Funny You Should Ask(76)

“Anything you want to share?”

“No,” I say.





Film Fans


     THE PHILADELPHIA STORY REVIEW

[excerpt]



By Chloe Watson


Depending on who you ask, The Philadelphia Story is the best romantic comedy ever made. Or it’s an actors’ showcase with several questionable story lines.

Oliver Matthias’s latest adaptation of the classic play turned film turned musical (because we can’t forget High Society) clearly intends to honor the first school of thought while addressing the second.

He very nearly succeeds.

Although he’s able to update the extremely problematic father-daughter relationship, plus address the casual domestic violence sprinkled throughout, Matthias never truly nails the zaniness of the original.

Credit where credit is due, though, the casting is impeccable.

There was outrage when it was announced that disgraced former Bond Gabe Parker would be playing C. K. Dexter Haven. The internet exploded with think pieces about how casting a recovering alcoholic to play a recovering alcoholic was lazy and exploitive.

We should all know now that Oliver Matthias, in his infinite wisdom, knew exactly what he was doing when he chose Parker. Parker’s C. K. Dexter Haven is droll, debonair, and pitch-perfect. While the rest of the cast is superb—Benjamin Walsh as Mike Connor is a true revelation—it’s Parker who steals the show.





Chapter

25


I agree to have dinner with Gabe and his family. We don’t talk any more about my writing or Jeremy. As we lock up the theatre, Gabe tells me that he and Ollie are planning to spend the next several months renovating, hiring staff, and planning their first season.

“We want to open next fall,” he says.

“Ambitious,” I say.

He shrugs. “I don’t have much else going on.”

It’s a topic both of us seem to be avoiding—the future.

“No movies in the pipeline?” I ask.

“I think everyone’s waiting to see how The Philadelphia Story does before I’m officially welcomed back to Hollywood,” he says. “You get into one drunken, viral argument with your shitty director and suddenly no one wants to work with you. Unless, of course, you might make money for them.”

There’s that desert-dry tone again.

“You should have just stuck with the old standby of anti-Semitic insults and referring to female officers as ‘Sugar Tits’ and you’d be welcomed back with open arms and awards,” I say.

Gabe snaps his fingers. “Dammit, I knew I’d played it wrong. Where’s your phone? Let’s get something on film.”

And just like that, we’ve once again sidestepped the conversation I’m not ready to have.

It isn’t until he stops, breath visible in the cold air, that I realize we’ve been walking down Main Street in silence.

“Here we are,” he says.

We’re outside of the Cozy. With the setting sun and the lights inside ablaze, it lives up to its name.

There’s a bell above the door—a sweet, old-fashioned one like what Meg Ryan had in You’ve Got Mail—and it jingles when we enter, announcing our arrival. There are Christmas carols playing softly over the store speakers.

“Be right with you,” a voice comes from the back.

“It’s just me, Mama,” Gabe says.

Mama. He calls his mother Mama.

It smells of apples and cinnamon, warming me along with the well-heated store. There’s a little cart by the door with a carafe, mugs, and a sign that reads Help yourself.

“Want some?” Gabe asks.

He pours before I can answer—apple cider—and passes me a cup. On the bottom shelf there’s a bin for dirty mugs.

It all feels strangely familiar, even though I’ve never been here before.

“The store is beautiful,” I say.

Gabe grins.

“It is pretty nice, isn’t it?” He looks around, one hand on his hip, the other holding a mug, looking very much like a man who likes what he sees. “I think we’re going to use the same contractors to renovate the theatre.”

“Do you help out when you’re in town?”

He nods. “I like the store at night the best. When I’m here, I’m usually the person fulfilling the online orders—I’ll put on some music or a podcast and really go to town. If you think I’m good on the screen, you should see me assemble a shipping box in under a minute.”

“You’re in charge of sending out the online orders?”

He gives me a knowing smile. “I am. I always know who’s ordering from us.”

Which means that he probably knows how many times I’ve ordered books from here. Which is often.

Thankfully, I don’t have a chance to respond because a woman with Gabe’s green eyes, and his dimple, emerges from the back of the store. Her expression lights up when she sees us.

“Is this her?” she asks.

“Mama, this is Chani,” he says.

His arm is around my shoulders, almost as if he’s presenting me. Which, I suppose, to an extent, he is. The moment feels significant and it scares me.

I know Gabe is thinking about what will happen beyond this weekend. I know he wants to ask.