Happened into an apartment screening of Miller’s Crossing last night, my favorite Coen Brothers film.

I was surprised to learn on searching this blog that I have never written about it here. I have a distinct recollection of writing about it in the past, but a string search of my hard drives yields nothing.

I see new things in the film every time I watch it. I have a clear memory of the first time I viewed it and understood that Tuturro’s Bernie Birnbaum, along with at least Buscemi’s Mink and quite possibly the character of the Dane, were intended to be not-very-deeply coded gay men. Likewise, Tuturro’s wrenching scene in the forest was not clearly seen by me to function in the technical manner it does until I had watched numerous black-and-white noirs and gangster films – there is no analog to this performance in the original body of work the Coens were emulating here. It’s a raw, naturalistic performance that is at odds with the stylization of not just the film but the entire genre, and this magnifies its beauty and force.

The specific new thing I got last night was that the setting of the closing scene of the film, at Bernie’s funeral, is literally a metaphoric locale. The open grave is accompanied by a pair of incongruous headstones and a short length of ironwork fence, all set into the forest road of what we must take to be the Miller’s Crossing of the film’s title, the presumptive locale of Bernie’s execution and the setting in which the body is found by the Dane and crew thereafter (please note, I am attempting to write this without revealing certain plot mechanics).

On prior viewings I did not spend much time reflecting on the odd appearance of the shooting set, merely mentally cross-referencing the legendary practice of crossroads burials and assuming there was some good reason that they should convert the crossing into a cemetery. Last night, I realized that the funeral and burial within the world of the film’s characters was certainly set at an actual cemetery, but within the world of the film, we are shown that Miller’s Crossing is both Tom Reagan’s crossroad, where he turns away from his mentor for good, and Bernie’s, where he literally meets his end. The moment Tom fingered Bernie for Johnny Casper’s men the fates of both characters are sealed. It’s strange to me that such a transparent reading has escaped me for all these years.

a bit odd to do cocktails by the fire of a Memorial Day weekend.

The job was somewhere on Fourth Avenue. Evidently this was some time ago, as, although I was concerned about parking, I was certainly able to bus or walk.

No one ever explained to me exactly what it was that the company did to produce revenue. It was a gender-balanced workplace, and in the span I was there, I changed my desk assignment several times. My co-workers were all in their twenties, which made them seem young to me, although they did not appear to differentiate between my age and theirs.

The primary activity of the office seemed to be the careful documentation of plans, projects, and goals, in a manner not dissimilar to the import and precedence of whiteboard planning, note-taking, and meeting documentation in the technological workplace of the post-chalkboard era.

However, in this instance, the colloquial and collective documentation, hand-made, complete with jokes and doodles, was executed by the denizens of the workplace in various implementations of embroidery and fabric, at a rate approximating a quarter-bedsheet every week. At the end of the month, the preceding four intricately-sewn planning documents were meticulously sewn together and finished as something similar to, but not intended as nor to see use similar to, a quilt.

I never actually understood what the plans preserved in this manner represented. Over time, I have come to think that they likely represented the differentiation, procurement, and labor process and budgeting for the next week’s project.

Dreamt Logan was chasing and snapping at little frogs, but missing them. Don’t think he ever caught one. Why on earth there were frogs in the yard is not known.

On our spring coastal jaunt, we picked up some very inexpensive hasbrown patties which languished forgotten in the freezer until last week.

i just had two with a fried egg. it’s 1:10am. the only thing missing was some overly-heated and thinly-flavired coffee. oh, such a blissful meal.

i’m uncertain if my tooth for said food is derived from or provacative of my current excercise regime. at any rate, wiser heads than mine inform me I might benefit from increasing my carbohydrate intake. them hashbrowns sure is good.

Fell long short of my Monday mileage target of eleven miles, which is fine – the objective is to get the weekly total out and I find it preferable to get as much done on Monday as possible.

I seem to have evolved a late-evening habit of reading Wodehouse for half an hour before bed, a habit that places me in another room from screens and therefore something to be cherished.

This week a childhood friend passes through. One hopes for an evening or two of music and absurdity.

https://youtu.be/liBhu8DBzEQ Celebrate May-tallica with this banjo cover.

Has Dylan ever guested on PHC? I mean, come on.

A new story from Hilary Mantel, “The School of English,” in the London Review of Books.

You know who I wish would drop little pearls like this? Susanna Clarke.