Capote

Doc and I went with my parents to see Capote last Friday at the Canton Palace Theater, a spectacular place to see a show. The interior is grand and the theater itself seats about 500 people. It is in the design of an outdoor amphetheater, complete with a star-lit ceiling with clouds that float by. It's magical.

At first, I was reluctant to go see this movie because I'm faint of heart when it comes to violence and I knew this was movie focused on the murder of a family. I comforted myself in the knowledge that if I got too creeped out, I could look away from the screen to the enchanted ceiling or the many statues that line the niches surrounding the audience.

As we found our seats, we were treated to the lovely sounds of the vintage organ and the quite talented organist. Before every movie, this guy ascends with the organ from beneath the stage, plays some grand music, and then descends again right before showtime. Then, the curtains part and the movie begins, no previews, no behavior modification messages, just the movie.

As the movie started, I leaned over to Doc and asked him, "Am I going to regret seeing this film?"

"No," he said, certainly, "Capote is you, if you were a gay man."

"Well, that recommends it!" I said and began to look forward to this story unwinding. Afterall, it's quite an ego boost when someone does a biopic on your dead, gay alter ego from the past.

I must say, it was a brilliant film and Phillip Seymour Hoffman deserved an Oscar for his depiction of this amazing writer. And, yes, I did see myself on that screen. I even saw my pajama bottoms up there; Doc pointed them out. I saw what I'd like to become: a writer who can scan the newspapers or other media, pick up the phone, call the New Yorker and tell the editor: "I want to write a story on this, give me a researcher and a plane ticket."

I also saw what I don't like so much about myself: ruthlessness. But, what I most empathized with was the paralysing feeling of going too far and not wanting to see something terrible through to the end. It broke my heart, actually. My Dad felt differently, though. He despised Capote by the end, thinking him a spineless, self-absorbed bastard. To-may-to, To-mah-to.

It has inspired me, though. For the first time I really know what I want to do with my life. Too bad it happened this late in life. Oh well. Thirty-four is the new twenty-one, right?