Happy Birthday, Laura Ingalls Wilder

Posted on February 7, 2017 by sheila

Beloved American author, Laura Ingalls Wilder, was born on February 7, 1867.

Her books are so much a part of my childhood that they don’t even feel like books, they feel like actual memories. I was 7, 8, 9 when I read them, and I LIVED them. Not only did I live them, but my mother made me a sunbonnet out of lilac-flowered material that I actually wore around the house (like Naomi Watts in I Heart Huckabees). Of course, at the same time that I was LIVING these books, a television series based on them came on the air, and the confluence was like a dream come true. Despite its bizarre and explosive ending, reviewed by my friend Betsy, the series captured some of the simplicity and beauty in the books. Laura, Mary, Nellie Oleson – we used them as reference points as kids. Whispering to each other about a classmate: “She’s such a Nellie Oleson”. Even now, that particular description would work for me. It would tell me everything I needed to know about a person.

Now, of course, a movie is a-comin’. The first person I needed to tell the news to was the aforementioned Betsy. There is one legendary moment in our friendship when we were in high school, at her house, long grown out of our Little House phase, we had moved into the B-52s and Devo, and we ended up watching an episode. We treated it like Mystery Science Theatre. Someone had fallen down a well, that I remember. We were actresses, even then, and we commented on how Michael Landon appeared to be working hard to squeeze out a tear. Listen, I love Michael Landon, but Betsy and I knew what we were talking about. As the episode came to its close, we both fell silent as we were watching. So-and-so was pulled out of the well, and I found myself quietly in tears. Betsy glanced over at me, and laughed in my face. I was like, “It got me! I can’t help it!”

Not only do Ingalls’ books work as great stories in and of themselves, but they portray the pioneer experience in such an immediate and first-hand way that it came to life for future generations. There I was, frolicking in the dirt of my backyard in Rhode Island, in the tired days of the late 1970s, with gas lines and Iranian hostages and tired-looking Presidents making weary speeches on television, that was my world, but because I had read those books I knew about the great plains, and covered wagons, and how medicine was different back then and what it was like to have no money so that one Christmas they each got a cookie, a shiny penny and a peppermint candy for presents. And the girls were thrilled about these presents, which seemed insane to me, but the way the book was written meant that I went into THEIR world, rather than expecting them to reflect mine. A huge gift for a young kid, better than a history lesson in school. Laura Ingalls Wilder described that one blizzardy Christmas so well, the snow piling up, the beauty of those simple hand-made gifts, that I, as a child, really learned something about the world reading that section. I remember thinking, (I must have been 8 years old): “They only got a candy-cane and a cookie? And a PENNY??? How could they have been happy with that????” But the WAY she wrote it made it clear that the entire thing was magical and exciting as the snow pounded against the log cabin windows. And so I got to have a realization when I was in third grade: “Wait. This is their Christmas. Times were really tough for them, and life was different for them. They were happy. They were happy.” I still remember the quiet realization I had, learning a lesson about … oh … materialism, and gratitude. I learned that my world was not the only world. That my time was not the only time.

Laura Ingalls Wilder was encouraged by her daughter (also a writer) to write down stories of her childhood. To get a glimpse of just how intense that relationship was, check out this fascinating New Yorker article about Rose Wilder. Quite a family psychodrama, and it seems far far removed from the fresh windy air and wide open spaces that make up the landscape and world of the Little House books. By the time Laura Ingalls Wilder started publishing, the entire world she described in the books had disappeared. Her first book Little House in the Big Woods was published in 1930. Lindbergh had flown across the ocean. There were railroads criss-crossing the country. Autmobiles. Telephones. Laura Ingalls Wilder straddled an enormous generational divide. Her books are the bridge.

My favorites were By the Shores of Silver Lake and The Long Winter.

I’ll close with an excerpt from Little House in the Big Woods that captures the home-spun evocative magic in these books:

When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called out softly, “What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?”

“They are the days of a long time ago, Laura,” Pa said. “Go to sleep, now.”

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa’s fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods.

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

Happy birthday to Laura Ingalls Wilder, and thank you for making me see, as a young child, that things like log cabins and Pa and Ma and firelight “could not be forgotten”. Thank you for making that “long time ago” come to life for me, a young East Coast girl at the tail-end of the 20th century.

Posted in On This Day, writers | Tagged | 39 Comments

Review: Mr. Gaga (2017)

Posted on February 1, 2017 by sheila

I’m a sucker for a good dance documentary, and Mr. Gaga, about Israeli choreographer Ohad Naharin, is very very good.

It opens today.

I reviewed for Rogerebert.com.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Everything You Need To Know About Me Is In This Photo

Posted on February 1, 2017 by sheila

Unpacking my bookshelves, putting books in piles every which way. I will organize on the other end, once I’m moved into the new place. This particular pile caught my eye. Sometimes in the chaos of life you see something – random, unconnected, unplanned – and remember who you are. I could show this to strangers and say, “Here. This is me. Any questions? Because it’s perfectly obvious to ME.”

I would like to point out that at the bottom of the heap is the Library of America’s collection of Alexander Hamilton’s writing – which I have owned since the moment it was published (a month after September 11th) thankyouverymuch, and have read cover to cover twice. I’m a patriot. Always have been. I was raised from a very young age to learn about the history of my country, and those earliest days of the Republic. I was raised to understand the continuum, to examine the mistakes made, the sins committed. When I was really young, I thought “John and Abigail” were relatives of ours, their names – only their first names – were thrown around so casually. Maybe growing up in Rhode Island – a place “where Washington slept,” a place with a very active Native American tribe who visited our schools on the regular, a place that was a stop on the Underground Railroad, a place that benefited hugely from the slave trade through its ports in Newport, a colony started by rebels who were too fanatical even for the nutbags in Massachusetts, a place that was a bustling hub of the Industrial Revolution – gave me a good perspective, young, on the complexity of the issues. This, to me, is the meaning of the word patriot. I claim it proudly. Always have, even when people gave me shit for it. It fills me with strength and courage now. I have been cultivating it from the beginning. I was raised to it and it is my inheritance.

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January 2017 Viewing Diary

Posted on February 1, 2017 by sheila

Conspiracy (2001; d. Frank Pierson)
The definition of “the room where it happens”. The awful room where something vile was decided. The TV movie starring Kenneth Branagh (so excellent) about the Wannsee Conference. It’s superb. Based on the one surviving transcript of the minutes taken during the meeting. All participants were told to destroy the transcript. One person didn’t. That’s why we even know about this damn thing. The movie is CHILLING and very well done. Timely, too. Watching the faces around that table – Nazis, all, but Nazis who assumed that they were still in the business of doing government stuff and enacting policies, however vile – realize the next step that will be asked of them. The implications. The realization of what, actually, it was that they were doing. It’s brutal.

Justified (Season 1-6)
I started Justified late in December and binge-watched it during the wretched – worse every day – month of January. Has 31 days ever felt so endless? Also in December, I found a new apartment and will be moving there tomorrow. The whole thing – looking at apartments, getting approved, signing lease – happened in a 24-hour period. I make almost no money. The stress has been unimaginable. I have considered moving out of the city altogether. Taking a roommate. Move to Memphis. Drastic measures, but things I have considered anyway. It feels like the worst possible time to move, but I have no choice in the matter. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave this beautiful apartment, the place where I got my shit together, got diagnosed, started my freelance career for real. My point is: January was a whirlwind and maybe 5% of it included any pleasure. Supernatural is out to lunch. My normal escape hatch has vanished. So the 5% of the entirety of life in January that provided any escape or pleasure was in the Justified binge-watch. I watched the whole thing so quickly that now I need to go back and watch it again, take more time with it. It’s so rich and deep. The dialogue: “Well, Raylan, you’re talking to a man who’s sleeping with his dead brother’s widow and murderess. So if you’re looking for someone to cast stones on this matter, you have picked the wrong sinner.”

Hidden Figures (2016; d. Theodore Melfi)
One of the best films of 2016.

Rashomon (1950; d. Akira Kurosawa)
In this world where some stupid blonde broad refers to “alternate facts” with a straight (albeit rictus leer) face, (not to mention the fact that that stupid broad has any national platform whatsoever), I wanted to re-visit this gorgeous film that digs into the malleability not of truth, not necessarily, but of perception, of narrative. There isn’t only one way to look at things. The only WAY to look at things is from your own viewpoint. You can’t get OUT of your own perspective. Machiko Kyô, for me, is the real stand-out here. Her physical work! I mean, she’s going toe to toe with Toshirô Mifune, and he’s a ferociously physical and gigantic actor. I love the film.

Bright Lights: Starring Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds (2016; d. Fisher Stevens, Alexis Bloom)
Heartbreaking. I reviewed for Ebert.

America, America (1963; d. Elia Kazan)
A personal project for Kazan, it was one of his declarations of independence from working on other writers’ stories. This was the story of his family, fleeing the Turks in Anatolia, going through amazing hardships to get to America. I would highly recommend seeing this now, especially in the current climate. It’s intensely moving. I agree with what Kazan said, and other critics said, that the lead kid he found is not very good. But the film is filled with classic Kazanian moments. Amazing footage of real-life places and real-life people. Kazan always wanted to film on location. He was an innovator in that regard. And, side note: I’ve seen the film before, of course, but somehow (amazingly, all things considered) it had never occurred to me that:
In my life, I have had romantic entanglements with not one, but TWO, men whose fathers played fairly significant roles in America America. What on earth can this mean? It’s so specific! I swear I did not do it deliberately! It comes from my association with the Actors Studio obviously, but STILL. I should put it on my Dating profile. “Only those whose fathers were in Kazan’s America America need apply. Kthxbai.” Charlie texted me and asked me to go to a movie a couple of weeks ago. I texted him back that the night he suggested didn’t work for me. He texted back: “Tell the truth. It’s because my Pops wasn’t in that Kazan movie, isn’t it.” Thank you JESUS GOD ESPECIALLY NOW for funny people.

Ma (2016; d. Celia Rowlson-Hall)
A really striking first feature from Rowlson-Hall. I reviewed here.

Audition (2012; d. Celia Rowlson-Hall)
Short film directed by (and starring) Celia Rowlson-Hall. Actors will totally understand this film. And women will understand it even more. The whole thing is on YouTube.

Prom Night (2010; d. Celia Rowlson-Hall)
I had watched these short films in preparation for watching Ma, Rowlson-Hall’s first feature. Rowlson-Hall is young and seems to make one short film a month. There’s so much stuff out there. I really admire her!

The Comeback (2005, 2014)
It’s so hard to watch. Why did I put myself through this again? Because she is so brilliant. Uncannily Gena Rowlands level of brilliance in honesty and brilliance in characterization and fearlessness. What is so brilliant is that Valerie Cherish wants so badly to come off as a “good sport.” It’s that desire to be perceived as a “good sport” that infuses everything she does, every reaction, every interaction, every aside. It is her desire to be a “good sport” that makes her look so NUTS. If she could just allow herself to be cranky, a bitch, whatever, she might be a happier person. Intensely moving and intensely TRUE about being an actor.

Kedi (2016; d. Ceyda Torun)
Get ready for this one, peeps. In the current moment of heretofore unimaginable stress, this documentary about the huge population of street cats in Istanbul, works as a powerful healing tonic. I came out of the screening in tears. Opens next week.

Last Tango in Paris (1972; d. Bernardo Bertolucci)
Brando gives one of the most towering performances of his career. A strong giant reduced. Devastated. Devastating. I re-watched this in preparation for a podcast. Jessa Crispin (aka The Book Slut, once upon a time) reached out to me and asked me to be a guest on her new podcast. (I believe it’ll be the first episode!) We have been corresponding about Paul Verhoeven’s Elle, and the controversy around it, as well as the controversy around the treatment of Maria Schneider in Last Tango. We were frustrated by both controversies and she decided to “have me on” to discuss. I haven’t seen Last Tango in years. A couple of weeks ago we got together and recorded the podcast. It hasn’t launched yet. As is so often the case with these things, I now have no memory of what I said. But we had a good time talking.

Millennium (1998, 3rd season)
It’s been a long long time since Keith and I got together to binge-watch Millennium. I have it down as June 2016 in my “viewing diary.” This past year has been so terrible, an annus horibilis (and 2017 will be another annus horibilis), but somehow … art MUST matter still. It is even more important now. I reached out to Keith at the beginning of January. We set a date. I went out to Brooklyn, had a wonderful conversation with Keith and Dan, where we connected and shared our emotions, something I realized was long overdue. I have been almost completely isolated for the entirety of January. Bad. Then Keith and I picked up where we left off: Season 3, Episode 7. We watched about 8 episodes, stopping only to go and get some sandwiches at a nearby deli. We sat in their comfortable main room, with the shutters closed (yes, actual shutters), a dark cave, which was something I also have needed. Quiet viewing with a friend. We made it up to “Sound of Snow,” an intensely moving episode about grief, and dealing with the final moments of his wife. “Collateral Damage” stars an extraordinarily hot young actor named James Marsters. I know “Buffy” fans know him. It took me a second to clock him as the real estate developer – with a signed photo of Donald Trump on his wall – in Supernatural‘s “Shut up, Dr. Phil.” Everyone else probably already knew that.

Fifty Shades of Grey (2015; d. Sam Taylor-Johnson)
I know, I know. I’ve been assigned to review Fifty Shades Darker, so figured I finally needed to check this out. I bought the books back when they came out, because I love dom-sub erotica, but they are so poorly written I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I was interested to watch because Anne V. Coates – the editor who received a Lifetime Achievement Award last year, whose tribute reel – read by Diane Lane – was written by Yours Truly – edited it. Her comment about the film, “I thought it should be more raunchy.” I completely agree. Because I binge-watched “The Fall” last month, Jamie Dornan was very close to the surface of my consciousness, and in this movie he removes the serial-killer psychopathy that he portrayed so brilliantly in The Fall, but kept the chilly need for control. Dakota Johnson was a revelation. Although not really, since she was so good in A Bigger Splash, one of the best films of last year. What really struck me in this ponderous film with zero tension (“will she or will she not sign his contract of consent?? Tune in next week!”) was just how much her sense of humor is clearly irrepressible. Even in THIS material. And THAT is why I think she’s very very good, someone worth watching, someone who is the real deal. There are times when he gets all Thuper Therious about his sexual intentions and she literally bursts into laughter. It’s so REAL. It’s what you would do! I’m very impressed that she was open enough to allow that kind of non-literal very human reaction into her performance (and impressed with the not-very-talented director for realizing these elements would help save his film.) You watch this stuff and think, “Oh my God, people, just get to fucking. It’s not that big a deal. People have been fucking since the beginning of time. Express your kinks, get on the same page, and get on with it.” I look forward to the next installment, mainly so I can study Dakota Johnson.

Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath (2016)
I watched the final episodes. They often brought me to tears. This entire experience has been extraordinary. Especially with my fascination with that cult, well-documented here, a fascination that has led me into some pretty sketchy waters. As someone who has been a critic for almost 20 years now, maybe even more, I cannot believe I have lived to see this day. Leah Remini is one brave woman.

Children of Men (2006; d. Alfonso Cuarón)
I loved it when it first came out. The book is a work of genius, and Cuarón did right by that powerful source material. I haven’t re-watched it since. I now think it is a masterpiece. It hit me really really hard, even more so the second time. I was flattened by it.

The Salesman (2017; d. Asghar Farhadi)
Farhadi has been in the news, as has his lead actress, the marvelous Taraneh Alidoosti, for announcing they would not attend the Oscars (the film is nominated for Best Foreign Film) because of the Muslim Ban. Also, who knows if they would even be “allowed in.” It is my opinion that the Oscars should be canceled in solidarity with this Oscar-winner. They should refuse to go on. A much more powerful statement than celebrities standing onstage ranting about Trump for three hours. I know it won’t be canceled, but I want to go on record saying that that’s what I think should happen. It’s a disgrace. Regardless: Asghar Farhadi is one of my favorite filmmakers working today. If you watch, in order, Fireworks Wednesday, About Elly, A Separation and The Salesman, you will be stunned by the enormity of his accomplishment. I think he leaves most American directors in the dust. And his WRITING. He is the only heir to Henrik Ibsen in our current landscape. Other people TRY to be Henrik Ibsen, and they come off as lecturing sanctimonious superior bores. Farhadi digs into, burrows into, moral and political and ethical and social issues with the devotion of a true humanist. The Salesman is a work of genius. And the final scene. I’m not exaggerating when I say I have not recovered. I almost couldn’t get through it. It opened last week. Please please see it. Especially to show your support of Farhadi. This is a man who understands authoritarian mindsets. His films are not about that so much. He is interested in examining class issues in Iran and how it plays out in all kinds of unforeseen ways. But mainly, he is interested in people. There are no villains. But by the end of each of his films, the characters have been altered forever.

Supernatural, Season 12, Episode 9 “First Blood” (2017, d. Robert Singer)
This whole season has been such a disappointing and disheartening experience. It actually upsets me to watch it now. Especially in the current heartlessness and brutality in our national dialogue. Supernatural was always a series willing to go deep. To embrace complexity and nuance. To sit in the unknowingness. To avoid certainty, or at least QUESTION and INTERROGATE certainty. Now it’s just its surface. It’s become Nothing. I’m actually really upset about it. I sound annoyed but it’s just because I’m upset. It feels like everything beautiful and hopeful is being ruined.

Mr. Gaga (2017; d. Tomer Heymann)
I so recommend this film. It opens today, probably in very limited arthouse release. It’s a documentary about famed Israeli choreographer Ohad Naharin. His choreography! Stunning! I was not familiar with his work at all. The opening of the film coincides with the opening of one of his shows here in New York. I’ve been so distracted these days by my move and the state of the world that I only have so much room to take in new things, but I would love to go see his work in person. I reviewed for Ebert, the review will go up today. I’ll provide a link when it’s live.

Posted in Monthly Viewing Diary, Movies, Television | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Beware Perfect Language

Posted on February 1, 2017 by sheila

“Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline, reality control. But in the end there won’t be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect.”

Symes’ monologue to Winston Smith in the Ministry of Truth’s commissary, in George Orwell’s 1984.

It’s important to keep in mind that Winston Smith caves in the end. Just like Rubashov caves in the end of Darkness at Noon.

Posted in Books | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

R.I.P. Emmanuelle Riva

Posted on January 28, 2017 by sheila


Emmanuelle Riva, “Hiroshima Mon Amour”

Celebrated French actress Emmanuelle Riva has died at the age of 89. She made a huge splash in Alain Resnais’ 1959’s Hiroshima Mon Amour, an early French New Wave film, the New Wave that would very soon after engulf the whole world. Over 50 years later she appeared in Michael Haneke’s stunning and devastating 2012 film Amour, for which she won the Cesar Best Actress Award. I wrote about Amour for The Dissolve’s 50 Best Films of the Decade So Far list.


Emmanuelle Riva, “Amour”

Of course she worked constantly between 1959 and 2012, onscreen and on the stage. The Guardian has put together a beautiful slideshow of some of her work:

Emmanuelle Riva: A Life in Pictures.

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R.I.P. John Hurt

Posted on January 28, 2017 by sheila

The gravelly voice revealed the depth and width of his life experience. The gravelly voice had a surprising mellifluous quality surging through the roughness. The voice could sing, it could shout. It could break your heart. He did not come out of life unscathed. None of us do. Experience had marked him, as it marks us all. His experience of life – all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly, the decadent beauty, the doomed hope, the sense of humor – was in his face (from the get-go) and in his voice.

The good acting teachers teach their students that who they ARE is what they bring to the table. That’s all you have to work with. It may sound cliched – as well as a nursery-school-level attitude – but it is extremely important: There is only one You. Your best bet in the competitive world of the business called Show is to cultivate and accept (hell, even KNOW) yourSELF. Your SELF will be rejected more times than it is accepted, especially in the beginning, before you’ve had success. But if you try to be someone else, if you think that THAT is your best bet, you may have SOME success but it will be of a superficial quality. It won’t last. Your career will have no resonance. What you bring to the table, as you, is your most valuable asset. Even in transformations, your inner essence is what you work from. Some actors get this. Others don’t. The ones who get it are the ones who are able to so completely transform that there is something damn near otherworldly about it.

This is what John Hurt was capable of. It is what interested him as an actor. I am only one man, I am myself, but I have so much curiosity about other people that I want to live MANY lives and to do that to the best of my ability. What is it like to be this guy? What does he think about? What do his shoes feel like on his feet? What are his dreams? What dreams have died? What’s it like in somebody else’s head? Hurt’s transformations were not of the grandstanding kind. They were part of the eccentricity – and humility – of his gift. It is why his career lasted so long.

What goes on in an actor’s imagination is as real as “real life”. That’s the gig. That’s the essential task. That’s the thing that civilians have a hard time grasping. Hamlet watches an actor well up with tears during a make-believe moment in a rehearsal and ponders:

Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing—
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba
That he should weep for her?

Hamlet’s words are the most accurate description in existence of the wondrous mystery of the best kind of acting. Acting really is a “dream of passion.” An actor asks himself: “What’s ______ to me or me to ______ that I should weep for her?” It’s really the only question. (In acting, anyway. Hamlet’s OTHER question applies to all of us.)

Over his lengthy and versatile career, John Hurt entered into many worlds, many people, with an audacity and confidence that was always thrilling to watch. It was not grandstanding his gift. It was more a beautiful representation of that magical identification thing that happens only with the Greats. His skill in this type of identification was dazzling, but it was more than skill.

Humphrey Bogart said that good acting went six feet deep back in the eyes.

John Hurt went that deep. Always.

Rest in peace.


May 1998. Actor John Hurt. ©Graham Barclay.

Posted in Actors, RIP | 6 Comments

Czeslaw Milosz on the “Conspiracy of Silence”

Posted on January 28, 2017 by sheila

“In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.” – dissident poet – and immigrant to America – Czeslaw Milosz, in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.

You can read more about Czeslaw Milosz’s extraordinary life, as well as read some of his poetry, on the official website of the Nobel Prize. His poetry is an extraordinary documentation of the terror of totalitarianism and the atomization of humanity under despotism. He fought it with words, but he was also a member of the underground resistance to Russian rule in Poland. He created an underground press that continued to publish works critical of the regime, continued to publish work by writers who were banned and forbidden.If you’re interested in reading more, I would say start with his collection The Captive Mind. It’s a collection of prose works, not poetry, but it is a classic examination of the mindset imposed by totalitarianism. For poetry, there is the gigantic collection: New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001, with foreword by Seamus Heaney. Milosz was a hero.

His 1969 poem “So Little” has haunted me ever since I first read it years ago.

So Little

I said so little.
Days were short.

Short days.
Short nights.
Short years.

I said so little.
I couldn’t keep up.

My heart grew weary
From joy,
Despair,
Ardor,
Hope.

The jaws of Leviathan
Were closing upon me.

Naked, I lay on the shores
Of desert islands.

The white whale of the world
Hauled me down to its pit.

And now I don’t know
What in all that was real.

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Review: I Am Michael (2016)

Posted on January 27, 2017 by sheila

James Franco and Zachary Quinto star in I Am Michael, the strange story of Michael Glatze, who converted to Christianity and very publicly announced that he was no longer homosexual.

My review of I Am Michael is now up on Rogerebert.com.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Joan Jett Pays Tribute to Mary Tyler Moore

Posted on January 26, 2017 by sheila

She posted this statement on her Twitter feed:

This moves me so much. And a couple of people sent me this clip, from Joan Jett’s appearance on The David Letterman Show singing the theme to the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

It makes perfect sense, the connection between them, the more and more you think about it.

That’s the impact of a career like Mary Tyler Moore’s.

Posted in Music, RIP | Tagged | 7 Comments