I saw Capote tonight at the Angelika.
I wasn’t as blown away by it as I thought I was going to be, after reading all those glowing reviews. It’s another quiet but confident movie, and as I’ve written in the past, I’m not always in the mood for such films, especially now feeling as I do, physically, and have been for too long. But still, I greatly appreciate that these kinds of movies are out there and continue to hope that they find an audience so that filmmakers keep making them. Perhaps it’ll grow on me, as some are wont to do, and I’ll come to realize its excellence with time.
I did, however, have an urge to run out and finally read In Cold Blood. I feel like a bad student of writing and American literature and journalism for not having read it by now, but hearing Philip Seymour Hoffman read from Truman Capote’s writing during the movie made me realize that his prose is so alive that I shouldn’t have been put off by its content. My introduction to Truman’s work – a story I’ve told many times – was a TV version of “A Christmas Memory” that we watch every year, which is sweet and sappy and sad but no less powerful in its way than I imagine his “nonfiction novel” to be. And also, I have to admit that despite having heard Capote’s real, live voice squeaking out the narration to “Memory” so many times, it still took me a few scenes to warm up to that strange timber that Hoffman obvious channels so well.