2005 in brief superlatives

The best thing I read all year. The best new TV show in my life. The best meal I had all year (and indeed, ever). The best new game of the year (and the runner up). The most relentlessly replayed game. The best new board game. The best new place I visited. The most fun project of the year. The most rewarding purchases of the year — first this, then this. The most watched-and-rewatched movie of the year (and a close second). The most-watched new release. And finally, the best new movies I saw this year: bats, bears, Buster, the bride and the beast.

Ape shall not kill ape

Maus and I watched King Kong three times last night. That, as Aguirre famously remarked, is a boatload of monkey. First we caught Peter Jackson's epic at Ballard's glorious Majestic Bay, then came home and watched both the 1933 Merian Cooper classic and the 1976 Dino de Laurentiis remake (courtesy of TCM, AMC, and Tivo).

Here's how I'd score the 3-way gorilla war:

Round 1: THE APES
1933: Willis O'Brien
Surprisingly convincing stop-motion animation: 9 points
Goofy mechanical head with orthodontically perfect teeth: -1 point

1976: Rick Baker
Detailed ape suit: 7 points
Still, just a guy in a suit: -1 point

2005: Andy Serkis
CGI: 10 points
Personality: 5 bonus points

Round 2: THE BLONDES
1933: Fay Wray
looks: 9   brains: 7   scream: 10
No emotional connection with ape: -1 point

1976: Jessica Lange
looks: 10   brains: 2   scream: 4
Her name is Dwan? -1 point

2005: Naomi Watts
looks: 9   brains: 9   scream: 6
Scales Empire State Building in heels: -1 point

Round 3: THE MONSTERS
1933: Various dinosaurs
Variety of familiar and believable prehistoric beasts: 9 points
Realism/scariness: 5 bonus points

1976: A large snake
Yep, that's a big snake: 3 points
That's it? A snake?! -1 point

2005: Bugs, dinosaurs, bugs, bats, bugs
CGI quality: 10 points
Inventiveness: 1 bonus point
There's too much going on, I can't see anything: -1 point
Oh, now that's just gross: -2 points

The Decision
Winner and still top banana: King Kong 1933 (47 points)
Honorable mention: King Kong 2005 (46 points)
TKO: King Kong 1976 (23 points)

For a really bad incarnation of Kong, consult the 1962 Toho King Kong–Godzilla battle entitled, er, King Kong vs. Godzilla. Great fight, lousy ape.

Fiends!

Someone stole the NunBun. On Christmas Day, no less.

Nine years ago, my co“work”ers and I whiled away many a billable hour watching the sacred pastry morph into Mother Teresa. The loss of this relic is devastating.

But the news of this purloined treasure (in the realm of baked goods, nine years qualifies the NunBun as an antiquity, I should think) does conjure an intriguing and, I must say, gratifying image:

Are we there yet?

Five days left in 2005. Is it just me, or did this year last forever? I mean, for some reason one year ago feels like about eight years ago. Could be it's because the year was just packed with stuff — on 1/1/05, my grandfather was still alive, W was still in his first term, Six Feet Under was still on the air, and New Orleans still existed...

I went through four different bosses and three job titles at work (and saw about three dozen longtime coworkers jump ship); I stuck by the Mariners through another root canal of a season; I started four new blogs (Maus started two) and saw another one laid to rest; we watched all 15 combined seasons of Buffy, Twin Peaks, Six Feet Under, and Lost on DVD; and we made huge leaps up the evolutionary scale of technogadgetry — new digital cameras, media center laptop, long-overdue wireless DSL, his-and-hers iPods, talking dog toys, and one of those mechanical aardvark schnozzes that sucks up bugs for you.

I only managed to read about a dozen books (triple that number if you count graphic novels), but the number of movies I ingested is inestimable. Probably emptied 30 or so bottles of bourbon. And Maus made over a thousand cookies in December alone, and cranked out numerous gallons of liquors and infused vodkas down in the garage. Which reminds me: we also cleaned out the whole damn garage — there's a year's worth of headache right there.

The basement flooded three times. Raccoons invaded the house twice.

Still, all that doesn't seem like too much for a whole year. Maybe it was the tsunamis and earthquakes and hurricanes that dragged the year out. Or maybe it was Bush and Rove and Cheney and Rummy. And DeLay and Frist and Santorum. And Brownie and O'Reilly and Robertson. And Babs — let us not forget Babs! Could it be time has slowed to a standstill because this administration has reached a permanent vegetative state and needs to have its feeding tube yanked?

All that said, '05 wasn't a bad year — just long and serious, heavy and full. Like a Bergman movie, or my dog.

Here's to a 2006 with livelier pacing, a brighter storyline, and maybe a few Busby Berkeley dance numbers thrown in.

Merry Christmas (or whatever)

May your holidays be filled with goose liver, Lubitsch snow, and Ochi Tchornya cigarette boxes.


Seriously.

All I want for Christmas is...

Hint: It starts with an “i”...

This is starting to get interesting.

In the litany of grievances I have against this so-called “president” (and let me tell you, they stretch to the infinite horizon, where space twists and bends back on itself to form a Möbius strip of disgust), the fact of him ordering secret, unwarranted wiretaps of Americans ranks somewhere in the middle — slightly worse than his My Pet Goat moment or his Shiavo intervention, but not nearly so bad as his vile mocking of a condemned woman or his endless and unforgivable stream of lies about Iraq (no link necessary on that one, I trust).

But this latest swell to rise out of W's perfect storm of arrogance, incompetence, and corruption is noteworthy, because this time he isn't shrouding himself in empty rhetoric or false jingoism or theocratic platitudes. For once, he doesn't even seem to be lying. No, this time it's pretty clear that he boldly, deliberately, knowingly broke federal law — constitutional law — and he's practically bragging about it. He's promising that he'll keep doing it. And he's saying that he can do it because he's the president, and his “emergency powers” outweigh the constitutional rights of the people — and the very constitution — he's sworn to protect (sound familiar?).

Ver-y in-ter-est-ing. Particularly so because this man is supposed to be conservative. That's “conservative” as in small government, limited federal powers, every man for himself, and “from my cold, dead hands.” And last I heard, the whole big-brother-listening-in thing doesn't play well in places like Wyoming, Montana, and, oh, Texas?

The “strict constructionists” of the Scalia ilk are going to have a hard time swallowing this one. This illuminating article on Salon quotes law professor Jonathan Turley:

“The fact is, the federal law is perfectly clear,” Turley says. “At the heart of this operation was a federal crime. The president has already conceded that he personally ordered that crime and renewed that order at least 30 times. This would clearly satisfy the standard of high crimes and misdemeanors for the purpose of an impeachment.”

Turley is no Democratic partisan; he testified to Congress in favor of Bill Clinton's impeachment. “Many of my Republican friends joined in that hearing and insisted that this was a matter of defending the rule of law, and had nothing to do with political antagonism,” he says. “I'm surprised that many of those same voices are silent. The crime in this case was a knowing and premeditated act. This operation violated not just the federal statute but the United States Constitution. For Republicans to suggest that this is not a legitimate question of federal crimes makes a mockery of their position during the Clinton period. For Republicans, this is the ultimate test of principle.”

Of course, that may be exactly the problem. While noted experts — including a few Republicans — are saying Bush should be impeached, few think he will be. It's not clear that the political will exists to hold the president to account. “We have finally reached the constitutional Rubicon,” Turley says. “If Congress cannot stand firm against the open violation of federal law by the president, then we have truly become an autocracy.”

Indeed. The possibility of impeachment by a rabidly Republican congress seems unlikely. But, this is by and large the same congress that laughably impeached another president over a marital infidelity only 7 years ago. Keep your eyes open for itchy noses and sweaty palms.

And Merrry Christmas.

The unbearable rankness of peeing

Someone peed under the Christmas tree.

Normally, the assignation of guilt on these kinds of infractions is a simple matter (size, color, timing, and location of the offense allow us to deduce the perpetrator through the careful process of elimination). Not so this time. All we know is that the crime was committed behind and beneath the tree within the last 24-36 hours. Due to massive intervening stacks of presents (which we pray remain unsoiled), we are unable to determine the precise location — all we have to go on so far is the smell.

The suspects and their modi operandi:

Linus. The perfect fall guy — after all, it's a tree and he's a dog. As a puppy, he was caught peeing under the Christmas tree several times. However, he's grown into a very well-behaved citizen, scrupulously adherent to the out-of-doors bladder-relief policy. Totally incapable of keeping a straight face when he's done something bad. Spotless record for over a year.

Fabio. Fat, lazy, troublesome, defiant of authority. Also highly accident-prone. Obsessed with getting into places that are verboten. Will spend hours waiting for someone to let him in the front door rather than bother walking around the house to come in his pet door. Just the type to quietly relieve himself indoors to avoid going out into the cold and rain.

Shmool. The dark horse. Enigmatic, intelligent, relentless, and flawlessly deliberate. Very much a cat capable of symbolic acts of retribution — he once boldly pooped on a sleeping man's chest. Never got the hang of the litterbox, preferring to choose his own spots. Also a creature of habit and consistency — if it was him, then he will most assuredly strike again.

Maus has erected a temporary barricade that should at least discourage recidivism in the short run. Tonight the presents come out to be sorted for distribution, which will facilitate a more thorough investigation of the crime scene. And there's always the nuclear option of leaving the electric train plugged in — that would root out the culprit in short order, I should think.

The Mighty Quinn

Don't you LOVE Fellini's La Strada?

Tell me you've seen La Strada. If you haven't, get to it and check back with me later.

I just watched it again last night — for perhaps the fourth time. The first time you see it, what really hits you is Giulietta Masina's performance as the sweet, childlike Gelsomina. She has one of the most disarming and memorable faces in film history. But the more times I watch this film, the more taken I am with Anthony Quinn's portrayal of the strong man, Zampano. And the more I realize that the movie isn't really about her, it's about him.

Zampano is simply a brute — angry, violent, cruel, paranoid. He occasionally makes a show of being generous: giving gifts to Gelsomina's siblings (after buying her away from them), or offering to assist a nun with her work (shortly before he steals from her). His small attempts at graciousness are, for him, painfully out of character. But to those around him, they are practically invisible: a tip of the hat, a tentative handshake, a word of rehearsed politeness... and at the first tremor of uncertainty he retreats quickly into the comfort of his rage.
Whatever chance there is of Zampano being drawn out by Gelsomina's sweetness is completely destroyed when they cross paths with the Fool. For all the sweetness and warmth he demonstrates towards Gelsomina, the Fool is unable to stop hurling playful insults at Zampano, even when it becomes clear that he's talking himself into an early grave.

In that sense, the Fool is a perfect mirror of Zampano, as much a slave to wit as Zampano is a slave to anger. His ill-advised taunting of the brute becomes infuriating — we desperately want him to shut the hell up, because we know only too well how it will end if he persists. And we care for his well-being not for his own sake, but because he brings Gelsomina so much joy.

But the more threatened the Fool becomes, the more relentlessly he ridicules Zampano. And when the inevitable finally happens, we mourn not the death of the Fool, but the devastating effect on Gelsomina. Her eyes glaze over with a sadness that will never leave her, and we realize (as does Zampano, ultimately) that although we have seen her bounce back from a thousand hurts, this time her heart has been broken beyond repair.

We can sense, especially toward the end of the film, that Zampano wants to find nobility in himself. But nobility is beyond his nature. Zampano's most noble moment is a morally empty gesture — when he quietly abandons Gelsomina in the snowy mountains while she sleeps, he takes a moment to place her trumpet at her side.

Zampano never finds his nobility — years after abandoning Gelsomina, he seems sad and worn out, but he is largely unchanged. But finally, painfully, he faces the ugly truth of himself. He realizes at last the weight of his loss and the cruel limits of his humanity. He doesn't understand it, but he sees it. In one of the most powerful endings in cinema, he can do nothing but lash out at everyone around him, then wander alone to the ocean, fall into the sand, and sob in anguish and remorse.

The truth of this film is, we are ALL Zampano — trapped within ourselves, yet still able to recognize our flaws and to understand the hurts we do to others. Who among us does not aspire (secretly or openly) to be noble? To some extent, we all seek out the “better angels” of our nature (some more than others, right Dick Cheney?). But in the end, we all are exactly what we are. We can learn and change and grow, but we remain always ourselves. Zampano cannot escape himself. Nor could the Fool. Nor can any of us. That is our shared curse.

Must they do this?

Wrapping day — which means not only paper cuts galore, but an all-you-can-watch matinee buffet. It took me all of Real Genius to wrap Maus's gifts, and both Compulsion and most of Flight of the Phoenix to wrap for parents, siblings, and cousins.

Flight of the Phoenix. Not a movie I ever intended to bother seeing, as I'm a fan of the thrilling 1965 version, and this 2004 remake didn't appear to have much to offer beyond a spectacular crash sequence at the beginning. But the Tivo had picked it up, and Giovanni Ribisi was an intriguing choice for the Hardy Kruger role, so why not?

I'm tired of remakes of movies that simply don't need to be remade: Psycho, The Bad News Bears, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, Sabrina. I don't mind remakes that add something or retell the story in a distinctly different light (Dawn of the Dead, Alfie, Planet of the Apes, War of the Worlds) — these sometimes turn out rather well. Occasionally. OK, rarely. I am looking forward to Peter Jackson's King Kong, hoping this incarnation of the great ape will fare better than its 1976 predecessor.

But the new Flight of the Phoenix is weak and flat, almost perplexingly so. It's a faithful remake of a solid film, but the depth has been sucked out of it. It tries to add new drama to the original story (in the way of a woman among the survivors, the menace of armed bandits, and, I shit you not, a dance sequence), but waters down and recycles exactly the same moments from the original for its key dramatic moments — so that for anyone who saw the original, there is no drama left in the film.

I don't know, it seems like all the right elements were in place — characters, actors, story, setting, effects. But the movie never gets up off its ass. It just jumps sequentially from plot point to plot point without any buildup of tension or sense of time passing. The original film depicted a gradual erosion of strength against mounting desperation; by the end the characters were too weak and exhausted to even argue... when they drag the Phoenix to its makeshift runway, all they have left to pull with is raw hope.

Not so in the remake. It's not enough to simply let the hope of survival hinge on whether the reconstructed plane will fly — they have to have a horde of armed bandits on horseback chase it down the runway. (Why the bandits wait for the plane to taxi before deciding to attack is beyond me.) And then, when the plane does lift off, the survivors strapped to its wings cheer and hoot and pump their fists in the air. In the original, they hang on for dear life and pray the damn thing stays in the air.

See? Now I really want to see the original again. I guess remakes are good for that if nothing else. Oh yeah, and everybody's presents are now wrapped. So it's not a total loss.

Shut up and drink your eggnog

Ouch. Caustic and heavy-handed as it is, this rant nevertheless speaketh the plain truth, top to bottom. (Thanks to Brooke for sharing.)

Me, I love Christmas — the tree, the lights, the music (yes, even the religious stuff), and of course, the unrestrained consumerism. With Christmas, you get that combination of sensory-triggered nostalgia, the comfort and familiarity of ritual, the guilt-free indulgence, and a colorful, well-lit, sparkly distraction from the dark, cold onset of winter. And on top of that, Christmas smells damn good.

I love to hear Frank & Dino goof up “Marshmallow World” and Nat croon over his roasting chestnuts and Miss Piggy embellish “The Twelve Days of Christmas” with her buh-dum-dum-dums. Every year, Ralphie's Old Man proudly displays his fra-gee-lay Major Award, Cousin Eddie's dog barfs up a turkey bone under the Griswalds' table, and an irritated Schroeder plinks out “Jingle Bells” on his little piano.

I guess I'm lucky to count myself among those whose stomachs don't automatically seize up whenever “family” holidays roll around. I look forward to the Christmas Eve family toast (the one glass of wine my mother drinks all year); I get a kick out of buying things for my father that he will never use, just to see the look on his face. Our Christmases are reliably quiet, warm, and free of drama.

I even get a small pang of comfort from returning to the church of my childhood, just to see the familiar faces, hear the recitation of the “Gospel According to Linus” (And there were shepherds keeping watch...), and sing the standards (religious or no, “Silent Night” and “Joy to the World” still get to me). I may never forgive the Christians for the atrocities they committed on November 2, 2004, but every Christmas Eve I do give them credit for putting on a good show.

So nothing pisses me off like these “conservative” (they are nothing of the kind) wackjobs screeching and squealing to make themselves heard over the carollers and generally killing the buzz. These people are, literally, crazy. Seriously, certifiably insane. Arkham Asylum insane. I'm looking at you, O'Reilly.

Makes me want to sick a squad of Gremlins on their asses.

Good night, sweet swing

John Olerud is retiring. Somehow I missed this news last week — probably because he made the announcement in his usual soft-spoken, undramatic fashion. I guess it's only fitting that he leave the game the same way he played it — quietly and without fanfare.

There goes the sweetest swing in the game of baseball.

A John Olerud at-bat was a thing of beauty. He stood easily at the plate, knees slightly bent, bat resting over his left shoulder (none of this rocking and waggling and stretching and perpetual adjustment). He was the very picture of patience and concentration — never swinging at junk, fouling off pitches at the edges, working the pitcher deep into the count, drawing a lot of walks. Between pitches, he would step back and gaze briefly into space, looking lost in thought.

And what a swing. When he got his pitch, he let go with a long, smooth, fluid, fully-extended stroke that made a perfect arc down and up through the strike zone (it looked something like a combination of a golf swing and an Olympic hammer throw). He never slapped at the ball (he didn't have the speed to leg out an infield hit), nor did he try to muscle the ball out of the park. He was a precision line-drive hitter with incredible control, driving the ball deep into the gap or dropping it neatly into the shallow outfield. He hit for doubles and RBIs — an ideal clutch hitter.

At first base, his defense was sudden, smooth, and flawless. He put his glove on the ball as nimbly as his bat; his instinctive reactions to drives up the right side were uncanny. To his fellow infielders, he was an error-saving vacuum cleaner with a 10-foot reach... hurl the ball anywhere near Ole, and he'll complete the out.

On and off the field, he was a gentleman and a class act — quiet but not detached, reserved but not somber. He loved baseball and respected his teammates (who always got a kick out of kidding the serious guy). He had the concentration, dedication, and professionalism of Ted Williams, but he still enjoyed the game and kept its ups and downs in perspective.

He played for 16 seasons: 7 with the Blue Jays, 3 with the Mets, 4 ½ with the Mariners, half a season with the Yankees (he was in the on-deck circle when the last out of the dramatic 2004 ALCS was made); and one with the Red Sox (where he finished his career in style, despite being the one button-down guy in a dugout of assorted nuts). He was a two-time All-Star and a three-time Gold Glove winner, appearing in 8 postseasons and winning 2 World Series.

Few players ever have a season like Olerud had in 1993 in Toronto. With 200 hits, 114 walks, 24 home runs, and 107 RBIs, he led the American League that year in batting average (.363), times on base (321), on-base percentage (.473), doubles (54), and OPS (1.072); he tied Ted Williams's record for intentional walks (33); and he had a league-leading 26-game hitting streak in June. Most notable was the fact that he maintained a .400+ batting average well into August that year.

Maus adored him. To me, Johnny O will always be the ideal of what a ballplayer should be — an increasingly rare combination of talent, fundamentals, consistency, competence, and humility. In this age of juiced sluggers and showboaters, baseball will miss the man at least as much as the player.

Helmets off to Ole.

Art attack

The last couple weeks have seen a lot of back and forth on RogerEbert.com as to whether video games qualify as art. Not surprisingly, the gamers are defending their turf with all the sound and fury of evangelicals defending marriage (or Christmas). More ire here. A rebuttal here. And most recently, Ebert compiled some of the more thoughtful, scholarly responses.

It's fair to say that video games are artistic, and those who design and develop them are in fact artists. But I don't think the games themselves qualify as art. For one thing, they are games. (Is “Clue” a work of art?) Artistry is not the sole characteristic of art — the function of a thing is what primarily defines it. Thus, buildings and food* are not themselves art, even though architecture and cooking are art forms.

A distinction Ebert makes between movies and video games is that with games, the audience is more or less in control of the experience. With movies, the filmmaker is in control — and art depends on that control.

I can think of one example of a kind of video game that possibly qualifies as a work of art: Myst (and Riven, and their sequels). Although the player controls his/her path through these imaginary worlds, the main point of the game is simply to explore, observe, investigate, and discover. It is very much like wandering into a painting and looking around. It almost sounds incorrect even to say that one “plays” Myst — one “visits” or “explores” Myst. And one interacts with its puzzles and conundrums much as the audience attempts to find meaning in Mulholland Dr., or a reader struggles to comprehend Finnegan's Wake.

* Naturally, songs about buildings and food do qualify as art.

O-O¬

The first time I heard the name John Lennon was 25 years ago today — the day he died. I was 9 at the time, well aware of the Beatles and their music, but only vaguely conscious of the names “McCartney” and “Ringo.” I wasn't yet putting names and faces together when it came to musicians — when I first heard that John Lennon was dead, I thought they meant Felix from The Odd Couple.

When our music teacher passed Beatles albums around the classroom a few days later, the only Beatle I could pick out and name was John, because of his glasses (by then I'd seen his face on the news over and over again). I bought my very first Beatles album (the 1967-1970 “blue album”) after I heard the song “Revolution” for the first time.

By the time I was 14, I was obsessed with both the Beatles and Lennon — the 1985 Duran Duran posters adorning my bedroom gave way to this and this and this. Throughout high school I was known for peace-sign T-shirts and round sunglasses. I saw the film Imagine: John Lennon about a dozen times when it came out in 1988, and campaigned for “In My Life” to be our class graduation song in 1990 (I lost big — we walked out to Mötley Crüe's “Time For Change”).

In my 20s, my favor shifted from John to the dark, spiritual George — “Savoy Truffle”, “Something”, and “Old Brown Shoe” became favorites. Today, it's clear to me that Paul really was the genius among the Beatles. He was the pioneer of the group, the brains behind Sgt. Pepper, the one whose inventiveness defined and transcended 1960s rock-n-roll (think “Helter Skelter” and “Eleanor Rigby” and “When I'm Sixty-Four”). His songs “Hey Jude”, “Get Back”, and “Let It Be” are close to flawless.

John, of course, will always be the most beloved, because in the end he was more of a cultural icon than a songwriter. His post-Beatles work was uneven and undisciplined, suggesting that his artistic focus depended heavily upon his partnership with Paul. But he was the one with a message that resonated with a generation, the one who eventually let go of music in order to stay with the message.

And of course, he'll always be the one with the glasses.

Merry Jesus-mas from Marlboro Country

You people are nuts. Nuts. Apparently one can no longer be gracious, open-minded, or inclusive without it being a direct attack on the callous, narrow-minded, and prejudiced. Have it your way, I guess. Oh yeah, and while I have you on the phone... Narnia's roots in religious symbology does not make it a religious film, you twits. It's called fantasy. It's a story. Darth Vader is a Christ figure, too, if you want it bad enough.

All you extravagantly buckled and embroidered folk out on the range who think Brokeback Mountain is an affront to the wholesome and moral tradition of cowboyery (“A cowboy who's lusting after his buddy isn't fit to wear cowboy boots.”) need to wake up and smell the Village People* — the cowboy is second only to the biker when it comes to time-honored icons of love among men.

And to you local people who are complaining that the statewide smoking ban that goes into effect tonight is “complete and total disregard for the Constitution” — suck it up. The rest of us been living with your indiscriminate deathbreath long enough. Hey, I wholly support your right to suicide by Kool, so smoke up, Johnny! But keep it out of my face. I don't leave my dog's shit on your lawn, do I? Time for you to baggie your smoke. There's nothing quite so pathetic (or uniquely American) as trying to equate liberty with convenience.

Really. Cry me a river, all of you.

* Incidentally (as Bill Maher observed on “Real Time”) — Bush, having already played make-believe as a soldier, a cowboy, a construction worker, and a biker, needs only to appear in public as an Indian and a cop to complete the set. You go, Mr. President.

Happy St. Nicholas Day

Every year, December 6 means sap in my hair, an influx of out-of-town spiders, and a Jetta full of pine needles. It means keeping Fabio from nesting in the ornament boxes and imploring Linus to suppress his natural instincts.

It also means sucking down bourbonized eggnog and watching Holiday Inn, A Christmas Story, and A Charlie Brown Christmas while we decorate.

Maus and I don't have too many holiday traditions of our own, but damn if we don't do the tree up right, year after year (and we live in a pointy, gingerbready brick Tudor that just screams Christmas). For the record: She strings the lights, and does so with the same precision and detail she puts into her baking. Me, I get to assemble the complex cat-perturbing electric train that negotiates the narrow passes among the presents below.

We surrender ourselves to Norman Rockwell precisely once a year, and December 6 is it.

Welcome back, Reese Witherspoon

After seeing Freeway, Pleasantville, Election, and American Psycho (1996-2000), I was pretty sure she had a guaranteed seat at the table of America's best young actors (alongside Tobey Maguire, Natalie Portman, and Joaquin Phoenix).

Then came her Legally Blonde / Sweet Home Alabama / Little Nicky era (2000-2003), and I figured we were going to end up with just another Drew Barrymore or Brittany Murphy. (Witherspoon, please yield your seat at the table of honor to Scarlett Johansson or Hilary Swank — and ‘Amidala’ Portman, YOU are on probation, young lady.)

All is well now. Finally saw Walk the Line last night, and ... damn.

If angels of mercy do in fact walk the earth, then June Carter was surely among them, and Witherspoon clearly put everything she had into the role. When she wins the Oscar, everyone will talk about her singing and her stage presence, but it's really her unrelenting performance as the off-stage June, willful and vulnerable and buoyed by the love of her family, that makes this the best performance I've seen all year.

The Atticus pinch

Somebody stole Gregory Peck's star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Impressive feat. The damn thing weighs 300 pounds, and the thieves had to set up a fake construction zone in order to cut through the concrete — in full view of all the traffic on Hollywood Boulevard.

I find it hard to believe that the “street value” of the item is really worth all that planning and effort and risk. But I salute the thieves' if only for their daring, and their selectiveness — after all, they chose a star with some real weight to it. Huzzah.