As A Man Of A Certain Age, I see a lot of intellectual property from my youth making its way to film in some form or another.

I don’t know that this is a recent phenomenon, or just me realizing that it’s happening, or if indeed there aren’t any new ideas and we’re just all hoping that everyone forgets that The Rock was once in a G.I. Joe movie.

And it’s true that as I’m firmly in the grips of middle age that there isn’t much magic left for me anymore.

Not that I’m bemoaning my place in life, although the Memento Mori life calendar that I’ve set up as a Chrome tab is by turns intimidating and inspiring.

That is, when it’s not prompting me to find a soft blanket, a pillow, and sufficient time to just push world away for a while.

What I mean is that at this point I’ve seen all the stories, and I know, generally, how they end.

Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy them as much, just that I enjoy them differently.

And while what’s in my head will never equal the cinematic greatness of a Denis Villeneuve panoramic shot of a desert either on a fictional world or on the other side of a troublesome, albeit porous, American border, I like to think that how I see it would frame nicely on screens of all sizes.

But sometimes, there is magic.

In that moment when I see someone portrayed on film or whatever we use to make the pictures movie in 2024, and I think, “Well, that’s odd. Because that’s just how I saw them in my head.”

The first time that happened was when Peter Jackson reminded all of us that there’s another country in the vicinity of Australia and it would make a fine Shire, as his Lord of the Rings marched across the screen in all its ponderous self-importance.

I know I’m not alone in this, but still, there’s something…magical…about knowing that one’s vision is in someone else’s head, too.

Lost my faith a bit when Tom Cruise tried to run away with the Reacher franchise, because the only way that matched Lee Child’s brawling behemoth is if he’d shot the whole thing in lifts.

Recovered said faith when Alan Ritchson lumbered into our lives and loins portraying the kind of throwback masculinity that manages to be non-toxic but also not entirely safe for the current century.

Then today, finally got around to watching Slow Horses since I’d just re-read Mick Herron’s series and wondered if the Apple rendition was any good.

Which is a judgment I make too often, on whether a thing is “good” or not, because what I enjoy may not be your cup of tea (because it’s in the UK, after all), but regardless of quality, what’s on the screen?

Magic.

Because all of it, but mostly Oldman’s Jackson Lamb is precisely how I pictured them.

Herron himself feels the same, although he’s made it clear in at least one interview that he never pictures any of his characters, just hears them.

Explains how the man is a master of dialogue on par with Elmore Leonard with acknowledgement to the previous great of British spies, John Le Carre.

I remember arguing things like “author’s intent” in college, and because of my autistic brain, I was always wondering “But what did they mean by that?” and in response one of my better professors asking me what I think they meant.

I still wonder that about Herron’s Lamb: what he means by everything he does. If Jackson’s motives in Herron’s mind are the same as I think them to be, but in the end?

Doesn’t matter, particularly.

What does, in this instance, is that there’s still magic left. And maybe we can still make some more.