Just to wish everyone who visits my blog a happy and restful break over the holidays. Here are a couple of Christmas stills from films I like but haven’t written about here yet – The Sisters (1938), directed by Anatole Litvak and starring Bette Davis and Errol Flynn, and Pride of the Marines (1945), directed by Delmer Daves and starring John Garfield and Eleanor Parker (a lovely still from the Life collection). Both these films feature rather sad Christmas holidays – however, I hope yours will be anything but!

Bette Davis and Errol Flynn in 'The Sisters' (1938)

John Garfield and Eleanor Parker in 'Pride of the Marines' (1945)

I’m pretty ordinary. 

My TLE (if that’s what it is—it’s so nebulous I’m never quite sure that’s what’s happening in my brain) is controlled by drugs (doses hefty enough to kill a horse, I think). I’ve had only two blackout seizures (perhaps recently a third, but I’m not sure about that one) since I began taking the drugs. Even were I to be in the middle of a seizure, you would never know it. Two regular activties ground me so my sense that nothing is real is philosophical rather that physical. In truth, three, but I’m not going to talk about the third in public. The first is playing the organ or the piano. The second is what I am doing at the moment—sitting in front of this screen (which probably causes seizures itself) and typing as fast as I can. 

The first day I tried my hand at this blogging nonsense was September 19. I wrote then I thought this would be a good way to try to do something worthhile with the writing I’m going to be doing at 5 AM anyway. I have missed posting two days since then. And I wrote on the two days I missed here. 

My Bipoar disorder (if that’s what it is—it’s so nebulous I’m never quite sure that’s what’s happening in my brain) is supposedly contolled by drugs. But whatever it is that causes me to break out sobbing over Lynn Rosetto Kasper’s radio cooking show seems to be alive and well in my brain. 

What I’m saying is I think most people would think I’m pretty normal. A bit eccentric or something (what almost-65-year-old who has lived alone for eight years isn’t?). I think I’ve made all of this up. I don’t have anything like Temporal Lobe Epilepsy or Bipolar disorder. And then there’s this close to unbearble experience I have in rooms lighted by fluoresecnt lights and full of people I wish would just shut up and stop making so much noise. And those rare but scary blackouts (which cause my neurologist to suggest I not drive). And crying over Lyn Rosetto Kasper talking about how to make a soufflé. 

And then there’s this writing. 

Gobs of it. Pages of it. Most of it senseless, grandiose, incomprehensible. Certainly nothing like Arthur C. Inman, but roughly of the same genre. I’m not going to produce 17,000,000 words (I was too drunk for too many years to be able to write). Think how much he would have produced if he had had a computer (he died in 1963). 

So last night I casually mentioned my novel to a friend. (I lied a bit; I have three novels-on-the-shelf.) He asked if he could read it. I said I’d see if I could find any of it. Of course, it’s all on my desktop. So I copied a section and emailed it to him. 

And then I woke up this morning ready to write a novel. I don’t think so. I’m not disciplined enough to go through that again. And besides, I don’t want the rejection. But if people will read and enjoy (at least I enjoy it) John Kennedy Toole (my brother recently reminded me of the conspiracy), then maybe there’s hope for something I might write. His is, after all, a wildly imperfect novel, but no one I know who’s started reading it has not finished it. 

So I’m going to write a novel. I already have the place and the two main characters. So I thought I’d put a tiny piece of my novel-on-the-shelf here and see if anyone notices. It has no title. This is the beginning: 

Lone Oak, Texas

On the day I became an official Dallas resident, Cousin Judy, my first cousin once removed, told me that once real summer had started here—once live oak trees had turned from deep green to phantom dusty gray, once the heat index had topped one hundred degrees, once an ozone watch had been put in place, once daily watering of hanging plants had become necessary—but the North Texas Municipal Water District announced that the level of the water table was “grave,” once leaving air conditioned spaces had become not only an insult but a danger, once “comfortable” had taken on meanings that raised suspicion in the mind of any Iowan—once any of those realities had taken hold in a given year—we’d be hot and miserable until October. That was the day, of course, old Johnston Cade, unscrupulous antique dealer and, for all I knew or imagined, felon, died. He died leaving me the sole beneficiary of both his will and his reputation, with the inherited task of disposing of a warehouse, a fine warehouse in the most exclusive part of the Dallas Design District, full of antiques brought from upstate New York and the Connecticut Valley of New England, from hamlets in West Virginia and manor houses of Devonshire, from Iowa auctions and the black markets of Eastern Europe, from absolute junk to his prized Syrie Maugham white sofa. Of course, I had to dispose of his reputation before anyone would buy the antiques.
            That afternoon Cousin Judy perched on the rail of the deck high above her garden in North Dallas. At the back of her property—one of those deep lots sloping away from the street, so the front of the house opened at street level and the back opened onto the level below, built in the sixties when no expense need be spared—a row of forty-foot Eastern Redbuds, the Judas Tree, was in bloom, the row purple except for one rare white, a surprise to Judy and the landscaper when it finally blossomed. In front of the Judases, three or four multi-trunked Texas Redbuds, smaller but more intense, with deep salmon flowers and waxy green leaves, one of those Texas trees I’ve always thought should be able to grow in some moderate place like Iowa. My family knows trees.
            Judy sipped a drink in a way that made me think of Bette Davis. I don’t know why. Judy certainly didn’t then and doesn’t now look anything like Bette Davis. Judy wore black silk pants and a starched half-sleeve white shirt and black flat shoes, and she looked more elegant than I thought a Mueller could look with her blond hair pulled back in a roll held in place by a silver comb. But then, I’d always thought of her that way. She threw back her head and laughed, almost as a caricature of herself. I guess that’s what made me think of Bette Davis. Her laugh. Her I-dare-you-to-take-life-seriously self-assurance. I thought I’d never get used to Texas women. Even my relatives. The idea that a relative of mine, someone I’d known all my life, had actually been born in Texas instead of Iowa and spoke with a Texas accent unnerved me. It still does when I think about it. She said, “You’ll have to be the grown-up tonight.” We all knew Cade would be drunk when we got there.
            “I guess.” What else could I say.
            Uncle Edwin—when I started writing, I thought I was writing about myself, but he’s the center of this story, from beginning to end—wore his usual black shirt, a golf shirt with a collar for dress-up instead of his usual t-shirt, with tight khaki Dickies workpants, also for dress-up. His costume. Either he knew and didn’t care that the way he dressed exuded his obsession with sex, or he was so preoccupied with himself that he didn’t know. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now which it was. He gawked at Judy with his blank stare that somehow penetrated everything and everyone around and, at the same time, looked totally disinterested, his frown that made me want either to run and hide or to backhand him across his face and tell him to stop pretending to be a sociopath.
            “Grown-up?” he said.
            Edwin circled his fingers around a branch of a Cockspur Hawthorne—or Hog Apple, or Newcastle Thorn, or whatever name we were calling it that day—the only tree close enough to the house to touch, growing up from the garden so the top was level with the deck. He slowly pulled his hand to the end, loose enough so the thorns did not scratch him, but tight enough to crush a few of the leaves. The familiar feeling, the feeling I got only in Edwin’s presence, the feeling that never associates itself with anyone or anything else, the feeling of revulsion and attraction, of

Lake Tawakoni

fondness and pain, of admiration and disgust, of fear and love, mushroomed through my body and blossomed in my head. © 2009. Harold A. Knight

Strangely for something with as much sentimental potential as Christmas, there is only a handful of really classic Christmas movies. Yet, every year, this buff draws up a list of Christmas movies to watch in the run-up to the big day – and every year she fails miserably to get through them all.

The viewing itinerary usually kicks off with a little-known 1945 comedy called The Cheaters, which is getting a rare screening on Channel 4 this weekend. With a screwball cast that includes the elephantine Eugene Pallette and the twittery Billie Burke (best remembered as Glinda from The Wizard of Oz), it’s about a family of hard-up socialites who – in order to impress their daughter’s rich suitor – take in the down-and-out Joseph Schildkraut over Christmas, and learn a thing or two about dignity from him.

The Cheaters makes a nice double bill with Christmas in Connecticut (pictured), another rarely shown 1945 comedy, this time about a sophisticated magazine columnist (Barbara Stanwyck) forced to live up to her phoney reputation as a Nigella-style domestic goddess when her editor decides to spend the holidays at her country cottage.

Continuing the unwelcome guest theme, The Man Who Came to Dinner (1941) is one I always manage to squeeze in to the viewing schedule. A gloriously funny comedy, it stars Monty Woolley as the obnoxious “idol of the airwaves” Sheridan Whiteside (a character based on the humorist Alexander Woollcott) who, during a lecture tour, breaks his leg and has to spend his recovery – and Christmas – at the home of the unlucky mid-west family outside whose house he slipped.

“Christmas may be cancelled this year,” says one gossip column reporting the accident which has left the Stanley family confined to the upstairs quarters of their own home. The snazzy script, packed with one-liners, is a joy and the performances – by Billie Burke (again), Bette Davis, chic glamourpuss Ann Sheridan (my Christmas style icon), the wonderful character actress Mary Wickes and Jimmy Durante (playing a character based on Harpo Marx) – are as sparkling as a glass of Christmas bubbly.

Versions – live and animated – of A Christmas Carol abound, but the most atmospheric and haunting of all is the 1951 British classic, Scrooge, with the peerless Scots actor Alastair Sim gloriously dour as the miser who claims that “Christmas is a humbug” until he is visited by three spirits on Christmas Eve and realises that friendship and love are worth more than money.

Wash that one down with the gentler The Bishop’s Wife (1947), a grown-up romantic fantasy in which Cary Grant stars as a particularly debonair and charming angel named Dudley, who answers the prayers of a stressed-out clergyman (David Niven)and his neglected wife (Loretta Young) at Christmas-time, and leaves a trail of swooning ladies in his wake.

Or settle down with family favourite Miracle on 34th Street (1947 – a vintage year for Christmas movies) in which department store Santa Edmund Gwenn has to prove that he’s the real McCoy to a non-believing seven-year-old (Natalie Wood).

Heartwarming Christmas scenes feature in plenty of movies, but the ones worth digging out in the run-up to midnight are Little Women (any of the three versions will do, as long as you have your hankies handy) and Meet Me In St Louis (1944).

Although it covers a whole year in the lives of the characters it depicts, Meet Me In St Louis easily qualifies as a festive film: not only does it embody all the sentiments of the season, but it also features Judy Garland introducing the beautiful song Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas which is guaranteed to jerk a few buckets’ worth of tears.

The hours spanning Christmas Eve and Christmas morning should be spent in the company of Clarence the Angel, Zuzu, George, Uncle Billy and everyone else in Frank Capra’s evergreen It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) – the definitive Christmas movie.

And, if by December 27, I feel that I’ve overdosed on the old Christmas spirit, Billy Wilder’s The Apartment (1960) will provide just the right amount of cynicism to prepare me for the horrors of Hogmanay…

Inspirational Quotes

A sailor without a destination cannot hope for a favorable wind.
            — Leon Tec, M.D.

If grass can grow through cement, love can find you at every time in your life.
            — Cher

The real power behind whatever success I have now was something I found within myself – something that’s in all of us, I think, a little piece of God just waiting to be discovered.
            — Tina Turner, O Magazine, December 2003

I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.
            — Frank Lloyd Wright

In love, one and one are one.
            — Jean-Paul Sartre

Out of the strain of the Doing,
Into the peace of the Done.
            — Julia Louise Woodruff, ‘Harvest Home,’ Sunday at Home, 1910

America is a vast conspiracy to make you happy.
            — John Updike, Problems and Other Stories

It has been my experience that one cannot, in any shape or form, depend on human relations for lasting reward. It is only work that truly satisfies.
            — Bette Davis, The Lonely Life, 1962

We must accept that this creative pulse within us is God’s creative pulse itself.
            — Joseph Chilton Pearce

If you take a pill to make everything better, then you don’t know when things are fucked up. If you don’t know when things are fucked up, then you can’t fix it yourself.
            — Alexa Junge, United States of Tara, Snow, 2009

I used to think of all the billions of people in the world, and of all those people, how was I going to meet the right ones? The right ones to be my friends, the right one to be my husband. Now I just believe you meet the people you’re supposed to meet.
            — Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, The Quest, 1995

Do something every day that you don’t want to do; this is the golden rule for acquiring the habit of doing your duty without pain.
            — Mark Twain

Urban Dictionary

Elf-Esteem

The feeling of being overworked, underappreciated and like you don’t exist to others during the holidays while in actuality the season’s success depends on you.
The sense of being 3 feet small when others would view you in high stature if they realized all you do to make the holiday’s happen.

I think Hermey is having some elf-esteem issues. He’s pulling the stuffing out of all the teddy bears.

Short story long

Something that could have been told in a more concise way but is dragged out because the teller doesn’t know how to tell a story. It’s a play on the annoying clarifier, "Long story short," people use to sum up a digression, which really never seems to be that short anyway. So instead you say the opposite.

So I was walking into the store the other day, I wanted to get some aspirin because I had this massive headache and I walked down aisle four but they only had Tylenol but that doesn’t work and I went to the counter and short story long this guy was holding up the store!

MASCARA Speed Painting Bette Davis Eyes

You might have noticed that I love movies. The holidays have some true classics that I love to see every year. And the classic Christmas programs, like Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or How the Grinch Stole Christmas! My pop culture heart is filled with glee.

A few of my favorites fly under the holiday radar, though, and I’d hate for them to be lost in the holiday movie shuffle. WARNING: The first two movies listed are definitely not for younger viewers.

The Ref  Denis Leary is on the lam, and takes the most dysfunctional family in holiday history hostage.

Surviving Christmas Poor little rich boy Ben Affleck rents a family for the holidays. I think he should have shopped around!

Christmas Vacation No matter how nuts you get trying to create the perfect Christmas for your family, Chevy Chase takes it even further. Touted as a “new holiday classic” by certain cable stations.

Pocket Full of Miracles One of my all time favorite movies. It stars Bette Davis and Glenn Ford, one as a beggar, the other as a gangster, and their Cinderella style story. Although Christmas is never mentioned, the Nutcracker Suite score and the “miracles” performed by such unexpected souls, it rates a mention during the holiday season.

Those are my holiday movie picks. What are your’s?

As it turned out, Aunt Somebody agreed (reluctantly) to do Barry’s production of Passing in the Night—but only on the condition that he would not use her name in any of the advance publicity as marquee lure; she preferred for audiences to simply discover her when they came to see the show, and for word-of-mouth to do the rest.  Barry was miffed about this, for although he had not been depending solely on his stepmother’s participation in the play to sell tickets, he had hoped that news of her presence would offer an air of importance and class (not to mention press coverage) to the opening of the Barrymore Dinner Theatre, as it was to be called.  Still, his having actually secured her services as Regina Davenport was, in itself, almost more than he had dared hope for…and he suspected, correctly, that the possibility of WeeWee’s also being in the show had ultimately made it happen.

“I hope you know that I’m only doing this for you,” said Aunt Somebody drily to WeeWee just after she had phoned Barry to accept the role.  “I’m probably out of my gourd…but I suppose it will be fun, and it’ll certainly make the summer go fast.”

Next, she called WeeWee’s father to discuss his being allowed to stay with her through the summer in order to take part in the show.  He was more easily convinced than the boy had expected, especially when Aunt Somebody assured him that no contracts would be involved; the enterprise was entirely volunteer-based, with its cast members culled from the local college and community theatres.  Moreover, she said, pacing back and forth during the phone conversation (and winking at WeeWee as he sat grinning at her), she was getting quite accustomed to having this delightful young man around, and perhaps it was selfish of her, but she sincerely hoped to be able to keep him around for a bit longer, if it were at all possible.   WeeWee’s father laughingly agreed, saying that he had already talked it over with his mother, and that she had been quite excited about WeeWee’s being in a musical with his great-aunt…as long as he was home in time to begin the new school year, which had been his own single concern.  Aunt Somebody thanked him, promised both of WeeWee’s parents complimentary tickets, and the matter was settled.

At that point, WeeWee had yet to be officially cast in Passing in the Night, but with time growing short before the show was to go into rehearsal for its early August opening, Barry had more or less approved him to play Owen Stanton on good faith.  Just for the benefit of experience on WeeWee’s part, though, a reading was scheduled for three days later, the last of June, and Aunt Somebody drove him down to Barrymore Park at eight that evening so that he could do it in the actual performance space, when the restaurant had closed for the night.

The park itself was large, pleasant and well-kept.  It consisted mainly of a wooded campground, with a scattering of small, neat cabins and a lake for fishing.  There were biking trails, a walking path and the restaurant, wide and low, right in the middle of everything, with an office attached.

Barry was closing up the office just as WeeWee and Aunt Somebody arrived.  He called a cheery hello and led them into the restaurant, which was attractively decorated and softly lighted by flame-shaped bulbs in sconces all around the main dining area.  Twenty-odd round tables, freshly wiped-down and straightened, ringed a square of tiled dance floor that measured perhaps ten by ten feet.  Barry pointed to this and said, “Well, there’s your stage.  All of it.”

Aunt Somebody, who had been to the restaurant many times, looked around dubiously.  “How do you expect exits and entrances to be made, with no wing space?”

Barry went on to explain that the wings would be created from large black draperies hung over metal bars, placed diagonally in the corners on two opposite ends of the room.  The actors would remain behind these when they were not onstage.  The small band would be in one of the two remaining corners, and the stage manager would be in the other, to operate the light switches, although there would be no major lighting effects.  Nor would there be any amplification, and the production would make use of only minimal set pieces and props which the actors themselves would move on and off. 

“It’s the principle of KISS,” said Barry with a grin.

“Kiss?” 

“Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

The stage manager, John, who was to have read with WeeWee, could not be there that night, and so Barry asked Aunt Somebody if she would read his scenes with him.  “Sure,” she said.  Barry handed her a script, and she walked to join her very eager (and nervous) great-nephew in the center of the dance floor.  Barry gave them the page number of the scene–the first meeting between Owen Stanton and Helen Davenport, right after they boarded the cruise ship–and the reading began.

WeeWee cleared his throat and spoke his first line as Owen.  “Extraordinary, isn’t it, miss, the therapeutic effect of the Pacific on one’s nerves?”

Aunt Somebody replied in character as Helen, just as she had in the film thirty-eight years before, her voice clear and resonant.  Hearing her gave WeeWee chills.  “It certainly is.  But I shouldn’t think someone as young as you would need therapy for his nerves.”

Barry spoke up from where he was sitting at one of the tables, toward the middle of the room.  “Okay, I’m going to stop you both right there, just for a minute.”  Looking at WeeWee, he said, “Remember that you’re talking to the audience, not just the character of Helen.  Well, you are talking to her in theory…but everyone out here…”  He waved a hand around the general area.  “…Needs to be able to hear you, too.  So make sure you project.  Let’s try it again.”

WeeWee nodded and began once more.  “Extraordinary, isn’t it, miss, the therapeutic–”

Barry broke in before he could finish the line.  “Sorry, bud…I still need you to be louder.  I’m not that far away, and I can barely hear you.  During the actual performance, you’ll have to be heard over people talking in the audience, because people are disgustingly rude and they will talk…plus, the kitchen help will be slam-banging around in the back, cleaning up.  And when you have people sitting at these tables, they’ll soak up the sound, too.  So really, really get your voice out there.  If you think you’re talking too loud, you’re at the level you need to be.  Feel like you’re shouting, okay?  Go ahead when you’re ready.”

WeeWee made a fresh start, but he hadn’t gotten even two words out before Barry interrupted him this time.  “Can you do a British accent?”

“Yeah…I think so.”  WeeWee chastised himself silently for forgetting that Owen was British; he often used a British accent while playing with his action figures, particularly for the villains, so he’d had plenty of practice at it.  And of course, Alexander the Avenger wouldn’t be half as menacing with a Midwestern twang.

“Great.  Want to give that a try?

“ExtrOHdineddy, isn’t it, miss, the thera-PYOOtic ee-fect of the—”

Barry and Aunt Somebody burst out laughing.  WeeWee felt his ears turning red, and he smiled self-consciously, but also with pleasure. 

“That was good!” said Barry approvingly, after he recovered.  “You have a darn good accent, there.  Keep it just like that.  Now, try the accent with the projection…and remember to enunciate.  Speak slowly and stress your consonants and the endings of your words, especially, because I’m telling you right now…half the audience will be made up of old people who can’t hear.  And I don’t want the other half of the audience to have to listen to ‘Whaddee say?  Whaddee say?’ while they’re trying to follow the plot.  Okay, once more…and I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

This time, WeeWee recited his opening line perfectly—projection, accent and all—and he and Aunt Somebody read the whole scene to the end, at which Barry rose and applauded, smiling broadly at WeeWee.  Aunt Somebody turned to him and applauded as well.

The boy glowed.  He had just read his first scene as a bona-fide actor with an Academy Award-nominated movie star.  Not bad for a kid who sat down to pee, he thought.  Not bad at all.

**********

On the drive back to her house, Aunt Somebody complimented WeeWee again on his reading.  “You have genuine potential,” she said.  “Your voice is clear and distinct and it carries well.  You should think about doing more with it, eventually.”

WeeWee happily accepted her praise.  He inhaled deeply the mixed scents…peppermint gum, leather, his aunt’s perfume…in the car, which rode like a featherbed on wheels.  He only wished they had farther to go.  He loved riding in big cars…those who preferred Corvettes and Mustangs were welcome to them.  Give him a Cadillac, a Lincoln or in this case, a Buick—built for comfort rather than speed—and he was in a state of bliss.

The whole reading had seemed like a dream to him, one from which he was half-afraid he would awaken to find himself in bed at home, or worse yet, at the Bitterwaters’.  He had never experienced anything like it—being put to the test of doing something that not everyone could do—and passing with flying colors.  It was a feeling he could get used to. 

“Was anyone else up for playing Owen?” he asked his aunt.

“I don’t believe so,” she said as she steered the car into her driveway.  “I think Barry saw something in you that day when he was here and asked if you were interested.  Incidentally, so had I, by then.”

“Really?”

Aunt Somebody put the car in park and turned off the ignition.  In the dimness of the garage, she turned to him and smiled as she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve seen many things in you since you’ve been here, and they’re all good.  I just don’t think anyone’s ever bothered to tell you about most of them before.”

********** 

The next day, WeeWee called home to tell his father about the audition.  To his great surprise, his mother answered the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she said with pleasure.  “How are you?”

“I’m good…is Dad at home?”

There was a slight pause before she replied, “No, honey, he went back to the motel in Glenmoore, where he was.”

WeeWee’s heart sank a little.  “Did you get together with him to talk?  He said you were going to.”

“We haven’t, yet, but we will.”  She quickly changed the subject by asking how the reading for the play had gone.  WeeWee described it to her, and told her about the character, and Barry, and what the restaurant at Barrymore was like.

“Did you have to sing?”

WeeWee explained that hadn’t been required to sing, firstly because Owen was a non-singing role, and secondly because Aunt Somebody had told Barry that she knew he could carry a tune with no problem, based on the amount of humming he did.  (“I said I’d heard you humming ‘Rose’s Turn’ the other day, from Gypsy, and you hit every single note,” she had laughed.  “I don’t know if even Merman herself could have done that without accompaniment!”) 

“Wow!” his mother said, impressed.  “You’re so talented you didn’t even have to audition!  I think you’re on your way, WeeWee!”

The boy cringed.  “Mom, I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But I’ve always called you that.”

“I know.  That’s the problem.”

There was silence for a moment, and then WeeWee’s mother changed the subject again.  “Do you like your aunt?”

“Yeah.  She’s a lot of fun.  She’s really nice.”

“Well, I’m glad things have worked out this way…for all of us…although I do miss you.”

“I miss you, too, Mom.  Will you give me Dad’s number at the motel so I can let him know about getting the part?”

WeeWee’s father was even more congratulatory than his mother.  “That’s terrific!  You’ll be sharing the stage with a star the first time out!”  He went on to tell his son a little about his experience playing in a high school production of Bye, Bye Birdie, and encouraged him to continue on with acting in school himself if this turned out to be a good experience, because he never knew where it might lead him.  “It’s a great confidence builder,” he said.  “And I’m sure you’ll make a lot of friends.  I am seriously, seriously proud of you, pal.  Now, make sure you give me updates on how it’s going, once you get started.”

“I will,” said WeeWee.

“I’m really happy that the summer’s turned around for you the way it has…and I hope you’ve told your aunt how grateful you are to her for helping in that regard.”

“I have…Dad, were you still going to get together with Mom?  She said you hadn’t, yet.”

WeeWee’s father was quiet for a moment, just as his mother had been, and then he said, “We’re working on it.  Don’t worry about that.  Just enjoy your summer, and have fun doing the play.”

**********

Later that afternoon, WeeWee was sitting with Aunt Somebody at the kitchen table, while Faye did her nails before they headed off to another charity meeting, this time to aid the victims of a devastating tornado that had struck a town in Arkansas the previous week.  Ironically, a tornado watch had just been announced for their county over the radio that Charles had playing; the weather outside had turned ominous, with dark, low-hanging clouds, and the kitchen light was on. 

WeeWee was studying his lines for Passing in the Night.  He intended to know them cold when rehearsals began the following week.  Aunt Somebody had already enlisted his help in learning hers, by cueing her.  Faye was delighted by the news that not only had Aunt Somebody finally agreed to do the show, but that WeeWee would be joining her in the cast, and she was already throwing out ideas for their wardrobe and hairstyles.

The boy had been playing with some of his He-Man figures at the table, earlier.  They were still arranged around it in various poses, and both Aunt Somebody and Faye found them quite interesting.

“Who is this yummy thing?” asked Faye as she picked up one of them and looked it over.

“That’s He-Man.”

“Oh, really?  Well, he sure lives up to his name…blonde hair, muscles and nothing on but fur underwear.  That’s the guy for me.  I do believe I’m having hot flashes.”

Aunt Somebody leaned to peer at another figure.  “Well, this is my man, right here.  The furry red one.” 

“That’s Beast-Man,” said WeeWee.

“Like I said…” Aunt Somebody chuckled. 

Faye rolled her eyes.  “You and your bad boys.”

“I know…as if I haven’t learned my lesson by now,” said Aunt Somebody, waving her hands to dry her nails.  “Oh, this damn humidity.  Even the air doesn’t help…why did I let you talk me into doing my nails, Faye?  They won’t be dry for hours, and I’ll get all these insects stuck to them when I go out.  I swear…I’m going to sell this place and move to Arizona where I won’t have to put up with it.”

Faye began gathering up her manicure equipment.  “You don’t want to live in Arizona.”

“Yeah, you’d miss the season changes, remember?” said WeeWee, looking up from his script.

“That I would.  You’re absolutely right.  But as I get older, I find myself just detesting Ohio summers, more and more.”

Faye went to the sliding glass door that led into the backyard.  “It’s like midnight out there.”  She turned to Aunt Somebody.  “Do you think we ought to risk going out in this?”

Aunt Somebody glanced outside.  “It’s not yellow and green yet.  If it were, then I might worry.  That’s how it always got back home, right before a twister.”

“You had twisters back home?”  WeeWee’s jaw dropped.  Not only did he find his great-aunt more fascinating with each passing day, but tornadoes had always been something of an obsession with him, ever since he had seen The Wizard of Oz.

“We sure did,” she said.  “Oklahoma’s right in the middle of Tornado Alley.  Just about every spring, we had to hit for the cellar a few times.  Once, my family and I all watched one take out the whole farm next to us.  And I was alone one day, in the garden, when I looked up and saw one touching down in my dad’s pasture, about two hundred feet from me.”

“Holy shhh…”  Faye glanced quickly at WeeWee.  “…Shinola!”

“What happened?” asked WeeWee, his eyes riveted to his aunt’s face.

“It just barely grazed the ground, and then it disappeared back up into the clouds.”

“Were you scared?” 

“I didn’t have time to be scared.  It was just there and gone.” 

The suspense of the story had WeeWee picking his nails, and Aunt Somebody scowled at this, because it drove her nuts.

“Stop that.  I will not allow you to mutilate yourself while I’m responsible for you.  Faye, look at his nails.  Now, there’s the one who needs a manicure.”

“There’s not enough there to manicure.  Great balls of fire!  Those nails are a disgrace to my profession…I’m gonna be putting some tape on the ends of those fingers, boy—you see if I don’t.”

Following the former thread of conversation, WeeWee asked his aunt if she had ever known Judy Garland.

“I didn’t know her, but I met her a few times,” she said.  “The most memorable was on one of the rare occasions when I attended a party…it was at Humphrey Bogart and Betty Bacall’s house, I think…yes, that’s right.  Would have been around 1955.  Oh, could those two put on a soiree.  But yes, we wound up doing a duet together, Judy and me, of ‘The Man That Got Away’.  I’ll admit that we were both rather worse—or better, depending on how you look at it—for drinks that evening, so I can’t honestly tell you how it went over.”

WeeWee’s eyes burned, reminding him to blink.

“They call her tragic, but I never knew anyone who loved a good time as much as she did.”  Aunt Somebody’s gaze had grown faraway.  “And talent!  You talk about a gift from God!  But I’ll tell you more later.  Right now, we’ve got to step on it.”

Faye, turning back to the sliding door, said “Ooooh…there’s a man here in the window, too.”

Charles turned around for the first time from the counter, where he was putting together a blackberry pie.  “If he’s tall, dark and handsome, he’s mine.”

“No, he’s small, blue and really ugly,” said Faye, staring at the action figure, the spiderlike Webstor, whom WeeWee had thoughtfully hung at the side of the door by his miniature grappling hook and cord.

Shortly after Aunt Somebody and Faye left, the word ugly didn’t even begin to describe the state of the weather.  The sky was as black as night, and the wind had whipped into a low gale, sending the trash cans behind the garage tumbling down the driveway.  Tree branches scraped at the windows and the lights blinked several times.  Charles peered out the kitchen window anxiously and said to WeeWee, “I’m going over to my apartment and get my wireless radio, in case the power goes off.  I’ll be back in five minutes.”

WeeWee remained at the table, more frightened than he liked to admit to himself.  While he found tornadoes mesmerizing, he had no desire to confront one up close and personal.  Besides, he was worried about his aunt and her friend, out on the road.  He had always heard that a car was the worst place to be if a tornado hit.

And then he heard the low, beginning moan of the local tornado siren. 

WeeWee stood up, his eyes wide.  Shock rendered him immobile for several moments as the siren whooped up and down its melancholy scale.  He didn’t know what to do.  He wasn’t sure where the basement was, and he desperately longed for Charles to come back.   

The lights flickered one last time and went out. 

The boy fled the kitchen and blundered into the gloomy foyer, his hands thrust gingerly out so that he didn’t crash into anything.  His vague plan now was to get across the yard to Charles’s apartment, or else to meet up with him if he was on his way back.  He was too terrified to wait alone another minute.

WeeWee opened the double front doors, admitting a blast of wind so powerful that he was nearly knocked off his feet.  His first impulse was to try to shut the doors again, but the wind was too strong, and the most he could do was push at them with all his might, like Bette Davis in the thunderstorm scene in Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte.

In an instant, a tall figure in black swept into the boy’s view, hovered over him briefly, then yanked him by the arm into the foyer with a gloved hand.  The figure—a woman—leaned against the doors with her weight and finally managed to shove them closed on the roaring wind.  She turned to look at WeeWee, who stood staring at her, breathless with astonishment.  Her features were barely visible due to her veiled hat, and the darkness of the room.

Hurried footsteps echoed blessedly from the side hall as Charles returned, radio in hand.  “Did you hear the siren?…We’d better head to the basement,” he said to WeeWee with urgency.  Then he caught sight of the mysterious woman, still standing silently in the shadows.  “Who are you?” he asked, frowning warily.

The woman seemed about to reply when more footsteps sounded from the hall.  Aunt Somebody then charged into the foyer, her hair and dress windblown.  “Jiminy Christmas!” she cried.  “It’s like Judgment Day out there.  Let’s get to the basement!  Faye and I got as far as the end of Hanover, and then we heard the siren and turned around.  And look what we found on our way back!”

It was then that WeeWee and Charles noticed what she was holding…a small, wriggling dog, thrusting its head up to try to lick her chin.  “The poor thing belongs to someone—he’s got a collar, but no tags.  I couldn’t bring myself to leave him out there in this.  Isn’t he adorable?”

WeeWee, who loved all animals and had always wanted a dog, forgot the weather and the lady in black in an instant and started forward.  The dog saw him coming and struggled in Aunt Somebody’s arms, eager to greet him.

The lights flickered back on.  Aunt Somebody, smiling down at her enthusiastic burden, looked up and saw the figure standing near the front door.  Her smile instantly faded.

The two women gazed at each other for what seemed an age, before the unexpected visitor said coldly, “Hello, Mother.”

**********

Dianne Addessi closely resembled her father, just as Aunt Somebody had said.  Her hair was coal-black, her features strong.  Her eyes were dark beneath the brim of her hat, and they held no warmth at all, not even when she smiled, which was rare.

WeeWee was sitting on the sofa in the living room beside Aunt Somebody, holding the little dog, which she and Charles had decided must be some sort of Chihuahua mix.  His coat was sleek and brown, his eyes bright and happy as he lovingly licked the boy’s face, as if in appreciation for having been rescued. 

Charles had gone to the kitchen to make coffee, and Dianne was regal in a throne-like chair, watching her mother and her young cousin.

The storm had finally burst, hurling sheets of rain against the windows, which rattled from the force of the wind.  Thunder cracked and growled as lightning periodically lit up the room, whose lamps did little to dispel its shadows in the meantime.  Just minutes ago, not long after the siren had stopped, the tornado warning for the area had, thankfully, been downgraded back to a severe thunderstorm warning.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” said Dianne flatly, looking at the dog in WeeWee’s arms with sardonic wonder.  “When I was a little girl, you wouldn’t even let me have a guinea pig.”

“That’s because you weren’t home enough to take care of it,” replied Aunt Somebody.

“Not by choice.”  Dianne’s tone was as hard as her gaze.  “I wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to be railroaded off to boarding school all the time, if you remember.”

Aunt Somebody lifted her chin.  “I can’t believe you came so far to remind me of all the mistakes I made as a mother, but I know better than to think you’re only here for a pleasant chat…so tell me, Dianne…to what do I owe this honor?”

WeeWee, taken as he was with the new, if probably temporary, addition to his aunt’s household, did not fail to pick up on the hostility between mother and daughter.  He was beginning to feel rather uneasy as the barbs exchanged between them grew more and more sharp-edged, and wondered if he ought to leave the room.

Dianne reached into her purse and drew out a cigarette, which she parked in her mouth and lit as she said, “You might be surprised how close you really are to figuring it out.”

“Please don’t do that in here,” snapped Aunt Somebody.  Nodding her head at WeeWee, she went on, sternly.  “He’s allergic.  And I don’t want the house to reek of it.  It took forever to get the smell out after I quit years ago.”

Dianne exhaled smoke, her eyebrows raised.  Then, smiling faintly, she stubbed out her cigarette in a Venetian glass ashtray on the coffee table before looking up at her mother.

“Just what suddenly possessed you to play Auntie Mame this summer, if I may ask?”

“That’s hardly any of your business.” 

“I’m almost tempted to believe that the body snatchers have been here,” remarked Dianne.  “I mean…come on.  A kid and a dog at the same time, in this house?”

Charles came in with a coffee tray, which he set down on the table.  There was a glass of milk on it as well.  Aunt Somebody thanked him, and he left.

WeeWee did not feel right about taking the milk, as neither his aunt nor Dianne made any move to pour coffee.  And anyway, the dog had fallen asleep on his lap, and he would feel bad if he woke him up.

“I think we can leave the kid and the dog out of this,” said Aunt Somebody, folding her arms.  “I’m much more interested in learning what you think you’re going to get by paying me a visit in person…as opposed to your phone call the other night.  But I guess this is an improvement over that…so far as being able to decipher what you’re saying.  Maybe next time, you should call before the cocktail hour.”

Dianne gave a short, humorless laugh; then she said, her black eyes smoldering with bitterness, “And who taught me about the cocktail hour in the first place, Mother?” 

Aunt Somebody’s voice remained perfectly controlled, as it had been all along.  “Dianne, if you have something to say, I think you’d better say it, and go.”

Her daughter gazed back at her impassively for a moment, and then she nodded.

“All right.  But I would rather say it in private, if you don’t mind.”

Aunt Somebody turned to WeeWee and gently laid a hand on his arm.  “Hon, would you please go in the kitchen with Charles for a little while?  That pie of his is probably ready by now.  Tell him to give you a piece, and give our buddy there some water.”

WeeWee obediently gathered up his sleepy new friend and headed for the door, which some instinct prompted him to close as he went out.

Not long after, the boy was sitting at the kitchen table, eating his pie and looking over the lines in the script again while the little dog, who had taken a big drink from the dish of water Charles had put on the floor, slept soundly on his lap. 

Aunt Somebody had never mentioned the angry phone call between herself and Dianne a few days before, and WeeWee, of course, had not asked her about it.  But that call, along with what little he already knew about Dianne, and the scene he had witnessed in the living room, drew him to the conclusion that she had probably not dropped by today for mere pleasantry, just as Aunt Somebody had said.

That conclusion was reinforced by the raised voices which were suddenly audible in the kitchen.

“YOU OWE IT TO ME!”  Dianne was screaming.  Not shouting, but screaming.  “YOU’VE ALWAYS OWED IT TO ME, AND I WANT IT!”

Aunt Somebody’s voice came then, forceful, but not nearly as loud.  Her only distinguishable words were “childish” and “responsibility”.

“TO HELL WITH THAT!  YOU LIVE HERE LIKE A QUEEN AND EXPECT ME TO SLAVE MY GUTS OUT FOR NOTHING?”

Now, Aunt Somebody could be heard, although still not as clearly as Dianne.  “All right, this is pointless…just get out!  Go on, get out of my house!”

“YOUR HOUSE?  YOU MEAN HIS HOUSE!  THE HOUSE YOU BOUGHT WITH HIS MONEY!  THE MONEY YOU KILLED HIM TO GET!”

“I’m not going through this, Dianne!  Get out!  Now!”

“YOU WAIT!  JUST WAIT!  I’M GOING TO GET WHAT’S MINE…WHAT HE WOULD HAVE WANTED ME TO HAVE…IF IT TAKES ME TILL YOU’RE DEAD!  OR EVEN AFTER YOU’RE DEAD!”

“I SAID GET OUT!”

The front door slammed with such force that the house shook.  A crash of thunder followed a moment later, like an echo.

**********

The storm had died down to a soft rain. WeeWee had taken his script to his room, but was having little success concentrating on it.  The little stray dog was confined to the kitchen, at the suggestion of Charles, who had gone to check on Aunt Somebody.  She had closed herself in her study following Dianne’s departure.

After a while, WeeWee heard the Buick leaving, its tires gushing on the wet driveway.  It returned only a few minutes later.  Then, Charles tapped at his door and smiled, although his face showed signs of strain.  “Dinner’s ready.”

WeeWee accompanied him downstairs, where Charles paused across from Aunt Somebody’s open study door to summon her.  Then, he checked himself, sighing deeply and shaking his head.  “So that’s what she went out for,” he murmured, softly enough that she did not hear.

Aunt Somebody was sitting with her back to the door, facing the windows behind her desk.  She was smoking a cigarette.

“She hasn’t smoked in seven years,” said Charles in the same near-whisper, more to himself than to WeeWee.  “This is not good.  This is so not good.”

Mostly relying on Lillian Hellman’s expanded stage melodrama and some terrific performances, Watch on the Rhine is a stirring entertainment. Herman Shumlin’s first film—Shumlin had directed the Broadway production—has me crying so hard I can barely breathe whenever I watch it.
     On the train to Washington, D.C., Sara Muller, who has been in Europe for eighteen years, is accompanied by her very ill German husband, Kurt, and their three children. Another passenger asks Kurt what his trade is. His stirring—and honest—response: “I fight against fascism.” Also visiting Sara’s mother, Fanny Farrelly, are Marthe and Marthe’s husband, Teck de Brancovis, a former Rumanian diplomat who, prying into Kurt’s activities and identity, hopes to ingratiate himself with Nazis at the German Embassy. This is April 1940, and one European nation after another has fallen to invading Germans.
     The New York critics named Watch on the Rhine the year’s best film. Repeating his stage role, Paul Lukas won best actor accolades from A.M.P.A.S., the New York critics and the National Board of Review. While I prefer the brilliant actor in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes (1938), in which he plays a surgeon and urbane Nazi, and George Cukor’s Little Women (1933), he is wonderful as Kurt Muller. Despite a few naggingly sentimental moments, Bette Davis is superb as Sara, Kurt’s ideal life-partner, who has traded in her childhood wealth to dedicate herself to the cause of humanity. George Coulouris, however, is best of all as Teck, who mirror-images Kurt as a refugee with secrets. Ruthless and reckless beneath a calm, polite exterior, Teck wants only to find a way back to Europe. Only Lucile Watson is a washout; as Fanny, her few authentic notes are drowned in a swamp of dismal theatricality.

Inspirational Quotes

This became a credo of mine…attempt the impossible in order to improve your work.
            — Bette Davis

There is only one admirable form of the imagination: the imagination that is so intense that it creates a new reality, that it makes things happen.
            — Sean O’Faolain

Help others get ahead. You will always stand taller with someone else on your shoulders.
            — Bob Moawad

Remember that fear always lurks behind perfectionism. Confronting your fears and allowing yourself the right to be human can, paradoxically, make you a far happier and more productive person.
            — Dr. David M. Burns

Charge less, but charge. Otherwise, you will not be taken seriously, and you do your fellow artists no favours if you undercut the market.
            — Elizabeth Aston, The True Darcy Spirit, 2006

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.
            — Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891

That best portion of a good man’s life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
            — William Wordsworth

I have found that if you love life, life will love you back.
           — Arthur Rubinstein

The human tendency to regard little things as important has produced very many great things.
            — Georg Christoph Lichtenberg

Urban Dictionary

man chair

A man chair is the chair that men sit in while their partner is shopping for long periods of time. They can be found in almost any clothing or shoe store. What can we, as men do while our gf’s or wives are shopping, we can sit in a man chair.

Honey, Ill go over here and sit in a man chair while you go shop around and meet me here when your done.

090. Anna Christie (Clarence Brown, 1930)
MGM kept Greta Garbo in silent films longer than any other star in Hollywood. It wasn’t until 1930 that she made her talkie debut in the title role in Anna Christie.  It was really the perfect role for Garbo – the world weary prostitute of Swedish descent. The film is based on the play by Eugene O’Neill, who wasn’t the sunniest of playwrights. It’s a grim and gloomy story that could have easily been bogged down by its own sadness and despair had director Clarence Brown not put such importance on the family dynamic between Anna and her father, played by George F. Marion. Anna hides her past from her father, with whom she’s recently been reunited, for fear of disappointing him. While there is a love story in the film, the movie is really about the relationship between a father and daughter and the difficulties they have relating to one another after being separated for 15 years.

089. Of Human Bondage (John Cromwell, 1934)
Bette Davis had been working steadily in mostly unremarkable pictures until 1934 when she appeared in her breakout role in Of Human Bondage. Davis was a brave actress. Not many would take on a character as vile and horrible as Mildred, and even fewer would work so hard to make the character as horrible as possible. As a result, Davis created one of the biggest film bitches of all time, and cemented her place in Hollywood history as one of the all time greats. W. Somerset Maugham’s story of obsession and abuse is a dark one, filled with characters you can never quite feel sorry for. Nevertheless, watching the power Mildred holds over Leslie Howard’s Carey and the inexplicable pull he feels toward her is fascinating to watch. We’re basically watching a series of events that leads to a train crashing. We recognize that these things are going to lead to a disaster, we’re powerless to stop it, but it’s impossible not to be entranced by it.

088. Vivacious Lady (George Stevens, 1938)
Ginger Rogers and James Stewart were close friends for most of their lives, and they shared a really amazing chemistry on screen. In the 1930s and 1940s, they were both the “every man” (or woman) stars. Unlike much of Hollywood, which seemed glamorous and untouchable, Stewart and Roger seemed like they belonged with us. Like they were regular Joes. And pairing the two worked so well on film. Which is why it’s surprising that the only made one movie together, the delightful romantic comedy Vivacious Lady. The basic story is a little hackneyed – Stewart comes from a wealthy and respectable family, so he’s afraid to tell them that he’s married a showgirl – but the fact that director George Stevens can take that story and make something so funny and heartfelt is what’s beautiful about the whole thing. The romance between Stewart and Rogers feels incredibly genuine, and the family dynamic, while screwball and therefor a little daffy, actually feels real and honest. Despite the screwball elements, this is a movie that feels true.

087. Living on Velvet (Frank Borzage, 1935)
Living on Velvet is one of Borzage’s less recognized films. On the surface is seems to be a typical romantic melodrama, but it’s actually one of Borzage’s darkest stories. George Brent’s character, Terry, has lost his family in a plane crash while he was piloting, so he spends much of his life basically courting death, even after he marries Kay Francis’ Amy. He’s so much more damaged than any of Borzage’s other heroes. So damage that not even his love for Amy can save his soul.  Rather, much of the film seems to be about how their love for each other isn’t enough. For once in a Borzage film, it’s the outside forces that his heroes and heroines are usually so isolated from which are needed to save their lives. It’s an interesting departure for Borzage, less spiritual and certainly darker.

086. Dodsworth (William Wyler, 1936)
Hollywood romances, in both classic and modern film, are usually about young people. While it’s becoming a bit more common in current film to give older people the spotlight, that was a rarity in classic film, which makes Dodsworth a breath of fresh air. The leads are Walter Huston and Ruth Chatterton, 52 and 44 years of age, respectively. Chatterton was lucky enough to have an ageless face, and was able to play the leading ladies in roles that might have gone to younger actresses for much of the 1930s. But in Dodsworth she embraced her age to play an older woman, the mother of an adult child, and the wife of a man who’s just retired. The film continues to be unconventional, telling the story of a long time romance unraveling. It’s sometimes heartbreaking to watch, but it’s such a well done film that you can’t tear your eyes away. It’s also brilliantly performed by its entire cast, especially Chatterton, who isn’t afraid to reveal the incredibly unlikable traits of her character.

Stay tuned for 85-81.

By Katie Richardson

She’ll tease you. She’ll unease you. All the better just to please you. She’s precocious. And she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush. All the boys think she’s a spy, she’s got Bette Davis eyes. Probably because she’s Bette Davis.

There is a really simple formula to filmmaking: great script + great actors = great movie. And yet why do so many get it wrong? Well, if every film had Bette Davis in it they would at least be halfway to greatness. But throw in a scintillatingly witty script from writer/director Joseph L Mankiewicz and you get one of the best films ever made. All About Eve is pretty much perfect in every way, from its scathing depiction of the corruption that can come with ambition, to its portrayal of what goes on behind the curtain in the world of theatre.

At the heart of the story is Margo Channing (Davis) an ageing actress whose sense of paranoia is heightened when a young protégé, Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter), walks quite literally off the street and into her life. To reveal much more is to spoil the film for those who haven’t yet seen it, but suffice to say it is a wonderful feast of a movie, filled with cracking performances and crackling dialogue.

In this sequence, Margo is playing hostess at a birthday party for the theatre director she is seeing. It gives Davis the chance to shine amid two different groups of guests. First, she delivers the memorable ‘bumpy night’ line before moving to the hallway, where Margo introduces Eve to brilliantly-monikered newspaper critic Addison DeWitt (George Sanders) and his date for the evening, Miss Caswell, who just happens to be played by Marilyn Monroe.

The ensuing verbal fireworks are fantastic from Davis (‘I distinctly remember Addison crossing you off my guest list’), Sanders (‘Dear Margo, you were an unforgettable Peter Pan, you must play it again soon’) and Monroe (‘You won’t bore him honey, you won’t even get a chance to talk’), who holds her own in more exalted company. It’s the quiet ones you want to watch though, as Eve’s entrance shakes up the dynamic and leads to the characters separating.

Tellingly, it is Margo who is left standing alone at the party she has thrown, and the long pause that closes this scene is just as effective as any of the sparkling banter that lit it up seconds before. Magnificent scene from a magnificent movie.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SCENE FROM ALL ABOUT EVE?

GREAT SCENES ARCHIVE

Chapter 2 – Junior High, a nightmare

I don’t remember if my little molestation  incident had anything to do with it, but when I arrived at Junior High School,  I began  to stutter.  I have no memory of  how it started but when I opened my mouth,  nothing would come out and when a sound or word did come out,  I would stutter.    Of course, the other kids would laugh and I remember specifically one teacher who laughed the loudest and ridiculed me the most.  She would say things such as maybe the word you are looking for is on the ceiling and I would look up at the ceiling and everyone would laugh again.  She was tall and skinny and ugly and she always wore the same dress.  I often fantasized about sticking a fork in  her neck.    When I entered the 7th grade they put me in the 7-4’s, which was okay.  That meant average.  In  the 8th grade I went to the 8-6’s and in 9th grade, the 9-8’s.  Now I was with the dumest kids in the school. 

Because I wasn’t athletic, I used  to dread recesses and lunch.  I would try to hide by walking to the end of  the block and sitting behind cars so no one would notice me.   Gym class was the absolute worse.   I had a pair of shoes called white bucks made popular by Pat Boone and one boy in particuular would stand on my white bucks to make them black and dirty.  He was tall and tough and there wasn’t much I could do about it except mess up his greasy hair whenever I had a chance to do so.    It was the beginning of being called a sissy or a queer.  The operative word then was “queer”.  I can’t remember when “faggot” superseded it.    I was a dainty boy and pretty.   All the other boys had pimples and bad skin. 

It was certainly the beginning of  becoming aware of  how many men noticed me.  On the way home from school,   there was a long walk passed the steel mills where there were no houses,  only parked cars.  I don’t think a day ever passed when some man pulled over and  said, “Do you want a ride little boy.”   Maybe it was the way I moved my ass.  I don’t know.   People seem to think that  sort of thing only happens in big cities.  I noticed that instinctively men opened doors for me and pulled out my chair.

During the three years of  junior high, I had two dates with girls.  I don’t remember if I ever heard the expression peer pressure, but I clearly wanted attention.  I wanted to prove to  the other boys that I could date the prettiest girl in the school.  She was a wee bit taller than me and I really was surprised she said yes.  I can remember feeling very uncomfortable; couldn’t think of anything to say and I was afraid I would start stuttering, but I didn’t.  Everyone went to  the movies on Saturday night because there wasn’t anything else to do anyway unless you had a car.  Just before the lights went down everyone gasped when they saw who I was with.  That was enough.  She lived in the black section of town because her father owned a bar.  It was a little scary walking home. 

The second girl I took out was the school scholar.  She was a little on the plump side and very Italian looking because she was Italian.  It was easier to talk to her because we had mutual acquaintenances.  Her mother was very sweet to me.

Another remarkable episode happened that summer.  I am sure I must have heard Judy Garland sing on the radio, but I guess nothing ever jumped out at me.  In Coatesville the boys and girls in the west end were in to Elvis Presley, the boys and girls in the east end were in to Pat Boone and the blacks were in to Fats Domino.  In 1954 Judy Garland’s film,  A Star Is Born was released,  but  the album had come out long before I saw the movie.  There was one modern furniture store in town that had a music section in the front with loud speakers.  I remember walking by the store wearing a back pack.  She was singing The Man That Got Away and her sound was so hypnotic that I walked backwards into the store and bought the album.  It was on 45’s.  I knew the entire score in a week.  We had a huge mirror in our living room and I pantomimed all of the songs.  That was the beginning of a long love affair with Judy Garland that still exists today.

I have often pondered over why gay men were so overwhelmingly devoted to her.  Frank Sinatra once said she sings every song with a life and death immediacy.  That’s true but there is much more to it.  In her later years when it became so emotional for her to sing Over the Rainbow, I think that over the rainbow meant a place where she would find one good man to love and take care of her and not steal all of her money.  I think she knew she would never make it.  I don’t think I’ll make it over the rainbow either.  It’s interesting how gay men love strong women on the screen, Judy, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, but not necessarily in real life. 

There were some lighter moments during these years.  Christmas was a very special time.   My brother was a real artist when it came to decorating the tree and especially the platform, complete with a train and snow.   He used a mirror to create a pond.   We exchanged gifts and I was able to get little Christmas jobs  in stores here and there to buy presents.  I enjoyed giving gifts, especially to my sister who was very pretty and feminine and I loved buying her pretty clothes like a cashmere sweater, which was considered very elegant at  that time.

On the other side of all of that, there was a boy who lived next door to me,  a couple of years younger,  who was mentally a little slow,  whose mother was the local neighborhood aging active prostitute.  The bulk of her customers were black taxi cab drivers.  They had a wrap around windowed porch.  Sometimes his mother would get drunk and entertain her clients in the living room, instead of the bedroom and the kids from the neighborhood would gather around the glass windowed porch and watch his mother getting fucked.  One evening the boy was coming home and saw all of the kids looking through the windows and he had to chase us away.  I was always ashamed that I was one of  those boys watching and I tried to make it up to him by being a closer friend.  I gave him a couple of my Christmas presents, a shirt and a scarf and I hung out with him at the playground as much as I could.  There’s always someone who is a lot worse off than you.

In my senior year, 9th grade, my sister started dating a pre-med student from the right part of  town, the east end and he took an interest in me.   As I said before, in the 8th grade I was put into the 8-6’s and 9th grade, the 9-8’s.   Now I was with the dumbest kids in the school.  I used to feel sorry for the other kids in the class as though I wasn’t there,  as if I were looking through the door.  Those childhood scars — how does it go, what doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger?   This man,  this pre-med student, my sister’s boyfriend,  spent a lot of time with me that summer, reading, solving math problems, etc.  He physically took me by the hand to  the new principal of  the Senior High School and demanded that I be put  in the college preparatory section, the most difficult.  I did all right.  I maintained a C average, studying languages, literature and bloody Shakespeare.  This man ultimately married my sister, beautiful wedding.  His parents did not attend.  At an earlier time they had offered my sister money to get out of town.  It was years before they spoke to her and acknowledged the marriage, so much like my mother’s experience.  They had three great children.  One died,  one became estranged and the eldest,  her first born,  remains very close to her today and they see a great deal of each other.  That gives me a great comfort zone.  I will always be grateful to this man, who died some years ago.  When they divorced,  he cut off all communication with my family.  I never got to speak to him again.  My sister never remarried.  She became a plant person.  She talks to the plants.  Some people call it botany.  She has won all sorts of gardening awards in her neighborhood.  She lives in San Francisco and because of all the injuries she sustained earning the black belt in Aikido,  she has a prescription for medical marijuana to ease her pain and she’s stoned all the time.

New in at Cinema Books: In and Out of Hollywood A Biographer’s Memoir by Charles Higham, $29.95.  Well know film star biographer Higham reveals inside stories of Bette Davis , Cary Grant and Walt Disney.  A gay man in Hollywood since the 1960’s Higham remembers the  Hollywood community before Aids. Filled with telling details and memorable gossip.

But you are a cripple, Blanche...

For the first time in three weeks, I have picked up my stick (lent to me by MacGuiver from the bar next door) and walked. Out there- outside. Yesterday I had my follow-up x.ray at a medical centre and in the afternoon, another visit to my GP to be signed back on for work, all things being well.

The x ray was a fairly efficient affair. We were sitting in a small bay with plastic seating, at right angles to a corridoor with many doors leading off it into various x-ray and consulting rooms. Along the corridoor hurtled medical staff in a self-important flurry, occasionally calling out names, then barking the order ´this way, please´. By the time I followed my nurse she had disappeared, and I stood peering into open doors, thinking ´yeah, but which way?….´ until she found me. Back in the waiting room I heard ‘Maria Milagros Martinez’ called out, and a woman of about 30 years old came forward. Mary Miracle Martinez. That means she was named in the eighties sometime. I understand older Spaniards having religious names – it was a decree of Franco´s that all babies christened after a certain date must have a religious name, hence the glut of Mary Josephs, Joseph Marys, Jesus, Mary of the snows, of the pains, Pains, Consolation, Immaculate, etc etc. But what were her parents thinking? Mary Miracle Martinez? Sounds like a specialist hooker or a girl who fires herself out of a cannon for a living. Nowhere near as bad, however, as my favourite ghastly name which is Circuncision, shortened to Circun. An old lady’s name originating in Andalucia, apparently, thankfully dying out these days.

Following the x ray I was told I could go home and it would be sent to my GP electronically. I asked for it to be sent that day so as not to waste a visit to my GP that afternoon and was assured it would be done that morning. Knowing in my gut that something in the process would screw up, I hobbled home. At the doctor’s later (by this time with a sore-ish foot due to all the walking) I was told the xray had been sent but in the wrong format and I’d have to go back again the next day. Deep breath….

Today I made a visit to work to sort our paperwork. I went by metro, perfecting my authentic Dr House limp with stick.

''Make your own cup of tea.''

Reactions to the stick are interesting. At the best of times it´s hard enough to get someone to give up their metro seat for you. I was offered a seat twice, once by an older gentleman and then by a young woman. Suddenly there were other walking wounded everywhere. In the carriage with me a young man with a wheelchair, another man at Sol metro station with a zimmer frame, a girl on crutches, in Plaza Lavapies another man resting on a bench with his crutches. As the metro carriage door opened and the wheelchair guy and I tried to leave, the usual press of bodies stopped us leaving before they piled into the carriage, and one bitter old cow tutted loudly at us as we tried to push pur way through and onto the platform. I reacted in true Spanish fashion, snapping at her,

´Well, let us get off first, then!’ Sometimes being half Spanish has its advantages- you are allowed to answer back, to have a damn good whinge when you need to, to push and shove, and you can permit yourself not to apologise when someone else shoulder barges you in the street.

After calling in to work I went to the office where the Ponce pays his rent and sorted that out for him. The doorman to the building rushed out of his little booth as I was leaving- a red-faced balding midget with a huge grin, and asked me how I´d done it, then why didn’t I have a man to do these things for me, then next time I should call him and he’d lift heavy things for me, finishing our short chat with the statement ´God, but you’re gorgeous, you are.’ Thanks very much, but no thanks….

It feels good to be out and about again. It´s as though I have been away in another country, or in a chrysalis, emerging blinking into the light. Over the past few weeks it has become winter. The walk back from the x ray yesterday morning was glorious. My appointment was at 8.10, and I saw the sun rise pink over the Puerta de Toledo. The streets are quieter, the terraces are almost all brought inside by now and there are even a handful of Christmas decorations up. Winter in Madrid is bitterly cold but exhilerating. It felt good to be back. Enough of this crippled house arrest. I think I might keep the stick though, as an affectation, and as a handy way to get a seat on the metro.

The Empty Canvas | Damiano Damiani, 1963

Rome-born Alberto Moravia is a largely unmentioned novelist who was responsible for much of the narrative content seen towards the end of Italian cinema’s golden era. Moravia wrote a number of popular books that were picked up for adaptation during the sixties and seventies, including: the aforementioned Two Women (La Ciociara), The Conformist (Il Conformista) and the 1963 film The Empty Canvas (La Noia) by Damiano Damiani. “La Noia” , literally translating into “Boredom” in Italian, follows a wealthy Roman bachelor named Dino as he falls for young local girl Cecilia. Their attraction is born in an unconventional fashion, for they furst encounter one another as Dino is snooping around the house of a recently deceased neighbour and renowned womanizer. Cecilia was clearly the muse that sent this artist over the edge, in turn sparking the initial curiosity that draws Dino towards her – perhaps hoping that his own uninspired painting will benefit from her appearance. Cecilia becomes his drug of sorts, but such affectionate feelings aren’t reciprocated by the leggy seventeen year-old blonde. Her indifference to their “love” and admittance of seeing another man pushes Dino into a downward spiral of obsession and self-loathing, until he eventually breaks down entirely. The Empty Canvas is the perfect example of the kind of racy, romantic films that littered the sixties: involving an extremely unlikeable male protagonist that questions life through his various woman-shaped crusade, somehow eventually ending up on the wrong side of love. As with most of these films, romance is over-dramatised to a fault and the actors appear selected for their looks rather than anything else. Thanks to an unrelenting focus upon Dino and his obsession the plot moves sideways rather than forwards, but – thanks to some strong direction from Damiani – never stagnates.

Despite its clear flaws, The Empty Canvas is certainly one of the sexiest, steamiest pictures I’ve seen from this period. The performances aren’t stellar by any stretch of the romantic imagination, yet Horst Buchholz and Catherine Spaak manage to conjure a dangerously effective chemistry as the on-screen couple. Her innocence is betrayed by darkened eyes, something that we’re sure Dino can sense but can’t help falling head over heels. Indeed, the better scenes in the film are those where Dino and Cecilia are interacting, scenes that seem almost improvised at points. It makes one wonder just how much was lost by dubbing over their originally English-speaking performances. An aging Bette Davis also makes an appearance here as Dino’s haughty and overbearing Mother – an actress that adds American influence to the already packed international cast comprising of Belgian, French, German and Italian members. This cultured cast means that the film doesn’t particularly channel any breed of Italian lifestyle, and oher than a brief appearance by The Spanish Steps, such a tale of romance and lust could have easily taken place in any one of Europe’s cosmopolitan cities during the sixties. The Empty Canvas relies a little less upon the comedy aspect and instead dives headlong into overblown melodrama that is too pushed to be believable and too poorly written to be ultimately engaging. There are snatches of sexiness to be found though, especially in one iconic scene where Dino covers Cecilia’s body with banknotes from his Mother’s safe. Such scenes do well to provide some much-needed distraction, but by all accounts the film rather sums up Damiani’s career as a filmmaker: longer than perhaps expected and driven by scenes of empty sexuality.

Our Rating:

Lo scopone Scientifico, è una brillante commedia diretta da Luigi Comencini, insieme ad un cast di calibro formato da Alberto Sordi, Silvana Mangano, Bette Davis, Joseph Cotten e Domenico Modugno.

Una miliardaria donna anziana, ogni anno, interrompe la sua monotona vita per trascorrere alcuni giorni in una lussuosa villa romana che si affaccia su una baraccopoli formata da disoccupati, gente povera, piccoli delinquenti e famiglie numerose.

Tra queste ultime ci sono Peppino ed Antonia con i loro cinque figli, abusivi in una baracca.La loro fortuna (..) è quella di avere buoni rapporti con la signora miliardaria, denominata “la vecchia” o “la vecchiaccia” la quale, ad ogni suo arrivo, li sfida allo scopone scientifico. Peppino custodisce nel cuore un grande sogno: avere nelle proprie tasche 30 milioni in lire per diventare padrone dello sfascio a cui porta puntualmente ferro e qualsiasi materiale comodo a  raccimolare qualche moneta. Vuole semplicemente togliersi dallo stato di povertà e vivere serenamente.

Luigi Comencini mette in scena un macro tema importante: la lotta tra  ricchi e poveri. Peppino e Antonia sono gli eroi che hanno il dovere di togliere i milioni alla signora per vincere una battaglia morale e non solo..La comunità vuole giustizia: è arrogante, primitiva, ansiosa e si tiene costantemente in contatto con l’unico telefono al bar con Pasqualina, una donna di servizio che lavora presso la villa e vive nella baraccopoli. Il gruppo ha un suo mentore, ovvero un fallito professore di nome Antonio Castellani, l’uomo che addomestica la folla, colui che addirittura accenna teorie di plus valore e, sopratutto, sprona Peppino nel dopo sconfitta o quando vince una cifra consistente nelle interminabili nottate. In una di  queste occasioni il Castellani tiene un comizio spontaneo in piazza davanti ad un impaurito Peppino e una battagliera Antonia. Il professore parla in nome della comunità lanciando frasi ad effetto quali: “Quanto denaro vogliamo strappare alla vecchia?”; “La signora vale 2000 miliardi!!” o, addirittura, “Lottare significa resistere; rassegnarci significa morire!! “.

Il campo di battaglia è un tavolino dove la signora anziana, oggi paralizzata alle gambe, e George li attendono. La donna è una persona atipica e cinica: presta sempre ad ogni inizio gara 1 milione agli squattrinati, ma di fondo è  molto avida, viziata ed arrogante. Gioca per mettere alla prova la capacità d’affermarsi. Il milione che presta è una strategia: alla fine vince sempre!!. Questa sfida aumenta di tensione poiché, a differenza dei sette anni precedenti, è un andirivieni tra chi vince e non. E questo strato granitico di tensione divampa sotto il castello della strega: due ragazzi appena usciti di galera hanno intenzione di svaligiare la cassaforte in una nottata di pausa gioco, ma si fermano per incapacità di fronte  alla serratura, creando però un forte senso di smarrimento alla signora appena li nota. La comunità, insomma, è un gruppo di persone vinte che può solo bramare attorno a Peppino ed Antonia sperando in una vita migliore.

Nella zona s’approssima Righetto il baro (Domenico Modugno), un uomo apparentemente distinto che sopravvive con il gioco delle carte e si vanta di condurre una vita salutare e sportiva a differenza di Peppino.Frequenta con aria spocchiosa bische.. E’ un vecchio aspirante di Antonia e le riconosce le qualità nel gioco. Righetto vuole sbancare la cassaforte e fuggire con la moglie di Peppino. Ma Antonia ha principi forti e crede nei valori della famiglia, anche se il volto non trapela esattamente verità.

Rodolfo Senego costruisce a perfezione i personaggi  di questa storia: mette in visione una  Roma inizi anni ‘70 insofferente, genuina e a tratti arrogante. Una Roma caciarona, borgatara, con mille volti, mille personalità diverse e un solo fine comune: l’interesse per la comunità , abbandonata e spodestata dalle istituzioni da zone della città più nobili. La direzione sopraffina di Luigi Comencini ci fa conoscere la capitale arrabbiata, sfrattata e messa a vivere nel fango, in compagnia di topi e nella polvere. Conosciamo, infine, famiglie che fanno credito per una pagnotta e un litro di latte.

Questa gara interminabile trascina con se altri dettagli degni di nota: innanzitutto avvertiamo quanto Peppino sia impaurito di vincere  una cifra che superi una vita discreta. Anche quando la salute della signora crolla per lo stress e la paura di perdere, non regge la tensione e vuole abbandonare in più istanti la partita. Inoltre Peppino s’affida ai consiglia del parroco della baraccopoli per custodire per bene gli eventuali sodi che vincerà con la moglie. Lo straccivendolo s’accontenta del giusto, la cifra trasparente per farlo uscire a piedi uniti dalla miseria. George,, è un uomo incapace di reagire, al punto tale che chiede ai due sfidanti di lasciar vincere la signora, descritta come una donna viziata esente da piccole umiliazioni. Perdere comporterebbe una serie di ripercussioni  nella coppia. Ovviamente Peppino ed Antonia, non annoiati ma affamati, rispondono di non accettare questa teoria . George ha rinunciato alla sua carriera da pittore per dedicarsi all’amore della signora, diventata negli anni sempre più spietata.

Antonia è forte, stratega e alquanto rabbiosa, anche se manifesta molta cordialità con i due. Vuole fuggire realmente via da una vita che la uccide interiormente. E’ lei che insiste affinché Peppino raddoppi la posta in gioco.

Ed è proprio Antonia ad abbandonare  Peppino quando sbaglia la carta che avrebbe valso 500 milioni.Sfida nuovamente i benestanti con Righetto il baro, ma il destino vuole che per i poveri ci sia poco da fare, soprattutto se tentano di fregare. La miliardaria e il suo compagno sono inesorabili: sfiancano i due nuovi complici al punto tale che Righetto tenta il suicidio affogandosi nel fiume Tevere, proprio quando Peppino, distrutto dall’amore, dal tradimento e dalla delusione, si sta gettando anche lui però da un ponte.. Dopo questa ultima sfida non rimangono i saluti: la signora e il suo compagno partono per un nuovo viaggio e sfideranno altri amici sparsi per il mondo.

Il tempo di ricompattare i rapporti tra Peppino ed Antonia, ipotecare la baracca (Antonia nell’ultima sfida insieme a Righetto ha un debito 300.000 lire persi di tasca propria)e raggiungere la signora all’aeroporto per consegnare il denaro e sperare nella consueta (falsa)bontà . Ma questa volta non si sfugge alla  spietatezza: le 300.000 si giocano a carte e vince colui che alza quella più alta. Naturalmente il povero Peppino perde!! Alla signora non le resta che accettare la torta preparata dalla piccola Cleopatra nella quale ha aggiunto segretamente del veleno per topi. La mangerà durante il viaggio? Ho i miei forti dubbi, soprattutto dopo l’ultima frase lanciata alla ragazzina: “Hai degli occhi belli ma strani..”

Lo Scopone Scientifico (1972)

Genere: commedia

Regia: Luigi Comencini

Soggetto e Sceneggiatura: Rodolfo Senego

Scenografia:Luigi Scacciatore

Direttore della fotografia: Giuseppe Ruzzolini

Montaggio: Nino Baragli

Musiche: Nicola Piovani

Con: Alberto Sordi, Silvana Mangano,  Bette Davis, Joseph Cotten, Domenico Modugno

I Love The Music

OK I will write this blog, was not going to attempt it tonight as I rather feel my brain is taken apart, I’m coming off Tamazepam again, and large great chunks of flying faeces are hitting the fan with horrible regularity in my life, and especially in the lives of those close. (PS Which impacts on me. What touches those close to us seems to touch us very much). I came to the conclusion recently that life, is about making hay while the dark clouds amass above us. Because, they never stop for long. Or to put it Lou Reed’s way, ‘make a point of having some fun’. Things can go along quite well for a good while, but I think life’s ever shifting kaleidoscope regularly turns to monochrome and this is why my new philosophy, is to take this into account and put some splashes of colour into life’s mix from now on. I mean, all sorts of shit is going to happen. I used to be the sort of person who thought my life a horrid mess because the sky was never free from clouds, whereas everyone else’s life seemed relatively sunny. Sorry for obvious metaphors. Whereas now, I have no reason to assume my life is particularly bleak. I now think most people’s lives are, frankly rather bleak, and that therefore lets all make hay, and sun, as a deliberate policy amidst the grey skies.

Thank you Marcus Rossi, an extremely clever, good looking, intelligent man who writes for Shindig! Magazine, for the following review of England’s Dreaming Spires, my LP available now from villagegreenmachine.com:

VILLAGE GREEN MACHINE
England’s Dreaming Spires
Paisley Arcade CD
www.paisleyarcade.com

Village Green Machine is to all intents and purposes a one-man operation, the man in question being the estimable Mark Lemon: and a man of considerable taste and refinement he is.
England’s Dreaming Spires, as its title readily suggests, taps into a very specific and cherishable vein of UK popsike. However, while Marks unadorned English singing voice betrays a loving debt to Syd Barrett and often calls to mind David Gedge of The Wedding Present, oddly the finished product utilises a considerably broader palette than one might expect. The super-clean guitars and splashy drums, deliriously awash in a bath of reverb, are closer in essence to Joe Meek than George Martin, while Marks lyrics throughout are sharply observant, wholly contemporary, insightful and witty.
You Make Me Feel That Way, Rollercoaster and The Whole Of My Heart, all effortlessly immediate, would be hit records in any truly civilised society, while My Eccentric Cousin is what 65-era Dylan would have sounded like sharing a travelling rug with Phil Spector in a rainy Birmingham bus shelter.
Marco Rossi

Thanks Marco.
One thing is for sure, I always use 60s sounds. Usually I experiment as well. The truth is beyond this what I do is difficult to pin down, as I never stay still for long. So England’s Dreaming Spires echoes Cliff Richard one minute, The Ramones the next, while being made to sound like early Beach Boys. And I mean, I sing in a British accent. I utilise whatever influences come to mind, I mix everything up but ofcourse one has to be able to write a good song. A certain plugger recently accused me of being reliant on other people’s material as the basis of my work, this is complete arse. I celebrate my influences but, if he had bothered to listen to the substance which is mine alone, I think he would have found some worthy original substance. Great that Psychodrama has been played on Radio 6. Wiithout the assistance of a plugger.

This week, we got in despite some heavy personal issues and got recording, I did a song called I Love The Music, kind of Beatles folky/sea shanty style. But I let go of this blueprint and experimented with the types of overdubs, and just generally experimental….the muse flew in the window when I was producing and its a happening track, its got this very distorted fuzztone guitar- the one given to me by a close personal friend from a very cool famous group from the 1960s lol- . Describing music is plainly like trying to describe a colour, … but I am glad because I am never secure, in as much as I can never sit back and think, the next recording will be really good. That would just be a dangerous conceit, and not everything I do turns out. I am still not happy with English Cafe, and I’ve recorded that maybe 6 times or even more. If you like Village Green Machine I will tell you though, I am really thrilled by the way the second album is shaping up. Doing this thing is my life, any money I’ve earnt before VGM has been snorted up someone else’s nose, or worse, and music, is all. I think album 2 will be on its way in spring next year. File sharing, I can’t condemn that since I expanded my own musical landscape a lot by copying albums onto tape when I was a kid, but, supporting us with an album purchase will help keep this thing going.

Did anyone see that interview with Cliff Richard recently by Piers Morgan? Why ever doesn’t that bloke come out of the closet- and Cliff Richard as well.
I have criticised Cliff in the past, for having made a lot of bad records, but now with my blog apparently being read by several hundred people a week, (look I’m not Rupert Murdoch) I think I had better be careful incase I offend the over 70s, Cliff fan club. There is a Monty Python sketch where the Conservative women’s institute or some such decide to sort out lazy working class men, and people interested in sex, and go on the attack with their handbags- (ps pre Margaret Thatcher) I am shaking in my shoes at the thought of the very real possibility of offending at least one Cliff fan I know – but anyway I’m sorry but I am going to speak my mind. I think, he was, and is, a great bloke. No, hold on hipsters, don’t go yet. I was in a band with a drummer who was also a security guard at a major UK venue, and apparently when CR played there, he gave them all T Shirts (which they wore of course) and was really nice and allright. Well, it does count for a lot and I’m not being ironic. Whereas when Barry Manilow played, allegedly, he made all the security guards turn their backs when he mounted the stage. The thought of being mounted by Barry is enough to make me thrash around in search of something, anything, less horrific to distract and console- where was I, yes, Cliff Richard’s good records. Now I defy anyone- to you know, tell me I’m talking crap on this. I think, Move It, In The Country, When Blue Turns To Grey, Miss You Nights, We Don’t Talk Anymore, Carrie, Wired For Sound, and especially Devil Woman are great records.WBTTG and ITC, I take that sound as a role model, among a thousand others in the Village Green Machine mix. Its no good being snobbish, if a record is good its good, however dodgy the image, dance routines etc. And with Cliff, I suspect a choreographer was to blame for some cringeworthy performances. Also I have to say, I was disappointed by that clip of the latest Shadows reunion. They’re 70 and looking amazing, but they had these girls doing the hand jive for a song called guess what Willie and the Hand Jive, and it was kitsch nostalgia taken a step too far. I mean, theres no need for that. Because, among musicians, guitarists at least, who are into old pop, The Shadows are, I don’t think I am exaggerating to say, iconic. Hank leading all those hits with great melodies, on guitar? And Brian Bennett, a very class act on drums with a great sound. I happen to know the tickets for these shows were £60 a head- (I didn’t go) but I have 2 original copies of greatest hits on original vinyl, looking cool sounding even better, and anyone who knows Village Green Machine stuff will surely recognise the influence of The Shadows ”The Rise And Fall Of Flingel Bunt” on my guitar playing. (Cliff and the Shadows on tour)

Thanks for enquiries about Jacobites and related, it was great, we had a lot of fun. All go and listen to It’ll All End Up In Tears on youtube, that’s incredible.

Three times a week is a lot for anything (l o ******* l) no thats nasty but it is – and I’ve watched The Anniversary starring Bette Davis and Sheila Hancock three times, not in a week but in as many days. I got a DVD of it on ebay. Made in Britain in 1968, Bette Davis plays the tyrannical matriarch a few of us may recognise in our own experience. With a patch over one eye, she waltzes down her staircase dressed in an orange Crimpelene mini dress to greet her 3 family business sons for an anniversary gathering. One son is a ‘knicker snatcher’ ooh er, another a regular workman with his own children and wife sheila Hancock, the third a dapper young mod with a beautiful fiance to introduce to mother. It is a black comedy period piece without conceit, every aspect exuding conservative sixties style aesthetically.The knicker snatcher speeds away in a Vauxhall Victor FC estate with chrome bumpers, ofcourse. The mod son wears a double breasted jacket with small high lapels, a ‘pea coat’, and has a good haircut unlike myself (bad hair day thanks to Christos) The film looks old, in an indescernable way which I, we?, like. Basically, Bette Davis plays this dragon who runs the family building firm, the entire plot being a study, an hilarious disturbing observation of family politics, when a tyrannical nasty woman is in charge. High entertainment. I won’t disclose the plot further, but I highly recommend this film as a suitable companion to Entertaining Mr Sloan. It is pithy, direct, unpredictable, outrageous and funny. I found it on UK ebay.

For more reviews and the usual news, come back soon ie next week

Cheers

Mark Lemon

Village Green Machine

Biatch!

Quando um filme é muito bom, mas muito bom mesmo, eu tenho a mania de chamá-lo de “o melhor filme de todos os tempos”. Prefiro do que “um dos melhores filmes de todos os tempos” porque chega um ponto em que é impossível colocar duas obras-primas lado a lado e compará-las em termos qualitativos. Usando “um dos”, fica erroneamente subentendido que o filme é muito bom mas não é top, o que é mentira.

Existem vários filmes que eu considero “o melhor de todos os tempos”. Não é um número enorme e talvez eu consiga contá-los na mão, mas basta saber que não é um só. É como se, ao usar o artigo definido “o” eu abraçasse com toda sua redondeza aquilo que eu considero o verdadeiro conglomerado da paudurecência cinematográfica.

A Malvada, de Joseph Mankiewicz, é o melhor filme de todos os tempos. Não cabe a mim fazer uma resenha sobre o filme porque isso seria como descrever as peculiaridades de uma menina pela qual você está apaixonado, ou seja, uma descrição que não interessa a ninguém que não seja a própria pessoa que fala. Como não gosto de bater bronha em público, me restrinjo apenas a sugerir, com muita insistência, que você alugue o DVD e ganhe duas horas da sua vida ao lado da Bette Davis. Vai valer a pena.

Quando penso na minha lista de “o melhor filme de todos os tempos” ela me parece – ugh – eclética. Mas, no fundo, não é: existe uma congruência entre pirar, simultaneamente, em Bette Davis e Toshiro Mifune.

Pior do que uma pessoa eclética (tem várias por aí) são aquelas com opiniões sumárias do tipo “não gosto de música instrumental” ou “prefiro filmes em preto-e-branco”. Eu já ouvi umas merdas dessas e é revoltante.

Revoltante porque é triste. É capaz que, numa dessas, você acabe nunca vendo A Malvada, de Mankiewicz. Ou que você veja e, pelos motivos errados, ache o filme uma bosta.

Existe uma chance, que eu não consigo vislumbrar mas apenas reconhecê-la por uma questão probabilística, que você não goste de A Malvada pelos “motivos certos”, seja lá o que isso queira dizer. Se for o caso, saiba que estamos em pólos completamente opostos e que será melhor para todo mundo se nunca mais nos falarmos de novo.

Pronto.

Gozei.