What all the fuss was about

I fancy myself a big movie fan, yet I'd never seen It Happened One Night. More than a classic, this one's a legend. The first and only one of three movies* to win Oscars for Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress and Best Director, it's also one of the few romantic comedies to be this honored, and to be enduringly popular.

So over the weekend I finally discovered what all the fuss was about. Claudette Colbert, I discovered, is much prettier onscreen than she appears in stills. And Clark Gable. Oh my! He was so utterly natural. As in so many movies in the 30s and 40s, the other actors were too theatrical, too big and too corny for the intimacy of the screen. Gable didn't appear to be acting, he just seemed to be. Effortlessly funny, casually charming, almost timeless.

I wonder who of "my" movie stars will hold up as well as Gable. The serious actors: DeNiro and Pacino and Hoffman. The great stars: Newman and Redford and Eastwood. The pretty-much-already-forgotten: Burt Reynolds and James Caan and Steve McQueen.

*Don't bother making yourself crazy trying to remember the other two. They were One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Silence of the Lambs.

Farewell, Max

George Clooney's beloved potbellied pig, Max, passed away Friday. More than 18 years old, Max had a very good life with The Sexiest Man Alive. The 300 lb. pig slept in the doorway of Clooney's home and was stepped over by the journalists, photographers, actors and politicians who entered. Though he suffered from some age-related maladies (arthritis, blindness), Max retained his "massive" appetite until the end.

My condolences to Gorgeous George. Since he mentioned Hattie McDaniel in his Oscar acceptance speech, let me paraphrase her in Gone With the Wind, "I have never seen any man, black or white, set such store in a potbellied pig."

SWF (Sloppy White Female)

Yesterday I was sprawled across my sofa, watching the Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathon. (I still feel it's the weakest of the three shows, but when Chris Noth is on I give it a chance.) You know that scene where the detectives visit the victim's apartment and see what they can learn about her/him/it? I was lazily wondering what my condo would posthumously say about me when I realized I couldn't find the remote. I slipped my hand underneath the sofa cushion and … EWWWW! ICK! BLECH!

My fingertips touched grainy, unidentifiable stuff. I was completely creeped out. Not only was I certain that homicide detectives would decide that I was such a slob my murder didn't deserve solving, I also realized it was time to spring into action.

So I removed the cushions, dragged out the vacuum, and cleaned the damn thing. Mostly what I found was food crumbs. The occasional shed cat claw. Lots of fur. And a tiny rubber band I swear I never saw before in my life.

I didn't stop there. I decided to clean out my refrigerator. Fortunately I don't cook, so it didn't take long. My most interesting observation here is that after a very long time, the bottom of the cranberry juice jug began to look like jello.

Now I believe I'm done until 2009.