Thou shalt not remake a James Dean movie. I would've thought that was Filmmaking 101. And yet there's talk of remaking East of Eden. Steinbeck, I like to think, is rolling over in his grave.
Speaking of which, upon finishing Twilight, I knew I had to bring out the big guns to keep me from falling into a literary void of despair. Because what could top it? The guns came in the form of Steinbeck's last novel, saved for just such a moment, The Winter of Our Discontent. Although the bulk of what I've read so far consists of a grocery storekeeper talking to cats and jars of olives, it's more than doing the trick. This is Steinbeck at the height of his skill. It makes me feel like an architecture student marveling at the pyramids.
No comments:
Post a Comment