I loved the book and I love David Fincher but I did not love this movie.

The tone was wrong.

The book is a romp. A devilish delight that you cannot put down. You ride the plot twists like a roller coaster and forget about it when it’s finished, just like your afternoon at the amusement park.

Fincher wanted to make a statement.

And he does pretty well re tabloid journalism. We live in a funny gotcha culture where if it bleeds it leads, even better, if it’s ethically wrong, we want to parade it all day long, but if we want a moral tale we’ll turn on Fox News.

What we want when we go to the movies is entertainment. And not so much the real truth as an aspirational truth.

Yes, marriage is hard, that’s another theme of this movie. But we’re not married to people who look like that and act like that and if you go to this movie and don’t feel inadequate, you’re rich, famous and beautiful.

That’s why we’re interested in the stars, who are often two-dimensional uneducated nitwits, they play these roles. And they live in these houses. And they have that sex. And why in the world can’t it just be me!

If for some reason you haven’t read the book, the whole story hinges on an unexpected twist. And if you consider that a spoiler, you lose points for not reading 2012’s book of the summer, deservedly so, and for watching this film and not knowing something is up.

And the twist is based on the manipulation of Amy.

But we just don’t believe Rosamund Pike in the role.

We believe Tyler Perry as the lawyer. I won’t say he steals the movie, but his performance is so note perfect it makes you want to run out and see his flicks, because anybody who can get it this right deserves our attention.

And Carrie Coon as Ben Affleck’s twin sister is also a revelation. She exudes inner attractiveness. She’s the kind of girl you not only become friends with, but marry, despite not wearing any makeup.

But we’re looking for Frances McDormand to be the cop, not Kim Dickens, Dickens radiates no intelligence, she’s neither bigger than the story nor a pawn within it, she’s just wooden, like the Dunnes fifth anniversary which kicks off this picture.

David Fincherized the story, ruining it in the process. The best director in the world may be wrong for your picture. Fincher gets the look down, you get enthralled by this world immediately, with the heavy Trent Reznor/Atticus Rose score and the dark cinematography. Only this is not “Zodiac,” my favorite Fincher flick, an exploration of a true story wherein every twist and turn is pregnant with unknown factors that might scare you as well as being a revelation. “Gone Girl” is a Midwestern frolic.

But I went.

Because I’m in search of greatness. And sometimes Fincher delivers it.

Too many flicks are sold on the high concept, the comic book upon which they are based. I want something deeper, that touches my soul, and Fincher is able to do this, but he’s not a writer, he can only work with other people’s material.

Which proves once again that the writer is king.

That’s why we revere these techies, they come up with this stuff.

And we used to revere our film creators and music makers for the same reason. They constantly wowed us. Listen to last week’s Smokey Robinson interview on Howard Stern, when he tells how he wrote his hits your jaw drops and you pray they don’t change the subject, you’re privy to a genius at work.

But there’s very little genius in the world today.

And most of our geniuses are not directors, or producers, but writers. The people who create this material to begin with.

Like Gillian Flynn. How did she come up with this stuff?

And Flynn does not look like Rosamund Pike, she’s not movie star beautiful. But we’re all looking for our Flynn, we’re all looking for that person who surprises us, who utilizes their personality each and every day to make our lives interesting and exciting.

So I’ll wait for her next book. Although I’m worried the eyes of the world and the resulting pressure will inhibit her. It’s hard to receive the accolades and still produce. Which is why actors can continue to be successful, but writers not so much. To dig down deep inside and come up with fantastic material is so difficult.

But that’s all we’re interested in today, the fantastic.

Unfortunately, the “Gone Girl” movie is not.

P.S. This movie needed its Sharon Stone, the one who spread her legs in “Basic Instinct,” who manipulated us and attracted us simultaneously. We wanted to know Catherine Tramell, despite being fearful of her sting. Stars draw us closer, the longer you watched Rosamund Pike in this picture not only did you realize why she had no friends, but you had no desire to hang with her, never mind sleep with her yourself, she radiated one note intelligence and almost no humor, and attractiveness is always more than skin deep, it’s an alchemy behind the eyes that can be aided by beauty, but does not depend upon it.

P.P.S. Affleck jumps from genteel to manipulative when he’s interviewed by Sela Ward, who’s both enticing and despicable as a high class TV interviewer, Sela embodied what Pike aspired to, but for too much of the movie Affleck’s a lunk, but not quite one we can believe has corn-fed roots but was still able to score this high class Harvard graduate.

P.P.P.S. David Clennon always delivers, but it’s shocking to see the lines in the face of Miles Drentell, the evil advertiser of “thirtysomething.” Aging is a bitch, but it happens to all of us, be sure to see the evolutionary pictures in today’s “New York Times Magazine,” they’ll haunt in you in a way this flick aspires to but is unable to achieve:

“Forty Portraits in Forty Years”

 

Smokey on Stern – start at 24:20 and listen through “Tears of a Clown”

My father was the least athletic person you’d ever meet.

But I loved baseball. And sports in general. Sure, I enjoyed sitting in front of the tube on Saturday afternoon at 5, watching “Wide World Of Sports,” but even more I liked to participate. From baseball in the spring to football in the fall to sledding and tobogganing in the winter, my life was lived outside. My mother insisted on it. Don’t ask me about daytime TV, I never saw it, it was illegal in my house.

And my mother was a big sportswoman. She lived to play golf. That’s one of her great regrets, that she cannot hit the links today. A doctor promised her she could and she’s never forgiven him, never inflate someone’s hopes unnecessarily.

But my dad fed my addiction. He bought me equipment. He took me to the game. He never came to my games, but in retrospect I dig that, for sport could be my own, even when my Little League team won the town championship.

But I only made it through one year of Babe Ruth ball, and then it was hard to come up with enough people to play and my days on the diamond were through.

I was always one for a pickup game of softball. But then everybody got married and everybody who still played took it way too seriously. That’s one thing I hate about the adult golfer, never mind team softball player, they’re all about winning. When after all, at this age, we’re never going to be professionals.

But we can watch.

But I never do.

Never mind that the Dodgers are only on Time Warner, I’ve got Time Warner, I’m paying, and I still don’t turn them on.

Maybe because the Dodgers are losers. All the cred is back in Brooklyn. It’s a fair weather team for a fair weather market.

And it’s hard to love my Yanks, ever since the Steinbrenner era, when he paid to win. I liked them better when they lost, it was easier to separate the true fans from the wannabes.

And football is a turn-off. A game wherein the team is more important than the individual and the coach has too much power and brain damage is rampant and anything that rah-rah makes my blood boil. Nothing is more offensive than mindless support. Whether it be of a team or a country. If you’re leaving your intellect at the door, I want no part of you or your shenanigans.

But baseball is a thinking man’s game. With all the sabermetrics and Theo Epstein and Billy Beane. And it’s slow. And what was once the national pastime is no longer. But every once in a while the sport comes up and surprises you.

Like tonight.

I keep saying I’ll catch up on sports in the old age home, when I’ve got the time. I’m always stunned when people say they watched the game, who has that much time to invest? And the regular season is nearly irrelevant. And the post season is not the sudden death it once was, best of seven and that’s it. The first week of October. Played during the daytime. Yearning to get home from school to catch the last couple of innings.

Yes, baseball shot itself in the foot. Beholden to the TV networks it’s neither fish nor fowl.

But one good thing about baseball, they don’t keep changing the rules.

There’s beauty in that, the game remains the same. If you knew it once, you know it still. The players may change, but the basic precepts are immutable.

And it brings us together.

And there’s very little that does.

We played once, however poorly. And at this late date our lives are drained of meaning, our hopes and dreams went unfulfilled and we’re wandering in the wilderness trying to make sense of it all.

And then you’re sitting on the porch and you hear that they’re in the 18th inning of the playoff game and you jump up and say I’VE GOT TO SEE THIS!

So you park yourself on the couch and the drama unfolds. The tension is palpable. You wonder how the batter stays in the box, how he lets the ball go by, how he just doesn’t flake.

And that’s why these guys are our heroes. Kind of like the last minute of the NBA playoffs, but with people who are closer to our size. Who wear beards. Sure, some date models, but most are relatively faceless. But this is their profession and they take it very seriously. And when it comes to October, they play to win.

It started with the Royals. What a piss-poor baseball team Kansas City has been. That’s what’s wrong with baseball, the inequality. So when someone comes from nowhere, without the revenue-sharing that’s leveled the field in the NFL, you root for them. And they go into extra innings and enter the next round.

And the Nationals are the favorites.

And San Francisco went ahead…

What did George Carlin say about baseball, that we don’t know when it will end, that it could go on forever?

Tonight’s bottom of the 18th was like the last minute of a basketball game, but without the time outs.

And the baby boomers in attendance were riveted to the screen, throwing out their appraisals, discussing Howard Stern interviews in between batters. Yes, there’s very little that brings us together, anything that does is revered. It might not be on the front page, it might not make Buzzfeed, but these rallying points are sacred to us as we navigate the uncharted waters of our lives.

And I’m thinking how this is it. Being in a group of men who I’d have nothing to say to away from the game watching what once was and will always be.

Yes, they’ll play baseball forever.

While the upper class that remains sends their kids to computer camp and the players are imported from Central America. It’s getting harder and harder to relate to the personalities, but we understand the identities. They’re athletes. They succeeded where we did not. They made play their lives.

And they do not choke.

And they’re beholden to us.

And we have this power over almost no one else.

The government doesn’t listen to us. Our spouses don’t listen to us. But the players do, because they know without us they don’t get paid, that we feed the monster. And that just like in America, there’s a benefit to being on the team, but personal glory shines bright.

As Bob Costas says, sports are a metaphor for life.

Only in baseball can you come back at any time.

Only in baseball can you be made to play all night and have to hit the field the next day.

And only in baseball is it you against the world. One on one baby. No excuses.

So it’s funny to find that all these years later I’m still the same person. You change, but not really. I would always marvel at the extra inning games I read about in the paper, that I heard about on telecasts. That seemed to go on forever. That could end in a moment, but never did.

We all walk that fine line. We want closure, but only if we’re on the right side. But the truth is if you’re on the wrong one, it’s not terminal. It feels really bad, but you get to play another day.

I always wanted to play another day.

I wanted to put on my sneakers. Grab my glove. Go up to the diamond and see if anybody else felt the same way, if anybody else wanted to start a game.

And as hard as starting is, finishing is even more difficult. Everybody drops out. Everybody makes excuses.

So when you see the boys of summer keeping it going, half a day later, past midnight…

You smile. You think to yourself, ISN’T LIFE GRAND!

AMATEURS

Ask permission.

PROFESSIONALS

Do. Amateurs are afraid they’re going to ruffle feathers, they’re afraid they won’t have success, they want everyone to feel good about them. Professionals know this is an impossibility. Sure, there are amateurs who don’t ask and do heinous things, but they usually don’t even see the landscape to begin with. Decide and then act.

AMATEURS

Manipulate.

PROFESSIONALS

Make their counterparts believe the behavior/solution is to their advantage. No one likes to be manipulated. They don’t mind being influenced, even if it benefits others at the same time. They just don’t want to be a pawn in the game.

AMATEURS

Are all about today.

PROFESSIONALS

Are all about tomorrow. Professionals leave money on the table, they nurture relationships, they know that today’s triumph may not translate into victories tomorrow, that taking a victory lap in the press prematurely is going to backfire and piss people off.

AMATEURS

Love publicity.

PROFESSIONALS

Want to stay out of the news. And if they’re in the news, they like to control the story. Which is why professionals hire expensive PR people, because those PR people know the players, they can influence them and trade horses with them, because they both know they’ll see each other tomorrow.

AMATEURS

Know it all.

PROFESSIONALS

Are always learning. If you don’t learn something important every month, you’re hanging with the wrong people, if you’re hanging with people at all. The web is a fountain of information, but professionals will tell you stuff one on one that they would never put in writing.

AMATEURS

Are about filling up their contacts list.

PROFESSIONALS

Know that it’s who you know, and one key relationship is better than a dozen secondary ones. The pro wants to know the decision maker, the person who can say yes, the CEO of the company, not the head of marketing or development.

AMATEURS

Bitch about the game.

PROFESSIONALS

Play the game, and try to change what they dislike over time.

AMATEURS

Are afraid to bring out the big guns.

PROFESSIONALS

Know when to huff and puff and blow someone else’s house down. The key is to do this consciously, aware of the fallout.

AMATEURS

Boast.

PROFESSIONALS

Don’t talk about their accomplishments unless they come up in the conversation naturally. They don’t need to advertise, they’re already the person.

AMATEURS

Burn the wrong people.

PROFESSIONALS

Burn the right people, if they burn anybody at all. Burning relationships can demonstrate power, but don’t piss off the CEO unless you’ve got a chip to play against them.

AMATEURS

Need to win all the time.

PROFESSIONALS

Know if you never lose, you never really win. If the deal is one-sided, if leverage is overused, it will come back to haunt you.

AMATEURS

Are all flash.

PROFESSIONALS

Are subtle. They fly private, but they don’t tell you. They drive a BMW or a Mercedes, not a Lamborghini. They blend in, they don’t stand out.

AMATEURS

Believe life should be fair.

PROFESSIONALS

Know that life is inherently unfair. And sometimes you have to grease a palm or work a relationship to get what you want.

AMATEURS

Think they’re better than everybody else.

PROFESSIONALS

Never forget where they came from and are aware they can go back there, so they might act entitled, but they usually go out of their way to be nice to the little people.

AMATEURS

Can only see what’s in front of them.

PROFESSIONALS

Are always looking over the hill, around the corner. They’re searching the unknown to see where it’s all going, so they can be prepared when it arrives.

AMATEURS

Think nothing changes.

PROFESSIONALS

Know that everything is constantly changing, they’re not wedded to the past. They don’t lament the death of Main Street and manufacturing, they’re all about the data.

AMATEURS

Put all their eggs in one basket.

PROFESSIONALS

Spread the risk. They know the only person who wins all the time is the one who does not play.

AMATEURS

Have false modesty.

PROFESSIONALS

Own their success. They’re confident.

AMATEURS

Expect to win right away.

PROFESSIONALS

Know that success is elusive and hard fought and that a momentary blip of success at the advent may be just that, momentary.

AMATEURS

Are afraid.

PROFESSIONALS

Are self-assured. They roll with the changes. They don’t get thrown off guard. They’re cerebral. They don’t fly off at the handle. They absorb the loss and figure out how to punch back.

It was supposed to be a Steve Winwood solo project.

At this point Traffic had broken up. They’d already released their half live/half studio final project, “Last Exit.” And Steve had moved on to Blind Faith, whose album had a prodigious first side but imploded after their one and only 1969 tour. But in the process of making the record, the group reformed, minus Dave Mason, who was about to resurface with his exquisite solo debut “Alone Together,” and the end result was this LP.

Few were waiting for the Traffic reunion. The band had never had a hit, despite writing them for others. Fans were rabid, but most people were still clueless. But it was “John Barleycorn Must Die” that got everybody to pay attention, not because it had a single, but because of the sound and the songs, it was an amazing listening experience.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

This is the first cut the uninitiated were exposed to, the first song that FM banged consistently when that format was dominant. Yes, 1970 was the turning point, the better-sounding radio format had a presence in all markets and it was the heyday of album rock, you didn’t have to cross over to AM to be a star.

Now Traffic did quiet and acoustic previous to this, although it was not their primary sound, but this song stuck out on the radio, unlike so much of today’s music, and even the radio hits of yore, this was intimate and three-dimensional, it set your mind free, it made you think about life.

Every baby boomer knows it, I’m doubtful those under thirty have ever heard it.

EMPTY PAGES

My favorite cut on “John Barleycorn Must Die,” the first side closer, there’s the opening flourish, the melody, but even more Steve Winwood’s voice, one of the best in rock history. “Empty Pages” is both flip and majestic at the same time. You can’t help but be impressed by the anthemic chorus, never mind the keyboard noodling. A minor masterpiece that like its lyric has been lost and forgotten.

EVERY MOTHER’S SON

This closed the second side. And got early airplay. Once again, it features an exquisite Winwood vocal, but that’s de rigueur on this LP. It too, like “Empty Pages,” has a hooky chorus, but it’s a slower number, more of a slow burner, that gets under your skin.

GLAD

An instrumental when that format was dead and buried. “Glad” opened the album and went on for seven minutes but no one fast-forwarded through it, actually, tapes barely had an impact at this point, even though it seemed closer to jazz than rock we all knew it and loved hearing it. Hearing it on Sirius XM last night inspired me to write this!

FREEDOM RIDER

Here’s where Chris Wood shines, with his sax in the intro and then his flute accents. Sure, Winwood worked with others before and after Traffic, before and after Wood and Capaldi, but he never captured this exact sound without them.

STRANGER TO HIMSELF

It’s about the interplay of piano and acoustic guitar. The way Winwood seems to be prancing through the English countryside. This is both lighter and more serious than the other cuts. What you hear here, throughout “John Barleycorn Must Die,” is the pure joy of making music. It does not sound like they labored over getting it right, but more about capturing what transpired in the room.

I was a gargantuan Traffic fan. I started with the second album, went back to the first and owned “Last Exit,” I loved “Medicated Goo” and “Shanghai Noodle Factory.”

I saw Blind Faith live.

But I couldn’t wait for the Traffic reunion, back when we truly waited for the next projects of our favorites to see what they were up to.

And in the spring of 1970, before “John Barleycorn Must Die” was released, I went to the Fillmore East to see the band.

The band was announced with a traffic light suspended from the ceiling, shining its beam. And even though I was not familiar with the new material, I got it, because you only have to hear stuff like “John Barleycorn” once.

The band went on to even further success with “The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys,” its title track ubiquitous, but in truth “John Barleycorn Must Die” was the apotheosis. It distilled what came before and was less labored and self-conscious than what came thereafter. “John Barleycorn Must Die” is a perfect album, it’s got only six songs, three per side, and you never lament its length, when it finishes you just play it again.

And isn’t that what a great LP is all about?

Rhinofy-John Barleycorn Must Die Primer