A touching and sad story by Emma Cline in current New Yorker

Touching, somewhat sad story, Son of Friedman, by Emma Cline in current New Yorker tells of two 70-something men, sometime colleagues in the film industry, each at a different arc in their lives. Friedman directed a few movies earlier in his career, but now feels somewhat of a relic - out of touch with contemporary fast-paced, special-effect movies. He's at an old-fashioned restaurant in NYC that he used to frequent - he even remembers the waiter, an aspiring actor whom he hadn't seen in years and who obviously did not obtain his goals, as he waits for the arrival of his friend, William. W is a world-renowned director, a success in his work and in his (married) life; he seems in some ways to be modeled on Scorcese. They're meeting for dinner because W has agreed to attend the first screen of an indie film, self-produced, by Friedman's son, Benji - W is Benji's godfather. It's obvious to everyone that Benji's film is horrible and self-indulgent; it's obvious to F that W is showing up a the film and posing for a few photos as a favor but that he has zero interest in ever resuming work w/ F. He politely agrees to read a script from F., but he's obviously just being kind - yet there's a sweetness to their relationship, W does recognize their long-standing friendship and how much they'd shared, though all of that is in the past. The story ends on a truly sorrowful note, as F recognizes that his creative life is probably over and that his son will never succeed in film, even with help of family money and connections, and has to find a life of his own.