I woke up at 4:15 a.m. this morning and, for some reason, my mind drifted to the 9/11 disaster. I always call it "the 9/11 disaster" not "the 9/11 attacks." I'm not quite sure why. Maybe because the attacks were just the beginning of the long, dark, senseless disaster that is still going on more or less in front of our eyes. I'm speaking of the unprecedented power grab that George Bush and his political operatives are still trying to pull off. But all that's the topic for another blog entry!
9/11 is one of those rare universal events, a shared experience. Anyone can ask anyone else, "Where were you when you heard?"
The attack on Pearl Harbor was such an event for my parents' generation. My mother heard about it the day it happened, December 7th, 1941, but she wasn't really paying attention. She came home from classes at L.A. City College to be greeted by her mother who (without much understanding but, knowing Grandma, a good deal of melodrama) announced, "The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor!" (That's what we called them back then. We didn't know any better.) Apparently, "Pearl Harbor" meant pretty much nothing to either my mother and grandmother.
But the next day, as Mom rode the streetcar down to City College, she and her girlfriend were mystified seeing soldiers with machine guns on tripods hiding behind every-other Oleander bush along the highway, staring nervously toward the ocean. My mother and her girlfriend agreed that this was something new.
Soon after arriving at school, an assembly was called. Mom tells me that in those days, each student had an assigned position on the green for assemblies. The student body stood to listen to the live radio broadcast of President Roosevelt giving his famous "Day of Infamy" speech.
My mother turned to her girlfriend and said, "That's funny" (meaning "odd" not "haha"), but the young man behind her hissed, "You won't think it's so funny when they start bringing the dead home in boxes." That sobered her up. And the rest is history, as they say.
That history was determined, in part, by how Roosevelt immediately framed the meaning of the attack: He explained that it was a surprise attack planned months in advance, was part of an larger offensive by the Japanese across Asia, and that "the people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understood the implications to the very life and safety of our nation." We were at war.
The universal event that bound my generation was John Kennedy's assassination. On November 22, 1963, I was in fifth grade and just short of my tenth birthday. I sat near the front of the classroom, in the second row from the left, and near the front door. Mrs. Whitney came into our room and took our teacher, Mrs. Fulmer, aside and whispered something into her ear. Mrs. Fulmer looked shocked and concerned.
Now, before I tell you what happened next, I should tell you what these ladies looked like. (That's what we called them in those days, "ladies" -- it wasn't considered demeaning back then. We just didn't know any better.) Mrs. Whitney must've been in her early 50s. She had very precisely coiffed hair. All the time. With streaks of gray in it. I'm not sure if the colors were natural or artful. She had long fingernails with nail polish that matched the lipstick on her pucker-wrinkled lips which tells me now that she must've been a smoker. She was scary. Nobody had posture like her!
Mrs. Fulmer was her polar opposite. She was about as wide as she was tall. She looked old, downright haggard, but she had dark brown hair and I'm sure that was fake. Her breasts were so large and pendulous that my classmate, Stuart (who ended up schizophrenic in his teens) said that each breast was as large as a third grader.
So, Mrs. Whitney comes in and whispers to Mrs. Fulmer, and Mrs. Fulmer looks shocked. Then Mrs. Whitney whispers back (loud enough that those of us in the front rows could hear her), "The president of the PTA?" Mrs. Whitney gave Mrs. Fulmer a look that I had never seen one adult give another: Something along the lines of, "You stupid moron!" Mrs. Whitney was so incensed that she whisper back a little too loudly, "No, the president of the United States!"
The next moment, Jimmy Trimble (who was sitting closet to them) leapt up on his chair and shouted (with that inexplicable delight of a 10-year-old boy who is the first to know something but doesn't understand the gravity of what he knows), "They killed President Kennedy!"
I have no idea how the teachers reacted. I sat there in stunned silence. I was in love with John Kennedy, but so was almost everyone else in America and in the "Free World" (that's what we used to call Europe and the Western Hemisphere, thanks to the unfortunate compromises Mr. Roosevelt made with the Soviets near the end of The War).
After the initial shock of Kennedy's very public murder, we got a double jolt when the alleged gunman, Lee Harvey Oswald, was shot dead in full view of news cameras. It seemed odd to me (and I was only 10) that the man who killed Oswald, Jack Ruby, was suffering from terminal cancer and would be dead in 6 months. It seemed very convenient, as if some very tidy conspiracy was at work: "Take him out with the dead man."
But almost immediately after Kennedy's death, the FBI was framing the meaning of the assassination for us, telling us that Oswald had acted alone, that he was a misfit with mental problems. To this day, many people don't believe that.
So, now we've had the 9/11 disaster. George, Dick, and their neoconservative gang have tried their darnedest to frame the meaning of that one. "The terrorists hate our freedom," Iraq + 9/11, weapons of mass destruction, smoking gun = mushroom cloud, etc., etc., etc. Thank heaven at least a percentage of the American people have refused to believe that crock! Unfortunately, the disaster continues.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Why Another Blog?
Your response to my new blog has been nothing short of deafening! Many of you have written to ask me, "For God's sake, Wayne, what in heaven's name has possessed you to do this?" Your interest is touching. Thank you so very much. (If it were possible for me to do so, I would be humbled.)
Now, I take your question to mean, "Please, we beg of you, tell us all about it and don't leave out a single detail!" It is all very simple: I have started a "step program" for Narcissists.
Please don't misunderstand: I haven't joined a Narcissist group--I have started one. Its membership consists of ME. (That's only fitting, right?) And please, don't assume that this is 'Narcissist Anonymous!' What would be the point of THAT? (Honestly, some people are so dense!)
Now, more about me:
You're all pretty knowledgeable about 12-step programs. The first three steps are, of course, admitting that one's life is unmanageable and giving it over to a higher power. Okay, I've chucked those right out. I'm my own higher power and, I dare say, I've got enough power left over for several more people, but I really don't want to be bothered. Let them get their own.
I suppose I could now rattle through the rest of the steps, but what's no point? I just reviewed them online and, frankly, none of them applies here. And even if they did, I wouldn't go into them now because I haven't the patience. But that's why this is "a step program"--there's only one step: Celebrating everything Wayne.
This is why I have taken on the incredible burden of writing and maintaining this blog. (And please, don't think that this is some sort of "service to others" kind of thing. Ha! Are you kidding? ME? No, I admit it: It is entirely self serving, as well it should be.)
But what's wrong with that? IT'S ALL ABOUT ME!
So, come back again and again, drink at the fountain of Wayne, know my truth, be warmed and filled, etc. etc. etc.
(Whatever.)
Now, I take your question to mean, "Please, we beg of you, tell us all about it and don't leave out a single detail!" It is all very simple: I have started a "step program" for Narcissists.
Please don't misunderstand: I haven't joined a Narcissist group--I have started one. Its membership consists of ME. (That's only fitting, right?) And please, don't assume that this is 'Narcissist Anonymous!' What would be the point of THAT? (Honestly, some people are so dense!)
Now, more about me:
You're all pretty knowledgeable about 12-step programs. The first three steps are, of course, admitting that one's life is unmanageable and giving it over to a higher power. Okay, I've chucked those right out. I'm my own higher power and, I dare say, I've got enough power left over for several more people, but I really don't want to be bothered. Let them get their own.
I suppose I could now rattle through the rest of the steps, but what's no point? I just reviewed them online and, frankly, none of them applies here. And even if they did, I wouldn't go into them now because I haven't the patience. But that's why this is "a step program"--there's only one step: Celebrating everything Wayne.
This is why I have taken on the incredible burden of writing and maintaining this blog. (And please, don't think that this is some sort of "service to others" kind of thing. Ha! Are you kidding? ME? No, I admit it: It is entirely self serving, as well it should be.)
But what's wrong with that? IT'S ALL ABOUT ME!
So, come back again and again, drink at the fountain of Wayne, know my truth, be warmed and filled, etc. etc. etc.
(Whatever.)
Women in Art & Women in Film
You may have seen these already. They're wonderful animations tracing the history of woman in art and in film (although not precisely in chronological sequence).
Women in Art
Women in Film
Women in Art
Women in Film
My Father Never Drove a Car
This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are guaranteed.
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
"Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
"I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet"
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns. "
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it."
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
"Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
"I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet"
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns. "
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it."
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Kitsch, in the Great Outdoors
This weekend, Frank and I drove up to Riley's Farm in Oak Glen, California. It's about 10 miles and light years north of Beaumont, a town grown grey and weary along the I-10 freeway to more glamorous places down the road, such as Morango Casino and Palm Springs. Riley's is set on a lovely hillside at least a thousand feet higher than Beaumont. Riley's has hundreds of acres of fruit trees, mostly apple, many of them 'heritage' strains.
They also have a general store (where they sell you baskets to pick fruit), a BBQ barn (where they sell you lunch), a cider-pressing shed, and some corny-sort-of-historical-looking wooden buildings. They also host Civil War reenactments. (Go figure!)
We stopped first at the general store and were stunned to pay $8.50 to pick a quart of raspberries. Okay, that's probably $2.00 per half pint, which is maybe 50 cents cheaper than in the store, but it seemed like a lot at the time. I chalked it up to 'having an experience.' We toddled out into the berry patch (and the rain and the cold) with a couple of quart baskets and high hopes.
From the looks of the spoiled fruit on the vines, we should've arrived 10 days earlier -- we'd have needed only ten minutes in the berry patch to pick a quart. As it happened, it took us well over an hour to gather one quart and we returned to the BBQ barn cold, wet, and numb! After some hot cider and pumpkin bread (which they'll also sell you), we trekked down the muddy road to pick apples. The guy who took our ticket (for that $15, 1/2 peck basket!) looked like Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies, only not 10 feet tall. (Actually, he was kind of cute in a hairy pirate kind of way.) He had all sorts of things to tell us about the apples, but we were cold again and we made short work of the picking (and hand eating) of apples.
All in all, we had a good time. It was kind of laughable but it did feel good to get out in to brisk air and be surrounded by the orchards and the forests up there. Next summer we'd like to go back with friends -- probably friends with a certain jadedness about them but not completely derisive. If you're interested, let us know!
They also have a general store (where they sell you baskets to pick fruit), a BBQ barn (where they sell you lunch), a cider-pressing shed, and some corny-sort-of-historical-looking wooden buildings. They also host Civil War reenactments. (Go figure!)
We stopped first at the general store and were stunned to pay $8.50 to pick a quart of raspberries. Okay, that's probably $2.00 per half pint, which is maybe 50 cents cheaper than in the store, but it seemed like a lot at the time. I chalked it up to 'having an experience.' We toddled out into the berry patch (and the rain and the cold) with a couple of quart baskets and high hopes.
From the looks of the spoiled fruit on the vines, we should've arrived 10 days earlier -- we'd have needed only ten minutes in the berry patch to pick a quart. As it happened, it took us well over an hour to gather one quart and we returned to the BBQ barn cold, wet, and numb! After some hot cider and pumpkin bread (which they'll also sell you), we trekked down the muddy road to pick apples. The guy who took our ticket (for that $15, 1/2 peck basket!) looked like Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies, only not 10 feet tall. (Actually, he was kind of cute in a hairy pirate kind of way.) He had all sorts of things to tell us about the apples, but we were cold again and we made short work of the picking (and hand eating) of apples.
All in all, we had a good time. It was kind of laughable but it did feel good to get out in to brisk air and be surrounded by the orchards and the forests up there. Next summer we'd like to go back with friends -- probably friends with a certain jadedness about them but not completely derisive. If you're interested, let us know!
Gilda
We watched the movie Gilda (1946) the other night. It stars Glenn Ford and Rita Hayworth. It's very film noir with a love-hate triangle, snappy dialogue, and hard-boiled voiceover narration by Ford's character that all really tickled me. As Hal Erikson writes in the All Movie Guide, "Gilda is...a marvelous example of how a clever scriptwriter (Marion Parsonnet) could suggest all sorts of sexual aberrations while still remaining within the boundaries of the Production Code."
But at the end, Frank and I agreed that it was ultimately unsatisfying; I blame the Production Code, but that won't surprise any of my friends!
In this movie, down-and-out tough guy Johnny Farrell (Ford) arrives in Buenos Aires (believe it or not!) and makes a bundle of money gambling with some American sailors on the docks "with his own dice." As he ducks out (lest he get beaten up), he meets a wealthy but enigmatic man named Ballin. Cryptic dialogue, a demonstration of a cane that conceals a deadly spring-loaded dagger, and a business card, then Johnny shows up at Ballin's illegal casino, wins too much money ("I make my own luck") and gets hired as Ballin's right-hand man. They become close -- the homoerotic undertone in their relationship is palpable. Ballin is cold and unemotional, refined and diffident -- like the 'sinister sissies' of 1950's movies discussed in The Celluloid Closet. But the moody Johnny is oddly open and eager with Ballin, almost puppy-like at times. At the very least, he's got a "man crush" on Ballin.
Ballin goes off for a few days and arrives home with a wife, Gilda, played by Rita Hayworth. We know immediately, in that inevitable movie-plot way, that these two have met before and it ended badly. Well, it all goes on from there with dialogue that's just dripping with innuendo. It's a fun ride but the plot is all over the place (as Karen once said in Will and Grace, "it'll be a really complicated plan with all sorts of twists and turns, and I'll hide behind things and you'll get to wear big shoes.") When it was all over, I looked up the New York Times review from 1946; it was spot on:
But at the end, Frank and I agreed that it was ultimately unsatisfying; I blame the Production Code, but that won't surprise any of my friends!
In this movie, down-and-out tough guy Johnny Farrell (Ford) arrives in Buenos Aires (believe it or not!) and makes a bundle of money gambling with some American sailors on the docks "with his own dice." As he ducks out (lest he get beaten up), he meets a wealthy but enigmatic man named Ballin. Cryptic dialogue, a demonstration of a cane that conceals a deadly spring-loaded dagger, and a business card, then Johnny shows up at Ballin's illegal casino, wins too much money ("I make my own luck") and gets hired as Ballin's right-hand man. They become close -- the homoerotic undertone in their relationship is palpable. Ballin is cold and unemotional, refined and diffident -- like the 'sinister sissies' of 1950's movies discussed in The Celluloid Closet. But the moody Johnny is oddly open and eager with Ballin, almost puppy-like at times. At the very least, he's got a "man crush" on Ballin.
Ballin goes off for a few days and arrives home with a wife, Gilda, played by Rita Hayworth. We know immediately, in that inevitable movie-plot way, that these two have met before and it ended badly. Well, it all goes on from there with dialogue that's just dripping with innuendo. It's a fun ride but the plot is all over the place (as Karen once said in Will and Grace, "it'll be a really complicated plan with all sorts of twists and turns, and I'll hide behind things and you'll get to wear big shoes.") When it was all over, I looked up the New York Times review from 1946; it was spot on:
It is quite all right to make a character elusive and enigmatic in a film—that can be highly provocative—providing some terminal light is shed. But when one is conceived so vaguely and with such perplexing lack of motive as is the dame played by Rita Hayworth in "Gilda," … one may be reasonably forgiven for… questioning the whole drama in which she is set…. Despite close and earnest attention to this nigh-onto-two-hour film, this reviewer was utterly baffled by what happened on the screen. To our ...reasoning, it simply did not make sense....
In and out of this moody love story is drawn a vaporous thread of plot which involves the casino proprietor in some sort of Nazi cartel. The details are so mysterious and so foggily laced through the film that they serve no artistic purpose, other than to confuse things still more. Indeed, one is likely to wonder whether the waters of this expensive film have not been deliberately muddied in order to disguise its shallowness.
Miss Hayworth, who plays in this picture her first straight dramatic role, gives little evidence of a talent that should be commended or encouraged. She wears many gowns of shimmering luster and tosses her tawny hair in glamorous style, but her manner of playing a worldly woman is distinctly five-and-dime. A couple of times she sings song numbers, with little distinction, be is said, and wiggles through a few dances that are nothing short of crude.
The happy ending seems sudden and truly surreal and forced--these characters are NOT going settle down into anything but some sort of S&M relationship! I think what ultimately happened was that the film makers had a really juicy plot and terrifically titillating characters and relationships, but the Production Code required them to muddy the waters and tie it all up with a nice little bow in the end.
The whole thing ends up being pretty much a triumph of style over substance, but what a triumph! It's great fun for that very reason -- that's the essence of camp, isn't it? So, if you've got two hours to spare and you're in a campy mood (the gowns are FABulous!), I recommend Gilda.
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