It’s been a very hard year or so for major writers — we lost norman mailer near the end of 07, david foster wallace last year and now, last week, john updike. (and my boyhood hero kurt vonnegut a little further back.)
here is the first of two stories of mine on updike — it ran in the new hollywood site the wrap. my editor there is the fiendishly talented maria russo, who i wrote for at the LA Times.
the story tries to answer the question, why weren’t there more movies, and perhaps more good movies, from the work such a prolific, long-lived and lyrical writer?
any other hunches?
Photo credit: Flickr user 15
There was an itchy thing about Updike. His writing seemed, if not brittle and New England-ish – careful. He came off as somewhat calculated to those of us not raised among peaked roofs. It’s not a knock, only an observation. Perhaps that aloofness – not literal but sensed – is why further acclaim in movies didn’t stream his way. Plus I always had this knack of confusing him with John Cheever. They each seemed archetypical and not quite of flesh and blood. I mean, would you have wanted to have had a few beers with Updike watching any game except for the last one played by Ted Williams?
i am writing a piece for the LATimes about some of these very issues… tho i think updike would have been fun to have a beer with — tho more likely a decent glass of wine or single-malt scotch… i bet he could describe those better than anybody.