R.I.P. Alan Arkin

Deaths come in clusters. In the past couple weeks we have lost Treat Williams, Frederic Forrest (Valley Girl!), and now Alan Arkin.

A constant theme in my life: My adventures with afternoon television where I watched whatever the hell was on, because there were only three channels – well, four if you count PBS which of course I do, and the old movies played in constant rotation, with no rhyme or reason to the programming. I saw everything. And then my high school boyfriend introduced me to The Marx Brothers and WC Fields, and also film noir, and so I pieced together, by osmosis, the history of the fascinating artform. All on my own. Just soaking up what was in the air.

I was 11, 12, and I saw The Russians are Coming The Russians are Coming, and I fell in LOVE with it, the chaos and shenanigans (I grew up in the tail-end of the Cold War. I was steeped in Russian paranoia/terror without even thinking about it). But mostly I crushed hard on Alan Arkin. There is nothing like a crush when you’re 11. At some point I segued from peers to grown men. Which makes sense, puberty being what it is. There was Lance Kerwin … the first … and then there was James Dean and Al Pacino (almost simultaneously, and these two were more about their acting chops than anything crush-y, although crush-feelings also came into it) and Ralph Macchio … … and then came Harrison Ford in Empire, the game-changer, the real puberty kicking in. Within those years where crushes proliferated, I saw The Russians are Coming, and Alan Arkin – in that movie only – I saw nothing else he did – loomed large.

I have had a long life enjoying Alan Arkin’s performances. I was always happy when he showed up in something, and he always delivered. I am happy he worked up until the end, with great integrity and authenticity.

But first, there was the impact he made when I was a kid-on-the-verge-of-puberty: the way he stood in that movie, the way he RAN that movie, with hilarity and confidence, his whole outfit, the hat, the jacket … it all tapped into something in my soul, and I am trying to put it into words. It was so long ago but I remember it vividly, and it is not an isolated incident. It happened with others. Jack Wild in Oliver! All the boys in The Outsiders. Even James Dean in East of Eden. My “way in” – the acting bug, to the love of movies, to my own desires/fantasies as a small human – was through the boys. Julie Harris was great in East of Eden, but I didn’t project myself onto her, I didn’t “see myself” in her. I didn’t question this. It was all completely organic. When I watched Alan Arkin in The Russians are Coming, I felt a weird strong yearning, and if I had to put it into words, I’d say what I was feeling was sort of a self-projection, a wish-fulfillment, a desire to merge. Not sexually but psychologically. I didn’t want to marry him or kiss him. I didn’t want to be his sidekick or his love interest. I wanted to BE him. There’s a huge difference, and this might be worth writing more about. As I say, this happened a lot with me and male stars when I was a kid, and it was all very unspoken and organic, a natural thing for me, a miasma of feelings, all very pleasurable. Like, I couldn’t wait to dress like Alan Arkin in The Russians are Coming, and, if you knew me in my 20s, you know I did …

So when I heard the news, it’s The Russians are Coming I thought of. Because there’s nothing more powerful than a first impression. It lasts a lifetime.

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The Best Films of 2023 So Far

The collection of writers at Ebert voted, and of course came up with a massive diverse list. I think our individual lists will be published eventually. I wrote about The Eight Mountains (which I reviewed for Ebert). You can see the full list here, with blurbs by each of us.

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Review: Prisoner’s Daughter (2023)

I dig Catherine Hardwicke’s films, but I didn’t dig this. My review at Ebert.

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Shape


Karen Black, “Five Easy Pieces”


Gwyneth Paltrow, “The Royal Tenenbaums”

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“It is as easy for the mind to think in stars as in cobble-stones.” – Helen Keller

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Helen Keller and Charlie Chaplin

Today is Helen Keller’s birthday. Her autobiography, The Story of My Life is essential reading.

In 1932, a doctor saw a photograph of Helen Keller on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. He wrote her a letter asking what she saw.

Here is her magnificent reply.

January 13, 1932

Dear Dr. Finley:

After many days and many tribulations which are inseparable from existence here below, I sit down to the pleasure of writing to you and answering your delightful question, “What Did You Think ‘of the Sight’ When You Were on the Top of the Empire Building?”

Frankly, I was so entranced “seeing” that I did not think about the sight. If there was a subconscious thought of it, it was in the nature of gratitude to God for having given the blind seeing minds. As I now recall the view I had from the Empire Tower, I am convinced that, until we have looked into darkness, we cannot know what a divine thing vision is.

Perhaps I beheld a brighter prospect than my companions with two good eyes. Anyway, a blind friend gave me the best description I had of the Empire Building until I saw it myself.

Do I hear you reply, “I suppose to you it is a reasonable thesis that the universe is all a dream, and that the blind only are awake?” Yes – no doubt I shall be left at the Last Day on the other bank defending the incredible prodigies of the unseen world, and, more incredible still, the strange grass and skies the blind behold are greener grass and bluer skies than ordinary eyes see. I will concede that my guides saw a thousand things that escaped me from the top of the Empire Building, but I am not envious. For imagination creates distances and horizons that reach to the end of the world. It is as easy for the mind to think in stars as in cobble-stones. Sightless Milton dreamed visions no one else could see. Radiant with an inward light, he send forth rays by which mankind beholds the realms of Paradise.

But what of the Empire Building? It was a thrilling experience to be whizzed in a “lift” a quarter of a mile heavenward, and to see New York spread out like a marvellous tapestry beneath us.

There was the Hudson – more like the flash of a sword-blade than a noble river. The little island of Manhattan, set like a jewel in its nest of rainbow waters, stared up into my face, and the solar system circled about my head! Why, I thought, the sun and the stars are suburbs of New York, and I never knew it! I had a sort of wild desire to invest in a bit of real estate on one of the planets. All sense of depression and hard times vanished, I felt like being frivolous with the stars. But that was only for a moment. I am too static to feel quite natural in a Star View cottage on the Milky Way, which must be something of a merry-go-round even on quiet days.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the Empire Building so poetical. From every one except my blind friend I had received an impression of sordid materialism – the piling up of one steel honeycomb upon another with no real purpose but to satisfy the American craving for the superlative in everything. A Frenchman has said, in his exalted moments the American fancies himself a demigod, nay, a god; for only gods never tire of the prodigious. The highest, the largest, the most costly is the breath of his vanity.

Well, I see in the Empire Building something else – passionate skill, arduous and fearless idealism. The tallest building is a victory of imagination. Instead of crouching close to earth like a beast, the spirit of man soars to higher regions, and from this new point of vantage he looks upon the impossible with fortified courage and dreams yet more magnificent enterprises.

What did I “see and hear” from the Empire Tower? As I stood there ‘twixt earth and sky, I saw a romantic structure wrought by human brains and hands that is to the burning eye of the sun a rival luminary. I saw it stand erect and serene in the midst of storm and the tumult of elemental commotion. I heard the hammer of Thor ring when the shaft began to rise upward. I saw the unconquerable steel, the flash of testing flames, the sword-like rivets. I heard the steam drills in pandemonium. I saw countless skilled workers welding together that mighty symmetry. I looked upon the marvel of frail, yet indomitable hands that lifted the tower to its dominating height.

Let cynics and supersensitive souls say what they will about American materialism and machine civilization. Beneath the surface are poetry, mysticism and inspiration that the Empire Building somehow symbolizes. In that giant shaft I see a groping toward beauty and spiritual vision. I am one of those who see and yet believe.

I hope I have not wearied you with my “screed” about sight and seeing. The length of this letter is a sign of long, long thoughts that bring me happiness. I am, with every good wish for the New Year,

Sincerely yours,

Helen Keller


Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan

 
 
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.

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This is what James Joyce has made me do.

A list of Molly’s so-called lovers (debatable), and where they are mentioned in the text, and what Bloom imagines, and then what Molly says about these men later … which reveals Bloom’s ratcheting paranoia – I mean, the organgrinder? Really? Blazes Boylan is the only real rival.

Once I started my index, I couldn’t stop.

Jimmy made me do this! Damn him!

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Bikers back-ting

Well, one is back-ting and one is just living.


Marlon Brando as Johnny in “The Wild One” (1953)


Croatian biker on the boat in the Adriatic, taken by yours truly

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Criterion Channel: Coming in July

7 Elvis movies!

More to come.

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On John Cassavetes’ Minnie and Moskowitz

This is a re-vamped post I resurrected for my Substack. A freebie for all subscribers. I saw it again recently and elaborated on my original thoughts. Outside-Inside: John Cassavetes’ “Minnie and Moskowitz”

 
 
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.

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Kidney of Bloom, pray for us.

Bloomsday 2023 at Ulysses pub.

The pub opened its doors on June 16, 2003. I have no idea how I heard about it back then (I just looked it up: Aedin told me.) – but I did. The pub opened with a Bloomsday celebration. Frank McCourt was there. In fact, the first pint poured when the bar opened its doors was for Frank. There was a microphone put out in the little cobblestone alley behind the pub – and a bunch of tables placed out there – and people got up and read, and there was live music. Colum McCann was the emcee, and he has continued to be so over all the years since. (My latest Substack is about my history with this event, and with Bloomsday, in general.)

I went to this very same Bloomsday celebration for 10, 12 years mostly nonstop. One year I went to the famous Symphony Space one, an all-day event, culminating at around 1 in the morning, when Fionnula Flanagan took the stage and read Molly Bloom’s monologue, lolled on a chair, letting the pages flutter down beside her. It was, of course, unforgettable. But I always returned – like Ulysses himself – to the Ulysses pub one because it was rowdy and slightly disorganized. The appeal was its amateur-ishness. If you love the book, you could read. This means, of course, some people get up and read and they are boring or too quiet or they go on too long. But that’s the risk you take. You lose something when you limit the reading list to the professionals, or the scholars, or the actors. Joyce meant his book to be for everybody. And everybody can understand it. It’s not as difficult as its reputation – and as its defenders – claim. The Ulysses pub celebration has its regulars. For example, Larry Kirwan – from Black 47!!! – gets up every year to read his favorite section – when all the fireworks go off over Gertie McDowell. And he reads it like a lusting young teenage girl and he brings down the house. Everyone looks forward to it. Here’s a pretty good snapshot of a regular Ulysses pub Bloomsday event. Bring out the usual suspects. I looked forward to seeing all these people once a year.

This past Friday was the 20th anniversary, and it was dedicated to the much missed Frank McCourt, who was there at its inception. There were pictures of him everywhere. Normally the celebration is held outside, but the weather was quite INCLEMENT, so they moved it inside. I don’t think I had even been in the bar before. The owner made a speech in the beginning, after handing out 20th anniversary bookmarks to everyone, and he said something along the lines of – We don’t want to lose the flavor of the event, so pleasure make sure to say hello to the people around you, make friends. It was touching. In tribute to Frank McCourt, Colum opened the event by reading the section from Angela’s Ashes where young Frank makes his first communion and then threw up his communion wafer in his grandmother’s back yard, causing much consternation. “God is in the backyard” as the grandmother said.

Allison came with which was so fun and it was SO GOOD to connect with Therese again. We were trying to remember how it all started. We think it was when we discovered each others’ blogs. I still love her blog. She came to the event at the Irish Arts Center where I performed “74 Facts and One Lie” – I think she read about it on my blog – I know she came to the first reading of my script at Jimmy’s in 2009. And somehow we ended up coming to the Ulysses pub Bloomsday celebration together and we met up there every year after that. 7 years in a row or something like that. The pandemic interrupted the tradition. I haven’t seen Therese in about 4, 5 years. So I reached out and was like “Uhm … if you’re still around … can we please do OUR THING again?” It was SO COOL. Bloomsday was our THING so it was just awesome to see her again! Full heart!

At one point during the festivities, Colum convinced Therese to come up and sing “The Auld Triangle” and she totally crushed it! Of course everyone sang along with the chorus. Outside the rain poured down onto the cobblestones, cobblestones George Washington walked over once upon a time, to get to Fraunces Tavern right on the corner, cobblestones all of those dudes walked on, including my dead boyfriend … and inside a bunch of people holding books, some wearing straw hats, singing along in unison. Soak it up. Be in the moment. Be here. Now.

There were lots of familiar faces. We also met some new people, people we were sitting with, including two tourists from Vancouver who wandered into the pub and had no idea what the hell was going on. They just thought it was a regular happy hour and then they saw all the straw hats and all the books lying open in front of people and were like “What is happening?” Therese and I filled them in, and then we all just got to talking. They were just wrapping up a 5-day vacation where they did literally everything. They saw a Broadway show. They had cannolis in Little Italy. They went to the Met. They walked through Central Park. They ate out in Chinatown. They went to the Statue of Liberty. It was exhausting just hearing about it. You always make new friends at this event.

I read a section from the Schylla and Charybdis episode and it was funny and light and I didn’t outstay my welcome. Get on, get off. Boom!

Sarah Street, a wonderful Irish actress, read portions of the Molly Bloom section at intervals throughout the event.

I’ve heard many people do this monologue over the years, probably 10, 15 people, and someone like Fionnula Flannagan is pretty hard to beat, but I’ve seen other wonderful actresses take it on and bring their own spirit to it I saw Eilin O’Dea do it at a couple of different Bloomsday events. She sometimes showed up at the Ulysses pub celebration, and I saw her at another Symphony Space event organized by my friend Jonathan, where she did the whole monologue – memorized – and it was absolutely riveting! I’ve also heard the monologue done in a really porn-y way. Particularly those last two pages. It’s obvious what is going on in those last two pages. All you have to do is read it out loud. Even if you DIDN’T know what was happening, just reading the words clues you in, but that’s not necessarily porn-y. I can’t believe I have to say that but unfortunately it appears I do. I’ve heard that section read like it’s Sally at Katz’s deli in Harry Met Sally. And it sure goes over well with the crowd, particularly the male crowd, who’ve had a few by that point. Whoops and hollering, like it’s a burlesque, as opposed to a lonely woman lying in bed at night trying to remember her way into a time of safety and happiness and love with a husband from whom she is estranged. So yeah, you get the men clapping and cheering, but I don’t dig it and honestly I think it’s cheap, at least theatrically. It’s the most LITERAL reading of the word “yes”. Joyce said he wanted to end the book on the most positive word in the English language. Yes. Yes can mean anything. Don’t limit it. Molly is profane and practical and non-romantic and she uses all the four letter words and talks about sex in a frank way with no euphemism, she’s a trash-talker, she is Irish, after all, but – and I must underline this – this isn’t porn-y and, in fact, making it porn-y is exactly the kind of dirty-minded thinking about sex Joyce was trying to combat, how religion/repression turned things dirty that aren’t dirty. Molly Bloom’s “yes” is so much more than a scream of orgasmic pleasure (as the male crowd roars). I mean, you can do it that way, and I obviously can’t stop you, but I don’t have to dig what you’re doing.


^^ The amazing Sarah Street

All of this is preface. Sarah Street’s version was heart-stopping. It actually brought tears to my eyes. which kind of surprised me. I know much of it by heart. I know those words. They’re IN me. But she stopped me and made me listen. She didn’t DENY what was obviously going on, but Molly’s “yes” means so much more than a Katz’s Deli yes. It’s yes to everything, it’s yes to him again, it’s yes to renewing her vows (to herself, alone in the dark, as he lies there beside her – ugh, it’s so beautiful). It’s yes to redemption and hope. The couple has been BROKEN by the death of their son. How to find your way back to a Yes after the shattering No of a child’s death? It’s like Sarah somehow made me hear and feel what Molly was saying yes TO. And you just don’t get this if you’re screaming Yes in Katz’s Deli.

Therese and I looked at each other afterwards, and we were both in tears. We were blown away.

Therese and I caught up a little bit afterwards. It’s been too long!! It was 6 pm or so. She was headed to a hockey clinic at Chelsea Piers and had to go grab her hockey sticks, which she had stashed next to the bar. Now that’s a full day: singing The Auld Triangle in front of a crowd and then heading off to play some hockey.

It had stopped raining. The sunset light was stark and clear. I wandered down to Fraunces Tavern and caught a cab home.

Sláinte!

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