Page Two

Used to be if I was up at 7am, it meant I had to catch a plane, had a very rare early morning appointment, or, most likely, had been up all night. Now, it's 7:38am, pouring rain, and we're running a little late for third grade. The traffic in the neighborhood is heavy, parents taking their children to school.

My son looks up at me, absorbed in a world I mostly don't understand, then stares out at the rain and offers, "You should be careful what you wish for ..." His comment on the drought summer's end, and the drenched autumn's debut.

After I leave him at school, I'm stuck in morning rush-hour traffic as I head across town. But when I get close to the Chronicle, I leave the traffic behind; it gets quiet in these residential neighborhoods. This morning soaked in rain, the streets in deep-hued blues and greens, it got real slow and quiet as I drive to work. There is a quiet here, you find it in the end of a sun-baked day, when you slip into your car and melt. I love to feel the heat sinking into my bones. This morning I find it on a street, in the rain, on the way in to work.

Given this column's history of cinematic rants and raves, this would seem to be an appropriate moment to mourn the passing of the great Japanese director Akira Kurosawa, but for once I'm at a loss for words. More exactly, the mainstream tributes are accurate and true. What is there to add about the brilliance and importance of Kurosawa? There is the enormity of his influence, not just the films he directly influenced (TheMagnificent Seven, For a Few Dollars More, Star Wars) but the generations of filmmakers, far too many to name. More importantly, there are the films, which still thrill.

To this day, at the beginning of watching a Kurosawa, the depth of cinematic narrative about to unspool is palpable. The films speak for themselves: Rashomon, Yojimbo, Throne of Blood, The Hidden Fortress, Sanjuro, Dersu Uzala, Kagemusha, and so on, but even here, my taste is hackneyed. Seven Samurai is the outstanding masterpiece, as far as I'm concerned, one of the great movies of all time.

The local access program The Show With No Name, a Marjorie Baumgarten favorite, will present Rashomon (7pm) and Throne of Blood (9:15 pm) at the Alamo Drafthouse on Wednesday, Sept. 23. It's a terrific double bill and an appropriate farewell to one of the masters.

The lack of hoopla over the redesign continues. This is great; the staff loves it. I offer no more comment on it: Accept it as though it is now as it has always been.

After 10 successful years, we have ended the tradition of the Chronicle's anniversary party. Many factors contributed, and it was one of the staff's and readers' favorite events. We bid it a fond farewell.

Farewells always seem to make way for welcomes, though. Promotions director Dan Hardick and his wife Lisa became proud parents once again. Daughter Lauren Olivia, born Sunday, September 13 (and weighing in at eight lbs., five ounces), joins sisters Meg and Emily in vying for a job at the paper in a couple more decades. The applications are under consideration, but for the moment, the staff sends its warmest congratulations to all.