“Quite frankly. I was all talent and no looks.” — Angela Lansbury

Posted on October 16, 2024 by sheila

Even if you came to Gaslight clean, without knowing a thing, which is hard to believe, but let’s just pretend: Even if you knew nothing about it, it would be instantly obvious that the teenage girl who plays the maid is almost stealing every scene she’s in (and with Ingrid Bergman giving one of the great performances in cinema, this is no small feat), and you probably might think something like, “Wow. That teenage actress is probably going to work all the time.”

But could you predict an almost-80 year uninterrupted career? A career crossing mediums to an unprecedented level? That that dead-eyed manipulative teenage maid would conquer film, television, and – most of all – Broadway? That she would headline a hit television show – when she was in her 50s and 60s – (again: WHEN does this happen? If it happens NOW, then that teenage actress is a large reason why those glass ceilings were cracked) – a television show that would be a staple in audience’s lives for almost two decades?

I mean, who can predict something like this? As good as she is in Gaslight, who – in their wildest dreams – could imagine a career like she actually had?

If you think there is another career like Angela Lansbury’s – if you think a comparison can be made to somebody else’s career – you’re wrong. There IS nobody else. If Judy Garland were still around today, doing television and movies and Broadway, then MAYBE. But other than that: She stood alone. She never rested on her laurels, she never stopped working. She was never the same. She was bone-chilling in The Manchurian Candidate. She was sassy and insouciant as Elizabeth Taylor’s teenage sister in National Velvet. She was Auntie Mame. She was Mrs. Lovett. She was Jessica Fletcher, dammit.

And … let’s not ever forget: She played Elvis’ tipsy Southern belle mother in Blue Hawaii.

My friend Dan wrote a very insightful and emotional tribute to Lansbury at Rogerebert.com and I recommend you read the whole thing, but I want to pull out one paragraph:

Watch her even in the most obscure television episode or movie and there will likely come a moment when Lansbury faces the camera and exposes all the knockout passion and yearning in her soul. She could convey a sense of enormous loss in a way that offered no relief or closure for that loss, and this was the wellspring of her creativity.

Yes. YES. I thought instantly of an afternoon in Chicago, a long long time ago, when Mitchell and I turned on the television, and the 1992 TV movie Mrs. ‘Arris Goes to Paris was on. This was when, you know, you had to watch whatever was on. We were happy though: Omar Sharif and Angela Lansbury? Count us in! We settled in to watch. We were totally charmed by it.

But then … There’s a scene where Mrs. ‘Arris (Lansbury) sits on a park bench and breaks down in tears. The sobs tear up out of her very depths, and it is real and it was impossible to keep our distance from it. Mitchell and I watched the scene in silence – her crying was a gut-punch – and when the scene ended, we glanced at each other and saw that we both were sobbing openly. The movie went on, five minutes passed, ten, and neither of us could recover. Mitchell sobbed “I’m trying to get past it … but I can’t …” I sobbed, “I can’t either.”

Dan wrote:

She could convey a sense of enormous loss in a way that offered no relief or closure for that loss.

That’s it. That was exactly what was going on, and it’s why Mitchell and I had such a visceral response. There was no relief or closure, for her or for us. Her crying like that was unbearable to watch. There were so many great moments in her career, but the crying on the park bench in Mrs. ‘Arris Goes to Paris stands out as one of her finest.

Lansbury and Bea Arthur literally taking over the Tony Awards with a duet of “Bosom Buddies” is a moment for the ages, and every gay man I know knows every aside, every gesture, every quip, by heart. In my crowd, loving this clip – loving the two of them – is non-negotiable. What’s so incredible to me is how LITTLE they do, really. They shimmy a bit, they cross-around walk, they do a little step-touch with a shoulder bump … and the audience roars, and the clip will live forever. THAT’S being a star. And of course, they’re not “doing” much but … look at what they ARE doing. Their energy fills a theatre. Their mere presence is exhilarating. They are PROS.

Watch closely. This kind of thing doesn’t exist anymore. It’s part of a lost world. We are losing a connection with something precious with the passing of Angela Lansbury. She was going to turn 97 next week. Almost a century old. She worked in every decade of her life.

She conquered every medium at the highest possible level.

 
 
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“You cannot write and answer the phone.” — Paul Durcan

Posted on October 16, 2024 by sheila

Today is his birthday. I love him.

Paul Durcan’s poems are chatty, observant, scathing, often very funny. His poems sometimes have long humorous titles: “The Divorce Referendum, Ireland, 1986”, or “Irish Hierarchy Bans Colour Photography”. (The humor, of course, just sharpens the points he makes.) Durcan has a strong sense of life’s absurdity, and makes merciless fun of humorless prudes.

He had a rather horrifying time of it as a young man. His father was a judge, and their relationship was very challenging. To please this difficult man, Durcan went to UCD to study law, but whatever happened his first year in college was traumatic and his family essentially kidnapped him and institutionalized him. He was drugged up and given electric shock therapy. 45 years later Durcan said:

I ended up in St John of God in a ridiculous way. There was nothing the matter with me. I’m sure you saw the film One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Well, I was one of the luckier ones, one of the ones who flew over the cuckoo’s nest and survived it. I didn’t get a leucotomy, which would have finished me off completely, but I did get massive amounts of barbiturates, the whole Mandrax and every lethal tablet you could ever name. I think I came out of it with a kind of melancholia.”

The “cure” made him sicker. He is very open about his struggle with depression.

His mother was the niece of John MacBride, one of the martyrs of the 1916 Irish revolution. MacBride married Maud Gonne. Durcan was born into this, the myth of Ireland’s martyrdom was in his own home.

Once he got out of the mental institution, he was free to go his own way at last. He got married and had a couple of kids (the marriage fell apart in 1984: this “failure” continues to haunt him). His wife worked in a prison, so Durcan was the stay-at-home dad for their daughters. He wrote poetry as the children played around him – and I think you can tell. (This is a compliment). He is a very popular poet, and held the post of “Professor of Poetry” in Ireland, a national trust. Caitriona O’Reilly describes the effect Durcan has on an audience in this piece in The Guardian:

Hilarity has always been Paul Durcan’s stock-in-trade. Anyone who has attended one of his electrifying poetry readings and been reduced to hysteria (a common enough occurrence) can testify to the unique flavour of his work, especially when read aloud by the poet himself. That voice, with its peculiar, precise sibilance, its mock-solemnity, its quavering rise and fall, is the voice that remains in your head when reading his poems afterwards. He is one of the few poets honest enough to admit (as did the hieratic TS Eliot) that poetry is a form of entertainment, yet intelligent enough to know that entertainment does not mean “cheap”. His populism, his popularity, as a poet are unusual – comparable only to that favour enjoyed in Ireland by his venerated contemporary Seamus Heaney.

Here’s audio of him reading at the Irish Arts Center, in New York:

I love so many of his poems: There’s the one about the Pieta: how does he make it so funny? Yet it’s really about an overbearing mother’s love. Saying to Jesus, essentially: “You have to get up, friend, grow up, and leave your mother’s knee, mkay?”

There’s also this one.

Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949
Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I cried, ‘Pass out the moon,’
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father’s mother’s house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life’s seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.
But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called ‘new’ tenements –
Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy’s childhood.

Interestingly, he wrote a long tribute poem to Micheál MacLiammóir, a man I have written about before, usually in connection with his lifelong friend Orson Welles. (MacLiammóir was Iago to Welles’ Othello in Welles’ film.) MacLiammóir is a fascinating man, himself, and it is not a surprise at all that he and Welles would be so close. Masters of self-invention, both of them. Micheál MacLiammóir created the great Gate Theatre in Dublin, to compete with and rival the revered Abbey. He came from a new generation, he had other ideas about theatre. The Gate is still going strong. It is just one of this man’s legacies. I have posted before his fantastic essay about film acting. A brilliant actor, a showman, someone who basically adopted Ireland as his homeland by force of will and imagination. A fabulist, because he wasn’t of Irish birth at all. !!! Here he is with Orson Welles and Eartha Kitt in 1950:

MacLiammóir died in March 1978, and Paul Durcan wrote this poem immediately as a tribute. It is in MacLiammóir’s voice, gossipy and humorous, and it is glorious.

Micheál MacLiammóir

‘Dear Boy, What a superlative day for a funeral:
It seems St Stephen’s Green put on the appareil
Of early Spring-time especially for me.
That is no vanity: but – dare I say it – humility
In the fell face of those nay-neighers who say we die
At dying-time. Die? Why, I must needs cry
No, no, no, no,
Now I am living whereas before – no –
‘Twas but breathing, choking, croaking, singing,
Superb sometimes but nevertheless but breathing:
You should have seen the scene in University Church:
Packed to the hammer-beams with me left in the lurch
All on my ownio up-front centre-stage;
People of every nationality in Ireland and of every age;
Old age and youth – Oh, everpresent, oldest, wished-for youth;
And old Dublin ladies telling their beads for old me; forsooth.
‘Twould have fired the cockles of John Henry’s heart
And his mussels too: only Sarah Bernhardt
Was missing but I was so glad to see Marie Conmee
Fresh, as always, as the morning sea.
We paid a last farewell to dear Harcourt Terrace,
Dear old, bedgraggled, doomed Harcourt Terrace
Where I enjoyed, amongst the crocuses, a Continual Glimpse of Heaven
By having, for a living partner, Hilton.
Around the corner the canal-waters from Athy gleamed
Engaged in their never-ending courtship of Ringsend.
Then onward to the Gate – and to the rose-cheeked ghost of Edward Longford;
I could not bear to look at Patrick Bedford.
Oh tears there were, there and everywhere,
But especially there; there outside the Gate where
For fifty years we wooed the goddess of our art;
How many, many nights she pierced my heart.
Ach, níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin: 1
The Gate and the Taibhdhearc – each was our name;
I dreamed a dream of Jean Cocteau
Leaning against a wall in Killnamoe;
And so I voyaged through all the nations of Ireland with McMaster
And played in Cinderella an ugly, but oh so ugly, sister.
Ah but we could not tarry for ever outside the Gate;
Life, as always, must go on or we’d be late
For my rendezvous with my brave grave-diggers
Who were as shy but snappy as my best of dressers.
We sped past the vast suburb of Clontarf – all those lives
Full of hard-working Brian Borús with their busy wives.
In St Fintan’s Cemetery there was spray from the sea
As well as from the noonday sun, and clay on me:
And a green carnation on my lonely oaken coffin.
Lonely in heaven? Yes, I must not soften
The deep pain I feel at even a momentary separation
From my dear, sweet friends. A green carnation
For you all, dear boy; If you must weep, ba(w)ll;
Slán agus Beannacht:2 Micheál.’

March 1978

1 But there’s no place like home.
2 Farewell.

 
 
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“I mean, that’s the community of what we do, the difference between me and a streaming service. You actually know it’s me.” — Bob Mould

Posted on October 16, 2024 by sheila

For about a year, I posted all the music writing my brother Brendan O’Malley did on his old blog, because my brother is such a good writer, and these pieces are all so great I wanted to highlight them. I called it Music Monday, for obvious reasons. First, I posted every essay in his 50 Best Albums series. Then I posted the series where he wrote about every concert he went to – or at least the most memorable ones – and he clustered them by club/venue.

Today is the birthday of legendary Hüsker Dü frontman Bob Gould. My brother wrote two essays about them.

The first is an essay on Hüsker Dü’s album, Zen Arcade, on Brendan’s 50 Best Albums list.

The second is about Bren going to see Hüsker Dü at the Living Room, a legendary rock club in Providence, RI. If you grew up in a certain era, The Living Room is featured heavily in your memories. Bren captures it all.

 
 
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Dynamic Duo #42

Posted on October 12, 2024 by sheila

Eminem and Hailie Jade

 
 
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September 2024 Viewing Diary

Posted on October 7, 2024 by sheila

My First Film (2024; d. Zia Anger)
In my Top 10 of the year (so far). I reviewed for Ebert.

Sweetheart Deal (2024; d. Elisa Levine and Gabriel Miller)
A very upsetting and beautifully made documentary, representing a decade of work. You don’t make something like this without putting in the hard work of building relationships and trust with the people you are going to be documenting. I reviewed Sweetheart Deal for Ebert.

What Price Hollywood? (1932; d. George Cukor)
A classic, really. Even by 1932, Hollywood was taking a look at itself and how it operated, what it did to people. We’re still “unpacking” this kind of thing. It’s an excellent film and it also has my favorite movie poster (it’s hanging on my wall right now).

A Wilderness of Error: The Trials of Jeffrey MacDonald (2020; d. Errol Morris)
I inhaled Fatal Vision like every other true crime buff. I think I read it back in college. Then I read Janet Malcolm’s classic The Journalist and the Murderer and … it’s such a strong piece of analysis, it’s an indictment, an intimidating reprimand to unscrupulous journalists … Malcolm’s book is still taught in journalism classes, as well it should be. And I never felt the same way about Fatal Vision after Malcolm’s book (so, mission accomplished, I suppose). However, I still think Jeffrey MacDonald did it 100%. Had a huge conversation about it with friends while I was in Scotland. You know you’re in the presence of kindred spirits when you have the following conversation:
“I mean, the crime scene, right?”
“I know.”
“Yeah. It was so contaminated.”
“He’s a Green Beret. He can’t take on a bunch of hippies?”
“Helena Stoeckley, though.”
“Her story changed so many times, though. She was on drugs.”
“I keep coming back to that coffee table in the house.”
“I know. The homicide detective immediately knew the whole thing was staged.”
I was in the presence of people where nothing needed to be explained. Nobody needed to be filled in. It’s even better that we were having this discussion while having tea on the top floor of a swanky hotel in Edinburgh. Anyway, this conversation inspired me to watch this series which I of course knew about but somehow never got around to. It’s well worth your time, especially if you know this case really REALLY well. As I do.) I was fine with the re-enactments – Errol Morris has a way of doing those where he repeats them, changing the details – so you have the feeling he’s not telling you WHAT happened but showing you all the different versions.

Runaway Jury (2003; d. Gary Fleder)
I saw this in the movie theatre when it first came out. I haven’t seen it since then. The film made me realize just how much I love – and miss – Gene Hackman. Hoffman is in this and he gives a pretty standard performance. He’s good but then you watch Hackman and he wipes the screen with him. John Cusack is also very good. It’s wild to see how the people in the jury were all these established actors, many of whom barely have any lines. Clearly shot on location. It’s really fucking sad, because the film was this explosive topic where someone whose husband died at a workplace shooting – decided to sue to gun lobby. And it was still seen as this in-the-air situation, where something like this could actually make a difference, make people come to their senses, equivalent to the exposure of the tobacco industry. There was still hope back in 2003 that something could be done. In the intervening time, we decided it’s okay if grade schoolers have shooting drills at school. We’re okay with the dead bodies of 5 year olds. It’s a disgrace.

Madoff: The Monster of Wall Street (2023; d. Joe Berlinger)
September was really packed for me, with awesome things (Scotland), and with traumatic things, unprecedented things, taxing things. I haven’t had much time or the mental bandwidth to absorb new things, or watch things for pleasure. Docuseries work for me, even ones I have already seen, like this one. I am endlessly fascinated by Madoff, have read numerous books about the whole thing, and I think Berlinger does a good job of laying it all out. I like Berlinger’s stuff.

Ghostlight (2024; d. Alex Thompson, Kelly O’Sullivan)
Another fave of 2024. I was a wreck. The theatre nerd in me was so satisfied, it called up such old old feelings, my first love, my primary love – still – it’s so beautiful. AND I am tangentially connected to it. It’s all Northwestern people, first of all, and some of the cast members are good friends/colleagues of Chicago friends of mine. I’m sure I met the lead actor multiple times (his best friend was my roommate the last year I was there). This film is STEEPED in theatre, and it understands – and cherishes – theatre, and what it gives to people involved in it but also its community. Waiting for Guffman mocks. I know. It’s funny. I think it’s funny too. But when I laugh, I am laughing at the best and oldest and most precious part of me, so … I don’t think it’s HILARIOUS. Ghostlight reminded me of Who Am I This Time?, based on the Kurt Vonnegut story – which I wrote about here.

Working Girls (1931; d. Dorothy Arzner)
I hadn’t seen this one. I did a deep dive into Dorothy Arzner’s stuff for the essay I wrote for Criterion’s release of Dance Girl Dance. But some are not easily see-able, like this one. What a treat! Excellent story, with Arzner’s sensitivity of approach, her focus on her actors, and her gift with material and atmosphere.

His Three Daughters (2024; d. Azazel Jacobs)
Adored it. It’s one location, only a couple of characters, and character development – or, character REVEALS, more like. You learn about the “daughters”, and then you just sit around spending time with them, getting to know them, see beneath the surface. I won’t reveal who the dad is. He comes out at the very end, and blows the roof off. A character actor I have loved for decades, always good, always reliable, always welcome – and here, he gets a moment center stage and he crushes it. In the way only a character actor can.

Amber Alert (2024; Kerry Bellessa)
I was describing the second half of this to my sister-in-law and she said, “So it suddenly becomes Scooby Doo?” YES. I wish I had used that in my review for Ebert because that’s exactly what it was.

A Very Royal Scandal (2024; d. Julian Jarrold)
This was a year with two releases covering Prince Andrew’s catastrophic interview with the BBC. First there was Scoop, which I reviewed for Ebert, and then this mini-series (part of a larger anthology series about royal scandals. I can’t keep up with all the scandals). I liked Scoop, but I think I prefer A Very Royal Scandal. It’s the exact same territory, but of course the mini-series goes into a bit more depth with the characters (and Sam MacAllister – the central figure of Scoop is barely in the series – so it’s good to have the corrective of Scoop). Michael Sheen is terrific as Prince Andrew, and the film delves into way more of his “journey”, including chilling flashbacks with John Hopkins, who looks so much like Epstein it’s nauseating. Honor Swinton-Byrne (Tilda’s daughter, and star of The Souvenir and The Souvenir II – both of which I reviewed, including a cover story for Film Comment) – plays Princess Eugenie. The whole backstage look at Andrew’s life is … tragic. I mean, he made his bed. No sympathy. But still … it’s hard to picture a person more ruined than Andrew. As a person of Irish descent, I don’t give a shit about any of these people, lol, and so maybe there’s some pleasure in watching Andrew squirm. There’s a lot of pleasure, actually. But it’s pretty hollow since the bigger predator “committed suicide” (uh huh) in 2019.

Sugar (2024)
Wow, I LOVED this. I binged it over a 24 hour period. I needed the escape. And what a gorgeously shot and intriguing escape. Filled with noir references (explicit), plus old movie references, and a charistmatic movie star performance from Colin Farrell. He’s so gorgeous and so transparent, but he holds something back, his essence, whatever it is: classic movie star stuff, they never give it all away.

 
 
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Dynamic Duo #41

Posted on October 6, 2024 by sheila

River Phoenix and Lili Taylor

 
 
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Temporary

Posted on October 4, 2024 by sheila

There’s been a lot happening with Eminem lately, and with him “a lot” is relative, because he is basically Citizen Kane in terms of public appearances (well, Citizen Kane at the end of the movie), and you never hear a peep from him – not a picture, not a video, not even some rando’s cell phone footage – unless he has something he wants to share with the world. He is amazingly private. So when he DOES do something, it makes headlines. He came out with an album this year, The Death of Slim Shady, which I am still absorbing. Some of it he sounds like a cranky old guy – which is pretty funny, because it’s true – and listen, we’re both Gen X, so I get it – but at the same time, he’s so in touch with what is happening right-now-last-second – like who’s in, who’s out, what’s going on on Tik Tok – like, he’s aware of all of it. The album has that cranky “what are all these annoying kids even DOING” vibe, but then it has that shocking blasted-open vulnerability, which has always been a part of what he does. If you’re not aware of that, then all you need to do is listen to every single one of his albums back to the first. You can’t get more blasted-open than “Rock Bottom”. Or, dare I say (yes I dare say) “Kim”. Once he got sober, the vulnerability took a different tone. He was now more able to look at himself, and what he had been doing – not only to himself, but to his daughters (primarily) – by being such a mess, for overdosing, everything he put them through. He had distance. He could discuss it. The same with Proof (speaking of which …) Proof is still a part of his music, and – as anyone who has lost a loved one knows – the grief never ends, missing them never ends, but it changes, it takes different shapes as time passes. So those of us who love Eminem, who have been there with him from day one, have watched this transformation. This is one of the reasons why his fans are so loyal. (Some of his fans are … well, they’re Stans. They can be extremely obnoxious. I suppose that’s true of all fandoms but Eminem’s fan base is extreme.) But besides the stans, there’s a kind of emotional identification that comes when you have been a fan for 25 years. It’s like Joni Mitchell, or Bob Dylan … even better examples, because they’ve been around for half a century (longer). These artists are just a part of people’s lives. I’m a fan of people who are dead, and I am a fan of people who “hit” last year, or people I’ve just discovered (I just discovered Sierra Ferrell and am so INTO it and everything she’s about) … but when you’re a fan of someone who’s been around the entire time you’re an adult, it’s a different kind of thing. I feel that way about Robbie Williams. About Liz Phair. I feel like I freakin’ KNOW them. We all grew up together. We’re peers. There’s a commonality of reference points and experiences, even though they’re famous.

Eminem’s daughter Hailie was a baby when we first heard of her dad, and now she’s in her late 20s, and she got married this summer to her college sweetheart. (Eminem has three daughters. If you’re unaware: Hailie is the daughter he had with his two-time-ex-wife Kim. Hailie was born into poverty, which Eminem rapped a lot about in the beginning. “Because man these goddamn food stamps don’t buy diapers.” His second daughter Alaina is actually his niece – by marriage – Alaina’s mom was Kim’s twin sister, and they adopted Alaina when her mother overdosed. She and Hailie grew up together. He has a third daughter, originally named Whitney, but who renamed themselves Stevie when they “came out” as nonbinary/gender fluid. During one of the times Eminem and Kim split up, Kim got pregnant by another man, who dipped, leaving Kim and Stevie in the lurch. The guy eventually overdosed in 2019. Eminem adopted them too. Which is pretty wild, if you think about it. What man would adopt the child had by his ex-wife with another man during a break-up with him? You got all that?) Stevie is pretty private, although they do have an Instagram account. All three of his kids are in long-lasting relationships. Two of them are married. So despite all the craziness of their upbringing, Eminem did a good job. They seem to be stable. They’re close to each other. They aren’t out here getting DUIs or trying to be famous themselves. I have no idea how Eminem and Kim managed that. Kim has had her problems, a lifetime of addiction, and she recently tried to commit suicide (not the first time). I suspect Eminem has been financially supporting her this whole time. They got together when they were like 14 and 15. It’s unique. He also raised his younger half-brother who had been put into foster care when they were kids. As soon as Eminem had the “means”, he scooped up Nate, and brought him home. Nate himself came out great. Got married. Is a good uncle. You know. They’re all rich, obviously, but the overall impression is it’s very regular. A close family who came up through some SHIT and are grateful for each other and everything they have. Just think about how rare that is, especially for someone AS famous as Eminem. For a long time – early 2000s until the recluse era of the mid-2000s, Eminem was hugely public, having public flame outs, an arrest, controversial “relationships”, touring constantly … he DID the whole fame thing, living out there in public. Interesting to consider that his privacy coincided with 1. his sobriety and 2. the rise of social media. He rapped about this once, sounding harassed within an inch of his life: “It’s like these KIDS with their CELL PHONES, I CAN’T GO ANYWHERE.”

On The Death of Slim Shady is a song called “Temporary”, and it’s for Hailie. “Temporary” tells her everything he wants her to know for when he’s gone. A song for her to understand what she means to him. The song is peppered with actual audio clips of Hailie as a child, playing around with her dad. It’s extremely emotional. Like I said, Hailie got married this past summer, and – true to form – there were only one or two official pictures released. I am imagining that every guest had to surrender their phone before attending, lol.

Skylar Grey is a favorite Eminem collaborator. They’ve worked together so many times. She’s toured with him. She’s a phenomenal songwriter (and her voice is angelic): she has been partially responsible for some of his most memorable (and emotional) tracks. So here she is again, her beautiful voice, floating around and through his own lyrics, which have that stop-start jagged almost anti-rhythm thing he’s been experimenting with in the past ten years. They make such a beautiful combo, and of course he would tap Skylar to participate on this one, this one for Hailie. Important to note, too, that Eminem has had Skylar produce one of his songs, start to finish, making her one of the only female producers in hip hop, and certainly one of the only female producers producing such a massive male star.

The video for “Temporary” was released yesterday. It’s rather extraordinary. He’s actually giving us a glimpse into his precious very very private world, all the shit going on we never see. There’s a video clip, for example, of Eminem, circa 2004 or 5 maybe? reading to a class of grade schoolers, presumably Hailie’s class. But there’s also footage of Hailie’s wedding, Eminem crying as he hugs her, walking her down the aisle (thinking of “the aisle I’ll never walk you down” … from “Arose”, the song about his overdose experience), and then … there’s the moment where Hailie lets him know she’s pregnant, giving him a shirt with the word GRANDPA on it, and a sonogram picture. She basically announced her pregnancy via her dad’s music video.

In the era of the Kardashians, this all might seem a little TOO public. But because it’s Eminem it hits different. He never ever lets you see into his world. He doesn’t share family pics. He doesn’t post private stuff on his socials. He’s barely on social media. The only time he shares his world is in his music: he’s rare that way). We suspect things going on behind the scenes. We’re used to having no information, to not even SEEING him – not one casual glimpse – for months at a time, sometimes a year … and then suddenly he does an info-dump, with an album, a video, an interview.

I watched “Temporary” and got this wild feeling of the accordion of time, the tesseract of it all. It’s not just about him. It’s about me. About where I was back then, about where I am now. The bonds of family, being kids together, now being adults together. Making it through tremendous challenges. And … if you’re self-destructive … as he was, as I was … then feeling gratitude that you actually MADE it. You’re HERE. You can actually LIVE in a state of gratitude. You MADE it. What a miracle.

I actually cried watching that video. Then I watched it again. And I cried again. They were Happy tears of gratitude. For my own life. Or, for his, but mostly for mine. I can’t think of many artists who provide me THAT.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

Posted in Music | Tagged | 2 Comments

R.I.P. Kris Kristofferson

Posted on October 2, 2024 by sheila

I paid tribute to this legend on my Substack.
 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

Posted in Actors, Music, RIP | Tagged | Leave a comment

“I was a silent actress: a body. I belonged to dreams – to those who can’t be broken.” — Sylvia Kristel

Posted on September 28, 2024 by sheila

Today is the birthday of Dutch actress and – briefly – international superstar – Sylvia Kristel. The timing is fortuitous. Often pigeonholed due to the massive success of the soft-core classic Emmanuelle, Kristel was a gifted and intuitive actress, who worked with some of the biggest stars of the era. Emmanuelle was such a massive (and notorious) hit that it in a way it hindered her reputation (particularly posthumously). Kristel wasn’t ashamed of Emmanuelle – she was very much in favor of the sexual revolution and freedom of expression – but to ONLY be known for that film does this actress a great disservice. My pal Jeremy Richey wrote a book about Kristel, Sylvia Kristel: From Emmanuelle to Chabrol – which came out last year. I could not be more proud of him if I tried. He and I go way way back and I know this has been a dream project for him. I interviewed him about the book, and really enjoyed our discussion.

Many of Kristel’s films are hard to see – many aren’t available at all – but hopefully that will change. In the meantime, coinciding with the publication of Richey’s book, The Metrograph in New York put up a Sylvia Kristel series, still running now.

Posted in Actors, Movies, On This Day | Tagged | Leave a comment

R.I.P. Maggie Smith

Posted on September 27, 2024 by sheila

I’m sometimes inconsistent in my tributes here but it doesn’t mean I don’t have thoughts about those I didn’t write about! James Earl Jones died on September 9 and I didn’t write anything here because I was in Scotland and not there for pleasure, although it was all very fun, of course. But I had just an afternoon of free time (where I went to Elvis Shakespeare. Not the castle. Not a museum. lol). James Earl Jones was a massive figure in American theatre and film and I feel so damn lucky that I actually saw him on Broadway, in Fences no less. He was a giant. And now, another giant has left us. Dame Maggie Smith.

Whatever I say here cannot compete with my friend Dan Callahan’s superb tribute over on Ebert. I so needed to read that today as I scrolled through social media, reading all the tributes. He knows her and her way of working and her response to life (a NEGATIVE response) better than anyone. He devoted a chapter to Smith in his amazing book The Art of American Screen Acting (I interviewed him about it here). Please read Dan’s tribute. He gets it on a deep ACTOR level.

I wrote this a while back but I will share it today. Maggie Smith’s performance of Alan Bennett’s 49-minute monologue called Bed Among the Lentils is one of the best performances I have ever seen. Period.

It is done direct to camera and is an astonishing piece of work. As I watched, time stood still. I feel like I didn’t even blink. I couldn’t breathe. The character’s misery and bitterness was stultifying. Crucially, and this is a very Maggie Smith “fingerprint” (if such a dazzlingly versatile actress can have a fingerprint), there is a total lack of catharsis. Maggie Smith was TOUGH. There is no leakage for her own/the audience’s comfort. Near the very end, there’s a tiny glimmer of her sense of loss. It’s just a glimpse, though. The character wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing more than that.

Smith, with her impeccable technique, gives you just a tiny glimpse of the character’s interior world, and you, the audience member, are wrecked. She shows a little bit of what’s there, and you feel ALL of it. This is what total control looks like. Amateurs are not capable of what Smith does here, with text, subtext, gesture (the moment above with the water glass), backstory (even if not expressed), vocal technique – everything. And yet you don’t feel the control. Her control/technique is invisible. You don’t “see the work”. Smith is like De Niro in that way. Pacino in The Godfather. The character isn’t expressive. Therefore the actor isn’t either. The work has been done so you can feel all this STUFF going on inside, but none of it actually comes out. If Smith had lost control of her technique and broken down into stormy sobs during the monologue, allowing herself to express the underlying emotion, it would be a very different experience. Strangely, catharses sometimes alienate audiences. The actor feels so much there’s little room left for the audience to feel.

Civilians (and this includes many critics) are too impressed by the presence of tears, mistaking visible tears for excellent acting. This reminds me of a story my friend Shelagh told me years ago. Shelagh was in an acting class and a girl was up there doing a monologue, and my GOD she was feeling things. You could see her emotions from the space station. Credulous critics are bowled over by tears because it seems like a magical ability to produce actual tears in a make-believe situation. But it’s not magic. The sobbing student finished the scene and after a long pause the teacher said, “You were feeling everything and I am …. curiously unmoved.”

In Bed Among the Lentils, the character is a very unreliable narrator. The only emotion visible to the naked eye is a coiled contempt swimming in a sea of existential boredom. This toxic brew is the only thing she allows others to see … but then … over the course of the monologue, her rigid facade starts to (very subtly) disintegrate. Only once does she let you see what her public persona is hiding. We may have perceived it all along, misery emanates off her in waves, but the character will be damned if she lets you see any of it.

When the feeling rises in her like a volcano, surprising her as well as us, it’s shattering.

The acting here is literally world-class. It’s never been done better.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

Posted in Actors, Movies, RIP, Theatre | Tagged | 2 Comments