Pauline Kael - Brian Kellow [228]
Despite the general softening of her temperament, she could still snap. After surgery for a congested carotid artery, Pauline came out of the anesthesia to hear the surgeons and nurses talking about the actor Matthew Modine. “He’s never any good,” Pauline whispered. Another time, she was sharing a hospital room with a gregarious woman who kept telling Pauline about her love for Jesus. Finally an exasperated Pauline said, “Well, honey, from the look of things, he hasn’t done much for you lately!”
As Will grew older, he retained his sweet, friendly nature. Some friends noticed, however, that his interests didn’t seem to be broadening and deepening in the way that might have been expected. He would become quite obsessive about certain movies—such as Braveheart and Last of the Mohicans—films with action and heroism. He loved the outdoors—particularly hiking in the Berkshires—but he still showed little interest in reading, and Pauline seemed no more inclined than ever to encourage him. He entered Bard College at Simon’s Rock, an experimental institution in Great Barrington. He dropped out, then went back. Gina worried about her son a great deal, and wondered if he might have some sort of serious medical condition—but Pauline mostly turned a blind eye to Will’s resistance to a traditional path.
In 1999 the National Book Critics Circle awarded Pauline the Ivan San-drof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters. That June, she celebrated her eightieth birthday with an enormous party at the Great Barrington house. It was a beautiful late spring day, and in attendance were her closest friends: Polly Frost and Ray Sawhill, Charles Taylor and Stephanie Zacharek, Steve Vineberg, Michael Sragow, Arlene Croce, David Edelstein, Allen and Jonelle Barra. Wallace Shawn was there, unofficially representing her New Yorker years. Her sister Anne flew out from Berkeley, and the two of them sat together at the party, looking diminutive and birdlike. She invited some people to whom she had not been close for years, such as David Denby—but no invitation was issued to James Wolcott. With Pauline’s ignorance about technology and which appliances were better than others, she had never owned a first-class television set. Several of her critic friends chipped in and bought her a big, state-of-the-art television, which delighted her. (When Gina bought a new computer, however, Pauline didn’t go near it, but only eyed it suspiciously.)
Also present was Roy Blount, Jr., who composed a poem for the occasion:
“Presenting Creation, more or less,”
Said Jehovah.
“Oh. What a mess,” Pauline observed.
So he gave it form.
Roundish. Molten cooling to warm.
“Has it occurred to you to let there be light?”
“By golly,” Jehovah said, “you’re right.”
But light revealed a certain void.
“You might try creating celluloid,
And then a projector,” said Pauline,
“For showing images on a screen.”
“Look, it’s one thing you’re not afraid of me,
But don’t get so far ahead of me!
What are those images gonna be of?”
Exclaimed Jehovah—“Vengeance? Love?”
“A couple of characters wouldn’t hurt.”
So Jehovah grabbed two handfuls of dirt.
“Mm,” said Pauline, “you’ve got something there.
You’re casting Cary Grant and Cher?”
“No. For Eve I want someone deep,”
He said, “I’m making Meryl Streep.
And who really cares whom I make first male?
A first-mate type. Think Alan Hale.”
“Oh God,” said Pauline, “a feminist flick,
With the Holy Ghost as the only dick.”
“No,” he huffed, his face getting red,
“A serious film, with a message,” he said.
“Oh why does my sinking heart suspect
You’re letting Stanley Kramer direct?”
“So be it,” Jehovah thundered, and that
Is why “The Fall of Man” fell flat.
And also why, when Edison came
To visit Pauline one day and claim,
“I’ve made a moving picture,” she
Patted his hand and said, “We’ll see.”
And seen