Frozen Skinny Lovers Found on 10th Street
“You know of course you’re unbearably lovely. All indications point to my falling in love with you.”
“I feel like we’ve died and gone to heaven, only we had to climb up.”
“What do you need gloves for? It’s only 30 degrees.”
“It’s really very simple. All you have to do is give up a little bit of yourself for him. Don’t make everything a game; just late at night in that little room upstairs. Take care of him. Make him feel important. If you can do that you’ll have a happy and wonderful marriage, like two out of every ten couples.”
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My dad watches Barefoot in the Park whenever it airs on the classic film channels. This is especially surprising because I can list on less than one hand the movies for which I’ve seen him stay awake: The Last Samurai, The Bourne Identity, and Titanic, perhaps because we saw it in theaters.
Corie Bratter is so exhaustingly earnest about her husband and her marriage, like it really is the greatest calling in life to care for a tiny, powder blue walk-up in Greenwich Village, and she would gladly throw herself out the sixth-floor window if everything isn’t perfect always. In her defense, concessions must be made if Robert Redford is your husband. Especially if it’s a goofy, drunk Robert Redford who tries unsuccessfully to hide his booze from his new homeless friend. Well done, Neil Simon.
Maybe my dad sometimes wishes for a Mad Men, Norman Rockwell life. Maybe he appreciates Simon’s combination of comedic excellence and realism.
Or maybe he likes Jane Fonda in fitted turtlenecks. Well done, Edith Head.
