Michael Clayton
Yesterday, my great friend Kate, who has just retired after being, like Kathleen, too busy to live life as we know it, took me to lunch, to celebrate my speedy recovery and to catch up on the new Daily Blague &c &c. It was all about me, I’m afraid. But because Kate wanted to lunch on the early side, I decided to ditch the idea of a first-thing-in-the-morning movie in favor of taking Kathleen to see a late-ish showing of Michael Clayton, which is playing across the street. It was midnight when we got home, but I asked Kathleen if she’d mind if I had a glass of wine and composed some “notes” on the film. She assented, but I don’t really do “notes.” I ended up writing about three quarters of the finished piece more or less as it stands – and, suddenly, it was two in the morning.
I was sure that I’d ruined my carefully reconstructed bedtime rituals, but, no; a few pages of a book that I’m about to finish, with the greatest interest, knocked me out cold. The only hitch was that, when I woke up at five, I had to remember just when I’d gone to sleep, and crawl back into bed.
So we’re having a late Saturday. I’ve read the Book Review, polished off my piece about Michael Clayton, and recorded the PodCasts. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the Chemex if anybody wants some.
¶ Michael Clayton, at Portico.
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