Hello, Ezra Kleinians.  In a spectacular bit of misjudgment, Ezra has decided to let one of the inmates run the asylum, as he earlier noted.  And since all the boys are angling for their Estrogen-Friendly Boy Scout Badge this week, choosing me has put him well ahead of the competition.

I kid, I kid.

Tonight I did one of my favorite things in the world—I saw a great film.  One never knows, of course, whether the evening will turn out as hoped when the lights go down; I’ve wasted more money on films that aspired to be swill than I care to consider.  But I spent this evening engaged by the thoroughly wonderful Million Dollar Baby, which I encourage you to see.  (It’s not such a strange thing to recommend on a political blog, but I won’t tell you why if you don’t already know.  Suffice it to say it will leave you with something to debate, should you be so inclined.)

On the way home, I was considering the strange path that Clint Eastwood’s career in film has taken; once vilified as a purveyor of soulless violence as Dirty Harry Callahan, he has become a favorite of Lefties who find his later work exhibits a particular type of empathy rarely seen in the typical fare churned out on a regular basis.  As it happens, there’s an article on Salon examining this very notion, which conveniently saves me some time.

There are those who suggest that Eastwood’s later films are the work of an apologist who regrets the tenor of his earlier work.  I think his transformation from object of liberal scorn to target of conservative ire just proves that if you’re around long enough, you manage to piss off everybody.

-- Shakespeare's Sister