Smoke

I find myself doubly embroiled in the legacy left by Paul Auster, for I am reading The Eighth Detective — a little bit of metafiction centered around a writer of murder mysteries — and I have now just watched this film written by Auster, containing much less murder but still centered around a writer who is facing some difficulty. But that's being less charitable than I'd like to be to this one, which I really love. I found The New York Trilogy a little too cold and distant for my liking. Here, though, the film presents a giant fire whose heat is, in many ways, diametrically opposed to Get Shorty, which — as much as I like it — has a certain kind of cynicism. It's slow and kind; it's like Clerks, centered around a tobacco shop. But again, it also just works, with the exception of Stockard Channing, who eats every piece of scenery in sight. The central cast knows exactly what kind of film it's in. William Hurt, once again, plays a writer. I love this movie a lot. It's very sweet. To tie…

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