Jennie and I watched “You’ve Got Mail” tonight, a well-established come Christmas ritual. I’ve probably seen it 20 times. First time? No, dear, it wasn’t with another girl but with Bart, just two dudes who always gave the Birmingham night the respect it deserved, and a classic Hanks-Ryan rom-com, in the theater, probably at the Summit, December ’98 (I think we just straight up decided, yeah, let’s go see that—must have been the perceived zeitgeisty, cyberspace artifice: “The appeal of You’ve Got Mail is as old as love and as new as the Web.” — Roger Ebert).
We think it’s brilliant—probably lone reeds along those lines when it comes to most people we know, standing tall, waving boldly in the cuh-rap sands of cinema. But damn, it’s smart. And damn, it captures a certain American time. And damn it’s acted well.
We paused it to check on Sadie and when we came back to the screen saw what we had done to Meg Ryan during the Cafe, rose-in-a-book scene. And of course we paused to take a picture.