As I indicated in my 2008 letter, I don't necessarily need a wide berth from cars to feel safe on two wheels, but my son does. Each time we had to swing around a stopped car, drivers gave us the space we needed. Having separated bike lanes for long stretches of the rides made a huge difference.īest, though, was the way drivers related to me and my 12-year-old. Second, we now had the Chrystie Street bike lane to take us from Grand to Houston, and the Forsyth Street lane to cruise back down. Yes, we had to maneuver around a couple of double-parked cars and a few pedestrians pushing carts and stuff, but fewer than before. I want to tell you that our ride yesterday from Tribeca to East Houston Street and back was even better than the ride I described two years ago.įirst, the Grand Street bike lane was more passable than on the 2008 ride. Those scenes aren't plausible and they're not about anything.Now, two years on, "it's deja vu all over again!" You're still railing against City DOT's street redesigns intended to make walking and bike-riding easier and safer and I'm still biking to the same theater with my kid, this time with my younger son, age 12. Maybe Hall, aiming for a wider audience, hedged his bets by putting in scenes where the heroes, the drug dealers and the cops chase one another on foot and in cars around downtown Detroit. After five, 10 years, you decide this is the day, and the world stops for you?'' This material is so good, I wish we'd had more of it. Later, at a welfare center, an overworked clerk shouts back: "Yeah, we all been waiting for the day you come through that door and tell us you're ready not to be a drug fiend. When Spoon screams at her, she screams back in a monologue that expresses all of her exhaustion and frustration. Elizabeth Pena plays an ER nurse who maddeningly makes them fill out forms while Cookie seems to be dying. Hall's script wickedly turns the tables: The clerks shout at Spoon and Stretch. In movies about stupid bureaucracies, the heroes inevitably blow up and start screaming at the functionaries behind the counters. If this movie reflects real life in Detroit, it's as if the city deliberately plots to keep addicts away from help. They circle endlessly through a series of Detroit social-welfare agencies that could have been designed by Kafka: They find they can't get medicards without being on welfare, can't get into detox without filling out forms and waiting 10 days, can't get into a rehab center because it's for alkies only, can't get the right forms because an office has moved, can't turn in the forms because an office is about to close. In between is the real life of the movie: the friendship of the two men and their quest to get into rehab. The daylong duel with the drug dealers and the encounters with suspicious cops work like comic punctuation. As the two friends discuss how to do it (and try to remember which side of the body the liver is on), there are echoes of the overdose sequence in " Pulp Fiction." What Tarantino demonstrated is that with the right dialogue and actors, you can make anything funny. Spoon, desperate to get into an emergency room and begin detox, persuades Stretch to stab him. That's especially true in a scene that moviegoers will be quoting for years. The movie isn't as powerful as it could have been, but it's probably more fun: This is basically a comedy, even if sometimes you ask yourself why you're laughing. It's Spoon who decides to kick, telling his friend (in a line that now has dark undertones), "Lately I feel like my luck's been running out.'' Writer-director Vondie Curtis Hall, making his directing debut after a TV acting career on "Chicago Hope'' and other shows, combines the hard-edged, in-your-face realism of street life with a conventional story that depends on stock characters: evil drug dealers, modern Keystone Kops, colorful eccentrics. Shakur, the hip-hop star turned actor, matches that and adds an earnestness: In their friendship, Spoon is the leader and thinker, and Stretch is the sidekick who will go along with whatever's suggested. Tim Roth is a natural actor, relaxed in his roles, with a kind of quixotic bemusement at life's absurdities. The heart of the movie is their banter, the grungy dialogue that puts an ironic spin on their anger and fear.
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