Brad Pitt

13 Ways of Looking at A Newspaper

You know how sometimes you go see a movie that’s been adapted from a book you’d previously read and you go, “Huh. It was good, but I liked the book better”?

Tom Rachman’s novel, The Imperfectionists, has been (rather famously) picked up by Brad Pitt (hence the “rather famously”) to be adapted into a film. After I finished reading it last night I had a thought I have never once had before after reading a literary work. Namely, “That’s going to be a much better movie than a novel.”

I’ve read novels that were clearly written to be adapted into film, but this was something else altogether. I lay awake for about two hours trying to figure out that “altogether” was, and I think I got it. I also revised my initial reaction, because while I do think it’s going to be a better movie than novel, it’s an entirely worthwhile read.

The Imperfectionists is a work of literature, it’s not just fiction. It has great literary merit. Rachman can write. Unlike other literary novels, however, The Imperfectionists…how do I say this without sounding like an ass or a moron or both because I’m either hugely stupid and oblivious and naive or just plain wrong or obnoxiously arrogant but OK, here goes deep breath…has no point. It has no theme, no message.

But, and this is the crucial point, that’s OK. And this is why it will work so well as a movie. Rachman has written an imagist novel. The work consists of vignettes and sketches that may cover a day, a week, a month but are functionally freeze-frame snapshots of character and mood and tone and setting. Petals on a wet, black bough. A red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens. Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare.

Which all means, to me anyway, that The Imperfectionists is a bit of a masterpiece. Because right now, today, book closed and a few miles away on the floor next to my bed, I can see everyone of those people, the newsroom, the cafes in Rome, the looks on faces, the piercing stares, the breath-catching pain and shock at the recognition of the voice at the other end of the phone, the hotel room, the old lady granny underpants, the dusty paintings in the villa, all of it.

Read it. You’ll see it, too.

Famous People Who Want To Be My Neighbor

Catchy title, huh?

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. And clever with titles.

Brendan Fraser would love to be my neighbor. I just typed “neighbro” by accident, which sort of works, because I can imagine having a sibling-kind of relationship with him. I cannot explain WHY he would want to be my neighbor other than that. I think we’d get along. He’d like my family. He’d hang out on the back porch. He and my husband would help each other trim tree branches and paint stuff. He would like my cooking and frequently filch cookies from the counter before they’ve cooled.

Heather Graham would also love to be my neighbor. My husband thinks this is an excellent idea, by the way, but I suspect his reasons are different from my own. As my friend JennRuss would say, AHEM. Heather would constantly be barging in the back door at all hours of the day and night. At three a.m. she’d show up and ask, “Did I wake you? OH MY GOD! I’m so sorry!!!” And it would be impossible to be annoyed with her because she’s freaking adorable and fun and so Heather Graham-y. Plus she’s be holding a bottle of Vicodin and asking, “I think my dog ate a bunch of these. Is that bad?” Or she’d show up at nine on a Sunday in a sequined mini dress from the night before, asking if she could just sleep for a few hours because she’s locked out again. But could she first borrow some bandaids or maybe some gauze because she tried to break in but cut her thumb. Then we’d end up in the Emergency Room. Heather would often need to borrow a plunger. She’d be a regular last minute Thanksgiving dinner guest.

Joe Scarborough would LOOOOOOVVVEEE to be my neighbor. I, on the other hand, would hate it. He would love it because he would get a huge charge out of coming to my house every damn day and trying to convince me that he’s smarter than I am and that he’s right and I’m wrong. Every once in a while we’d agree on something and I’d think I’d be safe for a while, but he’d only be encouraged and come back with some ridiculous statement about immigration or Rahm Emmanuel and we’d be yelling again and I’d be waving my arms and rolling my eyes so far back in my head that I’d get a migraine and TWGH would just sigh and go in the house (smarter than both of us by miles). Scarborough’s wife would call him on his iphone, “Get the hell home for dinner, Joe. Leave the Dunnings ALONE.” Eventually, he’d just be like Mr. Roper. Always around and making noise, but a familiar presence.

Angelina and Brad. But only because kids love to play at my house and theirs would just roll on in and make themselves at home while Brangelina jet off to make movies somewhere. Hello free babysitting.

Wanda Sykes practically IS my neighbor. And is my goal to get her to Wednesday Spaghetti. Hello Wanda??!! We’ve got a big one coming up! Call me! Wanda and I would be best buddies. She would drop in all the time just to say hi and to drop off her kids when she needed some “me” time. I would do the same with my kids. Soon, my kids would call her “Aunt Wanda,” and tell outrageous stories about the nutty stuff “Aunt Wanda” does. They wouldn’t even know that she’s a big star, because she’s grounded and real and shops at the Acme just like we do. Wanda would come over and just hang out, and before we knew it, it would be midnight and we’d have killed a few bottles of red wine and our stomachs would hurt from laughing so much. I know I could count on Wanda to pick my kids up if I’m running late, and she knows that if she’s out of town on business, and her pipes burst, I’ll make sure the plumber comes and everything is fixed up by the time she gets home. Because that’s what neighbors do.

This is only Part the First of my list, because I can’t finish it now. I left my wallet at Target and have to go retrieve it. I’m blaming adult onset ADD. Or dementia. Or the fact that I’m back at work after the best summer ever and am so depressed about it that I’m contemplating taking the dog’s sedatives to get through the day.