"When I finally caught up with Abraham Traherne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic
bulldog named Fireball Roberts, in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon."
James Crumley
The Last Good Kiss
“Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.”
Cool Hand Luke
It was a tough week for me last week. Two of my favorite entertainers died. James Crumley died at the age of 68. Pretty young by today’s standards. And to bookend the terrible week, Paul Newman died Friday at the age of 83. That’s a more acceptable age I guess.
Everyone knew Paul Newman. Those blue eyes; the great work he did with his charitable food line. And the movies. Who could forget those. The Verdict is still one of my favorites of his and I still argue that he should have won the Oscar that year for best actor. The Sting. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Hombre. Color of Money. The Hustler. Slap Shot. The list is pretty long. Paul Newman deserves those accolades. He lived his life well – a life one could emulate and be quite happy – even if you weren’t a movie star.
But James Crumley, on the other hand, is a bit of an enigma. He never had a best seller. He never rose above the level of “cult writer” despite critical acclaim. Something just didn’t click for him like it did for Paul Newman. But I, like many crime writers, credit Crumley as one of my inspirations when I started writing. There was something earthy and real about his characters and his writing. They were deeply flawed people that did violent things in gritty locations. He was a very fine writer that deserved a wider audience. But then, maybe he didn’t care.
And that’s were these two men intersect. They lived their lives as they wanted – doing the things that gave them joy. They excelled at their crafts, and while one of them achieved world wide stardom, the other lived quietly in Missoula, Montana. But they are equals in my eye.
And I suspect in that bar behind the pearly gates, the two men are sitting next to each other drinking the heart out of a fine spring day. Yeah, sometimes nothin’ can be a real cool hand.
bulldog named Fireball Roberts, in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon."
James Crumley
The Last Good Kiss
“Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.”
Cool Hand Luke
It was a tough week for me last week. Two of my favorite entertainers died. James Crumley died at the age of 68. Pretty young by today’s standards. And to bookend the terrible week, Paul Newman died Friday at the age of 83. That’s a more acceptable age I guess.
Everyone knew Paul Newman. Those blue eyes; the great work he did with his charitable food line. And the movies. Who could forget those. The Verdict is still one of my favorites of his and I still argue that he should have won the Oscar that year for best actor. The Sting. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Hombre. Color of Money. The Hustler. Slap Shot. The list is pretty long. Paul Newman deserves those accolades. He lived his life well – a life one could emulate and be quite happy – even if you weren’t a movie star.
But James Crumley, on the other hand, is a bit of an enigma. He never had a best seller. He never rose above the level of “cult writer” despite critical acclaim. Something just didn’t click for him like it did for Paul Newman. But I, like many crime writers, credit Crumley as one of my inspirations when I started writing. There was something earthy and real about his characters and his writing. They were deeply flawed people that did violent things in gritty locations. He was a very fine writer that deserved a wider audience. But then, maybe he didn’t care.
And that’s were these two men intersect. They lived their lives as they wanted – doing the things that gave them joy. They excelled at their crafts, and while one of them achieved world wide stardom, the other lived quietly in Missoula, Montana. But they are equals in my eye.
And I suspect in that bar behind the pearly gates, the two men are sitting next to each other drinking the heart out of a fine spring day. Yeah, sometimes nothin’ can be a real cool hand.
10 comments:
Fabulous post, Mark. Indeed, two giants have left us.
Well said.
One of my favorite lines of all time was from my favorite Paul Newman movie: "Think ya used enough dynamite there, Butch?"
We will miss Mr. Newman and Mr. Crumley. Nice post, Mark.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid has some terrific lines in it - including the one you mention Joe. One of my favorites is when Butch (Newman) says to Sundance (repeatedly) "Who are those guys?" about the men tracking them.
They (Newman and Redford) had great chemistry together - it would have been nice to see them do more than just two films together.
"The Verdict is still one of my favorites of his and I still argue that he should have won the Oscar that year for best actor."
YES. No question one of Newman's best, and my favorite.
Crumley is credited by many a writer as being their inspiration. Pelecanos comes to mind, there are many others.
Awarding Newman for the Color of Money seemed like an afterthought.
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Two years ago I spent a night drinking with Jim Crumley, listening to stories and wisdom from a legend. Sample: "The hardest thing about being a writer is convincing your wife that you're working when you're looking out the window." A wonderful guy as great in person as on the page.
That was worth hearing three times.
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