I promised my former drama teacher and current friend, Kim, that I would start watching more old movies. What I meant was: I’ll watch a half-dozen or so, and if I just can’t get into them, I’ll watch, like, two a year. Kim has good taste, though, and out of the list she gave me, I liked all but one. I hated Bringing Up Baby, and as I watched Cary Grant fall for Katherine Hepburn, I yelled: “Get away from her! She’s totally crazy!” He ignored me, of course, and at the end of the film, after she wrecked a dinosaur skeleton he spent years assembling, the couple end up in an embrace. He couldn’t help but love her; personally, I would have stayed single.
I decided to continue with what I started calling The Celluloid Project, and then, Kim said I should check out some silent films. Oh. Really? Silents? Really? I’ve taken a few film classes, so I’ve seen my fair share of silent movies. I’m sure some people genuinely like them. But even when I watched something entertaining, like Charlie Chaplin, I invariably found myself thinking, “You know what would make this better? Talking.”