The Sheila Variations

Speaking of Raymond Carver

this is a fascinating article. It's a topic I've been "watching" for some time, one of the most interesting of discussions, of great personal interest to me ... and the story just keeps going on.

Bruce Davison: How to make a scene happen

Mitchell said to me once, "Bruce Davison is so good at making a scene happen. He is one of those actors who just knows what needs to take place in order for the scene itself to happen."

The best acting is all about listening. And the best actors know, above all else, how to listen. They also may know how to change their appearance, their walk, their accent ... but if an actor doesn't know how to listen, the rest of it won't mean jackshit. The greatest actors all have that in common: they listen. I believe that Humphrey Bogart made other actors seem more interesting because of how he listened to them. Cary Grant is always listening, even in the fastest most rat-a-tat scripts he did. He is not just listening politely as someone else speaks - of course not, because that's not like real life - he listens on a subterranean level, picking up on the slightest inflections and mood-changes of his scene partner. Watch him "listen" to Ingrid Bergman in the famous first scene of Notorious. It's a good example because the character, Devlin, is not, in general, a sensitive guy. He has an opinion about Alicia, she's a tramp and an alcoholic, but it is his job to get her to go to work, so he is sniffing her out. Meanwhile, he is playing up his drunkenness, so that she will feel more comfortable letting loose. But on that other level, that deeper level, watch Cary Grant's subtle shifts of expression during that scene, taking her in, taking in her behavior, her words, her mannerisms ... he is reading her. Now obviously because he is Cary Grant he is already riveting, but there is nothing like watching another actor listen. Not enough scripts and films allow for that. The best actors are no dummies and know that it is not the LINES that make the impression, it is what you DON'T say. That's why people like Grant, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, would sit down with a script before shooting and cut out as many lines as they possibly could. If you can say something with behavior and not words, that is best.

Much of "making a scene happen" has nothing to do with what you say, although that is part of it, and knowing your objective and all of that. But the hardest thing to do, one of the hardest things of all, is to listen. Especially if you have to sit and listen to someone else do a long monologue. It may feel like a soliloquy, as though it is the OTHER person's big moment, and that may be partly true - but if you, the actor, are not truly listening, then the monologue will fall flat. I wrote about that a bit in my piece about Dean Stockwell in Long Day's Journey Into Night. Edmund is a tough part. He's underwritten. He's important, of course, but most of the time - except for one or two big moments, he doesn't have much to do. His main job is to be the recipient of everyone else's five or six page monologues. This is one of the toughest jobs on earth. I have seen many a fine actor sunk by trying to play Edmund. The other parts, even with their wrenching journeys, are actually easier - because they are active. They are written that way. Edmund (written to be O'Neill's alter ego, of course) is passive. He doesn't have much to do. It is a great testament to Dean Stockwell's gift that he sensed what he needed in that part, he sensed the very thing that would save him from the pitfalls.

There is a show-stopping scene in the middle of Robert Altman's masterpiece Short Cuts, where Jack Lemmon, a ruin of a man who has not seen his son (played by Bruce Davison) in 30 years, shows up at the hospital, where Bruce Davison and his wife (played by Andie McDowall) stand vigil over their son who is in a coma. There has been no mention of a missing father up until this point. We really only get to know all of these characters in fragments, slices of life. We know that Davison is a successful news editor and television personality. We know he is married to a kind of nervous woman who calls him all the time at work (a situation which he treats with a mix of mild exasperation and humor). You get the sense that she is not really well, his wife. She can't make any decisions without her husband. She is a little bit lost. This is all subtle. Nothing is spoken outright. And we know he has a young son named Casey, who has a lot of allergies, and is completely pampered by his smothering mother. That's it.

When his father shows up, randomly, at the hospital, there is no context whatsoever for Bruce Davison to place him in. This man has not been in Davison's life for the majority of it, and he shows up now? When he and his wife are panicked about their son? Now he wants to be involved? Too late. But Davison is too much of a good person, a polite restrained man, to let his ruined father have it. He does have a terrific moment of panic, when his wife first informs him that his "father is here". He freaks, kind of crumpling over - not in anguish, but panic - the wires fizzling out, this is too much for him to handle. "What is he doing here??'

Again, we have no back story about the father. We are learning it in the moment.

Jack Lemmon and Bruce Davison go and sit in the hospital cafeteria, and here Lemmon has the long monologue where he describes what happened during one "unlucky day" during Davison's childhood, when Lemmon effed up, and his wife told him to leave. It's a sordid tale, and it's so wrong that it is told at this particular point in time. The time to come clean would have been 20 years ago, when your son was old enough to handle the story - not at this moment when Davison is hovering over his dying son, worried to pieces. The way Lemmon tells the tale makes it even worse. He "acts" it. With a relish. It's ghoulish, it's inappropriate. Lemmon (like he was so able to do in his later roles) plays a man rigidly and willfully unself-aware, behaving from a place of panic, self-preservation and a highly decayed sense of the charm he once had. The time to divulge this story is long past due, and nothing will change the damage he did so many years ago. That's true, yes, but added on top of that is the pressure-cooker situation that Davison is in, panicked about his son, trying to keep it together, trying to help his nervous incapable wife manage, trying to get the doctors to come clean ... trying to keep hoping ... and to have to sit there, and listen to a monologue from his long-absent father about what his father did on the crucial day of his own childhood when he was in the hospital, and to hear the actual events - and to have them not told with open contrition, or even acknowledging that "this is a bad bad time, but I have GOT to get this off my chest" ... it's almost more than anyone should have to bear. It's an intense scene. I remember watching it the first time and feeling the need to look away from Jack Lemmon as he went on and on and on. It was excruciating.

Jack Lemmon got most of the press, in regards to that scene, which really does stand out in the entire collage of the picture. In a tragic way, he really is the ONLY character who truly comes to terms with how much he has wasted his life. Everyone else still thinks that there is something to fight for, they still defend their positions, they think there is something more, and if they fight hard enough they will get over there. Lemmon's character is past that. His fight here is, yes, cruel (you should not bother the son you abandoned 30 years ago with your confession at this moment in time) and selfish, but it is actually a fight for redemption,however misguided, unlike everyone else in the room (with the exception of Lyle Lovett's baker, who does, by the end, attempt to do the right thing. Not to make himself feel better, but he actually remembers that there is such a thing as a moral code, and he must live by it if he is to have any chance at all). Everyone else in the film - the washed-up jazz singer ignoring her daughter's suicidal tendencies, the cackling disappointed-before-their-time awful sisters (played by Julianne Moore and Madeleine Stowe), the three guys fishing who decide to keep fishing even after they find a dead body in the water - everyone - is basically missing the entire point of why we are here on this planet. (These are based on Raymond Carver stories, after all. This is his stock-in-trade). These people are on autopilot and they only realize how precious it all is, everything they have been risking, when it is too late. Well, Jack Lemmon's character is on the other side of all of that. He has already paid that price. And here he is, awfully, a spectre from the past at the worst possible time, looking for absolution.

It is that terrible mixture of horror and pity that Jack Lemmon's monologue brings up.

I have heard it criticized. That it was "over-the-top". I'm not sure, sometimes, what people mean when they say something like "over-the-top" and I often wonder if it just means that it brought up something in them, the audience, that they found unbearably uncomfortable. It was "too much". I would not call his behavior here "over-the-top" although it is theatrical, as it is meant to be. This guy is so out of it, so clueless as to what is appropriate, that he thinks it will somehow HELP his grieving devastated adult son to act out the sordid tale from his past. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, they will be able to commiserate as men, over what it is like to see a woman's body naked for the first time. He is so without ANY clue whatsoever that it is excruciating to watch, but some people in life are like that. They are excruciatingly unaware, and if you have any sensitivity whatsoever it becomes painful to be with people like that. Because all you can see is their own blindness. It becomes a torment.

So.

We have Jack Lemmon's side of things. In many ways, it stands out because it is a tour de force, and this is not a movie of blatant tour de forces. It tips the balance of the film, as I believe it is meant to. For a moment, everything stops. There is actual talking and actual listening going on, and the irony is it is so terrible that you wish it would stop immediately.

There's a reason everyone talks about that scene. Only Lemmon would have played it that way. Imagine Gene Hackman in that part or Jack Nicholson or Robert Duvall, and they all would have been stunning as well - but they wouldn't have played it that way. That was all Jack Lemmon. The toe-curling embarrassment of watching an old broken man relive a moment of sexual passion from 30 years before. A moment that made a wreck of his entire life. He acts it out, he relives it, he lets himself go google-eyed with lust again, he defends his position, he pleads, he loses himself in the moment all over again ... Classic Lemmon.

There is no other scene like it in the film.

But I want to talk about Bruce Davison and HIS role in this show-stopper of a scene, because I haven't seen much said about it, and it is, again, as I have written so often about other actors, the SUPPORT player who really MAKES such a scene possible. It is hard to describe this dynamic to those who don't understand, and it is also rather disingenuous to just say, "Take my word for it." That's not good enough. All I can say is: nobody acts in a vacuum, even if the entire scene the actor plays is done mostly in closeup. It is how one is listened to that makes the difference, that can turn a moment of superb acting into something that is actually transcendent. Roger Ebert said, in regards to Ingrid Bergman's acting in Casablanca, that she "paints" Humphrey Bogart with her eyes, running her eyes up and down and sideways, all over his face, in a way that makes us believe he is the sexiest man on earth, the most deserving of love, the best man she has ever known, the only man she will ever really love. Bogart cannot create that on his own. Yes, he shows up as Bogart, and for us, with our memories of him and our expectations of him, we believe that she would love him, because, duh, he's Humphrey Bogart. But look at what she is doing in her moments with him, and she helped create him. He was not a true leading man before that. He skated near that territory in The Maltese Falcon, but suddenly, with Casablanca (and, by suddenly, I mean after over a decade of playing second-banana gangsters) he arrived. He was a leading man. He would never be anything else. She is a huge part of why that happened. She "paints" him with her eyes, using them as brushes, cutting wide swathes up and down over his features, and so ... we see him as she sees him. Essential. And it is often an ignored part of acting and what I would call star-power. Stars do not act in a vacuum. I mentioned James D'Arcy's small thrilling moment in the beginning of Master and Commander. Russell Crowe was doing a marvelous job on his side of the fence, but without the rest of the cast giving him, Aubrey, that power, and that reverence, the film wouldn't have worked. In that one moment of James D'Arcy's, his response to "Put us in that fog, Tom", half of Russell Crowe's job was done for him.

And THAT is what I am talking about.

Bruce Davison is not "just" listening to Jack Lemmon. Go back and watch that scene again. He has only a couple of lines of interruption: "It was a long time ago", "You can't smoke in here, Pop", "I don't remember much from that day ..." and they aren't substantive. He doesn't argue. He never says what he is feeling: "You come to me with this TODAY? You decide to reappear after 30 years TODAY?" His lines are casual. Surface-y. But, watching the scene closer, he has almost as much screen time as Jack Lemmon does. Altman did not just decide to place the camera on Jack Lemmon and let him just go, with the understanding that Davison was on the other side, listening. No, Altman - with his uncanny sense for things - knew that that would not work. It would have been gratuitous, a "star turn". It wouldn't have been right. The scene would have fallen flat. We need the reaction shots. We need to see Davison's reactions, we need to see his responses. We may ache for him to shut up Jack Lemmon, we may ache for him to reach across the table and throttle his father if only to shut his mouth - but we will be unsatisfied. Life is like that sometimes. We don't get what we need.

But here, in this moment with his father, Davison doesn't need anything from him. He has buried his past a long time ago. If he feels anything towards his dad, it is annoyance and embarrassment. He doesn't yearn to pay him back, or tell him what he thought of him. Because of his own circumstances (his young son in a coma), he just doesn't care. This most crucial moment of Jack Lemmon's character's life - the moment of long-deferred absolution - is, ultimately, meaningless. It's too late.

Davison does not, however, play apathy. He starts off the scene with a sort of tight-lipped endurance. The situation is unbearable ANYway, with his son, and he doesn't have the emotional energy to say to his father, "Look, you're not welcome here. Go away." So they sit at a cafeteria table. Lemmon is jabbering a mile a minute. He keeps forgetting Davison's son's name. Davison, with a subtle closing of his eyes, showing his exhaustion, corrects his father, "Casey. My son's name is Casey." He can't go off on his dad, he can't rip into him ... he at least knows that this is not the time and the place. Davison has a bowl of cereal in front of him, and as the scene commences, he starts to cut up a banana into the bowl, occasionally (but only occasionally) looking up at his father, who keeps yammering on. Notice how often Davison DOESN'T look at Lemmon. How he waits until the last second before actually laying eyes on him. He tries to cut up the banana, he tries to focus on the task at hand, but - as though it's a horrible magnet across the table - his eyes start to drag up to look. Davison is meticulous in his listening. It never looks studied or practiced, don't get me wrong, but he is meticulous in understanding the exact and precise vibe that Altman needs in this scene (harking back to Mitchell's comment that opens this post), and so he brings it to life, with no fanfare, expecting (most probably) that his work would be mostly ignored. Or, kinder term, taken for granted. Because it's Jack Lemmon's scene, right? Because he has all the lines, right?

But like the great actors I mentioned earlier in the post, Davison knows, in his DNA, that it is not what you say that necessarily is important. It is how you respond, react, listen.

Yes, Jack Lemmon's monologue is a tour de force.

Would not be possible without Davison's equal tour de force of listening.

Davison's veneer slowly begins to crack, as he starts to realize where his father's story is going. It's almost unbelievable to him. You can feel his growing incomprehension as the story unfolds. But it's a multi-leveled incomprehension and that is why it is so good - masterful, I would say. A lesser actor would have just played the incomprehension of how his father could have betrayed the family way back then. He would have decided to play, "I cannot believe that on a day when I was in the hospital as a kid, you decided to screw around with my aunt - your wife's sister - I can't believe you would do that!" But no, Davison is too damn good for such an on-the-nose uninteresting approach. Yes, there is that, but that is the least of his incomprehension. What is even more incomprehensible to this sensitive man is that his father would be choosing to bombard him with this sordid sorry-ass story NOW. This is much tougher to play, much more difficult to nail, and Davison does so in spades. HE is 50% of the reason why that scene is so excruciating to watch, and it was just my bad the first time around for thinking it was all Jack Lemmon. No. Without Davison's growing horror and bafflement, he is truly speechless as the scene goes on, Jack Lemmon's monologue would not have the impact that it does.

Altman knew that which is why Davison gets so much screen time, his reaction shots taking up most of the scene. John Ford knew that John Wayne was one of the best "reactors" in the business, and so when he used Wayne, yes, he involved him in all of the things Wayne is typically known for: action, blunt morality, gruff humor, horse-riding, fighting the bad guys, etc. But I believe that without Ford's understanding that it was Wayne's reactions to things that elevated him into greatness - John Wayne would not be the icon that he is. One of the greatest moments ever played by an American actor in the history of American film is the famous close-up in The Searchers, when Wayne looks at the weeping women in the police station. (As Wayne said to Peter Bogdanovich once, with a typical mixture of humilty and pride, "That was a helluva shot.") Not a word is said. No lines are given to explain that character's response to what he is looking at. And it is not made clear, in the end, which is the best thing about it. I have had deep conversations with friends about what exactly John Wayne was thinking and feeling in that moment. Interpretations differ. That is the power of acting without words. Language makes things literal, but the cinema is not a literal medium. Davison's silent reaction shots to Lemmon's monologue are as powerful, as wrenching, as the disgusting tale we get with Lemmon's language.

Davison's sensation of feeling trapped begins to escalate. Early on, he stops cutting up the banana. He's lost his appetite.

The camera, with each reaction shot, moves in closer. We start with a series of two-shots. Lemmon in the foreground, Davison looking at him, and the reverse. Then, slowly, Altman starts to move in, on both sides. It is a highly symmetrical scene, in how it is filmed. It's not all closeups on Lemmon, with medium shots on Davison, which would be a clue as to how Altman wants us to think about it. No, it's equal. The camera moves closer to Lemmon, so then it must move closer to Davison. By the end, we are in deep alternating closeups with the two actors, and the sense of claustrophobia has become undeniable. Both for Lemmon, who just wants to be forgiven, dammit, he just wants his son to see how it was for him, and to let him off the hook please! And also for Davison, who already feels like he should be back by his son's side, who is already in a state of bewildered annoyance and confusion at his father's mere presence at this late date ... not to mention the fact that his father has chosen NOW to come clean about cheating on his mother while he lay in a hospital bed. Neither character can escape: Altman's camera makes sure of that.

Davison works this meticulously.

He doesn't give too much away too soon. He plays the scene like a violin. He knows exactly what to do. I do not know his process, it's not for me to know. I don't know if he's like Holly Hunter - who says that she has created emotional graphs for scenes she plays - charting it out beforehand, the peaks and valleys. Or if he decides nothing. Just sits down across from another actor and, like James Cagney said, "tells the truth". I don't know. All I know is is that it appears completely natural, a natural progression from tightly-coiled politeness to a jittery bottled-up agony of repression. He saves it, saves it for the closeup. When it comes, you want to hide your eyes. Up until then, in the medium shots, we get a series of fantastic reaction shots from Davison, never hitting a false note, never histrionic, never ever revealing that what he is ACTUALLY doing is playing a scene with another actor. You never catch Davison acting. He's seamless. It is all he can do to keep it together here. He starts to lose control of his impulses. He takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes. He looks off around the room at one point, quickly, almost as though he is looking for someone to save him. All interspersed with terrible slow moments when, the magnet drags him forward, and he cannot help but drag his eyes up, slowly, avoiding it, avoiding it ... to look directly at his father.

This is a master at work.

I first became aware of Bruce Davison when I saw Long-Time Companion with Mitchell, and honestly, I've never quite recovered fully from that film, and I'm glad I haven't. He is the keystone to that film, the calm quiet center. You just wish you could have a friend like him. You wish that you would be so lucky to have him as a mate, to take care of you when you are old and sick. He is so good, and there's a scene near the end (anyone who has seen the film will know what I am talking about, and Mitchell, I know that you are crying right now just thinking about it) where he changes the diaper of the man who has been his long-time companion, a man who has been his partner in life for decades, now ravaged by AIDS. Davison has already won our good-will by this point in the film, his work is done. He doesn't need to do anything in that scene except do exactly what that character would do, and the audience will need to be mopped up off the floor. He plays it with no fanfare, he does not want to be congratulated, he is not self-conscious in any way. Because when you find yourself in that situation, you do what needs to be done. Even a year before, you would have found it unimaginable that you could have ever have borne it, that it would be too awful. But human beings are amazing creatures when they love. We are capable of great miracles. That's what that scene is about. Love made manifest in a context of death and tragedy. His behavior here, quiet and still and gentle and completely unselfimportant, burns with transcendent fire.

How does he do it.

Jack Lemmon, a great actor himself, was lucky - lucky - that Bruce Davison was the actor sitting across the table from him in the scene in Short Cuts. He couldn't have created that alone. He needed an equal partner in order to "make the scene happen".

Go back and watch it again. In my mind, acting doesn't get any better than what Bruce Davison does in that scene.

Yet another excerpt from my novel, written at age 12, about Blowsy the teenage chorus girl

CHAPTER 3 Going to "Sleep"

"Hi, guys!" Blowsy greeted her preparing for bed roommates.

"Where have you been?" Irene asked, vivaciously rubbing cold cream into her cheeks.

"With Jeremy. Of course." Mitzie supplied, with a disgusted roll of her eyes.

Cherrie, hidden under her heavy off-white nightgown, said in a muffled voice, "Mitzie, shut up."

"Yeah!" Sally added as she brushed out her shimmering platinum bob. "You're just jealous because you don't have such a wonderful guy as Jeremy."

"Or as gorgeous!" Fifi supplied from her upside down position against the wall. She always stood on her head for five minutes before going to bed. She said it was relaxing.

"Or as gentle." Anita said, turning down the itchy covers of the saggy, creaky double bed.

"Or as ..." Irene started but Mitzie cut her off with a loud, "Why don't you guys shut up?" She put on a haughty expression and sat up straight. "I'll have you know that Craig asked me out tonight. So there!"

Everyone stared at Mitzie, who smiled back at them, her face smug and self-satisfied. The room was silent as all the girls stared round-eyed at each other.

"Craig?" Eileen asked in a hushed whisper.

Grinning from ear to ear, Mitzie nodded.

Then, as one, all of the roommates except Mitzie burst into hysterical laughing. They roared and clutched at each other and giggled even more at Mitzie's baffled expression.

"Craig?" Anita gasped, tears running down her cheeks.

"That puny freckled thing?" Sally added, her flawless shining hair becoming all tousled as she threw herself on a double bed and laughed long and loud.

"I'm sorry, Mitzie," Irene began, holding her stomach, her face looking ghostly and eerie with the cold cream. "But how can you even compare him to Jeremy?"

"Yeah, how?" Cherrie demanded, patting the rags on her head.

There was a silence as everyone stared expectantly at Mitzie, waiting for an answer. But Mitzie sat very small and meek on her hard cot, trying to think of a hot retort to get her out of this mess. She then got up and stalked out of the room.

"Was that too mean? I couldn't help it." Fifi broke the silence as she flipped down off the wall, her face beet-red.

"I couldn't help it, either. I mean ... Craig!" Irene murmured with a look of awe on her face. Blowsy giggled.

"Thanks for sticking up for me ... and Jeremy." She gave all the girls a sly look. "Gee, I had no idea you were all so ... fond of him."

Sally threw a pillow at her.

"Oh, come on, Blows," Irene said as she capped her makeup jars. "You know we didn't mean it that way. Jer's just a friend to us."

"But he is a great boy. You're lucky, Blowsy," Sally remarked, bouncing with squeaks and creaks on the bed. As the other girls made ready the beds, Blowsy got into her nightgown, scrubbed her face clean of all makeup, rubbed on cold cream, combed her bouncy curls and brushed her teeth. After she finished putting all of her things away in her drawer of the bureau, Mitzie flounced into the room. Her face was calm and cool, but she was obviously furious, judging from the way she walked, held her head and clenched her fists at her sides. She put on a lofty manner as she took out her earrings.

"Just had to go say goodnight to Craig," she said pointedly.

Sally snorted.

Blowsy climbed into the low, sagging bed beside Cherrie. Sally was next to Cherrie, brushing out her flaxen hair again. Blowsy envied Sally's hair so much. It was just so beautiful. Anita, Fifi and Irene were squeezing into the other bed, with giggles and groans as the bed slipped and squeaked. Only Mitzie remained standing in front of the cracked mirror which always made you look slightly green, primping with her face.

Irene rolled over with many terrible piercing noises from the protesting bed. "Uh ..." she grunted, "Hurry up, Mitzie. It's late."

"Yeah," Sally added. "And I've got voice first thing tomorrow."

"Me too," Blowsy said.

"I'm sorry," Mitzie retorted, angrily whirling around, hands on hips. "It's just that a woman has to do a lot to be presentable to their man in the morning. I'm having breakfast with Craig."

Simultaneously, all six girls in bed turned over to bury their faces in their pillows to muffle their laughter. Mitzie slowly got into her cot with moans of protest about how uncomfortable her bed was. When she finally was settled, Blowsy reached up, pulled the dangling string from the bare lightbulb and the room was in darkness. This was usually the funnest time when a remark about how cramped their quarters were would send everyone into hysteria.

"Sally, get your elbow out of my eye," Cherrie groaned in a slow low voice. Sally giggled.

Someone shrieked through the darkness of the room. "Irene! Your cold cream is all over my nightgown collar!"

Blowsy roared with Cherrie.

"Fifi. Are you wearing your shoes in bed?"

More peals of giggles.

"This bed is going to collapse any minute."

"Blowsy, your feet are freezing. Get them away."

"Stop shoving over there. Half of me is off the bed and half is --" THUMP. "OUCH!" It was Irene yelling. "Fifi, you did that on purpose."

"So? You're hogging all of the covers."

"Me!" Squeak (Irene climbing into bed.) "I don't have any covers. You and Anita are the --"

"Ow! Cherrie, your curlers are sharp."

Blowsy giggled.

"Come on," Mitzie grumbled. "I want to go to sleep."

"So you can be fresh-and-beeeeautiful for Craig-y?" Someone cooed in a high-pitched voice, followed b a giggle.

Mitzie groaned in exasperation. "You guys are just a bunch of Dumb Doras," she said hotly.

"My. How hard-boiled you are tonight," Sally cried.

"You'll have to be ... sunnyside up for lil' ol' Craig-o!" Blowsy said cleverly. Everyone giggled.

"Oh, Blowsy, that was good!" Fifi cried across the room.

"Oh, Blowsy, that was good!" Mitzie mimicked in a squeaky voie. The girls went on like this, bickering in a fun way (except for Mitzie) and, gradually, things became silent in the tiny, dingy, crowded room and the only sounds were the heavy breathing of girls who had already gone to sleep.

Someone started to snore ... loudly. Everyone groaned. Blowsy had it the worst because it was Cherrie, right beside her, wheezing and snorting. And it went on for a long time. She snored so loud and violently that she actually shook the bed.

"Avalanche!" Sally shrieked as the bed wiggled and wobbled. Blowsy and Sally giggled together. As Cherrie's snoring continued and grew in volume, Irene let out a long groan and buried her head under her pillows. Finally, Cherrie was so loud that Blowsy was sure that the next room could hear it and it was unbearable being beside her. Then, to make matters worse, Cherrie began to snort and grunt along with heavy breathing. Everybody, including Mitzie, started to giggle. At first softly, trying to keep it quiet, but then it crescendoed, until finally all of them were shouting with laughter and above it all was Cherrie's relentless snoring.

"I have to wake her up," Blowsy gasped, quite a wreck from all the hard laughing she had done that day.

"Please do," Irene moaned.

Blowsy shook Cherrie who awoke with a loud violent snort. At the sound, Blowsy fell back down, holding her aching stomach, and laughing until she felt her sides would actually split. For the second time that night, someone stared at her while she laughed, wondering what was going on. Blowsy just lay there gasping for breath.

"Blowsy," Anita called from the other bed. "You sound like an overworked poodle."

This only made Blowsy laugh all the more harder. Cherrie was very disgruntled at having been pushed awake and then have Blowsy give no explanation but just lie there and laugh.

"Blowsyyyyyy," Cherrie whined. "Why did you wake me up?"

"Because," Blowsy gasped in a high giggly voice. "Your snoring was shaking the building."

Everyone giggled but Cherrie was annoyed.

"Well ... I couldn't help it!"

"The whole bed was shaking!" Sally put in, softly because she was laughing so hard.

"People could have heard you in Japan," Irene added.

"If not, they certainly would have felt your vibrations," Blowsy giggled.

Cherrie clicked her tongue in an irritated "tsk". "Well, I'm sorry. I'll try not to disturb you again." She violently lay back down causing the whole bed to bounce and screench. Blowsy, feeling her friend's annoyance and humiliation, whispered softly, "C'mon, Cherrie. You know we're only kidding around. I didn't mean those things."

Cherrie reluctantly whispered back, "O.K. I'm sorry I acted so haughty." There was a long comfortable silence, the kind of silence that is shared only by the very best of friends who have made up to each other, and then Cherrie, curious, inquired, "Did I really snore loud?"

Blowsy giggled, relieved to get back on normal terms, and replied, "You sure were goin' strong for a while there." The two friends smiled in the dark, and although they couldn't see each other, they could feel one another's smiles. There was that kind of special bond between them, another thing that intimate friends share.

After that, Blowsy found her eyelids growing heavy and her mind blurry. The last thing she remembered was a pleasant thought of she and Jeremy tripping down the busy New York sidewalk, talking and laughing and pointing, and feeling each other's love ... the next thing she knew, bright sunlight was flooding through the dingy window to fall on her sleeping face and waking her up to a brand new day.

Another Blowsy illustration

Because my humiliation isn't quite complete.

Here is Blowsy, on Jeremy's shoulder - this is from when they are in the rehearsal room going over their Charleston number. I like the girl huddled over the victrola.

Also, check out the chick over to the left doing warmups. I'm sorry, but that is hilarious.

Blowsy and Jeremy sittin' in a tree: The illustration

Jean - as you requested - here is one of the MANY illustrations I added to my novel.

A couple things to note:

1. I added Blowsy's earrings with a different color pen. I obviously had gone back to edit it, at a different time. I felt her outfit was incomplete.

2. I love her skirt.

3. Her eyelashes crack me up.

4. Please note Jeremy's non-1920s feathered hairdo - completely reminiscent of Ralph Macchio and that other douchebag. LOOK AT HIS HAIR.

5. She looks happy, he looks glum. Her eyes are closed, he stares right at the "camera" like a deer in the headlights. Prophetic? You be the judge.

Cousin Kerry = Dead Mum

My cousin Kerry O'Malley last night joined the Broadway cast of Billy Elliot, playing Billy's Dead Mum, a heartwrenching part. She'll be playing the role through September 6.

Congratulations to Kerry!

One of the stranger coincidences right now is that my friend Caitlin is cousins with Trent Kowalik, who plays one of the Billys. We have been laughing about how our cousins (random) are in the same damn Broadway show right now. What are the odds.

Cheers to my gorgeous Dead Mum cousin - can't wait to see the show!

The poster that begs for secrecy

I love how the poster for the film The Boy with Green Hair (seen here) begs the audience to not tell why the boy's hair turned green in order to save the surprise for other audiences.

Young Dean Stockwell is terrific in that film. Too bad the existing print is so muddy and awful, with TERRIBLE sound quality. If you rent it, just know it looks like crap and sounds awful.

It was a favorite of mine growing up, even though I had no idea how unbelievably important Dean Stockwell would one day be to me. To me, as a kid, watching Boy with Green Hair he was just a serious-faced bald kid in a police station, really upset about something, and my heart went out to him. He's good beyond his years.

In the piece I wrote about Dean Stockwell for House Next Door, Bruce Reid (a fantastic commenter over there, I always look forward to what he has to say - so articulate!) listed in the comments-section his own "favorite 5" of Stockwell's performances. He included Boy with Green Hair, saying:

OK, not obscure exactly, but I suspect its title leads a lot of people to snicker and pass it by on the video shelf. It’s a fine film, and Stockwell captures the anguish of its hero with a complexity and thoroughness beyond most adults. He’s so good here (and in many of his childhood roles) that you find it impossible to believe he could have continued acting as an adult, as if he was channeling some instinct that adolescence would surely crush out of him.

Yes, yes, yes.

Listening.

It's all about listening.

The adventures of Blowsy, the teenage chorus girl, continued.

Chapter 1 is unforgivably long.

Let's move on.

The show is over, and Jeremy and Blowsy walk home together.

This appears to be a novel with ZERO conflict, except for the fact that poor Dolly has a "terrible inferiority complex", but I don't seem interested in developing that out into a storyline. Everything is great, everything is successful, there are no clouds on the horizon. Happy days are here again.

I think I just wanted to imagine myself into the world of 1920s vaudeville.

However, I can't help but notice in the excerpt below that Jeremy chooses a RAINBOW ice. So perhaps that is a subliminal message of a conflict to come??

I also like my blunt truncated history lesson involving the social, cultural, and financial changes that happened in America in the 1920s. Hahahaha. I wasn't messing around.

Chapter 2 The Walk Home

Jeremy grabbed her hand. "Hey, look! An ice cream stand!" He pointed at the brightly colored stand with a swirled umbrella and tinkly music.

"Do you have any money?" Blowsy asked.

Jeremy nodded. "Sure. 10¢."

Blowsy's eyes widened. "10¢? Where did you get it? Payday isn't for another week!"

"My mother gave it to me. She knew I was walking you home," Jeremy said.

Blowsy smiled. "Sure! Let's have some!" Together, they approached the truck and waited in the short line of two people. In the meantime, Blowsy was inspecting the pictures of the selections of ice creams. She decided on a cherry Italian ice because it was only 3¢ and it looked so good. When it was their turn, the Italian man in a white apron and cap, gave them a big hearty smile. "What'll it be?"

Jeremy looked expectantly down at Blowsy. Blowsy said, "I'll have a cherry Italian ice, please."

"One cherry Italian ice," the man murmured as he wrote this down on his pad.

"And I'll have a rainbow ice," Jeremy added.

As the man disappeared below the counter Blowsy and Jeremy smiled at each other. Blowsy tapped her foot on the sidewalk. When the man came up, holding a white paper bag, he was staring quizzically at them.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he asked. "No! Wait! Don't tell me!" He leaned forward and peered closely at them, making them feel rather uncomfortable. Jeremy reached for the ice cream bag but then the ice cream man slapped his hand on his forehead and exclaimed, "I got it! You're in that Passing Show of 1920 thing! I saw your faces up in lights! Wow! What's it like to be real actors and actresses?"

Jeremy and Blowsy grinned at each other and shrugged. "It's a lot of hard work," Jeremy said.

The ice cream man scornfully brushed that away. "Nah. You make it look easy."

"But it is a lot of work, sir. In fact, the glamour's only on top. Most of it is boring rehearsals," Blowsy insisted.

The ice cream man shrugged and handed over their ices. "Have it your own way. I sure wouldn't mind bein' in the business. It looks a lot of fun to me."

Blowsy and Jeremy smiled at him and turned to leave but, again, the ice cream man stopped them.

"Say - uh - could I have your autographs?"

Jeremy grinned at Blowsy, feeling awkward. "Well - uh - "

The ice cream man whipped out a pen and pad of paper and handed it to them. Jeremy shrugged, chuckled and scrawled his name across the paper. Then Blowsy took the pen and signed.

[Note from Sheila: I then recreated what both of their autographs looked like. I created completely individual handwritings for both of them.]

The ice cream man took the pad and looked it over. "Blowsy and Jeremy!" he stated and smiled at them. "You two a couple?"

Blowsy blushed. Jeremy stammered out, "Uh - well. Yes, sir. See ya. Thanks for the ice cream." He grabbed Blowsy's hand and literally dragged her away.

When they were out of sight of the ice cream stand, Jeremy breathed, "Phew. He was gonna give us the third degree."

Blowsy smiled. "Yeah. He was gettin' pretty personal there." She then changed the subject and reached for the crumpled white bag in Jeremy's tan hand with stubby fingernails. "Come on. Let me have my Italian ice."

Jeremy stood under a bright blue and red canopy to escape the hurrying crowd, opened the bag, handed Blowsy her small ice cream cup and took out his colorful rainbow ice and threw the bag away in a green trash can. As they continued home, Blowsy curled off the cover to reveal a creamy, thick red ice cream with a wooden spoon sunk in it. She scooped out a generous spoonful and began to lick it all off.

"Mmm. This is really good, Jer. Thanks for buying it for me," Blowsy said, her mouth full of the delectable ice.

Jeremy sucked his multicolor cone. "Well, you knew I wouldn't mind. I'd buy you anything. Well, that I can afford."

Blowsy giggled, scooped the last of her ice out of the cup, put it in her mouth and threw the cup in a trash can. Then, she occupied her time by staring around her at the magnificent city. No matter how long she lived there, it still put shivers up and down her spine and an adventurous sparkle in her eye. And from 1918 to 1920 the city had changed dramatically. In 1918 the factories were always running and hardly anyone had time to go out. Before that, women had always been told, "You must be quiet. Women don't know about these things." Now, women were waking up, making their mark. No more long dresses of somber colors, no more concealing white blouses, no more having to be quiet and always stay home ... Blowsy was so glad that she could grow up and do the things she wanted to do, like seeing Jeremy continuously and not have anyone look down on her.

The rest of the walk home was uneventful, just spent quietly eating ice cream, talking about the show and looking around them at the city. Every now and then Blowsy would cry out about a dress in a window or Jeremy would whistle softly as a sleek car drove by.

After Jeremy threw away his paper cone, he took Blowsy's hand and pulled her close to him. "I am so crazy about you sometimes I can't stand to look at you," he said softly.

Blowsy flushed in pleasure and glanced at her feet. "Jeremy - I - " she stammered and then let out her pent-up breath. "Thank you. I think you're pretty terrific too." She then looked up at him with melodramatic huge eyes, outlined by thick mascara. Obviously overacting on purpose, she said in a hushed tone, "And you know what? I am strangely suspicious that I am in love with you. I can't think why." She dashed, giggling, out of his reach as he moved to grab her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried.

They were now on their street, which was in great contrast to the lights of Broadway. It was lit by one lamppost and the cobblestone street was dank and murky. The buildings lining the street were plain and dirty and big families were crowded into one room. But the kids in the vaudeville show didn't mind it. Rotten shelter was a part of vaudeville and it was rather a joke among the kids. Despite its shabbiness, Blowsy liked the boarding house. The inside lobby was covered with colorful posters of their show and there was a big picture of her and Jeremy dancing. Also, the room that she and six other girls shared was crowded but cozy. Mitzie always managed to say something mean each night, but other than that, they had a good time, chattering and giggling. There were only two double beds and they had squeezed in a small iron cot. The seven girls laughed so hard the first few nights that they had slept there. Three girls had to squeeze into one double bed and the small bed sagged with their weight. Mitzie insisted on the cot but now I'm not sure she was glad about her decision because every morning she woke up stiff and sore, complaining of not enough sleep. Blowsy thought it was fun to be crowded.

There was a long dingy hall devoted to the children performers. There were four rooms for the 25 young girls and three rooms for the 18 boys. Half the night, the girls would be dashing from room to room and sharing a joke with the girls in that particular room. Girls and boys were not allowed in each other's rooms after 8:00, so they socialized and mixed with each other in the hall. In fact, Blowsy could say that she was very happy there. It was as if they were one big happy family. And Blowsy liked that.

Blowsy and Jeremy trotted up the scratchy cement steps, heaved open the heavy wooden door and entered the lobby. As always, they blew big kisses to their colorful picture on the wall.

"Oh!" Blowsy sighed, stretching her arms high up in the air. "Tonight has been a really good night!"

"Yeah!" Jeremy agreed and then took her by surprise by picking her up and whirling her around crying, "A rose! A rose!" When he finally set the laughing dizzy Blowsy down, everything in Blowsy's eyes was swaying and tipping and she felt sick to her stomach. She clutched Jerremy so she wouldn't topple over.

Just then, the front door opened and in burst Cherrie and her two sisters Rockie and Robbi. The three girls were extremely close. Rockie was 18 and considered an adult in the theatre so she wasn't in any of Cherrie's numbers. Robbi was 15, a year older than Cherrie, and was a beautiful beautiful girl with a lovely but strong voice. The three girls were known as "The Garner Sisters" and they sang in three-party harmony that was truly beautiful.

The Garner sisters' giggles stopped abruptly when they saw Blowsy in Jeremy's arms. Cherrie stuttered, "Um - excuse me - Uh - didn't mean to interrupt." She gestured behind her back and she and Robbi and Rockie scuttled up the stairs, their footsteps echoing strangely.

"How embarrassing," Blowsy murmured.

"Yeah, well, we'd better get upstairs. It's pretty late." Jeremy said.

When they arrived on the second floor, the hall was empty but there were muffled sounds of laughing and talking behind the doors. Blowsy and Jeremy turned to each other.

"Well, good night!" Blowsy said cheerfully.

"Yeah." Jeremy slowly and gently put his arms around her. Blowsy fit her head down on his shoulder feeling, as always, extremely comfortable. Then Jeremy put his hand under her chin and raised her head to face his. He then slowly lowered his head and gently placed his lips over hers. Blowsy's arms went around his neck. Oh, how soft and warm Jeremy's lips were. Jeremy had kissed her many times before, but Blowsy always felt those electric tingles up and down her spine. When they parted, Jeremy held her close in a warm embrace. He kissed her on the cheek and said, "You better go in now."

"Yeah," Blowsy replied. "See ya later!" They both turned and headed for their rooms, flipped each other a little wave, and went in.

Who's that man.

He seems awfully familiar.

"Lock the doors. Judith's lost her equilibrium."

I love to hear Rita Hayworth get her well-deserved props as a capable and wonderful actress.

She was a newbie (pretty much) when she appeared as Judith, the wife of the hated flier MacPherson, in Only Angels Have Wings, but she's terrific in the part. The part is deceptively simple, but once you analyze it in terms of the script and how it is written, you can see that there are pitfalls everywhere, none of which Hayworth falls into. You totally believe that she would be "the one" who came closest to winning Geoff's heart (played by Cary Grant at his cranky best) - not because she's gorgeous and bodacious - or not only because of that - but because she treats him with an egalitarian calmness that I imagine he would find relaxing and suitable for his particular temperament. No girlie histrionics for him.

And then, in the scene when she does lose it - and she's staggering around behind the bar looking for the corkscrew - and he finally lets her have it, about how selfish she is being with her husband - finally dunking her head in the water to sober her up
- she finally realizes: Yes, he's right - I AM only thinking of myself ...

She plays a good woman in that film, a woman who would be a good mate, a perfect wife and partner, and she is also capable of critical thinking - even when it involves her own faults - and in that scene she is able to take a step back and realize: "Wait a second. The problem here is ME." How often do movie goddesses ever get to have a moment of realization like that?

Imagine how that role could have been played, the cliche it could have been. Hayworth, new to dramatic parts at that time in her career, is more than up for the task.

Apparently, she had a hard time bringing herself to tears in her final scene, so Hawks, ever the practical man, made her come in from the rain for that final confrontation, so her face would be all wet - which basically gives the impression of tears, and lets Hayworth off the hook of having to bring tears to her eyes. Producing tears is obviously something actors may worry about, and she certainly did - but if you have the Impression of tears, then what does it matter if they come organically or not? Hawks got that, and he helped Hayworth to get that too - and it's a very effective scene, and I couldn't care less if she the actress was actually crying or not.

Highly under-rated actress. Yes, beloved as a sex bomb and babe - but under-rated indeed as an actress with some CHOPS.

Clip from Only Angels Have Wings below - when Cary Grant gives her a dousing of water and a harsh talking-to. The scene comes at the 8 minute mark.

I wish I knew how to say "I can't wait" in 12 different languages

Because that's how excited I was watching this trailer.

Thanks, Jeff.

More from my novel about some Ziegfeld girls - written at age 12

Okay, so you want more? Here's some more. I winced reading this, wanting to tell my younger self to wrap it up - PLEASE.

There is a CAMEO here from a famous person - which doesn't quite work, timewise - My novel takes place in 1920, and I obviously hadn't REALLY done my math - but I wanted to incorporate what I knew about vaudeville and also put someone that I loved and admired into my book. (I'm just guessing.) I love that I knew about this person enough to put him in my book - and not only him, but his sister!

Also, Blowsy is annoying me now. She's not very nice. First she blows off Dolly in the first excerpt, and now she acts disdainful towards another person in distress. Learn some manners, Blowsy!

Chapter 1 The Show

Blowsy headed back for the dressing room. The Charleston number was third in the show. As she neared the dressing room, Amy, a short girl with black curls plastered all over her head, stuck half her body out of the room and yelled, "Blowsy! Blowsy! Help me! Please!"

Amy was new to the show, in fact this was her first week and she was rather nervous about it all. Blowsy sauntered up to her.

"Yes, Amy?"

"I can't find my hat! You know, the one I use in the Baseball Act - the red one! Oh, Blowsy! I'll be fired!" The girl was nearly hysterical so Blowsy reached out and placed a hand on Amy's shoulder.

"Calm down, Amy. We'll find your hat. You won't be - " the word "fired" died away on her lips as she saw that said red velvet hat was in Amy's hand, but she had been so nervous and fussy that she hadn't noticed it. Blowsy just gave Amy a disdainful look, brushed past her and entered the stuffy, narrow dressing room. Chaos and confusion was at its peak as she sat in her chair. She observed herself in the mirror and nodded satisfactorily. Because of all the makeup that was required of her, she didn't at all look like the normal Blowsy but she liked the effect it had on her face. She looked more grownup.

Cherrie, Blowsy's best friend in the troupe, removed a pile of dresses, shoes and jackets from the chair next to Blowsy and sat down. Cherrie had dirty blonde hair that was set in rags every morning, so now it was in big, bouncy curls. For the show, her hair was pulled away from her face, and tied, so she had a bunch of curls at her neck. She was an excellent dancer and her specialty was tap. Cherrie had her very own showstopper. She did a marvelous tap dance with a line of boys with top hats and tails in back of her, doing their own steps. In the end, Cherrie fit herself in the midle of them, they all put their arms around each other and, along with drum crashes and cymbal smashes, they slowly walked forward with high kicks, top hats in the air. That always turned the audience on.

Blowsy and Cherrie were known as "the best friends" in the troupe and even total strangers would have noticed it. They always walked together backstage and on the street, they were continually laughing and whispering. They shared a room with Mitzie, Anita, Fifi, and Irene in the cheap boarding house the troupe stayed in while in New York, they studied together and never kept any secrets from each other.

"Hello, Blowsie," she said cheerfully. She looked spectacular in a silver, shiny waistcoat and bow tie, a fleecy white lacy shirt under it, a black leotard, fishnet stockings, and shiny black patent leather tap shoes. But she was in no way conceited. Performing was her life and she took it that way. It was the same with Blowsy. She loved to entertain people and make them happy and that was the chief reason she did it.

"Hi," Blowsy said, and began to arrange all of the makeup bottles in intricate patterns.

Cherrie stretched. "How's Jeremy?"

"Fine." That was one of the things she liked about Cherrie. Most of the other kids in the troupe teased Blowsy and Jeremy. Like Anita, for instance. She was a very nice girl but it got on Blowsy's nerves the way she always was running between them when they were talking, or calling them "Romeo and Juliet". Cherrie never teased. She knew how much Blowsy liked Jeremy.

"Let's go down and wait in the wings." Cherrie suggested, getting to her feet with a "click-click" sound. Blowsy stood too, smiling at her friend. They pushed their way through the loud girls and emerged into the dim, still hallway. The girls' voices were muffled behind the dressing room door. Silently, the girls walked down the curved, inky-black hallway. As they neared the stage, other voices were heard. The first and second acts were all whispering in the wings, even though it wasn't allowed.

Cherrie motioned to two folding chairs in the corner. They both sat down. They watched the first act get ready and warm up. They were two little kids, one ten and one eleven, and they did a sweet little bride and groom number. The kids had been dancing since they were babies, and they both had great promise of becoming successful dancers. They were brother and sister, Fred and Adele Astaire, and they were very close.

The second act was a circus number. A man swung on a trapeze, a woman tightripe-walked, and below this, cotton-ball-like poodles did many tricks, people juggled, twirled batons, rode unicycles, flipped and tumbled and everyone sang a song. Blowsy's beautiful mother, her only parent, was in this act, as a unicyclist, who juggled also. Blowsy thought the poodles were adorable, but offstage they were mean and snippety.

Blowsy and Cherrie were so near to the curtain that they could hear the raucous talking of men and women in the nightclub audience. Nightclubs were always hard to play to. Many times there were drunks in the audience and the place reeked of cigar smoke which made it hard for Blowsy to sing. They always gave them either enthusiastic cheers or loud "Boos". Most of the time it was cheers but every now and then when something wasn't done as well as it could have been, there were a couple of "Boos".

The stage manner, a rugged man by the name of Garry, came over and warned everyone to be quiet because the orchestra was starting up. The trumpet played the first clear note and Blowsy and Cherrie smiled at each other.

Fred Astaire, in his overgrown tuxedo and top hat, and Adele Astaire, in her long, lace dress, tiptoed onstage and took their positions at the foot of the enormous wedding cake that they danced upon.

"They're so cute," Cherrie whispered as the overture ended and cheering began. Blowsy nodded and watched, transfixed, as the worn velvet curtain slowly rose. The audience could not be seen, as the footlights were brightly glaring. That always frustrated Blowsy. She felt trapped, that everyone could see her but she couldn't see them.

From where they were sitting, Blowsy and Cherrie couldn't see Fred and Adele's adorable little dance, but they could tell that the audience liked it from their chuckles and whispers. When the two danced off amid cheers, smiling and glowing, Blowsy stood up and began to warm up. As the circus number dashed on, with drum rolls and excited music, the kids for the Charleston number drifted into the wings. Jerremy came to stand next to Blowsy. Grinning slyly, Cherrie edged away.

"Nervous?" Jeremy asked

"Not really. Just - excited, you know?" Blowsy replied. Jeremy grinned down at her and squeezed her arm. Blowsy leaned against him comfortably as his arm went gently around her shoulder. Just as he did this, someone hoarsely whispered, "Places!" as the circus act bounded off. The curtain fell and the Charleston kids raced on, the girls leaped on their partner's shoulders and all the lights went out. Slowly, the curtain rose and a small circle of light was centered on Blowsy's smiling face.

Ss she sang, she could hear the whole place fall silent. Shivers! As she led the boys and girls through the Charleston, the crowd began to cheer and applaud for the popular dance that was loved so well. When Blowsy had her own dance sequence, applause started like a thunderclap, and when the dance ended, with all the girls on the boys' shoulders, with arms up in the air, Blowsy felt absolutely exhilarated. The curtain dropped amid cheering and screams of "Encore!" So, the curtain rose, and the kids did their little Encore dance, but this time ended in a line at the foot of the stage with arms thrown up. The clapping and cheering continued as, one by one, the crowd stood up. In the air, Jeremy squeezed Blowsy's hand. A bright red rose landed at Blowsy's feet. She leaned over, picked it up, and blew an enormous kiss at the audience as the curtain fell for the last time.

The children ran off, feeling way up in the clouds. As they raced past Garry he said softly, "Nicely done, kids."

The boys and girls zoomed straight to the practice room where they could make all the noise they wanted to and no one could hear. The minute the door was closed, each and every one of them began to scream and leap around, hugging and kissing each other. Blowsy just stood silently, in a trance, holding her rose. She stared at it, and clutched it to her kelly-green flapper dress, closing her eyes to savor the memory of her triumph.

Jeremy approached her and lightly touched her arm. Her eyes flew open. She and Jeremy just stared at each other for a minute and then Blowsy threw her arms around him and squeezed tightly. He hugged her back and kissed her on the cheek. She buried her face in his white coat, so overcome by the cheering, stamping, standing crowd that at the moment she forgot everything she ever knew.

Gently, Jermy lifted her head by her chin and stared down into her eyes glistening with tears.

"Oh ... Jeremy," she breathed, and hugged him again. When they parted, she showed him the rose with shaking fingers.

"It's really beautiful, Blows," he said with admiration. Blowsy was so worked up and excited that Jeremy suggested that she go back to her dressing room and relax until her next act, where she was one of 24 chorus girls in long flowery dresses, with a man and a woman star leading them in a beautiful song and dance. Blowsy agreed. Jeremy led her down the quiet hallways and stopped at her dressing room. "Now you relax, all right? You were fantastic, Blowsy," he said as she opened the door, gave him one last smile and entered the room.

When the few girls remaining in the room saw Blowsy leaning against the door, staring off into space, they ran to her side.

"Blowsy? What's up?" cried Sally, with platinum-colored hair in a perfect bob.

"Blowsy ... have you broken up with Jeremy?" Dolly, a rather slow kid who had a terrible inferiority complex, said with apprehension.

"Of course not!" cried Irene, turning angrily on Dolly. "That will never happen!" Then she looked back at the dazed Blowsy. "What's wrong, Blows?"

Blowsy stared around at the three girls with sparkling blue eyes and smiled. "Nothing's wrong! Hot diggity, everything's pos-a-lootly nifty!" She showed them the rose and told them all about the enthusiastic approval of her number. Then Blowsy rushed around, found a glass cup, filled it with water from the washroom, put the rose in it and placed it in front of her mirror. Then, still feeling a little dizzy, she sat down, closed her eyes, and slowly began a deep breath, a relaxing technique she had learned from her mother long ago. It calmed her down enormously. She began to dress in her next costume. It was a light azure-blue dress, with a satin sash, a band of lace at the hem, a big white corsage on the left dress-strap, elbow-high white gloves, and a big, wide-brimmed blue hat with blue flowers on the rim.

Cherrie burst into the room. She no longer had on her shiny costume, she was also in the next number Blowsy was in. She had on an orange dress that came in tight at the waist, hugged her hips, and then came out fully in overlapping orange ruffles. On her head was a little orange hat and draped over her arm was a leopard-fur mink. Behind her was Monica, in a light wispy blue dress with thin lacy sleeves, Fifi in a greenish-grey dress with an elegant white fur cape and a glittery green hat, Mitzie in a bright yellow dress with a low neckline surrounded by lemony satin ruffles and a full, full ruffled skirt, and Leslie, a girl with pert yellow curls, in a hot pink dress with enormous puff sleeves and layers and layers of pink ruffles for the skirt with a glittery lining and, topping it all off, a huge pink hat with a long trail of satin ribbons down her back.

Cherrie rushed up to Blowsie, her face shining. As she spoke, she stroked her leopard mink. "Oh, Blowsy! You wouldn't believe the response I got. Almost as good as yours!" Quickly, she hugged Blowsy. "A rose, Blowsy! A real live rose!"

"No. A fake rose," Mitzie remarked sarcastically, her skirt trailing behind her, and flouncing gracefully as she sat in a chair. All of the girls turned to glare at her. Mitzie had this way about her. She hardly ever said anything kind.

Everyone turned away from her rolling their eyes at each other.

Irene, who had just dressed in her long lilac dress with a soft purple stole over her bare shoulders, stood up and said, "Well, we'd better head down to the wings."

Everyone agreed. As they walked down the halls, they met up with other girls in the number, in dresses colors every shade of the rainbow, just subtle tones apart. From deep forest-green, to emerald, to silver-blue, to sky-blue, to purple, to lilac, to light pink, to bright hot pink, to fiery red, to orange, to lemon-yellow and finally a white. In the number they were all lined in an arc from green, through all the colors, light to dark, to the white. And the stars, a woman of 20 in a glittered blue dress with ruffles and flounces and a man about the same age in a snappy tuxedo stood in front. It looked absolutely gorgeous from the audience.

The crowd loved their act. When the curtain ascended they could hear all of the soft murmurs and "oohs" and "aahs" at all of the bright colors.

All of the other numbers Blowsy was in went pretty well although she didn't star in any of them. She was a gymnast and, in a bright purple leotard with blue glittered stripes across it, she did a whole routine of flips, tumbles, cartwheels, splits, and a whole lot more, with eleven other girls. Amy was the star of that. She moved with such agility and ease that it was unbelievable. She could slide into a split anywhere and make it look fantastic. Blowsy was also in a number with five other couples. They did a dance called the Castle Walk. Jeremy was her partner. The dance almost got as much approval as "The Varsity Drag". In it Blowsy wore a wide white hat with a black ribbon, a wispy white dress with a high waist and white high-buttoned boots. Jeremy wore a red striped blazer, white pants and spats. The dance was extremely difficult but a lot of fun. The couples doing it all at precisely the same time came across really well. No roses were thrown but there were cheers and they had to do an Encore.

When the show was finally over and the cast had done the big smash finale and had to take six curtain calls, Blowsy was so up that she almost didn't know how to contain it. In her finale costume, a fringed red flapper dress with strings of necklaces and shiny red shoes, she walked back to the dressing room talking with Cherrie.

"Cherrie, this has about been the best show yet!" Blowsy declared enthusiastically.

Cherrie shrugged. "It was fantastic, all right, but what about that one in Philadelphia? You know, when we did this show before New York. I swear, that was about the biggest smash of all time. I mean, when the curtain fell for the last time, the crowd was still yelling and five minutes later everyone was leaving whistling 'The Varsity Drag'. After the show fans flooded our dressing rooms and everything."

Blowsy smiled fondly. She hadn't been able to speak the whole way home from the theatre she had been so worked up. And when they had arrived at the boarding house, she had thrown herself on her bed and cried. A show could do that to her. People had loved her so much and she had made so many people happy. She gave in. "All right. But this is the best show in New York."

Cherrie raised her hands in surrender.

Back at the dressing room, Blowsy didn't get around to changing until 15 minutes later because the small room was filled with laughing yelling girls in the troupe. They were all jumping and carrying each other around in excitement until Peter, one of the many stage hands, knocked on the door and politely but firmly demanded that the girls go to their rightful dressing rooms. Still chattering, the girls filed out, leaving Blowsy, Mitzie, Fifi, Irene, Dolly, Sally, Monica and Amy to their own room. The eight girls sat at their places at the makeup table and silently proceeded to take off their makeup.

With a special cream, Blowsy removed the greasepaint from her face and then took a soft, pink Kleenex from a box, kissed off her lipstick, and dabbed off her eyeshadow and rouge. Now she looked like the normal old Blowsy. But she never went home without any makeup on, because she usually walked home, and tonight Jeremy was walking her home, so she wanted to look good. But first she changed into her normal clothes, a dress with a light green top, a dark green sash around her hips, and a short blue and green box-pleated skirt. She put on her blue hat with the turquoise feather off to the side and her black "jazz shoes" as everyone called them.

Out of her coat pocket, she took a little yellow bag with popular sayings stenciled all over it and snapped it open. Inside it was all her normal makeup. She brushed on some eyeshadow, put on some dark rouge (hardly smudged in which was the style) and some light red lipstick. She smacked her lips together and slid into her light green jacket.

"Are you leaving now, Blowsy?" Fifi called over her shoulder.

"No, not yet. I'm meeting Jeremy at 10:30 and it's only -" she glanced at the bland clock on the wall, "9:45 now, so I'll go and visit my mother for a while."

Blowsy's mother was an absolutely dazzling woman with a short curly bob and a stunning perfect face. Each feature seemed to have been placed with the utmost care. She was thin and trim and wore only the most fashionable, colorful dresses. Her singing voice was just - fabulous. It rang and vibrated through the theatre and stayed behind in one's ears. She had a song and dance all to herself. She was the only one stage and it was fast and lively and never failed to be a showstopper. Blowsy's mother seemed to be an all-around talent. She danced, sang and acted, she could juggle and ride a unicycle, she could do mime fabulously and do imitations and she also managed to be a wonderful mother to Blowsy.

Her name was Corrine.

Blowsy's father had walked out on them when Blowsy was two. She couldn't even remember him and she was rather glad, judging from the way her mother talked about him.

Blowsy made her way down the hall behind the stage and over to the other wing where the adult dressing rooms were. She rapped on her mother's door. Her mother had a room all to herself. It was very squeezy but much better than sharing with a million other girls.

"Who is it?" called a voice from within.

"Blowsy!"

"Oh! C'mon in, sweetie."

Blowsy opened the door and entered. Her mother was sitting in front of her makeup mirror in a shiny blue bathrobe. On her head was a plumed tiara. She was busily capping her makeup. Blowsy closed the door behind her.

My novel about some Ziegfeld girls - written at age 12

In unpacking my new place, I found a battered cardboard box that I don't believe I have looked in for 76 years. I glanced in it yesterday and saw a pile of papers with my childish writing on it. I have kept most of my stuff from when I was a kid - it is amazing it is still intact - after being moved from Rhode Island to California to Chicago to New York - Hard to believe I still have all of this stuff. I wrote novels when I was a kid. You know, sometimes I took the plot from TV movies that I adored (phone call for Orphan Train), other times I made stuff up. I wrote a 300 page novel that was the fictionalized life of Andrea McArdle. I was kind of a weird kid. Just as weird as I am now. I was OBSESSED with things, and I handled it by writing novels. All hand-written.

A week or so ago because of a photo of some Ziegfeld girls on another site, my memory was jogged that I had written a novel about a dance troupe who were hired by Ziegfeld. Or something like that. I was 12 years old when I wrote it.

I can tell I was 12 years old because the lead boy in the story (not man, but BOY) is named "Jeremy". Where did I get the name Jeremy? It's quite simple. Jeremy was the name of the character Ralph Macchio played on Eight is Enough. (My essay about Jeremy on Eight is Enough here). So of course: I was working through an obsession, so I had to place a character named Jeremy in the middle of my story about a vaudeville dance troupe. So there's that.

I have no memory of any of this.

Oh, and the other "influence" on me at this time was that I had just seen Bugsy Malone, which catapulted me into a many-pronged frenzy involving a love of the 1920s, an obsession with KIDS who got to be professional actors (something I wanted), and a love of anything that had to do with show business.

I can feel the Bugsy Malone influence here in my novel as well.

Please remember:

-- I am 12 years old when I wrote this.
-- I was a good Catholic girl.
-- I had a vivid imagination.
-- I didn't REALLY know anything about vaudeville and Ziegfeld, but that didn't matter to me. It was a world I had gotten a glimpse of here and there, through Bugsy Malone primarily, and I wanted to slip into it.

Here is the opening couple of pages of my un-named novel about a bunch of Ziegfeld girls (and a "boy named Jeremy").

CHAPTER 1 The Show

"Mitzie, would you stop twirling your tassle? It distracts me when I look in the mirror!" Fifteen-year-old Blowsy swirled in her seat to face Mitzie.

"Well, excuse me!" Mitzie flounced off to another corner of the dressing room.

With a sigh, Blowsy turned back to her makeup mirror and proceeded to smear some pink lipstick over her lips.

"Fifi, you took my mascara! Give it back!" Irene stood up angrily. Pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed Fifi did not stop putting on the mascara.

"Come on, Fifi!" Irene wailed, smoothing out her blue skirt.

"Just a minute." Fifi murmured, not taking her eyes off her reflection. But Irene did not want to wait, she never did. With Irene it was now or never. Shr snatched the mascara brush out of Fifi's hand, causing the black makeup to smear across Fifi's cheek.

Fifi shrieked. "Irene! Look what you made me do! Oh!"

Irene laughed. "You're ruined for life, huh, Fifi."

Furiously, Fifi snatched some Kleenex out of a box on her table and carefully began to wipe the opposing smudge off her face. "Thanks to you Irene, I'll have to put on my rouge and mascara all over again," she was muttering.

After putting on her lipstick, Blowsy stood up and went to the big yellow wardrobe to get her costume. She ruffled through the dresses and suits there to find her nametag. When she found it, she carefully took out her green and gold flapper dress that had just become the new fashion after the war that ended in 1919. At first, they were looked down upon, but now, in 1920, everyone wore them. Blowsy carried it back to her makeup counter.

Just then Dolly approached her in a ruffley plum-colored dress.

"Blowsy, do you think this looks o.k.? I have to wear it to be Uncle Dave's magician assistant. Does purple look all right on me?"

Mitzie, who was slumped on a pile of extra material near by, heard this and called out, "Dolly, if yellow and red and pink and blue and green and white don't look good on you, I don't think purple will." She laughed cruelly.

Dolly looked hurt and said softly, "Come on, Blowsy, what do you think?"

Blowsy looked Dolly up and down. She shrugged. "I don't know, Dolly."

Dolly looked disappointed and walked over to Sally, who was reading, to ask her opinion. Blowsy stared at her reflection; short, curly brown hair, big blue eyes, slightly turnedup nose and small gold earrings in her ears. Seeing her hair a little tousled she took up a red comb off her counter and combed out her curls. After doing that, she dressed in her flapper and put on her high-heeled green shoes.

Mitzie stood up and began her voice exercises. Mitzie had a loud, brassy voice, and it was not pleasant to hear in a small stuffy dressing room crowded with teenage girls. Everyone began to shout.

"Oh, Mitzie!"

"Stop it!"

"You're killing my ears!"

"Have a heart, Mitz!"

Blowsy went to the practice area in the room next door. There many girls and boys were singing and dancing and doing acrobatics. She approached a group of Charleston dancers in the center of the room. The phonograph was playing "Varsity Drag" full blast and the girls and boys were lolling about.

A girl with bright orange hair tied up in a bun spotted Blowsy and shouted, "Here's Blowsy! Let's get started!"

As Blowsy hurried towards them a girl did a backflip in her way. She halted and then started again.

A tall girl with flouncy blonde hair stopped the record and cried out in a loud, tough voice, "All right. Let's get going. We only have a half hour to go over this. Blowsy, don't be late again."

This girl, Stephanie, was only fifteen, but she acted like the leader of the whole vaudeville show. She didn't have a lead in any of the numbers she was in but she acted as if she was the leading lady.

Muttering angrily under her breath, Blowsy took her place in the group. This number was her big moment in the show. She led sixteen girls and boys in a marvelous Charleston dance which always turned the audience on. The song to go along with it Blowsy loved. It was very uptune and Blowsy's unusual voice went well with it.

"All right now! Take your places everyone!" Stephanie called.

A boy with dark brown hair, tanned skin and deep brown eyes sauntered over to Blowsy. His name was Jeremy and he and Blowsy were "going together". It was a known fact among the troupe. Since he was so close to her height, he was her partner in all the dance numbers they were in together. He gave her a spunky grin.

"Hey, Blowsy, how ya doin'?" he asked.

Blowsy shrugged and smiled up at him. "O.K."

Anita, a girl with auburn bobbed hair, poked her head between them. She grinned impishly. "Come on, you two lovers. Let's get going."

Jeremy made a playful attempt to grab her but she darted away, giggling. Jeremy and Blowsy rolled their eyes at each other. They got in the position for the beginning of the dance. Jeremy put his hands tightly around her waist.

"Jump, Blows," he said.

Blowsy jumped and he lifted her up onto his right shoulder. She crossed her legs and tried to steady herself. She looked around at the others. Sally was having problems getting onto Larry's, a tall lanky boy's, shoulders. Stephanie was stretching out and Monica, a girl with pumpkin-colored hair was setting up the victrola. As the needle touched the record, a scratchy silence was heard and Monica leapt easily onto Jeff's, her partner's, shoulder.

Walking unsteadily because of the girls on their shoulders the boys formed a V with Blowsy and Jeremy at the head. As the zippy music began, Blowsy began to sing the fast clever words in her strong, clear voice which had a lot of pizazz. When the cue came, all of the girls leapt off of the boy's shoulders and landed easily and quietly on the floor. Sally made a loud clatter with her shoes but everyone ignored it. They were professional children and they had well learned in the early days of their performing careers that mistakes had to be ignored and then the audience wouldn't notice it either.

Blowsy sang her favorite line with the clippy words:

Here is the drag
See how it goes
Down on your heels
Up on your toes
Everybody do the Varsity Drag

Follow the dancing fingers

Mickey Rourke's old Suntory commercials (echoed years later in Bill Murray's funny and sad portrayal of a movie star adrift in Japan in Lost in Translation) are awesome, he's at the height of his powers, so he's phoning it in, because he doesn't need to do anything else - and they are ridiculous, and totally entertaining.

Thanks to Alex N. for pointing me to the one below.

Top 10 worst beach reads

And by "worst" I mean:

1. I haven't been to the beach all summer. Not really.
2. No matter what I read, it seems to become unbearable at some indefinable point. I keep trying to pick something benign, but right now there is no such thing
3. I still can't FINISH a book. Not possible. So I get through one chapter here, one chapter there, and am finally exhausted by how personal everything seems. I read the style section of the newspaper or a comic strip and it seems like a personal attack.
4. I realize that that is one of the definitions of insanity: you take the laugh track on sit coms personally, like people are laughing at YOU, etc. So yes, to the person who emailed me anonymously (although I know who it is) telling me that I should "stop being mysterious" because it makes me "sound crazy" - you're right! What an astute diagnosis. Thanks for your concern, and I hope if you ever have a rough time of it that someone is as kind to you as you have been to me. You don't TRY to be crazy. You try NOT to be crazy. I can't help it that my own book collection ambushes me.
5. I don't like the concept of "beach reads" anyway. The assumption that EVERYONE wants something light and fluffy in the summer. When I go on vacation I usually bring something big and heavy that I have been avoiding reading during the bustle of life and now can devote some time to. I get that a lot of people love more light reading in the summer, and yay for you, but I choose very carefully what I bring "to the beach" (even though I don't go to the beach these days) and it's usually something huge and classic and arduous - because I have more brainspace on vacation to devote to something like War and Peace or The Red and the Black or some huge detailed biography of De Toqueville or something. These are my "beach reads".

Thanks to cousin Mike for the idea for this post. And for everything else.

Top 10 Worst Beach Reads That You Don't Read at the Beach Because You Don't Even Go to the Beach and You Keep Trying to Not Be So Crazy But You Can't Help It Because Sometimes Life is Just Like That and Hopefully It's All a Phase But You're Not Holding Your Breath and Besides At Least You Can Still Read Your OWN Writing Which is the Most Important Thing Right now, In Terms of the Work That Needs To Be Done and You Tried To Read These Books But You Can't Seem To Finish Them and You Find It Alarming and Frankly Unfair That There Is An Ambush In a Book About Peter Lorre, Although You Do Want to Say That These Are All Obviously Fine Books

1. Cults in Our Midst: The Continuing Fight Against Their Hidden Menace, by Margaret Singer

2. Beware of Pity, by Stefan Zweig

3. A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Kubrick, Scorsese, Spielberg, Altman, by Robert Phillip Kolker

4. The Crack-Up, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

5. Young Stalin (Vintage), by Simon Sebag Montefiore

6. A Mencken Chrestomathy: His Own Selection of His Choicest Writing

7. The 1928 Book of Common Prayer

8. Story of O, by Pauline Reage

9. The Lost One: A Life of Peter Lorre, Stephen D. Youngkin

10. Sestets: Poems, by Charles Wright

windows

In my old apartment, Hope had one window to look out of. Granted, it took up the whole wall, and looked right out into the back yard where there were things like cardinals and stray cats and gophers for her to drool over. The window in the kitchen had the AC unit in it, so she couldn't sit in THAT sill, although she did try. (Why, Hope? Why? You can't even see out of that window. Please tell me why.)

But in this apartment, Hope has eight windows to look out of, each with nice wide sills for her to stretch out on like a satiated lion. The bathroom window looks out on an air shaft, but that is her preferred perch when I'm in there. I love how she follows me around still. It's almost nerve-wracking. Like I want to tell her to get a life.

Then there's the little alcove in my hallway with a nice big window that also looks out on an air shaft. Not a good view, but sounds of the other animals who live in the building reverberate down that air shaft from time to time, meowing cats, barking dogs, and Hope sits on that sill, fur quivering upright in attention. And need.

The windows facing north are prime spots for Hope in the morning since, basically, they are in my bedroom, and I am there in the morning. So naturally Hope needs to be within viewing distance of me at all times.

The windows facing east give an interesting perspective because they look out on a tree-lined street, but also there's a roof of a shorter building right below those windows - and pigeons strut by, so Hope has a lot to drool over. Also, those windows get blasted with sun, and it is hard to describe the flatness of Hope when she lies in the sun on those sills, the flatness and the lethargy. I will go over to her and scoop her up off the sill, and she is so relaxed and hot that she keeps her body slack and flat, so she's like a dishrag hanging over my hands. It is beyond adorable.

She now lies in the window facing north, right by my desk (naturally, because I am sitting at my desk, so where ELSE would she be?) staring out at the cars going by, and sometimes her eyes are open, sometimes they are closed. She is alert, yet also sleepy. She alternates between two polar opposites without any problem.

I struggle with the same thing.

Hope has acclimated to our new digs better than I have.

Hopefully I'll catch up eventually. I've always been a slow learner.

Lonely and busy

I love these things.

(seen from my cab window)

"Kill, kill, kill, that's all I feel inside me!"

A ceremonious showing last night of Berserk! (yes, with an exclamation point) in honor of Dan's birthday (he of the gorgeous recent Madeline Kahn piece). We all gathered with wine and "miniature cheese" (only in this crowd would someone reference Love Streams when someone shows up with a bunch of "miniature cheese" - "Member when Gena Rowlands shows up with all those ponies and she's like, 'They're miniature horses!") at Keith and Dan's, and reveled in the GLORY of late Joan Crawford.

Crawford plays Monica Rivers, the owner (and master of ceremonies as well) of a circus. "This circus has been in my family for 50 years," she declares. Of course it has. Every night, she puts on an unfortunate leotard showing her still-slamming legs, and walks out into the ring, announcing all the acts (which director Jim O'Connolly has decided to show in their entirety - a bizarre choice - do I need to see 30 poodles jumping through hoops for fifteen straight minutes?). But sadly, the "Great Rivers Circus" is going through some hard times, as the brilliant opening credits sequence shows (I'm not being sarcastic - seriously, you want to see ART? Mixed with CRAY-CRAY? Find Berserk and watch the opening credits) - and people are being murdered while doing their acts. A tightrope walker plummets to his death. Scotland Yard is called. Because yeah, Scotland Yard concerns itself with the petty jealousies swarming through a low-rent jank circus.

Crawford is supposedly a third-generation carnie, yet she dresses like, well, Joan Crawford in her Pepsi corporate days, with ropes of colored pearls on her neck, and strangely colored boxy-shaped suits. Except when she puts on her spangly leotard of course.

Crawford's business partner is a melancholy vaguely homosexual Englishman who sadly BITES it one night in a rather grisly manner. Right around this time though, a hottie tightrope walker (played by Ty Hardin, a truly strange individual - look up his bio on IMDB and you'll see what I mean. Dude, you need to chillax with the Ruby Ridge mindset. Gotta love those self-righteous Christians who also have had 8 or 9 wives! Way to walk the walk!) shows up and offers his services, to be the new act, something no one has ever seen before! He walks on a tightrope ("blindfolded" it is announced - although he actually puts a black hood over his head so he looks like a long lost photo from Abu Gharib) without a net, and on the ground below him is a bed of sharp knives, sticking up into the air. Crawford takes him on, in more ways than one. One second she is sizing up his act, next second she is wearing a flowy nightgown, her hair is down, she's smoking a cigarette, and obviously having a May-December sex fling with the dude. "Man, she works fast," one of us commented.

There are many complications to this plot (which sadly you have a LOT of time to ponder because of the interminable circus acts you are forced to sit through), including a perky daughter of Crawford who has been thrown out of boarding school (for smoking cigarettes. What? Also, the headmistress accompanies the daughter to the circus to hand her off to her mother. Really? A headmistress of a boarding school has nothing better to do than travel by train across England with an expelled student so that she can then snottily state the exposition to Crawford? The daughter is not a BAD girl, you understand ... it's just that she's circus folk ... she wants to be with her "peeps".)

Crawford wants MORE for her daughter (who looks vaguely like, hm, Cristina) than the circus life, but due to her love for her child she says, "Okay fine, you can come back - but you'll work."

There's also a blonde bodacious slut (Crawford actually calls her that in one of the best moments in the movie - she walks right up to her and says, "You ... slut") - who does the best act in the circus (apparently) with a suspicious-looking guy of apparent Serbo-Croatian heritage named Lazslo - and when we finally see the act, THE thing that has been drawing in the crowds over all those years - we all were like, "That's it? That's the headliner?" But anyway, blonde slut who dresses like a cheaper less interesting version of Marilyn Monroe in Bus Stop becomes convinced that Crawford herself is behind all the murders. Blonde slut starts to stir the pot, whispering in a conspiratorial manner with the other circus performers. So there are great scenes involving a strong man, a bearded lady, a midget, and a blonde slut, whispering about murder. There are lines like, "I'm a strong strong man, but even I couldn't commit murder" followed by ,"I may have a beard, but I know right from wrong," followed by, "I'm a midget but I'm no murderer."

Cinema doesn't get any better than that.

Crawford, when filmed head on, always has a dark band of shadow across her chin and neck, to hide her age. It doesn't matter if the scene takes place in a small circus trailer where there is no outside light and also, well, no BARS to make shadows ... she still has her special light with her.

Her hair deserves its own zip code. It is pulled back sleekly, with then tiers and tiers of braids coiled on top, sometimes with jewels woven through. But then she's wearing these sea-foam-green corporate suits, or boxy black and white jackets. Because people who own traveling circuses look like that.

Events unfold with very little tension (due to the breaks we are forced to take to watch the elephant act or the trotting ponies), but a lot of unintentional comedy, and man, just watch Crawford SELL this abysmal material.

She's basically an old lady at this point in her life, and yet there she is, in this piece of shit movie, but she has obviously demanded that she have things her way. "I must have a band of shadow across my neck at all times, I must wear my own clothes, and you must get out of my way to let me do whatever I want to do." Why not, the woman is Joan Crawford for God's sake. To quote her best line from the movie, "I'm running a circus, not a charm school."

Damn straight.

Overwhelming

A post that is so beautiful and moving and I can't even say why. Reading the comments over there, I see I am not alone. That's one of my favorite sites on the web.

Happy birthday to Zelda Fitzgerald

Excerpt of letter from Zelda to Scott Fitzgerald:

Scott - there's nothing in all the world I want but you - and your precious love - All the material things are nothing. I'd just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence - because you'd soon love me less - and less - and I'd do anything - anything - to keep your heart for my own - I don't want to live - I want to love first, and live incidentally - Why don't you feel that I'm waiting - I'll come to you, Lover, when you're ready - Don't - don't ever think of the things you can't give me - You've trusted me wiht the dearest heart of all - and it's so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had -

How can you think deliberately of life without me - If you should die - O Darling - darling Scot - It'd be like going blind. I know I would, too - I'd have no purpose in life - just a pretty - decoration. Don't you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered - and I was delivered to you - to be worn - I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a button hole bouquet - to the world. And then, when we're alone, I want to help - to know that you can't do anything without me.

Watercolor done by Zelda Fitzgerald, 1944 - Times Square

Excerpt of Zelda's writing - this about a summer dusk in Montgomery Alabama:

There exists in Montgomery a time and quality that appertains to nowhere else. It began about half past six on an early summer night, with the flicker and sputter of the corner street lights going on, and it lasted until the great incandescent globes were black inside with moths and beetles and the children were called into bed from the dusty streets ... The drug stores are bright at night with the organdie baalloons of girls' dresses under the big electric fans. Automobiles stand along the curbs in front of open frame houses at dusk, and sounds of supper being prepared drift through the soft splotches of darkness to the young world that moves every evening out of doors. Telephones ring, and the lacy blackness under the trees disgorges young girls in white and pink, leaping over the squares of warm light toward the tinkling sound with an expectancy that people have only in places where any event is a pleasant one. Nothing seems ever to happen.

Excerpt of review Zelda wrote about her husband's book The Beautiful and Damned:

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and also scraps of letters, which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald - I believe that is how he spells his name - seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Excerpt from Zelda's essay "Eulogy on the Flapper":

How can a girl say again, "I do not want to be respectable because respectable girls are not attractive," and how can she again so wisely arrive at the knowledge that "boys do dance most with the girls they kiss most," and that "men will marry the girls they could kiss before they had asked papa?" Perceiving these things, the Flapper awoke from her lethargy of sub-deb-ism, bobbed her hair, put on her choicest pair of earrings and a great deal of audacity and rouge and went into the battle. She flirted because it was fun to flirt and wore a one-piece bathing suit because she had a good figure, she covered her face with powder and paint because she didn't need it and she refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring. She was conscious that the things she did were the things she had always wanted to do. Mothers disapproved of their sons taking the Flapper to dances, to teas, to swim and most of all to heart. She had mostly masculine friends, but youth does not need friends - it needs only crowds ...

Clothes for a Summer Hotel, a one-act by Tennessee Williams, begins with Scott coming to the asylum to see Zelda - who has gone mad - and who believes she will be a great ballerina. Even though she is way too old and has no talent. (Geraldine Page played Zelda in the premiere production of this play) Scott, meanwhile, is now whoring out his talent in Hollywood (that's how he saw it anyway) - and his body is already deteriorating from his liquor intake. He has quit drinking, but the damage is done. Zelda and Scott haven't seen each other in a year. Scott is horrified at her condition. She dances around in a bedraggled tutu. But because this is a ghost play, and people move in and out of different time zones, etc., there are premonitions of what is to come for both of these people ... They are not JUST in the present moment, they have a vague awareness of what is coming ...

From Clothes for a Summer Hotel, by Tennessee Williams

[The intern exits into the asylum closing the doors behind him. Zelda begins a slow descent and moves downstage. Despite her increase of weight and the shapeless coat, her approach has the majesty of those purified by madness and by fire. Her eyes open very wide. Scott is barely able to hold his ground before their blaze. Zelda has to shout above the wind]

ZELDA. Is that really you, Scott? Are you my lawful husband, the celebrated F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of my life? Sorry to say you're hard to recognize now. Why didn't you warn me of this -- startling reunion, Scott?

SCOTT. I had to come at once when the doctors advised me of your remarkable improvement.

ZELDA. -- Not exactly an accurate report. -- Aren't you somewhat unseasonably dressed for a chilly autumn afternoon?

SCOTT. When I got the doctors' report, well, I forgot the difference in weather between the West Coast and here, just hopped right onto the first plane -- bought a spare shirt at a shop at the airport.

ZELDA. I see, I see, that's why you're dressed as if about to check in at a summer hotel.

SCOTT. It's all right, Zelda.

ZELDA. Is it all right, Scott?

SCOTT. Since I have to fly back tomorrow. -- Don't be so standoffish, let me kiss you.

[He goes to Zelda and tentatively embraces and kisses her in a detached manner]

ZELDA. -- Well.

SCOTT. I would describe that as a somewhat perfunctory response.

ZELDA. And I'd describe it as a meaninglessly conventional -- gesture to have embraced at all -- after all ... [He draws back, wounded: she smiles, a touch of ferocity in her look] -- Sorry, Goofo. It's been so long since we've exchanged more than letters ... And you fly back tomorrow? We have only this late afternoon in which to renew our -- acquaintance.

SCOTT. [uncomfortably] Work on the Coast, film-work, is very exacting, Zelda. Inhumanly exacting. People pretend to feel but don't feel at all.

ZELDA. Don't they call it the world of make-believe? Isn't it a sort of madhouse, too? You occupy one there, and I occupy one here.

SCOTT. I'm working on such a tight schedule. Never mind. Here's the big news I bring you. I'm completing a novel, a new one at last, and it will be one that will rank with my very best, controlled as Gatsby but emotionally charged as Tender Is the --

[Pause]

ZELDA. -- Good ... will I be in it?

SCOTT. Not -- recognizably ...

ZELDA. Good. -- So what is the program for us now? Shall we make a run for it and fall into a ditch to satisfy our carnal longings, Scott?

SCOTT. That was never the really important thing between us, beautiful, yes, but less important than --

ZELDA. [striking out] What was important to you was to absorb and devour!

SCOTT. I didn't expect to find you in this -- agitated mood. Zelda, I brought you a little gift. A new wedding band to replace the one you lost.

ZELDA. I didn't lose it, Scott, I threw it away.

SCOTT. Why would you, how could you have --?

ZELDA. Scott, we're no longer really married and I despise pretenses.

SCOTT. I don't look at it that way.

ZELDA. Because you still pay for my confinement? Exorbitant, for torture.

SCOTT. You always want to return here, you're not forced to, Zelda.

ZELDA. I only come back here when I know I'm too much for Mother and the conventions of Montgomery, Alabama. I am pointed out on the street as a lunatic now.

SCOTT. Whatever the reason, Zelda, you do return by choice, so don't call it confinement. And even if you don't want a new marriage ring, call it a ring of, of -- a covenant with the past that's always still present, dearest.

ZELDA. I don't want it; I will not take it!

SCOTT. [with a baffled sigh] Of course we do have nonmaterial bonds, memories such as -- "Do you remember before keys turned in locks -- when life was a close-up, not an occasional letter -- how I hated swimming naked off the rocks -- but you liked nothing better?"

ZELDA. No, no, Scott, don't try to break my heart with early romantic effusions. No, Goofo, it's much too late!

SCOTT. I wasn't warned to expect this cold, violent attitude in you!

ZELDA. Never in all those years of coexistence in time did you make the discovery that I have the eyes of a hawk which is a bird of nature as predatory as a husband who appropriates your life as material for his writing. Poor Scott. Before you offered marriage to the Montgomery belle, you should have studied a bit of ornithology at Princeton.

SCOTT. I don't believe a course in ornithology was on the curriculum at Princeton in my day!

ZELDA. [distracted, looking vaguely about] What a pity! You could have been saved completely for your art -- and I for mine ...

SCOTT. Didn't hear that, the wind blows your voice away unless you shout. Is it always so windy here?

[The wind blows]

ZELDA. Sunset Hill on which this cage is erected is the highest to catch the most wind to whip the flame-like skirts as red as the sisters' skirts are black. Isn't that why you selected this place for my confinement? [Scott moves toward her, extending his arms and gesturing toward the bench] Are you studying ballet, too?

SCOTT. [attempting to laugh] Me, studying ballet?

ZELDA. You made a gesture out of classic ballet, extending your arms toward me, then extending the right arm toward that bench which I will not go near -- again.

SCOTT. Now, now, Zelda, stop play acting, come here!

ZELDA. I won't approach that bench because of the bush next to it. Besides I'm only taking a little recess from O.T.

BECKY. [offstage voice] The head of the Harlow, the platinum of it, the bleach! -- My personal salon was only a block from Goldwyn's ...

[Zelda starts drifting back to the doorway of the asylum. Scott grabs her]

SCOTT. Zelda, don't withdraw! -- What are you -- Tell me, Zelda, what are you working on mostly in Occupational Therapy now, dear?

ZELDA. The career that I undertook because you forbade me to write!

SCOTT. Writing calls for discipline! Continual!

ZELDA. And drink, continual, too? No, I respect your priority in the career of writing although it preceded and eclipsed my own. I made that sacrifice to you and so elected ballet. Isadora Duncan said, "I want to teach the whole world to dance!" -- I'm more selfish, just want to teach myself.

SCOTT. The strenuous exercises will keep your figure trimmer.

ZELDA. Than writing and drinking?

SCOTT. Oh, I've quit that.

ZELDA. Quit writing?

SCOTT. Quit drinking.

ZELDA. QUIT? DRINKING?

SCOTT. Completely.

ZELDA. Cross your heart and hope to die?

SCOTT. I cross my heart but I don't hope to die until my new book is finished. [Scott has maneuvered Zelda toward the bench. He sits and gets her to sit] Zelda, I've had -- several little heart disturbances lately ...

ZELDA. You mean the romance? Or romances?

SCOTT. I mean -- cardiac -- incidents. At a movie premiere last week, as the film ended, it all started -- fading out ....

ZELDA. Films always end with the fade-out.

SCOTT. I staggered so. I thought the audience would think I was drunk.

ZELDA. [sarcastically] Were they so foolish as that?

SCOTT. Luckily I had a friend with me who helped me out.

ZELDA. Oh, yes, I know about her.

SCOTT. You -- she -- you'd like her.

ZELDA. Certainly, if you do. Well -- Scott? Let me say this quickly before I become disturbed and am hauled back in for restraint. You were not to blame. You needed a better influence, someone much more stable as a companion on the -- roller-coaster ride which collapsed at the peak. You needed -- her? Out there, utterly vulgar but -- functioning well on that level.

SCOTT. Who are you, what are you -- referring to, Zelda?

ZELDA. Who or what, which is it? Some are whats, some are whos. Which is she? -- Never mind. You are in luck whichever ... But can we turn this bench at an angle that doesn't force me to look at the flaming bush here?

SCOTT. It's such a lovely bush.

ZELDA. If you're attracted by fire. Are you attracted by fire?

SCOTT. The leaves are -- radiant, yes, they're radiant as little torches. I feel as if they'd warm my hands if I --

ZELDA. I feel as if they'd burn me to unrecognizable ash. You see, the demented often have the gift of Cassandra, the gift of --

SCOTT. The gift of --?

ZELDA. Premonition! I WILL DIE IN FLAMES!

SCOTT. Please, Zelda, don't shout, don't draw attention. The doctors will think my visits disturb you -- I won't be allowed to come back.

ZELDA. Visits? Did you say visits? That is plural. I wouldn't say that your presence here today qualifies as a very plural event.

[She starts toward the gates. Scott rises to follow]

SCOTT. You're going inside?

ZELDA. I have my own little Victrola. Mama sent it to me for Christmas. I'm preparing for Diaghilev; he's offered me an audition. I'm going to do a Bach fugue with almost impossible tempi I was told. Hah!

SCOTT. Zelda, I didn't come all the way out here to listen to a Bach fugue, and watching you dance is a pleasure I've -- exhausted ...

ZELDA. Sorry. But I'm working against time!

Strange, I haven't read that play in a while and it now seems to remind me a lot of what I am working on right now. It is odd, when you realize how much your unconscious stores things. Nostalgia is comforting to some, dangerous to others. It is a great mistake to try to sway others to your point of view on that score.

In 1930, Zelda Fitzgerald suffered her first breakdown. The Fitzgeralds were in Paris, and Zelda had become obsessed with ballet. She danced for six hours a day, and would answer the door in full tutu and toe shoes. It was far too late for her to be a ballerina, but Zelda could not stop. There was a compulsion in it. Her husband, desperate to help his wife, kept them traveling - to Africa, and their other haunts, but nothing stopped the breakdown. She was finally institutionalized. There she was treated by a man named Dr. Forel, who sensed her deep desire to be a writer, a chronicler, so he had her write down everything she thought and remembered. That record still exists. It is shattering to read. Zelda was not the writer her husband was, obviously, and she also lacked discipline. Her husband had some demons himself, but he was also a craftsman, and had the wherewithal to sit down and every day and keep working. Zelda did not. Regardless, I read some of her stuff and I think, "You know what ... there is something there." First of all, you can see why Fitzgerald was so inspired by her (in a similar way that Joyce was inspired by his wife Nora). Zelda was an original personality. The original flapper. The jazz baby. She didn't participate in the zeitgeist. She WAS the zeitgeist. He ended up being the chronicler of it but much of his observations came from the fact that he lived at close range with someone who embodied the mores of the time. However, my point here is that I read Zelda's description of what it was like for her breaking down, and tears flood my eyes. I wonder if I can do the same.

Here is an excerpt of the record she wrote for Dr. Forel in 1930:

When I returned to Paris I went again into the same school. I have worked four hours a day and in the evening, and Sundays, during the holidays, on the boat when I was travelling. I began to understand it.

Suddenly last spring I began to see all red while I worked or I saw no colors - I could not bear to look out of windows, for sometimes I saw humanity as a bottle of ants. Then we left for Cannes where I worked on technique and where after the lessons I had the impression that I was an old person living very quietly in winter. I loved my ballet teacher in Paris more than anything else in the world. But I did not know how. She had everything of beauty in her head, the brightness of a greek temple, the frustration of a mind searching for a place, the glory of cannon bullets; all that I saw in her steps. From Christmas on I was not able to work correctly anymore, but she helped me to learn more, to go further. She always told me to look after myself. I tried to, but it was worse. I was in a real "mess" ... One day the world between me and the others stopped - I was dragged like by a magnet - I had headaches and I could jump higher than ever, but the day after I was sick. I left my lessons, but without them I could not do anything. It was Easter, I wanted to do something for my little girl, but I could not stop in a shop and Madame came to encourage me. Enough to give me the strength to go to Malmaison. There the doctors told me that I was well and I came back to the studio, unable to walk in the streets, full of medicine, trying to work in an atmosphere which was becoming more and more strange ... My husband forced me to go to Valmont- and now I am here, with you, in a situation where I cannot be anybody, full of vertigo, with an increasing noise in my ears, feeling the vibrations of everyone I meet. Broken down.

I am dependent on my husband, and he told me that I must get cured. I accept, but as I am lost about anything without him, with his life in which there is nothing for me except the physical comfort, when I get out of your clinic it will be with an idea: to arrange myself in any condition to be able to breathe freely. Life, beauty or death, all that is equal for me.

I must add another thing: this story is the fault of nobody but me. I believed I was a Salamander, and it seems that I am nothing but an impediment.

I am heartsick reading that.

Here is an excerpt from Nancy Milford's wonderful biography Zelda: A Biography (I'll read any book Nancy Milford writes!):

Zelda was like a rush of air into the Sayre household, lively and irrepressibly gay and wayward. Her sisters and brother were too old to be true playmates and they remember her only in motion: running with a dog, flying on a swing hung from a magnolia tree in their back yard, racing on roller skates as soon as she could stand well enough to navigate on them, swimming and diving fearlessly. And dancing. Showing off new steps and imitating dances she had seen.

When Zelda was asked later in her life to describe herself as a child, she said she was "independent - courageous - without thought for anyone else." But she also remembered herself as "dreamy - a sensualist", who was bright and loved sports, especially imaginative, competitive games. "I was a very active child and never tired, always running with no hat or coat even in the Negro district and far from my house. I liked houses under construction and often I walked on the open roofs; I liked to jump from high places ... I liked to dive and climb in the tops of trees - I liked taking long walks far from town, sometimes going to a country churchyard where I went very often by myself." In summary she said: "When I was a little girl I had great confidence in myself, even to the extent of walking by myself against life as it was then. I did not have a single feeling of inferiority, or shyness, or doubt, and no moral principles."

Dorothy Parker has a vivid (and oft-quoted) memory of meeting Zelda for the first time:

"Robert Sherwood brought Scott and Zelda to me right after their marriage. I had met Scott before. He told me he was going to marry the most beautiful girl in Alabama and Georgia! ... But they did both look as though they had just stepped out of the sun; their youth was striking."

Fragment of a letter Zelda wrote to Scott in 1920, shortly after their marriage:

I look down the tracks and see you coming - and out of every haze & mist your darling rumpled trousers are hurrying to me - Without you, dearest dearest I couldn't see or hear or feel or think - or live - I love you so and I'm never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night. It's like begging for mercy of a storm or killing Beauty or growing old, without you. I want to kiss you so - and in the back where your dear hair starts and your chest - I love you - and I cant tell you how much - To think that I'll die without your knowing - Goofo, you've got to try [to] feel how much I do - how inanimate I am when you're gone - I can't even hate these damnable people - Nobodys got any right to live but us - and they're dirtying up our world and I can't hate them because I want you so - Come Quick - Come Quick to me - I could never do without you if you hated me and were covered with sores like a leper - if you ran away with another woman and starved me and beat me - I still would want you I know -

Lover, Lover, Darling -
Your Wife

Memory Lane

People of my generation (you know, the X generation) - check out this gallery of book covers. Wow. I had most of these, and the best thing is: I still have most of my original copies (lots of reviews here and here).

"She knows this scene is a large opportunity, but she doesn’t milk it; she stays true to the character, the real, strange person who is always alive somewhere even in Kahn’s most outrageous inventions."

Not to be missed: Dan Callahan's 5 for the day: Madeline Kahn.

In praise of Pudge

CARLTON FISK IS MY IDEAL
by Bernadette Mayer

He wears a beautiful necklace
next to the beautiful skin of his neck
unlike the Worthington butcher
Bradford T. Fisk (butchers always
have a crush on me), who cannot even order veal
except in whole legs of it.
Oh the legs of a catcher!
Catchers squat in a posture
that is of course inward denying orgasm
but Carlton Fisk, I could
model a whole attitude to spring
on him. And he is a leaper!
Like Walt Frazier or, better,
like the only white leaper,
I forget his name, in the ABA’s
All-Star game half-time slam-dunk contest
this year. I think about Carlton Fisk in his
modest home in New Hampshire
all the time, I love the sound of his name
denying orgasm. Carlton & I
look out the window at spring’s first
northeaster. He carries a big hero
across the porch of his home to me.
(He has no year-round Xmas tree
like Clifford Ray who handles the ball
like a banana). We eat & watch the storm
batter the buds balking on the trees
& cover the green of the grass
that my sister thinks is new grass.
It’s last year’s grass still!
And still there is no spring training
as I write this, March 16, 1976,
the year of the blizzard that sealed our love
up in a great mound of orgasmic earth.
The pitcher’s mound is a lighting mound.
Pudge will see fastballs in the wind,
his mescaline arm extends to the field.
He wears a necklace.
He catches the ball in his teeth!
Balls fall with a neat thunk
in the upholstery of the leather glove he puts on
to caress me, as told to, in the off-season.
All of a sudden he leaps from the couch,
a real ball has come thru the window
& is heading for the penguins on his sweater,
one of whom has lost his balloon
which is floating up into the sky!

Faber & Faber: brilliant book covers for 80 years.

A beautiful slideshow. Two of my favorites here, but they're all startling.

Go click through the whole thing.

Everything seems so far away.

François Truffaut on Sgt. J.J. Sefton in Stalag 17

This is, perhaps, the best analysis of that character, played by William Holden, that I have ever read.

Sefton is intelligent; that's why he acts as he does. For the first time in films the philosophy of the solitary man is elaborated; this film is an apologia for individualism. (Certainly, the solitary man has been a theme in films, as with Charlie Chaplin and many other comedians. But he has usually been an inept person whose only desire was to fit into society.) Sefton is alone because he wants to be alone. He has the qualities of leadership, and everything would tend to establish him as the barracks' trusted leader. After the deception has been uncovered by Sefton himself, and the leader the man trusted has been unmasked and convicted, we may wonder if Sefton escapes in order to avoid being named to take his place, knowing his fellow prisoners would do exactly that, both to exonerate themselves and because they finally recognize him as their only possible leader.

What's sure is that Sefton escapes to get away from the companions whom he despises rather than from a regime he has come to terms with and guards he's been able to bend to his needs.

Sefton needs those whom he despises to despise him in turn. If he remains, he will be a hero - a role he rejects no matter what the cost. Having lost his moral solitude, he hastens to regain it by becoming an escapee, with all the risk that entails.

The rest of Truffaut's essay on Stalag 17, especially his thoughts on the danger of majorities, is well worth looking at. But Sefton is one of my favorite fictional characters ever, borne out of a sincere and unshakable cynicism. It is this cynicism I think makes him great, and something that I think many people miss in him. They assign hidden altruism and heroism to him, because that is what they need from him - but remember his last line of the film, remember it - and I would suggest that you don't look at that line as Sefton being your typical tough-guy making a joke in order to hide the fact that he is deeply moved at the goodbye moment. No. I would suggest that you take him at his word. He never wants to see any of those men again. He means what he says. He would cross the street if he saw them. But he doesn't say the line with viciousness, he says it with a little grin, and a cocky look on his face.

Terrific moment because of all of those contradictory (and confronting) levels.

"Sefton is alone because he wants to be alone."

Sefton is akin to Rick in Casablanca saying "I stick my neck out for nobody", only Rick has a long (albeit secret and somewhat shady) past of running guns for people on the "right" side of the ongoing worldwide conflict. You get the sense, through a comment here, a comment there, that once upon a time he really was involved in the fight, he was committed enough to the fight of the little guy against tyranny that he risked his own neck, time and time again. He doesn't make a big deal about it, but it's there in his character, and we know that it is there. He can tell us "I stick my neck out for nobody" as much as he wants, but he obviously has convictions. Sefton has none, except that he might as well participate in the flourishing wartime black market, because why not - and also that he is innocent of what the bastards in his barracks accuse him of. Take away Rick's secret political convictions, and you will find a deeply cynical man. But Sefton really doesn't stick his neck out for no one. You'd never catch him running guns for freedom fighters or the political underground in France, no way, not unless he could make a buck off of it.

Great great character, and fascinating analysis by Truffaut.

-- From The Films In My Life, by François Truffaut

JUNE

JULY

The nerve

And the World Has the Nerve to Keep Turning -- by Tracy Bonham

Oh greedy one oh greedy two
Did you do what you could do
For crippled one or crippled two?
A can of beans a sugar tooth?
You dig a hole under your greed
You follow down until you bleed
You don't know how it feels
You don't know how it feels

Oh busy one oh busy two
None for them and all for you
The can of dreams you sold your soul
Someone went and poked a hole
Now there are days when you feel bad
You almost feel the heart you had

The kid inside your head
Keeps asking why the
World has the nerve to keep turning
And how the sun's got the balls to keep burning?

Oh fickle one oh fickle two
It's back to work what can you do?
Someone else will take the time
You've got yours and I've got mine
Your nagging heart won't settle down as you stop to look around

The kid inside your head
Keeps asking why the
World has the nerve to keep turning?
And how the sun's got the balls to keep burning?
And why the moon has the gall to keep staring?
And why your heart cannot stop caring stop caring stop caring?

The kid inside your head keeps asking why the
World has the nerve to keep turning?
And how the sun's got the balls to keep burning?
And why the moon has the gall to keep staring?
And why your heart cannot stop caring caring caring
Stop

Listen to the song here

I like to think ...

that in a former life I was one of these girls.

When I was 13 years old, I started a novel about a Ziegfeld girl. I had no idea what I was talking about. I hadn't even kissed someone, but I was writing blithely about floozies rolling up their garters and going out to jazz clubs with gangsters. I wish I could find it. I know that the lead girl's name was "Maisie". Of course it was.

I want to be on that balcony with those girls. Love them.

Royale with cheese ...

I love Los Angeles.

Remembered Kindnesses #3

It was a blindingly hot day. I was about 7 years old, which meant my brother was 6 and my sister Jean was a tiny baby. I don't remember where we were going, or why my dad was not with us. My mother was driving. We kids were crammed in the back seat, sticky, miserable, eating Froot Loops out of small boxes and trying to keep ourselves occupied. We were driving on a lonely road, with ranks of pine trees on one side, wilderness, and a huge rock wall on the other side. I don't remember the sequence of events but I do remember we suddenly were on the side of the road, with smoke pouring out of the front of the car. Overheated. The sun blazed down. No cars came. Jean was getting fussy, strapped into her car seat. There were no cell phones. I remember the heat, I remember the backs of my legs sticking to the car seat, and I remember being utterly miserable, drinking hot lemonade out of a tupperware container. My mother stood by the car, with the hood lifted up, smoke billowing out, staring up and down the empty road. Wilderness on one side, mountain rock wall on the other. Brendan and I were aimless, fussy, bored, and vaguely frightened. Where were we? And why? We peed in the woods. I do remember that. Jean was writhing about in misery and we tried to placate her. My mother changed her diaper in the back of the car. I remember my mother being upset, and not sure what to do. No cars came. It was an empty country road. It could be hours before someone drove by to help us.

I remember looking up at the rock wall at one point, the heat glimmering the facade into liquidy shapes, relentless, and I saw a man up on the top of that mini-mountain. He stared down at us. He had long hair and a long beard. He had no shirt on and was wearing cut-off shorts. He didn't move. Just stood up there, in the glimmering heat mirage, looking down at our plight.

I had just made my first communion. My Sunday School class had had to make felt banners that were hung up in the church during the day we received the Sacrament for the first time. It was up to us what our banner would be. Lots of other kids appeared to have had some "help" in the creation of their banner, the images far beyond the ability of a child that age. Of course I didn't think of it in those terms then, and my memory of this may be based on a snarky comment my dad made about the other banners. "Looks like they had a little help," he said. I just know I looked at the really neat-looking and polished banners and wondered why the hell mine looked so unfinished. My banner was a blue cloth. I made a figure of Jesus out of different pieces of felt. He had long brown hair and was wearing a long blue dress. He had brown bare feet sticking out from beneath his dress. He had a long brown beard. He held one hand out, and on that hand sat a little white bird. And beneath all of this I had cut out the words in red felt: JESUS IS GENTLE. Now my banner may have been honest, but there was a rawness to it that was not reflected in the other banners, which had neat little Bible messages and obvious parental help had been called in. Thanks, Dad, for making that observation. He liked MY banner, because it was all me. He still referenced it, years later. "Jesus is gentle," he would laugh.

The man on top of the mountain looked down at us and I wondered if I was the only one who saw him. There was no contact between us and him. We did not shout up to him, he did not shout down to us. The next time I looked up, he was gone.

Where did he go?

Maybe 25 minutes later, he appeared from the other side of the road, the wilderness side, holding two huge plastic buckets full of water.

He stood talking with my mother, as my brother and I huddled in the back seat, limp rags of hot children, hovering over our sticky baby sister. He said something to my mother about there being a creek down in the woods, and it looked like we needed some water to cool off our engine.

He had filthy bare feet, and was skinny as a rail. His hair was matted together, long and wild. He stood over our smoking engine, pouring water in, with belches of hot steam coming out. He tinkered. He poured more water on. He disappeared again, and reappeared with more buckets of water. He walked over the hot gravel with bare feet, never wincing, or hopping across the burning heat like we did as kids. He strolled up the rocky path from the woods, as though his bare feet were actually hiking boots. He was acclimated. He tinkered some more. He poured some more water in. Jean passed out in her car seat, sticky fingers in her mouth.

Mum stood out there with the man from the mountain, and they chatted a bit, but we couldn't hear what they said. The hood was up, and Brendan and I were delirious with the need for food, water, a bath, sleep.

The man from the mountain brought the buckets to the back seat and let us put our hands in and scoop some out to drink. He smelled bad, but he had a really nice smile with friendly brown teeth. Brendan hid his face when the man smiled at us.

He had my mother get back into the car after a bit. The smoke had stopped pouring out of the engine. She tried the engine. It sputtered a bit, flipping over, grinding uncomfortably. The man from the mountain stood over to the side, encouraging her to keep turning it over, keep trying. Eventually - success. The car started again.

The long-haired man grinned at us, nodding with satisfaction, and my mother called out thanks to him, and we pulled off, back onto the road.

When I looked back for him, he was already gone.

I am still, to this day, not sure if any of it really happened.

He looked like my banner.

Sergio Leone presents:

Professor Serverus Snape's Sorcerer-Tastic, Muggalicious Mid-Summer Movie Quiz. Long anticipated. Questions are awesome, thought-provoking (your SECOND favorite Francis Ford Coppola movie? Love it!) - and the answers are even better. I was unable to participate in the last two quizzes because of everything that has been going on - but I gave this one a shot. I put my answers in the comments section over there, but true to form, I have put my answers below - in pictorial form. It's fun for me that way.

1) Second-favorite Stanley Kubrick film.

2) Most significant/important/interesting trend in movies over the past decade, for good or evil.

Things like Netflix. I really CHOOSE what movies I want to see in the theatres now. Other than that, I wait.

3) Bronco Billy (Clint Eastwood) or Buffalo Bill Cody (Paul Newman)?

4) Best Film of 1949.

Toss up between:

and

Jimmy Cagney's breakdown in the prison (and his command to director Raoul Walsh before filming that scene: "Just follow me ...") is an all-time high point for me in the history of movies. But boy, The Third Man!

5) Joseph Tura (Jack Benny) or Oscar Jaffe (John Barrymore)?

6) Has the hand-held shaky-cam directorial style become a visual cliché?

Yes. If used well, it's awesome. But if you don't know what you're doing and why then, well, you shouldn't do it.

7) What was the first foreign-language film you ever saw?

I believe it was

8) Charlie Chan (Warner Oland) or Mr. Moto (Peter Lorre)?

9) Favorite World War II drama (1950-1970).

10) Favorite animal movie star.

That dog had a quite a fruitful career.

11) Who or whatever is to blame, name an irresponsible moment in cinema.

12) Best Film of 1969.

My thoughts here. There are other movies from that year that I love more, but in terms of scope and accomplishment, I have to go with this one.

13) Name the last movie you saw theatrically, and also on DVD or Blu-ray.

Theatre:

DVD:

14) Second-favorite Robert Altman film.

It hurts me to choose. I know I'm in the minority but I am going with a movie I absolutely loved:

15) What is your favorite independent outlet for reading about movies, either online or in print?

So many come to mind! Kim Morgan, Sergio Leone, my entire blogroll basically.

16) Who wins? Angela Mao or Meiko Kaji? (Thanks, Peter!)

17) Mona Lisa Vito (Marisa Tomei) or Olive Neal (Jennifer Tilly)?

18) Favorite movie that features a carnival setting or sequence.

19) Best use of high-definition video on the big screen to date.

Hands down:

20) Favorite movie that is equal parts genre film and a deconstruction or consideration of that same genre.

21) Best Film of 1979.

I must go with:

which is, frankly, one of my favorite films of all time, but I am also forever haunted by:

so I feel I should mention it.

22) Most realistic and/or sincere depiction of small-town life in the movies.

Hmm.
Realistic:

it's chilling how this girl who is NOT a bad girl gets the reputation for being one and the scenes of gossiping neighbors and passive-aggressive shunning is really ahead of its time. More thoughts here.

Sincere:

May be a bit sentimentalized but I grew up in a town like that and have a lot of fondness for it - and although it is a cynical movie, the representation of small-town life and its regular rhythms is quite spot-on.

23) Best horror movie creature (non-giant division).

I am thankful for caller ID every time I see that movie. Tell that beeyotch I'm not in!

24) Second-favorite Francis Ford Coppola film.

25) Name a one-off movie that could have produced a franchise you would have wanted to see.

Although there is this, so perhaps there is hope.

26) Favorite sequence from a Brian De Palma film.

Opening sequence of

To quote within context: Untouchable.

27) Favorite moment in three-strip Technicolor.

28) Favorite Alan Smithee film. (Thanks, Peter!)

Ha!!

I was coming up blank but then I saw someone else's choice:

Love Richard Widmark. Good ol' Allen Smithee. What underrated work he does.

29) Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) or Morris Buttermaker (Walter Matthau)?

Oh what the hell, I'll take Crash.

30) Best post-Crimes and Misdemeanors Woody Allen film.

It is my favorite Woody Allen film in general.
Diane Keaton: "I'm gonna bust this case WIDE OPEN."
Woody Allen: "What the hell has happened to you?"

And then of course there's the homage to Lady from Shanghai that makes up the ending.

31) Best Film of 1999.

... although

is a sentimental favorite. Right, Bill? More thoughts here.

32) Favorite movie tag line.

It's gotta be:

33) Favorite B-movie western.

Not sure of the definition of B movie. How about:

34) Overall, the author best served by movie adaptations of her or his work.

Dashiell Hammett. Shakespeare. Stephen King. Argh.

35) Susan Vance (Katharine Hepburn) or Irene Bullock (Carole Lombard)?

Sorry, Susan! I love you, you ditzy heiress, but I have to go with:

36) Favorite musical cameo in a non-musical movie.

Great question. Cameo. Hmm. This doesn't really qualify as a cameo since they both are in the movie but here we go. Glorious.

37) Bruno (the character, if you haven’t seen the movie, or the film, if you have): subversive satire or purveyor of stereotyping?

I'm gonna go with neither.

38) Five film folks, living or deceased, you would love to meet. (Thanks, Rick!)

Sarah K., this is for you.

The new digs: Kitchen

Big, airy, light. I mean compared to the old place? There is no comparison.

The new digs: Bedroom

I mean it is nuts in there right now. It's basically a storage unit. But it gets a really nice breeze from the north, cool and soothing on my tired face. My old place had zero cross breeze. I love having AIR moving through my apartment of its own accord.

The new digs: My study-slash-library

Work in progress. Doors lead into the kitchen and the bedroom.

The new digs: Bathroom

Cute and retro.

The new digs: Hallway

This is on the day I moved in. Chaos. Nothing has changed.

Getting Normal: Howard Hawks to Peter Bogdanovich on "Bringing Up Baby"

From Who the Devil Made It: Conversations with Legendary Film Directors, by Peter Bogdanovich

By the end of the film, would you say that [Cary] Grant has abandoned his scientific life?

Well, let's say he mixed it. He had an awfully good time and if anyone had to choose between the two girls, they'd certainly choose Hepburn. We start off, as I said, with a complete caricature of the man and then reduce it to give him a feeling of normality because he certainly wouldn't have had any fun going through life the other way, would he? You've got a rather happy ending. You have to almost overdo it a little in the beginning and then he becomes more normal as the picture goes along, just by his association with the girl. Grant said, "I'm kind of dropping my characterization." I said, "No, she's having some influence on you. You're getting a little normal."

Obscured.

Lists are helpful to a writer.

My kind of office.

Hope asks:

"What country, friends, is this?"

I've reached the Camino Real.

Emily Dickinson's "certain slant of light".

Not a good sign.

Two big-necked guys.

Big Papi and cousin Mike (otherwise known as Sheila's effing guardian angel right now). I love how Ortiz is obviously on the verge of hysterics. He's like a little kid right there.

From the Boston Globe article "From Fenway to the fairway". Oh, and humorously - Jeff Donovan is mentioned in the article as well. You know, the ubiquitous Jeff.

The lower depths.

Moods.

Through the looking glass.

François Truffaut on Michel Simon:

Watching Michel Simon, moviegoers have always felt that they were not just watching an actor play a role, but watching the actor himself. His best roles were double roles: Boudu [in Boudu sauvé des eaux] is both a vagrant and a child discovering life; Pére Jules in Vigo's L'Atalante is a frustrated barge captain and a refined collector; Irwin Molyneux, the businessman of Drôle de Drame, secretly writes bloody novels; and to come back to [Jean] Renoir, Maurice Legrand in La Chienne is an insignificant and docile cashier but also, without knowing it, a great painter. I am persuaded that filmmakers entrusted Simon with these difficult double roles - which he always played magnificently even when the films were weak - because they felt that this great actor incarnated life and the secret of life. Jean Renoir was the first to make this truth evident. When Michel Simon acts for us, we penetrate to the core of the human heart.

-- From The Films In My Life, by François Truffaut

Tennessee Williams: 1981

"I'm very conscious of my decline in popularity, but I don't permit it to stop me because I have the example of so many playwrights before me. I know the dreadful notices Ibsen got. And O'Neill -- he had to die to make 'Moon' successful. And to me it has been providential to be an artist, a great act of providence that I was able to turn my borderline psychosis into creativity -- my sister Rose did not manage this. So I keep writing. I am sometimes pleased with what I do -- for me, that's enough."