Not Quite Morning Glory Crescent

[I am such an oblivious white boy. (Oh, sudden Far-Back Flashback: Pamela Sue Martin guest-starring on an early-80's Saturday Night Live, performing in golf or tennis togs: "We're white guys/We don't take no crap/We deliver our white rap.") John and I went to an early showing of Far From Heaven at the Embarcadero Cinemas today. It was a...well, maybe not a great movie, but it was an edifying experience. As Julianne Moore's gorgeously colored, er, hued-and-shaped '50s world became untenable, I felt like I was looking at a period piece as alien from here-and-now as any Jane Austen adaptation. As we left the theatre, I indicated as much to John, with relief about how "things have improved."]

["Do you really think things have changed that much?" was the gist of John's response. John, li'l Iroquois baby adopted into a big, white, conservative preacher's brood, raised in small towns in Texas and all over upstate New York, complete with very difficult outing in high school. John, who walks the talk with friends of every hue, shape, persuasion and perspective. We finally agreed that, sure, things are better, but by no means solved, and that we are blessedly insulated here at the imperfect end of the rainbow.]

[I guess I'm especially insulated at New College, and take it for granted. Yeah, things did change, or else everyone from Richard Nixon and Dan White to Pat Robertson and George Will wouldn't have been able/wouldn't still be able to make such political hay from wanting to turn back the clock to the mythical world ("Eisenhoweria?") in which Moore's character was so invested.]

[Anyway, the performances: When did Dennis Quaid become such a good actor? He personified that chain-smoking, about-to-crack '50s/'60s husband who has a couple of scotches at lunch (gives one pause about Ward Cleaver.) The underrated Dick York portrayed him best on "Bewitched," I think, but Quaid had it down.]

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