Bridges

I just came across "The Bridges of Madison County" on TV.

I hated the book so much that is is easy for me to forget how much I loved the movie. My man Clint, directing and writing the bloody soundtrack which haunts my soul. That moment when Meryl Streep lies in the bath and experiences her awakening eroticism, because she is lying where the water so recently trickled off his body. That moment she is on the phone with a friend and he is quietly behind her, opening a beer for her. That later moment when she hides behind her own emotional fragility, and spits, "Why don't we just fuck in the bathtub for old time's sake?" Such hatred and frustration caught up in her love. The moment she grips the door handle to the truck and you hold your breath, not knowing what she's going to do, even though you actually already know she didn't get out of the car. Pure, pure genius.

There is no one like Clint Eastwood. Throughout his career, his acting, to me, has been irregular. Sometimes he's good, more rarely he's great, but most of the time he's mediocre.

But as a director? No one can touch him.

And so I will now stay up waaaay past my bedtime, simply so I can gorge myself on his genius.

"This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime."