![]() Hearing that music for the first time, thinking of his father, he cried.” True or false, it didn’t matter as long as it was felt once, it could be felt again. ![]() Like Polanski’s crane, a lift, redemption, grace. The feeling was that word he lost so much trying to find and hold on to-now he had it-a word, in the time of Nixon, almost embarrassing to speak-“romance.” For Evans it was more than moonlight and ocean winds and Gatsby’s green flare across the bay it was not fantasy but palpable evidence of a dream becoming true, the rare and shivery threshold of immeasurable pleasure, the promise imagination grants the mundane, and the mountain stream through which beauty and goodness, against all probability and reason, flow down into the world as art. Their glissandos were running water, growing in him the feeling, easy to forget, of why he was right, despite all the shit, to love Hollywood in the first place. ![]() Goldsmith’s music was scant consolation, only magic, but where love and real life failed his foolish cravings, the music ennobled them in brass and piano and harp. ![]() It was what he had been searching for, not just for Chinatown, his love story in need of love, but for those long Woodland nights he waited out alone in bed, flipping through old photograph albums, the pictures of Ali, whom he had let go, pictures of Ali and his son Josh, the family he had traded, one night at a time, for The Godfather. The ache, the longing, dying but sweetly pleading, like a happy memory drowning in truth.
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