My friend Maryann in
Philadelphia has a boyfriend whose last name is Schmidt. I’ve not yet met him.
The other day, I asked her in an email if she’s asked him if he’s seen the
movie About Schmidt, since it’s,
well, about Schmidt and all. The whole idea struck me as hilarious. I was
thinking about how, should he respond that he hasn’t seen it, Maryann could
mock-seriously question his self-awareness and his commitment to introspection.
“It’s about Schmidt! How could you
not be curious?”
Never mind that About Schmidt came out 14 years ago and was
hardly a blockbuster. In it, Jack Nicholson plays a curmudgeonly retiree and
recent widower who finds it difficult to relate to other people, including his daughter.
His emotional breakthrough finally comes when he weeps for an African kid he’s
never met, to whom he’s been sending money and letters through a charity
organization. I knew when I asked Maryann the question that it was quite
possible that her Schmidt had never so much as heard of the movie, let alone
seen it. But I was pretty sure that Maryann, a film buff, at least had heard of
About Schmidt. Which gave me the
opening to ask my utterly hilarious question. Which of course, like many things
that strike me as comic gold, went over like the proverbial lead zeppelin, per
a comment by The Who’s Keith Moon that became (with a slight spelling change) the name of another iconic rock band.
Predictably in retrospect,
Maryann earnestly wrote back, “I haven’t asked [boyfriend] if he’s seen About Schmidt. Is it good? Would I like
it?” Cripes! I internally shouted the words of mad scientists in a hundred
1950s horror movies—“The fools! They know nothing of my work!” But I
simultaneously understood that this gag was uproarious only to me, so what I wrote
back was, “Never mind. That’s not the point. But yeah, I thought it was good,
from what I remember.” I do suspect she’d like the flick, but that’s neither
here nor there.
Anyway, the exchange got me
to thinking about Jack Nicholson and, by extension, Gene Hackman. I say “by extension”
because both actors were incredibly prolific for decades and then disappeared
from films seemingly overnight. There are other actors and actresses and
one-time media darlings in other realms who fall into this category, although I
can’t name any at the moment. What they all have in common is that
we—or at least I, but I don’t think I’m alone in this—only take note of their
long absence from public view when they one day resurface on the cover of a supermarket
tabloid, looking like the hideous portrait of Dorian Gray, gasping for one last
breath beneath a headline alleging shocking elder abuse. Although the “facts” in the articles always seem dubious—was the
housekeeper really force-feeding dog
food to the former Oscar winner, and pounding on his bedsores with a baseball
bat?—there’s the realization that the photo itself, while horribly
unflattering, actually does
accurately reflect what must be the age of the long out-of-sight, out-of-mind
celebrity. It’s the moment at which we understand that, while we were going about our lives and not paying
attention, yesterday’s stars were getting Old As Hell.
I just now Googled Jack
Nicholson. It turns out that he’s 79. Which isn’t quite ancient, but, given the
hard-charging life he’s led, it probably works out to most other people’s 90.
According to Wikipedia, he hasn’t retired from films, but he’s very selective
about his roles. The way I read this is, “Only cameos I can squeeze
between my 10 am and 2 pm naps.” My guess is that Jack is hoping similarly-aged
director Woody Allen can write him into the final minutes of a period piece about
Casanova in which the great lover bags his final conquest—played by previous Allen cast member Scarlett
Johansson—then dies a happy man.
In the long hiatus between my
last blog post and this one, a lot has happened in both the big, wide world and
my little one. High-profile police shootings. High profile-shootings of police. The nightclub deaths in
Orlando. Brexit. The continued rise, then self-inflicted fall (fingers crossed
it’s permanent) of Donald Trump. At our house, the biggest and worst news was
the death on August 1 of our beloved cat Tess, who, beset with diabetes and
other serious health issues for years, nevertheless had outlived her nine
feline lives in relative comfort until she suddenly and dramatically gave up the
ghost. We got a vet to make a house call and end her suffering.
Also, I turned 58 in early
July, and at around the same time received in the mail a postcard inviting me
to my 40-year high school reunion. Although it’s simple math—both 1958 + 58 and
1976 + 40 equal 2016—it’s somehow a lot to take in. I was talking about this
over dinner in DC last night with my friend Erika, who I’ve known since college
and see once or twice a year, as she lives locally. We hashed over old times,
happy times, sad times, regrets and retirement plans, as two friends of a
certain age will do. Neither of us could quite believe that we’re the age we
are, the retirement talk notwithstanding. We don’t feel as if we’re on the cusp
of 60. We look nothing like those scary walking-dead celebrities in the
tabloids, if we do say so ourselves. (That written, I’d like to give a tip of
the hat to hair dyes.) When Erika and I talked last night about the upcoming post-work
phase of our lives, it was with enthusiasm for the activities we plan to
pursue, not dread of the senescence into which we eventually may sink. Still, time
does march on.
This 40th high school reunion
thing is a bit of a conundrum for me—and not because attending it would confirm
what’s undeniable anyway—that I’m old enough to be having a 40th high school reunion. Rather, it’s a question of
motives, utility, and who else will be there.
I remember my 20th high
school reunion as if it was yesterday. I’d attended it neither for the joy of seeing hundreds of former
classmates I barely knew as a teenager—I wasn’t popular and had only a small
clique of friends—nor to reinvigorate my school spirit. I attended zero
football games in the three years I attended Grimsely Senior High School in
Greensboro, North Carolina, and I have no absolutely recollection of how the
school’s sports teams fared during those years. Last-period pep rallies were my
cue to drive to nearby Krispy Kreme for a late-afternoon doughnut or three. But
I knew that a few key former classmates would be at that 20-year reunion, so I
wanted to see them. I also had it in mind to show off Lynn to anyone who might
have thought, back in the Gerald Ford years, that a pudgy one-handed doofus
like me would never marry, period, let alone score a fox. (Probably no one had even considered
my future marital status, but that lonely scenario had been my own working
assumption.) Also, by 1996 I wasn’t pudgy anymore. In fact, I fancied that I
looked pretty damn good at age 38, all things considered. As the date neared, I savored the
prospect of wearing a name tag bearing a yearbook photo of fat-faced Eric Ries.
I deemed that 20th reunion a
success. I had some great conversations with people I hadn’t seen in years,
although I also drank too much and missed some other opportunities. I enjoyed
the fact that several people almost didn’t recognize me (until they spotted the
telltale empty sleeve) because I’d aged for the better and not (per many former
sports stars and cheerleaders) for the worse. Lynn had a good time. I felt proud
to have her as my date for the evening and my partner in life.
But now it’s 20 years later,
as hard as that is to believe. One of the classmates with whom I spoke at length that night in 1996 killed herself last year. My closest friend from my high school class already
has told me he hasn’t the time off, spare cash or inclination to drive over
from the eastern part of the state. I’m not on Facebook, so I don’t keep up
with a vast network of peripheral friends and acquaintances the way a lot of
people do, but I’ve put out a few email feelers to former classmates who I’d
like to see. No answers yet.
With Tess’s death, Lynn is
freed from her intensive care needs, and we can leave our dog Bean with
friends. My mom has long griped about never seeing Lynn when I visit
Greensboro, so the reunion weekend would be as good a time as any for us to visit
with my parents, who are even older than Jack Nicholson. But, what if none of
the people I want to show up can make it? What point will it serve to spend a
few hours milling around awkwardly in a refurbished downtown theater amid a
bunch of near-strangers, while overenthusiastic emcees and cheesy music seek to
gin up nostalgia for a time and place that I’d in many ways just as soon
forget, and largely have? Do I want to be dragging Lynn into that situation,
however game she might be?
On the other hand, maybe I’d look around the
room and determine that time hasn’t ravaged me to the extent that it has others,
and that’d make me feel good about myself. Perhaps I’d surprise myself by
feeling real kinship with a group of people with whom I share only a thin
slice of the past, but many of whom I’m unlikely ever to see again. Still, are those
sufficient reasons to plunk down nearly a hundred bucks for the two of us
and Do This Thing?
At the moment I’m thinking
probably yes. Especially if my emails bear fruit, but perhaps even if not.
Because, however young I may feel in my mind that I am, the cold, hard facts are that I’m old and
getting older. It'll only be a few hours of my time, and it could be fun. It
probably won’t be dreadful. Anyway, there’ll be alcohol, although I’d best go a
little easier on that this time around.
I feel that I’ve got plenty
of life in me yet. But as Jack Nicholson, Gene Hackman and other once-hot
celebrities attest, in the seeming blink of an eye you can come to resemble
a sad victim of time (and, possibly, of cruel
caretakers as well). So, I’m thinking that maybe I should engage with my fellow members of
the Class of 1976 at least one more time while we’re all still upright and
lucid.
Maybe I’ll even outline the About Schmidt gag to somebody, since I’ll have no investment in his or her reaction. Maybe somebody will get it, and will laugh.
That would be sweet. A happy memory to consider 10 years from now, when
the next reunion postcard arrives in the mail.
