WENT TO “SEA WORLD” YESTERDAY. Saw dolphins, giant turtles, various marine life. Nothing to write home about, really. Still, it beats workin.’

I spent most of today at the resort pool. Just swam and swam and swam. Not burned real bad. Used lots of sunscreen, but I feel a sting in a small part of my back where I couldn’t reach with my fingers to cover. Otherwise, more tired than burned. Went to Waffle House afterwards and ordered way too much food.

I’d take photos and post them, but the only thing I’ve seen worth commemorating is this Waffle House cheeseburger. And you can probably find good-looking cheeseburgers in New York or New Jersey. But I have to say Orlando is a fun place to visit. Resorts are also nice, though tourist children are annoying.

I plan to drive home tomorrow morning. Since I was too tired to go anywhere tonight, I rented a movie from the front desk, and watched it on the VCR in the timeshare. “Atlantic City.” The 1980 version by Louis Malle, starring Burt Lancaster and Susan Sarandon. It will probably make my top ten for 1980, not because 1980 is a horrible year for movies (It’s a very good year, actually), but because the movie itself is good. Let me try to write about it before losing consciousness.

Somewhere in Atlantic City there is a guy named Lou. Thirty years ago, when the town was less wannabe-Disneyland and more like a resort for gangsters, Lou knew some people. Powerful, wealthy, dangerous people. Lou got himself a reputation as a sort of dangerous fella himself, but in truth, he was a mouse. Maybe he kept a gun, but he never killed anybody with it.

So the years have gone by, and now, Lou has become a relic. The man himself hasn’t changed; he still runs numbers for seedy dives. But the circles he once belonged to have either died or moved on. The numbers racket ain’t what it used to be, neither, what with politicans tearing down the old Atlantic City and trying to replace it with more “family-friendly” entertainment. The well has run dry. To make ends meet, Lou works part-time as a houseboy for an ailing ex-beauty pageant winner. In exchange for rubbing her sore feet and taking her dog down the boardwalk for a pedicure, she lets him stay in her boarding house rent-free. But even though they’ve been with each other for years, their conversations are strained with animosity and resentment.

Lou asks her for five dollars, and her curt reply is, “You want some cigarettes? Go steal ‘em, Mister Big Shot. Mister Ten Most Wanted.”

And that’s how Lou sifts out his remaining days, enduring abuse and earning meager bucks as a bookie. Well, he has one other thing that keeps him going. Every night, he looks out his apartment window into the neighbor’s kitchen, and sees the beautiful young woman who lives there washing herself in the sink. It’s the same routine each night: She strips herself from the waist up, then rubs slices of lemon all over her body. The movie never explicitly states whether Lou’s attraction to the girl is romantic or pure lust, but I don’t think it’s the latter.

It has to do with the way Malle depicts Sarandon’s washing scene. Above all, it’s tasteful; her breasts are always concealed by her arms or by the windowsill. I think this is also how Lou sees her, as a beautiful, youthful, vibrant creature, not necessarily a sex object.

Now, of course, downtrodden Lou eventually crosses paths with the young woman. The movie takes its time bringing them together, and that’s a good thing. Otherwise, the unlikely pairing would not seem so logical and believable. Malle unfolds the plot slowly, with long scenes emphasizing dialogue and almost no background music. As a result, he successfully leeches away all the glamour of the setting, leaving only Atlantic City on a street level. The city of myth becomes devoid of all its mythical characteristics, and becomes less the dwelling of big spenders and high rollers than just another place where ordinary folks get up every morning and go to work to earn a living.

But this movie isn’t a drab leftover from the angst-ridden 60’s and 70’s. It isn’t “Midnight Cowboy,” where the main characters fail to find their dreams in New York City. Lou is already a failure, a washed-up old coot. But in the course of “Atlantic City,” he gets back a little feeling of respect and power. On the path to this re-awakening, he finds out that the girl he’s infatuated with ain’t necessarily as pure as he may have thought. Lou had long-wondered: Did she wash herself with those lemons as part of some exotic ritual? The truth, as it turns out, is much more practical than exotic. And why should that be such a big surprise in Malle’s city on the boardwalk? Here, the people are too concerned with survival to find time for being an old fool’s fantasy.

* * *

Writer’s note: I wasn’t familiar with Malle’s work prior to this movie, but I assume he’s European because of his restraint in directing. For example, there’s a chase scene in “Atlantic City,” and from the page, it probably could have been done either as comedy or hyper-intense. Instead, Malle takes a more detached approach, shooting it almost like a documentary. Notice how the last fifteen or so seconds of that particular sequence, which are very important, are shown as a single take, and in medium shot. No violent cuts to close-ups. It’s all very interesting.

Also, kudos to Malle, his screenwriter, and the casting director for creating/casting the hippie character as vile, immoral, drug-dealing, polygamous scum. He had no redeeming qualities, which is how it should be.

AS I WRITE THIS, I AM SITTING IN THE STALE-SMELLING, TEMPERATURE-CONTROLLED LIVING ROOM OF MY FAMILY’S ORLANDO, FLORIDA TIMESHARE. It’s just me and my trusty laptop. Not another soul between here and the doorway. I am alone, sort of like Michael Corleone at the end of “The Godfather, Part II,” only I didn’t order my brother Fredo’s death. I don’t even have a brother named Fredo. I don’t even have a brother. Oh wait, I do, but his name isn’t Fredo, and he’s still alive. Perhaps the reason this room smells so stale is because I left the gas on. Hold on while I check…

Nope. Didn’t leave the gas on. That’s good, because suffocating on gas fumes is bad. Also, stove is electric. Let me tell you what I did today. Checked in around 1 p.m., then drove about two miles down the Interstate to the closest supermarket. Bought pasta in a box, and tomato sauce in a jar. Got some chicken and bread crumbs, too, and made enough of everything for dinner tonight and tomorrow.

Before I cooked anything, though, I decided to go swimming. It may surprise people to hear that swimming is an activity I greatly enjoy, except when I have to share adjacent water with half-naked people. Like the crazy general in Kubrick’s “Dr. Strangelove,” I, too, believe that communists are trying to attack us through our precious bodily fluids. So while it may seem to the unobservant eye that I spent two hours this afternoon swimming, I actually spent two hours half-swimming, half-panicked-lunging away from some dude whose back was so sunburned the skin was starting to peel. I can only hope he didn’t suffer from leprosy, but even if he was a leper, you can’t catch leprosy from a swimming pool, can you?

After eating pasta with tomato sauce and breaded chicken, I walked around some and explored souvenir shops. Everything is too tacky or too commercial, or doesn’t scream “Florida” at all. (A cane full of M&M’s. WHY?) Of course, if I could have found anything genuine or intriguing in this state, I probably wouldn’t have moved away. Anyway, I went back to the timeshare, and spent the rest of the evening reading Tim O’Brien’s If I Die in a Combat Zone. The first hundred pages are pretty interesting. I think I read in some critical text on Kubrick that he read O’Brien in preparation for making “Full Metal Jacket.” Was it in preparation for writing the screenplay? Couldn’t be, otherwise, wouldn’t that imply plagiarism?

Anyway, before sitting down to write this, I took one more trip to the front desk. I got brochures for The Magic Kingdom, Epcot, Universal, Sea World, Medievel Nights, Splash Mountain. Look at all this crap! Funny thing, though. On the way to the front desk, I passed an adjacent unit, and encountered this young, attractive, Latin-looking chick just leaning up against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette, wearing a red tube top and black miniskirt. I figured she was a hooker. On the way back to my unit, I passed her by again. Upon second glance, turns out I might have been wrong about her being young, attractive, Latin, or a chick.

I think I’m gonna go home Wednesday.

PATTON, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD! I SAW YOUR MOVIE!

I decided to make yesterday “Movies by Dead People” day, and sat down to watch John Huston’s 1940 classic “The Maltese Falcon,” followed by Franklin Schaffer’s 1970 Best Picture-winning “Patton.”

While “The Maltese Falcon” is a great movie, and Humphrey Bogart might be as good in it as in “Casablanca,” I was totally unprepared for “Patton.” It is a technically-magnificent war movie, with battle scenes that are as thrilling as Coppola, Kubrick, or Spielberg’s battle scenes. But “Patton” is also that rarer of jewels—a successful biopic of a famous historical figure. The combination of Francis Coppola’s dense, yet fluid screenplay, and by George C. Scott’s bravest of performances, manages to penetrate the considerably well-armored exterior of its blustery subject, without ever making General George S. Patton into a pansy.

He starts out gruff, hard-nosed, and fiercely determined, standing in front of huge American flag and addressing the audience as if we are soldiers under his command. So many of the shots seem to be of him looking down on us. We find him physically imposing, yet somehow charismatic. We will be brave soldiers, he tells us. When he leads us into battle, we will not disgrace our army or our country.

By the end of the movie, Patton is just as gruff, hard-nosed, and fiercely determined as before. But we have undergone the journey across war-torn Europe with him. We love the big guy now, having lived, and survived, with him.

The film covers Patton at the height of his career, through his fall from glory, and into his resurrection. As Commander of American forces in the European theater during World War II, he matched wits with Rommel, the Nazi’s number one general, and defeated him. I found it really neat that the Americans were already starting to consider Patton a dinosaur, but the Nazis were scared shitless of him. They respected his knowledge of military history. The movie argues that they may have respected it too much.

Rommel anticipated Patton invading Italy through Sicily, based on how the ancient Greeks entered the country the same way. Was it the most effective route to the northeastern corner of Italy, and was it General Patton’s plan? Yes on both counts. However, he ultimately had to scrap the plan in favor of British General Montgomery’s alternate strategy. According to the movie, it’s entirely possible that the Germans might have been more successful in Italy, had the Allies listened to Patton. But Eisenhower needed to keep the Alliance in good standing, so he always let the Brits get the glory, much to his own number one’s consternation.

And so, in one of the movie’s best plot-turns, Patton decides to defy both the British Army and Eisenhower by leading his forces north from Sicily to Palermo, then east, and taking the northeastern corner of Italy before Montgomery’s forces could. Patton worked his soldiers like dogs, and risked their lives to sniper fire and kraut bombers, just so he could show up his British rival. And he succeeded! This sort of ruthlessness and arrogance ultimately led to Ike stripping him of his command (Well, there was also some tiff about his slapping a soldier who suffered from a bad case of nerves.) Ironically, it also illustrated what the Nazis greatly feared about him: His willingness to risk whatever cost to accomplish a military endeavor.

I won’t go too deeply into the other two-thirds of the movie, since it’s something everyone should see. Suffice to say, Patton still wants to kill krauts and japs, but he’s effectively an outcast. Eventually, he gets a shot at redemption when the Americans invade Germany. No longer the supreme commander, he still gets to run the “wing” of the army, the arm that gets to sweep and crush and burn the German countryside. Obviously, Patton is very adept at this job. But the man is a romantic hero, not a mere pillager.

When an airborne unit finds itself cut off and surrounded by Nazi forces, Patton is there to do the impossible: March through a raging blizzard and perilous mountainside in record speed to reach his comrades. At this critical juncture in both the war and his career, Patton doesn’t alienate. He gets up in front of his men and pulls a Henry the Fifth-type speech, which inspires everybody to pull together. For the first time, we realize that all the man’s bluster, when put towards a truly heroic goal, is both damn effective and damn cool. If I had been a soldier in Patton’s unit, I probably would have put the entire mountain on my back and hauled ass through the freezing snow. And I’d have given Hell to those Nazi bastards!

Is it possible to leave this movie thinking Patton is a heartless bastard, rather than a likable guy who had a fatal flaw of hearing nobody’s voice but his own? I didn’t. How could I hold a grudge against someone who thought he was the reincarnation of great generals from ancient times? And this was the supreme commander of American forces! How neat is that? It further illustrates that the man had interesting quirks and depths. But don’t misinterpret the reincarnating angle. Patton wasn’t nutty; he just thought war was his destiny. He had found himself in a position of military authority during the greatest of wars, and figured the reason was inscribed by the heavens. If anything, I see him as a man who made the most of his current situation. He would have been just as happy writing poetry, but not when there was a war going on!

“Patton” is one of those types of movies that never gets made nowadays. It’s a war film, but it emphasizes the heroism and glory of a just war. Soldiers aren’t portrayed as ignoramuses or psychopaths, as they seem to have become since Oliver Stone’s “Platoon.” Like the General himself, “Patton” is a relic of a forgotten time. Like the General, it is bold, dynamic, and unforgettable.

ADVENTURES IN AIRLINE TRAVEL, OR: THE PLANE TRUTH

Why do a lot of people bitch and moan about flying nowadays? I rode on Delta “Song” to get from New York City to Miami, and had no trouble with it.

“Song,” for those of you who have never heard of it, is Delta’s lower cost, lesser frills airline. They use smaller planes, and I don’t think there’s any first class section. Which is fine by me. My ass fits perfectly into a coach seat, so a coach seat is what I buy. Satellite TV for every chair, which isn’t exactly new. But “Song” offers a choice of in-flight movie for a small nominal fee.

One of the most common complaints I’ve heard from airplane-travel naysayers is how long it takes to check in. I remember the last time I flew, about two years ago, I had to get to JFK Airport 90 minutes early so I and my suitcases could stand in line to get a luggage tag. The airline subsequently lost my luggage, but without the handy tag, I would have had trouble proving it. Anyway, I empathize with those who have to arrive at the airport several hours early, because they have to wait in line to check in a suitcase or twelve, then have to wait in another line to get their boarding pass. My advice to those who don’t like lining up for a boarding pass is: Buy your ticket on-line at Delta “Song,” then just swipe your credit card at the Delta kiosk to get your printed boarding pass. It’s that simple!

Meanwhile, my advice for those who hate how long it takes to check in twenty suitcases is: Don’t pack so many goddamn suitcases! I learned my lesson after the last time the airline lost mine! This time, I didn’t pack any suitcase. No clothes, no toothbrush, no nothin.’ Instead, when I arrived at Ft. Lauderdale Airport, I went to the luggage carousel, grabbed the first suitcase I saw, then made a bee-line for the nearest dark corner. I put on whatever clothes I found in that suitcase. It sure beat having to buy new things! I exited the airport wearing two layers of shirts and sweaters, and a sundress underneath. Believe me, that sundress will come in real handy down on South Beach!

Back to airline travel: Why do people complain about having to sit next to fellow travellers, especially in the dreaded “middle seat?” I bought my ticket less than two weeks before the scheduled date of the flight, and the only seats available were between window seats and aisle seats. But the price was a steal, so I took a middle seat in the last row, which was in front of the bathroom. Best decision I made since graduating college. After all, my office at Nautica is right next to the Ladies’ Room, and the flushing of toilets there is much louder than on the airplane. So the middle seat, rather than being an inconvenience, was actually an improvement on real life.

Of course, in most situations, the real problem with sitting in the dreaded “middle seat” are the occupants of the “left-hand seat” and the “right-hand seat.” What if you find yourself sitting between a mother with a colicky baby and a fiberglass salesman from Duluth who won’t stop talking your ear off about the wonders of modern aquarium technology? My advice: Introduce the Corningware Man to the mother of the blue-faced infant, then start tossing around ideas for a soundproof, fishbowl-style container that can hold babies during airplane travel. In other words, let West meet East. Erect that golden bridge!

Luckily for me, I got sandwiched between a sleeping Hispanic woman and a black guy who seemed too tired and/or distracted to talk. Just to be on the safe side, however, I turned to the black guy and said to him:

“Hey pal, normally I’m the type who enjoys a good conversation, but I’ve been diagnosed with violent schizophrenia, and it takes all my mental concentration to keep from molesting the woman sleeping to the right of me. So please, please, PLEASE, don’t talk to me during the flight. Just let me watch CNN in a hypnotic trance. Or allow me to listen to the airplane radio, while I relive the happy childhood the hypnotist implanted in my brain.”

Unfortunately, when the guy to the left asked if he could have sloppy seconds with the Hispanic woman after I was done with her, I began to suspect that I had taken the wrong tact. Good thing a flight attendant walked by. I asked for a new seat while thumb-pointing to the black dude over my shoulder and mouthing, “Weirdo.” That’s how I got an aisle seat way up at the front of the plane.

That strange encounter could have tainted what was otherwise a nondescript two-hour-and-forty-five minute flight. But thanks to my miraculous coping powers, I had already forgotten him by the time I was at the luggage carousel donning someone else’s pumps and flower-patterned sundress. Better off not remembering him. Man, what a freak!

THE MORNING WAS BRIGHT, SUNNY, AND HOT WHEN WE SET OUT FOR “THE SWAP SHOPPE.” For those who have never heard of “The Swap Shoppe,” it’s one of the largest outdoor flea markets in the country. Why visit a giant outdoor flea market—the equivalent of a yard sale in an empty football field—in such oppressive outdoor weather? Well, why not? I mean, it’s not like there’s anyplace else you can get knock-off Nike shoes, knock-off Nokia phones, and knock-off Rayban sunglasses all under one (figurative) roof. Anyway, it was my cousin’s idea, and she’s into shopping at The Salvation Army, 99-Cent Stores, those kinds of places.

It was actually kind of fun. I had a bottle of water on me, and an open space under scorching 94-degree sun is nothing compared to 98-degrees in New York City. I don’t think I sweated a drop, which I can’t say for most of the other people walking around. My cousin seemed equally unfazed by the heat (she spends summers in NYC all the time), but made the mistake of wearing jeans along with a sun dress. After less than an hour browsing the tents of the Indian bazaar-style marketplace, she had to take off her jeans and walk around with them folded in her arm. Vendors kept stopping us to ask whether she had picked them up at their booths. Of course, we were able to easily prove that they hadn’t been shoplifted by showing them the quality stitching, and the fact that the name on the label wasn’t misspelled.

I probably would have enjoyed “The Swap Shoppe” more if the supposedly-discounted DVD places hadn’t been closed. Or if there had been a circus that day. I stood around the ring for a half-hour before someone told me there wasn’t a show that day. The ringmaster, clowns, and animals perform six days every week, but they take Tuesdays off to rest and to test all their lights and sound equipment.

So I spent a half-hour watching the ringmaster standing alone in the middle of the ring, as he channeled his voice through the anticipating crowd (which was composed of only me.) “Come see the mighty elephants!” “And now, the tattooed lady!” “Squirt the Fun-Loving Clown and his Tiny Clown Car—WHICH HOLDS FOURTEEN OTHER CLOWNS!” And I kept looking around and around like a dope for the elephants, the lion-tamers, the pinheads, and the imported trapeze act. None of which ever showed up, because they all had the day off!

Then the roof caved in. Literally. Well, almost. It took only two minutes for the perfect early morning sky—crystal blue as far as the eye could see—to be overrun by big gray clouds. Huge, dark clouds. It was like the scene of flying saucers in “Independence Day.” From out of the clouds angry streams of rain came down. Raging rivers of rain. Giant, overflowing gallon drums of rain, echoing thunder inside them.

The rain fell and fell and fell and fell. The tents over the merchants’ stores sagged under the weight of water. Huge puddles formed in the sagging concrete underfoot. My cousin and I made for a nearby shelter, and we waited with other people for an hour, until the rain finally died down.

When the rain finally ceased, we found ourselves on a concrete island surrounded by water about two inches high. I didn’t mind it so much, but I could see that my cousin and the girls trapped with us wore much nicer shoes. I ended up like Angel Clare in Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, carrying women on my back across the giant puddles. It was kinda fun, but I didn’t find any of the girls very attractive. Anyway, most of them looked like high schoolers, and statutory rape isn’t one of my hobbies.

Before my cousin and I finally drove home (It rained and rained and rained even more on the highway), I stopped by some souvenir stores to look for snowglobes with alligators eating ninjas, or coconuts made out of chocolate. I didn’t find the former, but I think I know where to get the latter. If any of you loyal readers happen to want something, let me know what it is and I will make the minimal effort to procure it. Like Squirt the Fun-Loving Clown’s miniscule automobile. Turns out circus security takes Tuesdays off, too.

SO I DECIDED TO TAKE A BREAK FROM NEW YORK CITY FOR A WHILE. The timing seemed right, and I got a deal on the airfare. In the past week, I finished a major project at Nautica, and I did the best I possibly could on the LSAT, considering I only studied two months for it. Am I going to attend law school? Am I going to keep working at Nautica? I haven’t decided either of those things yet, nor am I in any rush to decide.

I’ve been back in South Florida since yesterday afternoon. It’s been quite the picaresque visit so far. First I drove to the local Wal-Mart, then I drove to the local K-Mart. I wish I could add something more interesting to that itinerary, but that’s really all there is to do in this part of South Florida.

Well, it didn’t help that it was Father’s Day. I drove with my cousin to Main Street, where all the buildings feature this beautiful Spanish style of architecture. Deep reds and oranges. Brick sidewalks and palm trees and big courtyards. I used to visit it all the time, and it always reminded me of Mexican cities in old Western movies. And yet Main Street has always been clean and graffiti-free. Go figure. Anyway, all the stores were closed for Father’s Day. Even the restaurants.

Lacking anything better to do, I regressed into my old time-wasting pastime from when I grew up in South Florida: I’ve been watching movies. Ever see Brian De Palma’s “Blow-Out?” Just watched it again. It is, in my opinion, superb. Right up there with the director’s other classics like “The Fury,” and “The Untouchables.”

I would get into the plot, but is the plot of a De Palma film really worth getting into specifics about? Suffice to say, it’s expectedly lurid: John Travolta plays Jack, a movie sound-effects technician (and ex-Internal Affairs cop) who’s recording ambient noise for a B-movie horror flick. As he’s waving his microphone off a bridge at the edge of Philadelphia, he witnesses a car plummeting into the lake below. Jack dives into the water to try to rescue the passengers. The driver is dead, but he manages to save the beautiful woman (“Dressed to Kill’s” Nancy Allen) who is trapped in the back seat.

Jack brings the unconscious woman to the hospital. The next day, the police arrive, and a weaselly-looking politician tells Jack to forget everything about the previous night. It turns out that the dead driver was Governor McNeely, who was planning to run for President. Jack agrees not to tell anyone about the woman’s involvement in the accident, in order to preserve the dead politician’s reputation.

However, when Jack examines his sound recordings from the previous night, he discovers that the tragic accident which killed Governor McNeely may not have been an accident at all. McNeely may have been the target of a conspiracy. Although Jack has the evidence, no one will believe him. Worse yet, a shadowy agent who played a pivotal role in the conspiracy (John Lithgow) has set out to silence anyone who knows the truth—including Jack and the mysterious woman!

Like I said, the plot of a De Palma film isn’t worth getting into. De Palma fans know that his films are only about 10% substance, while 90% is style and execution. “Blow-Out” is no different. It has some great individual sequences, including a long, opening tracking shot of a “Slumber Party Massacre”-style film within a film. Then there’s the harrowing underwater scene, where Jack has to free the frantic Nancy Allen from a car gradually filling with water. There’s a great series of shots when Jack is replaying the sound footage, trying to figure out whether what he heard was a blow-out, or a gunshot followed by a blow-out. Finally, there’s Travolta’s desperate slow-motion run up the stairs of Liberty Square, Tino Donaggio’s wonderful score drowning out the exploding fireworks in the night sky behind him.

In addition to its visual trappings, “Blow-Out” also has an interesting protagonist in the character of Jack. He was the best tapper in the business during his days with the King’s Commission. But a bad wire job of his led to a police captain’s death. Jack is a haunted man who still wants to use his considerable talents to do good. Unfortunately, he seems to have a knack for being too confident in his own skills, too confident in the technology.

No matter how hard Jack works to keep his bases covered, things inevitably go wrong. He’s a man who tries to maintain order in a hopelessly chaotic world, who must continue to fail until he learns his lesson.

Sad that “Blow-Out,” which was released in 1981, bombed so badly. According to books written on De Palma and his movies, the American public wasn’t ready to deal with conspiracies by politicans to kill other politicians. Or maybe, in the aftermath of Watergate, the public was sick and tired of politically-motivated conspiracies. Either way, “Blow-Out” didn’t deserve to be so badly-maligned. Preceded by 1978’s “The Fury” and 1980’s “Dressed to Kill,” and followed by “Scarface” (1983), “The Untouchables” (1987), and “Casualties of War” (1988), it’s an essential component of a great decade of films by De Palma.

Unfortunately, once we get to the 90’s, De Palma seemed to get stuck trying to breathe new life into shopworn ideas in flicks like “Mission: Impossible” and “Snake Eyes.” What happened to the griminess and dangerous sexuality that dominated his best films? We went from plots involving scummy photographers catching politicians in compromising positions with hookers to stealing C.I.A. computer lists. Huh? Ultimately, De Palma got typecast more as the guy who made cool camera moves than as a visionary filmmaker. Like John Travolta’s character in “Blow-Out,” he paid the price for being too good at his job.

I SPENT MOST OF THE PAST WEEK TRYING TO DECIDE WHETHER TO ERASE MY RONALD REAGAN POST. In spite of my sincere efforts to be impartial towards the man, it seems I stirred up quite a hornet’s nest. Was it ill-timed criticism on my part, or petty partisanship? I guess it doesn’t matter now, since the post is officially gone.

Why did I wait so long to delete it? I decided to ensconse myself in the local library this past week, and read up on our former 40th President. I had thought this to be an advantageous move; it would give me the chance to truly understand Reagan’s policies and why they worked, or why they didn’t work.

Strange thing is, for every book I found that applauded the Gipper’s presidency, I found another that criticized it. Same goes for articles on the Net. Now, to be fair to Reagan, every source I found gave him credit for hastening the demise of the Soviet Union. No one doubts that Reagan’s policy of confronting Communism, as opposed to merely trying to contain it, forced the monster to retreat into its stygian den.

Reagan’s leadership style and domestic policies, on the other hand, met with differing responses. For every, “Reagan delegated much of the day-to-day responsibilities to others, because he had faith in the intellectual capacities of his Cabinet, and this allowed him to focus on a limited number of issues which he felt were at the core of his presidency,” there was a, “Reagan delegated much of the day-to-day responsibilities to others because of his intellectual limitations.”

For every, “Reaganomics worked. By cutting taxes to the rich, Reagan stimulated economic growth by inspiring the wealthy to invest in new capital, create jobs, and manufacture cheaper products,” there was a, “Reaganomics was a disaster-in-progress. Reagan couldn’t offset the loss of tax revenue while simultaneously building up the military without running huge deficits. And in the long term, no amount of reduced government spending (Another of Reagan’s core ideas) would have been able to offset the accumulated debt and interest.”

I actually read some of Rush Limbaugh’s take on why Reagan is the greatest American president ever. Then I read some of Al Franken’s argument why Reagan isn’t. The ball bounced back and forth all week. Stellar job market growth. Cuts to important government programs. Rediscovered American vitality and strength. Huge budget deficits. Reagan the Great Communicator. Reagan the consummate politician who wouldn’t take a stand on controversial issues.

By the end of last week, I took in so much that I could no longer decide what I really thought about the man. Had Reagan been a great President? Or had he just been acting the role of President for eight years? Did he really bring America back to its former glory? Or had he fooled everyone?

I didn’t figure out my answer until last Friday evening. I turned on the TV, and there was the Reagan funeral being broadcast live from California. It was very solemn, yet never somber. Hearing the Reagan family minister speak of Reagan on his way to heaven that very minute made the proceedings not a little uplifting. The way Reagan would have wanted it, one supposes. A generation of Reagan children gave warm and thoughtful eulogies to their father. There was no shortage of funny and moving stories from his old friends, old workmates. No shortage of testimony regarding Reagan’s inexhaustable sense of humor, nor his inextinguishable sense of optimism.

I’m not ashamed to say I teared up when the 40th First Lady, Nancy Reagan, was shown approaching her husband’s casket, and lay the side of her face against its surface. I changed the channel briefly. Nancy Reagan deserved this moment of privacy, I felt. When I switched back a few seconds later, the First Lady was standing again, assisted by an Armed Forces officer in uniform. As I watched her slowly being led away, I couldn’t help thinking of that line by Marlene Dietrich during the last scene in Orson Welles’ “Touch of Evil:”

It took place during an argument between an honest Mexican cop named Antonio Vargas, and Menzies, a California policeman. Vargas has just killed Menzies’ partner, the corrupt policeman Hank Quinlain. Menzies says Quinlain was a good man. Vargas disagrees.

Dietrich, who was watching them, says, “He was some kind of a man. Who cares what people say?”

Seeing and hearing the forty-gun salute performed for him, and the parade of loved ones bearing their grief for his passing, I found myself thinking the same thing about Ronald Reagan. Yes, he had been our President during an important decade in the history of the world, and his policies had caused no small share of controversy. But he had also loved a good woman. He had sired children, and raised them. His feet had tred on earth, and air had passed through his lungs. And he had made people glad to have known him.

In spite of all the partisan views we are tempted to raise, we must, in the end, say that Ronald Reagan had been some kind of a man. In spite of any doubts we may harbor about his greatness, we must, in the end, realize it doesn’t matter what any of us say.

Johnnie To is considered by critics and fans to be Hong Kong’s premier movie director. His career dates back to the late 80’s, and he regularly produces and directs two-to-three movies a year.

Like many Hong Kong film directors, To has often struck a balance between his mainstream and artier projects. The mainstream ones, like 1998’s “A Hero Never Dies,” have the bigger budgets, the glossier visuals, and the longer shootouts. They are also far less interesting than his art films, which rarely break any box office records. Between 1997 and 1998, To directed his grittier, less mainstream movies under the pseudonym Patrick Yau. He dropped that in 1999; he has forced fans to accept him as an auteur who won’t reheat the same leftovers over and over for them.

2003 was arguably the best year for the two-headed To. Last fall, his mainstream thriller “Running on Karma” was a big commercial hit. It also took home numerous regional film awards. About eight months earlier, To’s more challenging “PTU” came out. While the low-budget police drama didn’t sell a quarter the number of tickets as “Running on Karma,” critics unanimously lauded it, and awarded To a slew of Best Director prizes at year’s end.

I have seen “PTU,” and I agree that it is a great movie. Its minimalist style (remniscent of Japanese movies I’ve seen) and great acting make it easy to overlook the casual police brutality and awkward ending.

“PTU” has multiple storylines which occur in the course of a single night. Lo, a mad dog cop just begging for his comeuppance, tries to recover his lost gun rather than report it missing. His friend Mike, captain of the Police Tactical Unit, starts probing the underworld with his foot patrol, hoping to help turn it up. A separate PTU, with a female officer named Kay in charge, is investigating a series of car break-ins. These may have nothing to do with Lo’s missing gun. Finally, a mysterious CIB (Internal Affairs) agent with a Louise Fletcher-esque voice suspects that Lo killed a small-time triad boss named Ponytail.

Of course, the audience will know within the first 5 minutes that Ponytail was killed by someone else. Why he was murdered is unknown, but the scene where it takes place is humorously deadpan, and brilliantly choreographed by To. This is followed by a chase scene, an ambush, a second ambush, and a car crash, which add up to a series of strange coincidences which are as funny as they are horrific.

Also great is a scene where Mike and his unit interrogate some punks in an arcade. Notice how To manipulates sound effects from the video games to heighten the tension. Then there’s the scenes of the foot patrol making its rounds, slowly walking down the street like a company of disciplined soldiers. It’s past midnight in Hong Kong, and the streets are quiet and tranquil. The darkness is lit by streetlights and neon signs. Unrealistic? Possibly. But To somehow makes this routine foot patrol seem interesting, and the urban backdrop downright romantic. Watching Mike and company stroll the streets, ready to help whoever needed them, I felt a twitching in my soul. I wanted to gather some friends, dress up in matching uniforms with them, and start a neighborhood patrol. Then I remembered that I live in NYC, which is the exact opposite of HK—MORE violent and dangerous than the movies make it seem.

If “PTU” has a flaw, it’s the ending, which seems unlikely. But I am willing to chalk it up to those urban legends we always hear about. Also, from what I read online about the production, To was making “PTU” in his spare hours, with whatever meager dollars he could scrape together. “Running on Karma” was the movie that absorbed the majority of To’s attention, energy, and commitment. I suspect that he didn’t end “PTU” the way he wanted, but ran out of money. Yet the movie is brilliant, compelling, and not very mainstream.