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"Sideways," the Alternate Ending

After months of enduring "Have you seen "Sideways" yet? A wine guy like you REALLY ought to see it!", I finally caved and dropped down my eight bucks. Please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks Paul Giamatti is just a slightly less icky Chris Elliot. That was 123 minutes of mostly torture (the exceptions being when Virginia Madsen was on screen).

Having seen the movie just a few days after Hunter S. Thompson's self-expiration, maybe I was expecting too much. But in my perfect universe, Miles Raymond drains the last drop of his '61 Cheval Blanc, then either chokes to death on his greasy hamburger or blows his brains out, accidentally confusing a real .38 with a toy gun. That's the only way a real anti-hero goes out on top. You're either Mama Cass or you're HST.

I could have better spent my eight dollars on four bottles of Two Buck Chuck. The result would have been essentially the same, but at least I'd have had something to show for it...even if it was just a headache. :)

JJ

Reply to
jj
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contrary to urban myth, mama cass did NOT choke on a ham sandwich ...just a pedestrian heart attack from being a lazy, obese, glutton.

(see uncle john's bathroom reader - volume VI)

Reply to
xenophobe

It was a great flick, and really had nothing to do with wine. Just like there are film buffs that don't get wine, there are wine buffs that don't get films. You're not alone.

If the movie was painful at times, that's because I'm sure it was intended to be painful at times.

Look for Thomas Hayden Church's _Rolling Kansas_ on Comedy Central. It won't cost you $8 and it's great stuff.

Dana

Reply to
Dana H. Myers

Yeah, I know the real story.

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But that wasn't really my point. And besides, a heart attack is even more pedestrian and ignominious than choking on a ham sandwhich or a hamburger. The Mama Cass story has entrenched itself in modern folklore, making her passing somewhat immortal (if not entirely accurate). Too bad neither Rex Pickett nor Alexander Payne could see the possiblities.

Think of it...the last drop of a stunning Cheval Blanc drops from the lip of the styrofoam cup in slow motion, and splurts on the floor amid the scraps of greasy fries and soiled paper wrappings. Sound track goes, 'THUD-D-D-D-D!" The empty bottle slips from Miles Raymond's hand as he gasps his last breath, and shatters into a million pieces on the floor.

A perfect metaphor.

Instead, we get a pretentious, whiney, wine snob loser who apparently thinks all merlot comes from Central Valley grapes bottled by Bronco.

And just for the record, not one of the 30 botttles brought to our recent Open That Bottle Night evening was a Pinot Noir. I'm thinking backlash. :)

JJ

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Reply to
jj

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