I had a magical New Year’s Eve in part because I went to see the film “Saving Mr. Banks,” which tells the story of how a folksy, wily Walt Disney cajoled – actually, “prevailed upon” would be a better choice of words – a frosty P.L. Travers to sell him the rights to her “Mary Poppins” books so that he could make the film we all know and love. This movie features superb performances led by Emma Thompson’s commanding turn as Mrs. Travers – never P.L., Pamela or Pam, a nom de plum anyway; a subtle one by Tom Hanks as Walt – never Mr. Disney; and a charismatic appearance by Colin Farrell as the imaginative but alcoholic father who gave Mrs. Travers so much material to work with. (The title refers to the character of the father in “Mary Poppins,” a put-upon bank executive who learns the importance of being a parent, and indeed Mrs. Travers’ father was a bank manager, though not as successful as the father in the “Mary Poppins” film.)

Like the clumsy novel and movie “Atonement,” “Saving Mr. Banks” asks you to consider whether art can redeem the past. Unlike “Atonement,” “Saving Mr. Banks” understands that the answer to that question is “Alas, no.” Read more

It was with infuriated amusement that I recently read Stephen Marche’s “The Case for Filth” in The New York Times (Dec. 8). Marche – a novelist, Esquire contributing editor and author of a forthcoming book on the end of the gender wars – writes that men in our post-feminist age are doing no more housework than they ever did. He concludes:

“The solution to the gender divide in housework generally is just that simple: don’t bother. Leave the stairs untidy. Don’t fix the garden gate. Fail to repaint the peeling ceiling. Never make the bed.

“A clean house is the sign of a wasted life, truly. Hope is messy: Eventually we’ll all be living in perfect egalitarian squalor.”

He’s kidding, right? I mean, this is some kind of post-modern snark, isn’t it? Read more