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2001-03-06 I keep flashing back to the final moments of last week�s episode of Ally McBeal�the only moments of the show I saw�when Anne Heche, inexplicably flapper, strolled along the least authentic simulacrum of a Boston sidewalk ever committed to film (there were middle-aged people sitting on the "brownstone" stoops), fighting back tears. All at once, she seems to trip upon a frost-buckled paving stone (and I thought, Well actually that IS authentic) but of course it�s one of her character�s tics�Tourettes, just like the curvaceous Robin Tunney is supposed to have in Niagara, which I haven�t seen. But back to our flapper with the cornsilk hair which feathers adorably around her cloche�s floppy brim, back to the moment when she seems to stumble, and throwing out one hand to steady herself, kicks up a heel, winces, and walks on�this feat, this fusion of acting and comic ballet, is as I say one to which I keep flashing back. These days, I find myself pulling my mind away from the doors of departing trains of thought�daydreams, outlines of impossible projects, complicated notions about what other people are thinking�with a firmness which is new in me. And while part of me (a smaller part of which my sister has successfully dissuaded) would love to �follow-up� the binx�s recent (but surely not final!) posting of my scariness to her, instead I send her bales of hugs and handshakes (as always, EVER) for her pains. |