Bella

Since the movie was produced by a sometime parishioner at my church, Eduardo Verastegui, who also plays a main character, the place has been a buzz for weeks with encouragement to go see "Bella". I hadn't rushed to see it. I remember thinking the night that I saw "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" that down the hall of the very same theatre was this other, uplifting film and I had taken a psychic bath instead in what was on the edge, if not squarely in the middle of pornography--entertainment without ANY redeeming social value. But this weekend, with no other movies to see, and my usual movie pals indulging in that adult male's regression to childhood, The Three Stooges, I decided it was time to see it. It already is on my list of DVD's to buy, when that time comes.

It is a lovely film. It is gentleness in an ungentle world. It is quiet heroism. It is agape.

Some reviewer said the story was contrived. It would never happen in real life. I beg to differ. I have seen, I have lived, things that others would say "could never happen." I won't ruin it. The story begins with a young man on his way to the big time. And then something takes a turn, he takes responsibility, and his life is forever changed. He loses his passion. But he gets it back, and gives to another in a way that is just purely restorative to the soul of the viewer. This viewer anyway.

It isn't being promoted in Hollywood. That is not surprising. It is subtle in embracing life and a sense of conscience. It runs maybe once a day at the Laemmle, and surely will be gone very soon. It wasn't popular because it wasn't given the chance. But word of mouth will lead it into homes in time.

 

 

Lux Aeterna

           

It is just a coincidence that sunny California is not sunny this day. It is uncharacteristically cloudy and damp-ish as night falls. It is much like the day, 33 years ago, exactly, that my mother died at 48, five years younger than I am, today and 3,000 miles from here. I see her as the young woman aspiring to model--but only in photographs for this was before my time. She was pretty enough to be a successful model in the 1940's, and she had then a Scarlett O'Hara 18 inch waist. But, Bronx girls out of Irish Catholic families did not do that sort of thing. Her effort was perfunctory. She, unlike me, never left the Bronx. She married, too young, my father commented more than once, blaming himself, at 18. She was 28 before she had her only child. We know, my father and I, that husband and child were not what she wanted. She dreamt of a life that only became possible in my time, for me, and not for her. I see her as dutiful housewife and mother--percolating with some angst and anger that erupted occasionally, and ironically, in a silent, but intense coldness. She pushed me to education, to religion, and to profession, to excellence, and as far away from her as she could manage, and still live in the same apartment. She was an innocent raging against her world as it was. I see her, softened by illness and the proximity of death, red tam covering the top of her long flowing wig we picked out together, presenting me with a Krum's ice cream cone on Fordham Road.

I do not see her as the old lady she would be today.  Well, I did, once, in a dream, and I am happy to say she was smiling at me.

May Eternal Light Shine Upon You.

 

I Do Not Know Myself

I do not know myself and God forbid that I should--Goethe

 

Just when I think I have plumbed the depths of my frailties, another pops up. I was at a heallth food conscious grocery store tonight, packed with folks getting ready for Thanksgiving. I was feeling neither happy nor sad and certainly not on the edge of a possible moral lapse. I had picked up the turkey, a cooked ham just in case, and was browsing the natural supplement aisle, just in case something struck me. I was at the internal cleansing agent section. A man was a bit beyond me in one of those motorized chairs. As I considered liquid versus pills, if I were going to do either, I heard the beep beep beep, like a truck or car backing up. It was the man in his chair, a stocky blonde man I noticed now, and he seemed to be coming backward to where I was. So courteously I made way. He stopped. I looked at another section of the aisle, really thinking that I ought to buy something healthy to supplement, maybe even counteract my horrible eating habits. And then I heard the beep beep beep again, and he was backing again, and I couldn't figure suddenly why he just did not turn around and go forward. There was nothing obstructing him. And then, it seemed, I say seems, because how do I really know, that he wanted to be where I was again. I was starting to get annoyed at a man in a chair. Maybe he can't walk. I can't be annoyed at him. But I was.

Another woman came into the same aisle. The man continued to back up. He said nothing as he did, to either of us. He just looked back and moved the chair, beep, beep, beep. I had been edged out of the supplement aisle and seemed to be in front of children's cereal, nearly crushed against it. His chair was pretty big.  It took everything for me not to yell at him, still backing up until he had gotten to the milk case. That'd look great, me yelling at this man in a chair, possibly unable to navigate with the ease that I am, that he was a social cretin. The feeling of rage, at him, at myself, at the fact I could do nothing, nearly overwhelmed me. Why did he do it that way? He did not even seem to see me or the other woman. Or worse, he did, and that made me angrier. Were we being tested? I had to get away from there. I was finished. To the checkout. And then the beep beep beep a few registers away, and then I saw him move forward  and around a corner, and I forced him, and my anger out of my mind.

I am no teenager, for whom being "disrespected", if that is what it was, and I will never know, should make a difference. I am grown, and yet, the idea of being invisible to another who would not want to be treated as invisible, nor should be, seemed to increase my rage. So much was speculation on my part.

Sometimes I wonder where is my heart. I do not know my heart. But I disagree with Goethe that God forbid I should. God requires that I do. And change. Easier said than done.

 

Celebrity Citing

 

It was pretty rare, when I was living in the Bronx, New York, that I'd see a celebrity. I remember seeing Nancy ("Chief!") Culp on a Manhattan street some years after the "Beverly Hillbillies" went off the air. If I went to a Broadway Play, I would expect to see someone, like say, Robert Preston in "Sly Fox" or Patrick Macnee of "Avengers" fame in "Sleuth". Oh, yeah, there was the time I saw the man who played Sarek on "Star Trek" as an audience member seeing "Equus". That was a hard one, cause he was in his real human guise, not his Vulcan one.

When I came out here, though, it became a pretty regular occurrence. And each time I have revelled in it. I don't know why exactly. I wouldn't call myself a fan-atic, except maybe when it comes to Pierce Brosnan, and that has been continuous since the beginning of "Remington Steele" to date, and I know, intellectually, that "they" are exactly like me, human I mean, just more famous, and in most cases, with lots more money. It is kind of like treasure hunting, and the treasure doesn't have to be large, just the moment of finding is a pleasure. I once found a sand dollar on the beach near Coronado, and it was whole, which they so seldom are, and that was enough to make it a big deal. That's kind of how it is with seeing celebrities, and it actually doesn't have to be someone that well known, that makes it more fun if it is someone who is on television or in movies, and the "world" doesn't know him or her that well, or it's an old timer, and I glance and say "That's George Maharis" (I saw him in what was then Mayfair, now Gelson's on Santa Monica Boulevard in the 80s--used to see lots of people there). It is the pleasure of fantasy, the fiction of television and movies, meeting my reality. Or the fiction and fantasy becoming one with me, my life, our lives, real and imagined, merging in the flash of a moment.

Today I was at Ralph's, on Sunset, and there was a tall, curly haired young man. I couldn't, I still can't, remember his name, though it will come to me. I do remember his character's name, Bright, I think it was, on the now cancelled series (I liked it a lot) "Everwood." And that's what reminded me I have wanted to write about the many, probably more than I can write here (though perhaps there'll be a part II, we shall see), actors and actresses I have seen in my ordinary travels meeting the illusionists in theirs.

Back to Gelson's, in West Hollywood, when it was Mayfair. There was Linda  (The Year of Living Dangerously) Hunt, trying to disguise her recognizable shortness with a fishing type hat. James Shigeta and I talked about it being better to buy cat food in bulk. Whatever happened to Michael Sarrazin after he did "They Shoot Horses Don't They"--well I didn't see him in many movies, but I did see him on that check out line.

In the old Farmer's Market on Third and Fairfax, Sterling Holloway (the Voice of Winnie the Pooh; guest star in the original Superman series) at a very advanced age, complete with ascot, pompadour and cane, in a corner looking regally expectant. Ted Shackleford, during his spin off days as J.R. Ewing's less successful brother on Knott's Landing. Danny Bonaduce smoking and scowling, in between gigs on cable or radio.

At Hugo's in West Hollywood, Paul Reiser, just before Helen Hunt, Faye Dunaway, searching through her salad and getting more ice in her ice tea, one or more of the Wayans brothers, Connie Sellaca and her husband the former Entertainment Tonight Host, turned New Age musician, John Tesh.

At the Arclight in Hollywood, George Takei scanning (I saw him years ago at an Italian Restaurant in Los Feliz as well) the art on the walls on the way to some theatre, Teri Hatcher in a pony tail, buying popcorn (didn't I read this somewhere too?), Henry Winkler at Michael Clayton, John LaRoquette in don't recognize me, if you want to live mode. Barbara Bain--you know, Cinnamon Carter in the old and true, television, "Mission Impossible".

There are times when the names just flow into my mind and I can't stop them. Tonight, they are only trickling. Ok, a couple more before I go. I should write the names down before I do part II. William Daniels and Bonnie Barlett at the Director's Guild, the old one. I loved that one because I saw William Daniels playing John Adams in New York, my second Broadway play ever in 1972 or so. Ron Howard, and two of his kids at the Egyptian.

Oh, it's coming back to me, but I am getting tired. . .. Cyd Charisse and Anne Francis at the Beverly Hilton.

And I haven't even gotten to my church.

 

 

They're Playing Our Song - Redux

 

 

A long time ago in a galaxy far away called Broadway in Manhattan, I bought tickets for a new musical called "They're Playing Our Song" as a birthday gift for a friend. Since we are talking over two decades ago, and he lies about his age (he tells people that I was his babysitter, or tutor, depending on the occasion)--I think he's only 42 now. Me, I am 53, and he is two months older according to the Julian calendar. Now that I have gotten THAT out of my system. . . So, I bought these tickets, because he was a fan of Robert Klein, and maybe even of Lucie Arnaz, the daughter of television icons Lucille Ball  (of whom he was a definitive fan) and Desi Arnaz, and I thought he'd enjoy this musical. I went with him as ticket number two, although I did not have that great a fondness for either of the stars. It's nice to see a friend enjoying a gift. And I figured I wouldn't hate it. I didn't hate it. I loved it. I saw it three times. He saw it five. I have the album. I still remember the words to most of the songs. I even have the piano selections which I occasionally noodle, badly. It's based on the real life partnership and romance between Marvin Hamlisch (who wrote the music) and his then collaborator Carole Bayer Sager. 

I have come to admire Lucie Arnaz a great deal over the years, because she did manage to leave the shadow of two entertainment giants, and she seems a genuinely nice lady who still loves her parents, maybe her father a little more. I have even seen her club singing act and she is quite good at cabaret. I always harbored a hope that the twosome of Klein and Arnaz would reteam  as Vernon and Sonia for a version of the play. It was their chemistry that really made everything, the story, the music. And then in the summer, my ageless friend sent me a page from the San Diego Symphony about what I thought was going to be a staging or at least a retrospective of the play. I bought tickets immediately for both of us, figuring that even if we ended up not being able to trek to San Diego, I had them, just in case. I never even noticed that the tickets said, "They're Playing My Song" instead of the "Our" of the title, and I really had no idea what exactly they were going to do. But I needed to have them. I needed to know WE COULD go. That was a piece of very warm nostalgia for me.

And then it was November 10th. Neither of us could take the time to stay overnight in San Diego, so it was going to be a marathon road trip, 2 plus hours down, hit the 8 o'clock show and 2 plus hours back. And it was worth the effort. It was a Hollywood Bowl type delight, except it was San Diego, inside and not summer. My friend and I are planning on telling the Bowl folks and Marvin that they need to get together for a show in the summer. Oh, yes, Marvin Hamilsch was there. He conducted. The show had four parts, an opening of TV themes beginning with Dragnet, and including the I Love Lucy theme, as well as some of Marvin's works, like the theme from the Burt Lancaster film of the early sixties (I think) "The Swimmer". We were in the second row, center. We could watch, up close and personal, as Mr. Hamlisch (I shouldn't call him Marvin. He was just so personable, it felt like I know him), engaged a 14 year old boy, named Austin, who was there with his mother, and probably hadn't heard of any of the people he was seeing, let alone music from the 1950s and 1960s. The second part wasn't even in the playbill, it was Robert Klein doing standup, including a song that had me laughing like I used to at Joan Rivers in the 80s, so hard that the still healing scar on my neck from my recent surgery hurt like hell, about a colonocopy. And another about all the places he'd travelled, but the Bronx was the best. (He too is from the Bronx or is that he is from the Bronx, and so am I, given his stature on the stage and mine as a paying customer). Intermission. Then Lucie came out and did a few songs. I couldn't blame her that the music drowned out her singing on at least two of them--that wasn't her job, that was Marvin's and the sound technicians and maybe a poor choice of pieces for that size a place. Still, she looked stunning in her red gown, although I wondered whether she was wearing stockings. That she probably wasn't was resolved by my friend noting her knobby knees. Stockings would definitely have hidden that. A little unfair to have people that up close I am thinking. We are too hard on the performers. But she looked terrific. And then she and Robert did a mini performance of the old play, both of them going right into character as if it were Broadway twenty odd years ago. Fallin', If He Really Knew Me, They're Playing Our Song, I Still Believe in Love (I do, but that is the name of the song). They were in good voice together and I remembered why I was so taken with both of them then. I was back in Manhattan in that theatre, the first time, watching Vernon and Sonia take that trip to Quog, Long Island in a fake prop car, to soup up their budding relationship, just before it broke down, and then love walks in permanently. It was a time machine moment those two and a half hours for which we travelled nearly five. It was what the Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore movie, Music and Lyrics could have been, but wasn't.

They Played Everbody's Song last night. I don't know what young Austin thought. But there were a bunch of middle aged folks and a fair number of people on walkers of a somewhat older age who were transported to a time gone by.

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: They're Playing Our Song, Robert Klein, Lucie Arnaz, Marvin Hamilsch

A World without Conscience

I was originally going to title this entry, "A World without God" but I realized that even in a world with God, humans kick up quite the storm, do enormous damage and outright evil and claim that He is on "our side". He must cringe when He watches us.

I had not heard anything about the movie, "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" before I went to it tonight, except that it was getting generous reviews and word of mouth both in New York and Los Angeles. I should have known the direction that the movie was taking when the opening scene had Philip Seymour Hoffman making buck naked and urgent love to Marisa Tomei. I think they were in Rio having a nice respite from their otherwise numb marriage. The film is told not exactly in flashback, but in point of view repetitions of certain events of an episode in the life of a family. We're not talking about disagreements at the Thanksgiving table here. There is armed robbery, the death of a robber, infidelity (that old family favorite), and two brothers who I'll just call Cain, and Cain. There just ain't no Abel here. Goodness? There is no goodness here. There is only narcissistic betrayal and unremitting badness. And outright murder, of how many people, let me think. . . .like four people. It's hard to count. And it was all because of their childhood. Maybe.

That slippery slope is getting downright icy. I realize that, in a larger sense than I'd like to admit, I am part of the problem. I can watch this stuff and it hardly phases me. There is a contradiction here to say I advocate God, or conscience, and then to go to these films. I am not apparently strong enough simply to stop, to walk away from this form of entertainment. Was there a morality tale here? The most interesting part was when Albert Finney talks to a jewel merchant who has been a fence, who happily reveals to him that the child Finney has raised will do anything for money, no matter who it hurts. Evil is in the world he lets Finney know. No kidding. And I wonder, if I have been too big a part of it simply by being there tonight watching it. I have to think about this. Going to the movies has been a big part of my life.There aren't many uplifting films, though I could have gone to see "Bella" down the hall, which I have read is a morality play compared to what I did see. Oh, well. It is done. Grist for the mill.

I suspect that there isn't a conscience of anyone that hasn't been damaged in the last 20 years. I know what I should do. Developing and maintaining a conscience is a choice. And needs a prayerful mind. So hard. So necessary.