The Sheila Variations

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The only tribute you need to read.

"I'll do anything you want."

RIP Dom DiMaggio, 1917 - 2009

Dom DiMaggio, Bobby Doerr and Johnny Pesky, going to throw out the first pitch, Game Two, World Series, 2004

Dominic DiMaggio, beloved by Red Sox fans, younger brother of Joe DiMaggio, passed away yesterday at the age of 92. A little pipsqueak in glasses, good friend of Ted Williams (the pictures of the two of them together look like a vaudeville comedy team, with the tall beanpole Williams towering over his teeny friend), it was maybe hard for DiMaggio to carve out a spot for himself ... with such an older brother and such a best friend! But once you start listening to what his contemporaries had to say about him, and once you look at his stats, you see: Uhm, no. Boy did well all on his own thankyouverymuch. A 34 consecutive-game hitting streak - the longest in the history of the ballclub. That was in 1949, the record remains unbroken today. In 1997, Nomar went on a 30-game hitting streak, but so far - 30 does not = 34. DiMaggio still holds it. Kind of awesome that his older brother Joe holds the all-time record in this particular stat, with a 56-game streak in 1941. Nice dovetail there.

In tribute to DiMaggio, here's a bit from David Halberstam's Teammates, The: A Portrait of a Friendship, a book about Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Dom DiMaggio and Bobby Doerr.

Rest in peace.

Dominic had always succeeded by overcoming adversity. Nothing ever came easily for him. If Bobby Doerr had been the natural, playing with instinctive grace and fluidity, then Dom was the one of the four teammates who had struggled against the greatest odds. The scouts, the men who judged these things with their cold, analytical eyes, and who spent their daytime hours tracking high school and American Legion ball, spotting the talents of boys and trying to project them into the men they would one day become, loved a Bobby Doerr, and more often than not they barely saw a Dom DiMaggio in the beginning, or, perhaps more accurately, they stopped for a moment because of the name, saw the size, and then kept looking. He just did not look like a ballplayer. Somehow he always looked much younger than he was ...

But he had talent, passion, and purpose, and these qualities would more than make up for those things that most scouts did not see at first. He would become in time what John Pesky called "the almost perfect ballplayer: so smart and so talented. McCarthy loved him because he never made a mistake. He always did everything right. I will never understand why he is not in Cooperstown."

More from Teammates, The: A Portrait of a Friendship, about DiMaggio's start:

He also got lucky in that Lefty O'Doul was, Dominic later decided, the best hitting coach he had ever seen. Lefty had already worked with Joe, getting him to pull the ball more, because he knew that in any number of big league parks, including Yankee Stadium, the left-centerfield fences fell away sharply. In Yankee Stadium it was known as Death Valley, and you coul dlose home runs there all too easily.

It did not take long for O'Doul, a man with a lifetime .349 batting average in the majors, to turn Dominic around as a hitter. Because he was so small Dominic had thought he needed to put all his weight into the ball when he swung. Thus, without realizing it, he tended to lunge at the ball. O'Doul quickly taught him that that was the wrong way to go, and probably saved his major league career in the process. By lunging, O'Doul explained, he was actually subtracting his weight from his swing, and thereby reducing its power. Many other managers would have looked at Dominic and settled for what he could do for them on defense in the outfield; they would not have cared whether or not he could hit and what that meant to his career. But O'Doul saw the passion and the hunger and was willing to invest his time in him.

What O'Doul taught him was that a hitter's power came from his legs, his hips, and his butt. What Dom was to do was wait on the pitch, keeping his body still, and then at the last split second start his swing, taking a very small step into it. O'Doul was very patient with him, and he would later tell others that Dominic was the ideal pupil, perhaps the easiest player to coach he had ever dealt with. "I'll do anything you want," the rookie told him, and whatever O'Doul suggested, Dominic worked on. What also helped was some early film of brother Joe, who by then was with the Yankees, his career soaring. He had come to a Seals workout and took batting practice with them, and a friend used an early movie camera to take some footage of him. And there it was on film, just as Lefty had said it should be: Joe poised at bat, head and body not moving at all until the final split second, when he began his swing; then every part of his body, in perfect coordination, seemed to lever the bat into the ball. Gradually Dominic began to adjust, to hold back and wait. It took about three weeks for him to get it. One of the hard parts was to keep his butt still, but Lefty was very good - he would stand near Dominic in the batting cage, and when Dominic moved his butt early, Lefty would jab at it with a fungo bat.

Dominic got it down one day early in the season in Coalinga, a small town in central California where the Seals were playing an exhibition game. It was a little town with a little ballfield, short fences, and everyone on the Seals was hitting the ball over the fence in practice. Lefty had asked Dominic to take batting practice with the regulars that day because he wanted to work with him a bit more. And suddenly Dominic too started hitting the ball over the fence. That of itself was not that impressive - everyone else was. But Dominic knew that he was hitting the ball much harder, that for the first time he was fusing all his strength into his swing, just as Lefty had ordered. He went over to O'Doul after practice and told him, "Lefty, I've got it now. I've finally got it."

Yup, Dom. You've got it.

You will be missed.

Rest in peace, Maurice Jarre

Academy-Award winning composer Maurice Jarre died this past weekend at the age of 82. NY Times obit here. A nice tribute here.

Known mainly for his collaboration with David Lean, and - oh yeah - some of the greatest scores of all time from that collaboration (Lawrence of Arabia, Dr. Zhivago, to name only a couple) - he worked for decades, being nominated for an Oscar nine times. He had fruitful collaborations with other directors, Peter Weir included (he scored Fearless, Witness, Year of Living Dangerously - and has said that Weir gave him the opportunity, with Witness, to do an entirely electronic score, something brand new for Jarre - and Jarre, always up for the challenge, tackled it with a relish. He was that kind of collaborator, and the eerie terrifying quality of the music in Witness adds so much to the feel of that film). You only need to hear just a couple bars of his most famous scores to have your head fill with images, and feelings, and associations - which is just extraordinary, because so much of music in movies is, well, forgettable. Jarre created true themes. And he was able to, at least with Lean's stuff, enhance what was already there, deepen it, make it work on an almost subconscious level. The epic film needs a composer like Jarre, who does not, through his music, just tell us what we already see. He makes it personal. And yet he also elevates. It's majestic, what he does. (Clip of Lawrence of Arabia below).

In 2007, I received a review copy of a DVD entitled Maurice Jarre: A Tribute to David Lean. The movie shows, in its entirety, a 1992 tribute concert given in honor of David Lean who had passed away a couple of months prior. The evening was made up of themes from four of Maurice Jarre's collaborations with David Lean (Lawrence of Arabia, Dr. Zhivago, Ryan's Daughter and Passage to India), and Jarre himself was conductor (the screenshot at the top of this post is from that concert). Jarre was visibly moved at some points during the concert, his friend and greatest collaborator had just passed, and the feeling of power and grief and appreciation in that concert hall is palpable. It's also great to hear that music live, with a full orchestra.

There is a terrific interview with Maurice Jarre included in the DVD, where he talks about his career and about his working relationship with Lean.

Here is my review of Maurice Jarre: A Tribute to David Lean.

My favorite anecdotes shared by Maurice Jarre are included in the review. (And I must reiterate what I said in my review: "You have to give me the missing monkeys with your music" is one of the best things said by a director to anyone, ever.)

Maurice Jarre will be sorely missed.

At least we still have those sweeping scores.

Pop in Lawrence of Arabia tonight, or Dr. Zhivago, or any one of the many, many, many MANY films he scored, in honor of a brilliant man, one of the greatest composers the industry has ever known. His music is in us - those notes, and the associations they bring.

Rest in peace.

"Maybe this time, I'll be lucky. Maybe this time he'll stay."

My piece on Natasha Richardson as Sally Bowles in Cabaret on Broadway is up at House Next Door.

One of the best live performances I have ever seen.

RIP Horton Foote

Great American playwright and Academy-Award winning screenwriter Horton Foote has died.

Ben Brantley writes, in his lovely appreciation of Foote's work, that

"[Foote] achieves his deepest effects by indirection and accretion of details, but the words are characteristic of his harsh sentimentality. He infused his characters with warm blood from his own, empathetic heart. But he also looked upon these same people with a cold and ruthless eye.

I think he loved all his characters — even the silly, mean and mercenary ones (of which there are many) — but he was too honest to let any of them off the hook. That means that each, on some level, was born to realize that to be alive is to be alone in the dark.

Brantley's article brought me to tears. Don't miss it.

Here are two posts I wrote about Foote:

One about his one-act play "The Old Beginning".

One about his one-act play (one of my favorites of his) "The Blind Date".

Ted has two tributes up:

Our tender sharp-eared cultural chronicler

Deep wells

Ted writes:

I am realizing that this book reminds me of the plays of Horton Foote, but particularly his The Habitation of Dragons so redolent is it of a single moment of tragedy in a family's life. Foote writes in an unfancy American idiom of the dramas that buffet ordinary folk in early 20th century small town Texas, rather than Ireland. His words aren't inherently dramatic, they just contain the simple moments of lives unadorned, but moment builds upon moment until his characters are moved on a mammoth current of action that, in the case of Habitation of Dragons, is heart-rending. Foote is best known for the screenplays of Tender Mercies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Trip to Bountiful. He has written for the American theater from its heyday in the 1950s and is, I believe, still writing. I have directed and acted in a couple of his plays. I consider them required reading.

Horton Foote was 92. He was still working, up till the time of his death. The lights of Broadway were dimmed last night in his honor.

His voice will be missed.

RIP Eartha Kitt

Eartha Kitt, Micheál MacLíammóir, Orson Welles

I'm proud of the fact that two of her songs are on my Top 25 Most Played on my iPod. Nobody like her. NOBODY.

My parents saw her a couple years ago at the Newport Jazz Festival. She wasn't a day over 156 years old.

Also, Mitchell saw her perform and she, at one point, cuddled up on his lap. I adore her.

My two favorites of hers are not her most famous, perhaps, and I had a hard time finding a clip of her performing them on Youtube. But if you don't know them, do yourself a favor and check out her renditions of "Beale St. Blues" and "A Woman Wouldn't Be a Woman". I'd call them two of the best makeout songs of all time, first of all. And again: there's just no one like her. Nobody else would make the choices she makes ... they are so completely hers ... and she makes it all work. Through commitment and specificity.

God, I loved her.

Clip below (insanely weird. The set, the costume, the fact that there is no closeup of her until more than halfway through ... I MISS television like that - it's like a drug trip or a bad dream) ... of her singing "I'm Just an Old-Fashioned Girl".

Watch her gesture and her expression when she sings the words "hers and hers". That's specific. And the big smile at the end kills me. Because she lets us know that she's in on the joke. The joke is on us. Lovely.

We all know her heart belonged to Daddy, but there's a space in my heart reserved for her.

Rest in peace, Eartha. You were one of a kind.

Rest in peace, Bettie Page

Obituary here.

A saucy vivacious beauty who always seemed more comfortable in outdoors shots than interiors, Bettie Page was photographed in all manner of compromising (literally) positions, yet with such a verve and humor that it never seemed she was being taken advantage of. They're campy photos. Fun. She's fearless. You don't look at those photos and worry about her. I like her best when she's rolling in the grass in a leopard skin bathing suit, or cavorting on the beach, digging her toes into the sand.

She walked away from her career as an S&M pinup girl after a brou-haha involving censorship, and she also found God, and it just didn't seem right for her to pose in that manner anymore. But she never downtalked or denigrated her former self (unlike some other performers I can think of. Dear Madge, I'm looking at you. I liked you BETTER in your former dirty-girl incarnation, it was way more honest and forthright than the bad-British-accented persona you have adopted now). She also wasn't afraid to say that she had no idea what people found so erotic in photos of her tied up, it didn't appeal to her at all, but, as always, she did so in a way that didn't alienate her main fan base. Page apparently was a devoted correspondent to her many fans, sending them thank you letters for remembering her so fondly. She did not trash her fans for liking the dirty photos she had taken. She knew that, in general, her fans "got it". So they were turned on by her photos. Isn't sexual desire a natural part of life? It seemed to me that her general attitude towards all of that was, "Well, I'm happy to help out in any way I can!"

Page said once, in a recent interview, that if she could do it all over again, she would probably join a nudist colony. She flat out just felt more comfortable nude than clothed. There was nothing dirty about it for her. Ever.

I have a book of her photographs, edited by pioneer photographer Bunny Yaeger, and I just looked through them this morning, in tribute to Ms. Page. The black bangs, the arched back, the naughty grin ... These are dirty photos, make no mistake about it, but as anyone who enjoys sex knows - there's something innocent about sex as well. It's like playing. It's like being free, going into the dreamworld where you can be anyone you want to be. She captures that.

She did not have a happy life. She was institutionalized for a time, she had multiple mental problems, and ended up poverty-struck, living off of Social Security checks. Despite this, she had a loyal group of fans who still loved her, keeping the flame alive, and she lived long enough to see the Bettie Page Renaissance we are living in right now. Amazingly enough, even when the film The Notorious Bettie Page came out, with the wonderful Gretchen Mol in the lead role, Page refused to be photographed at any of the events surrounding the film. She loved the film, she supported its making ... but she had her mind on her fans, and what it would do to them to see her as an 80-something year old woman. She wanted the fantasy to remain intact for them.

She said “I want to be remembered as I was when I was young and in my golden times. I want to be remembered as a woman who changed people’s perspectives concerning nudity in its natural form.”

The meaning of generosity.

Rest in peace, Ms. Page.

Rest in peace, Odetta

Folk singer and civil rights activist Odetta is dead at 77. Obituary here.

It's strange. I feel like a part of my own personal history has left the earth, even though I was barely born at the time she was making her big impact. But it trickled down. My mother plays the guitar, and she used to play Odetta songs all the time when we were growing up. We had her records in the house, beat up, scratchy, and earthy as hell. You could feel the energy of the entire world behind those songs. I knew that Odetta really meant something, as a little kid, although I wasn't sure what. I just knew that my parents loved her, and that we heard her music all the time.

Mitchell went to go see Odetta a couple of years ago at the Old Town School of Folk Music and his stories are wonderful. I will re-tell them here, but I hope he can show up today and tell them himself. It was a rainy day and he went to the concert by himself. There weren't that many people there, folks sitting politely at little tables, clapping, but it wasn't a huge crowd. Odetta, a woman nearly 80 years old, sat up on that stage, glasses perched on her nose, so comfortable in her skin that you felt like you were in the presence of something divine, and sang through all her old songs.

I cannot remember the song in question - was it "This Little Light of Mine", Mitchell? Please remind me. I am pretty sure it was something Christian. Anyway, Odetta looked out at the 20 odd people in her audience and said, "We're going to do this one together ..." She was requiring participation. So there was Mitchell, the Jew, sitting by himself, singing at the top of his lungs about the glory of Christ, as Odetta had requested. I am laughing and crying right now. Mitchell was having the time of his life. But the crowd was small enough that people got shy, people weren't really participating. It was a hesitant group. Mitchell found himself the only one singing along. But Mitchell was like, "What, Odetta's gonna ask me to do something and I'm gonna say No? I will TOTALLY obey Odetta, even if she's making me sing about being washed in the blood of Jesus ... I'm IN. IT'S ODETTA, PEOPLE, get your hands together!"

Odetta stopped the song, and gently asked people again for their participation. She wasn't going to go on if everyone wasn't involved. Fearless, beautiful, inclusive. This time, it worked. The small crowd sitting in that small theatre on that rainy day all joined in, clapping and singing along.

It is true, a "force of nature" was Odetta. What a life. Here's a great photo.

I miss her already.

Newlyweds

20 some-odd years ago, I ripped a page out of some magazine which had a photo of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward on it. It's a photo of them when they were newlyweds. I think I was sitting in a dentist's waiting office when I saw the photo and I grabbed it then and there. I still have it. It is STILL taped to the inside of my closet door - and has been, in whatever apartment I live in, wherever I have hung my hat over the years ... It's just an image I adore, there is something indefinable about it ... calming, logical, comfortable ... I just like the two of them so much, too ... so this obviously staged yet still somehow natural and breezy morning-at-home shot has a feel of reality to it, of a caught moment.

I am shocked I was able to find it online - it took some digging, but there it was.

I'm working on a larger tribute piece for Paul Newman right now - for this actor who will be sorely missed - not just by me, but - judging from the 50 pages of comments at the BBC site - from fans around the world. He was truly loved.

Rest in peace. And my thoughts go to his wife, his kids, his friends, his colleagues ... everyone who knew him.

And so let's look back at them then ... just married ... two young actors starting out together.

I have looked at this photo so often and so deeply that I feel I can smell the eggs he is cooking. I want her pants. I love that kitchen. The photo still speaks to me. It's not static. It's a world. It's alive. I can hear the clatter of the pan of the stove. I can feel the affection between them, yet look at how they are separated - doing different things. It's an atypical kind of shot ... rather remarkable. Not just because it's him who is cooking ... but just the attitudes of both of them ... their connection and yet their separate-ness.

It's one of those photos that cajoles you to join it ... and then makes you envious that you are not there ...

And, for me, it keeps telling a story. Maybe that's why I like to have it around.

Recently, Paul Newman was asked the secret to his long marriage. He gave what I consider to be the best answer I have ever heard on that particular topic: "Laughter and lust."

Interesting that the word "love" didn't show up at all. Laughter and lust. My kind of guy.

Rest in peace.

RIP Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

It was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good. Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either, but right through every human heart, and through all human hearts.

-- Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Gulag Archipelago

NY Times obit here. Here's the obit in The Irish Times. Here is the text of the famous speech he gave at Harvard in 1978 (a choice quote: "But should someone ask me whether I would indicate the West such as it is today as a model to my country, frankly I would have to answer negatively. No, I could not recommend your society in its present state as an ideal for the transformation of ours. Through intense suffering our country has now achieved a spiritual development of such intensity that the Western system in its present state of spiritual exhaustion does not look attractive. Even those characteristics of your life which I have just mentioned are extremely saddening."

Let's not simplify the man, or make him less complex. He was a posterboy for no one. Infuriating, independent, beat of his own drummer, fearless. God.

Here's a lengthy article in Time.

And I've been waiting for the inevitable: Christopher Hitchens' piece, which opens with:

Every now and then it happens. The state or the system encounters an individual who, bafflingly, maddeningly, absurdly, cannot be broken. Should they manage to survive, such heroes have a good chance of outliving the state or the system that so grossly underestimated them. Examples are rather precious and relatively few, and they include Nelson Mandela refusing an offer to be released from jail (unless and until all other political detainees were also freed) and Alexander Solzhenitsyn having to be deported from his country of birth against his will, even though he had become—and had been before—a prisoner there.

More:

But it seems that Solzhenitsyn did have a worry or a dread, not that he himself would be harmed but that none of his work would ever see print. Nonetheless—and this is the point to which I call your attention—he kept on writing. The Communist Party's goons could have torn it up or confiscated or burned it—as they did sometimes—but he continued putting it down on paper and keeping a bottom drawer filled for posterity. This is a kind of fortitude for which we do not have any facile name. The simplest way of phrasing it is to say that Solzhenitsyn lived "as if." Barely deigning to notice the sniggering, pick-nose bullies who followed him and harassed him, he carried on "as if" he were a free citizen, "as if" he had the right to study his own country's history, "as if" there were such a thing as human dignity.

The Vaclav Havel rule of living in a totalitarian society. Just live "as if" you were free.

I just happened to be up now - late for me - when the news came in. I have no words. A truly great man. (I've been adding links to this post since I heard the news at around 1 am this morning).

Here's an excerpt from his Gulag Archipelago, one of the most important books of the 20th century.

Shaking my head. Strange. How it feels like a personal loss.

The world was a better place, a more honorable place, a place where bravery was possible, and where truth was always louder than lies ... because he was in it.

He won the Nobel Prize in 1970, and did not attend the ceremony for fear that the Russians would retaliate by depriving him of his Russian citizenship. As much as he despised the totalitarian regime in Russia, he didn't want to be cut off to that degree. He had family in Russia, a wife, a child on the way. So he did not attend the ceremony. Instead he sent a speech that was read at the banquet. Here is the full text. He closes with:

And I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the members of the Swedish Academy for the enormous support their choice in 1970 has given my works as a writer. I venture to thank them on behalf of that vast unofficial Russia which is prohibited from expressing itself aloud, which is persecuted both for writing books and even for reading them. The Academy have heard for this decision of theirs many reproaches implying that such a prize has served political interests. But these are the shouts of raucous loudmouths who know of no other interests. We all know that an artist's work cannot be contained within the wretched dimension of politics. For this dimension cannot hold the whole of our life and we must not restrain our social consciousness within its bounds.

Photo of Solzhenitsyn in 1946 in the gulag.

Rest in peace. No more words.

Carlin's last interview

It's a goldmine.

I love the bit about Arthur Koestler.

And I love his idea for "files" - I want to look through his files!! - but I also want to take that idea on myself.

I loved this, too:

So, those qualities of being alone like that fostered in me a need for adult approval and attention. Now they say that it's kind of a common cliché that comedians just want attention. But it's an element that's very important. The job is called "look at me." That's the name of this job. “Look at me. Ain't I smart? Ain't I cute? Ain't I clever?

I needed to be—not the center of attention—but I needed to be able to attract attention when I wanted it, through my stunts and my fooling around physically with faces or postures or voices I would do. Then it became funny the things I would say, and I became more of a wit than simply a mimic and a clown. And so, those things were all important in this. The fact that I didn’t finish school left me with a lifelong need to prove that I’m smart, prove it to myself, maybe to the world. “Ain't I smart, ain't I cute, ain't I clever.” “Listen to me, listen to what I got to say.” So, those things are important elements in the drive behind all of this.

It makes some people embarrassed to hear a person admit so openly that what he needs is attention. It seems to confirm everything they hated about the school show-off, now transferred to entertainers and performers who have the balls to admit that why they do it is they like to be looked at.

But Carlin's honesty there reminds me of a wonderful anecdote told by Dustin Hoffman:

At the end of filming Marathon Man, there was a party. Laurence Olivier was quite ill. The shooting had been intense, and everyone was relieved it was over. Hoffman never quite got over being in awe of Olivier, despite their polar opposite ways of working ("My dear boy, why don't you try just acting?") - and he was very moved by the thought of Olivier, this old ill man, turning in such a great performance. It is what he does. Hoffman was sitting with Olivier at the party, and Olivier said, out of the blue, "Do you know why I do this?" (Meaning: acting). Hoffman shook his head No. Olivier got up, which was a bit of a struggle for him, he was quite weak, and leaned over to Hoffman, putting his face right up against Hoffman's - and saying over and over and over, "Look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me ..."

Hoffman was tremendously moved. Perhaps you might expect that Olivier would say that he "did it" because he believed in the grand tradition of theatre and storytelling, or that he was carrying on the torch from Richard Burbage and wanted to interpret the classics to a new audience, or that he believed in the craft itself, and the nobility of it. All valid reasons, too, to "do" something.

But no. For Olivier it all boiled down to: "Look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me ..."

Bless him (and bless Carlin) for being courageous enough to just say it.

Here's the whole interview with Carlin.

"In baseball, you make an error! Whooops!"

Rest in peace, George Carlin. I loved his bit on the differences between football and baseball. See below. What a loss. An American classic.

Rest in peace, Cyd Charisse

Legendary dancer Cyd Charisse has died. She was 86.

Here is a not-to-be-missed tribute - it made me cry. In reference to her dance number in Singin' In the Rain (clip below), Dan Callahan writes:

First, we see her shapely foot in close-up. Then, the camera moves up her leg, and moves, and moves, and moves. This is a woman with legs for days, and after we finally get to her torso, the camera moves up, and we see that she has a face that seems to be hard and humid with insatiable sexual appetite. Charisse was only five foot seven, but the incredible length of her legs and arms made her seem like an Amazon, a creature from another world.

And here he is on a moment in The Band Wagon (clip below as well):

When the music speeds up, we’re in a kind of no man’s land: I really don’t know how Charisse does what she does here. Part of the magic is her technical skill, of course, but a huge part of it comes from her, and it has to do with a kind of taunting yet witty sexuality that actually makes the icy Astaire look randy in response. At the height of their pulsating, “are we being serious?” interplay, Charisse extends her epic legs out to Astaire on five horn blasts: one, two, three, four, five, and on the fifth beat she turns. Then, one, two, three, four, five, and on that crucial fifth beat, she flings her whole upper body backwards to the rhythm. That’s math, maybe, or dance. But the way that she throws her head back on that second beat of five is quite possibly the most thrilling single moment I’ve ever seen in a movie.

Please go read the whole thing.

Sniff.

Obit here. I loved this quote from the obit:

Looking back on her work with Kelly and Astaire during a 2002 interview in The New York Times, Ms. Charisse said that her husband, Mr. Martin, always knew whom she had been dancing with. “If I was black and blue,” she said, “it was Gene. And if it was Fred, I didn’t have a scratch.”

Singin' in the Rain

From The Band Wagon.

Nobody like her. Whatever is going on in this number with her - it is not just the steps - and she always said that herself, she knew dance was more than choreography. She's embodying something - an archetype, a mood, an energy ... and it is also about the relationship with her partner - whoever it was at the time. Watch how they relate there. How she crooks her body and stomps towards him, as he backs up ... perfectly in unison, a perfect picture. Brilliant! She is inhabiting something here ... she's acting, in that dream-space of the musical number. You wouldn't get goosebumps otherwise. And it sure doesn't hurt that she can dance like that as well. Holy crap.

David Thomson writes of Cyd Charisse in his Biographical Dictionary of Film:

Exceptionally tall, austere in features but elegant in the legs, she is perhaps the greatest female movie dancer. Her acting is like the songs in Marx Brothers films, though there were attempts to make the public accept her in straight parts ... But in the nightclub dance in Party Girl and all her dancing in Silk Stockings she is as sensual and moving as most actresses have managed to be with words. In Silk Stockings, her rapturous introduction to expensive lingerie conveys emotions denied to her as an actress; while in Party Girl her dancing discloses the scarlet woman invisible in the ostensibly dramatic moments.

Rest in peace.

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack. I'll miss knowing he's around. He was one of the old guard. One of those old guys - like Redford, Beatty, Nicholson - who re-made the Hollywood studio system into their own image. Pollack's films are some of the most successful of all time.

A graduate of the Neighborhood Playhouse, and Sanford Meisner's teaching, Pollack always brought that sense of moment-to-moment unpredictable reality to his films (and to his acting, let's not forget) that is such a trademark of "the Meisner technique". You can see it at work. Acting is sometimes (sometimes!) just as simple as listening and talking. That was what Meisner was all about - training actors how to do that, and how to do it in the moment.

While some of his films did nothing for me (Sabrina (correction), Out of Africa) - there are others that I count as dearest to my heart. Movies I adore, and can watch repeatedly. I love Absence of Malice. I love They Shoot Horses, Don't They?. I love Tootsie. And yes, I love The Way We Were - even in its too-obvious set-up of opposing viewpoints mixed with romance. I just like the details of the performances, frankly, and that, in my view, is what Sydney Pollack was best at capturing. The way Bill Murray's character is set up and framed in Tootsie - I mean, that's what I'm talking about. Bill Murray had to perform it, and he did so brilliantly - but it's Pollack's sensibility that really highlighted him, and Murray is so important to the success of that film (even though he's only in a couple of scenes). He becomes crucial. Pollack always understood details like that. Kim has posted the clip from Tootsie with the great scene between Dustin Hoffman and Sydney Pollack as his exasperated pissed-off at-the-end-of-his-ropes agent. There's not a moment there that isn't real and also funny. So so good. "Nobody wants to pay money to watch a play about people living next to chemical waste! If they want to see that, they can go to New Jersey!"

Speaking of his acting: his performance in Husbands and Wives is a comedic tour de force. I LOVE it. There are certain performances which are so meaty ... so ... rich ... that I feel like I could almost love being at a Renaissance Fair so that I could eat the performance with my bare hands, licking my chops. It's THAT good. That's what his performance does for me in Husbands and Wives. It is SO slimy, so unself-aware - like: suddenly that guy is talking about yoga and sprouts and stupid TV movies and how fun they are? Does he realize how ridiculous he seems? Well, no, he doesn't. Because he is the kind of guy who can justify ANY behavior in himself, because he is always right. And that girl he dates, that ridiculous girl (I would say that her performance is a slam-dunk "10 minute Oscar" ... "I just adore cous cous!" "Knowing your astrological sign is CRUCIAL . I cannot stress this enough!!") Watching Sydney Pollack drag his new-age hippie girlfriend out of the party of snotty intellectuals is one of the funniest and most embarrassing scenes I have ever seen - and she fights him as though it's the final scene in Deer Hunter. Like - it is life or death. She is in the jungle in 'Nam, as far as she's concerned, not an upscale driveway in Westchester. Pollack is so so funny here, so exasperated and mortified ... talking to himself at the wheel of his car, "What am I doing? I gotta be crazy - what am I DOING?" His only moment of real self-awareness.

I just love his performance in Husbands and Wives - it's an all-time favorite of mine from Woody Allen's films, in general.

Seriously. It's so funny and so detailed and so alive that I want to eat the damn thing with my hands.

I will miss knowing he's around. I love that old guard.

Knowing that he's gone makes me miss Mitchell, who is sailing along the African coast on a cruise ship as we speak. I want to talk with him about Sydney Pollack. We always just loved him so much.

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack. And thank you thank you thank you.

Rest in peace, Charlton Heston

My brother Brendan and I watched The Ten Commandments on the night before Easter, and expressed amazement, for the 100th time, how incredible Heston is, how inevitable. I mean, how silly could that entire undertaking have been? Come to think of it, there is something supremely silly about Edward G. Robinson running around in a toga. It's awesome! But even today, lulled to sleep by CGI effects, there is something stunning and terrifying about the Red Sea parting, well done! - but none of it would matter a whit if it weren't for Heston's commanding (pun) performance. He had no fear. He embodied courage, and was able to portray it larger than life. This is something NO actors have today - NONE - it is no longer the "style" of acting, and no longer in vogue. And that's fine. Things don't have to stay the same forever. But at least we could look back at one of the greats and say, "Ah. There. That is how it was done. That is how it should have been done." His performances do not date themselves. I also liked him very much in the otherwise somewhat ridiculous Any Given Sunday. Seeing him show up in that plush skybox, with his cynical mutterings, and leering undeniable gravitas - was like suddenly seeing reality show up in that over-produced mess. And watching Cameron Diaz try to act with the man was like watching a flea try to compete with a gorilla. Nice shot, dear. Try again. She wasn't bad in that movie, she was perfectly cast, I thought ... but Heston walking in that room made everyone around him seem transparent, insubstantial.

When Charlton Heston first announced that he had the onset of Alzheimer's, an outpouring of tributes emerged. A wonderful thing - I do hope he read them, and got a chance to understand, before the disease got his brain, how much he still meant to so many.

The most stunning tribute of all, it takes my breath away to this day, is Richard Dreyfuss' tribute. He wrote it for National Review - obviously a publication with political leanings that has nothing to do with who Richard Dreyfuss is, and how he votes. But, as I have said repeatedly on my blog, as I have chased people away from my site who seem constitutionally unable to play by my rules, as I have stated in my comment policy: when you are dealing with art, and the appreciation thereof, politics must take a backseat. At least if you want to have a worthwhile conversation. And then there are those who say, "I liked Charlton Heston's acting BECAUSE of his politics" and that is just as idiotic. His work transcends. He was an actor, first and foremost, a "great pretender". So talk about his work, please - there is plenty there to keep us chatting for 100 years at least! Nobody "owns" Charlton Heston. Nobody "owns" John Wayne. The most flaming liberal in the world could appreciate and love Red River, and those who put politics at the forefront are completely missing the point. What we are talking about here is love. And these actors who touch us, who get beneath our skins, who create something indelible ... transcend all of that. The editors at National Review knew that, and so did Richard Dreyfuss.

His tribute of Charlton Heston is what I first ran to, today, when I heard the news that Charlton Heston had passed away. Bless Dreyfuss for putting it so eloquently into print.

And rest in peace, great American icon. You will not be forgotten.

He’s Not Moses, but He’s Something Else
My tribute to Charlton Heston.

By Richard Dreyfuss

I am shy around movie stars. True, if odd. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and all I can think to say is I loved you in ... So it is with Charlton Heston.

In his presence I seem to nod idiotically like one of these doggies in the back of rear windows of cars. He always tries to make my agonies a bit smaller since he is such a gentleman. We've talked about children and gun control but usually it's hopeless and I just end up trying not to stare.

It's a serious and silly business, acting. Grown people running around pretending the clothes they're wearing are their own, pretending the words they're saying are their own, pretending that they're not pretending. That stuff can really make you feel silly if you're not careful. A thousand times more silly if you're wearing a toga or staring offstage at a burning bush that isn't there. But as silly as it might be at times, acting has awesome power to mirror our reality and give shape to our best and most noble pictures of ourselves.

When I was a kid and yearning to act, there were scads of actors whose work I admired and tried to emulate: (Spencer) Tracy and (Charles) Laughton, Paul Muni, Irene Dunne, and Jimmy Cagney. There were also Errol Flynn and John Wayne and Charlton Heston.

I thought, being cocky, that I could be something like Tracy, something like Cagney, something like Laughton (well maybe not Laughton). I watched them all. I knew I would never be as sexy as Flynn, never as heroic as Wayne, never as mythic as Heston. I never thought for a minute I could be like Heston.

There are some performances that could not possibly be acted by anyone other than who played them. Even though we hear stories about (Ronald) Reagan being cast in Casablanca, we know in our gut it just couldn't be right, couldn't happen. God gave Bogart the role. God gave John Wayne Red River. And God cast Charlton Heston as Moses. And Ben Hur. God I think cast Heston as God, because (if I'm not mistaken) his voice is the voice of God in the Ten Commandments, playing against himself. They say Cecil B. DeMille did the voice, but it sounds like Heston to me. I believe it anyway. Makes a better story.

Millions of Jewish kids grew up with the confusion that A) Charlton Heston was Moses B) Charlton Heston was not Jewish. I believe that films like Ben Hur were conceived because Heston was there to make them. He allowed these stories to be told because he was there to play the parts. Ben Hur starring Robert Montgomery. (Please.) Tyrone Power as Moses. (I don't think so.) With all due respect, and I have loads of that, Heston is inescapable. He was necessary. There would be no Chariot Race worth its salt without him. I would never watch Heston on TV because he was too big. It would be like watching the promos to the Incredible Hulk, with the giant bursting through his shirt. He was too big for television. TV is small, it's manageable, it's less. Heston was almost too big for the 20th century, let alone TV. But in the darkened mysterioso of the movie theatre, Charlton Heston was "just right."

When I saw Charlton Heston as a kid, he took me far, far away, to places few actors could go. The only other American actor so comfortable outside of this era was Wayne, and Heston could time travel farther. Both held the magical alchemy that made me forget the commonplace of here and now completely. John Wayne allowed us into our American past. Heston, because of his perfectly male face, the depth of his voice, the measured almost antique rhythm of his speech, the oddly innocent commitment that allowed him to dive without looking into the role, took me farther, before the common era, as they say.

Somehow he was able to cut the myriad strings that connect us to our current lives, so he could inhabit our imagined past and imagined future so perfectly. So well did he do this that his discomfort was obvious when he played in the Now (actually, make that my discomfort, because he more than likely had a ball in the rare instances when he played something current). If it wasn't the past it was the future. I could never have gotten to Ancient Rome without him, nor Ape City.

Is so and so a great actor? A good actor? A bad actor? Speaking as an expert it's a stupid question. The actor either gets you to where you have to go, or not. Heston did; priceless. He could portray greatness, which is no longer an artistic goal; he could portray a grandeur that was so satisfying. What he was able to personify so perfectly for us was a vision of ourselves called heroic. Is this out of favor? Out of step? Antique? Yes, antique as in gorgeous, incredibly valuable, and not produced anymore but this is a critique of the world, not him (hopefully we will one day come back to all that).

As someone who has seen Ben Hur two million times I am totally grateful.

Self-consciousness is the anticipation of being silly and often is the spoiler for many actors. Charlton Heston had no such problem. He would dive into the story with what I can only call measured abandon and make me believe. And it was fun watching him.

It has become fashionable to characterize his politics; almost as if his politics were a separate thing, like Diana's popularity. People are either defensive or patronizing (if not contemptuous). I can only say I wish all the liberals and all the conservatives I knew had the class and forbearance he has. Would I be as patient or serene when so many had showed me such contempt, or tried to make me feel stupid or small? I doubt it, truly I do. This is dignity, simply and completely. A much more important quality than political passion at the end of the day, and far more lacking, don't you think?

It is a terrible, terrible, terrible thing that Charlton Heston is going through this (earlier this month, Heston announced he had been diagnosed with symptoms consistent with Alzheimer's disease), but I confess that there is a part of my heart where I am grateful for the opportunity to let him know what he's meant to me.

It will make him smile that I'm writing this on National Review's website (among other publications). Come to think of it, it is kind of funny.

And here's a nice tribute from The Onion's AV Club. I particularly liked this part:

Above all, Heston was an actor. His performances never let viewers forget this. He had little use for subtlety but a great flair for operatic emotions. Few have equaled him for this. Heston was already a man out of time in an era that had begun to favor the nuance of Method performers but he had a gift for command that made the shift in fashion seem irrelevant, if not wrongheaded. Other actors could have cursed the skies and damned mankind for destroying itself at the end of Planet Of The Apes. But try to picture anyone else bringing Heston's ferocity and conviction to the moment and you'll probably draw a blank.

Amen. Rest in peace.

Richard Widmark: tributes

A terrific in-depth obituary in The Washington Post.

David Thomson had this to say about Widmark in his awesome The New Biographical Dictionary of Film:

Widmark came into movies a little later than most male stars, already in his early thirties. But that debut is still haunting, no matter that Widmark was later turned into an authentic hero, suntanned, laconic, and grudgingly aligning himself with proper causes.

Educated at Lake Forest College, he worked there as a teacher, and as a stage and radio actor, befor being cast as Tommy Udo in Kiss of Death (47, Henry Hathaway). The sadism of that character, the fearful laugh, the skull showing through drawn skin, and the surely conscious evocation of a concentration camp degenerate established Widmark as the most frightening person on the screen. The glee in the performance may even have shocked Widmark himself. It made Kiss of Death untypical of Fox or Hathaway. The studio kept him on a leash, and mixed more conventional heavies with nerve-strained heroes, as if to imply that Tommy Udo was the result of overwork: as the spoiled-child owner of Road House (48, Jean Negulesco); the gangster in The Street With No Name (48, William Keighley); menacing Gregory Peck in Yellow Sky (48, William Wellman); a boy's best friend in Down To The Sea in Ships (49, Hathaway); Slattery's Hurricane (49, Andre de Toth); as a whining coward hounded by the London underworld in Night and the City (40, Jules Dassin); as the doctor racing against time and bubonic plague in Panic In the Streets (50, Elia Kazan); as a hardnosed, bigoted cop in No Way Out (50, Joseph L. Mankiewicz).

But even as a hero, Widmark barely suppressed malice, anxiety and violence; the straight voice readily broke into a sneer or a giggle; and the eyes once had an insolent way of staring a woman out. That was how he lifted microfilm from Jean Peters's handbag at the beginning of Pickup On South Street (53, Samuel Fuller). He was excellent as Fuller's sentimental hoodlum and brought a special relish to the brutal love scenes and to the situation of a guttersnipe able to crow to the police.

Elia Kazan said in regards to Widmark and Panic In the Streets:

I had a great cast. It was a treat in itself just to have Zero Mostel around. I had Jack Palance, making his first picture. And I had Richard Widmark, who was a jewel, as nice a guy as there was in the world. Barbara Bel Geddes played his wife. I cast like a man should. I handpicked everybody just because I liked them ...

Panic in the Streets is the first picture I made that I liked. I don't think you're aware those people are actors, even Widmark had played nothing but heavies before that. He became famous in Kiss of Death, in which he pushed an old lady in a wheelchair down the stairs, and he had that wonderfully phony, lunatic laugh. We'd worked in the theater together about four or five years earlier, and I returned him to playing a leading man. He had sort of a minor-league charm. But it was a genuine charm. Almost everything he said was amusing and self-deprecatory, and to me, that self-deprecatory attitude is an essential American quality.

I love his face.

Rest in peace, Richard Widmark

Hoods are good parts because they're always flashy and attract attention. If you've got any ability, you can use that as a stepping stone.
-- Richard Widmark

Here's the NY Times obit.

And Kim Morgan's tribute:

"I've got so much more to write about one of my absolute all-time favorite actors, but to put it simply -- he was a rare one."

I know a couple of people who count him as one of their favorite actors ever. He hasn't worked in a long time, the man was in his 90s ... but what a career. I bumped up Kiss of Death on the Netflix queue - a movie I have seen countless times, on big screens and small ... but need to see again, as soon as possible.

Review of Widmark's debut performance in Kiss of Death on Noir of the Week, one of my favorite new sites:

If I had to choose one reason to recommend watching this film it’s definitely the screen debut of Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo. His performance is outstanding, as he doesn’t so much give you the creeps as he force-feeds them to you. Udo is a perfect storm of menace, sadist and sociopath. Widmark commands every scene he’s in with such a forceful presence and performance that as the film continues, you find yourself just waiting for him to appear. He also gets some classic lines such as telling a cop fishing for info that he wouldn’t give him “the skin off a grape.” Without Victor Mature’s understated performance Widmark’s Udo may have lost some of his effectiveness by seeming too over the top or out of place contrasted by a less convincing Nick Bianco. The two portrayals, however, balance each other perfectly and create a solid foundation of tension and excitement for this otherwise moderate noir.

Rest in peace.

People love Richard Widmark, you know what I mean?

RIP Anthony Minghella

Wow. Did not see this one coming. Shocking. My first thought was of Truly, Madly, Deeply and how much I love that movie.

I was not (to put it mildly) a fan of The English Patient -- but I must give props of the largest order to Minghella for directing one of my favorite movies of all time: Truly, Madly, Deeply.

Truly, Madly, Deeply is almost radioactive in my mind ... it is like I have to stay clear of it ... until I feel prepared to deal with it again. The story of Truly, Madly, Deeply is excellent - thought-provoking, the script is fantastic - with well-drawn characters, complex and simple scenes, beautifully written - comedy, grief, love - the acting is superb, and the direction is funny, warm, open, and accessible. It was his first film. Bravo. Minghella, in his casting of the film, the way he films her in his flat, the way he films the whole thing, creates a complete three-dimensional world that we, the audience, feel privileged to get to visit, even for a short while. It's a world that breathes. Even just thinking about that movie gets me all worked up.

I posted about Truly, Madly, Deeply here. If you haven't seen it, all I can say is: do yourself a favor. You are in for such a treat! Such a deep and wonderful treat.

Rest in peace. A sad loss.

Rest in peace, Roy Scheider

Sad sad news. New York Times obit here. More thoughts at Cinematical. Here's Jonathan's post - he includes a clip from Sorcerer.

And here is a not-to-be-missed post on Scheider from Jeremy at Moon in the Gutter.

A compilation of awesome posters of the Scheider-movies from the 1970s.

Probably best known for his role in Jaws, my favorite Roy Scheider performance is in Bob Fosse's All That Jazz (although I am also partial to his performance in The French Connection). But his portrayal of Joe Gideon (Bob Fosse's alter ego) in All That Jazz - a dance man who smokes, fucks, drinks, and pops pills right into open-heart surgery - is one of the all-time great performances by an actor, period. He was nominated for an Academy Award.

Scheider was never afraid to get ugly in his work, or unlikeable, or grander-than-life. He had courage. I can't imagine anyone else in the part of Joe Gideon and ... Roy Scheider is most definitely NOT the obvious choice. But he claimed that part. He IS that part.

"Showtime!"

I think one of my favorite scenes is when they're all in rehearsal in the dance studio - and it's just not. working ... and it's all on him to figure it out, because he's the choreographer, he's the general in charge. Things get tense. But there's a block, somehow ... Gideon can't GET to what he wants to express. It's a classic scene (rarely portrayed on film) of the artistic process. It's not a forgiving montage - where we see, over time, the struggle, and then the triumph. No. We are in the muck and mud with him. He can't get out of the creative block. We are with him thru that. The scene goes on for what feels like an excruciating amount of time ... you yearn for them to cut away, like: let them just work out the problem on their own, leave me out of it. But then comes the breakthrough. Gideon figures it out.

Great great scene, one I treasure for many reasons.

Please leave your favorite performances in the comments section, as a tribute to this great actor.

I don't post the following clip to be in bad taste. I post it because it's perfect. And it is how I will remember him.

Bye-bye, Mr. Scheider. You'll be missed more than you'll ever know.

Heath Ledger, 1979 - 2008

I thought his performance in Brokeback Mountain was an iconic performance - strong, silent, a real throwback to another kind of male character (Josh Brolin in No Country For Old Men is a more recent example). The silent stoic Marlboro Man, with hidden depths. When he let it out, it was raw, jagged, ugly. Not because the emotions themselves were ugly, but because he was so unused to expressing that side of him that it came out like an explosion, messy and heart-cracking. The way he kissed Gyllenhaal against the wall during their reunion is an example. It was so violent and ferocious, you couldn't tell if it was a punch and a kiss.

It is one of the more visceral performances of recent memory. You could smell the nicotine on the edges of his fingers, you could smell his sweat. This was not a man who spoke much, felt comfortable speaking ... and any time he did open his mouth to speak, it was as though the vocal cords took a while to realize: "Oh ... we're doing this now? We're talking?"

Gyllenhaal was good - but there were times when I remembered he was an actor, and it pulled me out of it a bit.

I never ever had that thought with Ledger. And I remember, too, his couple of scenes in Monster's Ball, another deeply portrayed kind of awkward guy, not used to speaking much - and given the right circumstances that character would probably be an awesome husband, partner ... But as it was, he was relegated to isolation, stoic silence.

A quiet (maybe shy) tough silent guy, a throwback perhaps, bulked up against feeling or vulnerability, meeting life with a clenched fist ... but oh, if you could just pry that hand open, what a generous soul you would find. That, to me, is who Ledger was onscreen. But then you would see him in interviews, and he seemed so slight physically - there were times I wouldn't even know that that was the same guy - he had such a presence when he was acting, he always looked totally different on the red carpet, or in interviews. His physicality in real life looked delicate, slim, slender, almost Orlando Bloom-ish. He was a sensitive guy, with lovely manners.

It made me realize that, yeah, he was acting in Brokeback. He did a helluva job.

Watch him sit and think in Brokeback. It's my favorite kind of film performance - spare, clear, emotional, visual, it's all in the eyes.

I'm really shocked and sad.

Rest in peace.

Share your thoughts about him at House Next Door.

And here at Edward's.

Alex has a post up.

Jim Emerson has a very moving tribute up. It begins:

Rare is the performance that can honestly be called a "revelation," but that's what it felt like to watch Heath Ledger in "Brokeback Mountain." Not only did he bring iconic life and nuance to the existential loneliness of Ennis Del Mar, a taciturn but complex (and conflicted) character, but for such mature work to spring from the teen-idol star of "10 Things I Hate About You" and "A Knight's Tale" was... well, revelatory itself -- the astonishing revelation of a suddenly, fully developed actor who, in the superficial juvenile parts he'd played previously, had given little indication he was capable of such moving depth and clarity. Ledger emerged as if from a cocoon, gleaming with promise and flexing his wings.

Brendon at My Five Year Plan has a post which brought tears to my eyes.

Marisa shares her thoughts. That's one of my favorite moments in the film, too Marisa. Ouch.

Robbie at Reverseblog has a post up about Brokeback, and why that performance was so crucial.

If Brokeback’s pain proved exquisite for some and unbearably raw for others, odds are it was all because of Ennis’s internalized anguish, his disparity between how he felt and how he was told to act opening up a chasm within him too great to bridge.

I just re-watched Brokeback Mountain. I'm really sad about this one.

RIP Bobby Fischer

"When you play Bobby, it is not a question of whether you win or lose. It is a question of whether you survive."
-- Boris Spassky

“It was Bobby Fischer who had, single-handedly, made the world recognize that chess on its highest level was as competitive as football, as thrilling as a duel to the death, as aesthetically satisfying as a fine work of art, as intellectually demanding as any form of human activity." - Harold C. Schonberg

Memories and reflections from those who knew him.

The last anecdote - told by Edward Rothstein - is my favorite.

I held out for about 30 moves, and when I resigned, it was with flags flying and bands playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” I went down with honors. The game took about 15 minutes, of which 14 were mine.

Here's Fischer playing Fidel Castro:

A couple years ago, I read Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How the Soviets Lost the Most Extraordinary Chess Match of All Time , the story of his famous chess match against Spassky which took on (like the 1980 hockey game in the Olympics) the feeling of the entire Cold War, being fought on another kind of battlefield.

Here's an excerpt (I highly recommend the book):

The most interesting phenomenon about Fischer, however, is not the effect chess had on him, but the effect chess had on his opponents, destroying their morale, making them feel that they were in the grip of an alien hostile force to his powers there was no earthly answer ... Fischer appeared to his opponents to function like a micro-chip driven automaton. He analyzed positions with amazing rapidity; his opponent always lagged behind on the clock...Nor did Fischer appear to be governed by any psychologically predetermined system or technique. Take just one example, the twenty-second move of game seven against Tigran Petrosian in the 1971 Candidates match. Who else but Fischer would have exchanged his knight for the bishop? To give up an active knight for a weak bishop was inconceivable; it seemed to violate a basic axiom of the game, to defy all experience. Yet, as Fischer proved, it was absolutely the right decision, transforming an edge into another ultimately winning advantage.

Human chess players can often feel insecure in open, complex positions because a part of them dreads the unknown. Thus they avoid exposing their king because they worry that, like a general trapped in no-man's-land, this most vital of pieces will inevitably be caught in the crossfire. Common sense and knowledge born of history tells them that this is so. An innate pessimism harries them, nagging away, warning them off the potentially hazardous move. Not Fischer. If he believed his opponent could not capitalize on an unshielded king, if he could foresee no danger, then he would permit it to stand brazenly, provocatively unguarded.

Faced with Fischer's extraordinary coolness, his opponents assurance would begin to disintegrate. A Fischer move, which at first glance looked weak, would be reassessed. It must have a deep master plan behind it, undetectable by mere mortals (more often than not, they were right, it did). The US grandmaster Robert Byrne labeled the phenomenon "Fischer-fear". Grandmasters would wilt, their suits would crumple, sweat would glisten on their brows, panic would overwhelm their nervous systems. Errors would creep in. Calculations would go awry. There was talk among grandmasters that Fischer hypnotized his opponents, that he undermined their intellectual powers with a dark, mystic, insidious force. Time after time, in long matches, Fischer's opponents would suffer a psychosomatic collapse. Fischer managed to induce migraines, the common cold, flu, high blood pressure, and exhaustion, to which he himself was mostly resistant. He liked to joke that he had never beaten a healthy opponent...

In Reykjavik to cover the match, the novelist Arthur Koestler famously coined the neologism "mimophant" to describe Fischer. "A mimophant is a hybrid species: a cross between a mimosa and an elephant. A member of this species is sensitive like a mimosa where his own feelings are concerned and thick-skinned like an elephant trampling over the feelings of others."

There is no doubt that, like a psychopath, Fischer enjoyed that feeling of complete power over his opponent. Like a psychopath, he had no moral compunction about using his power.

Here is a lengthy obit in the New York Times. Well worth reading.

Excerpt:

The 1964 tournament also produced another of his legendary games, this one against the grandmaster Robert Byrne.

“It was one of his brilliant counterattacks,” recalled Mr. Byrne, who would go on to become the chess columnist for The New York Times. “He was playing Black, and he made a deep sacrifice, so deep that I did not understand it. It was a very profound combination, very beautiful.”

Mr. Byrne ended up resigning the game while he was still materially ahead. The result was so unusual that it confounded grandmasters analyzing the games for spectators.

Frank Brady, Fischer's biographer, wrote:

[Fischer] empathizes with the position of the moment with such intensity that one feels that a defect in his game, such as a backward pawn or an ill-placed knight, causes him almost physical, and certainly psychical pain. Fischer would become the pawn if he could, or if it would help his position, marching himself rank-by-rank to the ultimate promotion square. In these moments at the board, Fischer is chess.

"I don't believe in psychology. I believe in good moves," said Bobby Fischer to The Washington Post, on the eve of the Spassky match - when he was asked if it were true that he was "on edge".

Here's a photo from the Boris Spassky / Bobby Fischer match, 1972.

Here's an excerpt from Bobby Fischer Goes to War, describing a moment in the first game of the Spassky/Fischer match in Iceland:

Then, on move twenty-nine, Fischer did the unthinkable Picking up the remaining black bishop in the long fingers of his right hand, balancing it with his thumb, index, and middle fingers, he stretched out his arm and in one movement plucked off the rook pawn with his two smaller fingers while installing the bishop in its place.

This was inexplicable. In playing Bxh2 - bishop takes the king rook pawn - Fischer had fallen into a standard trap. At first glance, the undefended white rook pawn looks as though it can be safely pinched by the black bishop. At second glance, one sees that if the pawn is taken, white's knight's pawn will be advanced one square, leaving the black bishop helplessly stranded. White can capture it with nonchalant ease. Even for the average club player, the recognition of such a danger is instinctive.

Fischer was the chess machine who did not commit errors. That was part of his aura, part of the "Bobby Fischer" legend, a key to his success. Newspapers reported a gasp of surprise spreading through the auditorium. Spassky, who had trained himself not to betray emotion, looked momentarily startled. Those who have analyzed the match were equally dumbfounded. "When I saw Bobby play the move," wrote Golombek, "I could hardly believe my eyes. He had played so sensibly and competently up to now that I first of all thought there was something deep I had overlooked; but no matter how I stared at the board I could find no way out." Nor could Robert Byrne and Ivo Nei, who analyze the game in their book on the match: "This move must be stamped as an outright blunder." The British chess player and writer C.H. O'D. Alexander's verdict is similar: "Unbelievable. By accurate play Fischer had established an obviously drawn position ... now he makes a beginner's blunder." A television pundit on the US Channel 13 reckoned it would go down as one of the great gaffes of all time. The Los Angeles Times thought it could be explained only as a "rare miscalculation by the American genius." In Moscow, the correspondent for the Soviet state newspaper Izvestia, Yuri Ponomarenko, located the move's source in sheer greed. Bondarevskii commented that the move was "a vivid example to smash the myth of [Fischer] as a computer." Anatoli Karpov, the twenty-one-year-old Soviet star in the making, had a psychological theory involving both players: Spassky was afraid of the American and had sought to prove to himself that he could always draw with the white pieces. Fischer, annoyed, attempted to disprove this. "So he sacrificed a piece without rhyme or reason."

Years later, in twenty pages of exhaustive analysis, British grandmaster Jonathan Speelman concluded that even after Fischer captured the h pawn, totally accurate play could have earned him a draw. And to be charitable to Fischer, perhaps he recognized this intuitively. But that is hardly an explanation. For such a gambit had only a downside, offering no chance of victory. At best, with extreme care, it gave him the same result - a draw - that he could have achieved without any effort at all - indeed, probably simply by asking for one.

The game was adjourned after five hours, with Fischer's position in a hopeless mess.

Given this description of just one move during the match, it is not surprising that Arthur Koestler (blistering critic of Stalinist Russia - although once a Communist himself - journalist, novelist, all-around brilliant Orwellian thinker) - who covered the Spassky/Fischer match - wrote of his experience: "Funny to be a war correspondent again after all these years."

Miguel Najdorf, Argentianian grandmaster, said of Fischer: "Fischer wants to enter history alone."

And so he has.

A fascinating complex infuriating individual. Rest in peace.

More:

Jeff shares his memories of 1972, and what that match meant to him and his friends.

2007 Year in Pictures

Kurt Vonnegut, RIP.

2007 Year in Pictures

Tribute to Ryzsard Kapuscinski at the New York Public Library. Rest in peace.

RIP Deborah Kerr

A marvelous actress, with the breath of reality about her. She never over-did, or under-did. She just seemed alive. Like a real person.

I gasped when I saw the news she had passed on. So many performances of hers have left such a mark on me ... starting with The King and I, which I first saw as a small child and it made such an impression that I used to act out her big angry "private moment" number when she tells the King off - alone in my room. She was so feisty. So ... palpably emotional, without being too much, too melodramatic.

For example: watch her face when the King approaches her, one arm outstretched - ready to waltz with her like a Westerner. They never even kiss. But it's one of the most erotic moments in movies. Because of his face, yes - stern and open and passionate (all at the same time) ... but also because of hers - it's so open it's like you can see her pulse beating in her throat.

Wonderful. Classic.

Here is an insanely obsessive piece I wrote about Affair to Remember, for those of you who are interested. The post is mainly focused on Cary Grant (and the "Method") ... but naturally, she pops in from time to time. With the aura of cheese and the semi-annoying Leo McCarey morality-tale floating about that movie ... she is wonderfully natural, and it appears, at times, that she is veering off from the script - along with Grant. They play off each other, they have non-verbal signals and conversations, it seems as though she is not speaking "lines" ... but talking naturally. They're great together, too. A great pairing.

More on her here. Wow.

So much more to talk about. From Here to Eternity (speaking of Clift) - but I'll stop here for now.

Rest in peace, beautiful woman.

RIP Madeleine L'Engle

Madeleine: Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you

You and Hugh are together again. Bless you both.

Rest in peace.

RIP Michelangelo Antonioni

I'm with Keith: What the hell???

Michelangelo Antonioni:

"My habit of shooting rather long scenes was born spontaneously on the first day of filming Ceonaca di un Amore. Having the camera fixed to its stand immediately caused me real discomfort. I felt paralysed, as if I were being prevented from following closely the one thing in the film that interested me: I mean, the characters. The next day, I called for a dolly, and I began to follow the characters till I felt the need to move on to another exercise. For me, this was the best way to be real, to be true ... I have never succeeded in composing a scene without having the camera with me, nor have I ever been able to make my characters talk in accordance with a pre-established script ... I needed to see the characters, to see even their simplest gestures."

Excerpt from David Thomson's film encyclopedia:

Antonioni's world of sentimental and metaphysical dismay ought to include just such a figure as himself: a man of vast intellectual sensibility and artistic aspiration; a film director capable of stripping people down to fragile skins that can hardly brush against one another without pain; but a visionary of emotional alienation, so morbidly convinced of the apartness of people that he sometimes ends by photographing figures in a landscape. In short, within a brief time span he veered from psychological exactness to abstraction. For if his suspicions of human dissolution are sound, then films are only an absurd response to the fretful human instinct for self-expression. Even if one cannot always share Antonioni's torment, it has been an engrossing, if humorless, prospect to see him gradually immolate himself with doubts. He is his own character, turned away from us, speechless at what has been lost. As Monica Vitti sighs near the end of La Notte: "Each time I have tried to communicate with someone, love has disappeared."

And this, too:

The enigmas in Antonioni's work are as subject to time as monuments are to erosion, and the achievements of some films can offset or explain the apparent, or early, limits of others. For example, The Passenger helped us see the longing for escape and space in L'Avventura, and illumined the persistence of life at the end of L'Eclisse. I suspect that Antonioni's best films will continue to grow and shift, like dunes in the centuries of desert. In that process, if there are eyes left to look, he will becomes a standard for beauty.

Rest in peace. Here's the NY Times obit

More: Reverse Shot's essay on Antonioni

RIP Ingmar Bergman

Crap.

A compilation of links but I'm sure the tributes will be far and wide. Keith has some screenshots here. I can't believe it. I mean, he was 89, but still. Remarkable. A remarkable artist. Here's the one post I've written about a Bergman film - bah. Dont know what else to say at the moment. I'll ponder it. Ponder what he has given us and what we have lost. 4-page obit in the Times

RIP László Kovács

Renowned and influential (yet Oscar-less) cinematographer László Kovács has died - he was 74 years old.

"Oh .... I've got a helmet!"

"As the years go by, romance fades and something else takes its place. Do you know what is??"
"Senility."
"Trust."
"That's what I meant."

A few of his credits:

What's Up Doc
King of Marvin Gardens
5 Easy Pieces
Shampoo
Paper Moon
Easy Rider
Paradise Alley (Stallone's directorial debut - MARVELOUS movie - and marvelous LOOKING movie, which is Kovac's doing)
Say Anything
Ghostbusters

I mean - just to name a FEW.

His early gritty days were when he first made his mark - and so his influence is enormous - but think of the look of Paper Moon compared to the look of Shampoo and you will see the unbelievable versatility and artistry of this man. Wow.

He went on to work on some of the most successful films of the 80s - where his work became slick and commercial (these are not epithets) - and please. Say Anything. I mean, come on. But it is his work in the late 60s, early 70s, for which he will be remembered. At least by those who "know". It was important stuff going on then - a revolution in art, an explosion of creativity and courage. The stories being told, and how they were being told ... are startling, to this day. And whether or not you "like" those movies is irrelevant. It would be like discounting the influence of Joyce because you personally don't like him. That's an ignorant position. Kovacs was attached to many of the auteurs of the day - and you can kind of tell which movies are his. Even with his versatility. Shampoo LOOKS like a Kovacs picture, for example. Five Easy Pieces might be my favorite, but then - there's the Bogdonavich classics - and how THOSE movies looked. But without Shampoo, without Five Easy Pieces (keep going ...) - American cinema flat out would not be the same today. We would all be poorer for it.

He was IT for a while. The 1970s - in the aftermath of the collapse of the studio system - brought about a lot of good, and also a lot of crap - a lot of exploded ego, and a lot of mess - but that's to be expected, with a lessening of control. His work - his passion and ambition and just how damn GOOD he was - helped to create the look of the 1970s American movie (Hungarian-born though he was!). Helped put American cinema on the international map again, because we had been falling far behind the rest of the world, in terms of what we were putting out, and the conventions we were willing to accept and not question. Made us look shallow and uncurious. That all changed - and the way those movies look - still have a deep impact.

Oh, and of course there is a Dean Stockwell connection. They were both at their hippie/biker/lover-o-flowers height at the same time, along with Dennis Hopper and all the others. Kovacs was cinematographer on Psych-Out in 1968 (which is shrieking towards me, as we speak, from a Netflix facility on the eastern seaboard).

And I want to make out with the dude just for working on What's Up, Doc alone. i mean, honest to GOD.

I have some great quotes about him from a couple different books. I'll share them later.

Rest in piece Mr. Kovács. And thank you.

RIP Charles Lane

Charles Lane - one of last century's greatest and most prolific character actors - has just died at the age of 102.

Take a look at the guy's resume. Take a look at some of those titles. It's astonishing, the longevity. And also: the goodness of him, the straightforward no-bullshit spot-on goodness. He is ALWAYS good, no matter what the part, what the demands ... This guy was a jack of all trades. I believe there was nothing he could not do. Do you know how few people have careers of such longevity in acting? It's hard to keep fresh. It's hard to not have an ego. It's hard to keep the joy alive. He did. At the ripe young age of 100, he announced at an Awards ceremony, "I'm still available for work!" God bless him.

I noticed this URL in my referral log, and it is a marvelous tribute to Charles Lane's appearance on St. Elsewhere - thank you so much for your eloquence! She writes:

That performance has stayed with me for 20 years, and goes into my "unforgettable" file. Great fictional TV doesn't change the world, but it gave me a glimpse of what's good about humanity. I need that sometimes.

God, God, yes.

Edward Copeland has a tribute too.

Here is Dennis' post on the occasion of the man's 101st birthday.

I wrote a long post over a year ago about Charles Lane in the TV movie Sybil. It goes all over the place, at times - but I re-post it below, as a meager tribute to a man who has enriched my life immeasurably, just from all of his parts he's played, the example he's set, and the kind of actor he is. It is the kind of actor I most admire.

102 years old. Holy smokes.

Rest in peace, dear dear Charles Lane. I treasure your performances in my heart.

IN PRAISE OF CHARLES LANE

I watched Sybil last night. I've seen it a gazillion times. So what the hell. I sat down to watch that wrenching thing AGAIN. I've got a lot to say about it - about the acting, in particular - but I just wanted to write a small post of praise for Charles Lane, who plays the small-town doctor from Sybil's home town. He has one scene, and I've gotta say: he knocks that shit OUT OF THE PARK.

THIS is the kind of acting I love. I mean, I love my stars, too, you know I love my big ol' movie stars ... but the acting that really turns me on are these random people, these character actors, who show up - do their job SO WELL - and never get the glory. Mitchell and Alex and I talk a lot about people who we think win "10 minute Oscars". By that we mean - the people who do not star in the films, but without whom the entire film would not work. People who just kick some serious ASS in their parts. My favorite "10 minute Oscar" is Brooke Smith's acting in Silence of the Lambs. She's the girl in the bottom of the well. Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins star - and they both give unforgettable performances. (Interesting that Hopkins is only on screen in that film for 15 minutes himself. Isn't that wild??? It seems like he is in it for MUCH longer - but he is not. Phenomenal. So I guess he DID win an Oscar for a performance not much longer than 10 minutes!) But back to these more unknown actors who show up and do their jobs like nobody's business: without the scenes of Brooke Smith in the well - the film would not have the same impact. And she just GOES THERE. What I love about her performance is that, obviously, she is a victim of circumstance. I mean, good Lord. She's AT THE BOTTOM OF A WELL. That sucks. But she is not a docile creature - she doesn't JUST weep and wail - We also see her strategizing. We see her kidnap the dog. Smart!!! I love when she's coaxing the dog down - she's using the normal voice you use when you're talking to a dog - but she's so pissed, so DETERMINED that she will survive this ordeal - that she also says stuff like, "Come on, you little fucker ... get in the fucking basket ..." I love that. It's so real. And yet so unexpected. A lesser actor would just play the victim. She would play to the hilt the "oh my God, I am so TRAPPED" - Brooke Smith plays that as well, but she also expresses the rage one would feel when one is so trapped. It's a fantastic choice. She seems like a real girl. I also love when Jodie Foster bursts into the room - and then says down into the well, "Okay ... I'll be right back." And we hear Brooke Smith start shouting, "Don't leave me - you fucking bitch!!!" hahahahaha I just love that. She's not just falling over herself in gratitude ... she has HAD it ... she wants OUT. Do not leave me down here!! Anyway - for me, that's a perfect example of a 10-minute Oscar. She knocks it out of the park. The movie wouldn't be the same without her performance. Even though the two big stars show up and do THEIR jobs really really well too. I've met Brooke Smith a couple of times - at stage readings, and stuff like that, and I have no idea how to say, "Uhm ... you won a 10 minute Oscar in my mind!!!"

So back to Charles Lane. Here he is - this is about the age he was when he played this part in Sybil.

Joanne Woodward plays the psychiatrist Dr. Wilbur. I have so much more to say about Joanne Woodward ... I need to do a big Woodward post - she's one of my favorite actresses - but I will keep my focus. I will try, anyway. So anyway, Dr. Wilbur ends up taking a trip to Sybil's old hometown to see if she can kind of piece together Sybil's childhood for her - since Sybil can't remember any of it. She goes and looks up the old doctor who used to treat Sybil for the "normal childhood aches and pains" - to see if he could maybe illuminate anything for her. Charles Lane plays that doctor, Dr. Quinoness. He doesn't have any huge emotional outbursts, he doesn't have any showy explosion of rage ... His part is simple. He is a country doctor. He works out of his house. He has been a doctor for seventy years. He has wonderful manners, he is welcoming and kind. The kind of man you would love to have as your doctor. You just GET that from the second he appears on screen. He ushers Dr. Wilbur into his office, and he's carrying a tea tray with a teapot, and a couple of mugs on it, a little creamer. Just the way he offers her the tea tells you everything you need to know about his character. He's old-fashioned, he's kind, and he is welcoming to this outsider - she may be an outsider, and she may be a woman wearing a white pant suit with a big Peter Pan collar (I love Woodward's clothes in this movie - they're SO mid-1970s!!) - but she is also a doctor, and he treats her with respect. As a colleague. I don't know - it's really subtle - but without that colleague-to-colleague honesty and respect, the scene wouldn't work.

Joanne Woodward's acting in this entire film is literally masterful. But I'll write about her later. Argh. Getting sidetracked!! Even though Dr. Wilbur is angry at what has happened to Sybil, even though she is in a rage at what happened to this little girl, she doesn't bring that anger to this scene. She is on a fact-finding mission ... and this man was not one of the evil-doers. She's appropriate with him. He is a fellow doctor. She starts asking questions about Sybil's health when she was a child. He is kindly, and tells about when Sybil had her tonsils out, and how frightened she was. Dr. Wilbur says, "Did you ever treat her for anything else?" This is when he says, "Oh, the normal childhood aches and pains." Woodward then asks if he still has the file - "I would consider it a great professional courtesy if I could have a look at it." There's no animosity here. Charles Lane gets up from his desk, "Let me see if I still have her file ..." He goes to a file cabinet and shuffles through the folders. He is forthcoming, direct ... he's not CONSCIOUSLY hiding anything. But at the end of the scene, we realize that ... he knew. He knew what was happening to Sybil. I just got goosebumps all over again remembering the last moment of the scene ... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

He finds the file. He sits back down and starts reading out loud: "Fractured elbow. Hand burned from the stove. Fractured larynx. Broken ankle." Etc. The list goes on. As he reads, you can feel his energy change. It's like - seeing it all in one place, hearing the litany of horrible injuries ... makes him realize the reality - makes him SEE, yet again, after so many years, what was so obvious at the time.

Charles Lane trails his voice away ... there's a long silence between the two of them. Nobody speaks.

Woodward says, "Normal childhood aches and pains, huh?" But she doesn't say it with hostility, or as an attack on him. She's just pointing out what she sees. I love how she says that line. Then she says, curiously, "Did you ever speculate?"

This is where Lane's beautiful acting really comes to the fore. And I have to say this: he does the rest of the scene, except for the final moment, looking out of the window. We do not see his face. He stands with his back to her, talking ... An actor needs his face. The actor's face is one of the most important ways he can tell his story. BUT - oh how powerful it is to have an actor turn his back to us ... How much it can tell you about the emotions he is experiencing, it can be extremely powerful - if used effectively. This is what Charles Lane does here.

He gets up. Goes to the window. His BACK is eloquent. Do you get that? His very BACK is eloquent. You just FEEL for this man, this WITNESS. This kindly gentle man ... who had had evidence of horrible child abuse in his town ... and had done nothing.

After a while, he starts speaking. He leads off with: "I've never told anyone this before ..."

It's a moment that makes me catch my breath every time I see it. Again, he doesn't do it in an overdramatic way, he's not being an ACTOR in this moment. He's being a PERSON. A man, an old man, who has kept a secret for thirty years. He knew. He knew.

But he doesn't show his hand too early, as an actor - and this is why the moment is so powerful. He doesn't greet Dr. Wilbur with a guilty conscience. He doesn't SHOW us the things that the character himself doesn't even know yet. He's not being protective of himself. But once he reads all of her injuries out loud ... he knows that his moment of reckoning has come. He remembers. And it's a painful moment for him. This is why he stands and looks out the window. He is filled with grief at his inaction back then. Again, though: none of this is overplayed. You don't think: "Oooh, look at this actor having a great moment." You think: "This man is tormented. This poor man."

Now this next will be a paraphrase - I wish I had the script in front of me, but this is the general idea:

He says, staring out the window ... all we get of him is his back - his slightly stooped over back, "I treated her for a bladder infection when she was five years old ... very unusual for a child of her age ... I would imagine if you did a gynecological exam on her now, you would see what I did. Scarring of the inner walls, hardened destroyed tissue. Now - we know that the Lord sometimes creates mistakes in nature - but the Almighty had nothing to do with what I saw inside that little girl."

It is an absolutely devastating moment.

Woodward just sits there, listening. She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to.

Then - Charles Lane - the beautiful character actor Charles Lane - turns around and looks at Woodward.

He says, "I imagine in your line of work, you hear a lot of confessions."

Again: it is a devastating moment. Beautifully and simply played. He doesn't say "will you hear my confession?" It is implied. He wants forgiveness. It is out in the open now. Not just what happened to Sybil - but his complicity in it. He does not START the scene with this self-knowledge. Dr. Quinoness has not been walking around with a load of guilt for 30 years. He has suppressed what he saw way back then. But now he remembers. And it is a terrible terrible moment for him. This kindly old man, wearing glasses, and a black suit. A terrible moment for him.

Dr. Wilbur says to him, kindly, "Dr. Quinoness, it was a long long time ago."

Cut back to Charles Lane, looking at her. His face is simple, open, and pained. He says, and he is truly asking, "How do I find absolution?"

Cut back to Woodward, looking up at him. She has no answer for him.

The scene ends there.

There are many other amazing scenes in the film with some of the best acting I honestly have ever seen ... but that small scene between Charles Lane and Joanne Woodward is my favorite in the entire film.

It's because of what he brings to it.

In less than 5 minutes, he creates a completely three-dimensional character. It's a very important scene - because of the information it imparts. Charles Lane's part is simple: he is there to provide some exposition. That's it. That's the point of the scene. Dr. Wilbur gets confirmation of Sybil's abuse. Now she knows. It's confirmed. But - and this is partly because of the writing - which is quite good - in this scene in particular: Charles Lane takes it to another level in those last two moments - looking out the window, not being able to face her as he confesses that he knew ... and then turning back to look at her - asking for absolution.

It's just a perfectly played scene, on every level it needs to be. Not EVERY actor who has a small part in a big film shows up and makes such an impression. Not EVERY actor knocks a 5 minute scene out of the park. It's very difficult. It's almost easier to STAR in something - because you can develop your character over time, you have many scenes to do it in, you can show THIS side of the person you're playing in THIS scene, you can show THAT side of the person you're playing in ANOTHER scene - You have TIME. I mean, you have more pressure on you, of course ... but at least you have a lot of screen time to do your job. Not so with our 10-minute Oscar crowd. They have ONE scene, sometimes ... and they MUST nail it - in less than 10 minutes. It's tough, man.

So I just want to take a moment to sing the praise of Charles Lane's unsung work in Sybil. It's perfection.

Here is his long resume. He was already an old man when he filmed Sybil - and he is still alive. He just celebrated his 100th birthday. He was actually honored at last year's Emmys - he was one of the founders of the television academy - and he is now its oldest surviving member. I loved this bit of trivia:

Was honored on March 16, 2005 at the TVLand Awards for his long career and his 100th birthday. When he received his award, he said in his still-booming voice, "In case anyone's interested, I'm still available!"

God bless him!!

But his career ... I mean, LOOK at this career.

THAT is the career of a character actor. Stars' resumes are always much shorter. Character actors, successful ones, do 10 movies to a star's one. They show up, do their job for 3 days, and move on to the next one. Charles Lane worked constantly in television - appearing multiple times on I Love Lucy and many other classics.

He has been working since the early 30s. He was in Twentieth Century, he was in It's a Wonderful Life - he was in Arsenic and Old Lace - he was in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington - Also, as I scrolled down his resume, I noticed how many times he was "uncredited". He was a workman. Showed up, said his 5 lines, moved on to his next job. Bless those people.

Charles Lane said, "Having had so many small parts, there was a character I played that showed up all the time and people did get to know him, like an old friend."

Old friend indeed. He brings his history with him to every part. You may think of him as "that guy". Oh, wait - that's that guy!!

His work in Sybil is what I, personally, love about acting. It's the kind of thing where I look at it and think: "That. That is what I admire. That is what I want to do." There's no vanity in it. There's an understanding of script analysis - there's an understanding of how your part fits in to the whole - there's also a fearlessness in just doing what the part demands.

Watch how he turns back to her from looking out the window. Watch how he says, "How do I find absolution?"

It don't get any better than that.

RIP Anna Nicole Smith

I wrote some of what I felt over at Alex's- but I'll add a bit here.

It's strange to remember an ad campaign - and normally I don't - but I remember Anna Nicole Smith's Guess campaign, when she first made her splash. It was kind of startling, as I recall. Guess sometimes has a misogynistic feel to their campaigns - the whole heroin chic thing ... but the Anna Nicole campaign did not have that anti-woman feel to it. It was campy. It had a referential quality to it - there was the great photo (which I'm trying to find) of Anna Nicole and a brunette sitting at a table at what was supposed to be an awards ceremony. Anna Nicole is smiling at the camera, spectacular cleavage on display. And the brunette (also gorgeous) is glancing sideways at Anna - looking at her bosoms. There is an actual photograph of Jayne Mansfield [corrected! thanks, Pappi!] and Sophia Loren - sitting side by side - and Loren is surreptitiously eyeing Mansfield's bazoombas. So the ad campaign had a kind of humorous quality to it - I enjoyed them. Also: A woman with those dimensions? When models like Elle McPherson and Linda Evangelista - tall lanky broads - ruled the day? The Guess ads were eye-catching. Truly. I loved them. I loved her kind of silly blonde vibe, there seemed to be a self-effacing quality to the photos. Now I don't think Anna Nicole Smith was truly aware of what she was doing ... she was pretty and all that ... but I don't think that she was like Marilyn Monroe - a true MASTER of print work. Nobody knew how to be photographed like Monroe. I think Anna Nicole Smith used what she had ... and if she was part of a good campaign, that used her properly, she could shine.

But I never got the sense that she was really in charge of her image, like Monroe was.

That was part of the sadness I felt surrounding Anna Nicole Smith. We now live in the era of EX-supermodels. When people like Cindy Crawford and even earlier - lauren Hutton - etc. - have to diversify, go into business, whatever ... Models never were that big a deal in earlier days. They would have their day in the sun on magazine covers - and then disappear into obscurity. No more.

And Anna Nicole Smith never seemed to fit into that post-model thing. Who knows why. I think she was surrounded by bad people who did not have her best interests at heart. I watched only one episode of her reality show and couldn't bear any more. The thought of how blatantly she was being used made me uncomfortable. And like I said over at Alex: Yes, she was complicit. Yes, she agreed to do the show. Yes, yes, yes. I know all the arguments. I think they're all correct. But I still felt sad for her.

I also feel lucky. I feel lucky that I have good friends. That I have had good boyfriends. All of them. That I have a family who gives a shit. I have people in my life who can say to me, "Uhm ... do you really want to do that?" When I've had my depressions (which I don't have anymore, knock wood) - I have people who surround me, with love, support ... they listen, they give advice ... and even if I can't appreciate it in that moment, I am buoyed up. If I am injured (emotionally) - then I have friends and family who can pick up the slack for me until I am better, stronger. I am lucky. I am lucky but also: I chose well. I have the strength of character to choose well.

Anna Nicole Smtih did not have that. And I guess it makes me sad.

Anyway. I went out and found some of my favorite images of that age-old Guess campaign - and I'll post them here, in memory. I remember these images. How long ago was that campaign? Years, right? But the images have stuck in my head. They're just delightful, I think.

I hope you rest in peace, Anna Nicole Smith, and I hope you can hang out with some angels up in heaven who will treat you better than your "friends" did in real life.

Oh no

No. No! I am so sad right now. Ryszard Kapuscinski has passed away. He's a longtime idol of mine. His work means so much to me. Shit. He has one more book coming out. Travels with Herodotus.

I'm in tears. Rest in peace, great great writer. Rest in peace.

God. I'm just gonna miss knowing that he's out there. This feels like a personal loss to me.

I love this man.

Rest in peace. Thank you.

RIP, Jack Palance

Jack Palance has died. I'm sure others can be more eloquent about this well-loved and LONG successful actor (look at his IMDB page - especially look at the dates .. there isn't really a significant GAP like there are with many old actors, gaps that show that they couldn't get work for, oh, 10, 20 years ... No gap. Palance has always worked.) ... so I will just note his passing with sadness. I always liked having him around. Crotchety, old-school, talented, didn't make a big deal about it, but obviously gave a crap about his work.

Oh ... and a little bit crazy.

You know:

I love nuts like him.

He will be missed.

Update:

I knew I could count on Alex. She has written a beautiful and detailed tribute to the guy. Palance fans - you don't want to miss it.

A preliminary obit in The Times which kind of captures why I liked the guy.

RIP, William Styron

I gasped out loud when I read the news this morning. I suppose it's not a shock. He was 81. Before I read the obit, I feared that he would have committed suicide. But it appears that he died from pneumonia, and general weakening from old age.

The obituary in the Times is extensive, respectful, and very informative. I didn't know a lot of his story, although I have read most of his books. He's not an easy writer. He never takes the easy way. He has many detractors. His book Confessions of Nat Turner will probably be held against him in certain circles forever (oh, whatEVER). As well as Sophie's Choice - which, while obviously highly praised and made into this major successful movie - also has its detractors. But vengeance was his - at least in the form of success. Pulitzer Prizes, Book Awards galore. He was a heavy-hitter, one of the few in the current-day pantheon. His books were anticipated, waited for. Many people disliked them. Hardly anybody was indifferent. I read Confessions - a long time ago - and I also read Sophie's Choice - I read that one when I was in high school, and I read it after I saw the movie - which pretty much made such a deep impression on me that it took weeks to regain my balance. I had to read the book. The book is much darker than the film - and also - it is incredibly graphic, sexually. I mean, you get that sense in the film - how Sophie tries to narcotize herself through sex - it's a drug, to forget, to lose herself ... and I had never read such explicit scenes. I was, like, 15 or something. But the movie had had such an impact that I couldn't let it go, and I plowed through that dark, wrenching, unforgiving, TERRIBLE book - because I needed to still be in that place, I couldn't go back to who I was before I met Sophie. Not yet, anyway.

And then - many years later - in response to Primo Levi's suicide - which many people were outraged by (this was a man who survived Auschwitz ... how DARE he take his own life??) - William Styron wrote a small book about his own depression (which, I agree with Styron - is completely the wrong word for the actual phenomenon. He prefers "brainstorm".) But anyway, Styron was angry at what he saw as a total lack of understanding at what depression actually WAS - and to take your own life, as Mr. Levi had done, was a completely personal decision, and only someone who had actually experienced a "brainstorm" could understand. Otherwise, shut the hell up. His book - called Darkness Visible is, in my estimation, one of the most accurate and piercing descriptions of the EXPERIENCE of depression in existence. I know there are many other books and memoirs out there about being depressed, blah blah ... but if you're interested in that kind of literature, then THIS is the book to read. It's short, it started as an op-ed column, written in response and protest to the general TONE of all of the obituaries for Mr. Levi. And it generated such a storm of positive response - people writing in saying, "This is EXACTLY what it feels like ..." - that he expanded it into a lecture - which then was published in book-form.

And what a book it is. What a gift. It's not an easy read. He describes it so well that at one point I did think, "I certainly would not blame you, sir, if you chose to end this agony."

Anyway, a marvelous writer - thinker - speaker. A tempestuous man, who stood strong against his many critics. Who wrote what he wanted to write. Who didn't bend to political correctness, or to bullying from those who said he, a white man, could NEVER write from the perspective of a black man ... or a female Polish Holocaust survivor ... or whatever. You name it. He got it with almost every book he wrote. Even his depression memoir got criticized from the usual suspects - who said: I know what depression REALLY is. Mr. Styron is just dabbling. Something in him rubbed people the wrong way.

But he could write. He really could.

I had a moment of deep sadness this morning, realizing that he was gone.

Rest in peace.

(Again, here's the obituary.)

And here's a post with a lot of Styron links.

Beautiful thoughts here. I totally agree.

And this elegy brought tears to my eyes.

Kirby ... again

Another tribute from Erik. Beautiful - go read it.

I love the main romance in When Harry Met Sally, but the romance between Bruno Kirby's character and Carrie Fisher's character is just as important to that film. It wouldn't work without him.

Yup. They call it a "supporting actor" for a reason. He does his job and he does it well - his job is mainly in "supporting" others, "supporting" the star. Therefore: these people rarely get the glory. But the stars being "supported" by these people could not shine as bright without these actors.

Bruno Kirby

Now THAT is a tribute. Here's one excerpt but it is so worth it to read the whole thing:

He made such an impression on me that I was completely unaware I was even watching him the next time I encountered Bruno Kirby on film, as it happened in a movie of considerably higher quality than Superdad. Kirby did a short-lived sitcom with actor Richard Castellano in 1972 called The Super, in which he played the rotund actor�s son, and by sheer coincidence, only a year after Superdad was released, he would play the young Clemenza, the role Castellano originated in the The Godfather, in that film�s sequel, The Godfather Part II. As Vin Scully might say, Kirby (born Bruno Giovanni Quidaciolu Jr. in 1949) went from the cellar to the penthouse in one short year.

"BABY FISHMOUTH! BABY FISHMOUTH!"

I'm sure everyone's heard that Bruno Kirby has died at the young age of 57. Sad, man. I just LOVE that guy. Seriously. I always have.

A hard-working character actor with a career that has spanned years - he would do anything (look at his resume) - which is why it is so wonderful that he appeared in movies that "hit" (so to speak) - like Harry Met Sally or Donnie Brasco or City Slickers - movies where he had a supporting role, but which millions of people saw. Character actors HOPE for such a chance. Bruno Kirby was always good. Always. I loved it when he got cranky. (The wagon-wheel scene in Harry Met Sally is a perfect example.) Somehow, his anger was funny. It's hard to do. It's hard to make rage funny - and yet also REAL.

Sad. I'm sad about this one. I have always really liked him.

His work had integrity. Always. You can't say that about too many people.

BABY FISHMOUTH! BABY FISHMOUTH!

Seriously. How insane is that. How funny is that?? But also: how REAL. Watch him in that scene again. He is really playing that game. It's so real which is why it is so funny.

This should be a recognizable image below. I was going to post a picture of him carrying the wagon-wheel table out onto the sidewalk (one of my favorites of his scenes) but figured this would be better. As a reminder of just how long he's been around, and just how good this guy really was.

Rest in peace, Mr. Kirby. You died WAY too soon, man.

RIP, John McGahern

I gasped when I heard the news: great Irish novelist John McGahern has passed away. Thanks, peteb, for letting me know - I hadn't heard, and I'm kind of emotional about it right now. Here's a post over at Slugger, with a bunch of great links. And the first comment in the thread brought tears to my eyes. Because I feel the same way. I wrote about it here a bit. (The rest of the comments in the post over at Slugger are great too - people remembering McGahern, sharing their thoughts and memories about him.)

I have my father to thank for introducing me to John McGahern. My dad always had such great things to say about McGahern - and for some reason, it took me a while to get around to reading him. I read Amongst Women and ... it basically flattened me. Almost as much as Ian McEwan's Atonement. It hurt me to read it. The story, that FATHER ... just that character ... It was a painful to book to read. Masterful. It's not that it's a brilliant plot, or a gripping tale, it's not even that the characters are so memorable - except for the father. That father will live on in my memory forever. It's the way McGahern brings us, inevitably, step by step through that story - it's how he desribes the silence in that house, it's his observations ... of how this family works ... the tiny moments that make up conversations ... You just can SEE it all in how he writes. It's a little window into a completely three-dimensional world. McGahern does not paint his characters with broad strokes. They're very subtle, complex, human beings. But - That father in Amongst Women is introduced to us with two or three sentences ... and entire WORLDS open up before us. We know this man. We know this man. And - we just ACHE for him. We would be so fearful if he were our father, he's - cold - he withholds love - he is walled up in his own agony ... everyone tiptoes around him, etc. ... but ... looking in on him from the outside ... all you can see is his pain. His loss. God, it's fantastic. I'm crying as I write this - sorry, I'm a bit undone right now.

McGahern almost seems invisible in this process - his writing is so good, so seamless, it seems almost to be flowing directly from an experience ... The book does not appear to be invented at all. It just IS. It IS the experience that it describes. So few writers are able to do that, so few writers are able to make us forget THEM ... and guide us straight into a story.

We are fully immersed in that house. With those sisters. The wife. And that father. Even thinking about that character makes me weep. Which I am doing right now. It's all tied up with my own father ... and the father-daughter dynamic ... and also the IRISH father-daughter dynamic - which is very specific, and ... archetypal ... and I can't describe it. ... But McGahern can and does.

A truly great novelist. A master of the form.

John Banville, another favorite of my father, had this to say about McGahern: "Amongst Women,' which was his masterpiece -- if there was any justice at all, it should have won the Booker Prize. It would have given him the international recognition that he didn't have. The literary world we live in now is so glittery. His novels were so quiet, perhaps they didn't travel well. But they will."

That came from the NY Times obituary here.

His fame is localized. He is famous to Irish people, and to people who love fiction. Amongst Women routinely makes it into lists like: Top 50 Best Irish Novels (or Top 100) or what have you ... but I would put it on my list of Top 50 Best Novels, period.

From a commenter on Sin�ad Gleeson's blog-post about it:

Amongst Women. I read it when I was fourteen. It is sublime. It is the foundation stone for everything I have read and written and thought about since then.

I can�t believe this, Sinead. It is so desperately sad. He had been ill but he had recovered, had really fought it. We saw him at Christmas and he was in great form.

There won�t be his like again.

Rest in peace, Mr. McGahern.

Another great one gone

Maureen Stapleton has died. Some great background there on her extraordinary body of work. She was one of my childhood acting idols. Her breakout performance in Tennessee Williams' The Rose Tattoo on Broadway with Eli Wallach is the stuff of legends ... what I wouldn't give for a time machine to see her play that part!!!

A real actor's actor - she had a career most people only dream of.

I love this quote from Maureen about being an unattractive person (she knew she was, she had no illusions about herself - especially not with people like Marilyn Monroe as her best friend):

"People looked at me on stage and said, 'Jesus, that broad better be able to act.'"

And dammit, she could.

Rest in peace, Maureen.

RIP, Shelley Winters

"I think on-stage nudity is disgusting, shameful and damaging to all things American. But if I were 22 with a great body, it would be artistic, tasteful, patriotic and a progressive religious experience. "

-- Shelley Winters

Here is my favorite story about Shelley Winters.

She was in her 60s. She had already been in the business for three and a half decades, and had a career that you can only dream about. So some new up-and-coming director was interested in having her in his film, but he made a grave error (he was the source for this story, by the way - I read some interview with him - whoever he was - argh, can't remember - and he told this story. He, obviously, never forgot it, and never forgot the lessons he learned.) Anyway, here was his error: He asked her to audition. For those of you who don't know - with someone of Shelley Winter's caliber - you don't ask them to audition. Actors have refused to take parts in films where they are asked to audition. You can't get away with it when you're young and inexperienced - but someone like Meryl Streep, or Paul Newman, or Robert DeNiro ... These people don't audition. Nor should they. They have, ahem, proved themselves capable. Now all you need to do is see if they like the script, if you think you can work with them, if the schedules work out, if the salary can be negotiated ... You COURT them. You don't ask them to audition. You might take them to lunch. Or have a script meeting. But someone who has made 80 movies - you don't ask them to AUDITION. It's obvious that they can act, mkay? So it was a huge faux pas.

Winters, though, was a worker - she loved to work - and she wanted the job, whatever it was, so she went to the audition. Her career lasted five decades, people. It's really amazing. Okay, so anyway.

She walks into the director's office. She is Shelley feckin' Winters in her 60s, and we all know what that means. She is an enormous flouzy blowsy fat woman, wearing a goofy little crushed-velvet hat, a huge overcoat, and carrying a lumpy bookbag over her shoulder.

She sat down in the chair. Before the director could even say a WORD - she opened the bookbag, took out one Oscar statue and plopped it on the desk. She didn't say a word. Then she reached into the bookbag, took out another Oscar statue, and plopped it on the desk, next to the other one.

Silence.

Winters barked, "Ya still want me to audition?"

Hahahaha I love that story - it says worlds about who she was - many times obnoxious, pushy, what have you - but she was a force of nature. Oh and yeah - the director gave her the part immediately. He realized instantly that he had fucked up, that this woman didn't need to prove anything, and that he would be thrilled to have her in his project. With humor, brash force, and honesty - Winters taught him a very important lesson. I wish I could remember who it was - but he spoke eloquently of what he learned in that moment. You don't ask Shelley Winters to audition. She knows how to act, okay?

Genius.

I'm very sad about her passing. Her work ethic, her no-nonsense approach to the characters she played, her longevity, her amazing career - has always been a beacon for me. I saw Place in the Sun when I was 12 years old. She had me hooked from then on.

"I'm not overweight. I'm just nine inches too short."

-- Shelley Winters

Alex's tribute is not to be missed.

Here is the entry for Shelley Winters from David Thomson's spectacular Biographical Dictionary of Film.

Blowsy, effusive, brash, and maternal, either voluptuous or drab, Shelley Winters is at her best when driven to wonder, "How did a girl like me get into a high-class movie like this?"

In fact, she had a very respectable New York stage training before her debut in What A Woman, followed by She's a Soldier, Too, Nine Girls, and Tonight and Every Night. She may be seen, briefly, walking across the screen in the wagon train dance sequence in Red River. But her first really worthy part was as the waitress in the Kanin/Cukor A Double Life and she featured notably in Cry of the City; Take One False Step; The Great Gatsby; Johnny Stool Pigeon; South Sea Sinner; Winchester 73; and George Stevens' A Place in the Sun, in which she is last seen hunched up in a rowing boat before Montgomery Clift's uneasy resolve drowns her.

This same vulnerability characterized Phone Call From a Stranger, The Big Knife, The Night of the Hunter, in which she is discovered on the bottom of the lake, still sitting up in a car, hair flowing like weed,

and The Chapman Report. But she is equally adept, if hard to restrain, in more domineering parts: Mambo; Executive Suite; I Am A Camera; Stevens' The Diary of Anne Frank for which she won the supporting Oscar; as Charlotte Haze in Lolita; The Balcony; A Patch of Blue and another supporting Oscar; The Scalphunters; the delicious Bloody Mama. Add to this Wellman's My Man and I; Fregonese's Untamed Frontier; Fred M. Wilcox's Tennessee Champ; Walsh's Saskatchewan; Heisler's I Died a Thousand Times; Wise's Odds Against Tomorrow; Frankenheimer's The Young Savages; Lewis Gilbert's Alfie, Barry Shear's Wild in the Streets; Curtis Harrington's Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? and What's the Matter With Helen?; and Paul Mazursky's Blume in Love; and it looks a very versatile career that has never lost its sense of loudmouth fun. Not least in The Poseidon Adventure in which she asks us to believe that, as New York underwater swimming champion, she once held her breath for two minutes forty-seven seconds.

She was garrulous still in That Lucky Touch; Diamonds; a casebook Jewish mother in Next Stop, Greenwich Village; the sleazy concierge in The Tenant; Tentacles; Pete's Dragon; The Magician of Lublin; and City on Fire.

Since then she has published two lively volumes of autobiography and appeared in Elvis: The Movie; SOB; Fanny Hill; Over the Brooklyn Bridge; Ellie; Deja Vu; The Delta Force; Very Close Quarters; Purple People Eater; An Unremarkable Life; Touch of a Stranger; and Stepping Out. And on TV, as the grandmother of Rosanne.

Now eighty, she has plugged on: Weep No More, My Lady; The Pickle; Is Silenzio del Prosciutti; Backfire!; Jury Duty; Mrs. Munck; Heavy; Raging Angels; The Portrait of a Lady, in which, on screen, she was married to John Gilegud -- you see, the movies are better than life; Gideon; La Bomba.

Rest in peace, dear dear Shelley Winters. I can't thank you enough for what your acting and your career in general has meant to me. You are a true American giant, and it just won't be the same without you.

RIP John Spencer

Alex has a great great tribute up to this hard-working amazing actor who died last night.

I was in a loud smoky bar last night - shouting over the mayhem with my friends - all of us having deep conversations - yet we were SHOUTING the deep conversations- "I FEEL LIKE THE LAST COUPLE OF WEEKS WERE REALLY A TURNING POINT!" "WHAT???" "A TURNING POINT - I'VE TURNED A CORNER -- EMOTIONALLY!" Etc. And that was where I heard (it was shouted at me) about John Spencer dying. I couldn't believe it. I remember his stint on LA Law. I remember it well. I remember him in Presumed Innocent too - he was always good. But he had been working for AGES before that. Go way way back, and he is still there. And look: he died in the midst of having the greatest success of his long long career. Wonderful.

He will be missed.

RIP Richard Pryor

"I was a Negro for 23 years. I gave that shit up. No room for advancement."

-- Richard Pryor

A good friend of mine sent me an email:

The one inspiration above all of them during my Childhood is gone. Up there with the great ones; Bill Cosby, Eddie Murphy, Red Foxx, George Carlin, and Robin Williams...Richard Pryor was one comedian that struck some of the deepest notes with me. The man inspired me to tell stories. He and Bill Cosby showed me how to tell stories, and how to amuse people by just going all schizo, and literally becoming the characters themselves.

I'm a mess right now. I think we all are.

Here is Alex's wonderful tribute.

Richard Pryor:

We shall not see his like again. He has no peers. He has many imitators - but like Yeats wrote of Jonathan Swift (translating Swift's own epitaph): "Imitate him if you dare."

One of my favorite quotes about art comes to mind. Stella Adler, great acting teacher, once said:

"It is not that important to know who you are. It is important to know what you do. And then do it like Hercules."

Mr. Richard Pryor did it like Hercules.

Rest in peace, sir.

RIP John Fowles

John Fowles, British novelist, author of The French Lieutenant's Woman, The Magus, and many more, died this past weekend at the age of 79.

Here's the obit in the New York Times. Well worth reading.

I loved the description of what it was about French Lieutenant's Woman that made it so ... startling:

The book, set in 1867, tells the story of Charles Smithson, a gentleman geologist (as was Mr. Fowles) in Lyme Regis and a budding adherent of the theories of Charles Darwin. Engaged to a young woman of his class and station, Smithson finds himself drawn to a willful governess who has been wooed and abandoned by a French sailor. On the surface, the story seems classically Victorian, with elaborate 19th-century language, highly wrought plot twists and extensive epigraphs introducing each chapter.

But the book's narrator is straight from the 1960's, and it is his all-knowing voice - constantly interrupting the narrative with mini-lectures on extra-textual subjects, freely discussing people who haven't been born and historical events that haven't yet happened - that makes "The French Lieutenant's Woman" so unusual. Along the way, the reader is treated to the narrator's - that is, Mr. Fowles's - views on Victorian England, Freud, Marx, the dilemma of the modern novelist and 20th-century existential despair.

Exactly. If you've read the book, you know that there's really nothing quite like it. Fowles is imitated all the time now. But he was the first one there.

I love this too:

As much as it frustrated some of his readers, Mr. Fowles always believed he had done the right thing by leaving the endings of his most celebrated novels open-ended. But he was not above bending his own rules when the occasion called for it.

He once told an interviewer that he had received a sweet letter from a cancer patient in New York who wanted very much to believe that Nicholas, the protagonist of "The Magus," was reunited with his girlfriend at the end of the book - a point Mr. Fowles had deliberately left ambiguous. "Yes, of course they were," Mr. Fowles replied.

By chance, he had received a letter the same day from an irate reader taking issue with the ending of "The Magus." "Why can't you say what you mean, and for God's sake, what happened in the end?" the reader asked. Mr. Fowles said he found the letter "horrid" but had the last laugh, supplying an alternative ending to punish the correspondent: "They never saw each other again."

If you're a Fowles fan (and I am) really what you should read is Anne's brief comments on him, and the one comment (so far) to her post.

Anne writes:

my dad always struck me as glamorous. He read a lot of Fowles, and seemed like a Fowles hero: curious, perhaps a bit naive but struggling toward knowingness, having some kind of UK-inflected post-adolescent sixties hangover, and enthralled by the mysteries of women.

And from the one comment to the post:

To this day, "The Magus" remains among the two or three books that made my life better, both as a writer and a man.

Rest in peace.

"All I was doing was trying to get home from work."

Rosa Parks has died at age 92. She was "surrounded by a small group of friends and family members."

Rest in peace, dear courageous lady.

Here's the obit in the Times.

Other bloggers' thoughts and reflections on the passing of Rosa Parks:

Baldilocks

Emily

peteb at Slugger O'Toole

Alex

Coalition of the Swilling

RIP August Wilson

One of our greatest living playwrights has died. That's a huge obituary in the New York Times there ... Great information on the life and work of August Wilson.

As seems fitting, his last play Radio Golf (which just premiered) was the closing chapter in a theatrical cycle he began a decade ago. Amazing. He "finished" his work.

From the obit:

Mr. Wilson did not establish the chronological framework of his cycle until after the work had begun, and he skipped around in time. Although "Radio Golf," the last play to be written, was set in the 1990's, "Gem of the Ocean," which immediately preceded it in production (it came to Broadway in the fall of 2004), was set in the first decade of the 20th century.

His first success, "Ma Rainey," which took place in a Chicago recording studio in 1927, depicted the turbulent relationship between a rich but angry blues singer and a brilliant trumpet player who also wants to succeed in the white-dominated world of commercial music. From there Mr. Wilson turned to the 1950's, with "Fences," his most popular play, about a garbageman and former baseball player in the Negro leagues who clashes with his son over the boy's intention to pursue a career in sports. His next play, "Joe Turner's Come and Gone," considered by many to be the finest of his works, was a quasi-mystical drama set in a boardinghouse in 1911. It told of a man newly freed from illegal servitude searching to find the woman who abandoned him.

The other plays in Mr. Wilson's theatrical opus are "The Piano Lesson," set in 1936, in which a brother and sister argue over the fate of the piano that symbolizes the family's anguished past history; "Two Trains Running," concerning an ex-con re-ordering his life in 1969; "Seven Guitars," about a blues musician on the brink of a career breakthrough in 1948; "Jitney," a collage of the everyday doings at a gypsy cab company in 1977; and "King Hedley II," in which another troubled ex-con searches for redemption as the Hill District crumbles under the onslaught of Reaganomics in 1985.

As the cycle developed, Mr. Wilson knit the plays together through overlapping themes and characters. Many of the primary conflicts concern the dueling prerogatives of characters poised between the traumatizing past and the uncertain future. The central character in "Radio Golf" is the grandson of a character in "Gem of the Ocean." The guiding spirit of the cycle came to be Aunt Esther, a woman said to have lived for more than three centuries, who was referred to in several plays and who appeared at last in "Gem." She embodied the continuity of spiritual and moral values that Mr. Wilson felt was crucial to the black experience, uniting the descendants of slaves to their African ancestors.

I found the text of a talk August Wilson gave on writing - and he opens with this gem of a sentence - it makes me love him:

When I discovered the word breakfast, and I discovered that it was two words, I think then I decided I wanted to be a writer.

Ha!

I saw Larry Fishburne in Two Trains Running in LA before it opened in New York. (Roscoe Lee Browne was in it as well - God, he was fantastic!!) But Fishburne was the revelation to me. I always knew he was a good actor, always had been a fan of his (Apocalypse Now was my first encounter with him, and yeah, The Matrix, whatever - but I think my favorite role of his is the renegade chess player in Searching for Bobby Fischer - just thinking about that movie gives me chills!) ... but my admiration for him exploded when I saw him on stage. Yeah, he's a movie star, whatever ... but he looked at HOME on the stage. He was amazing. When it opened on Broadway, the review called Fishburne "the jewel of the production". True, true.

The original review for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, (which premiered in NYC in the mid 1980s, and which was August Wilson's first success), closes with these lines:

Mr. Wilson can't mend the broken lives he unravels in ''Ma Rainey's Black Bottom.'' But, like his heroine, he makes their suffering into art that forces us to understand and won't allow us to forget.

Yup.

Rest in peace, Mr. Wilson. And thank you.

RIP Barbara Bel Geddes

A marvelous actress with a long long LONG career has just died. Barbara Bel Geddes passed away. Look at her face in those photos. Isn't it a nice face? She got more attractive as she got older - with those smile lines. A twinkly face, a smart face. I love the quote in the obituary: ""They're always making me play well-bred ladies. I'm not very well bred, and I'm not much of a lady."

She was very loved by some of the biggest directors of her day: Hitchcock, Elia Kazan. She also had a major stage career (she was much more successful on Broadway than she ever was in Hollywood - she was the original Maggie the Cat). And, very rare for actresses (more so than for actors) - she kept working after her youth was gone. Her biggest success (in fact, probably the most money she ever made) was when she was on Dallas - which was, of course, a huge cash cow. Just goes to show you: you can never give up. You are never "done". Acting is not just for the young and beautiful. Barbara Bel Geddes just kept going.

My personal favorite of her performances is Midge in Vertigo - which I raved about here. She's just so LOVable in that part. I want her to be my friend. She plays it perfectly: the down to earth woman, the friend of Jimmy Stewart ... but you know ... you just know ... that in her deepest heart, she is in love with him. It will not work out for her. She must accept his friendship. But ... even though there are no LINES to support this ... Barbara Bel Geddes lets us know: "This is the man for me." Her love for him is not fickle, or passionate, or adolescent. If she can't have him, then probably she will not be able to have anybody. She's a one-man woman. Again though: there are NO LINES that say any of this. It's all in Barbara Bel Geddes' face. But it's subtle. She's so good, she never hits you over the head with it. For the most part, she is just the good friend, the one who listens to him, the one who mixes him a drink ... who doesn't judge him ... who is there for him. Midge: a marvelous character. I fall in love with her every time I see that movie.

Rest in peace, Barbara Bel Geddes. And thank you so much for all your work over all the years.

RIP Doc Baker

Here is really the only obituary I need to read.

RIP Ernest Lehman

Ernest Lehman, legendary screenwriter, has died, at the age of 89.

His resume is too long to list. His influence has been huge. This was the man who brought us North by Northwest, for God's sake. And West Side Story -!!!!! And Sabrina. King and I. Sound of Music. One of the things he was most known for was taking Broadway hits (as most of the films I just listed were) and creating screenplays out of them. He did the same thing brilliantly with Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

Strangely enough, I watched North by Northwest the other night for the 37th time or whatever, and this time I watched the "making of" documentary, and also listened to some of the commentary track, which was, incidentally, done by Ernest Lehman. And again, strangely enough: there was something unbelievably touching to me ... about this little old man's voice, doing a commentary track for a movie made in 1959 ... when you didn't even have damn VCRs ... the technology we have now could barely be imagined back then ... and yet Lehman is still here, still relevant, and his commentary track was beautiful. Lots of terrific anecdotes. But again: to hear his little quavering voice say, as those amazing credits ran at the beginning of the film (member them? The geometric cross-hatching that ends up turning into the mirrored side of a building?) ... but anyway: to hear Lehman say, as the movie began, in his quavery old man's voice, "Look at those credits. Aren't they beautiful?"

I got a little verklempt about it, I can tell you.

One of the things Lehman revealed is how North by Northwest essentially came to be.

Hitchcock said two things to him, a propos of nothing, just thinking out loud, basically - two unconnected thoughts at the time:

1. "I have always wanted to do a movie that ended with a chase across the face of Mount Rushmore."

Ahem:

And:

2. "I have always wanted to do a film that opens during a session at the United Nations, and the person addressing the General Assembly says, 'I will not go on speaking as long as the delegate from Peru insists on falling asleep.' And then they nudge the Peruvian delegate, and they realize he is actually dead and he's been murdered."

Two separate Hitchcock-ian thoughts, two separate wish-lists.

Ernest Lehman's brain started click-click-clicking, and he went to his typewriter and wrote 65 pages of what would eventually be North by Northwest. Before going any further, he sent Hitchcock what he had done, to get his response.

Hitchcock wrote Ernest Lehman a 4-page handwritten response (which Ernest Lehman, in the interview during the documentary, said was one of his most treasured possessions.) - saying how much he enjoyed it.

That was the genesis of North by Northwest. They still had to figure out how the hell they got everyone to South Dakota, and why the hell they were scrambling about on the faces of the Presidents ... but eventually Lehman figured it all out.

Here is a picture of Lehman talking to Hitchcock, during the filming of the crop-dusting scene (filmed out in Bakersfield, California).

I think it's really fitting, at the time of his death, to show this man as he was then - young, vigorous, at the top of his game.

Look at it. Isn't it just wonderful? The collaborators.

And here is something else I found: A page of that early draft of North by Northwest:

The scene described on that piece of yellow loose-leaf is when the crop-duster slams into the truck, causing a huge explosion.

Amazing. I have tears in my eyes.

Ernest Lehman received six Academy Award nominations, and in 2001 he was the first screenwriter to ever to be awarded an honorary Oscar (and it's about feckin' TIME, in my opinion.) It was a great moment for screenwriters, when he received his honorary Oscar, and I'm thrilled that it happened while he was still alive and energetic enough to be there to accept. It was a well-deserved award, well-deserved indeed.

I'm strangely moved, by all this. Lehman is a part of history. An important part of the history of 20th century cinema.

Rest in peace, Mr. Lehman. And thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

In memory

... of Anne Bancroft. I knew Alex would come through.

Here is Alex's tribute to Bancroft's long and astonishing career.

Here is a list of Bancroft trivia.

And here are some Anne Bancroft quotables. My favorite?

"When Mel told his Jewish mother he was marrying an Italian girl, she said: 'Bring her over. I'll be in the kitchen - with my head in the oven'."

Like her husband, Mel Brooks, always used to say about their relationship: "Anne is the funny one."

Rest in peace, Anne. And thank you.

Oh no.

I just heard that Anne Bancroft has passed away. I have no words yet.

My thoughts are with Mel Brooks, and their son Max. I'll write more later, when I'm clearer in the head.

Anne Bancroft!!!!

Dammit, I'm gonna miss knowing she's out there. A classy dame, that one. I'm very sad about her passing. I really have no words. I can't realize it yet. She's always been there. Her performance in Miracle Worker changed my life, frankly. I was in 8th grade when I saw it ... and it was BURNED into my brain. The power ... nobody was powerful like Anne Bancroft.

Alex?? Please help me out here with language ... Stevie? Mitchell? I can't. You guys will say what needs to be said far better than I can.

I need to take a second ...

and acknowledge the sad news that Ismail Merchant has died. Isn't it strange. I don't even know the man, and I feel a huge sense of personal loss right now.

I need to come up with something more eloquent to say, but that'll have to come later. The Ivory-Merchant movies of Forster's novels are, of course, famous (and rightly so, in my opinion) - but for me, the most devastating and brilliant movie of theirs (Ivory directing, Merchant producing) was Mr. and Mrs. Bridge, starring Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. The film was so subtly painful that it almost registered with me on a level like a dog-whistle. Invisible to the conscious mind, but cutting through like a knife. You want to see great acting? Acting that is so good it makes me throw up my hands in despair and admiration? Watch Joanne Woodward in that movie. But it's weird. The movie is so painful (and I can't even say why) - its observations are so specific, so acute ... that it left an imprint behind in my mind, like a bruise on my heart or brain. It's that good. But that awful. There's one body-language moment in a crowded auditorium, between Joanne Woodward and her son that is so exquisitely awful - the moments of missed connections, of thwarted gestures - it's so simple, so damn simple. Devastating. It can't be described. It's not a violent scene, or a gory scene - but still - the effect on me was so huge that I felt like covering my eyes. Like, you don't want to look in on someone else's pain. You want to give them privacy in their terrible moment of psychological revelation. This all occurs in the movie without one word of dialogue.

I remember the first time I saw this painting by Goya. I was in a Humanities class in high school, and the second I saw it I had this surge of fear: I wished I could UN-see it. I wanted to erase it from my head. But I couldn't. That night I lay awake in bed, wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking and thinking and thinking about the horror of that scene, the sheer awfulness of man's inhumanity to man. I don't know - it left a deep mark - something I can't ever UN-do.

There's some association here, for me ... The second I started writing right now about Mr. and Mrs. Bridge, I started thinking about that painting. Even though one doesn't really have anything to do with the other. But: The scene in the auditorium was such that I wished IMMEDIATELY that I could block it out. Nothing flashy, nothing self-indulgent: It's a quiet moment of psychological agony, noticed ONLY by the camera - even though it's a space crowded with people. A woman's psychic scream of loneliness ... going completely unnoticed.

Weird to say that my favorite film of that famous team would be one I found so devastating that I honestly don't think I can ever watch it again, and pretty much blocked it out as I was seeing it.

A great career. A great artist. He will be so missed. And God: Howards End!! Such a wonderful movie (and it takes quite a bit for me to say that - it's one of my favorite books ever written).

God. I'm sad.

Rest in peace, sir.

RIP Ruth Hussey

You might not know the name, but most of you will suddenly have an "a-ha" moment of recognition when I tell you that Ruth Hussey, who played "Elizabeth Imbrie", the world-weary wise-cracking photographer (Jimmy Stewart's girlfriend) in Philadelphia Story, has just died.

She was nominated for an Oscar for her performance. She makes such an impression in that film, doesn't she? Isn't it just a wonderfully warm (in a kind of cold way ... ha ha) and funny piece of acting? Miss Imbrie understands men, she doesn't try to play them, she also doesn't try to put herself above them (like Tracy does). Miss Imbrie is down in the muck and mess of life with the guys. She maintains no pretenses, she sees right through things, she has no illusions left. Because of her more realistic outlook about male-female relationships, you can tell that this woman has been hurt. She maintains no fairy-tale facade, she's been around the block. But the beauty of this performance (and why I think it was nominated for an Oscar, and also why it holds up under the test of time - it is still funny and touching and real to today's audiences) - is that she is NOT just a wise-cracker. Because that would be boring. There would be no depth there. Ruth Hussey was able to subtly let us know that a living breathing woman with hopes and dreams of her own lay hidden beneath that sarcastic exterior. It's just that Elizabeth Imbrie would never let you in on her secrets, she would never show you her soft underbelly. Life's too rough, man, you gotta protect yourself.

Her boyfriend, Macauley Connor (Jimmy Stewart) is one of those failed artists who has let his own failure make him bitter, and superior. He thinks if you have money you have sold out. One of THOSE obnoxious types. I love their meeting with their boss, Sydney Kidd.

Connor rails at his boss: No hunter of buckshot in the rear is cagey, crafty Connor. Un-quote. Close paragraph.

Imbrie, knowing that they are about to be fired, comments wearily and fatalistically: Close job. Close bank account.

I love her work in that film - as much as I love the work of the three principles. Sure, there are three "leads" in the movie - but I always thought of Ruth Hussey's character as a fourth lead.

Ruth Hussey died on April 19, at the age of 93. My friend Alex (of course) is the one who alerted my attention to this. Here is her beautiful little post about this wonderful actress.

To illustrate what I mean about the character she created in Philadelphia Story (and you know what? I've seen this production on stage a number of times as well, and I have NEVER seen a modern-day actress really nail this character. Either she comes off as just a bitter bitch, OR - the modern actress is blatantly doing an imitation of Ruth Hussey. Hussey put her indelible mark on that character. If I were cast in that role, I know I would have a difficult time making it my own, because to me, she IS that woman.) ...

Anyway. There's the FUNNY scene where Macauley Connor (Jimmy Stewart) is trashed and shows up at CK Dexter Haven's house in the middle of the night.

"Ohhh. CK Dexter HAAAAAAAVEN..."

Cary Grant appears at the door, bemused, in his dressing gown, and lets Stewart in. High comedy follows. (One note: Jimmy Stewart is so convincing as a drunk that you pretty much could use just THAT performance as an example to actors as How to Play Drunkenness. That's it. It doesn't get any better than that.)

Finally, after a long night ... Elizabeth Imbrie shows up at the door, to pick up her wasted boyfriend. Cary Grant opens the door, and you can hear Jimmy Stewart in the background, still inside the house, blabbing on and on and on.

Miss Imbrie, with this face - this flat face that somehow can convey so much - strolls by Cary Grant in the doorway, and calls out, "Where's my wandering parakeet?"

Now listen. I don't want to make too huge a deal about this teeny moment, but you know - that's me. I make huge deals out of teeny moments.

Why we love Miss Imbrie, and why she is the perfect match for Jimmy Stewart (and why Tracy Lord most definitely is NOT) is in that moment. Her boyfriend has fallen off the rails. He is keeping her in a state of indecision. He won't marry her. He's a snob. Etc. But because she's probably had a lot of boyfriends, because she has no illusions about men, there are no Prince Charmings, she wouldn't be interested in a Prince Charming anyway ... because of all of that, she doesn't treat Jimmy Stewart with contempt, or scorn. In her heart, she might be in a rush to get married, but she keeps her heart to herself. His failings and foibles she treats with deadpan humor. She's not going anywhere. She stands by him. She makes sarcastic remarks the entire time, but she stands by him. Another woman might have shown up at CK Dexter Haven's door and bitch-slapped her boyfriend: "Where have you been? Sober up! You're embarrassing me!" Not Miss Imbrie. She strolls into the house, hearing his hysterical ramblings somewhere inside, calling, "Where's my wandering parakeet?" Not THE wandering parakeet. But MY wandering parakeet. She's loyal. And you love her for it. He needs a loyal woman. He just doesn't know it yet. And she is willing to wait.

Think about the scene where CK Dexter Haven asks Ruth Hussey why she doesn't force him to marry her. She's on the stairway going up to bed, member that scene? It's about 6 o'clock in the morning, and CK Dexter Haven has driven her back to the Lord mansion, after she typed out his big story. She's exhausted. Okay, one small actor moment to notice: Miss Imbrie is in a long formal gown, left-over from the party the night before. And just in her body language, actress Ruth Hussey is able to convey so convincingly what exactly it feels like to wear high heels for 10 hours straight. It is not comfortable. You cannot wait to get the damn things off. Your feet ache, pinch. Watch how she takes off her shoes in that scene. Just watch. That's ACTING. After all, the actress Ruth Hussey has not been dancing at a party all night long, and then racing around after her drunk boyfriend. Actress Ruth Hussey, in that taking-off-shoes moment, is just pretending. But it's real. It's that kind of detail that makes a performance great. Good performances abound, but many miss those small moments of reality. Every time I see that scene, my own feet remember the pinch of high heels. I'm not exaggerating.

There's this exhausted camaraderie between CK Dexter Haven and Miss Imbrie in that scene. You understand why Miss Imbrie probably has a ton of male friends. They may all want to sleep with her, but they accept second-best: her friendship. She does not condescend, she does not flirt, she treats men straight-up - in a frank and friendly way. Even though she's hard-bitten in some way, and she's tough - she is NOT unforgiving. THAT'S what is special about this performance. She is actually the essence of the forgiving female. Yet she's not a doormat.

(See why actresses usually can't pull this role off? It's a very tough balancing act. If you don't have BOTH elements, and only nail ONE, then you aren't doing a good job.)

CK Dexter Haven, in that 6 a.m. truthful energy, asks her why she doesn't marry Macauley.

I cannot remember her exact line, but it's something like: "He has a lot of growing up to do. And I don't want to stand in his way."

Beautiful. She is willing to wait.

And her face, the next morning, when she realizes that Macauley and Tracy have had some kind of kissy-kiss thing happen. You see this flash of deep true sadness on her face. Her eyes. The pain in those eyes. But she doesn't flip out, or accuse Tracy or Macauley ... she holds her counsel. She doesn't involve the whole crowd with her sadness, she bears it on her own. (Again, this is all really subtle. That's why it's so good. Nothing is belabored or hammered over our head.)

Later, as things are working themselves out ... Tracy (self-consumed up until this moment) suddenly realizes what she has actually done to Miss Imbrie. Miss Imbrie becomes real to Tracy, in that moment. Tracy runs over to Miss Imbrie, takes her hands, and says, "Oh, Liz, I am so so sorry."

Miss Embrie's reply (to the woman who made out with her boyfriend just hours before) is: "Oh it's all right Tracy. We all go haywire at times and if we don't, maybe we ought to."

This is not bull shit, or false pride, or keeping a stiff upper lip. Miss Imbrie REALLY means this. Isn't that amazing? Don't you just love her? It can't be easy for her, because she can't allow herself any illusions ... but still. The rewards for having that sort of generous and forgiving stance towards the foibles of humanity must be very very great.

I have gone on long enough, but I just wanted to blather on about one of my favorite performances ever, and to take a moment and remember Ruth Hussey at the time of her passing. A beautiful and warm actress, she gave a performance that will live forever.

The pope and the Ark of Nowa Huta

The Pope has died.

I will not defend the Pope's stance on gay marriage, on women in the priesthood, on (fill in the blank). I'm a Catholic, but I won't sit around defending what I see to be backwards and foolish stances. On the flipside, I also don't expect the Catholic Church to modernize itself and its attitudes in any way that even resembles speed! People who are waiting for that kind of change from that kind of institution have no idea how institutions like that operate. So. That being said. I also will not tolerate generalized Catholic-bashing. I just won't have it. [Especially from people who go on and on about how we have to tolerate this or that other religion - wiccans, fire-worshipers, Muslims ... and yet somehow that tolerance is not inclusive towards Christians or Catholics. Nope. Hypocrites.] I'm no idiot, and I'm no blind follower. I'm against dogma, anyway, which ... makes it surprising that I am able to call myself a Catholic at all. But oh well. It's my faith. Love it or leave it, Tommy. The Pope has pissed me off recently more than he has enlightened and inspired, this is true, but he - being a human being - like all of us - was a mixed bag, part good, part evil, part wrong-headed, part visionary.

I like this quote from Secular Blasphemy:

I am no fan of Karol Joseph Wojtyla, a deeply conservative man, but one positive thing he leaves the world was his tremendous part in bringing down communism in Eastern Europe. That is something nobody can take away from his record.

Exactly. And so: what I will remember him for (and this probably isn't a surprise) is his courageous and active stance against Communism, and how instrumental he was in the crackup of the Soviet Union. His actions in the late 1970s and early 80s stand as an example of one human being, one small human being, holding up a light, shining it not only so that his followers know which way to go - but also shining it onto the evil itself, illuminating it for all to see. That is what he did. His presence gave people hope. He said to the people of Poland (and, by proxy, to all people suffering under the communist yoke): "You are already free. They cannot enslave you. You are free already."

I think the Catholic Church has a lot to answer for, in terms of its handling of social problems and its own problems and necessary change in general, but in a strange way, I am glad it has been embroiled in scandal recently. Because maybe now the truth will come out, and true reform can occur. The truth shall set you free and all that.

But today, of all days, I do not want to dwell on that. It is not appropriate, and it's not my thing. I never talk about religion on this blog, because frankly, it's such a private thing for me that even putting any of it into words feels weird. I find evangelism frightening and off-putting. If evengelism floats your boat, then do it - but you'll find no conversion from me. My faith is a private thing. It exists, it's my own, and the thought of getting into doctrinal arguments with people is ... it's just not right for me. My spirit says to that: NO. I will not do that. I have no need to convert others, I have no need to even TALK about my beliefs to people. I think righteousness has no place in religion (which is why so much of organized religion and its followers, in particular, disgust me.) Humility is what seems most holy to me. Humility, and a sense that whatever it is we are doing here in church, whatever it is ... is basically a mystery. The Holy Ghost part of the equation. St. Augustine said, "If you think you understand, it isn't God." I am with you Augie!!!

Anyway. I'm getting off track here. What I really want to do is post a long excerpt from a book I really love: Down with Big Brother: The Fall of the Soviet Empire, by journalist Michael Dobbs. Poland and the Solidarity movement (inspired, in part, by the Pope), were at the forefront of the "fall of the Soviet Union" - The stirrings began in Poland, and then spread like wildfire until nothing could stop the crack-up.

And that's all I want to say about the Pope. My feelings about the other policies of the Church and the way it is going right now have no place in this conversation. At least not today. Today, I think it is important to remember the magnitude of his contribution to the fall of the Soviet Empire.

Here is the story of the Polish Pope, and the extraordinary thing that happened at Nowa Huta, Poland, on June 22, 1983:

An excerpt from Down with Big Brother: The Fall of the Soviet Empire, by journalist Michael Dobbs.

While the leaders of world communism were bidding farewell to Brezhnev, a little drama was being played out on the periphery of the Soviet empire that captured the scale of the ideological challenge confronting his successors. The workers of Nowa Huta, a city of 200,000 people in southern Poland, had taken a passionate dislike to a statue to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin adorning their central square. They had marched on it, scrawled anti-Communist graffiti on it, and attempted to pull it down with picks and ropes. On one occasion they had even set the father of the international proletariat on fire, drenching his billowing overcoat in gasoline and blowing off one of his hands.

Determined to protect Vladimir Ilyich from his ungrateful offspring, the Communist authorities erected a corrugated iron fence around the charred two-story-high monument. Thousands of ZOMO riot police moved into Nowa Huta. Armed policement patrolled the square day and night. At moments of tension a dozen police vehicles threw a defensive circle of steel around the statue. Water cannon were stationed nearby to repel a surprise attack.

For a nation still reeling from the psychological shock of martial law, there was a delicious irony to these events. Nowa Huta - Polish for "new steelworks" -- had been planned as a model socialist community. Poland's rulers had wanted a socioeconomic laboratory where they could turn God-fearing Polish peasants into the new proletarian man described by Marx and Lenin. They saw the town as a political counterweight to the nearby city of Krakow, Poland's ancient capital, which they regarded as a bastion of conservative reaction. The construction of Nowa Huta in the early 1950s was accompanied by a propaganda barrage about the incredible feats of "heroes of socialist labor", which served as inspiration for Andrzej Wajda's film Man of Marble. To celebrate its completion, the giant Nowa Huta steelworks received the hallowed name of Lenin ...

Nowa Huta differed from other model socialist towns in one very important respect. At the corner of Karl Marx Avenue and Great Proletarian Avenue stood a soaring concrete structure that had not been part of the original plan. Topped by a huge steel cross, the Church of Our Lady, Queen of Poland was known to everyone in town as the Ark. The struggle to prove the planners wrong had infused the entire community with a sense of defiance.

The first cross appeared on this site in 1957, in the wake of the popular upheavals that swept Gormulka to power. Over the next decade the cross was repeatedly torn down by police and stubbornly put up again by the local inhabitants. Finally, in 1967, seventeen years after the building of Nowa Huta, the archibishop of Krakow had dug a spade into the earth to break the ground for the town's first church. It took another decade of bureaucratic obstruction and arbitrary shortages of building materials to complete the Ark. Much of the work, including carrying two million stones from mountain streams, was done by local inhabitants with their bare hands. Consecrating the completed church in 1977, the archbishop had declared: "Nowa Huta was built as a city without God, but the will of God and the people who worked here prevailed. Let this be a lesson."

The archbishop had gone on to become Pope John Paul II, the first non-Italian pope in 455 years. On his first pilgrimage back to his homeland, in 1979, Karol Wojtyla had been refused permission to visit the Ark. So he had said mass across the cornfields in Krakow, against the backdrop of the dark, satanic steel mill. Now he was returning to Poland once again, and this time he would be visiting Nowa Huta. Frustrated in their attempts to put down the local Lenin monument, the inhabitants of the "city without God" were determined to show the world where their loyalties really lay.

The Pope's first visit had provided the spiritual boost that had paved the way for the rise of Solidarity. By turning out to greet their countrymean, and becoming part of the millions-strong crowd that followed his every move, Poles acquired a sense of solidarity with one another. Never again would they feel alone and isolated, as they had during the dark days of totalitarianism. If anyone was isolated, it was Poland's Communist rulers.

During the 1979 pilgrimage John Paul had spoken in a voice that was simple and direct, quite unlike the voice of the Communist regime. He talked of the 35-year Communist experience as a transitory phenomenon, insignificant in comparison with Poland's thousand-year devotion to the Roman Catholic Church. It was a message that came across clearly on the first day of the visit, in Warsaw's Victory Square, when the pope attacked the state for attempting to create an atheistic society. "Christ cannot be kept out of the history of man in any part of the globe," he had thundered. The crowd greeted his words with a ten-minute burst of applause, ending with rhythmic chants of "We want God, we want God!:

From that moment onward, Karol Wojtyla became the uncrowned king of Poland.

During his weeklaong tour of Poland the pope had elaborated on one of his favorite themes, the spiritual unity of Europe. He saw his beloved Krakow as part of a European-wide civilization, in which political boundaries were more or less irrelevant. In Wojtyla's Europe, the Europe of 966, when Poland was first converted to Christianity, there was no Iron Curtain and no Berlin Wall. Priests, scholars, and ideas traveled freely from one town to another. The pope was convinced that his election was God's way of reminding Western Europe that Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, Croats, Serbs, Bulgars, and even Russians were also part of a much broader Christian civilization.

Born in 1920, the year Poland defeated Soviet Russia in the "Miracle on the Vistula," Karol Wojtyla had firsthand experience of family tragedy, backbreaking labor, and political oppression. He had scarcely known his mother, a schoolteacher, who died when he was only six, while giving birth to a stillborn girl. His father, who had served in the Austro-Hungarian army, was killed in the opening year of World War II. "At the age of twenty," Wojtyla later recalled, "I had already lost all the people I loved and even the ones I might have loved, such as my big sister who had died, I was told, six years before my birth." Psychologists have speculated that the future pope sought compensation for the maternal love he never received in the Marian cult of the Black Madonna.

As a theological student in Krakow, Wojtyla experienced the terror of German occupation. A particularly brutal Nazi gauleiter, Hans Frank, installed himself in the royal Warsaw Castle with orders from Hitler to treat the POles as a slave race. "The standard of living in POland must be kept low," Hitler instructed. "The priests will preach what we want them to preach. Their task is to keep the Poles quiet, stupid, and dull-witted." Wojtyla saw Krakow Jews being taken to the death camp at Auschwitz, just a few miles down the road. Polish intellectuals were disposed of in a similar fashion. The Germans put Wojtyla to work, first in a stone quarry and later carrying buckets of lime in a water purification plant. On the night of August 6, 1944, the Gestapo arrested all Polish males between the age of fifteen and fifty in retaliation for the Warsaw uprising. Had they found Wojtyla, they would probably have killed him. Fortunately for the young theologian, he was given shelter by the archibishop of Krakow, Prince Adam Sapieha.

Wojtyla lived in the residence on Franciscan Street, off and on, for nearly fifteen years, as both student and archbishop. When he returned in June, 1983, as pope, it was as if he were coming home. He greeted the nuns by name and sang and joked with the thousands of young people who waited to greet him in the street outside. "Holy Father, we trust you," they chanted. "Save Poland!"

On the last full day of his visit the pope said mass on the Blonie, the vast meadow in front of Wawel Castle. Banners reading "Solidarity Lives" and "There Is No Freedom Without Solidarity" fluttered above the crowd of two million people. Alluding to Jaruzelski's imposition of martial law, the pope urged his listeners never to give up. The nation had been "called to victory," he declared.

As he said these words, two million people raised their hands silently in the air in the V for victory sign. An underground Solidarity leader, Eugeniusz Szumiejko, who had managed to escape the police roundup, was standing at the back of the huge throng, on top of an embankment. All of a sudden he saw a sea of black heads submerged in a wave of white fists. It was an awe-inspiring sight, proof that Jaruzelski had been unable to crush the spirit that had given birth to Solidarity. At the end of the mass a large chunk of the crowd set off on foot for Nowa Huta, beneath their Solidarity banners, to see the pope consecrate a new church.

"Khodz z namy," they chanted, the battle cry of 1970 and 1980. "Come with us. There will be no beatings today."

When they reached the site of the new church, the joined a congregation of a quarter of a million people. The entire population of the "city without God" had turned out to greet the pope. Here was proof that history could not be reversed by tanks, internment camps, and corrugated iron fences, that martial law too would pass, and that Nowa Huta's two-story monument to the founder of world communism would one day come down.

RIP Teresa Wright

I just heard the sad news that Teresa Wright, wonderful Academy-award winning actress, has passed away at the age of 86. Here she is in Mrs. Miniver - the film for which she won her Oscar:

She, while along with being a very talented actress, represented a kind of anti-glamour (despite the fact that she is obviously very beautiful) - something that people really responded to. She always seemed like a real person. I mean, look at her face in that photo. She looks real, human, not made up to the point of garish oblivion. The frou-frou starlet thing held no interest for her. Not only did it hold no interest for her, but she really felt like she couldn't go that route. It wouldn't be right for her. Not that she judged those it WAS right for (the Marilyn Monroes of the world)... but she knew it wasn't right for her.

From that article, comes a quote from Miss Wright:

"I'm just not the glamour type. Glamour girls are born, not made. And the real ones can be glamorous even if they don't wear magnificent clothes. I'll bet Lana Turner would look glamorous in anything."

What I like about Teresa Wright is that she seemed to have one of the most necessary qualities for any long career: self-knowledge. And it shows up in her performances. She's a great example of that - other actresses (or actors) may get talked into doing things they feel isn't right for them, may get big heads from flattery ("Of course you're as beautiful as Lana Turner!!", etc.), and because of all this - make grave judgments in error, in terms of how their image is managed, or what projects they appear in. Teresa Wright was usually well cast, and a lot of that has to do with her self-knowledge. She knew what she could do, and what she shouldn't attempt.

She refused to do cheesecake publicity shots, and refused to be dressed up in bikinis or bathing suits, saying, "I argued that I didn't have any of the attributes to pose for cheesecake. I said I would have to make good on my acting ability, which was the only attribute I could offer."

Perhaps not the ONLY attribute. Her loveliness is pretty much indisputable. It was just that being beautiful didn't interest her. What did interest her was acting.

Here's an obituary, with lots of good information about Wright.

In Scott Berg's biography of Sam Goldwyn (which I have on, ahem, Bookcase # 4) - Teresa Wright is a major character. Not just because of her involvement with the mega-hit Best Years of Our Lives, but because Goldwyn fired her in 1948, for many reasons, but mainly because she was too independent-minded, and too recalcitrant for him. She had a mind of her own. Goldwyn hated women (especially actresses) with minds of their own. She left that contract with no regrets, and still went on acting. She was still acting way up into the late 1990s. Amazing.

Even though her name may not be that well known ... and in a way, sadly, she is one of the many many forgotten geniuses of the artform ... I know people who still count her as one of their favorite actresses ever. I know people who still cherish her work, who still look to her as one of the best.

Teresa Wright: rest in peace.

Maybe I should rent Best Years of Our Lives this weekend. Have a wee tribute.

The second I heard the news, I thought of Mitch. He's mentioned his admiration for her before here on this blog.. Go read his tribute to Teresa here.

RIP Arthur Miller

A long obituary in The New York Times - it looks back over Miller's extraordinary career. His later plays are, indeed, didactic (he always had a bit of the autodidact about him) - and the plays at the end of his life were much more issue-oriented, rather than character-oriented. Every playwright has a progression. Tennessee Williams, while he has an enormous body of work, spanning decades, will primarily be known for the plays he wrote in the 1940s and 1950s - when he reached his peak. Miller reached the pinnacle of his creative energies at the same time.

I'm pretty broken up about this. In a way, my own interest in acting, in theatre, in being an actress, can be traced back to my first encounters with reading Arthur Miller's plays. It's very personal, I guess. Who he is for me. He's one of THOSE people. His life, his work, really means something to me. And it always will, I suppose. I guess I just need to grieve the passing of this man.

Here's a photo of Arthur Miller and John Huston, on the famously troubled set of The Misfits (see that movie - if you haven't already!)

And here is the original cast of Death of a Salesman - Lee J. Cobb is the one sitting. Arthur Kennedy stands beside him. More on that play here.

RIP Ossie Davis

I just came across the very sad news that Ossie Davis was found dead in a hotel in Miami. He was down there, age 87, shooting a film.

His credits are too long to list. He has been working, pretty much non-stop, since the 1930s. Originally, he wanted to be a playwright, but once he hooked up with the famous Rose McClendon Players in Harlem, and did his first play with them in 1939 (they were a hugely influential group at the time) - he was hooked.

Also known as the long-time husband and acting partner (a la Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn) of Ruby Dee ... the two of them have written a book together about their long marriage, and celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 1998. It has been an amazing collaboration, in every sense of the word.

I remember them from Roots, actually ... but that's just a tiny portion of what Ossie Davis has done.

Spike Lee always cast both of them in his films (member Do the Right Thing?? What a feckin' film THAT was. I still remember my conversations with my mother about that movie, and what it meant ... great movie)...

But I think my favorite scene involving Ossie Davis is a very small one - from Jungle Fever - when his crack-head insane son (played by Samuel Jackson) comes home, and is acting nuts, and wanting money, and wanting help ... and Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee must, in order to save their son, reject him. It's an incredible scene. Anyone remember it? Sam Jackson, cracked-up out of his mind, starts doing this nutso dance, RIGHT AT HIS FATHER, he calls it "the Gator dance" (the character's name is Gator) ... but it's all about rage, and anger. The dance is a "fuck you". And Ossie Davis, as the father, stands strong. But watch Davis' face, as Sam Jackson gyrates towards him. Watch what he's doing. It's not just a stoic: "I cannot help my son. He needs to stand on his own." although that is PART of his expression. The other thing you see on his face is deep awful grief, GRIEF that burns his soul, that he must reject his own son. That he must, in essence, let Gator die. He can no longer protect his son. He will have to face losing him. A terrible terrible choice. Many parents will coddle their children, regardless of their drug addiction, they will want to save their kids ... Ossie Davis' character has gone that route for too long. He has propped up his son, which has only helped the crack addiction flourish. And so now ... he must cut the cord. A terrible choice - and it's all on Ossie Davis' face.

Ossie Davis doesn't even have many lines in this scene ... but it's the FACE ... that beautiful strong grief-struck angry face that kills me, as he watches his son dance towards him ...

A great actor. My thoughts go out to Ruby Dee.

Warning: The first person who makes some comment about how they hate his political views will have their comment deleted. This is not the time or the place, and I don't want to hear it.

This post is an acknowledgement of the man, the artist, the actor. His work will be long remembered.

Here is a photo of Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee at the 2004 Kennedy Center Honors - where they were among the list of artists being honored. Very very cool.

RIP, Mr. Davis, and thank you for your long long career.

RIP dear dear dear Johnny Carson

I feel so SO grateful that I grew up in a time when Johnny Carson was on the air ... it was the tail-end, granted ... but he was a HUGE part of my life. And I feel so SO grateful for that.

Johnny Carson said, about his retirement, "I have an ego like anybody else, but I don't need to be stoked by going before the public all the time."

Really, there was nobody like him. He was absolutely one of a kind. A true original. He really LISTENED, didn't he. He really LISTENED.

Doc Severinsen, the Tonight Show bandleader, said, that during the long quiet years of Carson's withdrawal from public life, "Every place we go people ask 'How is he? Where is he? What is he doing? Tell him how much we miss him.' It doesn't surprise me."

He became virtually invisible, after he retired. And yet ... never really gone. He withdrew. He was done. "The Tonight Show" was his pinnacle, and he chose to absent himself from publicity ... and yet nobody forgot him. He was still "out there", he was still "alive" ... how was he? Where was he?

He was, indeed, always missed. At least by this chick, writing this post.

Here are two funny quotes from Johnny Carson, which I have quoted on this blog. Beautiful.

Johnny Carson's automatic answers to all interview questions

and

Johnny Carson and Fernando Lamas

Forever, Johnny Carson ... you will be remembered forever. Thank you for being in my life, in the way that you were in all of our lives. I have this fondness for you, intense, even though I never met you. You made me feel like I knew you. You let me in. And I thank you for that. From the bottom of my heart.

Rest in peace.

Please feel free to add your own thoughts, recollections, favorite memories of Johnny Carson in the comments.

This news makes me sad

Jerry Orbach has died. What an actor. He has been an actor for decades and decades, always good, always interesting, always dedicated. I grew up listening to him on the soundtrack for The Fantasticks and also the soundtrack for 42nd Street - You may not know what a great singer he was. And please - who can forget his chilling turn as the criminal brother of Martin Landau in Woody Allen's brilliant Crimes and Misdemeanors? Apparently, someone else was supposed to play that part (someone famous - Mitchell? Do you know?) - and this person backed out at the last minute. Woody Allen put in a call to Jerry Orbach, and Orbach filmed his scenes in that movie on only 3 days notice. If you ever see that movie again, WATCH Jerry Orbach. And think of the fact that he only had 3 days to create that character, learn the lines. He's fantastic. And then, of course, his highly successful stint on Law & Order. Jerry Orbach, to my taste, is a real "actor's actor". A real collaborator, a team player ... I've always loved that guy.

Prince of the City. And please: "Nobody puts Baby in the corner". Day-um.

But it's in Crimes and Misdemeanors, I believe, that his true talent is on display. Just WATCH him. Brilliant.

He will be HUGELY missed.

RIP, Iris Chang "The Woman Who Wouldn't Forget"

I read this news this morning and felt very sad about it. Iris Chang, basically a wunderkind journalist and author, who wrote the international bestseller The Rape of Nanking (a horrific and very important book - if you haven't read it) was found dead on Tuesday morning of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Damn.

She was younger than I am. She has a 2 year old son. She had recently been hospitalized for depression, but the hospitalization did nothing to help her. The depression continued. It must have gotten too much to bear.

A very important voice, she had. Read The Rape of Nanking. It's a hard book to get through. There's one photo included which I found almost too painful to contemplate. I have tears in my eyes right now. But still - it's a must-read. Iris Chang was called "The Woman Who Wouldn't Forget".

Here is her website if you would like to read more about this extraordinary young woman.

Thank you for your books, Miss Chang. You will be missed.

Anthony Hecht, RIP

Anthony Hecht, American poet, has died. If you are unaware of Hecht, or his work - I highly recommend you check him out. I've been into his poems for years, and go back to them often. I find them frightening. They're very melancholy (he was famous for his "melancholia"), and he often turns his microscope (or telescope, however you want to put it) onto the horrors of the world. Cruelty, war, genocide ... they're tough poems. But also - it's the TONE of the poems which make them frightening (in my opinion). He speaks in the overly formal tone of someone who has seen too much, who battles great demons, and who is doing his damndest to keep himself together. He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1981, I think.

He described his work as "formalist ironic" (a sort of inside joke), and modeled his poetry after WH Auden.

Enormously successful in his own lifetime, he used a very formal almost old-school type of poetry (regular meter, etc.) to write poem after poem on the chaotic terrible events of the 20th century. He was an infantryman in WWII and witnessed, firsthand, the concentration camps, etc. He put all of that stuff into his poems. He wasn't exactly a happy man (what poet is?) but he was able to express all of it ... in sometimes startlingly beautiful poems.

Here's a great New Criterion article about Hecht (written when Hecht's Collected Poems came out - Hecht was still alive at the time). In this article, David Yezzi takes on the "charge" that Hecht is a "formalist" poet. I like what he has to say:

He is one of our most laureled poets. But the way that critics celebrate Hecht often strikes me as both backhanded and wholly typical of the current climate in American poetry. �An accomplished formalist� recurs as the standard tag, the phrase meant as qualified praise, like complimenting someone�s calligraphy �very pretty, no doubt, and once valued, perhaps, but rather too precious for anything today beyond addressing wedding invitations. Elegant but irrelevant.

The ineptitude of this kind of grudging appreciation is not the worst of it. One pities those who feel that a given age can accommodate only one kind of poetry (free verse these days, presumably), as if important work by both Eliot and Hardy, for example, did not issue from the 1920s, or from Larkin and Bunting in the 1960s, or from Geoffrey Hill in both free and metered verse throughout his career. No, the real downside to the appellation �formalist,� more damning than the taint of fustiness, is the way it precludes poems from being anything other than formal. A good formalist, the epithet suggests, is one who produces exquisite verse, period.

No one, I think, disputes Hecht�s command of English verse, but, because prosodic skill is a rare and useless talent in this free-verse age, his work sometimes arouses the same admiration lavished on a bipedal poodle. Labeling Hecht a formalist, while undeniable in the most obvious sense, misses the point. If anyone puts paid to the notion that metrical skill cancels passion, it�s Hecht. What�s more, if form and subject matter may be seen as complementary and interdependent, the opposite point better characterizes his work: Hecht may be the foremost �matterist� of his age, a feat more brilliant and difficult, in the end, than the mastery of traditional forms that he so abundantly displays.

Hecht is often lumped in with the category "Poets of World War II" (I think he's even included in a book on the subject) - and judging from his dark and terrified subject-matter, dealing with the horrors at the heart of the Holocaust, it seems very a propos.

His poem "Rites and Ceremonies" is pretty much the poem that announced his entry onto the "important poet" stage. It's a frightening poem - difficult to read, actually. How does one adequately face (and deal with) evil? How does one actually deal with seeing the walking skeletons at Buchenwald? That generation of men came home forever changed from what they had seen. Consider this stanza (I have a book of his poems - unfortunately it is at home ...) Anyway - here is a stanza from "Rites and Ceremonies":

And to what purpose, as the darkness closes about
And the child screams in the jellied fire,
Had best be our present concern,
Here in the wilderness of comfort
In which we dwell.
Shall we now consider
The suspicious postures of our virtue,
The deformed consequences of our love,
The painful issues of our mildest acts?
Where is there one
Mad, poor and betrayed enough to find
Forgiveness for us, saying,
�None does offend,
None, I say,
None�?

The child screaming in the jellied fire. I find that image almost unbearably painful.

Hecht's topic: Man's capacity for evil. Man's inhumanity to man. In this great review of a book of Hecht's poems, (note the date of the review - sheesh) - Kirsch, to my taste, describes what is special about Hecht:

Yet this theme has a double irony in Hecht's poetry, for at the same time as he reflects on the shattering of humanism, his own language continues to pay homage to it. Hecht's regular meter and rhyme, his formal diction ("Much casual death"), and his clear expository sentences betray none of the hesitation that his subject seems to demand. The means of expression are not called into doubt by the horror of what must be expressed. Quite the contrary. Hecht insists on still greater decorum and rigor when his theme is darkness and chaos. He is like the courtier of a deposed monarch, punctually attending the shrunken levees of reason.

Through seven books and nearly five decades, Hecht's poetry has maintained this disciplined disjunction between form and subject. He writes very often of the forces of dissolution � evil, chaos, lust, slovenliness � but always in a decorous style, as though these subjects were explosive chemicals that can only be handled with tongs.

Exactly. I wouldn't have been able to figure out how to say just that. His subject matter is the darkness at the heart of man. And yet the voice he uses is formal, cold, clear. It's terrifying.

Anyway, he was a great poet, a master of the craft ... and I am sorry that he has died. I hope that his passing was peaceful, and I thank him for his long long years of devotion to his work.

And now I leave you with my personal favorite Anthony Hecht poem - it's called "The Dover Bitch", an obvious parody of "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold. It's another side of Hecht - funny, biting, cynical, smart.

His voice will be much missed.

The Dover Bitch
by Anthony Hecht

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.

Janet Leigh, RIP

She scared the bejeebus out of us ... during the [corrected for emotional clarity] DEADLY - TERRIFYING shower scene ... I can't even think about it directly, without shivering in sympathetic horror ...

Of course, that was not all she did. Her career was long, and she appeared in some true classics. Touch of Evil, The Manchurian Candidate, etc.

I came across the following quote this morning, in one of the obits I read. Leigh described her experience filming Touch of Evil, directed by Orson Welles. I like the quote because it shows her generosity, her intelligence. The filming of the movie was a "great experience" for her, and yet she was disappointed with what ended up on the screen. She said:

"Universal just couldn't understand it, so they recut it. Gone was the undisciplined but brilliant film Orson had made."

She was 77 years old when she died. Her daughters, Kelly and Jamie Lee Curtis, were both at her side when she died.

Rest in peace, Ms. Leigh. You will not be forgotten.

"She's a strip of celluloid, a beam of light..."

An interesting obituary for Fay Wray.

I especially like the exchange re-told here, of a meeting between Hugh Hefner and Ms. Wray. He said to her, "I loved your movie." She replied, "Which one?"

RIP, Fay Wray

Fay Wray , of everlasting "King Kong" fame, just died, at the age of 96.

"I would stand on the floor and they would bring this arm down and cinch it around my waist, then pull me up in the air. Every time I moved, one of the fingers would loosen, so it would look like I was trying to get away. Actually, I was trying not to slip through his hand."

Rest in peace, Ms. Wray.

My favorite Brando story

Here's how it goes:

Throughout their careers as actors, Montgomery Clift and Marlon Brando were neck and neck. Montgomery Clift hit his stride a couple of years before Brando did - and Brando looked up to him. He wanted to act like Montgomery Clift, he wanted his acting to seem as real as Clift's did. Clift, of course, was a completely different personality than Brando - so the roles that came to them were almost polar opposites.

Montgomery Clift - with his almost unearthly beauty (at least before his car accident) ... The roles he got reflected the response he got for that beauty. People were deeply attracted to it and deeply alienated by it. It was like a Death in Venice kind of beauty. His part in Place in the Sun - the kind of very very secretly unscrupulous person, who fools everyone because of his beauty ... He made a career out of playing parts like that.

Brando was all brash masculinity. He was good-looking, but it was more about hot erotic sex appeal, than beauty.

But the two of them were linked together in the public's minds - as examples of this new kind of acting.

Montgomery Clift was very competitive. So was Brando. They didn't feel competitive with many other actors, but they felt competitive with one another. Clift came out in Place in the Sun - and Brando came out in Streetcar - and they sized up one another's performances warily, checking out the competition - but also - they never lost their admiration for what the other could do.

They were worthy foes, let's put it that way.

They weren't friends. They ran in completely different circles, but there was a mutual admiration/competition society between them.

All of that changed when Montgomery Clift got into his terrible car accident which smashed his face, changing his career forever. He was never the same again. His face lost the easy beauty, half of it was paralyzed, reconstructive surgery had done all it could do. After all of the surgery, etc., Montgomery Clift went into a deep depression. He could not climb out of it. He stayed locked up in his house, drew black curtains across the windows, and wouldn't let anyone come to see him. He was devastated by the change in his looks. Something in his heart and his soul had been crushed as well. He drank heavily. By himself. He became addicted to pain pills. He had his food delivered. He lived with an assistant, who took care of him, and answered the phone for him, and answered his mail, and kept everyone away. This went on for well over a year. He could not climb out of it. He could not go back to work. He did not how to be an actor without having a beautiful face. He didn't want to learn, either. Something precious had been taken from him.

One day - a car pulled up in front of the house. And Marlon Brando got out.

He was shooting a film, and he had an hour's break, so he drove over.

He walked up to the front door, and the assistant answered it - told him Clift didn't want to see him, or anybody.

But Clift called out from an inner room, "No, it's okay. Show him in."

Brando walked into that inner room, and shut the door. The two of them were in there alone for about 20 minutes. And then Brando walked out, left the house, got into his car, and drove away.

Montgomery Clift's assistant walked in to see if Clift was okay. What was going on? Brando wasn't a regular visitor, he wasn't Clift's friend, what had he said?

Clift was sitting on the couch, in tears. He said that Brando had put it to him straight. Brando stalked straight into the room and said something along the lines of this:

"Look. I am only where I am today because I have had you to compete with. If I'm good, it's because you've always been better. When I saw Places in the Sun, I thought - Damn. He'll get an Oscar for that. I need to be better. I need to work harder. Because if I'm good, you will always be better. And I need you. I need you. I need to know you're out there, beating me at my own game. So I want you to cut all this shit out. You have to stop drinking and taking pills, you have to get back to work again. Because I don't know what the hell I'm doing if you're not out there doing it, too. You get what I mean?"

Clift barely said a word in the exchange. Marlon talked on like that for about 15, 20 minutes. Basically opened up a can of whup-ass. And then, without another word, turned, walked out, and drove away.

Clift said to his assistant, "I had no idea. I had no idea he felt that way. I always felt the same way about him."

And although Clift (with the shining exception of The Misfits) never again found the ease in acting that he did before his accident - it was that conversation with Brando that was the catalyst. For that moment, anyway.

Clift went back to work again.

I love Marlon Brando for that. He wasn't generous to many other actors. He had a tendency to bulldoze right over them. But he needed competition. Without it, he got bored and apathetic. His motives for going to Clift's house that day were selfish, yes, indeed. He needed Clift to keep working so that his acting would continue to flourish. But isn't that true of any competitive sport? Playing against someone who is AS good as you are is a true test of your talent, your gift. It's no fun to play with amateurs. So his words that day also came from a spirit of generosity and acknowledgement of Clift's gift, with or without that damn pretty face, which catapulted Clift back into action.

Montgomery Clift never forgot Brando's surprising kindness on that day. And the two of them NEVER spoke of it again, even when they met in person. It was like it had never happened.

Marlon - 1924 - 2004

I've always wanted to be an actor. Since I was a little kid. Many members of my family are in this profession - and have been - so it always seemed like a valid way to make a living, as opposed to some wacked-out Bohemian dream. In a certain respect, the people who have the "normal" jobs in my family are the black sheep.

When I was little, I was the same way that I am now- the same person who throws herself into her passions with such abandon that all else fades away. My passions become PROJECTS. "Oh. Humphrey Bogart it is now? Fine, then. Let's go." I check things off the list, I must see this, this, and this. I must learn about him. I must envelop myself in him.

When I was 11 years old, maybe 12, I was babysitting. And I saw Dog Day Afternoon - clearly a movie which I should NOT have seen at that age. But that's irrelevant. Because sometimes it is the things that happen to us TOO SOON that have the greatest impact. For when are we ever truly ready for it? That movie, and Al Pacino's performance in general, changed my life.

He seemed different than anybody else I had ever seen before. He seemed to not be playing a character. He seemed to be on the EDGE of reality, as opposed to just mirroring reality. His performance moved me, a little girl, to such a degree that I remember wondering, idly, as the father of the child I babysat for drove my home later that evening, "I wonder if Sonny is still alive in prison somewhere ... I'd like to write to him." "Sonny" - the gay bankrobber Al Pacino portrayed - had made such an impression, and had filled my heart with such compassion - that I wanted to write to the real guy, and tell him how I felt about him. The whole sex-change operation plot of the film had gone right over my head - but that was all right. What I really got was a new and vibrant view of not only acting, but of human potential. Al Pacino seemed to me a miracle.

I saw that movie again recently, feeling like my little 11 year old self was sitting there right next to me, and I was in awe all over again.

And so the passion took over. In a very Sheila way, which will now be very familiar to all of you who read me. I was 12. I had never seen anything like Al Pacino's acting. It burned itself into my psyche as something new, something fabulous, something so exciting that I couldn't even BEAR it. All I wanted to do was know HOW he had learned how to DO that.

My research began. This is pre-Internet days. I don't remember the steps I took, perhaps micro-film was involved (my dad, after all, is a librarian) - but I do know that during this research-period was the first time I heard the words "Actors Studio". Al Pacino had come out of something called "The Actors Studio" - and so then I knew what my next steps would be. I needed to learn about the Actors Studio. What is it? What was it??

This discovery led me to Marlon Brando. His name was everywhere. He seemed synonymous with something. He and James Dean. They were it. They were "the ones".

This was also pre-VCR days (at least in my family) - and so began a weekly scanning of TV Guide, to see if any of "their" movies were on. I was relentless, and focused. For a couple of years.

And so that's how I saw Rebel without a Cause, East of Eden, Streetcar Named Desire and On the Waterfront. I watched these two men, I watched them hungrily, and also - with a bit of despair. Their acting made me feel lonely. Far away. How would I ever get to be like them? Would it be possible?

I started to read biographies of the people involved in the Actors Studio. No one was too peripheral. I read the autobiography of Carroll Baker, for example. I took every tangent. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, I discovered Natalie Wood, I discovered Nicholas Ray, Sal Mineo ...

Streetcar Named Desire seemed to me, at the time, to be something so exciting, so barely comprehensible, that I couldn't even get close to it. It contained a mystery. There was something in it that could not be pinned down. It held a secret, perhaps the secret. Marlon Brando's acting was not acting, frankly. It was life, yes. It looked like life. But it was BIGGER than real life. Which was the genius of the 3-way collaboration of Elia Kazan, Tennessee Williams, and Marlon Brando.

Here's how I see it.

Tennessee Williams: a fragile openly-gay man, a raucous party-hound, and on the run from his memories. He would have been institutionalized if he hadn't been a writer. His sister was lobotomized. He never got over it, and ran away, and never looked back. (The last moment of Glass Menagerie - with Tom's monologue about Laura - is Tennessee's expression of grief about it.) His plays are delicate, they are "memory plays" - he wrote them with the sensibility of one who needs to hang gauze over the lamps, of one who needs to fill his apartment with pretty delicate things ... He writes plays of facades, covering up the animal side.

But here's what I think: without the robust and theatrical and animal direction of Elia Kazan - his plays may have remained little frilly fey things. Now the words were on the page, the plays were fantastic - as is. But I have seen many of them ruined by too-precious direction, by directors who go for the gauze over the lamp effect - as opposed to delving into the churning lava below. Kazan took Tennessee's memory plays and cut straight to the jugular. He understood Tennessee - he understood the man's conflicts - and he set about to make them visible.

And without Marlon - in that groundbreaking role of Stanley - none of it would have happened at all. Marlon took the role of Stanley and so completely owned it that nobody knew what happened to them. Kazan just sat back and let it happen, and Tennessee (who, by all accounts sounds like a lovely man) would sit in the audience, just giggling with glee, watching Marlon tear up the room. Tennessee realized that his play was revealing something, and that only through the instrument of Marlon Brando could it fully come out.

It would be like a bad pianist playing a brilliant concerto.

Only a brilliant and gifted musician can truly "interpret" the great composers. The music itself is not enough.

Marlon Brando and Elia Kazan were the greatest interpreters to date of Tennessee Williams' very specific personality.

Brando, however, would never have spoken about it in that way. He was inarticulate, he was all instinct. He immersed himself in that part. He boxed. He slept in the theatre. He stopped bathing. He was completely emotionally exhausted by the part.

The funny thing is is that Brando was nothing like Stanley Kowalski, although there were some similarities.

Kowalski is a pig. He proclaims his pig-ness loudly. He eats with his mouth open. He drools. He guzzles stuff down his throat. He could fuck all night long. He has no shame. He is a man of voracious appetites, and a complete slob.

Brando was actually a rather delicate person (at least in his youth). Sensitive, and always trying to hide it. His girlfriends were either ballerinas, or ugly ducklings who hadn't yet blossomed. He was always seen with gawky little women wearing thick glasses and flat shoes. He loved girls like that. He loved to dance. He loved to play bongo drums. He loved art. He had done terribly in school, but he was obviously highly intelligent. Once he got to New York, he realized how goofing off in school had left him at a disadvantage, so he set about to educate himself. He read non-fiction, primarily - history books. He was playing catch-up. He went to museums every week.

All of this is just to point out that what Brando did with Stanley Kowalski is nothing less than miraculous.

People who saw the performance had a tendency to scoff it off, thinking he was just "playing himself". (Also, the fact that they would say that shows their ignorance. One of the hardest things to do is play yourself.) But he created a character. He saw things in the role that Tennessee Williams himself did not see. He was a revelation to all.

To me as well.

I learned all of this in my intense research-period in my early teens. I would read about crazy moments in Streetcar rehearsals - and then the next time I saw the movie - I would look for that moment like a detective.

I never lost my surprise in his ability.

One of the moments in that film that stands out for me (and I'm not the only one - people reference it often as an indication of how CREATIVELY Marlon Brando saw that part):

-- A lesser actor would make all kinds of intellectual decisions about Kowalski. What Stanely would or would not do. "Oh, Stanley wouldn't do that ..." "Stanley would never do that ..." Marlon never put restrictions on his impulses in that way, he never made any decisions about what Kowalski would or wouldn't do. Which is why that performance startles me even today.

He allows Stanley Kowalski to have moments of deep tenderness ... of vulnerability ... of humor ... The way he presses his face into Kim Hunter's abdomen after she finally comes down the stairs, answering his "STELLA" call. It's completely erotic, how he does that. It's also ... there's something infantile about it too. The little boy pressing against the womb. It's sexy, it's tragic, it's desperate ... and it is completely unexpected. NOW we can't see that moment played any other way, but it's only because he realized that moment so perfectly.

The other moment which I remember being so struck by when I was a kid ... He's talking with Stella about Blanche, and he's all brash and manly and tough ... I can't remember the scene ... but he's slouching around the room, he's touching things randomly ... it might be the "Napoleonic Code" scene. And then there's a moment where he faces off with Stella ... they have some back and forth lines ... In the middle of it, Kowalski/Brando notices that she has a little piece of fluff on her sweater. He reaches out, with the most delicacy in the world, like he's a pastry chef or something, and plucks it off her sweater.

It's one of those moments which could never be planned. It's also one of those moments which a more conventional actor would never allow himself to do while playing Stanley. "Stanley would never do that! He's a pig! He's a slob!"

Marlon Brando never concerned himself with those judgments. They seemed completely uninteresting to him.

The piece-of-fluff moment, to me, as a kid - was another "a-ha" moment. Akin to the Dog Day Afternoon moment. It brought tears to my eyes when I saw it for the first time. It seemed to me, then, that acting was one of the special-est and most important things that one can do. Because if it's good, it helps the audience ... It helps people see things about themselves.

He made acting seem like a grand and chaotic adventure. Filled with surprise, and revelation. He never did what was expected of him. I still can't see that "STELLA" scene without feeling my throat clench up. I still see that scene and think: "Okay. That's as far as he's gonna go. The scene will end now..." and yet - it doesn't. It keeps going. He keeps going further with it.

He shows to me, time and time again, my own failure of imagination.

He has helped me to ask the right questions, in my own work. To not concern myself with certain things that are unimportant, to try to find my OWN way into the part ... because, after all, I was the one who was cast. And so it needs to be MINE.

He never seems to play things right on the nose. He goes at things sideways. Perhaps that is because he was kind of a passive-aggressive personality in real life. Who knows why. But that very ambivalence and oblique-ness is what makes his acting still so exciting today.

I always think of the scene in the beginning of The Godfather, where he sits in the office, stroking that teeny kitten. The juxtoposition of that ... the huge shadowy Don, the obsequiousness of the people visiting him (letting the audience know how powerful and feared he is), his gruff weird voice, the way he is lit so that his eyes are always in shadow ... and yet ... almost as though the gesture is this man's subconscious-made-visible ... he strokes that teeny kitten with the utmost gentleness.

Stella Adler, the great acting teacher who had Marlon Brando in her class, and who was one of the first ones to stop trying to put reins on this wild talent, said, in regards to "talent" and what is talent: "Talent is in the choice."

I have thought about this quite a bit.

The talent is in the choice.

Untalented actors make uninteresting or obvious choices. You can probably think of a million examples. But if an actor has talent, it will be obvious - because of his choices.

To me - the fluff on the sweater moment, and the kitten moment - are just two examples of how Marlon Brando's talent was in his choice. These may not have even been conscious choices. That's irrelevant.

His talent guided him to make these choices and no other ... and those images were burned on my brain forever.

Years later - 15, 16 years later - I applied to grad school. I applied to the Actors Studio grad school at the New School. I got in.

Our first day of orientation was held in a circular room beneath Tisch Auditorium. This was the room where, years and years ago, Stella Adler had held her acting classes, which Marlon Brando attended. I sat in that circular room, now a grown woman, and literally felt the hairs rise up on my arms. The room was full of ghosts. Ghosts of people I had met years ago, in my research mania following Dog Day Afternoon. Maureen Stapleton, Walter Matthau, Eli Wallach, Ben Gazzara, Elaine Stritch ... all of them had been in Stella Adler's class, in this very room.

I had, quite consciously, throughout my life, followed in the footsteps of those who had held up the brightest torches. Elia Kazan - Eli Wallach - Montgomery Clift - Marilyn Monroe - Lee Strasberg - Stella Adler - John Garfield ... and Marlon Brando. These were the "Method" giants. The ones who turned a style of acting into something so mainstream that you can't even really talk about "Method actors" anymore.

I was there. I was joining them. There, in that circular room.

The dream of the 11 year old had been realized.

Marlon Brando: thank you for holding up that torch. Thank you for your mystery. You hated acting, to some degree. You never ever wanted to be caught taking it seriously. Which I love. Taking acting too seriously is one of the most boring things an actor can ever do.

I learned that from Marlon Brando - and a lot of other things besides.

And if and when you see Streetcar again - do me a favor. Look for the little plucking-the-fluff-off-the-sweater moment, won't you? It will make you smile.

Marlon Brando

I can't post anything articulate yet - Emails have been coming in, from all my actor-friends. "Have you heard, have you heard?"

I figured I would re-quote something I've posted here before: his realization that he had become famous after the opening of Streetcar on Broadway.

When "Streetcar Named Desire" opened on Broadway - the world did not know yet what had hit it. Marlon Brando had arrived. Marlon Brando had been living in cold-water walk-up flats, shacking up with ballerinas, and bongo players, and living a completely bohemian life ... and it took him a while to realize what had happened as well. What "Streetcar" was going to mean. I love how he describes his moment of realization.

"You can't always be a failure. Not and survive. Van Gogh! There's an example of what can happen when a person never receives any recognition. You stop relating: it puts you outside. But I guess success does that, too. You know, it took me a long time before I was aware that that's what I was - a big success. I was so absorbed in myself, my own problems, I never looked around, took account. I used to walk in New York, miles and miles, walk in the streets late at night, and never see anything. I was never sure about acting, whether that was what I really wanted to do; I'm still not. Then, when I was in "Streetcar", and it had been running a couple of months, one night -- dimly, dimly -- I began to hear this roar."

Farewell. Farewell.

I'll be posting more on him later when I get my thoughts together. Can't really write about it yet.

Moments like this one made me yearn to be an actor when I was a kid, and yearn to be a good one - He set the bar for me, for so many of us:

His influence is beyond description. I am deeply mournful right now. His work has meant so much to me. To so many.

Rest in peace, Marlon.

Read the note below, please, before commenting:

Small note: I feel a bit weird about this, because I don't like to be all controlling over what goes on in the comments section: but please: if there are Marlon Brando haters out there: Keep it to yourself (on this blog anyway), or go find another blog to post about it. Or if you hated him, but can still see how others loved him, and you want to talk about THAT - then that's fine, you can post about that. But I don't need to give a platform to "the other side". Not right now. I loved that man, he's an idol - and I want to keep the comments in line with that.

Kurt Cobain - you bastard - I miss you

Warning: The following post is extremely rambling, but I figure the title of my blog should pre-empt any complaints. One other thing, if the only thing you have to say is: "U suck for liking that whiny a**hole!!!" - take that shit somewhere else.

Today is the 10th anniversary of the suicide of Kurt Cobain. I hesitate to even write his name on my damn blog, because he (and his daughter) are Googled beyond belief - anytime I have written about them (and there was one brief post about his daughter - I will not put her name here) - I am overwhelmed by random people getting to me through Google searches, and writing incomprehensible ignorant comments.

If you ever want a boost in traffic, just write the words "F****** B*** C*****" - and watch the SiteMeter fly.

I was a bit late to the Nirvana party, as I usually am - but once they got their hooks into me, I was lost. Lost in a world of admiration, awe, and love. "Lithium" is, hands down, one of their greatest songs. Perhaps my favorite. I never "get over" it. I never hear it, and have a complacent response - the response of someone who has heard a song 5,643 times. "Lithium" never fails to shock, or to generate some response. It is rare you can say that about songs. At least it is for me. There are only 2 other bands which continuously have the power to 'GET' me - to make me rise up out of myself - the music lifts me up out of the mundane - U2 and the Beatles are the only other two bands which have that honor.

"Smells Like Teen Spirit", to me, is along the lines of those great and controversial books - books which end up being lightning rods for different groups with axes to grind. Catcher in the Rye, for example. Huck Finn. I recently re-read Catcher in the Rye for the first time in ages - and still was bombarded with its newness, its danger, its absolute insistence on playing by its own rules.

A good friend of mine said once, "There's a reason why people who go up into clock-towers to blow away their neighbors often have Catcher in the Rye in their back pocket." There was a long pause, as I contemplated these bizarre words. My friend added, lighting up a cigarette, "I try not to think about that book too much."

"Smells Like Teen Spirit" has the same effect on me.

I try not to think about that song too much.

Ezra Pound commanded other poets to "Make it new". "Make it new!" was his battlecry for modernist poets. Let poets shatter the old forms, let poets turn to non-traditional sources of inspiration ... etc. Ezra Pound was, in my opinion, a bit of a blow-hard, and a bit of a wacko (just a bit!!) - but the "Make it new" command, while certainly a bit overblown, is a perfect battle-cry for any artist - who perhaps is overwhelmed by feelings that what he creates will not be accepted by the public - or that what he creates is ahead of its time, or that he is way too behind the times, etc.

Nirvana "made it new". Of course what they really were doing were recycling old forms in a new and startling way - You can hear the Beatles in Nirvana's music. You can definitely hear Metallica. They had a punk-rock sensibility - but also ushered in the whole loser grunge look.

Many imitators followed. Pale reflections. This does not diminish the startling originality and exciting sound of Nirvana. Just because those who came after (and who are STILL imitating them) are boring, and sound recycled - does not mean the original sound isn't unbelievable.

Nirvana turned radio stations on their ears.

Nobody knew that Nirvana was coming. The late 80s music scene, as you all will recall, was dominated by Huey Lewis (nothing against Huey) and Madonna and insipid pop groups. It wasn't a real acoustic sound, it certainly wasn't a heavy sound - and radio-programming was extremely rigid. It had been a long time since there had been a revolution in how music actually sounded. (At least a long time in terms of pop culture trends.)

Nirvana shattered expectations. The publicity departments of the record company was completely unprepared for the mass hysteria which erupted, like a brush fire. They were not being pampered, they were not expected to bump Michael Jackson off the top 10 (which they did - only weeks after "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was released).

This is akin to Julia Roberts becoming a massive movie star after the release of "Pretty Woman".

The PUBLIC decided that Julia Roberts was going to be the next big movie star. The PUBLIC chose her, anointed her, whatever. Her agent, the studio, etc - nobody was prepared for the insanity which exploded after that film was released. It didn't even have a massive marketing budget. Julia Roberts was not on the covers of movie magazines, she was not being pointed to as "she's the next It girl - look out - here she comes - Introducing: Julia Roberts!!"

You can see how the film industry starts to churn into spin-mode on occasion. They decide that Gretchen Mol is the next "It girl". Or now it's Sandra Bullock - or Charlize Theron ... It wasn't until Charlize Theron trashed her image as the "perpetual It girl" that she actually got the recognition she deserved.

Julia Roberts was on location in South Carolina, filming "Sleeping with the Enemy" when "Pretty Woman" opened. The opening weekend was astounding - numerically. It took everyone by surprise. And it built and built and built - the movie never stopped - the crowds got bigger and bigger and bigger - and suddenly Julia Roberts, an unknown 2 days before, was the biggest star in the world. She was on location, unaware of what was happening - not being in the center of the movie universe - and finally her agent called her and said, "Have you read the trades?" "No ... what's up?" "Uh ... you're a huge star. You can't believe what is going on out here..."

Even her agent was surprised.

I love the story of the ascent of Julia Roberts for that reason. The movie-machine can decide FOR the public: Here is the next biggest star!!

Often, they are wrong. (Look at Heath Ledger. Matthew McConaghey. And the eternal example of Gretchen Mol.) Not that these people are not talented - not at all.

When the movie industry decided "Heath Ledger is going to be the next biggest star" - the press he started getting was WAY overblown compared to relatively thin body of work he had behind him. Which is fine - that's the job of the spin doctors - They hope that some of their spin will stick.

But when the movie-going PUBLIC decides that they love someone - it is a whole different animal. You can FEEL the difference. (If you pay attention to this kind of stuff, I mean, and don't just treat the entire enterprise with cynicism and scorn.) Public adulation becomes a runaway train. It is an outpouring of love. Not just admiration for someone's talent - but love.

Nirvana was anointed by the PUBLIC. And yes - the timing was right. There had been a music scene developing for years in Seattle - kind of a local scene - but very powerful, with devoted fans. There was a larger and larger movement of people sick of what they were hearing on the radio - sick of pre-packaged acts - and pre-packaged looks - and related to the grungy look of these boys from Seattle.

His death pisses me off on multiple levels. And is one of the reasons why I am such a huge Dave Grohl (and Foo Fighters) fan.

Dave Grohl has bucked the odds. How does one top being in Nirvana? How does one top being in the band that changed everything? That spread throughout the world like a brush fire?

He has. I love to still see his smiling face, I love seeing him - (and he's everywhere) ... because he was a part of that original Phenom.

It's like seeing Ringo Starr show up in an interview. I mean, it still kind of blows me away. "He was a Beatle. What was that like?"

I still regret that I never got to see Nirvana play. That would have been something else.

After the Beatles played in Giants stadium (I think it was Giants) - really, the first time a rock band played in a stadium - everyone thought they were insane and egotistical - and, of course, the concert sold out in 6 minutes ... but anyway, people said that the screaming during the concert was so loud and so incessant, that no one could hear the music. But it didn't matter. The screaming WAS the music.

Paul McCartney, when asked about that concert, said something along the lines of: "We couldn't hear ourselves play. It was madness. And - you know - we were the only 4 people in that stadium who had never seen a Beatles concert ... and we could hear everybody screaming and I thought - Wow. The Beatles must be pretty damn good, eh?"

I'm pissed that you killed yourself, Mr. Cobain, because I would have loved to see what you ended up doing, what collaborations you would have made, how your music would have evolved. Like your friend Dave Grohl.

Kurt Cobain and Miss Love named their daughter after Frances Farmer - the doomed 1940s movie actress (immortalized by Jessica Lange in the film "Frances") who had basically been chased out of Seattle on a rail after writing an essay at age 14 entitled "There is no God". Frances then went on to become involved in Russian theatre, she hooked up with The Group Theatre in New York - and then went to Hollywood - where her wildness, her impetuosity, her alcoholism, and her refusal to play by the rules made her multiple enemies, including her own mother - and she finally ended up in a mental institution - imprisoned there by her mother - where a lobotomy was performed. She was never the same again. The wildness and freedom of her spirit had been cut out. It is a brutal story - with no redemption.

Kurt Cobain, not surprisingly, was haunted by Frances Farmer - and she was the inspiration for the first song on their second album "In Utero". It's a great song. Filled with rage. It's called "Frances Farmer will Have Her Revenge on Seattle".

It's so relieving to know that you're leaving as soon as you get paid
It's so relaxing to hear that you're asking wherever you get your way
It's so soothing to know that you'll sue me, this is starting to sound the same
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad

In her false withness, we hope you're still with us, to see if they float or drown
Our favorite paitent, a display of patience, disease-covered Puget Sound
She'll come back as fire, to burn all the liars, and leave a blanket of ash on the ground
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad

It's so relieving to know that you're leaving as soon as you get paid
It's so relaxing to know that you're asking wherever you get your way
It's so soothing to know that you'll sue me, this is starting to sound the same
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad
I miss the comfort in being sad

RIP, Kurt Cobain. I hope you have found your comfort.

And Francis Bean: may you find your comfort as well. (Thanks for the reminder, Em.)

Farewell, Mr. Cooke

Alistair Cooke is dead.

This man was an integral part of my childhood. Masterpiece Theatre, while not always geared to children, sometimes had mini-series which were, indeed, masterpieces for kids. I remember them vividly. They were RICHly done, beautifully realized. How sad I am that there isn't such a thing now.

The Prince and the Pauper. Heidi. Ballet Shoes (which was one of my favorite books as a kid, too ... To see it acted out was a pleasure beyond belief).

The Flame Trees of Thika, with my girl Hayley Mills ... I was older when that came out ... but damn, it was awesome.

I remember the beginning credits. The long slow pan over a desk, showing objects: a globe, a magnifying glass, the gold-lettered leather-bound piles of books (always the classics) - with the mountingly exciting music. The camera pan ending with Alistair Cooke, sitting there in his leather wing-chair, explaining to us what we were about to see.

His explanations were easy to grasp, he provided context. I ate up his every word. Loved his voice, too. I can hear it in my ears now!

Cooke said, when he retired last month: "I have had much enjoyment in doing these talks and hope that some of it has passed over to the listeners, to all of whom I now say thank you for your loyalty and goodbye."

Tony Blair said: "He was really one of the greatest broadcasters of all time, and we shall feel his loss very, very keenly indeed."

Indeed.

Update: Don't miss Patrick Belton's eloquent post on Cooke.

Paul Winfield, RIP

Oh, I am sad right now ... Paul Winfield, a fine fine actor, is dead.

My parents let me stay up late to see Sounder when I was about 9 or 10 - that movie had an enormous impact on me. So enormous that even though I did not see that film again until a couple months ago, I remembered certain scenes almost frame for frame. I sat in my apartment, watching it recently, my eyes filled with tears almost the whole time.

Cicely Tyson is, without a doubt, one of our national treasures. What she does doesn't even look like acting half the time. It seems that she really just becomes these different people.

And Paul Winfield in this film - my God. He plays the vibrant hard-working husband of Cicely Tyson, the father of this farming family - trying to keep it all together. He goes out hunting every day with his young son, and his hunting dog, Sounder.

It never occurred to me until much much later to ask the question: Why is the movie called Sounder? It's not about the hunting dog. At least not exactly.

And yet - the movie could not be called anything else.

I remember sitting in the living room at Paul Avenue, watching this kind of horrible and unfair story unfold. The father sent away to prison (unfairly - oooh, my young blood burned with the unfairness) - and the awful moment of Sounder disappearing ... I thought I couldn't take it. I thought I might have to go up into my room, and not watch the end.

The second to last shot of the film is emblazoned in my brain. It is so movingly done, so SIMPLY done, that it could not possibly be improved upon.

The green fields out the kitchen window, the sunlight beating down, the long winding dirt road up the hill ... Cicely Tyson, face bathed in sweat, washing dishes at the window. She glances out, casually, not looking for anything in particular ... and suddenly - at the top of a hill - you can see a figure. A small figure.

Too far away to see his features.

But she knows who he is. She knows her husband has returned.

And my God, she just drops everything and races out of the house and starts running, running, running, as fast as she can up that hill ... and the kids start running after her .... and she is in an absolute abandonment of joy. It is astonishing. She's not even laughing. She is in that emotional place where joy is so intense it actually feels like pain. God. It's tremendous.

And Paul Winfield, now with a limp, and a walking stick, starts coming down the hill towards her, slowly, awkwardly ... and then faster and faster ... his body struggling to move as quickly as he wants it to.

The embrace. The family embrace.

I remember watching all of this as a little kid, feeling literally as though I were the Grinch, and my heart was pushing up out of my chest. I glanced over at my mother, who is not a "crier", not really ... and she was in tears. I knew then that what I had seen was unbelievable, I could trust my eyes, I could trust my Grinch-heart. This movie was IMPORTANT.

Winfield had a long and distinguished career.

But to me, he will always always be "the father in Sounder".

Thanks for sharing your gift with all of us, Mr. Winfield. You were one of the best.

Damn

Spalding Gray's body found in the East River.

Somewhere I guess I was holding out hope. That the man was holed up in a Nantucket cabin or something. Working on something new, maybe having a nervous breakdown, but not dead.

I can say, even though this is sad, and I didn't know the man ... at least his body was found. Now his family can have the closure of a burial, memorials can happen - the man can be acknowledged. An important part of grief.

But still. It's sad.

Spalding Gray. Your writing and your one-man pieces were an inspiration not only to me, but to many others.

You will be very missed.

(via McCabe)

Elliott Smith

I don't really know how to write about this, but I'm just gonna start and see what comes out.

It's some thoughts about Elliott Smith, who, I'm sure many of you know by now, stabbed himself in the heart a couple weeks ago, and died.

I've always loved Elliott Smith's music - since I first heard him on the "Good Will Hunting" soundtrack.

Something in the sound called to me, in that rare way some musicians have. It's completely subjective, such a response. Certain chord changes, certain lyrics ... It's hard to put my finger on what exactly it might be that speaks to me in a certain person's music.

It's not just the melancholic stuff that appeals to me.

It seems to be a matter of affinity. The chords, chosen by whatever musician, and my own personality.

For whatever reason: certain sounds call me up out of myself.

Metallica can do that.
Foo Fighters can do that.
Lenny Kravitz can do that (sometimes)
Nirvana can do that
Certain Indigo Girls songs can do that (not all of them)
Certain James Taylor songs can do that.

Obviously - putting Metallica and James Taylor on the same list is an odd thing - but that is the beauty of music. It's completely personal.

But back to Elliott.

I have the "Good Will Hunting" soundtrack because of him, and I also have the "Royal Tenenbaums" soundtrack because of the one song of his on it. (The entire soundtrack is fabulous though ... just so you know!)

I read an interview with him when "Good Will Hunting" just came out, and he was suddenly catapulted onto a larger arena. Here was this guy - this very independent folk-rock musician - used to playing small clubs, tiny venues - on a world-wide stage. I liked him very much in the interview, although, in looking back on it, there were certain clues that all might not be right with him. (But then again: who can say "all is right with me at all times"?)

He was living in Queens, at the time, I believe, and would go to a bar every night, and sit there, by himself, all night, and write his songs there.

He offered up this picture of himself unapologetically.

It was actually a bit refreshing - although obviously the story reveals the dark undertones, the loneliness which clearly haunted him.

I don't know why I'm rambling on like this. I guess that I am just so very sad that he is gone - that he took his life in such a horrendous way - I completely feel for him. I cannot imagine what agony such as that must have been like, but it must have been tremendous. Tremendous.

The heart ... it is an organ, yes. But it is such a symbol too.

Our life. Our feelings. Who we actually ARE seems to be in our hearts. So ... to go straight to the source of the pain ... To get rid of the actual organ which holds so much -

God.

I came home last night, made a little dinner, poured some wine - and popped in Elliott Smith. For no real reason. One of his songs was on the Siobhan mix we all listened to on our drive north to Cashel - and that turned my thoughts to him again: Dammit, he is great - I need to listen to him again.

He said that he loved "upbeat" music. He loved the Beatles.

To me, the Beatles influence is obvious in his music.

I love that he loves the Beatles. There is an illusionary innocence in Smith's chord progressions - in the same way of the Beatles. Especially in "Rubber Soul", my favorite Beatles album. Every song on that album has almost an upbeat tune, a zippy little mood, but if you listen to the lyrics - it's all dark, and mournful, filled with loss. It's chilling, actually. A bit frightening.

Smith's songs are like that for me.

There is a profound melancholy suffusing it all. It is hard to put your finger on where that melancholy is. Is it in the tune? Not really ... The lyrics are admittedly bleak - But he sings them in an extroverted way ... not self-absorbed ... However, if you add them up, the songs are a treatise on depression

These lines in particular:

"I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away..." sung over and over and over.

If that doesn't describe the sensation of depression, then nothing does.

But still: the melancholy is not easily identified. It just is THERE. In everything he does. His lyrics are creepily sad and nostalgic - (that kind of "All good stuff is in the past" nostalgia. Not a happy or pleasant nostalgia.)

The chords sometimes are light, and happy-sounding - but still. There is something a little off.

You know that this man battles darkness. You just KNOW it.

I was listening to the "Figure 8" album, which is a terrific album. I want to make it clear that this album is not a downer. There are some tunes which make you tap your feet, each song has a great beat ...

It's a very deep album. There is a lot going on.

I felt myself getting more and more ... upset. As I listened. Thinking about him. Trying to fathom how he died. What he did to himself.

He didn't shoot himself. Or OD.

He stabbed himself in the heart.

There was that recent study (thanks, Danny) - that a broken heart actually DOES HURT.

Well, Jesus, you didn't need to run a study to figure that out! You could have just called me up and asked me! Ask anybody!

That's why people say, "My heart is breaking." That's why it's called "heartache".

What - some bozo thought that the "ache" was just a figure of someone's imagination?

I remember many times in my own life - lying in bed at night after getting my heart broken or whatever - and pressing my hand down on my aching heart. I am not talking metaphorically. My heart LITERALLY hurt.

I was trying to picture what was going on with Elliott Smith.

Obviously, he must have struggled with mental illness, along with addiction. I don't know much about him, though. But he must have been in complete psychic agony.

Agony so deep that he just wanted to make the pain STOP.

I remember going to hear Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill read a couple years ago. She's an Irish poetess. Who writes completely in Irish.

She has had her own struggles with depression and mental illness.

She said a couple of amazing things about it, stuff which has stayed with me.

One was that she was put on Prozac, and she didn't like what it did to her poetry. Normally, her poem lines had lengths of jagged edges - but once she went on Prozac "all my poems were like little neat boxes on the page." She said, "Prozac puts wallpaper over the abyss."

The other thing she said was, "Y'know, there is this feeling or this thought that suffering is ennobling." There was a long pause, and then she said, in this way I have never forgotten, "Not always."

All I can say is: That woman knows of what she speaks.

There is such a thing as too much suffering.

And Elliott Smith's face - he is (or was) a young man. But that is a face of a man who has had enough. He has had enough psychic agony.

I know a lot of this is hindsight. Projecting backwards.

In a way, I am glad his pain is over now. Pain like that is beyond my understanding. I may have felt like cutting my own heart on occasion, just to stop the ache, but to actually do such a thing?

Elliott Smith. Rest in Peace.

I will miss your music very much. But I am not sorry that your pain is now over.

A moment of silence...

for the passing of Elia Kazan.

One of the all-time greats.

Every actor, every director worth his salt, owes him an enormous debt of gratitude.

I will do a tribute to him perhaps tomorrow ... I have tons of books by and about him on my shelves.

I saw "On the Waterfront" when I was 12 years old. The impact it had on me cannot be measured. Cannot be expressed.

I am quite sad. What a great great man and artist.

The Two Johns

I'm sad about the passing of John Ritter and Johnny Cash. Both of them held special places in my heart.

John Ritter in "Slingblade" is one of the more miraculous performances I have ever seen. And his stuff in "Three's Company" remains a guilty pleasure.

And Johnny Cash ... I have a hard time believing he is gone. He was a force of nature, a constant.

Sad.

Update: Mike, over at Cold Fury, has a great tribute up to the man in black.