6:11:24

Legal Eagles, 1986

Tribeca, my lifelong neighborhood, in 1986. This is on Duane Street, between West Broadway and Church. I grew up around the corner, on Chambers and Hudson. Now I live two blocks West of this screenshot.

I remember Moe’s (this is the movie’s stage name for the bar that was there). And the restaurants of old Tribeca my parents hung out in, with me in tow, an only child.

The low beige-colored building across the street from Robert Redford, left hand corner, is now my bank. How boring and depressing.

I loved Legal Eagles as a kid because I liked Debra Winger. I found her riveting. Rewatching LE the other night I was surprised to discover that this may be Redford’s only warm romantic role. He’s always such an avoidant, withholding ice queen in everything he does. I wonder if this is because he was truly fond of Winger, who had a “difficult” reputation in Hollywood, whatever that means (see the documentary Searching for Debra Winger. Leaving Hollywood is the only sane choice, of course. If you stay, you are poison). Ivan Reitman (the director) himself says she was difficult to work with, both he Redford agreed, and he wouldn’t do it again. Then said “no comment” when he was asked to explain. Of course Redford was a “pleasure.” Winger’s reputation is legendary. There was the famous feud between her and Richard Gere during the making of An Officer and a Gentleman. She said Gere was repulsive. But onscreen she seemed crazy about him. That is acting! This dissociative “charm” school of the schizo-narrative we all occupy (what Cliff High calls the “Narradigm”), that is called the entertainment industrial complex, not knowing what the fuck to make of any of it. Still. This world that makes no sense. These actors make no sense. These actors who do god knows what to “succeed.”

But Reitman’s own reputation was not good, it turns out. He was accused of being a tyrannical director, bad tempered, and some women have made claims of sexual harassment too. What do you expect at this point. I am pure-hearted so I still expect everything. It’s the same old story everywhere. Reitman says Winger “took her work very seriously.” Which is code for she didn’t do what we want.

It’s impossible to fully pierce through these veils (at least for now—disclosure is slow), but we already know what’s behind them, so let’s just assume. Let’s just know.

When asked if Redford and Winger got along offscreen, Reitman simply said, “No comment,” again. As if no comment isn’t a comment. Nevertheless, Redford has amazing onscreen chemistry with Winger, and that creates a kind of humanity to his walled-off masculinity that is normally absent and distant. It is generational, but with Redford it is also something more. He’s not Bogart or Mitchum cold. He’s cold. He’s withholding. He never melts. He has some romantic depth in Havana (1990) with Lena Olin, but it’s not warm. It’s not accessible—it’s felt. It’s stoic and internal. It’s a deep passion, but in a King of Cups kind of way (perhaps it’s Redford’s Virgo stellium that is responsible for this emotional makeup).

There is life in Redford in Legal Eagles. Joy. Levity. Humor. Vulnerability, but not heavy vulnerability—the kind that punishes and abandons women who access it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Redford smile so much. He’s like a fish out of water in this film.

When I was little, I loved the end credits of Legal Eagles, where we see Redford and Winger’s romantic dynamic unfold and blossom in a montage. Their dynamic was always my idea of perfect love—the way they complement each other through disagreement, banter, total presence, and some screwball friction that is necessary between two strong divine male/female counterparts, who must rise to the occasion that being together—meeting—requires. It makes their interactions fresh and electric, and very human. Reitman (Ghostbusters), calls Winger “the perfect pepper to Redford’s salt.” I love that. They are what I would call a hyper-involved, hyper-connected couple. They light each other up—moths to a flame; they embody a respect and a down-earth-awe for one another. A fascination. In the movie, Winger’s character says that she loves the way Redford’s character “moves.” Love is paying attention. Love is noticing. She studies him. He admires her warmth and pluck and fearlessness. The “warmth” of her eyes. But also: it’s the way they work together, have a law office together, spend all their time together. Eat/sleep/work/kiss. They are lovers, which means they love being together. Their time together is not phoned-in or cozy or chummy. It’s romantic. It’s mature. It’s thrilling. It’s equally matched. And no one is in the way of what they feel for one another. They are their own grownup autonomous world. This is the heart of true love.

As I always say, in the 1970s and 80s, you saw grownups falling in love in movies; people in their 30s and 40s, not just teenagers or people in their 20s, or so-called adults, who are emotionally stunted. This made me feel that being a grownup was something to aspire to. Something magical. Something to anticipate and await. Age was interesting. I also love that people in this era of movies had regular working class/middle class apts. Nothing fancy. Nothing huge. Homes were messy and lived in. And imperfect. Not hyper-decorated. Not these immaculate rich sterile palaces/perfect homes—stage sets—you see in every movie or Netflix series now, because apparently everyone in their 20s is incredibly rich and money falls from trees and everyone has decorators and can afford everything and has money to spend. They’re also always taking millionaire dollar vacations and staying in hotel rooms that probably cost $3000 a night and flying first class. Cause that’s life. It’s all a Sex in the City fantasy. No reality. No truth. I don’t believe these homes. I don’t believe these lives.

But when I watch these “old” movies, I feel good. I feel at home.

El Teddy’s, West Broadway and Franklin Street. Legal Eagles, 1986. Redford on payphone. This is my neighborhood subway stop.