MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE GREAT GATSBY" (1949)

The problem with adapting certain novels to the screen is that their greatness comes not just from the stories themselves but how they're told. J.D. Salinger knew that a movie version of Catcher in the Rye would never work because the book's driving force -- Holden Caulfield's narration -- was unfilmable.

The Great Gatsby is another case of mistaking a great story for movie fodder. It's the genius of F. Scott Fitzgerald that he manages to make you care about a bunch of people you otherwise wouldn't waste your spit on. I decided to run a few minutes of the 1949 movie version starring Alan Ladd -- which I'd never seen -- for my daughter. She had just finished reading the book a couple of hours earlier; with it still fresh in her mind, she'd be able to fill me in on what the movie got wrong even in the first scene. (I hadn't read it since high school.)

The movie opens in the present day (i.e., 1949) with Nick Carraway and Jordan Baker, apparently happily married, placing flowers on the grave of Jay Gatsby. "Wait, what is this?" my daughter objected. "This isn't in the book!" This is followed by a brief history lesson, narrated by Nick, about the jazz age, climaxing with Jay Gatsby making like Machine Gun Kelley by mowing down a car full of fellow bootleggers. "Gatsby isn't like this!" wailed my daughter. (Look at the poster above. Paramount was clearly trying to sell Gatsby as another Alan Ladd gangster picture like This Gun for Hire.)

It was all downhill from the first scene. My daughter was so taken by the movie's inadequacies that we wound up watching the whole thing. Some of her objections spoken throughout:
"What's going on? This never happened!"
"Wait, Nick knew Gatsby in the war. They're not strangers!" 
"That scene happens in at the end, not the beginning!"  
"Gatsby doesn't have henchmen!"


"Hi, folks! We really screwed up
a great book. Hope you like it!"

"What's going on? This never happened!"
 "You don't know Daisy has a daughter until near the end!"
"This scene lasts two chapters in the book!"
"Tom Buchanan is supposed to be huge. Who is this guy?"
"What's going on? This never happened!"
"OK, that drunk is in the book... but he's discovered by Nick, not Gatsby!"
"Tom's affair with Myrtle goes all the way through the book! You hardly see it here!"
"What's going on? This never happened!"
"Daisy doesn't turn herself in for killing Myrtle. And Tom doesn't try to warn Gatsby that Wilson's going to shoot him; he wants to see Gatsby dead!"
"No! Only the drunk guy goes to Gatsby's funeral!"
"What?! Nick and Jordan don't become a couple!"
"What's going on? This never happened!"

My kid got a 14-karat lesson in the way Hollywood can completely screw up a work of art. She found the 1949 Gatsby no less than appalling. Having little memory of the books' details, I could only go by what I saw. And what I saw was a potentially-interesting story trying to break loose from its mediocre surroundings. 


How stupid do you think Alan Ladd felt posing for this publicity shot?

"Let's watch television. Oh wait, this is 1928!"

My first beef was with the clothes. It takes place in 1928, but everyone's dressed in their finest 1949 gear. The closest anybody gets to looking authentic is when Alan Ladd wears two-toned shoes, and those didn't appear until the '30s. Speaking of Ladd, did someone slip him a Nembutal before the cameras rolled? His is the sleepiest performance this side of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. When he's not gunning down rival gangsters, that is. Which, as my daughter will remind you, isn't in the book. On the other hand, 36 year-old Ladd provides some welcome, if unintended, laughs in a flashback when playing Gatsby at age 14. (Technically, since Nick is telling the story, it's one of the movie's three flashbacks within flashbacks, like a particularly bad acid trip.)

Ladd's primary co-stars -- Betty Field (Daisy Buchanan), Barry Sullivan (Tom), Macdonald Carey (Nick) and Ruth Hussey (Jordan) -- are equally adrift. As noted before, without Fitzgerald telling the story, the Gatsby characters are about as sympathetic as the Shining Path. Betty Field, in fact, has the same problem as Mia Farrow did 25 years later. Her Daisy Buchanan isn't just ditsy, she's a Long Island Blanche DuBois -- irritating, whiny, nuts. If I were Gatsby, I'd thank my lucky stars I'd broken up with her.

And why does the movie take place in 1928 when the book places it six years earlier? Did the year 1922 sound too ancient for the studio? The script certainly goes out of its way to refresh the audience's memory right from the get-go. As Nick puts flowers on Gatsby's
grave, Jordan sighs, "He seems like someone we knew in another time, another life, another world. Jazz, prohibition, flaming youth." Everyone involved seemed to have forgotten the maxim Show, don't tell. Or at least tell with good dialogue.

"Get out of my light, old sport."

Ironically, a problem comes when the movie is too faithful to the source material, viz, Gatsby's nicknaming everyone "old sport." In the book, it's an affectation that provides insight to his character. Here, as in the 1974 version, it just sounds awkward and unrealistic. Dialogue that reads well on paper doesn't always sound good when spoken.

"Better catch me now
before I pack on another
200 pounds."

It's up to the supporting characters to goose things up. I had hopes when seeing Elisha Cook, Jr.'s name in the credits. But rather than his usual intense persona that enlivened many a movie, he, along with Ed Begley, portrays one of Gatsby's henchmen with the power of cottage cheese. Howard Da Silva is fine, however, as the weak, sickly Wilson. I actually felt bad for the guy, especially since he has no idea that his wife, Myrtle, is fooling around with Tom Buchanan. Myrtle is played by Shelley Winters with her usual gusto (i.e., loud and trashy). It's a shock to see Winters when she was young -- in this case, age 29 -- and kind of attractive before she morphed into the dumpy great-aunt you tried to avoid at family reunions.

Criminal acts in movies couldn't go unpunished in 1949. So in Gatsby, Daisy Buchanan insists on turning herself in for running down Myrtle. Her husband Tom, who hates hates hates Gatsby in the novel, actually tries to prevent his murder. He even promises Daisy that he'll be a better husband. To drive home the point that Gatsby got what was coming, Nick quotes the Bible in the very first scene: "There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." Its source, Proverbs 14:12, is carved on Gatsby's grave -- the grave that isn't in the book. The carving was arranged by Nick, who, in the film, knew Gatsby about a day and a half. What a freaking movie.


"It's the feel-good movie of the year!"

Ultimately, The Great Gatsby, rather than being an epic movie based on a classic novel, is just another studio melodrama about star-crossed lovers who act against God's wishes. You could probably change the names of the characters and not even know what you were watching. If F. Scott Fitzgerald hadn't drunk himself to death nine years earlier, this movie would have definitely finished him off.

Moviemakers just don't learn. Later this year, yet another version of The Great Gatsby -- this time in 3-D! -- starring Leo DiCaprio hits the screens. The director, Baz Luhrmann, made the excerable Moulin Rouge!, so you know what to expect. And as in 1949, Hollywood is still nervous about releasing a movie set in the '20s. To calm people's fears, the score will be provided by Jay-Z and the Bullits. If that doesn't put you in the jazz age mood, maybe this Tweet from lead Bullit Jaymes Samuel will: Jay-Z and myself have been working tirelessly on the score for the forthcoming #CLASSIC The Great Gatsby! It is too DOPE for words. Other music will be provided by Prince and Lady GaGa. Dope, indeed.

The 1949 Great Gatsby has never been released on video. Considering the movie is based on the novel and the 1926 Broadway play by Owen Davis, I figure Paramount couldn't be bothered clearing the rights. Interested parties can view it on YouTube in a decent, if not pristine, print for free. However, you still might want your money back, old sport.
                                                              
                                                           **************

HE SHOOTS, HE KILLS!

"Oh God, why didn't I make it look like a suicide?"

You have to admit, there's something kinda funny about the DA considering Oscar Pistorius a flight risk. The guy hasn't got legs! On the other hand, neither does his story. I thought there was an intruder in my bathroom, so I fired my gun through the door four times. Oh, the girlfriend? I forgot she was there!

Unless Pistorius lives in the Palace of Versailles, it's pretty unlikely that he could lose track of a model in his home. Just as unlikely as the lead detective in the case would be currently charged with seven counts of attempted murder. Oh wait...

Well, if Pistorius' luck keeps up like that, he should be walking -- er, stumping the streets in no time. According to his coach, Pistorius will be back to training in a matter of days. Just what he's going to be training for went unexplained. Does he expect to return to the Olympics if he gets off a murder rap? Women make up the overwhelming number of its viewers. I don't see them cheering on a guy who "accidentally" blew away his girlfriend with four bullets. Or even one.

Maybe the Paralympics audience would be more forgiving. Hey, he's got no legs but he was still able to kill somebody! But that move would be like Jennifer Aniston returning to a weekly sitcom -- not out of the realm of possibility but a humiliating admission of defeat. (I'm sure there's a pun concerning Pistorius and "defeat" but I'm too sophisticated to wallow in such alleged humor.) 

He might want to consider getting out of the running game altogether and look for a sport more worthy of his talents and to make some dough at the same time. The natural thing would be for Pistorius, OJ Simpson and Robert Blake on a pay-per-view skeet shooting competition. They'd just have to remember to aim their guns up.

One thing's for sure, those multimillion-dollar sponsorship deals are off the table. This is kind of a shame since Pistorius' ads for Nike and Thierry Mugler Fragrance were astonishingly prescient in light of what happened. And, no, I couldn't make this up:

Mugler's press release upon signing him said it all: Part man, part god and unchained by the conventional codes of seduction, he is defined by his interior strength and his desire to conquer… Oscar Pistorius possesses the masculine values which Thierry Mugler holds so dear. If that's the case, then Thierry Mugler should be behind bars in no time.

And while we're on the subject, Nike really ought to take a moment and study its questionable taste in spokespeople:

TIGER WOODS: Serial slut hound.
MICHAEL VICK: Dogfight referee.
MARION JONES: Lying juicer.
LANCE ARMSTRONG: Juicing liar. 
OSCAR PISTORIUS: Self-confessed bad shot.

Four criminals and an adulterer. If I were the guy in charge of hiring Nike's shills, I'd be a little concerned if I had a job next Monday. 

Hey, they might as well.

Let me give you some advice, Nike. Watch some commercials other than your own. Most products are sold by ordinary people that the folks at home can relate to. Now look at the five people I listed above. Who can relate to them except other overpaid, unpleasant, lawbreaking athletes? The same ones who get their sneakers for free anyway. No, what you need is someone who's not in any danger of breaking the morals clause in any contract. Someone normal. Like me.

Look, I'm not cheating on my wife with sleazy groupies, nor am I going to kill her. Right there, women will give the OK. Pretty easy, isn't it? 

Nor do I engage in animal or drug abuse, so we've got PETA and rehab groups on your side. All I am is a nice guy who runs when the weather is warm. Someone that people can, yes, relate to. Because I've seen runners in downpours and snowstorms, when the temperature is 99 or 14, and I can tell you, nobody relates to them except other freaks. Is that who you want Nike to represent?

Don't worry about experience. I've done print ads, so I can give you what you want in one take. Nor will I make outrageous demands while on the set. Heck, I'll bring my own lunch if you want. No $40-million down the tubes like with Lance Armstrong, either. A low seven-figure salary, as you paid Oscar Pistorius, will be just fine.

The ball's in your court. And, if you need reminding, Pistorius is in criminal court.
                                              ****************

A NIGHT IN HEAVEN

Being a Marx Brothers fan is a frustrating thing. When you get right down to it, there are only a handful of their 13 movies worthy of them. The others are weighed down by sappy romantic subplots, even sappier music and scripts that range from just OK to mediocre.

What makes it even more disappointing is knowing there could have been more great Marx movies if they'd only gotten past the discussion stage. Orson Welles, Billy Wilder and even Salvador Dali had ideas ready to go, all undoubtedly more interesting than most of what was eventually made.

Wardrobe budget: $9.95.

Yet one unfinished project that actually got before the cameras in 1959 was, of all things, a sitcom. Deputy Seraph was to star Harpo and Chico as angels who, every week, would straighten out the problems of a different inhabitant of earth. The earthlings would never physically interact with the Marxes. Rather, they would take on the angels' characteristics while being inhabited by them -- which, in the case of Harpo and Chico, consisted of communicating via pantomime and a comedic Italian accent respectively.

Hollywood Götterdämmerung: Gummo, Zeppo, Chico, Groucho, Harpo

In other words, about 50% of each episode would have been actors imitating actors who imitated a mute and an Italian. It's difficult to see the entertainment value in such a series. 

Perhaps this was why writer/producer Phillip Rapp convinced Groucho, still hosting You Bet Your Life, to appear in every third episode as God's right-hand man -- the deputy seraph -- giving orders to the angels and taking part in their duties when necessary. (The Jackson brothers nobody cared about used a similar tactic whenever trying to interest producers in a reality series, i.e., "Michael will make an appearance!" Unlike Rapp, however, they never bothered asking Michael first.) The Marxes' agent -- conveniently, younger brother Gummo -- finalized the deal. Youngest brother Zeppo presumably congratulated them with grapefruits from his ranch.


Roughly fifteen minutes of the Deputy Seraph pilot, consisting only of the Marx Brothers,

Harpo looks for his driver to get him the
hell off the set.

were shot on a Hollywood soundstage. Producer Rapp must have been counting on the goodwill of the audience to help put this over. Even taking into account that this is faded raw footage, lacking proper edits, sound effects and voice-overs, it's still pretty chintzy. 

The set -- nothing more than foam "clouds" and a black backdrop -- looks less like Heaven and more like a cheap strip club. The angels' gossamer robes appear to have been made from discarded sheets of Reynolds Wrap. Close-ups of Harpo and Chico are badly edited into footage of their doubles using the "clouds" as trampolines. As Groucho once wrote a friend regarding the second-rate Marx Brothers comedy Go West, "This is a fine comedown for a man who used to be the toast of Broadway."

There doesn't seem to have been much effort put into the script, either. Bits from Marx Brothers movies appear throughout, while Groucho's dialogue leaves a lot to be desired -- like real jokes:

GROUCHO: (flicking cigar ashes down to earth) There. That's the first time they ever had snow in Bali Bali.

CHICO: Bali Bali?

HARPO: (honks horn twice)

GROUCHO: Bali Bali?!

The only person less thrilled
than Groucho to be working on Deputy Seraph...

It's one of the one fixed rules of comedy: just because a name sounds funny doesn't mean it is. Especially when it's spoken three times in a row for no good reason. Perhaps that's why Harpo comes off best throughout-- all he has to do is make faces. And it's remarkable how he appears younger and, well, more angelic than his 71 years. Still, he and Chico have the whiff of long-ago vaudeville about them, while Groucho, despite his mediocre dialogue, comes off as the most contemporary. It's easy to picture the new wave of '50s comedians, like Mort Sahl and Lenny Bruce, enjoying You Bet Your Life while wondering why his brothers were still going through the motions.

… is Chico.

Unedited reaction shots that take up some of Deputy Seraph's running time actually provide the most interesting footage. But it's a little painful to see Chico continually screwing up his lines -- an affliction going back to his stage years -- and having to take inane off-screen direction: "Say 'Look!" "Don't say 'Harpo'!" "Give me the full treatment on the dialect!" Seventy-two at the time, Chico seems not just tired but defeated, as if wondering what he was doing on a drafty soundstage when he could have been playing gin with his buddies at the Hillcrest Country Club.

It's best to remember them this way.

If so, he had only himself to blame. A gambling addict since childhood, Chico bordered on insolvency even at the height of his career. There's a good chance the Marx Brothers never would have made any movies after A Day at the Races in 1937 if it hadn't been for his money problems. (And judging by their subsequent output, that might not have been such a bad idea.) By 1959, Harpo was content with the occasional TV and concert gigs, while Groucho was busy with You Bet Your Life. They probably went along with Deputy Seraph just to make sure their brother had a paycheck.

In the end, it didn't matter. A medical check-up discovered that Chico had arteriosclerosis, preventing him from being insured. As a result, production on Deputy Seraph ceased. (Billy Wilder's intended Marx Brothers movie, A Day at the United Nations, was shelved for the same reason.) Deputy Seraph's footage was promptly forgotten until pirated versions turned up on video three decades later, simultaneously surprising and disappointing Marx fans everywhere. 

Even with Deputy Seraph's demise, Groucho still had a couple of years of You Bet Your Life left. And Harpo and Chico, either separately or apart, were nightclub mainstays and commercial pitchmen for products ranging from shampoo to beer. It's a testament to the Marx Brothers longstanding popularity that they probably would have found an audience for all 39 proposed episodes of the series. But as Groucho says in Deputy Seraph, "Well, you can't win 'em all."

                                             ********************************

USEFUL ADVICE FOR TOURISTS VISITING NEW YORK

To avoid getting ripped off by airport cab drivers, do not give the name of your hotel. Rather, give the cross street address. Then sit back and happily sigh, "It's good to be home!" When returning home, hail a cab while standing in front of an expensive-looking co-op. After giving the name of the airport to the driver, mutter, "I can't wait to get back next week."

That suggested $20 entrance fee charged by the Metropolitan Museum of Art is just that: a suggestion. Don't worry about getting a dirty look if you pay a buck. I'm used to it. 

However, keeping that little M pin on your jacket after you leave doesn't make you look cool -- it makes you look like a tourist. 

Feel free to take a photo of your friends and family in front of New York landmarks. Just don't expect us to walk around you.

Just because Mama Mia is in a theater on Broadway doesn't make it a Broadway show. And word on the street is that The Lion King goes downhill after the first act.

Don't cross in the middle in the street. Leave that to the professionals.

Despite his demeanor, Mayor Bloomberg really does like New York. He just doesn't like New Yorkers. Nor, despite what the New York Post might have you believe, does he answer to the name "Bloomie."

For 50 bucks I'll show you where Al Roker lives. No kidding.


 

Don't believe the pseudo-hipsters -- Times Square is much better as a clean tourist destination than the asphalt bio-hazard it was pre-Giuliani. But for God's sakes, you're in New York -- stop patronizing Applebee's! 

 

You know that restaurant you can't get a reservation for? You really can't. 

 

No, you're not imagining things: there really is a Starbuck's and Chase Bank on every block.

 

Before walking under scaffolding, check for pigeons overhead. My wife didn't and... well, you figure it out.

I don't care if they're free -- there are better movies in town than those running at the Scientology centers. (And no matter what the movie is, it's always better at the Ziegfeld from the last row.)

 

Those "bagels" you buy in the frozen food section back home are actually very large donuts, and not very good ones, either. And unless you enjoy getting laughed at, please don't ask for a blueberry bagel.



Yes, that is Katie Holmes and her kid getting out of a cab. Now quit staring.

Any greasy spoon in town serves a better breakfast than your hotel and 90% cheaper. 

However, they are not necessarily happy to serve you. This is New York, remember.

 




 

 

You want to get lunch from one of those street vendors? Go for it. Just make sure there's a bathroom close by.

If you're walking through Central Park looking for the zoo, just go out to Fifth Avenue and keep walking south. I've lived here over 30 years and that's the only way I can find it. 

 

And while we're on the subject, no, I don't know why all Asian couples get their wedding photo taken in Central Park.

Oh, that running track around the reservoir? It's for running! You wanna stroll, go find a sidewalk!
                                                   

BYE BYE BENNY

In today's economy, you've got to be pretty confident to quit your job without having another job to go to. And if you're on the cusp of 86, without any 401(k) or IRA, that sounds just plain nuts. But that's what the Pope just did. And get this: he didn't even have a salary during the last eight years, so there goes whatever mad money he might have socked away. However, according to the internet: Three bags containing gold, silver, and copper coins are placed in the coffin beside the body of a pope. Each bag contains one coin for each year in his reign, the only monetary compensation he receives for his service as pope.  

Now, I don't know how much those coins are worth. (But call the 800 number now and you'll receive agenuine Mercury silver dime free!) Still, talk about irony. The leader of the world's Catholics, and the paycheck doesn't come until after he's gone. I wonder if he's having a conversation with Kimberly, the the Vatican's HR twinkie:

KIMBERLY: ... OK, so you know you have to turn in your ID on your last day, and return any Vatican possessions -- keys, pencils, chalices --

POPE: Yes, I understand.

KIMBERLY: However, you do get to keep your red shoes. But the angels --

POPE: -- wanna wear my red shoes. Yes, I've heard that one a few times.

KIMBERLY: Well, we're certainly going to miss you. So do you have any questions?

POPE: Yeah, this coins-in-the-sack thing...

KIMBERLY: That's a beautiful tradition, isn't it?

POPE: Well, that's what I wanted to ask you about. Because I didn't die in office like 99.99% of my predecessors --

KIMBERLY: Thank God.   

POPE: Right, thank God. But what I was going to ask... since I'm still alive, is there any chance I can collect now? Y'know, just to tide things over a while?

KIMBERLY: Mmm, I'm afraid not. That's against policy, and we wouldn't want to start a precedent.

POPE: Well, nobody has to know. And it's only, what, 24 coins, it's not like I'm breaking the bank or anything.

KIMBERLY: Well, you were elected in April 2005. You're resigning at the end of February, so technically it's only 21 coins.

POPE: Holy -- are you kidding me? You're nickel-and-diming me over a month?

KIMBERLY: Mmm, actually it's more like a month and three weeks. But you're going to be dead, so what's the difference?

POPE: I can't believe -- Do you know what President Obama gets? 

KIMBERLY: Uh --

POPE: Four hundred-thou! And that doesn't include a $50,000 annual expense account, a $100,000 nontaxable travel account and $19,000 for entertainment. And what's America's population? Three hundred-fourteen million. I call the shots for 1.8 billion people. That's "billion" with a B. And Obama just has one country to keep in line. I've got the whole world on my watch.  

KIMBERLY: Not to be rude, but you knew your salary when you accepted the job.

POPE: Like I had a choice. Once you're voted in, it's kind of expected that you accept.

KIMBERLY: Your predecessor never had a complaint, and he served about 20 years longer than you.

POPE: Ugh! Again with the comparisons to John Paul! I've had eight years of that --

KIMBERLY: Seven and four-fifths --

POPE: Whatever! You know what it's like to follow a legend? "Oh, John Paul, he's so nice, he's so understanding, he skis, he used to be an actor!" What do they say about me?

KIMBERLY: You were in the Hitler Youth League.

POPE: Again, like I had a choice! All the kids were forced into that!

KIMBERLY: If we're finished --

POPE: No! I want my salary!

KIMBERLY: As we've already discussed --

POPE: No, you've told me what I'm supposed to get, there was no discussion! That's my money and I want it now! Pretend it's a pension and just give it to me!

KIMBERLY: If I could I would be happy to –

POPE: Twenty four -- twenty one coins. You've probably got more than that in your top drawer. 

KIMBERLY: I have a meeting in five minutes, so if you'll excuse me...

POPE:  I should've expected this. Eight years of service --

KIMBERLY: Seven and --

POPE: Whatever!... I can't believe it. I'm top dog with the Catholics... front page of every newspaper in the world right now... and I can't get three bags of coins. How about lifetime bathroom privileges at the Vatican, hunh? Can you spare that? Maybe a little outplacement?

KIMBERLY: Actually... I have a friend... he's looking for someone right now... No, you wouldn't be interested --

POPE: No, no, what is it? 

KIMBERLY: Well, it requires some -- communications experience.

POPE: Hey, every Sunday I'm out on the balcony givin' 'em the good word.

KIMBERLY: That's true.

POPE: But my age... am I too old?

KIMBERLY: Not at all. In fact, I think you'd be perfect.

DISSOLVE TO:
A back porch on a sunny day. The Pope is sitting on a lounge chair, when he looks up at the camera.

POPE: Hello, I'm Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger, but you probably know me better as Pope Benedict XVI. Like me, I'm sure you've had questions about reverse mortgages...
                                                            **********************

NO MO' NEMO

I thought it rather quaint that the National Weather Service had decided to start naming snowstorms as they do hurricanes. Especially when last week's blizzard was called Nemo, who, of course, is everyone's favorite CGI clownfish. Suddenly TV reporters, especially those on NBC, started saying "Nemo" as if being paid to.

That wasn't so far off the mark. By the weekend, it became known that winter storm-naming was created not by government meteorologists but the hype-happy folks at the Weather Channel... which is owned by NBC. So the reporters from other networks breathlessly keeping track of Nemo were unwittingly promoting a rival. This is genius marketing on the WC's part, far better than its real job, which is predicting the weather. 

If you saw any of the WC in the run-up to the blizzard, you probably remember its crack weather guy Jim Cantore, in his official network down hoodie, standing on the walkway over the Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge in Boston, swinging a yardstick like a nine-iron. Cantore used this prop because, as he kept reminding us, twenty-four hours later the snow would be at least three-feet deep right where he was standing -- perhaps over a foot more than the 1978 record-setter of 27-inches.

"Trust me -- I've got a yardstick."

When all was said and done, Cantore had overshot the mark by over a foot. (Having lived in Boston in '78, I was glad I could still boast of having lived through its biggest blizzard.) OK, so predicting weather isn't always perfect. The problem with Cantore was that he presented his forecast as he always does during storms: as fact before it happened. No, he yelled it, as all the weather people do when a storm is coming, because it sounds more dramatic. But at least the Accuweather guys on WABC-TV yelled "18 to 24" inches for Boston rather than "36 to possibly 40" inches. They were also called it correctly for New York, while Cantore's crew, again, was about a foot off. It's as if ESPN regularly gave wrong scores but still promoted itself as the go-to place for sports. 

I believe it was Jim Cantore who, several years back, stood in the middle of Times Square as a monster snowstorm was allegedly approaching. We got the same "24 hours from now" shtick then, too. And 24 hours later he was still standing there, about an inch of snow on the ground, getting hooted down by New Yorkers who had seen him give his apocalypse now forecast with the conviction of God.

So what is the Weather Channel good for? Great storm footage. Graphics that look cool in HD. Pretty music during the local, incorrect, forecast. That's about it. And yet like a hop-head zoning out in an opium den, I park myself in front of Jim Cantore & friends whenever a snowstorm or hurricane is said it be making its way to the Upper East Side. Not because I'm going to get the right information, but the information I want to hear: snowier, windier, bigger than the other guys' forecast.

That's why Dick Morris lost his job on Fox News after (deliberately?) botching the 2012 presidential election predictions. Yet you can bet that come next storm, however, Jim Cantore and his trusty yardstick will be on their way to the next photo-op, demanding at the top of his lungs to listen to him because he's wearing a hoodie that says "Weather Channel" while your local forecaster doesn't.

                                                       ****************
All photos of Carl Schurz Park on NYC's Upper East Side were taken by my talented wife.