Here's the irony: I actually liked The Color of Money. It's from there that I came to The Hustler.
I mean, Martin Scorcese. John Turturro. That old guy, what's his name, Paul Newman. Heck, that's back when I even thought Tom Cruise's bad acting was cool, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio with her freaky perm was hot.
I just had no idea. No. Idea. This sorry excuse of an eighties syntheziser crap is so soulless, so devoid of heart, of thought, of class. It literally pales in comparison to its black-and-white predecessor.
Every now and then it strikes me how people of that generation—people who wore suits and dresses, had handkerchiefs in their pockets and hats on their heads, shined their shoes and pressed their shirts—can be so humble. They must walk around today in horror, looking at the stupid, arrogant, ill-behaving slobs that mope around the present, waxing on about questions already answered by generations before them. Like today was the first day the sun came up. How can these people who remember a time of civility, of sportsmanship, of honesty, of fairness, of straight shooting, of graciousness and yes, of class, how can they stand silently by? How can you not go crazy seeing the humanity drain out of society?
For a few months now, I have had the honor of living with a group of people mostly of that era. Granted, many of them have a privileged background, resulting in a dislikeable snobbish disposition, and quite a few are afflicted with common ailments of their time, such as homophobia and latent racism. But they have a sense of grace. Their word is good. And sufficient. And time is in their service, instead of ruling them. Even if they have precious little of it left.
So, is this just a pendulum of the times swinging? Won't it just swing back one day? Didn't Socrates complain that the youth had no manners or respect, back in 400 bC?
I don't know. I do hope so.
But I'm not betting on it.