I had a friend who passed some years ago, the biggest chenille guy on 7th Avenue and a mensch to boot, active in the Shul and on the board of a host of charities. When I saw the promotions for the new movie Beowulf, I thought of Ben. Ben Wolf, Beowulf. Cockamamie logic, I know. But that is one of the privileges of being nearly 85. Cockamamie logic you can get away with.
Beowulf, let me put this bluntly, was not my schtickle of cake. Violent and loud. Nothing like Ben Wolf. I read the review in this morning's Times (which seems to be delivered later and later, so much for the girl getting a Holiday tip!) and I found it amusing. So, I include it here--especially you should notice the last sentence.
"Confronting the Fabled Monster, Not to Mention His Naked Mom
By MANOHLA DARGIS
Published: November 16, 2007
You don’t need to wait for Angelina Jolie to rise from the vaporous depths naked and dripping liquid gold to know that this “Beowulf” isn’t your high school teacher’s Old English epic poem. You don’t even have to wait for the flying spears and airborne bodies that — if you watch the movie in one of the hundreds of theaters equipped with 3-D projection — will look as if they’re hurtling directly at your head. You could poke your eye out with one of those things! Which is precisely what I thought when I first saw Ms. Jolie’s jutting breasts too."
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