The World According to Chuck

I wonder where my copy of “Hollywood” is; somewhere, although I may have lent it and forgotten. It’s Charles Bukowski’s take on the film biz, his fictionalized (and that’s really not the right word; he turns the phrase “thinly disguised” into sort of performance art in this) account of the making of “Barfly,” which he wrote and which starred Mickey Rourke.

Rourke comes out looking good through Bukowski’s eyes. Intense, quirky, quiet. Late ’80s Rourke, maybe.

You should read this book, by the way.

I have no interest in the Oscars tonight and won’t watch (and yes, I’m about the millionth person who’s blogged that today, sue me). I long ago lost my taste for this, and I’m not alone. I’d rather watch a movie.

And I have no stake in Mr. Rourke’s story, past, present or future. Win, lose, whatever. I don’t care.

But I remember.

It was impossible, I think, to be a young actor with hopes and dreams and not pay attention at, say, “Body Heat,” when after an hour or so of ogling Kathleen Turner’s naked self and enduring the William Hurt of this era, creating a character and then swallowing it whole, line by line, Mickey Rourke edges onto the screen.

I sat up a little, let’s say. And thought about my options.

There’s been a lot said about Rourke in the past few months. Jim Henshaw says it best, in my opinion, but then we share a similar experience, watching Mickey.