The Lion in Winter (1968)

I was raised by a group of fugitives. As a family, we have been on the run from the authorities since I was young enough to bring my Bette Midler records to preschool for show-and-tell. When I was around seven years old, we took a trip to Yosemite and shared one of those large tent cabins with other families . . . looking back on that experience now, we’re all a bit baffled by my parents’ decision to go against our “excuse me, you’re in my space” personalities. As it has been since the dawn of time and plumbing, the line for the men’s showers in Yosemite was much shorter than that for the women’s, and after a few days, a small group of female campers, my mother included, decided to get in the men’s line.

While I stood innocently in line with Mom, my fellow men, and five or six disobedient women in need of a shower, the good-hearted Yosemite security guards came rolling up, determined to kick these evil ladies out of line. Despite arguments from the equally good-hearted men who stood in line with us (none of them objected to the situation or its possibilities), eventually all of the women gave in and returned to wait in their assigned shower line . . . well, almost all of them. As the security guards strolled through the men’s showers, they belted out every few seconds, “Any women in here?” Deciding for once in my life to act like “one of the guys” and do what everybody else is doing, I looked one of those guards right in the face and answered with a firm, “No!” On other side of the stall door behind me, Mom quietly showered under the protection of her son and her fellow male campers. Not that she needed us.

A few years after Yosemite had given us a taste for crime and defying of authority, we spent a long summer afternoon at our favorite vacation spot in San Diego, just 20 minutes from our house. It was there that we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited for a lunch check that was never to arrive. In those days, when Dad got that look on his face and said, “That’s it,” it really was. He and my sister snuck out of the restaurant first, while Mom and I waited a few minutes before making our final dine-and-dash. The two of us were already experienced criminals, so the exit order made sense to all involved parties. Mom and I learned after the fact that my father and sister spotted a police car on their way out but left us to fend for ourselves. Not that we needed them.

It didn’t take long for us to graduate to movie-theatre-hopping on those scorching summer days before air conditioning. Under the large and anonymous cover of a chilled movie theatre, one could, oh, hypothetically, buy a ticket for one film and casually stroll into a second or third. Our mug shots could very well be taped up behind a couple of restaurant counters or shower stalls, and perhaps we haven’t always behaved as model citizens . . . but what family doesn’t have its ups and downs?

The Lion in Winter . . . saying enough is saying too much about this marvel of a film. I have given copies as birthday gifts; I have forced friends to stay in on their Saturday nights for wine and a viewing; I have recited quotes both in my head and aloud when I needed a boost of confidence . . . this one is not to be missed! James Goldman’s Academy Award-winning script based on his own play is the perfect tool for talents such as Katharine Hepburn and her king, played with relish by Peter O’Toole. As Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, the two giants feed off of one another, both as characters and as actors. The story of a king in a fierce battle with his queen over which son will inherit the throne sets the stage for what I have crowned as my favorite Hepburn performance. In a rare tie with Barbra Streisand for Funny Girl (1968), it is with this delectable role that Hepburn became the first and only woman (as of 2013) to win three Oscars for Best Actress in a Leading Role.

On Thanksgiving we convinced Mom to watch The Silence of the Lambs (1991). Although I can’t seem to find a written or digital record of it, I remember hearing that Anthony Hopkins considered his depiction of Hannibal Lecter to be a combination of Charles Manson and Katharine Hepburn. Even if I’m creating this fact entirely in my head, it is absolutely an accurate description of the man who beats the Wicked Witch of the West on those frivolous “All-Time Greatest Movie Villains” lists. Anthony Hopkins makes one of his first appearances in The Lion in Winter as the son for whom Hepburn’s character is determined to win the throne. Praising his skills, she informed him that he didn’t need to act; he could let the camera do all the work. “Leave the acting to me,” she said. “I act all over the place.” Years later when Hopkins walked up on to the stage and accepted an Academy Award for Lambs, somewhere there must have been a grateful little Lion in him.

“Henry, I have a confession . . . I don’t much like our children.” As alliances within the royal family change at the blink of a sly eye, The Lion in Winter reminds its audience that no one can press emotional buttons like the members of one’s family. While oftentimes they can love us in the ways we need to be loved, this also gives them the power of knowing precisely which sword can cause the greatest amount of pain. Henry’s fear of death is well known by his wife and three sons, providing Eleanor (to our delight) with numerous opportunities to slay her man. When he asks her for a little peace after all the years of brawling, Eleanor replies in the most Hepburn of voices, “A little? Why so modest? How about eternal peace . . . now there’s a thought.” When I first saw the beautiful mountains of Switzerland, I was so mesmerized, that I had to remind myself to breathe. The same is true for a climactic scene during which Henry and Eleanor, in mere seconds, dart back and forth between loving and despising one another. Switzerland and Hepburn . . . the two experiences for which I need an inhaler.

“Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war: not history’s forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it, nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing. We are the killers. We breed wars. We carry it like syphilis inside. Dead bodies rot in field and stream because the living ones are rotten. For the love of God, can’t we love one another just a little? That’s how peace begins. We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities, my children. We could change the world.”

Academy Awards for The Lion in Winter (1969): Best Actress in a Leading Role (tied with Barbra Streisand for Funny Girl), Best Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), and Best Music (Original Score)

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The Night of the Iguana (1964)

I knew how to be a good parent by the time I was ten years old. Having an educator for a mother led to frequent dinner conversations about neglectful, selfish parents at Mom’s school who seemed to know less about raising children than I did. My egg babies had happier childhoods than some of these poor little saplings. Names of the top offenders quickly became familiar to me, and at times I assumed Mom was making up these fascinating stories . . . as a ten-year-old, it’s hard to believe that adults – moms and dads, nonetheless – could be as truly mindless as Mom reported. Granted, every home is different, and who’s to say that we know more about raising a child than someone else . . . but c’mon, some of these affluent bozos were practically plucked out of a FOX series premiere.

In my wholesome household, a scheduled, age-appropriate talk about sex or about drugs was  unnecessary; the taboo topics were instead part of ongoing dialogue . . . y’know, between frequent viewings of Animal House and Dirty Dancing. Instead of deemed inappropriate, a dirty joke was likely to be praised, depending on the degree of wit found in its punch line. Shel Silverstein’s adult poems that involve horribly gruesome acts of violence were to be cherished, recited, and respected as brilliant pieces of writing and performance. When it comes to most (perhaps not all, but most) acts of wicked indulgence, Dad was probably right – everything in moderation.

When offered the lead role in The Night of the Iguana, James Garner is rumored to have said, “It was just too ‘Tennessee Williams’ for me.” Adapting these amazing plays for the screen is hardly an easy undertaking, but already a fan of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, A Streetcar Named Desire, and Suddenly, Last Summer, I had no choice but to go in with unfairly high expectations. There was no Elizabeth Taylor; there was no Brando or Leigh; be still, my heart, there was no Hepburn . . . but these are horrendously impossible acts to follow. A Tennessee Williams plot was guaranteed to contain elements of wicked, perhaps immoral, indulgences here ‘n’ there, and who better than Richard Burton to take the helm, and on a ship built by the great director John Huston?

As a possibly disrobed priest, Richard Burton sinks deeper and deeper into one of those swirling vortexes of despair, until only the most moral of women can pull him out and force him to face himself. Surrounding him is every type of woman the cookie cutter could cut, from the young Lolita and the old crotchety Bible-thumper to the sassy aging vixen with a heart of gold (played by good ol’ Ava Gardner who has a shocking little threesome with her houseboys). With varying methods, each woman has a lesson to teach the intense Mr. Burton, should he choose to take it in. If you’re unfamiliar with the Tennessee Williams worldview of family, love, sex, and morality, this one may be a good “feet wetter.”

But for me, well . . . both Dad and James Garner were right.

Academy Award for The Night of the Iguana (1965): Best Costume Design (Black-and-White)

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Ain’t Misbehavin’

Some devastating news stopped my presses a couple of years ago, and as it’s always done, my mind set up a thorny wall of a barrier to protect me from harm . . . “ignore it, and it won’t be true,” however ineffective, is a perfectly logical mode of self-preservation. It’s been about a decade since I’ve set foot in that magic kingdom down in Anaheim, and I think the chances of my returning someday were already pretty slim. Frequent were my childhood visits to Disneyland; Dad and I still talk about the splendid time we had on the day we went in the rain. The yellow ponchos we were forced to buy that day are still crumpled up in one of my closets, preserving any amount of childhood that will stay preserved. Having gone with every friend and every family member over the course of my 18-year stay in southern California, a piece of my heart melted away forever when I heard the Disneyland Villain Shop had opened and closed its doors for the last time. The next time I went down to visit my parents, I made sure my Ursula pin was still prominently on display in my childhood bedroom.

The villains get the best lines. The villains get the evil wardrobe. The villains get the brainlessly devoted sidekicks. Best of all, the villains get the strutting music. Leaving Disney for a moment and with much respect to Mr. Harold Arlen’s “Over the Rainbow,” it’s the Wicked Witch’s theme music that provides me with a needed confidence boost. The attachment I felt to these wonderful villains—specifically to Disney’s interpretations of them—was perhaps not the fascination of other little boys, but luckily I remember feeling no shame about being able to recite Maleficent’s spells, not the latest baseball stats or trading deals. If any shame floated around somewhere in my subconscious, generously the Disneyland’s Villain Shop provided a comfort, knowing my love of evil was shared. This alleged subconscious shame wasn’t a gender role thing; it may have been the fear of my love of wickedness. A cartoon adaptation of Tallulah Bankhead who wanted nothing more than to make fur coats out of puppies . . . was I supposed to feel shame about loving someone so completely honest, witty, and selfish?

In college I enrolled in an anthropology course for no other reason than it fit the schedule and provided enough time to get home for Will & Grace drinking games. Anthropology 161: Narrative Folklore with Professor Alan Dundes would do; it was twice a week, had “p.m.” in its time slot . . . and it changed everything. Dundes divided the semester into genres: myth, legend, and folktale with a brief side trip into ballad. I was completely mesmerized by this brilliant Freudian folklorist who forced us all so often to disagree with him. Interpretations of folklore, including our beloved villains (both before and after their Disney makeovers), were not to be memorized; it was the method of various interpretations that had to be understood. With a few gems here and there, for 20 years I had been spitting back facts to the majority of my educators while retaining very few. Alan Dundes provided my young-adult self with comfort and curiosity, reminiscent of that young boy’s unique sense of belonging felt in the Magic Kingdom’s shop of misbehaviors.

Thank you, Professor Dundes . . .

Thank you, Disneyland Villain Shop . . .

. . . this 32-year-old and his witch’s hat will be forever grateful.

Oz or Bust!

My jolly good fun friend Jessica and I were working our way through a delicious round two at our favorite wine bar when a thought dropped out of the sky and crushed me, right there in my fabulous shoes. I was debating my options for the following day over a glass of Pinot noir (one that turned out to be too easy to drink); either I was going to get all the work done that I had taken home that evening, or I was going to take advantage of the sunny day and see the latest film adaptation of L. Frank Baum’s Oz stories. Due to lack of leadership from the men and women behind the curtain, work has been cycloning out of control lately, so the choice was pretty clear to Jessica, me, and our empty wine glasses. Despite low expectations, the next afternoon somehow I found myself standing in line at the box office. Eating away at me more than the criminal ticket price—a price that would give Mom nightmares for a month—was that single thought from the previous evening, just as haunting sober as it was sloshy: the Wicked Witch of the West is not supposed to have cleavage.

Launching the Land of Oz and its inhabitants into the future hopefully keeps alive our precious 1939 classic, and viewing the returns to Oz with any sense of competition borders slightly on the absurd. How does one compare Fairuza Balk to Judy Garland or Kristin Chenoweth to Billie Burke . . . and doing so even necessary? From page to screen or page to stage, magic comes in many forms, and no two actors will interpret a character in precisely the same way. That said, this recent reincarnation of the West’s best was anything but. Remember when the science majors had to fulfill an arts requirement before graduation and ended up looking bored and stiff in their drama class productions? Scenes went on too long while plots and backstories were revealed too quickly, and above all, it felt disrespectful to the late and great Margaret Hamilton. At least her costume designers had the decency to cover up her lady parts. Rounding out the group and giving Oz its latest makeover was a politically correct and diverse ensemble of extras from around the globe . . . an issue with which I always have, if you’ll pardon the expression, mixed feelings. When I can see the effort, its intended effect is ruined.

Tears don’t come to me nearly as easily as they did when I was a child. That quirky little boy cried at anything and everything, so maybe the water supply evaporated all too quickly in my early years. These days when I feel a tear roll down my cheek, I tend to look up at the ceiling to see if the roof is leaking. There must be a “heartstrings safety net” that Oz filmmakers bank on when they slam us with prequels, sequels, and remakes . . . subtle reminders of my attachment to MGM’s 1939 masterpiece can’t help but stir up my dusty tear ducts. Miraculously my eyes may have experienced a heavy mist at times, but no tears actually flowed during this latest revision. An unusual reference to Snow White and original makeup tests for early visions of 1939’s witch were oddly placed and practically ruined a scene for which I had been waiting an hour. With a hunched posture and flimsy foot placement, this newest Witch of the West looked incredibly uncomfortable on her broom. Not once did I feel drawn to any of the female villains, and believe you me, that’s the acid test ‘round these parts. As I should have said to every girl I ever kissed, this isn’t working for me! A good witch performance is judged by how much my brutally honest child within longs to emulate both the character and the actress:

Margaret Hamilton, check!

Idina Menzel, check!

Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Pfeiffer, check!

Angelica Huston (hey, I guess witches can have cleavage), check !

This latest group of gals in Oz the Great and Powerful . . . we appreciate your efforts. I applaud anyone who has the courage not only to get in front of an audience but also reinterpret any roles as iconic as these. But ladies, these things must be done delicately, or you hurt the spell.

Where Your Heart Ought to Be

Everyone’s a winner at Camp So-and-So. With each passing summer, this phrase plagued any sense of healthy competition or social development, and eventually we campers used it only with the snippiest of snippy mocking tones. The dreaded summer day that was devoted completely to team sports found the entire camp divided into three teams. Although the team that accumulated the most points throughout the blistering day was declared the winner, the two other teams were awarded titles along the lines of “most spirit” or “most creative outfits” or “least amount of whining.” But what can you expect when you’re dealing with a group of children who moan and groan because one day each summer, they’re forced to go on a day-hike? Now, I treasure absolutely nothing in the way that I treasure my camp memories . . . but good gravy; we were a bunch of spoiled brats who got our way every time, winning even when we lost.

Long ago the beginning of the year evolved into so much more than simply “Academy Award” season. Last year was the first time I ever gave voice to the thought, “Even with Billy Crystal and a win for Meryl Streep, this show is boring and predictable.” Those of us who enjoy tracking the ins and outs of the film industry try to keep up with the Oscars, the Screen Actors Guild Awards, the Golden Globes, the Satellite Awards, the Least Whining During Production . . . you see where I’m going with this.

Perhaps it’s just a side effect of youth, but I used to count down the days until the Academy Awards. In my excitement I would research Oscar winners of the past and try to establish any kind of pattern that would allow me to predict an upcoming outcome. I’m still baffled by how poorly I did on tests in high school, when I could memorize lists of Oscar-winning names and years with very little effort. Today I look back on the winners of many moons ago and wonder who can give me goose bumps like Bogie’s Charlie Allnut, Liza’s Sally Bowles, or . . . c’mon, you know I’d bring her up eventually . . . Hepburn’s Queen Eleanor?

The goose bumps of today may not be quite as bumpy, but still every year we fasten our seat belts in anticipation, hoping for a night of turbulence.

“Nice speech, Eve. But I wouldn’t worry too much about your heart;
you can always put that award where your heart ought to be.”

— Margo Channing

The Little Foxes (1941)

Evidently I have committed Bible verses to memory for (what some would say) all the wrong reasons. It may pain the religious figures of my childhood to know I can recite entire passages from the Book of Revelation only because a certain pop star goddess used it in the opening act of her Re-Invention Tour. From the Song of Solomon comes another memorable verse and the title of Lillian Hellman’s play: “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.” This is my religion.

I’m tickled pink when someone recommends an old film I never seen. As anticipated, my movie queue is extensively extensive, and I’m unable to get to everything as soon as I’d like. Yes, the line is long, time is precious, and I have only television, so I decided long ago to ignore the “I can’t believe you haven’t seen that” jabs that accompany recommendations from time to time. Those of us whose paychecks force us to choose between two discs at a time and that necessary bottle of rosé often settle for a one-disc-one-bottle combination. Some companies have yoga studios and mediation rooms; mine took away our Kleenex to cut costs. Money isn’t everything . . . but I’ve always been lucky, and I’ll be lucky again.

Since I’m unable to get to everything right away, suggestions are always appreciated. When multiple people recommend the same movie to me in a matter of weeks, I make it a point to listen. From three separate corners of my life, endorsements were sent for The Shop around the Corner (1940), but I imagine the Christmas season had something to do with these coinciding recommendations. A cute one, yes, and Jimmy Stewart’s voice has a soothing quality that should be bottled and sold at day spas, but I’m not prepared to place this one of my list of favorites.

I’m tickled a brighter shade of pink when someone recommends an old movie that I happen to know and love. There’s a specific level of excitement that I can hear in a voice, an email, or yes, even a text message that reminds me of why I choose to write what I write – to me, the shared love of a film can allow people who live far from one another enjoy something of a shared experience. A recent email with the subject line of “The Little Foxes with Bette Davis” did just that. The story of a greedy trio of siblings who would never settle for one disc at a time is led by Miss Davis in one of her tremendously nasty roles. Nominated for nine Oscars but winning not a single one, The Little Foxes (1941) has been with me since the early stages of my growing film addiction.

Adapted from Hellman’s original stage play starring Tallulah Bankhead, The Little Foxes follows Regina Hubbard (Davis) and her two brothers in their conniving schemes to open a cotton mill by any means necessary. Born into a time period when men were the only true heirs to fortune, Regina must rely on the dollars of her husband, a man of poor health whose death would be highly profitable for the Hubbard siblings. A fierce, difficult, and perhaps misunderstood woman fighting for success in a man’s world? Well, I guess Bette Davis could pull it off . . . at one point she turns to the group of people in her living room and bellows without a question mark, “Why don’t you all go home. Good night!” My hero.

The success of films today seem to rely on the gossip and controversies that surround it, so once again, Bette Davis proves to be ahead of her time. Any time I present rumors, I present them as nothing more, for we will never truly know which cast member or director walked off the set, for how long they were gone, and what it took to get them back. It’s reported that, despite a good working relationship on previous films, Bette Davis and director William Wyler argued constantly during production. According to some sources, Davis provided Regina with an evil ruthlessness that was not present in Tallulah Bankhead’s stage portrayal of a victimized woman swallowed by the greed of her male relatives.

There’s more than one way to skin a fox, and Bette Davis’s Regina manages just fine with the raise of an eyebrow.

Add The Little Foxes to your queue.

But the World Goes ‘Round

Dear 2012,

For the horror and wretchedness you threw at us in the last 12 months, I could peel you like a pear, and God Himself would call it justice. As satisfying as that would feel, it turns out that life’s good times were made that much sweeter by the bitterness of your reign. It’s with a smile that I reflect upon some of the highlights.

The year began with my falling deeper in love with Bogie in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948). Not too stinkin’ of a start!

The year ended a week ago, as I unwrapped not one but two copies of David Thomson’s The Big Screen for my birthday. Autumn brought me not two but three text messages quoting Katharine Hepburn in The Lion in Winter: “Henry, I have a confession . . . I don’t much like our children.”

A summer visit from Dad brought into my life not four but five films of Mae West’s, a sharp and shapely woman admired by generations of fathers and sons for countless reasons.

Right before Thanksgiving, Olympia Dukakis reminded me of her limitless acting abilities in Elektra.

Two blessed friendships led me on trips to Hollywood, Dollywood and Graceland. Keeping me company on the road to each, Judy was right there for my entertainment, forgetting the words to “You Go to My Head” during every Carnegie Hall performance.

Idina Menzel walked barefoot on to the stage at Davies Hall and sang “Over the Rainbow.” A few months later, the San Francisco Symphony performed flawlessly the score of The Wizard of Oz – Sandy and I each got a permanent, just for the occasion.

It was in my favorite restaurant where my favorite waiter told me Americans had elected in favor of protecting Big Bird . . . Michelle and I celebrated by ordering the chicken.

On October 6^th, 2012, my love was justified, as no song lyric can touch the likes of “Rita Hayworth gave good face.”

And for all the other wonderful times and films that filled the year, I am grateful to you, dear and wretched 2012, for I predict that your successor will succeed where you failed.

Now be gone, before somebody drops a house on you!

I’d spell it out for you, only I can’t spell.

I tried to escape again last night, but they caught me. As expected, Stage One of my escape route was easily accomplished: distraction. A few beers with a good friend, some spicy Chinese food, and a visit to some old stomping grounds all lay the groundwork for my estimated departure from reality. Even in the early stages of my escape, I could feel them hot on my trail, but they couldn’t see me; I was well hidden, darting swiftly under the smiles of others. I also made sure to smile as much as I could — you have to blend in when you’re on the run. But I could sense their approach from just a few feet away, and that’s when I moved into Stage Two: run. It worked for only a few minutes, and although I’ve never been much of an athlete, soon it was necessary to accept the pain of the third and final stage of escape: run faster.

And so I ran. I ran past the school where I used to create entire new universes out of sand and water. In my childlike sprint, I wished I could bury all the world’s guns in that sand until they became sand themselves and crumbled away forever.

I ran towards the swings with the strength that comes only from the youthful desire to be the first one there. I ran to the first movie theatre I could remember, and to the last one where I felt safe.

I ran to friends who made witty jokes with me; jokes that would have sounded ridiculously inappropriate to anyone other than the two of us.

Finally I ran into the safety of an apartment — The Apartment — but this time all I found another universe that was created in the sand.

Yes, I ran and they caught me, but not until after I made it home and enjoyed two hours of freedom. Protected by both my apartment and The Apartment, I could close the door and lock myself in, away from the dreaded Consciousness Police. Yes, those slivers of Truth and Fact that we believe we can ignore into nonexistence, if only we can outrun them (or, at the very least, not to look directly at them). I figured the Consciousness Police had no perceivable way of reaching me, as long as I had not one but two apartments and a door safety chain to keep them all out.

How I enjoy Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine together in The Apartment (1960). This five-time Oscar winner of a movie is somewhere on my list of top-ten favorites and certainly deserves its own posting. Both the major and minor characters are played to perfection, and I enjoy The Apartment more and more with every viewing. It should have been the perfect “Stage Three” of my escape route, but this time I just couldn’t run fast enough to make my getaway.

My mind is refusing to process the latest in this painful series of heartbreaking shootings. The actuality of what happened in Connecticut was pounding on my apartment door, demanding that I let it in and stare directly into its monstrous face. But I wasn’t ready yet. How can I deal with something that is so unimaginable and yet frighteningly commonplace at the same time?  I want to write about films, not guns. This process of writing about old films with the prayer and hope of keeping them alive for the next generation has been one of my life’s few true loves thus far. Five months ago when I wrote about the movie theatre in Aurora, CO, somewhere under the sadness, a foolish optimism convinced me that this time, the country had truly learned. I’m waiting for that feeling to return . . . I’m too young to lose hope.

The world is in strong need of a happiness injection, but before modern science takes us there, all I can prescribe is a weekly dose an old movie (increase as needed). It helps distract; it provides a temporary escape; it may even help you to run a little faster when times are tough. And when that doggone Consciousness Police finally busts down your door and thwarts your escape plan, you may be ready to deal with what they have to show you.

We can escape, but surely not forever. If I’m lucky, soon someone will turn to me and say with a smile, “Shut up and deal.”

Academy Awards for The Apartment (1961): Best Picture, Best Director, Best Writing (Story and Screenplay), Best Film Editing, and Best Art Direction/Set Decoration (Black-and-White)

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A Motionless Picture

Sadness and fear collided inside me when I saw the first flicker of white light from no more than 20 or 30 feet away. I wanted so desperately to move towards it; as if a marionette, all the cells in my body felt as if they had stood up in unison, my balance wanting to shift without consent. To the outside world I remained motionless, conquered by the intertwining of desire, fear, and heartache radiating from the white light that pulled me close and pushed me away with equal force.

The rectangle of light filled the darkness marginally at first, brightened and blackened by the single digit that passed over it. The finger hustled the light in all cardinal directions, unable to decide where, when, or even if the light should truly exist.

And I wanted it.

I longed to run right up to the light, to the trigger finger that controlled it, to the man who controlled the trigger finger . . . but I lingered in the safety of my darkness. Had I more courage, less heart, or a brain unplagued by paranoia, I would have snatched the phone right out of the man’s hand and thrown it out into the lobby of the movie theatre where it should have been in the first place.

Instead I sat there, imagining excessively and taking no action. I thought about lunatics. I thought about thought. I thought about reaction. I thought about the historical character I was watching on the screen, a man who had been assassinated almost 150 years ago. I thought about movie theatres. I thought about Colorado. I thought about guns. I thought about a gun pointing at me in a movie theatre for no good reason.

Moving towards the white light promptly evolved into being a horrendously bad idea, despite the clear path set up by my aisle seat. An irrational fear paralyzed me in a theatre where I had always been determined to enjoy myself. I realize how “What if” may get us into trouble . . . either we think too much or not enough, but refusing to act or politely ask “Excuse me, would you mind turning off your phone inside the theatre” should no longer fill us with fear.

I have conquered the darkness; now I must choose not to fear the light.

Place the thigh on the cutting board and begin slicing

I’m thankful for every morsel of today’s meal, even though I eat like a bird.

I’m thankful for all the motels that provide me shelter during the storms of life.

I’m thankful for each and every drop of a hot shower.

I’m thankful for the friends who let me go a little mad sometimes.

I’m thankful for all of our fathers, brothers, sisters . . .

. . . and of course, I’m thankful for Mother.

A Letter to Three Wives (1949)

Moments before they board a riverboat for a day-trip with underprivileged children, three women receive a letter from a fourth telling them she will not be able to join them on the day’s excursion. Her regretful reason is that she’s run off with one of their husbands, and conveniently she neglects to name names in her telegram. Through a series of flashbacks, each woman begins to build a mental case as to how her husband could be the scoundrel who has run off and left her on a boat full of children. With enough effort, an angry and loving mind can convince itself of almost anything.

Instead of defying a “moral” Code by figuring out how to show or talk about sex without actually showing or talking about it, writers face the new challenge of eliminating any form of problem-solving that involves a cell phone. All I could think about during Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s A Letter to Three Wives was how perhaps storytelling has lost its way. Any setback that technology now solves – contacting your husband with the phone you pull out of your purse, for instance – has also made a dent in creating conflict necessary for storytelling. As they sail away on the riverboat, the three women stare at a phone booth on the dock as it shrinks in the distance. A simple solution has abandoned them as each woman hopes for the best and assumes the worst about their men. My vote for the best of the three plotlines involves the braiding of Ann Sothern, Kirk Douglas, and Thelma Ritter in something of an acting dance off – each comic performer attempting to steal the scene from the others, all three of them successful. Their hilarious timing arrives hand-in-hand with a well-formulated script that perhaps could not survive the “that could never happen” iAudience of today.

Letters and phone booths . . . emails and cell phones . . . sometimes I’m just a cranky old man; I have been since I was a child. My love/hate relationship with technology shifts easily towards the negative when I see a film in which, had the characters access to those tiny machines none of us can put down today, the story would lack the element of conflict. When I persuade others to watch an old film with me, it breaks my heart a little that my fellow viewers are incapable of putting down their phones during the experience. Consider for a moment the consequences if Crawford found out you were playing an electronic word game during her performance – it is this thought that keeps my phone resting comfortably (and silently) in my bag on the other side of the room. Although the temptation to grab their phones from them is boiling inside of me, I convince myself that in fact they’re texting everyone they know about this amazingly wonderful old film and how they can’t wait to watch a hundred more.

With enough effort, my angry and loving mind can convince me of almost anything.

Academy Awards for A Letter to Three Wives (1950): Best Director and Best Writing (Screenplay)

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Marker Tips

A pinch of powder and a touch lipstick can go a very long way . . .

Some family members were amused by the creative little boy who never waited for Halloween to sport his magnificent costumes; others looked down and sneered at those of any age who behaved even slightly outside the tedious norm. I dreaded those family functions at which I knew I’d be asked, “So, who are you today?” I never understood it — I couldn’t wait to pull out of my hat all these fabulously fascinating personalities and try them all on, and yet somehow those around me were content simply to be themselves. Very confusing to a curious young mind, especially when I didn’t find particularly likable the one personality each of these adults were choosing to keep. If indeed any judgment was thrown at my childhood self, I can only assume it was wrapped in a layer of jealousy . . . hey, at least I was having a good time!

A happy Halloween to all, particularly to that little boy out there who’s having an absolutely wonderful time in his first witch costume. But take it from me, buddy: next year just ask for some green makeup — magic marker is a bitch to scrub off.