I’m pretty sure it was Hal Ashby—bless his snowy, reclusive
beard—who introduced me to the concept of film snobbery. Growing
up, my parents quoted Being There incessantly. “You tell
Raphael,” my mom would say, already giggling, “that I ain’t taking
no jive from no Western Union messenger.” In my catalog of
childhood memories, a contextless “Now get this, honky…” is as
salient as Goodnight Moon or Young Guns II (my fave movie
for more years than a mediocre Lou Diamond Phillips vehicle should
warrant). Eventually, as a teen, there came a point when I needed to
get to the bottom of this “You tell Raphael” situation. I headed to
Scarecrow Video.
My friend and I searched high and low for Being There, among
comedies, among classics. Being There failed to, you
know, be there. Finally we asked the clerk. “Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,”
he sighed, exasperated. “It’s in the Hal Ashby sectionnnnnnn?” He
dragged his feet, and us, over to the shelf. Oh! Of fucking course! The
HAL ASHBY SECTION. How gauche of me to even ask. Thank you, world-weary
Scarecrow employee, for opening my eyes to this totally
counterintuitive and pretentious system of organization. Asshole.
I get it now, Scarecrow, and I forgive you, and I apologize. But
that’s my first memory of Hal Ashby, from way back before it was my job
to pay attention to who directed what. Last week I went to
Shampoo—which I’d only seen once, forever ago—which
was screening as part of the Ashby series at Northwest Film Forum.
(The fully mesmerizing and parentally quoted Being
There plays August 19 and 20. Go see it.)
I like Shampoo. I don’t want to write too much about the
film—it’s been done, and well, in this paper already. Warren
Beatty is so handsome, it’s a joke—he’s like a caricature of
handsome. He’s ridiculous. It’s nice to be reminded of the beyond
darling ’70s Goldie Hawn, long before she assumed her current duties as
Hollywood’s Kooky Old Broad in Chief. Also, Julie Christie’s hair is
distracting. And in the Christie vs. Lee Grant Battle of the
Cheekbones, I’d just like to say GRANT FTW!
Behind us, in the small, quiet theater, sat the world’s four
stonedest assholes. Their minds were blown by the existence of
1975. They spoke to each other at full volume. “Goldie Hawn?” “That
IS Goldie Hawn!” “That’s Goldie Hawn!” “She looks so young!” “Look at
those pants!” “Apples! Thirty-nine cents a pound!” First of all,
stoners, in 1975, Goldie Hawn was approximately (EXACTLY) 33 years
younger than she is now. Pants were different then. Apples existed. How
did you even end up at this movie? What is your QUESTION?
I delivered unto the stoners my stankiest eyeball. My friend
turned around and ordered them to “PIPE DOWN.” How dare they disrespect
the films of Ashby with their inane questions? I think the Scarecrow
clerk would have been proud. Hhhhhhhh. 
