Friday Movies: Margot at the Wedding

The old seawall at the base of East 81st Street.

There were two choices yesterday morning, and both began at the stroke of eleven – in theory (in practice, the Angelika can be pretty ramshackle). There was Love in the Time of Cholera, with the beautiful Giovanna Mezzogiorno, and I’d have seen that if it hadn’t been so much longer than Margot at the Wedding, which got a much better review in the Times than it did in The New Yorker.

For the first time this year, the air was crisp with winter, and all I could think of, as I waited for the light at Broadway and Houston, was Christmas presents. Christmas presents of the past, that is – of childhood. (Kathleen and I have renounced such pagan rituals as the exchange of stuff at Yuletide.) But what a conundrum: I wouldn’t even want the toys that so excited my lust (and that I never received) when I was eight, nine, and ten that I still think of them when a chill in the air suggests that it just might snow.

ΒΆ Margot at the Wedding.


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