bowl of rich beef, carrot and tomato stew. (I used a few of my home-frozen bags of Hanovers from last summer.) I made the stew the night before with a heavy hand on the garlic, basil and oregano.

I built a fire in the woodstove.

Life felt almost as good and safe as it was when I was a child.

Almost.