The Introvert's Party

(Again, spoiler alert if you haven't seen it yet.)

Pardon the lateness of this post, but in bigger news spring training has begun and I've spent my weekend trying to do work amidst the first radio broadcasts online.  Such romance is in the air with the first days of March and baseball.  So, I've procrastinated a bit.

Like I've previously stated, The Departed is a favorite movie of mine for many reasons.  One happens to be the mix of characters living shadow lives, weighted by obligation and tempted by a happiness they can never quite attain.  Also, a pretty great ending:

"Behind it, stepping fast out of the shadows, DIGNAM. Avenging a guy he didn't even like, because it's the right thing to do."

Avenging a guy he didn't even like (though I think, he actually did in some ways), because it's the right thing to do.  Awesome.

A fun tidbit: In this still from the title sequence, you'll see the 30 Rocks' Dot Com checking out Billy. 

via this

Love the posters, all of them but this is Billy's show sooo....

via this

How cute are these guys?  While, I do love Nolan's Leo, I am a huge fan of the Scorsese Leo (I guess more fairly Inception Leo vs. Shutter Island Leo).  Yet to come: Tarantino's Leo in Django Unchained out later this year.

via this

picture via blog, *script excerpt courtesy of The Departed Script

Even the waitress gives him a funny look when he orders cranberry juice.  Just cranberry juice.  I stick to my coffee and add some dry wheat toast to give me something to munch on through the silence.  Not that there was any.  I've found that I ramble when all that stands between us is the tinkling of silverware and a few vagabond coughs.  He's obviously distracted, or just plain bored of me.

I can't remember how I came to be sitting at his table or how we started talking about Zelda Fitzgerald, how I started talking about Zelda Fitzgerald while he played with his Saint Michael pendant and looked to the door. 

juice, coffee, diner

Despite the low drawn cap and hunched shoulders, something in his visage betrays a flash of vulnerability, like a turbulent dip in an airplane that steadies quickly and continues on its set path.  Blink, and it's gone.

He's all shadows and weighted fabrics that soak up all the light in the room.  No labels, no glaring tattoos, nothing even on his baseball cap despite living in the Red Sox nation.  At a glance, he's easily dismissed as a Southie stereotype in a surprisingly yuppie neighborhood, but he's been observing everyone in the joint, casing them over like a writer.  Or a cop.

hat, hoodie, saint pendant, sneakers, jacket, t-shirt, phone, jeans

"Died in a fire," he says.
"Who?"
"Zelda.  Lived in one too."
"Couldn't have been easy trying to find an artistic identity as the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald."
He downs the last of his cranberry juice and locks his gaze on a lonely suit that has ambled into the dim diner with a newspaper in hand.
"You like cats?" he asks, eyes still trained on the newcomer.
"Not particularly."
"Good."
I munch on my toast, unsure how to a guide a conversation through fog.  The suit flirts almost reflexively with the waitress; the scene is gag-worthy.  He reeks of local politics, Beacon Hill maybe, but wears the 'slight air of scumbag entitlement.'  Possibly a detective but his suit looks a little too tailored, his wardrobe a tad too thoughtful.  Politician for sure.  He's had her vote from the first leer that sent her daddy issues and wanton compensation tactics into desperation mode.

watch, suit, shirt, tie, sunglasses, shoes

 "Another cranberry juice?" Same waitress, no leer, no special treatment.  She moderates her composure; so returns the latent disgust for customers who spend hours in a booth and rack up a $15 bill.
"Another cranberry juice."
"And coffee," I pipe.  Mr. Fancypants gets his egg white omelet and two OJ refills before our beverages ever come.  I'd guess he's married and lives in some fancy apartment with parquet floors and a great view while my table mate probably shares some Southie tenement.  
"Billy, right?" The black cap nods.  "You ever wanted to be a politician?"
"My pop handled bags at the airport, the rest of my family were crooks.  I'd be happy with a reason to sleep well at night."
"Sure, Billy.  But this is America.  Families are always rising and falling."
"Personally, I'd like a little less movement in my life for a while."
It'd be too easy to interpret his desire as apathy, but I think he just wears the universal exhaustion of urban America. 
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Billy."
"Right. Same." As I rifle through my wallet for a few loose bills, I feel his eyes train on me now.  I take too long to count my money and re-count my money until mercifully, he turns his gaze back to his steady hands; the only part of him that moves in real time.  His anxious energy makes me uncomfortable and yet there is more sincerity in his nervous sipping than in every practiced smile of the politician. 

Has the radio been on the whole time?  It's a song from Flogging Molly, one of their softer, sadder dirges that always makes me think of white wreaths and black umbrellas.

I'm so distracted that I almost bump into a beautiful woman on the street.  She looks distracted too, like a woman trying to convince herself to break up with a guy who's been all wrong for too long.

via this

I find myself still thinking about Billy sometimes, whenever I pour a glass of cranberry juice or catch a black cap dodge into a shady alleyway and I hope that in some small way, he's found a measure of stillness.  If even for just one moment.

 P.S. How excited are you to see Leo as Jay Gatsby in Baz Luhrmann's version of The Great Gatsby?
Just a morsel:

via this

Uh, yes please!
Happy Monday, Party-goers.  And... go watch The Departed!